Writing Exercise: Character Development

If you're struggling with one of you characters, try writing a letter as your current character to their older or younger self. Think of what they might want to tell their past or future self, this might help you pinpoint what's important to your character.

You (AHC 294)

Be advised: a Code 3 lockdown is in effect. Do not leave your post unless instructed to do so. Do not change your radio’s frequency. Please stay calm.

You hear the loud, piercing emergency signal punctuate the announcement. You know you shouldn’t, know it’s against protocol, but you find yourself turning the volume knob every so slightly so that the even-toned female voice quiets down a bit as she repeats her announcement.

Be advised: a Code 3 lockdown is in effect.

Pretty middle of the road code, you remember. One of the AHCs must have escaped. You recall that a Code 3 means only one AHC loose in the facility. You notice that the voice coming from your radio hasn’t yet told you which of the AHCs to look out for.

Do not leave your post unless instructed to do so.

You tap the toes of your boots on the ground, and it produces a gentle clinking sound. It’s hard to not feel frightened when you’re stationed in a basement tunnel with darkness surrounding you. The air is both stale and damp, like something left sitting in a puddle for far too long.

You fidget with the stun baton in your hand. You’re almost itching at the thought of giving the clever creature a little buzz and sending them on their way. Wouldn’t be the first time. It’s how you survived the Alternate History Facility.

“Who’s that?”

You hear a voice echo down the tunnel, sudden and unexpected. You turn your radio down even more, fail to hear the flat, calming voice say something new.

AHC 294 has breached containment. All personnel report to the nearest safe room in a calm and orderly manner.

“Hello?” you ask the darkness, voice tentative and unsure. Was it a supervisor coming down to check on you? You’d done exactly as the emergency channel told you -

“Show yourself!”

You are sure that voice sounded different from the first one.

“You first!” you exclaim.

All you hear now is the gentle cadence of slow footsteps. You clutch your stun baton and switch it on out of panic. You hear the piercing sound of the emergency signal and turn your radio’s volume back up.

AHC 294 has breached containment. Humanoid class. Shapeshifter. Mimics humanoid voice -

You’ve heard enough. It’s time to go. You start walking north down the hallway to the closest elevator, and your stun baton crackles and sparks with blue light with every step you take.

You reach the elevator and see that it’s locked down too.

It’s too late now.

Heavy steps from behind you cause the metal grate covering the ground to tremor. You turn around to face whatever is here with you.

“Oh,” you sigh. It’s only your supervisor. He must have come down here to look for you.

“I thought I was a goner.”

Your supervisor says nothing. He only stares at you with hollow eyes.

“I said,” you begin again, “I thought I was a goner.”

“Show yourself!”

Your heart stops and you feel your body freeze. It’s already too late.

It’s seen you. It’s heard you.

The creature, because that’s what this really is, slides in and out of focus as its true form emerges. It licks its jowls, and leaps.

Now, instead of two bodies, there is only one. It looks just like you, skin a little paler, eyes a little more vacant. It drops your baton and your radio to the ground and begins walking further down the hall.

AHC 294 has breached containment. Humanoid class. Shapeshifter. Mimics humanoid voice. Will attack on sight. Do not engage. Do not acknowledge other employees until you’ve reached a designated safe room.

Soon, it will find that nice boy you wanted to have a cup of coffee with. Your voice will ring light and sweet, but it is not you.

It is AHC 294.

“I thought I was a goner.”

You

“Chae-bisou, are you all right?” Sajangnim asks.

“I’m alive,” you mutter. “Just - give me a moment.”

“We should get back to camp,” Sajangnim says. “Come on.” And he picks you up.

“Sajangnim!” you protest, but he keeps walking.

“You can put me down. If I just lean on you -” you begin, but he shakes his head.

“This is faster.”

“I’m getting you all muddy.”

“I told you, I’m not afraid of getting a little dirty.”

Your ankle is seriously irritating you, and also you now notice how nice he smells. “Please, Sajangnim -”

And it starts to rain.

“There - a shelter up ahead.” He tightens his hold on you and speeds up.

Because you are camping in a national park, there are little rest shelters all through the forest for hikers to use. The one Sajangnim spotted is in good repair, dark wood, benches on three sides, space for a little fire pit in the middle. He sets you down on one of the benches gently.

“Let me see your ankle.”

“I’d rather get the mud off.”

“Take off your shoe,” he says, and you obey, because you always obey.

But then Sajangnim strips off his t-shirt, which isn’t nearly as muddy as yours, and goes to hold it out in the rain. He wrings it out a few times, and then he lets it soak some more. He returns to you, uses the t-shirt to wipe the mud off your clothes as best as he can.

“No, Sajangnim, your t-shirt is expensive -”

“I can buy another. Hold still.”

You submit, tense beneath Sajangnim’s gentle hands. Sajangnim goes to rinse his shirt out again, and then he wraps it around your right ankle.

“Does that help?”

“Yes,” you admit, trying to be polite. Before today, you have been sure that Sajangnim is incapable of tending to anyone with an ailment or being this gentle, because Sajangnim is brilliant and hardworking and doesn’t tend to have much patience for those who aren’t on his level, though occasionally he manages a dose of condescension.<

“Thank you,” you add, because Sajangnim looks terribly anxious.

At that, Sajangnim sits back. “I’m sorry I made you fall.”

“It wasn’t you. It’s muddy out there. It’s even muddier now, I’m sure.”

x

Writing Exercise: Character Development

"You"

Second-person point of view is an intimate way of looking at a character's thoughts. As an exercise, take a scene from the book you're writing. Choose a character, and then re-write the scene entirely from a second-person POV, noticing what details shift because of this perspective change.

Guess where?

This is a story about a place that no longer exists.

But it did, once.

