Tag Archive | giraffecall

Signal Fire

For Rix_Scaedu‘s commissioned prompt.

After The Life You Make (LJ) and Memories (LJ), and directly after Safe House (LJ), which is right after
Company LJ)

The guests were skittish, the taller one barely perching on the edge of her chair while Viatrix brought them all tea. She didn’t trust his promise. She wasn’t seeing him. She was seeing – what, a memory? Somebody he’d been once before? Jaelie called it his legend, his notoriety. She told him, over and over again until he could not forget, “I came for the legend.” Later, she told him, more times than the first thing, “I stayed for the man.”

This girl was staring at the legend. Baram found he wanted her to see the man.

“Gonna get the kids,” he grunted. Maybe she – and her very-quiet friend – could relax if they saw there were small people here. Happy small people. Before Via could say anything, he lumbered to the basement door. “Aly.”

He was pretty sure the little one didn’t mean him to hear her squeak. “In the basement?”

He was more sure that Via wanted him to hear her response. “Safety drill. Stranger danger; people at the door means get out of sight.”

“That makes sense.” That was the taller one, with a voice as sharp as her bones and her blades looked.

The kids tumbled out, picking up where they’d left off, leaving the dining room alone. They were learning fast. One of them climbed up Baram again, a little one, a girl. “Grr! Argh!”

“Grr,” he agreed. “Play castle later?”

“Awwwwww.” She slipped down his back like it was a slide and was off, chasing after one of the boys.

The visitors were still staring at him. He was going to have to deal with this. Baram rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. He knew he was a monster. He knew sometimes he earned that title. But he protected women and children. That was what he did.

“You trust him?” The small one thought she was whispering.

“With my life. With our kids.” It still made him feel warm to hear Via say that.

“But he’s…”

“We all graduated from Addergoole.” Aly cut the skinny one off, as if she was protecting Barem’s feelings. “Can you say that any of us are clean?”

“Still…” The skinny one looked at him like she was trying to look into his brain. Really, he needed to look into hers.

“Aly. I need…”

She knew what he needed. It wasn’t the first time she’d done it, although she never liked it. “Are you sure, Boss?”

“I am. Can you…” How to say it?

Via knew already. Neither of them were as smooth at this as Jaelie, but they knew him well. Better than he knew himself.

“Miss, he really doesn’t remember. And he’d like to understand. He’s been… he’s been changing, lately, since we’ve all been here, I think. But he can’t make amends for what he doesn’t remember.”

“Make…” The skinny one stared at him. “How can you think you can fix what you did?”

“Not fix.” He knew he was sounding more and more like a monster. He couldn’t seem to do better than that right now. He put his hands down on the table, carefully. “Understand, and make amends.”

“You. You, Baram cy’Fridmar, you want to make amends for what you did to me?”

“Me. Baram, the Shield.” He liked it better than any other Name he’d been given. “Yes. If you’ll let me.”

She sank back in her chair, staring at him. “You promise?”

“I promise I want to make amends.” It was an easy promise. “To you.” He was sure there were others, but today, it had to be her.

“What do you want to do? To… to what, understand?”

He tilted his head at Via. She talked better than he did.

“You still have all the memories. With your memories, miss-”

“Callista. The Bladed Dervish.”

“sa’Bladed Dervish. With your memories, I can trigger his. They’re locked away, otherwise.”

“You want to touch my mind?” Her throat bobbed up and down. She was far too thin. Baram wanted to feed her. Surprising that Aly or Via hadn’t brought her something already. “Will I have to relive it?”

“No. You can sleep, if you want, or just rest here. I won’t bring them to your conscious mind.”

She swallowed again. “And this will – he really doesn’t remember, otherwise?”

“He really doesn’t. As far as we can tell, he loses almost everything past six months. It’s all in there, somewhere, he just can’t access it.”

“That’s horrible.” The little one frowned at him. “You really don’t remember?”

“Really. Sorry.”

She shrugged. “I don’t have… I don’t have quite such bad memories.” She thought about that for a moment, and added, “I mean, not just not as bad of memories of you. You were the boogeyman, but you were never my boogeyman. But not as bad of memories all around.”

