Lifetime supply of Red Hots, anyone?

*DISCLAIMER*
Brianna told this story on her page in the way SHE recalls it...although my story is quite different, this is what I recall from that day.
And as is evident throughout the story, we may as well just go ahead and say that MY version is the RIGHT version. =)


So, I admit, I have a bit of a bossy streak. It was never more evident than when I was a child and endeavored to rule with an iron hand in our worlds of make believe, ones where I was often worshipped by every man in the land (only the handsome ones, of course) and magic hung in the air.
Growing up in a house surrounded by woods was definitely the envy of all the kids in school. Rather, it would have been if we actually WENT to school. We were homeschooled, although in my kid mind that meant, "get all your schoolwork done by lunch so you can PLAY!" My notebooks were always filled with new ideas I was determined to make my sister play with me, even if that meant I had to tie her up and duct tape her mouth shut so I could make her say what I wanted. My mom was sure I would give her a complex, but I just saw it as valuable lessons in listening and obeying.

One particular sweltering afternoon in August when I was around the ripe old age of ten, I ran ecstatically to meet our cousin, Brianna, at the edge of the woods separating my grandparents' house from my own . As often belied her visits, we had already planned exactly what we were going to pretend in the playhouse that day. Can I just say thanks to my Daddy for building that AWESOME playhouse. I always swore that even when I grew so tall I would have to bend down to fit through the door I would never stop playing in it. Ah, the ambitions of a kid.
As Bree and I gathered papers and pens to play the pre-appointed "schoolhouse," Matti sat and waited patiently for us to start. As was often her outfit of choice, Matti had donned her "cowboy" clothes, her shirttails tucked into her chaps, the little leather thingie that I still don't know the name or function of tightened around the collar of her pristinely buttoned shirt. Her white hat was half-cocked on her head as she absent-mindedly clicked her boots against the wooden floor of the playhouse.
When Matti and I were kids we were obsessed with candy. Well, actually, I still am. Anyway, we specifically had a Red Hots fix for a few months and participated in many a contest against each other, seeing who could hold the most Red Hots in her mouth at once, our eyes watering and our noses streaming as the cinnamon fumes infiltrated our sinuses.
Damn, we were dumb sometimes.
This day Matti was clenching her own bag of Red Hots, claiming she had bought them at the Dollar Store with HER dollar and she refused to share. That may very well be the reason for the following incident.

"Matti, you're the boy. Your name is Tommy," I instructed. She willingly complied as she was the most tomboyish of the three of us girls. Actually, she ALWAYS played the boy. Hmm...maybe I DID give her a complex.
Brianna was the play the schoolteacher and I was to be the prettiest girl in class, of course. And what was my part in the scenario? I was trying to get the attention of "Tommy" so I could have a boyfriend and look cool. Not much has changed. Imagine that.
We ad libbed conversations uneventfully for a while until I decided we were being too boring and needed some "dramatic intervention." Again, imagine that.
"I know!" I gasped. "I'm writing a love note to Tommy (ever the agressor, I was) and you catch him with it! I'm your favorite student so you won't get mad at me, but you have to pretend to slap Matti as punishment."

Now here I must pause and defend myself. In the years that followed it was never decided whether or not I said PRETEND to slap her or if Brianna lost all hearing and logical common sense for three point two seconds. I maintain my innocence that Bree had damaged her hearing with her "rub her nose flip her hand through her bangs" technique that she was fond of employing as a child. Thank goodness she grew out of that. At least, I think she did.

SLAP. Brianna's hand became a blur as it made sharp contact with "Tommy's" cheek.
I stood there in stunned silence as the Red Hots slipped from Matti's fingers in slow motion, the cinnamon candies skittering across the floor (which we later picked up and ate). Tears welled in her eyes and I squealed breathlessly "BRIANNA! You weren't supposed to ACTUALLY slap her!!" If I had known any cuss words back then I'm sure I would have used them.
All I could think of was that fact that ALL of our parents and aunts and uncles sat mere yards away on the driveway enjoying lemonade and the cool shade as they talked about how perfect and well behaved all their children were.
"Matti WAIT!" I yell-whispered as she bolted out the back door of the playhouse. She ran to the woods holding her hand to her cheek, crying loudly.
Always a fast thinker (well, when I was trying to save my butt anyway) I quickly hatched a plan.
"Bree, you go and try to talk to Matti, apologize, tell her we will play whatever she wants to play for the rest of the day and I will buy her a life supply of Red Hots if she just promises that she WON'T TELL!"
"What are you going to do?" Bree asked.

