Prompt 3 | Summer Summer Summertime!

[hamlet]

Credit for this idea goes to Tay!

Anyone who participates in this prompt gets 10 points. Its not a contest or anything - just something to generate muse and to give yourself a challenge!

Chose ONE of the following prompts and reply to this thread with a post IN CHARACTER. Breaking the rules a bit, you ARE allowed to post in first person if you so wish, and you CAN godmod people without changing the color. To get points, like all posts - effort should be put into it and it should be at least 2 good paragraphs (meaning if it takes you like 2 minutes to do, you probably won't get the points).

Here are your choices:

• 1) Write about your characters dream summer vacation. This could be an entry in a travel journal, a snapshot of a day during this vacation, or any other creative way to depict this.
  
  
• 2) Start off a post with "The minute the fireworks started going off..."
  
  
• 3) Write about one of the five senses (and what they mean to your character): The smells of summer, the sights of summer, the sounds of summer, the touch of summer, the tastes of summer. This is pretty open ended. For smells, for example, you could start off with one thing - the smell of BBQ - and go from there.
  
  
• 4) You're character is stuck in a place with no air conditioning on a hot summer day. Write a post exploring how the heat changes the character's mood and temperament.
  
  
• 5) (For people with multiple characters) Bring all of your characters to a summer picnic. Give us a snap shot of what happens.

EDIT: You will only get points for ONE entry per character but you can do two or more. If you want, however, you can do entries for different characters and get more points that way.

[JAMES MORIARTY EDWARDS]

1. The wind was pleasantly chilled against his face, the light drizzle just enough to shock his system with cold. James turned his face up to the sky, England's summer rain was exactly what he needed. Away from that blasted city, back home where he belonged. Without losing his stride, James popped open his umbrella and raised it over his head. Whether the rain was perfect or not, it was still the harbinger of illness and bad tempers. James was making his way to his parent's cottage, far away from the blustery streets of London and the congestion of the outer lying towns. A nice place to hole up for a while, to drink and to forget about Adler, Holmes, and all the rest. The cottage came into view and even stoic James couldn't repress his smile. There it was.

The library, a fireplace, and a decanter of bourbon were calling his name. Before he got to the door, James fished about in his coat pocket for the keys so he could go right in. Inside the cabin, it was dark and just a bit stuffy but James didn't mind. He liked it. Shrugging off his coat, scarf, and hat, James moved around the small space busily, lighting candles and rinsing out tumblers for him to use later that evening. The fireplace was lit was the bourbon poured. James flopped down in the worn armchair, loosening his tie, and sipped at the amber liquid, completely content. James paused and stared at his bourbon thoughtfully. "To you, Holmes. Happy summer," James chuckled darkly.

Jerking awake, James cursed under his breath. He had fallen asleep at his desk, again. Looking out the window of his university office, James frowned. Still in New York. "God damnit,"

2. The minute the fireworks started going off James made his move. The museum's guests were all collected on the roof, security included, opening the floor to all potential security risks. He slipped from the party, his tuxedo jacket slipped off and being turned inside out, his bow tie shifting. In seconds, James went from esteemed guest to server, the transformation complete when James slid on his large framed glasses. He took the service elevator down to the underbelly of the museum. Down there, the clothes were shed and underneath, the slim fitting black clothes were adjusted on his body. James needed to be swift, silent. The tuxedo clothes were folded and sat under the bag in a trash bin for safe keeping while James snuck into the vault.

The security system was laughingly easy to override and the "preventive measures" within the vault were just as simple to disarm. James pulled out his custom made lock picking set, designed to beat the 'unhackable' locks that hid away the smaller, more valuable items. He moved quickly, knowing his timeline. Ten minutes of fireworks, four minutes to get into the vault, three minutes to clean out every lock box he could, and then three minutes to get back up to the part. James chuckled to himself as he worked. He did love a challenge.

Six minutes later, James was back at the party, sipping a glass of champagne and straightening his bow tie. There were over seven million dollars worth of gems in his front right pocket and he could still smell the sulfur on the air. A job well done.

