What was it like, especially around the time when things moved from offline to online? I've spent a lot of time thinking about the social function of fandom, especially for lesbians/wlw. So many couples and babies born from fandom couples... So many people realizing their sexuality and finding community because of tv shows and resonating with the same female characters or (subtextual/potential) couples... but I just wonder what it was like in the nineties and before. How did y'all connect? Was it more hush-hush? Where are the couples with fandom origin stories etcetc?
People who lived in Los Angeles and Vancouver, what was it like to be close to where it was shot? Were there friend groups locally that focused on fandom? Were there set spoilers? How did you know where they were shooting without social media etc? What has changed, and also what's the same? Did you get to meet creatives? Conventions?
Not that I'm not kind of a fandom elder, but I joined later in life, guess I'm just wondering what I missed out on... I want the lore.
Ideas are not copyrighted, only the way in which an idea is implemented is copyrighted. No two people will write the exact same story using the same idea. By the time they put this idea into a story, many things will have been added and subtracted from the main idea. Their characters and world will be different.
Using the works of others to gather story ideas is perfectly okay. And using the works of others within your story to get a grasp of your characters and story is perfectly fine . . . as long as you cut everything belonging to others out of your work before publishing it. So, UberFic is publishable once you’ve made changes to it. Once you’ve changed the character’s names, and anything else belonging to the other works.
FanFics that live within the worlds of others is harder to make publishable, as you’re using far too much of the original work in your story. And once you cut it all out, you’re going to have very little left. But, you can take what you brought to the party, expand on it, and turn it into original work that can be published. Because the idea that came to you for your FanFic can still be used with what you have left. You just have to rework the content you have left over to be able to fit it into an original story, and without using any of the other person’s work.
How do you do that? Here’s how:
You remove the names of the copyrighted characters, and you replace them with: She, He, Woman, Man, Human, Vampire, Shifter, Werewolf, etc.
You rethink the world you want to put the characters you created into. You rethink how the characters should be in this new world. You rethink how best this idea should be implemented within this new world, and with how these revamped characters should fit within this new world. You keep asking yourself: What If . . . ?
For example:
A Woman Scorned … What If … ?
What if, instead of asking: What if Bella became a woman scorned after Edward and the Cullens left . . . you asked: What if a human teen girl became a woman scorned after her vampire boyfriend dumped her because he didn’t want her to become a vampire like him? How would she get her revenge on him?
What If … Bella’s Paleness Got Her Branded as a Vampire?
What if, instead of asking: What if Bella’s pale skin got her branded as a vampire . . . you asked: What if the new girl in school was so pale that everyone thought she was a vampire? What if they tried to expose her as a vampire by putting her in harms way repeatedly? How would she prove she wasn’t a vampire before they could kill her in their attempts to expose her?
Synopsis: Summer Walsh owns a struggling circus with a dark history. When journalist Alison Carmichael walks through her Big Top, though, things might just start looking up for the distant Ringmaster.
It was late Wednesday evening when the last trailer finally limped on site. Summer watched anxiously as it eased its way between the other trailers, caravans, and vans to its designated spot, its tyres leaving huge ruts in the turf.
So much for 'Flaming June'. Rain had soaked the work crews as they pulled down the Big Top and loaded the unwieldy poles and sections of canvas onto the long trailer kept specially for the purpose; rain had streamed down her van's windscreen every second of the journey by tortuous, winding B road; and it was *still* raining, the hills surrounding Cheltenham almost invisible through the downpour.
She sighed. At least Cox's Meadow had turned out to be a proper field, she consoled herself, not one of those derelict building sites that were all most councils could seem to spare these days. She wondered who Cox was and what he would have made of the meadow that was rapidly turning into a swamp. For this they were paying £1,000 a week? Tomorrow they'd have to get the boards out - couldn't expect the public to wade through mud. She rubbed her forehead tiredly.
"Headache, boss?" Pyotr Dyakonov had come up behind her, unheard in the pelting rain.
"Yeah," Summer confessed. "Just the usual 'Will we be ready in time,' 'Will people like us enough to pay to see us' kind of headache."
"We always are; they always do," said the acrobat complacently.
Summer raised an eyebrow. "I thought Russians were s'posed to be pessimists."
He shrugged. "Things always seem to work out OK when you're around, Boss."
Summer snorted. "Yeah, right."
"It's true," protested Pyotr, stroking his moustache.
"Tell that to Uncle Tommy," she murmured, too low for Pyotr to hear. She turned away and began the tricky process of picking her way carefully between the ruts and puddles towards her caravan.
***
Alison replaced the telephone receiver and let a broad grin plaster itself over her face. "Tomorrow, I'm going to the circus!"
For a moment she allowed herself to feel the excitement she had felt as a little kid, even hopped up and down a bit, then she sobered. This wasn't for pleasure - well, maybe just a bit. This was her chance to prove she could hack it, to call herself 'freelance journalist' and mean more than the book reviews and column fillers that were the only things on her CV so far.
She paced up and down, hardly seeing the little sitting room, considering what to take with her. Her camera, of course. The article would be nothing without pictures, but she was good at photography - she could probably come up with something colourful and spectacular. Her tape recorder. Some spare batteries, a pen and notepad, just in case.
If all went well, she'd be interviewing each of the performers, maybe even the owner of the circus herself. Summer Walsh; what an unusual first name. Alison crossed to the table and rechecked her notes. Yes, it *was* Summer. And not many British circuses were owned by women, according to her research.
Would that make the interview harder, she wondered suddenly. Men were so easy - you just dressed femininely, batted your eyelashes, and simpered. Her Mother had taught her how to flirt with them from an early age, and then been devastated to learn it had been a waste of time. She sighed, remembering how difficult it had been coming out to her mother, how she had wished that her father had been alive to take her part as he always had.
She shook off the melancholy memory, and her doubts. "I can do this," she told herself. "I *will* do this." After all, all circus owners, regardless of their gender, would welcome a chance of free publicity, wouldn't they?
Alison remembered the circuses of her youth, full of horses, elephants, tigers, and lions. These days British circuses without animals were the norm - unrelenting pressure from animal rights protestors and the RSPCA had seen to that. She wondered if the show could possibly be as magical without animals.
Well, tomorrow night she'd see for herself, wouldn't she.
***
"Out of the question." Summer glared at the man who had barged into her office five minutes earlier, and who, rather disconcertingly, reminded her of an orangutan. (It must be the ginger hair and long arms, she decided.)
"I don't think you quite understand." His earlier affability had vanished.
"What's to understand?" she demanded. "I have all the permits and licenses I need. Why should I want to spend more than I have to?"
So far she had managed to keep a tight rein on her temper, but it was getting increasingly difficult. Especially since she was exhausted from helping the work crews to assemble the tiered seating inside the Big Top.
"For a quiet life," he said. "For oiling the wheels of progress -"
"For greasing your palms, you mean." If he thought the sunglasses and leather jacket made him look cool, thought Summer, he was wrong.
"Call it what you like, Ms Walsh. But I think you'd be very unwise not to -"
"I said 'no'. I meant it."
"I see. That's unfortunate."
Summer stood up, placed her hands firmly on the desk and leaned forward, fixing the man with a feral glare from which, to her satisfaction, he flinched. "You're just running a glorified little protection racket, aren't you? Well, no deal." She bared her teeth at him. "You haven't met Tonio and Marcello yet, have you? They're strongmen, they perform under the stage name Men-o-War. I'm sure, if you met them, you'd understand why."
Her visitor was already backing towards the door, looking anxiously through the glass as though expecting the two strongmen to be waiting outside for him. Which, if she'd known he was coming, they would have been, she thought sourly.
"This is probably the worst decision you've made, lady -"
"What happened to 'Ms Walsh?’"
"- in a long, long time."
As he disappeared, like a rat up a drainpipe, she wondered gloomily if he might not just be right.
***
Alison halted just inside the tasseled blue-and-white marquee that was the Big Top, and surveyed her surroundings. It would hold about four hundred people, she judged, but it was barely a quarter full. She checked her watch. There was still ten minutes before the performance was scheduled to begin, but she was doubtful the place would fill up.
She tried to get a sense of the kind of people that had come to the circus. Some were parties of adults only, chattering excitedly to one another; some were adults with children, the parents wearing longsuffering looks; and some, like herself, were alone, their wistful expressions indicating a desire to recapture the magical experience of their youth.
Alison suppressed a smile and searched for Block D. Ah, there it was - the far side of the tiered seating, near the ramp that led from the ring to backstage. She eased herself along the row of tip-up seats until she came to the one that matched the A9 on her ticket stub then sat down gratefully.
She made herself as comfortable as possible on the very basic seat then opened the brochure, emblazoned: 'SUMMER'S CIRCUS', that had cost her a pound. As she had feared, it consisted mainly of advertisements for ice-cream and hotdogs - but a loose sheet of A4 itemized tonight's running order.
She closed the brochure and leaned back, squinting first at the apex of the Big Top high above, then at the trapezes, wires and safety ropes a little below it, then at the ring itself - not covered with sawdust, these days, she noted - which was a lot smaller than her childhood memories had led her to expect. Not bad, she decided, feeling pleased with herself - she should be able to see the performers close to as they came up the ramp into the ring. She pulled her camera from her pocket and hung its strap round her neck ready.
A group of well dressed people - businessmen and women and civic dignitaries by the look of them, one overweight man even wore a chain of office round his neck - approached her block and began to take their seats in the front row. A rather striking dark-haired woman was directing them - her scarlet jacket had wide lapels and tails, and she was wearing a matching bow tie.
The woman smiled brilliantly and said, "I hope you enjoy the show." Alison eyed her with interest.
"I'm sure we will, Ms Walsh," said the man with the chain.
So that was the mysterious Summer Walsh? Well, well.
As the scarlet-clad woman strode away, Alison found that she was suddenly looking forward to interviewing the circus owner.
***
Summer made her way backstage. It was chaos; organized chaos - at least she fervently hoped so.
"Five minutes to the Overture," she yelled. "Everyone okay?"
