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Aug. 7th, 2008 10:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cinaedHappy birthday to me. :D And now I'm off to Otakon with my friends and won't be back until Sunday. Until then, I leave you with some tidbits from fics I'm working on.
If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, post one sentence (or more) from each of your current work(s) in progress in your journal. It should probably be your favorite or most intriguing sentence so far, but what you choose is entirely your discretion. Mention the title (and genre)if you like, but don't mention anything else -- this is merely to whet the general appetite for your forthcoming work(s).
You're an Alias, an Email Address (SGA)
The bells chimed merrily beside the door and Teyla looked up, a ready smile on her lips. A familiar little girl beamed back and Teyla’s smile widened. “Madison! A little early today, are we?” she commented, stepping forward to greet one of her favorite customers, and then glanced curiously at the man who’d brought Madison this particular Saturday. Usually it was Mr. Miller, always easy-going and amused about something, though sometimes it was Mrs. Miller instead, juggling Madison’s twin brothers and looking polite but a tad frazzled. Even rarer still was Madison’s Uncle Meredith, who looked anxious every time he came to The Shop, as though he were worried Madison would vanish into thin air and he’d be blamed. This stranger looked slightly amused, a little frazzled, and more than slightly anxious, gripping Madison’s hand awkwardly. “I see you brought a visitor with you.”
“This is Mister John,” Madison informed her solemnly.
The Texture of Persimmons (Life)
That last night, before the world as he knows it goes mad, Jennifer attempts to make a meal that would do her Grandma Billy Jo proud. Instead, she burns the ham black, the peaches turn into soggy orange lumps, and the deep-fried okra winds up tasting funny, so that Jen’s face crumples a little with disappointment at her first bite of it. Then again, the funny flavor might just be the taste of okra. It’s the first and last time he eats it, so he can’t be certain.
The only saving grace is the sweet tea, which Jen has somehow managed to get just right. He winds up drinking his dinner instead, as Jen looks mournfully at the meal and says, “This looked a lot easier when my grandmother was making it. I’ll have to call my mother and see what I did wrong.”
I Don't Come Cheap, but the Kisses Come Free (How I Met Your Mother/The Office)
“I hope he’s a cheap date, seeing as I’ve already spent $100 on him,” Ted muttered, slouching in his seat.
His dark mood only lightened when Barney lost in a fierce bidding war for a cute Indian girl named Kelly and sulked for the rest of the night, muttering under his breath about how apparently the paper company should start advertising for more hot girls.
And when Lily bought this spaced-out older guy and immediately looked horrified with herself. “He looked so lonely and no one was bidding!” she explained, expression slightly green. “And he reminded me of my uncle Jimmy.”
“The one with Alzheimer’s?”
Lily nodded and looked up at the stage, where the guy was smiling vaguely in her direction. Or maybe he had a stroke and was just sort of staring vacantly. It was really hard to tell.
Sons of the Thief, Sons of the Saint (Starsky and Hutch)
Nathan Fitzpatrick’s pale blue eyes were wide and startled-looking, as though he’d honestly thought his killer wouldn’t shoot him. Starsky resisted the itch in his fingers that wanted to at least attempt to close the poor kid’s eyes.
It would have been a pointless gesture anyway. The body was in rigor, the night janitor having stumbled on it only a half-hour earlier.
Fitzpatrick must have been gesturing when the single bullet went straight through his heart; his right arm was flung out, palm upwards. He wore a BCS jacket; it was practically identical to the one Michael Reynolds had been wearing when someone had shot him in the back of the head three days earlier, both blue and white jackets now forever stained a dark, ugly red.
The Wind at Evening Smells of Roads Still to be Traveled (SG-1/SGA)
All three of his teammates help him pack his life into a surprisingly small number of boxes (well, perhaps not so surprising-- most of what Daniel has loved in his life are thousands of years old and not inclined to be shipped over to another galaxy), but Daniel says good-bye to them separately. Each parting is bittersweet and leaves the taste of ashes and grief lingering in the back of his throat, a taste that he knows will fade with time but never quite go away, not if Atlantis turns out to be the one-way journey they all suspect it will. ("For the stranger's land may be bright and fair, and rich in its treasures golden. But you'll pine, I know, for the long, long ago and the love that is never olden.")
