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Into the Fire, a story for the Giraffe Call (@ellenmillion)

Mar26

For [personal profile] ellenmillion‘s Prompt

“Stand there.”

Terena had placed Tho off to one side and handed him a short blade. At first, he’d been a bit worried for his safety – she had dressed him in enough chain mail to make a handkerchief and just enough leather to hold it on, which left far more of him exposed than he liked.

Then he’d watched her go to work, with her sword-kin, and his only worries had settled in to “why can’t I move my feet?” and “exactly how silly do I look?” The blade looked as decorative as his armor, far too shiny to be an actual weapon.

Tho knew weapons. He’d been a blacksmith’s apprentice, before his village was sacked and he’d been taken captive. He knew armor, too.

Terena was carrying a weapon, a real one, and wearing real armor, a proper breast-plate, greaves, and leather under that. As Tho had learned in the last day and a half, she also had the muscle to carry both weapon and armor.

Tho did, too, of course. But Tho had a tiny shiny blade and tinier shinier scale maile. And feet stuck in place. Which really wasn’t a logistical concern, because Terena and her sword-kin were stacking up the bodies before they ever got to Tho.

He jabbed the silly blade into the arm of someone who fell too close to him, just to make himself feel better. The arm twitched and stopped moving.

“There.” Terena beheaded someone with a tidy swoop – the tiny spurt of blood suggested the beheading was just for show – and jumped on top of the pile. “That’s done.” She twisted back to look over her shoulder. “Well, now that I’ve paid for you, boy, let’s find out what you can do.”

Tho looked at the pile of bodies. Two days ago, those had been the bandits who had sacked his home. He looked at Terena and her kin, and then back at the bodies.

This, his mother would have said, was out of the kettle and into the fire.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/498534.html. You can comment here or there.

Clean, a story for the Giraffe Call (@inventrix)

Mar24

For [personal profile] inventrix‘s prompt

“…and always remember, when fighting the Hosether, is that the only true and clean way to kill is with a blade.”

Instructor Blaias had lost one arm, his off arm, in a battle with the Hosether (or perhaps the Glarth); now he taught the next generation of sword-fighters how to war properly and with honor.

They listened, the young students holding their practice swords, wide-eyed with awe. They listened as he worked them through their exercises. They listened as he showed them how to block properly, so that they would not lose an arm themselves, or a leg or their lives.

They listened as he told them the evil of sorcery. The way that a distance kill was both immoral and illegal, the way that the cleanliness of a blade finished the soul properly, the way that only sword-training gave a truly disciplined soul.

The student Gilcas listened as intently as the rest, learning the way to cut cleanly, for all that he missed his twin.

~

“…and always remember, when fighting the Rodrigerafaus, that the only true and clean way to kill is with a spell.”

Teacher Charis had lost her left eye and half of her nose in a battle with the Glarth (or possibly the Rodrigerafaus); now she taught basic spellcasting for the next generation of fighters.

They listened, the young apprentices. They watched, wide-eyed with awe, as she showed them how you killed someone without ever showing your face. How you took the personal out of the kill, how you took your own soul out of it. They watched as Teacher Charis showed them how to sling a death-spell, so that the death was quick and perfect.

They took it all in, as she showed them how a sword-death was both illegal and immoral, how the blade severed the soul from the body, so that it entered the afterworld bereft of its needed skin, the way that the death-spell finished the body and soul in one swift shot, the way that only spell-casting created a truly disciplined soul.

The student Sashlie listened intently, practicing the motions and whispering the words to herself, learning a clean death, for all that she missed her twin.

~

There was never a time when the Rodrigerafaus were not at war with the Glarth, or the Glarth at war with the Hosether, the Hosether with the Rodrigerafaus. There was never a time when those with swords were not up against those who slung death-spells.

“When you fight, the only true and clean way…” Gilcas, his sword hilt-deep in a Glarth soldier, thought the blood splatter across his face was anything but clean. He muttered a spell he wasn’t supposed to know, and watched the soul separate and fly away. There were a lot of souls leaving today, and the sun hadn’t reached its zenith yet.

