baloonworld: (bird)
Its been an awfully long time since I've posted a story here: Most of my more recent stuff is over on AO3, but this one is Zombina and Susan, which is a bit remorselessly obscure, even for AO3, even if it is also Narnia. In this work, my neverborn children Susan (male, raised to be Evil) and Zombina (female, raised to be a zombie) are joined by Elmyra's neverborn, Alexandria and Josephine, who are Proper Young Ladies, accomplished in the Fine and Martial Arts, Sciences and Decorum.

[I do not believe in canon, but "Charn:for the want of a risk-assessment" has quite a lot in common]

The Cat and the Closet. )


Dec. 8th, 2011 10:39 am
baloonworld: (Default)
Inspired by mishearing something that Rachel was saying about having to write terrible fanfic such that the word "thou", while used gratuitously as per the original text was also grammatically correct (a feature not present in the original text). She said "the thous" I heard "the nouns".

"I repudiate and curse," said Father levelly, "Those that are used to name. From now on, I shall insinuate what I am talking about, and use `I', `It' `suchlike' and suchlike."
"What is he up to?" asked Zombina, who thought that avoiding contractions made her speech more elegant.
"I think he's giving something up. Maybe for for Lent." Susan was considering adopting a faith in order to be better fettered by conventional morality, "I don't think anyone's celebrating Easter right now, but he's not exactly good at dates."
"It's the umpty-first." said Father, a bit snappish at the accusation of datefail. There are 19 umpty-firsts a year, and while there are more x0's that doesn't translate to speech naturally, "probably."
He checked his phone, "Seventh, even."
"What exactly are you giving up, Father?"
"Them. Them that I can't name, on account of giving them up."
"Oh" said Susan, "How convenient."
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“Hello!” Mother announced her return to the family abode from the DoomCorp offices.
“We’re in here!” Father shouted unhelpfully from the kid’s room.
Susan was still in his school clothes; he had a pencil and paper in front of him, and was paying attention while Father read to him from one of a pile of books they’d evidently gathered.
“Susan has a project to do for school. Tell your mother about it”
“We have a ‘celebration of all faiths’ to err… celebrate. I have to write something about a faith”
Mother did not look pleased at this information, being generally against faith, but before her desire to rant against the school board, could get going, Father asked Susan to read her what he has so far.
“Listen to this:

From the east comes Hrym | with shield held high;
In giant-wrath | does the serpent writhe;
O'er the waves he twists, | and the tawny eagle
Gnaws corpses screaming; | Naglfar is loose.”

“Father says that Germanic and Norse Paganism are faiths, too, even if nobody has them any more. I bet no one else has screaming corpses in their project”
“Have I been telling him how to pronounce the word “Naglfar” right dear?” Zombina, who had been playing with her human skull, Big Rhino, got it stuck on her head at this point, and Father gently tried to help unscrew it.
“I’m going to do my project all about Naglfar. It’s the hell-ship built of dead men’s nails that the giants shall sail to the last battle with the gods. I don’t think that finger-nails are a very good contraction material for transport”
Father’s general approach to things and Susan’s precociousness had clearly long since defeated any possibility of faith being celebrated; Mother’s wrath was awerted.

A phone rings.
“Hello? Oh hello!”
“Uh huh?”
“That’s… odd even for you”
“I’ll check with the ethics committee, but as it educational it might be possible”
“Bad Loki!”
“Sorry I was talking to the cat”
“I don't think it being a matter of faith will help. It shouldn't”
“No I don't want to hasten the Ragnarok”
“That many? I don’t think that many people die in the country in a week. I’ll ask around a bit”

“Do I even want to know?” Mother was not allowed in the garage.
“Yes. But we’re not telling you.” Father was an arse.

