define spelunking

"Let me know youapos;re up there.� Come on.� Love me, hate me, kill me, anything.� Just let me know it."�--Cool Hand Luke

Brooke gazed out into the bright light of the city, each light shielding a star and competing with one another for some unknown attention.� Her work lay scattered, barely touched, on the floor under the table.� She felt as restless as the city, unable to focus and yet pulsating with energy.� Every few minutes she would sit on the patented leather armchair, take a sip of wine and stare resentfully at the designs at her feet.� Every time she looked, the unfinished gowns would stare at her, each scribbled mark taunting her.

It had been weeks since sheapos;d been able to produce decent designs for the new line of formal dressware.� Anything she�completed did not need to be tossed aside by Victoria, for Brooke herself saw the attempts at lackluster.� She was climbing the ladder of high fashion designing, and yet her heel was caught on that one rung.

Her inspiration had taken a vacation--crawled out of bed while she was still dreaming, and tip-toed out the door without a sound to meet some other mistress.�

Her head was pounding.� She had taken a break from work, given the reigns to an ungrateful Victoria for a few weeks, and taken some time to get her head and heart together with the solemn promise of designing a new high-fashion couture line to be released some time before spring.� She had gone back to Tree Hill, hoping for some small-town inspiration only to encounter the grim, lonely sensation of detachment.� It hadnapos;t helped, and when she returned to New York last night, she felt even more lost.

She stared pleadingly at the city below her, yearning to pick out some singular voice or movement.� She just wanted some sign.� She needed something.� She never got the anvils.� Peyton (or Lucas) always had to explain them to her.� Should she have just stayed in Tree Hill?� Did she come back just to get swallowed up, caught in the crossfire of the deadly battle of lights?

Her phone rang, momentarily snapping her out of her reverie. �Instead of glancing at the caller, she silently picked up the black device and tossed it across the room, forgetting its existence within moments.

She never did get the anvils.

Muse:�Brooke Davis
Fandom:�OTH
Word Count: 410
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