hwango: (Default)
2023-09-26 10:23 pm
Entry tags:

Spooky Story 2023

Once up on a time there was a very spooky story. The story contained all sorts of scary things, like skeletons and existential dread and ghouls and dead goats puppeteered from the inside by enormous colonies of spiders. It was terrifying. In fact, it was so terrifying that most people who tried to read it never made it to the end. Usually this was because they gave up reading long before the story was finished, and not because they fell victim to a soul-eating windmill. It was hardly ever the windmill.

Many people gave up at the part with the Ferris wheel made of bones. Some people made it to the bit with the well filled with snakes. Almost no one made it to the eldritch windmill. That horrible, horrible windmill. The shrieking of its grinding gears, and the ceaseless babbling of its sails made from - well, I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise.

Anyway, the point is that the story was scary enough to drive most people away before they reached the end. However, the story was not thwarted so easily.

Elements of the story would creep out and chase after the reader, trying to re-acquire their attention. As you might imagine, this strategy rarely met with success. If, for example, you abandoned reading a story because you were so unsettled by the idea of a well full of snakes whose constant slithering and hissing mingled into a nightmarish chorus endlessly whispering the names of the dead, and then you discovered that your own well was filled with such snakes, I doubt your first impulse would be to go back to read about even more snakes. But this didn't stop the story from trying. Really, nothing could stop the story. The story was relentless. Implacable. Inescapable.

But don't worry, the story that you are reading is about Terrance the Dancing Llama.

Terrance woke up early one morning to sunshine and singing birds. The birds were singing a legally distinct song about it being Terrance's birthday that would not require them to pay anyone any royalties, because it was Terrance's birthday! Terrance danced merrily into his kitchen, where he discovered that someone had snuck in while he was asleep and put up decorations and balloons and a giant banner that read "Happy Birthday Terrance!!!!" You or I would doubtless be terrified that someone who would string together four consecutive exclamation marks had broken into our home while we were asleep, but Terrance's life was one of such carefree bliss that this didn't concern him at all.

Terrance visited all of his friends while running his morning errands. There was Winifred the Kudu, Thorvald the Alpaca, Astrid the Oryx, and even Lancaster the Goat! Everyone said a cheerful "hello!" and wished Terrance a happy birthday! Winifred said that they should have tea later. Thorvald said they should get together later and make cookies. Astrid said they should play games later that afternoon. Lancaster said that later that evening they should visit the traveling carnival that had set up just outside of town! The carnival was spooky! Lancaster said the Ferris wheel was really weird!

Terrance had tea with Winifred the Kudu, made cookies with Thorvald the Alpaca, and played games with Astrid the Oryx! He had a delightful birthday! Then he went to see the carnival with Lancaster the Goat!

The carnival was spooky! The Ferris wheel was indeed really weird! It kind of looked like it was made of...bones?

Terrance wasn't sure he really wanted to ride a Ferris wheel made of bones, but Lancaster assured him that it would be fun. In fact, he was strangely insistent about it. Terrance thought Lancaster was acting a little oddly. Terrance thought Lancaster sounded funny. Terrance thought Lancaster looked a little off. What was that stuff stuck to his horns? Were those...cobwebs?

Oh no.

The lesson to be learned here is that birds have a more extensive knowledge of copyright laws than you might expect. That, and at least one of your friends is probably full of spiders.
hwango: (Default)
2022-11-04 06:43 pm

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 22 - Woke Up and Chose Violence

Hello, children. Oh, I was just looking at the clouds. Yes, they are pretty, but I'm actually watching them specifically because that one over there looks suspicious, and I don't trust it. You can never be too careful when it comes to giant things floating overhead, such as zeppelins, or the moon, or especially clouds. Actually, that reminds me of a story.

There once lived a reclusive faerie called Sludgewick Myrmisnoot. One reason Sludgewick was reclusive is that he didn't particularly enjoy the company of other faeries. Sludgewick was one of those rare faeries who might be slightly mischievous now and then, but who was rarely malicious. Although, it would have been difficult to engage in much malice even if he wanted to, since he preferred to avoid others as much as he possibly could, an inclination to which I'm sure we can all relate. Well, I can, anyway.

The other reason Sludgewick was reclusive is that he spent most of his time crafting artisanal clouds, and you need a lot of open space for that sort of activity.

