'Cause all the cool kids are doin' it...
Aug. 2nd, 2007 02:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwoxMeme pinched like a nickle bag of funk from ![[info]](https://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
flemco:
"When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y."
Box Act
So there I was, forty thousand feet of nothing but air between me and a painful reacquaintance with Mother Earth. My lightning reflexes allowed me to grab onto Alver's legs, but seeing as the robot steward was about the size of a toy poodle and about as well-tempered, I saw very little chance in surviving the next five minutes. Which made it all the more important for me not to spill my drink, in case it was to be my last.
It was not Harry's piloting that caused this potentially disasterous situation. Let's be clear on that. Nor were Mickey Sixty or J.C. responsible, even though they were in the passenger cabin at the time the emergency door started to buckle. In retrospect, it's clear that we shouldn't have been shooting at it. But, hell, gentlemen and ladies, I thought the day when a simple bit of gunplay could depressurize a plane was long gone! I fully expect to be vindicated when the report on the repair nanosystems is unsealed by the court in twenty years time.
But there I was, hanging out the side of the emergency exit, with nothing but a pissed off steward pumping its little servos to keep me and it from falling. It took a few uncouth words directed at Mickey to rouse him from his psychoactive stupor long enough to haul us back in. The plane leveled off and I slumped to the floor and spilled my drink.
"Jesus, Allah and Gates, man," Mickey wheezed, barely audible over the wind. "If it wasn't for the li'l guy there, you would'a been a red streak all over... what is that down there, Europe or something?"
"Canada," I replied. "I'm sure I smelled maple syrup, though that could've been me."
Mother Red
Gone for less than an hour, and already I felt the breath of the wolf on her skin. Hunger in its smoke-black eyes as it circled my young girl. The shiver in her spine as she listened to his lies. The knife in my hand felt so far away.
I told myself I would not do this. Letting her go had been hard enough. She would survive. In one way or another.
The One Hard Place
There was no gravity in the belly of the night. Mika flew down a valley of slow-digesting New York skyscrapers, holding her body together by force of will. It would not do to fall apart before touching the one hard place left in the world.
Boyfriend Jorge swam in her blood and sloshed in her belly. Too far gone to pull himself together, but still wanting to see it. She drank and swallowed and absorbed until there was nothing left of him that could be distinguished from the bed. Afterward, he bubbled the viscous equivalent of "Thank you." She knew there was a reason she loved him.
Fabulous Beasts
The ropes that held me to the mast of the ship were thin and loose, which frightened me more than the dark shapes that thrashed just over the side. Men seated around me rowed on, wax-stopped ears making them oblivious to the howl of the hidden beasts.
I was not tuning; I was being tuned. Though I could have freed myself easily, I remained still. In this place, I could hear the song. If I moved, it would dissolve into feral noise.
The song felt so clear and tasted so fine, I did not immediately realize what was missing. Only when it ended did I know.
The ropes fell to the deck. The men stopped rowing and stared, fear in their eyes, out at the black, roiling sea.
I walked toward the bow, listening for what soon came. The rush of her feathers as she broke from the waters and rose over the side. The tiny gasp of hungry breath that voided every other sound for that single second. The quiver in her honeyed voice.
--
flemco:"When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y."
Box Act
So there I was, forty thousand feet of nothing but air between me and a painful reacquaintance with Mother Earth. My lightning reflexes allowed me to grab onto Alver's legs, but seeing as the robot steward was about the size of a toy poodle and about as well-tempered, I saw very little chance in surviving the next five minutes. Which made it all the more important for me not to spill my drink, in case it was to be my last.
It was not Harry's piloting that caused this potentially disasterous situation. Let's be clear on that. Nor were Mickey Sixty or J.C. responsible, even though they were in the passenger cabin at the time the emergency door started to buckle. In retrospect, it's clear that we shouldn't have been shooting at it. But, hell, gentlemen and ladies, I thought the day when a simple bit of gunplay could depressurize a plane was long gone! I fully expect to be vindicated when the report on the repair nanosystems is unsealed by the court in twenty years time.
But there I was, hanging out the side of the emergency exit, with nothing but a pissed off steward pumping its little servos to keep me and it from falling. It took a few uncouth words directed at Mickey to rouse him from his psychoactive stupor long enough to haul us back in. The plane leveled off and I slumped to the floor and spilled my drink.
"Jesus, Allah and Gates, man," Mickey wheezed, barely audible over the wind. "If it wasn't for the li'l guy there, you would'a been a red streak all over... what is that down there, Europe or something?"
"Canada," I replied. "I'm sure I smelled maple syrup, though that could've been me."
Mother Red
Gone for less than an hour, and already I felt the breath of the wolf on her skin. Hunger in its smoke-black eyes as it circled my young girl. The shiver in her spine as she listened to his lies. The knife in my hand felt so far away.
I told myself I would not do this. Letting her go had been hard enough. She would survive. In one way or another.
The One Hard Place
There was no gravity in the belly of the night. Mika flew down a valley of slow-digesting New York skyscrapers, holding her body together by force of will. It would not do to fall apart before touching the one hard place left in the world.
Boyfriend Jorge swam in her blood and sloshed in her belly. Too far gone to pull himself together, but still wanting to see it. She drank and swallowed and absorbed until there was nothing left of him that could be distinguished from the bed. Afterward, he bubbled the viscous equivalent of "Thank you." She knew there was a reason she loved him.
Fabulous Beasts
The ropes that held me to the mast of the ship were thin and loose, which frightened me more than the dark shapes that thrashed just over the side. Men seated around me rowed on, wax-stopped ears making them oblivious to the howl of the hidden beasts.
I was not tuning; I was being tuned. Though I could have freed myself easily, I remained still. In this place, I could hear the song. If I moved, it would dissolve into feral noise.
The song felt so clear and tasted so fine, I did not immediately realize what was missing. Only when it ended did I know.
The ropes fell to the deck. The men stopped rowing and stared, fear in their eyes, out at the black, roiling sea.
I walked toward the bow, listening for what soon came. The rush of her feathers as she broke from the waters and rose over the side. The tiny gasp of hungry breath that voided every other sound for that single second. The quiver in her honeyed voice.
--