Surround Me With Songs of Deliverance (SG-1)
Then they hear the noise. It's a high, undulating cry that hits them like a wave of sound. Reminds Cam of something, stirs uneasiness in his chest, but he can't put a name to it. Either way, it makes him nervous, and he tightens his grip on his weapon, signals to Hughles and Hailey to be quiet and watchful. They head towards the sound, which breaks into dozens of voices yelling something as they get closer.
They turn down a dusty, unpaved street and see a huge crowd of at least a hundred or more people, crouched in deferential reverence to a lone standing figure. "Qetesh!" the villagers cry, voices filled with love and despair. "Qetesh!"
No one says anything for a moment, and then Hughles clears his throat and says, voice surprisingly calm, "Does that look like a Goa'uld to you?"
"Shit," Hailey answers him, almost squeaking out her response, and her face is paler than mountain-fresh snow. She turns to Cam. "Sir?"
Like Helpless Gods (SG-1)
Jackson Hunter's thinking about nothing in particular when he comes into the barracks and sees DeSaussure frowning down at a letter in his hands. It's a heavy frown, one that adds years to DeSaussure's face and brings out shadows in his eyes, hunches up his shoulders like he's turned into that stone man in the museum that Jackson's seen pictures of, the one carrying the world on his back.
DeSaussure looks up at Jackson's entrance, though, and some of the shadows clear (or are at least hidden real well), and the letter gets tucked under his pillow as he says, with that slow Carolina drawl of his that college hasn't beaten out of him, "You're goin' to bed early." There's a glint in his eyes when he adds, "Need your beauty sleep?" Lord knows they wouldn't be getting any after tonight, not when they're being sent out on patrols to hunt down the VC and sleep in foxholes for what seems like goddamn eternity, now that they're done with the last of their RVN training.
If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, post one sentence (or more) from each of your current work(s) in progress in your journal. It should probably be your favorite or most intriguing sentence so far, but what you choose is entirely your discretion. Mention the title (and genre)if you like, but don't mention anything else -- this is merely to whet the general appetite for your forthcoming work(s).
You're an Alias, an Email Address (SGA)
The bells chimed merrily beside the door and Teyla looked up, a ready smile on her lips. A familiar little girl beamed back and Teyla’s smile widened. “Madison! A little early today, are we?” she commented, stepping forward to greet one of her favorite customers, and then glanced curiously at the man who’d brought Madison this particular Saturday. Usually it was Mr. Miller, always easy-going and amused about something, though sometimes it was Mrs. Miller instead, juggling Madison’s twin brothers and looking polite but a tad frazzled. Even rarer still was Madison’s Uncle Meredith, who looked anxious every time he came to The Shop, as though he were worried Madison would vanish into thin air and he’d be blamed. This stranger looked slightly amused, a little frazzled, and more than slightly anxious, gripping Madison’s hand awkwardly. “I see you brought a visitor with you.”
“This is Mister John,” Madison informed her solemnly.
The Texture of Persimmons (Life)
That last night, before the world as he knows it goes mad, Jennifer attempts to make a meal that would do her Grandma Billy Jo proud. Instead, she burns the ham black, the peaches turn into soggy orange lumps, and the deep-fried okra winds up tasting funny, so that Jen’s face crumples a little with disappointment at her first bite of it. Then again, the funny flavor might just be the taste of okra. It’s the first and last time he eats it, so he can’t be certain.
The only saving grace is the sweet tea, which Jen has somehow managed to get just right. He winds up drinking his dinner instead, as Jen looks mournfully at the meal and says, “This looked a lot easier when my grandmother was making it. I’ll have to call my mother and see what I did wrong.”
I Don't Come Cheap, but the Kisses Come Free (How I Met Your Mother/The Office)
“I hope he’s a cheap date, seeing as I’ve already spent $100 on him,” Ted muttered, slouching in his seat.
