first lines, part two
Hard drive treasures of Computer 2:
Fanfic
When it had all gone to hell -- and Mulder, at least, had known it was going for years, it seemed -- it happened quickly.
--A Silent Extinction. What came of making it a third of the way through Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow when I was in high school. Likely to never get much further than the thousand-odd words it is now (plus assorted notes), but I may salvage some of it for later use. Did have a really good time finding random (really random) song lyrics to intersperse between sections.
It hurt.
It wasn't ever supposed to hurt again.
--Cold Blood for the Blacksmith. Buffyfic, maybe? Spike-centric? Who knows. There's only three sentences, and the one I didn't quote here is actually incomplete. There was a related file somewhere that had a bunch of prophecies I'd made up, and I remember the premise was pretty cool -- but on the other hand, from this beginning I think it fairly clear that I didn't have a good handle on what I wanted this story to do. Particularly since at one point I mistook it for the beginning line of a Harry Potter fic. So there you go.
I won't. They can't make me.
Of all the pain, all the heartbreak, all the indignities I've had to suffer for Mulder's damn cause, this is the worst.
And he's gotten everyone else in on it too.
--Bones, for reasons I never questioned. X-Files fic, comedy, silly beginning. I sound alarmingly young. (Note to self: Never use that many italics ever again.)
On the afternoon of the previous Monday, Harry Potter had an unparalleled opportunity to practice Cartesian philosophy.
It was now Thursday, and the situation had gone pear-shaped.
--Cartesian Philosophy, working title. Odd Harry/Draco story that never went anywhere, largely due to my lack of knowledge regarding, um, Cartesian philosophy. An appalling reason to have dropped the story, but there you are. Also, my premise was silly, and I didn't like any of my characterizations anyway. So... maybe more than just the philosophy bit.
from Casefile X-98265, investigator Dana Scully, dated August 14th, 2000:
". . . In 1894, a Mr Jacob Goddard wrote Sarah of the Labyrinth, or The Journey Below, a 20,000 word novella sold, serial fashion, to a short-run magazine specializing in fantasy subjects. No specific commentary can be found, although the reviews of it currently in existence are largely negative.
--Casefile X-98265: Sarah of the Labyrinth. An X-Files/Labyrinth crossover. Suffered from wanting to be a serious original story rather than a dramedy fic. The serious bits can be salvaged -- the dramedy bits... not so much. It's weird looking at this, since there are so many random pieces belonging to the same story floating around, and they read really, really differently.
"You goddamn blacklunged bastard."
--Ahahahaha. The first line to the first couplet poem I tried after reading Pale Fire. (Note to self: Stealing from the best clearly an early plan of mine.) X-Files, Scully getting kidnapped by CSM. Man. The levels of suck in this surpass even my poetry now, which, you know, ASTONISHING.
That's the thing about holograms. Close your eyes and they disappear.
And what you feel... it's yourself.
--Empty Hands, ST:Voyager, an AU vignette for the episode when everybody except Seven of Nine gets put into deep sleep to pass through a massive radiation field, and Seven starts to go a bit crazy. In my version, full on crazyiness! Exciting. Was too much like an X-Files story of mine, though (that would be Burning Bright, which I'm not sure I've put up here yet), for my comfort. So it's complete, and even ready to post, but I never did. Que sera.
Deck Four, Corridor 4c
U.S.S. Starship Voyager, docked at DS9
"You'll never believe who you've got to orientate." Michael Tolsen handed Jen Guillis a datapadd; the entire crew manifest in a bite-sized chunk.
"What, like a Cardassian?" Guillis asked, tapping a key. Tolsen shook his head. "Something worse?" Tolsen nodded. Guillis kept tapping, scanning the list, until she noticed one name. Her eyes widened. "No. Please tell me no."
Tolsen patted Guillis on the back. "I didn't have the heart to let you find out when she beamed on."
Guillis squeezed her eyes shut. "She promised she'd never come back. I heard her. I taped her. I have documented proof that she'd never come back to Starfleet."
