Tag Archive | giraffecall: april2013

M is for Mimosas in the Morning, a story of Shahin/Fae Apoc-post-apoc for the Giraffe Call

To anke‘s prompt. After Monsters and others.

“Mimosas in the morning?” Shahin studied her Kept, who had stirred up mix of orange juice – and where had Ty gotten that? She had to assume it’d figured out how to Meentik it up – and, even more improbably, champagne. “Hardly manly.”

“Neither of us, my dear Keeper, can be counted as manly. You may be as tough as one by some estimations – although I’d say they’re wrong. You’re as tough as a woman, which I’d count as far stronger.”

“You want something. And you’ve dangled far afield of your answer.” Neverthless, she sat down, swirling the drink and watching the bubbles rise.

“Don’t I always want something?”

“Well, often, at the very least. Is this poisoned?”

“Of course not.” As if to prove it, Ty lifted the glass. Before the slender hermaphrodite could drink, however, it flinched, running afoul of an order. “If I may?”

“You may.” Shahin took a ridiculous pleasure in that order, although it had been laid in as a supply-train precaution, rather than out of sadism. Don’t eat more than I or my lieutenants put on your plate. She hadn’t said drink, but she’d proven to be impatient with any loophole-searching.

Ty sipped the mimosa. “Not poisoned, dear Keeper.”

“Very good.” She sipped her own. “And very good. Your Working?”

“My Working.” His shoulders rolled. “I didn’t have any orders against this sort of thing…”

“No. I’m certainly not going to stop you from a domestic Working. Especially not one this good.”

She was intrigued to watch the set of his shoulders relax. He’d been worried. Interesting. “Now.” She leaned forward, watching him flinch away. “What do you want?”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/517114.html. You can comment here or there.

L is for Llama Lawyers

Apr22

To inventrix‘s prompt. With more than a little nod to
Gregory Maguire’s Wicked series, which I have been reading.

The court-yard was turning quickly into a barn-yard.

It was intended to allow for Animals, of course; that was why it was outdoors. But it had been intended, by the worthies who had designed it, that there would be, perhaps, an Animal plaintiff or defendant, in a court otherwise composed of Humans of one ilk or another.

Not… this.

Judge Dernbian Occut stared at the court-yard. Stared, and then closed his eyes, which did not help, because he could still hear and smell the whole thing quite well, thank you very much. There was a bleating over there, and a complaining over there, and one rather young and incontinent Sheep had lost itself all over the pavers.

And the lawyer. The lawyer for the Prosecution – and all of its clients – were Llamas. At least, Judge Occut hoped they were Llamas. He had only, so far, heard bleating.

He banged his gavel and glared at his bailiff, who should have known better and, somehow, made this go away before it happened. “This court will come to order.”

The Bailiff, who was nominally Human but had, Judge Occut was sure, Bulldog blood in the lines somewhere, barked out at the crowd. “Silence! Silence! The Court of the Honorable Judge Dernbian FitzeGondalf Occut is now in session! Sit down if you’ve got it. Stand quiet if you don’t!”

A moment, a blessed moment of silence. Then the attorney for the defense wheedled forward. “Forthright Estiman, your Honor.”

“I know you.” The sleaziest sort of barrister, Forthright Estiman.

“I move that the charges against my client be dismissed. After all, the plaintiff, your Honor, is a Llama.”

The Llama stepped forward, and bowed, deeply, and very impressively. “If we could bring the Court’s attention to the case of Morinda v. Werwin, or the case of Lucy the Red v. the Sheep Satire, there is more than sufficient precedent for an Animal bringing suit. And as we are bringing a financial suit against one Kaber Bennidict, who has been more than willing to take Animal gold, I cannot see why he would suddenly think that an Animal is not worthy of his presence.” The Llama nodded toward the defendant’s seat, noticeably empty. “The charge is fraud and corruption, your Honor. Surely the esteemed Sir Bennedict could bring himself forward for that charge?”

Judge Occut cleared his throat, rather than sighing visibly. “Motion to dismiss denied. Forthright, you have ten minutes to produce your client, or I’ll pen you both up in contempt of court.”

