Be the change you want to see.

Smoke Signals
(7/5/15)
https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903428



Her efforts were all in vain. It was stupid of her to believe she could remember those ridiculous long ago lessons in woodcraft and firemaking. Despair struck Darla hard in the chest for a moment. She might not freeze to death, if she were careful, but she needed fire for light and to scare off predators larger than the mosquitoes and black flies that had been biting and pinching her for what felt like hours and hours.

How did she get separated from the rest of the women on the rafting trip? She let her hand drift to the welt at the back of her head that the black flies had been tormenting. Quite a knot there. She recognized her own disorientation, dizziness, and difficulty with balance as likely symptoms of concussion. Thank god she still had her canteen and her “batman utility belt” as her lover teased her. She had a good small knife, water purification tablets, and a weekend-plus-one’s dose of her medicines in a tiny orange waterproof matchholder, all firmly attached at her waist. If only Darla weren’t so beholden to “better living through modern chemistry, she’d still have MATCHES in the matchholder instead.
“You’re going on a rafting trip with a professional guide and half a dozen other forty-something women,” she mumbled out loud to herself, “YOU won’t need matches, the guide will be prepared!”
She took a short drink from the canteen.
“No, much better to use the waterproof container for your meds, it would make you miserable and risk your life if you got THOSE wet or worse, you’d inconvenience everyone else needing to get a helicopter lift out from the campground!”

She groaned and leaned away from the tree she’d propped herself against to slump forward, elbows on her knees and hands supporting her head. Darla hissed as her uncautious fingers poked the large, sluggishly bleeding lump behind her right ear. It was very tender, as she already knew from allowing her giant head to thump back against the tree trunk earlier. She hoped it was just a bad bruise and a bit of a cut, actually cracking her skull seemed a bit much even for a clutz like herself.

Taking a deep breath she tenderly explored the extent of the damage with her fingertips, starting by barely grazing over the skin and progressing to gentle pressure. While the firmer pressure was very painful, it felt nothing like the pain from the broken arm she’d had as a child, and that was reassuring.

It was, however hard to think clearly. That was disconcerting, but at least she had water. Her most pressing necessities would be staying warm enough overnight, fending off any ambitious wildlife larger than these damn (OW!) biting flies, and caring for her injury.

She injudiciously shook her head trying to clear it, and whined again as it woke up the pain behind her ear. That was enough reminder. She couldn’t afford to fall asleep, she didn’t remember much about concussions but she’d certainly seen enough bad medical dramas to know that it was a bad idea to fall asleep for long without someone to check on her.

She was still feeling waterlogged a couple of hours after she’d woken up and pulled herself out of the river, surely they would be looking for her sometime soon?

She checked the surge of panic that thought brought to her by slow, steady breathing (hooray for yoga!).

Okay, she thought, time to do a quick inventory.
Knife? Check.
Meds? Check.
Water? Check.
Decent shoes? Check. Her waterproof hiking sandals had stayed on her feet, despite whatever had happened to land her in the river. (she wishes she could remember)
Protective clothes? Check. Being allergic to the sun, it turns out, had some advantages. So did shopping at the expensive outdoor outfitter for quick-drying clothes that were SPF 50. Sadly she’d apparently lost her hat, but her neck kerchief worked okay for now to keep the sun off part of her face.
Body? Check. She smiled wryly. Aside from a few scrapes and bruises and one viciously broken fingernail, her worst injury was the bash she’d gotten on her head, and even that seemed to have quit bleeding finally. Her thick curly hair was catching a bit in the drying blood, but that was far from the worst of her worries.

Flotation device? Check, although perhaps it would be a good idea to hang the bright orange life vest from one of the trees near the river for rescuers to see? With the broken latch on the vest she might not want to trust herself to the river again. Though she knows that is one of her possible rescue options: to rescue herself. She smiled in a small way. It would be a great excuse for buying one of those cute “Self-Rescuing Princess” tee shirts she had seen on the geeky art website her friend had sent the link to.

Sense of Humor. Apparently intact. Cool.
She gave herself a grin and gave the whole forest a double thumbs up.

Okay, what else.

