Dear readers,

At the time of writing this, I have eight prompts remaining. I usually like to stay above ten.

When I’m done with today’s Instant, there will be seven prompts remaining.

I need prompts to make the cool Instant Stories that have been part of my blog’s content for over three years.

Try to challenge me. Give me things you want to see written. Give me word salad. I will turn it into a story. Guaranteed.

Give me a prompt! Anons welcome!

Challenge #00952-B221: Innovative Resource Management

They outsourced a surprising amount of their ship building (that is, they had a habit of using ships captured in battle).

People think low-gravvers are weak. Let me tell you something. A deathworlder adapted to a low-G environment is still a deathworlder.

And when there’s a hive of them in chained asteroids… you do not throw rocks at the nest.

I saw it from a safe distance and under a definite amnesty. I’m not stupid enough to cross with deathworlders. Even in low gravity, they’re dangerous. I’d make my money off of kuiper runs and oort runs, scooping up valuables like water and panspermia pre-biologicals, and swapping that for metals and a feed and some damn good alcohol before I headed off to trade that elsewhere.

But this time… just as I was heading in for their Main Tangle… the neighbouring Raptids attacked. Seems they got tired of transit fees from me and other traders and set their minds a-conquering.

Now, normally the humans of Crumble are a peaceful lot. They don’t have big ships and they don’t have a lot of guns. I found out why.

Remember the Hungry Caterpillar? Every space-scavenger’s friend? Well, this mob re-purposed that into mining equipment. And building equipment. A solid iron asteroid big enough to be interesting makes an excellent home once its hollowed out. And the Caterpillar’s tentacle becomes another tube dock.

It’s amazing to watch that happening to an invading vessel. They were expecting exterior resistance like plasma fire. Or aimed asteroids. They weren’t prepared for unexpected docking.

Nor were they prepared for swarms of armed and armoured humans with projectile weapons.

It only took them a few minutes, but once they had a couple of enemy ships, things went very bad for the Raptids.

I hear some of those ships have been turned into habitats. Most of them are still cruising around as a combination deterrent and battle trophy.

Come to think of it… I’ve never heard of Crumble buying any of the old hulks that’s part of their habitat…

[Muse food remaining: 19. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00950-B219: Sailor Fey

Grab another one!

http://thepreciousthing.tumblr.com/post/121702150607/finding-flight-okay-but-imagine-a-medieval

Most sailors feared to go near the Siren Pass. Beyond, they whispered, were shores of gold where the waves broke with pearls and gems as sea foam. Where untold riches and wealth awaited for anyone who could actually survive the pass. Here, there be mermaids. They decorate the rocks with foolhardy sailors who chance too close and fall victim to their song. Their bones, anyway. All of them picked clean and bleached white with sun and salt.

It’s said that they make jewelry out of sailor’s teeth. Only one sailor has been able to confirm that as fact.

They call him Anton l’Fey. Whispers about him say that a faerie cursed him with an inability to love. Some say he has never been interested in the pleasures of the flesh. Most captains trust him to haul their crew home from the bawdy-towns.

But Captain Kale had other plans for Anton. Plans that were about to come to fruition.

They anchored well out of range of the Siren Pass. Every man on the ship had to report to the shackles underneath. Anton was trusted with the keys and, not unkindly, gagged each man and wadded his ears with cotton.

The sails were set. The small ship only needed someone to steer and, of course, weigh anchor.

The latter of which took a significant amount of time, and required lashing the wheel into place.

By then, the sirens were swarming. Singing their seductive  songs and wantonly displaying themselves for all who cared to look. Anton sailed on, his eyes on the distant breakers of the Golden Shore.

Their singing was very nice, but it wasn’t worth wrecking the ship for. And the lyrics offered no temptations for him. He sung a bass counterpoint, containing his lack of understanding for the world of so-called normal men. About their need to grasp and lust for people and things alike.

The mermaids changed their song. They used to be kind, and save drowning sailors. But when their kindness was too often repaid with assorted manly cruelties, they changed their tactics.

The mermaids did, indeed, bedeck themselves with jewelry of teeth. And they also displayed the scars where randy, ravening sailors had bit them. They took what had hurt them and made it something beautiful. Or at least, more beautiful than the things the sailors had done.

He’d have to tell the Captain that mermaids were nice people if you could keep your hands to yourself and your pants buttoned.

The Golden Shore was, indeed, golden. But it was not made out of gold. Pearls and gems were suspiciously absent from the shining sands.

It would have been an entirely disappointing trip if it wasn’t for the spices.

[Muse food remaining: 15. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Let Sleeping Beauties Lie…

The cursed princess in the castle tower was asleep for a very good reason.  The people of her kingdom were only safe during the day… and even then just barely.

