Tag Archive | morepls

Setting the Table

For Friendly Anon’s commissioned continuation of Tasting (LJ)

Liza’s restaurant opened on the shore of Cayuga Lake, in a prime spot she’d gotten by luck and networking.

She opened on the first day of Spring, an unseasonably warm day with the sun shining brightly off the deep blue water and a few daffodils already in bloom. Her tables were dressed with crocuses and spring greens, and she garnished her plates with little bouquets of the first chives of spring.

And with every dinner that first day came a free glass of her prize wine, served by a sommelier who was grinning from ear to ear, pouring with perfect grace and managing to chat up the diners through that face-stretching smile.

The restaurant’s first night was a smashing success for both of them. Lindon went home pleased. If he could manage to keep the Downside Up Vineyard at the forefront of people’s attentions, all of the money they’d begged, borrowed, or flat-out stolen could be repaid with interest, and their father’s dream would finally be realized.

If he could make the Sunny Side Restaurant succeed, he could keep Downside Up in people’s view long enough to reach their goals. So Sunny Side – and Liza – had to succeed. He could do that.

He made some phone calls. He didn’t really have any favors left to call in, but he could probably borrow from the interest a bit…

Sunny Side’s first week was amazingly successful, almost too much so. Liza found herself running constantly, on the phone constantly, in the kitchen constantly. “I need a clone,” she complained, three hours after closing Friday night, flopped against the deck railing. “Or an extra set of hands. I never imagined that it would be this busy our first week.”

The sommelier winced. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You’re doing a great job with the wine. I don’t suppose you know a back-up sous-chef, do you? Or someone who could clone me? Or another greens vendor?”

“Well….”

“God, if you know someone who can clone me, I’ll kiss you.”

The sommelier froze. He hadn’t thought about it before, but the idea of a kiss from Liza suddenly seemed like a very nice idea. “Unfortunately, that’s the one I don’t know. But I can get you a back-up greens vendor, and, if you’ll trust me in your kitchen, I’m a pretty good sous-chef myself. I’ll call my brother in to pour wine for you.”

She blinked at him. “You’d do that for me?”

“I would do more than that for you, Liza. I want Sunny Side to succeed as much as you do.” Maybe more. They were already beginning to get the orders they needed to pay back their debts. If this kept up, they’d actually get what they wanted.

And if Liza was happy… The sommelier blinked at the idea. Liza was blinking at him, too.

“You know,” she murmured, her words a little slurred from wine and exhaustion, “you have beautiful eyes.”

Now was not the time. He picked her up, lifting her easily. “You need some sleep… boss. We can talk about when I start cooking for you tomorrow.”

“And maybe that kiss.”

“And maybe that kiss.” And maybe something, one thing in his life not about their father’s dreams.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/308221.html. You can comment here or there.

Princesses, a story of the Aunt Family for the March Giraffe Call

Mar23

For jjhunter‘s Prompt.

A continuation of “Tell me a Story,” (LJ), “Princesses, Knights, and the Huntsman” (LJ), and The Princess and the Huntsman (LJ)

The Aunt Family has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ.

Rosaria sipped her tea and stared out the window at the tiny back yard. She’d moved here when she couldn’t take care of the big house anymore, leaving that to her oldest daughter and her brood. The family did that, passing houses around – this one had belonged to an elderly aunt of Rosaria’s, Estebana – much the way they passed charms, and trinkets, and power. Nothing was ever lost.

It had been Estebana, actually, Aunt Essie, and her grandmother Anselma, who had taught Rosaria about the stories. She could still remember sitting at the kitchen table – now her table, just with a new coat of varnish – learning about the archetypes.

Her cousin Adam, Estebana’s son, had been there, too. It had been his watercolors that she’d learned from, bright, brilliant paintings illustrating the forms the story-characters might take.

“This is the princess,” Aunt Essie had begun. The painting was of a girl in a flowing yellow dress with a white pinafore. Rosaria had wanted that dress so badly, and the little yellow-gold tiara, and the bouquet of flowers. “She represents a certain type of girl. She is pretty, and regal, and she will need rescuing at some point. Unless…” She pointed to one of the smaller women in the background of the picture. “If she is holding this,” this princess wore fringed buckskin, and carried a fierce-looking club, “it will be she that does the rescuing.”

That hadn’t, at the time, seemed that romantic to a young Rosaria. Now, staring out at the daffodils, she saw her granddaughter Lily, wearing a white pinafore and gold tiara, and carrying a giant war-club. It bore reflection.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/305635.html. You can comment here or there.

