White Collar--My New Love!

Ok, I've been gone for a while. I've got a load of excuses--but I'll spare you. I think I might just get my blogging groove back with U.S.A.'s new series White Collar.

Peter Burke owns Neal Caffrey for the next four years--that's the premise of the show. Ok, that makes it sound a bit kinkier than it is--but those were pretty much Peter's exact words to Neal. ("I own you for the next four year--you ok with that?")

Neal's a charming conman and master forger--four years ago, Peter captured him and put him away. Neal had almost served out his sentence, but in a foolish romantic guesture, he broke out. He wanted to reach his girlfriend, Kate, who had just left him. Peter captured him again (and even paused to sympathize about Kate.) But the upshot is that Neal, who should have been freed in a couple of months, was going to be spending another four years in prison.

Not quite--Neal wheedles Peter into a better arrangement. Neal is released into Peter's custody, with an ankle monitor that gives him a two mile radius in Manhattan. In exchange, he works at Peter's side, helping him solve cases. The bromance that develops between them is the heart of the show.

Perfect slash set up, right? Not quite--Peter is happily married to a wonderful character. Elizabeth is so perfect for him that even slash writers aren't keen to get rid of her. (Enter some interesting three-way fics . . .)

It's safe to say that no three-way-relationship will develop in canon, but the relationship between Peter and Neal has me hooked regardless. Here's the actors' take on it:

Dang! I can't get it to embed properly. Oh well. Click here for the link--you'll love the interview. The chemistry between these two guys shines through.

Caption Winner--Gratz Warrior Sister!

Spock: "I--I'm sorry, Leonard. I really thought this was how a mint julep was supposed to look."

Caption Contest! (Yeah--Finally!)

Ok--I've been neglecting this blog for over a week. I do have an excuse! A good one! But I won't bore you with it now, lol. Instead, I'll present this classic picture. We've captioned The Tholian Web before, but not, if memory serves, this shot:

Caption Winner~Gratz Womanwarrior!

Great entries all around--every single one got me giggling! But this one clinched it for me:

A portable nutcracker? Are you sure that's what Harry Mudd said, Spock?

Dealing with our faults and frailities . . .

. . . That spirit of resilience and good humor would see Teddy through more pain and tragedy than most of us will ever know. He lost two siblings by the age of sixteen. He saw two more taken violently from a country that loved them. He said goodbye to his beloved sister, Eunice, in the final days of his life. He narrowly survived a plane crash, watched two children struggle with cancer, buried three nephews, and experienced personal failings and setbacks in the most public way possible.

It is a string of events that would have broken a lesser man. And it would have been easy for Ted to let himself become bitter and hardened; to surrender to self-pity and regret; to retreat from public life and live out his years in peaceful quiet. No one would have blamed him for that.

But that was not Ted Kennedy. As he told us, "…Individual faults and frailties are no excuse to give in - and no exemption from the common obligation to give of ourselves." Indeed, Ted was the "Happy Warrior" that the poet William Wordsworth spoke of when he wrote:

As tempted more; more able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress;
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.

Through his own suffering, Ted Kennedy became more alive to the plight and suffering of others - the sick child who could not see a doctor; the young soldier sent to battle without armor; the citizen denied her rights because of what she looks like or who she loves or where she comes from. The landmark laws that he championed - the Civil Rights Act, the Americans with Disabilities Act, immigration reform, children's health care, the Family and Medical Leave Act - all have a running thread. Ted Kennedy's life's work was not to champion the causes of those with wealth or power or special connections. It was to give a voice to those who were not heard; to add a rung to the ladder of opportunity; to make real the dream of our founding. He was given the gift of time that his brothers were not, and he used that gift to touch as many lives and right as many wrongs as the years would allow. . .

~President Obama on Ted Kennedy

These words struck me--President Obama didn't disect Ted Kennedy's failings, but he didn't ignore them either. Instead, he used them to show Kennedy's resilience. Ted Kennedy could have slunk off in shame into a private life after Chappaquiddick, but he chose to do what he could to redeem himself. He went on to become a champion for universal healthcare, for ending the death penalty, for civil rights (including gay rights) . . . for so many other worthy causes.

There are times when I look at my life and think it's a disaster. No, I have nothing equivalent to Chappaquiddick in my history; my weaknesses are of a different sort. Nonetheless, I think most of us, at one time or another, have looked back and boggled at all the wrong choices we've made.

Ted Kennedy's life was an eloquent statement on what it is to continue on, to march forward and do our parts to repair the world--even if we helped screw up our little part of it.

I'm going to hang Ted Kennedy's words on my wall, right near my desk where I'll see them day in and day out: "Individual faults and frailties are no excuse to give in - and no exemption from the common obligation to give of ourselves."

Caption Contest!

Hehe . . . this should be fun!

Caption Winner~Gratz Julianna!

McCoy: Spock, get your skinny green ass out here. You can't look any worse than the rest of us. ...Legolas?

Caption Contest!

Ok, I had to do this at some point. And, since I spent part of my vacation watching a Lord of the Rings marathon, now is as good a time as any. For this week's caption, I present to you Bones--er, that is, Karl Urban--as Éomer:
So what inspired Dr. McCoy's costume? (And that's just one direction you can take . . .)

Caption Winner--Gratz Liederlady!

McCoy: Hey Jim boy! Is that a tribble in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Spock: Dreamer! He's been in that condition ever since I dumped T'Pring.

Too Many Irons?

I'm going to pat myself on the back--I've been getting lots of writing done! I'm working on two original stories that I'm hoping to submit to real publishing companies. I've also been working on my new Kirk/McCoy AOS story, so much happiness here. =)

One thing worries me: do I have too many irons in the fire? Does everyone work on multiple projects at once? Or is anyone out there disciplined enough to stick with the same story until it's done?

I appreciate all responses . . .

Caption Contest!

Hello all--reporting in from Virginia, where I've been visiting family. I've had so much fun visiting that I haven't spent much time on my poor, neglected blog. In fact, I even owe this week's caption contest to the keen eye of Julianna . . . and it's perfect:
Have at it, folks!

Caption Winner~Gratz Womanwarrior!

McCoy: "Where are we, why doesn't this booze taste like anything...and who IS that guy?"

Spock: "I do not know, Doctor...but I HATE what he has done with the place!"

Hard-wiring, Part One

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Star Trek AOS (Star Trek XI); Kirk-McCoy; Slash

Rating: PG-13

Comments: Any and all welcome.

Summary: Bones tries to distract Jim from challenging a guy who should be classified as a psychopath . . .

~oOo~

I shook my head at Jim as I knelt in front of him, fixing up the cuts and bruises from his latest brawl. “God damn idiot,” I said out loud.

He rolled his eyes and slumped in the chair. “Don’t worry, Bones—it happened off campus.”

I grunted. That was a plus, I suppose. There was a chance that nobody knew. Maybe Jim wouldn’t get his ass kicked out of the Academy, especially since he was crashing in my off-campus apartment. No one but me would see him like this.

No one, that is, except the other guy in the fight. Fortunately Jason Craig would keep his mouth shut; he didn’t want to get kicked out either.

I shook my head again. “I told you to stay away from him.”

I ought to have held my breath—Jim just gave me a mock obedient look and said, “I’m sorry Daddy. Please don’t tan me too hard.”

I grinned despite myself. I’d tan his ass into leather if I thought it’d do any good, but who was I kidding?

Look, I’m not being overprotective of the kid. I’m pretty sure that Jason Craig meets all the diagnostic criteria of what we officially like to call ‘anti-social personality disorder.’ To put it unofficially, the guy’s a psychopath.

No, I’m not a God-damned psychiatrist. And, yeah, Jason got through all the psychological examinations that Starfleet uses to weed out the psychopaths. Nonetheless, I’m going with my gut on this one.

