![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
all the cool kids are doing it....
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many randomworks-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Okay, here are snippets of stories that I want to work on, or that I plan to finish, some day. Some of these have huge amounts of words written--they're lying around, like raisans in the sun. (what, it's a damn good line.) Some are bare outlines, just daydreams of stuff. I hate getting to the point where the story says, "give it up, sis, aint no more." Most of the time, I refuse to listen. Then we get thousands of words explaining why Clark likes the assex with Lex.
1) Captain Clark of The Night Watch
There are many dimensions, many places where time isn’t quite as linear as we like to think it is. Usually these dimensions are well behaved, co-existing in their own way, taking care not to intersect with each other but occasionally the universe is given to fits of rambunctiousness and this was one of those times.
On the back of four elephants, standing on the back of a giant turtle rested a disc.
Not a disc. A Disc. And in the Ramtops, a spine of mountains that ran along the back of the world, a baby wasn’t born and wasn’t raised by dwarves. But one was dropped there in a flaming canister of metal.
And raised by dwarves.
In Kansas, a boy fell into a pocket of the Trousers of Time, and slid down a leg….
2) In The Time Of The Flood
The sun touched the earth and Horus jumped free—or He came out of the reeds, or Seth came out of the desert with burning footsteps and flaming red hair. Brother called to brother and like called to like. So forth and so on.
Seth carried Horus from the river, and Pharaoh’s wife took the children to raise as her own. Or perhaps they came to the palace on their own and lived there happily ever after as a family.
Of course, it could also have begun: Sageeth and Namen were like brothers…there were a million ways the story could have started.
Let’s start it this way.
3) un-named oddball sf
What…what ‘s happening…
Lex tried to roll to his side, and then realized he was floating in a tank of slightly viscous fluid. His first coherent thought was “ I’m alive.” He floated a bit longer, feeling his muscles work, opening and closing his hands. Hands! Two hands, he started to chuckle. “A cure for cancer. They did it.”
He reminded himself that when he got out and re-acquainted himself with his empire, he’d reward whichever team of scientists achieved this breakthrough. Building on his work, of course.
He blinked and blinked until his cloudy vision cleared somewhat, and a face peered over the side of the tank. It was an inhumanly beautiful face, long white hair flowed back from a high-unblemished forehead and for a moment he thought, an elf! And then pain surged through his body, and it got harder to breathe. He tried to signal as much to the person looking at him. They seemed puzzled at first and then understanding dawned. They nodded briskly and gestured and a translucent screen appeared in the air. Lex was just able to marvel--Like Star Wars, why didn’t we come up with something like that before they froze me-- before the ‘elf’ poked his finger into the screen and Lex felt all the fires of hell boil in his blood but not for long.
4) gladiator story that died in the research
So fucking hot…”Flavius, bring that jug over here.” Lazy little…
The wine is sour, and the honey makes it nearly undrinkable, but he’s used to now what the Romans thought was palatable. He sipped, and looked out over the sands. Tonight, he was supposed to make sure that the water flooded it just so, and could be drained expediently…fresh sand across the top.
He stalked across the arena, checking for areas that needed repair, barking out orders to flavius, who wrote them down, and sometimes anticipated his master—certainly kept it to himself but Alexander could see him doing it. Good man.
The fighters practiced in the yard outside of the arena. There were new gladiators, big brutish Britons, barbarians. They were barely acclimated, and some of them struggled, limp in the heat.
He stopped to watch. He loved those Britons, their funny accents, their big heavy muscles and hair…he grinned self-deprecatingly. He did like hair.
5) un-named playing around bit
My name is Clark Kent and up until a few days ago, I was nobody special.
A few days ago, I found out, well, everything, I guess. Some of it sucks, and some of it—is amazing.
Start at the beginning, and go on until the end. Mrs. Harkaway says that all the time. She’s our creative writing teacher. She says write about what you know, and what you don’t know as if you did. I’m not real sure what she means by that, but here I am, writing about what I know. My self.
You know what? I’m not so sure about that either. In the last couple of days, I’m finding out there’s lots of stuff I don’t know about myself.
Do you know what it’s like to be hit by a car going 60 miles an hour?
6)SpN—oh yeah, I'm still working on my SpN story.
They were leaning on the hood of the car, parked at an observation spot about a mile or two from where the bus had gone sailing through the guardrail. Their coffee steamed in the still chill morning air, and Dean took a couple of grateful sips while Sam was pointing out something on a map they'd bought at the last gas station…"Hey, watch with that pen—you'll scratch the finish."
