Subject: Man where was the Dwarf Love in 2003?
Author:
Posted on: 2020-02-29 20:19:02 UTC
I'm serious, dwarves are the best! They're like a bunch of drunken engineers with gold obsessions.
Okay, that'd not quite accurate of Tolkien dwarves but close enough.
I recently got it into my head to look at an old piece of HP fanfic featuring one of my characters, Jenni. Seeing as the piece in question is over ten years old, my response can be predictably summed up as "wow, this is terrible!"
So I decided to rewrite it. I wanted to see what I would do differently after so long, and I had some new ideas about Jenni that I wanted to develop further, and while I was at it, I wanted to update the story to be as compliant as possible with current canon. It was a lot of fun! I've put the final result up on AO3 and on Fanfiction.net, where you can also find the original version of the piece for comparison, if you're curious.
Now, I invite all of you to try something similar! Take an old piece of writing (original, fanfic, PPC, whatever) and do it over, keeping what you like about it and using what you've learned since you wrote it to make it better. Your "old" doesn't have to be ten years old, just old enough that it makes you cringe. ^_~ I also suggest that it shouldn't be too long. The piece I started from was about 1,000 words and the rewrite ended up being about 5,000. Though, the opposite could also happen! Editing can be about cutting out what's not necessary as much as or more than about adding what is.
I anticipate that the amount of time this will take will vary widely, so I don't want to put a hard deadline on the challenge, but if you want a goal to shoot for, let's say it ends when this post gets to the bottom of the Board. Then we can always restart it if people are still working. If you're going to participate, go ahead and let me know here, so I can keep track.
If you finish in the meantime, great! Post a reply here with links to the new story and the old story, and hopefully get some feedback. I've been a bit scarce around here lately, but I'll make an effort to respond, since I'm starting this thing.
I chose not to use a beta since I didn't for the original and I wanted the raw result, but definitely do if you want to.
Most importantly, have fun! Don't stress about being perfect, or as good as anyone else. This is about seeing your own personal improvement, which will look different for all of us. {= )
~Neshomeh
It took me an embarassingly long time to register that you'd put your own entry into the original post, and it was only when it popped up on deviantArt that I prodded myself into reading it.
It's good stuff! It's certainly much more in-depth than the original version, which, well, reads like part of an RP. ;) I like the thought you put into the curse, and Jenni... Jenni-ing. (I also appreciated the absolute irony of her being on the receiving end of unintentional mindreading; serves her right. ^_~)
hS
Ironically(?), the original scene didn't happen in RP! I was out of the loop a lot due to my friends being in Australia and New Zealand, so I had lots of gaps to fill in for my fic. As I recall, that scene popped into my head more or less in one piece out of the blue, and I wrote it out really fast and shared it before I should have, just to say "hey I'm not dead." In retrospect, that is never a good reason to publish anything. {= )
Hm, the whole story is Jenni Jenni-ing. ^_~ I'm guessing you meant the part with the cords? I had a lot of fun with that. It's probably the main reason I wanted to go through with the rewrite, and I look forward to playing with those sorts of synesthetic impressions more as opportunities arise.
(Side question to any and all: what do your characters look like if you distill their souls down to a few key colors and connotative sense impressions in this fashion? How about favorite canon characters?)
I also enjoyed the absolute irony of the Legilimency bit. Thanks for noticing. ^_^
~Neshomeh
Sorry if anything is damaged. Remember my old Discord story? If I’m right, the prompt was “You’re not supposed to be doing that!”
Thanks to the inconvenience of time zones, I had to post this late. I’ve rewrote the fic to have better SPaG, as this was the biggest problem( thanks Snowblaze!).
The fic takes place in a generic fantasy setting, so don’t expect a lot of world building. It’s about this tailor called Issac, who found a magic needle.
Link to the improved fic: https://docs.google.com/document/d/10Y0XpVFXLP9VnzSd-UEaarBAA4wkO00S-2AOHWMsZNY
Link to the original: https://docs.google.com/document/d/10nQQcQc0lR-72Cvu0bQJWKEGb-ycXUzB6Q3kVZnJnmk
Edit: there is now a question mark Easter egg in this post.
-SomeRandomPersonAccount has nearly burnt the SPaGetti, again.
Glad I was able to help you improve! It's still not perfect, but it's definitely better than the original. The main advice I have is just to keep practicing and keep getting concrit - for me there's a lot about writing that you have to learn for yourself.
On the story itself, rather than just in general: there are still a few SPaG issues. In particular watch out for your tenses. There's a couple of places where you switch from past to present and back again.
In some parts your description is great, but in others it feels a bit like you're just saying what happened rather than giving me a sense of it. I'd suggest maybe grounding it more firmly in Issac's point of view, because it feels like it's being told from the perspective of an external observer.
Still, that's a great improvement. Keep it up!
(Original version is here, and clocks in at 200 words with its Author's Note. The new version runs to 407.)
Legolas, in the wise words of Professor Tolkien, probably achieved the least of the Nine Walkers. This was just as true in the Golden Wood of Lothlorien as anywhere else: while Frodo was wrestling with visions, Gimli was overturning millennia of interracial tensions, and Boromir was brooding over Aragorn being less a) scruffy and b) evil than him...
... Legolas was taking a walk.
At the precise moment under consideration, the prince of Mirkwood's walk was bringing him back around to the front of the strange building he had found in the forest. He wasn't exactly a scholar of matters Galadhrim, but the squat house really didn't strike him as their handiwork. It was on the ground, for one thing, and its roof was sagging in the middle, which said 'mortal' even to Legolas' untrained eye. The sign hanging above the door said... well, Legolas didn't actually recognise the letters, though the shortest word looked a lot like a rather crude Nandorin insult.
Then there was the building material. Legolas was almost positive his kin in Lorien didn't normally work in gingerbread.
For what might have been many lives of Men (but was actually about five minutes) Legolas pondered the mystery of the house. He may have folded his arms lopsidedly, though he almost certainly didn't announce 'A Diversion!'. Finally he nodded, drew one of his long knives, and stepped into the house.
Almost immediately, a dramatically overblown evil laugh echoed from the open door.
A minute or so later, smoke began to rise from the crooked chimney, staining the gingerbread black.
And half an hour after that, the prince of Mirkwood emerged with a flour-covered apron, a gleefully malicious grin, and a towering stack of pancakes, and scampered off into the woods.