“Using the glues that people had when they believed in this faith, it was impossible to build a vehicle out of dead men’s nails. This did nothing to stop people’s faith, though. Possibly they also had faith that glue technology would improve.”
“Which it has done, so I built this for my baby sister. Behold! NaglFarm, the perambulator built of dead men’s nails! And two-part epoxy
“The nice lady from the mortuary let us have the nails when we asked. She said that lots of people thought they keep growing after people are dead, but its just the skin drying and shrinking makes them look longer”

And that was the last time the school had a celebration of all faiths.
baloonworld: (Default)
"Nyte. In Bulgaria we do not worship so-called easter bunney. Am worshiping Easter Shoggoth" Early bond villains were so sterotypically Russian it wsas begining to spill over into Susan's speach-patterns. *
"And every easter, the Easter Shoggoth come squirming all glutiniously from its lair and, leaving behind a swaith of detruction, extrudes chocolate eggs in the gardens of all the good children."
"What does it do to bad children?"
"Its leaving dismembered rabbits on doorsteps. Have seen them, scattered like wet rags."
"wow... thats so cool!"
By the end of that play-time, for 2b had formed a rudementory shoggoth cult. Susan was triumphant.

Ia fthagn!

*I however, have no idea of how russian grammer works, so this is probably wrong
baloonworld: (Default)
Its a beautiful sunny day in autumn, crisp and bright, and Father stands in the moat of the old priory, holding Susan and Zombina's hands while he encrouges Josephine and Alexandria to make the run up to the low earth-backed walls. The twins start to run and make it half way up before running out of momentum and staggering slowly the rest of the way to the top. Zombina lurches and he holds her up until she is steady again.
"What did you find out?'
"Can't shout. out. of breath."
"Water. optional. Dry moat still. obstructs."
"You're not allowed them you know. Your children have to be raised sensibly"
and I am bereft of the neverborn and the day is cold.
baloonworld: (Default)
Susan woke up very excited. It was his fifth birthday, and that meant fuss and excitement and cake and presents which would surely strengthen his personal power. He ran down the stairs dragging on his sinisterly tailored dressing gown as he did so.

There were brightly wrapped gifts at his place on the breakfast table and he tore into them with joy and anticipation.
Mother had got him a duster. It was long handled and fuzzy and attracted dust electrostaticly; a quick investigation revealed that the head, while fuzzy, did not conceal any sort of weapon.
“It’s a duster”
“Welcome to adulthood. With age comes responsibilities, and one of these is fighting entropy in the bedroom. Good luck.” Father explained the tribal taboo with the same certainty he explained flawed approximations of physical laws to undergrads.

Mother interposed before Father could explain further. “You’re five now, which is a very grown up age. Being grown up is about responsibility; as well as being bigger in body you have to do bigger things."
“Being five is an arbitrary distinction based on a fluke of local conditions.” Father got as far as “B” before Mother silenced him. He changed tack; Mother had been reading the children bed-time stories, in an attempt to head off the effect of Grandfather reading them stories from the Telegraph.
“Zombina,” said Father, “Is not allowed the duster. She is not yet grown up enough.”
“So I would have a state mandated monopoly?”
“Yes. I still despise Tom Sawyer.”

Later, Susan was explaining to Zombina how dusting was the best thing ever, and how grown-ups would never let little kids do it. To some extent, he was jealous of boys who’s sister did not have a venomous bite and a distinct lurch to their step; Zombina could be clumsy. Embarrassment, however, hardly factored; playground taunts over his sister did not compare to the ones his name got him.
“Arrrr rou shroua? Rit roocsh rearrerrarive ran rointress.**”
* Are you sure? It looks repetitive and pointless
Zombina did not have much idea of an indoor voice yet, which sometimes made involving her in your schemes a bit of a security hole.
“You have to wait until there’s enough dust to see. Then you swoop all up into the air. Its just like your snowglobe only your inside it.”

“Rath roo rot eyoug eet?”*
*Have you got enough yet?
“Not yet.” Hook
“Ren roo ret eyoug ran rI ray?”**
** When you get enough, can I play?
“Father says your too young.” Line.
“If they find out I’ll be in so much trouble”Sinker

A day later-
“Rath roo rot eyoug uus eet?”*
*Have you got enough dust yet?
A day later-
“Rath roo rot eyoug uus eet?”

