Archives

30days Second Semester, Preparing the Stage, Cali

Aug17

For the 30 Days Meme Second Semester, for the prompt “14) write a vanilla story dealing with kinky subject matter”

Tir Na Cali, in the Harem sub-setting – landing page here (and on LJ).

Bettie was very proud of her inventory. She kept each piece in pristine condition, clean, oiled, free of defect, hung in its proper spot, ready for her hand, or that of the Lady or Lord that called for it.

There was, she mused, not that much difference between her and the harem-keepers. They all kept their inventories ready; they all served the same niche. And they all, in the end, worked on the same slaves.

She laid out her floggers and restraints. The Lady Ursula had called for some supplies this evening; she wanted to be certain everything was perfect.

Mink oil came first. The best floggers and whips were made of leather, firm enough to hurt, but giving enough not to break the skin. They needed to be cared for (and sometimes, even so, blood needed to be cleaned off as well), oiled, smoothed, made supple. They needed to be as good as they could be.

She worked the oil into her favorite three floggers. Stephan made the best noises with the heaviest flogger, so she worked that one up first. Perhaps the Lady would have another choice, maybe the delicate one more likely to leave welts but easier to swing. She oiled that one, too, and then moved on to the restraints.

The leather needed oiling, the buckles a bit of buffing. They took a lot of wear, but, with care, would long out-last their wearers. Bettie was very proud of her inventory, and, she thought, took better care of it than the harem-keepers did of theirs.

The List:
1a) the story starts with the words “It’s going down.” (LJ Link)
1b) the story starts with the words “It’s going down.” (LJ Link)
2) write a scene that takes place in a train station.
3) the story must involve a goblet and a set of three [somethings]
4) prompt: one for the road
5) write a story using an imaginary color
6) write the pitch for a new Final Fantasy styled RPG (LJ Link)
7) prompt: frigid (LJ Link)
8) write a scene in the middle of a novel called “The Long, Dirty Afterwards” (LJ)
9) prompt: mourning dead gods (LJ)
10) write a story set in three different time periods. (LJ)
11) Write a movie trailer style trailer for a story, existing or not-yet-written. (LJ)
12) prompt: sweet iced tea (LJ)
13) re-write a story that everyone knows (LJ)
14) write a vanilla story dealing with kinky subject matter

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/111135.html. You can comment here or there.

30 Days Second Semester: 11, Remember the Tale

Aug16

For the 30 Days Meme Second Semester, for the prompt “13) re-write a story that everyone knows.”

Misc-urban-fantasy, maybe misc-post-apoc.

The streets between Roana’s house and her grandmother’s weren’t safe anymore, and everyone knew it. The Wolves had marked their territory, eight blocks of wasteland surrounding what had once been a pretty park. Anyone caught in there was fair game, especially not wearing their colors. And no-one wore the Wolves colors they hadn’t marked themselves.

But going around added an extra hour to her trip, an hour which went through only nominally safer territory. After all, the Wolves at least showed you their teeth. So she put on red – nobody wore Red in this city, Red was passé – her kerchief and her coat. It was supposed to snow, but she hadn’t seen her grandmother in weeks.

The first couple blocks were fine. Neutral territory, what people called The Mother-Land. Mothers with big guns and bigger voices kept this area clear of violence.

She knew the moment she stepped into the Wolves’ territory. The stink was unmistakable, even without the tagging, even without the gloom and the way the world seemed to twist in the shadows. She kept her chin high and kept walking.

Where do you go, little Red? Go home.
The streets here aren’t safe, and you’re all alone.

The streets whispered to her, taunted her, called to her. She kept walking.

What’s in the bag, little Red? Turn around
Scurry on home, now, don’t make a sound.

She could hear their voices, calling from the ruined fire escapes, calling from the windows, whispering from the alleys. She knew no one would be there if she turned, so she kept walking, chin up, determined.

Under your coat, little Red, let us in,
We want to taste that pretty white skin.

