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 Post Post subject: AIO Fanfic: Fade Away
Posted: Sun Sep 18, 2005 4:14 am 
I guess I'll stick around
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This idea has been stewing in my head for a number of years, and I finally decided to write it. It was prompted by wondering what happened to Rachael Woodworth (Richard Maxwell's sister). It grew into an exploration of what makes certain AIO kids stick around, and what makes others disappear. Okay, that probably often has to do with actors' availability, but a peeve of mine is the frequency with which a cool kid is introduced in one episode only to be never-heard-from-again. Rachael was an easy one to write about since we can infer some from what little we know of her tendencies and her family, and it also gave me another excuse to write about Richard.

I think I only ever heard "Bad Company" once, over ten years ago, so I don't really remember it. Did Rachael really steal earrings? Maybe it was something else. For the purposes of this fic, it was earrings.

If you don't want to read about gloomy teenage angst and the consequences thereof, you may want to skip this. This features an unfortunate situation in which the character does not have sufficient parental instruction or other positive influences to guide her in the right direction. Though her journey is rocky and bleak, I hope the resolution is uplifting. (Oh, and another warning: The fic also contains superfluous ramblings on English grammar.)

I took a few lines directly from "The Homecoming". You'll know 'em when you see 'em.

Many thanks to Catspaw for kindly beta-reading this for me!

Fade Away

"You’re out early." Dad doesn’t sound happy.

I turn my head away from my magazine, wondering who he’s talking to, and blink in the darkness of our living room behind me. I’ve been watching my too-white legs stretched before the window to tan. Dad has the door open halfway, and he’s standing there to block whoever just rang our doorbell.

My gaze is halfway back to my magazine when I freeze. That voice.

"Time off for good behavior. Is my mother here?"

I scramble to my feet, heart racing.

"No," Dad says. "And even if she was--"

"Is my sister here?"

"Half-sister," I correct him. I creep up behind Dad, peer beneath the arm he’s resting on the doorframe.

I barely recognize Richard. He’s way too thin and way too pale, his hair’s grown out pretty long, and what is with that beard?

"Hi, Rae," he smiles, and his voice says casual calm cool composed, but his eyes say help me.

I turn away from him and walk back to my place in the sun, and my magazine. Dad says some more words and closes the door.

I tug my giant flannel shirt around me and think, Maybe I should try the prison diet. It’s the least painful thought I am capable of.

Two years ago, my bad grades landed me in summer school. I skipped more often than I attended, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t learning. I learned a lot that summer.

In my room, the radio boring me with the same old songs, I drew my phone toward me and lifted the receiver to call someone--anyone. But I heard Mom’s voice talking from the phone downstairs.

". . . just really needs some help. I tried hiring a tutor, but she overcharged and still couldn’t get a minute of work from Rachael."

Whoever Mom was talking to didn’t respond for a good long while, but I knew who it was just the same. Mom’s tone had gone all wobbly, packed as much with love as with aversion--the tone she gets whenever she talks about--or to--Richard.

I could hear him typing in the background. Then he sighed.

"I know you’re busy," Mom continued. "I know about--your job--Rachael heard about it. That’s great, honey. I knew you’d do fine. All I want is an hour of your time--maybe once a week. We’ll pay you, too."

"You don’t have to pay me, Mom," Richard said at last. "I’ll be . . . happy to help."

The words were being dragged from him, forcibly, and he didn’t mean them. I wasn’t somebody who made anybody happy anymore--least of all, him. I slammed the receiver down, not caring if they heard.

I’m not a kid who has adventures. I don’t have a wild imagination. I don’t have high aspirations. My life is not a series of lessons in morality--and believe me, I’ve tried to make it one. Somehow, instead, I always end up with a bunch of disconnected disappointments. I’m neither good enough nor bad enough to get noticed--except one time when I stole some earrings.

This is me--unnoticed by the world. I’m in the background--I always have been. But ever since two years ago I’ve felt even more transparent than ever. I am fourteen now--already flimsy, and fading.

I follow Richard to the park. It’s the day after he came to our house and we didn’t let him in. He met Mr. Whittaker at Whit’s End, where I was--yeah, I go to Whit’s End sometimes. I’m in the background, remember? The two of them walk to McCallister Park with me close behind. And I mean close--so close I can hear them talking. Neither of them notice me, fading to gray.

"What are your plans after this?" Mr. Whittaker asks. I thank him silently.

"Start over." What a good idea. I wonder if I can do that, too.