“…make the death clean and perfect.” Sashlie used a forbidden knife-block to push a soldier off of her, and pressed a death spell into another soldier’s face. The look on his face was in no way impersonal; the feel of his death flooding back over the spell was intimate and dirty.

She watched the way the body twisted into the heavens. There were a lot of deaths for the gods today, and the sun was barely climbing up its stairs.

The two, half a battle-field apart, took it all in, using the motions they’d been taught and the lessons they had learn, for all that they missed their twin, for all that the cleanest of deaths left them feeling filthy inside.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/496898.html. You can comment here or there.

Forever and Ever, Amen

Mar9

For [personal profile] meeks‘s Prompt

They had known each other since childhood, since infancy. Since before that, it sometimes seemed; Kody could not remember a time when she had not know Toby, not known Toby’s every line and every mood.

They were Best Friends when other kids were still throwing Legos at each other. They share playground secrets and their first furtive kiss while the other girls were playing Double Dutch and the other boys were mostly pretending to be airplanes. By second grade, when Amelia Anderson was playing Who Will We Wed, nobody had any question: Kody and Toby, forever.

In Jr. High, that morphed into K&T 4-evah, and they moved from hidden kisses to very visible necking. The question became Who Are You Going to the Dance With, and, again, nobody needed to ask them.

(One new girl tried. The entire school laughed at her. She “came down with mumps” and wasn’t seen again for over a week, by which time almost everyone had forgotten. Except Toby, who thought she was cute.)

It was in Jr. High that the dreams started. Kody got them first – Kody had done just about everything first – and it was the first secret she had tried to keep from Toby in their entire lives.

It wasn’t until Toby admitted, in a scribbled note in Trig, that he had been having weird dreams, about “really screwed up things,” that Kody was willing to write back, “me, too.”

Not “really screwed up things,” in Kody’s case, not really: just deaths, and lives, and more deaths, and more lives. They had been joking for years that they were soulmates, that they had known each other in previous lives. But these dreams…

“I dreamed about being married to you. Except we were Chinese.”

“I dreamed about talking with our grand-children. Except it was like in that history film we watched last week.”

“I dreamed I died.”

“I dreamed you died.”

They passed notes about it back and forth – not every day after that, but every week, maybe, sometimes only once a month. It became another thing they did, another T&K 4-evah secret, like the dead bird buried in Kody’s back yard or the two gold rings under Toby’s playhouse. It was one more proof that they were meant to be together.

Though high school, the dance question became the “who gets your virginity” question, and, once again nobody bothered to ask Kody. “Toby, of course.” Amelia Anderson rolled her eyes. Kody and Toby were boring, old news.

If they were old news to Amelia, they were becoming really, really old news to Kody. She’d lost her virginity in dreams over and over again, to Toby every time, of course, and she’d walked down the aisle (jumped the broom, stained the sheets…) over and over again.

She loved Toby. She had loved Toby, she had a feeling, as long as there had been such a thing as love. But as her friends talked about romance and dances and dinner, as she dreamed about a hundred lifetimes of Toby doing the same things, over and over again…

When the question turned back into “Who Will You Wed,” during their first year of college, everyone was surprised when Kody muttered, so quietly they had to strain to hear…. “Maybe I’ll just stay single.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/489889.html. You can comment here or there.

Fine Dining

Mar6

To EllenMillion‘s prompt

The hard part wasn’t getting them home.

Rosario had never had any trouble getting people – men, women, those of non-binary status – to come home. A smile, a suggestion, a wiggle of properly-toned ass, that was all it took. Everything about Rosario’s body, club wardrobe, make-up; it was all designed with the hook, the line, and the sinker in mind.

The hard part wasn’t getting them to come back.

