We, the Sparky Army, decree 2008 to be the Year of the Spark. We pledge to post a new sparky story or chapter of a sparky story every day from January 1, 2008 to December 31, 2008. Though the Powers that Be have removed Elizabeth Weir from the regular cast of Stargate Atlantis, we feel that she remains an integral part of the show, and that the relationship between her and John Sheppard is too obvious to be ignored. We hope that you, and anyone who might happen to read these works, agree.

And if that isn't official enough for you, we don't know what is. Seriously, guys, we're just trying to have some fun--and show TPTB that Sparky is the way to go. So sit back and enjoy the 366 stories coming your way!

Note from the Author (Miss Pookamonga): Dear Readers, may I mention that this was completely random. I almost forgot it was my day to post until sparklyshimmer2010 reminded me (thanks!!). So, I had to come up with something off the top of my head, quickly, so I could get back to studying for my Calculus exam. So here it is--a very strange, but hopefully inspirational fic that was somehow born because I was listening the the soundtrack from The Island. I hope you all like :-)


She stands at the edge of the Wall. Waiting.

Waiting for him to come.

The Wall stretches out for what seems like miles, each end rolling triumphantly into the vast expanse of a blue sky. The Wall, made of clear, crystal stone, sparkles and shimmers in the eternal sunlight that dances upon its immaculate surface. She can see through it to the Other Side, the images there as lucid as the world viewed through a glass windowpane.

The Other Side is dark, foggy, ominous. Its atmosphere hangs thick with doom and despair, wailing and weeping, secrets and broken promises, shadows lurking in the daily struggles of the galaxies thrashing about in the chaotic web of life, desperate to cling to dignity. Here, nothing is hidden. The light illuminates places that would invite darkness, it flits across waves of silver waters, it dances and threads its way through every particle of being.

Yet, she is not happy.

She yearns for the Other Side.

"Why can't I leave it?" she whispers suddenly to the Presence by her side.

The figure, small, dressed in a white gown, wings twitching in the soft breeze, turns to her counterpart and gazes up at the woman's soft grey eyes with blue ones that could either melt a glacier or freeze an entire ocean. "Those who are not ready never venture further than the Wall," the figure answers in a wispy voice almost identical to the sound of the wind whistling past the two of them. "You know that."

"But I've been here for so long. I should be ready by now." The woman stares wistfully out through the crystal stones, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

"You know you are not the judge of that," the figure replies firmly, taking her charge's hand.

The woman sighs. "I know...but...it seems like I should be able to let go now. To move on. To break free of all...that." She waves her hand listlessly at the Wall.

"All that pain? All that suffering? All those countless nights worrying you would never make it here?"

"Yes." The sigh this time is even deeper.

"But you cannot." The figure turns her head and peers out through the glassy surface of the Wall, seeing what her charge wants to see but has not yet caught her eye.

The woman squeezes the figure's hand instinctively, and, biting back tears, answers, "No. I can't. And I don't know why."

The figure suddenly tenses and turns sharply to look back up at her companion. The woman looks down at the intense stare, startled by its acuteness, and feels a shiver run down her spine. "What?" she asks, meaning for her voice to be louder than a raspy whisper, but it doesn't come out that way.

"You know why."

The three words hit her harder than a tidal wave crashing down on a beach's rocky shores. It is as if something jagged has slammed into her heart, tearing a hole right through the middle of it, mocking the outpour of emotion flowing from inside it. That same spot has been ripped open so many times, she no longer feels the excruciating pain she once felt, when she first crossed the Wall. Just numbness now. Cold, unforgiving numbness. And somehow, that lack of feeling is even worse than the pain.

She can sense the tear slowly growing larger as her eye finally catches whom she has been vigilantly watching day after day—if there even were days on this side of the Wall. He walks briskly, hands in pockets, hair spiked and unruly, mouth crooked in a lopsided position of amusement. He greets her friends—one muscular one, twirling a gun in his hand; another, scruffy-haired one scooping blue jello into his mouth with one hand and tapping restlessly on his laptop with the other; and yet another, holding her hand gently to her swollen belly, smiling up at the others as she regards them with care. A few more join them: a man wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt, a woman whose blond ponytail is swinging from side to side with every movement she makes, another woman smiling fondly at the man twirling the gun. He sits down at their table and steals some of the scruffy-haired man's jello, while the man begins yelling unceasingly at him until the blond woman warns him threateningly to stop. The rest of the table's occupants chuckle at the spectacle, and someone jabs the now very cranky man in the elbow, to which he supposedly spits out another nasty comment, earning yet another glare from the blond woman. It all looks so natural, so peaceful—so much like a family gathering contentedly together, enjoying the everyday little pleasures of an otherwise not-so-pleasant life.

She smiles in spite of herself, watching as he smiles and laughs along with the others, occasionally snitching a cube of jello from his friend's bowl. Emptiness and joy surge together within her at the sight, creating a dangerous cyclone of confusion. She cannot help but feel happy for him—for all of them—for being there, for being able to relax, for being with the ones they've called family for what seems so long now. But, at the same time, the hole in her heart grows only bigger as she tries to place herself in the Rockwell-esque scene, only to realize in despair that she can't break through the glass barrier separating her from them—from him. Oh, how she wants to step through that invisible portal, back into the picture before her. How she wants to be that rosy-cheeked figure in the painted swirls of life, beaming at the other figures around her. Beaming, because she is sitting next to him, brushing against his arm, feeling every movement he makes even though she might not even be touching him. Because she can watch his mouth form around every word he speaks, every grin he makes, every pout, every frown. Because she can imagine, with a least some sliver of hope, that one day, she could touch those lips again of her own accord, touch them and be held in his arms, never to be let go.

"That future is not yet past, you know," the figure suddenly says softly, pulling the woman out of her dreamlike trance.

The woman abruptly turns her head toward her comrade, hope gleaming in her watery eyes for the first time in what seems like eternity. "Are you sure of that?" she whispers, an eager lilt lighting up her voice.

The figure's mouth finally curls into a smile. "You are not ready to leave, yet, Elizabeth," the figure says gently, a maturity and wisdom that far surpass her appearance seeping through her voice. "If there is one thing I am sure of, it is this: one who is so eager to cross back over cannot hover between Sides for long."

It is the first sign of anything hopeful she has had in a long time. And for the first time, she begins to feel the hole in her heart filling up with something—something she never thought she would ever again regain.

"Thank you," she whispers to the figure at her side, squeezing the tiny hand.

The figure shakes her head, curls bouncing in the wind. "Do not thank me, Elizabeth. I did not do any of it."

She stands at the edge of the Wall. Waiting.

Waiting for him to come.

But this time, she is not alone.