Day 3 (Team July)

[wiseheart.livejournal.com]

Here is the post to update with any extracts, thoughts, or comments you might have for today.

Keep the fires burning!

(Considering the temperatures we're currently having over here, I expect spontaneous self-combusting on my part. *sighs*)

Comments

[saki101.livejournal.com]

Winding towards the close...

****
John rubs his cheek against the terrycloth-covered head again. His arm tightens across the chest and his hand tucks into the armpit on the other side searching for warmth. He closes his eyes. “Don’t be dead,” he whispers and shifts a little further back on his heels. “Not now.” John slides his other hand along the towel and under the duvet, leaning slightly forward once more. “Not ever, really.” His hand curves from the top of the thigh into the groin. He leans back a bit, then forward again, shivers under the cold weight and keeps rocking.

Lestrade’s voice carries from the sitting room. “A favour, Jean-Pierre.” There is the scrape of furniture dragging over wood. “In London, yeah…glad I could help. How quickly can you get an ID on these.” A pause. “Thanks. Yeah, I’ll wait.”

“Was he the one for me?” John whispers. He moves his head, pushes the towel aside with his chin, settles his cheek against a cold ear and keeps rocking.

“What the hell is happening to the carpet? His clothes…Christ,” John can hear Lestrade asking, feet stamping. “We’re not going to have much evidence soon.” There’s a murmur from Mike. “You know what this is? How fast does it work?”

[nathreee.livejournal.com]

John is such a sensitive man, I love seeing him distress ;)

[wiseheart.livejournal.com]

Oh, this is heartbreaking!

[jenn-calaelen.livejournal.com]

Aww, John...

[elmey.livejournal.com]

Oh, poor John and his thoughts... John's distracted awareness of what's happening in the other room gives the whole scene such immediacy, I really like the way it works.

[ideealisme.livejournal.com]

The fact that the face remains covered and the by-play with Lestrade continues in the background makes John's grief all the more haunting.

If Sherlock's dead I will be very cross :)

[stevie-carroll.livejournal.com]

So what is going on in the other room?

[akane42me.livejournal.com]

This is going to be so agonizingly beautiful when it's all put together. Poor John.

[nathreee.livejournal.com]

600 words of Victorian fantasy shintoism! I'm on a roll.



As the cab drove away, Skye stared up at the temple entrance.

Round marble pillars flanked the double doors and the steps leading inside were made of the same flawless white marble. On the outside of the temple, the walls were grey and grimy from the city's fumes, but on the inside they were pannelled with polished red wood. The pillars continued on the inside, dividing the round temple hall into segments. Along the walls stood small stands selling prayer tablets, scrolls and banners and the stands near the doors sold spirit figurines and ornaments to take home or give to those in need of prayer. At the centre of the temple hall, bathing in the sunlight that fell in through the temple's oculus, stood the statues of the spirits. Some popular spirits had baskets full of prayer scrolls at their feet, while most had nails stuck in their pedestals to hang the banners or tablets on. The prayer peddlers were quiet in their dealings, the only sound in the temple was a soft murmur and the occaisional resounding of the chimes that hung around the statues.

Knowing exactly what he wanted, Skye ambled to one of the stalls and bought two banners for the crown he had in his hand. As he turned to face the spirits, he drew a deep breath. He didn't pray often, not for himself anyway. He wasn't sure if it was respect or shame that made him bow his head as his appreached the statues. He bowed, pulled the cord of a chime and snagged one banner on a nail below the statue of Lady Fortuna.

"Grant them your blessing," he mumbled.

Then he moved on and hung the other banner on the pedestal of the Storyteller. He pulled at the chime and stared up at the Storyteller's masked face.

"Grant them your blessing. They really need it today."

[jenn-calaelen.livejournal.com]

Yay for good progress!

Good description! :)

[elmey.livejournal.com]

I like that, it doesn't hurt to cover all bases to make sure he (they?) succeeds. The Storyteller seems to be an important part of this society.

[ideealisme.livejournal.com]

What beautiful description, really vivid!

[saki101.livejournal.com]

Lovely description of the temple and the activities of the temple merchants.

Is the second prayer because they will need to lie alot to succeed and therefore need Storytelling skills?

[stevie-carroll.livejournal.com]

Excellent description there.

[muninnhuginn]

I enjoyed the description: it manages to give an impression of activity and busy-ness, but also calm.

[akane42me.livejournal.com]

Great progress, and a very nice temple description, with the prayer peddlers and the banners.

[wiseheart.livejournal.com]

"Arthur's Quest" going on nicely. Lancelot didn't fail the test, but taht doesn't mean that his problems are over. Far from that.

