#kipler

[lilydalexf]

👽 Random X-Files Fic Rec

If you looked up "instant classic" in the X-Files fanfic dictionary, you'd probably find this 3rd party POV story in the short list of examples. With good reason. Title: Strangers and the Strange Dead Author: Kipler Summary: In which dead bodies and shivering people disturb the hilltown of Bradenton, and our young, orphaned narrator serves hot beverages to the investigating agents even as she ponders the peculiar, elusive nature of their relationship. Length: 7,982 words Classification: None provided Rating: General Audiences Spoilers: Originally posted in February, 2000. Thus, it was intended to be read around the time episodes 7X12 (X-Cops) or 7X13 (First Person Shooter) were airing. Disregard later seasons of XF when reading this. Favorite line: Can't pick just one in this very well written story. Read the story!

[audiofanficpod]

Strangers and the Strange Dead by Kipler

Read by @pianogirlxf

Please leave the author a comment if you enjoyed their story 😘

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[the3williams]

knowing

[link]

She knew she was well. But well and whole were not the same thing.

[mashnotesofthemythopoeic]

Kipler, acknowledged in D.P.O. by her real name, Mary Beth Clark. I'm not sure about The Rosemarys, but the other names were also AOL X-Philes. 

So, I went down some complex wormholes to find this old Redux II poem of Kipler's which I used to love so hard. It's goofier than I remember but also still so poignant and deft. For people like me (with their head in the sand) Redux II remains the pinnacle of shippiness.

Woeful Times

Rush back to the ICU See that she's not dead yet - phew! If she dies, you know you'll miss her, Mulder. Mulder, go and kiss her!

Drink her in and kiss her cheek. Find it difficult to speak. Kiss the tender skin upon Her hand, as Brother Bill looks on.

She will test the metabolic Treatment and her faith Catholic, Visit with her weary mother, And defend you to her brother.

Wretched, lost, her form you see Through empty midnight agony. But visit her in daylight and Act bravely as she clasps your hand.

Is this the end? You'll testify On your behalf, sans alibi. If you're in jail, you'll woeful miss her, Mulder. Mulder, last time - kiss her!

Now tears of joy do blur your vision. Scully's cancer's in remission!

[the3williams]

The snow rushed toward the car like a curtain of stars. It fell in great flakes. It flew at the car, stealing the brightness of the headlights, reflecting it back. The sides of the road were invisible; the trees were hidden. A tunnel of white rushed at the car, catching it up in its beauty. Scully felt her heart beating strongly, pounding in her chest until she could hear it, and she realized that it was fear that her heart was telling her. She could not see the road, and she could not see the sharp embankment, and all the while the snow was pulling her eyes upward, drawing her vision to its silent, icy beauty.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I ...

[the3williams]

That winter, when our town was a layover spot for strangers and the strange dead, I was writing the river. I liked to write true things, things I could know: water and stones, brick and ground and the whir of cars under the highway overpass. Most days, walking home from work, I would stop in the center of the Bradenton Bridge and watch the ice pile and crack, watch the milky-green evening sky reflect in the still-open pool of water beyond the legs of the bridge. That picture - the green-milk sky - is a true thing about the river, and people who live near the river nod when they read it, and say: “Oh yes, she knows how it is.”

[imtooticky]

What X-Files magic is this?

OK, someone on the Interwebs knows the answer:

Why am I suddenly getting so many reads, kudos, and feedbacks on an X-Files fic I wrote in 2000?

[msrlibrary]

strangers and the strange dead by kipler

In which dead bodies and shivering people disturb the hilltown of Bradenton, and our young, orphaned narrator serves hot beverages to the investigating agents even as she ponders the peculiar, elusive nature of their relationship.

That was the second to the last time I saw the woman and man. If I had known, I would have watched her more closely, as she sat alone at the table and very still. I would have studied the piece of the story in her hands, pressed palms-down on the table, and in her lips drawn in, and in her head just-bowed and her eyes closed. As if she were waiting for something to be over.