(#00947-B216)

Prince Philip wasn’t exactly inclined to listen to good advice. As a child he ate sweets before dinnertime, and crept off to play with the faeries in the wood.

The fae didn’t want him, which possibly tells you all you never needed to know about Prince Philip.

Now that he is grown, though, he pays specific attention to the don’ts that people tell him. Just so he can do them and seem brave for surviving. Things like, Don’t go into the swamp, or, Don’t seek out the menacing beast, had increased his reputation as a mighty warrior.

Don’t go to the Empty Kingdom…

He had to find it, first. One hundred years of neglect had practically erased it from the map. Yet there were still neglected roads to a place nobody went.

Don’t seek out the castle…

The houses were remarkably preserved, despite the fact that thorny briars choked out every other form of life. Philip had long since swapped his sword for a sturdy, robust axe. Long since turned his horse loose. A mighty war steed did him no good in a kingdom of weeds.

He had plenty of fuel for his fires, and meals of mushrooms and rabbit after he devoured the contents of his saddle bags. And lots of exercise. And mocking-birds for company.

The old stories told of a magnificent treasure inside the castle. Of a miraculously-preserved maiden. And Philip had to see if it was true.

Don’t step inside…

The weeds were not inside. Everything was perfectly preserved. Well. Almost everything. Banquets on the tables had long since rotted. Rats made their nests in the skeletons of dogs. Everything that the vermin could reach… they had. There was a definite tide-line of decay around the ground floor.

Don’t climb the towers…

The castle was magnificent, in its heyday. Stained glass decorated the windows. The walls were faced in marble, inlaid with gold and ivory. Were he more avaricious, he would have spent many happy hours levering wealth out of the very walls.

But Philip had his mind on another prize.

Don’t seek the Princess…

Philip stepped over human bones as he approached her bed. Her room, apart from the skeletal carpet, was fabulous. Lined with jewels. Hung with tapestries. Every window full of stained glass pictures. And old, old story.

A maiden with hair of gold and red, rosy lips. A witch. A curse. And waiting… waiting for a kiss.

All these other bones had to be others who had failed before.

Do not kiss her…

Her hair was, indeed, gold. Her lips, rosy red. Her skin like alabaster. Her eyes were closed and her chest gently rose and fell in the rhythm of solid slumber.

Philip did not notice that his axe fell into a rusting pile of axes and swords by her bed. He had eyes only on her face.

So lovely. So beautiful.

She had to be his.

Philip sat by her and leaned into her lips. Felt her cold flesh quicken and move beneath him. Felt her hands against his arms. Welcoming.

Her eyes were not sea-blue. They were red. Their slit pupils widened as she opened them.

And sharp fangs bit into his lips and tongue.

Sharp fingers sank into his arms.

Too late, he tried to wriggle free. Tried to get loose to reach his axe. Tried to grope for the blades he had foolishly left outside her door.

She would never be his. He was hers.

Her serpentine tongue choked off his air as she drank up his blood. He was dimly aware of her chewing his flesh from his bones as his mind fled from pain and his life fled his body.

Sharp talons tore away his armor and raiment. Scattered it to the corners with the armor and sad scraps of others who had not listened to the story. And in hours… less than hours… his bones would join the carpet of men who felt that they could possess her.

There was a reason why the Empty Kingdom was so empty. Why the briars and thorns grew so thickly. Why nothing alive went upstairs and why, if it did, it never came down again.

She is roaming, now. Wandering her empty kingdom and looking for more flesh. Do not look for her. Do not sleep with your windows open. Do not leave your door unbarred.

She is hungry.

[Muse food remaining: 10. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00943-B212: ‘Straya Mate

Someone runs across this book. And then are told about the fact in the last comment.

“This,” said T’reka a’Nyerrik, “is a book for N’Ozzie children?”

“Yes,” said the helpful Archivaas with a bundle of similar tomes. “N’Oz colonists insisted on bringing their -ah- scientifically interesting native flora and fauna with them from Australia.”

Ah yes. Australia. The only land mass on Earth that almost rated a Level Six on the Deathworlder scale. In fact, N’Oz itself was a Five Point Eight.

“The book itself originates from pre-shattering Australia,” added the Archivaas. “It’s highly useful for newcomers because it shows them what the dangerous things look like. Alas, this book only contains the creatures that a child is most likely to encounter. This volume,” she patted a much, much thicker tome, “contains similar information on all the toxic and dangerous flora and fauna in both Australia and N’Oz.”

T’reka was surprised that it was one volume and not an encyclopedia set. “Are the children expected to defend themselves with the book?”

“Only against the spiders,” chirped the Archivaas. “Are you fond of Dijano’s, Ms a’Nyerrik?”

“This is more startling information on Australia, isn’t it?”

“Many visitors find it fascinating.”

T’reka thought about this and eventually concluded the Train Wreck factor. And then immediately succumbed. “Very well. What startling information have you stowed up your sleeves?”

