Saga "Lovely Dark and Deep" / Kessel Run Challenge 2023

Week Four:

Title: Blue Light
Timeframe: The boundary line between Before the Saga and the Saga
Genre: Bad Romance
Characters: All Original

*The title comes from the song by Mazzy Star--and a line from the lyrics is featured as well.

*Rated I for Innuendo. There's rising action tonight...

The prompt:

• Write a story between 100 and 1,000 words that is predominantly action. You can have as many characters interacting as you want, and you can include introspection as long as it doesn't outweigh the action.
• Word limit = 100-1,000 words

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Blue Light


The night hadn’t started off well, but we realized it was due to go bust when this happened. When Angel set his bottle down on the bar counter, and leaned in towards me, with a tell-tale swaying of his hips, and requested that we dance. The woman with her viol-guitar on the corner stage had lurched into the next song, one of those midnight hour ballads, and it had gotten to him. It didn’t have any such effect on me, and I considered pointing out what he already knew. That no one else was dancing. That the “dance floor” was just a suggestion. But he was bespeeching me with this moon-eyed look, aided by the purple blossom-bruise over his right eye from his most recent altercation. I looked over at Brienne. She nodded (with that expression only I know how to see) giving me her approval.

Then, and only then, I deigned to smile at him: that smile of teasing-promised kisses, the exact look I had witnessed my twin using on him. “All right, Angelpie,” I said.

Brienne wasn’t the only one watching as we took the floor, and began to dance, following with the woman’s slinking viol-guitar moan, and her spooky ghostwail voice. They were all watching me, of course. That’s including the three aliens who aren’t even compatible with humans.

Angel didn’t wait a minute before he began to add his thoughts to the music. His beerwarmed breath brushed against my face as he returned to whatever he had been telling me earlier, after he started in on his second bottle of the aptly named Bantha Breath Ale. I allowed it, hearing the riverrush drone of his voice without paying mind to the actual words. That might have been my first mistake.

He thought he was relating this commentary to Brienne. There wasn’t much he hadn’t told her since she took up with him, and we tell each other everything. And I mean everything but everything. He had revealed the truth of his real name to her. A pretty mistake his grandmother must have dumped on him, that would announce for him that he’s from, of all the planets out there, Naboo.

But he was actually with me, while she was the one of us still over at the bar. She was slouched in sullen-staring boredom, her heartbreak-black crushed velvet skirt hiked up above her tall boots, and all the way above her knees. The wolfman two seats down was taking her in with a long razorblade grin. He looked poised and readied to move in for a closer taste of her scent.

You know. That womansmell that drives most males to attempted feats of glory, and powers what they have of their little minds. But I wasn’t worried: we both know well how to handle his sort. She was allowing him to look, but he wouldn’t get the chance to touch.

There’s a blue light in his eyes... the singer sighed.

“Blah blah blah blah,” Angel was saying.

“Oh, I know,” I said. That sort of meaningless response that still works. As I guided him through a turn, leading closer to the bar, I tucked my thumb into the waistband of his trousers and determined that he was not (contrary to my fears) going commando. There are limits to what I’m willing to fake through, and Brienne disregarded all of them with him.

He tensed, and: “Really. You weren’t even there, Saba.”

I giggled. That was the wrong move, but it’s our usual habit with men. “Oh, Angel!” I gave a (weary-yet-breathysweet) sigh. “You can tell us apart better than that. Saba’s over at the bar.”

“Ha ha ha.” Angel released me, ending the dance.

He turned his suddenly ferocious attention on Brienne. “That’s right, Brienne. You’re not nearly as clever as you fancy you are. And honestly? I don’t see what the point even is here.

There’s always a point to what we do, one he doesn’t need to know. She answered him with a tiny sleek smirk, there and gone.

“You bitch!” he roared, his dancing-light tenor turned into a weapon. That way we never forget men can do. Brienne startled underneath its force.

“Watch yourself, boyo,” I said, but he pushed me aside, and charged towards Brienne. She was already on her feet. When she smacked him, it echoed back like a whipcrack.

She had the first punch, but he answered with the second one—and it was off.

Everyone in the place rushed to spectate as they hit the floor as one howling, tearing, raging beast. I could only watch on with them. I knew Brienne would make out all right. Angel is technically stronger than we are, and he has around ten centimeters on us in height—but he isn’t trained to fight (he is a booboo from Naboo) and as we have told him, we most definitely are.

“Fight, fight, fight,” the mouse-person next to me chanted. When I brushed my fingers over the zenji needle in my chignon, he flushed into silence.

It was over in another few minutes. Angel stood, in a disarray of wild hair and swollen-red mouth and loose shirt hem. He attempted to shove the hem back in. He sniffled. Then he hissed one final retort between his teeth, and stumbled outside into the cold light of the lone half-full moon.

But my attention was focused on Brienne. She wiped at the bloodsmear on her chin from her smashed lip before she moved, rushing over to collapse into my arms. We clung to each other as we did in the beginning, back dreaming in our long lost mumsy’s womb. I was considering several options for revenge, but she shut that down. “It’s over, Saba. It’s all over.”

It was indeed, and thankfully so, all over. It’s occurred to me since that we learned a moral lesson there, though I’m not certain what it might be. But I figure we don’t really need to know.

*

 

[And something extra this week, like that hidden track at the end of the CD...]

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Coda: He said.

That was Brienne. I wasted time with her, and her everpresent twin sister, for a while during the Lost Months in Mos Alba. They had landed up there while they were roaming the starlanes, practicing their stealing arts and finding excuses to use their martial skills. Which they loved to go on and on about. If they were to be believed, they had once beaten up an entire swoop gang. Oh, I believe the leader had made the mistake of getting a feel of the sister’s resplendent ass, and they had to avenge her honor. Otherwise, I don’t think so.

You really want to hear about all this? All right, but consider yourself warned.

So all was well enough, and then I began to suspect they were pulling the switcharound. There were a few times when Brienne was different with me, when we hadn’t quarreled and the sister wasn’t around to interfere. Colder. She wouldn’t touch me, or join into our usual rhythm of talking. Besides, after the first time we went to bed, I had learned other ways to tell them apart.

Then one night we were all at our usual underground cantina in the neighborhood. I was a few beers down, and I was feeling good enough to take the woman I hoped really was Brienne out to dance. But that was when the sister let her act slip. They had done the switch on me, just for fun, I suppose, as there wasn’t any other reason. It was the oldest cliché, and I had fallen for it in public.

I went after Brienne, the twin who was my actual lover-deceiver, on the spot. She fought hard, and it went nasty, but that’s the only language those two understood. There’s no point in, you know, using reason with them. But we were pretty well even, and I made sure she walked away looking as ugly as I did. Then I walked out of there, and that was the last I saw of either of them. The end.

 

You're quite excellent with the pacing, Pandora. These two pieces rocked along at a good clip. I definitely felt the rising tension, and then the spectacular let down for poor, poor Angel. And chuckled at 'Bantha Breath Ale'.

 

great action. Brienne and Angel are quite a pair of fighters

 

Excellent sensual tale of the ways we indulge in 'bad romance.'

They're comrades before birth, who can compete with that?

Maybe this is why he earned consideration as a lover? No competition.

A little introspection, not enough to sink in, really; introspection doesn't suit the two.

Fine coda as Angel writes them off; he was feeling good and wanted to share a dance likely leading to more, and their 'fun' ended that scenario, yessirree!

 

The action writing was fantastic ("they hit the floor as one howling, tearing, raging beast") and I enjoyed Saba and Brienne's bad girl shtick, but the character I really got curious about reading these two stories is Angel. We tend to think of the Naboo as refined, cultured people and that's also what Saba says in her own way when she describes Angel as a "booboo from Naboo", but he comes cross as anything but, with the "purple blossom-bruise over his right eye from his most recent altercation" and uncouth drunk behaviour. And then there's this, which says a lot about him:

Am I right in understanding that he not so upset with the fact that they "pulled the switcharound" on him, but that he was seen falling for it in public? That's boorish dude attitude if I ever saw any right there

 

Black and Blue

Your character, Miércoles, seems to me to be a Zeltron, based on

and her struggle to deal with the waves of emotion that keep slamming up against her from the population outside her small room. I picture a university with students at a stage of unrest, lots of resentment and anger and other unpleasant emotions, and it coming to a head as the angry mob with their list of demands intends to storm across the snow-covered student mall to the university president's home. That would be enough to drive any Zeltron into hiding, to avoid the intrusion of those emotions!
Her encounter with the bounty hunter seems to be accidental (maybe he is getting friendly with her due to the reputation of the Zeltron pheremones?) but it looks like he's here on business, not pleasure, and the imminent riot at the university president's house is the cover he's looking for.
(Of course, I picture this taking place at my alma mater...)
Great character development for Miércoles!

Blue Light
Oh my gosh but these two look like the Tonnika Twins in disguise. Brienne (Brea) and Saba (Senni) Tonnika would do such a stunt, and just for amusement, and we know how much they love to hang out in dive-bar cantinas. Even the zenji pin from her hair is a tell-tale sign that it's our girls.
The guy has been played, and he knows it. But he's angry, and an angry spurned lover is a dangerous man.

As Margaret Atwood famously said, Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.

 

Vek Talis: You're quite excellent with the pacing, Pandora. These two pieces rocked along at a good clip. I definitely felt the rising tension, and then the spectacular let down for poor, poor Angel. And chuckled at 'Bantha Breath Ale'.

I'm glad to hear the pacing worked for you, as writing these short pieces for the challenge has certainly been a learning experience for me. Most specifically, I have had to actively work at getting straight to the action, as there isn't the time and word count for any poetic overtures.

Poor Angel, indeed--though I suspect that he lost most of any sympathy points he had gained the moment he screamed that gendered slur across the room.

Thanks for reading, and commenting!

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earlybird-obi-wan: great action. Brienne and Angel are quite a pair of fighters

They certainly are. Thanks for reading and commenting!

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pronker: Excellent sensual tale of the ways we indulge in 'bad romance.'

I described the "moral lesson" of this story to my father thusly: Never get involved with one half of amoral twins with a codependent relationship. Just walk away right now.

They're comrades before birth, who can compete with that?

No one, that's who. They're the only people in the universe who truly matter to each other--and Saba wasn't at all happy that Brienne let Angel get as close as he did.

Maybe this is why he earned consideration as a lover? No competition.

That probably had something to do with it, if only subconsciously. Because:

A little introspection, not enough to sink in, really; introspection doesn't suit the two.

They're fighters, not thinkers. And that's why I dug them out of my 2006 era files to star in this story of predominantly action.

Fine coda as Angel writes them off; he was feeling good and wanted to share a dance likely leading to more, and their 'fun' ended that scenario, yessirree!

Or: he finally learned the "moral lesson" and walked away with a smashed face and a smashed heart.

[But did he learn it's not all right to call your sort-of girlfriend a gendered slur, ever?]

Thanks for reading and commenting!

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Chyntuck: The action writing was fantastic ("they hit the floor as one howling, tearing, raging beast") and I enjoyed Saba and Brienne's bad girl shtick, but the character I really got curious about reading these two stories is Angel. We tend to think of the Naboo as refined, cultured people and that's also what Saba says in her own way when she describes Angel as a "booboo from Naboo", but he comes cross as anything but, with the "purple blossom-bruise over his right eye from his most recent altercation" and uncouth drunk behaviour.

Since he's only had the two beers--and I don't think he's yet finished the second one--he's not actually drunk in this scene, just buzzed at the most. (And as for the alcohol quality of the Bantha Breath Ale, well: think of the average European's opinion on American beers. Yes, that bad.) So he can act like that while more or less sober and in possession of his wits.

As for his background: if Amidala is Naboo's most beloved daughter, Angel is its least favorite son. He's deliberately rebelling after leaving home and planet, and he's overcompensating in the course of proving his manhood. The fading black eye indicates to me that he's not doing so well at that.

And then there's this, which says a lot about him:

It was the oldest cliché, and I had fallen for it in public.

Am I right in understanding that he not so upset with the fact that they "pulled the switcharound" on him, but that he was seen falling for it in public? That's boorish dude attitude if I ever saw any right there

When I wrote that bit, I was in full method acting mode--I just knew what he felt (at least at the time of the retelling) and went with it. As to whether he's stewing in a classic dude attitude, well--that's not what I felt as I wrote, but if the text supports the reading, I can't really argue against it.