We were given the letter A, because of course they gave us the infamous scarlet letter, to remind us of who we were at our cores. Perhaps you've over-analyzed that bit. But if you wander the halls, you might hear indistinct wailing echoing from behind thick, wooden doors. Could be howls of joy, could be screams of sadness, exhaustion, and homework that can't be understood.

This is where we met. In a land of green carpet and white-washed concrete walls, of inconvenient fire drills and hidden liquor bottles.

The B for Boy land was a foreign and unreal place. Each time a door was kicked open, you heard loud rap and hip hop music, smelled dirty clothes and showers not taken, saw hallways littered with trash. It was definitely lived in. It was a place we dared not go, unless we accidentally started loving one of them.

C was for the miscreants, the odd ones out. Too old for purely gendered halls, too out of place, or just too angry to deal with people in general. It was clean. Fox News was their white noise. Every person a ghost, sleeping, at work, in class, avoiding homework. Sneaking in and out of those rooms felt natural, like we were all adults here and we could be trusted and besides the RA isn't our mom anyway.

They tore it down. We don't miss it, but we miss the memory of it.

Guess Where?

It seemed like a bit of an obscure spot, on the east side of campus, at the edge of one of the quads and near a parking lot. From a distance it might have been a gazebo. Up close it was all stone and columns and arches and classical Greek architecture, which made some sense, because it housed statues, a good number of them Greek philosophers. Each statue had its own plinth and plaque and nameplate, a description of what made them worthy of inclusion in the small circular temple. The center of the little alcove had a circular space inscribed with the institution's motto and its coat of arms. Rumor had it that if one stood right in the center, one's voice would be specially projected. Plenty of students and visitors alike had stood there and tried it out. It was open to the air, so sometimes on a windy night the breeze cut through sharply, but it was also a good place to sit and think, maybe watch cars drive by. Once in a while, it was a safe place for a wanderer to bunk down and sleep.

Exercise: Setting

Guess Where?

Good worldbuilding is when the author can bring a place to life for the reader. Using your powers of description, describe (in 2-3 paragraphs) a place or setting with which you're familiar. Then show your work to somebody who knows the spot and see if they are able to guess it through your words.

Dialogue

Context: SGA

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” Rodney said, keeping his voice as calm and patronizing as he could manage.

“Darling,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth, “you’d best start giving a damn soon, or our guests may think us inhospitable.”

No one had expected some crazed conspiracy theorist nuts to explode into Rodney’s living room while Atlantis’s senior command was having a planning session - and very nice dinner party at Major Lorne’s hand - but now there was pretending to be done.

“Where is he?” the lead gunman asked. He had pale skin and pale eyes and looked like he didn’t see nearly enough sun.

“The person you’re looking for, Dr. Daniel Jackson, has never been to this house, and I doubt he ever will be here in the future,” Elizabeth said, and Rodney snorted derisively.

For a man who was terrified of rats offworld, his ability to be snarky when guns were in play was astounding.

“Then give us Dr. Meredith McKay. Where is she?” the second gunman asked. By contrast, his face was tanned and weatherbeaten from many long hours in the sun.

John looked at Rodney. Rodney shook his head minutely.

The second gunman turned his weapon on Teyla. “You. You’re Meredith McKay?”

“I am not as brilliant as Dr. McKay,” Teyla said, serenely.

“But you know who she is? Where she is?”

“I do not know where she is,” Teyla said, which was not exactly a lie.

“Do you know how to reach her?”

“I do not have her telephone number,” Teyla said, which was the truth.

“Wow,” one of the other gunmen said, forking up a mouthful of the garlic mashed potatoes. “These are really good.”

“Please,” Elizabeth said. “We’re just having a dinner party. We aren’t the people who can get you what you want.”

Lorne said, “They’re real mashed potatoes, not out of a box.”

The gunman actually set is gun down and sat down at the table - in Lorne’s seat - and started serving himself dinner.

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at Rodney. What now?

Ronon punched the first gunman in the head, and chaos exploded. Teyla, Ronon, John, Lorne, and Elizabeth managed to overpower the gunmen, disarm them. Ronon, Teyla, and Lorne got them all backed into a corner, hands raised in surrender, while John put in a call to the SGC. They needed backup immediately.

“Next time,” Elizabeth said to Rodney, “please do try to give a damn when armed gunmen crash into your house.”

“Their demands were stupid, and I didn’t give a damn about those,” Rodney said, and he handed Elizabeth her plate of food and a fork. “But I did give a damn about, you know, maintaining our cover.”

Which was that they were having a nice dinner party and nothing more.

“Gone with the Wind? Really?” John asked once his phone call was done.

“I was improvising,” Rodney protested. “Improv is harder than people think it is.”

“Totally,” one of the gunmen said. He sounded young.

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

Writing Exercise: Dialogue

Famous Lines

Dialogue isn't exclusive: characters may say the same things, but mean something entirely different in the context of the scene. Pick one of the below famous lines from literature and film. Then start a scene by having a character say it. Develop the scene that follows in 500-600 words and see where it takes your characters.

• "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.
• "I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse."
• "Made it, Ma! Top of the world!"
• "You're gonna need a bigger boat."
• "Oh, don't let's ask for the moon. We have the stars."

Setting

Context: TJ Hammond, from Political Animals. Recovering drug addict. Attempted suicide once. Grew up in the White House. Really struggled when he came out. Gifted pianist. Also, my messy living room.

The first thing TJ noticed when he stepped into the small den was the piano. Baby grand, Kimball, natural wood color. The poor thing was left open all the time, the strings and innards coated in dust, the extreme ends of the keyboard coated in dust as well. A corner of the piano had been chipped, probably during transportation. Several music books were open on the music stand, as well as some taped-together sheet music. Something in Korean called Beautiful. A couple of old protestant hymn books. Beside them was bafflingly, a jar with moss and a plastic unicorn in it. There was more than one pianist in this house, or the pianist had very eclectic taste in music.

