Old writing fragments, drabble for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lucathia_rykatu
May. 15th, 2005 06:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tarigwaemir[written earlier at library, posted later from room]
Lamont Library, on the Feast of Ste. Dymphna
I'm currently in Lamont, writing up my part of the study sheets we're compiling for the cell biology final. (I love having an all-science blocking group that always takes nearly all the same courses as me. ^_^) I've been listening to anime music to keep myself awake. Since I don't understand the lyrics, it doesn't distract me the way Korean or English music would. Right now, iTunes is playing the OST for the third Prince of Tennis musical, and Oishi has just called Kikumaru his "soul brother" in Engrish. I kid you not. "Soul brother"--as if the "depend on me" chorus wasn't enough.
I got up at 6:30 this morning to go to the early morning Mass and then to Lamont so I could get an early start on studying (I tend to be less efficient if I don't start in the morning), but I was so sleepy by the time I got to the library that I spent three hours in various stages of dozing off. Then I sat around for an hour rereading the old writing fragments I had saved on this iBook (way back from senior year of high school). They weren't quite as bad as I remembered. Maybe I'll even try to finish those two Hikaru no Go stories someday, although I have no idea where I'd intended to take the story. >_> I also liked this snippet from an attempt at retelling the Weaver and the Cowherd folktale, although I think it takes itself too seriously. It would work better if it was exaggerated into a parody, I think.
untitled
She served in the Pavilion of the Summer Typhoons. Every morning, dressed in layers of grey and silver silk, she knelt at one of the great ivory looms and threaded her shuttle with a strong, swift gale. It blew and rustled the long chains of raindrops, which formed the delicate warp, and water splashed uneasily against her thin, long hands as she rapidly slid the wind-wrapped shuttle across the loom. Back and forth, and barely a touch with the golden comb to keep the wind in place, for the weave of a storm was loose and light, as thin as spiderwebs, as long as the hair of the Sky-King's Consort. Yet when the bolts of rain-silk were thrust down from the heavens by the cloud-maidens, they fell heavily like blades on the parched earth, the water-warp beating furrows and puddles of mud into the soil, the wind-weft snapping branches off the great trees. From these slender, transparent strands slipping, gliding through her pale fingers, she was weaving the summer monsoon, the storm which rages out of nowhere and floods the mountainsides for days, the storm which sweeps the earth clean and disappears as suddenly as it arrived--the /changma/, the long, long rain.
She was one of many weavers in this palace wing, under the eye of Second Aunt, who could spin and weave faster than anyone in the palace, so quickly that the thread was but a glimmer of light streaking through her smooth, callused fingers. Kaesong's hands were also callused, though still too soft and tender from inexperience. She rubbed the tips of her fingers against the embroidered silk of her skirts. Her hands were red and chafed, her long nails chipped and cracking. She had been weaving storms in the Pavilion of the Summer Typhoons for only two years, a blink of an eye compared to Second Aunt who had been watching over the weavers for centuries. Kaesong thought wistfully sometimes of her mother's palace wing, where she had played in the inner gardens attended by servants who followed after her with large fans to shade her pale face from the bright sun. But she was no longer a child, and her small skill at weaving had won her a coveted place in the Pavilion, under the careful eye of Second Aunt, who watched her nieces most carefully indeed.
So mornings she spent kneeling before the ivory loom, in the open air of the pavilion, surrounded by bowls of azalea blossoms and the sound of magpies chattering on the roof. Black feathers floated down occasionally into her skirts, as the birds fluttered about the rafters, paying visits to one another's nests. She placed them against the pins in her hair, the feathers curving like miniature fans across her smooth black hair. The girls around her whispered, "Cousin Kaesong will marry a magpie one day," and laughed behind their looms. They kept their laughter quiet, however, for Second Aunt disapproved of chattering when there was work to be done. Kaesong heard the whispers and frowned behind her loom.
