Challenge #00840-B109: Penfold… Hush.
If we never meddled in powers we did not comprehend, how would we gain comprehension?
“Uh… by examining them with science? Preferably by non-invasive, passive means first?” suggested Penfold.
Blenkinsop glared at her. “Honestly. You’re such a wet blanket.”
“Wet blankets survive fires, Blenkinsop. All I’m asking is that you pay attention.”
She sighed and folded her arms. “Really.”
“Yes. There is a reason why you found these tools and instruments in the middle of a ruined temple. In the middle of a ruined city. In the middle of a ruined civilisation with a document-able trail of destruction… Which originated in the aforementioned temple!”
“But my translations–”
“Your translations may well be off. It’s not as if a cataclysmic destruction preserves ink very well. Did you even notice that the last pages of the book were burned? Or that the writer wrote down their own screams?”
“Well I did think it a bit odd. What if it was some kind of narrative device?”
“Blenkinsop…” sighed Penfold. “What earthy variant of narrative device involves bloodstains and traces of acid?”
Blenkinsop pouted. “It’s times like this that you take the fun out of everything, did you know that?”
“And you’re secretly glad, aren’t you?”
“Oh, hush, Penfold,” Blenkinsop blushed.
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Challenge #00838-B107: Prêt à Porter
Creating accommodating clothing and furnishing and such for the possibility that the wearer/user is taller or shorter or fatter or thinner than the average human being seems difficult enough for most modern manufacturers…
…what if they suddenly had to accommodate customers possessing other outside-the-average features… like additional pairs of arms, a snake’s tail instead of legs, an extra head or two, wings of various types, centauric forms, or other formerly-just-mythic anatomy?
The familiar complaint, “Oh, they never have anything in my size,” drifted through the cloth-lined labyrinth.
Tracy headed towards the potential commission only to find a horse. Well. Eighty percent of a horse. The head of the horse had somehow been replaced by the torso of a human.
She was huge.
Not fat. Hardly fat at all. But she was gargantuan.
“Can I help you?” Tracy risked. Am I still sane?
“These maxi dresses are the right length, but none of them are the right width. Do you have anything like this in a triple-X L? Or larger?”
“Sorry,” said Tracy. Possibly on automatic. “We only stock the smaller sizes. There’s one specialty store closer to the food court… you could try there.”
“Thanks anyway.“ The centaur, and delicately picked her way out of the shop.
Tracy had no time to think, That was weird… because her next customer had batlike wings sprouting from her back.
“Hi, excuse me. Where are the hip-huggers and halter tops?”
“Those are out of season,” apologised Tracy, trying not to stare. “They’re for summer only.”
The bat-winged woman sighed and sashayed out of there. She had a spaded tail and hooves.
“excuse me,” said a tiny voice by her ankle. “do you anything in a super-petite?”
That was a Gnome. And she was staring. “…try Toys R Us,” she managed.
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The Telephone Game, Divine Edition
A religious organization (modern or fictional), after following their particular holy text (or at least it’s translated editions) for centuries/millenia, if given a drastic and alarming shock one day, when their deity appears to tell the vast majority of them, basically, “Who told you I said all this? I never asked you to act like this at all, most of it is your own ideas! You’ve got everything completely wrong!”
(#00837-B106)
The day of Festival was in full swing. The
Unwanted in the pyres had stopped screaming and the annual Cleansing was
well underway. Houses, bodies, and belongings scoured with harsh lye
and bleach. This Festival, the ten thousandth of its kind, celebrated
the much-heralded re-appearance of Loran, the one true god.
Tolris, skin freshly stinging from her own Cleansing, took down the new list of Unwanted Tomes and set about removing them from her shelves. They would go outside into a small pyre for the public to view.
Her shop had no lock, and it was no surprise to find a customer already inside. She was paging through the ever-popular Holy Writ and muttering to herself.
“I didn’t say that… He didn’t do that. Honestly… how could that one even work?”
Tolris paused in the act of fetching her tongs. “Are you… quite well, my friend?” She also made certain she had her Heretic’s Whistle, just in case one of the Unwanted had somehow escaped the Cleansing.
