mulder/scully tardis

Opening the Vein

Original fiction, fanfiction, poetry, and assorted ramblings.

fic: First Impressions
mulder/scully tardis

Summary:  Whoever this girl is, she's going to be someone important.
Spoilers:  "Rose"
Characters/Pairings:  Nine, Rose
Rating:  All ages.
Disclaimer:  Doctor Who belongs to the BBC, not to me.
AN:  Written for challenge 2.01 of the WriterinaTardis LAS. Unbeta'ed.


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poem - Five A.M.
Five A.M.

The house sleeps

in the stillness before dawn,

but for me

and the nursling at my breast.

He is soft –

wispy lashes and downy hair

and tender skin,

cradled close to my heart.

Gulping, swallowing, he

is greedy, impatient,

demanding his fill.

Long minutes tick away,

lost in the peace and the darkness.

The suckling slows,

giving way to even breaths

and the fluttering lids

that hide away newborn dreams.

Back to bed, Little Boy,

with your soft, worn blankets

and the smell of milk

on your skin.

coming alive
Is it possible that being married, being preoccupied with all the things that cohabitating with another adult involves, has been stifling my creativity? 

It sure feels that way.  For the past two years, I've barely been able to put pen to paper.  I haven't had the inspiration or the drive, and it seems like any worthwhile ideas dried up a long time ago.  But now, four weeks into my separation, my brain has come alive.  Where before I struggled to come up with one single viable plot idea, I now have eight or nine, just sitting and waiting to be written. 

I love it.  I love that at least the ideas are flowing again, that I have some springboard to start from.  The words themselves might not be coming so easily just now, but that's something I'm going to have to work up to.  I'm sure it will happen. 

original fiction: bits and pieces
bearded ce
I've had so many ideas for stories over the years. A lot of those ideas have been fleshed out, over-thought, discarded. Some were written, but incomplete, and got lost along the way. But, on the days when I feel like I don't have any talent at all, I can dig up a few unfinished pieces, incomplete scenes or chapters, to make myself feel good again. Or, to prod inspiration and the muses to strike. The following two snippets are fleshed out from the idea of a novel trilogy I had. I'm still hoping to expand it to a point that it can be finished.

(And I'll add here, just for the sake of covering my own rear-end, that all original fiction that I post on the blog is definitely copywritten and NOT okay to share anywhere else on the web. So, please don't. :D)

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This second part is meant to take place sometime just before the climax of the novel, or more toward the end as a lead in toward the second novel.

I walked toward him, pulling my shirt over my head as I went. I stood before him then, in nothing but blue jeans and a bra, fear and uncertainty rolling off my skin in waves. Was this the right choice? I thought of Summer, beaten and broken, tied to the Triad forever, and I knew it was. This was the way to save her.

I swept my hair aside and bared my neck to Gabriel. "Do it."

His deep blue eyes raked over my face, settling on the fluttering pulse at my neck. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"I'm asking you to help me save my sister."

"It won't be enough. You'll never be strong enough to go against the Triad."

"Do you have any better ideas?"

"Yes." His gaze hardened, like cobalt glass. "Forget you ever had a sister."


He was suddenly before me, his body inches from mine. "This is not a smart choice."

"It's the only choice I have left." I put my hand to his chest, gathering a handful of the crisp linen shirt he wore. I was feeling it now, the desperation that I might never save Summer, that I might not ever get her back. How could I live with myself if I didn't do this? Gabriel was right, it wasn't a smart choice, but the time for other options had come and gone. This was the only road left to me now.

"Gabriel, please."

If he moved, it was far too fast for my human mind to comprehend. In the blink of an eye, he'd gathered me to him, his hands full of my hair, and pressed his lips to the hollow of my neck. His tongue flicked out, hot, tasting my skin. A rushing sound filled my ears, my head, and I suddenly wasn't sure I had the strength to stand. His lips formed a seal over my pulse, and a low sound escaped my throat. I felt the brush of his fangs, needle sharp, and I stiffened in sudden fear. Both hands fisted in his shirt, simultaneously pulling him closer and willing him away from me. God, what was I doing?

Then he was gone. An abrupt breeze filled the space where his body had pressed close to mine, raising goose bumps on my bare skin. It took a long moment for my mind to realize he had gone. My eyes focused slowly, searching, and found him across the room, draped elegantly across the bed.

"Find another way, Catherine."

A red storm of anger overtook me, filling me to the brim with rage. My fingers curled toward my palms, my nails digging small half-moons in my skin. "Why won't you help me?"

He was beside me again, and I stumbled in surprise. His arm snaked around my waist, steadying me. His lips brushed mine as he spoke. "I won't have you hate me. Not for this. Not for all eternity."

