Weee.

I looked at him, hurt and lost. His timid figure stood in front of me, dark, unknowing. I couldn't say anything; all words were choked up in my throat. I stared ahead, refusing to let the tears drop, refusing him the pleasure of seeing me in misery and pain.

"So..." He said casually

I gulped, hunching my shoulders automatically, pulling off the act of invisibility, failing as I watched his face contort into pity. Rage started to pour through me, and I felt it trickle down the back of my throat, a sour taste in my mouth.

"I - ," I paused, not knowing how to respond, "I hope that you have a good life."
I turned away, slowly putting one foot in front of another. I tried to ignore the rage, and just walk away, without causing another reason for him to call after me or look at me anymore.

"Wait a minute." He huffed, turning me around.

And that's when I snapped.

"Oh yes, I will wait a minute. In fact, I'll wait an hour because I was so smitten with you!" I yelped in anger, "I should have guessed that you were with someone else, when we were dating! How dare you tell me to wait, when you can't wait for me at all?"
He looked at me, his eyes widening in astonishment.
"And you know what?" I accused him, "You'll never find someone who'll love you. The way that you act, the way that you so blatantly disregard a relationship, no one is ever going to want you! I hope you burn in hell, you insufferable bastard!" With that, I pushed him; hard, making him stumble back, staring at me with hurt decipherable in his eyes. I turned on my heel, slamming the door and running out, tears now streaming down my face. Hot, angry tears that I rubbed away furiously, when I suddenly bumped into someone.
They held my elbows whilst I struggled, "Are you okay?"
"You can go to tell your friend to -" I was cut off, by him picking me up and tossing me over his back.
"Shut up." His voice was amused. "What happened?"

I shrieked, kicking him and falling off as he startled. "Your asshole of a friend."

I got bored in Religion. May add more later. It got stupid. That's why I stopped there.

The Crowned Fool

The poem reads...

Sentiments for a fool,
a fool who wears a crown,
a beak he has, for a tool,
but all that's predicted is going down.
A flap, a croak as she falls,
is all that the rebellion shall need.
All that he's left with is a crawl,
sad, sad king with a wholesome deed.
The clock rings one and the laughter stops.
Today we remember the fallen king
who got greedy and supported the sops.
But now is vanquished, what a thing. 

For English

Science is prevalent in all aspects of life. Except in dreams. That’s where science tries to compensate by informing the people of the stages of sleep that a person goes through.  
What they haven’t realised is that during the sleeping stages; the body heals itself from whatever is plaguing it. And if encouraged correctly, with sleepwalkers inducing the brain, the body is often able to heal itself completely.
A broken leg takes a matter of an hour. A malignant tumour takes three.
And right now, our researchers are working on a way to heal a body from death. Conceptually, it’s possible. The body can be regenerated, and there would probably be a limitation on how long the person could be dead for, to be revived again. For if the mind or soul no longer existed, there were no dreams to enter.
So far, however, the research shows that it can be a long time; longer than the Earth’s existence in the desolate universe. This would help us gain multiple opportunities; finally we would be capable to determine what would happen to the soul after the body died.  

Where the problem lies, however, is society. Society is corrupt in all senses. Not having a brain of their own, they follow what the governments proclaim, amusingly resembling the Pied Piper leading the children off a cliff. If anyone was to get ahold of our information; of our ideas, and experiments; the power that is held in our hands could be used in the wrong way; to damage the body as opposed to heal it. 
I am a sleepwalker. My husband, Rory, had died a month ago through a murder, and I was approached by an agency that had gone through all my possessions, my private information, everything and everyone that I’d ever been associated with. I would not give up until I brought him back to life; even if it cost me my death. His dead body, along with multiple others, lay cold, pale and dead on the ice counters, in an attempt to keep the organs somewhat intact.