Silent Song

Mar20

To Friendly Anon’s commissioned prompt and @Inventrix’s request, the second half of a continuation of Porter Needs a Girlfriend (LJ), after Siren Song (LJ).

Porter fell.

He’d been pretty sure he was going to, but knowing you were going to and suddenly falling were different things.

He flailed, kicking his legs and shouting. The floor seemed a long way down. Why were the levels so far apart in this school? What if he broke something…

He landed while he was still worrying, both feet hitting the floor by some freak chance, and stumbled backwards until he fell into something.

He was… on a soft carpet, surrounded by bookshelves. In the Library, then? He slapped both hands over his mouth. He’d been shouting in the Library! He was going to catch hell for sure!

What was worse… he’d fallen into the Library. In the middle of the Library. If someone didn’t find him, he was going to end up late for dinner. Late for Timora’s mystery dinner date with hopefully-a-Ninth-Cohort.

And, really, to be pragmatic, he could be trapped in here forever, or until he found a door or a Door that got him out. Priorities.

A sign appeared in front of his nose. Please remember to remain quiet in the Library. The font was frilly, and the little sign was bordered with little purple flowers.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just…”

The sign vanished, and another appeared. Please refrain from lewd activity in the Library.

“Wait, what?” he asked in a hurried hiss. “I…” He was leaning against something, wasn’t he? He twisted to look behind him. “…Oh. Sorry.” The statue in whose embrace he’d been cuddled looked as embarrassed as Porter felt. “You should get her some clothes. Look, um,” the signs were from the Librarian, right? “Um… sa’Librarian?” That might work… please? “I didn’t mean to drop in like this, but I’m a little lost…”

A third sign appeared. Please refrain from becoming lost in the Library.

“I’m trying, I really am, but there was this Siren, so I dove overboard, and overboard happened to be here…” He flailed. “I open Doors, you see. But this place doesn’t come with a decent floor plan.”

The next sign that appeared was hand-written, still florid but without the decorations. “You open… Doors. Show me. This way.” And then a sign with an arrow.

“I, uh…” His dinner was getting further and further away. “Yes… ma’am? Sa’Librarian. What do you want me to show you?” He wandered in the direction of the arrow, avoiding the eyes of the statue. “Hunh. History. I’ve never found this section before.”

A sign appeared: a flower-wreathed stop sign. Porter stopped obediently, hoping that, somehow, this would lead to dinner. Somehow.

He was standing in front of a section of blank wall, about the size of a doorway, something he’d never before seen in the Library. The arrow appeared again, pointing at the wall.

“You want me to open this? All right, I can do that. I hope,” he added in a mutter. “But do you know what’s on the other side?”

The arrow simply pointed again and, sighing, Porter opened a Door and stepped through.

Next: Iridium Hole, LJ

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/303624.html. You can comment here or there.

Big Bad Witch

Mar18

For clare_dragonfly‘s Prompt.

Evangaline modern-era. After Unexpected Guest, Followed Me Home (LJ), and In the Cards (LJ)

Pancakes in hand, Eva knocked on the door to her Florida room and paused to listen.

A startled jumping sound was followed quickly by some hasty blanket-noises, and then, cautiously, “yeah?”

“It’s Eva,” she called, amused. “I brought breakfast. I can bring it in, or you can come eat in the kitchen with me.”

“I… uh. Could you bring it in?”

“Coming in,” she agreed, trying not to laugh. She swung the door open, and set the tray down on the low coffee table, before plopping herself into the old wicker chair. “Did you sleep well?”

“I… yeah.” He sounded a bit startled by that. “Did you… hex me or something?”

“I thought we talked about the witch thing.”

“You said you didn’t look like a witch. And you really don’t. But this house… everyone says it’s the witch’s house. Always has been.”

“And they say you shouldn’t go inside?”

“They say kids who do, never come out.”

Eva pursed her lips. “There is the off chance,” she allowed, “that one of my ancestors liked to scare small children. But, if it’s who I’m thinking of, those small children are grandparents or great-grandparents now, and that Aunt is long gone.” Although it might do to check the parts of the basement that had dirt floors.

“You still haven’t said you’re not a witch.”

“I haven’t,” she agreed. “But I’m not the sort that eats little children, either.”

The glance he gave her was half wounded dignity and half what she was pretty sure Beryl had meant by “Interesting :x,” though she would have just called it “steamy.” “I’m not a little kid, either,” he pointed out.

“No,” she agreed, and sipped her orange juice. “You’re clearly not.”

Next: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/304427.html

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/301572.html. You can comment here or there.

