wherein Liz feels untethered

I've been having an issue this past week where I wake up about 1 hour and 15 minutes before my alarm. If I wake up fully, I then can't get properly back to sleep and only fitfully doze until my alarm, thus losing an hour of good sleep. If I don't fully wake up, I get properly back to sleep... but then my alarm goes off when I'm in a deep part of my sleep cycle and getting up is like wading through cold molasses.

(This is annoying, since my previous pattern has been to wake up once during the night about 3-5 hours after falling asleep and thus 3-5 hours before my alarm, which is a much more convenient break point. I don't know what's caused the change. Possibly I can fix it by going to bed a little earlier?)

Anyway, possibly as a result of my extreme morning grogginess, I am now feeling very floaty-dissociated -- like, I'm aware that I have a body, and my body and brain are doing stuff (yay work?), but I'm just sort of riding along as an observer instead of being the body and doing the work. On days when I don't have to be anywhere, I'm cool with this sort of thing -- it can be very meditative, actually -- but it's inconvenient on days when I'm supposed to be a functional human being interacting with other human beings.

*sigh*

Well, I will keep on remote-piloting myself for now, and sooner or later I will click back together.

wherein Liz writes some more finger-exercises

I wrote two more 3-sentence ficlets today, and did a bit of paid training for Not the IRS while simultaneously on the clock at the rental company office, because I'm sneaky like that. (I couldn't do all the paid training that way, because the next part requires proprietary software I obviously don't have here.)

Anyway, this brings me to thirty-five 3-sentence ficlets in total for this iteration of the ficathon. I think I may knock off after one more, because thirty-six is a number I find very satisfying and because I've been posting them in groups of six. I could arguably continue on to forty-two, but I don't know if I have that many more tiny ficlets in me, and also forty-two is just not as nice a number as 6^2.

...

Okay, and it may wind up being thirty-seven ficlets, technically, because there's one prompt that is trying to turn into a 1000-word-minimum actual fic, but I preemptively declare that if I do write that, it will get its own post and therefore won't count. *resolve face*

And now I'm going to close the office and head home through the cold and the dark. (Ugh. I am so out of practice at winter.)

[Fic] Three Sentence Ficathon fills, part six

While the first ficathon post, is still open for fills and comments, there is also a second post for new prompts if you want to keep playing. :)

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( 31. )

For reccyls: Any fandom, any characters, let's do this again sometime, written 1/9/19 [AO3 version]

Make New Friends (125 words)

Rose would be the first to admit she was skeptical of Jade's efforts to introduce all her friends to each other -- friendship, despite many people's irrational belief, is not an inherently transitive property, and she doesn't think she has much in common with people who frequent furry sites and terrible webcomics, or forums devoted to pranks or coding experiments, respectively -- and yet, she finds herself smiling more than she's done in months as she watches red, blue, and green text mingle on her screen; it's frustrating that the tyranny of time zones forces her to be the first to depart.

TT: I reiterate my assessment that you all need extensive therapy to resolve your myriad psychological woes, but that aside, I suppose you're not terrible company.
TT: Let's do this again sometime.

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( 32. )

For anonymous: Any, any, flu season, written 1/9/19 [AO3 version]

Zoonosis (125 words)

"I wasn't aware that anyone besides humans could catch the flu," Peter said in a puzzled tone, "but certainly, we'll do our best to organize the distribution of simples to the outlying settlements."

"Oh, it won't be necessary for all of them," said Blackbristle the Sow, squinting up toward the four thrones, "since you're quite right that most diseases stay within specific peoples, but we Swine, and many of the Cattle, and almost all of the Talking Birds do fall ill with our own types of influenza. I don't know if you've ever had to deal with a litter of sneezing, feverish Piglets, but I'd prefer not to suffer through that again, to say nothing of the time we were stuck hosting a whole flock of flu-stricken Geese."

