{ I remember you well. }

[delga]

So, didn't finish The Unit because the Paternal Parental returned home. So am meme-ing, specifically that WIP meme. Under the cut you will find extracts of varying lengths from unfinished fics. The point is to motivate me to actually write the bloody things but I doubt that will happen.

» a (time span) in the life of a (second person subject). [original]

LATE! Late! One minute, 8.30, next - late! Swing feet straight into awaiting slippers, bathroom, wash your face; squinting, squinting, too much light. Laptop on -- bright screen, dammit, late! - dress: underwear, t-shirt, jeans, socks. Run a brush through your hair, tie it back, late!, check your mail, junk, junk, read later, later, heh. Crazy old man. Yeah, later, later. Books into bag, note pad, purse, handbag - bag, bag, bag. Throw eyes at the timetable, at the clock - late! Brolly, jacket, keys, trash. Go. Go!

This was nearly this year's Ophelia's Flowers until I completely lost steam. I've also lost track of what my plot is supposed to be, mostly because the prose is this infuriating stream-of-consciousness-like flow of information. There's lots of walking, lots of discussion about tragedy. The protagonist is a writer of some sort and they're dealing with writers' block. I like it and want to write more but I just can't get back into the right frame of mind, and that pisses me off no end. Which is why I haven't touched the file in over a month. Here: have another paragraph.

Today's theme is family and history, matriarchy and patriarchy; Icarus and Daedalus, Ophelia and Polonius, Hamlet and Gertrude. Today's theme is the latter surpassing the former, history taking its course: but Icarus fell to the sea and Hamlet and Ophelia died. Maybe you need to rewrite history; maybe it's time to edit something that that came before. A year ago you planted flowers, wrote the story the first time; two years ago a Russian doll popped open and every story you've told since then as been a miniaturisation of the one that came before. Maybe it's time to rewrite again, to refine, to make less from more, to make better? There are mothers and daughters in that story, too, and it's a different sort of love - sacrificial and superlative. It's about sisters, too, but not the kind that you think. Hello, Sapphos. Someone's written this before, then, and you have written it again.

--

» counter motion. [csi: new york]

It's a cheap shot and he knows it as soon as the words leave his mouth, but he stutters on the air and doesn't think to retract them. Too late, anyway, because sound travels faster than regret, and Stella's already heard the sentiment, if not the phrase itself.

He doesn't believe it, not really. He doesn't think she's self-destructive, or unable to commit. He knows that's not true. But he also doesn't know what to do. Stella gives him the cues to follow and mostly he misinterprets. Stasis, and he doesn't know how to accelerate, how to shift gear and move forward. He doesn't want to live in reverse.

In the street below the traffic hums. Stella shakes her head, keeps shaking her head, takes a step back and then another. I can't, I can't believe-- and she doesn't say it but he can hear her all the same. I cannot believe you said that.

When I started to write this, it was going to be Mac/Stella. Now it's Flack/Stella, so whatever. My primary concern with this one is that once again I'm writing angsty-Stella, and for once I'd like to write happy!Stella. But the angst, it's so easy! Aie.

--

» death and taxes. [spooks]

She spins, fires twice in quick succession, keeps moving backwards.

"Keep going," she hisses, throwing the command over her shoulder. Ruth hesitates; Ros reaches for ammunition. "I said, keep going. Get those files to Harry."

"Ros--"

"Go!" She's darkly insistant; Ruth turns and runs. She doesn't hear the gunfire increase, doesn't see the lights go out in the distance, she only runs, one foot in front of the other, clutching the satchel to her chest. The concrete is unrelenting beneath her feet. She runs.

Ros and Ruth, the way they never were. Not femslash, more gen than anything else. Don't know where this is going but I want to finish it. Not bloody likely, unfortunately.

--

» der Teufelstritt in der Frauenkirche. [original; tja]

In the low light, it was difficult to see what was real and what was merely shadow. To his unkeen eye, the truck looked to be empty and yet that was clearly untrue. He had lifted the young woman in himself, had shared a small amount of bread with her, and water, too. She was as slight as his wife, although the latter was near dead from starvation whilst the former, though small, seemed mostly healthy. In the depths of the truck she was nowhere to be seen but he remembered when stopping in a village outside of Vladimir that she had curled herself into the corner of the truck and emerged in one swift movement like a tightly wound coil that sprung from the hand. Whilst he’d bartered for petrol, the elfin child had leaned against the driver door, defiantly smoking a thin cigar. On his return she pressed the soiled end to his lips, handing it over before returning under the canopy. The cigar was good, a strong brand. He could taste her over the end; running his tongue over the sodden tip, he savoured the slightly bitter tang of vodka and some other, alien flavour that he was unable to place. Since then he had not seen the woman and could not find her now.

