Keieru's ficlog

closure

2006-04-18T02:35:59Z

I suppose I should say goodbye. I barely remembered this password to get into this account.

I don't think I really grew out of slash/yaoi. Reading it still moves me, titillates me, makes me want to write more in return. But... for some reason, I'm not reading it anymore.

What to say? I bought a house near my friends. I got promoted into a position at work with more responsibilities. I took up several time-consuming social hobbies, and I moved in with a wonderful man who (amazingly) may love me even more than I love him. I just don't have time to sit and read from the screen any more.

(Though... the one thing I would wish for myself is more time to read. I haven't written anything for over a year. It startles me, when I think about it.)

Nevertheless, I'm very happy.

I wish you all the best. Thank you for sharing your words with me, and for allowing me to share mine.

the crow doth sing as sweetly

2005-03-28T04:37:47Z

Finally saw The Merchant of Venice. Better production than the reviews would have it. Relationship between Antonio and Bassanio too obvious for comment. Al Pacino surprisingly passable as Shylock; kept him from falling too badly into caricature. Joseph Fiennes surprisingly unsexy (long greasy hair totally not his style; emphasizes the fact that his puppy-dog eyes are too close together). Lynn Collins as young lad is prettier than when she's plain old Portia; unfortunate, really.

The best part of the show was Jeremy Irons, who as Antonio delivered Shakespearean language as if he were born using it and gave just the right amount of weary dignity to the character. Entire audience fell for him. Comment from Adai, as we're walking out of the theater: "If I look half that good when I'm sixty, I'll be lucky."

fic reflects life

2004-08-02T00:16:53Z

I can't find my copy of the Silmarillion. I believe Ming may have it. Cannot be arsed to go to the library/bookstore and find one. (I can't help but think that I'm getting some details wrong. It's been a while since I've read this bit.) Oh well; we'll just have to leave this the way it is.

Not so easily

Fingon's shoulder ached.

He was unfamiliar with the sensation. The Firstborn were not accustomed to pain, and strength had always come easily to him. But Thangorodrim was steep, the rocks were jagged and sharp, and Morgoth's anger clouded the very air in his lungs. Fingon was growing tired.

He heard a faint sound and cringed against the cliff face, wishing once more that his hair was not so fair. He felt himself a bright spot visible in the gloom, an inviting target crawling nakedly upwards. He clawed silently at the rock, seeking purchase, until his fingertips found a hold. He pulled himself up, his shoulder sending a warning pang down his side. His fingers were bleeding, making the rocks slippery. Fingon's lips drew back from his teeth.

Above, Maedhros dangled from the cliff face.

Maedhros should have been the one coming to the rescue; he would have been all but invisible against the granite and gloom. Maedhros's hair was dark and he had always favored shadow tones, all grays and brown leathers, unlike Fingon's leaf-hued green. Clothed this night to blend into the rocks and the darkness, Fingon felt oddly as if he'd dressed as Maedhros, assumed his cousin's colors in an attempt to bring him nearer. But that was absurd. At any rate, it had always been difficult to catch Maedhros; why should this be different?

The ascent was slow; Fingon had never liked climbing. When he and Maedhros were young, Fingon had always preferred level ground for their races. They were well matched: Fingon had been fleet of foot, but Maedhros's legs were longer. They raced often, and alone. As their fathers' sons, they had already been set apart from others. The sons of Fingolfin and of Feanor had much to answer for, in pride and blood.

Though their fathers were great men, Fingon and Maedhros had never stooped to compare them. Both were proud enough to stand on their own merits, their reach and grasp their own; Maedhros disdained the smithy, and Fingon never longed to rule. There was never a clear winner in their childhood games and it only made their bond the stronger, the two of them becoming something more than friends, closer than cousins.

"I may never best you," young Fingon had gasped one afternoon, falling limp and laughing to the grass. A simple 'best two out of three' had turned into 'best five out of seven' and beyond, the number of games extending to nine, to eleven, to fifteen, until neither could remember which was winning any longer. Maedhros had joined him on the ground, breathing hard, sunlight picking out pale tan strands in his dark hair.

"Never is a long time," Maedhros had answered, mouth slanting upwards. "Things may change. But this I swear, Fingon." He had rolled over onto his elbows, his smile changing into something else, something strange and briefly terrifying. "Though we be closer than kin, you and I, your defeat will come before mine."

