Archive | September 2011

Giraffe Call – Donation Perk Poll

We reached the $30 mark! I am still working on last month’s continuation (“Spring Break” finally won), but it’s a hard one to write (serial killers and all).

Please note that I have 400 words left to write on Little Lost Kitty-Girl… but that doesn’t mean I can’t then write another 1000 about her!

Links to all the stories can be found here.

Please remember that, until I go to bed Monday night, you can still sponsor the continuation of any Giraffe-Call story (not just from this call) for the reduced rate of $1/100words. You can ALWAYS sponsor more fiction at my normal rate of $5/300 words.

Giraffe-Call for Prompts Summary

I have one more piece to continue for [personal profile] lilfluff and one to expand upon for The_vulture, but I have enough to write a summary for last week’s call for prompts (and on LJ).

This was a relatively small-response Giraffe Call, but there were both new donors and new prompters. I am $35 closer to my giraffe carpet – thank you very much!

Wednesday-Thursday-Friday:
Too Hot to Handle, a continuation of Too Hot for Prime Time (LJ)
Pissing Into the Wind, a continuation of Pissing Away Time (LJ)
Staying in the City, a continuation of Fleeing the City (LJ)

Tuesday:
Little Lost Kitty-Girl, Tir na Cali
Not Even a Bullet
Deeper in, a continuation of Down, Down, Down.
No More Waiting, a continuation of Waiting

Monday:
Found, after Dusting Lost Thoughts, after Lost & Found
Love and Lovers
Down, Down, Down
The Lost Road
Swimming Alone
Left Behind
Too Hot for Prime Time, Tir na Cali

Sunday:
Isi, Waiting, Addergoole yr 22-23
Fleeing the City
Lost and Found
Pissing Away Time, Addergoole yr 9
Dusting Lost Thoughts, directly after Lost and Found
and
Preconceptions, in the same setting as Down the River, from my gender-funky call for prompts.

I’ve started working on the continuation of Spring Break, too, from the Abduction Prompt-Call

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/134492.html. You can comment here or there.

Too Hot to Handle: Tir na Cali, Jason.

For [personal profile] lilfluff‘s commission and prompt, from the most recent Giraffe-Call-for-Prompts

Original post here.

They’d caught him at a bar, and that had been bad. Jason had been far drunker than he ever wanted to admit to when the pretty blonde girl had lured him into her car and, from there, it seemed, into slavery. When he sobered up, he’d made his opinions on the matter endlessly clear, until the girl had drugged him into submission long enough to sell him.

The boutique she’d sold him to had done much the same, once he’d started hollering, but he was edgy and angry even drugged to the gills, and they couldn’t sell him, no matter how hard they tried. After a while, the proctor had pulled him aside and explained to Jason, punctuating the lesson with some discrete blows, that a slave who could not be sold was no use to anyone, and a slave with no use would be gotten rid of.

Jason wasn’t sure he believed him, but as his bruises healed, he began to notice that some of the other mouthy slaves had just… vanished. One of the older, more well-behaved slaves told him, in a frightened whisper, that they’d gone to the work camps. The boy made it sound like being sold into hell.

That got Jason’s attention, enough that he started trying, but it was too little and too late. No matter how hard he tried to play good, he couldn’t get the anger out of his system, and his fear only fueled that. Pretty ladies and their fluffy boy toys took one look at him and moved on to someone tamer. Even the big, rich businessmen wanted someone they didn’t have to worry about turning their back on. They were frightened of him, and they wouldn’t buy what they feared. The boutique passed him off to an auction house.

And here he was, chained to a post, between a girl who’d lost three of her fingers in a mechanical accident and a runaway who kept swearing and spitting at all comers. The girl sold, for a discount, but still, she sold. The boy on the other side of her sold. The old man past him, and the narrow probably-a-girl on the other side of the runaway sold. The runaway sold, to a tall blonde girl who stuck a gag in his mouth and leash on his collar – but he sold.

“Come on,” Jason complained, though noone was listening. “Nobody wants me?”

“I’ll take you.”

The voice came from behind him, a rumbling alto that could have been a man or a woman. He couldn’t turn around, not the way they had him chained, so he froze, and then, slowly, tried to make his body posture like the good slaves, the ones that sold. Eyes down. Mouth closed. Shoulders straight. He’d have knelt if he could have, but his collar and wrists were bolted behind him.

A blow fell on his shoulder and he winced. “I said I’ll take you.”

He should respond, but he didn’t want to get the title wrong, and he still couldn’t tell from the voice. “Thank you,” he answered, and then, going for always-call-your-professors-doctor, “your highness.”

The chuckle was behind his other shoulder. “Points for trying. You’re the mouthy one from Adele’s store, aren’t you?”

“Yes?” The laugh grated on him, though he tried not to show it at all. Damnit, they got mad when he didn’t try, laughed when he did…

“She told me she’d given up trying to sell you. You’re lucky she didn’t just send you straight to the work camps. You do know that, right?”

“Yes.” Now his teeth were gritted, and he was having a hard time keeping his head down. Why did everyone keep rubbing that in. “Although if no-one buys me…” he couldn’t help adding.

