Daily Excerpt: 6 November

[jupitersings.livejournal.com]

This is your Daily Excerpt Post!
Post an excerpt of your novel here rather than anywhere else!
Please try to keep it under 1500 words. Thanks!

<b>Username:</b> <b>Any background information:</b> <b>Excerpt:</b>

Comments

[reynardo.livejournal.com]

Username: Reynardo
Any background information: Robert's nephew Peter has come to deliver his suitcase, and wonders why his uncle left his other uncle's place so precipitously.
Excerpt:

"All I heard was that you called Auntie an obnoxious social-climbing harridan with less sense than a hedgehog. What did she do this time?"

"Tried to set me up with the most horsy-looking woman in the county. I swear, if the Honourable Selina Duncan isn't really the result of her mother being scared by a donkey at a village fete, then I'll eat a bale of hay." Robert took a long draught of his beer, and looked despairingly at his nephew. "I joined the Army to get away from your grandmother trying to matchmake me, and now my sister-in-law is doing the same. And I wouldn't mind if they were sensible women who at least knew their own minds, but they all seem to be the same mindless, vapid creatures with the sole intention of scoring a husband who will escort them to parties and ask them to do nothing more complicated than choose the colours for the morning room. Be warned, young disciple, while it's nice to have a girl that agrees with your every word and only wants to do what you want, it gets very tiring after a while."

"Heaven forbid," Peter agreed. "I'd rather have a lass who flies her own aeroplane, or who wants to go and discover the deepest darkest parts of Africa, or who asks me to help her climb Everest. But I'm in no hurry yet, and Mother doesn't seem to be pushing me that way."

"That, my boy, is one of the reasons I love your mother very much. If she introduces me to a woman, it'll be because she's found a person who has similar or fascinating interests, and the whole SA won't have figured in her calculations at all."

[tehexile]

lol, this conversation is hilarious...

[fenrischained.livejournal.com]

There's something very Oscar Wilde about your writing, you know.

[heffermonkey.livejournal.com]

Username: heffermonkey
Any background information: Due South Fanfic - set Post S4, about six years on. Ben and Ray K have returned to Chicago.
Excerpt:

Once the food was served up the crowd were regalled with stories of the adventuring duo. The Beauford Adventure was told in detail, shocked faces at the danger, smiles at the victory. Talk turned to the mountain town where they'd found themselves settling down, the people there, their work. Dief's death was briefly touched upon, those who'd known the wolf knew Benton's grief and it was glossed over. It wasn't fair to muse on it. Then talk turned to everyone else, how their lives had changed. Francesca showed photographs of the quads to Ben & Ray, Vechio proudly looking at his neice and nephews and pointing out all the similarities they had to himself.

"They love their uncle Ray," he declared.

Francesca rolled her eyes but gave a smile, Ray had been more than supportive when she'd had the kids and making sure she was okay in every way possible. Always the big brother, always making her feel safe and looking out for her. Even if she was now a mother and quite capable of looking after herself, he couldn't let go. She'd always be the baby of the family.

The meal turned to deserts, more beers, coffee and general talk in small groups. Ray found himself in deep conversation with Walsh about some of the latest cases that had been worked on on the streets, finding he missed the beat more than he'd first realised. Even talking about the cases, who was working them, the process made him yearn for the job. Though he worked somewhat in an official capacity in Canada, it was in no way as intense as the city streets.

"You know Kawalski, we can get you processed and back out there as soon as you give the word," Walsh assured him. "I could always do with another guy like you back out there. The streets don't clean up themselves and god knows they've been getting worse these last few years."

"What, you can't cope with just the ducks out there," Ray grinned.

Walsh gave him an intense stare. He meant what he said, but neither Kawalski nor Fraser had made any comment on how long they were back for. Walsh wondered how long Ray could stick it out before he gave in to it? Or if he'd stick aorund long enough for it to get under his skin again. Maybe he'd jump town before it had a chance to reel him back into detective life.

"I mean it Ray," he said with a low voice.

Ray looked serious for a moment, turned his head and found himself looking around for Fraser. He saw him sitting apart from the crowd, with Vecchio, talking quietly just the two of them. He felt a knot inside tighten a little. 'Drop it Kawalksi,' he told himself and forced himself to duck his head and look at Walsh again.

"I know Lou, thanks," he said seriously this time. "I'll think about it."

Walsh just looked at him knowingly, gave a brief nod of his head and turned to Huey and Dewey who were throwing one liners at each other, like they always did when they got bored. "Can't you two knock it off for one night?"

Ray found himself looking back over to where Fraser and Vecchio were sitting, hating himself for wondering what they were talking about. Like he had every right to know.

