Hi!

Strange A/N at the top just to mention there's a longer A/N at the bottom. And to apologize? Because I've read how some of you hate long A/N's, but this one is a good message and a request to just spread the word, and maybe you've already heard about it and you can just skip it. It's about peace and global peace day.

Okay, and also, I've collaborated on a new one-shot. Details below. Shutting up for now. :)

In the Debris

Remains

Edward

My bed's a mess of gnarled sheets and a comforter that is only holding on to one corner of the mattress.

Isabella's sitting on my lower back rubbing my shoulders while I'm reading to her from Jane Eyre.

Jane. Eyre.

She's a manipulator. Not Jane, Isabella.

Her argument was that I had kept her up all night and now she's behind on her reading, and she can't read one sentence without falling asleep. So she asked me to read to her.

The last book I want to read out loud from is Jane Eyre. But when she said she'd rub my shoulders if I did it, I caved and took off my shirt.

I can't figure out which feels better, her hands on my shoulders or her weight on my back.

I turn another page.

"Stop skipping paragraphs!" She squeezes my shoulders tight.

"Ow!" My shoulders cringe. "I'm not."

"Yes, you are." She tells me I can't fool her, she's read it before.

"If you've read it before, why do you need me to read it now?"

"I can't remember it."

I turn around, grab her by the waist and put her under me. "If you can't remember it, how do you know I'm skipping parts?" I kiss her so she can't answer me. I already know her answer will somehow be rational anyway.

Esme's right. I'm going to have to talk to my father about Isabella.

She brought it up to me last week. I'd been coming through the kitchen when I saw them - caught them - my dad standing behind Esme with his arms around her. His head was dropped to her shoulder and his eyes were closed. She saw me frozen there for a second, but still I tried to sneak by as if unnoticed.

"Edward," she said. "I'd like to talk to you." With a hand on my back, she pushed me all the way to the living room and then glanced behind her like she was worried we'd been followed.

She spoke low. "I want you to know that I haven't said anything to your dad about Isabella."

I cocked my head, kind of frowning at her because I wasn't sure I believed her.

"After that morning, that morning in Max's room." She nodded as if to say, You remember which day. "I decided it was none of my business. But he knows by now. He's seen her truck here enough times on his way to the hospital in the morning."

And so she said that it would be best if I was the one who talked to him about it and not her.

A week later, Isabella under me, her skin in my mouth, I've finally decided it's time to get it over with.

The next time my father's at home, I do it.

He's pouring a glass at the bar as I pass. Esme has taken Max to the movies, but I go to his room anyway. I wait up here, for what, I have no clue. The whole time I'm sitting on Max's bed with my head in my hands, the thought is burrowing into my mind that I have to face my father before his next drink.

He's watching football, throwing back swallows of his highball when I get downstairs. "Seven to nothing," he says.

I stand in my spot, not knowing where or how to begin. We have these big, plush leather theater seats in here that recline. He bought them weeks ago when he got his new bed. My mother never wanted them. I remember the argument they had over it. My mother, as usual, had won. She was the only one who could ever win an argument with him, and here I may be about to start one and attempt to win.

He's not reclined in his seat now, and he's still wearing his tie. He's watching the game in his tie. Or maybe he's staying dressed for some other reason. Plans later? Definitely not a surgery if he's drinking. He turns to me.

"Something on your mind?"

I take a deep breath, opening and then closing my hands, before I blurt it out. "I'm seeing Isabella. We're dating." I clench my jaw.

"And?"

"We're like-" I glance at the TV and back at my father "-we're serious."

"You're serious." His voice holds its typical apathetic tone, although I know this means that inside he isn't apathetic. It's a show. He clears his throat and shifts around to face me. "It sounds an awful lot like you're asking for my blessing."

"Your blessing? I don't need your blessing. You being nice to her would be great."

"You're going on nineteen and you've never been true to a girl. I don't think it's my treatment of her you should be concerning yourself with."