Thinking and planning capacity, only mildly damaged. Witness: the list above. Other possible options: try to remember how to build a fire, how to make a shelter and bedding of some kind, in case rescue doesn’t happen before nightfall. Disturbing idea, okay.

Time to test the resources. She gathered her courage, braced her hands behind her, and shifted so her left knee was on the ground. GodDAMN her head hurt!

Just shifting that much was almost enough to knock her back on her keister again, between the dizziness and the pain. She breathed quick and shallow and kept her head up. Obviously hanging her head was not an option. Okay.
She shifted to hands and knees, fighting the swimming of her eyesight, the dizziness, and the pain in her head which seemed to rocket around inside her skull.

“Okay,” she said out loud, “Crawling it is, for now.” She slung her canteen crosswise over her shoulder, slowly, because her head was still throbbing minutes after even the gentle movement of shifting from sitting to go to all fours.

She looked around for deadwood that might serve for a walking stick. A straight pine forest wouldn’t offer much in that regard, she remembered from her long ago camping experience, but this trip, she remembered the guide saying, was through mixed hardwood and coniferous forest. THAT is a pine tree with long needles, THAT is a California scrub oak, THAT is a … bay laurel? Okay. Not much deadfall handy at the moment. More important is to experiment gently, see if standing is a up and coming attraction. She snickered at her own joke.

“Wow, you’re a really friendly room tonight! Thank you so much, make sure to tip your waitstaff, they work harder than any of the rest of us!”

One hand against the sticky bark of the pine tree she’d been sitting against, she kept her head level (Look, people, she CAN be taught!), shoulders back, spine straight, belly muscles strong. Carefully, with deliberately slow movements, she brought herself to standing, and if she was a little wobbly and even frightened, there was no one but the mosquitoes to judge her for it.

She gingerly shifted her weight back and forth between her feet, continuing her ongoing tally of resources. Feet, ankles, legs, check. Hips, ass, torso, somewhat bruised and still damp, check. Arms and shoulders, hands, pretty good shape, though that torn off fingernail was annoyingly painful and she wished she had a huge bandaid and neosporin. Neck, okay…

Starting to roll her neck was probably the second worst mistake she’d made all day, as the famous nausea that hits people with concussions finally made its appearance. She lost her breakfast and the water she’d just drunk, in violent, painful spasms behind the tree she’d been sitting against. When she finished being sick, she found herself sitting on her ass again, the last of the vomit still in her mouth. She spit it as far away as she could. Oh, her head. NOW her head felt like someone had been swinging a bowling ball around in there, bashing into all the walls.

Darla told herself with asperity to never mind how someone could swing a bowling ball around in there, it’s just a descriptive metaphor and she could just shut the hell up if she was going to be hypercritical just after she had thrown up.

Fumbling for the canteen, she took a cautious sip, swishing the water around a bit to clear the taste of bile from her mouth.

Nothing else was quite as important as calming the calamity raging behind her eyes. She scooched backwards gently to lean back again against her friendly friend the pine tree. Darla, honey, if you can’t come up with a better phrase than “friendly friend”, it’s definitely time to stop thinking for a bit and rest your poor damaged skull.

She made sure to not actually allow herself to fall asleep, but she did allow her mind to drift and wander gently, without thinking and planning, for a short while. Who knew that stabbing nauseating concussiony head pain is better if you don’t move suddenly? Huh, she snorted. Shocker.

When she pulled herself out of her lassitude and drifting, she spent a few moments massaging and stretching her hands and feet. One must take good care of what one has, she considered. These are valuable resources right now, these healthy body parts. She moved on to do what she could of her usual daily warm up before digging in at the gym. Thankfully she remembered not to roll her neck or tip her head before starting herself on another adventure in vomiting, but the extremely slow and gentle shoulder rolls and stretches that she could do while seated did seem to help with the tightness of neck, chest, and hips that she’d had since climbing out of the river.

So, she thought, if sudden movement of the head made her nauseous and/or throw up, she was going to have to be very slow and deliberate with her movements for the next while. Task one: top up the water supply.