“Ready to go under?” The operative looked at me anxiously; sweat dripping down her face, even though the room was cold. This was the first time we were going to attempt to revive the dead, and Rory was our initial subject. I had been given a set of instructions, that involved stimulating the brain again, and then coaxing my husband’s subconscious out. Due to our close relationship, the company had deemed that his mind would seek mine out; as a solace from all the pain and misery experienced on the other side. My insides were trying to claw themselves out, and I was close to hyperventilating; taking deep breaths. If I botched this up; we were going to shut down this idea, only using our abilities to heal people.
I nodded, gingerly climbing up on the table before helping the operative attach myself to the bed. Everything that my spiritual body did would be reflected by my physical form. Since this was our first time, I had to expect the worst. I had to expect the unexpected.

The operative extracted the syringe, almost dropping it leaving streaks of moisture on the outer packaging. She wiped her clammy hands hurriedly against her uniform, before placing it on the table next to me. This needle was large; perhaps the extra dosage to keep me sedated for a longer period of time. I nodded again, and once again, she rubbed her hands on her uniform before picking up the syringe, situating the tip of the needle on the outside of my wrist, before releasing the sedative through my system. I cried out in pain, as I felt the needle exit my body – but I quickly got bleary-eyed.
Had.

To.

Concentrate.

N…

 ~

“Mel?” I heard a voice, so clear and bright, clouded with confusion. “How did you get here?”
I opened my eyes, and once I saw him standing there, looking at me – eyebrows furrowed, I closed them quickly again. Lifting a hand, I cast my hand around around where I was sleeping. Grass. Freshly cut, from the identical bristles. There was no smell in here; but they’d warned me about that. Apparently, the ability to smell was forgotten within the first week of death.
Of course, this was all theoretical. I opened my eyes cautiously, and saw a field. Beautifully maintained; there were patches of flowers around, and a whole section was obviously reserved for the fruit.

“Have you done this?” I asked quietly, running my hands through the hordes of flowers; realising that they were all chrysanthemums; my favourites.
He looked at me, murmuring a tinny yes. I’d never expected it to be this easy to find him. Even healing took longer than this. Instead of taking a long time for his body to be able to function properly; it might be a quick procedure.
“We have to go.” I smiled at him. “Now.”
The furrow between his eyes got deeper. “Where to?”
“I’m taking you home.” I spoke gently, “I’m going to bring you back to life. Have you met anyone else down here?”
He shook his head, and took my hand, squeezing lightly as I pursued my lips in determination. The heavier sedative had been unnecessary and now it would be harder to wake up; and to bring his mind back into his body, before encouraging it to heal it as well.
A gate appeared in front us, suddenly and beyond it, the image was blurred, shimmering.
“Walk through.” I muttered. “Be right behind you.”
He frowned, but listened to what I said. Our joys and sorrows could be celebrated later; I just had to make sure my mind could get out safely. 
However as soon as he stepped through, the silhouette of his body disappearing, the gate shut close.
My eyes widened in alarm as I experienced a sudden sensation of falling, and then my heart was taking flight and I sat up in horror in my bed back at the hospital.

“He’s breathing.” The operative squealed at me and I just looked at her, pity for her obliviousness. Death was meant to occur for a reason. For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. Nature was never meant to be messed around with.

“I’m dying.” I croaked out, and her eyes grew big, scared. She screamed for someone to aid me, and looking at her, I grimaced, pulling on her hand to urge her to look at my mouth. “Tell him… that I l-“

Not that good, I'm aware; I was in a rush to write this because I didn't have any time! I like the plot though; I may try to develop it.
I'm also aware that this was a bit too rushed, sigh. 

Anyway. 

Anyway. 

Dammnit, I wish I COULD WRITE.  

Don't mind me- just doing shit

“There we go... step front-yes... step back-good... yes- you’re doing it... gah!”

Emily paused, her left foot in midair. She glanced up at Myles’ face, which was contorted in precipitous pain. “What? What I do?” she asked, mildly annoyed.