His dark mood only lightened when Barney lost in a fierce bidding war for a cute Indian girl named Kelly and sulked for the rest of the night, muttering under his breath about how apparently the paper company should start advertising for more hot girls.
And when Lily bought this spaced-out older guy and immediately looked horrified with herself. “He looked so lonely and no one was bidding!” she explained, expression slightly green. “And he reminded me of my uncle Jimmy.”
“The one with Alzheimer’s?”
Lily nodded and looked up at the stage, where the guy was smiling vaguely in her direction. Or maybe he had a stroke and was just sort of staring vacantly. It was really hard to tell.
Sons of the Thief, Sons of the Saint (Starsky and Hutch)
Nathan Fitzpatrick’s pale blue eyes were wide and startled-looking, as though he’d honestly thought his killer wouldn’t shoot him. Starsky resisted the itch in his fingers that wanted to at least attempt to close the poor kid’s eyes.
It would have been a pointless gesture anyway. The body was in rigor, the night janitor having stumbled on it only a half-hour earlier.
Fitzpatrick must have been gesturing when the single bullet went straight through his heart; his right arm was flung out, palm upwards. He wore a BCS jacket; it was practically identical to the one Michael Reynolds had been wearing when someone had shot him in the back of the head three days earlier, both blue and white jackets now forever stained a dark, ugly red.
The Wind at Evening Smells of Roads Still to be Traveled (SG-1/SGA)
All three of his teammates help him pack his life into a surprisingly small number of boxes (well, perhaps not so surprising-- most of what Daniel has loved in his life are thousands of years old and not inclined to be shipped over to another galaxy), but Daniel says good-bye to them separately. Each parting is bittersweet and leaves the taste of ashes and grief lingering in the back of his throat, a taste that he knows will fade with time but never quite go away, not if Atlantis turns out to be the one-way journey they all suspect it will. ("For the stranger's land may be bright and fair, and rich in its treasures golden. But you'll pine, I know, for the long, long ago and the love that is never olden.")
Surround Me With Songs of Deliverance (SG-1)
Then they hear the noise. It's a high, undulating cry that hits them like a wave of sound. Reminds Cam of something, stirs uneasiness in his chest, but he can't put a name to it. Either way, it makes him nervous, and he tightens his grip on his weapon, signals to Hughles and Hailey to be quiet and watchful. They head towards the sound, which breaks into dozens of voices yelling something as they get closer.
They turn down a dusty, unpaved street and see a huge crowd of at least a hundred or more people, crouched in deferential reverence to a lone standing figure. "Qetesh!" the villagers cry, voices filled with love and despair. "Qetesh!"
No one says anything for a moment, and then Hughles clears his throat and says, voice surprisingly calm, "Does that look like a Goa'uld to you?"
"Shit," Hailey answers him, almost squeaking out her response, and her face is paler than mountain-fresh snow. She turns to Cam. "Sir?"
Like Helpless Gods (SG-1)
Jackson Hunter's thinking about nothing in particular when he comes into the barracks and sees DeSaussure frowning down at a letter in his hands. It's a heavy frown, one that adds years to DeSaussure's face and brings out shadows in his eyes, hunches up his shoulders like he's turned into that stone man in the museum that Jackson's seen pictures of, the one carrying the world on his back.
DeSaussure looks up at Jackson's entrance, though, and some of the shadows clear (or are at least hidden real well), and the letter gets tucked under his pillow as he says, with that slow Carolina drawl of his that college hasn't beaten out of him, "You're goin' to bed early." There's a glint in his eyes when he adds, "Need your beauty sleep?" Lord knows they wouldn't be getting any after tonight, not when they're being sent out on patrols to hunt down the VC and sleep in foxholes for what seems like goddamn eternity, now that they're done with the last of their RVN training.
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Date: 2008-08-07 03:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-07 04:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-07 07:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-16 08:57 pm (UTC)hopefully these fics can get finished before school starts again. lol. especially the himym on bc i loved the last one you wrote.