friday funk
Nov. 7th, 2003 12:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwynI keep thinking my work situation can't get any worse, and then, stunningly, it does! Now I just found out my new cube farm space is going to be not even a cube -- I will be sitting facing a wall with my back completely to the large open space behind me. I had little privacy before, but now will have absolutely none whatsoever. Not even a table or shelf behind me. Completely open, with people constantly walking behind me on their way coming and going. I can't even get nibbles on my resumes when the few opportunities arise to try for new jobs. I'm stuck in this hell hole.
So, of course, a meme. The Friday fannish five:
1) What is your favorite science fiction film?
I guess it's a toss-up between Blade Runner and The Terminator. I'm not sure that I could choose, but if forced, I'd probably pick Terminator because of naked Michael Biehn, and my all time favorite movie lines ever: I came across time for you, Sarah. I love you. I always have. ::gwyneth sighs and melts::
2) What is your favorite, if you have one, chick flick?
Hm. I'm never certain what constitutes a chick flick. I've seen that derisively used to describe anything with a romance or strong female lead -- even Terminator. Is it romance that auto-qualifies? I guess then I'd probably pick The American President. As much as I despise Aaron Sorkin's preciousness and I love myself logorrhea, I adore that movie for so many reasons, not the least of which is Michael Douglas's love speech at the end.
3) What is your favorite buddy film?
Eh. I love buddy shows but not so many buddy movies. I guess, just thinking of what I have in my DVD collection, it'd have to be Happy, Texas, which may or may not qualify.
4) What is your favorite B movie -- you know it isn't good, but you adore it anyway?
Among the bajillions of B movies I adore? Arg. Um, Escape From New York, I guess. Call me Snake.
5) What is your favorite lame film? For this purpose lame is defined as: a film that would have been good except for one nagging thing, i.e. it was well acted and written but it was a cliched plot or it was a good film, but it came out at the wrong time for it so it didn't work.
Oh, another Kurt Russell goodie -- Soldier. God how I love that cheesefest, I even started a lengthy piece of fanfic before I realized no one would ever read it, and then made a vid for it (that, strangely, some people like). It could have been SO good -- script by the guy who wrote Blade Runner and Unforgiven, visually talented director who sadly can't tell a story, good actors (Jason Isaacs, Connie Neilsen, Sean Pertwee), a wonderful premise, and it was completely, utterly destroyed.
For the few people who care: yes, I'm actually working on the Buffy fic I said I'd work on (you voted for it!). I have a bad feeling it's going to be very bad and painfully pretentious. Especially since I'll even be throwing in religious references and everything. Whee. This is really raw, will probably change, especially if I wake up and realize how bad it really is -- I'll spare you the Buffy stream of consciousness parts, but this is shortly after he's found Buffy's body, kind of an alternate Bargaining, if you will.
Buffy was alive. He could hear the blood faintly whooshing through her veins, a tiny tap inside the drum of her ribcage. She smells of blood and earth, the sweetsick aroma of charred living flesh.
Her body. The body they’d lost to another dimension, consumed by fire and permanent night. Nothing to even bury though that hadn’t stopped them from making a grave like it marked her life, the worth she’d brought to them. Nothing to see here people move along. Spike had never thought to touch her again, to trace the angle of her cheek, the blade of her chin. But there it was, under the carmine and ochre mash.
Why?
He picked her up, her body like piles of wet tissue sagging in his hands sodden with life draining out unstoppably. The tears he hadn’t known he shed dripped onto the blood on her face, forming a pattern like a blossom. Where has this useless vessel been? It’s been ripped to shreds, returned to them in pieces put together by a two-year-old, and what was inside it now? With slow steps like a pallbearer, Spike carried the coffin of her body, took her back underground to the dirt she should have been buried under before. The earth that would have been her salvation.
He set her gently on the bed, wishing he could have taken the sheets off, found something cleaner. Casting his pearl into the swine-trough of his life, but what else was there to do? Even with his animal’s night senses he had to switch on a light, give her the proper once-over to see just how much damage was done. Under the carnage there must be a girl somewhere.
What to do? What do I do? Nothing but pace the room, spending energy and fear. His brain roiled and sputtered with a cauldronfull of ideas.
