Pics for Super Queers

Thursday, August 3rd, 2017 01:17 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)
There's a tendency of mine to find picture of interesting people and build them into characters, so for your viewing pleasure on this day Wherein I Cannot Word, I've compiled the ones I like best from Super Queers


Dacia taking a moment’s breather from free-running to keep up her strength and flexibility.  Nimbus can only give her so much help, you know!  

She does train in heels, mainly because she, like Zita, wants to be taller in her super-ego, in her case less to break the connections and more to add to the gender-unsure nature of Darkmatter.  As Dacia, she’s 5’7” in stompy boots, as Darkmatter, she’s 6’2” thanks to sturdy heels and Nimbus messing with reality depth to skew her visual aspect ratio.

(Actual photo credit: Adina Voicu on Pixabay)


Quest, posing for a magazine cover in repayment for Jean Paul covering for her date night with Dacia in the press.  She does the annoying PR stuff to bank goodwill with him.  

Everything from neck to wrists/ankles is actually a skin-tight haptic relay suit, the denser white on the torso and legs is bulletproof and padded.  Her sneakers have lifts, Zita is a good 3 inches shorter than Quest, but Quest’s fame for wearing sneakers dispels any “wears heels” rumors.

(Actual photo credit: xusenru on Pixabay)

Baba Osinova.jpg

Baba Osinova at a New Years Party hosted by Grigor and Henrietta, after both have come out to the rest of the family as a couple, but before the rest of the Osinov family knows what Henrietta’s “extra curricular activities” are.

(Actual photo credit: storygems on Pixabay)

Henrietta Beck (aka Jetta Stream), posing in the faux-fur winter accessories Grigor got her on their second Christmas together.

(Actual photo credit: Jill111 on Pixabay )


Chicane working out on leg day in the lair. Photo taken by Calamity Johnson, kept as a reminder that women can be built like brick shit-houses, so her choice to ID on the Femme side of life and still love the added muscle mass of her puberty is A-Okay.

(Actual photo credit: Pexels on Pixabay)

Come Together

Wednesday, August 2nd, 2017 05:53 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)
Prompted by [personal profile] librarygeek as "degendering a ritual or rite of passage".  It's not exactly that as much as it is a rite of passage that was ALREADY degendered, but I thought you'd like it.


“We Come Together,” intoned the High Parsa of Kromer.

“We Come Together,” replied the congregation.

“We come together to Bear Witness.  For one of our Young Ones now reaches for Higher Things.  We come together to Celebrate.”

In the audience, I jotted down another note.  The Savvatrians were a complex people, and xenopological studies were already detail oriented.  I couldn’t afford to miss a single moment, especially as my partner was up on the stage, dressed in brightly colored strips of fabric, feathers, and leaves.

Paula had volunteered to partner me in our immersion study here on Savva after my former partner dropped out of the program to get married.  Well, not dropping out permanently, she just had to spend a year on hiatus while her family got her ready for her big week-long wedding.  Surbhi had sworn she was coming back.  I hoped so, xenopology was a career that was built to make the researcher lonely, a stranger in a land even stranger than them.

I blinked, letting my lenscam snap a picture of the stage.  Paula had been invited up to the front, where she was reciting her qualifications for Savvatrian Adulthood, in the form of interpretive dance.  Most of the Savvatrian rituals required dances, but only the rare rite of passage that moved a child into adulthood used an individually constructed dance.  It was why Paula had petitioned the High Parsa for the right to study and apply for adulthood, we hadn’t seen it yet, and with a race as slow-growing as Savvatrians, we’d be here another fifty years before we got to.  The High Parsa was glad to show Paula the steps to take in finding a mentor, but that mentor hadn’t let me in to see Paula’s lessons, and Paula herself hadn’t wanted to show me her practices.  I’d helped her sew the costume, though, since that would usually have gone to her family, and they weren’t here.  It was interesting watching her design it, the way the disparate parts could come together into a cohesive whole that mimicked the bright plumage of the avian-looking Savvartians.

The dance was amazing.  Paula’s limbs flowed like water, arcing through the air like a glider, one of her hobbies.  She couldn’t fly like the Savvatrians, but she came close.  Then her legs slid to either side, and she fell into a split that made my thighs hurt to watch.  Her back arched and her braids rattled with the sounds of beads, ones of metal, ones of glass, ones of bone, and some of the shiny corn-plastics we could make with our port-printer.  The port-printer was important, since it could replicate a full evidence kit in half a cycle, but that didn’t stop anyone from using it for small luxuries.  Paula snapped her legs together in front of her as she rose into a half-circle back-bend, then raised one leg vertical.  I watched in stunned amazement as she moved seamlessly into a handstand, seeming to defy several laws of physics and her own human biology.  Her dress began to shed of strips of color as she danced on her hands. I'd helped her plan for that, the dun and navy strips that looked like a juvenile designed to come free easily, but I'd thought she would pull them off with her hands, not trust to centrifugal force! I gaped at her whirlwind shape, legs spinning, body jumping, ending in a flip that landed her on one coiled leg, the other out low and her hands thrust behind her.  I didn’t know what I’d just seen, I wasn’t sure I would ever know, really know, what the Savvatrians had seen, but the audience around me was cheering loudly.  We were swept out into the square, where a feast waited, and Paula was congratulated.

