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I know this was around a while ago, but I decided to put these together tonight because there are so many other things I really and truly should be doing.
the heist fic :not-really-titled popslash au
Word count: 6996
File Created: February 12, 2004
Last updated: Friday
Sneak peek:
Justin's mother falls for the romance of legitimacy every three years or so. It's always after the deal falls through, or falls stunningly short of expectations, and they've just walked away from two other raw deals and three not-so-great ones before that. Justin's mother is good at what she does, and lucky too, so it doesn't happen often, but when it does, it starts the same way: in a new town, Justin and his mother sitting in some efficiency like the one they share those first few weeks in Maine. A deep sigh from his mother followed by, "This seems like a nice place."
She always means the town, because the efficiencies are crappy.
In Bangor, Justin's mother has a screaming fight with a friend of a friend named Tony on a Tuesday, and by Wednesday afternoon she is looking into the middle distance with a fond look in her eye while talking about honest living. By Thursday she has found them a run-down flat in the borderline part of town.
"Illegal sublet," she calls over from the bathroom, where she's tossing their toothpaste and deodorant into a plastic bag. "Furnished. Cash under the table and it's a nice place, really it is."
Or it was. Justin can see this immediately; his mother's trained him to see the world in dollar signs. The flat is old and once was expensive, large windows and high ceilings and hardwood floors. But the hardwood floors are warped and stained, three of the window panes criss-crossed with gray tape to cover cracks, and the furniture is mismatched and poorly-made.
Justin splices cable from the neighbors and spends most of the first day watching a marathon of Frank Sinatra movies, and sometime before midnight puts his duffel bag under the bed in the smaller bedroom, lies on the bare mattress and stares at the cracks in the ceiling still visible even in the shadows.
"Warm enough?" His mother asks this from where she's standing in the dark doorway. It's February and freezing outside, and she always worries about him being warm.
"I'm fine," Justin says.
"We'll get you sheets and blankets and stuff tomorrow," she says. "And see about getting you in school."
"Okay." His mother doesn't move. Justin waits a bit and then turns to look at her. She looks tiny and uncertain, her latest funny hairstyle casting strange shadows on the wall. "It's a nice place, mom," he says, eventually.
"I thought so too," she says. He can hear the smile in her voice.
Percent done: 20%
Six-month forecast: At the rate I'm going, I'll be lucky to complete another five pages. It's all in my head! Why won't it make sense in a word file??
Untitled Keen Eddie Fic :see untitle
Word count: 944
File Created: 12/24/2004
Last updated: 2/13/2005
Sneak peek:
Of course it's about a woman.
"She's mad," Pippin says, whispering through the bathroom door. "Mad as a hatter. She sent me love notes for six weeks the last time we were together. She said we were meant to be." Eddie can hear the eyeroll accompanying the last three words even if he can't see it.
"And?" Eddie says, around the toothbrush in his mouth.
"And I ran into her last night," Pippin says.
Eddie finishes brushing and spits into the sink. "And?"
"And she's after me again about how we were special, the kind of thing you don't walk away from," Pippin says, in an unfinished way. Eddie waits, hand poised under the water he's just started running to rinse with. "And she's downstairs."
Percent done: 20%
Six-month forecast: Not very good, unless I go on an unanticipated Keen Eddie kick (always possible)
Untitled Harry Potter fic: see untitle
Word count: 1127 (but a lot of those are crap)
File Created: 6/21/04
Last updated: 1/18/05
Sneak peek:
Ten minutes after their arrival in the Burrow's cluttered sitting room, and nine and a half minutes after Mrs. Weasley enveloped him in a hug that made Harry feel lightheaded for a reason he couldn't name, Harry's stomach still felt unsettled by the portkey. The portkey, he told himself. Not the sight of Ron's left arm.
Ron led them out of doors, Ginny on his heels, after Mrs. Weasley stuffed Harry's and Hermione's hands with biscuits. Ron wore an old orange Chudley Cannons T-shirt with enchanted Quidditch players flying to and fro. One of them was stuck on the left sleeve, trapped by a fold in the fabric near Ron's shoulder, flying up and then down again, over and over, turning sharply just short of Ron's arm, still dotted with ugly round red marks from his wrist all the way up his arm, beyond the hem of the sleeve.
Ron caught Harry looking. "It's fine," he said, with a shrug. "Doesn't itch or anything. I reckon it gives me an air of mystery."
"Ron fancies himself the first red-headed James Bomb," Ginny said.
"Oh, shut it," Ron said. "You're just jealous because you don't have a new broom."
Percent done: No idea, since I haven't the slightest idea where I wanted to go with it.
