Tag Archive | character: autumn

Private Party – A Patreon Story

This story of Stranded World began as a series of connected vignettes on Dreamwidth, all of which are collected here; the story then continues to an actual conclusion of sorts.

There was a man at the festival with an eye-tattoo that winked.

Autumn hadn’t been sure the first time. There were several beautiful pieces of ink wandering around this ‘fest – it was pushing a hundred degrees out, and everyone was wearing just about as little as they could get away with. And there was this man, topless and wearing short khaki shorts and Birkenstocks, and the eye centered on his spine had a perfectly-shaded iris. And then it was closed. And then there was the pupil again. Continue reading →

The Deep Inks (beginning) reposted for Patreon

May18

This is what started the Stranded World – a short story, more the beginning of a tale than a story in and of itself, and the very beginning of my first NaNoWriMo novel, continuing it. The novel itself is, uh, not good. But this part, I think, is nicely indicative of the world & of Autumn.

Originally posted November 3rd, 2010 – as a Three-Word Wednesday!

“I heard you did divinations.”

It had been a quiet day, grey and chilly for early August, and Autumn had been putting the final touches on a new drawing of Grandmother Maple. The man’s intrusion was so unexpected, so sharp and abrupt, that only quick reflexes saved her from spilling her inkwell and ruining the whole thing.

“You want the blue tents over in Psychic Alley,” she answered without looking up, carefully capping her ink and setting her pen down.

read on…

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/1106714.html. You can comment here or there.

Sight And Sense, a continuation story of Autumn

Apr19

After/concurrent with Nothing could possib-lie go wrong, Places One Doesn’t Go, At Home, and A Wink.

The man with the eyeball tattoo was looking at Autumn when his eyebrows went up. His gaze slid off of her; Autumn glanced briefly, but he wasn’t looking at anything obvious in the physical world.

She stepped inside her tent while his attention was elsewhere and shifted her own vision Strandward, looking for the disturbance that had clearly caught his attention. Just as she opened her vision, her own Strands yanked at her.

The tug was tangible and sudden, pulling her from three points like an off-balance marionette. She didn’t need to look to know: the cool blue of Winter’s
strand pulled from her right temple, where she’d painted his arrow under her hairline. The green-yellow of Summer’s strand pulled from her breastbone, where she’d painted a mask. The orange-and-blue of Spring’s strand yanked from down lower, where she’d painted the chaos sign just below her navel.

Her family was here, and they were doing… something. Autumn called to the woman in the next booth over to cover her till. Something strange was going on.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/1091102.html. You can comment here or there.

A Wink, a story of Stranded

Apr5

Written to inventrix‘s prompt to my Very Small Prompt call.

There was a man at the festival with an eye-tattoo that winked.

It had been a long day already and it was only noon, the first time she saw the tattoo. Autumn’d gotten herself some water, stepped into the shade of her tent, and munched on a nectarine.

The second time the man wandered by, she had a small set of strands laid out over the pathway. Dozens of people had stepped over them without knowing, brushing through them, hardly moving them.

The man with the eye on his back paused. Deliberately, he turned his back to her.

The iris was blue, the ice-hue that always tripped her up. It was looking straight at her.

The eye-tattoo blinked again and was back to a black-and-grey drawing. The man turned around, looking straight at Autumn. Deliberately, and with a sardonic grin, he winked at her.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/1084536.html. You can comment here or there.

The Autumn of her Discontent (a ficlet of Stranded World/Autumn)

Oct26

After Tangles and Knots, Snarls and Combs. Stranded World has a landing page here.

Autumn took a long, hot shower, paying for a motel room to do it in, taking the time and the soap and a brush from the dollar store. It was the end of Faire season. It was the end of her and Tatters, and she still hadn’t quite processed that. It was… it was time to clean up all the old marks.

She washed every piece of ink off of her skin, scrubbed the skin raw where the ink had stained, washed herself until she felt, should she do more, she would have to start quoting MacBeth.

She dressed herself in clothes cleaned every bit as thoroughly although, because it had been at the laundromat, with slightly less soliloquy. She left her van with a friend she still trusted, rented the smallest car she could find, and started driving.

It did not occur to her until quite some time later that she was running away. But, skin bare of connections, clothing bare of scents and memories, she had detangled herself from both the heartache and the embarrassment and now she felt she just had to keep going until the strands shook loose from her.

When she reached the Pacific, she finally felt as if she could breathe again.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/998193.html. You can comment here or there.

Strands and Connections, a story of Stranded World, posted on Patreon

Apr17

Post here: https://www.patreon.com/creation?hid=2217655&rf=200475

Reading the Strands was all about connections: connections between people and events, people and places, people and other people. It was all about feeling and understanding those connections…

Autumn muses over a broken friendship and the way connections change over time, approx. 250 words.

Read this an all other Patreon stories for a donation of just $1/month!

https://www.patreon.com/aldersprig

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/922827.html. You can comment here or there.

Strands and Connections – a Patreon story

Apr17

Reading the Strands was all about connections: connections between people and events, people and places, people and other people. It was all about feeling and understanding those connections.