"Okay, Boss," came the chorus of replies.
She stepped over the pile of baseball bats that looked like wood but weren't. They belonged to Egor and Maks who were due on first after the Overture. As she negotiated the clowns' other props: a foam rubber hatchet, a scrawny looking chicken, and a huge inflatable ball that after the Intermission would be bounced off the audience's heads to screams of fear and delight, her mind returned to the mayor's party.
"Pompous ass," she muttered. He had insisted on complimentary tickets for his wife and colleagues too. "Does he think we're made of money?"
Summer knew the figures all too well. Just to survive, the circus needed three thousand customers a week. Paying customers, like that little blonde who had been sitting just behind the mayor and his cronies. Her thoughts dwelt pleasantly on the woman's interested green eyes for a moment, then she remembered her intention to see how the Ticket Office was getting on.
She was heading for the office wagon at breakneck speed - she had barely ten minutes before she was needed in the ring - when she noticed that a weaselly little pickpocket was working the queue.
With a growl of anger, she somersaulted neatly over the goggling members of the public and launched herself at the man whose hand was about to delve into an unsuspecting customer's coat pocket.
He took one startled look at her and tried to bolt - but by then she had him by the back of his coat collar.
"'Ere, what d'ya think you're - Ulp!" His protest became a strangled squawk as an arm strengthened by years of trapeze work held him effortlessly six inches above the ground.
"Going somewhere?"
He struggled briefly then stopped and concentrated on simply breathing.
"You have a choice, sunshine," growled Summer. "You can spend this evening down the nearest police station...or..." She lifted him higher and watched him think through the implications.
The thief smiled rather glassily at her. "No harm done, lady," he babbled. "I was just looking after a few things for their owners. Know what I mean?"
She lowered her arm, and saw relief wash over his face as his feet touched the ground again. Then she released her grip on his coat collar and held out her hand meaningfully. "Give."
Reluctantly he reached into deep raincoat pockets and began to pile purses and wallets and wristwatches into Summer's hands. From the Big Top came faint music, the first bars of the Overture, reminding her that time was passing.
"Need a hand, Boss?" Tonio and Marcello had joined the little crowd of bystanders watching the proceedings as though it were part of the evening's entertainment.
She nodded, relieved to see them. "I'm due in the ring. Make sure these -" she pushed the pile of purses and wallets into Tonio's huge fists "- are returned to their rightful owners. Most'll have some kind of ID or photo in them, I expect. The rest - well, you may have to ask members of the audience to check if anything's missing."
She rubbed a hand tiredly across her forehead, annoyed at the extra work the thief had caused. If she reported him to the police, even more time would be lost. No police, then. Unless...Suddenly, she remembered the orangutan who had tried to sell her protection.
"You," she turned back to the thief. "Who are you working for?"
"No-one. I'm strictly freelance."
Summer put on her best scowl and took a threatening step towards him.
"Honest." He raised a shaking hand in defence.
She nodded. "Okay. One other thing."
The still unnerved thief looked expectantly at her.
"If I catch you in my circus ever again, I'll let these two - " she indicated the strong men examining the stolen booty "- tear you to pieces. And have no doubts, they can do it, too." She glared at him. "Do I make myself clear?"
The thief winced. "As crystal."
"Now, get out of my circus."
The thief needed no further urging.
***
The Overture ended with a flourish (*Also Sprach Zarathustra*, if she wasn't mistaken) and Alison clapped appreciatively. It amused her that such a tiny orchestra - two men, a drumkit, and what looked like a steam powered synthesizer - was capable of generating music with such power and volume. Circus people, she was rapidly learning, were nothing if not resourceful.
The ringmaster had just stridden into the ring - she recognized the dark-haired woman in the scarlet jacket immediately - when Alison became aware that a big man in black sweatshirt and jeans was easing his way along the row of seats towards her. She frowned.
"Excuse me, Miss," he said politely, as he got nearer, easing her fears, "but is this yours?" He was holding out a wallet similar to the one she owned and pointing to a strip of passport photographs.
Abruptly, she recognized the unflattering snaps she had had taken at the Post Office photo kiosk last week. She gasped and felt for the pocket where she usually kept her wallet. It was empty.
"That's mine. But how did you? I mean - "
The man smiled and handed her the wallet. "Pickpocket was working the Ticket Office queue," he said simply. "The Boss caught him. Persuaded him to return the stolen goods."
There was a subtle emphasis on the 'persuaded' that piqued Alison's interest, as did his accent, which was, she realized, foreign. She checked the contents of the wallet, and was relieved to find that nothing was missing. "'The Boss?’ You mean, Ms Walsh?"
"Yes. Everything there? Sorry to rush you, but I've got several more owners to locate."
"Oh, sorry. Yes, everything's here, but -"
But the man was already turning to go. "Enjoy the show, Miss," he called back to her.
Still feeling rather stunned by this turn of events, Alison turned her attention back to the ring. The attractive ringmaster had disappeared and two short men with unwieldy moustaches and red noses, dressed in appalling yellow-and-black checked suits and bow ties, were starting to hit each other with baseball bats.
***
The trouble with seeing the show from the inside, thought Summer, was that, unlike the appreciative audience - who were clapping wildly at every little thing - you were all too aware when things didn't go right.
For example, the music had started off slightly too fast, but Ruud and Jan had quickly corrected that. Then Egor had tripped over one of Maks' big feet but had deftly turned it into an extra piece of ' business'. And Grigori had almost dropped one of his flaming torches, but an extra flourish distracted the audience from his mistake.
The ringmaster sighed. No matter how often and thoroughly they rehearsed, it was always the same. First-performance-in-a-new-town nerves. But as the evening progressed, she could feel the nerves calming, the professionalism of the performers taking over.
But it was time to announce the next act. She strode out into the ring, fixed a smile on her face, and clicked on the microphone.
"And now, for your enjoyment, Summer's Circus presents, all the way from Greece: the *stupendous* Miss Clio."
She gestured extravagantly towards the maroon velvet curtain that hid backstage, and, right on cue, a petite figure in a pale pink leotard appeared and bounded up the ramp to join her.
"Break a leg, Clio," she murmured. Her reward was a dazzling smile.
Summer withdrew, and watched Clio go into her act.
First came the smile and wave to the audience, then the Greek woman reached for her little ladder and began to climb, adjusting her balance constantly so that the unsupported ladder would remain vertical. When she was settled, Andor, her young male assistant, appeared, carrying a pile of cups and saucers, and proceeded to throw them to her one by one. Almost nonchalantly, Clio would catch each cup or saucer and then throw it up so that it landed on the top of her head. Gradually a stack of alternating cups and saucers grew.
Summer had had no doubts at all, when she'd first seen Clio's act, that she was a must for the circus. On paper, catching cups and saucers while balancing on a ladder was a nonstarter, but in real life there was something about the precision and skill displayed by the young Greek woman that made the audience hold its breath.
As Clio caught yet another saucer, and was greeted with wild applause, Summer's thoughts turned inwards.
It looked like her gamble that the affluent Cheltonians would flock to the circus hadn't paid off - the Ticket Office receipts had confirmed what her squinted glances into the spotlights told her: the Big Top was only half full tonight. What with the appalling weather, the orangutan demanding protection money, the pickpocket ripping off customers, and the question of what would happen when Uncle Tommy discovered his least favourite niece was back on his patch. She sighed.
A teaspoon landed with a loud clink in the topmost saucer, and the audience went mad. Clio's act was winding down. Almost time to announce the aerialists, thought Summer, rising to her feet.
The Finale had met with sustained and enthusiastic applause, and the two man band was playing music calculated to get the audience heading for the exits, when Summer went round backstage congratulating the acts and patting people on the shoulders. There had been no major mishaps, and everyone was feeling relieved.
She was looking forward to a shower, a hot meal, and an early night, and was half way to her caravan, when she remembered she had rashly agreed to see a journalist - Alison Carsomething - about a possible article on the Circus.
She groaned, and trudged over the waterlogged ground towards the trailer that housed both the Administration and Ticket offices.
A blonde woman was waiting for her outside the Admin office. She looked vaguely familiar, thought Summer, traipsing up the short flight of steps.
"Ms Car-" She trailed off.
"Alison Carmichael," said the woman helpfully. "And you must be Summer Walsh." She held out a hand.
Summer grunted, gave the hand a perfunctory shake, then began to unlock the door. "Come in."
She switched on the light, and crossed the office to the battered old desk. The journalist followed her inside, glancing at the dingy interior assessingly. Hmmm, thought Summer, having noticed the camera around her visitor's neck, I don't imagine you want to take a photo of *this* for your article, Ms Carmichael.
She dragged a plastic chair from its place by the wall and indicated it before moving round behind the desk. The journalist sat down. Summer did likewise.
"I really enjoyed the show tonight, Ms Walsh."
"Thanks."
After a moment's silence, the blonde woman realized Summer wasn't going to say any more and picked up the conversation. "Um, we spoke on the phone, about the possibility of my doing interviews with you and with your performers."
Summer nodded.
"So, I was wondering..." The journalist bit her lip.
Summer glanced at the message pad where she had written details of their telephone conversation and frowned. What had she been thinking? "I don't seem to have made a note of which paper you write for, Ms Carmichael," she said apologetically.
"Oh, well - " A slight flush covered the blonde woman's cheeks. "I'm a freelance, but several publications have expressed an interest in the article -"
Summer realized abruptly that there was no point in continuing this conversation. "Then I'm afraid it would be better if we didn't waste each other's time, Ms Carmichael," she interrupted.
The look on the other woman's face made Summer aware that her bluntness had been misinterpreted as offensiveness.
"By the time you've written it and placed it, probably with a local paper," she explained, "the circus will have moved on. Such publicity will be of no benefit to us." She groaned inwardly, realizing that she had only made things worse.
A red spot now burned in each of the blond woman's cheeks. "But, you said on the phone..." Green eyes flashed with indignation.
Green eyes, thought Summer suddenly. Of course. The row of seats behind the mayor's party. Another headache was lurking behind her eyes. The sooner this was over, the better.
