Bingo Updates

Wednesday, August 23rd, 2017 01:50 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)
 Well, we're getting quite close to the end of the month, so lets's review the bingo status!

Cotton Candy Bingo- the bingo card is almost to a perfect checkerboard bingo, just missing "Seeking/Finding Love" and "Meeting in a Treehouse"

Works for Cotton Candy Bingo are:New Nights is in the Calamity Johnson and Chicane line of SuperQueers, and is available for purchase at $13

Origfic Bingo- the bingo card is close to a one-line bingo down the middle, just missing "doppelgangers/clones/impersonators/evil doubles"

Works for Origfic Bingo are:If you'd like to prompt something for "Seeking/Finding Love", "Meeting in a Treehouse", or  "doppelgangers/clones/impersonators/evil doubles", please let me know!  

Ears to Hear

Wednesday, August 23rd, 2017 01:43 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)
Filling my "Ears" square for Cotton Candy Bingo, and my "physical imperfections" square for origfic bingo.

EDIT: Much thanks to[personal profile] kengr for pointing out a mistake in my spelling.


Zoe Keener-Riley had only been famous an hour and she already hated it.

It was the ears, oddly enough.  It wasn’t her phytokinesis, it wasn’t her cutting edge research on genetically modified plants, it wasn’t even her relationship to the Sentinels,  the midwest’s largest supergroup.  Helena Riley, more widely known as Doyenne, the super strong leader of the Sentinels, had basically adopted Zoe after a mission went horribly wrong and Zoe’d been left alone, but honestly they were almost all like parents to her.  Except Uncle Perriot, who probably shouldn’t be responsible for a goldfish.  Zoe would at least partly understand if it had been voyeristic celebrity gossip that garnered her more than fifteen minutes of fame.  But no, nothing as normal as that.

Nope.  What catapulted Zoe Keener-Riley into fame was her ears.

Specifically, her hearing aids.  The bright purple hearing aids made by Chop Shop the robotic Sentinel for her when she got pissed about how long the wait list for new ones was and came to the base to whine to her mother.  Some idiot had snapped a picture and made a meme and suddenly her life went to shit as she stood in the eye of a hurricane of opinions on how people should and shouldn’t wear aids.  She hated it.

“I went into lab science for a reason!” she complained.  Nobody had much sympathy, but that’s what you get when you’re raised by famous people.

“At least try to read a fan letter,” her mother urged.  “We get some really nice ones.”

“I’ve done nothing to be famous!” Zoe yelled in frustration.  Rolling her eyes she snagged a letter from the stack.  “Fine.  One letter.”

“You’re trying,” her mom said.  “That’s all we’ve ever asked.”

She sat in the reading nook and read.

Dear Miss Zoe,

I’m eleven and four months and I’ve worn aids since I was four and ten months and I think your aids are pretty.  Purple is my favorite color, and I like the swoopy thing at the back.  It looks like jewelry, but not like any jewelry I’ve ever seen.  Where do you get them?  I want pierced ears, but Mom says I have to wait until I’m sixteen.  She did say I could put rhinestones on my aids though, as long as I don’t block the battery part.


Kathy Waller

Zoe smiled and grabbed a piece of paper.

Dear Kathy,

Thank you for writing me.  I like purple too, and the swoopy bit makes the aids more secure on my ear, and spread the weight out a bit.  Chop Shop made them for me, and zyr style is pretty close to Art Nouveau.  You can find loads of art resources for patterns and ideas in books of Art Nouveau costumes.  If you want to, I’d love to see a picture of your new aid-style.


Zoe Keener-Riley

She read another letter, and then another.  Kids with aids, kids with canes, kids with wheelchairs and arm braces and all manner and form of equipment.  Each one asking for connection, for family, for comradery.  Ironically enough, for an ear to hear them.  After her hands cramped from replying, she realized she had a new hobby.  A quick trip to Chop Shop’s personal programmer Shikoba got a request for a website to help these kids connect not just with her, but with each other.  A week in, and the gallery was already teeming with photos of mods, templates and stencils, and the chat board had a thriving thread on aids for disabilities made by the disabled.  