Autumn walked quietly away from her faire booth. There was a feeling in her heart like lead and an ache in the place where she kept her own connections. She knew better than to check her e-mail while she was in persona, while she needed her smile and her best fake medieval accent. She’d kept the smile on, even after checking her phone. She might feel empty – but she also felt free.

She climbed up into a tree and pulled out her pens. The lines from this morning were already beginning to fade – it had been a sweaty day, a mid-July scorcher, and the rain that was promising hadn’t broken yet. She found a blank space on her leg, around her calf, and began drawing. Every line had a significance. Every Strand had a meaning. Every word had power.

“…if you’re just going to be crazy…” She drew, link by careful link, a broken chain, wrapped around her leg, the chain pieces ricocheting as they cracked.

You did not sever Strands. Connections made to other people didn’t go away. They faded, sometimes, they stretched and changed and twisted.

She set the pen down on a flat piece of branch and picked up her phone.

Delete, she clicked. Delete message. Delete contact. Block all messages.

The Strand would always be there, although it would fade to a memory in time. Autumn ran her fingers over the broken chain and smiled, feeling the loss like a missing weight on her chest. Having connections didn’t mean she had to drag them like Marley’s ghost.

When the Time Comes Around (turn, turn, turn)

Dec3

I asked for Non-Addergoole Prompts here; this is to rix_scaedu‘s prompt mashed up with ankewehner‘s

Stranded World has a landing page here.

🕯️

It was the season for candles. Autumn settled in her van/RV, approximately eight thousand miles from anyone she knew, and lit a candle on her table.

Just one candle, and hers was red. This was how this thing was done. She sat down on her beanbag, and studied the flame.

🕯️

It was the time for the flame. Winter excused himself from the quiet social obligations of the party to set a glass candleholder in the North-facing window.

He pulled up a chair in front of the window, and settled in before lighting the candle. Just one, and his was white. There was an order to this, as in all things.

🕯️

It was just about that time. Spring kissed New Boy deeply, did something somewhat obscene to Slightly Less New Boy, and left the two of them to entertain each other or complain about video games.

She dug the candle – spring green – out of her underwear drawer and stuck it in a metal can in her East-facing window. There was a way to do things, but she was the tangler, so she added two birthday candles for contrast.

She lit all three and stared into the flame.

🕯️

Everything happened when it had to, and in its own time. This just happened to be the right time to light a candle.

Summer was alone, tonight; she had arranged it that way. She lit the orange-yellow pillar candle and set it, carefully, on the plate from home. Things went the way they needed to, and this way needed one light, and no more.

Summer stared into the flame and thought of home.

Icons all by the wonderful djinni

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/858731.html. You can comment here or there.

Friday Flash/Djinni Icon Flash: Like This and Like That

Sep4

“This is the dance.” Senna took Autumn’s hands. “Your feet go like…” She hitched up her skirts to show her bare toes. “This and then this and then this.”

“Like, ah…” Autumn tried the steps. “This and then this, and then this and this?”

“Almost!” Senna grinned and showed off the steps again. “This and then this and so on.”

“This and then this…” Autumn found herself singing it. “Then this and so on. Senna, you’re a genius.”

“I’m a genius? It’s a dance.” The dance-mistress’ feet moved in a more complicated pattern this time, and her skirts swished against her knees.

“You’re a genius. It’s a song.” More than a song, it was a knot. “It’s a song to the universe.”

Autumn shifted her vision sideways, to the place where the strands of the world lay bright against the void. “‘Like this and like that and like this and uh…'” Her steps twined in the strands; Senna’s steps twisted in the lines, and together they made a beautiful macrame of connections. “Genius. This is the dance.”

Useful setting information: The strands, in this ‘verse, connect everything, and are created by connections between people or between things.

Want more Stranded World? Check out the landing page here.

Written for Friday Flash and in a quest to write a flash to every one of the icons Djinni has drawn for me.

“Like this and like that and like this and uh…” is from Dr. Dre’s Nuthin but a G thang.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/802433.html. You can comment here or there.

The Language of the Strands

Mar24

To kelkyag‘s prompt to my other bingo call.

This fills the square “The Three Languages,” and is from the Stranded World, from the seasonal siblings’ mother Eugenia. The Stranded landing page is here.

The Three Languages: talking about Strands

“They say a child found the strands.” Eugenia had gathered her children for storytime.

She cleared her throat. “A child who had no skill. So her father sent her out to the woods to learn a language.

“She came back the next night. ‘I know how to speak to the wildness,’ she told her dad.” Eugenia always did the voices. “‘Bah,’ he said, ‘try again.'”

“She came back the next night, again. ‘I know how to speak the calm order.’ And ‘Bah,’ he said, ‘try again.'”

“And the third night. ‘I know how to speak to kinship.’ And that was that for her dad. ‘Out,’ he bellowed.

“And out she went. But she had learned the language of the Strands, and she did not return.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/696176.html. You can comment here or there.

Alder's Grove Fiction

The Worlds of Lyn Thorne-Alder