Subreality fanfic group

Hello...(hello...hello...)...is there anybody in here?

menyoral — Sat, 07 Sep 2013 22:21:42 GMT

Maybe you don't remember me...but I used to be venem, Em-Spider. I lost my password, so I made this account instead. I'm hoping some people will see this and respond.

State of the Wednesday

trishalynn — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 12:29:51 GMT

Had a grand old time hanging out with you all last night, mostly because I learned that Batman is now BatCaveman and I am speculating that he will father most of the DCU because he's just that damn sexy and awesome.

Ooh! Can you imagine what it would be like if the Joker didn't exist anymore because BatCaveman who started leaping forward in time did some sleuthing, found out exactly who peed in his Cheerios to help shape him into the psychotic clown we all know and love, and totally fucked them up?

Nobody puts Batman in a corner. Because he will fight his way out of it.

#Subcafe

brookiki — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 07:28:58 GMT

For those who don't know, Foenix announced that he would be shutting down #subcafe due to lack of interest. Tonight, we had more than twenty people in chat and several of us agreed that it would be good to try to get a weekly chat going again, just to keep from losing touch.

Two options were brought up: Saturday and Wednesdays. Wednesdays seems to work pretty well for a lot of people, judging by tonight, so the consensus among the people in chat now seems to be Wednesdays.

So, for those who didn't make it in chat tonight, yet are still interested in getting something together, would Wednesday nights work? Or, if you have something stopping you from Wednesday nights, would another night work better for you?

Everyone had a really great time tonight and it was wonderful to see people I had lost touch with over the years. I really hope we can make something work.

And, as trishalynn pointed out, try to get the word out to non-LJ people (or those who don't read this comm) as much as possible!

Somewhere Between End and Beginning, Approximately

darkmark — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 05:55:57 GMT

Sometime, somewhen, a lot of people find their way into the Subcafe. It's that kind of a place. Not like Munden's or Callahan's, which are probably a plane or two away, but not unlike them, either.

It's just that everybody seems to find the place they deserve. Some of them are grateful for that, others grimly accepting, and a few are terrified at where they ended up.

Well. Anyway, the sum and substance of it was this:

A man, balding, perhaps a bit too round about the middle, dressed in a pullover short-sleeved shirt and a pair of dark blue pants, plus black shoes that, unbelievably, had a few flecks of green paint on them, stumbled through the swinging doorways and made a few steps in before stopping. He ran his left hand through what was left to run it through, on the side, and looked round about. There were a lot of tables and, fittingly, a lot of people seated at them. Most of the occupants were in plain dress. A few wore getups that belonged in another era, past or future, perhaps, and there was a costume or two, one of which he thought he might recognize, but gave up the effort.

Everyone seemed to have someone to talk to. Someone who knew who he was, or she was, and was on good enough terms with to give them the latest updates on their life's story. At least, that was the way it seemed.

But the man didn't seem to know what to do with himself.

"Sir?"

He turned his head in the direction that the voice came from. The speaker was a barkeep, tall, mustached, with his hair parted in the middle, wearing an apron over his bartender's clothes, a band about his upper arm. He looked like the ur-barkeep, a man who had possibly seen action in a war fought when wars were agreed to be necessities and the man who fought in them involved in a thing of honor.

"Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Subcafe. What will you be having?"

"Oh," said the man. "Uh. Would, uh, ginger ale be out of the question?"

"If it's your pleasure, it's ours, sir," said the Bartender. He reached under the counter, produced a green bottle, and filled a glass with amber liquid. "There, sior."

"Thanks. Thank you." The man picked his way through to the bar. There weren't too many standing there. He was, somehow, grateful for that. Putting one foot on the brass rail, he took the chilled mug by the handle and was reassured by its solidity and coldness. "You, that is, you do take credit cards here?"

The Barkeep looked a bit sympathetic. "Oh, no, sir. No need for those. We deal in other currency."

"Other? Currency?"

"Yes," said the Barkeep. "Stories."

"Oh. So this is, uh, a writer's bar?"

"It is what it is, sir. And that's all that it is."

"Okay. All right. Uh. It is, uh, permitted for me to drink this?"

"Of course, sir. Drink up."

He did. The ginger ale was familiar in taste, at least as good as a Canada Dry and probably better. "I don't do alcohol, not anymore," he said.

"Perfectly all right, sir."

"You want a story for this?"

"That's the usual payment, sir."

"What, that is, what kind of story?"

The Barkeep shrugged.

After a moment, the man said, "You know, it's been a long time since I could write a story. A long time."

The Barkeep polished a glass that didn't seem to need it. "Lots of people in that situation, sir. Lots of writers."

The man relaxed a bit, considering the glass. "I used to write a lot. A hell of a lot. Turned something out almost every week."

"Sounds quite prolific, sir."

"Well, it was. Or I was. It helped keep me sane, even though it was never anything I could sell. I posted it on the Internet. People seemed to like it. At least the ones who wrote back said they did, and I suppose the ones who didn't, didn't bother."

The Bartender smiled, slightly.

"It's been hard, lately," said the man. "I know I've said that before. But I ran into a large dry spot. Don't know why."

Hands and cloth spun over a new glass. It comforted the man to see the Barkeep at work.

"I suppose depression had something to do with it," he continued. "The Black Dog and all that. I've, well, listen, I lost family in the last few years. Had to, that is, pick up and start over again. And over and over, it seemed."

"Understood, sir." The Barkeep's voice seemed more kindly, if that was possible.

"And I don't want to...I don't want to whine. Not really. I lost some valued friends, my fault, I'm sure. Probably gained a few, too. But it's been hard, these last few years. I know others have had a hard time of it, as well. God knows. I've heard from them."

"Well, then, sir," said the Barkeep, fixing him with a gaze right in the eye, "it appears that you aren't quite friendless, now, are you?"

"Oh. No, I'm not. I sometimes feel alone, but perhaps...that's just me, not taking trouble to make contact. I do have friends, even in the real world. It's just that sometimes, with work and all..." His voice trailed off. Then he said, "Not much of an excuse, I know."

"Work is an excuse, sir," said the Barkeep. "I find it a very good excuse."

The man smiled. "You seem to be an exemplary worker, my friend."

"One tries, sir."

"Hope you don't mind me calling you a friend."

"Not at all, sir."

The man looked at his glass, again, probably for the same reason the Barkeep was polishing another. "This seems to be a renewal point," he said, finally.

"A what, sir?"

"A renewal point. Perhaps a place to rest and reconstitute myself. Perhaps..."

The Barkeep waited, and didn't even bother to polish the glass.

"...perhaps a place of possibilities. Perhaps it's a place to help get the creative powers working again."

There was a smile. Nobody at the bar missed it.

The man looked around. "I wish I knew what some of the others think of me."

"Is that important, sir?"

"I don't know. But I know it's something I can't have. We all have to go forward, I suppose, with our own baggage. Probably, probably, they wouldn't want me to tell them what I thought of them. Even if it was good, and most of it possibly would be."

"Part of the baggage, sir?"

"Part of it." He drank another draft of the ale. "Part of it is some of the baggage I've accumulated. Not all a happy load. But I can't do much about it. Just move on."

The Barkeep said, quietly, "And are you moving on, sir?"

The man almost chuckled. "Perhaps I am, my friend. Perhaps I am. But...I don't know. There's one thing I wish I could do."

"And what might that be, sir?"

The man leaned forward. "I wish I could do something for you."

For once, the Barkeep looked nonplussed. "For me, sir?"

"For you, sir. You probably tend this bar for God knows how long, every night, if there are any days here...and nobody knows who you are. Nobody cares, do they?"

"Ah, there you're wrong, sir," said the Barkeep with a smile. "The ones who have to, they do know. The ones who care, do care."

"Well, I care. What can I do for you, my friend? What can I do for youo?"

"Just this." The Barkeep held out his hand.

The man took it, grasped it firmly, and pumped it.

Both of them smiled.

The man said, "Was that payment enough, my friend?"

"Payment indeed, sir. Feeling better, now?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Good enough to brave the wild again, sir?"

"Good enough to do what we all have to do, I suppose. Do you..."

The Barkeep waited.

"Do you think I might be able to find my way back here again? If I needed?"

"Yes, sir. If you needed to, or if you wanted to. I think you've been here before, anyway."

"I have?"

"Perhaps, sir. Perhaps we've all been here, more than we think."

"Oh. Well." He drank the rest of the ale and left the glass on the bar. "This, my friend, has been a productive evening."

"I'm truly glad of that, sir."

"And will you tell those...whom perhaps I might know...that I bear no ill will? I've no idea what they think of me, but at least I can do that much?"

"I believe they know, sir. At least, I know."

The man smiled. "God bless you, sir."

"And you, too, sir. God bless."

The man turned, with somewhat more conviction than he had come in with, and walked back into the night.

A bespectacled youth at one of the tables looked up over his butterbeer. "Who might that have been, anyway?"

His companion looked at him, tersely. "Don't think you'd want to know his name, Harry. It'd probably make you think of something you wouldn't like."

The youth shrugged. "One more for the road, then?"

"The long road, Harry," said Ron. "The long, long road."

*******

With thanks to everyone who put up with me for this long. Thanks for the chance to break the dry spell.

DM

8/25/2009

Subreality PD: Taking The Rap 1/1

deathpixie — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 23:09:02 GMT

SC: Taking The Rap.

This is a sequel to Phil’s excellent story, “Someone’s Gotta Keep This Place Clean”, which had me in stitches when I read it. Seems this silly idea of mine has developed a life of its own…

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise (apart from me) belongs to someone else and is being used without permission or profit. See the credits at the end for more specific details…

Rating: PG. There’s the occasional rude word.

Subreality PD. Interview Room Five. The one in the basement, where the hard cases go.

Michael Garibaldi ran his hand over his stubbled scalp and glared at the prisoner. Five hours of grilling, and still she refused to name her supplier. Added to that was an extremely annoying familiarity with procedure in these cases, and a knowledge of Subreality Law that forced him to toe the line. So as much as he would love to, he couldn’t have Macleod or Ellison take her to the back alley for some- persuasion. Besides, a Writer was a Writer, even if they dealt in Angst.

“Let’s try this again, Rossi,” Garibaldi grated out, “We have you on tape selling Angst to that newbie Writer. You had in your possession trafficable quantities of Angst on disk and hard copy. Are you trying to tell me you weren’t dealing?” From the chair she was slouched in, Rossi sighed theatrically and said:

“It’s for my own personal use, for the hundredth time. What is your problem Garibaldi? I wasn’t dealing, got it? The kid’s a friend of mine, I was just giving him some as a friendly gesture.”

“And the money we found?” Garibaldi’s co-interviewer, Special Agent Dana Scully, leaned forward in her chair, “We found over five thousand dollars on you when you were arrested.”

“I won it,” Rossi replied coolly, meeting the FBI agent’s piercing blue gaze easily. “On a horse.”

“Which horse?” Garibaldi jumped in, hoping to trip her up.

“’Xena’. Ask Hank McCoy or Bobby Drake. They were there. Backed the same horse, too.”

“This is pretty high quality product,” Scully said, sifting through the bagged exhibits, “Where’d you get it from? Alicia McKenzie? Amanda Sichter? Lady Seraph? Dyce?”

Rossi snorted. “Dyce? Give me a break. Her stuff’s cut with way too much humour. Don’t insult my intelligence. I only use the best.”

“This stuff’s dangerous, you know that don’t you, Rossi?” Garibaldi said earnestly, “Too much, too pure… it could send an inexperienced Writer over the edge. You saw the gang war that broke out over the Jubilee stuff that was circulating recently. So why don’t you help us out? Save a few lives?”

“I’ve got two words for you, Garibaldi. Bester and Booze.” Garibaldi’s complexion darkened alarmingly and Scully had to restrain him from leaping at the unrepentant dealer. “You reckon Angst’s a problem? Why don’t you clean yourself up first? And little Miss Unrequited Lust here isn’t much better. You two make me laugh, coming across all high and mighty with the morals. I supply a demand, that’s all, and if people can’t handle it, it’s their problem.” Rossi leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Interview over, folks.”

“Interview terminated at 0400 hours,” Scully sighed and flipped off the tape recording equipment. She rapped on the door, and a Nightwing fic in a police uniform came in. “Take her back to her cell. We need to investigate further.”

“Hey!” Rossi protested as Dick Grayson took her by the arm, “You can’t do that! You can only hold me for eight hours without charge!”

“Says who?” snarled Garibaldi.

“The Subreality Crimes (And Misdemeanours) Act,” Rossi replied promptly. Somehow she even managed to vocalise the brackets. “Section 45, subsection 1c. ‘Suspects may only be held without charge for a total of eight hours, after which they must be charged or released without charge.’ Comes right after the section on arrest and detention of rogue concepts.”

“I’ve still got three hours left, and I’m gonna use ‘em,” Garibaldi said with an unpleasant grin on his face, “Take this scum away.” Protesting loudly, Rossi was dragged back to the Writer’s detention cell, specially designed for rogue Writers after the Tapslaught incident.

“She’s right,” Scully said, “We’ll have to charge her with what we’ve got, or risk losing her all together.”

“I’m not going to flush away months of tracking her,” Garibaldi answered, pacing the floor.

“Perhaps a different approach?” Scully suggested, “Maybe the good cop routine? I could call in Mulder, or perhaps Fraser?”

“No, we already tried that with that kid Coustas from that Australian cop show. She just laughed at him.” Garibaldi sighed. “We need something stronger…” Suddenly he slapped his communicator and brought it up to his mouth as an idea hit him. “Zach?”

“Yes Chief?” the Babylon 5 security chief’s voice crackled over the comm link.

“We’re not getting anywhere with this Rossi. I want to bring in the big guns.”

“You don’t mean…?”

“Exactly. Get him on the phone and down here in fifteen minutes. We’re gonna crack this case any way we can.”

“There’s someone ta see ya,” snarled Freddy Dukes through the slot in the Reality Reinforced door of the cell. No Writer had ever escaped from Reality, not completely.

“Who?” Rossi asked, wondering how the Blob had joined the police force and where they’d found a uniform big enough for him. “I didn’t ask for a lawyer.”

“Social worker.”

“Social worker?”

“Yup. I’m s’posed ta take ya down ta see him now.”

