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  • taraskelt 7:24 am on September 25, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Beginning scene concept for Leeder’s Grain 

    I can imagine this scene at the beginning, where Mollith is sitting on a jutting rock where
    the forest descends and diminishes into the fields of corn that are the beginning of the
    village limits. She's lying flat on her stomach and walking her fingers across the surface
    of the rock, bored. A small little pixie, about the size of her thumbnail, dances along
    after her fingers, and climbs up, spiderlike, to sit in her palm as she opens it.
    In this scene, Mollith is introduced, and we also will show how faeries are abhorred, feared,
    and rejected by how she hides the small creature (carefully), to prevent discovery. She is
    shown again, once she's run through the fields and disappeared into cornrows to escape
    discovery, the fairy clinging to the fabric of her shirtsleeve, as she runs to the edge of
    the cornfield and releases the small creature near the edge, just over the edge of the barren,
    scarred land of charcoal and fired remains that exists in a half-circle around the village
    limits, cutting it off from the forest. For a good forty feet charred ground stretches before
    an enormous, lush yet forboding wood. 
    
    She stops just at the edge, looking over the charred ground. The fairy, small pin-sized eyes
    wide, looks out over the charred land and clings to Mollith's thumb. If she crosses and touches
    down on the burnt, damaged land between here and the wood she will die; she needs to be returned
    to the patch of moss where she and others like her live, some distance in, but she is small and
    was carried over by the wind.
    
    Mollith has never crossed over into the wood before, but this time, to preserve this little life,
    it's a necessary risk; small faeries have always sought her out, and most have been kind. She tries
    her best to return that small kindness when the chance is given. Taking a deep gulp of air and
    swallowing the lump in her throat, she sets off at a mad run across the charred landscape and into
    the thick greenery of the forest.
     
  • Zekkass 4:11 am on March 7, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    we used to be family 

    [Notes: Okay – I wrote this after several weeks of no writing at all, so pardon any roughness, and to boot it’s fanfic. Specifically it’s Supernatural fanfic, an AU of season five, and mostly what you need to know I’ll summarize like so:

    a) Angels can be trapped in rings of fire – specifically, rings of burning holy oil. Also they’re walking around on Earth in human vessels.

    b) Gabriel skipped out of Heaven after Lucifer fell / other stuff went down, he’s been in hiding from angels and worked out a deal with Loki for use of his form/role as witness protection. Hence the norse references.

    c) Raphael’s…rather determined to get this Apocalypse ongoing so Michael can defeat Lucifer and they can get Paradise going, nevermind what the other pantheons want.

    d) In the episode I’m AUing off of, Raphael was trapped in a fire-ring and left there, so I’m having Gabriel find him before he’s freed later.

    And with that you should be good to go!]


    He can’t help but think of himself as a moth, and he can’t help but think of all the reasons he shouldn’t be here.

    He’s helpless to resist the urge that brings him here, though, and so here Gabriel is: standing before a ring of fire, listening to the rain fall outside as he watches his brother stand as still as a statue in the center of the fire.

    It’s oddly peaceful, for a moment: the rain is the only sound, and the fire is the only movement.

    Then understanding flashes across Raphael’s eyes, and fear strikes at Gabriel when Raphael moves, surging forward, voice rising with fury, and sheer instinctual terror makes Gabriel step back.

    But Raphael stops at the line of the fire, and then he looks nothing more than human, and weary.

    “…Raphael.” Gabriel greets, then falls into silence when Raphael raises his eyes to meet his own.

    Raphael doesn’t need to say anything to make Gabriel understand that he is angry, he is tired, he is without hope and that Gabriel can’t change anything.

    For a moment Gabriel has nothing to say.

    “You shouldn’t be here.” Raphael says.

    “It’s the other way around, actually,” Gabriel says, and he is grateful for the Trickster, for learning how to talk back when all of his basic instincts are to be quiet and obey.

    Millennia of denying those instincts hasn’t made them vanish, after all, and the presence of another angel makes it harder to deny them.

    (After all these years – is Raphael higher in the hierarchy than he is, now? If he took back his role, would he still have rank to pull?)

