Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Oh Lee, you are so bad!I mean good! And these two...whew! Thank goodness I wasn't with Professor Snape, the Latin phrases threw me into a fit of giggles!
Joan Pa USA
- Thursday, July 31, 2003 at 20:23:22 (PDT)

Ahrgh gag gasp Noooooooo! Lee do not stop now!
Janine (alas at work without any windex or husband nearby.... sob sniff)
- Thursday, July 31, 2003 at 18:15:43 (PDT)

“Whoops,” she said.
Claudia
Temporarily borrowed unrelated character, just because I can., - Thursday, July 31, 2003 at 17:28:24 (PDT)

lee <potionmistress@hotmail.comfooythingie>
To be continued…I don’t know Les, looks bad. Very bad. Thanks Laura, glad you like the story! Anne is the highly able Latin consultant. Thanks Anne!, - Thursday, July 31, 2003 at 17:26:03 (PDT)

Lee- I love your story- I check every day to read more! I missed the first few chapters, but I love it all the same. It's so funny- I wrote a similar story last year only Severus' lover was the new Arithmacy mistress, replacing Professor Vector who was attacked by the Whomping Willow! Keep up the good work!!!
Laura <Luna6287@aol.com>
"Alright- put the knives away- I'll get the goddamn birdie!" -Dark Harbor, - Thursday, July 31, 2003 at 14:16:23 (PDT)

Thank you Cindie, I really appreciate that. Pam is going to pass the Windex to you after she gets it from Janine then you please pass it to me! CdC…I am cracking up because I know exactly what you are referring to having bunnies amongst my menagerie. No worries mate, no bunny mirrors here. Snape has an enchanted version of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, which plays for a very long time, if you know what I mean. Try playing if to calm Hans in the spare room. lol
lee
- Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 20:52:48 (PDT)

Lee: How can I put this delicately? I've raised rabbits. I do hope that not everything about Snape and Gwenevere's unconnubial bliss mirrors bunny love. Think of music: Andante vs. Allegro.
Carolyn, dear Carolyn
Whoa Hoss!, - Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 18:54:48 (PDT)

Hi Lee, I thought my glasses were smudged before I read your story! They were fogging up by the time I finished! It is excellent and I can just imagine wheee it is going! Keep up the good work. It was a fun read after Blueberry picking today with my son. Go into Yahoo if you want to read a cute story and punch in the words baking with Snape--how he is stuck baking christmas cookies--HA HA-I believe it was under fanfiction and written by someone named Joanne. Have a nice evening, hope the greyhound is still doing well. Pam
Pam H. <sholman@tmlp.com>
- Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 18:33:32 (PDT)

lee -- that was particularly lovely.
Cindie
Last post tonight, I promise. , - Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 17:44:34 (PDT)

lee
Thanks Janine, be sure to have the Windex handy for tomorrow! Oh boy…:), - Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 17:17:47 (PDT)

Oh, and thanks to Therese for the very pink feathered pen.
Cindie
Hoping she has a safe and frog-filled trip. , - Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 16:33:58 (PDT)

FoF, Cindie's cube:

“What in heaven’s name is that?” The voice of FoF’s supreme being in residence cut off whatever inspiration had managed to flow from Cindie’s brain to pen to paper.

“What’s what?” She eyed her boss over a spray of pink plumage.

“That thing with which you are writing.” He gestured towards the thing in question.

“Since, as you noted, I’m writing with it, you ought to be able to guess it’s a pen.” Half of her mind was grasping for the train of thought she’d held just a second before. It had left the station without her.

“It looks like a fuchsia feather duster.”

“It was a gift. I happen to like it.” She placed the pen on top of the pad resting on her desk top. Maybe she could catch up with the train later.

“I ought to have saved on the computer budget and simply bought more pens and paper.”

“Sometimes the simple things are still the best. But I use the computer too.” She quietly assessed her boss. He looked visibly calmer now that the ordeals attendant with the thefts and his attempted kidnapping were behind them. The laugh lines about his eyes were eased and his mouth was relaxed and settled into its natural almost smiling curves. Cindie was glad to have all that behind them as well, however, even though she’d never thought Trudchen was of much use, now her work load as assistant was increased although not doubled. . (Cindie used to try to squelch this uncharitable assessment as the woman seemed to have family issues but now that the truth was out she felt more rather than less uncharity was called for.) The Director still lingered at her door and so she enquired, “What did you need, boss?”

The near smile flickered to life. “I want you to go ahead and have Therese reinstated to full pay. This little lesson I’ve had to teach her seems to have done her some good. Her productivity is back up and these last scenes have been quite satisfactory.” It was clear he felt that his firm stance had been solely responsible for Therese’s newfound prolific-ness.

Cindie tried very, very hard not to look guilty. “Yes, boss. I will make sure that Accounting receives all the paperwork they’ll need.” Perhaps a bit to brightly she said, “That last scene with she and Dev was killer. I’m a sucker for all that lovely Irish.”

“I’m rather partial to the Gaelic languages myself.”

“Yes, they are especially effective for making up scenes.”

The Director gave her a quizzical version of his half smile but did not comment further before leaving her to her scattered thoughts.

Cindie
MA - thank you for returning a gently used Mistral
Clods, what am I on? Not a thing, just high on your posts... What is behind that wall???, - Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 16:31:32 (PDT)

Dear Alan Rickman I think you are the best actor there is and i just fell in love with you when i found out that you wrernt the person who wasnt trying to kill harry and that you werent after the stone and you play such a good potion master somtimes i just wish i was @ hogwarts and that i was in slytherin and that i would be on your side about gryffindore
leslie
- Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 15:56:30 (PDT)

Deleted because I thought thats what you asked me to do, as it mistakenly posted here instead of Downtime. I didn't understand the post, so no, it wasn't offensive!
Claudia
- Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 19:06:27 (PDT)

Dear Claudia, Please say you accidentally deleted Babbling Brooke's posts? It was meant for the Downtime Bar, thought I could be "cute" and pretend it was really for FoF. If I did something wrong, would you kindly point it out, I didn't think my humor was that bad, I'm confused. No malice intended. Thanks.
Babbling Brooke
- Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 19:00:38 (PDT)

Mary Anne’s flat:

As she fills the sink, Mary Anne, can hear a faint clicking from the front room, and she grins, thinking, Mistral’s found the remote. What is about men and those things? The voices from the television, chattering high or sinking low as he switches channels . . .

The telephone rings.

Mary Anne tenses, restraining the impulse to drop everything and make a mad dash, leave the porcelain pot and cups to their fate. But if she lets go, something delicate will be smashed. “Mistral, could you get the phone, please? Don’t let the machine pick it up!”

There is a sound of assent and the murmur of conversation as she hurries to settle the cups and wipe her slippery hands. Flinging the dishtowel aside, Mary Anne speeds for the front room . . .

Just in time to see Mistral set the receiver back in its cradle.

“Who was it?” Breathlessly.

“Brandon. Apparently Therese and Dev have had a . . .” Tactful pause. “ . . . disagreement. Therese left the flat and Dev has been calling about, trying to find what’s become of her. Brandon said he would call here to spare Dev a call, but I told him that she was not here.”

Slowly, Mary Anne makes her way to the couch and sinks down onto one of the arms. The television blats on.

“Unless she was here earlier? I would have asked you, but he rang off before . . .”

Mary Anne stares at the television. Picking up the remote from where Mistral had left it on the sofa, she presses button after button.

“Yes, our AMAZING new product will leave your teeth UNBELIEVABLY WHITE OVERNIGHT! Or DOUBLE your money back--!”

Click.

“—casting search for its production of Cyrano de Bergerac, the proceeds of which will be donated--”

Click.

“Have you tried our new Herbal Viagra—“

Click.

”Enlarge your—“

Hasty click.

"Please, please do not ask this of me! I can't bear it!”

Mary Anne’s hand freezes, locked tight on the remote.

”If you have won, can you not relent toward me, at least a little? Do not shame me like this! . . . Be generous in victory! Please, do not force me to this . . . please, I . . ."

Her voice drops. A whisper. Mary Anne can feel her own lips move in time with the woman on the screen.

"I beg you--"

"For . . . yourself, Mary Anne?"

"Yes. For . . . myself."

“Mary Anne.”

She dares not look. Transfixed by a dread that makes her want to, of all things, giggle at the silliness of it, she dares not look toward . . . Mistral? Will it be Mistral? That deep voice, behind her, but there, just there in front of her . . .

“Mary Anne, look at me.”

Impossible not to look. That is a flat fact. She turns.

Mistral stands with one hand still lightly resting on the telephone. His eyes on her . . . searching, but not threatening. Filled with concern. “You don’t look at all well. Is there . . . anything I can do?”

Oh, Mistral, if only you knew! Briefly, she thinks on the previous night, how she had tried to sleep after Brandon’s abrupt exit—but sleep had eluded her as she had lain burning in the darkness, yes, burning in the night that had turned so chill, unable to find one cool spot in her tangled bedsheets, finally rising to shove open a window. Then, she had slept—only to awaken a couple of hours later, now shaking with cold, to gather all the discarded bedclothes and curl herself into the mound of them. I shall catch pneumonia, that’s what I shall catch. (homage) She had dropped asleep again, restless, and oh, Lord, the dreams . . .

He is waiting.

“I’ll be fine, Mistral.”

A smile. “You are definitely not fine, now. But if you say you will be fine, I’ll content myself. Because I know you wouldn’t lie to me.”

