Tag Archive | giraffecall: result

Rediscovering the City, a story for the Giraffe Call (@kissofjudas)

Jan14

To starlitdestiny‘s prompt

Safe to say, nobody was expecting a city to pop up between Rochester and Syracuse.

And I don’t mean, “pop up” like one of the small towns there along 5-and-20 got delusions of grandeur, called themselves a city, and got businesses to move in. I mean, right there, just north of the Thruway, bam, in the middle of the morning commute, there was a city.

This caused three accidents and a good deal of confusion, mass drug testing in several factories, and then a state-wide (or at least the important parts of the state, up by the lake) holiday as we all tried to figure out what was going on.

It wasn’t a small city, not by any means, but unlike the ones that had grown up naturally around here, this one was contained. It had a shell, if you will, a tall wall, nearly as high as the buildings, and arching in as it went up, so that it really seemed like most of an egg, with just a couple towers poking out of the jagged top. One gate sat slightly ajar, off if giant hinges. No more inviting than a broken window in an abandoned house, but that will call to some people, I suppose.

The brains from the colleges went in first, and then a few farmers who knew the area, instruments ready, cameras and note pads and that curiosity that makes us human. Some were already muttering about aliens – that sort of thing didn’t just appear, you know, and the architecture looked strange, the lines and the materials nothing we were used to, at least not on first glance.

I’m a stonecutter, though, and I know my blocks. I went in with the second batch – for not other justification than that it was my family’s land the city had settled on, or at least a corner of it – and ran my hands over the pink-and-brown patterns, felt the weather in her joints and the places where decay had set in. She wasn’t a young city, not by far. But we could refurbish her. We could make her live again.

Routes 5-and-20 parallel the NYS Thruway a short distance south of said hiway, both running parallel to Lake Ontario’s coastline across the widest part of the state. The area between cities on these routs is primarily rural/agricultural.

See also this map

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/231725.html. You can comment here or there.

First Steps, a story for the Giraffe Call (@Dahob)

Jan13

to @DaHob’s prompt

I do not remember being born. Do you?

I don’t really remember waking up, either, that is, being aware of myself for the first time. Knowing where my “fingers” were, where my edges were. When something hurt me.

That, that is what I remember first and strongest. I remember being hurt. I remember being damaged. The pain shooting through my nerves, making me recoil backwards.

They called it an accidental fire. They almost always do. They can’t fathom, I think, that when I am hurt I must react. And when I am damaged, I have little way to fight back. Earthquakes hurt me as much as they hurt them. But a little fire, a spark here, a twist of a wire…

… I learned the hard way to be careful which portion of my body I set on fire. In some neighborhoods, the people who fill me would come quickly. In others, the hurt would spread, would threaten to damage my core before it was contained.

But I was saying. I don’t remember being born, or my first awakening, but I do remember when I realized that I existed.

Before then, I think there had been vague thoughts, memories and dreams, but nothing, pardon the pun, concrete. Nothing to say “all these things, they are all me.”

But the night where the monsters ran through my streets, killing my people, killing people just because they were different, the night that they streaked my sidewalks with blood, I remember that. I remember that like you’d remember someone jabbing a knife through your hand as a child.

And the day they cleared out the park on Main and South, and erected that statue to the lovely woman who stood up to the thugs, that day, the sun warming my pavement and the cheers echoing across my buildings… that is the day I remember learning what love was.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/230947.html. You can comment here or there.

The Black House: Orientation

Jan13

From rix_scaedu‘s commissioned prompt. This comes directly in order with the rest of the Black House story (see tag).

Content warnings: no sexual content, but definite d/s.

“These are my private rooms, with the blue carpet.” The Kraken, her master, gestured at the line between the blue tile of the bathroom and the plush floor of the hallway. “No-one but I – and by extension, you – are allowed in here. Within these rooms, you will crawl unless ordered to stand. You will be naked unless ordered clothed, or unless dressing to leave these rooms. And you will not leave these rooms without my permission unless you need to to save my life or your own.”

“Yes, sir,” the girl who had been called Yaminah answered. The orders were not that different than those Ackerley had given her, if more thorough, and with more qualifiers.

“This way.”

It wasn’t even that hard, even though it had been years, to get used to the feeling of crawling, following a set of feet. “You will, within this area, speak only when spoken to. And you will, outside of my private rooms, never convey to others what goes on within this space. Let it be a mystery.”

A little frisson of fear went through her. That order… that meant hiding bad things from people. That meant… it meant pain. Ackerley had only done that a couple times. A couple had been enough.

