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Juliet, Hurts, Om, Jewel
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May 6, 2024 04:06
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 Gladiator, Joker, Signs, Flee Polly and Jingles and Me 1121 words “No one can take a joke these days, that’s the problem.” Demetrius opened his eyes and raised his head to see who’d spoken. The speaker was dressed in the bells and tassels of a jester. “Huh?” “You used to be able to joke about anything. Why, only last week I told a hilarious joke about how all Sumerians smell like fish.” “Oh. Do they?” The jester frowned. “What do you mean? It’s just a joke; it doesn’t matter if they really smell like fish. Anyway, everyone laughed at that one.” “I don’t really get it.” “See, another example of everyone being too sensitive.” Demetrius had a hangover headache, which had not put him in the right headspace for whatever this conversation was, so he closed his eyes again. “What are you in for, anyway?” Demetrius couldn’t completely remember the previous night’s events, but given the headache, it seemed likely that he’d caroused a little too hard. “Consorting with demons.” “Ah.” For a time, that seemed to have the intended effect of shutting the jester up. “Well, I was locked up for a joke. Can you believe that?” “Wow,” said Demetrius. “That’s really something.” “Do you want to hear it?” “Oh gosh, I don’t know if I’ll get it.” “Nonsense, it was an absolute banger. Now then, how did it start…” Just then, the door to their prison burst open. Through the doorway strode a tall woman wearing a cloak of the brownest brown Demetrius had ever seen. “Ho there you two fellows,” she loudly proclaimed. Demetrius winced at the loudness of her bellow. “Good morning.” “Say,” said the jester, “you look like a lady who appreciates a good joke.” She turned and stared through him. “Uh. Perhaps later, then.” She carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your salvation is at hand! I, Polly the Witch of the Frozen Wastes, am here to release you from your fate, in exchange for your loyalty to my cause!” “Polly?” asked Demetrius. She shrugged. “I know it’s not very witchy, but it’s a family name.” “I’ll probably be out by tomorrow,” said the jester. “It was just a harmless joke.” “You are both awaiting execution,” she said. “I’m surprised no one told you.” “What?” he said. “That’s ridiculous. ‘Twas but a jape, a trifle.” Demetrius shrugged. “I don’t really remember much of last night.” “Anyway, are you going to pledge yourselves to my service, or am I leaving you to the mercies of the executioner?” Demetrius stood up; there was a clank of manacles. “I would, but…” and he held out his hands, which were manacled together, to a chain that also connected to the wall. Polly spoke some witchy words and wiggled her fingers witchily in his direction. The manacles around his wrists and ankles contorted, and then came undone as the bolts holding them together popped out. He nodded. “I’m with you, witch.” “Polly is fine. And you, jingly man?” The jester stood up. “Well, I’m sure your cause will need someone with my wit.” “We’ll see, Jingles,” she said. “For now, just your loyalty will do.” ~ “All right,” said Jingles – he’d objected, but the name had stuck, with Polly refusing to hear what his real name was – “now I suppose you’d both like to hear this joke of mine.” The three of them were in a small rowboat floating down the Tiber. “Sorry,” said Polly, “what joke was that?” “Oh,” said Demetrius, “apparently he told a joke that got him put in jail. I’m sure it’s very good, but I didn’t get his other joke, so…” and he trailed off with a shrug. “Right,” said Polly. “Well, I’m sure it’s frightfully good, but instead of listening to that, I’m going to explain to the two of you why I broke you out of prison, saving you from execution.” “I still don’t remember what I did to get into prison,” said Demetrius. “I thought it was the consorting with demons,” said Jingles. “All right, you’re explaining that later too,” said Polly. “But first, the reason I freed the two of you.” The two of them nodded, and she continued. “We’re going to burn down the barracks. After we free all the horses from the stables.” “Uh,” said Demetrius, “that’s a lot.” “Sounds like a good joke,” said Jingles. “What’s the plan?” asked Demetrius. “What?” said Polly. “I literally just said. We’re going to burn down the barracks after freeing the horses from stables.” “No, I get that but…” “Just follow me.” ~ No one challenged them on the way to the stables. Oh, except for the soldiers. About a dozen soldiers challenged them on the way to the stables, and Demetrius stabbed them with a sword Polly had gotten him, and Polly did witchy stuff at some of the other guards and they fell over, and then Jingles gave them a right kicking. But apart from all the soldiers they killed, no one challenged them. “Not really sure why you needed us for this,” said Demetrius. “I’m very good at kicking,” said Jingles. “Perfect comedic timing on those kicks, too.” “Yeah, you were very specific about where on their body you were kicking them.” Jingles shrugged. “That’s comedy!” “Very true,” said Polly. “Also, sometimes you just want people to hang out with while you’re setting buildings on fire. And hexing too many soldiers can really take it out of a witch.” Demetrius shrugged and started to open stable doors. The horses were clearly too well trained, though; they all stayed in their stalls. “Polly?” he asked. “Can you do any witch things to make the horses escape?” “Sure,” she said, and she wiggled her fingers and the stables started burning. “Wait, what?” he asked. “You’ve opened all their pens, right?” “Uh…” said Demetrius, and then he and Jingles scrambled to open the remaining doors. ~ By the time the stables fire was completely out of control, the horses had all successfully fled, and the three of them had moved onto the barracks. There were more encounters with soldiers, but a good dose of stabbing and hexing and kicking later, and they ceased to be a concern. And then she set fire to the barracks. ~ “I still don’t understand what we did or why we did it,” said Demetrius. The three of them were back on the rowboat on the Tiber, bits of the burning city in their wake. “Well, it was funny,” said Jingles. “I’m starting to understand why your comedy got you a death sentence, Jingles,” said Polly. She sighed. “I just wanted to set some buildings on fire and kill some soldiers, is that too hard to understand?” He shrugged. “I suppose not.”
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May 6, 2024 11:57
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Week 613: Something Awful Times Connections Words chosen: LOST, BEACH, BEASTIE, TWIST chaperone Word count: 1,433 We’d been instructed by the bride to go tie these small, pre-made flower arrangements to each chair along the aisle, and while we all had a good laugh when someone in the wedding party pointed out how dangerous it was to go sending exes down the aisle, the truth was we hadn’t spent a whole lot of alone time since everything went down—and it started as kind of an awkward fifteen-minute walk from the house to the beach. With the ceremony a few hours away, we were still dressed in our civvies. I mention this only because she was wearing her favorite sundress, which also happened to be my favorite sundress. It was dark blue, with little flowers, and it hugged her slight frame perfectly before flowing outward as it passed her hips. Combined with the fiery apricot glow of her hair on this cloudless day, it was borderline lethal. She caught me looking. “I swear, this wasn’t a tactical decision,” she said, gesturing to the dress. She knew its reputation. “I threw it on to wander the boardwalk a little bit earlier. I didn’t realize Heather was going to ask us to do anything together.” I smiled and waved it off with the hand holding the bag of flowers. It crinkled softly. “No worries,” I said. “It looks good.” “I know it looks good,” she said, smiling back. Small as it was, it felt nice. Things didn’t necessarily end well and we naturally had to be on our guard, but we both knew that if circumstances were different, we’d likely still be together—so what use was there in pretending we couldn’t stand one another? I felt a weight drop from my shoulders, and I couldn’t say for sure but it certainly seemed as though she felt it, too. We arrived at the beach, flower bunches in hand, cautiously eyeing some clouds that had snuck up over the horizon. I counted off seven batches and handed them to her. Each came with its own length of twine. The breeze was picking up. “Godspeed,” I told her, and we got to work. When it’d been assigned to us, it couldn’t have seemed like an easier task—but it was a little more delicate than we’d expected. The flowers liked to come unbundled, the twine didn’t like to hold, and the spot on the chairs where the flowers were meant to go was at just the right height to be kind of a pain. It got easier as it went on by virtue of there being one less bunch of flowers to hold onto with each row of chairs. Still, with the wind continuing to kick up, those first few were more difficult than they had any right to be. At one point, four or five rows in, I looked behind me to see her chasing down one of the first bundles I’d tied. It’d come untethered and the wind was flicking it over the sand. She managed to grab it before it got too far. As she walked it back, she shot me a look and another smile. “Don’t tell me you forgot how to tie knots,” she said, and knelt to tie the batch in place once more. “Out of practice, I guess,” I mumbled, willing myself to focus. The clouds, previously looming on the horizon, were now much closer and a bit more foreboding. Hopefully everybody back at the house was keeping the bride away from the windows. When we were done, we stood at the end of the aisle just in front of the makeshift altar—a podium they’d rented, presumably from the same folks who provided the chairs—and double-checked to make sure everything looked okay. “Mine look like they’re a little lower than yours,” she said, and she was right: She’d tied hers off two or three inches under where I’d tied mine off. The one she’d fixed on my side of the aisle also sat a bit lower than its compatriots. “Should we fix it?” I asked. “Think she’ll notice?” Her eyes got huge. God, her eyes. Just the brightest blue you’d ever seen. “Do I think Heather will notice? The same girl who gave her bridesmaids a specific brand of swimwear last month so they’d all have matching tanlines? Do I think she’ll pick up on the aisle looking crooked?” I surveyed it again. Yeah, fair. “You’re not wrong,” I said. There was a beat as we both stared down the aisle. She broke the silence. “All right, well, do you need any help with your side, or am I good to start heading back?” I looked at her. She’d added a poo poo-eating grin to her ensemble. “Ah, okay, I see,” I said. “Are we sure it isn’t your side that needs work? Bring those flowers up a little bit higher? Toward the eyes of the Lord, or whatever? I know you shorter folk aren’t accustomed to that kind of thing but the rest of us—” She slugged me on the shoulder. I gave her my own poo poo-eating grin in return. The sun had vanished behind the thickening clouds, and the wind was getting more consistent. Without another word, we set about lowering the flowers on my side of the aisle. It wasn’t a two-person job, yet we both leaned in to make the adjustments for each one. Two chairs in, she caught me again, this time glancing down the front of her dress. She gave me a look. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know, I’m sorry.” “We had an agreement about this weekend,” she said, now fully divested from even pretending to work on adjusting the flowers. She knelt in the sand, and I followed. “I know we did, I’m not trying to—” “You know this can’t happen. We know it can’t happen. It’s off the table.” “Yeah.” “This weekend’s the tough part, then we’re back off to our corners and it gets a lot easier,” she said. Then, after a pause: “For both of us.” We stared at each other. The sky had darkened considerably. The wind whipped around us, making a mess of her hair and threatening the structural integrity of all the flowers we’d placed. In that moment, though, we didn’t care very much. I leaned in a little. She did the same. “Back to our corners,” I said. “Way easier.” Briefly, she stole a glance at my lips. It was a horrible game of chicken, one we’d become all too familiar with. “You know why we can’t,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You know my father doesn’t approve. And you know he’d find out. Doesn’t matter how far we go.” I put a hand on hers. In the distance, thunder boomed. “I know.” “So this,” she said, looking down at my hand on hers, “This is … just …” Both of us were breathing hard. I couldn’t take it. I slipped a quick and careful hand behind her neck and brought her into me. She leaned in eagerly. As our lips met, there was a great, earth-shaking rumble from out toward the ocean. We reluctantly pulled apart and looked, despite both knowing full well what was out there. At something like thirty feet tall, it didn’t matter that he was so far out into the surf. He cut an imposing figure: upright, arms folded, every muscle clearly defined, long gray hair billowing righteously. The water swirled and sprayed around him. The clouds circled above where he’d made his entrance. Thunder boomed almost continuously, and the wind around us was brutal. I held onto her instinctually, but she pushed me away with one arm while holding her dress down with the other. “Daddy, it was nothing!” she yelled. “I promise!” He stared at her with piercing, pure white eyes, then turned his gaze to me. I raised one hand as a timid greeting. “We know the rules, sir,” I said loudly, trying to beat the wind. “It won’t happen again. Momentary lapse. I’m sorry.” He continued to stare, wordlessly, for what felt like a very long time. Eventually, he—still without a word, without even budging, really—began to sink back beneath the waves. The waters grew calmer. Overhead, the skies seemed to be clearing. The wind began dying down. Two minutes later, we stood, quite ruffled, on a beautiful beach in the middle of a calm, sunny day. I looked at her. She looked at me. We began the walk back. The ceremony was beautiful. We sat on different sides of the aisle. During the reception, the bride scolded us about the flower placements.