Well, my plan worked in my head. I had watched countless movies where the kid inevitably breaks his mom's favorite vase but it always seemed that if he whistled non-chalantly while strolling by with his hands clasped behind his back she suspected nothing until he could flee the scene and thereby avoid punishment.
Perfect, right?
Wrong.
I'm pretty sure it wasn't long after this incident that I learned my mother has an almost MAGICAL ability to sense when something is fishy. I took two steps onto the driveway, whistling the theme song to Barney (which, I was CLEARLY too old to have been watching that show) and casting furtive glances into the woods behind me to see if Brianna had succeeded in bribing Matti. I wished I could have been both places at once. No one knew how to land a deal like I did.
"Meredith, what's going on?" The tone of my mother's voice caused my head to whip around, my lips floundering to form a carefree yet believeable reply, while my brain went haywire - how does she KNOW?!?!
In the same moment, Matti screamed and my mother locked gazes with me, cocking her left eyebrow in a way that always made my knees buckle and my heart beat faster.
*GULP*
"Umm, nothing?"
Right then Matti burst out of the woods, tears on her cheeks, Brianna close on her heels, pleading, promising something about buying her a pony and a barn and mucking out the stalls for life if only Matti wouldn't tell!
We kids stopped short as all the adults stood up, their lemonade left to the flies as they turned steely glances on us, determined to get to the bottom of the situation.

I begged innocence, pleading for mercy, insisting Brianna was just too stupid to know what I said!
According to Matti, she snuck and watched Brianna's mother use a honeysuckle switch to swat the backs of Bree's legs. Apparently Brianna ran in a circle as her mom tried to catch her.
In the end, I only got one stinging smack of the leather belt across my backside. I think my mom just thought it was funny. I remember seeing her lips twitch in contained laughter as she left the room where I sat pretending to cry after my punishment.
Oh, I milked it, just in case she changed her mind. I don't even think it really hurt. It was more the anticipation of it that so frightened me.

If my memory serves me well that was one of my MANY beatings I survived that summer. Ah well, even if I never learned my lesson, it definitely makes for good entertainment

A Priest, My Cousin, and a Times Square New Year

"...Three, two, one, Happy New Year!" My voice rang out with the rest of the New Year's revelers as I sat in my living room nine years ago, a bushy-eyebrowed thirteen year old who dreamed of joining the crowd in Times Square. My constant companion at the time - my journal - lay beside me as I wrote in my New Year's resolution for the Millennium; I was going to get those "2000" glasses by the year 2009.

Fast forward to New Year's Eve, 2008. I had planned on this trip for a month now and nothing except death itself was going to thwart me in my endeavors. I glanced out of the plane window for the fortieth time in an hour; still no lights were visible through the fog. It was almost six pm, just six hours till the famous ball drop in NYC and here I was, stuck in the sky above the city, fearing a diversion due to weather. Imagine that.
"Flight attendants, landing check." Upon hearing the captain's command that we had been cleared for landing, I did a Napoleon Dynamite-esque "Yes!" and proceeded to take my seat for the remainder of the bumpy descent. Finally, the wheels touched the runway and I could breathe my relief.
"Buh-bye, thank you, buh-bye." I was almost certain the deplaning passengers could hear the underlying, "GET OFF PEOPLE! I'VE GOT A BALL TO CATCH!" in my salutation.

