A story

I wrote this last fall sometime (in Greek class, I think). It kind of speaks a bit on a situation I was going through at the time, although a significant embellishment, as all storytellers are want to do. I was originally thinking of placing it in a larger story, but I think I like it simply as a standalone. There is also strong reason to believe that it was heavily influenced by Firefly. Anyway, enjoy.


The air was potent. It had the feeling of a room saturated with gasoline fumes, eagerly awaiting the merest spark to set the entire thing off. His question hung in the air, waiting for her answer.

Jon's right thumb was hooked lazily on his gunbelt, his whole demeanor all but screaming an uncaring nonchalance. His mind, however, waited with baited breath for her response. He didn't want to appear to not care, but old habits die hard, and his rigid self control was oldest of the old, and was dying hardest of the hard.

"Well, there's no real reason for me to stay..." her deep blue eyes meandered skyward, almost as if she was looking for a reason....or, waiting for Jon to give her one.

Mentally, Jon's entire existence sagged. Of course she doesn't want to stay, Jon berated himself silently, she just doesn't want to be mean. He was furious for leading himself on, lashing his mind with wordless whips of wrath.

This entire exchange of thoughts took place in the barest of heartbeats. His exterior remained a still pool, no ripples to speak of the currents of emotion running hard beneath the surface. The lone betrayal was a single blink, and the briefest tightening of the skin around his eyes.

"Ok. We'll let you off at the next port," Jon replied tersely, all but covering his inner pain.

"Jon..." she said, a slight tone of pleading bringing Jon's flight to the door up short.

He quickly turned back around, hopeful despite his best efforts to the contrary. His eyes sparkled with the crackling electricity of anticipation, never looking so vividly alive.

Melanie's mouth opened and closed several times, trying to coax out words. Her eyes were the bluest Jon had ever seen, shining as dots of the purest sapphire. Jon desperately wanted to grab her in a bear hug, telling her his feelings while holding her until the last atoms of the sun died away into dark oblivion.

But, in the same way he could not cut off his own hand for the pain, he could do anything. Instead he simply raised his eyebrow in expectation, an unspoken question.

When she realized he wasn't going to say anything, her mouth closed and a shadow passed over her eyes.

"That...that'll be fine," she said, her eyes on the floor.

Jon nodded once, turning quickly away before the pain and agony tearing into his soul would make its way on to his face. He almost ran into the door in his haste to flee the room. He made his way to his own room, barely making it to his bed before his legs buckled.

He lay there, inspecting the intricacies of the ceiling above his bed for untold hours, his thoughts completely blank. Finally, his clock dinged softly, telling him he was on duty in fifteen minutes. He let it pass, along with the ten minute ring, his mind still numb.

Only at the five minute ring did Jon rise from the bed. He washed his face, took a comb through his hair to sort it out a bit. While he was in front of the mirror the entire time, he never once looked into his own eyes, for if he did not see the pain leaking from his soul, he didn't have to admit it was there.

He stood up, smoothed out his clothes, and made his way to the door. He stood in front of it for a few seconds. Finally, he squared his shoulders and went out, to meet the world head-on, to fly into the very teeth of the gale.

For, that was all he could do.