When I answered him, my words were flat, filled with sudden loathing. "If you don't help me now, if my sister dies because of you, I won't rest until I see you dead."

He stepped away, and something unidentifiable shone from his eyes. "I can live with that." He turned on his heel, his movements preternaturally quick, and strode from the room.

A sob burst from me, and I sank slowly to the floor, defeated.


coming up empty
mulder/scully tardis
There are days when the words just come so easy.  Today is not one of those days.  I'm fighting to string two words together that make sense.  I have so many ideas and they are so beautiful in my head, but if I can't translate them into something coherent then what good are they? 

Maybe if I was getting more sleep...Hah!  Anybody got any ideas how I can get more than six hours of sleep with a toddler and a five month old in the house?  Yeah, didn't think so. 

But anyway, we all know the cure to writer's block is just to keep writing and fix the bad parts when the writing gets good again.  Maybe I'll go plot out my current story to within an inch of it's life and see if that helps. 


music, emotion and inspiration
faded tardis
My writing is very tied to music.  Most of my writing ideas spring fully formed from one line of a song lyric, or from the overall emotional theme of a song.  I've never stopped to wonder why this is.  Just always been grateful, I guess, because there is so much wonderful music out in the world.  Music that represents endless ideas and inspiration. 

I've always been quite an emotionally reserved sort of person, so I guess that's where the music comes in.  Music is emotional in and of itself, so all I need to do is to tap into it for all the emotion my characters ever need. 

I love reading about other writers: their processes, their thoughts, their own inspirations.  I don't actually have a "process," as such, but I still love to read about what makes another writer tick. 

My favorite bands to be inspired by?  30 Seconds to Mars, Lifehouse, The Goo Goo Dolls, Tonic, and The Wallflowers.  Individual songs from other artists will get me going on the right path sometimes, but these bands can jumpstart my creativity anytime.  I can't count the number of stories that have been plotted and written with "Hanging by a Moment" cycling on repeat in the background....

fic: A Promise Kept
time lord
Summary:  It was the one promise he never expected her to keep.  Post Doomsday.
Spoilers:  Through Series 2
Characters/Pairings:  Ten/Rose (ish)
Rating:  All ages.
Disclaimer:  Doctor Who belongs to the BBC, not to me.
AN:  My first foray into the Doctor Who universe, and my first piece of fiction in a good long while.  Unbeta-ed, so all mistakes belong completely to me.


fic: Signs of Life - Prologue
nine/rose hands

Summary: When the whole of time and space have been stolen from you, something else must fill the void.  A darker look at Rose, and acceptance, post-Doomsday.
Spoilers: Through series 2.
Characters/Pairings: Rose Tyler
Rating: Teen
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC, not to me.
AN:  This piece is meant to be a companion piece to a longer, multi-chaptered story I have in the works.  It's unbeta'ed, so any mistakes or blatant Americanisms are my own. 



You take a turn wildly, just that little bit too fast, and your heart starts to pound.Collapse )





In which there are some hopeful thoughts.
mulder/scully tardis

I can remember, oh so long ago, the first time I picked up a cheap diary at the dollar store and brought it home.  It was hideous, covered in garish yellow sunflowers, and the lock would have come straight off under the slightest of pressure, but I loved that diary.  I wrote in it everyday, the silly, petty, and sometimes strange thoughts of a slightly backwards fourth grader. 

That diary was filled up a long time ago, and dozens of others followed behind it.  It was that first one, though, that saw me begin as a writer.  Before that diary, I'd never had an inkling of stringing to words together to make anything other than a grammatically correct sentence for an English assignment.  After, writing just seemed to become a way of life. 

Writing, just like being slightly backwards, followed me through my school years.  What began as "The Writer's Club" in the fifth grade with friends ended with bits of dialogue and sentence fragments scribbled on Algebra homework.  School was easy and my mind was always somewhere else; I wrote to fill the time during lessons. 

Fanfiction always came the easiest.  My own original characters have always seemed a bit lacking, but I loved sinking my writing teeth into someone else's.  Sightly obsessed sci-fi fan that I was (and still am!), Mulder and Scully were my favorites. 

I cranked out a few good stories in those days.  I can look back on them now (especially that single piece of smut that I wrote years before I had any first hand knowledge of sex) and be impressed that I actually still consider them readable. 

In short, I love to write.  I love that feeling of stringing words together and falling in love with what results, of evoking happiness and sadness and hatred and lust in between The Beginning and The End. 

I don't write enough anymore.  I've barely picked up a pencil (keyboard?) these last few years, and I'd like to get back into the swing of it.  So, this'll be me, getting back into the swing of it.  Plenty of fanfiction, and hopefully some original fiction is sure to follow said swing.
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