There was a drum kit beside the piano, the drum throne closest to the window. The drums were dusty but the heads and cymbals weren’t; someone played often. TJ had often regretted being the only musician in his family; he always made music alone.

The carpet and walls were dull beige, but the couches were red-and-green plaid. Whoever had decorated the place had acquired pieces with little thought to a decorating theme, had probably acquired the pieces used and as needed. The loveseat had a case for an electric bass spilled across it, and a couple of amps were shoved into the corner. A dusty guitar case stood against the opposite wall; it looked like it hadn’t been used in a while.

The wooden end table beside one of the couches was covered in books, pens, and a tissue box. Someone was reading a psychology journal about serial killers and suffering from a cold.

The room was decorated sparsely, two pictures hung on two of the walls, a third wall dominated by a massive circular clock that read the wrong time - someone had neglected to change it during the last time change.

The room, however, looked comfortable. Lived in. A blanket was bundled on one edge of the couch, a laptop open on the arm of the couch. A yoga mat was rolled up in the corner. TJ wondered, if he’d grown up in a house like this, small and poky and plain, but filled with music and books and softness, privacy, where he could bundle up and lose himself in what he loved, if he’d have turned out better.

Not a drug addict.

Not a coward who tried to kill himself.

Someone worth loving.

He pushed those thoughts aside, crossed the room to the piano, pulled the bench out, and leaned in, peered at the sheet music. Tested it out.

The song was beautiful indeed.

Writing Exercise: Setting

Room

Write a description of the room you are in from the point-of-view of a character in your work-in-progress. If the character is from another time or place, so much the better. What would the character notice first? What would she find odd? What would she love about the room? What would she dislike? Go beyond describing the physical space and capture her attitude about what she sees. Let her be snarky or wax poetical. Whatever captures her emotions about the space.

Establishing the background

Context: Rodney doesn't know that John's dad is a High Storm Commander in the Maelstrom (basically a high ranking officer in their city's militia) and has a lot of money

Concrit: Is this good? Like, at all?

~

John waved the scroll in front of Rodney's face in an attempt to distract him.

"Stop that. I need to concentrate."

John hopped up and took a seat on the empty part of Rodney's worktable. "You and I both know that dagger isn't for anyone in particular. Or at least anyone important. After all, you haven't hired me to be your bodyguard yet."

Rodney gritted his teeth, put his tools down and looked up at John. He was giving Rodney a smarmy look because of course he was.

"What's on the scroll?"

John shrugged. "You sure? A minute ago you weren't interested -"

"Please," Rodney snapped, his voice full of unnecessary venom, "Stop. And tell me why you're here."

Instead of giving him an answer, John handed him the scroll. Rodney unrolled the parchment and read the title of the document out loud.

"Petition to Form a Free Company..." Rodney's voice drifted away as he quickly scanned the few details John had already filled in. When he got to the bottom, he saw the fee required to submit the petition and chuckled cheerlessly.

"So much for that." He rolled the scroll back up and handed it back to John. John didn't take it, and instead just stared at him.

"What?" Rodney asked. "There's no way."

John's brow furrowed. "What do you mean there's no way? Of course there's a way. We get two more signatures, I think we can easily convince Teyla and Ronon -"

"I don't mean finding two more people to sign the petition! I'm talking about the money, John!"

A few people turned their heads toward the commotion inside the Blacksmith's Guild. Rodney cleared his throat and lowered his voice.

"I'm good at what I do, but there is no way that I can come up with fifteen thousand gil. That's ludicrous. I can barely pay you to be my bodyguard."

John frowned. "I can get the money."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "How? The fishing in La Noscea can't be that good."

John hopped down from Rodney's worktable and dusted himself off. He turned back toward Rodney, a grim look on his face.

"I want to show you something."

Rodney motioned towards the unfinished dagger in front of him. "I can't, I need to finish this -"

"Please," John said, his voice barely audible.

Rodney blinked at John's sudden show of sincerity. He stood up from the table and put his supplies away, eyeing his fellow blacksmiths with a cold look, as if daring them to go rooting about in his things. He motioned for John to lead the way and John did so silently.

The cool night air felt good on Rodney's face as the two of them stepped outside. John still hadn't said anything more, but he started walking across the bridge toward the Aftcastle, so Rodney followed. They crossed the courtyard until John suddenly stopped short in front of Maelstrom Command, the beating heart of Limsa Lominsa's Grand Company.

John stood in front of the bridge leading toward the Maelstrom's open gate, but didn't take another step. Rodney stood next to him, unsure of what was happening. John had never mentioned anything about the Maelstrom before.

John pointed toward a large bulletin board off to the side that was covered with morale-boosting posters, encouraging citizens of all Eorzea to pledge their allegiance to the Maelstrom.

"On that board, you'll find a list of all the high-ranking officers in the Maelstrom. I want you to go look at the Storm Commanders list and tell me if you see anything interesting."

Rodney raised an eyebrow, giving John an incredulous look. "Me? Why can't we both go look? Why can't you just tell me -"

"Just go look. And meet me at the Aftcastle's Aetheryte over there when you're done."

John walked away before Rodney could argue any further.

"This is ridiculous," Rodney muttered to himself. He rolled his shoulders back, straightened his spine, and crossed the bridge toward the Maelstrom headquarters.

"I'm not interested I'm not interested I'm not interested," Rodney whispered to himself as he approached the board, anxious that a Maelstrom underling would try to offer him a sales pitch on joining up. He found the list of high-ranking officers, saw Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn's name at the top of the list. He glanced through the long list of names until he found the Storm Commanders.

