Original Fiction

[cornerofmadness]

You'll notice I don't post a lot of original fiction here. The reason is it used to conflict with publication if it was online for free at your website but I figure it's a very rough draft so....(almost locked this for that reason but then no one at the ficathon could read it except a select few) I cleaned this up for the orgficficathon  challenge and hey it was due a month ago but I totally forgot about it. The very first draft was set at Halloween but as much as my writer's group loved the story they felt a ghost story set then was hackneyed and I agreed. I've moved the setting but as I was reading it over, I felt something was wrong. Some of the people who've read it recently have ranged all over from disliking to really liking it. I've made some suggested changes but not all of them (so the choppiness and back story are still there until I have time to print this out and whack on it some more). Thoughts are welcome critical or praise, suggestions too (and if you're not comfortable with the public forum go in and root out my email from the user info). Oh and the title is tentative. The one thing I can not do much of is add to this. Sadly 5000 is usually the word cap to most horror magazines. To go abve it will remove me from abou 80% of the market.

TENACIOUS SHADES
Everyone knew Whitlow Hall was haunted. That didn’t stop Tru from lugging a box of Party supplies up Whitlow’s cracked, broken steps. His spidery arms trembled under the load but he didn’t want the frat boys to show him up. He was giving himself muscle strain to impress three Zeta sisters by helping drag the supplies into their sorority house, well, room at any rate. 
Cawdor College didn’t allow sorority houses thanks to a blue law stating a house with more than four unrelated women living in it was automatically a brothel. Whitlow Hall, now mostly abandoned, had once been a dorm.  The upper levels and the basement were off limits, leaving only some small rooms on the ground floor for the sororities to cram into and make their own.
“Thanks, Tru.”
Dahlia waited for him, framed by cracked old front door flanked by two long panels of abstract stained glass. Her amethyst-dyed hair seemed to fade into the jewel-hued glass behind her. Even sweaty and tired, she was still the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She effortlessly took the box from him. He smiled at her, wearily dragging back down the old steps to get another box.  It wasn’t that he was too shy to talk to her, he told himself; he simply felt too winded.
Tru glanced back, watching Dahlia muscle the box inside.  Her tall, tanned body was taut and strong.  He had learned the rules of rugby last year so he could watch her play and actually understand the game.  But she hadn’t even noticed him until this, their sophomore year.  They were both in the Evil in Literature class, along with her two friends, Siobhan and Michele.  He counted that as serendipity, marvelling that they welcomed him into their little social group; a first for him.
Tru lugged another box up and since no one was there to take it from him, carried it down the hall to the Zeta’s room.  Cawdor had six Greek organizations, three frats and three sororities and they tended to match up as Hellenic partners.  Tru was happy that Dahlia’s sisters weren’t aligned with the Delts.  That meant he stood a chance of not ending up locked in a trunk with three beefy football-playing jerks laughing at him.  The Zetas did business with the more cerebral of the frats.  One of whose members actually cleared a space so he could put the box down.
“Thanks boys, we can take it from here,” the sorority president - Tru never could remember her name - said, catching his arm to keep him from leaving.  “We thought you might like a few pictures for the yearbook.”
He nodded. Cawdor was a small college.  Photography students got tapped to photograph just about anything that needed remembering even if they weren’t on the yearbook staff.  Photos of people weren’t what he really liked to take but it was all part of the game.  While the other guys left the sisters to decorate the cramped room, he got to stay and take pictures.
Tru lined Dahlia in his lens, thinking how he’d like to take her home some day, present her proudly to his family.  Only, they were all gone except Grandma. He couldn’t take Dahlia to meet Grandma. All his guardian was concerned with was reminding him that he should be grateful she took him in and that God frowned on everything he did.  It wouldn’t matter that Dahlia was majoring in biology, chemistry, and literature; all Grandma would see would be Dahlia’s beautiful fall of amethyst hair.  Besides, he didn’t even have the courage to actually ask her out.  He was okay with her as long as Siobhan and Michele were around; alone, his tongue suddenly refused to work.
He took pictures for the better part of an hour, listening half-heartedly to Ms. President babble about how the Harvest Dance of 1986 was going to blow away all the others before it.  Usually they didn’t have parties in Whitlow Hall, too confining, but this party was going to be a smaller private one, yes, of course he was invited.  Tru knew she meant his camera was needed and, if it could walk there on its own, his invite would be rescinded.  He actually wanted to go to the party, for Dahlia; the haunted hall was mere icing.  Tru like the paranormal even before he realized it gave him something in common with Dahlia and her friends.  Dahlia and Siobhan claimed to be psychics.  Michele wasn’t but she believed.
Tru thought he could feel the ghosts in the hall.  If you asked the students, ghosts were why the place was abandoned except for the three sorority rooms.  The staff would probably say it was because the hall was a falling down Civil War hospital.  He knew it was tempting fate having a Harvest party in a haunted dormitory but that was what made it fun.
“I guess that’s enough pictures, Truesdale,” Ms. President said. “We’re done here.”
He rolled his eyes.  He had her in his Intro to Psych class last year and she had heard the professor calling him by his full first name.  Tru wanted to tell her that everyone but his Grandma just called him Tru but decided she’d think him rude.
“Mind if I use the restroom before I leave?”
“Sure.  I have to run.” She tossed the keys to Dahlia.  “Dahlia, can you lock up?”
Tru glanced over to Dahlia.
“You guys hanging out tonight?”
“Nah, got rehearsal.”
“Okay, won’t take me long.”
He darted into the restroom. He had hoped he wouldn’t have to go home so early.  Tru looked at his reflection.  He had The Cure’s Robert Smith’s look down good, but if his grandmother knew he dressed like this out of her sight, she’d probably send him to the Army or something.  He dug out his comb and fought to get his brown hair to lay flat.  It wasn’t easy, given how much gel he had used to achieve that stuck-my-finger-in-a-light socket look.  That accomplished, he winced as he dragged a wet, rough paper towel across his eyes, washing away the black eye shadow.  He gave the boy in the mirror a critical stare.  He was back to being mousy Truesdale Brennan, the girliest-looking boy on campus even without the benefit of make up.
Tru trucked back out into the sorority room, hating to have his friends see him like this.  They all seemed to think he should stand up to his grandmother but he was afraid.  His parents and sister died in a car accident when he was five.  It was just him and Grandma for most of his life.  He wanted to go to a college far away and be free but he didn’t have the money.  He won a scholarship to Cawdor, his worst  nightmare.  Their house was only five blocks away from the college.  It meant no dorms, no real freedom.  At least he could sneak out the window and go to the parties without Grandma knowing.
Dahlia chucked his shoulder. “What’s wrong, Tru?  You look like someone ran over your puppy.”
He managed a smile for her. “Just bored.  I don’t  even have any interesting homework tonight.”
“Why don’t you hang at the theatre with us,” Siobhan offered.  “We could use some more stage hands.”
He considered that, wishing she had asked before he changed his persona.  “Okay.”
As he followed them out of the room, he knew he’d get in trouble for coming home late but he didn’t care.  As they headed out, he cast a longing glance down the hall to the padlocked basement door.
Michele caught that look.  “You want to go down there, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“Don’t,”  Dahlia said.  “That was the morgue.  I don’t like even going near the door to it.”
“I don’t like being in this hallway.” Siobhan shuddered.
Tru thought about that as they headed out into the cold Pennsylvania autumnal winds.  He did want to go down there, just to see what secrets it held.
 
