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[Ирина-Лена :)]

Ну что ж, подождем решения администрации

[il22]

О-ля-ля, зачем ждать? Вопрос в теме поставлен "есть ли фанфики по Верну?" Отвечаю: есть. Но увы, повторюсь: прошерстила сейчас Сеть по ключевым словам - исходная страница не найдена... Так что автор, как и первые переводчики Верна, остается неизвестным.

Le Marin
He was not like the other sailors.
He was a very quiet man, who never joined in the singing and dancing at night, who never seemed to be around when you wanted him, who never did what everyone else did because he was always somewhere else by himself. You could often see him up in the sails, watching for whales; or out at the stern, staring into the water. Rumour had it he wanted to be a harpoonist, but he didn't know how. Rumour had it he had asked the best harpoonist in New Bedford for instruction, and been laughed at.

Sailors liked tales. They told stories that sounded like legends about the harpoonist turning Mr. Land away. They twisted their words like no magic could, and made up morals where the harpoonist said something about harpooning being in a fellow's blood, not something taught, but something known. They described Mr. Land's shame and humiliation, his retreat, with vivid detail, and told about how he had stopped hanging about and laughing with his mates after that.

Of course, Mr. Land knew that he had never laughed with his mates. Mr. Land did not laugh or joke or do that sort of thing at all. If he were older, it might have been called meditative. At his age, it ought to have been called broody or sulky. The sailors, however, settled for 'serious'. He was a very serious man, Mr. Land.

He had shipped on the Eleanor a long time before anyone else, but he was still young. He had a woman's eyes, dark and frank, and a rough face with skin that was tanned brown from standing in the sun. His hands had the leathery feel of an old man's, and his body was straight and tall and strong. He reminded you of your son or your brother before you got to know him, and then you realised that he was a distant, faraway fellow who you couldn't imagine having any family at all, and you wondered how you could ever have made the mistake.

Indeed, it was hard to imagine that tall, golden-y brown fellow, bearded and silent, being loved by a mother or embraced by a wife. The sailors laughed about it once, but they preferred to make more stories about him, interlacing or blatantly overriding the tales of the New Bedford harpoonist. He was easy to turn into a hero or a devil or a misguided man who had lost everything, was Mr. Land. He lent himself to stories, partly because you knew he'd never correct them. Oh, he'd never confirm them, and no one expected him to, but he never stopped anyone from telling them, either.

One day, after the Eleanor returned to New Bedford after months at sea, with plenty of oil and good profit, Mr. Land left. He didn't tell anyone he was going, but he seemed ever more distant before he left, and every time you looked he was somewhere different. He'd obviously been getting restless. Nobody was really surprised.

He didn't take anything with him, but nobody believed he'd had anything to take. What was there a sailor could take? A pipe, tobacco? He didn't smoke. A knife? Well, he had one of those, no doubt, but he carried it in his pocket where he could use it. Cards, maybe? Mr. Land didn't play cards. He didn't do anything that meant mingling. Bible? No one had ever thought for a minute he was a religious man. Silent, distant fellows sometimes were, but Mr. Land struck nobody as the religious sort. As for clothes, most everybody had only what they wore. No, there was nothing to take with him.

But they didn't let him get away clean. They kept on telling stories, though without him around to keep them in line, they forgot bit by bit what he was really like. His eyes were made bigger, softer, and more womanish, so that they could make a better contrast with his hands, which got larger and stronger and even a touch violent. The story of the New Bedford harpoonist was one everybody knew.

The real Mr. Land disappeared. When he shipped on the Pequod the very next month, just before she set sail, none of the sailors recognised him, although they all had heard of him. On the day she left New Bedford, he came aboard, tucked his mouth shut grimly, cast his dark eyes around at the sails and decks and the masts, from forecastle to quarter-deck, and then went to the side and peered down into the dark water for a moment. The next moment he was at work, like everyone else.

