pink-cell-art

[lover-of-the-starkindler]

[fascinati0nstr33t]

Arcane SSB headcanons

(cus i’ve been replaying smash and the lack of arcane content is killing me-)

Jinx

mains the Inkling or Kirby

i always thought of Jinx as a splatoon player, she’d deffo enjoy the game as a whole (she probably also listens to the soundtrack)

uses the purple inkling girl cus there isn’t an inkling girl with blue hair pipipi

spams the splat bombs and the splattershot

also spams the booyah taunt

another character i think she’d main would be kirby

it’s the “cute but will beat your ass” character that she would pick

absorbs her opponents none stop

is far more insufferable with kirby than she is with the inkling

WILL rage quit if she’s defeated by a final smash

go-to stages are moray towers and gamer

Vi

started using little mac but stuck to incineroar after first use

spams the down smash where incineroar jumps in the air then body slams to the ground

says she won’t get competitive but does the complete opposite when she loses once

favourite stage is the boxing ring

gets cocky if she has the final smash

always teams up with jinx or cait if it’s a team battle

has beef with isabelle for a good reason or for no good reason

has definitely told cait that she looks like lucina from fire emblem

Caitlyn

started playing the game because of vi

varies from lucina and samus

will definitely be the cause of jinx’s rage

manages to get the most KO’s in team battle

WILL accuse jinx if she spams a side special too many times

does get competitive after a few matches

despises the wii fit trainer with every fiber of her being

go-to stage is the great plateau tower

plays classic mode every now and then

if she’s an excellent shot with her rifle, then she’s getting critical hits in the game

grabs every assist trophy that drops on the stage

Mel

has played smash rarely, but is always up for a challenge

elegant and cunning? she’s maining Bayonetta, specifically her third edit style

palutena’s temple is her favourite stage

is possibly the only calm one during a match

witch time and bullet climax are the combos she uses the most

“if you need to learn how to talk to a lady ask your mum” taunt is used at least 5 times during a match

“it was a fair game, dear” as she absolutely demolishes her opponent (probably Jayce or another councilor)

high chance that smash got her to play the actual bayonetta games-

Ekko

i headcanon him as the bigger gamer out of everyone

saw a fanart of him as twilight princess link AND IT LOOKED SO GOOD🔥

so, ye, he mains link

pirate ship and umbra clock tower are his go-to (cus, he’s the boy who shattered time-)

got splatrolled by jinx too many times

gets pissed if his final smash doesn’t hit anyone

spams the boomerang and bow

impersonates the “HYAH” depending on the combo

uses any taunt animation after defeating someone

has beef with wario and king k rool

Jayce

COCKIEST MF WHEN IT COMES TO SMASH

mains captain falcon

spams falcon punch to the point it’s annoying

just like vi, he gets competitive when he says he won’t

played world of light but made it halfway through

will team up with mel (because he loves her and he doesn’t want to get beat up by Bayo)

secretly enjoys the squid sisters songs if he’s playing moray towers

hates moving stages

made a bet with vi to see who would win a squad strike…he lost

buys everything in the shop

hates that blue gumball son of a b!tch

unironically quotes “show me ya moves” while viktor is absolutely fed up with his bs

Viktor

MY BOYYYY SJDBKDJSKXNKSHDKDKF

he mains fox, that’s it

has won three tourneys with little to no effort

bridge of eldin, final destination and halberd are his fav stages

hates ness, absolutely despises him, and definitely takes out his stress on him

possibly has said “PK FIRE my ass you little shit” at least once

he’s known to be pretty calm and calculated, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t gone absolutely livid in a match

if it’s a free for all, he’s targeting jayce, no second thoughts

has teamed up with jinx whenever vi would team up with cait (they would be a solid duo)

spirit board speedrunner

knows how to target the final smash

he’d probably build a miniature of fox’s ship after having mained him for some time

[revelisms]

Excerpt: Business & Brunch

Silco and Sevika debrief before a meeting. A Councilor arrives.

Taken from 'webs of blood and gold,' a story on Sevika, Silco and Mel securing a political alliance (with some inklings of Melvika on the horizon). This takes place loosely in my scraps and doves series, somewhere between 'heron blue' and 'fire and thread'. Full story on AO3. CW: Themes around war, political disempowerment and social unrest; mentions of dysfunctional parental relationships; gaslighting, emotional manipulation.

"She's late."

Idly, a gloved hand slithers between wool dark as raven's blood: twists free a glint of silver. "Only by some minutes."

"She has us drag our asses up here on a damn Sunday, and she's late."

The tick-ticking of his pocketwatch clips shut. "Plotting your vengeance, already?"