But your question here prompted me to think deeper into that part of the coda, and that resulted in one of the approaching double-drabbles. Though, given the itsy-bitsy word count, I don't know if it will explain much.

Finally, thanks for reading and commenting!

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divapilot: Black and Blue

Your character, Miércoles, seems to me to be a Zeltron, based on
"her pink skin and the bright berryblue fringe"

and her struggle to deal with the waves of emotion that keep slamming up against her from the population outside her small room. I picture a university with students at a stage of unrest, lots of resentment and anger and other unpleasant emotions, and it coming to a head as the angry mob with their list of demands intends to storm across the snow-covered student mall to the university president's home. That would be enough to drive any Zeltron into hiding, to avoid the intrusion of those emotions!

Yes, Miércoles is indeed a Zeltron--though I've also considered that she might be half Zeltron and half human. But regardless, she still has the full Zeltron empathy, and the emotions that come with a protest crowd of very angry people would hit her like a thunderstorm. (Though you needn't be an empath to physically feel the affect of that much strong emotion. Much of Miércoles's reactions here are my own.)

Her encounter with the bounty hunter seems to be accidental (maybe he is getting friendly with her due to the reputation of the Zeltron pheremones?) but it looks like he's here on business, not pleasure, and the imminent riot at the university president's house is the cover he's looking for.

Miércoles can only guess at why he chose to approach her on that path. But she knows one thing from what he let slip: oh yes, he is here on business, and there is going to shortly be an ugly scene at the university right in front of the president's house.

(Of course, I picture this taking place at my alma mater...)

That works.

Great character development for Miércoles!

Thanks!


Blue Light
Oh my gosh but these two look like the Tonnika Twins in disguise. Brienne (Brea) and Saba (Senni) Tonnika would do such a stunt, and just for amusement, and we know how much they love to hang out in dive-bar cantinas. Even the zenji pin from her hair is a tell-tale sign that it's our girls.

While Brienne and Saba are obviously in the same mode as the Tonnikas (and the lesser known Pikkel/Pike sisters from Shadows of the Empire and the sequel comics) they are my original characters. Partly because this story takes place around the time the Saga begins/The Phantom Menace, so the Tonnikas wouldn't have been born yet, and partly because I wanted to play with that archetype, but have the free reign that writing established characters, however undeveloped, wouldn't provide.

As for the zenji needle: I believe that's an essential for every Mistryl, Kuati cultist, and general all-around bad girl in the galaxy. Saba's having one was actually inspired by Shada D'ukal (who used to impersonate one of the Tonnikas before the Disney takeover) and a story on the boards in which Khaleen Hentz had one at the ready in her hair at a pivotal moment.

The guy has been played, and he knows it. But he's angry, and an angry spurned lover is a dangerous man.

“You bitch!” he roared, his dancing-light tenor turned into a weapon. That way we never forget men can do.
As Margaret Atwood famously said, Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.

Look: Angel is a character I'm probably inordinately fond of (he's been my type since I was ten years old, and besides which, I have a thing for Severely Flawed Male Characters But They're Played by a British Character Actor so I Can't Help but Luv That Guv. Pause for breath.), but when I knew, and I knew instantly, how he was going to react to the switcharound being revealed, I didn't hold back from going there. I am willing to have my characters mess up but bad--and I hope to always do so.

Men might fear the derisive feminine laughter of 'enry 'iggins's nightmares, but women cringe at the sound of a man's deep rage-filled voice for a reason.

Finally, thanks for reading and commenting!


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So guess what, readers: My jailbreak card is still safely in my virtual pocket, as I have actually successfully written double-drabbles. It was painful, and I had a silent scream soundtrack going on at certain points. I don't plan to ever do this again. But I did it.

Since that's the case, I might as well quit fiddling about with changing one word here and there and post. Said post will be up shortly.

 

Week Five:

Title: "Dreams from the Magic Theatre"
Timeframe: Mostly Before the Saga/Early Saga period
Genre: What genre?
Characters: Original (and previously appearing in last week's outing).

*Angel (the very naughty boy from last week) and most of the other characters originated in "Aerena, with her sun eyes," a story I posted in 2005-2006. I'm not going to link to it here--it's almost 20,000 words long, and that's just the first reason--but it's listed in my post in The Prolific Writers' Index for those who really want to see my writing from the height of my Firefly phase.

The prompt:

• Write a set of 3 double drabbles with the following prompts: juggernaut, shepherd, undertaker
• Hey, technically they're not drabbles.
• What is a double drabble anyway? Well, since a drabble is a short work of fiction that is precisely 100 words long, no more and no less, then doubling our drabbles brings us to 200 words each.
  
• Each double drabble must be exactly 200 words, for a total of 600 words

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“Dreams from the Magic Theatre”

*

Kisses and kisses galore / (Juggernaut)

After Florian finished telling his story, he remained inside the memory of that last night with Brienne at the local bar. (No, he remembered: the cantina.) It was still howling-clear and alive, as though it had happened hours earlier, instead of a year away in the past. There was just one detail, that moment near the end, he had left out. He could well imagine what Sister Hope’s reaction would be.

How Brienne had hovered close in a stormcloud of tangled-loose hair. She smiled. That sweetlysly look he knew oh so well. He answered by arching up to meet her. Her mouth tasted of oceansalt. The blood from her split lip staining his mouth.

(And she said in a whisper meant only for him: Now you know me, loverboy.)

Back in the present, Sister Hope was watching him. “Don’t hold back,” he said.

She obliged. “Oh, Angel. These women had you played, but what bothers you the most is that they did so in public?”

His fury had hit him like a juggernaut, blurring out his thoughts. The next thing he remembered clearly was Brienne’s opening smack. It wasn’t that, he thought. But he said only: “Well, I warned you.”

*

“Little Girl Lost” / [Shepherd]

The girl was out in the nowhere of the desert-wastes when they found her. She was just there, turning and turning in a drifting swaying dance: as if she had fallen from the bleached-white sky. Sister Hope slowed the speeder to a crawl, and then stopped. But the tall blonde girl in the peachpale dress didn’t fade into the air as it slowed down with them. She was still some way off, but with every step, however aimless, she came closer.

Florian couldn’t figure out how she had gotten there. There weren’t signs of any tracks, and Mos Espa was still twenty kilometers away. But the answer was obvious: It didn’t matter, because here she was.

“We’d better do something, Angeldear,” Sister Hope said.

The girl didn’t acknowledge Florian as he walked towards her. But of course: she had her eyes shut, sealed with sticky honeyglue. She spun around through another dance-circle. “Excuse me,” he said, searching for the right words. “You look lost.”

The girl opened her eyes.

He hadn’t seen her before, but still, somehow, she seemed familiar. As though they had met in a long ago dream, in a sun-blasted hallway, at the end of his life.

*

Sleep like Warm Hugs / [Undertaker]

“Oh, your mother was so faraway in that deep sleep, we were afraid she wouldn’t wake up. But as you know, she did come back. As soon as she could speak, she asked after you. Where’s the baby? she said. Of course, she didn’t know your grandmother had already named you after me. When she found out, she was quite upset. She made to get up, but her legs were so weak she couldn’t even stand upright. She did learn to walk again. And she’s tried to make a go at life. But somehow, it always ends the same way.”

Florian doesn’t know exactly when his mother finally gave up, and escaped into days and weeks of the darkest sleep. But when he told Brienne she was dead, it felt more real than the truth.

He’s sleeping right now, his grandmother had told her.

That excuse she gave his entire childhood, especially when it wasn’t true: You can’t see him, this isn’t the time, it’s late, he’s sleeping.

The dream-memory is almost gone now. But this girl, Bria, watches him with recognition. She remembers everything. The man with the razorblade voice. Kill her. A pity, but it must be done.

*

Spoiler

 

The girl in Shepherd reminded me of River Tam from Firefly - just dancing in the middle of nowhere, like she fell out of heaven.

And the last three lines of Undertaker... chilling. I can't wait for more in this vein.

 

Dreamy vibes from all three of these ... I admire the mood.

Without looking anything up, it seems that cantina is a bar plus live entertainment of a kind, and bar is a place to go get plastered.

The mystery of her identity doesn't stop Sister Hope and Angel from attempting to help, good for them; I enjoyed the spinning, dancing imagery.

 

dreamy sequences and sad memories. But great to see Angel and Sister Hope wanting to help that 'lost' girl

 

I don't know how many times I've started to comment on your stories, got interrupted and forgot what I was doing... but I've really enjoyed your stories, your distinctive writing style, and the complex and interesting characters.


"The Mirror and the Razor Blade"

Without the context of the worldbuilding you've done, I interpreted this story as social criticism of a society that covers up emotions and dismisses mental illness as weakness.

This scene has so much tension, and I like how the silence foreshadows the way that this household deals with emotional crises and uncomfortable realities.

Excellent characterization; the narrator is used to a culture of emotional suppression and is confused and disturbed that someone is not internalizing their distress for her benefit. I like your depiction of her hypocrisy; she states that the man "was not courageous", but she is thankful when her friends hide their crying because she would be uncomfortable.

Ah, the old accusation that the person in distress is just seeking attention...

Expressing emotion is a no-no, but hard drug abuse is fine as long as you keep it classy, I guess. I like that the narrator goes along with this attitude without questioning its absurdity. The fact that she agrees with the idea that "We all need something" suggest a culture of open secrets, a sort of dual reality of everything being fine and normal and also not fine at all. At this point, I feel like the telbun is by far the most courageous person in the story because he refuses to accept their gaslighting.

Meshach is plenty menacing, but his smugness in the face of someone else's crisis is just maddening.

Yep, the telbun lacks courage, but the narrator is afraid to even look at him.

I feel for this guy, making that mundane comment to restore normalcy for the narrator in order to make her feel less rattled, and she believing that this conversation is for his benefit and not hers. That last comment of his, "if that's what you need to do," and the narrator accepting this as comfort instead of being embarrassed that he is doing this for her-- he must feel terribly alone.

Excellent use of the prompt image.

I think it's a nice touch that the telbun is never named at any point, further underscoring his dehumanization. Excellent fic, and a great start to the challenge.


"Notes from the Labyrinth"

Relatable.

I love how you've captured that ever-declining sense of dignity that happens when you're late for something important and starting to panic.

This is definitely the kind of mistake I can see a teenager making, and I love the inclusion of the GFFA youth-slang "wizard".

Hey, Canadian WWI reference! I think.

I like that she is grounding herself here and weathering this crisis with enough confidence to keep going.

Great story, and I love how you've created this complex emotional journey out of one character simply losing her way in a new city.

"Black and Blue"

I love this imagery. So pretty.

Her unkind assessment of her appearance is very telling. She seems perfectly normal, but is almost creative in the flaws she finds in herself. What's wrong with having thick hair and dark eyes?

You do such a good job of depicting the everyday experience of anxiety, how even the presence of strangers that you have no reason to interact with can be stressful.

Excellent characterization-- she is stressed all the time, and because of that, she lacks the capacity to have normal emotional experiences, let alone take on the burden of others' crises. There is just no room for anything else if you're constantly panicking.

Even a stranger smiling at her is fraught, because she will be expected to behave in a certain way and cannot truly behave naturally, because she's always concealing her fear. I like this character.

I like that the fact that she is anxious all the time gives her the capacity to be courageous in a real crisis; she is used to having to manage fear. She controls her response and uses reason to guide her behaviour.

Another fantastic story!

Blue Light

I really like your approach to an action fic: the character recounts what happened and reflects on key points, which makes it a character-driven story. I also love that the plot is centred around whether or not Saba has learned anything from this experience.

Uhhhhhh... of course it didn't have any effect on you, because he's your sister's boyfriend, not yours! You get the distinction, right, Saba?
Right?

I'm getting the impression that maybe the reason only Saba can see it is because it exists in her mind.

That's just... no.

Holy narcissism, Batman!

No, there were a few before this one... think hard, Saba!

Also, I want to meet the brewmaster behind Bantha Breath Ale. He sounds like a fun guy.

Oh no... he's totally using Brienne as his sole source of emotional support, isn't he...

Maybe it's boredom, maybe she's too codependent to assert boundaries with her extremely creepy sister.

Stealing her boyfriend and literally leaving her to the wolves.

It's interesting that Saba does not acknowledge that Brienne might think differently than her.

Saba needs to be in prison. Ew ew ew ew ew.

