Category Archives: Humor

frosting harvesting

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bludberry-yogurt-cake

frosting harvesting

It was the last feather on the horse’s back. The final straw. The icing on the cake. The “One More Thing” that collapsed her, broke her heart, blew out her soul. The fact that everyone-everyone!-turned their back on her. Even Dale and the twins. Dismissing her and all she stood for.

Forever and a day, all due an unwatched process.

No matter what she was doing first aide on Adele while her twin, Gale, stood off to the side. No matter that Dale ignored the accident, turning around and going into the garage. No matter the blood that was slithering down their daughter’s face from the head gash from tumbling off of her bike, or, she suspected, from Gale pushing her off the bike. The blood blotted out Adele’s eyes, filled her mouth, ran onto her clothes.

No matter for any of it. She took her eyes off of her entry, and no one would forgive her this lapse. Burnt cake. Burnt frosting. The timing of the accident left no time for redos. She had no time to remake any of it. She was already late.

Then she was judged, and harshly. Her neighbors and friends, co-workers, friends, and finally family, judged her end result and issued it Insufficient. As they turned away from her, the Adjudicator yelled the word. Insufficient. Her entry.

Herself.

As was the law, she stood where she was. The late afternoon turned into night, and, finally, the dawn summoned the new day. She was free to leave, but to where? Without seeing it done, she knew Dale had burnt all of her things and changed the locks on all the doors. Her parents and sister as well. It was what was done. Any gift that she had made, kept by family and friends, would be heaped in a pile in the middle of town. By the end of this new day, it would all be broken to dust, the rest turned to ashes.

The walk out of town took her northeast. No town that surrounded her once home would take her in. The news spread too fast. She drank spring water, ate fruit, and raw fish when she could find it. She hid when wagons and solitary riders passed. Sleeping outdoors fitfully, whether it rained or grew cold. Nothing was safe. Not until the journey took her far away.

Time passed, and her clothing got ragged, as did she. Dead inside, she did not heed her weakening from lack of sleep, lack of adequate food, and the constant travel. She gave up. Falling to her knees, and then prone, her eyes closed with her wish for death.

She found out later that the family was traveling, having visited kin up north. The three girls needed to relieve themselves desperately. Their parents argued how close they were to home, how dark it was getting, how tired they all were. It was their younger brother that sealed the deal, his pants and shoes soaked, leaving him crying. The wagon stopped and the girls jumped out, heading to the tree line.

Waking in their house, snuggled beneath a heavy quilt, cleaned and changed into nightwear, she first thought that this was a hallucination. The oldest girl, Mara, cried out “She’s awake!” That sent all the children rushing to the bed she was lying in, followed by Roman and Anne, their parents. All was explained, even though all the questions of the children.

“You were almost dead,” Sarah piped up amidst the telling. The youngest girl, Tara, and their brother, Zara (shortened, she later found out, from Zacharia) just stood and stared at her.

She feigned not knowing her name at first, but the children persisted. She could not tell them that she was Insufficient. They would toss her out. It was lying, but she created a truncated version of that horrible branding.

“Eena. My name is Eena.”

Once Eena was strong enough, she repaid their generosity, at first helping in the cooking, finally taking it over when she proved how adept she was in the kitchen. Everyone enjoyed what she brought to their table, even the picky little ones. It took a short while before she baked again, but she had been healing inside bit by bit. The adults would know something was off if she continued to refuse to bake.

Her first try was met with a smattering of lips and peals of “more, more” from all the children. Their parents joined in that chorus on the third evening’s treat. They praised the frosting, the moistness of the cake. The cupcakes. The frosted tarts. Everything she brought to the table was met with praise and full mouths.

Word got around, and by the end of Eena’s first season in her new town, she had requests, then orders, from all the households. Others seemed to visit the town for errands that never happened, but resulted in their leaving with baked goods of all types.

Eena had been paying for all her baking needs by the end of her second month, with enough left to repay her family for all that she used.

The first season led to the next season, and by the time the third season rolled around, Eena had moved out and into town, opening up her own bakery and living in the back room. She experimented with icing and cake flavors, types of cookies and other baked goods. One and all, she frosted, iced, and created happy tummies.

A year turned to the next, finally admitting she needed help to produce all the orders. She took on Mara, being of age to apprentice, and the two of them baked and created and laughed throughout the day. By the time Mara was proficient she had met a love, that became her spouse.

Moving on left room for Sarah, then eventually Tara. Zara went by Zach now, and he helped with any hefty lifting or fixing when needed. Tara stayed on the longest, making new confections one after the other. Eena had expanded the space with Zach’s help, adding two more living spaces in the back: a bedroom for Tara and a visiting room for them all. The bakery doubled in size and in output.