Sevika scoffs. Slumping into the booth's cushions, she cuts her eyes across the room. A gloss of checkerboard tile reflects countless-faced prisms and too-clean light, sugardust and fluffed eggs sweetening the air: a burst of warmth diced by raucous chatter. To her left, a window bleeds a nasty draft.

Winter had always been a damned nuisance—but never worse than here. For all the ails that came with the Gray, there was one thing it was good for: this season never dared to cross their streets. A thick cloak of fog trapped the heat far into the bowels of their city, each lane waxed with a layer of mugginess and grime, enough that the touch of dry air on one's skin felt all but alien.

This many levels above the Fissures, the chill was unbearable. Worse yet, it'd laid a personal vendetta against the arm that blue-headed hellspawn had augmented for her; she'd had an ache in her shoulder all morning, clear to each copper-tamped fingernail.

Sevika rolls out her wrist, tries to force heat back into her wired veins. "I'll be plotting something, if the royal bitch isn't prancing out of her carriage by the half-bell."

Canted across from her, Silco's mouth twitches. "Then let's hope, for her sake, that she does."

"Meaning?"

He smooths the crease of his pocket with a bird-boned hand. Behind his silhouette, past the warbled glass, a myriad of streetlamps bloom in a frosted haze. "Any butcher worth their salt knows which cuts to age," he rumbles, dryly, "and which to roast on a spit."

Metal fingers lay a sharp triplet over the varnish. "Didn't know we were working the meat business, now."

Sevika loosens her palm, crooks a quick-footed server over for a coffee. "Two," Silco amends. The boy takes off.

The noise of the café sits nauseatingly between them. For a breath, she wrangles with it, watches him think, click-ticking the gilded points of her claws upon the table. His stare sits on them like a blade playing pinfinger.

The air of it all is too still—too misfitted.

She needs a drink. Needs the burn of a cigar in her lungs. Needs to sever this frostbitten stump from her shoulder. Needs him to say something.

Mismatched eyes, cold as the arctic and burning as scorched earth, flit back to her.

"A delicacy," he prowls, elbow sliding in an easy hush over the leather at his back, "requires a refined taste." He flicks his wrist, studying the dome of glass that crests past their shoulders. "I expect you may lack the proper palate."

Something unpleasant knots up in Sevika's mouth. "Topside refineries weren't made for us," she gruffs: challenging, denying.

They were the supply. Never the intended demand.

Silently, the tapetum of his dead iris leers at her. Lingers. "Weren't they?"

Two coffees clack to the table. Sevika takes the distraction like the needed blessing it is. She knocks two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of cream in hers, stirring it until the metal sings. Silco takes his black as the Pilt.

It's not the motor oil either of them prefer—but enough to make the morning bearable.

She shakes out her spoon, slowly, and keeps her eyes averted. He's left the conversation dangling on a hook, as always: waiting to see what else will make her bite. It's the guise she expects from him, most days. A black-finned beast dormant beneath the waves, stirring the shallows for unsuspecting prey.

At some point, though, that bathypelagic creature will slip back into its cave—traded for something more human; more imperfect.

This Councilor of theirs isn't here to play bait. They've fished the deal from her, already.

Still.

For now, they have a moment of respite: to plot, poison, provoke. Two predators yet to file their fangs, trapped between the walls of this marbled palace.

Her fingers itch for a smoke. She puffs out a phantom drag. "They won't give us a seat."

"We don't need one."

"Bold assumption."

Silco hums. "They've hedged their bets on those, for generations."

She sits on that, for a moment. Squeezes her cup by the rim, sliding the porcelain aside, to nest her arms in the space it clears. "New blood ain't gonna change that," she hushes. "They've tried to change it, before. They'll try to, again—and they'll fail."

"As the barons had?"

(Before he'd come along, like some spirit lifted from the gallows; strung every family on a tether and bought their loyalty in blood, upheaving all that the Undercity used to be—all the complacency that had shackled them, for decades—with profits no Sump-child could have dreamed, in a lifetime.)

Sevika drags her thumb against her knuckle. "Topside's a different beast."

The scarred line of his mouth ticks at one side. "Same animal," he gravels. His eyes shift. "Different cage."

Instinctively, she turns to follow the line of his sight. It doesn't take long to find their target.

Weaving through the maze of the café floor are two women, heels clacking off the tile, dressed head to oil-slick boot for a political runway. Unhurriedly, the spear of his stare unwavering, Silco reclines in his seat. Sevika feels his leg shift beneath the table: a sharp knee nudging into her own. She straightens, on command.

"Lesson one," he leaves her with. His hand turns to pick at one of his gloves, tugged clean finger by finger. The leather lazes to the varnish.

