Sample Share Meme!

[multi-madrox.livejournal.com]

Because it's Friday. Because it's Raining and I'm BORED.

If you still got them, share with us your writing sample that you used to apply for you current or older characters.

Comments

[scary-jeff.livejournal.com]

My first-ever writing sample... *wibbles*

Jeff stood before the class, his hands clasped together. He was wobbling on his feet a bit, and his eyes were big.

"The thing is," he said, "The thing is, uh, shells. They're odd, aren't they? I mean, you don't walk into a, a pub and expect to see them, littering about. Unless it's some kind of weird Hawaiian themed pub and they're serving turtle soup. Not that I want to make soup out of the, the really big turtles, or really any kind of turtle for that matter..."

"Jeff..."

"I mean, it's not that I would go into a pub where they serve turtle soup, because I think that's totally inhumane, why can't they just eat tomato soup like normal people, right?
"Tomato soup, that's normal. I eat tomato soup sometimes, and it's very delicious and not like turtles at all. Not that I've ever had turtle soup, or had anything to drink out of an actual shell, because that would just be ridiculous, wouldn't it? I mean, I don't think turtles shed, and you'd have to murder a very big turtle to get anything even remotely bowl-sized..."

"Jeff."

"And besides, you, you can't expect to just walk up to some woman and say..." He adopted a clumsy 'pick-up' position and deepened his voice, "'I've this large turtle shell, d'you want to nip 'round back and we'll have some tomato soup on me?' And expect her to come with. No self-respecting woman would go out with someone holding a large shell full of tomato soup. I mean, that'd either make you some kind of mad turtle-killer, or, or there could be turtles somewhere, naked.
"Not that I think of turtles naked - I mean, nothing wrong with turtles, but they're turtles, aren't they? They're like... like the Invasion of the Lizardmen, except without all the killing and taking over the world, because that seems like it'd be rather hard if you were a naked turtle in a pub with no shell on..."

"JEFF!"

"Yes?"

"Would you like to sit down now so we can begin?"

"Yeah. Okay," he said, subdued and obedient.

He shuffled towards the (last) empty seat next to the turtle, eyes towards the floor, and sat down.

[talks2objects.livejournal.com]

*Please note that the link below is NSFW*

Dor ambled into the common room poking at an item here and there to see what exactly it did. The whole electricity thing was fascinating to him as there wasn't anything of the sort back in Xanth. He'd have to write back to Magician Humfrey with a report as soon as he figured out what it was he was reporting on.

"Hey!" the lamp exclaimed as Dor poked it. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Just trying to figure out why you light up," Dor explained politely. "Do you use that electricity stuff?"

"What are you? Dim?" The lamp snapped back.

The chair chuckled at the insult. "I guess he's not very enlightened," it added.

"I'm not from around here," Dor said meekly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend anyone."

"He apologizes to inanimate objects?" The ground called out. "Wow. I'm floored."

The whole room starting chuckling at that. Dor gave a polite laugh. "So is this island really a part of Mundania?" he asked. "Because my magic isn't supposed to work here."

"Geez," the sofa replied with a groan. "Do you hear this dork?"

"It's Dor," he replied. "And I'm new here. I'm just trying to figure out how this place works."

"Can't tell you much about that," the chair replied. "Just that the whole island is magical. We haven't been outside this room."

"Oh?" Dor said as he settled down on the chair. "Well what goes on in the room then?"

"People come here to watch me!" the TV exclaimed. "I'm clearly the only thing that matters in this room."

"Gimme a break," the refrigerator snapped. "If I wasn't here people wouldn't be able to eat anything."

"So kids hang out here a lot?" Dor asked. "Has anything interesting ever happened in here?"

The whole room chuckled loudly at that.

"Depends on what you call interesting," the sofa said with a good deal of humor.

"Well you tell me," Dor replied. "What's the most interesting thing that happened to you?"

And the sofa began to tell a story. A story about a vampire and a girl in black leather pants. And a couch. And the actions on said couch.

In graphic detail (http://community.livejournal.com/fandomhighdorms/123939.html)

Dor should have left the room. He should have run. But the words just kept coming from the couch and he just stared horrified as his innocence and naivete disappeared in a few moments of Vampire/Alien rauchiness.

He was still there an hour later. His mouth hanging open and his eyes relating the brain breakage he just experienced.

"Aww," Rikku said as she entered the lounge with Jamie Madrox. "Look! The newbie's brain is broken. That was fast."

"Better go through his pockets for loose change," Jamie advised. "Before he snaps out of it."

And so on the first day of attending Fandom High, Dor was not only initiated into the Adult Conspiracy he was also robbed of a dollar and seventy five cents in change.

[multi-madrox.livejournal.com]

HAHAHAHA!

And of course now there's the issue of thinking about Turtle naked.