I’m not saying he’s an ax murderer. He has to be pretty functional to survive as a student in Starfleet Academy. Even though he’s in security and not medicine, I’ve had to work with him on and off. He’s always polite enough and even deferential. But beneath that veneer of good manners there’s something cold in him. He doesn’t care about anyone or empathize with anyone. He can’t read people or react to them properly, because they’re not real to him. Other people are either tools or impediments—nothing more.

It's no wonder he's gotten into so many fights. Yeah, yeah, so has Jim. But Jim's not a psychopath. If anything, Jim has an excess of empathy.

If Jim had any sense he’d just stay away from the guy. But this is Jim we’re talking about. The concept of backing down was never wired into his brain.

Meanwhile, Jason thinks Jim insulted him somehow. I wasn’t there when it happened, but I gather that Jim said something stupid and/or tactless. One of these days I’ll get the story from someone impartial enough to give it to me straight. But whatever Jim said, Jason took it far too seriously. Now he regards Jim as the enemy.

And Jim, being Jim, refuses to smooth things over or just avoid the guy.

Jim grinned at the look on my face, bringing me back to the present. Then, before I guessed his intention, he leaned down and kissed me on the lips. I just let my mouth hang open there, doing my damnedest not to respond.

Did I mention that Jim’s a sex addict? All you need to attract him is a pulse. Hell, I wouldn’t even trust him around the cadavers. Ok, ok—I’m exaggerating. I hope.

This isn’t the first time that Jim’s come on to me. I’m sure it won’t be the last. But I’m not having any of it.

“Stop that,” I said as he finally leaned back in his chair. “I’m not interested.”

He snorted in disbelief. I felt my face growing hot in response. “I’m not,” I insisted. “Look, just for starters, I’m straight.”

“So am I,” he said, grinning at my discomfort. “Most of the time. But don’t be afraid to experiment, Bones. Just think of it as an extension of our friendship.”

“Friends with benefits?”

“Exactly—with no strings attached.”

I shook my head and tried to focus all my attention on one of the cuts on his hand. “No thank you.”

He cocked his head at me. “Is that the problem, Bones? Do you want strings?”

“No,” I answered without looking up at him.” I’m just not interested in you, Jim. Can’t you get that through your thick skull?”

Of course not. I must have forgotten that the whole multiverse revolves around him. He doesn’t accept rejection. And it doesn’t help that there’s something so damned enticing about him . . .

I could feel his eyes on me. “No,” he said at last. “That’s not it. You are interested.”

I felt myself flushing again, but I ignored that fact while I checked his other hand.

Jim leaned toward me. I felt his breath as he whispered into my ear. “I’m going to figure out what it takes to win you over.”

“You think so, huh?” I asked, finally looking up at him. “Why? Because you’ve had so much luck with that xenolinguist?”

He had the grace to grin at that. “Yeah, I’ve lost track of how many times she’s shot me down. But you and me—that’s something different. You’re my best friend, Bones.”

“And let’s just keep it at that. All right, I'm finished here. Get your ass to bed—and try to stay out of trouble.”

He smiled and took himself off to the guest room. Ok, his room. Why bother calling it a guest room? He was in it whenever he wasn’t getting lucky. He probably didn’t even know what his dorm looked like.

I thought I was rid of him for the night, but he stuck his head out of his door for a parting shot. “I’m not giving up on you, Bones,” he warned me.

I rolled my eyes as he disappeared back into his room. There was no way I was going to let that crazy kid talk me into a friends-with-benefits deal. Or any other kind of deal.

Still, if he was bent on seducing me, maybe he’d forget about his rivalry with Jason Craig. I frowned, wondering if I would prove that much of a distraction. It wasn’t likely, but still . . .

I went to bed in a better frame of mind. I wasn’t sure if I could keep Jim’s mind off the psychopath, but I was sure as hell going to try. Oh, nothing was going to happen between Jim and me. I hadn’t gone insane.

But it couldn’t hurt to let him try, right?

Caption Contest!

Anyone want to take a shot at this one? There's quite a bit going on . . .

Footage From the Apollo 11 Moon Landing of 1969 . . .

With Walter Cronkite (November 4, 1916 – July 17, 2009) reporting:



This is just part one. With the appropriate clicking or a visit to Youtube, you can follow the whole landing!

Draco Shines!

I went to see Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince yesterday. No, it's not as good as the book (which, I think, was the best in the series.) Yes, it should have been longer to include more of the book. Yes, I would have been fine with a ten hour film to capture all of the book. =P

Still, this film has a lot going for it, including an excellent cast. Alan Rickman as Snape is, as always, mesmerizing. But Tom Felton as Draco Malfoy--damn, he was good! His sobbing scene is heart-rending, and his whole performance captures Draco's strange mixture of pride and horror at what Voldemort has chosen him to do. . . and how terrified he really is, for himself and for his family.

I may go to see this again just for another look at his performance . . .

Caption Winner~Gratz Julianna!

Ok, I'll admit it. While we had great entries all around, I didn't use the jar this time. Like Liederlady I was still snorting over this one:

Spock: ANOTHER manicure? You must think I’m made of money!

Throughout All Time

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Original Fiction; One-Shot; Flash-Fiction

Rating: PG

Feedback: Any and all comments & critiques welcome and encouraged! (Help me improve my writing . . .)

Summary: One man's wry and grudging observations on the Mourner's Kaddish.

~

“Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba . . .”

I mouthed the words along with the cantor and the other mourners. Assuming the guy leading services was a real cantor. Probably not; he was more likely a competent congregant. This synagogue was too poor to afford a full time hazzan.

“b’alma di v’ra, kir’utei,”

I hadn’t been here in years. I hadn’t even come when my father died. I didn’t sit shiva for him either; I was too angry. My wife was appalled—Eileen’s a nice Catholic girl who understands the power of ritual. But I was adamant. I despised the man while he was alive, so I refused to go through the motions of mourning his death.

“v’yamlich malchutei b’chayeichon u-v’yomeichon . . .”

My God, I can’t believe how easily these words come back. That’s why my father forced me to go to Hebrew school, I suppose. He almost never set foot in synagogue himself, yet he wanted to make sure I knew something about it. Bloody hypocrite.

“u-v’chayei d’chol beit Yisrael,”

My parents never lit candles on Shabbat or recited the blessings. We didn’t keep kosher. Hell, even our Seder was just a glorified family dinner. And yet my father made sure I learned enough to feel obliged, on the anniversary of his death, to come and say Kaddish for him. God damned hypocritical bastard.

"ba’agala u-vi-z’man kariv, v’imru amen.”

I kept mouthing the words, even daring to speak up now that I knew I wouldn’t embarrass myself. Part of me wished that I could have stayed home and said it in private, but that was unthinkable. You need ten Jews to say Kaddish—it doesn’t work in isolation. If I was going to recite the damn thing at all, I was going to do it properly.

“Y’hei sh’mei raba m’varach l’alam u-l’almei almaya.”

I rolled my eyes, wondering what my father would think if he could see me honoring his life. “May his memory be a blessing,” people had told me. I had to fight the urge to snort with laughter. Memories of what? Of his hypocrisy? Of his endless criticisms? Of his biting sarcasm? Of the unforgivable things he said about my wife?

“Yitbarach v’yishtabach, v’yitpa-ar v’yitromam v’yitnasei,”

He was good with the grandkids; I’ll give him that. Not that he would have ever have laid eyes on them if it were up to me. But Eileen insisted.

“v’yit-hadar v’yit’aleh v’yit-halal sh’mei d’kudsha, b’rich hu . . .”

It must have killed him to watch us raising the kids Catholic. But why should I have taught them anything about Judaism? Eileen’s the one who cares about religion, not me. Unlike my father, I won’t play the hypocrite for my children.

“l’ela min kol birchata v’shirata, tusb’chata v’nechamata . . .”

That means my kids will never say Kaddish for me. Well, so be it. Why should I care?

“da’amiran b’alma, v’imru amen.”

