Alara Alara The Place

Inspired by this story. Also by a number of well-known myths, but the central concept comes from magic-and-moonlit-wings.

This falls into the category I call “altered tales”, which are retellings of fairy and folk tales and myths that are... not quite canonical.

Surely you have heard a similar tale before, of the mother who went to the crossroads by the light of the moon, pulling a wagon and carrying her changeling babe, to demand the return of her own child.

By the light of the moon she went to the crossroads, and she called out that the Faeries had stolen a thing from her, and that she demanded to see the King of the Faeries about the matter. And then, in the moment of an eyeblink, the grove she stood beside was full of faeries, some flying, some in trees, some standing, and all were very, very beautiful, but some were very, very strange. The King was the most beautiful, looking far too young to be the ancient creature he was, with black and golden hair long and wild on his head, and pale skin, and endlessly deep black eyes. “You claim that Faeries have taken a thing from you, but we never take without giving fair recompense. Are you calling us dishonorable?”

“Whether you considered what you left me fair recompense or not, you never asked me if I wanted to make the trade,” the mother said, and presented the changeling child. “You left this child in the crib my husband and I built for our babe, the one I carried in my body and birthed from my loins, and never did you ask me if I would take this one in trade for the one I spent blood on to bring to the world. You made the trade without asking me if this was fair recompense, or if I was willing to trade at all.” Then she laid the changeling in its swaddling down in the wagon, and stared a challenge at the King.

The King scowled, for the mother knew the laws. Faeries are bound to trade fairly. They will cheat if they can and take what they can and they will lie and cast glamours to make an item of trade look to be of more worth than it is, but when summoned by one they have tried to cheat, one who knows their laws, they must make things right. “Very well, child of Eve, we will return to you your babe.”

A bassinette was brought forward with a sleeping babe within. The mother removed from under her skirts a small bag, and in the bag was a small bottle, and in the small bottle there was a tincture of silver. She uncorked the small bottle and tipped it back into her eye, in front of the Faerie Court, so they would all see that she would not be fooled by glamours. Then she looked upon the bassinette with the untouched eye closed. “Yes. I see clearly, this is my child.” She lifted the bassinette and placed it in the wagon. “You have returned what you took unfairly, so I will take my leave now,” she said, because you cannot thank Faeries. They consider it very rude.

“Wait,” the King said. Now he was glaring. “Do you think we deserve no fair recompense? Return to us what we paid you.”

The mother raised her eyebrows. “Paid me? You paid me nothing, for I made no trade. You gave me no recompense, for I never agreed to sell my child. Instead you gifted me a babe, without conditions, on the night you stole my own. Now both of them are my children.”

It began when you were 10. You were over Lisa’s house for her birthday, and she received a doll as a gift from her grandparents. Lisa was not known for her graciousness. “Euw! This doll is so creepy!” she complained, pushing it away from herself.

“Let me see,” you said, and Lisa gave you the creepy doll, which in your opinion wasn’t creepy at all. It was a blonde little girl with very large eyes, mouth partially open and visible teeth, rosy cheeks and pale skin.

“That doll is vintage,” Lisa’s grandmother complained. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong is that this doll is ugly and creepy and weird and I don’t want it!”

“I do,” you said. “I think she’s pretty.”

“Well, then,” Lisa’s grandmother said, “Courtney can have the doll.” She smiles benevolently on you. “Go on, dear. You can keep the doll.”

You smiled graciously. “Thank you!” you said, knowing Lisa had just angered her parents and grandparents by being so ungrateful. You wanted to make them feel better. “I know Lisa just gets weirded out by dolls sometimes. She didn’t mean to be rude.”

From Lisa’s glowering expression, it was obvious that she had meant to be rude, but you’d given her an out and now that her initial reaction was past and she knew she didn’t have to keep the doll, it seemed like she’d realized the tactical error she’d made. “I’m sorry, Grandma.  Courtney’s right, I kinda get scared of dolls sometimes.”