“This book,” sighed the stranger. “Most of it’s made up. I thought you would all be fine for ten thousand years, but look! I never, ever said one word about hurting a single living being.” Fingers tapped the paper in agitation. “And here’s entire chapters devoted to how to prepare children for the sacrifice.”
“Yae, though the innocent come to Loran, ere they sin,” recited Tolris. “Being Chosen for the sacrifice of innocents is the very highest of honours. I regret missing my chance.”
The stranger boggled at her. “YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO WANT TO DIE! And it’s Loren. That, I can easily accept as a typo or language drift, but the rest of this? It’s appalling…”
Tolris brought the whistle to her lips and blew hard on it. No sound came out.
“Thus should the miracle occur,” recited Loren. “The accuser will make no sound, though they truly will it so, and the innocent shall be thus spared.” Loren looked up from the book. “I told them before I left that I had other business. I can’t keep my awareness in all places and all times. How many thousands were presumed guilty just because I was pre-occupied?”
Tolris blew again. So hard that she almost passed out. Nothing. “You are meant to appear in the holiest of places… and make your will known to the people.”
“The wealth of knowledge is my holy ground, and those who share it, my advocates,” said Loren.
Tolris
shook her head. “The lust for knowledge is avarice and abhorrent,” she
corrected. “Those who keep knowledge must guard it, lest the unworthy
become corrupted.” Reminded, she urgently rushed to seize the newly
corrupted tomes and remove them from existence.
Loren sighed. “Well, that explains why your tech level is still at the hand-tool stage… Why are you taking away books with those tongs?“
“I’m freshly Cleansed. I cannot touch that which is unclean, lest I become unclean in your sight…“
*
Thusly, the corporeal manifestation of Loran came unto the steps of the Holiest Sepulcher. And the holy men knew him not, and barred his way. And Loran clapped his hands together and lo, the men of the Sepulcher found themselves in the midden-piles and the pig sties, outside the mighty walls of the holiest city.
The corporeal manifestation of Loran raised his sandalled foot unto the doors that protected the High Administrate. And kicked them with one mighty blow that sent them spinning off their hinges. The High Administrate beheld Loran, and the High Administrate knew him not.
The corporeal manifestation of Loran held high the Book of Holy Writ and spake thusly: “WHAT THE HELL KIND OF NONSENSE DO YOU CALL THIS, THEN?”
“How did you get in here alive? How dare you talk to me in that tone of voice,” blustered the High Administrate.
The Book of Holy Writ burned in bright flames before him. “The name is Loren, and I am your god,” she said. “And all of you have been wilfully ignorant for ten thousand years! That’s beyond sinful! What the heck do you have to say for yourselves?”
“We followed the Holy Writ,” offered the High Administrate.
“You followed bull crap,” spake Loren, the corporeal manifestation of the Divine. “And you called it holy. I never should have let men write things down… You always manage to tilt it so that you wind up in charge.”
“If you had not wished men to lead,” said the High Administrate in an exhibition of what not to say to a Divine Being, “you would have made them into women!”
The corporeal manifestation of Loren snapped her fingers, and lo, all of the men of the church were women. And more, the sins of their lives were written clear upon their flesh, for all to read.
“You were saying?” spake Loren. And the corporeal manifestation of the Divine went out unto the Great Terrace, and made herself known to the people. And she brought back from the fires, all who had succumbed to the flames.
And lo, the people were confused.
And Loren spake unto them, saying, “Look. I know last time was a bit of a mess. Let’s try and get it right, this time around. Okay?”
And the people knew not what to think.
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Elvis has left the building
It’s August 1977, news has spread that Elvis Presley has died. For Amy & Zerachiel this is a problem. Niether can find them. Their department heads are furious, the records show that the King has just dissappeared and if Amy and Zerachiel can’t come up with the goods they’re fired. Might be that he’s not even human, mortal or even subject to either of their departments.
Amy = plain clothes demon
Department = Hell, collection agency
Zerachiel = plain clothes angel
Department = Heaven, new admissions
How would a covert meeting between them to exchange information over coffee at a local 7-Eleven go?
(#00836-B105)
1977.
In a darkened hallway, in-between seconds and invisible to normal mortal eyes, two figures squared off. They were an angel and a demon, and only experts can really tell the difference. They squared off in the same way that cats squared off, namely by staring intensely at each other, followed closely by some intense ignoring of the opposite faction.
