Tag Archive | giraffecall

Giraffe Call Still Open! Halfway There!

Apr16

My Giraffe Call is Open!

I’ve gotten 11 prompters and 2 donations, bringing the total to 13 prompts to be written this time.


We’re $10 from the wood for the foyer, and $25 from a randomly-chosen second story for someone ($50 from every donator getting a third prompt)

Tell your friends! Donate a buck or two! Come prompt if you haven’t already! I’d really like to get up to 26 and be able to do the non-English-Alphabet prompts as well!

The Call

Prompts Already Written:
A – B – C – D – E – F

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/512362.html. You can comment here or there.

F is for Friend Fiend Forgetting

Apr16

To [personal profile] imaginaryfiend‘s prompt

“Noornian. You know you’re not supposed to do that.”

“Know.” The fiendling ducked its head. “Know. Forgot. Sorry.”

Janet had been almost eight before she’d figured out that other peoples “Imaginary friends” hadn’t been twee mispronunciations of what hers was – an fiend powered on imagination. By then, it had been too late, and the whole school knew that Janet had an “Imaginary demon friend.”

Which was fine, really, except that, unlike (most) of the other students’ imaginary friends, Noornian was visible to other people. Not all the time, no, but when it forgot to cloak itself…

…well, then the more observant of Janet’s classmates would see her with a “dragonet” or a “little shoulder demon” or a “lizard of some sort” draped around her shoulders, where Noornian spent most of its time. And then the teachers would get upset, either with the students, or with Janet, or, in a few specific cases, the teachers.

Mrs. Contori had held Janet after class. Again. To scold her demon.

“Noornian, are you sure you ‘forgot?'”

“Forgot!” The fiendling waved both front paws in an urgent gesture. “Noornian good. Friendly. Forgot. Wanted to say hello to cute fire-haired boy.”

Cute fire-haired boy. Janet felt her own cheeks burning. She spoke up before Mrs. Contori could. “Noornian, it doesn’t sound like you forgot. And you know what I told you would happen if you dropped your cloak on purpose again…”

“Forgot! Forgot! Noornian will be good and not forget again!” The fiendling was flailing with four limbs now. “Only – maybe can meet fire-hair boy?”

Damnit. Janet stole a glance at Mrs. Contori, to find that the math teacher was smiling. “Janet, I think if you invited Justin home to study with you, he might be amenable to meeting your fiendling. You know,” her smile was conspiratorial, and she reached up to her shoulder to pat her own fiendling, “because it is good to keep our shoulder-demons happy. Lest they ‘forget’ more important rules.'”

“Noornian forget.” Sounding entirely smug and pleased with itself, the fiendling settled down on Janet’s shoulders to groom itself.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/512106.html. You can comment here or there.

E is for Euphoric

Apr16

For Rix_Scaedu‘s prompt.

“What did you do, Eustace?”

“Why does it have to be my fault?” Said at-fault fella stepped back, hands raised, trying to look innocent. He wasn’t very good at it. It was the thought that counted, right?

“Because there are two of us who live in this apartment.” Emily clearly wasn’t counting thoughts. “And I know I didn’t do it.”

“Maybe it’s a burglar?” He tilted his head towards the couch, and the mess all around the coffee table.

“A burglar that, what, came with a key?” Emily, in turn, tilted her head towards the locked and deadbolted door, the windows with their security grates, the view indicating that, as they had been yesterday, they were still on the twenty-ninth floor. “Or flew?” She looked down at their unwanted guest. “Well, I could believe flew, if the windows were open.”

“See? See?” Eustace flailed with both hands. “See? It could entirely have been not my fault.”

“Eustace. There is a stoned elf on our couch.”

“Euphoric. It’s not stoned, it’s on euphorics.”

“Why are you calling it it?”

“Have you looked under its fur?”

“….no?” Emily wasn’t quite that curious. “Besides, since when do elves have fur?”

“Since when do elves ride the Metro? I’m not entirely sure it’s an elf. You can get the ears tipped by any good cosmetic surgeon.”

“And what about under its fur?”

“Well, I can’t think of a surgeon that would do that, but maybe an angry girlfriend. But I think that explains the euphorics.”

“…Eustace. You’re saying that the euphoric elf on our couch is… a eunuch?”

“Exactly.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/511698.html. You can comment here or there.

D is for Dances Down in that [Dystopic] Underground School

Apr15

For Rix_Scaedu and Lilfluff‘s prompts.

First Dance, Year Nine.