Afternoons she spent in the Inner Palace, waiting on her grandmother, Third Concubine to the Sky-King himself. Every fifth day, Grandmother would ask her to play the /kayageum/, and she would stumble to her feet and kneel down in the center of the floor, where the instrument waited. She hated hearing herself play, her fingers splaying over the strings ungracefully as she broke through the hushed murmurs in the room with loud twangs. She would wince as she finished with the final chord and bowed low, dreading to see the look of disappointment on her grandmother's face. Cousin Dasong would smile behind her fan, which bore the characters for melody and virtue. She, of course, had never failed to perform beautifully. Kaesong often imagined tearing that fan to pieces, snapping each bamboo spine into splinters beneath her feet.
TBC?
For some reason, I like the last line. Maybe because the thought of snapping something into pieces really appeals to me at the moment. (Ah, reading period, how you bring out my violent side!) Anyway, that's how I wrote two years ago. I can't tell if I've actually improved at all since then--improvement requires practice after all. >_<
But where did I come up with these names? Kaesong? I think that's actually the Koryo dynasty capital...how ridiculous. I should have stuck to something like Fifty-eighth Imperial Granddaughter, or something along those lines. I didn't want to use Jiknyeo because it romanizes oddly, and besides, it's not much of a name (it literally means "weaver maiden", if I remember correctly).
Anyway, after reading that, I had yet another fit of inconvenient inspiration and wrote the Atobe/An drabble thatlucathia_rykatu asked for in the request meme. Isn't it ironic and appropriate that I normally have no inspiration to write when I don't have anything pressing to do (like during intersemester break), but when I have four finals to study for, I start writing spontaneously and indiscriminately? I don't think I've posted up fic so frequently in the entirety of my LJ career.
Anyway, the following drabble is really short and a tad awkward, but in any case, it was the only scenario where I could imagine Atobe and An together.
The Bet, written forlucathia_rykatu
"/What/ did you say?"
"I'll go out with you on the day I beat you in a tennis match," An repeated cheerfully, plucking the strings of her racket with a loud /twang/.
Atobe gaped. It made him look rather stupid, An noted to herself with a critical glance. He asked plaintively, "But shouldn't it be the other way around?"
"That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" An smiled.
He took a breath, trying to recover his usual composure. The /nerve/ of the girl! Setting /conditions/, after /he/ had finally condescended to inform her that she would be permitted to accompany him on a date! He'd even phrased it as a question, in an uncharacteristic show of consideration for her feelings. Any /normal/ female would have fallen at his feet in an instant, overwhelmed by the honor.
At least she had enough tact to admit that he was better at tennis, he thought grumpily. He'd been beginning to think that her arrogance had no limits. But then again, if she were like other girls, she wouldn't be worthy of his notice.
He decided to make best of the situation. "Very well then. I will allow you to play a match against me everyday until you defeat me. Five o' clock on schooldays, noon on weekends."
"Every /day/? Wait, Atobe--"
"I won't tolerate lateness," he snapped, as he turned to leave. "Kabaji, my bag and jacket!" He tossed his head as he sauntered off the courts.
An held her breath until he was out of sight, then burst into peals of laughter.
END
I think that's the first Prince of Tennis fic I've ever finished that didn't involve Shinji in some way or the other. Why do I feel like such a traitor? But An is from Fudoumine at least. ::whistles Meg's "Fudoumine, O Fudoumine" anthem:: ^_^
All right, back to cell adhesion! (Do you know that this is the fourth time I am covering this material? First time in lecture, second time in section, third time in review, and now for the study sheet. I feel like the raw information is sitting in my mind as a huge jumbled mess, and despite my attempts at organization, it refuses to untangle. Catenins and cadherins and integrins and selectins and fibronectins...argh!)
Yours &c.
