sickle_stories: (Original)
Picking up where Time for Something Biblical left off, Chip is settling into life at Dean's camp and Icarus is struggling with the loss of his grace. But surviving in a post-apocalyptic world is hard when an Angel of Punishment if tracking them down.

Sequel to Time for Something Biblical (2009)

Read more... )
sickle_stories: (Original)
Title: The Ballast Water Metaphor
Word Count: 372
A/N: One day I will write a story called Ballast Water and it may touch on concepts dealt with in this piece. However, this is not that story. This is just something I had to write. Quotes from Wiki.

The Ballast Water Metaphor )
sickle_stories: (Original)
Title: The Last Wild Angel
Summary: When angels fall, they burn. And sometimes, they’re caught.
Author's Note: Title from a sport’s clothing brand. What can I say, the plot bunny strikes from the most unusual places.
Word Count: 1277
ETA: Crossposted to [ profile] original_fic (here) and [ profile] fictionwriters (here) on June 26, 2010.

The Last Wild Angel )
sickle_stories: (Original)
A/N: This is just a drabble I wrote in lieu of an entry for Blog Like It's the End of the World Day.

The poor bastard stabbed me, what with I didn't find out until later. It was a screwdriver, one of those flat ones with a yellow and black striped handle. My chest made a little hissing sound when I pulled it out, like an air mattress being squeezed flat. He must've hit a lung - the right one because he'd been left-handed.

I tugged down the neck of my shirt and squinted at the wound, a jagged horizontal line just off-center, making me look like some sort of coin-operated mannequin. It wasn't bleeding. I prodded it, digging in a little and feeling the air flow out. I chewed on a fingernail. I'd like to say I did so thoughtfully, at least, but my mind was pretty blank at that point.

Somewhere to my right I heard a crash and a shout - broken window, probably. I turned and shuffled in the direction of the comotion, stepping over the screwdriver and its owner. I couldn't help a gurgling sort of moan as I walked - my right lung's death rattle. I chewed on a finger as I went, wondering if maybe I should've gotten the man's right hand instead.

Deleted Lines:

This, more than the absence of pain, finally cemented in my mind what had happened to me, made me revise and accept the new self-image.
sickle_stories: (Original)
Medium: General
Subject: Original Fiction (NaNoWriMo Novel)
Title: Time for Something Biblical: A Post-Apocalyptic Fanmix
Notes: 20 songs (1.7 hours) in mp3 format with front and back cover art included.

Full Art, Track List and Zip Link )
sickle_stories: (Default)
She was people-watching again. Read more... )


The walls are never white enough for you, and you worry at them long after your hands are raw and your nails cracked. Read more... )


“I would forget my own name sometimes; don’t be offended if I forget your own. I remember you, that’s what matters. Read more... )


That’s the Freedom Market, specializing in the slave trade. A bit of a poetic name if you ask me, touting about the “selling of freedom” and all that, but it serves its purpose. Of course, you can also buy your freedom, if you’re a slave. Just keep in mind that any owner can outbid your offer.
sickle_stories: (Default)

Kitty Attack (Word Count: 518)
Summary: Trapped by telekinesis, Sylar's next victim writhed on the floor, mewling intelligibly. (A response to this challenge)


All Things Copper (Word Count: 3,219)
Summary: Events from Shuttle One’s point of view as they return to a bloodied Serenity.

Undertow (Word Count: 1,777)
Summary: Simon and River recall her sessions at the academy.

Insomnia (Word Count: 730)
Summary: and Mal are settling down for a two-point watch through the night, and Simon's volunteered. The boys talk.


(Apple Pie Is) Freakin' Worth It (Word Count: 529)
Summary: The Winchesters' various flavours of comfort.

A Slip of Coment (Word Count: 702)
Summary: Sam still thinks his plan of wrestling control back from Lucifer could work.

The Blank Slate (Word Count: 1,268)
Summary: You came back different and I can't stop seeing it.

The Dark Knight:

Green and Purple Argyle, Of All Things, Or: Covetting the Joker's Socks (Word Count: 978)
Summary: The Joker in the holding cell from another criminal's point of view.

Once Upon a Time In Mexico:

Back to Broadway (Word Count: 444)
Summary: Crack. Bare-foot boys (who may or may not have been selling Chiclet gum) promptly riffle through passengers' luggage.


