CSI (Grissom/Sara, Gen) Fic List

I realized recently that I haven't actually linked my CSI stories on my journal. Part of that is that they're from 'back in the day' and I've gotten way better at writing... but I've signed up for the remixredux08 (signups open until tonight!), and I need all the links to my fics in one place.

( On to the list... )

Fic: Original (untitled)

I wrote this for a journal assignment in my creative writing class, and I really, really like it, so I'm posting it here. Still need a title, though...


When I was a very small child, my favorite thing to do was to visit my grandmother. It delighted me beyond measure that her house was, in fact, 'over the river and through the woods' from mine. We would turn off of the interstate onto a smaller highway, and from there we'd drive onto a twisting, tree swept lane that climbed over and around the hills that surrounded her property. I can remember clearly the way the trees created an arbor of twined branches that stretched across the road to shadow it from the sun. I would lean my head back on my seat, straining to see the flashes of sunlight through the leaves as my hand floated in the rushing air outside the window. I told myself it was my favorite place on earth, for all that I'd never actually walked along that road, only ridden through it, lazy and content in the back seat of a car.

Sights and sounds were very important to me, even as a six-year-old. The bright flare of sun reflected from a snowbank, the rich rumble of thunder, even the steady flutter of a curtain of rain against our basement window--all of them held wonder and fascination for me. That summer was a riot of weather, each storm system trying to best its predecessor until my entire family was well-acquainted with the hollow echo off of our basement walls, and the vague, damp smell of sleeping on the floor. I learned the difference between a tornado 'warning' and a tornado 'watch,' knew that the safest place I could be was in the cellar, and heard something about leaving windows cracked, though at that age, I'd thought it had to do with breaking them. I managed to get the concept of 'danger' fairly well established in my head, but not until the 'watch' turned into a 'warning' did I understand exactly what that really meant.

We'd spent all evening and most of the night in the basement listening to the howling wind argue with the roaring thunder, though I woke in my own bed, so the storm must have passed in the early morning. Nothing seemed any different than the other times we'd prudently ridden out bad weather with flashlights and candles and extra snuggles, but, this time, my parents had relief in their voices when they told me that my grandmother was all right. At that age, I hadn't understood the subtle significance in this. After all, why wouldn't she be? Surely she'd hidden in her basement, too!

We all wanted to see her, so a few days after the storm had passed, we piled into the car and headed over the river with the woods on the horizon and coming up fast. Scattered images of disarray--a boarded up window, missing roof tiles, the flashing lights of a tow truck--punctuated our trip, growing more frequent the closer we got to our destination. As interesting as all of this was, however, all I wanted was to get to my favorite place and peer up at the intricate patterns of branch and blade peppered with sunshine.

I wasn't prepared for what I found in their stead--and truth be told, the memory still pains me. Gone were the comforting branches, stripped away with most of their trees, a huge swath of bareness like a razor swipe, callous and stark. What little remained was barely as tall as I was. I held my parents' hands and looked out the window, wide-eyed and disbelieving, too shocked at first to even cry. I could see so many things that had once been hidden by my precious trees--the railroad to the right, an elegant cemetery to the left, with now lonely houses spread out at intervals in between.

"They'll grow back," my mother had said, soothing my trembling hand with a kiss. "It just takes time."

She was right, of course. The trees have crept steadily upwards in the years since the terrible storm, though childhood is fickle, and I've had many 'favorite places' since then. The road that led to my grandmother's house now leads to my mother's, passing the cemetery on the way. The trip to my grandmother leads there, now, and every time I visit, I find myself measuring the trees. It's a part of my journey to will them to grow brave enough to reach across and touch each other, to seek the reassurance I'd sought when I first saw them torn and broken.

It's been almost twenty-five years, and they're not there yet. Someday, though, they will be, and I'll take the walk I've been waiting to make all my life, with my head tipped back and my arms held out, feeling the wind blow.