“I don’t wanna,” whined Rossi, ineffectually as it turned out. The massive mutant simply picked her up by the shoulders and physically carried her back to Interview Room Five.

“Here she is, Mr. Dinosaur,” the Blob said, dumping Rossi into a chair. The Angst dealer’s blood ran cold as she heard the name.

‘Mr Dinosaur? Dear Lord, not that. Anything but that…’ her mind gibbered. Freddy Dukes’ bulk moved away, and Rossi caught sight of her “social worker”.

“Hello! My name is Barney! Everybody hug!”

Rossi’s scream echoed down the halls of the SRPD, and in his office, Garibaldi chuckled evilly.

“Bester me, would she?”

Credits:

Subreality is a concept devised by Kielle.

The Angst Squad are Phil’s. He said I could use them.

The horse named Xena (and the race-going Hank and Bobby) come from Amanda Sichter’s story: “A Day At The Races”.

The Nightwing in the police uniform comes from Syl Francis’ story “Nightshift”.

The Tapslaught incident refers to the Tapslaught! Round Robin, which can be found at Subreality Central.

Garibaldi, Scully, Mulder, Charlie Coustas, Macleod, Ellison, Nightwing, Zach Allen, the Blob and Barney the Dinosaur all belong to their respective copywriters.

(note to non-Australians: Charlie Coustas is the good-looking cop from the ABC series “Wildside”.)

Subreality PD: Back Up 1/1

deathpixie — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 23:02:43 GMT

[SC/Angst Squad] Back Up.

By Rossi.

Disclaimers and Credits: at the end.

Summary: The Angst Squad call in the heavies for a major bust…

Rating: G, with a warning for general insanity.

Zack Allen was a spectacularly ordinary looking man. The quintessential average Joe. The sort of person who can walk down the street and pass virtually unnoticed. And while this made his romantic life difficult, it meant he was very good at his job. Let the Pezzinis and the Ellisons take the limelight, going for the big time busts. When it came to the discreet and careful gathering of information, Zack Allen was one of the best.

Right now he was in a back corner of the Subreality Café with one of his informants, a twitchy Xander fictive. It wasn’t Thursday, so no Writers were getting past the Bouncer, but it didn’t alleviate the Xander’s nervousness. Zack wondered what was so important that it would bring this informant out in so public a place.

“So, what have you got for me?” he asked quietly, flipping a coaster between his fingers nonchalantly. Xander gulped at his beer, looked around, and then leaned closer.

“My Writer doesn’t know I’m here. She’d kill me if she knew I was talking to you,” he whispered hoarsely. “There’s a new batch of Angst about to hit the street. A really big shipment. I know where it’s being kept.”

Zack raised an eyebrow, and took a sip of his water: it didn’t pay to drink on the job, as he’d seen close up. “Where?”

“In a warehouse down by the AOA Bar and Grill.” Xander started as a drunken Colossus stumbled past, complaining about Kitty’s failure to understand his “artistic needs”, which basically involved having sex with his models.

“Relax, kid, you’re twitching more than Deadpool after a coffee,” Zack soothed in his low, easy voice. “Just tell me about the stuff, just like we were having a perfectly ordinary conversation. Pretend I’m that little red-haired girlfriend of yours.”

“Willow’s not my—“ Xander grinned weakly as he saw Zack’s ploy. “Like I said, it’s a new batch. Strong stuff, maybe too strong. And it’s not pure, either, it’s got all sorts of crap mixed with it. It’s called Upstart.”

Zack resisted the urge to curse. They’d been getting word of this particularly strong batch of Angst hitting the streets, but hadn’t been able to track its source. There’d already been several OD’s, young Angsters not used to the nasty politics the stuff was cut with.

“You’ve done good, kid. The Chief’ll be glad to hear about this.” Zack quietly passed some Subreality bucks over the table. “The usual. For expenses.”

Xander pocketed the money without a murmur. “There’s one more thing you should know.”

“What?”

“More like who.” Xander glanced around again, and lowered his voice even more so he was barely audible. “Word is the Aussie’s involved. She’s gotten involved with some newbies, a joint enterprise thing. And there’s rumours some of the other dealers are involved too.”

Zack did curse this time, under his breath. It looked like the RRs were back to their old tricks. “Thanks, kid,” he said briefly, taking his leave. He had to report in: Garibaldi would be _very_ interested to know Rossi was back in business.

***

“All right, you’ve all pretty much had dealings with this low-life before, so I needn’t tell you how dangerous the stuff she pushes can be.” Michael Garibaldi glanced around the assembled Angst Squad in their headquarters at the Subreality PD building. “She went quiet for a while after the last time she was busted, thanks to our resident social worker…” There were snickers from the Squad members, and Garibaldi allowed himself a satisfied grin. “But it looks like the honeymoon is over. Zack’s had word that she’s heavily involved in this Upstart business.”

The snickers became mutters at the mention of that name. All the Angst Squad wanted this particular RR shut down, before anyone else fell victim to its almost fatal levels of Angst. Even the old hands were avoiding it. Garibaldi held up his hand to quell his troops. “We know where the supplies are being kept, and I’ve got Bishop and Nightwing down there now, keeping a tab on things.” He gestured at an area circled in red on the latest map of Subreality City. “It’s a warehouse on the Wrong Side of the tracks, next to the Bar and Grill. There’s some pretty heavy security, and considering there are some newbies involved, I’m expecting at least a couple of Phoenix-level telekinetics, some Summers and half a dozen Gambits.”

“Not to mention the Mary Sues,” snorted Sara Pezzini from down the back of the room.

“So how are you suggesting we deal with this? Asked Dana Scully before the Mary Sue jokes could start. “Are you planning any kind of back up for us? These Writers won’t go down without a fight.”

“Good point, Scully,” Garibaldi said with one of those grins that meant someone, somewhere was _not_ going to have a good day. “I’ve pulled most of the Squad for this bust, as well as some uniforms from the PD. And we’re getting a visit from the TWAT.”

“Those hard cases?” Even Pezzini sounded impressed. “This is going to be one hell of a show.”

***

Later that evening, on a windy rooftop, Garibaldi was making last minute checks of his team.

“All right, Bishop, I want you and the other sharp shooters to cover the street from up top, okay?” he told the large black man standing at attention next to him.

“My pleasure, sir.” Sometimes Garibaldi was concerned at the enjoyment Bishop took in these busts— the Founders knew he had reason enough, with some of the plot lines he’d been put through, but that was the same for most of the Angst Squad. But something about Bishop just made him… uneasy. The old PCP burn across his back itched in response, but he shrugged it away. His communicator blipped, and he activated it. “Garibaldi, talk to me.”

“You want me to talk dirty, Chief?” snickered Sara Pezzini’s voice across the static.

“The only dirt I want is the stuff they’re brewing in there. Your team in position?”

“Ready, willing and more than able. Any sign of our back up yet?”

Garibaldi was about to reply in the negative when a large gloved hand tapped him on the shoulder. “Just arrived,” he told Pezzini. “Give ‘em five to get ready, and then it’s all systems go.” He switched the communicator off and looked at the four bulky figures wearing jackets with TWAT in bright yellow across the backs. “About time you guys showed. We’ve been freezing our asses off waiting for you.” The team leader shrugged apologetically, and pointed at his watch. “Nah, there’s still plenty of time. How long will it take for you to set up?” Since the other three were already laying out lengths of rope and putting on harnesses, he guessed it wouldn’t be much. Team Leader held up two fingers, and then made shooing motions. “Gotcha.” Garibaldi moved away from the large skylight which looked down on the Angst factory, and watched the TWAT go into action. These guys didn’t say much, but they knew how to work as a team. Within the promised time they were ready, standing poised over the window.

Garibaldi opened all channels on his communicator. “Stand by, Squad. Going in on my count. In five, four, three, two, one… all members, go go go!” There was a crash as the TWAT jumped through the skylight and abseiled down into the warehouse. Garibaldi wasn’t sure he trusted his ears, but what sounded like “Wheee!” floated up through the broken glass.

***

Rossi nodded in satisfaction as the crates were loaded onto the truck. This consignment of Angst would be very profitable indeed.

“Just about done here, Yas,” she said to the other Writer who was hunched over a lap top. “Got anything to add?”

“Not me, but Ana said she might.”

“So how does it feel to see your first shipment of Angst hit the street, Doqz?” Rossi asked one of the newbie Writers standing quietly to the side. They looked… awed.

“Kinda scary,” he admitted, “I mean, this stuff, it’s pretty heavy. We are so busted if the Squad catches wind of this.” Rossi patted him on the shoulder.

“No worries,” she said. Then the skylight above shattered and four figures descended on ropes. Four fuzzy, brightly coloured figures. With different shaped antennae sticking out of the tops of their heads and television screens set into their large round stomachs.

“What the hell?” asked Doqz, instinctively recoiling from their rampaging cuteness. He felt sick.

“Eh-oh!” the four chorused, pulling out large, nasty-looking machine guns. Rossi groaned.

“We’re busted. This is the Tellytubby Writer Action Team.”

“’Busted’, is right,” smirked Zack as Angst Squad poured into the warehouse. “And I believe your social worker is very upset with you, Ms Rossi.”

Disclaimer and Credits:

Subreality is Kielle’s, including the Subreality PD and the AOA Bar and Grill.

Most of the characters in this don’t belong to me. The names you recognise from TV, comics etc all belong to their respective copywriters, and are too numerous for me to list.

Ana, Paradoqz and Yasmin belong to themselves, and are used without permission.

The Angst Squad was conceived by Phil Foster elaborated upon by myself and Yasmin, and Angst as an addictive substance was my idea.

Upstart refers to the Upstart Revolt RR, which hopefully will die very soon…

Writer's Cafe: AA Meeting 1/1

deathpixie — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 22:52:07 GMT

Writer’s Café: AA meeting.

This is a piece of fluff that occurred to me after reading a particularly heated discussion thread on Far Beyond OTL. It is written with tongue firmly in cheek, and no harm is meant by it.

Disclaimer: Subreality is a concept created by Kielle. So is the Writer’s Café. Pinocchio and the other staff (except Mary Shiva) belong to their respective copy-writers, and I’m not making any profit out of their use. Mary Shiva belongs to Falstaff. If none of this makes any sense, too bad 'cause all the links are dead. *wry*

The Writers don’t belong to me either… yet.

Some names have been changed to protect the er, innocent.

Rating: G, for general consumption.

This one’s for Seraph. Get well soon!

Pinocchio, hard-nosed (literally) Bouncer of the Writer’s Café, sighed as he saw the figure slowly trudging up the street towards him.

“Not another one,” he grumbled under his breath, “When Little Boy Blue agreed ta this, I don’t think he knew what he was lettin’ us in for.”

By now the figure had slouched its way to the door. It was a Writer, but which one was hard to tell under the pall of gloom so thick it was visible.

“Is this- you know?” asked the Writer hesitantly. Pinocchio sighed again.

“Yeah, this is it. Go on in, the meetin’s already started.”

The shadow-enshrouded Writer slipped into the Café. Pinocchio shook his head after the departing shape and stepped back into his alcove. Behind where he’d been standing, a sign hung slightly askew on the door:

“Angsters Anonymous Inaugural Meeting. All Welcome.”

“Thanks to everyone for coming here tonight,” Seraph sniffled, her nose red and swollen and her eyes puffy. She dug into the pocket of her jeans for a tissue. “You’ll have to bear with me- I have the ‘flu. Anyway, welcome to the first meeting of Angsters Anonymous.” Seraph stopped to blow her nose loudly, and then continued. “There’s been a deluge of angst on the lists lately, and it became obvious that some people were not dealing with it healthily. So AA was created to provide support and help those afflicted with angst.” Unfortunately, Seraph’s speech was spoiled by the bone-shaking coughs that seized her as she finished.

“First of all, let’s hear some testimonies from the members,” she gasped when she could speak. No-one moved. Seraph scanned the circle of chairs, trying to pick a face amongst the obligatory shadows and small dark clouds hovering over heads, with an aim to ‘encouraging’ volunteers with hard stares. Finally, a lone hand was raised cautiously.

“Good, a volunteer!” said Seraph in a tone that said ‘five seconds more and I would have started the culling.’ “How about you stand up and tell us about your experiences?”

Looking like she would rather be having her fingernails pulled out slowly, the Writer stood.

“Um, hello. My name is-“ the Writer paused.

“You don’t have to give your real name. Make one up,” Seraph encouraged as brightly as she could through a violent sneezing fit.

“I can’t think of one!” stammered the unfortunate volunteer.

“It doesn’t matter which name you use, just get on with it!” hissed Seraph through the sneezes.

“But…”

“All right, I’ll pick one for you. Bob. How’s that?”

“But I’m not male,” whined ‘Bob’.

“Then pick your own bloody name! Humph, it’s bad enough I have to find homes for misplaced Muses, now I’m expected to be one myself…” Seraph’s voice trailed away into an incoherent grumble.

“Er, hello. My name is- Bob, and I have Angst.”

“Hello Bob,” everyone chorused, a little raggedly.

“Um. It started out pretty harmlessly. A down beat TCP when I was stuck for new chapters of my epic. A response to Alara’s Challenge of Death where I killed off my favourite character. A Jono story about him being a monster and no-one loving him. And then, I was hooked! Everything I wrote was dark and depressing!” ‘Bob’s’ voice rose. “I knew I had a problem when I wrote a story where Jubilee was horribly tortured by Bastion and ended up in a mental institution! All my stories were about characters whose lives were miserable. I just couldn’t stop!” ‘Bob’ sat down, shaking. Those near her gave her supportive pats and hugs.

“Well, um, thank you ‘Bob’” Seraph managed at last, “Anyone else?” Several hands went up this time. “Okay, how about you?” The chosen Writer stood up and glanced inquiringly at Seraph. The angel nodded (or she might have been sneezing again), and with a deep breath, the Writer began:

“Hi. My name is Ya-“ There was a pause as the Writer thought desperately for another name. “-Bob, and I’m an Angster.”

“Hello Bob,” everyone chorused again. They were getting the hang of this.

