Dabbling in drabbling
Mar. 9th, 2006 05:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityofoneSuccess! I finally finished my comment drabbles, and since I bet a lot of you missed 'em (and God, what a tragedy that would be) I thought I'd repost them here.
All exactly 100 words. In the order I wrote them, starting with the SGA ones.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spaggel: They find a land of chocolate, and Rodney is SO HAPPY, only it's lemon chocolate, so he can't have any
The shift from elation to despondency made Rodney dizzy.
“But...but...” he said, looking around at the chocolate river, chocolate trees, chocolate buildings—the merrily frolicking chocolate children. He sniffed. “I suppose this is when the Oompa Loompas come make fun of me. In song.”
“There’s chocolate in my room,” John said. “It’s not citrus-tainted.”
“While an improvement over Planet Irony, Colonel, that’s not quite the same as—as—” A chocolate swingset! Rodney thought.
“We can share it,” John continued.
“And what’s so special about your stash, hmm?”
John bent to Rodney’s ear. “It’s chocolate body paint,” he said.
For20thcenturyvole: Lorne/Parrish, a snippet of a day in the life
Parrish comes home smelling like dirt.
Lorne used to hate that smell. It meant falling, and running, and kneeling in the mud as you waited for the shooting to stop, for the bleeding to stop, for it all to wash away and be clean again. It meant things gone wrong.
Now Parrish comes home, cradling a tiny green seedling. “Look!” he says. “Remember, from M4H-673?” Weeks ago. “It finally sprouted!”
He sets it down, precious, between them on the bed.
He does smell like dirt—but dirt graced with rain. He smells like soil, and other things that grow.
Forcrownglass39: 
Rodney sighed happily as John nibbled at his neck, as John moved a slow hand up under his shirt. His fingers were just brushing Rodney’s nipple when suddenly, John went very still.
“Rodney,” he said, feeling the small metal ring. “What’s this?”
“Oh, that’s just my nipple piercing,” he said, pushing it back into John’s hand. “I save it for special occasions.”
“You have a nipple piercing?” John was incredulous. He was also rock-hard against Rodney’s ass.
“I went through a naughty phase.” He grinned, grinding back against John’s erection. “And I think I feel another one coming on.”
Forlillyjk: Something set in the Dæmonology universe
“Snakes eat mice,” Tykallita said.
“Yes,” said Nioke. “We do.”
Tyk’s heart pounded: 700 beats per minute.
“You have sharp claws,” Nioke observed. Once, Tyk had overheard her tell John, The sky is very blue—the tone identical.
“I can type,” Tyk said, irrelevantly.
“I know,” said Nioke. Then she said, “I wish I could help John like that.”
“I’m not very good at it,” Tyk admitted, after a minute.
Nioke’s scales glistened: intricate patterns, impossible to follow. “I wouldn’t be very good at eating mice,” she said.
Her tongue darted out, tasting the air between them. Tyk didn’t flinch.
Forof_evangeline: John finds out that in addition to piano lessons, Rodney also took ballet
John choked on the obvious tutu joke when Rodney demonstrated that he could put both his legs behind his head.
“Wow, you’re...” John realized his eyes were bugging out a little. “...Flexible.”
Rodney frowned. “No, I’m out of practice. Here, do me a favor,” he said, and suddenly, John found himself clutching one of Rodney’s ankles as the physicist (and amateur danseur) performed an impossible contortion that was apparently a stretch. Rodney pushed against him and grunted. “Yeah: harder, do it harder—”
Later, sweat-slick and naked, John turned to Rodney hopefully and asked, “So, can you give me lessons?”
Fordesdema: Sheppard/Lorne
Lorne’s hand hovered above Sheppard’s hair, not touching, not touching.
Sheppard was on his knees. His hands were on Lorne’s hips. His hands on him, where he’d grabbed him, grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. Lorne’d been surprised. He’d hit his head.
Sheppard’s head was bobbing up and down, up and down.
His hand, Sheppard’s hair: and with effort Lorne stopped its downward plunge; fingers formed a fist as his hips thrust forward into Sheppard’s hands, Sheppard’s mouth.
Lorne bit his lip, bloodied it.
Sheppard stood, licking his lips. “I trust we have an understanding,” he said. “Major.”
Fortzeentch: SGA meets 'Restless'
“It’s strange,” Rodney said to himself, “it’s not like anything we’ve faced before. It seems familiar somehow. Of course!”
