Brain reboot memes?

[magibrain]

My brain seems to have completely shut down for working on any sort of complete creative work. (Thanks, brain.) In an effort to try to get it doing something, I'm doing a snippet meme. So, if you care to, please:

1) Comment with the premise of a fic I would never write, or
2) Comment with the premise of a fic you wish I would write.

I will attempt to write a snippet of that fic. Probably not anything so formal as a drabble; just whatever bit first comes to mind.

For this experiment, let's say that anything goes. Request slash, request het, request smut, just be advised that I will probably find hilariously contrived ways of not actually writing romantic or sexy times.

White Collar, SG-1, original... hell, request fandoms for which I wrote back in antiquity (Final Fantasy VIII, Space: Above and Beyond), request fandoms I've fallen out of writing (Doctor Who, Torchwood, Life on Mars), request fandoms where I'm familiar enough with the canon to write something but never seem to write anything for for one reason or another (Alphas, Avatar: The Last Airbender) request fandoms where I have absolutely no grasp on how to write any of the characters or confidence to write them well and so the snippet I'd produce would probably be bizarre and OOC (MCU Captain America, Orphan Black, Revolutionary Girl Utena, Black Butler, Welcome to Night Vale, Dangan Ronpa). Chaos will ensue.

I'll try to write as many as I'm able to.

Comments

[magibrain]

Dana in the Dog Park:

She can see Night Vale past the fence, but it's never the right Night Vale. It's always mirrored or out of order or hanging upside-down, suspended from the sky by golden threads.

(In a few weeks, the fence will be black walls, and there'll be nothing familiar beyond them at all. She doesn't know that yet. It would help if she did. It'd give her something to hold on to, to tuck away in the corner of her mind that will age it to nostalgia later.)

Sometimes there are dogs howling in the distance. Sometimes there's static. Sometimes the two are indistinguishable.

At one point, she finds a group of hooded figures gathered around a trendy bloodstone picnic altar. Their hoods all turn to face her with the rickety grace of a windmill whose blades are coming undone.

"Excuse me," she says.

They make a spot for her.

On the altar is a banquet of pebbles and empty beer bottles, and the hooded figures take them by the handful and bring them to the regions where unhooded citizens would keep their mouths. Then, sometimes, they fish in their hoods and bring out curiosities, cheap gems like geode, brighter stones like tiger's eye. Dana swallows a pebble. Her body doesn't offer up anything in return.

After a while she takes her leave, and one of the figures brushes her hand with its as she goes. When she's walking again, she checks to make sure her hand's still there.