“Some people get off more easily than others.” Aly sat down next to the little girl with a tray full of snack foods. How she’d manage to get that together without leaving the room, Baram didn’t know. He assumed magic. “And some people just slide around the bad stuff.”

“Oh, I had a bad Keeper. It’s just that Callista’s Keeper was… something else.”

“Aaah. Relative horror. If you were there with our employer, you must have been there during the bad years. I’ve heard stories.”

“The stories are usually twice as bad and not a third as horrible as it really was.” She shrugged again, and made a handful of cheese vanish into her mouth. “Callie, I think you should do it.”

“Yeah?” Her taller friend looked down at her. “Why?”

“You need to close something. You won’t track down the bastard who hurt you, and you’ve got this guy here willing to make amends. Close a door, put something behind you.”

The bastard who hurt you. Baram suppressed a growl. When he was done, when Jaelie was back and he could leave the house for a little while, then he would find this person who had hurt this guest, and he would pay him back in kind. People should not hurt women. Certainly not women who had carried Baram’s children.

“All right.” The woman – Callie? Callista? – nodded. “All right.”

Via, sensitive as always to Baram’s moods, glanced at him for permission. “Both of you close your eyes, please. Callista, sa’Dervish, please relax as much as you can. If you know how to blank your mind, please do that. Boss, you know what we’re doing.”

“I do.” He breathed until his mind was clear, emptying everything with each breath. It was always a little frightening, putting himself under. There were so few memories to begin with; he always wondered if there’d be anything at all left of him when he came back.

He had hurt this woman, whether or not he’d meant to. He could risk his Self to make amends.

Down, down. He breathed out the trappings of modern day, breathed in quiet.

Further down.

The children were gone, the house, the women.

There was nothing but dark, and quiet.

Further down.

The monster was gone.

There was nothing here but silence, nothing but cool darkness.

We need something from you. A demon spoke to him out of the darkness. We need someone to back us up. Shad and Mesh are getting too strong, and it’s going to come to a fight. We need your muscle.

Memory-self rumbled in response. That crew is nasty. Memory-self had no crew, just a friend he trusted to watch his back, and this demon, who asked things sometimes, and gave things in return.

They are, and they’ll run everything if someone doesn’t remind them they’re not the only game in town. Look, Callie will make it worth your while.

Another memory intruded on the first.

Make him happy. You know we need him. You know he needs you. Smile and be a good girl for him, Callie, and I’ll reward you when we get home.

The reward, the promise of a reward, might have kept her going without the order by that point. She needed the little things he gave her. She needed the moments where she could feel human. Even if it meant taking a monster to her bed.

Make him happy. She didn’t know if he could be happy. She’d barely ever seen him smile. He almost never talked. Rozen? Rozen had emotions. Rozen laughed. But Baram was just a thug, a golem, a creature made out of lumpy clay.

Callie knew what she was supposed to do in bed. It wasn’t the first time Ib had lent her out. Whored her out. She knew what to do, to make a guy feel like she was holding up her end of the deal. But she didn’t know if it would work with Baram.

A memory that might be his came back, over Callista’s worries.

He knew what it meant, when someone said they’d make it worth his while. He’d never had much luck, getting women in his bed normally. He had the graduation requirements to contend with, here. He had the fact that, while his brain might be a mess, while his Change might be monstrous, much of him was still a teenaged male.

She smiled when she came into his room. She never wore much, little shirts and tight jeans. Today she was wearing less. “Ib said you wanted me?”

She was going to scream, when he took his pants off. They all did. Even Isra. Even Ivette. He braced himself, and stripped.

And she smiled. It was a small smile, but she smiled.

Via…? Baram flailed, not understanding.

Make him happy. What was she going to do with that thing? What… that was what Ib had meant. She smiled, so he wouldn’t get unhappy, and walked towards him, murmuring under her breath. She had permission to do all the Workings she needed to make sure she held up her end of the deal. She could do this. She could take him in, and she could make him happy.

“You’re a big one.”

Baram remembered her saying that. He actually remembered, in the memories he could still get to. Not her, not the context, but that voice. Jaelie had said something similar, years later, and it had brought it back to him, the way memories almost never did: awed, a little bit scared, but ready to try.

