Gal Pal Fic Week
I was thinking the other day about last year's magnificent Thelma and Louise Do Outer Space Ficathon and how fantastic it was to have all that fic about women's friendships. And, y'know, there should always be more of that sort of fic. Consequently, I'm declaring this week Gal Pal Fic Week--at least for myself, but it would be great fun if some of y'all decided to play along. This is in no way, shape, or form a ficathon, as I have neither time nor energy to run one. But I've had a few fic ideas about women's friendships floating around in my head--enough that it seemed worth making a theme.
There are no rules for Gal Pal Fic Week. Basically, I just plan to write these ideas I've had. But I suppose we could turn it into a bit of a meme: I'm welcoming drabble prompts for women characters you know I write. And feel free to declare it Gal Pal Fic Week in your own journal, if you so desire, either by writing fic of your own choosing or by soliciting prompts.
And to get things going, a little unbetaed BSG ficlet (the first of my fic ideas): Elosha and Laura, late season 1 between "The Hand of God" and "Kobol's Last Gleaming, part 2."
***
Her days are filled with funerals, hundreds of thousands of prayers for the dead. There are billions more with no one left to remember them. Elosha tries to pray for the nameless ones, but her mind can't fathom the scale of them, and the words stick in her throat. She understands why Laura counts the living instead.
She boards another ship and steps into the throng of people clutching her dress, thrusting names and photographs into her hands, begging for comfort. Comfort is in short supply in the fleet.
All this has happened before and will happen again, she intones, and the people nod, complacent, accepting their place in the cycle of time. She wants to ask the Gods why-what could be the purpose of such tragedy, repeated for all eternity-but her grasp on hope is so tenuous she dares not entertain doubt.
It's quiet back on Colonial One, but the cries of the survivors still ring in her ears, drowning out the gaping silence of the numberless dead. Laura lights a candle and takes Elosha's hand, and here is hope and comfort, such as it exists.
Laura stumbles over the prayer, the words new and untried on her tongue. Elosha knows them by heart, but hears them now as if for the first time, from the mouth of Pythia herself.
"Thank you for teaching me this," Laura says as she extinguishes the candles and starts to brew them tea, and Elosha thinks, "I didn't," but merely nods instead. They drink tea and share stories, and when Laura giggles unpresidentially, Elosha feels a grin break out on her own face and it's the first time she's smiled in months.
There are no rules for Gal Pal Fic Week. Basically, I just plan to write these ideas I've had. But I suppose we could turn it into a bit of a meme: I'm welcoming drabble prompts for women characters you know I write. And feel free to declare it Gal Pal Fic Week in your own journal, if you so desire, either by writing fic of your own choosing or by soliciting prompts.
And to get things going, a little unbetaed BSG ficlet (the first of my fic ideas): Elosha and Laura, late season 1 between "The Hand of God" and "Kobol's Last Gleaming, part 2."
***
Her days are filled with funerals, hundreds of thousands of prayers for the dead. There are billions more with no one left to remember them. Elosha tries to pray for the nameless ones, but her mind can't fathom the scale of them, and the words stick in her throat. She understands why Laura counts the living instead.
She boards another ship and steps into the throng of people clutching her dress, thrusting names and photographs into her hands, begging for comfort. Comfort is in short supply in the fleet.
All this has happened before and will happen again, she intones, and the people nod, complacent, accepting their place in the cycle of time. She wants to ask the Gods why-what could be the purpose of such tragedy, repeated for all eternity-but her grasp on hope is so tenuous she dares not entertain doubt.
It's quiet back on Colonial One, but the cries of the survivors still ring in her ears, drowning out the gaping silence of the numberless dead. Laura lights a candle and takes Elosha's hand, and here is hope and comfort, such as it exists.
Laura stumbles over the prayer, the words new and untried on her tongue. Elosha knows them by heart, but hears them now as if for the first time, from the mouth of Pythia herself.
"Thank you for teaching me this," Laura says as she extinguishes the candles and starts to brew them tea, and Elosha thinks, "I didn't," but merely nods instead. They drink tea and share stories, and when Laura giggles unpresidentially, Elosha feels a grin break out on her own face and it's the first time she's smiled in months.