"In Odyssey?"

"I don’t know. It depends on what happens. There’s no point in staying on in a town where I’m not wanted."

Mr. Whittaker is about to convince Richard to stay when Lucy shows up.

Seeing Lucy makes my skin crawl. She is 100% everything I will never be. She tells him there are some things you just can’t make up for, and I find myself agreeing, wondering, How do you know that, Lucy? How can you know? She runs away from him, and I guess that should make me happy because I was mostly afraid things would go back to how they were, but how could she hurt Richard like that? How could she?

Mr. Whittaker offers to take Richard to apologize to somebody else--that farmer guy--but Richard asks if they can go later. He looks deflated, miserable, disconsolate, like he knows he couldn’t handle another rejection so soon. Mr. Whittaker arranges to pick him up the day after tomorrow.

The last time I saw him was at our final grammar lesson.

He came inside looking flushed, like he’d just been arguing, and he seemed to be slamming everything--the door closed, the chair back, some books on the table. My head screamed at him to stop, and then he did, all at once.

"What’s the matter?" he asked, his voice expressionless, deadly. Somebody had pushed him too far, and he was about to push back.

I shrugged in response. "I don’t feel like . . . studying today."

He flipped on the light and I cried out and buried my head in my arms, feeling grit embedded in all my joints, feeling red behind my eyes.

"What’s the matter, Rae?" he asked again, impatient.

"I just don’t feel good," I shouted, but my arms muffled it.

He left the room, and I staggered up to turn off the light. I was shaking, but I knew there wasn’t a mark on me. Mom and Dad didn’t even notice how I was when I came home the night before, so I thought for sure nobody could tell. It was only my mind that hurt, careening around to avoid replaying what had happened. I would be fine.

Richard brought in a pitcher of lemonade and I had to drink it because he poured it in my favorite cup and old memories had suddenly become precious to me.

"Tell me what happened," he said. "Is it that guy you been hanging out with? Just tell me, Rae. I can take care of it for you."

I hid my face in my cup. I wanted to yell at him that it was too late to become my big brother again, but I couldn’t bring myself to deny the only help being offered to me. Instead, in a feeble attempt to change the subject, I pushed the newspaper across the table at him.

"She’s in the hospital," I said. "Aren’t you going to visit her?"

"I will." His tone went distant, so cold and reserved that it made me feel safe from his pity.

I looked up from my lemonade to stare at the picture in the newspaper, of Lucy Cunningham-Schultz grinning prettily. The article went on about the mysterious tragedy of how she ended up in the hospital. I wondered if that could have been my school picture in the paper, if it could have been me in the hospital. Lucky girl, all set up in a hospital, where everyone is there to make you better, and everyone gives you flowers. Lucky.

I was so afraid he’d ask me what happened again that I flipped open my English book, pointed randomly, and asked him to explain. He seemed relieved to do so, reading right out of the book that the subject of a sentence is the doer, that the direct object is the done-to. He started to explain that that isn’t necessarily true, but I stopped him. I couldn’t handle too much information that day. I’d already learned that I’m a singular object--a done-to--and that’s not something a person can get over quickly.

"Which one are you?" I asked him. "Subject, or object?"

His gaze dropped to the newspaper, to Lucy. Doer, or done-to, he was thinking. I almost laughed. I’m getting a real, haha, object lesson, today, I thought. Or maybe I was giving one. Subject, or object? Doer, or done-to?

"I’m--I was--" Richard stopped, undecided.

I clenched my hand on my cup of lemonade, angry at him for having a choice and not making it. "If I could," I said quietly, "I’d stop being object and start being subject."

Richard swallowed, looked at me, and said, "But the subject has to take responsibility."

"The subject can change things," I argued.

We didn’t really talk after that. Richard poured me some more lemonade and sat with me while I drank it, but he kept looking out the window, tapping his fingers on the table, reaching into his bag and then stopping. He hugged me before he left, though--quickly, while saying "thank you."

Later that night, we got a call he’d been arrested. That the police (subject) arrested him (object). But I knew that wasn’t how it happened. It was all by his choice--he’d taken it into his own hands. From object to subject. My hero.

Now it’s two years since he got himself arrested. I’ve grown smaller and I flicker--in and out of the moment. Flannels hang loose around me--sleeves unbuttoned and flapping. Mom says I look like I’m drowning. No--I am shrinking. With enough giant clothes on, with enough time, someday I might become as small as I feel.

