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SCAM: Subreality Muse fic
Hush. That is NOT the sound of Hell freezing over. Really. Even though Foe got on a plane yesterday.
Disclaimer: All Rights Reserved, Copyright Subreality.
Rating: G.
Notes: I was going to write a silly, fluffy piece with some random muses for people on an SG ficlist, when I got partially into this, and, well... It ain't that. Thus, I give you Subreality Muse fic.
Snow Come Down
by ALC Punk!
Somewhere between the waking and sleeping worlds, there is a plane called dreaming. In it are a hundred thousand worlds born anew every time someone falls asleep. They cascade with myriad images, flourishing rituals, and sometimes, people and places who were once mundane, but are no longer.
However.
That's not where we're going, gentle reader.
Instead, we're going sideways in time, a half-step out from the planes of existence.
There's a hazy shade of pale, here. Greys of winter, streaks of dawn and dusk all rolled into one. At one moment, it's a dusty, barren landscape. The next, a flourishing market town. Blink and it's a high-tech office world complete with cars flying in the air.
Subreality City is anything and everything to its denizens. It began (at the beginning of time and the end of the world) with a thought, a permutation of a half-silly joke, characters dragged outside of time from the stories they were being written in.
It began with a pub (don't they always?). English in style, it permutates at the will of the author. Or the Writer, as they're known there.
Not many Writers venture through Subreality these days.
Currently, the Subreality Cafe is empty of life. The Authors ran off to other haunts, other pursuits. Some of them forgot their origins, or outgrew them. Others simply spurned them and changed titles and lands, names, places--it's like being in the witness protection program (although Marvel Comics has never come after them).
The fictives, the ever-changing beings which populated the streets have greyed-out. Shantytown was once a tiny corner of the City, and now owns three-fourths of its real estate.
Sometimes, tumbleweeds roll majestically through the streets.
The symbology wasn't lost on Subreality's current denizens.
"Smoking again?"
Frank didn't turn to look at Lyssie, although she could tell he'd heard her. His breath whisped out, the smoke curling upwards. "Maybe."
"You've been letting her fill you with too much Constantine." Settling against the wall next to him, she half-smiled. "Of course, it could be worse."
"Oh?" One dark eyebrow flicked upwards.
"You could look like Keanu Reeves."
"Lyss." There was something ominous about the Muse's tone. The greenish cast to his skin deepened as he turned slowly to look at her.
"Yes, Frank?" She was smirking at him, lips twitching, eyes sparkling.
"We're the last, aren't we."
Not a question.
The streets echoed with silence for a moment before the slim redhead turned away and gazed after another tumbleweed. "Maybe..."
An arm stole around her shoulders. "We've survived worse."
"Yes... I saw Al a couple of weeks ago. He said..." Her voice trailed off, and she half-laughed. "He and Ambrosia seem to be doing all right. He seemed almost terrified of her."
"As it should be," Frank pronounced, tone amused.
Lyssie's arm slid around his waist. "I miss them."
"People move on."
She snorted. "Muses survive through neglect. What have you been doing, listening to twelve-step programs with Tadgh again?"
It seemed natural for him to tug her closer. "I got a letter from The Captain the other day."
"Oh?"
"She's doing well. Still killing dragons when needed, but she likes tending her garden better."
"Yeah." A chuckle escaped her and she gripped one of his belt loops, eyes distant. "I don't think I could garden. I think I'd go insane."
"Calliope always did say you were impossible to contain."
She snorted, "And you were? I seem to recall quite a few infractions perpetuated by you and Kelvren."
"I'll have you know I was the innocent party."
"Pull the other one, lizard-breath."
"C'mon." Frank suddenly tugged at a strand of hair.
"Hrm?"
"Let's go get drunk and see how many bars we can get tossed out of."
A laugh echoed in the street. And for just a moment, the tumbleweeds paused in their tumbling, the grey slid away from Shantytown. Lyssie smiled. "Now you're talkin', sunshine."
"Wench."
Dust swirled up, and tumbled the image away until all that remained was the silence, and a dream-plane sideways from time, lost in the annals of history.
-f-
Frank belongs to Rossi
Tadgh belongs to Epona
The Captain belongs to Yasmin
Al belongs to Seraph
Ambrosia and Kelvren belong to Farli
Everyone owns Calliope.
Subreality, the Cafe and concept are jointly blamed on Kielle, Tapestry and Falstaff.
Everything else is but a figment of my imagination.