"I've changed my mind," she said, sounding more curt than she'd intended. "If you'll excuse me?" She stood up to indicate the interview was over.
Lips pressed in a grim line, the young woman snatched up her gloves and stalked off.
I could have handled that so much better, thought Summer regretfully as she watched the young woman stomp down the steps outside. She sighed, then switched off the light and locked the office door behind her.
As she walked down the steps herself, she glanced absently at the distant figure walking disconsolately towards the carpark. The rest of the paying audience had gone home, and a single pale green Fiesta remained. One of the carpark floodlights was out. Summer made a mental note to get it replaced, then noticed movement in the shadows. She stopped, her senses on alert. A mugger, or worse. And Alison Carmichael, her mind on other things, was heading straight for him.
The rush of adrenalin banished her tiredness and incipient headache instantly, and she broke into a run. "Look out," she called, even as she realized that running wasn't going to get her there in time and launched herself into a series of somersaults and flips.
The journalist had halted near her car and was looking back at her, mouth open in amazement. Summer growled as the figure in the shadows chose that moment to attack, and forced herself to move faster, feeling her muscles burn with the effort. The attacker - a man, by his build - had got an arm round the journalist's throat and was tugging her back into the shadows when Summer flipped over his head.
As she landed behind him, he glanced round, and the momentary distraction enabled the blond woman to break his grip round her throat. One punch with all Summer's weight behind it was enough to send him flying, and two kicks, one to the stomach, one to his unshaven jaw, rendered him out for the count.
Summer stooped over the man and checked his pulse. He was still breathing - she wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. She straightened, and rubbed her bruised knuckles ruefully, then became aware that the journalist was standing beside her.
"He attacked me!" mumbled the blond, her voice shaky, her breathing uneven. "Oh my God, if you hadn't -" She began to cry.
For moment, Summer stood frozen, then she pulled the sobbing journalist into an awkward hug. There was a moment's startled resistance, then Alison sagged into her embrace.
"It's okay," said Summer. "I've got you." She rubbed a hand soothingly over the other woman's back, encouraging her to cry herself out, her own mind churning. My fault. All my fault. If I hadn't been here...For Summer had no doubt at all that the attacker was working for the man who had tried to sell her protection that morning.
As the sobs dwindled to sniffs, and the tension in the muscles beneath her hands eased, her thoughts turned to the state of her ringmaster uniform. It hadn't been designed for people to cry on.
"Do you still want to do that article on the circus, Ms Carmichael?" Summer was as surprised by her own words as the journalist appeared to be.
"But you said -" The journalist took a step back, and Summer released her.
Colour had returned to the pale cheeks, and bewilderment, coupled with hope, had replaced the fear in the green eyes.
Summer smiled, partly in relief, and shrugged. "I've changed my mind."
The journalist considered for a moment. "What if you change your mind again?" she asked at last.
A fair question, Summer admitted, since from the journalist's point of view, she'd changed her mind twice already. "I won't," she said firmly. "If you want the interviews you asked for, you can have them."
A moment longer, then a smile split the blond woman's features and she nodded eagerly. "Please."
"Tomorrow, then, 10am," said Summer. "I'll give you a guided tour."
"Great."
They stared at one another for a long moment, then Summer sighed and glanced down at the still unconscious attacker.
"In the meantime," she said, "I suppose I'd better see about calling the police."
***
"It was great, Mother. There were clowns, and acrobats, and trapeze artists, and a woman who balanced at the top of a ladder while catching cups and saucers on her head...Yes, that's what I said. Um, it looked like real china from where I was sitting."
Alison could tell her mother wasn't impressed by her enthusiastic description of the circus. Opera was more the older woman's 'thing' - so much more 'adult'. No doubt her mother's opinion of the circus would sink even lower, if that were possible, if she told her about the pickpocket and the attack in the carpark...
She sighed and changed the subject to her coming interviews, then wished she hadn't.
"You're not still intending to be a journalist, are you, dear?" Her mother's tone was disapproving. "My goodness! I thought that was just a fad."
A fad! thought Alison. In fact, the dream of being a reporter had been with her since she was a child, but it was only recently she had decided to do anything about it. Coming out - to herself and to other people - she realized suddenly, had been the catalyst. It had strengthened her determination to live her own life not let others live it for her.
"No, Mother," she said evenly, "it's not a fad."
"It's not as if you need the money, dear."
Alison sighed. It was true that the Life Assurance from her father's death had left them both more than comfortably well off. But she wanted the satisfaction of paying her own way for a change.
"Mother, we've been through this."
"Well, if you *must* occupy yourself, dear, why don't you do some voluntary work? It's so much more...respectable."
"Mother." Alison had reached the end of her patience, and some sign of it must have travelled down the phone line because her Mother went quiet.
"Well, dear. Perhaps you know best." The tone made it clear her mother thought exactly the opposite. "It's past my bedtime, yours too if you're sensible. So I'll say goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mother." Alison replaced the phone receiver and sighed.
The flat that was her pride and joy, her first taste of independence - she was twenty-seven, for heaven's sake; other people left home at eighteen - suddenly seemed drab and pokey. Perhaps it was the contrast with the Big Top and its colourful performers, not least among them the tall ringmaster.
Once more Alison heard the distant shout and turned to watch the ringmaster somersaulting towards her across the carpark. Once more she felt disbelief and bewilderment that the woman who had just dashed her hopes so rudely should be following her in such a spectacular way. Then came a jolt of terror as someone wrapped his arm around her throat. Followed by sheer relief, as Summer tackled the attacker and then held Alison close.
Alison swallowed over a suddenly dry throat, then laughed wryly at herself. What a strange evening it had been! And now here she was feeling gratitude, hero worship, and, if she were being honest, straightforward attraction for a woman who until this evening had been a complete stranger.
Even more ironic, being rescued by a circus owner would have made a *great* story, but Summer was concerned that a mugging might keep paying customers away. Since the policeman who took their statements didn't envisage any further involvement for either Summer or Alison (Alison, though severely shaken, hadn't actually been hurt, and the still groggy attacker had quickly realized it was in his own best interests to confess) Alison had agreed to keep the incident quiet.
Which was probably just as well, she thought sleepily, as the seesaw of raw emotions finally caught up with her. Because then, her mother wouldn't learn of the incident and come rushing over ready to sweep her daughter up and take her back to the claustrophobic home from which she had only just escaped.
Alison had feared the mugging would prey on her mind, but as she got herself ready for bed, she found to her relief and slight embarrassment that her head was full of the music of Strauss and images of clowns and acrobats and a tall, striking ringmaster with blue, blue eyes.
***
"It's going to be muddy, I'm afraid." Summer ushered the young journalist out of the admin office and down the metal steps.
"That's all right." Alison smiled back at her. "What's a little mud between friends?"
Summer raised an eyebrow but said nothing. They walked across the boggy field towards the Big Top.
"We call this the Back Yard." Summer ducked under the cordon that marked the area as off limits to the public, and began threading her way carefully between stakes and guy wires, generators and storage bins.
Alison hurried to keep up. "So," she said, holding out a small tape-recorder. "What made you decide to own your own circus, Ms Walsh?"
"If we're friends, you'd better call me Summer." The tape recorder, she noted absently, was voice-activated.
"Then you'd better call me Alison, or Ali."
Summer caught the faint hesitation. "Which would you prefer?"
"Alison, if you don't mind."
"Alison it is."
Summer held back the tent flap and waited for Alison to duck under it. "We call this the Back Door - it's the performers' entrance." She followed the journalist, her pupils adjusting quickly to the dim lighting of the backstage area.
"Hi, Boss." Egor came somersaulting over and stopped in front of them. "Who's the beautiful towny?"
The little clown's interested gaze was resting on Alison, who blushed. It suited her, thought Summer, suppressing a grin.
"That's what circus people call outsiders," she explained. Then to Egor, "This is Alison Carmichael. She's a local journalist, so be nice - we don't want any bad publicity."
"I thought any publicity was good publicity, Boss." Egor winked at her.
"Yeah, well you thought wrong."
Alison shot her a glance. "You don't have to worry," she said reassuringly. "I really loved the show last night."
"You did?" Summer felt her slight tension ease.
She guided Alison towards the maroon curtain separating backstage from the auditorium, then paused. "I should warn you before we get near the ring," she said, "don't, whatever you do, sit on the edge of it facing out."
Alison stared at her. "Why not?"
Summer shrugged. "It's bad luck."
The journalist leaned forward eagerly. "Oh! So you have your own set of superstitions, like theatre people do?"
"I suppose so. Peacock feathers are bad luck too. And whistling in the dressing room."
Alison's eyes danced and her tone was mock serious. "Okay. No whistling or peacock feathers, and no sitting on the ring's edge facing out. Got it."
Summer started to say something in defence of circus traditions then decided against it. She pulled back the curtain and they walked through.
The Dyakonovs were rehearsing their trapeze act high above the ring, and she stopped to allow Alison to watch. After a long moment, Alison tore her gaze away from the graceful flips and twirls, and Summer gestured towards a row of ringside seats. They covered the distance quickly and sat down.
"I noticed last night that most of the acts in your programme are foreign," said Alison. "Is that coincidence or policy? Or is it simply that Brits don't make good circus performers?"
"Hey! Are you saying I'm no good?" Summer smiled to remove the sting from her words. It was a good question, and she considered her answer. No need to mention that Uncle Tommy had made sure no British performer would work for her anyway, she decided.
"It's a question of cost, actually." Alison glanced at the sound level meter and moved the tape recorder closer to Summer's mouth then her gaze drifted upwards again. Summer smiled. She too felt the magnetic pull of the trapeze.
"When the USSR collapsed," she continued, "so did its circus funding. At their height, they had seventy permanent circuses, you know. That's about fifteen thousand performers."
Alison's startled gaze met hers. "Fifteen thousand?"
Summer nodded. "Which means that now the Russians are desperate for work and -" she spread her hands expressively "- very cheap."
"So *that's* why most of your acts are Russian?"
