#oldo

[sweetymutant]

I just realised something about my tangled mess of writing projects

Sofia and Montse are canon in 2 Killers

So the other DRF characters gotta be canon too.

And I cannot deal with it. A world with both George and James doing pretty much the same thing at the same time?

And also?

It means OLDO is canon in 2 Killers

GOD

[reptiliandroidstudio]

Whumptober Day 8~ "Fever”

~ Requested by my dear @psychicwhisperywitch <3

Fandom: None, it’s from an original project of mine, OLDO. Rating: G Pairing: None Character: Bob (OC) ~~~

Bob knew he was sick when he got out of bed, or more exactly when he did not manage to. The blanket felt heavenly warm around his shivering body. His mother, though she was worried, decided that a little fever was not enough for Bob to skip class. Bob sat in front of his breakfast but could not swallow a teaspoon of it. He picked up his backpack, the fog in his mind thicker by the minute. Which was the first class of the day?

Bob dragged his feet through the school gates, his head pounding. The smoke and constant chatter around him were making the pain worse. Familiar faces around him, loud voices. He was pushed around by the swarm of students as the bell rang. Bob staggered, almost fell.

A hand, touching his forehead. Grabbing his own.

“You’re burnin’ alive.” Soft voice, taking him away from the bright electric lights of the corridor, dragging him into the cold exterior. Walking too fast for Bob.

Opening doors, pushing people away.

The hand let go of Bob and he was pushed into a plush chair. “Wait here.” Bob nodded, slow. He was going nowhere. The world around him was blurry, his head in pain, he needed to rest, but the buzzing in his head made it difficult.

Bob was dozing off when the school nurse touched his forehead, then lead him gently into one of the small bedrooms of the infirmary. She coerced him into taking medication, and Bob fell on the soft bed, sleeping the morning away.

When he woke up, his fever had subsided. He was hungry now, and the nurse told him she had phoned his parents, and they would pick him up soon. Waiting for them, Bob slowly realised he had no memory of who had taken him to the infirmary. It had been a familiar voice… someone of his class? Bob felt grateful to whoever had taken care of him. It made him feel warm inside, but a nice warm, not like the heat of the fever.

~~~

-Sweety

[eldritchtribble]

writing meme: the beginning of Elsewhere

OKAY. I completely fell down on the job in terms of explaining in-text what was happening in this fic so HERE WE GO (thank you jazzy!)

Harvest time settles on the colony once again. [or does it…hm…] Gold-limned grasses stretch languidly in the breeze, elegant sentinels guarding a wealth of tubers ripe for the unearthing. In his various preoccupations, he has forgotten how richly the late afternoon sun bathes the landscape this time of year, steeping it in warm ocher tones like a form in amber. [First tiny clue that something’s off about this scenario, à la Groundhog Day. Forms in amber are preserved for ages on end and by definition DON’T CHANGE.]  If not for the pungent aroma of the soil and the scorching heat bearing down on his back, [wait, this is harvest time? Then why is it so hot out? Why does the soil smell so strongly? Why are there no villagers helping him out?!] he might dismiss the vision as a fanciful scene out of one of his novels. [Stay tuned. It’s not that far off.]

How many generations has it been, wonders Odo. One, eleven, neither, both? [Answer: Yes.]

He stopped trying to remember their names an age ago, maybe longer. [Again, the answer is both an age ago and longer.] To him they are only the O’Briens, the Dax hosts, the Tannenbaums, the Sons of Mogh…nothing more and certainly nothing less. Trill spots and wry wisdom; forehead ridges and curt gallantry - each distinguishing feature fades a little more with each genetic iteration. [Is this the only thing to blame for Odo’s inability to distinguish them? He remembers archetypes and not much else, and is perfectly happy to shift the onus for that onto something, anything, external.]  He speculates on what will happen when both sets vanish completely, drowned in the cacophony of recombination, useful only for him to tell them apart.

This honeyed suffusion of light is quite entrancing, he reflects. Perhaps he will visit her today, after work in the fields is completed. Massaging his sweltering neck [could possibly be explained away from his hard work, although he is still a changeling…how hot is it?!], he continues his task with renewed vim.

Clear crepuscular air greets him as he wends his way to that particular spot, wildflowers in hand as per usual. A yelg melon tree drops inkblots of shade onto him. [I imagined this entire scene almost like a sumi-e painting: very serene, minimalist, rather indistinct. An island of calm]  Further shadows mottle the makeshift grave, a laconic send-off chiseled in his own script. Dust storms, hailstorms, blizzards, wildlife have left their mark on the monument, yet one can still glean meaning from it for the time being. Only he and the Dax symbiont remember her as anything other than an unwitting martyr…and here he was, beginning even to forget the way she wore her hair. [The Way You Look Tonight]

He finds himself speaking to her, to a weathered headstone, perhaps both, [they’ve lost their distinctness to him in the absent-mindedness of routine; one is becoming the other] wishing beyond hope, craving discourse with anyone from that time, anyone who would remember what he cannot…anyone who ever treated him as if he belonged somewhere or somewhen. [Deep down he knows this isn’t the right timeline]

For all he knows, she answers in her own way; the fact remains that a plan is born.

[sweetymutant]

When you have been focusing too much on a character (six more drafted pages today for the first project and a few hours spent on Hoping is not an Advantage) for the past week so you feel the compelling need to draw a ´version’ of him from a third project at 11pm…

[sweetymutant]

I don’t really know what to say, congrats me. Ever since Camp NaNoWriMo April 2017, I have felt less and less satisfied with participating. I won, sure. I wrote, and I did write some stuff I am actually happy with, and I finished a project, but I really not feeling proud or satisfied. Meh. 

(I did not even drink during this NaNo, maybe I should have. What say you, @amethystsworld? Drunk writing, yay or nay?)

[handbags100]

ALDO Women's Legoiri Top Handle Bag

[sweetymutant]

small things that make me happy: The Breakfast Club came out in 1985. It means my OLDO characters can and will have seen it. It’s probably Denys’s favourite movie. (And they watched it together with Joyce in cinemas when they were younger? And secretly it stuck with them when they created the Book Club?) 

[sweetymutant]

Sketchember - Day 21/22/23

24 years old-ish Eric, Meredith and Nicole from my original story Our Last Day Off