rix_scaedu

Like other cultures with a literary tradition, Tang-ji has bodies of written work, both prose and poetic, classified by a common element and known by a common name.

There is, for instance, Chuan poetry which was pioneered by the members of the Chuan ‘school’ some nine hundred years ago. The form, themes and motifs remain popular and many poets have utilised this style over the intervening centuries. These days the serious literature scholar would be expected to be able to intelligently discuss the differences between classical, modern (meaning written within the last three hundred years) and contemporary Chuan poetry. It is considered one of the more accessible forms of classical poetry and so is often studied by university students who need to include a literature component in their studies in order to be awarded a degree.

The oldest of the genre forms is considered to be the morality tale with the morality play as a sub-type. The oldest form of these tales was the parable, a short story illustrating the wisdom of a virtue or an aphorism and meant to be told by a storyteller or respected figure so it was short, pithy and to the point. Many commentators have noted that although parables appear simple, a good one is surprisingly hard to write. Later the most popular parables were gathered into written collections and later still, longer stories were written either to provide a guide to a wise and virtuous life, e.g The Voyage of Fong Daniu, or to provide the reader with the author’s instructions on how to deal with a particular problem, e.g. An Egregious Case in Tzupingxiang. The most recent ‘flush’ of morality tales were written in response to the invasion of the country by the Trading Nations several generations ago.

A genre that has recently fallen out of favour is the family novel, so called because it centres on events involving a single family or household. Recent critics of the genre have pointed out that these books are normally written by educated, middle-aged men about educated, middle-aged men for educated, middle-aged men and that women, servants and the uneducated are only included as antagonists, plot points or suppliers of services to the protagonists. At their worst, these books read as pure wish fulfilment. At their best, they can be moving works of great literature. This genre has also produced a number of works which have become popular because they’ve twisted the conventions of these stories on their heads. In one example, the Madam Ku detective stories has Madam Ku, assisted by her daughters and daughters-in-law, solving crimes while keeping the men of the family busy out of sight in their studies or at the university. Scholar Ku rarely appears for a full scene, is lucky to get ten lines of dialogue per book and always appears blissfully unaware of what is going on around him.

Here is the first of the two background pieces - I took kelkyag's suggestions and rolled a dice. Please let me know if you have a preference for which I should wrte for the second background piece, or I'll roll the dice again .

The Lords of Hell have vowed to bring the mortal world under their physical dominion and the result is a slow burning apocalypse of war, fire and death.

They gained an initial foothold in the south of the planet’s continent at a place called Halendorf, now known as Hellmouth, then their forces overwhelmed and overran the kingdom in which Halendorf sat. Demonic generals and captains directed and drove lesser fiends across the landscape, adding human soldiers to their forces as they went. After a generation they produced a new abomination, the demonspawn. Sired by high ranking demons on human women, the powers they inherited from their fathers were coupled with a greater understanding of humans than those fiends were capable of possessing and they joined the ranks of Hell’s greatest generals and spies.

Faced with foes of mixed human and demonic blood, the embattled humans prayed to their gods for assistance. The answer to those prayers was the godssons, demigods born of mortal women. The gods would only act on receipt of a petition from the mother to be and so the Rite came into being, regulated by their priesthoods and with some variation for individual gods. Although it is treated as a solemn ritual, in fact the initial part is a supplicatory prayer and most of the rest is to satisfy the participants that the supplicant is human, and not a demon or demonspawn, and that the responder is, indeed, a god. Occasionally the god that the supplication is made to is not the god who responds, resulting in confusion and sometimes introducing the influence of a previously unworshipped god.

Needless to say, persons of unconfirmed bloodline who exhibit powers and abilities beyond the human norm are regarded with suspicion by the general population and authorities alike.

I wrote this to aldersprig's eighth prompt, "Planning for something that didn't come."

“Twenty years of supplies,” Grantham said moodily, “gathered at untold cost. To say nothing of the seed stocks, hydroponic equipment and breeding animals.”

“We could hold a fire sale when we open up the bunkers,” suggested his assistant, Hymie.

“And that’s another thing,” went on Grantham, “all those people who paid for places in the bunkers are going to want their money back and the ones the government forced into the them are going to sue.”

“Well, we did believe that comet was going to be a direct hit, and so did they. Give everyone who paid for a place their share of the supplies and let them deal with transport and disposal,” offered Hymie.

“That could work,” acknowledged Grantham, “and it was sold on the basis that it was a non-profit venture…”

They were interrupted by a smart rap on the door.

“Come in!” Grantham was pleased to see it was one of his female staff, probably overqualified for her job but frankly picked for her breeding potential and capability. “Yes Janet?”

“Sir, you asked Door Control to crack the seal but they’re reporting an apparent malfunction. That or the doors are being blocked on the outside.” Janet waited for his response.

“Just what we don’t need. Tell them they have authority to dismantle or cut their way through the doors if they have to.” Grantham sighed as Harper, an eager beaver from Communications and IT, bobbed into sight behind Janet. “Yes Harper?”

“Sir, you need to come and hear this.” Harper was both worried and bouncing.

“Hear what?”

“The debate in the United Nations by the reconstituted Assembly and Security Council.”

“They can’t do that,” said Grantham tiredly. “The UN was closed down so everyone could go home before impact.”

“None of the ambassadors are in our bunkers, sir,” came Hymie’s helpful reminder.

“Well apparently they reopened it when there wasn’t an impact,” said Harper impatiently. “Now, do you want to come and hear this, because I want to get back and hear what they decide.”