It's not long before their company has found their place at his table—their office for the day; one that, for every inch of public air and Topside frivolity surrounding it, stands eerily enough as his—and, by then, the second glove has been stripped: bared fingers laced, laid patiently upon the table's edge.

"Councilor Medarda," Silco greets.

The woman who stands front-and-center before them wears a flourish of navy and moonstone, vibrant as an ocean tide tressed over one's skin. She carries the taste of winter with her. It lays an odd contrast with the fragrance that ebbs sweetly off her wrists: the cool bite of melted frost encasing a desert flower.

Sevika takes her in, with a fine-toothed comb.

Not a strand of hair stands out of place, an elegant knot of gold-stamped locs. A brush of gloss shimmers at her eyes. Her lips are kissed with wine. She watches them form around her words, giving breath to a voice incense-smoked and ambered.

"Goodness, you've drinks already." Medarda lifts a thin hand, swiftly shedding her gloves. "I do apologize—I've left you waiting. A meeting ran over, I'm afraid."

Silco gives a thin smile. "No doubt the Council is in the throws of annual planning."

Medarda clicks through the clasps of her coat. "Horrendous time of the year," she sighs. "But, alas—it's a necessary one."

"I can empathize." He gestures to the empty chairs at their table: a command wrapped in silk-lined civility. "Please—take a seat."

Even in so few words, he has the attention of their Councilor wrapped around his finger—and the companion who gawks, blatantly, at her side.

Had she been spoon-fed a life of luxury, rather than survival; raised to view every interaction as a marker of prestige and self-deliverance, Sevika may have empathized with this skittish thing's wandering eyes.

The lot of them always had a morbid curiosity, when pulled to his table. Most up here knew him only as the hell-eyed Industrialist of the Underground; his heels were lined with a shitstain of Piltie superstition so thick it rivaled the cult fervidity that shadowed his every turn downtown.

Some let that curiosity get the best of them: flight instincts wrestled down to bask in a strange, offputting charm: like this dollfaced stranger, tressed in velvet and green, does now—and were Sevika anything like those foolish, naïve things, too brazen for their own good, she, too, may have eyed the directive sweep of his palm with more intrigue; may have found the serration of his demand a dark sort of thrill, rather than a dismissal tightly-leashed; may have took more time than she needed to watch him unlace the scarf at his neck, with a loose-wristed flippancy that did nothing to match the smoked cavern of his voice.

But Sevika's nothing of the sort—not for such surface-level contradictions as those.

(There were far more than that, beneath it all.)

Instead, she claims a front-row seat for the show, pitting a scoff under her tongue when the lift of his frigid stare sends the woman's own stumbling to her boots.

The fates must be on their side, today. The little sparrow gets stuck with the vacancy to his left.

"My assistant," Mel says, settling at Sevika's right. "Elora."

Late, Sevika thinks, and with unannounced guests.

Beneath the table, the point of a boot bruises into her calf, snapping any choice words at the neck.

"Sevika," Silco trades back—part introduction, part steel-lined warning. "My right-hand."

Medarda smiles, faultless a shield as any. "A pleasure." Her coat finds a home on an ornate carving, her gloves pocketed within it. Even reduced to her thinnest layers, she is no less armored. Blue cascades here, too: a seamless flow from the high neck of her collar down to the loop of fabric that cinches her sleeves at her fingers. On one, her familial crest glints in the light: a guiding star locked in a golden brace.

Sevika takes note of the ring—and of the silence.

The board has been set.

At one head of the table, a demon reigns in a fog of shadow: the streets at his back, winter's light a harsh carving through every edge: slicked hair, sloped shoulders, eyes glowing like sea-ice and cinder. At the other, a queen lays a barrier to the bustle of her people, the clamor of her commerce, bathed in crystalline light.

Their server returns, carefully polite in his Councilwoman's presence.

The game begins.

[dont-give-me-that-bilge-blog]

And so it begins...

2/5/17

My new semester has begun, and it is sure to be a challenging one. 

Faced with the option of choosing either an internship or a directed study, I went with the latter. My work schedule leaves no room for an internship, and the idea of taking on “mock” freelance work excites me. I’m freelancing at the moment, and admittedly it’s not my cup of soup tea. I’d like to work full-time for a fashion brand or comedy publication, but I’d still like to get as much experience under my cardboard belt as humanly possible. 

I have a lot of experience writing for the arts. My undergraduate degree is in Screenwriting, so I love visual storytelling, character and conversation. Professionally speaking, fashion and interior design are my strengths, but as a freelance content writer I’ve also delved into entrepreneurship, networking, entertainment, new media, real estate and even professional cycling. (”What a tour-de-France!” - Rose Nylund.)