Unlike some pick-up artists, Rosario liked second dates, third dates, long walks on the beach and expensive dinners out. Sometimes, Rosario would even be the one picking up the check. Loss leaders. It all paid out in the end.

The hard part wasn’t getting them to fall in love.

Rosario was good at the game, and good at the love part. The right look, the vulnerable face, the careful uncertain words. That was the first step, the easiest step.

Then came the opening-up. The true stories about childhood. The sleeping over, which left mornings when Rosario was most vulnerable, and, sometimes, the most confused.

Then came the whispered – always true – confessions of love. “I think I might love you,” usually. Or “I never say this sort of thing” (that part wasn’t true), “but I can’t stop thinking about you.”

That wasn’t the hard part, either. And it almost always worked.

The pay-off came then. Rosario lived on love, ate it up, devoured it. And when they fell in love, there were days at the shortest, weeks, months at the longest, where the meals just kept coming in. Like an all-you-can-eat banquet full of Filet mignon and lobster.

The hard part came when they ran out of love.

They’d stop calling. They’d stop coming by. They’d avoid Rosario in the clubs. They would avoid eye contact, change their number, change their address. They’d, in short, leave.

But Rosario, who ate love, who lived love, who loved someone new every month, Rosario loved them, even when they left.

The hard part was getting heart-broken, over and over and over again, just to get a decent meal.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/488281.html. You can comment here or there.

Safer Shooting

Feb20

To [personal profile] ysabetwordsmith‘s prompt.

“It’s really not his fault.”

Cupido Tertius wasn’t sure that having his mother clasp him to her ample chest and defend him was really what he wanted.

On the other hand, it kept the crowd of angry gods and goddesses from getting too close.

“My goat…” one of them began to protest. Another one bellowed over him.

“My wife!“

“It’s his first day on the job!” Venus reminded them, squishing Cupido even closer to her.

“It’s going to be his last.” The growl came from behind them. Cupido flinched.

“I didn’t mean it, Father.” He sounded like a sniveling child, and he knew it. But if they thought of him as a child, and not as nearly a man…

“You can’t yell at him, he’s just a boy!” That wasn’t his mother, it was Vesta, who was reaching out to stroke his cheek. “Back off, big, cranky, and fiery. All of you, back off.”

“You know,” his mother whispered, as another goddess joined the choir, “I can’t see how you shot her accidentally. I really can’t see how you shot yourself accidentally.”

“It’s a long story.” One of the ‘protective’ goddesses stole a grope down his dhoti. “Urf. Auntie… And it’s done now, Mother. My arrows can’t be undone.”

“No, they can’t. So you had to choose the virgin daughter of another pantheon, didn’t you?”

He stepped back a bit as another goddess got grabby. “I’m pretty sure it’s fated.”

“Well, then, I’ll go have a talk with the Parcae, while you sneak out and talk to your little godlette.” Venus gave her youngest son a little shove. “And from now on, practice safer shooting.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/480701.html. You can comment here or there.

Even the Insect that Bites You, a story for the Giraffe Call

Feb17

This was written to To [personal profile] sharpeningthebones‘s prompt(s).

“Everybody dance.”

The Ahme were a peaceful, happy people. Tonight, on the fullness of three moons, their music swirled over the forest.

“Everybody step, forward now, left foot out. Backward now, left foot in. That’s it, everybody dance.” The Ahme had taken the first opportunity to go into space, rough-colonizing instead of waiting for the full terraforming, accepting the steps backwards in technology, embracing them.

“Everybody back, bow to the fire, bow to your partner. All lovers dance. All lovers, swirl.” They were, as a culture, very happy, and very relaxed.

“That’s it, beloveds, twist around. Grab your partners, swing them down. All lovers dance, all lovers sing. Ah-neee-ah-ne. Ah-neeee-ah-ne.”

They never saw the Tovane coming.

“All the mothers dance, one foot, two feet. Spin around now, bow left, bow right. All moth…”

They were captured while they danced, chained, bound, and dragged off into the woods. They had not known there was another settlement on their planet.