“Well, what a stupid thing to be afraid of,” Lisa’s grandmother said, but she was plainly somewhat mollified. “Here. Since you apologized, I’ll give you some money for your birthday.” She fished a five dollar bill out of her wallet. “That doll was worth a lot more than this, but I suppose this is what you’d rather have.”

“Thank you, Grandma!” Lisa said, and the birthday party went on as scheduled.

The doll was quite old, so she needed an old-fashioned name, but one that sounded nice. “Her name is Betty,” you told Lisa’s grandmother later. “She’s really pretty. I’m sorry Lisa was so mean about it.”

“I am too. That child can be so ungrateful sometimes.”

“I’ve been telling Betty that Lisa didn’t mean to be so mean, she just had a bad reaction because she’s scared of dolls. Betty understands, but she’s glad she’s going home with me instead. Dolls don’t like to live with girls who don’t like them.”

“You understand,” Lisa’s grandmother said, nodding. “Dolls have feelings too. They deserve to be with girls who’ll love them.”

“Did you have a doll who looked like this when you were young?“

Her eyes welled with unshed tears. “I did. I lost her when we moved. I’ve been checking antique stores and thrift stores for years, hoping to find her.”

“What was yours named?”

“Eleanor. I named her for a queen, Eleanor of Acquitaine. Have you heard of her?”

You said no, so Lisa’s grandmother – whose actual name was Mrs. Shapiro – talked your head off about kings and queens of England for half an hour before you got a chance to go play.

Once you were home, headed up the stairs to your room, Betty complained. “Lisa’s ugly. And mean.”

“She didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. She’s actually a very nice person. She just… is scared of dolls.” You shifted Betty in your arms so instead of lying in them like a baby, she was facing outward, her back against your chest and your arm around her middle, so she could see the others. When you opened the door, you gestured at your other dolls, the ones on your bookshelves and on your dresser. “Hello, everyone! This is Betty!”

“Hi, Betty!” the dolls chorused.( Read more... )

This is set in the same universe as #5: Build, but features a completely different species and set of characters.

Rrahe’nek stared at the tiny, coatless creature looking up at him, its teeth bared but its digits bereft of weapons. Instead, there was a rich-smelling ceramic dish in its hands, hot, steaming and wrapped in a cloth. It spoke incomprehensibly.

He had come here expecting a battle. Hoping. The newest species to enter galactic territory was a protégé of the Diwar, and Rrahe’nek despised the feathered ones. They were arrogant, but pathetic. Their weapons were superb, no one denied that, but their warriors were cowards, planting bombs and running away. Rrahe’nek had heard that their proteges had far inferior technology, were smaller, and had no natural physical weapons. Either they were the weakest prey-sapients the Kai had ever encountered, or they had ferocious battle techniques to make up for their biological inadequacies. When one had come alone toward the Kai encampment, Rrahe’nek had been delighted, assuming it was the second option. He had come out alone himself to meet the alien warrior in battle, take its measure… and defeat it, of course, no aliens had ever defeated a Kai warrior in single combat, but the contest would be exhilarating before Rrahe’nek won it in the end.

Instead, here he was faced with a small alien with a curled mane, but no fur elsewhere on its body, holding out what smelled like a dish of cooked food.

He poked his tongue into the bead at the back of his mouth that activated his voder as a communicator. “Warrior Fifth Rank Rrahe’nek to den.”

“Den here, Warrior Fifth. Heat signature says you’re in range of the alien, but have not engaged?”

“That’s correct. It – it seems to be trying to give me food.”

A moment of silence. Then, “What.”

“Its teeth are bared, but it has no weapons, it’s made no threatening moves, it isn’t running away, and it’s trying to hand me a dish that smells like fish.”

“Hold position. We’re getting eyes on your location.”

“Acknowledged.”( Read more... )

Based on “Dr. Ultraviolet Meets Her Nemesis“, a supervillain comedy I am working on about a supervillain who has to take shelter with her extremely mundane sister.

