| Title: Love�s Table Author: Cera Email: [email protected] Rating: PG Summary: Imagine all of the world's countries as players in a poker game. Archivist's Note: It's not fanfic, exactly, but this story struck me with its originality and portrayals of the various countries. ******************* Canada sighed, breathing in the sweet smell of jasmine. India had settled right next to him, her natural scent basking from her sari, and she was winking at him over her cards in hail to their newly found friendship. He had to smile back�she was just so sweet when she did that. In opposition to her scary, silent anger before the storm of rage broke when something was truly hurting her, she placed a hand of ever-growing bonding upon his own�her dark, smooth skin against his light tone. He was very handsome, indeed. Clothed in a red flannel shirt, baggy blue jeans and spiky brown hair (with fiery red tips), he looked like a cross between a Euro-style DJ and a poet. He had a serene sort of expression on his face constantly, almost like a permanent, small smile, and the joy in his eyes was irreversible. This was Canada: the pacifist boy of wonder, who could see the beauty of all things, all people, and live happily enough not to find conflict within himself or others. When he needed to vent, he wrote, and those scribbles bloomed into something so lovely, it added all the more to his ancient character. He had gone his whole life without the presence of true enemies, yet he surprisingly got flack for it. �How can a real person have no enemies?� they would say. �That�s an element of life, conflict.� And he would always reply, in that cool, calm manner, �It�s an element because you�re making it one.� America was the one to say these things, usually, in her completely self-righteous attitude. He often wrote things about her: small limericks and poems, one time a novel, all baffled by her sure nature. She would ask for them�he would refuse�and she would keep pressing until he let her read his stuff, and if she liked it she would kiss him, as a caprice or goddess that would only just recognize another�s capability for talents, or she would hate them, and cry and not talk to Canada for a week, even proceeding to make up rumors about him. �You rely on me!� She said to him, behind his ear while he tried to concentrate on the card game ahead of him. India and England both rolled their eyes at her�England being a handsome British officer of thirty or so in a strapping, expensive uniform�yet she would never relent. She was angry at him having wrote a poem about her mannerisms, one that she forced him to let her read, and now she was going off on a tangent that was only important in her own little world. It read: America, her eyes are stars of fire Fueled by one noble desire Love thyself to an extent But she herself is too hell-bent. �That is wrong!� she now said, raged beyond belief. Taking the paper in front of Canada�s avoiding eyes, she ripped it up into little pieces that resembled snowflakes upon his cards. Dusting it off, he coughed, whispered something to India (who laughed louder than usual to scorn her) and reached in the middle of the card stack. Russia stood up and pointed�a gentleman in his forties of professional appearance. He had on the elegant dress of a 1912 Czar and was now screaming something unarticulated. �Stupid woman!� he yelled in an interesting accent, unable to control his anger. He was red in the face. �You have the audacity to insult a person that does nothing but express his opinion to you, and then you embarrass yourself in front of all of us! You aren�t who you think you are; I could poke you, and you would bleed all the same. Stop acting like you�re some damn goddess!� America was flabbergasted, and took a step back out of shock. Canada smiled a little, but turned to her and immediately felt regret. She had tears in her eyes, but blinked to suppress them as she turned and to run. Indeed she was like a goddess; something resembling a phoenix or quite the anomaly. Her dress was a fluorescent mix of red, white, and, blue, ever changing as she resembled the fiery wind that ran up the steps. Her long hair: black yet streaked with every sort of color imaginable trailed that way too, and her face was made pretty by her small nose, large lips and passionate eyes. At the foot of the stairs, her hand on the knob of her room, she turned to yell, �Without me you all would be dead!� and slammed the door as loudly as she could. No one said a word for a long time. �Nice going, Russia,� Japan shuffled her cards angrily and slammed them on the table before picking them back up again. Her long, jet black hair was streaming in front of her face as she narrowed her eyes to look at him. �America�s been through a lot lately.� �That�s no excuse for her to treat us all like shit!� China defended, rolling his eyes at Russia and East Germany�an odd sort of human, unable to be deciphered as a man or a woman, rather, an Olympic Competitor�when he smiled at him. �Russia was just speaking out what was on the tip of everyone�s tongue. She�s too arrogant and I was personally going to take care of her if no one else said anything.