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Holy Places: Bingo Card Fill
Story: In the Holy
Prompt: Holy Place
Setting: Misc/Space (here)
524 Words:
From the notebook of Serja, called The Exile Church.
I was sent away for saying things that were not supposed to be true.
Those things I said, not because I wished to be sent away (I did not! I had a good life, as such things go, and good friends, as much as they could be, and a pleasant place to reside), not because I wished to make trouble (I also did not! People who make trouble were sent away, or worse), but because the truths sang from my mouth like the resonation of the universe, and it hurt to hear them called lies…
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Romance was never this convenient to handle
To Kelkyag’s prompt for here, my ![[community profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
dailyprompt prompt “a clone,” and here, my OrigFic Bingo card, “Hallucinations/visions.”
Paige waved at Mark Faine, although he didn’t see her, or at least didn’t respond – he never did, but being Mark Faine, he already had a girlfriend and hadn’t, as far as Paige could tell, been single for more than a day of their high school career. Which was a pity, ’cause Paige had more than made up for it by being single for their entire high school career, except that one day with Eilan Saffron, and boy had that been a mistake. It would be nice if there were two or three or maybe four Mark Faines. Maybe then she’d have a chance.
She should really get to lunch. She got a little Snickers-commercial when she didn’t eat on time, and this stupid Senior-year schedule had her lunch nearly right before she got on the bus. She headed away from where Mark Faine was totes ignoring her, around the corner, stepped away from the punks and sidled sideways around the jocks – no need to upset anyone, everyone had been on edge since the principal quit like that, all of a sudden. The new rules weren’t helping things either, and the punks all looked sad and funny without their metal.
She rounded another corner – Marmal High was full of corners, and somehow it seemed like there were more around lunch time – and ran into Mark Faine.
She was feeling fainter than she ought to be. This was just one of the demetaled punks, it had to be, Sid and Nancy T-shirt and an extra hole in the nose. She stepped away. “Sorry, didn’t mean to…”
“Hey, no worries.” The voice was Mark Faine’s. Paige knew that voice like she knew the latest Enhydra Lutris CD.
“Hey.” That was Mark Faine’s voice again, coming from the other side of her. She was hearing things. She was seeing things. Paige leaned against the wall and tried not to act totally disjoined from reality.
Standing in front of her, however, were three Mark Faines. She had to be losing it.
“Hey, you’re kinda cute.”
Nope, she was totes gone; she’d already lost all there was to lose.
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/632920.html. You can comment here or there.
Time of Testing
To @Dahob’s prompt to my origfic bingo card: this fills the [text/exam] square.
This may be in the “Space/Colonies” verse but I am uncertain.
“This is how we’ve tested since the dawn of time.”
Ruttiger’s mother, the Dame Anne Halloran, was adamant. Ruttiger himself was not quite as confident. “Are you sure it’s needed, mother? To test her for a witch…?” He was, after all, rather fond of the girl in question; he was also a pragmatic young man, and did not really wish to be tarred by association.
“I am certain.” Dame Halloran put down her booted foot with a thump. “She has shown all the signs.”
The girl in question was not in the room; that wouldn’t have been proper. Dame Halloran’s seven sisters had her in the back room of the chapel, going through the cleansing rituals that were nearly as old as the test.
“She’s still young. You could be mistaken.” Ruttiger really did want to be cautious. He was speaking hunched, shoulders forward; he was quite a bit taller than his mother, which was exactly what he didn’t want to remind her of at the moment.
“If she is so young as to be too young for the test, Ruttiger Mensen Halloran, then she is far too young for you to be stepping forward as her champion or her luger. You’re nearly a man grown.”
Nearly was both too close and good enough. Ruttiger sighed, and lowered his head in respect. “I worry about her, mother. I don’t want her hurt.”
“The test has been used since humankind was sprung here. It will be used until we are gone. It is the way things are, my son, and sooner or later you will have to accept it.” She patted his hand. “You will have daughters some day, and they will have to be tested, too, if they show the signs. They will have to stare at the fire, just as I did, just as Renia will. They will have to be tested for a witch. Don’t you want a wife who has passed the test herself?”
Ruttiger sighed. As always, his mother was right. She set the field of battle; it was easy for her to win. “Yes, mother.”
“Very good. Now go take your seat, young man. The testing is just about to begin.”
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“I can Write 150 more words.” (Fluffy not-yet-porn)
It wasn’t so much that there were a lot of pillows in the room; the room was pillows. Caron stared at it for a moment. He’d never seen so many pillows. He’d never seen such a plush room, such a…
“It’s fluffy.”
