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Oct. 9th, 2004 08:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsosIf you ignore the wank that goes with it and just read the OP, this "Make Your Own Anita Blake Book" post is far too accurate. *giggles*
So I guess there's a writing meme where I toss together a list of the first lines of my stories and maybe that might inspire someone to write a drabble or something. And it's early and I'm bored, so what the hell? (And I'll edit out any specific references to characters so anyone can use 'em.)
-- It's pretty much a given that at some point in your time with the team, you will trip, jump, or get knocked into an interdimensional portal.
-- When he first sees her, he's just getting back to his hotel from busting his friend out of the morgue.
-- When he bumped into the skinny brunette as he got off the Metro, he couldn't decide whether the strange tingle he felt was annoyance or love.
-- Alcohol units: 1. Cigarettes: 13. Considering the reasons for all, may not be trying hard enough.
-- "Is she allergic to peanuts, dear?"
-- ... so the notebook I've been using for it, for writing down the dreams like he asked me to, is one of those mottled cover ones that you get for two bucks at 7-11 or something kind of like it.
-- ... and I've been staring at the stupid doorbell for what's got to be fifteen minutes, like if I focus on it long enough I'll suddenly develop telekinesis or something and get the damn thing to ring on its own.
-- "Mom, I'm pregnant." (Said by a guy. :))
-- It's strange, the way some things just don't occur to you until it's too late, like nicking the wrong brand of fags or getting shagged in the wrong bloody place at the entirely wrong bloody time not a few feet away from a video camera. (I skipped the real first line because it was actual dialogue from the show.)
-- ... because it's been one hundred and seventy-seven hours, forty-three minutes, and a handful of seconds, and neither one of us has slept, or shaved, or bothered with those annoying showers. (*snerk* I think it's possible I use that trailing-off-sentence starting point waaaaay too much.)
-- So he's been rambling for about an hour, something about cracked women and mentally scarred carpeting and bad break-ups, and it's all in this harsh, lower-class voice she never would have expected out of the simpering fool she'd known.
-- ... and sometimes, I catch her staring at me, you know?
-- So I'm pretty sure I'm on something, potent, viscous and hazy like the fog the car wades through, a thickened mess I can barely see through.
-- The old man at the counter had been blubbering on and on for the past hour or so about devils in the streets.
-- It was incredible how many rotten things could happen to you after you died.
-- The young women and men standing outside the small pub in London were positive they had seen a ghost.
-- "Are we there yet?"
-- Hi. You don't know me. I'm Fate.
-- "Y'could 'ave been prevented for a quarter."
-- His big problem was that he had arms.
-- If killing myself were an option, if I thought that slicing my wrists in a T-cut or shooting myself in the head would do anything more than ruin a perfectly good Gap sweatshirt, I'd do it.
-- I think I have failed my students.
-- It's what's commonly referred to as a history test.
-- She says it so casually. You ever notice that? "I died."
-- Let me give you an idea of my current situation at the exact moment that we're interrupting my life.
-- Ah. So this is what he'd forgotten to experience today. Abject boredom.
-- It seems funny to him somehow, but he always tells her he loves her with his eyes.
-- She had learned two very important things from dating him ... going with what worked, and optimism.
-- He perked up the second his mother stepped out of the conservatory, then sat down cross-legged next to the car seat on the floor. "Okay, you two, we need to talk."
-- The concept of an alter ego went out the window when the wave hit New York.
-- "How exactly do you call in sick for work because of the apocalypse?"
-- Just because you're supposed to survive one apocalypse doesn't mean you're supposed to survive them all.
-- See, the thing is, you're a prototype now.
EDIT: Dear spammers,
You are the only company sending spam to my email, and it's all golf-related. I don't play golf. I don't watch golf. In fact, the only time I do anything remotely golf-related is when I'm throwing up and I make a noise that sounds vaguely like "golf" as I eject my breakfast. And considering I only do that when I get a stomach flu, I'm pretty sure I don't need an entire outfit including fancy leather gloves and spiked shoes to do it, and I certainly don't need to go to a famous golf course and use their bathroom to do it, either.
Thanks bunches,
Me
PREVIEW-PIMPING FRIEND OF EDIT: So I laughed much harder than I should have at Eulogy and Fat Albert, and think Kate Bosworth looks much too pretty to hook up with Kevin Spacey in what occasionally looks like really plastic makeup in Beyond the Sea.
So I guess there's a writing meme where I toss together a list of the first lines of my stories and maybe that might inspire someone to write a drabble or something. And it's early and I'm bored, so what the hell? (And I'll edit out any specific references to characters so anyone can use 'em.)
-- It's pretty much a given that at some point in your time with the team, you will trip, jump, or get knocked into an interdimensional portal.
-- When he first sees her, he's just getting back to his hotel from busting his friend out of the morgue.
-- When he bumped into the skinny brunette as he got off the Metro, he couldn't decide whether the strange tingle he felt was annoyance or love.