It was the first time the Judge had found himself in sympathy with an Animal, but, then again, Forthright always could sway your sympathies against him.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/516485.html. You can comment here or there.

K is for Stolen Karma, a story for the Giraffe Call

Apr20

For stryck‘s prompt “Kleptomania,” and @KissofJudas’ prompt “Karma, and what comes of it.

He liked to steal.

Kyrie had started small – pens and school supplies, cookies and lunch. He had been eight, then.

By high school, he’d moved on to small jewelry at the mall, and pick-pocketing in crowded places. By the time he graduated, he had three pawn shops that fenced his stuff for him, and an incredibly nice apartment in a building owned by one of the pawn owners.

Kyrie had a short attention span, and moved quickly on from small-change stuff to bigger things. Burgling houses was no fun – he liked the human contact, the actual threat and challenge of things where he could, at any moment, get seriously caught.

(Not that he wanted to get caught. Not that he’d liked it, the couple times early on when he had. He was still banned from the biggest mall in town – not that they ever noticed him, now, when he came in. Stolen gold necklaces bought a lot of nice clothes and a new haircut.)

Burgling the houses of the wealthy when they were home, now, that was fun. Tons of fun. Slipping in and out again while they watched TV, while they argued, while they fucked the cabana boy…

…that had been his mistake. The fucking (ha) cabana boy.

And now, now Kyrie was caught again. Now he was caught, and the fucking (ha, ha) rich cougar lady was, oh, fuck, a rich Cougar lady. These knots around his wrists and ankles were awfully tight, and the woman was licking her lips and, gods help him, purring, purring at him. Cougars couldn’t purr, could they?

“Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

“Sorry, ma’am?” He swallowed hard. Her teeth were sharp!

“You’ve been stealing for a while, I think, haven’t you?”

“A little while,” he allowed.

“And now I’ve stolen you.”

Continued – http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/530235.html

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/515755.html. You can comment here or there.

J is for the Last Jubilee, a story for the Giraffe Call

Apr20

For several prompts, primarily J is for Jubilee, from sharpeningthebones.

The party hadn’t been going on for all that long, at least not in a global scale of things. Only a year or two.

It was the Last Jubilee. It was the Final Party. It had begun the day that D.C. fell. And it was going to go on until they ran out of gin and juice, or until they all died, whichever came last.

When Joey had begun the party, she’d expected it to last maybe a couple days. A week, maybe. She’d opened up all the doors of her house and invited everyone she knew to the party.

What else could she do? D.C. was down. New York had already fallen. So had L.A., London, Madrid. The gods were like locusts, devouring everything – and everything they didn’t kill, the so-called heroes were eating.

What use were carefully hoarded supplies against a crisis like this? What use was it living when everyone else was dying? Joey had gotten as drunk as she could, as stoned as she could handle, and then she had started calling people.

For everyone that didn’t answer, she took a shot. For everyone that did, she snorted a line.

It took her three weeks to call – or text, or e-mail, or skype – everyone she knew. Three weeks that she didn’t remember when they were happening, much less afterwards.

And then, then she started the party. “Invite everyone you knew,” she’d told her friends. “Bring ’em all.” It couldn’t have been that many people.

At first, only a couple people showed up. So Joey opened up the bar, and the fridge, and did a little surreptitious magic to keep the booze flowing and the food coming.

She spent the next week toasting the dead, and greeting her guests. The week after that, she spent meeting her new friends. And the week after that… even newer friends.

That had been two years ago. The booze kept flowing. The food kept coming. And the new friends kept coming.

If the world was going to go and end on them, Joey thought, well, then, they were going to see it out with the best wake they could.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/515397.html. You can comment here or there.

I is for the Individual, a story for the Giraffe Call

Apr19

To thnidu‘s prompt, with help from lilfluff‘s prompt and kelkyag‘s prompt

Probably fae-apoc-post-apoc.

“We hold that the individual must always be more important than the institution.”

Iancu didn’t so much explain his position as he declaimed it, his long, elegant fingers twirling outward in a poetic swirl. Below the dais, Irene rolled her eyes.