IRONY!

[laceycantlie.livejournal.com]

Here, I'm not awake enough yet to do anything but copy/paste, so have Lacey's writing sample:

***

Lacey had heard talk of the radio’s newsgathering squirrels, but she’d dismissed it as some kind of elaborate town in-joke on the new arrival. She’d lived in Dog River, after all; she knew how these small-town things worked. Sure, most of the news broadcasts she’d heard so far were wildly inaccurate – honestly, a zombie band at the karaoke bar? – but there had to be a rational explanation for that, she decided, as she relaxed on a bench in the park and looked out over the duck pond.

“Squirrel reporters,” she muttered to herself. “Who comes up with these things, anyway?”

So naturally that was right about when she heard indignant chittering by her left foot.

Lacey let out a surprised titter. “Squirrel. Of course.” One of these days she’d learn not to open her mouth and just say things. Today was not that day.

. . . most likely, that day would never come, if you asked anyone who knew her.

The squirrel chittered again and scampered closer, paws on – well, on a human Lacey would say its hips, but it wasn’t like she’d ever studied squirrel anatomy, was it?

"Aww. Hi there," Lacey said, leaning forward. It was cute; she couldn’t help it. "Honestly, isn’t it awful that people in this town blame the crazy news reports on you? Oh, this is bad. I’m talking to a squirrel. It’s awful, it’s like I’m turning into Hank!"

Another chitter, this time inquisitive.

“Hank,” Lacey tried to explain. "He's this . . . you know, I’m not really sure what he does, but someone I know back in Dog River; you wouldn't know him." She paused and tilted her head. “Or maybe you wou – oh, what the heck am I doing? I’m trying to explain things to a squirrel!"

This time, when the squirrel chittered, it sounded distinctly offended – and it whipped out a tiny reporter’s hat and notepad, the former of which it put on its tiny squirrel head and the latter of which it brandished at her while it glared. There was really no mistaking that expression, no matter how small and furry the face.

Lacey gaped at the squirrel for a full five seconds. "You have got to be kidding me! You seriously do the newsgathering?"

More chittering – in fact, a veritable tirade of it.

"Well then," Lacey said, her chin jutting forward slightly as her own voice took on an affronted tone, "you have got to do a more responsible job of it. Has anyone ever given you lessons in ethical journalism? Because let me tell you, I think you could use them. For starters . . ."

If you asked the squirrel to recount that lecture, it would tell you (if you spoke squirrel) that it looked a lot like Lacey in soft focus making sounds a lot like this: "Blah blah blah blah blah blah-dee blah blaaaaaaaaaah."

Ten minutes later, after a lecture that had somehow gone from ethical journalism to good hygiene tips, the squirrel scampered off -- quite possibly fleeing for its life or its sanity -- and Lacey went back to relaxing on her park bench, feeling accomplished.

Funny how quickly that feeling dissipated later on that night when she listened to the broadcast and heard herself described in highly unfavorable terms.

Lacey groaned and put a pillow over her face. "Bossy little know-it-all? What is it with these small towns?"

[multi-madrox.livejournal.com]

Okay... the whole "soft focus" deal amused me muchly.

Okay... a lot.

[stupid-toasters.livejournal.com]

This was mine for Lee!

---

On his first full day at Fandom, Lee Adama received: fifteen slices of toast, two requests to stare at his arms and three people wondering if he and someone named John Crichton had gotten back together. Lee, being Lee and having abso-frakking-lutely no idea what they were talking about, accepted the toast, let the girls look at his arms and said that, yes, he and John Crichton were together and happy. Lee’s mind automatically assumed they meant wingman, buddy, and friend while those who asked him meant something else entirely.

"So, you and John Crichton are together?" a tall, slender brunette asked him during one of the many dances Fandom seemed to have. Lee couldn’t even remember what the frak this dance was called.

"Oh, yeah." He gave the woman a pleasant smile and raised his glass. "For awhile now. Me and John. It’s been a good run." At this point in time, Lee had a whole routine worked out when people asked him about John. He’d talk and smile and tell stories of how everything was great and that John said hello.

Lee had no idea who John Crichton was but people seemed to like the stories and he had no idea telling them. It was harmless, right?

The brunette wasn’t smiling. In fact, Lee thought she might be trying to kill him with her eyes. “When has this been happening?”

"Oh, uh—" He stuttered to a stop, voice faltering under her glare. "A long time."

"Really." Her voice was low, dangerous and laced with something Lee would later come to realize was possessiveness.

"Yes." That wasn’t a squeak in his voice. Lee Adama didn’t squeak. He could just imagine his father, glasses sliding to the tip of his nose, giving him a wilting stare. Lee shook his head. Now was not the time to be imagining his father, not with an increasingly frosty glare being directed his way.