I closed my eyes, picturing my father saying Kaddish for my grandfather, and my grandfather saying Kaddish for my great-grandfather, and so on back through the generations. The line would end with me. My son would never stand in shul on my yartzeit, the anniversary of my death. He'd never even heard the word yartzeit.

“Y’hei sh’lama raba min sh’maya . . .”

I opened my eyes as the prayer kept tumbling out of me. So my son would never say Kaddish. My father would ask what I expected when I married a gentile. But that wasn’t the problem. Eileen would have gladly taught the kids about Judaism—her idea had been to raise them with a sound knowledge of each faith and let them choose when they got older.

“v’chayim aleinu v’al kol Yisrae-el, v’imru amen.”

I argued that if we were going to give them any religion, it had to be one consistent faith. Otherwise we’d confuse them. They’d end up coldly agnostic like me or in some God-forsaken Messianic congregation. I could stand watching my kids growing up Catholic, but I’d be damned before I’d see them in some crazy Christian ‘synagogue’ filled with pretend Jews.

“Oseh shalom bi-m’romav,”

But for the first time, I thought about what my kids were missing. No, not Hebrew school. I wasn’t cruel enough to force that on them. But to think that I had kids who didn’t know what someone’s yartzeit was . . .

“hu ya’aseh shalom . . .”

I bowed to my left, to my right and then straight ahead. Funny how your body remembers to bow even if your brain doesn’t see the point. Did I believe that I was literally bowing before God’s throne, and to the angels standing to the right and left of it? No, but here I was going through the motions.

“aleinu v’al kol Yisrae-el . . .”

God damn it. It did matter. I almost tripped over the words, stunned, as that realization hit me. I wanted my kids to say Kaddish for me someday, even if they were only going through the motions. I wanted them to learn how to make a real Seder—the kind I only experienced as a guest on second night. I wanted them to argue and question everything in shul. I wanted them to notice that something was missing when the family didn’t sit down together for Shabbat dinner. But I’d already made my choice. I wasn’t about to confuse my kids now. I’d have to play the hypocrite after all and pretend not to care.

“v’imru amen.”

I could do that, I told myself. Of course I could. I knew all about playing the hypocrite: I’d learned from the best.

We Choose the Moon by Womanwarrior

Womanwarrior (aka Mary Chodan) wrote this to let us know about a fascinating website. I'm reprinting it, with her permission, from the SpockMcCoyHaven Yahoo List:

For those of you too young to remember the Moon landing of July 20, 1969, (and those of you who do remember and cherish the event), http://www.wechoosethemoon.org/ is going to recreate the sequence of events that fateful week 40 years ago. Instead of watching it on black and white television, you'll be able to follow it on the website, on Twitter and on email. I urge you to access it if possible. I've been to the site, and it's amazing!

Personally, I'm going to follow it as much as I can, because 40 years ago it was my reality! I was barely 18, just out of high school, and my beloved Star Trek had been canceled. But I still had the Moon landing--a real step into the final frontier! I had followed every launch since Mercury. And because my Dad worked on the space program at Downey Space Center and the Miraloma Road complex in Anaheim, I had actually seen returned space capsules and met real astronauts. This was the ultimate graduation present, the embodiment of what I had resonated to and embraced in Star Trek. For that week, the world watched as one as we dared the eagle's flight, and succeeded.

President Kennedy put it best on May 25, 1961: "We choose to go to the Moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone and one which we intend to win."

I was nearly 11 years old, and I believed--and still believe--that the intention of his speech is possible. We have only to commit to a worthy goal--ending world hunger, ending illiteracy, or a thousand others--and it CAN happen. It can...IF. WE. WILL. COMMIT.

Thanks for listening!

Mary

Caption Contest!

Ok, even though the good doctor is sadly missing from the shot, I can't help but think that this one will be fun:

Dedicated to one of my cousins . . .

. . . who had never heard of Mikhail Baryshnikov before Sex and the City. She was amazed when my Mom gulped and said, um, yeah--he's one the greatest ballet dancers of all time.

So just to rub it in and feel superior, here's a brilliant clip from White Nights:


Oh, and what the heck. Here's one more. It's from the ballet Don Quixote:

Caption Winner~Gratz Julianna!

So many good ones to choose from--but Julianna keeps her crown!

Remember, Spock. The most powerful sexual organ is the brain.

1776~But, Mr. Adams

In honor of the 4th of July:

Introducing: The Tantalus Field

Check out Liederlady's new Star Trek blog, which begins with a hilarious advertisement from Cyrano Jones.

Laurie (The guy Jo should have married, if she married at all...)

As much as I like Christian Bale in serious, chiseled roles (and it sounds like Melvin Purvis from Public Enemies is one of those), I love him as Theodore Lawrence (aka Teddie or Laurie) in Little Women . He has his serious moments as Laurie, but it's a more light-hearted part:

One haircut coming up...

No more longish hair for me. I'm getting it bobbed today--cut down to size, so to speak. It's a wild, frizzy mess right now that's crying for taming.

So why am I so down about going short? At heart, I suppose, I still dream of having long, unruly curls flowing down my back . . .

Caption Contest!

Here's my favorite pic from STAR TREK III--and it's screaming for a caption:

DeForest Kelley Interview

Thank you, Womanwarrior, for finding this:

Star Trek Interviews No.09
Uploaded by 11001001-info. - Click for more funny videos.

Poll results!

Can we take a tough critique? Absolutely!

None of us are satisfied with compliments alone. All of us want to hear an honest opinion.

Two of us said we can take it as long as it's constructive and gentle. (If it's too harsh, we may shut our ears to it.)

Six of us said that we can take it--although we may shrivel up inside. But if the critiquer is making valid points, we'll listen.

One brave soul said: damn straight, I can take it! Bring it on.

Thanks for participating!

They Died Too Young . . .

Michael Joseph Jackson: August 29, 1958 – June 25, 2009

Farrah Fawcett: February 2, 1947 – June 25, 2009

Christian Bale's Gift to Me...

Public Enemies is coming out right near my birthday. That's Christian Bale's gift to me, right?

The film looks promising: Johnny Depp is playing gangster John Dillinger and CB is playing Melvin Purvis, the FBI agent trying to stop him. CB's not the star of this--per the press, he's clearly in a supporting role--but I don't mind. I'll take him in any good role, regardless of how much screen time he gets.

I headed over to Raven's community for Bale Fans today and found this interview with CB. It's not quite enough to hold me over until I see the movie, but it's helping.

Caption Winner~Gratz Julianna!

Great entries from everyone--I had to go back to the jar to pick one. Julianna gets the crown!

McCoy: Well, don't this beat all. I really AM giving Spock a piece of my mind!

New Poll: Can You Take a Tough Critique?

We've all had them--brutal critiques that make us shrivel up inside and question our worth as writers. But I've found that the toughest critiques are sometimes the most helpful . . . as long as the reviewer isn't just out for blood.

But how tough a critique can we take? Fill out the poll on the sidebar and feel free to discuss!

~Rose

Enterprise Bar Mitzvah?

This was too much fun:

Caption Contest!

Here's a tricky one from The Search for Spock:

~The List~

Ok, here's a brief list of e-book/print publishers that publish original slash fiction:

1. Ellora's Cave

2. Samhain Publishing

3. Torquere Press

4. Liquid Silver Books

5. Loose ID

Poke around these sites--all of them have e-books (and/or books) worth buying and all have submission guidelines. Some encourage all manner of glbt stories; others demand seriously erotic tales. Some prefer M/M over F/F.

Ok, now here are a couple of sites that publish short stories, flash fiction, micro fiction and poetry. These are not slash, glbt or romance sites--I don't know if they're hostile to such fiction, but it's certainly not their focus:

1. Ruthless Peoples Magazine

2. Flash Scribe

3. MindWings

4. AlienSkin Magazine (Sci-fi, Fantasy, Speculative)

Finally, here are two non-publishing sites that allow you to post your work in order to get hard-core critiques:

1. Scribophile (I'm using this extensively--I love it! Try it out for free, but if you intend to use it seriously upgrade to a paid membership as soon as possible.)