It was nearing seven am when he finally emerged on the other side of Belgorod. He parked the truck just within the town limits before stretching his limbs. In the rear view mirror, he watched as his passenger came into view, stretching her arms and twisting so that the bones cracked quietly. She shook her head, her ashen hair falling into her eyes. “We are here,” the driver told her, speaking to her back.

“Da. Spasiba,” she answered, whilst pulling on the shoes. The driver stepped out of the front bunker and walked to the back of the truck, his breath misting in the cold winter air. Stamping his feet to keep them warm, his gloved hands made light work of the fastenings on the canopy. He gave a final sharp tug and the covers opened; he came face-to-face with his young, pale customer. She was well-dressed for the cold weather – but what else would he expect? Belomorsk was ever in winter – huddled beneath a large white coat. Her head was wrapped in a rough cotton scarf, a dull brown colour like most of the land that lay hidden beneath the frozen snow. Her cheeks were red from the cold.

“Miss, you promised…” the man said, proffering to the small cloth bag in her hand. The woman nodded – yes, yes – reaching in a pulling out a crumpled envelope. She pressed it into his hands, holding them between her own and looking up at him.

“Spasiba, sir, for what you have done for me.”

“Puzhalsta,” the man replied, taking the envelope and rifling through its contents, quickly counting the notes, checking the sum. He looked up at her, surprised. “But Miss, this is… this is more than what we agreed.”

The girl only nodded, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder and turning away to look further down the road. “This is the road to Kharkov?” she asked.

It's telling that my last note on this reads, "Need to get to Sinikka finding the fucking dead priest, then Antja." Because yes, I'm still trying to write this goddamn piece. And it's all original, too, because I'm not dealing with Fiona/Nouska, or Max or anybody. This is Tja and Sini, meeting, parting, hunting. I'm having trouble sustaining the style, as always. This time it's a fairly straight-forward linear narrative, but still. Need better planning skills. I'm taking too long to get to the important plot points.

--

» the erinyes. [csi/new york/miami]

“Complex. Mother is own daughter-in-law. Seven letters.” Stella walks to the table with the kettle, eyes glued to the newspaper. (Pours two cups to the brim, the third only three-quarters). Sits down as Megan pours cream, adds sugar – stirs twice.

“Oedipus.” (And this is Sara, still rushing around although the reason, as ever, is indiscernible).

Stella rolls her eyes. Megan laughs. (Takes a delicate sip of her coffee). Stella peruses the crossword again; pen flicked away from the page in her right hand as she clasps her palms around her own mug.

(Sara walks through the room again).

“You going to drink your coffee?” Megan asks, “You look like death.”

The problem with this one is that it's not really going anywhere. I've been at it for over a year and I just can't get it to do what I want it to, which is a shame because I think I can make the basic premise work. It needs editing. A lot of editing, mostly because it still has the scars of my earlier writing style - which is to say there are a lot of simple sentences and meaningless parentheses. One day I'm going to finish this one. No, really.

--

the fracture in the man. (or, misnomer.) [bones]

When she kisses him, it's a lie, just like all the ones that came before, except this time he's lying too. So if she's lying, and he's lying, and this is what he wants, right here, right now, is it really all that bad?

(Excuses, excuses; he pushes her against the table, she winds her legs around his hips. Temperance doesn't play and Seeley only plays for keeps. He doesn't know what this is.)

Ha ha. Yes, I'm writing Bones fic. Yes, I'm writing Booth/Brennan. YES, HAR, HAR, KILL ME. Not because of the pairing, but because the writing is pretty bad.

--

» hades. [spooks]

Forty-eight hours, and now fingers to the wall, scratching to get out. She watches him as he begins to unravel; he can taste the sneer on her lips. But dammit, at least he's trying. He hasn't given up, not yet.

"Oh sit down," she finally snaps. "You're using up all the air."

Ros and Adam, locked in an underground bunker. I have no idea where this came from, or why I've chosen to write it from Adam's perspective, because I find him phoney like nobody's business, but I don't want to write from inside Ros' head because I can't do her static justice. This is one of three Ros fics sitting on my HD.

Random fact: I was going to call this Persephone but I'm writing from Adam's POV, so I changed it.

--

» quantitative logic. [bones]

This is what Zack sees: Dr Brennan isn't talking to Dr. Soroyen. Booth isn't talking to Hodgins. Angela isn't talking to anyone, except maybe Dr. Brennan when she's around, and even then for an average 2.6 minutes less than she usually would when they make small-talk.

This is what Zack knows: nobody is talking to him because nobody is talking to one another. This would be disconcerting were it not a weekly occurence. He tries to stay focused on his task. Right fibia and tibia, the talus; slight protusion indicating a breakage early in life. The cataloguing keeps him calm. Hodgins likes to sing the funny bones song, but Zack keeps his feet planted firmly where they are and lays out the skeleton before him.

