Challenge #00132: Monster in My House
Mr. Winters and how he ruined Scott Summers. Xavier makes an appearance.
Scott Summers devoted as much time as he could to extracurricular activities. If they were free ones, all the better. Money was a problem for Scott.
Mister Winters did not like Scott wasting money.
The ones that earned money were better, and funded the ones that didn’t. And sometimes contributed to his dinner.
But he had to be home by seven. Or Mister Winters would get angry.
Mister Winters got… unpredictable… when he was angry.
Scott didn’t want to make him angry. He did everything he could, every day, to make absolutely, positively certain that Mister Winters was as happy as he could be. Every morning, he got up the instant he heard the alarm clock in the neighbours’ house. Cleaned himself carefully with a washcloth and soap and as little water as he could get away with. He re-bound his eyes and cooked Mister Winters’ favourite breakfast by smell and feel.
Eggs. Sunny side up. Bacon. Toast. Golden brown and fried in the bacon grease. A one-inch thick slice of steak tomato, also fried. Sausage, pork. Lightly salted and peppered. Cooked to a T. Set up in Mister Winters’ place in front of his best chair and a hot coffee and an ice-cold beer. Knife, fork, cup and glass all just so on the tray.
And all the mess cleaned away before he could see it.
Only when Mister Winters slumped in his chair would Scott find and clean a bowl and spoon before helping himself to whatever cereal had the least bugs in it.
There was no milk. Milk was for pussies.
He ate quick. He had to finish before Mister Winters or he would notice. Things went bad when he noticed. He swallowed his last mouthful and got to washing up before the telltale creak that meant Mister Winters had got up again.
“What in hell do you call this?”
Scott offered his hand for it. It was only sometimes that Mister Winters remembered that Scott was effectively blind.
“Ah, shit,” gnarled hands put cold glass in his.
His fingers traced the label. “Feels like… your beer?”
“Stupid-ass shit,” growled Winters. “Can’t see it, can ya, cloth-eyes?”
Crap. He was angry. No matter what he did, things were going to go bad. People asked dangerous questions when he came to school with bruises. Questions that got Mister Winters mad. Questions that caused more pain.
And sometimes the inspectors came, and made sure the house was clean and that Scott had access to food and water and hygiene. Made certain he had clean clothes.
And did exactly nothing about anything that was happening beyond that. Because if he told the truth, nothing legal was done, and Winters would be vicious for months afterwards. If he told the right lies, there was a passing chance Winters would only use his belt for one night, and forget about his fists for at least a week. Figuring out which was the best thing to do was a no-brainer.
Somehow, during today’s beating, his bandages came off. They were cheaper than sunglasses, which some of the rich mean kids stole for laughs and then mocked his scars. And he could make them out of any old rag Winters let him have. What happened next… was confusing.
He saw…. the table, the floor, the pile of porn that the inspectors ignored because Scott was blind. The opposite wall. All tearing away in the force of a bright red light. He felt lifted up. Tossed like a rag doll against the other wall. And then all feeling was gone.
Consciousness. After what he’d just seen, Scott did not want to open his eyes again. He used all his senses to figure out what was going on.
Old pleather. The back seat of Mister Winters’ car, replete with the stink of old sex from when the old man could rent a woman for some fun. And the miasma of rotten take-out. Moving. Just a hair on the side of legal. Rush Limbaugh on the radio. Soft cussing from the drivers’ seat.
He started to sit up.
“Stay down, asshat. I tole everyone you were in hospital.”
Scott huddled in place. Breathing shallowly so he didn’t have to choke on the stink of the back-seat cushions. He tried to count the turns and measure the distance, but he had no starting point, and no idea where he was.
At last, they stopped.
Winters got out. Opened a back door. “Out.” And then dragged him out anyway. Roughly pushed him in conflicting directions. Manhandled his head.
“Sumbitches think they goin’ steal money off'n me… sumbitches got another think comin’…” Winters mumbled.
It was cold, and he was still in his singlet and shorts. What passed for pajamas. It was quiet. “Is it night time?”
“Shaddup an’ open your eyes, idjit.”
“I don’t wanna hurt anyone or anything,” risked Scott. It was the first time he objected to anything Winters told him to do.
Fist to the kidneys. Rough hands wrenching him up by the hair. Alcohol-infused breath in his face. “When I say open your eyes, scumnuts, you open them right up! Now OPEN! THEM! EYES!”
He was right in front of Scott.
The last thing Scott saw was Winter’s face as he realized this. Seconds before his head both blew apart, and off.
