Fic and things
Aug. 9th, 2007 03:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nineveh_ukToday I am wearing a chalk-coloured sheer silk blouse, with tucks down the front and loose tie (not in a bow), a black wool-mix herringbone weave skirt, and off-white with brown thread decoration lowish-heeled shoes with strap. I think it would fit quite well at Pym’s Advertising Agency in the early 1930s.
Yesterday I finished reading a Place of Greater Safety after several months and various interruptions. I was very impressed, but I think I would have got more out of it at the beginning, which took me a while to get into, if I could remember anything about the French Revolution, which I have not studied since Middle School. This is why National Curriculums are sometimes a good thing – the Poor Laws three times at High School, but not the French Revolution?
From![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
very_improbable and daegaer
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.
This is not quite my problem. I have inspiration; it’s application that I lack. My habit of jotting things down on bit of paper until the work of assemblage at the computer also means it’s a bit tricky to find something from a WIP that I think may make it into a final piece in that form. I don’t guarantee that these will turn up exactly as here on a future date.
You may be wondering what I am doing in the dungeons of the Chateau dressed as a humble doorknob-salesman, in the company of Herr Flick of the Gestapo, who is dressed in Helga’s underwear, and Michelle of the Resistance who fortunately is dressed is in her own clothes. I am wondering this too. The last thing I remember I was riding a child’s bicycle with a suitcase of knobs strapped to the back wheel for delivery to a secret resistance hide-out. The knobs contained small propellers to be attached to the submarine that is to take the British Airmen to England.
*
‘ I vould rather die.’
‘ Would you rather be sent to ze Eastern Front?’
*
Pyllecock and Daughters, purveyors of Intimate Aids to the Discerning Witch and Wizard.
*
There is dark magic in all the old things. London Bridge is falling down, folk memory of blood sacrifice – there are few now outside the great colleges who know that it is true: that it was done and that it worked. It is the Dark Arts, and the wizards did it in secret for great reward.
‘If the Muggles ever hated us, it was for good reason.’
*
‘Muggleborn witches your age believe that test-tube babies are grown in jars to full size. The wizards are barely aware of antibiotics. They think that if you lose a leg, it can be grown back, but if your kidneys falter there is nothing that can be done for you. These are not people who should be talking to the surgeon on your behalf in your old age.’
*
(An exchange between Rodolphus Lestrange and his OC sister, Roswitha, that doesn’t really have anywhere to go.)
‘You can’t be serious!’
‘Why not?’
‘But Bellatrix Black? Of all the women to choose.’
‘You don’t know her – you were never at school with her.’
‘I didn’t need to be. I can see a loon by daylight. Consider the family, Rodolphus – her parents are all right, but the aunt is a nightmare, and there’s Sirius, and her sisters!’
‘What’s wrong with them? Lucius Malfoy married Narcissa!’
‘Lucius is in love, an excuse you don’t have. And Andromeda married a Mudblood!’
‘I never said she had good taste.’
‘For God’s sake, the whole idea is ridiculous. The two of you! You can’t love her. Why would you do it – it isn’t the Death Eaters?’
‘No. I am fond of Bellatrix. She needs an independent household, and so do I. We have – shared interests. It will work.’
‘And the sex?’
‘That enough, Ros.’
‘Well. Just remember it has to be legal. Otherwise it affects the property, and that is my business.’
*
"Peter, you do seem off-colour. I really think you ought to go home."
He gave in. "You don't mind too much?"
Of course not: when had she minded an excuse to escape from him? Perhaps that was unfair. She bundled him into the taxi with a firm hand, and tucked his arm through hers.
*
'By the way, I should mention that I don’t intend to push my luck.'
*
‘I must look dreadful,’ Harriet said cheerfully.
‘You look lovely.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I’m off to darkest Warwickshire. Try not to get yourself killed while I’m away. My nerves are not what they were.’
*
‘Peter?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Do you think that Charles is a man of honour where women are concerned?’
‘What do you - ? Oh, that.’ His sister looked down on him with an expression of somewhat tried patience. ‘I would have to say yes. I think yes, quite definitely.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘One can take the man out of Barrow-in-Furness…’
*
‘Rory, would you object very much to pyjamas?’
‘Not if it’s you that’s in them.’
From the department of the author didn’t know better, I recently stumbled across a piece of Brideshead Revisited slash (a click I shall not make again), in which the protagonists’ passion is unsubdued by their falling into a bramble thicket. Much as Hogwarts romances consummated on Astronomy Tower may be assumed to have been written by those who have never spent much time on top of a high, open tower in the Highlands of Scotland at midnight in February, this was clearly an author who had never wondered on an Autumn morning whether her tetanus vaccination was up-to-date. Not if her description of Charles and Sebastian continuing their mad, passionate kissing, the scratch of “tiny thorns” “swiftly subdued by olfactory pleasure”, is anything to go by. Not to mention that the grip of thorns on tweed should be such they have difficulty moving. She got Sebastian’s hesitation before eating a berry right, though I fear she was going for poetic effect rather than the usual reason of checking for maggots. I like blackberries, but picking them involves jeans, a leather jacket, and substantial gardening gloves.
And finally, since we seen to be into barking fandom at the moment, an mpreg fic that shows what happens when Men fall pregnant: Daddy’s Little Conqueror, in which Alexander comes up with a novel solution for his lack of a true-born Macedonian heir. I wouldn’t go quite so far as to say this is actually a rec, but it is certainly one of a kind.