To begin with, the sailors didn't like him. He wouldn't talk, after all, and he had no mates. The harpoonists, though, took to him quite easily. Queequeg and Tashtego, the primary harpooners, let him stand by coldly and watch as they tested their lances and made certain of their lines. He talked to them, spent hours a day in their company.

Well, you might not like a fellow, but if he had three great Indian and African fellows as his closest companions, all of them trained exceptionally well in heaving big wooden poles headed with sharp iron barbs, you didn't go trying to cross him. They let Mr. Land alone when he was standing solitary in the forecastle and thinking whatever he was thinking.

The afternoon after Mr. Stubb, the second mate, killed a great whale and had a steak of him for supper, the day of the cutting in, Mr. Land sat with Queequeg and looked across the bloody deck without seeming to appreciate it.

"It has been a long time since we were in Nantucket."

"Mr. Land got him fam'ly in Nantucket?" Queequeg enquired mildly, cleaning his harpoon lovingly.

"No. Not these days. Tell me, how long have you been a harpooner?"

"Oh, years and years I been a harpooner, since I cameta him Nantucket. Years and years. I kill-ee more him whale-ee dan Mr. Land got timeta count up."

"I suppose you could teach me how it's done."

"Queequeg teach dat good."

And, privately, Mr. Land began to learn.

Now, on the Pequod, there was a sailor called the Manx sailor (and rarely but affectionately known as Mr. Quayle, that being his family name). He was very old and gloomy, and even worse than Mr. Land for standing about staring at the water; but at least he liked to tell tales. He didn't avoid the other fellows, no--he could be found often in the centre of things, not speaking for a long time and then suddenly starting up some old legend that nobody else knew. That made his tales the best, because they were all new.

The Manx sailor, Mr. Quayle, despite being a bit like Mr. Land, did not fancy him at all. It amused some of the younger fellows to bait him by bringing Mr. Land up casual-like and grinning at the tirades that followed, about how Mr. Land didn't know anything and was a damned nuisance for not doing anything but watching the clouds or the waves and eating rations that could be going to them. The Manx sailor cursed him soundly and then sat back, looking almost pleased with himself, and the younger fellows laughed.

'Crazy old man,' they said. He didn't argue, and that meant it was true.

Then, one day, the Manx sailor stopped being baited. You could harp on all you liked about Mr. Land, and he just stared at you with his little black eyes. The fellows weren't sure what was wrong with him exactly, but Mr. Stubb decided he had gone completely mad at last, and they were inclined to agree.

Mr. Land had never chanced to hear what the Manx sailor said about him, and did not seem to notice any change in his demeanour. He had never seemed to care what anyone thought of him, and he had certainly never spoken to the Manx sailor. He just went right on staring at the sea and standing in the sails.

But the Dutch sailor (sometimes referred to, on the rare occasion, as Mr. Jansen) would swear to you, very enthusiastically, that he had overheard--and not too long ago, neither--a low-voiced conversation between the two men.

"Says Mr. Land--he sets down beside the Manxman, like this, see--he says, 'Hello, grandfather.' And the Manxman, he lifts his head a bit, looks at Mr. Land with them eyes of his, them little black eyes like a crow's, and he says (and his voice is all hoarse and what),--

"'What d'you want, boy?'

"'Where do the whales go, grandfather? Tell me about the whales,' says Mr. Land, soft-like. Sounds just like a boy asking for stories, he does, and the Manxman looks at him half-gen'le and he starts talking.

"'Them whales as you're after,' he says, 'they're aways off, past the Cape of Good Hope, out past the Percific. Are you 'sgood a harpooner as Queequeg?' says the old fellow.

"And Mr. Land, he shakes him head in the dark, and I wish you'd seen but you're glad you di'n't, 'cause Perth's forge, it flares up sudden and he looks the very devil, he does. He says, 'I'm a better harpooner than Queequeg, grandfather.' I'm a brave man, I am, mate, but when our Mr. Land, who looks he ain't never lifted a harpoon in all his life, says he's got better than our Queequeg, well, Lord Almighty, I say. 'Specially what with Perth's forge all flickering and flaming like Hell Itself."