An hour later and I was sitting on the N train headed to Fifth Avenue and Central Park. Abdulla, my seat mate, became my new Facebook friend as we studied the dense map of train lines and city streets, two non-natives on our way to our first NY New Year. I bade him farewell at my stop and waited to meet up with my funny friends from high school, The Catholic Priest In Training and My-Yet-To-Be-Discovered-How-We-Are-Related fifth cousin. The night wind shot needles straight through me. There was a small nook of sheltering concrete at the edge of the subway station, so I squeezed myself tightly into it, praying that my friends would show their frozen mugs soon. Finally, I spotted them, sarcastic hellos exchanged in jest, their warm hugs belying their true feelings.

Ben, the cousin, was appointed the official tour guide, eliciting a giggle from me and I'm sure a mental guffaw from the Priest as he pulled out his $16.95 guide book to NY. I was too cold to be opinionated about where we partook of our dinner so I blindly followed Ben to the F train as Austin delicately stated, "Let's just get out of the cold...I can't feel mine anymore."
Off we paraded to SoHo, the train car surprisingly far less empty than I would have expected on New Year's Eve. I leaned back into the lull of the rocking car, the clicking metal of the wheels on the tracks chanting a spell of imagined words. Apparently Cuzzin Benny had decided on Brazilian food, because he led the way to a quaint spot situated on a street corner, the robin's egg blue paint framing the windows marred with age. We squeezed into one of the ten tightly packed tables in the restaurant, my eyes flitting flirtatiously to the cute Hispanic waiter in the corner.
"Hmph," I murmured when he failed to make eyes back at me. Well, he was too skinny anyway. As a matter of fact, I couldn't help laughing as the waiters shimmied between the narrowly stuffed tables. Being a skeleton must be a prerequisite to work there.
We settled in to enjoy our meal, the boys laughing at my expression as I sipped their offered Cabernet Sauvignon. Red wine always leaves my throat feeling like I just drank a bottle of Vick's Throat Spray. When I recovered enough from my internal third degree burns to enjoy my food, I dug into my delicious spinach and goat cheese salad. Austin began to ramble about his new obsession with cheese and how he thanked the French for their dedication to bringing the world the fine delicacies of exotic tastes and smells. He also said he would definitely give up celibacy for a French Natalie Portman who served him cheeses in bed. At least, I think that's what he said. That sip of red wine could have gotten to me more than I thought.
I stole a bite of Ben's dish, declaring it tasted like Seattle's Pike Place Fish Market in my mouth. Ben, who, of course, wins smartass of the century, proceeded to inform me that that was impossible because his entree is, indeed, shrimp and chicken.
"Um, yeah, fish," I quipped.
"Crustacean, Meredith. Crustacean."
I glanced at my Priest for a little help, but in typical Austin fashion, he raised his hands in an attempt to avoid taking sides.
When the boys had downed their third glass of wine each and the Priest's conversation began to meander into prostate territory rather than the prostrate one, we decided it was time to return to the Arctic to clear our heads.

No sooner were we outside than I needed something hot for my insides. We headed two blocks over to Prince Street, whooshing into Fanelli's Cafe, joining the eclectic group of patrons already sipping warm liquors. We sat at tables adorned with red-checkered table cloths, the heavy wooden decor adding a nice coziness. Gene Kelly musical excerpts played on the tv above our heads as the boys oogled, er, I mean ordered from, the waitress. I cocked my ear to eavesdrop as the man at the next table over declared he could discover the native New Yorkers in the bar within five minutes of conversation. I almost felt sorry for the man, so oblivious to the glazed eyes of his trapped audience. Suddenly the chill from the front door whipped around my ankles as I glanced up to see the most eccentric bar-goer of all. His fedora sat cocked on his salt and pepper hair, a crisp, ebony bowtie adoring his neck. He took off his coat with a flourish to reveal a smart and shiny tux, complete with coattails. He deftly flipped his coat over one arm, silently commanding the attention of everyone in the room as he stood in the doorway. My imagination began running wild as I pretended that he was from another time and place, that perhaps he was even the founder of the cafe as Fanelli's was almost one hundred years old. I grinned to myself as I sipped my hot chocolate.

