Diwali
Happy Diwali, all. Thank you, everyone who came to the party last night - it was a lovely time - and everyone else, I hope your days and nights are full of light.
This is our living room, from last night. Everything there is a gift - the candelabra and candles are from the wedding, the bookends were a gift from my colleagues, the little stone candle-holders are Diwali gifts from previous years - which seems oddly fitting. In lieu of other gifts for y'all, I offer four short stories, on the usual theme:
building normal
Deep Space Nine, Sisko, Kira, Dax et al.
"As long as you understand," Sisko is saying, "I'm doing this not in my capacity as Emissary of the Prophets…"
"Of course not," Kira says, "of course not. Just as station commander."
"Right," Sisko says, a little uncertainly, but follows her out of his office. A voice inside his mind points out that divinely-mandated compliance with station regulations and protocol might do wonders for efficiency on Deep Space Nine, but he ignores it; when he wants increased efficiency on Deep Space Nine, he has Lieutenant Worf's talent for looming at people. But then Kira leads him around the station, and he reviews engineering logs, and sanitation reports, and the chefs' proposed menus for the Federation canteens, and energy projections, and everyone looks well-turned out, bright-eyed, full of promise. The Bajoran Time of Cleansing has lasted almost a month, station time, but the effect it's had appears to have been salutary.
The last part of the inspection takes them through Quark's. Upstairs at the holosuites, the lines are long - during the Time of Cleansing, Vulcan Love Slave III came out (This Time, It's Logical) and obviously some people are in a hurry to sully themselves as quickly as possible - but it's early evening and the bar is populated, but not heaving. "I don't understand how this works," Nog is saying to someone, who turns around and Sisko smiles - it's Dax in civvies, giving him a wicked grin.
"Hi, Benjamin," she says. "Doing your rounds?"
"Something like that." Sisko nods at Nog, suddenly overcome by shyness. "Good evening, Nog."
"Ah," Nog says, looking at his hands, "Good evening, sir" - and to spare him, Sisko moves on to join Kira, currently threatening Quark with an inspection of his liquor licence. Elsewhere in the bar, he can see Dr. Bashir and Garak discussing something, with hand gestures - Bashir is laughing, the high arc lights flashing in his eyes - and Odo is wagging his finger at a group of Bajoran children, presumably something about how it's much too late for them to be hanging around disreputable drinking establishments. Sisko turns his head away; when he's at Quark's, it's definitively less disreputable.
"Quark!" Dax yells. "Get me one of those things you use to make Samarian Sunsets. The little torches. Thanks. Nog, think it through. Fire cleanses." She lights the cocktail blowtorch. "It burns off micro-organisms, it burns out impurities."
Nog makes a note. "Will it be on the test, do you think?"
"This part won't." Dax dims the flame to yellow, and passes her hand through it. Nog hisses, then holds out a hand in wonderment, tries it.
"Wow," he says, sincerely, and Sisko, remembering another boy and another Dax, chuckles to himself.
"Is everything all right, Captain?" Kira asks anxiously, and Sisko laughs and nods, looking up into what is, he's aware, the largest open space in Deep Space Nine, the warmest and busiest, and if they must be in a revolving, fragile structure surrounded by the vacuum of space, the safest, too.
"Fine," he says, "fine." In a minute he's going to order something from Quark, and hand it over to Dax; maybe after that he'll say hello to Dr. Bashir; and then perhaps offer to test Nog on what he's learned today. Quark's liquor licence is probably forged. Everything is just fine.
hope
Welcome to Night Vale, Cecil/Carlos.
On one of the dark, StrexCorp days, Cecil reports on the radio that the angels have returned. Not just to Old Woman Josie's, out by the car lot, but everywhere, all over town, so if you look carefully, or alternatively don't, just glance at the ordinary dark world like nothing has happened, you'll see them, dancing at the corner of your eye. Big Rico sweeps feathers away from his storefront; Carlos comes home via Old Woman Josie's, which is glowing, as though holy light blazes from every lightbulb. Around the town, people are whispering: Carlos notes the now-former mayor Pamela Winchell arm-in-arm with Leann Hart, armed with a notepad and a number of toothpicks, dipped in food colouring. There's also a guy from StrexCorp with a pen - StrexCorp don't ban pens - but he's having to jog to keep up with them as they stroll comfortably and easily down the street. Around them, everything shines.