At this point in his tale, one of the other sailors, most habitually the Flemish sailor (sometimes, if it were a very informal situation, called by the name of Mr. Backeljauw), would clip him on the ear and knock him over, roaring, "Oh, stuff it, mate!" The Dutch sailor would appear most injured, but he would stuff it, muttering mutinously that it weren't a natural cir-cum-stance, all the same.

The rest of the story, though he rarely got to tell it, went like this:

Mr. Land sat quietly, waiting for the Manx sailor's answer. The Manx sailor sniffed and looked at him wearily and resentfully, with his little black eyes glittering, and murmured, "If you're all that good, boy, you ought to leave us."

"When this voyage is done," said Mr. Land, and it sounded very much like a promise. "When we get back to New Bedford. I'll ship with a whaler than needs a harpoonist. We're hardly making a profit here."

"But you'll come back some day," said the Manx sailor passionately, growling in his throat and suddenly looking fierce and furious. He didn't seem to have heard Mr. Land's last remark. "You'll come back and bring me my unicorn horn."

"Yes, grandfather," Mr. Land said, nodding and looking off to the sea.

Well, what the Manx sailor wanted with a unicorn horn, the Dutch sailor would hardly guess, but he didn't have time to hear any more, because that was when he was called to watch, and strike him if he'd ever miss his watch, mate, without good reason. No indeed. So off he went, and never heard how it ended between Mr. Land and the Manx sailor, though he'd dare to guess there was something sacrilegious in it.

The other sailors were divided into two parties over the matter; those who believed it wholeheartedly and adored hearing it, and those who, like the good Fleming Mr. Backeljauw, liked to tell the Dutch sailor in many creative ways to stuff it.

Things began to be rather strange on the Pequod after that, and the two parties attributed it either to the Manx sailor, Mr. Land, Queequeg (because of his strange premonition, several days before, about dying, and the fact that he had himself a coffin built, and then never used it--the sailors were glad to speculate on how the devil wanted his due, and that coffin couldn't go empty now that it existed) or their Captain, though this last one was a rather quiet supposition, since it didn't do to be mutinous. Still, it was the Captain who walked on decks at all hours, tapping away with his wooden leg, muttering all manner of things to himself, worrying at the golden doubloon he had nailed to the mast, and standing over Perth's forge in a most harassing manner.

The choices were indeed admirable. Either the mad old man with bird's eyes, the secret silent fellow who had the Dutch sailor's story to suggest him, the queer Indian fellow with his unfilled coffin, or the strange, tapping, unsettling Captain, watching them all, it seemed, despite appearing to be entirely preoccupied with the forging of his new harpoon, with which he meant to kill the special whale he'd set them looking for since the voyage began. One of those four, the entire ship agreed, was to blame for the strange things that began to happen. They were beginning to grow nervous, and that is not a good thing for a sailor to be.

After the Captain set the masts aflame with a green fire and then extinguished them again with his own breath, however, suspicion fell solely upon him. They were frightened of him, to the point where their respect began to give way to it. The Dutch sailor went so far as to ask Mr. Land what he thought of the Captain, a few darkish, worried days later.

Mr. Land looked at him steadily and said, quietly, that he did not think anything of the Captain.

"Don't think it's a bit queer, what he did with that fire and thunderstorm and the compass and what?" the Dutch sailor asked, with a begging sound to his voice.

"No, Mr. Jansen." Mr. Land was the only fellow who was unfriendly enough to use those family names to a fellow's face at all times, regardless of whether he knew him.

"But how he went on without helping the Rachel find her boys, weren't that a bit cruel-like? Me and my mates, some of us, we're after thinking it's a pretty bad business."