Zach finally married but still found the time to help around the bakery. The girls came to help, usually two at a time, leaving their children with Grandma Anne and whichever’s sister’s turn it was to mind the little ones. Roman helped with what he could, playing with his grandkids until they tired him out.

Everyone had retreated for the day, and Eena was finishing up one last cake order. She was making an orange frosting, sugared and mixed with orange zest, when the door opened. She humphed a bit, more for herself not making sure the door was locked.

“I’m sold out of everything, and just about done for the…” She couldn’t continue. She dropped the bowel of frosting, the mixing spoon flying up and ladeling the sticky mess onto her face and shirt.

“Adele?”

The girl’s-young woman’s-eyes filled with tears. She nodded her head vigorously, her cheeks turning a burning red. Eena was coming around the counter just as Adele flung herself into an embrace that Eena had never experienced.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Adele repeated over and over.

“Shhh, shhh, you’re here now. That’s enough.”

They both cried, laughed, and tried to unstick themselves from the frosting that was hardening them together.

Eena wanted them to never again unstick from each other.

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The Condo: #FridayFictioneers

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PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

The Condo

“Seven floors and a rooftop garden. That’s what the classified said: seven and a garden.”

“Well, if you look at it a certain way…”

“I am looking at it in a certain way. It’s pure bloomin’ ugly.”

“Sigh.”

“Although, it does have a river view if you get a spot that faces the river.”

“There is that. You know, you’ve said you’d love a fixer-upper. Get yourself all into it, making it perfect for the two of us, and…”

“And? Not your mother ‘and’ I hope.”

She placed her hands on her belly.

“Oh!”

“Yes. ‘Oh!”

“Right. Well, in for a pound…”

**************************************************

It’s #Friday Fictioneers prompt time, as always created and hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields on her blog, Addicted To Purple.

The rules are simple if you’d like to do this:

    1. Use the photo on Addicted to Purple as your prompt (goes up on Wednesday).
    2. Write a 100 word story, complete with beginning, middle, and end.
    3. Make every word count.
    4. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor of the photo credit.
  1. Add the InLinkz button (below) so your readers can find the dozens of other bloggers who have taken up this challenge.

Chapter 7: “He’s not dead, Jim.”

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@Richard_Kadrey Prompt

Chapter 7:

“He’s not dead, Jim.”

“He’s not dead, Jim,” Debbee, the ship’s AI, relayed.

“Damn it!” Jim faced the monitor, the screen turning from green to a blood red. He hung his head and sighed.  “Ok. I misspoke. I meant to say Damn glad that Tod’s still with us. Yes indeedy.”

Debbee’s voice rebounded from all around. She only opened all channels when she was so pissed off that it spiraled down to her core programming. “Uh huh. Sure. I can tell how deeply moved you are.”

Jim always mumbled when his emotional state maxed out. This time it was anger mixed with a dash of guilt and a smidgen of petulance. So, he cursed.

“Jim, Jim, Jim. How many times have you been told-and not just by me-that your mumbling is a major irritant?”

He was in no mood for a lecture, especially from Debbee. Before his mouth worked without his brain Jim turned and activated the gurney. Debbee did the initial assessment. Now it was time to get him to the Med so it can do its magic. He followed the floating gurney; not that he needed to, but it was a good distraction.

Jim heard a scratching sound down by his right hand. “Huh.” He was clutching the remains of the Rogue Fleet Spork, supposedly the finest weapon in all the forty-two planets. “Yeah, right,” he mumbled.

“JIM!”

He kept moving on, finally reaching the med door. It swooshed silently open. Tod’s gurney went directly into the Medicus unit. Jim watched as the diagnostics protocol turned Tod purple for a few minutes while it reduced his clothing to recyclable mush.  Then the part Jim hated everytime he was hurt: Tod was tubed, injected, catheterized, IV’d, and skull-capped.

The whole procedure sent shudders racing through Jim. He had better things to do than to watch Tod, stupid freaking Tod, get hooked up. As he was leaving, he finally realized he was still holding the defunct Spork. Jim walked over to the recycling unit and tossed it in.

“Are you sure you want to do that, Jim?” Debbee chimed in.

“Well, gee, let me think. It’s broken beyond repair, half fused melted, and the Spork barely did its job when it wasn’t in that condition. So, yes, I want to recycle it. Now.” He waited a moment. Nothing happened. He sighed and finally said “Please.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Jim unlocked his cabin and the single door swooshed silently open, and then closed once he entered. He hung his cape, then his uniform, in the SteamSteward, pressed the Dry Clean cycle, and let it do its thing.

