Archive | February 23, 2012

Pure Snow White

For [personal profile] avia‘s prompt.

He was pure, pure in a way that was hard to come by in this day and age, cloistered, sheltered, and entirely untouched by sex, by pornography, by initiating fiction or racy photography.

His education, up in the tower built for him, was thorough, complete, in the subjects of history, mathematics, sciences, linguistics, politics, and literature. His penmanship was exquisite, his debate skills sublime, his Latin and Greek perfect, even his embroidery enviable.

The only hole, as it were, in his education was in the arts romantic and sexual. Every reference to sex, every kiss in every story, every love poem, every bawdy joke was cut from his reading. As carefully as he had been educated, he had been allowed to remain ignorant, nay, intentionally kept as pure as was possible.

Society can only hold back nature for so long, however, and there came a time when the young student, the snow-white pure boy began to have thoughts, feelings, that he had no words for.

His tutors pretended, for the moment, not to know what he was speaking of. They kept him chaperoned at all times, giving him no opportunity to explore his urges, giving him no outlet for his desire. They kept him lily-white, snow-white, pure. They kept him chaste, utterly chaste, while the urges he had no words for rose and rose.

They taught him fencing, boxing, martial arts. They gave him ways to tone his body, to give his urges an outlet. They taught him massage, yoga, t’ai chi. They shaped his body as they shaped his mind: perfect, innocent, and pure. And Wanting.

And then they restricted his physical activity for a month, stopped his fencing lessons, kept him from boxing, refused to fence with him, would not let him even do yoga.

And it was in that state, tense, innocent, and shaking with a desire he didn’t understand that they delivered him, finally, to the one he’d been prepared for… for Snow White to become, as they said, Rose Red.

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Rose Petals, a story for the Giraffe Call (@Lordbatsy)

For [profile] moon_fox‘s prompt.

She kept a bottle half-filled with dried rose petals by the side of her bed.

At first, he thought it was because she liked roses, but when he brought her a dozen on their third date, she was so un-thrilled as to be unhappy, and the level of petals in the bottle grew.

And, he noted, his wasn’t the only bouquet. The level grew by the fourth date – he brought her orchids, which at least got a smile – and by the fifth, she was onto a new bottle.

He brought her daisies on that date, and it was a nice one, smiles received and a long time snuggling afterwards, until she suggested she had to get up in the morning and he, like a good boy, took his cue.

“When can I see you again?” he asked, as he always did, and, like she always did, she contemplated for a moment. He braced, always afraid he’d hear the “I’ll call you” that he’d been told meant his time with this angel was over.

“Next Friday,” she said instead, and he felt his heart start again.

He thought about flowers all week. About the roses in the wine bottles. About the flowers she always had in a vase, drying in the hallway, petals in the bottle. He’d thought it was because she liked them, but that was clearly not the case. And the orchids and daisies… they hadn’t done much better.

He did some more thinking, and some reading, and when he came to pick her up for their sixth date, he brought a dozen origami flowers he’d folded himself.

And when he asked when he could see her again, as the dawn colored the sky pink, she told him… “today.”

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Giraffe Call – Having Rewarded Myself (Thank you!)

The giraffe carpet has been installed, and I finished painting the window this weekend, so, at some point, we can actually move into our bedroom

(If you are the kind person who stealth mailed me towels from Amazon.com: thank you very much! They match the shades in the bedroom!)

January’s Giraffe Call paid two unexpected furnace service calls (The first one was because the heating oil had gelled, which is not supposed to happen if they put enough kerosene in it. The other was a small but annoying part having failed). It also helped with a delicious Indian dinner (I had lamb, T. had goat) we had with our friends E.Mc & Abjuk.

The $240 goal for January was Delicious Cake and, so, for Valentine’s day and two days afterwards, T. & I had slices of a deep, rich torte from Wegman’s, our local mega-grocery-store and bakery.

Thank you for all of the wonderful things!!

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Presented

For [profile] rix_scaedu‘s commissioned prompt – more of “Birthday Present,” from the December Giraffe Call.

Addergoole has a landing page here

Content warnings: mind control.

“I’m not…” Noam gave up. If this infuriating bitch wanted to think he was stupid, let her. What would it matter? He was trapped. he couldn’t move, and, even if he could, he’d been paying attention. He couldn’t really get away from her – the school had no exits, or, if they had, he hadn’t gone through enough of the dungeon to find them yet – so running was, at best, a stalling measure.

It’s her birthday… You should thank me.

