A line for Sara
RAF WWII slang: Exdigitate - get your finger out.
(#00113)
There are days when it was fun and exciting to be married to a genius. This was not shaping up to be one of them.
“Come along, darling, you need breakfast.”
Todd opened an eye. There was bacon and eggs and -sweet heaven, thank you- coffee gently steaming on his bedside table. “Mrghl…”
“Exdigitate, dear.”
“Mnnnh…”
Sara dragged him upright and gently fed him a mouthful. “We have to hurry, dear.”
Todd chewed, finding his fork after three tries. Coffee helped unglue his eyes. “‘Swaytooearly…”
“I did try to let you sleep in but time is wasting and I really want to do a quality makeup job.”
Second mouthful. Struggling towards cogniscence. “Makeup?”
“The Zombie walk. We’re going to win Best Dressed for sure!”
“…uuuuunnnhhh…”
“Perfect! Get right into character.”
Todd sipped more coffee. Today is not going to be a fun day. Not until MUCH later.
[Muse food remaining: 6. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00112: Faction Fraction
A line for Mort: Do us a favor Luv, Stick yer ‘ead in a bucket a kick it!
They say war makes strange bedfellows. Few were stranger than Wanda and Pietro Maximov. Even Mort could see they were sibs. And even he picked up on a creepy level of involvement between them. But that didn’t concern him, now.
What concerned Mort was the whippy figure currently strapped to an upright column from neck to toe. When she spoke, she rambled randomly. The movements underneath the roll of duct tape covering her were sparse and erratic.
It was her breathing, shallow, rapid and raspy, that had his heart in his throat.
“Wegottakeepheralive,” said Pietro. “S'obvious.”
“Should we try to give her to daddy-dear?” cooed Wanda. “Let the Mastermind play with her?”
“…quadrangle…” muttered Sara. Her eyes didn’t see him. “Lexington.”
“NoIthinkDaddy'dlikehersmartsintact,” said Pietro. “RememberwhathappenedtothatErrisguy.”
Erris. The man who Professor Xavier was still spending some significant time unravelling back to his former self.
“…pickle barrel…” mumbled Sara.
“Daddy won’t like her as she is. Maybe we could hand her over as she should be.”
Mort growled. “Do us a favour, luv. Stick yer 'ed in a bucket and kick it.”
Sara was looking into his eyes. Fierce as fire. “Hopscotch.”
Translation: get out of the way.
Mort leaped for the ceiling at the same time Sara faded from view and her former wrappings fell. He could, through long practice, spot Sara and her goals, so he turned the floor into a sticky labyrinth for the silver speedster. He did not aim anything at Wanda. He knew better than to try. Just keep moving and stay out of notice. Make sure Sara got to her goals and back her up on the way out.
“Not again, not again!” Wanda screamed. “This is the fifth time! How can they?”
Mort got in a lucky shot at Pietro’s face, causing the man to stumble and in stumbling, raise smoke that covered both his and Sara’s escape. Fifth time was the charm. He had her down the road and in a hotwired car in less than a minute.
Free. And heading like an arrow for safety. Not the safety of any of the X-crew’s shelters. That was how they got caught the first time. No. This time, he was going to one of the many, many places that Sara’s family owned. With the kind of added security that automatically came with being comfortably well off.
[Muse food remaining: 7. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00111: One Fine Day in the Cubicle Labyrinth
“If at first you don’t succeed, label it version 1.0.”
“Fuck this fucking thing to fucking fuck!”
“Problems?”
“Why did we release this stupid piece of shit?”
Andrews peered over Laslie’s shoulder. “Oh. That. Budget overruns. Time under-runs. Figgis-fiddis. You name it, that one had it. I think we all ended up calling that one Project Icarus at the end.”
“Doomed to crash and burn?”
“Nailed it.”
“I’m gonna root canal this fucker just so I can sleep at night.”
“Yeah, good luck with that.”
“Same ol’ same ol’, Laslie sighed. "If at first you don’t succeed, lable it version 1.0.”
“If you fail again,” Andrews quipped, “call it Beta.”
[Muse food remaining: 8. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Things I do when writing that may disturb others
This happens to artists a lot. When drawing the emotion/expression they wish to convey, that same expression also comes out in their faces.
I do this when writing expressions.
I also laugh out loud at my own jokes. And I have a really maniacal laugh. A megalomaniacal laugh. A real, genuine, no-mister-Bond-I-expect-you-to-die evil EVIL laugh.
