fahye: ([eyai] as wide as the sea)
"Oh, what a nice assignment," I said.

"This should be a fairly short fic," I said.

"Maybe around 3000-4000 words," I said.

~

You can probably work out the moral of this story for yourself.

~

UNRELATEDLY: I have a sudden fierce yearning to write eyaiverse stories again! Maybe I'll just go and obsessively reread all the existing stories like I usually do. Sadly, the two -- three? uh, maybe four -- stories that fall next on my eyai To Do list are involved and plotty. I need an idea for something fun and in-betweeny like good news for beautiful people, so that I don't have to sit down with a timeline and a determined expression in order to plan the thing.
fahye: ([eyai] one whispered winter day)
Dear new Google Reader layout: GO DIE IN A FIRE, Jesus Christ, I am operating on a very small EeePC here and I desperately need the ability to minimise the bloody sidebar so that I can VIEW WEBCOMICS without ENDLESS HORIZONTAL SCROLLBARS.

My lack of ability to produce words, any words, is reaching crisis point. I have had both the secret X-Men project and a crossover ficlet I'm writing for [livejournal.com profile] neenie open in Word for like a WEEK, and every night I look at the documents and feel like sweating blood and my brain just goes 'pffffblbt' and insists that I watch Top Gear instead. I HATE IT. But I've never been any good at forcing myself to write through that kind of mental fog without actively despising the process, and I am trying to steer myself clear of hobbies that I actively despise, you know?

My latest trick has been rereading all eyai ever (wait, no, if you're unfamiliar: read Emma's awesome pimp post instead) in an attempt to psych myself up for the next story, which Ji and I are probably going to cowrite somehow. IT IS GOING TO BE SO FANTASTIC GUYS, THERE WILL BE COPS AND MURDER AND I AM FINALLY BRINGING ANNA BACK INTO NARRATIVE PLAY.

(Agatha Verey, Superspy, is still going to happen, but it would first require me to plot out the entire counter-revolution ie. the final arc of the whole damn thing. And that would suck out ALL MY BRAINPOWER.

Also on the cards at some point: the shameless importation of Kenneth and Vanessa from the Wasteland RP. That's right, the inevitable fourth estate story. Nobody is surprised.)

If you have any eyai-related enthusiasm or capslock or words of encouragement, drop them here, I will attempt to ~absorb~ them and use them to alchemise my creativity into fucking existing again.

Uh in other news the new Florence & the Machine album is so great I am having trouble processing it, call back in a few days when my ears are not weeping rainbows of heady joy.
fahye: ([eyai] an enigma and a half)
1) New post at Tightrope Waltzing: Flowers for Algernon.

2) Whoever gifted me with LJ time & icons: thank you so much. Today has been up and down and up and down and your kindness has shoved it firmly UP.

3) EYAI DRABBLEFEST AT EMMA'S, BOOYAH. I will be attacking it once I have made dinner.

ETA: If 'eyai' is still a thing unknown to you, which is reasonable because I have failed to make high-pitched noises about it recently, [livejournal.com profile] nextian made the world's greatest Tumblr post in which she explains the entire phenomenon and what it is all aiming for, ie. some kind of Oliver/Nacio makeouts SOME DAY.
fahye: ([eyai] coded fair outta yer mind)
So a while ago during an eyai drabblefest I was all, oh yeah, I'd like to do a drabble or two about how Dominic and Julian's relationship began, because it happened mostly in the whopping great chronological gaps of Three Bags Full.

And...here's how that turned out.

Anyone who tries to say something along the lines of 'but Fahye, 7500 words is not a drabble' really doesn't know my writing habits AT ALL.

(Title from the Hunters & Collectors song 'When The River Runs Dry' which is a sneakily eyai-perfect song, to me.)

~

Humans, after all, don't come with their own psychophysical lexicon, and they've had to work it all out for themselves, piece by piece, culminating in people like Dom who see the human mind as an exquisite circuitboard. )
fahye: ([eyai] the tiny biting teeth)
(archiving for [livejournal.com profile] unravels)

~

I surface briefly from a pile of crumpled tissues to deposit a gift for [livejournal.com profile] ariastar! This is based on [livejournal.com profile] fahye's awesome original eyai story and the many wonderful spinoff stories it inspired, most of which can be found linked here.

This story is set before the Iron Revolution, and deals mostly with characters from [livejournal.com profile] fahye's "Three Bags Full." Thanks for letting me play with them a little! It also probably asks more questions than it answers, because I am evil. :D

Many thanks to NJ the uber-beta, as always!