He spun, then dropped to his knees beside the bed, howl of ancient fury ripped from his throat as he turned his head heavenward and hands balled into helpless fists. Even howling didn’t rouse her, she lay still in her bath of blood and cinders. Spike rested his forehead on the mangled claw of hand, licked the blood from her fingers and arm like sacrament, a host inside his body to sanctify. She tasted of death.
He rose, folded sheets, shroud of life, over her body. Then paced the room again. Should he give her water, try to wake her? Splint the bones and straighten the breaks, mend the wounds? Giles would know what to do. Giles was gone, the fucker had just left yesterday. Clattery thoughts bounced in his head, the noise made it hard to think. The children were the ones he should ask, but the children weren’t trustworthy. In the back of his mind, under the din of possibilities, was the germ of thought that this was their handiwork, anyway. They’d tried to find her body, her soul, and brought it back. Brought something back in the shape of a Buffy.
These were things Spike did not know: How to set bones (he breaks them), how to close a wound (he makes them), how to keep a human heart beating (he takes them). The char of lightning she was reborn on has left her rubicund, but the irregular beat of her pulse told him that was a lie. She was newly alive, dying again.
When he touched his face he realized he was crying. It made him laugh, then punch the wall, then laugh again inside a shrill bubble of hysteria. If he left, she could die. If he stayed, he had nothing to fix her with, and she could die. Spike was used to the loss, though. Whatever this remnant of Buffy was in the shell buried here in his oubliette, it wasn’t enough yet to fill the hole of her going. He ran up the ladder, and to the hospital.
Water, bandages, splints, tape, ointment, pills. Nothing but tiny offerings to whatever god holds Buffy’s life in his hand. Or her hand — he remembered Glory, her wild shock of hair, eyes wilder still. Could this be her idea of revenge from some god great beyond? Where did gods go when they died?
Spike spread everything he’d stolen out on the foot of the bed. First with a flannel he cleaned her body, holding each limb tenderly, light swipes at the fragile skin. The nakedness made no impression. Washed her face then, cloth tinged madder by blood. Twisted the ankle into alignment and hoped it took, slipped the wrist on straight, bound it all up with plastic and metal and fabric. Taped the lip into one piece. Snap of bones and pop of tendons, sounds once so glorious and desired, now left him sickened and dizzy. Spike performed these ablutions slowly and with care, without thought, because to think was to wonder, to try to understand. He stopped only to wipe tears away, to breathe out the nausea that threatened. Dressed her in a t-shirt for the wisp of dignity it offered. When he had finished, it was the end of the day.
He threaded water laced with electrolytes through her lips and down her throat, the muscle moving of its own accord to take it in. Then lay next to her, watching not with predator’s eyes, but those of a lover. She breathed, barely, and he combed her ragged straw hair with blood-caked fingers.
Wondered: could she dream? Was she whole within, if she wasn’t without? Where and who and how had she gone, come back? Would she remember, if she ever came back to them? If given a choice, would she want to come back...
The witches must be a part of it, but it meant all of them witlessly playing with forces they didn’t understand. Spike’s mind couldn’t follow. Were they that beyond control? Demons don’t drop from the sky, only the refugees of heaven. The earth spits up evil from below it claws its way through mud and turf, and she’d come back here on that open sky express elevator down all the way. Back from heaven to hell? He knew what awaited slayers, chosen ones, when they died. Not the downbelow. The children would be expecting him tonight unless. Unless. In that case they would be out looking.
Let them look. Tonight he was the guardian of the angel. Fallen.
So, of course, a meme. The Friday fannish five:
1) What is your favorite science fiction film?
I guess it's a toss-up between Blade Runner and The Terminator. I'm not sure that I could choose, but if forced, I'd probably pick Terminator because of naked Michael Biehn, and my all time favorite movie lines ever: I came across time for you, Sarah. I love you. I always have. ::gwyneth sighs and melts::
2) What is your favorite, if you have one, chick flick?
Hm. I'm never certain what constitutes a chick flick. I've seen that derisively used to describe anything with a romance or strong female lead -- even Terminator. Is it romance that auto-qualifies? I guess then I'd probably pick The American President. As much as I despise Aaron Sorkin's preciousness and I love myself logorrhea, I adore that movie for so many reasons, not the least of which is Michael Douglas's love speech at the end.
3) What is your favorite buddy film?
