And lo, there was flailing. And also the timestamp meme.

[nonelvis]

In an effort to keep myself from flailing about tomorrow's Confidential, I am going to spend the afternoon knitting and watching something totally unrelated to DW. Not that this will help much, I suspect, but it's worth a shot.

Another thing that probably won't help, but I'm going to do it anyway:

Give me one of my own stories, and a timestamp sometime in the future after the end of the story, or sometime in the past before the story started, and I'll write you at least a hundred words of what happened then, whether it's five minutes before the story started or ten years in the future.

(Actually, I may try to write 100 words exactly, just because.)

Comments

[nonelvis]

Of course, I've long since discarded my original draft of this story, the one that had the full explanation of how they met. And I'm afraid I couldn't stick to my anal-retentive rule about doing drabbles for this; the story takes too long to tell, so you get a double drabble instead.

There's a little more to this inside my head, but I already have two unfinished stories I'm banging my head against, so unfortunately, expanding this one will have to wait.

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

It’s a last-minute favour for a friend, this “Ghosts of Las Vegas” article Sarah Jane agrees to write. She hates doing puff pieces.

Still: ghosts. She decides to pack a spare sonic lipstick.

* * *

The city’s ghosts are the usual blend of exaggeration and outright fabrication. Weary, Sarah Jane heads for the crowded hotel bar, seating herself next to an angular bloke hunched over his whiskey.

“Could you pass the crackers, please?” she asks.

He slides the bowl towards her with a grim and surly glance, as if to chastise her for the interaction. But then his expression changes: first shock, then wonder, then genuine pleasure.

“Sarah Jane?”

“Yes …?”

“It’s me, Sarah!”

“You’ll have to give me more than that to go on, I’m afraid.” She scans his face. That infectious grin. Those ice-blue eyes. It can’t be.

“Doctor?” she whispers.

He throws his arms around her in the broad hug of the not entirely sober. “Oh, Sarah Jane. You shouldn’t be here. But then again, neither should I.” He slumps against her shoulder.

She rubs his back, comforting him. Could be a long night ahead, she thinks. A very long night.

But with the Doctor, it’s always worth it.

[editrx.livejournal.com]

Hmmmm. Interesting start indeed. I shall take this as a tidbit of whatever you eventually write from what's still knocking around inside your head. :) (And thank you!)

But I do understand having to finish whatever you're banging your head against right now. Otherwise, it keeps on banging until it gets out.