"Liar," the brunette snapped and caught him with a stiff jab to the chin. Lee stumbled backwards, knocking into the punch bowl and staining his just washed shirt. Without another word, the brunette stalked off, leaving Lee confused, in pain and covered in punch.

"Who was that?" he asked to no one in particular.

From behind him, John Crichton said, "Aeryn Sun."

[spring-lost.livejournal.com]

And Cable's! ... I am not sharing Kerrigan's EVER, and this isn't my best, either, but hay.

---

It was about fifteen minutes before Nathan finally got up from his meditative crouch on the shop’s floor with a mild if troubled smile on his face. He lingered by the desk for a moment or two, flipping through the day's paperwork before moving towards the door.

He peered through the window. Ah. Well, that could wait. The lights went on, first. He checked all the showcases for possible damage done during the night, paused, raised an eyebrow, and moved on.

With every case given the once-over, he finally regarded the door again for a long moment before moving towards the back to turn on the coffee machine. The machine made a faint rattling noise before settling into its appointed task. Good.

On his way back into the store, he double-taked on the showcases again, but he figured the answers would probably be imminent. In fact, he figured the answers were waiting right outside the door, which the visitor had taken up pounding on repeatedly in order to get his attention.

He walked into the other section of the store and switched on the lights. The room was still mostly empty, no windows broken, no one accidentally stuck somewhere or bleeding on the floor. He went back for his coffee.

Nursing the warm mug in his normal hand, he shifted through the paperwork again, thoughtfully. He sipped his coffee, shot another glance at the door, the showcases and his desk, then came to a decision and walked decisively towards the door.

He flipped the sign, took another sip from his coffee, pulled open the door, and raised his eyebrow at the man standing on the other side.

"Wade," he asked, reasonably, and with a faint if puzzled smile playing across his face, "Why are there are small penguins covered in glitter sleeping in the AK-47s?"

[thismaskiwear.livejournal.com]

I can't remember which episode that bit was originally from off the top of my head, with the soft-focus "blah blah blah" whenever Lacey talked and nobody paid any attention. I want to say it was "The Brent Effect" but hell if I know for sure. So I wish I could take credit for it, but really, it's just judicious canon-borrowing. ;)

[ella-obeys.livejournal.com]

Here's Ella's. I don't know WTF I was thinking with the dragons -- there are none in the book. This is actually my second sample for Ella because I reread the first one right after sending it in and realized it was very, very bad.

***

Ella was snug on a couch in the common room, occasionally casting a bewildered glance at the TV, as she pondered the first letter to Char that she would write from Fandom. What should she tell him about first? He'd be fascinated, she knew, by the variety of worlds students called home -- as he told her about the strange ways of Ayortha, she could teach him about stranger worlds yet in turn. But he might also be interested in the odd machines that people here all seemed so casual about ... no, that was a silly thing to tell a prince about, and it would make her sound like her father's daughter, all wrapped up in possessions. And, anyhow, she knew he'd feel honor-bound to point out the things Kyrria had Virginia lacked.

Like dragons. And kitchen fairies, and thinking that was just going to make her miss Mandy.

She chewed on her pen, then scratched it across the paper.

*Dear Prince Charmont -*-- no, that wouldn't do at all if she meant to write the prince as a friend, and she scratched it through. She'd have to be bold. *Dear Char,* she began again, a little surprised by her own daring, *I have arrived at my new school, and it seems as though it will be much more useful than the old one. Already, I have been warned to watch for gremlin bites (gremlins being, apparently, like small, exceptionally vicious ogres who bite to curse), told there are bears with what was described as "freaking LASER BEAMS," and asked if I'm some kind of "mutant."

The person asking the last had not, I assure you, even seen me in the morning!* -- and, no, any mention of what she looked like in the morning was far too intimate, not to mention absurd.

She was frowning over the letter, wondering if it were a doomed project, when Romeo Montague wandered in, and gave Ella the second glance he reserved for other writers.

All right: For other writers who also happened to be pretty girls.

"Good evening," he greeted her. "What do you labor over so?"

"Just a letter home," Ella said, hugging it to her knees. "It's giving me some trouble."

Which Romeo apparently took as an invitation to ask more. "Let me see." He held out his hand expectantly and, with an inward sigh, Ella handed it over. She didn't even mind, much, sharing it with someone she knew so little; she just hated the curse forced her to do so.

He seemed to read rapidly, at least, with a snort at something in the letter, and it was soon safe in her hands again. "It's clever," Romeo told her. "Your Char is lucky to have such a correspondent."

"He's hardly 'mine,' " she cautioned him. "He's the prince back home. But thanks, anyhow."

"And so? Even princes," Romeo tossed over his shoulder as he turned to rummage the fridge food, "must belong to someone."

Ella tried to ignore the tingle that ran through her at that thought as she went back to her letter, but she could not contain her smile.

