WIP and commentary meme
Aug. 3rd, 2007 10:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaznettiIf anyone would like to write a DVD commentary on one of my stories, I would be wonderfully flattered. (I meant to do a whole set of memes when I updated the website, and somehow never did; one of them was the DVD commentary meme.)
This is the meme where you post snippets of as many wips as you can, in the hopes that you will be inspired to finish one or more of them. But in my case it ought to be the "progress? what progress?" meme, as everything seems to be grinding along horribly slowly, and in a couple cases I have hit the "I have no idea what happens next" wall.
SPN/HL, Shadow postep:
He's thinking ahead already as he heads up to the top floor, how he'll arrange the oil, figuring out how much time he'll need to light the sacred fire, once he's lured the demon in, wondering how far the boys have gone. His head is anywhere but when and where he is, and he curses himself when he rounds the last corner and sees firelight reflected on the stairwell wall. Some other hunter, that's the best he can hope for: otherwise, the girl wasn't working alone.
He takes the last few stairs as quietly as he can, close to the bricks of the wall: he can see now, a man about his own size combing through something where the altar was. Younger than John, and he could be carrying all kinds of weapons under that coat. Better dressed than most hunters, that's for sure, if that's even what he is. He picks something up, sets it by a candle, lights a match; his lips are moving. Calling the daeva back here, and the only question is whether he wants to use it or destroy it. John reaches into his pocket for one of the flares. The man might not see him, but there's no way that thing will miss his presence.
Land Without Birds:
Dean checks the number when his phone rings: not many people have it these days and even fewer want to talk to him. It's Ellen, and last time he checked she was still friendly, even with the Roadhouse gone and the hunters who gathered there scattered and suspicious. Well, more suspicious, Dean thinks; sure as hell none of them want anything to do with him. He flips the phone open. "Yeah?" he croaks, too long since he spoke to anyone. The second time it's clearer, "Yeah?"
No one answers and he thinks too late that it might not be Ellen, that Sam -- not Sam, he thinks, not any more -- that she might have been got to. But at last Ellen's voice comes through. "Dean."
He can hear it in her voice, sits up straight like that will keep his gut from tightening up. "Who was it?" Another death on his hands.
Both of these have hit a roadblock.
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spn_xx story:
Judith gets home late on Sunday night and climbs the three flights of rickety back stairs. Just inside the door and her foot sticks on the kitchen linoleum; I asked her to mop the floor, she thinks, was that so hard, cursing her roommate for a lazy bitch. She flicks the light on.
Rust-black puddle on the floor: she doesn't understand it, wonders what spilled, why it's still there. Then the shadows, something wrong about them, draw her eyes up to white bone, shreds of flesh and skin stretched over them.
There's a face up there, and it moves.
The next bit of Blessings (yeah, I bet you thought this would never happen):
"Hold it," Dean says. "Hold it right there. Two things. First of all, you get up out of that chair, because no one sits in the pilot's chair on Impala but me, got that?"
"Winchester rules," River says, her hands still on Impala's controls, and Dean's about a minute from pulling her out of the chair by force. "Inapplicable in this instance."
"And second," he says, "those are not the backup coordinates. Where the hell do you think you're taking us, missy?"
She turns the chair around and curls her legs up in it. "Where it starts," she says. "Back to the beginning, back in time to make an ending."
"You'd best start making sense now, River," Dean says.
The other story forspn_xx. I really need to finish one of the these by the deadline, what with being one of the community moderators and all.
"You were lucky," Reed says. "You were really lucky."
The evidence is scattered all over the table, file after file of crime-scene photographs, evidence lists, a familiar face staring back from a booking photo. The other photographs are grimmer: wrecked houses, dead and mutilated bodies, charred skeletons. Kathleen clears her throat. "Yeah," she says. It's too much to take in, right now.
"But you got closer than anyone." Now it's Henricksen, leaning toward her across the table. "You spent more time with Winchester than anyone. Anyone still alive, anyway."