"Maybe we can beam you back onto the station before--"
"Rossotti to Guillis," a cheerful voice called from Guillis's communicator. "How's it going, toots? Screwed Mike yet?"
"Oh god, we're too late," Guillis moaned. "The whole damn mission is doomed."
--Heave Ho, and Aboard My Loves! I'm pretty sure a working title. ST:Voyager, very "lower decks" style. Comedy retelling of Voyager's adventures with the addition of a plucky malcontent inventor, meant to skew off from canon more thoroughly after reaching the Delta Quadrant. Six thousand words, but absolutely no notes -- I was totally making this up as I went. (Note: The incorrect use of the word "orientate.") Also, I was enamored of the character type after reading Mindy Glazier's Tales of Feldman, a TOS-era fanzine with much the same setup (take regular show. add hijincks and weirdo. dramedy ensues!). I like a lot of what I did in this, but I realized (shortly after reaching the Delta Quadrant) that (1) following an episode scene for scene was immensely boring, and likely to get more boring as I went, and (2) not having notes about anything? PROBLEMATIC.
Ron was in trouble.
"No, really, I think you should." Mary Sue Cutebottom's beseeching eyes bore across the dining table, limpid blue pools just on the verge of tears or mirth.
--Harry Potter and His Very Small Role in the Plot, what became the working title after I realized that, actually, Harry would have to have an enormous role in this sequel to Harry Potter and Horrid Pain of the Artiste (another story I'm not sure I've put here). Three thousand words in this file, but there are piles elsewhere, and a bundle of notes. Largely cast aside because I found myself having to correct a lot of the issues that popped up in the first story by dealing with them in this one, and that was getting tiresome. But on the other hand, there's a lot to like in this -- maybe I'll pick it up again, since I am in love with several bits of it. (Case in point: "Good God, you're annoying!" Ron said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "What, did the film make you remember the good old days of vinegar and bile, or did you decide the retro 'bossy prude' look was back in style?" || "Neither," she countered, "but I can see your petulant prat personality was merely on holiday. Was it nice? Did you get Polish television?")
In the days when there was no peace and there was no sadness, there was a god-fathered warrior named SaSo'. (In these days there were also gods, for Kahless had not come and killed them yet.)
SaSo' was the son of veS, also named vavma', the chief god and father to all that was to be the tlhIngan wo'. SaSo' knew his father veS, and was a dutiful son, and he did not fear battle. There was no army that did not drench the field in blood when he was fighting--there were no ships that did not drown when he was sailing.
--Kronos, working title. A Klingon folktale I was cooking up to intersperse between some never-written story. I like it a lot, but it got bogged down when I tried to add to much. Folklore is ragged messes of memorable bits -- what I was writing had too many boring things.
The Social Services rep didn't look happy when they sat down. It wasn't hard to tell why -- even shutting out most of his power couldn't stop Matt from hearing a very loud, very cranky I don't believe this for an INSTANT crash into his mind.
--No title. A pargraph and a half of a Heroes, Matt/Mohinder story. I am lemming, hear me roar.
"Scully, I know what I saw. Why can't you see that this is something that I need? That I need to believe in?"
--Oh my God, why was there no one to stop me from attempting romantic Mulder/Scully fic? PAINFUL.
"Scully, you've got to get down here."
--Night, Death, Sleep, and Stars, clearly every pushbutton word there has ever been in the history of ever. Me attempting femmeslash. A little under three thousand words of dubious quality with no notes. I can see that I lost patience at the very end -- clearly I knew it wasn't going well.
It wasn't a minute after Ginny slammed her door that Ron, standing at the base of the stairs, turned grimly toward Harry.
"Right," he said. "Outside. Now."
--The file's labeled "shubbery", so I suppose I might have decided to call it that if I changed my mind. Ron/Harry slash, sort of -- I never did decide how I wanted it to end, so the boys are still stuck having just kissed and being ragingly awkward. Perhaps the thing where Ron/Harry does nothing for me got in the way...
