trompe l'oeil
For Thistle.

Jack looked over Spot's shoulder at another dazzling brilliant, yet still unfinished painting. A painting of a woman. Spot was always painting women, it seemed – they were beautiful, mystical, alluringly odd and unconventional women that he'd paint, charm, and then make love to. And it drove Jack mad. The women were a mask, a cover up for Spot's "slip up," as he so charmingly liked to call it. But Jack couldn't help but be jealous. Spot had a history of romancing gorgeous women. In fact he was quite infamous for it. As his reputation grew, Jack was becoming just the little thing Spot kept in his closet. And Jack didn't like it one bit. "What's this one's name Spot?" Jack muttered though his teeth, trying to hide the hurt that welled up and burned the back of his throat.

"Mia," Spot said absently, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His mind was not present or attentive to a thing that Jack was saying, for he was lost in his work. Living and dying in the canvas before him. He existed somewhere there swimming beneath the intensely deep Prussian hues and the thick, muted gray blues that mirrored the shades in his eyes.

Jack walked up behind Spot and put a hand on his thin shoulder. Squeezed it gently, yet firmly. Though he was quite a charismatic speaker, to Spot, Jack's words were few: he chose to speak far more with his touch. Both found it more profound. Spot stopped. Jarred suddenly from his creative subworld, his brush fell to his side, losing contact with the canvas. Spot rubbed his eyes with his left hand and smeared a streak of blue paint over his cheek as he did so. "What do you want me to do, Jack?" he finally asked in a resigned, weary voice.

Two words were all Jack allowed to fall from his lips in response. "You know."

new
For Jacky Higgins

He walked slowly into the dimly lit room, slightly dragging his leg behind him. After all of these years, he still walked with a limp – a limp that was the product of one fateful life changing childhood incident. He hovered in the doorframe, afraid to speak or move or scarcely breathe in fear that he would make one unfortunate sound to disturb the shaky tranquility that swathed the room. From behind his back he produced a bouquet – daisies...three dozen of them. Petals in brilliant whites and golden centers were nearly dazzling enough to emit their own light. They were her favourites. A crooked grin danced over his face as his eyes fell upon her.

He moved hesitantly across the room in his slow sliding step until he was at her side. In his other hand was an empty glass vase. He placed it on the small table and filled it with water from a nearby pitcher. After, he filled it to the brim with the daisy flowers, fluffing and arranging the lot of them so that it was adequately bursting with their abundance.

He heard a soft moan and quickly glanced to his side. She whimpered one more and restlessly moved beneath the sheets. Slightly peering through still heavy lidded eyes, a sweet smile graced her face at the recognition of him. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held a finger to his lips. "Shhh," he said, his tender voice bathing her heart in warmth. "There's no need to talk."

But she again smiled and shook her head, her eyes widening and face glowing as she softly murmured, "It's a girl."

waxing, not waning
For Parkranger

There's nothing like a full moon to inspire honesty.

It was somehow easier than he had realized. Silvery gray permeated the night's blue blackness as the smoke from the cigarette they shared curled around their heads. Race sat nervously, letting the weight of his confession settle and soak in fully. He drew in a haggard breath and his dark eyes glanced anxiously toward Spot lying beside him on the docks. Spot, who remained as cool and unshaken as always. By Spot's attitude and appearance, Race would have sworn that he were accustomed to declarations of that magnitude. As if he came by them three a day. "But ha," Race thought to himself, "Spot Conlon was none other than the king of perfect timing and the duke of dramatic pauses." He knew that Spot would not utter a single syllable until he was ready, and that the syllable would be perfectly chosen when he did. There were times when Race had to retain a firm grasp on reality and prevent himself from canonizing Spot...from thinking him utterly incapable of mistakes.

Spot took another drag from the cigarette and heaved smoke through his nostrils slowly and deliberately before stretching out his hand and offering it back to Race. He turned his gray blue stare toward the other boy. Race looked into those eyes, pregnant with everything and yet not a discernable thing to be found in them. "Well," he began tucking on arm under his neck to support his head and letting the other hand dip into the river below. He raised his finger out of the water and let the droplets of river water drip onto the wooden slats in a brown green mirrored puddle. A million years passed between the two as Race awaited the finale to Spot's statement.