2. Review Fuse (I don't know much about this one yet--I just joined and haven't gotten started. I've heard good things about it, however. I'm starting off with a free membership.)

Ok, ok--this is an incomplete list. We know there must be more sites out there! But this ought to get us started . . .

Stressed . . .

. . . over money. Or my lack thereof. As much as I'm looking forward to summer, as a substitute teacher things are going to be tight. My stomach is roiling just thinking about my bank account.

I may pick up a freelance job or two over the summer doing some typing and editing--and that may tide me over. But I also plan to start submitting short stories and pieces of flash fiction to online sites. Some of these sites pay good money--others pay about $2 per piece. But they pay something!

Ok, yeah. I submitted one story once before. It got past the first round of editors on my selected site--only to be rejected by the second round. Sigh.

But I'm not going to let one measley rejection stop me from trying again! (Ok, I have let it stop me for quite a while--but that's in the past.)

I'm going to collect some of these sites today and post them here. I know I'm not the only one handy with a pen--and I'm not the only one hard up for cash!

Caption Winner!

Ok, I ignored my blog yesterday, mainly because I had a wisdom tooth pulled. But I'm back (and I'm even off the pain killers.) Meanwhile, we had some great entries for this pic, but--well, I think we all agree on the winner. No jar necessary: congratulations, Julianna!

McCoy: It says, "Surrender Dorothy." Who the devil is Dorothy?

I'm a terrible Balehead...

I haven't even seen Christian in Terminator: Salvation yet. But I did check out this interview in GQ!

DeForest Kelley, 20 January 1920~11 June 1999

Ten years ago today DeForest Kelley passed on~and I think all Star Trek fans still miss him. His portrayal of Dr. McCoy still inspires me . . . if Bones could be such a good man even with that stubborn temper of his, maybe there's hope for me too!

A special thank you to Julianna and Womanwarrior, who both pointed out DeKelley's yartzeit (the anniversary of his death) and this lovely memorial.

Fifty years ago Harvey Haddix threw 12 perfect innings . . . and then lost

This is a great story from Sports Illustrated :

Fifty years ago Harvey Haddix threw 12 perfect - 06.01.09 - SI Vault

Happy Belated Birthday to Karl Urban and Womanwarrior!

Yes, both Karl Urban and Womanwarrior were born on 7 June~here's hoping you both had a great day!

Caption Needed!

I don't think we've captioned this yet--one of my favorite shots from the new film!

And, uh, ahem. I'm still working on that challenge story of mine...

Update!

We have two excellent stories born of this challenge: Julianna's Passive-Aggressive Release and Liederlady's Darkness and Silence.

This challenge is still open. In fact, I hope to have mine up tonight.

The newest Spiced Peaches is out--if you haven't checked out these Spock-McCoy stories, head on over there!

Finally, the new caption contest will be up tomorrow (Sunday), and the winner will be announced on Wednesday.

See you tonight with my challenge story. . .

Caption Winner!

I pulled out two winners from the jar--they were stuck together. So shared honors go to Julianna for the first and Liederlady for the second. Gratz, ladies!

Kirk regrets ever suggesting that they stage an episode of "Heroes" for the crew.


Jim: (wheeze) I thought there was no, (choke) Vulcan Death Grip?

Spock: I lied.

Passive-Aggressive Release by Ster Julie

Title: Passive-Aggressive Release

Author: Ster Julie

Codes: AOS, Spock, McCoy; Rose’s “In Dr. McCoy’s Office” Challenge

Also See: Related stories/chapters by Ster Julie

Rating: [PG]

Part one of one

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I just borrow them and return them well-loved.


A/N: Thanks to my big sister, the scientist, for being my consultant on the rocks. I liked the tourmaline-mica-quartz-feldspar conglomerate, while she preferred the dog tooth calcite bc it was the right color and looked more alien.


--ooOoo--


Spock positioned another sizeable stone in front of him, aimed, and swung the sledge hammer up into a powerful arc.


*SMASH*


Again.


*CRACK*


This time the rock fractured somewhat in half, its edges sharp and jagged, its russet and golden interior glinting as the numerous crystals caught the sun just so.


Spock mindlessly moved the large halves off to the side and repeated the process. Position. Swing. *SMASH*

Swing again. *CRACK* Move aside. Repeat.


Doctor McCoy observed Spock at a distance, not wanting to disturb the Vulcan as he worked out his grief and anger. The Enterprise was making its routine bi-monthly stop at the Vulcan colony during which time the medical staff would make wellness checks, provisions and donations would be delivered, and Spock would have time to interact with the members of his House.


So why is he out here alone and doing hard labor? McCoy wondered, looking at the sizeable pile of cleft stones, and the long line of rocks waiting a turn at the edge of a newly plowed field.


The words “passive-aggressive behavior” rolled around McCoy’s mind. He tried to study Spock’s face but found it difficult from a distance. McCoy took a deep breath and drew as close as he dare to the swinging sledgehammer and the flying chips of stone.


Spock took only enough time to flick a glance at him as he continued to work. “Doctor,” he said as he took another swing.


“I nearly finished the wellness checks on all the Vulcans,” McCoy reported.


“Nearly?” *Smash.*


“One got away,” the doctor continued.


“Got away?” Spock repeated. *Crack.*


“Yes,” McCoy continued. “I had to track him down. I found him exhibiting passive-aggressive behavior, splitting stones in this heat.”


Spock stopped the hammer in mid-swing. “Are you referring to me?” he asked, incredulous. “There is nothing passive-aggressive in my behavior, Doctor. The artisans need these stones cracked to be used in the memorial monument. I am merely doing my share of the work.” Spock hefted the heavy hammer once more.


“So why aren’t you using a power tool, even a phaser?” McCoy countered.


“I get a more satisfactory outcome with the hammer,” Spock defended.


“You mean you get more satisfaction by smashing those stones yourself, Spock,” McCoy accused.


“Really, Doctor!”


“How many times have you imagined Nero’s face on those rocks?” he accused. “How many times have you bashed his head in? Bashed in the heads of those who didn’t help you save your world? Do you see Chekov for saving you but not your mother? Do you see your older self and smash him, too, for not stopping the destruction of Romulus in the first place?”


Spock flung away the sledge hammer with a cry, not trusting himself, fearing he might use it on McCoy.


“Cease!” he roared. The Vulcan bent over and rested his hands on his knees. His harsh breathing was the only sound for a while.


McCoy reached into the pack he carried and pulled out a small pop-up tent. He set it up on a flat patch of ground and motioned inside.


“Step into my office, Spock,” he invited. “It’s too damn hot out here.”


Reluctantly, Spock straightened, brushed his hands and clothes off and moved into the shelter.


McCoy grabbed a chunk of rock and brought it inside. He studied its crystalline interior as Spock drank down a few water packs.


“Why do you think I am exhibiting passive-aggressive behavior?” Spock asked.


“You’re being self-destructive,” McCoy explained.


“Elucidate.”


“You’re working outside during the hottest part of the day,” the doctor continued, “doing work by hand that could be done with power tools. Where is your water supply? Where are your safety goggles? You may be crushing rocks, but you are also crushing something in you.” The doctor hefted the rock again. “Why so many of these, anyway?”


Spock took a deep breath. “The artisans will be using them to line the inside and outside of the memorial,” he explained quietly.


“Why are you working on this alone?” McCoy queried gently. He noted that the Vulcan suddenly fell silent at his question. “Well, looky there. Spock’s actually squirming!” the doctor noted.


“When I come here,” Spock began, “everyone knows their place. Everyone has their job to do. It is an efficient community. I am an outsider when I come here.”

“But I thought you were head of a House,” McCoy observed.


