Welcome to Fantasy Friday! Every week, you are invited to write and post anything having to do with fantasy, science fiction, etc., right here in the comments: a crazy idea for a new holiday (in honor of Holy Week, the Spring Equinox, and a host of other celebrations), a bit of a story you’re trying to write, your unbridled opinion of the last short story you read, or the crazy going’s on at last weekend’s Lunacon. At 5 p.m. PST today, if we’ve got at least ten participants, we’ll choose the day’s most entertaining writer and PayPal them $10 on the spot. Go start your weekend off with a cold one on us! (Minors, make that a couple of hot chocolates.)
Since it’s both Purim and Good Friday, since Sir Arthur C. Clarke died about three days ago, and since the Hugo nominations offer a slate of solid SFnal choices (lots) for us to vote upon this year, I think it’s only appropriate we designate this long Easter weekend as the Clarke holiday.
The story I remember most by Clarke is “The Star.” How ironic that his life should pass at this time of year, and we would do well to honor his memory (and the memories of other SF greats) with a holiday.
Darn, I already stole my own best idea for NoConsequa three weeks ago.
I also realized that of all the Jewish holidays Purim is the least fantasy-inspiring. No miracles, angels, plagues, revelations etc. *Sigh* Well, at least we get to drink in excess (Blog for a Manishevitz, anyone?)
We should celebrate Yellow Day, or Pollen Day or something. For those of us who live in the midde of the forest, we don’t necessarily recognize spring by the calendar; we know it’s springtime when the pine trees start dropping pollen.
Ah, spring. Don’t you just love those perfect balmy days? You know the ones I mean. I’m talking about those days when it’s impossible to walk outside without turning as yellow as Homer Simpson. Or the ones when opening my windows means I’ll have to dust, vacuum and mop all over again. We take spring cleaning rather literally here, and getting Spring back out of your house is not a fun chore.
The best part of Yellow Day is watching people in the checkout line at the pharmacy and realizing how fortunate I am. You see, unlike those poor souls, I’m not allergic to springtime.
Centipedia
It only took two and a half hours to groom those long, silken legs and she did so with a concentration tendered by love. Now moistened and nurtured with a shimmery elixir, she sidled and sashayed from her airy perch. She was proud of this body so lithe and perfect. How could he not love her now?
She needed only a spritz of perfume to complete the picture. Then she positioned herself on a cushion of velvety soft chenille, ready to greet him as he approached. No doubt there would be those enthusiastic, wet kisses that would send her into rapture. All she had to do was to rub her soft and perfect legs along his, and he would be hers forever.
Soon enough, she heard his telltale footfall on the steps leading up to his room. She rose on her haunches, glowing with anticipation. Her emotions heightened, she readied herself. She could only imagine that he would embrace her as he had embraced no one else before.
Alas, but it was not to be.
He entered the room, unaware of her presence. When he saw her sitting there in all of her glory, he dropped his drink and screamed.
[...something from a story that keeps trying to be born...]
That night, Chyna dreams.
Hilly bonescape under a sky more purple than Roman nobility. Dancing women with hooves, their bodies just hidden under brocade robes. Voices cry out from the darkness down below, souls pinned in place by the land.
“I’ve always loved him,” she whispers.
“It’s going to take more than that,” her father, dead so many years, says from over her shoulder. “There’s more to come before everything is said and done.”
“He’d never hurt himself, would he?” she asks, a furnace wind beginning to abrade her cheeks.
“Dragons can do whatever they want.”
The dancing women begin to drift together the next rise over. They circle hand in hand, shouting harsh, glottal words that she can almost understand. Lightning jumps from the sky.
When Chyna can see again, hooves and cloaks lie scattered, and the dancers are gone. At the limit of her vision, she can just make out the flapping of wings, and something sparkles there.
“The rakhayim spent centuries trying to piece that dance together. They read crumbling manuscripts and studied the petroglyphs under Mount Katechan. Many of them sacrificed children with their own hands to appease the spirits they needed on their side. How far do you think David is willing to go?”
Chyna is trying to decide how to respond when she feels the first gentle tug on her breasts. She looks down, and her mind starts to flex and bend unpleasantly. Long, gelid fingers are touching her, and the worries fade along with the sand that ravens her face.