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May 6, 2024 12:31
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The Bearded Genius and the Queen's Spindle 1200 words  Blur, Face, Wind, Spirit It's pretty much the sort of story you'd expect, me being not clever enough to stay out of trouble but plenty clever enough to get out of it. Or lucky. If there's a difference. I got a job, an appointment really. Court wizard. Which is complicated by the fact that I can't do a lick of magic. Hardly anyone can, but I had the rotten luck to be trying to collect on my sinecure here when the Queen, against my highly specific advice, chose to give insult to a witch. Me? You've heard of me. I'm Jack. The Jack. Giants, beanstalks, candlesticks. Went up and down the hill with good old Jill. I know from curses, believe me. And this was a curse kind of situation, and sure enough three months later a gloriously expensive-looking sewing wheel shows up, a gift from an unknown sender. “Burn it,” I said. “No, have it burned far away. On a ship at sea. Rip out the gold bits, melt them down, and send them with an ambassador to pay off debts as far away as you can. Same with the gems.” Excellent advice, and the Queen was this close to taking it. Then she showed up. “What does he know?” said Claire. “He's not even a real wizard. See?” she said. She'd been walking right up to me, and when the guards stirred to stop her from coming too close, she just raised her arm and they stopped in place, frozen like statues. “That's not even a real beard.” And she grabbed it and yanked. True, it wasn't a real beard. Fair cop. But I had it fixed there with hard gum, the kind that rips off a few layers of skin when you don't soak it in 180 proof spirits first. “Hey!” I yelled. And that's when the guards sprung back to life, crossing their spears menacingly to block my way. Nimble. Quick. I slid underneath those spears and started running, and Claire turned and followed behind. Claire is a piece of trouble that I can't seem to ever escape. She's my granddaughter. I've got lots of sons, and not a one of them took after me, thank goodness. Homebodies, scholars, a chef and a priest. And most of their kids are also quiet, boring people. Claire is the exception. Maybe it's being a quarter giant. We've crossed paths before, and it's always annoying. I’m used to being, well, the main character. The one the story is about. But whenever she appears, all of the sudden I'm just a bit part in hers. Like now. I wasn't in the story about the Queen's Spindle anymore. I'd lost the beard and been proven a fool. I was running and she was following after, and she's almost as nimble and almost as quick and younger, hungrier, and had much more endurance. I could have run for a day and she’d have run me down. I knew that. So I stopped running an hour outside the border of the kingdom. “Grandfather,” she said. I was sitting, crossed legs, low threat. “Claire,” I said. “I need your help.” “You could have just asked.” “Would you have left the Queen if I had?” “We’ll never know now.” “You wouldn't.” “Might be. And besides, we're even.” “So this time let me be the one who ends up owing you, Jack.” “What's the trouble?” I got up, slowly. “It's Belham,” she said. “What about her?” “You have to see for yourself, I think.” Fortunately we had already been going the right way and didn't have to cross back across the Kingdom. We were in the territory of the Eight City-states, and the maze of petty domains between their borders. We traveled together, almost as fast as we had in the chase, to the cottage where she and Belham kept house, and as soon as I saw her I could see the problem. My granddaughter’s wife’s lovely face was, well, just in my memory now. Where it used to be was just a blur that only barely resembled it. “So,” she said. I considered. “Can you live with her like this?” Belham tried to break in, but what came out of the blurred area that was her mouth was a scatter of white noise. “Like this? Unable to talk, to kiss, to wink or smile so I'd know?” “Yes.” “Maybe. I mean, I love her, but-” “This is the West Wind’s work,” I said. “What did you do to make an enemy of him?” She looked down and smiled crookedly. It's an expression I wear often, and I've been lucky in that plenty people find it charming. Me, I find it annoying from this side. “I may have stolen his Silver Horses.” “And I suppose giving them back isn't an option,” I said, knowing the answer. She wouldn't have needed me for that. “I may have traded them to the Laughing Sheriff for the Eye of the Rain. Which was another six trades down the line toward a hundred years of youth, and besides the Horses run down and shoes thrown in the Sheriff’s little wars.” “I thought it was something like that,” I said. “So, live like this or try to kill the West Wind, which might as well be throwing your hundred years and mine away.” She nodded. “I do have a plan.” It wasn't a good plan, except in that eventually it worked. It takes a spirit to kill a spirit, and the West Wind’s eldest daughter was just the one for the job. It may be that if I hadn't wooed her, hadn't said just the right words at the right time, that she still would have shoved her older brother down a well and boarded it over or that she wouldn't have fed the old man poisoned apple wine. She had the ambition all along. Without my urging she might have waited longer, and without my advice she might have gotten caught before handling it. It was leaving her that was the hardest part, all told. I wanted to keep my face. I had to keep nudging her along, let her come to the conclusion that she needed to marry the North Wind’s son rather than common old me. It took months. After, I checked in on Claire and Belham, who were both with child, the details behind which could have involved a wishing fountain or a fertility goddess or a bewildered stableboy, and I frankly didn't want to know. I wished them well and made my way back to the Kingdom. The Kingdom was a mess, covered border to border with giant webs made of silvery thread, growing denser and denser the closer one came to the castle, and every soul deep in dreamless eternal sleep. I sighed and turned around. Somewhere in the borderlands there was surely a prince of some old and forgotten royal line, raised humbly as a woodcutter or stonemason, with the power to cut through the maze of threads, break the curse, and marry the Queen. Probably also fight the witch in question after she transformed into a giant snake, and better him than me.
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May 6, 2024 13:30
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 Words chosen: Steam Blow Blue State Word count: 1231 Title: It Was Never About the Coffee As if it were on cue, the coffee cart’s steam calliope broke the silence with a shrill whistle. Both Jake and Rich jumped. They had been concentrating on each other so much that the world had receded. Sitting on the bench in the park next to the coffee cart so long that Jake’s butt was numb, he opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the moment slipped away. Sighing quietly, he looked down at his empty coffee cup. “I’m uh, going to get another, do you want one?” Rich looked over at the coffee cart, and then back at Jake. “Jake, I-” Jake looked back at Rich, expectantly. Maybe this was it after all. “Sorry, uh, no thanks on the coffee.” Jake got up slowly, trying not to wince at the feeling returning to his butt. He walked over to the cheery cart, painted up in blue with gold accents and stood at the menu. It was an interesting cart, set up to do espresso and espresso drinks and had gone all in on some kind of steampunk aesthetic. As near as Jake could tell it actually generated steam to run the little calliope on the roof and to make the coffee. “Double espresso please.” “Two dollars even.” The barista took his money and started pulling the shot. His motions were practiced, smooth. The espresso machine hissed and gurgled, blowing out steam which billowed and rose in the crisp air. After a moment he placed a tiny paper cup in front of Jake. He put just a touch of sugar into it and stirred it quickly with a wooden stirrer, breaking up the crema. He took a sip. It really was excellent espresso. When he sat back down Rich saw the small cup and smiled. “You got an espresso? You’re going to be up all night.” “Mmm hmm, a double.” Jake took another sip. “Maybe you’ll get to go to sleep before I do, so you can sleep through my snoring.” Rich opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, then sighed and tipped his head back. “Jake, I’m sorry. I spoke without thinking.” “I know. That’s part of the problem isn’t it?” “I was tired. You know I have insomnia. I don’t want to have to take a gummy every night, and I will not take any of those sleep aids. Last thing I need is to get hooked on pills.” “I know.” Jake took another sip of his coffee. The slurp grated at Rich. “Then what is this? What is going on? Help me to understand hon. We’ve been together too long to not communicate.” “Do you still love me?” Rich’s mouth hung open at the bombshell. “Why would you even ask that, of course I do! I never stopped loving you.” He closed his mouth and his eyes narrowed slightly. He scratched idly under his chin. He had shaved his beard off for his new job and was still getting used to the bare skin. Do you still love me?” Jake nodded. “I do, hon. God help me, I do.” Jake tossed back the coffee and looked down at the foam in the cup. It clung to the sides in a ring with irregular drips sliding down the side towards the bottom. The patterns it made were actually very nice. “I want to go out on dates again.” “That’s it? Rich stopped scratching under his chin. His phone buzzed in his pocket loudly, but he squeezed his jeans, silencing it. It couldn’t be that simple. “No, that’s not it. I want to feel like you’re romantically interested in me. I want you to invest in me. I want you to pamper me. Right now I feel like we’re roommates that share a bed that I can’t even sleep in because by the time I get to bed you’re sawing away.” “You know my new job has me working-” “I know it does. gently caress Rich, I helped you get that job. You make twice what I do now, it’s a good thing for us. But that doesn’t excuse you from participating in this relationship!” The lines on Rich’s forehead creased further. He did that thing where he pushed up his glasses while he thought of a response. Jake knew all his tricks. They had been married ten years now after all. He turned and looked into the middle distance. “You’re right Jake. I’m sorry. It’s just… I’ve been so worried about the job. I’ve never been this high in an org before, I feel like any moment they’re going to find out that I can’t actually do it and fire me. Like they’re going to discover that I’m no good after all. That doesn’t excuse me ignoring you though.” “I want you to buy me clothes.” “What?” “Clothes. Nice ones. Sexy ones.” “Why?” “Because I want you to dress me up. Pick out clothes for me. Make me look the way you want.” “B-but wouldn’t that objectify you? You mean too much to me to-” Rich sputtered his reply, blushing crimson. That made Jake grin. “Maybe I want to be objectified a bit Rich. Maybe I want you to want me, to desire me, to see me as something sexy.” “I-I can do that. I’m sorry, I didn’t even know you wanted to be treated that way.” Jake sighed, but he already felt better for getting it out. “I trust you enough to know when to stop, and I know you know I’m a person instead of a doll, but maybe… I want to be a doll sometimes. I want you to play with me.” Rich visibly relaxed. He always hated confrontation. “Okay Jake. I’m sorry I wasn’t paying enough attention to you. I can see how that would make you feel ignored. Let’s… Let’s go out tonight.” “Tonight? But what about-” Now, Rich took out his work phone out of his pocket. He squinted at the display and brought it closer to his face. Jake knew he needed readers, but also knew he was far too vain to get them. “It looks like it’s just a vendor call. I’ll have one of my team do it instead.” He looked up from the phone and put his arm up behind Jake. “What’s the point of having minions if you can’t get them to do your work sometimes.” Jake slid over and Rich put his arm around him. He tipped his head onto Rich’s strong shoulders. “Thanks Rich.” He squeezed Jake’s shoulders into a hug. “Thanks for telling me what was on your mind. I know I can be oblivious sometimes.” “Sometimes?” Jake chuckled. “Okay, okay, most of the time. But, I did see you were more distant, quiet lately. I was worried about the state of our relationship. I suppose I should have noticed I was taking up all our time with the job.” “I hate confrontation, but I’d hate losing you more.” Rich stood, wincing. His butt had fallen asleep too. “Come on. Let’s head home. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour, but after we can find a place for dinner.” Jake crumpled up the paper cup and as they walked past the coffee cart, tossed it into the trash. He missed completely. Sheepishly, he trotted over, picked up the cup and placed it into the trash.