Everyone seemed so into the dances here.

Back at home, Pania had not been all that big on the whole idea of school dances. Then again, back at home, there had been other things to do, other places to hang out. Here, down in Addergoole, there was the Arcade, and the dances, as far as she could tell.

So she asked a couple questions of older girls – the ones who seemed willing to talk to her, and who seemed like they’d neither tease her mercilessly for asking nor lie to her to see what she showed up in, and she bought a dress from the Store’s rather wide selection of pretty party dresses, and gave in and bought heels to match.

There. I’m not going to be the belle of the ball, but I won’t be the laughingstock, either.

First Dance, Year Eighteen.

Dances. Really.

Lælia’s mum had spoken fondly of such things, from her own days at her alma matter, but Lælia hadn’t reallyexpected them to still be going on.

For one thing, that had been Year One – very nearly two decades ago. For another, that had been Before The End. Lælia didn’t know if they still had dances in normal high schools. She didn’t really know if they still had high school in normal high schools.

All of her friends from Jr. High had moved away when things started getting messy – moved away, or, in more than one case, just vanished. In those cases, Lælia (and everyone else) tried to pretend they’d just moved, too, that Carrie and Leslie were in the same “I don’t know where but Dad says it’s safe” as Jennifer and Tyler.

All her friends had gone away. Lælia had gone to Addergoole.

First Dance, Year Nine.

“A dance?” The lovely man in the velvet tux bowed over Pania’s hand.

“I’d, ah, be honored.” She was pretty sure that was what she was supposed to say. “I’m Pania.”

“Ambrus. Pleased to meet you.” He had the most stunning eyes she had ever seen.

“Me, too.” Smooth. Pania tried not to look like a complete moron as she let the gorgeous guy lead her out onto the floor. “This is louder than I expected.”

“It does that.” He smiled, bowed, and set one hand gently on her waist. “You get used to it after a while.”

“People have been saying that a lot.”

“It is true about any number of things, here.” He stepped in so he was almost against her; he smelled of aftershave, very faintly, and something deep and male. “And it’s true.”

First Dance, Year Eighteen.

Lælia had found a dress at the Store – she’d found dozens, maybe hundreds of dresses at the Store, actually, but one she really liked – and shoes, and all those things her mother had told her you needed for a dance.

She was relieved – and surprised – to find out that her mother’s descriptions of these things had been spot-on. Fancy dresses, guys in tuxes (two girls in tuxes, one guy in a dress, one in a kilt), loud music (most of which Lælia recognized), and booze flowing like water.

“Where do they get all the stuff?” She hadn’t meant to ask it out loud, but, having said it, turned it to a handsome – nearly pretty – black-haired guy standing next to her at the bar.

He smiled, a brilliant thing that made the room brighter. “Magic.” He wiggled his fingers at her, and then turned it into an offer of a hand. “I’m Maleagant.”

“I’m Lælia. And if you tell me it’s magic, I’m willing to believe you.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/511092.html. You can comment here or there.

B is for Beryl and her Boys, a story of the Aunt Family for the A-Zed Giraffe Call

Apr15

To [personal profile] kelkyag‘s prompt.

Aunt Family has a landing page here

After Sister Help.

My Giraffe Call is open! Leave an alphabetical prompt!
.

As much as it galled Beryl to admit it, Chalcedony was right.

Getting out – going to the mall, first, with Chalce and Stone and Jake, and then to miniature golf a few days later, and then to the park for a Moose Lodge picnic the next weekend – made her feel better than she’d felt since Aunt Asta had died.

Getting out with her brother and sister was pretty cool; Chalce wasn’t a bad sort, for a big sister, and Stone was pretty awesome, especially for a guy in their family. But getting out with Jake felt better than anything, which was just about like being in Heaven. Getting out with Jake was awesome in ways Beryl had never before felt.

And, just for good measure, hanging out and acting like herself again ticked off her cat and her necklace.

Radar spent most evenings glaring at her. Joseph – well, she felt bad leaving him in the drawer all the time, so she’d started wearing him on Mondays. The first time she’d put him back on, he’d spent a full thirty minutes berating her.

She’d gone into the bathroom and carefully explained to him that if he did not shut up, she was going to flush him down the toilet and let the alligators have him.

After that, he kept his complaining to a sort of dull roar, which, in turn meant that Beryl could listen to Jake and her friends.

And the other boys – now that was a revelation. The more she talked to Jake, the more other boys started to talk to her. Beryl wasn’t sure what to do with that.

