I Have Failed!

On October 31st, I had a folder full of notes, research and outlines that was to become my NaNoWriMo novel. (It was a cool, slashy murder mystery set in the Manhattan of the 1850's.) You know the deal--write a 50,000 word novel over the course of a month and leave off the editing. But it didn't happen. I have failed.

For the record, I have never once completed NaNoWriMo. But this was probably my most conspicuous failure: I wrote, I think, about 300 words of the novel. Sigh.

But I will not despair. I still have that folder full of notes, research and outlines. It may yet turn into a novel...just wait till next year!

Love and Tofu

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Fan Fiction (Star Trek, Spock-McCoy, Slash)

Rating: PG

Summary: In this drabble, McCoy shows his appreciation to Spock when the Vulcan attempts to celebrate an old American holiday with him.

~

McCoy grinned at Spock. Who’d have guessed that the overgrown elf would insist on a private Thanksgiving dinner? This wasn’t supposed to be a romantic holiday, after all.

But there was nothing wrong with a romantic dinner—except that this one would be vegan. Tofu turkey had never been a favorite of McCoy’s, but Spock was trying so damn hard that he’d have to force himself to eat it. He could always fill up on the real thing later.

Bones shook his head a little as he stared down at the tofu. My God, he realized, this must be love.

~The End~

Two Little Words

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Fan Fiction (Star Trek; Spock-McCoy)

Rating: PG

Summary: When he can't find the words, Spock grasps for some other way to express his gratitude to McCoy. This takes place between Star Trek III: The Search for Spock and Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home.

~

"Doctor?"

Spock watched as McCoy glanced up at him, cocking his head. The doctor was sitting on his bed with an old fashioned terran book in hand. His room was plainly but comfortably furnished: the Vulcan priestesses had clearly attempted to anticipate the human’s needs.

Both men were patients at this facility; both were subject to the invasive mind probes of the Vulcan healers. Spock did not have to guess how little Dr. McCoy enjoyed these procedures; he was keenly aware of the doctor's displeasure.

It was no fault of the healers. They were merely attempting to restore the two men to independence. But Spock knew that he and McCoy would never be completely free of each other. The healers themselves had admitted as much.

"Come on in," McCoy invited, growing tired, no doubt, of the Vulcan's silence. "It's good to see you—we've hardly spoken. What's up?"

Spock took a tentative step inside. "You are having difficulty sleeping, Doctor," he managed.

It was not a question—and McCoy did not take it as such. He flashed Spock a wry grin as he tossed his book aside. "What's wrong? Is my insomnia keeping you up too?"

Spock nodded.

"My apologies," McCoy said. "With all this meditation your damn healers recommend, I suppose I'll learn how to protect you from it eventually."

Given the doctor's extreme hostility to the 'damn healers' and their teachings concerning meditation, Spock did not think that likely. However, noting the expression on McCoy's face, he refrained from estimating the odds. Instead he stood there awkwardly, not quite knowing what he wished to say.

There had been a certain awkwardness with Jim as well, but not to this extent. True, Spock had spoken little to the Admiral, but there had seemed less need for words. Somehow the friendship between them had been enough. And Jim seemed to understand Spock's reticence and unexpressed gratitude; just as Spock understood Jim’s grief for the loss of his son.

Yet it was not that Dr. McCoy did not understand him. There was little that McCoy did not understand of Spock now—and little that Spock did not understand of him. Spock grasped for some logical cause of this awkwardness, but could not find one.

McCoy sighed and rolled his eyes. "Did you come in here to complain, Spock? I'm sorry for keeping you up—but I don't know what to do about it at present."

No, he was not here to complain; Spock knew that much. It went against his Vulcan training, but he wanted to thank the doctor. That notion could not be entirely foreign to Vulcans, for his father had thanked Jim. Spock merely wanted to assure the doctor that he knew and appreciated all that he had gone through on his behalf. It should have been simple to say as much, but Spock found his lips frozen.

Spock was still sorting through his memories, still trying to make sense of the jumble. Some memories were his own; others belonged to McCoy. It would take…it would take some time to separate them.

But one memory stood out: Spock inflicting his katra upon McCoy. He remembered pinching the proper spot between McCoy's neck and shoulder, thereby rendering him unconscious. He remembered the mind meld that he had forced upon the doctor.

