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petroniaIf you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction or NaNoWriMo or what have you, post exactly one sentence from each of your current work(s) in progress in your journal. It should probably be your favourite 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).
All very well if everything that I'm writing and genuinely excited about right now isn't for some sort of surprise gift or anonymous challenge. >_> But I'll post some stuff behind the cut, and you can have fun guessing which stories the snippets belong to.
***
She moves her hands to part the netting, lets herself slip off the edge of the bed. Some sound from the next room has roused her from slumber. She knows instinctively that it is not her mother, but she feels no fear as she pads to the door, nudges it open with hands barely high enough to reach the knob. She has never known fear.
The scent of roses is stronger here.
(An exception to the rule: the olfactory modality is indelibly linked to memory but is itself triggered in only 1% of reported dream experiences, and she is no rare case for study.
Perhaps she only thinks she remembers?)
***
It took three days and four nights to drill through the ice: a tenuous pipeline of disguised protocol, virii and daemons that called down the flood. That was the final stage.
At the last keystroke he wavered. Instinct whispered of sealed caskets, geis, traps not set but woven into his world's warp and woof. But he had to know.
He had to know.
***
The afternoon sun was lowering as they filed out of the house: the debriefer, Crawford, the young woman. The tiny grinding noise made by their footsteps on packed snow and gravel lost itself among the long blue shadows cast by the pines. Bars of golden light filtered between the branches. The air was thin and dry, skin-chafing.
The helicopter was a dark insectoid shape, perched quiescent in the centre of the airfield. A word from the debriefer, and Crawford stopped at the edge of the open space. The other man went on. Crawford turned his collar up against the chill, thinking of nothing at all. He had a sensation of equilibrium, as if in the moment following a hard-won consensus. He searched his pockets, looking for gloves. Surely he had carried gloves with him?
His fingertips brushed metal.
The thudding whirr of the helicopter cut through the air, shattering the stillness.
***
"Do you know how long it's been since I've seen this thing?" Lin said. She dangled the trinket between her fingers, so that the carved shell fragments jangled against each other. It could have been a pendant, or one of a pair of earrings. Oleander shook her head.
"Eight years. I made this for her, actually. They're supposed to be earrings; Amriti knows what happened to the other one."
"I'm sorry," Oleander said in a small voice.
"Why? It's got nothing to do with you."
"I just…"
"You just feel sorry." Lin rocked back in her seat, staring up at the sky. "We thought, you know, we assumed she was dead. Or that she just didn't care enough to come looking for us. And now you tell me she really is dead, and she really didn't care." She held the earring up to the sun, so that the light shone through the mother-of-pearl. "She knew we were here all along."
She made a fist and drew it back, as if to throw the earring into the water. But after a moment her arm dropped.
***
"So then I said to him – Tseng, I say to him, Boss-Man, why be a hater? Shoot the guy in the head, that's it, game over. No need to hold any grudges, it's bad for your digestion. Gives you ulcers. And Tseng, he says to me – could you pass me that Sense materia? No, not the blue one, the yellow one. By your elbow."
Schuldich picked up the indicated marble and dropped it into Reno's expectant palm. Mission accomplished, he took a long swig from his beer and fell back against the red satin cushions. The motion made the water mattress wobble; he could hear tiny discrete glassy clicks as marbles rolled against empty bottles and each other. Schuldich gazed up at the ceiling. His reflection gazed back at him, looking pleasantly sloshed and mellow.
"I gotta hand it to you, though," he said, "this is a real set-up you have going up here."
***
Kazuki's hands cup his face, tilting it gently upward. "And now? What do you see?"
There are windows, high above, jagged glass reflecting blue sky and white cloud. There is movement at the windows. Toshiki swallows.
"The beltline."
"The beltline." The hands slide down, enclose his throat. Toshiki forces himself to stillness, preternaturally aware that those slender fingers might cut off his air supply, that gossamer thread might emerge from between them and slice through his carotid like razors. Prince of elegance, prince of terror.
His heart is pounding fit to burst.
"I have been there," Kazuki says. "And one day, I shall return. One day I will make it mine, and what is unknown now will become clear."