An hour to midnight and we decided to make our way back to Central Park, the closest we were going to get as Times Square had been filled by the gluttons for punishment hours earlier. No thanks, I'd rather keep my appendages than lose them to frostbite by spending hours in a subzero climate.
As I ascended the stairs from the subway at our stop, I caught sight of colored flashing lights. I gasped in glee - the glasses!! I recalled my resolution of nine years and squealed as I ushered the boys to the street vendor who offered me a sweet deal.
"Five dollar for you." Ha! How many times have I heard that line in NYC?
I picked out red ones, unable to wipe the silly grin off my face. I put them on, my face transforming into a blinking ad for 2009. A final piece of my spirit fell into its rightful place as my inner thirteen year old squealed with sheer delight. I wore them proudly until I discovered that I would smash my face AND the glasses due to the my lack of depth perception through the dark lenses. I decided to save them for the ball drop.

11:30 pm.
The streets were getting more and more crowded as we crossed Fifth and Sixth Avenues, where the police directed us to Central Park.
"Ok, hold on," the cousin commanded. I grabbed his hand as he plunged into the sea of people, more concerned about dropping my glasses until I realized I had to make sure the Priest didn't get lost in the Mass.
Finally, we made it as close to the big screen as possible, the Jonas Brothers warming the night with their lip-synched vocals. I was disappointed that - yet again - I would receive no kiss at the New Year count down. Of course, I could always be Kissing Cousins with Ben. After all, we did have a Priest at our disposal. On second consideration I dismissed the idea. My thoughts drifted to the Scotsman I'd met early that morning in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, his swoon-worthy accent still ringing in my ears. I decided my best bet would be a virtual kiss with the Scottie, so I readied my phone as I waited for the ball to drop.
I reveled in the relief from the biting wind, warmth emanating from the surrounding bodies. I laughed at the drunken Frenchies in front of us as they downed Vodka disguised in Evian water bottles and puffed on cigarettes in the most French-like fashion. I listened to their lilting voices, quite taken with the beautiful Gaspard Ulliel look-alike in their midst. I'm sure he was gay.
We snapped pictures and stood close together as the countdown began.

"...Three, two, one, Happy New Year!!!!" An unshed tear gleamed in my eye at the surreal feeling of it all, my voice one with the crowd, my feet on New York City concrete as I sported my ridiculous glasses, two of my best friends in the world on either side of me. One of the Frenchies planted a wet kiss on my cheek and I laughed as I escaped to hug Ben and Austin. My phone buzzed and warmth flitted through my middle when Scottie sent me a "soft and passionate" New Year's kiss. Hey, even if it WAS virtual it was definitely a step up from the last twenty-one years!
We were jostled and heaved through the crowd as they dispersed, death daggers shot at us from the couple proceeding us as Ben exclaimed, "Hilary Clinton is the MAN!" Yeeeah. Wrong part of the country to be saying that.

We all munched on burgers and downed a milkshake at a local joint before heading back to our respective hotels. My bladder had taken enough abuse and threatened to commit murder of the nearest unfortunate soul if I didn't give it relief soon. I set out on the adventure of finding the bathrooms in that place.
"Down there," the cook said gruffly. I hestitantly peered into the dimly lit stairwell, loud music drifting from its cavernous depths.
"I've got a gun!" my bladder reminded me. I ventured through the dark hallway until, at last, I saw the restrooms. Thank goodness they weren't unisex. However, they WERE still big enough for two.
I learned that the hard way when I opened the unlocked door and happened upon a man and woman in the girl's bathroom. They hastily explained their mussed hair and rumpled clothing, muttering a lame excuse, something about discussing the weather, I think. Look, jist bekuz i'm frum the south, it dont mak me stoopid.
It actually hurt me to write that.

I bid the boys goodnight and headed uptown to Queens. I got off at the last stop; after waiting for forty minutes in the searing wind, fighting tears and harshly scolding myself for being weak, I realized I'd missed the last city bus. I had no choice but to take a cab to my hotel, rolling my eyes at the cabbie's "deal"of fifteen bucks for a mere three miles.
I had only three hours until I faced another grueling day of complaining passengers and all day on a metal tube, but it was worth it.

