Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
From: Bryherl@aol.com (Dan Mcafee)
Subject: SEQUEL: Poems from Mulder
Date: Mon, 10 Jul 1995 14:16:16 GMT



	Sometimes, Dana Scully liked nothing better on a cold evening
than to kick back with a book, old jeans and a baggy sweater.  She
was in Denver tonight, and even though the bureau had set her up in a
room with a fireplace and a great view, she couldn't chase away the 
shivers that had started at the autopsy... and unfortunately, she hadn't
remembered to pack a book.  When Dana had discovered similarities in
the autopsy reports of two U.S. Marshals killed months apart in
Louisiana and Nevada, she knew she was on to something.  When a third
dead marshal surfaced in Colorado, she had immediately flown out to
consult.  The body, like the others, was in bad shape when it was
finally found.  Like the others, though, she found the telltail signs
of the serial killer at work.

	This was not an X-file, and Mulder was not involved.  Scully
was only consulting on the case as pathologist... but she wished he
were here.  Talking with Mulder would at least take her mind off the
case... and sharing a nightcap with him would chase away the shivers.

	Unable to sleep, Scully fired up her laptop and connected to
work to type the day's notes.  She checked her mail and found only
technical reports she'd been copied on.  Near the end of her work,
Scully heard a beep that signaled someone wanted to chat with her 
though the FBI computer.  She opened a window to start the dialog.
The words on her computer were black in a grey background.

	"Working late, eh, Scully?"

	"Mulder.  I should have known.  It's after midnight here...
which means you're still awake at three in the morning."

	"Can't sleep."

	"I know.  Me, too."

	"Was it a match?"

	"Yeah, number 3."

	"Wanna talk about it?"

	"I'd rather forget about it... "

	"So are you going to ski tomorrow?"

	"Nope, early flight.  I've got a nice fire going here, though."

	"... "

	"Mulder?"

	"I'm here.  Just thinking."

	"Tell."

	"Oh, just something I was writing the other day."

	"Give."

	"You could bring me up on charges for this one, Scully."

	"Plan on it.  Now gimme."

	"OK, here goes..."

		Red petals rise on flames off burning pine
		and float on currents of the heated air.
		We drink.  We talk.  My fingers in your hair
		pull softly down, and down around, and twine
		your hair across pale skin in fireshine.
		Your mouth is open, pressed to mine, and there...
		red petals rise on flames.

		Reclining next to you, I'm warm from wine
		and from your lips.  I'm suddenly aware
		your flesh has opened up to mine and there,
		inside, like embers lifting off the pine...
		red petals rise on flames.

	"..."
	
	Later, her room lit only by the firelight, Scully sat dozing in
the overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace.  Her jeans lay beside
the chair, her knees were pulled up inside her extra large sweater. 
She watched the flames push embers off the burning wood and drifted
toward a sleep of dreams.

		 - dan