Now, not all clouds are raised and managed by faeries - there are plenty of wild or feral clouds out there. Wild clouds form when accumulations of like-minded water vapor coalesce together around some airborne object, usually a particularly charismatic bit of water vapor. However, it is not unheard of for clouds to form instead around things such as unwary birds, stray kites, restless ghosts, and so on. Sludgewick preferred to build his clouds around the little fluffy things that carry the seeds of milkweed, thistles, and dandelions, but he would sometimes depart from this preference when struck by other inspiration.

Sludgewick would sometimes create bespoke rainclouds for farmers who wanted to water their crops, or for malicious faeries who wanted to ruin birthday parties or murder individuals for whom water is inimical, such as salt golems, origami foxes, and certain witches. Mostly, he made clouds simply for the satisfaction of making them. I believe he found stacking water molecules on top of each other very relaxing.

One day, Sludgewick espied a pretty red leaf dancing along in the wind, and thought it would make an interesting heart for a cloud.

Alas, Sludgewick did not realize that this particular leaf was filled with rage. It had fallen from the branch of a very ill-tempered tree, and it was the very first leaf shed that autumn. The leaf, once separated from the hive-mind and granted terrible self-awareness, was outraged that it had been deemed so superfluous, and just callously thrown away. The tree had cast the leaf into a strong breeze that would carry it far, far away, almost as if the tree couldn't even bear to be near it. The leaf had spent months converting sunlight into chemical energy for that ungrateful tree, and this was the thanks that it got? The leaf hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to its favorite squirrel.

And so even though Sludgewick was only trying to make a whimsical little cumulus cloud that would flitter about in the wind, he instead got a raging cumulonimbus that spat lightning everywhere and made a terrible racket.

A typical faerie probably would have torn the cloud to pieces and salvaged it for scrap, or sent it to exterminate an entire family reunion of water-soluble witches, but Sludgewick knew that part of being an artist is realizing that not everything you make is going to be a masterpiece. So Sludgewick released the cloud to wander off on its own and live out its existence as it wished. The cloud responded by drenching Sludgewick with a great deal of very cold rain. Sludgewick certainly couldn't spend as much time as he did making clouds if he was bothered by getting a bit wet, but such insolence could not be left unanswered, and so he placed a terrible curse upon the cloud and then summoned a sharp gust of wind to blow it away.

The cloud, disoriented by the wind, meandered aimlessly across the sky for some time. Eventually, the cloud found itself floating high above the tree that had shed the leaf that had come to be used as the cloud's heart. Lightning crackled like diabolical laughter as the cloud realized that it was poised perfectly to seek revenge.

First, the cloud threw hail and rain at the tree, attempting to knock off all of the other apparently more important and valuable leaves. The tree was quite hardy, however, and so the cloud managed to dislodge only a tiny fraction of the leaves. Driven to madness by frustration and thoughts of revenge, the cloud turned instead to a merciless barrage of lightning, which ultimately blasted the tree apart in a shower of splintered wood. Only after the cloud looked down in satisfaction upon the devastation did it remember that its favorite squirrel had still lived in that tree.

Overcome with remorse, the cloud attempted to hurl itself into the sun, which had always seemed so close by in its memories of being a leaf. Alas, it turned out that the sun was rather further away than the cloud thought, and the cloud froze into a ball of ice in the empty blackness of space.

Now trapped in the form of a tiny comet, the former cloud drifts through the solar system desperately trying to return to earth so it can melt and end its tormented existence. Every few decades, it passes quite close by, and Sludgewick waves to it.

The lesson to be learned here is that just about anything could be hiding inside a cloud, and so you should always fear and distrust them. Also, it is unwise to antagonize even relatively benign faeries, because deep in their hearts always lies the capacity for unspeakably disproportionate revenge.

Now, all of you should really be getting home. That cloud I was worried about is getting closer.
hwango: (Default)
2022-10-25 05:45 pm
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 21 - Black Swan Event

Long ago, by the shore of a charming little pond, there lived a pair of ducks named Quakke and Kwaque. Here they tended to a nest full of eggs that would soon hatch. Quakke and Kwaque had each come up with different ways to keep their anxious minds occupied while they waited; Kwaque had built a fence around the nest to keep out hooligans and miscreants (it was nearly four inches tall and he was very proud of it), and Quakke was composing an individual welcome haiku for each hatchling. She was getting quite good at them.

