Fic news

I've decided to shelve "Crusaders 4" and Dinéchesters "Gods and Little Fishes" and declare those AUs finished. Those stories have run out of steam, I think, and there really weren't any loose ends that needed to be tied up in sequels. ("Gods and Little Fishes" was going to involve the guys going with Gabriel and Talking God to deal with Metatron, and "Crusaders 4"--or 4-6 or 4-8, let's be honest--would have traced the Winchesters' involvement with the Men of Letters, from Denu's grandsons founding the society with Albertus Magnus through the English Reformation, the Letters' decision to decamp for Kansas, and Henry's murder by Abaddon to Sam and Jess becoming lay Dominicans and restarting the Letters with Gabriel's help.) There's always a chance I'll come back to them, of course, but for now... I think I'm done. Musie's needed elsewhere.

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*waves again*

Still fine, and Chappy's feeling much better. Not a whole lot going on at the moment.

Just in case anyone's wondering:

mumstheword54 and I are fine--it's damp enough to have rained out our plans for the weekend, but the flooding is "a fair piece" to the south and east of here. (Chappy could use your prayers, though; he's down with a stomach bug.)

A Thought...

... that I suspect a great many people, Jeremy Carver not the least, need to ponder:

“An artist is identical with an anarchist,” [Lucian Gregory] cried. “You might transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway.”

“So it is,” said Mr. [Gabriel] Syme.

“Nonsense!” said Gregory, who was very rational when anyone else attempted paradox. “Why do all the clerks and navvies in the railway trains look so sad and tired, so very sad and tired? I will tell you. It is because they know that the train is going right. It is because they know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place they will reach. It is because after they have passed Sloane Square they know that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but Victoria. Oh, their wild rapture! oh, their eyes like stars and their souls again in Eden, if the next station were unaccountably Baker Street!”

“It is you who are unpoetical,” replied the poet Syme. “If what you say of clerks is true, they can only be as prosaic as your poetry. The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it. We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station? Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street or to Bagdad. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! it is Victoria. No, take your books of mere poetry and prose; let me read a time table, with tears of pride. Take your Byron, who commemorates the defeats of man; give me Bradshaw, who commemorates his victories. Give me Bradshaw, I say!”

“Must you go?” inquired Gregory sarcastically.

“I tell you,” went on Syme with passion, “that every time a train comes in I feel that it has broken past batteries of besiegers, and that man has won a battle against chaos. You say contemptuously that when one has left Sloane Square one must come to Victoria. I say that one might do a thousand things instead, and that whenever I really come there I have the sense of hairbreadth escape. And when I hear the guard shout out the word ‘Victoria,’ it is not an unmeaning word. It is to me the cry of a herald announcing conquest. It is to me indeed ‘Victoria’; it is the victory of Adam.”

Gregory wagged his heavy, red head with a slow and sad smile.

“And even then,” he said, “we poets always ask the question, ‘And what is Victoria now that you have got there ?’ You think Victoria is like the New Jerusalem. We know that the New Jerusalem will only be like Victoria. Yes, the poet will be discontented even in the streets of heaven. The poet is always in revolt.”

“There again,” said Syme irritably, “what is there poetical about being in revolt ? You might as well say that it is poetical to be sea‑sick. Being sick is a revolt. Both being sick and being rebellious may be the wholesome thing on certain desperate occasions; but I’m hanged if I can see why they are poetical. Revolt in the abstract is—revolting. It’s mere vomiting.”

The girl winced for a flash at the unpleasant word, but Syme was too hot to heed her.

“It is things going right,” he cried, “that is poetical! Our digestions, for instance, going sacredly and silently right, that is the foundation of all poetry. Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical than the flowers, more poetical than the stars—the most poetical thing in the world is not being sick.”

“Really,” said Gregory superciliously, “the examples you choose—”

“I beg your pardon,” said Syme grimly, “I forgot we had abolished all conventions.”

For the first time a red patch appeared on Gregory’s forehead.

“You don’t expect me,” he said, “to revolutionise society on this lawn ?”

Syme looked straight into his eyes and smiled sweetly.

“No, I don’t,” he said; “but I suppose that if you were serious about your anarchism, that is exactly what you would do.”

Gregory’s big bull’s eyes blinked suddenly like those of an angry lion, and one could almost fancy that his red mane rose.