At the time it had seemed logical; or so Spock had convinced himself. McCoy was his friend, he was at hand, and he was trustworthy. Moreover, for all their arguments, there had always been an underlying empathy between the two men which seemed to render McCoy a likely candidate.

But Spock had put the doctor at grave risk. His katra nearly drove McCoy mad. If Kirk and Sarek had not figured out what had happened…if McCoy had died trying to recover Spock’s body…or if the ritual to separate Spock and McCoy had gone awry…

And there was the invasion of McCoy's privacy. Just as Spock had no secrets from the doctor, the doctor no longer had any secrets from Spock.

And Spock had not asked permission. There had been no time. He had assumed that the doctor would have agreed, no matter the risk. But looking back at that moment, Spock realized just how much he had taken for granted in that assumption.

Suddenly Spock realized why he had come tonight. This was the first time since the Fal-tor-pan…since the ritual that he was alone with the doctor. This was McCoy's first opportunity to express his anger at Spock in privacy. It seemed only right and fitting to give the doctor a chance to do so.

If McCoy would only explode at him, Spock would know how to respond. However fragmented his memories might be, he knew that he was accustomed to emotional responses from the doctor. Given such a response, Spock would find his voice. He would even find the words to express his gratitude—however human such an expression might be.

But there was no explosion. Why? Even with his jumbled memories, Spock could recall bitter, cutting remarks from the doctor on little provocation. Where were those remarks now? The doctor had every right to them, considering what Spock had subjected him to.

One thing, at least, had not changed: the doctor was growing impatient. "Spock,” he asked, “are you going to say something, or are you going to stand there glowering down at me?"

"I am not glowering, Doctor," Spock objected.

"Well, you're giving a damn good impression of it," he retorted. Then he paused to roll his eyes. "Christ, Spock, don't just stand there. Come here and sit down."

Spock ignored the irrational religious reference as he made his way to the bed and took a seat beside the doctor. But he did not stop staring at McCoy. He was searching for the anger that should be blazing in his eyes.

It was not there. "You—you are not angry." Again, it was not a question.

"About what? This whole katra thing?"

Spock stared at him, wondering how the doctor had managed to refer so offhandedly to the burden of carrying Spock’s very soul—not to mention the pain of the ritual that followed and the danger along the way.

“Yes,” he said dryly. “The ‘whole katra thing.’”

The doctor shrugged. “Could’ve been worse,” he drawled. “Next time, though, just ask me for a kidney.”

Spock raised his eyebrow at that. “Why should I require one of your kidneys? Vulcan anatomy—”

But McCoy’s laughter cut him off. To Spock’s astonishment, the doctor nearly doubled over before resting his head on Spock’s shoulder. Then he flung his arms around Spock, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Oh God, Spock, I’ve missed you,” he said, still laughing.

Spock permitted the embrace and even managed to return it, although he was still bewildered by the doctor’s actions. He had expected anger and biting irony from McCoy—or at least exasperation—not this warmth and affection.

“Doctor,” he began, keeping his arms around the human, “I—” he paused again, trying to form the words of gratitude. But again, his lips seemed frozen. “I—”

“Oh, shut the hell up, Spock,” McCoy said, still holding him. “I know what you’re trying to say and I don’t give a damn if you speak the words out loud or not. You’re welcome—and I’d do it all over again if you ever needed me to.”

His grip was almost painful, Spock noticed. It was as if the doctor feared losing him again. Spock knew he should speak now, but he could manage only a nod.

“But you owe me,” McCoy continued. “If I ever need a kidney, I expect you to donate yours.”

“That is illogical, Doctor,” Spock reprimanded. “Kidney transplants are a thing of the past. And even if they were not, no kidney of mine would ever be compatible with your—”

“Oh for the love of—don’t you think I know that?” McCoy asked. “Christ Almighty, I hope you have a higher opinion of my medical skills than that. I don’t care—I want it anyway.”

“But it would do you no good.”

“On the contrary, it would bring me immense satisfaction,” McCoy assured him, “even sitting in a jar.”

Spock suspected that the human was—what was the terran word? Teasing. But it was difficult to tell. Perhaps before the events surrounding the Genesis planet, he would have been better able to discern the doctor's meaning. Nonetheless, he allowed the subject to drop.