Lamont Library, on the Feast of Ste. Dymphna
I'm currently in Lamont, writing up my part of the study sheets we're compiling for the cell biology final. (I love having an all-science blocking group that always takes nearly all the same courses as me. ^_^) I've been listening to anime music to keep myself awake. Since I don't understand the lyrics, it doesn't distract me the way Korean or English music would. Right now, iTunes is playing the OST for the third Prince of Tennis musical, and Oishi has just called Kikumaru his "soul brother" in Engrish. I kid you not. "Soul brother"--as if the "depend on me" chorus wasn't enough.
I got up at 6:30 this morning to go to the early morning Mass and then to Lamont so I could get an early start on studying (I tend to be less efficient if I don't start in the morning), but I was so sleepy by the time I got to the library that I spent three hours in various stages of dozing off. Then I sat around for an hour rereading the old writing fragments I had saved on this iBook (way back from senior year of high school). They weren't quite as bad as I remembered. Maybe I'll even try to finish those two Hikaru no Go stories someday, although I have no idea where I'd intended to take the story. >_> I also liked this snippet from an attempt at retelling the Weaver and the Cowherd folktale, although I think it takes itself too seriously. It would work better if it was exaggerated into a parody, I think.
untitled
She served in the Pavilion of the Summer Typhoons. Every morning, dressed in layers of grey and silver silk, she knelt at one of the great ivory looms and threaded her shuttle with a strong, swift gale. It blew and rustled the long chains of raindrops, which formed the delicate warp, and water splashed uneasily against her thin, long hands as she rapidly slid the wind-wrapped shuttle across the loom. Back and forth, and barely a touch with the golden comb to keep the wind in place, for the weave of a storm was loose and light, as thin as spiderwebs, as long as the hair of the Sky-King's Consort. Yet when the bolts of rain-silk were thrust down from the heavens by the cloud-maidens, they fell heavily like blades on the parched earth, the water-warp beating furrows and puddles of mud into the soil, the wind-weft snapping branches off the great trees. From these slender, transparent strands slipping, gliding through her pale fingers, she was weaving the summer monsoon, the storm which rages out of nowhere and floods the mountainsides for days, the storm which sweeps the earth clean and disappears as suddenly as it arrived--the /changma/, the long, long rain.
She was one of many weavers in this palace wing, under the eye of Second Aunt, who could spin and weave faster than anyone in the palace, so quickly that the thread was but a glimmer of light streaking through her smooth, callused fingers. Kaesong's hands were also callused, though still too soft and tender from inexperience. She rubbed the tips of her fingers against the embroidered silk of her skirts. Her hands were red and chafed, her long nails chipped and cracking. She had been weaving storms in the Pavilion of the Summer Typhoons for only two years, a blink of an eye compared to Second Aunt who had been watching over the weavers for centuries. Kaesong thought wistfully sometimes of her mother's palace wing, where she had played in the inner gardens attended by servants who followed after her with large fans to shade her pale face from the bright sun. But she was no longer a child, and her small skill at weaving had won her a coveted place in the Pavilion, under the careful eye of Second Aunt, who watched her nieces most carefully indeed.
So mornings she spent kneeling before the ivory loom, in the open air of the pavilion, surrounded by bowls of azalea blossoms and the sound of magpies chattering on the roof. Black feathers floated down occasionally into her skirts, as the birds fluttered about the rafters, paying visits to one another's nests. She placed them against the pins in her hair, the feathers curving like miniature fans across her smooth black hair. The girls around her whispered, "Cousin Kaesong will marry a magpie one day," and laughed behind their looms. They kept their laughter quiet, however, for Second Aunt disapproved of chattering when there was work to be done. Kaesong heard the whispers and frowned behind her loom.
Afternoons she spent in the Inner Palace, waiting on her grandmother, Third Concubine to the Sky-King himself. Every fifth day, Grandmother would ask her to play the /kayageum/, and she would stumble to her feet and kneel down in the center of the floor, where the instrument waited. She hated hearing herself play, her fingers splaying over the strings ungracefully as she broke through the hushed murmurs in the room with loud twangs. She would wince as she finished with the final chord and bowed low, dreading to see the look of disappointment on her grandmother's face. Cousin Dasong would smile behind her fan, which bore the characters for melody and virtue. She, of course, had never failed to perform beautifully. Kaesong often imagined tearing that fan to pieces, snapping each bamboo spine into splinters beneath her feet.