He didn't have to look much longer. His name was at the top of the list.

Patrick Sheppard. Storm Commander and father of John Sheppard.

Rodney turned away, saw John standing in the blue glow of the Aetheryte. Rodney walked back toward John and stood at his side, saying nothing. After a few minutes, John tugged on Rodney's sleeve.

"I tell a better story when I'm fishing. Come on." He grabbed Rodney's hand and they both touched the Aetheryte to teleport them to Fisherman's Bottom.

~

John cast his line into the water. Rodney looked out to the horizon, smelled the salty air, and wondered just how much John was about to tell him.

He wouldn't admit it, but Rodney wanted to know everything there was to know.

"I joined the Maelstrom as soon as they'd take me. I knew it was what Dad wanted, especially after my brother ran off to the Garlean Empire."

Rodney's eyes widened at that detail, but didn't want to interrupt. John sighed, reeled in a little, and continued.

"I climbed up the ranks. Made it all the way up to Storm Sergeant First Class. Dad was grooming me to be an officer but...I didn't want it. I wanted my life to be more than just following Merlwyb's lead. So I quit. And instead of running off and joining up with someone else's cause, I stayed here. Took odd jobs. Joined the Fishermen's Guild. That really pissed the old man off. One son a traitor, and one son a lowly adventurer."

Rodney took a deep breath. John still hadn't gotten to the matter at hand.

"So what does this have to do with the free company petition? The money?"

"Oh, got a bite!" John jumped up and started reeling in his line, fighting against what turned out to be nothing but a Lominsan anchovy.

Rodney laughed out loud, and kept laughing as John put away his fishing supplies, tossing the anchovy back into the sea.

"I'd like to see you do better."

"Hey, I make swords for a living."

John smiled. "Is that all you want to do? Make weapons?" John cocked his head to side, giving Rodney a knowing stare.

Rodney shook his head. "No. It's not."

John took the free company petition back out of his bag and handed it to Rodney. "Then sign. And we'll go to Ul'dah."

"But the money -"

John put his forefinger to Rodney's lips to hush him. "I can get the money. My dad will gladly pay fifteen thousand gil to get me out of Limsa Lominsa for good. Or, at least for a while."

Rodney took a quill out of his bag and signed the petition, handed it back to John. John nodded, stood up, and started walking back down the dock with bag in hand.

"John?" Rodney called to him, watching him go.

"Yeah?"

"Why me?"

John grinned. "Because you were born to do magic."

Establishing the background

Context: SGA Steampunk AU, Rodney doesn't know John is Dave Sheppard's brother

Looking for concrit: too much infodump?


"I thought the whole point of your revolutionary engine is that it's more energy-efficient than any engine on the market." John wasn't perched on the edge of Rodney's workbench for once, stood with him and the rest of the Atlantis team just inside the doorway of the lab.

"It is, if you consider the net energy requirements and expenditures in the design," Rodney said. "What makes my engine so energy-efficient is that it's - it's almost like a human body. Once you get past the start-up cost, which is pretty massive, it more or less keeps itself going."

"Like what Janus wrote of," Radek said.

"What Janus wrote of but never left detailed notes on and that no one has ever come close to," Rodney said, a little peevishly.

Radek rolled his eyes, took off his spectacles and cleaned them on the hem of his jacket.

"Great. So let's fire it up," John said. "You said Sheppard's breathing down your neck, Elizabeth's breathing down your neck - as much as Elizabeth ever does anything aggressively - and this one hurdle will solve all of our problems. I get to fly. You get that prize from the Royal Guild of Arts and Sciences. Radek has enough money to keep him in a lifetime supply of kolaches. Miko can take her sail design elsewhere, go back to star diving. And Kavanagh will finally get out of your hair."

It was Teyla who said, "It is not that simple. The initial expenditure of energy is massive, is it not? Humans are perfect machines, capable of reproducing and forming their environment around them to meet their needs. But in their early years, they are completely vulnerable. They spend their first few months utterly dependent on another human being, if not their first few years."

She was the only one of them who was a parent or anything close to it.

"Are you saying you can't do it?" John asked. He fixed Rodney with a look that was far more serious than any Rodney had seen on his face before.

"If I had more time I could figure it out," Rodney said. "But I don't have time. Sheppard's patience is at an end, and there are other external pressures." He very deliberately did not look at Teyla when he spoke.

John was a soldier, believed in saving all he could, in leaving no person behind. If he knew of Teyla's predicament, he'd do something rash.

"Then what's your plan?" John pressed.

"Janus created a device to power his automatons. It could provide the initial delivery of energy we need to get the system up and running. It would fit in the space, and it would convert the energy in such a way that we wouldn't just be setting off a powder keg in the engine furnaces," Rodney said, because he knew how John's mind worked.

"Janus's notes on all of his greatest inventions are incomplete," Miko said.

"I managed to fill in some of the gaps on his automaton designs," Rodney said. "This piece - it amounts to the automaton's heart - will get us what we need. We just need this piece."

"How the hell are we going to find this one piece of an automaton that we're not even sure still exists, if it even existed at all?" Radek asked.

"Other pieces of Janus's legendary designs have been found," Rodney said. "We have to try. We need this engine up and running."

Really, Teyla needed this engine up and running. Rodney didn't care if Sheppard and Elizabeth were mad at him. He was used to people being mad at him.

Radek said, "We should ask for help. I will send a message to Dr. Carter." He started for the pigeon coops.

Miko said to Ronon, who'd been watching the entire exchange silently, "Come on. I'll show you where some of Janus's works are archived."

Ronon nodded and followed her to the door, handed her her hat and draped her shawl across her shoulders, held the door open for her, followed her out. Strange. He rarely cared about Earth-style manners and deportment.

