T'eyla Minh (teylaminh) wrote,
T'eyla Minh
teylaminh

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bloody hell...

we still have no internet, as you may have gathered from my weekend absence. and villagephotos refuses to upload my picture because it's 70KB too big, and i can't even edit it here because these computers don't like jpgs.

i'm getting just slightly irate. i am beginning to be of the general impression that they're not fixing the network at all, but are merely saying that they are in order to shut us up. this is most irritating. and it wouldn't be quite as irritating had my television not blown up on saturday night, which in itself would not be that irritating (i do, after all, have a birthday coming up) if i hadn't been doing work/reading/notes all day and finally sat down to watch brainless programming at seven o'clock, when the damn thing popped and died.

and that wouldn't be too bad, if i had internet access.

in a word, grr.

on the plus side, i have (re)discovered classic fm, having nothing better to do with my time than attempt to programme my radio before realising i need a radio times to do so, and found it to be Muse-food of the highest degree. hurrah!

anyway, the thing i was going to upload was, in fact, something i did last night whilst very bored. when we got our first computer (with a grand total of 8MB HDD and windows 3.1; this was back in 1995), it came with Much Software, including a rather wonderful programme called "fine artist", which provided many hours of pointless entertainment. it still works (better, in fact) with windows '98 and 56GB HDD, which is always fun, and when combined with the screencapping ability and photoshop, you can have lots of silly fun with it.

hence, using its comic-strip-making function, i made a very silly pirates of the caribbean cartoon, with no actual drawn characters and very little plot. you can see it. eventually. i'm just whetting your appetite for it...

anyway. i also started another jonathan creek fic, despite vehemently telling my Muses to shut the hell up. they never listen; i hope to god i don't obtain a jonathanMuse - the wussy spikeMuse is bad enough. but yes, the fic. lorna's probably the only one qualified to give it any feedback, so i'll put it under a cut. (the theory being that lorna ranted about series four about as much as i did, and probably for mostly the same reasons.) so here's the first bit. more coming if anyone replies, and if not, i'll keep it to myself... :P

ordinarily, i would fully justify everything, but this keyboard is awful, and i'm also using the online updatey thing rather than the windows interface (wantinternetbackNOW!!!) so i'll just do the other formatting. that'll take me long enough. be grateful. :P


YET ANOTHER UNTITLED ‘JONATHAN CREEK’ FIC…


Summary: It barely has a plot. =) Maddy’s due back from America, and Jonathan’s brooding about it, whilst trying to fight off Carla’s advances and trying to decide if he’s willing to give it a go with her at all. Then, there’s a news report that the flight has crashed… but of course, it’s not what it seems.
Setting/Spoilers: Set after “Satan’s Chimney” and series 3, and completely disregards the entire of series four. Basically, because I missed all but the first episode of it, and also because it, um, sucked.
Disclaimer: They’re not mine, but after everything I was expected to believe, I think I’m entitled to mess with their minds.
Rating: PG/PG-13. Angst can never be G, and they swear to much for it to be purely PG. It’s a J/M shipperfic, naturally, but also attempts the in-between/beginning stages of Jonathan/Carla (and hitting it nicely on the head :P) with J/Adam friendship. Enjoy the angst…
Author’s Notes: This is what happens when you watch Jonathan Creek marathons, but considering my last attempt at an epic was bloody awful, here’s another one. This is Jonathan-centric in the main, only dealing directly with Maddy towards the end, and it’s based almost entirely on little non-references in “Satan’s Chimney”. For starters, there was the end of that conversation with Carla (I’ve transposed it as best I can from memory) and then there was “You see why America beckoned. I suppose deep down I knew it wouldn’t work,” which I nearly missed at the end. There was the slightest hint of bitterness and regret beneath the general acceptance, and it’s spawned this monstrosity. In which case, blame Alan Davies, not me. :P

Any large sections in italics are flashback sequences. And I wrote this under the influence of Classic FM (100.1 FM; Muse-food!), and discovered that at about 2am, they play scary Muzak throughout the night… intermingled with random bits of chamber music, which is somewhat scarier. Anyway. Enjoy. =)

~*~

Here’s that section of conversation between Jonathan and Carla in “Satan’s Chimney”:

“Oh, is this that woman you-“

“Yup.”

“So, where-?”

“Texas, on some publishing junket.”

“And have-?”

“Just the once, in a hotel, which we decided was probably a mistake.”

“Are you always this-?”

“Pre-emptive? Yeah. That was the problem.”

[insert clever title here]


There were seven hours to go before the first performance of the latest routine, and it was not going well. Despite initial problems, the flight harness – it still wasn’t entirely reliable – was going to be used, which meant, at that precise moment, that Adam Klaus was once again suspended from the rafters. But at least he was the right way up. The harness swung him from left to right and back again, while he tried to position his limbs to look graceful rather than idiotic.

“How’s that?” he asked the auditorium. “Is it light and floaty enough?”