� He looked down. �And then I can die with a smile�� �No, Japan�s right,� India spoke, quietly, from behind her cards. She was the human embodiment of a lotus flower. �Ever since Afghanistan hurt her she�s been really defensive lately. It�s only natural.� �Afghanistan hurt her ya?� Jamaica put down his cards, turned off his earphones, and tying his dreadlocks into a ponytail behind him. �She has a long scar down the side of her back. Very sad, very sad.� Australia smiled brightly out of consolation (for Australia was an odd, yet wonderful sort of man) before getting up to go the bathroom. �Big fucking deal!� Libya flipped his cards like a wallet and breezed through them before taking out the queen of hearts. �We�ve all had scars before, inner and outer. Why should she be all pampered just because she�s who she is?� �You�re right, but have a little consolation,� Ireland said. She was dressed in a long, flowing green dress and looked completely at peace, much like Canada was right now. �You don�t know the horror she went through.� �But now she wants to get back at Afghanistan, who can�t help his actions, or his split personalities! Who does she think she is?� Russia spouted out, and East Germany put a hand on his and smiled. �You shut up! No one said you could talk!� Japan kicked him from across the table and Russia stood up, ready to pounce. As they were struggling across the table to grab each other, Switzerland abruptly came and sat down in Australia�s chair, watched the scene for a moment, then quickly darted off. A tall, thin man in a green beret. Now everyone was in the argument, trying to hurt Russia or get Japan off of him or even pull East Germany away, who had taken out some sort of cane used for a weapon. Only some of the countries sat watching, the neutralists or pacifists, while the cards fell on the ground in a vertigo. �Stop!� Canada cried, standing up from his chair. He was breathing hard and angry, hands clenched on the table. Everyone turned to look at him: Japan with her hair being pulled by China, and her hands wrapped around Russia�s throat. Russia with his arm intertwined inside Britain and Somalia�s grasp. All were utterly shocked at his outburst and, unable to move, fixed in their position, listening to him. �This is why we get hurt! This is why some of us die!� He raged, his voice booming over the quiet rain outside. �Don�t you see? If we learn to get along with our differences, this can be a wonderful place! Who here is too good to overlook flaws, too petty to accept their own??� Russia raised a fist. �America!� �Even she can learn!� He cried. Obviously it was a rhetorical question, and Russia had blown the effect, causing China to punch him in the stomach, making himself release Japan�s hair. Everyone was slowly crawling down from the table now, looking sheepishly at each other, murmuring unwelcomed apologies under their breath. Canada slowly sat down, picking up the cards. �Now�who will apologize to America for us? She has feelings; she is human, just as you all are.� �I�ll do it!� Jamaica rushed up, grabbing his bag and CD player from the ground to start up the lush stairs. �I�ve got just the thing to cheer her up.� �No, no, I�ll do it!� Columbia called right after him, a sun-burnt beauty of a boy that was just behind him. Both ran into her room without warning, shutting the door while Canada looked down and slightly grinned. His words had finally reached them, after long, cold years. �What do you want?� America asked, looking up from the tear-stained pillow. Her face was stroked with water. Jamaica sat on the bed, putting headphones on her before she could say a word, turning up the track to Is This Love by Bob Marley. Columbia pulled out the old Shakira CDs to pop in afterwards. America slightly grinned�totally against her will�as she swayed to the pleasant song. �Music,� Jamaica said, snapping his fingers. �The universal language.� America looked at him curiously, and he immediately raised an eyebrow at Columbia. �What, you thought I was going to pull out something different ya?� Fifteen minutes later, music could be heard all throughout the house, the pleasant Caribbean vibe filling the air with joy. Jamaica and Columbia stepped out from the room side by side, their faces full of joy. Everyone from the first floor looked at them, curious, and as America peeked out from their folds, bright and booming with repentance, and acceptance of her flaws, the music: which was indeed universal, grew fierce and wonderful. Each person sat at his or her chair round the table, where the card game went on for what seemed like forever. America was always proud, Ireland free, Japan passionate. Yet they knew now to get along with each other, to just�see their flaws as a blessing, for individuality. Even Russia grinned at everyone once in a while, from beneath his cards, before going back to his haughty fa�ade. And Canada, sitting there, in eternal clairvoyance, was silent and serene, blissful in thoughts. |