WIP meme
Following 
snacky like a sheep: Post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around (does this include stories that have been stalled out for years?).
The river ran east and south, and disappeared behind a tree-covered hill; Frank shivered at the thought that the hill itself was only two days old, younger than a mayfly in London.
They walked along the bank in silence, looking about them at the grass and flowers, trees and birds. Above them a cloud sailed past. Frank watched it go, and nearly tripped on a rock.
"What is it?" Nell asked, when Frank stopped and stared at his feet.
He looked up at her, blinking in the golden afternoon light. The crown on her head gave her brown hair golden shimmers: she looked like a queen.
She was a Queen.
"Everything," he said, and waved around them.
A Magpie flew past, bobbing a curtsey in mid-air.
"It's all new," said Frank. "And it's all ours to look after. It's a bit much."
*
Lucy sat on a stump, dressed for the first time in weeks in simple tunic and breeches; her shoulders felt oddly light without the weight of her hauberk. She stared at Petrel, arms folded. Beside her, Brindle the great Wolfhound stretched and yawned: Petrel twitched at the sight of the great Dog's canines.
The rest of the Companions stood where they were, their faces hard and weapons (if they had them) close at hand. There would be no escaping this trial.
"Dwarf Petrel," Lucy finally said, her heart heavy. "You are accused of theft and murder, twice over. There is no question of your guilt. The items you stole from the Fauns of Oakholt were found in your wallet, and your scent was all through the cave."
"My sister tempered my brother's justice, but Aslan has, in his wisdom, taken from us that king of good counsel and that queen of mercy. You shall have to suffer my judgment, instead--and I am not known for my wisdom or my graciousness."
*
Connor drops to one knee and fires, then again, and again. The arm is still moving, and Jack sees someone's head coming through the window--but it looks weird, like it has silver splotches on it. He realizes, even as he brings his P-90 up to bear, that the splotches aren't on top of the skin, they're where the skin has been damaged. This is another robot like the girl: skin over steel.
He fires, a sustained burst that would have cut a Jaffa in two. But the angle's bad and the hammering doesn't stop it. It continues moving, climbing out through the door as easily as Jack would step over a log. Connor backpedals, reloading.
The P90 is heavy in his hands, the bullets flying, and the robot staggers as they slam into it, tearing the skin away to reveal the steel skeleton beneath. But it doesn't stop moving, and as it pulls free of the wreckage of the Jeep, Jack realizes they're in the shit. His clip is empty and he scrabbles for another in his pocket.
*
Two days out of Lamarcke, Dean shot a lorrie-loo that didn't clear off the road fast enough. Sam helped him clean it, throwing the viscera into the brush while Dean skinned the carcass. The snow from the storm four days earlier had mostly melted, but there was still drifts piled in the shade of the trees where Sam had thrown the offal.
He looked away. *Blood on snow* Searched desperately for something else to think about. "Did you know that the early settlers thought the lorrie-loo was a crossbreed, descended from some of the settlers' domestic animals?"
Dean didn't look up; he was jointing the lorrie-loo, slapping Crash's nose out of the way. Crash preferred cured meat, but he wasn't going to pass up a fresh kill. "What settlers?"
When Sam didn't answer, just stared at him for a long moment, Dean looked up. "What? Oh, you mean those guys, from school. So?" He didn't even sound defensive; he sounded bored.
Sam stared at him, *amazed*. "You don't think it's interesting, to think of all those people on another planet somewhere? Hundreds of thousands of them?"
"That's a lot," noted Dean, and wiped his knife on his pants. "Too many. Do they have nighthorses there?"
The early records were in the archives in Ellison and Norton, and Sam had only read a few summaries, pitiful scraps of stories hinting at the desperation of those early days. The settlers had not understood the ambient, had been utterly, fatally, unprepared. The one thing that had, in the end, saved them was the arrival of half a dozen nighthorses, attracted by the new taste in the ambient. "No," Sam said. "No nighthorses."
"That's their look-out, then," said Dean. He rolled the carcass in a length of leather, to keep for later when they stopped to camp. When Crash made a grab for it, Dean danced awkwardly out of the way. *Bacon later*, he sent, and Crash settled long enough for Dean to leap onto his back.
"They have other things, though," pointed out Sam, as he started walking up the trail again. "Cities, music, art, thousands of years of history..."
"Girls?"
"Dean!"
"C'mon, Sammy. Why's it matter what they got on another planet we'll never see? Here we got beer and nighthorses and mountains."
*Bacon,* added Crash, wistfully.