The park was the worst, the barking yaps of the Wolves following her in there. Every shadow could hide a monster, but she kept on. The brambles grabbed her jacket, but she kept going. The roots tried to trip her, but she kept on.

Such pretty eyes, little Red, can’t you see?
How hot our hunger is, how big our teeth?

She tugged her coat a little tighter, knowing it was coming. Knowing that they’d strike at the old fountain. Knowing that they wouldn’t remember they myth, remember why she wore red.

“Run away girl, pretty Red, run away.” The Wolf that stepped out of the shadows would be their alpha, biggest of the batch. None of the others would bother them until he was done.

“Hurry home now, and be safe, safely stay,” he sang. He remembered the words, at least. Did he remember the rest.

“I’m just going to my Grandmother’s,” she told him. “Through the woods and o’er the fountain.”

“But there are wolves in the woods, little Red, aren’t you scared?” he leered. His teeth were big, and sharp, and yellow.

“I don’t worry, Wolf, that I’ll be spared.” The myth had a life of its own, here in the dark, here on the edge of the bridged fountain. “And you’ve forgotten the end of the story.”

“What’s in the bag, little Red? Run and run,” he crooned, “Or stay right here, leave me my fun.”

She reached into the bag for the first time, stepping towards him. Here, right here, yes. He crossed the bridge towards her, ready to leap. He couldn’t turn this down, not a Wolf, not in the Woods, not with her red hood.

“Under your coat, little Red, let me in. I want to taste that pretty white skin.” At “skin,” he lept, and she swung, reversing the axe, hitting him in the stomach with the butt end. He went flying, and she stepped delicately down off the fountain, to eye the crumbled man. She set her axe to his throat, letting him feel how sharp it was.

“Don’t you remember?” she smiled at him, “How the story ends?”

“The woodcutter…” he gasped.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/110567.html. You can comment here or there.

30DaysMeme, Second Semester, Sweet Iced Tea

Aug15

For the 30 Days Meme Second Semester, for the prompt “12) prompt: sweet iced tea.”

This is more of the Reid/Cali crossover fanfic, directly after the last piece.

The stories before this:
Never Been Caught : First written, last in sequence.

Shots Fired: First in sequence

“Well, Crap, Where am I?”, after “Shots Fired” and before the story below.

“Excuse me,” their captive croaked. “Could I have some water?”

Morrigan turned in surprise, studying him. She hadn’t heard it when he woke, which shouldn’t have surprised her. She knew he was an Agent, even if not from their Agency.

“I’ve got some water here,” she answered levelly, and got the cup with the straw from the cooler. “We’ve also got some sweet iced tea, if you’d rather.” She pressed the straw to his lips anyway.

He drank slowly, buying himself some time, she guessed. “Thank you. I appreciate you taking such good care of me.”

Behind Morrigan, Cym choked out a laugh. “Shit,” she swore, “that’s her. The Lady of Kindness herself.”

Morrigan laughed quietly. “It’s a nice technique,” she told Reid. “They teach a similar one in our Academy.” He was looking a bit worried, so she offered again, “some tea? You were held captive for a few days, I bet you’re hungry, too.”

He licked his lips, contemplating that. “I didn’t know that Californians were fond of sweetened tea.”

“We’re not, generally,” she allowed, smirking at him. “We stopped at a gas station just before we… rescued… you, and that was all they had for drinks with caffeine.” She shook her head. “We are, whatever we are, not serial killers, Agent.”

“Could I have a little more water?” Stalling. She pressed the straw to his mouth and let him. He was a bright boy; he could tell he was trapped.

“You’re those Agents,” he said slowly.

“We are,” she agreed.

“I’ll have that tea now, please.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/110185.html. You can comment here or there.

Wordlbuilding: The trip

Aug14

So, I played around a bit with the map of Reiassan.

