Archive | February 2012

Followed me Home

Feb21

For [personal profile] lilfluff‘s prompt

Evangaline modern-era. After Unexpected Guest

The boy jerked and scooted backwards into his pile of blankets when she said “inside.” “I didn’t do anything wrong!” he insisted, skittering backwards away from her.

Startled, Eva crouched down, making herself smaller while still blocking the exit. “I didn’t say you did. But it’s going to get really cold tonight, and the barn isn’t heated.”

He shifted a little further backwards. “You don’t look like a witch,” he answered, not sounding all that certain about it.

“What do witches look like?” she countered gently. She wasn’t surprised at the rumors – the house itself did half the work, with its hallowe’en aspect, the widow’s walk, the cupola, and the tower, the big wraparound porch and the dark red roses.

“Pointy hats?” he joked weakly. “I don’t know, long noses and warts or something?”

“Well,” she tapped her nose, “I don’t have all that big of a schnoz, and I promise you I have no warts at all. My name is Evangeline, but you can call me Eva.”

“Hi,” he muttered. “I’m, um, I’m Robert, but you can call me Robby.”

“Well, welcome to my barn, Robby.” Tone with teenagers was tricky; she could get away with fudging it a bit with her cousins and niece-and-nephews, but with strangers, botch it once and you were a clueless adult forever.

“Thanks.” He smirked back at her, like they were sharing a joke. “I can, uh, leave, if you don’t want me here.”

“I don’t want you freezing to death, in my barn or somewhere else.” She frowned at him, as he started to get jittery again. “Look, if you don’t want to come into the house, how about just the Florida room? It’s warmer than the barn, and I’ve got some soup on the stove if you’re hungry.”

He licked his lips uncertainly. “I’ve eaten?” he offered. “But… the Florida room thing isn’t part of the house?”

“It’s a porch that’s been enclosed,” she assured him. Later, maybe, she could find out what superstition was going around about the house. “There’s an old divan out there and some blankets, and I can haul the space heater out there.”

He eyed her cautiously. “You’re not asking why I’m hiding in your barn.”

“Nope. And I won’t, either.” There were advantages to being the neighborhood witch; whoever he was hiding from would think twice about coming after her. “I figure you’ll tell me if you want to.”

She stood up. “If you want to come inside, come on in now. I’m going to lock up in a few minutes, and then you’ll be stuck with the raccoons for company.”

He still seemed torn, but a convenient wind rattled the barn just then, and he nodded. “The porch,” he insisted, “right? Not in your house.”

“The porch,” she agreed. “This way.”

The Florida room had, at one point, been a back porch, but a prior Aunt or Aunts had glassed it in and had the floor insulated and redone; it was, as she’d said, chilly, but far better than the barn. She left him with the space heater, a pile of blankets, and a charmed night light.

“If you’re still here in the morning,” she warned him, “I’m going to offer you breakfast. Good night, Robby.”

He looked as if he wasn’t sure if that was a threat, but, gulping, nodded. “Thanks, Eva. Good night.”

She headed into her house, wondering if she’d get a chance to learn his story.

Next: In the Cards (LJ)

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/279387.html. You can comment here or there.

Unicorn-Chased, a story of Unicorn/Factory for the January Giraffe Call

Feb21

For flofx‘s commissioned prompt, a continuation of
Unicorn Chase (LJ).

Unicorn Factory has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ

Infe’s daughter Felfen was thrilled by the Unicorn sightings, not in small part because the Factory bosses were so unhappy about the whole thing, because the grumpus-grownups (not her mother and not her father, but the others, the dour sour-puss-faces who didn’t like smiles or laughter or fun) were so miserable about it, because her horrid teacher had been telling all of them that Unicorns Did Not Exist, they were a fairy-tale figment of fevered fantasy.

Felfen was happy, too, because the unicorn was beautiful, and because most of the adults and even the older kids couldn’t see them, so they were something special, just for her and the other kids. Only they could see the bright creatures eating the flowers, and the laundry, and the pies left out to cool. Only they could tell their mothers when it was safe to keep the washing out, and when they should bring it in. Only they could tell which plants the unicorns seemed to turn up their noses at – there were only a few – and suggest those to the gardeners who suddenly wanted their opinions much more than they ever had.