Behind him, the sign creaked gently in the wind. The shortest word was not, in fact, an elvish swear word - and Legolas had never had a chance of reading the others, even had they been written in an alphabet he could understand. 'Interdimensional', 'House', and 'Pancakes' weren't in any language used in Middle-earth, though the last, at least, was about to make its mark.
~~~~~
The English word 'OF' doesn't look a whole lot like anything an Elf might write, but it could juuuust about be the runes for 'UD'. That's not an attested word in any Elvish language, but it's the beginning of words like Udun ('Hell', 'Dark Pit'), or udrug ('intractable', 'untamed'). As insulting slang, it's good to use against any absolute uds you meet.
I've deliberately kept to the lighthearted tone of the original, but grounded my gags more fully in Middle-earth. Jokes about Boromir brooding fit better in the canon than Legolas saying 'Oh look, a gingerbread cottage' - well, for a given value of canon. And I'd never pass up an opportunity to create a Green-elf swear word. ^_^
It's especially appropriate for me to rewrite this (a full seventeen years after it was originally posted, Valar help me), because the original was scribbled down while avoiding joining in with any Scout group activities - on Pancake Day, 2003. :D
(Which makes the 'A diversion!' joke slightly anachronistic, but that's what rewrites are for...)
hS
This is both the story we deserve and the story we need right now. ^_^
I contest the assertion that Boromir is more scruffy than Aragorn. Isn't being a rugged, unshaven and filthy Ranger Aragorn's whole character? {; P (OTOH I have a sneaking suspicion this might be a "Very Secret Diaries" reference I'm not getting because it's been too long since I read that, in which case, never mind!)
That's my only critique. The rest of the rewrite is good parody humor, as you say, and I think it does a great job of introducing the lolrandomness to come in a way that doesn't feel obnoxiously lolrandom. Like, I want to know more about this mysterious Interdimensional House of Pancakes! Where did it comes from? How does it work its evil on poor unsuspecting victims like our dear Leggy? Will it strike again? And can I get Swedish pancakes with lingonberry sauce??
Tangent: how in the everloving heck did the original rack up 1,203 reviews? That's mind-boggling! They all seem to be real, and a lot even seem to have actual content!
I'm feeling all nostalgic for the early 2000s now. Therefore, in closing: u rite god, plz rite moar. ^_~
~Neshomeh
Neshomeh: Well, you asked... ;) The Spirit of 2003 lives on! I had some extraordinarily dedicated reviewers back in the day - we were a whole weird community by the end - so yes, most of those reviews are actual comments. Usually quite daft ones, though!
I've also decided to share the love, by adding the remastered chapter to the original story. I doubt any of the old crew will see it, but even if there's just one... I've also taken the opportunity to upgrade the Secret Diary-esque line to an actual Secret Diary reference, so thanks for that. ^_^
And here we go...
~
The Golden Wood was not all that golden.
Oh, it was goldenish. Golden enough. The mallorn-leaves certainly had a hint of gold about them, as one might see just as summer turned to autumn. But from the descriptions in Uncle Bilbo's old tales, Frodo had expected something more... impressive.
The Hobbit sat between the silver (not gold) roots of a towering tree, fiddling absently with the actually-gold Ring on its chain. He had been taking a walk, but the aforementioned roots presented a trip hazard that his feet seemed inexorably drawn to. So he had found himself a comfortable spot near to Galadriel's Mirror and settled in to listen to the birds and contemplate the vaguely disappointing colour scheme.
Unbidden, the idea came into his mind that if he slipped on the Ring, he could admire Lothlorien in the Unseen Realm, where it might look a bit better. Frodo sighed and pushed the thought down with the ease of long practice. Gandalf (and the wizard's fate was another thought he had to quash) had warned him that his burden would try to overwhelm him, and it was getting more insistent, but he had it under control, he was-
SPLAT!
The Ringbearer tumbled backwards (and a part of his mind screamed 'unfair! I didn't even trip!'), scrabbling at the syrupy, pasty mass covering his face. He pulled it away at last, and stared down in shock and disbelief at the mess in his hands.
"Oh, no," Frodo breathed, as the recognition hit him like a disc of fried batter to the face. "I've been... pancaked!"
The sound of Elvish laughter faded into the forest, leaving Frodo alone with his dismay.
~~~~~
I have missed those SPLATs more than I realised. :D
hS
They're... splatdiferous!
Looking forward to more, and congrats on the anniversary. ;)
S.M.F.: Do you know, I think in fifty whole chapters of this thing, I never once used the word 'splatdiferous'?
Which is a terrible oversight on my part, frankly.
~~~~~
"Pancakes!"
The wail echoed through the forest, and Samwise Gamgee looked up instantly from the small yellow flower he had been examining (not the most thrilling leisure activity, even for a gardener, but it was that or join Merry and Pippin in their efforts to eat their way through Lothlorien's entire storehouse). "That's Mister Frodo," he said, his brow furrowing.
Pippin swallowed a mouthful of bread and tucked the rest into his sleeve for later. "It sounds like he's found something," the Hobbit said, peering through the trees. "What do you think it could be?"
"I'd say that's obvious, Pip," Merry observed, examining a mushroom before dropping it into his pack. "There's only so many things that would make someone yell 'pancakes'."
Pippin frowned, thinking deeply. "He's found a kitchen?"
(Somewhere deep underneath Moria, Gandalf the Grey's head jerked back. "Fool of a Took," he muttered, before striking out at the Balrog once again.)
"Pancakes!" The cry was closer now, and accompanied by a rustling and cracking of branches. Merry hopped down from his rock, and Pippin got to his feet, both of them taking their places next to Sam. Sam pulled his frying pan from his back; it was ridiculous to think there could be any danger in the Golden Wood, but there had been desperate panic in Frodo's voice...
The Ringbearer burst into the clearing, his face dripping with syrup, the soggy remains of a pancake in his hands. "Pan-!" he began, and then his foot caught on what seemed to be a tuft of grass, and he tumbled head over heels to land on his back in front of his friends. "-cakes!" he groaned, holding the mess up with a plaintive, impossibly-wide-eyed look.
"Thanks!" said Pippin, taking it from Frodo's hands. "Don't mind if I-"
SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!
Legolas perched on a tree branch, his stack of pancakes in one hand, his expression troubled. Pippin, it seemed, was going to be a problem. While the other three Hobbits were just as disgusted by the attack as he could have hoped, the youngest had already eaten his way through the one that had hit him. His clear voice rose easily to the Elf's perch: "If you're not eating those, I'll be happy to take them off your hands."