Those of Feanor's line were so hasty with their promises.

"Do not swear it," Fingon had said, the more cautious even then. "Oaths should not be so lightly given."

Anger had sparked in Maedhros's dark eyes, and he sprang to his feet. "And I do not give them lightly." For a moment he and Fingon had frozen, staring. Then Maedhros had laughed, and had held out a hand to help Fingon stand. Maedhros had his father's quick rage, but he was quicker to forgive.

But it was now his father's fate that constrained Maedhros, a binding far greater, far more powerful than either of them could have imagined. Maedhros had sworn an oath on the Silmarils and was bound to obey. The promise had led him to war, to betrayal, to the killing of his own kin. It had led him down a long bloody path to the mountain from which he hung, long body slack with defeat, long arm clasped in Morgoth's pitiless steel band.

Fingon did not have to look upwards to find him. He knew where Maedhros dangled, knew it without having to look for his shadow or listen for his breathing. His eyes had spied Maedhros from afar, dark cousin pinned like an insect to the cliff, and the image had been seared into his vision. He had known then that he would scale Thangorodrim, bring Maedhros down. Fingon had not been deterred when none would aid him, when even Maedhros's own brothers were loath to attempt rescue. If necessary, he had always known that he would do this alone.

Another handhold, another pull, and Fingon's shoulder screamed.

Breath hissed between his teeth. Pain cramped his arm as if he, not Maedhros, were the one bound by the steel cuff. Fingon fought for another handhold, chanting without sound. He had never given in before, had never admitted defeat even to Maedhros, and he refused to lose to a mountain.

Fingon inched closer. Maedhros waited above.

Long years stretched between this moment and their childhood races. But time meant little to the Firstborn, the unchanging, the eternal. Let the centuries pass; no matter the distance, Maedhros would still be tall, dark, and laughing. And Fingon would still be fair-haired and swift, racing along beside him.

One more pull. The bones and sinews of his shoulder felt as if they would tear. But one more pull brought him eye to eye with Maedhros, his cousin who hung in Morgoth's chains unknowing and unaware, face drawn with something worse than despair. Lines were etched deeply into his ageless face, cut there by promises and pain, and Fingon's breath caught in his throat.

"Open your eyes," Fingon whispered. "Maedhros. I have come."

Maedhros's lashes fluttered, raised. His eyes widened. "Fingon."

The surprise in his face was delightful, a lone bright thread in the shadow. Fingon drank it in and laughed, giddy with relief and exertion.

"Oh, laugh then," Maedhros said. "Of late I have done you small favor, Fingon son of Fingolfin, and I well deserve your mockery. Have you come to see me suffer, then?" His voice changed, darkened. "Have you come to help me die?"

"I have come to help you live," Fingon corrected. "We are closer than kin, you and I, are we not?" Bracing himself against the rocks, he raised his dagger and brought it down on the chains.

The blade shattered. Fingon almost let go the cliff face in his shock. The dagger shards glittered as they fell, precious silver fragments bouncing on the rocks, fading away into night. The chain links seemed untouched.

Maedhros rasped out a laugh of his own, a rusty, bitter sound. "Did you think it would be done so easily, cousin? The chains of Morgoth are not so lightly broken."

Fingon pounded on the chains with the hilt of the dagger. The steel rattled as if laughing at him.

"It cannot be done, Fingon," Maedhros said. His voice was dull, all the joy gone from it. "They cannot be broken, not with your blade, not even with mithril. They were forged in hate and eternities of anger. The steel of Morgoth will not bend to any will of the Noldor."

"You do not know this," Fingon insisted, still hammering on the chains.

"Of course I know it. The steel eats at me every day. Morgoth himself told me these things, laughing as he bound me to the rock. Stop it. Stop it, Fingon!" Maedhros's free hand came up to grasp Fingon's wrist. "This is useless. You can do me only one favor now. And time grows short."

"Short?" Fingon glanced over his shoulder, as far as he could see without losing his grip on the rock.

"Morgoth will come," Maedhros said, impatient. "Cousin, I would not see you taken. You must leave this place."