“What are they debating that’s so interesting?” Grantham had so many issues already on his desk…

“Whether or not they should let us out.”

Gentle readers,

For the March Prompt call I have now written 22 stories. That means I owe you two background pieces. What would you like to hear about? Tell me in the comments, please!

Also, if you are anyone other than

aldersprig, to whom I know I still owe a story, and I haven't written you the stories I owe you please contact me.

So, tell me what I'm going to write about?

I wrote this to aldersprig's seventh prompt, "Well, looking at this, my father and your father..."

"Well, looking at this, my father and your father were rather more than business partners during their association." Richart Mannix glanced down at the other person in the room where he had her gagged and tied to a chair with her hands behind her. “I don’t think our mothers need to find out about this from us, if they don’t already know about it, but the photos are quite charming in their way.”

Phanessa Strang spluttered something at him while she struggled against the cords that held her to the chair.

“I’m sure your mother knew what she was doing when she told you to go through your father’s office and destroy particular documents.” He flicked through the rest of the documents in his hand, sorting them into piles on the desk in front of him as he did so. “As it happens, however, I’ve recently become aware that something they obtained in the course of their joint business would now be worth rather a lot of money to us. You, my dear, aren’t tied up so I can take it for myself but so you can’t destroy it before I identify it. The gag is just to stop you attracting unwanted company before you’ve considered our position.”

Phanessa stopped struggling.

“Personally,” Richart went on conversationally, “I’ll be very disappointed in our sires if what I think is a business opportunity just turns out to be blackmail material.” In a response to a questioning noise from behind the gag he added, “There are a number of intimate photos of attractive men who aren’t either of our fathers in here. I recognise some of the faces.” He put down the last of the documents in his hand in the appropriate piles on the desk. “This will go faster if both of us are looking. If I let you go do you promise not to destroy anything?”

She nodded vigorously.

He went behind her and bent down to free her hands. “Good. Much as I enjoy the sight of your heaving bosom, pretty butterfly, I don’t want you to hurt yourself trying to get free.”

Once her hands were free she untied the tie he’d used to gag her while he undid the cord fastening her legs to the chair. “You know what my name means – most people think it’s an odd spelling of Vanessa.” She was about a decade younger than him, which tied into when their parents had married.

“My father kept track of yours, even if your father didn’t keep track of him.” He was rubbing her calves with his hands, “Now you’ve got circulation down here, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“So, what did your mother send you down here to destroy?”

“Intimate photos of her.” Phanessa blushed. “ Her brother, my Uncle Brian, is coming down here to sort through the office for Mum tomorrow. She’s sure Dad had them here and she doesn’t want Uncle Brian to see them.”

“This would be Brian Kidd?” He sat back on his heels.

“Yes.”

“The Brian Kidd who had a mortgage with your father for fifty thousand dollars?” Looking at her expression he added, “Middle pile, financial documents.” He stood and fetched it for her. While she read he added, “I would suggest that Brian Kidd is the last person you should allow to search this office.”

After she finished reading, Phanessa said, “He’s already got keys. I’ll need to get a locksmith over here now won’t I? After I call Mum.”

“It might be wise,” Richart agreed solemnly. “You might also want to have a solicitor here when your uncle is due to arrive, particularly if your mother has given him any form of written authority.”

“Yes, of course.” Phanessa went to the office phone and made a call. Richart, listening while he continued to sort documents, was amused and intrigued to hear that she didn’t mention his presence at all. He could also tell that she was hearing things she hadn’t expected. When the call was done she put the phone down carefully. “The police are at our house and they’re coming here.”

“They haven’t been to see you before now?” That did interest him.

“No. Why?” Her turn to look surprised and even confused.

“I assumed that your father, like mine, was murdered.”

I wrote this to aldersprig's fifth prompt, "A family reunited." It follows on from The Accidental Prodigal.

Everyone had returned to the sitting room and the younger family members had come in from the garden. Ludwina, tea in hand, was the centre of attention. “It’s been years since anyone’s called me that,” she told them. “It’s been Frack or, occasionally, Miss Frack.”

“We would have paid your ransom,” her father, Tibold Frack, told her, “But we never heard anything, no demand, nothing.”

Ludwina replied prosaically, “The pirates were after crew, not ransoms, so they didn’t send out demands.”

The first mate had inspected the rank of pressganged youngsters, snatched from the concourses of Bessamine Transfer Station and handed over to the pirates as a coffle in a blacklight transaction somewhere in the back depths of the station. They were off the lighter and on the pirate ship now, unchained but with nowhere to run and guns trained on them by rough men. “You will work for us or you will die, your choice is that simple,” the first mate held a pistol in his right hand. “Do you all understand?”

“My family will pay your ransom, just take me to my cell.” The speaker was a blonde girl in a more expensive version of Ludwina’s travelling outfit.

The first mate’s arm rose, he fired a shot before the movement had ceased and the blonde girl’s body fell to the deck, headless. “Work or die. Do you all understand?”

A ragged chorus of, “Yes sir!” had answered him.

“And of course the pirates didn’t let us write home. Not that there was much to write home about, I was confined to quarters when I wasn’t on duty or eating. Then, after two years, the Fleet caught us.”

All the survivors from their ship were in two side-by-side cells, all of the crew in one except for Frack, the last survivor from that purchased coffle of help from two years before, who was on her own in the other cell. Being alone in the same amount of space the rest of the crew were occupying made her feel vulnerable, although she tried not to show it, so she sat up against the bars that separated her from her crewmates, hugging the ship’s cat on her lap.