Sitting on his bed, he took the unfinished bulb of the Vulpes 24 and slurped it down. The warmth dribbled down his throat. Jim licked his lips, finding the last bit of liquid satisfaction. He tossed the bulb, turned off the lights, and settled in.

It took a long time for Jim to fall asleep. His mind was racing around with all that had happened on Anates: the high, gusting winds that made his cape flock around; the sudden attack from the man-eating Space Ducks; Tod, stupid Tod, not having his Spork and getting clipped by a few of the Ducks; having to protect Tod, stupid Tod, from further attacks as he bled on the ground; the fight for survival; and then noticing the blonde vixen on that horse-like thing.

Jim thought he noticed her directing the ducks. He wasn’t sure since trying to stay alive and protect stupid Tod. After taking down five of the ducks and noticing there were no more trying to eat him, Jim turned to look for the blond. She was gone. He hadn’t heard her arrive and hadn’t heard her leave. He was missing something. He knew it, but couldn’t find it in the mess going on in his head.

These thoughts swirled around Jim’s mind until finally, they spiraled him down into a deep sleep. His REM cycle was active and only increasing. The cover sheet was kicked off, wadded into the corner of the bed. His pillow was next, flung to the floor. Jim’s pulse and breathing grew frantic.

Debbee, who monitored Jim and Tod, sounded a blaring noise to wake him up. She repeated it, adding new sounds, upping the level, until it was all a discordant cacophony of sound.

Jim was still asleep.

“Tod is awake, Jim. TOD IS AWAKE.”

Jim bolted awake and sat up. “Stupid Tod,” he mumbled. Debbee let this one pass.

He was drenched in night sweat and his head was ringing. Debbee’s com screen was a bright yellow and spread across the room.

“I knew something was off. I knew it!”

“Jim, what was off?”

“The blond. She had wings. She had wings. She looked like us, but she had wings.”

**********************************************

Author’s Note:

I get a kick out of prompts. Right now, creatively, I need these jumping off points. That’s what you’re seeing here on Tale Spinning. I have a few projects of my own I’m procrastinating with that I hope I’ll finish and try to do something with them. We’ll see.

The above pic is one of them, created by Author Richard Kadrey. He has been posting, on Twitter, reworked/photoshopped covers of old pulp(ish) novels, changing them to show off his brand of humor. I just thought it’d be fun to write a few things from Mr. Kadrey’s posting: so, yes, this is my writing, not Mr. Kadrey’s.

Richard Kadrey is a writer, photographer, comic book writer, and an all-around interesting guy. His fiction straddles the Urban Fantasy, Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Cyberpunk worlds, and he’s pretty darn good with it all. I fell in love with his writing starting with his first Sandman Slim novels. Gritty, sometimes violent, often full of whimsey, worth reading. He’s not just another pretty face.

You can check out more fun covers by following him on Twitter @Richard_Kadrey.

To get into his body of work, visit him at his website: Richard Kadrey

The Roof Of The Rising Sun: #FridayFictioneers

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PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

The Roof Of The Rising Sun

“Wow. Some show the stars put on for us.”

Lena leaned back, checking to make sure Dave was there. She nestled against him.

“I don’t deserve y…” Dave started.

Lena found his mouth, kissing that sentence away.

Dave had survived many misfortunes until Lena stumbled upon him.

She hadn’t seen him. He was invisible, after all. He picked her up, apologized, and started to leave.

“Wait!” was all he needed to hear. They talked. Went on a date. More dates followed.

They’d been together for three months now.

The sun rose, beaming onto Lena, and through Dave, on the roof.

****************************************

Author’s Notes:

Thus ends the Dave Trilogy. I hadn’t planned this when I wrote the first Dave story (Veiled Consequences), and it wasn’t until I wrote the second piece (One More Thing) that that drabble fit with the previous week’s. So, I knew I had to end it, somehow, this week. No idea how it would go until I saw the photo prompt. I had to live with that photo all day until I figured out what to do with it. Hope you enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s #Friday Fictioneers prompt time, as always created and hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields on her blog, Addicted To Purple.

The rules are simple if you’d like to do this:

    1. Use the photo on Addicted to Purple as your prompt (goes up on Wednesday).
    2. Write a 100 word story, complete with beginning, middle, and end.
    3. Make every word count.
    4. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor of the photo credit.
  1. Add the InLinkz button (below) so your readers can find the dozens of other bloggers who have taken up this challenge.

One More Thing: #FridayFictioneers

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caged-liz
PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young

One More Thing

My ex walked out.

She cheated on me. Twice!

Got fired from a job I hated.

Car repossessed.

Bought a cheapo replacement.