The kids at school don’t mean it in a bad way, but they talk about me sometimes. They will stand in their groups right next to me (singular object, fading away so they don’t notice) and they speak in hushed whispers, like at a funeral.

"You know what she’s done." What I’ve done. Not done to me. Change of tense--no--aspect? Richard’s grammar lessons seem a long time ago. I can’t concentrate in English. Permanent change in me--from subject, to object. I am not a kid who does.

Two years ago, that summer. After Richard got his new job, I never really saw him. Well, saw, yes--on the streets, at Whit’s End, often with Lucy. If it had been me, and not Lucy, I wouldn’t have fallen in with Singular Subject. I’d believed that Singular Subject would make me feel less invisible, but instead he made me more so.

Singular Subject asked me about Richard sometimes.

"He’s not around, is he?" he would ask. Scared.

"I heard how he changed students’ grades at the college." Admiring.

"Though he charged one of these and one of these for it--" Touching an arm and a leg. Singular Subject did that a lot--talked with his hands.

"So, he’s in jail now! It was just a matter of time, wasn’t it, Rae?" Triumphant.

I think it should be you, I wanted to tell him, but I was Object, Singular and I couldn’t.

Parents worry, but have no idea what’s going on, no more than I do. That summer when I was twelve, before grammar lessons began, Mom took me to a lady who had a giant sandbox. The lady had me put figurines in. She didn’t make me talk about me--just the box, the figurines. I made up a story about a pet cat who ran away from the farm, only the story wasn’t really about the cat, but the animals it left behind.

On the way back, in the car, Dad said he wouldn’t keep paying for me to play in a sandbox. I leaned my head against the window, thinking about the cat on its adventures, watching Odyssey fly past.

"Toughen up, Rae," Dad said. "Be like your old man."

"Hush," Mom said. "She’s fragile."

Fragile. Fading. We passed that new shop, Blackgaard’s Castle, and look who’s outside--Richard and Lucy. Flicker, and fade.

A year later, my parents tried me with the school counselor. He pressed me to talk about things I can’t even think about, let alone voice. Pushing and pushing me to make up stories about bad things happening to me so he’d know how to make the bad feelings go away.

All along, I thought about Richard in prison. He would have understood. He’d been a Singular Object in his time, but he never faded. He only grew brighter.

It’d been maybe four months since I’d talked to him, since he started making enough money that he didn’t need my help anymore. Almost a year since he officially moved out, but he strolled into the house for our first grammar lesson as if he still lived there, without even knocking. I didn’t try to hide the fact that I was watching TV instead of doing homework.

He joined me on the couch, smelling of smoke and pine, while on TV a harried reporter covered the conflagration of some barn nearby. Ah.

They interviewed the farmer--hurt, angry, confused. He was mostly indignant about his horses.

I switched off the TV and looked at Richard, thinking about the cat and the sandbox and the animals left behind at the farm. He looked back, eyes curiously bright.

What is that girl driving you to do? I wanted to ask him. And what makes it worthwhile? But if he were to answer my questions, then I would owe him answers of my own.

"I opened the stall doors, you know," he said after a pause. "At great personal risk, I might add. I went in and--and the barn door was open wide enough, too. I thought they’d run out, the horses. They could have, if they hadn’t been so stupid."

"They weren’t stupid," I yelled. "They were scared."

But Richard didn’t know about being stupid or scared, so he shrugged the difference away.

He taught me about pronouns that day.

"You want me to teach you what your book says, or the truth?" he asked.

I hesitated. "Which is easier?"

The question seemed to agitate him. He leapt to his feet and paced, slowly, leaving bits of pitch and pine needles on the carpet. I thought about him hiding out in the forest near the farm, watching the smoke rise, the smoke he created, trusting the horses to run and make his crime a little less savage. I wondered what my horses were, and whether they’d run.

"Learning by the book is easier," he said at last. "But the truth is more valuable."

I glanced down at the book, which I’d never managed to crack open. "Teach me both."

He taught me how the book says a pronoun is a replacement for a regular noun. "He," in the previous sentence, replacing "Richard."

"That’s not the truth?"

"’The lonely kids study’," Richard said, confusing me for a second until I realized he was just giving me an example. "Use a pronoun in that sentence."

"The . . . no, they. ‘They study’."

"You replaced ‘the lonely kids’ with a pronoun. ‘The lonely kids’ is not a noun."

"’Kids,’ is," I said, writing the sentence out. "’The lonely they study?’ That doesn’t work."