[tehexile]

Username: doan2300
Any background information: Spatula (the Goddess of Defeat) has four worshippers now and has just had a vision telling her where to find the fifth.
Excerpt:

“Spatula, darling, are you alright?”

Spatula blinked and woke up again.

“Of course I'm alright.” she muttered sourly, “I'm a Goddess.”

“I was just worried. You drifted off somewhere. You need to take more care of yourself even if you are a Goddess, darling. Its the middle of the night, the rest of us are getting some sleep.”

“Then why are you awake?”

“I can't stop writing. The words have just been flowing from my pen ever since I laid eyes on you. Are you sure you're not a Muse?”

“The last time I tried to sit still for a painting, I accidentally broke all the artist's pencils because they were like swords but mightier.” she said, “Then he tried to paint my sister and she threw him off a cliff for using her image on a war memorial for 'a bunch of dead noobs'.”

“Oh... can you help me with this song anyway? I've mostly written it but I'm having trouble with the last few lines.”

“Fire away. I'd use a quill pen. One that hasn't been an arrow at any stage of its life.” she advised him.

“Er... I was going to sing it. You wouldn't... I mean, there are some very harsh insults in Langres I use sometimes but...”

“Do you sing them?”

“Not very often.”

“It should be okay.”

[fenrischained.livejournal.com]

“The last time I tried to sit still for a painting, I accidentally broke all the artist's pencils because they were like swords but mightier.”

My new Line of the Day, right there... XD

Love it.

[pet-lunatic.livejournal.com]

Username: thepet
Any background information: Two old friends have a heart to heart.
Excerpt:
Theo shook his head, finished his drink. He held out the glass with one trembling hand, running the other through his overlong, unkempt, yellowish-white hair. "They'll never put me on the List, Max."

"You're a valued employee..."

"I was a Reversionist," Theo growled. The glass fell from his hand, rolled off the bed and landed heavily on the thick carpet. Whisky seeped into the flowery bedspread. "TransCorp will never forgive me for that. Never. They gave me this job so they could watch me squirm. They knew...right from the start. I'm damn sure they did. They've waited years, Max - she's waited years, fifty of them - and finally, she's getting her revenge."

With an outward show of calm, Max picked up the tumbler, took some tissues from a box on the bedside table and began to mop up. His old friend looked half-crazed, almost fanatical; his bloodshot blue eyes were glassy, sweat standing out on his forehead. "Calm down," Max told him, soothingly. "Take a few deep breaths. I don't understand what you're talking about, but whatever it is, you know I'm on your side."

Theo's derisive snort was all it took to threaten forty years of friendship. He got to his feet, swaying unsteadily, and if he had left at that point they would not have been sitting so companionably in Max's living room two years later. Max almost let him go - he was burning inside with hurt and betrayal - but in the end he couldn't do it. Instead he took hold of Theo's too-thin arm and pulled him back down to sit on the bed again. Gently, he asked,

"You're not very well, are you?"

Theo's tired eyes brimmed with tears, and finally, forty years late, he told his friend the truth.

[fenrischained.livejournal.com]

Curiosity. It is huge.

Nicely done.

[pet-lunatic.livejournal.com]

Thank you! :)

[wandaxmaximoff.livejournal.com]

Username: wandaXmaximoff
Any background information: The origins of my main antagonist, Abbashara.
Excerpt:

The most repulsive, disgusting abomination of a Fallen was Siran, who as a Fae had been renowned for his beauty, charm and attractiveness. For a race who were magnificent to behold, Siran was the most radiant of all.

However, Siran was also the Fae to have become corrupted first, and addicted to the most. Obsessed with sex, he took a woman regardless of consent, whenever his libido demanded. Sometimes going so far as taking three women within an hour. With no concern for the female's feelings, he got his pleasure, spilled his seed and then cast her aside. And attractiveness didn't matter to Siran, either. He would have sex with anyone, regardless of how they looked physically. He didn't need to be attracted to the person he was defiling, as long as they had an orifice for him to insert his penis into, he'd have sex with them.

When Siran wasn't raping, he was gorging himself on foods. Everything that lived had to be spiced, cooked, and tasted. However, the regular Neressian foods, like beef, chicken and suckling pork, didn't satisfy Siran. He wanted more experiences, and more pleasures, and so he tried other animals. Kitten and puppies were roast on a spit, seals were clubbed and then slowly boiled. He even tried human flesh, having a man murdered, and then cooked with herbs and onions. Though, admittedly, he did find the meat too tough to ever want to eat again. And Siran would eat far beyond quelling hunger, and even past what was pleasurable. He ate almost constantly, throughout the day, until making himself sick and throwing the meal back up onto the very platter he was eating from.