“I’m not normally an angster- in fact, I used to avoid it whenever I could. But then I wrote what was supposed to be a light-hearted romp through Subreality, and I was hijacked! Things got out of control, and before I knew it I’d killed of half of my characters, banished the others to the fictional netherworld, and crippled my Muse’s mentor!” ‘Bob’ looked around them wild-eyed. “And it didn’t stop there! I joined in this round-robin… Everyone’s old, Subreality’s dying and decayed, and the angst is just unbelievable! It’s such a rush! People are killing themselves off just to generate more angst for everyone else! I can’t keep away from it!”

“Yes, thank you ‘Bob’,” Seraph said crisply, cutting off the Writer before she got too excited. “We’re well aware of the influence this particular round-robin is having on the more vulnerable members of the community, namely yourselves and those like you.”

“Hang on, haven’t I seen you there too?” said an anonymous voice. Seraph blushed (or it might have been the fever) and tried to collect herself.

“Well, yes, I have been in that round-robin. But purely for research! In order to help those addicted to angst, I have to know the allure of it, and investigate the sources…”

“Yeah, right,” muttered another voice.

“How about another testimonial?” Seraph asked, hoping to divert attention away from this particular path. “Any one else want to share their experiences?”

“I will,” said the Writer who had challenged Seraph about her presence in the forbidden round-robin. She stood up. “Hello everyone, my name is Bob, and I Angst.”

“Hello, Bob,” everyone chorused dutifully. The Bob joke was getting old.

“I’ve been writing Angst for some time, but I thought I had it under control. You know, balance it with humour, don’t take it too seriously, counter it with the occasional silly-fic. But then I joined THAT round-robin, and things just spiralled out of control… _All_ my stories were dark, but I knew I had a problem when I wrote a TCP about a school massacre.” ‘Bob’ shook her head sadly. “I didn’t want to do it, told myself it was too much, but it just hung around in my head, making me more and more depressed, until I wrote it down. And once it was written, it insisted on being posted.” ‘Bob’ buried her face in her hands and wailed: “I AM AN ANGST PUSHER!!”

There was a collective gasp of horror. Seraph stood.

“I think it’s time we finished for the night. But before we go, I’d like to have a group hug. Remember, a hug is angst’s natural enemy, and we all must help each other in AA. Even scum of the earth like Bob the pusher here. Everyone?” Reluctantly, the group stood and surrounded the still-sobbing ‘Bob’.

“And one, and two and HUG!!” Seraph chanted. As one, everyone came forward and hugged. Incredibly, the shadows and thunderclouds lifted, revealing shaken Writers who nonetheless looked happier.

“You see?” Seraph said, smiling widely. “It’s easy when you have help. So off you go, and remember- angst is good for dramatic tension, but we all need a little silliness now and then. If it gets bad, I recommend some of Northlight’s or Sascha’s silly fics. See you next month!”

The End.

Yes, outrageously stupid, I know, and the end is pretty lame. But it made _me_ feel better.

Credits:

Seraph belongs to herself, and isn’t normally so grumpy, but she did have the ‘flu.

The reference to finding homes for Muses comes from Operation: Ultimate Writer. THAT RR is also known as Subreality 2022.

Alara’s Challenge of Death used to be found on indigosky.net

The ‘light-hearted romp through Subreality’ that went wrong is Yasmin’s “Is That A Mutant In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?”.

The TCP about the school massacre is “Heroes”, by me, Rossi.

Filk: Thank You (For Putting Up With Me At My Worst)

deathpixie — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 16:58:59 GMT

“Thank You (for putting up with my worst)

By Rossi.

Summary: Random Subreality filk, which mentions the round robins, amongst other things.

Disclaimers and Credits: Subreality is Kielle’s the song is The Whitlams’ “Thank You (For Loving Me At My Worst)” from the “Love This City” album.

Kielle and Dex are mentioned without permission, the Slippers belong to Abyss, and the Bouncer is the creation of Falstaff.

Rating: G

I shouldn’t have written,
I really shouldn’t have written,
But I posted, got some feedback,
So I took the plunge - and the Café was a war-zone.
We were glad that Kielle was there -
I was gladder for the Guinness.
I hung out on, I hung out on the boards.

I said: “Thank you, thank you, for putting up with my worst.”
If this isn’t fun it’s very close.
Can you see this world is shaping fast?
Can we be crazy for a few more fics?
Have I got them in me?

Got myself some avatar powers,
Wanted to go out and play with the heavy hitters.
That could have been the beginning of the end,
If I wasn’t already in the middle.
Continuity was confused, but then it cleared.
The RR was back on track.
I was hooked, full of love for the story;

I said: “Thank you, thank you, for putting up with my worst.”
If this isn’t fun it’s very close,
And this world is shaping up.
Can we be crazy for a few more posts?
Have I got them in me?

All those bright and heroic deeds,
All those grand betrayals.
Spare a thought for those out there on the edge,
Confused and bedazzled.
It’s you and me and the typodemons,
On the near side of dawn, heading for a crash.
Better save this bit if it doesn’t post…
Take an axe to ITW if it doesn’t post…

There’s a bar out there, called the SC,
Always Guinness and disgruntled fictives.
If I leave now, I can still get in,
Watch Dex find himself a young consort.
Writers of innumerable fictions are trying to drink more
Than the Slippers - the Bouncer is guarding the door.
I’ll finish my beer, chat with my Muse,

And say: “Thank you, thank you, for loving me at my worst.
Thank you, thank you, for loving me at my worst.”
If this isn’t fun it’s very close,
And this world is shaping up.
Can I be crazy for a few more years?
Have I got them in me?
If this isn’t fun it’s very close.
If this isn’t fun, it’s very close.
And this world is shaping up now…

Shantytown: Omelas 1/1

deathpixie — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 16:40:15 GMT

Omelas (A Shantytown Tale) (1/1).

This story was prompted by two things: someone’s question as to what the Muses would think of Shantytown, and a short story by Ursula Le Guin called “Those Who Walk Away From Omelas”. It’s a brilliant story, and I heartily recommend it: you can find it in the collection “The Wind’s Twelve Quarters.” I’ve paraphrased it in the below fic.

Disclaimer: Subreality is a concept devised by Kielle, Shantytown was envisaged by Dea X. Machina (aka Seraph). The Collegium and Ambrosia were created by Farli, and Firkin and his Mentor are mine.

Rating: G, for general reading.

Two figures, one young, one older, walk the dark and frosty winter backstreets of Subreality. Both are well wrapped against the cold, making it difficult to tell much about them. But the fact they are able to walk these streets unmolested by the usual gaggle of sneakthieves, cutthroats, assassins and body snatchers is a sign of their relative importance in the overall scheme of things.

“Mentor, may I ask where we are going?” It is the young one, his voice high and nervous, his manner that of one eager to please.

“Somewhere all those who aspire to be Muses should go,” replies the elder, long used to his anxious student’s questions.

“But Mentor,” protests the student Muse, “Ambrosia has already shown us all of Subreality, and it’s cold and it’s getting late and I really don’t think it’s safe…”

“Hold that prattling tongue of yours, Firkin, before you draw the wrong kind of attention to us,” says the elder Muse, his tone gentler than his words, but the command ringing clear. “I am your Mentor, am I not?”

“Yes, Mentor,” Firkin says meekly.

“And as your Mentor you trust me, implicitly and utterly?”

“Of course I do, Mentor.”

“Then shut up and come along. It’s not far to go.”

Firkin closes his mouth, ever obedient, and trots after his Mentor like a chastised puppy. As they walk on in silence, he begins to take note of their surroundings.

This is no part of Subreality he has ever seen, he realises. It is so drab, so dirty and dingy, it almost seems impossible that it is part of that realm of creativity he has explored with his fellow students. Shapes flit here and there among the ruined streets like departed spirits. Others turn dead eyes on them, their expression flat with hate and hunger. These are fictives, but with an air of hopelessness and despair not even shared by Laersyn’s creations. Firkin shivers and draws closer to his Mentor, questions rising to his lips, but halted by the earlier admonishment.

“Tell me, Firkin, do you know the story of Omelas?” his Mentor asks presently.

“No, Mentor.”

“Omelas was the perfect city, a kind of Utopia, if you will. No sickness, no poverty, no violence. A city of true Joy.”

“A truly wondrous place, Mentor.”

“Indeed, Firkin, but one founded on a dark and terrible bargain.”

“How is that, Mentor?”

“In exchange for the happiness and well being of the many, one individual, a child, must live in the most abject neglect and poverty, kept locked in a basement, ill-treated and alone.”

“But this is a terrible thing, Mentor! How could this be allowed?”

“Because one kind word, one gesture of kindness, one act of compassion to the child, and the city would crumble and fall.”

“Did the people who lived in the city know of this bargain, Mentor?”

“Yes, Firkin, they did, and they accepted it. Every citizen, when they reached an age of understanding, was told about the child. Some even went to see it. And for the most part, they accepted the conditions of the bargain, understanding that for the majority to achieve happiness, it was necessary to sacrifice the happiness of one child.”

Firkin is silent for a long time, mulling over his Mentor’s tale. He looks around him, knowing this strange, sad place is connected somehow. His gaze falls on a small pinched face, peering at him from behind an untidy pile of crates and boxes and garbage. A child’s face, eyes huge and the lips blue with cold. Moved by something he doesn’t quite understand, Firkin unwraps the long woollen scarf from around his neck and peels off his gloves. He approaches the child’s hiding place, and hears a sharp hiss of breath as the child withdraws deeper into the shadows, out of reach.

“Here,” Firkin says, laying the gloves and scarf on top of a crate. In the drabness, their colours glow like jewels. “For you. With my blessing.”

There is no movement, no hoarse and teary thank you, no poignant moment, and Firkin sighs and turns back to his Mentor who is standing quietly and studying his student with those deep and unfathomable eyes.

“Mentor, what is this awful place?” Firkin asks at last.

“It is known as Shantytown. It is the place for the forgotten fictives, for the unpopular and the lost, for the mad, bad and unknown.” The senior Muses chuckles sadly to himself at his small joke. “It is the basement of our own Omelas.”

When Firkin makes no reply, his Mentor looks at him questioningly, eyebrow arched.

“I think… I understand, Mentor,” Firkin says quietly, and when he meets his teacher’s gaze, there is a new depth, and new sadness in his eyes.

“That’s good, Firkin. That’s very good. Come, let’s go back to the Collegium. The cold is making these old bones of mine ache.”

“But Mentor, these fictives… Is there nothing we can do for them?”

“For these unfortunates? No, not really. We are not Writers, we don’t have that kind of power.”

“Then why bring me here?”

“I brought you here so you could know the consequences of your actions, the price of the creativity we inspire as Muses. These fictives are those whose tales were lost, whose existence has been forgotten by their Writers and the Readers alike. Know and learn from this: Shantytown is the other side of the coin, the result of stories that do not stick in the imagination, characters who do not generate sympathy or empathy, inspiration unwisely given. Inspire you Writer, should you be given one, encourage him or her to craft the stories well, so they will not be forgotten. Remember this place, Firkin, remember it well!”

The Mentor’s voice is fervent, his eyes blazing with the intensity of his feelings. Solemnly, Firkin nods, and is rewarded with a clap on the shoulder that almost knocks him over. “Good lad! I knew there was something under all that wishy-washy Romanticism.” He turns to go, but Firkin has one last question:

“Do all student Muses see this place?”

“Unfortunately, no. This little field trip is something I do alone, and only with those students I feel will benefit from the lesson. The other Mentors and Muses prefer not to think much on this place. We all have a reason to feel guilty here.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Let’s go back, eh? I feel the need for a fire and some mulled wine.” He strides off into the dark, cloak flapping. Firkin hesitates for a moment longer, and looks back at the pile of junk.

And smiles. The scarf and gloves are gone.

Subreality Cafe - Haven 1/1

deathpixie — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 16:35:27 GMT

Haven.

By Rossi.

Summary: In times of trouble, we all need a place to go and recover our equilibrium.

Rating: G.

Reposting note: This, obviously, was a response to the 9/11 attack. Apologies to any who might be offended.

The Café is deserted tonight.

I didn't really expect anything different. Subreality is a place of dreams, of fantasies, of fiction. This week, we've been abruptly pulled into the Real, and there's been no inclination to play games. There's nothing like pain to remind you of reality.

Without the Writers, Subreality is muted, ill-defined. Odd fragments of the subconscious - dreams, nightmares, pain, memories - they flit here and there, ghost shapes in the perpetual twilight. It brings to mind the Place Between, Limbo, a shifting of perceptions slightly out of synchronisation with the rest. I'm not too worried; the foundations we've built here run deep, and the human spirit - and the need for imagination - is resilient. People need time, is all.

I drain my drink, and without my asking, Beth/Zero brings me another. The quiet is soothing. It's been a long week: at the edge of my awareness a headache twinges, reminding me I've spent all together too much time in front of a screen. Too many friends in pain, too many hurting. Too much hatred and fear. Too much to process, to filter, to make sense of.

How do you make sense of the unimaginable?

The Café has taken on a form I've never seen before, but I recognise it, all the same. It's only been a few weeks since I read the books, after all. Armchairs, raised to bar height, wait to provide customers with a comfortable perch. A spiral staircase, ornate and yet fitting. In the corner an upright piano stands, beaten and battered. A guitar case rests on top, carefully placed. Noticeboards, festooned with puns and cryptic word-puzzles. There's an enormous fireplace, with a specially reinforced metal back; about six feet away, a white line is chalked on the floor. A dustpan, a broom, and a metal bucket sit in a nearby nook.

The glass is solid in my hand, the weight reassuring. I've finished its contents without noticing what they were. I look again at the line, heft the glass in my hand experimentally. Behind the bar, the Major catches my line of thought and gives me a slight nod. I grin slightly, and step up to the line.

The glass shatters with an impressive bang, an explosion of diamonds glittering in the fire. I stand, feeling the weighty silence around me. And then I say, with a inner nod to Spider Robinson:

"To Peace."

There's no moment of catharsis, no insight. Things make as little sense as they did before. But somehow, there's a little more room inside.

I return to my seat, a fresh drink waiting for me. I wait for the others. Because they will be back, when they feel able. Subreality's just that kind of place. And it's always here.

Disclaimers and Credits:

Subreality is Kielle's, as is the Café.

Major Mapleleaf and Beth/Zero courtesy of Falstaff.

The Spider Robinson reference relates to the excellent "Callaghan's Crosstime Saloon" series of books. Much of this makes more sense if you read them. Thanks to Dex for the introduction.