“He’s adorable, Alexandros,” said Leonnatus. “He’s got your hair and your strong grip—and his mother’s lovely thighs.”
Yesterday I finished reading a Place of Greater Safety after several months and various interruptions. I was very impressed, but I think I would have got more out of it at the beginning, which took me a while to get into, if I could remember anything about the French Revolution, which I have not studied since Middle School. This is why National Curriculums are sometimes a good thing – the Poor Laws three times at High School, but not the French Revolution?
From
very_improbable and daegaerWhen 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.
This is not quite my problem. I have inspiration; it’s application that I lack. My habit of jotting things down on bit of paper until the work of assemblage at the computer also means it’s a bit tricky to find something from a WIP that I think may make it into a final piece in that form. I don’t guarantee that these will turn up exactly as here on a future date.
You may be wondering what I am doing in the dungeons of the Chateau dressed as a humble doorknob-salesman, in the company of Herr Flick of the Gestapo, who is dressed in Helga’s underwear, and Michelle of the Resistance who fortunately is dressed is in her own clothes. I am wondering this too. The last thing I remember I was riding a child’s bicycle with a suitcase of knobs strapped to the back wheel for delivery to a secret resistance hide-out. The knobs contained small propellers to be attached to the submarine that is to take the British Airmen to England.
*
‘ I vould rather die.’
‘ Would you rather be sent to ze Eastern Front?’
*
Pyllecock and Daughters, purveyors of Intimate Aids to the Discerning Witch and Wizard.
*
There is dark magic in all the old things. London Bridge is falling down, folk memory of blood sacrifice – there are few now outside the great colleges who know that it is true: that it was done and that it worked. It is the Dark Arts, and the wizards did it in secret for great reward.
‘If the Muggles ever hated us, it was for good reason.’
*
‘Muggleborn witches your age believe that test-tube babies are grown in jars to full size. The wizards are barely aware of antibiotics. They think that if you lose a leg, it can be grown back, but if your kidneys falter there is nothing that can be done for you. These are not people who should be talking to the surgeon on your behalf in your old age.’
*
(An exchange between Rodolphus Lestrange and his OC sister, Roswitha, that doesn’t really have anywhere to go.)
‘You can’t be serious!’
‘Why not?’
‘But Bellatrix Black? Of all the women to choose.’
‘You don’t know her – you were never at school with her.’
‘I didn’t need to be. I can see a loon by daylight. Consider the family, Rodolphus – her parents are all right, but the aunt is a nightmare, and there’s Sirius, and her sisters!’
‘What’s wrong with them? Lucius Malfoy married Narcissa!’
‘Lucius is in love, an excuse you don’t have. And Andromeda married a Mudblood!’
‘I never said she had good taste.’
‘For God’s sake, the whole idea is ridiculous. The two of you! You can’t love her. Why would you do it – it isn’t the Death Eaters?’
‘No. I am fond of Bellatrix. She needs an independent household, and so do I. We have – shared interests. It will work.’
‘And the sex?’
‘That enough, Ros.’
‘Well. Just remember it has to be legal. Otherwise it affects the property, and that is my business.’
*
"Peter, you do seem off-colour. I really think you ought to go home."
He gave in. "You don't mind too much?"
Of course not: when had she minded an excuse to escape from him? Perhaps that was unfair. She bundled him into the taxi with a firm hand, and tucked his arm through hers.
*
'By the way, I should mention that I don’t intend to push my luck.'
*
‘I must look dreadful,’ Harriet said cheerfully.
‘You look lovely.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I’m off to darkest Warwickshire. Try not to get yourself killed while I’m away. My nerves are not what they were.’
*
‘Peter?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Do you think that Charles is a man of honour where women are concerned?’
‘What do you - ? Oh, that.’ His sister looked down on him with an expression of somewhat tried patience. ‘I would have to say yes. I think yes, quite definitely.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘One can take the man out of Barrow-in-Furness…’
*
‘Rory, would you object very much to pyjamas?’
‘Not if it’s you that’s in them.’
From the department of the author didn’t know better, I recently stumbled across a piece of Brideshead Revisited slash (a click I shall not make again), in which the protagonists’ passion is unsubdued by their falling into a bramble thicket. Much as Hogwarts romances consummated on Astronomy Tower may be assumed to have been written by those who have never spent much time on top of a high, open tower in the Highlands of Scotland at midnight in February, this was clearly an author who had never wondered on an Autumn morning whether her tetanus vaccination was up-to-date. Not if her description of Charles and Sebastian continuing their mad, passionate kissing, the scratch of “tiny thorns” “swiftly subdued by olfactory pleasure”, is anything to go by. Not to mention that the grip of thorns on tweed should be such they have difficulty moving. She got Sebastian’s hesitation before eating a berry right, though I fear she was going for poetic effect rather than the usual reason of checking for maggots. I like blackberries, but picking them involves jeans, a leather jacket, and substantial gardening gloves.
And finally, since we seen to be into barking fandom at the moment, an mpreg fic that shows what happens when Men fall pregnant: Daddy’s Little Conqueror, in which Alexander comes up with a novel solution for his lack of a true-born Macedonian heir. I wouldn’t go quite so far as to say this is actually a rec, but it is certainly one of a kind.
“He’s adorable, Alexandros,” said Leonnatus. “He’s got your hair and your strong grip—and his mother’s lovely thighs.”
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(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-10 10:00 am (UTC)Nice icon.