"Yes. And I will take you with me." Fingon fought to free his own wrist, but Maedhros held it tightly.

"You cannot. Listen. The shard you hold remains sharp; it is more than enough. You must take my life."

The answer was reflexive. "Never!"

"I beg it of you, Fingon." The humbling words were said without a trace of shame. "Do not leave me here to suffer, for Morgoth to torment as he pleases. I cannot bear it. Fingon, I have asked for little. I beg this of you now."

"I cannot," Fingon whispered. "Maedhros -–"

"Cousin. Closer than kin." A terrible smile twisted his face. "Will you not aid me, Fingon?"

Fingon opened his mouth to answer, but the words strangled in his throat. Maedhros watched him, eyes black and hard.

Wind buffeted the cliff face, nearly tearing Fingon's fingers from their hold. Maedhros moaned aloud as he was flung against the rocks. Fingon glanced wildly behind him.

A glint of amber eyes; the beat of mighty wings. "Eagle-king!" Hope was a bright, sudden flame in his chest. "Thorondor, I thought you gone!"

"Go," Maedhros shouted. "Fingon, go. Kill me and have done with it, and go! You cannot save me."

"Do not speak such words to me." Fingon reversed the dagger in his hand and drove it downwards. The remaining shard of blade sheared easily through cloth and flesh and bone. Maedhros turned snow-pale as Fingon cut his arm from the steel cuff, but he did not cry out.

Fingon shoved them both away from the rock, holding tightly to Maedhros as they fell. They landed on Thorondor's broad back, the eagle lifting them free. Maedhros clutched pinions with his remaining hand, and Fingon steadied him.

As Thangorodrim receded, Fingon leaned in close, to speak into Maedhros's ear. "You are not quit of me so easily, cousin." His words were almost stolen by the wind, but they were heard.

"Indeed I am not," Maedhros said, and turned his face away.

--

rock on.

2004-08-01T17:29:20Z

I think I should rename this journal to "Keieru's ficlog and her journal for the random times when she's not on the computer that remembers her pitas password."

We went rock climbing yesterday. I can climb in indoor gyms and have been doing so for the better part of a year: great exercise, v. fun, mentally challenging (esp. on the harder routes), good for muscle tone. Also good for overcoming latent acrophobia. However, familiarity seems to have bred contempt; indoor rock climbing is not remotely the same as outdoor.

See, apparently "up high" is not the same as "up high with wind tugging your hair and pebbles shifting under your fingers." When you're clinging to the rock with nothing but fingertips and toes, shifting pebbles is a big deal. Fear clenches the muscles, weakens the grip, slows your motions. I made it to the top out of sheer stubbornness and refusal to look down, but had to sit for a long moment afterwards, wide-eyed and trembling, while my friends made fun of me.

I can't deny that there's a certain thrill to it, though. And the view from the top was amazing.

The older engineers at work are full of regrets and advice. They're in their forties, fifties, with children. They tell me that I shouldn't be working overtime while I'm in my twenties. I should be out seeing the world, gathering new experiences, savoring my freedom. I should be out looking for excitement.

Happily, that does not seem to be a problem.

...ow.

2004-06-08T11:43:33Z

...so I slipped on a wet spot this morning and fell on bathroom tile, resulting in a spectacular swelling bruise along my jaw (point of impact) and somewhat less impressive bruising down my right side.

Still dizzy. I think I'll take a sick day to catch up on all the FSTs I've downloaded but not yet listened to. And perhaps I'll think of something for iafdrabble, because those writing challenges look intriguing.

But first: it's icepack time.

Too lazy to log in to pitas

2004-03-18T03:22:08Z

When I was at my old job, I frequently complained that my brain was rotting from lack of use. Now that I'm working at a job that actually requires mental faculties, I find to my horror that I was right. My brain isn't accustomed to all this exercise. It hasn't had to think this much since college. My brain is actually tired.

Man, I'm glad I got this new job. It's worth it, long commute and all.

Coming home, I heard on the radio that Americans identified themselves with their jobs. The career becomes all-consuming, creating dutiful little drones that work fifty hours a week and refuse to take vacation time. Productivity and self-worth begin to blend together. The reporter cited the American work ethic as one of the reasons the job market was so tight; why should companies hire more people, when one worker bee can do the work of three?

