(#00021)
“This is strictly arts and crafts, you understand?”
“Yes, Sara,” intoned Forge in the tired mien of someone who’d been through this before.
“*Just* the available materiel.”
“Yes, Sara.”
“No wibbly-wobbly jiggery-pokery.”
Sigh. “Yes Sara.”
“And no tricky little gadgets to speed up the process.”
“Yes, Sara.”
“Todd, darling, you may frisk him.”
“Man. I thought you said this would be fun,” said Forge as Toad’s clammy hands got way too personal in his space.
“I’m still living the consequences of your last episode of ‘fun’. mister Walkingbird…”
Forge winced. Names had power and his full name had the power to make him want to dig himself into a deep, deep hole until it went away. And Sara had somehow found it out.
“Shuttingupandbehavingmyself,” he managed.
“Good.” Sara’s ruffled feathers appeared to settle. Despite the fact that she didn’t actually possess feathers.
It never paid to be too metaphorical around mutants.
“This is compound A. We mix it with these ingredients in this order. This is compound B. We mix it with those ingredients in that order. Don’t mix them until we’re ready. These are lumps of clay with the precise volume of said finished compound once it is done. We do not borrow clay from anyone else’s pile.”
“Yes’m.”
“Over here on the wall is my articulation to clay volume chart. Do not remove it. You will design something horrific to pop out of a locker and *ONLY* that. Are we understood?”
“Yes’m”
*
Five hours later…
“TOLSTOY BEAUTEOUS-DAWN WALKINGBIRD!”
“I didn’t do it!”
“Prove it!”
“Do it, yo,” advised Todd. “'Fore she kills yo’.”
“I thinkIbetterrun…”
[Want more? Submit a prompt or ask a question!]
(#00019)
It was a dark and -o god- stormy night. The bums that usually cleared out five minutes before the little tip saucer appeared on their table hung around and actually dropped change on the saucer.
Pennies, for the most part. The occasional nickel, crying because it was alone. And one ancient-looking coin and a string of cowrie shells.
Aisha freshened up the weirdo’s coffee and said, “We prefer legal tender, here.” The coin was surprisingly heavy and almost disgustingly filthy.
“That coin,” slurred the bum, “could buy this whole block. ‘Sgotmy face on it.”
“Sure it does,” smiled Aisha, subconsciously checking her avenues for escape. She had to take it, because otherwise the bum would forget the money - or in this case, filthy old junk - actually belonged to Aisha and take it back.
“It is also a powerful totem against lightning.”
_It’s a good thing we only serve coffee after hours…._ At the risk of repeating herself, she said, “Sure it is,” and scraped some of the filth off. Some really old imagery. “This is a very weird picture of… Thor? Isn’t he s'posed'a have a hammer, not a spear?”
“Thor. Ha!” Thunder punctuated their conversation, as if objecting to the outmoded blasphemy. “Thor gets all the freaking credit. Followers. Comic books. Movies. Now he’s swanning around like Fabio and more 'me me me’ than backstage at the opera. *Thor*…”
“Oh… kay. I needed a reminder why it’s never a good idea to chat with customers. Thanks for that.”
“There are older gods. Better gods. Purer gods. From the first places! We came before *any* of those simpering posers from the north. Or the east.”
None of the other bums seemed interested in rescuing her. Or calling for more coffee. Or fake-calling for more coffee in order to rescue her. _It’s official. Chivalry is dead._ “Of course there are.”
“Ancient. Like that coin. They say Croesos invented coins, because he is whiter than those who did invent them. Just like they have Thor instead of the mighty Shango!”
“Shango? My nanna used to tell me about Shango…” Aisha checked the coin again. That wasn’t a badly-rendered breastplate. Those were badly-rendered breasts. Shango the Thunder Queen. Who split the air with her spears of light.
…amongst many other unlikely things…
“Thor has all the attention. Thor has all the glory. Thor has fucking comic books… But he is only pretend, compared to the mighty Shango!” Another thunder crash.
Pops, scrubbing away at the grille, stared through the service window at Aisha, who made desperately covert bail-me-out signals.
