Lytton
Things Get Out of Hand
The Holy Ground Highlander Forum Midweek Challenge
Archivist’s Note: The stories and vignettes offered here from various Forumlanders have not been edited or changed other than having a spell-check performed and being reformatted for this website.
Contents
The Challenge by Leah CWPack
Hardboiled then Chilled by Leslie Fish
The Old Guy, the Young Guy and the Tall Boy by Wain
White Hot Lyttony by Ghost Cat
Don’t Lose Your Head by Wain
Reworked Lyttony by Tikasmom
Sultana by Palladia
Weather You Like It or Not by A.
Lytton It All Hang Loose by HonorH
Oops by Ysanne
MID-WEEK
CHALLENGE: LYTTON THINGS GET OUT OF HAND
Posted By: Leah CWPack <bizarro7@aol.com>
Date: Thursday, 16 May 2002, at 7:50 a.m.
Palladia writes: "Today is the birthday of Edward Bulwer-Lytton, of
rather unfortunate writing fame.
It was he who began a longish novel, "It was a dark and stormy night. .
."
Perhaps we might use this to for an MWC. (Evil grin)"
Your assignment, should you choose to participate, is to write an scene or
story of NO LONGER THAN THREE insufferably run-on paragraph sentences,
incorporating as many foul, overused clichés employed by bad writers as can
possibly be used at one time. They must be in the HIGHLANDER universe.
And don't forget the "MWC" at the front of your subject line, if
you wish to have your...er, gem preserved for the archives.
MWC:
Hard-boiled, then chilled.
Posted By: Leslie Fish <lesliefish@earthlink.net>
Date: Thursday, 16 May 2002, at 3:33 p.m.
Cold, gritty, gray-eyed dawn came fumbling out of Lake Michigan like a bum
who'd been pushed off Navy Pier -- much as Duncan MacLeod was doing at the
moment. He paused on the garbage-and-dead-alewives-strewn shore to pour reeking
lake-water out of his pockets, scabbard and shoes, checked his wallet, flicked
a dead alewife out of his hair, and grumbled sourly -- knowing that no nearby
ear could hear him:
"Dammit, Fitz, that's the last time I go fishing with you!"
--Leslie <;)))><
MWC:
The Old Guy, the Young Guy, and the Tall Boy
Posted By: Wain <wamba.wamba@verizon.net>
Date: Thursday, 16 May 2002, at 10:26 a.m.
Richie watched the life-giving liquid make a slithering trail down the
silver blade, ending in a puddle that reflected his perplexed face back at Methos,
who shook his head from side to side, his finely chiseled nose flaring to
inhale the aroma that rose from the precious golden waste on the floor, and
chided, "What in the name of all that's holy did you think would happen
when you tried to open a tall boy with a rapier?"
Waving away the proffered bottle, new and virgin, sparkling with
condensation that promised a sudden, cold shock of refreshment coursing down
his throat, Richie sighed and winced at the Ancient Immortal's glowering face,
saying, "It would have been cool if it had worked."
"What's going to be cool, my young friend," Methos said in a dry
tone, "is the reception that our Scottish Immortal host will give you when
he discovers that you've baptized an eighteenth-century hand-knotted Persian
rug with beer," and with that, he stopped, as did Richie, both shaken to
the last fiber of the very innermost core of their beings by the tell-tale
vibration--not a hum nor a thrum, neither a whistle nor a screech, but a
definite Buzz--that warned them that at any moment, the peace of the loft would
be as shattered as the beer bottle, and there would be h*ll to pay to the
towering Scot who had purchased the Persian rug that very morning.
MWC:
white-hot lyttony
Posted By: Ghost Cat <ghost_cat@hotmail.com>
Date: Friday, 17 May 2002, at 3:49 a.m.
There is a certain savage beauty in a properly executed kata (and the phrase
“a properly executed kata” didn’t begin to describe what Duncan MacLeod could
do with an empty room and a practice mat) that a visually-oriented person such
as Deb Campbell found irresistible: the smooth, feline grace; the Zen-like
precision that allowed no motion that was without purpose; the delicate ripple
of each muscle, perfectly demonstrating the human body as a union of Form and
Function (which only a former anatomist could truly appreciate) – it all
combined into a gut-level reaction that was more than she could take; the
hushed words sighed from her lips like a prayer, spoken before she was even
aware of them: “Mo Sgian Dhu.”