“I already said I’d buy you. The work camps aren’t going to get you. You’re too… well, too something for them.”

“Thanks, I think.”

Another light blow hit his shoulder. “You are going to have to learn some manners, but that should be easy enough; you’re a smart boy.”

“Thank you,” he hazarded a guess, based on intonation rather than the alto voice, “your ladyship.”

“Very good.” She stepped out from behind him, a woman as tall as he was, broad-shouldered and long-legged, her blouse dropping to her deep cleavage. Her black hair was cropped short and, despite the business outfit, she didn’t seem to be wearing makeup; the only thing she had in common with the Ladies who had refused to buy him was her grey eyes. “But you can call me Mistress.”

She gripped his chin, muffling any answer he might want to make, and looked over his face. “Nice jaw, nice eyes. Good teeth?” She stuck her fingers in his mouth; Jason barely resisted the urge to bite down. “Very good teeth. And you’ve got spirit.”

“Yes… Mistress,” he agreed, once she’d released his mouth. “That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s why you’re coming home with me, too.” She tilted his head forward until the wide collar bit into him, and did something behind his neck, then something more complicated behind his wrists. “They’re scared of you, the pretty little Ladies. I, on the other hand, am not.”

She was also not taking the handcuffs off, but Jason, for once, didn’t argue. She stood at least a head taller than the petite royalty he’d met, solid, built, and gorgeous. He might still be able to take her in a fight, but he didn’t tower over her. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Smart,” she smirked. She was clipping a leash onto his collar, but it was still better than a work camp. “You’re going to make such lovely babies.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/133906.html. You can comment here or there.

Friday, Pensive.

I’ve been thinking, after some conversation with cluudle about the nature of friendships, most specifically the idea that it’s okay to stop being friends with someone. Not sure where I’m going with that one yet; it still feels foreign.

I do know I have some really awesome friends, and some people who I call friends who are really not awesome, some people who have hurt me by their soi-dissant friendship. (Hint: If I am following you on this blog, I’m not talking about you in the “bad friend” category).

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Cheerful stuff!

It’s apparently Bisexuality Visibility Day. So, um, hi, I’m bi.

[personal profile] lilfluff wrote a piece maybe-in-Cali.

[personal profile] clare_dragonfly wrote a piece to my prompt.

Rix_Scadeau commented on the [personal profile] meeks drawing, so have a little more Autumn.

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Castle Playsets – http://www.yutzysfarmmarket.com/swingsets/castle-playsets/cozy_retreat_playset.php

Spy Jacket – http://www.scottevest.com/v3_store/Carry-on-Coat.shtml

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This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/133510.html. You can comment here or there.

Staying in the City, from the most recent Giraffe-Call-for-Prompts, for Rix

For Rix_Scadeau‘s commission and prompt, from the most recent Giraffe-Call-for-Prompts

Original post here.

Alisa’s little Fiesta was already up to its legal capacity when they got to the dorm, but they were feeling a bit urgent about the whole thing and, anyway, they’d gotten twice that many people in it for something far less urgent. For this, for their friends…

They’d limited themselves to a single bag each, and only Grace had tried to stretch that. Kristy had taken care of that, with more force than anyone had expected out of her. “One bag, Grace, either the purse goes, or you do.” That had been that; their bags fit in places they couldn’t get another person.

Still. Alisa driving, to start, and Alex in shotgun, because she knew the area the best, tiny Deann on her lap and their two bags under her feet, Grace, Gretchen, and Jacklyn packed hipbone to hipbone in the back seat, Kristy draped over their laps like another piece of luggage, Paula and Sherry and Tisha in the trunk, with their bags and Alisa’s and the cooler with all the food they could scrounge. They’d packed every possible inch of the tiny car with people and the bare minimum of luggage, because they knew what was coming. They had to get out of town.

And then, as they were pulling out of the parking lot… Michelle Weber, Michy who’d started school with them, held their hair when they puked, bailed Kristy and Jacky out of jail. Michy who’d walked seven miles to help Sherry out in a blizzard. Michy, with one small bag and a lost look.

They all paused, waiting, waiting to see who’d say “no, drive.” Waiting to see who’d say that staying was death. Waiting to see who’d volunteer, this time, to be the bitch.

The pause stretched, Alisa’s foot on the brake. Their window for leaving was swiftly closing, and there would be no other chance. Everyone else had fled. They had to leave Michy, or they’d all die.

“Let me out.” Paula whispered it, Paula, who had always been the good one. “Let me out, let her in. I owe her too much.”

Paula didn’t waste much time; she allowed herself three heartbeats of time to watch her friends drive away, and then headed back into the dorms. The bugs were coming, and they’d be here any minute.

She grabbed a few things from open rooms as she passed – ramen, ramen would keep forever, a half-packed suitcase, a hotpot, ooh, naughty, someone’s flares. She hadn’t volunteered just because she owed Michy – although she did, and twice as much for the fact the other girl had never told anyone – they all owed Michy. Of all of them, she was pretty sure she had the best chance of survival in the city. Of all of them, she knew where the hidey-hole was.

