Challenge #00872-B141: Children of the Monitor Light
http://chokingonfeelings.tumblr.com/post/120109659651/zzdigital-what-if-someone-got-bitten-by-a
(Transcription:
What if someone got bitten by a vampire, but didn’t realize it. So then they go around and keep misidentifying all the symptoms, like
“Dude, you haven’t gone outside in a while.”
“Yeah, last time I went out I got this wicked sunburn.”“Are you still up?”
“Yeah, I started bing watching this show on Netflix.”“Dude, I’m seriously craving something right now.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Pizza rolls?”)
Hey there. Andy Carter. Freelance programmer. Nerd blogger. But you knew that. That is, if you’re one of the few who actually reads these ramblings.
I’m still looking for that asshole who slipped me something at Juliana’s kegger/barbecue. Would you believe nobody got photographs? Like, a million people glued to their phones and doing Snapchats and that kind of fuckshit… and not one of them caught the asshole who figured out a way to get past my guard.
He was a slick sunofabitch, I can tell you that. It’s bastards like him that make me put on the ole cockblocker 9000. And you all told me that it was stupid to make my own chastity belt.
Ha! Joke’s on you. It worked, so ner.
Anyway, ever since then I’ve had some weird kinda bug. Bastard managed to give me something.
It’s been four weeks since I woke up on Juliana’s porch swing with a massive pain in my neck. Weird stuff has been happening.
I get this bizarre craving for rare meat. Like super-rare. You ever heard of Blue Steak? Where they bless a hunk of dead cow with a kiss to the grille and serve it like that?
Yeah. THAT rare.
I am sorry. This is like an overwhelming craving. Spinach doesn’t cut it. I can’t be vegan any more.
At least it’s still raw food, right? It’s gotta be some kind of healthy.
And on that note - to the ‘just get some sun’ team: I literally can’t. Last time I stepped out into daylight? I went out to fetch my mail. Came back inside with the kind of sunburns that make people sick. I think I might be allergic to sunshine, now.
Yeah. It’s a thing.
Moonlight is okay. It’s diffuse. It doesn’t hurt. And taking midnight strolls is not exactly safe for a gal unless I have the sense of mind to don the cockblocker 9000 and carry my best friend - the Louisville Slugger with extra barbed wire wrapped around it.
It’s amazing how few people fuck with me when I have Louis by my side.
I have to avoid the cops, though. They tend to frown on Louis.
I’ve been getting a little more… aggressive, lately. Like I want someone to fuck with me. The idea of smashing Louis into some douchebag’s face is… well… it’s a kind of fantasy that rarely leaves my thoughts.
And I swear I’m hallucinating. I can’t see my face in mirrors, any more. I thought that was something that only happened in dreams. Bernie, the nice lady who delivers my shopping, came by and confirmed that I wasn’t dreaming. She also said she couldn’t see my reflection, either. She helped me with that video I put up on Youtube.
That one won me five hundred off of Real Or Fake. Yay.
And - I used to love anything garlic. Now even the faintest whiff of Aoli makes me want to run and puke. I’ve been torn from my favourite condiment.
Bernie keeps telling me it’s for the best. That I smell nicer, now.
I have no idea how to tell her, but… she’s started to smell delicious. Like I want to bite her neck… Actually bite it.
Something weird is going on. It’s that asshole’s fault, I know it.
Can anyone help with this? Every time I google the symptoms, I get a billion links to Twilight fanfic. Gross.
[Muse food remaining: 11. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00870-B139: Never Hitchhike Drunk
“And that is how I accidentally fostered peace between two species and became mayor of Broccolopolis”
Let me tell you, there are some cargo haulers out there who can make Space Lightning out of anything that can ferment.
And freeze-distilling that stuff in Kelvin-scale temperatures gives it one hell of a kick.
And my brewer in chief decided to drop me off somewhere light years away from my destination.
A planet in the middle of a generations-long war.
By the time I got there, they’d been killing each other for millenia and just about the entire planet was an immense graveyard. I say ‘graveyard’ but it was more along the lines of ‘garden’.
See, both sides elected to honour their dead with sort of… tree things. If you can imagine a hybrid of a carrot, pumpkin, broccoli and Yggdrasil as a ‘tree’. They looked like trees and that was good enough for me.
There was only one town left and it had a thick wall in the middle that passed for the spaceport. And administrations building. It was there that I discovered, in my hangover haze, that both sides were no longer fighting over any kind of moral issue. They were fighting over land in which to live.
All those trees left zero territory for housing or farming.
I went for an escorted tour and someone informed me that they were edible from root to leaf.
“Well,” I said, “Why don’t people eat the insides and live in them, then?”
You could hear a pin drop.
I wasn’t quite sober, yet, so I assumed the tour was over and ambled back to the hostel room that was literally a hole in the wall.