I had no idea what the directed study subject would be, but I was hoping it would be in one of these fields.

It’s not.

It’s finance. 

Finance?! WHAT HAS SCIENCE WROUGHT?! Not only do I have little working experience in the industry, it’s the one that frightens me the most. Like thumb-sucking little kid in mommy’s bed frightened. 

One of my best friends works for JP Morgan. He’s explained his profession to me many a cold evening, but I still have no idea what the hell he does. The mechanics of it all, the terminology, the tech...it’s chaos to me. Pure chaos.

And while we’re at it, what the hell is bitcoin? Cryptocurrency? That’s creepy as shit. 

Anyway, I digress...

I was overcome by fear when I read the directed study assignment. I reverted back to a five-year-old and thought, “but I don’t wanna!” Well, I may not wanna, but I do gotta. 

Finance is far beyond my comfort zone, and I’m afraid I will fail. And if my personal history has taught me anything, it’s that I tend to give up before I even try. 

In these moments of overwhelming anxiety, I take a moment to ask myself, “What would Mel Brooks say?”

"It's talent. Either you got it or you ain't."

Hey! I’ve got talent! 

Truth is, I have this fear all the time. In every field of writing. Even the ones I enjoy. Did I know anything about writing for science my first semester as a grad student? No, but I do now. Did I have any inkling of the disruption facing entertainment companies when I started my freelance gig? Heck no. (What does that even mean?) I have to trust in my intelligence and my abilities as a writer. I won’t give up. I can do this. 

Fear, I shall squelch you! 

Lingering questions:

What steps can I take to gain confidence in this field?

How can I translate my background in character and storytelling to finance?

Which Mel Brooks movie should I watch tonight?

[lover-of-the-starkindler]

[lover-of-the-starkindler]

Rubber Band Strings

Inklings Challenge 2024 Team Chesterton: Intrusive Fantasy

On the night of her greatest disappointment, Olivia receives a gift far more precious than she could have imagined

Rubber Band Strings @inklings-challenge

by Meltintalle

Olivia Lively did not have a fiddle of her own. When she was two or three, her father made her an instrument out of a cigar box and a ruler. The rubber band strings twanged horribly, but they were sweet music to Olivia who danced and pranced and imagined herself the star of every heart and every stage.

Even before the makeshift toy was placed in her hands, she was aware that she was one of the 'musical Livelys'—an extended family who could make any instrument sing in their hands. As Olivia grew, the family taught her their songs and gave her many pointers.

Her uncles would correct her grip on the miniature bow, or remind her to keep her elbow beneath the body of the fiddle.

"The music wants to dance too. Keep your wrists loose."

Her aunts talked about planning sets.

"What songs are you playing tonight Olivia? What does your audience want to hear?"

Her ma taught Olivia about using the stage.

"No more jumping on the couch, Olivia. You'll fall off and crush your fiddle, and we can't have that!"

Her pa taught her about intonation.

"Know your instrument, Livie-girl. Make sure you hit exactly the notes you want—pure and sweet, sharp and clear, or a little jingle-jangle to get the attention."

Before long Olivia was allowed to use instruments played by other family members, and soon she could coax a tune in true Lively fashion. But still the only fiddle she could call her own was the old toy.

The summer Olivia turned eleven, she saw a poster. She pressed her nose against the shop window and took in the details. "Pa! Pa! There's going to be a talent show at the school! And the prize is a brand new violin from the big store here in town!"

Her pa chuckled and patted her shoulder. "So I see, Livie-girl. And I suppose you want to enter."

"Yes, please!" said Olivia. "Can I borrow your violin?"

He pretended to think about it, then said he didn't see why not.

Olivia spent the next week in the yard, practicing how she would step on stage, introduce herself, and then play a song that would make the audience want to weep and dance and sing along, all at once.

But on the day of the talent show, everything went wrong.

Her ma had been called away to visit her sister the day before. She had said she was sorry to miss Olivia's debut but wished Olivia the best of luck. Olivia felt her heart sink. How was she to play without her ma in the audience?

And then her pa and his siblings were hired to play at a big party that evening, which meant they had to take all their own instruments. Olivia's favorite uncle was the only one who remembered that Olivia had plans. While the band was packing their truck, he offered to loan her a triangle or a harmonica, but she shook her head.

"It's not the same," she said. "Anyway. There will be other talent shows."

He nodded, but Olivia knew he felt bad too. "Do you want to come with us?"

"No, thank you." Olivia didn't think she could bear to be surrounded by music when her dreams were shattered. When the band had left, Olivia went out back and threw herself down under a tree and cried.

