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edenfallingWhile the first ficathon post, is still open for fills and comments, there is now a second post for new prompts if you want to come play too. :)
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25. Forernest: Narnia, girl!Edmund, crafted from ice, written 12/31/18 [AO3 version]
Cold and Light (125 words)
They say the Pevensies weren't four when they came to Narnia -- or if they were, the second sister died in Winter's last gasp. They say the younger queen is a construct of snow sculpted by the Witch and slipped in as a spy, that the prophecy of four thrones has yet to be fulfilled, that the false queen is merely biding her time until she can summon her maker once more.
Edith Pevensie sits in her chambers in Cair Paravel, a mirror of ice in her hands, and laughs as the rumors spread, and split, and recombine; what does it matter that this body was spun from snow by her murderer's hands, when the Lion rescued her soul and gave her a second chance at life, and her family welcomed her home?
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26. Forernest: Narnia, any, "Nothing, my lord, but that the world's grown honest." "Then is Doomsday near.", written 12/31/18 [AO3 version]
White Lies (75 words)
"Oh, pish on you and your gloom," said Mrs. Beaver, waving her butter knife by way of emphasis. "We always knew Juniper Gubbins was a double-agent, just as the rest of us are when needs must; where's the difference if she's finally admitted how she gets her saffron and sugar?"
"She still didn't ought to have said it in public," Mr. Beaver maintained, but he spooned a bit of black-market jam onto his scone without further belaboring the point.
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27. Forrunespoor: Homestuck, any, I pity anyone who has never been in cahoots., written 12/31/18 [AO3 version]
Truth Rising From His Armchair To Shame Some Hatefriends (125 words)
"It's two people working together to pull off a bigger prank than either one could manage on their own," Dave said as he flicked his fingers against Terezi's shoulder and dropped the remote control on John's head. "You, stop making everything sound more complicated than it really is just to annoy him, and you, stop playing dumber than you really are just to piss her off. Also, congratulations, you just pulled off a successful cahootship -- at least assuming your goal was to drive everyone else out of the room so you could carry on your disgusting pitch-flirting in echoing isolation -- and on that note, no gross biological fluids on the couch, other people have to sit there, and try not to be bleeding too obviously when you come down for dinner."
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28. Forjjhunter: Murderbot, any, postcards from Asshole Research Transit, written 12/31/18 [AO3 version]
ARTs and Crafts (425 words)
Note: Structural restrictions, what structural restrictions? *wry*
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The difficulty with having a known location you return to on a semi-regular basis -- all right, a home; I'm not actually allergic to words, even if that would make an intriguing plot twist -- is that it gives people a way to find you. As a Sec-Unit, I'm predisposed to interpret that as a threat, but it turns out that sometimes people try to find each other for reasons that are more annoying than dangerous.
Which is a long and roundabout way of saying that ART sent me a postcard yesterday. Not an electronic transmission. An actual, physical piece of processed wood pulp with a glossy picture on the front and neat binary typeface on the back, because ART has a terrible sense of humor and earned their name for a reason.
The picture was of a nebula, which is not something I've ever paid much attention to. Nebulae are unlikely to exhibit direct hostile intent toward humans, and when they're acting as passive environmental hazards, their visual appearance is generally irrelevant compared to things like magnetic field interference. The colors didn't clash horribly.
The message said, "You don't have the instruments to fully appreciate this nebula, but neither do my crew and they tell me this color-enhanced still image is aesthetically pleasing despite the lack of microwave emission data. They also tell me that some cultures engage in a tradition known as 'housewarming gifts,' which I have verified through judicious sampling of media feeds. I note that several characters on Sanctuary Moon engage in this tradition, and therefore hypothesize that you're also familiar with it. Please consider this a housewarming gift and display it upon a suitable flat vertical surface for public admiration."
I thought about asking Dr. Mensah for advice.
Then I decided that if I couldn't handle a social interaction with this degree of both physical and temporal lack of proximity, I should probably give up on the whole independent entity experiment. Well, not really. But you get my point.
I fastened the postcard to Mensah's son's cold storage unit with a magnet I borrowed from one of the broken household appliances her daughter likes to collect and occasionally attempt to repair. This is, according to my understanding, the traditional response to childhood art projects.
