Archive | February 12, 2014

Fuzzy on the Details, a random Drabble

So, I’m playing with the Roster and I said to myself, “who Keeps him, if anyone? Well, Janoah could. Now, I wonder how that went?”

So I wrote this.

The girl was petting him.

Ankara was… surprisingly okay with this.

She had a name. Janoah. Her friends – her Crew, that was the word – had used it. She had a name and, as far as Ankara could figure out, she Owned him now.

Ankara knew about Owning, although he was still a little fuzzy – ha, fuzzy; he’d turned into a fecking angora-rabbit-thing overnight – on the details, and he was very fecking fuzzy on how the mute girl had managed to Keep him.

But Kept and collared he was, and the girl was petting him. Life was pretty good.

Janoah has showed up before here; Ankara, here and here; this story is three years later for Janoah and four years earlier for Ankara.

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The Church in the Park, a story of Fairy Town for the Giraffe Call

This is to kelkyag‘s and flofx‘s prompt here to my February Giraffe Call.

It takes part in my Fairy Town setting, after Fairies in the Church.

Names from Seventh Sanctum.

There were fairies in the church again.

Bishop Macnamilla was no longer a young man; indeed, he had not been able to make a pretense at youth for longer than most of the priests of the city had been alive.

And he had been watching the rot spread through his City and his Church for decades. He had seen the spread and done what he could – but not what he should – to stop it, back when he could make a pretense at youth.

The elders of the Church had not listened back then, and the young in the Church would not listen now. It had been up to him, no position and only the strength of his conviction, as a young man. And he had failed.

He tottered – he hated to admit it, but pride went before a fall and he was indeed tottering – back from Father Nehemiah’s abomination of a church. He could not do what needed to be done there, but there were other places. In this city, there were always the proper sorts of places. Before this place had been called ‘fairy town’ by the common people, before it had fallen to rot, it had been called the GodTown.

The Bishop went walking – limping – in the heart of the city, in the heart of a park where angels and demons feared to tread, where the dirty and the dusty had taken over. He tottered to the crossroads in the center of that park, and, from there, walked without fail, his back suddenly straight again and his steps sure, seventeen paces due north.

It did not take long for the fae to find him. In this park, they were lousy on the ground.

It took almost less time for the fae to realize where they were, and only a moment for them to realize who he was. But by then, the Fate was sealed.

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Tangles and Knots

This is to kelkyag‘s prompt here to my February Giraffe Call.

It takes part in my Stranded World setting, after all extant Tattercoat stories.

Names from <a href="
“>Seventh Sanctum.

There was something amiss with Winter’s sister.

With the oldest of Winter’s sisters and the most steady, the most easy-going, the least likely to have things go amiss.

Spring had warned him first, in that way that she did, a riddle tied up in a knot, the sonnets are slanting sideways and the seeds are falling all wrong. Then Summer, just something’s wrong with Autumn.

When their mother had called Winter, do something, he had known things had gotten out of hand. But because it was not he who had seen the problem first but Spring, he went out of character for himself and did things indirectly, looking not for the tangle but for its cause.

He had been young and cocky when he’d taught Spring; it hadn’t occurred to him until much later how much she had taught him.

There were tangles in Autumn’s skein, that much was clear. Knots, and, worse, fraying and snipped ends. But why? She’d always been so ready to flow with the world’s streams, so quick to twine with others and so very slow to actually tie any lasting connections.

Winter spied. He followed lines back from his sister without ever letting her see his presence, he murmured questions at the right people, he followed paperwork trails where they existed. He studied.

When he had a path to walk, he began walking. Literally, in this case: the cause of the snarls was only a few miles away, just a short trip from the Ren Faire where Autumn had set up shop.

Did she know? From the way her lines tangled, Winter doubted it. There was loss and pain in her mess, not immediate intimacy.

Winter made it to the house, or at least the dwelling – three trailers and an old recreational vehicle set up in a square around a loose courtyard, plenty for the mild spring weather – before something stopped him in his tracks.

His sisters and mother had said one word, and, while others had used other names, they had all led back to the same person. Tattercoat.

There were seven people in the compound, and a complex of tangled Strands and intentional knots that spoke of intentional weaving.

Untangling Knots

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Blame Game, a story of Superheros (or possibly Science!) for the Giraffe Call

This is to ellenmillion‘s prompt here to my February Giraffe Call.

It is either in my Science! verse or Superheroes, possibly both.

Names from <a href="
“>Seventh Sanctum.

“Hurry up. The cops are going to be here soon.”

The three safebreakers were professionals, but they were the sort of professionals you hired fifty percent for their discretion. Austin – Dr. Lawrence – had gotten them in, Dr. Lawrence would get them back out, and in between they just needed to break the safe and not ask questions.

Hurry up counted as questions.

“I am going as quickly as is feasible. This isn’t a snatch-and-grab, you realize.” Dr. Lawrence was hanging upside-down from a very thin wire, using tweezers to move very tiny components. She was almost done. But the safebreakers were getting nervous.

“They’re going to know we were here. They’re really going to know we were here if they catch us.”

“They will know that someone was here. They will blame it, as they have done the last seven events, on either Cold Chase or Hurricane Deluder.”

The doctor ignored them, then; there were three more parts to move, and it was the most sensitive part of the operation. Not being complete dunces – the other fifty percent of their hiring requirement – the safecrackers waited until they had hauled Dr. Lawrence back to the hallway, and, being very smart, actually waited until they were all in the getaway van and several blocks away.

Then their leader turned to stare at the doctor. “Wait. ‘The last seven events.'”

Dr. Lawrence nodded. “Yes.”

“Including that one they blamed Cold Chase and, what’s his name, Monster Truck for?”

“Including that one, although that was a bit of a botch, sadly.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why Monster Truck got blamed. Look, I don’t know what you’re up to…”

“That was part of our agreement, yes.”

“But Hurricane Deluder is my cousin. So look, if you’ve got to peg stuff on the criminals…”

The doctor nodded slowly. “That is fair. Tell me, do you have any relation to Venom Pacer?”

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