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UGH I'm having one of those days where I'm convinced that I can't write, I can't study, I am a general failure of a human being, etc. :( GET A GRIP OF YOURSELF, PSYCHE.
I'm gonna put some loud techno on and bop determinedly around the room packing my bag for the weekend (going home! testing out a very rough prototype of a Sakura costume that might end up being worn at Smash or Manifest at Mr Tink's PIRATES VS NINJAS party!) but in the meantime...I don't suppose you'd indulge my transient but rather gutting insecurity and quote a bit of my fic at me? Find that one fic of mine that you really like, and find a sentence or a paragraph that presses your prose-buttons in the right way, and comment here with it? Don't care how long or short. Don't care if you pick one fic or seven. I feel like I once knew how to write but it's slipping sideways, and if I could see what people particularly like about my style then I could kick my writing mojo back into shape.
To make it less ALL ABOUT FAHYE, this could totally be a meme. I know I like quoting bits of people's writing back at them.
Right! Now for that techno.
I'm gonna put some loud techno on and bop determinedly around the room packing my bag for the weekend (going home! testing out a very rough prototype of a Sakura costume that might end up being worn at Smash or Manifest at Mr Tink's PIRATES VS NINJAS party!) but in the meantime...I don't suppose you'd indulge my transient but rather gutting insecurity and quote a bit of my fic at me? Find that one fic of mine that you really like, and find a sentence or a paragraph that presses your prose-buttons in the right way, and comment here with it? Don't care how long or short. Don't care if you pick one fic or seven. I feel like I once knew how to write but it's slipping sideways, and if I could see what people particularly like about my style then I could kick my writing mojo back into shape.
To make it less ALL ABOUT FAHYE, this could totally be a meme. I know I like quoting bits of people's writing back at them.
Right! Now for that techno.
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Sirius’ hair is very Black against the pillow.
Which is to say elegant, of course, and dark, and put artfully into place because impressions are everything even when there is no one around to impress.
...
And then there is no bright laughter and no Sirius and no stars at all, in fact.
Remus has never been a good navigator without something to steer by.
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What's the name of this one? Must to find...
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Delta (http://mercurial-wit.livejournal.com/23479.html)
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*waves banner?*
And. You know, a meme of that sounds shiny. I'd do that!
From here:
These days he stayed outside, though, and the other watchmen gave him a wide berth for fear of Making Officer Webber Angry – which, as the newbies learnt even before they learnt to pull a punch and to avoid the third cupboard on the left because Officer Smelt tended to leave his sandwiches there and then forget about them, was a Very Bad Idea Indeed.
You, m'dear, have a wonderfully dry, understated sense of humour. And I like it, as it presses my own buttons to write something dry and sly and straight-faced-with-dancing-eyes.
Fine, yes, this is cheating. But, this fic? I wrote two things inspired by it. Two. Take something and twist it around and make it funny and poigant and deceptively painful and messy and real aaaand. Okay. Lines.
His mouth looks demanding, wine-scarlet and hungry.
is something short and erotic and dark, which also presses my buttons. And you are good at that, little one-liners that stick with you.
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Although, yes. Nooooooostalgia.
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I think it'd be a nice meme, though.
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Kinda.
In a way where I'm not sure I have the brain power to string a catchy group of sentences together and am just rearranging my ficjournal in procrastinating.
THERE! Is made into a meme. Sorta. I guess it depends if anyone else picks it up, but, hey. I have a post up?
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"Should we break its fingers, sir?"
She freezes.
Leoben lifts his head and smiles.
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*pokes you fondly*
<3
I AM PREDICTABLE, YES
Well if it isn't my very good friends, the Captains Turner!" Jack Sparrow delivers a sound thwack to a hungry gull with one of his pistols, lifts it higher in greeting, and grins. "Parlay?"
~
On deck and with his effects rearranged, pistols tucked away and hat adjusted, Jack looks exactly the same; no older than you can remember him being, and certainly no less exuberant.
"Why aren't you dead yet, Sparrow?" the Admiral demands.
"Commodore!" Jack looks delighted, and sways over to stare at him from an obnoxious proximity.
"Admiral." You, Elizabeth and James correct him in absent unison.
"Sure, mate, sure. Well, this is practically a living portrait of the good old days, isn't it? Have you got Barbossa stowed away behind the fore topmast, then? And hang me for a ha'penny, in all the tremendous excitement I appear to have forgotten me manners." Jack turns to face Elizabeth, removes his hat and presses it to his chest. "Your Majesty the Pirate King. It appears that rumours of your death have been not at all exaggerated, and may I say that you make a particularly fine-looking corpse."
Elizabeth laughs and pushes a strand of damp hair behind her ear in a girlish gesture. "You may, Captain Sparrow."
