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"Ira! Are you in there?" Courtney yelled, pounding on the screen door. Squeaking floorboards answered him. Flies buzzed in the low light, the sparse furniture displaying tiny teeth marks. "It's Courtney!" He added, "I brought you dinner!"

"…Doc?" Ira's shadow poured into the main room from a side doorway. He drew back just as fast. "How do I know this ain't a trick?"

"I wouldn't let you down, would I?"

Minutes ticked by, and Courtney lowered the bag to the porch. "I'll leave it for you."

"No, wait! Don't go!" Ira bawled, and Courtney couldn't find it in himself to smile.


"It's too open out here to have a safe picnic dinner," Ira muttered seriously, folding his hands on the porch railing.

Courtney smiled reassuringly from where he sat on the stairs. "We can stay right here, then."

"You always take care of me," Ira sheepishly replied.

"It's my duty," he patted the bag, "Hungry?"

Ira nodded. Aluminum foil glowed in the light of the moon as Courtney removed the covered dish, followed by a napkin and some silverware. Ira's eyes lit up as Courtney pulled out a bottle of milk. "That's rationed!"

Courtney unscrewed it. "You can have as much as you want."

Ira shook his head. "Give it to someone else."

"No, it's for you."

He looked down at the dish. "What's that?"

"A friend of mine knows country cooking. There's chicken fried steak and fried okra."

Tears glistened on Ira's face. Shoving the dish toward him, he exclaimed, "I ain't hungry!"

Courtney lowered the bottle to the floor. "I won't leave until you eat. You're going to get sick like this."

"I'm already sick, Doc."

"You'll feel better if you eat a little," Courtney gently reassured.

Ira bent his head, his tears hitting the wood below, "I can't eat when I think of the fire and the screams. Those people won't be sitting down to dinner."

Bending his knees, Courtney folded his hands on top of them. "That's okay, we'll talk until you think of something else."

"You've got places to be, right?" Ira asked, "I think I had somewhere to go once, but I can't remember."

"The only place I had to be was here."

Hogeboom rubbed his eyes. "Maybe I'll have that milk." Courtney smiled warmly as he held it up again. He accepted it with shaking fingers, the bottle nearly slipping from his grasp. As Ira took a tentative drink, Courtney decided that tomorrow he would talk to Dr. Fontaine concerning his friend.

He wondered if Phelps ever sat with Ira like this, but he figured probably not. To Phelps, Ira was just another means toward medals and merits. After shooting Phelps once, Courtney had no intention of finishing the job, as an empty man like him was already dead inside. Ira smacked his lips, and Courtney sighed. He just wished that Phelps hadn't had to drag so many people into the grave with him.
Breaking Bread (L.A. Noire 4F)
Oh, Courtney, you are much more like Cole than you think you are. I'd like to think that he had this sort of relationship with Ira before the events of the game, especially considering that Courtney was a medic, and thus would like to watch over his former comrades after the end of the war. Writing Ira was difficult, as I didn't want to write him as completely mentally lodged in World War II to the point of utter lack of functionality in the years following the war, otherwise he would not have been hired on by the bug spraying company. I'll have to credit the song, "Strawberry Gashes," by Jack Off Jill for inspiring this one. 

Prompt: Select at least 3 words from the randomized list. 
Please use the words only as they are listed (i.e. if any are listed as "Verbs" but could be used as a noun, only use it as a verb). Words used: Gently, moon, low, sheepishly, seriously, decide, smile
Word Count: 491
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"You struck the sparks, you fired the flames in me, and now my heart's a blazing ruin. You say that you were…only fooling." Cradling the microphone close, Elsa winks. Her gesture sends up wolf whistles.

Cole flashes her a slight smile, but shrewdly decides against giving his location away by raising his glass. Harlan's jovial laughter, presumably at one of his friends' jokes, causes it to slip off his face.


"It's for her benefit," Harlan told him as he splashed his face in the men's room sink.

Cole's eyes narrowed. "You're her psychiatrist, from what she has told me."

Harlan smiled as he reached for a towel. His voice was muffled as he rubbed it over his face, "It's a sacred bond we hold, doctor and patient."

"Whatever that bond is, I want to see the documentation that allows you to drug her," Cole replied pointedly.

Harlan met Cole's eyes in the mirror. "I'm afraid that would be a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality."

"I'm on the vice squad now. I can demand it from you."

Harlan's tone was smooth as he turned. "I can't argue with that, but then you would have to place Miss Lichtmann in prison."

"Roy has no problem holding that over her head."

"He's needlessly rough with the girl."

"You're one to point fingers," Cole shot back, "Soaking her sorrows in morphine doesn't seem like helping her."

Harlan thumped his hand down on the counter. "If I don't do that, she won't able to get herself together enough to sing."

"What are you giving her?"

"I just said—"

Darting forward, Cole seized him by the shoulders, the towel hitting the floor. "There's morphine floating around Hollywood that kills the people who use it. You had best hope I don't find out if you're involved."

"Now, Detective—"

Cole shoved him against the counter, the back of Harlan's head tapping against the glass. "I'll ask you again, Fontaine, what're you giving her?"

He held up his hands. "I stabilize her. Would it be ethical of me to cut off her supply right now?"


"You've finally learned to how loosen up," Roy's backhanded comment greets Cole as he takes a seat, "Where the hell is my drink?"

"You didn't say what you wanted."