“In pre-shattering Earth, a British cartoon for children featured an episode that told children that spiders were not to be feared,” said the Archivaas. “The Australian public objected, and the episode was banned.” She leaned forward, obviously expecting T’reka to object.

“I’m guessing the section on spiders in that big book of yours is significant?”

“Spoilsport,” pouted the Archivaas. “And, yes, it is.”

[Muse food remaining: 14. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00938-B207: Human Phenomena

An alien witnessing a human do the “Just walked through a spiderweb” dance for the first time

OR

A scholar writing a research paper on the one dance universal to all human tribal cultures, the “Spiderweb” dance.

In augmented scope sight, the web was clearly visible. And the spider itself stood out like a miniature sun.

“This spider,” whispered a lizard off to one side of the screen, “has been weaving and re-weaving its web all night. In a few hours, it will retreat from its work. Because it knows that foot traffic will soon ruin its chance to feast. We also know that a human regularly exercises through here. So we may have the chance to see something spectacular.”

The view changed to common optics, thus rendering the spiderweb invisible.

The lizard vanished somewhere off camera as the view focussed further down the corridor.

The human in question wore the usual warning signs. Non-emergency running in progress. Ze had some sound equipment on and hir eyes closed as ze jogged.

The instant ze hit the web…

“AUGH! Pthpht… Pthpht… euw gross uuuuugggghhh….” Hir arms and legs flailed in panic and alarm. Hir feet danced around and twirled her about.

“And this,” said the lizard, “is the first time the humans’ spiderweb dance has been caught in its entirety on a vid.”

The human said, “What in the Powers are you doing, over there?”

[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00934-B203: Loverly Spam…

You don’t reference Monty Python to be helpful, you reference Monty Python because you can.

On the upside, they now had an interstellar ‘ride‘. On the downside, it was an abandoned freighter. Its hold was still full. Which meant that the parental company had pulled the plug and evacuated the pilot when the cargo proved to be valueless.

And, of course, Shayde had to look.

“No,” she grinned. The tone of her voice made it sound like a good thing.

Which meant that it was supremely bad news for Rael. “What have you found?” he grated in the disinterested tones of someone who knew he didn’t want to know, but also wanted the painful bit over as soon as humanly possible.

“Jus’ look,” she said in the tones of someone who had just discovered Christmas.

He did. The cargo holds, all fifty of them, were chock full of stasis pallets loaded and stacked high with blue cans featuring something… pink.

“I don’t get it,” he confessed. He toured down into the hold for a closer look. It was some variety of canned meat product. Ancient Terran alphabet. The yellow letters declared it to be SPAM.

Shayde’s voice pitched up into an unholy screech, “We got Eggs, Spam and Chips… Spam, Eggs and Sausage… Eggs, Spam, Sausage and Chips… Spam, Eggs, Spam and Spam… Spam, Sausage, Spam, Eggs and Spam… Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam and Spam…”

Her usual field of ur-reality asserted itself in an invisible chorus of male voices singing, “Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam…”

“Would you stop that?” pleaded Rael.

“Right on cue!” Shayde crowed. She slid down the railing so she could mime punching him in the arm. “And you said ye had no idea of what Monty Python was.”

“I still don’t,” Rael muttered. “Is this a food product or a punchline?”

“Ye know,” said Shayde. “I often wondered tha’ meself…”

[Muse food remaining: 12. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00929-B198: Fortifying Education

A Havenworlder finds out that even after reaching the Information Age, with early-warning systems and all the other resources available to a species at such a level of development, tsunamis (“The term refers to several million tonnes of water traveling at two hundred meters per second.”) still killed an average of seven thousand people consistently, every year, over four decades

(last four from 2015)

Th’k’x had to wear full health monitors and have a Medik on standby, just to access the records on Humans. She could understand why, of course. Her species were notoriously fragile. Humans called her people Mayflies, and on the rare occasions when they accidentally shared space, deliberately maintained a non-threat posture until the Rithrong in question was able to safely leave the area.

Exposure to tougher life forms helped toughen up her own species. Epigenetics and some form of molecular osmosis had its invisible hands in the process.

So, once a week, young Rithrong like herself strapped themselves in and worked on the process. The trick was to endure without endangering their own life.

This week’s exercise was Terran History.

Th’k’x gingerly tapped the ‘commence’ key.

“The very geography of Earth is hostile to life as we know it. Frequent eruptions of the surface crust cause phenomena called ‘earthquakes’ and ‘volcanoes‘.”

Alarming footage of the very ground moving like a wave. And fire -no- molten rock spewing from the top of a mountain. Th’k’x began her breathing exercises.

“Amber,” said Technician Riilg’r. Her job was to monitor Th’k’x life signs and not the lesson.