“I used to have the adoration of thousands. Thousands!”
“Poor you,” sighed Aisha.
Pops smirked and shook his head and shrugged. Pops-sign for “I’m not doing jack until there’s a fight.”
_Thanks a bunch, Pops._
“Now, I am lucky to have a few hundred who even know my name.”
“Poor you,” sighed Aisha.
One of the bums hanging out at the bar decided that outside was starting to look better than inside.
“I have been searching for a real warrior. Someone who cn stand to fight the battle ahead. A champion among champions.”
“GreatIhopeyoufindhim.”
“Him?” The weirdo laughed, and outside, a cacophany of thunder almost obliterated the sound. “No man is equal to a woman. Especially a young woman. Not even if he knows my name.”
Weirder and weirder. “Uh. What?”
“No man alive has the magic to grow another human inside him. No man has been born who can withstand the fight to bring a life into the world. No man can bear the brunt of menses like a woman can. He is simply not strong enough. No. You, Aisha. You are the champion I seek.”
The dirty hoodie slipped open during her speech. Shango. Old and withered, but still recognisably Shango. With her hair knotted into complicated buns on either side of her head.
Nanna once told Aisha that they were for knocking sense into her allies when they argued too long.
“And so they are, when I am close to you.”
The dirty old umbrella by her side was looking less and less umbrella-like by the minute. And Shango actually looked a little more… vitalized.
“Why me?”
“Because you know me. Because there is a part of you that believes. Because you look at these pale, sad men that have been made into gods and wish that just once, they would show someone like you in a position of power.”
“…more than once would be better…” mumbled Aisha.
“How about the opportunity to be a champion… every day?”
Most of the surviving imagery flew into her head. “Uhm. I wouldn’t have to run around in a skin-tight outfit with my boobs hanging out, would I?”
“Only if that pleases you.”
“No… I think that’d get the wrong kind of attention.” Aisha lowered her voice to a whisper as she sat opposite the ancient African goddess. “Way too many men.”
The mighty Shango grinned. “I was right to choose you. You will do well.”
[Want more? Submit a prompt or ask a question!]
(#00016)
Shayde winced as she filtered the young lizard girl’s enthusiastic babbling through her own understanding.
Yikes.
This kid had the worst case of wishful listening Shayde had ever seen.
“Danny…”
“Maybe I can take you to see the storm aurora. It only happens outside the left tail section for some reason? Oh! Wait. There’s like a historical theatre thing? Sometimes they do recreation shows, sometimes they show the old-style cinema stuff? It’s totally retro-cool.”
“Danny.”
“You could tell what was new and old from when you left? That’d like, be such a help on my thesis. How storytelling developed alongside technology in the pre-shattering era.”
“Danny!”
“What?”
“This isn’t a proper date. I never said it was.”
“But you said you thought–”
Life on the other side of let-down street wasn’t as simple as she’d thought it was, ten years and a million experiences ago. Shayde strangled a ‘you’re a good kid but…’ before it could form itself on her tongue.
“I made a mistake. I assumed things based on our text chats. And you’ve been assumin’ for the past twenty minutes, based on one word.”
Danny deflated. “I… thought we were getting along…”
“Have ye never had someone desperate to tell you every last detail about something they love beyond reason, but you’re bored stiff by? And have ye never wanted to avoid breakin’ their poor heart?”
“Oh, like Lyn Wikozt. Every day she has to tell me the latest thing this singer she likes has done? And what it means to her continued existence? And she just talks and talks and you can’t tell her you don’t wanna hear… about… Oh.”
Shayde summoned a smile despite the funereal mood descending on their group. “Clever girl.”
“…'msorryiwastedyourtime…”
“Na. Don’t feel bad about it. I know, right now, that’s a wee bit like tellin’ water not to be wet…”
Half a giggle.
“The best relationships are between people with equal standing, aren’t they? They make the best kind o’ teams. That’s why Superman never really got t’ stay with Lois Lane. It’s why lots of heroes are single. Wi’ great power comes a really sucky datin’ pool.”
A genuine smile.