Along with sex, and eating, Siran was dominated by alcohol and drugs. He had potioneers working night and day to combine plants and herbs into a new compound for him to try. When drinking wine, and eating the hallucinogenic pastes of Kanos no longer satisfied him, Siran began snorting ground up plant extracts, or injecting pure alcohol into his veins. With a self-made system, Siran had a number of vines connected to a vat of alcohol, that he used sharpened wooden needles to inject directly into his body.

Of course, his life of excess left him deformed even before Siran was cast into the shadowy prison realm. So obsessed with sweet treats, his teeth had blackened and began to fall out. His once lithe and lean form was now morbidly obese, with rolls of fat hanging from his body, and jowls of lose skin wobbling under his chin. The disregard for who he chose as a sexual partner left Siran with a number of diseases, causing his penis to dry up and shrink to the size of a small caterpillar. It secreted a foul smelling, yellowish-green puss, and his testicles were covered in crusty boils. The abuse of drugs had caused his once golden, and luscious hair, to fall out, leaving his scalp dried, patching and looking like a dog with mange. Additionally, the mutilation he'd subjected his body to, to get the alcohol and drugs into his system quicker, had left Siran with no nose from where he'd been constantly snorting powdered plant extract, and gaping holes in his arms and legs, where the vines carrying wine had been plunged straight into his veins.

When he was banished to the prison realm by the Fae, the first punishment the bestowed upon him was stripping him of his name. No longer deserving of a title that meant 'beautiful', they fashioned him a new identity. The once resplendent Fae now became known as the grotesque Fallen, Abbashara.

[whitewatergirl.livejournal.com]

Username: Haven't signed up on official Nano yet. Will do when the site is back up.
Background info: Emily is introducing us to her life and her background.

When I was a little girl, I thought having a business meeting was so glamorous. You got to dress up in sexy pencil skirts, sky-high stilettos, slicked-back hair and red lipstick, sitting at the head of the well-appointed and magnificent boardroom and make decisions that changed and affected the world. I could practically feel the power radiating from my fingertips when I thought about it. And then, I’d go out to play dodge ball with my neighbors. Of course my team would win.

I blame TV for this false idea. I grew up in the 80s, watching Robert Palmer with his Palmer girls and Annie Lennox with her pseudo-domme-y videos. I aspired to that kind of power. While other girls were fantasizing about Kirk Cameron, I was planning to take over the world.

I was given the opportunities to do so too. I grew up in an Upper Middle class family. Not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but definitely with a lot of opportunities and access to some really interesting people. You might think this made me a snob, but on the contrary, it made me pretty egalitarian. I treated everyone with respect until they showed they didn’t respect me, and then all politeness was gone and I wouldn’t acknowledge them.

This story however, doesn’t take place when I was a kid. It takes place during my twenty eighth year of living. My mom, who followed the horoscopes somewhat, always reminded me that twenty eight was a transformative year – the Return of Saturn – and oh boy was it ever for me.

My name is Emily Michaels. I am thirty five years old. This is my story.


I remember it well. I was sitting at yet another boring receptionist job, scrolling through the help wanted ads in between the occasional filing and telephone calls from annoying clients. My boss was a simpering old idiot who didn’t really care what I did. He hired me because he was of the era where you had a woman to sit up front and welcome the clients. And so I did. I got off on occasionally wearing clothes as slutty as possible, just to see when he’d tell me to try to dress more professionally. You would think the old bat would be drooling over my cleavage, and he may have, but frankly, I think he was too nearsighted to notice. One day I came in still dressed from the clubbing the night before, glitter and makeup on my cheeks, lipstick smeared, and hair a mess. The clothes? Well, a short, tight skirt and a low cut cheap blouse. I got both from Strawberry’s, or as I liked to call it, Slutberry’s.

I didn’t mind going clubbing in these clothes because I’d go to the gay men’s clubs and they looooved how slutty my clothes were. Then again, most of them were barely dressed themselves, at least when they weren’t giving blowjobs in the bathroom. Or maybe that was just my friend Anthony. He was a big guy, 6’5, 240 pounds, who liked nothing more than being told to get on his knees and suck. He was perverse like that. That’s why I liked him.

Anyway, back to that day. I was playing on the computer, reading all the gossip rags and the job ads when I saw an ad that would come to change my life. I know, that’s so overly dramatic to say that, but just wait and listen, because it really did.

[herosquad.livejournal.com]

Username: myyearinlists
Any background information: Daughter of a famous late night host is working as an assistant at a talent agent because she doesn't want people to think she's just a product of nepotism.
Excerpt: There were no words to properly express how much Taylor hated her job.

She hated it with a passion that burned hotter than the Arabian sands. She hated it with a fury that made the winds of the high seas seem timid by comparison. She hated it so much that every day on her way to work, she considered three different methods of suicide, minimum.

