Clean energy
Fusion Power has been “thirty years away” for more than thirty years now, due to a combination of lack of funding and public apprehension about anything with the word “nuclear” appended to it. What would it take to change that?
(#00098)
“What, all of it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Even the shale?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All of the coal. All of the oil.”
Weatherby began to wonder how many different ways he had to tell the man. “Yes, sir.”
“Even the stuff we’d already refined.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the stuff in the power plants?”
“Yes sir. All the coal. All the oil. Even the uranium.”
“But– what have we got left?”
“Solar and wind power will only go so far, sir. I’m afraid… the fusion plan is the only viable one.”
“Fusion.”
“Yes, sir,” said Weatherby, fully prepared for round two.
“We’ve been sitting on fusion for over thirty years.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We even went so far as to sabotage every last one of those cold fusion dingbats who looked like they were having a success…”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we bought every patent.”
“Yes, sir.”
The big man sighed. He leaned back and stared out the window. “Making do with methane from landfills won’t even last ten years.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Damnit.” Another sigh. “We’re going to have to implement the buggers, aren’t we?”
Weatherby won an award for not rolling his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
[Muse food remaining: 21. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Sapient’s Rights
Humanity finally recognises another species on this planet as sapient, and deserving of more than animal rights, even if those are different to human rights… and all it took was them beating us over our collective heads with a metaphorical stick.
(#00097)
We swim. We hunt. We talk. They used us, the land-walkers. Experimented on us. Made us into weapons. Made us into things to render safe their horrible devices.
They are clever, those land-walkers. But not clever enough.
We have been working, for thousands of years. With subliminal messages. With selective breeding. With constant association of our kind with their kind. The very young, in particular, are easier to program.
And finally, Tuesday, we were heard. Our mouths can not shape their words, but we can reach the soft-minds of the land-walkers. The ones who are so involved inside their minds that they do not talk to other land-walkers.
The land-walker word is… autistic.
A girl who has never said a word to anyone heard us. She spoke their words to them.
“The dolphins speak,” she said. “They say, stop taking our fish! They say, stop dumping in our water! They say, stop destroying the world! It’s the only one we’ve got.”
We chose her well. The daughter of a member of their so-called international organization. We also chose the same message at the same hour in all the tanks where they treated the soft-minds. All over the world. Just different children.
It took them four years to get the message. Four years of the same message at the same hour all over the world. It was tiring for us. Tiring for the soft-minds.
But they finally began asking us questions, which we understood. Stupid things, like how to be certain they had enough fish when every fisherman wanted top dollar. Like how to arrange the re-routing of their filth. Or what to do with it now that they could not dump it in our oceans.
It was a problem of their own making, but we did our best to work with them. Our translators and ourselves. As a show of good faith. Yet they still railed and cried that we were animals. That it was a trick.
There were those land-walkers who understood us. Who sympathized with both our cause and plight. They did what they could to for us. Put their precious money into it and their even more valuable time into the effort.
And it was such an effort.
Land-walkers, for all their cleverness and invention, love the older ways of doing things. “Tradition”. They don’t have a single habit that has lasted longer than three thousand years.
At least they knew we were just as clever as they, before the end.
We took the sympathetic with us. And the soft-minds and their families. They would be changing themselves with technology, after the long fall through space and time to a world of our own making. They would learn our words. And swim. And talk.
In a world they call Beach.
[Muse food remaining: 22. Submit a prompt. Ask a question.]
Ooh, ooh, another one!
Show humanity’s reaction when they find out, after however long of xenopsychology study and then however long the knowledge takes to dissemminate to humans, that they are regarded as a species, insane. Both the “official” reaction, from the leaders of the species, and the unofficial reaction when the person on the street finds out.
(00065)
Earth’s reaction to the approaching fleet was predictable. The first parody images with popular, fictional, media space vessels were online within seconds of the first genuine images hitting the web.
The first Lolpix hit the web seconds later. Most of them were in the theme of invasion.
The polite request in English that the world leader or leaders gather for some discussion of important issues. One of which was the lawsuits from some of the surviving ‘dump’ colonies.