Saba couldn't make herself more obvious if she had Evil Spock's goatee.

Maybe it's a smirk, maybe suppressed nervous laughter.

This is so sad. Angel thinks he has confirmed that Brienne is in on this psychological/sexual abuse. And then he responds with abuse.

No, Saba, you can make this a two against one fight instead of just watching your sister get hurt over a conflict that you started. Ughhhhhhhhh

You're a bad sister, Saba. Bad.

Saba's really into that men-as-wolves motif.

Poor Brienne.

"Coda: He said."

He's downplaying their relationship of course... there's only so much vulnerability he's going to show.

Saba is so creepy. Brienne must never be alone with him...

I think it's pretty clear that what triggered him was what appeared to be confirmation that Brienne was in on this and it wasn't just her sister tormenting him. I wonder if he has rewritten the story in his mind to make it hurt less.

Oh man, even he has stopped recognizing that Brienne is a separate person from her sister. That's brutal.

"Dreams from the Magic Theatre"

Maybe she meant it, maybe she just said that to make him leave so there would be no more chaos.

Sister Hope knows what's what.

That is an unsettling image. I like it!

Force vision maybe? I love the sense of foreboding.

I love this title. And it is so sad that Angel talked to Brienne about this, given what happens with them in the end.

I love this-- Bria certainly has been victimized, but she is also a threat to Angel's well-being because she remembers everything and can recite the truth. I would love to read more about her.

Great stuff, can't wait to read more!

 

Before I get to your latest offerings, a comment on this:

Guilty as charged – or, I've written such a story at any rate (or even several ) and I completely agree that Zenji needles are an essential component of the galactic bad girl shtick. It's just such a convenient hidden weapon to have! And now I think we should all start writing stories where women are accused of having Zenji needles, but they actually turn out to be regular hairclips.

Now, about the double drabbles: I came out of these with even more questions about Angel/Florian than before, although I think it's mostly because I can't place them in time relative to each other – each one works perfectly well on its own. It feels a bit like looking at an unfinished tapestry (which is arguably the main reason I don't get too excited about drabbles in general TBH), but it does seem that you're on a roll with this character, so I think/hope you'll be filling the blanks for us before this challenge is over. What we do know for a fact already is that his grandmother played an important part in his life, since it was mentioned in the previous story already that she gave him a typical booboo-from-Naboo name, so I'm going to guess that the "least favourite son" aspect is something you'll develop.

 

Finally, after some weeks of delay, I present my replies for Week Five (and other earlier stories).


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Vek Talis: The girl in Shepherd reminded me of River Tam from Firefly - just dancing in the middle of nowhere, like she fell out of heaven.

That fits. I first wrote this image (in a scene where Sister Hope told "Bria" just how they had happened to find her) in 2006, around the same time I first saw Serenity. So I'm not certain she was consciously inspired by River--but I can't say that she wasn't; either.

And the last three lines of Undertaker... chilling. I can't wait for more in this vein.

Well, as it has turned out, I haven't returned to anything quite like this since. But we still have that one secret prompt left, and perhaps I will write something suitably chilling before the end.

Thanks for reading, and commenting!

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pronker: Dreamy vibes from all three of these ... I admire the mood.

That's what I was going for (both with actual dreams, and the way memories of an event can fade to a dreamlike quality) so I'm glad you liked it.

Without looking anything up, it seems that cantina is a bar plus live entertainment of a kind, and bar is a place to go get plastered.

Where I come from, they're both the same place: a bar. I think of a cantina as a regional specific sort of drinking establishment, in particular to desert locales--like Tatoooine--and not at all a universal term. That's why Angel/Florian has to remind himself this is the correct term where he is now, as they have classy "barrooms" or something on Naboo.

The mystery of her identity doesn't stop Sister Hope and Angel from attempting to help, good for them; I enjoyed the spinning, dancing imagery.

That's part of the law of hospitality of the desert. They know they have to help this girl--even leaving aside they don't know everything that might be going on with her situation--because if they don't, the desert, and the blasting heat from the twin suns, would kill her. (As it is, she's going to have a nasty sunburn later.)

Thanks for reading and commenting!

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Findswoman: Looks like I've got some catching up to do! "Blue Light" and its coda were some definite first-rate bad romance on all three (!) sides: if I'm reading this aright, it looks like the sisters were trying to trick Angel, but he kind of knew it all along and didn't mind because of the, ahem, "action" he got out of it, which wasn't just the scrapes and bruises from his brawl; there definitely were multiple varieties of "action" going on there.

Oh, he definitely suspected they were up to something on at least a few occasions (and they probably did give off little tells either on purpose or by accident), but he didn't want it to be true. Aside from the action, he somehow really did like Brienne. When Saba gives herself away, by not actually listening to what Angel is saying and giving the wrong generic response, the fun is over for him.

Well, almost over. If the fight scene reads like more than one kind of "action" is going on, well--that is extremely deliberate on my part. There's one thing that fight scenes, dance scenes, and sex scenes have in common: they all need to be choreographed. And all three are present--in PG rated form--here.

Angel kind of breaks all the Naboo stereotypes, doesn't he; he seems very much to be trying hard to, in fact. But in the end, both he and the twins get to have their fun, of a sort, so in a way everyone wins? Kinda?

He is doing his best/worst to break every stereotype of Naboo men there are, one ill-begotten fight at a time. In this case, his relationship with Brienne ends with a bang. If anyone won, it was probably the twins: they all fun while it lasted, but I don't think they were all having the same fun.

It was interesting to learn more about Angel in "Dreams from the Magic Theatre"—and look, you can too do double drabbles, and they're not that bad, are they?

All right: they weren't that bad. I had been clutching my get-out-of-jail-free card, braced each Sunday night for the inevitable drabble prompt to rear its head. Then when it happened, and it was double-drabbles, I figured this I could do. (I mean, I have successfully written a sestina, twice. I've done harder writing feats than this.) And I did do it. But I'm in no hurry to try this form again, and I certainly won't be showing up for the original 100 word version any year soon.

As has been mentioned, they all have a dreamlike quality, befitting the nature of Angel's view of his own past (and present, to some extent). I'm not sure what Sister Hope's relationship to Angel is; kind of like a confessor, I guess? But she definitely seems to be perceptive and able to pick up on what's on Angel/Florian's mind (and what he's hiding from her).

There isn't much that gets past Sister Hope. As for her relationship with Angel: she's kind of like his friend/big sister/business partner all at once. But it's more complicated even than that, and those who look in on them from the outside often can't tell exactly what they are to each other.

Between "Shepherd" and "Undertaker," I'm trying to put two and two together both about Angel's past and about who the girl dancing in the desert might be (and whether she has any connection to him). Is Bria that girl from the desert? I wonder if a future story in this series will shed some light on things (it seems like the reverse-narrative prompt could fit well there).

Yes, Bria is the girl from the desert. Her real name is Aerena, and my 2005-2006 story "Aerena, with her sun eyes,"--in which Angel and Sister Hope also appeared--is her story.

Story Time: I haven't done the obvious thing and provided a link because I have complicated feelings about this story, and to be honest, I have ever since the opening post. Mainly about the writing: it's in present tense (which I have never even liked, and yet there I was), and then there's the rather sharper staccato, almost fragmented style that I got stuck in for way too long after my MFA as it had become the only way I could get past this huge boulder in my head and write at all. There are other flaws besides that. Most of which are likely due to my starting the story far too soon, and then making matters worse by slapping the first scene up on the internet, meaning I then had to finish it.

I think the main reason I kept writing it, all the way to the finish, was that I had one devoted reader who frequently loved the story far more than I did.

I considered revising it for a few years. Then when I read the story over one late dark night, I was surprised to find I sort of liked it, and I decided--aside from a few minor detail changes, which I did recently--against doing so. The style, however I feel about it now, makes it what it is. If I were to rewrite it, I would inevitably update it away. So I made the wiser decision, for once, to leave it intact as a relic of its time. And not just as in "Look: I was thirty years old and had an MFA, and I still wrote this badly!"

The main reason I'm mentioning it here now is that much of what is hinted at in the double-drabbles--at least concerning the Girl in the Desert and her connection with Angel--are made plain in that story. Essentially, they're fanfiction for that long ago written fanfiction.

I still lack the nerve sufficient to link it here. I certainly don't expect that anyone will read it: It's almost 20,000 words long and strong. But it's listed in my post in the Prolific Writers' Index, and I unlocked the thread.

Keep up the very intriguing work, as I know you always do!

Thank you, and thanks so much for reading and commenting!

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UltramassiveUbersue: I don't know how many times I've started to comment on your stories, got interrupted and forgot what I was doing... but I've really enjoyed your stories, your distinctive writing style, and the complex and interesting characters.

I know that feeling (though in my case I read the story, am unable to think of anything worthy of an A+ response paper in a literature course, and crawl over to another tab in defeat). I'm glad you've enjoyed the stories here so far, and thanks for getting to these comments.

"The Mirror and the Razor Blade"

Without the context of the worldbuilding you've done, I interpreted this story as social criticism of a society that covers up emotions and dismisses mental illness as weakness.

That's pretty much it. I see Kuati society (and more than a few other cultures in the far far away galaxy) as being utterly unforgiving towards mental illness. Not for the same reasons, but the outcome would be much the same: shame and secrecy. The thing with Kuat, though, is that the upper classes have a history of honor suicides--which I based off the fact that two of the most major Kuati characters in the old EU (Viqi Shesh and Kuat of Kuat) both commit suicide in that fashion. So there's a tradition of suicide being an acceptable option when all honor has been lost, as a way of "saving face." But to commit suicide because you're so depressed you just can't hack life anymore? Absolutely not.

"He had let his shoulders wilt, and his hand (which held the blaster-pistol locked in his fingers) fell down against his side. While she watched on from the background, Meshach had taken that opportunity to act. He went over with windwhispered steps, and carefully (oh so carefully, more gently than she would have thought him capable) he took up the telbun’s hand. He touched him. Then he opened his fingers, one by one, until he could take hold of the pistol. That done, he disappeared it away into his pocket."

This scene has so much tension, and I like how the silence foreshadows the way that this household deals with emotional crises and uncomfortable realities.

Such matters must be dealt with before the Mistress, Cybele, ever finds out about them. I will just say it's a good thing she didn't happen onto the scene the minute before the story opens.

"People didn’t talk like that. They just didn’t. Whenever one of her friends had appeared to be breaking into tears, she let them know soon enough she was only (thankfully, easily) laughing. But the telbun had: his voice bleeding as he exposed his guts to them, his audience."

Excellent characterization; the narrator is used to a culture of emotional suppression and is confused and disturbed that someone is not internalizing their distress for her benefit. I like your depiction of her hypocrisy; she states that the man "was not courageous", but she is thankful when her friends hide their crying because she would be uncomfortable.

It's possible I wasn't entirely clear here (blame it on the tight word count) but her friends weren't ever crying. She thought they were, but only for a second before she realized what she thought was weeping was only nice easy socially acceptable laughter. Probably over something that wasn't even that funny. But yes, overall, she has never seen someone show their distress as the telbun does now, in a way that she has never herself had the nerve to do.

"Meshach shook his head, and clicked his tongue against his teeth, and: “There. That is quite enough of that. You’re luckier than you know, my dear boy. I don’t care to think of how our mistress would have handled your performance.”"

Ah, the old accusation that the person in distress is just seeking attention...

That's bad enough. But if Cybele had come across this scene, that accusation would have been only the beginning--and her ill-temper would have fallen on Meshach and the viewpoint character as well as on the telbun's most unhappy head. They do both have good reasons for wanting this all contained.

"“Be that as it may,” Meshach said, sweeping his hand out in a handkerchief-tossed gesture. He had large hands, befitting his craggy towering tall frame, and the lights glittered over the little nail on his right hand, the one he kept in a long knife claw, polished midnight bruised blue with silverdust diamonds. Everyone in the servants’ ranks, including the droids, knew why he kept that nail that way. Personally, she didn’t begrudge the old man his habits. As her grandmother often said, We all need something."

Expressing emotion is a no-no, but hard drug abuse is fine as long as you keep it classy, I guess. I like that the narrator goes along with this attitude without questioning its absurdity. The fact that she agrees with the idea that "We all need something" suggest a culture of open secrets, a sort of dual reality of everything being fine and normal and also not fine at all. At this point, I feel like the telbun is by far the most courageous person in the story because he refuses to accept their gaslighting.