It may have been the ears that made her famous, but if it helped kids feel heard, she would take it.

bairnsidhe: (Default)

Update: I think this fits my "Sad/Upset" square for Cotton Candy Bingo, and since I don't feel like writing more sadness on a fluffy bingo, we're using this.


Daniel Brody wiped the last of the greasepaint off his face and double checked his reflection before getting out of his car.  Good, he didn’t look a thing like Gloom.  He did NOT need to be bringing that into his day job.

“Hello Marsha,” he said to the receptionist.  “Everyone ready for me?”

“Yes,” she scolded, “which you’d know if you were on time.  It’s 1:32.”

“You know I’m terrible at schedules, Marsha,” Daniel said, opening the door.  “I’m pretty sure it would spook people if I showed up at 1:30 on the dot.”

“Damn right it would,” growled Breaker.  The former villain-gang member was doing amazingly well at smoothing out his anger issues, but his manner would probably never dip below ‘dangerous but well meaning’.  That was okay, Daniel didn’t ask his patients to be perfect, that worked well for exactly nobody.

“So Doc,” Willy the Weasel started.  “We were talking before you got here about the difference between reasonable precaution and paranoia.  I’m pretty sure some of the stuff on the pamphlet I got from you last week isn’t actually that applicable to me.”

“What sorts of stuff?” Daniel asked.

“Well, it says here that “symptoms of PPD may include concern that other people have hidden motives, and thinking that they will be exploited (used) or harmed by others” but I legit know people want to use me.  I can’t help it, that’s my power, seeing hidden motives.”

“What sorts of things does your power say about me?” Daniel asked.  It was a risk, asking Willy to turn his truth-vision on someone with a hidden life, but he cared more about helping the guy figure out what he needed.

“You want me to get better, so I can be happy and maybe not break so many laws,” Willy said instantly.  “I scanned you before I agreed to make this a regular thing.”

“And that’s super creepy and paranoid!” snapped Horns.

“Hey,” Daniel said firmly.  “What’s our rule about judging?”

“We don’t do it,” Horns sighed, running his hand over the curling ram horns on his head.  “Sorry Weasel, I just feel really weird that you go around using your powers on people without asking.  I didn’t exactly like the last guy who did that to me.”

Willy looked abashed.  “I’m not ever going to do that to you, Horns.  I know what going up against Protectorate did to you.  That guy has some nerve calling himself a hero, when he messes with people’s heads.”

“Moving on,” Daniel said, before he could get angry again over Protectorate’s abuse of power.  “Willy, why do you feel that those symptoms don’t apply to you because of your powers?”

“Well, because it’s totally normal not to want to let people use you,” Willy said.  “I’m no doormat, I’m not going to stand there and let people hurt me with a smile on my face.  No offence, Tommy.”

“None taken,” replied the professional submissive mildly.  “I’m always the one in control when I do that.  I’m here because of the time it got really badly out of control.”

“I agree with you, Willy,” Daniel said.  “It’s normal to avoid people who mean you harm.  You don’t have to interact with people who want to use or abuse you.  But what you have isn’t so much a fear that people might hurt you, it’s a fear of going outside because people out there do want to hurt you.  The irrational part, the paranoia, is rooted in excess.  You don’t just avoid the individuals causing you harm, you also avoid people who care.  That’s why I suggested this group.  Your paranoia comes from, and in fact could itself be, a wonderful tool for survival.”

“Well, what about my ‘hostility problem’?” Hobble asked.  “I got plenty to be hostile over.”

“Well, who have you hurt with that recently?” Daniel asked bluntly.  Hobble preferred not to be “handled with kid gloves” as he put it.

“Some asshole who tried to bust up Attila the Hungry.  Nobody makes my favorite Mongolian barbecue joint pay protection.”

“Hah. Serves 'em right. Good luck walking now, suckers!” crowed Breaker.  “See, that’s hostile, but I’d say that’s okay. Everyone eats at Attila's, it's one of the only places that has an all you can eat option for supers.”

“I agree,” Daniel said.  “For people who start farther back, getting halfway to finish is a major milestone.  You all make me so proud.”

“Even if we’re hostile and paranoid?” asked Horns.

“We’re hostile, we’re paranoid, and we’re okay,” said Tommy firmly.

They certainly were, Daniel thought.  It summed up his practice perfectly.


