thuvia ptarth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thuviaptarth) wrote2011-02-14 08:57 pm
thuviaptarth) wrote2011-02-14 08:57 pm
Entry tags:
Works not especially in progress
Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous.
penguinrevolution.scriv
The girl looks familiar, but Aya can't remember her name.
postapoc.odt (SPN)
He woke up in a field of corpses with a hole in his head where his name used to be. There were mountains in one direction and nothing but plains in all the others, so he hiked towards the mountains. It was a mile, mile and a half, before he saw anyone living. They were locals, people who'd been civilians before the War and who still were, mostly; he helped them strip corpses of their IDs and set up the pyres for a couple of days until the Feds showed up. He didn't know for sure that they were bad news for him, but they sure felt that way. He headed for the mountains again, which he'd figured out for west; he'd acquired a canteen and a compass and a gun his hands remembered how to use. The dust got everywhere, dry in his mouth and gritty in his eyes, and he could smell the burning for another week and even later when the wind was right. Second day out, he had enough height to see that the devastated ground of the plains was in the shape of enormous wings, and after that he never looked behind him.
qing hua ci draft.scriv
It’s dangerous to start fires on space stations, so mourners here wrap the hell money in red and orange ribbons and place it on the altars for eighty-nine days, then discreetly carry the packages to the paper disposals.
sc.odt (SPN)
Bobby's whole house felt like a cage, and the junkyard, too. Dean stood it in the panic room as long as he could, and then he stood it outside, where he had to listen to his brother scream even if he didn't have to look at him, and when he couldn't stand that any more he worked on engines and fixed up the lifts and ramps Bobby had begun to put in, and when that didn't work any more he ran the measure of Bobby's property, one mile five miles ten, and when that didn't work any more either, he went back into his brother's cage.
He told himself it was less of a jail than Hell, but he wasn't as good at lying to himself as he used to be.
simegen-spn.odt (see file name)
This close to Sime Territory the towns were small, unfriendly, and fortified. Pretty much the only difference between the incorporated townships and the military bases was whether or not the men and women on the stockade walls were wearing uniforms. Nohope was unincorporated, which meant it housed five saloons, three whorehouses, and a dozen schismatic churches of no regular attendance. Most days in late summer, when there wasn't enough business and you could expect the Simes to be as busy with the harvest as real people were, the broad log gate stood wide open and the locals at the gate didn't charge a toll. Sam Winchester had been there three days and moved to a different saloon for each night; he was thinking he might have to rent a bed in a different place than he gambled tonight, because his reputation was catching up with him. He didn't let those thoughts reach his face or even the surface of his mind; the game was too close for distractions.
spinel.scriv (Grand Guignol Orchestra)
Spinel sits between the queen's legs like a doll leaned up against a wall. The queen has already dressed her up: crimson silk and scratchy black lace, a corset whose ribbon straps cut red marks into Spinel's pale shoulders, though not as tightly as the leather straps of the wobbly high-heeled shoes cut into her feet. It is strange how the soft things hurt so much more than the hard ones: it might be the support of stiff metal bones of the corset against her ribs, rather than her own spine, that holds Spinel upright.
penguinrevolution.scriv
The girl looks familiar, but Aya can't remember her name.
postapoc.odt (SPN)
He woke up in a field of corpses with a hole in his head where his name used to be. There were mountains in one direction and nothing but plains in all the others, so he hiked towards the mountains. It was a mile, mile and a half, before he saw anyone living. They were locals, people who'd been civilians before the War and who still were, mostly; he helped them strip corpses of their IDs and set up the pyres for a couple of days until the Feds showed up. He didn't know for sure that they were bad news for him, but they sure felt that way. He headed for the mountains again, which he'd figured out for west; he'd acquired a canteen and a compass and a gun his hands remembered how to use. The dust got everywhere, dry in his mouth and gritty in his eyes, and he could smell the burning for another week and even later when the wind was right. Second day out, he had enough height to see that the devastated ground of the plains was in the shape of enormous wings, and after that he never looked behind him.
qing hua ci draft.scriv
It’s dangerous to start fires on space stations, so mourners here wrap the hell money in red and orange ribbons and place it on the altars for eighty-nine days, then discreetly carry the packages to the paper disposals.
sc.odt (SPN)
Bobby's whole house felt like a cage, and the junkyard, too. Dean stood it in the panic room as long as he could, and then he stood it outside, where he had to listen to his brother scream even if he didn't have to look at him, and when he couldn't stand that any more he worked on engines and fixed up the lifts and ramps Bobby had begun to put in, and when that didn't work any more he ran the measure of Bobby's property, one mile five miles ten, and when that didn't work any more either, he went back into his brother's cage.
He told himself it was less of a jail than Hell, but he wasn't as good at lying to himself as he used to be.
simegen-spn.odt (see file name)
This close to Sime Territory the towns were small, unfriendly, and fortified. Pretty much the only difference between the incorporated townships and the military bases was whether or not the men and women on the stockade walls were wearing uniforms. Nohope was unincorporated, which meant it housed five saloons, three whorehouses, and a dozen schismatic churches of no regular attendance. Most days in late summer, when there wasn't enough business and you could expect the Simes to be as busy with the harvest as real people were, the broad log gate stood wide open and the locals at the gate didn't charge a toll. Sam Winchester had been there three days and moved to a different saloon for each night; he was thinking he might have to rent a bed in a different place than he gambled tonight, because his reputation was catching up with him. He didn't let those thoughts reach his face or even the surface of his mind; the game was too close for distractions.
spinel.scriv (Grand Guignol Orchestra)
Spinel sits between the queen's legs like a doll leaned up against a wall. The queen has already dressed her up: crimson silk and scratchy black lace, a corset whose ribbon straps cut red marks into Spinel's pale shoulders, though not as tightly as the leather straps of the wobbly high-heeled shoes cut into her feet. It is strange how the soft things hurt so much more than the hard ones: it might be the support of stiff metal bones of the corset against her ribs, rather than her own spine, that holds Spinel upright.
no subject
no subject