Sherlock Holmes/Iron Man/House: Eliminate the Impossible (Word Count: 256)

Doctor Who/Stonehenge Apocalypse: Stonehenge Antinomy (Word Count: 2969)


Bejewlled Roses (Word Count: 1,352)

The Last Wild Angel (Word Count: 1,2747) - LOCKED
Summary: [deleted]

The Ballast Water Metaphor (Word Count: 372)

The Ballast Water Metaphor (Word Count: 372)


Fandom Masterlist
Non-Fandom Masterlist
sickle_stories: (Original)
Drabbles to an original fic in progress.

Summary: Those from Above forgot the pact, and those from Below want to break it. This deals with Upworlders and Those of the Dark, the age-long pact that few remember and some want to break. It also deals with the unwritten pact that forms between one from Above and one from Below, and the blood shed between them.

The Pact - Do you know how we make pacts, bird?

The Doves - The candle did little to light the vast darkness: that was not its purpose.

The Guard's Candle - She would not sully her skin with a half-victory or mercy, place her word out for others to see.

Birdie in a Cage - It’s been such a long time since I had a new toy.

Truce - She is curious about colours. The red of blood, the velvet-blue of a night sky, the colours of a fire...

Fear The Stars - Those lights, they had moved, and they were brighter, sharper, than they had been.

Above Ground - Upstairs, outside, under the sky: here he was master of the two.

Turn-About - She was all speed now, ducking and weaving, cutting when she could.
sickle_stories: (Default)
What does it mean when no one misses you or gives you the time of day? Read more... )

Sean staggered, the stranger limp and heavy in his arms. Read more... )

The goat of Doom (Frank, to his friends, if he ever had any) was really getting tired of marauding the forest. Read more... )
sickle_stories: (Plot bunny)
The first few seconds of the Fish Out of Water: Trapped in TV Land syndrome:

Everyone, at one point or other, has had the experience of falling whilst lying snuggly in their beds. One startled jerk later, and you sigh in relief to find yourself in bed.

But when the falling sensation is real, when instead of waking up to smooth sheets you wake up to gravel and mud, the burning sting of scraped skin and bruised limbs, a sigh of relief is that last thing on your mind.

The first thing on Constance’s mind, for example, was surprise at having fallen off the bed for the first time in her life. That’s the waking human mind for you. The thought didn’t last very long, being dashed by the sudden rush of sensory input – mainly pain – that washed over her. That woke her up the rest of the way. Constance pushed herself up from the ground, hissing sharply as her skinned palms pressed against the gravel.
sickle_stories: (Default)
The sudden intrusion of the doorbell jump-started Charlotte's heart into a mad tattoo. Read more... )
sickle_stories: (Original)
Let's go out for a walk,
make the whole town talk,
'cause in my town, baby,
they talk all day long,
going on 'bout how we're wrong.

But you and me,
it's plain to see,
will prove them all the fools
and we'll break all the rules.
'Cause you and me,
it's plain to see,
were meant to be.

Walking down the street,
greeting everyone we meet
like it's our right -
we shouldn't have to fight for it -
hand in hand
and shoulder to shoulder.

We don't need to play their game:
we got our own to show 'em.
sickle_stories: (Original)
Well-Worn Hand (Track 10)
A/N: Something I wish I had.

Being friends, we took turns holding each others hands, took turns falling or pulling the other up, dusting each other off and telling reassuring lies. Our hands were always outstretched, gripped, fingers and life-lines melding into the other, curling and resting in time-honoured places, my thumb resting just so, your index pressing there, always the same. We've been holding hands for so long, one would think they'd be immune to the passage of time and blunders, wrapped up in mutual gloves of friendship. But our childhood grips gain strength and subtlety with experience, turn paper-dry or slippery-wet, callouses and scars decorating familiar skin. Still, it is your hand, your well-worn hand, in mine, and I'll keep holding it for the rest of our time.

When Anger Shows (Track 5)

There were scuff marks on the floor, deep gouges on the table, smeared footprints on the wall. Pens lay strewn on the ground like an abandoned game of pick-up sticks. The duvet lay in crumpled restlessness at the foot of the bed, a pillow half-consumed beneath it. The figure standing in the doorway took the room at a glance, a practiced reader of such cryptography, and quietly shut the door again.

Smokers Outside Hospital Doors (Track 1)
A/N: Sometimes you just need a break.

