slip of the hand, open

[jacqueline ranae harker]

SLIP OF THE HAND

Not, by far, my finest of shining moments.

On the whole, Jacqueline Harker was very, very good at appearing very, very plain. She didn't often get noticed by those around her, what with her drab, vintage clothing and the unassuming bun that she kept her long cascade of chestnut locks tied back in. A pair of reading glasses with thick black frames inched their way slowly down her small, straight nose. Every few minutes, she'd reach up and push them back into place so that they would begin their progress downward once again. She didn't say much, save the occasional 'thank you,' to the server as her coffee was refilled. Even then, her hazel eyes never drifted far from the pages of the book that she was thoroughly buried in. Her lips moved imperceptibly as her gaze drifted along the lines of neatly typed text, silently murmuring the words that she had read at least half a dozen times before. This was one of her favorite books, as was easily discernible by its worn condition, and, truth be told, she knew it by heart. In large part, the book acted as a shield between her and the other customers who drifted in and out of the little breakfast house. If she didn't make eye contact with anyone, then they were less likely to wander over and try to start a conversation.

It wasn't, exactly, that Jacqueline was anti-social. But she was a woman who appreciated her solitude. There were certain times, in her opinion, when it was absolutely and utterly unacceptable to engage in human socializing. One of those times was in the morning before she had had her coffee. It was, she admitted to herself as she licked the tip of her finger in order to turn another creased, worn page, a distinct possibility that she had developed, over the years, a complete dependency of the intake of caffeine in the morning. It wasn't an addiction though, not in her opinion. As far as she was concerned, people who didn't drink coffee in the morning were missing some vital piece of their own humanity. It was absurd, she thought, that some people could simply roll out of their beds in the morning, stretch, and be ready to greet the rest of their day. Jacqueline was certainly not one of those people. No, she was unapproachable until that glorious cup of dark liquid was placed before her. Only then, was it safe to talk to her.

Today, however, Jacqueline was on her third cup. She still had no desire to talk to anyone. No, she was rather enjoying her solitude this morning, and was quite happy to lose herself in the familiar, comforting words of one of the stories she had cherished since her days at the damnable private school that she had been hidden away in from the tender age of eight, until she had graduated and continued on to an ivy league university. Her lips twitched upward in a contented smile as she continued on, following the adventures of the hero as he fought, persevered, and, ultimately, "got the girl." Not so original, perhaps, but she still loved it with all of her might; so much so, in fact, that as she absently raised her cup to her lips and moved to place it back onto the table, she didn't notice that the base of it had missed clearing the edge of the tabletop. Her fingers released it and a gasp escaped her throat as she felt it teetering precariously on the edge before it toppled into her lap.

The quiet morning-peace of the breakfast house was shattered as Jacqueline bolted out of her chair with a startled shriek of pain, her lap drenched by the scalding hot coffee that had just been refilled. Her book, precious and beloved, fell to the floor and began soaking up the small puddle that had missed the young woman's legs. Despite the blistering heat that she could feel on her stomach and thighs, Jacqueline's eyes moved to her book and she felt a swell of sorrow rise in her chest. "Oh noooo!" she gave a soft keen as she snatched the book up and stared, forlornly at the soaking pages. A hiss escaped her clenched teeth. Her skin ached where the coffee seeped through her clothes. "My book!" It was like watching the death of an old friend. The adrenaline from the spill, mixed with her sadness over the loss of her favorite story, had her eyes glistening and watery with the swelling of tears. She blinked rapidly, trying to ward them away as she signaled a passing server.

"A towel, p-please. And a glass of ice water," her voice trembled, as did her lower lip, which she caught between her teeth in an attempt to stop it. Inwardly, she was wailing in embarrassment and pain, berating herself for her clumsiness. Those, however, were thoughts she intended to keep to herself. Unfortunately, Jacqueline's tendency to blurt out what came into her head got the better of her and she caught herself muttering, "Way to go, Jackie... flipping butterfingers. You should have stayed in bed this morning. You knew it when you woke up."

TEMPLATE BY DAN IS AN ELDER @ CAUTION 2.0

[sloane olivia smith]

]

If it's a crime then I'm guilty. Guilty of loving you.

Maybe I'm wrong dreaming of you Dreaming the lonely night through If it's a crime then I'm guilty Guilty of dreaming of you Maybe I'm right, maybe I'm wrong Loving you dear like I do. If it's a crime, then I'm guilty. Guilty of loving you.

Mornings as of late had suddenly become the bane of Sloane's existence. Every night she was haunted by the memories of being bitten, of the attack from both the vampire and the lycan. For years she had believed in the fairy tales that had been told to her, in the awe and wonder of the old vampire legends. After all, that's all she thought they were, stories. Her world came crashing down around her just a few weeks ago, when she laid there in pain. Shoving away the negative thoughts, Sloane pushed herself out of bed. She looked disheveled; like something had kept her awake all night and there was nothing she could do to stop that look. Showering she threw on a pair of soft grey lounge pants and a white tank top and headed out the door. Sloane was hoping that a walk would help clear her head. At least if she could get the cobwebs out maybe she could learn to accept what happened to her.

Letting the gentle wind blow her long brown hair around, Oly was oblivious to where she was walking. The act of letting her legs stretch felt foreign to her, as if she wasn't' really in her own body. Sloane needed someone to talk to, someone that could tell her what to expect from her life now that she was more than human. It was all high hopes and dreams and the young woman doubted she would be able to get even that much. Oh the pain of having no idea what was happening to her, while trying to look out for her best friend made life so complicated. Sighing the girl let her eyes roam over the buildings she was near, hoping that at least one would pique her interest. At last she spotted a small cafe, a place where she knew she could get some breakfast and a couple cups of coffee.

Pushing open the door, Oly walked herself inside the little cafe and looked around. It wasn't terribly busy and that was a good thing to her. She hated places that were packed to the brim with no chance of being able to hear yourself think. Taking a seat at a booth near the door she waited to see what would happen. There seemed to be a girl that was around her age, reading a book, something Sloane wished she had the patience for at the moment. She couldn't seem to get anyone to pay her much attention which in a way was cool but still a little bit of service would be nice for the dark haired woman. At her age, she was used to being ignored and watching the teenagers being catered too. Today she wasn't going to be outspoken, today she was going to remain quiet and see if anyone would notice her. At least that had been her plan until there was a commotion.

Spilling coffee was something that happened to Oly a lot, something that she wasn't unfamiliar with. What was so strange was the fact that the whole cafe seemed to ignore the girl. Sighing, Sloane pushed herself up from her booth and went to get the girl a towel and some ice. Once she obtained the necessary materials, Oly approached the girl. "Here you go. Do you mind if I take a seat here?" The question was gently asked as Sloane hoped the girl wouldn't be too offended with some company. Seeing as how no one else seemed interested in helping the young woman, Sloane had gone out of her way to try to help though she might have been too late to stop the woman from blistering from the heat of the coffee.

TAGGED: JACKIE. 622 WORDS. SONG: GUILTY BY AL BOWLLY. WHATEVER OTHER TAGS YOU WANT TO PUT. BANNER BY TILLY AT ATF. NOTES woo posted.

THANK YOU FEDORA @ ATF AND SDS