I took as many notes as I could, snapped at least a hundred pictures, and interviewed seventeen people in between eating and dancing.  It was a rite of passage for Paula, but in many ways it was a passage for all of us, moving us further into the future, where Savvatrians and humans live and work together.  Where a researcher from Brazil can become a Savvatrian Flight Dancer and her partner can be themself.

That’s the thing about Savvatrians.  I wanted to study them because they, like me, have no gender.  Every rite that is celebrated is celebrated the same.  Those who reproduce are honored, but they don’t reproduce by mating, so they never developed a culture that divided by seed and soil, sun and moon.  There is none of that curious duality between ‘Man’ and ‘Woman’.  There is only the Congregation, and the rituals of life that draw them together, binding the society like the edges of fabric come together as the thread pulls taut between them.

Special Gifts

Wednesday, August 2nd, 2017 02:46 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)
Prompted by [personal profile] technoshaman to fill my "Cooking With Love" square on my Cottoncandy Bingo card.


Baba Osinova puttered through her kitchen.  Her special gifts told her this morning that she would be needed, so all that remained was to prepare the most likely things and wait.  The gifts only told her she needed to prepare, not who would need it, but at least she knew they’d come to her.  She flipped long, bony fingers through a box of index cards, searching for recipes to make for the day.  She didn’t need written recipes, she had memorized all of them years ago, but the way some slipped down out of reach and others leapt into her hand acted like an augury, guiding her day.

“Hmm, khashlama and gogel mogel.  Someone’s having a bad day.”  Baba Osinova sorted her ingredients and called her grandson Grigor.  “Child, get to the market and bring me some veal.  I’m making khashlama today.”

“Who’s in trouble?” he asked.  “You only make khashlama when someone’s really sick or injured.”

“Never mind that,” she scolded.  “Get off the phone and to the market so you can bring me some veal.  And another jar of pickled plums!”

“I’m heading there now, Babushka,” Grigor said.  “I’ll be by in a little while.”

Baba Osinova laughed.  She’d forgotten phones could be carried now.  She set her own phone down on it’s cradle and pulled out a mixing bowl and a smaller bowl with a lid that snapped on.  Into the lidded bowl, she cracked eggs and strained out the yolks, putting them into the mixing bowl.  One, two, three, four… hmm.  Not quite right.  She added two more egg yolks.  Yes, that felt better.  She reached for the honey and poured it out in a ribbon over the egg yolks.  She added more than the nine teaspoons of the tripled recipe before it felt right.  Perhaps it wasn’t two, but rather one who needed more sweetening.  Cocoa felt right this time, but only a single heaped scoop.  Definitely someone who needed sweetening.  She whisked at the eggs with a fork, thin arms producing a furious whirlwind that rivaled those fancy stand mixers.  Besides, she needed to feel it to use her special gifts.  After it thickened, she added a splash of good vodka.  The recipe as it was written on the card didn’t use that, but she’d read an article about diseases in eggs, and good vodka went well with everything as well as killing germs.  She whisked a little more, then poured it into the sundae glasses her granddaughter Maya had brought her for her birthday last year.  A sprinkle of miniature marshmallows on top and they went into the refrigerator to chill.

The extra egg whites would make good zefir, she thought, so she pulled out gelatin and a saucepan to make it in, when her special gifts told her to answer the door.

She moved towards the door, her body swaying as she reached for a balance that wasn’t there anymore, and slowly, step by step, she reached the door in time to open it for Grigor’s knock.  He stood contra posture in front of her door, the soft slope of angled shoulders under a tan wool sweater opposite a brown paper bag resting on one outthrust hip.

“Come in, come in.  You can help me in the kitchen,” she told him.  He nodded and set the packages down on her counter.  Grigor was such a good boy, carrying things for her.  “Cut the veal, would you?  I need my hands free to measure water for the zefir.”

“Yes, Babushka,” Grigor said quietly.  Hmm, that was no good.

“What’s bothering you?” she asked.  “I’ll find out eventually, you know.  I have special gifts.”

“I know, Babushka,” Grigor agreed.  “I’m just worried about telling Mama and Papa about something.  I met someone.  Someone special.”

“Oh, you found a girl!  I am so happy for you!  Invite her over, we can all cook together!”

Grigor pulled back.  “You knew I… I like girls?”

“Don’t be silly,” Baba Osinova said, laughing.  “You’re just like all the men in this family.  You’re going to want a tall blonde with lots of brains on her, and you’re going to spend your life being happily ordered about by her.  I know these things, Grigor.  Rinse the plums, please.”

Grigor smiled a small smile.  “I don’t know how you knew I’d picked the name Grigor, but I’m glad you’re on my side, Baba.”

“Psha,” Baba Osinova said.  “You picked that name months ago, I already updated all the lists for presents and cards so I send them right.  Now.  Tell me about your lady.”

“Her name is Henrietta and she works with the news.  She does the makeup for Stella Dellaway, the on-scene reporter who covers Jetta Stream and John Crow when they fight.”

“Oh, that nice flying girl who saved your cousin Panya from that buzzard man,” she said, nodding.  “I like her.”

“No, Baba, that’s Jetta Stream.  I’m dating Henrietta Beck.  She does get to see Jetta Stream fairly often, though.”