"I imagine it couldn't be helped."

"Well, no, mate, but you don' think, do yeh, that--"

"No." Mr. Land looked at him coldly. "I don't think, Mr. Jansen."

"You're sayin'--" the Dutch sailor began triumphantly, "you're sayin' it is a bad business!"

Mr. Land gave him a curt nod and strode off. The Dutch sailor, pleased and not at all sure why, grinned all over his dark, weather-beaten face and then sobered at the sound of the Captain's tapping wooden foot, remembering suddenly exactly what it was Mr. Land had agreed upon. Without further ado, he went to find the Flemish sailor and an old acquaintance, the Maltese sailor, every once in a while known to his fellow man as Mr. Kilbrid, to talk things over.

That night, it was the French sailor, one Mr. Fournier, who overheard another strange conversation between Mr. Land and the Manxman. He had previously belonged to the class of sailors who were inclined to doubt the Dutch sailor's tale, but after to-night--as he told his mates--after to-night! and he went on to tell his own tale.

It was the Manxman who spoke first. His voice was low and had a growl to it, and he was sitting hunched over; and he looked up at Mr. Land darkly--or so the French sailor said, though as it was night at the time the other sailors suspected it to be embellishment on his part--as he beckoned him close. Mr. Land bent his head next to the Manxman's.

"Boy. This ship will perish, boy. All the men, all the officers. They'll all go down, down, down, down..."

"Nonsense," said Mr. Land, talking over the last word which the Manxman kept repeating. "We're merely sailing an evil ship with a mad Captain, but it hardly means we shall go down."

The Manxman's head snapped up. "The prophets said it." (Here the French sailor assured everyone that he was chilled to his very bones. The prophets) " The stars said it. The light--he set the masts aflame, and the boy says we won't go down."

"We--"

"And he won't bring me my unicorn horn, no. I won't have my unicorn horn. Nothing to make me young again. No horn. No horn." His voice wandered over the words, testing them and folding into them so that they were annunciated and slurred at the same time. He wove his hands in the air curiously, but limply, tiredly, as though he could hardly gather the strength to move them. Mr. Land caught the Manxman's left hand and shook his shoulder roughly, but with an air of concern.

"Grandfather. That horn I will bring you, as I promised. I swore to you. Grandfather. Grandfather. Be quiet. I will bring it to you."

"Down, down, down, down..."

("Well, he went crazy then," said the French sailor. "Didn't make a bit of sense after that. Just kept going on about horns and the ship going down and doom and things. But, I tell thee, it fairly makes me cold. I wonder we shouldn't turn back. Mr. Jansen's right, it's a very bad business. That crazy old man rocking a little and saying about the ship going down and the crew being lost. It fairly makes me cold, I tell thee!")

Then Mr. Land shook his head and stood up sharply, as though he wouldn't have any more to do with the Manxman, and went away, and sought Queequeg. The French sailor knew this because he couldn't resist following him to see where he would go. Mr. Land settled down by Perth's forge, where Queequeg was fixing his harpoon with excessive care.

And this conversation with Queequeg, the French sailor claimed, was even queerer than that with the old Manx sailor.

"Mr. Land him all-ee worried 'bout something," said Queequeg calmly, as Mr. Land dropped to his knees beside him and sat.

"Yes." He was silent for a few moments. "Quayle says that the ship will go down."

"Queequeg hear him dat."

"What? How? You weren't listening--"

"Queequeg him hear dat t'ing back in 'Tucket long-ee time 'go. Yojo him say Queequeg all up time, no can worry 'bout dat t'ing. And Queequeg got him coffin."

"I... suppose so. Very well. What will I do? I don't mean to die yet."

"Spose-ee Mr. Land him know all-ee well-good what him do when dat time come. Him no can learn more of Queequeg and him Mr. Quayle."

"You did teach me well," said Mr. Land softly. "I'm certainly a harpooner now. I am the best harpooner alive. Better than you."