She didn’t realize she’d stopped, frozen, until he stopped, turned, and looked down at her. Something must have shown in her face, because he knelt down in front of her, taking her chin in his hand again.

“I am not one of those butchers,” he murmured, quiet but fierce. “And I have nothing to hide from my servants or employees. I am not afraid,” he added, a bit amused, “that Luke will come and yell at me, although if you were cy’Luca in your time at Addergoole, he might. But I like the mystery of my chambers to remain the mystery of my chambers. Do you understand?”

She took a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Yes, sir,” she whispered. “Thank you, sir.”

“That’s a good girl,” he smiled, patting her shoulder before straightening again. “Something you might want to keep in mind, especially over the next couple weeks, as we get to know each other. When I was Keeping Damaris, I was a teenaged kid with something to prove. Doubly so with Speed. And anything that happened with Ackerley, well, I met the little shit before I left. I would, if I were you, remember that two-steps-removed from a young me is not the same thing, by far, as being Kept by me.”

“Yes, sir,” she choked out. Part of her mind suggested her really meant That bullshit that Ackerley pulled is child’s play compared to what I’m going to do with you, while the rest of her understood that he was trying to tell her I’m not going to leave you bruised and bloody. I outgrew that sort of thing. The conflict left her paralyzed, staring at the blue carpet that defined her new prison.

Somewhere a thousand miles above her, her master sighed. Before she could move, apologize, anything, he was scooping her up into his arms and holding her close to him, pressed against the silk of his shirt. “You are mine,” he whispered, “for the next two years, my possession, my responsibility. I would no more hurt you, abuse you, than I would wreck my car or burn down my house. You are safe with me, my Pretty. Safe. Tell me you understand that.”

She shuddered in his arms, a sob she hadn’t know she was holding back coming out in a long, body-shaking keen. “I understand that, my master,” she whispered.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/229931.html. You can comment here or there.

Welcome, a story of Stranded World for the Giraffe Call

Jan12

For rix_scaedu‘s commissioned prompt.

Stranded world, after The Unexpected Gift (LJ) and A Christmas of Melancholy (LJ)
🎁
Autumn turned to Gregor, still reeling. “If you,” she said firmly, “have any world-shaking gifts, could you, I dunno, wait until July or something?”

He chuckled. “I’m flattered, luv, but I’m not the man in your life the way the Tattered one or your late father are. I’m just a friend.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” Autumn’s mother tsk’ed. “There’s no ‘just’ about your friendship, Gregor, not when you’re here with her, supporting her through all of this, when you could be doing holidays with your own – well, I know you have trouble with your family, but surely there’s a young man?”

“I have about as much luck in love as your daughter does,” he answered dryly. “If there was someone…”

“Then you’d be welcome to bring him here for the holidays. I hope you know that, Gregor.”

From the look on his face, he hadn’t. “I, uh.”

“Gregor,” she said, a little exasperated, “do I have to name you a season to have you believe me? Fine, Gregor-the Equinox, you are counted as family here.”

“An Equinox isn’t a season,” he protested weakly.

“Well, it is now.” She bapped him gently on the nose, while Autumn watched bemusedly. “You’re part of the family, son, get used to it.”

“I, ah.” Autumn hugged him tightly, silencing his uncertain protests.

“You,” she told him, glad to have something else to focus on, “are family. You’ve known that for years, Gregor.”

“But my parents…”

“Are not me. Clearly.” Autumn’s mother joined in the hug. “Since I haven’t said it yet, welcome to the family, Gregor. Equinox. And, while my late husband may not have left you a present – well, I got you a couple, and Spring and Summer each sent one.”

“Winter…?”

“Sends his regards, which is about all he does for anyone. You’re family,” she repeated firmly.

“Wow.” He looked down at the two of them uncertainly. “Well… Merry Christmas, every one,” he misquoted. “I guess now I gotta get a boyfriend and make Autumn bring a real boy home?”

“Well…” Autumn’s mother’s gaze fixed on her again. “There is this young man sending her jewelry.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/229581.html. You can comment here or there.

Calling in the Storm

Jan12

For Rix_Scaedu‘s commissioned prompt. This is set in the Addergoole ‘verse, whose landing page is here on DW & here on LJ.

I believe (@inventrix’s suggestion) that Diarmaid is Mabina-and-Cassidy’s daughter born after school. This puts this around year 26-28).

This is after The Leftover Gift (LJ)

The natives – or at least the house-guests – were getting restless, and Diarmaid was running out of things to distract them with. Edelin had headed out to the Store “just to pick something up” over an hour ago, and hadn’t been seen nor heard from since. Solange had told them she’d be along later, and never shown up. And a peek outside still showed the halls to be loud, dark, and entirely creepy.