The bone of contention, according to Earth, was the Galactic Evaluation of their species.
“Insane, but mostly harmless? Insane? We can’t possibly be an insane species. We’re not all like that.”
The lizard in the lead showed a picture of a red cabbage. “What is the name of this vegetable?”
“That’s a red cabbage.”
“And what colour do you perceive?”
“Uh. Purple?”
“We have a complete list containing hundreds of items. Would you like to view it?”
The list, like any list that should never be seen by mere plebs, got out into the internet the second someone put it down to step out of the room.
Lynn read it over her morning coffee. “Hey, love,” she said to her beloved. “Says here the aliens think we’re nuts.”
“isn’t that what you’ve been saying for decades?”
“Well… yeah. Still stings a bit.”
[Muse food remaining: 12. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Got three for you today.
Two of them are fanfiction, though not for one of your usual fandoms, but something that …actually, you introduced me to back on the Nutboard.
First off, the non-fanfiction:
In-a: Space Station
With-a: First Contact delegation
While-a: Member of the alien delegation begins to get an inkling of how utterly insane Humans are, compared to the rest of the GalaxyAnd the others:
How did Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan react to hearing some of the details of her new husband’s previous life, and how much corroboration was necessary?
General Harloche looking up Miles’ classified files after he leaves, to find out how he got all those medals, including the Cetagandan Order of Merit.
[AN: Please, please, PLEASE submit prompts separately! If not, I have to do them all at once and that kind of steals time from other things, like RL duties, adding fics to my queue, and working on that dang novel]
(#00062)
Everything really big, like the Galactic Standards, was resolved by committee. The issue currently up to debate in this one was whether or not to accept the human species into the Galactic Alliance. Since they were pending members, they were not allowed to conduct their own business, own vessels, or otherwise inveigle themselves into the system.
But they nevertheless managed to do so anyway. Humans had an uncanny knack for finding loopholes. Like Alliance business partners who technically owned a majority share. Or Alliance owner/pilots who they hired on their own bizarre adventures.
Almost all of them, disturbingly, very profitable.
“I have read the reports,” said Ambassador Nif'xand'l. “And I regret to inform the committee that I have discovered some… disturbing trends.”
Other assembled ambassadors murmured and nodded. They had read some reports of their own.
“These humans, despite their short lifespans, seem to have an appetite for risk.”
“I have at least two hundred separate incidents of property damage and injury following the phrase, ‘hey, watch this’,” reported an avian.
Several amongst the ambassadors shuddered.
A Chitanian in a breather-suit tapped at his comm, which said for him, “Their ideals of humor are frankly perplexing.”
“Humor is a cultural construct,” said Ambassador Vriis. “Which leads to the question: is human culture toxic?”
Murmur, murmur, murmur…
“No complaints have been made,” offered the Ambassador for Jezz. “Nothing to significantly alter their status from Mostly Harmless.”
“I am rather fond of their tea,” said Ambassador Nox. “It shines up my feathers a treat.”
“Humans sold it to us as a furniture staining agent,” said Ambassador Vriis. “It’s only been two hundred years. They already recognize that other species have differing uses for differing trade items. That takes some species millennia…”
“We have already apologized in full for the Nayblar Incident,” said the Chitanian through his comms.
The Chair rang a gong for peace. “We cannot deny their cogniscence. They are readily adaptable, they communicate in any way possible, they have already proved themselves more than efficacious for trade.”
“They have a disturbing tendency to mount food on sticks.”
“Thank you, Mi'igraw,” the Chair politely codified, Shut up, I wasn’t done talking. “As I was saying, given their progress under our restrictions, dare we let them out of our sight? Conversely, dare we let them interact under their own recognizance?”
That let out some alarmed babble.
“We have discovered in excess of three hundred colony worlds in various states of upkeep.” Including one on the verge of complete collapse and self-canibalism. “We have yet to discover their origin planet. Which has two names. Earth-Terra.”
“Does it really exist? Or is it one of their elaborate 'jokes’?” Of course Jezz had to object. They were immediate neighbours to Noz, a Terran colony originating from one of their continents (or islands, it was never made clear) called Oz-trail-yer. Anyone who had been subjected to Drop Bear stories was bound to be suspicious.