“What exactly is this… stuff?” Ultraviolet asked her sister, with a sneer that she hoped was making it clear she could be using stronger language.

“You asked for books,” Scarlett said, “so I brought you some of mine.”

Ultraviolet tried to count to 10, but Scarlett interrupted at 4. “I think you might really like Chiaoscuro. It’s about a superheroine who falls in love with a magnetic, charismatic villain—”

“It’s a romance novel,” Ultraviolet said.

“Yes. I know they weren’t your favorites but—”

“I despise romance novels,” Ultraviolet said. “Would it have truly killed you to go to a bookstore and get me something I might possibly enjoy, rather than just bringing me whatever dreck you happened to have lying around on your bookshelf?”

“There aren’t any bookstores around here. Everest drove them all out of business. I could have ordered from them, but they’re evil.”

Ultraviolet happened to know that this was absolutely true. The last time she’d been invited to attend the Villainy Connection yearly networking event for supervillains, Everest’s CEO Josh Bevel had been the keynote speaker. Given that she herself was a supervillain, this was hardly a dealbreaker for her. “Libraries exist, then. And what about used book stores?”

“Look, I went out of my way to do you a favor, Violet,” Scarlett said. “It’s not like I don’t have a lot going on. I’ve got four kids, the economy’s been slowing down and people aren’t buying houses so much lately, and I’ve been having issues with Gavin.”

From long experience with her sister, Ultraviolet knew that Scarlett wanted her to ask about her issues with Gavin, but Ultraviolet would have had difficulty caring less. “How hard is it to bring me a book that isn’t a godawful romance novel? Do I look like the kind of suburban mom who’s wasted her life dreaming of some Mr. Wonderful sweeping her off her feet?”

“It sounds like you’re saying that’s what I am.”

“The shoes don’t just fit, Scarlett, they’re on sale and you have ten pairs in your closet.”( Read more... )

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Darla called, limping across the living room to the front door. Goodness, who was ringing the front doorbell? She knew everyone in town, and they knew to knock at the kitchen door, even the Amazon package delivery people and the driver for the new Indian restaurant over in town. She’d barely been in the living room for a week, ever since she’d hosted the last monthly meeting of the book club.

She reached the door, unbolted the lock, and pulled it open. “Can I help–?”

And stopped, staring.

She should have pulled aside the curtain and looked through the window before opening the door – what she’d done hadn’t been very secure. But the person on the other side of the door wasn’t the kind of danger she could have called 911 about.

Waves of shining auburn hair, brilliant green eyes, pale, unfreckled skin… and no sign of age. At all. Forty-five years, and the woman on her porch looked exactly the same.

“Jolene…?” Darla whispered.( Read more... )

Oh, I feel stupid even saying this, but this is based on the Dolly Parton song “Jolene”, for the approximately 12 people in the world who didn’t know.

I probably should have refused the job as soon as she told me I was going to have to change my name, but it was Cat Schrödinger, man.  What hench in her right mind wouldn’t give her left tit to work for her? 

“I can’t have you calling yourself Diamond Bitch,” she said. “Can you go by Diamond, instead?”

“It’s a play on words,” I argued. “You know. Bowie’s Diamond Dogs. So I’m a Diamond Bitch. What’s wrong with that? I mean, we’re villains. I don’t have to have some kind of hero-code-compliant name.”

“Bitch is a misogynistic slur and it offends me.” She looked up at me through thick glasses like I was a specimen she was analyzing. It made me uncomfortable. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“I… guess I can call myself Diamond,” I said. “Doesn’t sound really original, though. I mean, there are girls in trailer parks who are named Diamond on their birth certificate.”

“If you’d like to call yourself Diamond Dog, I can accept that.”

