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.”
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Challenge #00841-B110: When Clint Met Natasha
Some men get so nervous if a lady shows up at the restaurant with a box of explosives.
Budapest. Some years ago.
He thought he had been discretely following her, right up until the moment she sat down opposite him at the cafe. She gave him a winning smile and a, “Sorry I’m late, darling. Caught up in shopping.”
Quick handsigns. Three bogies. Armed. Target you. No look.
“That’s okay, sweetie,” he said, making sure the nearby shrubbery blocked him from any sniper. “You’re worth the wait.“
She leaned forward. Held his hand. “Whatever I’m going to say is hilarious. Then we’re going to go inside for cake,” she murmured. “Hydra’s targeting you just like they’re targeting me. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, yes?”
Clint laughed on cue. “That’s exactly right. They’ve got some lovely miniature Kuglóf, here. Let’s go get some.”
Arm in arm, he walked with his target into a crowded, public area. “This isn’t going to stop them for long. Hydra’s not known for its discretion.”
“Don’t worry. I know a guy.” She signalled a man behind the counter and showed Clint the contents of her gift bag. There was enough C4 in there to blow up the entire cafe and its immediate neighbours.
It took every atom of his training to avoid going weak at the knees. “You brought a bomb to a cafe?”
“It’s one of the few places anonymous enough to meet with allies.” She handed the bag over and neatly switched to Russian. “[Here’s the parcel. Make sure my friends across the street are distracted. You never saw me, you don’t know who I am.]”
“This will get to your friend,” said the guy who worked there.
She lead Clint after him, and through a maze of alleyways and finally, down into a network of tunnels. She didn’t even flinch when the sound of the bomb reached them.
“That takes care of those three. Now, we need to sweep up the rest of the cell.”
“And what makes you think that I won’t just drag you in for questioning?”
“Because Hydra has to be stopped. Because I know this town better than you. Because although you’re good with a bow and arrow, you’re lousy at close combat. And because I poisoned your coffee and I know where the antidote is.”
Nick Fury had been right. Clint really was a trouble magnet. “Just so you know, I’d have agreed to take down hydra without the poison.”
“I call it insurance. Let’s go.”
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The Telephone Game, Divine Edition
A religious organization (modern or fictional), after following their particular holy text (or at least it’s translated editions) for centuries/millenia, if given a drastic and alarming shock one day, when their deity appears to tell the vast majority of them, basically, “Who told you I said all this? I never asked you to act like this at all, most of it is your own ideas! You’ve got everything completely wrong!”
(#00837-B106)
The day of Festival was in full swing. The
Unwanted in the pyres had stopped screaming and the annual Cleansing was
well underway. Houses, bodies, and belongings scoured with harsh lye
and bleach. This Festival, the ten thousandth of its kind, celebrated
the much-heralded re-appearance of Loran, the one true god.
Tolris, skin freshly stinging from her own Cleansing, took down the new list of Unwanted Tomes and set about removing them from her shelves. They would go outside into a small pyre for the public to view.
Her shop had no lock, and it was no surprise to find a customer already inside. She was paging through the ever-popular Holy Writ and muttering to herself.
“I didn’t say that… He didn’t do that. Honestly… how could that one even work?”
Tolris paused in the act of fetching her tongs. “Are you… quite well, my friend?” She also made certain she had her Heretic’s Whistle, just in case one of the Unwanted had somehow escaped the Cleansing.
“This book,” sighed the stranger. “Most of it’s made up. I thought you would all be fine for ten thousand years, but look! I never, ever said one word about hurting a single living being.” Fingers tapped the paper in agitation. “And here’s entire chapters devoted to how to prepare children for the sacrifice.”
“Yae, though the innocent come to Loran, ere they sin,” recited Tolris. “Being Chosen for the sacrifice of innocents is the very highest of honours. I regret missing my chance.”
The stranger boggled at her. “YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO WANT TO DIE! And it’s Loren. That, I can easily accept as a typo or language drift, but the rest of this? It’s appalling…”
Tolris brought the whistle to her lips and blew hard on it. No sound came out.
“Thus should the miracle occur,” recited Loren. “The accuser will make no sound, though they truly will it so, and the innocent shall be thus spared.” Loren looked up from the book. “I told them before I left that I had other business. I can’t keep my awareness in all places and all times. How many thousands were presumed guilty just because I was pre-occupied?”
