chaletian: (cs kill bill)
Title: A Kiss to Build a Dream On
Author: [ profile] chaletian
Fandom: Chalet School
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is how it starts. Kathie/Nancy.
Author's Note: Written for [ profile] chiasmata's prompt for my last SDC.

Read more... )
chaletian: (star trek ants)
So, peeps, here's the thing: I want to write some fic, not having written any for a little while, but I find myself devoid of the demon inspiration. So I thought I'd have a little drabble challenge.

Thus, please suggest a fandom, character (and topic/quote/other character/vague scenario/just any kind of prompt for the love of esmerelda!), and I will try and write a little fic. Don't be shy! I can write any fandom I've written before (check out the fic tag if you're not sure), and am open to writing anything for TV shows/films/books/stuff I enjoy.

Please do suggest something - I really miss writing!
chaletian: (alice)
According to the Metro, that bastion of respectable reporting, poetry is dying out! OHNOES! To help battle against this dreadful fate, I post herewith a random pome:

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited ;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

~ Thomas Hardy

And also, in a single-handed attempt to bring poetry back, please help me in my pome-themed SDC. Please? Anyone? Bueller?
chaletian: (star trek disease)
So, for my next trick... *coughs* Um, yes. I thought I'd give myself a prolonged SDC over my "staycation" (that word has not yet ceased to be hilarious), and thus suggest the following challenge:

Post a fandom and a pome (helpful if you could post the body of the pome, rather than just the title), and I will write a story on that theme. Woo.

Also: I totally need an SDC icon.
chaletian: (bard wankerman)
:: for [ profile] pim2005 ::

Harvey Bains had very definite ideas about what he wanted his future to be. Cabinet Minister, at least. Maybe Prime Minister, as long as he didn't have to go around kissing the French President. Marriage, of course: minor royal, perhaps. Leggy, blonde, rich, dim. Or an actress. An actress would be all right, as long as it wasn't one of those mousy feminist ones.

As the years went by, life lessened Harvey's ambitions. Perhaps a city mayor. Wife a nice County girl who went hunting and wore pearls. There'd be a statue, of course, somewhere central, perhaps in a park. "Harvey Bains," people would say. "Harvey Bains. You could always tell he was going somewhere."

In the end, it didn't turn out quite like Harvey had planned, but it would please him to know that after generation and generation had gone by, after apocalypse and regime change, after fire and flood, his name would live on when men far more famous in life had been forgotten.


"Diana, will willnot you comen?!"

"Mutti, comen looklook! Bebby dun a harvey!"


But perhaps it would not please him.
chaletian: (supernatural bloody woe)
:: for [ profile] morganmuffle ::

There are stories about a man who rescued his wife from hell, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.


By the side of an anonymous road, they dig up bones. Scorched and jumbled, they are reconstructed as an adult male, dead a decade at least.


There are stories about a man who saved an entire town of children, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.


His dental records identify him as John Winchester, late of Lawrence, Kansas. They also match a man called John Hendon. And Thomas McQueen. And Martin O’Shaughnessy.


There are stories about a man who brought up his sons to fight the monsters in the shadows, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.


John Winchester’s wife died in 1982, and he left Kansas with his two sons shortly after that. No-one in Lawrence is sure what happened to them after that.


There are stories about a man who killed vampires, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.


He had warrants issued in his name. Lots of them. Theft and fraud and grave desecration and assault. John Winchester wasn’t a nice guy.


There are stories about a man who sacrificed himself for his son, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.


They close the file on John Winchester. He died of natural causes, and was no great loss to humanity. End of story.


There are stories about a man who helped save the world, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash.

But they’re just stories.
chaletian: (b5 oh shit)
:: for [ profile] bookwormsarah ::

Guy Marcel crossed his arms and scowled. “I don’t get it.”

The director sighed (not for the first time). “What don’t you get, Guy?”

“So, he what, laid down and died for this chick? Who he wasn’t even boning? Jeez, who does that?”

The director pinched the bridge of his nose. “Clare?” The writer stepped forward, a look of concentrated patience on her face.