When Carlos comes in and throws his keys on the hall table, Cecil is lying on the couch with an arm flung over his eyes. Inside it's cool and dim. Carlos stands there another minute, just looking at Cecil, breathing in dust, before he sighs and sits down and says, "My God, you're beautiful when you lie."
Cecil looks up. "I don't know what you…"
"But not when it's to me." Carlos gets up and pours himself a drink of water. "Have the angels returned?"
Cecil looks up at him and says, "The people in town, they were so defeated…"
"For God's sake, Cecil!" Carlos sets the glass down with an audible thump. He looks into it out of habit, at the interference patterns crossing the surface. "This is…" - and he's stumbling for meaning for a moment, when suddenly he has it, grasping it with both hands, so Cecil flinches - "this is what a scientist is. A scientist is honest. A scientist does not tell lies, no matter how well-intentioned!" A pause, then he sits back down beside Cecil, feeling a little defeated himself. "Did you get the feathers in a job lot off eBay or something?"
Cecil looks slightly confused. "Remaking reality in your own image," Carlos murmurs, "not at all irresponsible. Cecil, I'm sorry for yelling. But."
Cecil gets up, and there's an air of determination in the set of his shoulders. "I'll issue a correction."
"Wait," Carlos says, and sighs. "Wait." He motions at the window, at the city bathed under its holy glow. "Tomorrow. Do it tomorrow."
Cecil smiles, brief and dazzling, and Carlos smiles back helplessly. He's not at his most scientific when around Cecil, but that's okay, until tomorrow: that's another kind of light.
comparative religion
Parks and Recreation, Tom, April, Leslie, gen.
This particular day begins with baklava, which is okay, but also with an overwhelming smell of kerosene in the Parks Department, which is not. "No, Jerry, you can't have any baklava," Tom is saying, when Leslie bounces in, shouts, "You guys!" and suddenly "okay" is kind of aspirational.
In between Andy whining that Tom won't share his baklava and Chris telling them all that while he thinks it's great, really literally the best thing in the world that they're such a proactive and diverse government department, maybe filling said government department with pure liquid hydrocarbon is both restrictive of its flow of spiritual energy and a tiny bit of a fire risk, Tom gathers that they're going on a field trip to Ramsett Park. He tries to tell Leslie it will be dark, and cold, and outside, seeing as how it's November, but she talks about a multiplicity of ethnic traditions and how Diwali is the festival of lights, and of course when they get there the wind is howling and the grass is crackling with frost and they're carrying about a million ("Fifty, Tom, don't exaggerate") glass lanterns and right now this day needs work to get to merely "bad".
After they've lit maybe the first hundred ("Ten, Tom!") of the lamps Tom sits down flat on his ass on the ground, because he's had enough. "Leslie, I quit. Call Ben or something, okay?"
Leslie looks at him. "But Ben isn't…"
She trails off, and Tom groans. "Leslie. I am from South Carolina."
"Okay." Leslie stops. "I guess… I'll go call Ben."
She has no cellphone reception, because they're in the middle of a park in a howling wind, so she wanders off, holding the phone above her head, and April holds up the next lamp. What the hell. Tom gets up again and helps. The little tapers are flickering in the rising wind, but Tom cups the flames with both hands, shielding them as April pushes the glass in place. They get through four in an easy rhythm, and they don't have to re-light any of them.
"You're pretty good at that," April says, in that pointed way she has.
Tom's hands drop to his sides. "My mom showed me how. Don't tell Leslie."
"I won't. Can I have some of your baklava?"
"No," Tom says, and April carefully puts down the lamp she's holding, takes off her gloves and holds out both hands, right over left.
Thoughtfully, Tom puts a piece of baklava in her palm. "How did you know…"
April holds a finger to her lips, brushing away sugar. "I took comparative religion. Don't tell Leslie."
Tom grins. "No way," he says, and turns away, still smiling. "Tell her it looks pretty nice out here," he adds, and heads home, following the row of lights.
love in a hopeless place
Gentleman Bastards, Locke and Jean, gen(ish). No spoilers for The Republic of Thieves!
Locke can't walk. At some point during this lazy week, during which Jean has employed himself gainfully by torturing every physiker and scholar in the Therin-speaking world, Locke has gone, gradually and unremarked-upon, from being able to get along, one foot after another, with Jean's shoulder to lean on and a lot of creative swearing, to not bearing weight.