“Some Head of House,” Spock said with derision. “I am not here long enough to make a difference. I have no say over who joins my House. I do not know any of the new members. I have adopted children, but I cannot even raise them.”* Small stone chips fell from Spock’s bowed head like tears. “It’s as if I do not belong here either.”


McCoy sat back and processed all that he heard from Spock, turning his thoughts over as he turned the rock in his hands.


Spock took the stone from the doctor. “This stone will bear witness that I was here,” he continued, “that I contributed something tangible to the colony. The stones will be set into the matrix comprising the domed shape. Their rough edges will symbolize out great pain, our raw grief. The play of the sunlight on the crystals will create beauty out of that grief.”


McCoy thought awhile over all Spock had said.


“I’ve been worried about you, Spock,” he admitted at last. “You have lost so much.”


“No more than any of the others,” the Vulcan interjected.


“Maybe,” McCoy admitted, “but they have the support of each other. Who do you have? You say that the control of your House has been usurped because you are not here long enough. Maybe it’s time to ask for leave. God knows you have it coming. At the very least, don’t do this kind of work without provisions and safety equipment. And for Pete’s sake, talk to the members of your House. Make them make room for you and your needs. Find a way to communicate with your kids every day. I’ll even help foot the telecom bill.”


Spock gave the doctor a warm look. “That will not be necessary,” he said.


The two men sat in the relative coolness of the shelter. McCoy fished around in his pack and withdrew two ration packs and several more water packs.


“No point in me lugging this back,” he commented.


“Are you leaving, Doctor?” Spock asked.


“My work is done here,” he replied. “I have conducted the last of the wellness checks on the Vulcans here at the colony.”


“And your findings?” Spock prompted.


“They show promise,” the doctor reported. “The incidences of suicide have fallen dramatically. Everyone is finding release in working together to build a new society.”


McCoy smiled gently.


“Especially our first officer.”


END


* See “Rejected and Despised--The Halflings”

Darkness and Silence by Liederlady

Author: Liederlady

Title: Darkness and Silence

Date: May 29, 2009

Characters: ST XI (AOS) Kirk, Spock and McCoy

Rating: G, friendship fic

Word count: 2,988

Challenge: Rose’s “In Doctor McCoy’s Office” challenge to illustrate Bones’ clinical psychiatry expertise while helping (at least) one of the crew members.


Summary: Bones understands that, very often, the most effective emotional healing occurs when offering another person succor. He also understands the necessity for the occasional application of guile.

~~~~~~~~~

Darkness and Silence


Spock!” McCoy called out as the Vulcan first officer exited the turbolift on deck five.


Spock turned and waited for McCoy to catch up to him.


“Do you have a minute to talk?”


“Yes. I can spare one minute of the nine point three seven minutes remaining before I report for duty, doctor,” Spock answered.


McCoy scowled at the first officer’s preciseness.

“Yeah. Well, it was just an expression. Can we take this to my office?”


McCoy pegged the expression Spock wore as suspicious. Naturally, the Vulcan would deny it.


Spock nodded and both men took the turbolift to McCoy’s office on deck six.


“Have a seat Spock. Drink?” McCoy asked, indicating a chair and moving to the small compartment that housed his mini-bar.


“Thank you, no,” Spock replied. Apparently, his answer covered both invitations as he remained standing ramrod straight, hands behind his back.


McCoy shrugged and poured himself a shot glass of bourbon before taking his seat. As he took a sip, he was acutely aware of the Vulcan’s dark eyes on him.


After a moment, Spock said, “Doctor, we have used forty-one seconds of your minute.”


McCoy shook his head and took another sip. “Like I said, just an expression. This may take your full nine-and-a-half minutes, Spock.”


“Eight point five six minutes now remain, doctor,” Spock said without a trace of humor.


“Okay, okay,” McCoy said. “I’ll get to the point.”


“That would be advantageous,” Spock said.


“I need your help with something,” McCoy admitted.


“Indeed,” Spock replied.


“It’s about Jim. I’m worried about him,” McCoy said, his brows knit in concern.


“If this is in regard to the captain’s health surely that is your--,” Spock began.


“He’s exhausted, he’s dropped five pounds,” McCoy interrupted. “Hasn’t been sleeping more than an hour or two a night for weeks. What sleep he does get is filled with nightmares. It’s affecting his performance. It was that damned Vulcan mind meld with Spo-- with your counterpart. Jim’s suffering post-traumatic stress syndrome because of it.”


“From a mind meld?” Spock asked dubiously.


“From the emotional upheaval Ambassador Spock was going through at the time,” McCoy clarified. “I noticed it in all of the surviving Vulcans we took aboard. You people actually felt the deaths of your … your fellow Vulcans.”


McCoy’s voice softened considerably at the last.


Spock’s gaze flicked down to the toes of his boots.


“And Jim shared that upheaval, Spock. It’s twisting his insides apart. And triggered his own unresolved grief for his father,” McCoy said sadly, shaking his head.


A long silence ensued. A silence, Spock noted, of forty-two seconds.


“I need your help, Spock. Jim needs your help,” McCoy said.


The Vulcan first officer had not known McCoy long. They had shared brief interactions during the crisis with Nero. However, he and the doctor had worked closely during the repairs to Enterprise’s sickbay and science labs. Spock found the doctor’s emotional outbursts to be intensely illogical. At first, he also believed them to be counterproductive.


However, to Spock’s consternation, McCoy’s emotionalism spurred his staff’s efficiency and dedication to duty. More than once, Spock was present as McCoy imperiously strode through through a ward or lab, leaving criticism, barked orders, sarcastic guidance and, frequently, grudging praise in his wake. Being Vulcan, Spock could not help overhearing the murmured reactions once McCoy had passed. Typically, one or two people would grumble only to be reprimanded by the vast majority.


Admiration abounded for the doctor’s triage and emergency instincts in the wake of Nero’s attack. His clinical ability was universally judged exceptional. Others lauded the man’s ability to calm shattered and scattered souls, including those of the surviving medical and paramedical staff, with a quiet word, a lingering touch or a warm glance.


And the esteem from those who witnessed McCoy’s surgical skill bordered on reverence.


The repairs to sickbay were completed a week in advance of the deadline. McCoy gathered everyone responsible and ordered them to look around at what they had accomplished. He quietly said he was looking forward with great pride to serving with them then brusquely told them to “get the hell back to work already.”


Spock was still regarding his boots when he finally replied to McCoy’s request for assistance.


“I am at a loss to understand how I may help, Doctor McCoy. This is your field of expertise, is it not?”


McCoy nodded. “Yeah. And that’s how Jim will see it. Me ‘treating’ him. He’s already balked. I had to pull rank just to get him to admit to the effects of the mind meld. I didn’t like doing that.”


“You have the authority,” Spock said.


“The answer to this isn’t authority, Spock, but friendship and support. It’s about getting Jim to confront the trauma,” McCoy explained.


Spock finally glanced over at McCoy. What he saw etched in the doctor’s face prompted an unanticipated memory of his mother. She would wear that same expression of concern, even pain, each time he was bullied by the other Vulcan children. Even when Spock grew old enough to master his emotions sufficiently to hide the truth she somehow knew there had been another incident.


“You are his friend, doctor,” Spock answered, summoning c’thia to submerge the memory of his mother to where it could do no harm.


McCoy nodded again. “Damned right. But I can’t fathom the depth of despair that Jim’s experiencing, Spock. You can. If Ambassador Spock was aboard, I’d be asking him for help.”


“Again, I am still at a loss as to how you believe I may help,” Spock repeated stiffly, taking offense at McCoy’s erroneous assumption that he suffered despair.


Spock accepted the reality of the loss of Vulcan and of his mother. He had acted logically after both events, other than his deplorable loss of control in response to Kirk’s baiting. Spock spent hours of intense meditation to ensure such a failure would never again occur.


As he considered McCoy’s words, Spock was suddenly horrified that the doctor expected him to mind meld with the captain and excise the painful memories. The young commander experienced a sudden wave of nausea. Such an act would violate every Vulcan tenet of privacy and ethics.


“Talk to Jim. Just talk. You know strategy and tactics as well as he does. Use that ability to steer the conversation,” McCoy advised. “If anyone can out-maneuver our headstrong captain, you can.”


Spock raised a dubious eyebrow at that.


“Look, I know you’re due on duty. Will you please just think about it?” McCoy asked.


Spock nodded fractionally then turned and headed for the bridge.

