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 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!


Dear Readers,

I had no idea what to write, and then suddenly, this came to me. I hope you like it! Please don't forget to review, of course :)

Best regards from a Bookworm (and almost legal adult SGA fan),

Miss Pookamonga ;-P


The Frequency of Memory

Part I

He was trying to avoid everyone as much as possible.

But did it really have to be that way? Especially for the second year in a row now?

Almost two years. He had never thought it would be that long.

But it had been since they'd first lost her, and then, as if Fate had thought it hadn't been cruel enough, they'd found her almost two years later, only to lose her yet again. It was as if she was cursed, as if they were all cursed. No one could quite explain it—and no one wanted to. All they wanted was to get her back.

But chances of that were slim to none. There was no possible way Woolsey would allow her and her companions to set foot on Atlantis again, at least not any time soon. The man was too cautious, too afraid of stepping over the line. It wasn't going to happen, not on his watch.

So John Sheppard resorted to do the only thing he could think to do on that damned day that had once been her birthday—that was, to sprawl out on his bed and stare at the ceiling until he fell asleep and woke up the next morning.

Everyone was particularly solemn on this day; even Rodney remained uncharacteristically less talkative while doing his lab work. Pretty much everyone had that sense of sacred respect one would normally give the dead, while at the same time each person strained to find some way to keep his or her mind off the dreaded subject.

Rodney drowned himself in his work. Numbers and figures were the easiest way for him to deal with grief, and they were his best outlet for venting frustration. Not to mention they purged his mind of any other possible thought process unrelated to them.

Ronon resorted to sparring against the empty air in the gym, or perhaps doing some lengthy rounds of target practice. It made it easier for him to forget if he was too preoccupied with appearing aggressive.

Teyla meditated. She, more so the rest of them, found it somewhat simpler to accept present situations and move beyond them. That wasn't to say that she wasn't affected—she most certainly was—but she was wiser in the fact that she knew that being at peace with whatever crap life threw at you was the better option than brooding.

And then there was John.

He could've been distracting himself playing golf, he told himself like he'd spent this day telling himself the same thing last year. But something clicked whenever he woke up on her birthday—some innate sense that let him know exactly what day it was—and he instantly slipped into a depressed lethargic state. He felt no motivation to do anything; he had no desire to eat, sleep, drink beer, play golf, watch television—he just lay there nearly motionless, almost dead. He felt dead to the world, in fact. As if by stealing her, Fate had taken his own life too.

He sighed dejectedly and squeezed his eyes shut. If only this day could pass more quickly than it was passing at the present moment. If only her face wouldn't keep showing up in his head every time he closed his eyes.

He was so immersed in his state of indifferent stupor that he didn't hear the little voice on the computer declaring, "You've got mail!" in that annoyingly over-excited tone. It was only after a few seconds that he realized that he had indeed received a message, and he reluctantly rolled over on his bed and sat up to look at the screen of his laptop sitting atop the nightstand.

The message had no title, and oddly, there didn't seem to be an address from the sender. It was probably junk mail, he figured, so he decided to lie back down.

For some unknown reason, however, he felt an odd twinge of curiosity tugging at him.

So, dismissing the sudden urge as just another "adventurous" tendency, he sat back up and clicked on the message.

But the moment he did, he heard a thunderous crack, and everything instantly went dark.