(ps. Lyssie the Muse and Lyssie the Writer are seperate entities.)
Disclaimer: All Rights Reserved, Copyright Subreality.
Rating: G.
Notes: I was going to write a silly, fluffy piece with some random muses for people on an SG ficlist, when I got partially into this, and, well... It ain't that. Thus, I give you Subreality Muse fic.
Snow Come Down
by ALC Punk!
Somewhere between the waking and sleeping worlds, there is a plane called dreaming. In it are a hundred thousand worlds born anew every time someone falls asleep. They cascade with myriad images, flourishing rituals, and sometimes, people and places who were once mundane, but are no longer.
However.
That's not where we're going, gentle reader.
Instead, we're going sideways in time, a half-step out from the planes of existence.
There's a hazy shade of pale, here. Greys of winter, streaks of dawn and dusk all rolled into one. At one moment, it's a dusty, barren landscape. The next, a flourishing market town. Blink and it's a high-tech office world complete with cars flying in the air.
Subreality City is anything and everything to its denizens. It began (at the beginning of time and the end of the world) with a thought, a permutation of a half-silly joke, characters dragged outside of time from the stories they were being written in.
It began with a pub (don't they always?). English in style, it permutates at the will of the author. Or the Writer, as they're known there.
Not many Writers venture through Subreality these days.
Currently, the Subreality Cafe is empty of life. The Authors ran off to other haunts, other pursuits. Some of them forgot their origins, or outgrew them. Others simply spurned them and changed titles and lands, names, places--it's like being in the witness protection program (although Marvel Comics has never come after them).
The fictives, the ever-changing beings which populated the streets have greyed-out. Shantytown was once a tiny corner of the City, and now owns three-fourths of its real estate.
Sometimes, tumbleweeds roll majestically through the streets.
The symbology wasn't lost on Subreality's current denizens.
"Smoking again?"
Frank didn't turn to look at Lyssie, although she could tell he'd heard her. His breath whisped out, the smoke curling upwards. "Maybe."
"You've been letting her fill you with too much Constantine." Settling against the wall next to him, she half-smiled. "Of course, it could be worse."
"Oh?" One dark eyebrow flicked upwards.
"You could look like Keanu Reeves."
"Lyss." There was something ominous about the Muse's tone. The greenish cast to his skin deepened as he turned slowly to look at her.
"Yes, Frank?" She was smirking at him, lips twitching, eyes sparkling.
"We're the last, aren't we."
Not a question.
The streets echoed with silence for a moment before the slim redhead turned away and gazed after another tumbleweed. "Maybe..."
An arm stole around her shoulders. "We've survived worse."
"Yes... I saw Al a couple of weeks ago. He said..." Her voice trailed off, and she half-laughed. "He and Ambrosia seem to be doing all right. He seemed almost terrified of her."
"As it should be," Frank pronounced, tone amused.
Lyssie's arm slid around his waist. "I miss them."
"People move on."
She snorted. "Muses survive through neglect. What have you been doing, listening to twelve-step programs with Tadgh again?"
It seemed natural for him to tug her closer. "I got a letter from The Captain the other day."
"Oh?"
"She's doing well. Still killing dragons when needed, but she likes tending her garden better."
"Yeah." A chuckle escaped her and she gripped one of his belt loops, eyes distant. "I don't think I could garden. I think I'd go insane."
"Calliope always did say you were impossible to contain."
She snorted, "And you were? I seem to recall quite a few infractions perpetuated by you and Kelvren."
"I'll have you know I was the innocent party."
"Pull the other one, lizard-breath."
"C'mon." Frank suddenly tugged at a strand of hair.
"Hrm?"
"Let's go get drunk and see how many bars we can get tossed out of."
A laugh echoed in the street. And for just a moment, the tumbleweeds paused in their tumbling, the grey slid away from Shantytown. Lyssie smiled. "Now you're talkin', sunshine."
"Wench."
Dust swirled up, and tumbled the image away until all that remained was the silence, and a dream-plane sideways from time, lost in the annals of history.
-f-
Frank belongs to Rossi
Tadgh belongs to Epona
The Captain belongs to Yasmin
Al belongs to Seraph
Ambrosia and Kelvren belong to Farli
Everyone owns Calliope.
Subreality, the Cafe and concept are jointly blamed on Kielle, Tapestry and Falstaff.
Everything else is but a figment of my imagination.
(ps. Lyssie the Muse and Lyssie the Writer are seperate entities.)
no subject
This was good.