Horoscopes: Unlikely Choices edition

Aries:
They are coming, and the world will fall. To help you survive, you may have the book, the sword, or the cloak. Make your choice, and make your stand.

Taurus:
Three paths lie before you, to carry you through the end of the world: that of fur, fangs, and sharpened senses; that of scales, spines, and venom; and that of wings, talons, and the sharpest of eyes. Everything you know will fall, but choose wisely and you might not fall with it.

Gemini:
The coming disaster carries gifts as well as tragedies. Will you face it with unmatched strength of body? Will you provide health and healing for others? Or will you keep yourself safe with incomparable fleetness of foot? Choose.

Cancer:
The end of the world will drive you underground, to shelter in the darkness and make your new life there. Will you become a thing of many legs, of venom and webbing, clinging and trapping your prey? Or will you burrow through the earth, lean and narrow and twisting, devouring anything before you and leaving naught but empty tunnel behind you? Or will you become a scuttling thing of dark fur, gnawing teeth, and clever paws, taking your opportunities where you find them?

Leo:
The world turns strange, and civilization falls by minutes and inches. Will you join the caravan, and hope to find some place of safety beyond the vast desert? Take shelter on an airship and try to wait above the chaos, only returning to the ground to scavenge? Or will you step onto the ships, and hope the trackless oceans bring you relief instead of ruin? The time to decide is now.

Virgo:
Darkness falls, and the great beasts rise again. Will you take up arms and try to fight them? Or follow the ways of running and hiding and try to avoid them? Or will you go to them, and offer your worship and assistance in exchange for a promise of safety? All paths have their risks.

Libra:
The world is dying, and you must lead the people around you to safety. Will you take them to the city in the mountains, where something of civilization and technology yet remains? Will you lead them to the fertile valley, poorly defended but rich in food? Or will you make of them wandering scavengers, scouring the ruins and the small pockets of survivors for whatever you need? In some worlds there are no good choices.

Scorpio:
The spear, the shield, or the mark of the great beast: each of you must choose one of these. The storm winds come, and all that you know will be swept away. Which will best carry you through? Which will best serve your friends?

Sagittarius:
The cities grow gradually emptier, as does the countryside. There are stories of strange beasts and stranger portents. In the twilight of their power, the gods offer you choice of gifts to face the end of this Age and the beginning of the next. You may call up food for your people. You may borrow their strength to increase your own. You may be a source of warmth and light for them. Which will you do? The gods await your answer.

Capricorn:
A plague falls across the land, along with floods and droughts. The living are sorely vexed, and even the dead no longer lie easy in their graves. You must make the sacred pilgrimage, but to whom? The great worm, which coils about the heart of the world? The Father Of All Dragons, who lairs at the heart of the Endless Forest? Or the Steel Firebringer, who is said to dwell above the sky itself? You are chosen; no one can decide for you. The answer must be yours.

Aquarius:
You can always choose, but of course it doesn't matter. The gun? The sword? The fist? None will prevail in the face of this. Find another way... if you can.

Pisces:
Disaster threatens, and the world calls again for a champion. You must be remade, prepared to face the Enemy. Which of the ancient enhancements of your people will you choose: the razor-edges and flight of the Steel Wings? The many tricks and surprises of the Clockwork Arm? Or the unexpected protection of the Metal Skin? Our future depends on you.

Idea for a Novel

Just reiterating something here that I was... ranting about? ...on Twitter, in response to this tweet:

On the other hand, small scale personal/emotional can be more important than ever in the context of even a slow moving disaster. See Emma Donoghue's gorgeous novel set in a 1918 flu ward, The Pull of the Stars. https://t.co/J2Tfw31MnP

— Sarah Pinsker (@SarahPinsker) December 20, 2021

You can find my response on Twitter, but I'm reproducing it here because not everybody follows me on Twitter. 

I swear I'm going to write a pandemic novel where everybody just keeps going to work and shopping and eating in restaurants and there's just this occasional aside like, "Did you hear about John? Yeah. Last Tuesday. Funeral's next week." Because honestly, that's how this feels.

Our protagonist will be training a new co-worker but there won't be any discussion of what happened to the previous co-worker, just a vague allusion to the handout from the funeral that's still on the bulletin board by the coffee machine.

