Archive | March 6, 2013

Fine Dining

To EllenMillion‘s prompt

The hard part wasn’t getting them home.

Rosario had never had any trouble getting people – men, women, those of non-binary status – to come home. A smile, a suggestion, a wiggle of properly-toned ass, that was all it took. Everything about Rosario’s body, club wardrobe, make-up; it was all designed with the hook, the line, and the sinker in mind.

The hard part wasn’t getting them to come back.

Unlike some pick-up artists, Rosario liked second dates, third dates, long walks on the beach and expensive dinners out. Sometimes, Rosario would even be the one picking up the check. Loss leaders. It all paid out in the end.

The hard part wasn’t getting them to fall in love.

Rosario was good at the game, and good at the love part. The right look, the vulnerable face, the careful uncertain words. That was the first step, the easiest step.

Then came the opening-up. The true stories about childhood. The sleeping over, which left mornings when Rosario was most vulnerable, and, sometimes, the most confused.

Then came the whispered – always true – confessions of love. “I think I might love you,” usually. Or “I never say this sort of thing” (that part wasn’t true), “but I can’t stop thinking about you.”

That wasn’t the hard part, either. And it almost always worked.

The pay-off came then. Rosario lived on love, ate it up, devoured it. And when they fell in love, there were days at the shortest, weeks, months at the longest, where the meals just kept coming in. Like an all-you-can-eat banquet full of Filet mignon and lobster.

The hard part came when they ran out of love.

They’d stop calling. They’d stop coming by. They’d avoid Rosario in the clubs. They would avoid eye contact, change their number, change their address. They’d, in short, leave.

But Rosario, who ate love, who lived love, who loved someone new every month, Rosario loved them, even when they left.

The hard part was getting heart-broken, over and over and over again, just to get a decent meal.

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That Guy Thursday: Nilam

(It’s Thursday where Rix lives!)

Nilam cy’Friedmar

At first glance, Nilam could easily pass for a particularly ruddy one of Aelfgar’s children. He’s built similarly – solid, pale skin, and a stubborn chin – although his hair is ginger, not blonde, and his skin is more prone to freckling.

He’s not all that tall – 5’11” – but very lanky, which he never outgrows. Despite his modest height, he tends to go around looking like he can’t quite get clothes to fit him; for all her flaws, Margherita at least gets him in the proper length pants.

His Change does not change him, physically all that much, and many of the mental changes are buried under the Keeping. His hazel eyes turn sapphire blue, and he gains three inches in height and loses 20 pounds.

As to his innate? We shall have to wait until he is no longer Kept to learn more about that.

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Hyphens, a continuation of FaeApoc/Addergoole @kissofjudas

After Step-Father, after Old History, after At the Gate, after Fathers.

Charity case. Hunter-Hale didn’t question his father.

Nor did he question his mother. “I’ll be right down, darling.” Her voice sounded both tinny and icy over the intercom.

He turned back to the guy claiming to be his father instead. “So you’re Adder.” He didn’t look like much. The way his shoulders rolled forward, the way he kept looking at the ground; he looked like a beaten dog, one really hoping someone would throw him a bone.

Hunter-Hale wanted to feel sorry for him, but his parents had taught him the dangers of that. What they hadn’t taught him, the end of the world had.

(“You little shit,” the man had screamed at him. “Do you know who I am?”

“Two hours ago, you were dying on our sidewalk.” He had turned the shotgun to the man’s chest, although – ten years old, then, and small for his age – he hadn’t been sure he could actually fire it. “An hour ago, you were eating food my sister cooked for you. Now, you’re demanding we give you more, because you used to be someone important.”

“Not used to be! I am! I’ll have you arrested for this!”

“All the cops have fled the city. Right now, the only law is us.” Hunter had done a little jerk with the shotgun he’d seen on a movie he wasn’t supposed to be watching. “Get out. And don’t come back.”)

That man had fled, but he hadn’t been the only one. It made Hunter-Hale reach for his gun when this one spoke again.

“I’m Adder. And you’re Hunter-Hale.”

“I am. You know, I’ve always wondered – why the hyphen?” He peeked up at Silas to be sure he wasn’t screwing anything up.

Adder didn’t seem to mind burning time talking. “It needed to be the whole thing, and putting it as one word didn’t look right.” He shrugged one shoulder apologetically. “It’s the way it came in the vision.”