Daniel Brody/Gloom: Antihero supernary, using highly trained skills in psy-ops to keep the East Coast criminal element from feeling too comfortable.  By day, he works as a moderator for group therapy and peer counseling, specializing in former and reforming supervillains.  His focus sometimes brings him into conflict with heroes, because of how some of his clients have been hurt.

Breaker: a supervillain with a destructive strike, he worked with gangs busting up places and things, but he quit when his boss asked him to turn that power on a person.  He has trouble communicating and several issues from time in prison, but he’s recovering well.

Willy the Weasel: a professional middleman, Willy ended up with the ability to sense people’s motives after an incident transporting something for a psychic villain.  He suddenly realized the actual motives of the people he worked for and had a breakdown.

Horns: an active supervillain with bighorn ram traits.  A clash with Protectorate gave him PTSD and he’s trying to recover from that, although he has no plans to stop his life of villainy.  He’s actually from Montana, but scarcity of mental health for villains who want to remain villains has driven him to Daniel Brody’s Massachusetts practice.

Protectorate: a superhero in Montana with empathic powers who uses them to “reform” villains by manipulating their subconsciouses.  Sometimes this works, allowing a smooth transition from villain to civilian, but more often than not he has to throw more weight into it than is healthy and it crosses into brainwashing.

Tommy: a professional submissive dealing with PTSD from a scene that went exceptionally wrong.  He likes the villain group because they don’t care he made his living being slapped, and people closer to societal norms tend to.

Hobble: A former villain who joined Daniel’s group as a part of parole years ago and never left.  He’s now much more of an anti-hero than anything, and he uses his magnetic field power to temporarily “chain” people’s legs together as his primary way of handling conflict.  Cops dislike him because it’s nearly impossible to undo until the next sunrise and that makes prisoner transport hard.  Criminals dislike him because the fields are strong enough that some people injure themselves fighting it, and a few people lost face when they peed their pants.

Attila the Hungry: a Mongolian Barbecue restaurant that caters to people with large or unusual food requirements. They have three grills, one for regular foods (no restrictions), one for vegan food, and one for Halal and Kosher foods. They supplement their ingredient buffet with donations from their fan club, the Ravenous Hoard, who do way more than just receive emails with coupons, including hold bake sales at Attila's and spend days out at the community farm that supplies them. All their
All You Can Eat buffets come with a free registration to join the Ravenous Hoard.

Under Cover Fashion

Thursday, August 17th, 2017 10:22 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)
Filling my "Costumes" square in Origfic Bingo and my (misread, honestly, I thought it said 'intimates') "Intimate" square from Cotton Candy Bingo.


Nzinga Marton opened her shop at exactly 4 am every day, rain or shine.  She set out bolts of Dyneema and Kevlar under the special recessed lights, she tweaked the fall of the mannequin's capes, and then she flipped her porch light on in silent invitation.  Her store wasn’t exactly advertised, nor was it what you’d call well-traveled, but her clients were loyal and they paid well.

Well, as long as she didn’t ask any questions.

Like why Sanaa “Sunshine” Thompson, the Channel 7 meteorologist showed up at 4:15 needing a replacement set of UV blocking rip-stop gloves.  Nzinga knew exactly why she needed to stock that particular shade of gold satin finish that looked exactly like Solarflare’s skin.  She also knew that nobody would benefit from her outing the solarpunk superhera.

As Sanaa was browsing the new boot selections, the doorbell rang and Nzinga let in Daniel Brody, smelling faintly of gunpowder and mournfully presenting a trench coat to her.  “Can you fix it?” he asked.

“As long as it isn’t mutative or biohazard.  I don’t repair anything damaged by suspicious liquids.  That’s how Pinnacle Designs got shut down.”

“No Ma’am,” he said respectfully.  “Standard issue nitroglycerin and burns.”

“Alright, make nice.  I’ll be done in a minute.”

She went in back and repaired the holes in the anti-hero’s signature coat, and scrubbed out the bloodstains for good measure.  Her talent of mending anything that could be mended with a moment of focus flared cool and slippery in her fingers, a line of spider silk weaving the world shut one inch at a time.  She carried the coat back out, took his payment and his thanks and as he left, Sally Corrigan stepped in past him, her red-blonde hair looking sun-bleached on her left.