*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *
Falco’s Rock Me Amadeus poured out of Whitlow Hall.  Tru swam upstream against the pulsating throng of dancers, mostly young women.  So much for keeping the party private.  All three sorority rooms were open, the keg in one, the DJ in another and the dance hall in the third.  Tru felt the flooring shaking from the vibrations.
“Tru! Glad you could make it!”  Ms. President swept up to him in a black dress with huge yellow polka dots, which showed a good deal of her mocha skin.
“Looks like it’s hopping,” he said.
“Told you this would be a party to remember.  Grab a beer.”  She sailed off to greet someone else.
“Hey Tru!” Dahlia called, coming over to Tru.  She clapped a hand on his shoulder.  “Looking good.”
Tru felt himself blushing. He had worn simple black slacks, a white shirt and a black jacket artfully ripped up and held together with safety pins.  His eyes  widened seeing her snow white dress and the way the bodice was shirred around her breasts and looped over her shoulders in pleated drapes. The dress lay in multi-layers of white in angular and intriguing hems. She looked fresh from Mount Olympus.
“Thanks.  You look beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Dahlia flashed a Mona Lisa smile. “Want a beer?”
Tru let Dahlia pour him an Iron City. He felt a little guilty drinking.  It was a drunk driver who killed his whole family.  No one had a clue how he lived through the fiery crash unscathed.
“You owe me a dance later.” Dahlia pressed the beer into his hand and faded into the crowd.
Tru wormed his way to the wall in the dance hall.  He could get better pictures that way and there was less chance of anyone bothering him to dance.  He was all gangly, coltish legs that couldn’t find a rhythm. He prowled the walls, camera pressed to his eye and beer making frequent trips to his lips.  He got several shots of Michael Rath, one of the best dancers on campus and some of Lacey Bondsson, head cheerleader, figuring might as well get the cool people out of the way so he could go and photograph people who were actually interesting instead of just popular.  He’d give all the shots to the school paper, the Cawdor Chronicle. 
With that in mind, he hunted down Michele, the one girl in Dahlia’s group he was actually taller than.  Michele was fast making the Chronicle her personal play toy, rescuing it from mediocrity.  He found her, dressed in a bright ruby dress with a skirt like the petals of a tulip, helping out in the DJ’s room.
“Michele, I was wondering if there were any shots in particular you wanted?” Tru had to shout over the music.
“I’ll take what you have, Tru.  Try to make sure you get most of the sisters,” she replied, looking back and forth between 45’s of Addicted to Love and Walk Like an Egyptian.
“Got a lot of the Zetas already.  I’ll see who I can scare up.”
Tru stepped back out in the hall and found trouble. Three Delts were busy taking a bolt cutter to the pad lock on the basement door. Two he vaguely remembered from covering the football games and the one with cutters in hand was Jack Malatesta, star running back, Delt president and God’s gift to the stage.  Tru loathed him.  Dahlia had gone out with this troglodyte last year and had been trying to get away from him ever since.  Knowing they couldn’t miss the flash, Tru took the picture anyhow and took a second when all three heads snapped his way.
“You little fuckwad,” Jack growled.  “Get over here.”
Tru tried to push his way back inside the dance room but Jack’s minions grabbed his arms.  A good six inches under six foot and not significantly weighing more than a hundred and thirty pounds, Tru had not a prayer of getting away from the brawny ball players.  They half muscled, half carried him over to Jack.
Jack took Tru’s camera and the smaller boy trembled, dreading what was going to happen to his best friend.
“If you like taking pictures so much, Brennan, you can record our grand adventure.  That way you’re part of the crime.”  Jack shoved the camera back into Tru’s hands and pointed down the steps.