"Queequeg know dat good."

"I promised Quayle something for teaching me about the whales before he lost his mind. I don't expect to give it to him, but I promised it. I want to promise something to you, too. You may ask for anything in the world, because it doesn't matter if the ship's going to go down with all hands anyway."

Queequeg grinned, and his white teeth showed up in his black mouth terrifyingly, making the French sailor shake like a pudding, he said. There was no devil ever looked more frightening than Queequeg when he smiled that night at Mr. Land in the flickering shadows from Perth's forge.

"Den Queequeg want Mr. Land to take him home 'gain someday. Take him all-ee right back to him island to live 'gain. How dat?"

"That's good, Queequeg," said Mr. Land in a funny voice. "I'll come back and do that someday. Thanks."

Queequeg polished his harpoon complacently. "Mr. Land do all-ee t'ing him say, den him be mighty great fella. Keep all-ee him promises. Queequeg he like him help mighty great fella."

"Yes. Thanks. Then I'll be back."

"Goo'-bye, Mr. Land," said Queequeg.

Mr. Land nodded and went to the stern, and watched the rushing waves coldly, seeming well-nigh frozen. At Perth's forge, Queequeg went right on polishing his harpoon. The French sailor didn't see as there was anything more he had to say.

The next day, the Pequod met the Delight, and the Captain exchanged words with the Delight's captain, and between the commotion caused by Queequeg's coffin and Captain's fury at the Delight trying to discourage him, no one heard the sound of one of the ship's boats being cut loose and launched; but that night, Mr. Land was no where to be found.

Queequeg just smiled and began to sharpen his harpoon, and the Manxman gabbled senselessly and unceasingly. No one else seemed at ease.

Mr. Land was picked up by the Delight and returned to New Bedford, whence he went home to Canada. He was not long enough in Nantucket to hear of the Rachel returning, too, bringing news of the Pequod's sinking and the one sailor who had survived--a New Bedford man named Ishmael. She had never found her lost boys.

In ten years, many, many things can happen. Whole worlds can be destroyed in just ten years. Men can die and children can be born, and children may die while men are born. In ten years, there have been ten springs, days of new growth and much rain, and the strange fresh winds that come with spring, ten summers when the sun stays out until nearly ten o'clock and the insects swarm. There have been ten autumns, and ten times the leaves have changed and fallen, the harvests have been made, and there have been ten thanksgivings held by many people. There have been also ten winters full of early nights and cold days, and ten Ash Wednesdays.

On this particular Ash Wednesday, in this particular winter, ten years after the Pequod went down with all hands save two, the story of Mr. Land was long gone and America--and Nantucket, New Bedford--could not have told you he existed. He shipped in various New York whalers, a dark, quiet man who seemed perpetually troubled and strange. He had much changed in ten years.