Darla fished out the water purification tablet, dropping it in her canteen and closing the top. Keeping her head as still and upright as she could, only wincing occasionally when her head shifted painfully, she crawled back to the riverbank with the orange life vest. Filling the canteen at the riverside and hanging the vest up in view of the river were slow and ponderous tasks, carefully and deliberately undertaken. Since Darla couldn’t trust her head enough yet to keep herself afloat in the changing rapids, she figured giving up the padding that the vest provide for her tuchis was worth the chance of being noticed and hopefully rescued by a boater.

She rested her head again while perched on the bank, swirling the water in her canteen, and drinking enough to let her take her meds. After a bit, she started gathering up a bit of deadwood on all fours, carefully, tossing it ahead of her in the direction of her chosen resting spot further up the slope. Clearing a campfire circle, and working at building a fire, took up close to an hour, and she found herself halfway sincerely thinking, “thank god it’s summer, and this isn’t a Jack London story.”

Fire was achieved, slowly and painfully, at the cost of splinters and sore muscles. She revisited old bittersweet nostalgic memories of her Scout leader, Robin, who’d passed away at 60 from multiple sclerosis, and who’d taught her to sing and camp and recognize edible plants as a teenager. She kept the fire fed as the sun slowly slid down the afternoon of its slope toward the tops of the mountains. She meditated on old friends she’d lost touch with, as she maintained her smoky smoky fire, feeding it pine needles and leaves gathered from the neighborhood as she cleared the fire circle. She’d found one sturdy stick long enough if needed one for a cane or for whacking.

She was hugely relieved to realize, eventually, that it was a Good Enough Fire. Shortly before dusk filled the river valley, Darla started to hear the outboard motor of a boat that had come to investigate the fire, and then heard the rescue team, calling from the river with a megaphone.

She hadn’t been that glad to see another person’s face in maybe YEARS. (But then, she admitted to being a slightly crotchety introvert, given her druthers.) The big smiles and hearty “Hello!”s they exchanged as two strong State Park Rangers hopped out of the boat and started towards her were joyful and relieved. Darla made some very horrible jokes including “we’ve GOT to stop meeting like this” while the one checked her for injuries and pupil dilation and the other extinguished her smoky fire.

Then she put herself in their competent hands as they helped her walk gingerly down the slope back to the water, the boat, and the way home. She had only been lost for six hours or so, maybe seven.

Her head hurt, bandaged as it was, and she was in the ambulance to the hospital for a final check up and probably an overnight stay due to the concussion.
But the pleased expression on her face stayed constant, because she did it. She rescued herself.

Damn STRAIGHT she was going to buy that geeky t-shirt and wear it with ridiculous pride. She’d earned that title.

NOTE: this tee shirt: http://www.thinkgeek.com/product/b3e7/

Day 3: prompt is Cryptid

slinking forth from the forest
blending with the trees
gliding soundlessly towards where you were
*
you never saw
you never heard
the wind rippled
that alone showed my passing
*
the fire was warm
comforting
mesmerizing
you played guitar and sang
irresistibly i was drawn to you
*
it was only after i embraced you
that i noticed the music had stopped
only after i withdrew
that i noticed the fire was out
and the chill froze my heart
and the ground, and your body
frost covered dull blackness where fire had been
*
i killed what i loved
without knowing i could, or would
untouchable forever
untouching forever
my fate, my ignorance and how it played out
*
i wander now
so far from mankind
what am i?
doesn't matter.
i pay for my thoughtlessness
with aching aloneness
*
i swore nevermore to snuff out life
even at the cost
of loving ever again.

y’all I got like five hundred bookmarks over on the AO3 and it’s well past time I shared some of that goodness with y’all. I’ll start with the novel length, longfic (50,000 words at least) because damn there is some really good stuff out there.

A Pretty Boy with a Bird Tattoo: Kryptaria​ and rayvanfox Kinky, lovely, polyamourous version of Nat/Steve/Bucky, with OC family and bonus tattoos and piercings! Mmmmm.

All The Angels and The Saints by Speranza In which Steve Rogers loses God and finds God and loses God, and also: Bucky.

Is It Pretending If I Already Want You? by OhCaptainMyCaptain Fake Boyfriend AU where the best friend has been waiting for Steve to stop being so clueless for like a really long time.