I wince, but stand firm. I can't let him derail me. "It's different with Isabella. I - I love her." I fall into the seat beside him as if this admission to my father has taken all my strength out of me. And maybe it has.

"You haven't told her this, have you?" It's the way he says it, the wording and how he's setting his glass down in the cup-holder of his seat to loosen his tie. It's as if he's asked me to admit I've committed a crime.

Dropping my head, I rub the back of my neck, my own way of loosening my tie. "Yes, I have." I search his face, looking for anything going on in his eyes, but there's nothing. He's silent and expressionless, as if the conversation's over. "Not everything comes down to money."

"Have I said a word about money? It's certainly on your mind, though. And for good reason." He gets up, walks out of the room, and I follow him to the bar where, with miniature tongs, he clunks ice cubes from the silver ice bucket into two glasses. He mixes a couple of highballs, dribbling them over the ice, and tosses an olive in each one. He hands me a glass. I don't reach for it.

"You're going to pretend you don't drink? Are you driving anywhere tonight?"

"No."

He pushes the drink into my hand. "We're having a talk. Man to man."

I take a swallow. It's strong but I've had stronger.

"You're a smart guy. But there are some things in life you can only learn through experience, and if you have an opportunity to learn through someone else before making your own mistakes, all the better. Wouldn't you agree?"

I don't answer. I can feel him working something on me. He may have called me smart, but he's smarter. He's a master at exuding power over people, trapping them like fish in a net, getting what he wants before he lets them go. I have to walk into this conversation carefully if I'm going to come out of it with what I want.

"When you're a Cullen in this town, hell in this part of the state, it's no secret what you come from."

"This isn't about money."

"When you come from money, it's always about money. As much as you think this girl might love you, you have to consider the fact that she doesn't come from money and you do. You don't understand how people like them view people like us. You don't have the experience. We're a fantasy to them. And to a young girl like Isabella Swan, you're a dream come true. Good looking guy like you, the money you flaunt. I bet she has stars in her eyes when she looks at you."

I flinch when he says this. Always hitting below the belt without even trying, kicking me in the balls. I want to tell him to go to hell, but that'll make everything worse. If I could kiss the man's ass I might be able to get somewhere with him, but I'm not about to do that. The thought of condescending to that makes me sick. I put my glass down on the bar. Holding the drink he poured for me gives him power. When I lean forward to set it down, he has to step back. "You haven't even given Isabella a chance."

"And you've given her too much of one."

I return to the living room just to see if he follows. This is a game and it's about who's in the lead. He has something to prove to me and I have something to prove to him, and it's all about who has the upper hand.

He follows.

I'm close to telling him what I gave Isabella for Christmas; how I'd had it professionally wrapped up like jewelry with shiny paper and gold ribbons; how when she'd opened it and saw that it was hair conditioner, she'd acted like I'd just given her the ocean. It was for my shower so she could stop bringing her own. I'd checked her bottle to make sure I got the kind she likes. But I can't tell my father this. It will turn the conversation into something else entirely - into showers and the poolhouse and Isabella spending the night.

While I think carefully over what else I can say, weigh my words, he speaks.

"You've got to stick with someone in your own class."

"Someone like Heidi, right?"

"Don't think I don't know how you mistreated her. You know I have to face her father."

I don't tell him how she was the one who came on to me in the beginning. And later how she'd meet me in the pool house before I moved out there, walking in, hands on my shoulders, lifting her skirt, nothing underneath, sitting on my lap. I shake the memories away. That isn't me anymore.

"Learned from the best, didn't I? You really working these late nights or are you fuckin' around on Esme like you did Mom?"

"Nice." He nods his head and shuts his eyes up tight, actually looking pained.

I swallow hard.

"Respectful, aren't you?"

I build myself up inside, ignore thoughts that I've hurt him. I have the power now and I have to hold on to it. "There's nothing you can say that will make me think Isabella's after money. She isn't like that. And you're wrong. Money isn't everything, Carlisle."