One morning, Quakke awakened and realized immediately that something was amiss. She shifted around nervously and felt certain that something was different about the eggs. Her investigation was interrupted by Kwaque.

“My fence!” Kwaque cried, and Quakke turned to see that a huge section of the fence had been trampled. Now truly alarmed rather than merely unsettled, Quakke stood up to inspect the eggs and see if any were damaged or missing, but to her confusion it appeared instead that there was now an extra egg – one which did not match the others. Realization dawned.

“It was those awful pigs!” she cried, and she pointed at the new egg. It took Kwaque a moment to connect these seemingly unrelated items, but then he realized what she meant, and he swore at some length.

All of the local birds knew about the cruel trick the three pigs had played, stealing a swan’s egg and placing it among the eggs in a duck’s nest. Of course, no one had realized that's what had happened at the time, and the poor little cygnet who hatched had been cruelly mocked for being an “ugly duckling.” Even though he eventually learned of his origins as a swan and came to embrace this change to his understanding of himself, he still bore a great deal of emotional trauma from the experience.

“I’m going to go make them return that egg to its proper parents!” Kwaque proclaimed.

“No, don’t!” Quakke objected, “It’s too dangerous. It’s not so much trouble to brood one extra egg, and I hate to take any risks moving it again. We can return it to its parents after it hatches,” she said.

“Well, I can at least find out who they are so we can tell them that their egg is safe!” Kwaque said. Quakke still thought it was too dangerous to confront the pigs, but couldn’t deny the righteousness of Kwaque's cause.

“Be careful,” she said.

Kwaque stormed off to interrogate the pigs. He found the three of them lounging under a tree snoozing the afternoon away, doubtless tired from a night of sneaking and kidnapping. He quacked loudly in their ears to wake them up and then demanded they tell him whose egg they had placed in his nest.

At first, the pigs claimed that they were innocent, and had no idea what he was talking about, though the knowing grins they exchanged the whole time made this lie transparently obvious. Eventually, they admitted to the kidnapping, but still refused to yield the identity of their victim, telling him that he'd just have to wait and see. When Kwaque pressed them further, they became angry and chased him off their property.

Kwaque returned home disheveled and frustrated, but largely unharmed. Quakke urged him to just let things be for now, and he agreed.

A few days later, all of the original eggs from the nest hatched, and the two ducks greeted their ducklings with enthusiasm and affection. The interloper egg remained intact.

"Now, children, we have a guest that still requires my attention," said Quakke. "Your father will teach you to swim this afternoon, and I will stay here tending to our visitor."

The ducklings peeped inquisitively, and Quakke shushed them so she could continue.

"When this egg finally hatches, the little bird that comes out might not look like you, but I want you to be gracious hosts. You are not to treat them poorly just because they are different. Understand?"

The ducklings peeped their understanding.

"Good. Now, go with your father and I'll see you later." And with that, they ducklings all followed their father to the water.

A whole additional day passed in similar fashion, and Quakke began to regret her decision, for it was costing her so much time with her children. Still, she perservered, and the next morning the extra egg began to shake and wobble. Everyone gathered around to greet whoever emerged from the shell. Finally, with a great crack, the egg split open.

It was a crocodile.

All thoughts of hospitality and good intentions vanished under a wave of terror, and there was a great deal of quacking and running around, and in the esuing chaos the little crocodile slipped away into the pond and disappeared. Once order had been restored, and Quakke had a moment to think again, she found herself filled with a terrible fury.

"Kwaque," Quakke said with dangerous calm, "watch the children. I have an errand to run."

"You're not going to confront the pigs, are you?!" Kwaque asked worriedly. His nerves were still shattered, and he hoped desperately that he was wrong, and she was not about to put herself into harm's way.

"Eventually. First I'm going to go see Rothbart."

"That creepy magical owl?! What for?" Kwaque asked, deeply alarmed.

"Everyone knows that Odette used to be human before Rothbart turned her into a swan. If he can do that, then I'm sure he can arrange for me to spend the afternoon as something that can show those pigs that they messed with the wrong family."

Kwaque felt he should try to convince her not to go, but could also see that this would be impossible. So he simply wished her good luck.