Scott shut his eyes just as the red light hit the ATM and shattered the money-box. He tore off Winter’s weather-worn sleeve and desperately wrapped his eyes with it. And then, because something warm, wet and sticky was touching his leg, Scott got up and walked, carefully, until he found a reference point.
Good wall. Nice wall. Warm wall. It mustn’t have been far into the night because it retained the heat of the day. Therefore, west wall. He followed it away from the scene. Tried to sop up as much heat as he could before he had to go in other directions.
Car. blocking his escape. Pulling up just as he ran out of wall.
“Hello, Scott.”
“Who are you?” he asked. “Not a friend of Mister Winters?”
“No. I never had the misfortune of meeting him. My name is Professor Charles Xavier. And I would like to help you.”
Someone wrapped him up in something warm. Someone who smelled like spices and hot, lazy days. “My name’s Ororo. Would you like to come with us?”
There was take-out chicken in the car. Fresh. There were no other answers but, “Yes, please?”
[Muse food remaining: 9. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Ding, Dong, Is The Witch Really Dead?
Jelly, Ice Cream, Maggie Thatcher and Sara’s obsession with all things empirical.
(#00130)
“Ah, the end of an era,” sighed Sara.
Kitty peeked. She was watching international news over a bowl of jelly and ice-cream, where people were protesting in the streets and holding giant puppets. It was interspersed with grainy old stock footage of people rioting. “Normally I like, ignore your what-the-heck moments, but… What the heck?”
“Margret Thatcher has passed on.”
Kitty waited for further explanation. When none was forthcoming, she prompted, “Which means…?”
“Some rather grousome celebrations,” Sara indicated the TV. “I’m trying to grok it, myself. She was elected Prime Minister for–”
“Prime what?”
Sigh. “Sort of like the President of England.”
“Okay.” Kitty tried to ignore the fact that Sara had just said that in her lowest-common-denominator voice.
“Anyway, she was elected Prime Minister for thirty-some years. They kept re-electing her for that time, despite the fact that she kept doing things they hated. Remember V?”
“Yeah, that was a cool movie.”
“Yes. Well. The original comic was written as a sort of protest against Maggie Thatcher’s regime.”
“Wait. How could they keep voting for her for that long? There’s term limits and stuff.”
“Not in England, dear.”
“England’s like, weird.”
“Everywhere’s weird when you don’t live there. Just ask Kurt.”
“So they hated her?”
“Yup.”
“But they kept voting for her.”
“Yes.”
“And now she’s dead they’re like, celebrating?”
“Indeed.”
Kitty sat on the floor and stared at the images. “Would this be something like a war breaking out if like, George W. Bush died?”
“…which will possibly happen… But yes, you have rather nailed it.”
Kitty pondered the odds of Sara joking about that. Then figured out how old W. was and how likely it was that he’d pass anytime soon. “I’m'a go see how good our emergency shelter is.”
“Good thought.”
[Muse food remaining: 11. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00128: Once Upon a Nightmare
A feverish nightmare from the slumbering mind of Duncan Matthews…while totally awake.
“How can you stand to breathe the same air as that thing?”
“Hm?” said Jean, her mind had been elsewhere.
Duncan pointed to Essel. “That tranny garbage. I heard you and that are roomies?”
“Well, at least she doesn’t steal my clothes,” said Jean. Her tired voice and monotone said nothing to Duncan. Nor did the notes she clung to with a white-knuckled grip.
“Honestly, being in the same house with that thing would give me nightmares. If I could sleep at all.”
“Really,” said Jean.
Duncan ignored her glare of doom. “Yeah. Trying to figure out all the different ways it could try and rape someone. Has it got rid of the -uhm…”
Jean just raised an eyebrow.
“Ol’ chicken neck?” he made jerky motions near his crotch area.
“She doesn’t need to. She never had one,” said Jean. If Duncan had been listening, he would have heard the icy tones of death in her voice.
“Euw. I don’t even want to think about it.”
“You have no clue,” said Jean. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be trapped in the wrong body? Can you even imagine if you woke up in the body of a girl?”
“Yeah. Easy.” He quickly mimed shooting himself in the head.
“Thanks for telling me that my life is only worth ending,” she said. And with that, she stormed off to talk with the freak, without giving any kind of clue as to what he’d done or said wrong.
Bitch.
He didn’t quite remember the rest of the day. Only that things otherwise went better than expected. Plans did not muck up thanks to whichever lunkhead who had had a funny idea. He had dinner, argued with his parents, and went to bed.