My 2009 New Year celebration topped every single one in my book

Green Elixir

The dark restaurant swirls with colored lights, rainbows sliding by, striped rain across his face. Lime brightness catches his eyes, their jade milkiness lit by a fire within. Magic's tendrils pull at the air, and when his fingers brush hers she pretends not to notice, only half-heartedly rebuking her gaze as it tries to glance sidelong at him.
He is endearingly rumpled tonight, having pulled a now-discarded dress shirt over his hunter-green T in an attempt to fit in with the more formal dinner party. Another emerald flash and she notices he is leaning closer, offering her his bottled green elixir. She acquiesces to the color that has now become her poison, laughingly drinking to her demise.
His fingers grasp hers and she follows him to the dance floor, Latin music beating through the concrete and into her bones as she lazily sways to the melody, losing herself. Her skin is flushed with more than the heat from the bodies packed around them and she suddenly breaks free of the cocoa arms loosely circling her waist. She breathes deep, gathering her thoughts. This isn't her, and yet, it feels right, as if it should be, as if it is. She closes her eyes against the hot pulse pounding in her throat and when she opens them again he is in front of her, waiting to make her his prisoner.
She breathlessly accepts.

They are in his car and he fiddles with the radio, almost nervously, she thinks, and this calms her.
It feels so taboo, he and she, soft vanilla cream and dark, heavy, delicious mocha. She feels almost smothered by the palpable chemistry in the tiny cabin of the vehicle; instinct tells her to escape. Danger edges the breeze sighing through the windows and like prey she senses his predatory vibe.
She must leave. She must resist. Her hand is on the door handle but his hand is on her neck, forcing her eyes to his...and then she is under his spell, captive Duchess to the rebel Lord and God help her, she relishes the fire on her skin.
They lean in...

"Wait," he whispers. He holds her there, the summer air like a symphony of electric sparks, heat and colors and the cold shiver of impending regret. Heat melts ice, though, as his lips find hers. He is passionate and demanding, his full mouth like a drug. He knows what she wants without knowing her at all and in the midst of her scattered thoughts she marvels at the irony.
But he is dark earth and she the white moon, and in reality she knows they exist in two opposite worlds, two different planes.
She feels a prick of sadness, but for what she doesn't know. Scaling Mount Everest seems less formidable than a pursuit of happiness with this green-eyed Wizard. She sighs her goodbye, ignoring the slight protest of her heart.
But magic left its mark.

She still tingles at the memory.

The Twilight Conundrum

Don't get me wrong. I'd love for Edward Cullen to "Bite Me." To clarify, this is the book Edward, not Rob Vomit-son. However, I have some qualms with this new film adaptation...

That body, those teeth, that face, so hideously wrong. Her inflection-less drone is like nails on a chalkboard, her eyes dead rather than fierce with consuming love for Edward. The palpable chemistry which should send tremors of envy and desire through the veins of onlookers instead falls laboriously flat.
Rosalie definitely just ended a contract with Baywatch, Jake needs to visit Cinderella Wigs for a more believable 'do, and Jasper? Well, he would definitely be more into Alice if she were a man.
Need I mention that ALL of them should be signed up for acting classes?
As was befitting my prediction, this movie has evoked the fandom of thousands of screaming tweens, most of whom have never read "See Spot Run", much less the 400 page dream-turned-Vamp-series novel. "This will provoke teens to read more," I've heard it said. And ok, so perhaps after they watch Hollywood's raping of the story they go out and buy all four books, devouring them in week - if they never read a book in their lives again, to what avail was it all?
Personally, I am getting sick of the obsession. At this point it's all I can do to avoid seeing Vomitson's face plastered EVERYWHERE, on every magazing, in every airport bookstore, trailers and tv spots - even my damn Facebook is littered with ads sporting his failed attempt at "brooding." At first glance I often confuse it for a constipation medication advert.
Thanks to Youtube I met another malady in this monster of a movie - ha, alliteration and puns make writing so much fun. I wanted to weep at Bella's Lullaby. And NOT in awe.
Ok, so Yiruma's "River Flows In You" isn't exactly an original composition made for Twilight; however, it truly sounds that way. It speaks without words - the music has a voice all its own. The feelings evoked in the melody are quite magnificent and almost indescribable. Hmm, let's see, did they try to use such a similarly moving melody in the movie? NO. Ha, Bella's Lullaby sounds like a bad circus soundtrack, high tinkling keys and harsh undertones, like a musical interpretation of the scowl Edward reserves for Jacob. It makes Bella's near-narcoleptic reaction to it a joke.
I have seen Forks with my own eyes, stayed at the Forks motel, posed in front of the highschool. I've eaten in the two restaurants in town and made friends with a member of the Quileute tribe, the "Leader of the Pack" as she described herself. I gasped at the view as I came around the bend in La Push, and collected sand from First Beach. The white birch is exactly as Meyers described it. I have scars from the thorns that we pushed through in our search for the famous meadow; I'm still thanking God we didn't get irrevocably lost in the thick wood.
No, I haven't seen the movie. Honestly, I don't care if I ever do. I'm boycotting it, in fact. As my friend Ashton wisely advised, "It's a rental."
Still, no one can accuse me of not being a true fan. I'm just OVER IT.

