Grandpa’s place

When I awaken, the first thing I do is feed.

You have heard tales of the vampyre, but I am older. Like him, I awaken in the night.

One of my favorite shapes is the hyena. For his strength and ability to survive in climates like mine. His cunning and sensitive nose catches the scents and tracks the prey. Through the dunes, through the desert at night I move. A shadow, silent and hungry. My body shivers with excitement as the scent grows close, and I begin to dig at the grave.

I am ghūl. And your grandfather is delicious.

Careful what you ask about.

What are the things you need to do within 30 minutes of waking up to ensure your day gets off on the right foot? What happened the last time you didn’t do one of these things?

Hey, ya gotta try to make something out of these weird prompts. Can’t introspect ALL the time.

Seething Santa

Angrat amused herself by dreaming up new ways to plague the villagers when Mom wasn’t looking.

It was the annual celebration, on the first Christmas since her sister’s wedding. The family and members of the senior staff were all exchanging gifts, Secret Santa style.

Angrat was bored with the proceedings, as usual, and wishing for this holiday to be over. So she fidgeted and dreamed about plagues of rabbits and rains of deer urine and such, for the villagers who lived at the base of the castle’s hill. She had to wait for Mother (the Queen) to be otherwise occupied and not paying attention, of course. Timing is everything.

Henry the Butler was trying to hand her something.

“Oh, it’s my turn,” Angrat said with a start.

Colorful paper around a small heavy box, tied up with a tasteful bow. Angrat hated it. But she unwrapped her gift with care.

A crystal ball. She scowled up at Beneficent, of course her sister, it couldn’t be from anyone else.

But this wasn’t a scrying ball. Inside was a snowman, and a tiny witch in a minuscule peaked hat. As she watched, snow fell inside the globe, and shaking it made the snow fall harder.

A teeny snowball flew across the tiny scene and knocked the witch’s peaked hat off, a perfect shot. And two tiny little giggles.

She looked up and Beneficent nodded. “Us, of course. When we were little.”

For some inexplicable reason, Angrat’s eyes filled with tears. She muttered a quiet, “thank you,” and made a quick break for the spiral stairs.

After she reached the depths of the castle dungeons, she hurled the snow globe against the stone walls with a scream.

Damn the witch.

***

When they heard the scream echoing up from the dungeons, Beneficent nodded and snatched the wager back out of Très Charmant’s hand. Angrat’s rage was her defining characteristic, silly of Très to bet against it. He would learn.

I can’t help it. They keep begging me to be in more.

Hoist the Black Flag

“Come on Nigel, now’s our chance to make a break for it.”

Rog and Nigel slipped from the vault room, being cautious to evade detection.

“Those old geezers, we should have sacked the lot.”

“Right, Rog. Let’s get out of here first, you know those old pensioners have lost their minds.”

“Well it’s all about the efficiency, isn’t it? This bloody antediluvian firm and their antiquated methods and their outdated equipment. Bloody shame, letting their profit margins slip away.”

“Shh… I think I hear them. Singing,,, Sea chanty?” Nigel whispered.

“Oh sod, they’re coming back. Run for it.”

The corporate managers broke for the stairs. But when they approached the top they met the angry, cutlass-wielding mob of accountants coming up.

“There they are boys, grab them,” cried the pirate captain.

The scurvy crew eagerly swarmed over the efficiency experts. Rog and NIgel were carried to the roof and forced to walk the plank at umbrella-point.

Oppressive corporate overlords forget only at their peril:

“Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.”
—H. L. Mencken

Inspired by this Sunday’s Photo Fiction prompt:

A pre-Victorian building that is now one of the major banks in the UK.

And yes (hell yes) by the Crimson Permanent Assurance skit. The very first thing that photo/style of building reminded me of.

For those of you who don’t know your Monty Python it can be found here:

(Un)predictable results

“The implications are staggering.”

Roberts and Jones were discussing the Widget they’d finished. Following mass-emailed instructions, and about fifteen bucks worth of Electronic Store basic parts, they’d produced a couple of rough breadboarded test circuits.

Most astonishing—the things seemed to work just as the instructions suggested. Roberts and Jones were both electrical engineers, and there was just no way this particular circuit, as constructed and powered by a single “AA” battery, should do anything at all. It didn’t make any sense.