And woke up with tits.
Big, bouncy, and surprisingly painful tits. And his junk had gone. Vanished. He was still himself. His face was still his own. But his body…
His body was now a target.
For every guy…
Just.
Like.
Him.
He opened his closet and found it full of frilly pink things. There were bras where he used to stow his wife-beaters. Panties where his jocks should have gone.
And -euw- feminine things and a helpful calendar outlining ‘trigger week’ in red.
“Are you coming down anytime soon?” said Mom, hanging around his door.
“I’m a girl…”
“Ah,” said Mom with some relief. “Progress at last. I knew this whole thing with pretending you’re a boy had to end sometime. Come on. Find something pretty and fix your face or you’re going to be late!”
She was gone before he could protest.
There were no belts. No necklaces. Nothing to wrap around his neck and no plastic bags he could smother himself with.
There was an optimistic card on his dresser. Apparently congratulating him for staying alive for three months. Someone had written, “Way to go girl!” and he had, evidently, crossed out the 'girl’ and written 'boy’ over and over again until there was no space left. Even inside the O’s of other 'boy’s.
“Dunc!”
Duncan snorted. He was still on the bench. Still staring at Jean and the tranny freakshow.
Graydon leaned into his field of view. “You okay, Dunc?”
He blinked. Shook it off. “Yeah. I thought those mushrooms on that pizza were a bit weird.”
“You trippin’? Seriously? Man, I should have some of that pizza tomorrow.”
“Don’t,” he said. “It’s a bad trip.” He did a covert check. Pecs. Junk. Normal. He was normal. A real boy in the body of a real boy.
“You wanna play Trash the Tranny?”
“Not… today. Listen, I’m not feeling great. I’m'a have to bail. Kay?”
“Yeah. Sure. Food poisoning’s no fun. Catch you later.”
“Yeah,” said Duncan. He went home. Said nothing, and went quietly to bed. Afraid to sleep. Afraid that once more he would wake up in the wrong body. And almost eternally grateful when he didn’t.
[Muse food remaining: 12. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00127: Conversations on the Twilight Zone
Jean, Wanda and a little bit of bonding over astral physics. Todd makes an appearance.
“Saw you in the dream-realm, last night,” said Jean. “You were… not exactly hallucinating? I thought I could help.”
“That was you? But you were–”
“Probably veiled behind a curtain of your understanding. I’m sorry about that. I backed off when I realized what was happening.”
“I don’t undertand what you’re saying…”
Jean sighed. “Sometimes? People find themselves on the astral plane. I try to help them out when I can. You must have some deep-buried issues to summon those phantoms.”
“…they seemed real…”
Jean sat. “It’s okay. If you manage to find your way into the astral plane again, you need to remember that you are ultimately in control. Everything you see and hear in the astral plane comes from your own mind.”
“But… those things…”
“Tell you what. Next time I find you lost? I’ll salute three times so you know it’s me. I can help.”
“Yo, X-geek. What'cha doin’?” Todd challenged as he landed.
“Trying to help,” said Jean. “I’m going now.”
[Muse food remaining: 12. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
“I’m Impressed”
Scott’s 1tth straight victory in court and the slight but unmistakeable praise that Glee gives him upon not making an ass of himself while under the cosh. She also admits something about her personal which Scott almost, ALMOST misses in his joy of not losing…again.
(#00125)
“Not guilty.”
Scott quietly breathed out and shared a hug with his client, a kid who was still manifesting and had, in a fit of excitement, fear and hiccoughs, accidentally incinerated a car.
“Thanks for the heads-up Mr Summers,” said Barbary. He clutched the card with the address and contact details of Xavier’s institute like a more normal person would clutch at their last chance.
“Not a problem. Everyone needs a second chance. You’ll be in good hands.”
The kid shot off at warp nine for friends and family while he tidied up his papers.
“That makes eleven,” noted Glee. “Quite the straight number.”
“All it takes to ruin a streak is one,” said Scott.
“So defeatist. You should celebrate. Go have some fun.” Glee snapped her own briefcase shut with compact efficiency. “You earned it.”
“They’re your tactics. You should come along.”
“The difference between you and me, Mr Summers,” said Glee, “is I scare people.”
Scott watched her go. And he thought that he had a knack for finding the ashes of defeat in the pyrotechnics of victory…
[Muse food remaining: 14. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
A blessing? Or a curse?
We’ve all wanted to go back and unsay that one hurtful thing - or at the very least, apologise before a chance at a friendship is lost - utter those words that got us mocked that time, undo that stupid thing that cost us self-respect and possibly more.
