Still figuring this thing out
Apr. 14th, 2003 12:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowI went home for the weekend and had moments of panic over creating a public forum. I don't know why this is such a terrifying thing for me, but I feel very brave for actually following through and coming back. I'd feel even more thrilled if I could figure out how to find and download an icon, of course then I'd have to make up my mind on what I wanted!! This world of possibility is a little more daunting when it means I have to actually become more technically literate.
I posted a response to the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
farscapefriday Drabble challenge, even though I hadn't ever posted anything on-line before, and that act in itself encouraged me to get a Live Journal. I have been reading people's fiction and their journals for about a year and a half, and have really enjoyed the creativity and insight (and always blushed profusely when people asked for lurkers to come out and say hi, so this is also an apology for my shyness in not announcing how much pleasure I was getting from everyone's efforts). The challenge responses were a lot of fun. They were clever, well -written and gave the reader a very nice glimpse into the more innocent versions of these characters.
Here's my entry. I haven't written fiction for a very long time, and have recently been trying to get back to it. I'm bad at plot and iffy with dialog, so these are great writing exercises and an (almost) agony proof way of re-entering the fray.
Alien
He stands at the barred entrance to her quarters. She’s late for her shift, and the error is unusual, She’s so precise in everything - movement, speech, debilitating glares, strikes against him, pain. He can hear the shower running, and tries not to let himself imagine the slide of water, cool and pure, over her pale body; but the blood throbs in his ears, heart pounding, groin tightening, and he tries to think of the fine bones in her hand connecting to his jaw, of her violence and the instant blackness following the punch. He makes himself think alien, other species, hostile, aggressive, and it doesn’t relieve his desire or his curiosity.
The water continues to run and he looks through the latticework at her quarters. Everything’s in its place. There’s no mess, except for her clothing which lays discarded on the bed. She must have been equally upset at her tardiness, and he suspects she was in the maintenance bay drilling herself back into Peacekeeperness after recovering from Namtar’s experiment. He wants to offer comfort, did offer it, and she didn’t yell, didn’t hit, but she didn’t take much of it either.
The spareness of her quarters nags at him. He grew up with sisters, who left remnants of themselves everywhere. Shoes, the scent of perfume, makeup, books all were scattered throughout their rooms, their cars, the house. He loves women for that reason; their existence so marked by their things, their softness, and stamp of presence. Zhaan does the same thing. Her scent trails after her. Adornments grace her quarters, filled with trinkets and ointments to distribute.
Aeryn has none of that. Everything she owns reeks of practicality and usefulness. It all adds to her being a better soldier, a better weapon. There’s no excess. Her pulse pistols and pulse rifle rest in their proper nooks and crannies; and her garments are neat and utilitarian. Her presence in the former cell manifests itself through absence and order, except for the abandoned clothing, which she will undoubtedly fold and return to it’s proper place. He itches to give her a little chaos, offer her something of her own, but he just can’t imagine what you’d give an alien.
I posted a response to the
farscapefriday Drabble challenge, even though I hadn't ever posted anything on-line before, and that act in itself encouraged me to get a Live Journal. I have been reading people's fiction and their journals for about a year and a half, and have really enjoyed the creativity and insight (and always blushed profusely when people asked for lurkers to come out and say hi, so this is also an apology for my shyness in not announcing how much pleasure I was getting from everyone's efforts). The challenge responses were a lot of fun. They were clever, well -written and gave the reader a very nice glimpse into the more innocent versions of these characters. Here's my entry. I haven't written fiction for a very long time, and have recently been trying to get back to it. I'm bad at plot and iffy with dialog, so these are great writing exercises and an (almost) agony proof way of re-entering the fray.
Alien
He stands at the barred entrance to her quarters. She’s late for her shift, and the error is unusual, She’s so precise in everything - movement, speech, debilitating glares, strikes against him, pain. He can hear the shower running, and tries not to let himself imagine the slide of water, cool and pure, over her pale body; but the blood throbs in his ears, heart pounding, groin tightening, and he tries to think of the fine bones in her hand connecting to his jaw, of her violence and the instant blackness following the punch. He makes himself think alien, other species, hostile, aggressive, and it doesn’t relieve his desire or his curiosity.
The water continues to run and he looks through the latticework at her quarters. Everything’s in its place. There’s no mess, except for her clothing which lays discarded on the bed. She must have been equally upset at her tardiness, and he suspects she was in the maintenance bay drilling herself back into Peacekeeperness after recovering from Namtar’s experiment. He wants to offer comfort, did offer it, and she didn’t yell, didn’t hit, but she didn’t take much of it either.
The spareness of her quarters nags at him. He grew up with sisters, who left remnants of themselves everywhere. Shoes, the scent of perfume, makeup, books all were scattered throughout their rooms, their cars, the house. He loves women for that reason; their existence so marked by their things, their softness, and stamp of presence. Zhaan does the same thing. Her scent trails after her. Adornments grace her quarters, filled with trinkets and ointments to distribute.
Aeryn has none of that. Everything she owns reeks of practicality and usefulness. It all adds to her being a better soldier, a better weapon. There’s no excess. Her pulse pistols and pulse rifle rest in their proper nooks and crannies; and her garments are neat and utilitarian. Her presence in the former cell manifests itself through absence and order, except for the abandoned clothing, which she will undoubtedly fold and return to it’s proper place. He itches to give her a little chaos, offer her something of her own, but he just can’t imagine what you’d give an alien.