I think you're the first person to have noted Meshach's "coke nail," but yes--he does hard drugs in his off hours, which means he is keeping it sufficiently classy. The servants have probably all agreed that he's easier to deal with this way, which is one reason why the viewpoint character is so accepting. That, and they all need something to get through the day in a somewhat normal state. The telbun is the one who has reached a point where whatever he has used to cope with his life isn't working anymore. If he was lying to himself before--and he probably was--he can no longer do so.

Meshach is plenty menacing, but his smugness in the face of someone else's crisis is just maddening.

He did manage to get the telbun to put that blaster down. But otherwise, no, I don't think he should consider a career as a suicide crisis hotline counselor.

"Once Meshach had gone off into the darkness, she headed off down the main garden path towards the house. The telbun hesitated before he moved to follow, but he did follow, and within several steps, he had caught up to walk with her. She looked straight ahead where she couldn’t quite see him. He was too real there, too exposed, outside the wall of that red robe. He wore a pale shirt with simple lace cuffs, and his long dark-as-wood hair (that Cybele so favored) was loose. Was ragged and barely held in control."

Yep, the telbun lacks courage, but the narrator is afraid to even look at him.

The reason she is hesitant to look at him is because like the rest of her society, she has been conditioned since childhood not to acknowledge telbuns. They belong to their mistresses, and their mistresses are the only ones allowed to see them. She knows she's not supposed to look directly at him, and she's already breaking a taboo by so much as speaking to him.

I feel for this guy, making that mundane comment to restore normalcy for the narrator in order to make her feel less rattled, and she believing that this conversation is for his benefit and not hers. That last comment of his, "if that's what you need to do," and the narrator accepting this as comfort instead of being embarrassed that he is doing this for her-- he must feel terribly alone.

He does feel alone at this point, but his moment of wretched misery has flamed out--leaving him feeling more numbed than anything else as he faces down the next minute. He needs to restore "normalcy," such as it is, for himself as much as for the viewpoint character. He sees her tea ritual as pointless overall, but he also realizes that she needs it. She suspects this, which is why she's relieved he doesn't say as much, and goes along with humoring her.

"It did snow during the night. When she went outside in the morning, there was a deadwhite lace covering of it over the flagstones, and clinging to the burnt-brown leaves left on the trees. It never lasted, and it didn’t then. It dissolved back into the air within another hour as though it had never been at all."

Excellent use of the prompt image.

Thanks!

I think it's a nice touch that the telbun is never named at any point, further underscoring his dehumanization. Excellent fic, and a great start to the challenge.

The reason the telbun isn't ever named is that he doesn't have one--not really, just a moniker that designates him as Cybele's property. (Yes: he is hidden from the world in heavy red robes, and his moniker would be "Cybeletel," as in Cybele's Telbun--and yet I'm sure whoever first came up with the telbuns for the EU never once thought of The Handmaid's Tale. Never once.)

And I have to say that starting this challenge with a story that opens mere seconds after one of the characters threatens to commit suicide is opening with a bang and a warning shot: Anything dark under the TOS is possible here. Though as it has happened, most of what I have written since then hasn't touched this as far as abject despair goes.

*

"Notes from the Labyrinth"

"After you disembarked from the airbus at the station listed in your directions—the route you had to memorize, that exists only within your thoughts—you headed off towards your next step in the city-maze, and the next one that followed. But then somehow, and you can’t sort out when it happened, or how, you have gone astray."

Relatable.

I love how you've captured that ever-declining sense of dignity that happens when you're late for something important and starting to panic.

Very. This may possibly be inspired by some of my experiences during my first semester of college--or even sadly after that--when I was living in the city for the first time after my totally country upbringing. But I can neither confirm or deny that.

"You can’t even get an airtaxi, as that would require spending your own money, and well—you spent most of that in one go, on two (admittedly wizard) dresses you can’t even wear."

This is definitely the kind of mistake I can see a teenager making, and I love the inclusion of the GFFA youth-slang "wizard".

The sort of mistake they warned us against my last year of high school with the Credit Card Scare Talks. (Though it's only their own fault that they never even wore the clothes or listened to the CDs and etc they bought on that credit--nothing was stopping them. I use the **** out of everything I have bought on credit so bad as it was, I can say that. But I digress.)

I don't think I have ever had one of my characters utter the word "wizard" before, but I was searching for the right word here and that one fit.

Sure, I spent all my money and now all I have are these dresses I can't even wear outside my room--but they were and are *so wizard.*

"We’re here. Because we’re here, you think, the old schooldays chant, and it feels encouraging. We’re here because we’re here because we’re here."

Hey, Canadian WWI reference! I think.

It might be just that. For me, it's a reference to a poem I read for my first English class my first semester of college, the title and author of which I long ago forgot, and this was the epigraph: a group of schoolchildren on a bus, chanting We're here because we're here because we're here because we're here...

I like that she is grounding herself here and weathering this crisis with enough confidence to keep going.

One foot in front of the other. Everything mightn't be all right in the end, but it will be.

Great story, and I love how you've created this complex emotional journey out of one character simply losing her way in a new city.

Thanks--and I have to imagine that Coruscant, the planet that is "all one city" (tip o' the hat again to Ric Olié) would be quite overwhelming even in small doses to a newcomer, especially one from a world like Naboo. This isn't like getting lost in any other strange city.

*

"Black and Blue"

"And the sky hanging above the scene had begun to crumble into snow, into a curtain of soft moth-winged flakes."

I love this imagery. So pretty.

Thanks!

"She stared at her face (her fever-rose flushed cheeks and black holes for eyes) and her bushy-rope braids. She pushed on her hat, pinning the braids down, and turned away."

Her unkind assessment of her appearance is very telling. She seems perfectly normal, but is almost creative in the flaws she finds in herself. What's wrong with having thick hair and dark eyes?

There's nothing wrong with either of those features, of course. (Though her eyes are probably not that dark, and it's just the bad lighting in her room that gives them that effect.) She's just having one of those moments where her emotional state impacts what she sees in her reflection, making it look more grotesque to her than usual. I have those myself at times. For example: recently, I looked into the mirror one morning, and it looked like my nose--which is admittedly prominent and beaky--was taking over my entire face. But as I said, it's just a moment.

"She wasn’t alone on the footpath as she walked through the thickening whispersoft snow towards the grocery. But there were only a few other people about, and they were far enough away that she wasn’t overly burdened by their freefloating emotions."

You do such a good job of depicting the everyday experience of anxiety, how even the presence of strangers that you have no reason to interact with can be stressful...

Excellent characterization-- she is stressed all the time, and because of that, she lacks the capacity to have normal emotional experiences, let alone take on the burden of others' crises. There is just no room for anything else if you're constantly panicking.

She probably does come across as having social anxiety/generalized anxiety. Which, given that she can literally feel other people's emotions floating through the air--the curse of her empathy--is understandable.

Even a stranger smiling at her is fraught, because she will be expected to behave in a certain way and cannot truly behave naturally, because she's always concealing her fear. I like this character.

This interaction is also representative of most of her dealings with other people--and when that's the case, when the only conversation you'll have all day is exchanging banal pleasantries with a grocery clerk, they take on considerable significance.

"She swallowed a birdsqueak whine of fear. She wanted to run, to rush away through the next moment, but she couldn’t. She didn’t dare. Prey runs. She couldn’t be prey."

I like that the fact that she is anxious all the time gives her the capacity to be courageous in a real crisis; she is used to having to manage fear. She controls her response and uses reason to guide her behaviour.

For just this once, being constantly on edge has served her well. (Which I guess is another sign of anxiety on her part? She went to see a medic about it, but when she admitted she had never had a panic attack/anxiety attack/I think they're the same thing--only spells of nerves with no name--he told her she Just Needed to Relax, and so much for that.)

Another fantastic story!

Thank you!

*

Blue Light

*Rated I for Innuendo. There's rising action tonight...



Truth in a quote from a song from an early 2000s Twin Cities band (Tulip Sweet and Her Trail of Tears) no one else here will have heard of.

I really like your approach to an action fic: the character recounts what happened and reflects on key points, which makes it a character-driven story. I also love that the plot is centred around whether or not Saba has learned anything from this experience.

Since I wouldn't be surprised if Saba and Brienne pull the switch on some other fool in the near future, I think we can say that they both learned just about nothing.

The woman with her viol-guitar on the corner stage had lurched into the next song, one of those midnight hour ballads, and it had gotten to him. It didn’t have any such effect on me

Uhhhhhh... of course it didn't have any effect on you, because he's your sister's boyfriend, not yours! You get the distinction, right, Saba?
Right?

Since she wouldn't have personally finished a first look at him beyond a standard flirt n' pickpocket n' ditch, she knows well that he's Brienne's boyfriend and not hers. It's just too much fun for them to pull their usual switch and know--or think they know--that he hasn't a clue about it.

She's also not at all the sentimental type.

Also, I want to meet the brewmaster behind Bantha Breath Ale. He sounds like a fun guy.

Nothing short of a legend in Outer Rim brewery circles.

"He thought he was relating this commentary to Brienne. There wasn’t much he hadn’t told her since she took up with him, and we tell each other everything. And I mean everything but everything. He had revealed the truth of his real name to her. A pretty mistake his grandmother must have dumped on him, that would announce for him that he’s from, of all the planets out there, Naboo."

Oh no... he's totally using Brienne as his sole source of emotional support, isn't he...

He needs to talk with someone, and who knows (oh right, I'm the author and if I don't know, no one does): maybe they exchanged sweet nothings and traumatic childhood memories as their pillow talk.

Honestly, I cannot tell the difference between confiding in someone, and using them for emotional support in a way you shouldn't. I know there's a line in there somewhere, but I'm not quite sure where it is.

Maybe it's boredom, maybe she's too codependent to assert boundaries with her extremely creepy sister.
Stealing her boyfriend and literally leaving her to the wolves.
It's interesting that Saba does not acknowledge that Brienne might think differently than her.

Saba needs to be in prison. Ew ew ew ew ew.
Saba couldn't make herself more obvious if she had Evil Spock's goatee.
Maybe it's a smirk, maybe suppressed nervous laughter.
This is so sad. Angel thinks he has confirmed that Brienne is in on this psychological/sexual abuse. And then he responds with abuse.

As the author, I can confirm that Brienne is absolutely, one hundred percent, in with the switcharound game. It was even likely her idea to begin with. But if you read it this way--that Saba is a really unreliable narrator, and she's manipulating her sister into all this for her amusement alone--she does come across extremely badly. And it's true enough that she is the dominant twin of the two, the "mean" one, and Brienne is the "nice" one. But only nice in a relative way, as they are both quite awful.

Saba can't be trusted much on many things, but she and Brienne are always on the same wavelength. They are each the only person in the galaxy the other one truly cares about.

"Everyone in the place rushed to spectate as they hit the floor as one howling, tearing, raging beast. I could only watch on with them"

No, Saba, you can make this a two against one fight instead of just watching your sister get hurt over a conflict that you started. Ughhhhhhhhh

She could have done just that--and if she had needed to intervene with an assist, she was well prepared to take him down with that convenient zenji needle at thirty paces. But there was a reason she stayed back. This is definitely fight-as-makeout-session territory, and Saba only knows how to flirt without ever delivering. If anyone has noticed the reference to the "beast with two backs" in the description of Angel and Brienne as one howling raging beast, they haven't said as much. But it's there, and I thought it was painfully obvious.

"It was over in another few minutes. Angel stood, in a disarray of wild hair and swollen-red mouth and loose shirt hem. He attempted to shove the hem back in. He sniffled. Then he hissed one final retort between his teeth, and stumbled outside into the cold light of the lone half-full moon."

Saba's really into that men-as-wolves motif.

Awwwwoooooool.

Though honestly, that full moon bit was meant to be the night version of the perennial "the heat of the two suns" description of Tatooine.

It’s occurred to me since that we learned a moral lesson there, though I’m not certain what it might be. But I figure we don’t really need to know.



"Nope, we're fine as is, and ready to barrel forward with more fighting and stealing and fooling the deserving on our journey through the Outer Rim."

*

"Coda: He said."

"That was Brienne. I wasted time with her, and her everpresent twin sister, for a while during the Lost Months in Mos Alba."

He's downplaying their relationship of course... there's only so much vulnerability he's going to show.

