A Request is what you want read. A Fill is the fictional realization of that request.
This meme is het, slash, femslash, and gen friendly.
We welcome all ratings.
Do I have to post anonymously? Well, it would be cool. Anonymity is cool. But we won't enforce it.
How long does this go on? The meme will last longer than the Cheese Festival itself. How long? Who knows! Hopefully a long time! But eventually, the meme probably will be closed after participation dwindles in order to avoid spam. We will put up warnings two weeks in advance if the meme is closing.
Yo, can I promote this? Yes, please! Find promotional banners here!
SUBMITTING A REQUEST? READ THIS FIRST.
Make one Request per comment.
Requests must include a character or pairing AND a prompt. Prompt can be anything from a single word to a detailed scenario describing what you want.
Please use this basic format: Pairing. Prompt. An example would be this: Phoebe/Gerald. Studying in the treehouse.
To request a sexual scenario, you must be 18 years old.
You understand that if you request a sexual scenario, a Filler must Fill your request with a depiction of the involved parties as age 18 or older. If a Requester or a Filler submits anything with explicit underage sex, it will be screened and/or deleted.
FILLING A REQUEST? READ THIS FIRST.
To post a Fill, post it as a reply to the Request you are filling.
Please format your subject lines like so: FILL: Title Goes Here.
Explicit and potentially triggery content (non-con, suicide, gore, etc.) requires warnings and a rating at the beginning of your Fill. Readers, please tread with caution.
Fill too big for a single comment? Post in multiple comments and make sure all subsequent parts define themselves as PART 2, PART 3, etc. in the SUBJECT LINE. But you will probably not need to do this because Dreamwidth allows very large comments.
May I write a continuation or sequel to someone else's Fill? No.
After you have posted a Fill, respond to THE LIST (the first comment on this page) with a link. That way links to all completed Fills can be found in one place.
I messed up my comment! Can I delete it? No, only a mod can delete anonymous comments. You'll need to re-post your (fixed) comment yourself, then visit The Stoop to ask a mod to delete the messed-up comment.
I'm real proud of this shit I wrote. If I post anon now, can I "come out" as author later? Yes, your work is your work. If you want to re-post in your journal or elsewhere, you may do so at any time.
Still as lost and confused as Harold on the subway? Come ask us anything at THE STOOP.
Remember to sign-out before you post if you want to remain anonymous!
Brainy/Helga. Helga is a writer who frequently brings her laptop to her local cafe, where Brainy happens to be a barista and serves the best coffee around.
She never looks up. She’s always buried in a notebook, or her phone. She comes in followed by a burst of summer heat, or scattering autumn leaves. Sometimes with snowflakes caught in her hair. She hastily scrabbles to pull her sunglasses away from her eyes and shove them haphazardly onto her head, blonde hair sticking up at odd angles. With one hand she digs around in a crowded shoulder bag to retrieve a battered wallet. The notebook goes under the chin as she produces a few crumpled bills for her coffee- black, boiling hot. Then she sidles off to a table in a corner and slides a laptop out of the bag. She makes no sound but the clicking of keys as she pecks away. He always watches. When the steam stops streaming off the top of her cup, he quietly replaces it. Lost in her words, she never notices.
One day, it’s raining. She comes in, bell tinkling on the door, and runs a hand through her sodden hair. As she approaches the counter, he pours a cup and offers it to her soundlessly. This time, she looks up. Skeptically she examines the dark liquid, then a ghost of a smile streaks across her face. She pays, and then retreats to her corner booth. This time, the coffee does not cool.
One night, she comes in late. A freezing wind is whistling through the trees. She has deep pockets beneath her eyes and is clutching her laptop to her chest. A long scarf is tangled in her coat and she tugs at it, trying to loosen its choking hold on her throat. She orders her drink and he turns away, starting to wipe down the counters.
“Do I know you?”