"And I suppose, wedded bliss and all other circumstances taken under due consideration, that would make you Queen William Turner of the Flying Dutchman. Charmed, I'm sure." Jack sweeps you something that is much closer to a curtsey to a bow.
"It's just Captain Turner, these days, Jack."
"Pity," he says, straightening up and replacing his hat with a flourish. "Queen William has such a ring to it, wouldn't you say?"
Re: I AM PREDICTABLE, YES
“Will you come with me?” she asks.
After a long moment, he shakes his head, and she imagines that he looks proud of her. “You’ll come back to me.”
Re: I AM PREDICTABLE, YES
This may take a while
Zoom out once the smile disappears.
Cut to today's headlines, which are no more cheerful upside-down than they would be right way up.
Cut to a chaotic noticeboard: covered in photographs, with several notable gaps.
Cut to coffee steam mingling with cigarette smoke.
Cut to the clock on the wall.
Cut to Billy's ring going tap tap tap against the table in a rhythm that's familiar, but – lacking a tune – unplaceable.
[I feel obliged to note I could quote the whole damned fic, here.]
*
Billy remembers the first time he was told to wish upon a star. He was older than most kids: but that's true of half the things in his life. (For the other half, he was younger. He does nothing in averages.)
It was Joe who taught him how.
Again: that is true of half the things in his life.
*
“Er,” says the angel, caught with a vase poised to drop, and then, “It’s quite soothing, once one begins.”
Crash.
Crowley’s mouth is an O of oh blessed heaven and shock, but before he can say anything Aziraphale laughs, shakily, and looks around the room.
“Installation?” he suggests, eventually.
*
His fingers slip on the chords, but it sounds better that way.
*
“Know thy enemy?”
“Love thy enemy,” Jesus corrected gently.
“No thanks,” Lucifer flicked his wings derisively. “You’re not my type.”
*
...do you have any idea how long I could keep doing this, Frar?
♥
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The Doctor keeps peering, his mouth half-open. Rodney wonders if he's going to try and lick the wormhole, and what would happen if he did Mental image FTW!
"Aauughh," Rodney says.
It's the most ridiculously unscientific thing Rodney has ever seen. He kind of wants to cry.
This bit nearly made ME cry:
"I haven't always looked like this, you know," the Doctor says. "Nine other deaths before I got this body. Nine. That's more than cats, more than anyone else should have to -- and I keep going. D'you know how many people I've seen die?" he adds after a moment. "Really die?"
Rodney feels slightly ill. "No."
The Doctor names a very large number.
"Not prime," Rodney says, automatically, because it's that or actually let himself comprehend what the number means. "Your turn. Nineteen thousand, one hundred and seventy-seven."
The Doctor stops spinning, and turns to look at him, and the bare skeleton of a smile appears on his face. "Not prime."
oh there's more
and then the entire end, but also especially:
"If there ever was a time in history when peace meant that there was no fighting going on, I have been unable to find out about it," Rodney says, his mind racing to place the quote even as it passes through his lips. Heinlein. Of course.
The Doctor looks at him with those terrible eyes that don't miss anything, and something like recognition falls over his face. No; not recognition (not yet, Rodney thinks). Fellowship. "Would you come to war, Dr Rodney McKay?" he asks, unsmiling.
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Everytime I read that line, I get chills and shivers down my spine. And my heart and mind say: "Yes. Exactly."
Later Lee whispers her name into her hair and Kara thinks that this is it, this is the answer; this is why humanity is worth saving; this is what it means to hear nothing but the rain.
This kind became the definitive meaning of that phrase for me.
Hearts will betray you more effectively than anything else.
Sigh. No kidding, huh?
(This is seriously fun and I could go on all day, rereading and remembering bits and pieces, but those are the ones that came to me first. Hope you're feeling more in tune with you're life--if not: tea + chocolate?)
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--
“Regnum defende,” Ianto murmurs, and Jack hears the familiar Welsh cadences in his voice. “I am of use here.”
--
It takes him less than three days to discover that a) MI-5 can’t actually recognise jokes when they hear them, and b) Ianto Jones is going to be just as useful as he suspected.
DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO JUST CHOOSE SINGLE LINES. >:(
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Later Lee whispers her name into her hair and Kara thinks that this is it, this is the answer; this is why humanity is worth saving; this is what it means to hear nothing but the rain.
Because it still hits me right here. *thumps chest*
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The Dutchman's curse is old strong magic, but this is surer still: your soul was signed over to her from the moment you opened your eyes on the deck of her father's ship.
But this is also gorgeous:
Time and sorrow in your dead man's chest, eternity where your heart should be.
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Because it is Wash and everything I love about him.