"Is that so?" He almost laughs, which has me back up, back away. Back off? I step forward again. Some play happens on TV, the crowd cheers, the announcers talk too loud. My father picks up the remote and shuts the power off. And in all of that, he doesn't miss a beat. "You walk this interesting reluctant rich guy walk, but you never turn down the money I offer you. How about I stop handing it over? Then you'll understand exactly what money is. If you yourself can't go without my money, then maybe you'll see how much money matters."

"Go ahead. Stop giving it to me." It comes out weak. And he knows it. I try harder. "You don't get it. Money can do a lot. It can buy you almost anything you want, I guess. Unless the thing you want most can't be bought."

"And what is it that can't be bought?"

I clear my throat. The answer is obvious, but for some reason he wants me to say it. I put strength behind my voice. "Love."

He stares at me, this man who's considered some kind of genius as a surgeon and he can't seem to comprehend what I'm saying. "Money is more meaningful to people than love. The sooner you admit this the better."

"I don't think so. You're wrong. Look at Mom. All of our money, and she wasn't happy. She loved you and you wouldn't give her what she needed."

My father actually starts laughing. My eyes widen and I sit down fast. The entire atmosphere has changed and I can feel the weight of the room, of the house, of his laugh.

"Love," he says, "you keep talking as if you know anything about it."

"I know it isn't connected to money. It's like you think one goes with the other. And if that's true, why did Mom cry all the time? This thing with Esme. Was it going on back then? Or was it other women? Did she know? Did my mother know what you were doing behind her back?" And there it is. The question I've been dreading the answer to.

"It's possible."

My stomach flips over. "You were fucking around on her?"

"Speak to me with respect, son, if you want answers."

Do I want these answers? Do I? I cover my face, pressing hard, elbows out. I'm about to hate my father. Really hate him. But I do, I do need the truth.

"An affair?" is all I can manage. My chest rises with my breath, and the exhale shakes itself out of me.

"You want the truth? It isn't going to be easy to hear."

I nod once, still unsure. I keep my mouth tight and my eyes open.

"The truth is, I used to be as romantic as you. Naive."

Our eyes are locked on each other.

"She was first. She was the first to have an affair." He pauses and I'm already shaking my head. "Stop and listen. The crying you heard was likely the result of her being in love with someone else, someone with no money, and she chose money."

He uses the term gold-digger and my insides go hollow, like all my organs have dropped out of me, and I can't see clearly. And then I'm hot, sweating, my eyes heating up, burning tears welling, my nose flaring in my effort to stop them.

"Don't." I take a heavy breath. I sniff. "Don't talk about her…" I swallow something thick, and my chest heaves again and I realize these are sobs I'm swallowing. I'm about to lose it in front of my father. Every muscle in my body is tight trying to stop it. "Don't talk about her like that!" I turn my back on him, going to the mantle. A hand out, I lean against it, and drop my head into my other hand. A sob releases itself. I'm not strong enough to hold it in. And I'm not strong enough to face my father. What was I thinking? As if I could reason with him. As if anyone could.

A hand lands heavy on my shoulder. His voice is soft in a way I don't recognize. "I'm sorry this is hard to hear, but I'm tired of taking the blame. Your mother isn't around anymore so it's easy to hate me and blame me for our problems. And it's easy to lift her up on a pedestal."

I turn toward him to see him shaking his head. "She was a good mother. She loved you and Max. But she never loved me. She was in love with someone else when she married me. I knew it and she knew it, but I thought I could change that. I thought she loved me enough. She chose money over love, and it did us both in. Money is too seductive to those who don't have it. It's what I've been trying to tell you."

I think about what he's saying, and I remember my mother crying and how I cheered her up with music, how we played together, how she went from tears to laughter. Was he right? All this time I thought she was crying because my dad was gone and ignoring her, was she crying because she was in love with someone else? Was it guilt? Was it regret? No. I think I actually shake my head as I think this. He's lying.