And when I woke up… I was not only savior of the planet, but also the mayor of the now-expanding Broccolopolis.
I have my very own Ygdrassil-manor with an indoor pool, though. It’s not all bad. And they make a killer tree-sap brew here. Want to try some? No strings attached…
[Muse food remaining: 11. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00869-B138: One Mildly Hazardous Evening in the Commercial Concourse
After many stumbles and a lot of explaining and apologising, how does the first date between little havenworlder and big scary deathworlder go?
It had taken some significant time in negotiations and a lot of education on both sides. Ground rules established. Diets planned, they now sat awkwardly across from each other at Unsuitable Food Eat.
Bear cleared his throat three times before he said, “I understand you’re insectivorous? Do you mind sharing a Hakuna Platter?”
“That is…“ Ryll scrolled down the menu screens. “Ah. The abundance of carbohydrates and flesh with a few lost vegetables lost in the middle?”
“I’ll make sure we get it without pineapple. Or chili. Or. Um. Anything aggressive.“ Bear consulted his personal reader. “Yikes. Your lot aren’t cleared for much, are they?”
Ryll nervously groomed her head-spikes. “We are still working our way up to class-four Deathworlders like yourself. Your… flavour… would kill us.”
“I’m already feeling guilty about that.” Bear reddened. “Um. I usually like to eat the aggressive stuff.”
“I didn’t know you could change colour.” Ryll relaxed out of her huddle. “Is it a display of interest?”
“Sometimes, it can be. In this case, I’m just embarrassed,“ Bear scratched his chin fur. “Loads of the stuff I enjoy? I can’t share.”
“Yes. I looked up your Deathworlder entertainments under supervision.” A smile. “I only fainted twice.”
“Cheev,” Bear grinned.
“…pardon?”
“Uhm. That was an achievement. Yes?”
It was a very awkward evening.
[Muse food remaining: 12. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00868-B137: Mistakes Were Made
After http://internutter.tumblr.com/post/119809238784/challenge-00851-b120-one-fine-evening-at-a
The deathworlder’s attempts to apologise for the earlier incident and continue to express interest in the little havenworlder
This negotiation booth had a clear barrier between the Human called Bear and the Agamid called Ryll.
Both parties had a security detail and a negotiations counsellor.
“I’m very sorry,” said Bear. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Usually those lines get a big laugh.”
“Cogniphagia is humorous?” meeped Ryll in alarm.
“Uhhh…” said Bear.
“The human named Bear is referring to some recreational procreation activities native to his species,” informed the negotiations counsellor on Ryll’s side.
This earned the counsellor a slow and incredulous boggle.
“It’s true,” said Bear. “Females of my kind are amenable to friendly nibbling in sensitive areas.”
“Your teeth are sharp,” said Ryll. “My skin is not as strong as yours.”
“Yeah I wasn’t thinking it through,” admitted Bear. “I thought that since you were in the area, you’d already got the resistance to us.”
“You’re… aware?”
“I might be a bit slow, but I’m not ignorant,” Bear smiled, carefully keeping his sharp teeth out of view. “If you like, I can escort you through a series of cleared experiences.”
Ryll meeped again. So alarming. “I must… acclimate myself… to the concept,” she allowed.
Bear offered his contact details and a promise that he would not pursue her company.
[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00863-B132: Shattered Fables
It turns out that some species’ mythical creatures are almost identical to real creatures found on the home planet of another species.
K’karik almost forgot to breathe. There, sitting in the enclosure of the Terran zoo, was clearly Skybear. It was grey like a storm cloud, and sitting up against a tree. Its ears were the white puffs of high stratus clouds.
Just like in the stories.
Legend said the song of the Skybear was a marvel to behold.
Legend didn’t say anything about them eating noxiously pungent leaves. And their gaze didn’t instantly bring down the lightning. If anything, it regarded K’karik with an almost insolent apathy.
“Are they tame?” she asked a human guide. She asked it in a reverential whisper.
“Yeah. Well, tame enough. Sort of. You can’t really tame a Koala.” Her nametag declared her to be Sandy. “Would you like a photo with one?”
A picture? With a Skybear? “They allow people to hold them?”
“They’re noncogniscent mammals,” soothed Sandy. “And they’re socialised, so they won’t kick up. Too much.”
Of course, the Terran version of ‘kick up’ was many other cogniscents’ version of ‘fatally maim’. Therefore, K’karik followed the Terran Guide’s instructions to the letter.
The Skybear clung to her as it had clung to the tree. Its fur was soft. And it had two thumbs.
“Peace of the land for peace of the air,” K’karik whispered in awed reverence.
Sandy managed to take the photograph mere seconds before the Koala urinated. All. Over. K’karik.
Legends were not meant to become reality.
