Archive | February 2014

So, um, Winter.

Feb13

Yesterday, we (mostly Spousal Unit) got to deal with a new facet of home ownership: frozen pipe!

Well, technically, broken pipe due to freezing.

It turns out that one pipe in the utility room (going to the heating system) was originally, or at least as of the last iteration, run just under the threshold of the back door, which tends to be a bit air-leaky. Yesterday was one of those supercold mornings, and thus, by mid-afternoon, Pop!

That was an expense we weren’t expecting.

On a hopefully-less-urgent note, Theocracy has been acting listless and floppy, although he’s still eating and taking in fluids. So vet appt. this afternoon to see what’s up with the fluffer.

So… I’m still taking commissions via my Giraffe Call, although now the funds will go to Unexpected Expenses Fund, February Version.

In happier news, Meritocracy, the adopted little sister of Theocracy and Oligarchy, has discovered catnip and she thinks it’s awesome. She also is fairly certain the tall coyotes (us) are probably not going to eat her, and the fireplace is the most wonderful thing in the world, thanks.

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Fuzzy on the Details, a random Drabble

Feb12

So, I’m playing with the Roster and I said to myself, “who Keeps him, if anyone? Well, Janoah could. Now, I wonder how that went?”

So I wrote this.

The girl was petting him.

Ankara was… surprisingly okay with this.

She had a name. Janoah. Her friends – her Crew, that was the word – had used it. She had a name and, as far as Ankara could figure out, she Owned him now.

Ankara knew about Owning, although he was still a little fuzzy – ha, fuzzy; he’d turned into a fecking angora-rabbit-thing overnight – on the details, and he was very fecking fuzzy on how the mute girl had managed to Keep him.

But Kept and collared he was, and the girl was petting him. Life was pretty good.

Janoah has showed up before here; Ankara, here and here; this story is three years later for Janoah and four years earlier for Ankara.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/666002.html. You can comment here or there.

The Church in the Park, a story of Fairy Town for the Giraffe Call

Feb12

This is to kelkyag‘s and flofx‘s prompt here to my February Giraffe Call.

It takes part in my Fairy Town setting, after Fairies in the Church.

Names from Seventh Sanctum.

There were fairies in the church again.

Bishop Macnamilla was no longer a young man; indeed, he had not been able to make a pretense at youth for longer than most of the priests of the city had been alive.

And he had been watching the rot spread through his City and his Church for decades. He had seen the spread and done what he could – but not what he should – to stop it, back when he could make a pretense at youth.

The elders of the Church had not listened back then, and the young in the Church would not listen now. It had been up to him, no position and only the strength of his conviction, as a young man. And he had failed.

He tottered – he hated to admit it, but pride went before a fall and he was indeed tottering – back from Father Nehemiah’s abomination of a church. He could not do what needed to be done there, but there were other places. In this city, there were always the proper sorts of places. Before this place had been called ‘fairy town’ by the common people, before it had fallen to rot, it had been called the GodTown.

The Bishop went walking – limping – in the heart of the city, in the heart of a park where angels and demons feared to tread, where the dirty and the dusty had taken over. He tottered to the crossroads in the center of that park, and, from there, walked without fail, his back suddenly straight again and his steps sure, seventeen paces due north.

It did not take long for the fae to find him. In this park, they were lousy on the ground.

It took almost less time for the fae to realize where they were, and only a moment for them to realize who he was. But by then, the Fate was sealed.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/665806.html. You can comment here or there.

Tangles and Knots

Feb12

This is to kelkyag‘s prompt here to my February Giraffe Call.

It takes part in my Stranded World setting, after all extant Tattercoat stories.

Names from <a href="http://www.seventhsanctum.com/generate.php?Genname=superheronameorg
“>Seventh Sanctum.

There was something amiss with Winter’s sister.

With the oldest of Winter’s sisters and the most steady, the most easy-going, the least likely to have things go amiss.

Spring had warned him first, in that way that she did, a riddle tied up in a knot, the sonnets are slanting sideways and the seeds are falling all wrong. Then Summer, just something’s wrong with Autumn.

When their mother had called Winter, do something, he had known things had gotten out of hand. But because it was not he who had seen the problem first but Spring, he went out of character for himself and did things indirectly, looking not for the tangle but for its cause.

He had been young and cocky when he’d taught Spring; it hadn’t occurred to him until much later how much she had taught him.

There were tangles in Autumn’s skein, that much was clear. Knots, and, worse, fraying and snipped ends. But why? She’d always been so ready to flow with the world’s streams, so quick to twine with others and so very slow to actually tie any lasting connections.

Winter spied. He followed lines back from his sister without ever letting her see his presence, he murmured questions at the right people, he followed paperwork trails where they existed. He studied.

When he had a path to walk, he began walking. Literally, in this case: the cause of the snarls was only a few miles away, just a short trip from the Ren Faire where Autumn had set up shop.