The smoke doesn't cover the ghost if the distinctly medical smell - all tepid green and listless blue - and the nicotine rush harly soothes the right nerves. They stand aroud, in twos or threes, swaying pendulously from one foot to the other or pacing slowly with great sweeping steps, feet hovering endlessly before coming down in defeat. Their faces are inexpressive beyond the basics of exhaustion, closed off and focued entirely on the column of ash, the column of smoke and the pillar at their backs. A couple minutes' peace, a moment of respite in which they give themselves entirely over to their bodies, their small habits and rituals done without thought, canceling out the need for thought. They put time at a standstill even as it burns, because some things will never wait for you, wait for you to be ready, to be strong, to be willing, to be there. They come outside and cup these small offerings of time, time spent not-waiting that might have instead been spent waiting, watching, hoping or breaking. These white cylinders of measured time, modern incense sticks, have no god in mind, but the prayer is clear: "Please", they whisper as they burn, "just give me a minute."
sickle_stories: (Original)
A/N: Ted and Susan have a torrid past. Tim is hurt, Susan’s moved on. Grief re: dead sister/friend. Perhaps guilt. Did Susan steal away then lose the father? Ted cares for Susan but it’s been a long time and she has changed, though they are still civil. He may never forgive her. Susan will one day go to the cottage, though by then Cottontail is dead. Sad, slow relationships which never really takes off.

Extract: Read more... )
sickle_stories: (Original)
I think I'll be using Muse's Absolution Album's tracks as chapter titles. I don't think I'll follow the track order, though.

The tracks )

I don't have a clue as to where I'm taking the story, being, as it is, born of one line and a dream. Stylistically, I'm not sure either, because what I have written down is what I'd like to start with, but there's some backstory I might need to stick in beyond the limits of references. Tracks 1, 8 and 9 would work well for flashbacks in that case.

I also have no idea what title this part ought to have.

The dream )


"There's an angel dying upstairs."

I squinted into the darkness that rolled down the staircase, my clothes dripping. I shivered in the hallway, my back to the elevator door.

"Are you a doctor"

This time I saw her, a little girl near ten or so - I'm terrible with ages, especially kids' - crouched on the stairs, her head resting against the wall. It looked like she'd been there, like that, a long time.

I took a step back, feeling my shirt stick to the cold metal. The last thing I wanted was to get saddled with a kid, and if there really was someone upstairs - well, let's just say being social is overrated at times like these.

God, times like these. That almost sounded normal. As if these were precedented times.*

I'd only just broken in, thinking the apartment abandoned but still structurally sound. It was hell out there, just pouring rain that was a few degrees shy of ice water. I rubbed my forehead with the hand holding my jacket. I was tired, I was wet, and I was hungry.

"Are you a doctor?" repeated the girl.

I shrugged and wrung out my jacket. "No," I said, "I'm an investment consultant." I bounced on my heels a bit to keep warm, my shoes squelching in the wet patch of carpet I was standing in. The carpet may once have been light beige; now it just looked like dirt.

"Can you help?"

I didn't know what the trouble was but was certain, whatever it was, I - or anyone else - wouldn't be able to help. That was the general rule of things these days.

* I'd written the second sentence, then came up with the first, and don't know which to keep, or if both. Except it was "these were normal times".
** "He delivers great punch to the realization that the humans around him have the comparable lifespan of fruit flies, and that in the end, he will always be a lonely little boy." (Here)
*** A story I have yet to write, about the anthropomorphic personification of the dark, who may just be a fallen angel. One poem's lines sum it best: "stripped of harp, halo and wings, and sent hurtling into darkness". (Dunno the poem's title or author, much to my frustration.)
sickle_stories: (Original)
I'm just transcribing some scribbles, and not all of them at that. I still don't know who Chip is.

He'd never liked driving. )
sickle_stories: (Original)
Here, have some emo!drama. Some bit of the writting I really like, though the overall "Woe! Oh, woe!" is a bit much. Still, pretty.

And then she said that it had to end. )
sickle_stories: (Original)
As always, there's hours of backstory to this drabble that I ought to have written first. But since it's the first thing I've written in months, and these measly 454 words took some 4 or 5 hours, I'm calling in some slack.

The point of the backstory and current drabble is to explore one's reactions to imminent aphasia caused by a brain tumour. (...yeah.) I am certainly taking dramatic liberties with causes and syndrome, but hopefully not excessively.

