PSA and a rec

PSA.

A glitch has cropped up that's causing some people's LJ memories to not display.

Here's an official response: Support Request #339533

Basically, sit tight, don't try to fix it yourself, they're trying to get the thing working again. It happened to me too, and I'm not panicking yet. :)

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REC.

Clean (R) by switchknife
(I don't know if I would call this gen, but I wouldn't call it slash either. It's rated R for references to child abuse and other disturbing subject matter, but it isn't a "slash story".)

I called this short fic perfect in my initial comment, and, well... it is. This is Tom Riddle. It doesn't feel short so much as it feels dense. It's jungle-thick with imagery and allusion, doubling back on itself even as it points unerringly, inevitably to the future we know is coming for this boy. I love past-fic, and stories like 'Clean' are why.

'Father Bellamy, who he'd only meant to push, but he must have Wished too hard because Father Bellamy cracked his head against the wall and knocked the glass of wine from his desk. Quick slip of the lock and then Tom was out, panting, skidding feet to the back door and out into the garden. He hid there for many hours, thinking of the red drip of wine onto Bellamy's fingers and the red stain of Bellamy's blood on the wall, thinking what now is he dead not red at all not red...'

Don't forget the feedback.

---

I had a series of dreams last night where various things were on fire, including the grocery store across from me, and the garbage can at work. As usual, I knew I was dreaming, and it seemed like an odd topic. Eventually it occurred to me that something might be on fire in real life, so I woke myself up, but nothing was amiss.

PSA and a rec

PSA.

A glitch has cropped up that's causing some people's LJ memories to not display.

Here's an official response: Support Request #339533

Basically, sit tight, don't try to fix it yourself, they're trying to get the thing working again. It happened to me too, and I'm not panicking yet. :)

---

REC.

Clean (R) by switchknife
(I don't know if I would call this gen, but I wouldn't call it slash either. It's rated R for references to child abuse and other disturbing subject matter, but it isn't a "slash story".)

I called this short fic perfect in my initial comment, and, well... it is. This is Tom Riddle. It doesn't feel short so much as it feels dense. It's jungle-thick with imagery and allusion, doubling back on itself even as it points unerringly, inevitably to the future we know is coming for this boy. I love past-fic, and stories like 'Clean' are why.

'Father Bellamy, who he'd only meant to push, but he must have Wished too hard because Father Bellamy cracked his head against the wall and knocked the glass of wine from his desk. Quick slip of the lock and then Tom was out, panting, skidding feet to the back door and out into the garden. He hid there for many hours, thinking of the red drip of wine onto Bellamy's fingers and the red stain of Bellamy's blood on the wall, thinking what now is he dead not red at all not red...'

Don't forget the feedback.

---

I had a series of dreams last night where various things were on fire, including the grocery store across from me, and the garbage can at work. As usual, I knew I was dreaming, and it seemed like an odd topic. Eventually it occurred to me that something might be on fire in real life, so I woke myself up, but nothing was amiss.

200 ficlet #7 - Peter & McGonagall

For maidenjedi, who requested a fic about Peter and McGonagall, just after the boys have mastered the change. (She also wanted it to take place in Transfiguration class, which it originally did, but I re-worked it a few times, and, well... I forgot that was part of the request. So sorry!)

G, gen, 265 words.


Silvestris

It's early for breakfast, but better to be seen there than sneaking back to the dormitory at this hour, so the three of them make their way towards the Great Hall, yawning and rumpled and rubbing their backs. The corridor smells of early-morning mist, of recently extinguished torches.

Peter caught a second wind as they were leaving the Shack, but now he's just tired, sore from the change. His eyes feel dry and gritty; he rubs them with the back of his wrist. He envies Remus, curled up fast asleep.

McGonagall turns the corner ahead of them, heels clicking smartly. James and Sirius hesitate for a moment-- but then, without a word, press on more confidently than before, wearing bland and saintly expressions.

She raises a sceptical eyebrow at them, pausing at the Hall doors. Peter's always been a bit afraid of her, and it's only been getting worse... her eyes make him cold and dreadful deep down in his gut, make him want to duck his head and run, hide in the shadows of the suits of armour along the wall. Green irises rayed like stars, and blackhole pupils wet and gleaming--

Sirius punches him in the arm.

'Quit looking so nervous,' James hisses in his ear on the other side.

McGonagall holds the door for them-- a murmured comment that they're up very early today, aren't they? They head up the aisle, and Peter can still feel her eyes at his back, and it twists him up inside like when he feels the sharp and hungry looks of the caretaker's twin orange cats.

end.


Feedback is a thing of beauty.

200 ficlet #7 - Peter & McGonagall

For maidenjedi, who requested a fic about Peter and McGonagall, just after the boys have mastered the change. (She also wanted it to take place in Transfiguration class, which it originally did, but I re-worked it a few times, and, well... I forgot that was part of the request. So sorry!)

G, gen, 265 words.


Silvestris

It's early for breakfast, but better to be seen there than sneaking back to the dormitory at this hour, so the three of them make their way towards the Great Hall, yawning and rumpled and rubbing their backs. The corridor smells of early-morning mist, of recently extinguished torches.

Peter caught a second wind as they were leaving the Shack, but now he's just tired, sore from the change. His eyes feel dry and gritty; he rubs them with the back of his wrist. He envies Remus, curled up fast asleep.

McGonagall turns the corner ahead of them, heels clicking smartly. James and Sirius hesitate for a moment-- but then, without a word, press on more confidently than before, wearing bland and saintly expressions.

She raises a sceptical eyebrow at them, pausing at the Hall doors. Peter's always been a bit afraid of her, and it's only been getting worse... her eyes make him cold and dreadful deep down in his gut, make him want to duck his head and run, hide in the shadows of the suits of armour along the wall. Green irises rayed like stars, and blackhole pupils wet and gleaming--

Sirius punches him in the arm.

'Quit looking so nervous,' James hisses in his ear on the other side.

McGonagall holds the door for them-- a murmured comment that they're up very early today, aren't they? They head up the aisle, and Peter can still feel her eyes at his back, and it twists him up inside like when he feels the sharp and hungry looks of the caretaker's twin orange cats.

end.


Feedback is a thing of beauty.