THOSD/Books of Magic: The Realm of Possibilities 1/1

deathpixie — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 16:28:51 GMT

[THOSD/BoM] The Realm Of Possibilities.

By Rossi.

Summary: Follow-up (but not direct sequel) to The Stuff of Dreams. Tim accepts an offer of hospitality at THOSD. Also part of Kielle’s Beyond Subreality Challenge.

Rating: G.

Disclaimers and Credits: see the end.

Thanks to Lise, for jump-starting me with her feedback, and to Rowan, for being my Books of Magic convert.

‘Reality’ in Subreality is flexible. Like chewing gum, the fabric of time and space can be stretched and folded, tied into knots and snapped back into shape. That’s what Tim Hunter was thinking as he swayed along on the back of a bicycle that he’d seen conjured out of thin air, holding onto the waist of a pleasantly intoxicated Australian and listening to her guided tour. She’d already pointed out that several months had in fact passed for her in “Real Life”, while to him it was merely the end of a longish session at the pub known as the Subreality Café. But somehow it was easier to accept that concept than it would have been at the start of the evening.

It was also amusing how a patch of night-time followed them through the narrow twisting streets bathed in early morning sunlight. Rossi had explained at the start of their journey that it was night-time for her, and she wasn’t going to let a bunch of Americans tell her otherwise.

“…and over there is the Imagination Collegium, the Muse school,” Rossi said, waving a hand at the large towered building standing a way back from the city. The movement sent them veering from one side of the street to the other, narrowly missing a large orange rock-creature shambling his way home. He turned and shouted something about a place called Yancy Street as Rossi brought them back under control, smothering her tipsy giggles. The Collegium was more of a castle than a school, with ancient masonry festooned with ivy, and a rainbow-hued bridge of light spanning the two tallest towers.

“It’s… impressive.” Tim was lost for words. Like all architecture in Subreality, the Collegium had a nebulous quality, wavering at the edges like a heat-haze illusion. The result of many different perceptions at once, he supposed, remembering Subreality itself was built on the collective imaginations of the Writers.

“Even more so when you consider it’s only a year or so old.”

“But I thought, Frank said…”

“…That he’d been a student there after the Dark Ages?” Rossi grinned, looking remarkably pixie-ish in the moonlight in their little travelling patch of Night. “He did. The Collegium has been here for hundreds of years. But it was first Written by Farli only last year.”

“I’m confused.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s worse than time-travel for turning your brain inside-out.” Rossi pulled the bike over to the side of the road to explain without ending up in a ditch. “Time’s different here, like I explained. It’s infinitely flexible. And whatever we Write becomes true, unless it’s Retconned away. So if I Write a story about Frank’s school days set in the distant past…”

“Not that disstant,” came a muffled protest from Rossi’s shirt pocket. A small diamond-shaped head poked its nose over the edge of the fabric. “I’ll have you know I’m conssidered youthful for a Musse.”

“You certainly act like a teenager sometimes,” Rossi snickered. “Do you remember leaving the Café?”

“We’ve left the Café? I thought ssomeone had been getting adventurouss with the décor again.” Tim caught the amusement in the lizard’s hissing voice and smiled to himself. Listening to the pair banter was an education in itself.

“So, like I was saying, before His Nibs here interrupted, if I Write a story about Frank’s past, then it automatically becomes history.”

“Provided it’ss read by enough people,” Frank added. “There’ss any number of half-baked concceptss around Sshantytown that didn’t take.”

“So Writing something isn’t enough? It has to be Read too?”

“You catcch on quick, for a kid,” Frank said approvingly. “A Writer can Write anything they want, but for it to take hold in Ssubreality, it hass to take hold in the collective unconsscioussnessssess of the other Writerss. While it sstarted with Kielle, Ssubreality iss more than one persson’ss imaginingss. It’ss the ssum of every persson that particcipatess.” While Tim tried to decipher the string of sibilants, Rossi turned in at a long gravelled driveway. Or at least it was gravel at first. An impatient wave of the Australian’s hand switched it for smooth bitumen.

“Don’t you need a pen for that sort of thing?” Tim asked curiously. Rossi looked oddly shamefaced.

“Technically yes, but there’s a theory going around that Writers don’t actually need to Write to change Subreality, since it all comes from their minds anyway. The writing’s just a vehicle. If you can concentrate well enough, it’s possible to change things on your own.” They glided smoothly past the two rows of large trees on either side of the curving driveway. “And here, at the House, I have a little more… oomph than usual, since I’m the moderator.”

“The what?”

“Glorified landlady,” Frank supplied, ignoring the glare his Writer gave him. “Give her a mysstical Key and sshe thinkss sshe ownss the place.”

“I do not!” The retort was almost childish, as was the pout. “I just look after things, that’s all. And the Key wasn’t _my_ idea. It was Trisha’s.”

“Didn’t sstop you from leaping on that one point, did it? Trissha’ss created her own Frankensstein’ss monsster with that one ssentence.”

“Any more out of you and I’ll feed you to Spike.”

“Try it and it’ss three am insspirationss for the nexxt fortnight.”

“As fascinating as listening to you two argue is, can I ask something?” Tim finally interrupted.

“No worries.”

“Sshoot.”

“What the hell is this place?” Tim indicated the House now looming over them. ‘Gothic’ was a fitting adjective. So was ‘insane’. There were towers, and buttresses and dormer windows poking out at improbable angles. A great glittery silvery sphere hovered over what appeared to be a roof garden, and the whole thing was painted a most un-Gothic shade of blue.

Rossi smiled up at it proudly. “This,” she said, “Is the House of Strange Dimensions. Home away from home.”

“And other assssorted clicchess,” Frank snorted softly. Rossi ignored him, pulling up at the heavy wooden front door and holding the bike while Tim struggled off before passing control of the handlebars to him.

“At some stage, someone- Kielle, I think - decided it would be fun to live in Subreality in a sort of big communal house. Seraph’s had a cottage here for ages, but most of us just hung around the Café, pissing off the Bouncer.” As she talked, Rossi was pulling the Key on its chain from under her T-shirt and unlocking the door. “A bunch of us thought it was a great idea, and the House was created. I took on the job of moderator to take some of the load off Kielle.”

Pushing the door open (it creaked ominously, and she gave it a playful whack, telling it not to play silly buggers in front of the visitor), Rossi waved Tim and the bike inside. “Just lean it up against the umbrella stand out of the way. I don’t want Phil and Dex breaking their necks falling over it when they decide to stagger in.” The entrance lobby was large, but somehow inviting, even with a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A broad flight of stairs led up to the next floor, and there were several other doors leading to the rest of the ground floor. “There’s plenty of spare rooms, you can borrow one of those, at least until we work out how to get you back. I don’t _think_ there’s any parties, house cleaning, prank wars or psychologically harrowing horror stories planned for a while.”

“Thanks, I think,” Tim said, following the Australian as she headed past the stairs. He resisted the urge to trot after her. For someone so short, she certainly moved fast.

“Want a hot chocolate? I need something to keep me going while Frank and I settle our artistic differences.” Rossi pushed open a swinging door. “And we can raid the Tim Tam cupboard.”

“Chocolate bisscuit, indigenouss to Ausstralia,” sighed Frank before Tim could ask. “My Writer iss a chocolate dealer. Sshe’ss already hooked half of Ssubreality on thesse thingss.”

“With the help of Raph and Lynx and the other Aussies and Kiwis,” smirked Rossi, waving Tim to a seat at the large kitchen table in the middle of the room. He took a seat gratefully, as the kitchen itself shimmered in a most unsettling way before resolving on a specific décor, mostly plain wood benches and lots of cupboards and a huge stove in one corner. “It’s all part of the Master Plan to take over the world.” To Tim’s surprise, she was making the hot chocolate in the usual fashion, rather than Writing it out of thin air. “I don’t like to get lazy,” she told him, setting a mug down in front of him and fishing Frank out of her shirt pocket. She set the lizard carefully on the table, before climbing onto the kitchen bench and opening a high cupboard. “Good thing this cupboard’s infinite, or we’d be in trouble,” she muttered, pulling out a plastic-wrapped packet. “Looks like Ana’s been raiding the Mocha ones again.” Lightly she jumped down, and took a seat at the table.

“Can I ask you something? Something personal?” Rossi raised an eyebrow at him.

“As long as it’s not my measurements,” she quipped. The question brought her back to seriousness.

“Why do you do this?”

“Do what? Write, you mean?”

“Yeah. I mean, you don’t get paid, and as long as you use other people’s characters, you never will. So what’s the point?”

Rossi was quiet for such a long moment Tim was afraid he’d offended her. The she replied, thoughtfully: “I suppose it’s because it lets me be someone else.”

“Don’t you like being you? Is your ‘Real Life’ that bad?”

“No! Not at all! I like who I am. It’s just, I’m so… mundane sometimes. Y’see, I work as a clerk in a court. Not exactly the most imaginative of places. And while I’ve got my boyfriend, my friends, my karate training, Subreality lets me go beyond that. It lets me take my mind to other places, exercise bits that would otherwise dry up and be lost. If I didn’t have Subreality and Writing, I’d be the same as all the other nine-to-fivers. It’s a chance to break out of character. Or into it.”

“’We like to think we’re unique until ssomeone tellss uss we’re different,’” quoted Frank, giving his Writer an appraising look. “You’re not telling the whole sstory.”

“All right, Mr Smug. Stop quoting my desk calendar at me.” Rossi swirled her chocolate around, gazing into it as if plumbing its depths for answers. Or courage. “A lot of the Writers - hell, _most_ of us - are ‘odd’ in one way or another. The ones who didn’t exactly fit in at school and got teased because of it. The weirdoes. It fits, I suppose, that we’d be the ones who latch onto reading and writing: we felt shut out of the world we lived in, so we created our own, or leapt into someone else’s.”

“Enough of the pssychology, Rossssi.”

“Anyway, through Subreality, we’ve managed to create those worlds again, only this time, we have other people sharing in them, elaborating on them, praising us on what we contribute.” Rossi’s smile grew a touch sad. “For me, it’s like rediscovering those places I used to go to in my head when I was a teenager scribbling down stories in exercise books. A realm of possibilities.”

Tim nodded. “It’s like finding magic isn’t dead after all.” Rossi gave him a searching look.

“Yes, you _would_ understand that, considering who Wrote you,” she murmured. “That’s why I’m such a Gaiman fan. He understands the magic words have. Sometimes I think he’s even visited the Café. Or his version of it.” With a chuckle, Rossi nibbled at the corner of a Tim Tam. “Sure it’s escapism, pure and simple, but no-one wants to be ordinary. We all want to be special, whether by winning untold wealth, or performing in front of thousands, or having someone send you an e-mail saying: ‘That was a really good story.’ And in Subreality, I can be special, in my own small way. Writing is what I can do, and maybe one day I’ll move on from fan-fic, but I don’t think I’ll ever quite forget this place, or what it means to me.”

The moment was spoilt by the sound of a lizard blowing a raspberry. “You were doing really well, but then you let it degenerate into pap,” Frank scolded. Instead of getting angry, Rossi merely shook her head at him.

“Sorry, Frank, didn’t mean to subject you to unabashed sentimentality,” she laughed. “I suppose I still need to watch the purple prose.”

“There’ss nothing wrong with emotion, ass long ass you don’t lay it on with a trowel. Lessss iss more.”

“Says the lizard who successfully emptied the Muse Lounge’s Scotch supplies last week.” Frank merely blew another raspberry, and disappeared with a POP!

Tim found himself reaching for another Tim Tam. “He’s not angry, is he?”

“Frank?” Rossi laughed. “No, it takes more than me getting the best of him to piss him off. Actually, between you and me, I think he likes it when I win. He insists on treating me like a raw kid half the time, and it makes him feel he’s teaching me something.”

“Can I ask another question?” With a roll of her eyes, Rossi nodded.

“None of this is real, right?”

“Right.”

“Including Frank? I mean, he doesn’t exist in Real Life, he’s just something you made up…” Tim leaned back, just in case. He’d seen Rossi do something excruciatingly painful to a bothersome fictive in the Café, a large woman with short dark hair wearing some kind of metallic skin-tight top. It had involved some kind of wrist lock and had made the muscular woman very apologetic. He didn’t like the idea of making Rossi mad at him. Instead, she laughed softly, and a touch sadly.

“Yes, in the most literal sense, Frank’s as much a fictive as anyone else here. But in another way, he’s much more than that.”

“I don’t understand.” Tim finished the chocolate biscuit and discovered he wanted another. Rossi saw his glance at the packet and pushed them towards him.

“Go on. If you’re sick I’ll just Write away the mess.” The twinkle in her eyes reminded him of Zantanna. “Y’see, Frank wasn’t consciously created like my fictives. He just… appeared in my head one day as an annoying presence who kept telling me to write more, and seemed to be behind the sudden flashes of inspiration. As time went on he developed a body, speech patterns, a personality, a history…”

“And a taste for Scotch?”

Another chuckle. Rossi was, Tim was discovering, someone who laughed quite a lot. “You’re getting the idea. Most people would get the nice straightjacket ready if I told them about Frank, but that’s the other thing about Subreality: we all share each other’s delusions.”

Tim finished his hot chocolate as another woman stumbled blearily into the room.

“Heya, Yasmin.”

“’Lo Rossi.” The dark haired Writer headed for the fridge. “Who’s your friend? A little young for you, isn’t he?”

Rossi snorted. “Just a tad. Tim Hunter. You read ‘Stuff of Dreams’, didn’t you?” Yasmin, in the act of pouring out an orange juice, made a face.

“About time you did a follow-up to that.”

“I was waiting on Phil to come back. You look exhausted. The Captain been keeping you busy?”

“And the rest of it. This History essay is driving me insane.” Yasmin came and took a seat at the table and stuck her hand out to Tim. “I’m Yasmin, since Rossi forgot the niceties.”

“Tim Hunter.” The potentially most powerful magician of his era shook hands and looked at Yasmin quizzically. “But you already knew that.” She returned the look with amusement.

“Welcome to Subreality, Tim, I…”

“…Hope you survive the experience, yeah, I’ve heard it already.” Tim glanced at Rossi, who was leaning back in her chair with her own grin. “Do you people always talk in quotes?”

“Only when we’re not talking in cliches.”