First, the train. Every morning without fail, as the N train approached the Court Street stop, she gazed at the incoming block of steel and velocity, and mused for a hot moment upon the idea of throwing herself onto the tracks, where she’d be both crushed and electrocuted all at once. She never did follow through, but the idea crossed her mind every morning at more or less the exact same moment.

Upon arriving in Manhattan, she darted across streets and crossed against lights against which not even the most jaded of her fellow New Yorkers dared cross. She knew that it was stupid, but she also knew she’d be all right -- even during rush hour, it was hard to miss a 5’8” redhead made taller by sensible business casual heels. Still, there was something exquisitely dangerous about the experience, and she often wondered if it were to be her last jaywalking experience ever. However, it admittedly wasn’t the most appealing of her choices and certainly didn’t seem like the most efficient way to get her boss’s attention: he’d probably not even realize that she’d stopped showing up to work (or, worse, would only notice when his mid-morning fellatio appointment accidentally had a run-in with his wife outside his office).

The third and final opportunity to kill herself also seemed to be the most potentially satisfying option of all three. For one thing, it was offered to her in the office, by way of a set of windows overlooking Seventh Avenue. A fire extinguisher sat in an emergency use box beside the elevator bank, and it was heavy enough to break through glass, Taylor imagined. On the worst days, she often imagined enacting a tragic parody of the Steven Slater story: grabbing a pair of sparkling waters from her boss’s personal fridge, giving the finger to everyone in the office who had ever stepped on her toes or called her “Riley” or “Tyler,” and then slamming the fire extinguisher through the windows, stepping onto the ledge, and plunging 16 stories to her death in a spectacular fashion guaranteed to make the front of the next day’s Post: LATE NIGHT SCION OFFS SELF, it would read, or maybe BETWEEN A ROOF AND A HARD PLACE (which would technically be inaccurate because she’d be jumping out of a window, not off a roof, but it’s not as if she would be around to argue with the semantics of her death announcement), or perhaps just BEAUTY JUMPS.

But to tell the truth, Taylor was never going to kill herself. First of all, she was raised Irish Catholic. She went to Convent of the Sacred Heart, for God’s sake. And while she didn’t consider herself a very religious person, she did vaguely remember the uproar that surrounded a senior who had taken a swan dive into the East River when Taylor was a freshman. There was a lot of hubbub about suicide being a sin. So there was that. And for another thing, Taylor was a wimp. She didn’t even like using the automatic stapler for fear that she’d someday accidentally end up stapling her fingers to the paper. There was no way she could handle dying -- or, even worse, surviving and recuperating. She’d be a horrible paraplegic, perpetually angry and snapping at people through her vocoder. Instead, she worked out her small frustrations by merely fantasizing about her imaginary suicide (or, to be precise, the splashy press coverage she imagined her suicide receiving). It was her own special “fuck you” to Todd Schwartzman and all of Schwartzman-Lieber Talent.

[tarlwen.livejournal.com]

username Blaire Raphael on the NaNo site... yes, I know I wrote "Tarlwen" yesterday, but I blame that on 2 hours of sleep and not enough wordcount :P also, NaNo ate my brain, and I was concentrated on posting to lj instead of haunting the nano-forums that I couldn't really see further than my lj-name *headdesk*

excerpt the tradittional band of motley companions finally settles for the night

“You are late.”

“Late?” Shaun raised an eyebrow at Elfraec, surprised that the other man had not only spoken to him the very instant he had returned but seemed to have actually been waiting for his return. “I wasn’t aware that there was any kind of time limit on gathering firewood.”

Elfraec just huddled further into the depths of his travelling cloak and pointed at the patch of bare earth in the middle of the circle. “Let us build the fire; I would prefer not to find out what creatures roam these forests by night.”

Shaun shook his head. Incredible. It could not exactly be considered a useful piece of advice but it was most probably the only sane thing Elfraec had ever said in his presence. He let his arms fall to his sides, grinning broadly as the horse, that was tethered to a tree nearby jerked and whinnied. Nothing like a bit of noise to finally ruffle that damn beast.

“You do realise that taking your revenge on a mindless animal is rather petty, don’t you?”

Shaun snorted, blindly grabbing for the nearest twig. Damn. Too wet. “That thing,” he said, nodding at the horse, “is not mindless. It is evil. And it has decided that its only purpose in life is tormenting me. Oh for!” Shaun winced, rubbing the knuckles of his left hand. Hitting the ground had not been such a good idea.

“Stacking the wood properly would prevent the pile from caving in.”

“Why, thank you so much, Elfraec.” Shaun glared at the offending pieces of wood. “I never would have thought of that on my own.”