Catalyst )
fahye: ([other] this is the day)
title: Spacetime Acceleration Action-at-a-Distance Momentum III: Quantum Physics Strikes Back
by: Ji
for: Sares
location: Los Angeles, CA, the Future

It was the Terrans. They poisoned me with science. )
fahye: ([eyai] coded fair outta yer mind)
(Antipodean advantage time! It's the 14th here. And I need to get this thing up before I edit it into oblivion.)

This story was written for: [livejournal.com profile] nextian! Mostly this fulfils the request Blacksheep Industries solve someone's problem, but there are smatterings of other bits and pieces in there as well. Set post-Three Bags Full, but not by very much.

(For the record: this is the picture upon which Bastian was based. The jacket needs to be two shades darker, and the hair -- well, you'll see. But everything else is perfect.)

It's a curiosity, this naming of ships and cities and countries, all the things that hold people within them, as female. )

for Ji :)

12 Nov 2009 11:55 pm
fahye: ([other] whosoever has the will)
homily

morning in the principality sees
the slow ticktock of those whose rhythms fall
by chemicals not clockwork,
minds pushing towards their own peak and
chasing Pipe dreams in the grey morning air.
dreams of our sort only:
the waking images pieced together
and projected onto nothing.
no act of sabotage, no guns
no speech no written law will force
the true dead dreaming into our heads.
the morning is a symbol. the morning --
is an arbitrary birth
for those who wake from nothing, or never.
our cogwheel hypnagogia lie parallel
to their gradual climb upwards into noonday smarts.

no place now for every god
who daily sang the sun into the sky,
and fewer candles every week
are lit by feebler hands than mine.
the larger picture (projected -- where?) suggests that this
was never my purpose; it was always yours.
the fires set alight in minds and
what we might call hearts
are of your devising, you who named me
something new
so all of me became the voice
telling gossamer tales of equity
to loop around their necks;
to draw them tight and willing
into the blazing dawn that they found in your face.

morning in the new world of ideas means
ownership of nobody by nobody,
your dream ambition called into being
by many voices all at once;
mine being the careful sound of history,
the record of your own desire.
but we are built on factory lines
and in this image was I made,
created unequal and infused with the spirit
of a searching need,
a fullness of existence that requires
an ownership of shining sorts;
never mine and always yours.

though given a biology to call my own
(I project, the image, the waking construction)
I might be in need of an afterlife;
might hold myself beloved of a God,
a faith full manifest and blind
and breathing through the work of my two hands.
my body would possess
all glorious redundancies
and in my dumbfound dreams the dust
would smother all our gears,
leaving only what remains when the clocks are stopped,
the faint grey mourning of the souls
we do not possess.
fahye: ([other] whosoever has the will)
skin is, my -- by [livejournal.com profile] nextian, who is AMAZING <33 This is the junction of human and eyai tissue tech; this is the Vatican and secret police and secret agendas and the problem with crossing borders.

Róisín goes to flick him the V and discovers, with some confusion, that the hand's fallen asleep. She sighs and fumbles for the key, hating to do this in public, in front of the eyai waitress, on someone else's limb. There's the little pressure against the bone, the pins and needles, then the muscles reengaging one by one, and her fingers jerk and spill the salt across her plate.

~

The next story is still Agatha Verey and the downfall of the Kingdom, I promise, but I'm slowly gestating one about Australia as the sanctioned battleground for Asian companies & creating desire in a saturated market & becoming a republic & medical ethics and a few other cool things.

~

New to eyai? You want this post here.
fahye: ([stt] and now some legal jargon)
Ji pointed out that it would make more sense for me to host this because my journal is busier and less locked! I make no promises that I willl actually write anything* because the end of Three Bags Full was meant to signify a return to the studying and sewing I was SUPPOSED to be doing all week.

*who are we kidding really

DRABBLES. GO. London or any other place ahem ahem Emma & Sares (nobody gets Australia, though -- that one's mine). Feel free to leave requests, fulfil requests, or just post drabbles about any characters you damn well please.
fahye: ([other] whosoever has the will)
AND DONE \o/ Final wordcount: 13,846. Somebody had better validate the bloody mess this has made of my priorities in the last few weeks, or there will be TEARS and possibly WRATH.

I'm still not quite happy with it as a story -- the showing dips too far into telling in parts, because if I'm entirely honest it's the skeleton of something even longer. Which I was not prepared to write at this time.

