Steph, it's one of the great Brit words/expressions that my grandmother would have glared me into hell for using. And it has to be said with the proper intonation.
'Dear Diary, Today I was pompous and my sister was crazy.' 'Today, we were kidnapped by hill folk never to be seen again. It was the best day ever.'
Jayne ,'Safe'
Buffista Fic: It Could Be Plot Bunnies
Where the Buffistas let their fanfic creative juices flow. May contain erotica.
deborah grabien - Jul 17, 2003 7:13:01 am PDT #5233 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
Lee - Jul 17, 2003 8:01:45 am PDT #5234 of 10001
The feeling you get when your brain finally lets your heart get in its pants.
Great start Victor.
BTW, I went back and reread all of the Resurrection Gambit last night as a complete story, and I like it even more that way than I did before.
sj - Jul 17, 2003 8:30:40 am PDT #5235 of 10001
"There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea."
Victor, James is from Manchild , correct? What a wonderful idea. I love it!
victor infante - Jul 17, 2003 10:46:09 am PDT #5236 of 10001
To understand what happened at the diner, we shall use Mr. Papaya! This is upsetting because he's the friendliest of fruits.
Victor, James is from Manchild , correct? What a wonderful idea. I love it!
Bing! bing! bing! S.J. gets it one.
Thanks, Perkins. Much appreciated.
Corrections later. More writing later. Now must clean and eat and get ready for work.
sj - Jul 17, 2003 10:50:12 am PDT #5237 of 10001
"There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea."
More writing later.
Glad to hear it. James in the Buffyverse could be so much fun.
erikaj - Jul 17, 2003 10:53:16 am PDT #5238 of 10001
Always Anti-fascist!
Sounds good, Victor.
deborah grabien - Jul 17, 2003 12:31:35 pm PDT #5239 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
This just popped into my head, so I wrote it. Crit useful.
---
One Thing That Should Have Happened in Sunnydale
In the garden of the charming house at 1630 Revello Drive, something is shimmering.
The two people in the garden, a young woman and her closest male friend, don't notice this phenomenon. They're deep in conversation, they're both tired, and besides, it's a bright afternoon. A light breeze stirs the roses and perennials, someone in a nearby house is playing the piano, and just inside the line of the property, something shimmers.
There's no way to tell what it might be. It has no shape, not yet - the general effect is of something looking for a shape to achieve. Rose petals from the Lady Fortevoits stir and sift downward to the lawn. For a moment, as they pass through the shimmery bit of air directly in their path, they alter subtly, a bizarre prismatic effect, a kaledeiscope of scent and beauty in flux.
The shimmer grows brighter, stronger. The thing that has drawn it here is coming, growing closer, darkness and rage and danger. Something shivers free of it, looking remarkably like an arm.
Upstairs, two women of the house have been drowsing and making love. They're up out of bed, lazy, replete.
The conversation between the two in the garden goes on. The shimmer is now a steady pulse: danger, warning, alert, be wary, something wicked this way comes. Another projection pops free of its source, and then another, this time surmounting the weak shine that has become a steady throbbing glow, strong as a heartbeat.
The thing that has drawn it here comes into the garden. There is madness, the frustration of being thwarted in his eyes, and in his voice. He has a gun. He lifts it; he points it.
Warren Warren Warren
For a moment, the garden is frozen, a stasis of disbelief and inevitability. The darkness with the gun stares, his small eyes forcing themselves into a parody of width and concentration aimed towards the two who stand, shocked and unmoving.
The shimmer moves. It grows. Six feet tall, seven, ten, it defines itself as a woman, a bright light of a woman who was once and now is not, or is something else. She has eyes, this creature; they're fixed on the darkness with the gun that she called Warren.
The gun motionless in his hand, Warren stares beyond the two. Both of them snap out of their inertia and begin to move, the girl launching herself at him. He seems to be unaware of her as she knocks him to the earth, pulls the gun from his hand, flips him over on his stomach, yells for her companion to get something with which to bind him.
The shimmer, the bright growing light, the woman who was called here by Warren's intent, is gone as though she has never been.
In the upstairs bedroom, the two women laugh, and discuss breakfast.
When the police arrive, Warren is whispering one word, over and over and over, not stopping, a continual loop of a name: Katrina?
- * *
smonster - Jul 17, 2003 12:41:28 pm PDT #5240 of 10001
We won’t stop until everyone is gay.
deb, don't we wish. as i said at PF, i missed the katrina thing, but this is potent nontheless.
The things that has drawn it here is coming,
agreement issues.
his small eyes forcing towards the two who stand, shocked, unmoving
'forcing towards' seems awkward. 'Compelled past,' perhaps?
AUs give me a happy, sometimes. A poignant happy, but a happy.
Lee - Jul 17, 2003 12:42:37 pm PDT #5241 of 10001
The feeling you get when your brain finally lets your heart get in its pants.
oooh. I like that Deb.
deborah grabien - Jul 17, 2003 12:49:25 pm PDT #5242 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
'forcing towards' seems awkward.
It's not only awkward, it's incomprehensible. What the hell? I have NO idea what I was trying to write there. Off to fix - and I caught the typo on thing-things. See also change to Buffy's and Xander's reaction.
edit: Perkins, thankee.