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May 6, 2024 13:39
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A Quite Unexpected Delivery Badgers, Hounds, Post, Eggnog 1616 words Most of the time, Barry loved his job. Long walks, interesting smells, plenty of friends to talk to along the way. It was a humble life—he was never going to achieve greatness like his athlete cousin Graydon, or solve crimes like his cousin Wolfrick—but his was a job that needed doing just as much as anyone else’s, and some days even moreso. After all, nobody could read about Graydon’s results without the form guide, or assist Wolfrick’s inquiries without a summons. Sometimes, though, he didn’t love his job quite so much; but not for the reasons anyone might expect. It was neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail that sometimes stilled his stubby legs and made him pause at the bottom of a particular gate on his round. He could handle inclement weather just fine; he had an umbrella and bright yellow galoshes against the worst of it, and stormclouds often precipitated warm mugs of milk and chewy, oven-warm biscuits as gratitude for his deliveries. But not at this gate. Never at number nine Chancery Lane, home to Brock the Badger. He rubbed the envelope between his paws. One letter. He could deliver one letter, and then be back on his way. For once, it wasn’t even a bill. Summoning his courage—reminding himself that Wolfrick certainly faced more terrifying creatures without complaint—Barry pushed open the gate and walked up the stony path toward the burrow. He briefly considered simply leaving the envelope on the poorly-named welcome mat and scarpering before the badger’s keen nose caught his presence. But that would only give the grouch an excuse to ignore it, and Barry knew Brock’s neighbours were keen for a reply. Barry reached up for the knocker and struck twice, hoping maybe Brock might be out for the morning—even as he couldn’t imagine where the badger might go. Nobody had seen him out in town for months. The door opened a notch, Brock’s beady little eyes appearing at the end of a black-and-white snout to squint up at the post-hound. ‘Don’t know why you’re here,’ Brock muttered, whiskers fluttering. ‘I’ve paid my bills for the month.’ ‘It’s not a bill,’ Barry said, pressing the letter towards Brock’s paw, still gripped tight to the round door. ‘It’s an invitation.’ ‘Hah!’ Brock spat. ‘And how would you know that? Have you been reading my mail, pup?’ Barry resisted the urge to correct the elder badger. Pup? He’d just turned seven, and the entire town had celebrated his birthday outside the post office, with caramel fudge and lemon tarts and cheesecake, but of course Brock hadn’t bothered to attend. For his part, Brock seemed not to have aged a day more, his ornery nature keeping time itself at bay. ‘It’s from your neighbours,’ Barry pressed. He didn’t bother emphasising the pun, as he might have otherwise. ‘The Shetlands.’ ‘Feh,’ Brock muttered, reaching up with his other paw to take the letter. ‘What do those nags want?’ He slit the envelope open with one sharp claw, delicately extracting the heavy paper and unfolding its thirds. Despite his grumbling, Barry knew the badger was invested: curiosity, he found, always bested obstinancy, even if only to provide a new source of complaint. ‘Fie!’ the badger swore, holding the paper to the edge of his snout, his eyes narrowing upon the ornate cursive writing. ‘Whoever needed to write so tiny? I’m not fetching my spectacles for this. You’ll need to read it for me, pup.’ Barry resisted the urge to roll his eyes: the badger’s shortsightedness was well-known, but seemingly inconstant. ‘Ahem,’ Barry started, turning the page toward him. ‘To: Brock Boarcomb, number Nine Chancery L—’ ‘Yes, yes, I know it’s for me,’ Brock muttered, waving Barry on. ‘Leave off the guff and folderol. What’s the message?’ ‘The Shetlands,’ Barry continued, moving his eyes further down the page, ‘would appreciate the honour of your company at dinner on Friday evening, to celebrate the third anniversary of their marriage.’ ‘“Dinner”?’ Brock scoffed. ‘Oats and hay, I expect.’ ‘They’ll be cake,’ Barry said. ‘Viola’s quite good at baking.’ ‘Feh,’ Brock said. ‘Carrot cake, I expect. You can send my congratulations and my apologies, thank you.’ Barry waited, hands still clutching the half-read letter. ‘Well?’ Brock said, waving him off with a paw. ‘You’ve got your message. Go on, then!’ ‘I—I’ll need it written down,’ Barry said. The badger’s nose twitched. ‘Well,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll have to come by tomorrow then, I suppose. I’ll have it for you then.’ The door slammed shut in Barry’s face, and he stuffed the letter back in his pocket before walking back up the hill toward his bicycle. # The next morning, Barry knocked at the badger’s door. Brock, eye-glasses so far down his snout that Barry wondered how they did any use at all, opened the door on the first knock with a folded letter clutched in one paw. ‘I haven’t any stamps,’ the badger said. ‘That’s okay,’ Barry said, smiling. ‘It’s only up the hill, and I’m going there anyway.’ The badger peered up at Barry’s bicycle, loaded with parcels. His eyebrows raised for a moment, before returning to a scowl. ‘Well-wishers sending gifts, I expect,’ he muttered. ‘Fiddlesticks. Lived with myself twelve years and don’t expect bells for it.’ Barry bit back his immediate response. ‘Only eggs and cream from the dairy,’ he said. ‘For Viola’s cake.’ ‘Of course,’ Brock said, shaking his head. ‘The gourmand. Well. If you could—thank you,’ he said, pressing the letter into Barry’s hands. Barry was halfway through thanking the badger when the door closed in his face again. # The next morning Barry reached Brock’s door, his hand hadn’t even met the knocker when the door flung open. ‘You again,’ Brock snarled, or tried to—it was hard for the badger to seem affronted when Barry had seen the drapes flutter from the gate, as if somebody had spent some time watching and waiting for his arrival. ‘The Shetlands replied,’ Barry said, handing the badger an envelope. He noticed, again, the lack of eye-glasses. ‘Would you like me to—’ ‘I suppose you’d better,’ the badger said, peering at the cursive. ‘But—’ he sniffed the air, whiskers trembling, and then scowled toward the sky. Clouds moved in over the hill, thick and grey like Barry’s favourite blanket, only much less warm. ‘Perhaps not out here. Perhaps you should, um—’ Brock paused, clutching the envelope between his two little paws, and Barry realised that they were trembling. ‘No,’ Brock muttered, shaking his head. ‘That would keep you from your rounds. You’d better—’ ‘I have time,’ Barry told the badger. His own nose was now picking up the unmistakable scent of jasmine tea from somewhere within the burrow. ‘The parcels will keep.’ Barry followed the badger inside, closing the door quietly behind him. # It only took a minute to read the letter. When he’d finished, they still had most of a mug of tea sitting before them, and they sat in silence before each taking a sip of the scalding liquid. ‘Well,’ Barry said, looking about the kitchen for comment. ‘I thought that was a lovely letter.’ ‘Hm,’ Brock muttered, taking another delicate sip. ‘It’s a rote reply, I’m sure they wrote several.’ Barry didn’t tell him that only one of the letters he’d taken to the Shetlands in the past three days had been an apology. Instead, he took another sip of tea, mindful that he still had a morning’s bikeride ahead of him and that, while his cousins may have been comfortable using latrine pillars... ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose I should—’ ‘Oh, yes, your deliveries,’ the badger said, rising quick enough to clatter his teacup upon its saucer. ‘You’d better—I’d better show you—dark in here for your eyes, I expect—don’t want you bashing into anything expensive—’ Brock hustled ahead, whiskers twitching. At the door, he paused, hand on the knob, before turning to the post-hound. ‘It was a lovely letter,’ he said, quietly. ‘I suppose I’d better write,’ he started, opening the door— To the sheets of rain now falling all over the path, the hill, and Barry’s bicycle … with its bags of flour for the Shetlands now entirely sodden. Barry’s face dropped. ‘So much for the cake,’ he sighed. ‘Not with only eggs, cream, and sugar,’ the badger said, his whiskers twitching faster now. ‘But perhaps … you’d better follow me, pup, and stay close.’ # Brock moved quickly through the burrow—and Barry, who’d spent the past five years riding around town on a bicycle while the badger had presumably sat in an armchair scowling at the newspaper, had to struggle to keep pace. He suspected even Graydon would lose to Brock’s increasingly urgent dash, as they turned left, then right, then left again, past more branching corridors and doorways than Barry had imagined lay behind Brock’s front door. Finally, they descended a spiralling set of stairs; Barry paused at the bottom to catch his breath, while Brock moved to a wooden rack and selected a particularly dusty bottle, wiping it off with a rag. ‘You’d better go,’ he said, passing the bottle back. ‘They’re expecting you, after all. I—’ he glanced back. ‘I think I may have left the kettle—’ ‘But I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Barry said, pushing the bottle back toward Brock’s claws, ‘how to make eggnog. I am only a pup, after all.’ The badger scoffed. # They left when the rain eased up, and only a light drizzle pattered their coats as they walked up toward the Shetland’s house, Brock cradling the bottle carefully. Barry smiled to himself, reached up, and rang the door-knocker to make a quite unexpected delivery.
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May 6, 2024 13:42
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submissions closed
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May 6, 2024 17:15
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results this was an okay week. just kinda boring. Quiet Feet wins again. it had a character with inner thoughts and things like themes and ideas. wowza. newbie JossiRossi gets an HM for a story that had characters doing things. yippie! Toaster Beef gets a DM for a bad twist. oof. no loser, unless you failed connections today.
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May 6, 2024 22:00
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My crits are fueled by your appreciation. Send me a thank you in the thread, or in the discord. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dC0K1fx4U16TI0RGaB3YpHBZ-62eqfh1tTQK_gPEMsU/edit?usp=sharing Always up to discuss your critique as well.
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May 6, 2024 22:54
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Thunderdome Week DCXIV: Lets Get Unconscious I'm tired. I've had a bit of insomnia the past few days, and it sounds like we all had a tough time writing last week, so I think it's time for some nice, relaxing bedtime stories. You have 1,314 words to tell me a fairy tale because that's the word count of a story I co-wrote with my daughter when she was seven. The story was about a man who lived alone in cottage cheese in the woods, but yours doesn't have to be. However, your story must include three of something. It could be Three wicked stepsisters, three magic rings, three kingdoms at war, as long as there are three. Flash rules: Want something more challenging? A little more inspiration? There are no specific flash rules for this week but if you want to, I'll add in an extra rule for your particular story. It will probably be kinda stupid. The usual restrictions apply: no gdocs, screeds, erotica, poetry, fanfic. Signups close Friday 11:59 AM EST Entries close Monday 5:59 AM EST Judges: Quiet Feet ? ? Entrants: Chairchucker (flash) Jossirossi Kuiperdolin Bhaal (flash) Flyerant (flash) Shwinnebago Thranguy Last Emperor Fat Jesus Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 03:23 on May 9, 2024 |
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May 7, 2024 04:01
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hello in and flash
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May 7, 2024 13:58
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Chairchucker posted:hello in and flash Fairy godmothers Parsely, Sage and Rosemary have run out of time.
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May 7, 2024 14:02
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In!
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May 7, 2024 14:56
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Yeah I'm in.
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May 7, 2024 15:36
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(first time!) in and flash my newbie rear end please
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May 7, 2024 16:16
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Bhaal posted:(first time!) in and flash my newbie rear end please A gnome has a big problem, and his two buddies have gnoticed. Feels like they hardly gnome anymore. Your story is about three gnomes and must be written with a gnomish accent. This means a silent "G" must be placed in front of every word that would gnormally begin with an "N."
