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This is that meme where you post a sentence/paragraph from all your WIPs. I haven't been writing a lot lately, but I wish I was. Looking back through this stuff has been really interesting.
I have tons of unfinished fic. I don't know if this will spur me on to finish any, but I regret each one that I haven't, and hopefully, one day, I'll know how to tackle them.
He tossed the script to her, his wrist flicking it casually into her lap where it landed with an audible thud. But her eyes were drawn to the smoke from his cigar, twining through the odd shadows of the room, and drawing her gaze to the oddly wrinkled skin of his cheek as he inhaled. There was something wrong about it, something off, but she couldn't place it.
The count refocused on the conversation at hand, quickly acknowledging to himself that he would very much like to murder the Vicomte de G------, or at least choke that irritating drawl out of him, but would not for Christine's sake. He'd long ago had enough of these post-dinner gentlemen's sessions, but she would insist on entertaining even with the money dripping away like a spring snow. Which was, after all, the problem at hand. He took another sip of his cognac, which didn't even burn going down, and smiled tightly.
The hardest thing for her to accustom herself to was the quiet. It wasn't just the absence of the opera in her life, and Honorine had stayed on at the de Changy's as her personal maid and chattered enough for ten ballet rats. In her mind, however, all was silence. She wondered if it had been like that before him, and she just had never noticed.
They did not touch iron, or make the sign of the cross, but they locked her out just as surely. And she seemed not even to know.
When he was content, he whistled. Sometimes in his darker moods he would ask her to sing, and she did so reluctantly. For she'd found that it only pushed him deeper. He would stare and stare, his eyes strangely bright as if with fever, and reach out to stroke her hair or tilt her chin this way and that, as if looking for something. She did not know if he sighed because he'd found it, or hadn't.
The cave was small, and Lawrence did not feel like sharing with anyone, dead or alive. But night had fallen, and winter gripped the northern hills. And this was not his find. The man—whoever he was—would hardly object to a fire, and whether dead or asleep could not object anyway.
He'd made a game of it, at first, coming up with just the right name for the story he was going to tell: Anne for the second grade teacher, Charlene the bartender, Paulette the chorus girl. But the trouble was that now, nearly a year into this, he was having trouble remembering what he'd used already. Not that he couldn't date girls with the same name, but he was bound to run into trouble where Hooker was concerned.
Holmes picked up the thread, never one to divorce business from dining. “I do. Monsieur Leroux tells me you have seen his notes on the subject. I suspect that is a rare privilege, given the perception widely shared amongst the populace that the tale is, indeed, completely fabricated.”
He didn't. Obviously. Who did? He avoided stuff like that; reviews, screenings, all of it. Even when people weren't hating him—at least you have to be important to someone for them to really hate you—there was the mockery, and there was enough of it offered without warning that anything labeled as such that he hadn’t authorized, he avoided. He couldn't avoid this, he knew in a split second.
Bill could not, for the life of him, understand people who did not think that “why don't you just kiss me, you Vulcan fool!” was funny.
“Oh, get off me, you idiot,” he said. “Not everyone’s after your ample Canadian ass.” He hoped Bill had never tried this sort of thing around George. He was pretty sure Bill had no idea.
“None taken, Mr. Spock,” Jim said. It was almost more uncanny than being confronted with his own younger self, watching Spock. He was, after all, more used to seeing him, and there was a constant buzz of recognition that wasn't, almost as if he was trying, and failing, to tune in to a known frequency.
For a moment, as the creature of circuits and metal looked down at Jim's own sleeves, smiling to itself in satisfaction, he nearly fell back into thinking it was him, the one split off, his own private Hyde and a figure he'd hoped never to see again. Tried to avoid thinking of. But then it looked up, and smiled at him, and the world stopped spinning.
I have tons of unfinished fic. I don't know if this will spur me on to finish any, but I regret each one that I haven't, and hopefully, one day, I'll know how to tackle them.
He tossed the script to her, his wrist flicking it casually into her lap where it landed with an audible thud. But her eyes were drawn to the smoke from his cigar, twining through the odd shadows of the room, and drawing her gaze to the oddly wrinkled skin of his cheek as he inhaled. There was something wrong about it, something off, but she couldn't place it.
The count refocused on the conversation at hand, quickly acknowledging to himself that he would very much like to murder the Vicomte de G------, or at least choke that irritating drawl out of him, but would not for Christine's sake. He'd long ago had enough of these post-dinner gentlemen's sessions, but she would insist on entertaining even with the money dripping away like a spring snow. Which was, after all, the problem at hand. He took another sip of his cognac, which didn't even burn going down, and smiled tightly.
The hardest thing for her to accustom herself to was the quiet. It wasn't just the absence of the opera in her life, and Honorine had stayed on at the de Changy's as her personal maid and chattered enough for ten ballet rats. In her mind, however, all was silence. She wondered if it had been like that before him, and she just had never noticed.
They did not touch iron, or make the sign of the cross, but they locked her out just as surely. And she seemed not even to know.
When he was content, he whistled. Sometimes in his darker moods he would ask her to sing, and she did so reluctantly. For she'd found that it only pushed him deeper. He would stare and stare, his eyes strangely bright as if with fever, and reach out to stroke her hair or tilt her chin this way and that, as if looking for something. She did not know if he sighed because he'd found it, or hadn't.
The cave was small, and Lawrence did not feel like sharing with anyone, dead or alive. But night had fallen, and winter gripped the northern hills. And this was not his find. The man—whoever he was—would hardly object to a fire, and whether dead or asleep could not object anyway.
He'd made a game of it, at first, coming up with just the right name for the story he was going to tell: Anne for the second grade teacher, Charlene the bartender, Paulette the chorus girl. But the trouble was that now, nearly a year into this, he was having trouble remembering what he'd used already. Not that he couldn't date girls with the same name, but he was bound to run into trouble where Hooker was concerned.
Holmes picked up the thread, never one to divorce business from dining. “I do. Monsieur Leroux tells me you have seen his notes on the subject. I suspect that is a rare privilege, given the perception widely shared amongst the populace that the tale is, indeed, completely fabricated.”
He didn't. Obviously. Who did? He avoided stuff like that; reviews, screenings, all of it. Even when people weren't hating him—at least you have to be important to someone for them to really hate you—there was the mockery, and there was enough of it offered without warning that anything labeled as such that he hadn’t authorized, he avoided. He couldn't avoid this, he knew in a split second.
Bill could not, for the life of him, understand people who did not think that “why don't you just kiss me, you Vulcan fool!” was funny.
“Oh, get off me, you idiot,” he said. “Not everyone’s after your ample Canadian ass.” He hoped Bill had never tried this sort of thing around George. He was pretty sure Bill had no idea.
“None taken, Mr. Spock,” Jim said. It was almost more uncanny than being confronted with his own younger self, watching Spock. He was, after all, more used to seeing him, and there was a constant buzz of recognition that wasn't, almost as if he was trying, and failing, to tune in to a known frequency.
For a moment, as the creature of circuits and metal looked down at Jim's own sleeves, smiling to itself in satisfaction, he nearly fell back into thinking it was him, the one split off, his own private Hyde and a figure he'd hoped never to see again. Tried to avoid thinking of. But then it looked up, and smiled at him, and the world stopped spinning.