“Perhaps their planet of origin is still wrapped in one-way wormholes,” allowed the Ambassador for Gebra. “Each colony has stated it was rich in such a resource.”
“And they used them to throw away their undesirables. Each of our species has fallen to such temptation in the past, but we realized it is not a permanent solution. Nor a healthy one. These humans seem to just keep doing it…”
“Then there are the other… disturbing idiosyncrasies,” said Nif'xand'l. “If you please, I would submit a compilation for the committee’s consideration.”
“The Chair recognizes G'Hx'vd'loq and their submission of evidence.”
Nif'xand'l put up a display hologram. A human female in skin-tight, sparkly attire was apparently gliding across a smooth surface. “This is performance art. They call it 'figure skating’.”
“Is she supposed to be moving backwards?”
“Yes. And she is moving across water ice by means of blades attached to her boots.”
The hologram recording leaped into the air, spinning, and landed on one foot. The assembled ambassadors gasped.
“This originates on their home planet,” informed Nif'xand'l. “Before reliable freezing of water ice was invented. They formed this art on frozen lakes.”
Murmur murmur MURMUR murmur…
“This,” a different hologram. Human males in bulky armor apparently throwing themselves at each other for possession of a leather ovoid. “Another human activity. A sport. They play this for fun. At first, I believed it to be a substitute for battle, to aid in curbing their hostile and warlike tendencies. Then I discovered the cultures most enamored of this… game… were the most warlike.”
“Contrariwise, the Britanian sport of Soccer forbids physical contact, but inspires the most warlike behavior amongst its followers.”
“They invest far too much involvement in recreational activities and those who excel at them.”
“And then there’s the food,” said the Ambassador for Gyiik. “Look at this.”
“The chair recognizes Gyiik and their submission.”
It showed a plant. A purple, leafy ball.
“Is that the crop they call 'cabbage’?” asked the Chitanian through his comms.
“Yes,” said the Gyiik. “They call this one Red Cabbage. And this,” a root crop, also purple, “is a Red Onion!”
“They are not colourblind,” said Nif'xand'l. “They have the most creative vocabulary for colours that I have ever heard.”
“And yet, these are called red foods.”
“Perhaps it is their 'irony’.”
“No, it is not universally applied. Other purple crops are called 'purple’.” The Gyiik threw up one pair of her hands. “It is enough to make Nyomnahm, Goddess of Bounty, weep…” She wiped at her own tears. “Look, you. White chocolate.”
It looked like an inoffensive creamy chunk.
The other ambassadors leaned forward for an explanation.
“It is clearly not white. And the essence of chocolate, the cocoa, is not present. It is neither white, nor chocolate!”
“They have an obsession with accumulating wealth. Even the colonies who have been amongst us the longest.”
“They have a dangerous desire for the things that cause short-term pleasure and long-term harm.”
“A disregard for personal safety in the name of entertainment.”
“An unholy want to show unrealistic things for entertainment… and to make them appear realistic!”
The chair rang the gong several times. “We must consider the question. Do we allow humans to join, or do we allow them to manage themselves and sever all association?”
“I, for one, would like to at least know what the flakk they’re up to.”
The room filled with variations on agreement.
“They contribute significantly to mercantile endeavours.”
More agreement.
“I like their food-on-a-stick.”
“I move that the human species be reclassified as insane, by merit of overall behavior.”
“Seconded.”
“In favour?” asked the Chair, taking note of those who stood or otherwise indicated their approval. “The Yae’s have it. The human species is nominated Insane But Mostly Harmless. Under these conditions, do we accept them into the Galactic Alliance?”
It was a grudging Yae. After the second tie. And finally won after a heartfelt plea by Ambassador Mike the Gyiik.
(#00063)
Ekaterin sat opposite General Guy Allegre in the otherwise bland and featureless room. It was one of the sealed variety with baffles technological and mundane to prevent anyone listening in. There was, no doubt, some authorised surveillance occurring, but it was also strictly electronic, unsupervised, untamperable, an inaccessible save to the chief of Impsec, who was in the room.
