WIP meme
Seen all over my flist like the blue bits in Stilton, only less stinky, more yummy, and with 98% more fannishness.
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Some random Dief-centric thing that I'd entirely forgotten about.
It has been a very tiring and confusing day and, as soon as he has a chance, Diefenbaker is going to be complaining. Loudly, expressively and in great detail.
As if being forced to sit in a crate in the hold of an airplane for far too many hours wasn’t bad enough, Boss-Ben then decided that they should walk from the airport. Walk.
Dief doesn’t believe Boss-Ben’s excuse about Chicago taxis not allowing wolves in the slightest.
Getting back to the apartment and discovering that it’s just a big pile of smouldering support timbers and ash? Just the cap on a thoroughly awful day.
A dS story called Twelve Days.
For some reason-- that I can't recall now, hence why this is stalled-- Ray is being stalked by someone. Said stalking is happening as daily deliveries of gifts in accordance with the Twelve Days of Christmas There is already a partridge, and ornamental pear tree, two doves, two hens and a cockerel (the stalker apparently has some problems with sexing avians), and four lovebirds (one of whom Diefenbaker is convinced is actually psychotic). There were five gourmet donuts, but they were eaten. I managed to get up to the tenth day before losing track of the plot. Clearly, I had too much time on my hands when I thought this up.
Twelve Days
The sixth day starts with a courier with a large refrigerated chest, the contents of which turn out to be one six pound goose (free range) and half a dozen goose eggs (large).
Spiky-Ray manages not to kick the poor, confused courier in the head by a sheer effort of will and, a few minutes later, both he and Dief are in the kitchen, staring at the cool box full of poultry related items.
At least, Dief says, despite the fact that Ben still hasn’t seen fit to teach Spiky-Ray to talk a proper language, this one is dead.
“I do not believe this,” Spiky-Ray says.
An entry for the ds_flashfic shed challenge
It now languishes, awaiting my imagination to get caught with it again, and also the next amnesty post. For reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, the inside of Ray's closet have been replaced by a shed that looks remarkably similar to Bob Fraser's storage shed in the big frozen afterlife.
Groaning- because, godammit, I have a buckle imprint on my forehead- I grab up the jacket and boots in a bundle, scrabble at the closet door until it opens and pitch my armload in with a grunt.
And then I pause. Because I just heard one of my boots go clang and there is no way in Hell that’s there’s anything that should be going clang in my closet.
Except that it isn’t my closet.
Oh, my closet door’s there, that’s all fine and normal. It’s the inside that’s gone all queer, because somehow it’s been replaced.
With a shed.
The next bit of Teva inaneness
Seriously. I think I need an exterminator. The complaining white one (and Chosen) on the vagrancies of the Pelagirs, big hairy things with teeth, and those funny looking chaps with the talking birds.
The thing you have to understand, see, about mine and Alexander’s Circuits is that… well. There’re actually several things, really. First off is the fact that, for some reason entirely unbeknownst to me- but probably something to do with that thing with the tent and the Royal Hunt at Greenlake that one time- we always seem to end up with one of the five major Circuits that touch in some way on the Pelagirs.
The second thing, which I know the genesis of, is that we don’t have interns on our Circuits. There’s a kind of mutual understanding between us (well, okay, myself) and the Heraldic Circle: They don’t try and make us educate the youngsters, and I won’t spend seventeen and a half candle marks telling them about swamps.
In excruciating detail.
Random Valdemar thing
Now we're getting into the things that haven't even got titles. I think this might have been conceived as a birthday present for... Sena...? maybe? Several years ago. More epic failing on my part!
At this moment in time- with her skirts sodden against her legs and her cloak doing little more than acting like a sponge- Layla was wishing fervently to be in her second home, a mug of steaming tea in her hands. Instead she was slogging slowly through the abysmal weather, making her way back from the Fairgrounds after deciding that the rain had no intention of letting up, and that the day was (in more ways than one) a complete washout.
Layla cursed as one of her feet sunk into a hidden pothole and she almost overbalanced trying to pull free. With a loud sucking sound, she managed to free the trapped limb, only to be left staring in consternation at her bare foot.