Myles and Emily were in Fowl Manor’s now vacant ballroom, all traces of limestone tables and finely crafted wooden chairs hidden in bleak white. Myles had insisted that Emily consider ballroom dancing lessons, since waltzing was, as he had claimed time and time again, not her best forte, and she had agreed, albeit very reluctantly.

However, she had not known that they were taking pre-classes to her original classes, and so she couldn’t help but feel a wee bit irked. And still, after five agonizingly slow sessions, Emily’s feet refused to decipher the basics of ballroom dancing, and it was becoming evident that Myles was growing more and more frustrated with her with the passing of each class. 

Emily heard Myles breathe sharply before he glared at her, stooping down to rub his sore shin. “That’s the issue now, though, isn’t it? It’s what you haven’t been doing,” he nearly spat, a frown creasing his smooth forehead. Emily lifted an eyebrow, half amused. Myles wasn’t being very empathetic towards her situation; he was completely ignoring the fact that she had never properly waltzed in... ever.

She wasn’t exactly sure of what he had expected from her, but he seemed to have had high hopes for her. Emily sighed, scratching just below her ear. “It’s not my fault you’re being a useless tutor,” she retorted, crossing her arms. Myles sighed and lifted himself from the ground, his frame towering over Emily’s. He methodically rubbed his thumb across his forehead, closed his eyes, and started the process of multiplying numbers in his head to calm his agitated nerves. Emily smiled.

“Emily, stop being an idiot and learn the steps,” he said slowly, nodding at every word enunciated, his stance assuming lead position. Emily groaned loudly but obliged nonetheless. Lifting her arms, she rested her right hand on top of Myles’ shoulder and the other clasped his right hand. “Alright,” he muttered, nodding along the lively tunes of Frank Sinatra’s Fly With Me. “Again- just like I taught you,” he repeated, somewhat wary. Emily nodded quickly and followed his lead.

Left foot back- right foot side- left foot front- twirl.

Left foot back- right foot side- left foot front- twirl.

Left foot back- right foot side-

“Stop.”

Emily looked up again, nostrils flared irritably. “What?” she moaned, dropping her hands. Myles raised an irritated eyebrow. “You were leading again!” he snapped. “Again?” she half laughed, and then frowned. “I was not!”

Myles let out a long, weary sigh and took a step back. “I’m not even sure my left foot is functioning properly thanks to your horrid foot work.”

“My footwork is not that bad. You’re the one who keeps stopping me every two seconds! How the hell am I supposed to get better if I can’t even dance-“

“I’ve given you more than two seconds,” he huffed, smoothing out the creases on his maroon Armani suit. Emily shook her head. “That’s an overstatement,” she said very clearly, sitting square legged on the carpeted floor.

Myles rolled his eyes. He carefully slid out of his suit jacket and hung it on a nearby chair. “Okay,” he said calmly, making his way toward her. He offered her his hand, but Emily swatted it away, pouting profusely. “How about we drop the stubborn act and try again,” he tried, kneeling beside her. Emily looked away. “I’m not a child,” she growled, narrowing her eyes.

“I don’t know, Em, you seem pretty baby-ish to me.”

Emily rolled her eyes and Myles smiled crookedly before getting up, dusting his lint free pantsuit. “Aren’t you supposed to be training with Butler?” he asked dryly.

Beckett walked over to the windows, which took up almost an entire wall, and tugged at a cream velvet rope. The curtains shuddered, then parted, revealing a wide shaft of afternoon sunlight, instantly illuminating the weakly lit ballroom. Emily noticed the dust swirling in the sunbeams, and wondered why she and Myles had been taking their ‘class’ in dim darkness.

“Yeah,” Beckett answered finally. “But Jules needs him in New Mexico- something about a sticky situation with some guy called Spiro? I dunno, Artemis’ with them too.”

Emily glanced at Myles, confused. Myles caught the hint. “Juliet is- well, rather was our caretaker and body guard-“

“You guys had a bodyguard? Isn’t that a bit too overprotective?”

Beckett laughed, shaking his head. “Nah. We needed Juliet so she could keep an eye on the people around us rather than me and Myles. We were rascals back then, right Myles?” he asked cheerfully, leaning back against a black marble pillar.

