And lo, the first part of Sam and Fluffy's story comes to an end... except it doesn't really.
In which we continue with the beginning, but there may now be a plot. Sneaky things, those plots!
In which we begin at the beginning!
‘Verse: Tales of the Drunken Unicorn
Length/Rating: 100 words, PG, Gen
Summary: They’re wolves that would be men. (or: Why I need yet another type of werewolf– Because reasons.)
“I have no idea what I was thinking,” the Writer said as she looked over the story notes for Three Tequila, Floor. “This doesn’t make sense at all.”
“That seems pretty par for the course with your writing,” pointed out Terry as the dhampir resigned himself to appearing in the MuseFic. “I suppose this means I have to help untangle the plotlines.” He moved so he could read over the Writer’s shoulder.
There was a long pause.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. I thought you said you had an outline.”
(Ye Olde MuseFic follows, sussing out motivations and plot holes– thus Spoilers Ahead!)
“I’m seriously considering just giving up on you.” Sam groused from the couch, as the fictive pulled out another beer from the interdimensional cracks between the cushions. She was still wearing her default hoodie, even though it was summer and sane people would have moved on to t-shirts. It was hard to lurk in t-shirts, so she just settled for the thinnest hoodie she could manage.
“You know it takes me forever to finish anything,” the Writer said without looking up from her keyboard. Over the years she’d gotten used to the magical (and semi-sentient) nature of her couch. “But I’m working on the whole motivation thing, see? Zombies!”
“The only reason you finished the draft of Inheritance was because you promised to send the draft to someone else.” Sam settled back into the couch with a professional-level sprawl. Her hair was having trouble figuring out what color it wanted to be, so it was slowly cycling through all the Manic Panic hair dyes. “It’s been ten years. We’ve got an outline. Gimme some promises.”
“I promise I’ll work on it?” The Writer offered hopefully.
“You hate me,” the fictive accused as she dropped onto the far end of the sofa, giving her Author a perturbed glare. “Admit it.”
“Will not,” the Author harrumphed, “I like you just as much as any of the rest—I’m just distracted is all.” She moved her laptop cord as Sam swung her feet up onto the coffee table. “Just ask Meg how long it took me to finish The Wolves We Are.”
“Which was supposed to be a learning experience,” Sam leaned over to try and see the laptop screen and the Author snapped it shut in annoyance. “Heck, you aren’t even working on Script Frenzy, so that excuse’s out the window.” (more…)
Wordcount: 1,006 words
Summary: Spring semester is drawing to a close and nothing compliments finals as well as Approaching Doom™
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