"Through the map? Please…look at this—there's a pattern here. Good. That makes me more comfortable. A pattern means routine—a set way of doing what it does, means we have a good chance of figuring out what it wants." He sat his cup down on the map, and following the notes in his planner, dotted points along the highway. "This thing is working it's way outward in a loop, a pretty wide loop, see…I think it's curving in on it's own trail, leading away from a center, somewhere…" his voice trailed off as he concentrated on what he was reading, and Dean smiled a little. When his brother was engrossed in a problem, nothing existed for him. It was up to Dean to make sure that he took care of himself. He wrapped his hands around the still warm take out cup, and looked back down the way they'd come. Sam brushed against his knee repeatedly, drawing, and thinking out loud. Dean leaned into him just a little. Sam put out a lot of warmth for the thin guy he was.
7)maybe my response to Clarkless Lex challenge...
Whitney found a note on the windshield of his truck.
everyone thinks they know what happened in the field. But we know better
Whit grimaced, balled the paper tight as he could and tossed it. Nothing happened in the field—not for him. He put a necklace on the boy, that was all he did. He wasn't responsible for anything else. It wasn't his fault.
The next note he found made his back prickle with sweat, his stomach lurch. This time instead of balling the note up, he read every word carefully, stared at the handwriting. He didn't recognize it. The paper was…odd. Different. It had weight; it felt almost velvety against his palm.
No one is talking about the incident. No one else knows but you and Clark and whoever else was there.
The boys who'd been in the field that night found life becoming more difficult for them…a lost scholarship, a parent out of work, an injury guaranteed to sideline a player permanently….the next note Whit found had some kind of mark imbedded in the paper and the ink used to write the brief note was thick and dark violet.
you're responsible.
Whit ripped the note into cream colored confetti, and threw it into the air. Drifts of shredded paper landed on his shoulders, the pavement. He didn't need a name to know who was leaving expensive notes on his car.
So, what do you think? Ask me about them, who knows, maybe something will shake loose!
Okay, here are snippets of stories that I want to work on, or that I plan to finish, some day. Some of these have huge amounts of words written--they're lying around, like raisans in the sun. (what, it's a damn good line.) Some are bare outlines, just daydreams of stuff. I hate getting to the point where the story says, "give it up, sis, aint no more." Most of the time, I refuse to listen. Then we get thousands of words explaining why Clark likes the assex with Lex.
1) Captain Clark of The Night Watch
There are many dimensions, many places where time isn’t quite as linear as we like to think it is. Usually these dimensions are well behaved, co-existing in their own way, taking care not to intersect with each other but occasionally the universe is given to fits of rambunctiousness and this was one of those times.
On the back of four elephants, standing on the back of a giant turtle rested a disc.
Not a disc. A Disc. And in the Ramtops, a spine of mountains that ran along the back of the world, a baby wasn’t born and wasn’t raised by dwarves. But one was dropped there in a flaming canister of metal.
And raised by dwarves.
In Kansas, a boy fell into a pocket of the Trousers of Time, and slid down a leg….
2) In The Time Of The Flood
The sun touched the earth and Horus jumped free—or He came out of the reeds, or Seth came out of the desert with burning footsteps and flaming red hair. Brother called to brother and like called to like. So forth and so on.
Seth carried Horus from the river, and Pharaoh’s wife took the children to raise as her own. Or perhaps they came to the palace on their own and lived there happily ever after as a family.
Of course, it could also have begun: Sageeth and Namen were like brothers…there were a million ways the story could have started.
Let’s start it this way.
3) un-named oddball sf
What…what ‘s happening…
Lex tried to roll to his side, and then realized he was floating in a tank of slightly viscous fluid. His first coherent thought was “ I’m alive.” He floated a bit longer, feeling his muscles work, opening and closing his hands. Hands! Two hands, he started to chuckle. “A cure for cancer. They did it.”
He reminded himself that when he got out and re-acquainted himself with his empire, he’d reward whichever team of scientists achieved this breakthrough. Building on his work, of course.
He blinked and blinked until his cloudy vision cleared somewhat, and a face peered over the side of the tank. It was an inhumanly beautiful face, long white hair flowed back from a high-unblemished forehead and for a moment he thought, an elf! And then pain surged through his body, and it got harder to breathe. He tried to signal as much to the person looking at him. They seemed puzzled at first and then understanding dawned. They nodded briskly and gestured and a translucent screen appeared in the air. Lex was just able to marvel--Like Star Wars, why didn’t we come up with something like that before they froze me-- before the ‘elf’ poked his finger into the screen and Lex felt all the fires of hell boil in his blood but not for long.