Crashed it. DUI.

New job: nervous breakdown.

Got fired.

Fell off a curb; broke my leg.

Got addicted to Fentanyl.

Tried a twelve step. Fell off at #3.

Had a cat. It ran off, after scratching me all over.

Caused an infection.

Bandaged from head to toe. Sent home.

“Friend” thought it’d be funny to lock me in a cage for Halloween.

Scared the kids. Police arrested us both.

~
~
~

I really like you. Care for a second date?

************************************
Author’s Note:

It’s #Friday Fictioneers prompt time, as always created and hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields on her blog, Addicted To Purple.

The rules are simple if you’d like to do this:

    1. Use the photo on Addicted to Purple as your prompt (goes up on Wednesday).
    2. Write a 100 word story, complete with beginning, middle, and end.
    3. Make every word count.
    4. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor of the photo credit.
  1. Add the InLinkz button (below) so your readers can find the dozens of other bloggers who have taken up this challenge.

Hippie Snowflake Revolution: by Blast Thunderpunch ( Stuart Nager)

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@Richard_Kadrey Prompt

Hippie Snowflake Revolution

by Blast Thunderpunch (aka Stuart Nager)

Prologue

~~~

Comrade Aleksandr “Moskali” Joneski broke the news just days before the revolution went live. It was first hand, no sources. He ran with what he knew, and it was a doozy.

He had infiltrated a Starbucks, ordering a Double Mocha Lite Latte with extra foam. His face contorted, teeth grinding away, he fixed his fake Millenial beard. It had been slipping off. The heat from the day was making him sweat balls, and it didn’t help that  the waiting line reached outside the hated cofevee place. He had already discarded the Man Bun part of his disguise; with nothing on top to hold it in place, he gave up after 22 tries.

Finally, his drink was ready. They got the fake name wrong, noticing this as he walked away to put ten packets of sugar in it.  He told the wench up front his name was Gerard. She wrote “Jerk.”

He slipped into the tail end seat of the communal table (“Ha!”, he thought) and sat. And sat, and drank. Sat and drank…and listened. Eventually, he had to use the restroom. When he came back his seat was gone. So he wandered, jockeying around for another spot. Towards the front of the store,  he heard the inflammatory words:

“So, what are you doing on July 4th?”

Pushing his way onto a stool, facing to the window, Aleks tuned into the discussion that was going on behind him.

“Oh, you know,” the pregnant tramp with the “Baby Bump: Drive Slowly” tee shirt said. “Food, drinks…fireworks!”

Aleks almost fell off the stool. This was it! Confirmation. He almost jumped up and yelled “J’Accuse!”, but he wouldn’t give the gay frogs the satisfaction. Instead, he hunkered down, taking a notepad and pen out of his shoulder slung Man Bag.

The bearded pot smoking revolutionary, who sat opposite the slut, leaned forward. Aleks saw this in the reflection from the windows. “Yeah, yeah. Fireworks, naturally. There’s gonna be a huge crowd. Best to get there early.” He paused.  “Is Alexandria going to be there?”

“Mayyybeee,” she said. Aleks saw a huge grin on her hateful face. “I know you have a thing. Does she know you have a thing?”

The libtard only shook his head back and forth, looking down into his large (not Trente! Large!) cup of iced treason. “Well, um, I don’t know. It might do more harm than good.”

Aleks was lapping it all up. Taking a sip of what remained of his drink, he spit it out. It was cold. As cold as their hearts, their allegiance to this great country. He was furiously writing everything down.

The trollop let out a piercing bark of a laugh. “Well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll come along with us. Be loaded for bear: you’re not the only one with sights on her.”

He had to stifle the giggles that wanted to break free. “I knew it! I knew it!” he thought. “I would have pegged him for a godless gay; maybe this hippie chick isn’t a chick at all. Maybe she’s a…a he! An affront to my God. My god!”

She levered herself up; her coconspirator stood up with her. Aleks noticed they gave each other what he could only assume was a coded body message: they hugged, and then she patted him on the arm three times. Pat. Pat. Pat.

“You better be there,” she said to him, pointing her finger. “Time to man up and fight for what you want.”

“Fireworks. Food. Alexandria. Fight for it. Got it.”

Aleks put his pad and pen back into the Man Bag and started to follow them out of the store. He noticed they went left onto Lexington, and then were turning left onto Concord.

“Hey, man, it’d help if you cleaned up after yourself. People here aren’t your slaves, you know.” The so-called man he had sat next to during all this piped up as he was trying to leave. Probably a Jew.

“Not yet they aren’t. Not yet.”

BREAKING: Democrats Plan To Launch Civil War On July 4th

 

***********************************************

Author’s Note:

Fairly recently, author Richard Kadrey has been posting, on Twitter, reworked/photoshopped covers of old pulp(ish) novels, changing them to show off his  brand of humor. The above pic is one of them. I just thought it’d be fun to write the above from Mr. Kadrey’s posting: so, yes, this is my writing, not Mr. Kadrey’s.