It's how he got over it, and he's sticking with this technique: It was wasted time with a girl he should have stayed away from to begin with. Lesson learned.

"So all was well enough, and then I began to suspect they were pulling the switcharound. There were a few times when Brienne was different with me, when we hadn’t quarreled and the sister wasn’t around to interfere. Colder. She wouldn’t touch me, or join into our usual rhythm of talking."

Saba is so creepy. Brienne must never be alone with him...

To be fair, if Saba had ever managed to have a relationship with another person (though all signs point to "No" on that) Brienne would have reacted in much the same way.

Besides, after the first time we went to bed, I had learned other ways to tell them apart.


Of course, he didn't actually specify what those ways were...

I think it's pretty clear that what triggered him was what appeared to be confirmation that Brienne was in on this and it wasn't just her sister tormenting him. I wonder if he has rewritten the story in his mind to make it hurt less.

That's exactly it--though they had indeed both been in on it the whole time.

"I went after Brienne, the twin who was my actual lover-deceiver, on the spot. She fought hard, and it went nasty, but that’s the only language those two understood. There’s no point in, you know, using reason with them. But we were pretty well even, and I made sure she walked away looking as ugly as I did. Then I walked out of there, and that was the last I saw of either of them. The end."

Oh man, even he has stopped recognizing that Brienne is a separate person from her sister. That's brutal.

The twins aren't quite at the level as the Tonnika Sisters (now no longer being impersonated at a certain cantina in Mos Eisley the day an old man and a farmboy stepped in, and are Kiffar, the Disney Canon Hath Spoken) who would pretend to be the same person at different locations in the course of a scam. But they're close. They are so co-dependent they aren't really capable of having relationships with anyone else. Brienne came as close as she probably could with Angel--and I doubt she'll be doing that again.

He should have just stayed away from them once he caught on to what they were like. Walked away right then and there. But he learned that too late.

*

"Dreams from the Magic Theatre"

Kisses and kisses galore / (Juggernaut)

"(And she said in a whisper meant only for him: Now you know me, loverboy.)"

Maybe she meant it, maybe she just said that to make him leave so there would be no more chaos.

Only she knows, while he is left to wonder over it without any hope of an answer.

Sister Hope knows what's what.

Understatement.

“Little Girl Lost” / [Shepherd]

"The girl was out in the nowhere of the desert-wastes when they found her. She was just there, turning and turning in a drifting swaying dance: as if she had fallen from the bleached-white sky."

That is an unsettling image. I like it!

It would certainly be an unsettling scene to come across.

"He hadn’t seen her before, but still, somehow, she seemed familiar. As though they had met in a long ago dream, in a sun-blasted hallway, at the end of his life."

Force vision maybe? I love the sense of foreboding.

It's not a Force vision. More like the fading remnants of a timeline now gone...

"Sleep like Warm Hugs" / [Undertaker]

I love this title. And it is so sad that Angel talked to Brienne about this, given what happens with them in the end.

Sleep that crushes rather than nourishes. And afterwards, he was probably glad he hadn't told Brienne the actual truth about his mother--who isn't dead, but isn't quite alive either.

I love this-- Bria certainly has been victimized, but she is also a threat to Angel's well-being because she remembers everything and can recite the truth. I would love to read more about her.

As I wrote in the digression into storytime in my reply to Findswoman, I wrote Bria's story years ago, and it is posted and available to be read on this very message board. The link is in my post in the Prolific Writers' Thread.

Great stuff, can't wait to read more!

Thank you, and thanks so much for reading and commenting!

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Chyntuck: Before I get to your latest offerings, a comment on this:

"As for the zenji needle: I believe that's an essential for every Mistryl, Kuati cultist, and general all-around bad girl in the galaxy. Saba's having one was actually inspired by Shada D'ukal (who used to impersonate one of the Tonnikas before the Disney takeover) and a story on the boards in which Khaleen Hentz had one at the ready in her hair at a pivotal moment."

Guilty as charged – or, I've written such a story at any rate (or even several ) and I completely agree that Zenji needles are an essential component of the galactic bad girl shtick. It's just such a convenient hidden weapon to have! And now I think we should all start writing stories where women are accused of having Zenji needles, but they actually turn out to be regular hairclips.

The absolute truth. (And yes, I was thinking of Khaleen Hentz in your story "The Dancer and the Thief"--which I will comment on, eventually. Thanks to her example, I remembered that Saba simply had to have a zenji needle if she was any kind of intergalactic bad girl.) It's a classic for a reason. Though it would be interesting to see what happens when an innocent hairclip is mistaken for the ultimate bad girl weapon...

"As for his background: if Amidala is Naboo's most beloved daughter, Angel is its least favorite son. He's deliberately rebelling after leaving home and planet, and he's overcompensating in the course of proving his manhood. The fading black eye indicates to me that he's not doing so well at that."


That's been my tagline for him since 2006, though I think this may be the first time I have actually written it down and shared it in public.

Now, about the double drabbles: I came out of these with even more questions about Angel/Florian than before, although I think it's mostly because I can't place them in time relative to each other – each one works perfectly well on its own. It feels a bit like looking at an unfinished tapestry (which is arguably the main reason I don't get too excited about drabbles in general TBH)

There are definite drawbacks to the drabble form, even when they're double-drabbles (and for the record, I don't actually hate drabbles, I'm just not capable of squeezing an actual story into one hundred words, and this is all a hobby for fun alone: If I'm going to suffer for my art, I want to get a good grade or get paid at the end of it). And I think there's a reason the drabble is only a thing in fanfiction--I certainly never encountered it before in my years as a pretentious literary writing student: because there much of the groundwork, the characters the settings and the dramas, have already been established for you, so you can just dive right in. And as it happens, this trio as a whole is really a fanfiction of a fanfiction for my 2006 era story "Aerena, with her sun eyes."

But it does seem that you're on a roll with this character, so I think/hope you'll be filling the blanks for us before this challenge is over. What we do know for a fact already is that his grandmother played an important part in his life, since it was mentioned in the previous story already that she gave him a typical booboo-from-Naboo name, so I'm going to guess that the "least favourite son" aspect is something you'll develop.

As you already know (since I'm writing these responses a few weeks late) I have written further about Angel/Florian, and shown him flaunting his "least favorite son" status--or just being himself--back during his Naboo days. Which I never thought I would write about. Though I also didn't think--after I had moved on to other stories, and years had passed--that I would write about him again at all.

This thread has sort of turned into my Greatest Hits "I Loves My Imaginary Mens and Here Allow Me to Show You Why" Festival. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that, but it's worked out for me this far.

Finally, thank you so much for reading and commenting!

 

Week Six:

Title: The Song of Experience
Timeframe: Towards the end of Before the Saga
Genre: Beyond all Genre
Characters: Mostly Original

*There's no excuse for this. It probably qualifies for this prompt (if it even does qualify) by a mere spidersilk thread. But I wrote it, and so here we are.

*Can a protagonist and their antagonist turn around and find wuv together? "And in reply, from out of the depths of 1999, the Obi-Wan Kenobi/Darth Maul slashers all raise their collective eyebrows." So that settled, this story is doing double-duty as my entry in the OTP Bingo! Challenge, using the diagonal line of prompts as follows: epiphany, "I know," heart, confession, and morning/noon/night.

*If you choose to read on, I can but say this: Thank you, and sorry.

The prompt:

• Write a story of at least 500 words in which one of your favorite protagonists/heroic characters is the antagonist/villain. This can be an AU, but it doesn't necessarily have to be.
  
• Minimum 500 words, no maximum limit

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The Song of Experience

The woman commanding the stage gave forth her protestation in song: her left hand collapsed, and her fingers spread in a fan on her chest as she threw forth her voice. There was a faint static-buzz added from the amplifier, but otherwise, we heard her human voice. She had the true voice of the ingenue, even if she had herself outlived her gold years. The ingenue heroine in question for this opera was eighteen years of age, forever a year my junior, still young enough to have an untouched heart as she took up her sword. The singer had to be nearly as old as forty. But she still had the voice, the rose-sweet soprano, that angels can scream so beautifully in.

The Sisterhood is one of the better operas from the Queen Yarm era. It was one of the assigned texts for musical theatre class my last term in the acting track, and I have read it again since. It isn’t performed as often as the royalist works—the ones we all claim to scorn, but considering we learned to do otherwise from our first years of reason, I know more than a few of us are lying—but this was the second time I had seen a production.

Of course, I would have appreciated it far more if I hadn’t been there with Florian. My debate partner, and the scourge of my political career. The darkness we sat in kept him obscured, but I was still aware, more so than I wanted to allow, of his presence seated next to me.

Firstly, there was his smell: he wore a musky-dark cologne that dominated the air around him. When we had first sat down, I had coughed—oh so delicately, just clearing my throat. He hadn’t noticed the hint. Then he had nudged me, his knee (accidentally, but still) brushing against my skirts, and the side of my thigh, as he crossed his legs. Twice.

Theda was sitting just behind us with a row of her junior legislative charges. I should have found this reassuring, as I have (always and utterly) done in the past. But that had all changed in a moment the week before, when she leaned across the table and said, her voice hidden inside the general conversation floating around us in the tearoom, that there was something she had to tell me.

It was her problem, and in the end, she would have to decide alone how to resolve it: but since she had involved me, it had become my problem as well.

And as I sat hidden in the nightdarkness, underneath the music, I was aware of how each moment brought me ever closer to the intermission. She had told me earlier that she wanted, needed, to talk.

Florian shifted in his seat again, and his cologne—the smell of the body, the truth of the mating call—wafted over directly into my face.

Onstage, the heroine implored, in heartbeat-throbbing song, her grandmother’s ghost-voice to return, and advise her in the choice she had to make between the warrior-maiden order, and the man she had fallen instantly into terrible and bleedingraw love with. But I knew already, as did everyone else in the audience, what her choice would be. That is always the way in story and song: when it comes to the battle with duty, mere love hasn’t got a chance.

*

As soon as the overhead lights woke up for the intermission, Florian rose to his feet. No, he near surged forth from his seat, while everyone in the rows around us took their time. Then he yawned, arching his shoulders back, and even thrusting his hips forward as he stretched. Oh, I wasn’t at all surprised. He is exactly that uncouth, and he didn’t care. Nor did he notice that two of Theda’s charges had lagged behind to watch him. I gifted them with a knife-snapped arch of my eyebrows, and they took the hint to go off in a clatter of footsteps, hand in hand, to join the others.

When I turned my attention back to Florian, I found he was already watching me. He smiled: an amused all-knowing drawl of his lush mouth. “What is it?” he said.

He had asked, and so I answered: “You don’t seem to have found the performance too entrancing. I hope this outing hasn’t taxed you overly much.”

“Not one bit,” he said. “I yawn merely to stretch my mind, not because I’m tired. Or may all the Queens forfend, bored.”

A lineup of people—all of them nice rose-sweet eyed women and their men who were established members of the regional arts council—were approaching from down the aisle, so I had to focus on pressing myself back against my seat as they passed me in a crush of velvet and birdsong-twitters. Once they were gone, and I could speak, I said: “Well, I’m glad to hear that. Even gladder to believe it.”

He bowed, in the classic courtier style with his hand extended, and fine: I was amused despite myself. “Oh, thank you. Most of the time, it’s just a good thing I’m this pretty.”

Florian is indeed pretty. The girl-children who had just left weren’t yet old enough to see that, but I could. He must be the best looking man of any age I have ever met, especially in comparison to the herd of young and doleful men we both share classes with. I’m not quite certain how to describe him. I could write that he is tall and pale, with wintersky blue eyes and fair autumn-brown hair, and that would make for an accurate representation.

But what most truly describes him is his insolence, seen in his mouth and his hips. And most especially when he opens said mouth to speak.

We were taking the stairs to the salon when Theda caught up with us, in that floating walk she has with her tiny doll-sized feet. Somehow, she had managed an excuse good enough to foist off her charges on her sister Chaperone.

After she acknowledged Florian with a nod, she went straight to the point: “After all that earnest good behavior, I need a bit of air. I was hoping you might come with me?”

I looked over at Florian, and then: “Of course. Though that all depends on whether Florian here will allow me to excuse myself.”

“Oh, I don’t mind if he comes along,” Theda said.