He freezes. For a year she has been in his café every day. For a year she has not spoken a word. He turns slightly and glances over his shoulder. She is standing there, looking at him expectantly. He opens his mouth to speak, but his breath catches in his throat. He starts to cough, so shakes his head in reply. Her eyes narrow in suspicion, but she turns and goes to her table instead of further questioning. Her laptop is thrown unceremoniously on the tabletop and ignored as she nurses the coffee, trying to urge some warmth back into her frozen hands. Finally she opens the lid of the computer and begins to type away, but not with the usual urgency. He wanders past many times, sweeping, refilling sugar shakers, and trying to read snippets of the poem she is struggling over so much. A silence falls over the shop. Fewer keystrokes break the quiet . Later, he glances towards her table. One hand rests on her keyboard; the other is buried in her hair. Her eyes are closed and her forehead is lined with frustration. Her cup is empty. With a sudden burst of courage, he fills a paper cup with one of his most requested blends. Her hand has left her hair and is furiously rubbing her eyes. He adds a sprinkle of sugar to the top, then pops on a lid and strides towards her table.
As he sets the cup on the surface, he cranes his neck to read her screen. A long rhyming quatrain fills the page, needing just one line to finish the poem.
“Try ‘adore’,” he says quietly. Lowering the volume keeps away the raspy sound of his voice. She glances up at him, then back to her screen. With a few strokes she has written the final line, nods at its completion, then hurriedly snaps the lid shut.
“I don’t like it when people read my stuff,” she says gruffly, reaching for the cup.
“But it was beautiful,” he replies as she takes a long pull of the coffee. Her eyes widen, and she puts the cup down.
“That is … really good.”
He smiles. The next day she orders it, instead of black coffee.
This time she comes in, shaking apple blossom petals from her skirt. She gathers her drink and heads towards her table when one of the other customers rudely shoulders past her, jarring her arms. She drops her bag and her cup, liquid spreading quickly across the papers scattered across the floor.
“Excuse you, Neanderthal! Why don’t you watch where you’re swinging them gorilla arms!” she yells, stooping to gather up the dripping mess. He grabs a roll of towels and hurries to help clean up the spill. “Thanks, I’ve got this,” she says with an edge to her voice. He looks at her face. She seems near to tears.
“Hey, it’s my job,” he answers, blotting at the coffee puddle. When the floor is dry he helps her to her feet and hands her the sheaf of damp writing. She sends a glare his way, but only a half-hearted one. “Thanks,” she says grudgingly. She shoulders her bag and trudges out of the café, leaving soggy brown footprints.
He turns to go back behind the counter when something feels strange. One of the papers is stuck to his shoe. Balancing carefully on one foot he removes the coffee- stained poem that was attached. Much to his amusement, the poem is bordered on one side by a cascade of tiny hearts. He folds the paper and tucks it into the pocket on his barista’s apron.
As the day wends on, he scratches away with the nub of a pencil on the back of her poem. He writes about black coffee, and a boy who loved a girl who loved another boy. He writes about sugar and milk, and a barista who loves a grumpy poet and her old laptop. He writes about a thousand pairs of broken glasses, and a thousand days of broken hearts. All in rhyming quatrains.
The next day, he isn’t there. The barista who makes her coffee stumbles over it, his hands unsteady. Finally he hands her the cup and she goes to her table, puzzled. The paper sleeve that surrounds the cup feels different beneath her hand. She sets it on the table and examines it. A thin rim of white paper pokes up above the brown cardboard sleeve. Written in pencil on stained paper- it reads ‘To Helga’. She rips off the sleeve and reveals the folded poem within.
As she finishes the poem, a sound startles her. He pushes his way through the swinging double doors behind the counter, a huge box of cups in his hands. He turns and sees her in her booth, the paper held loosely in her fingers. She finally looks up at him, and smiles.
Harold just couldn't believe this. Here he was again at the Cheese Festival with the one girl he thought he'd never see again after school - or in his life, for that matter. But yet here he was: the old school dummy that turned out to be more than he looked, Harold Berman who successfully managed to graduate in business school for the surprise of many of his old friends; and there she was, extraordinaire fashion woman Rhonda Wellington Lloyd, with him. All of this seemed like a dream.