“Somehow I do not find that very hard to believe, my boy.” Grendel uttered something that sounded too much like a chuckle in Shaun’s ears. “Nevertheless, you should hasten your efforts to get that fire started. Especially since you were intelligent enough to know that camping at some random place in the forest would have been a rather unsavoury idea.”

Shaun froze, his hand hovering about his newly-constructed and at least a bit less wobbly stack of twigs. He could not make out anything on Grendel’s face. “You know something.” Grendel did not even move a muscle under Shaun’s scrutiny. “Something about that damned forest.”

“Nonsense. And it is not ‘that damned’ forest, it is ‘a’ forest. Just like any other.” Shaun grimaced as Grendel used one of his hind legs to scratch himself behind the ear. “I’m rather fond of them, you know,” the critter continued on, giving first Shaun and then the stack of wood a pointed glare. “Forests, that is.”

“Well, I’m not.” Shaun snapped, quickly taking the four strides needed to close the distance between himself and the nearest of the protection stones. “My uncle Bernard was eaten by one, you know.”

“Your uncle,” Grendel hopped onto the stone Shaun was resting his leg on, its beady eyes shimmering in the light of the rising moon, “was eaten by a forest?”

[catty-the-spy.livejournal.com]

Username: catty_the_spy
Any background information: Puppet and Adrienne are both mages. While spending the night with Adrienne, his father, Puppet overslept. When he remembers he had a guest, Eyes, he went racing down the stairs, and well....
Excerpt:

Adrienne jogged over from the kitchen and crouched by Puppet's head. "Darling, you seem to have fallen."

"'M okay."

Adrienne huffed a spell that made Puppet's nose itch. "No broken bones," he said after a moment. "You're just bruised, and perhaps a bit dazed."

"Dazed."

Adrienne nodded. "Come on, let's get you off the floor. A bit of peppermint tea might clear your head."

He pulled Puppet to his feet and helped him to the kitchen, where Eyes was awkwardly folded into a chair at their old table.

There were books here, too, in some of the cabinets and under the table and stacked onto the counters. Most of them were cookbooks, or books about cooking, or books about famous cooks, or books about food.

When Puppet was little, he'd sat on a stack made of Vymn's Wyrd Wundrs uv the Culnery Wurld, Treats for Tots, and Babee's Furst Fewds, rather than a highchair.

Two entire stacks of culinary Encyclopedia's had been pushed out of the way to accomidate Eye's long legs. What Puppet had thought was a chair was actually Brood Brews volumes one through four. A plate of bacon and eggs was on top of a thin book called Vaviv Tahneu, whose contents Puppet could only guess.

The teapot was on a book about tea.

[fenrischained.livejournal.com]

Username: Jormandugr/fenrischained

Any background information: Jonathan is on her way back to England, but has been coerced into a later sea voyage by the Fleet.

Excerpt: She appeared to consider this for a moment. “Wasn’t tryin’ to spread anythin’ but knowledge,” she said eventually, with a shrug, and turned away again, leaning on the rail. “Actually, thought I might be helpin’. Say what you will, but you ain’t a seafarer, that’s obvious. And you don’t belong on his ship, no more than you do on ours.”

I bristled at that. “You spoke up for me, though. Said that I might be useful.”

“I said you was a gentleman. And I think you might be useful, at that, but it ain’t what I said.” She wasn’t looking at me. “It ain’t that you’re not good for us, it’s that we’re not good for you – and any chance you can take to get out of it’s a chance you should. Even if it means lyin’ to the Fleet.” And now she did look at me, her hair whipping into her eyes. “It ain’t your fight, and if you’ll take my advice, Dr. Jonathan Wells, you’ll get home to Caldston and not think about it again. Get me?”

“No,” I replied frankly, and leant in slightly, frowning. “What makes me different?”

Her eyes met mine. For a moment, she held my gaze, unblinking, then she looked away again, down at the grey-green water that rushed up against the sides of the ship. “You’ll know soon enough, Johnny. And you’ll wish you didn’t.”

[recklessblues.livejournal.com]

Username: sevastiansnano
Any background information: They're whores; it's after the apocalypse.
Excerpt:

They both had morning piss and were happy to discover the men were running something of a bath house. The place must have been a farm at some point; horses, pigs, or cows. They had a metal trough with a trickle of water running through it and drains and rubber hoses. Anton paused a moment and looked after Jesiah as he pissed in the trough, then went himself while Jesiah took off his clothes. The bottom half of the far wall had fallen apart or been knocked out, and a spigot was attached to the wall over the hole with industrial tape, a makeshift shower with a drain. Anton glanced around at the people with their backs to them, an old pervert and a naked toddler at the trough, and wondered if any of them had noticed the ease with which Jesiah stripped down.

