A recent meme on LiveJournal took 10 fiction genres and invited people to write a single sentence for each that would both show off their fandom and be a miniature example of the genre. Only 10? I ended up with 25.


The wind blew little dust-devils down the deserted street to where Johnny stood with the setting sun at his back, his right hand poised and ready above the polished, worn hilt of his gun, waiting for Big Jake Peterson to make good on his boastin' and make his move.

For sale, one gunfighter, slightly used, once-only price of one thousand dollars—absentee fathers only may apply.

"I don't need you now, or ever!" he said, but he wondered if he'd done the right thing when he heard the slamming of the hacienda door as his son stormed outside and the fusillade of shots with which the Strykers greeted Johnny.

C'pn Scott Lancer, feared buccaneer of Spanish Main, laughed as he forced the dark-haired mestizo to walk the plank, ignoring the plea in those astonishingly blue eyes – he'd show those landlubbing land pirates how to do it!

Born in Inverness in 1820, Murdoch Lancer came to the Americas in 1843 and married the daughter of a Boston businessman within the year, losing her two years later in childbirth and having his son Scott kidnapped by her father; married again to a Mexican lady, one further son John born 1848, who was kidnapped by his mother when she eloped; paid one thousand dollars each to have kidnapped sons returned in 1870 to save his ranch (and his bacon); no further kidnappings recorded; died 1902 with his children and grandchildren gathered around his bed, weeping and plotting to turn the ranchero into one of them new-fangled film lots.

Johnny was the only blue-eyed dragon in the Border Roosts, but the other dragons stopped jeering and name-calling when all his practice paid off and he became the fastest fire breather in the West.

Detective Scott Lancer had the highest clear-up rate in Boston Homicide, but not even he could tell from the evidence which of the many suspect fan writers had killed businessman and megalomaniac Harlan Garrett in his Beacon Hill mansion.

"Oh man, I have got to get me one of these!" whispered Johnny Madrid, putting out a hand to touch the hilts of Obi-Wan Kenobi's light sabre. 

"He sacrificed himself for us all," said Johnny, sobbing into his napkin and wiping away a (manly) tear at their terrible and inconsolable loss, and handed his plate to Teresa for seconds -- Dewdrop had sure been a plump, juicy bird and Johnny wasn't one to waste a good dinner.

22 January 1843: Today I met a big brawny Scotsman who was fresh off the boat from Inverness (my, was he fresh!) and he asked me to marry him and go to California, but I just don't know how I'm going to tell Papa!

With one last glance around the room, her gaze marking it all in her memory, Maria stooped down over the crib to lift her sleeping nino, her little Juanito, up into her arms, and leaving Murdoch snoring in their bed, she went to join her waiting lover.

Fable/Fairy Tale
Once upon a time, the old king of Lancer sent for his two estranged sons and gave each of them a share his Californian kingdom – although the Princess Teresa was not part of the bargain – once they had saved the land and its subjects from the evil king who was at war with him and had slain the usurper.

While he was happy enough to bed the Lady Barbara, he knew that her father's fearsome servitors were sworn to find him and force him to the hymeneal altar; and Lord Scott Lancer, evading the minions searching for him in the noisome and ordure-filled alleys of that most wicked and ancient of cities, that Harlot of the East, Old Boston of the Beacon, knew that he had little choice but to leave for the Uttermost West and to take up the Quest to which his long-lost father called him.

Sagittarius (Nov 22 – Dec 21) : While you've shot your way out of tricky situations before now, a crisis this week involving Scott's front tooth, Teresa's corsets, Murdoch's missionary friend from Yukon and a bag of feed will leave you completely stumped, and not even Jelly's goose-fat salve will save you.

The cougar scream rips from his throat, setting the golden horse rearing and plunging and unseating the startled rider, and with another scream, Weir shrugs off the mortal body he – it – has hidden inside for so long, ripping aside bone and flesh and spraying the land with ichor and blood, and with a beat of black, leathery wings, it swoops down on a dazed Johnny Madrid, opens a mouth lined with two rows of sharp yellow teeth and starts to feed.

Johnny Madrid's drinking tequila in the Last Chance Saloon in Nogales when a dog with its leg wrapped in bandages hobbles in, limps up to the bar and announces: "I'm lookin' fer the man that shot my paw."  (Adapted)

Pain slices high into his back behind his shoulder, sharp as a shard of glass grinding into him until he gasps with it, the heat and agony tearing him apart, but big, work-rough hands catch him and hold him and smooth his damp hair away from his forehead and a voice in his ear says Lie still, Johnny, lie still and I've got you and It'll be all right, murmuring comfort over and over until he believes it, and he lets the voice and the hands and the smoothing of his hair hold him here and keep him safe, and take him down into sleep.

Today at Lancer, near Green River, California, Mr Day Pardee, High Rider; suddenly, of gunshot wounds.

There was a young rancher called Scott,
Whom all of the ladies thought hot,
So they laid traps with honey
But did he want matrimony --
That canny young rancher thought not.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young girl living in a household with two terribly handsome and wickedly charming elder foster brothers, should be suspected of having designs on one or both of them, and Teresa, kissing Scott's workworn gloves and Johnny's faded pink shirt in the soft moonlight, decided it was going to be both.

Tune in to this week's episode of Stargate:Lancer, in which Johnny falls for a de-ascended Ancient woman in need of the help only his ATA gene can give her, Scott falls pregnant and Murdoch falls off his horse.

His hands move on her, thumbs brushing over the soft skin of her breast until her nipples are hard and tingling, and she's leaning back with her eyes closed, his mouth on hers as he pushes up into her and she's gasping now as he thrusts and thrusts until no-one could tell where Scott ends and she begins.

Johnny hailed the airship that puttered gently overhead - a fat metal cigar-shape enamelled a deep, rich dark green and striped with thin silver lines, its pipes and chimneys snaking around it and chuffing out fat, round little clouds of steam and smoke against the clear, Californian sky – and asked if it were headed for Morro Coyo and could he get a lift? 

He wants her so badly, so very, very badly; and always he has to remind himself that he can't have her, it isn't right, it isn't proper—the girl thinks of herself as his daughter, dammit!—but she really has got to stop crashing into his room when he's taking a bath or he won’t be answerable for the consequences.

"Well, thing is, Scott," says Johnny, pushing back his Stetson to hang by its stormstrings and smiling at his brother, his eyes shining with amusement, "puttin' aside all that fancy learnin' you got at Harvard an' all them fancy words you're spoutin' at me about literature and genres and such, what else would we be in but a Western?"