Locke doesn't really mind. Jean has been picking him up and carrying him out of trouble since they were children, can do it with one arm while threatening people for information with the other, while also discussing Throne Therin romantic poetry with punctuating hand gestures and playing the dulcimer with the toes of his left foot. Jean's just that good. He tells Jean this with hand gestures of his own and much enthusiasm; Jean looks at him levelly and says, "Do you need something for the pain?"
Locke shakes his head and says, "Jean, there's something I'd like to see - before I…"
Jean places a hand over his mouth. Locke bites down, gently, and there's a small scrimmage after that, as always happens when Locke tries to use that word ("If you think I won't punch a sick man in the nose, you are sadly mistaken") but eventually Locke lies back and says, muffled: "Falselight."
Later Locke thinks maybe Jean has forgotten, or never even heard, but another week after that they're out to sea again, the yacht drifting, just the two of them plus whatever it is, creeping, that's sharing the space of Locke's body, and the sun has set but for some reason Locke can still see distant light. Through his fogged mind, it takes a while for understanding to permeate, and when it does it's with all that same blurred immediacy of light through fog. "Camorr."
"This is as close as we can get, these days," Jean says, ruefully. "But… Falselight."
"Falselight." Locke is strangely content, the sea breezes stirring his hair.
Jean waves a hand. "Why did you want…"
Locke pauses, then grins. "Falselight. False light. I am a confidence trickster."
Jean smiles at that, and Locke wants to say something else - something about how here, now, when he can taste his own death like metal in his mouth, that to remember deception is important, that to think simple thoughts of starlight and nightfall are to lay down the life he's lived, but he thinks to say that will probably mean Jean threatening to punch him again.
Instead, he says, "It's between sunset and true night. Between this" - he holds up a ring in one hand - "to this" - and palms it into the other.
Jean laughs, startled, and claims back his signet ring. "You little thief."
Locke chuckles, still strangely content. After a while Jean comes to sit beside him, strokes his hair out of his eyes with a kind of desperate tenderness, and Locke is thinking about Jean's stint as an initiate of Aza Guilla, to whom all prayers are the same. Not now, not yet, not tonight, and some time soon they're going to have to have that conversation, the one about acceptance, and afterwards. But right now Locke is still breathing, still burning, still rocking on the black water, looking out towards the lights.
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comment(s). Comment there or here.
This is our living room, from last night. Everything there is a gift - the candelabra and candles are from the wedding, the bookends were a gift from my colleagues, the little stone candle-holders are Diwali gifts from previous years - which seems oddly fitting. In lieu of other gifts for y'all, I offer four short stories, on the usual theme:
building normal
Deep Space Nine, Sisko, Kira, Dax et al.
"As long as you understand," Sisko is saying, "I'm doing this not in my capacity as Emissary of the Prophets…"
"Of course not," Kira says, "of course not. Just as station commander."
"Right," Sisko says, a little uncertainly, but follows her out of his office. A voice inside his mind points out that divinely-mandated compliance with station regulations and protocol might do wonders for efficiency on Deep Space Nine, but he ignores it; when he wants increased efficiency on Deep Space Nine, he has Lieutenant Worf's talent for looming at people. But then Kira leads him around the station, and he reviews engineering logs, and sanitation reports, and the chefs' proposed menus for the Federation canteens, and energy projections, and everyone looks well-turned out, bright-eyed, full of promise. The Bajoran Time of Cleansing has lasted almost a month, station time, but the effect it's had appears to have been salutary.
The last part of the inspection takes them through Quark's. Upstairs at the holosuites, the lines are long - during the Time of Cleansing, Vulcan Love Slave III came out (This Time, It's Logical) and obviously some people are in a hurry to sully themselves as quickly as possible - but it's early evening and the bar is populated, but not heaving. "I don't understand how this works," Nog is saying to someone, who turns around and Sisko smiles - it's Dax in civvies, giving him a wicked grin.
"Hi, Benjamin," she says. "Doing your rounds?"
"Something like that." Sisko nods at Nog, suddenly overcome by shyness. "Good evening, Nog."
"Ah," Nog says, looking at his hands, "Good evening, sir" - and to spare him, Sisko moves on to join Kira, currently threatening Quark with an inspection of his liquor licence. Elsewhere in the bar, he can see Dr. Bashir and Garak discussing something, with hand gestures - Bashir is laughing, the high arc lights flashing in his eyes - and Odo is wagging his finger at a group of Bajoran children, presumably something about how it's much too late for them to be hanging around disreputable drinking establishments. Sisko turns his head away; when he's at Quark's, it's definitively less disreputable.