Tru peered into the darkness, shivering all over from the blast of cold from below.
“It’s gnarly down there.”
“Chicken,” Minion One said.
“Get going,” Minion Two shoved him.
Tru went down the steep steps.  The frat boys had thought to bring a flashlights.  There was precious little in the basement beside icy musty air.  Some old desks were along the back wall, forgotten and collecting dust.  Tru hadn’t expected much more even though he was hoping for it.
“Man, this is boring,” one of the minions said.
“Yeah, I thought this was supposed to be a morgue,” the other piped up.
Tru snorted, secretly disappointed in the lack of anything scary.  “Yeah like a hundred years ago.  What were you expecting? Bodies?”
“Shut up, Batcaver,” Minion one shoved his light in Tru’s face.
“This is really is bogus,” minion two groaned.
“Brennan’s right.  You two are dweebs.” Jack prowled into the dark recesses.
Minion one shot Jack a hurt look. “Just  saying, bodies would be awesome, or a least a ghost.”
Those words hanging in the air and Tru had a flash inside his head, screaming people, the smell of blood and burning flesh as doctors cauterised wounds and body after body coming down the steps.  He snapped a few pictures of the three stooges in the basement hoping the people in his head would show on the film,  then fled up the stairs while they were distracted.  He nearly plowed into Dahlia, Siobhan and Siobhan’s boyfriend, Tony Marinello, the one football player Tru didn’t mind.  Tony was the quarterback and like Jack, was in the theatre but, unlike Jack, was a decent guy and the head of the Gammas.
“What were you doing down there, Tru?” Dahlia looked irritated as did her friends.
“Not my idea.” Tru pointed back downstairs where the Delts  flashlights could still be seen.
Tony went to the steps and shouted down. “Get up here, you dorks.”
Jack led his minions out of the basement, staring Tony down.  “What’s your problem, man?”
Tony pointed to the ruined lock.  “The girls are going to get blamed for this.  Do you want them to lose their house?”
Jack waved him off, shooting a dark look at Tru.  “Take a chill pill.  It’ll be all right.”
“As if,” Siobhan said.  “If we get in trouble, we’re telling them it was you three.”
“Is there a problem?”
They all turned to look at Jack’s right hand man, Gene Bass, as he stumbled out of the keg room.
“Nothing you have to worry about.” Tony glared at the bulky young man.
“That’s good.” Gene came over regardless. He couldn't resist trouble.
"Let's all just take a chill pill." Jack ogled Dahlia.  “How about a dance later?”
“Dream on,” Dahlia rolled her eyes at him. 
Tru just prayed she had sense enough not to ask for the dance she thought he owed her in front of Jack. Jack just sneered at Tru again, chucked Tony on the shoulder and disappeared into the keg room with his friends.
“What an idiot.” Tony shook his head in disbelief. He fussed with the collar of his turquoise jacket. He had the Don Johnson look going on, from the bright jacket to his sockless feet jammed into his Penny Loafers. It wasn’t a look Tru could dream of pulling off.
“To the max,” Siobhan added. “Come on, I’m not letting them ruin my night.” 
She took Tony’s hand and fought her way to the dance room. Dahlia paused at the door to the DJ, waving Michele over. “You owe me a dance, Tru.”
He looked away. 
“I can’t dance, Dahlia.  You know that.”
“Everyone can slow dance.”
Tru eyed her sourly.  “Let’s Go All the Way is not a slow song.” 
But it certainly described what he one day hoped to do with her.
“Michele, we need to send someone to watch the basement door.  The Delts decided to get cute with it,” Dahlia said as she led Tru towards the dance floor.
She curled her lip. "I’ll get someone on that.”
“Any idea when George is going to put on a slow song?”  Dahlia’s eyes twinkled as she asked.  Tru wanted to disappear.
Michele grinned. "Next."           
"Give Michele your camera," Dahlia ordered.
"But."  
"I know my way around a camera. Besides we need some pictures of you, Tru," Michele said, taking the camera from around his neck then helped Dahlia hustle him inside the dance hall.       
 