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May 7, 2024 17:32
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I'm in withQuiet Feet posted:Fairy godmothers Parsely, Sage and Rosemary have run out of THYME
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May 7, 2024 17:51
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Flyerant posted:I'm in with That's Chairchucker's flash but I'd be happy to give you something else if you like. E: wait, are you suggesting you want to run with this but with the other side of the time/thyme pun? E2: as per the Discord convo, what the hell, sure. I wanna see thyme seriously feature into this in some way. Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 18:23 on May 7, 2024 |
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May 7, 2024 18:07
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sure i'll do it
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May 7, 2024 19:00
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In
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May 8, 2024 02:36
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I'm in
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May 8, 2024 13:39
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Connections Crits Quiet Feet this is actually pretty good. the prose flows well, the premise itself is pretty interesting, the characters feel realized, and there’s even a theme of names and identity and the loss of people being linked with the loss of names. but this story has an issue that comes to mind something said by Yahtzee (you know, the Zero Punctuation guy), which is that “is this the most important part of somebody’s life? and if isnt, why arent you writing that?” i dont really agree with this statement 100% of the time, but i think this feels mostly like a snippet of a person’s life that isnt super consequential. really, nothing much hapens to the character. sure the standard zombie attack stuff does happen, but the character’s ideas on names or identity arent really challenged and your character ends mostly where they began -- disconnected and wandering in a broken world. sure they got the battery but like… that doesnt matter. i think the names and identity stuff is pretty good, but i was left wanting more out of this rather than a small snippet of a standard survival story. this has a common issue that ive noticed in a lot of TD fiction, which is that this feels like a “starter story” aka a story that explores the character and some ideas, but the story around it isnt particularly relevant to the characters and ideas or it doesnt try to explore those characters in any real capacity. as such, i wanted more out of this story in terms of actually exploring its themes and ideas and character rather than a small bit of a generic zombie survival story. JossiRossi this has quite a bit of mechanical issues but the heart of it is alright. i find myself not particularly gelling with the characters, with the main woman being kinda nothing besides a sort of nonsense bureaucratic enforcer. the kid is actually sort of alright, and the conflict around the money is something thats a bit cliche but it is at least interesting. i think you needed to find that center a bit quicker, though, since it sort of comes out of nowhere that the kid valued doing the job and being trustworthy than the money. however the characters work and make decisions to solve those issues and there is some decent tension here with the kid. i also think the perspective shifting doesnt quite work for me. its a bit jarring, even with it being motivated by the scene shifts, and i think the woman perspective just… isnt quite all that interesting? idk i just find myself centering onto the kid since they seem like they have the most to explore within the flash and i think this story isnt quite certain where its heart lies. shwinnebego this story hits a personal pet peeve of mine, which is a story constructed around somebody that the author clearly hates, and then constructing things around the character to make that person look terrible. its weird, and something i havent been able to quite reconcile in fiction, which is that Juliet’s ignorance is one meant to resemble people’s actual ignorance (which does exist) but because it’s in fiction, Juliet isnt a real person and so all the stuff about Juliet being unaware of things (esp egregiously is those 3 paragraphs about things happening to Muslim families that Juliet doesnt know about which just feels super mean spirited) are things that you, the author, make her unaware of. idk its something that has left a poor taste in my mouth and while there are people like Juliet irl. overall though, i think the issue is that this is mostly a soapbox story, and doesnt really try to do anything but make political statements about people like Juliet and their failures. im not saying you cant write political essays about shithead liberals, but as a story, it doesnt land with any weight. i think, in part, the issue is that Juliet just doesnt feel quite like a real person. i dont think you must write from a place of love, but i do think you need to write in from at least a place of empathy and understanding, and i dont get the feeling that you really want to explore about Juliet and what they do, but rather, just dunk on them. and dunking can be cathartic, but its just kinda “make up a guy to get mad about” level of fiction. Chairchucker hey whats up chucker. this is okay. i noticed all the dialogue and went who the hell wrote this and it was chucker and i was like okay yeah that makes sense. i think theres some decent bones here. jingles being a jester thats on the edge of being one of those cancel culture comedians (and the bit of never hearing the joke is pretty good) and the protag being just a dude who plays the straight man is pretty good. honestly, i think polly is a bit of a weak link. she’s a witch but she doesnt really have the same type of energy the protag and jingles has. she’s a little bit wacky but kinda lacks an archetype that doesnt really play off any of the other characters. i think i wanted more out of the witch. Toaster Beef the will they wont they is okay, although the specifics around the relationship is pretty barebones. there’s some chemistry, but it does tend to just be about physical attraction than anything which is fine ig, but it doesnt quite have that sort of history that id come from exes torn apart because of extenuating circumstances. then we get the twist which is fine but then kind of just deflates the rest of the story. like its just some magical force/dad that kept them apart? i was hoping for something that would force the story to change how we looked at these characters. they look outwardly as a happy couple, but there was something that forced them apart. if that something was something that painted the characters in different lights, like a trait or job or event, this couldve had a good twist that would make us reconsider how we viewed the relationship. as it is, its just two people playing coy about their relationship because they have a disapproving dad which is just meh. the fact the dad is poseidon just isnt enough and actively deflates the story. like it wouldve been interesting if the reason they broke up was because of a flaw one or both of them had! but nope, theyre just two people who are attracted to each other who cant be together because their dad said no. yawn. just because their dad is poseidon doesnt change that. they also dont even struggle against the dad. they just accept it, gently caress, and then move on. Thranguy there’s some good tone work here and i like the characters quite a bit. but its all kinda setup innit? a lot of it has good energy, but it feels more like an exploration of the character and tone, which is fine. its pretty fun and could make a good, longer story. but it aint a longer story, so it kinda just deflates at the end and doesnt really go anywhere. but yeah jack and his granddaughter have a good dynamic and id like to read more about them if you ever go back to them, just in a more complete story without a bunch of setup. beep-beep car is go personally i WANT to like stories about mature people having a mature conversation about their relationship but also… its just kinda boring LOL. can this never work? idk but it doesnt here. i dont really have a good handle on these characters. tonally they are pretty indistinct. not much either happens and the characters are very quick to go “here is my issue”, “omg sorry, ill try to do better about it!” which just… isnt really a conflict. i remember sebmojo saying a good conversation in fiction is like a fight scene, with testing and advances and retreats and the like, and think thats part of the issue here. theres no sparring, no real apprehension, no fear of putting yourself out there. characters are quick to put themselves out there and theres no real tension because of that. also, the relationship just feels generic, with no real chemistry or history that gives energy to the character. i think the issue here is that the character flaws just dont really feel… there. like ones a bit of an overworker, the other one is an insomniac and the issue is… they dont go on enough dates? im not necessarily looking for a big drama filled mess of issues, but there doesnt seem to be any major issues going on here lol. so its a fine bit of decent dialogue between people but there’s just no energy. rohan a story about a happy go lucky animal that slowly befriends the crotchety old man. we can see all the bits and where were going to go and i found myself not really particularly engaging with this story because i knew exactly how it was going to go because its been done a hundred times before. its fine and cute but its just so hard to be engaged when i know whats going to happen and where the story is going basically straight from the start. mechanically its okay, altho i think brock’s change, particularly the inviting barry inside, felt a lil unmotivated and the really satisfying parts of these stories is where we get to see that shift from a crotchety old man open up and be kinder, but that moment kinda happens really quickly without much explanation or effort from any of the characters. if anything i would want barry to do more in this story and try to get brock to open up, its mostly barry bemoaning the fact that he has to deal with brock until brock just kinda relinquishes. also, not a fan of the names. i understand the badgers = B starting names, but brock and barry are just too similar esp given that they get said so much because they share pronouns. if youre married to the B starting names, id probably have given barry a nickname or something.
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May 8, 2024 21:33
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In like Flynn
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May 9, 2024 01:17
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May 11, 2024 05:57
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Small Rabbit, Big Sound 1314 words Lil’ Bun checked himself in the mirror one last time. His floppy ears, dyed white with faux diamond earrings, looked good against his otherwise sleek brown fur. His new waistcoat was looking sharp, his bare chest peeking out with a dozen faux gold chains. He gave himself a nod and headed out of his bedroom when Mama blocked his way, and he gave a sigh. “Lamarr Rabbit, where do you think you're going, boy?” She demanded. “The club.” he said, “Tonight’s my night.” He tried to stare her down and failed. “The hell you done to your ears? I swear, boy, this hippity hop nonsense will be the death of us all. And that waistcoat!” She stood there, paws on big hips, sneering in disgust. Lil’ Bun tried to move past to the door but she easily pushed him back. “Mama, I got a life, the boys be waitin’ and my waistcoat be fine.” He reached past her for the door and she gave way with a roll of her eyes. “Fine? That be gaudy. Well, you go get yourself in mischief, all you’re drat good for. I did my best, working sunup to sundown to raise three boys on my own, and lawd, I guess one’s gotta be a messup!” Lil’ Bun had heard it all before. He loved his Mama, but she was seriously cramping his style. He knew that if tonight went well, a recording contract with Dr Deer might just appear, and he would be able to afford his own crib. And real diamonds and gold, and lots of tail. So much fine tail. And no more digging vegetables to survive. ~ Outside the club, young woodland animals were gathered all about taking final snorts and drinks in a haze of kindbud smoke, rowdy and wearing waistcoats that would give their mamas' fits. Their loud voices almost drowned out the wicked beats coming from inside the giant hollow oak. Big Nutz was looking around making sure the East Woods Boyz weren’t packing, and he could see them eyeing him and his crew for the same. Big Nutz bro fisted Lil’ Bun when he hopped up and passed him a bottle of Hennessy. “Yo, Nutz, poo poo be jumpin’. We all set?” Lil’ Bun followed the fat squirrel’s eyes. “Truce still holdin’?” “For now. Them bitches look surly, watch your back. Blue waistcoats left, red on the right, orders of Dr Deer, we best abide. His club, his rules.” “Word. Let’s get inside…oh look bro, he's here!” Lil’ Bun motioned with his chin to a pig in a red vest and bandanna. Piggie. His adversary looked over and their eyes met across the crowd. Lil’ Bun tried not to blink as Piggie nodded and sneered before heading inside. It was time. Lil’ Bun steeled his nerves and followed Big Nutz and crew towards the doormen. The three Wolf brothers nodded as they went in, and they found tables and admired passing tail, between staring hard at the red waistcoats on the other side who did the same. Suddenly the music stopped and all looked to the stage. Dr Deer took up the mic. “Tonight we settle the beef ‘tween West Wood Crew and East Woods Boyz. First to stutter, flutter or mutter loses bigly. So! From the east, the renowned Piggie Balls. From the west, a new playa, Lil’ Bun!” Dr Deer put back the mic and trotted to his table, face inscrutable behind black sunglasses as whoops and hollers flooded Lil’ Bun’s senses. Big Nutz slapped Lil’ Bun on the back as he got up. “You got this.” On stage, Lil’ Bun looked across the vast crowd and took a deep breath as the beats started, and Piggie grabbed the mic. Lil’ Bun folded his arms and scowled at him as he started his rap. Yo, check it, it's Piggie Full custom oink oink sound In the sty, bitches all around This boy here, whats his name? Lamarr Rabbit, He aint found fame Only fail, that's why he gets no tail! Shouts and whoops and oohs came from the right, but Lil’ Bun stood unfazed. Piggie swung the mic around and slammed it back into the stand. Lil’ Bun marched forward to take it as his beats came on. Oh Piggie Pig, don’t you see? You’re fat n’ wide, poo poo no waistcoat can hide My waistcoat fits like a fiddle Yours just looks sad ‘n little!” Louder whoops and laughter filled Lil’ Bun’s bravado even more, as he dropped the mic from one paw to the other before slamming it back, and stood once again defiant. The beats changed and grew louder with the crowd. Piggie grabbed the mic with a frown. Yo, stupid rabbit thinks he’s bold He just aint been told Piggie rolls with three fine bitches Bunny boy here, he diggin’ ditches!” The crowd went wild. Shouts of sikes! and lawdy! filled the smokey haze thick as the beats Big Nutz had mixed as they came on. Lil’ Bun stood unmoved and wagged a finger to the crowd. He took it up. Yo, listen up and hear this rhythm I’m Lil’ Bun and that boy’s swine He rolls in mud and thinks everything’s jus’ fine But He can’t run, he can’t hide Farmer’s gonna take more than his pride, gonna take his hide, crucified He’ll be a football, a thing he can’t abide, and I’ll be in my ride Cadillac, big and black, leave you with a broken back Oh, Piggie pig, don’t you see? All them bitches will soon belong to me Tails twerkin’, workin’, so fine, all mine, gettin’ it all the time In the club every night, til first light, kindbud burnin’ bright Playas left and right bowin’ down Lil’ Bun, the new king in town Waistcoat by Versace, Armani, Gucci, it matters none Cause you’re done Crucified, no hide, found out too late your mama lied I’ll think of you when rollin’ in sugar ‘n spice You with rats ‘n mice, bacon cold as ice Sweat ran down Lil’ Bun as the crowd went louder than it had ever been. He looked from face to furry face and smiled. He could see Dr Deer nodding with approval and the East Woods Boyz looking to each other, paws and hooves on faces in shock at Lil’ Bun’s comprehensive diss. He walked up to Piggie and offered the mic. Piggie took the mic, beady eyes looking with murder at Lil’ Bun, who just folded his arms and waited. Piggie tried to begin. “This rabbit…” Piggie gulped, “He...he’s..” Dr Deer stood up, shouting LOSS as Big Nutz lifted Lil’ Bun’s arm. Piggie Balls had stuttered. Or muttered, maybe even fluttered, or all three at once, depending on who told the story of the greatest rap battle to ever to go down in the wood, not since Weezy Witch vanquished the late Grizzly B. Red waistcoats made for the door as the crowd chanted Lil’ Bun’s name, while Dr Deer welcomed Lil’ Bun to his table with open arms and a golden smile. ~ Mama Rabbit cried and fussed as Lil’ Bun packed for his new crib. The new TV and oven he had bought her, along with paying off her burrow, had made her proud of him at last. “Now, Lamarr, you take care now, and… I heard that song of yours on the radio. I am concerned at your language, and… talking of ladies like that.” “Oh mama, it’s like…art, yeah, art, don’t mean I’m a pimp or… anything.” “Yeah, Mrs Rabbit, people just be talkin’ poo poo they don’t mean.” Big Nutz added helpfully. “Is that right? Well I don’t want to hear no more hippity hop art around here. You boys take care now. You watch him, Norman.” “I got his back, Mrs Rabbit.” said Big Nutz, patting the slingshot in his waistcoat pocket.