“Marcus believed in old-fashioned chivalry,” she explained. “He loved Susan. She was his lady and he was her knight.”

“Sounds fuckin’ stupid, you ask me,” muttered Guy sullenly.

“Yes, well, whatever you think about it, that’s the sort of man he was,” said Clare.

They resumed the scene, Guy leaning over Ashley, the actress playing Susan Ivanova, clasping her lifeless hand in his, reaching out for the alien medical device that would…

“This is bullshit!” exclaimed Guy, backing away and throwing up his hands in disgust. “Someone get me my agent on the comm!”


”Marcus, you can’t! They’ll kill you!” Susan Ivanova, her uniform shredded in such a way that her heaving bosom was very much on display, flung herself at her lover. Marcus leant down and kissed her… and kissed her… and kissed her.

“There’s only a couple of dozen of them,” he said, devil-may-care, tossing his fulsome ponytail and flexing his biceps. “If it means you will live, my dearest.”

“Oh, Marcus!” sighed Susan. Dramatic music swelled and held as Marcus pushed her into an emergency evacuation pod, and then turned to face the growing horde of alien soldiers. He sneered, opened his fighting pike, and started shooting lasers from its end…

“Marcus was awesome,” said Tony, turning off the holo-projector.

“I’m gonna do my school project on him,” said Gaz.

chaletian: (spn porn)
:: for [ profile] katie__pillar ::

Whitney Leboutier, one of the western world’s leading art critics, tapped one sharpened, polished fingernail against her champagne glass and stood, head cocked, staring at a photograph on the bleached New York gallery wall.

“Good, isn’t it?” came a voice behind her.

“Mm,” she replied non-committedly. “Where’d you find it?”

Don Hammond, the gallery owner, shifted closer, and snagged a champagne glass from a passing waiter. “AP archives. I had Fleur going through before the exhibition. She’s got a good eye.”

“Great greens,” said Whitney, sketching the shape of the lush foliage. “And look at the sky – you can practically feel the humidity! When was it taken?”


The two of them stood staring for a moment, taking in the oppressive greens and earthy oranges, and the terrified look of the young American soldier.

“Who was the photographer?” asked Whitney eventually, taking a sip of champagne.

Don shrugged. “Some woman called Diana Trent.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Me neither. Fleur says she died in some old folks’ home years ago.”

Whitney shuddered. “Depressing.” She stood a moment longer, then nodded decisively. “It’s good. I’ll take it.” She moved away, then glanced back. “AP archives?” At Don’s nod, she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Hm. I’ve got a free day or so. I might have a look-see for more of her work.”

She clacked off in her stilettos, and Don sketched a bow in the direction of the photograph. “Well, Diana Trent, you just got made.”
chaletian: (wonderfalls)
Woo! The time has come! *runs around like an over-excited badger*

So, given my current SGA ficcing joy, we will, I think, embrace my obsession with how history will view people. Give me a character, and I will write a tiny fic about how they are viewed by history.

SDC #30

Jan. 8th, 2008 02:07 pm
chaletian: (tww senior staff)
The West Wing, Toby's bouncy ball
::as requested by [ profile] bookwormsarah::














State secrets? Really? Thank fuck.

SDC #29

Jan. 8th, 2008 01:31 pm
chaletian: (supernatural rock paper scissors)
Supernatural, amulet
::as requested by [ profile] helenmia::

Watch out! Be careful! Oh, sweet deity, I hope you’re planning to polish that mark! Ugh, small boys. Sold as a trinket to a small boy. That is so undignified. I am Powerful. I am Glorious. I am… A paper bag! I can never, ever tell anyone about this. I would never hear the end of it. Stuck in a paper bag for a tiny curly child. And he’s not going to polish me, I can just tell. Oh, the anguish of my life! That an amulet of my greatness should be reduced to such circumstances! It’s all that stupid demon’s fault. Oh, la, let me smite all these people! Oh, la, let me leap about in a terrifying fashion! Oh, la, let me lose my precious, precious amulet, and then be completely incapable of finding it, even with a super-high-powered torch and three minions to help me look! Stupid demon. Stupid minions.