“Rather then Myles and myself,” mumbled Myles, giving Beckett an exaggerated eye roll. Emily laughed.

Beckett ignored the both of them and ran a quick hand through his fair curls. “Dance lessons failing yet?” he smirked.

Myles snorted. “Hardly. Emily’s quite the quick learner. You’d be surprised to find that she mastered the basics in no less than under five minutes,” he lied, lifting his chin loftily. Emily’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth before shutting them again, not liking where this was going. She shot Myles a warning look but he brushed it away, staring defiantly at Beckett.

Beckett nodded, seemingly impressed, but Emily could detect hints of skepticism.

“What? Not able to comprehend that?”

“Afraid not,” Beckett replied, grinning. “You’re not exactly the best teacher...”

“I know, right!” chimed Emily, nodding enthusiastically. Myles narrowed his eyes at her, but not long enough for Beckett to notice. Play along, the glare said, or else we’ll never hear the end of it from Beckett.

“But- if it hadn’t been for clever little me, I wouldn’t have gotten the steps so easily and this would have been a massive failure of a class. But I guess Myles is an okay tutor... sort of,” she added quickly, naturally, earning a false smile from Myles, who appeared to successfully restrain himself from scowling at her.

Beckett gave her a lazy smile. “Impress me, then,” he said, crossing his arms.

Myles lifted a careless shoulder. “I’m afraid we haven’t the time,” he drawled, smiling apologetically. “I must phone the taxi services to take Emily back to Dublin square. She has to mind the book shop for her father- isn’t that right, Emily?” Emily lifted her nails to eyesight and nodded halfheartedly. “Couldn’t have been more right, mate.”

Beckett scoffed. “It’s Sunday. All the shops are closed on Sunday.”

Emily shook her head. “We’re renovating the store,” she replied breezily.

Beckett regarded her dubiously before sighing. “I knew you were making it up. Emily couldn’t dance to save her life- she probably has two left feet.” He stopped, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “You know what? From this day on, I’m going to call her left foot faucet, you know, because of her two left feet.”

Emily snorted, clapping her hands. “Wow, Beck. I’m impressed, truly. You sure you didn’t plan this entire moment? Seemed like you memorized that entire left foot faucet speech- good job, by the way. Brilliant use of alliteration.” She turned to Myles, who gave her a minute shake of the head as if he knew the very thing she was about to suggest. Emily ignored him, getting to her feet. “Come on, Myles, let’s show the boy how to waltz- and well, at that. None of that nonsense Beckett’s been doing his entire life.”

“But the taxi-“

“Come on.”

Ignoring Beckett’s denying huh!, Emily marched over to Myles, claimed his shoulder with her right hand, grasped his hand with a firm hand of her own, and assumed her stance. Myles cleared his throat, but he looked at her with new determined eyes, and Emily knew she wasn’t left dangling on her own. 

They were in this together.

She cleared her mind, and replayed the order of the steps in her memory.

Left foot back- right foot side- left foot front- twirl.

It wasn’t that hard, she reasoned with herself. She frowned in concentration; not noticing the hint of a 

smile Myles was giving her.

Left foot back- right foot side- left foot front- twirl.

Their feet moved in sync as the dulcet lull of the music filled the room.

Left foot back- right foot side- left foot front- twirl.

Left foot back- right foot side- left foot front- twirl.

“Don’t stop now.” She barely heard Myles mutter this, and instead focused on the precision of her footwork.

Left foot back- right foot side- left foot front- twirl.

“Don’t look at your feet, it’s unattractive,” he instructed softly. Emily automatically looked up to find his eyes intently fixed on hers. She gave him a slight nod, noticing, perhaps for the very first time, the vibrant vivid hazel in his eyes.

She blinked and then quickly cast her look away, very, very aware of the fact that her cheeks were probably flushed a soft pink.

Myles twirled her again and-

The music halted abruptly.

