Archive | April 2017

The Colony

Who knows? This might be the prequel to another setting.
To The Lit-awoo-erry =n.n=‘s prompt.

There were things they hadn’t planned for because they hadn’t known.

There had been people in space before; there had been people on the moon before. But when they built the first lunar colony, they were in a hurry, they had some serious issues to contend with, and they really, really needed to get a breeding population of humans and some core species of animals off the Earth, just in case.

Earth was, as far as the colonists could tell, still there. But the ship had been cannibalized for parts and there would be no going back.

And then there were the Dry Years.

Five years where the colony thrived, the animals thrived, the city grew and they figured out lunar agriculture – and not a single placental mammal carried an infant past the first trimester. None.

Five years of trying everything and nothing, nothing working.

Mira had grown up with this legend. She knew of Earth the way her grandparents had known of the moon: something hanging in the sky, something there were stories about. She knew of the Dry Period much better, because she had been the first child successfully born on Luna.

She stood at the row of incubators, looking at her first egg. The shell was soft, like a platypus’, and it had been platypus eggs that had cued the colonists into their solution.

Earth would probably be very fascinated with the genetic engineering they had come up with in five short years, and everything they had managed in the twenty-one since.

Earth, the lunar colonists said, could ask them about it when Earth sent a ship for them.

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Changing Faces

Over on Mastodon, I did a little prompt call on the theme of moons.
She slipped out into the night and let the moonlight brush over her.

It was a clear night; good. She could use the change tonight. There was an angry man in the party, and when he figured out she’d left, he was going to be angrier.

He had reason to be angry with her, yes. On the other hand, he was an asshole. The two didn’t exactly balance out, but they did make her feel not at all bad about sneaking out when he was looking for her – probably hollering about her – very likely quite irked.

She closed her eyes and felt the moonlight on her skin. It was a chilly night, and the moon was full, swollen.

She didn’t like the full-moon faces as much, but this one would do. The Mother came out with the gibbous moon, the Crone with the darkness of the new moon… every moon had its moods.

And tonight- she breathed in and felt her bones shift under her skin, felt her skin shift. She was going to be tall today, whee. Tall and lanky and small-chested with really big hands.

She felt the point between her eyes where the sanity was already slipping away, and made it to a bus stop before she could forget she needed to get some distance.

She was going to be a wild one for a little while, it seemed. She could already sense the memories slipping into protective custody, tucked away with her more stable forms. She was whistling a tune, she was almost singing, and she handed a hobo a $10 bill.

She still had enough for bus fare.

She hid most of the rest of her money in a pocket in her bag before the moon-touched face took completely over. Then she let go and slipped away, and the new face shone forth in full.

“Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-a’ight,” she sang to the nighttime street. “My oh my, what a wonderful night. Plenty of moonlight, coming my way, Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay.”

The bus driver let her on with a shake of his head. “Try to keep it down, child,” he warned. “Got some cranky ones on tonight.”

She gave him a kiss on the forehead and hummed to herself while the wheels on the bus

went round and round

round and round

and the moon over head hung round, so round…

It was a clear night, and she had no place in particular to go, which was her favorite place of all.

missus crow’s here on my shoulder

It’s the truth, it’s factual

Everything is satisfactual.

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-night

Wonderful Feeling, wonderful night.

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Patreon: A Trunk Story and Others

Today’s Trunk Story was actually published! In the February 2012 issue of EMG-Zine, no longer publishing.
It follows the further adventures of Ruan.


There were many things Ruan loved about having an antiquities dealer and amateur museum curator as a beau: his lovely wit, his beautiful eyes, his way around an aetheric detector. But the thing which she loved the most was his wonderful habit of bring her home toys, gadgets, and devices.

Regarding this particular gadget – perhaps “contraption” was a better word – however, Ruan wasn’t certain if she should be happy, or if disgruntlement was more called for. “What, pray tell, is it?”

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Originally posted on March 19, 2011.
She opened her eyes to the world around her, her memories already fading.

She’d shared some of them with her parents-to-be beforehand, but there was a bit of a language barrier, an image barrier. They could understand, through careful, patient relaying of images, that this was not her first life.

Read On!

Originally posted on Dec. 19, 2011
“Are you sure you’ll stay, then?”

Shea hadn’t been looking for the underground facility – hadn’t been looking, at least, for this specific, deep-cavern-system underground facility, with its refugee population hidden there since the Catastrophe. But, having found it, and, more importantly, having found them, Shea couldn’t leave without doing something.

Read On!

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A Quest? A story Beginning from Story Dice.

written as an experiment in Story Dice; Image at end of story

There was a sign.

Poul had not been expecting a sign.