But stacked next to the breadboards were several duplicated items. Spare soldering irons, perfect matches of the copied original. A small stack of quarters. Spools of wire, all identical. As the instructions specified, pick up the object you want duplicated, push the “on” button, and a duplicate would be created.

“Do you know what this will do to the economy?”

“If a thousand people in the world bothered to make these, the economy is…dead. Fiat money, no scarcity any more…” Jones stumbled to a halt.

“How many people do you suppose received this email?”

“I don’t know, but the one I got was forwarded half a dozen times before it got to me.”

“Call up the electronics store, see if there’s a run on these parts today,” said Roberts.

After fifteen minutes, Jones returned, shaking his head.

“He says he’s got a line of customers forming at his part counter right now, busier than he’s ever seen the place.”

***

“So you can use the Duplicator to duplicate the Duplicators?” asked Jones.

“Completed units, much faster than soldering new units together. I’ve already passed several people wearing slick-produced units on their belts this morning,” Roberts replied.

“I’ve been cleaning up our quickie-breadboards, and built these for us. More substantial and waterproof, even a backup battery.” Jones handed a completed upgrade unit to Roberts.

“Let’s do some more testing.”

Jones stumbled on another unpredictable result while testing the Duplicator’s upper size limit.

“Roberts. Have you tested…” Jones held out a strawberry milkshake, hand shaking.

“Where’d that come from?”

“I pressed the button, but I wasn’t touching anything. I’d been thinking of maybe taking a break and fetching some lunch, and this appeared.”

Roberts stared for a moment then held out his right hand and toggled his Duplicator.

In his hand appeared a small bar of solid gold.

“Oh, no no,” breathed Roberts.

***

“Not just duplication. Anything you can imagine?”

“Anything so far,” said Jones. “I chickened out at creating a venomous reptile, but I made a white rat.”

“Maximum range?” asked Roberts.

“AA battery, I’d be shocked if it ranged even a quarter mile.”

“Make guns. I want a gun, before we head out to lunch.”

While crossing the corner of Third Avenue and Washington, a dark shadow swept over the street and their heads.

“That was…”

“Dragon,” said Jones. “What kind of idiot created a dragon?”

Roberts turned to stare at him. “We’re going to need so much more than handguns.”

***

Ninety-five percent of the human race perished within the next two weeks.

Wars were fought between dragons, demons, Gundams, hundreds of duplicates of Godzilla, giants, angels, Kzinti, unicorns, Jaberwockies, orcs, trolls, and the Armies of Fae…

Most of the giant-monster creations ate their stupid creators first, and then escaped to wreak havok on the planet.

The survivors were the ones who reached shelter fast enough, who had enough time to fortify. The ones who could find Survivalist bunkers or underground lairs. People often thought of fortified castles, but Godzilla-class monsters make short work of those.

Worse, a bunch of people also dreamed up UFOs, killer-droids, self-aware combat tanks and other killer tech. Mushroom clouds erupted over several continents, where one people hated the people who lived next door. No one was sure who triggered the last crusade, but the exchange was quick, nuclear, and dirty as hell.

Those individuals who dreamed up force fields managed to survive the nukes. A targeted nano-plague took care of the last of the Duplicator units.

As far as we know, anyway.

We hope we’ll manage to clean up the mess, in time.

Text message counter (7)

I keep getting texts from my wife.

She always gets mad when I fail to read them. But my cell phone gets used so infrequently that I often leave it in the briefcase, or in the car. I admit it—I am a member of the pre-smartphone generation. I haven’t been trained to keep my eyes glued to a cell phone screen every moment.

When I grew up, you often had to wait hours to call someone, particularly if you didn’t have quarters for the pay phones. It’s true. And I probably sent my first email some time around..1985? Plus or minus. We wrote real letters, on paper! Stamps. Post office.

So I got an entire series of rapid-fire text messages from my wife. She assumed (correctly) that I wouldn’t have my phone anywhere I could hear it:

“Soooo, I could be dying and you would not know.”

“The funeral director is calling you now.”

“It’s my funeral, are you attending, at least send flowers.”

“One month anniversary.”

“Now I’m going to haunt you.”

“Haunt!”

And the last one:

“Panda Express coming up.”

Now the smell of fast-food Chinese fills the apartment, and there’s a pounding at the front door.