Eh. I love buddy shows but not so many buddy movies. I guess, just thinking of what I have in my DVD collection, it'd have to be Happy, Texas, which may or may not qualify.
4) What is your favorite B movie -- you know it isn't good, but you adore it anyway?
Among the bajillions of B movies I adore? Arg. Um, Escape From New York, I guess. Call me Snake.
5) What is your favorite lame film? For this purpose lame is defined as: a film that would have been good except for one nagging thing, i.e. it was well acted and written but it was a cliched plot or it was a good film, but it came out at the wrong time for it so it didn't work.
Oh, another Kurt Russell goodie -- Soldier. God how I love that cheesefest, I even started a lengthy piece of fanfic before I realized no one would ever read it, and then made a vid for it (that, strangely, some people like). It could have been SO good -- script by the guy who wrote Blade Runner and Unforgiven, visually talented director who sadly can't tell a story, good actors (Jason Isaacs, Connie Neilsen, Sean Pertwee), a wonderful premise, and it was completely, utterly destroyed.
For the few people who care: yes, I'm actually working on the Buffy fic I said I'd work on (you voted for it!). I have a bad feeling it's going to be very bad and painfully pretentious. Especially since I'll even be throwing in religious references and everything. Whee. This is really raw, will probably change, especially if I wake up and realize how bad it really is -- I'll spare you the Buffy stream of consciousness parts, but this is shortly after he's found Buffy's body, kind of an alternate Bargaining, if you will.
Buffy was alive. He could hear the blood faintly whooshing through her veins, a tiny tap inside the drum of her ribcage. She smells of blood and earth, the sweetsick aroma of charred living flesh.
Her body. The body they’d lost to another dimension, consumed by fire and permanent night. Nothing to even bury though that hadn’t stopped them from making a grave like it marked her life, the worth she’d brought to them. Nothing to see here people move along. Spike had never thought to touch her again, to trace the angle of her cheek, the blade of her chin. But there it was, under the carmine and ochre mash.
Why?
He picked her up, her body like piles of wet tissue sagging in his hands sodden with life draining out unstoppably. The tears he hadn’t known he shed dripped onto the blood on her face, forming a pattern like a blossom. Where has this useless vessel been? It’s been ripped to shreds, returned to them in pieces put together by a two-year-old, and what was inside it now? With slow steps like a pallbearer, Spike carried the coffin of her body, took her back underground to the dirt she should have been buried under before. The earth that would have been her salvation.
He set her gently on the bed, wishing he could have taken the sheets off, found something cleaner. Casting his pearl into the swine-trough of his life, but what else was there to do? Even with his animal’s night senses he had to switch on a light, give her the proper once-over to see just how much damage was done. Under the carnage there must be a girl somewhere.
What to do? What do I do? Nothing but pace the room, spending energy and fear. His brain roiled and sputtered with a cauldronfull of ideas.
He spun, then dropped to his knees beside the bed, howl of ancient fury ripped from his throat as he turned his head heavenward and hands balled into helpless fists. Even howling didn’t rouse her, she lay still in her bath of blood and cinders. Spike rested his forehead on the mangled claw of hand, licked the blood from her fingers and arm like sacrament, a host inside his body to sanctify. She tasted of death.
He rose, folded sheets, shroud of life, over her body. Then paced the room again. Should he give her water, try to wake her? Splint the bones and straighten the breaks, mend the wounds? Giles would know what to do. Giles was gone, the fucker had just left yesterday. Clattery thoughts bounced in his head, the noise made it hard to think. The children were the ones he should ask, but the children weren’t trustworthy. In the back of his mind, under the din of possibilities, was the germ of thought that this was their handiwork, anyway. They’d tried to find her body, her soul, and brought it back. Brought something back in the shape of a Buffy.
These were things Spike did not know: How to set bones (he breaks them), how to close a wound (he makes them), how to keep a human heart beating (he takes them). The char of lightning she was reborn on has left her rubicund, but the irregular beat of her pulse told him that was a lie. She was newly alive, dying again.
When he touched his face he realized he was crying. It made him laugh, then punch the wall, then laugh again inside a shrill bubble of hysteria. If he left, she could die. If he stayed, he had nothing to fix her with, and she could die. Spike was used to the loss, though. Whatever this remnant of Buffy was in the shell buried here in his oubliette, it wasn’t enough yet to fill the hole of her going. He ran up the ladder, and to the hospital.