-- Alcohol units: 1. Cigarettes: 13. Considering the reasons for all, may not be trying hard enough.
-- "Is she allergic to peanuts, dear?"
-- ... so the notebook I've been using for it, for writing down the dreams like he asked me to, is one of those mottled cover ones that you get for two bucks at 7-11 or something kind of like it.
-- ... and I've been staring at the stupid doorbell for what's got to be fifteen minutes, like if I focus on it long enough I'll suddenly develop telekinesis or something and get the damn thing to ring on its own.
-- "Mom, I'm pregnant." (Said by a guy. :))
-- It's strange, the way some things just don't occur to you until it's too late, like nicking the wrong brand of fags or getting shagged in the wrong bloody place at the entirely wrong bloody time not a few feet away from a video camera. (I skipped the real first line because it was actual dialogue from the show.)
-- ... because it's been one hundred and seventy-seven hours, forty-three minutes, and a handful of seconds, and neither one of us has slept, or shaved, or bothered with those annoying showers. (*snerk* I think it's possible I use that trailing-off-sentence starting point waaaaay too much.)
-- So he's been rambling for about an hour, something about cracked women and mentally scarred carpeting and bad break-ups, and it's all in this harsh, lower-class voice she never would have expected out of the simpering fool she'd known.
-- ... and sometimes, I catch her staring at me, you know?
-- So I'm pretty sure I'm on something, potent, viscous and hazy like the fog the car wades through, a thickened mess I can barely see through.
-- The old man at the counter had been blubbering on and on for the past hour or so about devils in the streets.
-- It was incredible how many rotten things could happen to you after you died.
-- The young women and men standing outside the small pub in London were positive they had seen a ghost.
-- "Are we there yet?"
-- Hi. You don't know me. I'm Fate.
-- "Y'could 'ave been prevented for a quarter."
-- His big problem was that he had arms.
-- If killing myself were an option, if I thought that slicing my wrists in a T-cut or shooting myself in the head would do anything more than ruin a perfectly good Gap sweatshirt, I'd do it.
-- I think I have failed my students.
-- It's what's commonly referred to as a history test.
-- She says it so casually. You ever notice that? "I died."
-- Let me give you an idea of my current situation at the exact moment that we're interrupting my life.
-- Ah. So this is what he'd forgotten to experience today. Abject boredom.
-- It seems funny to him somehow, but he always tells her he loves her with his eyes.
-- She had learned two very important things from dating him ... going with what worked, and optimism.
-- He perked up the second his mother stepped out of the conservatory, then sat down cross-legged next to the car seat on the floor. "Okay, you two, we need to talk."
-- The concept of an alter ego went out the window when the wave hit New York.
-- "How exactly do you call in sick for work because of the apocalypse?"
-- Just because you're supposed to survive one apocalypse doesn't mean you're supposed to survive them all.
-- See, the thing is, you're a prototype now.
EDIT: Dear spammers,
You are the only company sending spam to my email, and it's all golf-related. I don't play golf. I don't watch golf. In fact, the only time I do anything remotely golf-related is when I'm throwing up and I make a noise that sounds vaguely like "golf" as I eject my breakfast. And considering I only do that when I get a stomach flu, I'm pretty sure I don't need an entire outfit including fancy leather gloves and spiked shoes to do it, and I certainly don't need to go to a famous golf course and use their bathroom to do it, either.
Thanks bunches,
Me
PREVIEW-PIMPING FRIEND OF EDIT: So I laughed much harder than I should have at Eulogy and Fat Albert, and think Kate Bosworth looks much too pretty to hook up with Kevin Spacey in what occasionally looks like really plastic makeup in Beyond the Sea.
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no subject
Date: 2004-10-09 05:44 am (UTC)Drabble - Good Omens
Date: 2004-10-09 12:04 pm (UTC)Just because you're supposed to survive one apocalypse doesn't mean you're supposed to survive them all.
Aziraphale lost Crowley to the hordes of Hell in the next uprising, only a few short centuries after the first one. Everyone above and beyond had been so desperate for a conclusion. And a culprit. Who more perfect for the role?
After the fire and plight Aziraphale found he couldn’t share with the mortals their relieved amazement that the world hadn’t ceased to exist, after all. For the solitary angel it was as good as over. Suddenly everything was alien and new – and meaningless.
