I was a taller girl too, once. (regala_electra) wrote,
I was a taller girl too, once.

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I should be dancing.

Well, actually, I should be *writing.*

So here it is, an actual post about my fanfic woes, the highs, the lows, and the fics I will never, ever finish. Ever.

In Progress:
Just Passing Through (Yellow Brick Roads) - A Faith story told in first person, set after "Orpheus." Main pairing is Faith/Wesley. Faith has so far been a very difficult character to write for and the Horrible Accident has delayed the story, even though it isn't going to be that long, size-wise.

Alma redemptoris - A Lana story (of Smallville). Yes I know. I am not a fan of Lana. I in fact, cannot stand her. But I think my idea is kind of neat and it's dark, so it's fun but I haven't had much time to finish it up and I'm still polishing the narrative. I'm also having a couple of characterization issues, but they can be ironed out.

Fics That I Abadoned:

Betrayer Vignettes and the sequel, Sanguine - Okay, so I did put up a lame version of Absence of Solace, the Buffy/Wesley futurefic vignette. I'm just not happy with the finished product, mainly because it's extrodinarily depressing and I think the writing could've been a little tighter.

But the other two, Dies Irae, the Angel vignette, and the Buffy vignette (untitled) are not done and will never be done. I've basically lost the plot, the story, and the characters I was writing.

Snippet from Dies Irae:
“We have to…”

“Kill them.” She had a bland edge to her voice. A warrior aged by the world, who had seen it all and could never be surprised. Or happy. She continued, the authority clear in her voice, “I know the drill. Now tell me how to get rid of them.”

“How,” he began, a hesitant pause, too afraid of what she would say next, he wasn’t supposed to ask this, “How are you?”

He tried to ignore the smell of decayed earth and ripe blood on her paled skin as she stood close to him, the deathly mist casting a strange pallor on her body.

He did not ignore the smell of another on her skin. She never told him, but he knew.

And he would never ask.

Sanguine however, is something I sorely wanted to write. I actually had the plotbunny WAY before Betrayer was even dreamed up and I was dying to try it out. A futurefic, a "going back to the past and messing it up completely" story, and it was going to be gloriously messy and just freakin' fun. Alas, the idea was there, but the words simply wouldn't come.

in media res - I can't believe I didn't finish this one. S7 if everything went really bad. *Evil* Buffy, whipped!Spike, hard, nasty, *dark* B/S, desparate Scoobies, despair, and man, oh man. If only, because I even developed a really funky time-frame to tell the story.

It is a story about power.

Fic: in medias res
Author: Regala Electra
E-mail: regala_electra@yahoo.com
Rating: R/NC-17
Timeline: Set in S7, after Sleeper, spinning violently AU from the BtVS-verse
Pairings: B/S, W/T, X/A, B/Others
Summary: It’s about power. From beneath us, she devours.
Author’s Notes: Story is divided into past/present storytelling, *the before* is where the fic slowly deviates from Sleeper, *the now* is futurefic, and where the main storyline is taking place.

* The Now

Let me show you the world…

She runs.

This is all she can do, foot follows another, ‘oh god, help me mother’, she mouths yet does not say. Flames lick the wooden planks of the old staircase, but the girl persists, runs up in the house, past the door inside, there is a word for this.


Safe means something else now. Safe does not mean slumber parties with hot popcorn (popped into mouths by greedy hands already sticky with chocolate snuck in; she’s not supposed to have it, but she and her friends giggle as they sit down with the stolen chocolate bars, the blue glow of the TV beaming out their favorite video).

Safe once meant going only around the block on her bicycle, she had training wheels back then because she wasn’t ready to ride on a two-wheel, she stayed to the block because she couldn’t cross the street by herself.

She is all alone now.

Rushing to the second floor of the battered house, she moans out loud when she finds the door is locked. Her only escape (the only way to get out of this nightmare) blocked. Slamming her weight (so frail, so frail, the sing-song voice of the pale man reminds) against the locked door at the top of the stairway, the door cracks open, just enough, just enough.

Entering, the girl slumps to the floor of the room, the door creaking back to a close as she sits. There is no way out.

