Fandom endeavours
+ I've made my tumblr all pretty. In other words, I spent the better part of yesterday looking for a theme I wouldn't have to edit too heavily - not as willing to do this as I used to be for LiveJournal - and about an hour to customize it a bit.
+ I wrote several ficlets, have a couple more to finish, I'm spamming foxriverinmate with beta requests, and I still have a few older ones to post. That's called evasive maneuvers not to work on the WIP from Hell Story of Faith.
+ I got squeeing reviews for two stories for The Pretender that I wrote in French ten years ago. Apparently, THERE ARE STILL PEOPLE READING THESE THINGS?!
+ I posted on AO3 a ficlet that I haven't posted here yet. That's, like a small earthquake in my fic routine because LJ has been the primary home for my stories for about five or six years. But given the response here, I don't really feel like posting. Not that the fics get much more response on AO3 but the difference is that over there, I don't care as much.
+ Speaking of AO3, they have reopened the invitation requests. I have one invitation available and probably can request more if someone is interested. Just PM me your email address :)
Excerpt for Story of Faith because if I start posting it, I have to finish it, right?
“She doesn’t cry,” Sofia told Lincoln. She seemed to think it was a problem. She was probably right.
Sara hadn’t cried since they set foot in Costa Rica. Aboard the boat, she tore up, sniffled, sobbed, wept, and cried pretty much the entire duration of their trip after they’d watched the tape. No wailing, nothing noisy or dramatic, just a quiet flow of tears that Lincoln sponged with tissues and t-shirts. He held her, shushed her, assured her everything would be okay. He also joined her once or twice, her tears adding to Michael’s death itself to get to him. In that respect, the moistness of her cheeks was convenient, allowing him to hide his own.
She stopped crying the second they tied the boat to the harbor and she never started again. On some level, it made sense to Lincoln, but he couldn’t explain why to Sofia. He wasn’t his fucking brother, good with words and psychological stuff.
Sara had also stopped smiling, but that was pretty much expected.
“I’m okay, Sofia,” Sara said from the door of the living room.
(She wasn’t, not really, but she couldn’t imagine how she could be. I’m okay was a shorthand for I’m as okay as I can be given the situation.)
“I’ve found a home,” she added, and Lincoln might not be as good as his brother was with words, but he did notice that she said ‘home’, not house, bungalow, apartment or shanty on the beach for all he knows. Home.
He’d bought an old shop on the beach with an apartment on the second floor. Lincoln had done it for LJ and because Sofia urged him to. He did it in memory of Michael because - as LJ, all icy eyes and righteous tone, put it when he found his father sitting alone with a bottle of tequila waiting to be drunk - Michael hadn’t died for his brother to fall back into his old demons and become a damn loser, full of booze and self-pity.
Lincoln had the vague idea that, as a father, he shouldn’t have tolerated his son speaking to him in this manner. But you know... it was hard to take measures when you agreed with the words thrown in your face.
The apartment was just big enough for the four of them, provided LJ was happy with sleeping in the back of the shop - they hadn’t needed to ask him twice. Sara had settled in the guest room. Neither of them had imagined this would be a permanent arrangement, but Lincoln felt a pang in his stomach at the thought of seeing her go and severing another bond to his brother.
“The bungalow needs to be freshened up,” Sara said. “I... I could use some help?”
They visited it, just the two of them. They left Sofia and LJ to take delivery of stuff they’d ordered for the scuba shop and they went visit it. Normal activities. It felt weird to have normal activities after all that time spent running and fighting; weird to plan when their lives had crumbled. Odd too, visiting a house with her when it should have been Michael sitting by her in the old car.
She drove. Up until now, when they’d gone somewhere together, Linc had taken the wheel and hadn’t even asked if she wanted it. There had to be a symbol in the fact that she was driving now, and in the fact that the road turned and turned again before they engaged on a sinuous dirt road.
Beach in front with dark blue-green waters and what was left of a pontoon bridge, small woods at the back, the place was beautiful. Peaceful, calm, smelling of salt and warm sand.
Lincoln stood by the car and scratched the nape of his neck.