TBC?
For some reason, I like the last line. Maybe because the thought of snapping something into pieces really appeals to me at the moment. (Ah, reading period, how you bring out my violent side!) Anyway, that's how I wrote two years ago. I can't tell if I've actually improved at all since then--improvement requires practice after all. >_<
But where did I come up with these names? Kaesong? I think that's actually the Koryo dynasty capital...how ridiculous. I should have stuck to something like Fifty-eighth Imperial Granddaughter, or something along those lines. I didn't want to use Jiknyeo because it romanizes oddly, and besides, it's not much of a name (it literally means "weaver maiden", if I remember correctly).
Anyway, after reading that, I had yet another fit of inconvenient inspiration and wrote the Atobe/An drabble that
lucathia_rykatu asked for in the request meme. Isn't it ironic and appropriate that I normally have no inspiration to write when I don't have anything pressing to do (like during intersemester break), but when I have four finals to study for, I start writing spontaneously and indiscriminately? I don't think I've posted up fic so frequently in the entirety of my LJ career.Anyway, the following drabble is really short and a tad awkward, but in any case, it was the only scenario where I could imagine Atobe and An together.
The Bet, written for
lucathia_rykatu"/What/ did you say?"
"I'll go out with you on the day I beat you in a tennis match," An repeated cheerfully, plucking the strings of her racket with a loud /twang/.
Atobe gaped. It made him look rather stupid, An noted to herself with a critical glance. He asked plaintively, "But shouldn't it be the other way around?"
"That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" An smiled.
He took a breath, trying to recover his usual composure. The /nerve/ of the girl! Setting /conditions/, after /he/ had finally condescended to inform her that she would be permitted to accompany him on a date! He'd even phrased it as a question, in an uncharacteristic show of consideration for her feelings. Any /normal/ female would have fallen at his feet in an instant, overwhelmed by the honor.
At least she had enough tact to admit that he was better at tennis, he thought grumpily. He'd been beginning to think that her arrogance had no limits. But then again, if she were like other girls, she wouldn't be worthy of his notice.
He decided to make best of the situation. "Very well then. I will allow you to play a match against me everyday until you defeat me. Five o' clock on schooldays, noon on weekends."
"Every /day/? Wait, Atobe--"
"I won't tolerate lateness," he snapped, as he turned to leave. "Kabaji, my bag and jacket!" He tossed his head as he sauntered off the courts.
An held her breath until he was out of sight, then burst into peals of laughter.
END
I think that's the first Prince of Tennis fic I've ever finished that didn't involve Shinji in some way or the other. Why do I feel like such a traitor? But An is from Fudoumine at least. ::whistles Meg's "Fudoumine, O Fudoumine" anthem:: ^_^
All right, back to cell adhesion! (Do you know that this is the fourth time I am covering this material? First time in lecture, second time in section, third time in review, and now for the study sheet. I feel like the raw information is sitting in my mind as a huge jumbled mess, and despite my attempts at organization, it refuses to untangle. Catenins and cadherins and integrins and selectins and fibronectins...argh!)
Yours &c.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-15 10:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-15 10:43 pm (UTC)But, oh I so sympathize about the textbook. (I spent most of this morning collapsed over my bio textbook.)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-16 05:14 am (UTC)Hehe, lovely POT drabble. Indeed, that's about the only way I'd imagine them together too. Although I was just as surprised as Atobe...well, maybe not as much, when I read An's bet conditions. XD Hm, everyday is it? Well, An will improve that way, though not by enough. Hehe, thanks for the drabble!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-16 02:25 pm (UTC)