He remembered a surge of uncommon affection when she had said that. Via’s touch on his memories brought it all back to him: the willingness in her voice, the little smile he’d never seen on her lips before. The way she closed her eyes and arched back against the pillows, while all six of her arms touched him.
She said son… Could Via get that for him, too? He knew, because the girls had told him, that he must have fathered two children to get out of Addergoole. But he had no memory of either child, no memory of naming them, none of holding them.

Brace yourself, Boss.

She didn’t want to let go of the tiny baby. She was afraid if she let go, Ib would never give him back. Somehow, her little boy would vanish like her little girl had, and she would be alone with Ib again.

The big oaf was waiting, quietly – he was usually quiet – staring off into the fake horizon. She wondered if there was enough going on upstairs for him to do a naming. Was there anything at all in there, except meanness and violence?

“Give him the baby, Callista.” Ib’s order left no room for argument. “Say the words.”

He voice cracked, but she got the words out. “This is the son you have given me, Baram cy’Fridmar. I give him into your hands to be named.”

Son.Son. Her son, and this monster was handling him. She was surprised at how careful the big hands were. She didn’t want to remember that his hands had been gentle with her, too. He was a monster, and he had raped her. What did it matter if he’d been trying not to leave bruises? He was Lenny, a big oaf. She knew what happened to girls around oafs like that.

But Ib wasn’t going to let her not hand over her son to him.

“I take this son that I have given you, Callista cy’Pelletier. I will return him to you in the morning with his name.” She’d never heard him say that many words at once. And then, while she choked on tears, he turned and was gone, gone with her son.

“Brand.”

The memory-trance was gone. Baram blinked at the women, skinny and hard-edged, and tiny and sharp. “I Named him Brand.” He could remember more than that, although he felt it fading already. “Like the fire. Like a beacon. Is he like that?” He could not quite find the words. “Like a … signpost?”

Viatrix, her fingers still in his mind, tried to translate. “A signal fire, a sign that danger is coming, or a sign that safety is there. He saw Brand as a light in the night.” She smiled, then. “A safe house?”

“A… oh.” Callista blinked. “Is that…? You never said.”

“Did you ever ask?” Via’s voice was very soft. “The man who Kept you, sa’ Bladed Dervish, he deserves pain and more pain, over and over again, for what he did to you.”

Callista flinched. “I don’t want to see him.”

“The time will come. We have all been hurt, you know.” Via stretched out over the table, placing her hand just inches from the skinny woman’s. “In our time.”

Baram knew the words, now. He didn’t know how long he would hold them. “Sa’ Bladed Dervish, Callista. I did not know I was being used to hurt you. I did not want to hurt you. I am sorry I did.”

She stared at him like he’d taken all her foundations out from under her. Maybe he had. She clutched Viatrix’s hand, and her short friend’s hand in another, and, before Baram could try to figure out more words, she burst into tears.

It’s okay, boss. Via’s voice was careful in his mind. Baram did not like tears. I’ve got this.

Next: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/538505.html

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/407797.html. You can comment here or there.

Sport, a story of Tir na Cali for the Giraffe Call (@lilfluff)

My Giraffe Call is Open here!

Stop in and leave a prompt!

This is to lilfluff‘s prompt.

Tir na Cali has a landing page here

Those with royal blood in Tir na Cali generally are slight, pale-skinned, and grey-eyed.

There was nothing wrong with Leopold’s pedigree, but there was something wrong with his genes.

His bloodlines were the purest a slave could hope for: clearly, there had been a couple American ancestors in there somewhere, but his father, his grandfathers, and most of his great-grandfathers had been Californian royalty. He was short, androgynously handsome, grey-eyed, red-haired, and pale skinned. He aged slowly and sunburned on the cloudiest day. But he had not the slightest spark of magic. And every bit of training to be a companion, a personal body-slave, had done only so much good against that major flaw.

At the age of thirty-five, Leopold found himself waiting, once again, in a sales cage, posing as perfectly, waiting as patiently as he could manage. He knew he was going for a bargain price. He tried not to let it sting his pride.

