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The song of Ygesiol Blue-Handed

I will not rise.

I will not beat the greatest warrior and take their place as mightiest.

I will not challenge the skald to a battle of rhyme and wit, or, if I by some hubris do so, I will not win.

I will not bake the finest bread in all the county, and men and women will not speak gladly of my prowess in the bakery.

I will not rise. Such is not my fate, to be known far and wide for the skill of my hands or my arms or of my voice and my mind.

I am not to be the mightiest, I am not to be the ruler. I have my small hill and my small lands, and over those, I will be ruler enough.

The poets will not speak of me for my skill or for my beauty.

But I will write my name on these flags, and I will weave my name in these threads, and I will press my name in this cloth.

And the wind will blow my name across all this land.

written to [personal profile] clare_dragonfly‘s prompt, because I needed to fight a couple more Frizi (on #4thewords)

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January By the Numbers Five: Glitter

January by the numbers continues~
From [personal profile] anke‘s prompt “glitter;” another apocalypse story.
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There were big things and small things that Gemma missed.

She tried to focus on the big things most of the time: reliable food, heat, running water, electricity. Medical care, drugs. Those were the things that were going to keep her alive, keep them alive. Those were the things that required all of her energy, that first six months.

Shelter, even. Shelter wasn’t as hard as the other ones, because there were still intact buildings, but then you had to protect your mostly-intact building from everything, and everything was a much longer list of threats now than it had been six months ago, a year ago.

Food, same thing – you could find canned goods, preserved goods, but eventually, all of that was gone or gone bad. Same thing for drugs, and when they found a doctor they guarded her with their lives. Running water, electricity, those were the hardest, and those were the least important, at least in the short run.

But when she went to sleep at night, Gemma missed clean, bright colors, frivolous painting, swishy skirts. She missed glitter, and giving someone a card just because you could. She missed decorative clothing — light sundresses and bright-colored t-shirts and mismatched socks on purpose, not because your feet were freezing.

She had not been one of the magi before the world cracked. She had heard of them, the way you hear about CEO’s, Fortune-500 sorts of people, but magic was for the 1 percent, the super-important. She’d been a barista.

Now, though. 90 percent of the surviving population had something — a piece of a broken city they carried, a cracked charm, a wound that held some small fragment of magic. And in her own fragment, Gemma held light and heat, sunshine in a hand that no longer worked well otherwise, pierced by a piece of rebar.

Late at night, when she had done all she could towards their survival for the day, Gemma would sit up in her bed and aim her magic hand at the wall. She’d focus, thinking about candy hearts and ribbons, Hallmark cards and picnics, and she would project the tiniest little lights onto the wall: Glitter. It sparkled and shone and danced on the walls, and, for a few minutes, Gemma barely even missed running water and espresso machines.

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January By the Numbers Four: Sunrise (Fiction piece)

January by the numbers continues~
From [personal profile] anke‘s prompt “sunrise;” an apocalypse story.
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Katarina woke at sunrise, the heat of the May sun warming her skin.

She didn’t open her eyes right away. She lay there, splaying her hands on the ground, letting the warmth soak into every bit of her.

She’d never expected to see the sun rise again.

She wasn’t sure she had another sunset coming, but if the sun was up and her skin was warm, she was going to delay the moment as long as possible. She was going to soak up every bit of sun before she let herself see how bad her situation was — and how bad the world’s situation was.

The explosion last night had — no, not an explosion, that was far too small a word. The cataclysm last night — had shaken everything. It had knocked out power across, as far as they could tell, the whole continent. There was no telling about the rest of the world. It had shattered buildings, buckled roads, and left fields and rivers both burning.

Katarina had been pierced with a flying shard of stone, right between the ribs. Rough triage said it was non-fatal and quick self-inflicted surgery confirmed it. She’d survived the explosion.

She was not nearly as sanguine that she’d survive the men that had come for her. It hadn’t been her hand in the spellwork, but she had survived, when the ones who had done the deed had not, and someone needed to pay.

She opened her eyes. The world had survived, in a matter of speaking. For three, four hours there, she hadn’t been sure it would. But the sun was lifting over a burning horizon, and, for the moment, at least, Katarina was still alive to see it. She smiled.

Every sunrise was a blessing. And the men standing, armed, just behind her, they narrowed the focus of the day. All she had to do now was make it to sunset.

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January By The Number One: Endings (fiction)

January by the number starts here!
From [personal profile] novel_machinist‘s prompt “endings;” a piece of fiction
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Everyone looks at “new beginnings” with wide-eyed hope, optimism, and to be honest, they should. New beginnings, clean slates, all that, they’re made for optimism and hope and in most cases, they’re made out of those things, too. You’re not (usually) a new person, you don’t have a new brain or new abilities. So you’re hoping on a new place or a new date or a new notebook.

