Tag Archive | drakeathon

The Greater Gatsby

Content warning on this one: It made me cry a couple times. Kitties, real kitties who lived with us once upon a time. 

This is sort of in a way after Cats Have Nine Lives.


His name had been The Grey Gatsby when he was a kitten, and he had held it with the sort of dignity that all cats posses (although he was fairly certain that he possessed it in greater measure than most cats.  Most cats were relatively silly when they thought nobody was looking.  He, of course, was never silly. He had taken on many other names throughout the years, in the way that people and other animals tended to gift them – Gatters, Gatamon (he liked that one), The Terrifying One (from the co-pets, or at least the creatures he was told were also pets, although he thought they looked far too much like food), the Bigger Cat (from the cat he grudgingly allowed to be his clowder, a name that pleased him also as much as The Terrifying One, as that cat – Drake – became rather larger than him but never stopped thinking of him as The Bigger Cat).  Sweetie might’ve been his favorite, although he would never admit it. Continue reading

Cats Have Nine Lives

This is not fanfic for the anime Mahou Tsukai no Yome/the Ancient Magus‘ Bride, per se, but it is inspired by something in an episode, a reference to the nine lives of cats in a different angle than I’m used to seeing it. 

It’s also sort of Real People Fic.

It also involves pet death, be forewarnedAlso, I made myself cry.


Continue reading


I love it when writing and crafting cross-pollinate! Book arts is great for that, and I’m doing a bit of that now: now that Tales for the Sugar Cat is done, I’m working on the individual copies for donors – some are pdf, which is fun, but others are actual paper “prettified” copies, which just rocks.

I have a lot of pretty paper here and there, sort of an astonishing amount, really, so I’m having fun with the longer stories, making mini-books. None of those are done yet, but two are in glue-and-sew-up stage. One short one just hit the mail today.

In other news, I’m knitting like made. I only see my Baby Cousin’s babies once a year right now, on 4th July, so I’m trying to get a little dress for her and a little vest for him.

And I’m getting sort of excited about upcycled/recycled yarn: there’s a list of links in my altersprig craft journal.

Yay crafts!

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/57222.html. You can comment here or there.

Drakeathon Writing Done!

And that is the last of the prompts given from the Drakeathon, written!

(My parents donated and have not prompted, but everything I’ve actually gotten a prompt for has been written).

All together in a document, it’s just under 14,000 words, 27 pages of 8.5×11 with no intros and little formatting. I plan to add to this a couple already-written things, where the prompt was “please continue this story.”

Next step(s): editing and formatting for the e-book. I know at least one story needs polishing – Lost Princess of Paradisia. I’ll have to read through again to see about the rest of them.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/19689.html. You can comment here or there.

Drakeathon Leftovers: Winter Dreamed (content warning: morbid)

The last of the Drakeathon prompts is another take on Jilliko’s “Dreams of Winter.” It is between a cut of descriptions and depictions of death

Winter dreamed of death.

Let summer have heat prostration, drought, the long hot death of burning; let autumn have harvest and the browning of the leaves; let spring babble of flooding. Spring was, they all knew, about fertility, no matter how many deaths she claimed. Summer was about growth; her heat warmed the planet, warmed the people. Autumn’s harvest was food, fuel for survival. None of them really understood death. None of them knew how to kill like Winter did.

She dreamed, in her pristine palace, of the thousand cold, sharp deaths. She dreamed of the bird who could find no seeds, slowly perishing of starvation. She dreamed of the cold that slowed and clogged the blood, until the heart stopped and the body gave up. She dreamed of the quick skid across the road that looked dry, the black ice sending a car skittering like a toy across the road.

She dreamed of death, for she had been born of death, for death, about death. In her sleep; for Winter is sleep; she knew about, and was, the necessary: the renewal of the planet that comes with the slow rot of late autumn, that leads to the violent green of early spring. She was, in her dreams, the stasis of the freezer, that holds dreams unmoving, unchanging, un-growing and undying, until the thaw rescues them to rot or to sprout. She touched the tragedies and held them close to her frozen heart, the impatience of humanity against the implacability of the ice; the desperation of hunger and frostbite.