But Olivia was a Lively, and eventually she picked herself up. She fetched her toy fiddle and tried a few notes. The rubber bands twanged, the sound flat and dispirited. She corrected her posture, and tried again, hoping to bring the dream back. Fireflies began to sparkle in the twilight. Another few tears trickled down Olivia's nose, and she brushed at her face with her arm.

The neighbor lady stuck her head over the fence. Her name was Sylvie, and she was good friends with Olivia's mother. "Why, Olivia! Why are you crying?"

"Everyone was called away, and I'm going to miss the talent show."

"That's easy enough to remedy," said Sylvie. "I'm going myself, if you'd like to come with me. Are you going to enter?"

"With this?" Olivia held up the cigar box with its ruler. "I think everyone would just laugh."

"Oh," said Sylvie. "Really? With your family, I would have thought--"

The surprise in her neighbor's voice made Olivia want to cry again. There were plenty of instruments in the family, just not enough fiddles for everyone to play at the same time and Olivia had her heart set on a fiddle.

But Sylvie tipped her head to one side. "Wait here," she said. "I might have something..."

Olivia pulled herself up on the fence and waited while her neighbor went inside. Sylvie came back with a black pasteboard case. Inside, nestled in green velvet, was the most beautiful violin Olivia had ever seen.

There were inlays around the edge, and pale flowers on the face of the instrument.

"Oh…" said Olivia, and her eyes were wide and bright as stars. Her fingers had never wanted to touch anything more. "That's yours?"

Sylvie laughed. "It is! But let's see how it sounds for you…"

Olivia carefully put down her toy, and took up the beautiful violin. She adjusted her feet, let out a breath, and thought about the music dancing. She touched the bow to the strings and played ribbons of starlight. The graceful arpeggios turned into bright staccato and Sylvie's toes started to tap. Olivia's grin got wider and wider.

"Perfect!" said Sylvie.

They packed the instrument away again and drove into town, talking all the time. Sylvie wanted to know about Olivia's favorite songs, and Olivia wanted to know how her neighbor had a violin but never played it.

Olivia signed in at the side door to the school auditorium. She was excited and nervous, all at once, and it hit her that she was here all by herself.

Well, no. Not exactly. Her new friend was here too, smiling encouragement, and waiting to hear the beautiful violin sing again.

Olivia's turn came, and she stepped out into the spotlight on stage. She closed her eyes, and thought about all the lessons her family had taught her and the music she was going to share with her audience.

Then she smiled. And the violin began to sing.

[lover-of-the-starkindler]

Look to the Birds of the Air

Inklings Challenge 2023 Team Chesterton: Intrusive Fantasy

A quiet day for mother and son may be more than it seems

Look to the Birds of the Air @inklings-challenge

by Meltintalle

It was a quiet day. A cloudy day, with the world muffled in a soft gray cloak, and tiny bits of moisture flecking the grass. Thousands of worlds were reflected in miniature, each alike and yet unique. Mary brushed a branch on her way back from the mailbox, scattering the droplets to reform anew elsewhere. Her son skipped at her side carrying the nature magazine he'd been watching for since the arrival of the previous one but his eye was caught by a wave of migratory birds shifting positions on a nearby maple tree. Their soft chatter was kin to waves in the shore, an everswelling roll of sound.

Mary lingered in the doorway a moment, caught by the mood of the slow fog, then closed the door and returned to her world of bills to pay and phone calls to make. She caught herself looking out the window and wondering if there was a world somewhere where she would be doing some heroic deed instead.

A clatter from the kitchen shattered her daydream.

"What are you doing?" she asked, finding her son chasing a spoon across the floor. His magazine was open on the table and surrounded by a motley selection of ingredients.

"I have to feed the troops," he explained, emerging triumphant from behind the table leg.

Peanut butter, crackers, and sunflower seeds would have to multiply in an unnatural fashion, and besides…

"What troops?"

He pointed out the kitchen window toward the maple tree where the birds were tucked together for warmth. "Don't you see them? They patrolled here all summer and now they're on to their next posting."

"An army, is it?" asked Mary.

"Oh, yes. We don't even know half their missions–they're top secret."

"I see." Mary looked down at the magazine with a bemused smile. She saw the connection between the project on the glossy spread and the peanut butter, but the army of birds was less easily explained.

"Did you know they migrated?" asked her son, round face serious and concentrated on his task.

"Every year."

"It's amazing. All those miles. I couldn't do it." 

True enough. Some days he could barely sit through the ride to his grandmother's house. "Maybe if you were part of a troop–like the birds?"

