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Fic things...
1. I received my remix assignment and it's someone who I know well and respect. My first reaction was: ba ha ha ha ha! And then I thought, dear lord, what if she feels I've mangled her fic beyond recognition and disrespected her artistic vision? Not that I think she's likely to throw a fit but - how does one go about remixing a friend's story?
2. I've been working on a sequel to my remix from last year and I'm a bit stuck. What I need is a fresh pair of eyes, one that isn't so tied in knots over word choice they're considering suicide. Anybody want to read through a Dracofic?
3. New PotC drabble.
4. Snippet from 70's SlythWIP
“Happy fucking Christmas.”
Mrs. Lestrange smiled brightly at the trussed up figures, kneeling before her. Mr. Bones wriggled in defiance and Mrs. Bones favored her with a particularly fierce frown.
“Dear Mrs. Lestrange, I do believe you’ve indulged in an excess of champagne,” Mr. Lestrange drawled around his purloined cigar, and sunk lower into an overstuffed chair. “Your language is becoming quite appalling.”
“My beloved Mr. Lestrange, do you then hold me to higher standard than your other acquaintances? I recall no such objections when Wilkes used the very same phrase last night, or on the innumerable occasions when Snape’s tongue has gotten away from him,” she asked with a coy tilt of her head.
“Why, dearest, of course I must have different, far lower standards for those idiots. You, who are incomparable, wonderful beyond all imaginings, the very benchmark itself, should not be subject to any common standard. And if I expect anything of you at all, it is only that you should continue to be the demigoddess who inspires my every action.” Mr. Lestrange yawned, and put his boots up on a pristine ottoman.
Mrs. Bones frowned even harder.
Mrs. Lestrange smiled. “Quite sweet, Mr. Lestrange, but I believe I recognize the sentiment. Avery’s Valentine sonnet?” She tapped her wand against her sleeve, without rhythm. Green sparks fell from the tip.
“A bastardization, but you have me dead to rights.” He took another puff from his cigar. “A Havana, Bones?” Mr. Bones wriggled with pride, to Mrs. Bones’ infinite displeasure. “You always knew how to appreciate the finer things in life.” At the barest lessening of Mrs. Lestrange’s smile, he added: “Can’t imagine how you ended up like this,” nodding at Mrs. Bones.
“Three Christmas trees, Mrs. Bones?” Mrs. Lestrange’s smile deepened, and yet, took on an increasingly sinister cast. “Surely one tree was enough?” Mrs. Bones wriggled nervously.
Mr. Lestrange pulled a sheaf of variously colored papers from his coat pocket. “We’ve read the forms. You’ve been abusing your position at the Ministry.”
“Mmph!” said Mr. Bones.
“The way you two have been carrying on about duty, rights, accountability and all that rubbish,” added Mrs. Lestrange, “one would think you’d at least have the intelligence to cover up your blatant misconduct.”
“Mmph!” said Mrs. Bones angrily.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Lestrange. “Misconduct. How dare you use the Ministry for your own purposes? Who knows what else you’ve been requisitioning? I see only one tree in this house, Mrs. Bones. Where are the other two?”
Mrs. Bones declined to comment.
Mrs. Lestrange leaned over her captors. “Where are they?”
Still Mrs. Bones declined to comment.
Mr. Lestrange, finished with his cigar, put it out on the arm of his chair and leisurely got to his feet. Triplicate in hand, he joined his wife in the evening’s fun. Together they leaned over the Bones, properly menacing smirks in place.
“Christmas tree. Christmas tree. Where have you got to, my three Christmas trees,” Mrs. Lestrange sing-songed. The Bones cowered, in fear, or perhaps sheer agony.
“Darling.” Mr. Lestrange winced. “That was wretched.”
She glared briefly, then, sinister smirk in place, turned back to the couple. “What could you have done with two entire trees? Mr. Lestrange, have you any idea?”
“It is a mystery beyond my capacity, dearest.” He shook the triplicate, evidence of Bones’ illicit requisitioning of additional complimentary trees from the Ministry.
Mrs. Lestrange bit her lip. It was a terribly cute expression. “Three trees for one family. One family has no need of two, much less three trees, so perhaps…” Her confused pout shifted into sudden understanding. “Perhaps there are three families for those three trees!”
Mr. Bones shivered, almost imperceptibly.