I took a still image of the postcard on the storage unit, scrambled the data file, and sent it out to ART's home university. I figure whenever it arrives, they'll appreciate the joke. If not, oh well. I did say their sense of humor is terrible.
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29. Forjjhunter: any, any, science! in adventure with reality, written 12/31/18 [AO3 version]
Mad Science Recruitment Pitch (175 words)
"The thing is, see-- the thing is, once you realize the entire universe is basically frog guts, then all the little jagged bits on the edges of scientific theories, the parts that refuse to tie down neat and tidy and symmetrical in beautiful loops of math, they all start to make sense. Of course it's nonsense; biology is always nonsense; and biology made up of motherfucking computer code is even worse, because who ever heard of a computer language that didn't glurge itself up into gibberish given half a moment's leeway, right?
"But getting back to the point," -- here Dr. Lalonde pauses and exchanges her empty champagne flute for a fresh one from a passing waiter's tray -- "the thing is, once you have a working theory, you can make predictions and even adjustments -- rewrite the fabric of reality itself! -- yeah, go on, imagine a good mad cackle; I'd do one myself but I never really got the knack -- and that is what I want to hire you to help us do at Skaia Labs."
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30. Forshinon: Any, any, over roots, bloody knees, and bent-over trees, written 12/31/18 [AO3 version]
A Long Time Ago on My Grave (125 words)
It's true the Rings are gone, melted and burnt up in the crucible of the train as it smashed into the station. But there are other ways into the Wood if you know where to look: grubby tradesman's doors instead of the grand front entrance, or a tunnel hacked through a hedge of thorns before the century curse's terms are met: secret ways and small, where the story's lord would not think to look or set a lock.
Susan crouches and stumbles her way through the roots, feeling her way through the dark earth with bloody fingers and feet, until she finds the drying echo of a pool that once held her heart entire, and knows, at last, that there is no more way home.
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And that is the last of what I wrote in 2018!
Now I think I will go take a walk, after which I will take a nap, because I am still tragically afflicted with the cold that struck me on Thursday night. (I loathe upper respiratory ailments. I loathe them very much.)
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25. For
ernest: Narnia, girl!Edmund, crafted from ice, written 12/31/18 [AO3 version]Cold and Light (125 words)
They say the Pevensies weren't four when they came to Narnia -- or if they were, the second sister died in Winter's last gasp. They say the younger queen is a construct of snow sculpted by the Witch and slipped in as a spy, that the prophecy of four thrones has yet to be fulfilled, that the false queen is merely biding her time until she can summon her maker once more.
Edith Pevensie sits in her chambers in Cair Paravel, a mirror of ice in her hands, and laughs as the rumors spread, and split, and recombine; what does it matter that this body was spun from snow by her murderer's hands, when the Lion rescued her soul and gave her a second chance at life, and her family welcomed her home?
---------------
---------------
26. For
ernest: Narnia, any, "Nothing, my lord, but that the world's grown honest." "Then is Doomsday near.", written 12/31/18 [AO3 version]White Lies (75 words)
"Oh, pish on you and your gloom," said Mrs. Beaver, waving her butter knife by way of emphasis. "We always knew Juniper Gubbins was a double-agent, just as the rest of us are when needs must; where's the difference if she's finally admitted how she gets her saffron and sugar?"
"She still didn't ought to have said it in public," Mr. Beaver maintained, but he spooned a bit of black-market jam onto his scone without further belaboring the point.
---------------
---------------
27. For
runespoor: Homestuck, any, I pity anyone who has never been in cahoots., written 12/31/18 [AO3 version]Truth Rising From His Armchair To Shame Some Hatefriends (125 words)
"It's two people working together to pull off a bigger prank than either one could manage on their own," Dave said as he flicked his fingers against Terezi's shoulder and dropped the remote control on John's head. "You, stop making everything sound more complicated than it really is just to annoy him, and you, stop playing dumber than you really are just to piss her off. Also, congratulations, you just pulled off a successful cahootship -- at least assuming your goal was to drive everyone else out of the room so you could carry on your disgusting pitch-flirting in echoing isolation -- and on that note, no gross biological fluids on the couch, other people have to sit there, and try not to be bleeding too obviously when you come down for dinner."