4 Minute Window series by Speranza, counteragent, monicawoe In which Bucky rescues STEVE. Both stories are complete, but the series is not.

Ain't No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down) by spitandvinegar Defies easy encapsulation and description. Which is why I loved it. Splendid original characters, original plot, descriptions.

Meet-Cute AU's by 74daysFluffy Meet-cute series, with each scenario different. I was quite impressed with the variety.

This, You Protect by owlet. Adorably Grumpy Bucky Barnes as he ditches his programming post CA:TWS. First of the Infinite Coffee and Protection Detail series.

Circling Back by chaya Best kind of hurt/comfort, with donkey-kicks at the end of some chapters. Gosh this author is good at that.

And 8 makes a list. Now I think I will go do a reread. <3

Suddenly, KITTENS. Kittens everywhere. Steve couldn’t understand how every single one of the Avengers, every single member of security and support staff, were suddenly talking about, sharing photos of, and even bringing the actual animals in to work at the Tower.
His own kitten was pathetic and adorable, and was of course discovered in a moment of maximum pathos: crusty eyes, covered with fleas (that jumped dark against the star on his chest after Steve picked him up), sneezing, and mewing pitiably as he cringed beneath a pile of garbage in that old dark Brooklyn alley after Steve came home from the mission in Pennsylvania.

The kittens were all adorable, but Steve can’t be the only one to have noticed that during the last week every kitten he’s petted, stroked, played string with, admired, has a small bump in the very center of their skull. In the exact same spot. In the center of their skull.

Once is an accident. Twice is coincidence. Three times (and two dozen times) is, well… is time to call Bruce and ask him to examine Liberty from bottom to top, making sure he’s pure kitten with no unnatural, um, additives. Was that weird? Did that make his kitten sound like he was a food product? ugh, that’s awful. He needs to be sure to never ever say this out loud.

Bruce examines Libby thoroughly. (“You know I’m not that kind of doctor, Steve…” he said with a tiny smile, accepting the kitten, paws frantic, high squeaking heading for the upper range of human hearing, tiny sharp claws at full extension.)

“Libby seems fine, Steve. As far as a near microscopic examination can tell, he’s an ordinary Felis Cattus with a curious small protrusion of his skull. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that all the kittens come from a family where this is a harmless genetic mutation.”

“What bothers me, Bruce, is that the kittens here at the Tower came here from all over the five boroughs… Delia in R & D drives in from Hoboken, said she found her kitten going through the backyard trash bins. Sam found his kitten when he was visiting his mom in Queens. I found Libby in Brooklyn. They can’t all be from the same family! Now statistically speaking, how likely is that?”

Neither man, thinking hard during this discussion, has noticed that the tiny kitten Steve thinks of as “his,” is quietly tucked up in “loaf of bread” position on the end of the laboratory table, freakishly huge radar dish kitten ears perked, and large, now clear, blue eyes lazily watching them both.

Bruce frowns and pulls off his glasses, reaching for a handkerchief in his shirt pocket. “Unlikely at best.” He glances over at the unnaturally well-behaved kitten curled up tidily at the end of his table. “What about it, Liberty? Care to share your secrets with us?”

The response is a lazy blink from a seemingly contented kitten, whose head falls forward slightly as his eyes seem to close.

“I don’t think we’re going to hear anything from the source here. We may want to hire a veterinarian with enough security clearance to examine all the kittens in the Tower, just to make sure nothing untoward is happening.” (The kitten’s eyes slit open briefly, then close again)

“Let’s do that,” says Steve. “I mean, we want to make sure they’re healthy anyway, best case scenario. If we get a vet who’s a research veterinarian, can’t we ask them to look for anything out of the ordinary?”

“Sure,” says Bruce, lifting his eyes and his chin toward the ceiling. “JARVIS, can you please start hunting us up a veterinarian within those stated parameters?”

“Certainly, Doctor Banner. I can even initiate contact with likely candidates and narrow the field for you by start of business tomorrow morning.” The smooth, British accented voice of the resident artificial intelligence was inherently soothing, and the next piece of the puzzle was in good hands. Steve relaxed.