And, to add the icing to the cake, I sometimes mutter choice phraseology. Either to test how it tastes [words have flavour! It’s true. Some turns of phrase are absolutely delicious as they trip off the tongue] or, because I think I’m a literary genius and that thing I’m in the process of putting down is just too frigging brilliant to herald into the world with silence.
I have been unaware that I do most of these things[the muttering was hard to miss…] for years.
YEARS.
I have also been committing literature on public transit. Usually in palm-sized notebooks easily obtainable from dollar shops.
…no wonder I always had a seat to myself.
And it also explains why, in the midst of my wrestling with the muse, relatives have wandered in, looked at me and said, “Oh, you’re writing.” and vanished before I could surface back into reality to ask them what the hell they were talking about.
…also shoulder-surfing me is never a good idea, for reasons that quickly become obvious. Writers always need some new and interesting ways to knock some character off.
Challenge #00110: Ohai We’re From the Internet
Anywhere in the story: “There is no font size big enough to describe the ‘oh shit’ that is about to occur.”
The body corporate had done it. They’d finally leashed the beast of their own making. They controlled the internet. And there wasn’t even time to celebrate.
“Now, we need to start talking about the three 'sisses’. Censorship, sponsorship, and shill. Every single page, every site, every last goddamn corner of the internet is controlled by us, so let’s start earning.”
“Sir?”
“in a minute, Weatherby.” The rich, older, white man had his mind only on his plans. “First order of the agenda: heteronormitivity. Anything that isn’t man plus woman vanishes. Second, gender role reassignment. Let’s get all those bitches back in the kitchen. Third–”
“Sir, this is really important.”
“Weatherby, I do control whether or not you keep your job…”
“But sir…” Weatherby pointed out the window.
They were on the twenty-fifth floor, but they could still be seen. Not the random flow of pinhead-points of different colours, but a sea of them flowing inexorably towards their building. Even up here, they could hear the distant strains of Les Miserables sung by thousands of voices.
“Sir,” said Weatherby. “There is no font size big enough to describe the 'oh shit’ that is about to occur.”
Something slammed against the nearby window, causing all in the boardroom to startle. Everyone stared as it unfolded into a poster-sized lolcat with red eyes and fluffed fur.
It read, Ohai. We’re frum the internets. You pissed us off. kthxbai.
The CEO’s face fell. All those people. All of them. They had once had their genius minds distracted by fandoms, lolcats and porn. Now that their addiction was censored and controlled…
…they had nothing better to do than get really creative on the asses of those who censored and controlled it.
A second poster landed and unfurled against the glass. It was tub girl. With the legend, The internet is for PORN!
Weatherby was right.
A third. A cute little girl in a frilly dress inside a motivational border. Its caption read, OH SHIT! and underneath, You’re all going to die.
It was now going to be a question of how they were going to survive.
Or even… if…
[AN: Sign the petition to stop CISPA here!]
[Muse food remaining: 9. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00109: Science Project
Parent: [Character name]? How much uranium is in the house…?
Child: [after much dancing about about whether it’s uranium at all, and if so, how much] Okay, a lot…
“Jachyx…” came the warning call of Parental Prime. “How much uranium is in the house?”
Jachyx hid her work and emerged from her private space. “Who says I have any uranium?”
“Security detected fissionable material, grubling.”
Gah. She hated it when the Parentals called her ‘grubling’. “I’m past my pupal stage, Pripa… You don’t have to call me 'grubling’ any more.”
“Is. There. Uranium. In. The house?”
“Did they say it was uranium?”
“Yes. They did. They gave a precise location. Which is almost exactly where your privacy chamber is.”
“You know those loc-traces are kinda… unreliable, don’t you?”
“That’s why I ran a scan,” said Pripa. “I have trace going in and out of your privacy chamber.”
“Trace isn’t proof. I coulda walked in some or–”
Pripa held up a claw. “Not on this station. There are strict regulations and permits regarding fissionables. You know how the squishy-ones object.”
“And you’re certain it’s uranium.”
“Uranium 238. Now. How much?”
“Pri-paaaaaa….”
“Answer the question, Jachyx.”
“Just enough for my science project, I swear! It’s no big deal, I have it shielded and everything. It’s not like I’m making it blow up or melt down…”
“How. Much.”
“Um.” Jachyx rubbed her own claws up and down her carapace. “Lots?”
[Muse food remaining: 10. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00108: One Fine Day in a Ren Faire near Bayville
You’ll have to forgive my uncle, sir. He has a very unique sense of humor which involves not being funny.