"Quark!" Dax yells. "Get me one of those things you use to make Samarian Sunsets. The little torches. Thanks. Nog, think it through. Fire cleanses." She lights the cocktail blowtorch. "It burns off micro-organisms, it burns out impurities."
Nog makes a note. "Will it be on the test, do you think?"
"This part won't." Dax dims the flame to yellow, and passes her hand through it. Nog hisses, then holds out a hand in wonderment, tries it.
"Wow," he says, sincerely, and Sisko, remembering another boy and another Dax, chuckles to himself.
"Is everything all right, Captain?" Kira asks anxiously, and Sisko laughs and nods, looking up into what is, he's aware, the largest open space in Deep Space Nine, the warmest and busiest, and if they must be in a revolving, fragile structure surrounded by the vacuum of space, the safest, too.
"Fine," he says, "fine." In a minute he's going to order something from Quark, and hand it over to Dax; maybe after that he'll say hello to Dr. Bashir; and then perhaps offer to test Nog on what he's learned today. Quark's liquor licence is probably forged. Everything is just fine.
hope
Welcome to Night Vale, Cecil/Carlos.
On one of the dark, StrexCorp days, Cecil reports on the radio that the angels have returned. Not just to Old Woman Josie's, out by the car lot, but everywhere, all over town, so if you look carefully, or alternatively don't, just glance at the ordinary dark world like nothing has happened, you'll see them, dancing at the corner of your eye. Big Rico sweeps feathers away from his storefront; Carlos comes home via Old Woman Josie's, which is glowing, as though holy light blazes from every lightbulb. Around the town, people are whispering: Carlos notes the now-former mayor Pamela Winchell arm-in-arm with Leann Hart, armed with a notepad and a number of toothpicks, dipped in food colouring. There's also a guy from StrexCorp with a pen - StrexCorp don't ban pens - but he's having to jog to keep up with them as they stroll comfortably and easily down the street. Around them, everything shines.
When Carlos comes in and throws his keys on the hall table, Cecil is lying on the couch with an arm flung over his eyes. Inside it's cool and dim. Carlos stands there another minute, just looking at Cecil, breathing in dust, before he sighs and sits down and says, "My God, you're beautiful when you lie."
Cecil looks up. "I don't know what you…"
"But not when it's to me." Carlos gets up and pours himself a drink of water. "Have the angels returned?"
Cecil looks up at him and says, "The people in town, they were so defeated…"
"For God's sake, Cecil!" Carlos sets the glass down with an audible thump. He looks into it out of habit, at the interference patterns crossing the surface. "This is…" - and he's stumbling for meaning for a moment, when suddenly he has it, grasping it with both hands, so Cecil flinches - "this is what a scientist is. A scientist is honest. A scientist does not tell lies, no matter how well-intentioned!" A pause, then he sits back down beside Cecil, feeling a little defeated himself. "Did you get the feathers in a job lot off eBay or something?"
Cecil looks slightly confused. "Remaking reality in your own image," Carlos murmurs, "not at all irresponsible. Cecil, I'm sorry for yelling. But."
Cecil gets up, and there's an air of determination in the set of his shoulders. "I'll issue a correction."
"Wait," Carlos says, and sighs. "Wait." He motions at the window, at the city bathed under its holy glow. "Tomorrow. Do it tomorrow."
Cecil smiles, brief and dazzling, and Carlos smiles back helplessly. He's not at his most scientific when around Cecil, but that's okay, until tomorrow: that's another kind of light.
comparative religion
Parks and Recreation, Tom, April, Leslie, gen.
This particular day begins with baklava, which is okay, but also with an overwhelming smell of kerosene in the Parks Department, which is not. "No, Jerry, you can't have any baklava," Tom is saying, when Leslie bounces in, shouts, "You guys!" and suddenly "okay" is kind of aspirational.
In between Andy whining that Tom won't share his baklava and Chris telling them all that while he thinks it's great, really literally the best thing in the world that they're such a proactive and diverse government department, maybe filling said government department with pure liquid hydrocarbon is both restrictive of its flow of spiritual energy and a tiny bit of a fire risk, Tom gathers that they're going on a field trip to Ramsett Park. He tries to tell Leslie it will be dark, and cold, and outside, seeing as how it's November, but she talks about a multiplicity of ethnic traditions and how Diwali is the festival of lights, and of course when they get there the wind is howling and the grass is crackling with frost and they're carrying about a million ("Fifty, Tom, don't exaggerate") glass lanterns and right now this day needs work to get to merely "bad".