"It doesn’t."

So pronouns aren’t merely replacements of nouns. One pronoun--"he"--can replace nearly a whole sentence. I can replace "my big half-brother who abandoned me to go barn-burning" with "he".

But then, "he" can mean so many other things, too.

I decided that pronouns are more trouble than they’re worth.

He’s weaseled his way into our house again. He came last night with some line about hearing we needed our car repaired, and he’d do it for a place to stay, and Mom finally agreed even though Dad didn’t believe Richard could do it. Whatever. I’m back in front of my window tanning my legs, and incidentally the window faces our driveway. Richard keeps walking by and blocking my sun. I can hear him whistling even with the window closed. He’s got a rolled-up Odyssey Times in his back pocket and is wearing a shirt that looks a lot like one from a prison uniform, only covered in motor oil. He shaved this morning, which makes him look like his old self, which makes it harder to be around him. I’d go somewhere else, if there was anywhere to go on a Sunday.

I get so sick of this that I throw down my magazine and stalk back to his old room. Mom’s redecorated it since he left, but that’s where he’s staying for now. He brought a bag with him, and I unceremoniously dump its contents onto the bed.

Utterly boring. Wouldn’t you expect an ex-con to carry something mysterious or interesting? No--just a couple changes of clothes and a sponge bag. Unreal.

I look carefully around the room. He’s set up his laptop at the desk--aha! I turn it on, wait impatiently for it to load.

My mouth falls open at what I see. It’s loaded a page of indecipherable text, combining numbers and letters and characters I’ve never seen before. I wonder frantically if I’ve broken the thing, but I know computers better than that. This looks like a program. It’s asking me to enter a password to proceed, but that’s the only part of the page in English. I shut the thing off and leave in a huff. Not even Richard’s computer will speak to me.

I wile away the afternoon in front of the TV and ignore Richard when he comes in smelling like cars, and ten minutes later when he walks by smelling like soap. I hear him puttering in the kitchen and ignore that, too.

After awhile the food he’s making smells so good that I just have to get out of there. I grab Dad’s lighter and pack of cigarettes off the mantelpiece and storm through the kitchen and out the back door, plop down on the steps of the porch, and light up.

The screen door creaks open and bangs shut as Richard joins me. I watch him surreptitiously, wanting to see his reaction to me smoking, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He just sits down on the opposite side of the stairs and opens the newspaper he’s been carrying around all day.

"Spanakopita’s in the oven," he says, eyes on the paper. What could possibly be so interesting about Odyssey?

I puff smoke into the sky. Enough smoke and I won’t smell the delicious food cooking behind me anymore.

"Your dad’s Greek." I hadn’t meant to say it. It just happened.

He folds the paper shut. "No," he says. "Half Greek."

"How’d you find out?" I ask, disappointed in being wrong. Mom always refuses to talk about Richard’s dad.

"How did you?"

I shrug. "Snooping."

"I’m impressed," he says, eyeing me. "It took me a long time to track him down."

"You met him? I never knew."

"Remember that bus trip I took for my eighteenth birthday?"

I snort, then cough in the smoke. How could I forget? Mom and Dad had refused to let him back in the house after he came home. Turns out they’d just been waiting for him to turn eighteen--turns out he’d been in too much trouble.

"I didn’t meet him," Richard continues. "But I saw him. That’s all I really wanted to do."

"So you’d know," I mutter. "So you’d know he didn’t fade away." Flicker, and fade. I hug myself a little tighter and lean against the railing of the porch.

"Rae--" Richard begins.

"So when are you leaving?" I interrupt. "After you talk to that farmer tomorrow?"

"It sort of depends. I’d been . . . thinking of staying."

"You fix that car today?"


"So, you’re done being useful. I don’t think Mom and Dad will let you stick around much longer, not even after they said they forgive you." Out my window last night, I’d heard them talking out here--Richard saying he needed to ask their forgiveness, them all perplexed and granting it--if not, Dad had insisted, their charity. But he hasn’t asked me.

Richard set his newspaper down. "Guess I can’t count on your floor anymore, huh?"

My floor. My empty floor. We’d wait until midnight, even on school nights, and then I’d signal with a flashlight through my window. He’d be waiting outside, and I’d let him in the front door if I knew Mom and Dad were asleep, and he’d creep inside and crash on my floor--he couldn’t sleep anywhere else, or Mom and Dad would see him. That was until he started making good money--before he could afford a place of his own. After his grade-changing scheme took off, he left me entirely--and that was over two years ago. A lot can happen in two years! The cigarette trembles in my fingers--he never even considered--my floor might be occupied, thank you very much!