Richard Kadrey is a writer, photographer, comic book writer, and an all-around interesting guy. His fiction straddles the Urban Fantasy, Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Cyberpunk worlds, and he’s pretty darn good with it all. I fell in love with his writing starting with his first Sandman Slim novels. Gritty, sometimes violent, often full of whimsey, worth reading. He’s not just another pretty face.

You can check out more fun covers by following him on Twitter @Richard_Kadrey.

To get into his body of work, visit him at his website: Richard Kadrey

Veiled Consequences: #FridayFictioneers

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PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Veiled Consequences

The experiment had gone horribly wrong.

Dave, invisible. Nothing would reverse the process. Tried reverse engineering his molecular chamber: nada. Chemistry: a bust. Prayer: a joke. A voodoo priestess: dead end, giving her a heart attack when he spoke.

Then the dog attack. Sepsis infection. Had to amputate his own leg. Damn Chihuahua.

Prosthetic experiments went badly. The MC did nothing. Blown glass: shattered. Clear plastic: no give.  Finally, Dave gave in and ordered an off the rack one. It did the job, but now? Slightly visible.

It was fun, though, freaking people out when he went to the store.

***************************************

Author’s Note:

It’s #Friday Fictioneers prompt time, as always created and hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields on her blog, Addicted To Purple.

The rules are simple:

    1. Use the photo on Addicted to Purple as your prompt.
    2. Write a 100 word story, complete with beginning, middle, and end.
    3. Make every word count.
    4. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor of the photo credit.
  1. Add the InLinkz button (below) so your readers can find the dozens of other bloggers who have taken up this challenge.

NSFW: #FFPhotoPrompt

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NSFW:

Nuku-mai-tore, Spirit Facing Woodland

“One legend says they had large chests and waists, but little heads; another text gives “no head, chest and waist only.” A third says that their arms and legs were so short that they seemed to have no limbs at all, but waved their hands close to their bodies.”

~Encyclopedia Mythica

Whira and Turo laughed their heads off (literally) when they heard the grandfather tell his tiny entourage all about the tree faeries, the Nuku-mai-tore.  They had been leaping from branch to branch of the ancient yew tree they lived on, peering down at the humans who were unaware they were being watched. Turo picked up Whira’s head, and Whira Turo’s, and they juggled them back and forth until they grew tired of the game.

Turo had a wicked grin on his face when he reattached his head. “We should go down and teach the old man how wrong he is.”

“Nah,” Whira said, putting his head on backward.

“Stop that!” Turo laughed, which was Whira’s mission.

Turning his head around, Whira faced his friend. “All we will do is scare them-I know, I know, that is what you want to happen. But, really Turo, would they really believe we were Nuku-mai-tore? We look enough like those humans.”

“Except for being green.”

“There is that.”

“And pretty much au natural. Leaves and bark do not clothe the sidhe.”

“True. Sigh. You really want to do this, don’t you?”

Turo’s wicked grin grew three times its size, nearly splitting his head in half. That was all it took. They both skittered down the yewhome, a race to get to the ground first.

One of the little ones surrounding the old man turned, catching their movements peripherally. A piercing scream followed.

“Girl?” asked Whira, confused by the little thing’s long hair.

“”Hmm. No. Boy.”

The grandfather was scooping up the three children into his arms and against his body. Looking at them, the faeries weren’t sure if he was trying to protect them or use them as a shield.

“Shield,” Whira muttered.

“Maybe. Let’s find out.”

They walked a few steps towards the grouping. All the children screamed, and the old man stepped in front of them, the little ones cowering behind him, shushing them to silence.

“No shield.”

“Nope. Chutzpah.”

The grandfather stuttered out: “Wha..wha..who…”

The two faeries laughed again, this time keeping their heads.

“Hi. I’m Turo. This is Whira.” Whira did a little curtsey; Turo punched him in the arm, gently. Their chuckling sent the children plunging into the old man, almost knocking him over. Whira laughed loudly. Turo shushed him.

The grandfather stood up as straight as he could. This time he was able to make a full sentence. Barely.

“Who…what are you?”

“Well, that’s kinda rude. We are…The Nuku-mai-tore!”

“Taa Daa!” piped up Whira.

The grandfather was sputtering again. “But…but..but…”

Whira turned around. “Yes, see? We have butts,” turning around again, “and heads, and chests, and arms, legs, fingers, toes…and a couple of dangling bits. Not so much the twiddle you told the tykes.”

Turo, who was slightly ignoring the discourse, began dancing. Feet shifting back and forth became a two-step which then morphed into a jig, of sorts, and then into a full-on whirling dervish type movement. The little ones were fascinated and started to move away from grandfather. Soon, Turo had the beginnings of a Conga line going.

