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Bad news on the Sarah front. We found out today that she's in the Academy's infirmary with pneumonia. Apparently, she caught it a day or two ago and last night her tent mates turned her in. I'm glad they did--she probably wouldn't have admitted to being sick otherwise, since I know she would have been worried that she'd miss part of the training and have to repeat basic. My Mom called the doctor there, who said that it was bacterial pneumonia, not viral pneumonia (good, because this way they can treat it with antibiotics instead of just alleviating the symptoms, as they'd have to for a virus). He thinks she should be out in a few days, and since there's only a week of basic left, hopefully she won't have to repeat anything.
It's funny that it was a chest infection that landed her in the infirmary, after we all worried so much about her ankle (she's had stress fractures several times in one of her ankles running high school cross country). Chest colds, bronchitis, and such are usually my province--I generally have a chest cold throughout most of the winter. (Bit of advice, if you are coming down with bronchitis, and have just bought yourself a new black duster, don't convince all of your friends to watch Tombstone with you, unless you really want to spend the next few days being called "Holliday" and "Lunger").
On a more positive note, here's a snippet of "Original" fic (actually a thinly disguised Harry Potter AU heavily based on my "Gravity" and "Scars"). I figure that if I change the names enough to un-Potterize them, move the setting to a sort of AU of WWI England, and play around with the characters' backgrounds and the "Wizarding World" concept a bit (for one thing, get rid of Diagon Alley and the word "Muggle"), I may be able to produce a marketable, non-copyright violating story. Four years on the Western front is a fair substitute for Azkaban, don't you think?
The sound of engine noise was heavy on the air as the pack of motorcycles zoomed around one of the banked corners of the big wooden oval. Patrick Wolfe, standing at the railing above the track, kept his eyes trained on one particular bike and rider, attention riveted to every movement of the black-painted American machine.
Beside him, Helena Hart was just as transfixed, hands gripping the railing until her knuckles nearly turned white, breathing, "Come on, Sean. Come on, Sean. Come on," in a barely audible whisper. Wisps of her almost carroty red hair were sliding down out of her (find name of 19teens hairstyle) to hang over her ears and down her neck, but she seemed as oblivious to them as she was to the dust that coated the hem of her blue dress.
Her husband was not nearly so restrained in his cheering. "Pass him, Black!" James Hart howled. "You know you're faster than him. Open up your throttle and pass him!" He pounded one fist on the rail in his enthusiasm, spectacles sliding down his nose with the force of the movement.
Patrick had his own litany. "Don't crash. Don't crash. Please don't crash," he begged silently, as he watched Sean's Indian slid into another steeply banked turn, riding high on the side of the track in an attempt to cut around another racer. He could see the accident already in his mind's eye, bike and rider losing traction and sailing into the air, to crash down amid a violent shower of splinters from the wooden boards of the track. It had happened to two other riders in Sean's last race, the second rider's bike careening into that of his fallen comrade, and the impact and the deadly splinters had horribly mangled both men.
"He wobbled a bit going 'round that corner," Benedict Peachem volunteered at Patrick's elbow. "Did you see?" The shorter man was nearly up on his toes, leaning dangerously forward over the track while he watched Sean edge slowly closer to the bike ahead of him, until his front wheel was even with the other rider's rear one.
"Pass him, you Cockney bastard!" James screamed, loudly enough to draw disapproving glances from the other spectators. "Pass him!"
Obediently, Sean's little Indian roared forward, pulling ahead of the leading bike mere yards before the racers crossed the finish line. James let out a whoop more appropriate to a cavalry charge, waving one hand in the air excitedly, while Helena and Benedict cheered. Patrick let out a silent sigh of relief, tension fairly draining out of him as the machines slowed. His friend had emerged from one more race intact.
The smile he summoned up when Sean pushed his bike toward them a few minutes later was genuine, though motivated more by sheer relief at seeing that tall, lanky form come safely through yet another mad boardtrack contest unharmed than by pleasure at his win. Sean himself was grinning broadly beneath the grime and oil that smeared his face.
"I won!" he crowed happily. "Did you see me win, Pat? You were watchin', right?" He pulled off his goggle and leather helmet, revealing clean patches on his face and releasing his absurdly long hair, which fell in a sweat-soaked mass to his shoulders.
"You were first-rate," Patrick told him, taking hold of the handlebars of Sean's bike so that the other man could unfasten the front of his leather coat. He looked very like an aviator in his racing get-up, though thankfully, aeroplanes were a good bit beyond Sean's means. He would probably have raced them as well, else.
"It was ever so exciting," Helena added. "I was certain you were going to place second, 'till you passed that other rider."
"I knew you would win," James declared, clapping a hand on Sean's shoulder. "Nobody out there's as daft as you. I'll be damned if you weren't nearly horizontal on that last corner."
"Oh, so I'm daft?" Sean asked, in pretended offense. "You hear that, Pat, Benny? 'E says I'm daft, an' him the married man of us. Better excitement than domestic drudgery, Jimmy lad. Not that I've anythin' against you, Helena," he added.
"Of course not," Helena huffed. "You only think being married to me is a drudgery. See if I cheer for you next time." She smiled while she spoke, though, so Patrick was fairly certain that she wasn't serious.
Sean reclaimed his motorbike from Patrick and pushed it over to the Hart's motorcar, where he proceeded to load her into the back. James had agreed to cart the machine back to London with himself and Helena, while the rest of the group followed by train.
"Come on, then, Pat." He slung an arm across Patrick's shoulders in companionable fashion. "I'm for the train station and the bar. I could use a good stiff drink or two after that. Me throat's gone dry as dust."
