Challenge #00335: To Be a F.A.I.R.Y
“When you wish upon a star, it’s actually a satellite. Your wish has been recorded and an agent assigned to your case.”
She’d just passed the written test. She knew the rules. When it came to wish granting, they gave the toughest one of the day to the rookies. To see what they could do.
It was all part and parcel of being a F.A.I.R.Y. Facilitating All Invocations, Responding Yesterday.
It was a tough job, granting the wishes of children in a world with over seven billion people. It required enormous fortitude, wings and guts of steel, and a heart seven times too large.
She, like all the other rookies, waited in line to be presented the Pointy Hat. Each in turn would pick out a simple scroll and that would be their assignment.
Too soon, her turn came. Her hand trembled as she flicked around the scrolls with her fingers. Her heart hammered in her chest as she pulled it out.
And then fell into the heart of a star as she read the words:
I wish my Daddy would come back.
Wishes like that could ruin a F.A.I.R.Y. They shouted of broken homes. Of fights in the night. Of death and destruction.
There were two things any F.A.I.R.Y could do - follow the letter of the wish, or follow its spirit.
She waited for dismissal and made a beeline for the research station. The simple-looking scroll was coded with all sorts of metadata. The wisher, their location, a slice of history… all viewable on the crystal ball.
She watched every last minute. The child’s father had not run off. He’d been in an accident. He’d died. And no F.A.I.R.Y had the power to bring back the dead.
And now that she looked, that father hadn’t been much of a Daddy. He was rough and violent and had never learned better ways to vent his frustrations. He left his family helpless, because he had to be the ultimate power in the home.
Mama was lost. She had no idea how to pay the bills, and currently no access to the household funds. She was selling belongings just to get by. Making do with sausage-meat, beans and rice.
They didn’t need Daddy back. They needed a better Daddy.
And it was her job to find one.
*
He was lost. The GPS had lead him on a series of wrong turns and now was no longer talking to him. Well, there was a garage sale, here, so that meant someone was amenable to strangers coming by.
Then he saw what was in the garage sale.
This was a collection of things on the far side of desperation. The scattered belongings of a man; belongings that nobody wanted for the asking price. The clothes that didn’t fit any more. The toys out-grown. The tupperware un-used.
The silent auction of a prized possession.
This was a garage sale desperate for money. Too many signs with prices also had ‘make an offer’. The lady of the house had that air of desperation that spoke of falling slowly into ruin and trying so very hard not to.
And there came the solemn child carrying out their toys.
He introduced himself. Told her about the fritzing GPS. Cancelled his plans. Asked her about her story. Found out about a man of many subtle cruelties. Offered to help out.
The first thing he helped with was the finances. Showing her where she could get help and assisting with the filling out of forms. Told her where she could sell all of her former husband’s man-things at a better price. Helped her haul them there.
And what slowly emerged behind the cautious veil of fear and tears was a wonderful woman. It never occurred to him to control her. She was much better as a free agent. And so was the kid.
And, as a free agent… she asked him to stay.
Of course he said yes.
*
“It took you three years,” said the chief. “On one wish.”
“Yes sir.”
“Most of that was convincing a fellow to do the right things.”
“Didn’t need much pushing, sir. Just a series of excuses to hang around.”
“And you didn’t grant the wish as stated…”
She dared glare him in the eye. “How could I have done so, sir? It states in our charter that we aim to make lives better.”
There was a ghost of a smile on the chief’s face. “Exactly so. Welcome to the force, Rookie.”
[Muse food remaining: 7 (fic war prompts: 0) Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Dear Beta-readers: (this means you)
I have hit and passed 46K in book 3. I have 14K to go. This means 28 writing days at my current speed - which is about four and a half weeks.
PLEASE get back to me about book 2 before then?
I’M NOT GONNA LIE THIS RIGHT HERE WOULD BE AN AMAZING STORY IDEA
LIKE HOLY HELL IMAGINE A SECRET SERVICE OF WISH AGENTS, EACH ONE SPECIALLY DESIGNATED TO CARRY OUT A CERTAIN PERSON’S WISH
I
I WANT THIS TO BECOME A THING PRONTO
Squigglydigg, your wish has been recorded and will be a thing in six days.
Watch my blog.
(Source: nvcr-weather, via carpet-bags-and-flying-bunn-blog)
Are continuations ok as prompts? Because “Bayville by Gaslight” is pretty awesome, as was the Fluttershy-meets-Nightcrawler one…
I’d rather do self-contained instant ficcage for the challenges, but I should really set some time aside to finish my old fanficcery.
Challenge #00320: Homo S. Cuisine
Considering how many toxic things humans ate, it was a little surprising that their cooking was not only edible, but delicious.
“YE-HE-HEEESSSSS! It’s here!”
The nervous Passeri crew gathered at a safe distance to watch the Ship Human - somewhere between lucky mascot and terrifying on-board entertainment - cackle and sing to herself.
They had been told that female humans were far more trainable than the males. That they were, on the whole, quieter and less dangerous than the males. The Passeri had since become convinced that they were told lies.