“It’s an emergency, my last sports bra got roasted.”

“Come on in, we’ll get that fixed.  I’ve got another customer, that’s not going to be a problem,” Nzinga said, clearly not asking.  She didn’t care if Schist and Solarflare were nemeses, she just refused to have her shop leveled.

“Nope, I just want a bra.  I’m not here for anything else.”

“I have your standard order in back, it was only a matter of time before you damaged the last set.”  Nzinga sighed.  “You are awfully hard on your lingerie.”

“It’s not my fault the super elastics are so expensive!  If I could afford enough to let them rest more I would, but you know I don’t always get a say in when I’ll suddenly… have an issue.”

Nzinga hummed.  “You can’t call the fellow who helped you with the changes?” she asked.  “If you’ve still got control problems, that could be serious.”

“It’s not my control, it’s my triggers,” Sally confessed.  “I’m allergic to everything, and one strong sneeze’ll do it.”

Nzinga nodded sympathetically, because what else can you do when you learn that the local villainous troll can be undone by hay fever?  She grabbed the boxes and set them on the counter for Sally to pick a color, then rung up Sanaa’s order.  The meteorologist slipped an extra two hundred under her card.  Nzinga looked at her.

“I know the pain, and I’m looking good on money right now,” she explained, with a glance at her generous, ratings-drawing chest.  “We don’t agree, that doesn’t mean we should be petty or spiteful.  Thanks for the boots.”

“Have a nice day,” Nzinga said and as Sanaa walked out, she slid both the black and the ivory that Sally was debating into the nice white boxes.  “You’re covered, Miss.”


Nzinga Marton: Owner of Under Cover Fashion, a super boutique.  She has a minor gift for reality warping, one inch at a time, which she uses to complete near-miraculous repairs.

Sanaa "Sunshine" Thompson/Solarflare: Solarpunk superhera who transforms into a golden lightform to fly around Boston fighting crime.  By day she works as the meteorologist and weathergirl for Channel 7.

Daniel Brody/Gloom: Antihero supernary, using highly trained skills in psy-ops to keep the East Coast criminal element from feeling to comfortable.

Sally Corrigan/Schist: Transforming supervillain who primarily robs banks in her large, rocky form.  By day, she's a Geology PhD student struggling with debt and having had to go on sabbatical after the cave-in where she got her powers.

Grandmother's Trunk

Wednesday, August 16th, 2017 11:50 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)
 Filling my "Locked Trunk" square for Cotton Candy Bingo, and my "kids/kidfic" square for origfic bingo.


Grandmother’s Trunk was a store on the edge between the artsy district and the part of town where nobody had much money.  Although, nobody in the artsy district had as much money as the people who bought the art from the galleries, either, so money wasn’t really the divide.  According to Selby’s Great Uncle Tim, the only real difference was that the people in the tie-dye and high-necked sweaters could probably have money if they just wore suits and got jobs.  Selby didn’t think that was really how the world worked, and if it was, it shouldn’t be.  She was very focused on how things should be, since an intelligent twelve year old was just young enough to be unable to change things, and just smart enough to know someday she would have to, because Great Uncle Tim wouldn’t be around to snort about change forever.

That was part of why Selby loved Grandmother’s Trunk.  They supported the idea of kids wanting to change things, and they did their best to package up the good parts of Before so that people could carry them into After, without dragging along all the junk that nobody wanted.  Selby liked to go in on weekends and work in their Community Trade.  It was a fun program, do some work cleaning or sorting the new things that came in that week, then get store credit to buy something small, or save it up for something big.  Even kids could do it, since they weren’t paying cash and you didn’t have to keep working if you didn’t want to or the dust was too much.  Selby had been saving up for a new bike, one that wasn’t pink.  Pink was an okay color, she didn’t hate it like some girls, but it was just okay.  It wasn’t her favorite and quite a lot of adults seemed to think it was.  She liked yellow best, but nobody listened, so she was going to buy a yellow bike herself.

