Tag Archive | prompter: eseme

The Shore Awakes

After When the Hills Quake and The Hills Sleep
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(Planetary Date 5 Years 6 months)

We’ve had several more close encounters with the terrain moving, enough that, unfortunately, I don’t think that we can justify staying here.  There’s just too much living under our feet.

We agreed not to move our settlement, in large part because it doesn’t seem to matter where we move it, since every bit of land appears to be alive.  We’ve been more careful with what we put where, although the large terrain-creatures appear to have very tough skins with very few nerve endings.  Continue reading

The Hills Sleep

After When the Hills Quake.
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(Planetary Date 5 Years 4 months)

From the looks of things, the wolf-hills have a rather long cycle of waking and sleeping.

We have been debating for some time – since “our” wolf went back to sleep – if we should move down to the land that doesn’t move or stay where we are.

Three things stay on the side of staying where we are: Continue reading

Cya, Librarian

Early in Cloverleaf-era


Sometimes, Cya thought her power had a sense of humor.

She’d learned how to craft specific Find requests, because, if she wasn’t looking for something or someone specific (“nearest unbroken Bleach DVD;” “Leo”), her power had a bad habit of leading her on wild goose chases.

Like today.  Like “nearest cache of intact, unclaimed books in an accessible-by-me location, with at least two times the number of unique, intact books as the hours I drive to get there.”

Almost every one of those clauses, she’d added on after learning the hard way that her power could be painfully literal.

Today… today she was staring down at a 45-degree incline that had once been the floor of this library. From the looks of things, it had been tolerably sheltered from weather – this area wasn’t as cold or as wet as Cloverleaf, but it still did get precipitation – and peering down and over, she was pretty sure she’d be able to get more than the required 16 books out of here.

But first, she had to get down there, gather the books, and get back up. Continue reading

What The Rent?

Written to Eseme’s prompt to my new “WTF?” Prompt Call.  Dragons Next Door ‘Verse, definition(s) at bottom. 

You heard things about this city, moving in.

People from nearby cities would whisper about the dragons and the ogres and other, darker creatures.

They’d talk about the pixies dive-bombing cars, or something their mother’s cousin’s wife told them about living near harpies.

All cities had some magical-creature presence.  But in most places, it was completely distinct from the human presence.

Sure, this city had Smokey Knoll, but there was no wall.  There was no dividing line, even, keeping the races separate.  There was just a hill you went up and then there were dragons.

Violet  hadn’t been worried. She’d never had a problem with magical beings – her best friend in high school had been half-dweomer, after all. She’d done her thesis on the integration of the magical with the mundane.  And the job paid really well. Continue reading

For Eseme: Autumn and a Boy

To Eseme’s Request.  After all of the Tattercoats stuff. 

As the rain was coming down in torrents most often reserved for biblical events, Autumn had decided on staying in for a night, not in a motel — the town wasn’t big enough or on a major enough route for that — but in a bed-and-breakfast that didn’t seem too full of itself.  She was sitting in its common room — which still looked much like a family living room of 100 years ago — drawing a fantasy scene of the same room when the door swung open.

He looked drenched, drowned-rat incarnate, his jeans holding out from his legs like they were their own creatures.  He walked like his feet had moved past sore and on to misery a few hours ago.  

And he looked familiar.  “Edmonton!”  She wrinkled her brow.  “Wait, not just Edmonton, either.” Continue reading

A drabble of Summer

More or less to [personal profile] eseme‘s prompt and a companion to Character Study: Melinda

Summer was always the last to go to sleep.

She liked the quiet moments at the end of the day, the way she could cuddle with a sleepy Bishop and Mellie until, one and then the other, they headed off to their giant cobbled-together bed. She liked stroking their hair and their backs while they watched TV or studied together – sometimes, despite all advice, both at once. She liked sleepy late-night kisses.

And then she strolled the house alone, listening to the noises the old place made, picking up this and that. Sometimes she would whisper charms for her family, charms for her lovers. Sometimes she’d just stay up studying.

Tonight, she wandered out to the back yard and stared up at the stars. It felt like they were watching, reminding her to be good.

Summer stuck her tongue out at them and went back inside, where the lights were warmer and less distant.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/1093006.html. You can comment here or there.

Evening in the Sunset

They had a yard.

Summer had grown up with a yard, of course, the rolling acres of the RoundTree estate, and Melinda had grown up in the ‘burbs – but Bishop had spent his whole life in apartments and high-rises.

Now, with the giant house they were renting (they’d gotten lucky, but, as Melinda pointed out, they usually got lucky when they really needed to. Summer was their good luck charm, and she was totally fine with that), they had space, they had a kitchen, and they had a back yard.

“You’re sure the landlord’s okay with a fire pit?” Bishop moved the cement pavers around one more time. “Right here look good to you?”

“I think it ought to all be one inch to the left,” Melinda teased. “Bishie, it’s fine.

“It’s more than fine. It’s beautiful.” Summer grabbed one side of the metal pit while Melinda grabbed the other. “Just like you, Bishie.”

“I’m not entirely certain I approve of that nickname.”

“Too bad.” Melinda’s smile was the sort of brilliant warmth that always distracted Summer; whilst carrying a large metal bucket, however, was not the time to be distracted. She focused on the firepit. “And Mrs. Scrooge said it was fine. Pretty much, anything that doesn’t hurt the property is fine – including thought-out improvements – as long as our rent arrives on the first of every month before noon.”

