In Which Carmen Excerpts Herself
Jul. 25th, 2005 09:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xaaraHehe, how's that for title punnage? I crack myself up.
Anywho, the snippets meme, as gakked from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sunshine_queen:
If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction or NaNoWriMo or what have you, post exactly one sentence/paragraph/whatever from each of your current work(s) in progress in your journal. It should probably be your favorite or most intriguing sentence so far, but what you choose is entirely your discretion. Mention the title (and genre) if you like, but don't mention anything else -- this is merely to whet the general appetite for your forthcoming work(s).
Just a Game, original short fiction
My father runs the gas station at the corner of Apple and Gregory. When he comes home at night, he smells like gas and oil and sweat, a distinctive odor that clings to
him even after he takes a shower and washes his hair. Sometimes I wonder if the smell is what made Mama leave, even though I know her reasons were many and something less than rational.
When he enters the house, Papa always hugs me, walking into the kitchen where I do my homework and wrapping his arms around me from behind. "What are you doing, little Thunder?" he asks, resting his chin on the crown of my head. I smile at the nickname, remembering when I was truly little, and he explained my name to me. "Sangita means 'music,'" he would say, "and Damini means 'lightning.' What is thunder but the music of the lightning?" I would giggle and try to grab onto his big rough hands and he would catch me, holding me away from him until I quieted. But even then all it would take was a little growl from him, a little reminder of the thunder that belonged to me, and I would be giggling again, softly so as not to disturb the neighbors that lived only a thin plywood wall away.
Outliving Night, NaNo from *wince* 2004
"I cannot believe what they have done," Zeus said, his great and terrible face shadowed by too many years of worry. "They know the consequences of their actions and yet they persist in this foolishness."
Hera, his wife and second-in-command, stopped her pacing of the halls and dropped into her throne. "It's pointless to tell them to stop now. You can reason with the Muses, but they're your daughters and they have entirely too much of your heavy-handedness about them."
"I," said Zeus, master of all that roamed the Earth and Sky, "resent being referred to as heavy-handed."
Reverse Mortgage, original fiction
Twenty-five years, and Jeremy will have courted five women casually, two seriously, and come to the conclusion that women as a gender are lacking something. Then his oldest friend Anna will walk through his back yard on the way to deliver a baked dish to the neighborhood potluck, and he will look at her and wonder why it took him so long to figure out exactly what was missing. He will chase after her until she notices him and turns around, and then he will grab her by the shoulders and kiss her, letting her dish fall to the grass. Marry me, he will tell her, and she will stare at him and say, Of course.
Untitled, original play (another scene from the experiment I posted a while ago)
SCENE: A kitchen. Along one wall is a row of white floor cabinets below a series of corresponding hanging cabinets. Atop the lower cabinets is a white Formica countertop: pristine, seemingly untouched by the daily messy activities of food preparation. Along the countertop from left to right are a cappuccino machine, a small microwave, a toaster, a blender. At the far right corner of the counter is a basket filled with fruit—bananas, oranges, and plums. Across from the section of counter with the fruit is a family-sized white refrigerator, a little dingy but clearly serviceable. Proceeding to the right from the refrigerator are two cabinets, a gas stove, two more cabinets, a dishwasher, and a sink. The cabinets are topped with a Formica counter that matches the rest of the kitchen; the stove has a battered teakettle resting on one of the back burners. On a rod near the sink hangs a blue-and-white checked dishtowel.
Enter MINA, stage right. MINA is a thirtysomething woman, not exceptionally pretty, but businesslike in her demeanor, despite her clear distress. She is followed shortly by a much calmer JASON, her also-thirtysomething husband, who is wearing a partially buttoned dress shirt and a loosened tie.
MINA: For the last time, I’m not going to discuss this with you.
JASON: And for the last time, Mina, you have to discuss this with me. I can’t do anything if you won’t tell me what’s wrong with you.
MINA: There’s nothing wrong with me.
JASON: No, of course not. Absolutely nothing wrong. Except, maybe, something huge that makes you cry at night and sleep on the couch—what is it?
MINA, grabs dishtowel, starts swiping it over countertops: It’s nothing, Jason. Nothing you need to be worried about.