A single window, dusty with a dark sheen on the panes, is covered over with dark heavy stripes. Gray metal bars. It is useless to rip open the bars, to scream for her salvation, yet that does not stop her.

They couldn’t have lied to her, she has to escape, she knows that there is no time; she needs to get out now, now, now.

Her fingers are cracked and bloody when it comes.

She is beautiful, that much is clear in the murk and dank as the charred-burned smoke from the first floor of the house wafts up casting a grim light. And the girl is terrified.

Unlike the worn and dirty clothes of the girl, ragged by running and sleepless nights, this woman, this creature, wears a simple pure white blouse, long sleeved, and crisp black pants flowing loosely to the tips of heeled black boots. Though petite, she is imposing in ways the girl has learned the hard way, one hand on her hip as she stands relaxed, shutting the door again as she leans back.

She clutches a neatly whittled piece of wood in her hand. Seeing that, the girl lets out a startled sob.

Not yet, not yet, not yet, she chokes back, fearful of letting out the words.

“Please,” the girl whimpers. “I won’t tell anyone. Please!”

“It’s my duty to make the world a better place,” the woman gently intones, the pride clear in her voice as her free hand goes up to play with a bright silver cross laying neatly on her chest. “I can’t risk anything. You’ll try to stop me. Try to warn others. You know my name. My identity. It’ll be okay sweetie. It won’t hurt. I can make it not hurt. Promise.”

She sounds so gentle and reassuring that the girl wants to, for just a small moment, to believe the lie. But then she wouldn’t be sitting with bleeding hands in a burning house if anything this woman said was true.

A cruel, cold hand reaches to the girl’s cheek; she surprises them both as she hits the hand away, mustering a vaguely threatening, “Get away from me…you monster!”

A small, child-like pout, then the women replies, “I am more human than any of you weak, pitiful fools! Better than all of you! I’m no longer weak.”

The stake easily punctures skin and flesh, striking the heart with perfect precision. The young girl catches the steady cold stare of the Slayer and gasps out as she feels herself warm, cold darkness, now, not now, safe, popcorn under the blanket and no more monsters to fear dying, “It has devoured…Buffy.”

That is not her thought. She did not think it.

She thinks of nothing else.

Buffy smiles, red-red lips spreading wide as the blossoming scarlet stain seeps quickly across the girl’s chest.

Petting the soft hair, matted down by weary nights and days, forgotten and unimportant, she whispers, “It’s not about them anymore, Kit. It’s about me.”

Turning around, she fiddles with the bloodied stake in her hand. As she surveys the room, she commands to the pale vampire, his face terrible by the flames now burning in the doorway, “Carry her. We’ll have to jump out the window.”

“It took you long enough,” he grumbles slightly, the smell of fresh blood pre-occupying him, nevertheless picking up the slim corpse.

“Spike, I can kill you. Happily. The only reason you’re living-”

“I know,” he snaps, voice softening as he chances a look at the anger on the Slayer’s face. “I. Sorry about that.”

Ripping off the bars with far too much ease, she murmurs, “No trouble at all. Come on, we have a message to send.”

He nods slightly, humming his soft tune, “How could you treat a fair maiden so?”

See how much I suck? I have more fic ideas, more plans, but these are basically the ones at the top of the list, shaming me as I should have completed them a long time ago.

For Betrayer, I now am glad that I didn't write a sequel, because I worry that the second story wouldn't be as good as the original. I mean, I *love* how Betrayer finally ended, especially the way in which I wrote it and all the help I got from my friends (especially the lovely Miss Jennem and the excellent beta by Jen, which isn't actually up at Starkitty's site, but if I ever stop being a lazy jerk, totally would be).

Also, I like that it doesn't end all fluffy and that it ends with a jagged cut. Wesley walks off, off of the game of life's chess game, no longer a pawn, a man of his own choices. Lilah is left standing with nothing, Buffy's found something she's calling hope (even though it's not that, not even close), Angel's going overboard into the mission and he's totally lost it, and everyone else is in dire straights.

And that's all there is, folks. I was very pleased by that ending.

Sheesh, will all the time I spend on not-writing, I could have several epics done by now. This is me as a writer: eternal slacker.

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