He was now capable of anger. Something had changed his old steadiness, his habit of never being angry, but only displeased, never passionate, but only disdainful, into a quick, vivid rage when provoked; and he had also grown a little rougher in his everyday speech but more capable of elegance in his formal language. He was more clever and cunning now, also. But he was also the same man in many respects, for he was still skeptical and audacious, and he was as grave as ever he had been. Occasionally he mingled with the other sailors, because he now understood that it was good be friendly with the men with whom one must live long months at sea; but he also spent long hours by himself, looking into the ocean, just as always.
His greatest change, however, was that from a man who couldn't hold a harpoon, from a man whose legend had been the story of his defeat regarding harpooning, he had become--as all his employers fervently agreed--the best harpooner in the world. There was no man better in America or Canada, for sure, and they did not believe one could be found anywhere else, either.
When he shipped, as a result, it was only for one or two voyages, because someone else would always want him when he returned and he didn't like to stay with one ship long, and he felt the need to be reserved. He was not truly one of the sailors on whatever whaler he chose; he was like an eminent guest who had come along. This made things easier and at the same time more difficult in many respects.
The point is this: that the Mr. Land of ten years ago was gone, and there was a new Mr. Land in his place, a Mr. Land who shared many of his traits but certainly was not him, and it was this new Mr. Land who on that particular Ash Wednesday was eating his supper quietly, alone, and wondering where he would ship next.
He was tired of the Whalesong. She was a decent ship, but he had gone with her already two voyages, and he knew her too well. He wanted a new deck to walk on and new sails to stand in. He wanted to learn new things. The Whalesong, then, was forsaken, but he didn't know, truly, where he would go now.
Perhaps back to Canada. He felt a slight longing for Canada. Perhaps it was time to stop for a while and go home and live with his mother again for a few months. She would be glad, and he thought briefly of himself as a small child and wanted to see her again.
Perhaps, though, it would be best not to do this. He might stay with her longer than he should, he might be tempted never to leave, if he ever went back to his mother's house; and he did not meant to do that. He meant to stay on the sea. Mr. Land was made for the sea. He was made for hunting whales, for standing on decks, for looking into the dark water for long hours. He was not made for a dark, shabby house in Canada, living with his mother until he became old and tired. No. So he would not go home.
He could not decide, however, where to ship next. He was so used to the routine. He knew how it went. He could have shipped and voyaged and come home again in his sleep, to use the old saying--he knew it too well. What he wanted--what he really wanted--was something new.
And he did not know where to find it.
The next day answered his difficulty for him. He received a letter.
It was a letter from the Captain of a certain New York ship, the Abraham Lincoln, requesting him. Of course, Mr. Land had been requested for voyages before, but never by anyone particularly important; and yet everyone knew who Captain Farragut of the Abraham Lincoln was. He was the one who intended to put together the Expedition. There had been stirrings all over New York, and, indeed, America, on the subject of the strange sea creature or monster or something which had begun sinking American ships, as well as those of other nations, nearly two years ago, and Mr. Land, between voyages, sometimes imagined harpooning that monster, for what great harpoonist wouldn't? But he had hardly expected that he would be asked to.

For the Captain's letter informed him that the expedition would be put together in the next several months, and made in early June, which would search out the monster--and he was wanted for it, to be the ship's harpoonist, as per his reputation.

For a few moments, Mr. Land could not help staring at the letter, wrinkling his forehead and chewing his lip, studying it intently, curiously. Well, he had wanted something new. And he had been chosen. So Mr. Land put together his things and went to Brooklyn to ship with the Abraham Lincoln.

The expedition was put together quickly. Captain Farragut spared little expense in equipping his ship, and concerned himself greatly over Mr. Land's comfort. As for Mr. Land, he stayed on board the ship because he had been allowed, and learnt it by walking up and down the decks and climbing in the rigging, and with great interest made sure to hear all the reports of the monster. As April and May passed, he began to grow somewhat sceptical of it, however, and by the time the ship set sail in June, Mr. Land did not believe there was any monster to go after.

He said as much to Professor Aronnax, a French scientist who was asked along at the last moment because of his experience. Mr. Land did not like to talk to people much, in the usual way of things, but Professor Aronnax spoke to him in a very friendly and frank way, and Mr. Land decided he liked him. Professor Aronnax believed the monster was a narwhal, and Mr. Land thought of the Manxman's unicorn horn, which he had promised ten years ago. He tried not to speak about it, but Professor Aronnax was one of those men who cannot be dissuaded, and he continued to press the subject until he finally asked outright for an answer. At that, Mr. Land told him.