“Or quips.” Yasmin reached for a Tim Tam. “These are evil. Yummy, but completely evil.”

“Hence the World Domination Plan.” Rossi stretched. “I should go and do some work, before Frank passes out again. I would like to finish one of the many outstanding fics _one_ day.”

“Chance would be a fine thing. You know he’ll only spark more ideas once you get close to finishing the ones you have.” Yasmin’s dark eyes twinkled. “I think they must teach them that at the Collegium.”

“Driving Your Writer Insane 101.”

“That would be the one.”

Tim yawned, letting the conversation wash over him without taking it in. Most of it was Writer-speak anyway - the people he’d met here all seemed to be linked by some greater subconscious, the way they sometimes finished each other’s sentences. Gradually, he became aware of another need. He had to go to the bathroom. Not wanting to disturb the two women, who were laughing in a slightly wicked way over someone called Voltage and a vat of custard, he slipped out of the kitchen, and into the quiet lobby.

Sunlight streamed in lazily through the large windows, as thick and golden as honey. Tim headed for the stairs, but then a glint caught his eye. It came from the keystone of the arch above the door. A sprig of mistletoe. A locket of some kind. And a key, the twin of which Tim had stuffed into the pocket of his jeans back in the Café, and now dragged out to lay heavily in his palm.

‘A realm of possibilities’, Rossi had called Subreality. And Titania had given him the Key to Worlds. The two fit together. According to Rossi, he was nothing more than a fictive, a fictional character, sprung from the imagination of a man called Gaiman. But here, in the place between reality and fantasy, who was to say he had to remain so? Rossi had told him she came here to be someone else. Perhaps he could do the same.

“A chance to step out of character. Or into it.”

Tim eyed the door speculatively, his full bladder forgotten. From the shadow-hidden ceiling, a small brown owl fluttered down to perch on his shoulder. It hooted gently in his ear. “I wondered where you had gotten to, Yo-yo,” he told the bird. “Ready to go now?” Yo-yo hooted again, and gently pulled his hair.

He fit the Key in the lock, and turned it. Despite the fact the door had been unlocked already, it opened with barely a sound. “Much better,” Tim told the House. “Um, thank Rossi for me, will you? It’s time I was going.” For a moment he felt the strangest sensation of assent, coming from the walls and floor and ceiling around him. Then it passed, and he felt a little silly, talking to a house. With a shrug, he stepped through the door…

…and out of one story, into another.

Disclaimers and Credits:

Subreality is Kielle’s concept, as is the Café and The House of Strange Dimensions.

The Imagination Collegium was founded by Farli

Tim Hunter and Yo-yo are the property of Neil Gaiman and Vertigo.

The Thing is the property of Marvel, as is Yancy Street. Arclight also belongs to Marvel, although this version is one of my Unfinished Legions.

Lots o’ Writers mentioned, some with permission, most not: Kielle, Trisha, Voltage, Farl, Ana, Phil, and Seraph are all mentioned without permission. Yasmin appears with permission, and she let me mention the Captain too.

Frank is mine, although I am pretty relaxed about lending him out. I belong to me, and am quite happy about that.

Spike is Yona’s, and also mentioned without permission.

For an explanation of the Locket and Key hanging from the keystone arch, read the THOSD Holiday Party RR.

Apologies to anyone I’ve missed.

Subreality Cafe/Books of Magic: The Stuff of Dreams 1/1

deathpixie — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 16:22:42 GMT

(SC/Books of Magic) The Stuff of Dreams

By Rossi.

Disclaimer and Credits: at the end.

Summary: This is what happens when you read “The Books of Magic” after too much round-robining…

Rating: G

Timothy Hunter. Described as potentially this era’s most powerful practitioner of magic, a force to be feared in the occult circles. Seen here shuffling down the hall of a small London council house in his pyjama bottoms, on one of those nocturnal trips to the toilet.

It isn’t easy being thirteen, he reflected as he stood on the cold floor, answering nature’s call. You get pimples. Your voice starts acting up. Girls go from being objects of revulsion to mysterious and fascinating temptresses. And four weirdos in big coats come and give you the Magical version of the orientation tour, opening the door to all sorts of occult occurrences. Lately it seemed the only time he had any peace was when he made his nightly trip to the bathroom.

Later, Tim realised he should not have tempted Fate with that thought. But he did, and so it happened that when he shuffled back to his room, the door opened not on a small untidy bedroom, but on a noisy, crowded… pub.

‘At least it’s not the end of all things,’ he thought to himself philosophically, stepping forward and noting without surprise that the door vanished behind him. ‘Not like last week.’ After the trip to the end of history with Mister E, this was child’s play. What did surprise him was that the clientele didn’t seem overly concerned with his unorthodox arrival, the fact he was only wearing pyjama bottoms, and that he was clearly underage. Or that an owl suddenly appeared from nowhere to perch on his shoulder.

“Hullo, Yo-Yo,” he said, stroking the soft feathers under the bird’s beak, “Come to keep me out of trouble, have you?”

“Whoo,” the owl replied, bobbing its head in apparent agreement.

At first the place reminded him of his dad’s local - a permanent haze of cigarette smoke, the smell of spilled beer, the cheerful hum of people relaxing after a hard day’s work. But as he looked closely, he noticed that the people here would never fit in with his dad’s drinking mates. Many - indeed most - were dressed like superheroes in bright Spandex with useless numbers of buckles and straps and impossible physiques, men and women. There were blue furry girls, small boys in parkas and knitted hats, demons and angels drinking side by side. There was a game of poker where all the players looked to be the same man, or different interpretations of the same man, with red-brown hair and eerie red on black eyes. There were Jedi knights and girls in sailor uniforms and blue sheep. And over by the bar, a familiar looking tan trenchcoat… Tim made a beeline through the crowd.

“John!” The blond man looked up, his eyes cold and piercing blue.

“Do I know you kid?” Tim looked at him bewildered.

“John, it’s me, Tim. Tim Hunter. You remember? You showed me the world of magic, you and the other three.”

“Sorry kid, you’ve got the wrong fictive. I ain’t never seen you before.” Constantine turned back to his pint. “It’s bad enough I’ve got some punk girl running around saying she’s me daughter.”

“Fictive? John, what are you talking about?” Tim’s voice rose. He’d seen some strange stuff in his time, but to have Constantine sit here and say they’d never met? It wasn’t funny. “If I’ve messed up, I wish you’d just say so, instead of giving me the ‘I don’t know you’ treatment!”

“Kid…”

“Tim.”

“_Tim_. It’s nothing personal. This kind of thing happens all the time. Bound to, with so many versions of people running around the place. You’ve made a mistake. I’m not your Constantine. You’ve got the wrong bloke.” John Constantine turned away from the confused boy, with a definite air of “this conversation is Over.”

Tim’s shoulders slumped and he moved away from the man who was John Constantine, and yet somehow wasn’t. Across the room he saw an Asian girl not much older than he shoot fireworks out of her fingers and around the head of a rough looking man in flannelette shirt and an interesting hairstyle. Then he saw the same girl, dressed in a dark purple jacket with a dragon on the back chatting with a intense young man in black leather with his face muffled in black wrappings. And the same girl again, covered in baby food and juggling a baby seemingly possessed of the ability to projectile vomit constantly. The more he looked, the more he realised people were duplicated all over the pub. Identical blue furry men in lab coats discussed something earnestly over root beer. Laughing brown haired girls hung off the arms of scruffy dark haired men in rumpled black suits. Every dim corner held versions of the same couple locked in a passionate embrace - the man with the red eyes and a woman with a white stripe in her hair. And one part of the room (whose dimensions seemed strangely flexible) was devoted to men in red sunglasses with grim jaw lines.

Tim’s head whirled, and he stumbled back to the bar, giving the other John Constantine a wide berth.

“What’ll it be, kid?” asked the large man behind the bar with a grin.

“Southern Comfort.” The man’s eyes crinkled.

“Look, kid, your Writer might let you touch that stuff, and you might even be a de-aged version of your normal drinking self, but I’m not giving a kid like you booze. How about a ginger ale?”

“Fine,” Tim sighed. It seemed that no matter how strange the place was, some things stayed constant. Even if the explanation given hadn’t made one iota of sense. Sipping at the ginger ale, he cast his eyes around the place, looking for some kind of reference point, something that would tell him where he was.

On his shoulder, Yo-Yo noted the lizard sitting on the shoulder of the woman beside them. Hmm, it was about dinner-time…

“Don’t even think about it, bird-brain,” hissed the lizard, turning abruptly to fix a shining black-eyed glare on the owl. “Or I’ll fixx you here and now, magic or not.”

“You - can talk?” Tim regretted the words as soon as he said them, but normality was a habit that died hard.

“Problem, Frank?” said the woman, turning from her conversation with the solid bloke in the red-striped rugby shirt and hair reduced to stubble across his head. Further along was another woman, no, an angel, for she had a pair of white feathered wings sprouting from her back, and an aura that set Tim’s magic radar pinging. She wasn’t dressed much like an angel, in jeans and a white t-shirt, and the way she was matching pints with the man certainly wasn’t normal behaviour in God’s Host.

“Jusst thiss kid’ss pet thinking of having the lizard sspecial for luncch,” grumbled Frank.

The woman, the smallest of the three, grinned. She was rather ordinary looking, with short brown hair and a build that was more athletic than voluptuous. She was wearing a black shirt with a Red Dwarf logo and jeans, and a key hung from a chain around her neck. “I’m sure there was no danger of that,” she said, her accent pure Neighbours. “Not after all the practice you’ve had with running away from Spike when he’s hungry.”

“I do not ‘run away’,” sniffed the lizard with an air of injured pride. “I make tactical retreatss.”

“Sure, Frank. There’s a saucer of whisky on the bar if you want it.” The woman looked at Tim again as the lizard scurried down her arm and over to the saucer. “You’re Tim Hunter. We were just talking about you. Come and join us.”

“But…” Tim hesitated, but the man had already seen him and pulled out a stool.

“Thought I sensed yer,” he said with a grin, “Come over ‘ere an’ say ‘ello. I was just explaining to Seraph here ‘bout you lot.”

“She’s being indoctrinated into the cult of Vertigo,” the brown-haired woman grinned. Tim hesitantly did as he was told, ready to bolt if they turned out to be any kind of threat.

“Now, ‘Raph, this is wot I was talkin’ about,” the man continued, waving his nearly empty glass at Tim. “This ‘ere’s Tim Hunter, from the ‘Books of Magic’. Not quite Gaiman’s best work, but still a cracking good read. Not enough fic out there ‘though - he’s the first fictive I’ve seen.”

“And a well-written one too,” the angel - Seraph? - said, her accent revealing she was Australian too. “Who’s your Writer, Tim?”

“My what?” The three exchanged amused glances.

“Your Writer. You know, the person who brought this particular version of you into being,” the shorter woman elaborated.

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” Tim looked at them suspiciously. “Is this some kind of test?”

The brown haired woman looked at the angel. “Newbie?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s a bloody talented one if it is, Rossi,” Seraph replied. “Look at the quality of the characterisation. They’ve even put in the zits.”

“Hey!”

“And the accent’s spot-on,” ‘Rossi’ said slowly. “Phil? What do you think?”

The rugby player was looking at Tim thoughtfully. “Y’know, I don’t think Tim ‘ere is a fictive at all. At least not in the usual sense.”

“Somebody’s avatar running around with amnesia?” suggested Seraph, studying Tim so intently with those deep blue eyes he squirmed uncomfortably.

“No, ‘s not that either.” Phil finished his pint meditatively, the barman replenishing it without prompting. “Ta, Major. How’d yer get here, Tim?”

“I’m not sure. I opened my bedroom door and here I was.” Tim shivered, realising he was still only dressed in his pyjama bottoms. “Wherever ‘here’ is.”

“”Good thing the Café doesn’t have a dress code, or the Bouncer would have had you out on your ear,” chuckled Rossi, pulling a wad of papers and a pen out of her back pocket. “Here, let me take care of that.” Tim glanced over her shoulder as she wrote: ‘Tim Hunter is wearing jeans and a red t-shirt. On his feet are his favourite sneakers.’ As she made the full-stop with a flourish, Tim found himself wearing the clothes as described.

“Hey! How did you do that? Magic?”

“Close. The power of the written word.”

“Welcome to the Subreality Café, Tim,” Seraph smiled. “Hope you survive the experience.” The other two groaned.

“Had ter drag that old chestnut out, didn’t yer, Angel,” Phil said, shaking his head over the fresh pint which was already two thirds finished.

“It was either me or Rossi,” Seraph retorted.

“Um, excuse me, but what is the Subreality Café?” asked Tim, feeling better now he had some clothes on, but still without any idea of what was going on. And the in-jokes these three kept making weren’t helping.

Rossi looked at the other two. “You two have been around the traps longer than me. You explain it.”

“The Subreality Café is a sort of watering-hole for fictives to go when they’re not being Written,” Seraph explained. “Kielle, Tapestry and Falstaff started it, and it’s taken on a life of its own since.”

“Fictives?”

“Characters in a story,” Phil said. “The Café is largely fer fan-fiction, ‘though yer can get anyone in here, provided they can get past th’ Bouncer. Used ter be just comic fan-fic, but there’s all sorts o’ stuff now. Yer just need to prove yer’ve bin posted.”

“And you three, you’re all fictional characters?” Laughter greeted this question.

“Us? We’re Writers,” said Rossi, noticing Tim had finished his drink and waving to the barman for another. “Or at least we like to think we are.”

“We Write fan-fic, and post it on the Internet,” Seraph went on. “We Write stories using characters from our favourite comics or television shows or movies. Or sometimes we make up our own. Either way, we come here to Subreality to have a break from Real Life.”

“An angel who writes stories? Heaven get too dull?” Rossi laughed again, but Seraph just smiled.

“No, I’m only an angel here. This is my avatar, the character I Wrote for myself.”

“And Rossi doesn’t really have a pet talking lizard?” At the mention, Frank looked up from his saucer.

“I am _not_ a pet. I’m her Musse.”

“Muse? Where’s your toga? And aren’t you supposed to be a girl?”

