Ask me about Tellurians.
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Duchess of Fenway
- Location
- Oooooooh emotional roller coaster
The vice-principal shifted to a different tack.
"You know," he said, "it can be tough being smart. I was in a program like this too. You can feel a lot of pressure to succeed — from your teachers, from your parents… and from yourself. You're the Smart Kid, and everyone expects that of you, and when you're having trouble with that, you wonder: who am I, and what am I actually good for?"
He paused. Even now, he always tended to get a little bit emotional when he opened up old memories like this. They hadn't been good times for him. But that was one of the reasons he took this job, he reminded himself.
"But it's okay to struggle sometimes," he went on. "The problems are legitimately hard. And sometimes, there's one kind of problem that just isn't your particular gift. When I was doing math, everything was always super easy, and then we got to trigonometric proofs, and I completely fell apart. I hadn't practiced the sort of study techniques for that, and I didn't know what to do. It's quite common."
Rachel was unresponsive.
The principal continued.
"Sometimes, you struggle with other things. Being in a gifted students program doesn't exempt you from the drama of growing up. Maybe there's something wrong at home, and you need help, but you don't know what it looks like, or even how to talk about it."
The girl was looking at the floor more studiously than before, concerning the vice-principal. These were the worst sort of problems that a student might have, and he had already suspected something of this nature was distressingly likely in her case.
"Rachel?" he asked, as gently as he could manage.
"Stop calling me that," she said, kicking at the carpet.
"I beg pardon?"
"That's not my name," she said.
He paused for a moment to consider.
"What would you like me to call you?" he asked.
"Your Majesty," she snarled.
Well. He considered; at least she was speaking, for a change.
"May I inquire as to your full title?"
"You are not worthy that it should pass your lips," she declared.
He considered.
"A partial title, perhaps?" he asked. "Should it please Your Majesty," he added, playing along.
She rolled her eyes.
"Undeserving knave that thou art," she spat. "Know then that thou speaketh to Her Royal Majesty, Queen Jade, Imperatrix of the Starlight Armada, and Duchess of Fenway."
The vice principal recounted, internally, the recent books, movies, video games. Was there a Queen Jade or a Starlight Armada? His mind drew a blank. It was so hard to keep track these days. Things were so much simpler when all the kids went to Narnia and Hogwarts. He grasped at the one name that he could recognize.
"Would that be the Fenway, as in, Boston?" he asked.
She threw a box of tissues, which struck him on the forehead. This was perhaps a bit unfortunate.
"I will have to ask you to refrain from throwing things in my office," he said.
The next thing she threw was a coaster, a heavy one. It struck a cup of pencils on his desk, sending the contents flying, and then hit the desk lamp with a Ding.
The vice principal stood up. "Rachel. Stop," he commanded, mustering his authority.
She had been reaching for the trash can, but she did stop.
"We can talk about this, but you cannot throw things at school staff, Rachel," said the vice-principal.
"Your charge, Rachel, is gone from this world," said the girl.
The vice-principal counted to three internally.
"I'm willing to indulge your story,"
"I am in exile here, for a time," she snarled, "but thou may be assured, as sure as the sun may rise, that when I am restored to the fullness of my powers, thy insolence will be punished."
Author's Commentary
This was part of a writing-circle exercise. The previous story was about a troubled child who began to spend way too much time on VR. I've sought to maintain a level of ambiguity as to whether the character here is actually a reverse-isekai'd magician or fairy-creature, or is simply living in her own fantasy world. Fenway is of course the name of a baseball field in Boston, but the fens themselves belong to the Muddy River, adjacent, and there is a lovely path alongside; surely lands such as these are part of any earthlike world.
"You know," he said, "it can be tough being smart. I was in a program like this too. You can feel a lot of pressure to succeed — from your teachers, from your parents… and from yourself. You're the Smart Kid, and everyone expects that of you, and when you're having trouble with that, you wonder: who am I, and what am I actually good for?"
He paused. Even now, he always tended to get a little bit emotional when he opened up old memories like this. They hadn't been good times for him. But that was one of the reasons he took this job, he reminded himself.
"But it's okay to struggle sometimes," he went on. "The problems are legitimately hard. And sometimes, there's one kind of problem that just isn't your particular gift. When I was doing math, everything was always super easy, and then we got to trigonometric proofs, and I completely fell apart. I hadn't practiced the sort of study techniques for that, and I didn't know what to do. It's quite common."