    “Lucifer is walking,” Raphael says. “The vessels are alive. It’s time we were down here.”

    “It’s not,” Gabriel says, and is all too aware of how the only thing between him and Raphael is that fire.

    “Traitor,” Raphael says after a long moment, the venom fresh in his voice. “I should strike you down.”

    “We used to be family, you know,” is all Gabriel can say.

    “You aren’t my brother,” Raphael says, every inch of him discarding weariness for fury. “You are a – ”

    “Coward, traitor, not worthy to be an angel, tainted – did I miss anything?”

    “You should be dead.”

    “I’m not.”

    “I’m going to fix that.”

    “Not when you’re trapped like that you’re not.”

    They’re silent again, and Gabriel has to fight with himself not to show fear, or shame – he cast all that aside when he claimed the first sacrifice to Loki as his own.

    He reminds himself of this, and he reminds himself of the promises he made to Odin, to Kali, to the assembled Aesir when they realized that Loki didn’t have wings…

    “I’m not going to help you, Raphael,” Gabriel says at last. “Or try to repent or do anything to get myself back in Heaven’s good graces. So feel free to be angry at me.”

    He moves closer to the circle, staring death – his brother – in the face.

    “I’m going to stop this. I don’t want an apocalypse, and no one else on Earth does. You’d know that if you lived here.”

    He spits on the ground, and walks out, ignoring whatever Raphael says in response, listening to the rain instead.

     
  • taraskelt 1:32 am on March 2, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Older Dreams 

    She’d felt it coming on, the panic as she sat, fingers tapping against the surface of the desk, flexing in and out as if to leave behind scratches in their wake. Her dull nails made a weak, grating noise that wasn’t quite as horriffic as nails on a chalkboard, but was close.

    She could feel it rising, that sharp, violent urge to run, to scream, to just burst with the feeling of it all as she found herself suddenly aware…too aware, really, of her body, of her small little existence in the world that meant nothing, that was always silent, empty, alone.
    She could hear the crashing of desks as she bolted from her chair and ran into the hallway, collapsing against the wall with a weak shudder. He wasn’t there. Not this time. There were no classmates’ eyes following her from the room, no desks tipping as he stumbled after her and collapsed at her side, arms curled around her small form. There was no comfort. No smell of dried oranges and sawdust, no warmth of his breath on her cheek.
    It was cold. She didn’t know how long she sat there on the floor, staring up at the ceiling as she hugged her knees and counted tiles, waiting for something that would never come. Hours passed, and the light outside the window changed.
    Slowly, she stood. Bones cracked and popped as she stretched and walked to the window. The sun was setting on the opposite side, indiscernable save for the burst of colors it cast from behind her, over the few clouds above, lighting them with a haze of golden-pink and orange.
    An odd color for winter, she thought.

     

     
  • taraskelt 4:28 pm on February 22, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Daydreamer 

    Tap, tap tap….tap…tap–

    “Miss Damling! Stop tapping your pencil, you are disrupting the class.”

    Mary stuck out her tongue after the teacher turned away, but ceased tapping in favor of staring out the window. There was always something interesting going on outside the second-floor window, whether it was people walking down below, a bird in the nearest tree, there was never a dull moment. And when there was, all Mary really had to do was make up something interesting outside the window. Today there wasn’t really much of anything happening outside. All she could see was snow. Maybe school would be let out early today? Nah, that never happened. Mary knew from experience that the day would drag on and on as the teacher droned about the civil war from the background.

    Her mom told her that when she got bored, words went in one ear and out the other. Mary could only wonder at why words would want to go into people’s heads in the first place, especially through people’s ears. Maybe that was why phrases like ‘waxing poetic’ existed…poetry was boring enough that the words would go right through her ears too, and get all waxy.

    But it didn’t make sense, not the way she saw it. And in a sudden rush of thought, she found that she saw the words in long filaments, flowing from her teacher’s mouth, swiveling through the air at crooked angles as they looked for a head to hide in.

    Mary looked around. There were words everywhere, and not just coming from the teacher’s lips. Words were slipping from the heads of other students, in little clouds of letters and numbers that slowly dissipated in the stagnant air, replaced with a continual stream of thought.