Random paragraph from work in progress…
Her voice was foreign to her, but for the first time ever it actually felt like a weapon and a tool. It wasn’t a hindrance along with her age and sex. By demon’s venom, being a male suddenly made the whole world seem much easier, even if it was a bit itchier.
I’ve spent this week cat sitting at my friend Sherri’s cabin in the hills of Tennessee. She called last night to check up on me, starting with the Inquisition.
“Hey, girl. You doing okay? How’s the cat? Did they put in the new gate? What does it look like?”
“Kitchka’s fine; I think we’ve reached a mutual understanding. I cleaned house today so you wouldn’t come home to a mess. And the gate’s…well, it’s a gate,” I yawned. “It’s not like it’s covered in fairy dust or anything.”
Sherri yawned in reply. “Stop that! I still have a ton of work left to do tonight!”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m ridiculously tired. I know now why you don’t like staying out here by yourself.”
“Creepy, isn’t it? I think it has ghosts.”
“It’s not creepy,” I said, “just loud. It’s been crazy windy here the past few nights. I was up at 3am on Tuesday taking the wind chimes on the porch down because they were driving me mad. And you know how the tin roof creaks like footsteps when it’s sunny? Well, in a wind storm, it sounds like bodies being dragged across the ceiling.”
Sherri laughed. “You familiar with that particular noise?”
“I grew up with evil siblings, same as you,” I said. “You know what else I discovered? My bedroom door is right next to the air return vent. So when the heat goes on and off, my door slams, even if it’s already closed.” Suddenly, my overtired body yearned to expel the list of complaints on its behalf. “The humidifier is right outside my door too. And then there’s wild kingdom on top of all that. If it’s not the mournful cows, it’s the stubborn woodpecker. Or the coyotes. Or the bobcat-in-heat convention. So much for the serene pastoral setting. I’d take a sleeping pill if I didn’t have to get up for work in the morning.”
“Oh, sweetie. Go have some cocoa. Take a shower. The storms have passed, and tomorrow’s Friday. I’ll be home, and you can catch up on all the sleep you need.”
We said our goodbyes. Yawning again, I decided to take some of her advice. A hot shower, at least, sounded relaxing. Leaning into the spray, I closed my eyes and prayed for just one decent night. One more day of eye-twitching semi-consciousness and I’d probably start hallucinating. I let myself indulge for far too long, and then stepped out into the misty room.
The dripping message on the fog-covered mirror read: WE LIKE YOU. SLEEP WELL.
I sighed.
I just cleaned that mirror.
But if it meant eight hours of blissful, uninterrupted sleep, I didn’t mind cleaning it again.
In the morning.
The block was quiet. The usual noises of the neighborhood children were absent. The rattle-tap of skateboards on the sidewalk, of boys playing at war and girls making their “dollies” the prettiest in all the land.
Zeus, like the other dads sat his porch, gazing out into other yards. Inside, music played softly from a HiFi system. The smell of freshly baked cookies drifted into the yard.
Enlil pushed his mower, taking time to move the hose before chopping it into a billion pieces, possibly creating new universes in the process.
Bast was washing her dog in the front yard, looking very pretty in a new sundress. Zeus looked around for Hera before raising the binocs up to his eyes for a better look.
Down the street, Amaterasu was changing the plugs on her ’78 Camaro, ZZ Top droned from a small radio she had perched on the fender.
“Hello Mrs. Cthulhu!” Zeus offered the elder god as it shambled down the sidewalk on a Rascal Scooter. The Old One shot Zeus an indescribable look as it rolled past, making Zeus tuck his binoculars away.
“Damned kids,” the ancient horror muttered. Zeus took a drink of his cold one and smoothed out his beard.
Holiday of the gods. The kids were inside playing video games, safe from making mischief in the world. It was a hidden day from the minds of mortals. A day when their prayers were not answered. A day when their lives were not interfered with by Divine Intervention or mischief. A day to kick back and enjoy the universe, hassle free.
Before he knew it, the holiday would be over. Tomorrow, the gods would all go back to work. Their children messing up the Earth and tricking mortals. One day for the gods, a thousand years or more for mankind.