“TURO! Enough, really, like, just leave them alone.”

“Hey, they’re having fun!”

“The old guy looks like he’s going to keel over. Look.”

The grandfather’s face, old man frail, had lost all its color. His hands were shaking, and his straightened body began to sag. The faeries and the children rushed over and helped bring him to a sitting position. Whira went off, back in a flash with some water from their stream. They all sat down around the grandfather, who gathered himself into a semblance of order while he drank.

Finishing, he looked at the two. “Thank you,” he said. Both Turo and Whira nodded to him. “What…what do you want from us?”

Whira and Turo looked at each other. Whira spoke up before Turo could botch things up.

“We just wanted to set you straight on us, the Nuku-mai-tore. You were telling these little ones things that just weren’t true.”

“They were funny.”

“Yes, funny, but not true. See? Some differences between us, but nothing as strange as what you were telling.”

Putting down the large cupped leaf he was drinking out of, grandfather asked: “Would you then share with us the truth? We are all ears,” he said, turning to his charges. “Aren’t we?”

All the children hastily agreed. The one who screamed first went to sit in grandfather’s lap.

Whira and Turo took turns telling stories, both true and crafted fantastical. When the human grouping left, with smiles and thanks, the two faeries went back up their yewhome for a well-earned nap.

***********************************************

Author’s Note:

The above is another photo prompt, this time from Fiction Can Be Fun. I’ve joined Deb, David, and their blog readers before. I loved this picture the second I set eyes on it, but I was not sure, at first, what to do with it.

It was Deb’s statement that sent me on this path: “this is a family show, so we reserve the right not to post anything that strays into NSFW or offends against ‘common decency’.”

Of course, I took that as a challenge this time around.

If you want to join in, and please do, here’s the info you need:

Use the photo (on top) as your prompt.

Word Count: anything up to 1,000
Deadline: 2pm GMT on Friday 6th July 2018

Fiction Can Be Fun


A reminder to new readers/writers, please post on your own site and add a link in the comments section below.  If you don’t have your own blog or similar outlet, do send us your story via the contact form on the About page and we’ll post for you, with an appropriate by-line.  

Two caveats if you want to go down this route: if you want to retain the copyright, then you will need to state this, and this is a family show, so we reserve the right not to post anything that strays into NSFW or offends against ‘common decency’.

Julemo, The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy

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Julemo, The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy

A prompt from A Creative PTSD Gal

...Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished:
For never was a story of more wo

Whoa. Hold on. Two kids, in the throes of their first lust love, just offed themselves. Their pining for each other hurled a monkey wrench into a powder keg mess, and boom it went off. Four confirmed Main Players died beyond these two, with enough blood on the streets, steps, terraces, and food stalls, that suggest there were a lot more (names not important to the larger issue) who fell down dead: damn kindred kept taking and hiding their deceased. Poor mojo on their famial name if the numbers were known by the populace.

Now, neither head of the two bloodlines were respected or even liked. They held their positions due to fear, the potential of favors bestowed, and the rest who care to be seen with the ones who are being seen without their even trying to be seen. They are a headache on the populace, if not to that last sentence. It’s no wonder their wives cloistered themselves with knitting, other crafty projects, wine, and “hey, is that a codpiece or are you happy to see me?”

No matter, for they all become even more bit players than they had already been. Well, except for the best friend. And the brother. But, this isn’t about them.

The once hot-to-trot teens were wheeled away. Unbeknownst to all the other players involved, not to the building where their bodies were supposed to be prepared for the funeral process. A bit of misdirection brought them to a place that, if alive, they would have killed themselves before willingly entering. Well, again, they were dead, so there was really nothing they could do.

Some of the gas buildup inside of them started to waft out, perfuming the surrounding area. Merc would have enjoyed that, gotten a great big chuckle out of it, and made a bon mot that all his friends would have laughed at, praising his scatological wit, whether they got it or not.

Friar Lawrence waved away the awful smell that started to fill up his small cell. He was lambasting himself for the way everything had unfolded. The friar knew he was culpable as an instigator, sticking his nose so far up the problems of the two households that…well, the picture in his head was enough to cause him the willies. He gave himself some satisfaction that he had nothing to do with Romeo meeting Juliet nor for the two of them falling in lust love with each other.  Just pretty much everything else that ended in their endings. He had a plan to fix things, no matter that Mother church would condem him to Heck for what he was about to do.