“The most important bit is having someone ye can talk to… and listen to. You’ll find that someone. Maybe they’ve always been there. Maybe they’re just around the next corner. But when you do find 'em… tell 'em ye had tae break my heart.”
[Want your own story? Submit a prompt or ask a question!]
Announce on the Challenge
I’m going to try spacing my prompts out to one a day, if only to give Geekhyena a break ;)
Also, it gives me more time to think about which prompt would be best to take on and it gives you (yes, you! The individual reading this) time to think up some more prompts to submit or ask me :)
Of course, I will try to do the non-fanficcy ones first, since stretching into my pet universe is a priority for me.
All prompts will be turned into a story. One day at a time.
(#00014)
“PBLTBJ.”
“Yahuh.”
“Peanut butter. Lettuce. Tomato. Bacon. And Jelly.”
“Yyyyyyup.”
“And that was because he was in too much of a hurry to make two sandwiches?”
“And we were almost out of bread at the time.”
“Euw.”
“You should try his leftover turkey fluffernutter-reese sandwich.”
“What?”
“A Reeses sandwich is peanut butter and nutella - or a nutella substitute. Fluffernutter is marshmallow fluff and peanut butter. Mix the two together and add an assortment of leftover turkey parts, and a legend is born.”
“Tell me he did not do horrible things to egg salad?”
“Egg salad, avocado, mayo, and deep fried bananas.”
“AUGH!”
“Don’t judge, my dears. The poor man has a metabolism from hades. He needs his calories en masse.”
And, almost on queue, Kurt put his head around the doorframe. “Telling horror stories, again, liebchen?”
“I like to think of it as a warning,” Sara grinned. “Late night snack collisions and all.”
“Well, if we’re swapping stories about horrible food combinations, allow me to tell you all of Sara’s Hunan Surprise…”
Challenge me?
I am writing short stories based on submissions from you. Yes you.
If you’re reading this, you can slap together any old word salad you like and pop it in my submissions box. Or my ask box. Or even in an answer below. I will turn it into a story.
Anything you want to see, I will make happen. I may even make it happen in my pet universe.
I can, have, and will turn anything into science fiction. Even “purple pasta monkey fish”.
So go ahead. Challenge me. I can make anything into a story.
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 random phrase into my submissions box, or my ask, or even in the answer area below. All challenges will be answered. Just… not in order.
I will write a short story for every prompt given.
Anything goes.
Challenge me.
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.
(#00012)
Much had changed. Mort was still shocked at most of it. All of it could be traced back to Sara. Sara, no longer plain but still tall. She’d grown two inches by slow degrees and every last atom from top to toe was pure delight. He had a name for every colour of every aqua-to-lapis scale/chromatophore on her delightful skin.
He had changed, too. He no longer hunkered in shadows. He spoke up when he felt wronged. He bathed regularly, thanks to Sara’s miracle concoction of a soapless soap. He dressed better, thanks to Sara’s tailoring skills and part-time hobby in design.
Thanks to Sara, he no longer had absolute faith in his own stupidity. He’d learned enough to overcome his fears of failure. He was a teacher. Working on a college degree.
And about to go on a date. One he paid for. With wages he earned. At his job.
All things that were not possible without her.
He adjusted the bow tie for the fiftieth time in his reflection in the foyer mirror. Making sure he was suitably dapper for the occasion. Opera Populaire and fine dining at Chez Ritzi.
His name for it. It still took half an hour of coaching to get him to pronounce the place, but it offered the best of all possible worlds. Food as art. Plenty enough for both their metabolisms. No alcohol. Something new for Sara to experience. And, most important to Mortimer, something she truly deserved.
Time was ticking closer. He’d already peed and almost thrown up more times than he could count. His heart was hammering in his chest from old fears and PTSD inspired horror-shows in the back of his mind.
He adjusted the tilt of his top hat for the empty-billionth time.
“Stop it, you’re perfect.”
Mortimer turned and gaped. Sara.