~~~~~~~~~~

That same day over lunch in his quarters with the captain, McCoy brought up the subject of personnel evaluations.


“There’s one senior officer in particular who’s showing signs of stress. Enough stress to create a minor drop in efficiency. But what’s more troubling are the physical manifestations,” McCoy said.


“Oh? What are they?”


“Increase in blood pressure, intervals of irregular heart rhythm, marked decrease in appetite, abnormal temperature readings, other metabolic rates all over the scale.” McCoy’s brows dipped closer to each other as he ticked off the irregular readings.


Jim Kirk had thought his friend had invited him to lunch to relax. Now he realized there was an ulterior motive, and an important one at that. He glanced over at the PADD that lay on McCoy’s tray.


“Sounds serious. Who is it?” Jim asked, finishing his sandwich.


“Commander Spock,” McCoy replied, tucking back into his salad.


Jim froze in mid-chew. When he realized his mouth was open and full of mushed sandwich, he swallowed.


“Spock?” He reached for his water glass, suddenly wishing it was a shot of bourbon.


McCoy nodded.


“Do you know what’s wrong?” Jim said, instantly concerned. Vulcans always seem so indestructible.


“I don’t need my Ph.D in psychiatry to venture a diagnosis.”


“What then?”


“Jim, you’re probably better aware than anyone on this ship of what Spock must be going through. The other day you admitted that your mind meld with Ambassador Spock … well, leaked a hell of a lot of despair.”


Jim Kirk slumped back in his chair.


“Are you telling me Spock is … depressed?”


“Vulcans may not suffer post-traumatic stress disorder as frequently as we do, Jim, but that doesn’t mean they’re immune. Hell, they have emotions, but keep them bottled up like a capped volcano. Forget about Spock being half human. Even if he were one thousand percent Vulcan, he’d be dealing with intense anguish. You said it yourself. No matter where they were, every surviving Vulcan felt the rest of their race die. I can’t imagine the overwhelming grief of losing everything you knew as home.”


Kirk shuddered as the memory of Ambassador Spock’s desolation again inundated him.


“How can we help?” Kirk asked, instantly straightening and leaning earnestly across the table.


McCoy smiled inwardly.


“He’s got to talk about what he’s feeling Jim. Trick is how to get a damned repressed Vulcan to talk about something he claims not to have?”


“We’ll have to maneuver him into it,” Kirk said.


“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t go about maneuvering the man the way you did the last time, Jim. Spock’s father isn’t around to stop him from snapping your neck,” McCoy chided.


Kirk bristled. “That’s nothing to joke about, Bones. I hated doing that to him after what he’d been through. It was the only way, the only way to follow Ambassador Spo--”


McCoy reached a hand out to his friend’s arm.


“I know that Jim. I wasn’t joking. Problem is ever since losing it when you taunted him he’s been acting uber-Vulcan.


“Denial of grief is a very dark place, Jim. Perhaps if he thought he was helping someone else deal with similar pain, he might just be able to give voice to his own. Or at the very least, privately acknowledge it,” McCoy ventured. “Misery does love company.”


Kirk stood up suddenly, his brows drawn down as he gazed at his friend.


“Are you trying to head shrink me, Bones?”


McCoy kept his seat and gazed up at his perceptive friend with what he hoped was an appropriately icy stare.


“It’s not like yours couldn’t benefit from it sometimes, captain. And if you can put aside your penchant for self-absorption long enough, we weren’t talking about you. We were talking about our first officer. Your sleep patterns may be disrupted by emotional spillover from the Ambassador, but you’re not the one who lost your home world and your mother in the same instant, are you?” McCoy growled.


Jim Kirk flinched as though physically stricken. Then he retook his seat.


“Sorry Jim. I didn’t mean that to sound so harsh. I know what you’re experiencing is disturbing, but it’s only a fraction of the grief Spock must feel. If anyone on this ship can relate to him, you can. You feel what the Ambassador felt. You understand not just the scope of the loss that the rest of us can, but the profound physical and psychic pain that every Vulcan must be suffering,” McCoy said.


Kirk glanced up at his friend and McCoy couldn’t help noticing the uncharacteristic shimmer diluting the usually intense blue gaze. The young captain nodded then stood slowly and turned away to regain his composure.


“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Jim said. “Man, but I don’t have a clue how to open such a conversation.”


“Maybe just tell Spock what you told me the other day. About your sleeplessness. About what you still feel from the meld,” McCoy offered.


Kirk whipped around.


“Bones, I can’t do that! The Vulcans are-- well, their mind meld is an intensely private thing. I just can’t start up a conversation about it like ‘Well, hey there Spock, you know that mind meld I had with your older self? Well, man I got a serious dose of emotional transference because your older self isn’t afraid to admit he’s in agony.’ I mean, come on, Bones!” Kirk blurted out in exasperation.


McCoy noticed Jim’s eyes were brimming once more. He didn’t look away. And, this time, neither did Jim.


“Jim, this won’t be easy. You’re an arrogant, sarcastic sonofabitch and you have your own emotional baggage to deal with. We can have future arguments on that front, but there’s something else at stake right now.


“You are the captain of this ship. And one of your people is in trouble. I’m not preaching to you. I’m not going to tell you how to help Spock. All I’m telling you is that it’s your responsibility to try. If he rejects you, there’s not much you can do short of ordering him to seek professional help. Hell, I can do that, but I doubt it would hold much sway. You’re his commanding officer.”


Kirk winced before saying, “Who was forced on him.”


“Doesn’t make a difference to a Vulcan. Duty’s part of their skin. Spock follows your orders. When he disagrees with them, he tells you but still follows them. That’s his job and, so far, he’s done it well.


“If he can’t work through this, if he stays trapped in that silence, do you really want to be forced to search for a new first officer?” McCoy asked harshly.


Kirk straightened to attention and narrowed his eyes. And McCoy breathed a silent sigh of relief. He knew that look.


“No,” was all Kirk said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Four weeks later, Leonard McCoy was up late, nursing a carafe of strong coffee while reviewing the latest crew health and efficiency reports. He was down to his last two: captain and first officer.


The captain’s serotonin levels were rising to optimal ranges thanks to an improved sleep cycle. He’d gained seven pounds. His efficiency ratings were also optimal. In fact, they surpassed those from his final months as a Starfleet cadet.


McCoy smiled wearily and rubbed his eyes before touching stylus to PADD to bring up the next report.


First Officer Spock: Blood pressure, optimal. Heart rate, optimal. Appetite, normal. All metabolic data in optimal ranges. Efficiency rating: Off the scale.


“Back to annoyingly perfect,” McCoy growled happily.


He re-coded the security lock on the PADD before rising to retire.


It had been a hell of a day. They’d almost lost Jim when the Metrons forced him to fight a reptilian opponent called a Gorn—a fight to the death.


In Jim’s absence Spock was in command, but there was little he or anyone else could do but watch the combatants once the Metrons informed the crew Kirk was losing.


McCoy stood next to the command chair the entire time and could almost feel the Vulcan chafing as the physically stronger Gorn battered Jim. Once, Bones heard Spock mutter something in Vulcan.


McCoy was no expert on hand-to-hand combat, but he was well aware that Jim’s initial survival was thanks in no small part to the Vulcan Suus Mahna disciplines he learned from Spock over the past month.


Prior to issuing the invitation to the captain, Spock had elicited McCoy’s advice about the lessons. Bones had been forced to turn away when he said they might indeed be an excellent stress reducer.