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( 33. )

For inkpaws: Any, any, You Hit Rock Bottom As Soon as You Stop Digging, written 1/9/19 [AO3 version]

I want a shot at redemption (100 words exactly)

The first step to fixing things is to stop making them worse, everyone says, and okay, Vriska can admit that that's logical -- you don't reach sunlight by digging a deeper hole -- but see, if you're already so deep you're halfway through the planet, climbing out would take half of forever plus who wants to trip over all the endless reminders of your failures.

And planets are round; so if you keep on digging, eventually you've got to break through to daylight on the other side of the world, and that has to be more worthwhile than giving up, right?

Right????????

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( 34. )

For anonymous: Any, any, ramming speed, written 1/10/19 [AO3 version]

Folk Etymology of Naval Jargon (100 words exactly)

Note: Slightly edited from the version on the Ficathon page.

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"I'm fairly sure 'ramming speed' has to do with crashing one boat into another bow-first, not with, well, that," Peter said absently, one hand hooked around a stay to compensate for any abrupt motions of their ship.

"I suspect you're right, at least in the other place," Edmund said from his perch in the rigging, "but you can't deny it's effective."

Across the narrow channel, a Narnian skiff pulled alongside yet another pirate ship just long enough for its contingent of Bears to launch a pair of Rams onto the larger vessel's deck, tripling both the chaos and the screaming.

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( 35. )

For adaeze: any crossover, any, subterranean rivers, written 1/10/19 [AO3 version]

Here There Is Life (200 words exactly)

Note: The crossover is Snow White and Meredith Ann Pierce's Darkangel Trilogy.

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"I've never seen so much water," Winterock said as she followed the seven duaroughs down into the tunnels, away from Solstar's blazing light and the softer, blue-green glimmer of Oceanus, "not even when the Aeriel and her shadow came to repair the Ancient magic that seeds the skies with rain, and my father's second wife ordered the condensation gathered and piped into a fountain for her pleasure."

The duaroughs exchanged indulgent smiles as they led the way along the bank of the shining, rushing river, toward a doorway carved in the stone that opened on a warm, sand-paved cavern with a hearth, a long trestle table, and several further doorways whose mouths were covered with bright-colored cloths for privacy, and strings of beads and chimes to blend the illusion of leaf-rustle and bird-song into the river's laughing chatter.

"It took all the Ancients' wisdom to kindle and sustain life on our world's surface," said the youngest duarough, a sturdy woman with hairpins shaped to look like golden pickaxes, "but here underground, life has always welled more easily; and so too has magic, so put aside your fears of your step-mother's anger and let us show you how to relearn joy."

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( 36. )

For alexseanchai: any, ambition, anxiety, adrenaline, written 1/10/19 [AO3 version]

Stewardship (175 words)

Note: Evelyn Scrapemoss is the same person mentioned in The Golden Age: A Historical and Cultural Survey.

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"I still say this is a terrible idea, sister, and it will end in civil war," Edraed hissed in Evelyn's ear as they waited in the entry chamber just off the Great Hall's dais in Cair Paravel, while their herald droned through the reading of the omens; "Why couldn't you have more reasonable ambitions?"

"Because politics is about ideas and images as much as cold iron, good roads, and rich harvests, and it does Narnia no good to let the world mock us for groveling before our past as if the Pevensies may yet return," Evelyn muttered in return, only the bloodless pallor of her clenched fingers betraying her nerves, "besides which I am queen in all but name already, so why not make it true in law as well as practice?"

The herald reached the end of her speech before Edraed could answer, and Evelyn Scrapemoss, First of Her Name, swept forward through tumultuous waves of both cheers and protests to take her new crown in both hands, and place it upon her brow.

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And I think that's it for me for this iteration of the ficathon. Thirty-six ficlets is a nice, satisfying number, and while there are two prompts that still have stories itching in the back of my head, those are both ideas that will take a lot more than three sentences to do justice. *wry* We'll see if anything comes of them... but even if not, this has been a pretty good run.

I'm looking forward to next time! :)