I won’t open it.

My wife sent those text messages more than a year ago, before the accident.

(Annie’s fine. She actually did bring home noms, so plus two points. No accident, thank goodness–but the rest is based on real-life text events.)

Blooms in the courtyard

Leaving my seclusion is difficult.

She lives across the empty courtyard between our buildings, the courtyard where she grows flowers. I’ve seen her come and go dozens of times, tending her flower pots. But we didn’t meet until last month.

As a child, she was called Meliboea, but now she goes by Chloris. Which means “the pale one”—she became permanently pale because she was so frightened by her sibling’s deaths.

Tonight I meet her parents. I’ve learned it’s an unspoken requirement to meet the parents in Greek families.

I’m feeling faint myself. I hope I don’t turn too pale.

In response to this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt.

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields

Bride’s Curse

“The only thing you can do is abrogate this curse.”
—John DeChancie, Bride of the Castle, p.82

Removing any curse isn’t a joking matter. It generally involves some sort of live chickens and vodoun charms, or frummery with demons and candles and chants. Depending on the curse’s origin, of course.

Beneficent knew the work of her sister Angrat very well, through years of bitter experience. This wouldn’t be easy.

Back in school Angrat aced all of the Hexes and Curses classes. Beneficent was inclined more towards divination, she’d only barely managed a passing grade. No chance to match her sister for subtlety, or even analyze the curse for a weak spot. There wouldn’t be one.

But Beneficent had one card to play.

Mom.

She fetched her crystal ball from the luggage and speed-dialed “2”.

***

Some time later, after shooing the bemused room service waiter out the door, Beneficent waved the Colonel’s Crispy Bucket over her new husband’s head, chanting a few required mystic phrases and a few choice oaths about Angrat. A little sprinkle of wolvesbane (fifty gold pieces at these outrageous room service prices), and the counter-spell was done.

For the first time in Beneficent’s life, she was well and truly furious at her evil twin. This time, Angrat, you have just gone too far.

Her new husband Très Charmant returned from the restroom, looking much relieved. And blushed furiously as he climbed back into bed.

So the honeymoon continued. The rest is nobody’s business, Beneficent (wisely) draped a towel over the crystal ball.

Angrat displays a death wish

Open your nearest book to page 82. Take the third full sentence on the page, and work it into a post somehow.

Conflict

Pick a random word and do Google image search on it. Check out the eleventh picture it brings up. Write about whatever that image brings to mind.

Well, my random word (as chosen by the internet random word generator) was Conflict. The eleventh image on a Google image seach is just two cartoon guys, glaring at each other nose to nose, with the title “Interpersonal Conflict”.

Kind of generic and harmless. Cartoon image implies a sort of conflict-lite, so despite the two angry-looking guys, it’s probably not going to get too serious. Let’s see what the Brain of Chaos™ turns up:

***

“You’re breaking the Bro Code, you know,” complained Stan.

“The what? Get serious.”

“You’re supposed to be my wingman here. Look at her, she’s friggin’ gorgeous.”

“I know, which is why I don’t want to wingman for you. You know she’s totally out of  your league, man. Let me handle this one.”

“No way, I winged for you on the Redhead last Saturday. At the time, you said ‘She’s gonna have my babies’. It’s my turn.”

“She didn’t put out.”

“Right. Out of my league, Mr. Failure To Launch?”

Bob winced. Below the belt, time to backpedal.

“Ok, ok, maybe I do owe you one. But not this one, come on now.”

Stan raised his drink in triumph. “Yep, this one,” he said, turning confidently toward the blonde in the classic Little Red Dress across the bar.

Her eyes sparkled, watching him as he approached.

“I’m Stan. Can I get you a drink?”

She smiled. “After that performance? You boys shouldn’t objectify people.”

Stan’s confidence vanished. Glancing quickly back at Bob, who was a hundred feet away across a crowded and noisy singles bar.

Backpedal and cover, as required. “Like what?”

“Like your friend over there, who fails to close the deal with the Redheads.”

At this point Stan was genuinely baffled. “How could… You heard…?”

“Oh Stan. I’ve seen you and Bob here before. The two of you always choose a woman, pick her out of the crowd based entirely on appearance, and then one or the other of you tries to take her home. Classic objectification.”