But I did mind: and they both could tell from my resulting silence. Florian stared at me in a manner I’m sure his relatives have spoken to him about. Finally, after another long moment, he said: “Don’t worry. I can tell when I’m not wanted. See you for the third act.”

Theda chose the Princess Polanna grove behind the opera mansion, conveniently the one most people don’t bother with, for her air. We wandered the paths through the crowds of thin chalkwhite river-elm trees for a minute before she spoke, her face turned carefully away from me. “I saw this medic, the one I’d heard about in Amarantine, and it’s true. I’m pregnant.”

“I see,” I said, as I searched my book-learned experiences for what I should say, for what one was supposed to say in this situation. “What are you going to do?”

“I haven’t figured that all out,” she said. “But I know this much. This is the natural way of things for us, even if we’ve made it out to be wrong. Perhaps that’s because we’re so cultured, so well refined, we can’t admit we’re all still animals in the end. But it’s not. It never was.”

“You can’t possibly be thinking of keeping it,” I said. But I could sense her answer from the sullen lock of her mouth. Yes, she was, she most defiantly was. “Look, Theda. You came to me for my advice, and so I need to be honest with you. You know exactly what will happen if you have this baby. They won’t let you keep your position for one minute. Then what will you do?”

Oh, they wouldn’t do anything so blunt as fire her: the Legislature Director would call Theda to her office for a closed meeting, where she would ask her to resign.

(Which would then be a blackmark on her record for other potential employers, including those who didn’t mind what their employees did in their own time.)

But her parents would openly, in shock and even tears, disown her. They are both militant prudes, especially her mother, who worship Shiraya-as-Virgin and the Queen in that order. They were thrilled when they thought Theda had chosen the chaste intellectual life. Believe me, they would rather she still be innocently unaware of how babies get made. They failed to realize that literature leads one to the life outside of books, not away from it.

Theda blinked. Her eyes were glossy-damp, but before she could cry (leaving her eyes bruised rosepetal pink in a way the other Chaperone would not notice in silence) she recovered herself. She exhaled a long leaf-trembling breath, and looked down at her hands. Theda isn’t quite as tall as I am, but she seems tall because she is so scrawny-thin, almost frail looking. The very picture of the pure heart, with her waist-length russetbrown hair and grey-as-glass eyes. Perhaps she resents this, which explains why she hasn’t ever tweezed her thick eyebrows into a more fashionable shape.

But if she remained pregnant, and kept the thing growing inside her, that would change, as she swelled into a different person, into a woman with heavy breasts and a full moon stomach: and I couldn’t help but look at the girl in front of me as though she were already dead.

“Whatever I decide, you’ll help me. Remember?” Yes, I remembered. I had told her just that, as we hid our voices with the tearoom noise. “You promised.”

*

We were only outside for a few minutes, not long enough for anyone to take much notice of our absence. Once we were back inside, Theda returned to her duties, and I went upstairs to the open corridor where our crowd tends to gather. They were all there, and Florian was with them. He stood out, both because for the obvious fact that he’s taller than everyone else, and for what he chooses to say. I could hear him in full voice above the crowd-chatter as soon as I reached the top of the staircase. When I joined the group, Tavyn had taken the floor, but he wouldn’t be holding it for long.

They had been talking over the futures waiting for us at the end of the next term, when we will be thrust forth into the world. Tavyn smiled, in his easy-smug fashion, and I could guess at the statement he was responding to as he said: “Well. Whatever we choose, we will be a part of the larger picture. Of democracy itself.”

“Ah, yes,” Florian said, and I braced myself for the approaching impact. “We’re all set up for careers spending the rest of our poor mortal lives sniveling in the background. Like Governor Bibble, for one example. Is there anyone who takes the man seriously?”

He wasn’t wrong—though I wasn’t about to be the one to tell him that. Governor Bibble was denoted to Old Dear status years ago. There are people, amongst those who acknowledge his existence, who like him, but no one much respects him. Not behind his back. But he is still the appointed governor, and the power that guides the Queen’s hand. That means something, Florian.

“He does,” Sanné said.

Florian blatantly rolled his eyes. “I meant besides himself. Honestly, I don’t know how he manages to face the light every morning.”

Tavyn gave a primly proper sniff. “You don’t know what you’re talking on about, Florian. Per usual. Governor Bibble has chosen the life of the mind, and it’s one he enjoys.”

“I’m sure that’s what he tells himself,” Florian said. “When the night is darkest, and the Queen isn’t there to give him a reason to continue breathing.”

“Fine, Florian,” I said, and everyone turned their attention to me. I hadn’t intended to speak, but now that I had begun, I lunged on. “Let’s just all be honest here. Show each other our guts. If you feel that way, why are you still here on the political track with the rest of us morose intellectuals?”

He shrugged. “I need to suffer for my art. This seemed the surest way.”

“Your art,” I said. “Well, I can but wish you all the best with that.”

“We should probably all go sit down about now,” Cressida said then, and Sanné and Milo both nodded along with considerable sighing relief the others clearly shared.

I was happy enough myself to follow along. I didn’t look back to see what Florian would do. But I had hardly resumed my seat when he appeared next to me. Once he sat down, he crossed his legs, and started shaking his foot back and forth, back and forth. I ignored him. When Theda returned with her charges, I stared straight ahead, waiting for the darkness to return.

*

Several days after that, in our shared political etiquette class, someone—and I would still like to know who exactly had that much nerve—left a flower arrangement standing in a glass on Ayona Vonne’s desk. She seemed surprised, and then actually pleased, when she saw it, before she looked up and saw how the rest of were reacting. You see, that combination of geraniums, nightgrass, and maiden’s breath says in the floral language, as clearly as words to those who can read it, Your foolish thoughts laugh for us. Ayona stood trapped in place, holding the glass with the flowers in front of her. She opened her mouth, and then shut it without speaking.

Ayona entered our class year three weeks into last term, and according to what I have heard, she arrived here on Naboo with her family only last year. She is the only twi’lek I have ever seen in person, with lavender-purple skin and dotted floral tattoos along her lekku. She has tried to fit in. While she continues to wear those short glitterskirts, she wears black tights to cover her legs with them, and she always endeavors to be nice, even if she doesn’t quite get our ways of doing so.

But the truth remains the same: we don’t like her.

Even though we have been literally ordered (if through the subtlest nudging hints) to do so, we haven’t managed it. Then she won the best creative essay prize, which didn’t at all help.

Professor O. entered the room in a dashing sweep of her black robes: and of course, predictably, she looked straight at those mocking taunting flowers in the glass locked in Ayona’s hand. She came to a halt, and swept her fierce sterling gaze around the room.

“Who did this,” she said, with a voice that might have been the winterblasted mountain winds. Everyone remained silent, not so much as breathing in response. Ayona looked ever more confused, her mouth wobbling. I looked over at Florian who mouthed back to me, almost keeping to gesture-speak, Oh come on now. I didn’t do it.

The last thing I needed was to bring down Professor O.’s attention, but I risked giving him an answer: I know you didn’t.

The silence only ended when Ayona set the glass back on her desk, and hunched forward, her shoulders in a whipped cringe. "There’s something wrong with the flowers?”

Professor O. let her expression soften. “There is, Ayona. I’m so sorry.”

She turned back to the rest of us, and I flinched as she spoke: “As for the rest of you, you may leave. You will be considered absent today, and as I shan’t be accepting your essays, you will be receiving zero-marks for them. Perhaps this will be sufficient to help you to understand. Silence is complicity. Only one of you is responsible for this insult to Ayona, but I have no doubt that there are others who knew all about it. You have chosen not to bring your classmate to account, and therefore, you are all equally at fault. Dismissed.”

With that, Professor O. escorted Ayona away to her office, leaving the rest of us to our own devices for the class period. No one dared to speak. But eventually, we did as she had told us, and went on our ways, out onto the campus. I don’t remember what I did, how I moved, as I packed my satchel and slung it over my shoulder, and walked through the room and out the doorway, and through the hallways and then outside into the pale morningsweet sunlight. Professor O. always has her classes glaringly bright and early, in the raw uglygrey mornings of the hours.

My eyes were scorched wide open, and I couldn’t think, I could only hear the same words repeated over and over again. A zero-mark The round staring oh of failure.

I had made perfect marks every term until then, and here I was, with the black mark of the zero burnt into a blight on my university records. I could do my best from then on, but it was too late in the term for me to recover my grade. Oh, and then my parents would want to know why I didn’t make the Royal List as I always had before. I didn’t want them to ask, and I didn’t want to answer.

Florian caught up with me on the path, startling me back into reality. “Onk, I’ve never seen you move so fast. Are you all right?”

“What do you think?” I said. There was a bench just ahead, and I sat down, dropping my satchel in a fainted sloppy heap next to me, before I continued. “The answer is no. Absolutely not. I have just been punished for something I didn’t do. Something I wouldn’t have ever done. Oh, and I spent all those hours last night writing that essay for naught, but that’s probably beside the point.”

“Hardly. It’s a shame to waste what I’m sure was the perfect essay,” he said. I glared back at him, but without any real blast-power behind it. I didn’t have the sufficient energy required.

He sat down next to me, and waited as I fought my thrashing thoughts back. Then: “Look. I’ve been punished for that same misdeed, and I am equally innocent. But I also have an idea.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do, “ I said.

“I’m handing that essay in to her office whether she wants it or not. She can tear it up into pieces for all that I care, so long as I don’t have to see it again. I invite you to join me.”

“You can’t do that, Florian,” I said. He stared back at me with intense amusement I could almost physically feel. “Oh, all right. You can do it, but it will only make matters worse. Let’s move on. Since we have this free time, we might as well use it and study up for next week’s debate.”

“That’s fine with me,” he said. “No better use of my mind and my time. But tonight, after our dearly stern professor leaves the building, I will be handing in my essay. You can do what you like, but I would hate to see your work get wasted.”

Somehow, he knew what I would decide on before I could allow myself to know.

Things had begun to fall apart, into a disaster I can still only barely comprehend. But I could feel it, hovering in close, close enough to blot out the light, over my head.

I’m not a heroine, not an ingenue ready to sacrifice her life for democracy, not the girl with the Queen’s face arrived blazing in her white dress to rescue everyone with her pure violent words. The one who matters, the one who will survive beyond the story’s end.

That same night, after dinner in the library lunchroom, we went over to the social sciences building and into the echoing shadow-lit hallway where the professor has her office, and slid our essays, printed out on the creamsoft paper she requires, underneath her door. Moreover, we got away with it. No one saw us enter the building, or leave. As we walked away through the wildwind night air, he reached over and took up my hand. And it was easy, as natural as breathing, for me to return his grip.

*

The following week, we went to Theed for the next round in the royal debate tournament, the one that leads to the finals. The Princess of Theed and the Queen Herself were both in attendance, and this fact had had our advisor a-glow with nerves for days. For this appearance, I wore black, the color of the pure unwavering stance, in a buttoned-up velvet jacket with puffed sleeves and lace cuffs with a matching skirt, and had my hair subdued underneath a severe black beret. Florian wore black as well, though I think he did so for the aesthetics alone. He completed his look with a humble woodrose perched in his hair. He told me he had just picked it that morning in the campus grounds woods.

Florian is a good debater. There is a reason, after all, that I have tolerated him as a partner. You wouldn’t know it to overhear him, but he can take down an opponent on the floor with one well-aimed sentence. He is logical and utterly calm and cold blackhearted out there.

This round, the topic was the politics of visual art, and we were up against two wondergirls from the Royal Youth College, the elder of whom was fifteen. The younger one is rumored for the Princess of Theed when the darling who currently holds the title moves on to more magnificent things, though I will let the future decide that. We had read up on multiple philosophers who have dealt with the subject, and were readied to argue that beauty has merit for its own sake, beyond royal propaganda.

But the girls went for emotion to support their reams of facts, and they knew what they were about: the audience was openly in their favor. The audience members I could see just as clearly cringed when Florian turned on the girls with a well-aimed attacking reply.

My parents had made the journey into the city to come see us at our work, as had Florian’s grandfather. So they were there to witness it firsthand as we lost.

Afterwards, the Queen was too occupied with the winning team to speak with us, so the Princess of Theed was tasked with that duty. I can’t remember one word she said, only that I nodded through my daze of mangled thoughts, and looked appropriately polite and humbly-pleased. My parents and Florian One, the grandfather Florian was named for, stood blurred out in the background.