Far too many people deserted the dance floor for Tru's comfort when the slow music started. Everyone would be able to see him fumbling his way through Lady in Red with Michele taking pictures of his every left-footed move. Dahlia had at least three inches on him even without her heels. He was eye level with her breasts, not that it was necessarily bad, but he felt awkward holding her close. Still, she felt wonderful as she moved against him. Any fears that Jack might be watching melted away.
As the song died and Why Can't This Be Love started, Tru felt no compulsion to let her go. Suddenly Dahlia stiffened in his arms. Her head snapped over and he followed her gaze to Siobhan who looked as stricken as Dahlia. 
"Oh, this is bad," Dahlia said cryptically.
"What do you mean?"
Dahlia dragged him behind her. "They're stirring up something in the basement
Tru swallowed hard. "You don't mean...ghosts?"
"That's exactly what I mean," Dahlia grumbled.
"Feel that?" Siobhan used Tony to spearhead her move through the crowd, so they could get over to Tru and Dahlia.
Michele pushed over to them with Tru's camera in hand. "What is it?"
"Some fool's riling the spirits in here," Dahlia replied.
"You said the energy in this hall has always been bad." Michele looked around frantically, as if expecting ghosts to start melting out of the walls.
"Yeah." Dahlia gestured down the hall where Jack and Gene were on the basement steps, hooting at their brothers down in the basement. "Look at these idiots."
"I'll go get Shirley and she can get the other presidents so they can throw those twits out." Michele headed off to find their sorority president.
"I'll help round up these dorkwads," Tony said, clamping a hand on Tru's shoulder. "Come on, Tru."
Tru's brow wrinkled. Why on earth would Tony think any of the frat boys would listen to him, Tru wondered.
"Uh, sure."
Dahlia cut in front of Tru and he let her. She was at least twice as intimidating as he was. The three of them stalked over to the steps where they could hear Jack, Gene and their brothers hollering for the spirits to come out and play.
"Knock it off, you jackasses!" Dahlia dragged Gene out of the doorway.
"You're ruining the fun, bitch." Gene jerked free, running down the stairs with the others.
"This isn't going to be fun." Dahlia yelled down after him.
Tru tucked in next to her, snapping pictures of the frolicking fools in the dark basement then paused when he saw his breath curling around his camera like on a winter's day. The building turned into a freezer as the outside doors slammed shut. Tony tried them but they wouldn't open.
Tony turned to Dahlia. "This is just a joke, right? We can stop this."
Dahlia shook her head. "We can't. It's gone too far.  Get everyone out of here."
"What is going on?" Tony asked, not ready to believe that ghosts were sealing them into the building.
“The ghosts of the morgue,” Tru said.  “When I was down there, I saw them carrying the dead down the stairs.  But I thought it was my imagination.”
“Not your imagination,” Dahlia assured him as screams echoed down the narrow hallways.  Tony and Tru followed her away from the basement just as the door  slammed shut behind them.
“What’s going on?” Tony's eyes widened, his nostrils flaring.
“No one can get out! The doors are all locked!” someone shouted.
Dahlia grabbed Tony’s arm.  "Open some windows and get everyone out of here.  Tru, help him.  These are some pissed off ghosts.  Michele, Siobhan, and I have to try and contain them.”
Tru watched her walked back toward the basement.  Michele reappeared as if knowing instinctively she was needed.  Dahlia stood tall amidst the chaos.  She was like Athena or the Morrigan, a goddess going to war. He didn’t want to leave her side then a cold hand slithered under his shirt, leaving a trail of what felt like frostbite over his abdomen.  He bolted after Tony.
Tony couldn't get any of the windows open and Tru fared no better. He wasn't sure if they were painted or nailed shut or something more sinister was at work.
"We'll have to break them," Tony shouted.