The bungalow was a wreck.
“Yes,” Sara admitted. “Yes, it is.”
(That was the point.)
+ I wrote several ficlets, have a couple more to finish, I'm spamming foxriverinmate with beta requests, and I still have a few older ones to post. That's called evasive maneuvers not to work on the WIP from Hell Story of Faith.
+ I got squeeing reviews for two stories for The Pretender that I wrote in French ten years ago. Apparently, THERE ARE STILL PEOPLE READING THESE THINGS?!
+ I posted on AO3 a ficlet that I haven't posted here yet. That's, like a small earthquake in my fic routine because LJ has been the primary home for my stories for about five or six years. But given the response here, I don't really feel like posting. Not that the fics get much more response on AO3 but the difference is that over there, I don't care as much.
+ Speaking of AO3, they have reopened the invitation requests. I have one invitation available and probably can request more if someone is interested. Just PM me your email address :)
Excerpt for Story of Faith because if I start posting it, I have to finish it, right?
“She doesn’t cry,” Sofia told Lincoln. She seemed to think it was a problem. She was probably right.
Sara hadn’t cried since they set foot in Costa Rica. Aboard the boat, she tore up, sniffled, sobbed, wept, and cried pretty much the entire duration of their trip after they’d watched the tape. No wailing, nothing noisy or dramatic, just a quiet flow of tears that Lincoln sponged with tissues and t-shirts. He held her, shushed her, assured her everything would be okay. He also joined her once or twice, her tears adding to Michael’s death itself to get to him. In that respect, the moistness of her cheeks was convenient, allowing him to hide his own.
She stopped crying the second they tied the boat to the harbor and she never started again. On some level, it made sense to Lincoln, but he couldn’t explain why to Sofia. He wasn’t his fucking brother, good with words and psychological stuff.
Sara had also stopped smiling, but that was pretty much expected.
“I’m okay, Sofia,” Sara said from the door of the living room.
(She wasn’t, not really, but she couldn’t imagine how she could be. I’m okay was a shorthand for I’m as okay as I can be given the situation.)
“I’ve found a home,” she added, and Lincoln might not be as good as his brother was with words, but he did notice that she said ‘home’, not house, bungalow, apartment or shanty on the beach for all he knows. Home.
He’d bought an old shop on the beach with an apartment on the second floor. Lincoln had done it for LJ and because Sofia urged him to. He did it in memory of Michael because - as LJ, all icy eyes and righteous tone, put it when he found his father sitting alone with a bottle of tequila waiting to be drunk - Michael hadn’t died for his brother to fall back into his old demons and become a damn loser, full of booze and self-pity.
Lincoln had the vague idea that, as a father, he shouldn’t have tolerated his son speaking to him in this manner. But you know... it was hard to take measures when you agreed with the words thrown in your face.
The apartment was just big enough for the four of them, provided LJ was happy with sleeping in the back of the shop - they hadn’t needed to ask him twice. Sara had settled in the guest room. Neither of them had imagined this would be a permanent arrangement, but Lincoln felt a pang in his stomach at the thought of seeing her go and severing another bond to his brother.
“The bungalow needs to be freshened up,” Sara said. “I... I could use some help?”
They visited it, just the two of them. They left Sofia and LJ to take delivery of stuff they’d ordered for the scuba shop and they went visit it. Normal activities. It felt weird to have normal activities after all that time spent running and fighting; weird to plan when their lives had crumbled. Odd too, visiting a house with her when it should have been Michael sitting by her in the old car.
She drove. Up until now, when they’d gone somewhere together, Linc had taken the wheel and hadn’t even asked if she wanted it. There had to be a symbol in the fact that she was driving now, and in the fact that the road turned and turned again before they engaged on a sinuous dirt road.
Beach in front with dark blue-green waters and what was left of a pontoon bridge, small woods at the back, the place was beautiful. Peaceful, calm, smelling of salt and warm sand.
Lincoln stood by the car and scratched the nape of his neck.
The bungalow was a wreck.
“Yes,” Sara admitted. “Yes, it is.”
(That was the point.)