Spot looked a ways off into the distance and for a moment, Race thought he saw a slight smirk pass over his mouth. But it was gone as quickly as it had come. "Yeah, me too," Spot said decidedly with a small, quick nod of his head. And with that statement he rose and began to walk away. After a few steps, he looked back over his shoulder and nonchalantly called out to Race, "You coming?"

las vegas
For Keza

Swifty. It was what he was dubbed among friends for his lightning fast decisions and quickly played hands. He never disputed the nickname and in truth, was quite proud of it. It was worn as a badge of honour and being called by it thrilled him almost as much casinos or good sex did.

He bent the cards slightly upward toward him so that he could read their faces. Eight. Two. Probably the worst hand possible he decided. The dealer looked to him to post the blinds and he languidly tossed several chips into the center. As the other took their turns checking his wager or folding, he spotted her out of the corner of his eye. Faith. She was wearing a long red dress tonight and the necklace he'd bought her. He smiled shortly as she approached the table, blonde hair glinting as she briskly passed beneath a dim light fixture's glow.

They'd had an understanding. A deal. He'd found her in a casino one night sizing up older married men who could easily fall prey to her charms and hired her on a whim. (Almost a second after his brilliant idea formed.) He was quite surprised when she accepted his offer. Codes were concocted secretly between them so that she could make friendly with the competitors and entice them into distraction while subtly signaling Swifty as to what they held. The last time they worked together had not been so successful. He'd lost six thousand dollars that night.

A bruise on her cheekbone covered carefully with powder proved his disappointment in her. He was deathly serious about anything remotely relating to poker, and felt the need to remind her that he indeed meant business. Besides, what was she anyway but dispensable? It wasn't his fault that she was – her career made it so. It was her own fault for choosing it. After he'd exact his revenge on her, he always felt guilty afterwards. He'd coddle her and kiss her sweetly on the mouth. Tell her that he'd never do it again and that she just did not understand how important this was to him.

She gave him a hollow-eyed gaze, her lips slightly parted as she passed behind the man sitting across the table and into his line of sight. "Ready?" she mouthed silently, and he nodded almost indistinguishably in return. With that small gesture, the light entered her green eyes and a coy smile passed over her mouth. She raised one carefully manicured hand and softly ran a finger across the unsuspecting man's shoulder blades, all the while, never breaking the violently silent gaze they shared.

try me
For Sapphy.

"I'm leaving."

Race looks up to see her standing above him. Bags in hand, wearing her good shoes and coat. An utterly blank expression haunts her face, yet he knows that it's only her porcelain doll faced mask that she uses to disguise the monsoon of hurt welling up in her chest. He knows her well, but after three years, why shouldn't he? He carefully folds the newspaper, taking special care to crease the edges so that it lays flat, and tosses it onto the table. "Now?" he asks, eyebrows raised, his voice betraying him with a hint of "don't go," yet he'll never say it outright.

"Yes," is her answer.

He taps his cigar on the edge of the ashtray several times in repetition to flick the ashes away. Flick flick. Flick. He takes a deep breath, and without looking up, says, "I guess I can't make you stay, can I?"

She bites her bottom lip and clings more tightly to her bags, her knuckles beginning to turn white. There's a storm brewing in her blue eyes, yet she tries to hold back the downpour. If there were ever a time that she needed to hold firm and not bend in his favour, that time was now. "I guess you can't," she tells him.

"Sappy..." he pleads, his voice breaking slightly toward the end of the word. He cannot look up to face her. He is afraid of what he will see in her eyes. He is afraid that he will see that she is not as desperate as he. That she does not need him as dearly as he needs her this very moment.

"I'm sorry, Race," she says, and with a quick turn on her heel, marches quickstepped toward the door. In two seconds flat, she has passed though it and disappeared thoroughly from his life. Gone. Race stays seated. He wants to stand up and bolt for the door. Unashamedly chase after her and fall at her feet, begging her to just give him one more chance. Yet he knows that he's already exhausted far too many of her generous chances. So he remains in his chair, silent and unmoving as though his legs were riveted to the seat.