“Hera! Grab me another cold one, baby!” Zeus thundered.
“What? Did one of the Titans cut your legs off?!? Get it yourself!” came the reply.
There were moments when he would rather be at work. He got up to find another beer, wondering if there was any leftover sacrifice in the fridge so he could make a sandwich.
That was awesome, Clint. The “One day for the gods, a thousand years or more for mankind” made it go from “Cute” to “Woah”. And, of course, Hera is hilarious (why’d she always get such a bad rap anyway?)
My apologies if all the Celtic spelling bothers anyone (I know it’s overdone in fantasy), but somehow it seemed to fit better than using Latin names.
Solstice
The Regent of Spring and the Autumn King met in secret—no small feat as their kingdoms shared no border and the Regent’s massive form was difficult to disguise in their ever-daylit realms. The King, however, could move his slender form quietly and quickly and so arrived one day at the Regent’s verdant palace.
“They are eating us alive by damn!” the Regent bellowed, angry red flowers blooming in his wild, tawny beard. The two monarches sat in the Regent’s little-used study.
“I know, my lord,” the King answered, calmly and deferent, “Geimhreadh and Samhradh have long envied our lands; so much of theirs are uninhabitable. Winter’s raiders have always pillaged our border towns for food, but their growing military presence has discomforted the nobles of Deireadh.”
“Bah!” the Regent scoffed, “I speak not of raids and specters of battle. I have lost a full week’s worth of land to Samhradh—half a dozen fiefdoms have pledged themselves to Summer, I think even my own palace grows warmer.” Butterflies as large as hawks fanned the monarch’s face.
“Yes, the Queen’s power has grown in recent years,” the King mused. My astrologers say it has something to do with the mortal realm, but I do not believe in such superstitions.”
“Well what are we to do about it then? I dare not risk an open war with one, lest the other attack by unguarded back.”
“Fear not, my lord, I have considered all the options and I believe I have a plan.” The king drew out a small sphere from his satchel and the Regent leaned in closer to see it. One half was painted with the familiar markings of the realm—the four kingdoms and various major cities, but the other side was black with only a few names in silver dotting the surface.
“I have met with emissaries from Countess Gort,” the Regent gasped at the name. “My dear friend,” the King responded, “it is time to put aside these silly notions of Day against Night. Geimhreadh and Samhradh are our foes now.” The Regent frowned, but stayed quiet.
“As I was saying, the Countess and I have reached a truce, and have begun discussing means of collaborating for our mutual advantage.”
“What treachery are you planning Fómhar?” the Regent asked warily.
“My own raiders have stolen a handful of weapons from Winter—ice spears and the like, arms clearly forged by Lord Eanáir. I will give them to Gort’s own raiders to use in a stealth attack on one of the neighboring baronies, Baron Ngetal’s land most likely. The weapons will be left as evidence and a war will begin between Geimhreadh and Ngetal. This will distract her enough for us to gather our forces and prepare for war. And of course, you will soon do the same against Samhradh. The Baroness Muin is I’m sure equally open to such an arrangement.”
The Regent of Spring remained silent, the wheels of thought tilling deep, rough earth in his mind. Thorns and bramble grew in his hair as he thought and eventually he let out a long, windy sigh.
“We do what we must,” he said, with none of his previous thunder. He rose, stoop shouldered from his seat. “Now go, Fómhar, before my hospitality and patience are forgotten.”
The Autumn King gave a small, tight-lipped smile, bowed, and in an explosion of red and orange leaves was gone.
JoJo, I expected Gregor Samsa to walk in! Well done! Amusing. Entertaining.
She was sad again. Then again she was sad more often than not, these days. Very few people really understood why. Understood what was truly going on in her head. But there was no help for it. People just didn’t care anymore. To the majority of the world Magick just didn’t exist anymore and never mind the thousands of good people who had depended on it for a living. Demain had been one of those people. Some now would name her witch. But she had been so much more than that. The world forgot that Magick had been an integral part of it, only scant seasons ago. Magick and Science twined together as conjoined twins. Neither surviving without the other. And now only Science lived on. Lamed and nearly useless without it’s counterpart.