Since she wasn’t riding horses, today’s costume was that of a paige. She was too tall and not chesty enough for the typical wench and the material still hadn’t come through for her chatelaine outfit, it was either a paige or a time traveller and people tended to be hostile to the latter.
Sara played her harp as an excuse to sit between guiding lost souls around and - in extreme cases - translating between Renspeak and regular english for the noobs.
A kid ran up between the guests and hid behind her. “Ididn'tdoanythingwrongpleasedon'tlet'emkillme.”
Followed closely by the faire guards.
They were impressive men with dull faces, currently chafing under their chain mail uniforms and the weight of their decorative halberds. And, like typical security goons, were paid to be there, dress like that, and menace anyone who was ruining an otherwise good day.
“Good morrow, fair gentlemen,” said Sara. “Comest thou seeking the assistance of this humble bard?”
And, like typical security goons, none had done their homework. “…zuh?”
“Can I help you?”
“That brat hiding behind you’s been caught stealing from the food carts.”
Sara looked behind her to size up the kid. Not in costume. Those rags were all he had to wear. And that dirt wasn’t makeup. Homeless. Alone and cold and terrified. That would not do.
“My nephew? He’s been near me all day, looking at the stalls.”
“We saw him.”
Sara put on an act. “Caught stealing,” she sighed, holding his arm. “Caught. Stealing. What have I always told you about being caught stealing? Don’t. Get. Caught.”
The kid faked a laugh. “You’ll have to forgive my uncle, sir. He has a very unique sense of humor which involves not being funny.”
Sara laughed a little bit more genuinely and patted him down. “Nothing in his pockets. Nothing up his sleeves. Where is your evidence?”
“He ate it.”
“And in a court of law, this would get…?”
“…not a lot,” the spokesgoon growled.
Sara dug a twenty out of her neck purse and handed it over. “See that this gets to any disgruntled shop keeps, will you? I’ll have a good long chat with my nephew.”
“See that you do, sir.”
Sara did not let him go. “A few rules, kid, that are going to help you live longer. One: if you must steal food here, steal the leftovers and act like you’re part of the scenery. Two: never pickpocket from someone who’s helping you and three: always keep an eye out for the goons.”
“How did you–?”
“I date a pickpocket, dear. I not only know all the tricks, but I also know all the signs… and he’s better at it than you are.” She neatly retrieved the money from what passed for his belt. “Now. I am about to make you a better deal than the one you’re currently in. There are strings, but the difference between me and most deal-makers is that I tell you what they are. Ready?”
The kid nodded.
“I am about to gift you with a better future. Clothes, shelter, a guardian with your best interests at heart. This will also include an education, medicine, immunizations and adhering to the law. Once you agree, you must become a model citizen to the best of your abilities. Understood?”
Another, terrified nod.
“All you have to do is answer one simple question: would you like me to help you?”
A slow, reluctant nod.
“I’m trusting you not to run. That trust will gain you all you can eat, today. And, fortunes willing, new clean clothes tonight. The caveat is that you have to bathe. Thoroughly. With soap.”
Sara let go. The kid did not bolt. “Well done. My name’s Sara, by the way. I’m an auntie, not an uncle.”
“I was named Bruce,” said the kid. “‘druther be Breana.”
“Born in the wrong body, hm? That might take a little longer to arrange, but I can also help you there.”
“But…?” prompted Breana.
“But they do like to wait until you’re an adult before they let you have gender reassignment surgery.”
Breana, age seven, rolled her eyes. Adulthood was forever away for her.
“In the meantime, I can arrange the necessary paperwork. But let’s worry about that another day.” Sara lead her between two tents to a third tent made to look like wattle and daub. There was a plank over the sacking door which read, in shaky pokerwork, HARGAS HOUSE OF RIBS.
“This place smells like grease,” complained Breana.
“True, but it does offer the all-you-can-gobble-for-a-dollar menu. Today’s prices, ten bucks.”
Breana giggled. Her face lit up when she smiled.
Sara bowed her into the greasy-smelling confines. “Shall we begin, m'lady?”
[Muse food remaining: 11. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00107: One Fine Day in the Computer Lab
Old software engineering joke: “Write your code as if it’ll be read three months later by a homicidal psychotic who knows where you live.”
Spoiler: You know where you live, and will have to read your code three months later, when you’ve forgotten what much of it does.
“Who the hell was the fucktard who wrote this goddamn ugly shitty mess of shitty shit fuck!”
The entire cubicle labyrinth prairie dogged their heads above the felt-covered partitions to focus on the angst-ridden gentlemen currently throwing a tanty in his own little grey box.