A few words, spoken crudely in the language of his ancestors, penetrated
Duncan’s meditative state, bringing him back to reality in an instant; his head
whipped around quick as lightning, his dark eyes when they found her smoldered
like banked coals, “Do not play with words you know nothing about!”; Deb
shrugged, unrepentant, striding boldly toward him, “I call you my Black Blade
if I wish; I know enough: I know it is a blade of black iron (her fingers
knotted in a sweat-curled tangle of dark hair); that it is often quite
beautiful, in a lean and practical sort of way (her fingers wandered ,
following the smooth definition of each muscle); I know that, though it can be
quite deadly, it is mostly used for ceremony and defense (she rested her hand,
almost reverently, over his heart, feeling the exertion of which he showed no
outward sign); I know that it is highly personal, and very private (she looked
up into his face, her own heart racing; her voice almost faltered for a second)
and it is something that you—that I—would never want to leave my side.”
Duncan halted the restless wanderings of her eager hands before they drove
him to distraction; gripping her firmly with both hands, he forced her a step
back, looking sternly down at her face; “and do you know that it is a very
*small* blade indeed?” (So that’s the problem, Deb thought, stifling a
giggle, Male Pride rears its head…); the expression on her face would
have rivaled a certain literary feline from the region of Cheshire, hopefully
softening her words, “Oh, don’t worry yourself; a dirk can work as well as a
sword, if it is used properly…” she tilted her head inquiringly, her eyes
sparkling with mischief, “unless of course you want to prove otherwise.”
MWC:
Don't Lose Your Head
Posted By: Wain <wamba.wamba@verizon.net>
(IP: 209.74.13.2)
Date: Friday, 17 May 2002, at 10:36 a.m.
He smothered an oath in a language long unspoken and asked himself why, why
had he decided to yell, "Surprise!" so very loudly at the birthday
party he had planned for his new, twitchily nervous young student, then let the
oath crawl up his throat, fill his mouth, and burst from his lips anyway,
because sword practice was, he realized with twenty-twenty hindsight, probably
not the best time to have host and guests alike jump from hiding places tooting
party horns, tossing confetti, and yelling at the top of their lungs.
The oath had barely escaped his not-Immortal-for-much-longer lips when every
waking and pretty-close-to-waking moment of his life passed before his eyes in
double-time march, a bright, richly textured, and deeply meaningful parade: his
chubby, dimpled fingers entwined in his father's beard, yanking just hard
enough to cause the stern but loving old man to put him down and let fly a cuss
word that would grow hair on your chest; the first taste of his mother's rather
chewy and indigestible rice pudding; his first love--sweet Leona, now reduced
to dust, but until that time undoubtedly the loveliest food that worms had ever
been blessed to feast on; his first death, at the hands of the one he had long
imagined, but obviously was way off base here, to be his very best friend in
the world; and his first teacher, that hot Immortal babe who was even now
standing among the assembled surprise party guests, looking hotter than sitting
on a radiator with no undies on.
His head neatly unzipped from his neck like one of those old pop-top lids on
the aluminum soda cans that they don't make anymore because somebody swallowed
one and sued the manufacturer, and tumbled across the floor, mercifully rolling
so that his eyes were up when passing between the legs of his hot Immortal babe
of a first teacher, providing him with a view that was one heck of a send-off
into eternity, and came to rest against the dining room cabinet, under which he
looked and then formed his last thought, which fragmented into a zillion little
blue bits of energy that arced over the heads of the party-goers and into his
hapless student: "Oh, so that's where my brown sock went."
MWC:
Reworked Lyttony
Posted By: Tikasmom
Date: Saturday, 18 May 2002, at 10:46 a.m.
It had been a dark and stormy night, followed by fog that had crept in on
cats feet and was so thick that one could barely see their hand in front of their
face, which lifted as the sun bravely attempted to shine through the golf ball
sized hail that was falling as thick as snow as Amanda, running her long, sharp
as daggers, perfectly polished red nails, through her cunningly tousled hair,
realized that, yes, it was, indeed, a cold day in Hell.
luv and warm purple fuzzies
MWC:
Sultana
Posted By: Palladia <cmcintyr@alltel.net>
Date: Sunday, 19 May 2002, at 8:34 a.m.
It was a dark and stormy night, and the rain was sheeting into the cliff
face, driven down the river by the relentless winds howling out of the south
which almost drowned the screams of the woman who stood at the opening of the
cave shaking her fist at the storm, her wet hair and clothes plastered to her
skin.
Duncan had taken the rest of his train of escaped slaves on into
Pennsylvania, and had returned to the cliff over the Potomac on his way back,
never expecting to hear a madwoman shrieking terrible imprecations at the skies
near this cave which had been a place of refuge both for her daughter with the
hidden horse, and the exhausted slaves.