"Mmmm." Now it was Summer's turn to gaze up at the Dyakonov Troupe. Cheslav, she noted absently, was clasping Irisa's ankles in his brawny fists. "Though actually, the circus band is Dutch." Alison chuckled at the mention of the two musicians, and Summer glanced curiously at her. When no explanation was forthcoming, she let it go and continued. "The strong men are Portuguese. And Miss Clio, of course, is Greek. I take it you'd like to meet the company?"
"Please."
The journalist's obvious enthusiasm pleased Summer. Maybe it was because Alison was a freelance, she thought, and hadn't yet reached the embittered 'just going through the motions' stage.
A faint stomach rumble reached her ears, and she noticed Alison was blushing again.
"Haven't you had any breakfast?"
"Um, yes," admitted Alison. "But it was a couple of hours ago. I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee and a biscuit, if you have them."
Summer rose to her feet. "I'm sure we can rustle up something." She was amused by the look of gratitude that flashed across the blond woman's face.
"Follow me."
***
The trailer that Summer called the 'cook wagon' was hot and fuggy and smelled absolutely wonderful. Coffee and doughnuts, thought Alison, identifying the aromas. Her stomach grumbled more loudly and her mouth began to water.
"It's help yourself in here," instructed the tall woman, busying herself with heating water for two cups of instant coffee. "Just take what you fancy."
"Okay."
While Summer carried their coffees to an empty table, Alison inspected the cardboard box of goodies and chose a large sticky, sugarcoated doughnut. Then she joined Summer and sat down opposite her. She placed the tape recorder on the table between them, and gazed at their spartan surroundings.
"So, this is where you all eat?"
Summer took a sip of coffee than nodded. "We can connect the wagon up to the mains water and power supplies. Not all sites provide access though, so then we have to make do with Calor gas and bottled water."
"I expect you've got moving between sites down to a fine art?" While she waited for an answer, Alison picked up her doughnut and took a bite. Brilliant red jam squirted down her chin and across the table. Fortunately, it didn't reach the ringmaster.
"Oh!" Alison's cheeks felt hot with embarrassment, but Summer just chuckled and reached for a paper napkin.
"I'm always doing that," she said consolingly. "Here."
"Thanks." Alison took the napkin and wiped her chin with it. "Um." Her mind had gone blank and the confusion must have shown on her face.
Summer took pity on her. "To answer your question, yes, after you've been on the road for a while - and this circus has been touring for years now - you get to know the drill." She took another gulp of coffee. "Circus people are pretty tough. Everyone helps with the build-up and pull-down."
"But the circus can't always run smoothly," prompted Alison.
"No. We've had our share of accidents, and some of our vehicles are aging - they're always breaking down. Fortunately, Grigori is a top notch mechanic as well as a juggler. What else?" Summer looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, two years ago, a generator caught fire - we were lucky it didn't burn down the Big Top. And last year we had a blowdown - that's when a storm blows the Big Top down."
Alison would have whistled but remembered their earlier talk of superstition and thought better of it. "That must have set you back a bit."
"Yes. Luckily we got it back up double quick - only missed one matinee. We can't afford to miss many performances."
Alison finished off her doughnut and wiped her hands on the napkin. "You're that close to the line?"
For a moment she thought the other woman wasn't going to answer, then Summer tapped the tape recorder pointedly and said, "Off the record?"
"Oh, okay." Alison pressed the pause button.
"Things are pretty tight at the moment. If they don't get better soon ?" The ringmaster's gaze was suddenly bleak.
"Can't you put up ticket prices?"
"We're already as high as we can go without putting audiences off." Summer shrugged. "Trouble is, we've got so much to compete with these days - TV, video, cinema - football. People just aren't as keen as they used to be on circuses. Especially circuses without animals." She grimaced. "It's a no win situation. If we use animals - we get attacked by the animal rights protestors; if we don't use them - the audiences stay away."
Alison frowned. "That's not fair."
"No, it isn't." Summer sighed.
The journalist suddenly remembered the tape recorder and pointed at it. Summer nodded, and she resumed recording.
"So why do you do it?" asked Alison.
"Do what?"
"Own your own circus. Keep on touring."
"It's in the blood," said Summer simply. "And," she gave Alison a wry smile, "I don't know how to do anything else."
As if regretting her sudden candour, the ringmaster looked away. "Have you had enough?" She indicated the empty plate.
"Oh, yes. That was great, thanks."
"Good. Because we've got quite a few introductions to get through, not to mention photographs."
Alison stood up at once. "Point me at 'em," she said brightly, pleased when the remark earned her a laugh from Summer.
The dark woman led the way out of the cook wagon.
***
Summer managed to prise Ruud and Jan Dekker away from their instruments and get them to talk to Alison. At first wary, the brothers soon opened up under the journalist's genial questioning, revealing a sheepish passion for Country and Western music that was news to Summer. Tonio and Marcello were glad to take a break from rehearsing, and were soon posing and flexing their rippling muscles while a suitably awed Alison took photographs. And Egor and Maks abandoned their discussion - heated, as always - of ways to improve their act and were only too happy to educate Alison in the intricacies and history of clown makeup.
Summer found watching Alison work relaxing, and she was letting the good natured banter flow over her, when Pyotr came running up, breathless.
"It's Cheslav," he said, without preamble. "He's sprained his wrist."
"Shit!"
"What's wrong?" Alison had come over to see what the aerialist's gloomy expression and Summer's unguarded exclamation were about.
"One of the catchers has sprained his wrist," explained Summer.
"Catchers?"
"A trapeze artist who catches," she said absently. Pyotr was looking expectantly at her. "The routine's the same?"
He nodded. "We added a few frills, but the basic moves are unchanged."
"Okay. Give me five minutes."
Summer regarded a bewildered Alison. "You'll have to look after yourself for the next hour, I'm afraid. Is that going to be a problem?"
"Uh, no. But...um, Summer, what are you going to be doing?"
"Taking Cheslav's place."
Alison's eyes widened. "Up on the trapeze? But I thought you were the ringmaster."
My story, “Lost and Found” (a Cophine Uberfic) will be included in the Clexacon Fandom Anthology, published by Sapphire Books. Hopefully, Sapphire will have some readings scheduled during the con, and if they do, I will definitely be there!
2x10 “The Xena Scrolls” is a metafictional episode which introduces us to a new setting and new characters who still somehow retain the essences of Xena and Gabrielle. In other words, the show is writing its own AU before our eyes. In doing so, it laid the canonical foundations for Xena fandom to create Uberfic and expanded the fictional possibilities of the Xenaverse. The episode also puts forward the exciting idea that Xena is “real,” as established a mythological figure as Hercules, whose exploits Gabs recorded in the scrolls that exist IRL. This allows for a Watsonian vs. Doylist debate within the Xenaverse: Was the bard who wrote the scrolls depicting Xena as she really was, or did she invent things? Is the TV show a loose interpretation of the scrolls or is it faithful? These many layers of text make the show itself more subjective and open to various interpretations and readings.
We discuss “The Xena Scrolls” and its contributions to fandom in the newest episode of our podcast!
Synopsis: AU Xena/Gabrielle meet after an airport an airport snafu, and their past selves are dredged up. CW: dub!con
Personal Note: This right here is the OG Uber-fic for the Xenaverse. Bongo Bear LITERALLY COINED THE TERM UBER for Xena fic, and fanfic in general, so bless her for her contributions. Bongo and Bat Morda paved the way for you to enjoy every Mel/Janice, Xena/Gabrielle uber fic you’ve ever read. You ain’t got nothing on this woman. I don’t usually post ubers that don’t contain 99% pure X/G or M/J in their named glory, but this one has to be preserved, as it was the first. I’ll also be posting a few more of her stories as I can find them.
I was in a real snit, to put it mildly. I was tired and hungry and still had a long way to go. I had just lost my boarding pass after the bags were already checked in and loaded on the plane. Time was running out and I was desperate enough to call upon a higher power.
So, I supplicated myself to a priestess of air travel at the altar of Customer Service. I begged her to let me join my luggage on the flight that was about to leave in five minutes from the gate a hundred yards away from where I prostrated myself before her. I made offerings of Mastercard, Visa, and American Express to no avail. She looked at me with sympathetic eyes, but no way was she going to violate security protocols and let me on board without the missing pass. I sighed deeply and started to look at the flight schedule to other cities when I heard a voice call out to me.
I turned at the sound and saw a woman sitting in the waiting lounge nearby. She smiled and waved at me. I pointed to my chest, who me? She nodded vigorously, yes you! I walked over to this woman whom I had never set eyes upon before and asked, "Ahh, did you want to say something to me?"
"Yes, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation over there," she pointed to the counter. "I'm going to Vancouver as well and missed the same flight, but for different reasons. Now, I'm on a flight to Bellingham; it's just an hour drive to Vancouver from there. If you get a seat on the Bellingham flight, I'll drive you over. The plane leaves in thirty minutes."
I'm not accustomed to the unexpected generosity of strangers, so I looked her over. Even though she was seated, I could tell that she was tall, taller than me. Her dark hair was gathered in a long ponytail that curled over her shoulder. What really caught my attention were her incredible, deep blue eyes. They matched the indigo denim shirt she wore under her black leather parka. I thought for sure that Mother Nature didn't make eyes like that and that she was wearing contacts. I looked for the tell-tale rings in the corneas, but I couldn't find them.
"Well, are you interested in my offer or not?"
I mentally slapped myself when I realized that I was falling into her eyes. What was she offering me? Oh, yes, a ride. "Yeah, sure. Why not? You don't look like an axe murderer." I grinned at my lame attempt to break the ice.
"That's a relief! I hate to think that people find me threatening. My name is Alexandria, but you can call me Alex," she said as she stood up and extended her hand to me.
"I'm Gwen, short for Guinevere," I said, shaking her hand. A strong grip. I liked that. Some women, when they shake hands, only grasp the fingers and give them a weak wiggle. That always made me feel like they were hiding something because they weren't willing to give all of their hand to me. What else would a person like that hold back? Alex's hand was large enough to encompass all of mine. She shook my hand firmly, yet gently. I could trust her. Completely. What the hell am I thinking, I thought.
