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bottomofthemeniscus · 4 years ago

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Wedding Day Dreams from 2016

Wedding Day Dreams

Since I was nine years old I have been fantasizing about my wedding. It was my favorite daydream topic, and I spent way too much time thinking about it for someone of such a young age. By the time I was eleven I had drawn sketches of what my cake and dress were going to look like, and by the time I was thirteen I had started imagining and drawing out my venue. Both my parents found it amusing, and my mom even started helping me plan out other details by explaining which dress shapes she thought I would look best in and what color flowers would be appropriate for the different seasons.

But when I turned sixteen, I realized that my dream wedding was going to change dramatically. Don’t get me wrong, I still have plans for a beautiful dress and a delicious cake, but it’s who I’m marrying that has changed. I will not be saying “I do” to a groom, but to another bride. And because of this, my parents want nothing to do with my wedding...or me.

I continued to plan my wedding throughout my teenage years though, eventually getting focused on food. What food would I have at my wedding? What meal would be special enough for my wife-to-be and me to share on this special night? In order to answer these questions, I became obsessed with food. I began to cook and experiment with different flavors and ingredients. After a few years, I took a chance and I started a small restaurant, and then I started to cater weddings.

That’s where I am now, 28-years-old and already an entrepreneurial business woman. If only that was what my parents saw in me.

“Well, that’s all the food,” Paige says to me. She’s my partner in crime when it comes to running this business. She’s also my fiancée.

We’re currently working a wedding for some friend of a friend of Paige’s who heard about us. Dinner was over now, all the guests full and happy. It went well if I do say so myself.

“Yeah, but we still have all the cleaning up to do,” I say.

“Well, maybe you should take a break.”

“No, no it’s okay.”

“Come on, Sam. It’s okay, I can take care of it. I know you like to watch.”

It sounds creepy when she puts it that way, but I do like to watch the weddings. I like looking at whatever marvel the wedding cake is, and taking notes about the choice of flowers and centerpieces. I also like watching the happy bride and groom, and their parents, even if it always makes me sad. I suppose it’s a way for me to imagine how my parents would act if they ever came to my wedding, for me to have that experience vicariously.

“All right,” I say with a shrug and guilty smile. I step out of the kitchen and into the heart of the celebration. Right out in front of the doors to the kitchen, I see the banquet table I had set up earlier in the night being taken down, platters with varying amounts of food being cleared away by my employees. Nearby is another table with a five-tiered mountain of fondant-covered cake, waiting to be cut later in the night. I walk over to it and see the bouquet of red and yellow sugar flowers adorning the top of the cake and cascading down the tiers on one side. It is gorgeous and I love the decorations, but I can’t imagine having a cake that size and I wonder what it must have cost. I take my eyes away from it and step further out into the room.

The wedding venue is inside an old firehouse, I believe as homage to either the bride or groom, as one of them works as a firefighter. The walls are all made of brick, giving the place its own charm and character. The only decorations hung from the walls are strings of white Christmas lights that are strung around the building, lighting the place in a homey and magical way.

Within the walls of the firehouse, the layout of the wedding is set up fairly traditionally, and similarly to how I would set up my wedding. There is a DJ up on a makeshift stage to my left, with a long head table for the wedding party directly below it. In the center, two ornate chairs, that appear more like thrones, are set for the bride and groom. In front of the head table are a cluster of about 20 other round tables for the wedding guests. Each table is adorned with a decorative candle in the center that casts beautiful, spiraling shadows on to the place settings. The tables are setup to allow an empty space in the middle, where it seems everyone in the wedding is currently gathered. It is most likely the dance floor. I don’t know for sure until a few people in the crowd shift and I peek through the heads of the crowd and see a wisp of white float by. I realize that the crowd must be watching the bride and groom dance their first dance.

That was my favorite topic of my fantasies as I got older, the first dance song. My parents danced to “Color My World” by Chicago at their wedding. It is a beautiful song and I always said that I would love to find a song just as sweet. However, my non-traditional fiancé wants to rock out to Smash Mouth’s version of “I’m a Believer” instead. But, I am still not convinced I want that to be our first dance.

