fanfic100 / 044 circles
Title: Three Weeks, One Day, Four Hours
Fandom: Roswell
Characters: Isabel Evans
Prompt: 044. Circles
Word Count: 646
Rating: G
Summary: Really, nobody has a clue.
"When are we gonna buy some chairs?" Michael bitched from his perch atop a log. "These drunken revelries would be a lot more...revelrous...with the proper seating. And don't even get me started on the lack of beer."
Max answered him from across the fire, but Isabel closed her eyes and tuned them out. It had been three weeks, one day, and four hours since they'd left Roswell. Since she'd left Jesse. And they had nothing to show for it. And here they were--ring around a campfire, somewhere in Colorado or Iowa or Idaho, marking time.
"I'm just saying, I think we can spare twenty bucks for a couple of chairs. Buddha boy and I can go tomorrow afternoon to whatever passes for a store in this hellhole--nobody'll notice us, anyway--and buy--"
Isabel stood up and kicked her log seat into the fire. "I've got a headache. I'm going to go lay down in the van."
She stopped by the tent she shared with Maria, rifled through a bag, and grabbed her pillow. Everything was so intense, so tense. Every argument was the same, going round and round about safety and money and wasn't it time to be moving on again? Isabel slammed the van door behind her and stretched out across the back seat. If she lay just right, the springs wouldn't even poke into her back.
One hand resting comfortably on her stomach, Isabel used her other to float out the cd she had pulled from her backpack. It rotated lazily through the air above her hand, lodging four inches above her navel. She cracked her neck and closed her eyes; and with a deep breath, spun up the cd.
The first wave trickled through her like the scent of her mother's perfume. Something elusive. Something comforting. She could feel her muscles relaxing, the tension of the last several days flow out of her.
"I'm just saying it probably won't kill us to get some goddamned furniture, Maxwell!" Michael's voice echoed across the campsite.
Isabel gritted her teeth. The cd spun faster. The ocean grew louder, hungrier, the seagulls more insistent. Waves broke across the van like floodwaters. She could feel the vehicle rock and shake as sound and water merged to rattle windows and shudder the seats. Isabel herself was dragged down by riptides. She felt the pull of the bright moon, high above, swelling her with the tide, crashing into the shore only to be pulled back by swirling whirlpools. She soared with the gulls, circumscribing the sky in their unrelenting hunger.
The door slid open and firelight streamed in. Isabel smiled bitterly.
Her brother poked his head in. "Are you angry with me, too? Because we can get the chairs if you really want. I just think that it'd be a better idea to--"
"No, Max. I'm not mad." Not about stupid lawnchairs, anyway. "I just. I just don't know what we're doing anymore."
"We're trying to stay alive, Iz."
"Yeah. I know that. But moving every two days? To the smallest town available? Not talking to anyone? Not going into stores? Just sitting here, staring at each other? We're spinning our wheels, Max. Everyone's frustrated. Staying alive is great, but there's got to be a point to it. There's got to be a reason why."
"So..."
Exasperated, Isabel sighed and sat up. "Look, I'm not saying we run around with nametags that say 'Hi, I'm an alien!' I'm just saying we be allowed to have a little fun once in a while. Ok? You remember fun?"
"I think so." Max grinned. "I had planned Beaver Falls, Wyoming, as our next destination, but how about we drive a little further and go to the Pacific coast? I suddenly really want to see the ocean again."
Isabel laughed and shamefacedly lowered her spinning disc. "Great idea, Max. Why didn't I think of that?"
Fandom: Roswell
Characters: Isabel Evans
Prompt: 044. Circles
Word Count: 646
Rating: G
Summary: Really, nobody has a clue.
"When are we gonna buy some chairs?" Michael bitched from his perch atop a log. "These drunken revelries would be a lot more...revelrous...with the proper seating. And don't even get me started on the lack of beer."
Max answered him from across the fire, but Isabel closed her eyes and tuned them out. It had been three weeks, one day, and four hours since they'd left Roswell. Since she'd left Jesse. And they had nothing to show for it. And here they were--ring around a campfire, somewhere in Colorado or Iowa or Idaho, marking time.
"I'm just saying, I think we can spare twenty bucks for a couple of chairs. Buddha boy and I can go tomorrow afternoon to whatever passes for a store in this hellhole--nobody'll notice us, anyway--and buy--"
Isabel stood up and kicked her log seat into the fire. "I've got a headache. I'm going to go lay down in the van."
She stopped by the tent she shared with Maria, rifled through a bag, and grabbed her pillow. Everything was so intense, so tense. Every argument was the same, going round and round about safety and money and wasn't it time to be moving on again? Isabel slammed the van door behind her and stretched out across the back seat. If she lay just right, the springs wouldn't even poke into her back.
One hand resting comfortably on her stomach, Isabel used her other to float out the cd she had pulled from her backpack. It rotated lazily through the air above her hand, lodging four inches above her navel. She cracked her neck and closed her eyes; and with a deep breath, spun up the cd.
The first wave trickled through her like the scent of her mother's perfume. Something elusive. Something comforting. She could feel her muscles relaxing, the tension of the last several days flow out of her.
"I'm just saying it probably won't kill us to get some goddamned furniture, Maxwell!" Michael's voice echoed across the campsite.
Isabel gritted her teeth. The cd spun faster. The ocean grew louder, hungrier, the seagulls more insistent. Waves broke across the van like floodwaters. She could feel the vehicle rock and shake as sound and water merged to rattle windows and shudder the seats. Isabel herself was dragged down by riptides. She felt the pull of the bright moon, high above, swelling her with the tide, crashing into the shore only to be pulled back by swirling whirlpools. She soared with the gulls, circumscribing the sky in their unrelenting hunger.
The door slid open and firelight streamed in. Isabel smiled bitterly.
Her brother poked his head in. "Are you angry with me, too? Because we can get the chairs if you really want. I just think that it'd be a better idea to--"
"No, Max. I'm not mad." Not about stupid lawnchairs, anyway. "I just. I just don't know what we're doing anymore."
"We're trying to stay alive, Iz."
"Yeah. I know that. But moving every two days? To the smallest town available? Not talking to anyone? Not going into stores? Just sitting here, staring at each other? We're spinning our wheels, Max. Everyone's frustrated. Staying alive is great, but there's got to be a point to it. There's got to be a reason why."
"So..."
Exasperated, Isabel sighed and sat up. "Look, I'm not saying we run around with nametags that say 'Hi, I'm an alien!' I'm just saying we be allowed to have a little fun once in a while. Ok? You remember fun?"
"I think so." Max grinned. "I had planned Beaver Falls, Wyoming, as our next destination, but how about we drive a little further and go to the Pacific coast? I suddenly really want to see the ocean again."
Isabel laughed and shamefacedly lowered her spinning disc. "Great idea, Max. Why didn't I think of that?"