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Here: (http://mercurial-wit.livejournal.com/29894.html) “But we’re physicists, Maria.” Gaius sits on the edge of the desk, pushing some folders out of the way, injecting his voice with enough intimate courtesy to make her look up. His smile widens and softens; we’re in this together, it says. Just you and me against the world, and we know more than they will ever know. “We know how little time means. It’s just another form of dimensional space, after all, and space has meant nothing since we have learnt to move faster than light.” That’s good, that’s very smooth, scientific and poetic all at once.
Gaius is so perfectly awful, so perfectly manipulative. You write him like creme brulee--no, really--brittle sweet shell and rich undertaste. Makes you sick if you have too much. And now I'm hungry.
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Here: (http://mercurial-wit.livejournal.com/35030.html) “This won’t last forever. Nothing does. There will be other rooms in this lifetime and other lifetimes and the roles will be reversed, just as they were all those months ago. That’s who we are; that’s why we are so alike. We are the two sides of God’s coin, subject to the law of probability. One of us will have our face turned to the light at approximately half of the moments that can be defined. We are laid down in a never-ending pattern, shoulder to shoulder, stretching across the fabric of time.”
It reminds me of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead and it makes me happy. :D
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Here: (http://mercurial-wit.livejournal.com/37616.html) She has moved out of the light and into the shadow; she lives within a sine wave; a pattern that can be seen only from a higher perspective. Occasionally she will catch a glimpse of her own equation, but existence is positivistic: you can’t live it and observe it at the same time.
Thank you, Madame Scientist. I do like my science when it is chock full of theory and not many equations (other than the poetically described).
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Here: (http://mercurial-wit.livejournal.com/37783.html) This is what she does: she is there to be talked at by Adama men and to pull them back together when they are too proud to do it themselves. One day Kara Thrace will not live in all of their conversations, one day she will be nothing more than a photograph; but until then, these two men whom she loves more than anything else in the world have to keep going, because they’re still humanity’s best chance.
I think you should have about 500 more comments on that fic (including one from me... oops) because you write Dee with such quiet, understated grace. She is so... the show must go on. And that'd be an interesting companion to Eleusius.
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Here: (http://mercurial-wit.livejournal.com/40243.html) She whispers my hero bares his nerves along my wrist, and the body is a Roman thing; she sings the body electric. Because magic is just words and the words become poems, become her palm splayed against the intact skin of her forearm, imagining that she can feel electrical potentials jumping down the ulnal nerve, elbow to wrist, invisible and powerful.
I HAVE ALREADY TOLD YOU HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS BUT IT BEARS REPEATING.
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Here: (http://mercurial-wit.livejournal.com/41826.html) Naruto makes no sense at all, defying logic is his natural state of being, and Sasuke wants to scream because surely, surely, love is more than just shrugging your shoulders and listening when an organ that was designed to pump blood tells you that it would rather stop beating than lose someone.
I'm rereading the manga because of you. Have just begun the written portion of the Chuunin exams. NO END IN SIGHT.
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*HUGS MADLY*
I love how you found all the pretentious ones <3
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for me to recognise the meaning inherent in your form,
you must submit to this refraction;
you must be prepared to pick up a pen
and underline my faults.
~
This madness - is
it feel or rake?" Room spins. He whores more pine
(dear Rosencrantz!), he waves his arms. "SURPRISE!
He's mad!" "He'ssnot. It's all a lack of pies."
~
(On you the dreaming, frightening and vague;
on Montague and Capulet, a plague.)
~
You're every boy, his fingers turning white
around the handle of a flimsy sword,
his mother's voice still singing in his head
of peace and love and life. (And then you're bored.
And then you laugh, and then the boy is dead.)
~
and just because it's sitting on a sticky note on my desktop for quotability forever...
Love: the involuntary suspension of disbelief. The essential truth.
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Today's source is Eleusis:
the air is cold, sterile, restless; she imagines that she can almost feel the atoms knocking clumsily against her skin.
“Visible evidence in place of emotional proof,” Leoben says. “Lazy.”
smiles like thorns.
“God has a plan,” the Cylon says./“She’s bluffing,” says Leoben. (even I saw enough BSG for this)
They play at warpaint with the most delicate brushes
fingers on triggers shivering with the shock that will ripple across the deck
She drinks up Athena’s life with a sharp hungry masochism that makes Leoben laugh and Kara ache
The music video shot (Fidelity, possibly): Today they are wild, extravagant; there is not a surface in the apartment untouched by splatters of thick white paint like bleached blood, like snow. They stand in the midst of the blizzard and he traces her jaw with his thumbs.
I live in the action of death, she thinks, and opens her eyes.
She knows how to do it, this eternal oscillation between roles.
I maintain that Leoben is quite Lucifer in this fic.