It wasn’t a sure bet, by any means. The bugs had devoured entire cities already. There was no proof they’d be stopped by some concrete and chlorine. But anything was better than sitting around waiting to die, or trying to run away on foot.

She pushed aside the manhole cover deep in the tunnels beneath the school, and climbed down the ladder she’d found there. Michey had known she’d been hiding, but even she hadn’t been able to find her when she was in here.

“In here” was through another door, one that had been rusted shut when she found it, into a tiny, forgotten maintenance room below the pool. A small drip filled the back corner with chlorine-smelling water, but the rest of the room was dryish, clean, and stocked with a few of Paula’s treasures already.

She shoved the door closed and blocked it as best she could, then set up a nest in the dryer corner, and waited.

She had watched the news – they all had – when the bugs hit other cities. They were moving from the northeast south and west, at a slow, leisurely pace that was likened, over and over again, to locusts. Nobody knew where they had come from; the first they had been heard of was when Presque Isle had been devoured.

With Bangor, at least, they’d seen them coming, watched them rip through the city as the news cameras fled. It wasn’t much of a blessing, but they’d known what they were up against, at least – creatures the size of SUV’s, with twenty legs (or so; both size and leg number varied) and hard carapaces that seemed to repel weapons.

The National Guard could stop them, but with nothing smaller than a missile, and they seemed to gain in strength, size, and purpose as they tore through cities. Portland. Concord. Albany. By Syracuse, the military had gotten their techniques down. They were winning the war by attrition, but only because the U.S. had many more citizens to sacrifice than the bugs did.

They wouldn’t win before the bugs hit Rochester. They might before Buffalo was eaten, at least, or, if not then, then Cleveland, but Rochester was a loss. The bugs would eat every organic thing they could get their claws into, leaving behind nothing but dust, stone, and concrete, and then swarm on to the next city.

There was no suggestion that they didn’t know how to open doors, but Paula was hoping, as she sat in her quite little bunker, that their rip-on-through technique didn’t leave time for detailed searching. People had been found, survivors, if only a few here and there. She could be one of those.

It was hard, waiting. She nibbled on an energy bar, sipped a tiny bit of water, and strained her ears, wishing she could hear anything at all through the thick concrete, that she had some way of telling when the bugs were gone. The ground shook, once, and then nothing.

The silence lasted for hours, long uncomfortable, boring hours where Paula ended up humming softly to herself, reading her textbooks by flashlight, pacing in circles. Pacing again, reading again, nibbling on her energy bar. The minute hand on her watch ticked by at a glacial pace. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. She drifted off after thirty, only to wake five minutes later. Fourty-five. Fifty-five. One hour and thirty minutes had passed.

She was reading again, a dry portion of her history text that she was hoping would put her to sleep but had actually turned out to be engrossing, when she heard a scratching at the door.

She didn’t mean to scream, and didn’t realize she had until the noise was echoing through the small room. Mortified, she scrabbled back against the back wall as the door slowly swung open.

She reached for her only weapon, a hockey stick that had seen better days, and braced herself. So they could open doors. So they were coming for her. Would they fit in here? Could she hide in the far corner?

The creature that stepped through the door looked so much like a human that she nearly dropped her guard. But the arms – the arms were long and chitenous, and the eyes were glowing green.

“What…?” she whispered, even as she raised her hockey stick and pressed her back more firmly against the wall.

“You are very brave.” Its voice was human, male, but nothing about the way he spoke was natural; he sounded like a computer using human vocal chords. “You are very clever.”

“I’m just afraid of being eaten,” she admitted angrily.

“Well then.” It approached her slowly, one long arm-thing reaching towards her. “We will not eat you.”

“No?” She hated how shaky her voice sounded.

“No. We can use the brave and clever. Like this one.” The eyes blinked twice, and a human voice spoke as the eyes shifted to blue.

“It’s weird,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t hurt. Not for long, at least.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/133154.html. You can comment here or there.

Wednesday Good thing/Bad Thing

Good: The electrician came yesterday and fixed several things that needed fixing – disconnecting the old, scary boiler, putting in GFI’s, fixing the exterior plug that was open to the elements.

Bad: He turned off the new, non-scary boiler and we didn’t notice until we woke cold this morning.

Good: I’m back on the wagon losing weight.

Bad: Despite the 50 lbs I took off, alderfather has not yet quit smoking. Everyone now! Boo, hiss, Bad Father!!

Good: For only the second time since going on his sugar-cat diet, Drake let me sleep through the night without demanding food.

Bad: Nightmares anyway.

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[personal profile] clare_dragonfly‘s Garden of Prose writing is awesome, check it out.

And I began an Autumn story (LJ) in hopes of getting more comments on Meeks’ sketch of Autumn (DW) ; for every comment, I’ll post 100 more words.

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Links today are castle-based…

http://zenseeker.net/Castle/MiniCastles.htm
http://www.custommade.com/custom-arched-castle-doors/by/nopsmetalworks
http://www.yutzysfarmmarket.com/swingsets/castle-playsets/cozy_retreat_playset.php

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/132812.html. You can comment here or there.