[Muse food remaining: 10. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Come up to the lab, see what’s on the slab…
A Frankenstein-esque mad scientist (re)creates life from parts of the dead, and one of the first responses from his new (female) creation is an exploratory grope and a frustrated…
“Dammit, you could’ve at least tried to get a matching pair…”
(#00858-B127)
“What? They aren’t the same size? But the clothing label on your donor said D cup…”
“This one is a thirty-five D,” explained the monster, juggling a bosom. “This one is a thirty D. The cup size changes depending on the chest circumference.”
“Um,” said VanQuiche. “Oops?”
“Um. Oops. Um, oops? That’s all you have for me? You are marching right back to that donor pool and finding me a matching set of boobs this instant, mister!”
There was nothing else to say, but, “Yes’m.”
“And did you even try to do neat needlework? This is my face! People have to look at it!“
“I’llgetrightonthat, Iswear.”
“And how the hell did you give me such a narrow waist? Did you scrimp on the internal organs?”
“Uuuuuuuuummmmm…” VanQuiche retreated for the door. “I’ll make sure you have a complete set… shall I?”
[Muse food remaining: 14. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00853-B122: Summons in Trouble
“…‘and thus do we condem the acts of the malevolent…’? Wait… MALEVOLENT? How dare they call me ‘malevolent’!”
“Yeah, if anything, you’re just incompetent.”
“…Of course, I – hey, who’s side are you on, anyway?!”
“Yours, of course, Master… but even you must admit that your experiments are… a little lacking.”
“Of course they are - they’re experiments. They exist so that I know what to do better next time.”
“But the cogniscent cheese, sir…”
“What? I thought Horace was rather cute.”
“The villagers didn’t.”
“Pfah. Peasants. What do they know?”
“Apparently,” Igor peered at the paperwork, “the summoning of Tril’bii Mi’so and sundry other legal entities.”
At last, the master grew pale. “You mean…”
“Yes. A class action lawsuit.”
[Muse food remaining: 17. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00852-B121: Catching Up
Ok If I’ve timed this right it ought to be just after eurovision.
Your prompt today is whatever act won.
[AN: You got it right. I’m willing to bet you were expecting something like Gay Disco Dracula though]
Shayde called it ‘degaussing’ when she didn’t call it “Catching up wi’ five hundred years o’ Tivo” and it usually involved a bucket of popcorn. Buttered, of course.
“So what are you binging on, tonight?”
“Eurovision.”
Her answers always surprised him. Humans displaced in time generally caught up with soap operas or teledramas. Shayde was, as always, different. “Enlighten me. This is an Earth custom?”
“Oh aye. Europe get together to see who sings the best and then gets in a snip aboot who really does. England loses. Always.”
“Ah.” Terrans. They found endless ways to pick a fight with each other. He sat by her on the couch. “What are you up to?”
“Twenty-fifteen.” She offered some popcorn. “The year - fer no reason, ye ken - they let Australia play.”
“Australia. Great southern land. Opposite end of the globe. Not Europe at all?”
“Aye,” Shayde munched on her handful. “I think they did it tae piss off the States.”
“Probably,” allowed Rael. He watched in confusion. “I thought this contest was a celebration of costume and spectacle.”
“They toned it down for the noobs, I reckon.”
“That’s it? Laser projection and flashy lights?”
“And a catchy song that’s ninety percent chorus, aye.”
[Muse food remaining: 18. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00851-B120: One Fine Evening at a Galactic Mixer Party
Between two cultures, the body language and customs for aggression/anger in one are very similar to the flirting/courtship of the other.
In this scenario: A series of attempts to get an individual to agree to a date are taken entirely the wrong way.
She shouldn’t have gone amongst the Deathworlders. She could already feel her mortality creeping up on her. Havenworlders and Deathworlders never mixed well.
“Pretty,” said one of the Deathworlders. A tall beast with entirely too much hair and sharp, efficient-looking teeth. It looked… hungry.
“I am not edible,” she lied.
“Dunno. You look pretty delicious to me.” More bared teeth. “I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.”
Ryll shrieked and ran away.
When she offered up the complaint at her districts’ security kiosk, they carefully and repeatedly explained that the human in question was trying to flirt with her.
Deathworlders… they were so baffling.
[Muse food remaining: 17. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00850-B119: One Fine Bar Fight at a Galactic Crossroads
Between two cultures, the body language and customs for aggression/anger in one are very similar to the flirting/courtship of the other.
In this scenario: An aggressive display is mistaken for flirting.
She got into the human’s personal space. Closed her off from any escape. Rumbled in a low threat, “I like your face.”
The human bared her teeth and uttered a barking call. Then she pressed her rubbery mouth to Hoq’a’lu’gi’s face. “I think you’re cute, too.“
Her ship-companions were correct. It was very hard to start a fight with a human.
[Muse food remaining: 14. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]