cat_77 | Trying This Out

Okay, so I've been meaning to get one of these for a while. I finally got around to it. Yeah me? There probably won't be much here, just to warn you.

The main reason for this journal is to feed my obsession with fan fic. I love to read it and write it. I want to be able to more easily comment on other people's fic and maybe join some of those nifty little fic communities. I may post a couple of my WIPs here to try to get feedback as to whether they work or not, and I will try to remember to post if I update or complete anything.

The other reason for getting one of these things is to bitch. You know it, I know it, let's all just accept it and move on. I rant, I ramble, and I vent. All very important things, I assure you. Will you care? Probably not.

Okay, to start this thing off, let's try posting a tiny thing I wrote. Basically, I got caught up in the whole Five Things craze going around lately. This is Stargate based:

Five Tastes Daniel Jackson No Longer Appreciates, and One Thing He Does
Cat: Gen (I swear)
Rating: PG to PG-13
Spoilers: Crystal Skull, Gamekeeper, Movie

- Lemon Ice

Those little cups of frozen lemon had always been a refreshing treat in the hot sun. Not quite ice cream, not quite sorbet, they had a distinctive taste all their own. He loved them, up until that fateful day at the museum. One of the museum curators had whisked him away from his parents’ crushed bodies, sat him down in a relatively empty office, and tried to placate him with the damn things. Every time he cried, she had offered him more, most likely remembering seeing him eating one just the day before with his father. He sat there for hours, no one knowing what to do with him other than ply him with sweets in an attempt to keep him calm. Frozen lemon juice does not make up for a family ripped away before your very eyes. He hated them from that day forward.

- Ivory Soap

It was supposed to be great for your skin, but it really did nothing for your taste buds. He lost count of how many times he had his mouth washed out with that particular variety of soap. Ms. Hallen was less than impressed with his language skills when he first arrived at the children’s home. She had declared he would “never use such filth” in front of her again. What she saw as filth he saw as a near native tongue. He had spoken the language for as long as he could remember, side by side with the required English. The flowing vowels and rhythmic cadence were music to his ears; one more tie to what he saw as home. She told him it had no place in her orphanage and enforced this rule with a vengeance. Sometimes it was a washcloth soaked through with water and covered in little white bubbles, other times it was the bar itself. He swore she took to carrying around extra in the voluminous pockets of the housecoat she wore like a uniform each day. It did not matter if he was upset or distraught and it just slipped off his tongue. If the word came out, the soap came out. Decades later, he still refused to buy anything from that brand.

- Cherry Flavored Cough Syrup

A child with allergies thrown into a new environment was never a good thing. A child with allergies thrown to a foster couple that had never had to deal with such trivialities was a worse thing. Convinced he must constantly have a cold and could not be reacting to all the perfumes, flowers, and detergents surrounding him, Mrs. Miller forced cough syrup down his throat on a near daily basis. The medicine made his stomach burn and the sweetness made his teeth hurt. The fact he was often nauseous just reinforced for her that he must be ill. It was not until he was transferred to the McManigans that he learned the joys of child-strength over-the-counter antihistamines, available in lovely grape or flavorless doses.

- Beer

He was sixteen and a half when he had his first beer. It also, coincidentally, coincided with his first hangover and his first sexual experience. His paramour-to-be gave him as much of the yeasty brew as he could handle, and then gave him some more. He did not remember much about that night, but he did remember the awful headache in the morning and the full-body blush when he realized just who’s bed he had woken up in and in what state. He eventually slipped out and stumbled his way back to his own home and the comfort of his own bed. After a breakfast of aspirin and several glasses of water, he slept past two o’clock that afternoon. His girlfriend never forgave him.

- Yaffeta Sweets

He had helped her grind the flour that morning, expecting another batch of breads to come piping hot out of the stone oven that afternoon. Instead, she surprised him with the sweets. They were sticky from the honey-like glaze and tasted of exotic spices he doubted could ever be replicated on Earth. They quickly became a favorite, though he did not know if their delectability was due to their uniqueness or the fact they were clearly made with love. She used any excuse to make them: the harvest festival, the coming of the rains, the finding of the hidden room in the caves, or simply the suns shining in the sky just right that day. After she was taken, they never tasted quite the same again.

- Coffee

He loved the dark brew. Sweet, bitter, with cream and sugar or without, the watered down Americano or the tinto so thick it held your spoon in place; it did not matter. He loved the way the steam rolled off the first cup of the morning, the scent awakening his mind as the caffeine awakened his body. He loved that such a simple drink could taste so different depending on just which region the beans were from, or how the particular batch was roasted. He loved the near never-ending supply. He did not necessarily love the stuff from the mess hall, at least not until they wised up and doled out for the higher quality all the scientists and engineers they depended on treasured so much. It was the private stashes he enjoyed, the tiny treat of something just a bit different while still being so familiar. It consoled him, it relaxed him, it invigorated him and more. Most importantly, though, it reminded him of mornings spent crowded around a tiny work table with his mother and father, sipping out of chipped mugs while they planned out their day. It comforted him in ways nothing else ever could.

End.

So, let's see if this works...