Tolris blew again. So hard that she almost passed out. Nothing. “You are meant to appear in the holiest of places… and make your will known to the people.”
“The wealth of knowledge is my holy ground, and those who share it, my advocates,” said Loren.
Tolris
shook her head. “The lust for knowledge is avarice and abhorrent,” she
corrected. “Those who keep knowledge must guard it, lest the unworthy
become corrupted.” Reminded, she urgently rushed to seize the newly
corrupted tomes and remove them from existence.
Loren sighed. “Well, that explains why your tech level is still at the hand-tool stage… Why are you taking away books with those tongs?“
“I’m freshly Cleansed. I cannot touch that which is unclean, lest I become unclean in your sight…“
*
Thusly, the corporeal manifestation of Loran came unto the steps of the Holiest Sepulcher. And the holy men knew him not, and barred his way. And Loran clapped his hands together and lo, the men of the Sepulcher found themselves in the midden-piles and the pig sties, outside the mighty walls of the holiest city.
The corporeal manifestation of Loran raised his sandalled foot unto the doors that protected the High Administrate. And kicked them with one mighty blow that sent them spinning off their hinges. The High Administrate beheld Loran, and the High Administrate knew him not.
The corporeal manifestation of Loran held high the Book of Holy Writ and spake thusly: “WHAT THE HELL KIND OF NONSENSE DO YOU CALL THIS, THEN?”
“How did you get in here alive? How dare you talk to me in that tone of voice,” blustered the High Administrate.
The Book of Holy Writ burned in bright flames before him. “The name is Loren, and I am your god,” she said. “And all of you have been wilfully ignorant for ten thousand years! That’s beyond sinful! What the heck do you have to say for yourselves?”
“We followed the Holy Writ,” offered the High Administrate.
“You followed bull crap,” spake Loren, the corporeal manifestation of the Divine. “And you called it holy. I never should have let men write things down… You always manage to tilt it so that you wind up in charge.”
“If you had not wished men to lead,” said the High Administrate in an exhibition of what not to say to a Divine Being, “you would have made them into women!”
The corporeal manifestation of Loren snapped her fingers, and lo, all of the men of the church were women. And more, the sins of their lives were written clear upon their flesh, for all to read.
“You were saying?” spake Loren. And the corporeal manifestation of the Divine went out unto the Great Terrace, and made herself known to the people. And she brought back from the fires, all who had succumbed to the flames.
And lo, the people were confused.
And Loren spake unto them, saying, “Look. I know last time was a bit of a mess. Let’s try and get it right, this time around. Okay?”
And the people knew not what to think.
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Parents just don’t understand adventuring…
“You think because you killed a few dragons that you’re some kind of big man? Too big to show your elders respect? I’m your mother, I once wiped your poopy bum with my bare hands, so I’m not impressed by your antics, mister ‘vanquisher-of-armies’. Why don’t you ever visit, or at least write now and then?”
(#00834-B103)
Hrothgar the Mighty - Conquerer of All, Ruler of the Five Kingdoms, Dragonslayer, Master of the Mighty Voice - took off his skull helmet and hung it up. Wiped his boots, that had trodden on the faces of his enemies, on the mat provided, and placed his mighty sword in the hat-rack with all the umbrellas. “Sorry, mum. I got caught up in stuff.”
“Caught up in stuff,” his mother echoed. “Caught up in stuff.” She emerged from her work with the ever-present tea towel swirling around her hands. “You were hanging out with that gang, weren’t you?”
“Army, mother. I have armies now. And… um. I brought you some presents?”
She folded her arms. The tea towel took its perch on her shoulder. “Mm-hm.“
Hrothgar the Mighty - Conquerer of All, Ruler of the Five Kingdoms, Dragonslayer, Master of the Mighty Voice - urgently ushered some of his minions forwards. And rather more urgently signed that they should wipe their feet.
“Behold! I bring you the rarest of black pearls, the size of a man’s head! Wrenched from the grip of the Kraken at the bottom of the deadly seas. The prized Eye of The Goddess of Light, given as a boon in a battle for her favour. The fabled Sword of Kroesos the Conquerer, won by fighting it from his undead hands! Jewels from the furthest realms! The rarest of cloths! Everything you could dream of. And more!”
