'K. Full disclaimer at the end. Warning for some graphic imagery.

"What are you doin', Dariana?" The rusty old voice still held vigour and humour in its dilapidated richness. This was the start of an old ritual. A ritual they'd kept for years.

The young woman looked up at the figure seated in the hoverchair and smiled, "Reading."

"And what are you reading, child?" the old woman asked as she had for the last ten years. Though her eyesight was gone, she could easily follow the scuffles of the girl's movements and directed the chair closer.

"Old newspaper clippings," the red-haired fourteen year old replied, tilting the portfolio more into the light. "Yours, gran'ma."

"Ah, yes." A reminiscent smile creased the old lady's features. "Back in the day when I was nothing but a hack -- still am nothing but a hack, but I've lived. Parker used to call me that -- hack." A dry chuckle escaped the cracked lips. "But I outlived him, the annoying little bugger."

"Gran'ma, you've told me this before," the teenager said, rolling her eyes. "How you were an intern at the Bugle and clashed a few times with Peter Parker and once met Spider-Man."

"I have, haven't I?" The old woman sighed, sadness flitting across her wrinkled face. "And what do you think of them, Dariana?"

"I like them." Dariana paused, her brow wrinkling. "You -- you were so -- vibrant, back then," she said softly. "But really, gran'ma, 'bugger'? *No one* says that anymore."

Her grandmother laughed then and if a few tears mingled, neither remarked upon them. "Dariana..." Her voice trailed off. How to continue the ritual, this time?

Dariana waited and gently flipped the pages of the portfolio, reading a line here a phrase there. Here an article, there a column, and a few scattered pictures. Some of her grandmother -- so much younger -- head thrown back, laughing. Others of people she didn't know. A very few of actual news events.

"Gran'ma, who was Matthew Hale?"

"Hale..." The old woman's brow creased. "I'm afraid I don't recall, child. Why don't you read the column I mentioned him in?"

"There's more than one," Dariana began hesitantly. "But, I think I'll choose this one." And the ritual went on...

Dariana read, "'All Thin People Must Go!'

"Gran'ma, do I need to read the byline?"

"If you wish, dear."

"Okay." Dariana began again, "All Thin People Must Go! By Ana Cotton.

"I woke up this morning with the realisation that all thin people are evil.

"See, there was this article in the morning paper about Matthew Hale and his World Church. Seems Matthew and his followers -- all 4,000 of them -- wish to rid the world of three-quarters of its population. All due to skin color.

"So, hey, I'm gonna lead the crusade to rid the world of skinny people!

"First, we'll have tests and examinations to make sure some of the skinnys aren't fat people in masquerade (and vice versa). I think someone said it's the metabolism -- beside the point, though.

"Then, we round all of them up and tattoo them with a big, honking 'S' on their foreheads. That way we'll be able to identify them easily!

"Next we make them do all the dirty jobs -- after all, someone has to do them. Like cleaning up the garbage -- oh, wait, that would be them, wouldn't it? Heh.

"And the streets! We'll have them clean the streets! Ponce de Leon, eat your heart out! Gold streets? Pah, we'll be able to eat off them.

"After segregating the skinny from the cool, I say we turn our attentions to the blondes of the world. Especially the fake ones. Those are the WORST. Then we sterilise them. After all, do you really want THAT in your gene pool?

"Oh! And all those people with long, graceful fingers should go, too. Can we say 'sledgehammer'? *Crunch* No more graceful fingerbones, sweeties!

"But I'm digressing from my point. Which was, can you judge someone by something they were born with?

"According to Hale and his 4,000 followers, that's a big, resounding YES!

"Personally, I think all the people with small feet should be shot on sight. You?"

The old woman sat there, a smile creasing her lips. "You know, Dariana, that column caused my editor kitten-fits."

"I'm not surprised. Jeeze, gran'ma, you really had it in for the thin people." The girl carefully closed the portfolio.

"Not really. I was trying to point out to everyone the utter hypocrisy and stupidity of racism." She sighed. "Not that it helped. Mutants were still hunted and feared. Racism still continued hurting families. Lives were still shattered."

Dariana stood and stepped towards the old woman in the hoverchair. "But we can try, can't we? It's not all futile, is it?"

The worried tone alerted Ana and she smiled at her only grandchild. "No, it's not. Even now we can do things."

"Oh, good."

tbc

I'm not sure if this fits any of the challenges, though it may brush the self-insertion, the storyteller and the non-x ones... *smirk*

For me, this was rather experimental, and, so, since I don't normally ask for feedback.. *ahem* If you do think this is even slightly worthwhile, please let me know? Thanks.

Oh, and before you ask, NO, I did NOT boink Peter. Geeze, people, get your minds outta the gutter. Remember, as you get older triumphs become larger. ;)

hugs, Ana

Disclaimer: The TCP concept is NOT mine. In fact, whether this falls into the category is a debate for those of you that seem to enjoy that sort of thing.

Thanks.

"Yes, dear?"

"When did you write this column?" Dariana waved at a yellowed clipping in the scrapbook. The date had either crumpled off -- or maybe was never there.

"I'm not sure." The old woman shifted and peered at her granddaughter. "Why don't you read it?"

Dariana smiled and began...

"Brain Fry Central
By Ana Lyssie Cotton

I'm not sure what this column was originally going to be about. I've had rather a shock, so my brain might have gone.

I called home to check on things earlier today as I noodled around on my column and wondered if I could get away with missing deadline.

"Pray, Ana, your dad lost his job again."

It's only been two months since he GOT the new job. If that. A friend of mine had been visiting the week of the interview.

I'm counting in my head as I write this. No, gotta get my calendar and check.

Ah. Six. It's been six weeks since he was hired through the consulting company. What was it the last company cited as the reason for his dismissal?

I'm not sure I remember the wording. I think it boiled down to 'not a team player.'

Yeah. See, dad's got this thing where he LIKES to be good at his job. So he learns about it and surpasses the position and tries to help by instituting new ideas.

I'm getting the impression that companies don't want innovative people. For the most part, my dad is the MOST innovative and intelligent person I know. And, yes, I may be slightly prejudiced on that. Still, it appears that if you're intelligent, you're bad. YET, I hear
people saying: 'Get an education and get ahead!' all the time.

Double standards still rule the world."

"Ahhh..." Ana paused and pondered. "I'm not sure, child. It might have been a catharsis. Or something else. I rather believe it wasn't published." She sighed. "Why don't you look for something happier, m'dear?"

"Yeah. Happy would be good." And the ritual went on.

Story ©2001 by the author. This story is protected by the TCP
Warehouse. Do not archive or MST without the author's direct permission.