Once she took her leave in a rush of dark lakewater-silk skirts, my parents attempted to console me. Or rather, to make certain I didn’t waste a moment in being disappointed. “There will be other debates, other tournaments, “ my father said (briskly, as in a bad novel). “Think of this as a learning experience. You’ll know just how to refine your strategy next time.”

“That’s not much help to us today, Dad,” I said.

Florian One took a different approach. He was a tall man, nearly as tall as Florian, with irongrey hair who (we had both noted) wore a black beret that almost matched my own. He looked at both of us as he said: “Well, that was tough luck today. But I suppose it wasn’t a fair fight.”

“That’s an understatement,” Florian said. “Those brats had us whipped the minute they first uttered the word democracy. Next time, I’ll start off in tears, and then we’ll see how it goes.”

“Onk, Rian,” Florian One said, but without any scolding in his voice. “That would be quite the bold move on your part. Just keep in mind it mightn’t work so well with the next team.”

My father stared at Florian before he said, with oh just a touch of snideness he could deny later on: “Aren’t you the idealistic young man.”

Meanwhile, my mother had commenced to picking at flecks of airborne dust clinging to my sleeve, even after I jerked my arm away from her. “I don’t know why you went with black, of all colors. You’re too young, and nowhere near royal enough, to pull this off.”

That was the moment Governor Bibble chose to approach us. His political smile shivered off balance a bit when he greeted Florian, and I remembered that Florian had been his intern, for one memorable term, three years ago. But he recovered well enough: “You presented your side well up there. Very well. Even if you didn’t win, people still took notice. I for one did.”

“Thank you, milord,” Florian said. “Oh, and before I forget, I wanted to let you know you look very distinguished today. More handsome and well-groomed with every year that passes.”

Governor Bibble shook his head. “The same as ever, I see. Thank you, Florian. And I trust you have complimented your debate partner here in like manner.”

Since the match had been held at the noon-hour, in deference to the royal schedules, my parents insisted on taking the entire group of us out for early tea. I wasn’t at all hungry, but I went along with them. It was easier to do so, and I didn’t wish to deal with the resulting storm if I used my free will to decline. Naturally, Florian was pleased to accept their offer. He hadn’t eaten yet all day, and as he did not hesitate to inform everyone present, he was famished.

*

When it was all over, we walked back to campus on the woods-road in the bright blue spring evening. The birds were in flight over the trees, and occasionally, I caught the scent of the little wild pink roses on the bushes near the roadside. Somehow, I kept pace with Florian, though I don’t know how I did so. It felt as though I were trudging through a thick floor of mud with every step I took, one after the other, though I wasn’t physically tired. Florian had remained silent, and I didn’t know what to make of that. We just walked along, and the only sound that floated through the air was the thrashing-beat of bird wings, and their singsonging calls.

In the end, I was the one who spoke first. Before I could decide otherwise, I came to a stop and turned to face him. He raised his eyebrows in a question mark. The first move. “It’s all right, Florian. You needn’t keep to yourself on my account. Tell me whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“Believe it or not, that's all I was doing. Thinking. I know you weren't pleased with how I went after those little girls today. If this is any help to you, we would have lost that one however nice I was. It was settled from the beginning.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not upset,” I said. “It was only one debate match in the scheme of things. It isn’t as if I haven’t ever lost before.”

He stared at me until I wanted to squirm--but I couldn’t, and I didn't dare to, look away. “You’re a terrible liar, Amilia. You should work on that if you’re planning to stay in politics.”

Politics is the noblest of the arts, the one of truth, of offering one’s life in service to the needs of the people--never anything so base as lying. But I wasn’t in the mood to tell him what he should already know and believe. “Thanks so much for that.”

We continued on into the shadows of the inner woods. But now our walking alone had turned into a competition, one I didn’t think I could win. Still whenever he increased the speed of his long ranging stride, I did my best to keep up with him. I wanted the day to be over. I wanted to close my eyes and not have to confront the world, and my role within it, anymore.

As I walked, my breath came forth in strangled gasps. My jacket fit me with a tight iron-banded grip around my ribs, and along with that, my breasts were a stoneweight crushing in on my chest. I know it doesn’t make sense, but that was what I felt. My right hand was closed into a fisted rock, and I had it pressed down against my collarbone to keep myself in place until I could reach my flat, and flee into the privacy inside my bedroom.

“You really want to win at something today, don’t you?” Florian said, as he caught up with me. I hadn’t even realized I had left him behind.

He regarded me with an expression I couldn’t interpret. He wasn’t even a foot away from me, so close I could feel him breathe (and smell his wild musky scent, of his cologne and his self), and: “You didn’t have to say that, Florian,” I said. “I do have a heart.”

“Oh, that muscle the size of a fist that pumps blood throughout one’s body?” he said. “No, I understand your meaning. I have one too, Amilia. But so what?”

“I can answer that," I said. "You're right, Florian. I admit it. I do have a need to win at something just now. I want to get something. I need something. I need.”

Now that I’m relating all this after the fact, I couldn’t say which one of us made the first move. Perhaps we both did, lunging forward at the same moment. But then he had caught me up against him, and I had my arms looped around his neck, catching my fingers in his hair, and we were kissing, coming together in a bruising-fast destroying crash. His breath helped me to breathe, and to stand, and I was the one to start the next kiss, and then the one after that.

Before this, I had some limited experience in the ways of kissing, so I knew the basics. But Florian had learned far more, somewhere I haven’t been. “Oh, you know what you’re doing,” I said.

“So do you,” he said, and I could feel the ramcat purr of his approval. “Good girl.”

Florian has one of the rare single rooms on campus. This was a good thing, as I share my flat with three other women who are my friends, and care too much about my business. As we lay in bed together, in the flushed-warm aftermath, I didn’t think about my life outside of that moment. I could just live. Just exist. Florian nuzzled me, kissing my shoulder, and I burst into actual giggling.

But soon enough, I heard the insistent clockwork chirp from my comlink buried inside the heap of clothes I had left on the corner armchair. I sat up to retrieve it, and then flopped back down on the bed, the sheet drifting back down around my knees. The comlink went dead again.

“That was Theda,” I said, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll have to return her call, but that can wait for a while. She can talk herself out for now in a message. Speaking of which, I’m sure you remember how she wanted a minute with me at the opera.”

“Yes. I also remember you didn’t want me around,” he said.

“There was a reason for that.” I turned over onto my side and faced him directly in the eye, my mind more exposed than I was being naked. “She’s pregnant. She’s pregnant, and she wants to have the baby, and she wants me to help her. And I told her, I promised her, that I would do just that. But I can’t help her at all. I can’t save her.”

“I know,” he said, his breath brushing my face, and I didn’t realize I had begun to cry, leaking rainslick tears, until he kissed them away, kissing my cheeks and eyelids, and then my mouth.

The next morning, before we left for class, we did it again one last time. I am of reasonable height for a woman, but Florian is tall enough that I can climb him as though he were a tree. That book of erotic poetry I read in secret last year has proved to be quite useful.

*

They have always taught us, girls and boys alike, that we will lose a part of our selves when we become involved with base sexual matters. That having sex dulls the intellect, and why would we ever want to do that. But they were wrong: the headmistress who ruled my secondary school and the teachers and the political tutors and my parents. I don’t know if they were consciously lying to us, or if they believed their stories, but they were wrong. I was the same person I had been before. More than that, when I walked into class, my body and mind were working in tandem, and I had never felt so sharp.

When Professor O. opened the floor with a question in our next class, I went leaping after it. I knew what to say, and I was suddenly free to know how to say it. Only Tavyn attempted to keep up with me, and Ayona, of all the classmates, helped me deal with him.

“No, silence is ambiguous,” I said, staring him down. “It doesn’t provide you with the answers, so you must decide its meaning for yourself. And in general, that is whatever suits you best, and reflects most poorly on those you see as your opponents.”

Professor O. sighed from her position at the front of the room, and I could hear the clicking tap of her teeth. I knew then that my mark in this course was so much rubbish. But Florian smiled at me from his seat amongst our classmates, a secretwhispered message only I knew how to see. Oh yes, he felt, and understood, every word that I spoke.

*

 

All I have to say is:

Okay, no, it's not all I have to say, but the applause still stands. More like a standing ovation, really, and I don't see why you think this isn't a fit for the 'antagonist' prompt, there was nothing in the prompt to say that there couldn't/shouldn't be a resolution to that tension.

More fantastic Naboo worldbuilding here. I just love how you took this culture that's presented as the epitome civilisation in the films and you made it into a society so ensconced in its own rules that it operates like a straightjacket for those who should be the most creative and productive of its members. And this led to such an interesting development for Florian, who displayed his persona as Naboo's least favourite son in all its glory throughout the first part of the story (when he tried to shoot down the other debate team I literally rolled my eyes and wanted to say "dude, read the room") but then became the catalyst Amilia needed to challenge the yoke of tradition, obedience and silence.

And I'm still very curious about his background, because there was his grandfather and namesake here to go with the grandmother we've already read about, and there must be a reason why there are no parents, which I expect is somehow important because I know that you never leave things to chance. I can see that you're on a roll with this character, so I'm very curious to see what where he turns up next!

 

Chyntuck: All I have to say is:

*Takes a bow.*

Okay, no, it's not all I have to say, but the applause still stands. More like a standing ovation, really, and I don't see why you think this isn't a fit for the 'antagonist' prompt, there was nothing in the prompt to say that there couldn't/shouldn't be a resolution to that tension.

I'm glad to hear you think it does fit the protagonist-as-antagonist prompt, because I had considerable doubts about that. And those said doubts were huge: as I prepared the story for posting, and even afterwards on that same night, I seriously wondered if it would get dinged, and I would have to take the "bye week" and then use the much shorter story idea, which I came up with too late to write, to fill the hole. I'm just the president of the Pretty and Plotless Writing Club, so I don't trust myself on such matters.

As this story is doing double duty with the OTP challenge, I was still going to post it regardless. But thanks to your comment, and Findswoman's, I realize now I never had anything to worry about.

And that's very true about how there was nothing forbidding a resolution to the protagonist/antagonist struggle. Or as I put it to my father (though I don't think he got it) "It never said the antagonist couldn't win in the end."

More fantastic Naboo worldbuilding here. I just love how you took this culture that's presented as the epitome civilisation in the films and you made it into a society so ensconced in its own rules that it operates like a straightjacket for those who should be the most creative and productive of its members.

Honestly, I don't have any excuse for why I took the beautiful peaceful fairytale-queens-and-princesses-but-make-it-democracy Space Italy created to be the homeworld of the twins' mother and saw problems. It could just be me, and I am the one with the problem. But the Naboo are people, and I'm not going to be convinced that perfection (as opposed to "Everything's perfect and how dare you suggest otherwise") is humanly possible. Which reminds me of this pitchdark story I wrote in 2008 set during the Trade Federation occupation that shows what can happen when that very epitome of civilization takes a hit. I wrote it just after I found out my cat had cancer, and about one month left to live, and there was absolutely no mercy in that thing.

But I do have an explanation: much of the worldbuilding I did for this particular story is inspired by one line in Revenge of the Sith, when Padmé tells Anakin that once her pregnancy is known/the baby is born "I doubt the Queen will continue to allow me to serve in the Senate." (Which would likely mean the Queen would ask her to step down, and she would be expected to grant this request.) So essentially, it's common practice on Naboo for women to lose their jobs--in politics, at the very least--because they had the nerve to get pregnant. I don't see any other way to read it, or how to excuse it away as a good thing--though I was once embroiled in a long contentious discussion with someone who tried.

Obviously, I don't know, and I can't know, why Lucas decided to go with that line. I suspect it was probably just a way to further amp up the ooh so forbidden aspect of Anakin and Padmé's relationship. But that was exactly how it was for so much of western history, until relatively recently: the "Baby Scoop Era" is considered to have ended only in 1973, and I have read a few accounts of pregnant teenage girls who were sent away to hide out in maternity homes up into the 1980s. That's the same world Lucas was born into, and grew up in.

Perhaps the problem with Naboo lies in that very fact: that it's the epitome of civilization, of all that is cultured and refined, with elaborate symbolism and the rules that go with it. There are always rules--and you know you've hit peak high culture when the only thing worse than breaking rules is acknowledging that they exist.

Also, as I read once in a comment on livejournal I'll never find again: there is no culture so wonderful, so functional, that there isn't at least one someone somewhere in it who just can't fit.