The report made me uncomfortable for a moment. But I've only been working about an hour over each day. So really, I'm only doing the work of 1.12 people.

Currently catching up on half a week's worth of friendslist entries... and then I'm going to go unpack some more boxes. It's been weeks, and I still haven't finished moving in.

ah, siblings

2004-01-30T02:48:57Z

I must be getting old; this was the first winter feverchill that laid me low for more than a day or two.

Two weeks of sniffles and dizziness; the upside is that I got to spend more time with my little brother. He's adorable. He reads compulsively, plays chess, and babbles about string theory in his newly deepened voice. He does not belong to the anime club at school; he and his friends are too cool for that sort of thing. They watch digisubs. (I told him that when I was in high school, there hadn't even been an anime club. He was not impressed.)

He recognized Gravi on my bookshelf. Hey, says he, that's the one with the boy singer soap opera, right? I have a friend who likes that kind of anime.

Really, I said.

Yeah. She likes Gravitation, and Fake...

Wah. I considered. Does she like GetBackers?

No, she doesn't. She says the love isn't obvious enough.

I went O_o at him, which he found amusing.

I bet you like GetBackers, he said. You're the one who wants the love to be barely there.

How do you know that?

He shrugged. It figures, right? After all you're a big fan of Fitz and the Fool.

For someone who doesn't see me but once a month or so, my brother knows me frighteningly well.

The reason I bring up my brother is this: I tried to start watching HikaGo, but I felt that I was missing something by not knowing anything about the game. It didn't take much to convince my brother to play a couple rounds of Go. (Naturally he wiped the floor with me; he's a good strategist, and I'm terrible at board games. I become too emotionally invested to think clearly. It's the same with chess, in which I am irrationally fond of my pawns.) In return, solely to amuse him, I wrote a silly Discworld / HikaGo drabble.

The seconds ticked by, quite loud in the silence.

ER. Death scrutinized the board. LOVELY COLOR PATTERN, he offered. BLACK AND WHITE. CLASSIC.

"I suppose so," Hikaru said politely. "I never really looked at it that way before."

I LIKE THE CONTRAST. QUITE STRIKING.

"Yes."

A pause.

IT'S MY TURN, ISN'T IT.

Hikaru nodded.

CAN'T AVOID IT FOREVER, I SUPPOSE. Death looked sideways. WHAT IS IT ONE SAYS WHEN ONE WISHES TO RESIGN?

SQUEAK, replied the Death of Rats.

AH. THANK YOU. Death faced Hikaru again and lowered his skull. MAKEMASHITA.

Hikaru bowed in return. "Arigatou gozaimashita."

DON'T MENTION IT.

What can I say? It was a present. And it's got his favorite Discworld characters in.

I've actually done some pretty strange things to amuse my siblings. [cough]HP/GW bodyswitching crossover[cough]

...don't worry, I won't post that one. Yet.

hobbit fluff

2003-12-20T05:23:46Z

I saw ROTK last night. I am now constantly fighting the urge to go back and see it again. Perfectly good free fansubs to watch in the comfort of my own home, and here I am twitching to pay $9 to sit in a folding theater seat for three hours instead. What an odd thing the human mind is.

To indulge myself, I'm writing ickle hobbit fluff.

Er, spoilers for ROTK. In case there's someone out there who doesn't know how the books end.

Apples

"I want to go on an adventure," Frodo said. "Not just into Uncle Merry's woods and back, but a real adventure. The Shire's boring. I want to see what's outside!"

"No, you don't," his father said, without even looking up from his book. His father was reading slowly but with determination, a calloused fingertip following each line carefully across the page.

"You only say that because you've already been. And besides, you're old." Frodo seized the edge of the table and pulled himself up onto his tiptoes. He couldn't quite see the top of the table, but he knew that there was a dish of apples on it. He wanted one. It had been such a long time since elevenses.

Frodo's father raised his voice slightly. "Did you hear that, mother? Frodo says I'm old."

"And he's absolutely right," said Frodo's mother, coming out of the kitchen. She smelled appealingly of cinnamon and flour. Frodo ran over to bury his face in her apron, taking deep breaths of spice-flavored air. She ruffled his hair.

"Children," his father snorted, and turned a page. "No respect these days."