"I am sorry, Edward. But it's truth you said you wanted."

"You're a fucking liar." My voice is low, but there's a menace to it that, this time, has my father taking a step back, and I see his eyes narrow and his jaw clench, and his fists squeeze. He looks like he's about to deck me.

"Mom would not do that. She would not do that."

"She did it. Like it or not, she did. You've had it easy your whole life. You don't know what it's like not to have money. Hunger, bills, work. You've never had to do a thing to earn your money. It's been handed to you on a platinum platter, and this is what happens. The way you think you can talk to me."

If he really believes that my life is easy because of money, he'll never understand me.

"When faced with what we're talking about here, love or money, she chose money. It was the way she worked."

I hold my glare on him, try not to show any sign of fear. "I don't believe you. It's not the way she worked, and it's not the way I work."

"Yes it is. I guarantee it is. You don't want to see it that way because it isn't ideal. But ideals, as pretty as they are, have nothing to do with truth. It's the way of the world. You have money to offer, you open your wallet, and they'll take it. All of them."

"You call yourself some kind of genius?"

"I'm experienced."

"You're fucked up."

We both flinch on that one and his whole face changes, stiffens, and then all expression disappears. He's back to apathetic Carlisle. "You don't know anything about the world. I think it's time you learn."

"And you're going to teach me? No thanks."

"Let me give you a choice. Love or money."

"What?"

"You talk like you know the world. I want to see if you do. You think love is worth more than money. Prove it. Isabella or my money. Which is it?"

"Are you seriously going to do that because the person I choose for myself isn't who you would choose for me?"

"I'd do it as an experiment, to see if you really would choose love over money. This is about your choice. Test yourself, son. Get to know yourself. Get to know life without money."

I stare at him. Is he bluffing?

"Which is it?"

"So if I choose Isabella…"

"The money stops. You'll move into your old room. You give back your cars unless you can afford to buy them off me. Except your mom's. You can keep her car. She left it to you; it's rightfully yours."

How is the word "rightfully" in this man's vocabulary?

"How am I supposed to live?"

"Use your head, Edward. How do your poor friends live?"

I nod, stoic. "So, I'd get a job. And what about college?"

"You'll have your college fund to pay your tuition, your books, but that's it. You'll work out your own housing."

"And if I do this, she's allowed here, and you'll stay away from her."

"For as long as it lasts." He looks too smug. "Make your choice. Here's your chance to prove your theory to me."

No more money, no cars, no living in the guest house. I wipe my sweating neck. I look down.

"Isabella." As soon as her name leaves my mouth I see her face behind my eyes, hear her voice in my head. "Isabella." There isn't any other choice.

"Well, let's try it then. Let's test it out. Is love really worth more than money? Prove me wrong." He turns, reaching for the remote control.

"Dad, don't do this. Don't make Isabella an experiment. Don't do that to her."

"If you love her, and love is all you need, then it's not an experiment at all, is it?"

I take a deep breath, my body temperature rising again. "I'll move in tomorrow."

"You've made your decision, son. Move in tonight."

Victoria

I'm in a stalemate, standing in my own little black square, waiting for a phone call that never comes. I stopped feeling like doing anything days ago. Other than going to school and work, there's nothing I want to do but climb into bed with my poetry book and a pen as companionship. Sometimes I just lie here practically on top of them, and other times I'm scribbling away the bones of a poem.

I'm acting like I'm nothing but a bag of bones myself, as if my flesh and blood has gone away, suctioned out of me. I'm aware I'm behaving this way, but still, I keep it up.

Not even Isabella or James could get me to go out.

"I just need some time alone," I told them and told them.

My aunt has been bringing me food in bed, assuming I'm sick, and I've gone along with the assumption.