Rachel was unresponsive.
The principal continued.
"Sometimes, you struggle with other things. Being in a gifted students program doesn't exempt you from the drama of growing up. Maybe there's something wrong at home, and you need help, but you don't know what it looks like, or even how to talk about it."
The girl was looking at the floor more studiously than before, concerning the vice-principal. These were the worst sort of problems that a student might have, and he had already suspected something of this nature was distressingly likely in her case.
"Rachel?" he asked, as gently as he could manage.
"Stop calling me that," she said, kicking at the carpet.
"I beg pardon?"
"That's not my name," she said.
He paused for a moment to consider.
"What would you like me to call you?" he asked.
"Your Majesty," she snarled.
Well. He considered; at least she was speaking, for a change.
"May I inquire as to your full title?"
"You are not worthy that it should pass your lips," she declared.
He considered.
"A partial title, perhaps?" he asked. "Should it please Your Majesty," he added, playing along.
She rolled her eyes.
"Undeserving knave that thou art," she spat. "Know then that thou speaketh to Her Royal Majesty, Queen Jade, Imperatrix of the Starlight Armada, and Duchess of Fenway."
The vice principal recounted, internally, the recent books, movies, video games. Was there a Queen Jade or a Starlight Armada? His mind drew a blank. It was so hard to keep track these days. Things were so much simpler when all the kids went to Narnia and Hogwarts. He grasped at the one name that he could recognize.
"Would that be the Fenway, as in, Boston?" he asked.
She threw a box of tissues, which struck him on the forehead. This was perhaps a bit unfortunate.
"I will have to ask you to refrain from throwing things in my office," he said.
The next thing she threw was a coaster, a heavy one. It struck a cup of pencils on his desk, sending the contents flying, and then hit the desk lamp with a Ding.
The vice principal stood up. "Rachel. Stop," he commanded, mustering his authority.
She had been reaching for the trash can, but she did stop.
"We can talk about this, but you cannot throw things at school staff, Rachel," said the vice-principal.
"Your charge, Rachel, is gone from this world," said the girl.
The vice-principal counted to three internally.
"I'm willing to indulge your story,"
"I am in exile here, for a time," she snarled, "but thou may be assured, as sure as the sun may rise, that when I am restored to the fullness of my powers, thy insolence will be punished."
Author's Commentary
This was part of a writing-circle exercise. The previous story was about a troubled child who began to spend way too much time on VR. I've sought to maintain a level of ambiguity as to whether the character here is actually a reverse-isekai'd magician or fairy-creature, or is simply living in her own fantasy world. Fenway is of course the name of a baseball field in Boston, but the fens themselves belong to the Muddy River, adjacent, and there is a lovely path alongside; surely lands such as these are part of any earthlike world.
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Bugle, fife and drum
- Location
- Oooooooh emotional roller coaster
"A Tellurian automaton?" asked the collector. "You know I can't buy that. I'd be brought up on war crimes, as likely as not."
"Oh, but we are a reputable establishment," said the arts dealer. "This one comes to us via impeccable Thulcandrian provenance. A gift to their people. Six hundred years in the central planetary museum, before she was divested into private hands as part of the capital campaign of 3285. She's had five owners since then, and has certified status of Limited Relevance to Thulcandrian Patrimony. And! She has telluric circuitry."
"I see," said the collector. "That is a most interesting find indeed."
"If you would like to inspect?" suggested the dealer.
"What is her purpose?" the collector enquired.
"A musician," says the dealer. "Designed for the Thulcandrian twelve tone system, but she has proven capable of many different instruments and scales. Do you care for music?" The collector was shaking her head, no. "Ah. Nevertheless I am assured that this is a striking example of the adaptability of telluric programming techniques."
"And how much are you asking?" the collector wanted to know.
"Telluric circuits were a mistake," muttered the collector to herself, then generalized. "Hobbies were a mistake."
No wonder she was able to talk the dealer down so low. Recharging the thing had been almost as expensive as her original purchase. But it was working again.
"まだダメよ", said the automaton.
It took another five minutes before the collector found the appropriately specialized translation module. Most of them were far too new.
"It is not yet time," said the automaton.
"I beg your pardon?" replied the collector.
