(title inspired by Arlene)

So, it’s kind of strange that I would come home from an overnighter at my sister’s today and find a comment suggesting that perhaps I could have taken the crapfest that was And the Truth Will (Sometimes) Set You Free and turned it into something that didn’t suck ass, or at least sucked slightly less ass. I’d like to think so.

Finding said comment, in and of itself, wasn’t strange. Obviously. Unless, of course, the definition of the word strange is lost on you, and in that case it may not be so obvious.

What is strange about finding this comment is that I actually came home Friday night and prompted myself with a 24-hour Women’s Murder Club episode challenge. That’s right. I said to myself, “Self…” because that’s what I call myself. “Self,” I said, “let’s see what you can do with twenty-four hours and an idea for a really kickass opening sequence to an episode. Can you right an entire episode in twenty-four hours, Self? Can you keep everyone in character, strike a blend between the club interaction we all miss and the more fast-paced action-fueled fare the network is after, and create an episode that you would find enjoyable if you didn’t write it?”

Well, in what ended up being slightly less than twenty-four hours when all was said and done, I have managed to crank out a spec script for Women’s Murder Club. I call the episode “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings”. It comes in at only forty pages, though it would probably run the roughly 43-ish minutes that a WMC ep runs. It is utterly imperfect. I did, after all, write it in less than twenty-four hours. But, you know what? For something that was written hurriedly, with zero time for second guessing, I actually kind of love it.

Check it out if you are so inclined:

Women’s Murder Club - I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.pdf

Now, if only ABC, 20th Century Fox, and the producers would find it floating out here in cyberspace, and say -

“You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking 2nd season opener.”

Fuck it. I can dream can’t I?

Halfpint brought a rumor to my attention, and here is what I know in regards to it.

According to E! online, their sources do report that Women’s Murder Club has been cancelled and that Eli Stone has been renewed. That’s the rumor. The facts I know that do lead me to believe this may be true are thus:

A while ago, I read a Hollywood Reporter story that said if Eli Stone was renewed, Women’s Murder Club likely wouldn’t be. Now, while Eli Stone’s ratings are lower than Women’s Murder Club’s in the same time slot, it was also reported that network execs like Eli Stone, and as much as that shouldn’t have anything to do with anything, we all know that it does.

Women’s Murder Club hasn’t been doing poorly in the ratings on Tuesday nights. It has, however, retained less than fifty percent of its lead-in audience. The first week back, the retention at the half hour mark wasn’t good either. That’s never a good thing.

ABC is supposed to announce their fall lineup on Tuesday of next week, which means that the last ep of the season isn’t even going to factor into their decision. So, it’s very possible that they have made this decision already.

However, as of now, it hasn’t been released officially. Before it is, if you are moved to make an effort -

This is ABC’s phone number to leave comments on their shows.

1-818-460-7477

It is an automated system. 

Press 2 to leave comments.

Press 3 for Primetime menu.

WMC is #965.

You get thirty seconds per message, but you can call back as often as you would like

Or how about emailing some peeps?

Stephen McPherson, ABC Entertainment President
stephen.mcpherson@abc.com

Anne Sweeney, Co-Chair Disney Media Networks and President, Disney-ABC Television Group
anne.sweeney@disney.com

Go Team!

“There is nothing like a dame, nothin’ in the world
There is nothing you can name that is anything like a dame”

Indeed.

And Dame Helen Mirren is damn hot.

There is something utterly regal and classy about her. (As a regal and classy person myself, I respond to that. Heh.) She’s also uber-talented. Did I mention she’s hot… which, for the purpose of this list, is all that really matters.

We also share the same birthday, which makes us kinda-sorta soul sistas. Mm hm. I feel kindred. I do. She’s like my sexy older twin who got all the good parts. Oh, and that I want to sleep with.

TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as a deviation from the average, everyday. (2/?)
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Women’s Murder Club does not belong to me. The characters do not belong to me. They are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. I have no problems with that as long as I can borrow them for short bursts and use them in pursuit of my own enjoyment. I am not trying to infringe. Though, I don’t know why anyone has a problem with fan fic. After all, it really is a compliment. If anyone wants to write fan fiction about my book, feel free.

(Cindy’s POV)

“Okay, so these two –“

“Floaters.”

Cindy grimaced at Lindsay’s choice cop word.

“Kids,” she chose to use instead. “Their bodies washed up on the beach, and you aren’t going to end up investigating this as a homicide why?”

“Because there were missing persons reports filed on both of them a few days ago. Their parents had forbidden them from seeing each other. They ran away,” Lindsay relayed, watching the crew work the location before her. “In five minutes, Claire will give her initial report that they died of accidental drowning, which is no surprise. Another team is looking at debris washed up about a mile down, probably pieces of their boat.”

“So… what? They stole a motorboat and thought they’d try for Asia?”

“We think it’s a rowboat actually, and it was Hawaii. It would have been quite the feat if they’d made it, huh? By the time the investigators got it out of the girl’s friends and sent a search party, there was no trace. Since then, everyone’s just been waiting for them to either get in touch or wash ashore.”

Cindy felt a lump rise into her throat at the straightforward depiction of events.

“God, that’s so sad,” she uttered quietly.

“Makes for a better story though, doesn’t it?” Lindsay teased with a smirk.

“That’s true,” Cindy acknowledged. “But it’s still sad.”

“I agree,” Lindsay replied softly.

The truncated concurrence came as such a surprise, Cindy found herself leaning in and listening more intently than usual.

“If they’d waited a couple of years,” Lindsay continued her thought as Cindy knew she would, “their parents would have had no say in the matter and they would have been less prone to the rash decisions that got them both killed.”

Cindy stared at the side of Lindsay’s face, bathed in alternating red and blue flashes. What was she really expecting to hear from her? Some kind of poetic analogy about love lost?

“I actually meant it was sad that they felt like that was their only option,” she clarified on the more emotionally-stunted inspector’s behalf.

“Should something like this ever actually be considered an option?” Lindsay tossed at her.

“I don’t know, Linds. A choice between life and love, I wouldn’t want to make that decision.” She paused in gloomy consideration of a situation where such a choice would seem necessary, and then remembered who it was that she was talking to. “I guess it’s lucky for you you’d never have to worry about something like that.”

Lindsay snapped her head from Claire zipping one of the teenagers into a body bag to turn her direction so fast, Cindy nearly ducked.

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?” Lindsay snapped.

“Nothing,” Cindy tried for casual. “Just… it’s not your thing.”

“It’s not my thing?” Lindsay asked in disbelief, and Cindy prayed silently for some form of intervention to get her out of the jam she’d just created.

After five seconds, in which lightning didn’t strike and no one needed Lindsay’s assistance enough to call her away, Cindy realized with a suppressed shudder that she was actually going to have to respond in the glare of that irritated expression.

“Yeah,” she said lightly. “It’s not your thing.”

With a vexed scoff, Lindsay shook her head and walked off, deeper into the crime scene, where she probably thought she couldn’t be followed.

“What just happened?” Cindy asked herself in a whisper. “Lindsay. Lindsay!”

With a quick glance around, she bowed beneath the police tape and jogged to catch up to the considerably longer-legged woman, seizing her leather-clad arm.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Lindsay threw back at her in that same disbelieving tone. “You hurt my feelings.”

With some degree of shock, Cindy’s eyes moved amongst the officers watching them, surprised that Lindsay would utter the word feelings out in the open in front of people who had the ability to hear.

“Really?” she questioned, stepping in closer.

This should have been a secret. Shouldn’t it?

“Yes!” Lindsay hotly retorted. “I do have them.”

“I know that,” Cindy lowered her voice, hoping her very agitated friend would follow suit. “How exactly did I hurt them?”