***
All very well if everything that I'm writing and genuinely excited about right now isn't for some sort of surprise gift or anonymous challenge. >_> But I'll post some stuff behind the cut, and you can have fun guessing which stories the snippets belong to.
***
She moves her hands to part the netting, lets herself slip off the edge of the bed. Some sound from the next room has roused her from slumber. She knows instinctively that it is not her mother, but she feels no fear as she pads to the door, nudges it open with hands barely high enough to reach the knob. She has never known fear.
The scent of roses is stronger here.
(An exception to the rule: the olfactory modality is indelibly linked to memory but is itself triggered in only 1% of reported dream experiences, and she is no rare case for study.
Perhaps she only thinks she remembers?)
***
It took three days and four nights to drill through the ice: a tenuous pipeline of disguised protocol, virii and daemons that called down the flood. That was the final stage.
At the last keystroke he wavered. Instinct whispered of sealed caskets, geis, traps not set but woven into his world's warp and woof. But he had to know.
He had to know.
***
The afternoon sun was lowering as they filed out of the house: the debriefer, Crawford, the young woman. The tiny grinding noise made by their footsteps on packed snow and gravel lost itself among the long blue shadows cast by the pines. Bars of golden light filtered between the branches. The air was thin and dry, skin-chafing.
The helicopter was a dark insectoid shape, perched quiescent in the centre of the airfield. A word from the debriefer, and Crawford stopped at the edge of the open space. The other man went on. Crawford turned his collar up against the chill, thinking of nothing at all. He had a sensation of equilibrium, as if in the moment following a hard-won consensus. He searched his pockets, looking for gloves. Surely he had carried gloves with him?
His fingertips brushed metal.
The thudding whirr of the helicopter cut through the air, shattering the stillness.
***
"Do you know how long it's been since I've seen this thing?" Lin said. She dangled the trinket between her fingers, so that the carved shell fragments jangled against each other. It could have been a pendant, or one of a pair of earrings. Oleander shook her head.
"Eight years. I made this for her, actually. They're supposed to be earrings; Amriti knows what happened to the other one."
"I'm sorry," Oleander said in a small voice.
"Why? It's got nothing to do with you."
"I just…"
"You just feel sorry." Lin rocked back in her seat, staring up at the sky. "We thought, you know, we assumed she was dead. Or that she just didn't care enough to come looking for us. And now you tell me she really is dead, and she really didn't care." She held the earring up to the sun, so that the light shone through the mother-of-pearl. "She knew we were here all along."
She made a fist and drew it back, as if to throw the earring into the water. But after a moment her arm dropped.
***
"So then I said to him – Tseng, I say to him, Boss-Man, why be a hater? Shoot the guy in the head, that's it, game over. No need to hold any grudges, it's bad for your digestion. Gives you ulcers. And Tseng, he says to me – could you pass me that Sense materia? No, not the blue one, the yellow one. By your elbow."
Schuldich picked up the indicated marble and dropped it into Reno's expectant palm. Mission accomplished, he took a long swig from his beer and fell back against the red satin cushions. The motion made the water mattress wobble; he could hear tiny discrete glassy clicks as marbles rolled against empty bottles and each other. Schuldich gazed up at the ceiling. His reflection gazed back at him, looking pleasantly sloshed and mellow.
"I gotta hand it to you, though," he said, "this is a real set-up you have going up here."
***
Kazuki's hands cup his face, tilting it gently upward. "And now? What do you see?"
There are windows, high above, jagged glass reflecting blue sky and white cloud. There is movement at the windows. Toshiki swallows.
"The beltline."
"The beltline." The hands slide down, enclose his throat. Toshiki forces himself to stillness, preternaturally aware that those slender fingers might cut off his air supply, that gossamer thread might emerge from between them and slice through his carotid like razors. Prince of elegance, prince of terror.
His heart is pounding fit to burst.
"I have been there," Kazuki says. "And one day, I shall return. One day I will make it mine, and what is unknown now will become clear."
***
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no subject
Date: 2004-11-12 05:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-11-13 06:18 pm (UTC)