Smile (Pleas, Part Five)

His smile had made her smile. That familiar twinkle in his eye had made her heart swell with an inexpressible happiness. She couldn't explain it. Him just being there made the world a brighter place, however much she hated to admit it.

She didn't need more than a smile out of him to make her world complete. She knew everyone else would laugh at her simple, schoolgirl like crush. But she also knew it wasn't that simple. For the first time in her life, she actually was in love with someone.

Too bad that smile had only been a dream.

Thanks for reading!

Pretend (Pleas, Part Four)

She wouldn't see him again. Of that, she was glad. That's what she told herself, at least. She'd never see any of them again.

For some reason, that made her heart ache. She'd grown to love them. To delight in their friendship. Now she'd lost it.

A few weeks had passed and now she was on a new adventure. She'd accidentally met up with them once. A visit to the old diner and, of course, who happened to show up? She'd said a quick good-bye, a silent prayer and ran out.

Pretend you don't notice his eyes on your back.

Thanks for reading! 

Imprint (Pleas, Part Three)

Forever was the image imprinted in her mind. The split second image, yet stuck with her until all eternity.

Just get it over with and do it.

His eyes closed, his lips pure and pink. Closer and closer as she reached her head forward and went up on her toes. Then black as lips touched. Turn around. Don't look at him. Blink back the tears. Run away. Run forever. Leave behind the tender memories.

No, the memories would never leave. They were stuck there, always taunting her.

And that image was imprinted. Imprinted as to never leave her in peace.

Thanks for reading.

No Longer (Pleas, Part Two)

Never had she felt like this before. She felt utterly exhausted, yes, but also hopeless beyond all repair. Her tears and pleas had died out hours before and now she could only lay on the floor, her eyes closed but unable to slip into slumber.

No one would bother her, of that she was positive. The one person who ever would have bothered her no longer cared. No longer was there to hold her in his arms and assure her that everything was all right, everything was okay.

She was alone. No longer would she try.

She was completely alone.

Maybe I should warn you now... This story is a tragedy. There is no happiness in this thing.

Pleas (Part One)

For hours on end, that was the only word she could say as she lay on the floor, tossing and turning, sobbing without breath.

"Please," she begged. "Please…"

Her long, black hair got in her eyes and tremors ran through her body. The darkness of her own quarters pressed down on her as she pleaded that she wouldn't have to endure this. She felt utterly helpless as she curled into a ball, hiding her head in her arms.

"Please," she whispered. "Please…"

But no one would hear her. No one was there to answer to her cry of distress.

"Please…"

Sorry I missed yesterday: I wasn't at home most of the day and completely forgot.

This is the first of a series of ten 100 word drabbles.

Split Minds

His name was Mr. Martin. James Martin III. He was tall and broad. His hair was dark and neatly combed, with a slight shine of gel. His eyes were bright in a dark way: bright in color, yet dark in tone and nature. He wore a black fashionable suit, of course not always the same one, but always black and always in style. He never wore a hat. His shoes were black and always boasted a perfect gleam. He always wore his black leather gloves, an unfailingly classy touch. Every mannerism about him made others whisper of Mr. Martin’s ornrey personality. To tell the truth, he might’ve been purposefully acting in such a manner.

He liked to yell. He would yell in a way that could bring even the strongest of men to his knees. His lips seemed to be permanently curled into a disapproving frown. He was proud and independent. He had strong opinions and had no issues with letting them be known. But he was a man of the upper class, so his opinions, no matter how outrageous, would rarely ever get him into trouble. However, it did mean he had no close or true friends. No one to confide in when the pressures of life brought him down. No one to gossip with, no one to buy a friendly round of beer for or share an expensive cigar with. All he had were his servants. No wife, no relatives who cared to ever pay him a visit. Just the hired persons who scurried about in his mansion, tending to his daily needs and cares.

But what need of a friend did James Martin III have anyway?