After they've lit maybe the first hundred ("Ten, Tom!") of the lamps Tom sits down flat on his ass on the ground, because he's had enough. "Leslie, I quit. Call Ben or something, okay?"
Leslie looks at him. "But Ben isn't…"
She trails off, and Tom groans. "Leslie. I am from South Carolina."
"Okay." Leslie stops. "I guess… I'll go call Ben."
She has no cellphone reception, because they're in the middle of a park in a howling wind, so she wanders off, holding the phone above her head, and April holds up the next lamp. What the hell. Tom gets up again and helps. The little tapers are flickering in the rising wind, but Tom cups the flames with both hands, shielding them as April pushes the glass in place. They get through four in an easy rhythm, and they don't have to re-light any of them.
"You're pretty good at that," April says, in that pointed way she has.
Tom's hands drop to his sides. "My mom showed me how. Don't tell Leslie."
"I won't. Can I have some of your baklava?"
"No," Tom says, and April carefully puts down the lamp she's holding, takes off her gloves and holds out both hands, right over left.
Thoughtfully, Tom puts a piece of baklava in her palm. "How did you know…"
April holds a finger to her lips, brushing away sugar. "I took comparative religion. Don't tell Leslie."
Tom grins. "No way," he says, and turns away, still smiling. "Tell her it looks pretty nice out here," he adds, and heads home, following the row of lights.
love in a hopeless place
Gentleman Bastards, Locke and Jean, gen(ish). No spoilers for The Republic of Thieves!
Locke can't walk. At some point during this lazy week, during which Jean has employed himself gainfully by torturing every physiker and scholar in the Therin-speaking world, Locke has gone, gradually and unremarked-upon, from being able to get along, one foot after another, with Jean's shoulder to lean on and a lot of creative swearing, to not bearing weight.
Locke doesn't really mind. Jean has been picking him up and carrying him out of trouble since they were children, can do it with one arm while threatening people for information with the other, while also discussing Throne Therin romantic poetry with punctuating hand gestures and playing the dulcimer with the toes of his left foot. Jean's just that good. He tells Jean this with hand gestures of his own and much enthusiasm; Jean looks at him levelly and says, "Do you need something for the pain?"
Locke shakes his head and says, "Jean, there's something I'd like to see - before I…"
Jean places a hand over his mouth. Locke bites down, gently, and there's a small scrimmage after that, as always happens when Locke tries to use that word ("If you think I won't punch a sick man in the nose, you are sadly mistaken") but eventually Locke lies back and says, muffled: "Falselight."
Later Locke thinks maybe Jean has forgotten, or never even heard, but another week after that they're out to sea again, the yacht drifting, just the two of them plus whatever it is, creeping, that's sharing the space of Locke's body, and the sun has set but for some reason Locke can still see distant light. Through his fogged mind, it takes a while for understanding to permeate, and when it does it's with all that same blurred immediacy of light through fog. "Camorr."
"This is as close as we can get, these days," Jean says, ruefully. "But… Falselight."
"Falselight." Locke is strangely content, the sea breezes stirring his hair.
Jean waves a hand. "Why did you want…"
Locke pauses, then grins. "Falselight. False light. I am a confidence trickster."
Jean smiles at that, and Locke wants to say something else - something about how here, now, when he can taste his own death like metal in his mouth, that to remember deception is important, that to think simple thoughts of starlight and nightfall are to lay down the life he's lived, but he thinks to say that will probably mean Jean threatening to punch him again.
Instead, he says, "It's between sunset and true night. Between this" - he holds up a ring in one hand - "to this" - and palms it into the other.
Jean laughs, startled, and claims back his signet ring. "You little thief."
Locke chuckles, still strangely content. After a while Jean comes to sit beside him, strokes his hair out of his eyes with a kind of desperate tenderness, and Locke is thinking about Jean's stint as an initiate of Aza Guilla, to whom all prayers are the same. Not now, not yet, not tonight, and some time soon they're going to have to have that conversation, the one about acceptance, and afterwards. But right now Locke is still breathing, still burning, still rocking on the black water, looking out towards the lights.
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comment(s). Comment there or here.