And this led to such an interesting development for Florian, who displayed his persona as Naboo's least favourite son in all its glory throughout the first part of the story (when he tried to shoot down the other debate team I literally rolled my eyes and wanted to say "dude, read the room") but then became the catalyst Amilia needed to challenge the yoke of tradition, obedience and silence.

Oh, he is so on fire he's blazing from the word "go," being a very naughty boy as only he can--and I think this is the first time in the Kessel Run that those skills of his have been on display. (I suspect he has been told, and more than once, in the past to do exactly that and "read the room"--and that he had done so, and decided to give them what they needed, but didn't want.)

As for Amilia, she may regard Florian's actions in dismay, but she's more than a little like him, and as she says, there's a reason they're debate partners even when she claims he's the scourge of her career. She hardly even needs a push to join him in his rebel song.

And I'm still very curious about his background, because there was his grandfather and namesake here to go with the grandmother we've already read about, and there must be a reason why there are no parents, which I expect is somehow important because I know that you never leave things to chance. I can see that you're on a roll with this character, so I'm very curious to see what where he turns up next!

I've already written some about his background in the third of my double-drabbles "Sleep like Warm Hugs [Undertaker]". His grandfather is the speaker at the beginning, and much of it is about his mother, who is still alive but not at all well. There's a reason he's so understanding when Amilia tells him about Theda at the end--the son of a sad broken-hurting mother, who has found life so unbearable she has turned to coma-like sleep, knows. That's just the tiny 200 word tip of the iceberg, though.

The next story (finished, edited, and awaiting posting) isn't about Florian, but I wouldn't be surprised if he makes another appearance before this challenge is over.

Finally, thanks so much for reading and commenting!

-----------------------

Findswoman: Well, just, yowza (complimentary). I too don’t see why this doesn’t fit the antagonist prompt, and I’m so glad you put it forward for the OTP challenge as well.

Ah, thank you so much. As I wrote to Chyntuck, your comments both helped me to fully get over my enormous, and utterly sincerely neurotic, fears that this story was a terrible embarrassment to the prompt. (I won't even get into what I was tempted to write in the moments after I first put it up online. I saved face then, and I'll do so again now.)

As for the OTP challenge, that all started on the way home from work one day. I was thinking over the story, which I had just started the previous night, and figuring out where it would go from there. I hadn't originally intended for Amilia and Florian to have a romantic/sexual connection--quite the contrary, actually--but as I wrote, what I wrote was leading there, and I decided to accept that and run with it. Which led to my realizing that what I had thus far could work with what I remembered of the bingo prompts. Home again, I looked up the prompts, selected my row, and the rest is history. This is my first time doing "double-dipping" with challenges, and I'm rather absurdly proud of it.

Florian doesn’t just act as antagonist to the prim, pretty girls in the debate; he kind of is an antagonist to the whole straitlaced society he’s in, all the way through this story and in the other ones in which we’ve seen him.

He certainly is that. I don't know that he always means to be an antagonist--sometimes, he's just being who he is--but from the opposing points of view, he is an aggravation and a mystery.

And Amilia clearly admires that side of him; she mentions her desire to win, and I think that she and Florian both have that desire, and it’s part of what draws them to each other. Even if she doesn’t win the debate, she does win in the classroom that particular Morning After, and she is AOK with that.

As I wrote in my comment to Chyntuck, she is more than a little like him--and I think on some level, while she doesn't want to openly acknowledge it, she knows this.

Theda is an interesting character to look at in light of these matters, too. She seems at first like a foil of sorts to Amilia; she clearly got herself into the Whole Sex Thing without having the same kind of self-assurance as Amilia (and look where it got her). But in her own way she’s bucking society’s expectations of her by deciding she wants to keep her baby, not caring what it might do to her career. So there’s some self-assurance hidden in there, too, methinks.

Theda's story is inspired, and influenced, by my research so far into the "Baby Scoop Era"--which I have seen invoked online several times since the repeal of Roe Vs. Wade, the passing of which is generally considered to have brought said era to a close. And that one line of Padmé's in Revenge of the Sith--which however one feels about it, is totally there, and totally canon--makes Naboo look like a "repressed 1950s style matriarchy" (a bad misquoting of something handmaiden fan obischick said way back in the day).

Basically, I see Theda as breaking the rules, and expectations, first, before Amilia ever does--she realizes that nearly everything they've been taught to think about sex (and I'm convinced a culture like Naboo, that is so focused on youth and its attendant virtue of "purity of heart," can't help but have repressive attitudes about sex) is so much bung, and that ain't easy.

It's also based off the many stories I have encountered--in online comments and book reviews whenever the subject of the baby scoop era is raised--of women who were forced into giving up their babies for adoption during that time: they didn't at all care that having this baby while still unmarried would close every door to them. That they would have to drop out of school, or lose their jobs, and that their families (the recently middle-class parents furious and desperate to hide the social shame of an unmarried pregnant daughter) had often made it clear they would not support them. It turns out that biology is stronger than social norms any time. They just wanted one thing, to keep their babies.

Will Theda succeed in doing so--considering that her entire culture, not to mention her own parents, will stand against her? As the author, I'm the only one who can know, and I honestly don't.

It’s been really intriguing following the exploits and backstories of these new characters of yours; keep it coming!

Amilia and Theda are new characters. I actually first came up with them around last November for a challenge story for the Angstmongers thread that didn't pan out, partly because it lacked a certain ooomph. Well, we can all guess which character is good for adding that to a story.

Florian, though, is a character I first wrote about in 2006, in my 2005-2006 story "Aerena, with her sun eyes" [I'll go into this more when I get to catching up on earlier replies.] After I finished that story, I didn't think I would write about him again. But here we are: now that I've brought him back into life, he just won't go away. So I won't be surprised if I'm far from done with him, whether for this challenge, or somewhere else.

And as always, thanks so much for reading and commenting!

 

Week Seven:

Title: "No more yielding but a dream"
Timeframe: A long, long time after the saga ends
Genre: Surreal Winter Adventure Time
Characters: Adé Sade (Original Character, nine years old)

*Adé (who is not named here, but those who know should recognize her) also appears in The Winter Queen. This story takes place shortly--a little less than a year or so--before that one begins.

*The title is from a famous play by a certain famous bard I probably don't need to name.

The prompt:

• Write a story between 100 and 1,000 words from the perspective of a child. (For our purposes, a child is anyone 12 years old or younger – or whatever the developmental equivalent for your non-human characters happens to be.)
• Word limit = 100-1,000 words

---------------------------------------

“No more yielding but a dream”


It all happened long ago, once upon a far away time, the old woman told me. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening still, as real as our voices are right now.


As soon as I woke up, the dream was gone. I was back in my bed again, lying in a sloppy heap of blankets, in the darkness of the blackedout room. The only light was the ghostbeam from the guidelight in the thick shadows next to the fresher-closet door, but it was enough so I could orient myself in the physical world. The mattress squeaked as I sat up, and fetched out the pocket torch Lady Jessamine gave me years ago, for those times when the power shorts out, to consult my clockwork-brooch for the time. It was the first hours of the morning, but during the summermonths, the sky opens early with white light. Which makes it the perfect time for me to act.

And I knew exactly what it was I should do. That’s how dreams work for me. It’s like I’m talking to myself, my brain working away even while I’m asleep.

Vittoria was still sleeping in the next bed. She had taken a shot for her latest headache after dinner, which knocks her out for hours. This is so typical for her that I’m good at taking advantage of it. But I have also learned, through messing up the embarrassing way, that I can't be too careful.

So I got ready in the closet-fresher, and when I left, I moved with creeping, ever so careful, footsteps across the room, holding my boots in one hand. I didn’t dare to even breathe too loudly until I was in the hallway and door was closed, with the tiniest click, behind me. Finally alone. The only noise came from the heating system, that loud fan breathing I used to call, back in my enfant-moron days, "the music of dreams." I don’t want to know where I thought that one up.

The forecast Jasen—I mean Mister Norlander—predicted at midnight was still true. The morning outside was completely still: the air was silent and gleaming with sunlight, with only a bratty wisp of a breeze batting over my nose and eyeballs. I headed straight down the street, leaving a perfect trail of bootprints in the snow behind me, there for the tauntaun patrol to follow just in case I wound up needing to be rescued. But I don’t worry about that. Believe me: of everyone who lives here, I’m the one who belongs the most.

Vittoria has lived here for years, but she’s still cold all the time. She doesn’t complain, but she has mentioned, several annoying times lately, that she doesn’t understand how I can endure it. But it isn’t that I don’t ever get cold. It just doesn’t bother me so much.

Soon I found what I was looking for: I walked right up to another set of footprints stamped into the snow. Then another, and another, and another, in a pattern wandering across the end of the street and off into the wastes. I blinked, but it wasn’t the snowlight getting to me. I saw them because they were there. Obviously. I bent down to take a closer look. They were made by an adult, and one with pretty heroine-doll feet. Definitely not one of the Wampa hunters.

(Which meant Padma’s lover hadn’t returned with his stupid knife-flashing grin to find out she’s gotten fat with the baby he’s responsible for, and break her heart for the third time.)

The girl appeared before me, as though from the air, out in the wastes. I ran, as fast as the snow let me, smashing her prints away with my own, to catch up--to see her before it was too late. But I was in luck. She stopped to watch me approach. She was tall, with loose blue hair so bright it glowed, and she wore a velvet gown with heaving skirts. She didn’t feel the cold. Though her breath flew out in a white smokescarf, her arms were bare, and flowers were growing from her skin.

I know hardly anything about real flowers, beyond some names and the glowing holofuzz pictures in this one book I have. I didn’t at all recognize the dustpink ones she grew. The round petals were trembling in the wind—the wind that had blown in without me so much as feeling it. Then the first two snowflakes landed with cold little nudges on my face.

The girl looked at me one last minute before she went on her way, and while I know she was beautiful, I couldn’t quite see her face. She smiled, but it wasn’t a rottensweet cooing, or about to burst into a hahahahaha. I don’t know how to describe it.

I remember most of my dreams, but I’ve never been able to control what happens in them, though I do what I can. So I don’t know if I will find out how this one ends.

When you’re a child, you live your life as a dream, the old woman said, as we sat on the ice bank, watching the fishlure on her line drift about through the silver water. But another few years, and that will begin to change for you. You’ll see.

But for now I’m still nine years old, with my tenth birthday too many fivedays away. Then they’ll all take me more seriously, I’m sure this time, but I’m tired of waiting.

The wind and drifting snow nearly followed me inside as I slammed the kitchenside door shut. I had one last peaceful moment before I heard Vittoria’s voice. She was in full nerves attack mode, and that told me all I needed to know. But someday (I remembered, as she turned in a whirlwind of drab skirts from the circle of women to see me) I’ll be free to go where I will. It just can’t come soon enough.

*

 

Compelling imagery ... and it may even snow here tonight, as it did yesterday, rare as that is, so this sentence sounds wonderful.

The yearning that Luke felt in ANH when watching the suns set echoes here ... excellent prompt response with a nine's ultra-clear desires.

 

In week 6 more world-building on Naboo with likeable characters and the rules they have to follow.
and now in week 7
Living on Hoth; a cold planet. It must be difficult for a nine year old child. Vivid descriptions of her and her dreams

 

I'll be back later for comments on your latest story (it's a busy family weekend here) but I wanted to give my thoughts on this before I forgot:

That line makes me cringe too; however, I find that there is enough context to it that it can be interpreted in somewhat less absolute ways (although they're hardly more charitable than the one you chose). One possible interpretation would be that the issue is not strictly getting pregnant, but having a child out of wedlock, since Anakin and Padmé's marriage is secret and they can't make it public without getting Anakin kicked out of the Jedi Order – a very old-fashioned approach to respectability and, as I said, hardly more charitable than yours. The other main possible interpretation is the scandal that would erupt when it became public that the father of the baby is a Jedi who got sidetracked from his duties in the middle of a war etc. Again, not very charitable given the potential to blame it on the woman who distracted him and so on and so forth. Which isn't to say that I disagree with your interpretation! I find that it allows you to take your stories and worldbuidling in an very interesting direction, and as you said there is no way to "excuse it as a good thing" (also, yes, it's a product of the world Lucas grew up in, most definitely, and the mere fact that Padmé became a whimpering damsel in distress once she was pregnant is also part of that).