Victoria Silverwolf
Vegetarian Werewolf
Fine! An intriguing start to a tale of another world with sufficient suspense to hold the reader's interest.
IT’S TIME FOR SEKRIT SANTA 24!
- Thread starter THX1138
- Start date
Hello everyone!
It's December 5th and we have 14 days to go before I send out the completed stories to their respected recipients.
You should also be getting a polite reminder from Provincial as well to help you along. And if you feel up to it, please either post here or PM me with your status for my records.
@Provincial, if someone PMs you with their status please let me know too.
Also, I know there is a lot going on in our own personal lives as well and with the Holidays fast approaching too, so don't push yourselves and enjoy your story crafting!
Thanks again everyone and happy writing!
It's December 5th and we have 14 days to go before I send out the completed stories to their respected recipients.
You should also be getting a polite reminder from Provincial as well to help you along. And if you feel up to it, please either post here or PM me with your status for my records.
@Provincial, if someone PMs you with their status please let me know too.
Also, I know there is a lot going on in our own personal lives as well and with the Holidays fast approaching too, so don't push yourselves and enjoy your story crafting!
Thanks again everyone and happy writing!
Our 3ed story is in!
Here is a snippet for our reading pleasure...
Makes No Difference Atoll
My circadian rhythm was totally shot - traditionally for international congresses, but this one was hours and seasons away from even my nomadic habits, which might explain why I was chosen to chair it, at least more so than my academic achievements - twin doctorates (in ecology and anthropology) and a masters in reporting journalism plus a gold medal for a World Series surfing event, which I only got by being used to riding dead-calm European beaches - oh, nothing to be ashamed of, but hardly chairman material for an important climate summit.
But my peripatetic lifestyle has given me two advantages - a considerable tolerance for non-luxury transport, and a talent for listening to strange (to me) languages, and extracting the basic meaning - not a simultaneous interpreter, who studies in depth all the languages between which he might be asked to work, something more basic, like a mediaeval trader needing to haggle in a strange market, more vocal mime than linguist.
The first seventeen hours were split between airliners and airport lounges. I spent most of them reading my preparatory paperwork - well, electronic data is a lot lighter than paper, and I'd spent the previous days collecting everything I thought I might need.
Here is a snippet for our reading pleasure...
Makes No Difference Atoll
My circadian rhythm was totally shot - traditionally for international congresses, but this one was hours and seasons away from even my nomadic habits, which might explain why I was chosen to chair it, at least more so than my academic achievements - twin doctorates (in ecology and anthropology) and a masters in reporting journalism plus a gold medal for a World Series surfing event, which I only got by being used to riding dead-calm European beaches - oh, nothing to be ashamed of, but hardly chairman material for an important climate summit.
But my peripatetic lifestyle has given me two advantages - a considerable tolerance for non-luxury transport, and a talent for listening to strange (to me) languages, and extracting the basic meaning - not a simultaneous interpreter, who studies in depth all the languages between which he might be asked to work, something more basic, like a mediaeval trader needing to haggle in a strange market, more vocal mime than linguist.
The first seventeen hours were split between airliners and airport lounges. I spent most of them reading my preparatory paperwork - well, electronic data is a lot lighter than paper, and I'd spent the previous days collecting everything I thought I might need.
Our 4th story is in!
Here is a snippet for our reading pleasure...
The Flowers of Orion
Jill looked out of a view port on the Fiesta Deck of the Planetary Negotiating Liner, Ikrek, as the planet Saturn filling the darkness of space with its glory as its rings cut a thin horizontal ark across the view port. For a moment, Jill forgot about her current duties to her ambassador as the sight of the Gas Giant’s dominance evoked in her the many emotions she held inside regarding her Proxima Centauri counterpart, Ambassador Apprentice Orion. The two had been in regular contact, both professional and personal, since their last meeting a year ago in deep space between the two-star systems. And with the preliminary welcome meeting over, many of the Earth and Proxima delegates were socializing as music and food from each of the star systems was being enjoyed by all.