“Well, yeah.” Areta peeked at him through long eyelashes. “I’m not sure what you’d have expected from me that wasn’t.”
“Something elegant, I suppose.” The words tripped off his tongue before he could stop them. “I mean….”
“I’m not going to object to you calling me elegant.” She offered him her hand, fingers tipped downward. Caron took the reprieve and stepped into her… nest.
And was immediately pulled on to the floor with a yank he hadn’t expected out of elegant, delicate Areta.
He fell hard, but the floor caught him easily, enveloping him like a hug. She was grinning when he came up, already moving to straddle him.
“See? That’s why it’s fluffy.”
He stroked her hip through her robe. “I see.” Or he might soon see, at least.
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/593463.html. You can comment here or there.
One Year Ago / Fuze Surprise
One year ago today…. well, I wasn’t writing, or at least not posting anything, so I went back a few more days.
Captain Fuze has appeared in a couple stories, including this one and one on an Alder by Post.
http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/402721.html
Captain Fuze had seen any number of things on any number of planets.
It was, after all, her job to shepherd the scientists, both to get them across the reaches of space and to keep them alive on the planets. So she went where the science was; she went where the interest was; she went where the anomalies were. And she – as well as seven others who could control the crews required for the so-called bounce ships – had been doing so for subjective decades.
She never ceased to be surprised. She never ceased to be startled and a little irritated at the scientists’ naivete and helplessness; she never ceased to be amazed at their brilliance, at the leaps they made that she could not, in 1000 years, have made; she never ceased to be awed and a bit worried at the way they made contact with other races, especially the linguists.
Today, this-subjective-day on her personal time line and the day labelled landfall-plus-seven Targus, the Captain was once again startled.
They knew there were-or-had-been natives; there were buildings, vehicles, and things that they thought were probably weapons, although they could have been scientific instruments (the line was often very thin). But in all of their scans and six days of hands-on research, they were missing two things: a written language, considered vital to the development of culture; and any natives. They hadn’t even found a single native-remain.
The scientists were doing their best, but they were notably distressed and depressed. Talking to natives was not only the most accurate way to gain certain information, it was the most fun, or so the lead linguist had told Captain Fuze.
They’re going to be thrilled by this, Fuze thought, when in front of her eyes one of the buildings unfolded and blinked sleepy window-eyes at them.
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/576101.html. You can comment here or there.
Except
For ![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thesilentpoet‘s prompt.
The family was known for being a bit strange, and, at the same time a little bit too aggressively normal.
They had smooth, sleek black hair and pale skin, widow’s-peaked and licked back. Except the little boy that didn’t.
The boys all played football, and soccer. They joined Jr. varsity teams early and played sports right into college. Except the little boy that didn’t.
They were indifferent students, boys and girls alike. Decent enough in classes to get by, but they all hung on by their teeth to a B-minus average. Except the little boy that didn’t.
They were clannish, talking only to each other. There were nine of them, siblings, and then another twenty cousins and second-cousins and kissing-cousins and what-have you. They didn’t date, as far as anyone could tell, they didn’t bring home friends, and then didn’t talk about their family.
Except the little boy that did.
What they said was cryptic, what was overheard was nonsense. They talked in code most of the time. None of the family made sense. Except the one little boy that did.
And they were magic, all of them, the dark-eyed dark-haired beautiful ones. They were magic to their core, magic to the tips of their fingers. They didn’t just do magic, they were magic. Except the one.
They said – when he could hear and when he couldn’t – that the magic had just run out by the time he was born. The magic, the dark hair, the athletic urge. All of that had drained out of the family, so that there was nothing left for the youngest brother except brains, chocolate-brown hair and blue eyes like the sky. Nothing left for the little brother except a smooth tongue and a casual attitude with the rest of the world.
And the family was hated by the world, hated and reviled. They were distrusted, shunned, whispered about, hissed at. Hated. Except the one, the littlest brother, that wasn’t.
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Trade
“Well.” The two men shared a look. It was rather like looking into a mirror. It was rather like talking into a mirror, as well; they both spoke at the same time.
“What did you do?“
A rueful smile passed from one man to the other, and then they, once again, spoke at the same time.
“I just figured out…”
One man was dressed in old jeans and three layers of cheap shirt; he made a little gesture, the descendant of a bow, towards the other. “No, please, you go first.”
The other took a half-step backwards. “Oh, no, that’s…”
“I insist.”