Was begining
A day later-
“Rath roo rot eyoug uus eet?”

To get annoying
A day later-
“Rath roo rot eyoug uus eet?”
“Yes!” Hopefully, this would be worth the annoyance.

Zombina swiped with impaired grace at the shelf, throwing up a cloud of dust and than ran through it. It danced in a sun beam from the window.
“Rheeee!” The second cloud was smaller, but joined the remains of the first and continued to dance in the sun.
“I think you missed some around the corners.” said Susan with helpful smugness.

Chili stepped out from under the chair, yawned bigger than his face, focused on the end of the duster, settled claws into the carpet, wriggled his tail and pounced. Zombina squealed in delight and dodged the end of the duster around.
“Oh, You’ve found the dusting game. Its great isn’t it?” said Mother, checking in on the noise. “It's really very kind of you to let your sister play too.”

Susan joined Father downstairs.
“I, also, despise Tom Sawyer.”
baloonworld: (Default)
Zombina artwork to come when I've find some crayons and get a screen so I can use my scanner

`I have a meeting with boss-to-the-power-four today,' said Mother. `Can you look after the kids?'
`Murumph' said Father sleepily. `Murumph'
Half an hour later, an unusual alarm rang, and her peered blearily at the electronic organiser.
`BELOVED LEADER 11AM' He'd never worked out how to turn off all-caps.
`I'd better get ready for that, or there shall be all the Trouble'

`Darghgager*' exclaimed Zombina, hugging his knee as he did up his tie. There wearable noose was one of the awful things about the job.
`Orugh! rarre roo rr'rr**'
`Righ ress roo'Re grummrn' rr roark rooray, Rooan' raaa reee eyeees?***'
She loved the brightly-coloured over suits that father sometimes had to wear, and was very proud of er own, which was a birthday present, but this time, father put her into her smartest, least comfortable cloths, before carrying his bag and briefcase out to the car. While he was locking up, Zombina lurched eagerly to the car. The car meant new, exciting things. The pajama-suited driver held the door open for her and she climbed awkwardly inside

**Oh! there you are
***I guess you're coming to work today. Won't that be nice?

`warrr' roo reee raaaay?*'
`rannn roo**'
*what do we say?
**Thank you!

The driver knew that all capitalists were crazy, but Zombina was still a bit of a worry.

`It's take your child to work day at the embassy', lied Father in Korean `Do you think that will be a problem?'
`The little one can not go to the meeting. She must wait outside'
`But the beloved lead is a friend to all children!' exclaimed farther, confusing his dictators and Godzilla knock-offs for the first time that day. `Must we deprive her of the glory of his presence?'
baloonworld: (Default)
`And so, through the free flow of capital, and lifting of taxation on anyone except the very poor, the bourgeoisie became immeasurably rich, and everyone who mattered lived prosperously ever after.' And with that, Grandfather closed the paper with a rustle and kissed Susan and Zombina goodnight.
`I liked the bit where the workers paid an immeasurably wealthy capitalist to tell them to be outraged by people breaking irrelevant dress-taboos.' said Susan `Workers are teh dumb.'
`rray rrr rrooro rrurssrurer rand rrth rrooro reen rolled ru rree rroutrrragger rry rrerulll rithh renderr rinarrorrrit raaarrrns*' pointed out Zombina, somewhat primly.
`It doesn't matter if you're an immeasurably wealthy. There's no taboo stronger, more useful or logically defensible than the one against being Donald Trump, but he still is.' Susan was uncertain as to the purpose of pretending to be a businessman when you had inherited all your wealth.
`Rrandrarrter, rryy rroant ree rrerk'rerrsss rrink?**'
`You see, workers don't really want to be rich and sucessful, so they come up with other things to do instead of think about how much better it would be for them if they were. In the old days, they used physical exhaustion and religion. These days they don't work so hard so they self-proscribe vast, meaningless choice instead. And television. Until recently they were allowed both at the same time, but the government took it away because it was making them happy and the capitalists rich. The government doesn't like it when everyone is happy. That's why they make us pay income tax.'
`I think she's asleap'
So Grandfather made sure she brushed her teeth, and her into her ossuarious bed. It was very pleasent to visit the grandchildren during the holidays.