“Don’t be stupid and try to help us.” The voice over her head from the other side of the bars was Ditko, the away team leader and her boss. “That’ll only get you over this side of the bars and we’re all for the high jump.”

“They’ll probably offer you a deal,” that was the first mate, speaking, like Ditko, without looking at her. “If it’ll keep you alive, take it. Captain says all debts are wiped, Frack. You don’t owe us anything. Give us up if it will get you a better deal, we’re all dead men walking anyway.”

“Be practical,” urged Ditko, “and look out for yourself.”

“It was much the same on the privateer. Technically I’ve been a prisoner so I haven’t had mail or shore leave privileges, until today.”

Ludwina’s mother, Stephanie, had her hands clutched around her teacup and asked, “What’s different about today?”

“Today I get a day out on parole,” Ludwina gave the room a twisted smile, “because tomorrow I have to front a Naval Penal Board.”

“But you didn’t join the Navy, did you?” Young cousin Hale, about the age Ludwina had been when she’d been sent off to the school she hadn’t reached, looked confused.

“Apparently there’s been some creep of responsibilities,” Ludwina told him easily. “Frankly, I’m expecting to be made another offer I can’t refuse. The cold war on the Unian border is turning hot and the brushfires along the Alusan frontier seem to be taking hold. I notice there a lot of people in the news who are upset because they’ve been reminded that they’re in the inactive reserves and how easily they can be moved to the active reserves. The military won’t be letting anyone walk away at the moment.”

“You think there’s going to be war?” That was one of the uncles, nervously.

Ludwina gave a sad smile, “I think the shooting’s already started and they just haven’t caught up with the paperwork yet.”

I wrote this to aldersprig's third prompt, "the god of a son."

“He’s got religion,” Henry tiredly told his parents.

“No,” corrected his mother gently, “it’s Charlie all over again. He thinks he’s got religion, but he’s naïve and gullible. Neil’s just the same as your brother was at that age.”

“I know,” Henry agreed, “I know. Except there’s no-one holding out their hand for his money that I can see this time, but I know.”

“So what does his new religion want him to do?” Henry’s father was standing at parade rest, grim determination to cope written on his face.

“His god, his personal god mind you, wants him to go to Africa and build bridges, clean water supplies and sewerage treatment works for places that don’t have them and need them.” Regret and resignation flitted across Henry’s face, “The thing is, if it wasn’t for this religious fixation, it’d be the perfect thing for his training and talents.”

“At least he’s focussing on a constructive goal,” offered Henry’s mother.

“Charlie often thought he was being constructive too,” Henry’s father grunted.

“Neil’s not inclined to violence,” protested Henry.

“Yet. Wait till this group he’s involved in have got him in their clutches without anyone around. They’ll have plenty of opportunity over there.”

“Actually,” Henry explained, “he’s not going to some religious group. He’s signed up with a secular NGO.”

“That’s not like Charlie,” admitted Henry’s mother. “Perhaps this will work out better.”

“And perhaps it won’t,” gloomed her husband.

Four weeks later all three of them were at the airport to see Neil off. After the farewells, as he walked towards the passport control barrier, Neil turned his head back for one last look. At that moment, plain as day, Henry saw the figure urging his son on: the arm the colour of rich, moist soil across his back; the silver gilt hair bent towards his ear; and the red amber eyes that shared the backwards glance. Then all he could see was Neil, happily going to do his god’s bidding.

I wrote this to thnidu's third prompt, "Cats & cousins."

“Cats and cousins are both like bad pennies,” proclaimed Hale, “they keep turning up.” He reached up into the tree while standing, somewhat precariously, on the garden table underneath and lifted his cousin Elladine’s kitten down for her. “She’s in a strange place, Ella, you should keep her inside.”

“I was, until Uncle Tibold opened the door and let her out.” Elladine, who was about fifteen, asked, “About cousins, do you think Ludwina’s ever coming home?”

Hale clambered down off the table before he answered. “I don’t know, Ella. It’s been seven years and no word from her. That’s what they’re all talking about in there, you know.” He gestured towards the house’s windows. “Uncle Tibold and Aunt Stephanie applied to have her declared dead, because what else can they do that they haven’t already done? There’s some sort of official holdup with the declaration, though. Some paperwork problem. They’re trying to work out what it is.”

“She was going offworld to Aunt Stephanie’s old school wasn’t she?” Elladine concentrated on the kitten. “That’s why I can’t go to the Fluromine Academy next year, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Hale confirmed. “She got to Bessamine Transfer Station and then she vanished. It’s made all our parents cautious. Mind you, I think Uncle Aleki was always a conspiracy theorist…”

Inside the house, Stephanie was on the verge of tears, again, while Tibold was in a foul mood and none of the extended family could blame either of them. When the doorbell rang Chiara, the most recent adult addition to the family, was happy to volunteer to answer it simply because it got her out of the room. Her new husband’s family seemed to enjoy getting together and stewing over things, but she found it all a bit too intense. She came back a few minutes later with a cautious expression on her face. “There’s a young woman at the door, she says she’s looking for the family who lived here seven years ago. Stephanie and Tibold, do you want to see her?”

Stephanie and Tibold looked at each other and went cautiously to the front door. When they opened it, the visitor was still there. Female with short dark hair, dressed in a single-breasted, black frock coat with matching trousers, shirt and dress boots relieved by a red, blue and silver waistcoat. A knee tall, black spotted, grey cat twined itself around her legs. The visitor looked up from the cat and Stephanie exclaimed, “Ludwina!”