[JACK THE RIPPER]

(Victor's 'unna be in first person, if that's okay! :3)

4

When I was fifteen, for a very brief time, Mother and I lived above a pizza parlor. It wasn't as if I got peace in any part of that city, but it was especially bad there. Noise, day and night. And God, was it hot... nonstop cooking pizzas in stoves that had not been approved by a building inspector. That was the kind of place I lived- no, where I survived. There was hardly any living involved.

In the lower East side of D.C., much like in NYC, death was an everyday occurrence. Any time I wished, I could look out my window, and there would be a mugging; I fell asleep to the sounds of handgun fire, car horns, screaming. All my life, I had been a shut in, but living above that pizza place, for some reason, brought me out. And I believe it was the stoves. To get away from that heat.

There was a small attic, just big enough to fit a person or two, above my bedroom. The air in there was suffocating and heavy, perfect place to put someone- something- and just forget about it...until, of course, it started to smell. I was like a kid in a candy store, with any stray dogs and cats I wished at my disposal. Mother was under the impression for quite a long time that there were rats living above us... and that, for some reason, they liked my bedroom ceiling.

I suppose what they say about Karma is true.

I don't very well know 'you' are- nor do I care to know- but I know I've addressed you before, and so I'll continue by saying this: never buy a leather couch. Some day, a heat wave will curl a lazy arm around your city, and if you're anything like me, you will become a wreck.

But I'm not becoming a wreck. It's just a little hot. That's all. I must have something in this godforsaken dresser, no? Something... summery? No shorts? Why must I take myself so seriously? There must be something...

Nothing. Well, then. Off go the jeans. Boxer shorts should do just fine- no one will see me. And a button-up shirt? Really, Jack, now really? That will have to be unbuttoned too... Scoff. I look like a fool. Where did my mother go wrong?

Oh wait.

As I step into my living area- excuse me, surviving area- I wonder again what in the world possessed me to buy leather couches. As if I was planning on polishing anyone off in this apartment- I'm not an imbecile. I wipe my forehead with a groan and brush some hair out of my face. Why don't I own a fan?

Extreme cold and extreme heat are two things I cannot handle. The last time I was this hot, I was almost checked in to a mental hospital by my landlord- that was when I was in New Jersey, almost ten years ago. I managed to talk the man out of it and to swindle him out of his air conditioner.

But no air conditioning here. Why? Because apparently, I have the mind to evade the police, to hide bodies and taunt victims, and to spin webs no detective could follow, but I've not the sense to foresee something like this happening in a generally sunny city.

Twitch.

Oh, Lord, it's starting. A fit. My knees are going weak, and there's really no place to sit besides the kitchen floor, which is possibly the only cool surface left in the world. And so that's where I trudge to, coughing and twitching like a hyperactive child. My curls almost have a mind of their own, quavering with every forced heartbeat my ribs endure.

I'm worthless. Why didn't I think of a god damn air conditioner?

Not feeling so cocky now, are you, Victor? Something snickers in my ear, directly over my shoulder. Another violent twitch and I look, but there's nothing there. I don't remember hallucinating last time it got this hot...

Doesn't my car have air conditioning? ...Yes, but it's black. I suppose I could always go someplace cooler... but it would be a terrible, terrible mistake to go out when I feel like this. In the best case scenario, I would be sent to the ER. In the worst case, I would decide that broad daylight in the middle of a heat wave would be a fantastic time to pick up a whore or two.

You see now that heat does things to me. Cold places at least make me more sensitive and alert- heat just makes me delirious. Something I am not.

I ought to get a drink. If I don't have some water, I'll start to see rats coming out of the walls and cockroaches erupting from my major veins. Certain conditions do things to a human being's senses that are worthy of a Stephen King novel. Blood filling sinks, eyes melting out of sockets, limbs detaching themselves and crawling away. Cold does not have that same effect.

Some might say that this is beautiful weather. Well, I have to wonder who is more psychotic: them, or myself. My idea of nice weather is sixty with a nice fog. This is not "good weather."