It starts like this. They argue. It's usually about something stupid. Sometimes it's not. The fight gets louder. Ron yells at him. He yells back. Fists clench. The air feels hot. They step closer.
--Woods, Dark. Harry/Ron -- I think this might have been another attempt at the same challenge that prompted the one above. Marginally better, and I like the mood, but, again, didn't know where it was going. Also, the voice stymied me a bit. Might still go back to it, though.
After All of It:
It was, Severus reflected, exactly what he'd been promised.
And so he knelt before his cauldron, and wept.
--Sixteen Marrowbones. It looks like it might be another attempt of mine to write the "Voldemort = babelicious" story, with marginally more success. I like a lot of it, actually, but I'm wondering if it belongs somewhere else now.
The reason the Slytherin common room was underground was not, as was popularly supposed, because the Slytherin's head of house could not stand the touch of sunlight. As Hogwarts: A History made very clear over several chapters regarding the 17th century's very active inter-House warfare, it was because stone walls, several feet thick, surrounded by lake on one side and Scottish mountainside on the other, made for a pretty damn inpenetrable fortress. The wisdom of this move, in 1668, was demonstrated when the abandoned Slytherin tower had a particularly vicious hex levitated through a broken window. It took four days for the tower to melt from the inside out.
--I don't even know. This is all there is of this, and I have no idea what story it could go to. Man, though -- wherever it ends up, it will be filled with awesome.
There was something white, floating up in the corner of her eye. She turned, and saw the evening breeze catch her lace curtains.
She hadn't left her window open.
--No title. Some Spike/Buffy thing from season five. Decent writing, no real drive. Blah.
Blood. It was red, warm, running down her arm. Summers' blood. Her fingers were tingling -- if she tipped her arm to the side, would all the blood in it pour out, like a full cup falling off a table? If she leaned over the edge of the couch, would all the blood in her body come running out, stain the carpet, leave her empty and flat and draped like a human throwrug--
No. She wasn't human. So this wasn't blood.
--No title. Spike/Dawn fic, when Dawn went all crazypants. Decent, but a bit too post-eppy for finishing at this point.
Orig. fic
Dios mio. The stars shiver above me. They feel a cold that I do not.
--Cancion del Jinete. Short story. Based on an article I read about the houses of dead Colombian drug lords. I like this (and I like that it's finished), but I think the language might be too damn twee.
Horatio:
I realized only afterwards the folly of my leaving in such a hasty fashion -- it was not until after I had made my request that you came to me with news of my father, and I could not in all justice repeal my case for returning to Wittenberg. So here, by the hands of my servants, I give my instructions: Stay awhile in Denmark, and be my eyes and ears. I'll see to it that your studies do not suffer -- a student who is yet a prince has some weight to his words. Discover, if you will, the true nature of this ghost. See if it has words, commandments, or is indeed a demon. Beg it reveal its secrets, by my name. I am already a'sea as you read this; send word as soon as can be done. I will spend as brief a time in Wittenberg as can be managed; I would not leave you in that den of vipers for the world.
Hamlet
--The Hamlet Letters. AU epistolary fic! Someday, my pretty, I will write you. And drive Horatio mad in the process.
A week ago Bill woke up and realized he had no insides.
--He Killed Six Before They Stopped Him, because I read a Theodore Sturgeon story and liked the ending enough to make it a title. The story itself is garbage. But completed garbage, so I suppose that's something.
I tell this story wherever I go. This happened a hundred miles back, and I know because I was there.
--Mouths Like Doors. Southern Gothic horror story, what came of me revising a Lone Gunmen story I wrote and hadn't liked much. I like this one a great deal, but it needs a lot more revising to make it sit well in the brain.
a complete lack of linear time. that's what this was. not even the concept of "now"; there was nothing, a continuous world of nothing, no air for breath, no future, no past, just this, always this, lasting forever ever ever ever fucking ever--
There wasn’t enough air for this nightmare. Christ.