Mary Anne is horrified as tears pearl in her eyes without the least warning and stream down her face. No sobbing. Just the slow fall of droplets. All the strains the previous night, this day . . . that long-ago exchange on the television, her overwrought nerves, and now this tender concern and affection . . . it has all turned some visceral key. “Mistral . . . you’re making me cry so dreadfully . . . “(And again, homage)

Helplessly, she waits as he advances toward her with that peculiar ground-eating stride. It does not appear to be fast, yet covers distance in a heartbeat, and whatever it is he means to do, she cannot hope to predict or prevent it.

She half-expects that he might take her in his arms . . . but no, his hands settle gently on her shoulders as he inspects her, still at arm’s length, and that warm, firm pressure leaves her in no doubt of his earnest desire and intention to help her.

“Mary Anne, I don’t think I am the one who has made you cry. Who is it? Would you like to tell me? If you do, I shall confront the villain and tear him limb from limb.”

“Shall I write another hero scene for you, then?” She is smiling now; Mistral in his gallant mood is irresistible.

“Seriously. Can I help? Is there anything you wish to tell me?”

Mary Anne steps back a little, dragging one arm across her eyes. “I appreciate it, really, I do. But I just can’t tell you, even though I know you’d never say a word. Someone’s . . . character is involved, and—“

“Character?” He frowns. “Which of our . . . ah, I understand. By ‘character’ you mean someone’s good name and reputation. Very well.” He glances down at his watch. “If you’re certain there’s nothing I can do, then I’m not doing you any favours by keeping you up so late. You need to rest—and if you’ll take my advice, I’d suggest something a little stronger than chocolate for a nightcap.”

“I’ll see you out.” A sidelong glance at the kitchen as she follows Mistral to the front door. Maybe a little tot of that brandy . . . or maybe not. Wonder how it would agree with all that hot chocolate . . .

Mistral pauses, framed in the open door, then leans in to give her one quick peck on the cheek, there and gone. “If you’re certain you’ll be all right, then . . .”

“Some sleep and I should be as good as new.” Should be . . .

“Then I will see you on the set in the morning.”

“You will. Unless I’ve turned invisible by then.”

“Good night, Mary Anne.”

“Good night, Mistral.”

MA--Yes, I've been reminiscing a lot about Private Lives lately.
Okay, Cindie, Mistral is now *out* of MA's flat . . . ;-), - Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 18:56:41 (PDT)

Whoops posts removed, and Itallics fixed, while I'm here. ;)
Claudia
Deputy DOC, - Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 18:40:42 (PDT)

The Doctor gave her a withering look. “Watch,” he said, and opened the door to his right, just slightly, and beckoned her to look through the gap.
Claudia
- Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 17:44:25 (PDT)

It is cold outside (Melbourne winter) yet the latest Snape story is steaming up my glasses ..thanks Lee
Janine
- Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 15:55:46 (PDT)

Gwenevere’s dream was being played out in false reality and there was no way to stop it. Simultaneously, and without a word, they grabbed their robes and bolted through the door in route to the second floor...
lee
- Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 10:16:01 (PDT)

er...Shouldn’t the Metatron be surfacing for air by now?
justaskingthatsall
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 21:35:19 (PDT)

MH, Hmmm…animal testing. Well read tomorrow and find out if the rats receive benefits far beyond that which their little minds can fathom. I guarantee they won’t mind a bit...:D
lee
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 19:46:47 (PDT)

Well, I know how to push all his right buttons.

Cindie! What are you on today!
Claudia
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 19:06:30 (PDT)

FOUL! ANIMAL TESTING? Quick! Rethink, lee!
Merciful Heaven
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 18:16:58 (PDT)

Thank you Pam, and "Red Alert" the greyhound is doing fabulously. He dreams of racing I think. LOL If there is a remote thingie that controls any of AR's characters, may I please have a turn with it as well? Privately of course.
lee
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 17:19:18 (PDT)

The class was now ready to test their potions.
lee
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 17:03:40 (PDT)

Don't do that, Claudia! We can all take turns playing with the remote thingie that controls Ed's body.
Cindie
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 16:51:59 (PDT)

Lee, What a great chapter for Monday you wrote.. Hope all is going well with your greyhound. Isnt it great to have a pet around? Have fun-Pam
Pam H. <sholman@tmlp.com>
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 16:05:24 (PDT)

Drat! I'll have to change the ending now ;P
Claudia
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 13:34:44 (PDT)

Clods, Not sure why but I have this vision of them kidnapping Ed and using his brain to run their facility...
Cindie
BtW, don't worry, you're still da woman. , - Monday, July 28, 2003 at 12:36:48 (PDT)

Ed and Claudia

“Why of course, we are having a feast in your honour tonight. Go back to your room. Have a nice long shower, and we will talk about this again this evening.”
Claudia
A bath, a shower, how clean can one man be?, - Sunday, July 27, 2003 at 20:00:15 (PDT)

lee
Les and Pam, thank you for the thoughtful words for the story and the hound. *sigh* I really missed having a dog more than I knew. :), - Sunday, July 27, 2003 at 19:34:20 (PDT)

Italics problem begins with the Who's Who list.... near the bottom, around Antony and Cleopatra.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
*sigh* I am losing my touch, - Sunday, July 27, 2003 at 19:17:12 (PDT)

Mary Anne’s flat:

“My impressions of the Gala?” Mary Anne gazes off into space. “Well, the buffet was delicious, but I think some of the canapés had been left out a bit too long . . .”

Watching Mistral from the corner of her eye, Mary Anne sees his grin widen. His hand resting on the back of the sofa—slowly, deliberately, the fingers flatten and spread.

“Mary Anne.”

“All right; all right.” Mock terror. About three-quarters Interrogator. He doesn’t turn it up much higher than that, away from the set. “I have to say that if you’re looking for impressions . . .” No more staring innocently off into the distance, but straight into his eyes, now. “What left the strongest impression on me was a certain disturbance by that big fountain.”

“You noticed that, did you?”

Mary Anne pours herself a second cup of chocolate. “I noticed.”

“Yes, I think just about everyone in the hall noticed . . .”

“Mistral, the kings and queens in Westminster noticed. That creature was screeching loud enough to wake the dead.”

“Creature?”

“Yes, creature. That’s what I said.”

“Did she offend you, Mary Anne?”

Mary Anne squirms a little under that gaze. Makes me feel like a butterfly on a pin, blast him. However, she returns his level stare, refusing to be intimidated—or refusing to show it. “She never said a word to me, but I saw how she acted all evening. Draping herself like a serape over anything male that came near her . . . and you can take that look off your face, because it wasn’t just that. She treated the waiters like dirt, you know. She kept them all running, and nothing they did was good enough for her. Oh, and any of the women who came near her, if she even deigned to look at them, it was the way you’d look at something you thought wasn’t fit to wipe your shoes. Except . . .”

“Yes?”

Mary Anne had been about to say, Except for anyone she thought was pretty enough to be competition, when something in Mistral’s taut expression makes her pause and reconsider. Time, perhaps, to try another approach. “Here’s one for you, Mistral: did she offend you?” An idea, then, a stab in the dark. “Or Cindie?”

Bullseye. Mistral had been absentmindedly smoothing his hand along the back of the sofa; that motion suddenly arrested, he remains in complete stillness for a moment before admitting, “I think perhaps there must have been something with Cindie, but . . .” His hands lift and drop again, the classic pose of bewilderment. Of helplessness.

“How did she end up in the fountain? Too close to the edge?”

“Something like that.”

Mary Anne waits, but no more is forthcoming. Still, you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure this out. I wouldn’t be surprised if that harpy got a little help into that fountain . . . no, Cindie’s not the type to do that. Unless . . . maybe if she were really, really angry . . .

Abruptly, Mary Anne gives up her ponderings. Strange, to see that look on Mistral’s face—masterful Mistral, always in charge of every situation, and now? That taut look has returned: a man trying to keep his balance, growing more and more miserably certain that he is about to flail and crash.

Mary Anne looks away, busying herself with the pot of chocolate and the porcelain cups. “Is there anything I can do, Mistral?”

“You have listened. And answered what I asked. I believe that is all that you can do, for now.”

Maybe I could do more if you told me what this is about. But she has known this man long enough to know that secrets cannot be forced from him. He has sought her out as confidante before, but what he has done tonight in coming here is revolutionary for a man who so guards his privacy. Still wondering, Mary Anne reaches for Mistral’s discarded cup. “I’ll take that, if you’re finished with it—“

“Please. And the chocolate was truly excellent.”

Sighing a little, Mary Anne gathers the cups onto their tray and heads for the kitchen.

It is when she is piling the cups into the sink and running hot water that the telephone rings . . .

MA--still wrestling with Mistral. Figuratively, of course, Cindie. ;-)
D.o.C.--We seem to have an italics problem below, but I can't spot where it begins . . ., - Sunday, July 27, 2003 at 16:13:28 (PDT)

Episode One Hundred Seven ~ Phil Allen & Barbara Vanders

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Barbara Torture, part one... (yes, Sandy, this is for you...), - Saturday, July 26, 2003 at 08:17:58 (PDT)

Hello everybody. I write in this guestbook from the Netherlands. I live in Serooskerke, and I am 12 years old. I love this site about Alan Rickman. (Isn't he loveley in the movie robin hood prince of thieves?!?!?!?) Very cool site. Greets of the Netherlands, Hanne.
Hanne <Hoelahanne@msn.com>
Cool Site, - Saturday, July 26, 2003 at 07:42:08 (PDT)

We do borrow each other's characters from time to time (with prior permission). This is how it is that MA is currently wresting with Mistral in her flat. Figuratively speaking.
Cindie
- Saturday, July 26, 2003 at 06:38:19 (PDT)

Who is available/not available to Write a FOF story about?