“Your relations all bought their own trees – we checked – so I wonder, I really do wonder.” Her wand began emitting sparks again, silver this time. “Oh,” she smiled, and though it was sweet, as all her smiles were, the Bones’ shuddered in unison. “What a coincidence. I’ve just remembered that it was two families of Muggles that the Aurors ‘rescued,’” (Mr. Lestrange made the requisite air-quotes, around the papers,) “from the Dark Lord’s captivity last week. Such a moving turn of events, don’t you think?”
If increased wriggling was any indication, the Bones’ certainly thought so.
“Happy fucking Christmas.”
“Mr. Lestrange!”
“It seemed appropriate, dearest.”
She huffed. “I believe that was my line.”
“By all means,” he waved at the now desperately thrashing couple.
“Avada Kedavra and a happy fucking Christmas.” Instead of sparks, her wand emitted a soft, eerie green glow. The couple stopped their thrashing and fell to the floor with twin, solid thumps. They’d really packed it on since Hogwarts.
Mr. Lestrange pulled out his pocket watch. “Oh damn, we were supposed to meet the others ten minutes ago.”
Mrs. Lestrange frowned. “At least let me savor the moment.”
“I’m not keeping you from savoring. Please, savor.” He let go of the papers and they slowly fluttered down around the corpses.
Mrs. Lestrange, hands on hips, stomped. “You’re rushing me.”
“Well, we have Christmas trees to set aflame.” He glanced at his watch. “And we’re now eleven minutes late.”
“Stop. Rushing me.” She ground out.
“I’m not-” She silenced him with a glare. He looked at his watch again and pretended not to be intimidated, or aroused.
“See what comes of crossing your betters?” Mrs. Lestrange kicked the body of the late Mrs. Bones, and then kicked it again a few more times, for good measure.
Mrs. Lestrange discreetly straightened her dress. “I’m all done now.” She smiled sweetly at her husband.
“Excellent, my dear.” He offered her his arm, which she immediately took. “We have Muggles to murder, and mayhem to effect at the Ministry.”
“You’re not nearly as charming as you think.”
“Sorry, dear.”
“Keep it that way.”
2. I've been working on a sequel to my remix from last year and I'm a bit stuck. What I need is a fresh pair of eyes, one that isn't so tied in knots over word choice they're considering suicide. Anybody want to read through a Dracofic?
3. New PotC drabble.
4. Snippet from 70's SlythWIP
“Happy fucking Christmas.”
Mrs. Lestrange smiled brightly at the trussed up figures, kneeling before her. Mr. Bones wriggled in defiance and Mrs. Bones favored her with a particularly fierce frown.
“Dear Mrs. Lestrange, I do believe you’ve indulged in an excess of champagne,” Mr. Lestrange drawled around his purloined cigar, and sunk lower into an overstuffed chair. “Your language is becoming quite appalling.”
“My beloved Mr. Lestrange, do you then hold me to higher standard than your other acquaintances? I recall no such objections when Wilkes used the very same phrase last night, or on the innumerable occasions when Snape’s tongue has gotten away from him,” she asked with a coy tilt of her head.
“Why, dearest, of course I must have different, far lower standards for those idiots. You, who are incomparable, wonderful beyond all imaginings, the very benchmark itself, should not be subject to any common standard. And if I expect anything of you at all, it is only that you should continue to be the demigoddess who inspires my every action.” Mr. Lestrange yawned, and put his boots up on a pristine ottoman.
Mrs. Bones frowned even harder.
Mrs. Lestrange smiled. “Quite sweet, Mr. Lestrange, but I believe I recognize the sentiment. Avery’s Valentine sonnet?” She tapped her wand against her sleeve, without rhythm. Green sparks fell from the tip.
“A bastardization, but you have me dead to rights.” He took another puff from his cigar. “A Havana, Bones?” Mr. Bones wriggled with pride, to Mrs. Bones’ infinite displeasure. “You always knew how to appreciate the finer things in life.” At the barest lessening of Mrs. Lestrange’s smile, he added: “Can’t imagine how you ended up like this,” nodding at Mrs. Bones.
“Three Christmas trees, Mrs. Bones?” Mrs. Lestrange’s smile deepened, and yet, took on an increasingly sinister cast. “Surely one tree was enough?” Mrs. Bones wriggled nervously.
Mr. Lestrange pulled a sheaf of variously colored papers from his coat pocket. “We’ve read the forms. You’ve been abusing your position at the Ministry.”
“Mmph!” said Mr. Bones.
“The way you two have been carrying on about duty, rights, accountability and all that rubbish,” added Mrs. Lestrange, “one would think you’d at least have the intelligence to cover up your blatant misconduct.”