Only thing is: Who could stop at one?
(#00124)
Kylie blinked. There were now three of her in her room. Two were older. Both dressed in identical old-fart clothes that spoke loudly of their devotion to the hegemonic norm.
“Don’t go to the party,” said the one on the left side of her mirror as she continued to apply makeup. “It’ll be the worst mistake you ever make.”
“Are you kidding me?” said the her on the right side of the mirror. “Not going to the party was the biggest mistake of my life!”
“I got roofied and raped and slut-shamed! How could your life be any worse than that?”
“Um. Excuse me? My social life imploded after that party. Anyone who was there had all the breaks. I was ostracized as a nerd and never got anywhere.”
“I thought going to this party would stop me getting ostracized as a nerd,” said Kylie the younger. “And the people who are there anyway? They’re the social elite. They’d get all the breaks regardless.”
The two other Kylies stared at each other. “The whole thing was a set-up?” they said in unison.
“You know what?” said Kylie the younger. “I might anonymously call in about a rowdy party with drugs and then show up late with Starbucks.”
The two other Kylies vanished under the ripple effect. Kylie smiled and finished her lipstick. It wouldn’t be so bad, but versions of her just kept on turning up over the most improbable things.
[Muse food remaining: 15. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00123: One Fine Day in the Dimplomatic Offices
Never trust a bald barber, a skinny cook, a woodworker with missing fingers, or a lawyer in any situation.
“Ooo, na that’s plush,” said Shayde. She’d laid her accent on thicker so that she sounded less educated. Irony for the purposes of self-entertainment, because nobody nearby was going to get it.
“This is a standard diplomat’s office,” said the local Director of the Corps Diplomatique.
“An’ the aspidistra’s free?”
“Plant life is mandatory,” said Director Chem. “There’s a small maintenance fee if you do not wish to care for it yourself.”
Shayde nodded, brushing the leaves.
There was a timid knock, which turned out to belong to a mousy young human with an abundance of nose and a severe lack of chin.
“I was, mmm, sent here?”
Director Chem smiled. “Yes. We’ve been expecting you. Ambassador Shayde, this is Blenkinsop. He’s from our affiliate law team.”
Shayde stopped rotating on her chair as if she had stopped time. “Yernotsuin'meIgotdiplomaticimmunity, yerbasterd.”
“Um. I’m, mmm, your lawyer?”
“And yer name’s Blenkinsop.”
“Mmm, yes?”
“Ye got any others?”
“Mmm, no?”
“Yer name’s Blenkinsop Blenkinsop…”
“Escuse me, no. It’s just, mmm, Blenkinsop?”
Shayde stared at him. Then turned to Director Chem. “Yer kiddin’ me, yeah?”
Blenkinsop sidled up to Rael. “Um. Does she, mmm, speak Galstand?”
“It’s the accent,” said Rael. “You get used to it. As for her… colourful idioms, I’m compiling a lexicon.”
“Ah. Mmm. Good?”
“Reet,” said Shayde, now sitting on the desk. She had her index finger tapping the pinkie of her opposite hand, which meant she was sorting out what was happening and about to make a collection of obvious statements with her own twist of understanding. “So I’m a full-time ambassador wi’ no country tae go home to, an’ I still get an office and a lawyer.”
“Yes,” said Director Chem.
“He looks weaselly enough,” Shayde noted.
“Mmm… thankyou?”
“Acts a lot mousey, though.”
Blenkinsop looked to Rael.
“Timid,” he supplied.
“Um. Yes? I can, mmm, see where that impression is, mmm, made?” Blenkinsop toed the carpet and picked at his fingernails. “But… I’m, mmm, out of my environment? Um. In a court? I’m, mmm, quite good?”
“Reet,” Shayde deadpanned. “We’ll see about tha’.” She flicked a drawer out, then back in. “Let’s do lunch. My shout.”
“You don’t have to, mmm, feed me. My offices pay for, mmm, all expenses.”
Shayde swung over the desk and seized the smaller man by the shoulders. “Me Mam always said, never trust a skinny cook, a bald barber, a carver or demo man wi’ fingers missin’… or a lawyer in any situation. I feel way more comfy about it all when you’re in a state of owin’ me one.”
He was left, trembling in the middle of the carpet, when she breezed towards the door. Rael took his elbow and steered Blenkinsop after her. “Believe it or not, that was a friendly gesture.”
“Mmm?”