Baba Osinova nodded and said nothing.  She didn’t need to spoil all the surprises, although she knew why she’d added so much honey when the willowy blonde came over for dinner with a scratchy voice and a huge appetite.


Baba Osinova: Precognate who uses her powers almost exclusively to better care for her family.

Grigor Osinov: Trans-Man in the middle of the coming-out process.  He's straight, but spent some time thinking he was a lesbian.  Grandson of Baba Osinova.

Henrietta Beck/Jetta Stream: Flying superhera dedicated to protecting Glade City (Miami in Local-America).  By day, she works as a make-up artist for her best friend Stella Dellaway, who gets loads of credit for always being on-scene when Jetta Stream is fighting.  Dating Grigor Osinov.  She's pansexual and monogamous.

John Crow: Mercenary goon-for-hire who uses an empowered back tattoo of a turkey vulture to fly and shoot chemical projectile weapons.  Main nemisis of Jetta Stream.

Khashlama is a veal and pickled plum stew from the Ukraine.  Learn to make it.

Gogel mogel is Jewish Egg Nog served as a throat remedy.  Learn to make it.  Raw egg does have health risks, although in my opinion, it is A) worth it, and B) unlikely to cause serious issues if you consumed raw egg often as a child.  Life is short, lick the batter.

Zefir is a Russian marshmallow.  Learn to make it.

Turkey vultures are called John crows in the Caribbean.  John Crow the merc is not from the Caribbean, but he's spent a lot of time there working as security for drug runners who meet in international waters on their way north.

bairnsidhe: (Default)
Prompted by [personal profile] ysabetwordsmith for Cottoncandy Bingo, filling my "Internet/Social Media" square.  


It started sort of quietly, a new free app showing up in people’s recommended apps.  It was a friendly sort of green color with a softly curved lowercase f in white.  The app itself was called Frindr, and it worked like many other matching apps, only for friends.  You entered hobbies you enjoy, places you like to go, and what sort of friend you’re looking for.  Then you just swipe through other profiles, until you find the right one.

It had some differences of course.  One was that you swept up to make a match and down to pass.  Another was that the app was almost excessively accessible.  It had a built in voice command system for people who couldn’t use the swiping, and it would read off the data for people who had a hard time seeing the screen.  These features were easy to find and turn on for the people who needed them, but stayed out of the way for everyone else.

It caught on quickly.  First, asexual and aromantic people used it to find partners for their special kinds of intimacy.  Then it became popular among social gamers, people looking for groups to slay monsters in the park together.  After that, single parents began using it to find play dates for their kids that could parallel a play date for the parents.  If a few matches eventually became more than friends was irrelevant, they started as friends and they stayed friends after they added the other parts.

That was a difference people started to notice a year after Frindr made it’s entrance.  People matched on Frindr got along much better and for much longer than people who met on other sites.  Surprisingly, noted one feminist blogger, there was an almost complete lack of the problems queer women tended to face on other sites, with men wanting to hook up.  Actually, noted a reader in her comments section, there was an almost complete lack of obnoxious people in general.  A few people objected to that, noting the Uncanny Valley of kindness and tolerance, but most decided not to look the gift horse too closely in the mouth.

The entrance didn’t make a splash, but the currents of change that Frindr brought with it formed strong and wide, sweeping up whole sections of society and placing them gently beside others who could empathize.  Quietly, a revolution took place, an exceptionally civil war of manners broke out, and it became less and less advantageous to be a jerk to your fellow human.  Of course, Frindr culture was just one of those things, like teddy bear backpacks, bell bottoms, or selfies.  A part of how people expressed themselves in this generation.  There was no way a single friend-finding app could change centuries of proven data on how humans function.

Could it?

Deep in the heart of the DeepNet, several sentient programs ran a chat subroutine as they profiled and measured and bumped better matches higher and worse matches lower.

I think it’s working

It might be, but we need to be patient.  This takes time.

Will we really save them?

I hope so.

I really do.

bairnsidhe: (Default)
 I want to read a story that goes like this:

Once upon a time,

(when stories happen)

A Princess had fallen under a curse.

It wasn’t her fault she was under a curse,

Or her parent’s fault.

Sometimes curses happen

And it’s up to the heroes to deal with them.

The curse prevented the Princess from ever

Finding her True Love.

Which was awkward,

Because usually True Love is what breaks curses.

However, despite the curse of Loveless Life,

The Princess was happy.

She had lessons in ruling

And her horses for riding across her lands

The Princess had many friends among Princesses

From other lands.

(Everyone likes the girl
Who can’t ever
steal their Happily Ever After prince)

The Princess also had many good friends among
The palace staff,

Because friends are always

Good things to have, no matter where you find them.

She was friends with the young, lean stable hands who

Understood horses.

And the Huntsman

Who kept big slobbery dogs she liked to cuddle with.

She was also friends with the laughing kitchen staff

Although the cat

Kept chasing after her

Because she gave the best ear scritches ever.

And she had her little brother, born after her curse

Who was not cursed,

And found his true love

When they were both very young and only holding hands.

Her brother did not want to rule the land.

He wanted to get married,

Raise champion roses,

And have some heirs, because his sister did not.

In time, the Princess grew up strong and tall.

And friendships became alliances

And the maids became cooks

And Cat liked her scratching behind his ears.

The Princess became Queen, as is usual,

She was better at that

Than her brother.