The whole ship had been abuzz about Suus Mahna and Spock’s evident proficiency. Many crew members turned out to watch the captain and first officer engage. The single time McCoy snuck into the crowded gym to observe, Spock threw Jim time after time, demonstrating one move after another with blinding efficiency.


After each throw, Jim would pop up with an expression of mixed admiration and determination, intent on mastering at least one of the moves. Before McCoy left, he saw the results of both Spock’s instructive capacity and Jim’s aptitude when Kirk jerked the Vulcan over his hip and slammed him into the mat. Kirk straightened wearing one of the widest grins McCoy had ever seen. But what was even more satisfying was the double eyebrow lift Spock offered in return—unrestrained surprise.


When the captain laughed and stretched out a hand to his first officer, the Vulcan almost smiled.


The crisis with the Gorn ended when Jim’s wits defeated the reptilian opponent and the Metrons were won over by Kirk’s refusal to kill. When Jim reappeared on the bridge, both McCoy and Spock swallowed for what seemed like the first time in hours and both officers promptly escorted their protesting captain to sickbay.


Once the exhausted McCoy reached his quarters, he encountered the first officer.


“Can’t sleep, Spock?”


The Vulcan indicated the negative. “The captain and I were assessing the day’s events doctor,” he explained.


“Oh, right,” McCoy replied.


He’d heard about the evening discussions from Jim. During one, Kirk broke the ice with Spock about the mind meld and the Vulcan reluctantly acknowledged his people’s psychic trauma.


“Doctor, may I venture a personal query?”


McCoy nodded.


“Do humans not grieve over the deaths of family members?” Spock said.


“Not always,” McCoy answered. “Depends.”


Spock’s left eyebrow shot up. McCoy had an idea where this was going.


“Upon what criteria does it depend?” Spock pressed.


“Is this about Jim’s father?” McCoy asked. Spock’s gaze flicked away as he nodded.


“Jim never knew his father. All I ever heard him admit to knowing was what he described as the ‘hero stuff,’” McCoy explained.


Spock was clearly mystified. “Would not his father’s irrefutable heroism confer even greater cause to merit honorable remembrance?” he asked.


“Yes.”


McCoy suspected Jim’s stepfather had persistently belittled the memory of George Kirk, among other things. But if Jim was to ever confirm McCoy’s suspicion, Spock would be the best person to coax such an admission.


Bones had hoped that might happen after Jim managed to elicit Spock’s acknowledgment of bereavement over his mother’s death.


‘In time,’ McCoy thought.


“Spock, can we discuss this tomorrow? I’d sure hate to knock you over by falling asleep standing up,” McCoy said wearily.


“Of course. Good night, doctor.”


“Night Spock.”

~The End~

Challenge: In Dr. McCoy's Office...

The last challenge was a brilliant success--thanks to everyone who contributed! I'm still working on a sidebar link to all the challenge stories; I hope to have that up later today. Meanwhile, I think it's high time for another challenge:

In TOS, the Enterprise didn't seem to have a ship's psychologist. Every once in a while, we'd see Bones double up in that role. How do you think that will go in Star Trek XI? Bones has plenty of material to work with: Spock has just lost his planet and Jim has any number of issues. And there must be other crew members who need a friendly ear.

So lets see Bones playing the therapist for someone on board. This can happen during the movie or after. Let's give the stories a word-count of 3000 or less and let's keep the rating PG-13 or below.

Oh, and you might want to check out this site: Archetype: The Fiction Writer's Guide to Psychology. Lots of good stuff there!

Edit: Forgot to give some important info! I'll post the stories here--but you're free to post them anywhere else: your blog, FanFiction.net, Spock-McCoy Haven, ASCEML, etc. And go ahead and e-mail me your story at jrosemary@gmail.com.

So . . . anyone game?

Caption Needed!

Oy--sorry this is so late! But here's this week's caption contest: have at it, all you K/S types!

Soaking Wet

Much thanks to Liederlady for finding this site dedicated to soaking wet actors--including two of my favorites. Unfortunately, there are no soaking wet actresses. Sigh. I'll just have to content myself with Christian and Karl . . .

Christian Bale

Karl Urban

Two New Challenge Stories!

These two answers to this challenge came in late--but they are worth the wait! We have:

Part One of What Shall Separate Us by Mary Chodan (aka Womanwarrior)

and

Second Chances by Qzeebrella

A warm welcome to both authors--thanks for answering the challenge!

Future Plans: We'll definitely have more challenges--I'll put a new one up tomorrow, along with a new caption contest. And I'll put a link to all the challenge stories on the sidebar, to make them easier to find. I'll just need till tomorrow to get organized, lol...

And, as you can see, if you go over the word count or answer the challenge late, no worries. As long as we're exercising our writing muscles, it's all good!

What Shall Separate Us by Mary Chodan (aka Womanwarrior)

Author: MaryChodan (aka Womanwarrior)
Date: May 23, 2009
Archive: SpockMcCoyHaven (also Fanfiction.net)
Title: What Shall Separate Us
Characters: Spock Prime/McCoy Prime
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Major Character Death
Summary: Ambassador Spock has promised to deliver the ‘red matter’ payload into Romulus' unstable sun, preventing the extinction of Romulus and its population. The cost of trying to keep his promise will be higher than he could have imagined.
--------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: What began as a response to a Rose Moss challenge to write a elder Spock/young McCoy ST XI story took on a life of its own and became something else entirely.

Thanks to Rose and her insightful, sharp-eyed beta and encouragement. Mistakes are all mine!

Disclaimer: Paramount owns the Trek universe and its inhabitants...at least on paper.

Vulcan terminology:
adun-- beloved spouse
Kaiidth--What is, is.
kam--affectionate diminutive attached to first name
katra--soul, life essence
q'omi--human (affectionate term when used with "my")
Shi'kahr--site of Spock's ancestral home on Vulcan
t'hy'la--lover, brother or friend; any combination of the three


What Shall Separate Us

“You know what must be done, Spock,” the Vulcan scientist quietly intoned.

Spock did not turn around, but continued to look down at the elderly human sleeping quietly in the living quarters of the science laboratory. Spock sighed softly. His warm long-fingered hand gently pushed the old man’s thinning white hair off of the wrinkled forehead.

Spock’s thoughts strayed to contemplate the human’s hands. At age 150, Doctor Leonard McCoy was understandably frail, the blue veins prominent in the translucent parchment skin. Yet the vital-from-within spirit that had animated those hands was as young as the day they had met.

In his mind’s eye he saw again a much younger McCoy performing delicate surgery on his father, Sarek…expertly bandaging a plasma burn victim in Engineering…gently comforting a badly injured yeoman in Sickbay.

And then Spock saw their first night together. He and the doctor had been debating once again in Sickbay, McCoy’s hands punctuating one of his illogical rants. Spock had instinctively caught him by the wrists when the doctor had come too close. McCoy’s startled expression had mirrored his own reaction. Those fascinating hands, deftly exploring him….

One hundred years together. I wonder if it is possible to calculate how many times his hands have touched me.

Spock closed his eyes at the thought and smiled slightly.

No matter the number, the answer will always be…not often enough.

From the corner of his eye, Spock saw the Vulcan scientists leave the room. They knew it was logical to allow Spock time with his human t'hy'la. The man was old and ill, but in no immediate danger. His Vulcan healers were always nearby. Proximity to both would keep Spock focused on the immediate concern. He would do what needed to be done.

After they left, the Vulcan’s hand automatically found McCoy’s meld points. The human stirred, his head unconsciously nestling into the heat of Spock’s delicate fingertips.

It is time, Len-kam.

McCoy’s eyes shuddered open in a blank stare, then focused on Spock. “Did I fall asleep again, adun? Dammit, why didn’t you wake me?”

Spock smiled slightly, his brown eyes warm with affection. “You obviously needed the rest, Len-kam, or your body would have allowed you to stay awake.”