Oh. OK. He’s polishing me. That’s better. That’s… Hmm. Heh. Ooh, that’s nice. Yes, yes, just to the left a bit, just to… Oh. Oh, yes, baby.

Huh? What? Tiny curly child? Don’t be harsh, he’s cute. Wait, what? Newspaper? This is filthy. I’m going to be filthy. I can never show my face again. My beautiful amulet sheen will be forever… Oh, hello. Hellllooooo. Oh, I like you. You’re going to be pretty. Don’t we look good? Huh? Don’t we? Yeah, that’s right, a bit of a polish. We’re beautiful, darling. Beautiful.

SDC #28

Jan. 8th, 2008 01:17 pm
chaletian: (st trinians)
St Trinian's, audience member
::as requested by [ profile] katie__pillar::

Oh. My. God. You so will totally not guess what happened! What? A painting? Oh god, who cares about some stupid old painting? Annabel the Cannibal took out Verity Thwaites. Uh-huh. Completely. I mean, I don’t even know how she did it, but Verity took off – no, I don’t know why, and she’s got amnesia now – and Annabel followed her, and knocked her out. Yep, stone cold. Like, unconscious. Miss Bagstock had to drag her to the coach. Annabel had used her phone. Bagface was on to their headmistress – yeah, the crazy one – so fast, I, like, totally got whiplash. She looked completely pissed off, though, so I don’t think she got anywhere.

The quiz? Who cares about the stupid quiz? We lost, anyway. That girl, Chelsea – yep. I know. Totally gorgeous – was answering loads of questions. What? Oh, god, shut up about the painting. So what if there were burglars going across suspended wires and stuff – oh, just something I saw – the main thing is Annabel knocking out Verity.

I know. How. Cool. I totally want to go to St Trinian’s.

SDC #27

Jan. 8th, 2008 01:13 pm
chaletian: (buzzcocks man kissing woman)
Bones, security officers
::as requested by [ profile] pim2005::

Jim’n me’ve got a bet on. Twenty bucks. Agent Booth and Doc Brennan. Cuz, man, it’s gonna happen, sooner or later. The Doc’s pretty clueless, but that’s not gonna last forever. Though how she manages to not get it, I just don’t know. Booth’s all over her, ‘specially when some nutjob has threatened her. Or the Jeffersonian. Or, like, someone with a name that begins with B. Jim says it’s not gonna happen, that they just work together. But then Jim thought Ms Montenegro and Doc Hodgins just worked together. Uh-huh. I know. Jim should just go, like, register himself blind. That’s gonna be a sweet twenty bucks. Plus, once they’re, y’know, doing it, maybe Booth’ll have a better idea of what she’s up to, and not keep calling us every damn day wanting to ‘just check in’ and making sure she’s not been kidnapped or anything crazy.

Don’t think he doesn’t do that. Every day. Clockwork. I tell ya, it’s a relief when he’s working a case with them over here and can check for himself. Now that we’ve got that Golga-whatsit thing in the building, he’s been even worse. Geez, I hope Jim doesn’t let it slip to the Doc. She’d be pretty pissed. Still, Booth’d talk her round. He always can. That kind of a guy. I wonder why her? I mean, she’s pretty hot and all, but, if you ask me, kinda crazy. Though I guess she was nice when she signed her book for me. Ah, whatever. As long as I get my twenty bucks, I’m happy. Hey, gotta go. Phone. Yeah, three guesses who that is.
chaletian: (and and bee)
A New Year, a new SDC!

For this one, I'm thinking outsider POV, because they're always fun. Give me a fandom character and an outsider role (teacher, binman, whatever)...
chaletian: (tww josh bad day)
The West Wing, tea tray, 5-and-a-half inch floppy disk, towel
::as requested by [ profile] bookwormsarah::

“You joined a gym?”


“An actual gym?”


“I mean, with the machines, and the working out, and the… you joined a gym?”