“Mum, Dad,” it was a crooked smile, “I thought I should give you the chance to decide whether you want me back once you know what I’ve become.”

“What do you mean?” That was ripped fromTibold, who couldn’t believe his eyes.

“I was shanghaied then pressganged into a pirate crew,” Ludwina told her parents, “so for two years, I was a pirate until the Fleet caught us and then I was sentenced to five years rehabilitation in the crew of a privateer. Same job but with a veneer of respectability, or so they tell me.” She gave that crooked smile again, “Oh, and I’ve been claimed by the pirate ship’s cat as its surviving human.” She had time to look down at the cat again before she was overwhelmed by her parents’ hugs.

I wrote this to ysabetwordsmith's third prompt, "The Elf ... and Komodo dragons, since we've visited Australia in this series and Komodo isn't too far away."

“An Ebu Gogo? What’s that?” The chef had been pulled out of his restaurant at short notice and provided with another kitchen.

“Apparently they’re from the island of Flores in Indonesia,” the woman in the neat suit told him, “and they eat a lot. Just keep the food coming. Don’t worry about the mount, we have zookeepers taking care of it.”

The chef eyed the lizard corralled in the courtyard. “Is that thing safe?”

“It’s a komodo dragon,” she sighed. “It’s not safe but it is secure. It has water, a warm spot to lie in the sun, shelter if it rains and all the raw roasting chickens it can eat. We hope it’s happy.”

“Do these Ebu Gogo always ride those things?” The chef was looking approvingly at the fresh produce being carried into the kitchen.

“Komodo dragons aren’t mentioned in the literature on them.” The woman in the suit was marking things off on a clipboard, “However, I understand this is in the nature of a diplomatic visit, so our guest could be aiming to impress.”

“I’d better get cooking then, hadn’t I?” The chef moved off to his work benches.

“Well,” the elf was saying, “to what do I owe the honour of this visit?”

“A neighbourly visit seemed in order.” The Ebu Gogo was probably male and would have been short for a human. “It’s not every day someone acts on the provisions of the Accords.”

“The provisions of the Accords of the Blessed Isles were made for a reason,” pointed out the Elf, “and that wasn’t to maintain the primacy of Summer.”

“I know,” the Ebu Gogo agreed. “That’s the problem with getting humans involved in these things, they don’t have the background. You’ve been very showy and splashy setting up here, haven’t you?”

“I’ve always found that in dealing with governments, it helps to get their attention first.” The elf smiled deprecatingly, “I also find that people are happier when they know where they stand, even if they don’t like where that is.”

“The show was for the locals, was it?” His guest looked disbelieving and then added, “I have heard rumours of a new site in India, some sort of charitable development apparently, building a model town with lots of lakes and canals. Very wet.”

“Indeed,” murmured the elf. “I’ve been told that charity is a virtue.”

“I can’t help but wonder that if I went to Lima I might hear of a very dry town somewhere in the Andes?”

“I really couldn’t say,” the elf smiled back. “Would you care for something to eat?”

I wrote this to starlitdestiny's second prompt, "One last memory."

The lights shut off sequentially down the corridor before her, leaving a long dark space with the dome at the end illuminated by the light coming in through its the external viewing window. If the base’s original builders had thought to put in protective shutters on that window, she would have closed them and the place would have been completely dark. That would have suited her mood.

She stepped back into the open lift and pressed the button to take her down to the loading dock level. Royd and Tepene were waiting for her in the last lit space in the base. As she locked down and powered off the lift, Tepene started shutting down the remaining life support functions. Five generations had used, crewed and lived in this space built to keep in atmosphere and warmth against the outside world that flirted with zero Kelvin and vacuum. Five generations and she, Secunda Custodia Tertiadomestica Vigilia, was the last to leave. The Great Migration had passed this point and the base was no longer needed but the inhabitants had insisted that it be mothballed, not dismantled. It held too much of their lives and history for its destruction to be acceptable.

The mothballing was done. The rest of the crew were already in transit, either joining tail-end ships of the Great Migration or darting ahead in smaller, faster ships to join new relay stations further ahead on the long journey. Vigilia’s job was to turn out the lights and lock the doors behind them. Royd and Tepene’s job was to make sure make sure she didn’t change her mind about leaving at the last minute.

Tepene finished closing off life support at his panel and for the first time in her life Vigilia heard the silence that meant the air circulation and filtration system wasn’t running. No alarms went off. Vigilia went to the wall panel and turned off the lights, plunging the loading dock into darkness section by section as she flicked the switches. When she was done the only light in the room came from the airlock that linked their ship to the loading dock. Royd was waiting in the airlock entrance and Tepene was making his way there, so she sighed and went to join them.

There hadn’t been time for the heat to leach out of the base yet, so why did she feel so cold?

“Come on,” Royd was using that funny one-sided smile of his, “time to go.”

“Oh yes,” Tepene sighed. “Let’s go home. I’m looking forward to sleeping in my own cabin again.”

“You might be going home,” rejoined Vigilia in what would have been a tart voice, if it hadn’t been so wobbly, “but I’m leaving home and I can never come back.”

“Come here, Gillia,” Royd pulled her into his arms and guided her into the airlock. Both men held her safe as she sobbed into Royd’s shoulder while the airlock cycled humans out of the base for the last time.

I wrote this to kelkyag's second prompt, "Something after Fairy Tale Aftermath," which it follows straight on from.