Congrats, Hollywood. Without garlic, crosses, or Holy Water, you have successfully slain this Vampire Saga.

Flicker

She knew.
She has always known.
She has tried to fight the reality of her doomed future since her fifteenth birthday when, like a flash, it all became clear.

She forgot, though, when his eyes met hers that day on the train from London to Paris. Laughter twinkled at her from across the aisle as she peered at him over the top of her novel. She wanted to dismiss the thought that his sapphire gaze was meant for her, but he never stopped staring. Funny, she'd sworn off men, especially those men who smiled at her this way, trying to communicate with no words. She'd declared them all fops, incapable of sending one intelligent thought into her head.
She was good at reading minds.
She thought about telling him off, furrowing her brow, or shooting him daggers with her eyes in an attempt to discourage his probing glance.
But she didn't want to.
Something had set the butterflies in her stomach free from the cage where she held them captive all these years. She dropped her gaze to the printed page for the fourth time, desperate to speak to him, fearing for her heart if she did.
And then, for one moment, a fur-coated woman stepped between their gazes; she felt a tremor of panic in her chest at the loss. As his visage disappeared from view, she vowed from that moment to never lose sight of him again. And so she was decided.
She belonged to him.

A sidewalk cafe on the Rue de Jean-Marie served as their first date. With any other man sitting across from her at the quaint table for two she might have winced at the cliche of it all, but with him she could believe they were the first star-crossed lovers in Paris.
He was so original.
He asked what her favorite drink was and ordered it himself, impressing her with his adventurous spirit. The sun shone off his Hershey curls, and when he threw back his head to laugh at her off-hand quip, her heart did a double take.
Their conversation might have been scripted, so seamlessly did it flow, their mingled laughter sprinkled throughout, spicy chemistry weaving its way around them to create a sumptuous recipe.
Daylight drifted away as they spent the summer evening by the Seine, and when at last the great disc slipped past the horizon, his divine mouth found hers with a sigh. It was a perfect fit, lips clinging together, their bodies hungry for more.
At the door to her hotel he laced his exquisite fingers through hers, his free hand under her chin as he directed her green eyes to his.
"Love is the thing, you know."
She laughed a tear into the warm palm cupping her cheek. Her happiness was uncontainable. They had finally found each other.
And now...

She turns from the black-curtained window, whispering to the moon to give her strength. Her fingers trail the mahogany edge of the wooden bed, its darkness like silk sorrow beneath her skin; she peers down, steeling herself against the onslaught of daggers which wait to shred her heart yet again.
His expressive face lies still, the lips which once laughed delight and ravished her under midnight's moon are frozen in death. She only touched a dead body once, years ago, at her great grandmother's funeral. She shudders at the memory. She knows how cold he will feel under her fingers, like glassy marble, souless and full of ice. No, she will cling to the memory of his warm embrace, the heat of wild nights, the fire of life which radiated from his azure eyes.
The candle-light catches the band encircling the ring finger of his left hand. He was hers for an entire year. It wasn't nearly enough.
And yet, she had always known.