    There was one person in the class whose thoughts were not drifting out his ears. It was Bryan, the boy who sat one seat ahead in the next row. Bryan, the boy who handed in his spelling tests covered in doodles of aliens and otherworldly cityscapes, with weird, misshapen skyscrapers outlined against a loosely-penciled half-moon. Bryan, who at that moment was paying avid attention to the paper before him as his ballpoint pen whizzed over looseleaf. His hands were dyed black with letters, flowing to fall neatly before him, radiating outward from the center of the page..

    Slowly, Mary leaned over and peered at his notebook, and wrote what are you doing? in the top corner. Bryan’s hand stilled, the scritch of his pen silenced as he glanced up. After a moment of thought, he wrote in sloppy chicken-scratch letters beneath her own, writing a story.

    About what?

    Miss Damling, I suggest you direct your eyes forward and pay attention!”

    She flashed him a small apologetic smile and leaned back in her chair, staring out the window. This time, with pen in hand, scrawling doodles across her paper.

     
  • taraskelt 4:33 pm on February 8, 2011 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: Higher flash fiction prompt American Dream post status   

    Higher 

    “Daddy, daddy, look at me!”

    Daddy looked, and smiled as Casey swung higher.

    “Careful, if you go too high the sky might swallow you up.”

    “Really?” She stopped moving to stare at him wide-eyed, letting momentum carry her back and forth. “Then where do you go once it swallows you up?”

    “Somewhere amazing,” he said softly, flicking away the butt of his cigarette and clasping his hands before him as he watched her, a smile on his lips.

    She swung.

    Higher, higher.

    The old man stood, sparing one last glance over his shoulder.

    “Just watch me.”

    Today was the day. Fifteen years later, and today was the day she would finally make it. She kicked her legs out before her, pushing forward and falling back as she urged the swing higher, higher. And all she could think as her fingers let go of the ropes and she lifted from the seat was that she was going somewhere amazing, somewhere that she would see her father again, with his whiskery beard and sharp blue eyes, and he would hold her in his arms and tell her he never meant to go.

     
  • taraskelt 3:05 pm on February 1, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Something Beautiful 

    “It’s not what I expected.”

    Ren took a drag of his cigarette, and flicked it aside as he stared up at the Seattle Space Needle. The enormous building was tilted to the side dangerously, on the verge of collapse.

    “Well, nothing can be trusted enough to be expected, these days,” Ren whispered in that gruff, raspy voice that he’d had ever since that drifter hit him in the throat with a crowbar.

    Every city they’d gone to was dead, save for those too stubborn or too crazy to leave behind the wreckage of what had once claimed to be a great country.

    “Eh. We should get going and scavenge for supplies. I’ll bet we can still find a few canned goods in some of the stores, at least,” Pete said, scuffing his foot in the dust that coated the street before he walked off. It was only when he realized there was no sound of footsteps in his wake that he realized Ren wasn’t following.

    Ren stood, eyes still fixed on the dilapidated skyscraper, silent. “Come on, we should get moving before any mercs spot us.” Still, he stood silent.

    Ren cleared his damaged throat and said, “It could’ve been something great, you know.”

    “It could have.” They stood in silence for a few spare minutes before Pete suggested once again that they move on. Ren spared one last glance over his shoulder, before they continued onward to walk the streets in search of survivors.

     
  • Fallen Red Ninja 6:21 am on January 25, 2011 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , They're made of meat   

    Just like that “You see it wasn’t so m… 

    Just like that

    “You see it wasn’t so much that I couldn’t procure the delectable that was recommended by the author but merely that I thought a more local flavour was desirable in this case”

    Mitchell was yammering on, as he does, about his changes to the recipes in whatever celebrity chef’s cookbook it was he’d bought this week. I mean I admire the mans dedication to his latest “greatest pursuit for lifelong fulfillment” but it’s a bit hard to take him seriously when you know the piles of junk rotting away in the garage. He’d had to buy a shed summer just gone so he had somewhere to put his tools.