"Guinevere is a very old, very auspicious name," Alex observed.
"My mom was a big fan of Le Morte d'Arthur. Now, Alex is an unusual nickname for Alexandria."
"I throw people for a loop whenever they meet me. You know, they're expecting some guy instead of me. Besides, I'm more memorable that way," she said matter-of-factly.
No kidding, I thought. "Hmm, I need to buy my ticket. Will you watch my backpack for me?" I set my heavy pack in the empty seat next to Alex and walked over to the ticket counter. When I returned, she was studying the blueprint tube sticking out of the top of the pack.
"It's a practice sword called a bokuto," I said as I pulled the tube out of the pack and sat down. I removed the protective tube and handed her the wooden sword. "I'm a student of Iaido..."
"The Japanese martial art of drawing a sword and striking down your opponent in a single stroke," she finished. "By the way, where's your live blade?"
I looked at her quizzically, "My sword's at home. Security would get antsy if I carried on three feet of razor sharp steel. How did you know about Iaido?"
"I'm a professor of military history. Actually, my specialty is Greek warfare, but I keep up with other cultures as well," she said as her hand caressed the smooth wood of the sword's blade.
This time, I stopped myself from staring at her graceful hand and said, "I'm an architect. I've just finished a guest lecture on design here in Denver."
"So are you going to Vancouver for another lecture?"
"No, Vancouver's a working vacation; Denver was just work. You promise not to laugh too hard?" Alex nodded. "I like to write on the side. So I'm attending a writers' workshop in Vancouver. When I was in college, I had to decide whenever to major in literature or architecture. I've always had a bent for the written word as well as drafting and design. I chose architecture for the money, but I never gave up writing for the pleasure."
"I understand. It's good to cultivate many talents: public speaking, word smithing, and sword play," she said as she handed my sword back to me. "Boarding call....let's get in line." She put her hand around my upper arm. I let her guide me out of my seat and into the queue.
"'Word smithing' to describe scribbling stories is a bit overly dramatic, isn't it?" I said, a little embarrassed by the flourish she gave that part of my life.
She shrugged her shoulders. "It's part of what you are. That's nothing to be ashamed of. The attendant wants your pass," she said as she directed my gaze to the waiting attendant.
We boarded the plane. It was a lot smaller than I had expected for such a long trip from Denver to near the Canadian border. The plane, being as tiny as it was, transmitted every swoop, turn, and sudden updraft directly to my stomach. I held my head between my knees. I knew I was going to hurl into the barf bag I held to my mouth. Alex, seated next to me, rubbed my neck and my back to try to soothe me. She had me sit up, then she grasped my wrist tightly. Suddenly, my motion sickness faded from the full-blown tempest to a slight churning in my gut.
"What did you do?" I asked Alex. She said, "I've activated a pressure point on your wrist. Like this." She demonstrated again. It was like a toggle switch. Hit the point once the nausea goes away. Hit again and it comes right back at you. "Oh god, I'm gonna be sick." She quickly switched off my stomach. "Thanks, I can relax now," I said.
Feeling a bit conversational, I decided to find out more about my unusual traveling companion. "So, what brought you to Denver?" I asked.
"I did some hiking in the Rocky Mountain National Park. Ever been there, Gwen?"
I nodded. "It's one of the most beautiful places on Earth. Not too many places have skies as blue, snow caps as white, or lakes as clear." I watched her face intently as she spoke. I could almost see the stormy blue skies over the Rockies reflected in her eyes.
"I assume that you hiked by yourself. Do you like communing with Nature all alone?" I asked.
"I've traveled with a friend in the past, but now I travel alone. I would prefer a companion," she said almost shyly. She looked at me expectantly. I wasn't sure how to respond.
"Please go on. I want to hear about your trip," I said relaxing into my seat. I felt her fingers burning into my hand as she touched me to emphasize a point. Her voice fell into a sing-song that slowly dropped octaves and the volume softened to a low whisper. I stopped hearing any more of her words, as I fell into a light snooze that quickly deepened into REM sleep. I dreamt about Alex, but not Alex.
******
A tall, dark beauty looking amazingly like Alex walks tentatively towards me. She's wearing what looks like a one-piece leather bathing suit with a matching set of breast armor, gauntlets, and arm bands. She smiles brilliantly at me. I approach her, but she won't let me touch her. I can't hear what she's saying. She leans in to kiss me on the lips. I close my eyes and purse my lips in anticipation...
******
"Gwen!" Alex tried to shake me out of the dream. "Wake up!" She shook me hard enough to throw my upper body into the aisle.
"Uuhh, what? Oh, it's you," I said. She said that I was talking some nonsense aloud and she didn't want me to embarrass myself. "What did I say?" I asked warily.
"Nothing intelligible, but the other passengers started to look at you funny," she said.
"Great, thanks for waking me. My ears are killing me. We must be landing." I looked out of the window and saw white. Not just the white of flying through cloud cover, but the white of the ground covered with snow and the white of the sky whose horizon was increasingly indistinguishable as the day came to a close. "Are you sure we can drive through this mess? It looked like it snowed ten feet down there!"
Alex patted my hand, "No, problem. I grew up here and know the area well. Besides, we can rent a four-by-four SUV when we land."
******
We pulled out of the rental car lot and were on the road to Vancouver in no time flat. Alex drove while I rode shotgun. She tuned the radio to a local NPR station that was playing classical music. Soon she was humming softly to the strains of Mozart's Magic Flute. I leaned back against the head rest and squinted my eyes at the setting sun as it outlined Alex's features.
She concentrated all of her attention on the road because of the driving snow. I took the opportunity to look at her, to really see this intriguing woman. The fading sun illuminated the profile of her face. The planes of her high cheek bones complemented her long, straight nose. Her countenance had a classic beauty that the typical Barbie doll beauty queen lacks. Her face projected strength, confidence, and something else that I bet scared the holy shit out of her students when the mood struck her.
She must have felt my stare, for she said, "What are you looking at, Gwen?" She kept her eyes on the road.
"You," I said brazenly, almost wishing I hadn't said anything at all. "I know I've met you before..." She just smiled enigmatically at the windshield.
Alex turned on the headlights. The falling snow sparkled as it fell through the beams. It would have been a lovely sight if the snowfall weren't so heavy. The visibility was reduced to mere feet once the sun went down. "We'll have to pull over. It's too dangerous to drive in these conditions. I'll park away from the road so that we don't have to worry about a car hitting us in the night."
"Where can we stay? I'm not too thrilled about camping out in the SUV tonight," I whined.
"We'll be just fine in the back. I have camping equipment in my luggage."
I looked out at the heavy falling snow. It was wet and stuck to everything. The wind whipped around what didn't stick and obscured everything else but the small space directly in front of the SUV. I blew out a sigh between my lips. The window immediately fogged. "Damn, we're snowbound."
******
Alex put down the back seats of the SUV to form a flat surface and laid her sleeping bag across it. "There's only one bag," I said, pointing out the obvious. "I know. We'll have to share. My bag's big enough," Alex said.
How convenient for you, I thought. "I'm not comfortable with that. Why don't you sleep back there and I'll just curl up in the front seat?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Besides, it's much warmer if we sleep together." She shrugged herself into the bag, looked at me, then patted the empty space next to her. I shook my head no. "Suit yourself."
Thirty minutes later, I was freezing and not getting a wink of sleep. Cold moonlight poured through the windshield, dimly lighting the interior. I looked back and saw her shivering a little in her sleep as well. I crawled back there and gently woke up Alex. She said sleepily, "Changed your mind? Come here and lie down."
I took off my heavy parka and snuggled up inside. I laid the parka over the bag for extra warmth. Alex had done the same with hers. I laid flat on my back and peered straight ahead so I wouldn't have to look at her. Like I could actually ignore her. I felt her body heat radiating into my side.
"Gwen, why were you staring at me earlier?" She propped herself up to face me.
"Umm, no particular reason. You're just interesting to look at." I still stared at the ceiling.
"Uh huh. You said you knew me from somewhere else? Do you remember where?" She caught a lock of my hair and began to twirl it in her fingers.
"Stop that," I said, grabbing her hand. "You just look very familiar; that's all! Is there a point to the twenty questions?" I said impatiently, releasing her hand.
"Maybe..." She put her hand on my stomach and began to rub it in slow circles through the sleeping bag.
"Like you're trying to seduce me?"
"Who me?" she asked as innocently as possible for her.
"I don't see anyone else here." I rolled over and pretended to search around the cramped loading area of the SUV. She caught my hand and placed a fingertip in her mouth. Then she kissed the palm of my hand before nibbling the sensitive spot on the inside of my wrist. Don't...do...that..." I objected weakly.
"Why not?" she said.
Why not, indeed. I couldn't think of a good reason to refuse her attentions. She was beautiful, aroused, and getting me there, too. I was wondering if her suggestion to travel with her back at the airport was a mere coincidence or if it was somehow fated. Why here, why now, why me?
"I can see the indecision on your face, Gwen. A lot of questions going through that hard head of yours." She quickly closed the distance between our lips. "Have you made up your mind, yet?" I responded by rolling her on top of me. "I'll take that as a 'yes'," she said, looking down at my wide open eyes. Her long hair tickled my neck and my nose. She deliberately moved her head so that the soft strands brushed against my skin, making me laugh.
"You're all flushed. Let's get you out of those clothes." She picked herself up, then pulled me to a sitting position. As she kissed me, she slowly unbuttoned my flannel shirt. She bent down and placed her soft lips on my exposed skin as each unbutton came undone. The wet kisses left a trail of goose bumps. By the time the trail led to my navel, I was ready tear the rest off myself. I kicked away the top of the sleeping bag, then leaned back so I could unzip my jeans. Her hands beat me to the zipper. She pulled the jeans and underwear off in a single motion and was tugging at my socks. "Leave them be," I said panting slightly. She looked at me with a questioning eyebrow. "I don't want to get cold feet."