I don’t know the song that this couple is dancing to, but it is slow and calming. As the song starts to wind down, people begin to disperse and head back to their seats, giving me a better view of the dance. It is just as sweet as the song they are dancing to. The bride and groom are standing arm in arm, gently swaying back and forth. As the final chord of the song is played, the groom dips his bride and plants a kiss on her. I feel a dopey smile spread across my face at the cheesy romanticism.

“Let’s give a round of applause to the bride and groom!” I hear the DJ announced. The crowd, including myself, obliges his request and begins to applaud. “Ok folks, if the bride would be so kind as to find her father, we will begin the father-daughter dance.”

I see a man make his way out onto the dance floor and hug the bride. Another song I don’t recognize starts to play, and the bride and her father begin to dance. The sight is beautiful, but as I watch the two of them dance, a pang of sorrow hits me and begins to well up inside of me, until it feels like I am drowning in it.

I am hit with memories of my dad. Old memories, from when I was a kid; we were really close. He was the one who raised me as a baby, and my mom the one who was always working. He would take me to the park all the time as a kid, and every Friday after school we would go get ice cream from the ice cream truck that was always parked around the corner from my house. He was always there for me with a hug when I needed it, and he was always there to support me.

I had always loved the idea of my dad and me sharing a dance together on my wedding day. I imagined us swaying back and forth to music; tears forming in both of our eyes, sharing a father-daughter moment unlike any other that I would carry with me for the rest of my life. But, of course, that dream would have to stay a dream, because my father no longer loved or supported me.

He was the one who told me I was an abomination when I was sixteen years old.

He’s the one who kicked me out the day that I turned eighteen, without saying a word other than “get out.”

He is the one who never answers my calls on Christmas, or birthdays.

And he will never dance with me at my wedding.

Thinking about my dad feels like taking a gunshot wound to the heart. Emotions swell up inside me, and soon I feel the tears bubbling up in my eyes and I see the lights on the dance floor start to go blurry. It does not take long for the tears spill over and run down my cheeks. I cover my eyes to hide the fact that I’m crying.

Every time I come to a wedding, I remember that my parents, and much of the rest of my family, no longer want me to be a part of their lives. I have given up all hope in them, yet I still cry when I think about it. All my childhood wedding fantasies involved my family. My dad walking me down the aisle, and me looking over at my mom, blotting tears from her eyes as I stand at the altar. Having my aunts and uncles party into the night at my reception and making memories that we could share during future family holidays. Thinking about it makes the tears fall from my eyes faster.

I feel an arm wrap around me while my eyes are still buried in my hands. “Sam?” the voice says.

I look up and see Paige staring at me, concern and compassion written on her face.

“Oh, Sam,” she says as she wraps me into a hug.

“I just wish…” I start to choke out

“I know, I know. I do too,” she responds, not even needing me to complete my thought. She pulls me out of the hug for a second and wipes away the tears on my cheeks.

Paige has been with me through all of this. She was my first girlfriend; I met her when I was 15, and she has stuck with me ever since. I don't know what she saw in me back then. She was cool and looked like a badass to me with her short, blonde hair that always dyed funky colors. I was just a shy, book nerd who spent most of her free time in the library.

I remember the day she first talked to me. It was raining outside, and I think that was why she had come in. I was sitting in a bean bag chair that was in the school’s library, reading a fantasy novel during our lunch break. I didn’t notice her right away, as my book was holding my attention, but eventually I looked up and she was standing right in front of me, watching me. I was actually a little scared of Paige at first, worried she was going to try to sell me drugs or ask me to go vandalize the school. I had never talked to her before, but she had a certain vibe that made me think she was a bad influence. That changed though once we started talking.

She asked me what I was reading, which prompted her to sit next to me and start a small conversation about the book. She later told me that she actually had no interest in the book at all; she just wanted an excuse to talk to me because she thought I was cute.

I didn’t know I was gay until I met her, but it did not take me long to realize that that I could never leave her again. With her, all my worries floated away. She helped me in high school when some stupid kid decided to tell the whole school that we were going out. She was standing by my side when I told my parents the truth, even as they threw books and water glasses at us. When I was officially kicked out of my house at eighteen, she invited me to move in with her family, who has always been more supportive.