Yes, Legolas mused, the Hobbits could definitely disrupt his plans (particularly if the others developed a taste for fried cakes). There was nothing for it: he was going to have to move directly to the endgame. Balancing his burden of pasty evil carefully, the Prince of Mirkwood got to his feet and headed off into the forest.
~~~~~
Frying pans, abnormally huge eyes, and Pippin eating everything in sight - oh yes, the Spirit of 2003 is strong today.
hS
Or, in other words, I have no idea what's going on, but I'm liking the rewrite (read the original first chapter for comparison, and I like what you've done changes-wise) and am amused.
Also kind of reminded of those fics where Legolas wrote his own fanfic or was tortured by a Suefic where he was the lust object (two different sets and authors, also written before 2010 as far as I remember). He goes off the rails in a similar feeling way, just with a slightly different tone and other things behind it.
~Z
Zingenmir: Honestly, I have no idea what's going on, either. I keep checking the next few chapters (Pancakes! itself, the part I'm rewriting, is only seven chapters; the rest is the Lost Pancake Tales), but the purported plot leaves my head as soon as I look away. Spirit of 2003, etc. :)
~~~
It would be unfair to say that Aragorn and Boromir weren't on speaking terms. Certainly, Boromir's resentment over Aragorn's royal lineage and manly stubble was on the verge of consuming him alive; and it was equally true that returning to the place he had first met Arwen had filled Aragorn's head with thoughts like 'but I'm still not king' and 'maybe I should dress more like Boromir and less like a hedgerow'. But in principle, they were still talking to each other. They just didn't have anything they trusted themselves to say.
At this particular moment, their non-communication was taking place among the trees Caras Galadhon, the City of the Galadhrim, the Moated Fortress of the Trees, the Heart of Elvendom on Earth, and a dozen other ways of saying 'hill full of treehouses'. Ostensibly, they were discussing events in Gondor, and whether taking the Ring through Minas Tirith was a good idea (Boromir) or an invitation to Grand Theft Jewellery (Aragorn). But the conversation had long since lapsed into the kind of brooding silence that echoes off mountains and drowns out any attempt to speak.
Aragorn was on the verge of heading off to polish his sword or something, and was in fact busy deciding whether to mark his exit with a brusque nod, a grunt of farewell, or simply a capital-L Look, when he spotted someone moving through the trees. "Ho, Legolas!" he called, raising one hand in greeting. "What is that strange burden you bear? It looks like-"
SPLAT! SPLAT!
The two Men staggered, even their mighty strength useless against the pancake onslaught. Boromir, indeed, lost his footing, but Aragorn managed to steady himself - just in time to be bowled over by four waist-high figures hurtling out of the woods.
"Strider!" Sam was the first on his feet, tugging at Frodo's arm to help him look. "Look, Mr. Frodo, it's Strider!"
"And Boromir, too," Merry added, scrambling off the Gondorian's chest. "But we're too late!"
"If you're not eating those," Pippin said, greeting both Men with a huge grin as they scraped their faces clear, "I'd be happy to take them off your-"
"Be quiet, all of you!" Frodo, steadied by Sam's broad shoulders, looked down at Aragorn, his eyes once again wide. "It's Legolas," he explained, his face pale. "He's been throwing... well, you know. If we don't stop him... I fear something terrible will happen."
Aragorn studied the Hobbit's face, then handed his tattered pancake to Pippin and clambered upright. He held out an arm to Boromir, hauling the other Man to his feet.
"He was heading up the hill," the Ranger said gravely. "He can have only one destination in mind... and he already has a head-start."
~~~
Paragraph one owes a series debt to the excellent Very Secret Diaries. Most of the rest, I'm afraid, comes straight out of my own head.
hS
No reviews to reply to? :O Is this where I launch into overly-dramatic exhortations to Review Or It's No Pancakes For You?
... nah. There's such a thing as too 2003.
The Lord and Lady of Lothlorien sat in their audience chamber, listening attentively as Haldir explained a minor disturbance down by the Silverlode. Actually, Galadriel was doing all the listening, since back when they still lived in Doriath (had it really been nearly seven millennia? It barely seemed more than six!), Celeborn had mastered the art of sleeping with his eyes open. By now he was able to nod along with a serious expression, and even inject occasional semi-pertinent comments, all without waking up.
Something tingled at the edge of Galadriel's awareness, and she held up a slender hand, stopping Haldir in mid-word. It felt like... Legolas? Yes, Legolas was approaching, and he had a gift for her. Galadriel smiled, and nodded to the door-wardens. "Have no fear, my friends; the one who approaches is a friend of-"
SPLAT! SPLAT!
Celeborn started awake. Haldir stared in mute horror. The guards charged out of the door in pursuit. And, slowly, as if in a trance, the Lady of Lorien raised her hand to her face and touched the pasty mass that now covered it.
She peeled the syrupy mass away and stared down at it as it dripped onto her white dress and ruined it forever. "What," she asked, her voice twanging with tension, "is this?"
Celeborn cleared his own face and sniffed gingerly. "It smells... like..." he said, then paused as if in thought. Galadriel elbowed him, and he jumped, then finished his sentence. "... pancake?"
"No." Galadriel looked down at her sticky hands, then reached up and felt the syrup oozing into her carefully-styled hair. "No." She stood up, looking around, her eyes flaring in mingled anger and terror. "No. No! I cannot be... pancaked!"
Frodo and Aragorn burst into the chamber, Sam and Boromir just behind them, Merry and Pippin bringing up the rear at a leisurely jog. The Ringbearer took one look at Galadriel and drooped in despair. "Then we are too late," he said. "The evil has already come to this hallowed place."
"Companions... of the Ring," Celeborn said in his slow, impressive way. "What brings you... to Caras... Galadhon?"
Galadriel shot him a Look that by all rights should have burned him to ash, and her mind-spoken exhortion to 'let the grown-ups do the talking' pushed him firmly back into his seat. She turned to Frodo, drawing herself up to her full height and doing her best to ignore the blob of half-cooked batter dribbling down her cheek.
"Legolas has fallen to the Enemy," she said flatly, then frowned. "The... pancake enemy. And he is... do you mind?" This last was to Pippin, who had sidled past her and was trying to subtly shake Celeborn awake.
"Sorry, your Ladyship," the young Hobbit said, sounding anything but. "I was just asking if I could have his pancake."