His eyes gleamed with the new idea as he dropped generous dollops of peanut butter to be mixed with the other ingredients. "Maybe."

Satisfied no further silverware would be dropped, Mary returned to her to-do list. In the other world perhaps feeding the birds was an important endeavor, but here it was a few seeds and a picture.

It was twilight when the bird food was ready, and Mary helped her son carry the tray outside. The cloud cover had torn, scattering glowing pewter across the horizon. Wet grass clung to her feet and Mary watched a wave of birds rise and spiral across the sunset.

Maybe it was more than a few seeds. Maybe it was a child, happily occupied for a few hours.

We don't even know half their missions–they're top secret.

Maybe, she told herself. Maybe it was true.

[lover-of-the-starkindler]

Faith of Our Fathers

story for @inklings-challenge​

Faith of Our Fathers Teaser:  The ruined ship was like a ghost on the horizon. Some days it showed stark and clear against the skyline while on others it drifted almost beyond sight. Today it towered above the group of pilgrims, slowly growing as they drew closer.

The ruined ship was like a ghost on the horizon. Some days it showed stark and clear against the skyline while on others it drifted almost beyond sight. Today it towered above the group of pilgrims, slowly growing as they drew closer.

Mr. Lyle Thomas could remember when their numbers were larger. He thought fondly of following his grandparents along a freshly worn trail to visit the SS Future Hope, one hand secure in his grandfather's large hand as they walked. There had been celebrations, and he'd felt important when his grandfather pressed the mushroom spore into his hand. 

"Find a good place to plant it, and be thankful."

Now it was a mixed group of vehicles, leaving little trace in the waving grass. It was a quicker trip these days, to be sure, though he wouldn't say with authority that was why there was less interest and fewer pilgrims. His daughter Cait, accompanying him though she hadn't wanted to spend her day off on a trip into the wilderness, sat in the grav sled with him, the motor of their electric pony thrumming as it pulled them along, and complained about the music.

"Can't we listen to something newer?"

He patted the chunky radio with its heavy speakers. The old hymns sounded thin--not enough bass in the recording for the settings--and a poor substitute for voices raised together as they walked. But the words were still the same, and the tunes familiar. "Driver chooses the music."

"Can I drive?" she asked.

"Maybe on the way back," he allowed. 

Cait huffed, dissatisfied. "You know they're saying at school that it's all wrong, that those on the Hope weren't heroes at all."

Mr. Thomas frowned, remembering watching his grandmother ease her way into the old engineering section, with its melted pipes and twisted walls. She'd slowly bent to tuck her mushroom into a forgotten corner--he'd been impatient by then, his own planted long ago on a clear section of panelling--and her voice wavered through a hymn of praise, thanking God for life and deliverance from evil. 

"They weren't any better than anyone else, and it's foolish to say they were," parroted Cait. "We can read what really happened in the history books and the stories are just that."

"That's what they say, is it?" asked Mr. Thomas.

"Yes," said the girl. She shifted restlessly in her seat. "We have pictures, and memorials, back in New Haven. Why go all this way--and for what?"

The landscape changed, grasses thinning and dying as they entered the affected area around the ruined ship. Built to transport colonies between worlds, the SS Future Hope had fallen apart in the atmosphere. Her piloting crew fought the controls to bring her down with as little loss of life among the passengers as possible. The impact dug an enormous crater, throwing up waves of earth and carrying shreds and shards of the outer structure for miles. Stories said the survivors fell on their knees and thanked God for deliverance from a fiery death and persecution. 

The bulk of the ship had cracked into two halves, enough remaining intact to create the illusion of a ship when one was far away. The shadow of the foredecks fell over the grav sled, and both passengers shivered. Sensors beeped, politely reminding them to engage safety gear. Mr. Thomas pulled on his mask, checking the bell clapper and seals and then looking at his daughter. She rolled her eyes. "I'm fine, Dad. See?" She wriggled the mask, showing it was seated properly on her face, and clipped the filter box to her belt. Gloves went on over their coveralls. Leaks in the Hope had either vented or seeped into the ground long ago, but the unhealthy look of the area encouraged caution.

"Good," said Mr. Thomas. He slowed the pony to a stop some distance from the public entrance. Others parked closer, but he didn't mind the walk. A group of pilgrims passed, coming from even further out, and he smiled as he heard them singing in unison, their voices filtered slightly through their masks.

"Great is the Lord and worthy of praise… By His power He proves He is love..."

"They're good," said Cait. "They must be a professional choir."

He nodded, pulling the box of mushroom spores out of a coverall pocket. "Do you want yours now, or later?"

She shrugged. "Later, I guess."