“You can always dance with my dad at our wedding,” she says, keeping her arms wrapped around me.

“If he’s not passed out drunk by that time,” I reply back through tears. Paige’s dad had a reputation for getting plastered at parties. Paige’s 21st birthday was the worst; they were both out cold before midnight.

“Well, that’s why I keep telling you that we can’t have an open bar,” she says smiling.

“Now is not the time for wedding planning,” I say, pouting, although part of me realizes this is a lame comeback considering that I have been thinking about our wedding throughout the night.

“Oh contraire, look around you. This is the perfect place to plan a wedding! We’re literally at a wedding! ”

I look up again and see the bride and her father continuing their dance. I can see the father tearing up. I feel the tears coming back to my eyes again.

“Okay, never mind,” Paige says, grabbing my chin and turning it back towards her. “I was only kidding anyway. Jeez. It’s a wonder I let you out to watch. Every time you end up a weeping mess!”

As if on cue, I start sobbing again. Paige pulls me closer and I hold her for support, staining her shirt with tears and streaked mascara.

“It’s okay. I still love you,” she says stroking my hair affectionately as I cry into her shoulder. After a minute she props me up so I’m standing up straight, wipes the tears off my cheeks once more, and kisses me.

Her kiss brings me out of my crying spell and I try to compose myself. I take a few deep breaths to calm down, “Alright. I’ll be alright.”

“There’s my Sammy-Wammy,” she says. I lightly punch her in response. I hate the nick-name. “Fine, sorry, Sam.”

“Come on,” I say “Let’s get back to work.”

“Hey!”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I say, and we walk hand in hand back to the kitchen, a small smile beginning to grow on my face, the kind of smile only someone you love can bring to you.

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bottomofthemeniscus · 4 years ago

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Secret Santa Fanfiction from 2012

Ten days. Ten days without a case. John was about to lose it.

Sherlock had been sitting around 221B bored out of his mind, luckily without a gun in his hand and bullets in the wall. John had frequently found himself escaping the flat to keep his sanity, but today, it was time to get Sherlock out.

Sherlock emerged out of his room around noon that day dressed in his sweats and robe. He then plopped himself down on the couch.

“Good morning,” said John, looking up from a book. “I made you tea,” he said, handing him a cup

Sherlock looked up at John. “What do you want?” he replied groggily.

“Nothing I just thought that...”

“No.”

“Sherlock...you can’t stay cooped up in here all day like you have the past week and a half!”

“I need to be here in case Lestrade calls me.”

“Nope nice try, get dressed, grab your phone, let’s go. Maybe when we get back they’ll be a nice murder waiting for you to solve”

Frustrated, Sherlock turned away from John to face the back of the couch in defiance. Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere today. Well childish Sherlock was going to win this one; it was time for John to kick it up a notch. John went to the kitchen and found the biggest glass, which actually turned out to be a beaker, and filled it with ice cold water. He went back to Sherlock and dumped it on his head.

“JOHN!” yelled Sherlock in anger.

“Look now you’re already showered. Now come on!” Reluctantly, Sherlock got up to go get dried off and dressed.

A few minutes later Sherlock came out clothed and accessorized with an angry scowl. John handed him his coat and scarf and they went down stairs and hailed a cab.

“National Gallery.” John told the cab driver. Sherlock just looked at John with puzzlement for a moment, and then looked away.

“Molly...” John began.

“Molly gave you tickets. You thought it’d be fun. You do realize we’ve been there before.”

“Yes but we were on a case. This time, we can just enjoy the art.” Sherlock groaned in reply.

The cab pulled up to the museum and they walked, well one was dragged, inside.

*MEANWHILE*

“Really Doctor, another museum?” asked Amy

“Yes another museum, you say museum as it’s a bad thing.”

“Well we aren’t going to notice Picasso being tormented by a Dalek in one of the paintings and then have to go back and save him are we?”

“As if you didn’t like meaning Van Gough that one time...”