”Mr. Aronnax," he said, and any man who had known him ten years ago would have cocked his head to one side and said 'I know that man. But no, perhaps I'm wrong--and yet--I think I know that man', for he had changed and stayed the same, as we have said, "nothing like a whale or a sea thing could make a hole like that in a steamer's plates. Wooden ships, perhaps, but not iron ones. Such a thing isn't possible."
"But it is quite possible," said Professor Aronnax, and he proceeded to explain why.
But Mr. Land shook his head. "No," he repeated, "it isn't possible."
Professor Aronnax sighed. "Have you a reason for thinking so?"
Mr. Land thought of Queequeg, and his promise to take him back to his island, the promise that hadn't been real because they'd both known he wouldn't be able to fulfil it somehow; and he thought of the Pequod, and the Manxman who insisted that she would sink with all her crew; and he thought of the whale they were supposed to be chasing on that voyage, the White Whale who was said to attack ships, who had taken off the Captain's missing leg so that he tap-tap-tapped around the decks; and he thought of leaving her, of stealing the boat and making for the Delight, because back then he had not meant to die, and was not ready, and knew it. He thought last of all of the Captain, who had sworn to kill the White Whale despite any obstacle the world might present, who had sworn to kill the White Whale or die, who had sworn to kill the White Whale so many times, above all else, that all his men believed fervently that there was nothing that ever could prevent him. He looked steadily at Professor Land. "I have never heard of a whale who could sink a ship, Mr. Aronnax," he said. "I don't believe that one exists."
Professor Aronnax opened his mouth to speak and started forward, but Mr. Land interrupted him so firmly that he gave up, and the argument was over--:
"And if there was one," said Mr. Land, "it is dead now."

[il22]

Фанфиком следующие вещи не назовешь, но герои-то знакомые
Наткнулась сегодня в Сети - делюсь ссылкой:
http://www.proza.ru/avtor/lubaf
http://www.proza.ru/2009/11/10/465

[Ирина-Лена :)]

А что, интересно

[Marie Paganel]

Я решилась. Вот:
http://fanfs.ru/forum/17-163-1
http://fanfs.ru/forum/17-164-1

[Marie Paganel]

Интересно, кто-то ещё следит за этой темой?
В любом случае, вот ещё немножко фиков по-английски:
- здесь есть несколько коротких фиков по "Таинственному острову"
- "Записная книжка Гедеона Спилета"
И, уже по-русски, блог помешанного на "Таинственном острове" фикрайтера (меня) тут. Фики там есть, а об их качестве предоставлю судить читателям

[McNabbs]

Спасибо Вам за свежие ссылки.
Я слежу за темой, продолжайте и дальше дерзать

[Алиса]

Спасибо, читаю с удовольствием.

[Timbrimi]

Лентяйка, ну, или Marie_Paganel (так вроде лучше ), спасибо за ссылки - прочитал с удовольствием.

[Marie Paganel]

Спасибо Я зарегистрировалась на этом форуме гораздо раньше, чем был придуман ник "Мари Паганель", так что от "Лентяйки" тоже не отказываюсь.

Ещё фики по романам Жюля Верна наверняка есть на fanfiction.net, но я смогла найти только один, с таким пейрингом, что даже читать не стала.

[il22]

[Marie Paganel]

А что вы думаете о том, чтобы попробовать свои силы в написании фанфиков по любимым романам Верна - сочинить текст не более чем в 200 слов? Или подсказать кому-нибудь сюжет для подобного маленького фика?
Могу предложить одну идею! Быть может, это кого-то и здесь заинтересует:

Для участия регистрация на сайте не требуется!

[Ирина-Лена :)]

Привет всем снова Я неожиданно обнаружила вашу компанию в Контакте Уже зарегистрировалась в Каюте и на Острове

[Алиса]

Ирина, я очень рада!

[Marie Paganel]

Всё ещё есть люди, которые не просто интересуются, а занимаются фан-творчеством по мотивам романов Верна? Для них даю ссылку: очередная дурацкая идея.
Организаторов и участников практически нет, есть только идея и пара человек, которые могли бы или хотели бы участвовать.

Кстати, кто-нибудь из посетителей форума в Однострочниках участвует или читает их хотя бы? Просто знать бы, что не зря сайт среди дружественных сообществ указали.