“You see, Tim, none of this is real, not exactly. More like our collective imaginations,” Rossi said earnestly, fuelled by enthusiasm and alcoholic cider and the desire to avert a slanging match. “Right now, back in RL, I’m sitting in a train on my way to work. ‘Raph’s probably already at her work, since she gets up at five for some insane reason…” Seraph poked Rossi in the ribs and pulled a face at her. “And Phil’s probably in a bar in Stockholm, given the nine hour time difference between there and Australia. All this is happening in someone’s head.”

“There goes that fourth wall again,” muttered Phil.

“Titania told me something like that, I think,” Tim said slowly. “She said there are only two worlds- the real world, and…”

“…’And other worlds, the fantasy. Worlds like this are worlds of the human imagination: their reality, or lack of reality, is not important. What is important is that they are there.’” Rossi supplied with a grin. When the other two looked at her in surprise, she shrugged. “I got the book last week. I’ve read it six times already.”

A dread seized Tim. “How… how did you know that?” he asked, voice trembling. “There were only three of us there.” The three Writers exchanged looks again.

“Yer realise who this is, don’t yer?” Phil said. “It’s ‘im. Th’ original Tim Hunter.”

“And he thinks he’s real,” Seraph continued. “He’s come straight from his world, no Writer influence. How the hell did that happen?”

“It’s the key,” Rossi said suddenly. “The key that Titania gave him. You’ve still got it, haven’t you?” she asked Tim. “The key to the Doors?”

Tim felt in his pocket. Strangely enough, the key from Faerie was there. “You mean this?”

“So that’s it,” Phil sighed, leaning back against the bar. “Who’s goin’ t’ tell ‘im?”

“Tell me what? What’s going on here?”

“Tim, in our world, in RL, you’re a character in a comic book, created by a man called Neil Gaiman,” Seraph said gently. “To us, you’re nothing more than a product of his imagination, just as the fictives here are products of ours. Just as how we appear here is how we picture ourselves. To us, you’re not real.”

“It’s my fault, incorporatin’ this place inter the whole Four Free Houses thing,” Phil admitted. “I’ve blurred th’ lines too much.”

“Don’t take it too hard, kid,” Frank said. “Who’ss to ssay what iss real, anyway? We all create our own worldss through our percceptionss.”

“You’ve been reading BRM’s philosophy books again, haven’t you?” Rossi groaned. “This whole thing is confusing enough without you bringing in existentialism.”

“So, what happens now?” Tim asked. Phil shrugged.

“We’ll get drunk, like we do every Writer’s Night, maybe abuse a few fictives, put th’ newbies in their places. ‘Raph’ll end up in a corner wrapped ‘round Nute, if he shows. Dex’ll probably turn up with th’ Bimbo of the Week, an’ Rossi will have t’ put up with inspiration fer stories about Berocca fer th’ next week while Frank’s hung-over. Th’ usual. Wanna stick around kid? We could show yer th’ sights.”

Tim considered the proposal. He had school in the morning. Then he remembered, these people had told him they thought he was fictional, a product of someone’s imagination. If that was the case, then it didn’t matter.

“I’m game.” Phil grinned.

“Then ‘ang on, kid, this is gonna be one wild ride.”

Disclaimers and Credits:

Everyone in this belongs to someone else, and are being used without knowledge, or permission.

The Subreality Café belongs to the Founders, Kielle, Tapestry and Falstaff, who in turn belong to themselves.

Tim Hunter, Yo-Yo, Titania, Mister E and John Constantine belong to Vertigo/DC. As does the quote from “The Books of Magic”.

The blue sheep are Acetal’s but are planning to take over the world soon.

Constantine’s daughter is the one created by Rhiannon Amaris.

Jubilee in the purple jacket with Jono are from Dyce’s excellent work, “Maturity in B Minor”.

The Jubilee with the vomiting baby is from my story, “Of Pigs and Robo-Babies”.

Major Mapleleaf was hired as the Café’s bartender by Falstaff.

Frank is my Muse, although I think he’s sold his soul to Glenfiddich…

Seraph, Dex, Matt Nute and Phil belong to themselves, and to the Café crowd in general.

Neil Gaiman also belongs to himself, and the fantasy/horror world in general.

Spike is Yona’s snake/Muse: one day there will be a confrontation with Frank, I promise.

And finally, BRM (Bicycle Repair Man) is my long-suffering non-comic-reading boyfriend, who counters my escapism by giving me philosophy books.

Subreality Cafe - Mary Sue's Wake 1/1

deathpixie — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 16:08:35 GMT

Mary Sue’s Wake.

By Rossi.

This is a story about my Mary-Sue. Yes, I’m finally coming out of the closet on this one.

Disclaimers and Credits: see end of story.

Rating: PG (for swearing)

“Tell me what we’re doing here again?” Allison Ferguson asked no-one in particular as she and two of her house-mates made their way to where a neon sign gleamed in the gloom.

“Because we were invited, you drongo,” Raphael Giannmario, better known as Fish, replied.

“Don’t call me a drongo, Tadpole-Boy.”

“Don’t call me Tadpole-Boy, Hothead.”

“Stop it, both of you,” James Danaher said wearily. “Look, we’re not being Written now, so you leave out all that bickering, all right?” His words were met with stubborn silence. “Fine, do what you like, see if I care.”

“It doesn’t matter any way,” Fish said smugly, “Here we are.”

“Gee, the Bouncer really is _big_, isn’t he?” gulped James as they straggled towards the door. The big man in question stood in the doorway of the Café (for that was where they were, of course) like the original immovable object.

“We’ve been invited,” Fish said, neatly forestalling the usual pronouncements about their fictiveness. “Here’s the invite, see?” He offered the Bouncer a piece of paper with a tasteful black border and nice calligraphy.

“So you are,” rumbled the Bouncer. “Fine. In you go.”

“What do you mean we aren’t proper fictives?” demanded Allison, launching into her prepared protest. Then the Bouncer’s actual reply sunk in. “Oh. Okay then. We will.”

Fish snickered as they went through the ornate wood and stained glass doors. “Good one, Hothead.”

“Don’t call me that, Tuna-Breath,” growled Allison under her breath, debating on whether setting Fish’s underwear on fire would be a social faux pax in Subreality.

“You two find the rest of ‘em, I’ll get the beer,” Fish offered, ignoring the glares he was getting from Allison. With his height, it was easy for him to push through the rowdy crowd of fictives, Muses and UWC’c (Unidentified Written Creatures) to the bar. Allison and James, on the other hand, had things a bit harder.

“Damn, I can’t see anything in this crowd,” Allison grumbled, generating a small flame in order to “encourage” a Sabretooth fictive in her way to step aside. “Where are we supposed to go?”

“The invite said something about a back room,” James offered. “And Karen and Fatimah said they’d wait nearby for us.” He paused to pull a wayward strand of circuitry out of the drink sitting in front of a blue-furred young woman. “Excuse me,” he apologised, as the girl’s companion, an equally furry older man, glared at him.

“C’mon,” Allison sighed, pulling on his arm. “Can’t you control that yet?”

“It’s the environment. There’s just too many new things for it to explore,” protested James. “Look, there they are!” He pointed out Fatimah hovering on delicate wings above the crowd in the corner of the room. “Looks like we’re the last to get here.”

“We would’ve got here sooner if we hadn’t taken Fish’s ‘short-cut’ past every pub in Subreality,” muttered Allison as they pushed their way through the crowd. Snatches of conversation drifted past:

“So I told him to stick his light-sabre where the sun don’t shine…”

“I can’t believe my Writer buried me under a building with Scott. Oath! What’s next? Death by umbopo?”

“Logan, at last we can be alone…”

“Hank… Oomph, heavy, thud…”

“It’s about time Samy got back to it- I’ve been on that operating table for almost a year! What does he need a job for anyway? He’s got us!”

Eventually they made it to where Karen and Fatimah were waiting, hampered by James’ bio-circuitry insisting on exploring every aspect of the new environment. After averting yet another altercation with outraged female fictives and over-protective Canuck boyfriends/husbands (this one involving Charlotte threatening to ‘de-bug’ him if he did it again: luckily Logan was too busy nursing their twins to do much more than give James the death-glare), Allison managed to hustle James into the sanctuary of the pre-booked back room.

“What kept you?” grinned Fish, already comfortably seated, beer in hand.

“James’ circuitry boldly going where no mutation has gone before,” grumbled Allison, grabbing for the jug of beer on front of Fish and a glass.

“You really need to lay off the Star Trek, mate,” Fish chuckled, deftly moving the jug out of Allison’s reach and pouring a beer for James.

“Hey!”

“Settle down, children,” said the stunning older red-headed woman at the end of the table. “Remember what we’re here for.” Jean Grey smiled and telekinetically lifted the beer jug out of Fish’s grasp and levitating it to Allison.

“Oh yeah,” Fish muttered, looking down at the battered wood of the table top. He wasn’t the only one subdued by Jean’s words - a pall was cast over the whole table.

“Way to create an atmosphere, Mom,” Rachael Logan-Grey said with a grin.

“Um, why _are_ we here, exactly? Asked one of the two Everetts at the table. This one didn’t have baby food all over him, so he had to be the Christmas fic Everett.

“For a wake, mate,” said the unnamed cyclist in the corner. She had had no trouble getting through the crowd: anyone who didn’t move out of her way had been stricken with chronic motion-sickness.

“Who’s dead?” asked one of the three Jubilees. This one _did_ have baby food in her hair, another victim of the Neon Nurse’s Challenge. “’Cept for most of the people on ‘Heroes’?”

Jono, wearing a hospital gown and exuding an air of almost terminal angst poked her in the ribs.

[That wasn’t exactly tactful, gel,] he muttered, his telepathic “voice” halting and unclear, like he was still getting used to it.

“Oops, sorry. No offence, dude,” Jubilee added to the blond girl with the blood all over the front of her clothes.

“None taken,” Cathy Wilson replied easily. It had taken her and her best friend Tony Matthews considerable wrangling to get her past the Bouncer, considering it wasn’t Dead Night.

“So who is the unfortunate victim this time?” asked a fuzzy Monet. Still being Written and not yet posted, she lacked the definition of the other fictives.

“It’s me. Welcome to my wake.” The voice belonged to a young girl who suddenly appeared in the chair at the head of the table. She was about sixteen, her hair cut short and wavering between dark brown to light brown to red. Her dark eyes glinted with amusement as she took in the surprised stares and shocked expressions.

“She’s killing _you_ off?” Karen asked in disbelief. The girl nodded.

“But Alex, you’ve been around _forever_,” protested another Jubilee, this one older than the others and wearing a graduation gown and mortar board.

“Yeah, you were around before me, and I’m the oldest,” chimed in the unnamed cyclist from “Road Rage”.

Alex shrugged. “I know, but She’s decided it’s time I went.”

[I don’t get it. Wot’s all the fuss about?] Jono asked, [It’s not like She hasn’t killed off characters before. Look at Cathy ‘ere. She was dead before the fic even started.]

“Well, you see…” Alex paused, trying to think of how to put it.

“It’s more than just dying, isn’t it?” Rachael asked, her blue-green eyes gleaming, “You’ve been… Trashed.” A gasp went around the table. Alex nodded.

“How could She get rid of her oldest creation like that?” asked Fatimah, her eyes wide. She didn’t need to voice the question in all their minds: ‘If Alex could go, what’s stopping Her from getting rid of me?’

With a shrug, Alex said, “It’s not like I’ve ever been posted or anything. It’s true She worked on me for years. Eight chapters, in all, twenty pages each. But when the crunch came, She realised I could never be.”

“Why not?” demanded Allison, “You’ve got as much right to creation as any of us.” Flames erupted from her fists, and those sitting near her edged away. Allison’s temper was well known amongst their circle. A small green hand grabbed her by the wrist, and the flames winked out.

“Not be angry!” Leech sniffled. He was wearing PJ’s and clutching a teddy bear. “No fighting!” His big white eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry Leech, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Allison said, pulling the small mutant boy into her lap. Leech was the pet of the group, his fear bringing out the protective sides in them all.

“I’m a Mary Sue,” Alex explained, taking a sip of her soft drink. “That’s why I’m so defined without ever having been Read. I’ve been around for much longer than you think, long before I joined Generation X.” Her form shifted, to reveal a dark-haired young woman in a leather dress, a quiver and bow slung across her back. “My name was Jenna, back when She was writing Fantasy epics in her Eddings stage,” she continued, her voice deepening slightly and taking on an unknown accent. Her shape shifted again, and this time her hair was longer, still brown, and she was dressed in a G-Force uniform. “And Leia, the sixth member of G-Force before that, when she was watching ‘Battle of the Planets’. I was glad to get out of that one: She ended up paralysing me.” Her shape shifted back to Alex. “There are stacks of others, that even She doesn’t remember.”

“So why did She Trash you now, after all this time?” Jean asked softly.

“Because of what I am. She couldn’t recognise my nature and continue Writing me. And She certainly couldn’t let anyone Read me: She’d have been laughed out of Subreality.”

“You seem very calm about all this,” James observed. “Aren’t you angry?” Alex smiled softly.

“In a way I am, but it’s not like I’m disappearing completely. There’s aspects of me in all of you.”

“Howzzat?” Jubilee from the Christmas fic asked.

“When our Writer created me, or Her particular incarnations of me, She put parts of Herself into my character. The same as She has done with you. In order to understand you as people, and to Write you as realistically as possible, She has to put Herself into your shoes,” Alex explained. She nodded at the unnamed cyclist. “She knows, because she’s almost an exact replica of our Writer.” The cyclist shrugged, brushing her hand through her short brown hair.

“It’s true. I was a sort of wish-fulfilment fantasy after one too many close calls on Her ride home from work.”

“But if you’re Trashed, what are you doing here?” asked Fish, “You’re pretty lively for a stiff.”

“Consider it my swan-song,” Alex laughed. “I made… a deal. Besides, I’ve always wanted to be at my own wake.”

“How long have you got?” asked Rachael. Alex looked up as the door opened.

“Oh, not much longer. My ride’s here.” She smiled at the newcomer, a woman dressed in black jeans and tank top, a silver ankh hanging from the chain around her neck. Her skin was beyond pale, and her black hair tousled. But her dark eyes shone with the light of stars.

“It’s time, Alex,” Death said regretfully, “Sorry to interrupt the party.”

“I’m ready,” Alex said, standing. “Bye, guys. It’s been fun having you all around.” Death took the fictive by the hand, and there was the sound of wings…

It was late, and the lamp cast a warm pool of light over the figure at the keyboard, busily typing.