“I’m just saying I want a normal museum visit, no aliens and wibbly-wobblyness. Just a nice stroll through the museum”

“Stroll?”

“Whatever...”

The Doctor nodded and they walked into the museum. They saw some beautiful marble statues that seemed to be actual people frozen in time.

“They aren’t going to like move and zap us back in time, are they?” asked Amy, in which the Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver to find out.

“Nope, just regular statues, Bernini, 1625, beautiful marble work,” and they continued walking.

They then came up to a special exhibit in the museum, “Young Artists.” It was a collaboration of new and upcoming artists the museum had on display. The modern pieces showed potential, but also clashed with the older and more classic pieces.

“Hmmm, there’s a painting missing...” The Doctor noticed.

“What?”

“Look, there’s a tag caption for a painting, but no painting.”

“Well, maybe it had to be, I don’t know, cleaned or something.”

“Maybe...or...?” said The Doctor, clearly beginning to puzzle over every possible reason.

“No Doctor, remember, just a nice museum visit. No craziness. Now come on,” and Amy dragged him away.

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“I really don’t get the point of this.”

Sherlock had been complaining since they had entered the museum and John was beginning to think it would have been better to leave him at home.

“Just, look at the art I don’t know, deduce why they painted it or something.”

“Too easy, besides, what does it matter. These people are all dead, their history has now importance to me up here,” he said gesturing to his head.

“Just trying to make it fun for you,” said John, getting more and more frustrated with each remark.

After another exhibit, Sherlock started getting antsy waiting for John as he took his time. He ended up hovering over John as he studied the paintings.

“You can go on without me,” said John, clearly fed up with his new shadow. “I’ll catch up.”

Sherlock grumbled and stood there for a few more moments before walking off. He wandered through a few more exhibits, not finding any that interested him. He ended up in an exhibit titled “Young Artists”, though the newer art still did not appeal to him.

Sherlock checked his phone to see if Lestrade had texted him, but to his dismay his inbox was empty. Couldn’t they just go home!? Why did John insist in him getting out? What did it matter? To cure his boredom, Sherlock decided to work out his deduction skills on people.

School teacher, lawyer, mother and daughter, thought Sherlock as people walked by. Just then a peculiar man and woman walked in. The man had loose, tousled, brown hair wore a tweed jacket and a bowtie while the girl had very orange, red hair and normal clothes. The girl Sherlock could tell was recently engaged and had recently returned from far away travels, but he could not get any read on the man. Intrigued, Sherlock began to approach the two.

He walked up to the mysterious pair and caught the tail bit of their conversation.

“Look, there’s a tag caption for a painting, but no painting.”

“Well, maybe it had to be, I don’t know, cleaned or something.”

“Maybe...or...?

“No Doctor, remember, just a nice museum visit. No craziness. Now come on...” And the girl dragged the man, apparently a Doctor of sorts, away.

Sherlock was intrigued by what the doctor man had noticed and began to investigate. He noticed the caption and the lack of a painting that belonged to it. He then found the nearest employee of the museum, a young man of about 30 or so.

“Have you noticed one of your paintings missing?” asked Sherlock, throwing the employee off.

“Umm...no, what, no uh, where?”

“Over there,” said Sherlock pointing.

“Um, let me just get a call in to someone who uh, might now if it has been taken in or something.”

Sherlock walked back over to the painting as the man went to go find someone of more authority. By the painting, the mysterious doctor was back over there. Sherlock approached him and began to observe, to see if he noticed anything that could lead him on to who this man was.

The Doctor, feeling Sherlock’s observing eyes, turned toward him.

“Hello, I’m The Doctor.”

“Doctor...doctor who?”

“Just, the Doctor.” Sherlock nodded, though clearly confused.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he replied as an introduction

The Doctor’s eye got big. “No...You mean the one from the blog! The brilliant detective oh this is just great. You sir are brilliant the best, amazing, big fan, big fan.”

“Thanks..., but I’m sorry who exactly are you?”

“Can’t deduce it?”

“Uh...no I can’t, and I don’t know why, you’re very, different

“Yeah well I guess I would be, it’s a long, confusing story, I’m The Doctor, that’s all you need to know.”