Somebody will start ranting about how people need to be more careful and everyone will just look at them and edge slowly away.

Periodically there will be emails from management or bulletins posted from the Department of Health explaining that extra precautions are advised but not required at this time, but there will be no mention of what the precautions would be *for*. 

But other than that it'll just be a perfectly mundane slice-of-life book, with no dramatic character arcs and nobody really learning anything. Character growth? Naw.

Until *maybe*, at the very end of the book, the protagonist undergoes a full emotional collapse under the weight of all the things that everyone has been carefully ignoring the whole time.

I'm so tired, y'all. And it's not just the ongoing global pandemic, it's the persistent failure of leadership and the outright gaslighting from our Republican political figures and their pet media outlets. Yes, the global pandemic was always going to be horrible, but still: it didn't have to be this way. 

Blog-wise... I'm probably going to put something up for tomorrow, and there may be a few more entries next week, but it's also possible that it's just going to be radio silence over here until January. Take care of yourselves, take care of each other, and be careful out there: it looks like the holidays are making everyone a little deranged right now. 

   

My new book pitch!

It's like Animorphs but the heroes are cyborgs and the aliens are disembodied nightmares and the whole thing is set on a derelict generation ship and... okay, it's, um, not really like Animorphs at all.

Yeah, sorry Nineties Kids.

Classic Fantasy Tropes: Soul-Devouring Sword

Tired: The hero has claimed the most powerful magic sword in the realm for his own. It eats souls.

Wired: Actually, it ate one soul and felt really guilty about it and now it doesn't want to cut its way through armies, destroy legendary monsters, or change the fate of empires.

Inspired: The sword is now inhabited by the soul of Hap, a forty-year-old career soldier who would rather be playing dice and will happily dispense advice on how to avoid dangerous situations. Hap will also explain to the hero, cheerfully and at length, how best to spend his money, why he should just turn in and get a steady job, how much better things were in Hap's day, why you can't trust merchants, and the vital importance of owning a Shar-Pei.

A Potion To See The Fey

Honey and spices; three tears from a writer or singer (one will do, but three is better); equal portions of dawn and dusk; a splash of whiskey poured across a golden spoon; and your favorite childhood memory. Stir it only with your breath, and drink it only by moonlight.

A Story on Twitter

Using Twitter for storytelling really changes the feel, just because the character limit forces a different sense of rhythm from what I'd normally be doing.

Here it is.

Books I will almost certainly never write

I've got nothing, so instead here are some books that I will almost certainly never write:

The Maltese Space-Falcon
He's the richest and most eligible bachelor on Alpha Centauri. She's an ex-cop who's been burned one too many times. The alien artifact they're searching for could unlock the secrets of an alien civilization, or destroy their own. Or both!

High Stakes
Evie Dowling is an ordinary high school girl, but when a 4,000 year old vampire joins her senior class, she suddenly finds herself dodging magical traps, supernatural assassins, and an entire squad of vampire hunters. Now she'll have to choose between her humanity and the tempting combination of immortality, supernatural power, and incredible wealth. High Stakes: humanity doesn't stand a chance!

Heroic Destiny For Sale!
Dov spends his days being herded by goats and dreaming of heroic deeds. But when he stumbles onto the magical sword foretold by ancient prophecy, he suddenly realizes that being a hero isn't as much fun as it sounds. Now the Dark Lord's minions are trying to kill him, Princess Jerra wants to throw him in jail, and his magical talking blade just won't shut up. Dov thinks it'll be okay, though: all he has to do is get to the market at Derwhit and auction off the blade for enough money to retire on, and all his problems will be solved.

Whence Came This Tupperware?

Responding to this writing prompt from Lilith Saintcrow...

I'll just drop it here, pulsed Heerath, setting the scanner between a rock and one of the oddly-tall local plants, by the side of one of the human roads.

What? Nebath pulsed back. Don't do that. It's right out in the open.

That's why we shaped it, remember? Heerath felt its antennae flex with annoyance. It looks just like one of their artifacts.