He picked up his guitar and looked out onto the crowd gathered in Atlantis’ mess, strumming with confidence.
The device we sparked with Sheppard
Must have released
Some evil Ancient that’s come back seeking
I’m not sure what—
Teyla, look through the database
For some reference
To an Ascended beast!
I’ve got to warn Sheppard
There’s every chance he might be next!
Ronon, help Teyla,
And try not to bleed on my screen, I’ve just had it re-wired.
No, wait—
Formonanotlisa: The color black
Rodney has a dirty little secret. He loves John’s hair.
He loves how it emotes: even when John’s (far too often) stony-faced, Rodney can gather clues from the jumbled strands. He loves that it’s unique: he can always pick John out, even in a crowded room.
He loves how it feels, rough but yielding when he rakes his fingers through, soft when he strokes, holds John’s head against his cheek, chin, mouth.
He loves its color, glossy and black. Not blond—not blonde—but rich, dark, decadent. And below it endless multitudes: like the vast reaches of enduring space.
Foraurora_84: You'll be with me, Like a handprint on my heart
When Carson finally figures out how to reverse the damage the Wraith do, they’re relieved, of course. They carry the shots with them: like EpiPens, Rodney thinks. Nothing he’s not used to.
But what happens isn’t what he expects: it’s Sheppard who’s attacked, Sheppard’s thigh into which he slams the needle. Sheppard who slumps into his arms, the Wraith dying at their feet.
It’s Sheppard, staring into his face with black eyes. Hand pressed quivering to Rodney’s chest, like Rodney has what he needs to return to himself.
Rodney’s heart thumps: wanting to give it, to give in to him.
Forspringwoof: What happened to the puppy that Rodney Healed With His Brain?
Rodney was remembering there was a reason he didn’t usually heal small furry mammals with his brain.
Namely, once the necessary telepathic link was formed, it stuck.
Not that he was fighting urges to bound across the city after Sheppard, or nibble food from his hand, or bury his nose in the soft hollow of his throat. Nothing like that.
But.
“Yeah, c’mere,” Sheppard said, pulling the little warm body against his own warm chest and stroking its belly with gentle, loving hands.
Rodney didn’t have a tail to wag, but his foot beat a rough tattoo against the floor.
Forstillane: John, Rodney, and S/snickers
“You never laugh,” Rodney says.
John’s mouth: a quirk. “Course I do.”
“No. You smirk. You snicker. You don’t laugh.”
“You want me to guffaw? All right, tell a joke.”
“A joke?”
“Yeah. Make a funny, Rodney.”
Rodney’s eyes narrow. He’s too clever for this.
“Knock knock—” he says, and before John can say, “Who’s there?” he’s tackling him, tickling him. But John’s too clever for that, and a second later, he’s rolled them off the bed: a tangled mess of limbs, panting, on the floor.
“You’re still not laughing!” Rodney complains.
“Oh, I am,” John promises. “On the inside.”
Formegolas: John/Rodney, earthside, happy
“This is so brilliant,” Rodney said, “I should have invented it.”
John smiled around another mouthful of taco: soft corn tortilla, the subtle bite of onion, the pile of pork, spicy-sweet. Delicious.
“I mean, it’s chocolate and it’s meat. Genius!”
John looked around at the messy assemblage of umbrellas, the clustered metal tables, the bar behind them, strung with colored lights. A warm breeze swept across the market, caressing his bare arms.
“Mole sauce,” Rodney marveled. “I love it.”
John watched Rodney’s tongue slide out, slowly lick stray sauce from his lips. Their eyes met.
“Me, too,” he said.
Forchopchica: John/Rodney - anything happy - porn is a bonus
It was so strange: he was happy, and he really didn’t know what to do with that.
What he and Rodney were doing right now could barely qualify as sex: Rodney was stroking a hand over John’s chest; he had his head pressed into John’s shoulder and was...sniffing him, breathing him in, making soft, satisfied sounds. John laid a hand against Rodney’s cheek; he found that he was smiling, awash with silent laughter.
He twisted, pulled Rodney’s mouth up to his, kissed him slow and deep.
He would find plenty of things to do with that, in time. Plenty.
Forslodwick: The clutter in the living room; that's another thing we both see, but never touch
“We need to talk about the elephant,” John said.
