meme/poll

Weekend words (round 1?)

1) Fridays in the summer I get off early.

2) I have a deep want/need to get back into the swing of writing.

2b) But in order for this to actually happen, I need help remembering how much I truly do enjoy writing. On an individual sentence, tweak-each-word-until-it's-perfect scale.

3) THEREFORE: Leave me three (3) words in the comments and before Monday morning I will write at least one hundred (100) words somehow related to your prompt. You may request a fandom, but no guarantees. I do promise I won't include a fandom that/if you didn't ask for [it].



IN SUM: 3 words gets you at least 100 in return: that's a pretty good ROI. And if this first round goes well, I'll try to do it weekly for at least the remainder of the summer--and the more frequently I write, the longer things tend to run.
There's an art to climbing trees. Ronon learned it from one of his cousins, in the early, heady days when Sateda could still pretend to itself that all was well. His body remembers the reach and swing, how to cling with knees and legs so the hands are free to grab--though he wishes in passing for the bare and calloused feet of his childhood.

Sheppard, on the other hand, seems to have nothing going for him but determination and a focus so complete that he doesn't flinch at scraping his arm raw, wrist to elbow.

With one foot braced and his balance more precarious than he'd ever admit, Ronon reaches down to haul Sheppard up by the tac vest, preventing further injury, and in careful silence they crowd against each other like the children they no longer are. Below, uncomfortably far and yet worryingly near, an angry mob crashes through the brush--away from the stargate, which means away from Teyla and an undiplomatic McKay.

Ronon knows they'll laugh about this over dinner in a month or two, but right now there's a broken branch jammed against one of his kidneys and Sheppard's blood smeared across his shirt, and nothing Ronon can do about any of it except press himself more closely to the tree's truck and clutch at Sheppard like a last hope.
I'm glad you like it! For some reason when I read your prompt, my brain said "climbing trees", which then had to be corralled into something that actually made sense with the prompt.

But it was rather fun to write. :D
I'm always amazed when I read a piece like this. With about 200 words you manage to give us insight in Ronon's background, John's character, team dynamics and a pretty good image of what had happened.

Actually, with *one* word you manage to tell us what most likely happened to cause this scene. You say "undiplomatic" McKay and the image of what must have happened just rolls out in my mind.

You have a really, really great style and I have to say, I've read so called "professional" authors that can't manage half as much with more than twice as much words.

Thank you. :-)
You have no idea what a comment like this means to me, especially when it's been almost a year since I've even touched anything SGA-related--and I recently received news at work that makes me think I might want to start thinking more seriously about pursuing writing as something to do for pay and not just as a hobby.

So, thank you!
(rhyme and meter count as multipliers)
What spurs the weary pea sprout on?
Some longed-for sun brightness? The distant sky?
Such battles it must fight, deny
both bird and squirrel its own self as crumb,
wend a winding way 'round pebble,
cheerful passing worm, silent, pensive grub.
And then (o difficult) must rub
up through some crack in the dirt, like rebel
against confining bars--

Only then, bruised and battered, may it greet the watchful stars.


Edited at 2015-06-27 12:41 am (UTC)
On the beach far below, a pair of boys ran whooping through the spume and spray, driving a cacophony of sea birds bursting into the air before them. A few more years and they would be men, but for now they were young and full of exuberant joy.

On the cliff above, lying belly-down on the rock and mostly bare in the sun, sides almost touching despite the morning's rising heat, a pair of men watched them go. In years past, they had also been young, but now they were weary and glad for rest from long strife.

"In my youth I sometimes wished for a sibling," Iranan said, more to himself than his neighbor. "Though eventually I acquired enough cousins that I supposed they must nearly be the equivalent, despite the decades separating us." Below, the running turned into an amiable scuffle, much to the birds' relief. "Do you have none, Aramahin? I don't recall being introduced to any."

Beside him, Aramahin shifted so that points of contact were lost and made between them, shoulder and ribs and hip and thigh. "No," he said at last, even as Iranan began to doubt the diplomacy of the question. "I had a sister, but she died in childbirth--and her husband was killed a month later, so their infant son came to my household."

"Ah." Iranan looked with more interest to the wrestling that still continued on the beach, both participants of which had now become liberally caked with sand and spume. "Seeing him grow so close with your own son, do you mourn your own childhood lack of a brother?"

Aramahin kept silent for a long moment, seemingly intent on the mock-violence below, but darting a glance over at Iranan, like a man checking that some precious object hasn't wandered away. "Perhaps," he said at last, "had I not a new-found cousin and new-won peace in which to come to know him."

"Ah," Iranan said again, and smiled with warmth to rival the sun's.