pulp fiction
I Blame the Dutch mpoetess
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So anyways...
Why yes, it is that season again, when small fuzzy things peep in the grass and then get frozen in the sudden cold-snap except they all get rescued by kind, loving children who take them in and keep them warm and learn valuable lessons about friendship and responsibility before setting them free in the wild and no one gets rabies and has to be shot in the end and traumatize me for LIFE.

...No, wait, that's the other season. This is the season when I de-lurk and point out that applications for students and teachers for the fandomhigh summer camp session are now open. (And applications for townsfolk -- who include my boy, older, questionably wiser, and slightly less eye-y -- are now always open.)

It's crazy, sometimes cracky, sometimes dramatic, always brain-eating fun that sucks up your time (yes, this is where I've disappeared to) and fannish energy like a giant gravitational vortex caused by crossing over every fictional universe you can imagine, but don't take my word for it: the characters are pimping themselves. (They have to, since the whorehouse closed.)


2007-04-10 01:34 pm (UTC) (Link)

And Han & Bagoas just got picked up by Ellora's Cave, under different names: For Love of Etarin</i>


2007-04-10 04:05 pm (UTC) (Link)