Do you even know what kind of artifact it resembles? Nebath had turned, creating a faint shimmer in the air despite the best efforts of its active camouflage. One of the humans was approaching rapidly, accompanied by one of the various domestic animals that the race apparently cultivated. If it's shaped to resemble their detritus, they'll likely dispose of it. If it's shaped to resemble something useful, they'll take it for their own use. They're not going to just leave it lying there.

Heerath rippled its tendrils in irritation. Esteemed Xenosociologist Teer selected this shape as one of the items that the humans would ignore. Of course, Esteemed Xenosociologist Teer also theorized that the humans kept these other species around for religious reasons, and Heerath felt pretty safe in assuming that meant that the xenosociologist had no idea why the humans seemed to prefer to live with lower lifeforms. Explorers were forbidden to argue with any of the Prime, but that didn't mean that Esteemed Xenosociologist Teer had any idea what he was talking about.

Nebath didn't argue, though. The human approaches, it pulsed back. We'll know soon enough.

They backed away, moving across the street. The denizens of this world had a very limited sensory range, and their active camouflage should have kept them undetectable; but every explorer had been trained with the reflex that distance equated to safety when confronted with the unknown. As far as Heerath was concerned, there was far too much about this world that fell into that category, and Nebath evidently agreed.

The human slowed, then stopped and looked down at the scanner.

I told you, pulsed Nebath.

Heerath sent back the brief, minuscule pulse that demanded silence.

The human stood for a long moment, regarding the scanner. Doubtless the xenobiology cohort was ecstatic, in their analysis-space back on the ship. So much data, gathered at such close range...

The quadruped made a little hopping motion, pulling at the strand that connected it to the human's manipulator, and the human glanced at it. Then the human turned its head back to the scanner and pulled a device from its belt. Something flickered, and Heerath and Nebath both made themselves very still.

Then the quadruped pulled ahead, and this time the human went along with it.

What was that? Heerath knew it sounded nervous.

Neerath curled its tendrils. A brief flare of electromagnetic radiation in a very tight set of wavelengths.

Did it just... Heerath paused, considering the implications. Did it just scan our scanner?

I think so, yes.

Using what?

Nebath rippled its tendrils, the gesture puzzled and slightly frantic. I don't know. A burst of electromagnetic on that frequency wouldn't penetrate much of anything, but I didn't detect whatever else it was using.

This is bad. Heerath settled its tendrils by an act of will. All right, we're going to abort. I'll retrieve the scanner. You call for extraction.

Agreed, pulsed Nebath, then began configuring itself for a deep pulse. Heerath crossed the street and lifted the scanner, risking a momentary break in its active camouflage so it could conceal the scanner underneath. By the time Nebath had finished the call, Heerath had returned and was waiting.

They had only a brief wait. The scout ship settled over them, its cone-shape rendered theoretically undetectable by its own active camouflage. It manifested a floor beneath them, and began a cautious ascent back to the August Science Vessel. I'll inform the Primes that we must make a full withdrawal, pulsed Heerath. This planet is dangerous.

I offer my ardent agreement to your assessment, Nebath pulsed back. As far as Heerath was concerned, that settled the matter. An Explorer Second could offer correction, provide additional insights, or outright disagree with the conclusions of an Explorer First, but a unanimous finding would not be ignored even by the Primes. The study would be abandoned, the planet marked as unacceptably dangerous, and the August Science Vessel withdrawn to study some safer prospect.

A brief wind stirred the dust on the street below. Somewhere, a dog was barking.

A knock at the door...

This came off a Facebook post back on Friday. The prompt was:

A knock at the door, someone comes in to the female character's office. Who is it?

"Package for you, Ma'am," says the bike courier. "Your friends must have a sense of humor, though. It says it's vitally important that you not open it until you get back to last Wednesday."

"My friends?" She checks the name on brown paper wrapper, but it's definitely addressed to her. "My friends aren't that weird."

"Well, maybe the Doctor needs your help."

She looks at him blankly.

"Doctor Who? TV show?"

"Oh. I've never watched it."

"Hm," says the courier. "Well, maybe you need better friends, then. 'Cause... that's pretty funny."

"Can I just sign your thing so you can go?" she asks, exasperated not so much at the criticism of her friends and her lifestyle, as at the sneaking suspicion that he might be right about her.

"Sure," he says. "Sorry." He hands her the pad, watches her sign it, and then hands her a card. "Hey, do me a favor? If you do find out what it was, text me?"