The water was warm for some reason, even hot. Tears came to Jesiah’s eyes and his stomach pulled in at the unexpected comfort. He thought of Berkut with his sky blue eyes. It was one thing to be naked when you were cold and a little danger, and another when you remembered being loved, and were almost safe and warm. He turned his face to the mildewed corner until a breeze came through the hole in the wall and raised the hair on his flesh, and then the tears went.

Jesiah ran his hands through his hair, trying to clean off the worst of the grime. Anton stripped off too, found a dirty bar of soap in an evil green color and kicked it across the slick floor to Jesiah. Jesiah pulled his hands away and peeled the strands of hair from his palms.

“Shit,” said Anton, “Are you getting chemo in your sleep?”

“It’s just gotten thick,” said Jesiah, “it starts pulling itself out when it gets long.” He added, with a touch of pride, “It’s my Abenaki blood.”
“Shit,” said Anton, again, “you’re practically blond.”

Jesiah didn’t say anything, in the way he had. He could somehow make the air around him seem heavy as lead with his face completely devoid of emotion and without a single response.

“Berkut’s part Russian, like me,” said Anton, lowering his eyes and turning the spigot off for the both of them and saying, with that one phrase, that he was jealous of the culture that Jesiah and Berkut shared and that he was ashamed of his white skin and Slavic features that had brought the world so much pain. He turned away from Jesiah and bent down to pick up his clothes, his spine cresting up beneath his skin briefly. Jesiah’s clothes in a folded pile on the side of the trough.

Jesiah didn't say anything to that either, which was his way too. He forgave him without changing the look on his face or saying a word. But he gestured with a jerk of his head to the boy and the old man as they left, and he shut the army-green door behind them before saying, "What should we do about them?"

Anton paused before saying, "What do you mean, what should we do about it?"

There was nothing to be done and Jesiah knew that, and so did Anton. Anton didn't know why he was bringing it up now, when it would have been so easy to ignore, let it slide off their cold skins like water over ice.

"The kid is probably fine."

"Do you think he makes him just walk around like that in this cold?"

"He's probably got clothes somewhere, he just took them off for a shower. That's probably his granddad or something."

"If we don't find some clothes for him he'll freeze."

"I don't know where we could find them, Jesiah," said Anton, quietly. Their eyes met for a moment and Anton imagined what the rest of their conversation would be like - do you want him to be living that kind of life, Anton, is that what you want for him? And the both of them realizing that if they brought the kid with them it would be that kind of life too. That kind of life was the one they led. And they would be silent for a long time afterwards, and silence between them made the chill air seem colder.

So Jesiah let him say nothing and Anton was the one who bore that silence inside of him, and that was Jesiah's revenge for bringing up Berkut. Anton ruined their tracks behind them with a tree branch, although his efforts to cover up their trail didn't do much, and there was nothing for them to be hiding from.

NaNo WonderSaga: On Earth's 1st generation ship...

[ahavah]

Username: Ahavah
Any background information:Several crew members experience odd changes that some theorize are connected to what they were dreaming about during 'the anomaly'.
Excerpt:

“What do you think?” I asked Mother after Tova had composed herself and left.

“Oh, I think if they're not already boning, they will be.”

“Are you serious?”

Mother looked amused. “Of course. But I do believe she doth protest too much. Oh, she and Eli are happy. But things can get a little boring after thirty years of marriage.”

“This from someone who married two men and was decidedly unboring in private aspects.”

Mother's eyes narrowed, but her smile stayed. “Not private enough, apparently.”

“It's not like it wasn't obvious. But I did sneak into you and Kieran's play room when I was about twelve...Most kids did, you know.”

“No few adults, too. I told him it was a bad idea keeping it in the cave. He thought it was well hidden, and he felt uncomfortable using the manse when Papa was alive. I liked the voyeuristic aspect of knowing people knew, so I never disabused him of his notion of privacy.”

That was about all I wanted to discuss about my parents' sex life. “Tova should take a page from your book. You're not nearly so shy, and considerably older.”

“Thanks, Adele. But if you want to know what I really think, I don't believe she'll tell you if they do fall into bed. If you want to know for certain, I'd put a watch on her.”

“That seems wrong.”

“The whole situation is wrong. I know you don't believe my dream theory, but I'd wager good money on Tova Svensson King getting a little piece of Vanya Simelane.”

“She doesn't seem his type, but I guess people will surprise you.”

“Not as often as one might hope,” Mother said. “It's early yet, but I'm not acting Captain anymore. I think I'm ready for a bit of brandy.”