Six-month forecast: Not so good, due to the above statement, and the fact that whenever I look at it, instead of adding stuff, I just obsess over whether the use of "reckon" there is appropriate.
the heist fic :not-really-titled popslash au
Word count: 6996
File Created: February 12, 2004
Last updated: Friday
Sneak peek:
Justin's mother falls for the romance of legitimacy every three years or so. It's always after the deal falls through, or falls stunningly short of expectations, and they've just walked away from two other raw deals and three not-so-great ones before that. Justin's mother is good at what she does, and lucky too, so it doesn't happen often, but when it does, it starts the same way: in a new town, Justin and his mother sitting in some efficiency like the one they share those first few weeks in Maine. A deep sigh from his mother followed by, "This seems like a nice place."
She always means the town, because the efficiencies are crappy.
In Bangor, Justin's mother has a screaming fight with a friend of a friend named Tony on a Tuesday, and by Wednesday afternoon she is looking into the middle distance with a fond look in her eye while talking about honest living. By Thursday she has found them a run-down flat in the borderline part of town.
"Illegal sublet," she calls over from the bathroom, where she's tossing their toothpaste and deodorant into a plastic bag. "Furnished. Cash under the table and it's a nice place, really it is."
Or it was. Justin can see this immediately; his mother's trained him to see the world in dollar signs. The flat is old and once was expensive, large windows and high ceilings and hardwood floors. But the hardwood floors are warped and stained, three of the window panes criss-crossed with gray tape to cover cracks, and the furniture is mismatched and poorly-made.
Justin splices cable from the neighbors and spends most of the first day watching a marathon of Frank Sinatra movies, and sometime before midnight puts his duffel bag under the bed in the smaller bedroom, lies on the bare mattress and stares at the cracks in the ceiling still visible even in the shadows.
"Warm enough?" His mother asks this from where she's standing in the dark doorway. It's February and freezing outside, and she always worries about him being warm.
"I'm fine," Justin says.
"We'll get you sheets and blankets and stuff tomorrow," she says. "And see about getting you in school."
"Okay." His mother doesn't move. Justin waits a bit and then turns to look at her. She looks tiny and uncertain, her latest funny hairstyle casting strange shadows on the wall. "It's a nice place, mom," he says, eventually.
"I thought so too," she says. He can hear the smile in her voice.
Percent done: 20%
Six-month forecast: At the rate I'm going, I'll be lucky to complete another five pages. It's all in my head! Why won't it make sense in a word file??
Untitled Keen Eddie Fic :see untitle
Word count: 944
File Created: 12/24/2004
Last updated: 2/13/2005
Sneak peek:
Of course it's about a woman.
"She's mad," Pippin says, whispering through the bathroom door. "Mad as a hatter. She sent me love notes for six weeks the last time we were together. She said we were meant to be." Eddie can hear the eyeroll accompanying the last three words even if he can't see it.
"And?" Eddie says, around the toothbrush in his mouth.
"And I ran into her last night," Pippin says.
Eddie finishes brushing and spits into the sink. "And?"
"And she's after me again about how we were special, the kind of thing you don't walk away from," Pippin says, in an unfinished way. Eddie waits, hand poised under the water he's just started running to rinse with. "And she's downstairs."
Percent done: 20%
Six-month forecast: Not very good, unless I go on an unanticipated Keen Eddie kick (always possible)
Untitled Harry Potter fic: see untitle
Word count: 1127 (but a lot of those are crap)
File Created: 6/21/04
Last updated: 1/18/05
Sneak peek:
Ten minutes after their arrival in the Burrow's cluttered sitting room, and nine and a half minutes after Mrs. Weasley enveloped him in a hug that made Harry feel lightheaded for a reason he couldn't name, Harry's stomach still felt unsettled by the portkey. The portkey, he told himself. Not the sight of Ron's left arm.
Ron led them out of doors, Ginny on his heels, after Mrs. Weasley stuffed Harry's and Hermione's hands with biscuits. Ron wore an old orange Chudley Cannons T-shirt with enchanted Quidditch players flying to and fro. One of them was stuck on the left sleeve, trapped by a fold in the fabric near Ron's shoulder, flying up and then down again, over and over, turning sharply just short of Ron's arm, still dotted with ugly round red marks from his wrist all the way up his arm, beyond the hem of the sleeve.
Ron caught Harry looking. "It's fine," he said, with a shrug. "Doesn't itch or anything. I reckon it gives me an air of mystery."
"Ron fancies himself the first red-headed James Bomb," Ginny said.
"Oh, shut it," Ron said. "You're just jealous because you don't have a new broom."
Percent done: No idea, since I haven't the slightest idea where I wanted to go with it.
Six-month forecast: Not so good, due to the above statement, and the fact that whenever I look at it, instead of adding stuff, I just obsess over whether the use of "reckon" there is appropriate.