One Saturday, while working in Community trade, Selby found a locked trunk.  It was the old fashioned kind with the round top so nobody could smash it under other people’s things.  The heavy padlock felt like the mugs that Mr. Olsen put on the display shelf above the counter because they had lead in them and he didn’t want to sell them.  Pewter, she thought it was called.  There was no key, and when she went looking through the records in the repurposed card catalog, she didn’t find a name.  It was as if it had just appeared in the store in time for Community Trade, which it shouldn’t, Miss Kelsi kept very good records and wouldn’t accept anything without a contact number in case they found your passport or something in pocket.

“Miss Kelsi!” she called.  “Where did this come from?  What do you think is in it?”

“I don’t know,” Miss Kelsi said, blinking at the trunk.  “Let’s find out.”

So Miss Kelsi pulled out the tray of dentist tools, the little curved picks that stopped seeming scary to Selby after the third time she got one caught in a sweater.  Miss Kelsi was good at lockpicking, she helped Selby’s mom get back in the house when Selby’s little brother tried to climb the door and accidentally locked the broken lock that didn’t work with any key.  She shifted the tumblers and the click click sound made Selby’s heart race.  It was like a scene in a book, where some magical artefact would be revealed and they’d go on a big adventure.  She leaned in over the trunk as Miss Kelsi pulled the lock off and opened it.  A cloud of dust puffed into the air and Selby sneezed.

“You alright?” Miss Kelsi asked.

“Yes,” Selby said.  “What’s in the trunk?”

“Looks like… a bike helmet!”


“SURPRISE!” shouted her friends.  

“Happy birthday, Selby,” Miss Kelsi said, and handed the gold and daisy yellow helmet to Selby.  “With the special event discount, I think you can afford your new bike.”

Selby hugged Miss Kelsi.  It was a wonderful birthday surprise and a wonderful birthday party at Grandmother's Trunk

Water Haikus

Monday, August 14th, 2017 08:04 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)
 For the "Water" square of Cotton Candy Bingo.


Water flows gently

Caressing my skin warmly

In loving soft rain


Water lifts me up

Bouyantly, I rise to float

All stress melts away


Water tastes so sweet

When I have been hard at work

Or even just been lazy


Water runs through life

We all need it to stay alive

I am grateful for it

bairnsidhe: (Default)
For the "Wearing Pajamas all day" square of Cotton Candy Bingo.

It is Sans-Pants-o-Clock!

Ring out the bells and throw confetti,

For the accursed leg-traps are banished

To the hamper to wait for trial-by-washer.


The hour has come,

On this day of fries, to escape from our duty,

Our suits and our ties and our shoes that pinch.

The weekend is comfort made time manifest.


Now we don our lazy apparel,

Our summer-weight flannels and jersey knits

Held comfortably low on our slouching hips

By elastic and draw-strings cinched softly.


Bring out oversize tee shirts,

And bright fuzzy socks that cushion your feet

In warm fluffy down of a rainbow riot of colors

Because in Sans-Pants-o-Clock anything goes.


None shall be shamed

Nor do shame to others for choosing a sleep shirt

Or a Superman onesie complete with fluttering cape

Or even a nightgown, red, slinky, silky… with LACE!

For it is Sans-Pants-o-Clock and we’re relaxing today.

bairnsidhe: (Default)
For the "Poetry" square of my Cotton Candy Bingo Card.


Do not write me poems about myself
Untouchable, unknowable Goddess
Don't place me on the pedestal-shelf,
Cold and untouched and loveless.
Instead, I'd like you to show me,
Wrap me in the laughter of a lover,
Tell me things I don't yet know,
Caress me gentle and tender.
It's in the touchable love you show
Me that you see my heart.

Oh, I laugh at how you name me
You laugh at how I laugh, my eyes tipped up.
Others have said like twin crescent moons,
But you call them croissants, buttery and sweet.
You open my heart with octopi pendants
And blow soft fire into my soul's forge,
Always safe and caring for the rough edges
You know I have, scars of battles past.

You do not write me poems.
You give me the pen instead.

Winter Gifts

Friday, August 4th, 2017 06:00 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)
 Filling my "Gifts" square on Cotton Candy Bingo

Henrietta ran her hands through her short hair.  “You’re sure they won’t mind?”

“Honey,” said Grigor, her amazing, wonderful boyfriend.  “You’ve already met Baba.  Why are you worrying now?”