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May 11, 2024 09:49
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The Big Four Flash Prompt: Fairy godmothers Parsely, Sage and Rosemary have killed THYME Word Count: 1309 When people noticed their bruschetta tasted like soggy bread with tomatoes on it, and their chicken lay on the plate, bereft of flavour, they realised that Godmother Thyme had died. The news spread like wildfire throughout the city. Every restaurant closed. Every chef, even the illegal ones, prayed. Everyone waited for the Lamiacae crime family’s response. The family had come from the Scarborough Fair: Fairy Godmother Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme, and they were well versed in crime. In a few days they had run Boss Salt out of town, and made Godfather Mint bow down. Unchallenged, they ruled the kitchen with an iron chef. And now, one of their own lay dead. Their letter arrived mere minutes after I heard the news, and the language in it let no mortal think it was a request. The Fairies may be skilled in magic, but they lack deductive skills. Which naturally meant they needed the skills of the Great Hercule Gourmet, professional detective, amateur cook. They met me at the crime scene, Rosemary looking as robust as ever even as she cried and Sage standing with her arms at her sides, always ready to give a disparaging look in between shudders of grief. Parsley was the only one holding it together, bright and cheery as ever, but even she held a handkerchief to hold back crocodile tears. We stood in Thyme’s office. In quieter times, I could imagine the fairy godmother sitting at her desk, typing on the computer, performing blue-collar crimes. Now, the office was a bloody mess. Bullet holes covered the walls, the desk and even pieces of paper as I picked one from the floor. A shot from a .45 had left a hole in the centre, and the rest of the paper covered in crimson. Blood covered the walls, the ceiling. A security camera dutifully recorded every moment. “You have, of course, the tapes?” I asked, eyeing a glass that had unremarkably remained unbroken. Beside it a bottle of Tums. Parsley snapped her fingers and two servants rolled in a tray with a TV atop it. They stepped through the crime scene and I looked disdainfully at them. Unperturbed, the servants played the video. Thyme stood in her office, green-purple outfit contrasting against the almost stuffing white of the office. She was sorting a pile of papers when two shots rang out. A red stain appeared on her suit. As bullets sprayed the desk, the papers flying everywhere, she screamed, “No!” Thyme rushed towards the unseen attackers. A scuffle occurred off camera, blood sprayed everywhere. Thyme came back on screen, holding one of the men by the throat. His arms were missing. She interrogated him, but before he could answer, more attackers streamed into the office. One even managed to drive a knife in between her ribs. She just glared at him, ripped open his throat and went after the others. In the end, she stood amongst the remains of her attackers. She staggered, uttered one last gently caress you, and died. “Well, she was known as Thymus Vulgaris,” I stated, then eyed the godmothers and their wands warily. The fact that I wasn’t turned into a fish told me more than any interrogation could. “Who did this?” the godmothers said in unison. “I’ll know by tomorrow. Call me then.” I handed Godmother Sage my card, then left the confused fairy godmothers to their faux-grief. =+= The next day, I had delectable delights for breakfast. Lemon shortbread cookies adorned with parsley, Sage brown butter blondies, and Rosemary olive oil cake. I bit into each one, waited, and tasted them again. When the cookies tasted like ash, I pocketed the treats, and made my way to the Lamiacae headquarters. By the time I got there, the police had already arrived. Yellow tape cordoned off the entrance to the skyscraper, and the police stopped me . A mention of my mere name, and that I was on the case, let me through. My request for a glass of water confused them. Even though I had not been called, I had arrived. The Great Hercule Gourmet does not choose the cases, the cases choose him. After a hefty amount of stairs, I arrived at my destination. A knock at the door was sufficient, for one must always use manners when dealing with murderers. The door opened, and I entered. Rosemary hardly noticed me, frantically on her phone, sometimes holding two at a time. Compared to Thyme’s office, her’s was gigantic, even containing a closet. When Rosemary continued to not notice me, I gave a polite cough. She immediately went for her wand, but paused when she saw me. I said, “I know you didn’t kill Parsley.” She sank into her chair, as if a large weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Mr Gourmet, I need your help. Someone is targeting my sisters!” “Strange that you do not include yourself in the list of targets.” I said, then wandered over to the closet. It was large enough for my purposes. “But you are right. In fact, I know you killed Miss Thyme.” “Surely you are mistaken. You must have taken ill, too much sugar perhaps?” “I participated in the war. For your kind, bullets are only an inconvenience. She was poisoned. By you.” “I assure—” “It was the bottle of Tums,” I said. “Thyme is weak to changes in acid. You are not. You forgot to clean up. But you didn’t kill Parsley. That I know. A murder needs four things: method, means, motivation and a murderer. I know three, but do not know the motivation. Rosemary looked blankly at me. “How?” “No” I said, and stepped into the closet. “Why?” I promptly closed the door. Before Rosemary could react, another visitor arrived. Rosemary shouted, went for her wand, but she never got the chance. A stream of magic shot out, and she crumpled to the ground. A few seconds later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I carefully opened it, and listened. “Mr Gourmet? Your presence is required, there has —” I opened the door of the closet. Godmother Sage stood, phone in hand, over the still form of Rosemary. “—been a murder,” I finished for her, and closed my cell phone. “How did you know?” She asked, and levelled her wand at me. “It was a matter of Thyme,” I said. “Bullets don’t threaten her, yet she screamed when her papers got ruined. The papers that, thanks to a little restoration efforts, show that she was going to allow all herbs in the kitchen. And that gave you an idea.” I flipped my phone open, showing the evidence, and hit record. “How easy was it to turn the others against Thyme?” “I should have done it sooner.” Sage lifted her wand. “Answer me. How did you know it was me?” “Clearly, I was hired only to be a distraction. The most probable murderer was one of you. I assumed the surviving victim would call me as soon as the other had died, but the murderer would wait to eliminate the survivor. Since Rosemary did not have my number, and I had not been called, that left me with you. My only question is why?” “I hate competition. The others needed to be erased. The only taste people should ever need is me!” Then she raised her wand. I too had anticipated this, and threw one of the lemon shortbread cookies at her. As she was distracted, I grabbed a mirror, and deflected her ill aimed blast back at herself. Where once a robust Fairy godmother stood, now a fish flopped on the floor. An officer arrived with a glass of water and a confused expression on his face. I fished my cell phone from my pocket and played Sage’s confession. I pointed at the flopping godmother and said, “Arrest this fish!”
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May 12, 2024 03:14
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Bedtime (Word Count: 1,180) Even before Grandmother had switched the lights off she could already hear the rustling of blankets behind her. As she turned she let out an exasperated sigh as the two beady eyes of Granddaughter shone against the newly arrived darkness. The young girl didn’t have to speak, they had played this game long enough that the routine had become all too familiar to Grandmother. “Fine, you can have one more story but then it’s time to sleep. Now, which shall it be?” Grandmother smiled, sitting upon the chair besides Granddaughters bed, “I’ve told you of the Whispering Winds that come across the valley and the Oldest Peak which few have ever climbed. Ah, I know,” Grandmother shifted lightly, getting herself comfortable as she did before telling any of her many stories. “Have I ever told you of the River Spirits?” - - - When the mountains were young and the tress of the forest still growing there lived three spirits. Uma was the eldest, a curious and carefree soul who spent much of her time fluttering through the sky as fast as her wings could carry her. Second was Lymia who was known to be hotheaded but protective of her two sisters. She would always argue with them about the dangers of the world they lived in though Lymia would do this from a place of love. The youngest of the trio was small and delicate Bryn, a prankster who delighted in playing tricks upon her siblings. Whether together or apart the three sisters spent much of their time caring for the creatures and plants of the land as is the duty of all spirits. One day the ever curious Uma was taking her usual morning flight across the lowlands when she spotted an unusual shape upon the ground. After getting closer to the earth she could finally make out what looked to be a large rock, odd markings upon its surface and not where one had been before. As soon as her feet touched the grass however she noticed something usual. The rock, unlike all other rocks she had known, began to move. First one leg and then another followed by two more. Before Uma could even react she soon found herself face to face with the head of their creature which had been hidden beneath what was in fact a shell. “Oh Spirit,” The now revealed turtle said, its old eyes filled with lament as it spoke, “I am stuck, lost and far from home. A great storm arose as I swam the seas and I now find myself here. The mud has trapped my body and I can not get back to shore, won’t you help me?” It was not within Uma’s nature, or any good Spirit for that matter, to ignore the plea of any animal and she readily agreed to help the turtle. First she tried to pull the creature although her small stature was not enough to cause the turtle to budge even an inch. Next she moved towards the animals back and pushed as hard as she could. Again, there was no luck as the turtle seemed to get even more stuck in the mud. Sitting aside the turtle she tried to reassure them that they would be free. With Uma’s attempts not making any progress she called for the aid of her two sisters. The first to arrive was Lymia who, upon having the situation explained to her, gave her sister a polite telling off for not being careful enough when approaching the now revealed turtle. Uma could only roll her eyes as Lymia asked her to stand back. The turtle groaned as first Uma tried to pull him forward with a strong grip upon their wrinkled head. When this failed to shift the stricken creature Lymia took a few long crashes into the back of the creature’s shell in an attempt to force him loose. Unfortunately for them all there was still no change in the turtle’s circumstance, a deep sigh escaping revealing their shared frustration. A few moments later Bryn arrived and spoke to her sisters and their turtle. They explained the predicament they were in and what they had tried so far. Bryn did not even dare try what they had done as she knew that, being the smallest of the three, her own attempts at moving the turtle by force would end the same way. For a while there was silence as the three sisters sat besides the turtle and tried to think of a solution. They knew that the sun was soon to reach its apex and the poor turtle was exposed where it lay. They would need to find some way to get the creature back to the ocean as soon as possible. It was at that moment that an idea sparked in Bryn. They were Spirits after all and their strength was not in brawn but magic, the powers of the natural world itself. Without explaining what she was planning with her sisters or the entrapped turtle she flew a short distance back and up the slopes that bordered the landscape. With a few solemn words and a light dance the ground began to bubble beneath her. Water began to break through the surface and tumbling down towards the turtle. The flow crashed against the back of the turtle’s shell, dislodging it ever so slightly although not enough to get moving. Uma and Lymia seeing what their sister was doing needed no more guidance. They too flew near to where she was and repeated the same incantations and movements of their youngest sister. Within moments two new streams had risen from the ground and began flowing towards the turtle. The three streams, though individually small and weak met as one at the turtle and merged into a great river. Within moments, the turtle was free and waving their goodbye as the river carried them down towards the ocean. The three sisters rejoiced as the turtle vanished from view, the river now flowing by itself without the magic of the Spirits. Pleased at their hard work they spend the remainder of the day playing amongst the other creatures of the land. Even the turtle, once it had reached the sea and met up with its family, expressed joy and told everyone about the three sisters he had encountered. Soon it became a tradition for the turtles to swim to this land, climbing up upon the beach to meet with the River Spirits. As for the river itself well, to this day we still call the three streams that make up the Great River by the names of each of the three sisters as a reminder. It helps us remember that together we are stronger than were we to attempt something alone. - - - “They still say that…” Grandmother began before noticing the sound of snoring coming from the blankets, Granddaughter had finally fallen asleep. The old woman smiled once more as she stood from her chair to head back towards the door. There would be time for more stories tomorrow night.
