Timestamp writing game!
All right, dudes. Get ready, for I seem to (briefly) be back in the land of the fannish! I've posted an update to Words and stones this week, written a couple thousand words of my Super Fun White Collar Caper today, and I've spent the last three hours time-lining another story on post-it notes.
I am en fuego right now, so let's play the ( Read more... )
I am en fuego right now, so let's play the ( Read more... )
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Making passes
He knows exactly who she is, right from the start. Not the details, no, of course not-- but he could see the broad sweep of things. His job is in the details, so it's not like he's singling her out.
(This is what he reminds himself when he starts his running list of things he knows about her:
1. She's young for her program, very young, so: painfully bright and used to waiting for everyone else in the room to catch up. Being wrong makes her embarrassed, and being embarrassed makes her angry. (See below for further elaboration on this point.)
2. American studying in Paris reads as: (a) romantic, (b) politically disillusioned, (c) nostalgic for something that hasn't yet happened, or (d) bitten with wanderlust. He'd bet it's combination of all four, with a heavy emphasis on (d).
3. She gets angry easily, open and flashing with a slight air of martyrdom which should be far more unattractive than it is. Analysis: she feels put-upon by something. Many younger siblings, perhaps? ( ... )
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"Oh, excellent, excellent," said McKay, elbow deep in the guts of the puddlejumper's console, "just what we needed, your horde of admiring teeney-boppers. I'm sure that will make my work go much faster," he said, viciously twisting a coil of wire into submission as the sound of giggling drifted in the open doors.
"Look," said Sheppard, glancing back over his shoulder in a cool, not-at-all-freaked-out way, "what did you want me to do? Tell them to buzz off? They're just kids, McKay."
"Bzzt, wrong, Colonel," McKay said. He extracted his hand from the puddlejumper's innards. "Thanks for playing. They're not-- hand me the-- no, no, the other-- yeah, that, thanks." He scootched until his head and shoulders were underneath the pilot's console. "They're not," he continued, voice only slightly muffled, "just kids. They're teenage girls, the most vicious and terrifying species on this or any other planet. And for whatever reason, they have fixated on youSheppard's face went very, very blank, and somewhere, ( ... )
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"Rodney," Sheppard said, and slapped a hand over McKay's mouth. "Let's be nice to our hosts," he gritted, thinking about the negotiations he was going to have to sit through with a bunch of paranoid aliens just to get access to the damn gate, never mind dealing with an insult to the Chairman's only kid. Which--
Wait.
"Sorry," he said, and kept his hand tight over McKay's mouth. "He's-- I think you're right," Sheppard said, looking earnestly at Hallis. "Dr. McKay is very sick ( ... )
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Okay, now I read the second bit. Makes perfect sense. The Hair is indeed a rebel yell. Great stuff! And yes, the perfect band name!
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from Laurel King (laurel.king@gmail.com)
to Ariadne Greer (ajgreer@orange.fr)
date Fri, August 27, 2010 at 13:42.
subject Earth to Ariadne...Hello, hello ( ... )
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to Ariadne Greer (ajgreer@orange.fr)
date Sat, August 28, 2010 at 19:58.
subject Ahem. Don't think I didn't notice.
Airport guy. Spill it.
Also. Your address, please, or I will not send you one of my super-classy thank-you notes. You know you want one.
Also also, re: silver picture frames. I have thirty-seven, Ariadne. Thirty-seven! That's lots! What the hell am I supposed to do with thirty-seven silver plated picture frames, some of which have Bible verses inscribed on them? Dave's Jewish! And I'm undeclared! And now I have to write thank-you notes and sound sincerely grateful to have received them.
(I have pictures of Montreal. I will put them up on Facebook if you do not provide the pertinent information.)
Laurel
from Ariadn Greer (ajgreer@orange.fr)
to Laurel King (laurel.king@gmail.com)
date Sun, August 29, 2010 at 17:21.
subject This is blackmail, you bitch.Yes, I called him ( ... )
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It wasn't a far walk to the Banco Hipotecario from the plaza-- just a straight shot up Reconquista-- but she would have to hurry if she wanted there to be any decent light for photographs of the exterior.
Ariadne put the lens cap on the camera, zipped it up into the bag, and set off at a brisk pace across the cobblestones from the Pyramid. She'd spent longer at Plaza de Mayo than she'd meant, really, but there was something bubbling in her head now, maybe a chapter on the spacial dimensions of power and powerlessness. There was something there, something about the experience of white headscarves painted over top of a colonial foundation--
Her phone buzzed in her pocket before she reached Avenida Rivadavia. She pulled it out, stopping short when she saw the number.
It had been months since she had heard from Cobb, and that had been a just a quick and breezy email to touch base. Ariadne fumbled for the talk button, and moved to sit down on a nearby bench ( ... )
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::pokes brain::
What the hell, psyche? Is there something I'm supposed to get out of this?
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