“Alright- okay, fine. You proved your point. Emily’s a genius. How about we stop the session? I’m hungry,” announced Beckett, walking out of the ballroom before either one of them could catch up.

Myles gave Emily a slight shrug before dropping his hands to his sides. “Shall we take a break?” he asked.

Emily nodded, smiling. “I’ve done well, haven’t I?”

Myles sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You didn’t do terribly, so there’s a small, if miniscule, improvement in your part,” he said lazily, swerving the light punch Emily aimed at his chest. “Yes, you did well,” he rolled his eyes, but Emily caught the slight curve in his lips, and she knew she managed to impress him.

- the-wyverary

__________________________________________________________

So not ready for nano wrimo shit

NaNoWriMo

I'm assuming that we're going to be posting NaNo here every time we complete a day?

And do you have a plot yet?

After that, we can do the Doctor Who - Thirty Day Challenge; and how do you want that to work as well? Like, prompt words, sentences or something? I guess we can organise everything when it comes to it.
Hope that everything's working out fine!

This is getting ridiculous

She was having a bad day.

She was have a very bad day.

In fact, it felt like the universe was mocking her every move; from her overripe green apple to her goody-less, snack free limited edition Harrods lunch bag, to her I-can’t-believe-I-screwed-up-the-test math summative.

And on top of all of that, nobody, not a single person, had the decency to wish her a happy birthday.

Mashael had sauntered in through the school that clammy Tuesday morning (keeping a watchful eye for Deema’s stupid weeping angel trick, mind you) and had excitedly expected an entire crowd to rush over to her bearing gifts and just pint after pint of delicious Oreo ice cream.

And, as she had realistically expected, it hadn’t happened.

No big deal, she had thought with a mental shrug, trying to shake off the inkling of disappointment that made her shoulders slightly drop. No one even does that anymore.

Same with her locker. It was completely empty, devoid of all brightly colored cards she had at least thought her close friends would make for her. Mashael wheeled her bag to her locker and glanced at Logein, Yara and Halah, who were animatedly discussing yesterday’s episode of Top Model.

She gave them a little wave, and, mildly creeped out, they returned the wave uncertainly, turning their attention back to their previous topic of conversation.

Heart sinking, she ignored the lurch in her stomach and began the tedious process of unloading her books from her bag without much enthusiasm. After she had finished, she hung her abaya and plucked her English books, resting them securely in her hands.

She felt someone brush her shoulder and found Deema’s ponytail swinging back and forth, her head disappearing in the crowd. Mashael sped over to them, feeling very much hopeful. “Hey guys!” she said, giving them the thumbs up with her free hand.

“Oh. Hey,” said Deema distantly, and Mashael could see dark circles shadowing just below her eyes. “I’ve been having such an off day and this sucks and I just need to sleep right now.” She turned to Sarah. “Nearly done with English?” she asked, her voice strained.

Sarah nodded, rubbing her eyes. “Pretty much. I just need a conclusion and I need to point out my symbolism and shit. Which happens to be a lot, by the way. Amsterdam airports are the freaking best.”

Deema snorted and pulled the door open for herself and Sarah, leaving Mashael squirming behind.

Okay, thought Mashael, hurt. She did say she was having an off day-

-but that doesn’t give her the excuse to forget your birthday!

Don’t you mean our birthday?

Stop talking to yourself!

Mrs. P entered the class and chirped a Good Morning Class!, which Mashael had returned with unequal enthusiasm that steadily dropped by the minute.

“Well, I’ve got your papers. We’re going to be grading them today -no, not actually grading them!- and then you’ll start editing your piece, goddit?” she announced, bringing her coffee mug to her lips and taking a thoughtful sip.

Mashael shot Deema a frantic look that clearly screamed WHAT NO YOU DIDN’T TELL ME THEY WERE GOING TO BE GRADED I HATE THIS I HATE THIS I HATE THIS but she wasn’t paying attention. She was too busy scanning the lines on her paper while giving little satisfied nods with each ending paragraph.