Right now, the human was singing “It’s here,” over and over as she towed the large freight box towards the segregated kitchen set aside for her bizarre human foods.
Inside the box was a series of smaller boxes. Something Vaishnavi greeted with glee. “Sweet! Individually wrapped. You’re getting five stars, InterShip Galactic.”
The smaller boxes had warning stickers on them. Biohazard. Caustic substance. Carnivorous enzymes.
“My pardon,” said Tyrti, the closest Passeri crew-member the human had to a friend on board, “those stickers are… normally cause for alarm. Why do you express joy?”
“These?” a negligent wave at the brightly-coloured warnings. “This is just alarmist rubbish. They do the same sort of thing for cheese.” Yes. Some human cheese had escaped at Sygnus Twelve. The entire installation had to be heat-sterilized off the surface of the moon. “These are just pineapples.”
The surrounding Passeri took a collective step back, as if the human had said ’it’s only uranium 238’ instead. Only Tyrti stayed in her place. Thus, she was in a prime position to watch Vaishnavi gather ingredients. These included some biohazard-isolated cheese, a caustic material called Tomato Paste, and the ever-present tins of the Terran delicacy, Spam. There was also a flat disk of something bread-like. Thankfully, the packing labels declared that the biohazardous yeast had been killed by irradiation.
“You cook now?”
“Why not? I’ve been waiting for these babies for ages. I want to celebrate.” And, out of deference to her ship and crew-mates, Vaishnavi turned on the isolation protocols before proceeding.
The number of things humans just casually ate without concern inevitably boggled the galactic assembly, so Vaishnavi’s cooking inevitably gathered an audience. It was why all four walls of her kitchen were transparent.
Vaishnavi treated it as an opportunity to educate, and ignored the gasps as she sampled various ingredients. “Today, little birdies, I’m cooking an Earth favourite all over the world - Pizza. Pizza began in a nation-state called Italy…”
What was most surprising to the crew was how… delicious it smelled. Many were barely restraining coos of hunger in anticipation of being fed. They had seen the toxic ingredients. They knew it should have been hazardous. One of them had fainted when the human negligently ate a piece of raw pineapple.
Yet all wanted to try some.
It was almost as if the legendary human insanity was… infectious.
They watched in eager anticipation as the steaming creation journeyed through the scanner to determine exactly how toxic it was to the ship and her crew.
Many cheered at the green light. It passed the first test. It wasn’t poisonous.
Tyrti the Brave tried the first piece. “This defies logic,” she announced. “It tastes of beauty.”
Vaishnavi grinned. “Share and enjoy, birdies. I’ll get some batches going.”
And that was how the phrase Unsuitable Food got coined.
[Muse food remaining: 6 (fic war prompts: 0) Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Short stories, going cheap!
To celebrate the launch of the Hevun’s Child trilogy [Book 1 - Hevun’s Rebel - now in all good eBook stores everywhere] I have reduced the price of my short tales to a mere ninety-nine cents US.
Mainly because they won’t be my chief source of literary income for very much longer.
I have marked late January/early February as the time window for the launch of the second book in the Hevuns Child trilogy [cough cough, Beta-readers. Let me know if you still haven’t got your copy of the alpha draft]
And I’ve further decided that my initial potential price for the two following books was too damn high. I’ll be selling the next two novels for $2.99US
Share and enjoy.
I’m doing the last edit…
…of Hevun’s Rebel, today.
(Help me)
Thanks to all the Beta Readers who got back to me :)
(I’m so scared)
By tonight, everything should be lined up for publication.
(OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG…)
And this is just part one of the biggest gamble of my life.
(asdfghjkl I can’t even)
The worst part to date is that hardly anyone has signal-boosted my attempts at advertising :(
(WTF is going wrong?)
At this moment, giddy excitement and self-depreciating depression are evenly balanced.
(Someone tip the balance the right way)
And then I have to do it twice more.
(::INFERNAL SHRIEKING::)
If you would be so kind as to reblog this if you feel insecure about your writing skills.
When I’m not in a funk about what a horrible writer I am, I actually think this is a good thing. The instant a person starts thinking they have nothing to improve, that they’ve finished growing, they stop looking for ways to improve. They stop getting better. In fact, this is usually the time their work starts to go downhill.
…Of course, when I’m actually in the “Oh God I’m so horrible at this why does anyone read my work?” it’s pretty much impossible to keep that perspective.
(via robinofleylines)
FOUR DAYS TO GO
Sahra was starting to get pins and needles in her hands and feet when a supervisor turned up. She knew better than to look at them. Looking was a sign of aggression.
“Well. Two dozen little rats all lined up in neat rows,” said the supervisor. Their boots stopped roughly in the middle of the area where they were all parked. “Who lead you all to this place?”
Sahra felt more than saw the forest of hands pointing towards her. She tentatively raised her clumsy-hand to don’t-shoot position just past the top of her hair.
Coming to Smashwords October 29