The Princess and the Huntsman, a story of the Aunt Family for the March Giraffe Call

Mar18

For jjhunter‘s Prompt.

A continuation of “Tell me a Story,” (LJ) and “Princesses, Knights, and the Huntsman” (LJ)

The Aunt Family has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ.

Rosaria was not surprised to see Cady coming around more and more often. When Lily’s mother dropped off her handful of children to “visit Grandma,” there were often a few neighborhood kids in the van as well.

This particular day, it was Cady, Lily, her two brothers, and another friend, a shy boy with old shoes that she hadn’t met before, and yet felt she already knew.

“Gather round, children,” she said, as she did when the group was right, “it’s time for a story.” She had been asking around the neighborhood, trying to discover what Cady’s demon was. She had some clues, but nothing definite yet. Perhaps a story would tell her more.

“Once upon a time,” she began, reaching for the story as Lily whispered an explanation to her brother’s shy friend. Once upon a time, indeed. The threads were recalcitrant today, not wanting to give her a story. Rosaria coughed. “Some water for Grandma, dears?”

Chamus hurried to get her a glass of water, and Rosaria relaxed, letting the story take her where it would.

Not Cady, and not the new boy, no, today it would be Lily. Rosaria drank deeply from the plastic cup her grandson offered, and let the story take control.

“Once upon a time, there was a…”

“A knight?” they asked eagerly. “A Queen? A dragon?”

“A princess.” She smiled a bit as she said it. “There was a young princess, youngest of many princesses but no less beautiful. And this princess had come to fall in love with the huntsman’s son.”

She saw it hit home, and wondered if this tale was supposed to be cautionary. She liked those the least.

“She had fallen for the son of the huntsman, who himself would be hunstman in his turn, a skinny lad who hadn’t yet come into his full growth….”

“Is there a quest?” Cady asked eagerly.

“Hrrm, it seems there is. But we will get there when we get there, dear. The Princess’ parents didn’t disapprove of the match, because they didn’t, yet, know about the Princess’ infatuation. Thinking the Princess was too young, they were blind to the consequences.”

Interesting. Lily was squirming.

“But the young noblewoman herself was not so blind, and neither was the boy she loved, not the Hunstman, his father. They would have, she knew, many hurdles to cross before they could be anything more than distant friends. ” Oh, dear. I thought we had a few more years…

“And so, it seems, the Princess and the Huntsman agreed on a quest.” Rosaria smiled benignly, hiding the worry she felt. “To prove themselves worthy for each other, and for the world.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/301558.html. You can comment here or there.

Ciara: Wolf in the Hand

Mar6

After Wolf in the Circle (LJ).

Ciara was floating, for a moment, dreaming of a pasture full of bulls, angry bulls, stomping their feet and grumbling.

She came to in a rush of disorientation, to find Luke leaning over her, his wings spread wide like a canopy, sheltering her from view. “There you are,” he murmured. “Clever girl. I got you stabilized, but you need to go to the doctor’s.”

She nodded, startled at how much energy that seemed to take. “Amadeus…?”

“He’s standing right here, holding your purse.” Luke looked worried. “Ciara…”

“I know. Tigers and tails.” She nodded. “Muzzle him before I let go of the tail.”

“Good girl. I’m going to pick you up now.” He did so, gently, and she could see, then, the remaining crowd, hovering around looking – disappointed? Surprised? Some, at least, looked happy – and Amadeus, definitely looking murderous.

“Amadeus. There’s a notebook in my purse. Get it out. The items on the first page, that begin with ‘do not harm or attempt to harm Ciara,’ are your standing, long-term, permanent orders. Read them, obey them. The second page, beginning ‘go to your room and pack your belongings,’ are your orders for today. Read them, obey them. You may keep the notebook, but I want my purse back now.”

Looking absolutely poleaxed, he did as she ordered, handing her the purse and reading the notebook with an increasingly unhappy expression.

“The order to not touch anyone or anything is void now,” she added, and then let herself go limp in Luke’s arms. She’d expected him to hurt her. She’d needed him angry enough to lose control, and she’d know that would likely involve some damage. But she hadn’t expected it to hurt quite this much.

“Done?” Luke’s voice was pitched for her ears alone. She nodded, and he carried her across the hall to the Doctor’s office.

As he set her on the exam table, the normally dour PE teacher smiled at her. “You planned the whole thing, didn’t you?”

She shrugged, just a little – even that hurt. “I just like making lists.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/293303.html. You can comment here or there.

Pantry

Mar6

For eseme‘s prompt.

“What do we have left?”