“Mmph!” said Mrs. Bones angrily.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Lestrange. “Misconduct. How dare you use the Ministry for your own purposes? Who knows what else you’ve been requisitioning? I see only one tree in this house, Mrs. Bones. Where are the other two?”
Mrs. Bones declined to comment.
Mrs. Lestrange leaned over her captors. “Where are they?”
Still Mrs. Bones declined to comment.
Mr. Lestrange, finished with his cigar, put it out on the arm of his chair and leisurely got to his feet. Triplicate in hand, he joined his wife in the evening’s fun. Together they leaned over the Bones, properly menacing smirks in place.
“Christmas tree. Christmas tree. Where have you got to, my three Christmas trees,” Mrs. Lestrange sing-songed. The Bones cowered, in fear, or perhaps sheer agony.
“Darling.” Mr. Lestrange winced. “That was wretched.”
She glared briefly, then, sinister smirk in place, turned back to the couple. “What could you have done with two entire trees? Mr. Lestrange, have you any idea?”
“It is a mystery beyond my capacity, dearest.” He shook the triplicate, evidence of Bones’ illicit requisitioning of additional complimentary trees from the Ministry.
Mrs. Lestrange bit her lip. It was a terribly cute expression. “Three trees for one family. One family has no need of two, much less three trees, so perhaps…” Her confused pout shifted into sudden understanding. “Perhaps there are three families for those three trees!”
Mr. Bones shivered, almost imperceptibly.
“Your relations all bought their own trees – we checked – so I wonder, I really do wonder.” Her wand began emitting sparks again, silver this time. “Oh,” she smiled, and though it was sweet, as all her smiles were, the Bones’ shuddered in unison. “What a coincidence. I’ve just remembered that it was two families of Muggles that the Aurors ‘rescued,’” (Mr. Lestrange made the requisite air-quotes, around the papers,) “from the Dark Lord’s captivity last week. Such a moving turn of events, don’t you think?”
If increased wriggling was any indication, the Bones’ certainly thought so.
“Happy fucking Christmas.”
“Mr. Lestrange!”
“It seemed appropriate, dearest.”
She huffed. “I believe that was my line.”
“By all means,” he waved at the now desperately thrashing couple.
“Avada Kedavra and a happy fucking Christmas.” Instead of sparks, her wand emitted a soft, eerie green glow. The couple stopped their thrashing and fell to the floor with twin, solid thumps. They’d really packed it on since Hogwarts.
Mr. Lestrange pulled out his pocket watch. “Oh damn, we were supposed to meet the others ten minutes ago.”
Mrs. Lestrange frowned. “At least let me savor the moment.”
“I’m not keeping you from savoring. Please, savor.” He let go of the papers and they slowly fluttered down around the corpses.
Mrs. Lestrange, hands on hips, stomped. “You’re rushing me.”
“Well, we have Christmas trees to set aflame.” He glanced at his watch. “And we’re now eleven minutes late.”
“Stop. Rushing me.” She ground out.
“I’m not-” She silenced him with a glare. He looked at his watch again and pretended not to be intimidated, or aroused.
“See what comes of crossing your betters?” Mrs. Lestrange kicked the body of the late Mrs. Bones, and then kicked it again a few more times, for good measure.
Mrs. Lestrange discreetly straightened her dress. “I’m all done now.” She smiled sweetly at her husband.
“Excellent, my dear.” He offered her his arm, which she immediately took. “We have Muggles to murder, and mayhem to effect at the Ministry.”
“You’re not nearly as charming as you think.”
“Sorry, dear.”
“Keep it that way.”
no subject
I think this would be really cool...as long as you like her fic, that is. Remixing a story you like would be like fanfic-of-fanfic, in a way, and the author will get to see it. And if she likes your writing, too, she'd probably be very interested to see what you would do with her idea. I think remixing a friend's story gives you a lot more room to play. You know that she will know it was all in the spirit of the remix if you experiment and shake the original up, whereas a stranger might go "ACK! Who are you, and what did you DO?"
...And on a completely unrelated note (I remembered because I offered to write it in the Remix), I have recently discovered Smallville. And Clex. Whee, fandombondingomgyay. *g*
no subject
I've been off SV for a while now though I've been told that with the addition of Lois it's become watchable again. *g* Clex is a great pairing though, isn't it?
*Boggles*
You're still alive????!!!!
Re: *Boggles*
no subject
Your Slytherin Christmas special is perfectly, delicately, horrifying.
no subject