She smirked at the unexpected humor. "All right. The socks stay put." Her voice grew husky, "Is your foreplay as good as your wordplay?" Before I could answer, she pushed me back into the bag and straddled my hips. Since she was facing the front, the moonlight struck her full in the face. The effect left me breathless. Her brilliant blue eyes, glittering with an internal fire, were set in her pale face like sapphires lying on white satin. She held my gaze and began to murmur softly in a foreign language. Ancient Greek? My lids grew heavy as the rhythm of her voice swept me into delicious unconsciousness. The last thing I remembered were those dazzling eyes.
******
A tall, dark beauty named Xena walks tentatively towards me. She's wearing her usual one-piece leather battle tunic with a matching set of breast armor, gauntlets, and arm bands. She smiles brilliantly at me. I approach her, but she won't let me touch her. I can just barely hear what she's saying. She leans in to kiss me on the lips. I close my eyes and purse my lips in anticipation.....
"Gabrielle, please look at me," Xena said. Gabrielle opened her eyes and saw her lover for the first time in a century. She hugged the warrior tightly and sighed 'Xena' into her shoulder.
"Little one, I'm glad to see you, too! I'm sorry it took so long to make contact, but your host is a little too reserved; repressed even." Xena caressed her bard's hair as she spoke.
"You mean she actually resisted your charms?" Gabrielle asked with a touch of surprise.
"Yeah, can you believe it? I had to seduce then hypnotize her before I could bring you out."
"Are you sure she's a descendant of mine? She seems so different. She doesn't even look that much like me. Her hair is a darker blonde - almost a mousy brown. And she's taller..." Xena stopped her bard before she could tick off any more points.
"Gabrielle, she has your most endearing qualities: propensities for speaking, writing, and whining," Xena said with a very big grin.
"Very funny. But really, she seems a little like you, too. Especially the affinity for swords and a stubborn streak. Could it be that she's a descendant from both of us?"
"Possibly. That could explain why the Fates practically dumped her in my lap. I had almost given up since it had been so long, yet there she was. Just standing there at the airport."
"Hmmm, if she is descended from you as well as me, be careful not to piss her off."
"I don't piss people off any more," Xena said defensively. Gabrielle dropped her chin and cocked her eyes skeptically. "Okay..not as much as I used to."
"Just teasing. Seriously, how do you plan to explain our situation to her? I can take over her body now that she's asleep. But will she share when she's fully awake?"
"Don't know. But for now, let's take full advantage of the situation," Xena said as she bent her head to finish the kiss.
******
The rays of the morning sun reflected off the snow drifts and directly into my face. I tried to pull the sleeping bag over my eyes to block out the light, but there wasn't enough slack. I cracked one bleary eye open, then coaxed the other one awake. Stretching out above my head, I felt the soreness of my arms and legs. I sat up in sleeping bag and looked down at my still sleeping companion. Alex's lips were slightly parted in relaxation. Impulsively, I reached down to caress the side of her face and brush my fingers lightly across her moist lips. She involuntarily closed them on my fingertips. I quickly withdrew them, not wanting to wake her.
I looked around and noted that the snow drifts covered half of the SUV. The doors of only one side could be opened. Fortunately, it was on my side. I fished out my discarded clothing from the corner, dressed, and went outside. Sunlight sparkled on the snow, rendering the landscape an almost blinding white. The pine trees were softly outlined with only a few green branches poking out of the white blanket. I breathed in the cold, sharp air and bent down to wash my face with the clean snow. This isn't so bad, I thought. What am I, nuts? I'm in the middle of the frigging woods! With a very strange, but fascinating woman. Well, I can't do anything about it now.
On a whim, I went back to the SUV and pulled out my sword and a sweatshirt. A few drills would loosen up those sore muscles. I stepped out into a clearing a few yards from the SUV and changed into the sweatshirt. I finished the first seven kata and was meditating about the past day's events when I heard the car door slam shut. I heard Alex's feet crunch through the snow toward me. I felt her arms around my waist as she whispered in my ear, "Good morning, I slept like a rock. How about you?"
As I turned around in her arms, she met me with a brief kiss. I pulled her arms away from me and stepped back a little. She seemed alarmed by my cool reception. "I may as well have slept on a rock; I hurt all over. On top of that, I'm missing out on the workshop, which is already paid for. I'm sleeping in the woods like a goddamned bear. And from the looks of the SUV," pointing to the half-buried vehicle with my chin, "and of the road," pointing in the opposite direction to the non-existent paved surface, "I'm going to have to go through this again!"
"You're certainly acting like a bear. Come on....was last night really so bad?" she asked as she caressed my face. I started to brush her hand aside, but decided to just hold it between us instead.
"Actually, I don't remember very much about it. I just felt unusually sore this morning." I rubbed my lower back to ease a knot.
"At least you can't see the teeth marks on your..." Alex clamped a hand over her mouth to shut herself up.
It was my turn to raise eyebrows. I twisted to glance down at my hip pocket. "On my butt? No, you didn't!" Alex just stood there with a huge toothy grin on her face. "Aah, you did!" I threw up my hands in exasperation.
"Hey, I've been vaccinated!" Alex said defensively, though still smiling. I cocked a skeptical eye at her.
At this point, I was very unhappy camper. I pushed my index finger into Alex's chest, slowly backing her into a tree.
"Whatever possessed you," Poke.
"To bite me," Poke.
"Anywhere?" Poke.
When she couldn't move any further, I looked up into her eyes, "Much less my butt!" Poke.
Looking down at me, she gently pulled my irate finger from her bosom and kissed it. Then she said, "For someone who's not much of a morning person, you're asking very astute questions."
"Huh?" I retrieved my hand to rub the back of my neck, "Things are going on that I don't understand. What exactly happened last night? I feel like I've been through a marathon."
"I'm not surprised considering that Gabrielle and I did give your body quite a workout last night," Alex said carefully, watching my reaction. It was simply, "Who the hell is Gabrielle?"
She sat me down and told me the long sordid tale of her illustrious ancestor, Xena the Warrior Princess and the love of her life, Gabrielle, the famous bard of Potedeia. I never heard of either of them. She explained how their souls were forever intertwined and therefore fated to be together. Throughout the centuries since their deaths, their souls have inhabited the bodies of a select few of their descendants. I'm supposed to be a descendant of Gabrielle for sure and possibly even Xena. Once inhabited, their descendants lived together much as their progenitors did in life. Alex finished her story with a beatific smile. "We're so relieved to have found you, Gwen. You're just perfect. Just perfect."
"Great, I'm perfect for what? Look, I don't share your enthusiasm. I'm not even sure you're completely sane. You're Xena's descendant and she's supposed to be you now? Let's say for the sake of argument, that what you've told me is completely true - "
"It is," Alex interjected.
"And I'm supposed to let Gabrielle take over my body, so you two can live in bliss the rest of my life?"
"That's how it usually works," Alex nodded her head. "You understand now?"
"I understand that neither of you two have considered the rights of the people you inhabited." Alex looked stunned at my words. "When Gabrielle took over, where was I? Where was my soul?"
"Your soul was still there. You were just unconscious for the whole time."
"Do I have to be unconscious for her to take over completely?"
"Yes. But she can keep you conscious. In that case, you would experience everything as if it were happening to someone else," Alex answered.
"Then I might as well be dead! If I let her take me over forever, she'd be living my life. I like my life. She can't just take it over! Both of you lived full lives, fuller than most, centuries ago. I have the right to live my own life."
"But we're destined to be together forever! The gods have ordained it. You can't refuse to let Gabrielle live again through you."
"Oh, yes, I can. Even if she lets me remain conscious, I won't have my own will. She'd still control everything. I'd just be aware of being trapped in my own body."
"Gabrielle should be the one talking to you. She's much more persuasive than I am," Alex said worriedly. "Gwen, I love you. You've got to understand!"
"Alex, Xena, whoever you are... we just met yesterday. You can't possibly love me. You love Gabrielle. You made love to Gabrielle last night, not to me. You've used me for your own selfish pleasure." Alex winced at that comment, but continued to listen.
"You easily seduced me and I probably even let you. I might even come to love you someday," I said as I stroked her hand. "But Gabrielle will always have your heart. Not me, not the person I really am. Remember how you hated how the gods meddled in your life. You're doing the exact same thing to me. You and Gabrielle will just have to work something else out." I turned, grabbed my coat, shirt, and sword, and stomped back to the SUV to get warm again. The look on Alex's face was like I had just killed her best friend. Maybe I just did.
******
Alex followed me back to the SUV. She grabbed my shoulder and spun me around to face her. "I need Gabrielle by my side. I can't go on living alone like this." Alex was practically pleading with me. A tear welled up in her eye and threatened to roll down a perfect cheek. I automatically reached out and brushed away her tears. She caught my hand and held it to her cheek. Oh god, I groaned inwardly. I snatched my hand away before she took anymore liberties.
"All right, don't get all mushy on me. I thought you were the tough one, Alex."
"Actually, that part of my personality has mellowed a lot. Before Xena merged with me, I was a real wuss. You know, a sentimental, simpering romantic. Her darker personality gave me some balance."
"So it is possible to 'merge' the souls in a body rather than have one dominate the other?"
"No, not really. The dominant soul still controls the body. But sharing the body is more like a merger if both souls want it. I wanted and needed it. It's only a problem if the original owner fights the process. Then it becomes possession," Alex's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Are you threatening me?" Rising up to the challenge, "I got news for you, kiddo. If I've inherited bits of both Xena's and Gabrielle's personalities, I'm stronger than either of you individually. Don't misunderstand; I'm sympathetic to your loneliness."
"As I am to yours," Alex said catching me by off-guard. Holding me by my upper arms, she asked gently, "Gwen, you have your life, your career. But who do you have? How do you wake up in the mornings? All cold and alone? Just like your nights?" I opened my mouth to wordlessly respond, how could you know? Her blue eyes shined into mine. "Who is your soulmate?"
I stood there dazed like a deer in headlights. How did she know what I've needed - wanted - all my adult life? Somehow, she knew about the one-night-stands where I sought temporary relief, only to wake up alone in the morning. She knew that sometimes I cried myself to sleep hugging a pillow, wishing it were a lover. I looked down into my heart and found the answer.