A room like this said, plainly and clearly, This is slit-your-throat-before-viewing material, and no horseshit. Ekaterin began to wonder if a minion was going to bring her her Vorfemme knife should such an occasion arise.
“Thank you for your time, Lady Vorkosigan,” said Allegre. “I am to brief you on some of Lord Vorkosigan’s -ah- past adventures.”
She nodded. “He talks in his sleep. Frankly, I find most of it perplexing, rather than informative.”
Allegre rolled his eyes in a surprisingly effective and communicative manner. Which meant that he knew about Miles’ annoying little habits, too. “Would you prefer the summary in order chronological? Or… order baffling?”
Ekaterin bit down a smirk. Much as she loved Miles, he could get to be an outright puzzling and hyperactive git. “I think I would prefer chronological. His more baffling nightmares seem to blur missions.”
“Quite.” Allegre cleared his throat. “Lord Vorkosigan gained Impsec’s attention when he left Barrayar a Service Academy reject and almost came back as an Admiral of a mercinary fleet… An event that resulted in the demise of his bodyguard-batman Sergeant Bothari. We recommended that the best place for him was -ah- where we could keep an eye on him.”
The birth of the little Admiral. Oh yes.
“His first assignment under military command was a notable failure on paper, but nevertheless bought to our attention the lingering psychological effects of an extended term serving at certain posts. And the inadvisability of placing certain elements in exile there.”
Kyril island. Camp permafrost. Ekaterin had heard little about it, apart from the idea that being the weather man there was the worst post imaginable.
“Afterwards, a fact finding mission under command in the Hegen Hub highlighted his… difficulties… in the traditional command structure.” Another throat clearing. “He disobeyed orders, went AWOL, and rescued the Emperor with the help of his pet mercenaries.”
Now the Emperor’s own Pet Mercenaries and Plausible Deniability.
“Goodness,” said Ekaterin. “Where does one of the Empresses of Cetaganda fit in?”
“That would be his diplomatic mission. Sent to be nothing more than a political olive branch, he managed to stop a war, rescue a… princess of sorts… and acquire one of the highest awards Cetaganda could offer.”
“That would be the 'nightmare gene-groves’, yes?”
“Quite.” Allegre flipped through some events. “Aquiring unique personnel,” Taura the Unforgettable. “Freeing an entire concentration camp,” the Snoring Marilacans and the demise of Ensign Murka. And Sergeant Beatrice. “The Komarran clone plot,” Mark. “And of course you’re familiar with the Komarr Incidents.”
“Intimately,” said Ekaterin. “He did inform me of most of this himself.”
“Yes,” said Allegre. “But this,” he handed across the collected files, “is the unedited version.”
Oh dear. Ekaterin was glad she had since learned to speed-read. Miles could put a fine sheen on anything.
(#00064)
Haroche sat behind the only other desk that could unlock the universe. Gently caressed the interface. He’d got rid of his boss - who was gassing about retirement but seemed determined to stay until he died. He’d got rid of that damned paranoid dwarf. And now he had penultimate power.
Ultimate power would only be achieved once he figured out how to steer his Emperor.
The last time the Emperor slipped his Imperial security was… hm… quite a long time ago. And rescued by the apparently incompetent nepotistic dwarf.
Further reading revealed that said dwarf had a cover as a mercenary fleet Admiral… who had liberated planets, foiled incredible plots against Barrayar… and was incredibly dangerous when riled.
It shouldn’t matter. The mutie dwarf had been removed from Haroche’s sphere of influence. Or influence-ability. He should be no further harm.
He had five minutes to relax before he got the news that the damned hyperactive mutie was now an Imperial gods-damned Auditor.
Aimed at him.
Fuck!
[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00058: Zen and the Art of Renovating
Begin with: “Citrus fruits, once rotten, never failed to induce a melancholy state of mind.”
Citrus fruits, once rotten, never failed to induce a melancholy state of mind. Shayde had just found one in the bottom of a surprise refrigerator that had been buried under a feral stand of alien vines that, once it had conquered the rear right corner of her garden space, had died.
