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edenfallingMore Three Sentence Ficathon fills. :-)
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ailavyn_siniyash, The Dark is Rising, any, on the edges of memory
but where do your ideas come from? (135 words)
Most of Barney's work is done fast and sure in bright acrylics: jagged, stylized figures that whirl through the motions of ordinary life made a half-step strange by nothing more than the grace of paint and his eye for a carefully frozen angle, and sold for a handsome profit and a growing name. But now and then he finds himself stuck, staring at a canvas with brush in hand and no idea what to do, mind mute and entranced as if soft, bright fog is rising from his soul, thinning in tantalizing swirls over some massive, life-shaking truth he can't quite grasp; and so he takes out his watercolors and paints Welsh landscapes, Cornish seascapes, trains and mountains and impossible trees all drenched in a ceaseless, sourceless light.
Those paintings he does not sell, but keeps.
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saoirse7, Rise of the Guardians, Jack + Bunnymund, Blizzard of '68
once is happenstance (200 words)
"If you're so dead set against snow, why don't you quit moving your stupid holiday around and keep it in April? I'm supposed to make blizzards in March, it's just a coincidence they hit on Easter," Jack shouted as he dodged yet another boomerang, flitting higher into the bare, gray twigs of the forest canopy in a futile attempt to find cover. The wind tugged anxiously at his hair and sleeves, eager to escape and see the results of their work.
Bunnymund snarled as he leaped and snatched his boomerang before the wind could flick it away. "One blizzard over half of North America, fine; another over half of Eurasia, sure, I could let that pass; but a third blizzard in Australia on the same day? Three times is enemy action, mate, and you're going down."
"Down? No, I don't think so. Wrong direction," Jack said. He grinned at Bunnymund's obvious confusion and let the wind toss him high beyond reach, spreading his arms and turning flips in the air for no more reason than the sheer joy of motion.
One stolen egg fell from his pocket into Bunnymund's paw on a trail of delighted laughter, but that was a small price to pay for his fun.
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saoirse7, Narnia, Digory +/ Polly, when the Pevensies come back and they share stories of Narnia
nothing gold can stay (165 words)
"And what about Fledge -- I know he must have been long since dead and dust, but surely there were herds of winged horses to grace the skies?" Polly asks, leaning forward across Digory's desk, which they have turned into an impromptu table since his study is the only room in the house both private enough and furnished with comfortable enough chairs for an hours-long discussion of Narnia.
Digory shakes his head, remembering the blank confusion on the Pevensies' faces when he had asked that same question of them: "Jadis held particular enmity against him for his part in our quest for the apple; if any of his blood survived her winter, they did so in hiding and in other lands and not even Aslan could call them home."
"So much lost," Polly says, her hand tightening on the edge of her tumbler, and they sit together in silence, imagining the cold, barren death of the bright world they once watched unfurl in joy and song.
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ailavyn_siniyash, The Dark is Rising, the Stanton family, fear
last and least (and loved) (225 words)
"Gone lazy on me this morning, have you?" Alice Stanton asked, sending an indulgent look across the kitchen toward her youngest child as he slouched into the room and slumped at the table long-since abandoned by his more punctual siblings; perhaps he had been up too late last night, making the most of summer's ragged end before school resumed tomorrow, indulging in childhood as he so rarely did since his twelfth birthday.
Will looked up at her voice and Alice frowned at the sight of his face, pale and drawn in a way that suggested more than simple lack of sleep; she set the glass and rag down in the dishwater, wiped her hands, and hurried to press her wrist against Will's forehead: heat seemed to spill from him as if fire ran under his skin, and when she glanced down at his eyes the whites were bloodshot and suffused with a faint, unnatural tinge of yellow.
"I-- on the day-- I can't--" Will said, one hand rising to clutch weakly at Alice's arm before falling slack as his eyes slammed shut and his head lolled back, and then somehow she was hauling him to his feet, bracing his full weight -- as limp and boneless as a sack of flour -- and shouting for Roger to call Dr. Armstrong before it was too late.
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I have one more fill after these, but it's long enough that I want to post it separately. (Also, on a random note, I think I have now written enough ficlets to qualify for Remix Redux in The Dark Is Rising. A strange feeling!)
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ailavyn_siniyash, The Dark is Rising, any, on the edges of memorybut where do your ideas come from? (135 words)
Most of Barney's work is done fast and sure in bright acrylics: jagged, stylized figures that whirl through the motions of ordinary life made a half-step strange by nothing more than the grace of paint and his eye for a carefully frozen angle, and sold for a handsome profit and a growing name. But now and then he finds himself stuck, staring at a canvas with brush in hand and no idea what to do, mind mute and entranced as if soft, bright fog is rising from his soul, thinning in tantalizing swirls over some massive, life-shaking truth he can't quite grasp; and so he takes out his watercolors and paints Welsh landscapes, Cornish seascapes, trains and mountains and impossible trees all drenched in a ceaseless, sourceless light.
