Archive | April 30, 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.

Want More?

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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?”

Free for $3-and-up Patrons!

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.