5 Fics Meme
Nov. 19th, 2008 10:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
garnigalTagged by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spiralleds
Sometimes it's ok to pimp yourself out. Post a list of your top five fic-favorites you've written, regardless of fandom or the reason you love them. This isn't about the BEST things you've written, but what you LOVE most.
When I first got tagged with this, I asked if drabbles were okay. I thought that that was all I'd written. Turns out there's a lot more on my flash drive than I remembered. :)
Suspension of Disbelief - Veronica Mars. I love the trade off between their thoughts in this. I like how they are thinking basically the same things, but each has a distinct voice.
Rock the Boat - Veronica Mars. The line about Lilly capsizing the boat always makes me smile, despite the dark subject matter.
Survivor - BtVS. I love playing with the unnamed minor characters. And it turns out I didn't post this one anywhere but in Last Joss Author Standing, so .... new fic!
The world almost ended today.
She stood in a hotel bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. The room was filled with steam, but she hadn’t yet stepped beneath the hot water to soothe aching muscles and wash away the scent of battle and death.
The world almost ended today, and she needed a moment to process.
She knew there was nothing to hear but the water falling against the tub. She knew there was nothing to smell but the clean floral of her roommate’s shampoo. She knew there was nothing to feel but the slippery tiles. She knew there was nothing to taste but the mint toothpaste. She knew there was nothing to see but her own reflection.
And yet she kept hearing growls and screams of pain. She kept smelling blood and sweat. She kept feeling uneven dirt and tasting dust and fear. She kept looking over her shoulder for enemies and friends.
The world almost ended today, and she was understandably freaked out.
She’d expected to find a tangible mark of change. She’d expected to see new muscles and at least three extra inches of height. She’d expected to see Slayer writ large on her forehead.
There was nothing.
There was no sign of newfound strength and purpose. No sign of the injuries she’d taken earlier today. No sign of the unnatural evil she’d learned of over the past few months.
The world almost ended today, and no one even knew.
She finally stepped into the shower, letting the pounding water close out everything beyond her fingertips. She could feel the tension in her back and shoulders easing, her body slowly relaxing.
She could feel the cold hard knot of grief and disbelief in her throat loosening.
She sank to her knees, sobbing out her sorrow and guilt.
The world almost ended today, but she survived.
Lockpick - Firefly. I was really happy with River's dialogue in this. She's so freaking hard to get to sound right.
Rule #7 - Firefly. I like this because it's funny, and because it really represents my style, with the repetition and the short choppy sentences.
There are so many more that I loved as I reread. And then I read the over 60 pages of drabbles I've written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
open_on_sunday and couldn't resist reposting my 5 favourite drabbles.
Somewhere Else, - July 10, ‘05 - I love writing Dana, though I don't know why.
Sometimes she came back to herself. Sometimes she knew she was in the white room with the padded walls, with the doctors and nurses who drugged her to make her safe.
Usually, though, she was somewhere else. Somewhere like an empty house filled with the smell of blood, a dark, terrifying basement with a dark, terrifying man. A subway train in New York, a shadowed forest in Romania, a temple in China, a perverse underground church in California, one city after another, one town much like the last. Places always filled with
danger and enemies.
It was never anywhere good.
Lullaby – Aug 14, ‘05 - Gotta love Can-con!
Tracking deserters from the Senior Partner’s demonic army, Angel and Spike found themselves stuck for the day in a crappy motel in Hamilton. They mostly ignored each other, only interacting to argue. Angel retreated into his book while Spike flipped through the t.v. channels for the eighth time.
The tinny sound of a recorder came from crappy speakers. After the constant flipping, the thought of Spike actually selecting a show drew Angel’s attention. He looked at the screen, to the transfixed vamp, then back to the screen.
“Spike?”
Spike grunted, but didn’t turn.
“What the hell is ‘The Friendly Giant’?”
Serenity – Oct 2, ‘05 - Couldn't resist the crossover, and loved how this quintuple drabble turned out.
Mal’s not really a thoughtful man. He always has a plan, it’s true, but he doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking. But for some reason, this fable from Earth-That-Was really got his wheels turning.
He visualizes a girl. At first she looks an awful lot like Kaylee. Then the image thins out and is more like River. Eventually his imagination gets going, and she’s a girl all her own. Kaylee’s perk, River’s violence, Zoe’s knowledge, Inara’s wisdom, and a spark that none of them can match.
In his head he calls her Buffy, like the girl in the story.
************************************************************************
Since he first imagined her, he’s thought about her a lot. She’s gotten clearer in his mind – she’s pale and beautiful now, her blonde hair glinting, always lit by the moon and stars.
He’s dreamed about watching her fight. He’s spent a lot of time imagining her opponents. What do demons look like, anyway? In his fantasies, they all look like Reavers. But instead of running away, she throws herself into the breach, keeping the people safe in their bunks.