--Night Gone Long. Novel I started for my thesis, based on a screenplay I'd started in sophomore year, based on an article I read in high school. The first paragraph, though, is snagged from a Harry/Snape fic comedy short I wrote for pornish_pixies. So there you go. I'd continue this, but my brain was unfortunately infected with John M. Ford's style from The Last Hot Time, and I couldn't keep it up. I did make an amazing mix CD to write to, but it is so very much in keeping with the story that I can't listen to it without getting horribly depressed. YAY CREATIVITY.
There had been flowers everywhere.
Sir Benjamin Wood, just forty and too young to be a widower, sat behind his desk and thought about the flower arrangements at the funeral, and the church, and within the house itself. He couldn't remember if he'd had a hand in the patterned arrangements, or if they'd been his wife's design, written down before her confinement, or if the florists were connected with the government, and the number and position of each branch of cypress was the key to a message he needed to decipher within the next hour in the name of God and country.
A hell of a thing to think of one's government. Or florists.
And damn himself to hell as well -- he was thinking about ciphers, and Frances was dead.
--My foray into historical romance. Research included reading a very large anecdotal history of codebreaking and pamphlets on how to knife fight. Started with a line in a discarded Mulder/Scully fic, morphed into a Mulder/Scully AU, was completely ditched to become the fine prologue you see quoted here today. Now the whole thing is being ditched again in favor of being set on an alien planet with the possible human colonizers taking the place of the French. (Note to self: This may be why it takes me decades to write things.)
When the heart beats faster, the sunlight becomes unbearable, and the skin twitches as if old Earth's fire ants are crawling, biting along it -- that is the first moment of realization.
--Was called Site 645, then (stupidly) The Requirements of Necessity, and now Trickle Down. This whole line (and the section is belongs to) is going out the airlock, though -- this fic is in happy revision-land. I'm trying to solidfy the central theme. And then, I suppose, I should actually make the science work. (Note to self: Wife would say that perhaps that should come first. She is usually right about this sort of thing.)
When Jenny was four, her parents bought her a robot. It was as big as she was, moved on hidden rollers, and had a large plastic dome on top, dark like sunglasses so she couldn't see its brain.
--It is a Weird Kind; or, Beauty and the Turing Test. Three hundred-odd words of setup with no outline or notes to help me fill in the rest. Still like the title, though.
Welcome to Ceremony of Innocence, sir, the only full-interaction hololife pavilion of its kind, a guaranteed once in a lifetime experience.
--The Ceremony's Dancers. Hello, high school. I r emo. With the ethics of holography!
You're going on a trip.
--No title. Was written to make clear my point for some paper. Had a really, really cool idea in it, but now I'm still figuring out what story the really, really cool idea should be in.
Anderson thinks she remembers what alarm clocks sound like, though her memory of it has been slowly changing. Trying to go to sleep on a pallet that never dries out, under the hazy fog of mosquito nets, she wonders if her alarm really had sounded so much like the buzz in the ear that came of insects waking up in the sun.
--Study, winner of world's most boring title. I played with time in this one, and with the classic emic/etic problem, but it didn't have much oomph, and the time thing fell flat. Maybe I'll come back to this? What the heck, I've only had it written for a few years -- maybe it needs five more...
The sun came through the window sideways. The girl beside him spoke. "I hate taking this bus." She smiled shyly. "Have to, though. Only one that comes close to getting me home in time."
--The End of the Day in Innovative Studies. Sadly, tragically, XKCD beat me to it. Which is good, actually, because he did it much better. The alternate title for this was The Theft-Makers, though, and I might keep that for something else.
Arrived on-scene at 4:06 PM. Pedi. approx. four years old, female, missing for over 1hr when patient's mother called 911. First on scene were police, followed by search team composed of firemen and EMTs.
--This, the Body. Completed. Now, have to see if there's actually an audience for it, since it's, um, kind of weird. Also, have to see whether I actually want to just rewrite the entire thing and retitle it Automaticity. OPTIONS.
Hurrah for files. Let's see what gets sloshed into the brain after all this.