Sir Sander sur Helcrom did let go of Phillipus, so he could draw his sword. Phillipus took the opportunity to get out of the middle of a sword fight before the actual fighting started, backpedalling away from the visiting lord and his men while taking care not to stay between Sir Sander and the king’s men. Sir Wendell and Captain Bouche, for their part, took stock of their opponents. Sir Sander and his vassal men at arms had all drawn swords to face them, with Sir Sander looking confident that their numbers would carry the fight. Sir Sander’s two hireling men at arms had not drawn their swords though and Phillipus thought they looked worried.

Phillipus knew he had no place in this fight, his best weapon for hand to hand fighting was a cudgel or a knife and the archery skills he practised on the green twice a week with the other menfolk of the village weren’t of use here. Besides, he didn’t have his bow and arrows with him. There was one thing he could do though, and he did it. He threw back his head, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “’Ware foes! ‘Ware foes! ‘Ware Foes!”

“Fie, go to! There are more of them?” That was one of the vassals, drawn sword at the ready.

Meanwhile one of the hirelings was hissing, “Your lordship, these are the King’s men! You can’t draw on them!”

“No-one’s going to go back and tell His Majesty who did for them, let alone the pig farmer or his peasant sons! That’s two of them against seven of us, if you two milksops do your part,” Sir Sander snapped back.

“That’d be seven of us against Brien Bouche and Sir Wendell ald Grenham,” replied the other hireling. “I think I prefer to take my chances on the King’s Mercy.” Some of the vassal men at arms looked at him with odd expressions, those names apparently meaning something to them.

At that point the soldiers of Captain Bouche’s troop charged out from behind the new cow byre and took their places behind Sir Wendell and their leader.

“So, gentlemen, before we begin,” drawled Sir Wendell, “anyone like to reconsider their position?”

I wrote this to lilfluff's second prompt, "Taking your characters to court."

The solicitor and the literary agent were consulting about their mutual client. “I’m worried about Icasia,” the literary agent was covering old ground but it made her feel better. “Writer’s block is one thing, but she seems convinced that her characters are refusing to co-operate. That’s…not normal.”

“I know,” he handed her the coffee his personal assistant had brought in for her. “She’s not looking well either. I don’t know if she’s not sleeping or if there’s something else going on.”

The literary agent picked up the cup and sipped the milky liquid. “I wish there was something else going on, it would distract her from this obsession. I suppose it could be worse, she could believe her someone real had turned her characters against her.”

“Ulrica,” he named his law firm partner, “is very good at this sort of law. She says that if we were talking about real people, then Icasia might have a case. As we’re not talking about real people, she and Ulrika may get into trouble for wasting the court’s time.”

“What if we can get her professional medical help in the meantime?” The agent threw out the thought. “Then demonstrate that the filing helped stave off a mental collapse while she got into appropriate treatment?”

“Dodgy at best,” was the solicitor’s opinion. “She might still be declared a vexatious litigant and Ulrica could still get her knuckles rapped.”

“Plus we’d still need to get Icasia in to a psychiatrist for diagnosis and treatment,” added the agent. “I don’t think she’d go willingly.” She drank some more of her coffee.

“I don’t think matters are so bad that we should talk to her about putting her affairs in someone else’s hands but that would get her attention.” The solicitor leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “The problem is, that with Icasia it’s equally likely to drive her away from those of us who want to help her.” There was a knock at the office door and he gave the agent an apologetic look before he raised his voice and called out, “Yes?”

The door opened a little and his personal assistant stuck his head in through the opening, “Excuse me, Mr Tyne, but Mrs Brodhega needs to see you about…”

The door was pushed open from behind him to reveal the firm’s other partner, Ulrica Brodhega. “I’ll tell him all about it, don’t worry Gerald,” she told the personal assistant. “While I’m briefing Mr Tyne, could you please go supervise the new junior? There were some very strange sounds coming from the storeroom as I came past.”

“Yes, Mrs Brodhega.” Gerald quietly closed the office door.

“Now,” said Ulrica Brodhega, “when you persuaded me to take this case for your client, you warned me that she was delusional and that the people she was filing her action against were figments of her professional imagination as an author. Correct?”

“Yes.” Tyne knew his partner was going somewhere with this but had no idea where.

“I haven’t read any of her books. Do they have a contemporary setting or characters drawn from life?” The litigation specialist looked from the other solicitor to the agent and back again.

“She writes science fiction/fantasy,” answered the agent. “Elves, star ship explosions and dragons. Not contemporary or drawn from her real life.”

“That makes this very interesting then,” Ulrica waved the folder in her hand at the other two, “and I think I need to have an unprejudiced chat with our client.” She paused for a moment before adding, “I’ve received a response from the defendants’ solicitors.”

I wote this to aldersprig's second prompt request, "The son of a god." This follows on, finally, from A Step Too Far and Next.

Argenthan, General of the South, was sitting at the map desk in his tent trying to work out what the enemy was planning. The enemy was equal parts vicious and desperate, being both demon led and driven. His opposition had the stated intention of bringing all the world under Hell’s dominion and generation by generation they seemed to be succeeding. When Argenthan had been young someone had described their situation as a slow burning apocalypse and, now he was older, it was a view he agreed with. Being a godsson, the child of a god and a mortal woman, he had a longer lifespan than those of pure mortal blood and he had seen the slow erosion of the demon-free world, not just heard about it as a backdrop story to this never-ending war.