And now I'm asking myself, delirious and frantic, why I don't live in London.

[SEBASTIAN TIMOTHY MARTIN]

Sebby's first person POV.

5. It was ruined.

Could I never make friends? I only wanted to be nice, and now everything was ruined. I had been all alone, and it had seemed mercy had graced my door by sending two men (very good looking ones, I might add) on a walk in the park, both hoplessly alone, just like me. I invited them to join me... I did have more than enough to eat. I don't know why I packed such a large meal. It seemed trivial, a picnic in the park, but it was such a nice day out. I enjoyed summer.

It seemed neither of these men did. One, he called himself Erik, kept to himself, but I could tell he was uncomfortable. He'd agreed only because he was hungry, he later confessed, and he was particularly fond of my pasta salad. He seemed to hate the heat, but he tolerated it.

The other, more boastful man complained a great deal. He despised the heat, in favor of the colder winters. This man was fond of... Well, everything I had made. He even picked a strawberry off my plate with sick glee! The nerve! I kept my thoughts to myself, as I had invited the two gentlemen, but it was becoming complete chaos.

The egotistical man, Damien, he said he was, had taken the last of the jello, which Erik had been reaching for. He gobbled it up like an animal, and Erik was not happy with him. He spewed a carefully planned string of profanities at Damien, but the other man just laughed and chewed on a chicken leg.

"Hey, I was there first!" he said. "Don't get your panties in a bunch. Stick to your pasta salad, and we'll be good."

Erik's forehead was clearly perspiring. "You impertinent little imp! I am your elder!" he pointed an accusing finger at him.

The man laughed at this notion. "Haha! So you're an old geezer? You just made my day, gramps!" he punched him roughly in the shoulder in jest.

"That does it!" Erik lept from his spot to grab at Damien's neck. I jumped back and fell on top of the grass. I heard plates clanging and clattering, and felt sorry for all the food that was ruined due to the fight. I scurried a few feet away and crawled into a ball.

It was ruined. They kept saying terrible things to each other, curses I didn't even know existed! Erik seemed to know quite a few languages, and it was obvious he made use of their curses to a tee.

Suddenly, Damien punched Erik in the nose. Instead of flying back with a broken one, his nose flew off his face! Erik immediately covered himself and moved away with a quick gesture.

The nose landed in my lap. I looked down at it, and I could feel my face go stark white. I looked from it to Erik, back and forth, back and forth, until finally I took the chance to pick it up. I held it out to him with a shaky hand, and realized it was made of some sort of rubber or latex, like a prosthetic.

He took it with a force, and stood up rapidly. He fled the scene.

I sighed, rubbing my head in confusion. "What the hell was that about?" I said to the man beside me.

He shrugged, as if it hadn't even phased him. "I've seen it all, now..." He stood up as well, plucking a toothpick out of the picnic basket where I'd placed them for after the meal. He began to pick his teeth and walk off.

"Thanks for the food," he said calmly, leaving me alone with a mess.

[mephi]

First person Damien:

1. A vacation.

I don't even know the last time I had one. It's always work work work, invest, party without feeling, seduce a woman into your bed, maybe a man, party some more, then sleep. To most people the partying might be a vacation all its own, but at the end of the day, I'm always killing someone to satisfy my father's needs. Not much fun, right?

No, its not. I don't get some sort of free pass to a day off of life, let alone a week, let alone a month.

And summer is the time when I want a vacation most. I hate the damn heat. I guess I'm a complainer when it comes to sweating and heat induced comas, but I was born in the winter! I prefer the season as cold as my heart. You know what they say, you can put on more than you can take off, and bundling up is much easier than stripping down (though I really don't mind as long as a beautiful gal is in the room).

So if I were to take a vacation... Well, lets just say it would be like the opposite of my life. My life gets redundant every once in a while, and while I wouldn't mind so much getting back to it, a nice get away wouldn't be unwelcome.