Assuming an average travel of about 16 miles a day (the terrain is hella rocky, and they don’t have remounts), I blocked out 4-day legs of the trip (conveniently, 1 longitudinal minute(for this planet; Earth’s is 69mi)

It’s a really messy map, and I have to figure out what to to with the one coastal drabble that now doesn’t fit. But. It says that the base length of the trip is 92 days.

This doesn’t include things such as the layover in Ossulund, of course, or the two nights in the cave, but even with that, we’re talking ~ 100 days, or 1 season.

Well, now I have to a) figure out the length of the Reiassani year/season, and b) edit the trip for seasons.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/109550.html. You can comment here or there.

Meme! Indulge me?

Aug13

Yoinked from [personal profile] recessional, who stole it from [personal profile] bessemerprocess:


If I made Cinderella, the audience would immediately be looking for a body in the coach. — Alfred Hitchcock, 1899 – 1980

If I wrote fic/drew art/vidded/folded origami/etc today, the readers/viewers would immediately be looking for… what?

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/108449.html. You can comment here or there.

Fiction Sale – continue one of these stories!

Aug13

Many of the stories from the Gender-Funky Giraffe Call for Prompts seem ripe for continuation.

This week, I offer two at a discounted rate: $4 will buy 500 words more on either story, up to $40/50,000 (That’s more than I’ve written on anything but Addergoole).

From cluudle‘s prompt “female unicorn, male virgin:”

Jordan’s older sisters had all, when they were young, old enough to be maidens but still pure, gone down to the river. Each of them, in turn, had received the unicorn’s bloodly blessing, as did every girl of the village, their village and every hamlet along the Pure River. Their blood blessed the fields, kept the water clean despite the factories upstream, kept the crops coming. Their blood made their bellies rise with unicorn babies; there wasn’t a household along the river that didn’t have a white-haired child in their midst.

Every spring, the girls who had come into their womanhood went down to the river. Every spring but this one, when there were no new maidens, no fresh pure blood to shed. The water was beginning to show the taint of the factories; the crops were slow in coming up. And their town had no virgin girls to give.

Girls bleed in the water, men sweat in the fields. So he had always been taught. But there were no girls, and Jordan was still pure. His beloved, Daisy, had died, as girls did, now and then, of the blood she had given to the unicorns and the small child she had born. In her memory, in the need of the fields and his family, the needs of her tiny changeling baby, Jordan went to the river in the moonlight, and knelt before the unicorn he found there.

“Take what you will,” he told the beast – a mare, he saw; weren’t they always stallions? Stallions, to leave their changeling children. “Take what you need.”

From [profile] lilfluf‘s accidental prompt “Royal Reform School:”

The princess Serafina had been kidnapped, and nobody seemed to care.

Indeed, outside of the Princess herself, nobody even seemed to know. There was a TV outside of her prison, and she could hear it prattling about the banal, not-Sera-related news of the day. As far as the morons on TV seemed to think, the Princess was on retreat in the country, relaxing on a horse ranch. That had, indeed, been her plan, a vacation suggested by her mother. But instead, she’d been body-snatched and locked in this barn, with straw on the floors and nothing but a stale bowl of water to drink. She could hear people walking by, talking; she could hear the TV. They seemed immune to her shouting – and to her powers of charm. She kept shouting, anyway.

She’d been there for what she thought was three days when the door finally opened. She flung herself at the large, burly man who walked in, reaching out with her hands and with her power. “Let me out, let me out, send me HOME!,” she screamed – croaked, rather; the water had been gone for a day.

She was so wrapped up in her panicked attack that she barely noticed the collar he locked around her throat until it was closed.

Any other fic written can, of course, be sponsored for continuation at my usual $5/300 word rate. 🙂

For more information, my Donor landing page is here (and on LJ)


We are under $15 from reaching the first incentive goal of $125!
For every $50 from $75 ($125, $175, $225, etc) reached, I will write and post publicly another short story as an expansion of one of the gender-funky drabbles.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/108154.html. You can comment here or there.