4) gladiator story that died in the research
So fucking hot…”Flavius, bring that jug over here.” Lazy little…
The wine is sour, and the honey makes it nearly undrinkable, but he’s used to now what the Romans thought was palatable. He sipped, and looked out over the sands. Tonight, he was supposed to make sure that the water flooded it just so, and could be drained expediently…fresh sand across the top.
He stalked across the arena, checking for areas that needed repair, barking out orders to flavius, who wrote them down, and sometimes anticipated his master—certainly kept it to himself but Alexander could see him doing it. Good man.
The fighters practiced in the yard outside of the arena. There were new gladiators, big brutish Britons, barbarians. They were barely acclimated, and some of them struggled, limp in the heat.
He stopped to watch. He loved those Britons, their funny accents, their big heavy muscles and hair…he grinned self-deprecatingly. He did like hair.
5) un-named playing around bit
My name is Clark Kent and up until a few days ago, I was nobody special.
A few days ago, I found out, well, everything, I guess. Some of it sucks, and some of it—is amazing.
Start at the beginning, and go on until the end. Mrs. Harkaway says that all the time. She’s our creative writing teacher. She says write about what you know, and what you don’t know as if you did. I’m not real sure what she means by that, but here I am, writing about what I know. My self.
You know what? I’m not so sure about that either. In the last couple of days, I’m finding out there’s lots of stuff I don’t know about myself.
Do you know what it’s like to be hit by a car going 60 miles an hour?
6)SpN—oh yeah, I'm still working on my SpN story.
They were leaning on the hood of the car, parked at an observation spot about a mile or two from where the bus had gone sailing through the guardrail. Their coffee steamed in the still chill morning air, and Dean took a couple of grateful sips while Sam was pointing out something on a map they'd bought at the last gas station…"Hey, watch with that pen—you'll scratch the finish."
"Through the map? Please…look at this—there's a pattern here. Good. That makes me more comfortable. A pattern means routine—a set way of doing what it does, means we have a good chance of figuring out what it wants." He sat his cup down on the map, and following the notes in his planner, dotted points along the highway. "This thing is working it's way outward in a loop, a pretty wide loop, see…I think it's curving in on it's own trail, leading away from a center, somewhere…" his voice trailed off as he concentrated on what he was reading, and Dean smiled a little. When his brother was engrossed in a problem, nothing existed for him. It was up to Dean to make sure that he took care of himself. He wrapped his hands around the still warm take out cup, and looked back down the way they'd come. Sam brushed against his knee repeatedly, drawing, and thinking out loud. Dean leaned into him just a little. Sam put out a lot of warmth for the thin guy he was.
7)maybe my response to Clarkless Lex challenge...
Whitney found a note on the windshield of his truck.
everyone thinks they know what happened in the field. But we know better
Whit grimaced, balled the paper tight as he could and tossed it. Nothing happened in the field—not for him. He put a necklace on the boy, that was all he did. He wasn't responsible for anything else. It wasn't his fault.
The next note he found made his back prickle with sweat, his stomach lurch. This time instead of balling the note up, he read every word carefully, stared at the handwriting. He didn't recognize it. The paper was…odd. Different. It had weight; it felt almost velvety against his palm.
No one is talking about the incident. No one else knows but you and Clark and whoever else was there.
The boys who'd been in the field that night found life becoming more difficult for them…a lost scholarship, a parent out of work, an injury guaranteed to sideline a player permanently….the next note Whit found had some kind of mark imbedded in the paper and the ink used to write the brief note was thick and dark violet.
you're responsible.
Whit ripped the note into cream colored confetti, and threw it into the air. Drifts of shredded paper landed on his shoulders, the pavement. He didn't need a name to know who was leaving expensive notes on his car.
So, what do you think? Ask me about them, who knows, maybe something will shake loose!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
(Anonymous) 2007-08-03 12:04 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
no subject
I hope some day I'll get the inspiration to write it. So far, I have an outline and one scene. :(
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
*blink*
anyone with good taste?????????
*snuggles Whit and pulls him away from the mean girl*
"It's okay, honey, mummy loves you. Now go stand over there by that nice Luthor boy..."
no subject
no subject
Well....okay.
no subject
no subject
Aaah, pretty much nothing but. *G*