Libby yawned widely, showing needle sharp teeth, and stretched his front paws out to show off his tiny needle sharp claws as well. From his sphinx like pose, he regarded Steve’s massive chest like it was a tree to climb, and then took up the challenge. Leaping from his seated position, he latched on to Steve’s tee shirt and mountain-climbed to the top of his shoulder. Once there, he commenced head-butting and purring at Steve’s ear and jaw until Steve laughed and put his hand up to catch the tiny cat whose claws were skidding over the top of his bulky shoulder muscle. “Lib, you’re adorable, but I’m never letting Stark name a pet of mine ever again. Thanks Bruce!”

Steve turned to head for the elevator, hand still protectively cupped around the small cat whose front paw rested atop his ear, and who rode the supersoldier’s shoulder with grace, like a mahout aboard a particularly humongous elephant.

***

Later that night, Steve slept, quietly, without his former tossing and turning. Libby ran around, clattered over the tops of tables and bureaus, chased small cat-toys through the living room until he wound up far far beneath the entertainment center.

Far enough under the entertainment center that he knew JARVIS couldn’t see him.

He lay flat against the carpet and broadcast a short message: “Sample subjects were NOT randomly selected. All subjects work in the same scientific environment. Abort information gathering efforts. Abort.”

Libby lay his head down on the carpet. Wondered hopefully if his superiors would allow him to stay with the man-mountain, especially if all the other data-collectors were recalled to other duties. Sighed. Rolled suddenly out from under the entertainment center with a catnip mouse in his paws, throwing it into the air and almost-catching it, chasing his prey again, towards the bedroom where the man-mountain Steve was sleeping.

Steve slept better when Libby was curled up, purring, in the crook of his head and shoulder.
Libby had the data to prove it.

(the kitten invasion fleet has arrived)
(sequel to be titled, i for one welcome our feline overlords)

Artemis always loves the first few miles of a hike into the forest, the green, and the shadows, and the sunlight, the sweet fresh air. There’s the feel of the earth beneath her boots, the sweat on the back of her neck, the birdsong and the smell of leaves or pine needles being scuffed under her feet. Being in the forest is where she belongs.

She rolls her eyes. It’s slightly LESS magical when you are the leader of a troop of teenage girl scouts taking selfies at every rest stop. Fortunately this particular bunch is considerably less self involved and more cooperative than many groups she’s taken out for hikes and overnights. These girls volunteer to build the fires, to set up camp, to take those stupid army surplus collapsible canvas buckets out to the creek for water, to do the purification testing. Smugly, she thinks, these are some girls who are going to survive the zombie apocalypse, should it ever come to pass. These girls can use shovels to dig latrines or break up dead wood in the forest; they can sharpen buck knives and have learned how to fish and to clean and cook the fish over a fire they have built themselves… These girls are ready to be competent, to take care of themselves and to protect others. Time for them to learn what only she can teach them.

The cache is just where she left it, dry and secure even after a season spent wrapped in oilcloth in a hollow tree. She brings out an (a) hefty armload from the tree, mindful of the packets in the thigh pocket of her cargo pants. The girls are chattering amongst themselves, pleased to have a few hours of, as they see it, free time before dinner and campfire and bed.

They are incorrect, as it will not be “free” time, it will be time dedicated to learning a new craft. A skill that could possibly keep them alive if everything else were to go wrong.

Her lips quirked, amused at her own overly dramatic thoughts. Darling, she said silently to herself, teach them archery because archery is COOL.

I check over the controls of the diving bell yet one more time. Usually I would laugh about how "OCD" I am about checking, double and triple-checking my instruments, but diving to 600 feet is serious business, not something to be at all casual about. I will make no apologies, even in the recesses of my own (admittedly geeky and neurotic) mind.

This is definitely the deepest I've ever been, and I'm an accomplished diver. But it's only the second time I've been down in a diving bell and the first time I've soloed.

Thank God for Mark, up on the surface. Mark's as reliable as the day is long, and knows these seas as well as anyone his age possibly could. He's grown up diving and fishing out here his whole life. Out of a huge family of divers and fishermen, he's the first one of his family to finish college and start working as a marine biologist. I'm so glad we got partnered up by the Institute.