Frodo tried to climb up onto his father's lap, leaving white flour-prints wherever he put his hands. His feet scrabbled at his father's trousers, his toes catching at folds of fabric; his efforts were only partially successful. "Father! Why don't you want to go adventuring any more? You went so far! You saw so many places!"

"And most of those places I never want to see again," his father said with feeling.

"But you saw elves! You saw their woods!"

His father sighed, putting down the book. Sighing made his father's belly move delightfully, and Frodo poked it and laughed. His father picked up Frodo easily and dropped him onto his lap. From his new perch, Frodo could see the apples clearly, but he still couldn't quite reach them.

"Listen, Frodo-lad. When you're on an adventure, you won't have but two meals a day. And that's if you're lucky."

"Only two?" Frodo bounced a little, trying to reach the apples. "But I'll have snacks, right?"

"Not even those," his father said, holding him down. "And you won't get a warm bed at night, neither."

Frodo shrugged his opinion of that, still eyeing the apples.

"No appreciation for the comforts of home, that's what we have here," said his father, tickling him. Frodo squealed and lunged away, towards the apples.

His mother took them, the entire bowl of shiny red apples, and bore them out of reach. Frodo howled.

"Now you stop that, Frodo," his mother said. "These are for tonight's pie."

"But!"

His father plucked an apple from the pile and handed it to him. Frodo grabbed the fruit and bit into it before his mother could object.

"You'll spoil him," his mother said. She was using her stern voice but she was smiling, so Frodo decided that she couldn't be too angry. The apple was crunchy and perfect, juice squeezing tartly into his mouth. It was the best apple he had ever tasted. It would have been wasted on pie.

"I'm making him nice and fat," his father said comfortably, "so's he'll be too big to leave the Shire."

"Like you, I suppose?" She prodded his father's belly, just as Frodo had earlier. His father's laugh filled the room.

Frodo munched apple, safely held by the crook of his father's arm. "Father?"

"Yes, Frodo?"

"Can't I go see the elves?"

"Aren't any left," his father said, shrugging. "Could be that they're hiding, I suppose. But I shouldn't think there are any more, leastwise not 'round these parts. The last of them that I knew went off from their Grey Havens long ago, with the last of the Hobbiton Bagginses." And now there was a wistful note to his father's voice, something distant and strange.

Frodo squirmed a little. His father had gone too still.

His mother noticed it too. She paused to drop a kiss on his father's forehead, and combed one hand through his hair. Her fingers left white flour-streaks in the sandy curls. "But you stayed, didn't you? You stayed here, in the Shire."

His father blinked, smiled up at her. "Well, of course I did. How would you manage Elanor and young Goldilocks without me? They're absolute terrors, and Frodo too."

"Am not," Frodo protested through a mouthful of apple.

"We'll see," said his father, tickling him again.

Frodo shouted with laughter and wriggled until he escaped. He ran outside, throwing away what remained of the apple core. It was a bright, clear day, and the apple had been tasty. He could have a quick little adventure in the Party Field, and still be home in time for supper.

so very seasonal

2003-12-08T04:57:28Z

For this week's 15minuteficlets word, a tiny hpficlet.

HP, Neville-centric, G

The word: Snow.

Neville hated snow.

Oh, it was pretty, there was no doubt of that. Perhaps it was even beautiful, in the way that very dangerous things were beautiful, bright and glittering and deceptively calm.

But his parents had gone mad in the snow, cradled in ice, choking on snowflakes. They'd been surrounded by the white stillness of winter and the cruel cold laughter of their tormenters. Snow had done them no favors.

Neville hadn't been there to see it, and he would have been too young to remember it even if he had. But sometimes he wished he could have been there, if only to know the truth of it, how it happened. He wondered about it so often that sometimes it seemed that his parents had lost their minds a thousand times over, a thousand different ways, their cries and pleas for mercy echoing endlessly in his head.

Neville's imagination was especially vivid during the dead of winter, when the thick snow-filled clouds seemed to stay in the sky forever, holding him down, trapping him. When snow was predicted, he made a point of staying inside as much as possible. When he absolutely had to be outside, he did his best not to look upwards.

