TWW FIC:: "Dear God" [CJ/Abbey (implied), Abbey-centric] PG13
Title: Dear God
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Author’s Email: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Pairing: CJ/Abbey [implied], Abbey-centric
Rating: PG13
Date: 18-19 August 2007
Word Count: 1042
Written For: futureisours' West Wing AU Dystopia Ficathon
Plot Themes Used: [wo]man vs. religion, technology, man [combination]
Short Summary: Thankfully, Jed's not alive to see this travesty of the very beliefs that molded and drove him for all of his life.
Warning: Character deaths of 2 major characters
Spoilers (if any): Post-series AU.
Disclaimer: “The West Wing”, the characters and situations depicted are the property of Warner Bros. Television, John Wells Productions, NBC, etc. They are borrowed without permission, but without the intent of infringement. This site is in no way affiliated with "The West Wing", NBC, or any representatives of Allison Janney or Stockard Channing. This site contains stories between two mature, consenting adult females.
Author’s Notes: I'd originally planned to write this brilliant piece on [wo]man vs. religion dealing with CJ and Abbey as a couple. That's what I'd signed up for in the first place. And yeah, no, that didn't happen… Damned fickle muses!
So I switched to this current idea. It's been written over the course of two evenings after work. I don't know that this is my best work ever, but I do know that I agonized over this severely. I've never written from Abbey's POV before, at least not something of this magnitude. It was more of a challenge than I'd really expected. I should know better than to think a new muse would be easy on the first date, especially one like Abbey Bartlet!
The title came after the fact, and is based on the song "Dear God". I prefer the version that Sarah McLachlan did, so that's what I'm sticking with.
Beta: Thanks for the quick beta, forensicgater! It's muchly appreciated!
Dedication: My muses, for always letting me stretch my abilities, even when I don't think I can do it.
"Dear God"
by A. Magiluna Stormwriter
I know exactly what she's going through.
Well, perhaps not exactly, but it's close enough. I've already buried my husband and far too many of Ellie's children. Then again, any child buried is one too many, isn't it? I pray she never has to suffer that fate with young Isabella at her side. It's bad enough that Danny's been lost so soon.
Look at her. How can she sit there so damned stoically? Knowing what I know of the situation, if I was in her place, I'd be raging the iniquity at the top of my lungs in sackcloth and ashes. I wouldn't sit idly by as the self-aggrandizing sycophant at the pulpit feeds his tyrannical pabulum to the masses.
Thankfully, Jed's not alive to see this travesty of the very beliefs that molded and drove him for all of his life. They mouth empty, meaningless platitudes, and they think it will save them. The words mean less to them now than before the Death Clouds began to form. But it's something they can cling to, this infantile belief that if they say the words, it will magically protect them from the bio-toxins that have crept into our very DNA.
Every six months, ironically on the spring and fall equinoxes, the Death Clouds gather, turning the skies an ominous shade of grayed red, like so much dirty blood pooling out from the veins it was trapped in. In the beginning, it was little more than crazed chaos. Acrid smoke filled our lungs as the skies were lit up with exploding bombs designed to destroy both slowly and quickly. It only depended on which type of bomb exploded near you. For most, the shrapnel-laced bombs were the worst, cutting people into death-colored ribbons and shreds.
It wasn't until after the fact that we realized those were the better bombs. After all, they killed more quickly, more painlessly. Not like the Death Clouds. I've never understood how people can even conceive of ways to kill one another, let alone the sheer quantities of them. And to use something that causes such a slow, painful death as those poisonous gasses that were released into our atmosphere so many years ago. They've seeped into the atmosphere and rain their noxiousness onto us twice a year for a week straight. And then, they just disappear. No one, not even the scientists at NASA have figured out how it works so perfectly like clockwork.
But it's killing us, regardless. It's not contagious. Ellie verified that. Well, it's not contagious to those of us who can breathe and exist independently of our mothers' wombs for a year or more. Unless, of course, the pregnant women have been given increased doses of the antidote, which has become an inviolable mandate. If they can afford the treatments, of course. We've all become vegetarians because of the effects on the livestock and simpler biological organisms. These are the times I long for Mad Cow Disease, if only because I've been seriously craving one of Jed's burgers for about… Well, ever since he died, I suppose. There are many things I've been craving since he died.