Compiled by Barbara the Wallpaperer

You may not use another's claimed character in a story Oh dear ther is a little break in the rule {as eyebrows raise in Cindie's direction hem hem - polite cough}
Confused spactator.
- Friday, July 25, 2003 at 20:58:18 (PDT)

D'oh!

D.o.C.?
Barbara the Wallpaperer
- Friday, July 25, 2003 at 19:54:26 (PDT)

Who is available/not available to Write a FOF story about?

Compiled by Barbara the Wallpaperer

Here is, as far as I can tell, a complete list of characters claimed and mentioned in the entire history of FoF. Let me know if I'm missing someone.

FILMOGRAPHY (a bit trimmed)

Love, Actually (2003)
as HARRY
This character has never been claimed

The Search For John Gissing (2001)
as JOHN GISSING
This character has never been claimed

Harry Potter and The Philosopher's Stone (2001)
Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets (2002)
as SEVERUS SNAPE
Snape has been claimed by Lee and Jutta

Blow Dry (2001)
as PHIL ALLEN
Phil has been claimed by Barbara

Help, I'm A Fish! (voice) (2000)
as JOE
This character has never been claimed

Play (2000)
as MAN
This character has never been claimed

Dark Harbour (1999)
as DAVID WEINBERG
David W was claimed, but is now available

Galaxy Quest (1999)
as ALEXANDER DANE
Alexander has been claimed by Sandy

Dogma (1999)
as the METATRON
Metatron is claimed by Rhys

Judas Kiss (1998)
as DAVID FREIDMAN
David F has been claimed by Barbara

The Winter Guest (1997)
as the DIRECTOR
The Director is a shared character

Michael Collins (1996)
as EAMON DE VALERA ("Dev")
Eamon has been claimed by Therese

Rasputin (TV) (1996)
as RASPUTIN ("Raz")
Rasputin was claimed, but is now available

Sense And Sensibility (1995)
as COLONEL CHRISTOPHER BRANDON
Brandon has been claimed by Mary Anne

An Awfully Big Adventure (1995)
as PL O'HARA
PL has been claimed by Dana

Mesmer (1994)
as DR MESMER
Mesmer has been mentioned but not claimed

Fallen Angels (TV series, one episode) (1993)
as DWIGHT BILLINGS
Dwight was claimed, but is now available

Bob Roberts (1992)
as LUKAS HART III
Lukas has been claimed by Grace

Closet Land (1991)
as the INTERROGATOR ("HIM")
The Interrogator is a shared character
The actor who plays the Interrogator -- "Arthur Sidney Patrick Mistral" -- has been claimed by Cindie.

Close My Eyes (1991)
as SINCLAIR BRYANT
Sinclair has been claimed by Claire

Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves (1991)
as GEORGE, SHERIFF of NOTTINGHAM
George has been claimed by Magda

Truly, Madly, Deeply (1991)
as JAMIE
Jamie is claimed by Diane

Quigley Down Under (1990)
as ELLIOT MARSTON
Elliot is claimed by Alice

The January Man (1989)
as ED
Ed has been claimed by Claudia

Die Hard (1988)
as HANS GRUBER
Hans has been claimed by Renie

The Barchester Chronicles (TV miniseries) (1984)
as OBADIAH SLOPE
Slope has been mentioned but not claimed

Busted (TV) (1982)
as SIMON JACKS
Simon has been claimed by Dana

OTHER (a bit trimmed)

Les Liasions Dangereuses (1985)
as VICOMTE de VALMONT
Valmont is a shared character, though he was claimed earlier.

Private Lives (2002)
as ELYOT CHASE
Elyot has been mentioned but not claimed.

Shakespeare's As You Like It
as JACQUES
Jacques was claimed, but is now available.

Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra (2002)
as MARC ANTONY
Antony has been mentioned but not claimed. Shakespeare's Hamlet
as HAMLET
Hamlet has been claimed by Chris.

Check out AR's resume at http://www.alan-rickman.com/ for other characters he has played -- especially his on-stage roles.

Or click on my name to leap there...
Barbara the Wallpaperer
I've added Love, Actually -- and I'm claiming David from Judas Kiss.... Clods, you'll need to update..., - Friday, July 25, 2003 at 19:53:24 (PDT)

I think it's the men who are territorial about *us*.

Cindie
Not that we don't share nice if asked. , - Friday, July 25, 2003 at 19:08:22 (PDT)

Hi Christina, and welcome.

You don't have to ask permission, per se, to write here, you need only find yourself a character who is as of yet unclaimed (we're a bit territorial about our men, I must admit), find an idea, and begin. If you read over some of the back pages, there is an updated list stating who is claimed by whom.

For the most part, we're a decent lot, and happy to help out, so if you're unsure of anything, feel free to ask. It really is a lot of fun.

'Wench,' however, might be an unforutnate word choice. There is an accepted PG-13 rating that is enforced by the DoC (Department of Corrections) that has the right and obligation to delete any inappropriate posts.

We look forward to hearing from you, and do make sure to explore some of the guides and chatroom links available from the main page.

Therese
- Friday, July 25, 2003 at 12:03:26 (PDT)

If I may, I have a request - may I be a wench too? My name is Cristina and I am a BIG AR fan. I was reading your posts (they are ingenious) and I would love to become part of "The Realm" Other info about me is that I am a teen, I am five foot something or other, and my favourite topic is, of course, AR. My favourite film is HPatCoS. Please consider my request and let me know, Thankyou, Cristina.
Cristina
- Friday, July 25, 2003 at 01:58:10 (PDT)

The Imperial Palace--Therese's guest quarters

There was a startled silence as Therese’s demand registered with the people present, and when no response was forthcoming, she repeated it. “I asked, Dr. McCoy, what can you do to get me strong enough for the trial?”

“You can’t, Therese,” Eamon told her, his voice soft. “This has gone far enough.”

Therese turned toward the tall man seated next to her on the bed, her eyes dark and furious. Without missing a beat she reared back, her hand lashing out and striking him full upon one cheek. “How dare you!” she hissed, her voice raw with emotion. “You have no right to tell me anything at this point, Eamon Devalera, no right at all.”

There was a startled gasp from Dr. McCoy, though it was unclear whether her response was from the fact that Therese still had the strength to pack such a ringing wallop, or her shock at the violence of the action. She moved toward her patient, placing a steadying hand upon her shoulder.

Therese turned to Scout, her face still a stormy mask. “Lt. Sifuentes, if you would be so kind as to remove this man from my accommodations,” she requested, her voice coldly formal.

The lanky lieutenant looked from the petite woman on the bed to the tall Irishman and back again, as if contemplating his words carefully. “I’m sorry, Miss Gellert, I’m afraid I cannot comply with you request, as Mr. Devalera is here in this room on house arrest, and is under orders to remain by The Empress herself.”

Therese’s eyes narrowed, and she scanned the assembled occupants of the quarters, her concern, exhaustion, and frustration all clear upon her face. She started as Dev spoke again. “Lt. Sifuentes,” he paused, his voice soft, “Scout, please, could you take your men and allow me a moment of privacy. Dr. McCoy?”

There was a tense silence in the room as the occupants considered his request. Therese bristled visably, the doctor looked concerned, and Scout appeared torn. Finally he crossed his arms. “Miss Gellert, my men and I will be right outside the door, you need only call. Dr. McCoy?” he asked, extending his arm to show the woman from the room as he crossed the floor.

The moment the door had shut, leaving Eamon and Therese alone, she launched herself at his chest, her fists pounding into him, practically screaming her rage. He let her blows fall unchecked for several long moments, then took her wrists in his hands, and held them into his body. For a brief moment her fury surged, and then she sagged forward, completely spent. He gathered her frail body to his chest, cradled her against him, and soothed her with his voice, . “A ghrá mo chroí, tá brón orm,” (Love of my heart, I am sorry) he murmured into her ear, holding her tightly. “Tá brón orm, mo mhíle grá.” (I am sorry, my thousand loves.)

Therese would have pulled away from him then, had he allowed it, but he held her firmly. “Go hifreann leat,” she spat, “Imigh sa diabhal!” (To hell with you, go to the devil!)

“Eistigi liom, tá brón orm. Tá grá agam duit.” (Listen to me, I’m sorry. I love you.) When she did not respond, he continued, “Tá an ceart agat, an dtuigeann tú? Tá brón orm (You are right, do you understand? I’m sorry.)

As her anger cooled, Eamon’s words began to penetrate her fury, and she looked up at him. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I have one of the more difficult experiences of my life to deal with, so I cannot understand, how could you do this? How could you? The only reason I survived HIM was because I knew I had to get back to you, how could you then do something that would separate us forever? Answer me that, will you? Can you answer that?”

Eamon held her tightly, her scent and presence so dear, and remained silent. She was right, but he’d not realised it until it had been too late. He’d wanted only to assure her safety, and had thought the price was not too dear—now he was only too aware of his error. “Forgive me, Therese, I acted in what I thought was your best interest at the time, but you are correct. Can you forgive me? I swear to you, I’ll not leave your side again.”