History Lesson
I'm sure I had an idea about this one. Something about reincarnation and past lives and-- something? *sigh*
For some reason, my Chosen has to do most of his cogitating in my presence whilst hanging from a tree branch by his legs. It gives me an unrivalled- and otherwise unseeable- view up his nostrils. Hopefully, by the time that he has finished his training, he will have overcome the desire to dangle from trees whilst around me. The good people of rural Valdemar do not need the opportunity to examine Hari's nasal contents.
Fragment rather interestingly titled Companion Snow-Shovel.
See, what happens is that cat_mcdougall instigates me by, I dunno, not having the sense to not talk to me at all. The first line is a throwaay comment she made. I responded with a burst of comment!fic, which I then decided to revise into something more complete. It's still comment!fic.
“And then, did the Single Mom sally forth with her trusty Companion Snow Shovel to slay the beast!”
I pause, one front hoof resting on the icy crust of the thick layer of snow coating the world around us, and turn my head far enough to direct a glare at my Chosen. :You are not funny.:
Rinda merely tucks her hands in the pockets of her quilted winter coat and grins unrepentadly at me. “You were the one who agreed to us coming to stay with my parents over Midwinter,” she points out with regretable logic. “I did warn you that the snow was bad this close to the mountains.”
Last two paragraphs of the unfinished chapter 13 of A Hyperbola of Reality.
Yes, it does actually exist.
Michael glanced sideways for the source of the voice- the Tayledras Ambassador, Shadowflame, was standing directly opposite the Gate, an expression of concentration on her face- but found his attention dragged back to the hypnotically moving colours after a bare couple of seconds. He was aware of Shadowflame out of the corner of his eye, however. This was mainly because she seemed to have a faint reflection of the twisting rainbow-images of the Gate around herself.
Rhiska eeled around the edge of the courtyard and came to stand a short distance behind Shadowflame. Although Michael didn’t hear the ratha say anything, from Shadowflame’s impatient head-shake, he gathered that Rhiska was talking to the Mage.
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Some random Dief-centric thing that I'd entirely forgotten about.
It has been a very tiring and confusing day and, as soon as he has a chance, Diefenbaker is going to be complaining. Loudly, expressively and in great detail.
As if being forced to sit in a crate in the hold of an airplane for far too many hours wasn’t bad enough, Boss-Ben then decided that they should walk from the airport. Walk.
Dief doesn’t believe Boss-Ben’s excuse about Chicago taxis not allowing wolves in the slightest.
Getting back to the apartment and discovering that it’s just a big pile of smouldering support timbers and ash? Just the cap on a thoroughly awful day.
A dS story called Twelve Days.
For some reason-- that I can't recall now, hence why this is stalled-- Ray is being stalked by someone. Said stalking is happening as daily deliveries of gifts in accordance with the Twelve Days of Christmas There is already a partridge, and ornamental pear tree, two doves, two hens and a cockerel (the stalker apparently has some problems with sexing avians), and four lovebirds (one of whom Diefenbaker is convinced is actually psychotic). There were five gourmet donuts, but they were eaten. I managed to get up to the tenth day before losing track of the plot. Clearly, I had too much time on my hands when I thought this up.
Twelve Days
The sixth day starts with a courier with a large refrigerated chest, the contents of which turn out to be one six pound goose (free range) and half a dozen goose eggs (large).
Spiky-Ray manages not to kick the poor, confused courier in the head by a sheer effort of will and, a few minutes later, both he and Dief are in the kitchen, staring at the cool box full of poultry related items.
At least, Dief says, despite the fact that Ben still hasn’t seen fit to teach Spiky-Ray to talk a proper language, this one is dead.
“I do not believe this,” Spiky-Ray says.
An entry for the ds_flashfic shed challenge
It now languishes, awaiting my imagination to get caught with it again, and also the next amnesty post. For reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, the inside of Ray's closet have been replaced by a shed that looks remarkably similar to Bob Fraser's storage shed in the big frozen afterlife.