Rodney slashed his fingers across his throat. “Shh!” he hissed. “The whole point of the elephant in the room is that you can’t talk about it!”
“Rodney.” John sighed—he didn’t want to have this conversation, either. “I’m sorry, but there’s this huge thing between us, and we have to talk about it.”
Rodney lifted his chin. “Well, I don’t think that’s appropriate!”
“I don’t care! We can’t ignore it forever!”
“Yes, we—”
“Excuse me,” said the elephant, staring indignantly down the length of its trunk. “I’m right here, you know.”
ETA:dar_jeeling made an illustration! *glee*
Fornotpoetry: Cowboy AU
When he thinks about how long they’ve been going at this, it hurts his head: almost as much as his body hurts after days and days in the saddle; so many days, piling up, adding into years.
“You have to stop,” he says, as he’s said. “It’s too late. You can’t save them.” He swallows, white-knuckled, gripping the reins. “After all this time...Sheppard, they may not want to be saved.”
John just looks at him, cold eyes, loading his gun.
“You have to quit this!” Rodney shouts.
John kicks back his spurs.
“That’ll be the day,” he says.
***
A couple people requested original fic:
Forsonofzeal: Our hero's ship has run aground on an uncharted island. The sound of singing can be heard off in the distance
Wrecked, washed up, he stumbles across the sand. He doesn’t feel like a hero from Defoe, or even like one of the poor schmucks on Lost, each with a secret, a unique, fascinating past. He’s nobody.
He hears voices: low, the words impossible to make out. He’s so far off course, they could be anyone. Savages. Cannibals. He shivers: not exactly afraid. Moving toward the chanting, he wonders if they will welcome him, make him one with them. One of them. Whatever.
The sea stretches dark and lonely behind him. Ahead: voices, human voices.
He’s not afraid to be consumed.
Foroctopedingenue: Something with a fairytale in it
Once upon a time, they all lived happily ever after.
(That’s the short version. The long version goes something like this:)
Once, bad things happened to good people. And sometimes (in the old tales) the baddies got away with it. The wolf ate the girl; the princess slept on; the cindermaid never rose above the ashes. That was life.
But we like our endings happy, so we changed all that. Now the huntsman saves the day, or the handsome prince; the glass slipper fits.
(Forget the sisters with their eyes pecked out, their soles bloody. This was never their story.)
***
And forpsychopepsquad, I ended up writing a cracked crossover:
***
They all waited, nervously watching the ocean.
The blonde girl, clutching her sword, summoned by ancient words in an ancient book.
The tall brunette, hand on a hidden pistol, directed by documents lifted from the most secure vault in the world.
The other blonde, peering down the length of her lens, thinking: This was quite a tip.
ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn
They waited a very long time.
Meanwhile, in another galaxy:
They watched as another tentacle broke the surface of the sea. John yawned; Rodney shook his head.
“The Ancients were cult members. Why am I not surprised?”
***
Her prompt was Cthulhu out of nowhere!
Now I'm going to go hit myself in the head with a brick before I start thinking that Cthulhu mythos makes a lot of sense grafted onto the Stargate 'verse.
I feel so accomplished now! Despite the fact that I haven't done any revision for my essay at all! Whee!
Confidential toamireal: I am thinking. Still secretly hoping that you will have a brilliant idea first, but thinking. Plotting, even. Yes.
All exactly 100 words. In the order I wrote them, starting with the SGA ones.
For
spaggel: They find a land of chocolate, and Rodney is SO HAPPY, only it's lemon chocolate, so he can't have anyThe shift from elation to despondency made Rodney dizzy.
“But...but...” he said, looking around at the chocolate river, chocolate trees, chocolate buildings—the merrily frolicking chocolate children. He sniffed. “I suppose this is when the Oompa Loompas come make fun of me. In song.”
“There’s chocolate in my room,” John said. “It’s not citrus-tainted.”
“While an improvement over Planet Irony, Colonel, that’s not quite the same as—as—” A chocolate swingset! Rodney thought.
“We can share it,” John continued.
“And what’s so special about your stash, hmm?”
John bent to Rodney’s ear. “It’s chocolate body paint,” he said.
For
20thcenturyvole: Lorne/Parrish, a snippet of a day in the lifeParrish comes home smelling like dirt.
Lorne used to hate that smell. It meant falling, and running, and kneeling in the mud as you waited for the shooting to stop, for the bleeding to stop, for it all to wash away and be clean again. It meant things gone wrong.