At length Spock felt McCoy’s grip on him loosen. The human had finally drifted off to sleep, with his head still resting on Spock’s shoulder. Spock sighed, but decided that it would be illogical to disturb the doctor when he’d had so much difficulty sleeping of late. So instead of attempting to break apart, he merely shifted so that he could lean back against the wall.

Soon Spock was shutting his own eyes and resting his chin on top of his friend’s head. He was pleased with his decision to remain, despite his customary dislike of such intimate contact. It was one way, perhaps, to show his gratitude.

And, despite the doctor's distressing lack of logic, he might appreciate the undisturbed sleep more than an incompatible kidney.

~The End~

Clip of the Day~Why is this so funny?

I have no idea why I'm laughing so hard--except that this is just too adorable. That said, I can't explain why it sustains my interest the full 46 seconds:

Picture of the Day~Karl Urban as McCoy

Thanks Julianna, for pointing this out! And yes, I agree--it does look like Urban is carrying Kelley's katra, lol. I'm just hoping against hope that his Bones has lots of screen time in the new flick and lots of interactions with Kirk and Spock...especially Spock, of course ;)

P.S. No, Urban doesn't have blue eyes. That pains me--but I'm trying to get over it.

Clip of the Day~The New Star Trek XI Trailer

Well, I'm still optomistic about this film, but I hope they haven't reduced the big three to the big two...I've seen a lot more of Kirk and Spock than of Kirk, Spock and McCoy. Sigh...

Meanwhile, check out the new trailer at Star Trek XI. What do you think?

A Closed-Mouth Hobgoblin

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction (Star Trek; Spock-McCoy)

Rating: PG-13

Summary: In this drabble, Bones is furious about a little secret Spock has kept...this takes place during the episode Journey to Babel.

~

Why didn’t he tell us? Those are his parents. His parents!

God damn it, he doesn’t trust us. What did he think would happen? Did he think Jim and I would tease him? Did he think we’d say something to embarrass him? How could anything we would have said been worse than allowing Sarek and his wife to realize that Spock hadn’t mentioned their relationship?

You know, there are times when I’d like to take that closed-mouth hobgoblin right over my knee—damn it, now I’m fantasizing.

But it’s a damn satisfying fantasy. I think I’ll stay there awhile.

~The End~

Grrrr--First Prop Eight, Now Marc & Cliff!

I am thoroughly disgusted. I'm still in shock that Proposition Eight passed in California... although my shock is giving way to bitter disappointment. Here's a heartfelt commentary from Keith Olbermann about this vote. (Thanks for the link, Melinda!) He has no personal stake in this issue, but he speaks passionately about standing up for love.

I haven't watched Keith Olbermann much, but I'll make a point of catching him from now on.

Meanwhile, there are rocky times ahead for Marc and Cliff on Ugly Betty. Ok, it's probably shallow of me to have this on the same post, but I'm heart-broken to think this relationship might be over. (And I'm starting to feel like there's no good gay news!)

Forgive him, Cliff! He was out of his head!

Complacency

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Fan Fiction (Star Trek: The Next Generation; Picard-Q)

Rating: G

Summary: In this drabble, Picard reflects on the painful lesson Q has taught him in the episode Q Who.

~

Eighteen of my crew dead. Why? So Q could kick us out of our complacency. I grant him the necessity of that lesson—but did it require eighteen lives?

He looked almost amused as he responded. If I can’t stand a bloody nose, he said, go home. This is a wondrous universe, but not a safe one.

I ought to be furious with him. I’m outraged by the loss of life. And yet some part of me accepts that he sees a larger picture than we humans do.

God help us, but it’s possible that Q knows what he’s doing.

~The End~

Clip of the Day ~ If All Movies Had Cell Phones...

I saw a link to this video over on Shakespeare Geek: imagine how differently certain movies (and tv shows and plays) would have gone if only there'd been cell phones...

Picture of the Day~An Historic Election!

Congratulations Barack Obama!

Clip of the Day~Get Out and Vote!

Listen to Jon Stewart & Stephen Colbert--make sure you vote!

I've already done my civic duty. I went at 6 am this morning, right when the polls opened. It felt like such a momentous occasion that I said the Shehecheyanu just before I pressed my choices. Whatever happens, this is going to be one heck of an election!