Our investigative team rejoined and spoke with Tracy Grisham, who was our last interview for the day. Hopefully our last interview at all, if all who were sleeping during the anomaly were accounted for. Tracy Grisham, née Machate, is our recently retired welder/astronaut. Like me, she inherited her position, apprenticing to her father. It was her husband, Eric, who had apparently dreamed himself free of the cancer he'd been battling for over a year.

Tracy was happy to share her dream, regaling us of her exploits in space. She had been on a mining mission – solo, which absolutely never happens – and had been able to move and breathe freely spaceside.

“I'll do it,” she said, altogether too eagerly. “Eric doesn't want me to, but he doesn't need me as much anymore now that he's hale. It will prove the dream theory one way or another. Let me go spaceside without my suit!”

“No.” I wasn't even considering the idea, though I could tell by the tension in Mother's shoulders that she approved.

“I'm retired. It's not like I'm necessary to the running of the ship.”

“You are still vital to our training. You are still a healthy and contributing member of the ship. I can't just let you go spaceside suitless.”

“If it's true, then what an amazing opportunity! And if it's not, then it's an honorable way for one such as me to go.”

“Absolutely not.”

Tracy gave me a smug look. “I do believe you'll come around.” Her voice was altogether too patronizing.

“Tracy Grisham, don't you dare go spaceside without authorization! And especially not without a proper suit! The mission first and foremost.”

“Absolutely, Captain Mills.”

“Want to wager on that one?” Mother asked after Tracy headed off for testing.

“No. I only hope she'll avail herself of the training rooms and a good spotter before she goes skittering off into space.” I sighed, grabbing up Mother's remaining brandy and downing it in a gulp.

“You could always take away her topside authorization.”

“I could. But God help me, I kind of want to know.”

[ayumidah.livejournal.com]

When nothing happens, he eases his way carefully into the cavern and blinks futilely as his eyes slowly adjust to the dark. He feels around carefully, certain he'll be touching a bat or massive spider soon. "Hello?" he asks softly after taking a few steps. "Is there someone in here?"

The crying cuts off abruptly and a deep voice asks, "Who are you? Are we-- dead?"

If it wasn't so sad to hear, shudders running up his spine as he thinks about how long these people may've been waiting in the dark for someone to come, pondering their own mortality and the chance young Amelie had at surviving such a horrible occurrence, he could almost laugh as it's obvious they're speaking in awe, as if he's an angel or something as amazing. "No," he says quickly, coughing as dirt enters his lungs after he sucks in a deep breath. "My name is Aaron. Aaron Fisk. I'm here to get you out of here. Your daughter's waiting for you."

The crying resumes as he tries to feel his way over to them through the twisted slope of the cave, a female voice choking out into the darkness, "Amelie? She survived? My little girl is alright?"

"Yes, ma'am. You have a very strong daughter," he confirms, finally reaching out one last time and touching a cool human hand. "Is everyone here?"

"Yes," the man from earlier speaks once more, his voice now wavery too.

From the Moment of your Fall Excerpt

[athenesolon.livejournal.com]

Username: athenesolon (athenebelle on Nano)
Any background information: A retelling of Beauty and the Beast. This was written before I had decided to make Gaston a dandy that would fawn on the prince's words rather than try to convince him to hire him.
Excerpt:“My equal? You???” sneered the prince, his eyes blazing with passion, “you are nothing but a peasant girl! A pretty, well-dressed peasant girl I’ll give you that but still nothing but a pleasant girl!”

All of the other town dancers were tripping over their own feet and each other as Belle and the prince navigated the craziness around them. They were lost in a bubble built of their own reactions to one another. Belle would rather have had nothing to do with him and yet could not look away from his crystal blue eyes.

“And you, my liege are nothing more than a beast,” snapped Belle as he grasped her hand to pull her into a promenade as he led her through the patterns on the ballroom floor. His hand slid to her waist as his guided her over and around and through the mess in front of him.

The prince startled at her words, the bare tinge of a shiver jostled down his spine as she spoke those words, a warning to him of things to come although he knew not what. He formed his angry countenance into the form of a flirtatious grin as his leaned down to her ear, “do you find me so repulsive?” his tenor voice sending tendrils of Belle hair whispering against her bare neck.

Belle tamped down the shiver that his breath caused spin down her spine and closed her eyes before meeting his crystal blue. “Physically you are a fine specimen but looks can be deceiving, my lord,” she said haughtily. “What hides behind that mask is nothing more than the countenance of someone who is as bad as he is,” Belle said as she pointed over at Gaston.

“How am I like that insufferable oaf?” Adam choked out affronted that she would even suggest he was no better than the man in the corner. After speaking a minute with the man, he had realized there was nothing that they had in common and even less that he would care to use as his personal gamekeeper. His father’s gamesman did just fine and there was little need for someone who would be his eyes and ears. Besides, Prince Adam did not like the insinuation that once he was gamekeeper, Gaston would have free reign of the King’s land. No, better he stayed with his tried and true keeper than try and usurp him with someone who would not be as reliable.