Peter hasn't called and I can't come up with an explanation for this except he thought about it and changed his mind. He doesn't want to know, doesn't want to face it. Maybe he never even asked himself the question I thought he might have. Or maybe he's afraid of the answer and maybe the possibilities that face us, gusting toward us like wind that will hit us because we're walking right into it, bringing a responsibility or an obligation he doesn't want to take on. It could even be because of his wife and his real family. His kids.

After a week of waiting, one Sunday, my day off work, I climb out of bed in the afternoon and clunk down the stairs like I'm made of bricks. The shadow beside me shows my hair sticking out like I'm Medusa with the snakes.

My aunt made soup and she's slurping it up in the living room, watching a movie. I grab a bowl, scoop in some steaming beef vegetable soup and join her. After a while I set my empty bowl down on the table, lean against my aunt, my head on her shoulder and watch the movie with her.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah," I say. "You know anyone named Maggie?"

"Can't say that I do. Why?"

"Nice name."

She looks at me like the crazy person I am. We laugh.

Leaning her head against mine, she asks me to catch her up on my life. What a labyrinth this is, scooting around corners, pushing certain things into dead ends. I tell her what I can.

There used to be a time when I kept close to no secrets from her. I told her almost everything. I was the girl who told her when I lost my virginity, and now I have more secrets than honesty for her. I feel like apologizing, but that will only bring questions which means more omissions or lies. And this, too, not apologizing when I want to, another secret, another thought to shove in a dead end.

So I tell her that Isabella is the best girl friend I've ever had, and I tell her I love James and he loves me but we're trying to figure everything out. Each other. And then I tell her I love her because that's as true as any secret I have, and it's something I can give her.

"I love you, too, of course." She smooths my wild hair back. "Now tell me, what's this about you and James? What are you trying to figure out?"

"It's special. The most special thing, and we can't mess it up. It's like where your heart is." I touch over my heart. "Inside your body, protected by your rib cage. But what if it wasn't protected? What if your heart was right out in the open and just the most precious, fragile thing? That's what it's like with James. It's so fragile. I felt it tear once, like crack, and I don't want that again. Ever. This is one thing in my life that can't be messed up, Aunt Cheri. No matter what else happens, I have to get this right."

She's looking at me just like she understands me, like she feels what I'm feeling.

"How do you know when it's right?" I ask.

"You feel it, like I did with your Uncle Phil."

I don't know what that means, you feel it. What does it feel like? "I feel like I have a zoo inside of me and all the animals are trampling over each other trying to escape."

She shakes her head at me with a small smile on her face. "Does your mind think like that all the time? Obviously you write poetry, but do you think in poetry all the time?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

I wonder what she'd say if she knew how many times a day I make up little poems inside my head, most of which never find the inside of my poetry book.

"But how do you know when the time is right? Not just feel it, but how do you know?"

"Nothing is certain, Victoria. And I'm not going to pretend it is. With your experiences, you'd call me a liar in a heartbeat if I tried. Do you want to be with him?"

"Yes."

"Does he want to be with you?"

"I'm pretty sure. Yeah."

"Don't you have your answer then? No relationship is perfect. They all have their ups and downs, no matter how great the love is. You'll disagree, you'll argue, you'll fight, but if you hang in there, if you stick it out, both of you, that's what matters."

My phone interrupts and I jump for it, hoping it's Peter calling. It's Isabella.

"Don't say anything, just listen," she says before I even say hello. "First, number one, go get dressed."

"I'm-"

"Shh! I said don't say anything. Go get dressed. Number two, come to the burger place down by the river. Bob's Burgers or Billy's Burgers, whatever."

"Billy's Bur-"

"Victoria! Don't you know how to follow directions? I swear to god. Now, number three, I'm sitting here with Edward and James, and if it isn't hard enough to be the only girl with these two, James keeps whining about how he's the third wheel, and he is, he really, really is." - I hear James in the background say, "They dragged me here!" - "Stop it, James, you are. So get down here and rescue him and me, right now. There'll be a burger waiting for you with fries, and James says 'extra, extra, extra salt.' His words, not mine. Bye. I love you."