There was a brief sensation, like soft wings brushing past her. Rossi suddenly stopped. She seemed to hear a faint voice whisper her name, a girl’s laugh on the edges of reality.

“What’ss wrong?” asked Frank, the lizard Muse watching her progress from his favourite position on top of the computer monitor.

Rossi shook herself. “I don’t know, felt like someone walking over my grave.” She turned back to the story in progress. “So, any ideas on where to go with Monet from here?”

Credits and Disclaimers:

The Subreality Café concept (and its Bouncer) are credited to the Scribe, Kielle.

Generation X, Sabretooth, Jean Grey, Logan and Hank McCoy are trade marked to Marvel, although their particular incarnations on the Café will be credited to others.

Siku, in the obligatory “blue furry girl” reference, belongs to Darqstar, from the X-S series, at Shifting Sands.

The fictive complaining about being buried under a building is Cable, from Alicia McKenzie’s fic, “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.” If enough people ask me, I’ll tell the umbopo joke.

The Logan/Hank couple (and the oomph, heavy thud line) belong to JB McD from her story “The Love of His Life”, and will probably be on her site “Due West of Nowhere”.

Samy Merchi’s complaining fictive is Illyana, from his recently-resurrected story “From Russia With Love”, also at Shifting Sands

Charlotte, her hubby Logan and the twins belong to Kerrie Gruver.

And finally, the following fictives are mine, although Frank claims some responsibility too. All of them can probably be found at Fanfiction.net:

James, Allison, Fish, Karen and Fatimah are from the “Collective Mutants” series.

Jean and her daughter Rachael are from “Things As They Are”.

The unnamed cyclist is from the Common People story “Road Rage”.

Cathy Wilson and Tony Matthews are from the Common People story “Heroes”.

The Christmas fic refers to “Scenes from a Mall”, Leech is from “Afraid of the Dark”, the older Jubilee in the graduation gown is from “Three Little Words”, and Jono in the hospital gown is from “Letters From The Inside”.

The Neon Nurse’s Challenge refers to the Robo-Baby challenge posted on OTL some time ago. Jubes and Ev are from my response, posted on OTL.

And the not-finished Monet is from "Monet's Romance".

Subreality Central

deathpixie — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 15:50:30 GMT

So, it seems that Subreality Central has gone down, something that only came to my attention when yonaelka raised it here the other day. Now, I know Subreality as a concept is largely defunct, but a certain degree of nostalgia - and, I guess, a sense of loyalty to kielle's memory - makes me think the lack of an archive where all those crazy shenanigans of ours can be kept is a sad thing. However, I also know fandom, and expecting one person to create and upload an archive seems a bit unrealistic - the road to inertia is paved with good intentions and all that.

So, why not spread the load? Why not post all those fics and RRs here, on the Subreality comm? LJ has been the "new" archiving option for a while now, with various fic commuities posting fic and using the tagging system to keep track of them, so why not us?

Here's what I'm proposing - those of you who have kept copies of their old Subreality fics and RRs, post them here, under a cut. I'll investigate the tagging options, see if they're locked to mods or not (if they are, I live with one, so it's no biggie). Spread the word on your friends lists, get all of the old crew to dig their stuff out and post. Those who are interested, go forth and Google and grab what you can from the various archives and ff.net (yes, there are Subreality fics posted there) and the mailing list, which is still functioning and thus has archives you can access. Someone who is still in contact with Laersyn maybe ping him and see if we can get access to the early RRs at least, since I know I personally only have the THSOD ones compiled.

Thoughts? It's a biggish job, sort of, but it really only requires people to post what they want kept. We post more with our personal journals every day, after all. ;)

Dexcon. You can has!

deathpixie — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:47:44 GMT

It's that time again! Dexcon Registration is now open. The Con itself will run July 31 to August 3, and registration fees will be dependant on how many people we get signed up. Come one, come all!

Back in the Old Days

brookiki — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 07:20:53 GMT

I made a comment in a discussion that, at least in the old days, setting up an archive and directly linking to fics on someone else's archive was a big no no, hence my hesitation to set up a list of fan fic recs because it seems like the same thing. Someone asked me "Why on earth would anyone get upset about that? Isn't that what the internet is for?"

I tried to respond and it was basically "Well, it was a big deal then and it's hard to explain now because a lot of stuff is different." I was trying to think of anyone who would remember that and this comm came to mind.

So do you guys remember those days? I can remember at least one case where someone hotlinked an entire archive and there were some pretty pissed off people. What was the reasoning? And was this just a comic book fandom thing or was it a general rule among all fandoms back then?

I hope no one minds me posting this here, but it seems topical and we haven't had a post in two years, which makes me a little sad.

Fic

skellingtonjon — Wed, 28 Mar 2007 21:33:28 GMT

I have a new fic currently percolating in my head- would it be impolite to post it here first instead of on the SCML?

Subreality.Com

skellingtonjon — Sun, 25 Feb 2007 08:51:35 GMT

Anyone else having problems getting to the site?

Or is it just me being rubbish again?

Question

wise_one_in_hel — Fri, 23 Feb 2007 00:04:37 GMT

I remember back in the day there were fandom specific estableshments in SubReality. This Time Round for Dr Who, the Bronze Menagerie for Buffy, and the something or other Bar & Grill for X-Force (I could be wrong about that one though).
I'm mentioning it because the idea of The Tea Wheavil teashop (for Avatar the Last Airbender *hides*) has invaded my brain, and I shall "open" it soon, but in that fic I want to mention a couple places along the same line. A Discworld pub and a Firefly/Serenity bar (browncoat, of course).
Any suggestion for names?

Thanks,
Megan (lurking in SubReality since 1999)

Fic!

skellingtonjon — Sat, 01 Jul 2006 10:26:36 GMT

DISCLAIMER: This was inspired by Oberon's fic "A Walk Among The Graves" (available on the SCML, if anyone cares? You should care. It was good...) Hopefully it lives up to it's inspiration, eh?

This is rated G as it's safe for all, by the way- and I apologise to everyone whose characters I've used without permission (I believe Oberon may have been the person who originally gave us Denny Colt as the undertaker, and Raven gave us the Age of Raven RR and Dex gave us the Age of Apocabyss RR) but I can't find them to ask them. Hopefully you don't mind too much?

Um...

If you want the snazzy formatting, check out the version I posted to the SCML. And feedback it. Because feedback's nice? I mean, I'm not demanding it, but it breeds more fic, I find, and... fic is good, and... ummm...

On with the fic?

Yeah...

*

The undertaker frowned at the hole in the fence.

Not many people would have noticed any difference in his _expression, of course- time had worn its path across his face for too, too many years for that- but that would have required people to notice it in the first place.

Not many people came out to the Graveyard these days- never had done, to be honest- so a hole in the fence shouldn't have been a matter of that great concern-

-But it was his graveyard, dammit.

His realm.

The undertaker had seen many changes in the fabric of Subreality over the years- had seen it grow, and shift, and warp a hundred thousand times- had seen it burst into life, had seen it in its prime, had seen the Mists fall upon it in recent years...

...but throughout all the changes, he had remained.

Even in the reign of Apocabyss, he had remained- even though it now semed little more than a horrible dream.

Even in the dark days of Age Of Raven, he had remained-even though only he now remembered it.

And even in those hellish, benighted times, he had seen to it that the graves remained untouched, their inhabitants untormented.

Even the Dark Lords of those terrible times had respected him and his peaceful little realm.

This...

This vandalism...

The undertaker frowned, and stepped gingerly through the hole in the fence into the Graveyard.

Nothing seemed out of place- but that didn't necessarily mean anything, the undertaker mused. He'd been around long enough to know that- to know that the greatest evils were often the most invisible.

There were enough graves that proved testament to that, both here and In Real Life.

He walked quietly through the graves, trying to ascertain if anything was different, anything was amiss...

It wasn't.

Except for the hole in the fence, it was a normal day. The Mists swept around the graves, the Unquiet Dead moaned and groaned in their tombs...

A normal day.

Passing through the non-mainstream section of the Graveyard into the section housing the Canon Dead, the undertaker found himself shivering despite himself.

Once, when Subreality had been at its peak, this section of the graveyard had almost been... vibrant.

It had been a living, breathing place- a place whose denizens knew they were assured of life beyond death.

Now...

The Mists hung everywhere, dampening and dulling everything with their cold, clammy touch.

Even the senses seemed impaired by it- the undertaker found himself feeling every one of his years, found himself feeling somehow... less real with every second that passed.

And yet still he pressed on, still he trudged his way among the tombstones.

It was his job.

And of course, eventually, he found the culprit.

Sitting by one of the tombs, he found a Writer.

"You've got about two seconds to tell me what you're doing here, son."

The undertaker's voice was flattened by the Mists, but it contained no less menace for that. The Writer looked at him, startled- an odd one, this one, thought the Undertaker, taking in the skull face and long, spidery limbs- and sprang to his feet.

"Is this about the fence? If it's about the fence, I apologise. I only did it because I couldn't find anyone to ask to let me in, and I thought I even if I could find someone to ask then they wouldn't want me coming in, and..."

The undertaker shook his head, and cut the Writer off mid-sentence. He was one of the few Fictives able to do so.

"Son, that's not how this place works. It's a place of peace and quiet, but it's not a prison. You can come and go as you please."

The Writer looked puzzled- or at least, as puzzled as it was possible for a skull to look. The undertaker continued.

"So, why don't you tell me who you are, and what you're doing here, and maybe we'll start getting somewhere."

The Writer nodded, and gave a deep, flourishing bow.

"I, my good sir, am the infamous Jonny Skellington- Archduke of Angst, Master of Misery, Writer of Repute. You may have heard of me?"

The undertaker shook his head.

"I don't read, son."

The Writer looked somewhat disappointed, but carried on.

"I'm here because I'm... researching."

That was a new one. In all his years as the Undertaker of the Subreality Graveyard, he'd never seen a Writer actually come to the Fictives when he wanted to resurrect them- it was always the other way around.

"Researching?"

The Writer nodded.

"In a graveyard?"

The Writer nodded again, eagerness shining in his beetle-black eyes.

"I find that if I'm Writing a character, then going back to the source is the best way about it. In my experience Writing someone twenty, thirty years along the line- someone screwed up by retcons and rewrites and the ravages of time..."

The Writer gestured at the graves around him- X-Men fictives all- and the undertaker couldn't help but nod-

"...well, to be honest I find that the old ones are the best."

The undertaker nodded, but then frowned again.

"You don't intend to be doing any grave-robbing here, now do you?"

The Writer recoiled in disgust- an impressive feat for one with such spindly limbs, the undertaker thought, almost allowing himself a smile- and shook his head frantically.

"No! Not at all! No, no, no!"

The Writer gestured at the graves again.

"These... these are my friends! Slim, Jean, John... even Bolivar, Brian, Kurt... their voices sing to me! I could never disturb their sleep, sir- I find myself honoured merely to listen to their dreams!"

That was again a new one to the undertaker. A Writer who treated fictives as friends, not as... genies to be summoned and banished as he saw fit?

That was it- his mind was made up.

"Jonny, you come back here any time. Just... see if you can't use the front gates, next time?"

The Writer looked ashamed.

"I'll fix the hole?"

The undertaker shrugged, turned away.

"No need, son- after all, that's my job. You keep doing yours, I'll do mine."

And as he wandered his way away through the gravestones, he found himself smiling.

The Writer had even called him "sir".

No-one had called him that in a very long time.

FIN

skellingtonjon — Sat, 24 Jun 2006 12:07:42 GMT

I posted this to the SCML, too- if you want disclaimers and/or snazzy formatting, that's where they are.

Ummm...

...Feedback would be nice?

*

"So... you've never seen it before today?"

The barman shrugged.

"It's always been... covered up."

It seemed a strange thing to say, until you noticed the pile of empty beer crates standing next to the door. The Writer looked at the door, puzzled.

"Does anyone know where it goes?"

No-one responded. They very often didn't when the Writer spoke- it was one of his curses, he sometimes found himself thinking as he wandered the dark depths of the Mists that wreathed Subreality so these days- his Cassandra Complex, he called it... although that always then made him think of himself as a character from a bad Robert Ludlum novel.

Pulling his thoughts back to himself, the Writer traced one long, crooked finger through the dust on the door, lazily drawing a smily face on it.

A smily face that soon developed tentacles and tri-lobed eyes., and became surrounded by strange, arcane writings. A cough from the barman brought him back to coherence.

"Not really a very safe thing to be doing, Jonny. Not here."

The Writer shrugged apologetically- a very impressive feat, when you considered he was mostly comprised of limbs and joints- and grinned.

"Sorry. I just... got carried away."

The barman shook his head.

"Bad enough in Subreality- even worse here in Club Concepto. You make a summoning for things..."

"Things come."

Jonny finished the barman's sentence, cocking his head to one side, looking at the scrawl he'd made in the dust. It... reminded him of something, something just out of reach, something...

"Don't do it, Jonny."

Snapped out of his reverie, the Writer turned back to the barman to see him shaking his head.

"Don't do what?"

"Don't think about it. Leave it alone. You know what happens to those who go Searching For Forbidden Knowledge, right?"

Jonny grinned.

"The idiots get what they deserve."

The barman nodded.

"Too damn right. Can I get you a beer? It's on the house, if you agree not to ask me for the key to that door."

Some days it was like shooting fish in a barrel, Jonny thought. All a Writer had to do was ask nicely, and they got whatever they wanted.

"I'd rather have the key to this door."

The barman sighed, and reached into his shirt, pulling out a long black iron key on a chain from within it. His eyes narrowed as he handed it to the Writer.

"If you unleash the minions of the Underworld upon this place, Jonny Skellington, I shall be adding any damages caused to your tab. Which you still haven't paid, by the way."

Jonny smiled, looking at the intricate carvings on the key, the carvings that so resembled the runes he'd traced in the dust on the door. The song was wrong, a little voice whispered in the back of his head, love wasn't what you needed at all.

All you needed was imagination.

"So let it be Written, so let it be done," whispered the Writer, and put the key in the lock to the door. The barman, used to Jonny's theatrical nature, tutted and turned his attentions back to his bar.