*flees*
Re: Drabble - Good Omens
Date: 2004-10-10 08:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-09 10:17 pm (UTC)And does it have to be a drabble? I can't do 100 words or less to save my life.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-10 05:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-10 02:30 pm (UTC)gayshow.)It was incredible how many rotten things could happen to you after you died. You could go to Hell, for a starter, and that, Zeke had to admit, probably still qualified as the rottenest. But it had been at least consistent. Because it was pretty rotten to get pulled out of Hell, set to hunt escaped Damned souls who were by and large a lot nastier than you would ever be, forced to live on thirty-six dollars and twenty-seven cents a day, and be told your wife was still alive but you couldn't be with her until you finished your job. You could then up the rotten by trying to ignore that restriction and nearly getting her killed, because of another rotten thing that had happened where you almost fell for this really amazing woman and cop you kept running into, who turned out not only to not be a natural blonde, but also to be one of those escaped souls, and, oh yeah, also three or four millennia dead. And also apparently involved with your boss, the thought of which usually makes you want to desperately scrub out your brain will bleach, since said boss is no less than the Devil himself, Satan, Lucifer, Prince of Lies and Extreme Pettiness, Master of Hell and, at the present at least, wearer of an extremely irritating face. Which you would know, because in yet another rotten thing, the Devil can't seem to resist showing up on a near-daily basis to poke, nag, harass, and otherwise bother you about your job and your efficiency at doing it, or lack thereof. Hell had sucked worse than this did, but had been sort of an even suffering, which had something to recommend it.
All and all, Zeke would say he was having a pretty lousy afterlife. Which didn't look to be getting any better soon, because it was barely past dawn and the Devil had already appeared to nag him for the day, shoving open Zeke's hotel room curtains to let in a flood of sunlight that made Zeke want to burrow under the covers to hide. The problem was, the last time he'd done that, Lucifer had incinerated the quilt with a touch, leaving Zeke to sneak out of the motel to avoid paying the expense bill. Looking at the Devil's unnaturally bright and sharp smile this morning, Zeke decided not to chance it.
"What are you so happy about?" he muttered, sitting up and raking a hand through his hair.
The Devil's grin got even wider. "Come now, Ezekiel! It's a beautiful day! Clear, sunny, warm-"
"We're in the middle of the Arizona desert during what they consider a heat wave. Warm is a little-"
"Like you feel it. And besides, it's one of my favorite holidays."
"Holiday?" Zeke wrinkled his face, trying to remember what day it was. About a month after the thing with Ash, but he hadn't checked a calendar in a little while and sometimes the days could blur, with a job like this. "What, it's not like the anniversary of the Crucifixion or something, is it?" he asked, trying to remember whether Easter had happened already or not. He was pretty sure he remembered a bunch of eggs and pink marshmellow chicks and things, but he'd been in Nevada at the time and not sure how much of it was just the weirdness of the area.
The Devil gave him an exasperated look, his smile briefly gone. "No. You're off by weeks according to the modern belief and months according to what really happened."
"So sue me. Okay, what am I missing? What holiday aside from Easter is in April?"
The Devil's smile returned, even brighter than ever. "It's Tax Day!" he announced, in a delighted voice.
"Oh great," Zeke said, and dropped back onto the bed.
first line story
Date: 2004-10-13 04:33 pm (UTC)* * *
"How exactly do you call in sick for work because of the apocalypse?" Pez's week-long headache tightened its bands around her temples.
"How about, 'I can't get out my front door because I woke up this morning and the East River is turning Manhattan into Venice?'" Jake's voice was hoarse from shouting orders and herding panicked citizens to evacuation points for the past three days.
"Good one, rookie, tell me something I don't know."
"“The water's already at the second floor."
It stopped her in her tracks. Shit. And she'd sent him home to rest for a few hours.
"Pez?" The line crackled with static. "Pez, I'll wait it out. I've got a wetsuit here – the river gets much higher, I'll just head out the window." The 'Blade voices gibbered at her again, insistently, but she pushed them aside. No time now for hallucinations. "Wouldn't mind having a raft in the neighborhood to pick me up, though. That water's moving pretty fast."
He pauses, and she grits her teeth. Jake's won stuff for surfing, which has to mean he can swim against strong ocean currents, and rip tides, and whatever else comes up outside of the municipal swimming pool; she's pretty sure it's not the idea of dog-paddling until a rescue boat finds him that's making him nervous. Everyone's trying so damn hard to pretend this is just a normal natural disaster, and that they're not all fucked beyond all previous comprehension of the term.
Jake settles for clearing his throat, instead of whatever he was going to say. "Danny's family get out OK?"
“Yeah, I got him to go home yesterday, get out of town with them. I'm supposed to meet up with them...later. Whenever we leave. Listen, Jake, I'll send boats your way, but stay inside as long as you can. It's still getting colder.”
They clicked off, and she turned back to the steps into the station house, the Witchblade's continued agitation pricking at her arm and in her mind. Water lapped at the soles of her boots.
100 words. The Prophecy.
Date: 2004-10-13 07:46 pm (UTC)Came here by
The old man at the counter had been blubbering on and on for the past hour or so about devils in the streets. It was well past midnight, which was the reason there was only one customer he could inflict his tirade upon.
The tall bearded man listened politely as he purchased an apple, nodding occasionally.
He munched on the apple as he walked on the supposedly dangerous streets, eating the core and spitting out the seeds.
Humans.
He tossed the stem aside and looked at the stars.
An unkindness of ravens took wing where the Morningstar had been standing.
Image of Viggo Mortensen as Lucifer: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v25/trunte/lucifer7.jpg