"Now come on, Harold, don't make me stand here waiting!" The young woman called out for him.
Nodding awkwardly, he started walking with her through the small boots. Rhonda didn't really fit in with the place at all; her clothes were far too elegant and formal for a small city festival like this. He was wearing a suit, since he had been in a business meeting regarding the local butchery not long ago, somewhat in a formal attire as well.
The last time they had been in the festival together had been so long ago. They were only ten - well, he was thirteen - and Rhonda had been the one who forced him to go. Later on she denied the event ever happened and even though he was happy to comply at the time regarding his tough reputation, Harold still could remember a small part of him break that day. After that neither one of them spoke alone again, the only exceptions being school works such as taking care of that stupid egg.
Their little date at the Cheese Festival was never mentioned again during their school years and they graduated from high school without ever discussing the subject. For him, it had been over very long ago. His only link to the school was the occasional hellos with his old guy friends from school and his then-girlfriend Big Patty. Unfortunately, it didn't work out for them.
Harold sighed a little sadly remembering the lost times with Patty. Their breakup hadn't been so recent, but he didn't date - till now, that is. Today had been one of the craziest days in his life: after waking up late and bumping into some of his old classmates in the city – he was still trying to hide from a very angry-looking Helga G. Pataki too - he ran into the one person he never thought he would ever see again. Rhonda. They didn't talk at all for the first minutes and then, out of nowhere, she dragged him through the streets and to the Cheese Festival.
Suddenly remembering his "date" for the evening, Harold looked at his side. Rhonda was talking about something regarding fashion, but he wasn't listening. In fact, he was just looking.
Rhonda looked the same, yet still different from the young girl and teenager he grew up with. Her hair was longer now, touching her shoulders, but it still looked as soft as ever. Her sense in style and fashion never waned either; her clothes were elegant and definitely expensive, but it didn't look exaggerated at all. Yet, there was something very different in this Rhonda. She didn't act and talk as haughtily as she did before. Her words seemed more controlled, as if she was afraid to talk to him - as if there was something holding her back.
Finally, his curiosity got the best of him. Taking a deep breath, Harold asked her.
"Rhonda, why are we here?"
Turning around, she looked at him with one of her famous you-must-be-really-stupid looks. As if expecting that her expression would explain everything, the dark haired woman just sighed and looked at him once more.
"Oh come on, Harold. We haven't seen each other in years and today, of all days, when I finally decided to get over the way Gammelthorpe got over me - which still shocks me; how could he just change his lifelong obsession for me to some other girl? - anyway, and begin a different stage of my life, look who shows up!" Rhonda was raising the volume of her voice with each word as excitement washed over face. Harold still couldn't understand. She frowned. "You, Harold!"
"Huh?"
Rhonda looked quite infuriated, but as she held one of the bigger man's hand in her own, there was also a twinkle in her eyes.
"You showed up, Harold." She smiled happily at him. "After all this time, I thought I'd never see you again and I firmly believed that my crush had become completely one-sided... That is, until you accepted my invitation to come here." Both of them purposefully ignored the fact that she had dragged him here instead of just asking. "Here, at the Cheese Festival."
Harold didn't answer her. He was still shocked with Rhonda's sudden reappearance in his life and strange ways of regarding things - but then again, he had never really understood Rhonda Lloyd and that had been one of the many things he liked (still liked) about her. Noticing her worried look - perhaps she thought he had forgotten? - he smiled at her as he held her hand more firmly, yet delicately.
"This reminds me when we were two little kids in a weird festival."
She smiled at his response. Still holding hands, both adults looked at each other in a nostalgic way as they approached the love tunnel. Laughing, Rhonda repeated her old phrase. A phrase that had never really lost its meaning to her; not really.