"...Maybe," she says, but she takes the card and slips it into her purse.

Feel free to add your own answers in the comments.

Death by... Moon?

So, between Daylight Savings Time and something that sort of vaguely resembles Spring Break -- at least for Firstborn -- our family schedule is in a state of complete higgledy-piggledy. Firstborn is going off to coding camp (he's learning to program in Scratch), so instead of me taking him to school, the Beautiful Woman is taking him to camp. To make that easier, I've switched over to taking Secondborn to his preschool... except that Secondborn does not want to wake up in the morning. Or go to bed at night, for that matter. It's as if his whole schedule is suddenly off by an hour...

And so but anyway, I've been getting everyone up and ready to go in the mornings. I mean, okay, yeah, that's kind of what I do, but usually I can get Firstborn up, dressed, fed, and ready to leave on time. Usually, I can even manage to make a cup of tea for myself and another for my beautiful wife. This week... not so much. I haven't made it out the door on time even once. I'm making it to work, but I'm either just-slightly-late or just-barely-on-time. And a lot of the reason for this is...

Well...

Secondborn.

He doesn't want to wake up. Won't wake up, is more like it. And when I do manage to wake him up, he becomes one massive thundercloud of glowering, plaintive unhappiness. Getting him to eat his waffles is a trick. Getting him dressed is a challenge. Getting him into the car is a struggle.

Then, of course, I get to listen to him complain all the way to his preschool. Everybody is mean to him. Nobody loves him. (I explain that, in fact, we all love him, we just need him to help us out.) There's a brief pause. The moon's going to kill us.

What?

The moon's going to kill us.

That... has the makings of a really creepy little short story, or a bizarre element in some sort of larger story. The moon's going to kill us. Individually. Like, we're moon-prey. Or it has a personal grudge. I don't even know, but I'll do... something... with that image.

My four-year-old: providing me with my morning dose of nightmare fuel.

Baby's got an atom bomb 'cause it's cold outside.

As I was putting Firstborn into the car yesterday morning, I found myself singing a line -- the title, in fact -- from Baby, It's Cold Outside. Why? Well, partly because I'd just opened the garage door, so we were walking through a sudden wave of chilly air. Also, partly because I've been thinking about the social and historical context of the song lately.

Then we got into the car, and the stereo came up with Baby's Got An Atom Bomb...

...Whereupon Firstborn asked, "Is this song some kind of sequel to 'Baby, it's cold outside'?"

No. No, it's not. But it would be completely awesome if it were. Just imagine that storyline...

The first time I met her, she was a naive young girl, very proper. We hit it off -- boy, did we hit it off -- but she was worried about what her family would think.

When I ran into her again in Paris two years later, it was obvious things had changed. It wasn't just hair -- brunette replaced by a brilliant shade of purple -- or the fact that she'd obviously come into money. What really told me how much she'd changed was when she blocked my purchase of that black-market soviet warhead so she could acquire it herself. A good kid, like she was when we first met, well... she wouldn't have dreamed of doing something like that. Might cause talk.

Nice girls don't buy atom bombs. But she wasn't a nice girl any more. This was going to be... interesting.

Writing Prompt: The New Pet

Here's another writing prompt for anyone who wants to play with it. I'm still out of town (this post was written days ago) so I won't be able to respond until I get back, but have fun anyway.

The Prompt: They found it under the hood of the car: something small and furry that shrieked when the motor started.
The Limit: 300 Words

As with the last one, feel free to post your writing here, or put it on your own site and link back to it.

Writing Prompt: Lost in the Underground

I really enjoyed writing up The Creepy Doll Story in response to Lilith Saintcrow's writing prompt the other day. So, since I really don't have any material for today, (or all of next week, for that matter) I thought I'd throw out a writing prompt of my own and see if anybody wanted to run with with it:

The Prompt: The tunnels stretched on for miles, winding and twisting, diverging and reconnecting.
The limit: 400 Words

Post your story in the comments, or post it on your own site and drop a link in the comments. Go!

Note: I'm on vacation -- I know, I find it a little hard to believe myself -- so I may not be able to respond until after next week. I'm trying to set some entries to auto-post while I'm out of town.