"Oh my LADER'S Blot!"

Sort of.

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So basically, everything, until I actually get around to writing something else.

The Epic Monologue is finished, and so I'm off to bed.

Seriously. You can't have an Epic without an Epic Monologue to introduce the trials to come.

Title: STILL UNTITLED LONG WHATSIT THING
Word Count: 3037/50000

"This is some serious business, right here." Mark held up his sub sandwich proudly. "This. This in my hands right now, is the most beautiful thing since... the portable mp3 player. Since Angelina Jolie signed a contract for the third Tomb Raider. No. Better. Since Jamie Lee Curtis chopped of Michael Myers head." He mimed a chop across Josh's neck. Josh, who had listened patiently throughout the entire speech, did not look impressed.

"Michael came back."

Mark pointed a finger at him. "That is entirely beside the point. Look at that sandwich." He slung his arm around his friend's shoulder, and held the sandwich in front of them. "It's a thing of beauty."

Josh paused to look at it for a moment, before he realized what he was doing. He pushed Mark off of him. "Man, just eat the sandwich."

Mark nodded. "Oh. I will." He leaned in to take a big bite, when the power went out.

Title: Untitled Fic Sort of Thing In Which Fandom Saves The Universe (And is home for tea and prime time)
Word Count: 2133/50000

Someday, in the not so distant future...

"We're just getting word from Washington, yes, it has been confirmed... ladies and gentleman, the President of the United States is dead after being shot in the head. It is not known at this time who the perpetrator is, though a small terrorist cell, stationed in the Middle East is taking credit for the assassination. We'll be getting more information as it comes--"

Click.

The television screen went black.

"Wow." Matt grimly set the remote back down on the side table. The President was dead. This morning, there had been speeches and protesters and poll results. Then BLAM. One single bullet, and everything was different. [Smith] would be the president now, probably not doing a much better job. It was the first time since the election that he'd been glad the guy he voted for didn't win.

Every station-- even the shopping networks were either off air or being shanghaied by the local news. It would be that way for a while, he knew. First the reports, then re-reporting, speculation, witness interviews-- it had happened in broad daylight, after all-- followed by the funeral, memorials, Remembering President Patrick Donalson specials... they'd play this out for weeks, if not months.

Holy crap, I hope Lost is still going to be on tomorrow.

I have a plot for my JulNo, but no characters.

This could present a problem.

...since when do I not have any characters? I always have too many characters, and they always run into each other and fight over who gets to be the main one, and then I hide in a corner and cry until they go away.

Hm.

Characters.

I failed miserably at Script Frenzy, but took home the Most Awesome Trailer Award, so that's something, right?
I think I got around 10k. Ah, well. Script writing is boring. And my plot needed a lot more work before I could actually write anything.

It's JulNo time now, though! And that means I need 50k by the end of the month. And I just decided to start today.

HURRAH!

Title: Untitled Fic Sort of Thing In Which Fandom Saves The Universe (And is home for tea and prime time)
Word Count: 25 (The title, basically. lol)

1. The high, round cheek-bones implied Orientalness, but that
disappeared as soon as you reached her eyes, which were also round,
and large, and bright grey.

2. I'd said would it work with butter?

3. I turned and looked at him.

4. "What sort of job?"

5. Listening to them made me feel about a hundred and forty years old.

6. I've had some experience of professional following, and a lot more
experience of professional going back to the office and saying 'we
lost him.'

7. 'He can either take the war to them,' I said, 'which for all we
know, may not be feasible.'

8. 'Not because I think I did anything wrong, but because you got hurt
and you shouldn't have.'

9. How dare I challenge her on this technical stuff?

10. They were railings fit for heroes.

09. Clean

001. It was no secret that Wilson liked things clean. There was a certain air in his home that proclaimed neatness, order and style above all else. A result of his neatness, but lacking in style, he had a pocket protector to prevent ink spots on shirts, and a tide pen in his desk drawer in case the pocket protector failed him.

He liked his towels straight, and his hair combed. Everything on his desk had a place, as did everything in his home.

Her home, now.

There was irony in the fact that his love life was always a mess.