When he was with others, around his friends, he could forget. But late at night the images frightened him and he pushed them away, hiding under the blanket. Despite layers of bedclothes and warm heavy quilts, he still felt the chill.

--

...it would be so easy to make a blanket fic out of this.

quantity, quality

2003-12-08T04:44:26Z

So here's the thing with this year's Nanowrimo: it beat me.

Last year, you see, I won. I wrote something like 52k words in under three weeks. Absolute crap, all of it; the plot meandered and the writing sucked. I could find a worthwhile paragraph in maybe every 2 or 3 thousand words. So I put it away, and I never want to see it again.

This year, I started with high hopes. I liked my storyline, I liked my characters, all was well. I was even writing quality stuff. Two weeks in, I was dreadfully behind. When I tried to catch up, the quality deteriorated.

So I thought: screw this. I'm not going to write crap, and I'm not going to squash the inner editor any longer.

Novel is currently at 30k. Far behind by Nano standards (especially considering that we're well into December), but it's still being written. And, most importantly, I like it. Which is, of course, more important than having a lot of it.

(If you add in the school papers I cowrote during November, though, my productivity quota goes up another 8k.)

RPAF

2003-11-23T23:07:50Z

I love this recent business of RPAF. Real Person Anthropormorphic Fiction is of the same ilk as the PotC fandom's Jack/Pearl or Barbossa/Apple, and with a wonderful tongue-in-cheek hilarity to boot.

permetaform seems to have been the impetus, and has even created a list of such fic. Personally I recommend Longing (Johnny Depp / Ring), as well as this El/Gun, Sands/Gun, implied El/Guitar bit of Mexico madness.

Speaking of the delectable Mr Depp, I seem to have him mentally filed under the same category as Gackt. Too pretty and strange to be real, and therefore obviously fair game for strange and pretty fic such as Johnny/Acting slash.

nano update

2003-11-19T23:11:12Z

I am currently about 20k words behind schedule. I had pretty much given up hope, but was struck by inspiration during class. (Truly, there's nothing like lecture boredom to get the juices flowing...) Here's the miracle: I produced 8k words today.

I knew that taking a grad class would turn out to be a good idea.

In the process, I discovered that I am utterly unable to write from the viewpoint of a boy lusting after a girl. The scene was turning out clumsy and stupid, no charm or rhythm to it. I finally had to put myself in slash mentality to finish it off properly.

Ah well; the readers will never know.

out of the blue

2003-10-20T02:41:57Z

Felt like writing today. Coincidentally, it was a 15-minute ficlet Sunday.

More kid's litfic, since I just read this book and the characters have been playing around in my head...

Fandom: The Thief Lord (is there a fandom for this book? do I really want to know if there is?).

Warning: Contains spoilers.

A gifted actor, Victor Getz called him, and it was true. Scipio's new body obeyed him as well as his old one had, graceful and flowing. Except that this one was bigger, and more people noticed him.

He noticed more, too. It was as if new height had given him new eyes, a new perspective. Boniface was the brother who drew all eyes, young and sunbright and laughing, but Scipio liked to watch Prosper. Prosper liked to watch Bo like everyone else, but that only made it easier for Scipio to observe him unnoticed.

Prosper was long-legged, his cheeks still smooth. His eyes were dark, his hair was dark, and he moved quietly. Scipio thought that Prosper would make a good thief or shadow, though of course Prop wouldn't hear of such a thing. Prosper had all the morality that Bo lacked.

Prosper stayed near his brother, keeping one hand always on Bo's shoulder, on Bo's hair, hovering by his arm. Prosper also had a charming way of shaking his bangs out of his face, tucking them behind one ear. Scipio liked to notice little details like that. Scipio watched patiently as all of them grew, as Prosper grew, legs lengthening, face thinning.

One afternoon Prosper turned suddenly and marched right back to the alley where Scipio was lurking. "You're following me. What are you doing?"

"Keeping in practice," Scipio said gaily. He slid from the shadows, hiding his chagrin at being caught. "Victor had no assignments for me today, so."

Prosper rolled his eyes. "So."

"Yes. Buongiorno, Prop, fancy meeting you here. You're done with classes for the day, right? Would you like to get some coffee?"

Prosper protested, as always. But afternoon found them in a small sundrenched coffee shop with a view of Piazza San Marco, sipping from warmed cups.