“Thank you,” Th’k’x pressed the button that would gentle the lesson, and made sure she red-flagged the pictures of molten rock.

“Some consequences of these crust disturbances included semi-toxic clouds, collapses or upheavals in the ocean floor, and violent disturbances of the oceans themselves.”

Ancient, grainy footage of a bay emptying of all its water. Colour footage of a large wave swamping a walkway full of humans. Text crawled across the bottom of the screen: All humans survived this.

“The most violent of these ocean disturbances is called a ‘tsunami’. An ancient Terran word meaning ‘ocean wave’.” A cartoon explained how large volumes of water would build up into an enormous wave that could wipe entire towns from the scenery. It was less real as a cartoon. Less terrifying.

“It wasn’t until the early twenty-first century that humans developed a warning system advanced enough to allow for evacuation of threatened areas.” More graphical information. A map showing an underwater earthquake. Radiating red lines indicating the threatened zones and a series of exclamation marks in yellow triangles.

“Unfortunately, owing to teething troubles with the system, humans soon learned to ignore these warnings. This lead to many preventable deaths.”

“REDLINE!” Riilg’r shrieked, hitting the cut-off button.

Soothing, meditative chimes sounded and relaxing light-shows filled the booth.

Th’k’x tried and failed to think of anything else but the implications of what she had seen. “They had so many wrong warnings… they didn’t bother with the real ones. They didn’t bother to play safely.”

“Yes,” cooed Riilg’r. “This is why humans are classified insane as a species.

[Muse food remaining: 17. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

In the slightly-paraphrased words of Robert Heinlein…

If need be, a human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, and die gallantly. Specialization of role is for insects, not people.

(#00911-B180)

“Was he serious?” said Rael. “What happened to the people that didn’t fit these qualifications?”

“It’s amazin’ how many o’ these ye qualify for wi’out knowin’ it,” said Shayde. “Butcherin’s no’ that hard, ye ken.”

“Tube meat exists for a reason.”

“Aye, but if yer stuck somewhere wi’ nowt but yer wits? Anyway. It all boils down tae th’ Cogniscent Rights qualifications f’ cogniscence.”

Rael put down his fork, trying to think. “I’m sorry, I missed that leap of illogic…”

“Care fer young, fight fer home, obtain nutrition, navigate home, plan a home, communicate, perform basic math, exhibit knowledge of construction, exhibit knowledge of elementary medical care, exhibit compassion, show understanding, show willingness tae communicate, show independance, exhibit knowledge of higher math, exhibit adaptability, exhibit knowledge of hygiene, exhibit understanding of technology, treat nutrition, fight for self, and understand mortality.”

Rael ran it through, counting on his fingers. “All right, but that sample is admittedly mixed. Some of those are qualifyers for children, and some are relative intelligence testers.”

“Echo ‘hello world’, EOF,” said Shayde. “Th’ program doesnae have t’ be complicated.“

[Muse food remaining: 16. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00907-B176: SUO’s - Small Useful Objects

A lot of us have a “kit” stuff we cart/tote everywhere, stuff we need. Mothers carry stuff to feed,amuse and cope with the Sprogs. Crafts people carry weird stuff(well I do). So what does a Joat carry? Or pick another character/profession and add kit.

Rael could tell a newbie JOAT. It was the way their limbs trembled under the weight of the gear in their coats. And the gentle ‘ping’ of stitching giving way under the stress. He decided to take mercy on this kid.

“I have a clear bench and an Hour’s pro bono credit. I can help you.”

“I think…” grunt, “I might need it…”

He took the young saurian over to the aforementioned bench. “Let’s see what you have in there.”

It was typical noob stuff. A hammer that was only a hammer. A separate folio of screwdrivers and spanners. A multitool that could stun a pickpocket, and would prove useful only as a cosh, in the long run. Ze actually had baggies of sorted nuts, bolts and screws for any occasion.

No wonder they were struggling under the weight.

“Did any JOATs teach you, before you began?” he asked.

“Uuuuuuuh,” said the kid. “I thought I could… um… wing it?”

“First lesson: SUO’s. Small. Useful. Objects.” Habit made him line up the kid’s collection on one side of the bench before emptying his own pockets. His collections of nuts, bolts and screws were sorted by width only. His hammer concealed an array of ever-decreasing screwdrivers, stored matryoska style.

The small roll of screwdrivers he did have were for tiny work.

There was a stiff, flat card. A squashed roll of ductape. A set of hex keys. An array of paperclips, and the really efficient kind of multitool that had been made by people who wanted to work with them.

“These are the essentials. Everything else gets added on a most-needed basis.”

“But… how can anyone work with that stuff?” winced the kid.

“It’s not about make well,” said Rael. “It’s about make do.”

They spent the rest of the hour discussing the Zen of JOAT.

[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]