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all I need is a great folk song.
First of all: Dear Dreamwidth, whyfor do you log me out every time I step away from the computer? I really love being logged into you. I don't know why you feel the need to reject me this way. *giant fake sob*
Second, a ficlet:
I listen to bands that don't even exist yet
Scott Pilgrim, gen, 750 words, originally posted here at The Bechdel Test Comment Ficathon for the prompt "Ramona & Kim, Halloween".
It's one of those incredibly lame house parties that everyone will later pretend was awesome. Ramona's been to about a hundred since she moved to Toronto, and they all end the same way:
1. Some chick no one has ever met before that night locks herself in the bathroom and sobs hysterically.
2. The few remaining conscious males use this as an excuse to piss into the neighbour's herb garden and/or birdbath.
3. Whoever's not passed out face first in a bowl of Cheetos shuffles off to catch the Vomit Comet home.
Scott often ends these parties with Cheeto dust caked to his face, or in the case of this particular party, his latex Donatello mask. This is because he only drinks on very special occasions, like Halloween, or Friday. The rule is that after three attempts at waking him, Ramona is relieved from girlfriend duty and free to abandon him at party central until such a time as he regains mobility.
"That was so very lame," Kim says to Ramona as they split from the group heading South and make their way the few blocks West to Bathurst.
"So very very," Ramona says, even though she knows that by next week Kim will be bemoaning the loss of the good old days and including this party in them, like it happened during the roaring twenties or something.
"Anyone over twenty should be banned from celebrating Halloween. It's pathetic. And I participated in the patheticness. I feel dirty."
She unpins her t-shirt sleeve and pops her arm back through it, stretching and wiggling her fingers.
"Woah," Ramona says. "Where'd John Bonham go? He was just here. This is totally blowing my mind."
"Ha fucking ha," Kim says. She pulls her drumsticks out of her back pocket and starts whacking them on the fenceposts and mailboxes they pass. No rhythm, but plenty of volume, just like Sex-Bob-omb's music. "The night bus is gonna be crammed with circus freaks."
"Awesome," Ramona says. "Maybe I can terrify them with my costume."
"For the last time," Kim says, whacking the shit out of a city-issued compost bin, "'Hipster' on you is not a costume. It is simply the tragic, undiluted truth."
"The costume's ironic," Ramona argues, cramming her hands into the pockets of her skinny jeans.
"It's always ironic," Kim says. "No hipster thinks they're a hipster. Therein lies the tragedy."
"For your information, I don't even like PBR. Or trucker hats. Or, uh, Vice Magazine."
"That's oddly specific. Worn any cute-yet-unnecessary goggles lately?"
"Shut up."
They get to the bus stop and Kim gives the post a few good resonant hits with her sticks. Then she gets bored and starts half-heartedly kicking it instead.
"Like you're so much better," Ramona says, after a few minutes of staring longingly North. "You don't own anything that hasn't had a pithy quote silkscreened onto it."
Kim looks down at her "Slavery Gets Shit Done" T-shirt and shrugs.
"I don't wear anything I don't agree with."
"Fair enough."
Ramona flops down onto a low ledge and sighs, eyes straining to catch sight of the night bus's telltale blue lights. Kim wanders into the street, gazing off into the distance, then she wanders slowly back and starts stepping on and off the sidewalk in time to some slow internal beat.
Ramona zips up her hoodie and yanks the drawstring tight. It's cold, just a couple of degrees above freezing, and she can see Kim's breath hanging in the air like a thought bubble. Kim's still flushed from the booze at the party, though, and if she's feeling the cold at all, she's not showing it. She's kinda macho that way, though. There are probably a lot of things she just feels and doesn't show.
"Hey," Ramona says. "Want to see something cool?"
Kim squints at her in the dark.
"Bus'll be here soon," she says. "You can stop with the small talk any time."
Ramona stands, brushing yard debris off her ass.
"Forget the bus," she says. "This is way better."
Kim looks intrigued. Or majorly annoyed, it's hard to tell. But either way, she follows Ramona up the narrow driveway next to the bus stop and around the side of the house. The door is just where it should be, glowing white and slightly translucent in the pitch black.
"What the hell," Kim says.
Ramona grins. "Let's go home."
They step inside Scott's drunken dreams, and out the other side.
