The fiction-snippet meme!

[wordinista]

Yanked from katmorning:

If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction or NaNoWriMo or what have you, post exactly one sentence (or more) 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).

Fandom:  Inuyasha

Of Gods and Monsters

"...I still don't get why you get to be CEO."

His voice was muffled, coming from the freezer.  "Because I was always more willing to kill the competition."

"Keh. You haven't killed anyone in decades."

Sesshoumaru paused long enough to lean back and give his half brother a very pointed look.  "An oversight.  One I can correct."

Fandom:  Fruits Basket

A Bump in the Road


"I'd figured that much," Hatori said dryly.  "But--"

"It's more of our game," Shigure interrupted softly, taking a long drag on his cigarette and exhaling smoke.  The breeze caught it as well, making the fine grey mist dance a moment before dispersing into nothing.

The Dragon stilled, cold apprehension snaking its way down his spine.  Shigure's darker side, always a concern, had been winding deeper and deeper into what was left of his soul.  "What happens when Akito's moves counter yours?  What happens if we lose?"

That chilling smile spread slowly across Shigure's features, like oil on water.  "Then we'll have to start over.  Or perhaps overturn the board.  I don't know.  It hasn't happened yet."  Hatori shook his head.  Shigure chuckled, but there was no mirth in his laughter.  "I know, I know.  It's not a game.  People's lives and so on and so forth.  I shouldn't think of it that way."

"And yet, you do." A stronger draft ruffled the Dragon’s long bangs, brushing his eye uncomfortably.

"If I didn't," Shigure pointed out in a reasonable tone, "I couldn't do this."

Hatori blew out more smoke, rubbing his forehead with his thumb in unconscious, long-felt exasperation.  "Shigure.  Games have rules.  Established rules.  When you deal with people, they're not as predictable as you might like to think.  They're not game pieces."

Shigure shrugged, smirking faintly.  "You may think so.  I've always found people to be reasonably predictable."  He came back to the table, resumed his place across from the Dragon, crushed out his cigarette, and leaned back in his seat. "I haven't been wrong yet."

Extracurricular Activities, II 

Unfortunately for her, that evening had only left Mayuko craving more.  She wanted more of the doctor, more of his hands, more of his mouth -- more.  And while he still touched her, occasionally letting his hand brush her hip, her arm, and her breast (though that happened rarely and, as far as Mayu could tell, unintentional), he still kept himself very... separate from her.  He kissed her, but she could taste the self-control on his lips, and it frustrated her.

Sometimes Mayuko thought it might be better for all involved if she withdrew, if she pulled away from the doctor entirely.  It would benefit her sanity, certainly.  But every time she thought about doing such a thing, she balked.  Long before now, Mayu had tried to move on, to find her own happiness, but she simply couldn't.  She'd loved him for too long; she couldn't turn back now.

This left her with no option but to be patient, to be satisfied with what she had, rather than constantly wishing for something more.  It was, however, easier said than done.  Hell, she still couldn't even go into the classroom without blushing.  And she still had to work at that desk, which didn't go very well when she kept catching herself drowning in the memory of being tied down to it.  More than one student had said to her, "Mayu-chan sensei, are you all right?  You look flushed.  Are you sick?"

The replies, which she never gave out loud, were:  No.  Yes, I am.  I think so.  

In that order.

Original Fiction

Universal Truths

"No,” she said, shaking her head.  “It's James."

Liam made a face and Ianna could almost see all thought of Diantha Hainsworth flee his mind.  "...Damn it.  Is he--"

"Coming this way?”  She nodded.  “You bet.  Atch-way the anguage-lay."

“Oh, hell.”

“Liam, anguage-lay,” Ianna whispered.

 “Hell’s a place,” he riposted quietly.  “One could argue this is it.”  When she gave him a look, he made a gesture that almost looked almost pacifying. “Okay, maybe not hell proper – that’s a bit harsh; but one of the lesser suburbs, definitely.”

 

She shot him another look.  “Be nice.”

 

“He watches me like he expects me to knock him over and steal his lunch money,” he murmured back.  “That makes it kind of hard to be nice to—”

 

“James!” Ianna interrupted Liam fluidly, offering their colleague a warm smile as he approached them.  “What a surprise – how are you?”

 

The slender, phlegmatic man hesitated a moment before replying.  “I’m well,” he finally admitted.  There was another, slightly awkward pause before he added a politely inquiring, “And you?”

 

“Oh, we’re fine,” Ianna said breezily.  "Quite a spread, wouldn't you say?  Everything turned out really well, I think."

 

The assembly hall, the original purpose of which escaped Ianna, was more or less unadorned aside from a large, ornate wooden table.  The table, which had to be as old as the school and as well-preserved, was covered with smooth linen and laden with fois gras, spanakopita, tiny lobster crepes, escargot in filo pastry, and any number of hors d'oeuvres and canapés, all of which surrounded an ice sculpture, carved into an intricate, if abstract, form.  The wine was excellent and now the uniformed servers were circulating with sinful miniature desserts, the variety comprised largely of dark, milk, and white chocolate.