The thing is, out of those hopes are new people made, so I’m not going to tell you that they don’t work, or that they’re bad, or wrong, or anything else. No, the thing about “new beginnings” is that they’re also endings. That old person, that old place, that old notebook, that old brain? They all end.

Good riddance to bad rubbish, you might say. After all, you wanted to get rid of that thing for a reason, didn’t you? You wanted a change.

Good for you. And I mean that sincerely. Good for the ones that actually become someone new. Good for the ones that change their habits, their hobbies, their bodies, their brains. Good for you. You wanted a change, and you went about getting it. That’s to be applauded.

But remember – even if just once in a while, even if just in the back of your mind, remember it was an ending. And remember The End, where all those things that didn’t continue wandered off to.

That’s me. I’m the gatekeeper, here. I’m the one that archives and stores, shelves and rearranges all those things that End. Which explains something, by the by. Because the longer something’s been here, the further back in the shelves it is, and the less likely it is to get out.

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Assume, a story for the Gender & Sexuality Theme, available for Patreon patrons now!

I started out with Hob’s punnish prompt and I may have just invented a new world. Also, Coffee Shop, because, well, there’s coffee shop AU’s everywhere so I just decided the U should be in a coffee shop.

Ahem. It was late and I was sleepy-giddy. Have a story. New ‘Verse.

The shop wasn’t all that busy. Haley wasn’t surprised: it was the middle of the day on the Thursday before Christmas, they were in a college-town area, not a high retail-traffic sort of place, and the snow was knee deep in the shallow parts. They were only open for the UPS drivers & bus drivers, if she was going to be honest. And to give Cady the hours, because Cady needed the money.

Haley didn’t mind having the extra help…

read on…

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Through the Portal – an incomplete catgirl invasion for Patreon

Last month had a lot of not-quite-there stories, things that seemed good at first but didn’t quite work. While we’re gearing up for December’s prompt call, here’s the first of those “almosts” – thanks to DaHob. 
🚀

The invasion happened overnight (as far as the Americas were concerned, at least).  The portals opened, circles of blue light no bigger than a porthole, in bedrooms and offices and stores and streets around the world, and then they closed again, just as the sensors were starting to detect them.

There were witnesses, of course; even in places where it was midnight, not everyone was sleeping, and in places where it was daylight, the portals opened in very public places.  All of them told the same story: Continue reading

Through the Portal – an incomplete catgirl invasion – for all to read on Patreon

The invasion happened overnight (as far as the Americas were concerned, at least). The portals opened, circles of blue light no bigger than a porthole, in bedrooms and offices and stores and streets around the world, and then they closed again, just as the sensors were starting to detect them, closed again.

There were witnesses, of course; even in places where it was midnight, not everyone was sleeping, and in places where it was daylight, the portals opened in very public places. All of them told the same story:

read on…

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/1209824.html. You can comment here or there. comment count unavailable

Complications, a story for Patreon

“And I hope I never see you again!”

The door slammed shut with a clang of finality.  Karl leaned against the wall and put his hands over his face.  It wasn’t dark yet; he had maybe fifteen minute till the moon came up.  It didn’t matter.  He couldn’t go after her.

He shouldn’t go after her.  Melody had been nothing but trouble from the first time he’d seen her.   She liked to tease, fine.  She liked to flirt, fine.  Sure, he got a little bit growly sometimes but he wasn’t an animal, well, all right, he wasn’t a monster, well… look, he wasn’t a bad guy, okay?  He wasn’t going to make a scene just because his girlfriend wanted to smile at some other guy.  Only assholes did that, and if Karl was sure of one thing, it was that he wasn’t an asshole.

She liked to nit-pick.  That got to him worse than the flirting, because the flirting, he knew she was trying to rile him up, but it was easy enough to just sit back and watch the way she moved, and the way all the guys knew she’d come in with him and was likely leaving with him.  Karl wasn’t a bit guy, but he had that air of menace thing down to an art form, and he made guys twice his size nervous.  But the nit-picking?  He wasn’t going to try to intimidate his girlfriend, and Melody didn’t really stop otherwise.  He wouldn’t beg her, he wouldn’t give in to all the dozens of things she wanted him to change on any given day, and he wouldn’t apologize for being himself.  So he got yelled at, and did not yell back, or snarl, or look in the least bit scary.

He didn’t even know what the last straw had been.  He didn’t particularly care, or, at least, he didn’t want to care.  He couldn’t go after her.  He shouldn’t go after her, with the moon about to rise.  He did his best to not be intimidating, but the wolf inside him had no such compunctions.

And he couldn’t, because she’d taken the key to his Moon-time cage with her, and Karl could see his cell phone.  On the other side of the basement, on the nightstand.

He banged his head against the wall again.  At least the moon would be here soon.

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