Stella/Miles. Doctor Who Crossover. The Doctor teams up with Stella and Miles to finally cure the Green-Eyes of the sleeping sickness, which turns out to be an alien virus. Then an event inside the Tardis jumps them forward in time, resulting in them missing their son's entire childhood.
A Chance I Have to Take (X-files fushion with Mulder!Arnold and Scully!Phoebe)
A/N: Sorry it's so short and there is nothing romantic... of course, X-files never graced us with very much romance, either, but we all knew it was there!
"Tell me you aren't getting on that boat, Shortman."
Arnold pulled his jacket's collar closer around his neck. The salty winds barreled over the docks.
"I get that you're skeptical, Phoebe," Arnold said. "And you're warranted in that skepticism. Maybe you're right, maybe I'm not close to the truth. Maybe I'm as far from the truth as I can be. But there's a chance that I'm right, isn't there? That's a chance I have to take. The Bermuda Triangle is the best lead I have. And that boat is going to take me there."
"It's the only lead you have."
"Like I said," he replied with a smile. "Best lead."
Arnold slung his bag over his shoulder. Sea gulls passed over them, casting down their shadows - fleeting and dull, as ominous clouds held back the the glory of the sun. Phoebe looked out over at the boat, expressionless, knowing all the rationality in the world couldn't change her partner's mind.
"My parents are out there, Phoebe. I won't give up. I'll call you when I get back."
He began walking down the dock.
"Shortman..." She stepped forward. "Arnold..."
Through the dark clouds, the sun poked down. It made Phoebe turn her head a certain way to avoid the glare on her glasses.
A world of blue ocean sucked him down with an incredible pull. As though he were dust pulled in by a vacuum, unable to comprehend the scope of what was drawing him in. There was no up, no down, no backward or forward. There was only pull.
Then, like a shark of the sky, a spectacular Pterodactyl darted beneath him and stopped his fall. With a great, stomach-less swoop, they went up. Past clouds. Past air. They were on top of the world. Arnold could see everything.
"Arnold!"
The voice of God greeted him in celebration. Or maybe it was the Pterodactyl. Maybe God was a Pterodactyl.
"Hey Arnold!"
Arnold opened his eyes.
"Are you ready, man?" Gerald yelled over the whistling, gusting wind. He was already standing by the door of the plane. His stance was that of a man terrified, but his steady gaze was that of a man who knew boldness was his best friend.
Arnold stepped up to the widest door he'd ever looked through.
This was all wrong, so abominably wrong that Helga almost couldn't stand it. Almost. As much as she just wanted to leave the place or break everything around her, she didn't do any of those things. Instead, she would frown and complain about how long the ceremony was taking and how awful the flowers decorating the room were and how this could easily turn into a disaster. It was partially true, after all, even if the other guests continually sent glares in her direction. That was and had always been her way of coping: hiding behind a bully, violent and cruel shell so no one would know how much this was affecting her. Helga truly hated that shell and even though she swore all those years ago to never wear it again, here she was again, being the only sad person in a happy occasion; a wedding.
The problem wasn't the occasion in itself. She would never acknowledge it but at heart, she was a hopeless romantic. Her favorite parts in movies and films were the wedding scene, where the groom would swear eternal love and faithfulness to the blushing and tearful wife. Those scenes always got her, she had to admit. There were times when she threw away her resolve and allowed herself to release a few tears (particularly during Phoebe and Gerald's wedding; her best friend had been so beautiful and happy in that day). This, however, was no happy occasion, even though it was a wedding. This was a disaster - the biggest one of her life so far and that was saying a lot.
The reason for her endless unhappiness was the identity of the happy couple: Rhonda Wellington Lloyd (for now) - international stylist and currently the bane of Helga's life - and Arnold Shortman, her lifelong love. Helga still couldn't understand it at all. How did this happen? When did they get to happy together to result in this? But deep down, she already knew the reason. They fell in love in a difficult time of their lives, both having recently dealt with a breakup: Rhonda with Harold and Arnold with Helga herself. At that time, they had been pre-teens and after many misadventures, Helga finally admitted her love for the football-headed boy and they even began a relationship then. Those had been the happiest years in her life. But Arnold didn't have the same opinion. True, they argued a lot and rarely got to a conclusion, but somehow it just worked for them. That is, until he had enough and broke up with her five years ago. Everyone changed with time, including her, but some things were too hard to forget. For Arnold, it had been impossible to forget Helga's long-running bullying and for Helga, it had been impossible to forget those short memorable years of a hurting relationship with him.