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May 12, 2024 19:22
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The Ogre’s Cakes (1036 words) In those days there was an ogre who roamed the country, devouring everything he found. He would eat men and cattle, spitting out only the biggest bones. He would empty grain silos in a single gulp. He would grab every cart at a town market and empty it in his enormous mouth, grabbing another one even as he chewed. He ate so ravenously he would often bite his own fingers to the quick, and they were covered with scars. And so the whole country lived in fear, and no one dared to cook anymore lest the smell attracted him. Once he ate all berry bushes in the Fairies’ Forest, thorns and all, and then he quenched his thirst by drinking all the Glamoured Lake and revealed all the treasures hidden underneath. Upon which the Chancellor of Fairies cursed him, that his mouth would close forever after he ate the three best cakes in the world. From then on when he devastated a village in search of food, or when he devoured a whole flock of sheep, he shouted at the fleeing folks : “Nothing can stop me! I will eat all I want, until I eat the three best cakes in the world, and the fairies’ curse closes my mouth forever!” This came to the President’s ears, and he came up with a plan : he would see to it himself that the three best cakes in the world be baked, and invite the ogre to eat them, which would solve the problem. As luck would have it, in the capital there was a confectioner so knowledgeable and talented, that he had grown conceited and been jailed for the crime of aristopastry. The president commanded him to prepare three perfect cakes large enough to interest an ogre, in exchange for his freedom, and the confectioner sent envoys to fetch the best foodstuff from all corners of the world and the country, for all a cook’s art is nothing without the right ingredients. Finally he toiled a day and a night with two apprentices, in the secrecy of his refurbished workshop. And meanwhile the president sent heralds everywhere, announcing that the three best cakes in the world would be on display in the capital the day after. Daylight came, and the appendices brought forth the cakes, on a very large trestle set up in the gardens of the Presidential Palace. Ministers, parliamentarians, journalists had gathered in front of the table, where a pulpit had been set for the president. The confectioner, exhausted, leant against a wall, apart from the crowd. By noon, at last, the ogre appeared, red-faced, slobbering, chewing his lips impatiently. He stopped comically in front of the table, leering at the three cakes, and then he started on the first one without listening to the President’s speech. The first cake was a sturdy chestnut flour cake, flavored with molasses and rum, spiced with cinnamon and anise, brown like fallen leaves, ocellated with roasted pineapple slices. It smelt of distant journeys and forgotten dreams, and onlookers felt the world became less beautiful the ogre devoured it in a few bites and moved on. The second was a humble peasant cake, barely more than a loaf of bread, nothing but the most tender wheat flour, the ruddier eggs, the softest butter and the finest sugar, but assembled so expertly, baked with such care and talent as to rival the most sophisticated fare. No yeast, no seasoning, nothing but the scent of childhood and oven. The ogre swallowed it whole. The third one, bigger than the other two, was a pear and chocolate cake, dark and sweet as an arbor’s shade. The dough used a mixture of almond and buckwheat flour, and it was so soft that a falling feather would have made a dent in it. Pears softened in syrup stood throughout the apparel, and small beads of hard, airy meringue swam between them. The cake was topped with a single wild strawberry, wrapped in spun sugar, on a bed of chocolate shavings inside a crown-shaped shortbread cradle. The ogre started tearing into it and shoving runny pieces into his mouth, so brutishly that the topper rolled under the table and he forgot about it. “Now your reign of terror comes to an end,” said the President when he was done. “You have eaten our cakes, and will be without a mouth soon.” “So I am,” he bawled, “ and yet I ate them.” In his fright and horror, thinking he could no longer eat, the ogre started devouring everything about him, first the president and his pulpit, then the whole buffet set up for celebrating the victory, then a ceremonial mounted guard. The terrified ministers and parliamentarians scattered. But the brave baker, who had seen the topper roll under the table, dove to retrieve it and set after the ogre. The creature had started rampaging through the capitol, swallowing entire monuments and trams full of people. It was only when he stopped to drink the river dry that the confectioner caught up to him, and, gathering his courage, brandished the last piece of his cake in front of the ogre’s fierce, shaggy head. The ogre looked at the topper with wonder and sorrow. He grasped it and put it in his mouth, without the confectioner. The shortbread crown broke between his teeth like bones, and crumbled into coarse, delicious paste. The spun sugar brushed his palate in a sweet instant and vanished. The chocolate shavings, thinner than silk paper, dissolved immediately, their complex flavors bursting all at once in his slobbering maw. And the last thing he tasted, in the wake of that concert of flavors and textures, ending it with a perfect note, was one mellow wild strawberry, picked among a thousand, so fresh and so rich he could feel its redness on his enormous tongue. Then his mouth closed, forever, and he could no longer eat anything or anyone. All was well with the world again. The people elected a new president, the confectioner returned to jail, and the ogre wasted and withered until he got so thin that a gust of wind carried him, and he disappeared in the bright blue sky.
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May 13, 2024 00:31
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The Three Shadows Word Count: 1305 This is a story told to me by my grandfather when I was young and unable to sleep. It was that time of night where the world has gone quiet. I left the bedroom and walked downstairs, a full moon filled the rooms with cold light. My grandfather sat in the living room quietly reading a book. He took a look at me, slid a bookmark between the pages and set the book down. “Can’t sleep, kiddo?” my grandfather asked. I shook my head. “Want to hear a story about your most famous relative from long ago? I nodded, glad. I always loved the stories of our ancestor. “Grab that blanket and curl up on the couch.” I did, and then my grandfather started telling me about a tale about my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. “When he was a young man, your ancestor, who had the same name as you, remember?” I nodded sleepily. My grandfather started to tell me the story ----- Well, James was travelling between cities. He’d had a lot of rough days and weeks, and was not sure what to do. Where to go. It was a confusing and scary time, but James was doing his best. As he was travelling, a cold wind had just begun to rush through the leaves and branches around him. A heavy rain was going to come next, James could feel it. Nearby, he heard the creaking of hinges and wood slamming. There was a door, and maybe a place to weather the storm! He found the door, it was pressed into a cliff and covered with moss. Behind the door was a small cave. A single room carved from rock. It had been abandoned some time ago, but a few worn tools and empty boxes remained. James closed the door behind him and tied it shut with some frayed rope. Then, the rain started. It hit against the rough door like waves crashing at the beach. James fell to the back of the small cave. A bright flash exploded just behind the door Moments later thunder screamed at the young man demanding to be let in. James covered his ears and tried to find a safe corner to hid in, but couldn’t find any. James hummed a song his grandmother had sung for him when he was younger than even you are. James lay on the cold ground holding his pack of supplies close and humming, and while the rain and thunder and lightning tried to break down the door, they soon got bored and left. The rain leaving behind a single cloud to softly keep trying the door, just in case. ----- “James was so tired, he really wanted to sleep. Just like you, right kiddo?” I shook my head, eyes having a hard time focusing. “Had to try!” My grandfather gave a quiet version of his rough laugh, not wanting to wake my grandmother in the next room. He continued. ----- James was tired, but he was also very cold. The damp rock walls were hungry for the heat of the young man. James drug pieces of the broken crates to the center of the room and using his tinderbox lit a small fire. James laid down his sleeping mat, curled up in the thick cloak Cordiala had given him many years before. Before his mistakes made him have to leave. But the cloak was still a comfort and reminded him of many good things as well. James closed his eyes and as all thoughts had finally silenced, just before even the dark would melt away, he heard a voice. Somewhere behind him. Against the far wall of the cave. It was Anger. Then came another voice, this one softly crying. It was Fear. A third voice too, muttering and unsure. It was Doubt. He did not know how he knew these things, they seemed to echo from deep inside himself. James slowly turned to face the back wall of the small mine. As he sat up he saw his shadow grow against the wall. As it grew it split apart. Now facing him were three flickering shadows, not his own he thought. The shadows seemed to notice James. “Oh. He’s awake. Great.” Anger said. “I’m think I’ll leave.” Fear said. “I’m not sure I want him to talk.” Doubt said. Seeing these shadows made James’ insides all twisted and tight. “Just go back to sleep!” Anger fumed. “Please don’t hurt anyone.” Fear whimpered. “Better not doing anything, probably” Doubt questioned. These shadows were the cause of so much pain in James’ life. “What is the point of you!” Anger raged. “Need to escape.” Fear sobbed. “No right answer anyway.” Doubt disputed. Tears began to well up in James’ eyes. He pointed at Anger. “So many things in my life broken because of you. Never just taking a moment to calm down, to back off those feelings. I still remember that hole in my stomach when I looked down at my favorite walking stick snapped in two. For what? Because it was a long day? So, just slam the stick into the ground until it breaks. And when a walking stick wasn’t handy, just break friendships, relationships?” The shadow of Anger shrunk back against the wall. Barely visible above the floor. It lay there flickering. Pointing at Fear, James continued. “So many things in my life stolen because of you. Even when I know what I want. What to do. You strangle me down under the water. I still remember the utter despair of trying to walk into the school. The terror of the uncertainty inside. And in the end, not being able to go in. I left. I missed out on so much. And it did not stop. Education. Opportunity. Chances to maybe, just maybe, be happy.” The shadow of Fear shrunk back against the wall. Barely visible above the floor. It lay there flickering. The tears now fully obscured his vision, but James pointed at Doubt. “And you. Every waking moment for as long as I can remember. There was never a time that just trying to know what to do was a struggle. I can’t even be allowed to know what I want, what I feel. Even now. And I am just so very, very tired of it. There has been nothing in my life that has not be tainted by these thoughts.” The shadow of Doubt shrunk back against the wall. Barely visible above the floor. It lay there flickering. The room had begun to darken. The fire was going out. The shadows began to fade. They would soon be gone. James looked at the nearly dark fire. And placed a plank onto the embers. The wood began to smoke, and soon caught fire. The flames began to reach up from the old dry wood. James placed another shard of crate onto the fire. And then another. The shadows began to shimmer and dance, as they slowly rose back up. “Why?” Anger, Fear, and Doubt asked in unison. James sat on his pack and said, “Because Anger helps me stand up for myself. Because Fear helps me protect myself. Because Doubt helps me understand myself. I think that I need to listen better, not destroy these feelings.” “Sure do!” Anger said. “But, perhaps not everything must be a fight.” “You won’t like what you hear.” Fear said. “But, maybe we can face things together.” “I’m not sure.” Doubt said. “But, there’s an answer, even if we don’t know it just yet.” As the shadows spoke, their shades moved together. Forming just the single shadow on the wall. The one that James recognized as his. Exhausted, and with the fire warm against his back, James lay down on his mat, wrapped tightly in his cloak. Soon, your ancestor James fell asleep. ----- And so had I.