She looked up into his dark hazel eyes, saw that he meant what he said, saw the deep sadness for her and the frustration and helplessness that they all felt, and she nodded. She felt his arms squeeze around her as he hugged her tightly, and could no longer hold back the tears. She sobbed into his chest, her hurt, frustration and sense of abandonment still keenly felt. Eamon continued to hold her, rocking her gently as she made up for the many unshed tears her experience had wrought.

********************************************************

Hope no one minds the Irish phrases, but as Dev would say: "Tir gan teanga, tir gan anam," or "A country (land) without a language, a country without a soul." Eamon Devalera (the real, not the virtual) was very much pro-Irish language, and rallied to have it taught in all the schools during his time in office, so of course he (er, the virtual, not the real) must have taught it to Therese, right?

Therese
great to see you and Ed, Clods! Uh, Barbara--any chance that a certain detective might give *me* Leonard's phone number??, - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 21:57:37 (PDT)

Claudia -- *DALLAS*?! (Giving Claudia my own version of the Paddington Bear stare...)
Cindie, again.
Virtual chocolate being piped your way. , - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 20:57:45 (PDT)

AR would kick asphodel as Simon.
Seconding the recommendation of LMB's books.
Barbara made me read them.

Cindie
I had to find out who she was homaging all the time. , - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 20:54:05 (PDT)

Is there any other section in a book shop? ;) Thanks, I'll throw away my silly Peter Hamilton book, and get reading one of these.
Claudia
- Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 19:18:43 (PDT)

Lois McMaster Bujold

You'll probably find her, abjectly pigeonholed, in the Science-Fiction/Fantasy section.

Start with Shards of Honor (or get the omnibus edition Cordelia's Honor).

When the SF/F community gives out its "Oscars" (called the "Hugos") for excellence in writing, she's nominated. Every time. She's one more than anyone except Robert Heinlein....

Besides, Lois thinks AR would make a great Simon Illyan.
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Personally, I'm holding out for him playing Aral Vorkosigan...., - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 19:11:02 (PDT)

Barbara - send me recommendations of where to start with her books please! Are they anything like Harry Harrison's Stainless Steel Rat books? I couldn't see any of her books at the book shop, but its not a very good one. Will have to walk further to find even my favourite author.
Claudia
- Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 18:29:29 (PDT)

FoF Sets
Morning of Day Ten of the Investigation
After the Meeting in Ed's Room

Detective Miles Graff met his partner at the exit door. "'A very dead Director'? That was uncalled for."

Detective Ekaterin Silvert's lip curled.

"You shouldn't have dropped the bomb on the man like that."

Silvert winced, the angry planes of her face softening.

"And you didn't need to target Dane like that, either."

Silvert's face hardened.

"Ekaterin, I don't begrudge Dane at all; why should you?" Graff and Silvert piled into his dingy and battered 1980 Ford; Graff put it in drive and they left the lot.

"Nobody does that to my partner."

"Huh." They drove in silence. Graff's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Ekaterin?"

"Yes?"

"Why do you have Leonard Nimoy's phone number?"

A cool smile played on her lips. "I hated Galaxy Quest ," she said, tapping the backs of her fingernails on the glass of the passenger-side window as she watched the scenery flash by. "I adored Star Trek .

Graff began to laugh.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
And so it ends.... the villians have been caught, missing property is returned and all is well at Flights of Fancy.... Thank you for tuning in!, - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 17:42:21 (PDT)

MA has it exactly right.

Some of our homages are very obvious... such as Detective Miles Graff's reference to "Never give up, never surrender." (Galaxy Quest, of course!)

The more subtle homages are from and to my favorite author Lois McMaster Bujold.

Ignore the cover art. Read this woman's books!!

We now return you to your regularly scheduled FoF....
Barbara the Wallpaperer
If Rickmaniacs had a convention, would it be AR-Con (Our-Con)?, - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 17:41:09 (PDT)

To all the inquiring readers: the way we use the term "homage" it simply means you're borrowing and paying tribute to material that is not your own. See also "plagiarism" "stealing" and "hey, wait a minute!" Okay, so maybe it's not quite that bad--taking the material without any aknowledgment would be plagiarism. As it is, it's more like wink-wink nudge-nudge. Hope that helps. 8-)

MA
Still pondering my Mistralian predicament . . ., - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 17:21:02 (PDT)

Thanks lee for the Friday story...I really enjoy reading them every night. Good luck and enjoy your greyhound. They make great pets as my sister in Florida has adopted two of them over the past several years and really loves them both. Have fun and all the best with your new greyhound. Pam
Pam H. <sholman@tmlp.com>
- Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 17:15:43 (PDT)

Some while later:

“There’s nothing on.” Ed holding the remote control before him like a laser gun whose beam didn’t quite reach its target, and pushing buttons repeatedly. “I’m bored.”

Claudia looked up. She was sitting at the dining room table in her small flat, typing away at the keyboard of her new laptop. “Go and be creative, you said. Lack of airtime was affecting your fan mail, you said. Why don’t you take your own advice, and go be creative. I’m trying to keep us in work here.”

“I’m having painters block,” he said. “Oh, look, there’s Minion on TV.” Ed pouted. “See, if you’d written more, that’d be me up there. Now even Minion has more airtime than me.”

“Ed, when have you ever cared about all that? What’s wrong with you? You’ve had some great scenes with half-naked women. Any actor would be thrilled.”

“They were only half naked.”

“You’re arguing too much.”

“No, I’m not.”

Claudia gave him a Paddington Bear stare.

“I’m just bored - it’s something to do.” He grinned, leaning on his arms, and looking over the back of the sofa. “I know, why don’t you read me some of what you’re writing.”

“OK, it’s just an idea, but I thought this would open up all sorts of opportunities.”

“Go on then. Entertain me.”

“The sun streamed in through half open curtains, as Claudia woke to the sound of water running. Half asleep she got out of the comfortable, warm bed, and wandered over towards the bathroom. Someone was in the shower. Someone was humming. She opened the shower door, and Ed turned and grinned at her. Then she suddenly realised that everything that had happened after Mary Anne’s wedding had been a dream. A long and horrible dream. She was at the beach house with Ed, and everything was right with the world. … Well? What do you think?”

“Um,” said Ed, trying to keep a straight face, which turned his smirk into more of a grimace. “Very Dallas.”

“Oh, that was at least 20 years ago. No one these days will remember Dallas.”

“I don’t know, there may be copyright issues.”

“Oh, come on, half the stuff on FOF is blatant plagiarism… You don’t like it do you?”

“Well, I’d rather you finish a story line, than completely erase it like that.”

“OK, perhaps you’re right…” Claudia hit delete. “Bring me chocolate, I have a lot of work to do tonight.”
Claudia
I'm so excited, appearing in the story lots this week. Cindie: look I posted!, - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 16:51:35 (PDT)

lee
Pam, Thanks for your GB message yesterday. This is for you early because I am adopting an ex-racing greyhound tonight, and will be very busy. :), - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 13:01:47 (PDT)

BtW, What, please, does "homage" mean?
Inquiring readers want to know :-D
- Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 10:17:00 (PDT)

FoF Sets -- Ed's Room
Morning of Day Ten of the Investigation
After the Meeting on the Nottingham Courtyard Set

"You knew?" Claudia asked. "You knew all this time?"

"Of course," Detective Miles Graff said. "If you're trying to take a roomful of people by surprise, it's a lot easier to hit your targets if you don't yell going through the door." (homage) "But," he continued, "Mr. Snape brought us this--" and Graff stepped away, revealing a mess of a laptop on the desk behind him. "Your security cameras caught it happening on film. I don't know how it happened, but Mr. Snape assures me it's possible."

It was Claudia's laptop, all right. If the technicolor "Clods" painted on the lid wasn't a good enough clue, the tiny pictures of Ed and the boys ringing the parts of the screen they could still see were a definite sign. But it was wrong. It looked as if someone had been trying to pull it inside-out, but had stopped halfway. The keyboard poked up partway through the inside of the monitor, circuitboards stuck out the sides like hedgehog spines. "What happened to it?" Claudia asked, looking at it.

Snape gave the laptop and Claudia identical sour looks. "It's technology."

Claudia thought about planting him a facer. No, she'd wait until she had real motivation. Then she'd punch him in the chops. "So?"

Snape scowled. "Muggle technology," he said. "It got splinched."

Claudia stared at him. Ed looked at Snape curiously. "Is that a technical term?" Ed asked.

"Yes, it's a technical term!" snapped Snape and turned away, scowling. He strode down the hall, his black robe flapping behind him like wings. Graff followed, closing the door behind him.

Claudia poked at the remains of her laptop with a curious finger. At least it had stopped sparking.

Ed stood, awkwardly, near the doorway. "I wish we'd been able to get your computer back in one piece," he said.

"Why?"

"I'd like to feel we'd saved something from this whole mess," Ed said.

"I thought we had saved something. We uncovered industry espionage, plugged our security leak and foiled a kidnapping. (homage) And we got paid. Overtime, even. What more do you want for a fortnight?" Claudia asked.

"Well, it would have been nice if any of that had been on purpose, instead of by accident," Ed replied. (homage)

"I dunno about you," Claudia purred, as she closed on Ed, "but I got paid on purpose."

