Book meme and challenge beginning
Sep. 30th, 2003 04:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowOk, first the book meme - using ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
leadensky because I liked her list.
The rules are: Take someone else's list of authors. Remove any you don't have on your shelves. Add replacements, keeping the total number at ten.
leadensky's list:
J.K. Rowling
Jane Austen
J.R.R. Tolkien
Ernest Hemingway
Elizabeth Peters
Mary Stewart
Alaster McLean
Mary Gentle
Ruyard Kipling
David Brin
Connie Willis
My list:
J.K. Rowling
Jane Austen
J.R.R. Tolkien
Elizabeth Peters
Connie Willis
Mark Helprin
Toni Morrison
William Faulkner
James Baldwin
Michael Ondaatje
Second - beginning of challenge fic. I'm posting this although it's rough. It's the take your day's event and put it in the FS universe/FS character without iding the character challenge offered bycretkid. My questions, before I bother editing and changing it. Does it work? Does it tip it's hand before the end? Is the characterization clear or even accurate, and does it seem like it could go anywhere from this point forward?
Even at this, it was a fun exercise, although it still sounds like me. I'm stylestuck, that's for sure.
Not long ago, she saw someone get thrown against a window made of glass. It cracked like a web on impact, tiny threads running through, expanding and veering like broken ice. The glass stayed together, but there was little doubt that if pressed, if pushed, it would fragment into sharp shards all over the floor. She looks at her body, at her skin, at her face and wonders if she looks like that. She looks down, sees breasts and belly and long slim legs, and cracks and fissures and seams about to rend. If she could slip her nails in between the breaks, she could pull the fragments of herself apart.
She wraps her hands around the controls of the Prowler, the ship beautifully responsive to her touch. It has a different feeling to it than the old one, a little shudder from the right thruster, a little sluggishness rolling into a turn, but overall it provides that same sense of freedom and escape. Safety within the cramped compartment, safety and silence. She never thought she’d long for silence, or for the company of women. But there is literally too much testosterone on Moya right now. Too much preening and posturing, long stares and sharp, sulky barbs, and whose is bigger and I don’t have to do what you tell me to do. Crichton sets his mouth in that fine, white line, all pain and determination and that weird shiny shellac of hate and fear and empty. He should have been the one to fill her back up, but these days he can’t even keep himself full.
D’Argo is understandably proud of his new role, eager and warm with responsibility and booming orders, while Rygel is Rygel and Scorpius is something unspeakable, brought on board in an act of desperation and they’ve never even looked for another definition of sanctuary. Crichton can’t kill him- bound by tangled promises, but he doesn’t look for other, better solutions. Just hides and seethes and watches his wormholes, silent in a way that he’s never been, nothing left to give except brief caresses and the occasional lost smile.
The prowler jerks under her touch, the smoothness suddenly gone and she fights for control. Something is wrong, but she doesn’t know what. She’s not a tech, and she doesn’t understand the ins and outs of this ship. She took it for the speed and the familiarity, and realizes that perhaps she made a mistake. She took it to prove that she could still escape, leave them behind in their overpowering worry. She is closer to the planet then Moya, and she sucks in luck and hope, lands with a scrape and a thunk.
Steam pours from the engine, and while she knows better than to touch the heated metal of the chassis, she’d still like to run her hands along the surface, smooth and sooth the wounded ship. But she has bigger problems to deal with. She will have to com Moya, admit she’s stuck, admit that something has to be fixed that she can’t fix herself. It’s roiling frustration, more tiny fissures in her skin and heart.
Waiting just leads to more frustration, but when she hears her name and turns, she feels blatant relief. She won’t be lectured or criticized about anything she doesn’t deserve, and these days her savior is more likely to be coolly sympathetic than homicidal.
“Should’ve asked first.”
Her mouth is straight and unsmiling, but there’s little anger, more relief at her own escape from the cloying atmosphere of the Leviathan.
“You will pay for the repairs.”
It’s not a question or an order, but a statement of fact. Chiana stands up when Aeryn gets closer, curls her body close to the taller woman and looks her in the eye.
Shadows and loss, and something a little empty, but still Aeryn, still Peacekeeper strong and Peacekeeper vulnerable. She bumps her hip with her own, feels some of the cracks seal back up as she she runs gloved fingers down the supple leather of Aeryn’s coat.
“Can we stay here? Just for a little bit?”