::
I also wrote this one (Buffy season 8, Satsu and Faith) although I'm not that happy with it, so I probably won't be reposting it anywhere.
Second, a ficlet:
I listen to bands that don't even exist yet
Scott Pilgrim, gen, 750 words, originally posted here at The Bechdel Test Comment Ficathon for the prompt "Ramona & Kim, Halloween".
It's one of those incredibly lame house parties that everyone will later pretend was awesome. Ramona's been to about a hundred since she moved to Toronto, and they all end the same way:
1. Some chick no one has ever met before that night locks herself in the bathroom and sobs hysterically.
2. The few remaining conscious males use this as an excuse to piss into the neighbour's herb garden and/or birdbath.
3. Whoever's not passed out face first in a bowl of Cheetos shuffles off to catch the Vomit Comet home.
Scott often ends these parties with Cheeto dust caked to his face, or in the case of this particular party, his latex Donatello mask. This is because he only drinks on very special occasions, like Halloween, or Friday. The rule is that after three attempts at waking him, Ramona is relieved from girlfriend duty and free to abandon him at party central until such a time as he regains mobility.
"That was so very lame," Kim says to Ramona as they split from the group heading South and make their way the few blocks West to Bathurst.
"So very very," Ramona says, even though she knows that by next week Kim will be bemoaning the loss of the good old days and including this party in them, like it happened during the roaring twenties or something.
"Anyone over twenty should be banned from celebrating Halloween. It's pathetic. And I participated in the patheticness. I feel dirty."
She unpins her t-shirt sleeve and pops her arm back through it, stretching and wiggling her fingers.
"Woah," Ramona says. "Where'd John Bonham go? He was just here. This is totally blowing my mind."
"Ha fucking ha," Kim says. She pulls her drumsticks out of her back pocket and starts whacking them on the fenceposts and mailboxes they pass. No rhythm, but plenty of volume, just like Sex-Bob-omb's music. "The night bus is gonna be crammed with circus freaks."
"Awesome," Ramona says. "Maybe I can terrify them with my costume."
"For the last time," Kim says, whacking the shit out of a city-issued compost bin, "'Hipster' on you is not a costume. It is simply the tragic, undiluted truth."
"The costume's ironic," Ramona argues, cramming her hands into the pockets of her skinny jeans.
"It's always ironic," Kim says. "No hipster thinks they're a hipster. Therein lies the tragedy."
"For your information, I don't even like PBR. Or trucker hats. Or, uh, Vice Magazine."
"That's oddly specific. Worn any cute-yet-unnecessary goggles lately?"
"Shut up."
They get to the bus stop and Kim gives the post a few good resonant hits with her sticks. Then she gets bored and starts half-heartedly kicking it instead.
"Like you're so much better," Ramona says, after a few minutes of staring longingly North. "You don't own anything that hasn't had a pithy quote silkscreened onto it."
Kim looks down at her "Slavery Gets Shit Done" T-shirt and shrugs.
"I don't wear anything I don't agree with."
"Fair enough."
Ramona flops down onto a low ledge and sighs, eyes straining to catch sight of the night bus's telltale blue lights. Kim wanders into the street, gazing off into the distance, then she wanders slowly back and starts stepping on and off the sidewalk in time to some slow internal beat.
Ramona zips up her hoodie and yanks the drawstring tight. It's cold, just a couple of degrees above freezing, and she can see Kim's breath hanging in the air like a thought bubble. Kim's still flushed from the booze at the party, though, and if she's feeling the cold at all, she's not showing it. She's kinda macho that way, though. There are probably a lot of things she just feels and doesn't show.
"Hey," Ramona says. "Want to see something cool?"
Kim squints at her in the dark.
"Bus'll be here soon," she says. "You can stop with the small talk any time."
Ramona stands, brushing yard debris off her ass.
"Forget the bus," she says. "This is way better."
Kim looks intrigued. Or majorly annoyed, it's hard to tell. But either way, she follows Ramona up the narrow driveway next to the bus stop and around the side of the house. The door is just where it should be, glowing white and slightly translucent in the pitch black.
"What the hell," Kim says.
Ramona grins. "Let's go home."
They step inside Scott's drunken dreams, and out the other side.
::
I also wrote this one (Buffy season 8, Satsu and Faith) although I'm not that happy with it, so I probably won't be reposting it anywhere.