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.

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 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.

(#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.

(#00011)

“He’s gone to ground in something called jen-ra-con,” The Professor frowned. “Either I’m getting a lot of static or… something is wrong. Nobody there looked at all human.”

Sara glared at him. “You’re kidding me. This high a concentration of freaks and weirdos and none of you has heard of Genracon? The biggest month-long geek-out known to fandomkind?”

“I heard of it,” said Kurt.

“Trek, who, scape, wars or five?” challenged Sara.

“I understood each of those words,” said Hank, “but together they make no sense at all.”

“They’re speaking in tongues,” whispered Kitty. “It like, makes sense to them.”

“All of the above, some FF, and a britcom called Red Dwarf,” answered Kurt.

Sara grinned. “Got a costume?”

“Mind OC’s? Because this body generally gets typecast…”

“I could probably turn you into a cursed elfin mage with half of my culch…”

“Babe, you could turn *everyone* into somepin’ with yo'r culch,” said Todd.

“Challenge accepted.” Sara grinned and cracked her knuckles.

“…uh oh…”

*

“I can not believe we’re doing this,” said Jean. She was wearing the two-part Next-generation costume. A series she at least recognized and could pass most of the general knowledge questions. Her brief was to play the ditzy first-timer to the hilt.

“Sara is… very persuasive.” He was currently a klingon. He didn’t know what to say to her comments that he ‘had the wrong body type for Davros’.

“I do have to say her costume choices for us are… skewed,” noted Ororo. She wore a regal satin dress that had been augmented with occult-looking jewelry and a cloak. The staff she carried with her had some interesting augmentation as well.

“I’d say it has something to do with revenge on male-centric costuming choices in general and using us as placards.” He had a ratty-looking loincloth and a fang necklace with similarly-decorated ugg boots. Everything else was bare.

“At least y'all know who you are. Ah dunno if I’m Morticia or Elvira…”

“Given those nails?” said Hank, “I’d posit you were Vampira, of Plan Nine fame.”

“…who from whut?”

“…oy…”

“At least I can wear mine on the street,” said Scott. He came off as a rather weedy Terminator.

“Apparently we’re going on the street like this anyway. Part of an activity called 'freaking the mundanes’…” said Hank.

The elevator opened, revealing Kurt in piratical getup. “Sara changed her mind. There’s already a mage in the party and this is more… 'me’.”

“Those had better be nerf swords…”

“…'estheyare…”

Kitty, in a different Starfleet uniform and an interesting bun, asked, “How do I look and like, who’s Captain Janeway?”

Another elevator pinged, allowing a tall figure in a concealing cloak to emerge.

Other con-goers, for some reason, hushed and readied their cameras.

The cloak swept of in one dramatic shove, revealing Sara, clad only in a few lengths of diaphanous drapery, an ornate headdress and apparently a small ton of jewelry.

“I AM THE LIZARD QUEEN!”

Todd emerged in cardboard armor, brandishing a redecorated super-soaker. “Show obeisance to her majesty!”

Hoots, cheers, and a sparkle of flashes.

“What?” said Jean.

“You should know by now that Sara is a master of obscure cinema. And getting ice-cold revenge.”

Indeed. Sara and her loyal guardsman were the centre of attention. Jean was just another redshirt in the crowd.

“Below zero kelvin,” Jean mumured.

*

“Can we take your photo?”

“Can I give you a hug?”

“Love the tail…”

Kurt grinned. “Ladies,” he threw his arms wide, “you can even kiss me.” Aw yeah. Chicks dig the fuzzy dude.

*

“Yo. So… what’re we doin’?" 

"Aside from checking out the merch? We’re the obvious distraction. Kitty and Jean are the covert team. They’ll find our mutant miscreant and safely knock him out.”

“…and then?”

“And then I’m going to hassle John Barrowman and his kissing booth.”

“Giving him improv, I hope.”

“Improv… and with your permission, a squeeze on his ass.”

(#00010)

“On the plus side, that outfit looks better.”

Sara continued to glare daggers at Forge. She -currently ‘he’, if only physically- did look trim and toned in what could only be described as an olive-khaki swimsuit without the shoulder straps.

Todd did not look any better as a girl, either. His/her uniform was not flattering on either gender. “Dayumn, this does make my ass look big…”

“It shouldn’t matter for much longer,” Iced Sara. “Should it, Mister Walkingbird?” The 'Mister Walkingbird’ was a warning signal. If things went on too long, then the dreaded full name might just emerge.

Sara found out things like this.

“I’m still looking for my notes! I think I might have messed this up on the chromosomal level.”