Josh Lyman’s eyes narrowed as he glared at his assistant. “Donna, I joined a gym. It’s no big deal.” He stood in the doorway of his office, gripping the towel swathed round his neck. It felt pretty good actually. Manly. He was manly. Joshua Lyman, male animal. Donna crinkled her nose.

“Is this because of what Toby said?”

“No!” yelped Josh, deeply insulted at the idea. “This has nothing to do what… y’know, I don’t even remember what it was… that thing… that was whatever it was Toby said. I don’t remember.”

“He said you were like a girl,” supplied Donna helpfully.

“I don’t really need to…”

“A girly little girl, giving girly tea parties on a girly tea tray to her girly dolls.”

“It’s not because of what Toby said!” Donna looked at him disapprovingly.

“You don’t need to shout, Josh.”

“You know what, Donna, yes I do. I sometimes need to shout, because I am a man, and men must shout. We are shouters.”

“You’re full of crap.”

Josh pulled himself up to his full height, held the towel more firmly, and gazed imperiously at his assistant.

“Donna, I am going to the gym. I am going to work-out, because I have decided, entirely of my own will, that I want to. When I come back, I want that… that… that five and a half inch floppy disk on my desk.”

“What disk?”

Josh frowned. Why must he be subject to such ridiculous questions? “That disk. The floppy disk. The five and a half inch floppy disk.”

Donna looked at him skeptically. He shifted, feeling a little uncomfortable. Damn her. “Josh, do you even know what a floppy disk does?”

Shit. She had him there. Never mind. Joshua Lyman, male animal. Political mastermind. You can cope with Donna. “It’s a disk. It’s a computer thing. I want it on my desk!” He stalked out, towel still round his neck.

“You’re an idiot!” he heard Donna shout out after him.

“You’re fired!” he yelled back, grinning, safe in the knowledge that she – and the five and a half inch floppy disk, whatever the hell one of those was – would be there on his triumphant return.
chaletian: (ncis ziva bang bang)
NCIS, desk, stapler, datestamp
::as requested by [ profile] pim2005::

“That’s not how it happened, Tony,” said McGee patiently. He picked up the stapler, and moved it three inches to the left. “Fitzgerald was here.”

“Are you blind, Elf Lord?” demanded Tony, outraged, moving the stapler back to its original position on the desk. “Fitzgerald was here.” He plucked McGee’s cellphone from his jacket pocket, ignoring the younger agent’s indignant response, and placed it carefully in between the NCIS coffee mug and McGee’s keyboard. “Houghton was here.”

“You are both wrong,” said Ziva dispassionately, leaning over McGee’s computer monitor to assess the display more closely. “Fitzgerald was next to the keyboard.” She moved the stapler accordingly, pushing the cellphone out of the way.

Tony scoffed. “Puh-leeze! Like you could see anything the way you were all over Richardson!”

“I was not draped over anyone!” replied Ziva heatedly.

McGee coughed apologetically. “You… kind of were, Ziva,” he said. Ziva glared at him, and he looked down, suddenly fascinated by the weave in his jacket cuff.

Tony merely crowed. “See, Zee-vah, even the McGoogle kid here noticed. You and Richardson were practically pornographic!”

Ziva smiled suddenly, and leaned towards Tony. “Well, you would know, yes?”

Tony grinned, tilting his head to one side and raising an eyebrow suggestively. “I’m just saying that…” He broke off and straightened his tie. Ziva, recognising the signs that Gibbs had just appeared somewhere, turned until she was leaning against the desk, cool and professional. Gibbs paid no attention, but went straight to his desk, and retrieved badge and gun from the top drawer.

“Dead marine down at the docks,” he said briefly. He stopped by the desk, looked down at the disarray of stapler, mug, cellphone, three pencils, an eraser, a string of paperclips, and half a stale doughnut which, for some reason, had been sitting in Tony’s bottom drawer.