Excerpt:
Lancelot shook his head. “I cannot do that to Elena. She deserves better.”

The Dame Brisen let out an impatient sigh. “How can you be so brick-headed? She doesn’t want something better. She wants you, and she does not care who else she might have to share your heart with.”

“It would be wrong, “insisted Lancelot, and the enchantress rolled her eyes.

“You are a stubborn fool. Despite your outlandish ideals, though, you should remember one thing: Princess Elena is carrying your child, a child of a prophecy. As you may never sire another heir, obsessed as you are with your future Queen, you are responsible for that child. Not only because it may be the only one carrying on your line – you will be responsible for it to fulfil its destiny.”

Lancelot found that he began to understand why Merlin seemed to hate that word so much.

[jenn-calaelen.livejournal.com]

Good for Dame Brisen explaining thing to Lancelot - it sounds like he deserves it at this point!

[elmey.livejournal.com]

What a pain trying to put all the bits and pieces of Breaking Glass together. I wonder if there is a neat way of working on a long story. Since I tend to write out of sequence, I have this big lumpy mess in front of me. I had a long flashback in the story, and I've decided to make it a prologue instead, it's less disruptive that way (I hope).
The snippet below is from the scene that will open the story after the prologue. Illya is playing chauffeur and has become distracted.
___________

He saw himself running up the stairs to the mezzanine of the Volksoper, brushing at his damp jacket, hearing the agitated sweep of the violins. Mozart, he recognized the first ....

There was a sudden crack and the notes in his head shattered.

"Illya."

He came to with a start and heard the noise again, louder this time.

"Illya!"

He sat up, disoriented; Vienna disappeared as Napoleon rapped sharply on the partition between chauffeur and chauffeured. He had not noticed that his passengers had gotten back into the car.

[jenn-calaelen.livejournal.com]

Good luck getting it all sorted out! I certainly understand - given that my current story is all over the place in terms of writing order and wholes in the plot and everything else.

Good scene - the description in the first line is great. :)

[akane42me.livejournal.com]

Continuing on a new scene today. Posting the next bit of yesterday's rooftop adventure for Solo on the ladder.

--
His good foot mercifully landed on a ladder step, and with trembling arms, he maneuvered himself down. The ladder creaked and swayed alarmingly against his weight, and his foot slipped. His leg plunged through the ladder works, threatening to slam the fork of his lower body onto the rung.

[jenn-calaelen.livejournal.com]

Yay progress!

Really vivid description of the action! :)

[jenn-calaelen.livejournal.com]

I couldn't face any of the stories I'm supposed to be working on today, so I tidied up and posted a Babylon 5 ficlet I wrote earlier this year (and posted to my journal then).
(link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/450473 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/450473))
But as it is very short, I though I'd post it here as my snippet as well.

Talia's arrival to Psi Corps from the pov of her mentor (Abby)
Abby glanced at herself in the mirror, adjusting her Psi Corp badge. She carefully brushed her hair, resisting the urge to run straight to the child she could hear crying in her mind. Wait at least fifteen minutes, they said, that allows the newcomer to feel that they need the comfort you offer and accept it, and thus they will be open to your mind. She shivered at that - was everything here so manipulative? But her mentor had been wonderful, would she really have wanted things any different? Wasn't all education manipulative on some level?

She looked across at the clock - time.

She turned and opened the door, five steps along the corridor, opened the next door. She sat down and took the crying girl into her arms, letting down her shields to feel her pain and sooth it away. She slowly reached out, the girl's mind was so open that even bit of comfort allowed Abby deeper, until it seemed that she could see every detail of Talia's life. Abby forced her doubts away and slowly pulled the girl closer, dampening the memories of her family to allow her to settle well into Psi Corps.

[wiseheart.livejournal.com]

I love your B5 stuff!

[stevie-carroll.livejournal.com]

Heirs and Graces

Phase 3 -- July's writing:



Only a few more words today, but I also wrote another blog post (this time for Friday) and at work I finally finished the first draft copy for a 15k word booklet.

Reynard and Jones are still facing up to each other:

"I hope that thing's not loaded. You could do someone a nasty injury waving it about like that."

"That's the general idea." Jones took another two steps forwards, and pressed the gun to Reynard's head. He spoke softly. "See I know where you've been. I know who you've been talking to. People won't like that, if I tell them."

"What I know," Reynard said, as Jones very efficiently relieved him of his own gun, and two of his knives. "Is that it's a hanging offence if you pull that trigger."

"Who's going to care about scum like us? I kill you, that's one less villain on the streets. You think they'll care about one minor snitch, when there's bigger crimes they could be solving?"

