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section7mfu2015-05-15 06:21 pm
rosewit.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2015-05-15 06:21 pm
Entry tags:
Mythbusters
Uh-oh...UNCLE's on the internet...see "Precedent" at the Map Room to see why IK's miffed at me....
Mythbusters
I was unaware of his scowl. I was asleep in my bed, in my room, in Toledo. He was as stealthy as his reputation, and I would never had known of his presence looming over me, until he decided to make himself known.
“Ms. Light...”
Ooooh, That Voice. Surely it was part of my dream. I curled into my pillow and smiled.
“Ahem. Rose Light.” Now the voice was cold and demanding.
His partner was becoming impatient. “Like this,” Solo said as he pushed the blond out of the way. He leaned over and his words tickled my ear. “Rose...Rose, it’s spring...time to bloom...”
I brushed the vibration away like a mosquito.
The men looked at each other, gave twin shrugs and shook me awake.
“Oomm...um-ah...huh?...” I am not at my most articulate before my tea. “Wait...what, who?...Hey!” I bolted up defensively, clutching at my flannel sheets and pouffy rose print comforter.
“Agents Solo and Kuryakin,” Napoleon crooned, reached for my hand to kiss it. What the heck. I let him.
The Russian crowded Solo over and glared at me menacingly. “I am here to discuss your authorship.”
“Not me,” Napoleon piped up. “He promised me coffee.”
“I—I don’t understand--”
“Premium coffee,” Solo explained. “There’s a Dunkin Donuts on Alexis Road.”
“Later...” hissed his friend. “Now, about your literary aspirations....”
“My fanfic?”
“Wait—Napoleon, did you search the whole house? Are you certain she’s alone?”
“She is unalterably, significantly, utterly, indubitably and inconsolably alone.” He liked to report thoroughly, since he would not be doing the typing-up.
Illya hmfed. “Well, that could explain some things...”
“I need tea...” I pleaded.
“Your fiction...and it is fiction...is becoming much too personal. I am referring, specifically, to the
increasingly indiscreet ...ah...intimacies you publish.”
I had ceased yawning and was working at comprehending his displeasure. “But I always paint you in an honorable light. “
“Ah...”
“Almost always. I allow you to slip off the reins of your culture and stoic nature. I would think you’d appreciate the opportunity.” I assumed Kuryakin had not spoken to many fanfic writers. The first rule is, never give a writer a chance to discuss or defend her work. She will engage you in a dramatic reading of her stories, all her stories, chapter and verse, plus inventory all her interpretations of plot and character.
“I preferred your earlier stories,” he admitted. “You staged The Big Kiss and then tiptoed discreetly out of the room and shut the door. The next paragraph, I was alone in an airplane or an elevator or an office or a cell.”
“I was pretty inhibited in the beginning,” I confessed. “If you knew how long I lingered over the keyboard, trying to justify to myself that I could type you and “naked" in the same sentence...”
“And now you are inventing cutesy little expressions like...” he hesitated, “ ‘the secretaries all dreamed of enjoying a Russian rump in the afternoon,’ ” he nearly choked on the indignity.
“Oh, No! That’s clearly a misprint. It’s a ‘Russian romp. R-o-m-p. Romp.”
Solo, who standing behind his partner, let his gaze slide southward. “No, I think he’s right; it's rump."
“Fine.” Illya snapped. “You are the not the one with ‘USDA Prime” stamped across your backside.”
“That was April imagining your tattoo.” Somehow my explanation did not mollify him.
“I am weary of being objectified by a bunch of ...senior swingers and horny housewives and wretched, rejected romance writers.”
“Not me,” Solo reminded us he was in the room. “I’m the Energizer Bunny. You’ve always portrayed me fairly, my fair lady. You even credited me with depth I didn’t realize I had.”
“Was it better when we were teenagers?” I shot back. “Giggling little girls with no experience, limited imaginations and misspelled vocabulary? We wrote then, too, yknow. Look,” I softened, “we LOLs (little old ladies) find your endowments...engaging and endearing.”
Now we were both blushing as red as the Soviet flag.
“Who’s for decaff?” the dark haired spy asked, taking orders for the Dunkin drive-thru.
“Oh, give me a minute,” I groused. “At least let me get dressed.”
“Sorry, Dear, you can’t tag along on this mission,” he lay me back down and tucked the blanket decisively under my chinny chin chin. “Too dangerous.”
“What!!” I began to sputter reasons at them.
Solo insisted. “I’m driving, and I can’t trust you in the backseat with this one,” he pointed at his partner. “I’ve read your stuff, too.” He redirected his attention to Illya. “Chocolate frosted? Cinnamon twist? Or vanilla cream-filled?” his pen poised over the paper.