“You forgot Meadows,” he said, grabbed McGee’s carefully guarded datestamp (it was the stationery item most frequently stolen by Tony who, to McGee’s dismay rarely kept the correct date on it), and banging it down in the middle of the desk. He walked away. The three of them stared down at the datestamp, then were galvanized into action as Gibbs shout of “Now!” echoed back to them.

McGee took an extra moment to mourn over his desk. Kept immaculate and tidy, it now resembled a Staples war zone, and he rather suspected the datastamp ink wouldn’t come off. He sighed. No-one realised how hard it was working at NCIS.
chaletian: (supernatural dean girl)
Supernatural, Bobby, demon, yellow-eyed
::as requested by [ profile] helenmia::

Robert Lewis Singer peered around a little warily. His momma had told him to go visit Mrs Flaherty and give her a pie. “Bobby,” she had said, “Mrs Flaherty is right lonely now her husband’s gone, and I reckon a pie would be just the thing to brighten her up.” Trouble was, Robert Lewis Singer thought, trudging through the wood to Mrs Flaherty’s house, that his momma was kinda sweet an’ all, and didn’t see that Mrs Flaherty was a wicked old woman, who prob’ly ate kids like him. Sure, grown-ups pretended stuff like that just happened in books, and it weren’t real or nothing, but Robert Lewis Singer was not convinced. Mrs Flaherty, he thought, was prob’ly a demon or something, that’s what she was. An old-woman-shaped demon, who was just sittin’ around waitin’ for some fool boy to come bringin’ pies. Didn’t his momma realise that? Didn’t she know what she was lettin’ him in for? Robert Lewis Singer shook his head sorrowfully. A right sorry state it was when your own mother couldn’t tell that sorta thing.

Mrs Flaherty’s house, shabby and dilapidated, stood in a small clearing. Bobby eyed it dubiously. Yep, ate little kids and buried the bones. A movement in the dark undergrowth caught his attention, and he started, scared. There was a rustle, and then a cat appeared. It was a black cat, slick, smooth, yellow-eyed. Robert Lewis Singer and the cat stared at each other for a moment, and then the cat slunk towards the house, and Bobby rubbed his nose nervously. Well, now, that changed things. A cat like that meant only one thing, to Robert Lewis Singer’s way of thinking. Mrs Flaherty was a witch. A gen-u-ine witch. He looked at the pie dish in his hand, and looked at the front door of Mrs Flaherty’s house, which seemed to be coming closer and closer.

Robert Lewis Singer ran forward, dropped the pie dish on the porch, and ran back through the woods. He sure hoped his momma didn’t want that dish back, cuz he was darned if he was goin’ back for it. That, Mrs Flaherty, she was a witch all right.

. . .

“That Singer boy,” said Mrs Flaherty, running an arthritic finger around the faded floral dish Mrs Singer had sent, “he sees far too much.”

The cat said nothing, but there was a yellow-eyed flash as it blinked.
chaletian: (iron mittens)
Pushing Daisies, knitting, clingfilm (or US equiv), cheese
::as requested by [ profile] katie__pillar::

At the age of twelve years, two months and seventeen days, Olive Snook had developed a passion for knitting. Her second-cousin-twice-removed, a former Olympic high-jumper, whose career had come to an end after a she was tragically embroiled in a grand cheese heist involving three dairymen and a retired safecracker from Connecticut, had taught her the simple pleasure of the knit and perl, and Olive, at times of stress, fell back upon the habit, little knowing she shared her hobby with private detective Emerson Cod. Following the mysterious arrival of Chuck into the Pieman’s life, Olive had knitted a clock-warmer, three socks and a blanket, lovingly crafted to match the rest of her bedroom. On this day, having finished a eyepatch of cerulean blue angora for Chuck’s Aunt Lily (of whom she was secretly very fond), Olive was resolved, once again, to make her feelings plain.

But Chuck and the Pieman were in the kitchen, kissing through plastic wrap.

Olive Snook poured coffee and thought about her next project.

I don't think Pushing Daisies fic is really for me...
chaletian: (dls lord peter)
So, for November's Squeenie Drabble Challenge, prompts please! Pick a fandom and three words, and I will write a little fic.

June 2016

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