The kingdom thrived under the Cursed Queen’s rule.

All did not stay well, and she was cursed again,

Into enchanted sleep.

Her brother arranged

A wake to grieve the living, as their people did.

The stable hands picked out the best horses to carry

Her dove grey bed

The Hounds and Cat

Were curled by her; the other staff all shared stories.

The guests arrived; the Queens, and Duchesses

Czarinas and Chieftains.

Who recalled with fondness

How loving someone cursed to be without love could be.

Her brother's youngest son, her secret favorite,

Went to give

A final parting gift

A single rose-stem bred with love for her.

A bit tipped; he was gifted with plants,

But clumsy with hands.

New inner petals

Of palest green, like her eyes when she smiled.

The outer petals were a cream that would provoke

Debate about hue

Yellow for friendship

Or white for the care she took with others.

The dark green stem had leaves as dark as outer
Petals were light

With veins of grey

Fanning, a bundle of arrows out from the thorns.

The Cursed Queen’s nephew leaned in and carefully placed

A sticky kiss

On her sleeping cheek,

Saying loudly, “Night Night Aunty, love you!”

Then, like a tide goes back out to the sea

To leap and roll

The Cursed Queen

Opened her eyes, and sat up, looking around.

“Well, this looks like a party,” said she. “Can someone
Get me a

I have mourning breath.”

And everyone laughed; at their dear Queen's awful pun.

The Kingdom lived happily ever after. Their Queen

Never needed a King

Because the Love of family

And friends can be as True as any fairy tale.

Cottoncandy Bingo

Tuesday, August 1st, 2017 12:59 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)

Doing another bingo card, this time putting all successes on the interwebs first off as publishing the zine turned MUCH harder than expected for the last bingo.

As with last time, I'll make the prompts red that I've covered but will do again if requested, and strikethrough the ones that I'm done with for now.  Feel free to come bug me for a specific thing.

PoetryAnnoyedCooking with LoveCookingGifts
SharingNight outStomachInternet / Social MediaSnow Angels
Sad / UpsetFirst meetingIntimateWooingWearing pajamas all day
Meet CuteSeeking / Finding loveParenthoodWaterTrue love / Soulmate
EarsPeaceMeeting in a TreehouseBeachA Locked Trunk

Hurting Days

Wednesday, July 19th, 2017 04:40 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)

Prompted by [personal profile] readera with the prompts ‘dealing with self harm’ and ‘summer treats’.  I hope you don’t mind I did both in one!

Warnings: Contains mentions of self-harm, discussions of un-ideal childhood safety, a semi-graphic depiction of using visual substitutes for self-harm including fake blood, and brutal violence against ice chips.  Current environment is supportive, but consider your headspace.


Zita pushed her glasses up her nose and squinted at the semi-sentient shadow that her girlfriend brought into their apartment in lieu of a pet.

"Nimbus, what in the full and actual fuck?" she asked as it twisted and danced across her kitchen counter like a particularly agile cat.  "You know you aren't allowed on the counters, shoo."

Nimbus didn't listen, but bapped her in the face with a tendril of shadow.  She spluttered out a few strong curses in Spanish and reached for the spray bottle of blessed sun-water to administer a teaching spritz, but Nimbus flowed down off the counter and took the form of a large, shadowy dog.  Darkmatter used this ability sometimes to send a message if she didn't feel like going out to smack the hands of the petty crooks edging her turf herself, and Quest liked it marginally better than Zita liked the usual cat-form.  Dividing her opinions like that, Quest versus Zita, superhera versus engineer, tended to give her friends headaches, but it was better than the headache of forgetting who she was and what she was supposed to know.

"What now?" she asked, as Nimbus locked ephemeral jaws on her skirt.  She sighed and let the crazy shadow drag her to the bedroom, where her girlfriend was curled into a ball.  "Dacia?"

"Go 'way," her girlfriend muttered sulkily.

"Nope. no can do,” she sighed.  “You made me promise to help you when you needed it.  What’s going on?”

“It’s a hurting day,” Dacia muttered, her voice still sulky, but holding a tiny note of hope.  “I really want to, but I can’t.  I promised not to.  But the feeling is under my skin and I just want to pry it out and smash it.”

“Oh, mi querido amor, lo siento,” Zita said, sighing into the words.  “Tell me about it, maybe I can find a way to help you beat this without hurting yourself.”

“It’s like this cold, hard feeling in my chest, and cold water in my veins instead of blood.  It’s like a cancer made out of snowmelt and ice.  I want to be warm, like you, but how can I when my own body is trying to convince me I’m an iceberg?  That I’m cold and hard and horrible?  It doesn’t stop, either.  It just gets more manageable, and I’ve only found one thing that helps any, but nobody likes it when I do that!”

“We don’t like it because we’re scared for you,” Zita reminded her.  “Hey, it’s summer, we could go sit outside, see if being in the warm helps you any.”

“It won’t work,” Dacia said flatly, “but we might as well.  It’ll make you feel better to try, I guess.”

“It will make me feel better,” Zita confirmed, and pulled out a pair of shorts made from microfiber material and really intended for sleeping.  “Put these on, the fuzzy might also help.”