Groaning- because, godammit, I have a buckle imprint on my forehead- I grab up the jacket and boots in a bundle, scrabble at the closet door until it opens and pitch my armload in with a grunt.
And then I pause. Because I just heard one of my boots go clang and there is no way in Hell that’s there’s anything that should be going clang in my closet.
Except that it isn’t my closet.
Oh, my closet door’s there, that’s all fine and normal. It’s the inside that’s gone all queer, because somehow it’s been replaced.
With a shed.
The next bit of Teva inaneness
Seriously. I think I need an exterminator. The complaining white one (and Chosen) on the vagrancies of the Pelagirs, big hairy things with teeth, and those funny looking chaps with the talking birds.
The thing you have to understand, see, about mine and Alexander’s Circuits is that… well. There’re actually several things, really. First off is the fact that, for some reason entirely unbeknownst to me- but probably something to do with that thing with the tent and the Royal Hunt at Greenlake that one time- we always seem to end up with one of the five major Circuits that touch in some way on the Pelagirs.
The second thing, which I know the genesis of, is that we don’t have interns on our Circuits. There’s a kind of mutual understanding between us (well, okay, myself) and the Heraldic Circle: They don’t try and make us educate the youngsters, and I won’t spend seventeen and a half candle marks telling them about swamps.
In excruciating detail.
Random Valdemar thing
Now we're getting into the things that haven't even got titles. I think this might have been conceived as a birthday present for... Sena...? maybe? Several years ago. More epic failing on my part!
At this moment in time- with her skirts sodden against her legs and her cloak doing little more than acting like a sponge- Layla was wishing fervently to be in her second home, a mug of steaming tea in her hands. Instead she was slogging slowly through the abysmal weather, making her way back from the Fairgrounds after deciding that the rain had no intention of letting up, and that the day was (in more ways than one) a complete washout.
Layla cursed as one of her feet sunk into a hidden pothole and she almost overbalanced trying to pull free. With a loud sucking sound, she managed to free the trapped limb, only to be left staring in consternation at her bare foot.
History Lesson
I'm sure I had an idea about this one. Something about reincarnation and past lives and-- something? *sigh*
For some reason, my Chosen has to do most of his cogitating in my presence whilst hanging from a tree branch by his legs. It gives me an unrivalled- and otherwise unseeable- view up his nostrils. Hopefully, by the time that he has finished his training, he will have overcome the desire to dangle from trees whilst around me. The good people of rural Valdemar do not need the opportunity to examine Hari's nasal contents.
Fragment rather interestingly titled Companion Snow-Shovel.
See, what happens is that cat_mcdougall instigates me by, I dunno, not having the sense to not talk to me at all. The first line is a throwaay comment she made. I responded with a burst of comment!fic, which I then decided to revise into something more complete. It's still comment!fic.
“And then, did the Single Mom sally forth with her trusty Companion Snow Shovel to slay the beast!”
I pause, one front hoof resting on the icy crust of the thick layer of snow coating the world around us, and turn my head far enough to direct a glare at my Chosen. :You are not funny.:
Rinda merely tucks her hands in the pockets of her quilted winter coat and grins unrepentadly at me. “You were the one who agreed to us coming to stay with my parents over Midwinter,” she points out with regretable logic. “I did warn you that the snow was bad this close to the mountains.”
Last two paragraphs of the unfinished chapter 13 of A Hyperbola of Reality.
Yes, it does actually exist.
Michael glanced sideways for the source of the voice- the Tayledras Ambassador, Shadowflame, was standing directly opposite the Gate, an expression of concentration on her face- but found his attention dragged back to the hypnotically moving colours after a bare couple of seconds. He was aware of Shadowflame out of the corner of his eye, however. This was mainly because she seemed to have a faint reflection of the twisting rainbow-images of the Gate around herself.
Rhiska eeled around the edge of the courtyard and came to stand a short distance behind Shadowflame. Although Michael didn’t hear the ratha say anything, from Shadowflame’s impatient head-shake, he gathered that Rhiska was talking to the Mage.