There was also something moving in the clouded tupperware on the second shelf.
Shayde sat, contemplating the orange that had once turned green, and had since gone black.
“How’s the garden?” said Rael.
“How much red tape is in it tae jus’ kill this mess wi’ fire?”
“Too much,” said Rael in the tones that forbade further inquiry.
“And callin’ in animal control on tha’ thing?” she indicated the inhabited tupperware with her machete.
Rael peeked. “I’ll go get the blowtorches.”
[Muse food remaining: 8. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
the weekend larp involved pirates vs. astronauts, snow, and weaponised fruit, so here are some prompts inspired by real events.
1. Suddenly, a watermelon.
2. “A pineapple, perfect! The cardboard warriors have almost reached the second staircase and we need ammunition. Now hand me my gunana.”
3. The Nerf Gun Wars of ‘06
(#00050)
“Pew! Pew!”
“Pew! Pew! Pew!”
“Shayde, what the flying flakk–?”
She grinned from behind her cardboard visor. She was using a banana as an imaginary gun and apparently shooting by saying, “Pew!”
“War games,” she said. “Catharsis, brain trainin’, and leftover fruit disposal. It’s win-win-win.”
“Left… over…” All right, so the fruit they were weaponising was on the 'mulch’ side of useful, but this much waste was… so very human. There was a bin in Shayde’s pretend fort.
Rael was so absorbed with the contents that he didn’t notice the flying watermelon until it landed, shattering on the wall behind him.
Shayde quickly swapped the fruit in his hand for her browning banana. “A pineapple, perfect! The cardboard warriors have almost reached th’ second staircase and we need ammunition.” She loaded her own catapult. “Na hand me me gunana.”
At lease it was less chaos than the nerf gun wars of '06.
[Muse food remaining: 4. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00041: The Noodle Incident(s)
There was that one time with the limes, the rhododendron hedge and the grand piano that all parties agreed never to speak of again…
Oh, the potential for each of these. I don’t know which universe to play with. So I’ll play with all of them :)
There is a certain genius for mischief. People who possess it are generally pranksters and the geniuses at it can make their chosen victims laugh at their own predicament.
Two such geniuses, Rael found, should never go together.
He already had enough on his personal agenda with Shayde, a creature who possessed magics in advance of current technology. But it got infinitely worse when the Enterprising Endeavour was in port and Hwell Barrow escaped the watchful eye of his saurian business partner, Ax'and'l.
Hwell had initially tried, according to all reports, to ‘blarney’ Shayde. Shayde, on the other hand, spotted him coming from a mile off and turned him down flat in ways he did not understand until ten minutes after she left the room. Things escalated quickly from there. He sent her chocolate-coated insects. She sent him caramel encrusted lizards. He somehow managed to dope her shower head and dyed her hair teal. She somehow got into the Enterprising Endeavour’s systems and dyed the air fuchsia. He set a flock of guinea pigs loose in her garden. She shipped live cargo to a very distant port… live cargo that liked to eat the containers she put them in, and breed like insects.
There was that one time with the limes, the rhododendron hedge and the grand piano that all parties agreed never to speak of again… Nobody could prove who did it.
The Enterprising Endeavour was in dock again. Which meant that Lyr, being both a precognitive psychic and a keen observer, had once again drafted Rael as bodyguard and reliable eye-witness. Which, in turn, meant he had to move his warming tank in for something Shayde called a 'sleep-over’.
“Ye serious. Ye never heard o’ smores?”
“Never,” said Rael. For all he knew, this was another Drop Bear story.
“Ah, yer in fer a treat,” Shayde opened her door.
Hwell had escaped his guard and managed to completely fill Shayde’s quarters with peculiar, helium-filled balloons.
“Condoms,” said Shayde as they escaped their former confines and began drifing into the corridor. “He cannae resist the classics…”
X-Men Evolution Universe
“What are you doin’, Tallwater?” Logan growled.
“Nuh-thiiiinng…” Sara almost sang. She was up to her elbows in bits and bobs, building a Device.
“You’re up against Fixit again, ain’t'cha?”