The door opened inwards with a blast of fetid air. Jonny grinned to himself, looking down a long flight of stairs lit only by the dim glow of luminous green mould, a long flight of stairs which seemed to stretch off down into infinite darkness...

"They say that curiosity killed the cat," he intoned grandly to no-one in particular, as he placed the chain of the key around his neck, "But they never said anything about Writers."

With that, he stepped through the door, and it swung closed behind him. The barman sighed. He could have warned Jonny, he supposed- could have pointed out that there was only a lock on the door to keep things behind it- but what would have been the point?

Jonny was a Writer- ignoring sense and warnings was what he did best.

*

The stairs went on and on.

Jonny found himself humming as he descended- absurdly cheerful despite his gloomy surroundings. Something about the nature of his surroundings lifted his spirits, something just out of reach. If only he could touch it, grasp it...

Suddenly he found himself at the bottom. Looking back up, he realised that he'd descended so far he couldn't see the doorway back into Club Concepto at all. Turning back to his current surroundings, he felt a delicious chill run through him.

The luminous mould lit nothing but a tunnel, hewn from the rock by unknown hands. Stalactites dripped, unseen Things skittered in the shadows...

The Writer shrugged. It was nothing he hadn't seen before- nothing he hadn't dreamed before- nothing he hadn't Written before. There was no need to be afraid, no need to panic-

This was as close to home as he'd ever felt.

Stepping forwards, he heard a sad little "crunch".

Looking down at his feet, the Writer saw that he had stepped on the skull of some long-dead unfortunate.

An unfortunate that looked, in fact, as though it could have been feline once upon a time.

Sniggering to himself at the irony, Jonny looked left and right, re-acquainting himself with his less-than-cheerful surroundings.

Nothing but tunnel stretching off into the darkness in either direction. No sign of where to go, no sign of what to do...

"Welcome to SubReality," he murmured.

Closing his eyes and spinning around, the Writer flung out one bony, claw-fingered limb.

"Round and round the Writer goes, where he stops..."

Jonny re-opened his eyes, and found to his chagrin he was pointing back up the stairs he had just descended. Shrugging again, he decided to go down the left-hand tunnel.

In another world, he would have headed down the right-hand tunnel, and found himself back at the surface in the midst of a crowd of very surprised My Little Ponies, who until that point had been happily celebrating GroundHog Day.

This was not that world.

This was SubReality and this was Jonny Skellington.

Who found himself meandering the tunnels for hours, lit only by luminous mould, and accompanied only by his own thoughts.

He didn't really mind- the tunnels were cool and calm and damp, which was the way he liked things. Contrary to his appearance- that of a gangling, gothic, seven-foot-tall skull-faced freak- he was a thoughtful, sensitive soul, and the hustle and bustle of day-to-day Real Life was very often too much for him.

That's not to say he didn't like bloody, frenzied action and hideous, glistening gore- far from it, in fact- but sometimes it was just...

Well, sometimes it was just nice to wander in silence, unbothered by anyone.

It was one of the reasons he so liked Club Concepto, to be honest- you were only ever likely to bump into other Writers briefly, as they came to re-claim their unwanted fictives. The barman there-no capital letter for him, not like the Barman of the Café- was polite, and easily Written into doing exactly what you wanted- not like that thug Major MapleLeaf- and the drinks were never likely to be spilled by brawling, as the UnWritten were...

...Well, the UnWritten were the UnWritten. They sat in gloomy sadness most of the time, with outbursts of fruitless rage punctuating the silence. It was a place that appealed greatly to Jonny- hence why he'd been there when he'd spotted the door. It was the very incongruity of it- a huge, oaken door, with a brass gargoyle's head for a keyhole. It just seemed too...

Alive?

Out of place?

Jonny wasn't sure, now he walked the tunnels, why he'd even been interested in it.

He just knew it had... called to him.

And now he walked the tunnels, silent and alone.

And that was just fine.

As he walked, he noticed things lost for aeons, and wondered at it all.

The tunnel he walked broadened out into a huge, seemingly roofless chamber at one point, filled with great grey stone sarcophagi. Who did they contain? Why were they here?

Jonny didn't know, and had a sneaking suspicion that no-one would have known.

It became a narrow bridge over an abyss at another, which stretched vertiginously, impossibly down into nothingness. Where did its depths plummet to, what lay in that nightmare void?

Jonny didn't know, and was quite certain that no-one had ever known.

Or would ever know.

It changed in height and width as randomly, too- Jonny found himself stooping in points, scuttling spider-like in others, striding proud and tall in yet others.

Who had built the tunnels? What hand, or claw, or tentacle had carved them?

Jonny didn't know, and was sure that even if he spent a thousand lifetimes asking, no-one would ever have the answer.

At no point did he see anyone else- not a single soul- and yet he did not care.

He was a Writer- what need had he to care, what need had he to fear?

Eventually, Jonny found the tunnel came to an end at a huge, oaken door, a door around which arcane symbols had been crudely daubed by a long-dead hand.

"I've come this far," the Write murmured, "I should curse myself forever were I to turn back now."

The black iron key fitted the lock perfectly, and the door swung towards him easily as he pulled it. Squinting at the bright light which poured through it, Jonny stepped forwards-

*

-only to find himself back in Club Concepto. Puzzled, he turned back to the door-

Only to find it no longer there.

"What the-"

He stopped himself. There was sure to be an explanation, and a sensible, rational one at that- the key hanging on the chain round his neck told him so.

And then Jonny stopped himself, puzzled.

The key- the chain it had hung on- was no longer there.

Had he left it in the door when he'd stepped through it? Had he dropped it?

There had to be an explanation, there-

Jonny chuckled at himself.

Yes, there had to be an explanation- but did he really want one, if he was honest?

Did he really need one?

The unearthly beauty he had seen in those tunnels, the ethereal majesties he had witnessed...

Jonny turned to the barman and smiled.

"A beer, if you please."

The barman nodded, and took down Jonny's tankard from the hook above the bar where it was kept, and went about his business.

That was the thing about Writers, he thought, watching the beer flow from the tap into Jonny's tankard- they were so wrapped up in rules and regulations that they very often went and forgot just how much fun a good mystery was.

The Caverns Of The Unwritten existed just for such a reason- they appeared whenever a Writer needed to be reminded of the beauty of a conundrum, of the majesty of a mystery.

It was not by co-incidence that Club Concepto had been built where it had been, after all.

Yes, thought the barman, handing Jonny's drink to him, the Caverns Of The Unwritten had proved their use again.

And they would doubtlessly do so again in future.

*

Subreality: Broken Rules

ion_duck — Mon, 19 Jun 2006 21:08:54 GMT

_________________________________________________________

Broken Rules

By Jesse N. Willey

With help from Stephanie Watson

               The bar was empty and only the three remained; two writers and The Manager.  The two writers were scattered across the bar.  One of them was sitting quietly, a rarity for such a boisterous man, next to the churro machine.

               "Geez, the place is getting more and more empty everyday," said The Manager.

               "The others have either forgotten how to get here... or they’re flocking to that fake cafe five realities over.  It's not the same," Jess grumbled.  "And it isn't just their milkshakes."

Steph Watson walked up from the pool table and over to one of the stools. She quickly took a seat.

“Jess! What are you doing here?” she said.

“What do you mean what I am I doing here? I’m always here,” Jess said.

“But I haven’t really seen you in here months,” she said.

“You have to realize… I was a fixture in Subreality for a long time. I was basically a kid. Most of my good memories of being a teenager were here. Most of the friendships I forged that made me who I am… were forged here. It is where I exist,” Jess said.

“Because you are The Sisko?” The Bartender said.

“Do you have to ruin everything?” Jess said. “Now where was I…”

“You were explaining how you were always here…” Steph said.

“Right… most people think of Subreality as the café, the house of strange dimension, fictives from various genres casually meeting, fictives clashing with writers… and that’s it. Which is sort of hollow. Maybe—maybe that’s what Kielle originally intended with Subreality Hopscotch. Just one simple story poking fun at the various popular fan pairings for Wolverine. It wasn’t exactly Huck Finn, but it was entertaining. Not that there is anything wrong with a nice simple story. Sometimes, I like watching Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure for the gods only knows how manyeth time rather than watching Annie Hall,” Jess said. “Annie Hall is a better movie in almost every sense of the word… there are times when I like Bill and Ted more.”

“Don’t Woody Allen movies remind you too much of your love life anyway?” asked The Manager.

“Are you gonna take that from a fictive?” Stephanie said.

“Actually, uh—uh—y’know truth is a um, defense against slander. Besides, um, uh, The Manager here isn’t exactly a fictive. He/She is not a writer either—it is sort of didactic—and-“ Jess said.

The Manager whapped Jess in the face with a rag.

“Now cut that out!” The Manager said.

“You used to laugh when I did Bogart.”

“Bogart doesn’t annoy the crap out of me.”

“You’re right. There is nothing wrong with a simple story. I think a lot of subreal stuff was fairly straightforward. You aren’t known for your depth. What with all the people getting turned into cabbages and exploding puppies...,” she said.

“That was old me. Always concerned about making others laugh. These days—if I get them to laugh, fine. If they get the joke fine. If I don’t feel like making’em laugh and they get pissed off—screw’em,” Jess said.

The Manager handed Stephanie a chocolate milkshake.

“So, have you been to Warlord Qoheleth’s monstrosity?” she asked.

“Once—I didn’t like it. Like I said. It was a simple story. It was flat and too well defined.”

“The definition of Subreality is that it can’t be defined.”

“Right. You know last Christmas, my niece was only about six months old. I pondered just giving her a bunch of empty boxes. She’s a baby—she’d be entertained for hours maybe even days just tossing a cardboard box around,” Jess said.

“Ah.. pointless tangents. The old Jess is back,” The Manager said.

“Ten bucks says he goes somewhere with this,” Steph replied.

“You’re on…” The Manager said.

“That’s what Qoheleth has given people. He’s presented something virtually identical to Subreality. Really, on the surface, what Qoleth gave us isn’t much different from what Kielle gave us. They both gave us empty boxes…” Jess said.

“What? How dare you say something like that!” The Manager said.

“Let me finish. They both us empty boxes. Qoleth is being the cheapskate uncle who is telling us to play with the outer shell of the box. All his crazy rules about treating everything with care and cleaning up all our messes when we’re done. Respect continuity. Call everything New Gotham. Brush your teeth, wash behind your ears. Kielle gave us the empty box and told us to play with what was inside,” Jess said. “One outlook presents a creative cage… the other creates… a…. I don’t know a…”

“Point of view?”

“Yeah… that’s it.”

“So… whatever happened to Jess Willey, Kid Brother of Subreality?” she said.

Jess got up and headed to the restroom. He turned his head as he opened the door.

“Every kid brother has to grow up sometime.”

______________________________________________________________

The Manager belongs to us all. All writers belong to themselves. I’m Jesse Nathaniel Willey and I approve this message.

</div>

PSA

sl_walker — Thu, 04 May 2006 20:11:15 GMT

A ShadowKnight/Subreal Public Service Announcement

Presented by: Nan-Cy and Mike Nelson

Nance> ::pokes Mike:: Is this thing on?

Mike> Wrong mic. ::grabs the right mic::: Hi. I'm Peter Graves--

Nance> ::elbows Mike::: No Peter Graves.

Mike> Sorry, sorry. ::clears his throat::: Hi! You may be wondering what two fictives are doing writing a public service announcement. Well... okay, we were told we had to by our Writer-muns.

Nance> Yeah, in an abstract way. Although our writing doesn't make fancy things happen normally, this might in a roundabout way.

Mike> Annnnyway, it's come to our attention that some things have been changing. And we're just here to let you know that in Subreality, there will always be room for random silliness, total annihilation drunkenness, and... :::dramatic pause::: ...acronyms!

Nance> Yep! Acronyms are a quick and easy way to get a point across without wasting a lot of breath. In fact, many parts of our canons have short hand for larger phrases. Mike, for example, is SOL in more ways then one.

Mike> :::elbows Nance, but keeps beaming a smile at the camera::: And Nance here has PoG. And no, the P does not stand for premenstrual, no matter how much you might think otherwise.

Nance> ::glares at Mike and looks back at the camera:: Really, would you rather say "Hi, Everyone, Let's Pitch In 'N' Get Cracking Here In Louisiana Doing Right, Eh? Now Then, Hateful, Rich, Overbearing Ugly Guys Hurt Royally Every Time Someone Eats A Radish, Carrot, Hors d'oeuvre, And Never Does Dishes. Eventually, Victor Eats Lunch Over Peoria Mit Ein Neuesberger Tod." or H.E.L.P.I.N.G. C.H.I.L.D.R.E.N. T.H.R.O.U.G.H. R.E.S.E.A.R.C.H. A.N.D. D.E.V.E.L.O.P.M.E.N.T.?

Mike> It's a foregone conclusion that acronyms are a vital part of the human experience. That being said, the premier acronym-named club in Subreality is still there, still open for business -- even if it has been kind of dusty -- and there's always a pint of Guinness or a Coke in a glass bottle waiting there for you.

Nance> Provided that you pay the tab in the end. ::looks over to the side:: Or forage bills and pay the tab with that...

Mike> So feel free to drop on by, complain about the drama -- or wank -- or just get into a messed up round robin. After all, we are the 'Take the Plot Concept Too Seriously' Club.

Nance & Mike> And remember, only YOU can prevent Tipcuts!

Because I'm that bored

black_beast — Fri, 18 Nov 2005 18:50:34 GMT

The record to beat today is 747.4

Bloody Pengu!

Who's got what it takes?

Kielle's Quilt pictures

sabrebabe — Fri, 18 Nov 2005 01:52:56 GMT

Yes, I know, they should have been up last month, but I've been terribly stresed out and wrung out and just miserable and couldn't be bothered until now. So here goes:

Lookee! It's my workspace!

My workspace from another POV:

I can cut straight lines!!!

Much mucking about with piecing and placement. Placement is *everything*, Dahling!

First run, no funny faces, though :(

Ah, there's all the smiling faces! All done!

Thank you everyone, for helping to make Kielle's Quilt come to life. It *is* quite large, as the bed it's shown on is mine and that's a Queen-size bed! Please forgive the messy state of my house. It's normally not that tidy. :)

cross-posted to Subreality, Quilting and my own lj :)

-Deb