Fanfic
When it had all gone to hell -- and Mulder, at least, had known it was going for years, it seemed -- it happened quickly.
--A Silent Extinction. What came of making it a third of the way through Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow when I was in high school. Likely to never get much further than the thousand-odd words it is now (plus assorted notes), but I may salvage some of it for later use. Did have a really good time finding random (really random) song lyrics to intersperse between sections.
It hurt.
It wasn't ever supposed to hurt again.
--Cold Blood for the Blacksmith. Buffyfic, maybe? Spike-centric? Who knows. There's only three sentences, and the one I didn't quote here is actually incomplete. There was a related file somewhere that had a bunch of prophecies I'd made up, and I remember the premise was pretty cool -- but on the other hand, from this beginning I think it fairly clear that I didn't have a good handle on what I wanted this story to do. Particularly since at one point I mistook it for the beginning line of a Harry Potter fic. So there you go.
I won't. They can't make me.
Of all the pain, all the heartbreak, all the indignities I've had to suffer for Mulder's damn cause, this is the worst.
And he's gotten everyone else in on it too.
--Bones, for reasons I never questioned. X-Files fic, comedy, silly beginning. I sound alarmingly young. (Note to self: Never use that many italics ever again.)
On the afternoon of the previous Monday, Harry Potter had an unparalleled opportunity to practice Cartesian philosophy.
It was now Thursday, and the situation had gone pear-shaped.
--Cartesian Philosophy, working title. Odd Harry/Draco story that never went anywhere, largely due to my lack of knowledge regarding, um, Cartesian philosophy. An appalling reason to have dropped the story, but there you are. Also, my premise was silly, and I didn't like any of my characterizations anyway. So... maybe more than just the philosophy bit.
from Casefile X-98265, investigator Dana Scully, dated August 14th, 2000:
". . . In 1894, a Mr Jacob Goddard wrote Sarah of the Labyrinth, or The Journey Below, a 20,000 word novella sold, serial fashion, to a short-run magazine specializing in fantasy subjects. No specific commentary can be found, although the reviews of it currently in existence are largely negative.
--Casefile X-98265: Sarah of the Labyrinth. An X-Files/Labyrinth crossover. Suffered from wanting to be a serious original story rather than a dramedy fic. The serious bits can be salvaged -- the dramedy bits... not so much. It's weird looking at this, since there are so many random pieces belonging to the same story floating around, and they read really, really differently.
"You goddamn blacklunged bastard."
--Ahahahaha. The first line to the first couplet poem I tried after reading Pale Fire. (Note to self: Stealing from the best clearly an early plan of mine.) X-Files, Scully getting kidnapped by CSM. Man. The levels of suck in this surpass even my poetry now, which, you know, ASTONISHING.
That's the thing about holograms. Close your eyes and they disappear.
And what you feel... it's yourself.
--Empty Hands, ST:Voyager, an AU vignette for the episode when everybody except Seven of Nine gets put into deep sleep to pass through a massive radiation field, and Seven starts to go a bit crazy. In my version, full on crazyiness! Exciting. Was too much like an X-Files story of mine, though (that would be Burning Bright, which I'm not sure I've put up here yet), for my comfort. So it's complete, and even ready to post, but I never did. Que sera.
Deck Four, Corridor 4c
U.S.S. Starship Voyager, docked at DS9
"You'll never believe who you've got to orientate." Michael Tolsen handed Jen Guillis a datapadd; the entire crew manifest in a bite-sized chunk.
"What, like a Cardassian?" Guillis asked, tapping a key. Tolsen shook his head. "Something worse?" Tolsen nodded. Guillis kept tapping, scanning the list, until she noticed one name. Her eyes widened. "No. Please tell me no."
Tolsen patted Guillis on the back. "I didn't have the heart to let you find out when she beamed on."
Guillis squeezed her eyes shut. "She promised she'd never come back. I heard her. I taped her. I have documented proof that she'd never come back to Starfleet."
