If anyone wants to beta this, I would forever be in their debt. I'm a little fuzzy on the grammar of dialogue, and I'm pretty sure that the characters in the story do far too much "With God" or "With their heart". You decide. Anyway, for your consideration, chapter 2:


Title: TBD - Not "Arabian Nights"
Rating: Innocent
Fandom: 13th Warrior
Pairing: Eventually Herger/Ahmed
Summary: Ahmed makes a final decision in Constantinople.

( Though Ahmed had a working knowledge of Greek, he was relieved when his friend called upon him for the midday meal, and spoke in beautiful Arabic sentences... )

But I'm not here to give you the links...yet. I'm thinking about making a little archive somewhere if I find more than 12 stories. But I'm so embarrassed by my love for this little gory flick that I might chicken out. Anyway, here is the beginning of a 13th warrior fic I write during Calculus, er, I mean, in my free time.

Title: TBD - Not "Arabian Nights"
Rating: Innocent
Fandom: 13th Warrior
Pairing: Eventually Herger/Ahmed
Summary: Ahmed journeys back to Baghdad but can find no peace with the person he has become.

( For several weeks after leaving Jutland, Ahmed wrote in his journal for the caliph every night... )

So I'm in my kitchen...and anthropomorphism ensues. Right before my eyes. There was no stopping it.

POTATOES: *are mashed* Ahhh, don't I make the loveliest of vegetables?

FROZEN SOY CHICKEN PATTIE IMMITATE: Save it for your mama, Po to the Taytoes. I've got protein!

ME: ...actually not that much. Could get more from baked beans.

FSCPI: WHAT?! BAKED BEANS?

ME: Yeah, and Pluto's not a planet anymore. Get over it. Jesus, don't I have any less talkative green veggies?

LESS-TALKATIVE GREEN VEGGIES: *are M.I.A.*

Well, that concludes my kitchen experience. Good night, all.

It's times like these, when I sit (utterly useless and forlorn), moping and cripplingly self-conscious over some boy, that I thank God (yes, Jesus's God), for Margaret Atwood. God bless bloody Margaret and her man-hating feminist ways. I can read her and, though I won't feel a drop better, relate instantly to her pathetic, uncharismatic cast. Why, Oh Why do I sit by my cell phone, twiddling my fingers, waiting for some boy to call me, when I could be reading Margaret Atwood's sordid tale of business-love-and-loss? I could have "Jesse" on repeat on my ipod, I could sulk and read, I could have the freedom to be angry, but instead I wait and twiddle, utterly powerless to resist the call of my own self-pity. There will be others, oh, there will be so many others. There could be more now: I could hit the town tonight and smile at them, push out my chest. They will tell me I'm beautiful and lean in for a fumbling kiss that will mean nothing to me (*angst* angst* angst*...I'm convinced that's what the ducks in the park are saying).

So I cry and I cry and pray and beg and mope and am a pathetic excuse for a living, breathing woman. And I hate him, hate him, hate him, hate him. Almost as much as I hate myself. And I've ruined it; the damage is completely irreparable. There is only one solution; I am being marched forward, and I will eventually have to walk the plank. But I kick and scream and cry and I feel more like a child losing a favorite toy than a woman scorned.

But I sit and I twiddle my fingers and mope. He will call, yes, he'll call and say that it was all a bad dream and am I okay? What happened? Of course he cares and we'll always be friends! Plank? What plank? H, have you gone nuts? You've seen that pirate movie way too many times.

Denial? Puh-leeze. I can't even spell it.

Title: Clean
Pairing: Deppenport
Author: irish_channel
Rating: R
Summary: Jack ponders cleanliness.
Archive: Sure, just let me know!
Disclaimer: Jude Law waved at me once. Does that mean I own him? Anyway, no, I’ve never met JackDav or Johnny Christ.

A/N: I’ve been having writer’s block. If this sucks, please try not to blame me. Blame the block.

( Deppenport )

I AM lame. And a copy cat. *snicker*, but my batch is better.

( But Why is the Jack Davenport Gone? )

( my xmas stocking )

Yes, the time has come for the RIGHTFUL kings of SEXY to assume the throne:

( Find Out What People Mag Was Smoking When They Made That OTHER List )

Okay, so I just read one of those dumb Hotmail "newsflash" things. I only read them when I'm feeling just that bit self destructive. Anyway, the "article" was entitled "Why Did He Stop Calling?" The article describes a relationship where the man stops calling after a couple months of dating. Their conclusions were as follows:

1. The woman scared him away with talk of marriage/"settling down"
2. The woman simply isn't "MRS. Right"

There were a few others, but this is already making me sick to my stomach. A man stops calling you. Whose fault is it? YOURS. Obviously. Geeze, why didn't I think of that? There's a little bit of that faux "well, there's nothing you can do about it anyway" jizz, but the article was not designed to be "feel good" for women who have recently had this experience.

Besides the obvious intention of the article (to provide "solutions" for women who never want men to stop calling them), another question ascends: WHY do women write these articles for other women? What about when women stop calling men? When/if that article is written, whose fault will it be, I wonder?

When will we stop feeling the need to draw such sharp gender lines?

Yes...it's good. Go see it.