bratfarrar

"Mawwiage. Mawwiage is wot brings us togatha, today..." I've had that line stuck in my head all week for some reason :P along with "Wuv, twu wuv..."

Oh man, I haven't watched that movie in ages. Definitely something to put on my no-more-netflix viewing list. :p

*

And then he skids around a tree and down a hill and the Athosian camp is on fire and how had he forgotten about that? (Well, okay, probably pretty easily, given everything else, but still. If he’d forgotten that, how much else had slipped away from him, and was continuing to do so, even now?)

The hand crawling along the ground toward him, though—that, he definitely remembered.

Two shots, a tearful Jinto, helping the Athosians salvage as much from the wreckage of the camp as quickly as possible: it’s deja vu, for real, and by the time they all tumble through the gate into Atlantis, John’s beginning to feel like he’s stuck in a rerun. But he’s not, he knows, because Elizabeth’s reaction is “We’re considering leaving the city,” not the remembered we’re about to abandon it, so at the very least he’s managed to snag himself a little more time to work out a rescue.

Without is just a prettier word, lol.

Umm..."Hope is a thing that flutters"? Does that help? I will take SGA or anything. :) I just like seeing what you come up with.

He should talk to the man sitting beside him in the cockpit, should explain what he's doing and how and why, and what the plan is and the contingency plans and when Markham should simply cut and run---but there's something slowly curling up inside him, something he'd thought lost and then forgotten.

Optimism is a choice, though he never could get Rodney to understand this. Somewhere in Antarctica, after the blood had dried and flaked off and the snow had scoured him clean, he'd decided to always assume that a situation could be salvaged, to never give up. To not quit. (Although he'd then spent the better part of a year quiescently playing taxi-driver, which went to show how much *that* had meant.)

But this, this sensation beating against his ribs and heart like the wings of some prehistoric butterfly---this is hope, which he hasn't known since everything went to hell and sand and failure (after failure after failure, it sometimes seemed, in the dark places of his memory).

He doesn't tell Markham anything because he doesn't need to: this rescue, he knows, *knows*, will go right, whatever may come after.

This is what he's here for.

Edited at 2009-12-18 03:13 am (UTC)

This is the latest addition to our board of poetry, and one of many attempts to stave off finishing the three papers that I NEEED to write. I memorized it in eighth grade and it's never really left:

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well,
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

Canto Six, "Lay of the Last Minstrel" Sir Walter Scott

more than vaguely, i'd say

(iamgoingtowritenowyesiamnoreally)

*

There is, possibly, something wrong with him (*No duh*, says the sarcastic Rodney that seems to have set itself up in John's head), something beyond the obvious help-I've-been-inexplicably-catapulted-a-year-into-my-past shtick. Although that's probably connected somehow.

But he woke up this morning and wanted to cry and that makes no sense--everyone's still alive (except the Athosian dude who died the first time too), everyone seems to like him (except Sumner, but he'd expected that; it's almost comforting), they actually have an itty-bitty bit of power left in the ZPM (enough for 5 whole minute of shield!), and the Wraith have no idea that earth (or Atlantis) exists; all things are well and all manner of things are well, and he really shouldn't feel this way.

He should probably go to Heightmeyer about it, but he'd really rather shoot himself in the foot. Which is probably a symptom of something, but he doesn't care.

Oh, SGA, by all means! I'm so very looking forward to Things' successful completion, and it makes me feel special to make any contribution at all to that end! ^^

Being afraid of a monster under the bed is perfectly rational, because there may in fact be a monster under your bed at any time, ready to eat you all up, but a fear of realtors is an irrational fear.

A Series of Unfortunate Events, Book the Third: The Wide Window, by Lemony Snicket

Completion...ah yes. I suppose that'll come eventually. Right now, though, I can see only the two parts that'll come after this part, and all the major revisions that'll be necessary to cure John of his current bipolar disorder.

But still, I know roughly what the end will look like, so that's a big step toward being able to actually finish this thing.

(I wish I could get myself to write in longer than 150 words segments)

*

*No time*, beats against the back of John's brain, *no time no time no time*. It sings to him, so that each motion he makes, each step and hand signal and jerk of the head runs together into some intricate dance he learns as he goes along. He goes lightly on his toes, hope still imbuing him with a grace not his own, and the Wraith never see him until after he's gone.

(To his men--and they are almost his, will be after this--if he but knew it, he moves like some being out of an old tale, ready to call down lightning and fire and flood, should it be necessary. Or to offer his own heart, if they asked it of him.)

He has scrimped and scrabbled for the moments that he now doles out like dull pennies, beats out with each breath like a metronome. They will be enough for him to do what must be done.

Honey, however it is you write, don't ever knock it--your bits and snatches slay me with such piercingly perfect imagery!! That passage just sings and hums and dances in my brain.... You could re-write season one as an epic poem, and you'd go down in history, I swear. <3

Epic poetry, eh? It does sometimes feel like it's trying to veer in that direction. But I suppose there is a long and glorious history of epic poems about warriors and great battles, so it might be appropriate.

In any case, however slowly and haltingly, the story is finally being written, and that's a relief. I've had it itching away at the back of my brain for, well, at least a year or two now.

It certainly IS being written, and beautifully. Do these prompt/quote things actually help you - all of the little snippets you keep giving are just such perfect reflections of whatever little thing we gave you. I can't tell if it's because you've had them ready and waiting, or if you're actually writing this amazingness using the quotes as inspiration. Either way, you're pretty much crazy wonderful.

This story gives me that tightness behind my eyes that one of these days may produce teh weepies. Mwah. *huggles*

They do! But truthfully, while the prompts/quotes are helpful, the really helpful thing is the comment itself. I'm good at responding to something and very bad at writing just because I've decided I need to write--this is the only method I've come up with so far that consistently motivates me to do what I want to do.

Often I'll have a little piece of something that needs to be turned into an actual scene, which serves as the basis for the snippet-comment-thingy. But 90+% is usually all new stuff.