Kids who had been, until now, underfoot, obnoxious, brats, were suddenly being called Valued Members of the Community, and not just for their ability to handle small machinery and get things out of tight places. And in the lead of this child Unicorn-spotting force was Felfen, daughter of the shift supervisor and the town clocksmith, proud as could be and being very virtuous about the whole thing.

“They don’t like coriander,” she told her mother, who told the foreman. “They make a face at it if they even get just a leaf. And they really hate mint, of course.” Everything hated mint. Even Felfen. “But they like the wool socks the best.”

As the Townfolk began hanging their socks with coriander in the toes, and leaving their boots wreathed in mint, Felfen noticed that one unicorn in particular – the one with the horn with no pink in it, and the mane with the golden streaks – had begun following her around.

At first, she thought it was a coincidence – the Town was big, but it wasn’t that big, and she and her gang of Unicorn Spotters were all over its streets now, forgoing classes and sometimes even work. There were, she thought, about twelve unicorns that liked spending time in and around the Town. You could tell them apart, if you knew what to look for, by horn shade and mane color, height, and shagginess of the fetlock feathering. And the one following her was, she was pretty sure, always the same one.

Once she was sure it wasn’t a coincidence, Felfen began to worry. What was it the thing wanted from her? Were they unhappy at being spotted and pointed out, spied on? Did they want her to stop? She started taking shortcuts through buildings, trying to sneak away from the unicorn. She started hiding inside more, even when it meant someone else got the praise for spying. She started going back to class. And yet, every time, when she stepped outside, there it was. It was chasing her.

Looking into its red eyes, Felfen wasn’t as thrilled by the Unicorn sightings anymore.

Next:
Unicorn-Chaste (LJ)

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/279109.html. You can comment here or there.

Bless the Cat, a continuation of the Aunt Family for the Mini-call

Feb21

For rix_scaedu‘s commissioned prompt, after That Damn Cat (LJ).

Aunt Family has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ

“You should hear what they’re saying today,” the Damn Cat told Zenobia, as she set out his evening chicken.

“Indeed?” The cat, she’d discovered, loved to gossip, was completely incorrigible and occasionally very interesting. “More to do with Maude’s beau-they-don’t-approve of?” Zenobia had had a couple of those herself, back in the day. One of them still wrote her monthly; she wondered, sometimes, what his wife thought about that.

“Well, he’s quite the story, isn’t he? Every time someone talks about him, another salacious detail comes out. Tasty.” The cat licked his chops. “But no, that’s not what you ought to be worried about right now.”

That stopped her in her tracks. “Worried?” She put another piece of meat on the cat’s saucer. “That’s not a word you normally use. Tell me, what should I be worried about?”

“Gottleib and Edith plotting to kill you and put in Ida in your stead.”

“Ida?” The idea was beyond horrifying; it was stupidly offensive. “The pretty little flutterbrain wouldn’t know a charm if it bit her up her skirt, where, I might add, any number of things have already bitten her.”

“That’s the idea.” The cat pointedly groomed itself. “She’s sweet, passive, and biddable, things that they believe – rightly, of course – that you are not.”

“She’s likely to end up pregnant any moment now, too; she’s indiscreet enough.” Zenobia was still steaming over her uncle and cousin’s choice of replacement; she realized, somewhere in the back of her mind, that the rest of the cat’s news would have to sink in soon enough.

“Well, then. It shouldn’t be all that hard to eliminate her as a rival, should it?” The Damn Cat looked downright smug. “I’ve always thought your family’s insistence on spinster Aunts was foolish, but since it is unlikely to change any time soon…”

Zenobia sat down inelegantly, the kitchen stool wobbling under her. “They really mean to do away with me?”

“They seem to.” He filled his mouth with meat and kept talking. “You’re too powerful for their tastes, too intractable.”