Harder to swallow were the dozens of common women, affluent, well-dressed common women, who would look him over, smile, read his dossier, frown, and hurry away. They wanted pretty grey-eyed babies with powers, not a pretty grey-eyed butler who would give them human babies. Not an over-trained sport.

Days went by. They always did. Someone would buy him, wanting someone to raise their children, wanting someone to train their blooded but ill-mannered slaves. A temp position, more or less, but it was work. It was a position.

But the royal ladies and their house-managers bypassed him this time, too. He wasn’t showing his age yet, was he? And there wasn’t anything negative from his last owners in his dossier… just that there were so many of them. A sport was bad luck, but not many people believed that, in this modern era.

When the next woman to walk up Leopold’s cage was tall and black-haired, Leopold’s heart sank. He put the token effort into the proper pose and the proper words, but this one wasn’t going to be any more interested than the last twenty.

“Actually.” Her voice was amused as it cut across his ‘ma’am,’ “it’s ‘your Ladyship. But would you like it to be ‘my Lady?'”

“Ma… your Ladyship?” He risked another glance at her eyes. Blue. Blue, although you might say they were a very grey blue, they were still not grey.

And she was laughing at him, smiling, at least. “A perfect specimen with no power and a black-haired Baroness with blue eyes. We’ll make a lovely couple, won’t we?”

“Oh.” Oh! “Yes… yes, my Lady.”

more Sport: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/577200.html

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/406855.html. You can comment here or there.

Reality Changes, a short story for the Giraffe Call

My Giraffe Call is Open here! Stop in and leave a prompt!

This is to [personal profile] avia‘s prompt.


REALITY IS CHANGING ALL THE TIME

When Sibyl had asked her mother what the red-scrawled graffiti meant, Mom had come back with something about the disenfranchised and disappointed. The answer hadn’t stuck in five-year-old Sibyl’s mind, but the graffiti had.

She had first understood it two years later, when blue pants with flowers had been in, the coolest of the absolutely frigid things to have, until Janet, horrid Janet Gomez, declared that they were just so yesterday the day Sibyl finally got a pair.

Reality changes all the time. The trick was to be the one that changed it.

That was small change. When Sibyl was ten, she watched a complete war disappear, just vanish from the newspapers and the TV. Her history teacher was the only one who would talk about it with her, and all she would say was, lips pinched, “sometimes it’s not politically expedient to speak about something.”

But having been inoculated to it, Sibyl began seeing the way reality changed around every corner. Something that had been in a text book one year was not in next year’s book; slowly, the old versions vanished off the shelves.

She was the only one who appeared to notice when the results of an election changed overnight. But by then, she’d re-learned what Janet Gomez had taught her in second grade: the trick was to be the one who could change reality.

It took Sibyl until college to find a teacher. By then, she had already learned a few tricks of her own. If you walked as if your manner was the norm, she learned, people began acting as if it was, thinking you knew something they didn’t. If you said “everyone knows,” six people out of ten would go along with you.

And when you really wanted to change something, then you have to use all of that and a little bit of magic.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stared down her roommate. “There’s nothing saying everyone has to go to college; there’s lot of good jobs out there for people with a high school degree.” She knew Stacy wanted to believe it. She knew the rest of the suite wanted to believe it. College wasn’t for them. It helped. Like the vanished wars, changing reality in a way that made people more comfortable worked better than making them uncomfortable.

But then, because she was really, really sick of her roommate, she added, “and there is absolutely nothing cool about those baggy pants. They just make you look lazy.”

It wasn’t so much that she found her teacher in college, actually – it was that the ripples as a quarter of the students in that school, and every other school nearby, dropped out and went looking for real jobs, attracted more than a bit of attention.

But that was just the beginning.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/406731.html. You can comment here or there.

The Norm

My Giraffe Call is Open here! Stop in and leave a prompt!

This is to rix_scaedu‘s prompt.

“Norm?”

All of a sudden, I was back in fourth grade, with Miss Cardigan the substitute looking at me over her glasses. “Norman?”

“No, ma’am.” I used the same smile on the secretary that I’d used on Miss Cardigan. “My mother named me Norm.”

“That’s an old name for someone so young.”