Demain’s food was nearly run out, and it was nearing Autumn. How she would survive the Winter this year, she had no idea. As night neared on she ate the last piece of cheese in the larder and threw the rock hard bread chunk to the rats. Tomorrow she would leave, tomorrow begin her quest. She lay on her narrow bed and stared at the cracked ceiling of her hut until sleep claimed her.
a crazy idea for a new holiday
Or maybe we can just look at some of the more obscure traditions for old holidays. =) I’m continually amazed by how one culture’s solemn, deeply religious whosit becomes another culture’s excuse-for-a-party whatsit, and vice versa. I’d love to see what might happen to all our holidays in another thousand years or so…
Fragment from a work in progress. Apropos, too, to the failing of winter . . .
The Somewhat Short Tale of the Terribly Long Journey of Master Slade and Bamboo
Fragment from a work in progress. Apropos, too, to the failing of winter . . .
The Somewhat Short Tale of the Terribly Long Journey of Master Slade and Bamboo
They could hear the mewling, shrieking, and moaning. It was to such cacophonous accompaniment that Master Slade and his faithful companion, Bamboo, found themselves consulting Old Man Winter.
“Being brave does not mean one is not afraid,” said the white-haired elder. Jags of blue embroidery touched the hem of his cloak, and where he stood, hoarfrost peppered the ground.
The zombies shuffled several hundred yards away and bumped, periodically, into the metaphysical wards which weren’t going to last much longer.
“What does it mean,” said Bamboo, “to be brave?” His eyes were plastic: one hazel and one blue and both scavenged from near-stuffing less teddy bears Master Slade had laid to rest after the family puppy had savaged them. Now there was no puppy nor family, and Bamboo felt sad. But Bamboo, too, had survived, sight intact, though ofttimes Old Man Winter called him a short-sighted staff (though Bamboo didn’t see what that had to do with anything).
“Bamboo, brave is standing here with me,” said Old Man Winter, “and we need to get over there.” He pointed a gnarled, authoritative finger at a small house a mile down the road from the hill on which they observed the more zombies converging. These new arrivals flailed and battered against an invisible wall, but occasionally a few would get through and wander aimlessly and thankfully unaware of Old Man Winter and his two companions.
“You’re tired, aren’t you?” said Master Slade. He pulled his hood up against the biting cold. He did not look at Old Man Winter. The knuckles of his right hand shone white, and Bamboo would not admit he was being throttled by the boy, and he thought he understood the comfort it must bring the ten year old to grip him so.
Old Man Winter said, “Yes, I am. And time grows short. I have one more cold snap in me, and I believe it could help you two make it to that house.”
“Is it one last frost?” said Master Slade.
The elder shook his head but grinned. “Oh, now, do you think that would be enough? They’re already coming through tears in the wards.”
“I believe we’d still have a hard time,” said Master Slade, thinking how he’d stayed hidden for three days in the woods since the initial attacks. He had scavenged a small camping hatchet from a utility building a few miles back and days ago. The hatchet he attached by its frame hanger to his belt–just like a Boy Scout–and its blade was dark. Chopping zombies was not like chopping firewood because firewood did not try eating you. And they were not like the pinata he’d broken open at Timmy Sloane’s birthday party days ago when the Outbreak came to this small farming community. When zombies broke open . . . stuff came out.
Bamboo decided it was time to clear his reedy throat. “Um, Slade? Please ease up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It happens.”
Old Man Winter exhaled a misty plume. “I have an idea,” he said, kneeling so that he could look into Master Slade’s jade eyes. He considered the hazel-and-blue concern in Bamboo’s own eyes as well. “They will talk about it for years to come. You, Master Slade, shall tell grandchildren the story–I will make it so.” . . .
American Gothic
His hair was purple and black, his T-shirt righteously shredded, his Doc Martens dusty as his threadbare camo pants. His red bandanna was tied to give him the look of someone whose throat was slashed, like a head being held high by an angry zombie. Middle-aged people in the mall were shying away from him. He was scary.
He dialed the music on the iPod louder. His forehead furrowed—the noise didn’t help his headache—but he knew it helped the look. He checked the iPod’s clock.
He had 47 minutes left of being young. Surely something fun would happen soon.
Congrats, then, to Alethea!
Hooray!
Thanks, Berry!