"Scip," Prosper said suddenly.

"Yes?" Scipio looked up, but Prosper was staring upwards, at the winged lion on its stone column. "What is it?"

"That day, on the merry-go-round... I didn't get on."

Scipio looked narrowly at him. Prosper's long fingers were curled tightly around the coffee cup. "No, you didn't."

"I left you alone." Prosper took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

Scipio took a moment to process this, and then he laughed aloud. It was a deep booming laugh, his father's laugh, and it made Prosper jump. "Two years it took you to say this?"

Prosper looked directly at him. "Yes. I'm sorry, Scipio."

"Well, don't be. You're not the one who left, Prop. You stayed where you were supposed to. I just went ahead a little, that's all. No need for apologies." He shook his head. "Anyway, if it's growing you want, you've plenty of time to catch up."

Prosper's mouth curved upwards, just a little. "You would wait for me?"

Scipio leaned forward and curved his fingers around Prosper's, so that the cup warmed both their hands. "As long as I need to."

If I keep slashing children's literature, I'm going to look like some sort of perverted character. Oh wait...

the ficcing impulse

2003-10-17T02:09:44Z

It's been a long while since I've ficced. I mean, I'm still keeping up with things; I've been avidly reading other people's fic, and reccing it, and sometimes even bothering to write feedback. And I've been writing original scribbles, here and there. But I haven't written any fanfic for... oh, ages and ages. Scary, really. Somewhere along the line, the impulse faded.

And somehow, it makes me feel like less of a fan.

(Today's entry was brought to you by: a lovely bit of fb I received, for the HPfic I wrote almost two years ago.)

15-minute ficlet #7

2003-06-20T21:18:57Z

I figured I ought to do this week's 15-minute ficlet before the weekend, seeing as I'm going to get a book in the mail tomorrow.

Harry Potter, total G

(sign)

"It has to be around here somewhere," said James. He shoved his glasses up higher on his nose, then continued inspecting the floor.

"Did he say what it would look like?" Remus was regarding the walls with narrowed eyes.

"He wouldn't strand us here, would he?" Peter said. His voice was high and worried. "Would he?"

"Good question." James paused and looked up at Remus. "Would he?"

Remus considered. "We haven't done anything to him recently. He shouldn't have any cause to be angry with us. Any cause that I know of, that is." He looked over at Peter.

"I didn't do anything," Peter assured them.

"Then, logically, he must have left us a sign. We're just missing it."

The three of them looked around again. The classroom was quiet, featureless, and utterly without doors.

"Oh, what a great idea. 'How will we find the way out, Sirius?' 'Don't worry, I'll leave a sign.'" Peter snorted, but his face was taut with stress. "Leave it to Sirius Black to mess things up. No one even knows we're here."

"Easy there," said James, giving him a reassuring smile. James Potter was the sort of person who could look confident and reassuring even on his knees, robe smudged, dust gray in his messy hair. "We're just not looking in the right place. If Sirius wanted to pull a prank on us, he'd make sure we knew what for."

"Of course," Remus said, and began probing at the stone wall with his wand.

Peter fumed and halfheartedly shoved aside a few desks. His stomach was beginning to growl.

"Stupid idea," he muttered. "I'm sure there are better ways to make a room private than to take away all the doors. This is like a cell."

"Maybe we're going about it the wrong way," Remus said, giving up on the wall. "Maybe it's a spell. If I were Sirius, how would I make a sign?"

James laughed. "You're asking me to think like Sirius? Ask for the moon while you're at it. Er." He blushed suddenly. "Oh, Remus, I didn't mean -"

"That's all right," Remus said quickly. "Maybe it's a spell, I mean. Peter? Any ideas?"

"If I had ideas I would have shared them long ago," Peter said. "I'm hungry. I wonder what's for dinner?"

A quiver of magic ran through the room, and they all jumped.

"That's the sign. Say it again," Remus commanded.

"What? 'I wonder what's for dinner'?"

Quiver.

Remus laughed. "'I wonder what's for dinner,' indeed. Chicken soup?"

Yet another quiver, stronger this time.

"I wonder what's for dinner," James said loudly and clearly. "Roast beef and potatoes? A big side of ham? Turkey casserole!"