The mother of Hrothgar the Mighty - Conquerer of All, Ruler of the Five Kingdoms, Dragonslayer, Master of the Mighty Voice - pursed her lips. “You didn’t remember the dish soap at all, did you?”
Hrothgar the Mighty - Conquerer of All, Ruler of the Five Kingdoms, Dragonslayer, Master of the Mighty Voice - smacked his forehead and muttered, “D’oh!”
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Adapting by CM_Weller
“Cheer up, somebody has it worse than you.” Unfortunately for Rael, he seems to be the Somebody that the universe has chosen. And the addition of a living enigma just seems to add to that belief.
Sneak preview of my next book!
Good Boy by CM_Weller
Dogs have been care animals since they were domesticated. Gengineering a dog can lead to interesting new wrinkles when old instincts come into conflict with new programming.
More to come!
Nor Gloom Of Night by CM_Weller
The mail must get through! But when the mail includes 8500 cryo-suspended people, and your equipment is low-bid crap, that courier job gets very interesting. Can one man and his cat save their lives?
I’m getting the hang of this now
Does this sound familiar?
Replace “Facebook” with “Tumblr” and you have my life before I hurt myself.
Now I’m binge-watching shit on Netflix.
(via pancake-angst)
I get asked all the time, in letters and e-mails and questions from the floor: “Can you give me a few tips about being a writer?” And you sense that gleam in the eye, that hope that somehow, this time, you’ll drop your guard and hand over the map to the Holy Grail or, preferably, its URL. I detect, now, a slightly worrying edge to all this, a hint of indignation that grammar, spelling, and punctuation have a part to play (“Don’t publishers have people to do all that?” was one response) and that the universe is remiss in not making allowance for the fact that you don’t have the time.
So, instead, I give tips on how to be a professional boxer. A good diet is essential, of course, as is a daily regime of exercise. Pay attention to your footwork, it will often get you into trouble. Go down to the gym every day — every day of your life that finds you waking up capable of standing. Take every opportunity to watch a good professional fight. In fact watch as many bouts as you can, because you can even learn something from the fighters who get it wrong. Don’t listen to what they say, watch what they do. And don’t forget the diet and the exercise and the roadwork.
Got it? Well, becoming a writer is basically exactly the same thing, except that it isn’t about boxing.
It’s as simple as that.
~ Terry Pratchett, “How to Be a Professional Boxer,” Foreword to the Writers & Artists’ Yearbook 2006 (2005), from A Slip of the Keyboard
Sensible Economic Decision
“The universe is probably littered with the one-planet graves of cultures which made the sensible economic decision that there’s no good reason to go into space - each discovered, studied, and remembered by the ones who made the irrational decision.“ - Randall Munroe
[AN: I know I’ve done this twice before. Let’s see if the third is a stretch. Also, my laptop is still dead and all my progress on KFZ is in limbo. I’m using Beloved’s lappy and seriously praying I can at least recover what I’ve written in KFZ T_T]
(#00750 - B019)
They had made buildings to be almost indestructible. Yet the plants were still taking over. The animals were still moving in. Highly adaptable omnivores, all of them.
Tier hated finding graveworlds. There was an intense sense of coming there just a little too late. Even when the evidence indicated that they had arrived more or less a century too late. Whatever had happened here, the ecology had taken some significant time to reach the city hearts.
This planet’s answer to goats faced off in what was once a city square. Posturing and butting at each other.
There was no cogniscent life left on this world. They’d run all the possible scans. Even people regressed back to the stone age would have shown a sign of their existence.
Now it was up to Tier and her crew to unearth this planet’s cause of death.
Data centres, once revived by judicial jiggery-pokery, showed plethoras of information about environmental impact and how profits were more important than the planet’s wellbeing. Lots of arguments along the lines of, "When the last plant dies, we will realise that we can’t eat money.” But of course the profit-making organisations ignored the naysayers, cancelled all efforts to set up colonies elsewhere, and continued on their path to inevitable destruction.
Poorly-researched artificial foods also contributed, causing disease and metabolic failure in the surviving citizens. Monocultures were wiped out by one plague, and the people starved.
Cause of death: Combination trophic cascade disaster, climate change, and disease. Tier wanted to write: Corporate greed into her report… but the Galactic alliance frowned on that ever since they regulated how far bodies corporate could actually go.
They didn’t want the corporations who were doing it right to feel bad about themselves.
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