John swept for the door. He almost crashed into Kavanagh, who was just coming into the workshop.

"Hey," Kavanagh said.

John grabbed his shoulder. "You're coming with me."

Evan emerged from the corner. "I'll help," he said.

He always helped.

Rodney said, "Come on. I have a lot of Janus's works."

Evan nodded and followed him. Rodney knew they'd be awake late into the night.

Writing Exercise: Setting

Establishing The Background

Think of some information your readers will need to learn to understand the story. This could be technical information or character backstory. Now write an argument between two characters in which you use conflict to share this information.

Belated Happy Birthday, Madness!

Mal's birthday story

"You know, Nurse Ratchet, some quality reading material could make both of our lives better."

Rose swam back to consciousness slowly, confused by a man's voice. It was Major Lorne or Colonel Marshall. Where was she? What was going on? Then her surroundings came into focus - white ceiling, machines beeping, gray curtains. She was in the infirmary. Dr. Frasier stood over her. 

"How are you feeling, sergeant?"

There it was, the inevitable penlight in the eyes. Rose frowned and squinted. "Like I was at the bottom of an Unas dog-pile, ma'am."

Dr. Frasier smiled. "Glad you have a sense of humor, sergeant."

It was Major Carter who said, "When you're feeling better, Sergeant Edwards, I think Dr. Jackson wants a detailed report from you about the recreation habits of juvenile Unas."

Dr. Frasier turned. "Major?"

"Sergeant Edwards was stationed at the naquadah mine worked by the Unas and overseen by SG-11," Carter said. "Apparently the Unas are now comfortable enough with a human presence to allow us to interact with their children."

Dr. Frasier blinked. "Oh. So when you said --"

"Juvenile Unas are bigger than a fully-grown adult human," Rose said, "and Major Lorne apparently played football at the Air Force Academy."

From the other side of the privacy curtain, a man said, "Carter, do you have any comics?"

Carter's face lit up before she smoothed her expression into one of patient exasperation. "I'll be with you in one moment, sir."

Oh. Colonel O'Neill was in the other bed. Had SG-1 been off-world? Nothing too terrible could have happened if Dr. Jackson was still alive. "I'm fine," Rose said, "if you need to see to Colonel O'Neill --"

"He's fine," Dr. Frasier said calmly. "Dr. Jackson brought him plenty of reading material."

"Reports are not reading material," O'Neill said.

"They need to be done, sir," Carter said. She started to turn, but Dr. Frasier caught her arm. 

"Sergeant Edwards has been through a lot, tackled by multiple Unas," Dr. Frasier said. "With these fractured ribs and other bruised bones, she's going to be on light duty for a while, and I probably need to run a few more scans about her injuries."

Rose frowned. "What did they tell you about my injuries?"

"Colonel Marshall told me you fell near the mines." Dr. Frasier exchanged a significant look with Carter.

"I did fall near the mines," Rose conceded. "But half a dozen young Unas fell on top of me. Major Lorne evaded tackling, however."

Dr. Frasier raised her voice and cooed, "You poor thing. Unas are terribly fierce. Let's get you back in for some X-rays, and then say, Major Carter, are you busy?"

Carter looked confused, but she said gamely, "Not especially, why?"

"After Sergeant Edwards is done with tests, I think she needs some especial looking after," Dr. Frasier said. "I think Cassie left her copy of Life in my office. We could play a few rounds."

Carter blinked, and Dr. Frasier nodded in the direction of the privacy curtain - and who lay beyond it.

Ah, Carter mouthed. "Sounds good. We haven't had a chance to have some good old girl bonding in a long time."

"Excellent! Now, about those scans..."

An hour later, Rose was back in her hospital bed, and Dr. Fraiser and Major Carter had pulled up the adjoining cot to sit on. A food tray was between them, and Carter was setting up the Life game board. On the other side of the privacy curtain, O'Neill was whistling loudly and rustling his paperwork too much to possibly be getting any work done.

Rose decided to go to college, and Dr. Fraiser and Carter decided on careers right away. Fraiser became a hairdresser and Carter became a teacher while Rose racked up student loans to become...an astrophysicist. Carter giggled when Rose turned over the card, and Frasier cracked up.

O'Neill rustled his paperwork loudly and pointedly.

"Maybe I should have gone to medical school," Frasier muttered.

Carter shook her head. "No, think of all the student loans."

"And that's why I'm in the Air Force," Frasier said. She landed on a marriage square. "Oh hey! I can get married. Again. And not to a jerk. Who should I marry?"

"Daniel," Carter said. "Alien women love him. You've already got an alien daughter. Should work, right?"

"Daniel it is," Fraiser said, and put a little spouse in her car.

There was a sound of wordless outrage from the other side of the curtain. Carter and Frasier exchanged grins.

Rose said, in a low voice, "Isn't that kind of...well...Dr. Jackson –"

"Is a civilian and not subject to regulations regarding fraternization," Fraiser said loftily but just as quietly. "Your turn, Sam."

Carter also landed on the marriage square. "Hah! I also get a spouse. That means a second income. Who should I marry?"

"Teal'c," Rose said instantly. "Your kids would be super tall."

"Done," Carter said, and this time the outrage on the other side of the curtain might have been what the hell? before it was smothered.

And then Rose landed on the marriage square as well. "Me too! I bet we were all bridesmaids for each other."

"Definitely," Fraiser said. "So, who are you going to marry?"

Rose mused for a moment. "Jonas Quinn was pretty cute."

From the other side of the curtain all three ladies heard a muttered, "Fer cryin' out loud."

"Excellent choice." Frasier beamed. "And hey! Kids. I get - ooh, twins. Two boys."

"What are you going to name them?" Sam asked.

