(no subject)

[cherry]

Am finally registered in all my classes. Go me.

Am slightly confused, as there are a few (large) stories vying in my mind to be written: the DLM one, Detective Frannie Vecchio, the latest Emma piece, a Firefly war story, the 1987 O11 one, that piece for the Fandom Which Must Not Be Named...

This has led to a logjam in my brain, so I am taking requests for drabble (I promise at least a drabble) and/or icons.

That's right, get your drabble and/or icons here.

I think you all know fandomwise. XM, dS, DLM, HP, O11, LXG, CSI, Alias, Firefly, Eternal Sunshine, Disney, PotC, Dogma, Power Play... I'd try DCU, SV, the Fandom That Must Not Be Named, or pretty much anything else you throw at me.

Fandom, media (fic/icon), prompt (optional).

Please?

Comments

[cherryice.livejournal.com]

The stupid Fordfic is growing out of control in my mind. I guess as a deterent against actually writing it, I could say that I KNOW already that no one will read it...

Anyway.

---

The night outside is hot and loud. John's laying in his bed on top of the covers and trying not to doing anything strenuous, like breath too hard. The dorm window is propped open with a biology textbook that's never been opened, and his roommate's fan wheezes and stirs the slightest breeze. Crickets chirp and across the green he can hear a group of students playing night ball.

Finals are coming on fast, and the book holding up the window hasn't been opened since he bought it. One more year, he thinks.

One more year, and then what? Grad school, pilot's license, asking "Would you like fries with that?"

Across the room, his roommate sighs and shifts in his sleep, muttering something under his breath about the Dallas Cowboys.

John thinks about flying, about lift and gravity, about his father's dogtags (when he was seven, he walked into his parent's bedroom and found them sitting on the bedside table -- it was the first time he'd touched them, and as he poured the chain between his hands he all he could think was how heavy they were). John's father was never home -- even when his body was there, he was gone, all distracted smiles and morning runs.

Even bad role models are role models.

He lays there, in the heat and the humidity, and watches the campus light. Sweat pools at the hollow of his throat.

He thinks about gravity and tries not to move.