His problem at the moment was to hold the Yarn Wall. It blocked the pass up from the lowlands, now completely demon controlled. If they could push the demons and their slave armies back, that would be even better but he didn’t have the men and none of the other Generals was in a position to lend him troops. If anything, he might have to lend one or more of them troops he could barely spare. What he needed, right now, was for his younger half-brother, Norvaz, to be here to lead a sortie against the enemy’s forward observation post but he was off at Father’s nearest temple dealing with a demon spawn. Argenthan wouldn’t have let him go if the temple wasn’t so near and, realistically if the Yarn Wall fell, the temple wasn’t their fall-back position.

The sound of someone arriving on horseback carried through his tent walls and then came the sound of Norvaz’ voice. He hoped the younger man would be able to ride out almost immediately but first he had to hear what had happened with the demon spawn. Norvaz didn’t keep him waiting and was still pulling off his gloves when he walked into the tent and bowed.

“Eldest brother.”

Argenthan took a good look at him and Norvaz was grinning broadly. “So, Norvaz, the thing with the demon spawn went well?”

“Not a demon spawn at all, my lord General.” Norvaz was almost laughing. “A First Born, and none of them knew until she walked on air to save their training master from certain death in the earthquake.”

“Will she be joining us here?” Argenthan cracked a smile himself. “Even if she’s not war trained, the abilities of a First Born…”

“I’m afraid not,” Norvaz told him, not particularly regretfully. “She’s under orders from her Father to build Him a temple,” he leaned over the map spread across the table and pointed with his index finger, “there.”

Argenthan felt his smile broadening across his face into a grin of his own, “Why, that’s…brilliant.”

This is now followed by Putting A Project Team Together 1.

I wrote this to thnidu's second prompt, "Fish & fairies."

“A copper scale to enter and if you reach the top of the rapids without falling off, you’ll win three silver scales!” O’Dooley the leprechaun was making his pitch beside the stream as the silver salmon jumped their way up the short stretch of rapids. The sprites hovered around the stream’s banks, both on foot and on wing, eager and curious to see who would be the first to take up O’Dooley’s challenge and see if they could separate him from some of his coin. The payoff was good but they all knew from past years that riding the migrating fish any distance was not an easy task. The fish got big enough for brownies, pixies and even leprechauns to ride, but most of the jockeys would be sprites.

O’Dooley would probably lose money on the fish riding challenge itself but he would make money on the side bets. He’d probably make enough to fill another of his pots of gold, given that all the leprechauns just starting their day of running book on the rides, jockeys and mounts were either working for him or paying him a tenth of their take to be here. Even Black Shaunnessy, the only one who’d take money on the injury or death of a jockey, paid up without a quibble. O’Dooley used goblins as enforcers for a reason; there were far fewer arguments over business.

The first taker of the day was a young male sprite named Duskskimmer. He handed O’Dooley his copper coin from wherever it was exactly that the naked sprites kept their money and strode to the starting point. Goblins kept the spectators back from him, their employer didn’t approve of people pushing the jockeys to change the outcome of a bet. A long, silver fish broached the water and Duskskimmer jumped, using his wings only a fraction to correct his trajectory, and landed squarely astride his chosen mount, just behind its gills. He stayed on it when it went back under the water, keeping only his head in air, then it jumped again to clear the rocks and he stayed on to the cheers of the crowd. He clung to the scaly creature’s back for three more jumps, then it dragged him all the way underwater and when it launched itself for the fifth jump, he came off, saving himself from the churning stream only by using his wings. The crowd cheered, it had been a fine first ride of the day and he’d almost made it to the end of the rapids. Emboldened, more sprites queued to pay O’Dooley their entry fee.

O’Dooley smiled happily and jovially at them all. It was going to be a long and profitable day.

I wrote this for ysabetwordsmith's second prompt, "Angels and the symbolism of decorated eggshells." How Mistress Borneal got her inn is in Finding Something To Run To.

“But what’s it for?” The Rajjan wool merchant glared at the peddler with his handiwork sitting on the table in front of him. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a decoration.” The pedlar held up the eggshell he was working on so the merchant could see the design. “If I get it right, it’s a thing of beauty and even wonder. Does it need to mean anything beyond that?”

“Nothing should be without purpose,” the black-haired and sallow-faced merchant said austerely.

“Which purpose would you like?” The peddler picked up his fine pointed tool again. “It turns something I would otherwise throw away into something I can sell. Of course, I have to blow all my eggs instead of cracking them open. Doing this when I stay the night in an inn keeps me from spending too many of my coins on drink, instead of saving them up.” He carefully carved a little more of the design out of the eggshell.

“But what is the purpose for the purchaser?” The Rajjan was being persistent.

“A little piece of lasting beauty and wonder. Something to make the heart a little gladder?” The peddler shrugged. “I don’t pretend to know all the reasons people buy them. Perhaps you should ask our hostess?” He pointed at young Mistress Borneal behind the bar, keeping an eye on the common room of her inn that had been built during the spring. “She always buys one when I come through, though perhaps that’s to keep me coming back – I was one of her first guests.”

“A good customer is to be treasured,” the merchant intoned seriously. “But what use is beauty and wonder to a shepherd and his family, who are already surrounded by the creations of the gods?”

“Beauty is wasted on no man,” corrected the peddler, who paused to gently blow the shell dust off his work. “Appreciation of beauty is one of the things that marks us from the animals. As for creating wonders, we know the gods can create wonders, but it is good to remember that men can create wondrous things too.”

I wrote this to wyld_dandelyon's prompt "paradoxical toasts."

The jester crouched down and pushed a mug of water between the bars. “I’m sorry.” The regret is his voice was profound.

“I was trying to be funny,” protested the young man in the cell. It had been hours and nothing like this had happened to him before in his relatively privileged life. “Get myself noticed. That’s what everyone said when they packed me off to Court.”