He felt odd about shoving a chair through the large, old window in the dance room.  Vandalism never appealed to him. He was shocked at how hard the window was to break.  The sound of crashing glass deafened him.  Tru helped Tony direct drunken teens through the shattered windows.  Some were so plastered they didn’t realize the danger they were in.  Others thought it a fraternity gag but Tony was commanding enough to convince them they had to go out the windows.
The hair on the back of Tru’s neck stood on end. He could feel the arcane power building but didn't want to admit it was real.  Once the last of the partiers were outside, Tru fumbled with his camera, even though he knew he should run.  He stepped into the hall, shooting pictures of the three girls doing whatever it was they were doing.  It mostly looked like hand holding and mumbling, but their hair was wild, dancing in a breeze that didn’t exist.  Tru saw flashes of blue lights like malignant fireflies darting around them.  Tony tapped Tru’s shoulder and jerked a thumb at the girls.
“They need our help.”  Anger flickered across Tony’s pale, frightened face, his anger directed at Tru’s natural instinct to document rather than participate.
Tru followed him through the eerily empty sorority hall.  An odd pressure assaulted his ears like when they wouldn’t pop on a flight.  He imagined he heard voices but there were too many, all gibbering at once.  He couldn’t pick one out of the din then one noise came through loud and clear, like the scream of wood.  The building shook, reminding Tru of the time he and Grandmother had visited her sister in LA and a small quake had hit.  Visions of the house being sucked into the afterlife a la Poltergeist danced in Tru’s head.
Tony reached the girls before Tru did, only to be thrown back by an invisible force.  Siobhan looked at her fallen lover, blood streaming from her nose.  Tru saw the stress of whatever she was doing to deal with the ghosts written on her face.  Dahlia stumbled back, four long claws marks spontaneously appearing across her face.  Tru raced forward, feeling hands on him. Something was pulling him back.  His finger pressed involuntarily on the picture button of his camera, sending it into a frenzy of snapping.
Tru forced himself forward, feeling his flesh rent under those invisible hands.  He grabbed Dahlia’s hand.  He saw Tony had regained his feet and he had Michele and Siobhan on either hand.  Tru reached out and took Siobhan’s hand, too. Once the new chain was forged, the unseen hands on him let go.  Tru could swear he heard screaming.  Dahlia led them doggedly for the window of the nearest room.  The door to that room slammed shut along with all the other interior doors.  They were cut off from all the windows except the long panels of stained glass framing the front door.
Tru swivelled his head, hearing someone pounding on the basement door.  Jack was shrieking for someone to help them.  Blood crept under the door gap.  Tony took a step that way and the hall shook harder, raining plaster down.  The stair railing to the closed-off second story split then guillotine down, nearly decapitating Tony.
“We can’t get to the basement. The phantasms are pulling this place apart,” Dahlia said. “We have to get out of here.”
They all turned and looked at the old stained glass.  Tony picked up a hunk of the fallen railing. Tucking his camera inside his shirt, Tru did likewise.  He shut his eves to protect them as he started hacking on the glass.  He felt those icy hands on him again, pulling him away.  The girls made a wall between him and Tony and the spirits.  He heard the glass cracking and kept whacking blindly until there was no more sound. They pushed outside, the sharp remnants of glass ripping at them.  Most of the partiers were already gone. Sirens wailed.  The lights inside the hall flared on then popped, followed by the smells of electrical fire. The old building blazed mercilessly before the fire trucks even arrived. Tru took out his camera and snapped until his strength fled. 
Later, Tru sat in the back of an ambulance in shock as the paramedics questioned him about who had beaten him.  Tony shared space with him, enduring the same questions.  Tru saw the hand marks on the football player’s back and knew he had to bear similar proof that ghosts could indeed harm the living.
*                                                                      *                                              *
 