The magic was growing. It had the distinct feel of Sirius to it, all mischief and mocking laughter.

"Yorkshire pudding," Remus contributed. "Pumpkin pie."

At the mention of pie, the magic coalesced into a single spot.

"It's dessert he wants! Devil's food cake!" Peter cried. "Apple tart! Chocolate pudding!"

The magic gathered even more tightly, and at the mention of the last dessert, it burst. It left behind a door.

James grabbed the knob and turned, opening the door to reveal a smirking Sirius. "What kind of sign d'you call that?" James demanded.

Sirius shrugged. "Made sense. You'd want to leave when you got hungry. Want to visit the kitchens?"

"Yes," Peter said, and ran for it.

(End)

15-minute ficlet

2003-06-14T04:38:05Z

heinous_bitca has been suggesting weekly words for 15-minute ficlets, any fandom. How cool is that? I'm jumping in at word #6.

Dark is Rising, mild R

(fantasy)

Bran closed the door. He didn't need to lock it. Owen Davies never came in without knocking, and at any rate the point was moot, as Owen was out on the hills with the sheep. Still. Closing the door gave Bran a sense of privacy, though he left the window open to the afternoon sun.

His bed was precisely made, and Bran was equally precise about putting aside his clothes as he undressed. He folded his pants and gave his shirt a neat shake as he draped it over the back of his chair. Underpants were placed on the chair seat, socks in a neat row beside his shoes, dark glasses on the bedside table, and finally Bran settled naked atop the covers of the bed. Anything worth doing was worth doing right, and what was the benefit in jacking off if you weren't going to do it in comfort?

He took a breath, let it out, wriggled a little on the blanket. Deliberately, he moved one hand down his side, over his stomach. His body reacted. Fifteen-year-old bodies knew what they wanted. Pretty Jenny Drew was what Bran wanted, but good Welsh boys didn't go where they weren't welcome, and though Jane smiled at him and sometimes held his hand, they both knew – no more, not yet. Not yet.

So, for now, this would have to do: Bran Davies, sprawled alone and comfortable on the afternoon warmth of his bed, hands skimming over his body, reaching between his thighs.

He did not think of Jane; that would cheapen her, and he would not allow it. Besides, he needed no such aid. Bran knew what he was about.

He started slowly, one hand closing lightly around his own familiar shape. He moved his hand leisurely up and down, fingers lingering, taking his time. His eyes slid shut. Warmth crept through him, curled in his stomach, reached tendrils into his head. He felt oddly as if a door was being unlocked. Behind the darkness of his eyelids, a tree flowered into being, blossoms falling like snowflakes.

He had seen the tree before, Bran realized, his hand moving with more purpose. He held the image delicately, vowing that this time he would keep it, this time he would remember, even after...

A golden harp, small and fragile, glittering with power. An endless hall of mirrors, stretching into terrifying infinity. A kingly man with artisan's hands, bent and old with despair.

His breath was beginning to come more harshly, and he was using both hands now. He told himself to slow down, make it last. But it was hard to resist. With every stroke, the memories came stronger, brighter, brimming over.

Cafall's wise blue eyes. The white skull of a horse. Will Stanton's face, ancient with knowledge.

Bran's hands tightened, moved urgently. His body trembled even as his mind groped for more. He kept his eyes closed.

A sword, fiery and eager, fitting perfectly in his hands. Six quartered circles, ominous and cold. Magic racing quicksilver through his veins, tingling in his fingertips. A tall bearded man at the prow of a ship, looking back at him with smiling eyes.

Bran was drowning in memory, breathless with it. He tensed, arched, fought for air. Sparks seared his vision and whiteness washed his mind.

When he opened his eyes, content and sated and already thinking about cleaning himself up, he remembered nothing at all.

(End)

...figures; in my head, the word "fantasy" related quite clearly to the fic, but it didn't even appear once in all the blathering. Ah well. Maybe next time.

keieru @ 2001-05-27T13:33:00

2001-05-27T17:35:48Z

I got a livejournal for the company. I actually already have another journal here, on pitas. Let's see how long I can keep up this dual existence...

(Not very long, I bet. This thing is so cute! And there's a convenient little client and everything, and and and... I feel like a traitor. Oy. My poor neglected pita...)