Ed grinned and flicked off the lights. A lock clicked into place in the darkness.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
I'll bet you were wondering what happened to that laptop...., - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 05:33:19 (PDT)

CONGRATULATE ME!!!
Nutter
Great news, everyone! ACC has dubbed me The Fart Person! Isn't that wonderful! I'm just bursting with pride. Or is that cabbage?, - Wednesday, July 23, 2003 at 20:19:21 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

lee
- Wednesday, July 23, 2003 at 16:26:13 (PDT)

Cindie’s flat:

Cindie stood stock still with Dev’s clear hazel gaze focused entirely upon her. Even knowing much of the intensity residing there was due to Therese’s presence rather than herself it was still a daunting prospect. Finally something she’d heard him say in the confusion of his arrival struck her. “What did you say about the phone?”

“Your telephone is out of order.” Dev spoke in a slow placid tone that enunciated every syllable. The Irish lilt was beautiful and only accentuated his natural authority. In this case, however, Cindie used the diversion of the telephone to side step his command. And the issue. Crossing over to where the telephone sat on an end table she saw that the receiver was askew. After nudging it back on to the receiver she lifted it to her ear to satisfy herself that there was a dial tone. When she looked back at Dev his attention had again returned to Therese. She was occupied with the dogs and as he watched her those features which could be schooled into utter impassivity had relaxed into nothing short of adoration and longing. It made Cindie feel like the intruder. By the time he looked back at Cindie who had replaced the receiver with a click the look was suppressed.

“I don’t know what happened. I must have bumped it or something.” Cindie managed a wan smile. “Would you like something to drink? Some Moo shu pork?” At Dev’s narrowed eyes her smile widened to rival one of Gerve Mittens’. She poked at one of the cartons with a chop stick.

“Thank you. No.” There was a hopeful moment where she thought he would have forgotten his directive in favour of leaving with Therese. Instead he repeated the question. “Out with it. Something is distressing you; let me help.”

For all his commanding demeanor, Cindie knew he meant it. Therese too. She could tell either of them of the reasons for her distress and they would sympathize and offer advice and insight. It simply wasn’t possible, however. Knowing how guarded Mistral was it was impossible to think of divulging what had happened. Add to that the fact that Mistral was their friend too, had been for a long time before she had shown up, and that she didn’t even know what the truth was and hadn’t talked about it with him. No, she simply couldn’t begin to explain what troubled her. Her first inclination was to say something flip and to shrug off Dev’s offer. For a moment she simply looked at him. Dev was a tall and sometimes foreboding man but just then his eyes looked to be about the kindest she had ever seen. Instead of saying something trite or dismissive, she walked over to him. On reflex he bent into her as if to better hear what she was going to say.

Cindie kissed his cheek. He responded with a gentle smile.

Cindie then walked over to Therese and gave her friend a hug. She stood back and looked at them. Dev was simply waiting; Therese held Tory’s lead but hadn’t fastened it, clearly prepared to stay if needed. “Out you three. It’s late.” Dev tilted his head and gave her a look. Cindie continued softly, “the person I need to talk to isn’t here right now. Don’t worry.”

Dev and Therese looked at each other for a moment of the sort of silent communication generally reserved for long married couples. After this bit of instant telepathy the goodbyes were exchanged. Declining any offers to help tidy the flat Cindie showed them out, grateful for the offers of help, the hugs and the friendships.

Cindie
Posting is contagious! Trying to run and keep up...
And Barbara...those marching orders were exceeded beyond expectation. Do it again. , - Tuesday, July 22, 2003 at 19:29:41 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

“I’ll meet you back here after dinner, so that we can talk.” Severus said, and then set out toward the Great Hall before teaching first years a double potions lab.
lee
- Tuesday, July 22, 2003 at 18:38:24 (PDT)

The Imperial Palace--Therese's guest quarters

The camera pans in on a rather grim scene. Therese lies stretched out on the bed, pale, still and unconscious. Dev sits on the edge of the bed next to her, unable to separate himself from her for even the briefest of moments, as if by his touch alone he can lend her strength. Dr. McCoy hovers over her patient, scanners whirring and muttering savagely her discontent at stubborn patients, disregard for medical advice, and the Irish in general, though there is little doubt that her ire in that regard has a specific focus. Scout Sifuentes stands toward the foot of the bed, trying both to stay out of the way and maintain his abject impassivity toward a man he was beginning to consider a friend who not only betrayed him in the fullest manner of the word, but also caused bodily injury to a member of his crew. Two Alliance Rose personal are planted firmly at the thresh hold, and though they control their emotions with the same efficiency they could control their breathing if need be, there is little doubt that both men would find great pleasure in retraining Devalera should he decide to ignore the leniency of Her Majesty's order of house arrest.

After several moments of inactivity Therese suddenly let out a long, low, moan, and throwing her arms above her head, her hands grasp uncertainly at the air, then find the narrow wooden arcs of the headboard, her fingers twining around it reflexively. Grasping the wooden slats as if they were an absolute lifeline, her slender frame twisted and contorted convulsively as she strained upon the bed.

And we are in flashback:

HE had been relentless. From the point when HE had first proven to her that HE was completely in control of her, he had allowed her no quarter. Every interaction provided him some form of dominance, either physical or emotional, and frequently both. He knew his victim, and used every detail to his advantage.

Therese had always been possessed of a fear of height. How HE knew that, she couldn’t fathom, but when he’d drug her up the narrow, winding staircase, so reminiscent of a castle turret, she’d realized he’d discovered this. She lost track of how many rotations they’d made as they climbed the steep incline, but her breath had come in huge gasps by the time he’d quit. Opening a tiny door to one side of the thick wall, he’d pushed her out onto a tiny ledge, causing her to grasp frantically at the cold, brick surface. two leather straps were fastened into the stone, and she laced her wrists through them, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the material.

“Hold tight now,” HE instructed, as he moved a lever beneath the doorway that she’d stepped through, the small ledge recessed into the main wall, leaving her hanging from the two straps. She was suspended in midair over the stone buttress of his lair, unable to see the ground below, and very, very afraid of falling. So absorbed in her struggle to stay secure and not fall, she barely heard the trap door close, and gave little head to the sound of HIS footsteps as they retraced their path down the steps.

All too quickly Therese’s predicament became excruciating. She struggled to wrap her arms more deeply through the straps, but no matter how she attempted to brace her slender frame against the cold surface of the wall, it was only a short time before her weary muscles began to protest. She even tried to link her foot through one of the two straps—anything for relief, but the loops had been made too small to accommodate. She knew it was only a matter of time before she fell, there was no way she could hold on until HE decided to return.

Dr. McCoy moved quickly to her patient’s side as the frail woman’s body thrashed upon the bed. Eamon attempted to pull Therese into his arms, but her fingers tightened, white knuckled as she grasped the bed frame. The flashback shook through her as she fought, struggling and crying out.

She’d fought and struggled for as long as she humanely could, straining herself long past what she’d believed possible, and certainly to the extent of her endurance. She hoped that her neck would break cleanly when she landed, and that she wouldn’t suffer any more than she already had. She’d hoped to spare Eamon this. After all she’d been through, it pained her to finally lose. She didn’t fear her death so much as it angered her. She had so much to live for in Eamon, had promised her that she would survive this, to see him again.

When her last finger slipped through the strap, she felt herself fall backwards, and closed her eyes. The impact was soft, and almost immediate, and Therese, though she was conscious of a brief burst of relief, quickly felt fury overtake any other response. HE had known that she would half kill herself not to fall, and as she lay on the soft, mattress like surface, she wondered if HE had bothered to watch her struggle. Lying back for several moments, she felt the screaming ache of her muscles burn through her limbs, and when HE came to retrieve her once again, she was too weary to throw herself at HIS form, too fatigued to feel the satisfaction of being able to inflict upon this creature some form of retribution for her suffering.

Therese’s form gradually stilled, and when she was once again somewhat calm, Eamon gently peeled her fingers from within the pattern of the headboard, and cradled her on his lap, murmuring to her softly in Irish. He looked up and into the deep blue eyes of the doctor, her concern so readily apparent. “I’ll ask The Empress if I may escort her back to Delaford, if that is your wish,” he said softly.

“I truly think it best.”

Therese, stirring in Eamon’s grasp, opened her eyes and considered the gathering of people. “I’m not leaving,” she announced, her voice soft but determined. She peered up at the doctor, who still hovered over her in concern. “What can you do to get me strong enough for the trial?” she demanded.

Therese
shang-hied by designated driver duty for the boys, MA--sorry about the tardiness!, - Tuesday, July 22, 2003 at 13:12:13 (PDT)

Mary Anne’s flat:

Minion: *smirking* Thank you, Gerve. I’m afraid the Interrogator gets all the good clothes on the show. *looking about furtively* Don’t tell HIM I said that.

Mary Anne watches and smiles as the cameras flash quick takes of the studio audience—people laughing with their pleasure in the joke, in Minion’s ability to step into his role and back out again, though it is curious to see how many of those people take a wary look around them, almost as if they do expect The Interrogator to appear. And that, clearly, is part of the enjoyment for them.

They won’t laugh while they’re watching Mistral in action, she muses, but for now? They like it. Scaring themselves. Thinking of what it would be like if HE walked out onto the stage right now, or what if they turned and HE was in the seat right beside them . . .

A glance at the other end of the sofa.

Mistral’s eyes are fixed upon her.