That was not entirely accurate. Poul had not been expecting a literal sign, the sort that was on a post and had an arrow. Maybe an omen. Maybe an old lady who needed some berries picked.

If this was a storybook. If this was a fairy tale. Poul… sometimes was not too clear on if it was or wasn’t. That had caused some problems over the years, truth be told, but had, in the end, led to Poul setting out on a quest, because either there would be signs and something to do, or Poul would find someplace more interesting to live.

But there was a literal sign pointing down the road, “This way to the locked tower.”

This way to the locked tower sounded like a sign, all right, of both sorts.

Poul headed that way. The road was long, and it twisted and turned as it went, and the sun set long before Poul reached anything but another sign.

“This Way to the Locked Tower,” the second sign read, and below it, in smaller words, “Bring tribute.”

Poul had nothing to bring as tribute, so Poul looked around. The moon was a sliver in the sky, but it was a clear night, and Poul could still make out enough to see the flowers at the roadside.

Flowers were appreciated, right? Poul picked a large bouquet, and tied them up with a bandanna. Then the road beckoned, and Poul continued, adding other roadside plants as the night stretched on.

The moon was thinking of setting when Poul reached an intersection. In the middle of the intersection was a tall woman with bits and pieces of scavenged metal hammered into armor, standing between four barred roads.

“Halt!” She held up her hand. “You can only pass if you bring proper tribute.”

Smiling, Poul held out the flowers.

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The Trouble With Theories…

After The Trouble With Chickens, to poll-selected continuation.

Trenner Oujiduie was not her professors’ favorite student.

That was not entirely true: she was the favorite, or one of three favorites, of Professor Sojide, but since nobody else in the entire Sciences and Studies wing wanted to even acknowledge that Professor Sojide existed, that did Trenner not a bit of good, and, in the grand scheme of things, probably hurt her more than anything.

She had been keeping informal score with Sojide’s other favorites – what crap assignments the other professors gave them, when the professors ignored them to call on someone who clearly didn’t know what they were talking about, and so on. She had not been in the lead until that paper she’d done for Professor Lokeg-Fridelabout about the Feltenner Chickens and their uses in a broader academic-sustainability plan.

It hadn’t been a brilliant idea, but Resklin Tarajirra was beating her in points and she really was quite fascinated with the chickens. They were a triumph of science – over the scientist, even! – but, more importantly, the meat they could provide – and eggs! – could totally deal with the food shortage down in the Lower East Quarter

That explained why she was walking out into the Lost Buildings – what had been the former Science Wing, before, well, everything – carrying a small harpoon gun, a set of spears, and every religious icon anyone on her dormitory floor could provide her.

(For a school of science, they were immensely religious. She liked that. And if only one of the gods noticed her tonight, Trenner thought it was well worth the extra weight of necklaces and bracelets.)

“If you are so fascinated with the Feltenner Chickens, Trenner.” Professor Lokeg-Fridelabout’s voice had gotten that deep sound of threat and danger in it, then why don’t you bring one back? We can see if the meat is edible and see exactly what Feltenner did to these things.”

Trenner moved very slowly through the overgrown dogwoods. She was fairly certain she was being stalked by a rooster taller than she was.

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Next: The Trouble With Assignments. 

(no subject)

Here’s some more fiction and poetry from 2005, as I clean out my LiveJournal
Pen between her teeth, she stares into space, muttering snatches of phrase. The words are always there, an ever-flowing stream across her mental meadow…

read on!

Originally posted Oct. 2011.
“What have we here?”

Ruan wasn’t so much talking to herself as she was talking to the hodgepodge she was looking through. Her Aunt Tansy hadn’t been, as they say, The Aunt – she was a paternal aunt, for one thing, totally not the right sort, and Ruan’s Aunt Elenora was still alive and well – but the family tradition seemed to hold anyway. Her father’s sister had taken a long walk into the ocean, and it was left to Ruan to clean up her mess.

Read On!

The last war for the nation of Yestern ended not with a bang, but with a complaint.

“We’re out of tea.”.

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Over the Moon

“I’m Peter Pan,” Flavia sighed. She was floating half a foot off the floor, bouncing up and down, useless yellow moth-wings fluttering.

“Tinkerbell,” Rémy countered with a grin.

“Wendy,” she retorted. She was her whole height above the ground now, and so was he. “Other people smile and I float. Think of a happy thought.”

“A happy thought?” Rémy’s smile turned fond and warm. Flavia bounced another six feet in the air, Rémy right behind her. “You’re right here.”

They were heading for the moon with no sign of stopping.

Written to yesterday’s Thimbleful Thursday prompt and also tootfiction – 500-character-or-less fic for Mastodon

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Rescue, Rescue

Written to some of [personal profile] lilfluff‘s prompts.
The characters uh. Have something to do with [personal profile] wyste‘s ongoing very long fanfic. That is, ah,
are completely original. Really.