She’s a hero. She doesn’t bitch about it, she doesn’t bemoan her fate. She just saves the world. A lot.
************************************************************************
His dreams have changed some now. She still fights, spins, kicks, looks like a gorram dancer even as she kills – slays – but now he’s the thing she fights. They’ve gone after each other with fists and feet, guns blazing, even the blessed sword he used on that bastard who tried to keep Inara. Buffy was much better with a sword than he was; that time she almost had him.
They’ve played all this time. Sometimes he’s on top, sometimes she is, but whoever is winning always eases up at the last minute. He’d say they’re dancing, but that seems obvious.
************************************************************************
He has a bad feeling. He hasn’t dreamed of Buffy in a week, but as his eyes close tonight, he knows he’ll dream of his Slayer.
She’s there.
He’s there.
She has an axe and a feral grin.
This is not good.
He says some stuff he doesn’t understand, in an accent not his own. She mouths off back.
And they fight.
It’s to the death this time. He knows.
Just before the big axe cuts him in two, time stops. She sees him and tears come to her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mal. But this is how it goes.”
Pain.
Red – Feb 12, ‘06 - Another multiple drabble. I liked how the colours tied it all together and the graphic desciptions of Angelus's depradations.
The sign was white.
Or rather, it should have been white. At night, it was a beacon in the darkness. One of the few places that stayed open 24 hours, George’s was Buffy’s favourite place to stop on her way home from patrolling.
Only a few weeks ago, she would have been stopping here with Angel.
She’d have lingered over selecting a chocolate bar, drawing out her time with her boyfriend. Their eyes would meet and Buffy would blush at the depth of emotion she saw.
Instead, she stared up at the red sign, George’s blood dripping onto the pavement.
*********
Like there wasn’t enough red already, the police cars came screaming up, lights spinning frantically.
She was too far away to hear what the cops were saying. It didn’t matter anyway; their horrified and nauseous expressions were far more eloquent than any words could be.
She watched the cops busily work the scene. She thought that the red strobes made them look more like victims than protectors.
It took hours, but eventually they removed George, packed up their evidence and left.
She shivered once or twice, but she stayed until they turned the sign off and the red was gone.
******************
She didn’t sleep anymore.
Sleep left her vulnerable. Not to Angelus himself, but the dreams he’d inspired with his bloody tour of all their old haunts.
He’d left a dead kitten in her locker. He’d left a dismembered puppy in the library.
He’d left bodies in every cemetery in town, in places where they’d once shared passionate kisses.
He’d left Miss Calendar in Giles’s bed.
Her subconscious had plenty of material to create dreams from, yet she still kept seeing the same thing whenever she closed her eyes: the sign at George’s being slowly covered with blood.
So much red.
Elvis Songs – Nov 19, ’06 - Mmmm, Faith. I very rarely write Faith, but I try my hand at it occaisionally formarried_n_mich. I thought this turned out really well.
Nothing could touch her, nothing could hurt her.
She didn’t mind getting bruised, didn’t mind getting cut. It couldn’t really break her.
She was cold.
But he... he was warm. Soft. Gentle eyes, floppy hair, compassion dripping from every pore. Along with the lust, of course.
She could feel the ice melting, his warmth seeping into her. So she ignored the eyes, the hair, the compassion. Focused on the lust.
Turned warm to hot. Turned soft to hard. Made his eyes roll back in his head, plastered his hair to his scalp.
Tried to choke the compassion out of him.
China – Feb 18, ’07 Oh, my poor sweet Wesley, to quote The Princess Bride. He's so broken and so adorable in this.
He only used it once a year, on her birthday. It sat at the back of the cupboard otherwise, behind his everyday mugs and plates.
It was part of a set. He'd taken it from the box in the attic just before he left for California. He'd gone up for luggage and come down with this.
It was his mother's teacup. Fine bone china, perfect except for a chip on the rim. That's how he knew it was hers.
He filled the cup halfway. He topped it up with gin, just as she'd always done.
"Happy returns, Mother," Wesley said.
Apr 20, ’08 – Mix - One last Dana drabble, with a little bit of everyone tossed in.
She was from:
Kyoto.
Lima.
Houston.
Hamburg.
Nairobi.
They were from everywhere.
She was:
an only child.
the eldest of nine.
a twin.
adopted.
an orphan.
They were sisters.
She was fifteen.
She was twelve.
She was eighteen.
She was twenty-one.
She was only seven.
They fought. They bled.
They died.
And every night, in the shattered mind of a lost child, they lived once more. They blended into one another, combined with her. Mixed her up.
She was Dana. She was from Los Angeles. Her family had been murdered. She’d been taken.
She was a Slayer.