Aeryn bites her lip, but eventually nods.
leadensky because I liked her list.The rules are: Take someone else's list of authors. Remove any you don't have on your shelves. Add replacements, keeping the total number at ten.
leadensky's list:J.K. Rowling
Jane Austen
J.R.R. Tolkien
Ernest Hemingway
Elizabeth Peters
Mary Stewart
Alaster McLean
Mary Gentle
Ruyard Kipling
David Brin
Connie Willis
My list:
J.K. Rowling
Jane Austen
J.R.R. Tolkien
Elizabeth Peters
Connie Willis
Mark Helprin
Toni Morrison
William Faulkner
James Baldwin
Michael Ondaatje
Second - beginning of challenge fic. I'm posting this although it's rough. It's the take your day's event and put it in the FS universe/FS character without iding the character challenge offered by
cretkid. My questions, before I bother editing and changing it. Does it work? Does it tip it's hand before the end? Is the characterization clear or even accurate, and does it seem like it could go anywhere from this point forward?Even at this, it was a fun exercise, although it still sounds like me. I'm stylestuck, that's for sure.
Not long ago, she saw someone get thrown against a window made of glass. It cracked like a web on impact, tiny threads running through, expanding and veering like broken ice. The glass stayed together, but there was little doubt that if pressed, if pushed, it would fragment into sharp shards all over the floor. She looks at her body, at her skin, at her face and wonders if she looks like that. She looks down, sees breasts and belly and long slim legs, and cracks and fissures and seams about to rend. If she could slip her nails in between the breaks, she could pull the fragments of herself apart.
She wraps her hands around the controls of the Prowler, the ship beautifully responsive to her touch. It has a different feeling to it than the old one, a little shudder from the right thruster, a little sluggishness rolling into a turn, but overall it provides that same sense of freedom and escape. Safety within the cramped compartment, safety and silence. She never thought she’d long for silence, or for the company of women. But there is literally too much testosterone on Moya right now. Too much preening and posturing, long stares and sharp, sulky barbs, and whose is bigger and I don’t have to do what you tell me to do. Crichton sets his mouth in that fine, white line, all pain and determination and that weird shiny shellac of hate and fear and empty. He should have been the one to fill her back up, but these days he can’t even keep himself full.
D’Argo is understandably proud of his new role, eager and warm with responsibility and booming orders, while Rygel is Rygel and Scorpius is something unspeakable, brought on board in an act of desperation and they’ve never even looked for another definition of sanctuary. Crichton can’t kill him- bound by tangled promises, but he doesn’t look for other, better solutions. Just hides and seethes and watches his wormholes, silent in a way that he’s never been, nothing left to give except brief caresses and the occasional lost smile.
The prowler jerks under her touch, the smoothness suddenly gone and she fights for control. Something is wrong, but she doesn’t know what. She’s not a tech, and she doesn’t understand the ins and outs of this ship. She took it for the speed and the familiarity, and realizes that perhaps she made a mistake. She took it to prove that she could still escape, leave them behind in their overpowering worry. She is closer to the planet then Moya, and she sucks in luck and hope, lands with a scrape and a thunk.
Steam pours from the engine, and while she knows better than to touch the heated metal of the chassis, she’d still like to run her hands along the surface, smooth and sooth the wounded ship. But she has bigger problems to deal with. She will have to com Moya, admit she’s stuck, admit that something has to be fixed that she can’t fix herself. It’s roiling frustration, more tiny fissures in her skin and heart.
Waiting just leads to more frustration, but when she hears her name and turns, she feels blatant relief. She won’t be lectured or criticized about anything she doesn’t deserve, and these days her savior is more likely to be coolly sympathetic than homicidal.
“Should’ve asked first.”
Her mouth is straight and unsmiling, but there’s little anger, more relief at her own escape from the cloying atmosphere of the Leviathan.
“You will pay for the repairs.”
It’s not a question or an order, but a statement of fact. Chiana stands up when Aeryn gets closer, curls her body close to the taller woman and looks her in the eye.
Shadows and loss, and something a little empty, but still Aeryn, still Peacekeeper strong and Peacekeeper vulnerable. She bumps her hip with her own, feels some of the cracks seal back up as she she runs gloved fingers down the supple leather of Aeryn’s coat.
“Can we stay here? Just for a little bit?”
Aeryn bites her lip, but eventually nods.