Jaime had gotten himself “arrested” by simply being in the wrong (right) place at the wrong (right) time, an occurrence that had been happening far too much lately. A suggestion that he happened to be maybe A Little Bit Magical had gotten him put in the right cells, and then it had taken just four or five mundane tricks to assure that he wasn’t actually stuck in the cell.

It sounded simple if you didn’t think about the weeks of planning and four people worth of preparation that had gone into this, all of which had involved quite a bit of arguing, more than a bit of negotiation, and a tiny bit of blackmail.

Jaime had gotten his mission. Now he just had to get out of it.

And the lock was proving slightly more tricky than he’d expected.

He was swearing quietly at the door when it swung open. He slid his lockpicks up his sleeves and tried to look disgruntled and imprisoned.

“We’ve got to get you out of here.” The blond face on the other side of the door was definitely not a guard. He was also thinner, more drawn, and paler than the last time Jaime had seen him.

“Falco?” He stared at his old enemy, his old ally.

“It’s a good disguise, well done, but the moment they have the seer taste your magic, you’re done for. Come on, you’ve got to leave soon, before someone notices.” Falco shoved a pile of incense-smelling robes at Jaime. “Put these on, nobody will notice one more of them marching out the back way. They all skiv out there for a smoke, anyway.”

“You’ve got to come with me. You’re half the reason I’m in here! Come on.” He grabbed Falco’s arm.

There was hardly anything there, and Falco didn’t even try to pull away. “I…” He closed his eyes and struggled to speak. After a moment, he managed to mouth can’t.

Jaime’s heart went cold. They’d heard the enemy was doing those things, but- “I’m sorry, Falco.” He took the robe, waited until Falco had relaxed.

He didn’t like that he even knew this curse. It was a nasty one, and it left a stain on you just to think about t. But it, unfortunately, had its uses in the rebellion.

When Falco was no longer in control of his own body, Jaime handed him the robes back. “Put these on. You’re a lot less conspicuous that way.”

They got out by the back way, Jaime spelling cell doors open on the way. In the ensuing havoc, they’d have at least an hour before anyone noticed Falco was gone.

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Patreon: Reposts and Adventures.

For today, in honor of looking through my LiveJournal archives, I offer some early-2000’s poetry.

Unedited Prayer of Sorts

My lady of the verdant green, why have you forsaken me?
When I was a child, your oaken skirts shielded me
From interlopers and observers; simple faith carried me,
and simple ritual. nothing else was needed:

read on!

any people have speculated that if we knew exactly why a bowl of petunias had thought that we would know a lot more about the nature of the Universe than we do now.

Oh, no, not again.

The bowl of petunias plummeted towards the ground, no room in what it could pretend, loosely, was a brain for anything except a vague and dissatisfied sense of what, if you were going to translate it into Galactic Book Standard, would sound mostly like not again.

Read On!

History and memory did not go past the wall.

It was as tall as anyone could imagine, an unknown width, and it surrounded the Community, giving them room enough to live and grow but no more.

It could not be climbed, being smooth to the touch and unpleasant to be in contact with for any length of time. It could not be drilled through, nor broken. It could not be dug underneath.

Read On!

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Patreon: The Aunt Family

Originally posted February 15, 2012: more about the cat that would become Radar later.

Zenobia didn’t give the cat a name, but she did leave a bowl of cream out for him every morning, and a bit of her dinner meat every evening.

Her Aunt Beulah had left her the cat, along with the property and the title, when she vanished into the mist one late-November evening. He was, at that point, already an elderly cat, if family memory held, but, in this case, family memory, generally a very reliable thing, seemed to falter.

read on!

Oh, dear.” Asta patted her nephew’s shoulder gingerly. “Not again?”

Will sighed and looked out the window. “Again. I managed to cover it up, the way you showed me…”

“But if this keeps happening, eventually the grandmothers and the mothers and the fussbudgets down at church are going to figure it out, no matter how small-minded they are,” Asta finished with a sigh. “And then they’re going to give you Willard’s choice.”

Read On!

For this repost story, something from 2011 that starts Radar’s story as well as the saga of Beryl’s relationship with her young man.

“But Mom…”

“Don’t argue. You know it’s your Aunt Beatrix’s turn to host Thanksgiving, and you know we can’t very well not show up only on her years.”

“But Moooom,” Beryl’s younger sister Amy picked up the complaint, “it smells funny there.”

“It’s the cats,” their older sister Chalcedony added. “Mom, come on. Someone needs to tell Beatrix that her house smells like cat pee.”

Read On!

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