moving back home

For a while now, I've been thinking about officially discontinuing updates to this fiction journal. Not discontinuing fiction updates, just moving them back to bratfarrar for a variety of reasons. And then I spent nearly five minutes trying and failing to log into this account (am writing this through semagic), which pretty much settled the matter.

So--if I remember, I'll post links here to new works as they go up at bratfarrar, but I won't be adding any new content. (Not that anyone's paying attention anymore, anyway.)

o'neill and sheppard and atlantis

a couple of leftovers from 5 things jack o'neill doesn't talk about


He understands John Sheppard both more and less than everyone thinks he does. Because although they tick off many of the same boxes on the list of 'bad shit happens to you', the contexts are so different they're not even really the same boxes. Or so Jack figures, because half the time he can predict Sheppard's reaction to something down to the nth detail, and the rest of the time he's just guessing. And every now and then he'll think he knows up until the point when Sheppard does something absolutely insane that either works or really, really doesn't.


The handful of times Jack visits Atlantis, he leaves wondering how Sheppard's still sane and if maybe he's actually bribing medical to keep signing off on the release forms. Jack almost has to; despite his (uncomfortable, reluctant) familiarity with the Earth variety of Ancient technology, Atlantis is so much more that it feels a bit like jamming his brain into an electric socket. A very chatty electric socket.

wade in the water

{written for the time travel issue of imaginarybeasts. bit of a rush job, but passable.}


This is the nineteenth—or twentieth; he's losing count—time the fish has died, and all Jedediah feels as he stares at it is tired. Perhaps that's why the fish died: exhaustion. The floating body looks weary, slumped into the water, the fins hanging limp. They stir a little when Jed taps a finger against the glass, a brief and eerie semblance of life.

5:30—if he hurries, he should be able to get a replacement fish before Zeke arrives home from work; Zeke of the too-understanding looks and the “friendship fish"; Zeke, who will be getting married and moving out in five weeks, two days.

For a moment, Jed considers ending the charade, acknowledging the fish's death and his own failure to keep it alive (again), but he's lied about it for so long that he might as well keep going. So he sighs, gets the little net out, flushes George XIX (or XX) down the I'll-clean-it-tomorrow toilet, decides not to change the fish bowl water as there's too many plants and snails to deal with, Collapse )

when the stars were young (and so was i)

{written for the 2012 reverse round of originalbigbang, for trishkafibble's lovely and inspiring picture here. go and give kudos! i think i managed to fit everything from the picture into the story, except for the roller coaster. if the characters seem familiar, that's because this is a sequel of sorts to last year's entry.}


Sometimes when Plen woke before the sun, he lay in bed the way he never could at sea, listening to the sounds made by everything still waiting for the dawn, watching the slow creep of light through the bedroom window and across the wall. Even after almost a year ashore, this still seemed the height of indulgence.

This morning, though, he rolled out of bed even as he opened his eyes, and padded across the hallway to Joy’s room, with its small myriad of toy animals and brightly-colored paper birds. “Joy,” he said, shaking her shoulder. “Joy, wake up.”

She moaned at this, batting at Plen’s insistent hand, face still pressed hard against her pillow. “Sun’s not up.” ‘Go away’ was unsaid but strongly implied.

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and bob's your uncle

{I am writing an AU of "The Return". This is not that AU.}


It begins with something about stories from John’s childhood, specifically the story of the Alterans allowing the wraith mess to happen and abandoning the galaxy to be the wraiths’ all-you-can-eat buffet bar. And the indictment against the Alterans that they might have saved everyone, had they acted sooner, harder, slier—had they gone to the ground and stuck it out instead of running once it became obvious that the advantage wasn’t theirs.

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postcard to louisiana

My dear, I hope you are well.

Such a lot has happened since last I wrote you, I scarcely know where to start.

Perhaps with the most obvious: the upper story of the house is currently flooded with sardines. They clutter the corners and fill the doorways, and each night have to chase them all out of my room and plug the gap under the door if I'm to get any sleep--a chore that can take upwards of 20 minutes! We haven't yet discovered the cause for them being here; Rupert blames the weather, while I suspect a prank gotten entirely out of hand. If we're lucky they'll migrate come fall, but the summer will be rather overwhelming, I'm afraid.

Yours, as ever,


yet to come the distant close

{a season 6 coda to once (and many) times upon a midnight clear}


The Doctor has no chance, in that strange, frozen world of ruined time, to look for Bethlehem and babe, angels (real angels) frightening shepherds. Scarcely manages to even think of doing so, what with the smashing of all existence. Just as well, perhaps—too many distractions and slights-of-hand as is.

But once again he wonders, when he’s safely “dead”, wonders just a little about the tenacity of was and is and is to come, a narrative not even he fully knows. Wonders what would have happened if Amy and River hadn’t remembered, won through. (Wonders if there’s a reason they did.)

an unwatched pot

{Another ficlet due back in June, this time for Therese: Sherlock, Watson, and Tea, though I'm afraid this shows my inability to write the first two.}


John puts up with the body parts in the fridge, the odd (disgusting) concoctions that show up in the sink when the drain stops working, the violin at 3 AM, the WC being occupied and locked for hours on end (forcing him to run downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s flat), the interrupted dates, the remorseless and repeated appropriation of his laptop, and all the rest of it. But after his twelfth spoiled cup of tea (contaminated mug, contaminated tea kettle, no tea leaves, contaminated tea leaves, timer reset, dragged off before tea finished steeping, dragged off just after tea finished steeping, etc.) in under a week, he’s had enough. Collapse )

meet me at the station

[for kensieg, who asked for more corbel & squinch back in june. took longer than a week, but it's also quite a bit more than a hundred words.]


Ian sneezed, and the pile—wall—of clippings running along the back of the desk finally gave in to gravity, avalanching down onto the floor with a reproachful hiss. After holding his breath for a moment to make sure none of the room’s other, similarly precarious piles would follow suit, he groaned, laying his head down on the desk with gentleness born of ever-growing despair. That was most of the afternoon’s work spoiled, and he was already more than a week behind—almost five, actually, now that Professor Gerhall seemed to have gone on an unofficial sabbatical, leaving the entire backlogged project in Ian’s over-full hands.

...Didn’t he have an essay due sometime next week? Maybe no one would notice if he just turned in a copy of the article on Colonel Bramwell Mulligan Oakley IV. If he finished it on schedule.

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