“I’m the Aunt,” she snapped. “I’m supposed to be the power of the family and the guidestone. I’m not supposed to be passive and biddable. If the family wanted passive and biddable, they would have given the power to an Uncle!“

The cat nodded. “So what are you going to do about it? You don’t strike me as the sort to deal with such things passively.”

“Of course I’m not. But if I confront Gottleib and Edith directly, I reveal that I know what they’re up to. I might need that again.”

“Especially if you’re going to continue to make waves. You might need my surveillance again.”

“Indeed. Good kitty,” she added idly, reaching down to scratch him behind the ears. Over his loud purring, she mused, “getting her pregnant seems the thing to do. I’m going to have to pay a visit to Cousin Lewis.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/278563.html. You can comment here or there.

Vinting Love, a story of Vas’ World for the Giraffe Call (@shutsumon)

Feb20

For [personal profile] becka_sutton‘s prompt.

Vas’ World has a landing page here.

This comes after The Sea And Sky.

Caliber was a little annoyed at their new planet.

They were all a little annoyed at their new planet, to be fair. It had any number of flaws and not nearly enough positives to counter them, far too many deadly problems and none, so far, of the things that sometimes made new settlements totally worth it.

Gentor, despite its scorching temperatures, had had garithite, which made several cancers visible in very early stages. The lovely and deadly Elrodre had produced Elriers Rouge, which prevented most forms of skin cancer. Kincaid, with its naturally-exploding plants and shrapnel-generating animals, had been found to have crustacean-like critters with shells naturally strengthened with tungsten. This planet? This planet couldn’t even grow grapes.

Caliber had brought all of his carefully-packaged rootstocks, filling up a good portion of his weight allowance with them, and then carefully tried one varietal after another. None of them would bear fruit, not here. Taking Armanie’s word that, once they were settled, they could afford to look further abroad, he had packed the surviving plants back up, and begun looking for a substitute for the short-term.

There wasn’t that much time to devote to it. Every member of the team had duties, just to survive. They hadn’t been able to get everything off the ship before it sank, so much of what they did, building themselves shelters, exploring the planet, planting and harvesting food, had to be from native materials with MacGyvered tools. It was slow-going, much slower than a standard colonization ought to be.

Still, Caliber found the time. It helped that his botany degrees dovetailed his hobbies and career, that he could test each food for edibility and then again for ferment-ability, so that he could gather plants on “work” time, and then, in the evening, in the hour of private time they each had before they slept, he could work on his wine-tests.

He was beginning to despair – they had found grain-substitutes, dye-substitutes, leafy-green substitutes, but no fruit-substitutes, nothing that made a decent wine (although he’d managed a very impressive beer that was very popular with the rest of the colonists.) They had been there for months, the season was beginning to turn chilly and damp. Was he going to be reduced to being a brew-meister and not a vinter?

Armanie proved, not for the first time, to be his salvation. Coming back from an exploratory run deep into the jungle, she thumped down on his desk a wide armful of plant matter. “Try this,” she demanded. “The stalks are edible if not tasty, but there’s something like berries, too.”

“Berries…” They were almost grapelike, he noted, noting, also, that she had brought a full bush, roots and all. He ran one of the rich, juicy things through his instruments and then, going for the empirical test, popped one in his mouth.

“Marry me,” he blurted out. “Oh, Armie, this, this is heaven.”

The team leader smirked happily at him. “You brew up some wine,” she told him, “and we’ll talk.”

Next: Harvest

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/278156.html. You can comment here or there.

Not That Kind of Girl, a story of Stranded World for the Giraffe Call (@Wyld_Dandelyon)

Feb20

For [personal profile] wyld_dandelyon‘s prompt.

Stranded World has a landing page .

http://www.songlyrics.com/the-band-perry/all-your-life-lyrics/

Autumn lay back in the warm July sun, staring at the clouds. “I don’t need wine and roses,” she said, mostly to herself. “I’ve never been the sort of girl that asks for that, or the sort of girl that men give that to.”

She swallowed a small lump of bitterness at the feeling. “And I don’t need love songs; the boys that sing them are generally silly, anyway.”