Until Radar grumbled to her one evening: “I hope a cute set of eyes, or whatever this latest one has, is worth giving up your legacy.”

Then Beryl knew exactly what to do.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/510365.html. You can comment here or there.

A is for Alpha

Apr15

For an Anonymous prompt: A is for Alpha

My Giraffe Call is open! Leave an alphabetical prompt!
.
It all began with the first of us, called, as was appropriate and due, the Alpha.

I never knew what other name the Alpha might have held, before this place, before Everything Else. But sometimes we called her Anna, or Angie, when we were being informal.

There were not all that many minutes in which we were being informal, truth be told. The formality was something to lean upon, something to prop us up. And we needed all the props we could get, then.

But I was saying. Alpha came first. That much I was told: Alpha, and then Beta, of course, who we called Bill in those rare informal moments, and then Gamma (Gail) and then me. Delta, fourth-arrived, fourth-in-line, and sometimes Dean.

“It was more relaxed, when it was just the two of us.” I never knew if Beta was complaining or explaining when he said that. I did know that, as we went from the four of us to the whole alphabet, twenty-four of us with Omega playing last-in-line, everything got more and more formalized.

Our sanctuary was none too large – a half-sunk building in what had once been a park, surrounded by the wildlife and the monsters – and twenty-four people filled it to capacity and stretched our food supplies even more than it stretched our space. “We’ll stop there,” Alpha said. “One for every letter. It only seems fair.”

We all knew it wasn’t really going to work that way – well, I can’t speak for the first three, but I knew it, and Theta and Iota knew it, and they were the ones I spent the most time talking to. But Alpha, Beta, and Gamma seemed insistent on sticking to it. They even sent away the first two or three people to show up after that.

That’s when the rumbling began – no. That’s when the rumbling got audible. I think the rumbling had begun the minute Alpha said “I was here first, and I’m in charge.”

But now our alphabet starts at Delta, and we’re building a new wing onto the building, and we’ve started giving people Arabic letters.

There can’t be that many survivors left in the world. We shouldn’t run out of letters again, I don’t think.

And if we do, we can start again at Alpha.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/510157.html. You can comment here or there.

Giraffe Logistics.

Apr12

I am contemplating (unsurprisingly) a Giraffe Call this weekend.

Because of the April A-Z thing, I’m thinking of trying to to an A-Z giraffe call, but I’m having a bit of trouble with logistics.

Issues:

1. I don’t normally get 26+ prompters, but I normally write 1 prompt/prompter unless donations occur
2. Comments across two+ platforms (LJ/DW, sometimes Twitter)
3. Many people leave multiple prompts, meaning I can’t just say “leave a prompt in the letter after the person above you.”
4. Smartasses.

Thoughts on solutions:
* Suggest if people leave multiple prompts, they do so over a letter range that does not completely overlap with the person above them. I.e., ie person 1. does a, b, and c, person 2. should do b, c, d, and e.
* Have a list of letters in the Call and cross out letters as I receive three or more prompts to each.
* Have other ways to get a second prompt written than just donations (Signal boosts, up to three?)
* Suggesting that if one is going to leave a letter prompt in another alphabet, one must leave considerable linked backup.
* [personal profile] itsamellama has suggested having an unlockable/incentive if we reach all 26 letters.
Thoughts on what it should be?

Thoughts?
Not worth it, try something else?
Why are you still bothering with this at all?
Moo?

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/509078.html. You can comment here or there.

Monsters, a story of Fae Apoc for the Giraffe Call

Apr10

To [personal profile] thnidu‘s prompt
There was a monster to fight.

There was always a monster to fight. it seemed as if they had been fighting monsters forever. Maybe they had.

Shahin closed her eyes, shutting out the world of the now. She reached for the vision, pulling it from the vague, taunting recesses of her mind. When? Where? What? She demanded her power answer her and, cowed, it did so.

The monster was a troll, one of those fae that had given up any pretense of humanity. It was coming to them; it had a plan. An ugly plan, and she could see the timelines in which it succeeded.

They had been there before. She would not let them end up there again.

It would be here in half an hour. Shahin stood up, and spat out the orders that would change here into the battlefield of her choosing.

~

She fought with swords. Her Name was the Ice Rapier, after all, and, if the blades she wielded were not quite rapiers, well, she was not quite as Ice as her reputation would have you believe.

