Swimming Upstream

United States of Tara

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 08:42:50 GMT

I just watched the first six eps. It seems pretty well done, although I'd love to hear the opinions of some people with DID.

I adore Max. He is just so sincerely supportive and real. I know some people with mental illnesses actual do find partners like that, but it is very rare. Yes, I am actually responding to a show about a woman (system of people) with a serious mental illness with envy. *hangs head in shame*

I'm baa-aack...

Sat, 12 Jul 2008 12:31:48 GMT

I can hardly believe how crazy the last year+ has been. Right after I finally start writing and create this account, my life pretty much exploded into chaos. However, I am back and slowly starting to work on "Through the Kaleidoscope" again. I really need to find a beta for that.

In the meantime, I have an unbetaed Burn Notice vignette.

Title: Just So You Know
Author: Enye Temina
Rating: PG or K+, depending on the system you use
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the world. I just play with it.
Pairing: Michael/Fiona
Warning: None that occur to me
Spoilers: Season 2, Episode 1 of Burn Notice
Archiving: Fine, but let me know.
Feedback: Pretty please with sugar on top and a cherry. Constructive criticism is appreciated.
Summary: Bittersweet Michael/Fiona vignette in which he tries to let her know how he feels about events in that episode.

Michael deftly laid out the components he needed and began assembling his latest project while Fiona did likewise. Although swiftly working side by side with nearly mechanical precision, their workspaces intersected no more than if there were a glass wall between them. While his hands continued to move with automatic efficiency, Michael mentally replayed the words of his latest client for the umpteenth time.

A young woman whose fiancé had turned out to be a lackey in an international drug ring (along with half of Miami, or so it seemed at times) had cried softly for most of the drive to their improvised safe house. Said fiancé had just dumped her and fled town with another woman his bosses found out that he was taking a cut off the top. He claimed that he had only been with his intended so he could use her laundry business to, well, engage in a different sort of laundering.

Just before Michael had pulled into the house, or rundown shack on the edge of the Everglades, if one wanted to get particular, the woman had sniffed and turned her wide, bloodshot green eyes on him. “It wouldn't hurt so much if I had ever really meant anything to him. Despite everything, I miss him so much. Even though we couldn't ever be together now, and, honestly, I don't think I'd want to, I just...I want him to miss me. It was so easy for him to leave, like it was nothing. If I thought he missed me, even a little...” She had trailed off, dabbed delicately at her eyes while apologizing, and then given her nose a much less dainty blow before grabbing her purse and getting out of the car, stumbling as her hem caught on a seat-adjustment lever.

It was those last words that kept going through Michael's head at odd moments. The heartbroken, nearly wistful, “If I thought he missed me, even a little...” The thing of it was, though, he had seen the look the guy had given her right before leaving, and he thinks the jerk was at least a bit torn up about it. True, he was 500 yards away and watching through binoculars at the time, but the latest Scion binoculars, available at any Sharper Image, really do let you see the details of a bird's eye at that distance. That, and if you're going to be a spy, you better learn to read facial expressions as if your life depends on it, because it probably does.

Lifting a piece of metal for closer inspection, he scraped excess adhesive off of it with his nail. “Fi?” he began softly, not looking up from his work, “Just so you know...I do miss you. I mean, you and me being an..., well, what we couldn't.” He cleared his throat, then repeated in a more casual tone, “Just so you know.”

Her head snapped up as he spoke and she went still, eyes flaring wider as she palpably turned her full attention on him, clearly waiting for him to continue. When he just wiped his tools of and snapped the final piece of his project in place, Fiona's gaze dropped briefly and an almost-sigh escaped her lips. Then she adroitly followed suit, and bagged her handiwork. Slinging the duffel over her shoulder and stepping around the table in one smooth motion, she turned a bright smile on him. “So, you ready to go blow things up?”

Lips pulling into a small smile, Michael met her gaze and responded, “Always.” He hung back as she continued out the door, eyes following her as he hefted his bag and let the smile drop from his face. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Clever Crows

Mon, 04 Jun 2007 00:32:30 GMT



"Clever Crows" on Google Video
I thought I'd share this. It reminds me of a time I watched a bird take some bread I offered, flutter to a pond, and use it as bait to catch fish. Birds are so much brighter than we tend to imagine. The video's desc: Some crows in Japan come up with a clever way to eat food that they naturally wouldn't be able to. David Attenborough narrates.

Post SM3 Fanfic

Fri, 01 Jun 2007 02:25:01 GMT

I just created this journal and joined some communities, having been inspired by the astonishing lack of Peter/Harry fic to begin my own. This is the first fiction of any kind that I have written in more years than I can remember, and first fan fiction period, so I doubt it is very good. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated. Heck, even if you hate it and can't think of anything constructive to say, let me know.

Eventually, this will be Harry/Peter/MJ, with more of a focus on Harry and Peter. It will have much more lighthearted moments, too. But, to start, by necessity Harry is going through something very traumatic. This story picks up towards the end of Spider-Man 3.

Title: No title yet
Author: Enye
Rating: R for now, to be safe.
Pairings: Harry/Peter/MJ eventually
Disclaimer: The characters and their fictional world are not mine. I make no money by writing and distributing this.
Warnings: Spoilers for SM Movieverse through SM3. Angst.
Distribution: Repost or link if desired as long as you include my name and headers and let me know. I'd like to keep track of it.
Summary: This chapter deals with Harry waking up after the conclusion of Spider-Man 3. If I continue, the story will address his deepening relationships with Peter and MJ, his struggle against insanity, and his journey to come into his own as a hero.