A large sign had been erected by the entrance, detailing the story of the colony founders gathering their brethren and embarking on the SS Future Hope to escape slavery or death should they not conform to their world's expectations. They'd come a great distance--passing the point of no return--when engine malfunction dropped them here. New Haven was founded on the survivors' beliefs, and as it grew and flourished they returned yearly to the wreckage--first to mourn the lost and later to remember why their families had risked everything on taking a colony ship to the unknown. They planted mushrooms and flowers, the mushrooms to restore the ruined earth, and the flowers to make it beautiful in due time.

The outer skin of the spaceship was gone, revealing struts. Early pilgrims had concentrated their efforts here, and now the entry to the Hope was a garden contrasting with the bleak surroundings and solemn aspect of the ruin. Clear paths marked the usual tours--the bridge, the passenger quarters, and one small but distinct way up to the highest point of the ruin.

"I didn't remember it being so big," said Cait. 

It hit Mr. Thomas the same way each time. Space ships were not meant to be approached on foot, from this angle. It made you wonder how anyone would trust themselves to something so fragile. Catching the thought, he laughed at himself. He travelled regularly on business trips between planets, expecting a safe journey from each spaceship he boarded--and surely early colonists had done the same.

He followed his daughter as she picked the longest trail, scrambling up scaffolding and only glancing at the few plaques pointing out areas of interest. It was not an easy climb. Several walkways were narrow, the structural supports looking like wire. Cait moved with the agility of youth, while her father moved doggedly in her wake. He preferred to visit the passenger quarters, telling the story of the great-great grandparents and their family squeezed into a cabin with another family, trying to imagine bringing his own, smaller, family somewhere in the same space. 

They paused on a viewing platform, gazing inside the hold. Light shafted down from above, giving dim illumination to the holographic projection showing the supplies the colonists had brought along. But behind that stretched empty space. Cait folded her arms on the rail, looking thoughtful, while Mr. Thomas caught his breath.

"Do you suppose those people at school have ever come here?" she asked.

"Maybe," said Mr. Thomas. "But you've seen how easy it is to forget what it's like."

She nodded. "And this isn't the same as experiencing what they went through."

"No. But this is something we have done, parents and children, since landing."  

"But is it right to be thankful?" asked Cait. "Sure, it must have been scary, but are they the heroes we say they are? Were they really fleeing persecution?"

"It's hard to imagine now we have amicable relations with the worlds they left," agreed Mr. Thomas. "But does that excuse you from being thankful? Maybe… maybe we'll look back someday and say we were pleased by the wrong things. But I'd say it's worse to not be thankful at all, as if it's not a worthy exercise." 

He stopped, not sure she was listening to him. Was it worth his time and effort to argue that the heart of the celebration was that God had taken their flawed efforts and mistakes and allowed them to build New Haven anyway?

They came out up-top to a cool breeze, refreshing after the long climb. Mr. Thomas drew in a long breath, glad to be out of the narrow corridors for a moment. The view was spectacular, with the sky clear all the way to where New Haven was laid out like a toy city on the plains below. A few other pilgrims moved about the platform, talking and laughing but paying no attention to the other visitors. Mushrooms sprouted in odd places, some so far out you wondered how they'd gotten there in the first place. A thin coat of moss had begun, showing the mushrooms had broken down enough to support growth.

"Shall we plant ours here?" asked Mr. Thomas.

"You usually put yours in the family cabin," said his daughter. 

"You want to go there?"

"Maybe."

He thought again of his grandmother. "When I was your age, my grandma wanted to go somewhere out of the way. I wonder if we could find the spot."

"Where?" asked Cait, sparking with sudden interest, and he could only hope it lasted long enough to get them into the engineering section--which the impact had placed below ground-level.

From the highest heights to the lowest of lows, Mr. Thomas thought, and also, I don't remember when I last walked so much here. Resigned, but also eager, he checked his memory against the schematic map showing the easiest routes around the Hope and set off with Cait at his heels.

An elevator took them down through the cargo hold, the car feeling small in the empty space. On the floor, Mr. Thomas opened the door that would take them to the lower levels.

"When I was a boy," he began. "We came here every year." As they walked through a tight corridor he reminisced about the feeling of his grandfather's hand around his own, the readings and ceremonies, the way it sounded when the choir master stood and led the congregation in a hymn of praise. "They talked about how important it was to remember, and I wondered how anyone could forget. And then I thought that it was always the same every year, and how tired I was of hearing the same things."

"Seems like folk are tired of saying the same things," said Cait, referring to how little of the ceremonies remained. "Maybe they don't ring true anymore?"

"Maybe," said Mr. Thomas. "But I wish I could hear them again. And I wish you could have heard them. My stories don't do the experience justice."

