Disclaimer: Ryan Murphy owns them. I'm just making them a bit more ineresting. and rambly
Wrote this about a year ago, finally got around to posting it. Right now it's a one-shot, but my mind can be changed.
It all depends on you really... Enjoy!
Very Minor Femslash Warning: nothing graphinc, just y'know... two almost women completly oblivious to the fact that they belong together
Big Words Warning: Some may even contain 4 syllables... I'm obnoxious that way ;) don't worry you'll learn to love me!
Blink. Blink. Blink.
In all honesty the cursor was just doing its job… there was no telling if it really liked blinking, if there was any malicious intent. But the writer? Oh, she had her own theories about this one particular cursor. It was evil, she would claim, and she hated it. It taunted her, mocked her to no end. Appearing and Disappearing like the Weasley brothers after they reached their legal age… on crack. As if it were saying, "Go on! … do something! ... Type something! ... And you fancy yourself a writer? ... You can't even write one sodding sentence! (Yes the cursor had an English accent…)
With every slow second that passed she stared at the cursor, She felt her cheeks flare up in frustration, her brow furrowed, and teeth clenched tight. Obviously this self-proclaimed writer had been sitting at her computer for…. A while? What time was it anyway? Shrug. She closed her eyes and rested her elbows on the desk, squeezing her eyes shut trying to scrounge up some semblance of inspiration from her mind. Raven hair cascading around her fair features. But alas, her muse had, shall we say, taken a break? Albeit more of an extended vacation… okay, okay, I'll stop bullshittin': that damn muse has been AWOL for 3 weeks!
Yes, this journalist (because that's another title she goes by) was experiencing the all too familiar symptoms of "Writers Block" and this was defiantly a major case. Most people don't understand writers block (these people are obviously not writers) How can you just not be able to write? Well, fact of the matter is, when experiencing the aforementioned curse –seriously it's a curse- you can write… but not creatively, emotionally, nor influentially might as well forget anything worth reading for that matter. And Sam (oh look another one of her titles) felt as if she'd somehow lost her ability to express herself through words. Something she had cherished and prided herself on since she was very young.
It was like she'd used up every ounce of creative juice in her canteen and lost the map back to the river. Dehydrated, metaphorically speaking of course for there was in fact a half-empty bottle of water to the left of her. Molecules slowly adjusting to the rooms warmer temperature, forming a ring of condensation on the desks unprotected hard wood surface. Note to self: Buy coaters… Anyway, dehydrated in the middle of a dessert, no wait she was not in a dessert! She was chained to a rock and inches away from her… a waterfall… of imagination. Right there, just out of rea ch.
Suddenly she opened her eyes.
L-E…freeze…backspace, backspace
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Déjà vu.
Releasing an exasperated sigh, Sam moved the mouse to the top right of the screen and remorsefully watched as the little arrow pointed and clicked the red 'X' effectively severing all ties to her blank Word Processing document and in turn any chance of getting something written today. Berating herself for her lack of perseverance the young writer/journalist/Sam made her way down the staircase to the kitchen in the hopes that some food would re-energize her very lacking neurons.
Sam walked in to find her blonde/polar opposite/ (and hopefully not too soon) soon-to-be-stepsister Brooke and Brookes Gucci clad best friend Nicole abruptly halting their conversation. Presumably, the only brunette in the room thought, due to her own sudden appearance. If she wasn't so irritated by that damn cursor she would've been suspicious.
"Oh, hi Spam! I thought I smelled cheap shampoo." Nicole remarked icy glare firmly in place. Brooke on the other hand decided that the counter was vastly more interesting then it was 10 seconds ago. Sam rolled her eyes, unwittingly stuck her tongue into her cheek –her subconscious signature move that apparently everyone, especially Brooke, was aware of but herself- and glared at the shorter blonde before making her way across the kitchen to the refrigerator. Opening it and sighing as she scanned through its meager contents.
"There's no food in there Sam. No Jane equals no shopping/cooking. So… delivery?" Brookes voice drifted over from somewhere on the other side of the kitchen while Sam continued sniffing an at least 4-day-old Tuna casserole, which appeared to be the only edible item. Now we all know there's something wrong with that picture, because it is only common knowledge that Tuna Casserole is barely tolerable let alone edible immediately following its production. Wait, what? No food? No mom? No food???