Rapidly approaching, was the project supervisor. Tablet in hand, in an effort to quell the fury and the furor. To put out a few fires before they could start.
“What’s the problem, Kransky?”
“This ugly-ass kludge of uncommented shit is the matter. I’m going to track down that idiot and tear them a new one!”
DeVries tapped on her tablet. “According to doc-tracking… You were the idiot who wrote that code, Kransky.”
“I’m gonna invent time travel so I can kick myself up the ass,” Kransky vowed.
“Just remember to comment that -ah- goddamn ugly shitty mess of shitty shit fuck, next time?”
Kransky lowered himself back down behind his station. “Message received and understood.”
The rest of the coders vanished behind grey felt walls before DeVries could notice they were ever watching.
[Muse food remaining: 12. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Stole this from a book
In days to come, he would reflect upon the premature nature of that thought. He would ponder it, as a sinner pondered the inexplicable actions of an irritated deity. He would wonder if perhaps, by allowing himself to think it, he had angered the God of Perversity, and Murphy, who is His Prophet. It was the only offense he could think of that might have explained what happened next.
(#000106)
He should never have asked, “What could possibly go wrong?” Or perhaps he should never have asked the universe, “What now?”
Nature hates the people who ask the kind of questions with obviously sadistic answers. Or sadistically obvious answers. It really depended where one stood.
And, right now, Rael stood, covered in noodles. Next to Shayde, also covered in noodles. In front of the chief of security for all of Amalgam Station, who preferred his human-given nickname of “Sherlock”.
“Do go on,” said Sherlock, behind his steepled fingers. “Entertain me. At which point did the -ah- child in the cardboard box, with… a.. cogniscent toy tiger… enter the picture? And what happened to the–” he looked at the preliminary report “–squid in the space suit?”
“He buggered off, the rat,” said Shayde.
“I was not in control of the situation,” pleaded Rael. “I believe there was a reality warping effect in… um… effect.”
“Really,” drawled Sherlock.
It was going to be a very long afternoon.
[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Imperial China… Dragons?
Imperial China. They actually had royal dragon caretakers on the payroll. Logic says that this was due to them either having actual dragons (read: dinosaurs), or the Emperor had done off the deep end again. If they really did have dinosaurs they were almost certainly plant eaters … but that doesn’t allow us to imagine T-Rex cavalry fighting alongside stupidly large infantry armies, and that should be it’s own goal.
(#00105)
[AN: Given the nature of actual Chinese Dragons… I doubt they were dinosaurs]
Wen Li had believed he had landed the easiest job in the empire. Imperial Dragon Caretaker. Everyone in the country knew that dragons were invisible, immortal and only sought after the pearl of immortality for fun.
He expected his first day, and all the days after it to be lazy and overpaid. Nevertheless, it did good to show up for ‘work’ early.
The Master of Dragons cast a stern eye on him as he set up large baskets of fish heads. “Early,” he noted. “Good. I have way too many people who come in late thinking that this is one of the emperors’ little fancies.”
“It… isn’t?” asked Li, who had thought it was until the master spoke.
“It isn’t,” said the master. “Grab a basket, you are about to learn.”
There were six baskets and four other caretakers like him. Li lifted his basket and looked around.
“We feed the late boy to the dragon,” said the next-oldest caretaker. “If the dragon spits him out, he is never late again.”
Li managed to summon a chuckle to join the others’ laughter, all the time thanking his luck and the spirits who gave it to him. Yet, at the same time he had to wonder if he wasn’t the subject of some elaborate prank. Perhaps the emperor needed a laugh.
They came to a high wall, but this one was also covered by a gigantic, bamboo cage. Li had seen it from the streets and thought it an aviary of some kind.
But no birds flew here.
The master opened the smaller door in the large gate and ushered them through. He followed, closing the door and locking it.
Li put his basket into the appointed spot, following the lead of his elder caretakers, and stepped back, and gaped.
They were giant snakes, half a league long. With feathery eyebrows and whiskers. And strange, half-legs with five toes. Imperial dragons. Their scales shone like gems in the sunlight.
The master summoned them from the air with a tune on his flute and Li had to wonder how they could fly without wings.
Then, as they snapped up the fish like cats, Li had to wonder why the emperor could keep anything that smelled that bad.
Their long bodies rolled like waves all the time.
“Which one is the water dragon?” he asked. “Which one is fire?”
“Boy,” the master announced, “you have much to learn about real dragons.”
[Muse food remaining: 14. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]