tweet me baby one more time
Yeah, I have a Twitter.
Well, I've had a Twitter for a while now, but I am actually planning on using it this time. Hopefully. We shall see. Tell me who y'all are so I can follow you! and if someone named puellanerdii starts following you, it's me. As, er, you might expect.
Also, here is the post-one-line-from-all-of-your-WIPs meme thingummy. The only ones included on here are things that are mine, not mine-and-Mith's, and this is only the stuff I've touched over the past year or so. They are ordered roughly in terms of how likely I am to finish them -- the stuff at the top I almost certainly will write, the ones at the bottom -- not so much. Some of it's origfic, some of it's fanfic. (I will answer questions about all of them, however.)
"We do not speak of Berlusconi at the dinner table!"
“I’m home,” he calls as he steps into the foyer, but he is not greeted by the patter of little feet this time, by America hurtling down the stairs to fling himself into England’s arms or by Canada standing on tiptoe to embrace him.
When America rolls out of bed, he feels-okay.
"Hey, Lithuania, have I showed you Lake Michigan yet?"
It is depressing how well I can articulate this, but then again, I’m not saying anything that everyone doesn’t already know.
The sinews in his hand flex, and each finger twists in such a way, in sequence, that Gemma thinks of a wave curling.
Lady Morgana clutches Gwen’s forearms, sobbing “Fire” until she runs out of voice to do it with, and her nails rake Gwen’s skin, her fingers press in and squeeze enough to bruise. Not like glass after all, Gwen thinks. Like diamond.
“Your life isn’t a farce. There’s not enough slapstick,” he says, though he does give the falling manuscripts a disparaging look.
James remembers Sevien on the periphery of his childhood.
India is well enough during the winter months-heavenly, compared to the dank cold of home-but she transforms during the summer, and Arthur has not let learned to negotiate her changes.
.
Well, I've had a Twitter for a while now, but I am actually planning on using it this time. Hopefully. We shall see. Tell me who y'all are so I can follow you! and if someone named puellanerdii starts following you, it's me. As, er, you might expect.
Also, here is the post-one-line-from-all-of-your-WIPs meme thingummy. The only ones included on here are things that are mine, not mine-and-Mith's, and this is only the stuff I've touched over the past year or so. They are ordered roughly in terms of how likely I am to finish them -- the stuff at the top I almost certainly will write, the ones at the bottom -- not so much. Some of it's origfic, some of it's fanfic. (I will answer questions about all of them, however.)
"We do not speak of Berlusconi at the dinner table!"
“I’m home,” he calls as he steps into the foyer, but he is not greeted by the patter of little feet this time, by America hurtling down the stairs to fling himself into England’s arms or by Canada standing on tiptoe to embrace him.
When America rolls out of bed, he feels-okay.
"Hey, Lithuania, have I showed you Lake Michigan yet?"
It is depressing how well I can articulate this, but then again, I’m not saying anything that everyone doesn’t already know.
The sinews in his hand flex, and each finger twists in such a way, in sequence, that Gemma thinks of a wave curling.
Lady Morgana clutches Gwen’s forearms, sobbing “Fire” until she runs out of voice to do it with, and her nails rake Gwen’s skin, her fingers press in and squeeze enough to bruise. Not like glass after all, Gwen thinks. Like diamond.
“Your life isn’t a farce. There’s not enough slapstick,” he says, though he does give the falling manuscripts a disparaging look.
James remembers Sevien on the periphery of his childhood.
India is well enough during the winter months-heavenly, compared to the dank cold of home-but she transforms during the summer, and Arthur has not let learned to negotiate her changes.
.