Analyze this.
Pre-class: Confident as all hell. I's armed with Firefly, youtube, and Monty Python stills.
Beginning of class: Yeah, but what do I actually say? Knew I should've printed my notes...
3rd Presentation in: OMGFREAKINGMUSTPEE. *dash*
End of 3rd presentation: *Stands up*
Prof: Er, there's one other person left... but if you want to...
Warg: Nah, it's cool. I'll go. *fumbles with disk* Er... um... ramble, babble, mutter? *fumbles with other disk*
Prof: Was there a powerpoint on that second disk? Or at least a point?
Warg: Er, yesh, of course.
Computer: What disk?
Prof: *fumbles with disk as well*
Computer: There is no disk. There is no powerpoint. I'm telling you, this idjit's pointless, Prof!
Prof: *wastes 10 more minutes* But... she's acing the course! Eh, fine. I'll grade on the writing and call her presentation off due to "technical difficulties."
Warg: I <3 technology!
Last Presenter: Well, at least I can't go over the time limit...
In other news, I think I've seen a major benefit to TV/movie fandoms: Firefly's really made me rethink third-person POV, since there's no opportunity for an omnicient narrator on the program. I'm not quite as tempted to throw in anyone and everyone's thoughts at once there. (River fics excepted.)
Also, I'm getting a teeny little PotC bunny, but it's twisted and fluffy enough that I want to see what else is out there before I try for any 1.5th-generation fics...
ETA: Meh; half of the archive's Suefic anyway...
The first time I met Anamaria, her hair was loose and waterlogged. Her hat floated a hand’s breadth out of her reach. She was, as my father had once told me, a handsome woman, despite the wear and tear her profession put upon her body. She looked peaceful in the water, her dark eyes closed against the unforgiving Carribean sun. As wet as her clothes were, one could hardly see the dark stain centered in her abdomen.
My father reached out a gentle hand for hers. As soon as his fingers brushed against her, she gasped and jumped, reaching for the pistol on her hip and floundering into an upright position in the water. “You ain’t layin’ a hand on my ship, ye half-cooked lobster!” Anamaria put on her most threatening expression, examining the three of us with a cold stare.
“We’re not with Port Royal,” my father said, offering her a hand into the boat.
Anamaria did not accept it. “You! You’re with that good for nothin’ Jack. He ain’t tryin’ to renegotiate our deal, is he? I ain’t givin’ up the second-fastest ship in the Carribean for anythin’ he be offerin’. He be lucky I’m not comin’ after him for more, after what he done.”
My grandfather gave her a sympathetic look. All of us had ample reason to appreciate her views on Captain Jack Sparrow. “Actually, the Interceptor is the third fastest ship in the Carribean,” Grandfather corrected her.
“What ship be faster than the Interceptor or the Pearl?” Anamaria asked unbelievingly.
“The one you’ll be boarding here shortly,” my father told her.
The dark-skinned woman turned her pistol upon him. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere with the likes o’ Sparrow again. He’s likely to get me killed.”
“Trust me, Anamaria, he won’t.” I don’t know how my father and grandfather manage to remain so relaxed under these circumstances. I suppose it comes from shared experience. “Jack won’t sail with us these days.”
“What’d you do to scare him off?” Anamaria asked in wonderment.
“Got my own ship,” my father said.
Anamaria slipped the pistol up her loose sleeve, but was still reluctant to enter the dinghy. “And why would I want to sail with you?”
My father motioned to the open water surrounding us, the horizons interrupted only by the proud old lines of his ship. “I sail only to one destination, but I offer a working passage to those that want it.”
“Where’re you goin’, Will Turner?” the woman asked, raising an eyebrow.
My father pushed his shirt open, showing her the large round scar above his breast. “Where we shall never die.”