“Surely you must have some form of government, some form of rules. Infrastructure? Education? Legislation?”

“There is no law, no teaching, no road that can bind the individual to the institution.” This time, Iancu pointed at the road-sign-like icon they had nailed to a tree: a single figure, standing in a green field. It looked to Irene like a prewar sign for the men’s room. “From this we take our stand.”

“But you have a stand. As a group. Someone must speak for you, for there to be a stand.”

“There is the individual, speaking for the individual. No-one may speak for another.”

“Then how do you get anything done?”

“Well, the individual does it. Sometimes many individuals do something while working near each other. That is how we built the road.” Iancu gestured to the lane in question.

Irene looked around the elven settlement. Houses were built in a myriad array of styles, but all were tucked away, barely visible from this central clearing. The clearing had any number of the independent “elves,” a subspecies of fae that she had not previously encountered (and hoped to never encounter again). Relics and icons of the world long gone hung in the clearing – not just the single “Individual” sign, but many others. One looked to her agéd eye to be a “school crossing” sign; under it, three elves were debating. Perhaps whether this suggested travelling in groups of one adult with a number of children. The lane, at least, looked well-built – if you allowed that it was seven lanes running next to each other. Irene pitied the wagon that tried to drive down that road.

“So there is no-one with whom the nation of Arista can negotiate?”

“No-one,” Iancu agreed. “Or all of us, one individual at a time. Such is the way of my people.”

“Then on who would we declare war?”

The gaggles of elves across the center clearing silenced. “War?” She thought Iancu’s voice might squeak.

“If we can not negotiate, we will go to war. Such is the way of my people.”

She watched Iancu’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. “I suppose you would go to war with each of us individually.” He coughed, and looked around the clearing. “Perhaps, as a convocation of individuals, we can appoint a speaker to negotiate with the Arista.”

“Wonderful.” Irene smiled. If they negotiated like they built roads, her people were going to get everything they wanted.

Next: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/527456.html

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/514026.html. You can comment here or there.

H is for Holy Hot Hell Night, Batman

Apr19

To wyld_dandelyon‘s prompt.

Æowyn is a character from Addergoole: Year 9. This is set in Year 11.

The AC was broken in the halls of Addergoole, and the halls were, consequently sweltering.

Æowyn stripped off a layer, leaving her in a tank top and boxers, and tied her hair back in a ponytail. Things did not break in Addergoole, not like this, so it had to be someone’s idea of a prank.

Æowyn didn’t mind, not really. She wasn’t cold-blooded, not like some of the snakey Changes she’d met, but neither did she mind the heat. Some of the others, however, were clearly having a harder time of it. Eluned looked flat-out miserable, and Kendrew, a Cohort after Æowyn and Eluned and with a Change and power based on ice, looked as if he was going to melt.

“Holy Hot Hell Night, Batman.” She muttered it under her breath to amuse herself, and didn’t expect an answer.

“Holy hot snake ladies, Robin.”

“Holy… what?” she turned to follow a voice she didn’t recognize yet. Almost didn’t see him, as he’d managed to blend himself into a niche in the wall so well he was almost invisible.

“Holy hot snake ladies. Is Hell Night the day when they turn up the heat to see if we still sweat?”

Æowyn found a smile growing. He was cute, in a blonde-and-scruffy sort of way, if you could look around the edges of his apparent camouflage power. “In a manner of speaking. Do you?”

He wiped a hand over his brow. “Seems like it. You, too?”

“Despite the scales, yeah.” She looked at him, dripping in a corner. She could feel her fangs against her lips. “Something spook you?”

“Don’t tell anyone?”

“Cross my heart.” She made the gesture across the center of her chest, and felt the settling-in of a promise.

“I thought I heard horses galloping. When it turned out to be a centuar…. I freaked out.”

“Ah.” She smiled. “So you do sweat.”

“I just said… oh. Oh, it’s that sort of day.”

“Yeah.” Æowyn remembered her first Hell Night, and the way another blonde-and-scruffy boy had terrified her. “It’s that sort of day. Tell you what. ‘Come with me if you want to live.'” She held out her hand.

“Terminator. The heat really is on, isn’t it?” He studied her hand thoughtfully.