“Because I haven’t met your parents yet, and they still think you’re their daughter, and I’m terrified that they’ll hate me and then you’ll hate me…”

“Henrietta, please stop,” Grigor said calmly.  “If Mama and Papa decide not to like you, Baba will call one of the Aunts or Uncles and tell them to take me.  It’s sort of the advantage of being the grandson of the most well connected octogenarian in Florida, everyone listens to her.”

“You make it sound like you’re a teen, still able to be adopted,” Henrietta sighed.  “How is it that this is so easy for you?”

“I grew up knowing that once Baba was on my side, everything was okay forever,” he said, kissing her forehead.  “Come on, we’ll miss the first candle.”

She laughed and followed him out to the car, where he held the door for her.  It was great dating someone like Grigor, he was so calm and steady, which she needed, badly.  He also adored Stella, which was requirement number one in a partner.  Stella had been Henrietta’s friend since grade school, the two were in no way going to split because one of them was dating.  She relaxed into Grigor’s side after he opened the car door to let her out.  Somehow the car trip had been much shorter than expected.

“Henrietta, come in, come in,” called Baba Osinova as Grigor rang the bell.  “You will help me with the sufganiot.  I need stronger hands to put the filling in.”

“I… but… okay,” she said as she was dragged off away from the bustle and into a small kitchen.

“Don’t worry,” said Baba Osinova.  “I had a talk with Chana and Debra, and their men are smart enough to go where they point.  Everyone will love you, but you needed some time to understand that.”

“And the cooking?” Henrietta asked.  She got the feeling Baba Osinova did absolutely nothing without a really good reason.

“I never let anyone I don’t trust into my kitchen,” she said.  “Nobody argues the right to be here once I ask you for help.  Also, you have good strong hands and I have arthritis.  The filling is here.  I’ll get the dough.”

After cooking a batch of cheese and jam filled doughnuts and taking them out, Henrietta was feeling less nervous.  She sat quietly and respectfully as parents told children the story of Chanukah, and as they lit the candle on the menorah.

“That’s beautiful,” she told her boyfriend.  “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Of course, I love you,” he said.

“Ewww,” called a small child of indeterminate gender.  “Kissing stuff!”

“Hush, it’s cute,” scolded a pre-teen girl.  

“Be happy that they’re happy,” advised Grigor’s teenaged brother, Tomas, as he made a face  “It’s not everyday you get to see two people that sickeningly in love.”

“Hey!” Grigor protested, swiping at Tomas.  “Get back here, Brat!”

Henrietta laughed as they wrestled a bit and Grigor planted a big wet kiss on Tomas’ cheek.

“Presents!” called an uncle that Henrietta was unsure bore any actual relation to the family.  Also, she was half sure that like her, he wasn’t Jewish.  “I have gelt!”

The kids swarmed him as he passed out little bags and boxes with chocolate coins and small toys.  Grigor tapped her shoulder.

“I got you something for Christmas, but I think you need it earlier,” he said, passing her a box.

She plucked the silver ribbon off the white box and lifted the lid that had been straining it.  Open, the box held a mass of the highest quality faux fur she’d ever seen.

“This isn’t real is it?” she asked.

“Nope,” Grigor said with a grin.  “Certified dead-bunny free.  Try them on!”

She stood, somehow aware and also unconcerned about the audience she’d gathered as she slipped into the coat and hat from the box.  “It’s beautiful, I love it,” she said, hugging Grigor.  “I didn’t get you anything near as nice as this!  I thought the presents were mostly for the kids.”

“They are, and you give me wonderful gifts everyday, every time you text me in the middle of the day to say you love me, every time you send me memes that you know I’ll like.  You’re my gift, Henrietta.”

“Now who wants challah?” asked Baba Osinova from the kitchen, buying them a moment of privacy as the door was rushed by hungry guests.

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.

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
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.

Pride Month Bingo!

Monday, May 29th, 2017 10:02 pm
bairnsidhe: (Default)
I'm doing the June Pride Month Bingo, and I've decided to publicly post my card so that readers can suggest squares to try out.

If you want to see anything that relates to any square in the following card, drop me a comment and I'll get right on that!

Things in red I've done but will do again, strikethroughs are things I feel like moving on from for a while.


September 2017

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