posted here: http://altersprig.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-tardis-bag-or-bag-of-ever-expanding.html on my shiny new crafts and alteration and etc. blog.
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A Tangled Knot, the last of the April Patreon stories, has been posted:
The sun was out and, therefore, so were the students.
They sprawled across the quad, some of them making an attempt at reading, but many of them soaking up the first real warmth of spring without any concern for academics…
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April’s theme was Stranded World. May’s was Love Stories. And June’s was Tír na Cali.
Want to help decide July’s theme? Vote in the Poll!
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/955395.html. You can comment here or there.
A story of Stranded World for the April 2015 Theme – this is more the beginning of a story (possibly a novel) than a stand-alone tale, and introduces a new character.
~
The sun was out and, therefore, so were the students.
They sprawled across the quad, some of them making an attempt at reading, but many of them soaking up the first real warmth of spring without any concern for academics.
Isaac was out, too, skipping Sociology 101. He wandered aimlessly through the quad, following the most interesting Strands.
Everyone had Strands, everyone. They made up every connection, every place people rubbed together with each other or with things, every stressor and every happy moment. Many people had very boring Strands straight and smooth and direct, and, because it was in his nature to Tangle things up, Isaac liked to reach into those Strands and add a little chaos.
“Let me guess.” A pretty girl, not someone he recognized from Freshman seminar, sidled up to him. “Art major, minoring in Theatre.”
Isaac smiled. “Math Major, minoring in poly sci.”
He was going to have to find either a new look or a new major soon; the O-face of surprise was getting less and less exciting.
“Hrrm. And you…” She was wearing short-shorts and a thin tank top, carrying a kindle, with a very big backpack. “Education, minor in… Nutrition.”
Now THAT was a fun one. Her mouth opened up and she squeaked. “You’re awesome. How did you do that?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson.” He tapped the air three inches from her nose. “For one, you have that harried look only education majors can truly manage. It’s practice, I suppose, for when you have all those little students wandering aroun-”
Something was wrong with her Strands. She had plain, direct Strands, and he’d been just about to tangle up the three closest to her roommate and best friend.
But there was a knot tied up in something very close to her heart, and, hidden in the knot, at least two cut ends.
“—wandering around making a mess of your life.” Isaac managed a smile at her, and tangled up a couple things just to muddy the trail. “I’m sorry, I do believe I’m going to be late to class.”
He hared off before she could notice that, at twenty minutes after the hour, he was already unforgivably late to any class he might have.
Tanglers made messes of people’s lives, it was true, but Knotters bound them up, played puppets with them. And Snippers… Snippers were just plain evil.
On a campus this size, there might be one or two other Strand-Workers. Isaac had to find them, and he had to do so while making sure they weren’t the Snipper.
School had just gotten interesting.
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(I didn’t win, so here’s last week’s microfic at 110 words. Check out the MicroBookEnd page for the photo and prompt.)
“Big freaking deal.” Jenny and the rest of the mean kids kicked at the chalk letters. “So you have a list. Ooh, I see, it’s a ‘wish list.’” Jenny snorted. “Cute.”
Trying to get them to help had been dumb.
“Here, let me see.” Jenny snatched the chalk out of Maris’ hand. “You wished for a new dog? Right.” She scribbled at the bottom of the list. “Twenty dollars. Uh. What?” She jumped, but the list was already pulling her in, replacing her with a twenty, the way it had given a dog when it had taken Maris’ brother.
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/954938.html. You can comment here or there.
July needs a theme!
Why, Lyn, you ask? Well, so that I have a base from which to do my Patreon prompt call!
Well, what’s that do, you ask? Well, then I write stories! Two for the Patreon patrons, and at least one for everyone (that’s you)!
If you don’t have a DW account, pls. vote in the comments.
I will close this poll July 1 at or around 8 p.m. Eastern time.
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/955370.html. You can comment here or there.
This is a story of Tír na Cali written (loosely) to Wyste’s suggestion for more commoners in Cali.
“They don’t put slaves on sale.”
Ellen made a point of window-shopping the slave store every time she went to the mall. It reminded her what she was saving up for, what she was working overtime for.Her maternal grandmother had been a freed slave and the best cook in southern Tír na Cali; her grandfather had cleaned floors for a living until his seventies. Her mother had paid her own way through college working nights as a waitress and afternoons in a high-end brothel; she’d met Ellen’s father there — at the bar she waited tables at. Ellen was in the middle of the pack at a high-end software company and climbing her way up the ranks. And, Consort witness, she was going to own a slave before she was thirty and a house in the Heights by the time she was thirty-five.