*
One of these days, damn it. One of these days I'll finish that Riderverse story. Although by then nobody will be willing to read my weird SPN AU...
*
Susan fixed a smile to her face and turned to the princess, who was walking easily beside her. "I hope your voyage was an easy one, your highness."
Danelda tipped her head forward, showing off the elaborate knotting of her white braids. "We ran before the wind, your majesty, and came in quick time, Errana be praised."
"Errana?" Edmund was on Susan's other side, but he leaned forward as they walked, to see Danelda as he spoke. "May I ask, who is Errana?"
"Why, Errana is the goddess of the sea, your majesty!" Danelda appeared startled, but continued more easily, "She is the protector of Terebinthia, our guardian and provider. She guides our ships safe to harbor and drives the fish into our nets. I confess I do not understand how you could not know of Errana."
"In Narnia--" began Susan, and then broke off. How to describe Aslan? Narnians did not worship Aslan, as one might pray to an unseeing god in a church; Aslan was, that was all.
Edmund rescued her. "We do not know Errana here, perhaps because for many years now Narnians have been forbidden the sea. But we know Aslan, who freed all our people from the evil Witch who had enchanted the land."
"I have heard of this Aslan," said the Captain, Tir Aldenson, from behind Susan's shoulder. His voice was deep and his shoulders very broad: he was in his thirties, Susan thought, and for all the glitter of his array, he had a long-healed scar across his cheek. This was no pretend soldier, but a fighter with many years' experience. "They speak of him in Archenland; I thought he was a demon of the forest."
"Do not say so in Narnia," interrupted Peter, his voice fierce. He had been walking ahead of them, leading the way, but at Aldenson's words he had stopped and swung about. "Aslan is the heart of Narnia, the son of the Emperor-Over-Sea; he is the true king of this land, and he set us on the throne with his own paws. He is no spirit or demon, but a great Lion, noble and terrible."
This quite effectively shut down the conversation, and after another awkward silence, Peter began walking up the road again. The rest of them followed, and Susan, in some desperation, asked Danelda if her dress was an example of the latest fashion in Terebinthia.
*
Only one of those is being actively worked on at the moment. I'm not really good at multi-tasking when writing, I must admit.
Crossposted from DW, where there are
comments; comment here or there.
snacky like a sheep: Post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around (does this include stories that have been stalled out for years?).
The river ran east and south, and disappeared behind a tree-covered hill; Frank shivered at the thought that the hill itself was only two days old, younger than a mayfly in London.
They walked along the bank in silence, looking about them at the grass and flowers, trees and birds. Above them a cloud sailed past. Frank watched it go, and nearly tripped on a rock.
"What is it?" Nell asked, when Frank stopped and stared at his feet.
He looked up at her, blinking in the golden afternoon light. The crown on her head gave her brown hair golden shimmers: she looked like a queen.
She was a Queen.
"Everything," he said, and waved around them.
A Magpie flew past, bobbing a curtsey in mid-air.
"It's all new," said Frank. "And it's all ours to look after. It's a bit much."
*
Lucy sat on a stump, dressed for the first time in weeks in simple tunic and breeches; her shoulders felt oddly light without the weight of her hauberk. She stared at Petrel, arms folded. Beside her, Brindle the great Wolfhound stretched and yawned: Petrel twitched at the sight of the great Dog's canines.
The rest of the Companions stood where they were, their faces hard and weapons (if they had them) close at hand. There would be no escaping this trial.
"Dwarf Petrel," Lucy finally said, her heart heavy. "You are accused of theft and murder, twice over. There is no question of your guilt. The items you stole from the Fauns of Oakholt were found in your wallet, and your scent was all through the cave."
"My sister tempered my brother's justice, but Aslan has, in his wisdom, taken from us that king of good counsel and that queen of mercy. You shall have to suffer my judgment, instead--and I am not known for my wisdom or my graciousness."
*
Connor drops to one knee and fires, then again, and again. The arm is still moving, and Jack sees someone's head coming through the window--but it looks weird, like it has silver splotches on it. He realizes, even as he brings his P-90 up to bear, that the splotches aren't on top of the skin, they're where the skin has been damaged. This is another robot like the girl: skin over steel.
He fires, a sustained burst that would have cut a Jaffa in two. But the angle's bad and the hammering doesn't stop it. It continues moving, climbing out through the door as easily as Jack would step over a log. Connor backpedals, reloading.