Henry stared at their pantry. The winter was nearly over, true, but not nearly enough, and nobody had expected that the blizzard – if blizzard it really was – would be so heavy, so long, or block any sort of travel so completely. They hadn’t left their house in three weeks. He tried not to think too hard about the neighbors. He hadn’t heard from the Kaperskis in over a week, and the last time he’d seen the Gentalis, they’d been begging yet another cup of rice off of them.

He hadn’t thought of their family as being all that prepared, but it turned out shopping the sales and buying in bulk had more advantages than saving money. They’d eaten well for the first week, decently for the second week, and now…

“We have two bottles of wine, three kinds of rice, and a can of beans. And an onion that’s starting to grow.”

“Oh, good.” Junie smiled at him. “I thought we’d eaten the last of the onions. Okay, I’ve got a bit of lard in the fridge, and the bones from the chicken. I’d say we’re good to go.”

He stared at his wife in a little bit of awe. “You can make a meal out of that?”

“Honey,” she laughed. “I could make a meal out of ramen noodles, a can of tomatoes, and a beer. We have wine. As long as we have wine, we’ll be fine.”

Henry stared at the pantry, trying not to acknowledge what he was thinking. The Gentalis, he knew, were great wine drinkers. They’d shown off their extensive wine cellar more than once…

“We’re fine for today, then,” he smiled at his wife. And maybe the snow would melt soon.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/292921.html. You can comment here or there.

Legacy Cat, a story of the Aunt Family for the Mini-Call

Mar5

For Friendly Anon’s continuation prompt, after That Damn Cat (LJ), Bless the Cat (LJ), and Passing the Cat (LJ)

Aunt Family has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ

Elenora and The Cat regarded each other on what had been, until yesterday, Zenobia’s kitchen table.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully. “I have a cat.” And a house, and a legacy, and a title, and perhaps a decade or two in which to enjoy it. Zenobia had hung on for a ridiculously long time, out of, as she’d admitted, spite and, Elenora suspected, just a general cussedness of character.

But now Elenora was Aunt. She’d made certain the funeral was everything it should be, even if there were those who wanted to slide Zenobia into the dirt as fast and as deeply as possible; she’d made the arrangements herself, and paid the florist to make it look as if her family was mourning her in proper fashion.

And then she’d come to Zenobia’s house and, among all the things that had made it Zenobia’s and not hers, the detritus of a life, she looked at That Cat.

“Well,” the cat purred back at her. “I have a human. An Aunt. A witch, they say. Do I look like a witch’s familiar?”

“Not like that,” she laughed, risking her fingers by petting it behind the ears. “Like that, you look like a barn cat.”

“I have been, on occasion, a very good barn cat.” He leaned into her hand, his purring getting louder. “Much like you will be a very good Aunt.”

She smirked at him. “Fit the role you’re given, is that it?”

“What else has your family ever done, but slide into the roles that are open?” He nipped her fingers, delicately, not breaking skin. “There are things you should learn about the family.”

“Zenobia…”

“Zenobia told you a fraction of what she knew, which was a fraction of what there is to know. It will get lost, if someone doesn’t know it. I can tell you where to look. I can tell you who to ask.”

“Why would you do that?” She busied her fingers with some of the knicknacks her Aunt had kept sitting on the table, disassembling a puzzle-charm.

The cat rolled onto his back, showing his white underbelly temptingly. “I just told you. Somebody needs to know, or the information is going to get lost. Your other aunts have almost all passed on. The diaries fade with age. If you do not know, to tell the one who comes after, then it will be lost forever – and that could be rather bad.”

“And you know, and won’t tell me yourself?”

“Won’t, can’t, don’t, shan’t,” the cat shrugged, and batted at the puzzle pieces. “There are things you have to learn for yourself. I can only point the way.”

She shook her head, and began reassembling the puzzle. It had two ways, it seems, that it could go together; Zenobia had picked the one that resembled a dragon.

If she twisted the pattern pieces correctly, however, it looked more like a unicorn. “So you’ll point the way…”

“And you’ll do what you want once you get there. Yes.” He dropped his jaw in a toothy grin. “This is what I do.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/292478.html. You can comment here or there.

In the Cards

Mar4

For lilfluff‘s commissioned Prompt.

Evangaline modern-era. After Unexpected Guest and Followed Me Home (LJ)

Eva tried not to have any expectations or hopes about Robby being there the next morning.

She did, however, do a little research, sending out e-mails to cousins, nieces, and nephews of about the right age, until she got back an answer: Robert Thompson, lived about two miles down the street. He was a senior at Chalcedony’s school, not a great student but not a bad student, rode the bus with the family kids. He was, Chalce said, a stoner, a burnout.