This isn't a political blog, but I don't mind sharing that I voted for Obama. But even if you're (gulp) a Republican, you should still vote =P

And then you should watch Indecision 2008 on Comedy Central tonight--it's bound to be fun!

Picture of the Day~Lovely Pic of Bale

Here's another beautiful shot of Christian Bale:

Unexpected Comfort

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Fan Fiction (Star Trek: TNG, Picard-Q)

Rating: PG

Summary: Q offers his brand of comfort to Jean-Luc in the wake of a tragedy.

~

Picard stared down at the corpse of the young ensign. He was laid out in sick bay, soon to be prepared for burial. He looked strangely alive lying there, as if he would awake at any moment. But that was an illusion, Picard thought bitterly. In truth, the lad was dead--and he was dead for no good reason.

The boy had not given his life in battle; he’d had no opportunity for such heroics. Instead, he’d been killed by an aneurysm that Dr. Crusher could not even account for. A freak occurrence, it seemed.

“Upsetting, isn’t it, mon capitaine?”

Picard’s eyes shot up at that. Q had materialized opposite him. He was standing on the other side of the body, dressed in an elaborate suit of mourning that would have been appropriate on earth in the late Victorian era. He even wore the black gloves and top hat to match. And he carried a handsomely carved walking stick.

Picard took a deep breath and forced himself not to roll his eyes at the entity. “What do you want, Q?” he asked, somehow keeping his voice even.

“Why, merely to comfort an old friend,” Q answered, raising an eyebrow.

Picard took another deep breath and managed a small smile. “Thank you,” he said. “But there’s little comfort you can offer, I’m afraid, in the face of such a senseless death.”

“Why Jean-Luc,” Q chided, slanting his eyes at the captain, “surely you don’t doubt that the Almighty Himself can offer comfort under any circumstances?”

This time Picard did roll his eyes. “You are not God,” he insisted. “And if you were I wouldn’t want comfort from you--I’d want to call you to account!”

Q rubbed his hands together in delight. “That’s the spirit! Ooh--what next? Shall I manifest to you as a voice from a whirlwind?” He paused to adopt a mock-thundering tone. “Where were you, Jean-Luc, when I created the multiverse and your pitiful little earth? And where were you when I set the stars in motion and the planets spinning? Do you think that you, a puny biped without a shred of cosmic perspective, are entitled to call Me to account?”

Another reluctant smile escaped Picard at this adaptation from the Book of Job. He almost envied Job at the moment. However much that character had suffered, at least he had his opportunity to put the Almighty on trial, so to speak, for all the injustices of life.

“As I recall, Q, that voice from the whirlwind was not displeased with Job,” Picard pointed out, “despite Job’s presumption.”

“No, He wasn’t,” Q agreed. “But neither could He explain to the puny human why things happen the way they do--and Job came to accept that. Charming story, isn’t it?”

“‘Charming’ isn’t quite the word I’d choose,” Picard returned dryly, turning his attention back to the boy.

Q sighed and snapped his fingers, transforming himself back to his customary uniform. Apparently he’d grown weary of the Victorian outfit.

The entity stared down at the corpse and furrowed his brow. Then he stroked the boy’s hair with what appeared to be genuine tenderness. “It does seem a waste, doesn’t it?” he mused. “For a such a pathetic race, your kind is surprisingly endearing.”

“He was a promising young man,” Picard said softly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Q, I must send word to his family.”

“Of course you must,” Q agreed, moving to the captain’s side and placing an arm around his shoulders. “But I’ll remain with you, Jean-Luc. I wouldn’t dream of deserting you in your hour of need!”

Picard inhaled sharply. “That is quite…unnecessary, I assure you.”

But Q shook his head condescendingly, as if he knew best. Picard opened his mouth to protest, but suddenly found himself seated at his desk.

“There,” the entity said as he took a chair opposite the captain. “Now you can figure out what to say to the boy’s loved ones. I’ll sit right here, quiet as a mouse, ready to lend you whatever succor you require.”

There was a sharp retort on the tip of Picard’s tongue--but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to utter it. In the face of such a pointless tragedy, he decided, he needed all the comfort he could muster.

Even if it came from Q.

~The End~