And yet, here he was now, in that impeccable white suit with his hair combed and his teeth flashing charmingly by the altar. Arnold exhaled happiness, that much was obvious. The bride, who was now standing by the altar as well after an unbearably long walk down the aisle, also had a blinding smile in her face. Rhonda wasn't known for smiling so openly, always preferring an elegant smirk, but today was an exception. The black-haired woman looked breathtaking in her visibly expensive and beautiful white dress - brought all the way from Milan, according to her. There was so much love between the look the bride and groom exchanged, it made Helga sick.
She should've been there, standing by the altar and smiling at Arnold. Not Rhonda, or Layla, or any other girl. Helga knew she was the one for Arnold, she just knew it. And yet nothing changed the fact her beloved was not only marrying someone else, but he was also happily doing it.
Helga, being known for her infallible - yet very much fallible, she realized over the years - plans, tried to sabotage the marriage through numerous ways: stealing the rings, trying to rip the dress, changing the date of the ceremony with the Church, but nothing worked. Her last attempt had been to track down Harold and demand him to break the marriage at once. What she received, however, had been a solid 'no'. The idiot was actually sitting through the whole thing with a smile on his face. True, he had moved on but that didn't mean Helga had to. She had loved Arnold ever since she was three and she never stopped doing it no matter the obstacle. So why should she stop now? But she knew the awful truth: Arnold didn't love her anymore and nothing she did would change that. He had also moved down and was now settling down with someone else.
Helga was the one who never moved on and she probably never would.
When the bride and groom were joyfully saying their "I do"s, Helga decided she had had enough. But instead of shouting at the top of her lungs to stop this silliness, the blond just sighed and silently left for the bathroom. No one asked where she was going or why because no one truly cared. They were here to celebrate Rhonda and Arnold's union and not feel sorry for someone that bullied them during their childhood. This was all wrong. But then again, so was she.
Pairing: Arnold/Helga Prompt: After being assigned a school project together, Arnold and Helga are at Helga's house working on it when Arnold, somehow, finds her shrines and stashes of poetry...
Helga/Arnold, an AU "Little Mermaid" retelling in any historical or modern time period. Arnold is the merman and Helga is the human who nearly drowns in a shipwreck. Any genre (light-hearted or more serious) is fine with me!
It was a remarkably clear night. The stars shone coldly in the indigo sky, seeming to twinkle just out of reach. A brisk wind blew across the deck of the steamer ship. Helga clutched her violet lace shawl closer to her shoulders, it doing little to hold back the cold. She shuffled her feet a bit, trying to stay warm. Behind her the tinkling of a piano and refined clatter of silver on porcelain told her that the dinner continued, even after she had stormed away from her loud and drunken father. Let him continue to attempt matchmaking with her sister and every young man on the ship, all the while making thinly veiled comments about how Helga would never find a suitable match.
She frowned and slumped against the railing of the ship. As she stood there shivering, she suddenly realized that there was voices in the music she was hearing. And nothing like that shrew shrieking away next to the pianist inside the dining room. This was something- different. It sounded melancholy, and terribly lonely. She straightened, hands grasping the rail so tight her knuckles paled. She peered out over the water, her upper body straining out over the open sea trying to catch a glimpse of who- or what, was singing so beautifully.
Then, almost magically, the moon began to rise over the edge of the water. The yellow sphere slowly inched above the horizon, gilding the waves with light. In its illumination, Helga was able to make out an odd promontory of rock or coral, jutting just above the surface. And on it was a boy. No, a young man. He had wild, shaggy blonde hair and his chest was uncovered, even in this frigid clime. It was his voice that was filling the air.