I'd say... A nice trip to the mountains. Perhaps a cabin in a forest of evergreens, surrounded by peace and wildlife. Peace is all I wanted. Peace... and the cold. Crisp night air that left your nose tingling with an oncoming cold, your breath turning into fog with the breeze. It would be like heaven, if I could just get away... No technology, no company, just me and books, or my wine. Just two weeks is all I ask. Just two weeks alone.

But I would never be alone. Not with the eyes of the world staring down my back.

[JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS]

Erik's first person (FINALLY! I love writing him in first person, though he usually speaks in third).

2. The minute the fireworks started going off, I groaned very... very loudly.

It was not enough that I be stuck in this stifling crowd that wanted to know absolutely everything about me, but there was insufferable noise as well? I tried to appease them all, but with the damn fireworks I'd had enough.

Of course, they were only celebrating what their culture deemed worthy. The Fourth of July.

None of them seemed to realize I was Canadian.

They were all drunk off their rockers anyway. I chose not to drink, simply because they had no decent wine available. What inadequacy! I did not wish to be here, anyway, so why couldn't they at least offer a decent selection of fine alcohols! The cheap floozies and high priced fops didn't seem to mind, as they gobbled up anything in site.

I tried to be patient and sociable. It was all an act, and I was at a party for the Opera. Acting was their lives, and I might as well induldge in their pastime (which luckily I was good at). It was rare that I attended these parties the managers threw, and I'd contemplated more than once not going. The management annoyed me, so why should I patronize their events when I was clearly not wanted?

I was normally never seen, which is why the fake blonde woman beside me wouldn't shut up.

"So... Like... You like live in a penthouse?" the socialite said with the batting of her eyelashes. She was fawning all over me, and I was not flattered. She was just like all the others in the room, bodies pressed against each other in hyena laughter.

"Yes... well... um..." It didn't help that her clevage was pressed against my arm, and her drunken arm spilling her cosmo on my shirt. I tried backing away, but she just pulled me back, dragging me to sit on the couches with her (and many other people making out, which didn't bode well with me).

I wanted to push her away, but when would I feel a woman this near again? I supposed I should be grateful, but I was far from it.

I stared out the large windows that showcased the ongoing fireworks. Other people were out on the lawn of the patron's mansion (it had been a wealthy connesieur of the Opera House throwing the party, which would explain the socialites crowding around me), holding hands or laughing in groups as they watched the lights display. The lights were not calming or exciting at all. In fact they made me quite sick. The loud noises, the constant blaring in my ear, it was all too much.

And then she moved kiss me! Her alcohol filled breath seeped over my mouth and invaded my senses as she went for my lips.

I pushed her away at the smell of sweat and delusionment and ran for the door, pushing anyone in my way out of it. I headed for the exit as fast as I could, hearing her call out "Fine, be that way, ya BASTARD!" and the crashing of glass as she threw her drink to the ground. The gasping of patrons meant nothing to me.

All I could hear was the fireworks crackling in my ear, and I all I knew was the fact that I couldn't hold back my stomach any longer.

The end of the night couldn't come soon enough.

[chase]

5.

He sat sprawled out on the deck, his long legs splayed out casually, a glass of wine to his right and a game of jacks spread out before him. In one bounce of the rubber ball, his hand swept out and picked up all of the remaining jacks. He chuckled easily at the expression on his competitor's face. If one paid no attention to the newspapers, one would have taken him for a guest and not the master of the luxurious yacht they were sailing on, which is exactly the mistake Chase made as he stumbled around ungracefully in search of the man.

Sitting cross-legged in front of him was another media-popular face. Her long brown curls were tossed around lightly by the wind, and she reached up to brush some of them away from her eyes as she gave their host a mock scowl. "That's three games in a row," she said. Her voice had a slight English lilt to it. "I thought you were teaching me to play."

"Watch and learn, milady." It was the man's tone that tipped Chase off as to his identity, as well as the skill with which he flipped the jacks in his hands, somehow managing to drop none of them. She rolled her eyes at that, but it was obvious she was having a good time. The man looked up at that moment, his green eyes still sparkling with amusement. "Hello. How may I help you?"

Chase coughed. "Hi, Mr... I'm looking for Count Monte Cristo."