“Thank you,” he said, not certain if it had been an order or not. “You think Brenna will like me?” As conversational gambits went, that one was pretty lame, but she already thought he was a moron, and he wasn’t really trying to make friends with her. He had her pretty firmly in the category of not-friend, and planned on keeping her there.

“I know I had a ribbon around here somewhere… Aistrigh unutu. There, that ought to match your patterning better. Hold still.”

“Already holding still,” he muttered.

“Aren’t you clever,” she crooned sarcastically, as she tied a teal-green ribbon around his neck. “Yes, I think Brenna will like you. She’d been complaining that she can’t find anyone.”

“She talks, then?” He hadn’t been certain.

Hera chuckles. “She’s shy. It’s probably why she can’t find anyone. But you’ll be good to her, won’t you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Well…” She patted his shoulder and studied him thoughtfully. “I plan on giving you to her, you know, not Keeping you myself and letting her just play with you. That would be entertaining, I suppose, but you’re really not my type.”

“I guessed,” he muttered. Too pretty, too dumb…

“Mm-hrmm. I like my men shorter, brighter, and stronger. Less Dionysus and more Hephaestus.”

The back-handed complements and insults were giving him whiplash. She liked him, but she thought he was stupid. Not her type, but pretty and god-like. He wanted to nod, couldn’t, so just made a little noise instead.

“Don’t grunt, dear, it’s not pretty. Here, take you… no. you’re holding still like a good boy.” She stood on her toes to unbutton his shirt and tug it out of his pants, leaving him blushing at the contact. “There. You may move enough to take your shirt off. Leave it on my bed.”

He shrugged his shirt off and let it fall on the mess of her blankets. Like this, almost all the markings of his Change were showing. He hoped she decided that was enough, and didn’t make him show the rest of them.

“Mmm.” She studied her work critically. “One more ribbon… Aistrigh unutu… you can move enough to put your wrists behind your back, crossed over each other.”

He didn’t like where that was going, but he did it anyway, rolling his shoulders a little bit, trying to get comfortable. She walked around behind him, muttering to herself, nothing he could quite hear, and tied the second ribbon around his wrists, rather firmly.

“Don’t try to get out of that, mind you. You can move now. Follow me; we’re going to go see Brenna.”

“My shirt?” he asked, even though he had a feeling it was a lost cause.

“Mmm. I’ll bring it by later, don’t want to ruin the effect. Hush now, and not another word until Brenna says you’re hers.”

He hushed and followed, because he didn’t have any choice in the matter, frowning at her back. He felt conspicuous, exposed, and cold, all of which were pretty accurate, shirtless, bound, and following a girl more than a foot shorter than him like a trained puppy.

What if someone sees me like this? was quickly replaced by Is he looking at me? as they came upon Jabez. The short, dark, dragon-like boy shared a PE class and a History class with Noam, but they’d never really spoken. His eyes slid right over Noam now.

“Hera,” he nodded at the short girl, and

“Hey, Jabez,” she replied, and that was it. Noam might as well have not been there at all.

“Don’t frown,” Hera scolded, when the other boy was out of sight around a curve. “It makes you look sullen.”

He felt sullen. But he smiled anyway, trying to make it not look horribly fake.

“That’s better.” She patted his shoulder as she stopped by a door in another pod. Noam’s heart did weird things in his chest as she knocked, and he spent a bad couple minutes trying to find a loophole in her orders. He didn’t really have to stand here waiting like a… well, like a birthday present, did he?

But he did, and he had just sighed in frustration when the door opened.

Brenna hadn’t been expecting company, he was fairly certain: she was wearing a long t-shirt over leggings, her hair pulled back in a kerchief. Her TV was going in the background, and the smell of popcorn filled the room.

“Hera!” She stepped back into her room a couple jittery steps, looking uncertain. “And… Noam?” Her voice squeaked a little. “Hera, what did you…”

“Happy birthday, Brenna.” She pushed Noam forward until he almost bumped against her friend’s threshold. “He’s yours now.”

“You… got me a boy?” She reached out for Noam, and, somehow, he managed not to flinch back. “You got me Noam?

Was that a good thing or a bad thing? He didn’t know, and he couldn’t ask, so he smiled gamely at her. She’d always seemed like a nice girl. Could she fix this?

“I did. Take him, Brenna, I think you’ll have fun breaking him in.”

No, no, he didn’t want that. He shook his head unhappily, nervously, but Brenna just smiled. She had, he noticed, what would be a very nice smile under other circumstances.

“I think I will. This is the nicest gift I’ve gotten this year. Come in, Noam, you’re mine now.”