Suddenly burning with curiosity, Helga leaned farther across the railing and called out.
“Hello?”
The mysterious singer turned swiftly, eyes locking on her. Just then, the moon cleared the horizon and his form was fully revealed. Helga gasped. Where two legs should have been, a long, iridescent blue fish tail rested, its transparent fins dipping into the water. His mouth clamped shut and he swiftly dove off his rock.
“No, wait!” Helga cried, stretching out an arm. Then, without warning, the ship collided with the rock the man had just vacated. It must have been much larger and deeper within the water than it looked, as the entire craft shook with the impact, a ringing sound drowning out the blasted piano. The jarring crash was enough, however, to loosen Helga’s one handed grasp on the railing, and she plunged overboard. In that odd silent moment before she struck the water, Helga considered that it might have been the enormous ship heading towards his resting place, not her greeting that had scared away the man. Then, with a horrid splash, she reached the sea.
Everything was dark. Her vision was obscured by bubbles, and she couldn’t breathe. She tried to move her arms or legs, but could not. The corset she wore kept her from swimming properly, and the heavy skirt began to pull her down. She jerked her head back, trying to break above the surface for another breath, but found herself too deep. As her vision began to blur, a dark form flitted above her. She inhaled, and burning sea water filled her lungs. Then, darkness.
Wait. That felt like… lips upon her own. Her eyes flew open and were met with a pair of piercing green ones. There was a foreign, aching tingle in her legs, and her chest no longer felt as though it were on fire.
“Go ahead, breathe now.”
The voice was clear even underwater, although it did have an odd burbling quality. But it was the same voice that had been singing before. Hesitantly, Helga inhaled, cool water flooding her lungs. As it did, though, she felt the skin beneath her ears flutter. She reached up with a hand to find flaps there, thin slits that opened as she breathed. Gills.
She looked up at her rescuer, and realized what he was. A merman. He smiled at her apologetically, then looked down. She followed his gaze and recoiled. A long rose colored tail lashed where her legs used to be. Then, much to her embarrassment, she realized that her gown was gone. Hastily, she attempted to cover herself. The merman stretched out a hand, a bit of cloth in his grasp. It was her lace shawl.
“I’m sorry, it’s all I could save.”
Helga reached out and took the shawl, wrapping it around herself. She noticed with detached humor that her hair, flowing freely in the water, covered herself better than the lace did anyway. Finally, she found her voice.
“What happened?” she asked, almost smiling at the bubbling sound. It had an odd charm.
“You drowned. I saved you, but-” he trailed off, gesturing at her tail. She looked down again, then back up. Above the surface of the water, she could see the trail left by the massive ship as it had dislodged itself and was floating away. Well. At least she would no longer have to deal with her father. “I’m Arnold, by the way,” he ventured. There was an odd hope in his voice. Helga met his gaze.
“Helga,” she said, holding out a hand. He smiled as he grasped it.
“Helga,” he repeated, as if he tasted the word. Then his eyes lit up with a gleam of mischief. “Helga, would you like to go on an adventure?” He tugged lightly on her arm, pulling her closer, then dove. Suddenly, she found herself laughing, and followed him into the depths.
Arnold/Helga/Lila. Open-minded in their sexual pursuits, long-time partners Helga and Arnold decide they're willing to take a stranger into their bed just to try it out. But when Helga bumps into Lila, she becomes fixated on the idea of watching Arnold fuck Lila in particular.
PROMPT: Sid loves Stinky, who doesn't feel the same way; in fact, Stinky is actually straight and this devastates Sid completely when he sees him holding hands with Lila.
The pity on Gerald's face followed Sid home. He could see it every time he stared in one spot too long, the world blurring and adhering to the disappointment inside him, threatening to manifest in embarrassing ways if he allowed it to be noticed for very long. It was better if he kept moving, so he didn't go inside his house once he got there. He kept walking.