I notice an oil rag he left dangling on the arm of one of the porch chairs, and consider flinging my cigarette at it. Guess who they’d blame if our house burns down? But my hand is shaking so hard that I can only stub out the cigarette on the stair.

"You can’t count on my floor," I say, my voice like a croak. Humiliating. I look at him to make up for it--give him a good hard stare--and he crumbles.

He’s so good at steeling himself against the outside world, that this so rarely happens. I know why he does it. I remember the big brother he was--always helping mom with me, with the house, acting like everything’s fine with him because there was nobody who’d listen if he complained. He learned early on not to be a burden. But now, gone is his charm, his easygoing friendly manner--his asking for forgiveness, his casual happiness--he keeps up the act for everyone else, always, but he drops it for me--drops it like he can be himself, like I can’t judge him, like I’m not even here. Flicker. Fade.

He looks up into the sky and swallows. "What is with everyone?" he demands. "I say I’m sorry. I ask their forgiveness--I need it!"

Needs their forgiveness--Lucy’s forgiveness, and she won’t give it to him.

"I’m trying really hard to understand why--the looks I get on the street around here."

Looks of contempt--I’ve seen those, too, when anybody bothers to look at all.

He gets to his feet and starts pacing, clutching his hands together. "I’m out of there, you know? It means I’ve done my time."

Losing his cool.

"And you, Rae--"


"You of all people should know!"

I of all people need him to be strong.

"How would you feel if nobody ever forgot about that time you stole--what was it?"

"Earrings," I reply, blinking slowly up at him and suddenly wondering what he’s talking about.

"Yeah--everyone forgot about that! Everyone forgave you!"

"I faded," I murmur.

"But you can’t forgive me for going to jail!"

I pause in the middle of fishing another cigarette from the box. "Jail? I’m not mad about that."

Richard stops pacing and turns to face me, starlit from all sides. "Then why?"

I take my time lighting my cigarette. "You abandoned me," I say at last, looking down.

"I couldn’t very well be here when I was in jail." He sounds annoyed.

"Not that! Before that! You--you forgot about me. You were always hanging out with Lucy Goody-Two-Shoes Cunningham-Schultz!"

"Rae, that was--"

"That was--that was ridiculous!" I leap to my feet, two years of suppressed rage spilling over. "What kind of freak are you, huh? What kind of big brother--half brother--ignores his sister--who gave him a place to sleep, by the way--to hang out with some other girl who’s ten years younger than him!"

My shouts fade into silence. Richard grabs the railing of the stairs as if catching himself.

"Eight," he says softly. "Eight years younger."

"What’s the difference?"

His hand tightens on the railing. "Two years. Two years makes a big difference, Rae."

And I know he isn’t talking about Lucy anymore. I listen to the crickets and puff on my cigarette while Richard is like a statue, his shadow long against the grass.

"I never knew you felt I’d--I’d abandoned you. I never thought you really cared one way or the other."

"Well you should have realized." The last word sounds like I’m crying, so I swallow and try to think about something else.

"But I’m glad I didn’t," he says. "I might have gotten you involved in what was happening. I’m glad you weren’t a part of that--it was dangerous. It’s what landed me in jail."

"Tell me about it," I demand.

He’s looking right at me and for a moment I think he’ll refuse, but then he starts in, about how he first met the Blackgaard who later created Blackgaard’s Castle, and about all the things Blackgaard had him do, and about why he’d really been hanging out with Lucy--to get information from her. I imagine what would have happened if he’d confided in me--I could have befriended Lucy--we’re closer to the same age, anyway. I could have found out that password. I think about the burning barn. I could have gone along--been his caddie, carried his pipebombs and napalm or whatever. Better that than where I’d been--fast becoming object, singular.

"I could have helped you," I tell him when he’s done. You could have helped me! Long time ago, but I’m still there--there and fading, fading fast. I used to be real, before.

Richard sits down next to me with a sigh. "You could have helped me," he agrees. "But it’s better that you didn’t. What’d you think of my computer?"

I blink hard at the sudden change of subject, and toss the butt of my cigarette into the yard. I guess I hadn’t tried to hide the fact I’d looked though his stuff.

"Is it in another language or something?"

"Some of it. It’s a cipher I made up myself--in prison. I was bored."

"So nobody else can understand it?"

"I’m the only one. You want to learn?"