“Who’s the guest, Silas, Hunter-Hale?” Mom was moving forward like she was a Queen in her castle. Hunter liked it when she did that, but it could be a little scary. “Oh. Oh, hrm. Has he proven who is is, yet?”

Mom sounded intrigued. More than that, Hunter-Hale realized, she sounded predatory.

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Bad Kids, a drabble of Luke and Mystral

After Revival, after Impasse

“Tempero Intinn, you sonofabitch.”

That’s my Myst.

The ninja froze. Slowly, he set his sword on the treehouse floor. Even more slowly, he began speaking. “Telling… you… the… goal… of… the… mission… gah… bitch… CHILDREN.”

The …ninja… sank to his knees, holding his head. Luke shared a brief glance with his wi – his mate. “I’ll go to the kids.”

“Daddy! Mommy!”

“Ow, you little shit!”

Luke swooped down from the platform in a barely-controlled dive. There, by the side door, Chavva and Icarus were fighting, like the good little warriors that they were, kicking and scratching and biting and, above all, not cooperating.

“The first thing to remember, if a stranger wants you to go somewhere, don’t be a good kid.” They hadn’t been the first children Luke had taught that lesson to, but the world was a dark place, and he had made sure to drill it in. Play -abductions, where they got to kick and fight against Dad, had driven the lesson home. “You’re a good kid for your Mom, for your Dad, for your family. Be a good kid for your teachers. But never, ever be a good kid for someone trying to take you somewhere. Be the baddest, most mis-behaved child you can manage.”

Chavva was biting now, good girl, going for the jugular, while her brother was using a small weapon that he must have had stashed in his pajama pants.

Luke felt a surge of paternal pride, never mind that Icarus wasn’t, technically his son.

And then he attacked.

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Weblit Wednesday: a Guest Post on Poetry for the Masses!

This is a guest post by [personal profile] thesilentpoet

In a way, the Poetry for the Masses! project started in 2010, when trying to raise money to attend a conference in Minneapolis, I hosted a poetry drive on my journal. While never consistent until recently,
I would occasionally resurrect it. In 2012, having renamed it to be Poetry for the Masses!, I started it for what I thought would be a one-off thing, instead, it’s become a semi-monthly event, with calls
for prompts, perk lists, and freebies.

It was through Poetry for the Masses! that Silk Road Allies, the shared world between myself, Elizabeth Barrette, and Marini Bonomi, started. Over the course of the several months, I’ve written poems on
such subjects as fairy tales and folklores, religious traditions, science, and history. In addition to Silk Road Allies, I also frequently write poems regarding to my larger and longer crowdfunded project, Sixty-Four Squared, a tentatively five-novel project, which is directly written and linked to through my journal. Currently, I am still writing my way through Book the first, The Scholar’s Mate. In Poetry for the Masses!, I also frequently dip into Schrodinger’s Heroes, another shared world co-created by Elizabeth Barrette. However, there are many stand alones, and I always love new prompters, commenters, or supporters. All the poetry written during the Poetry for the Masses! sessions are on a pay-what-you-will, with donor perks typically starting at as low as the $5 level.

I had started Poetry for the Masses! again because I needed something to kickstart my writer brain, having just come out of a too long for liking dry spell. I keep continuing it as it connects me to a
fantastic community of writers, poets, and artists, working to create a community where we can all learn and share. I hope to continue it for a long time to come.

The next Poetry for the Masses! will be the weekend March 8-9 with a theme of “rebirth”. Please follow along at or Prompts welcome, comments gleed upon, and tips certainly welcome.

Thank you, good-bye, and good night.

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Pi No Wri Mo: Day Four

Yesterday I wrote 1537 words of Addergoole and 566 words of Other.
This brings my totals to 6127 (par 6000) and 1925 (par 2000) going into today.

If I wrote 125 words less of Addergoole and 125 words more of Other today, I would be at par for both.

Last words of last night, Other:
“Trees have a different sense of brief than we do?” Aoife shrugged. “I don’t have training in xenobotanical ambassodorial duties.”

Last words of last night, Addergoole:
It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough, when she knew she could have been locked in a basement. “I’ve got to go see Arundel.” If she whispered quietly enough, her voice didn’t hurt people.


Other news:

I am still plodding along on my last Giraffe Call!! Because I haven’t gotten through the first round of prompts yet (I was sick 🙁 ), prompts are still open!

And at $17.50 in donations, we are $12.50 from a hot cocoa recipe and $22.50 from donators getting another fic written!

And in health news, I’m feeling better! (mostly)

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