Frasier raised her voice deliberately. "Daniel Junior, obviously. And...George, after General Hammond."

Rose nodded. "Very nice. What about you, Major?"

"I haven't gotten any children yet." Carter moved her car a couple of spaces. "But if I did have them...I'd name a boy Jacob Mark, after my father. And I'd name a girl...after myself! Samantha Junior."

"Carter," O'Neill said, "you can't name your daughter after you."

"Sure you can, ma'am," Rose said. "Women did it all the time historically. Elizabeth would be the mother and her daughter would be called Lizzy or Betsy or Beth until she became an adult and married and had a new last name." She cleared her throat and added, "With all due respect, Sir."

The privacy curtain twitched aside. "How come no one wants to marry me or name their kids after me?" O'Neill arched an eyebrow at them.

"Whoa."

Rose turned.

Dr. Jackson stood in the doorway, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "If this is a bad time, I can come back later."

"On the contrary, Dr. Jackson," Frasier said smoothly, "we were just finishing up. Sergeant Edwards is well enough to be interviewed by you if you like."

Dr. Jackson sidled closer and saw the game board set up between the two cots. "Ah. Now it all makes sense. Who'd you marry, Sergeant?"

"Jonas Quinn," Carter said, "but don't worry, Fraiser married you."

Dr. Jackson raised his eyebrows at Frasier, who grinned and nodded in O'Neill's direction, and a smirk crossed Dr. Jackson's face ever so briefly. "Of course. Although, Jonas Quinn? Really, Sergeant? I'd think Corporal Edwards on SG-13 might have something to say about that."

"Indeed he might." Adam appeared in the doorway. He nodded at the others in the room. "Colonel O'Neill. Major Carter. Dr. Frasier. Dr. Jackson. Sergeant Edwards."

"At ease, Corporal," O'Neill said. "Your wife is fine. She was just colluding with Dr. Frasier and Major Carter to torture me while I'm injured."

Carter looked surprised. Had she not known Rose was married? Frasier knew, of course, since she had access to Rose's medical file and Adam was listed as her next-of-kin.

Fraiser finished boxing up the game and stood up. "Have a seat, Adam. It sounds like Rose has a fun story to tell."

O'Neill pushed aside his paperwork. "Do tell."

Rose sighed. "So, Major Lorne played football at the Air Force Academy..."

Everyday Dagaz: Chemists

"Well, I'll be."

Michael heard surprise, anger, and a hint of fear in Fiona's voice. He turned, followed her gaze. "What?"

"Keith O'Connor, in the flesh."

Irish name. Michael scanned the crowd. He didn't see anyone who looked like a former IRA compatriot of Fiona's, but she didn't look like a former IRA figther herself. No one looked particularly combat-ready, either. Fiona was always combat ready. Even in bed.

"He hasn't aged a day."

Michael scanned the crowd again. There, at the shaved ice shack, were two teenage boys. One had light brown skin and tightly-curled back hair, a guitar slung over his back. The other hand pale, freckled skin, glossy red hair, and an electric five-string bass slung over his back. He threw his head back, laughed at something the other boy said, and he had classic Irish features, the high cheekbones and thin lips. 

"The wannabe emo rockers?"

Fiona nodded. She reached up, tugged her shades down to perch on her nose to cover her opportunity to stare. "The ginger. I'd know him anywhere."

The kid was slender, wearing a faded punk-rock t-shirt, with the sort of wiriness Michael associated with running or swimming. "What was he?"

"A chemistry student," Fiona said.

Improvised explosives expert, she meant. 

"What's he doing in Miami?"

"I have no idea. Last I checked, he was dead."

The teenage girl at the shaved ice shack handed both boys their treats, and they pocketed their change, turned to go. Fiona had stared too long and too hard. The redhead turned toward them and paused. Recognition crossed his face, and he caught his friend's shoulder, shoved, hurried him toward the sidewalk where a couple of skateboards were propped up against the low wall of a planter.

Michael called out, "Hey Keith, long time no see."

If looks could kill, Keith would have been dead, and his friend would have been a murderer.

But Keith bit his lip and sighed, shook out his shoulders, and started toward them.

"I don't know you, sir, but I do know you." He lifted his chin at Fiona.

"Keith," Fiona said. She looked him up and down, lip curled in disdain. "Still so...juvenile."

Keith winced. "Still so acrimonious."

"No one likes a traitor."

Keith lifted his chin. "Family first, wasn't that our motto? Turned out half of my family was on the other side of the barricade."

"Really," Fiona said, "you haven't aged a day."

"Aye. And neither have you."

Up close, Keith and his friend were definitely teenagers. 

Michael said, "What brings you to Miami?"

Keith tugged on the strap of his electric bass. "Battle of the bands."

"I didn't realize you liked music," Fiona said.

Keith shrugged. "There was a lot we didn't know about each other. I played cello in the school orchestra and me mam was a Prod. You fell in love with an undercover CIA agent."

Michael raised his eyebrows. "I thought you didn't know me."

"Knowing of someone isn't the same as knowing them." Keith shrugged. "So...we have to be at soundcheck. No snitching, ho foul, right?"

"Wrong," Fiona said. "My brother's dead because of you."

"On the contrary - your brother's dead because a British soldier shot him. My own brother is alive because of me - no thanks to you." Keith raised his snow cone in salute. "You had a gun at his head."

"He was a Prod."

"He was eleven," Keith said flatly. He leaned in, his voice low and dangerous. "If you want to play the 'who was worse game', I can defeat you roundly. Believe me." And he said something in rapid, rolling Irish.

Fiona went pale. "I didn't mean to. I was sorry. I didn't know --"

"And I did. You'd have done the same in my place." Keith straightened up. "So...enjoy your stroll along the beach. We're going to win a battle." He turned and walked away, toed his skateboard flat, and hopped on. His friend did the same, and they quickly vanished into the crowd.

