(And yes, obviously I have considered stealing it, but I think I may have botched the possibility by conspiring aloud with the puppy.)
Have seen Soul Music, which for the unaware is a Discworld cartoon miniseries. It is very funny, though lacks something with no narration. Although Christopher Lee is a fantastic Death. I think Pratchett's Death is my favourite fictional Death, really. Will probably have Dad burn me a copy of his burned copy, which he probably will not give me until I have lent him my Firefly, sigh.
(I want this laptop, damnit. Or *a* laptop. I'm really not that picky. Just... functional, and biggish, space-wise, and non-blurry. Um... and free, would be nice. I'm not holding my breath.)
Um... I wrote Subreality! No, really! A couple of scenes. Or a bit of a scene and a bit of the next, neither complete. I was surprised I could still write Bouncer. It's very classic. I'm sticking it here because I wrote it on the laptop and it hasn't got a floppy drive and I haven't got a CD onto which I can burn and anyway it would be silly to use a whole disc for only one file.
Some things end.
It is not that, as common wisdom has it, *all* things end. Some things don't. Some things, plenty of things, have so little concern for the laws of time, space, reality, and other such small considerations that affect only the mortal and the finite.
One of these things is Subreality.
It has been said that Subreality posesses a sort of self-awareness: that the place itself is alive, that like any massive living thing it posesses a system of balances, the ability to protect and align itself with its surrounding universe.
As such, like any world, Subreality dislikes imbalance. But unlike a normal world or planet, Subreality does not respond with earthquakes or floods or climate change.
It was nearly midnight when a pair of teenage girls, one blonde and curly-haired and one fair and freckled, with a mane of dark red waves, marched up to the door of the Subreality Cafe, Classic Version, one with somewhat more determination than the other. The slightly shorter girl, the redhead, made as if to walk straight through the front door but was stopped at the last moment by the obstacle of a large arm blocking her path. Stopping short, she looked up.
The Bouncer looked down at her with a raised eyebrow. "Yes?" he inquired, as if he hadn't just stopped her from entering and were greeting her cordially on an entirely unrelated matter.
The girl placed her hands on her hips. "can you please move?"
Straightening, the Bouncer shook his head. "Comic fictives only," he intoned, then tilted his head to one side. "And you look about twelve."
She drew herself up to her full - not considerable - height, and said, with some indignance: "I'm twenty-six."
The Bouncer regarded her with skepticism. She wilted a little, then scowled. "Okay, so I'm fourteen. But I'm twenty-six, too. It's complicated. Hence our need to go in there."
"Our Writer's in there!" provided the blonde girl, pushing oval-shaped glasses up her nose. "We need to have a word." Her tone turned ominous, and she peered under the Bouncer's arm.
The Bouncer sighed. "I told you--"
"--comic fictives only. But, look. We started *out* as superheroes. Intended to be, anyway. As bad Marvel fic that only ended *up* as speculative sci-fi/fantasy. Masks, capes, and all. Does that count?"
The Bouncer frowned. "You don't *look* like Mary Sues."
The red-haired girl looked down at herself. Admittedly, she looked rather unspectacular, in worn jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, hair pulled back into a messy braid. Glancing over at her friend, she sighed. Their clothes were a touch more futuristic than most in current Reality, but overall they just looked like a pair of teenagers.
The Bouncer was still looking at them curiously. "Though you do look familiar." This seemed to puzzle him. "What's your name?"
The teenagers looked at each other. The redhead spoke up first. "I'm Areahannah MacPine, she's Katia."
The Bouncer stared. "Oh," he said. "That explains it."
The girl brightened. "You've heard of me?"
The Bouncer seemed less impressed than he might. "Your Writer is Chandri MacLeod, isn't she?"
"Uh... yes?" Areahannah said, looking at her friend, who nodded. "Actually, *I've* never met her."
"One of the reasons we need to see her rather desperately," the blonde girl interrupted. "We haven't *seen* her, or for that matter, seen any sign of her continuing existence, in about two months. We'd like to know why the hell *not*."
The Bouncer cocked his head at her. "Aren't you awfully mouthy and articulate for a fourteen-year-old?"
"Oh. Our Earth has a public school system that actually works," said Areahannah, waving one hand dismissively.
"Really? Never mind," said the Bouncer, straightening. "You still can't come in."
Am rather inordinately amused by the notion of Arrah being an infamous Mary Sue. *snicker*
(Dad just walked by suggesting I hook in a second monitor and widen the desktop. That would be silly, I think. I keep reaching for the End and Home keys and they're in altogether the wron places.)
Okay. Um... lilymc is demanding I take her to get her desk. And then I suppose I'll be expected to help put it together. She does enjoy assembling furniture. Strange child.