Galadriel blinked. "You... actually eat these things?"
"Of course!" Pippin beamed at her. "I've never been one to pass up a good meal."
The Elf lady shook her head and wordlessly passed the remains of her own pancake to him. She turned back to Frodo, opened her mouth - then paused, closed it again, and glanced back at Pippin with a calculating look.
"So... Legolas thinks he can pancake us with impunity," she mused. "We shall have to do something about that - and I believe I have a plan..."
Of course I've doubled down on Narcoleptic Celeborn. It's far and away the best joke to come out of those movies.
hS
Hilariously/adorably, at least two people have found Pancakes! through this remastering and faithfully reviewed the original chapters 1-7. I don't think they ever saw my review replies...
~~~
Legolas was suspicious. It was almost too easy: in all the mayhem that had followed his attack on Galadriel, everyone seemed to have forgotten about Celeborn. The Elf Lord had ambled out to one of the nearby mallorn-trees and now stood by its silver trunk. To most people, he probably looked deep in thought - but even from across the clearing, Legolas could hear the low rasp of his snores.
It was too good an opportunity to miss, but there was no point taking too many risks. Legolas set his stack of pancakes down, picked up one in each hand. A double shot ought to do it... he launched out from among the bushes and flung the pancakes in a textbook-perfect attack (The Art of Dessert War, by Boffo Baggins esq., available from all good bookstores).
Out of nowhere, or rather out of the tree, Frodo and Sam dropped into position in front of Celeborn. Each had one of Sam's frying pans firmly in their grip, and with a solid splat they caught both pancakes a hair's breadth from Celeborn's face. Legolas gaped as the two Hobbits followed through, flinging the pancakes straight back at him.
They almost got him - not through any particular skill on their part (Great-Great Uncle Boffo's book had never really grabbed Frodo's attention), but because Legolas couldn't help but fold his arms and shout out that Celeborn had been, "A diversion!" But at the last instant the Elf dived aside, and the sticky missiles slatted onto the tree behind him.
The rest of the Fellowship were charging towards the battle now, but Legolas was faster. He rolled, scooped up three pancakes, and launched a triple volley right towards--
SPLAT-SPLAT-SPLAT!
"Mr. Frodo! Noooooooooo!"
Sam grabbed Frodo and attempted to drag him from the field as the rest of the Fellowship arrived at last. Pippin, acting as combination medic-gourmand, ran over to help him, and scraped the sticky mess from the Ringbearer's face. What he did with it is probably not worth saying.
Frodo sat up with a groan, then gasped as he looked out over the glade. In the few moments it had taken to rescue him, Aragorn, Boromir, and Merry had all fallen in their defence of Celeborn. Only Gimli still stood, batter staining his armour and the broad head of his axe; and as the survivors watched, he stumbled, and Legolas launched a final, ruthlessly accurate shot.
ZZZZAP!
"Well that's not the right sound effect," Legolas protested, shielding his eyes from the brilliant white light that filled the clearing. As it faded, it revealed Galadriel standing beside Gimli, a star seeming to blaze on her pale hand.
"Well done, most valiant of elf-friends," she said, nodding respectfully to Gimli. "Tend now to your companions; I fear this is a battle only I can win."
~~~
I think this may be the chapter I've changed the least. Apart from the obligatory and anachronistic Diversion joke.
hS
One last time, for one last review...
Thoth: It's actually quite shocking how little attention I gave the dwarves of Middle-earth in this; as far as I can tell, Gimli is the only one who gets SPLATted even in the Lost Pancake Tales! Utterly shameful. (Of course, I did make up for it a bit by having him hear the narrator in the short story 'Conflicts', but still!)
And here we go...
Legolas stood before the Lady of Lorien, head bowed. The fallen members of the Fellowship had been dragged from the field, leaving the two Elves alone, but the prince of Mirkwood made no move.
"Legolas." Galadriel's voice rang clear and pure through the glade. "Come back to us, son of Thranduil."
"My lady." Legolas looked up, his face wracked with pain. "I... I am..."
"Peace, my friend," Galadriel said, taking a step towards him and holding out her hand. "The Shadow has passed from-"
"--gotcha!" Legolas' hand swung out from behind him, and a pancake span across the lawn at a considerable fraction of the speed of sound. Sam cried out in dismay as it flew towards the elven lady, and:
ZZZAP!
"NO!" Legolas cried, as the ash of the pancake floated away on the breeze. "No, no, NO!" He dove for cover, flinging pancakes as he went, and desperation had filled him with supernatural dessert-chucking abilities. A dozen pancakes were in the air at once, trailing syrup, sauce, fruit, and in one case bacon, and it seemed impossible that Galadriel could stop them all.
She almost did. Ash fell like slightly sticky rain, and a radiant beam cut into the bushes to incinerate Legolas' stash. But even the Wise cannot see all things, and one pancake - just one - traced a high arc across the glade, avoiding everything the Lady could throw at it.
SPLAT!
The Fellowship of the Ring stared in mute despair as maple syrup dripped down Galadriel's face. The Lady of Lorien lifted one hand slowly and touched the pasty mass which now covered her hair. She swayed, and Frodo clung to Sam with fear that she would fall, and leave Legolas to take on the world.
"I." Galadriel's head rose again, and the light in her eyes was like a supernova. "Had just. Got that clean!"
A wave of light crashed across the clearing, unstoppable, unavoidable. The Fellowship tumbled to their knees, their balance lost. Celeborn woke with a cry as he was knocked from his feet. And Legolas was picked up by the power of Galadriel (not to mention a little something from her Ring) and thrown high into the air. A branch caught him on the head as he rose, and when he came down, he was barely conscious of Haldir binding his wrists and leading him away.
As the light faded, Galadriel turned in place, until she was facing the dishevilled Fellowship. She met Sam's eyes, then Gimli's, then last of all Frodo's, and gave a slight nod. "It is finished," she breathed, and collapsed in a dead faint.
~~~
Many days passed. Galadriel's healers worked on Legolas continuously without making progress, until at last the Lady herself, barely recovered from the battle, had to take a hand. The words of power she sang over the fallen prince rippled across the Golden Wood, a wave of forgetfulness that left Boromir unsure which of his father's sons he was, Haldir confused over whether he lived in Lorien or Rohan, and Sam distraught at being unable to recall precisely what his old gaffer would have said about the situation.