Did she know? From the way her lines tangled, Winter doubted it. There was loss and pain in her mess, not immediate intimacy.

Winter made it to the house, or at least the dwelling – three trailers and an old recreational vehicle set up in a square around a loose courtyard, plenty for the mild spring weather – before something stopped him in his tracks.

His sisters and mother had said one word, and, while others had used other names, they had all led back to the same person. Tattercoat.

There were seven people in the compound, and a complex of tangled Strands and intentional knots that spoke of intentional weaving.

Untangling Knots

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/665445.html. You can comment here or there.

Blame Game, a story of Superheros (or possibly Science!) for the Giraffe Call

Feb12

This is to ellenmillion‘s prompt here to my February Giraffe Call.

It is either in my Science! verse or Superheroes, possibly both.

Names from <a href="http://www.seventhsanctum.com/generate.php?Genname=superheronameorg
“>Seventh Sanctum.

“Hurry up. The cops are going to be here soon.”

The three safebreakers were professionals, but they were the sort of professionals you hired fifty percent for their discretion. Austin – Dr. Lawrence – had gotten them in, Dr. Lawrence would get them back out, and in between they just needed to break the safe and not ask questions.

Hurry up counted as questions.

“I am going as quickly as is feasible. This isn’t a snatch-and-grab, you realize.” Dr. Lawrence was hanging upside-down from a very thin wire, using tweezers to move very tiny components. She was almost done. But the safebreakers were getting nervous.

“They’re going to know we were here. They’re really going to know we were here if they catch us.”

“They will know that someone was here. They will blame it, as they have done the last seven events, on either Cold Chase or Hurricane Deluder.”

The doctor ignored them, then; there were three more parts to move, and it was the most sensitive part of the operation. Not being complete dunces – the other fifty percent of their hiring requirement – the safecrackers waited until they had hauled Dr. Lawrence back to the hallway, and, being very smart, actually waited until they were all in the getaway van and several blocks away.

Then their leader turned to stare at the doctor. “Wait. ‘The last seven events.'”

Dr. Lawrence nodded. “Yes.”

“Including that one they blamed Cold Chase and, what’s his name, Monster Truck for?”

“Including that one, although that was a bit of a botch, sadly.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why Monster Truck got blamed. Look, I don’t know what you’re up to…”

“That was part of our agreement, yes.”

“But Hurricane Deluder is my cousin. So look, if you’ve got to peg stuff on the criminals…”

The doctor nodded slowly. “That is fair. Tell me, do you have any relation to Venom Pacer?”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/665290.html. You can comment here or there.

Planning

Feb11

This is to [personal profile] rix_scaedu‘s prompt here to my February Giraffe Call.

Regine and Luca are characters in Addergoole.

Warning: cold bitch

Year 43 of the Addergoole School; 26 years after the Apocalypse began

A month and a half – six weeks and three days – into the school year was a perfect time to review genetic data, and thus Regine sat in her office, studying her charts and lists.

By this point in the year, almost all of the new students had Changed and, via Dr. Caitrin’s extensive notes, Regine was placing the children in their genealogies.

“Fascinating. Wings again.” She made a note on the print-out, not so much old-fashioned anymore as back around again, and then another in her notebook. “And antlers, there, of course.” Of course. It would be interesting to see how dilute Aelfgar’s line had to be to avoid some sort of head decoration – if, of course, it ever got diluted with non-horned lines. There had been the one, but that was a special circumstance… And there, more wings.

This whole process would be far more convenient if she could simply tell the subjects who to breed with. Or, better yet, remove the subjects from it altogether except as egg and sperm donors. It was likely she could find plenty of willing surrogate mothers, and the creche would allow her standardized upbringing.

There were times when the Law was simply inconvenient to the progress of science.

There were, of course, things she could do. Manipulation was not something she excelled at, but she definitely had a grasp on bribery, and, in this day in age, anyone was susceptible to bribery. She made a few notes; not everyone was paired off yet. There were a few pairings that would be beneficial this year. If she couldn’t make them happen, perhaps Luca or Michael could.

Her door slammed open; if Regine believed in coincidence, it would have been an interesting one that Luca Hunting-Hawk was standing there.

Continued

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Bad Dialogue and Other Problems, a story of Superheroes for the Giraffe Call

Feb11

This is to [personal profile] skjam‘s prompt here to my February Giraffe Call.

My Superheroes verse has a landing page here.

Raven Sapphire was protecting the Stony Coast again. It was what the blue-black superhero did, from a fortress in the mountains that nobody had ever found.

And the Silk Beast, Rip-damn the Unspeakable, was terrorizing small children at the beach. He had one in each huge primary arm and was using his secondary arms to fold a third into a belly compartment. “Stay there until you’re digested, ha, ha, h-“

Now, why would I say that?

“Halt, evil-doer!”

“Never! Not while I have plans left to plot!” He stood, hands on hips and one child still under each arm.