“That specific?” Bishop belatedly hurried over, only to realize that there really wasn’t an easy way for three people to carry a round object. “Are you – do you-”

“We’re not delicate flowers, Bish.” The lilies in Melinda’s hair didn’t so much belie her assertion as highlight it. “Just spot us so we get this centered in your lovely stone circle?”

Summer could no more help the grin growing on her face than she could help the rainfall or the sun shining – less, since she knew charms for both of those. There was something about Melinda, something – fiery. “I love you.”

Sometimes, she still felt a moment of panic when she said things like that. You weren’t supposed to love the girl. You weren’t supposed to say it. She’d gotten burned before.

But Mellie just grinned back. “I know.” She made kissy faces across the firepit. “Let’s put this thing down so I can remind you exactly how much.”

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” It was an easy carry – it was an empty large metal bucket, it wasn’t all that heavy – and a slightly more complicated getting-it-centered dance, Bishop trying to steer and mostly failing.

And then they had all wiped their hands on their jeans – or each other’s jeans or the grass, or all three – Summer found herself being grabbed into a kiss.

She drew a luck charm in the air behind Mellie’s back, just a little boost, not that they needed it, and gave in to the kiss, a long thing, with tongue and just the right amount of nose-rubbing. Mellie had a bubble butt, as fun to squeeze as it was to watch from behind.

Bishop draped an arm around each of their shoulders, and Summer opened her eyes, realizing only then that she’d closed them. “We have a yard.” The sun was setting red and fiery behind her lovers, and they had a yard. “All is right with the world.”


This fills the “Evening” square on my [community profile] ladiesbingo card and was prompted by eseme. It is set in Stranded World setting, and Bishop, Mellie, and Summer have been featured in several stories already.

556 words by http://www.wordcounter.net/

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/827753.html. You can comment here or there.

Cats and Grandmas, a story(beginning) of Beryl and Radar for the Giraffe Call

To eseme‘s prompt

The Grandmothers, as Aunt Eva tended to call them, had been on Beryl’s case recently about The Cat.

They didn’t all have the Spark, they didn’t all know first-hand what The Damned Cat was, but they all knew, and they all seemed to think that, since Beryl could talk to (or hear) the Cat, then it was her sacred duty to do whatever it was they wanted her to do about the Cat.

She’s stopped listening after a while, and when that had gotten her full-name-scolded (and reminded that she was not currently the Aunt, no matter what the cards seemed to hold, and would thus be respectful, thank-you-very-much), she had tried dodging questions.

When that hadn’t worked, she’d decided to take the problem to the source and ask Radar and Lam what she should do.

Lam was, predictably, no help at all. “Bite them.” The tiny Siamese kitten groomed herself between answers. “Then growl and hiss until they go away.”

Radar, more surprisingly, gave the matter some thought. “They want to know what I am, and why Lam exists, yes?”

“What you want, yes, and ‘why you made Lam.'” Beryl petted Radar behind the ear, where he best liked being petted. “They don’t listen when I say that you didn’t make her.”

“They wouldn’t want to. It means someone else is doing something they’ve forgotten how to do.” The orange tabby (today, at least, he was an orange tabby) sighed, an angry huff. “Well, child-kitten, I suppose we’re going to have to go into the attic.”

“Aunt Eva’s attic?” Aunt Eva’s attic was a terrifying place.

“No.” At least this time, he didn’t sound as if she was being stupid. “Aunt Bea’s attic. I’d suggest you bring gloves.”


Next: Cat’s in the… Attic

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This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/798214.html. You can comment here or there.

On Hair-Braiding Patterns and Their Significance (Reiassan Demifiction)

On Hair-Braiding Patterns and Their Significance

A Cross-Genre Thesis by
Kezhbe of Textiles House
Akerrabgyah of Diplomacy House
Giryana of Art House

Abstract

The history of the Calenyena braiding is long and complex, going back to the earliest known Calenyen art. Although all races on Reiassan are known to use hair-braiding, Calenyena hair is uniquely suited for the more complex patterns, and Caleyena history has been actively colored by these braids.

In the early days, pre-Rebellion, Calenyena were often forced by Bitrani – or Tabersi, as they were known then – cultural norms and, in some cases, sumptuary laws to wear their hair in the Tabersi style. Thus, braids were a symbol of rebellion for early Calenyena.

In the days called the Iron Age by many and known to historians as the Skirmish Era, from 200-500 R, soldiers wore their hair in tight styles, close to their head and easily tucked into helmets; the affluent, the soft, and those who could not fight wore elaborate styles. The inability of one’s hair to be put into a helmet became a clear sign, for good or ill, that one was not a fighter.

In the Time of the Treaty, a group of border Calenyena objected to the treatment of the defeated Bitrani and wore their hair unbraided – and in some cases short – as a protest. This fashion lasted in the borders for well over a hundred years, long after the protest itself had been forgotten.

In any portion of Calenyena history, you have been able to read a person’s story in the pattern of their braids or the lack therof, and such remains true to this day.

In this paper, we will detail many of those stories, working from primary sources – art, letters, ambassador’s notes – as well as from early historians’ work. We seek to show the evolution of the braids from a mere hair-holding technique to a symbolic language all its own, showing the stops taken by history along the way.

I’ve never actually had to write a thesis, so if this abstract form is incorrect, please be kind!

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/777121.html. You can comment here or there.