“Lucky for me, I’d never have to worry about that? What, like, I could never fall in love that way, where I’d throw everything away to run off with the person?”

Lindsay’s voice still wasn’t normal, but it wasn’t quite the bellowing decibel it had been before.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Cindy soothed.

“So, do you think I could?” Lindsay challenged.

Cindy went mannequin-still at the question. Did Lindsay really have to ask so directly? Couldn’t they skate around the subject? That always seemed to work better for them.

“Well?” Lindsay prodded when she took too long in responding.

“I uh… I…”

“Any day now.”

“I doubt it,” Cindy declared in reaction to the provocation, and immediately regretted saying it.

Lindsay’s annoyed look faded into something much more neutral and unreadable.

“I was young once you know. Like you. Starry-eyed and idealistic and romantic” Lindsay informed her. “In fact, I could still do it now.”

Cindy was buying it up until that last part.

“Lindsay,” she said with a dismissive laugh. “Come on.”

Fire flashed through the eyes looking down at her, and Lindsay turned and stomped off in such a total and absolute huff, there was really no other way to describe it, that Cindy was too afraid to follow her over to Claire. She looked for somewhere to put herself out of harm’s way, and honed in on Jill, standing at the edge of the crime scene, flirting so transparently with a uniformed cop, it was like walking up to a dating show.

“Hey. What’s up?” Jill happily broke from her flirting to acknowledge Cindy’s approach.

“Lindsay’s mad at me.”

If she had a dollar for every time she’d uttered that phrase…

“Why? What did you do?”

“Why do you just assume I did something?” Cindy mocked offense.

Jill just gave her usual head tilt and waited. It was her cue. This conversation never altered much. Sometimes Jill would throw a ‘now’ onto the end of her last question, and Cindy’s answer could vary between “I got arrested again” or “I interviewed a suspect when she told me not to.” Not this time.

“I hurt her feelings apparently.”

“How’d you do that?” Jill was as surprised by the revelation as Cindy had been.

“I just made reference to her level-headedness,” Cindy told her. “I actually thought it was something she took pride in.”

“What did you say?”

“That she wouldn’t try taking a rowboat to Hawaii to escape with someone if, for some reason or another, she couldn’t be with that person. Was I wrong?”

“Well, you weren’t exactly tactful, but her reaction still seems extremely sensitive.” Jill stopped short, laughing suddenly in remembrance of something. “The other day I told her I was going to buy her a litter of cats now, so she could just stop worrying about it.”

“And how’d she react?”

“She bought me a beer and we started talking about a case.”

“Wait. What you said was so much worse!” Cindy complained. “Why did I get in trouble?”

“Bad timing?” Jill submitted with an uncertain shrug.

“I guess so.” Cindy sighed, glancing over to where Lindsay was talking to Claire, feeling a very heartfelt guilt stirring.

“I need to get back to the office and get this story written. Could you do me a favor?” She took the curiously raised eyebrow as a yes. “Will you call me when you find out just how mad she is at me?”

Jill bestowed her with a dazzling, and rather humored, grin.

“Don’t I always?”

I was late again this morning. I know. Shocker. That has nothing to do with anything. I’m just confessing.

I walked to the car with my wide open coffee cup and it was sprinkling right down into it. I drank the coffee anyway. I like a little rainwater in my drink. It reminds me that, at heart, I’m a wild animal. I would drink dirty water for survival and roar with bestial pride.

Due to the gray sky, light rain thing, I thought about going fishing. When I was a kid, it was always more enjoyable to fish in drizzle and cloud-covered skies than in the beating down sun. I have light hair, light eyes, and light skin. Translation: I burn like a mother fucker. This is why I despise the sunlight and have made plans to be sired into the nocturnal lifestyle of vampires. Stay tuned.