But I'm proud of it, all told :)

( part one is here )

***

If your country changes and you aren't aware of it happening, to which laws do you become subject? )
fahye: ([other] whosoever has the will)
Okay, look, it's ALMOST DONE, but I have been making noise about this for so long that I figure I may as well post the first half now. Besides, the bloody thing's going to be epically long, I don't want to overwhelm you all :D

This story is a one-day-early 21st birthday present for my favourite person in the universe. Enjoy, Cosmas.

Notes! Returning to this world now that it has been expanded in such breathtaking ways was almost intimidating, but this was the one story I knew I had to tell (and now I have a whole pile of them multiplying in my mind -- watch this space, I guess). It was meant to be very concept-driven but then it grew eight main characters and became character-driven instead, which is probably a very good thing! I hereby gift said eight characters to the drabble-writers of the future: they're fun to play with, I promise.

This one covers a lot more ground than Fortuna Fugit (seventeen years in over 13,000 words, in fact!), references pretty much every other story that exists in the eyaiverse, and (by necessities both practical and thematic) it holds a lot of secrets. I know many things about these people that haven't made it into the story.

I haven't provided illustrations even though I have very strong mental pictures of all of the characters; the only thing I will tell you unprompted is that Tee looks like Richard Hammond's jaded street urchin twin.

Tee's earliest memory is of his back hitting the Filter, hard, his sister towering over him like a tall bird with ragged shadow-wings. )
fahye: ([mi5] a place for your breath)
David pulls him another beer, and as the fizz icebergs across his tongue Tee finds himself thinking about what can be hidden in an eyai -- not in their code, not the way he is accustomed to hiding things, but in the eyai themselves. The choc-eggs have a simply defined output for a pattern of input, but what if there was instead a module for adjustable output, a storage space, such that the output would never appear on the code; just the potential for it. The font but not the text itself. You could store anything, under as many layers of meaningless stimuli as you wished, and as long as the input pattern was disguised adequately in the basic psychophysical templates -- easy, and nobody would ever look there for anything as fun as this -- an ignorant third party could grind the carrier into silicon dust before it gave up a single bit of information.

He glances at the girl and thinks oh, the secrets I could store in you. An eyai holding the cipher and -- he smiles at the neatness of it, the abrupt anachronistic chord -- a person holding the key.

~

OOPS. Never let it be said that I am not easily swayed by my current reading material.

Now I'm off to hammer some Bechdel potential into my story, which is surprisingly difficult when it's narrated by a self-absorbed male.
fahye: ([other] ouroboros society)
But most importantly, the eyai no longer want an expiry date. There are now so many of them working on their own code and compatability, coding coders, coding creation and innovation. But even if they don't need to sleep or fuck or eat, even if they can tweak themselves into single-minded pursuit of their own perfection, Tee's still a genius in his own field. He can still think in strange shapes, weird curves, twisted inspiration; humans are still good for something. They might grow old and die, but their brains will never be unable to spontaneously support an original way of thinking. Humans are their own fucking operating system; endlessly updated.

So Blacksheep transposes coding for the old eyai who are clinging to their new existence, terrified by the word
obselete. It's a new world order and they do not intend to become disordered. Tee doesn't tell them that every society stratifies, that some people are always going to be left in the dust; after all, they're trying, aren't they? Pulling themselves up the ladder using whatever means available? He can relate. Humans can't choose how they're created but they can choose what they make of themselves: far be it from Tee to deny any being the right to a little self-improvement.

~

LOOK. WORDS. FINALLY. THANK FUCK.

*goes to bed happy*
fahye: ([potc] under the windings of the sea)
Emma asked, Ji encouraged.

Warning: contains less science than usual, but bonus discussions of French verbs and genrebending.

PLEASE don't read this unless you've already read the story itself. It will ruin all sorts of things for you.

Here we go )
fahye: (Default)
After much consideration I have decided to post this here rather than at the ficblog, because it's a bit of a slapdash personal project, and the first original thing that I've written in so, so long. Many thanks to [livejournal.com profile] villainny for saying nice things about it and for convincing me that my aesthetic allergy to the letter 'e' had to be put aside in the name of unambiguous pronunciation.

This is a belated & combined birthday present for [livejournal.com profile] ariastar and [livejournal.com profile] nextian -- I apologise for the oddness of this one, my dears, but I think you'll enjoy it despite its flaws.

(NB - a director's commentary now exists, but it tramples all over the continuity and contains bucketloads of spoilers, so read the story first!)

You will never hear this again )

October 2016

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