Minutes ticked by.
“He’s mine,” said the demon. Hir name was Amy[1].
“He’s mine,” said the angel, who answered to Zerachiel. “He has spread more love through the world than hatred.”
“Ah, but many believe that his music is the tool of my master,” countered Amy. “And belief is everything, no?”
“No,” said Zerachiel flatly. “And, because his soul is in the balance, we must wait the Final Adjudicator.”
More minutes ticked by. “Where is he?”
“He’s late.”
“He’s never late.”
“This is the appointed time and place…” said Zerachiel. “Isn’t it?”
“Of course it is. Our masters wouldn’t send us, otherwise.”
“Then where is Azriel?”
“I AM EVERYWHERE,” said the dark shadow of Death. The one angel for everyone, guaranteed. “DO YOU NEED SOMETHING?”
“We’re here to collect a soul,” said Amy. “Elvis Aaron Presley? So-called King of rock and roll?”
“NOT HERE,” said Death. “NOT NOW.” And then its presence vanished from perception.
Amy and Zerachiel shared a Look. It said, Oh shit…
*
Now.
One slid the other coffee. They both nursed their disposable cups and glared at each other like cats.
“Da capo?” suggested Zerachiel.
Amy rolled hir eyes. “I’m not in the mood to go over decades of cold trails. News, thank you.”
“The tabloids have it wrong. Of course.”
“Of course,” sighed Amy. “And I was joking about them being right at all.”
“I’ve searched this entire orb. There is no sign or trace of him.”
“As have I. The only conclusion is that he no longer lives here.”
“If he lives.”
“He was supposed to have died decades ago!”
“I DON’T CARE WHAT THEY SAY,” said the passing shadow of Death, “I NEVER LAID A FINGER ON HIM.”
[1] Angels and demons do not, strictly speaking, have genders.
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Parents just don’t understand adventuring…
“You think because you killed a few dragons that you’re some kind of big man? Too big to show your elders respect? I’m your mother, I once wiped your poopy bum with my bare hands, so I’m not impressed by your antics, mister ‘vanquisher-of-armies’. Why don’t you ever visit, or at least write now and then?”
(#00834-B103)
Hrothgar the Mighty - Conquerer of All, Ruler of the Five Kingdoms, Dragonslayer, Master of the Mighty Voice - took off his skull helmet and hung it up. Wiped his boots, that had trodden on the faces of his enemies, on the mat provided, and placed his mighty sword in the hat-rack with all the umbrellas. “Sorry, mum. I got caught up in stuff.”
“Caught up in stuff,” his mother echoed. “Caught up in stuff.” She emerged from her work with the ever-present tea towel swirling around her hands. “You were hanging out with that gang, weren’t you?”
“Army, mother. I have armies now. And… um. I brought you some presents?”
She folded her arms. The tea towel took its perch on her shoulder. “Mm-hm.“
Hrothgar the Mighty - Conquerer of All, Ruler of the Five Kingdoms, Dragonslayer, Master of the Mighty Voice - urgently ushered some of his minions forwards. And rather more urgently signed that they should wipe their feet.
“Behold! I bring you the rarest of black pearls, the size of a man’s head! Wrenched from the grip of the Kraken at the bottom of the deadly seas. The prized Eye of The Goddess of Light, given as a boon in a battle for her favour. The fabled Sword of Kroesos the Conquerer, won by fighting it from his undead hands! Jewels from the furthest realms! The rarest of cloths! Everything you could dream of. And more!”
The mother of Hrothgar the Mighty - Conquerer of All, Ruler of the Five Kingdoms, Dragonslayer, Master of the Mighty Voice - pursed her lips. “You didn’t remember the dish soap at all, did you?”
Hrothgar the Mighty - Conquerer of All, Ruler of the Five Kingdoms, Dragonslayer, Master of the Mighty Voice - smacked his forehead and muttered, “D’oh!”
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Challenge #00819-B088: True Words
Beware the happy person with power tools.
There was a sign over the door to the maker-space. Warning: Happy people with power tools inside.
Shayde thought it was a joke until she stepped in. Sure, it had been a few years since she got together with fellow nerds and a bunch of tools to create something. At least, in subjective terms.