*They are also muscular and have also been told to be outraged by people with gender-inappropriate names.
**Grandfather, why don't workers think?
baloonworld: (Default)
`Thank you for taking time to see us Mrs Woodlock'
`That's fine; we have a policy to make time for any parents who have concerns about their children'

The discussed various matters concerning the teaching of young infants for a while. Then Father said
`There's just one more thing. You see, my daughter.'
The head teacher glanced at her notes.
`Yes. She suffered and unfortunate mustard-gassing incident while we were in Korea, when she was three.'
`Mustard gas.'
`Her NBC suit tore. One of those million-to-one things. Of course the positive pressure helped and we got her out of there very quickly.'
`There was a certain amount of damage to her larynx, so her speech is a little bit slurred. You get used to it very quickly, but I thought her teacher should be told so they aren't too startled.'
`I'm so sorry...'
`The doctors say that she's young enough that she should recover; the important thing is to not make a fuss so she doesn't develop some sort of psychological hang up about her own voice.' lied father further, adding, more honestly, and in the privacy of his thoughts: `Especially once people start talking to her in normal English.'


Jan. 16th, 2007 08:35 am
baloonworld: (in UR land)
Father already had the breakfast on the table. Wholewheat cereal and half fat milk, toast, fruit juice. Neither of them had been given opportunity to develop a taste for sugar or E-numbers. Zombina was perched elegantly at the end of the breakfast table, sipping tea. Father was encouraging her to slouch more.
`You'll never inspire terror at a world gone suddenly mad if you sit around all dainty. Good morning Susan.'
`What,' asked Zombina `If I do not want to inspire terror?'
`I know that you want to be your own person, follow your dreams and all that, and I'm behind you all the way, I really am, but you're young yet and I feel I would be remiss in my duties as a parent if I didn't teach you a solid skill you could fall back on if things go wrong.'
Zombina finished her tea and, concentrating furiously on her deportment, walked out of the room without lurching once.
`I just want you to have a chance to be in the forefront of the lurching legions of undead when hell is full and the dead walk the earth!' Father's cheerful voice came up the stairs after her, and she resisted an urge to moan wordlessly. As many world leaders had cause to regret, father's patience, imagination and cheerful demeanor were apparently the one inexhaustible resource that the planet had. She still wasn't sure how reports of her had become first a crowd, then a `thousands strong army of the recently deceased', and finally an inescapable reason for Kim Jong-il to let father inspect his weapons of mass destruction, but she had. `REPORT SAYS MISSILES UNLIKELY TO ANIMATE THE DEAD BUT OTHERWISE VERY NICE'; the newspaper was framed at the top of the stairs.