Floundering. Stan knew the boat was sinking fast, torpedoed out from under him. Go down with the ship!

“I uh… I’m sorry, the way you put it, it sounds pretty terrible, I guess.”

“Now I never said it was terrible, Stan. Get your little pathetic bro-boy butt out to my car and pull it around, bitch.” She yanked his head back by his hair, hard, enormously strong. Dangling the keys before his eyes. “It’s the orange Mustang.”

Her voice was deep and commanding, a growl. Claws raked his chest as she shoved him violently in the direction of the exit. “Now, boy.”

And Stan knew for certain this one was way out of his league when he saw the fangs.

Fetch! And no Scooby-snacks, either.

Tadpole Soul

Mr. Toad hadn’t always been this way, but he could appreciate the change.

His valet Gardendale Brown attended his morning toilette, having selected Mr. Toad’s fine suit for the day. He helped Mr. Toad step into his fine pinstriped pants and broad leather belt, fastened with the sterling silver buckle. Held forth Mr. Toad’s ruffled linen dress shirt, and exquisite purple velvet waistcoat. Last of all, Gardendale helped with assorted sundries like cufflinks, pocket-watch, starched collar and stick-pin for Mr. Toad’s finest silken tie.

Brushing the waistcoat with care to be certain no speck of dust or stray thread could ruin the otherwise perfect ensemble, Gardendale asked, “What plan for today then, sir?” Borderline impertinent, but from a lifelong and valued domestic of Brown’s caliber, Mr. Toad had long allowed certain small liberties.

“I believe I shall take a stroll by the pond after breakfast, Brown.”

“Very good, sir.” Brown completed the preparations with Mr. Toad’s favorite tall silk top-hat. “I shall supervise the downstairs domestics preparing sir’s breakfast.”

Mr. Toad stepped back and admired the total effect in the full-length mirror.

He cut an imposing figure, in his own estimation.

A long way from his earliest days as a wild and carefree young gutter-tadpole. The elegant and staid Mr. Frog thought didn’t often think of his misspent youth these days.

In the same pond on the manor grounds he now owned, Mr. Toad’s family had lived for untold generations. Each spring, the latest crop of polliwogs and tadpoles burst free of their eggs, and took their first eager wiggles in the world.

Legless, they were little more than tiny fish when first born, swimming and swimming, hiding amongst the lily pads and milkweed patches to avoid the eager hunger of avian predators.

Safer under the water, but not much. Hungry fish were eager to acquire a tasty tad-morsel, when they could catch one.

Much of his spawn perished before growing enough to have legs at all. But the fastest and the smartest, the seekers of the best hiding spots, made it through the test and their legs grew. Their teeth and bodies grew more toad-like, though they still carried residual tails. At this stage they would be called metamorphs. It is only a matter of a few more weeks until their tails vanished forever, the tads left the water for good, and they became respectable full-fledged Toads.

As Mr. Toad was, indeed. Always most respectable.

After breakfast, Mr. Toad took his constitutional to the pond (ignoring the presence of those awful Otter Twins). He first checked over the mass of eggs for development and was satisfied. And peering deep into the murky pond-water, he noticed the first batch of fresh polliwogs, the earliest hatches from this year’s crop. And paled as one little guy was snatched up by a lurking perch.

He dipped the tip of one flipper, with reluctance, into the water at the outermost limit of the pond. And stepped back with a profound shudder.

Yes, Mr. Toad could appreciate and be thankful for the many changes since the Pond.

Mr. Toad needs his antagonists, the Otter boys, to get something going here. This one sort of started with this post, now we’re going backwards to expand the Toad character…more to come, some day, mebbe.

 

Get your kicks

If my memory is correct, it’s at least 2400 miles from here to Santa Monica.

That doesn’t sound that far. Unless you’re on foot.

None of Route 66 exists yet. In Illinois, I stand with Lake Michigan at my back and face an expanse of tallgrass prairie that’s pretty much the limit of attractions—at least until I cross the Mississippi River, in the vicinity of where St. Louis will be some day.

It’s difficult to judge how far off-target the Chronos Device dropped me. I haven’t seen any indigenous people at all. At least a millennium too soon?

Inspired by Friday Fictioneers prompt for this week:

PHOTO PROMPT – © Copyright Jean L. Hays