She clicks off and I cover my eyes, shaking my head, laughing.

"Good news?" my aunt asks.

"Yeah. My friends are crazy." I take off up the stairs to get dressed. "I'm going out for dinner!" I say over my shoulder.

I fix my hair, tying it back, and squish my feet into sneakers - the pair I've written poetry on.

.

At the burger place I slide into the empty seat next to James. We're in a booth by the window overlooking the river, low white sky over green-black water. A thin layer of snow edges the bank. I can see dirt and rocks peeking through. A small aluminum fishing boat glides toward the docks. The whole scene almost looks like a black and white photograph.

I turn to Isabella, wondering if she's taken a picture of it.

She wonders why I even have to ask. Of course she has.

All around the restaurant, the wooden beams are etched with cheesy inspirational quotes, like: "What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us," and "Happiness is an unexpected hug."

Edward, Isabella, and James had all applauded in an overly-enthusiastic welcome when I walked in, which might be part of the reason why it's taken me about twenty minutes to notice how different Edward's acting. He's quieter than usual, and every so often he starts zoning out or something, and Isabella will pull him down by his shoulder, whisper in his ear, and give him several kisses in a row on the cheek until he looks at her, a small smile sweeping his face. I have no doubt that if anything Isabella had told me over the phone was true, James feeling like a third wheel was it.

I scoop fries off my plate and drop them on top of his burger. "You ruined them."

He shoves one into his grinning mouth. "Just a little salt."

"He swore you like them that way," Isabella says.

Reaching across the table, I tap her hand and tell her to come to the bathroom with me.

She steps out of the stall first and as I wait while she suds up her hands, I ask her what's up with Edward.

She slips soapy hands under the water stream. "I don't know for sure. I think it's about his mom. He's been driving her car and everything." She shakes drips from her fingers and tugs at a paper towel. "Some things are hard for him to talk about. I'm just trying to be there for him, not ask too many questions. He'll tell me when he's ready."

I take my turn to wash.

"I asked my dad about your mom."

I catch her gaze through the mirror and wait for her to continue, the water running cool over my fingers.

"He said they used to date, or that he tried to date her. He was vague, but he said it didn't last long, whatever it was. He said she was wild."

I nod, still ignoring the water.

"She didn't have very many girl friends. Mostly guys. Are you going to...?" She points at my hands in the sink. "I think you forgot soap."

I soap up my hands and finish washing.

"But your mom was only fifteen and my dad was like seventeen so that was a long time ago. Way before she left."

I tear off a paper towel. It's thick and rough and barely does any drying. It accomplishes about as much as my search for my mom has accomplished. I crumple it up, a little on the violent side, and toss it in the trash before wiping my hands off on my jeans.

The wooden beam over the mirror reads: "Don't let what you can't do interfere with what you can do."

I want to groan at it and stomp my foot.

I turn to face Isabella, who's staring at me. "You seriously thought I would want that much salt on my fries? You need to get to know me better."

She tucks hair behind my ear. "He said it would make you smile."

Back at the table I scoot in next to James, and he rests his hand on my thigh. I look at him and I wonder if he's even aware of where his hand is. Well, I'm not going to point it out to him in case he decides to take it away.

As we munch, he tells us that he went with his mom to visit his dad last week. Ever since then she's finally stopped wearing her robe around the house all the time.

His eyes shine a little.

"It's weird what will change a person," I say, but James doesn't look at me. I put my hand on his leg until he does. "Did you talk to him?"

He shakes his head and his blink is slow. "Not really."

Before separating into pairs, the four of us walk out together. On the beam next to the exit as Edward pulls the door open, I read:

I know I'm in my own little world

But that's okay

They know me here.

This makes me smile.

Isabella hugs me goodbye and takes off with Edward. I drive James home. He asks me to come inside with him.