He knew a guy who knew a woman who knew a group of people who said they knew things no one else on Earth knew. Two of that group had been waiting in the friar’s cell. They had done their preperations already, and by the time friar and the corpses (later to become the name of a Punk band, circa 1972) arrived, the two men were five sheets to the wind, having found Lawrence’s holy wine stash.

The Friar, after admonishing the pair, needed their help in transferring the bodies to the prepared circle on the floor. Closing his eyes, he performed the sign of the cross, prayiing that he was not overstepping the will of the church and the savior or, well, not as badly as others might judge him. He uncovered the two; first Romeo (“Look at that…” was hushed by an elbow in the ribs by one of the men), and then Juliet (they both whistled their approval).

Candles were lit, ewe blood was tinkled around, and an undercurrent of chanting proceeded. Finally, Friar Lawrence came to the section he most dreaded: he would either succeed or epicically fail. He hoped to make things right, and only if he went through with this…if only he went through with this..if only…

The taller of the two sidemen gave the friar a shove. “Go on, mate. We ‘avent got all day. Go on with your self. ” The other man, who had been nodding off, came to, enough to agree. “Go on,” he slurred.

Friar Lawrence went on. He rushed through the Latin chants, stumbled over the sections that were complete gibberish to him, but was assured it was all right. Once the ritual words were complet, he said:

“These two, whose fate death doth stole, left this earthly plane too soon, too soon. I beseech the one on whom I call to make things right. Make them live, again, so that they may be together, as one.”

With that, a poof of a cloud enveloped the cell, with a stench that made Lawrence wish for flatulence again. Once the cloud settled, a ghastly, oozing, smirking demon, on the smallish size, appeared.

“Really? That’s what you want, what you went through, what you will suffer the eternity of damnation for? Really? For these two?”

Trembling, Friar Lawrence fell to his knees. The taller of the two men just sat down; his friend fell over, snoring.

“Yes,” he quivered. “Yes, yes, yes. My suffering is nothing compared to what these two suffered. Please. Make them live, so they may live as one.”

The demon (whose name I dare not write on pain of pain), looked at the two on the floor. His eyes passed over Juliet’s form, but with Romeo, he spent a lot of time…contemplating. The friar shivered even more, noticing a tumescence he wished he’d never had noticed.

The demon announced: “OK, as you wish.” With that, he snapped his clawed phalanges, and another foul-smelling cloud encircled the square cell. Friar Lawrence keeled over, dead; the tall man slung his passed out partner over his shoulder and was out the door before one could say “Bob’s your uncle,” which he was, but…

When the fogginess in the cell faded to nothing, it took the demon with it.
A stirring came from within the circle.

A painful groan caused eyes to pop open, followed by more groans as the aches and pains of death were shook off upon standing. There was a stretching of limbs, a rolling out of the muscles. Looking around this familiar room, it came that no one was in attendance when there should have been many servants around. Standing in place for a long, stiff time, perplexed, the bright rays of the sun were eventually replaced by crystal clear moonlight as it streamed through the small windo-nee-hole in the wall.

Hands began exploring, feeling what was known but also unknown. Panic soon set in, followed by a flailing  of appendages, hair being pulled this way and that, and a frenzied carrening around the room.  Finally, exhausted, a large plop! on the ex-friars sleeping pallot was felt in great pain. Huge moist sobs ensued.

The star-crossed lovers were, as that damnable friar (in reality, now) asked as he asked for.  Alive, but as one.

Only one.

Combined as one.

One body. One set of hands. One heart. Even death would not part them now.

Knowing he/she/they could not stay, they threw on one of the hated robes that Lawrence had left lying around, which, truth be told, needed a thorough washing.

They realized they could not be called Juliet nor Romeo anymore. That started up a quick arguement. Neither won. They were somewhat something wholey new. The idea came to combine names, somehow; neither one of them could agree who came up with the thought first, which started up another quick arguement with themselves.

Romiet didn’t sound right at all. They were in agreement on that. A few other configurations were considered and abandoned. Fred didn’t work at all for them. With resignation, Julemo was the best of all possiblities.

They crept out of the cell, vowing that the only time they would ever return would be to cause its destruction.  Easing on down the road, it was tough going in the beginning.  As they got the rhythm of their gait in check, they made their plans. Julemo knew if any of their kinsmen found them, they would face death, again.