“I know a way to get out of the kitchen.” She kept her hand held out, not entirely certain what she was going to do.

“I’ll take it.” He slapped his hand into hers and squeezed. She squeezed back, and led him out of the heat.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/513563.html. You can comment here or there.

G is for Great Deals!

Apr17

To cluudle‘s prompt

“I’ve just has some prime beachfront property open up. I’ve got a quaint one-bedroom bungalow on a cozy property that faces on the ocean…” Gilly had been one of the best realtors in the business. She could sell anything to anyone and had, at one point or another, sold everything.

That was Before.

“It’s in Tuscon. Hello? Hello? Damnit.” Gilly hung up and dialed the next number. “Sarah! Hi. I’ve got an adorable little beach front place down in Tuscon… Damnit.”

By six p.m., Gilly was just about to throw in the towel. It wasn’t her fault that it was the oldest scam in the book. It wasn’t her fault the ocean had devoured Central America. It wasn’t her fault she was stuck trying to sell… yes… oceanfront property in Arizona.

“And if you’ll buy that,” she finally added in desperation, “I’ll throw the Golden Gate in free.”

if you’ll buy that.

[Chorus:]
I got some ocean front property in Arizona.
From my front porch you can see the sea.

Ocean Front Property, George Strait

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/513405.html. You can comment here or there.

F is for Friend Fiend Forgetting

Apr16

To imaginaryfiend‘s prompt

“Noornian. You know you’re not supposed to do that.”

“Know.” The fiendling ducked its head. “Know. Forgot. Sorry.”

Janet had been almost eight before she’d figured out that other peoples “Imaginary friends” hadn’t been twee mispronunciations of what hers was – an fiend powered on imagination. By then, it had been too late, and the whole school knew that Janet had an “Imaginary demon friend.”

Which was fine, really, except that, unlike (most) of the other students’ imaginary friends, Noornian was visible to other people. Not all the time, no, but when it forgot to cloak itself…

…well, then the more observant of Janet’s classmates would see her with a “dragonet” or a “little shoulder demon” or a “lizard of some sort” draped around her shoulders, where Noornian spent most of its time. And then the teachers would get upset, either with the students, or with Janet, or, in a few specific cases, the teachers.

Mrs. Contori had held Janet after class. Again. To scold her demon.

“Noornian, are you sure you ‘forgot?'”

“Forgot!” The fiendling waved both front paws in an urgent gesture. “Noornian good. Friendly. Forgot. Wanted to say hello to cute fire-haired boy.”

Cute fire-haired boy. Janet felt her own cheeks burning. She spoke up before Mrs. Contori could. “Noornian, it doesn’t sound like you forgot. And you know what I told you would happen if you dropped your cloak on purpose again…”

“Forgot! Forgot! Noornian will be good and not forget again!” The fiendling was flailing with four limbs now. “Only – maybe can meet fire-hair boy?”

Damnit. Janet stole a glance at Mrs. Contori, to find that the math teacher was smiling. “Janet, I think if you invited Justin home to study with you, he might be amenable to meeting your fiendling. You know,” her smile was conspiratorial, and she reached up to her shoulder to pat her own fiendling, “because it is good to keep our shoulder-demons happy. Lest they ‘forget’ more important rules.'”

“Noornian forget.” Sounding entirely smug and pleased with itself, the fiendling settled down on Janet’s shoulders to groom itself.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/512106.html. You can comment here or there.

E is for Euphoric

Apr16

For Rix_Scaedu‘s prompt.

“What did you do, Eustace?”

“Why does it have to be my fault?” Said at-fault fella stepped back, hands raised, trying to look innocent. He wasn’t very good at it. It was the thought that counted, right?

“Because there are two of us who live in this apartment.” Emily clearly wasn’t counting thoughts. “And I know I didn’t do it.”

“Maybe it’s a burglar?” He tilted his head towards the couch, and the mess all around the coffee table.

“A burglar that, what, came with a key?” Emily, in turn, tilted her head towards the locked and deadbolted door, the windows with their security grates, the view indicating that, as they had been yesterday, they were still on the twenty-ninth floor. “Or flew?” She looked down at their unwanted guest. “Well, I could believe flew, if the windows were open.”