She fought with swords, cutting into the flesh of the monster, into its bone, into its heart. But she fought with words at the same time. She was a short woman and the monster was tall, taller than anything human. She could drive her blades only so far into it. But she could whisper, Meentik Kwxe, Burn, baby, Burn, and the flesh of the monster would light on fire. And then Qorawiyay Hugr Phobos, run, you fucker, run and the flaming monster, suddenly terrified, turned and ran.

She laughed with glee as she chased the thing down. Running away, it was easier to hit, with Meentik Hiko bursts of electricity and with the arrows of her team.

And when it fell, she stood on its chest and cut its head off with her swords. One less monster to fight.

M for Mimosas; after Why Swords

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/508768.html. You can comment here or there.

Why Swords, a setting drabble of Faerie Apoc post-apoc, for the Giraffe Call

Apr10

After:
Toy Soldiers
With Friends Like These…,
Cleaning Up and
this scrap (http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/398701.html)

“Why swords?” Ty lounged – there was nothing else to call it – on Shahin’s bed, watching her as she prepared herself for battle once again. “It’s not like you don’t know what guns are. It’s not like you couldn’t get someone to Meen… damnit… to create them for you.” It pressed both hands to its forehead as the pain of nearly disobeying an order hit.

Shahin took a moment from her preparations to stroke Ty’s hair until the pained look went away. “Supply chain, primarily. And not getting jumped by other people who would like guns and don’t have someone to Meentik them up.”

“Supply chain?”

“If you have a gun, you need bullets. You need someone who can repair it. You need someone who can make guns, or find them, either magically or through old tech – and that takes parts, and materials, and machinery. Supply chain. A sword takes a hot enough forge and a guy with a good arm and some practice.”

She made tiny circles with the tip of her weapon. “Besides, it’s in my Name.”

Ty laughed, although its eyes were tracking the point of the blade. “That’s a good reason. You could have just said ‘style,’ you know.”

“I have been accused of being the world’s vainest warrior.” Fairly, she had to admit. “But this isn’t just vanity. People have guns, sure. But people have more pointed things. This sword is pushing it, really. A pitchfork would be more normal, or a machete.” She tilted her head at her weapons rack, where she had examples of both. “The world is a lot more obviously violent than it used to be, and a lot more poor in manufacturing.”

“I do live in the same world you do, you know.” Now its pride was pricked. Shahin couldn’t help but smile.

“Now you do. But until we captured you – no, I don’t think you did.”

Monsters

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/508553.html. You can comment here or there.

The Black Tower and its Council – a setting piece of Dragons Next Door

Apr9

“What is the Black Tower?” The dragon cocked its head to the side, narrowly missing knocking over the fence.

I blinked. The Tower has such a reputation among our people that it’s hard to remember it’s not that well known outside of the community. Even most other humans wouldn’t know what I was talking about – and I imagine the dragons handled such things in their own way. “The Black Tower is…” I resisted the impulse to end that with “…the Black Tower.” “It’s an academy of magic, considered highly prestigious but also highly dangerous. Sage attended there.”

“Ah, the Sandborn.” Zizny nodded. “We have heard of that place. On rare occasion, a young dragon will study there.”

“Yes, the Sandborn.” I’d forgotten it had a proper name.

–The Black Tower

The Sandborn Academy, the Black Tower, is a spire sticking into the sky, a nightmare against the night-time, the whisper lazy parents use to threaten naughty children. “If you’re not good, the Black Tower will send someone to get you.”

The Black Tower has no interest in naughty children. The Black Tower has very little interest in children at all, except as a necessary step in getting to the next generation of magi.

That is, of course, only as much as the Black Tower has a self to exhibit any interest at all. Regardless of rumor, conjecture, or fear, the buildings of the Black Tower do not, themselves, have sentience (yet).

The sentience of Sandborn Academy resides in its Head and its Council of Elders – seven magi who rule over the school with an iron fist and a steel-belted will. How they determine things within the confines of their Council chamber is a mystery; their dictates are handed down without explanation and with very little chance for appeal, and, in public, the Council presents a united front.

Their dictates rule everything in the Black Tower: who is admitted, and when; what the uniforms look like, and when they change; what is taught on the curriculum, and in the special independent study classes; what is served for dinner in the Dining Halls. Their dictates also determine when a member of the Council retires or is promoted to Head, and who joins the Council, and when.

There is nobody living who has ever met someone who has turned down a seat on the Black Tower Council. They may be the deans of a secondary school, but their power stretches far further than that.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/507893.html. You can comment here or there.