[rocksthescarf.livejournal.com]

Here's mine for Chuck!

-----------------

Chuck wasn’t used to doing laundry himself. Actually, Chuck wasn’t used to do anything himself. He had considered getting one of the poor kids to his laundry for him (that’s what they were there for, right?) but after Blair had given him grief he decided to man up and try to do it himself. Besides, they were only clothes. If they were ruined he could always go out and buy new ones.

…Just to be on the safe side though Chuck decided not to wash his trademark scarf. That was one of a kind.
Chuck had managed to find the laundry room with little trouble. It wasn’t exactly the cushiest of rooms but at least it didn’t look like the dungeon type laundry rooms he had seen in the movies. Still, he hoped it wouldn’t take long. How long could it possibly take to wash clothes? Ten minutes?

Chuck threw all of his clothes into a machine, making sure to pull out anything that said “dry clean only” on the tag. After carefully reading the bottle of detergent, he poured in what he thought was the correct amount and shut the lid to the machine. Then he pressed the “start” button.

Nothing happened.

“Go,” Chuck said, pushing a couple of buttons on the machine. Nothing happened. “Come on, move. Make noise. Do what you were built to do.”

Still nothing.

“Come on!” Chuck growled, kicking the machine. He groaned in frustration. He was grateful that Gossip Girl wasn’t here. He could see it now: “Spotted: C having a fistfight with a washing machine.” Nate would never let him live it down.

“This is f’ing ridiculous. Mexicans do laundry all the time, it can’t possibly be that hard,” Chuck said to himself. Then he grinned. Right. Why didn’t he think of that before?

He flipped open his cell phone and punched in his house number and waited for one of the staff to answer. “Hi, it’s Chuck. Is Rosa there? She’s doing the laundry? Perfect. Put her on. Yes, now…Rosa? Hola! Senor Chuck needs your help….no, no, not that kind of help. I’m in Virginia and to be honest I’m not in the mood right now. But I appreciate the thought. Now let’s say hypothetically I’m doing a load of my own laundry. What button would I push to make it go? …Okay. Uh-huh…”

Chuck turned the dial on the washing machine and pressed the start button again. He was pleased to hear the sound of rushing water. He grinned and hung up on his maid without saying goodbye.

“Hell yeah, shove it, Blair,” he said, smirking. “Of course I can do laundry. I’m Chuck Bass.”

[spring-lost.livejournal.com]

IT ALMOST LOOKS AS IF I PLANNED IT.

... Which I didn't. I was a fresh newbie who wound up stuck in Spain without nets for three days during newbie weekend.

[notahostage]

Here's Wendy's:

---

As Wendy pulled the chair across the floor, she considered the fact that of all the things she's seen and done over the last few months that this was one of the most absurd, but the part of her mind that sounded more and more like her boss reminded her that she was the Middleman-in-training, and like it or not if there was a chance that there was someone or something on the island that might fall under a Middleman's purview, then gosh-dang it, it was her duty to check it out.

Even when the source for her suspicions was her cos-playing roommate, who thought it was a brilliant idea to cannibalise her hair-dryer without asking for props for his performance art webcast. Although she'd at least made clear to Billy afterwards that roomies did not do that with each other's possessions, not even for their art.
"Afternoon," she said. "I was hoping that you could help me out with a few questions."

Silence, but well, she'd expected that this wouldn't be easy. In any case, she soldiered on. "Now, I'll come straight to the point, I've been hearing some pretty interesting stories about you lately. Crazy, I know."

More silence. "Look, just between us I don't think they're true," Wendy said, standing and beginning to pace. "I don't really believe that you have anything to do with this Bad Horse, the so-called thoroughbred of sin, but if you do, I think it'd really be better for the both of us if you co-operated with me here."

"What are you doing?"

Wendy turned to face the doorway and the source of the question. "Good afternoon, ma'am," she said, wishing she could get away with flashing a fake ID here, as it was her student card would have to do. "Wendy Watson, school newspaper, I was hoping our friend here could help me out with a few inquiries."

"He can't help you," the girl said slowly, watching her as if Wendy was either insane or extremely stupid. "He's a horse."

Over in his stall, Trenor flicked his tail, watching them impassively.

[thismaskiwear.livejournal.com]

Here's Katchoo's, which is like the only reason I actually uploaded this icon. I . . . yeah.

***

Katchoo had wandered off in search of somewhere to smoke where people wouldn't bitch at her about it -- not that anyone had, yet, but she wasn't remotely in the mood to put up with bitching today.

She hadn't been expecting to come across an arrangement of statues in a clearing this deep into the preserve. Random art in the middle of the woods. Go figure. Really pretty tacky art, but it was there and that was enough to draw her closer. Lighting up her cigarette as she circled the statues, Katchoo couldn't quite suppress a shiver.