So, I had this intense desire to go fishing, and here’s a secret. I hate fishing. With a passion. Even when I was a kid and I went with my dad and a few other men in my life, I hated it, I did, but I liked hanging with my select group of people with testosterone, and sometimes testosterone forces you to fish.

Despite this aversion to fishing, I totally wanted to go this morning. I am two hours from a great lake. I could have hopped in the car and been floating on a boat in the middle of Lake Erie, hating fishing, by mid-morning. And I thought about it.

Why?

Because I would rather be hating fishing all day than hating getting my soul sucked out by corporate America.

The end.

Now where are those fuckin’ vampires?

BEWARE OF SPOILAGE AHEAD! DO NOT READ IF YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED ON WMC. 

Wow. Talk about your fair share of suckage.

I was as dismayed as many of you over this episode. The gf actually said that she didn’t even care if it came back next season after this! Do you see what we have been reduced to. Treason in my own home!!

So, totally immature fact… I didn’t even watch the scene. I think you know which scene I am talking about. I couldn’t do it. As soon as Lindsay uttered the ridiculous, “I wanted this to be special,” I turned my head. I, literally, couldn’t watch it. I am now referring to it as the most timely fade to black in all of history.

First things first, and I’m always going to go there first when it’s this bad, could the writing have sucked any harder? Seriously could it? I think not. The only thing that did come out of this episode is that there were small moments for all ’shippers. Except for poor Claire. She’s just never going to get any from her club cohorts, is she? So unfair. I mean, Claire’s a hottie.

Clearly, the whole thing about making this a more Lindsay-centric, non-club show was right on the money. Why do they even have the other characters if that’s how much they are going to use them?

And it doesn’t help that this week’s ep and last week’s ep seem like two entirely different shows.

Now, to the big event.

If you are going to shoot a main character, you must have time to dedicate to it. You can’t just say, “Bang.” “She’s okay.” “I don’t remember anything.” And, yes, both Lindsay and Claire walking out of that room was not only out-of-character, but just plain shitty. They wouldn’t have. Especially Claire. This is the kind of support Cindy gets from her friends after being shot? I’m thinking maybe Cindy should have rushed another sorority.

And it irked me when she said parents as well. Continuity people, it’s not just a ten-letter word that starts with a ‘c’. Hmm. Though it is that too. Indeed, Cindy’s father is dead. She made a big deal about it. (And even if her mom remarried, my mom remarried when I was eight and never once in my life did I refer to her and my stepfather as my parents.) We’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and say that all of the pain medication made her forgetful.

I did like Lindsay’s rush down the steps to Cindy, the touching, et al, but when she left her at the hospital that first time to go to the police station, I knew that we were going to totally get the shaft. Of course, I didn’t know just how shafted we would get.

I’m just going to say it. Lindsay Boxer… you’re kind of a bitch.

TITLE: Inamorata (28/?)
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Women’s Murder Club does not belong to me. The characters do not belong to me. They are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. I have no problems with that as long as I can borrow them for short bursts and use them in pursuit of my own enjoyment. I am not trying to infringe. Though, I don’t know why anyone has a problem with fan fic. After all, it really is a compliment. If anyone wants to write fan fiction about my book, feel free. 

Aside from the first morning waking up, there had been no signs of nightmares, so when Lindsay was pulled from sleep by an absolutely gut-wrenching scream, she half expected to awaken to a corporeal threat. Disoriented, having fallen asleep not long enough before the startling rousing for it to have any beneficial effect, it took her a lengthy interval to determine the only danger was in Cindy’s mind and the only physical manifestation was her resultant thrashing.

“Cindy,” Lindsay whispered, scooting to her, and trying to restrict the flailing arms.

Cindy fought hard against Lindsay’s attempts to interrupt her violent slumber, demonstrating more strength than Lindsay would have given her credit for, and Lindsay’s body, still enervated from sleep, lacked its usual muscle to subdue. Before she could get Cindy within her grip, they somehow made it into a sitting position.