She feels a warm hand on her shoulder.
"Oh, Nicole," she whispers to her best friend as the tears finally spill. She silently sobs into Nicole's embrace, the sorrow buckling her knees. She sinks onto the black leather couch, anger searing through her at the monstrous color. She wipes her eyes.
"I never had a right to love him so hard. No one is allowed to be that happy. The universe saw an imbalance. And the universe had its way."
Her voice is flat, as dead as the body in that cold coffin.
"And I knew!" she cries, louder. Her voices fades again to a whisper. "This was my biggest fear realized. To wait for the One. To find the One. To - lose - the One in the space of a heartbeat. I tried, I truly tried to resist the love that overcame me like a tidal wave when I caught his glance."
She stops, staring at the hardwood floor.
"But I couldn't help it."

Her friend speaks.
"Perhaps you are right, Ali. Perhaps there are always limits to our blessings. But maybe, just maybe, God was giving you a rare gift that only a few humans are privileged to receive. What if this man was a glimpse of your heaven? Hold that thought captive like fireflies on summer nights, let it glow within you and warm the frozen confines of your soul."

She blinks back impending tears as Nicole's words sink in. She knows her friend speaks truth. And she knows that he would agree with her friend. She rests her head on Nicole's lime-green shoulder.
"Thanks for not wearing black."
Nicole chuckles sadly.
"Are you kidding me? You'd lecture me and his ghost would surely find a way to haunt me. Besides, black was never suited to either of you. I've a feeling you've both got a rainbow of an aura."

Ali smiles as she feels the tiniest of flames begin to flicker in her soul.

Luck O'the Irish

Dork: according to the Webster-Miriam Dictionary, it means, in part, one who is a social misfit, or indulging in ridiculous antics.
If this be so, I am most certainly a dork.
Case in point – I attended a concert this weekend for Celtic Thunder, a collection of five gorgeous Irish men who can sing to melt the hardest of hearts. Josh Groban still is and forever will remain my number one Homeboy, but let it be said these men with incredibly sexy brogues run a close second.
Ashley and I were able to snag two of the only ten tickets left at the box office two hours before the show. We had a bit of time to kill, so - as always - we had to explore, pretending we had the guts to break through security, even if we didn’t actually do it. We found the forbidden backstage entrance and posted ourselves as inconspicuously as possible, casting furtive glances at the lone security guard. Could we take him down? I’d certainly love to spend an hour alone with Keith Harkin on his incredible tour bus. I’m sure I could eliminate any “performance anxiety” the beautiful lad might have had. >:-)
Suddenly we heard a commotion behind us and turned to see a flock of middle-aged women walking towards us, laden with gifts and coffee, Celtic Thunder paraphernalia galore adorning their clothes. Now, let me clarify for you non-dorks out there who wouldn’t know Celtic Thunder from Celtic Dragons. These men are barely men – in fact, the youngest is just fourteen! My glorious Keith has – thank goodness – crossed the legality barrier at nineteen, and Paul and Ryan, the “good” and “bad” boys of the group have recently traversed the thirty threshold. The only member who qualified in age for these homely groupies was George, coming in at the ripe old age of mid-forties. However, was his bald head the one plastered on their chests, hats and scarves? Nope, it was, sadly, the young pups…ones young enough to be their children.
I tried to be friendly and strike up a conversation but was quickly put off by her terse replies. I decided to glean what info on potential sightings of my future husband I could by eavesdropping, disguising my nosiness by “talking” to Ashley. A man nearby asked us if it was our first time to see the group in concert. I proceeded to tell him yes, and that we had first seen Celtic Thunder on a PBS Special one Saturday night as we sat home alone and wished we had hot dates – by the way, that last part I only said in my head. *Keith can’t know how desperate I am.* I was rudely interrupted by the Mother-Of-Celtic-Thunder’s-Children wannabe who said she’d seen them last month in Indiana, and three weeks ago in Virginia, and the week after that in New York. Last week brought her to South Carolina, and finally, she was stalking – er, I mean supporting – them in Atlanta. Ashley and I widened our eyes in disbelief at the same moment, completely dumbfounded and slightly disturbed at this woman’s behavior.
“I bring them a gift every time,” her voice floated over to me. I couldn’t hold it in any longer…I had to walk away as suppressed laughter came sputtering from my lips at this poor woman’s creepy obsession.
I mean. SERIOUSLY.
We made our way inside and as we waited for the doors to open, I spotted an older man sporting a skunk-striped mullet, his Iron Man t-shirt visible beneath his faded denim jacket. Hey dude, this is CELTIC Con - Comic Con was last week. Sorry.
Finally, we took our seats to wait out the next few minutes before show time. I had left my baby – my beautiful Nikon D80 camera – in the car, afraid of its confiscation and a potential bereavement period for me. I realized, though, that there were no bag checks here at the Civic Center, much unlike the near strip-searches performed at the Fox Theatre down the road. Pictures during the show were a possibility! Could I go out of the theatre once I’d already come in? And then I got an idea. Ashley held down the fort while I searched for the cutest male usher I could find. Ah, there he was, by the front doors, tall, dark, and handsome. I hurried up to him, a worried expression gracing my visage.
“Please, sir? Are we allowed out once we’ve come in? I’ve um…I left something that I really, really need in the car.”
“Oh, uh, you need it?”
I nodded profusely. I think he got my drift. Nothing like alluding to female problems to get a guy off your back – pun intended.
“Just come find me at this door when you come back.”
I assured him I would. Getting to the car, I buried the camera deep in my bag, just in case someone decided to amend the rules when I got back. I found my friend and he let me in. Just to ensure the ruse was infallible, I asked almost frantically, “Is there a bathroom close by?” As he pointed the way, I smiled to myself as I darted from his view and back into the theatre to take my seat.
Safe!