Yeah, no. Maybe Cat Schrödinger was offended by the word bitch, but I thought it had a lot more chops than dog. A dog is loyal and kinda dumb and will follow you everywhere wagging her tail. A bitch will bite you if you fuck with her. “Nah, I’ll stick with Diamond, I guess.” I leaned back on the wall, adopting my “cool” pose. I like my cool pose. I’ve practiced it in the mirror a lot. “So, what’s the job? You got something spectacular planned for your coming back to the game? Or is it just general henching?”

“Neither,” Dr. Schrödinger said. “I need a bodyguard—”

“Okay, that’s cool, I can bodyguard—”

“—for my kids. Someone who can keep them safe while I go back into the ‘game’, as you put it.”

That was the point where I should have definitely refused the job. ( Read more... )

Set in the same universe as "The Cold At The Heart Of The Light" but features a different character.

The executor nodded. “It looks like they didn’t do anything to take care of the yard for the past 10 years. When Walter died, the paramedics had to borrow a weed clipper from the wife to get the walkway wide enough that they could get the stretcher through.”

“My God,” Max said. “Is – was there any chance they could have saved his life otherwise?”

“Oh, no, I’m sure there wasn’t,” the executor said. “He was pronounced DOA. But Helen wants to sell the place and move to an assisted living community. Apparently Walter’d been telling her for ten years that he was having things taken care of – either he was doing the chores, or he was having a landscaper come by, or something – and with her being mostly bed-ridden, she took his word for it.”

“That poor woman. She really hasn’t left her house in ten years?”

“Aside from going outside to bring in grocery and package delivery, neither did Walter. We’ve found a few paths he made through the underbrush to get to the gate where they’d leave the packages, but they weren’t big enough to bring the stretcher through.” The executor shook his head. “The best we can figure, either he was a hoarder of garden vegetation, or he had the worst cast of procrastination anyone’s ever seen.” He gave the suburban jungle one last eyeing-over before turning to Max. “What can you do with this?”

“A lot,” Max said, “but too much of that growth is woody for me to just make it all disappear. When green-stem plants die, like flowers and tomatoes, they just collapse to the ground, but woody plants like trees and shrubs and some kinds of vine will still be there when they die… they won’t continue to grow, their roots will shrink and they’ll dry out and be easier to dig out or cut down, but it’s still going to take some work to remove them.” He pulled at a woody vine that had completely swallowed the white picket fence… at least he thought it was probably a white picket fence from the tiny bits of picket that showed through the vines.

My mother was a witch, but she died when I was too young to learn her craft from her. My stepmother was a witch, but she hated me and taught me nothing. Everything I know, I have learned for myself.

When the prince awakened me with a kiss, he expected me to be his wife, and I had no idea there was any other possibility. No, even to say that implies more questioning than I did. I had been raised a princess, taught that my value would be in marrying the prince of another land and securing an alliance for my father’s kingdom. When the prince said he would marry me, I did not particularly want to – I wanted to return to my simple life in the cottage, with my dwarven friends – but if I had been asked, I would have said I chose the marriage freely. Because I had been taught, this was my value, this was the most important task of my life. This was why the huntsman had spared me, why the dwarves had found me and cared for me. This was my purpose.

He was handsome, and I thought he was kind. Certainly he treated me as something lovely and precious to be protected, at first. On our marriage night, he demanded a husband’s rights, and I had been left ignorant of such things by my stepmother and how young I’d been when I went to live with seven wifeless men who would have died rather than corrupt my innocence with a hint of such knowledge. It was painful, and somewhat frightening, but he was the man whose kiss had awakened me from the sleep of death. I trusted him.

I should not have.

The cultist standing behind the child’s head, the one holding the knife, spoke. “O Great One, accept the sacrifice of this innocent!  Feed on its soul—”

“I’m not an it, you motherfuckers—”

“—restore your strength, and rise from your—”

A sound that had been gradually getting louder became recognizable finally as the sound of… a swing band, playing In the Mood. It was distracting enough that the cultist holding the knife lowered his hand slightly. “What the hell is that?”