At least the scarecrow had straw

[trinityofone]

I suck. Like, a lot. I know I owe people comments and e-mails (blueandomlettes! God, I am so sorry); I also have three essays due increasingly soon, and all I have managed are crappy, not-even-outlines for two of them. But my brain is mush. Babyfood. Strained beets.

Some things that have managed to make me happy? Well, over at artword, the current challenge for artists is based on my fic Realm of Dryads, and slodwick and tardis80 have already made gorgeous posters/covers which you can see here and here. Guh. They're both amazingly-shivery-good. (Plus, the current artword challenge for writers is awesome, too. If I ever get my brain back, I must work on the little kernel of an idea I have for it.)

Also, cynicatlantis made this fabulous little comic that combines two of my favorite things and is adorable to boot. *happy sigh* I think I'll be clicking back to that a lot today.

Finally, because I seriously doubt that I will get anything useful done today, and because I've been boring-as-hell lately (I like to think that I'm boring when I don't post, and not the other way around. No need to shatter my illusions, mmkay?), I figure I'll offer to do comment drabbles again. Comment with a prompt, and I'll write you a drabble. Eventually. (Hey, I did ALL of them last time! I totally win!) And, er, I'm gonna limit it to SGA this time, 'cause I don't really feel like writing anything else.

Now back to pondering boysex...er, "The Rape of the Lock" and Joycean epiphanies.

Comments

strung between bon-voyages

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

Er, this is sorta both, although there's more I want to do with the poem, which is fantastic--thank you.

***

John’s car is parked right up the road from Ford’s cousin’s house; he walks straight past it, stopping in front of a payphone. He empties his pockets onto the metal shelf, the heavy clink of too much change. Mechanically, he feeds the quarters into the slot, dials the number: eleven digits, pressed too firm and fast.

His mother answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?” she says. “Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?” Then a click as she hangs up.

John puts the receiver down. This is not the first time he has done this. He doubts it will be the last.

A Space Boy Dream

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

When Teyla started her menses she tells Carson, blank-faced, and Carson swallows, reminding himself that he’s a doctor she was allowed to traverse the Ring of the Ancestors alone for the first time.

Weren’t you frightened? Carson asks, thinking how scared he was, and him a grown man, far from alone.

Perhaps she replies but I was also excited, imagining all the things I would see.

And I knew my father was right behind me.

But that’s not what terrifies Carson. It’s the thought of all that black space, and them just particles in it: even with hands held.

The Test

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

On the island, John constructs a coconut phone.

“Brilliant,” Rodney says. “Except you can’t call for help—you can can only call other coconuts!”

John laughs whenever he catches Rodney humming the Gilligan’s Island theme.

He fills Rodney’s sneakers with sand. Barefoot the next morning, he pulls him into the surf. The water crashes over his toes and ticklish, he can’t help smiling.

They have nothing but time, and given enough, John knows he will have Rodney barechested and easy in cutoff shorts. They will make love on rushes laid over the sand as stars rise and set above them.

Endless Deep

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

Parrish names the plant gilly weed, and Lorne doesn’t even try to pretend he doesn’t get the joke. But the reasons behind his deep breath are manifold as he leaps off the pier. Parrish is waiting for him. He swims down deep, long legs kicking, ghostly pale in the filtered light.

They float, surrounded by the gleaming bodies of beautiful, monstrous fish, and their own bodies, swept together by the ebb and flow.

Lorne’s mouth tastes bitter from the chewed herb, but Parrish’s lips are welcoming, sweet. It’s a long, long time before they have to come up for air.

Physical Interactions

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

He comes back from the bathroom and she’s sitting there, leaning in to him as he talks.

“Colonel,” he says, approaching the table with swift steps.

“Colonel Sheppard.” A nod. “I’m sorry, is this your seat?”

Before John can respond, Rodney’s jumping in: “No, don’t get up,” he tells her. “Sheppard can get another chair.”

John is seething as he scoots in between them—furious until the moment that he feels Rodney’s hand on his thigh, squeezing. Suddenly, the physics of the arrangement make sense, John thinks: smiling as if in answer to Carter’s joke, and not to Rodney’s touch.

Good Times

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

These were the things he liked about being human:

Strawberry jam and pecan pie. Cello music by Bach, on the iPod they gave him, the one they said was his. Sleep, real sleep when the dreams weren’t bad. The way she’d looked, the way she’d moved, when he had been able to gaze on her without hunger, or at least hunger only of a different kind.

Now he is himself again, and human life nourishes his body just like it used to. But he drops the dry husks unsatisfied, craving something lost, gone before he even knew he had it.

Re: Physical Interactions

[seikaitsukimizu.livejournal.com]

Eee! *claps* Wonderful way to end my day! Arigato!

Re: Endless Deep

[delurker.livejournal.com]

Eeee! You wrote Parrish/Lorne! This is absolutely lovely, thanks. :)