It grew warm again as they descended, not that they'd been chilled by the open air. Mr. Thomas began to sweat under his face mask and he brushed his forearm against his forehead to try and quell the itch. Walls kept out the cooler outside air, and few people opened the connecting doors and airlocks when storms blew them shut again. They passed rooms where wires dangled, and sections of pipe had burst long ago. There were gaps where pieces had been scavenged for reuse. Consoles with melted screens testified to the original disaster. Father and daughter stepped carefully, feeling their way, suspecting that signs ought to have been posted to keep the place off-limits. Mr. Thomas pulled out a pen-light, its slender beam throwing the engineering section into stark relief and sending their shadows dancing over the walls.

"Dad?" asked Cait, breaking the silence. "What if I don't believe?"

Mr. Thomas felt his heart twist like the pieces of equipment that surrounded them. He didn't know if he had the right words. "I can't believe for you, honey--though I would if I could! But I can only pray I've shown you that it's worth the effort."

He risked a look over his shoulder, but his daughter was hidden in the shadows. She moved past him, ducking under a twisted cables of wires that had fallen out of the ceiling and then holding it aside for her father.

"I don't think anyone's been here since great-grandma." 

"You just think that because no one's here now."

She made a face at him.

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Thomas as they entered the next room. "I remember this bit here. See how the red fused into an oak leaf shape?"

"If you say so, Dad." Cait made a show of examining the abstract design formed by the combination of elements. "I think it looks like a wrinkly hand."

He waved the criticism aside. "No, but it was right here, under this fallen slab."

They bent down. Mr. Thomas shone the pen-light into the nook, not expecting to see anything but dust. To his surprise there was a small colony of mushrooms feeding on the panel innards. Beneath their efforts, a tiny white flower blossomed.

"Great-grandma planted this?" asked Cait.

"I think she did," said Mr. Thomas. "Yes."

"But that was so long ago."

"Yes."

"And she never saw what happened!"

"I suppose not. I don't remember coming back here again with her."

"But I get to see it."

"Yes."

"Weird."

He smiled. "Yes. I suppose it is."

"Do you think they got lonely?"

"They're mushrooms," said Mr. Thomas. "They're just doing what they were designed to do."

"We should put ours here too," said Cait.

Together, they opened the box and pressed the fresh spores into place a little ways from the original spread, singing the simple hymn of remembrance.

"Because the Lord our God is good… His mercy is forever sure… His faithfulness at all times stood… and shall from age to age endure!"

"Is that what great-grandma did?"

"Yes," said Mr. Thomas. "Just like that." His daughter slid her gloved hand inside his, and he squeezed it gently. "Thank you for coming with me," he told her.

"I guess it wasn't so bad," said Cait. "...Can I drive on the way back?"

"We'll see," said Mr. Thomas, but he smiled.

[lover-of-the-starkindler]

Inkling Challenge #2: An Update

I drafted the portal story. It fought me every step of the way, unwilling to follow the outline, saying, “I want to be this! Maybe I want to be that!” 

So yesterday I started a short sci-fi story instead. I feel much more confident with that effort, though maybe that’s just the rush of finishing... But, that’s what I’ve got so that’s what I’ll post.

[lover-of-the-starkindler]

Inkling Challenge #1: An introduction

Hi, my name is Mel and I love portal fantasies so it’s no surprise that I lean toward a more fantasy take on the Team Lewis objectives. 

I went through a phase where ‘girl falls into Middle Earth and learns ranger skills’ was a favorite premise, so I’ll be catering to that taste. I also intend to throw into the mix my disappointment on learning that the TV show Survivor does not seem to involve using your best Swiss Family Robinson skillz, and a bit of the parable of the talents. #stewardship

Current status: 

Character names: Is it I’m not thrilled with the names I’ve suggested so far, or are the characters not thrilled? Hard to say, but they may have to live with ‘placeholder’ names...

Older Sister {currently: Lydia} - possible POV character

Younger Sister {currently: Ellen} - possible POV character

‘Ranger’ {currently: Grayson} - fantasy!survivor-world native - in an interesting turn of events, a typo on an even less appealing placeholder has turned into a pick that means ‘son of the steward’ (accidentally meaningful) (but it doesn’t look fantasy-cool) (no, Greyson is not better) (Grievson? other attempts just look like word salad and gravy)

Grandma {currently: Grandma} - {Grayson}’s grandma

Plot: Outlined, no major surprises for the author in the process

Themes: planted, now I need to water them and help them grow

Actual writing: *a cursor blinks on a blank page*

Procrastination projects: I haven’t come up with a ‘cover’ yet, but the month is still young.