They were horrified to find the train tracks, so close to their settlement that they could have walked to them, had they been inclined.

They sang on the train, because the Ahme would be happy. Ah-neee, ah-ja-neee, they sang, all are loved, all are under the moons.

They had assumed they had the planet to themselves. That they had companions was unexpected, but they would be happy. Ah-neee, ah-ja-neee. Ah-neee, jes-nur-nee. Even the insect that bites you is loved.

The Torvane locked them into concrete cells. “You will work, or you will starve.”

“Such is life,” the elder of the Ahme told them. “We will work. And we will sing.”

They sang while they toiled in the Torvane fields and factories. “Work, now, all lovers work. Press die down, press die up. Left hand out, all lovers work.”

They sang while they were locked into cells at night. “Sleep now, all children sleep. Ah-nee. Jes-nur-nee.”

“They sing love songs to their own shit,” the Torvane mocked. But the Ahme were good workers, strong workers. If they sang, well, they had fewer workplace injuries than Torvane workers.

“Ah-nee, les-aru-neee.” Even our enemy is loved. That was a song they had not sung in a very long time, but they remembered it. Ah-nee, les-aru-neee. They whispered it between the cracks in the walls. They sang it in refrains while they worked. Under the three moons, do we love out enemy. Under the three moons, do we love our children.

Under the three moons, they took back their freedom. Ah-nee, ah-es-tek-esh. All is loved, but all must die. Ah-nee, jur-nur-tek-esh. The insect that bites you, being loved, still must die.

The Torvane never saw them coming.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/479418.html. You can comment here or there.

Kitchen

Feb17

This was written to To kelkyag‘s prompt.

To fix a memory in your mind, associate it with a sense.

As some might guess, I prefer taste-and-smell.

So the way he feels when he presses against me and kisses me reminds me of smoked paprika, his hand on the back of my neck, his hair trailing across my neck.

The way his words sound, when he tells me – and I must remember these words – that I am the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Those words, they are like the finest chocolate, a little too sweet, but rich and lingering on the tongue.

The way his back looks when he leaves after that first date, as if he’s uncertain, his shoulders pulled forward, remind me of lime zest: tangy, and a bit bitter.

When he comes back for seconds, before he’s gotten to his car: cheesecake, drizzled in raspberry sauce.

Those moments are nice. Those are warm moments. Tasty moments.

I have citric acid on the shelf, cayenne pepper, noni juice, for moments that were not as nice.

And I have this moment, that I wish to remember more than anything. This moment, with his eyes so big and blue and hovering right on the edge of pain/love/need. Right where he might fall, or might not.

And if his first romantic words were chocolate, this, this is chocolate liqueur poured over pound cake. This is a moment to savor. He might have, once, been spinning a story. Now he’s in love. And it tastes like the best thing I have ever cooked.

Some people have a Roman House. I have a Roman kitchen to store my memories in. And I’ll put him on the shelf next to the others.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/478922.html. You can comment here or there.

16-Minute Saturday

Feb10

This is written to the text prompt here for “Sixteen Minute Saturday,” something I adapted for alliteration from Ty Barbary’s 15-minute Fiction.

I’d love if more people played along!

Thanks to [personal profile] inventrix for the names and Rion and Freo for the quote.

Mike and Leann, Kelly and George, and of course Franklin Brown:

I can’t get service down here, so I’m leaving you a message in a text file, in case I don’t get…

Who am I kidding? I’m leaving you a message because I’m not getting out of here. Not unless the world flips, not unless the monster dies, not unless something goes south when it was supposed to be north.

They’re going to say, when they find my phone, that I shouldn’t have been out.

Everyone knows better. I knew better. Of course I did. I’ve heard the horror stories same as you have.

Don’t go out after dark. Wear dull things; they’re attracted to bright colors. I know. I know.

But this is a very bad night for me. It’s a bad night every year, and I try to hide it, and hope you guys don’t have it marked on your calendar.