In real-time terms it had been closer to five hundred years.
The very concept of maker-spaces had changed while she was away. It wasn’t nerds with jig saws, hot glue guns and sewing machines, any more. It was nerds with three-dimensional printers. Nerds with full-out forges. Nerds with sketchpads talking to nerds with devices she couldn’t even fathom.
Someone, in a corner, was working on a fully-functional battle armour.
Somehow, her idea of a Mew-Mew Puffy Sama lolita dress wasn’t all that ridiculous, any more.
“First time?” said one of the local nerds.
“Sort of. Me an’ me mates used tae take over a garage or a sewin’ room in th’ day… This is…”
“Yes?” the local nerd grinned in anticipation. They liked freaking out the Mundanes. Even when the Mundane in question was a six-foot-tall shadow elemental.
“Heaven,” she sighed.
This was not the right answer. And now, somehow, she had become the Alpha Nerd.
She rubbed her hands in glee. “Show me tae th’ cuttin’ tables…”
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Potentially kindasorta NSFW prompt…
Humans are encountered by a race who has cyclical breeding seasons rather than humanlike sex-at-anytime urges. Both are baffled by the other’s views on sexuality.
I imagine the human idea of sex being something that is always a possibility, a low level cultural background radiation, would be insane for a race that had naturally-regimented behavior where such urges are only really a noteworthy thing for a few weeks a year (though during that time, it’s a BIG deal).
It’d make gender discussions across species interesting if they did have actual, honest to god, biologically-preset responses around sex and gender. “No, I’m not being vulgar, she will literally lose her mind and have sex with anyone. So will I, eventually, it’s just something we deal with now and then. How your kind can handle the constant wanting for it, I can’t even imagine.”
(#00818-B087)
“Pear-mer!” The human held her hands up in a gesture of peace and welcoming. “I haven’t seen you in a whille. All is well?”
“Of course all is well,” Piar’mir. “It was not travel season.”
“Oh…” Ri’ki put her arms down. “This is a culture thing? You go home for the gods?”
“No,” said Piar’mir. “Biology. We need to be at home.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, “Mating season.”
“Aw. I wish you’d warned me,” sighed Ri’ki. “I got three month’s shipments of Kor’exxi gone to seed, now.”
“Three… months…” Piar’mir boggled. “You did not have mating season?”
The human displayed her teeth. “Human mating season is whenever, wherever.” Ri’ki shrugged. “Most of pairing up is finding out if the other person is into you.”
“Sounds… needlessly complicated,” Piar’mir confessed. “But I shall do you a favour, my friend. That rotted Kor’exxi has its uses in the fields. If you ferment it with a special yeast, not only do you get a powerful liquor, but the spent mash is an excellent fertiliser.”
“Way ahead of you on the fermenting part,” Ri’ki grinned. “I got local yeast because I know the Terran varieties are -ah- aggressive.”
It was then that Piar’mir had to wonder exactly what this creature had been up to during those three months.
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Challenge #00815-B084: No Connection
Challenge: Write a story using only one half of a dialogue
Chase: I need you (Sent 1:15PM)
Chase: Like really important (Sent 1:23PM)
Chase: I can see you’re online (Sent 1:27PM)
Chase: Please don’t ignore? (Sent 1:32PM)
Chase: I’m sorry about everything, ever. Promise (Sent 1:36PM)
Chase: Something blew up and I’m stuck in the rubble (Sent 1:37PM)
Chase: For reals (Sent 1:41PM)
Chase: I’m not fooling here (Sent 1:41PM)
[Picture of broken building parts and one half of a leg, wrapped in jeans. The corner of a shoe is visible, as is some blood] (Sent 1:43PM)
Chase: It’s okay. Really. The bleeding stopped and I can breathe (Sent 1:44PM)
Chase: It’s just really cold RN (Sent 1:45PM)
Chase: Using phone to keep warm in small areas (Sent 1:46PM)
Chase: Not working v well :( (Sent 1:47PM)
Chase: Down to 25% batt. Will wait as long as poss b4 trying again (Sent 1:51PM)
Chase: Still here. Singing for something to do. Hope someone hears me (Sent 3:23PM)
Chase: Still alive (Sent 4:28PM)
Chase: No matter what happens, I love you (Sent 5:57PM)
Chase: Where R U? (Sent 6:34PM)
Chase: So quiet here. Can hear some1 else getting messages. Lucky dog (Sent 7:38PM)
Chase: 20% batt. Trying 2 call u (Sent 8:24PM)
Chase: OMG I’m so sorry. It’s your phone I can hear. Pls b alive. Pls pls pls pls pls b alive (Sent 8:31PM)
Chase: I’m so sorry I ever fought w u (Sent 8:32PM)
Chase: U were right NEway (Sent 8:32PM)
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Challenge #00814-B083: He Said/He Said
Challenge: Write a story using only dialogue
[AN: I’M BAAA-AAAAAACK! Taking this carefully and slowly so I don’t wind up with another four weeks of convalescence]
“This is all your fault.”