"I can’t--remember how bad I am at English?"

"You weren’t bad. You ask all the right questions. That’s a good mind for codes."

All of a sudden there’s paper spread on the porch and he’s marking it up with a pen. I try not to grin like an idiot in my delight. He’s teaching me his secret cipher--and we’ll be the only two who know. He draws a conversion chart of numbers and letters, and it looks pretty simple. Then he writes some words.

"You translate that," he says, and goes inside.

I throw the pen at him when he returns. "This makes no sense!"

He hands me a plate and I set it aside, determined to ignore it.

"Well, there’s more to it than this," he says, indicating the conversion chart. He explains that there are many references to other things I’ll have to learn--pool slang, computer code, and books. He lists titles I’ll have to find and read--Don Quixote, King Rat, Their Eyes Were Watching God--whatever books he could get his hands on in prison. I pick up my plate and start to eat, the feeling of enjoying food--enjoying life--so unfamiliar. This sounds like hard work, but it’s something we’ll share--something of substance--something there, real, important. Like black marks on white paper, bold as anything. Real.

Richard continues to write, while I read.

Of course, Richard does not stay. There is nothing for him to stay for. Me? Well, what use is a written code if you’re free to talk to someone in person?

I hear from him now and then, brief unsatisfactory updates. I write back just as vaguely. Things are going better for me now, but I don’t want him to know how much better. If he thinks I am fine without him, he might never return.

One day, I get a postcard from him that Dad almost throws away.

"It looks like some kind of gimmick," he says, handing it over. He can’t even tell who it’s from.

I have to refer to a few books to translate it, but at last it’s done. It says:

Be my eyes and ears?



I half-run to Finneman’s Market for a newspaper. It’s about the election for mayor, which I haven’t been paying attention to. There’s a debate that night, and I decide to attend.

I watch, unseen, unseeable. But I hear, and learn, and report back to him in our code. I find I like it this way--they’re not my stories. I am neither subject nor object. I am not a player on the board.

I may be in the background, but I will never fade away.

Last edited by Joni_Slade on Sun Sep 18, 2005 12:33 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Posted: Sun Sep 18, 2005 11:51 am 
de lah rutheh rank
de lah rutheh rank
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just realized that she has a status to write in...ooOOoohh

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wow! you're a GREAT writer!

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Posted: Sun Sep 18, 2005 12:34 pm 
I guess I'll stick around
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Aww, thank you so much! *blushes* I'm glad you liked it!

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Posted: Sun Sep 18, 2005 1:52 pm 
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As Joni mentioned, I was fortunate enough to be able to read this a bit early, and I highly recommend it to all those dedicated fans out there! \:D/ If you're just reading the comments to see if the long story is actually worth reading, stop wasting your time and go back to the start of the story and read the whole thing! :D


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Posted: Sun Sep 18, 2005 2:16 pm 
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Trank forever. :)

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I loved it! It was soo wonderful! \:D/

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Posted: Sun Sep 18, 2005 2:32 pm 
Miss Whit's End
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Happily married to the love of my life :inlove:

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WOW!!!! That was excellent work! Awesome!

May Zarkouni Live Forever! :goomba:
Well, Washington has been gratuitously compensated like forever by the credit companies.

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Posted: Sun Sep 18, 2005 10:39 pm 
I guess I'll stick around
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Thank you guys! It's really encouraging to hear that you enjoyed it :)

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Posted: Mon Sep 19, 2005 5:50 am 
Got Pancakes?
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I saved it to my computer but I don't feel like reading it right now. I'll post my comments when I get around to it. :-


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Posted: Mon Sep 19, 2005 6:13 pm 
Older Than Dirt
Older Than Dirt
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Wow!!! You are an excellent writer!

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Posted: Tue Sep 20, 2005 11:27 am 
I love the \:D/ smiley
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wow...that story was amazing, you are such a talented writer...are you going to write professionally? let me know if you ever write any more AIO stories...i sure hope you will!!


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Posted: Tue Sep 20, 2005 10:23 pm 
I guess I'll stick around
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Thank you guys! I'm grateful for your interest and kind comments. I had a lot of fun writing this, so I'm thrilled that people are enjoying reading it as well :)

dancer02248 wrote:
are you going to write professionally?

I hope so! It's my dream, anyway.

dancer02248 wrote:
let me know if you ever write any more AIO stories

I'll be sure to post any more that I write :) Actually, I'll go bump the other one I wrote awhile back . . .

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