There are other unfinished stories lying around on my hard drive, or with bits of longhand text floating around somewhere, but these are the ones which are actually in progress, in the limited sense in which that term can be used this summer. I have a vague feeling that there's something else, something really important, that I've forgotten to add. Or forgotten to write.
This is the meme where you post snippets of as many wips as you can, in the hopes that you will be inspired to finish one or more of them. But in my case it ought to be the "progress? what progress?" meme, as everything seems to be grinding along horribly slowly, and in a couple cases I have hit the "I have no idea what happens next" wall.
SPN/HL, Shadow postep:
He's thinking ahead already as he heads up to the top floor, how he'll arrange the oil, figuring out how much time he'll need to light the sacred fire, once he's lured the demon in, wondering how far the boys have gone. His head is anywhere but when and where he is, and he curses himself when he rounds the last corner and sees firelight reflected on the stairwell wall. Some other hunter, that's the best he can hope for: otherwise, the girl wasn't working alone.
He takes the last few stairs as quietly as he can, close to the bricks of the wall: he can see now, a man about his own size combing through something where the altar was. Younger than John, and he could be carrying all kinds of weapons under that coat. Better dressed than most hunters, that's for sure, if that's even what he is. He picks something up, sets it by a candle, lights a match; his lips are moving. Calling the daeva back here, and the only question is whether he wants to use it or destroy it. John reaches into his pocket for one of the flares. The man might not see him, but there's no way that thing will miss his presence.
Land Without Birds:
Dean checks the number when his phone rings: not many people have it these days and even fewer want to talk to him. It's Ellen, and last time he checked she was still friendly, even with the Roadhouse gone and the hunters who gathered there scattered and suspicious. Well, more suspicious, Dean thinks; sure as hell none of them want anything to do with him. He flips the phone open. "Yeah?" he croaks, too long since he spoke to anyone. The second time it's clearer, "Yeah?"
No one answers and he thinks too late that it might not be Ellen, that Sam -- not Sam, he thinks, not any more -- that she might have been got to. But at last Ellen's voice comes through. "Dean."
He can hear it in her voice, sits up straight like that will keep his gut from tightening up. "Who was it?" Another death on his hands.
Both of these have hit a roadblock.
spn_xx story:Judith gets home late on Sunday night and climbs the three flights of rickety back stairs. Just inside the door and her foot sticks on the kitchen linoleum; I asked her to mop the floor, she thinks, was that so hard, cursing her roommate for a lazy bitch. She flicks the light on.
Rust-black puddle on the floor: she doesn't understand it, wonders what spilled, why it's still there. Then the shadows, something wrong about them, draw her eyes up to white bone, shreds of flesh and skin stretched over them.
There's a face up there, and it moves.
The next bit of Blessings (yeah, I bet you thought this would never happen):
"Hold it," Dean says. "Hold it right there. Two things. First of all, you get up out of that chair, because no one sits in the pilot's chair on Impala but me, got that?"
"Winchester rules," River says, her hands still on Impala's controls, and Dean's about a minute from pulling her out of the chair by force. "Inapplicable in this instance."
"And second," he says, "those are not the backup coordinates. Where the hell do you think you're taking us, missy?"
She turns the chair around and curls her legs up in it. "Where it starts," she says. "Back to the beginning, back in time to make an ending."
"You'd best start making sense now, River," Dean says.
The other story for
spn_xx. I really need to finish one of the these by the deadline, what with being one of the community moderators and all."You were lucky," Reed says. "You were really lucky."
The evidence is scattered all over the table, file after file of crime-scene photographs, evidence lists, a familiar face staring back from a booking photo. The other photographs are grimmer: wrecked houses, dead and mutilated bodies, charred skeletons. Kathleen clears her throat. "Yeah," she says. It's too much to take in, right now.
"But you got closer than anyone." Now it's Henricksen, leaning toward her across the table. "You spent more time with Winchester than anyone. Anyone still alive, anyway."
There are other unfinished stories lying around on my hard drive, or with bits of longhand text floating around somewhere, but these are the ones which are actually in progress, in the limited sense in which that term can be used this summer. I have a vague feeling that there's something else, something really important, that I've forgotten to add. Or forgotten to write.