“See? See?” Eustace flailed with both hands. “See? It could entirely have been not my fault.”

“Eustace. There is a stoned elf on our couch.”

“Euphoric. It’s not stoned, it’s on euphorics.”

“Why are you calling it it?”

“Have you looked under its fur?”

“….no?” Emily wasn’t quite that curious. “Besides, since when do elves have fur?”

“Since when do elves ride the Metro? I’m not entirely sure it’s an elf. You can get the ears tipped by any good cosmetic surgeon.”

“And what about under its fur?”

“Well, I can’t think of a surgeon that would do that, but maybe an angry girlfriend. But I think that explains the euphorics.”

“…Eustace. You’re saying that the euphoric elf on our couch is… a eunuch?”

“Exactly.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/511698.html. You can comment here or there.

D is for Dances Down in that [Dystopic] Underground School

Apr15

For Rix_Scaedu and Lilfluff‘s pro mpts.

First Dance, Year Nine.

Everyone seemed so into the dances here.

Back at home, Pania had not been all that big on the whole idea of school dances. Then again, back at home, there had been other things to do, other places to hang out. Here, down in Addergoole, there was the Arcade, and the dances, as far as she could tell.

So she asked a couple questions of older girls – the ones who seemed willing to talk to her, and who seemed like they’d neither tease her mercilessly for asking nor lie to her to see what she showed up in, and she bought a dress from the Store’s rather wide selection of pretty party dresses, and gave in and bought heels to match.

There. I’m not going to be the belle of the ball, but I won’t be the laughingstock, either.

First Dance, Year Eighteen.

Dances. Really.

Lælia’s mum had spoken fondly of such things, from her own days at her alma matter, but Lælia hadn’t reallyexpected them to still be going on.

For one thing, that had been Year One – very nearly two decades ago. For another, that had been Before The End. Lælia didn’t know if they still had dances in normal high schools. She didn’t really know if they still had high school in normal high schools.

All of her friends from Jr. High had moved away when things started getting messy – moved away, or, in more than one case, just vanished. In those cases, Lælia (and everyone else) tried to pretend they’d just moved, too, that Carrie and Leslie were in the same “I don’t know where but Dad says it’s safe” as Jennifer and Tyler.

All her friends had gone away. Lælia had gone to Addergoole.

First Dance, Year Nine.

“A dance?” The lovely man in the velvet tux bowed over Pania’s hand.

“I’d, ah, be honored.” She was pretty sure that was what she was supposed to say. “I’m Pania.”

“Ambrus. Pleased to meet you.” He had the most stunning eyes she had ever seen.

“Me, too.” Smooth. Pania tried not to look like a complete moron as she let the gorgeous guy lead her out onto the floor. “This is louder than I expected.”

“It does that.” He smiled, bowed, and set one hand gently on her waist. “You get used to it after a while.”

“People have been saying that a lot.”

“It is true about any number of things, here.” He stepped in so he was almost against her; he smelled of aftershave, very faintly, and something deep and male. “And it’s true.”

First Dance, Year Eighteen.

Lælia had found a dress at the Store – she’d found dozens, maybe hundreds of dresses at the Store, actually, but one she really liked – and shoes, and all those things her mother had told her you needed for a dance.

She was relieved – and surprised – to find out that her mother’s descriptions of these things had been spot-on. Fancy dresses, guys in tuxes (two girls in tuxes, one guy in a dress, one in a kilt), loud music (most of which Lælia recognized), and booze flowing like water.

“Where do they get all the stuff?” She hadn’t meant to ask it out loud, but, having said it, turned it to a handsome – nearly pretty – black-haired guy standing next to her at the bar.

He smiled, a brilliant thing that made the room brighter. “Magic.” He wiggled his fingers at her, and then turned it into an offer of a hand. “I’m Maleagant.”

“I’m Lælia. And if you tell me it’s magic, I’m willing to believe you.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/511092.html. You can comment here or there.

Alder's Grove Fiction

The Worlds of Lyn Thorne-Alder