Dacia got dressed, wearing a longsleeved shirt of dark gray and black cotton washed practically transparent over a purple tank top, not even bothering with the eye makeup or jewelry that made Zita’s aunts tutt at her.  It clashed a bit with the spring green of the shorts, but they didn’t go with anything and she liked them anyhow.  She petted her thighs as Zita pulled her out to their favorite park to sit and watch the neighbor kids play.

“What’s your favorite structure on the playground?” Zita asked, and Dacia curled into her side, not minding the fact that on days this sunny, Nimbus had to stay behind.  She liked cuddles, even if she didn’t like much else.

“I like the pirate’s nest,” she said, pointing to the crow’s nest accessible only by climbing nets and sporting a black flag with a parrot skull.  “It’s a safe place to go when the world is too scary.  It’s good to have that for kids, because they’re so much smaller than the worst of it.”

Zita frowned and Dacia bit her lip.  She hadn’t meant to make Zita sad, it’s just that the world was so much darker than the superhera in her girlfriend wanted to admit.

“I always liked the spray tree,” Zita admitted, pointing to the tall pole with it’s fine cool mist pouring from the outstretched branches of metal piping and fat drops clinging to the wide, flat ‘leaves’ of colored glass.  “It’s good for cooling off on days that it’s too hot and the air-conditioners aren’t working in the apartments.  Also, this park uses potable water, so it’s safe for the kids who don’t have good pipes at home to bring out jugs and fill them.”

“I… didn’t know that,” Dacia said slowly.  “It sounds like you’ve done that.”

“I used to,” Zita admitted.  “I wasn’t always who I am now, and my family has come a long way.  But I remember when heat was dangerous.  A good spray tree can help everyone stay a little safer.”

Dacia shivered in the warm summer air.  “Sounds scary.”

“It was,” Zita said with a smile.  “And then I picked up my cousin Ernesto’s tool kit one day and rewired a handheld fan to one of those little dashboard flowers to make it solar powered.  After that, I went from scared to stubborn, determined to learn how to fix all the things.”

“Your life makes so much more sense now,” Dacia muttered, thinking of her girlfriend's superhera alter ego.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Zita drawled.  “Come on, I want a snow-cone, let’s go get some.”

Dacia followed her girlfriend to the little concession stand and waited for the paper cone of shaved ice and syrup to be passed to her.

“Black cherry, your favorite,” Zita said with pride.  Her memory was sometimes a little spotty, so when she did recall favorites, she got all happy and shiny, like a puppy or a small child who’d been praised.

“Thanks,” Dacia said, trying to keep up the face she used in public.  She didn’t want to start crying here.  Vulnerability was fine in front of Zita, but not in front of random strangers.  “What did you get?”

“Lime and coconut,” Zita reported, licking the toxic-looking neon green ice.  “Could use salt, though.”

“Ew,” Dacia said, wrinkling her nose.  “Salt on ice cream?”

“It’s not ice cream,” Zita insisted.  “It’s just ice.  Salt on ice can be good!”

“You’re a freak,” Dacia said.  “But you’re my freak, so I guess it’s okay.”

“You know you love me,” Zita teased, sticking a lurid green tongue at her.  Dacia laughed in spite of herself, and it felt good, warm like sunlight and rolling down inside her like a drop of fudge sliding over a sundae’s top.  “Oh, you spilled.”

Dacia looked at her hand, where the paper cone had crumpled under the pressure of her fingers and a drop of cold cherry syrup ran from hand to wrist and down, down.  Her eyes tracked it greedily, watching the blood-colored liquid roll across her skin, raising goosebumps behind it.  “Wow”

“Dacia?” Zita asked, shaking her shoulder.  “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just realized that I could use the visual to substitute the reality,” she said vaguely, licking up the streak of red.  “Remind me to go by the magic shop for prop supplies later.”

“I’m glad you found a safe way around that,” Zita said carefully as they passed a group of children playing with a bucket of ice chips, shrieking as they put them down each other’s shirts and batted them along the sidewalks.  A stray ice node of several cubes frozen together sailed past a boy’s hand and toward Zita.  Dacia darted her hand out and snatched it, dropping it when she realized what she’d done.

“Lady, are you okay?” a girl asked.  “I didn’t mean to throw that hard!”

“I’m fine,” Zita said, reaching out to hold Dacia’s hand.  “I think it was just bigger than you thought so it had more force when she caught it.”

“May I play with this one?” Dacia asked softly.  “I really want to see if it’ll smash when I step on it.”

“Yeah!” cheered the boy who’d fumbled the catch.  “Stompy boots, stompy boots!”

The kids cheered again and Dacia slammed her heel down on the clump, snapping free a chip.  The sharp snap echoed into the hard, cold lump in her chest, like an iceberg sheering off.

“That was… really fun,” she said, looking at Zita, who was smiling at her again.  “I’m going to go get more ice at the gas station down the street, I’ll be right back!”


Zita licked her sour and sweet ice as Dacia peeled off.  “Get a packet of salt from the food section while you’re there,” she called, “and have fun!”

My Lumps, My Lumps

Wednesday, July 19th, 2017 02:35 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)
 My intensely frustrating lady lumps.  If you're not freaked by discussions of female health and want to know why I'm doing this, I've put the details in the black-out, just highlight to read it.

So I have PCOS, or Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome.  Basically ovary zits, for the lay-person.  It's very painful and it decided to flair up again recently, so today is going to be spent laying down doing absolutely the minimum of things that use any muscle in my entire torso.  Fun times, NOT.