I imagined them covered in billows of soft sweet whipped cream. My tummy growled. I grabbed for a spoon....but settled for my pen.
finis
Mythbusters
I was unaware of his scowl. I was asleep in my bed, in my room, in Toledo. He was as stealthy as his reputation, and I would never had known of his presence looming over me, until he decided to make himself known.
“Ms. Light...”
Ooooh, That Voice. Surely it was part of my dream. I curled into my pillow and smiled.
“Ahem. Rose Light.” Now the voice was cold and demanding.
His partner was becoming impatient. “Like this,” Solo said as he pushed the blond out of the way. He leaned over and his words tickled my ear. “Rose...Rose, it’s spring...time to bloom...”
I brushed the vibration away like a mosquito.
The men looked at each other, gave twin shrugs and shook me awake.
“Oomm...um-ah...huh?...” I am not at my most articulate before my tea. “Wait...what, who?...Hey!” I bolted up defensively, clutching at my flannel sheets and pouffy rose print comforter.
“Agents Solo and Kuryakin,” Napoleon crooned, reached for my hand to kiss it. What the heck. I let him.
The Russian crowded Solo over and glared at me menacingly. “I am here to discuss your authorship.”
“Not me,” Napoleon piped up. “He promised me coffee.”
“I—I don’t understand--”
“Premium coffee,” Solo explained. “There’s a Dunkin Donuts on Alexis Road.”
“Later...” hissed his friend. “Now, about your literary aspirations....”
“My fanfic?”
“Wait—Napoleon, did you search the whole house? Are you certain she’s alone?”
“She is unalterably, significantly, utterly, indubitably and inconsolably alone.” He liked to report thoroughly, since he would not be doing the typing-up.
Illya hmfed. “Well, that could explain some things...”
“I need tea...” I pleaded.
“Your fiction...and it is fiction...is becoming much too personal. I am referring, specifically, to the
increasingly indiscreet ...ah...intimacies you publish.”
I had ceased yawning and was working at comprehending his displeasure. “But I always paint you in an honorable light. “
“Ah...”
“Almost always. I allow you to slip off the reins of your culture and stoic nature. I would think you’d appreciate the opportunity.” I assumed Kuryakin had not spoken to many fanfic writers. The first rule is, never give a writer a chance to discuss or defend her work. She will engage you in a dramatic reading of her stories, all her stories, chapter and verse, plus inventory all her interpretations of plot and character.
“I preferred your earlier stories,” he admitted. “You staged The Big Kiss and then tiptoed discreetly out of the room and shut the door. The next paragraph, I was alone in an airplane or an elevator or an office or a cell.”
“I was pretty inhibited in the beginning,” I confessed. “If you knew how long I lingered over the keyboard, trying to justify to myself that I could type you and “naked" in the same sentence...”
“And now you are inventing cutesy little expressions like...” he hesitated, “ ‘the secretaries all dreamed of enjoying a Russian rump in the afternoon,’ ” he nearly choked on the indignity.
“Oh, No! That’s clearly a misprint. It’s a ‘Russian romp. R-o-m-p. Romp.”
Solo, who standing behind his partner, let his gaze slide southward. “No, I think he’s right; it's rump."
“Fine.” Illya snapped. “You are the not the one with ‘USDA Prime” stamped across your backside.”
“That was April imagining your tattoo.” Somehow my explanation did not mollify him.
“I am weary of being objectified by a bunch of ...senior swingers and horny housewives and wretched, rejected romance writers.”
“Not me,” Solo reminded us he was in the room. “I’m the Energizer Bunny. You’ve always portrayed me fairly, my fair lady. You even credited me with depth I didn’t realize I had.”
“Was it better when we were teenagers?” I shot back. “Giggling little girls with no experience, limited imaginations and misspelled vocabulary? We wrote then, too, yknow. Look,” I softened, “we LOLs (little old ladies) find your endowments...engaging and endearing.”
Now we were both blushing as red as the Soviet flag.
“Who’s for decaff?” the dark haired spy asked, taking orders for the Dunkin drive-thru.
“Oh, give me a minute,” I groused. “At least let me get dressed.”
“Sorry, Dear, you can’t tag along on this mission,” he lay me back down and tucked the blanket decisively under my chinny chin chin. “Too dangerous.”
“What!!” I began to sputter reasons at them.
Solo insisted. “I’m driving, and I can’t trust you in the backseat with this one,” he pointed at his partner. “I’ve read your stuff, too.” He redirected his attention to Illya. “Chocolate frosted? Cinnamon twist? Or vanilla cream-filled?” his pen poised over the paper.
I imagined them covered in billows of soft sweet whipped cream. My tummy growled. I grabbed for a spoon....but settled for my pen.
finis
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
myth