“You take one glance at me and write me off as someone beneath you despite your mentor’s interest in me as a pupil. Have you ever considered the fact that it is extremely rare to find a woman who knows as much about “Il Principe” as you do? Or that I have been able to keep up with you when ALL of the other townspeople have not?”

“You are well-informed I will give you that…” Prince Adam began.

“No, there is more to that and you know it.”

The prince’s cool blue eyes wrinkled as his face took on a tinge of a leer at the thought which had passed through his mind at an idea which had been teasing at the edge of his consciousness since he had first glimpsed her, “that Master Pierre has groomed you to share in this life in my bed?”

The crack of her hand reverberated through the ballroom stopping everyone in their tracks. The musicians topped suddenly and the townspeople gasped at her movement. Prince Adam held his hand against his cheek and his eyes held a glint of shock at what had just occurred. “I’ll thank you not to insult me, my intelligence or my parentage,” snapped Belle as her eyes flared an affront. “I have accepted your sneering taunts the whole of the evening but I will not have you telling me that my father or mother is anything more than God-fearing, hard-working, and dare I say loving parents. To place me on the same level as… as…” Belle stumbled for a moment not just finding the right word for it but also the courage to say the word she wanted to say, “as a prostitute is just too much.” Belle turned with as much grace as a royal princess and floated out of the ballroom and out into the galleries with the eyes of a certain blue-eyed, sandy brown-haired noble staring after her.

[neurochemics.livejournal.com]

Username: neurochemics
Any background information: Napoleon and Octavius are pretty much on their periods.
Excerpt:

Octavius’s eyes narrowed. “No, it wouldn’t be right, but I would allow it. You are my friend, Napoleon. I cannot deny you of something if you ask.”
Napoleon’s eyes widened. That was a dangerous, dangerous thing to say. It consolidated their friendship, it consolidated everything. Whatever whim he had, Octavius would grant it without a word against him. Whatever he desired Octavius was more than happy to give and it scared him. No one, not even his own mother had said something so absolutely frightful. “You don’t mean that.” He got up sharply and the chair toppled over. “You don’t mean that!” He nearly fell over the chair as he backed away. Octavius didn’t mean that. It was all a joke.

Octavius gazed up at his friend calmly. His smile was placid, but not entirely so. He tensed when the chair hit the floor. “I do.”

Napoleon shook his head. “You can’t give me what I want. You can’t.” No one could, not even Octavius could give him what he wanted. Still, he remained where he was, muscles tensed as he was ready to flee when things became too complicated.

“What is it that you desire, Napoleon?” He shrugged. “A pay raise? A lover? Jesus, you don’t have to be so dramatic. You have my attention, now sit as you have been told to.” His tone was more forceful now. Napoleon flying off the handle wouldn’t solve a damned thing.

“A lover, that’s ridiculous. Why the hell would I want a lover? Why the hell would I want a pay raise?” His tone was nearly a shout, which was rare for him. “You’re being ridiculous, Octavius. Can’t you take me seriously for just once?” He didn’t know why he was saying any of these things, but the buzzing in his head and rush of adrenaline made it feel like it was the right thing to say.

“Then, what is it that you want?” How could he take offense? His friend was in distress over some silly little matter. It was only natural to want to fix whatever it was he was stressing over.

Napoleon quieted and averted his gaze to the ground. It took him a moment to think things through. “I want the blood off my hands, Octavius.”

[starsandauras]

Username: starsanduras
Any background information: It's the middle of the Cold War and the Troubles are just starting up in Northern Ireland.
Excerpt:

Had it even happened? Anything in her life with him? Or had she Seen it? Or only dreamed it? She wasn’t sure anymore. She wasn’t sure of anything in her life anymore, so many things had been uprooted, had been changed. She reached out and traced the picture frame -- someone had taken a picture of them back in 1922 after they’d emerged from their little alcove and sent a copy to each of them, she didn’t know who -- and frowned slightly. It must have happened if there were photos to touch, to cry over.

So many opportunities lost. So much time wasted. She didn’t want to give up on it, didn’t want to believe that that day was the last day they would ever be together, touch each other, see each other.

She’d heard there were holes in the Wall. Holes where one could slip through, or at least slip a hand through and touch the person on the other side. Hear them talk. If her health permitted it, she would have wanted to go to West Germany, Ludwig’s territory, and see if it was true, if she could see him again, just for a moment, know that it had indeed been real, that her Sight hadn’t played a cruel trick on her. She wanted to be selfish.