She'd always thought angel statuary was slightly ominous at best -- in her bluntest moments she might call it a joke -- but these were downright disturbing. The longer she looked at them, the more they reminded her of Darcy Parker: harmless and maybe, possibly even benevolent at a fleeting glance, but the inner ugliness was there like a flawed vein running through the heart of the stone if you knew how to look.

"What does this piece say to you?" she asked out loud in a mocking tone of voice. "'It's hard work being an angel?' Puh-leeze. More like 'Look at me, I'm trying to pass myself off as a powerful but kind benefactor but really I'm an evil predator who won't think twice about using you until the fun wears off and then chewing you up and spitting you out for the biggest profit I can possibly frikkin' get because it's not enough that I already have more money than God and really I just get off on controlling people, and if you hack into my security cameras you'll see what it is I really do when I look at my bank balance and . . ."

Katchoo stopped there, not so much because she'd run out of things to say as because she was about to take a drag off her cigarette. And maybe because the longer she looked at the statues, the more she thought she could see herself there.

The rustling of leaves caught her attention, and she looked toward the edge of the clearing where several bright bluish-green fawns were blinking at her expectantly until an adult teal deer leaped from behind the shrubbery to shoo them away, then turned to Katchoo with a reproachful look in its big deer eyes.

If it had been a statue and you asked Katchoo what that piece said to her, she'd say it said 'Not in front of the children!'

Which was probably a pretty accurate translation.

Instead, she just gaped at it. "Oh, you have got to be frikkin' kidding me."

[thismaskiwear.livejournal.com]

ajsdfklasldfa;s Thoroughbred of Sin that is SO FREAKING MM it's beautiful.

[weefeetbigboots.livejournal.com]

You couldn't pay me to share most of mine due to hi self-consciousness, but I always thought Kaylee's was pretty cute, so:

***

It'd taken her a little while to get used to it, but once she'd spent a couple minutes under the Bentley's hood, Kaylee found it weren't no different than what Dad'd taught her on. "She's a little older than what I'm used to," she admitted, peeking up over the hood as she carefully selected a tool that looked like it'd work for her purposes.

"I just want you to remove some part that's crucial to its function," the little, darker girl told her impatiently, looking around furtively. "And don't leave any marks."

Kaylee grinned. "S'what the gloves you threw at me are for, right? Well, that and keepin' the dirt out from under my nails. Not that that usually works real well but I try, y'know."

It was fortunate that Kaylee'd stuck her head back under the hood to work, or she might've caught the utterly skeptical look shot towards her. "Right. I'm sure that's a primary concern of yours."

"Sure," Kaylee called cheerfully. "Just 'cause I don't mind gettin' my hands dirty don't mean I want 'em to stay that way. Boys 'round here are too shiny to keep my face dirty all the time."

"...shiny?" The word was repeated back in even more skepticism.

"Mm-hmm." Kaylee carefully tugged a part loose, dropping it in the dirt beside where she was working. "Why do you want me to keep this girl from runnin' anyway?"

"She's not a girl, she's a car. And it's not important."

Kaylee blew out a breath, puffing a loose lock of hair off her face. Some people didn't understand that just 'cause they ran on motors and oil, they weren't no less able to feel. "Well, she ain't going anywhere for right now," she replied, gently closing the hood and patting it with a soft smile. "She's a pretty thing. Seems like a pity. I'll hang onto this." She picked the part up off the ground, tucking it neatly into her pocket. "You know where to get me when you need her to run again."

With a quick smile, she took her payment from the kinda scary girl -- a basket of fresh strawberries -- and almost skipped back to her dorm room, reveling in the feel of the engine grease on her skin the whole way to her shower.

[likes-chicken.livejournal.com]

Hurley's Writing Sample:

Hurley sat for a moment in the common room, absentmindedly biting at his thumbnail. He glanced over at the girl who'd sat down. He wasn't sure if he should say anything or not. It wasn't as if he planned on hitting on her. He just thought, maybe, he could be friendly and maybe she'd be his friend. After all, he needed some new ones, and this girl at least seemed mostly normal. The hair streaks made her look kind of cool, even. So, after a quick deep breath, he spoke.

"Dude, what is that?" Hurley asked, pointing to the girl's laptop. His face was filled with honest curiosity, though his forehead was wrinkled with a bit of confusion.

"It's my computer," Mac replied. She smiled back at him politely.

"No way," Hurley said. "It's so tiny..." He tilted his head.

"What year are you from?" Mac asked, recognizing that bit of culture shock.

"Oh, nothing. I mean, uhh, 1994. Totally cool year, you know. Not weird and all... old now," Hurley said. He really wanted to pass off as cool. He didn't exactly exude that 'cool' vibe, but he tried, really hard.