 

"It's all very," James paused with a sniff, looking around, "impressive."  His words were benign enough, but lurking in his tone was definite disapproval. 

 

Ianna tried very hard not to sigh, and noticed that Liam was rolling his eyes behind James’ back.  She tried again.  "The string quartet is a nice addition."

 

Here James inclined his head slightly.  "I told Dr. Cohen that I would have been more than happy to provide entertainment for the affair, but she declined my offer.”  Here, Liam made a another face, and Ianna had to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.  Thankfully, James wasn’t in the habit of paying particular attention to those people with whom he conversed.  He went on:  “I cannot say I wholly approve of the music itself, though the musicians seem to demonstrate competency insofar as their skill is concerned."

 

Ianna glanced at Liam, then at the musicians.  "...You don't approve of the music?" 

 

"It is only right Mozart died in poverty for such sinful excesses.  I find him to be one of the more overrated composers of the eighteenth century.  I myself would have chosen something far deeper and more meaningful." 

 

A beat of perfect silence followed this remark.  Ianna nearly dropped her glass; Liam stared at James. 

 

Liam shot Ianna a glance.  Did he just call Mozart overrated?

 

She looked back at him, helplessly.  I think he did.

An as-of-yet untitled vampire story

Predators -- a true predator -- must adapt in order to survive.

It's an irrefutable fact of nature: any creature that wishes to survive change must itself change.  Man is an excellent example; remarkably flexible, man will either adapt to his surroundings or, in many cases, force the surroundings to change.  Most predators -- sharks, lions, crocodiles -- survive by their claws and teeth.  If they are wily, it is an instinctual wiliness.  In addition to brains, men use tools: arrows, knives, guns. 

 

Some people argue that man is the ultimate predator.

 

They would be wrong. 

 

Well, partly wrong.  We were men once and, in many cases, women.

 

Hollywood's got it all wrong, I don't mind saying.  Some get it worse than others, but when they get it wrong, it's a grand, huge thing.  Details -- important ones -- get left out, and everyone accepts it, because vampires aren't real, remember.  And since we're mythical, it's all right for people to take, what's it called?  Dramatic license.

 

I suppose that's to be expected, you know?  No one can get everything right.  It'd be nice if people made an effort to get a few things right instead of turning an entire species into some fucked up gothic fairytale.  There are different versions of fairytales too.  Cinderella's ending is pretty gruesome.  But then, that was back in the good old days before political correctness or childproofing.

Category: Miscellaneous

This one is an original story, but set in the Whedonverse, sort of. Helpful, I know. No title yet.


On my fifteenth birthday, I was Chosen.  It was a... bittersweet event, since it meant that all of my training hadn't been for naught.  On the other hand, my being Chosen meant that another had died.  And another would be Chosen after I died.  Death is inevitable, of course, but for a Slayer, that it will come sooner than it will for most is a guarantee.  Soon after realizing what had happened, Victor took me out to a clear field behind a chapel where we trained.  The sun hadn't yet set, and seemed to hover in the sky, prolonging the final moments before nightfall, when I would assume my duties as the Slayer.

 

"I can't say that I'm too terribly surprised," he said, sitting on a low stone wall.

 

"Wish I could say the same," I muttered, tugging on the length of my dark braid, bringing the end of it to my lips.

 

"You have greatness in you.  I knew it from the start.  It lives in you -- in your name."

 

I rolled my eyes.  "My mother named us all after saints.  I was about the furthest thing from it."

 

"Saint Brighid was Ireland's savior."

 

"And a martyr," I added sharply.  He sighed.  Victor hated it -- hated it when I referred to the Slayer as a martyr for mankind.  I wonder if he hated it because it was true. 

 

"Yes, and a martyr.  But you're missing my point.  Perhaps you were named for her because you too have the potential--"

 

"To be a savior?"  I laughed and swung my feet, hitting my heels against the wall.  "Victor, have you been drinking?"  He sighed again.

 

"Are you even in the least bit familiar with the meaning behind your surname?"  I suppose my blank look told him all he needed to know, because he went on.  "O'Connor," he said patiently.  "Derived from the Gaelic ó Conchobhair, meaning 'patron of warriors.'  Make your name who you are, my dear.  You are Brighid O'Connor, the Slayer.  Live it.  Breathe it.  Be it.  Reputation is the one thing no one can ever take away from you -- unless you let them."

 

We sat in silence as the sun inched its way downward, plunging beneath the horizon, savoring the last shreds of daylight like a child might let a piece of chocolate dissolve on his tongue so that it might last a little longer. 

Comments

[miyun.livejournal.com]

Haven't read all yet..no time..but will later...I'm liking the first snippet..O_O melikes! be back later XD