In the fifth row (seat thirteen, in fact, which might have accounted for some things) his magical advisor stared incredulously at the stage. “Light and floaty?” he repeated in disbelief. “You look like bloody Superman! You’re trying to inspire awe, not save a village from an Amazonian flood.”

Adam looked at the position of his arms – one outstretched in front of him, the other by his side – and had to concede that Jonathan was right. But then, Jonathan Creek was rarely wrong. He relaxed again, swinging pointlessly through the air as he spoke. “Well, it’s an idea. We could change the entire direction of the trick…” Off Jonathan’s expression, he quickly dismissed the idea. “All right, what do you suggest?”

“Just… I don’t know. Try not to look like a complete prat, and we might achieve a small amount of credibility…”

Something was obviously bothering him, but before Adam could ask what it was, a woman in a black shirt, emblazoned with his face, emerged from backstage carrying a cordless telephone. “Jonathan?” She beckoned him over, but kept her voice low and one hand over the telephone’s mouthpiece. “It’s Carla. Are you here?”

He took the phone from her. “Only just,” he muttered, before taking the call. “Carla. Hi.” The woman returned backstage to whatever she’d been doing before, and Adam watched – and listened – from his position in midair with no scruples whatsoever.

The voice on the other end of the line was unimpressed. “Oh, so you are still alive. I was beginning to wonder.”

He didn’t have time for this. “What?”

“I’ve been ringing your mobile all morning,” she told him, the annoyed tone not shifting. “Did you forget to switch it on?”

“Ah,” he said, taking his mobile from a shirt pocket. “Yes.” The screen read ‘Silent’, and ‘Missed calls – 24’; he put it back again. “Sorry. Did you want something?”

“Oh, well, obviously not,” she said, pointedly, without even attempting to conceal her sarcasm. There was a heavy, exasperated sigh, and when Carla spoke again, she was obviously trying to be more civil. “All right, I was wondering if you wanted to go for a meal, or something. I’m free this evening, so…”

“Can’t, I’m afraid,” he replied, faster than was probably necessary. “I’ve got something on.”

“Oh, of course, it’s the show tonight, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t exactly what he’d meant, but it would do, nonetheless. “Yeah. Have to make sure Adam doesn’t dislocate something important…”

“Right. Well… by the time it’s all over and done with, I imagine it’ll be too late to go anywhere,” she pondered, mostly to herself. “Another time, then?”

“Yes,” he said, with more conviction than he felt. “Definitely.”

“Shall I ring you and-“

“No,” he interrupted. “Um. I’ll ring you. Just give me twenty-four hours? You know, for sleeping, and things…”

He heard her smiling in amusement on the other end of the line. “All right. I’ll see you.”

“’Bye.”

With a sigh of relief, he disconnected the call, placing the phone on a nearby seat, and sitting in an adjacent one. He buried his head in his hands and stared dutifully at his trainered-feet. The last thing he needed at the moment was Carla’s over-enthusiasm to get to know him better, especially when a meal – doubtless in a restaurant with single roses and red tablecloths – was involved.

Adam had all but stopped swinging by this point; with his arms folded and legs at shoulder-width apart, he resembled some kind of Norse god hovering in mid-air. Or, at least, he supposed he did. After a few seconds, he asked, “What time is her flight getting in?”

Jonathan looked up, his expression harassed. He was a little taken aback by Adam’s astuteness. “Elevenish, delays permitting.”

The airborne illusionist nodded. “Are you meeting her at the airport?”

He got up and wandered along the row of seats, apparently looking for something. “Dunno.” He shrugged helplessly. “It’s not as simple as that, is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” he confirmed, crouching to peer under a seat, finding nothing, and standing again. “Seeing as she only deigned to even write to me once, and we didn’t part on exactly amicable terms… I just don’t know.” Finally, he found what he was looking for – a couple of stray playing cards left over from the last venture into close-up magic. “Then there’s this Carla thing. I mean, how do I explain that one?”

Adam nodded understandingly, then gestured for a technician to let him down. As he descended back to the stage, he said, “Well, you’ve got the night off, whatever you decide.”

“Thanks.”

He struggled out of the flight harness, bending and stretching his knees, frog-fashion, to get the blood re-circulating, then headed off backstage. Jonathan followed him; they still had some final details to run over, especially since he wasn’t going to be there if anything went wrong. As Adam unlocked his dressing room door, he asked, “What did happen between you two, anyway?”

The door opened. “How long have you got?”

Adam ushered Jonathan inside, then looked at his watch. “What time’s the show start?”

To be continued...


next is a flashback bit to what happened after that awards ceremony (final episode of series 3) and jonathan brooding a little more, then the entire premise (my god!) of the fic actually turns up. i'm not promising it's a good premise, but it's something, and it suits my angst-ridden cause.

none of you care, do you? :)

right, i'll be signing off, now. probably check again tomorrow.

oh! one other thing. am seeing rocky again on october 15th with a friend from my course - it's her first time *evil grin* and we're in the second row *eviller grin*. and i have no costume. bugger.

charity shops, ho!
Tags: annoyances: internet, fandom: jonathan creek, writing: fanfiction
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