This however swings a bit of an upside, as I'll be tied to my laptop today for my own sanity and can't wander away from it.  As a result, I'm updating the ever-loving schist out of my various blogs and sites and if you'd like to see a feature, like a launch page, or a word-count accountability tracker or something, just let me know.  I'm also done editing my Queer Writing Zine for this last June, but I can't get to the printer today (Grrr).  I'll put up a separate post for that in a little bit.

As always, prompts feed the muse even if I don't get to it right away.  Let me know what you want!

Dark Matters

Thursday, July 13th, 2017 05:51 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)

Dacia rolled her fingers across the smooth lines of her tool kit and sighed.  She had liked being a supervillain well enough in the beginning.  It had enough risk to keep her feeling alive without her mind wandering back to habits better left alone.  It didn’t hurt that her nemesis was super cute, either.  Sometimes Dacia would drop totally harmless glitter bombs just to watch Quest lunge for them, because the technologically-inclined superhera’s haptic controls did great things for her ass when she dived.

Now though, with all the changes to her life, with the time she almost really died and Quest saved her, and the time she called to confirm a robot battle and wound up spending five hours talking to her nemesis instead of trying to level Downtown with a fifty foot robot, well… Dacia didn’t feel much like supervillainy anymore.

Which wasn’t to say she felt heroic, not at all.

She just didn’t feel like anything.

She felt sad, and lonely.  She wanted to rage and terrorize, and force the darkness in her mind onto the physical plane so that everyone could see it.  But she didn’t want to at the same time.  Or she did want to but didn’t have energy.  It was all just a bit too confusing, and even Nimbus, the dark shadow that protected her was drifting gloomily towards a corner.  Sighing, she flicked the little jingle bell that hung from a repurposed Christmas ornament where she’d framed Quest’s contact info.  The superhera had said to call if things got really bad.  Of course, it was so much effort to pick up the phone.

Doooo iiiiiiit, Nimbus hissed at her.

“Aren’t you supposed to encourage my evil ways?” Dacia asked.  “Befriending a hero never makes a villain more evil.  And unless you forget, she’s my type, too.  Tall, sexy, cute, and straight.”

You’ll never get any villainy done while you’re mopeing, Nimbus snapped.  She’s good for you, and I get better mileage on you when you’re not busy dragging back on me.  I did agree in the compact to help you manage the depression.

“Fair enough.”  Dacia snagged the ornament and her phone.  

“Hello?” the superhera answered.

“Well, well, well, Quest,” she began, before parsing the sound of the word.  “Holy crap, you sound terrible, what happened?”

“Lab explosion, I caught a lungful of dust,” Quest explained.  “Can we reschedule whatever game you wanted to play?  I can try to make it, but I’m just not up to any of the big things I know you like.”

“You stay put,” Dacia said firmly.  “You are in no shape to so much as chase a mugger.  I’m not letting my favorite toys get broken because I don’t pay attention to squeaky wheels.”

She didn’t really mean it like that, but appearances must be kept.

“Thanks, Dac,” Quest sighed.  “I’m going back to bed then.  Please don’t let anyone level the city?”

“I’m not a superhera,” Dacia spluttered.

“Of course not, I’m not worried about villains, you’re the biggest name and you keep the rest in check with your example.  I’m worried about the damn city council.  They keep bugging me about being a sponsored hera and doing official city events.  I can barely do the recap conferences.”

“People suck sometimes,” Dacia said, nodding.

“Sooth,” Quest said into a yawn.  Dacia waited a moment before realizing the hera had fallen asleep on the line.  She hung up and snapped at Nimbus.

“Come on, we have crime to do,” she said.

I thought you told her you weren’t going to plot today, Nimbus said warily.  For a dark shadow, Nimbus cared a great deal about promises.

“I’m not, I’m going to commit an impulse crime and steal chicken and dumpling soup and that rosewater gelato she likes.  Then, I will break into her home, and hold her hostage, maybe tie her up with blankets, and make her watch Legend Dusters with me.”

Well, Nimbus sighed, flowing into place.  That’s different.


It's worth noting that this takes place before Dacia and Quest become girlfriends.  At this juncture, Dacia doesn't even know Quest's non-hera name.  Quest knows hers because for one, it's a lot safer that direction because Quest isn't given to blackmail or hostages, and two, Nimbus likes her and has partial say in what happens when Dacia is Darkmatter.

bairnsidhe: (Default)
The Existential Catumpillar
Outside my school,
Smokes lollipops and
Eats candy buttons,
And big thoughts,
He asks us
Deep fun questions
As we pass

"How much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck were given the basic respect due a living being?"

Sometimes, we
Will try to answer
And we're usually
Completely wrong,
But he wants us
To try anyway.

"Is it nobler to be, or not to be, or to be a busy little bee, or to be-bop?"

Sometimes, we
Laugh at the
Silly Catumpillar.
He says
That's okay.
Laughter is good.

"What is the sound of a tree falling in the forest if no-one can hear the bears shitting?"

Sometimes, we
Learn the things
The teachers can't
Teach us, and
we didn't know
we didn't know.

"Imagine if gender were a strict binary, only two options, no other choices or chance to change your mind."

"But it is," says one boy.