"What was that about?" Michael said.

"I was wrong. He's not a teenager anymore." Fiona sighed, tossed her head. "Call Sam. I want mojitos."

Hallelujah - Rufus Wainwright

If Silas had paid more attention in music theory, he'd have figured out how to play the song sooner. The chord progression - at least part of it - was in the first verse, "The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift". Chords had numbers. Pretty much every song could be broken down into a chord progression. Most pop songs were I-V-vi-IV. And if Silas had listened to Ms. Dempsey and learned which chords corresponded with which numbers, he'd have had the song figured out weeks ago instead of the night before his performance in front of the entire class.

He hated math. He wanted to be an artist and musician because they were the opposite of science, which required math. Lots of math. Math was awful.

And apparently math had invaded his music.

Silas stared at the chart at the back of his mother's dance journal (she was a lawyer and had a freakin' journal for her dance notes) and wondered if she'd taken great pains to memorize the strings of numbers (four-chord pop, five-chord doo-wop, twelve-bar blues). Mom was amazing at memorizing things, which was why she'd survived law school and still made other lawyers cry. But she was a good musician, too. Dad would pick up his bass, Mom would sit at the piano, and she'd just...play the blues. Or a pop song. Or an old-school doo-wop song. She and Dad would switch chords effortlessly, grinning at each other, bobbing to the beat, but keeping in perfect synch. How did Dad know when to switch? How did he know what to switch to? Dad was a scientist. Had he also memorized the numbers?

Silas stared at the various offerings of chord progressions and sheet music that Google had splashed across his tablet screen. Four chords. That was all. If he'd figured out the first chord and listened to the lyrics in the first verse...bam. He'd have figured the song out weeks ago.

Silas sighed and placed his hands on the keys, hoping his tablet would stay propped up against all the books of sheet music Mom left piled on the piano stand. Then he began to play.

Half an hour later, Mom swept in through the front door. Her keys jangled as she tossed them into the basket on the counter just inside the kitchen door. Silas kept playing doggedly, determined not to lose the chord progression (thank heavens it was so repetitive).

Mom began to sing along, but it wasn't a verse Silas had ever heard before. She sang as she roamed the house, performing her daily after-work ritual (shoes kicked under the table in the mini-foyer, purse on the table, jacket hung up), her voice fading and rising as she moved from room to room.

She stepped into the den and paused.

"Oh. I thought you were Dad home from the lab early."

"I need to know this for school tomorrow. It's the recital," Silas said.

Mom patted him on the shoulder. "Good luck."

"Thanks." Silas kept playing, fumbled a chord transition. Sighed. "How did you figure this song out?"

"Dad did it by ear, years ago. We used to sing it together all the time. You could've asked him for help." Mom smiled fondly at the memory.

"It's a four-chord song. Did you have to do the math, too?"

"Math? No." Mom huffed. "We go to law school because we're bad at math. Dad was always better at musical theory than me. I play what sounds good to me. Turns out what sounds good can be expressed mathematically, which is handy when you're doing improv with a group of strangers. But don't think you're stuck with the math." She ruffled Silas's hair and sang another verse.

Even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before The Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but...Hallelujah.

Reflection 1

"As a rule, I can't stand books written in first person. Present tense is a deal-breaker for me." I sipped my tea.

Coby raised her eyebrows. "And yet you read Divergent."

"I wanted to give it a try before the movie. Borrowed it from the library. I heard the third book alternates POVs and they're virtually indistinguishable from each other. Sign of less-than-stellar writing."

"The Fault in our Stars wasn't written in present tense."

I nodded. "I was really hesitant when I flipped to the middle - like I do, to see if I like the style regardless of the hook of the opening line - and it was first person."

"What is it about first person that annoys you so?"

"Usually the person has no personality. I get it - the author wants her young readers to project themselves onto the tabula rasa of the protagonist. Not my thing." I sipped some more tea, winced when it scalded the roof of my mouth. "But I liked the dialogue, so I flipped back to the beginning and, well, the narrator was a person. Had a personality. I cared about her as well as the people she cared about. The voice was alive. If I ran into that girl on the street, I'd know her as soon as she opened her mouth. That's how I like first person writing. And I don't feel like I see it enough. Not to mention, my preferred young adult authors tend to stick to third person limited."

"Did it ever occur to you that you hate first person because you hate writing about yourself?"

"Yes, and I'm working on that."

"Fault in Our Stars. Would you read it again?"

"I would."

Lake of Fire - Nirvana

Dying on the Third of July was key, or so Lupe had heard. At least, it was key if she had to spend her time in the lake of fire known as purgatory, floating in an endless haze of burning agony. After all, people got to come back on the Fourth of July, watch the fireworks, and saunter heavenward. Rehabilitation complete. Burning for a day or a few hours or a year - a year on earth, if not a year in the lake - was adequate punishment for anything a smart, determined, creative, and gleeful girl could get up to in one lifetime.

So when Lupe stood atop the space needle, Seattle spread out below her, a bowl of glittering starlight shot through with the illuminated arteries of city traffic, she knew that 11:59 PM on the Third of July was a really, really good idea. Just thirty more seconds, she'd step forward, and there.

Only one minute on the lake.

She hadn't accounted for her little sister Maria, tenacious and earnest-faced, scrambling after her.

"Lupe, no, don't do it. A girl like Sylvia? She's not worth it. Spoiled white girl didn't know how good she had it with you." Maria inched across the slippery surface. Her hair and skirt billowed in the wind. Everything was windy so high up. Everything was flowing, moving. Peaceful.

Lupe curled her hands into fists. "What are you doing here? It's dangerous up here."