Water, bandages, splints, tape, ointment, pills. Nothing but tiny offerings to whatever god holds Buffy’s life in his hand. Or her hand — he remembered Glory, her wild shock of hair, eyes wilder still. Could this be her idea of revenge from some god great beyond? Where did gods go when they died?
Spike spread everything he’d stolen out on the foot of the bed. First with a flannel he cleaned her body, holding each limb tenderly, light swipes at the fragile skin. The nakedness made no impression. Washed her face then, cloth tinged madder by blood. Twisted the ankle into alignment and hoped it took, slipped the wrist on straight, bound it all up with plastic and metal and fabric. Taped the lip into one piece. Snap of bones and pop of tendons, sounds once so glorious and desired, now left him sickened and dizzy. Spike performed these ablutions slowly and with care, without thought, because to think was to wonder, to try to understand. He stopped only to wipe tears away, to breathe out the nausea that threatened. Dressed her in a t-shirt for the wisp of dignity it offered. When he had finished, it was the end of the day.
He threaded water laced with electrolytes through her lips and down her throat, the muscle moving of its own accord to take it in. Then lay next to her, watching not with predator’s eyes, but those of a lover. She breathed, barely, and he combed her ragged straw hair with blood-caked fingers.
Wondered: could she dream? Was she whole within, if she wasn’t without? Where and who and how had she gone, come back? Would she remember, if she ever came back to them? If given a choice, would she want to come back...
The witches must be a part of it, but it meant all of them witlessly playing with forces they didn’t understand. Spike’s mind couldn’t follow. Were they that beyond control? Demons don’t drop from the sky, only the refugees of heaven. The earth spits up evil from below it claws its way through mud and turf, and she’d come back here on that open sky express elevator down all the way. Back from heaven to hell? He knew what awaited slayers, chosen ones, when they died. Not the downbelow. The children would be expecting him tonight unless. Unless. In that case they would be out looking.
Let them look. Tonight he was the guardian of the angel. Fallen.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 01:15 pm (UTC)Needs some editing, I'll grant you that, but you've definitely got me intrigued, and even your drafts have a lyricism I can only dream of. I want to know more. In other words, keep it up, okay? ;-)
And I'm sorry about your job situation, sweetie. Hope it gets better or something new comes up, and soon.
*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 01:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 01:56 pm (UTC)As for your new piece of fiction-- I adored the snippets you shared with us. Parts were slightly choppy, but already, there were your trademark spellbinding, haunting moments:
Under the carnage there must be a girl somewhere.
These were things Spike did not know: How to set bones (he breaks them), how to close a wound (he makes them), how to keep a human heart beating (he takes them). The char of lightning she was reborn on has left her rubicund, but the irregular beat of her pulse told him that was a lie. She was newly alive, dying again.
Back from heaven to hell? He knew what awaited slayers, chosen ones, when they died. Not the downbelow. The children would be expecting him tonight unless. Unless. In that case they would be out looking.
Let them look. Tonight he was the guardian of the angel. Fallen.
Would dearly love to read more of this, but don't feel pressured to do so.
& :-)
no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 01:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 01:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 04:35 pm (UTC)That's horrible :-( Maybe you could get and put up one of those rice paper room dividers.
And I especially loved this part of your new fic:
He spun, then dropped to his knees beside the bed, howl of ancient fury ripped from his throat as he turned his head heavenward and hands balled into helpless fists. Even howling didn't rouse her, she lay still in her bath of blood and cinders. Spike rested his forehead on the mangled claw of hand, licked the blood from her fingers and arm like sacrament, a host inside his body to sanctify. She tasted of death.
That made my heart stop --- it's a great, scary visual. I'm looking forward to seeing where you take this, Gwyneth -- thanks :-)
Job sucks
Date: 2003-11-07 05:52 pm (UTC)namaste SF Nancy
no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 06:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 06:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 11:26 pm (UTC)Believe me, I know what hell it is to be mired in a job where you work like a dog for little pay, and not only are you unappreciated, you're supposed to grovel in gratitude *because you have a job*. You deserve so much better!
::hugs::
no subject
Date: 2003-11-08 11:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-08 11:10 pm (UTC)Re: Job sucks
Date: 2003-11-08 11:15 pm (UTC)