She was mingling and engaging with the other representatives as both sides were eager to come to an agreed-upon alliance, despite some oppositions, but there was only one trues she was interested in that distracted her thoughts; a trues of distance. Jill had to excuse herself when a message came to her com. Looking at it out of habit due to Ambassador Williams unpredictable communications, she panted at what she read but quickly composed and politely excused herself from her current conversation. Seeing their personal code, she responded and then read the incoming message.
Across from you next to the grand stairs.
Here is a snippet for our reading pleasure...
The Flowers of Orion
Jill looked out of a view port on the Fiesta Deck of the Planetary Negotiating Liner, Ikrek, as the planet Saturn filling the darkness of space with its glory as its rings cut a thin horizontal ark across the view port. For a moment, Jill forgot about her current duties to her ambassador as the sight of the Gas Giant’s dominance evoked in her the many emotions she held inside regarding her Proxima Centauri counterpart, Ambassador Apprentice Orion. The two had been in regular contact, both professional and personal, since their last meeting a year ago in deep space between the two-star systems. And with the preliminary welcome meeting over, many of the Earth and Proxima delegates were socializing as music and food from each of the star systems was being enjoyed by all.
She was mingling and engaging with the other representatives as both sides were eager to come to an agreed-upon alliance, despite some oppositions, but there was only one trues she was interested in that distracted her thoughts; a trues of distance. Jill had to excuse herself when a message came to her com. Looking at it out of habit due to Ambassador Williams unpredictable communications, she panted at what she read but quickly composed and politely excused herself from her current conversation. Seeing their personal code, she responded and then read the incoming message.
Across from you next to the grand stairs.
Victoria Silverwolf
Vegetarian Werewolf
An introspective character study and a classic work of hard science fiction.
And here is story #5!
Enjoy this brief tidbit...
Mother finished recording the results of their last game, put down her notebook and pencil, leaned her elbows on the table, and raised a single pale blonde eyebrow.
"What's the trouble, dear?" She had a way of dealing with teenage crises as if they were minor annoyances, like a fruit fly buzzing around a bowl of bananas.
"I hate playing three-handed!" Margaret stood and folded her arms in the stance of a warrior defending her homeland against an invasion by parental invaders.
"Your father and I played a lot of two-handed when we were on our honeymoon."
"That's not all we did." Father laughed loudly, sending a mint-scented breeze in Margaret's direction.
"Oh, Daddy, don't be gross." Defeated, Margaret sat back down and sighed in as melodramatic a fashion as Camille succumbing to tuberculosis, preferably as portrayed by Greta Garbo. "How am I ever going to be a world champion if I don't get to play real bridge?"
Mother shrugged. "Any kind of practice helps."
"Now, now, Amelia." Father rubbed his bald scalp, as if he were polishing it to perfection. "The girl—"
"Young woman." Margaret resisted the temptation to stick her tongue out.
"The child has a point. Genuine, honest-to-Hoyle auction bridge requires a quartet of players. Ever since the first Hohenvalder landed in the New World—"
"Here we go again," Mother said, to no one in particular.
Enjoy this brief tidbit...
DUMMY
Margaret Hohenvalder threw the pack of cards down with enough adolescent fury to send the dish of peppermint candies scuttling across the nubby plastic tabletop like a nervous crab. Father took the opportunity to pop one of the fragrant sweets into his mouth, now that it had migrated close enough to require no more effort than a wave of his hand.
Margaret Hohenvalder threw the pack of cards down with enough adolescent fury to send the dish of peppermint candies scuttling across the nubby plastic tabletop like a nervous crab. Father took the opportunity to pop one of the fragrant sweets into his mouth, now that it had migrated close enough to require no more effort than a wave of his hand.
Mother finished recording the results of their last game, put down her notebook and pencil, leaned her elbows on the table, and raised a single pale blonde eyebrow.
"What's the trouble, dear?" She had a way of dealing with teenage crises as if they were minor annoyances, like a fruit fly buzzing around a bowl of bananas.