Mary Anne flushes, resisting the instinct to pull up the collar of her dressing gown. That look—not invasive, as it would certainly be from someone like Valmont, but thorough, as though committing the image of her to some private picture gallery of the imagination. Mistral, as she knows, could make a woman feel undressed in a suit of armour—or jeweled and gowned to haute couture perfection in nothing but a cotton robe. But what to make of this . . . this speculative smoulder in his eyes . . .

She plucks at the sleeve of her robe. “No Cyprian goddess tonight.”

If she had expected him to laugh and be distracted, she had erred. “Mary Anne, it is not entirely a matter of clothing.” No laugh. A smile. A slow smile, a fire kindling.

Minion: That’s right. Originally I had a non-speaking part as a cringing subordinate.

Gerve: What happened?

Minion: Well… once I was capitalized there was no stopping me…

That does earn a laugh from Mistral. “I shall have to take a much harder line with these cringing subordinates in the future. Remember that in your scripts. All of my henchmen are to be strictly lower case.”

“What, no henchwomen?”

“Henchpersons, then, if you like, but keep the letters small!”

Stretched out at his ease, still savouring his cup of chocolate, this is Mistral Relaxed and there will never be a better moment.

“Mistral, why are you here?”

The cup stops halfway to his lips. Slowly, he lowers it to the table and turns to her, curious eyebrow on the rise. “Why, I told you . . .”

Mary Anne settles into her corner of the sofa. “I know what you said. But was I really so badly off at work today that you made a special trip here to check on me?”

Mistral begins a reply, to be checked by Mary Anne’s raised, admonitory finger, and her soft reminder of “Really?” She watches as he sits in silence, expecting that at any moment he will retreat behind the Great Wall of Mistral, hoping that he will not. She is grateful for his concern and will say so . . . but his long silence, that inward look of distraction, argues that there is more to tell, and so Mary Anne waits. His face, at least, is reassuring: neither angry nor haughty nor hurt, but taut with extreme concentration, a man trying to keep his balance on a slippery surface. Deep in this concentration, he raises his cup once more to his lips, drains it, and sets it on the table, then eases himself back into the sofa cushions, half-turned toward her, one arm negligently draped across the back of the couch.

“Mary Anne, what are your . . . impressions of the Museum Gala last night?”

MA--"Type, type, type, the gals are posting/Posting all around the world . . . " Falling in with those marching orders. ;-)
I get to hug The Director?! That is so sweet! *huggles*, - Monday, July 21, 2003 at 20:46:34 (PDT)

Ack! D.o.C., could you change "mouthly" to mouth? Thank you kindly :-D
Sandy
- Monday, July 21, 2003 at 18:22:50 (PDT)

Connemara, Ireland - Wedding Reception:

Alexander gazed down at his half-eaten meal of rare prime rib and carefully placed his fork next to the plate. He exhaled softly and continued staring down at his meal.

"Alex?" Sandy's voice broke in softly, her voice filled with genuine worry.

"Yes?" Alexander didn't look up at her.

"Is there something wrong with your meal?" Sandy asked.

A low growl in the throat. "No. It's FINE!"

David and Roberta exchanged glances at the sharp tone in the Englishman's voice. "What's wrong, then? Are you not feeling okay?" Roberta asked.

Alexander rolled his eyes in frustration as he lifted his head to gaze at the others sitting around the table. They all gazed back at him with notable concern on their faces. "I feel like I'm eating their bloody food!" he exclaimed as he jabbed a thumb in the general direction of Deirdre and Fiona, who had somehow managed to wedge themselves between Alexander and David, their tails wagging happily at the sound of his voice. The two canines looked up at him adoringly, their eyes filled with what could only be described in human terms as complete and utter hero worship.

Sandy, who was sitting at Alexander's right side, nodded sagely. "Well, the meat certainly *is* bloody enough," she said with a throaty chuckle. "Ouch! Hey! Watch where you're putting that!" she exclaimed as Brendan's wagging tail whacked against her leg. She reached out and patted the Irish wolfhound's neck. The third canine co-conspirator that was reigning terror upon Table Six turned his head and wagged his tail again to acknowledge the affectionate gesture before turning back to gaze lovingly at Alexander, who was slumped down in his seat.

"Very funny!" Alexander growled, his brow furrowing together in a ferocious scowl. "Why ME? What could I have *possibly* done in a past life to deserve this?" he sighed to the world at large. He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table in exasperation as he put his left elbow on the table and cupped his face with his hand. "Sit!" he mumbled and the three dogs immediately did as he commanded, their long pink tongues lolling out as they panted loudly in tandem.

"Maybe it's because they think you're special?" David offered, his ice-blue eyes twinkling with sudden mischief.

Roberta clapped a hand over her mouth to cover up a sudden coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like laughter to Alexander's ears.

Sandy made no such attempt to disguise her amusement and laughed merrily while Alexander slumped down further in his seat. "Oh, Alex! Please don't be so upset. Dogs are just plain *weird* sometimes. I should know! Ollie---"

"Would qualify as a light snack for one of these brutes," Alexander finished grumpily.

Sandy sighed, reached out, and put her hand over Alexander's. She gently squeezed it - both as a gesture of affection and in an effort to stop him from drumming a hole through the table. "Just be glad that they're not trying to sit on your lap," she pointed out. She looked down and grinned as Brendan put his head on top of her arm and continued looking up at Alexander expectantly with shining brown eyes.

Alexander groaned in dismay at Sandy's observation. "OH GOD...." His eyes closed as he pictured in his mind three Irish wolfhounds vying for the 'privilege' of sitting on his lap. He shuddered a little at the resulting mental image and opened his eyes just as one of the wedding guests took a group shot of the people and animals sitting at the table to surprised shouts from the humans and accompanying howls by the canine contingent.

"Thanks! And wait until Mary sees that I've got a picture of Alexander Dane! She's going to be *so* jealous! HA!" The woman then made an excited squealing noise and skittered away to the next table before anybody could utter a word.

"I never expected to be rendered temporarily blind and deaf at a wedding reception," Alexander grumbled as he continued blinking while the aftereffects of the blinding flash slowly faded away.

"Neither did the rest of us!" David replied, still rubbing at his eyes.

Melanie and Jack came over to their table, both of them wearing very distressed expressions on their faces. "I'm *so* sorry, you guys!" Jack exclaimed. "I should've warned you that I've got a camera-happy aunt..."

"And an eccentric uncle that *really* loves his pets," Melanie chimed in, flushing deep red and putting her hand over her eyes. "Oh boy..."

Roberta shrugged her shoulders. "Better that the Terrible Trio is *here* than the lot of them making that unearthly racket like they did before when your uncle took them away from the table," she said.

"Really. It's not your fault, you two," Alexander said quietly.

The newlyweds gazed at Alexander uncertainly and he smiled at them. "I've had stranger things happen to me." They looked unconvinced at his words of reassurance. "Trust me."

"Like eating rotten sushi or sliding down tunnels filled with stinky green slime?" Sandy queried, her eyes glittering as a wide grin surfaced.

An eyebrow arched up as welcome laughter broke out and loud thumps could be heard as the dogs' tails wagged and hit against Sandy's, Alexander's, and David's chair legs. "Among *other* things," Alexander allowed, his lips curving up in amusement as he glanced in her direction.

A miniature three-year old version of Melanie with startling deep blue eyes dressed in a light pink frilly dress ran over to their table and came to a screeching halt next to Roberta. She gazed up at Alexander in wide-eyed amazement. "Doctor Lass-russ?" she asked finally.

"Wow, she's **good**! She recognized you without the..." Sandy's voice trailed off as Alexander's smile turned wan. "Uh, never mind." She squeezed his hand again in silent reassurance.

Melanie cleared her throat. "Everybody, this is my niece Siobhan," she said by way of introduction. "She's...um.... a *really* big fan of..."

"Hi!" the group around the table chorused before Melanie could finish the rest of her sentence. Again, there was a loud, thumping noise as the dogs enthusiastically beat their tails against the chair legs.

The little girl beamed at them, her perfect white baby teeth glistening in the reception hall lights. "HI!" she shouted back. She raised her right hand up and cheerfully proclaimed at the top of her lungs just as her parents came to collect her, "BY CRAPBAR'S HAMMER, BY THE SONS OF WOMBAT, YOU SHALL BE... REVENGED!"

All activity in the reception hall ground to a halt as people whipped their heads around to stare at the people sitting at Table Six. There was a loud crash as one of the caterers, startled by the yelling, accidentally dropped a tray of empty champagne flutes on the floor. There was a sudden flurry of activity as several co-workers went over to help their colleague clean up the mess.

Jack and Melanie watched in alarm as the blood drained from Sandy's face and it turned a horrible gray shade. Roberta began biting her nails, her light brown eyes wide with worry and David simply stared at Siobhan, his mouthly slightly agape in shock. Jack felt the tips of his ears begin to burn and Melanie's face turned bright scarlet. Siobhan's parents reached out for their daughter and began to pull her back, but Alexander raised his hand to signal a stop.

Alexander's face turned solemn as he gazed at the rapt child for what seemed to be an interminable amount of time to the adults in the hall. Even the dogs were waiting in silent anticipation of what the Englishman would do.

Finally, in a soft voice that carried easily throughout the entire reception hall courtesy of his many years of vocal training and years on the stage, Alexander murmured, gazing steadily at the enchanted little girl, "By *Grabthar's* Hammer... By the Suns of *Warvan*... You shall be..." He paused on the last word, his voice lowering even further and his eyes widening as he uttered the final word: "...avenged."