“What was yo’ first hint?” growled Toad. S/He had emerged from the transporter as a DD cup. And with no bra. He was having a very painful time with both arms crossed underneath his new bosom.

“Do you want me to fix this or not?” Forge demanded.

Sara fumed. “I could help you find your notes… All this space needs is a little… organization…”

Sara wanting to organise things was almost as terrifying as her using his full name. “Okay, okay, okay! I’m moving, I’m moving!”

(#00009)

Hwell Barrow, bored and forbidden from talking to anyone outside of the hostel in person, was channel surfing the local entertainment feeds. At least Ax'and'l had forgotten about requesting an absence of mini-bar, thus lending an element of entertainment to his otherwise dull evening.

That green stuff. It really packed a whallop.

He didn’t understand a word they were saying. But that didn’t stop him making up stories as he watched. Two green things with violently vibrant plumage were whistling the advantages of something colorful and apparently bendy.

Maybe it was a cooking apparatus? The stuff they were smearing on it looked kinda yummy….

Mmmm… cheese waffles…

After twenty minutes, the violently vibrant hosts still hadn’t shut up about it, leaving Hwell plenty of time to divine which series of symbols was the comms number, and then how to call them up on their awkward comms system.

It took him three goes to get someone who spoke Standard.

“Them things they’re hootin’ ‘bout onna screen. I wanna buttload of 'em. How much izzit?”

*

Ax'and'l glared at the grinning human. The redness in the mammal’s face was a display of mortification. Reflex.

“What. The. Flakk.” He sighed again at the pile of packaging. “I made sure you were locked in the hostel room. How did you get into this much debt?”

Hwell winced. Evidently, things were too loud. “I was… watchin’ th’ local feeds? An’ then I found the green stuff… An’ after that it’s all a blur…”

Ax'and'l felt some of Hwell’s hangover by osmosis. “Do you even know what you bought?”

“Uh. Cheese waffle makers?”

Ax'and'l felt his own reflex mortification reaction rising against his will. “They’re not for preparing food,” he said. “They’re… sex… aids…”

“They don’t have to always be that… do they?” whimpered Hwell.

(#00008)

Presented here for your education, a man who should have been aware of the axiom, “Be careful what you wish for.” John neglected to think first and wish later, and now he is destined to live the rest of his life… in the Twilight Zone.

John staggers down the street. It would be hard for the casual observer to guess that he had once been a doctor. Or even a man of high class. His eyes are ringed with the stigmata of sleeplessness. He mutters, seemingly to himself.

His most common disjointed phrase is, “You’re welcome.” It is oft-times sarcastic. His second most common phrase is, “excuse yourself.”

When asked who he is talking to, he stares at the questioner in puzzlement before asking in turn, “Can’t you hear the fleas?”

He is a walking wreck of a man, barely able to keep himself fed.

Strays follow him everywhere. He is very good at mumping food from every street vendor, restaurant and halfway house in London. But he, himself, is starving.

His friends, the mange-ridden, flea farms of London are all hungry. He can not ignore their cries.

All he wanted to do was talk to the animals.

(#00007)

“IT’S ALIVE! IT’S ALIVE!”

“Yes, master.” Igor had always agreed that being agreeable lead to a longer life. Broaching the niggling little problem in a delicate way was going to be… problematic at best.

“Go, my beautiful creation! Go and create marvellous havoc on those unsuspecting rubes!”

The creature lurched off the slab, belched fire, and said, “Baaa?”

Of all the mad geniuses to sign up with, he had to pick the one who came from a family of shepherds.

“Master?”

“Yes, Igor?”

“I think you may have locked the door, master.”

“What of it?”

“The only door in and out of this lab, master…”

“I’m well aware.”

“The one… on the other side of the room, master.”

With a freshly woken man-eating ungulate (fire-breathing) between themselves and safety.

“Baaa?”

(#00006)

“I’m dangerous,” said Claire. “You shouldn’t be around me.”

“I don’t care,” Tracy sobbed. “I love you and you can’t send me away.”

“At least keep your distance. I can’t control what I do under the full moon. Please, Tracy.”

Tracy did not want to let go. “Why? What happens during a full moon?”

Claire pushed her away. “Too late. Run. Get away.” Her body was already warping. Changing. Growing…

Scalier?

Tracy stopped at the doorway, looking back as Claire warped and transformed into…

“A giant Iguana? But I love iguanas!”

Iguana-Claire made a sort of ‘Gronk’ noise and started creating a nest out of her former clothes.

Oh right. Claire the fashion-proud. For her, this would be a horror.