There had been the one, a beautiful bard with a voice like a dream. He had written music for her, sung to her after lovemaking, brought her roses, brought her wine. He had been something else… but he was the sort that didn’t travel well, and she was the sort that never stayed in one place.

“I heard a song the other day,” she continued, to the silence near her. “Something like ‘I don’t need the whole world… I just want to be the only one you love.'” She laughed shortly. “Hypocritical, wouldn’t it be? But sometimes,” she turned to look at him, her heart in her throat. “Sometimes that’s what I want, Tatters.” Or at least a name to call you by.

“Lady Fall.” His eyes were serious, though his tone was light. “What you want of me, you have but to ask.”

“You and I both know that’s a lie,” she countered angrily. “Don’t I deserve better from you than lies, at the very least?”

He flinched. “It was not my intent to lie to you, but simply to…” He gestured, and his tone changed. “I wanted to give you the roses and the wine that you want, though you say you don’t. The poetry. But I have never been a grapes and thorns sort of man, I’m afraid.” His tone changed again, as if he was dialing himself down. “I’d give you romance if it was in me, Autumn.”

He paused, as if looking for the words. “I can give you mead and leather, if that’s enough.”

She studied him for a moment, her heart twisting. “If that is what you have,” she answered, wondering if she was lying, “than that, my love, is enough and more than.”

The song she is misquoting is The Band Perry’s “All Your Life.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/277986.html. You can comment here or there.

Monday Morning Giraffe Summary

Feb20

Good morning! It’s a cold grey day and I have a lot of writing in front of me, and a lot behind me as well!

The Linkback story for the Giraffe Call is up here on DW (LJ)!

This weekend I wrote for February’s Giraffe Call LJ (Which will remain open until 11 p.m. EST tonight):

One-off
The most Interesting Wine (LJ)
Salvation in a Bottle ()

Fae Apoc
Bitter Vintage (LJ)
Late Planting ()

Briars and Vinegar (LJ)
Briars and Vinegar: Blood on the Snow (LJ)
Briars and Vinegar: For 100 Years (LJ)
Briars and Vinegar: Sharp and Bitter (LJ)

Addergoole
Picking Grapes (LJ) (Shiva & Niki)

The Aunt Family
…and Thou (LJ)

Facets
The Sweet Rose of Morning (Did not Xpost)

Unicorn/Factory
Pure as… (LJ)

For the Last Call:
Stranded:
Laying the Foundation (LJ)
Fairy Town:
The “A” Shelves (LJ)
Reiassan:
Stories of the City (LJ)
Fae Apoc:
Step on my Tail (LJ)
Tir na Cali
Window Shopping (LJ)
Catpeople
Down in Kitty Town (LJ)

Non-Call:
Reiassan:
Being Brought In (LJ)
Privates (LJ) Rin/Girey, adter Hurt/Comfort

I posted some business posts:
January Giraffe Update (LJ)
List of Stories (LJ) Input! What do you want a continuation of?
And, for good measure:
February 15th’s Summary (LJ)

[personal profile] clare_dragonfly‘s Garden of Prose is still open for a little while longer!
so is
ankewehner‘s Flash Fiction Fishbowl!

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/277659.html. You can comment here or there.

Rose Red

Feb19

For [personal profile] kc_obrien‘s prompt.

They called her Rose Red, which wasn’t that far from the name her mother had given her, when she danced on the stage. And they called her other names, as her pretty old-fashioned dress with all its rose-petal layers p e e l e d o f f, one tissue-thin layer at a time, as she cracked jokes and danced, shimmied on the stage and sat on the patron’s tables, asking about their wives and their day at work.

She was a star, in that way a burlesque dancer could be, a phenomenon. She was famous all through the city, at least among certain people. She was so well-known people were said to be able to identify her chest in a line-up and her voice in a crowd, and both, oh, lordy, both were quite impressive. She was Rose Red.

And she could, in a plain brown dress and a hat, walk through downtown and never be noticed. Her famous voice became less stunning by far when she took on a higher-pitched, feminine titter. Her amazing chest was hidden very well by current fashion and an expensive tailor. She could be Esdora Ende, the sempstress, and nobody the wiser.

