what's the frequency?
Mar. 18th, 2006 08:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hellobugbiteFandom: Star Wars, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
milliways_bar
Character(s): Hobbie Klivian, others
Rating: PG-13ish
Notes: I wanted to do a bunch of writing exercises, and liked the idea of the "50-words-50-one-sentence-stories" that's been going around. And then I started working on a list and realized that some of my ideas worked more as... not that, really. So this is a collection (or will be eventually) of 50 sentences or paragraphs or what have you.
It is taking me a stupidly long time to do these, so I'm going to post them as I go instead of waiting fifty billion years to finish all 50.
Ugly
He jukes right, then a hairpin turn to the left, acceleration crushing him back into his seat despite the compensators—and there’s the TIE Ugly, perfectly lined up in his crosshairs—the explosion blooms with an eerie, deadly beauty—and from one breath to the next he’s swinging around and diving back into the furball, lasers firing as fast as they can cycle.
War
It’ll be over soon, they tell him through catcalls and backslaps of congratulation as the surviving pilots of Endor gather in Home One’s mess hall, the Emperor’s dead, Vader’s gone, the Imps’ll just roll over and die like a hamstrung bantha, don’t you worry, ol’doom-and-gloom.
Water
He’s twelve again, vaulting out of the land speeder ahead of his mother’s protests and before she can follow, he’s stripped down to his underpants and taken off for the pier at a flat-out sprint that, at the water’s edge, sends him stumbling and sprawling into a dive lacking any pretensions of grace.
He floats, weightless, watching the face of the sun spark against the surface waves, then kicks upwards and—
the musty tang of bacta, voices and faces that smear at first into a fog of light and sound, and then slowly swim back into focus.
He wishes he could explain why the room’s gone blurry again.
Welcome
“Next time,” he shouts at Wes through the haze of smoke and blaster fire, “remember to drink their lum before they decide they want us dead.”
Winter
Hobbie can’t decide if he should be terrified of Winter or feel sorry for her, so he settles for buying her a Corellian ale and telling her about the time Wes decided to dye Wedge’s flight suit purple.
When she finally smiles, he feels like he’s just shot down an entire squadron of TIEs.
milliways_barCharacter(s): Hobbie Klivian, others
Rating: PG-13ish
Notes: I wanted to do a bunch of writing exercises, and liked the idea of the "50-words-50-one-sentence-stories" that's been going around. And then I started working on a list and realized that some of my ideas worked more as... not that, really. So this is a collection (or will be eventually) of 50 sentences or paragraphs or what have you.
It is taking me a stupidly long time to do these, so I'm going to post them as I go instead of waiting fifty billion years to finish all 50.
Ugly
He jukes right, then a hairpin turn to the left, acceleration crushing him back into his seat despite the compensators—and there’s the TIE Ugly, perfectly lined up in his crosshairs—the explosion blooms with an eerie, deadly beauty—and from one breath to the next he’s swinging around and diving back into the furball, lasers firing as fast as they can cycle.
War
It’ll be over soon, they tell him through catcalls and backslaps of congratulation as the surviving pilots of Endor gather in Home One’s mess hall, the Emperor’s dead, Vader’s gone, the Imps’ll just roll over and die like a hamstrung bantha, don’t you worry, ol’doom-and-gloom.
Water
He’s twelve again, vaulting out of the land speeder ahead of his mother’s protests and before she can follow, he’s stripped down to his underpants and taken off for the pier at a flat-out sprint that, at the water’s edge, sends him stumbling and sprawling into a dive lacking any pretensions of grace.
He floats, weightless, watching the face of the sun spark against the surface waves, then kicks upwards and—
the musty tang of bacta, voices and faces that smear at first into a fog of light and sound, and then slowly swim back into focus.
He wishes he could explain why the room’s gone blurry again.
Welcome
“Next time,” he shouts at Wes through the haze of smoke and blaster fire, “remember to drink their lum before they decide they want us dead.”
Winter
Hobbie can’t decide if he should be terrified of Winter or feel sorry for her, so he settles for buying her a Corellian ale and telling her about the time Wes decided to dye Wedge’s flight suit purple.
When she finally smiles, he feels like he’s just shot down an entire squadron of TIEs.