"You're up here, and you're fine." Maria sat down a safe distance from the edge, knees pulled up to her chest, and gazed at Lupe with wide brown eyes. "You're fine, right?"

Lupe thought of Sylvia, spread out on her red satin sheets, golden blonde hair mussed from passion. Lupe thought of the skinny redheaded girl beside her, one hand curled over her, possessive. Smug.

Fireworks shot skyward beside her, and she started violently. The world beneath her feet swayed. She yelped, arms pinwheeling, and her heart skipped several beats.

But she regained her balance, stepped back. Eased down beside her little sister. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just wanted a good spot to watch the fireworks."

"It's higher here," Maria said, "but not as good a spot as that one table next to the basketball court. There's a snow cone shack there. And a taco truck."

Lupe wrapped her arm around Maria's shoulders. "Yeah. You need to eat all the tacos you can get, or you'll end up a shrimp like me."

Maria laughed and nuzzled against her. "Happy Fourth of July."

Living on the Fourth of July. That was key.

Everyday Dagaz: Linguists

The thing about working in a close-knit community like Stargate Command was that people got to know each other. Jack recognized the faces of the low-level guards who kept an eye on the elevator on the first floor (they had no clearance and no clue what went on so far down below). Jack recognized the marines who came in and out, the scientists and support staff. He recognized them all because he was a nice guy, because he was observant, and because he wanted to be sure there wasn't a foothold situation going down in his base. Given how close-knit Stargate Command was, it wasn't uncommon to run into comrades while out on the streets in Colorado Springs. Admittedly, recognizing the girl in the fluffy white tennis skirt as the sergeant who always brought Jack his paperwork was a little difficult, but Jack learned to smile and wave. He was a commanding officer. It improved troop morale if the lower ranks felt known and recognized by their commanding officer. Jack was pretty sure he'd recognize that little white skirt anywhere.

 So when Jack was standing in line at a Starbucks trying to remember the name of that fruity concoction Sam liked, he wasn't too surprised when someone said, "Hey, surprise seeing you here." 

He turned around, ready with a morale-boosting smile and wave, and then he froze. He was pretty sure the supermodel pretty boy standing in front of him wasn't one of the troops at Stargate Command. In fact, the way he was wearing his platinum-blond hair long and parted down the middle like some throwback to a nineties boyband guaranteed he wasn't from Stargate Command, because that haircut certainly wasn't regulation. Jack liked to think he'd remember someone with such electric blue eyes, too.

 But then Daniel said, "Hey! Dylan! What brings you to Colorado Springs?"

 Dylan shrugged. "On my way to Fashion Week in LA. Just got done in New York. Thought I'd drive myself, take the scenic route." 

Hah. Jack was right. Kid was a supermodel. Or maybe a designer?

 Daniel's face lit up. "That's wonderful. Still modeling, huh?"

"Still working on my dissertation about functional Enochian." Dylan smiled.

 Several women in the vicinity sighed. Jack resisted the urge to sigh for an entirely different reason. "What brings you to Colorado Springs, though?" Dylan looked Daniel up and down. "And what's this - hitting the gym? Military haircut? What happened to the geek I know and love?"

"Working as a civilian contractor with the military, actually. Analyzing artefacts accidentally disturbed during foreign operations," Daniel said, and wow, guy was a smooth liar. Jack narrowed his eyes. Had Daniel lied to him about something in the recent past? Like remembering when he was ascended?

"I heard a crazy rumor that you'd died," Dylan said. 

Daniel ducked his head, blushed. "Just a rumor." And there - he was a terrible liar. Dylan furrowed his brow, and then he stepped closer, said something totally gibberish. Except it wasn't gibberish, because Daniel replied in the same gibberish. Dylan arched an eyebrow and tried another language, which Daniel matched. Jack wasn't much of a linguist, really only had a little Arabic and Spanish to his name, but for the next five minutes, Daniel and Dylan chased each other through at least a dozen different languages. The game finally ended when Dylan gave up on a language Jack strongly suspected Daniel had picked up on an alien planet, and both men laughed.

"You've picked up some new ones since we spoke last," Daniel said.

"So have you." Dylan clapped Daniel on the shoulder. "It's so good to see you again, especially after those horrible rumors. I'm in town for two more nights. We should have dinner. Bring your friend." Dylan turned his dazzling Hollywood smile on Jack.

 Jack raised his eyebrows. "Who, me? Sorry. I'm pretty limited to English."

"We'll speak English just for you," Dylan promised.

"I'd love to," Daniel said, "but I'm probably going out of the country to visit a dig site."

Dylan pouted. The women in the vicinity cooed. "Next time we cross paths, then. Dinner's on me. I know government pay is crap."

"Next time," Daniel agreed. The girl at the cash register called for Jack to place his order, and the prospect of imminent caffeine distracted him from Daniel and his suspiciously pretty friend. By the time Jack had ordered for himself and fumbled through Sam's order - soy milk, caramel - Daniel had ordered his coffee and Dylan was gone.

On the way out to the truck, Jack had to ask. "Who was that guy?"

"Old friend of mine from LA. We did linguistics together. Guy's a natural. Mother was Norwegian, so he grew up bilingual. Gave him a crazy head start over the other kids in the program."

"You were in college together?" Jack called the boy's face back up in his memory. "How old was he?"

"Regular college student age, actually," Daniel said. "It was uncanny. He hasn't aged a day."

"I'll say." Jack fished into his pocket with his pinkie and dragged out his keys. "You drive. Sam'll kill me if I spill her drink."

Daniel nodded. "Sure thing." He accepted the keys and trotted around to the driver's side door. Jack hovered beside the passenger door, waiting for Daniel to unlock it. Daniel had gone to college with a supermodel. Who knew.