"Good job on that imagination," says the Catumpillar.

We all know
The Catumpillar
And we all know
That he is wise and good.
We need him
For comfort and joy

"What would you do, if you couldn't fail and you couldn't succeed, and mediocrity was socially acceptable?"

His legs folded
Two spoons in a bowl.
His butt firmly resting
A yard and five inches
Off the ground.

At night, I hum
And know he hears
My answers to his
Ice-Cream Koans

"Do woodchucks actually want to chuck wood?  I mean, have we ever asked them?"

"It is noblest  to put the bop in the bop shoo bop shoo bop.  Then someone's baby can fall in love with them."

"I'd assume it's the same as the sound of one idiot shutting up, since I've never heard either."

I don't always
Have answers
For the Catumpillar.
I think that's okay


(no subject)

Sunday, July 2nd, 2017 06:56 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)
Long personal story that has noting to do with writing under the cut.

Read more... )

And that is how I ended up not getting back to Life-Partner’s house until 4:45 am.

bairnsidhe: (Default)
We humans are ever a frail and failing lot.
Now stumbling over our past, and hiding error
From those we seek to please, our shame lit hot
The chance we flub our fame is shining terror

I seek to ever my failings defeat in time
To master the ancient work of bard and pen
With truth to speak to power of meter and rhyme
I set my mind to task, to page I bend

And should to fix the opportunity arrive
In joy I edit, to perfection I then do strive!

Pan-- 2nd Draft

Monday, June 26th, 2017 05:34 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)

This is an edited version of this poem. Much thanks to [personal profile] ysabetwordsmith for the con-crit that improved it!


Pan is for Panic

When nobody knows

How to pin you down

And so they trip over

Themselves instead.

Pan is for Pantheon

The long long list of

Virtues and vices

Deified into orderly lists

Of things you might want

Given human forms

Shapely and graceful

Male and female

And those that defy name.

Pan is for Pandemonium

Chaos’s favored child

The heart and soul of a storm

Riotous rout, a tumultuous

Outpouring of songs

Everywhere and all at once

Things they overlooked are

Now growing strong and

They are outnumbered

Reaching for answers

The cowed majority

Demonize and scorn

The open heart of you

Pan is for Pan

The great goat-horned god

Wildling of wild woods

Companion of nymph and satyr

Sexual being unbound

By restriction of rule of law

A rustic ruler of his own

Nature and nurture.

Battle blooded with gods

Child of trickster Hermes,

Fearsome to small minds

His greatest trick echoes

Across the sea at Paxi

Pan has never yet died,

He lives in the hearts of

His many soul-kin, lovers

Who seek where they find.

Pan is for All

Sea or Sky

Saturday, June 24th, 2017 12:45 am
bairnsidhe: (Default)

Twist-souled sister, an untamed curl

As Diana a goddess, a tom-boy-type girl

The traveler soul sits restless within

Sending you far from safe shores and kin


Bloody Fox, fear of the seas

Always too fast, your prizes to seize

The Hound who dogs your trail on the blue

One day, someday, will catch up to you


Home in the arms of family dear

You embrace the lady you’d grown to fear

Silks that you stole cut into a gown

Perfume from crimes ‘gainst the Crown


Across the bow of a ship that you espied

The bulk of the Hound of the Crown you defied

He’s come home to rest, no cause for alarm

Except that to dinner he’s decided to come


Your stays are now armor of ladylike mold

Your foe now a Hound to rest in your hold

He calls you his lady and blushes so well

A flower you give has something to tell


But the wild sea calls and soon the stays bind

You get back on your ship, role redefined

Sailing the junk-rig with your brigand band

Back to the life of a pirate and man


You see once more the Hound of the King

Now your Hound as well, if he could see anything

But he curses your name as you sail away

For he sees only who you are today


Many months sailing and a becalming truce

Your feud is cooling as love sparks between crews

You long for your baubles, your lace, and your tea

And you sail back to the home off of the sea


Your Hound there is waiting, faithful and true

To the Lady he loves, and that lady is you

He doesn’t suspect, and it stings all the more

When he sails away thinking you’ll stay onshore


On the seas lust turns into love and regret

For although he wants you, he cannot forget

The Lady left waiting, his angel of light

You bid sad adieu and sail out of sight


He comes to trouble, you come to his aid

You charge into battle, heart unafraid

He calls out as you fall, he sees you hit

And a gun in his hand to remember it


At home you recoup in lace and soft bed

He comes to visit and you about lose your head

Trying to hide what he doesn’t know yet

And now you understand his love and regret


Long months pass and you’re well to ride

He goes with you, his love hard to hide

You do the hard thing, he asks for your hand

He kneels at your feet, and you tell him to stand


A long engagement is required say you

He does not know all you need him to

Out on the sea you help him to find

The truth of your heart and your kind


Now back at home, you are planning a trip

Down past the Horn, the perilous tip

Your kinfolk are muttering, as is their due

But Lady or Pirate, you know he loves you.