I told her the truth in a quiet voice, "No one."
"That's where you're wrong. I'm right here," lifting my chin so she could see my eyes. Alex reached out to touch my chest. The warmth of her fingers seeped through. "I can help fill that emptiness. We're not being selfish at all. What Gabrielle and I had when we were alive is a gift we bestow on our descendants: the gift of eternal love. You'll never be alone again."
Long minutes passed while I considered what she said. Taking a deep breath, I began slowly, "I suppose....we could come.... to a mutual agreement. There are some things about Gabrielle that could bring balance to my life."
"Yeah, like you could use some lightening up," Alex quipped, a smile turning up a corner of her mouth.
"Hmmph," I sniffed. "She could help me with my writing. Yeah, that's it. Make me more empathic. Who knows? Gabrielle may learn a few things from me." This could work, I thought. "Just because she's dead doesn't mean she can't learn new tricks. But I don't want her messing with my swords. Let's make a deal."
"I'm listening."
******
Alex and I dug the SUV out of the snow drift. The highway plows eventually came through and we were able to get back on the road again. Alex dropped me off in Vancouver. When we parted, she gave me a deep kiss that lingered for hours later. I told her that I wanted to see her again, very soon.
I think this compromise will work out just fine. I'll spend time with Alex because I want to. After all, she is hard to resist. Alex will have to learn to love me for who I am, not who she wants me to be.
Gabrielle will live vicariously through me, but without direct control. Her influence will be subtle and only with my approval. Gabrielle will just have to deal with the fact that I'm driving and she's riding shotgun. Good gods, was that noise my stomach? I wonder what passes for nutbread around here.....
Disclaimers: Xena and Gabrielle belong to those rather fortunate individuals‚ whoever they may be‚ that happen to own the rights to Xena: Warrior Princess. The only thing I’m gaining from them here is the personal satisfaction of toying with the characters in my own image. All other fictional characters named are mine.
Series Credit: The characters of this story originate from my Embrace/Freedom Conqueror Series http://cousinliz.com/fanfic/cjwells_te.html However‚ this story takes place in the present time. So‚ although technically it’s an uber‚ it’s not an uber in the same vein as most stories out there in the Fanfic world. The "Xena" and "Gabrielle" characters of this story are not simply modern-day likenesses of the TV characters‚ but rather‚ they have a direct connection with the Conqueror and Bard of my series. The mode of that connection will be duly explained within this tale‚ thus a thorough understanding of this story will be achieved only if the stories of the Series are read. If you haven’t read the Series before‚ I do hope that you enjoy it.
Story and Character Warning: This story will be presented in chapters. Unlike the preceding Series‚ the story will be told in narrative form. Also‚ because this story does take place in the millennium‚ the modernized versions of the characters have contemporary indulgences‚ both positive and negative.
Sex Warning: Lesbian. ‘Nuff said?
Profanity Warning: Some swearing‚ but nothing that rises to the level of an Eminem CD.
To all of my beta readers: Once again‚ thank you! You’re angels!
Comments and Feedback: As I have been on a rather long writing hiatus‚ and being that this is my first venture into uber territory‚ any and all are welcome and appreciated.
CHAPTER ONE
THE BANKS OF THE LETHE
I dream about Gabrielle and me. We are in a strange bed in a very unusual looking bedchamber. The bed is small and the chamber has dozens of lit candles and other strangely illuminated objects throughout it. Strange looking tapestries hang from the walls and somewhere from inside of the room‚ strange music can be heard‚ although there are no musicians present. It is as if she and I are in a different place and time‚ but it is definitely Gabrielle with me in that bed. She is lying on top of me and begins suckling my nipples before bringing her lips to mine. We begin making love. My entire body quivers at the feel of her pulsating sex upon mine. I grab the creamy backs of her upper thighs and let out a deeply throaty moan as I feel heat‚ moisture‚ passion. As we make love‚ the bed mysteriously creaks to the rhythmic movement of our bodies. Gabrielle then breaks the kiss‚ runs her luscious tongue across my lips and then looks at me with those sea-green eyes. "I'm coming‚ Warrior Princess‚" she says. "I'm coming." At that moment‚ climax hits her in the dream and me in my reality....
"What the hell was that about?" Lindsay whispered as she jarred awake from the strange dream. Turning on her side and tightening her thighs together‚ she allowed herself to ride out the wondrous orgasm. Once released‚ she relaxed her body and cocked her head over to make sure that she didn’t awaken her husband‚ Martin. Letting out a breath‚ she lay dazed‚ wondering about the dream. Why was I dreaming about having sex with a woman‚ she thought‚ and who is she?
Who is she?
* * * *
Rejeanne Piscard poured her coffee and wandered over to her living room window to raise the blinds.
"Aw shit‚ another frickin’ six inches‚" she groused as she noticed the fresh layer of snow on the ground outside. "I am so over this‚" she said as she turned on her TV to hear Al Roker’s confirmation.
Here in the east‚ look for temperatures that hover in the 20s. Parts of the Midwest‚ Minnesota‚ Wisconsin‚ and around the Great Lakes should expect four to six inches of new powder. High winds in the mountains and moderate temperatures are expected out west. San Diego will hit 74 today. That’s what’s going on around the country. Here’s what’s happening in your neck of the woods.
As the Today Show cut to the local meteorologist to deliver the bad news in detail‚ Rejeanne sipped her scalding coffee and contemplated her day. After five years with the Dell Valley Gazette‚ she was finally going to get her big break‚ covering the Alasdair Family Foundation’s annual fundraiser. It wasn’t just that the Alasdairs were the wealthiest and most philanthropic family in Dell Valley. Their fundraisers had been known to attract some of the most influential people in the state; people that Rejeanne could meet and interview. Coverage of the fundraiser would most certainly land a full-color front-page article. That would have the potential of being picked up by larger dailies‚ greatly increasing the circulation of the story. All this‚ and Rejeanne’s name is under the byline. As a smile crept across her lovely face‚ clearing snow off her car was no longer a burdensome prospect.
"Good morning‚ everybody‚" Rejeanne announced as she stepped into the main newsroom of the Gazette.
"Yo‚ Jeannie-P‚" replied Tyler Brunswick‚ the assistant sports editor‚ as he raised his hand for a high-five. "It’s caviar and cham-fuckin’-pagne tonight for you."
"You know that’s right‚ dog‚" she said as she slapped Tyler’s hand and brought her shoulder to his chest for a hip-hop embrace.
"You nervous?" he asked.
"No...uh‚ yeah... what do you think?" At that point‚ other staff members began grouping around.
"I think that you’re shittin’ your pants‚ Jeannie‚" chimed in Becky Schaff‚ the courthouse beat reporter. "If not now‚ you will be."
"Thanks for your vote of confidence‚ Beck‚" Jeannie remarked. "It’s very much appreciated."
"Hey‚ I’d be shittin’ bricks too‚ Jeannie-P‚" Becky said. "I mean‚ have you fully thought about who all’s gonna be there? Practically everybody who’s anybody in the state."
"I realize that‚" Jeannie replied.
"This is one of the biggest stories of the year‚" added Dennis Ruhl‚ another beat reporter. "Once you score with this‚ Jeannie‚ you can write your own ticket with the editing staff."
"Provided your story doesn’t flop to the point that they have to juggle tons of rewrites‚" Becky adds.
"Again‚ thanks for the vote of confidence‚" Jeannie sneered at Becky.
"Don’t sweat it‚ Jeannie-P‚" Tyler spoke up. "Just make sure you hobnob with Lindsay Alasdair-MacMahon."
"Why?" Jeannie asked as her eyes raised and her heart mysteriously pounded harder.
"Cuz she’s the finest white chick in this motherfuckin’ county... well‚ next to you‚ JP‚" he responded.
"You have such a way with words‚ my dear Tyler‚" Jeannie said as she wondered why the name of Lindsay Alasdair-MacMahon caused such a strange reaction in her.
In preparation for this very special event‚ Rejeanne spent most of her day attending briefings with the managing staff and the editorial staff. She also met with Douglas Linton‚ who would accompany her as the article’s photographer. But it was what she had to do before leaving the newsroom for the day that made her beam with excitement. Walking up to Doris Marks‚ the elderly newsroom receptionist‚ Rejeanne extended her right hand. In it‚ Doris placed the coveted Dell Valley Gazette Press Pass‚ her ticket into the fundraiser.
Gripping the laminated pass‚ she looked over at Doris. "This is really going to happen tonight."
"Yes‚ dear‚" Doris replied. "It is."
* * * *
Rejeanne stood in front of her closet dumbfounded‚ staring hopelessly at its contents. What to wear? What to wear? she repeated in her head as she grabbed an outfit only to return it seconds later. After almost an hour of that futility‚ Rejeanne decided on the deep turquoise dress that she had worn to the newspaper’s Christmas party two years ago. It was probably the fanciest article of clothing in her closet and she rationalized that the color would perfectly accentuate her jade-colored eyes.
Before putting on the dress‚ Rejeanne was concerned that it no longer fit. She was convinced that‚ with what she’d had to deal in the last twelve months‚ she had put on weight. That last year had been really trying for her. Work had become increasingly stressful; her father‚ never a stranger to drama‚ had remarried and divorced for the fourth time; and she had learned through the grapevine that her ex of almost four years married a man. However‚ as the dress slid down her torso almost gracefully‚ she was instantly relieved that a crash diet would not be on her agenda for the immediate future.
Stepping over to her full-length mirror‚ she twisted her body so that she could get a thorough look at her backside. "Nice ass‚" she said jokingly to herself before sitting on the edge of the bed to slip on her hose. It was only moments after applying her makeup and jewelry that the doorbell rang. After running down the stairs of her townhouse‚ she peered out of the front door window and saw the smiling face of Doug Linton.
"Right on time‚" she said to the photographer as she opened the door. "Take off your boots."
"Sure thing‚" he responded as he bent over to unlace them.