(This is what Zack thinks: Dr Brennan and Dr Soroyen argued - again. Hodgins and Booth argued - again. Hodgins and Angela argued - again, and this one makes the third this week. This is what Zack guesses: he should shut up and stay out of the way. And anyway, this way he's more likely to hear what's happening. Unless--)

"Zack!"

"Yes, Dr Brennan?"

More Bones fic, this time Zack. Except I haven't quite got the rhythm, and I still haven't figured out my own plot. So.

--

» two and three quarters. [numb3rs]

Megan hisses in pain, hand clamped down on her abdomen. David curses as her shirt blossoms in bright red blooms. She shakes her head sadly. "I'm sorry."

"Hey," he says, pointing a finger at her, "we ain't got time for that. Don and Colby'll be here soon. You're gonna be okay."

She nods tightly - she doesn't believe him. He doesn't believe himself.

Megan and David; hostage situation. This one's weird because I haven't quite figured out how to get to the actual hostage-taking. But that's why this one will be non-linear. Yay.

--

» no more roads. part ii. [csi]

She raps her fingers on the desk, beating out the rhythms rolling around in her head, and the echoes follow her around all day - knuckles knocking on locker doors, nails crystal clear on that misted beer bottle before she peels off the label in shreds. She catches her foot tapping against the bar stool, rolls her neck, cracks her bones and empties the shot. Jacket zipped up, hands in pockets, walking out the door and into the traffic. She thinks of the morgue, with its off-blue light and its tight, clean lines. Tight, she thinks, never sharp, never clinical, just tight, like someone could tie her up in them, all those angles, all that geometry. The square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the two opposing sides, and you told him so, once upon a time. You're not a Barbie doll, you're not Mrs Roper, you're just the kid at the front of the class, waving and drowning; waving and never seen, muttering the answer out beneath your breath.

When I wrote no more roads for Megan, it was originally supposed to be a triptych. I have no idea who the third part would have been attributed to, but the second was for Sara Sidle. As ever, I lost the rhythm and I can't find it again. If I ever finish this one, I'll be so pleased. But then I'd have to write a third part, aie.

--

» the road to palmoyra. [spooks]

"The girl doesn't take chances."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "I'd hardly call her a girl, would you?"

Considering I've never been to the desert, it might surprise you to know that I will never tire of writing of it. Ros and Zaf, lost in Syria. And that's about it, really. Have another snippet.

She presses down on the wound, tosses her head to shift the hair from her eyes, only to open them up to another wave of sand. Zaf gasps in pain.

"Sit still."

"Bit difficult," he mutters. The sound grinds out between his teeth.

"If you want to live, you'll bloody well sit still!" She shakes her head again. "I can't see a bloody thing," she adds, more softly. "Where's the compass?"

"Right-hand pocket."

Keeping her right hand on the wound, she reaches towards Zaf's jeans.

"Ah - no." He winces, then grins apologetically. "Right-hand back pocket."

--

» variations on a theme. [numb3rs]

The door is forced open; David is Don's echo is David's voice ringing in his ears. "FBI! Don't move! Get your hands up! FBI!" It's a mantra, a drum beat, blood pulsing in time through his veins. It is precise: the crouched entry, quick, controlled. Fan out, clear the room, move on.

Bit of a cheat, really, as this is one of a set of (mostly unconnected) drabbles for numb3rs100, and I'm well on the way to getting them ready to post. I just have little motivation to write fic that doesn't involve Megan right now. Or Colby. Or Megan&Colby or Megan/Colby, which is infuriating because I really need to write more David fic. And write some re: Malina's character. And Alan. (And Larry.)

--

» the 'you first' in team. [spn]

"You really are a pain in the ass, sometimes."

"Yeah, like you're a walk in the park."

"I'm not aiming for a park, I'm aiming for shut up and do as you're told!"

Dean and Sam; Dean has a plan, Sam won't play. Another day at the office. Except I ditched this fandom, so who knows? I sort of want to write for Tricia Helfer's character from Road Kill but again: dropping this one.

--

Make of those what you will. I'm off to sleep. Also: GIP. And GLP if you're interested.

Comments

[tigertrapped.livejournal.com]

ALL the Spooks fics intrigue me, especially Ros/Adam in the bunker, for some reason (like you, I'm not a fan of canon Adam and haven't been for a long time) but also Ros/wounded Zaf (my tells are showing *g*). Also, the Tjs fic, but of course. I've missed your writing and, frankly, would take anything on offer, but those are the ones which immediately catch my eye.

[delgaserasca.livejournal.com]

I suppose fandom/we will have to straighten Carter out between ourselves.

I want to post at least oe of the Spooks fics, but we'll see. Have to finish it first...

[tigertrapped.livejournal.com]

There is an absolute dearth of Ros icons. If you do make some, please may I have one? I love your icons. *g* I wrote quite a few appearances by her in Max's life, including a trip to Tesco's which amused me far too much, and a dream sequence. She's also got a starring role in the Max zombie fic tribute which I'm writing, to be posted when Han's fic is up.