Diar’s parents had been frustratingly close-lipped about the school, but her older brother and sister had told her two things when they came home last summer: “Remember, you’re a cook, not a fighter,” and “if everything looks like it’s going handbasket-y, close your door and don’t let anyone in.”

Looking ruefully around her packed room, Diar decided she listened just about as well as everyone else in her family. Every friend she’d made in two weeks here at Addergoole – except Edelin and Solange – was crowded in here, eating her shepherd’s pie and playing whatever games they could think up.

Flurry, however, was staring at the door thoughtfully. “My room’s just across the pod, Diar,” he wheedled.

“And it might as well be on the moon, Flurry. You are staying right here where you are. Here, have some cake, why don’tcha.”

“Where did you come up with cake?”

“Leftovers, of course. It’s fine, Tony ate two pieces and didn’t fall over.”

“I trust you. And it’s not…” he paused to swallow the cake nigh-on-whole “…that I don’t like your company, Diar. I’d like a lot more of it, maybe in a less crowded situation.”

“And I’m sure you would, my dear, but that’s not today.” And maybe not any day. Her Cohort, or the boys, at least, seemed so young.

“It’s really not,” he agreed. “But I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Of course you don’t, and I’m not sitting not babying you. If you want to go out into the loud fuss and muss, well, you’re an adult now, aren’t you? I just worry.” She was, she knew, channeling her mother. She was also genuinely worried.

“I’m an adult,” he agreed, not entirely certainly, but studying her expression, he nodded again, a little firmly. “You don’t have to look after me, Diar. I can handle myself.”

Gods save us from boys who want to be men. “Then go, Flurry. I’m not stopping you.” Come back with your shield… Down, girl. He’s not yours to send off to battle. But send him off she did, holding the door open for him.

Flury was barely halfway across the dark pod when something with far too many arms grabbed him, pulling him up into mid air. Diar, pretending she wasn’t standing in her open door watching, gasped and slapped her hands over her mouth. Too late; all of her guests were watching over or around her shoulders now.

“Let me go!” Flurry gasped, struggling, and then really fighting in earnest, pushing against the arms. The air was getting colder and colder, or was that just her nerves? Diar hugged herself tightly, staring at her friend.

It was only in staring that she managed to notice when he went from a short stocky boy to an icicle, the icicle slipping to the ground in, unsurprisingly, a flurry of ice and snow. But he was still there, at the center of the storm, blue and freezing, and the octopus-squid thing was grabbing for him.

Channeling her mother like never before, Diarmaid snapped out into the pod. “Flurry sh’Eirlys, you get back in here this instant.”

She was happily surprised when that worked, and the storm bowled her over in returning over her threshold. Staring down where she thought the octopus’ eyes were, she informed it calmly, “This is my family.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/228883.html. You can comment here or there.

Cost of Living

Jan10

For [personal profile] rix_scaedu‘s commissioned prompt for more of the Baram-and-his-house-elves story.

Baram and his family appear in:
Monster (LJ)
Memories (LJ)
One Sharp Mother (LJ)
The Life you Make (LJ)
Safe (LJ)

Addergoole has a landing page here and on LJ

Baram called it their kid farm, though he didn’t really seem to mind the small people running around.

He wouldn’t tolerate other adults – well, he wouldn’t tolerate un-Kept or human male adults, and Jaelie, Viatrix, and Alkyone weren’t all that thrilled about other female adults. They’d let in one newly-widowed neighbor with her three small ones, mostly to have someone else to help with the small herd of children they now had all over the place.

Aloysius – who was “Wish” because he couldn’t very well be Aly and nobody wanted to call him the Pear (Baram called him “Swish”) – turned out to be no good at all with the kids, but very good in the kitchen, which made all of them rather relieved. But still… Jaelie had to do something with him. He was not, in and of himself, useful enough to justify the expense of feeding him – at least not to Baram.

“The world’s falling apart,” her employer pointed out over breakfast. “And we’ve just doubled the kid population here. Do something with him, Jaelie, or find someone who wants to and will pay us for him.”

No-one missed the pallor that came over her new Kept at that. “Give me a week,” she asked, and was granted, and then she cornered Wish in her room that night.

“You’re going to sell me,” he said flatly. “Your … employer doesn’t like me.”

“My employer is not known for liking people in general,” she answered dryly. “And I’m not known for selling people.”

“He seems to like the three of you.”

“Not many women willingly spend time in his presence.”