We soaked up the next hour an a half with vigor, screaming at the top of our lungs as we begged for an encore. They placated us with a gleeful indulgence of kilts - when Paul and Ryan showed off their hairy gams and shook those tight tushes, well, it's a wonder Ashley didn't have to scrape me of the floor of the building.
After the concert was - sadly - at an end, we hurried to the back stage entrance once again, determined to get an autograph or at least a decent picture. My endeavors to capture snapshots inside the building had been a disappointment due to a lack of good lighting.
The security guard informed us, though, that he had just been told there would be no autographs or pictures tonight - the group had to get a move on to the next city.

Although we didn't get an upclose encounter, the concert was well worth the money spent...even if we DID feel like we attended the concert with nursing home tenants. Lol

Candid Glory

Diamond moonlight highlights the contours of his face; the luminescent glow touches his sculpted cheek bones, the reflection flung into his chartreuse-green eyes. The edges of his sensual mouth turn down, thoughts playing across his features, his emotions so alive they almost burn in the air.
His averts his intense stare to the navy ceiling of stars above.
At last, she is free to turn a shameless gaze upon his countenance, basking in his quiet beauty.
The raven blackness of his hair glistens iridescent in the moonlight; her eyes widen in wonder as colors leap out at her, magical hues of purple and blue-green. She notices faint lines reminiscent of a difficult life marking his smooth forehead, the pure alabaster gleam of his skin untainted by blemishes. In worshipful admiration she breathes silently, catching sight of his eyes, certainly his crowning glory. The pearl of the midnight moon appears in the black sea of his pupil, and stormy green waves wrap round in perfect symmetry. Honey-swept lashes lie against his skin, their tips curled to a natural perfection any woman would surely envy.
The sloping angle of his long nose gives him a dignified air, coming to a point above his impeccable mouth. Oh, his mouth. She casts a longing glance upon his lips, sensual and voluptuous, tinted flawless pink as if by an artist's brush. Firecrackers sparkle through her veins at vivid memories unconsciously summoned.

And then she knows.
INSPIRATION.
With a desire she almost cannot contain she aches to capture his essence, forever holding his beauty as a tangible photograph of memory. This is deserving of her creative soul, this man and this fleeting second in time and she stifles a cry of glee in her throat, afraid to speak for surely she shall shatter the dream of the moment.

It shall never be more than here and now and she realizes that...and yet, she is infinitely happy.
She will find someone to make her soul live.