“Um. Okay.” The second one, dressed in an expensive bespoke suit, nodded. “I figured out a way to get Dame Helen and Mrs. Toblerone to start talking to each other.”
“That’s like pulling teeth while sky-diving.”
“On the surface, yes, but it’s a simple matter once you… what did you do?“
“Oh.” The jeans-wearing version of the same face shrugged eloquently. “I discovered if I offered to trade something, people were more willing to talk to me than if I was just begging. So I traded an origami fish for a gift card to Macy’s, and it just went from there.”
“You’re good at this.” The suit-wearing version straightened his cuffs, a gesture he hadn’t had two weeks ago.
“I’m good at this? You’re the one that got the Terror Sisters at a table.”
“You got a car. And you didn’t have to steal anything to do it.”
The jeans-wearing man – the one who had once been Prince – shook his head. “I just understand people.”
The one who had once been a pauper twitched one shoulder upward. That, at least, he’d kept from his poorer days. “That’s all I’m doing. A car, really?”
“I’m working on trading it for a flat. I’ll let you know.”
One Red Paperclip is the story that inspired the Prince’s idea here.
And of course The trope namer.
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Not the Man
To inventrix‘s prompt
“Governor Aryalt, we have a problem.”
The governor spared the Secret Service agent a glance. “What sort of problem? Media again?”
“No, sir. No. The problem lies a little deeper than that.”
“What? What are you talking about?” Governor Aryalt wasted the time giving the agent an actual look. The agent, in return, met his gaze levelly.
“Sir, you’re not who you think you are.”
“Ha. Very funny. Jim!” The governor raised his voice up to a shout. “Jim, you let another nut job through. What did I tell you about screening the security?”
“He can’t hear you, Governor.” The agent puts his hands on Aryalt’s shoulders. “Right now, nobody can hear you at all.”
Aryalt stepped back, but the agent’s grip was stronger than it should have been. “I’ll have you fired for this.”
“No you won’t, sir Because you are not Thomas Aryalt. You are not the governor of South Dakota. You are not a multi-millionaire mogul.”
The words should have meant nothing at all, but they hit Aryalt somewhere down in the gut. “You’re talking nonsense,” he tried anyway. “I’ll have your entire career for this.”
“You’ve had my career for a long time, Jacob.”
Jacob. Who was that? Aryalt blinked at the man. “What are you talking about?” Where the hell was Jim?
“I’ve been your handler for longer than you’ll ever remember. Longer than I remember. And now… it’s time to remember again. Wake up, Jacob. It’s time to go.”
Jacob blinked. “Shit. Shit.” The last vestiges of Aryalt fall off of him, leaving behind all of the man’s memories and none of his personality. “We have to go.”
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/566288.html. You can comment here or there.
Mapping, a story for the Giraffe Call
Another one where I’m not sure where it wants to go, um, but I’ll post it anyway.
“Here’s the space-view surveys of the planet. Here’s the original plans for the first three settlements. Here’s the builders’ notes. Here’s the town records.”
If they had been working in paper, Orchid would have been dumping papers into Cauli’s arms. As it was, he was shifting files from his data tablet to hers with wide sweeps of his fingers. “And here’s the notes from the second survey team and everything they pulled up. Is that going to be enough?”
Cauli, with heroic effort, did not laugh at the little bureaucrat. “More than enough. But I need to get down there, too, you know.”
“You’ve only got two weeks while we’re in orbit here.” This was the seventh time Orchid had told her this. It was the thirtieth time she’d heard him say it altogether. She wasn’t the only expert visiting the colony.
“I know, Orchid. It’s all right. I have my tools.” She patted the bag, which constituted almost half of her weight allowance on this trip. “I have my mind. I’m all right.” If she kept saying it, maybe he’d believe her. Orchid didn’t appear to think people could live without at least three terabytes of data on them at all times. “I’ve got it.”
“All right then. I’ll put you on the first shuttle down.”
The first shuttle down held four other equally-amused specialists and three fretting bureaucrats, cut from the same cloth as Orchid. Cauli made small talk with Zeeb, the xenobotanist, until they were situated in the settlement’s town hall-slash-community center.
“Just give me a table to work with and, if you have one available, a school-aged child to give me a tour.” She’d given this speech in twenty different settlements, and generally met with little resistance. “That’s all I need.” Around her, the other specialists were saying variations of the same thing.
“You can’t.”
That was not a reaction she’d been expecting. Settlers were generally practical people.
“I’m sorry.”
“You can’t. Not with a child. You need a priest.”
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