(Submitted for your approval: April 23rd, 41st birthday of ARTHUR PAPE ( Read more... )

(It's the second day of spring and it is appropriately gorgeous ( Read more... )

(Christmas ( Read more... )

A café.

It's winter in New York-- winter, still too early for snow-- in the mid-eighties.

ARTHUR sits, looking slightly melancholy, his hands cupped around a mug of hot tea. When the person he awaits arrives, he'll look up and give a little smile.

ARTHUR: Hey. I was wondering when you'd get here.

(ARTHUR pulls open the door to the oven to check on the turkey. He's wearing an apron that says KISS THE COOK over a brown sweater with a gaudy cornucopia on it.)

Buzz and James didn't say if they'd be over, did they? I hope this isn't too dry.

(It's the evening of Halloween and ARTHUR has just returned from distributing treats to the children of the Mansion. He's carrying a bowl filled with the remnants of the candy. His face is covered in paint-- an artistic mix of white, grey, blue, green, purple, and a little bit of blood red. Francine has also added glitter.)Perry, I'm home. I ( Read more... )

( Ficlet-- the typist just needs somewhere to put this )

(In some corner of some room in the Mansion, ARTHUR has found a comfortably worn recliner. It's large, large enough for two, and just beside a window that's been opened a few centimeters. He's looking out, looking up, into the night sky. The constellations are unrecognisable or vague, but they're stars and that's enough.)Stars. You can't see ( Read more... )