"Maybe we can beam you back onto the station before--"
"Rossotti to Guillis," a cheerful voice called from Guillis's communicator. "How's it going, toots? Screwed Mike yet?"
"Oh god, we're too late," Guillis moaned. "The whole damn mission is doomed."
--Heave Ho, and Aboard My Loves! I'm pretty sure a working title. ST:Voyager, very "lower decks" style. Comedy retelling of Voyager's adventures with the addition of a plucky malcontent inventor, meant to skew off from canon more thoroughly after reaching the Delta Quadrant. Six thousand words, but absolutely no notes -- I was totally making this up as I went. (Note: The incorrect use of the word "orientate.") Also, I was enamored of the character type after reading Mindy Glazier's Tales of Feldman, a TOS-era fanzine with much the same setup (take regular show. add hijincks and weirdo. dramedy ensues!). I like a lot of what I did in this, but I realized (shortly after reaching the Delta Quadrant) that (1) following an episode scene for scene was immensely boring, and likely to get more boring as I went, and (2) not having notes about anything? PROBLEMATIC.
Ron was in trouble.
"No, really, I think you should." Mary Sue Cutebottom's beseeching eyes bore across the dining table, limpid blue pools just on the verge of tears or mirth.
--Harry Potter and His Very Small Role in the Plot, what became the working title after I realized that, actually, Harry would have to have an enormous role in this sequel to Harry Potter and Horrid Pain of the Artiste (another story I'm not sure I've put here). Three thousand words in this file, but there are piles elsewhere, and a bundle of notes. Largely cast aside because I found myself having to correct a lot of the issues that popped up in the first story by dealing with them in this one, and that was getting tiresome. But on the other hand, there's a lot to like in this -- maybe I'll pick it up again, since I am in love with several bits of it. (Case in point: "Good God, you're annoying!" Ron said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "What, did the film make you remember the good old days of vinegar and bile, or did you decide the retro 'bossy prude' look was back in style?" || "Neither," she countered, "but I can see your petulant prat personality was merely on holiday. Was it nice? Did you get Polish television?")
In the days when there was no peace and there was no sadness, there was a god-fathered warrior named SaSo'. (In these days there were also gods, for Kahless had not come and killed them yet.)
SaSo' was the son of veS, also named vavma', the chief god and father to all that was to be the tlhIngan wo'. SaSo' knew his father veS, and was a dutiful son, and he did not fear battle. There was no army that did not drench the field in blood when he was fighting--there were no ships that did not drown when he was sailing.
--Kronos, working title. A Klingon folktale I was cooking up to intersperse between some never-written story. I like it a lot, but it got bogged down when I tried to add to much. Folklore is ragged messes of memorable bits -- what I was writing had too many boring things.
The Social Services rep didn't look happy when they sat down. It wasn't hard to tell why -- even shutting out most of his power couldn't stop Matt from hearing a very loud, very cranky I don't believe this for an INSTANT crash into his mind.
--No title. A pargraph and a half of a Heroes, Matt/Mohinder story. I am lemming, hear me roar.
"Scully, I know what I saw. Why can't you see that this is something that I need? That I need to believe in?"
--Oh my God, why was there no one to stop me from attempting romantic Mulder/Scully fic? PAINFUL.
"Scully, you've got to get down here."
--Night, Death, Sleep, and Stars, clearly every pushbutton word there has ever been in the history of ever. Me attempting femmeslash. A little under three thousand words of dubious quality with no notes. I can see that I lost patience at the very end -- clearly I knew it wasn't going well.
It wasn't a minute after Ginny slammed her door that Ron, standing at the base of the stairs, turned grimly toward Harry.
"Right," he said. "Outside. Now."
--The file's labeled "shubbery", so I suppose I might have decided to call it that if I changed my mind. Ron/Harry slash, sort of -- I never did decide how I wanted it to end, so the boys are still stuck having just kissed and being ragingly awkward. Perhaps the thing where Ron/Harry does nothing for me got in the way...
