This was a little fun thing presented on the MichaelandIsabel egroup to get some creative juices flowing. The idea? Write a piece of M/I centered prose that's 55 words or less.
"Noticing"
It's so subtle that I doubt anyone notices it.
A new song begins, and she tilts her head slightly. Listening. Her hair falls off her shoulder, her eyes lose focus. She utters a short, rich hum of appreciation and smiles briefly.
I notice. Do I ever. (46)
"Trying"
I think I'll always be trying to win her over. It's like some crappy addiction, this need to know that *I* put that smile on her face, or whatever.
So what if it's only happened twice? She's the Ice Princess, after all.
What pisses me off is that Michael never even has to try. (54)
"Tears"
She cried last night. I passed her window, headed for Max's, and heard it.
I looked in and my heart broke. She was really crying, sobbing, rocking herself.
I crawled in and held her. She let me.
I didn't know what it was about. Well, I did.
I guess I mean. . . that it didn't matter. (55)
"Woman's Touch"
He doesn't have much stuff. . . not a big decorator, Michael. A spartan room is his style.
There are touches of her, though. The fruit bowl. The towels. The lamp, ant traps, cleaning supplies. That wooden peg rack by the door for his two keys.
She's all over his place, and I'm nowhere to be found. (55)
"Peace"
There's this whole tortured thing about Michael. I mean, even when he's doing nothing, he looks tortured. Anyway, he's NEVER happy, right? Ever.
But there's that picture of them. The one on his refrigerator. And she's grinning and he's looking at her with this totally peaceful look on his face.
She does that to him. (55)
"Girl"
She has so many faces, so many names. Isabel, Ice Queen. Vilandra, Alien. Beautiful. Perfect. Cold.
I heard someone call her "unearthly" in the hall yesterday. Made me laugh.
But for now she's painting her toenails, eating all the strawberry Starburst, and smiling impishly at me.
Just being a girl. (50)
"Moments"
It's so rare to catch Michael with his guard down, it leaves me winded every time I see it happening.
I found him out in the open clearing by the pod chamber, knocking ragged baseballs into the sunset with his old wooden bat. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he sighed deeply.
It was perfect. (54)
"Leveling"
Her eyes are intense. I can't think up another word for them. . . she likes to change the color of them sometimes, but whatever the hue, they always come out dark and mysterious.
I just realized how apt the expression "leveled gaze" is. I look into them, and they level me in every way.
I'm destroyed. (55)
"Distance"
He always keeps his distance. It's subtle, but there, the need to distance himself from people.
He leans his forearms on the table, distributing his frame over the top. I adopt a similar pose, he pulls back into his chair, retreating.
Forbidden to his lips, he lets me read the apology in his eyes. (54)