“So I’ve been told. I’m not sure Norman would have been any better.” I added the joke-that-wasn’t-a-joke. “She was a statistician.”

“A… oh!” The secretary got it. Miss Cardigan had gotten hung up on the “was” and missed the joke. “Well, are you?”

“Five foot ten, ma’am, brown hair, brown eyes. I work in an office and I commute twenty-five minutes to work. I got to church once in a while and I jog, but not as much as I should.” It was rote by now. Every five years I changed it up, just enough to keep with the times. The bones of the story were true enough – it was just the things I didn’t tell that made it a lie.

“Does that make you the norm?”

She was sharper than most. “Well, ma’am.” I gave her that disarming smile I had so much practice at. “She could have named me Mean.”

It would have been more accurate, in so many ways.

Norm and Mode

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/406293.html. You can comment here or there.

October Giraffe Call: The Norm

The call for prompts is now OPEN!

I am now taking prompts on the themes of the Norm: finding it, subverting it, ignoring it, or whatever you want to do to it.

Leave one or many prompts, and I will write (over the next month) at least one microfic (150-500 words) to each prompter (prompts may be combined)

Prompts can be related to one of my extant settings (See my landing page-landing page) or they can be for something completely different.

Prompting is free! But Donations are always welcome.

For each $5 you donate, I will write an additional 500 words to the prompt(s) of your choice.


Donations are going to go directly towards the price of a new laptop – mine is on its last legs, and it’s my only writing machine.

If I get two new prompters or one new donator, I will write a setting piece (setting chosen by poll) explaining something about the prompts.

At $30 in donations, I will order happy-fun socks/armwarmers from Sock Dreams! Winter is coming!

At $40 in donations, everyone who donated will get an additional microfic written to their prompts. I will choose 1 non-donater at random to receive an additional microfic as well.

At $50, anyone who donated $7.50 or more will have a copy of “Alder by Post” mailed to them if they wish.

For every $50 donated, I will do a one-hour livewrite on Etherpad or googledocs during the next month.

At $80, I will write two extra 500-word continuations – chosen by prompters picked by random number generator.

At $120, everyone who donated will get an additional (3rd) microfic written to their prompts. I will choose 2 more non-donaters at random to receive an additional microfic as well.

If we get to $120, I will take suggestions for further incentives!

For more information on Giraffe Calls, see the landing page.


Donate below

I also take payment by Dwolla

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/406208.html. You can comment here or there.

Fuze Logic, a story for the Giraffe Call

For EllenMillion‘s prompt. Captain Fuze, who appeared in the Alder by Post, is my new favorite character..

They were having trouble with the Senedacht.

The Senedacht were… well, that was part of the problem. Nobody was
quite certain what they were. Best guess was a created intelligence,
but humanity had yet to deal with a created intelligence in a created
body, so they weren’t sure if the Senedacht were what it would look
like.

In the Senedacht language, as far as the translators could tell,
“Senedacht” was a pointer that meant the creatures who called
themselves that. It didn’t mean “people” or “those who live on
Sene-something” or anything else.

The whole Senedacht language was like that. Their words had no nuance,
no borrowed meanings, no connotation. Very rarely did their words
even appear to have any relationship to each other: Their word for
ghost, for instance, looked nor sounded nothing like their word for
ghastly. It was almost as if someone had gone through their world and
cataloged things, labeling each with a collection of sounds.

That was not where the humans running the translators gave up, crying. The Senedacht were
more than willing to spend hours pointing at things, reciting the word
for them. it was tiresome, in a language where you could not
extrapolate, but it was honest work.

It was in concepts that they came to the real problem, and not even all concepts, but specific concepts. When it came to the idea of “maybe,” both human and Senedacht translators ended up breaking down, the human crying, the Senedacht fluttering its antennae and muttering, over and over again, “yes or no, yes or no.”

Captain Fuze watches it all with more than a little amusement, but only because Captain Fuze had learned how to be amused by most things. “This planet,” she murmured to her navigator, “is not going to deal well with Fuzzy logic.”

Fuze Surprise

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/402721.html. You can comment here or there.

The Cup

For [personal profile] inventrix‘s prompt

Pellinore has appeared in June Again,, Boom, amd Visit From School, and was referenced in Legacy, where JohnWayne showed up.