Only his inner eye supplied a halo. She wore basic black. Culottes and a fitted top halfway between Victorian chic and hippie chick. When she moved, gracefully descending like a supermodel, it contained a galaxy. The cloak and muff, currently dangling like a clutch purse in one aqua hand, only accentuated her style. Both a deep vermillion velvet. The white faux-fur trim on the cloak only made everything else pop.
“…hglblf'x…” he burbled happily. Inside, his secret self was imitating Fred Estaire and singing like Michael Bublé. She came, she loves me, she’s spending time with me! I’m worthy of her tiiiiiiime! And so on.
“Thank you,” Sara blushed. “You’re looking suitably asd'f'k'k'jargle, yourself.”
Her hair, pretty much uncut since her exile from her home, two years and a hundred better experiences ago, was done up in something technically complicated and deceptively simple. The hair still loose from such elegant restraint fell in artful curls.
The only jewellery she wore was a pair of art-neuvaux earrings and the engagement ring he’d given her. It just made her sparkle more.
He offered his elbow. “Milady, our carriage awaits.”
It was an Eco-Limo. Just the right balance of style and responsibility. Just what she’d appreciate.
*
The maitre d’ had evidently not been briefed about “Chez Ritzi’s” two most generous supporters. Mortimer shared a Look with Sara.
It said, Let’s leave the money ‘till last, eh?
“We respectfully submit that madame and m'seur would be… more comfortable in a private booth,” repeated the maitre d’.
Sara pitched her voice to reach the cheap seats. Or comparatively-cheap-seats. “Are you telling me you’re refusing full service to people of colour?”
Mortimer sprained something trying not to grin like the cheshire cat after finding the canary in the cream. He knew everyone was staring and put on his best Posh British Tones.
“We paid for full service and we expect to receive what we paid for. Old chap.”
Sara hid her face. Her shoulders were shaking. To the judging, watching clientele, it looked like she was crying. Only Mortimer would be able to tell she was stifling giggles.
Honestly, this sort of thing happened nine times out of ten, every time they went here.
Mortimer decided the maitre d’ had shrunk half a foot. “Are you going to admit you’re overcharging based on the colour of our skin, serve us properly… or are we going to have a discussion with your manager?”
A few high-pitched noises escaped her throat. Thankfully, none of them sounded gigglish.
“Nothatwon'tbenecessary,” rushed the maitre d’. “Follow me madame et m'seur. I shall take you to your booked table.”
“Calmly, now, my love,” said Mortimer, taking her elbow. “It’s all been sorted.”
Sara spent the trip to their table desperately wiping the grin off her face.
Bubba-Jo was probably going to visit, which generally caused a stir because his fashion sense and grooming made him look like some unearthly combination of rastafarian beach bum and homeless hobo. His appearance in the public space of his own restaurant caused an inevitable fluster of hushed conversation because he looked like the exact opposite of someone who owned a place called Huattifoq.
Sara had told him that forgoing the new-hire breifing was a bad idea. Bubba-Jo did have to learn his lessons thoroughly and well.
“Do you think he’s salvageable, dear?” Sara asked after she’d been seated.
“I b'lieve he can learn. Bubba’s gonna have t’ get back on new hire duty.”
*
“…because I looove you sincerely…. Mommy dearest…” Sara sang.
“Nellie Brighton you ain’t.” Mortimer laughed. It was snowing and the limo was taking the long way home. Their arms were entwined and they both leaned on each other on a satisfied way.
“It’s taken me this long to learn how to sing in my own voice.”
“An’ I love the Sara version to pieces,” he said honestly. He sighed. “Marry me?”
“I believe I already said 'yes’ to that. And I also believe we’re finally doing something about it. Tomorrow afternoon.”
Tomorrow afternoon, when the light turned the grounds of Xavier academy into a winter wonderland. And when Kurt was free between classes to officiate a ceremony that managed to satisfy an atheist and a man who only worshiped his bride.
The only problem was stopping Bobby from going nuts with the decorations. And preventing Jacqui from becoming a bridezilla-by-proxy.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow!
“Happy birthday for tomorrow, Babe.”
“See you at our little chapel.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
They kissed all the way back home.