We're creeping back into the Dark Ages at half the speed of sound. It's hard to believe that in less than a decade, we've reverted nearly a thousand years or more. Yes, we still have technology. The Death Clouds didn't destroy that. But even with all of our technological advances, superstitions and fear rule. There are days I wish they'd taken me, too, so I wouldn't have to live through this aftermath of desperation and destruction.
But then I see Annie, trying so hard to be adult and corral her younger brother, or young Isabella Concannon. Not to mention all of the other children and family members, blood or otherwise, gathered here to pay a last tribute to Danny, to the last blatant scion of the truth. Even if no one else knew. Or cared.
No, it's up to me and a few dozen other doctors to determine who is healthy enough, and wealthy enough, to receive the full dosage of the bio-toxin antidote, who have been allowed to procreate during this turmoil as we search for a way to stop the Death Clouds. But that takes money, of course. That's all that matters anymore: money donated to the Church amidst a myriad of empty platitudes.
What kind of God allows something like this to happen? Is the Old Testament really that correct in saying God is a vengeful, mean old jackass? Is that really the deity to whom my husband nearly devoted his entire life? Is this God's way of punishing me for taking away one of His chosen ones? For tempting Jed away from a life of quiet reflection and genuflection to, as he once put it, a feckless thug? For having three wonderful children who also praise His name and His glory? Even if it's not deserved. For having a daughter who has worked herself nearly into the grave to come up with a cure for this deadly chemical warfare that He allowed to be created and implemented in the first place?
If I never step foot in another church again, it'll be too damned soon. As much as I love these people who've become my family, I can no longer mouth these meaningless platitudes to a God that doesn't even listen to His followers, let alone actually do anything to help them. If it means I no longer get the damned monthly ration of antidote, then so be it. I won't be party to this farce any longer.
With a deep breath, I settle the mantle of Abbey Bartlet, former First Lady and widow of former President Josiah "Jed" Bartlet, over me. This day isn't about me; it's about CJ and Isabella coping with having to put Danny in the ground. Today, I will be there for my family. Today I will give what comfort I can, regardless of whether it's taken as friend, family, or whatever else CJ may need of me. Plans for my departure from the religious side of life can wait until I know my family is taken care of.
Jethro and Danny wouldn't want it any other way.
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Author’s Email: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Pairing: CJ/Abbey [implied], Abbey-centric
Rating: PG13
Date: 18-19 August 2007
Word Count: 1042
Written For: futureisours' West Wing AU Dystopia Ficathon
Plot Themes Used: [wo]man vs. religion, technology, man [combination]
Short Summary: Thankfully, Jed's not alive to see this travesty of the very beliefs that molded and drove him for all of his life.
Warning: Character deaths of 2 major characters
Spoilers (if any): Post-series AU.
Disclaimer: “The West Wing”, the characters and situations depicted are the property of Warner Bros. Television, John Wells Productions, NBC, etc. They are borrowed without permission, but without the intent of infringement. This site is in no way affiliated with "The West Wing", NBC, or any representatives of Allison Janney or Stockard Channing. This site contains stories between two mature, consenting adult females.
Author’s Notes: I'd originally planned to write this brilliant piece on [wo]man vs. religion dealing with CJ and Abbey as a couple. That's what I'd signed up for in the first place. And yeah, no, that didn't happen… Damned fickle muses!
So I switched to this current idea. It's been written over the course of two evenings after work. I don't know that this is my best work ever, but I do know that I agonized over this severely. I've never written from Abbey's POV before, at least not something of this magnitude. It was more of a challenge than I'd really expected. I should know better than to think a new muse would be easy on the first date, especially one like Abbey Bartlet!
The title came after the fact, and is based on the song "Dear God". I prefer the version that Sarah McLachlan did, so that's what I'm sticking with.
Beta: Thanks for the quick beta, forensicgater! It's muchly appreciated!
Dedication: My muses, for always letting me stretch my abilities, even when I don't think I can do it.
"Dear God"
by A. Magiluna Stormwriter
I know exactly what she's going through.
Well, perhaps not exactly, but it's close enough. I've already buried my husband and far too many of Ellie's children. Then again, any child buried is one too many, isn't it? I pray she never has to suffer that fate with young Isabella at her side. It's bad enough that Danny's been lost so soon.