It starts like this. They argue. It's usually about something stupid. Sometimes it's not. The fight gets louder. Ron yells at him. He yells back. Fists clench. The air feels hot. They step closer.
--Woods, Dark. Harry/Ron -- I think this might have been another attempt at the same challenge that prompted the one above. Marginally better, and I like the mood, but, again, didn't know where it was going. Also, the voice stymied me a bit. Might still go back to it, though.
After All of It:
It was, Severus reflected, exactly what he'd been promised.
And so he knelt before his cauldron, and wept.
--Sixteen Marrowbones. It looks like it might be another attempt of mine to write the "Voldemort = babelicious" story, with marginally more success. I like a lot of it, actually, but I'm wondering if it belongs somewhere else now.
The reason the Slytherin common room was underground was not, as was popularly supposed, because the Slytherin's head of house could not stand the touch of sunlight. As Hogwarts: A History made very clear over several chapters regarding the 17th century's very active inter-House warfare, it was because stone walls, several feet thick, surrounded by lake on one side and Scottish mountainside on the other, made for a pretty damn inpenetrable fortress. The wisdom of this move, in 1668, was demonstrated when the abandoned Slytherin tower had a particularly vicious hex levitated through a broken window. It took four days for the tower to melt from the inside out.
--I don't even know. This is all there is of this, and I have no idea what story it could go to. Man, though -- wherever it ends up, it will be filled with awesome.
There was something white, floating up in the corner of her eye. She turned, and saw the evening breeze catch her lace curtains.
She hadn't left her window open.
--No title. Some Spike/Buffy thing from season five. Decent writing, no real drive. Blah.
Blood. It was red, warm, running down her arm. Summers' blood. Her fingers were tingling -- if she tipped her arm to the side, would all the blood in it pour out, like a full cup falling off a table? If she leaned over the edge of the couch, would all the blood in her body come running out, stain the carpet, leave her empty and flat and draped like a human throwrug--
No. She wasn't human. So this wasn't blood.
--No title. Spike/Dawn fic, when Dawn went all crazypants. Decent, but a bit too post-eppy for finishing at this point.
Orig. fic
Dios mio. The stars shiver above me. They feel a cold that I do not.
--Cancion del Jinete. Short story. Based on an article I read about the houses of dead Colombian drug lords. I like this (and I like that it's finished), but I think the language might be too damn twee.
Horatio:
I realized only afterwards the folly of my leaving in such a hasty fashion -- it was not until after I had made my request that you came to me with news of my father, and I could not in all justice repeal my case for returning to Wittenberg. So here, by the hands of my servants, I give my instructions: Stay awhile in Denmark, and be my eyes and ears. I'll see to it that your studies do not suffer -- a student who is yet a prince has some weight to his words. Discover, if you will, the true nature of this ghost. See if it has words, commandments, or is indeed a demon. Beg it reveal its secrets, by my name. I am already a'sea as you read this; send word as soon as can be done. I will spend as brief a time in Wittenberg as can be managed; I would not leave you in that den of vipers for the world.
Hamlet
--The Hamlet Letters. AU epistolary fic! Someday, my pretty, I will write you. And drive Horatio mad in the process.
A week ago Bill woke up and realized he had no insides.
--He Killed Six Before They Stopped Him, because I read a Theodore Sturgeon story and liked the ending enough to make it a title. The story itself is garbage. But completed garbage, so I suppose that's something.
I tell this story wherever I go. This happened a hundred miles back, and I know because I was there.
--Mouths Like Doors. Southern Gothic horror story, what came of me revising a Lone Gunmen story I wrote and hadn't liked much. I like this one a great deal, but it needs a lot more revising to make it sit well in the brain.
a complete lack of linear time. that's what this was. not even the concept of "now"; there was nothing, a continuous world of nothing, no air for breath, no future, no past, just this, always this, lasting forever ever ever ever fucking ever--
There wasn’t enough air for this nightmare. Christ.