“My fault? My fault? I just landed in here two seconds ago, how could it be my fault?”
“It’s always your fault. How much have you had to drink?”
“Two standard volume units. Of water.”
“Huh. Fire water, belike. I know you too well, human. You reek of it.”
“For your big daft information, I only reek of it because I took it all out of the still–”
“HAH! I KNEW IT!”
“–to sell to the locals as an inexpensive fuel.”
“No ‘samples’ to ‘check the quality’?”
“Don’t give me that look! I only got some on me because of the fight.”
“Ah, there was a fight. Of course. Who was the woman?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Clearly, it was.”
“No. It. Wasn’t.”
“Convince me.”
“…shewashisproperty…”
“Hwel…”
“I know.”
“When we’re operating outside the Galactic Alliance…”
“I know…”
“We have to brace ourselves to face laws and standards that we, as Galactics, view as criminal or even obscene.”
“I KNOW! I know it. I get it. Their customs and laws are not ours but. Damnit…”
“Go on. Let it all out.”
“She was twelve if she was a day. Naked as a jay bird. And he was fingering her right there in front of God and everyone!”
“Really?”
“Powers That Be are my witness. You could even see it on the security tape.”
“I’m surprised at you, Hwell.”
“I know…”
“I’d have killed him.”
“I’m sorry I got us in another– wait. What?”
“I’m proud of you. You’ve shown admirable restraint.”
“Thank you.”
“…for a human.”
“…I think.”
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“No, try it, it goes good with everything…”
It was once said that “with enough fried onions and mustard people would eat anything.” This has also been proven to apply to the additions of either chocolate or bacon.
Frankly, as it has been quite a long time since humanity first wound up discovering these multipurpose edibles, it’s often considered a great wonder that human civilization has not yet managed to eat itself to death, either by the direct sense of gorging and gluttony, or by the indirect sense of simply running out of other things to apply said universal condiments to and turning on each other in cannibalistic frenzy.The idea that other cogniscents might theoretically have some species-suitable equivalents to these near-addictive culinary wonders, and simply have not yet discovered them, is thus understandably somewhat frightening to many of them.
The sample laid before them looked like brown, square blobs. It did not look appetising. It did not smell appetising. Nik, at least, had the decency to look embarrassed.
“You have to understand it’s a work in progress,” said Nik. “I’ve been working on the theory that certain addictive foods, put together, could become the ultimate super food.”
Rael poked it uncertainly. “Are you certain it’s edible?”
Shayde picked up one and gave in experimental nibble. “It’s got chocolate on it,” she declared. She chewed a little more. “Is that bacon?”
Nik smiled nervously, “It is, it is! It is caramelised onion, on top of a square of bacon, wrapped in chocolate.“
Rael tried a more adventurous bite. The face he made was not the one Nik was hoping for. He could see Nick’s face crumbling in disappointment at Rael’s disgust.
“Did ye fry the bacon in maple syrup?” asked Shayde.
“Of course,” said Nick. “It is expected when making sweets.”
“That’s where you went wrong,” she began to pontificate. “Chocolate goes best with bitter things, ye ken. You’ve got your chocolate coated strawberries, your chocolate fondue, all that noise. You much sweet with bitter, you’re golden.”
“Ah,” Nik began to smile again. “I went wrong by making it all sweet, you say.”
“Aye, that and you left out the cheese.“
Rael began to quietly creep away, these two were dangerous.
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