"The darkness is buried now," she said, standing before the Fellowship in the very same glade where they had fought so hard. Celeborn stood at her side, tall and regal and sound asleep. "My... spell," the Lady nodded slightly to Sam, "has driven the memory of pancakes so deep within Legolas that it will never emerge again." She paused, pursing her lips for a moment, and her hand rose to her neatly-styled hair. "But maybe keep him away from syrup for a while," she suggested. "And batter. And kitchens in general."
"Don't... let him... have pancakes," Celeborn said serenely, his eyes flicking sightlessly as he dreamed. Galadriel shot him an exasperated look, but nodded.
"Obviously, as my lord says, actual contact with pancakes will risk reawakening the evil that is within him. But that will hardly be a problem, as they are rare indeed in the annals of Arda."
Sam looked upwards, his face scrunching in thought. "Isn't that going to make it a bit difficult to reuse this canopy, your ladyship?"
Galadriel blinked at the Hobbit. "What canop-?"
SPLAT!
Galadriel dragged herself out from under the giant pancake, scraping the remains from her face. Around her the Fellowship were doing the same, and the large lump under the cursed dessert could only be her husband. Her hair was, if anything, even more ruined than before, and a cold fire burned in Galadriel's eyes as she drew in a deep breath.
"LegoLAS!"
The sound of elvish laughter faded into the woods as the Company set off in pursuit.
Frankly, I think I deserve a lot of credit for predicting 'Galadriel passes out after using her Ring' a good 11 years before Peter Jackson put it into The Hobbit.
I was seventeen when I wrote the original Pancakes!. Now the story itself has reached the same age; I think of this retelling as a birthday present, to both it and to you.
Namárië, and may your pancakes always meet their mark.
hS
Happy Birthday, Pancakes! {= D
Someday, I'll work up the nerve to try making Swedish pancakes like my grandfather used to. Technically I think they're crepes, but whatever. I haven't had homemade ones for ages and ages. Now I really want some!
I think I might secretly be a Celeborn fangirl? I sort of want to hug him, but I also sort of want to see how many braids I can put in his hair before he notices??
If you want credit for Fainting!Galadriel, I suppose you can have it. Sadly, the filmmakers missed how it was over the top and ridiculous and played for yuks. A subtle nuance, I know...
Anyway, this was a fun ride. I'm really glad you gifted us with all seven remastered chapters. The parody bits are spot on, the comedy is funny, and the silliness is light and sweet as a perfectly cooked pancake dripping with maple syrup. Absolutely delightful.
I spotted one typo this chapter: dishevilled --> dishevelled
Before the spirit of 2003 departs, let us raise our voices and curse the evil responsible together: Damn you, Toey! {X D
~Neshomeh
I was thinking to myself, it's funny that Gimli wasn't included in the main story, and I wonder if hS will change that for the remastered version. I went to have a look at the original, and do you know what I found out? Gimli was literally shafted. If that wasn't deliberate commentary, it should have been, because it's brilliant. Poor Gimli, though. {X D
Re. this chapter, I feel sorry for Celeborn. The poor sleepy darling has no idea what's going on, does he? Here's hoping Galadriel remembers to be nice to him later, when everything settles down and her hair is all better.
Also wondering if this will end up tying in to Ispace again, since it seems there ended up being a link before. Also, Agent!Huinesoron. Does he know about this? ^_^
~Neshomeh
I'm serious, dwarves are the best! They're like a bunch of drunken engineers with gold obsessions.
Okay, that'd not quite accurate of Tolkien dwarves but close enough.
I've just replied to your review in the uploaded chapter (5)5; I missed it while posting (5)6 here, and I don't want to miss you out entirely.
As for the last part of your review... gods, Pancakes! was where Ispace started! I'm not planning on remastering past Chapter 7, so I don't think Liliac and the gang will get involved. Nor will the magnificently flamboyant Huinesoron, sad to say. (Who is not Agent hS; rather, he goes on to be Dr. Huinesoron, the Administrator of OFUDisc. Liliac was very upset when she figured that out. ^_^)
(Is there a story behind them sharing a name? Well, not that either of them have mentioned to me... yet.)
hS
As for what I did write, my FNAF fanfic was broken from the very concept, and while I could rework my Speshul Myth Arc™ into an original story, I don't really want to as it is kind of cringy. As for previous PPC stuff... well, I think I've identified the issue with that. A full two of my agents weren't cha racters so much as vats of mental toxic waste, and had about as much character depth, which is why I struggled to flesh them out. And since they were essentially my main two agents... no wonder my Permission attempt was rejected. Not to mention how much I was trying to shout a "message" from the rooftops.
So, basically, all my old stuff, such as it is, is unworkable.
It seems to me the best way to improve on your past writing would be to write some totally new stuff. It may not fit this challenge, but that's no reason not to do it anyway. {= )
Also, general PSA to everyone reading, because I've seen more of it than I like recently: Try to avoid negative self-talk. The more you do it, the more you reinforce it to yourself and others, and that's no good. That's not to say don't ever feel bad, and it's not to say don't ask for help and support if you need it. Feeling unhappy sometimes is allowed, and asking for help and support is encouraged! Just don't make a habit of cutting yourself down, that's all.
~Neshomeh will be taking her own advice, because the world is just kinda tough to live in right now and it gets to all of us.
I feel like the way I introduced Vania’s memory loss and backstory was pretty blunt and uninteresting. If I could do it all over again, her first meeting with Doc would go a lot more like this, picking up six paragraphs into my spin-off . . . (not betad.) Edit: Linking the original for convenience.
Agent Doc simultaneously stood up and flung himself backwards, bruising himself somewhere he wouldn’t notice until later. He lay there on his elbows, staring at the human hand poking out from the clothes. After a couple of minutes of watching it do nothing, he rolled to his stomach and stood up. It was probably just a model or something. He leaned forward again and poked at a finger.
It was warm. And then the hand reached out and wrapped around his wrist.
For the second time, Doc tried to fling himself backwards out of the closet, but the grip on his right arm was too strong for him to break free. As he wrenched his arm to get it loose, the pile of clothing began twisting around and surging upwards. Another hand appeared and started pushing away generic surface. Then the upper torso of a young woman with long, black hair and a business jacket erupted from underneath the clothing, and she sucked in a deep breath as Doc fell backwards again.
Doc stared at her. The woman stared back. “What?” she asked.
Doc blinked. “Hi,” he said.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“. . . Right. Um.” Doc blinked again. “Who are you?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Yeeeaaaah. Who are you, come to think of it?”