“This is probably not what they had in mind,” the dwarf said sympathetically, his face serious under his motley cap. “The king doesn’t care for sarcasm or irony. Tradition gives me some protection, but I know that there’s a line I shouldn’t cross and your toast, my young friend, went way past that.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” It was a frightened face that looked back at the older, albeit shorter, man. “Will I be executed?” The second question hung in the air; they both knew what that would mean for his family.

“Not by his majesty,” the jester passed the flat plate through the bars on its side then, when it was flat on the ground, added cheese and bread to it.

“So I am going to be executed?” The young man was beginning to sound hopeless.

“Not, his majesty says, until you have done him a great service and not by his majesty’s order. You should eat; it will make you feel better.”

“Thank you.” The young man, barely more than a boy, moved gingerly from his seat on the bunk and the jester wondered just how badly he’d been hurt by the armsmen on his way down here. It was a good sign that he could and would obey orders. It was interesting that he stayed, kneeling, beside the bars while he ate and drank.

The bread and cheese were half gone when the prisoner stopped eating and asked, “So what is the king going to do?”

“He’s going to send you to Landmere with a message for their king and while you’re there you’re going to propose another toast, worse, if possible, than the one you made for his majesty.”

“Worse? Then what happens?” The lad was clearly terrified now.

“King Relches executes you and we invade in retaliation.”

“So why are you here?”

“To help you get your next toast right, so you can be hailed a hero and your family will be safe.”

I wrote this to starlitdestiny's first prompt, " The choice between life, love, and death."

...I have a choice?

There is always a choice. Some options are simply rejected.

How can you have the middle without the first?

You would be surprised.

I’m sure I would. Can I choose everything, in combination and in order?

Everything is not one of the choices you are being offered here. Take your time.

Why does this come up when I’m alone and in the dark?

When else would it come up?

Fair enough. Can I ask questions about the consequences of each choice?

Of course. But I can only give you the answers you already have. I cannot give you new information.

Why not?

Because it is your choice. To be made with what you know now. Feel free to ask questions.

What happens if I choose life?

You continue to breathe, to grow, to change and to adapt.

What about death?

What about it? If you choose death, then you cease. Your body stops, you cease to grow or to change and you lack the ability to adapt. Your non-corporeal elements “shuffle off this mortal coil” and the chapter closes, fin.

What about after that?

I can only tell you what you already know.

Can’t blame me for trying.

Blame isn’t what this is about.

So, what about love?

Emotional life, both good and bad. Pain and joy. The power to change the world around, and to change yourself, for good or ill.

So if I choose life, I don’t get this?

It is a choice.

Hang on, if life gives you the ability to change but love gives you the power to change, then choosing love doesn’t exclude life.

Neither does it exclude death.

What if I refuse to choose?

Then you remain here. In the dark. Alone.

Way to weight the conversation.

You have a choice.

So the real choice is life, love, death or…this?

Yes.

I choose love.

Good bye. I’m sure we’ll talk again someday.

Eyes flutter open and take in chaos. “Oh good, you’re awake,” says a relieved but unfamiliar voice. “The doctor will be with you in just a minute.”

I wote this to

kunama_wolf's prompt "Angel universe, if you can work that in somehow." It follows on from Choices and Consequences.

Orges and Leodes were ushered by their long-lost brother Birgenes through a series of courtyards and cloister-like walkways to a laver. The centre of the room was occupied by a three tiered fountain with water cascading down the three tiers into the basin at the bottom. A stack of fresh towels stood one end of a bench, there was a bowl of soap sitting in the middle and the wicker basket of used towels sat beside its other end. The top two towels in the basket were blood stained.

“Looks like Zarana and Kaeso had a rough lesson this morning,” commented Birgenes. “I know Tito knows what he’s doing with their training, but I still worry.” He proceeded to pick up a piece of soap to wash his hands and smiled at his two brothers who were still looking around them, “Come on you two, you don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

The brothers reluctantly copied him and allowed themselves to be led out into the adjoining courtyard. There they found themselves confronted by a long table laden with food and lined with people. Birgenes led them straight to the tall, athletic woman their own age seated at the head of the table. Both brothers noted that she fitted the description their brother’s old friend, Forgenes, had given them of his owner.

“Dear,” Birgenes was addressing her in a tone that neither of his brothers had ever associated with slavery, “I’d like to present my older brother, Orges, and my younger brother, Leodes. Gentlemen, this is my wife, Saprista Birgenia.” While his brothers’ minds were still grappling with that, Birgenes went on, “The large, worn man in the middle of the table is Saprista’s brother, my brother-in-law, Tito Wesnivus. He instructs the household in weapon use.” Tito seemed to be smiling, but the scars made it difficult to be certain. “Then there are our children. Apina, you’ve already met. Zarana and Kaeso,” he indicated a teenaged boy and girl with their mother’s build, then his hand moved on to indicate the oldest looking boy on the far side of Tito, “our eldest son, Nones, and our eldest girls, Callista and Yiara. Then coming back this way,” his hand moved to point at the younger children sitting on the side of the table nearest them, “Publio, Eramilla, Serto, Gavia and Lustia. Now, you two come and sit with me up here and we can talk over lunch.”

Stunned by the overturning of the their ideas about their brother’s situation, and the profusion of individual combinations of mixed Benarian and Gelaharine features before them, Orges and Leodes sat quietly in their places beside their host at the true head of the table.

I wrote this to kelkyag's first prompt "Something in Mayin's story."