I will be crossposting this in a few places, and appreciate suggestions about where else to post it. Again, this is my first story, and feedback, including criticism, is very welcome. I'd also appreciate information on how people go about getting beta readers.

Thank you.

- Enye

Harry’s head was cradled in MJ’s arms and Peter clasped his hand firmly. The lines of connection felt real. Solid. His chest had stopped hurting some time before. Minutes, he supposed, although it felt longer. Time seemed to dilate, everything taking on an ethereal quality. He saw tears welling up in his friend’s eyes and dropping, even as Pete’s voice affirmed that, through everything, they were still “Best friends.” Harry knew it to be true, knew it more deeply than he had in a long while, perhaps ever. He tried to offer a smile, to give the hand one last squeeze, but his body felt so light, so distant, that he honestly couldn’t be sure whether he succeeded.

He had succeeded where it counted, though. In the end, and he knew this was it, he saved his friends. Not long ago, he remembered saying he would give his life for them. He supposed he had, and it felt right. He felt peaceful. Complete. Even though his body felt increasingly far away, his link to them felt strong. “At least I’m not dying alone. It was worth it. I think…I did ok.”

Then all was dark.

*****

Awareness returned slowly. The darkness was so profound. “Why is it so dark? Is this a waiting...uh…purgatory? It can’t be Heaven. I’m not sure I belong there anyway, but Hell? God, no, please, no. I…I wasn’t so bad in the end, was I? I saved them! I…oh, no, please nonono. It can’t be that there is just nothingness. Is this all there is? NooOOOOOOO!!!!!!”

Panic gripped him, his heart thudding in his chest and a scream sounding in his ears, then stopping suddenly. “Why do I feel my heart? I shouldn’t, should I? And that awful sound…maybe my eyes are still closed?” At once, he became aware of a multitude of sensations, the stuffiness of the air, the racing of his heart, his breath coming short and rapid, a dull ache in his chest, sweat rolling down his forehead, and a dozens of other minor details. He strained with all his might to open his eyes, hand shooting up to feel his face and…

…impacting with a dull crack on something solid and unforgiving, a few inches above his body. Wincing away from the impact with a curse, he rubbed his now bruised feeling hands, then froze. “Definitely still a body, then,” he croaked, finding his voice both startling and oddly grounding. “Okay. Calm. Calm down. Think. Not dead? No. Not…not, oh, God, no!” Frantically, he started clawing at the surface above him, panic making his movement too disjointed to be truly effective. Long strips of fabric came lose, falling on his face, increasing the already unbearable claustrophobia. “No. No. No,” words coming out as rapid pants, a high pitch keen sounding from somewhere deep inside. “They buried me alive. Oh, God, nonono. How could they have done it? Pete? How could you? You were there. You saw me…you saw me…die?”

Hands brushed fabric from his face impatiently, and then he buried his face in his palms, thinking slightly hysterically how funny it was not to be able to see them. So confused. Pete wouldn’t have let them bury him alive. They were…friends. Best friends. He confirmed it. It was real, in those last moments. That feeling was more real than anything had ever been in his life. Neither of them would have let this happen. He had been dying. He /felt/ it with such a deep certainty. This…this was simply…Not. Possible.

So, what then? Had he died, and come back? What cruel universe would bring him back only for him to perish slowly and alone deep underground? Not even his father… “No, no, I’m sorry dad. You were a good man,” he thought as reflexively as his wiping the moisture from his face. Then, forcing his breathing to slow, he noticed distantly that he was a bit dizzy and wondered if it was from his panic or from a lack of air. At least he managed to pull a thin layer of calm between himself and the panic, not that it would help.

It wouldn’t last, either, because a stray thread from the coffin lining ghosted over his face, carried by his breath, and he started violently, cold terror shooting through him. He thrust straight upwards with all his might, trying to throw of the lid and sit, hands and head hitting together, knowing it was futile, that the weight of the soil would be too much, a helpless, inarticulate scream filling the void again. Then, suddenly, he was squinting against the light, head swimming from the impact, as the entire lid flew into the air and he was free.

Harry just sat there, hunched, arms wrapped around his body, drawing in desperate gulps of air. As his eyes adjusted he looked around wildly for several minutes, unable to comprehend what was happening. Gradually calming, he became aware of a growing pull of fatigue. He just wanted to lie down, and that thought spiked his adrenaline again, allowing him to scramble out of the coffin. He vaguely realized that he was in a funeral home and had the irrational sense of doing something wrong, being wrong. With jerky motions, he replaced the lid and stepped back, staring at it as if expecting it to come off again of its own accord.

Again, exhaustion tugged at him, and again he fought it of and made himself move. He started towards the door, thought better of it, and exited through a window. Mercifully, it opened on a quiet alley. He staggered about twenty feet before leaning against the wall, staring at his hands, which were now trembling significantly. “I really need a drink,” he thought before sliding down the wall, his whole body in tremors. “Maybe not the best idea,” was his last thought as the last of his adrenaline drained away and he slipped back into darkness.