The bell descends further. I'm past 150 feet now, and breathing a little heavier. Vision's slightly blurry. I check my glasses against the fine print on the dials, the bifocals are much more effective. My ears won't pop from the pressure and it is affecting my hearing. I toggle the communications switch, and hear Mark saying something garbled, something about the controls?

I clear my throat. “Philip here. All seals working well. Still having trouble hearing your transmissions. Over.”

More dull crackling noise from the comms. I shake my head. We continue the slow descent and I keep making detailed notes in the paper logs so we can compare with the films and tapes for reference later. Sonar shows some schools of fish, and some interesting large silhouettes at the edge of instrument range. I scan the camera banks in between passes over the dials and displays to make sure everything's okay. Sudden flashback to driver's training, and chuckling, I remember how I aced the driving test. This is nothing like that, of course, a diving bell is both more complicated and more simple than driving a car. Feeling pretty confident today, however. Everything seems to be going splendidly, despite the comms and their glitchiness.

The bell descends even further, and I feel a little dizzy, damn my ears that won't adjust to the pressure! They hurt horribly now, and definitely seem to be affecting my vision too. There's grey fuzziness in my peripheral vision, and I'm still having trouble focusing, even on the sudden flicker of movement on the cameras.

"Are you getting this, Mark? Left edge of the dorsal view. A light keeps shimmering in and out on that side. Over."
I have difficulty hearing the response. The comms crackle. I hear a voice making noises, though it's unclear, then, "Yes. Left ... blue light."

It looks almost like one of those music videos, where a spotlight follows the performer around the stage, only... only it's moving in three dimensions, and I've never seen anything move so FAST. I have trouble tracking the whatever-it-is. The movement style is atypical for any of the big sea creatures I've spent years studying.

"Mark, Mark, please tell me the video feeds are working, and that you see this. Have you ever seen anything like it before? It seems totally unfamiliar to me!"

I frantically check all the video monitors as the comms fill with static and clutter AGAIN. Flick a glance over the dials. We're still descending, and the creature, this new creature, seems to be pacing me, pacing the diving bell as it descends.

"Mark, did you see a tail? Dorsal rear view?"

Mark's reply this time, "Yes ... seeing it. ... blue ... fish ..."

My vision is getting even cloudier, but I'm determined to get a good focus on this fish. This may be a new discovery, a new paper, for Mark and me (and the Institute, of course)... We could really make a name for ourselves! We could...

uh... wait. What? Is this really happening?

Hair is swirling around the face, the human face, of the creature swimming slowly around my diving bell. It definitely appears, well, mammalian, in spite of the blue color to the skin, and the scales that begin mid-torso, right where a human would have a navel.

She's BEAUTIFUL.
I'm yelling.

"Mark, Starboard Center camera! Do you see anything? Check the goddamn Starboard Center Camera!"

Seriously, I'm gonna die if we don't have this on film. This is INCREDIBLE. Myths come to life, proof on camera, everything I've dreamed of since childhood! I'm absolutely euphoric!

“Philip ... big deal ... right there. Right there.”

I'm breathing heavily, and my vision isn't getting any better. I stumble over to check the gases mixture and make sure everything's OK. It's not great, but it's within safe parameters. I think.

Except that my vision's narrowing, and my ears make all the bell's instrument noises sound like I'm underwater (OK, I do know I'm underwater), or in a cavern or something...

... and I feel the back of the dive chair pressing hard at the back of my neck, but I don't have the strength to raise my head
... and the grey at the edges of my vision is turning to black...
... and it's getting kind of hard to breathe...



This has been my LJ Idol entry for week 20, and I intersected my entry with grail76's. You can read his entry HERE . We worked with "intersubjectivity" and "rapture of the deep".

Please feel free to enjoy the work of my talented colleagues, and vote for the entries that you enjoy, HERE.

You've got to be careful with wishes.

I heard of one witch who said, I wish my husband would shut up... And then there were silent, violent, dark days afterwards...

It's why we're in such demand, witches... Wishes have real power.

You've got to be careful with words as well.

It's through words, after all, that we convince the world to be other than it is.
From sickness we can coax health, from discord, harmony.