There was a ten second stunned silence before loud applause and excited barking rose up in the reception hall. Siobhan's parents smiled as Alexander inclined his head forward before escorting the little girl away while his co-workers stared at him in stunned amazement. Alexander nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders, calmly picked up his champagne flute, and took a sip of the bubbling liquid.

Melanie and Jack exchanged grins and politely excused themselves, walking over to the next table with smiles on their faces.

Sandy sagged forward in her chair, exhaling in relief before she turned her head to glance at Alexander, who smiled at her serenely. "I just hope that *somebody* got that on videotape!" she exclaimed and began giggling at the expression of mock outrage on his face, which quickly transformed into a sheepish grin.

Sandy - popping up for air and a dose of *un*reality ;-)
The homage is rather obvious, I hope!, - Monday, July 21, 2003 at 18:19:49 (PDT)

FoF Sets -- Nottingham Courtyard Set
All-Hands Meeting
Morning of Day Ten of the Investigation

PLEASE NOTE: This meeting takes place before Sandy and Alexander Dane leave for Ireland, to attend Melanie and Jack's wedding.

"Kidnapping?!" gasped Diane. "Who were they trying to kidnap?"
"Your Director." Detective Miles Graff replied.
Melanie dropped into her chair with an audible thump.

"But that's not possible!"cried Grainne, the lighting technician. "Nobody here would do that!"

"Ah, yes," Detective Ekaterin Silvert snarled softly from behind Graff's shoulder. "Your much-vaunted community of friends, who would never dream of such a thing, with whom you must bond together to protect from the cruel intrusiveness of the evil police," she said, anger openly rippling through her voice. Heads around the room turned and stared at her, mouths agape. "We came to help you people," she said. "And you had the unmitigated gall to treat us as if we were interfering in your lives? To purposely interfere with the investigation? To abuse, insult and denigrate police officers who are just trying to work? What is with you people? We have more important things to do than search for missing laptop computers."

"So why weren't you?" called a voice from the back of the room.

"Because your Director requested assistance from the authorities before deciding our methods would interfere with his finances--" The Director, Claudia and Ed jerked guiltily in their seats. "But unlike some individuals employed here, we don't let our... offbeat sense of humour --" she drawled the word out, fixing Sandy with a frigid, angry eye "-- stop us from helping other people do their jobs." She faced the rest of the group. "Otherwise you would have a very dead Director on your hands --" the room went utterly silent as the blood drained from the Director's face "-- and you could all go looking for new employment." She turned to Alex, her voice all sweet malice. "I hear they want to make Galaxy Quest films, Mr. Dane. Perhaps you could have gotten a job there. You're lucky to have fans who tolerate your abominable, bullying behavior." She stepped over to Alex and handed him a slip of paper she'd drawn from her slacks pocket.

"What?--" he started to ask.

"It's Leonard Nimoy's phone number, Mr. Dane," Silvert said, coldly, eyeing him with utter contempt. "Obviously you have a great deal to learn about... love." Her glance swept the room with disgust. "You will be contacted by the district attorney when this case comes up for trial. I hope you cooperate with that office more than you did with ours." Silvert turned, militarily precise, on her heel and strode out, leaving the room staring at her infuriated wake.

Graff cleared his throat. There was quiet gleam of satisfaction in his eye. "Are there any questions?"

The room was silent and still for a moment. Then Therese put up a tentative hand.

"Yes, Ms. Gellert?"

"What did she mean by a... dead... Director?"

Graff sighed. "According to their preliminary statements, Ms. Ledbury, Ms. Njalson, Mr. Rosier and Mr. Wilkes had allegedly planned to kidnap your Director and hold him for a ransom of 8 million pounds." The stone-silent room was suddenly filled with gasps and murmurs. "Failing the ransom being raised, he was, apparently, to be, uhm..."

"Killed?" Mary Anne said softly, her clear voice carrying above the rising mutter.

Graff nodded. He glanced over at the FoF Director, whose eyes were wide and stunned. "Sir?" Graff murmured, touching him lightly on the upper arm. The man's eyes swung up blindly. "If you choose, we have a number of resources available to you." The FoF Director nodded and awkwardly unfolded from his chair.

"Thank you," the Director said tonelessly. He stared blindly ahead.

"I believe this concludes our investigation into the assault on your Director. Ms. Claudia, Ed, I also have information on that missing computer. Mr. Snape?"

FoF employees slowly began to come forward, Mary Anne being the first. After placing an uncertain hand on his forearm, she stepped up and embraced him wordlessly. Tugging on Claudia and Ed's sleeves, and nodding to Snape to precede them, Graff quietly left the room.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Is this too much for you ladies? :D, - Monday, July 21, 2003 at 18:05:23 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

“Oh never mind, I must leave at once.”
lee
- Monday, July 21, 2003 at 17:04:58 (PDT)

The Investigation
Flashback to Evening of Day Nine of the Investigation
Dale Rosier's building

"Dale Rosier?" Detective Miles Graff spoke to the door.

"Yeah?"

"This is Detective Graff. We spoke last week after the thefts from Flights of Fancy."

"Yeah?" Rosier's voice rose in suspicion, through the door. Graff and his partner, Detective Ekaterin Silvert, stood in the hallway outside Dale Rosier's flat. Rosier lived in an extraordinarily clean building, one he shouldn't be able to afford, considering his other habits.

"My partner and I have a few more questions for you; could we come in?" Graff nodded at Silvert, who had her hand near her shoulder holster under her jacket, pretending she was rooting for her wallet or notebook in her inner jacket pocket. No threat here, she radiated, no threat at all. Just a dame who ought to have a purse.

"Uh,-- " Some low-voiced conversation occurred on the other side of the door. "Yeah, just a sec." Some shuffling and muttering. The lock clicked open. "C'mon in," Rosier said, surly-voiced.

Graff smiled up at Rosier, a burly man who topped him by almost two feet. "Thank you, Mr. Rosier. This won't take long."

Silvert lifted her eyes briefly to Rosier's face as he looked down on Graff. Fear, her mind automatically jotted, as if it had a notepad in hand. Anger. But mostly fear. She glanced around at the two others in the room and nodded her hello. "Ms. Njalson. Mr. Wilkes."

"So what do you want to know?" Rosier asked, his arms crossed threateningly and defensively over his barrel chest. Silvert hated running confrontations with Graff. He always did something crazed. This time was no exception.

"Why'd you think you'd get away with it, Rosier?"

"What?" Rosier's face ran red.

"And you, Wilkes," Graff said, turning to the gangly set worker. "Did you think that somebody wouldn't talk?"

Njalson laid her hand on Wilkes' forearm. "What're you talking about?" she asked.

"Oh, I think you know, Ms. Njalson," Graff breathed to her as he crossed the room. The faces followed him like iron filings to a magnet (homage), leaving Silvert forgotten in the hallway. Rosier stepped after Graff. "Where's Ms. Ledbury, Mr. Rosier?"

"Annie?" Rosier shrugged. "I dunno. She doesn't tell me everything she plans to do."

"I know where she is," Graff said. He waited for three people's attention to focus, laser-like, on him. "She's in custody."

Njalson's lips thinned. "What did she do?"

"She didn't succeed," Graff replied, "at getting away."

Wilkes sneered at Rosier. "I told you Anne was a loser, Dale."

Rosier snapped back, "And you think the Ice Queen there is an improvement?"

"Shut up, dumb*ss."

"Shut up yourself, you fu --" Rosier snarled.

"Shut up the both of you," Njalson said. "What's the point of this little excusion into fantasy, Detective Graff?"

"Well, I wanted to tell you the reasoning behind this." Graff brought out a sheet of thick paper, a red seal gleaming richly on the bottom. Rosier shouldered forward.

"What is it?"

"It's a search warrant, Mr. Rosier, for your flat, your automobile and your personal workspace on the Flights of Fancy Studio," Graff explained. "This," he said, drawing a second piece of paper from his pocket and unfolding it, "is for searching Mr. Wilkes' flat, his automobile and his personal workspace." With his words, the three civilians coiled tighter and tighter.

"And this," Silvert's voice came from behind them, where she held up a third piece of paper with her left hand, her right hand still in her jacket, "is for Ms. Njalson's flat, her computer and her workspace at Flights of Fancy."

The two men froze; Njalson made to bolt. Silvert moved with swift economy. "No, Ms. Njalson," she said, her Glock in hand. Flat matte finish. Quiet click as the safety was removed. Menace rolled off the firearm in ways the light never could. "We would like you to accompany us quietly to the station, where you can join Ms. Ledbury."

Njalson's eyes jerked back toward Graff, who also had his gun out, resting heavy in his hands, as he spoke into a handheld radio. More police flowed through the doorway into Rosier's apartment.

"Trudchen Amalia Njalson, you have the right to remain silent; anything you say may be used against you..." Constable Doushnakovi's voice rose quietly behind the other two officers making the formal arrests. "Dale Fenton Rosier, you have the right..." and "Jonathan Booth Wilkes, you have the right..."

Silvert leaned against the wall with a small sigh. Graff leaned against the wall next to her. She cracked one eye open. "You're insane, you know."

Graff shrugged.