Right now, she was balancing her protein shakes and the suit she’d need for that meeting next week, running the numbers in her discretionary fund through her mental calculator, and staring at the sign in the window.
And, it appeared, talking to herself. Nobody had noticed — well, nobody except, perhaps, the young man standing behind the sign, strategically positioned so that he was figleafed by the red letters declaring SALE: SLIGHTLY DAMAGED MERCHANDISE.
He didn’t look damaged. He had muscular calves and thighs, a flat stomach, a toned chest…
“Oh.” Ellen swallowed. The scar could be healed. That it hadn’t been spoke volumes about someone : it was a livid, nasty mark that had not healed, running under his collar, above his collar, and down over one collarbone. It looked like someone had tried to cut his head off with imprecise aim.
The scar — no, call it a wound, that was what it was — the wound was awful, but that hadn’t been what made Ellen swallow. The look in his eyes challenging, angry, hopeless — that had gotten her attention.
The sign, the sale, had to be humiliating. On the other hand… she ran the numbers in her head again. If they discounted him enough, she could take him home without totally blowing her budget.
She looked up at him again, ignoring the washboard abs and the damage done to his body. He would take careful handling. She’d have to watch her words, and, more importantly, her body language. And he would very likely act out.
She hadn’t gotten where she was at twenty-seven by turning down challenges. She nodded crisply to the man in the window and walked into the slave shop to make a deal.
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Sale Price, the third of the June Patreon stories, has been posted:
“They don’t put slaves on sale.”
Ellen made a point of window-shopping the slave store every time she went to the mall. It reminded her what she was saving up for, what she was working overtime for.Her maternal grandmother had been a freed slave and the best cook in southern Tír na Cali; her grandfather had cleaned floors for a living until his seventies.
A Patronage of just $1/month will give you access to the rest of the Patreon stories!
Want input into the story prompts? A Patronage of $5/month lets you prompt to your heart’s content and for $15/month you will get your own personal story!
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/954757.html. You can comment here or there.
cluudle has written Technomagic, set in my Tír na Cali verse. Check it out!
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/954563.html. You can comment here or there.
I was listening to Keith Urban’s Raise ‘Em Up on the way to work today, and… this is what I got. A moment of Cynara as the world burns.
Lift your tear-filled eyes
Up to the sky
Comin’ home you’ve been gone too long
Tonight we’re gonna
Raise em’ up
Boom Ranch, 2012
She hung up the phone and leaned back with a thump, glad there was no-one around to see her.
Tulsa was gone. Three more friends and 300 hundred thousand other people she’d failed to save.
She indulged herself in a moment of grief. Then she picked up the phone again.
“Catriona? This is Cynara — ah, Máire the Red. I’m glad I caught you. I’m glad you’re okay.” She knew she sounded cheerful, upbeat, casual. She had a lot of experience sounding stable when she was shaking inside. “Look, I don’t know what arrangements you’ve made, but some friends and I bought a ranch up in Wyoming, and there’s a nice piece of land next door where I’m putting together a tent city of sorts. Running water, electricity…” Her voice caught for a moment. “It’s as safe as we can make it, Cat, and that’s pretty safe.”
The rest was just details — location, call sign, what to pack. Cya resisted the urge to tell her “pack everything. Pack it all; this isn’t going to blow over.” Instead she made herself sound calm, practical. Bring what you’d take for a three-week camping event. Bring stuff you like to work on, bring your crafting supplies. Bring friends, anyone you really trust. Bring yourself, fast. As fast as you can pack.
She hung up the phone and indulged herself in a moment of hope. Then she picked up the phone and dialed again.
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/954339.html. You can comment here or there.
Fox Hunt, the second of the June Patreon stories, has been posted:
Ariana shifted in her saddle and tried not to look nearly as bored as she felt. This was her mother’s sport and her grandmother’s, not hers, and it bore as much relation to actual tracking as Duck Hunt did to being an army sniper.
Her family still thought it was fun, somehow: they stuck a fox tail on a slave; the slave then dutifully ran through the woods. They sent dogs after him and then, in the grand tradition of the fox hunts, rode the poor schmuck down. Afterwards, he was rewarded, coddled, and praised; the better run, the more praise. Everyone got drunk and praised themselves on how good a hunt it had been.
A Patronage of just $1/month will let you read all Patron-only posts! Check it out!
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/953909.html. You can comment here or there.