“If there was going to be trouble, she’d call you ‘pal’,” he explained. “And possibly ask if your mother can sew…”
[Muse food remaining: 16. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Be interested to see what you do with this one:
“Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without any address on it?
- Mark Twain
(#00122)
There were designated busking zones on any station large enough to attract the kind of itinerant population that gathered Minutes by entertaining passersby.
Amalgam had hundreds of them.
Rael knew from long, and partially agonizing experience, that Shayde loved them like nothing else. In the hours not taken up by duty, she would take her ‘axe’ down to one at random, and play for pocket change. Allegedly so she could 'unwind’.
This from a being who entertained herself by winding other people up.
The surprisingly unjust part of it was that she could always afford to feed the both of them after just a few sets.
This time, she’d found a dismal corner calling itself the Slop Shop. It catered to the sort of clientele who knew they couldn’t afford anything better and didn’t want to pretend to try.
Shayde ordered a meat pie floater to start and spotted someone in a booth.
They were having the Impoverished Special, which consisted solely of whatever fruit one could get away with picking from the nearest orchard before security got interested. This pallid and washed-out soul was staring at their lone apple in near suicidal despondency.
“Ey up,” said Shayde. One of her many, many call signs of doom. She left her stool to park herself opposite the truly unlucky one in the booth. “Why d'ye sit there lookin’ like an envelope without any address on it?”
“En-ve-lope?” echoed the sallow saurian. He looked to Rael for translation and fished in his pocket. All he had to offer was Seconds.
“She asks why you are sad and despondent,” said Rael. He not only pushed back the Seconds, but palmed an extra Minute into the man’s sad pile.
“I came to see the universe. I believed I could trade on my talent… but nobody notices me.”
“D'ye get stage fright?”
“I do admit nervousness,” the saurian confessed. “But that shouldn’t alter my performance.”
Shayde handed across a ten Minute coin. “Gi’ us a song, then. Up ye pop like you would in t’ hall.”
The instant he started playing, the poor creature blended in with the walls.
“Scared o’ muckin’ up, aye?”
“Er… yes?”
“I’m gonna give ye an’ old Earth song ye can’t possibly muck up. It’s designed to be played bad.” This time, Shayde took the dias.
It was horrible. The tune was both random and out of key, as for the singing the only creature it could attract was possibly a lovesick cat.
And the words… well… they got to the point.
“OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH…. Give me some moNEY! Just gIVe me some MOneeeeyyyy! You can drop it right hErE on the groUND! And if you don’t give me enO-OUGH, I’ll foLLow you HOme… and sIng outSIde your winDOw for the rest of your LIIIIIIIIIFFFFE!”
The saurian blinked. His anger colours flushed. “I shall not,” he announced, “need to play that song.”
“Think of it when ye play the good stuff, then. You omnivorous?”
“Er… yes?”
“Than I can shout ye another floater. You look like you need feedin’.”
The young saurian again looked to Rael.
“Shayde has a habit of feeding strays,” he announced. “She thinks it will count for her in her afterlife.”
[Muse food remaining: 17. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Philip K. Dick said it best:
“Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.”
(#00121)
“This,” announced the Doctor, “is the Monestary of the Believers.”
“The believers in…?” prompted Sally.
“Everything. Everything that is. And a few things that aren’t. They devote a lifetime to it. Each devotee is not allowed to have the item they’re meant to believe in.”
Sally peeked through the slot. A monk knelt on the floor, writing or praying or both.
“So they’re a believer in chairs?”
“Yes. Fella three doors down believes in tables. Poor man has to do his writing on the floor.”
“Ouch…”
“I feel sorry for the lady at the end of the hall. She believes in cushions.”
“Why go to all this bother?” Sally asked. “Things had to exist before people believed in them.”
The Doctor gave her one of his smirks. “Did they? Or were they just collections of atoms with a convenient shape and a familiar name?”
Sally would spend the rest of her life asking herself that question.
[Muse food remaining: 18. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
A new take on an old classic.
To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail.
To a man with only a hammer, a screw is a defective nail.
To a man with only a nail, everything looks like a hammer.
(#00120)
She ran through the darkened streets, harsh breathing absorbed by the endless fog of Lower Cogtown. She’d lost the whistles of the gendarmerie five streets ago, but that was no reason to stop.
It was no reason to even slow.
To a man with a hammer, every problem looked like a nail.
To a man with a screwdriver, every nail was defective.
But heaven help you - and only heaven could help you - if all you had was a hex nut.
[Muse food remaining: 14. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]