Mac managed not to laugh. "Totally," she said.

"Yeah, I kinda... it's a little weird, having accidentally time traveled," Hurley said. He gave a little smile of 'what can you do?'

"I get that," Mac said. "You settling in okay?"

"Oh, sort of," Hurley said. "I mean, yeah. My room is totally great. Got a big poster of a polar bear on the wall and everything."

"A polar bear," Mac said, still smiling.

"Yeah, that sounded totally lame, didn't it?" Hurley said.

"You might want to not try so hard," Mac said.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," Hurley said. "This island got a Mr. Cluck's anywhere?" He asked, hope in his eyes.

"A what?" Mac asked.

"Mr. Cluck's Chicken Shack," Hurley said. "Best fried chicken in the world. Okay, not really, but... I... like their chicken."

"I'm a vegan," Mac said, trying to be polite.

"Oh. So I guess... you wouldn't know, then," Hurley said. He bit his lip, feeling a little awkward. "That's cool, though. All no meat and stuff. I could probably do with a diet like that." He gave an awkward laugh.

When Mac didn't say anything for a moment, Hurley quickly added "So, yeah," Hurley said. "I'm, uhhh, Hurley, by the way."

"Mac," she introduced. "Nice to meet you."

"Yeah, nice to meet you too," Hurley said. He gave her a smile. "So, I'm gonna like, go now, but it really was cool to meet you. If I find a Mr. Cluck's I guess I... won't invite you to come."

"I guess not," Mac said.

"Right, dude. Uh... Bye," Hurley said. He mentally facepalmed. That really could have gone better. She wasn't totally weirded out, he hoped. She seemed nice and all, and those were the best people to be friends with. Well, maybe he'd have better luck in his next class.

[baskiceball.livejournal.com]

And Marshall's! I'm too shy to share any of my other ones (and I'm too lazy to go find 'em, heh)

-------------

When Marshall had gotten there the bar was empty save for a weird looking band and the grumpy looking bartender. Marshall got a beer and sat down at a small table near the band. He could get used to hanging out here. A few minutes passed with Marshall bobbing his head to the music, wondering if Lily would be interesting in coming down for karaoke one night. He didn’t even notice that zombie!Yoko was coming up to him until it was too late.

“Oh…um…hey,” Marshall said, trying not to look the woman in the eye. She was hideous. Marshall sat back in his chair a little. Zombie!Yoko was seriously invading his personal space. “Can I help you?”

Zombie!Yoko, of course, didn’t answer. She did, however, throw her leg over Marshall’s and started doing what was unmistakably a lap dance. A very disturbing lap dance.

“Oh god!” Marshall threw his hands up as to avoid touching the smelly lady. “Please stop! Dear lord, please, please stop! I’m married!”

But Zombie!Yoko kept on going. Marshall made little gagging noises in the back of his throat. Words could not express how disturbed he was right now. There was only one way to get out of this with his mental state in tact. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty dollar bill.

“Oh god, take it!” Marshall said, shoving the money in Zombie!Yoko’s gross hand. “I have more if you want! Just get off of me!”

Money in hand, Zombie!Yoko slid off of Marshall and with a flip of her hair, she walked back towards the band. Marshall was frozen in his chair, took shocked to move. “No amount of soap will make me clean again.”

Just then Barney came into the bar with a smug look on his face. It didn’t take Marshall long to figure out just who told Zombie!Yoko to give him that godawful lap dance. Making a strangled noise in the back of his throat, Marshall got up and walked up to Barney. Then Marshall slapped Barney in the face as hard as he could.

“That’s three,” Marshall said, holding up three fingers. He walked out of the bar. He needed a long shower.

[endsthegame]

Aaand for my last one, Ender's:

---

It had been three weeks, now. In that time, the school hadn't become any less off-putting, with its natural light and Earth gravity and the bustle of people he didn't even know by name. But off-putting, in its own way, was normal for Ender, and so far, the one thing that he hadn't lacked was respite. So much respite, in fact, that it was enough to make anyone scream. At least back on the asteroid, he'd had a series of menial jobs to do-- here, his hands were unoccupied, unused, and utterly wasted.

But it did give him time to think-- how funny it was, the kinds of things you wound up missing. He drifted in the pool, his eyes squinted a little against the heavy fake lights. If he squinted just enough, in every way possible, drifting could become zero gravity, up could become north, and the universe sloped just slightly, like a globe that went out in all directions. It was a good reminder; he came here often, as he probably would for a while to come.

In the end, it was the splash that roused him. Ender didn't voice his surprise aloud, but his head moved as his eyes struggled to identify the new arrival. "Ho, Cal," he spoke, at the blob of form and colour that was quickly rearranging itself into a shape. Thin limbs, thinner hair, and the somewhat careful movements of someone hiding a secret as easy as breathing-- it was Cal, alright.