“Tell her your hers,” Hera urged from behind him, as, for lack of anything better to do, Noam stepped into Brenna’s room.

“I’m yours,” he said unwillingly, and then clamped his mouth shut.

“Very good. Hera…”

“You two have fun,” Hera chirped, and headed down the hall. Brenna closed the door, locking a struggling Noam – he could struggle! He’d better do it fast! – in with her.

“So…” She looked him up and down, smiling uncertainly. “This might be fun.”

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Getting Over History, a continuation of Fae Apoc for the Jan. Giraffe Call (@inventrix)

After
Scrounging for History (LJ)
Digging through History (LJ)
Delving in History (LJ)
Bringing Home History (LJ)
Singing down History (LJ)
Learning of History (LJ

Part 6 of 7
Fae Apoc has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ

The witch at the bottom of the pit, the monster-thing that was maybe not a monster at all, looked up at them uncertainly.

“Why would you care?” she repeated. “Why would anyone care?”

“Why care?” Fiery echoed, her bound hands going to smooth her own ragged hair uncertainly. “Families don’t.”

The witch nodded in agreement. “What she said. The people who knew me threw me out. The people who knew that one threw her out. Why would your people be any different?”

Karida sat down on the edge of the pit and dropped her Mask. Her extra-large feet and long, thick tail dangled over the edge. “We just fought you with Workings and magic. What made you think we weren’t the same as you?”

The woman blinked at her, the question obviously taking her completely by surprise. “How… What…?”

“How?” Fiery repeated. “HOW?” she demanded, urgently.

“We will teach you,” Amalie soothed the girl. “We will…” She hummed quietly, and then continued, “bring you, teach you, wash you, show you, sing you, reach you, wash you know you. Teach you, reach you, show you, know you; bring you, sing you, Bring you home too.”

The girl nodded uncertainly; Karida couldn’t blame her. That had been one of Amalie’s sillier ditties.

Down below her feet, the witch keened. “And me?” she groaned. “Would you leave me here, ignorant?”

“You know something,” Karida pointed out. “You could help Fiery’s people.”

“Not like you do. Not like,” she gestured at the stairs. “That sort of thing.”

“So suddenly scrounger trash has something you want?” Dor was, to put it mildly, cranky. Karida couldn’t really bring herself to blame him. “After you attacked us?”

“Humans have been using and hunting me for decades. They’ll do the same to your little captive there. It’s what they do, when their blood turns sour.”

“But you knew we weren’t from your village, if you knew we were ‘trash scroungers,” Dor grumbled.

“And? You with your girl there in ropes, do you think others of your kind haven’t done the same? Slavers, people-takers, food-stealers all of you. I don’t want to be stolen.”

“But you want to be rescued and taught?” Karida asked, caught up in the narrative.

“I don’t want to be left in a pit! If you’ll teach her, why not teach me, too?”

Amalie was frowning now, humming her tune slowly, as if she couldn’t quite get it to go properly. “Viper in the nest,” she murmured, “kitten at the breast, Wildfire in the hearth, candle burning bright thenceforth.”

Karida took that all in. “So she’ll either be fiercely loyal or betray us utterly.” She looked down at the witch. “That is a harsh chance to ask us to take, with our whole company at stake.”

Next: Making New History (LJ)

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Signal Boost: Microfic Fishbowl

Via [personal profile] ysabetwordsmith:

[personal profile] rebelsheart is doing a MicroFic Fishbowl on the theme of “Location, Location, Location.” Fics start at 100 words and you can tip for more. This author leans toward furry and fantasy motifs.

Edited to add:

Read the story written to my prompt!

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/280836.html. You can comment here or there.

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Giraffes, Post, Etc.

The money keeps coming in, so I’m going to keep the call open a little longer
Here on DW/Here on LJ

We reached the $75 dollar level! Everyone who prompted can get a second prompt, and we can get a wheelbarrow! (Also boots. Or a pizza, T. is dithering on the boots).

We are now $25 from the everyone-gets-three-prompts-written level!

If you only left one prompt, please feel free to go back and leave a second.

The second issue of Alder by Post is available.
If you donated $7.50 or more to the January Giraffe Call, or $50 or more in the last year, you may have one for the asking.
Otherwise, to cover printing & postage, each issue is $2 in-US, $2.50 outside (Or $3.50/$4/50 for two issues).

What is Alder by Post? It is probably not the world’s smallest literary magazine, but it might be close! It is a postcard, with a short story on one side and a tiny related story on the back, mailed to your doorstep: Alder… by Post. 🙂

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