“Tell me you got pictures of Whitlow Hall burning to the ground,” Michele said, from where she was curled up along the dark room wall.
Tru glanced over at her, his hands still working at tanking his photographs.  Dahlia sat next to her.  Siobhan and Tony had gotten out of town for the weekend to recoup from last night. 
“I had to reload the camera but yeah.  How I didn’t lose my film or the camera...”
“Just proves you’ve got a career as a photojournalist ahead,” Dahlia quipped.
“I’ll develop the fire photos next.  I’m working on the ones from when it was all happening.  You might have to develop the fire roll yourself, Michele.  I have to get home," Tru said ruefully.
“No problem.  Grandma pissed at you?”
Tru nodded.  “I’m grounded for life.  She’s at bingo at the moment but I have to sneak back in before she gets home.  Did you hear anything official about what happened?”
“Electrical fire,” Dahlia said.  “So far it doesn’t look like the sororities will be blamed.  None of the doors were locked, at least not that the fire investigators could see but I didn’t expect them to be.  They were being held shut.”
“How can you not be in trouble?  Jack and all his friends are dead,” Tru said. “They couldn’t have gotten out of the morgue.”
“They  weren’t found,” Dahlia said.  “No bodies were found at all.”
Tru’s eyebrows raised.  “What happened to them?”
“Near as we can guess, the spirits took them whole,” Michele said with a shiver.
“They can’t, can they?” Tru started hanging the developed pictures up to dry.
“Holy hell, look at this!”
The girls got up, staring at the pictures.  All of them showed either bright spots or white amorphous shapes floating in the rooms.  The ones of Siobhan, Dahlia, and Michele fighting to contain the ghosts were almost completely whited out as mist.
“There has to be something wrong with my film,” Tru said.
“Ghost photography,” Dahlia argued.
Tru swallowed hard.  “It really was real, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.  I know a magazine that might want them and a write up of what happened," Michelle said.
Tru looked at her, visions of never working professionally if the story became known dancing through his head. He didn't want to be relegated to the check out line rags. Still, he couldn't deny what he had been through nor explain what had shown up on his pictures; maybe if no one knew it was him. 
The idea made him smile and it was mirrored in his friends' broad grins when he said, “Help me think up a pseudonym.”

Comments

[evil-little-dog.livejournal.com]

Ack! Tiny font! Tiny font!

And you already have more comments back from me on this.

[cornerofmadness.livejournal.com]

i have NO idea what the fuck happened. It was times new roman 14 font and properly spaced when I hit the submit button

[evil-little-dog.livejournal.com]

I tell you, exorcism is the way to go.

[cornerofmadness.livejournal.com]

i'm beginning to think you're right.

[evil-little-dog.livejournal.com]

I'm always right. *cough*

[cornerofmadness.livejournal.com]

no I AM

[evil-little-dog.livejournal.com]

Nope. You're in two minds about everything. I'm right.

[cornerofmadness.livejournal.com]

that could be. It depends which twin is winning

[evil-little-dog.livejournal.com]

That's what I should get you for your b-day, a two-faced coin, so you could play Harvey Dent.

[cornerofmadness.livejournal.com]

very funny. Read my post. You know which twin is in ascent

[evil-little-dog.livejournal.com]

The whiny post?

[cornerofmadness.livejournal.com]

the bitchy pms post

[evil-little-dog.livejournal.com]

You were bitchy? I hadn't noticed.

*ducks*