"I hate playing three-handed!" Margaret stood and folded her arms in the stance of a warrior defending her homeland against an invasion by parental invaders.
"Your father and I played a lot of two-handed when we were on our honeymoon."
"That's not all we did." Father laughed loudly, sending a mint-scented breeze in Margaret's direction.
"Oh, Daddy, don't be gross." Defeated, Margaret sat back down and sighed in as melodramatic a fashion as Camille succumbing to tuberculosis, preferably as portrayed by Greta Garbo. "How am I ever going to be a world champion if I don't get to play real bridge?"
Mother shrugged. "Any kind of practice helps."
"Now, now, Amelia." Father rubbed his bald scalp, as if he were polishing it to perfection. "The girl—"
"Young woman." Margaret resisted the temptation to stick her tongue out.
"The child has a point. Genuine, honest-to-Hoyle auction bridge requires a quartet of players. Ever since the first Hohenvalder landed in the New World—"
"Here we go again," Mother said, to no one in particular.
Victoria Silverwolf
Vegetarian Werewolf
A slice-of-life with a wry look at the mundane.
Makes No Difference Atoll .... An intelligent, wry, and possibly despairing, peek into a future where we are still flying to climate conferences while the seas rise ever higher around us.
The Flowers of Orion .... A deeply romantic tale of lovers torn from each other's arm by politics and war.
Dummy .... A laugh-out-loud comic take on lockdown during the zombie apocalypse.
The Flowers of Orion .... A deeply romantic tale of lovers torn from each other's arm by politics and war.
Dummy .... A laugh-out-loud comic take on lockdown during the zombie apocalypse.
And here is story #6!
Enjoy this little tidbit...
Leaving
All Spring, Leaving Day had been coming. Just around the corner. But nobody seemed to know exactly when. Every Spring it was the same. Leaving Day was coming soon, soon ... then shortly before Summer, all of a sudden it was here - and everyone acted surprised. It drove Martha to distraction. Why didn't they know before? How did they know now?
"Mum, how do you know today is Leaving Day? How is it different from yesterday?" Martha chased her mother all around the kitchen as she prepared two food parcels, nagging her for an answer. Her mother just swatted her away as usual. But today Martha was persistent. After all, this time she was one of those who would be leaving, and she felt like she had a right to know. Surely it was a part of growing up, being let in on the secrets that the adults all knew?
For all that, she was startled when her mother stopped half-way through slicing some bread and grabbed her daughter in a big hug. Then she dropped into a kitchen chair and plonked the girl on her lap, cuddling her and smiling into her face in a sad/sweet way.
"Are you sure you want to know, Martha? Once I tell you, you can't un-know the answer, and you probably won't like it. In fact I know you won't. You are too much like your father."
"My father? How do you know who he is? I didn't think anyone knew who their father was!"
Enjoy this little tidbit...
Leaving
All Spring, Leaving Day had been coming. Just around the corner. But nobody seemed to know exactly when. Every Spring it was the same. Leaving Day was coming soon, soon ... then shortly before Summer, all of a sudden it was here - and everyone acted surprised. It drove Martha to distraction. Why didn't they know before? How did they know now?
"Mum, how do you know today is Leaving Day? How is it different from yesterday?" Martha chased her mother all around the kitchen as she prepared two food parcels, nagging her for an answer. Her mother just swatted her away as usual. But today Martha was persistent. After all, this time she was one of those who would be leaving, and she felt like she had a right to know. Surely it was a part of growing up, being let in on the secrets that the adults all knew?
For all that, she was startled when her mother stopped half-way through slicing some bread and grabbed her daughter in a big hug. Then she dropped into a kitchen chair and plonked the girl on her lap, cuddling her and smiling into her face in a sad/sweet way.
"Are you sure you want to know, Martha? Once I tell you, you can't un-know the answer, and you probably won't like it. In fact I know you won't. You are too much like your father."
"My father? How do you know who he is? I didn't think anyone knew who their father was!"
