Well, technically the first one was like, a five-minute ficlet. Prompts and timing provided by
pocky_slash, thanks very much! I don't write very fast, so these are short (also full disclosure, the title for the last one I just came up with now, and it took me another 10 minutes to decide). All are Doctor Who, Eleventh era. Posting here for posterity.
Gatekeeper
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She is consciousness wrapped around infinite space; the translations and projections that contain Her obey rules that no being intertwined with the Fabric of Time can understand. And when he walks her corridors, she tries to tell him, a whisper of knowledge in the back of his mind--she will show him anything, everything he wants to see.
She does not understand why he always builds doors, but she dutifully keeps them locked when he tests them.
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Connections
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There was no more texting, email or Twitter. Those were decades in the future, and Amy had made her choice. Truth told, she wasn't sure that New York City in 1948 would use them even if they had the technology. It was too immediate, too impersonal. She had reinvented herself for the era: a novelist, a spinner of tales. She received letters from her fans and she could feel the heft and weight of the paper as it unfolded. She could smell the cigarette smoke infused on the page. She brushed her fingers along the pages and felt the impression of the typesetter. She saw the smudges and white-out of mistakes and corrections.
Maybe it would help him, too. She sat in front of the typewriter, cracked her knuckles, and began.
Dear Doctor...
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The Small Hours
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It was cold and damp when they returned to the clearing. They could still hear the sounds of battle in the distance--clashing metal, shouts, horrific screams; the kind of history that never made it into books. Rory charged ahead with the TARDIS key, while Amy helped the Doctor keep his feet despite the blow he'd taken to spring their escape. As they stumbled over the uneven ground, she looked up. Stars twinkled in the pristine sky, midnight blue fading fast over the tree line.
Clouds purpled on the horizon, and they fled the rising sun.
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Gatekeeper
----------
She is consciousness wrapped around infinite space; the translations and projections that contain Her obey rules that no being intertwined with the Fabric of Time can understand. And when he walks her corridors, she tries to tell him, a whisper of knowledge in the back of his mind--she will show him anything, everything he wants to see.
She does not understand why he always builds doors, but she dutifully keeps them locked when he tests them.
-----------
Connections
-----------
There was no more texting, email or Twitter. Those were decades in the future, and Amy had made her choice. Truth told, she wasn't sure that New York City in 1948 would use them even if they had the technology. It was too immediate, too impersonal. She had reinvented herself for the era: a novelist, a spinner of tales. She received letters from her fans and she could feel the heft and weight of the paper as it unfolded. She could smell the cigarette smoke infused on the page. She brushed her fingers along the pages and felt the impression of the typesetter. She saw the smudges and white-out of mistakes and corrections.
Maybe it would help him, too. She sat in front of the typewriter, cracked her knuckles, and began.
Dear Doctor...
---------
The Small Hours
---------------
It was cold and damp when they returned to the clearing. They could still hear the sounds of battle in the distance--clashing metal, shouts, horrific screams; the kind of history that never made it into books. Rory charged ahead with the TARDIS key, while Amy helped the Doctor keep his feet despite the blow he'd taken to spring their escape. As they stumbled over the uneven ground, she looked up. Stars twinkled in the pristine sky, midnight blue fading fast over the tree line.
Clouds purpled on the horizon, and they fled the rising sun.
-------------
no subject
Date: 2013-05-05 09:42 pm (UTC)Man, I haven't done a 15-minute fic writing exercise in ages. Maybe I should again sometime. I remember them being kind of fun.
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Date: 2013-05-05 09:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-05 10:24 pm (UTC)*HUGS*
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Date: 2013-05-06 05:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-06 07:27 am (UTC):-)
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Date: 2013-05-06 01:30 pm (UTC)Also, I was really impressed with the stories that others came up with in that time, too!
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Date: 2013-05-06 01:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-06 01:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-06 01:49 pm (UTC)And ohhh, lookit! More shinies!!
*RUNS*
Dammit...cannae access shinies.
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Date: 2013-05-06 01:57 pm (UTC)http://pocky-slash.livejournal.com/1695417.html
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Date: 2013-05-06 01:59 pm (UTC)*Squishes you and runs to read pretties*
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Date: 2013-05-06 03:47 pm (UTC)I don't know if I've ever actually done timed writing. I suspect I'd have to do something similar - it certainly works that way when I've done the 50 word poetry meme, which I suppose is my equivalent.