Mashael coughed loudly, and Deema snapped her gaze from her essay to look curiously at her. She suddenly smiled wide, and her hand shot up in the air.

Mashael couldn’t help but beam. Finally! She remembered!

“Teacher?” she asked brightly.

“Student?”

The class tittered, and Mashael saw that Deema was struggling with an immense effort to not roll her eyes at this very redundant and overly used joke.

“I think I’m pretty much finished!” she said, and the knot formed in Mashael’s stomach tightened. Well, okay then.

***

Taw7eed was worse.

The seat Mashael sat in was wet. And it wasn’t water or juice or any acceptable form of liquid; the girl who previously sat in that chair had barfed up her breakfast on that very chair and was immediately sent back to her home.

That’s right.

Mashael was sitting in a pile of someone else’s sick.

She screeched, her hands automatically covering her buttocks, and screeched again, because she touched it.

The class erupted in unsuppressed hysterics, and the teacher, the teacher who was supposed to represent all things pure and caring, chortled like the hyena she was.

Mashael stared at her hands miserably and snuck a glance at Deema and Jawaher, who high fived over this humiliating occasion.

“Um- Abla? 3ady a’3asel maryooly fl 7amam?” she squeaked, trying to grasp what was left of her dignity.

The teacher nodded in between barks of laughter, and Mashael left the room as quickly as possible.

Unlike Deema, today was seriously not her day.

***

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of a series of unfortunate events that mainly consisted of Mashael embarrassing herself, Deema pointing at how embarrassing the whole situation was, and people laughing their asses off because it was just that embarrassing.

She grumbled as she stirred her bowl of tomato soup, fiddling with a paper Winnie the Pooh pointy hat her sisters had made her wear once she was home from school, and contemplated a way that could salvage the remains of her rather repulsive afternoon when the doorbell rang.

Mashael rolled her eyes and got up, knowing perfectly well that nobody was going to answer the door because they were lazy and she was the queen of answering-the-doors-when-no-one-would.

She dragged her legs across the room and twisted the knob and peered outside.

Nothing.

There was nobody there.

Mildly annoyed at this, she closed the door with an irritated flick of the hand.

Ding Dong!

Mashael growled under her breath, and opened it again.

No one. No one was there.

Mashael huffed. “Bader! Stop doing that! One more time and walla I won’t play with you anymore...” she nodded righteously until a follow up idea hit her. “...Forever!” she added hastily, throwing her hands in the air as hard emphasis.

“Well that’s a pity. I was very much looking forward to playing with you.”

Mashael whirled around to find a gangly suited man with a bright crimson bowtie smiling down on her, a funny looking tool with a glowing green tip in mid twirl. She glanced down at her grouchy Garfield nightdress and felt the heat creep up her cheeks.

She flung her arms on her chest and knees and whispered theatrically, “Don’t look at me! I’m- I’m not decent!”

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re just a bundle of laughs, aren’t you?” Mashael was about to respond but he cut her off. “Listen. You’ve had a bad day. I know. Let’s un-bad this day and have the bloody time of our lives, right? Right. Brilliant. Off we go!”

Mashael raised a tentative hand.

The man looked at her. “Yes?”

“Um,” she started, flustered. “How’d you get into my house?”

The man stroked his chin, apparently deep in thought. “Good question. How did I get into your house, Mashael Al-Qahtani? Well, like most people, I just used the front door. I’m getting rather good at that, you know,” he whispered the last part; his ear splitting grin widening- if that were even possible.

“Enough dilly-dalling! Come with meee-”

Mashael groaned, “No.”

“And you’ll see-”

“Stop it.”

“A woooorld of pure imagination!”

“It only works because you’re British.”

“Nope. Not even human.”

“Ah. Interesting.”

The man scoffed and grabbed her hand, which Mashael had immediately shook off. He made a face. 

“What is it this time?”