“I’m Doc.”
“Of what?”
“Huh?”
“What are you a doctor of?” she demanded.
“I’m not really a doctor. It’s just a nickname.”
“Hm.” She glowered and stood up out of the pile of junk, raising a fist. “I think I kill you?”
“Wha—no? No!” Doc scooted back a few feet on his palms and heels. “No killing!”
The woman drew one hand across her mouth, murmuring and moving her tongue around inside her mouth. She didn’t seem to like the taste, because she retched a bit. “Just in case,” she finally said, “I think kill.” She charged forward, fists raised above her head.
“No, no, no!” Doc yelled, putting one arm over his face as she drew near. She was pretty short and skinny, but Doc was no fighter. “I’m a PPC agent, I swear!”
The woman froze mid-step. “PPC?” she asked quietly. Her gaze drifted away from Doc’s face and slid across the floor. “PPC, yeah . . .” She sank to the floor and brushed her palm across the floor, the same hard-to-describe not-quite-grey substance Doc had seen everywhere else here. “Yeah, this is . . . our Headquarters . . .” Her gaze continued around the mostly bare room, not really looking at anything.
She was wearing mostly black clothes and had the same flower on her shoulder’s flashpatch that Doc did, so he figured: “You’re an agent too, right?”
“Agent?” She raised one hand and rested it on the patch. “The Hyacinth.” Her features twisted in confusion. “Hyacinth? What does that mean?” Her grimace grew worse as she put both hands to her temples and staggered back a few steps.
Doc slowly began to get up. “Are . . . are you&mdash”
“Shut up! Quiet!” the woman yelled. “Where’s Paul?”
“Who’s Paul?”
Her gaze snapped up to meet Doc’s. “Paul?” she asked. “Who’s Paul?”
Doc blinked again. “You just . . . you’re the one who asked about Paul . . .”
“Well, that doesn’t make much sense, does it?” She started marching on him, frustration in her eyes and voice. “Considering I don’t even know a Paul, and after all, you’re the one who brought him up! So who’s Paul, now?”
“I, I don’t know!”
“Then why are we even talking about him? Ugh!” She flopped down into a bean bag chair, which spit foam pellets out of a seam.
Doc stared at her for a few minutes. She had closed her eyes, though Doc didn’t think she really could have fallen asleep that fast. He ventured, “Sorry, what was your name?”
Her eyes snapped open, and she popped up with a grin and bounce. “Hiya! Name’s Vania Tolluk, Department of Floaters, Protectors of the Plot Continuum. Pleased to meet ya!” She shot out one arm and grabbed Doc’s hand, shaking it enthusiastically. She suddenly stopped moving her arm and frowned. “Do I know you?”
“No, we only just met. I’m a new recruit, and I’ve just been assigned to this response center.”
“Good!” She resumed shaking his hand. “That’s real good! Fine and dandy, yep!”
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
As the monstrous noise shrieked through the air, Doc clutched his ears in pain while Vania ran for the computer that was making it and dramatically hit a big red button. “Sounds like you’ve got your first mission, newbie!” She bent over and started reading the details on the screen.
“Aaauuhh . . . ” Doc whimpered as the noise subsided. “Why is that so loud?”
“I had to turn it up loud. Sometimes, Paul wouldn’t hear it over his games.”
Doc tilted his head. “Okay, so you do know Paul?”
“Paul?” Vania peeked over her shoulder at Doc. “Never heard of him. Is he in this Fahrenheit 451 canon? It’s not one I know.”
Doc sighed. “No, never mind.”
“Focus on the job, newbie! I’ll happily show you the ropes on this mission. If we get through it fast enough, maybe we can beat Paul back from wherever he’s at!”
“Right . . .” Doc joined Vania at the console and started reading the story’s summary . . .
Welp. I think I like this better. I suspect I was afraid of presenting Vania’s condition as too serious back in my early days, to avoid making people think my spin-off was going to be too dark. This definitely changes some things going forward, but I’ve been wanting to fix stuff up for a while, particularly the fact that Vania’s outgoing nature doesn’t jive with her fear of people finding out about her memory loss. I think someday I’ll plug this in and see what changes it produces going forwards.
Neshomeh, thank you for this excuse to revise things and make them better!
—doctorlit, revisionlit
I agree with Nesh - Vania's phasing is intriguing, and could make for some great character interactions. The original, in contrast, gives off an air of 'she got timewarped forward 3 years in a cupboard', which is absolutely not what the new version gives.
That said, her jump to 'I'm going to kill you!' makes her seem rather more edgy than I think you're going for. It has overtones of 'my agent is an UNHINGED PSYCHOPATH who will MURDER YOU for looking at her and EATS BLOOD'. (Selene, get out of my face, I'm writing here.) Like everything else, that can be written well - but it's also a classic Gary-Stu marker for a reason. She gives off completely different vibes to Vania from the original, or to my vague memories of the character.
Of course, you've been around long enough that I know you could carry it off, if that's what you were aiming for, so I'm not concerned. But it is strikingly different.
As you say yourself, Doc is mostly reacting here, so there's not a lot to say; he reads like Doc. Which is good. :)
hS
. . . is because her most recent mental state was of defending herself during the Mary Sue invasion. (Not that she consciously remembers that.) So she has a fight-or-flight response bubbling underneath, but can't quite recall who she's supposed to direct it at, and this unfamiliar guy is in front of her. Note that she initially questions Doc if she's supposed to kill him. So it's definitely not a usual aspect of her personality; once I finish rewriting the rest of that mission, that will hopefully come across better.
Despite Doc being my token blatant author insert, Vania has very much eclipsed him as the main character of my spin-off. I do find it difficult sometimes to give him as much to do and say as Vania . . . I need to keep working on that!
—doctorlit, planning things out as best he can
I haven't re-read the original version yet, so I'm starting out just by talking about the rewrite. I dig it! It introduces a lot of interesting questions about Vania, but also about Doc. He's strangely non-reactive to all the strangeness happening in front of him. Not completely, but just enough to make you wonder what his deal is. He throws himself away from danger, but doesn't cry out; he asks questions about Vania and she confuses him, but he seems to take it more or less in stride. He's not unsettled enough to object to going on the mission with her, at least.