[ideealisme.livejournal.com]

Jones, you'd better pull that trigger quick - we all know what happens to villains who explain at length how they're going to kill their victims :)

Good, action-filled scene.

[six-old-cars.livejournal.com]

Like last month, the first was a zero-words day due to work for my brother. Unlike last month the second was a work day, not a write-in day, so I didn't get started then either. However, I sat down for an hour or so this evening and knocked out 400 words or so.


Only a small snippet. Lucy and Catherine are "doing homework" with "Songs of Glory and Victory" playing...

"Yeah, I know," Catherine began. "But-"
Lucy shushed her as the music faded out. They sat in silence for a few moments but no new song of glory took its place. "Oh, that must be the end of the album!" Lucy said cheerfully. "Shall we listen again?"
Catherine grimaced at the thought. "Oh yes, let's!" She tried not to sound sarcastic but wasn't sure she'd managed it.
Lucy grimaced too as she hit play and the rousing opening anthem began.

[ideealisme.livejournal.com]

Heh. I take it they're being watched?

700 words so far

[ideealisme.livejournal.com]

Still working on the opening scene (all new writing). I'm finding this tough going. The closer I get to the end, the more the Inner Critic is screaming at me that my narrators are too similar and there are too many words and I shouldn't do it this way and and and and I'm beginning to panic.

Awful Poems by Awful Poets We Learned at School
(Maurice narrating)

Finally, with her mouth full, she asked me, "So, what do you think of Gabriel Hunter?" A bit of potato fell to her lips and her hand went to her mouth in apology. She swallowed back the rest. "I mean the poet."

"I know who you mean." Gabriel Hunter, the surviving poet of a doomed generation, or so he liked to style himself. God knows that was a month of lessons I could not get back. All spent learning this cantankerous rant of a poem "The Dove" which bestowed on its reader every bit as much displeasure as it contained in its endless stanzas. I remember being caned because I forgot it was written in anapaestic metre; for the life of me I still cannot remember what that is.

Reading the poem later by torchlight, at a more relevant phase in my life, with German bombers dropping their payload over my head as I huddled with hundreds of other Londoners in Oxford Circus underground station, I of course realised what as a disillusioned schoolboy I could never have seen: it was a masterpiece on the horror of war and the rage of women. It had been madly controversial in its day, which was well before I was forced to read a bowdlerised version in a dog-eared schoolbook in the middle of a drowsy, sun-filled classroom with a trapped fly buzzing and banging at the window. (I knew all too well how that fly felt.) By the time it reached my eyes, the controversy had disappeared and Hunter was regularly wheeled out to speak at any Great War related shindig. Then he pinched somebody's bottom at the wrong time and they silently decommissioned him. Since then he had lived in seclusion for years. Of course he could afford to: since the schools had published his poem in their anthology, he was filthy rich.

"Have you read many of his poems?" I enquired of Lucia, before realising that of course she hadn't, since he had written only one great one and hundreds of pieces of forgettable doggerel in the intervening years. But Lucia was not listening. Her loaded fork hovered halfway between the plate and her mouth, before being set down again.

[jenn-calaelen.livejournal.com]

Great progress!

Maurice's sarkyness comes across very clearly in this :)

[muninnhuginn]

I put aside thoughts of switching POV character for the moment and just let the lodger witter away at Adrienne. Result: 270 words added. And another character introduced (and I didn't see her coming, but now she's here...). So, discussing the possibility of a new cat.

“Maybe I could save up for a bit while I get over Frankie. Get something pedigree. It’d have to stop in, then.”

“A tenner says you’ll be haunting the Blue Cross by the end of the week,” Moira said as she slid her breakfast bowl into the washing up.

“No. I couldn’t get another one that soon. It’d be disrespectful, somehow.”

“I’m glad you think so. We’re better off without. Jules won’t have to dope herself up with antihistamines before she comes round. I’d like to spend more time with her here—without the asthma.”

[ideealisme.livejournal.com]

Looks like Moira's a bit of a fault-finder and not very sensitive. One would wonder why she took the tenancy in the first place if her partner is allergic to cats.

[espresso-addict.livejournal.com]

Slow progress to report, but progress! After much to-ing & fro-ing, I think I've found a compromise which adapts the first part of my overly long outline as a separate piece, with a few key changes. Not certain quite how it plays out yet, but I think it will work out. I've also reread my source novel taking character notes, and even started to put a few rough scribbles down on paper (not yet typed up) for the opening scene.

Going to bed now. Will try to catch up with other people's progress tomorrow.

[stevie-carroll.livejournal.com]

Definitely progress. Hopefully it's heading in the right direction too.