"You want a beer before we head out?"
"Nah‚" he said as he wandered over to her kitchen table and sat. "How are you feeling?"
"Dude‚ I am wired for sound‚" Rejeanne announced.
"Maybe you should have a beer‚" Doug commented.
"Actually‚ I was hoping that you had something better?" Rejeanne asked as she sat at the table as well.
"As a matter of fact‚ I do‚" Doug said as he unzipped the chest pocket on his coat and pulled out a thick phillies blunt. "Already rolled and ready to go."
"I only need one hit‚ Doug‚" Rejeanne said. "I don’t need to go to this important function totally fucked up."
"I hear you‚" Doug replied as he lit the blunt‚ took a drag and then passed it to Rejeanne.
She took her smoke. "That’s good‚" she said as she stood up from the table. "I don’t want to jinx this thing."
Doug burst out in laughter. "What’s to jinx‚ Jeannie?" he asked. "Those rich assholes won’t even be looking at you tonight... not that you ain’t nothin’ to look at." Doug eyed Rejeanne provocatively in her eveningwear before taking a second long drag on his joint.
"You need to watch your double negatives‚ Doug‚" Jeannie said jokingly before putting on her dress shoes and the one full-length coat that she possessed. "Let’s go."
* * * *
The words on the page were not taking on any meaning.
"Lin."
She read the same paragraph for the third time and still‚ nothing. In fact‚ nothing from the last three pages actually registered. She wasn’t sure how much time had lapsed either.
"Lin."
What clouded her mind was the image of that woman from the dream that she had had several weeks before. The woman’s name was now a forgotten memory‚ as were her distinctive facial features‚ but the seductive voice‚ shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair and beautifully tanned skin were still very vivid.
"Lin."
The orgasms that they both experienced... vivid was an understatement.
"LIN!!"
Lindsay looked up at the irritated expression on her husband’s face.
"By golly‚ woman‚" Martin exclaimed. "You were really daydreaming there."
Lindsay looked back down at the documents before her on her desk. "Yes‚ I guess I was."
"Have you reviewed the entire minutes from the meeting and the itinerary for the presentations tonight?" he asked.
"Sort of‚" she responded.
"What do you mean‚ ‘sort of’?"
"My eyes are tired‚" Lindsay said as she handed to Martin the documents that she had been trying to read.
Grabbing the documents from her‚ Martin sat down on one of the chairs that faced Lindsay’s desk. "What’s troubling you‚ Lin?"
"Nothing‚ really‚" she replied. "Perhaps I’m not really looking forward to tonight."
Martin chuckled. "Why not?" he asked teasingly. "This is your yearly family gig‚ Lin. I thought that you loved looking drop-dead gorgeous while all of the local snoots rub their noses up your fine Alasdair ass."
Lindsay’s shoulders tensed. "You needn’t complain‚ Marty‚" she fired back. "My yearly ‘gig’ also affords you the opportunity to check out your latest jailbait conquests. I hope that this year’s choice has her driver’s license at least."
Martin crossed his arms and smirked. "Who says I’m complaining‚" he said before rising and exiting the office.
* * * *
As Doug’s vehicle approached the valets standing outside of the main entrance to the Dell Valley Pavilion‚ Rejeanne regretted not taking her Subaru Outback. Although not a luxury vehicle by any stretch of the imagination‚ it would have still been a better representation than Doug’s rusty ’92 Chevy S-10‚ which stood out like a sore thumb amongst the Benzes‚ Beamers‚ Hummers‚ Rovers and limos that lined the arched driveway of the conference center.
Two young men stepped up to the truck. One opened the passenger door and helped Rejeanne exit the vehicle after she hastily grabbed her notepad and pen. The other opened the driver’s door. Doug handed the valet his keys after grabbing his camera bag from the exposed bed of the truck. "Let’s do this‚" he said to Rejeanne after extending his arm for her to take.
Walking into the massive pavilion after checking her coat‚ Rejeanne was almost overwhelmed by the sights and sounds before her. To her right‚ a string quartet performed. To her left‚ a full service bar provided beverages of every sort to event guests. Positioned in front of her was a gauntlet of people greeting the newest arrivals. Amongst the greeters were the mayor of Dell Valley‚ all of the town’s council members‚ four county commissioners‚ two state representatives‚ a state senator and all of their spouses. Rejeanne made it a point to introduce herself to each greeter and announce herself as the reporter covering the fundraiser for the Gazette‚ although the press pass was prominently featured hanging from a string around her neck. She didn’t specifically ask for any quotable comments from any of the politicians‚ but rather made mental notes of the more interesting quips from them. As Rejeanne spoke‚ Doug snapped away at everything and anything around him that was remotely worthy.
When she reached the end of the gauntlet‚ Rejeanne initially looked out at the massive congregation of guests talking‚ dancing or eating hor d'oeurves. But then she looked to her right and her eyes fell upon the person of Lindsay Alasdair-MacMahon. After moments of stunned gawking‚ Rejeanne looked briefly at the man standing next to Lindsay before returning her attention to the brunette beauty.
"Hello‚" Lindsay said to Rejeanne as she extended her hand. "I’m Lindsay Alasdair-MacMahon and this is my husband‚ Martin Stuart MacMahon. Welcome."
God Almighty must be cruel‚ because she is truly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen‚ was all Rejeanne could think as she shook the hand of the married woman before her. Tall and lean‚ perfectly attired and adorned‚ with bright blue eyes‚ a boldly beautiful face and an intoxicating smile‚ Rejeanne felt as if she could collapse right there.
"I’m Rejeanne Piscard‚" she croaked before discretely clearing her throat‚ "from the Gazette. I’ll be covering this fundraiser. It’s an honor to be here and a pleasure to meet you‚ Mrs. MacMahon."
Doug cleared his throat. "Oh‚ and this is Douglas Linton‚ our staff photographer‚" Rejeanne added.
"The pleasure is all mine‚ and it’s Lindsay to you‚" she responded as Rejeanne noticed that they were still clasping hands.
At that moment‚ Martin extended his hand. "And mine‚" he stated. Rejeanne took his hand‚ but her gaze had only left Lindsay momentarily.
"After you’ve made your rounds with the guests‚ come back to me‚" Lindsay said to Rejeanne. "I’ll provide you the full itinerary for tonight’s presentations and give some workable quotes for your story."
"Thank you very much‚ Mrs. Mac... Lindsay."
* * * *
Lindsay was almost paralyzed with boredom as milquetoast after milquetoast lined up to shake her hand and kiss her ass. Martin was right about one thing. Most of the people shelling out the $500 to attend the fundraiser weren’t doing so to benefit the charities to which the money would ultimately go. Most were there to see and be seen. Lindsay herself was only as important as the press photographers and TV video camera operators standing near her.
Thus‚ when the shapely‚ diminutive‚ green-eyed beauty announced that she was a newspaper reporter‚ Lindsay should have had utter contempt for her. Instead‚ she found herself strangely feeling as lightheaded as a schoolgirl on prom night. Something intangible drew her to this blonde-haired woman. She didn’t know what it was‚ but she needed to be near her‚ needed to talk to her‚ and soon.
For many brief moments in the first hour that Rejeanne was "working" the guests at the fundraiser‚ Lindsay found herself eyeing the young woman. Much to her surprise‚ on a few of those occasions‚ Rejeanne looked back. When that happened‚ Lindsey smiled at her and felt a childlike delight when she smiled back. Unfortunately‚ by the time Rejeanne returned to Lindsay for her comments‚ she was scheduled to start the presentations.
"Please stay right here‚" Lindsay asked of Rejeanne before dashing off to address the guests. "I still want to talk to you."
"As you wish‚" Rejeanne said with a smile.
Lindsay stepped up to a podium and announced the names of the most charitable supporters and the amounts of their gifts. She then presented the representatives of the three charities benefiting from the fundraiser. After each representative spoke‚ Lindsay made some additional remarks about her family’s foundation and her hopes for its future. She then invited her honored guests to enjoy the rest of the evening’s food and festivities.
Stepping away from the podium‚ she was confronted by Martin. "That was rather rushed‚ don’t you think?" he whispered as he grasped her upper arms.
"No‚ I don’t‚" she replied.
"Well‚ I think that you could have said more about the foundation’s future‚" he said. "You hardly even mentioned anything that was covered in the meeting minutes."
Lindsay pulled her arms away from Martin’s grasp. "Who died and made you my father?" she said as she brushed past him and approached the eagerly awaiting Rejeanne.
"I fear that we’re not going to have much time to talk‚ Rejeanne‚" Lindsay said to Rejeanne as she handed the young reporter a copy of the minutes and itinerary. "But use these for your story."
"Thank you‚" Rejeanne said as she took the documents. "You know‚ I was thinking‚" she continued. "Perhaps I’m going out on a limb here‚ but would you consider meeting me for an exclusive interview?"
"You want me to give you an exclusive interview about the fundraiser or my family’s foundation?"
"Actually‚ neither‚" Rejeanne replied. "Between you‚ me and the wall‚ my paper pretty much regurgitates the same report about the Alasdair Family Foundation’s fundraiser year after year. I’d like to get an exclusive interview from Lindsey Alasdair-MacMahon about Lindsey Alasdair-MacMahon."
Try as she might‚ Lindsay could not suppress the smile that swept across her face. "I’d love to meet with you... for an interview‚" she said. "I can’t promise that I won’t totally bore you to death‚ however."
"Let me be the judge of that‚ Lindsay."
"Very well‚" Lindsay said. "When and where?"
"You tell me the ‘when’ and I’ll pick the ‘where‚’" was Rejeanne’s reply.
"Tomorrow at 11:00 a.m.‚" Lindsay stated.
"At the Karmic Java Coffeehouse on Madison‚" Rejeanne added.
"I’ll be there‚ Rejeanne‚" Lindsay remarked as she extended her hand.
"Great! It’s a date‚" Rejeanne announced as she shook Lindsay’s hand before returning to Doug.
As Lindsay watched Rejeanne walk away‚ two words escaped her lips‚ "A date."