She was them.
spiralledsSometimes it's ok to pimp yourself out. Post a list of your top five fic-favorites you've written, regardless of fandom or the reason you love them. This isn't about the BEST things you've written, but what you LOVE most.
When I first got tagged with this, I asked if drabbles were okay. I thought that that was all I'd written. Turns out there's a lot more on my flash drive than I remembered. :)
Suspension of Disbelief - Veronica Mars. I love the trade off between their thoughts in this. I like how they are thinking basically the same things, but each has a distinct voice.
Rock the Boat - Veronica Mars. The line about Lilly capsizing the boat always makes me smile, despite the dark subject matter.
Survivor - BtVS. I love playing with the unnamed minor characters. And it turns out I didn't post this one anywhere but in Last Joss Author Standing, so .... new fic!
The world almost ended today.
She stood in a hotel bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. The room was filled with steam, but she hadn’t yet stepped beneath the hot water to soothe aching muscles and wash away the scent of battle and death.
The world almost ended today, and she needed a moment to process.
She knew there was nothing to hear but the water falling against the tub. She knew there was nothing to smell but the clean floral of her roommate’s shampoo. She knew there was nothing to feel but the slippery tiles. She knew there was nothing to taste but the mint toothpaste. She knew there was nothing to see but her own reflection.
And yet she kept hearing growls and screams of pain. She kept smelling blood and sweat. She kept feeling uneven dirt and tasting dust and fear. She kept looking over her shoulder for enemies and friends.
The world almost ended today, and she was understandably freaked out.
She’d expected to find a tangible mark of change. She’d expected to see new muscles and at least three extra inches of height. She’d expected to see Slayer writ large on her forehead.
There was nothing.
There was no sign of newfound strength and purpose. No sign of the injuries she’d taken earlier today. No sign of the unnatural evil she’d learned of over the past few months.
The world almost ended today, and no one even knew.
She finally stepped into the shower, letting the pounding water close out everything beyond her fingertips. She could feel the tension in her back and shoulders easing, her body slowly relaxing.
She could feel the cold hard knot of grief and disbelief in her throat loosening.
She sank to her knees, sobbing out her sorrow and guilt.
The world almost ended today, but she survived.
Lockpick - Firefly. I was really happy with River's dialogue in this. She's so freaking hard to get to sound right.
Rule #7 - Firefly. I like this because it's funny, and because it really represents my style, with the repetition and the short choppy sentences.
There are so many more that I loved as I reread. And then I read the over 60 pages of drabbles I've written for
open_on_sunday and couldn't resist reposting my 5 favourite drabbles.Somewhere Else, - July 10, ‘05 - I love writing Dana, though I don't know why.
Sometimes she came back to herself. Sometimes she knew she was in the white room with the padded walls, with the doctors and nurses who drugged her to make her safe.
Usually, though, she was somewhere else. Somewhere like an empty house filled with the smell of blood, a dark, terrifying basement with a dark, terrifying man. A subway train in New York, a shadowed forest in Romania, a temple in China, a perverse underground church in California, one city after another, one town much like the last. Places always filled with
danger and enemies.
It was never anywhere good.
Lullaby – Aug 14, ‘05 - Gotta love Can-con!
Tracking deserters from the Senior Partner’s demonic army, Angel and Spike found themselves stuck for the day in a crappy motel in Hamilton. They mostly ignored each other, only interacting to argue. Angel retreated into his book while Spike flipped through the t.v. channels for the eighth time.
The tinny sound of a recorder came from crappy speakers. After the constant flipping, the thought of Spike actually selecting a show drew Angel’s attention. He looked at the screen, to the transfixed vamp, then back to the screen.
“Spike?”
Spike grunted, but didn’t turn.
“What the hell is ‘The Friendly Giant’?”
Serenity – Oct 2, ‘05 - Couldn't resist the crossover, and loved how this quintuple drabble turned out.
Mal’s not really a thoughtful man. He always has a plan, it’s true, but he doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking. But for some reason, this fable from Earth-That-Was really got his wheels turning.
He visualizes a girl. At first she looks an awful lot like Kaylee. Then the image thins out and is more like River. Eventually his imagination gets going, and she’s a girl all her own. Kaylee’s perk, River’s violence, Zoe’s knowledge, Inara’s wisdom, and a spark that none of them can match.
In his head he calls her Buffy, like the girl in the story.
************************************************************************
Since he first imagined her, he’s thought about her a lot. She’s gotten clearer in his mind – she’s pale and beautiful now, her blonde hair glinting, always lit by the moon and stars.
He’s dreamed about watching her fight. He’s spent a lot of time imagining her opponents. What do demons look like, anyway? In his fantasies, they all look like Reavers. But instead of running away, she throws herself into the breach, keeping the people safe in their bunks.
She’s a hero. She doesn’t bitch about it, she doesn’t bemoan her fate. She just saves the world. A lot.