"Someday, you're going to get plugged, Miles, and you'll go down, still wondering, 'What did I say? What did I say?'" Silvert said, with a touch of asperity. (homage)

"Strike one more for the good guys, Ekaterin."

Silvert released one weary chuckle. "Are we the good guys?"

"Of course." Graff sounded surprised. "Don't tell me you're giving up on that."

Silvert pushed off from the wall. "I'm not; I'm not. It's just that--" she lowered her voice "--it's been hard to remember that we're the good guys over the past two weeks. We certainly weren't being treated like we were the good guys."

Graff nodded with a grimace at the memories.

"I was fairly tempted to give it up and let them wallow in the consequences," she said.

"Ekaterin, Ekaterin," Graff said, tsking. "You know the old saying --"

She pursed her lips and her brows rose in tandem. "Which one?"

A grin split Graff's face. "'Never give up. Never surrender.'" (homage, homage)

Silvert groaned and tilted back to the wall, as Graff's laughter filled the flat hallway.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
.... and now, back to the show...., - Monday, July 21, 2003 at 05:18:41 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

lee
Les, (Great to have a new Rickman fan with us!) Thank you! I did indeed have a wonderful time in Florida. Disney is not exactly Rickman oriented so what saved me were my few solitary moments with my “Return of the Native tapes, headphones, the paperback book, and Snape bookmark. I know most of you can relate! It’s good to be home. :), - Sunday, July 20, 2003 at 22:14:14 (PDT)

Hello all! I have appreciated Mr. Rickman's work at an early age, but not until Harry Potter arrived on the list did I give it a second thought. I love your stories; there is alot of talent posted on this site. Even though I live 150 miles from Hollywood itself, I've only met one "celebrity" (Randy Travis) after a Christian Concert. Mrs. Carson, I hope you're having a wonderful time in Florida and I await your next installment of "True Love's Curse". Good night to all and I'll visit again soon :-)
Les from California <Lompocian1982@go.com>
a new A.R. fan and reader of Flights of Fancy stories, - Sunday, July 20, 2003 at 21:50:36 (PDT)

Barabra--*whatever* in the world was in those marching orders! Yow! All right the rest of you holiday lot, MA says you've vacated Alabama (were you ladies escorted from the state?), so the three of you, quit foolin' around and get those fingers going again!

Welcome back to the Realm, ye thrill-seekers.
R
Diane--I'd pay serious debt service to hear the lyrics of that Grubers song..., - Sunday, July 20, 2003 at 20:41:10 (PDT)

A helpless victim? Oooo this could be fun! :D (j/k)
Diane <snapescauldron@aol.comfoo>
Am I back from the dead? LOL, - Sunday, July 20, 2003 at 10:14:03 (PDT)

Flashback to Night of Day Nine of the Investigation
Phil's Flat

Phil walked down the hallway to Barbara's office and opened the door without knocking.

The door swung open to a wide cityscape, with bombed-out buildings. The walls were grey and made of veined stone. The veins were a darker grey and avoided the fingers Phil laid on the stone, sliding away like two magnets with the same polarity. He could smell ash in the air, and taste it. He looked up. In the distance, he could see a few gleaming towers among the ruins. He moved toward them.

The closest was a shining silver, like a blunted pyramid. In each window flickered faces, faces he was certain were familiar, if he could only remember them. A bearded man, laughing in front of pine trees. A dark-haired woman in a corral of horses. Two women's hands, entwined. He reached out to touch the shining side of the building.

It trembled.

Phil dropped his hand. He craned his neck around, searching, looking. The next closest tower was a few blocks away. He moved toward it, gliding on feet that never moved, over sidewalks thick with ash. He left troughs behind him, as if a plow had split the ash for planting.

The tower was a softly glowing blue, made of scaffolding and beams. Random rooms were set like gems in a latticework, finished and decorated. The largest was a dark ruby red, unicorn tapestries on the walls, a friendly fire flickering in the fireplace. He could see more rooms, up and up the framework, sparkling in the heights. He reached out to the red room, wanting to touch the walls, waiting for it to tremble. His hand passed through it -- room, framework, fire -- like grasping smoke. It wavered and steadied behind the path his hand had taken.

He frowned. The framework grew cloudy walls around each room, obscuring them from sight. He reached out to the building again. It was hard to the touch, and cold. He sighed and dropped his hand. "Everything I touch is ruined," he cried.

Not ruined. The voice came on a wind that didn't stir the air. It came from the tallest tower, made of rose-colored shapes, a gridwork of crossbars, of "x" shapes. Phil peered at it. It suddenly loomed in his sight like a swooping hawk.

Those weren't beams.

They were men.

Each "beam" was a man, standing like St. Andrew's cross. Men without faces. Men with faces. Men he knew.

Not ruined, they sighed out onto the air, the men, the building of them. One leaned down, looked at him from Mistral's eyes. Another frowned at him with Brandon's face. One reached down a glowing rose hand. Phil took it.

He found himself hoisted up into the air, passed from hand-to-hand up the side, up the center of the building, in a blur of hands clasping and unclasping his own until, finally, he stood in a small room at the top of the tower. The last man-shape dropped him there, a gentle smile on Dev's lips, and faded back away through the walls.

It looked like any other room he had ever seen: four walls, a floor, a ceiling. Two windows looked out onto the bombed-out city, the grey still dark and chilling even through the rose glow of the building. A lone figure stood in front of one of the windows, tracing patterns on the glass, wiping them away with the sleeve of its robe, then breathing on the glass and drawing new lines in the steam.

He knew that graceful lift of hand, that long neck curving just so, hair moving like a living thing.

Barbara.

She turned. Had he spoken aloud? She turned away, turned back, turned away, her arms rising from her sides. He noticed her robe lifting away, like the curl of skin from an apple in an apple peeler. The robe hovered above her, like a spring peeled from her body as she slowly turned before him. He could not see her face.

She stopped, nude, before him.

Her skin was white, almost opalescent in the soft rose of the building. Her hair moved in no wind, swinging behind her, shifting across the front of her body. He could see a blue vein arc across the skin from below her collarbone to the join of her shoulder. His hand lifted of his own accord.

Two graceful hands locked around his wrist and brought his palm to her face. Her eyes were large and dark, her face calm, her skin was warm -- so warm! -- and soft under his fingers.

With a groan, he pulled her near and they were falling, tumbling into a bed that rose into existence beneath them, and her mouth was hot and eager against his own.

He ran his hand down the sides of her ribs, tracing the inward curve of waist and the outward flare of hip. She pressed against his hand as it moved. He drew his fingers across her belly and her back arched to meet his touch. His lips pressed against hers, his hands sought her hair, her shoulders, her hips.

He rolled, she rolled with him and her hair tumbled down on them both like the walls of a cathedral. She was silhouetted against the light, her dark hair, her white skin; her long hands on his chest, her lips following after, her knees by his hips, her pelvis moving under his sweating hands.

The world shattered with her name.

*******************

Phil awoke, sweating and shaking and shamed.

He was standing, only heartbeats later, under a shower that stung him with needles of cold water. He turned the temperature up to hot, and tried to scour his desire from his skin.

It had all felt so real.

He should have known it was a dream. He should have known. But her skin, her hair, her mouth, her hands soft and graceful as wings . . . He cranked the water back to cold and stood under the pelting water until he began to shiver.

Phil stood in front of the bathroom mirror, his eyes looked haunted and guilty -- even to himself. His lips were blue, his hands stiff with cold.

He crossed back to his bedroom and stripped the sheets from the mattress with distaste curling his lip. He tied his robe securely around his waist and huddled up in the center of the bed.

He stared at the walls until his alarum rang, shivering and awake in the darkness.
Barbara the Wallpaperer
MA, Cindie and Therese gave me my marching orders.... Well, I fulfilled my assignment!, - Saturday, July 19, 2003 at 22:01:34 (PDT)

Joan
For inspiration? Well, it depends.... The Investigation stems from a Real Life incident in the life of Claudia. She mentioned it here, so I picked it up and ran 300 yards with it :D
Usually, though, we pick up one of AR's characters (see the list of available characters at the top of the page -- the Who's Who) and go from there.

Diane
You're just my helpless victim! *Bwaahahahahahahahha!* Ahem. I just needed a name and you fit the bill! :D
Barbara the Wallpaperer
- Saturday, July 19, 2003 at 16:43:25 (PDT)

Dear FoF writers: Do you get some inspiration from the GB's here? Like phrases, for example? Or specific words?
Joan
- Saturday, July 19, 2003 at 16:37:33 (PDT)

Whoa, how did I get thrown into Barbara's story??? (lol, unless it is another Diane?) :D
Me
Wore my SPAM shirt today! LOL, - Saturday, July 19, 2003 at 16:11:46 (PDT)

FoF Sets -- Nottingham Courtyard Set
All-Hands Meeting
Morning of Day Ten of the Investigation

PLEASE NOTE: This meeting takes place before Sandy and Alexander Dane leave for Ireland, to attend Melanie and Jack's wedding.

Detective Miles Graff stood before the gathered population of Flights of Fancy and smiled. "I'd like to thank you all for coming. I know this was a last-minute call and both my partner and I appreciate that you've taken time out of your busy timetable to listen to what we've learned." Graff cleared his throat. "The first thing I'd like to discuss is the nightclub called 'DeMontfort's.' It's more than a nightclub. It's a front for some sophisticated money-laundering, loan-sharking, racketeering and illegal gambling activities. Once an individual falls into that sort of compa