Mashael gave an indignant sniff. “I don’t do with physical displays of affection.” And when she said this, the man nodded and reclaimed her hand anyway, running towards outside of the front gates. 

Mashael gasped, casting hurried glances left and right in fear of anybody catching sight of her in her nighty.

The man was sprinting towards the corner of the street where the bluest blue telephone box stood majestically, Mashael lagging slowly behind. She frowned when she took in the shape of the box. She never noticed it being there before.

The man pulled the handle casually before pushing it, sending the box a withering look as he pushed past the doors as if the box were an actual person and not, well... a box.

The door creaked open and the man pushed her inside before locking the doors with a satisfied click!

Mashael yanked her hand from his and glared at him, her nostrils flaring in the least intimidating way possible. She didn’t even know him let alone let him take her places! “I don’t even know you! Rapist! 

You’re going to rape me!”

The man stared wide-eyed at her.

Mashael cupped her hands and brought them to her mouth. “Rapist! GA3D YSRIGNEE! GA3D YISRIGNEE! GA3D YIS-“

The man hastily covered her mouth with his hand, and despite Mashael’s weak protesting arms, it remained firmly on her mouth. “Would you please be quiet!”

Mashael shook her head and whimpered. The man sighed and dropped his hand. “Listen to me. You are in completely safe hands, alright? Completely. It’s your birthday, and you’re going to love it, right?”

Mashael felt herself relax and nodded slowly.

Only then did she realize that the box was bigger on the inside.

***

Mashael and the man joined the rest of the crowd as they poured out of the concert stadium in 1964, Manchester. Thousands of teenage girls wore their hair in pretty blonde curls, and all the men had slicked back hair, brightly colored socks and suspenders donned on.

Mashael kept her hand clasped firmly within the man’s, her eyes reflecting the bright white stadium lights. “That was amazing!” she half yelled delightedly, curly hair a bouncing. The man nodded eagerly. “I know! The Beatles at their peak! It was brilliant!”

They kept shuffling with the crowd until the colossal throng thinned, and the duo collapsed on the seats of a trendy café’. “I can’t believe it’s real,” Mashael gushed happily, leaning back against her wicker chair. The man looked at her behind a laminated menu and grinned. “What is? Time traveling?”

“No! Record players! Hah! My friends are going to be so jealous. I mean, Deema...” she trailed off, her smile morphing into a frown.

The man creased his eyebrows. “What is it?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Deema’s this friend of mine. Today was my birthday. Or it will be... in the future. Okay, like-“

The man held up his hands. “I get it, I get it.” He tilted his head. “What’s wrong with your friends?” he asked, and Mashael saw that he was genuinely concerned. She shrugged. “Didn’t seem like they were interested in my birthday.” She saw the man open his mouth but she silenced him with an index finger. 

“No big deal. Really.”

The man frowned again. “I’ve been told you are an immense fan of my good friend Martin Scorsese. Is this or is this not correct?” he asked with a flourish of a hand.

Mashael’s jaw dropped. “No.”

The man smiled. “Absa-pova-lutely.”

“You did not.”

The man examined his nails. “We’re going to the Oscars in a couple of decades. We’re his special 

guests.”

Mashael nearly fainted.

Nearly.

***

Mashael and the man waved goodbye as Martin closed his front door. They had spent the majority of their time with him in the party that followed the Oscars, and the after party that followed that, and the after party to that after party that happened to be in Scorsese’ very own house.

“You’re still shaking,” remarked the man as he pushed a jittering Mashael through the TARDIS doors. 

“I- I- Just.. I-“ started Mashael, taking rapid breaths to calm herself down.

“Developing a stutter, are you?”

Mashael raised an eyebrow. “Really. Haha. Very funny. That’s insulting, you know,” she said, sounding exceedingly dignified.

The man nodded slowly. “Yes... to people who have the stutter.”

Mashael brushed the comment off, and exhaled slowly. She just met her idol/husband/soon-to-be-ex-husband and she was feeling a wee bit overwhelmed.