The rumors had been flying around for years. Pellinore had listened to them all, and tucked them in the back of his mind. The Thorn Vessel. The Wooden Death. The Hawthorne Cup.

The world was a bigger place now than it had been when he was young, bigger and so much smaller all at once, and it took him a long time to gather enough information. He traveled – he got the feeling many of them did. It made it less obvious that they didn’t get older, that they never really fit in. The story traveled, too, changing and mutating, but parts of it stayed the same. There was a cup, and it was magic.

It had been years since Addergoole, years since he’d been caught and released by Cya on his graduation day, but when he decided it was time to go looking for the Cup, Pellinore went looking for Cynara first. She could find anything. She’d know where to start.

He was braced for some other Kept to answer the door. He knew she’d made a habit of collecting them. He’d visited her from time to time, only to be greeted by another Addergoole grad wearing another collar. He even expected the guy to sort of look like him. Half the time, they did.

He wasn’t expecting the same ears, the same eyes. He tripped over his words, managing nothing but stammer for a moment. Finally, he came out with, “Pellinore. I’m Pellinore, that is. Lookin’ for Cynara.”

“Pellinore?” The boy stared at him. “From Addergoole?”

“Long time ago, yeah.” He hadn’t been that famous. Not for this kid to know him, had he? “Do I know you?”

“I’m JohnWayne.” The boy tugged at his collar. “Was sh’Xanthia. Now oro’Cynara.” He was still getting used to that, too. “You’re my father.”

Pellinore coughed. That had not been what he expected. “Yeah. Yeah, I reckon I am.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/401986.html. You can comment here or there.

Visit from School

First of two I want to write for [personal profile] inventrix‘s prompt “Pellinore.”

This Pellinore has appeared in June Again,, Boom, and referenced in Legacy.

As first referenced in Loose Ends and Tying Off (these two stories reference slavery and mistreatment), the Addergoole staff make visits to graduated students to check up on them.

Cynara wasn’t surprised when Professors Drake and Pelletier showed up at her doorstep. By now the staff had to have noticed what she was doing, and, while she had gotten good marks for being one of the more level-headed students in her year, she was, after all, part of Boom. If anyone merited looking-in-on, it was her and her crew.

Pellinore, on the other hand, seemed both startled and upset when he opened the door. “Profe…” He stopped, as if unsure if saying that was giving away some secret. “What?”

“May we come in?” Trust Professor Drake to look over Pellinore’s shoulder like he wasn’t even there and ask Cya. She was glad the kids were with Leo today. She wasn’t sure this wouldn’t get unpleasant.

“Professor Drake, Professor Pelletier. Come on in. Pellinore, take their coats, would you? Can I get you something to drink, Professors?” Pretend everything is normal. Pretend there’s nothing to see here.

The Professors were less interested in pretend than they had been when Cya had been in school. “No drink, thank you. Pellinore, how are you doing?”

He glanced at Cya, then back at the Professor. Cya managed not to roll her eyes. A basic precaution could cover most of what the Professors were looking for. But she had nothing to hide. “Be honest with the Professors, but don’t feel the need to tell them anything you don’t want to.” She headed into the kitchen to get water anyway, giving him the pretense of privacy.

She could still hear them. She listened over the sound of the faucet as Pellinore coughed. “I’m all right. I don’t… I didn’t like getting caught. She trapped me,” he added, more quietly. “Like I was back in school.”

Professor Drake chuckled dryly. “That is what school is supposed to teach you to avoid.”

“Feu Drake.” Professor Pelletier was far less amused. “Does she treat you well, Pellinore?”

“Well, I’m Kept.” She could picture his shrug. “But she’s not a bad sort. Her kids are kinda wild.” He hesitated, and then continued more slowly, “but, ya know, if I was gonna be Kept again… I can live with this.”

“Is that because you believe you have no choice in the matter?”

Cya chose her Mentor’s question as a cue to re-enter, carrying four glasses of water on a tray. It was an interesting question, but she didn’t want them to get comfortable quizzing him.

Pellinore looked at her over his water glass, then glanced back at their former professors. She smiled, but didn’t try to send him any messages.