As for Vania, I am very intrigued by the way she snaps in and out of phase, so to speak, and I'd love to know why she can talk about Paul but fails to recognize his name when Doc says it. Very strange! And I definitely don't think it's too dark. I think it rides that line between light enough to be fun and serious enough to have depth very well.
{some minutes later}
So, the older version also does the job of hinting at strange things afoot, but I don't think it does quite as well at drawing me in and making me curious to learn more. Definite improvement. Good job! {= D
~Neshomeh
I'll definitely need to expand on Doc's reactions a bit; I didn't mean for him to be that laid back about it. I think I just got more focused on Vania while writing . . .
—doctorlit, excited to write more, if he finds the time
I have a lot of old cringeworthy stuff from a couple of years ago - I'm not touching that Warriors fic with a ten-foot pole, but there's a lot of original stuff I could dig up...
This monstrosity from just over two years ago (thankfully never published; I cut a bit off the end to make it work as a standalone instead of the longer work it was going to be) No title because I'm terrible with titles and this was never really developed enough to give me ideas.
Millie Kent sat in her final lesson of the day, History (extremely boring; all about how wicked Lord Darkness’s enemies were), clock-watching and wondering, for the hundredth time that week, why she was never allowed to sit next to her friends.
Perhaps it was because Mr Johnson, the deputy head, didn’t like her – and it was he who allocated the seating arrangements.
She certainly didn’t know why he hated her so much – she had heard some rumour of a grudge against her father, but Isaac Kent would never have deliberately hurt anyone’s feelings.
But that was irrelevant – one minute to go…
As the teacher began listing homework, one of the Prefects strolled nonchalantly in, not needing to knock.
In this school, one Prefect was always on duty near the Head’s Office to fetch students or teachers they needed. Millie had put her name forward for the honour of becoming a Prefect, but had been refused.
That was yet another problem with the Deputy Head having a mysterious grudge on her father.
“Millie Kent to Head Office, please.”
She was puzzled by this – although the Head was famously strict, Millie couldn’t think of anything she had done wrong.
“I expect you are wondering why you have been called here, Kent?”
Millie winced at the old-fashioned custom, which she hated, of referring to pupils by their surnames; but she said nothing, and instead nodded.
“Lord Darkness has asked me to select, from the pupils of this school, a companion for his daughter Laura. I have chosen you.”
“But… why? Sir,” she hastily added.
“I think you are a reasonably sensible girl who knows authority when she sees it.”
Millie was stunned by this – the Head was famous for never paying compliments, among other strictnesses.
But she was even more stunned by the idea of being a companion to Lord Darkness’s daughter.
“Suppose – supposing I refused to go, sir?”
He took a moment before he responded, weighing his words carefully.
“I believe your father does part-time secretarial work?”
Casual and irrelevant as the words would seem to an outside observer, Millie shivered with fear.
Her father did indeed do part-time secretarial work. The problem was that some of his customers were dodgy characters, by the sound of things – even secret agents – and if anyone working for Lord Darkness ever got to know of it…
Millie had decided long ago not to think of what would happen then.
Her father wasn’t doing any of this stuff, he had reassured her; in fact, he was only involved in it at all because these people paid him twice the going rate for secretarial work, and he needed money: Millie was the eldest of five children and their mother was long since dead. He had to use this secretarial work to supplement the meagre income from his little newsagent’s shop.
“I just do what I’m told to do, take my money and leave. That’s all, Millie, I swear it’s all.”
And now here was the Head bringing up this matter in what was clearly a threat.
Millie couldn’t possibly let that happen.
“I’m afraid I fail to see the relevance of that to this topic, sir,” she blurted, “but of course I do not mean to refuse this offer – I merely wondered what would happen if I did, sir, but my father… may not grant me permission, I’m afraid, sir.”
The Head smiled a little.
“I am sure that your father won’t refuse, Kent. You may go – in fact,” he went on, glancing at his watch, “you may as well go home – there is only a minute left of lessons. Tell your father that Lord Darkness will send a carriage to your home tomorrow after school.”
Millie dipped her head.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, turning and leaving, suddenly realising that her legs were trembling.
She reached the playground a fraction of a second before the rest of her class.
She knew what she had to do – collect her younger sister, Lizzie, from her first year class – the other three were still in primary school. Her father was too busy to walk her home, so since the age of ten, Millie had gone home with Sarah and Claire next door.
The girls all walked home in bunches – Millie was with most of her third-year class as well as Lizzie and a few other younger siblings.
“What did the Head want?” asked Scarlet, her best friend.
Millie looked suggestively at Lizzie.
“Not here, Scarlet. Tomorrow in the tree.”
Scarlet and Millie had long since discovered the secret of the hollow oak in the corner of the playground, and they used it for secret conversations.
If this isn’t secret, thought Millie, then I don’t know what is!
The bunch of girls passed the primary school and a large crowd of other children came dashing out.
Millie looked for the other three siblings – Jack, aged ten and nearly old enough to go to the boys’ school over the road; Clara, aged seven but somehow expert at guessing how people felt; and little Ruby, who had only just started school.
Five years old.
Five years since Mother died.
Don’t think about it!
They all clustered around Millie and Lizzie and Scarlet, who was lucky enough to be an only child and had no siblings to pester her.
“Are you alright, Millie,” asked Clara, “you seem quieter than normal!”
“Maybe she’s in love,” suggested Jack.
“Yes!” cried Lizzie, who loved everything romantic, “Millie’s in love! Who’s the lucky boy, Millie? Do tell me!”
But Millie shook her head.
“No, I’m not in love,” she said.
“You seem… nervous. Yes, that’s it. You’re nervous. You’ve been offered some new opportunity and you can’t decide whether to take it.”
Clara really was uncannily perceptive.
“Correct as always, Clara.”
There followed a clamour of questions.
Millie knew she couldn’t tell any of them the truth.
“Oh – I’ve been offered… a music scholarship. Someone cancelled at the last moment because their mother was ill and they had to stay at home and look after them – I’ve been asked to take their place – very short notice – I’m leaving tomorrow if I accept.”
Millie tried to shake off the delighted comments – “Oh, you should, really, I think you’ll be fabulous” and the like – and at the same time communicate to Scarlet that she was lying. It wasn’t easy.
But she allowed herself to be “persuaded” to take up the scholarship offer – “only if Father lets me – you know he’d find it very hard without me to help him in the shop…”
Lizzie volunteered for that honour: “Oh! Let me, let me, I’m old enough now…”
And then they were home. Millie unlocked the door and called, “Father! We’re home!” adding to her siblings, “now I’m going to talk to Father about the scholarship – don’t disturb us, please,” removed her shoes and went to Father’s study.
