http://jupirock.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
jupirock.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
crack_van2013-12-17 08:02 pm
jupirock.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2013-12-17 08:02 pm
Entry tags:
It ends in a small white room by russian_blue (PG-13)
Fandom: PUSHING DAISIES
Pairing: gen (ensemble)
Length: 3679
Author on LJ: unknown
Author Website: AO3
Why this must be read:
As the author warns: "This is not the usual sort of Pushing Daisies fic. It is not a lemon chiffon pie with strawberry slices and a dusting of powdered sugar on top. It is closer to the sort of pie Sweeney Todd might bake."
This story is an exploration of Ned's deepest fear (you know the one), set in a universe where it came true. Despite its darkness, it does an amazing job of maintaining the feel of canon--which, for all its sappiness and ridiculous conceits, always was a bit dark at the edges. It avoids the usual melodrama associated with fics like this, relying instead on small details and the power of well-placed implications. On top of that, all the characters are exactly themselves, including Aunt Vivian, for all that she only has one line. Really, you could say the heart of the story is the same. Unhappy people saving each other, and themselves, all at the same time.
He’s practiced this thought many times over the years, perfecting his ability to sink every bit of his attention into its depths. In the small, featureless white room that has been his home for many years now, it’s one of the few ways he has of entertaining himself.
Coat the countertop in a thin but even scattering of flour. Place the dough in the center and, with a floured rolling pin, begin to flatten it out, using long strokes and varying the direction of motion so as to produce a roughly circular pancake of dough.
It’s more than just words in his head. He can smell the warm, dusty scent of the flour, feel the comfortable wooden handles of the rolling pin in his hands and the slightly sticky resistance of the dough beneath it. The kitchen in his mind is his mother’s, back home in Couer d’Couers, and his imagination can see every detail of it, down to the crack in the green and white linoleum next to the refrigerator.
The imaginary pie he is baking is very nearly the only thing he has left of his life before the black van, and it is far preferable to the parade of corpses and worse things that has been his life since then.
It ends in a small white room
Pairing: gen (ensemble)
Length: 3679
Author on LJ: unknown
Author Website: AO3
Why this must be read:
As the author warns: "This is not the usual sort of Pushing Daisies fic. It is not a lemon chiffon pie with strawberry slices and a dusting of powdered sugar on top. It is closer to the sort of pie Sweeney Todd might bake."
This story is an exploration of Ned's deepest fear (you know the one), set in a universe where it came true. Despite its darkness, it does an amazing job of maintaining the feel of canon--which, for all its sappiness and ridiculous conceits, always was a bit dark at the edges. It avoids the usual melodrama associated with fics like this, relying instead on small details and the power of well-placed implications. On top of that, all the characters are exactly themselves, including Aunt Vivian, for all that she only has one line. Really, you could say the heart of the story is the same. Unhappy people saving each other, and themselves, all at the same time.
He’s practiced this thought many times over the years, perfecting his ability to sink every bit of his attention into its depths. In the small, featureless white room that has been his home for many years now, it’s one of the few ways he has of entertaining himself.
Coat the countertop in a thin but even scattering of flour. Place the dough in the center and, with a floured rolling pin, begin to flatten it out, using long strokes and varying the direction of motion so as to produce a roughly circular pancake of dough.
It’s more than just words in his head. He can smell the warm, dusty scent of the flour, feel the comfortable wooden handles of the rolling pin in his hands and the slightly sticky resistance of the dough beneath it. The kitchen in his mind is his mother’s, back home in Couer d’Couers, and his imagination can see every detail of it, down to the crack in the green and white linoleum next to the refrigerator.
The imaginary pie he is baking is very nearly the only thing he has left of his life before the black van, and it is far preferable to the parade of corpses and worse things that has been his life since then.
It ends in a small white room