Julemo fled, under the fairest stars in all the heaven.

*****************************************

Author’s note:

Jo at A Creative PTSD Gal was one of the writers/bloggers I fell upon (sorry for the bruising) during the AtoZ Blog Challenge. I enjoyed her work and visa versa. Like others, I found a prompt on her blog that actually was a contest, which was the least of it. I liked the picture prompt and that led to Hence, The Exorcists.

Jo had been following another blog that dropped a lot of prompts and then dropped dropping said prompts from their pages. I also had not won the prize from Jo’s contest, but she sent me an email with three potential prompts:

  • The main character is trying to quit smoking and the medication that she is using to help shows her the evil within someone she thought she knew since childhood.
  • The world just survived an apocalyptic event (your choice) and your character has to team up with the one person they hate to survive. 
  • It was not your normal Romeo and Juliet tale. The star-crossed lovers aren’t kept apart by their family but rather an unforeseen paranormal being.

Obviously, I took the last one, tweaked it, and Bob’s your uncle. I left it open-ended because, who knows? Why? I don’t know. Third base.

Hope you liked it. Please check out her blog for stories, doodles, and a lot more.

Rock Liebster, Mon Amour

Standard

So, once again the fickle finger of fate favors flash fiction here on Tale Spinning. I want to thank Dear Kitty. Some Blog for thinking what I do here is special enough to be granted this nomination. This is the second time (see Tale Spinning April 15, 2018) I have been nominated for the Liebster in the past few months. I had received this nomination a couple of other times over the years, and it doesn’t get old. Harder to come up with questions and people to nominate, but…c’est la prix.

The rules of the Liebster Award, as per Dear Kitty and the person who nominated her are:

1. Acknowledge the blog which nominated you.
2. Answer the 11 questions your nominator asked.
3. Nominate 11 other bloggers.
4. Ask them 11 questions.
5. Let them know you have nominated them.

Slightly different than the rules I received for my April 15th posting, but carry on I shall.
#1: thanks again, Dear Kitty.
#2 Her Questions; My answers:

1. What was your first job? Working in a Chinese Restaurant, filling up the Smorgasbord Table, doing To Go orders. Yes, many customers asked me if I was Chinese.

2. What’s the best advice you’ve ever gotten? Don’t become an Elf.

3. Favourite season and why? Vindaloo, cause I like it spicy. Oh, season, not seasoning.  L’automne.

4. Favourite TV show? Right now, iZombie. Way too many others. I’m a TV junkie.

5. When did you first travel alone and where did you go? Shortly after my divorce; San Fransisco.

6. Why did you start a blog? Bordom, and the need for a challenge.

7. What did you want to be when you were a kid? Not lonely, and at the same time being left alone. Complicated even as a kid.

8. Would you rather travel into the future or the past? Neither. Alternate Universe.

9. Do you have any siblings? Nope. I’m an only, for good or bad (see #7)

10. Can you cook well? Yes. Medium and Medium Rare too. Not a big fan of Rare, or Raw.

11.  What is the next thing you plan to learn? Whatever comes my way that I know little or next to little about.

As to #3, nominating 11 other bloggers: nah. Last time I did, only two out of seven followed through. If you, dear reader, want to take this on, please be my guest. Yeah, it’s cheating/lazy, but I have been writing my tuchas off the past few weeks and I be bushed.

Being even lazier, I’m reposting the questions (#4) I came up with on my previous Liebster post. I thought they were pretty good; hopefully, we’ll get more than two answers this time around:

Please be aware that “…and Why?” is invisibly attached at the end of the majority of the questions.  Lazy, remember?

  • If you could write in any writers voice besides your own, whose would it be?
  • What literary genre holds NO interest for you?
  • What song with a strong narrative still touches you?
  • What fictional character do you wish you were?
  • Savory or Sweet?
  • What does “The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of” mean to you?”
  • You stumble upon a magic rock. Picking it up, you discover something underneath. What is it?
  • Have you had an inexplicable experience? What was it?
  • What fiction book would you recommend to me?
  • What movie or TV show do you love but hate to admit it?
  • What does writing mean to you?

If you pick up this challenge from me, please just let me know, alongside the accolades you wish to bestow upon me. Money is good too. BTW: this takes care of #5.

I’d love to read your answers. OH, and please don’t cop out with the “I would never” or “I’m fine with” answers. Instead of saying “No” to the question(s), try a big resounding “Yes” and stretch that creative muscle!

P.S. Please copy, paste, and follow the rules on your own blog. Doesn’t really work if you answer the questions in my comment section. Kind of defeats the purpose. Deal?

PPS: I really want either a Katz’s Pastrami sandwich right now, or a real Chocolate Egg Cream. They don’t go together; it’s one or the other. Or bed. Bed sounds good too.

Ta.