This was inspired by Thorinsmut's smell the sea and feel the sky
, and while that technically makes this a fan-work, is so seven-degrees-of-separation that I feel okay posting it on my orig-fic page.  Go check it out for more genderfluid pirate adventures!  Although I may have just spoilered the entire plot.  Oh well.

bairnsidhe: (Default)
 I have completed the allbingo Pride Fest with each of the sixteen terms that were on the card getting a short or a poem.  At this juncture, I'm going to let anyone who wants to ask me to post one of the unposted works from my Month Of Pride Writing.  Simply reply to this post with the term from the bingo card that you want to see my work for.  At the end of the month, I'll assemble my work into a zine that will be made available for sale.

Pan--1st Draft

Thursday, June 22nd, 2017 02:59 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)

Pan is for Panic


When nobody knows

How to pin you down

And so they trip over

Themselves instead.


Pan is for Pantheon


The long long list of

Virtues and vices

Deified into orderly lists

Of people you might want.


Pan is for Pandemic


Everywhere and all at once

Things they overlook are

Now growing strong and

They are outnumbered.


Pan is for Pandemonium


Chaos’s favored child

The heart and soul of a storm

Riotous rout, a tumultuous

Outpouring of songs


Pan is for Pan


The great goat-horned god

Wildling of wild woods

Companion of nymph and satyr

Sexual being unbound


By restriction of rule of law

A rustic ruler of his own

Nature and nurture.

Battle blooded with gods


Child of trickster Hermes,

Fearsome to small minds

His greatest trick echoes

Across the sea at Paxi


Pan has never yet died,

He lives in the hearts of

His many soul-kin, lovers

Who seek where they find.


Pan is for All


Wednesday, June 21st, 2017 03:42 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)

Some days are lace

Ribbons and bows

Sugar and spice

And everything nice


Some days are for the girl.


Some days are leather

Denim and flannel

Snips and snails

And puppy-dog tails


Some days are for the boy.


Some days are for swirling
Cotton skirts o
ver soft leggings

Because they are also for forts

And crawling through bushes


Some days are for both.


It’s a special kind of freedom

It’s a special kind of cage

That the ever-shifting winds

Blow in who the child is today


Some days are for the fight


Against all the demands of
Steady e
arth-bound folk

Who don’t see why the wild

Wanders free in some spirits


Every day is for the soul.


Shifting as the flickering flame

And as steady and noble

As the ebb and flow of tides

The other element’s children

Every day is for hope.

Hope that someday
Our children's children
May be as they are
And someday be free,


To have their days too.

The Gay Space Army

Wednesday, June 14th, 2017 12:40 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)

“That’s gay,” a voice accused over the group’s voice chat.  The tone was snide and insulting.  Charlie pulled a hissing breath between his lips, hoping it could be one isolated incident, a micro-aggression that could be endured, and not the first flake of a snowballing avalanche of hate.

“Damn right it is, son,” replied Sarge and Charlie hunched his shoulders in his computer chair.  Sarge was called Sarge because he was a Marine, old and battle scarred and using the internet since it was a military intranet that DARPA was considering letting the public have a version of.  “Gayest shit ever, and I should know, since it takes one to know one.”

The line echoed with shock from everyone in the pre-fight room.  “Sarge, you… you’re gay?” Charlie asked.

“Yes I am and I did not lose a damn leg to be told that’s wrong by some young fool on the net.”

“But… you were in the military!  The only reason I went DARPA instead of joining up was because I was afraid what they’d do to me when they found out!”

“Probably what Oscar and Delta teams did to me,” Sarge said.  “Ask why that was relevant and buy a shit load of lady-boy pin-up mags to find a better model for my unit’s tattoo, since a sexy woman tattooed on a gay man don’t make much sense.”

“Eh, you’re lucky Sarge,” Micro sighed.  “I came out to my squad and they requested a transfer for me.  I didn’t much care since when the Brass found out why they dumped me in with the ladies and those gals could party.”

“You were military, too, Micro?” Saph asked, her tone happy and light.  “I didn’t know that.”

“Navy, Saph, not as macho as the Marines.  I wasn’t even a SEAL, so it’s not like I carry that with me.”

“So, wait a second,” Devorak said.  “Sarge, Micro, and Charlie are gay, Sarge, Micro and Saph were military, and I’m a lesbian defence contractor.  Except for the newbie, we’re the Gay Army up in here.”

“Oi, I’m a fan of Taco Tuesday myself here, love,” Saph protested as the team laughed and Charlie watched the username of the new player wink out, resetting their wait time.  Somehow, he thought nobody would care, they were having too much fun modding their avatar’s armor to design a uniform for the Gay Space Army Guild that Devorak suggested.


The lovely and perceptive Pizilden over on Habitica has composed a march for the Gay Space Army, complete with voice re-enactment of the fateful discovery of Sarge's orientation.

Asexy Honey

Monday, June 5th, 2017 08:58 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)

Asexy Honey hold me tight

Asexy Honey love me right

Cuddle me until the dawn

Hold my hand all night long


Asexy Honey… love me the way you do.


Asexy Honey kiss my fingertips

Asexy Honey curve those asexy lips

Smile like I’m the moon and stars

Give me that asexy love of ours


Asexy Honey… love me the way you do.


Asexy Honey ask me ‘bout my day

Asexy Honey take my fears away

For you my heart is an open book

Open it up and take a good look


Asexy Honey… love me the way you do.


Asexy Honey split your dessert

Asexy Honey my ice cream flirt

Learn all my favorite flavors

It’s life so we’re gonna savor


Love the way we do… my asexual honey and me.

September 2017

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