“What is it, Millie dear?”
He was busy.
“Father, my siblings think I’ve come to talk to you about a music scholarship, but I lied – I made that up –“
He looked startled – Isaac Kent had brought his children up never to lie – but Millie pressed on.
“Here’s what really happened – oh, Father, I’m so frightened…”
And she told him the whole story. She ended by saying: “I hope I did right, but I didn’t really feel I had a choice…”
“Millie,” he said, “my darling Millie, you poor girl, I hope I can burden you with the truth. They blackmailed you by threatening me, but when you are at Darkness Castle they will do the exact opposite – if I don’t do what they say they’ll kill you – and they would, too. And they’ll make me spy – there’s a lot of important information passing through my hands, and I’ll have to give it all to them – “
Then Millie was truly terrified.
“But father – what will we do?”
“The only thing we can do is leave.”
So the next morning, Millie found herself taking a note to the Head.
In it was the following:
Dear Mr Brown,
I am sorry to inform you that I and my four youngest children have been taken ill. As Millie has already had the disease in question, there is no risk of infection. I ask that you do not oblige her to attend school today as I need her to look after the five of us and finish packing. Thank you.
Yours sincerely,
Isaac Kent.
This letter was, of course, a lie. None of them were at all ill.
Millie hurried home to prepare for all the packing.
The next few hours were hectic – throwing things into boxes, preparing them to be loaded onto the wagon which was due to take them out of the country.
Finally, half an hour before the wagon was due, they were ready.
Millie went over to the other children, all of whom believed this frantic packing was for a holiday – Father had said he’d “completely forgotten about it” – he was sometimes rather absent-minded, so that wasn’t too unusual, luckily.
“Are you nearly ready?”
They all nodded, clutching bags containing their favourite toys excitedly.
“Why do we need to take the saucepan on holiday?” asked Lizzie.
“Oh… err… The place we’re staying is self-catering, so Father thought it best to take them just in case.”
Clara asked to speak to Millie alone.
Tucked into the small bathroom, Millie waited.
“You’re lying.”
Millie blinked. She was used to Clara’s ‘sixth sense’ by now, but it still surprised her very often.
“About what?” she asked.
“The holiday. We’re not coming home, are we? Oh, and you also lied about the music scholarship.”
Millie didn’t know what to say.
“Go and ask Father,” she choked out, “I’m a bit busy!”
She returned to the others.
“I’m bored!” said Ruby. “Tell me a story, Millie!”
Millie thought quickly.
“Once upon a time, there was a girl called… um… Tamsin and she had two little siblings and a twin brother…”
She scraped along in this ridiculous manner for twenty minutes, and then the doorbell rang. Millie seized the opportunity to escape.
“That’ll be the wagon,” she said, “I’d better go and let the man in.”
She hurried to the door and opened it.
It wasn’t the wagon.
Instead there were two men dressed in what even Millie could recognise as the uniform of Lord Darkness’s footmen.
“Millie Kent?” one of them asked.
“Yes, that’s me. I’ll just go and say goodbye to my family, then I’ll be with you.”
She dashed back.
“Ruby, the scholarship people are here!”
Lizzie and Jack crowded round – Clara must have followed her advice and spoken to Father.
“I’ll write to you every week with the next instalment of the story – I’ll write to all three of you! Goodbye! See you soon!”
Every word felt terrible – she knew she would never come back to this house, and she might never make it to the new house in another country. She knocked on the door of Father’s study.
“Father – they’re here – Lord Darkness’s men – I have to go!”
He gasped – he knew more than the others that he might never see his daughter again.
“Goodbye, Millie. Write often.”
She sighed.
“I will, Father. And Clara? Promise me you won’t worry about me. Ever.”
Clara stared back up at her with her little beady eyes.
“I promise, Millie. And I will see you again.”
Millie turned and left, struggling not to cry.
She picked up her heavy trunk and carried it downstairs.
“I’m ready,” she said, and climbed into the waiting coach.
As it began to move, Millie saw the wagon arrive and her family running out and loading things onto it. She felt a powerful, heart-wrenching urge to dash back and leap up onto the wagon and refuse to move. But she couldn’t do that.
...yeah, ouch. My twelve-year-old self had a complete lack of subtlety and any decent description, and that's just for starters. This is going to be interesting.
I accept.
The material? A short story I wrote in middle school when I still believed in Latin.
Wish me luck...
Actually I don't have so many.
Although I am tempted to rewrite the technically-not-published story that was Thoth's very first appearance, before I joined the PPC.
There's... a lot wrong with that one.
Truth be told, I'd love to see more of pre-PPC Thoth at full power.
Which is to say, I'm currently looking through my oldest fic, and will likely rewrite a bit of it if I find a good candidate. So far, I've decided that my Warriors/Gregor and the Underlanders/whatever the heck else made it in there crossover is not the one; I don't remember Warriors canon too well anymore, and this story is wild. Odds are it'll be a Harry Potter fic, unless a LotR fic written before I knew the canon too well works out... (Yup, I did that. I was getting plotbunnies upon plotbunnies, so I decided to write a couple of them out for myself and just not post them, which I stuck to. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I ever did really go back to see how much I got wrong for a laugh...not recently, anyway...)
So, yeah, we'll see how this goes. I expect an HP fic will get chosen in the end; there are a ton of them, and I remember the canon pretty well still. I also rewrote a small piece of a scene from one of them some months ago, so I know it can work.
ETA: On second thought (that is, upon more searching), I'm probably going to go for a Star Trek fic unless an HP one catches my fancy more when I go through them. Also, here's a quote from the LotR Mary-Sue parody fic I used a chapter of for my Permission request and don't want to rewrite:
“Your brother?” Teresa twisted around to look at him, and found herself fixing the neck of a gold-embroidered sleeveless maroon garment with an incredulous look. How tall was he?
Because, really, why not share a line I like while looking for something to rewrite?
ETA 2: Star Trek it is. While a bunch of the other fic makes me cringe, it kind of makes me cringe too much. I also still feel more enthusiastic about/invested in the Star Trek one's story, and remember a lot more of what I wanted to do with it, so it seems like the best option. This should be interesting.
~Z
... to do the first chapter of Pancakes! .
I shall see whether I can resist.
(As my first published fanfic, it does have a certain aptness to it...)
hS