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May 13, 2024 01:42
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The Three Celestial Sisters and the Five-Sided Fortress of Nogol Blalorth Word count: 1211 In a not too distant future, three celestial sisters sit around a table in the heavens gazing down upon the Earth. Each sister is the very essence of one of the great lands on the Earth. They see, inhabit, and love all of the denizens of their lands. And they shape those lands’ futures. Saia, the middle sister, is holding court. “The days of the Ogre, Nogol Blalorth, are numbered. He knows it. And there is no way that I’m meeting with him to discuss ‘terms.’ Remember the last thousand times that we’ve tried that route? We know what will happen: he will dismiss us, then gaslight us, and if we’re lucky, mock us before leaving and promptly regrouping to ravage our lands all over again.” Caafri is the eldest, ever solemn. Her voice betrays the deep scars carried by her lands, people, waters, and creatures. “This is serious. The deserts, the jungles, the mountains, the mines, all of them, bled dry by Nogol Blalorth and his hordes of reavers over the past centuries. The people who live there are many, and they are organized. They are ready to fight the wicked sorcerer Nogol, but I fear for the fire and fury that he will unleash in response. Please, let us be thoughtful, sisters.” Erica is the youngest. To Saia, she sounds naive. To Caafri, hopeful. Erica weighs in, “The whole world, the parts of it that are us, can be so different, so beautiful. My own jungles are still rich with animals, plants, and peoples, and they dream of something better. I think we can talk to Nogol. After all, isn’t a bit simplistic and childish to believe in ‘evil ogres’ that are, well, just evil?” As they continued to discuss into the night, the spirit of the rabbit appeared before them. Rabbit, always at once a sage and a muse, filled the sisters’ hearts with the divine oceanic sense of time flattened and hope elevated. “Sisters, the age-long plague of Nogol Blalorth upon your lands is finally to end,” said Rabbit. “In his lair, you can find the word that can dispel and contain the Ogre forever. You must seek this word, and return here to speak it.” “My lands lie closest to the belly of the beast, and the hordes of Nogol Blalorth threaten your lands most acutely, sisters. I have to do this alone,” said Erica plainly. “Your eyes are clear as your heart is full, sister. Make sure your knives are also sharp,” said Saia. “Drink from this glass, sister. It contains the essence of an ancient mirror. With its power, you can manifest this mirror and reveal truth to those who would not see it,” offered Caafri. “I walk as one, though many we are, sisters,” replied Erica before vanishing from this higher plane to the Earthly one. On the Earthly plane, Erica was not Erica, but many things. The entrance to the lair of Nogol Blalorth was at the end of a great desert to the North. To enter it was nearly impossible for the human denizens of her lands, as the forces of Nogol Blalorth had built a ferocious barricade lined with fetid prisons, each a concentrated Hell on Earth. But for other beings, entry was possible. And so Erica became the great migrating mass of monarch butterflies, sweeping from the great forests, overwintering in the abundant urban milkweed gardens that managed to thrive even within the fallow lands of Nogol Blalorth, tended as they were by rebellious elements within his own domain. The migration took several years and multiple generations, but Erica’s essence endured among the monarchs. Finally, Erica’s host of monarchs found what must be the lair: a five-sided fortress marked with Nogol Blalorth’s many insignias of death and domination. None of the goblins and ghouls patrolling the inside seemed to register a few stray monarch butterflies making use of their halls. As Erica approached a room that she felt in her many bodies to be the site of the words she sought, one of the goblins finally took notice of her. The goblin brought a black device close to its mouth and mumbled an incantation, likely alerting other goblins to Erica’s presence. “What is this? What goes here? I know that butterflies do not behave like this. I minored in entomology for God’s sake! Is this some kind of drone surveillance test?!” Erica quickly arrayed the monarch butterflies into a single, reflective sheet resembling, from the goblin’s perspective, a mirror. The goblin, dressed in a pinstripe suit, gazed into the mirror of monarchs and saw a younger version of himself, near an encampment, chanting “We! Are! The 99%!” The goblin shrieked with horrible, knowing, recollection, and collapsed. Erica quickly flew her manifold lepidopteran form to the control center of the room, and read aloud the word inscribed on an orb pressed into the console. This would be the word that would restore balance to her lands, and to the lands of her sisters. In a flash, Erica was back on the celestial plane with her two sisters. Their faces were ashen. Erica could immediately feel why. “We are sorry, dear sister,” said Erica’s sisters in mournful unison. Erica extended her senses to her lands below, where the vast forest had been just two years earlier, and felt only emptiness. Hundreds of tree species wiped out, thousands of insects, dozens of fish, frogs, and snakes, all wiped off of the planet - wiped out from her own being - forever. “Nogol Blalorth realized that something was amiss shortly after you set off, and set his destructive machinery to work on your forests. There was nothing we could do to stop it, lest we leave our own precarious land defenseless,” said Saia “The pain you feel now, I have felt before, sister. But let us now use what you have brought back to end this forever,” offered Caafri. Erica felt an intense agony that permeated across her many bodies, a pain that transcended the planes that she lived in. She cried out a deafening wail that shook the ether of the celestial plane, mourning at once the loss of millions of her beloved constituent parts, each crafted over billions of years. She shared the word with her sisters, and they spoke it in unison. In their ancient tongue, it sounded something like “Yairds Loti.” Speaking the words broke the world apart. The people of their three lands were quick to unite and to strike into the core of Nogol Blalorth’s fortified territories. The rebellious elements within Nogol Blalorth’s lands, who never agreed with his evil ways, sometimes expressing their resistance through acts as tiny as planting milkweed for butterflies, sabotaged the machinery of his wicked kingdom. The prisons along the desert border were sprung open, and the barrier wall crumbled. The five-sided fortress was flooded with people who knew that something better was possible, that they deserved beauty and virtue, rather than violence and evil. Nogol Blalorth’s power waned, and would soon be no more. Erica still wept for what she had lost. But her heart swelled with the knowledge that a new future for all of her sisters’ lands, and indeed all lands, could now grow upon the ashes of the old order.
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May 13, 2024 06:18
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Quiet Feet posted:Fairy godmothers Parsely, Sage and Rosemary have run out of time. Doing Hard Time and Fairy Dust 908 words To a casual observer, Parsley and Topaz passing by each other would’ve seemed as innocent as a fairy and a gnome passing each other in the yard of a maximum-security prison could be. Parsley unwrapped the package back at her cell. Topaz had lived up to her reputation: nothing but the finest grade magical gemstones. She pulled a brick from the wall of her cell, stashed the gemstones, and replaced the brick. ~ “Your sentence is up soon,” said Rosemary. She and Sage were on the other side of a table from Parsley. “Too soon,” said Parsley. “Aurora’s still got another seven years inside, and I can’t protect her out there.” “Maybe you should’ve killed someone,” said Sage. Parsley raised an eyebrow. “Not someone nice. Maybe I should lay a death curse on some absolute blackguard.” Rosemary shook her head. “We’d definitely lose our fairy godmother privileges with a murder. As it is, Parsley has been lucky to retain some of her powers.” “Luck had nothing to do with it,” said Parsley. “It’s all about who you know. It’s fine though, our contingency plan can go ahead.” “You’ve got the other component?” asked Sage. Parsley nodded and glanced towards the guards. There was a strict ‘no touching’ policy that would make a handoff difficult. Rosemary nodded and wiggled her fingers at the guards. The enchantment only lasted for a moment; the guards all turned as one to the corner of the room furthest from the three fairy godmothers. When they turned back, there was nothing untoward going on and no reason to suspect anything from these sweet, innocent fairy godmothers, but if they’d bothered to weigh Parsley they would’ve found she was heavier by a few grams. ~ Parsley went straight back to her cell. Out came the brick, in went her new acquisition, back went the brick. Then she went out to the yard. Aurora was standing with the sirens. They seemed to have taken a shine to her. It was probably on account of all her singing, and the woodland creatures it attracted; at this moment, there were three crows, two bluebirds, a weasel, and a pelican around her as she sang. As Parsley made her way over towards them, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye; turning her head, she saw the ogress Griselda walking towards Aurora with intent. Parsley altered her trajectory to intercept her. “Hey Griselda,” she said, “lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” “What?” “The weather. It seems quite pleasant today, I think.” Griselda shook her head. “Never mind the weather. I’ve had enough of that accursed singing.” She started again towards Aurora. “Oh, not a music lover, huh? Or do you have a different style in mind? Who knows, maybe she takes requests.” “I’m going to eat her, and all her little woodland friends.” Parsley sighed. “Now why’d you have to go and say something like that, Griselda? You know I can’t allow that.” Griselda turned her head and stared at Parsley. “You are a tiny bug. You can’t stop me.” Parsley shook her head. “That’s not very nice either.” The unpleasantness that followed soon brought the attention of the guards. ~ “You’re sure you don’t have anything to tell us?” The warden was tapping a pencil on a clipboard, which she was peering over at Parsley. “Can’t think of anything. Was there something in particular you wanted me to tell you?” The warden frowned. “Griselda said a bug must’ve gotten in her eyes. I wouldn’t have thought bugs would do that much damage.” “Well, ogres are resilient,” said Parsley, “I’m sure she’ll be right as rain in no time, if maybe a little bit more cautious around bugs.” “Hmmmmm,” said the Warden. “We did a headcount after we’d taken the two of you away, what do you think we found?” “Depends,” said Parsley. “How many times did you count Laverne?” “We counted Laverne’s heads separately. She’s just at two, by the way.” The warden tutted. “Outside of her, though, there was one person missing.” “Oh?” “Don’t act stupid, I know the two of you were just creating a diversion.” “I’m genuinely baffled about whatever it is you’re talking about.” ~ “So, two more years onto the sentence, huh?” Sage was visiting once again. “If I’d known it was this easy, I’d have gotten into a fight a while ago.” “Yeah. If you’d killed someone it might’ve been the whole seven.” “Again with the killing?” Sage shrugged. “Come on, we’ve met some absolute brigands.” “Wouldn’t help now, since Aurora seems to have absconded.” “Does anyone known how?” “I’ve heard whispers that she climbed into a pelican’s beak.” “Seems farfetched,” said the other fairy. ~ Parsley met up with Topaz the next week. “So I guess now that Aurora’s gone and foiled your rescue attempts by getting herself out, you might have some contraband to get rid of.” Parsley shrugged. “Or we can use it. No use the two of us hanging around here for the rest of our sentence, right?” Topaz raised an eyebrow. “Not many people are keen to help a killer like me escape.” “Oh, I never did ask what you were in for.” Parsley thought for a moment. “You didn’t kill anyone nice, did you?” “Oh, goodness no,” said Topaz. “They were absolute scoundrels. Utter ne’er-do-wells.” Parsley smiled. “I’ll have to introduce you to my sister, once we’re out.”
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May 13, 2024 07:44
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Beastly 1314 words When I turned twenty my parents told me that I must marry a Sathax. “The price of peace, Donna” mother said. And I she was right. I knew about the arrangements made on Dmir. I knew these contracts were essential. I just never thought it would be me. Most worlds are immune to war. One species, one polity, was clear and overwhelming majority. Other communities were welcome guests, with powerful kin on other stars. Dmir was different. Two great city-ships arrived nearly the same time. Us Terrans, forced to spend our planetary wealth renting massive ships to disperse our population millions at a time after the Intervention. And the Sathax, hailing from the opposite arm of the galaxy, journeying through deep wells of Q-space unknown to the Gabb. Two polities, each numbering millions, sharing a world. Things were tense, in my great grandparents’ time. Now, we get along swimmingly. So. Bryc. My new husband, for the twenty year term of the contract. Deep blue, ah, mane. It looks like fur at least, from a distance. Up close it's more like scales. He's huge, two and a half meters when standing straight up. Weirdly cute. Nice guy. We set ground rules from the start, all reasonable. “Obviously the usual marital duties aren’t required.” His voice clicked like a radio station near a source of interference. “This is more a business alliance than anything like that. You are welcome to take a lover, or several.” “Will you?” I asked. “I am solitary by nature, and find my own kind poor company. Would you?” I nodded. “You have someone in mind?” Perceptive. “An old friend. Derek Vaughn.” “Excellent,” he said. “I can arrange an apartmeclose by. In the meantime, you have the run of the estate.” He handed me a keycard. “Save my offices on the third floor. I trust you, of course, but my lawyers...” The house was amazing. Luxury beyond anything at home, even with most of it designed for Sathax needs. Game rooms. A kitchen whose chef dumbsystem couldn’t be stumped. And the most amazing library, taking up the whole fourth floor, full of real books in dozens of languages. I prefer paper, but until then I was limited to a dozen proper book, everything else on screens. It was good to have that many distractions. Bryc went away on long trips frequently, was absent more than not. Derek was fun, at least. An imaginative partner. But it didn't last long. He mumbled apologies as he left, two months into the first year. I didn't miss him for long. I was too busy, after the accident. It was nobody's fault but mine. We were together, walking through the garden, past the menagerie, and I was too distracted by the sights to notice my screen buzzing a warning to disable my perfume-puff freckles. The scent aroused the Wycwurm in its cage, aroused and enraged and unleashed its full strength. It charged, tearing aside the gate and ignoring the electric barriers. It charged, and raked a claw across me, right shoulder to stomach to hip. I could see parts of myself people should never see, and I could see Bryc leap forward and rip the Wycwurm in half, before shock set in. I woke up on a steel bed, being tended to my his medical dumbsystem, an amazing piece of technology, programmed with the steps of every surgical intervention ever taught. Bryc was by my side, pacing with worry, grateful when I stirred. He helped me with my recovery, stayed with me. We got to know each other much better. He was kind, attentive, funny. One day I sort of made a pass at him. “It's a shame you're a different species,” that kind of thing. “We're not quite as incompatible as you may think,” he said. I must have had a shocked face. “Not genetically, of course. But mechanically. The parts are similar. The sensations are different, but, ah, pleasurable.” I caught something, some subtext. “I wouldn't be your first, would I? First human, that is.” He smiled. “We live for quite a long time,” he said. “I have had five of these contracts, and some took things to that level, yes.” So, three months into my marriage I slept with my husband. It was, he was, ah, sharp and bristly, but just enough to, you know, feel. The good kind of pain. After each time I was sore and trickling blood, but more satisfied than I'd ever been. And it was a few weeks after that when I found out I was pregnant. Derek's, of course. I saw the ultrasound scans from the medic machine. I knew, the second Bryc showed me those pictures, that I wanted to keep it, and he was warm and encouraging. “I've never had a baby around,” he said. “I treasure new experiences.” I decided not to bother Derek, not now. Three months later, when Bryc had just left on a long business trip, I ventured into the deep closets looming for something that could fit me. I found a whole rack of maternity gowns, which seemed strange. I contacted Bryc on my screen. You said you never had a baby here, but you have maternity clothes. Those would be Bella's. Her contract ended a few weeks before the child arrived. I grabbed a few likely outfits and carried them back to my room. And as I tried one on I noticed something stuck in the pocket. I pulled it out. An envelope, red writing on the front. ‘The medic lies.’ I opened it. There were pages in it, torn from some book, and also a small metal key with a tiny diagram attached. I looked over the papers. Medical diagrams. Technical terms, Sathax anatomical pictures. Some I wanted to look up, but my screen felt like a traitor. I left it there and went to the library, paged through the dictionary. Ovipositor:a tubular organ through which a female insect or fish deposits eggs. I don't remember the walk, just standing in front of the third floor office door. The keycard reader looked just like the diagram, which had one bolt circled. A false bolt that slid aside to reveal a keyhole. She used the key and walked inside. It was no office. It was a laboratory. There were five of them there. Sathax, mostly, but stunted and gibberish, barely forming words. Grotesque. But they were beautiful and I loved them all. I felt a kick. I staggered out of the lab and ran, back to my room, then to the kitchen. I grabbed the largest knife I could find. The further away from the office the more clearly I could think, and pages in the envelope made more and more sense. The Sathax are private about their anatomy, about their reproduction. They're asexual. They lay eggs in their livestock, and their children devour their hosts to be born. And with sentient hosts, each generation either twists to insanity or grows a deeper and deeper psychic rapport with the hosts. Their charisma. The decisions I've been making. Those of the next generation, with functioning minds they could make every human on Dmir into willing slaves, willing livestock. As they are, they would be better off dead. I convinced myself of that, and when I killed them it was an act of pure love. Then I went to the medical room. The dumbsystem couldn't make connections, would only react to circumstances. I asked it for painkillers and took what it offered. I traded the bloody knife for a scalpel. I felt another kick, which told me where to cut, skewered the writhing blue-scaled beast against the wall, struggled to stay conscious as the medical dumbsystem operated on my bleeding body. It wasn't over. I still needed to escape, to tell people. There was going to be a war.