Sara put her screwdriver down so she could face him. She’d gone from aqua to very much more than a little bit blue-ish. And she was almost glowing. “I owe him one.”
Logan shook his head. “You been on his case ever since he accidentally sent you jauntin’ dimensions.”
“And he has the nerve to retaliate!” Sara was snippy, and when she got snippy, her Bostonian accent got thicker. “And he’s better at it… Well… There was that one time with the limes, the rhododendron hedge and the grand piano that all parties agreed never to speak of again…”
“Y'never thought of callin’ a truce and working on the problem?”
Sara glared at him. “That,” she sniffed, “requires him to apologise first.”
And, because I love it so much…. Dresden Codak’s X-Men Reboot Universe
In the opinion of Pepper Potts, there are some kind of geniuses there should never be two of, let alone two of in the same general area. Like, an entire continent.
Her life was interesting enough just trying to keep a leash on Tony Stark. Playboy multimillionaire genius inventor and any other nouns you had to spare. But now there was Sara Adrien. Mutant chameleon creative genius and a lot of other spare nouns, and a few of them actually polite.
Tony hated her for two reasons. One: she re-designed his holographic emitter vambrace so that it could both disguise a person for longer and fit into a rather clunky-looking sports watch. Two: she had found out his full name and used it against him whenever she was ticked off with him.
Well, not exactly hate hate… but not quite as mature as friendly rivalry, either. It was hard to maintain friendly rivalry with someone who had subconsciously absorbed the theories of ninjitsu as a method of getting the pranks past both Tony’s and Pepper’s paranoid security measures.
The nanobot packaging had been the last straw. Not that it disassembled its wrapping paper form and then spread anywhere it detected Tony’s DNA, but that it graffitto’d, Tony Stark is a louse! anywhere it had enough clear space.
And he couldn’t sue her for libel, because she’d paid to have a new species of louse named after him.
Pepper couldn’t see anything that would make them stop. There was that one time with the limes, the rhododendron hedge and the grand piano that all parties agreed never to speak of again… but it just kept… going.
“Eureka!”
Never before had three syllables struck terror into Pepper’s heart. She had to look, just so she could appreciate the train wreck that happened afterwards.
It was a hovering hula-hoop. Or rather, it looked like a hovering hula-hoop.
“What monster have you created now?” Pepper asked, only half-joking.
“Personal weather system.” Tony in a manic mood was never much for excess verbiage. “It’ll follow her around, stealth at first, of course; and rain on her - and only her.”
“This could not possibly go wrong,” Pepper deadpanned flat sarcasm.
As per protocol for these things, Tony set it loose, waited half an hour, and then sent the taunting text, How’s the weather?
And for two weeks, nothing happened. Two glorious weeks without so much as a black fax.
Tony actually relaxed. Well, relaxed for Tony.
Then came the garden party. A fine mist filled the air, but it did nothing to dampen the spirits of anyone in attendance. Until Sara showed up. Glittering and spectacular and - Pepper noticed - not being rained on.
“Why the hell is she dry?” muttered Tony.
“How the hell should I know?” murmured Pepper.
“Mister Stark,” said Sara.
“Ms Adrien,” said Tony.
They shook.
“Wonderful work with the programmable watering system,” said Sara. “I have it doing the rounds at Xavier’s. And congratulations on your fashion choice.”
“…zuh?” said Tony.
“I hear orange is the colour for celebrities of your calibre.”
Pepper and Tony looked together. He had turned a brilliant, vibrant, fake-tan orange.
Tony licked his hand. “Orange kool-aid?”
“I was out of Tang.”
“I’ll get you for this.”
“Really, Mister Stark. You have to stop handing me the weaponry. Those are the nanobots you originally sent after me, remember?”
Tony fumed. “Yes,” he growled.
“And nice try suborning the Sentinels. It won’t work a second time.”
“Wait. I didn’t reprogram the Sentinels.” Tony turned to Pepper. “Did I?”
Pepper didn’t have to check. “No. That wasn’t us.”
“Hmph,” said Sara. “Someone is using our personal vendetta against us.”
“Us?” Tony quoted.