Sappy stops and leans against the wall, her chest beginning to heave in quickly drawn breaths...the tears stinging at her eyes as she releases her hold on the suitcases....as she lets them drop to the ground. It seems as though her courage has left her and scattered itself out among the winds. She lingers for a moment in a grand effort to gather it up once more. But it is no use. She has made it no further than the welcome mat.

mouth of truth
For Berri

Dawn was just begun to break and the streets were lined with dampness, freshly derived the muggy night air. Spot and Race had been up all night, wandering the empty streets of Rome for one last beautiful evening. Their plane departed at ten that morning and they vowed to soak up every last droplet of the ancient city before they had to leave. The brief four week trip had opened the eyes and minds of both boys so that they now viewed their world with lids sewn open....wide-eyed expectation. Chances that either would be the same after leaving were few, but neither hoped to lose sight of the great change that had taken place.

As they crossed the cobblestone street, Spot's hand brushed lightly against Race's and he shivered; not certain if it were from the cold dampness of the early morning or Spot's electricity radiating from his fingers. Race's eyes were riveted to the street below, lost deep in thought. So much so that he almost didn't see Spot stop dead in his tracks and gaze up at a stone relief with an awed look of reverence.

The fabled Mouth of Truth.

"You know," Spot began turning to Race with amusement in his voice, "They say that if you tell a lie and put your hand in its mouth, it will bite it off." He paused for a moment, the whimsical look replaced by seriousness, "You remember what I asked you last night?" Race nodded. "Well, I'm going to ask you again." Spot repeated the one pivotal question that he had posed to Race the night before. When Race maintained and gave the same answer, Spot nodded. "Okay, he said, "now stick your hand in there."

"Are you kidding?" asked Race with a laugh.

"No," said Spot in all seriousness, "I have to know. The day isn't movin' in reverse....we're not gaining any more time. After we go home, everything will go back to the way it always was and we won't be here in these circumstances. It'll be all too easy to go back and slip into what you're, um, comfortable with. I gotta know if anything's change or if you're just going to forget all that's happened. Forget me." Spot rubbed the tip of his nose with the side of his forefinger. There was still stains of blue gray oil paint on his hand. There were always streaks of paint adorning Spot's hands, Race had noticed. Spot smirked again. "What are ya, chicken?" he challenged.

"No," retorted Race. He took a deep breath and without letting it out, hesitantly slipped his hand inside of the stone mouth.

tell me all the things you can
For Skittles

"I can't sleep tonight..."

From the edge of the stage that he sits upon, Mush strums his guitar lightly and looks up, his eyes unavoidably falling upon the smile of his best friend. Blink always had an infectious, beaming sort of grin, Mush knew. As he watches him, he cannot stop a small smile from spreading over his own mouth. Yet, the smile fades slightly as he watches Skittery approach Blink from behind and lazily drape an arm over his shoulders. Feeling a slight twinge in the region of his heart, Mush returns his attention to his guitar so that he does not have to watch the display before him. He begins to strum again, penning the lyrics to a new song in his head. His fingers distractedly stumble over a beautiful A7 chord to transition to an even more perfectly played E minor. As his hands play and his minds wanders, he wishes now that his mother would have paid for piano lessons. Pianists didn't join bands. They didn't join garage bands and then fall in love with the drummer's boyfriend. Pianists didn't try to woo said friend's boyfriend only to fall into "bestfriendship" with him.

Mush is just full of "should haves" and "could haves." He has his fill. Just for once, he wants something to go smoothly, correctly...without a hitch. However, Mush being Mush, he knows that such is too much to ask. His only love will be his guitar, he thinks with sarcastic irony. "You want me, baby, don't you?" he asks it with a amused, yet sardonic smile. He lets his wanton eyes fall once more upon Blink and softly mumbles the next few verses of the newly birthed song. "Everybody is saying everything is alright. Still I can't close my eyes..."

It is this moment that Blink chooses to look in the direction of his friend. Spotting him sitting there alone, he makes a jester's face, complete with crossed eyes. Mush laughs, yet that same gnawing feeling has returned to his chest. Blink is in love with Skittery, it seems. And Mush knows that his loyal best friend will stick to his love's side come what may. It brings a warm feeling to his body when Mush thinks of how noble Blink truly is. How good he is. Yet it tears him apart just the same. "I'm seeing the tunnel at the end of all these lies," he finishes his song in a low, hushed tone.