002. There is no order to House's apartment. Empty bottles are stewn around. Some had once held alcohol, others Vicodin. Now all are empty.

House limps through, searching for just one bottle of pills. He'd search, rush out to throw up, then search somewhere else. He kept in constant motion, focusing on the pills, the addiction-- anything to keep his mind off the pain.

Finally, he sees a full bottle, wedged behind the sink. He greedily pries it from its hiding place and swallows three. Eyes close and welcome relief washes through his body, and House knows he'll never be clean.

003. Wilson shows up at House's apartment the next morning, Vicodin in hand. He heads to the bedroom and is about to wake House up, when he notices the open bottle. The guilt that brought him there that morning suddenly vanishes.

It's been two weeks since he'd last written House a prescription, but he has a strong feeling there are more bottles to be found in the apartment. He can't help but be disgusted, knowing by the date on the bottle, he was out of town when that prescription was written. Wilson tosses the new bottle onto the bed, and leaves.

23. Tower Block

001. House had once said he didn't want to push this until it broke. Back then, he'd meant it. Now, he wishes Wilson would just leave him alone.

No luck.

Wilson strolls into his office, sits in the chair opposite him, and tries unsuccessfully to catch his eye. He's talking too, but House doesn't listen. Finally, he looks up at Wilson and sees that "I'm guilty, but pretending not to be" look on his face. He has been getting this look from him a lot lately, so House looks back down. He doesn't want to face it again now, or ever.

002. The conference in Chicago immediately posed a threat to Wilson, as it was crawling with needy women. There hadn't been a doubt in House's mind that Wilson would fall in love at least once that weekend. What he hadn't expected, however, was that it would be with Chicago.

To House, the city was average; boring. But Wilson had his eye on a high rise apartment on Lake Shore Drive. The hospital there had offered him a matching salary, and Wilson accepted.

House vowed to go to conferences alone from then on. Then again, without Wilson, he didn't have a choice.

003. "Go away," he says, his voice thick with venom. "I don't care what you do. You want to go take some fancy job somewhere else, why would I stop you? It's a great opportunity."

Wilson pushes out his chair. "Fine. I will." His forehead wrinkles, betraying indecision. He shakes it away. "I've got a flight to catch."

House waits until he's nearly out the door before calling after him. Wilson turns-- too quickly to not have been expecting it.

"What?"

"Don't come back."

Wilson tilts his chin higher. "Don't worry, I won't." The door slams behind him, and he's gone.
-----------

These aren't all exactly about tower blocks, but that's the cause behind all this. Though I called them high rises in the story, because that's what House and Wilson would call them.

26. Writer's Choice - Laundry Day (Is A Very Dangerous Day)

001. Wilson eyes the smudge of white on the faucet, like a cowboy at high noon. Go ahead, make my day. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a washcloth-- his weapon of choice. He wrings it under the dirty tap, and then, somewhere in the back of his mind, hears the word draw.

As the cloud of gunsmoke clears, Wilson stands victorious, toothpaste smudge wiped into oblivion. Another victory under his belt, he admires the glistening tap, then frowns down at the dirty cloth in hand. It's to the pokey with you, pardner. Good thing it's laundry day.

002.
Inside the laundry room, Wilson stops short of the washer and shakes his head. Clothes are strewn about the floor, mere inches from the hamper. He scoops them up to put them inside it, but it's full. He sorts out clothes and puts the white load in the washer. The rest go back into the hamper for later.

Wilson heads back to finish blowdrying his hair. He knows that despite yesterday's chore wheel sticker, there are still dishes in the sink. In the bathroom, he sees the towels are crooked again, too. He sighs. A sheriff's work is never done.

003.
House watches from the other room, laughing quietly to himself. He knows of the superfluous chore wheel on the refrigerator. He also knows of the House, next to a smiling washer and dryer sticker. (Why a grown man would own a package of stickers at all, let alone smiling appliances, was a puzzle better left unsolved.)

The first week after Wilson moved in, House dipped his Thursday tie in salsa. This week, House has scaled it down to a smudge of toothpaste on the faucet, and a cleverly placed washcloth. It's so easy to get Wilson to do his chores.