| Farscape fan fiction by Hmpf
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| Normal [a terra firma fic]
january 2003 - january 2006 |
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| >> She takes a sharp breath. Too much information.
Tired, he has lost his grip, for just one moment, and let a piece of his reality slip into hers. But there is no way he can stop now.
Furiously, feverishly, he is finding words, discovering a truth or making it up, in a house whose cold floors tell him he does not belong. <<
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| A River In Egypt
[what is real?]
april 2001, revised september 2004 |
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| >> Sometimes, when I'm
extremely exhausted, I imagine that maybe he is
indeed dead, and it is his ghost I sense in the lab,
haunting the places where we developed the Farscape module,
discussed, argued, had mock fights, and spent countless nights
testing and discussing and adjusting our theories, surrounded by
thermoses of strong coffee and cold pizza in
greasy take-out boxes. <<
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| Simple Things -- Part 1: Rise
And Shine [night on moya]
november 2001 - november 2003 |
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| >> The only way back to a universe that
makes sense leads through sleep. Only in dreams is the ground he walks on still
firm, only in dreams does the universe follow rules he understands. Earth, Galileo
be damned, is the centre of that universe: the planet where he was born -- a place
that does not continually pull out the floor from under his feet. <<
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| Simple
Things -- Part 2: The Breakfast of Losers [breakfast on moya]
writing |
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| >> All of Moya's crew
indulge in the ritual of renaming the more exotic dietary supplies
upon returning from their much too rare and hurried visits to the
commerce planets they pass. Frequent lack of currency and the
constant fear of being recognised have made reluctant shoppers of the Uncharted Territories' most
wanted band of alleged terrorists. <<
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| Personal Space [jack on moya]
writing |
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| >> Hesitantly he moved into the life his son had made for himself far away from Earth. Corners that had been hidden came into view
as he progressed deeper into the alien space, step by step. <<
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| Sisters [susan and olivia, having issues.]
writing. |
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| >> Listen, can we do this some other time? I'm too tired to bitch, and, frankly, I don't
want to talk to you. <<
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| Terrourists [tourists; terrorists]
writing |
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| >> He drifts with the crowd, shade to blinding light to shade, past food stalls and beggars, past beasts or
people sleeping in doorways, past androgynous beings that offer him services of an undefined nature, and is swept through the yawning maw
of a covered market. The market is at a lower level than the street, in the basement of a gutted building. Pillars sprout from its chaotic growth like
an indoor forest, jagged floor relics jutting from them like tree fungi. <<
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