With a scowl, Roy flags down a waitress.

Cole joins in with the applause as Elsa bows. The clapping rings hollow to him with the thought of the morphine filling her veins tomorrow night. When she performs, the attractive poison waits, eager and ready.

Tonight, she is valiantly attempting to sing sober, but he knows how the withdrawal will end her effort: he'll carry her to her bed, and she'll beg him to return to his wife and children before the pain can overtake her. Leaning against the closed door to her bedroom, Cole will hear her sobbing and gasping, each strangled sound stabbing his heart. He will slump helplessly to the floor as Elsa relearns how to feel pain.
Hours Until Sunrise (L.A. Noire 4F)
I suppose this could be considered a sequel or companion piece to "Thankless." While I can't imagine the mental toll it would have taken on Cole to know that Elsa was addicted to morphine, I can imagine that he was nearing his mental tipping point during the Vice desk, especially considering the deadly strain of morphine that he was investigating at the time. Hence, his violence when confronting Fontaine in this. Elsa is singing "Torched." 

Prompt: Word Play- Choosing one verb, one noun, and one adjective from the list to fill this sentence, and use the sentence in your 4F: "When (verb), the (adjective) (noun) waits, eager and ready." Remember, you may change, if desired: verb tenses, add/remove articles (a, an, the), add pronouns, pluralize the chosen noun. The core meaning must remain the same.
Word Count: 496 Words
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nightchildmoonchild's Profile Picture
nightchildmoonchild
Ariana
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Current Residence: Atlantis
Favourite genre of music: Symphonic Metal, Industrial Metal, Gothic Metal
Favourite style of art: Literature and photography
MP3 player of choice: I've got an iPod touch
Shell of choice: Conch
Wallpaper of choice: Roger and Dorothy in Big O's cockpit
Skin of choice: Planets
Favourite cartoon character: Mr. Freeze
Personal Quote: You may say your piece. Even if I don't agree with you, I'll still lend an ear.
Interests
It's been a while, hasn't it? 

My productivity on this site this year was utterly pathetic. As I've stated on a previous entry, fanficiton is becoming more and more sidelined as a hobby of mine, especially due to the escalation of commitments I have in real life. The thing is, however, I'm not quitting until I have finished all that needs completed, whether they be request fics, chapter fics that I have begun, or short story ideas, both those posted on the list I have made for myself on my FF.Net profile, and those that fill my noggin in-between fanfic postings. Then again, I've already proved myself to be a one-trick fandom pony over the years; I write more character driven short stories, as opposed to complicated fanfics, and honestly, it's a result of personal preference. I've seen excellent chapter fics, and do not knock their authors for writing them, but for me, due to the problems I incur with world-building in fanfics and plot-related issues, not to mention consumption of time, I tend to stray. On the other hand, I cannot simply say, "I don't want to do this because this is too hard." That is an utter cop-out, not to mention that not all chapter fanfics have to be long and complicated.

Why did I mention that? because a year has passed, and I've yet to update White Feather and Red Poppy due to schedule slippage. Sorry to those who have been waiting on another chapter; I have by no means abandoned it, but it's taking time to figure out what direction to take the story in.

On the other hand, I made headway with my novel, but progress on it could be faster. I've only seven chapters left to write, but my writing pace is horrendous. I guess it can be excused because I started writing it when I was sixteen, and had to take long breaks for research, but I will need to seek out an ulterior source of encouragement, as I cannot be trusted to meet my own deadlines. Term papers? Done. Entries for the campus literary journal? No problem, because both deadlines were set in stone. In general, I need to imporve my writing pace anyway. The shortest amount of time it took me to write a fanfic was four hours, and that was a flash fanfic. Original and longer fan works take me days to weeks, and that is not acceptable. On top of that, something has to give. What is more important to me, fan work or original work? I'm leaning more and more toward the latter. While I appreciate my history with fan art (it does chronicle the adolescence of my life, after all), it's not my work and not my characters, rather my interpretation of a work that I like. But to truly create my own work...Even if this doesn't get published, or if it does, and doesn't make bank, I wouldn't care. This story will be written to the last letter and period.

Visited New York City today, and got to see Times Square and Rockefeller Plaza. As it turned out, the ball that drops on New Year's Eve is actually quite small in scale, and it does not fall very far. On New Year's Eve itself, I won't be celebrating; I have to work the next morning. Perhaps I'll spend it writing.

Happy New Year, everyone!:party:
  • Mood: Tired
  • Listening to: The Sentinel- Machine Head
  • Reading: The Historian
  • Watching: Big O
  • Playing: L.A. Noire
  • Eating: Nothing
  • Drinking: Nothing

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:iconmylesmw:
mylesmw Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2015  Professional General Artist
Thanks for the fav on Urdnot Wrex!
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:iconnightchildmoonchild:
nightchildmoonchild Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome
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:iconobsydiandreamer:
ObsydianDreamer Featured By Owner Feb 2, 2015  Student General Artist
Thanks for the fave! :D
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:iconnightchildmoonchild:
nightchildmoonchild Featured By Owner Feb 3, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome
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:iconrisenwarrior:
RisenWarrior Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014
Uh, hey? ^^;
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:iconnightchildmoonchild:
nightchildmoonchild Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Yes?
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:iconrisenwarrior:
RisenWarrior Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014
Nevermind. :(
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:iconnightchildmoonchild:
nightchildmoonchild Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
What is it? Did I do something wrong?
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