He and Enos approached her gingerly, wanting to draw her away from the cliff
face, but she turned on the black man, hands raised to claw his face,
screaming, "You, you, it was all for you, my husband and his brothers went
off to fight for you, and he survived all the battles, then Andersonville, and
was killed when the stupid overloaded boat went down; my daughter and I will
have to go on without him," her voice hoarse, stripped away in the wind, her
tears diluted by the rain as the men eased her into the shelter, let her
collapse in the dry dust of the cave.
Palladia
Weather
You Like it or Not
Posted By: A.
Date: Sunday, 19 May 2002, at 12:26 p.m.
In response to the mid-week challenge...
It was a not quite dark yet early evening with a ninety percent chance of
showers in Paris. With the dog days of summer lingering like gym socks you
haven't taken home to wash in three weeks the humidity, was almost unbearable
but, of course, if you lived there you had to just grin and bear it. At times
like that, being Immortal was just not what it's cracked up to be because you
had to wear a long coat to hide your sword since you really had no choice in
the matter (that matter being one of life and death). Female immortals lucked
out because they could wear more of a light jacket and somehow their swords would
appear when you need it and there's no need to explain how it works, just go
with the 'it's a kind of magic'. It was definitely no picnic being a male
immortal in Paris. Fortunately for Duncan MacLeod, he was living in Seacouver
at the time.
MWC:
Lytton it all hang loose
Posted By: HonorH, Keeper of the Lyttony <ksheasley@yahoo.com>
Date: Monday, 20 May 2002, at 2:39 a.m.
"Duncan," Amanda wheedled, her voice sweeter than honey, sweeter
than sugar, sweeter even than fructose, which is a natural fruit sugar about
two and a half times sweeter than refined white sugar and far easier on your
system, as it's not a refined carbohydrate, "do this one little thing for
me, and I swear I'll be good--or bad, depending on what sort of variation you'd
like to put on our much-speculated-upon sex life--the point being that we'll
have all sorts of fun."
Duncan heaved a heavy, brooding sigh, something he'd practiced much
throughout the centuries, particularly when confronted by this mad, irresistible
creature who both made his heart glad and his mind mad, this puck with a body
that could stop traffic and eyes that could steal your soul, this fey being
with fingers that could rob you blind or make you blind with ecstasy, this
woman who defined, for Duncan, all attributes of womanhood, from the ridiculous
to the sublime, and the Highlander wondered if this time he would be able to
resist her not-so-subtle charms, and he resolved to do just that, and for once
stick to his guns.
"Amanda," he said firmly, even as she sat in his lap, mussing his
hair, pouting adorably, and wrinkling her pert nose in such a way as once stole
the heart of a young man from Indiana, "for the thousandth time, if you
want to see the new Star Wars movie, go by yourself; I refuse to see anything
with Jar Jar Binks in it."
MWC:
Oops
Posted By: Ysanne <ysanne_1@yahoo.com>
Date: Monday, 20 May 2002, at 1:55 p.m.
As his strong, efficient heart pushed his life’s blood out in free-fall,
spattering pulses that gleamed wetly on his clean kitchen floor, Duncan MacLeod
groaned in embarrassment, vainly trying to stem the flood with his large,
fuzzy-knuckled hands, even as he knew that he would soon be pale, sweaty,
breathless and weak, all symptoms of shock and the loss of a great deal of
blood, along with the unconsciousness that would soon follow.
If only he had remembered to unpack his cutlery, he thought hopelessly,
feeling his knees give way and falling heavily to the oak planks which he had
recently installed himself, feeling the need to keep busy and occupy his mind,
then he would not have been tempted to use the katana for slicing the damn
veggies, which was a stupid idea at any time, but especially when his attention
had been divided between food prep and perhaps taking on a new student, the
first one since Rich’s untimely and tragic death from the very same katana held
by the very same hand which had accidentally slipped and gutted him like a
fish.
The only thing that could possibly be worse than dealing oneself a death
blow with one’s own weapon, Duncan thought muzzily, his brain starving for the
oxygen that was now leaving his body at an alarming rate, was offing oneself,
however temporarily, with company coming for dinner, and the only thing worse
than that was that said company consisted of one’s nosy Watcher, who would no
doubt write the whole mortifying incident up, and Methos, who would never let
him forget this for as long as they both lived, and, knowing Methos’ penchant
for insisting that that both stay alive, that could be for
another....five......thousannnn........
Ysanne