“Don’t you think, then,” he said in a dangerous voice, “that I am serious about my anarchism?”

“I beg your pardon ?” said Syme.

“Am I not serious about my anarchism ?” cried Gregory, with knotted fists.

“My dear fellow!” said Syme, and strolled away.

--G. K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday (1908)

I've read this fic...

... only in grey_wonderer's version, the machine got rather more out of hand....

Whoa.

Just saw a trailer for Texas Rising--and I almost wish I had cable. They've even included a couple of clips of JDM as Deaf Smith!

*sniffle*

Had cause to look up some videos of Davy performing songs from Oliver! this morning.
We still miss you, Manchester Cowboy.


*waves* Still here, still busy, almost 18k into what might be my spn_gen_bigbang fic... not a whole lot to report.

This just in...

There is a robin hanging out on my front sidewalk.

Chins up, frozen friends. Spring is coming. :D

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Bit tricky, but I managed it...

Gacked from jennytork:
Rules: Using only song titles from one artist/band, cleverly answer all fifteen questions.

Pick Your Artist: Riders in the Sky

Are You A Male or Female: Fraulein
Describe Yourself: Blue Bonnet Lady
Describe Where You Currently Live: Texas Polka
If You Could Go Anywhere Where Would You Go?: The Land Beyond the Sun
Your Favorite Form of Transportation: I Ride an Old Paint
Your Best Friend Is: He Walks with the Wild and the Lonely
You And Your Best Friends Are: Cowboy Camp Meeting
What's The Weather Like: There’s a Blue Sky Way Out Yonder
Favorite Time of Day: Hurry Sunrise
If Your Life Was A TV Show, What Would The Title Be: Welcome to the West
What Is Life To You: The Cowboy Way
Your Relationship: Riding Alone
Your Fear: After You’ve Gone

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Sam Gamgee would approve...

Sign my cousin saw today at a local store: "An apple a day will keep anyone away, if you throw it hard enough."

(Not having the best of days, but that plus the arrival of some fabric I'd ordered definitely helped. :D)

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Another hard loss

As a lifelong Trekker, not to mention a Mission: Impossible fan, I'm having trouble finding adequate words to talk about Leonard Nimoy's passing. Fortunately, a couple of blog posts I've read today have more than adequate words.

Poking my head in to say:

Still here, still busy, still okay. *waves*

Forty Questions Meme

Gacked from jennytork. (Sorry I'm so quiet, y'all, but life's buuuusy right now.)

Read more...Collapse )

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Gacked from jennytork

Rules are, post a snippet from three of your WIPs.

1. For spn_cinema:
Bobby blearily looked up at him. “Wha’th’ell are you doin’ here?”

“I’m looking at a tin star with a drunk pinned on it,” John growled.

“John Winchester.” Bobby laughed drunkenly. “How ’bout that? Good ol’ John. Help me up outta here, John,” he continued, holding up his left hand.

Warily, John did so—and barely managed to dodge when Bobby took a swing at his head. Bobby followed up with a punch to John’s gut, but John’s hand landed on a metal basin and brought it down on Bobby’s skull with a resounding clang. John then dropped the basin, grabbed the front of Bobby’s sodden union suit, and pulled his left fist back for a knockdown blow.

“John!” Rufus called from behind him. “He won’t feel it.”

John suddenly realized that Bobby’s eyes were crossed and vacant. “Well, I owe him one,” he stated and let go of Bobby, who collapsed backward onto the cot like a rag doll.


2. Dinéchesters:
Once Lisa caught her breath, she quipped, “Never thought I’d be worrying about a god bleeding out on my living room couch!”

Samandiriel returned then with Gabriel and Kali in tow. “What have my idiot brothers done now?” Gabriel asked.

Dean was too busy stitching to talk, so Lisa answered. “We don’t know. All he said was that it was an ambush, that it didn’t happen here, and that it had something to do with two rivers.”

“Two rivers. That’s nice and vague.”


3. Gwaith i Innas Lain (I know I've posted the first line of this before):
Sometime in the last yén of the Sixth Age, Rúmil of Lothlórien developed the ridiculous habit of adopting pet mortals. Not literally, of course, but he did start spotting children he liked and appointing himself their guardian and fretting over their misfortunes and so on. Thranduil Oropherion tried for a good decade to dissuade him, but when even World War II failed to break him of it, Thranduil threw up his hands and settled for reminding Rúmil every so often not to try to contact his favorites. Doing so could only end badly, especially if it ended up attracting the attention of a hunter and doubly so if that hunter refused to distinguish between the faded Eldar and all the other supernatural creatures that were out there. But for the most part, Rúmil was content to watch and occasionally sing a song of comfort outside a window.