He coughed. “Way I see it, sir, ma’am, there’s been nothing we’ve done since we were conceived we had much choice in. Cya might be another trap, but she’s a nice one, at least.” He looked over Cya’s shoulder at the adults. “If you see JohnWayne or Pepper-Potts in your ‘visits,’ tell them their daddy says hello.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/401390.html. You can comment here or there.

Commute

To [personal profile] anke and [personal profile] eseme‘s prompts

Alinara woke up just before dawn. The snow had been coming down heavily when she went to sleep, and the radio had said it was going to be just below freezing all night.

The chill in the air suggested the radio hadn’t been quite honest. She slid on a spare pair of pants before getting out of bed and dove into her fleece slippers. The cabin, with its thick, thick walls, didn’t lose heat quickly, but a hard freeze could hurt more than just her breath and joints.

She fumbled the matches twice before she managed to light the tinder, and then had to light the tinder three times to get it going. A strong draft kept whistling down the chimney, putting out her little flames.

The pipes hadn’t frozen, at least. She set a kettle on the stove while the fire got itself going, and washed her hair in the sink. She could take a nice hot bath when the drive was shoveled out.

She drank her first mug of tea while she got dressed in outdoor gear. By then, the cabin was starting to warm up, her breath no longer showing in the air. Reluctantly, Alinara stepped into the breezeway, shut the doors firmly behind her, and pulled the exterior door open.

The snow was hard-packed enough that it didn’t come tumbling in, which was both a good thing and a bad thing. Wishing for a flamethrower, Alinara climbed to the top of the drift, shut the door behind her, and started shoveling. With luck, she’d be able to clear her way to the bus stop with time left over for a bath. Normal back-to-nature sorts might be able to forgo day jobs, but she still needed to get into the office, rain, shine, or three feet of hard-packed snow.

When she’d gone out into the woods to find herself, she hadn’t imagined that the self she’d find would have quite so much upper-body strength.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/401127.html. You can comment here or there.

Fuzzy-Wuzzy, a story of Fae Apoc for the Giraffe-Bunny-Safari-Call

This is set in my Fae Apoc setting, which has a landing page here.

For zianuray‘s prompt.

Forget about how the tiger got his stripes, how the leopard changed his shorts. Today I’m going to tell you a better story, a more epic story: How the Bear Lost his Fuzz.

Fuzzy-Wuzzy wasn’t a bear, mind you, not like a grizzly or something, claws, sharp teeth, yadda, yadda, et cetera. Fuzzy-Wuzzy was a bear, still a teenager and already big, cuddly, and all over fur.

He had a name, a real name, I’m sure of it, but the point is, that the Fuzzy was a big man that everyone knew as Fuzzy-Wuzzy. You know what they say about puberty? Voice changes, hair in places you had no hair before, grow taller over night. All that. And then…

…well, you know how the rhyme goes. You knew there had to be an And Then that didn’t involve happily ever after at the local Bachelor Forum.

So, the thing about Fae is (or so I’ve been told), the thing you have to really pity them for is that they get puberty twice. First they get the normal sort, and then, sometime before their body’s all done growing (I’ve heard – I couldn’t tell you myself), they get to Change all over again. And here was Fuzzy Wuzzy, eighteen years old and 6 foot 8, furry as you could be, and…

…here we go with the And Then…

…and then when he was moonlighting at a local strip club as a bouncer (that tall, he had to be over 21, right?)… when trolls attacked.

And that was just about it for Fuzzy Wuzzy. He went to work a bear, and, three hours later, and I’m not saying he fainted, even if any sane person would, but this whole Change thing is like puberty all at once, it hurts (or so I’ve been told). He woke up stark naked, a foot and a half taller…

…and smooth as a baby’s behind. And, of course, because this is the way things happen, purple and with ram horns. But the important part about this…

… you guessed it….

…is that Fuzzy Wuzzy Had No Hair. Not a bit.

But he was still the favorite bear at the Bachelor Forum.

the leopard changing his shorts is a nod to Terry Pratchett. The Bachelor Forum is a gay bar near my old apartment in Rochester, NY.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/397099.html. You can comment here or there.