"It is not yet time to play," clarified the automaton.
It took a few queries to determine when the automaton was willing to play, as the time system it used was opaque, and perhaps sidereal. It would be a little while yet. Maybe she would have a little party, and show off her pretty new acquisition. Of course, she would need to locate a suitable instrument…
Hobbies were definitely a mistake.
"What will you play, when you are ready?" asked the collector. But the title of the piece had no meaning to her.
"What is it about?" she asked.
"It is a commemoration for the Six Hundred," said the automaton.
"The six hundred what?"
"The Old Line," said the automaton. "Legend says that their souls fight on. For as long as they are not forgotten, they will protect us from the end."
"I can't say I've heard of them," said the collector.
This my original Tellurian story, and Tellus is the best planet-name, with the best adjectives.
This is another writing-circle exercise, one of our games of telephone. The original prompt for this writing exercise was:
For those who would visit the monument to the Four Hundred, there is a column in Prospect Park, off Well House Drive, just by the bridge, at the foot of Lookout Hill. Twelve escaped, roughly one hundred were captured — to rot or die in the notorious British prison-ships — and the remainder are thought to lie in a mass grave under Third Avenue, between Seventh and Ninth St, underneath a quite excellent pie store and the hipster barbecue spot. They saved America.
"Oh, but we are a reputable establishment," said the arts dealer. "This one comes to us via impeccable Thulcandrian provenance. A gift to their people. Six hundred years in the central planetary museum, before she was divested into private hands as part of the capital campaign of 3285. She's had five owners since then, and has certified status of Limited Relevance to Thulcandrian Patrimony. And! She has telluric circuitry."
"I see," said the collector. "That is a most interesting find indeed."
"If you would like to inspect?" suggested the dealer.
"What is her purpose?" the collector enquired.
"A musician," says the dealer. "Designed for the Thulcandrian twelve tone system, but she has proven capable of many different instruments and scales. Do you care for music?" The collector was shaking her head, no. "Ah. Nevertheless I am assured that this is a striking example of the adaptability of telluric programming techniques."
"And how much are you asking?" the collector wanted to know.
"Telluric circuits were a mistake," muttered the collector to herself, then generalized. "Hobbies were a mistake."
No wonder she was able to talk the dealer down so low. Recharging the thing had been almost as expensive as her original purchase. But it was working again.
"まだダメよ", said the automaton.
It took another five minutes before the collector found the appropriately specialized translation module. Most of them were far too new.
"It is not yet time," said the automaton.
"I beg your pardon?" replied the collector.
"It is not yet time to play," clarified the automaton.
It took a few queries to determine when the automaton was willing to play, as the time system it used was opaque, and perhaps sidereal. It would be a little while yet. Maybe she would have a little party, and show off her pretty new acquisition. Of course, she would need to locate a suitable instrument…
Hobbies were definitely a mistake.
"What will you play, when you are ready?" asked the collector. But the title of the piece had no meaning to her.
"What is it about?" she asked.
"It is a commemoration for the Six Hundred," said the automaton.
"The six hundred what?"
"The Old Line," said the automaton. "Legend says that their souls fight on. For as long as they are not forgotten, they will protect us from the end."
"I can't say I've heard of them," said the collector.
This my original Tellurian story, and Tellus is the best planet-name, with the best adjectives.
This is another writing-circle exercise, one of our games of telephone. The original prompt for this writing exercise was:
The response to that prompt was a poem, or perhaps a song; the follow-up to the poem was titled "Last Call." It described a trumpet-player first playing alone, and then drinking with the memory of long-absent friends; there was an offhand martial analogy to the group as "one legion" of heroes. From this I inferred themes and motifs such as: fading memories, forgotten heroes, times long past, music. This brought to mind my time wandering through New York City, of the abundance of statues and memorials in the parks and the squares — statues and monuments all about, made for the explicit purpose of remembering, yet so seldom noticed or remarked upon.Prompt said:
For those who would visit the monument to the Four Hundred, there is a column in Prospect Park, off Well House Drive, just by the bridge, at the foot of Lookout Hill. Twelve escaped, roughly one hundred were captured — to rot or die in the notorious British prison-ships — and the remainder are thought to lie in a mass grave under Third Avenue, between Seventh and Ninth St, underneath a quite excellent pie store and the hipster barbecue spot. They saved America.
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