JASON, circles her, catches her hands in his, tries to force her to meet his eyes. She refuses, turning her head away: I am worried about it. It’s not something little—I mean, you’ve been upset before, but this is new. I can’t go to work and wonder what you’re up to and then come home and find you in tears and not worry. Pauses, takes a deep breath. Please.
MINA, breaks away, turns her back to JASON: No. I’m not going to discuss this. You need to get to work, anyway—you’ll be late again.
JASON: I’m not going back to work until you tell me what’s going on. Did I do something? Say something? Was it one of Shannon’s teachers? Could you at least give me a hint?
MINA: None of the above. And like I said, oh, a hundred times before now, we’re not discussing this.
JASON, pulls back from MINA, his attitude changing from curious and concerned to hurt: Fine. I’m going to work. I’ll call you from wherever I decide to stay the night.
MINA: Jason, I—
JASON: We can talk then, maybe.
MINA, shrugging helplessly: Probably not.
JASON: Well, if ever, you’ll know where I—Mina, I hate this.
MINA, dully: And me. You hate me.
JASON: What? No! Mina— He sets a hand on her shoulder; she flinches away. I hate this. Not you. Never you.
MINA: And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
JASON: What?
MINA: I said, that’s the problem. You’d never hate me.
JASON, confused: That’s what you’re so upset about?
MINA: No. Maybe. It’s a part of it.
JASON: But then what’s the other—God, Mina, I can’t do this. I’m not made like this. I don’t go through everything just analyzing, and it’s not fair that you—
MINA: Don’t make me tell you that life’s not fair.
JASON: You don’t have to—I can see it here.
Uncomfortable silence.
MINA, gently: Go, Jason.
JASON, sensing that there’s something dangerous behind her words: I’m going. He starts to exit stage left, then hesitates. A little desperately: I love you.
Mina doesn’t respond verbally; instead she closes her eyes and bows her head.
Untitled, OT Star Wars
"Princess, you have a visitor."
Leia Organa looked up from where she drowsed against her desk, shaking her head once to clear it and tucking rogue hairs behind her ears. "Who is it, Tyli?"
"It's me," came an unmistakable drawl. "And you'd better tell this aide of yours to move out of my way or I'll have to—"
"Princess, I don't know [i]why[/i] he insists—"
"Look, sister, I insist because that's the only way anything gets done around here."
Sighing, Leia stood and made her way around haphazardly arranged furniture to the door of her inner office. [i]Why does he always make it necessary for me to intervene?[/i] "Come in, Han. I apologize for his rudeness, Tyli," she added, shooting the man a pointed glare.
"Sorry," Han Solo muttered before stepping around Leia's secretary and into her office. "But it's pretty important. I thought—"
"Don't try too hard," Leia interrupted him, still annoyed. "You might injure yourself."
He opened his mouth as if to reply and then closed it again. "I'm trying to carry on a conversation here, Princess."
"That's a first."
Continuing as if he hadn't heard her, Han said, "And the point of it all is, I want to talk to you. That's what conversation is. Me, talking to you." He glared at the now-indignant Tyli. "Alone."
Untitled, post-NFA Buffy
"Oh please, Spike. I don't care how much you care—you can't come across all caveman with every boy I bring home."
And Spike looked at his Bit, standing proud and loving and so goddamn beautiful. He smiled. "Cavemen always win," he murmured, tilting his head ever so slightly.
Dawn's overly reinforced exterior cracked under his gentle disregard for it. "What?" she said, her forehead furrowing. "Cavemen always win? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
There was nothing to explain, he thought, nothing that he could put into words that she would understand. So he folded his hands in front of him—for once, forced his hands into stillness—and blinked hard, once. Not to fight back tears. Clearly, not to fight back tears.
The Other Side, Buffy
"And what's with the food nicknames?" Dawn said, her hand still on her hip. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were—"
"What, trying to eat you?" Spike sneered at her. A moment later, his eyes went wide and he backpedaled, "I mean, not wanting to eat you, and reminding myself—"
"Spike," she said, and now she unleashed one of the magnificent pouts that always brought him to his knees, "I'm fourteen, not stupid."