“Okay...”

“Well, Mr. Holmes then, what do you think about this missing painting?”

Just then the employees Sherlock talked to approached Sherlock.

“Sir the painting is being located at the moment. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No, no problem at all.”

“Being located...? I guess it’s not being cleaned then...AMY!”

“What, I told you to leave that painting alone,” said Amy walking over from a nearby display. “Who’s this?”

“Sherlock Holmes”

“Who?”

“You don’t know who Sherlock Holmes is. He’s on the blog online, greatest detective in London.”

“Never heard of him...anyway, what’s the matter?”

“This painting’s been stolen,” said Sherlock abruptly.

*A FEW MOMENTS AGO*

Museums. What was the point of them? Loki thought they were stupid. Thor on the other hand, did not. Thor had been giving Loki frequent trips to Midgard as a part of a “try to make Loki good again” sort of thing, yet each trip just made Loki more frustrated at his brother, especially when he chose stupid things to do like a day at a museum.

“COME LOOK BROTHER. LOOK AT THESE PRECIOUS PEICES OF ART!” but Loki wanted no part of them. He didn’t care and he didn’t know why Thor did. Loki had seen art work a hundred times more spectacular at home, nothing these puny mortals could possibly think of achieving. “COME LOKI!”

Loki did not follow his ‘brother’ though and went on his own to another part of the gallery. He went past many paintings and sculptures that held the humans transfixed in their beauty, but Loki thought nothing of them, until a thought came to him. The pieces were probably worth some money, though human money did not have too much worth to him, it would allow him to have some of his own fun, away from Thor.

He decided to change outfits to be less conspicuous, something he wondered why he and Thor didn’t always do on these little trips, and was now wearing a t-shirt and jeans, fitting in among the rest of the human tourists. Then, he walked over to an exhibit with newer paintings than the rest of them, and he snatched one. He didn’t really care what it looked one, as long as no one saw him do it, and no one did. He simply walked out of the museum, painting in hand, now where to go?

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“Lestrade, there’s a missing painting,” said Sherlock through his phone.

“So?”

“Well, it’s been stolen.”

“Wow you are bored aren’t ya? Well, find out who did it then.” Sherlock hung up the phone. The Doctor was sonicing the empty spot on the wall.

“What’s that?” said Sherlock gesturing to the sonic screwdriver.

“A sonic screwdriver,” replied The Doctor.

“A what?”

“Nothing it’s, a thing,” said Amy, sparring Sherlock the explanation of a sonic screwdriver.

“A thing that’s going to help find the painting?”

“Uh, no, apparently no,” said The Doctor looking at the sonic.

“Well I can tell it was easily snatched, no sign of a struggle with it. These painting, being newer, are not kept under that much security, making it easy for our thief. No one must have notice either since no alarms have gone off.”

“Yes I would agree,” replied the Doctor. “You don’t think he still in the museum do you?”

“That would be incredibly stupid, but I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“How about we split up,” provided Amy. “We’ll check inside and you can look outside and see if we find him.”

“Fair enough,” replied Sherlock, and they split up. Sherlock’s first order of business was to find John. Couldn’t go anywhere without his blogger, after all. He found John looking at some paintings Sherlock didn’t care about and dragged him away by his arm.

“SHERLOCK!” exclaimed John in a hushed tone. “What are you doing!?”

“We need to find a painting thief.”

“Oh so you found yourself a case now did you? Well good but I...” he said wriggling out of Sherlock’s grasp, “don’t want any part of it!”

“John...”

“Nope, I just want a day at the museum; have fun on your own,” and John walked off. Frustrated, Sherlock did as well, out to through the doors of the museum.

Sherlock looked around. Unfortunately, no big flashing sign reading ‘painting thief here’ appeared above anyone. Sherlock walked around a bit. “They probably got in a getaway car, though the person was stupid enough to steal a painting from some nobody new artist, maybe he thought he could just walk out with it,” thought Sherlock to himself.

Just then, amazingly, Sherlock spotted a tall man with long, spiky black hair walking with a rectangular shape under his arm. Sherlock could hardly believe it.