--Night Gone Long. Novel I started for my thesis, based on a screenplay I'd started in sophomore year, based on an article I read in high school. The first paragraph, though, is snagged from a Harry/Snape fic comedy short I wrote for pornish_pixies. So there you go. I'd continue this, but my brain was unfortunately infected with John M. Ford's style from The Last Hot Time, and I couldn't keep it up. I did make an amazing mix CD to write to, but it is so very much in keeping with the story that I can't listen to it without getting horribly depressed. YAY CREATIVITY.
There had been flowers everywhere.
Sir Benjamin Wood, just forty and too young to be a widower, sat behind his desk and thought about the flower arrangements at the funeral, and the church, and within the house itself. He couldn't remember if he'd had a hand in the patterned arrangements, or if they'd been his wife's design, written down before her confinement, or if the florists were connected with the government, and the number and position of each branch of cypress was the key to a message he needed to decipher within the next hour in the name of God and country.
A hell of a thing to think of one's government. Or florists.
And damn himself to hell as well -- he was thinking about ciphers, and Frances was dead.
--My foray into historical romance. Research included reading a very large anecdotal history of codebreaking and pamphlets on how to knife fight. Started with a line in a discarded Mulder/Scully fic, morphed into a Mulder/Scully AU, was completely ditched to become the fine prologue you see quoted here today. Now the whole thing is being ditched again in favor of being set on an alien planet with the possible human colonizers taking the place of the French. (Note to self: This may be why it takes me decades to write things.)
When the heart beats faster, the sunlight becomes unbearable, and the skin twitches as if old Earth's fire ants are crawling, biting along it -- that is the first moment of realization.
--Was called Site 645, then (stupidly) The Requirements of Necessity, and now Trickle Down. This whole line (and the section is belongs to) is going out the airlock, though -- this fic is in happy revision-land. I'm trying to solidfy the central theme. And then, I suppose, I should actually make the science work. (Note to self: Wife would say that perhaps that should come first. She is usually right about this sort of thing.)
When Jenny was four, her parents bought her a robot. It was as big as she was, moved on hidden rollers, and had a large plastic dome on top, dark like sunglasses so she couldn't see its brain.
--It is a Weird Kind; or, Beauty and the Turing Test. Three hundred-odd words of setup with no outline or notes to help me fill in the rest. Still like the title, though.
Welcome to Ceremony of Innocence, sir, the only full-interaction hololife pavilion of its kind, a guaranteed once in a lifetime experience.
--The Ceremony's Dancers. Hello, high school. I r emo. With the ethics of holography!
You're going on a trip.
--No title. Was written to make clear my point for some paper. Had a really, really cool idea in it, but now I'm still figuring out what story the really, really cool idea should be in.
Anderson thinks she remembers what alarm clocks sound like, though her memory of it has been slowly changing. Trying to go to sleep on a pallet that never dries out, under the hazy fog of mosquito nets, she wonders if her alarm really had sounded so much like the buzz in the ear that came of insects waking up in the sun.
--Study, winner of world's most boring title. I played with time in this one, and with the classic emic/etic problem, but it didn't have much oomph, and the time thing fell flat. Maybe I'll come back to this? What the heck, I've only had it written for a few years -- maybe it needs five more...
The sun came through the window sideways. The girl beside him spoke. "I hate taking this bus." She smiled shyly. "Have to, though. Only one that comes close to getting me home in time."
--The End of the Day in Innovative Studies. Sadly, tragically, XKCD beat me to it. Which is good, actually, because he did it much better. The alternate title for this was The Theft-Makers, though, and I might keep that for something else.
Arrived on-scene at 4:06 PM. Pedi. approx. four years old, female, missing for over 1hr when patient's mother called 911. First on scene were police, followed by search team composed of firemen and EMTs.
--This, the Body. Completed. Now, have to see if there's actually an audience for it, since it's, um, kind of weird. Also, have to see whether I actually want to just rewrite the entire thing and retitle it Automaticity. OPTIONS.
Hurrah for files. Let's see what gets sloshed into the brain after all this.