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May 13, 2024 09:16
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Something Gnew in Etru 1314 words. Hear gnow the tale of Gnolfo, a gnome in the forest Etru. He spent every day, as did all of the fey, on lookout for anything gnew. He roamed through the brush, he checked on the moss, he sang with gnary a care. He picnicked with friends, Gnophur and Gnarmen, and they ate the most scrumptious fare. “I have puffballs and webcaps!” said Gnophur with glee. “I have honey from bees. I have gnettles and cheese,” said Gnarmen, who was gnever outdone. “I have lichen tea,” said Gnolfo, who poured for all three. The other two took a breath. And their eyes briefly met. But gneither found words to speak. “I… have strawberries too,” Gnophur shared with the group, “and cobwebs to dip them in.” “I’ll gnosh on those first!” Gnarmen said in a burst before taking the treat from his friend. They ate and they cheered, but something felt weird, though gnone said a thing ’til the end. “Well, after our feast I must off to the creek,” Gnophur said as he took his last bite. “Which one do you mean?” Gnarmen asked earnestly. “The one with the stink? Or gno, let me think, the one with large fish in her springs?” Gnolfo picked up some things saying, “What else did I bring? Oh—I know of the fish you speak! They stay gnice and low, they move slow, and their scales are a bright, shimmering orange.” Gnarmen blinked in response. He stammered, “Those ones.” He looked to Gnophur for help. The gnome only gaped, which for help was gnot great, and gneither knew what to do. With an awkward air, they tried gnot to stare, but something was wrong with Gnolfo. They said their goodbyes, but two gnomes on the sly met back up with their worries in tow. “Orange rhymes with GNOTHING!” Gnarmen said with a sting. “What in Etru is going on?” “He did gnot gnotice either, and such stilted meter! It was always too short or too long.” The two shared complaints, one tried gnot to faint, and decided they gneeded advice. The gnymph of the lake? They would know what’s at stake but may extract a terrible price. The trolls in their caves? Most gnomes kept away. They were helpful, but gnot always gnice. The witch in the grove? Gno—just, gno. The thought alone chilled them like ice. After some talk they began on their walk to ask the trolls for their help. They found one gnamed Gneebur, and asked for his leader. “Ahm biz-ee eet-een dis elk.” His head like a boulder, barely held by his shoulders, the two watched while he finished his lunch. Gneebur ate with great zest, and left quite a mess before saying, “Daz mee un-kull. U komm.” “Huu-mins,” said their leader, Gneebur’s uncle and kin. “Sma-shh huu-mins. Dee all-wees praw-blemm.” Gnophur scratched his head. “You think humans did that?” “Wee sma-shh,” offered Gneebur, the keen diplomat. The gnomes shared a glance. It seemed hardly a chance. “But humans stay out of Etru…” “HUU-MINS!!” trolls bellowed in fever, but loudest was Gneebur, the leader’s gno-gneck gnephew. The gnomes tried to discuss, but with trolls in a fuss all their thoughts went to forming a raid. They rumbled from caves, and blundered through glades to the humans who lived far away. Gnow by themselves Gnarmen asked, “Will this help?” His friend winced, “I can’t say… We’ll just have to see.” “But the trolls asked gno fee?” “I don’t think it’s the gnomes who will pay.” They left to see Minkle, who didn’t like people and kept to herself in her lake. A trickster with beauty, only pure sense of duty saw the two carry through: Gnolfo’s sake. They called out her gname, scared away all the game but alas, she did gnot respond. Gnophur’s heart picked up pace. “Let’s get out of this place, we can’t trust some tart in a pond.” It was then they felt heard, and worse they felt seen. Both turned around and stifled a scream. There stood a lithe creature, lady-like her features but her eyes held a dangerous twinkle. They stood in awe and fear, one fiddled with twigs in his beard for before them was the gnymph gnamed Minkle. Minkle heard their tale, and they tried gnot to wail as the plight of their friend was laid bare. The gnymph’s frosty look was like snow in a brook, melting away in a flash as they stared. “You poor little things, what help can I bring?” she warbled in comforting tones. “You speak like a song—W-We don’t know what’s wrong,” Gnarmen gnow saw how men were made drones. “This seemed an illness at at first, but gnow I’m suspecting the worst,” she hemmed and she hawed, and then sat deep in thought before saying, “I’m a afraid it’s a curse.” “A curse? Gno way!” — “What leads you to say?!” each gnome talked over his friend. “The witch in the grove, she’s shrewd and she’s old. If it’s her, I don’t know if he’ll mend. Go gather Gnolfo, and other fey folk, and let’s give this foul chapter an end!” They found the gnymph of the bog, some fairies in fog and a pixie with a pet bear. They found the elves and explained themselves but the elves—gnothing gnew—didn’t care. And last it was their friend Gnolfo, though how he was they did gnot know. They went to his home, thatched roof against stone, and their friend Gnolfo said, “I am sorry, I do gnot want to go.” The two were stunned for a bit, there was something that just didn’t fit. They asked him why, he replied “I just don’t want to,” and the gnomes were soon in a fit. “The witch did this! The gnymph of the lake—” He cut them off, “I’m afraid she’s mistaken.” “But how can that be?” He frowned at them and shrugged pensively. “There is gno curse. I’d feel worse if there was one, but I’m gnot. I’m feeling great.” They stirred from a sound and looked all around. There was gnome, and pixie, and bear. A gnymph or two soon joined the group and fairies floated in air. “We waited long, is something wrong?” asked Minkle, the gnymph of the lake. “Gnothing’s wrong!” exclaimed Gnolfo. “This is all too much to… to bear!” Low thunder rolled in, it caused quite a din, but it was only the trolls who returned. They looked tired and rattled, though sated from battle, said their leader, “dey huu-min vil-edg, izz burn.” The trolls were absurd, but then a thought stirred in the head of both of the gnomes. It was just like humans—the witch and the gnymph—and how they’re regarded by trolls. The witch of the grove was so powerful that Minkle may think her a threat. Gnot in a bad way, she respected the fey, but as being known as the best. So then what had happened with Gnolfo? He was gnot always this way. The fey stop the gnew from disrupting Etru, but what if their own… “I just want to say, I’m changing. I’ve changed. I can’t say when exactly, and I don’t know yet when it’s done. I kept it from you, gnot that I wanted to, but because I feared what might happen.” He talked about how he hid it. He talked about his fears. Gnone of his words rhymed, he gnever kept time, but the message still reached their ears. He saw the gnymphs with warm smiles, and a bear with pixie astride, Gneebur looked a bit bored picking teeth with a sword; the gno-gneck gnephew said, “All-rai. Iz gud gnum.” “Gnolfo, we’re happy you told us. And we hope your fear’s at an end. You’re a gnome of the fey, that won’t go away, and more than a gnome you’re our friend.”
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May 13, 2024 11:27
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Happy Monday! It's over! Submissions are closed! E: winner should be announced by some point tonight, crits posted by tomorrow afternoon. Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 16:06 on May 13, 2024 |
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May 13, 2024 11:41
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 Thunderdome DCXIV ResultsGotta admit, nothing really spoke strongly to me this week. Entries varied pretty widely in how close they cleaved to what a fairy tale is structurally or thematically. I'm not sure if I just noticed it more this go 'round or if it was a symptom of the prompt but it felt like there were a lot more typos in these than in previous weeks too. Gonna give the win to Bhaal and their story Something Gnew in Etru for taking a painfully ridiculous premise and a godawful flash rule and just running with them. No HMs, DMs, DQs, or losses this time. Crits should be up by some time tomorrow afternoon.
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May 13, 2024 23:53
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Thunderdome Week DCXV: Living in hell to pay the bills Much of my career has been in an office setting where nothing sensible was ever tolerated. This week's prompt will be my unhealthy coping mechanism for all the accumulated trauma. A miserable and insane life in corporate office hell should be featured in your story in some way. Will you be hopeful? Enact just so revenge? Either way, please have a 30 page slide deck ready and prepare to only have the first 8 pages ever seen by anybody in the presentation (note: please don't do that) Whether life is Kafkaesque, quotidian desperation, or a madhouse of busybody backstabbing and bullshit buzzwords. Whether passions are crushed by boondoggles, inept bosses, or Sisyphian condemnation, the specifics are up to you. Real life experience in this is not necessary, nor advised. Flash rules: Being a veteran and survivor of years in middle management, I long ago created a document detailing horrors witnessed first hand. It's well over a hundred bullet points and was my plan for years to become fuel for me to become the next Iannucci. Instead, I'll therapeutically turn some of those notes into your hell, too. For this project you have a word count budget of 1472 words for no good reason and a firm entry deadline of 11:59 PM Eastern on Friday the 17th. Submissions must be on my desk by 11:00 AM Eastern on Monday the 20th as that's when my interview that morning ends for yet another job in some circle of E: being my first go-round, I would love some help with judging Judges: Bhaal Quiet Feet ? Entrants: beep-beep car is go Elite Chernobyl Princess Paranoid Dude Fat Jesus JossiRossi Thranguy ? ? Bhaal fucked around with this message at 04:09 on May 15, 2024 |
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May 14, 2024 03:42
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In, with flash please.
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May 14, 2024 04:20
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beep-beep car is go posted:In, with flash please. You can prevent these, but be unwary and a little goof may happen while sharing your screen: with your boss, the CEO, or maybe just a few thousand of your closest coworkers. What shows up? What happens next?
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May 14, 2024 04:32
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I’m in.
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May 14, 2024 08:47
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Office environments are beyond my ken so I'll volounteer to judge this time around.
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May 14, 2024 12:21
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