“STOP!” Sherlock shouted to the man and Sherlock began to run after him, but the man started to run too. They ran to the back of the museum, but the painting thief had quite a lead on Sherlock. It was going to take some work to catch up to him. They rounded the corner and in front of the painting thief was a blue police box. Sherlock remembered them being from the 1950s and 60s, but didn’t have time to question what one was doing here. The thief ran up to it and found the door had been left unlocked and ran inside. Sherlock ran up to the door, but to his dismay, found had been locked by the thief.

“Damn,” said Sherlock. He wasn’t sure what to do. He could stay here and hope that the thief would come out eventually. HE decided it was best to call the police and let them take care of the thief. He reached for his mobile, but then found that it had fallen out in the chase. “Damn.” Sherlock muttered again, but then he realized that it was a police telephone box, maybe he could call the police from the box. He pulled open the door to the phone to find an old, disconnected phone. Sherlock, out of ideas, decided to walk back to the museum, hoping the thief wouldn’t escape right away that The Doctor could help, and hopefully he could find his phone.

Sherlock found his phone not far from where the chase had started and called Lestrade.

“He’s inside and old police box,” explained Sherlock over the phone

“Police box? Those haven’t been around for years.”

“He’s in one.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do. Call ya later.” Sherlock hung up the phone and walked inside. He found The Doctor and Amy inside the lobby of the museum, talking to someone at the front desk. They turned toward Sherlock as he approached.

“We haven’t found anyone,” said The Doctor.

“I found him.”

“WHAT!?” said Amy and The Doctor at the same time.

“I chased him, but he locked himself inside a police box, bit ironic if you think about it.”

“Did you say police box?” asked Amy.

“Yes,” replied Sherlock. The Doctor and Amy looked at each other and smiled.

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Loki was grateful for the blue box, though he didn’t know who had been chasing him since he wasn’t dressed like a police man. Loki sighed and then leaned back against the wall of the police box, only he fell down onto the floor.

“What the...” Loki began in frustration, but then he looked around at where he was standing and his jaw dropped.

He cautiously opened the door to the box to make sure his pursuer was no longer there. When Loki saw he wasn’t, he walked outside and stared at the box. He walked around it, feeling the dimensions of the box, and then walked back inside, once again amazed at the giant room shoved inside such a small space.

This is no ordinary box Loki thought to himself.

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“What’s a TARDIS?” asked Sherlock as they ran back to the police box.

“Uh...Amy, quick explanation, please.”

“Time and Relative Dimensions in Space,” explained Amy matter of factly, “It’s a time machine.”

Sherlock chuckled, “No seriously what is it?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

They approached the TARDIS and The Doctor pulled out his key, opened the door, and walked inside.

Sherlock looked around, very confused, and then walked back outside the box. It wasn’t connected to a bigger room. It was a small box, what the...Sherlock walked back inside. He didn’t believe what he was seeing.

“YOU! Stop right there!” The Doctor said to Loki, and Loki actually froze. “Nice of you to choose my TARDIS as your hideaway, do you like it, it’s bigger on the inside.”

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In the end, The Doctor found Thor and told him about what Loki had done and then after fanboying over the Norse gods being with him in person, The Doctor decided to give them a ride back to Asgard.

After recovering from the TARDIS, Sherlock found John and convinced him to go home. Sherlock was done with this case. Time travel, Norse gods, boxes bigger on the inside. It was all impossible, yet had happened before his very eyes. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to go home, even more than he did that morning.

The Doctor returned the painting to its rightful place in the museum, glad to see it hanging back on the wall.

“Shuucreme, that’s an interesting name,” said Amy, reading the minimalistic tag under the painting proclaiming who the artist was.

“Did you say Shuucreme?” asked The Doctor

“Yeah, what of it?”

“I knew I recognized this somewhere,” said the Doctor, looking at the previously stolen painting. “Is a pseudonym for a future famous artist, this must be one of her earlier pieces. Wow, history in the making.”

“A famous artist who got her painting stolen by Loki, bet that wasn’t in the textbooks,” said Amy, and they began to laugh.

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