Now Parrish comes home, cradling a tiny green seedling. “Look!” he says. “Remember, from M4H-673?” Weeks ago. “It finally sprouted!”
He sets it down, precious, between them on the bed.
He does smell like dirt—but dirt graced with rain. He smells like soil, and other things that grow.
For
crownglass39: Rodney sighed happily as John nibbled at his neck, as John moved a slow hand up under his shirt. His fingers were just brushing Rodney’s nipple when suddenly, John went very still.
“Rodney,” he said, feeling the small metal ring. “What’s this?”
“Oh, that’s just my nipple piercing,” he said, pushing it back into John’s hand. “I save it for special occasions.”
“You have a nipple piercing?” John was incredulous. He was also rock-hard against Rodney’s ass.
“I went through a naughty phase.” He grinned, grinding back against John’s erection. “And I think I feel another one coming on.”
For
lillyjk: Something set in the Dæmonology universe“Snakes eat mice,” Tykallita said.
“Yes,” said Nioke. “We do.”
Tyk’s heart pounded: 700 beats per minute.
“You have sharp claws,” Nioke observed. Once, Tyk had overheard her tell John, The sky is very blue—the tone identical.
“I can type,” Tyk said, irrelevantly.
“I know,” said Nioke. Then she said, “I wish I could help John like that.”
“I’m not very good at it,” Tyk admitted, after a minute.
Nioke’s scales glistened: intricate patterns, impossible to follow. “I wouldn’t be very good at eating mice,” she said.
Her tongue darted out, tasting the air between them. Tyk didn’t flinch.
For
of_evangeline: John finds out that in addition to piano lessons, Rodney also took balletJohn choked on the obvious tutu joke when Rodney demonstrated that he could put both his legs behind his head.
“Wow, you’re...” John realized his eyes were bugging out a little. “...Flexible.”
Rodney frowned. “No, I’m out of practice. Here, do me a favor,” he said, and suddenly, John found himself clutching one of Rodney’s ankles as the physicist (and amateur danseur) performed an impossible contortion that was apparently a stretch. Rodney pushed against him and grunted. “Yeah: harder, do it harder—”
Later, sweat-slick and naked, John turned to Rodney hopefully and asked, “So, can you give me lessons?”
For
desdema: Sheppard/LorneLorne’s hand hovered above Sheppard’s hair, not touching, not touching.
Sheppard was on his knees. His hands were on Lorne’s hips. His hands on him, where he’d grabbed him, grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. Lorne’d been surprised. He’d hit his head.
Sheppard’s head was bobbing up and down, up and down.
His hand, Sheppard’s hair: and with effort Lorne stopped its downward plunge; fingers formed a fist as his hips thrust forward into Sheppard’s hands, Sheppard’s mouth.
Lorne bit his lip, bloodied it.
Sheppard stood, licking his lips. “I trust we have an understanding,” he said. “Major.”
For
tzeentch: SGA meets 'Restless'“It’s strange,” Rodney said to himself, “it’s not like anything we’ve faced before. It seems familiar somehow. Of course!”
He picked up his guitar and looked out onto the crowd gathered in Atlantis’ mess, strumming with confidence.
The device we sparked with Sheppard
Must have released
Some evil Ancient that’s come back seeking
I’m not sure what—
Teyla, look through the database
For some reference
To an Ascended beast!
I’ve got to warn Sheppard
There’s every chance he might be next!
Ronon, help Teyla,
And try not to bleed on my screen, I’ve just had it re-wired.
No, wait—
For
monanotlisa: The color blackRodney has a dirty little secret. He loves John’s hair.
He loves how it emotes: even when John’s (far too often) stony-faced, Rodney can gather clues from the jumbled strands. He loves that it’s unique: he can always pick John out, even in a crowded room.
He loves how it feels, rough but yielding when he rakes his fingers through, soft when he strokes, holds John’s head against his cheek, chin, mouth.
He loves its color, glossy and black. Not blond—not blonde—but rich, dark, decadent. And below it endless multitudes: like the vast reaches of enduring space.
For
aurora_84: You'll be with me, Like a handprint on my heartWhen Carson finally figures out how to reverse the damage the Wraith do, they’re relieved, of course. They carry the shots with them: like EpiPens, Rodney thinks. Nothing he’s not used to.