Anywho, the snippets meme, as gakked from
sunshine_queen:If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction or NaNoWriMo or what have you, post exactly one sentence/paragraph/whatever from each of your current work(s) in progress in your journal. It should probably be your favorite or most intriguing sentence so far, but what you choose is entirely your discretion. Mention the title (and genre) if you like, but don't mention anything else -- this is merely to whet the general appetite for your forthcoming work(s).
Just a Game, original short fiction
My father runs the gas station at the corner of Apple and Gregory. When he comes home at night, he smells like gas and oil and sweat, a distinctive odor that clings to
him even after he takes a shower and washes his hair. Sometimes I wonder if the smell is what made Mama leave, even though I know her reasons were many and something less than rational.
When he enters the house, Papa always hugs me, walking into the kitchen where I do my homework and wrapping his arms around me from behind. "What are you doing, little Thunder?" he asks, resting his chin on the crown of my head. I smile at the nickname, remembering when I was truly little, and he explained my name to me. "Sangita means 'music,'" he would say, "and Damini means 'lightning.' What is thunder but the music of the lightning?" I would giggle and try to grab onto his big rough hands and he would catch me, holding me away from him until I quieted. But even then all it would take was a little growl from him, a little reminder of the thunder that belonged to me, and I would be giggling again, softly so as not to disturb the neighbors that lived only a thin plywood wall away.
Outliving Night, NaNo from *wince* 2004
"I cannot believe what they have done," Zeus said, his great and terrible face shadowed by too many years of worry. "They know the consequences of their actions and yet they persist in this foolishness."
Hera, his wife and second-in-command, stopped her pacing of the halls and dropped into her throne. "It's pointless to tell them to stop now. You can reason with the Muses, but they're your daughters and they have entirely too much of your heavy-handedness about them."
"I," said Zeus, master of all that roamed the Earth and Sky, "resent being referred to as heavy-handed."
Reverse Mortgage, original fiction
Twenty-five years, and Jeremy will have courted five women casually, two seriously, and come to the conclusion that women as a gender are lacking something. Then his oldest friend Anna will walk through his back yard on the way to deliver a baked dish to the neighborhood potluck, and he will look at her and wonder why it took him so long to figure out exactly what was missing. He will chase after her until she notices him and turns around, and then he will grab her by the shoulders and kiss her, letting her dish fall to the grass. Marry me, he will tell her, and she will stare at him and say, Of course.
Untitled, original play (another scene from the experiment I posted a while ago)
SCENE: A kitchen. Along one wall is a row of white floor cabinets below a series of corresponding hanging cabinets. Atop the lower cabinets is a white Formica countertop: pristine, seemingly untouched by the daily messy activities of food preparation. Along the countertop from left to right are a cappuccino machine, a small microwave, a toaster, a blender. At the far right corner of the counter is a basket filled with fruit—bananas, oranges, and plums. Across from the section of counter with the fruit is a family-sized white refrigerator, a little dingy but clearly serviceable. Proceeding to the right from the refrigerator are two cabinets, a gas stove, two more cabinets, a dishwasher, and a sink. The cabinets are topped with a Formica counter that matches the rest of the kitchen; the stove has a battered teakettle resting on one of the back burners. On a rod near the sink hangs a blue-and-white checked dishtowel.
Enter MINA, stage right. MINA is a thirtysomething woman, not exceptionally pretty, but businesslike in her demeanor, despite her clear distress. She is followed shortly by a much calmer JASON, her also-thirtysomething husband, who is wearing a partially buttoned dress shirt and a loosened tie.
MINA: For the last time, I’m not going to discuss this with you.
JASON: And for the last time, Mina, you have to discuss this with me. I can’t do anything if you won’t tell me what’s wrong with you.
MINA: There’s nothing wrong with me.
JASON: No, of course not. Absolutely nothing wrong. Except, maybe, something huge that makes you cry at night and sleep on the couch—what is it?
MINA, grabs dishtowel, starts swiping it over countertops: It’s nothing, Jason. Nothing you need to be worried about.