No surprise that just one destination occurred to him. In the alley behind The Yogurt Shop, Sid paced and waited and watched the cloud's shadows adjust the light of the world. Stinky's shift wouldn't end for awhile. He didn't know how long, but it didn't really matter.
At some point, it began to rain.
"Sid, is that, you?" came Stinky's drawl. The door swung shut behind him and his comfortable height approached until he was towering over Sid. "What happened?"
"I went and told him," Sid lamented. He'd not spoken about this sort of thing with Stinky very often, but Stinky knew him well enough to understand who him was. "I thought it was a brave thing to do. But it was stupid."
Stinky fiddled with an object in his hands that Sid didn't pay much attention to.
"Aw, Sid, don't you go worryin' yourself over that. Why, Gerald just likes girls, that's all. Just look at the way he looks at Phoebe, I'd say he's darn near in--"
With his face growing red, Sid turned away and walked down the street. It wasn't toward home, even though he was wearing his favorite boots and they wouldn't do well in the rain like this. But he'd worn them in the hopes of looking smooth and put-together when he approached Gerald, and now they felt useless to him, despite how much they'd cost. Let them get wet and ruined.
Then the raindrops stopped landing on his boots as he stared at them, and Sid was not entirely unsurprised to find Stinky with an umbrella, but he could not offer his friend more than a glance. He looked at Stinky's hand, Stinky's shirt, over Stinky's shoulder. Anywhere that would prevent his friend seeing too blatantly what was written all over his face.
Stinky rubbed his neck, uncertainty drawing all its shapes on his face. Sid was too exhausted to try and extend any friendly relief. He waited for Stinky to say something, for the moment to pass.
In the end, Stinky didn't say anything. He simply began to walk. They walked together across cross-walks, past people jogging for cover, through the empty park with its tree branches bouncing under the rain. It was not how either of them had planned to spend their afternoon, but it seemed to be the right thing to do. It was better for Sid if he kept moving, and better yet when he was not alone.
The high-pitched scream echoed through the streets of Hillwood, coming from the Wellington Lloyd house. Inside there was a black-haired girl who was currently living her worst nightmare and no, she wasn't exaggerating. In her hands lay a simple, innocent toy which she now realized could only bring disaster.
Rhonda gasped as she realized what she'd done. With the devilishly little toy she had brought pain and lies to the lives of her classmates - those poor, deluded kids. How she must have given them nightmares of the worst kind and shattered their dreams and hopes. She knew all that and more because that was also happening to her, right now. She eyed the toy with disgust and, without flinching, threw it unceremoniously in the trash bin.
Oh, how many wrong doings she'd done with that broken toy. She'd have to correct them all and pronto. No, Rhonda Wellington Lloyd was no sadist - as proof she would never take pleasure in seeing another kid dressed so horrendously - and she would fix this. Eying the clock, she noticed there was only a few minutes before her bedtime, so she would only be able to correct things tomorrow. She just hoped no one would have nightmares tonight - because she surely would.
Tomorrow on the bus; that's when she'd correct her wrong doings and give hope to those poor children again. She'd tell Nadine, her best friend, first and then she'd tell all the girls: Sheena (the poor girl had been stuck with Eugene!), Phoebe (how would the little nerd ever end up with Gerald, anyway?), Lila (come on, Arnold's cousin? Who'd want that basket case for a husband?). Speaking of which, Rhonda remembered with a gasp: Arnold! The goody two shoes, the voice of reason and all in all a nice boy got Helga, the bully with absolutely no sense of fashion whatsoever (that pink bow still irked Rhonda in more ways than one). Arnold and Helga? She should have realized something was wrong from that.
It had been decided; Rhonda would say it all as soon as the day began.
Sighing, the girl said to herself. "Oh please, as if a toy could foretell your future love husband. I should have known better."
In the trash bin, among many patches of clothes, laid a piece of paper written, "Thadeus 'Curly' Gammelthorpe".
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fic_me_arnold) wrote2012-07-16 05:45 pm
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