But what happens isn’t what he expects: it’s Sheppard who’s attacked, Sheppard’s thigh into which he slams the needle. Sheppard who slumps into his arms, the Wraith dying at their feet.
It’s Sheppard, staring into his face with black eyes. Hand pressed quivering to Rodney’s chest, like Rodney has what he needs to return to himself.
Rodney’s heart thumps: wanting to give it, to give in to him.
For
springwoof: What happened to the puppy that Rodney Healed With His Brain?Rodney was remembering there was a reason he didn’t usually heal small furry mammals with his brain.
Namely, once the necessary telepathic link was formed, it stuck.
Not that he was fighting urges to bound across the city after Sheppard, or nibble food from his hand, or bury his nose in the soft hollow of his throat. Nothing like that.
But.
“Yeah, c’mere,” Sheppard said, pulling the little warm body against his own warm chest and stroking its belly with gentle, loving hands.
Rodney didn’t have a tail to wag, but his foot beat a rough tattoo against the floor.
For
stillane: John, Rodney, and S/snickers“You never laugh,” Rodney says.
John’s mouth: a quirk. “Course I do.”
“No. You smirk. You snicker. You don’t laugh.”
“You want me to guffaw? All right, tell a joke.”
“A joke?”
“Yeah. Make a funny, Rodney.”
Rodney’s eyes narrow. He’s too clever for this.
“Knock knock—” he says, and before John can say, “Who’s there?” he’s tackling him, tickling him. But John’s too clever for that, and a second later, he’s rolled them off the bed: a tangled mess of limbs, panting, on the floor.
“You’re still not laughing!” Rodney complains.
“Oh, I am,” John promises. “On the inside.”
For
megolas: John/Rodney, earthside, happy“This is so brilliant,” Rodney said, “I should have invented it.”
John smiled around another mouthful of taco: soft corn tortilla, the subtle bite of onion, the pile of pork, spicy-sweet. Delicious.
“I mean, it’s chocolate and it’s meat. Genius!”
John looked around at the messy assemblage of umbrellas, the clustered metal tables, the bar behind them, strung with colored lights. A warm breeze swept across the market, caressing his bare arms.
“Mole sauce,” Rodney marveled. “I love it.”
John watched Rodney’s tongue slide out, slowly lick stray sauce from his lips. Their eyes met.
“Me, too,” he said.
For
chopchica: John/Rodney - anything happy - porn is a bonusIt was so strange: he was happy, and he really didn’t know what to do with that.
What he and Rodney were doing right now could barely qualify as sex: Rodney was stroking a hand over John’s chest; he had his head pressed into John’s shoulder and was...sniffing him, breathing him in, making soft, satisfied sounds. John laid a hand against Rodney’s cheek; he found that he was smiling, awash with silent laughter.
He twisted, pulled Rodney’s mouth up to his, kissed him slow and deep.
He would find plenty of things to do with that, in time. Plenty.
For
slodwick: The clutter in the living room; that's another thing we both see, but never touch“We need to talk about the elephant,” John said.
Rodney slashed his fingers across his throat. “Shh!” he hissed. “The whole point of the elephant in the room is that you can’t talk about it!”
“Rodney.” John sighed—he didn’t want to have this conversation, either. “I’m sorry, but there’s this huge thing between us, and we have to talk about it.”
Rodney lifted his chin. “Well, I don’t think that’s appropriate!”
“I don’t care! We can’t ignore it forever!”
“Yes, we—”
“Excuse me,” said the elephant, staring indignantly down the length of its trunk. “I’m right here, you know.”
ETA:
dar_jeeling made an illustration! *glee*For
notpoetry: Cowboy AUWhen he thinks about how long they’ve been going at this, it hurts his head: almost as much as his body hurts after days and days in the saddle; so many days, piling up, adding into years.
“You have to stop,” he says, as he’s said. “It’s too late. You can’t save them.” He swallows, white-knuckled, gripping the reins. “After all this time...Sheppard, they may not want to be saved.”
John just looks at him, cold eyes, loading his gun.
“You have to quit this!” Rodney shouts.
John kicks back his spurs.
“That’ll be the day,” he says.
***
A couple people requested original fic:
For
sonofzeal: Our hero's ship has run aground on an uncharted island. The sound of singing can be heard off in the distanceWrecked, washed up, he stumbles across the sand. He doesn’t feel like a hero from Defoe, or even like one of the poor schmucks on Lost, each with a secret, a unique, fascinating past. He’s nobody.