So the summary, as it pertains to this drabble. )


Francis heard the music the moment he stepped out of the elevator. He stood still for a moment, listening to the throbbing beat that made its way down the hall from Ethel's flat, thinking about her phone call. The fact was, he'd been expecting it - dreading it - for a while now. He'd spend days thinking about Ethel, mentally counting down the grace period the doctors had given her, going over different scenes in his head as to how to deal with it when it happened. Now that the call had come, he didn't know what to do.

The elevators closed shut behind him, bringing Francis out of his reverie with a start. He rubbed his hands against his jeans in one quick nervous gesture, then made his way towards the music.

Reaching apartment 47, last on the left, he gave the door a perfunctory knock and reached for his keys. Ethel had given them to him shortly after her last visit with Dr Kincade. He'd taken them without a word, without even asking what Kincade had said; he just took the keys and placed them by his beside, waiting for the call. He fumbled with the lock, knowing from watching Ethel that there was a trick to it but damned if he could remember what it was. From within the apartment he could make out voices and beats blaring in disharmony.

Finally unlocking the door, Francis stepped into the apartment and walked toward the living room. From the doorway he could see that both the radio and television were turned on, music and news reports blaring out so loud the noise filled the room. Strewn over the sofa and coffe table were dozens of books, some open, some leaning together half-standing, balanced precariously on sofa cushions where they'd been thrown.

Ethel was standing in the middle of the room with her eyes close and look of intense concentration on her face. In her hands she held a large envelope. Francis could just make out the seal of the Northwestern Memorial.


She flinched at his voice and looked at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were swollen and red, while dishevelled strands of hair, escapees from a low ponytail, framed her face. She caught his eye only for a moment before turning away, as if in embarassment.

Francis took a step closer to her, feeling rather than hearing the music as it reverberated against the walls. It was strange how, despite the glaring radio and television with myriads of voices clamoring, watching her filled the room with silence and stillness. He saw she'd started crying again, tears overflowing down her cheeks. His breath caught in his throat at the defeat he saw.

Deleted lines )

* Phyllis McGinley
sickle_stories: (Crack fics)
She couldn't say why she'd slapped him, not exactly. Maybe the last straw had been his lip beginning to curl into a smirk, or her suddenly remembering how much he'd liked her tomato soup.

One part of her was elated at finally having slapped someone, after years of pent-up anger, swallowed curses and fisted hands. The other, larger, part of her was shivering in the cold realization of just who it was she had slapped.

Standing before him and the shocked onlookers at his command, she awaited retaliation and was not disappointed.


When she awoke, her body ached with the memory of pain.* From the damp, she knew she;d been dumped into a dungeon cell; she couldn't see anything but darkness.


Pain drew him out of the darkness.

"Please don't move," said an exasperated voice. "I've been trying to get this piece of shrapnel out for hours."

He felt the brush of breath at the words and a weight - a hand - moving slowly over his chest. Metal creaked and clothes rustled as the woman leaned closer over him.

The sharp hook of pain that had dragged him from unconsciousness blossomed and throbbed as it spread across his chest before cutting in deep.

He tried to open his eyes but his body seemed to have forgotten about him. He tried moving instead, but found he could barely feel his body at all, much less move it. Trapped inside his body, all he could feel was heat and weight - and the pain as it rode through him.

He tried again to open his eyes, wondering if he'd somehow forgotten how to, when light flooded his vision and seemed to split his head apart.

"Stay," cautioned the voice. A small part of him, detached from the pain and the light, noted with amusement that the tone had been much like what one would use on a wary dog. A hand pushed him firmly down, steadying him, and he collapsed under it. He tried to clear his head of the new pain by taking a deep breath, but that, too, brought pain.

Then the pain multiplied a thousand fold as his mind and body reacquainted themselves with screams. A jolt of fire ran straight through him, stopping his breathe halfway down his throat. He wanted - needed - to thrash, to cry out, to lash out at whatever was doing this to him, but he knew, even before the tension faded, that his body had barely shifted under the sheets.

A triumphant voice crying out, "Got you!", and a soft metallic clink proclaimed the shrapnel free of his chest.

The pain ebbed to a dull throb and he sank deeper into the bed and the dark.

Random Snippets:

What he heard: "You made me feel alive."
What she said: "You made me feel a lie."

A Shade rustled in the dark. How philosophically improbable.

* Alternatively, "She awoke to the memory of pain."


sickle_stories: (Default)

January 2011



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