That lasted until he nearly killed a would-be rapist in Massachusetts in Seventh Age 19.

Rather than waiting around to find out whether a hunter would even take notice of the incident, Thranduil ordered his band to pack up and move. Eventually they settled in a park outside Lawrence, Kansas. Rúmil meekly confined himself to the campsite for several weeks until Thranduil admitted that he would probably have done the same thing, and after that Rúmil wandered no further than the boundaries of the park, trying very hard to keep himself from going looking for someone else to protect.

Instead, his next pet very nearly ran straight into him when his mind was elsewhere. A golden-haired girl, no more than nine years old, ran screeching down the trail at top speed, pursued by a slightly older dark-haired boy holding a garter snake, and Rúmil only just managed to dodge to the shade of a tree in time to avoid a collision. Once he’d regained his composure, Rúmil watched the children run and realized that both bore traces of Dúnedain heritage, the girl more so than the boy. But there was something else about both of them, something both beautiful and tragic, some high doom that lay upon their houses... the girl, in particular, seemed marked for an early death. Rúmil’s foresight was not particularly strong by Elven standards, but if even he could sense something like that about that girl....

He didn’t realize he was brooding until he got back to camp and Thranduil elbowed him in the ribs.

“OW!” he yelped, completely forgetting his station for a moment. “What was that for?!”

“You’ve got that look again, Marchwarden,” replied Celebmaethor. “Who is it?”

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Heh.

Current temperature: 82.
Forecast for Friday: Snow.

Welcome to winter in Texas. :D

... and to you your "Wæs hæl!" too...

*belated Happy New Year wave*
Glad to see the last of 2014 in some ways. Some of them haven't ended yet.
But it was a good year in other ways. Got some writing goals accomplished, including finishing off all the posting-in-progress WIPs for SPN, and did some good RL stuff and made plans for more good RL stuff to come this spring. No idea yet how much time and energy I'll have for fic writing as a result, but En and I are planning to work on our various collabs as we can, and I'm planning to do spn_cinema again because I have an idea that won't take terribly much fiddling. (Actually started it but am planning to scrap the part I have written after I use it as the basis for where I want to start the story for real. It won't be wasted effort, because it did help me hammer out some details; I just decided I'd rather cut back on the amount of the story that comes straight from the movie.)
It's a little nerve-wracking, in some ways. I'm still staying clear of current-canon SPN and fell out of love with current-canon NCIS a while back, which means I'm not watching anything currently airing this season--I haven't even mustered the interest to watch Season 2 of The Wrong Mans yet. And with other online friends not being as active, it feels like God's slowly making room in my life for something else... but I don't know as yet what that's going to be.
I hate not knowing!
Still, I know what's on the calendar for this spring, and by and large, I'm hopeful and excited. So here's hoping "sick and broke" take a back seat to "busy with good things" this year!

Hokey smoke.

Been working on getting my website ready to update and decided to do a quick tally of what will be there, once the new pages are uploaded, and at cazadoretx. Result?

128 solo stories of all lengths in all fandoms, a couple of which (for LOTR) are WIPs on indefinite hiatus; the vast majority of these are SPN or SPN crossovers
8 non-DR collaborations with jennytork
32 DR stories, of which I contributed to 26

Ho. Key. Smoke. Not sure I want to figure up a word count--though I'm over 950k on FF.n, which doesn't include some of the collabs, "Ben Edlund's The Great Race," or a couple of others that were iffy for that audience. o.O Plus, there's an NCIS AU comment-fic that's currently LJ-only because I haven't decided whether to try to expand it.
Whee? :P


While I'm here: Happy, happy birthday to obeliamedusa, surgicalsteel, and my very own mumstheword54!

I can't believe it.

I finally finished "Stole Soul Picnic"!
Now to get my website updated with that and with this year's Big Bang haul... probably won't do that tonight, though.

In dulci jubilo...

The House of Christmas
By G. K. Chesterton

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.
Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam,
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost – how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky’s dome.

This world is wild as an old wives’ tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.



Merry Christmas, y'all. :)

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