| Konnichiwa, minna-san. Iris-san desu. Sashiburi da ne. ( ^_^ ) It's the first time in a *long* while that I've decided to come of Lurker Mode. *breathes in fresh air* A computer crash last year wiping off all my half-finished stories, moving house, taking my A level exams, celebrating my eighteenth birthday, changing computers and internet access, lack of writing inspiration .... any excuse you can think of, I've probably experienced it during this past year. ( ^_^ ) Anyway, this is a S&S ( short and sweet ) fanfic which I hope you'll enjoy. All and any positive feedback or helpful criticism would be more than greatly appreciated at kanzaki_yukiko@yahoo.com. All flames, however, will be sent to my imaginary chibi-Tasuki. :P Sore dewa! ____________________________________________ Disclaimer: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon belongs to Naoko-sama and filthy rich companies that rake a living off dirt-poor fans like yours truly. (* _ * ) ____________________________________________ Nothing Special by Iris kanzaki_yukiko@yahoo.com ____________________________________________ There's nothing special about her size - small and petite, barely reaching five feet. Tiny, insignificant little pipsqueak : she would vanish standing behind almost anybody. And yet ... beautifully formed, as if skillfully designed like a tiny china doll, specifically created to fit perfectly under a man's arm, expressly made to disarm the guard of any poor unsuspecting opponent in order to accentuate her seemingly innocent, youthful vulnerability, and then - to press in on the advantage when they're still under the illusion. You'll never know what hit you. Or even care. [ Che, nothing special. Plenty of midgets out there. ] There's nothing special about her figure - all bony knees and pointy elbows, a chest flat like the runway of an airport, thin and gawky almost to the point of boyish callowness ; chastely slender, demurely contoured, with no generously porportioned curves that might drive a young boy to distraction. And yet ... her skirts, which frequently seem shorter than would be properly decent for a school girl her age, slyly reveals a pair of straight, athletically toned legs tapering gently all the gloriously tanned length to the tantalizing slimness of her waist; narrow curves that seem to have been especially conceived to tempt a man, inviting him to attempt encircling it with his palm. [ Che, nothing special. Plenty of flat- chested girls out there. ] There's nothing special about her skin - pale and almost without color, marred by the lightest, faintest scattering of tiny, almost invisible freckles marching across the bridge of her snub little nose. And yet ... petal-soft like fresh, dewy white lilies, smoother than silky satin sheets, stained with just the slightest tinge of rosy pink, like a wild June rose almost in full bloom, and perfumed with the clean, fresh smell of peach-scented soap. And the freckles are like a dusting of chocolate sprinkle-topping on cream : delicious. [ Che, nothing special. Plenty of pasty faced girls out there. ] There's nothing special about her hair - despite the fact that it's in a completely and utterly *okashi* style that I so enjoy teasing her about. Ridiculously, uselessly long, carelessly tied in two stringy pony- tails, pinned up in a pair of Odango resembling buns atop her ditzy little blonde head. Probably gets caught in everything, and gets sat on pretty often. How long does she take to wash and dry all that hair of hers anyway? No wonder the water and electricity bills of Japan are at an all-time high. And yet ... incredibly thick - like shiny, glossy streams of flaxen silk, physically bound threads of tamed sunlight, fashioned for men to bury their greedy fingers into, to stroke against softly, to inhale its sweet, flowery strawberry-shampoo fragrance. [ Che, nothing special. Plenty of blonde bimbos out there. ] There's nothing special about her eyes - Bambi-big and perpetually round, as if she's constantly surprised by everything around her. Fringed with stubby lashes that flutter ludricously like she's in need for respitory aid whenever she fixes Motoki with that limpid blue puppy-love-stricken, kick-me-if-you- still-don't-get-it-obvious gaze. And yet ... they sometimes shine like the brightest pools of sparkling light azure, sometimes like misty lakes full of wishing stars that I could wish on, sometimes like the keen blue skies of crisp, clear autumn mornings ... but more frequently like flashing sparks of burning electric-blue gas fire whenever she begins to glare at me. [ Che, nothing special. Plenty of blue eyed girls out there. ] There's nothing special about her voice - shrill, sharp and strident. Her raucous, boisterous chattering and vociferous caterwauling constantly grates on the ear. Emergency ambulance sirens are no competition for the sheer range and volume of her wailing once she gets started. Two words : sound pollution. And yet ... both her laughter and wails are equally frank and loud and expressive - the sound of someone who wears her heart on a sleeve, displays every emotion freely, and shares her happiness and grievances equally generously. An open book that is both heard and seen. [ Che, nothing special. Plenty of loud- mouthed chatterboxes out there. ] There's nothing special about her mouth - wide, surprisingly big for a girl her size. Or perhaps not, considering the amount of physical exercise it gets every day, yakking away about the trivial, pettily superficial details of her life to her equally carefree friends. *smirk* Occasionally it spews forth such vicious retorts that I'm shocked she still uses those same lips to sleepily kiss her mother a drowsy " oyasumi " with every night. And yet ... so beautifully shaped - lips full and curved in a natural cupid's bow, pouting ever so prettily whenever she doesn't get her way - which is rather often actually. Tinted a bright, rosy pink, liberally smeared with slick strawberry-flavored gloss, as if inviting a man to try kissing them, to test if they possibly taste quite as good as they appear to look. [ Che, nothing special. Plenty of big- mouthed girls out there. ] There's nothing special about her smile - bright and sweet, but common like everyday sunshine : it occurs so frequently you never really notice it anymore. And yet ... her pouting frowns, her narrowed eyes and furrowed brows ... her flushed, angry cheeks ... *These* are unusual ... different ... Special ... because ... she saves them ... Only For Me ... ( ^ _ ^ ) _____________________________________________ " You look pretty spaced out, Mamoru. What are you thinking about? " I snap out of my reverie of thoughts, turning around to gaze into the bright sea-green curiosity of Motoki's eyes. " Thinking about? " I reply nonchalently, slowly sipping the last bit of lukewarm coffee left in my cup, deliberately leaving Motoki in suspense. The arcade-bells jingle. 2.50 pm. Right on time. She walks in, heading for the Sailor V game as usual. I smirk playfully and pay for my coffee, tossing a few coins onto the counter as I prepare for our daily encounter. My wait was over. Turning, I answer Motoki's question. "Nothing special at all. " _____________________________________________ Glossary : che : a sort of verbal sound, made to express disgust, frustration, etc okashi : strange, funny, laughable ... you get the idea oyasumi : good night _____________________________________________ Wanted : Two or three pre-readers and a competent editor who can spot mistakes, is willing to be a patient sounding board for bouncing ideas around and kicks the lazy procrastinating butt of my muse. =P Pre-readers need not be fanfic authors, but I would prefer my editor to be mature ( over sixteen ) and experienced in writing. Domo arigato gozaimashita. ( ^_^ ) _____________________________________________ |