(We told him not to go out alone. We told him not to wear that red tie. Especially not red.. But “it’s better to look good than to feel alive.” Damn him.)

I didn’t want to bother y’all for an escort. No, I know when Fade or Sophie say that, sometimes they mean “I’m sulking that you didn’t pay attention.” But I really mean it. This is my thing. This wasn’t your fault, and it shouldn’t be your problem.

So I needed to hear the sounds of other hearts beating, and I needed to feel other bodies around me. And I know all the places – all of them not just the ones the six of us go to together – all the places where you can get that no matter what the curfew or law.

(And any of a thousand other things. But you knew that.)

And here I am. The lights went out, three blocks from my favorite place to hide out. The lights all went out at once. I had enough time to get into a crash hole, but it’s not a very good crash hole. And I don’t think I’m going to

Shit

Shit

Not him. Not him.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/472873.html. You can comment here or there.

Totally Saturated Big Brother

Feb6

For [personal profile] rix_scaedu‘s commissioned continuation of Big Brother.

Ashele had to talk to Katina before she talked to Mr. Ankay.

She wasn’t sure how to broach her question: “did you see someone sitting next to you?” didn’t seem to cover it.

Jacque solved that dilemma for her, at least. “Did you see that totally saturated boy? The one sitting next to your kid sister?”

Saturated was better even than in-depth. Ashele tried not to smile and pretended not to know what Jacque was talking about. “You mean Mr. Pierson, my piano teacher? He’s maybe a little in-depth…”

“Oh, come on, he must be your cousin or something. Doesn’t your mother at least have a big brother?”

“No. But my dad has three.” Could it have been a cousin? Mr. Ankay had acted like there was something to talk about, but maybe, maybe it was nothing at all, just an older cousin showing up for no reason at all.

“You’ve utts got to introduce me. Me, first, before Bradelli or Miko. Promise it, Ashele. Data port swear it.”

“I don’t know who he is, Jacque.”

“But your kid sister does. And if your kid sister does, eventually you will. It’s the big brother rule.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“I know. But it’s true. She’s your kid sister. Thus, you will get to glare at the boy, and then you will introduce me. Ergo Sum.”

“Ergo sum yourself. What if he’s dating my kid sister?”

“…oh. Well, if he’s not? Then you’re data-port swearing.”

Ashele couldn’t argue with her logic. “If he’s not dating Katina, I will introduce you to him before I introduce Bradelli or Miko. Data-port swear.”

Jacque was satisfied. And Ashele was mostly-comfortable with it. Mostly. She was pretty sure that she could manage not introducing her imaginary brother to anyone else before Jacque, but data-port swears were nothing to mess with. Everyone knew you could get a nasty virus that way.

Her friends dealt with, or at least one friend, Ashele tracked down Katina. She, in turn, was talking to dad.

“I told you we needed a big brother.”

“And I told you that you had a perfectly serviceable big sister. You shouldn’t be so bound by societal trends, Kattie.”

“Easy for you to say!” Katina was working up a good head of steam.

“Woah, woah, cowgirl.” Ashele stepped in and took the irritation on herself. “You know you’re right. I know you’re right. Deep in his sandbit heart, Dad knows you’re right. He’s still Dad, though, and that means we gotta pretend to respect him, especially in public, where all his friends can see.”

“Thank you, Ashele… I think.” Her father frowned at her. “So. Do you want to talk about it?”

Um.

She held up her diploma. “I graduated. High honors and everything.”

“You did, and I’m very proud of you. But, Ashele, people noticed that manifestation. And if you don’t work on controlling that, you’re going to have created a Solid. And then what will you do?”

“We’ll have a big brother, that’s what! If you’d just done things right…”

Ashele couldn’t bring herself to argue with Katina’s logic.

Their father looked like he was having trouble with it, too. “Girls. You know why we chose to do things the way we did…”

“No, actually.” Ashele was getting too wound up to be polite. “No. We know you had some worry about ‘societal norms,’ but all that meant is that I had to be big brother to Katina and not have one of my own, when all my friends did.”