Winter slept, because the time of cold is a time of dormancy, the sleep that looks much like death, and the death, in turn, that appears to be a quiet sleep. She held the land stagnant in her dreams, never growing, never changing, the people dreaming of better times in that quiet way: Maybe someday the world will change. Maybe someday I will change. She held it all quiet, close to her heart, where it could not hurt her, where it could not grow away from her, or fall to rot. She held the land peaceful, quiet as the grave, quiet as sleep.

In the midst of the stasis of winter, the land dreamed of spring. It stretched, and heaved, under the heavy blanket of snow and ice. It put forth shoots, defying the cold and the ice, the frozen wasteland that said Winter will be here forever. The world will never change. The planet turned towards the sun, and the ice began to crack.

In the middle of Winter’s dreams, the people began to stir. They stretched, reaching, yearning for something. Yearning for change.

The snow fell, killing the shoots of green, burying the bird digging for seeds, making the roads slick and deadly.

And still the people dreamed, and stretched. And still the world turned towards the sun.

Winter dreamed of death holding everyone still. She dreamed of the quiet of starvation, the peace of stagnation. She dreamed of the cold, because she had been born of the cold, of death, of silence.

And in her silence, the world dreamed of noise, and awoke.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/19357.html. You can comment here or there.

Drakeathon Leftovers: Souvenirs

From ysabetwordsmith‘s prompt/invitation: you are cordially invited to play with either of my urban fantasy poetic series, Monster House or the Psychic Photographer:
This is a riff off of her Monster House series, which you should really, really read.

It was Melody’s idea to leave cream out.

We were living in one of those broken-down used-to-be-nice old houses in CollegeTown, sharing a three-bedroom place with four other people, and our stuff was vanishing. We confronted the worst of the roommates, but his beer-sodden answer was to blame “that freaking fraggle.” We chalked that up as Worse Excuse Ever, until a late-night return caught the little imp (the so-called fraggle, not Joe) in Melody’s underwear drawer. A little internet searching and some library time later, and we’d invested in a little cream and set a flea-market saucer in the coolest windowsill.

Our stuff stopped disappearing overnight, and the cream was gone every morning. What’s more, stuff started coming back; Melody’s underwear, my signed guitar picks, the goblet from our first year together; when we saw the imp – boggart, our studies suggested – it looked fat and happy. When we moved, amongst our stuff was enough of our roommates’ trinkets to make up the back rent they all owed us.

We keep putting out cream. It was another small and harmless eccentricity in our collection of such oddities we treasured, souvenirs of our life together. With the new place, we’ve taken to leaving out oatmeal and honey for the brownie in the kitchen, too.

Hey, some people collect shot glasses.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/15788.html. You can comment here or there.

Drakeathon Leftovers: A Changing of the Guard

From the second of [personal profile] kc_obrien‘s 3 prompts: “A Changing of the Guard,” 326 words

“How is he?” Ronni set down her bag outside the hospital room long enough to pull out a wrapped sandwich. “Here, I got two.”

“Thanks.” Ana took the proffered food and, with a glance at the closed door, sighed. “Getting better, I guess. I mean, he’s healing, he’s stable. Physically.”

Ronni winced, and nibbled at her own sandwich without appetite. “So, still pretty bad?”

“Still pretty bad,” the other girl confirmed. “He’ll talk to me a bit, if no-one’s around, but a lot of it is incoherent. I mean, he knows I’m me, and sometimes he calls me by name… but that’s it.”

“Well, at least he’s talking to you.” The sandwich tasted like ashes in her mouth, but she made herself eat. “Christ, Ana…”

“Yeah, I know.” She shook her head. “I don’t fault you. No-one but Tom does, and, well, we both know he’s crazy.”

“And himself.” She tilted her head at the door. “He’s always blamed me.”

“That’s just the beer talking, and the pills, Ronni. Everyone sane – which includes him when he’s thinking straight, knows you only did what you had to. I would have done the same in your shoes. Nearly did,” she added, more softly.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.” Now it was her turn to reassure, a dance they did twice every day at their changing of the guard. “He still would have … well, it had already happened. You didn’t know, going in, but he did, and I still would have done what I did.” She glanced at the door again. “He started this ball rolling, Ana.”

“I guess you’re right.” She finished her sandwich and balled the wrapper up violently. “Some days I don’t know why you don’t hate me, you know?”

Ronni shook her head. “Don’t be silly.” She tossed her own wrapped and braced herself for her turn on bedside duty. “He chose to cheat on me with you. He got himself into this mess.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/15531.html. You can comment here or there.