************************************************************************
His dreams have changed some now. She still fights, spins, kicks, looks like a gorram dancer even as she kills – slays – but now he’s the thing she fights. They’ve gone after each other with fists and feet, guns blazing, even the blessed sword he used on that bastard who tried to keep Inara. Buffy was much better with a sword than he was; that time she almost had him.
They’ve played all this time. Sometimes he’s on top, sometimes she is, but whoever is winning always eases up at the last minute. He’d say they’re dancing, but that seems obvious.
************************************************************************
He has a bad feeling. He hasn’t dreamed of Buffy in a week, but as his eyes close tonight, he knows he’ll dream of his Slayer.
She’s there.
He’s there.
She has an axe and a feral grin.
This is not good.
He says some stuff he doesn’t understand, in an accent not his own. She mouths off back.
And they fight.
It’s to the death this time. He knows.
Just before the big axe cuts him in two, time stops. She sees him and tears come to her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mal. But this is how it goes.”
Pain.
Red – Feb 12, ‘06 - Another multiple drabble. I liked how the colours tied it all together and the graphic desciptions of Angelus's depradations.
The sign was white.
Or rather, it should have been white. At night, it was a beacon in the darkness. One of the few places that stayed open 24 hours, George’s was Buffy’s favourite place to stop on her way home from patrolling.
Only a few weeks ago, she would have been stopping here with Angel.
She’d have lingered over selecting a chocolate bar, drawing out her time with her boyfriend. Their eyes would meet and Buffy would blush at the depth of emotion she saw.
Instead, she stared up at the red sign, George’s blood dripping onto the pavement.
*********
Like there wasn’t enough red already, the police cars came screaming up, lights spinning frantically.
She was too far away to hear what the cops were saying. It didn’t matter anyway; their horrified and nauseous expressions were far more eloquent than any words could be.
She watched the cops busily work the scene. She thought that the red strobes made them look more like victims than protectors.
It took hours, but eventually they removed George, packed up their evidence and left.
She shivered once or twice, but she stayed until they turned the sign off and the red was gone.
******************
She didn’t sleep anymore.
Sleep left her vulnerable. Not to Angelus himself, but the dreams he’d inspired with his bloody tour of all their old haunts.
He’d left a dead kitten in her locker. He’d left a dismembered puppy in the library.
He’d left bodies in every cemetery in town, in places where they’d once shared passionate kisses.
He’d left Miss Calendar in Giles’s bed.
Her subconscious had plenty of material to create dreams from, yet she still kept seeing the same thing whenever she closed her eyes: the sign at George’s being slowly covered with blood.
So much red.
Elvis Songs – Nov 19, ’06 - Mmmm, Faith. I very rarely write Faith, but I try my hand at it occaisionally for
married_n_mich. I thought this turned out really well.Nothing could touch her, nothing could hurt her.
She didn’t mind getting bruised, didn’t mind getting cut. It couldn’t really break her.
She was cold.
But he... he was warm. Soft. Gentle eyes, floppy hair, compassion dripping from every pore. Along with the lust, of course.
She could feel the ice melting, his warmth seeping into her. So she ignored the eyes, the hair, the compassion. Focused on the lust.
Turned warm to hot. Turned soft to hard. Made his eyes roll back in his head, plastered his hair to his scalp.
Tried to choke the compassion out of him.
China – Feb 18, ’07 Oh, my poor sweet Wesley, to quote The Princess Bride. He's so broken and so adorable in this.
He only used it once a year, on her birthday. It sat at the back of the cupboard otherwise, behind his everyday mugs and plates.
It was part of a set. He'd taken it from the box in the attic just before he left for California. He'd gone up for luggage and come down with this.
It was his mother's teacup. Fine bone china, perfect except for a chip on the rim. That's how he knew it was hers.
He filled the cup halfway. He topped it up with gin, just as she'd always done.
"Happy returns, Mother," Wesley said.
Apr 20, ’08 – Mix - One last Dana drabble, with a little bit of everyone tossed in.
She was from:
Kyoto.
Lima.
Houston.
Hamburg.
Nairobi.
They were from everywhere.
She was:
an only child.
the eldest of nine.
a twin.
adopted.
an orphan.
They were sisters.
She was fifteen.
She was twelve.
She was eighteen.
She was twenty-one.
She was only seven.
They fought. They bled.
They died.
And every night, in the shattered mind of a lost child, they lived once more. They blended into one another, combined with her. Mixed her up.
She was Dana. She was from Los Angeles. Her family had been murdered. She’d been taken.
She was a Slayer.
She was them.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-11-20 02:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-20 03:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-20 03:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-20 03:51 pm (UTC)Who knew I was so prolific!
no subject
Date: 2008-11-25 03:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-25 01:59 pm (UTC)