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Serial Fiction from Hanne Blank |
06.01.02: bowl of serial (serial fiction)
Hanne Blank: Getting There
Episode Five |
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| Vivian had refused to give any sign of whether she'd ever been
in a K-Mart before, but Kala suspected she might well not have,
though then again, her glazed, disoriented expression could simply
have been the usual sort of daze that came over every K-Mart shopper
eventually. The disco-ized version of the theme from M*A*S*H had made both of them glare irritably at the set-in speakers
in the ceiling. A few minutes later, a glockenspiel- and harp-heavy
bossa nova arrangement of "Love for Sale" had drawn simultaneous
groans of outright agony that were followed by a shared glance
and a gale of giggles. |
04.10.02: bowl of serial (serial fiction)
Hanne Blank: Getting There
Episode Four |
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| It's no secret that a glance can say more than a sentence and
that some facial expressions can beggar even the most eloquently
worded paragraphs. The sticky bit is the interpretation. Faced
with the overstuffed file folder, Kala's dumbstruck stare might've
telegraphed sudden panic, a sort of overload crisis caused by
the sudden threat of too damned much impending input. |
03.22.02: bowl of serial (serial fiction)
Hanne Blank: Getting There
Episode Three |
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| Kala laughed out loud at the idea of Vivian Salton as a sugar
daddy. Maybe if she hadn't been instrumental in founding the Women's
Studies department at the university where she taught, or hadn't
been writing oft-cited articles on the gender politics of the
Victorian novel for the past twenty years, it would've been easier
to imagine. |
03.05.02: bowl of serial (serial fiction)
Hanne Blank: Getting There
Episode Two |
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| Parlor? Maybe people did still use that word. Hell, maybe some
people still had them. Kala arched an eyebrow as she stepped onto
the glossy parquet. |
02.14.02: bowl of serial (serial fiction)
Hanne Blank: Getting There
Episode One |
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| It was the bus that made her decide to do it, the routine trip
on the rank, humid, city bus whose hard, utilitarian, theoretically
vandal-proof blue plastic seats had become rococo with magic-marker
graffiti curlicues buffed to haze by the butts and backs of pissed-off
commuters. It was easy to be a pissed-off commuter when it was
nearly ninety humid degrees out and it was only the beginning
of May. |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
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