“But you do.” He sounded jealous. She wasn’t surprised.

“He’s a big, strong man who is entirely protective of those he defines as his, Kept or employees.” She patted Wish’s leg. “And the three of us are pragmatic women with children to protect.”

“I could protect you.”

“You tried to kill us. I wouldn’t call that very protective.”

“Well, to be fair, you were the enemy. You’re not, anymore.” He seemed rather despondent, despite his cheeky tone. “You’re not a bad sort of Keeper. Not as bad as what I expected.”

“I’m not going to sell you.” She grabbed a handful of his hair and tugged his head until he was looking up at her. “Believe that. You are mine, Aloysius oro’Briar Rose, until I release you. Understand?”

He gulped, and nodded, staring at her in a bit of surprise. “Yes, Mistress,” he murmured docilely. “Thank you.”

“I’m not sure you want to thank me yet,” she told him wryly. “I may not be going to sell you, but I’m planning on renting you.” Before he could say anything else, she picked up her phone.

“I, ah.” He tried to stand; she yanked him back to the floor by his hair.

“Sit. Stay. You’re going to listen to this, Wish, because you need to understand.”

He sat, and stayed, gulping, while she dialed. “Yes, this is Jaelie du’Briar Rose. I have an offer to make Doctor Avonmorea.”

Next: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/290652.html (Paying the Rent)

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/226700.html. You can comment here or there.

The Leftover Gift

Jan8

For Rix_Scaedu‘s prompt. This is set in the Addergoole ‘verse, whose landing page is here on DW & here on LJ.

It’s also the last microfic of the December Giraffe Call!!


…some year between 25 and 35 of the Addergoole School, early in the year.

“I have… three cookies and half an onion.” Diarmaid stared at the tiny kitchenette. “What did you say you brought?”

“A potato and a box of minute rice, and Tony brought some butter and some soda.” Diar’s friends and podmates set their offerings on the counter. “And um,”

“Some vodka. And my eternal gratitude. The halls are pretty scary right now.”

“This entire place is scary,” Diar agreed. “All right, step back, me laddos, and let me see what I can do.” She pulled out a pie pan and started concocting.

“i don’t know how you can make anything out of that mess.”

“Well, and aren’t I a daughter of the crisis, the same as you’re children of it? If I couldn’t make a full meal from spit and beans, I wouldn’t have lasted very long.”

“You lived with your parents, I know you did,” Tony complained.

“And do I ruin your stories? Step back, let me work.” She wrinkled her nose at the pile of ingredients and began combining them, watching them double and double again, watching the edges of a real recipe fill themselves in. “And in twenty minutes, we’ll have a right tasty shepherd’s pie, and you keep your sheep nuts over there, thank you,” she scolded a newly-Changed classmate. “There.” She tossed the whole thing into the oven.

“How do you do it?” Tony asked, staring in awe.

“Ah, well, that’s an art and a secret,” she smirked, “the fine gift of the leftovers.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/224214.html. You can comment here or there.

Extraction Team

Jan8

For rix_scaedu‘s prompt.

Fae Apoc has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ.

This story is the same characters, much later (~10 years?) as this one

~*~

“Alarm, Callia.” Charlie’s voice same over her earpiece. “The one in Chicago, the kid whose mom is a quote-unquote masseuse? Taylor Anton. ”

“Him?” Callia was heading for the car even as she questioned Charlie. “Send Xana to meet me at the garage. That wasn’t suppose to Change. He wasn’t supposed to go at all, I thought her pet precog said. A dud.”

“Well, I think her precog is off, ’cause he just sent his school pool on fire. Xana’s meeting you at the garage, I’m sending you the last known whereabouts on the kid.”

“He set the… say again?” She strapped on her vest and weapons, and tossed a leather coat over the whole thing, passing a second coat to Xana as she strode into the garage.

“I think she said he set his pool on fire. Shit, Callia, this is going to be a hot potato, kinda literally. And it’s February. What are we gonna to do keep him on ice until September?”

“I’ll come up with something.” She nodded at the passenger’s seat. “Get in, ‘least till were closer. I might need you to scout.” She belted herself in and started driving while her partner was still getting situated. “If we have to we can put him in the dungeon.”

“Seriously? You’re kidding, right? You’re not going to put a fifteen-year-old boy in your dungeon.”

Callia felt herself smirking. “Why not? I was fourteen.”

~*~

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/223919.html. You can comment here or there.

The Gift Fairy, a story for the Giraffe Call

Jan8

From Moon_fox‘s prompt.