And something else. "Another animal invasion?" Ender asked, with dim curiosity.

Cal just flailed his feet around in the water. "Jesus fuck, Ender, did it have to be this cold?"

"I like it cold."

Cold meant you were awake, cold meant you were aware, and above all, cold meant that if any invasions occurred, like they did now, the strange pink creatures would wind up on the side of the pool, with no further thought to moving at all.

It wasn't strategy. Even if it held all the hallmarks of it. "So are you going to get your butt in the water?" Ender asked, making little paddling motions with his hands in the pool.

Cal replied something about adding some buckets of warm water and 'shrinkage', but the actual argument was the last thing on his mind. Let Cal do as he wish. He evened his breathing, and listened to the shifting noises of inhuman feet on the poolside, and he decided that for now, he was content to act like all of this was enough.

It might've been what he wanted, anyway.

[multi-madrox.livejournal.com]

IT DOES!

However I remember someone linking me the entrance post for Jeff and saying something along the lines of "I think Jamie has to give up his crazy title."

[death-and-pies.livejournal.com]

And Ned's!

--

It was the same thing every morning, Ned thought from his position half hidden under his blanket and under Digby. His roommate would get up, shower, and then spend the next hour in front of the mirror, fixing his hair. Ned didn't sleep much anymore so he was, often times, awake for this ritual and he'd surreptitiously watch John style his hair with his fingers.

One morning, John happened to flick his eyes over his shoulder and caught Ned watching him. Instead of being angry (as Ned thought he'd be), John just smirked and turned around.

“Got any tips?”

Ned almost pretended to be asleep, almost let out a few loud snores to get John's attention off of him but figured that was a stupid plan since he was currently blinking owlishly at John and looked wide awake.

“No,” Ned said. Squeaked. “I don't think anyone should ask me for haircare tips and tricks. I don't even own a brush.”

Fingers were quicker and easier.

“You like my hair?” John asked, crossing his arms and smirking. Ned didn't know why he was smirking. He chalked it up to some private, inside joke that he wasn't privy too. That was normal. He was never part of inside jokes. Hell, he was never part of jokes, period. His sense of humor left something to be desired.

“It's tall,” Ned said, going with the first thing that came to mind. “Is it tall for a reason?”

At that, John scowled and turned back to the mirror where he minutely flattened his hair. “I'm not compensating for anything.”

This time, Ned almost smirked. Almost. “I didn't say anything like that.”

“Yeah, but you were thinking it,” John said, frowning at himself.

“No, I wasn't.” He hadn't been. He was now. “Honest.”

“Right,” John said gruffly and finally pulled his hands away from his hair for a second time. “Better?”

“It was fine the first time,” Ned told him. Digby picked his head up, eyed John and barked.

“Glad to see Fido agrees,” John said, a smile reappearing on his face.

Ned didn't have the heart to tell John that Digby probably didn't care about John's hair. “Yeah. It's good hair.”

John sighed and shook his head. “I don't usually do this but wanna touch it?”

Ned shrank back immediately, hands tightening on his blanket and head already shaking his negative answer. “No. Thanks, but no.” He cleared his throat. “It's not my hair to touch.”

John shrugged and headed towards the door. “Suit yourself. But don't say I didn't offer.”

As soon as John disappeared out of the room, Ned let out a calm, controlled breath and tried to relax. And then he started running his fingers through his hair experimentally.

He wasn't doing anything but attempting to see if his hair would stand on end. That's all. Honest.

[withoutverona]

Romeo's. Rereading, Rory came out very Willowesque.

***

As he entered The Perk, Romeo Montague’s eyes were drawn to the girl sitting quietly at a book-covered table near a window. She had skin of snow and roses, and hair so dark and thick that men might die to touch one lock. It was inevitable that he would purchase two drinks, and sidle over to the
girl.

"If my interruption," he began, proffering coffee and barely registering her startled reaction, "does roughen this time, I do hope my gift will make things smooth once more." He paused. "May I join you?"

Rory jumped and blinked as she tore herself away from the world of Edith Wharton. "Um, sure," she said. "Free coffee is about the only thing better than any coffee. Except that implies something is better than coffee, and that is impossible, and do I know you?"

"The pleasure has not been mine," Romeo said. "I am Romeo Montague, come from Verona to study at Fandom High. "

"Then hi, Romeo, and thanks again for the coffee. I graduated in June,
I’m just back for the day."

"Here but for one day?" Romeo asked, alarm in his voice. He groped for Rory’s hand. "Then spend that day with me. Let us walk on the beach, let us speak in poetry, let us" -- and for this he dropped his voice -- "spend the night as one, before you must leave."

"Dirty!" she gasped, jumping up. "That’s … a really big jump from sharing coffee. Plus, my boyfriend is on his way, and he gets kind of possessive."