Look at her. How can she sit there so damned stoically? Knowing what I know of the situation, if I was in her place, I'd be raging the iniquity at the top of my lungs in sackcloth and ashes. I wouldn't sit idly by as the self-aggrandizing sycophant at the pulpit feeds his tyrannical pabulum to the masses.
Thankfully, Jed's not alive to see this travesty of the very beliefs that molded and drove him for all of his life. They mouth empty, meaningless platitudes, and they think it will save them. The words mean less to them now than before the Death Clouds began to form. But it's something they can cling to, this infantile belief that if they say the words, it will magically protect them from the bio-toxins that have crept into our very DNA.
Every six months, ironically on the spring and fall equinoxes, the Death Clouds gather, turning the skies an ominous shade of grayed red, like so much dirty blood pooling out from the veins it was trapped in. In the beginning, it was little more than crazed chaos. Acrid smoke filled our lungs as the skies were lit up with exploding bombs designed to destroy both slowly and quickly. It only depended on which type of bomb exploded near you. For most, the shrapnel-laced bombs were the worst, cutting people into death-colored ribbons and shreds.
It wasn't until after the fact that we realized those were the better bombs. After all, they killed more quickly, more painlessly. Not like the Death Clouds. I've never understood how people can even conceive of ways to kill one another, let alone the sheer quantities of them. And to use something that causes such a slow, painful death as those poisonous gasses that were released into our atmosphere so many years ago. They've seeped into the atmosphere and rain their noxiousness onto us twice a year for a week straight. And then, they just disappear. No one, not even the scientists at NASA have figured out how it works so perfectly like clockwork.
But it's killing us, regardless. It's not contagious. Ellie verified that. Well, it's not contagious to those of us who can breathe and exist independently of our mothers' wombs for a year or more. Unless, of course, the pregnant women have been given increased doses of the antidote, which has become an inviolable mandate. If they can afford the treatments, of course. We've all become vegetarians because of the effects on the livestock and simpler biological organisms. These are the times I long for Mad Cow Disease, if only because I've been seriously craving one of Jed's burgers for about… Well, ever since he died, I suppose. There are many things I've been craving since he died.
We're creeping back into the Dark Ages at half the speed of sound. It's hard to believe that in less than a decade, we've reverted nearly a thousand years or more. Yes, we still have technology. The Death Clouds didn't destroy that. But even with all of our technological advances, superstitions and fear rule. There are days I wish they'd taken me, too, so I wouldn't have to live through this aftermath of desperation and destruction.
But then I see Annie, trying so hard to be adult and corral her younger brother, or young Isabella Concannon. Not to mention all of the other children and family members, blood or otherwise, gathered here to pay a last tribute to Danny, to the last blatant scion of the truth. Even if no one else knew. Or cared.
No, it's up to me and a few dozen other doctors to determine who is healthy enough, and wealthy enough, to receive the full dosage of the bio-toxin antidote, who have been allowed to procreate during this turmoil as we search for a way to stop the Death Clouds. But that takes money, of course. That's all that matters anymore: money donated to the Church amidst a myriad of empty platitudes.
What kind of God allows something like this to happen? Is the Old Testament really that correct in saying God is a vengeful, mean old jackass? Is that really the deity to whom my husband nearly devoted his entire life? Is this God's way of punishing me for taking away one of His chosen ones? For tempting Jed away from a life of quiet reflection and genuflection to, as he once put it, a feckless thug? For having three wonderful children who also praise His name and His glory? Even if it's not deserved. For having a daughter who has worked herself nearly into the grave to come up with a cure for this deadly chemical warfare that He allowed to be created and implemented in the first place?
If I never step foot in another church again, it'll be too damned soon. As much as I love these people who've become my family, I can no longer mouth these meaningless platitudes to a God that doesn't even listen to His followers, let alone actually do anything to help them. If it means I no longer get the damned monthly ration of antidote, then so be it. I won't be party to this farce any longer.
With a deep breath, I settle the mantle of Abbey Bartlet, former First Lady and widow of former President Josiah "Jed" Bartlet, over me. This day isn't about me; it's about CJ and Isabella coping with having to put Danny in the ground. Today, I will be there for my family. Today I will give what comfort I can, regardless of whether it's taken as friend, family, or whatever else CJ may need of me. Plans for my departure from the religious side of life can wait until I know my family is taken care of.
Jethro and Danny wouldn't want it any other way.