He was, Stone said, a kid with a problem.

He was, Beryl said, “Interesting :x”

Eva took in those answers, and the answers from several other relatives, and slept on them, confident that a teenaged kid was not going to stab her in her sleep and was, in this case, pretty unlikely to steal anything important.

She didn’t discount the idea that he might actually be a demon, but if that were the case, the secondary wards would kick in if he tried to enter her house and either he, the wards, or the house would light on fire.

(Which could, of course, be why he didn’t want to come in her house, or it could be a new rumour about The Witch’s House that hadn’t gotten to her yet. Or just some parental rule or law she was also ignorant of).

She slept on it, thinking about what Fallon had written about Mr. Thompson.

In the morning, the whisps of dreams still teasing at the edges of her consciousness, she drew one card from the special Tarot, and studied it, wondering at the draw she felt.

Five five-pointed stars, etched over a stone, stared back at her. Rain fell on the stone, which looked disturbingly like a grave-marker. The sky was grey and bleak.

“Wonderful,” she told the card. “I knew that already.”

The deck slipped out of her hand, another card crossing the five of pentacles: A regal woman, her crown a slim diadem. She looked, Eva thought, much like old photos of the Aunts.

“More interesting. Thank you.” She pricked her finger, feeding the deck a drop of blood, and headed down the stairs.

Before she looked, she started breakfast. It gave her some time to clear her brain, to think about the mundanities of the situation. There might be a teenaged runaway in her Florida room. If there was, his mother had died a year ago. And his father was not known as the most pleasant man in the world.

With each thought, she added ingredients to the pancake batter. Pinch of soda, dash of seltzer water. Vanilla. Extra sugar, just a tad.

Beryl thought he was interesting-with-a-emoticon. But Chalce just thought he was a stoner. He had come to her barn, but he wouldn’t come into her house. Buttermilk, walnuts, eggs, flour. He knew she was a witch. But that was common gossip – and he thought of witches like Hallowe’en, still. Tiny pinch of salt.

And the Cards had given her an extra message. That bore thought. She poured the pancakes on the griddle, and wondered if he was even still out there.

Next: Big Bad Witch (LJ)

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/291919.html. You can comment here or there.

Briars & Vinegar: Eating the Roses, a story of fae-apoc post apoc for the Giraffe Call (@rix_Scaedu)

Mar2

For Rix_Scaedu‘s prompt, combined with clare_dragonfly‘s prompt.

Fae Apoc has a landing page here.

After:
Briars and Vinegar (LJ)
Briars and Vinegar: Blood on the Snow (LJ)
Briars and Vinegar: For 100 Years (LJ)
Briars and Vinegar: Sharp and Bitter (LJ)

Something kept eating the rosebushes.

This was startling enough on its own – roses weren’t the most palatable thing in the world, and Vin’s roses had thorns the size of small daggers.

But, since Darrel had moved into her cabin, and Keri and Clarence had built their own nearby, since Dame Elena had, herself, come to shelter inside Vin’s large hedge of roses, there was hawthorn planted alongside the rosebushes, twisted in with them, its sharp prickers providing a second layer of defense. And hawthorn was even less palatable than roses.

(Dame Elena, who had been Old Dame Elena as long as anyone could remember, had turned out to have a surprising wealth of information about the old fae. That had made Vin give her a sharp look and pull the old lady aside for a few whispered conversations.

Clarence tried not to mind. It was clear that Vin knew quite a bit she wasn’t sharing, and he didn’t blame her, usually. The war had hurt her quite badly, he thought, blamed for things she could neither have done nor stopped.

But when something started eating the roses and the hawthorn, and Elena and Vin went back into whispered conversations, Clarence had had enough. He pulled the two women aside – gently, very gently, but still.

“Look, you need to tell me what’s going on. Kari and I live here too, you know.”

“And I welcomed you, but you don’t need to stay,” she snapped. Dame Elena’s hand on her arm stopped her, and she sighed.

“There aren’t many things that will eat roses like this, and most of them aren’t natural; they’re constructs of the war or leftover monsters from Ellehem – from faerie-home,” she translated. “And I’ve never encountered anything unnatural that could stomach hawthorn.”

“But I have,” Elena put in. “Not a faerie creature as such, but something they made from creatures already here. Mouth like a meat grinder, could eat anything. Did eat anything. And everyone.”

She frowned at the chewed-upon bushes. “We called it the omnivore.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/289272.html. You can comment here or there.

Alder's Grove Fiction

The Worlds of Lyn Thorne-Alder