Ley and Edan were hosting a dinner in a restaurant for an acquaintance of Edan’s and Edan’s elder sister, Mayin. They were, frankly, matchmaking and both the invitees knew it. “You’ve both been discharged after a decade away,” Edan had told Georas from his work’s Technical Support Division. “You have that in common, at least. She’s very quiet, I don’t think she knows what to talk about to people who weren’t enlisted.”

“It can be difficult,” Georas had agreed. “All the things we used to talk about aren’t really appropriate anymore. Gossip about the war was an important survival currency. Now,” he flashed a smile, “not nearly so much, but I haven’t been able to find an acceptable substitute.”

“You’ve got nothing to lose by meeting her,” Edan had urged and so Georas had agreed to come to this dinner for four. The restaurant was at the top of a spire, the view being one of its selling points. The tables were arranged around the edge of the viewing platform and there was a dance band that unkind reviewers had suggested was to give diners something to do as they waited between courses. Edan had booked them a table in the middle rank, neither next to the viewing windows nor next to the dance floor.

The sister was nice. Shorter than him, with short, dark hair and fair skin. Ankle length dinner dress in a muted orange-pink colour, a matching clutch bag under her arm and heeled sandals on her feet. Her expression was not shy, precisely, but definitely watchful. She looked like a tech, or a comms op, maybe even ship’s crew. She even asked intelligent questions about his work, and seemed to understand his answers.

Edan’s work acquaintance, Georas, seemed to be a very together sort of fellow, his brown hair still in a military cut. He seemed very buttoned down, neither as squirrelly as some techs she’d worked with or as ultra-focussed as others. Mayin liked that he didn’t assume she wouldn’t understand his answers to her questions and because she was paying attention to him she merely noted that a largish party was being shown to a long table next to the viewing window. Something about the group kicked at her brain, but she firmly squashed her hypervigilance and continued with her conversation. She saw exactly when it all went pear-shaped over the entrée. He asked her which unit she’d been mustered out of, she answered him truthfully and saw his smile turn into a rictus.

When the entrées were finished he and Edan went to the men’s room together.

“You told me that she was shy,” Georas said furiously. “She’s not shy, she’s just deciding whether she’s going to kill me or not. That entire unit was, is, crazy. They use enemy finger bones for poker chips! No, sorry. I’m just not interested. Here’s the money for the food I ordered. I know she’s your sister, but please don’t ask me about this again.”

Edan came back to the table alone and made Georas’ apologies. Mayin heard what he said about a stomach upset but knew why Georas had bailed on the evening. She straightened her back and prepared to brave out the rest of the dinner. Edan called over a waiter and as the fourth setting was being cleared from the table a familiar voice behind Mayin said, “Excuse me, but may I have this dance?”

She turned and Oberxiao Huhn Jan-li stood there offering her his hand. He was resplendent in a formal uniform, his cybernetic hand and eye gleaming in their respective fashions, the blonde hair that seemed odd to her with his skin tone was cropped and neatly combed, and he was unequivocally pleased to see her.

I wrote this to meepalicious's prompt "You'll measure my footsteps while I blow through this town."

I stopped being a ‘good’ girl a long time ago, when I realised that I wasn’t getting any credit for it. Not that I smoke or otherwise damage my health, heaven knows that being able to run is a useful trait in my line of work, but ‘good’ girls don’t do what I do for a living. Guns, violence and leather protective gear are my stock in trade as a ‘collection agent.’ I’ll admit I’ve gone to some trouble to make sure my parents think I work in a call centre, ringing people up about overdue bills. As if.

Most of my work is in the city because that’s where the majority of my targets are. When I have to travel for work I try to line up a few jobs in the same place; I believe it saves time in the long run. So I rock up to a town, it could be your town, on a Friday evening in my air-conditioned van and I go to work. Given what I collect, the relevant authorities will have received an email notification that I was coming, sent five minutes after their office closed for the weekend. If your relevant authorities have offices that are open 24/7 then I probably don’t need to come to your town.

I generally park the van in a light industrial area, near the panel beaters and the trade hardware stores, not near the factories with multiple shifts. There are fewer people around to get curious about the van that way. Then I go scope out the sort of bars my targets tend to frequent – I’m sure it’s a punishment for my sins that I never get assigned the targets who like to hang out in hatted restaurants. If things go well, I can usually romance the first target in any given bar all the way to the van and even into its back. If there’s more than one in the same bar, well, my reputation is dirt in a lot of places and for a lot of things.

On a good run, the wanted fish in the pond just drop out of sight, all across town, as I reel them in.

The standard issue restraints, shackles and padding in the back of the van usually come as a big surprise, no matter how I got them there. The reading of their warrant and their rights is usually a bigger shock – you’d think they believe lopping the police budget meant no policing, not doing it smarter with less. That’s usually where the violence comes in. I’m good at responding to violence.

Really, yes, I am the bang you get for your paid-tax buck.

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Entries tagged with prompt request mar 13

Background Piece: A Short Introduction To Literature in Tang-ji

Background Piece: Erima's World

Post The Non-Apoc

Background Pieces Request, Suggestions and Votes

Things You Don't Know About Your Parents...

Catching Up

A Calling

The Accidental Prodigal

Niceties

Final Shutdown

Fairy Tale Aftermath II

The Murky World of Civil Court Action

Cheering News

Salmon Riding

A Philosophical Discussion

Consequences Of The Inappropriate Toast

An Important Conversation

Correcting Assumptions

They Had The Best Intentions

The Collector