    “And of course only the finest dark chocolate will do. But getting the colour in the shells is nigh on impossible, I don’t know how he does it.”

    What sort of man keeps his tools in a shed and his work benches in the garage?  Although considering the state of the garage, it’s no bloody wonder.

    “Chill. Heat slightly than snap-freeze.”

    At least he keeps the house in order. For a bachelors pad at least.

    “dioxode. Dried ice! Got some hellish burns though.”

    Mitch isn’t bad as far as the boyfriend front goes. He cooks weird stuff and is almost obsessive compulsive about his hobbies but a man could do worse. I’ve done and dated worse. Besides, this jumping from one thing to the next seems to keep him in great shape.

    “kept a few in the freezer as an experiment. I’ll tell you, never again! This batch is fresh this morning.”

    And his eyes. I would swim for hours in their icy depths, a rare and piercing husky blue. More’s the pity he’s a lousy shag. All enthusiasm but no technique.

    “Andrew? Are you even listening to me?”

    “What? Yeah of course.” I reply, staring with some consternation at the wildly gesticulating spoon that’s been thrust in my general direction.

    “Well? Are you going to tell me what you think?”

    Shrugging, I open my mouth and he tips the spoonful of goliath pebbles look alikes in. The coating is just sugar with a hint of chilli, interesting combo. I bite one. A unexpectedly savoury lamb flavour overwhelms my unprepared taste buds. Spitting out my mouthful in surprise, I exclaim “they’re made of meat?!”

    Mitchell’s hang-dog look tears strips “you weren’t listening at all, were you.”

    It’s a statement, not a question. He crosses the floor to where I dropped my satchel as I came in the door. He holds it out to me and opens the door. I can take a hint. I grab my keys off the table, my jacket off the back of the sofa and have just taken my bag from his out stretched hand when I notice my underwear under the coffee table. His gaze follows mine.

    “Take it. You’re not coming back.”

    And just like that it’s over. I grab the last of my stuff and slump out to my car. I should’ve listened. One time too many. And because of that, just like that, it’s over.

     
  • Shen 9:52 pm on January 22, 2011 Permalink | Reply
    Tags:   

    Starring Cissy 

    The club is a deli counter,
    Everything on sale.
    Tight wrapped, pre-packaged packages.
    Yum, yum, want some!
    Yum, yum, gimme some!
    Two pounds of you, you too!

    “KATY, TURN DOWN THAT MUSIC.”

    “WHAAAT?”

    “TURN THAT DOWN.”

    “WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” I turned the music down fractionally to listen for more but didn’t hear any. I turned it back up.

    Dad burst through my door like some kind of wild animal. “Turn that noise OFF.”

    I turned the dial to about half, “It’s not noise.”

    Yum, yum, want some!
    Yum, yum, gimme some!
    Two pounds of you, you too!

    “What is this garbage?” He stopped to actually listen. My face started to heat up and I scrambled to turn it off, but I just made it louder.

    Touch them, touch them,
    They’re yours, just take one,
    They’re just made of meat.

    Dad’s face turned red, too, but for very different reasons. “Give me the CD. Give it to me, now.”

    I found Eject and pulled it out while it was still spinning. “I’ve never heard that song before,” I said quickly.

    “You were singing along.”

    “To the first song! That’s the single, the one they play on the radio.” This one was going to hit the air on Friday, but he didn’t need to know that. Not yet.

    He turned the CD around to read the title. His eyes just about bugged out at the imprint of Cissy — no last name, just Cissy — wearing a tiny little dress that barely made it from bust to crotch. “Where the hell did you get this?”

    “Wal-Mart?”

    “It’s going in the trash.”

    “Daddy!” My heart lurched. I had saved up to be able to get the two-disc set with the concert DVD. “Please, no! Please, please, Daddy!”

    “You’re too young to be looking up to–to women like her.”

    “She’s only two years older than me! She’s sixteen!”

    Oh, that had been the wrong thing to say. Daddy’s face turned purple. “Do you homework.”

    How could I do my homework? I threw myself face down on my bed and tried to work up a good batch of hot tears. All I got was pink and puffy. My CD was gone.