But it's easy enough to make the world change in the other direction as well, if we're that-away inclined. Like the silent-husband case I've already mentioned, careless words in the world, in this line of work, can have horrific consequences.

The final element is will. Will-forces are the hardest thing to train up in the apprentices! And will-forces are terrifically important!
You can't expect even the most poetically-worded wish to deliver results if you don't have enough OOMPH to back up your desire and make it happen for real.

"With Wishes, Words, and Will, witches work in the world."

*grin* We've got that engraved in a nice signboard and hung up at the entrance of the School. As of this year's enrollment, we've got witch-children from most every religious tradition, and teachers from almost every tradition as well. Our School has a very strong commitment to cross-training and to understanding the philosophical underpinnings of the World-Soul, That Which Moves Us All.

Would you believe, that even now, some of our students come to us thinking that the way they have been taught is the Only True Way, and that all other Paths are invalid? No?

It's the truth. We do have quite the challenge to explain and demonstrate otherwise, but when the children all have to rub elbows with one another in all their classes, it tends to take the rough edges off any sharp belief systems pretty quickly. Added to the impressive experience of our teaching staff, and our Silent Recess policy, the children build tolerance and cooperation faster than in any school system I've experienced before.

I'm sorry, what?

Oh no. The Silent Recess policy is intended to prevent any apprentice-level mistakes out on the playground. Children feel things so intensely, they certainly do not lack for force of will! And a strong force of will is QUITE enough to enact some serious levels of mischief upon one's playmates. All the teachers concur, having all experienced, well, pretty appalling things out on the playgrounds themselves, before the Principles of Magic were studied and understood thoroughly. The voluntary Yard Duty roster is always well staffed, and the children are always well-supervised.

*fondly*
Yes, I know. Our children are lucky. Now that we understand the Principles, we can teach Ethical Magical Behaviors at all levels of school. We can train the children up into the adults we all know they have the capacity to be. They can all be strong, ethical, committed, principled young people that we can be proud to unleash upon the world.

*cough* Oh, unleash? My mistake. I meant, um, well, I meant...

May I offer you some more tea? ah, here we go. *pours*

Yes, well, our graduates find regular and lucrative employment in all walks of life, as a matter of fact one of our recent graduates is now Head Pastry Chef in our kitchen. Oh, yes, the petit-fours are her specialty! Here, DO allow me. And one of the small eclairs? Splendid.

*lengthy pause*

That said, shall I draw up the enrollment documents now? I think you will find the terms most competitive with the other Schools in town.

*sly smile*

Yes, I thought you might.


This has been my entry for therealljidol. This week's was an Open Prompt week.

Princess Peach gazed out across the landscape, her keen eyesight picking out Mario's progress through the mazes that, taken altogether in their many levels, comprised her father's kingdom.

Gold coins sparkled as Mario collected them, and the red flashes of moving mushrooms or green slides of skittering tortoise shells indicated his path as he approached another goal.

Even from her distant perch in the highest tower of the home she'd been raised in, she could see the speech bubble that emerged at the entrance to that worthless pile of rocks, one of countless decoys scattered throughout her father's domain. "Sorry, Mario, our princess is in another castle!"

Peach snorted in disgust as she finished packing her camping backpack, and pulled the last of her camouflage gear over her head.

Unrolling the rope ladder that would take her down the far side of the tower, away from the guards and toward the misty hills that meant freedom, she strapped the pack more securely on her back and muttered,

"To hell with being a prize at the end of someone else's adventures!"

She swung her leg over the windowsill and was gone.




This has been my Week Three entry for therealljidol, and the prompt was "In Another Castle".

Beta-readings done by wrenb, and chipchat !

Please go read and enjoy my colleagues' entries here. To vote for my entry, link will be *here* once it's posted.

Thank you for reading!

Tony Stark thinks he can't carry a tune in a bucket. (though he is, in this respect, completely wrong.)
( Read more here, I would love to hear what you think...! )
This means Tony gets an idea. A wonderful, AWFUL idea...

And all that's needed is a programming genius, a week's work, and unlimited access to streaming videos and music.

His eyes crinkle with glee. He can't WAIT to talk the Avengers into this.


(...to be continued, muahahahaha)

also to be found here...