Sam spun around to face Brooke, utterly confused and mildly panicked look on her face jaw slightly agape. It was quite cute in Brookes opinion, you should've been there. The writer just stared. "Sammy are you alright? The 'rents have been out of town since, like, Tuesday" The Cheerleader said in an unusually friendly tone. Sam was thrown; there was no annoyance or cruelty at all just genuine concern. It made the journalist extremely uneasy. Her choice response was to stare blankly at her blonde housemate. "It's Sunday…" Brooke continued as if that were the most obvious thing in the world, and in a majority of day-to-day situations it would be. Extremely obvious in fact, but this was summer. Summer! What kind of teenager keeps track of what day it is during summer? That would defeat the purpose of summer, which is to have fun, get a tan, and erase all traces to the past school year from every spongy crevice of your mind.
Sam was just about to point out Brookes serious lack of respect to the unwritten code of Teenage Summertime Etiquette when she registered the fact that Nicole has started up some diatribe at our heroines expense. But before Sam could react to the platinum blonde opponent and defend her honor/bad hair style/clothing choices Brooke stepped in.
"Nic!" Brooke scolded. Nicole cut her final insult short and glared at the unpopular wannabe. Her superior continued, "We agreed, remember?" Nicole stomped her insanely expensive Jimmy Choo. (And when I say insanely expensive I mean it. Like "Mary Cherry-Insane" insanely expensive. Yeah) Grudgingly exiting the kitchen mumbling something about the aforementioned psychopath and Alaska.
The journalist wasn't quite sure what she'd just witnessed, quirking an eyebrow at now the only blonde in the kitchen. Brooke just shrugged, bit her lip and asked, "Chinese or Italian?"
Subject change. Immediately paranoia crept in and flashes of the blondes plotting her unspeakable demise filled her mind. But then her stomach growled and images of breadsticks and lasagna replaced things like trap doors and Nic standing above a writer/journalist/Sam shaped open grave with rope and a shovel, smiling.
"Earth to Sam, come in Sam" Brooke waved her hand in front of the unusually quiet girls face quickly pulling her out of the trance like state. Sam blinked in surprise and yet again stared blankly at Brooke, though this time one could safely assume it was a direct cause of the blondes close proximity… Light headed now.
"Geez what's gotten into you lately?" Brooke questioned half jokingly while moving to the other side of the kitchen to grab the cordless and call up the Italian restaurant. Unbeknownst to her at that exact time a certain set of deep brown eyes had attached themselves securely to a certain pair of well-toned, lightly tanned very exposed legs. It was summer after all. Sam was glad to see that 'Short shorts' was one rule of Teenage Summertime Etiquette that Brooke had obediently adhered to. Ecstatic even!
"You're doing it again." Brooke had turned around after placing the order to find a very dazed Sam apparently staring at the trashcan behind her… and drooling… or maybe she wasn't staring at the trashcan… maybe she was drooling over… maybe it was… maybe SHE was…. And then it all clicked!
The silent demeanor, memory lapse, dazed expressions, drooling it all made sense! Realizing this with a gasp and deciding to act fast Brooke rushed the brunette into the living room where Sam found herself being forced into a sitting position on the couch. The hell?
"Sammy" Brooke said softly, her warm hands beginning to gently rub the writers' arms. Hazel eyes coming to meet intense Brown ones. "I'm about to tell you something that you may not fully understand at the moment but you have to trust me, okay?" Sams heart sped up a bit and she slowly nodded her head. "Sammy, you're malnourished."
Eh? No, not malnourished. Bit drastic wouldn't you say? I mean this is Santa Monica. Not some third world country, we have toilet paper! She shook her head.
"You are Sammy! You were drooling over the leftovers in the trashcan not 20 seconds ago!" Brooke persisted.
Sam was about to protest. Was about to rattle off a list of exact times and items consumed over the past few days. Was about to tell Brooke that she was fine, just a little tired. Was about to tell Brooke that she was over-reacting and if anything she could be a bit hungry but far from malnourished! Was about to…. But by then Brooke had somehow managed her into a prone position…and was currently rubbing her stomach. "Poor Sammy, don't worry the foods on its way!" Placing a hand on her 'patients' forehead then cheek, "I'll take care of you."
Oh! Mal-nourished! Right, so right. Defiantly, def-defiantly, defiantly malnourished.
Will Sam ever get her muse back or is she doomed to a life of writers block?
What did Brooke and Nic 'agree' on?
Will the food arrive in time???
I don't really have to answer these questions... remember it all depends on you.