    Two weeks later, Deli Counter was all over the place. It was on TV, on the radio, playing in the stores but I wasn’t allowed to watch or listen. Grounded for my big fat mouth at dinner the night he took my CD away. I was still sulking around Dad, making my point. The pharmacy was playing some boring ballad from the 70s and Dad was humming along. My ears pricked up as it segued into Cissy. I stood stock still in the middle of the aisle, trying to soak up every note.

    “Come on, Katy.” Daddy turned into the next aisle. He was still humming.

     
  • o1iveman 3:01 am on January 22, 2011 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , monkeys? monkeys.   

    “Attack! My loyal battle monkeys!” … 

    “Attack! My loyal battle monkeys!”

    If Warren had to hear that grating, Wicked-witch-of-the-west-on-helium voice through his high definition headset one more time, he swore he was going to leap out of his chair and throttle his computer screen. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to dispose of the three-screened monster of his computer screen, but for an occasion such as this, he’d find a way.

    This was the twenty-second time that he and his guild fought the Swamp-Witch of Boggart Marsh, and quite honestly, the novelty of fighting spider monkeys riding on giant spiders was starting to become a bore. The first few times was great, the voice was funny, the spider monkeys were ridiculous, and the absurdity of it all made the battle against the Swamp Witch one of the most memorable fights that Warren had been in since his induction into the World of Conflict MMORPG.

    That was, until he and his guild-mates decided to do it again.

    And again.

    And again.

    At some point, Warren stopped seeing the spider monkey riders flinging their droppings at him. He stopped being the knight enduring the barrage in golden armor. All of those were distractions nowadays. Warren had dissected the battle through a combination of forum posts, FAQ readings and youtube videos. It had become a game of numbers- and everything else was just a distraction.

    The monkeys each had 1000 hit points and their flying feces attacks dealt 200 points of damage with each fling. His Pauldrons of the Treacherous Terax would give him 250 armor points, which would enable him to resist the monkey’s attacks while he used his Sword of the Agile fencer to Tornado blade the monkeys for 250 points of damage.

    Warren was more like a monkey in a lab than a knight. He was being rewarded for pressing buttons and clicking icons- and even then, at least a lab monkey would get something tangible as a reward- like a banana or an apple- but all Warren got was a chance at a sword that had slightly larger numbers than the sword he was using, and a realization that somewhere along the way, he had turned from gallant knight to number-crunching cubicle prisoner.

     
    • Shen Git 4:01 am on January 22, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      A great skew on how we usually get to see those games portrayed. You could write something really thought-provoking if you continued it.

  • theinkling 1:14 am on January 22, 2011 Permalink | Reply
    Tags:   

    I understand that there are a lot of all… 

    I understand that there are a lot of allusions to Indian mythology in this piece. To explain them all would blow my mind — and also add considerably to the word limit. If you have questions, please PLEASE ask me!

    Mani took Seshu back to the old apartment. Fifth floor, above Nayanamma’s. If Mani put his head out the balcony window he could smell the dish soap and hear the hysterical actresses from Chakravakam.

    “You have the monkeys?” Mani asked, fishing for the keys.

    He looked down at Seshu, still half-a-foot shorter, still a little awkward as he held the monkeys to his chest — action figures and two stuffed toys.

    “Kinda.” (Seshu’s Americanisms amused Mani.)

    One monkey was eager to escape his grasp, holding out a cottony arm.

    Mani opened the door — two hard clicks to the right, like a grownup. Mani made a good pretend grownup. Ties, socks, shoes, ready in the morning. A morning person, like a grownup. Slopping perugu annam in his hand, a noisy buttermilk eater, just like a middle-aged tray-dish-shinal Brahmin. Seshu from bed at the last minute, sometimes forgot his socks. Always forgot his bag at home, had to rush back for it. Very Un-Grownup-Like.

    (More …)

     
    • Shen Git 3:58 am on January 22, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      Ach, I missed Mani!!! He’s such a cutie, him and Seshu. I love how the mythological/imaginary world paints their reality. This has all the flavor of the other stories you’ve written starring Mani.

      My first instinct for this was also to use kids. 🙂

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