“The job fairy ain’t going to come give you a job,” Francis’ father used to say, or “the dishes fairy ain’t gonna wash the dishes.” The homework fairy wasn’t going to do his homework, and the wish fairy wasn’t going to make stuff happen.

Francis couldn’t help but laugh, then, when the packages started appearing all over the city. At first, people thought it was glitter-bombing, some sort of very strange flash mob thing, something silly and innocuous. A few paranoid people thought maybe that it was a strange way to spread anthrax or something else nasty and weaponized. Some people (and somewhere deep in his heart, Francis was one of those people), just believed.

Believed in the Magic Fairy, and the Hope Fairy, and the Love Fairy. Believed in the pancakes delivered to them them, little white boxes wrapped up in ribbons. Believed when they opened the box, when they saw the tiny glass globes inside, that there was something for them.

And maybe it was the belief, and maybe there really was a Hope Fairy, but people became less depressed, and more happy. In this Rust Belt city, people being optimistic was a novel thing, a bright light of sunshine in a grey town. It lit up the whole place.

And maybe the belief and the hope fueled things, and maybe there really was a Love Fairy, but people started acting kinder to each other, started being a little more considerate, a little less cut-throat. Francis brought dinner for the old lady next door. His neighbor saved him a parking spot Monday night. A girl who’d never given him the time of day smiled at him.

And maybe that all just made things seem magical, but when Francis found his feet floating a foot off the ground, holding the hands of the girl, that girl, he had to laugh… and call his father. And tell him, “Dad, I gotta tell you, but the Magic Fairy just showed up.”

And Dad, Dad just laughed. “So did the cleaning fairy, son. Guess I was wrong.” He chuckled again, a little wry. “But, tell you what, son, I still ain’t seen no job fairies.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/223523.html. You can comment here or there.

A Christmas of Melancholy, a story of Autumn/Stranded World for the Giraffe Call

Jan6

For KC_Obrien‘s prompt.

Stranded world, after her other Christmas story
“I’m afraid,” her mother told her, before she’d managed to stop crying, “that this Yule may only get stranger.”

“Stranger?” she asked, tucking the box with the pendant in a pocket. “I’m not sure I can handle that.”

“You’re a strong girl, Autumn. You’ve always been the strongest of my children.”

“I…” That was a weird thing to say, and she wasn’t sure it was true. But with Tattercoats’ gift still sitting heavily in her pocket, she just nodded. “What is it, Mom?”

“Your father left you a gift.”

The bottom dropped out of the world. “My… Mom!” She swayed uncertainly, leaning hard against Gregor’s arm. “Mom,” she repeated quietly, blinking back sudden tears. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not… well, he left these a long time ago, honey. One for each of you, on your twenty-third Christmas.”

“Why twenty-third?” That question paled as another one took its place. “Wait, that means Winter knew about this already.”

“Yes. And I swore him to secrecy, as I’m going to do with you – and you, Gregor, don’t look at me like that. It would have been nice if he could have arranged to be here with you, but you have Gregor, and he’s a nice young man for such things.”

Gregor smirked at Autumn’s mother. “And many other things too,” he joked, giving Autumn a chance to calm herself down.

“Don’t I just bet. It’s in here, honey, under the tree.”

“Of course.” Her voice was a raw croak; when had that happened? She let Gregor guide her, not feeling all that steady. “This is a dirty trick,” she muttered. “You’ll be lucky if Spring doesn’t burn the house down when it’s her turn.”

“I’m always lucky that Spring doesn’t burn the house down.” It wasn’t a big box, but the outdated paper made it stand out from the rest of the tree immediately. Minnie Mouse. Autumn swallowed a sob.

“Twisted Strands, Mom, this is macabre.”

“This wasn’t my choice, Autumn. This was your father’s call. And I’m sorry, baby girl. I’d have done this differently.”

She took a ragged breath. “I know. I know, Mom. So. What did Dad leave me?” And why now? She knelt on the floor, feeling four years old again, the shadows of her siblings pressing in on her. Whatcha get, Auttie? What is it? Her hands shook as she opened the box. Alone, not alone. Winter had done this before her. Winter had done everything before her.

First, a slip of paper, with her father’s unmistakable handwriting. Autumn. Save this for the one that really needs it. She moved the paper gingerly, afraid it would disintegrate.

Underneath, nestled in silk and twined in protective strands, sat a small cobalt glass bottle, corked and sealed in wax. It looked, to her eye, mostly-full of a dark liquid. “Ink,” she whispered, nearly falling over. “He left me ink.”

“Your father,” Gregor murmured, “seems to have been a very wise man.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/222285.html. You can comment here or there.