Bathroom. Toothpaste on brush. Scrub. Taste of carrion in mouth. Wordless scream.
`Farrrfer!' She was slurring, dammit! She never did that anymore.
`I'll be up in a minute, just putting the breakfast away'
Some parents, Zombina reflected, would panic when their children started screaming. Then again, some parents wouldn't have planned making their children scream.
`Harmless vegetable extract. Thought it would help.' his voice preceded him up the stairs.
`From the Amazon, it flowers about once every 30 years. Very rare, but not too hard to find; you can smell it from about eight miles away'
`Ersatz rotting meat scentable from eight miles away will help?' There was emphasis on the last word but no hysteria in her voice. Zombina, he reflected proudly, had a spirit equal to virtually any challenge. Susan was already fighting against his early conditioning. He was only eight, or eleven, or one of those ages.
`Your breath, its been a bit...fresh recently. Not really becoming in a shambling undead, fresh breath.'
Zombina put the toothpaste tube back, opened a fresh one, and resumed brushing. It was too much to hope that any chemical compound provided by father would wash off, but plaque and gum disease would give bad breath in the long term, if not to such monstrous proportions, and only a fool suffered unnecessary nerve damage, even to the stupid nerves in teeth.
`It attracts blowflies you see, for pollination. I doubt it will have that sort of range around here though; we've got a lot more wind than you get in the rain forest'
Zombina spat a stream of foam into the sink. `Blowflies.'
`For pollination.'
`That’s right.'
`My mouth. Daddy, it does not need pollinating. It is a perfectly functional organ already. It does mouth-things like speech and eating and breathing and so forth.' Although it was not, she was forced to admit to herself, going to be involved in kissing boys, at least not while it smelt of a (vegetable-based) charnel pit.
`It could provide rotting meat to a family of maggots.'
`I have no rotting meat for the dear little maggots father. Now, I need to get ready for school. Don't you have a regime to measure?'
The maggots had been one hell of a challenge, as he was virtually phobic of wriggly things without skeletons, but he had managed, largely by lying unconvincingly to himself, so he was very happy to hear about them still being dear to her. Both of his children flew with an easy unconcern he could only imitate through vast effort of will, too.

On the way to school, Susan took her to the pharmacy, and they bought toothpaste.
`Hide it. Don't let him know you've got it. Squeeze a dollop of the stuff in the bathroom in to the sink every morning and scream at him if appropriate, brush your teeth with this.' He worried that being machiavellian for goodness was a bit dubious, but he had sworn off evil, rather than masterminding.

I didn't mention before, but The Sarah Jane Smith adventures are the king of France. They are so in my land it is untrue. The first episode, they had a boy who wanted to be called Susan, and copious lurching hordes. In conclusion: They have seized my castles, tied my seneschals to their house’s tails and are doing as they will with my lawful possessions.
baloonworld: (Default)
The alarm rang, and Susen quashed a desire to plot its slow demise, instend pumping to turn it off and get out of bed. Glancing out of the window, he checked that the coffin lid was propped up against the shed, implying that ...Sarah (another delibreate tweek to his own thinking) was in the house somewhere. He'd got up with the alarm, so he had time to get dressed before going down to
breakfast. Fortunately, the school uniform code had allowed him to force the issue of head-eveloping collars in a less Ming direction, but they were all immaculately pressed, despite his best efforts, and of a sinister cut. Susen was forced once more to admire Father's persitance and artistry, although his sanity remained a subject for discussion.

30 days

Dec. 20th, 2006 10:20 pm
baloonworld: (Default)
I was watching 30 days with elmyra. There were christians who were confused by athiests. They didn't know with what intent atheists brought up their children. Therefore, I proposes to raise Susan (my never-born son) to be evil. His equally never born sister Zombina, I will of course attempt but fail to raise to like spicey brains.

Zombina is a recent addition to my non-familly, cause by elmyra mumbling one of her collegues names earlier today in such a way that I though she said Zombina. I thought this was a fantastic name in a "A girl? whoops, we wanted a zombie" sort of way.

I think I should start writing Susen and Zombina stories, in the hopes that my real children, should they ever exist, find them and are appropritely greatful for all the things I could have got so much more horrificly wrong in their own upbringing. At this stage in the plot, Susen is rebelling agains his me by being excessively kinda and thoughtful:

Zombina woke up. She hated being called Zombina, and wanted a name like Sarah. She openened her eyes, it was dark, proberbly because father had snuck into her room while she was asleap and burried her in the garden again. Father was such an arse. Yes there were rough pine boards a few inches in front of her. She pushed, and it moved. Good, he hadn't had the time to fill in the soil; although Susan ("Call me James" was not technically a lie when said in responce to "What's your name?") was stong for his age, it still took him hours to dig her our.


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