The P90 is heavy in his hands, the bullets flying, and the robot staggers as they slam into it, tearing the skin away to reveal the steel skeleton beneath. But it doesn't stop moving, and as it pulls free of the wreckage of the Jeep, Jack realizes they're in the shit. His clip is empty and he scrabbles for another in his pocket.
*
Two days out of Lamarcke, Dean shot a lorrie-loo that didn't clear off the road fast enough. Sam helped him clean it, throwing the viscera into the brush while Dean skinned the carcass. The snow from the storm four days earlier had mostly melted, but there was still drifts piled in the shade of the trees where Sam had thrown the offal.
He looked away. *Blood on snow* Searched desperately for something else to think about. "Did you know that the early settlers thought the lorrie-loo was a crossbreed, descended from some of the settlers' domestic animals?"
Dean didn't look up; he was jointing the lorrie-loo, slapping Crash's nose out of the way. Crash preferred cured meat, but he wasn't going to pass up a fresh kill. "What settlers?"
When Sam didn't answer, just stared at him for a long moment, Dean looked up. "What? Oh, you mean those guys, from school. So?" He didn't even sound defensive; he sounded bored.
Sam stared at him, *amazed*. "You don't think it's interesting, to think of all those people on another planet somewhere? Hundreds of thousands of them?"
"That's a lot," noted Dean, and wiped his knife on his pants. "Too many. Do they have nighthorses there?"
The early records were in the archives in Ellison and Norton, and Sam had only read a few summaries, pitiful scraps of stories hinting at the desperation of those early days. The settlers had not understood the ambient, had been utterly, fatally, unprepared. The one thing that had, in the end, saved them was the arrival of half a dozen nighthorses, attracted by the new taste in the ambient. "No," Sam said. "No nighthorses."
"That's their look-out, then," said Dean. He rolled the carcass in a length of leather, to keep for later when they stopped to camp. When Crash made a grab for it, Dean danced awkwardly out of the way. *Bacon later*, he sent, and Crash settled long enough for Dean to leap onto his back.
"They have other things, though," pointed out Sam, as he started walking up the trail again. "Cities, music, art, thousands of years of history..."
"Girls?"
"Dean!"
"C'mon, Sammy. Why's it matter what they got on another planet we'll never see? Here we got beer and nighthorses and mountains."
*Bacon,* added Crash, wistfully.
*
One of these days, damn it. One of these days I'll finish that Riderverse story. Although by then nobody will be willing to read my weird SPN AU...
*
Susan fixed a smile to her face and turned to the princess, who was walking easily beside her. "I hope your voyage was an easy one, your highness."
Danelda tipped her head forward, showing off the elaborate knotting of her white braids. "We ran before the wind, your majesty, and came in quick time, Errana be praised."
"Errana?" Edmund was on Susan's other side, but he leaned forward as they walked, to see Danelda as he spoke. "May I ask, who is Errana?"
"Why, Errana is the goddess of the sea, your majesty!" Danelda appeared startled, but continued more easily, "She is the protector of Terebinthia, our guardian and provider. She guides our ships safe to harbor and drives the fish into our nets. I confess I do not understand how you could not know of Errana."
"In Narnia--" began Susan, and then broke off. How to describe Aslan? Narnians did not worship Aslan, as one might pray to an unseeing god in a church; Aslan was, that was all.
Edmund rescued her. "We do not know Errana here, perhaps because for many years now Narnians have been forbidden the sea. But we know Aslan, who freed all our people from the evil Witch who had enchanted the land."
"I have heard of this Aslan," said the Captain, Tir Aldenson, from behind Susan's shoulder. His voice was deep and his shoulders very broad: he was in his thirties, Susan thought, and for all the glitter of his array, he had a long-healed scar across his cheek. This was no pretend soldier, but a fighter with many years' experience. "They speak of him in Archenland; I thought he was a demon of the forest."
"Do not say so in Narnia," interrupted Peter, his voice fierce. He had been walking ahead of them, leading the way, but at Aldenson's words he had stopped and swung about. "Aslan is the heart of Narnia, the son of the Emperor-Over-Sea; he is the true king of this land, and he set us on the throne with his own paws. He is no spirit or demon, but a great Lion, noble and terrible."
This quite effectively shut down the conversation, and after another awkward silence, Peter began walking up the road again. The rest of them followed, and Susan, in some desperation, asked Danelda if her dress was an example of the latest fashion in Terebinthia.
*
Only one of those is being actively worked on at the moment. I'm not really good at multi-tasking when writing, I must admit.
Crossposted from DW, where there are
comments; comment here or there.