He hears voices: low, the words impossible to make out. He’s so far off course, they could be anyone. Savages. Cannibals. He shivers: not exactly afraid. Moving toward the chanting, he wonders if they will welcome him, make him one with them. One of them. Whatever.
The sea stretches dark and lonely behind him. Ahead: voices, human voices.
He’s not afraid to be consumed.
For
octopedingenue: Something with a fairytale in itOnce upon a time, they all lived happily ever after.
(That’s the short version. The long version goes something like this:)
Once, bad things happened to good people. And sometimes (in the old tales) the baddies got away with it. The wolf ate the girl; the princess slept on; the cindermaid never rose above the ashes. That was life.
But we like our endings happy, so we changed all that. Now the huntsman saves the day, or the handsome prince; the glass slipper fits.
(Forget the sisters with their eyes pecked out, their soles bloody. This was never their story.)
***
And for
psychopepsquad, I ended up writing a cracked crossover:***
They all waited, nervously watching the ocean.
The blonde girl, clutching her sword, summoned by ancient words in an ancient book.
The tall brunette, hand on a hidden pistol, directed by documents lifted from the most secure vault in the world.
The other blonde, peering down the length of her lens, thinking: This was quite a tip.
ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn
They waited a very long time.
Meanwhile, in another galaxy:
They watched as another tentacle broke the surface of the sea. John yawned; Rodney shook his head.
“The Ancients were cult members. Why am I not surprised?”
***
Her prompt was Cthulhu out of nowhere!
Now I'm going to go hit myself in the head with a brick before I start thinking that Cthulhu mythos makes a lot of sense grafted onto the Stargate 'verse.
I feel so accomplished now! Despite the fact that I haven't done any revision for my essay at all! Whee!
Confidential to
amireal: I am thinking. Still secretly hoping that you will have a brilliant idea first, but thinking. Plotting, even. Yes.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 05:23 pm (UTC)I'm glad it was okay. It would have been more fandom-specific, but again with the confusion. *blushes*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 05:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 05:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 05:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 05:43 pm (UTC)*turns to face direction of your place and thinks 'Porn!' very loudly*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 05:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 06:02 pm (UTC)*DED*
also, the puppy story of course wins my soul. :D :D :D
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 06:04 pm (UTC)Other impressions: Omg nipple piercing! Yay for more Daemonology. So much love for the fairytale ficlet.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 06:13 pm (UTC)because that's what it really is} that says "All your muffins are belong to me," because they would. I also adore ballerina Rodney, because it lets me use that phrase! ♥(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 06:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 06:48 pm (UTC)Hah! Ahahahahahaha! I love you. *offers gift* () This was done with a mouse and in like, 10 minutes, but...his eyes, they move!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 06:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 06:56 pm (UTC)Ooh, I have to add this to the post. And show
And also: *glomps you like mad*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 06:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 07:06 pm (UTC)You know, there are magazines out there that pay for flashfiction. Vestal Review (http://www.vestalreview.net/html/submissions.htm) is one of them.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 07:36 pm (UTC)I like this. And the original ones. You should write more original fic, it's cool.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 07:46 pm (UTC)OMG life so mean. One of us most post tonight. Your LJ or a new thread in mine?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 08:00 pm (UTC)That said, I would much rather write something for you than for some random 'gater-hater. ;-) So I'm glad things worked out.
Fairytale Fic
Date: 2006-03-09 08:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 08:25 pm (UTC)But first I'm going to edit this essay. Right. (Or so I have been telling myself, for something like the last eight hours. *headdesk*)
Re: Fairytale Fic
Date: 2006-03-09 08:27 pm (UTC)What's the Endicott Coffee Shop?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 08:27 pm (UTC)Naw.
Flocked just to us?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 08:30 pm (UTC)I should write more original fic...but not until I finish our
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 08:33 pm (UTC)Flocked just to us?
Sounds good. And hey, now that I've made this post and officially finished the drabbles, I can stop being scarily anal and posting only in 100-word increments. Sometimes I frighten myself.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-09 08:35 pm (UTC)Tomorrow night, you send me some more, and I shall send you some more too. That will motivate us both, and we can mutually nag :)
- have you decided which track to go with? I like the idea of "You have a special purpose" better, but it's your choice :)