---------------
---------------
28. For
jjhunter: Murderbot, any, postcards from Asshole Research Transit, written 12/31/18 [AO3 version]ARTs and Crafts (425 words)
Note: Structural restrictions, what structural restrictions? *wry*
-----
The difficulty with having a known location you return to on a semi-regular basis -- all right, a home; I'm not actually allergic to words, even if that would make an intriguing plot twist -- is that it gives people a way to find you. As a Sec-Unit, I'm predisposed to interpret that as a threat, but it turns out that sometimes people try to find each other for reasons that are more annoying than dangerous.
Which is a long and roundabout way of saying that ART sent me a postcard yesterday. Not an electronic transmission. An actual, physical piece of processed wood pulp with a glossy picture on the front and neat binary typeface on the back, because ART has a terrible sense of humor and earned their name for a reason.
The picture was of a nebula, which is not something I've ever paid much attention to. Nebulae are unlikely to exhibit direct hostile intent toward humans, and when they're acting as passive environmental hazards, their visual appearance is generally irrelevant compared to things like magnetic field interference. The colors didn't clash horribly.
The message said, "You don't have the instruments to fully appreciate this nebula, but neither do my crew and they tell me this color-enhanced still image is aesthetically pleasing despite the lack of microwave emission data. They also tell me that some cultures engage in a tradition known as 'housewarming gifts,' which I have verified through judicious sampling of media feeds. I note that several characters on Sanctuary Moon engage in this tradition, and therefore hypothesize that you're also familiar with it. Please consider this a housewarming gift and display it upon a suitable flat vertical surface for public admiration."
I thought about asking Dr. Mensah for advice.
Then I decided that if I couldn't handle a social interaction with this degree of both physical and temporal lack of proximity, I should probably give up on the whole independent entity experiment. Well, not really. But you get my point.
I fastened the postcard to Mensah's son's cold storage unit with a magnet I borrowed from one of the broken household appliances her daughter likes to collect and occasionally attempt to repair. This is, according to my understanding, the traditional response to childhood art projects.
I took a still image of the postcard on the storage unit, scrambled the data file, and sent it out to ART's home university. I figure whenever it arrives, they'll appreciate the joke. If not, oh well. I did say their sense of humor is terrible.
---------------
---------------
29. For
jjhunter: any, any, science! in adventure with reality, written 12/31/18 [AO3 version]Mad Science Recruitment Pitch (175 words)
"The thing is, see-- the thing is, once you realize the entire universe is basically frog guts, then all the little jagged bits on the edges of scientific theories, the parts that refuse to tie down neat and tidy and symmetrical in beautiful loops of math, they all start to make sense. Of course it's nonsense; biology is always nonsense; and biology made up of motherfucking computer code is even worse, because who ever heard of a computer language that didn't glurge itself up into gibberish given half a moment's leeway, right?
"But getting back to the point," -- here Dr. Lalonde pauses and exchanges her empty champagne flute for a fresh one from a passing waiter's tray -- "the thing is, once you have a working theory, you can make predictions and even adjustments -- rewrite the fabric of reality itself! -- yeah, go on, imagine a good mad cackle; I'd do one myself but I never really got the knack -- and that is what I want to hire you to help us do at Skaia Labs."
---------------
---------------
30. For
shinon: Any, any, over roots, bloody knees, and bent-over trees, written 12/31/18 [AO3 version]A Long Time Ago on My Grave (125 words)
It's true the Rings are gone, melted and burnt up in the crucible of the train as it smashed into the station. But there are other ways into the Wood if you know where to look: grubby tradesman's doors instead of the grand front entrance, or a tunnel hacked through a hedge of thorns before the century curse's terms are met: secret ways and small, where the story's lord would not think to look or set a lock.
Susan crouches and stumbles her way through the roots, feeling her way through the dark earth with bloody fingers and feet, until she finds the drying echo of a pool that once held her heart entire, and knows, at last, that there is no more way home.
---------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------
And that is the last of what I wrote in 2018!
Now I think I will go take a walk, after which I will take a nap, because I am still tragically afflicted with the cold that struck me on Thursday night. (I loathe upper respiratory ailments. I loathe them very much.)