Cindy’s injured arm, which Lindsay was scared to hold as tightly as the rest of her for fear of doing more harm than good, broke free, colliding hard enough with Lindsay’s face that she tasted blood and instantly felt the warmth start to trickle from her nose. Pained by far more than the impact, she recaptured the loose arm and held it more securely, and Cindy’s cries amplified at the complete confinement.

“Cindy, Baby. It’s me. Baby, it’s me. Baby. Baby. Baby.”

Panic finally raised Lindsay’s voice to a volume that couldn’t be ignored, and the body ensnared in her embrace immediately stilled, before going disturbingly rigid.

“It’s me, Baby,” she spoke softly into Cindy’s ear. “It’s me. It’s Lindsay.”

At the mention of her name, Cindy’s rigidity faded into a forceful tremble.

Suddenly wearier than when she’d first woken, Lindsay let her head fall to rest against Cindy’s, trying to calm her own pounding heart.

The sound of Cindy’s sob filled the space between them and Lindsay pulled Cindy down against her chest, letting go with one hand just long enough to wipe at the blood running over her lips and down her chin, then locked both arms around Cindy, rocking the broken girl back and forth gently.

It was some time later when she realized that Cindy had fallen back asleep. With utmost care, Lindsay laid her back onto her pillow, examining the tear tracks running in all directions, splitting her face into sectors.

The serenity was shattered in as many pieces.

Making a determined effort not to wake her again, Lindsay scooted away and slid off the bed. She went into the bathroom, barely able to distinguish the blood amidst the haunting fear reflected back at her. Not sure where to look for a washcloth, she wet the hand towel, using it to wipe the blood from beneath her nose, from her chin, and from where it was smeared over her hand.

Specks dotted her t-shirt. There were likely more on the bed and on Cindy. It was fitting. She felt as if she’d just been through a battle. It would be completely inappropriate for it to leave no mark.

She walked back into the room where Cindy was asleep. The streetlamps and moonlight still shined in upon her stationary form. Lindsay looked down from the loft, out the windows, toward the water that the night had blended seamlessly into the earth and the sky. It felt like a tease now, the beauty, like the universe was toying with them.

She didn’t return to the bed. For the longest time she just stood over Cindy, watching her sleep, watching her breathe, watching her be alive. When she was too tired to stand, she sunk to the floor with her back against the bed, where she would be immediately alerted to any signs of distress from above her.

As much as she would have liked to believe it was still a question, Lindsay knew that this was the moment. The proverbial shoe had fallen.

Of course it had.

When you got pushed down on the playground, you might brush it off and charge your aggressor-

When you got knocked down by life, you might rebound with gusto-

But when Atlas shrugged, you didn’t just get back up.

Well that was unfortunate.

Countdown. 43 minutes. I am embarrassingly stoked.

So, knowing as I do what is supposed to happen, yet not wanting to give anything away to those people who don’t know, let me just say this…

I am hoping for hand-holding, a head rub, and a long, emotional gaze.

My girlfriend is hoping for mouth-to-mouth.

Listen up, one of the first supermodels to ever walk the earth…

…you owe my girlfriend a card, because without her you wouldn’t have made the list. You see, when I was still struggling to get to forty hot biotches, you were mentioned… not by me. I kind of railed against you, I’m not going to lie. It’s not that I don’t think you’re hot. You are, and you are the best kind of hot, because, while I never found you particularly attractive during your younger, more popular days, in the past couple of years, you have been a blip on the radar (a small blip, but a blip none-the-less). But I take issue with hot people whose main purpose on earth is being hot. That’s right, I’m prejudiced against models. It’s not one of my finer traits, but it’s the truth. Plus, you use Botox. I consider that cheating!

Anyway, if you are wondering why someone who didn’t even make the list without some prodding is coming in at #32, that’s just me. I promise this list will be enjoyable. I never said it would make sense.