"You've found him." After rising to his feet with a grace Chase felt should have been impossible on the gently swaying deck, Monte Cristo gave a gallant, sweeping bow. He offered a hand to the brunette and helped her to her feet as well. "May I present Miss Medea Kekelidze, toxicologist extraordinaire."

Chase shook Medea's extended hand. "Nice to meet you," he said uncertainly. "You both, I mean. I'm Chase."

"A pleasure," Medea said with a sweet smile. She certainly seemed nice enough, but there was a hint of something in her demeanor that, even unnamed, Chase found himself identifying with.

The young count was watching both Chase and Medea with a hint of interest. Turning to Chase, with a patient smile, he asked, "Is there something you require of me?"

"Oh yeah! Sorry I forgot." Poor Chase nearly jumped out of his skin when the count addressed him, even as gentle as his tone was. "Bertuccio sent me to tell you that the picnic is ready to be set out. He's waiting for further instructions."

"Have him ring the dinner bell," Monte Cristo replied graciously, "and gather the rest of the guests, especially the ones below deck. Miss Kekelidze, may I burden you with assisting in that effort?"

"It's no burden. I'd be glad to help." Medea gave Monte Cristo a smile before nudging Chase's shoulder toward the stern of the ship. In a last glance back, Chase saw Monte Cristo leaning against the rail, seemingly watching the water with an odd sort of reverence.

Chase and Medea parted ways at the staircase; even though there were more people below than above, and even though searching the various rooms below took a good bit of time, Medea finished her task first, because Chase was too hesitant to interrupt conversations in progress. By the time Chase and the few guests he'd found reached the picnic table, the dinner bell had long since been rung. Only one person was missing; even though it was Monte Cristo's yacht and had been Monte Cristo's idea to gather some of his best clients and their friends for the event, the count himself was nowhere in sight.

The picnic was spread out more like a buffet, with plates piled high with finger sandwiches, hot dogs, cookies, fruits and vegetables, mini-muffins, and other such treats, with a variety of canned drinks, wines, and an oversize bowl of sherbet punch. The guests formed two lines and dug in eagerly, then milled about or went back to wherever they had been before the bell was rung.

Medea was pulled into a conversation amid a bunch of politicians, some of which were her friends. The slender, casually dressed woman looked out of place among all the suits and ties. Having taken all he wanted from the picnic feast - only a couple of finger sandwiches and a cup of the punch - Chase went wandering around the deck and happened upon none other than Monte Cristo, now watching the water closer to her prow.

"Why are you all the way over here?" Chase asked as he approached, before he remembered who he was talking to. "I mean, the guests are all looking for you."

He chuckled; his eyes didn't leave the water, or whatever he was seeing. "Let them find me."

Chase tried to follow his gaze, but saw nothing but the New York shoreline. "What are you staring at?"

"Nothing you could see." Now Monte Cristo turned to look at Chase. "I was a sailor once."

For some reason, that didn't sound like an answer to Chase's question. "Once? You have a yacht," Chase pointed out.

"True." Monte Cristo looked amused. "It's not quite the same."

The sound of heels approaching relieved Monte Cristo of the necessity of explaining himself. "Bertuccio said he hadn't seen you eat," Medea said as she handed the count a plate of his own food, with a bit of everything on it, far more filling than Chase's. Monte Cristo accepted it with a smile that looked mildly forced.

Medea propped her arms against the railing. "It's beautiful, isn't it? The weather."

That was an easy enough topic to talk about. Chase figured he could manage that. "Yeah. We need more days like this. Perfect for a picnic. It's like the Count ordered it himself."

Medea laughed. "That wouldn't surprise me at all."

Monte Cristo was plucking bits of crust from the finger sandwiches and tossing them out to the water, where small birds fished them from the surface. Medea nudged him. "I brought those for you, not for the birds!"

"So you did." Chuckling, Monte Cristo took a bite of sandwich. Medea leaned against his shoulder, and Chase fiddled with a block of cheese, watching the birds battle each other for bits of wet bread bobbing here and there on the water.