Leaving .... A young woman goes through a rite of passage in this slice-of-life drama set in a culture which has built itself around the biological rather than the physical sciences.
We are waiting on one story right now and I just talked to Provincial about it. The author of our final story is working on it and will have it to me by the 19th. Our final story is in good hands, so no need for volunteers!
In the meantime, one week to go folks before your requested story is delivered to you!
Thanks again everyone!
In the meantime, one week to go folks before your requested story is delivered to you!
Thanks again everyone!
I'm not sure....I'm taking a wild guess that the late one is the poor *** who got my request ?
....
Victoria Silverwolf
Vegetarian Werewolf
"Leaving" is a mysterious and intriguing portrait of a world that is subtly different from our own.
I was told today that our last story is being written now and with that, all shall receive their stories!
In the meantime, thanks for being patient and enjoy a nice cuppa or hot toddy!
In the meantime, thanks for being patient and enjoy a nice cuppa or hot toddy!
And here is our 7th and final story!
Enjoy this little snippet...
THE BALLAD OF BOWIE ANDI
*Without culture, we cannot live. Develop culture.*
His new mission. But what was culture, he asked?
Theatre art music words dance laughter tears happy sad mask tragedy romance history monkeys typing the works of Shakespeare poetry chords choral rock and roll
Rock and roll…? He searched, seeking the keywords and there, right there, the music blared, all heavy chords and sneered vocals. The 50s, and then the 60s and the Beach Boys, the 70s and a Queen to be Saved and, my word, the bass, the sounds. The 80s. Pink lipstick on pretty boys. His mouth curled into something that was not a smile, until the music hit and there it was, again, the heavy bass beneath something prettier this time. The 90s. A quick scroll, stopping for some rap, fingers tapping to the beat, to the sound, to the patter.
This, then. This was culture? This was what had been lost under the buzz of the city that set the night on fire, in the alleys and dark streets that drummed with the buzz of transports, instead of music and theatre and words. He blinked and the mission spotted up, under his eyelids, where it would stay until complete. Deliver culture. Make the city live again.
A quick snap and he was looking at pictures of guitars. Then books. A play, performed under lights. A poem, scrolling before his eyes, a certain prettiness in the shape, he supposed, although the words made no sense, told no story.
Enjoy this little snippet...
THE BALLAD OF BOWIE ANDI
*Without culture, we cannot live. Develop culture.*
His new mission. But what was culture, he asked?
Theatre art music words dance laughter tears happy sad mask tragedy romance history monkeys typing the works of Shakespeare poetry chords choral rock and roll
Rock and roll…? He searched, seeking the keywords and there, right there, the music blared, all heavy chords and sneered vocals. The 50s, and then the 60s and the Beach Boys, the 70s and a Queen to be Saved and, my word, the bass, the sounds. The 80s. Pink lipstick on pretty boys. His mouth curled into something that was not a smile, until the music hit and there it was, again, the heavy bass beneath something prettier this time. The 90s. A quick scroll, stopping for some rap, fingers tapping to the beat, to the sound, to the patter.
This, then. This was culture? This was what had been lost under the buzz of the city that set the night on fire, in the alleys and dark streets that drummed with the buzz of transports, instead of music and theatre and words. He blinked and the mission spotted up, under his eyelids, where it would stay until complete. Deliver culture. Make the city live again.
A quick snap and he was looking at pictures of guitars. Then books. A play, performed under lights. A poem, scrolling before his eyes, a certain prettiness in the shape, he supposed, although the words made no sense, told no story.
Well, looks like Santa came early this year, so I'll be sending these out today in both Word Doc and in PDF as well.
Enjoy your stories!
Enjoy your stories!
And your stories have been sent! Please let me know if there are any issues.
Enjoy everyone!
Enjoy everyone!
THE BALLAD OF BOWIE ANDI .... In a future where humanity has been squeezed out by connectivity, the call goes out to find what was lost and bring it back. But how?
I have no idea who wrote "Dummy", but it was a brilliant read and VERY FUNNY! I am absolutely thrilled to have received it! THANK YOU!
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