What a silly thing to say. What a silly thing to do. It’s not as if she doesn’t have that… The Silk Beast launched himself into the air before he’d finished the thought. …blast ray that always fries my suit.

Right on cue, Raven Sapphire’s blast ray shot out. But the Silk Beast wasn’t where he was supposed to be, and the ray caught him on his ankle.

Plates fell off and something stung, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from fleeing. “You’ll never catch-” No, that was stupid. He shut his mouth and diverted the speaker power to the blasters.

“Come back here and fight me like a man!” The superhero looked silly, Silk Beast mused. Of course, he probably looked pretty ridiculous, too, with three children squirming around.

What was he going to do with them? He’d been picking up children… been picking up children for…

“Your ankle’s fizzing, Mister.”

“Thanks, kid.” When he didn’t put any power into declaiming, the jets worked a lot faster. He was already halfway to his mountain hideout. And then he would… “Why was I grabbing you, again?”

“Something about soup?”

“Well, that’s silly. I don’t even eat.” He landed on a relatively smooth piece of ground and set the children down. He used his secondary arms to let the third one out of the belly-chamber of his suit while he leaned his chin on a main arm.

Rip-damn the Unspeakable had a lot to think about.

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This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/664640.html. You can comment here or there.

Through Biology, two drabbles

Feb11

These are to [personal profile] thnidu‘s prompt here to my February Giraffe Call.

Addergoole/Fae Apoc Post-apocalypse (probably), and Science!

Addergoole has a landing page here; Faerie Apocalypse has a landing page here;

Science! has a landing page here.

“It’s not like it’s hard.” The man in the big armchair shrugged. He was, of course, smirking. “The difficult part isn’t spreading the seed, it’s waiting until it’s sprouted and cultivating it properly.”

The woman – standing, though she’d been offered a chair – was not smiling. She was, indeed, contriving to give the impression that she’d never smiled. “You speak of this like it’s agriculture.”

“Well, in a sense, isn’t it? I am farming myself a nation of followers, an army of those who will be loyal to me and mine. It’s slow, but I will rule the world.”

“They’re seeds.” Cara didn’t so much look unimpressed as give off a complete air of dis-impression. “Tiny seeds.”

Seeds were bad. Seeds could lead to a situation like Jay. Better to cut this off in the bud, as it were.

Gabrielle, Dr. Deloach, was not going to be cut. “They’re the start of something new. It’s a mood-changing plant-”

“Like tobacco?”

“Oh, no, nothing that mild. This is an edible, a carrot hybrid. It makes people susceptible to suggestion, especially in certain sequences.” Dr. Deloach smiled. “Conveniently, my father owns a broadcast station & my mother’s a caterer.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/664493.html. You can comment here or there.

Stranded in Winter, a story of Stranded World (ha) for the Giraffe Call

Feb10

This is to [personal profile] moonwolf‘s prompt here to my February Giraffe Call, with a side order of [personal profile] librarygeek‘s prompt here

Warning: cliffhanger.

Autumn (and Winter, et al) are from Stranded World.

Winter – the season, not her brother – left Autumn stuck in one place, this year not just in a single town, the way she often spent the colder times, but stuck in the town’s tiny inn, the snow actually pressing the doors shut.

She’d spent the first day sitting in the tavern down stairs, drawing, playing online when the spotty wi-fi was working, and working on her very messy accounting. The second day she’d spent half hiding in her room, and the other half helping the also-stuck cook-and-owner clean the kitchen top to bottom. The third day, when it was clear that the snow really wasn’t going to let up, they’d both crawled out a second-story window, jumped off the porch, and started shoveling their way down to the ground.

When they’d gotten the door clear and most of the inn’s sidewalk, and after they’d taken a break for cider and cheese, they dug across the street to the Library. The Librarian, eighty years old if she was a day, had been subsisting on biscuits and tea. She was so grateful for the rescue that she let Autumn check out whatever she wanted, on the theory that it wasn’t going to go anywhere anyway.

The inn-cook, no older than Autumn, had said, over and over again, that this was the worst winter he could remember. When the Librarian said it, too, it pricked Autumn’s curiosity.

She read ancient newspapers while munching on onions rings and chicken wings, helped the inn-cook shovel to the grocery and then to the grocer’s house, read until she fell asleep, and read over breakfast. When she and the inn-cook had re-cleared paths that had gotten a foot of snow overnight, she headed up to the highest place she could reach – the Library’s cupola – and started looking. Looking.

She drew the patterns she wanted on her arms: the weather, which was generally mild, with inches, not feet, falling at once. The people, who were generally stoic and tended not to leave town much (except Autumn, and others like her, who came and went with the seasons). The anomaly, snow past her hips and still falling.

And when she was done, her arms and chest bare to the frigid air and covered in snowflake patterns, she opened her sight to the Strands.

And fell down, nearly blinded. “Oh.“

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