He packs a bowl in his room, his back to me.

"You disappeared."

I don't say anything.

"Because of Peter?"

"He still hasn't called. But you know what? Who cares? Sometimes I don't even want to find my mom."

Setting the pipe down, he turns to me.

"She writes to him and has been, all along. Even though he never writes her back. She wrote me one letter. One."

James holds my arms. "Maybe it's easier for her to write to him. My dad told me he writes me letters but never sends them. Maybe it's the same for her."

I look up at him. "Maybe."

"It's not really about just finding your mom, right? It's so you can find out who your dad is. Just remember that. Eye on the prize."

Hands still on my arms, the pipe sitting ignored on his desk, he looks into my eyes. My heart speeds up because I think this is it, he's going to kiss me, and I'm not going to stop him.

He lifts a hand to my face, tucking his fingers into my hair, and then he pulls my head to his chest. And he does kiss me. He kisses my head.

I sigh into his heartbeat. This is nice, too. It feels good to be in his arms in a different way than ever before, and I think taking this slow is the way to go. We've both been hurt by each other and we really do have to be careful.

"Happiness is an unexpected hug."

I feel him laugh against me. "How does Billy's Burger Shack have the answers to all of our problems?"

I bring my hand to his chest and I hold it there while his arms are wrapped around me, and we stay like this. We don't move.

When Peter finally calls, I don't answer the phone; I'm asleep. I listen to his message in the morning as snow falls out my window. The roar of the snowplow in the street crashes through the peace and quiet that should always accompany floating flakes. Of course, as soon as I hear Peter's voice, he's all I'm aware of. Even as I'm looking out the window, the falling snow is gone.

A/N: Thank you for reading, reviewing, rec'ing and all that wonderful stuff!

I promise I know the difference between a dash and an em-dash. Fanfictiondotnet, however, will not let me prove this. It deletes my em-dashes every time I save my chapter.

New Bella/Edward One-shot: Lips Like Sugar. Can be found in my favorites, or here if you take the sneak-it-into-fanficdotnet "dot" out and replace it with a period, and then remove any spaces: fanfictiondotnet /s/8478268/1/Lips-Like-Sugar

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Recognizing that fanfiction readers and authors are a huge, connected community, we are encouraging you to use your collective power to make a difference in the world.

The non-profit organization Peace One Day led the process that resulted in the UN declaring September 21st as Peace Day. Every year, Peace One Day partners with a range of organizations from around the world to raise awareness of the day and to encourage Peace Day activities by all sectors of society, including life-saving activities in the name of peace — things like distribution of humanitarian aid, vaccinations, and trainings that help people improve their lives. Through efforts like this, in 2008, Peace Day marked a 70% reduction in violent incidents in Afghanistan. Ceasefire agreements by all parties to conflict in the country, including the Taliban, resulted in millions of children being vaccinated because health and aid workers were able to travel without fear for their lives.

This year, Peace One Day is working to see the largest global reduction of violence, and the largest gathering of individuals in the name of peace, on one day – Peace Day 2012. The Global Truce 2012 campaign will set an important marker for future Peace Days and reinforce the value of this unique annual day as a foundation for long-term sustainable peace.

What can you do?

Visit peaceoneday dot org /fanfiction-for-peace/ and sign-up for the Global Truce campaign Tweet for Peace! Spread the word with your followers. We're using the #fanfic4peace hash tag. Let's see if we can get it to trend!

Interested Fanfic authors: copy and paste this text into your next Author's Note.

Use your power within the fandom to spread the word.

Visit peaceoneday dot org /fanfiction-for-peace/ and sign-up for the Global Truce campaign Tweet for Peace! Spread the word with your followers. We're using the #fanfic4peace hash tag. Let's see if we can get it to trend!

Tell your friends! Share this message with friends both in your fandom, in other fandoms, and in the RL! Peace Day, September 21, is everyone's legacy. And if it isn't everyone's, it's not going to work.