As far as Mr. Martin knew, she didn’t have a name. She never told him anything about herself, though there were a few things he could infer.
~~~~
She was only a few years younger than Mr. Martin’s eight and twenty years, around three and twenty, perhaps. Her hair was brunette, large and curly. Sometimes there would be a band holding it back, but it would still just lay there with very little effort put into it. She was about his height, perhaps a little a few inches difference, and boasted quite the curvaceous figure. Her eyes were a light mix of colors. So far Mr. Martin had picked out blue, green and hazel. Her attire was never the same and she usually wore strange yet comfortable looking pants with numerous zippers, black and white shoes with laces, and a brown jacket over her shirt. Her shirts sometimes had writing on them or strange pictures. Usually Mr. Martin could understand what the writing said but couldn’t understand the meaning and the pictures never made any sort of logical sense. For example, a shirt she seemed to favor that was white and had black script covering the entire fabric had jumbled words all thrown together: “DIET,” “Rely on me,” “Barefoot in Paradise,” “BOMBSHELL” and various other phrases. Very strange, very random.

At first she had been shy, gently berating him or encouraging him, depending on the situation. Slowly, she showed her true side, a hyper and outgoing nature. Most of what he heard from her foreign American accent was jokes or stories. Her loud laugh was one of Mr. Martin’s favorite sounds and he heard it quite often.

After a while, it seemed like she opened up to him a bit more. Every once and a while he would catch her staring off into nothing and suddenly she would notice him and the smile and happy manner would snap on. He sometimes wondered if maybe… maybe the wonderful happiness was just an act. Maybe she was some sort of vaudevillian. That might explain her strange clothing.

However, he knew nothing of her life. Not yet, at least, he would tell himself. To tell the truth, he didn’t even know if she was a piece of fiction or not. Her crude jokes and outlandish clothes made it seem that way. Either that or his vaudevillian theory. And he never saw her out of his mind’s eye. To Mr. Martin’s knowledge, she was simply a figment of his almost non-existent imagination.

This was the beginning of a longer story that never went any further than this. It's a more fantastical outlook on schizophrenia. Eventually, with the many enemies Mr. Martin has made, he's murdered and wakes up in this girl's world: 21st century America. There's a complicated little love story that goes along with it and I believe somehow at some point both Mr. Martin and the girl make it back to 19th century England and ... yeah, I don't remember.

Be There

I froze in Fiona's doorway when the tipped furniture and strewn belongings registered in my mind. I reached behind me to pull out my handgun, freezing again when Fiona's anguished scream filled the house. Completely terrified now, I swiped out my handgun, following the sound of the cry to her bedroom. A vase crashed on the doorframe by my ear and I winced at how close of a miss it had been.

Fiona screamed again and I stood, paralyzed, as she ripped her bed sheets off, hurling them to the floor. She continued to ruin her room for a minute before she stopped, back to me. Her shoulders heaved and I suddenly realized she was crying. I stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out how to react.

"Fi-"

At the sound of my voice, she whirled, fist flying towards my jaw. I caught it, holding it firmly in front of her, staring her in the eyes. Recognition flickered inside of them and her entire body collapsed, falling onto my chest, letting the tears flow again. I awkwardly patted her shoulder, eyes searching the room for any clue to what had set this off.

"Fi, what's wrong?" I asked, concern etching my voice. She pulled back, staring into my eyes for a second before turning to her dresser and picking up a piece of paper. She thrust it into my face wordlessly. I glanced between her and the paper before gently taking it from her and reading it.

It was a letter from Fiona's brother, Sean, explaining how their mother had passed away.

I could feel my heart twisting inside my chest. I'd known Fiona's mother pretty well and had great respect for the woman. I would grieve for her, but Fiona...

I looked up from the letter, to see her seeming to fight with herself whether or not to be angry or distraught. "Fi..." I breathed, reaching a hand out to make an attempt to console her. She brushed me off, turning away.

"I'd known she was sick," she said, talking more to herself than to me. "But I couldn't be there. I'd known she was dying. But I can't go to Ireland anymore. Now she's gone. And I still can't be there!"

She snatched the letter from my hand, crumpling it up and tossing it across the room. I winced again. She'd already tried to throw a punch at me: I rather hoped she wouldn't try to toss me across the room.

"I'm sorry, Fi," I whispered. "I... I really don't know how to help."

Fi shook her head, as if blowing away a bothersome fly. She brushed her fingers through her hair, turning away from me again. It was silent for a while. Fi simply stood there, a battle visibly being fought inside of her. There was a battle inside of me, too, but mine was more of confusion. I had no idea how to react. I'd never needed to console someone who'd just suffered the death of a loved one. And this someone happened to be a loved one of my own...

"Michael." Her voice was hoarse and she didn't turn her head to look at me. I glanced up at her, jumping at the opportunity to distill the awkwardness.

"Yeah?"

"You... you'll... always be there for me, right?"

I paused, frowning at the strangely sentimental question. "Of course."

Now she turned to look at me, eyes piercing through me. "You're not just saying that?"

I stopped. It really meant that much to her...

"No, Fi. I'll be there."

Fi nodded, dropping her gaze. After another silent moment, she glanced around the room, taking in the mess.

"My goodness," she said, voice returning to normal. "Look at this place. It's a disaster!"

I grinned. That was my Fi.

And there you have it: a piece of Burn Notice fan fiction. I love the relationship these two have and how their individual and distinct personalities affect their relationship so I love playing with them a lot. There will probably be a lot more of these two showing up on this blog.