“I mean, we- we actually discussed ideas,” she said slowly, putting a hand over her chest as her ears became acquainted with the soft hum of the TARDIS. “I mean... he didn’t think I was an idiot. He called me- he actually SAID I WAS A GENIUS OH MY GOD I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS REAL IT’S A DREAM ISN’T IT? ISN’T IT! IS THIS EVEN REAL! IS THIS REAL LIFE?!”

The man grinned wide, taking the steps to his consol two at a time before switching flips and turning knobs and before pulling the final lever.

The TARDIS roared to life, and the pair were set in motion once again.

***

They landed.

Mashael could hardly contain her excitement. “So where to this time? The first Emmy ceremony? The filming of Monkey Business? Photo shoots with Marylyn? Tell me!”

The man straightened his bowtie and swept a hand through his hair. “Not precisely. Look outside.”

Mashael didn’t need to be told twice. She dashed to the TARDIS doors and swung them open. Her shoulders drooped. “You’re dropping me home?” she asked miserably.

The man ducked his head and made his way toward her. “Come along, Mish. Off you pop.”

Mashael sighed and followed him, completely ignoring the stares of the gardeners working just outside her house. Her dress fluttered as a gentle breeze cooled the air.

Just before the man pushed the doorbell Mashael stopped him. She tucked a loose curl neatly behind her ear and faced him, adopting a very businesswoman like manner.

“Listen. This day... this day was going to suck. If it hadn’t been for you I would have hated it and I would have resented my so-called friends for not caring. So- um, thanks for caring, I guess. You’re a really good friend,” she said, smiling, her business like demeanor momentarily shattering. The man winked at her and pushed the door open, allowing her to enter first.

And then it happened.

“SURPRISE!”

The entire reception blinked with a soft fairy light glow, and dozens (doubles... triples!) of girls circled Mashael and the man, a large Oreo ice cream cake carried by Jawaher, Anoud, Sarah and Deema. Six fiery candles dominated the cake, and the room was ablaze with the red flare emanating from them.

“Happy Birthday to you!”

“Happy Birthday to you!”

“Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday to you!”

The girls started break dancing when “Sana 7elwa Ya Gameel...” began, and Mashael was at a loss for words. She was speechless.

She felt the man’s hand give her a minute nudge to the quartet carrying the cake, and she stumbled forwards.

They laughed.

Deema gave the man a slight nod, and he saluted her in return.

Mashael turned to face the man.

“You knew.” But it wasn’t a question.

The man flicked his gaze from Deema to Mashael, bowing slightly.

“I knew!” he said triumphantly. Mashael cracked a smile and faced the group. She pointed at Deema. 

“You pretended like you didn’t know!”

Deema made a face. “Mashael. I know you’re an idiot, but you can’t be that stupid. How could we forget your birthday?”

Mashael shrugged, blushing. “The- the time travel... how?”

Deema shrugged and smiled mysteriously. “I have my ways,” she said coyly, beaming at the man. 

Mashael marched toward the group and gave every single person in the room a hug, commenting on how she was getting better at it, the hugging, that is. The group hustled toward the living room, and Mashael had consumed Oreo ice cream cake that could last her a lifetime. Most of the girls went to the kitchen to get themselves glasses of whatever they could find, and only a handful of people lingered in the living room.

Mashael glanced back to thank the man again, but... he wasn’t there.

She kneaded her eyebrows. “Where’d he go?”

Deema walked over to Mashael, fork in mouth. “He wefd,” she said.

Mashael frowned. “He left?”

Deema nodded firmly, taking the spoon from her mouth.

“But.. but I didn’t even get his name.” she stopped, wonderstruck. “I traveled with a guy whose name I didn’t even know,” she repeated, Deema giving her a blunt nod. “He can do that,” she agreed. Mashael glanced down at her clothes. She still wore the dress the man gave her when they went to the Oscars back in 84.

“I didn’t even get his name...” she repeated again, seemingly put out.

Deema smiled fondly at her.

“He’s called the Doctor.”