JASON, circles her, catches her hands in his, tries to force her to meet his eyes. She refuses, turning her head away: I am worried about it. It’s not something little—I mean, you’ve been upset before, but this is new. I can’t go to work and wonder what you’re up to and then come home and find you in tears and not worry. Pauses, takes a deep breath. Please.
MINA, breaks away, turns her back to JASON: No. I’m not going to discuss this. You need to get to work, anyway—you’ll be late again.
JASON: I’m not going back to work until you tell me what’s going on. Did I do something? Say something? Was it one of Shannon’s teachers? Could you at least give me a hint?
MINA: None of the above. And like I said, oh, a hundred times before now, we’re not discussing this.
JASON, pulls back from MINA, his attitude changing from curious and concerned to hurt: Fine. I’m going to work. I’ll call you from wherever I decide to stay the night.
MINA: Jason, I—
JASON: We can talk then, maybe.
MINA, shrugging helplessly: Probably not.
JASON: Well, if ever, you’ll know where I—Mina, I hate this.
MINA, dully: And me. You hate me.
JASON: What? No! Mina— He sets a hand on her shoulder; she flinches away. I hate this. Not you. Never you.
MINA: And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
JASON: What?
MINA: I said, that’s the problem. You’d never hate me.
JASON, confused: That’s what you’re so upset about?
MINA: No. Maybe. It’s a part of it.
JASON: But then what’s the other—God, Mina, I can’t do this. I’m not made like this. I don’t go through everything just analyzing, and it’s not fair that you—
MINA: Don’t make me tell you that life’s not fair.
JASON: You don’t have to—I can see it here.
Uncomfortable silence.
MINA, gently: Go, Jason.
JASON, sensing that there’s something dangerous behind her words: I’m going. He starts to exit stage left, then hesitates. A little desperately: I love you.
Mina doesn’t respond verbally; instead she closes her eyes and bows her head.
Untitled, OT Star Wars
"Princess, you have a visitor."
Leia Organa looked up from where she drowsed against her desk, shaking her head once to clear it and tucking rogue hairs behind her ears. "Who is it, Tyli?"
"It's me," came an unmistakable drawl. "And you'd better tell this aide of yours to move out of my way or I'll have to—"
"Princess, I don't know [i]why[/i] he insists—"
"Look, sister, I insist because that's the only way anything gets done around here."
Sighing, Leia stood and made her way around haphazardly arranged furniture to the door of her inner office. [i]Why does he always make it necessary for me to intervene?[/i] "Come in, Han. I apologize for his rudeness, Tyli," she added, shooting the man a pointed glare.
"Sorry," Han Solo muttered before stepping around Leia's secretary and into her office. "But it's pretty important. I thought—"
"Don't try too hard," Leia interrupted him, still annoyed. "You might injure yourself."
He opened his mouth as if to reply and then closed it again. "I'm trying to carry on a conversation here, Princess."
"That's a first."
Continuing as if he hadn't heard her, Han said, "And the point of it all is, I want to talk to you. That's what conversation is. Me, talking to you." He glared at the now-indignant Tyli. "Alone."
Untitled, post-NFA Buffy
"Oh please, Spike. I don't care how much you care—you can't come across all caveman with every boy I bring home."
And Spike looked at his Bit, standing proud and loving and so goddamn beautiful. He smiled. "Cavemen always win," he murmured, tilting his head ever so slightly.
Dawn's overly reinforced exterior cracked under his gentle disregard for it. "What?" she said, her forehead furrowing. "Cavemen always win? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
There was nothing to explain, he thought, nothing that he could put into words that she would understand. So he folded his hands in front of him—for once, forced his hands into stillness—and blinked hard, once. Not to fight back tears. Clearly, not to fight back tears.
The Other Side, Buffy
"And what's with the food nicknames?" Dawn said, her hand still on her hip. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were—"
"What, trying to eat you?" Spike sneered at her. A moment later, his eyes went wide and he backpedaled, "I mean, not wanting to eat you, and reminding myself—"
"Spike," she said, and now she unleashed one of the magnificent pouts that always brought him to his knees, "I'm fourteen, not stupid."