She lived a double life, quite contentedly… except that it was really a triple life.

Because, in the dim hours when the stage had gone dark, long before Esdora would be expecting business, Rose Red put on another hat, and a mask, and a low-cut suit coat over men’s pants, and The Night Thorn stalked the streets, patrolling.

She had a kick like nobody’s business, a punch that surprised even the police officers that found her targets, and the horsewhip that she used as her signature weapon left many would-be burglars and muggers smarting and bleeding. She was famous, for that whip, for her lace-clad cleavage, for the jokes she made as she rescued innocent civilians and as she caught wrongdoers in the act. Many burglars, many police, swore they’d know her if they saw her, but many of them sat there watching Rose Red dance none the wiser. And a few brought their sewing to Esdora and never saw either famous face in hers.

And through it all, she smiled. Who knew better than a stage performer the art of misdirection?

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/277339.html. You can comment here or there.

Salvation in a Bottle, a story for the Giraffe Call.

Feb19

For [personal profile] lilfluff‘s Prompt.

The island was big enough to sustain life for their small group.

Which was good, because they couldn’t figure a way off of it, and, even if they had, they weren’t certain there was anything to return to. They had escaped onto Jacob’s fishing boat at the last moment, just as the city was burning and the lava was filling the streets. The waves had knocked them onto this island. And here they were, with fresh water and a little bit of fauna, a little bit of flora, a little bit of shelter.

In her heart, Suzanna knew it wasn’t sustainable. They had food, but not enough for the seven of them. The water would last, and as long as this was as territorial as they thought it was, their makeshift shelter would do. But the only food they’d found was on trees, or the small animals that ran around the place. Making it last, not eating up their entire food supply, would be tricky if not impossible.

And, without birth control, if they were here long enough, if nobody rescued them, if they couldn’t find a way off the island, that problem would only get worse.

“Hey, Suze,” Martin called, from the stretch of beach where he was supposed to be gathering seaweed. “Suze! Gretel! I found something!”

“Something” could be just about anything, but she made her way over to him, if only to stop the shouting. “What is it, Mar?”

“It’s a wine bottle. Message in a bottle sort of thing, maybe? I mean, fat lot of good it’s going to do us, but we could always add our own message and throw it back into the water.”

“We could,” she agreed, because quashing anyone’s hopes was just cruel. “Let me see it?”

She opened the bottle, tugging the cork out – surprising it hadn’t popped out; it wasn’t set home properly at all, and turning the whole thing upside down. Much to her surprise – and, it seemed, everyone else’s – a single red rose dropped out, stem first, its thorns catching on her skin.

“It has roots,” Frank was the first to notice. “I’ve never seen a single rose with roots. Think it will grow if we plant it?”

“It might be nice.” Andrea was still so shy, even with only the seven of them around. You could barely hear her over the waves. “Might be nice to have something of home.”

After that, even if James had wanted to argue, he would have been outvoted. They planted the rose in a sunny, well-drained spot, and hoped for the best.

And, to Suzanna’s private surprise, the rose grew, faster than she thought a rose ought to, taller than seemed reasonable, with longer thorns and thicker vines than anything should have. And, in a matter of a week, just as they were contemplating their dwindling food stores, the vine that should have been a rose produced fruit.

They were skeptical at first, and confused – roses didn’t make fruit – but they were also growing hungry and, after one of the small island mammals devoured one of the fruits and suffered no apparent ill effects, they decided it was safe to try.

Martin, he of the most sensitive digestion, declared himself their test subject and, gingerly, cut one of the breadfruit-like globes apart and ate it, slice after slice, declaring it delicious.

When it came her time to eat it, Suzanna stared at their salvation-in-a-bottle, their wine-and-roses fruit, with a bit of tired suspicion. “Now all you need to do,” she told the solitary flower, “Is figure out how to grow into a house.”

She turned away before she could see its vines start to stretch and grow again.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/277041.html. You can comment here or there.