At this Romeo smirked. A boyfriend was but a low wall, one easily hurdled. "And who has claimed thine hand, Rory?" he asked. "For, if thou art willing, I may challenge him and make that claim mine own."

"That," Anakin, who had just walked in, inserted dryly, "might not be your best idea, Montague."

[swipedthatfoot.livejournal.com]

Claire's. Nathaniel needs to show up more.
***

Claire Fisher found her way to the roof her first night in Fandom, rolling together a scraggly joint she had stolen from the stash Nate kept under his bed. She'd planned to save it -- it wasn't like she knew where to get more on the island, and the only guy she'd met who seemed like the type was that rich asshole with the scarf -- but she needed a little chemical assistance before she could start to process this place. She settled with her back to a ledge, playing with her cheap 7-Eleven lighter as she waited for the high to kick in.

"So, sweetheart," her father said jovially from a perch above her shoulder. "How's the new school?"

Claire squinted up at the dead man in his Hawaiian shirt and sandals, only slightly nonplussed. "It's weird," she told him. "My roommate said he was from another planet. Just said it, like it's no big thing. And there was this guy with some gross facial deformity running around in a uniform barking at people. Worf, like a noise a dog makes." She took another drag behind her cupped hands. "I dunno, though. People don't seem completely worth hating."

"That's my girl," Nathaniel told her. "I'm sure you'll fit in just fine. You always do."

Claire gave an uncertain smile at how wrong her dead father was. She knew he was only trying to help (and that made her as weird as anyone here, the getting help from a dead guy bit), but sometimes it made her wonder exactly how much attention he had ever paid to her. "Uh, thanks," she said. "So, yeah. They're only making me take two classes and one of them's art. And they gave me a big sister -- like I need another older sibling? But Angela's pretty cool. She's going to show me her drawings." She stared at the sky. "Watch them be some, like, pictures of kittens I have to be all fake and polite about."

"Ah, there's nothing wrong with drawing kittens," the man said. "Lots of people like that kind of thing. Baby animals, rainbows, sunsets, all of that happy nonsense."

The girl snorted. "Happy nonsense. Hey, maybe I'll get so happy here I'll start drawing that shit too." And she would have had more to say had she not been interrupted by the very person she was discussing.

"Claire, sweetie?" Angela Montenegro said tentatively. "Are you talking to someone?"

"Nah, just –" Claire glanced over her shoulder, and was not surprised at all to see her father wave and vanish. "Nobody. What's up?"

Angela shrugged. "I wanted to tell you the whole dorm's full of giant dancing spiders. So you might want to" -- she frowned at Claire, who was stuffing her paraphernalia back into a pocket and dusting off her jeans. "Where are you going?"

Claire thought it was obvious. "I have to get my camera."

[endsthegame]

Jeff's entrance post was born of spending too much time in a small, warm house in said Spanish land, desperately trying to figure out how to make up for missing my first three days.

LOST IN THE SEWER FWT.

[multi-madrox.livejournal.com]

That is both DISTURBING and FREAKING HILARIOUS at the same time!

[decoder-rings.livejournal.com]

Hannibal's. I was a smartass in this one.

--

Hannibal didn't much like libraries. They were too quiet, too dusty, too...filled with books. But, girls came to the library and, thus, Hannibal King came to the library. Honestly, he didn’t even know what the hell the book was in front of him. He'd read the same page three times and had understood none of it.

There were more important things to do. Things like watching Sam Winchester talk quietly to Lucas Scott over there in the corner. Their heads were together and Lucas was holding a book in one hand, close enough to Sam that they could both read it.

Even someone like Hannibal, someone who thought relationships were meant for those generously proportioned women on the covers of romance novels and men who worked as accountants by the day and house husbands at night, could tell what was going on between Lucas and Sam. Please, you only needed eyes to see what was going on and Hannibal had eyes.

It was kind of perfect, Hannibal mused to himself. Sam was eighteen feet tall and Lucas was...well, Lucas reminded him of a troll doll. Maybe Sam had a thing for troll dolls. Hey, a person's kinks were their own and it wasn't Hannibal's place to go passing judgment.

Still, a troll doll. It was better than a Barbie doll. At least Lucas, probably, had all the right parts. And Hannibal didn’t want to think about what Sam did if Lucas wasn’t...correctly built. That was a kink he didn’t even want to touch, not with a seventy foot, insulated pool.

Ew.

John Sheppard slid into the chair next to Hannibal and said, "Whatcha looking at?"

Hannibal pointed his pen at Lucas and Sam, who were now smiling at each other. "What do you see?"

John squinted at Lucas and Sam and then said, "Lucas and Sam. Reading."

Hannibal scoffed and then patted John on the shoulder. "Oh no, my friend. That's Lucas and Sam. Falling in love."