Those paintings he does not sell, but keeps.
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saoirse7, Rise of the Guardians, Jack + Bunnymund, Blizzard of '68once is happenstance (200 words)
"If you're so dead set against snow, why don't you quit moving your stupid holiday around and keep it in April? I'm supposed to make blizzards in March, it's just a coincidence they hit on Easter," Jack shouted as he dodged yet another boomerang, flitting higher into the bare, gray twigs of the forest canopy in a futile attempt to find cover. The wind tugged anxiously at his hair and sleeves, eager to escape and see the results of their work.
Bunnymund snarled as he leaped and snatched his boomerang before the wind could flick it away. "One blizzard over half of North America, fine; another over half of Eurasia, sure, I could let that pass; but a third blizzard in Australia on the same day? Three times is enemy action, mate, and you're going down."
"Down? No, I don't think so. Wrong direction," Jack said. He grinned at Bunnymund's obvious confusion and let the wind toss him high beyond reach, spreading his arms and turning flips in the air for no more reason than the sheer joy of motion.
One stolen egg fell from his pocket into Bunnymund's paw on a trail of delighted laughter, but that was a small price to pay for his fun.
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saoirse7, Narnia, Digory +/ Polly, when the Pevensies come back and they share stories of Narnianothing gold can stay (165 words)
"And what about Fledge -- I know he must have been long since dead and dust, but surely there were herds of winged horses to grace the skies?" Polly asks, leaning forward across Digory's desk, which they have turned into an impromptu table since his study is the only room in the house both private enough and furnished with comfortable enough chairs for an hours-long discussion of Narnia.
Digory shakes his head, remembering the blank confusion on the Pevensies' faces when he had asked that same question of them: "Jadis held particular enmity against him for his part in our quest for the apple; if any of his blood survived her winter, they did so in hiding and in other lands and not even Aslan could call them home."
"So much lost," Polly says, her hand tightening on the edge of her tumbler, and they sit together in silence, imagining the cold, barren death of the bright world they once watched unfurl in joy and song.
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ailavyn_siniyash, The Dark is Rising, the Stanton family, fearlast and least (and loved) (225 words)
"Gone lazy on me this morning, have you?" Alice Stanton asked, sending an indulgent look across the kitchen toward her youngest child as he slouched into the room and slumped at the table long-since abandoned by his more punctual siblings; perhaps he had been up too late last night, making the most of summer's ragged end before school resumed tomorrow, indulging in childhood as he so rarely did since his twelfth birthday.
Will looked up at her voice and Alice frowned at the sight of his face, pale and drawn in a way that suggested more than simple lack of sleep; she set the glass and rag down in the dishwater, wiped her hands, and hurried to press her wrist against Will's forehead: heat seemed to spill from him as if fire ran under his skin, and when she glanced down at his eyes the whites were bloodshot and suffused with a faint, unnatural tinge of yellow.
"I-- on the day-- I can't--" Will said, one hand rising to clutch weakly at Alice's arm before falling slack as his eyes slammed shut and his head lolled back, and then somehow she was hauling him to his feet, bracing his full weight -- as limp and boneless as a sack of flour -- and shouting for Roger to call Dr. Armstrong before it was too late.
---------------
I have one more fill after these, but it's long enough that I want to post it separately. (Also, on a random note, I think I have now written enough ficlets to qualify for Remix Redux in The Dark Is Rising. A strange feeling!)
(no subject)
Date: 2013-04-09 03:53 pm (UTC)And something that often strike me about Narnia is how they always leave in triumph and return to tragedy. I mean, narrative cycle, yeah, but man. It must be hard to see or even hear about.
*just plain wibbles over Will*
(no subject)
Date: 2013-04-10 04:08 am (UTC)Huh. You know, you're right about that "return to tragedy/dissolution" pattern in the Narnia books. I suppose another contributing factor is the difference in time flow -- skip a thousand years and any world will hand you a lengthy list of things now lost and gone forever -- but narrative requirements are definitely the main driver. I think the only book that escapes the pattern (aside from HHB and MN, which don't include a "return" and so don't count) is VDT, which runs on an entirely different plot structure. (A journey through fantastical islands toward the end of the world, which makes occasional gestures toward doubling as a journey to confront one's failings -- Eustace and the dragon, Lucy and the magic book, Caspian becoming a more responsible king -- and approach the divine, does not require a world in need of repair since the problems are more internal, and in any case Lewis seems quite happy to potter about creating new and unique islands as each episode demands.)