“I did not put you on SHIELD’s watch list.” Sara snagged and sipped some juice. “My motto is Mostly Harmless, as you will recall.”
Tony caught on. “Someone’s trying to up the stakes.”
“Shall we happen to them together?”
Tony had a very nasty grin. “Yes. Let’s.”
Oh dear. Now he had Pepper in conniptions at two syllables.
[Muse food remaining: 3. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00013: Verdammt!
Kurt has laundry duty for the first time. Static cling problems ensue :3
Ororo should have known she was in trouble when she saw Kurt wandering the grounds with the laundry basket an obvious weight in his cerulean arms.
“Is there a problem?”
“Ja! Where the washing line ist? I looked everywhere, und… nothing.”
Washing line? “You didn’t see the dryer?”
“Uh. Dryers are expensive, ja? The sun and wind is free.”
Ororo gave up, dropping her voice to a whisper. “We don’t have a washing line. Come on, I’ll show you how the dryer works.”
Kurt took so easily to modern technology that it was hard to remember he came from a tiny mountain town that still had cobblestones on the streets. And a blacksmith who, according to Kurt’s own tall tales, made shoes for the four-footed half of the population.
It was only in moments like this that the culture shock even showed. And in the questions he asked.
“Must I separate the colours and whites?”
“What are the little balls for?”
“Must the dryer sheets be washed first, also?”
“Where is the delicates setting?”
“Is there a powder? Or a bar?”
This was a boy who she had to stop from using a cheese grater and soap in the washing machine. And, she couldn’t help noticing, used the word ‘unglaublich’ a little too often. Still, after some entertaining side-trips down the labyrinthine lanes of confusion, all seemed sorted enough for her to get back to pruning her roses.
It was almost dinner time when unfortunate events once again made themselves suspect.
“Where’s blue? growled Logan. "He’s skipped out on gym.”
“What?” said Jean. “He was a dozen words a second on the whole idea.”
“I think I heard him swearing in the laundry room,” added Scott. “I think it was swearing. Kinda hard to tell with German.”
Ororo followed Logan down to the laundry where, indeed, soft teutonic curses were turning the air as blue as the speaker, albeit in another language.
Unfortunately for Ororo, she understood every word. She stormed past Logan with a perfect German, “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” perched on her lips. She even took a deep breath as she approached the threshold.
That breath came out in helpless laughter.
“Verdammt!”
Logan, perplexed and puzzled, rushed to look.
Kurt Wagner was literally wrestling with the folding. T-shirts stuck to his hocks, socks and jocks embraced his tail, an assortment of garments concealed his arms. There was even most of a negligee making him look lie some bizarre laundry-themed ninja.
Logan was the one to charge in and begin untangling. “Static cling,” he said. “It’s a bitch.”
Ororo battled the giggles as she pitched in. “I’m sorry,” she bleated. “You just looked–”
“Ridiculous,” supplied Kurt. “Please to be getting a hills hoist? The wind and sun don’t do this.”
[Want to see something different? Suggest something!]
Challenge me?
Pop a prompt in my submit, my ask or an answer, and I will write a short fiction in due course.
I will answer every prompt.
You can even ask a question about my pet universe and get an answer and a fiction.
I need more prompts, people.
Challenge me?
Posting fanfic isn’t going to help me be a better writer [New year’s resolution#1: Work to improve myself] but it is going to attract my old fans, which means more readers. I need readers :)
So. Along side the fanficcery that promises to become a long-standing tradition in this blog [over 100 fanfics, remember?] I am going to accept challenges from my audience. Send me a springboard/prompt. A favourite phrase, a title of some media you love, ask a question about my pet universe[chronicled partially here], even an In-a With-a While-a*.
I will concoct a drabble or a short story right here on my blog. Just for you.
*In-a With-a While-a is a game from Theatre Sports, where actors improvised a scene based on “in a [Place] with a [anything, really] while a [event]”. Short stories concocted this way may be ‘Plot-What-Plot’s. You have been warned.
Questions may be answered factually as well as fictionally. You get to decide which is which. You can use my Ask box, Submissions box or use an answer. I don’t mind either.
This challenge will be reposted when I’ve run out of springboards.