Patrick let the taller man steer him away, pausing to wave farewell to James and Helena, with shouted promises to meet them for supper in London. Sean's arm was a warm weight against his shoulders and back as he, Sean, and Benedict, set off in the direction of the train station.
It's funny that it was a chest infection that landed her in the infirmary, after we all worried so much about her ankle (she's had stress fractures several times in one of her ankles running high school cross country). Chest colds, bronchitis, and such are usually my province--I generally have a chest cold throughout most of the winter. (Bit of advice, if you are coming down with bronchitis, and have just bought yourself a new black duster, don't convince all of your friends to watch Tombstone with you, unless you really want to spend the next few days being called "Holliday" and "Lunger").
On a more positive note, here's a snippet of "Original" fic (actually a thinly disguised Harry Potter AU heavily based on my "Gravity" and "Scars"). I figure that if I change the names enough to un-Potterize them, move the setting to a sort of AU of WWI England, and play around with the characters' backgrounds and the "Wizarding World" concept a bit (for one thing, get rid of Diagon Alley and the word "Muggle"), I may be able to produce a marketable, non-copyright violating story. Four years on the Western front is a fair substitute for Azkaban, don't you think?
The sound of engine noise was heavy on the air as the pack of motorcycles zoomed around one of the banked corners of the big wooden oval. Patrick Wolfe, standing at the railing above the track, kept his eyes trained on one particular bike and rider, attention riveted to every movement of the black-painted American machine.
Beside him, Helena Hart was just as transfixed, hands gripping the railing until her knuckles nearly turned white, breathing, "Come on, Sean. Come on, Sean. Come on," in a barely audible whisper. Wisps of her almost carroty red hair were sliding down out of her (find name of 19teens hairstyle) to hang over her ears and down her neck, but she seemed as oblivious to them as she was to the dust that coated the hem of her blue dress.
Her husband was not nearly so restrained in his cheering. "Pass him, Black!" James Hart howled. "You know you're faster than him. Open up your throttle and pass him!" He pounded one fist on the rail in his enthusiasm, spectacles sliding down his nose with the force of the movement.
Patrick had his own litany. "Don't crash. Don't crash. Please don't crash," he begged silently, as he watched Sean's Indian slid into another steeply banked turn, riding high on the side of the track in an attempt to cut around another racer. He could see the accident already in his mind's eye, bike and rider losing traction and sailing into the air, to crash down amid a violent shower of splinters from the wooden boards of the track. It had happened to two other riders in Sean's last race, the second rider's bike careening into that of his fallen comrade, and the impact and the deadly splinters had horribly mangled both men.
"He wobbled a bit going 'round that corner," Benedict Peachem volunteered at Patrick's elbow. "Did you see?" The shorter man was nearly up on his toes, leaning dangerously forward over the track while he watched Sean edge slowly closer to the bike ahead of him, until his front wheel was even with the other rider's rear one.
"Pass him, you Cockney bastard!" James screamed, loudly enough to draw disapproving glances from the other spectators. "Pass him!"
Obediently, Sean's little Indian roared forward, pulling ahead of the leading bike mere yards before the racers crossed the finish line. James let out a whoop more appropriate to a cavalry charge, waving one hand in the air excitedly, while Helena and Benedict cheered. Patrick let out a silent sigh of relief, tension fairly draining out of him as the machines slowed. His friend had emerged from one more race intact.
The smile he summoned up when Sean pushed his bike toward them a few minutes later was genuine, though motivated more by sheer relief at seeing that tall, lanky form come safely through yet another mad boardtrack contest unharmed than by pleasure at his win. Sean himself was grinning broadly beneath the grime and oil that smeared his face.
"I won!" he crowed happily. "Did you see me win, Pat? You were watchin', right?" He pulled off his goggle and leather helmet, revealing clean patches on his face and releasing his absurdly long hair, which fell in a sweat-soaked mass to his shoulders.
"You were first-rate," Patrick told him, taking hold of the handlebars of Sean's bike so that the other man could unfasten the front of his leather coat. He looked very like an aviator in his racing get-up, though thankfully, aeroplanes were a good bit beyond Sean's means. He would probably have raced them as well, else.
"It was ever so exciting," Helena added. "I was certain you were going to place second, 'till you passed that other rider."
"I knew you would win," James declared, clapping a hand on Sean's shoulder. "Nobody out there's as daft as you. I'll be damned if you weren't nearly horizontal on that last corner."
"Oh, so I'm daft?" Sean asked, in pretended offense. "You hear that, Pat, Benny? 'E says I'm daft, an' him the married man of us. Better excitement than domestic drudgery, Jimmy lad. Not that I've anythin' against you, Helena," he added.
"Of course not," Helena huffed. "You only think being married to me is a drudgery. See if I cheer for you next time." She smiled while she spoke, though, so Patrick was fairly certain that she wasn't serious.
Sean reclaimed his motorbike from Patrick and pushed it over to the Hart's motorcar, where he proceeded to load her into the back. James had agreed to cart the machine back to London with himself and Helena, while the rest of the group followed by train.
"Come on, then, Pat." He slung an arm across Patrick's shoulders in companionable fashion. "I'm for the train station and the bar. I could use a good stiff drink or two after that. Me throat's gone dry as dust."
Patrick let the taller man steer him away, pausing to wave farewell to James and Helena, with shouted promises to meet them for supper in London. Sean's arm was a warm weight against his shoulders and back as he, Sean, and Benedict, set off in the direction of the train station.
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