“I…” Their father sat down, hard. “I would ask if it really meant that much to you, but you manifested a solid creation in the middle of a crowded theater. It certainly mattered to you.”

“Yeah.” She wasn’t sure how to deal with him agreeing with her. He’d never done that before, at least not over the brother issue. “Yeah. Look at my friends. Their brothers are all here, cheering them on. Their brothers pulled them out of messes. Their brothers helped them out and tutored them in math.”

“And you got through math without a tutor, taught Katina, and bloodied enough noses that the teachers had us in their top emergency call file. You’re a strong, lovely young woman, and you did it without the help of a big brother.”

“Are you saying I wouldn’t have been strong with one? How would you know? Maybe I could have learned to hoverblade sooner. Maybe I could have passed that Ivy admittance exam.”

Their father sighed. “Well, what will you do with one now?”

“What will I… what?”

“You created him, Ashele. He exists now, even if he’s not solid at the moment. You’ve made the big brother you always wanted. So what are you going to do with him?”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/470615.html. You can comment here or there.

Little Fears and Little Hopes

Feb6

This is a continuation of The Darkness in the Shadows (LJ) to [personal profile] kc_obrien‘s commissioned continuation.

Dawn was threatening, waving its red flag of war at the edge of the horizon.

Up aboveground, the good people of the world would be waking up, cleaning off their dreams, putting on their day-skins.

Down on the streets, the monsters were slipping back into the cracks, back into their basement caves. They cradled the last few night-time whispers, gathering them like grain before the storm, like fruit before the frost. The days could be so very long, down in the gutter.

It was a clear night, the sort where dawn would burn its way clear of the night time faster than expected. There were no clouds to shroud the world, to protect it for a few precious moments. And that sort of dawn would burn the creatures who thrived on the night.

Still, they lingered. It had been a lean night, too cold, too bleak for many passers-by, too deep into winter for much hope, for many shining dreams. They would be hungry through the day. They would start nibbling on what little they could see through the grates, if they went to their caves hungry.

And that way lay trouble. That way lay madness. One nibble, then another. One daytime theft, and then you were slipping out during the rain storms. One early riser grabbing too much, and then everyone was whispering in the ears of the nine-to-fivers.

There was a place for the monsters, and that place was in the gutters. Everyone had to remember that for the world to work properly.

They knew that.

And yet this little monster lingered, peeking out from under the stairs, waiting. It was a hungry troll, near to starving, for the big fears often eat first, and the little ones eat what’s left.

A girl stumbled down the street, feet sore, body exhausted, her short dress no coverage at all against the cold. Somewhere, someone made a noise like a wolf-whistle. Somewhere else, someone made a noise like a gunshot.

The little troll licked his lips. She was bright, and shiny, and full of hope, but the fear was beginning to overwhelm her. He could taste the tiniest hopes, and he licked at them, like a creature might lick at moss.

It scooted out of the darkness a little. She stumbled on a piece of ice and fell forward. The trolls, the monsters, the nightmares, all inched forward hungrily. If she fell…

The little troll snuck out a little further. If she fell, she would fall nearest its hole.

Fear surged in the woman, and hope. She could see the bus. If she could only make it to the bus on time, she could get home in time. If she could get home in time…

The little troll ate up the hope. Yes, yes. Wish for the bus to slow down. It’s always late, it’s always slow. Wish a little more. Run a little faster.

Run a little faster in those silly shoes. The road is smoother than you think. The road is fine.

The sun was rising, but she was right there, right there. The little troll reached out… just as the girl tripped and fell.

Dawn was the time for pushing things. The time for hope, and the time for fear. Dawn was the time when some people just vanished. Just fell into holes, the people said. Fell between the cracks.

Dawn was a lean time, but sometimes, the creatures underground got fat as the sun snuck through the clouds.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/470276.html. You can comment here or there.