The human made a face, and then grinned mischievously, his eyes twinkling. “I used to be able to stay awake a LONG time, remember? Of course, we were doing something a helluva lot more interesting than trying to blow up a supernova.”

Spock’s breath caught imperceptibly.

Eyes blue as a Georgia sky in summer, blue as the plantation lake sparkling in the sun. My t'hy’la, my q’omi….

The Vulcan took McCoy’s hand in his own, caressing the cool aged fingers and gently tracing the pattern on the doctor’s pinkie ring.

The old man squeezed Spock’s hand. “So how long will this fool’s errand take?”

“It is not a ‘fool’s errand’, Len-kam. The people of Romulus are depending on us to….”

McCoy waved impatiently at Spock, motioning for him to help the doctor sit up. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It was a JOKE, darlin’, a JOKE!”

Spock shook his head slightly in amusement, and then waited while McCoy put his thin arms around the Vulcan’s neck. Spock lifted the human easily, a fleeting stab of fear causing his stomach to twist.

So light, like a fledgling silverbird.

The doctor’s Georgian drawl broke his reverie.

“Well, you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna carry me over the threshold,” McCoy teased as he settled against the Vulcan’s neck and chest.

Spock’s voice unconsciously shifted into a pedantic cadence. “I will carry you to the observation deck, doctor, and set you in your hoverchair. Sunak and T’Kir will care for you in the laboratory after the launch, and I will retrieve you when I return. I have already asked Healer T’Lar and Healer Skon to stay with you in the laboratory as well.”

McCoy’s head shot up and he studied Spock closely. “Well, aren’t you the formal one. Doctor? Since when do you call me doctor?” His voice took on a tinge of sarcasm. “C’mon, Mister Spock, what’s up? The job is pretty cut and dried, right? You blast off, shoot the red stuff into the sun, save the Romulans and come back. It’s not like you’re off on a five-year mission!”

Spock did not reply, but continued to carry McCoy down the corridor toward the observation deck.

“Dammit, you pointy-eared hobgoblin, answer me! What aren’t you telling me? It’s not like I’m going to fall over dead if you tell me what’s going on, you know!”

The Vulcan never broke stride but his body stiffened slightly, then relaxed.

McCoy’s eyes widened. “My god,” he breathed, then was quiet for a moment. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re scared! You’re thinking I might die while you’re gone. Admit it…you’re scared I’ll die. ”

The doctor’s eyes never left the Vulcan’s profile, but Spock looked straight ahead as he walked, his face a silent mask of concentration. Only his eyes betrayed the truth of McCoy’s words.

Why must you do this now, my q’omi...against you my heart has no shield, no defense.

“What would you have me say,” Spock said evenly as they reached the observation deck and he prepared to settle McCoy into the hoverchair.

The human’s hand caught Spock’s arm. Spock could feel the quick, uneven beat of McCoy’s pulse in the doctor’s fingertips. The Vulcan straightened up again.

“Adun,” McCoy’s voice became gentle and he turned the Vulcan’s face toward his own. “I’ll be alright, I promise. You gotta admit I’ve been a lot better since the last time I was in the healing center.”

“You nearly expired,” Spock replied quietly.

“But I didn’t, did I?” McCoy reasoned. “I’m taking all the pills, and I’m doing the breathing treatments and drinking all those nasty tasting Vulcan teas. I’m feeling better, really. You’ll be back in 12 standard hours, and then we can go home to Shi’kahr and sit in the garden. Hell, we can plan a spring vacation to Georgia if we want to…yeah, why don’t we do that?”

Spock smiled slightly at the animation in McCoy’s voice, but said nothing.

“Dammit, Spock, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Sudden tears sprang into the human’s eyes. “Hold me for awhile, will you?”

“I am not upset, my q’omi,” Spock began, cradling McCoy as he carefully sat down in one of the deck’s viewing chairs. “I have never contemplated having to leave you for any reason. To do so now is…. My duty is clear, and it is logical that I perform it.”

The Vulcan pulled the doctor closer.

“But where you are concerned, t'hy’la, my logic fails me. There are many things I wish to say to you now, yet I have said them all many times. When I tell thee that I love thee and cherish thee, it is as wondrous as if it was the first time. The same joy that I felt that first time is now a thousand fold. Yet somehow the words seem inadequate. I…fear….”

McCoy’s tears now flowed freely down his wrinkled face. The thin chest heaved convulsively as the old man gasped, “My god, Spock….”

Alarmed, Spock automatically put his hand over the doctor’s heart.

“Len-kam, you will become ill again….”

“I’m alright, darlin’.” McCoy smiled weakly and covered the Vulcan’s warm hand with his own. “I’m always alright with you here.”

After a few minutes, the doctor’s breathing quieted.

“Do you have any idea how much I love you, adun,” he whispered. “Hell, I’m surprised this old heart hasn’t ruptured from it. I wish I could put my katra in your head right now and you’d know, you’d know….”

“I do know, beloved, both here,” Spock murmured, sliding McCoy’s hand to his own meld points, “and here,” pressing the doctor’s hand against his own right side.

Instinctively, each man reached two fingers to the other, as they had done innumerable times before. A century of memories and feelings melted together, distilling into a warm, shining glow permeating both of their minds, hearts and souls, filling them to overflowing.

This time the illumination revealed the last of the dark places each had kept out of fear or embarrassment. Now there were no secrets, and each one knew and reveled in the other fully, completely. Regrets and mistakes were forgiven and transfigured. Triumphs and joys were celebrated fully, completely. Each filled the other.

Spock was still holding McCoy when the Vulcan scientists came to tell him that the ship was prepared and that the ‘red matter’ had been loaded. Quietly, Spock settled McCoy into his hoverchair. The old doctor’s blue eyes were luminous and his mouth curved into a tender smile.

Once more, each man reached two fingers to the other. The Vulcan scientists withdrew silently. There was still time.

Parted and never parted, never and always touching and touched, my Len-kam, my q’omi.

Parted and never parted, never and always touching and touched, my adun, my own darlin’ t'hy’la.

~

“I grieve with thee, Spock.”

“I thank thee, Sunak, both for thy grief and for standing in my stead.”

“It was my honor, Spock. He was a fine physician, a man of integrity and a worthy partner to the son of Sarek. I will guard his katra, as will my son and his son and my House, until it can be returned to Georgia as you have instructed. I have already contacted Captain Picard of the Enterprise, and he has said he will be pleased to carry us to Earth at his earliest availability. I shall leave for Enterprise immediately.”

“I am grateful, Sunak. Live long and prosper.”

“Peace and long life, Spock. Your service does all of Vulcan honor.”

Spock wearily closed his eyes, remembering what had transpired just moments ago. His instruments had told the Vulcan scientists that the Romulan sun had supernovaed prematurely. He had hoped that the doctor would be asleep when he had personally confirmed that the resulting singularity would pull his ship into its maw. McCoy’s anguished cry told him that his hope had been in vain.

He had felt the sudden rush of adrenalin and noradrenalin surging like a tidal wave through McCoy’s aged veins and arteries, their by-products ravaging the doctor’s cells. Small proteins produced by an overly excited nervous system rocketed their toxins to the human’s racing heart, effectively stunning the muscle.

As he listened to the controlled voices of the Vulcan healers, he knew that his t'hy’la would not live. The doctor’s gasping moans confirmed Spock’s own experience of terrible crushing pain deep in McCoy’s chest, a desperate shortness of breath, lungs filling with fluid.

Spock had done his best to comfort his life partner, tenderly cocooning McCoy in the strength of their bond.

Parted and never parted, never and always touching and touched, my Len-kam, my q’omi, beloved.

His life ebbing into a whisper, McCoy had strained to reply.

Parted… never parted…never....

Now all was silence.

Spock felt as though he was floating. He exhaled, suddenly aware that he had been holding his breath.

An alarm rang throughout the cabin.

He did not open his eyes.

The singularity was pulling him into its blackness.

All that he was and is still lives. Kaiidth—what is, is.

to be continued....