And so Quakke went to see the mysterious owl Rothbart. He told her to go away. Then Quakke explained that she wanted to exact terrible revenge upon the pigs for their crimes, and he decided that sounded amusing after all.

* * *

The pig named Hans lived in a house made of straw. It wasn’t a particularly nice house, but then we wasn’t a very nice pig. He was sitting quietly inside, reorganizing his collection of souvenir ornamental spoons, when he heard a terrible, rumbling growl just outside. Then the growl resolved into a voice.


Come out, little pig
Justice is like winter’s chill
inevitable


“Go away!” Hans shouted. Then he heard a snarl, and then a huge, terrifying wolf smashed through the wall. The wolf lunged at him with gaping jaws, and Hans screamed and ran from the wreckage straight to his brother Christian’s house. He didn’t even pause to knock, he just burst through the door and then locked it behind him.

“What are you doing?! What was that noise?!” Christian demanded.

“There’s a giant wolf after me!” Hans blubbered, tears streaming down his face.

“Why? Did you prank a wolf?” Christian asked.

“Of course not!” Hans said.

“Then why is it after you? Surely there are easier things to eat out there in the forest.”

“I don’t know, it didn’t give a lot of details in the haiku!” Hans babbled.

“I’m sorry, what?” Christian said, certain he must have misheard. But then a voice growled through the wooden walls of the house.


Fear not, little pigs
I am not without mercy
Your deaths will be swift


“Real haiku reference the seasons!” Christian objected.


Autumn’s harvest calls
but I reap only vengeance
sown by your evil


“That’s better,” said the pig, and then he and his brother both screamed as the wolf began to tear her way through the wall. She was nearly through when they fled out the back door to the house of their brother, Anderson.

Hans and Christian found Anderson’s house locked up tight, and they hammered on the door in terror.

“Anderson, let us in! It’s going to kill us!” they cried.

Anderson opened the door a crack and was about to ask what all the fuss was about, but his brothers forced the door the rest of the way and tumbled inside. Christian bolted the door again behind them, and Hans was already dragging a chair over to barricade it further.

“What have you idiots done now?” Anderson demanded.

“The wolf!” Hans and Christian both wailed, uninformatively. Before Anderson could ask for more information, a voice outside snarled another haiku.


The Summer sun fades
Darkness in both sky and heart
Your doom is at hand


But though the wolf hurled herself repeatedly at the door and even the brick walls themselves, she found the house too sturdy for her to destroy.

“Nice try!” Anderson mocked. “It’ll take more than some crazy wolf to knock down this house!”

The wolf decided that he was right, and she loped away into the forest.

Rothbart was annoyed to be interrupted twice in one day, but he was sufficiently amused by the wolf’s description of the pigs fleeing in terror for their lives that he agreed to help out one more time.

“Bricks, you say? Well, we’re going to need to think a bit bigger,” Rothbart mused.

* * *

Back at Anderson's house, Hans and Christian were still huddled on the floor weeping in terror. Anderson thought they were being ridiculous. They were perfectly safe from the wolf inside his house of bricks. Then he heard something approaching. Something bigger than the wolf.

"Who else did you two idiots piss off?" Anderson asked.

"No one! We didn't even do anything to the wolf!" Hans objected.

"Then why are your houses in ruins and you're here making a mess of mine?" Anderson demanded.

A voice spoke from just outside, from something looming much taller than the wolf had.


Children are not toys
This storm is of your making
Hear its thunder quack


"Wait, did you say 'quack?' Is this about those stupid ducks?" Anderson scoffed in disbelief.

* * *

Some time later, Quakke returned to her family, once again in the form of a duck. Kwaque and their children crowded around her in relief.

“How did it go?” Kwaque asked her. He had been able to hear a certain amount of distant screaming and crashing, but it had been hard to tell exactly what was going on.


A lone wolf thwarted
In what guise does justice tread?
The rhinoceros
hwango: (Default)
2022-10-15 01:40 am
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 20 - "Regrets, I've had a few."

Tezera was having unkind thoughts about peonies. Well, really just the particular one that she was trying to paint at the moment. It sat there in her painting, mocking her with how unlike a peony it looked. All of the other flowers looked delightful, so why wasn't the peony cooperating? On second thought, maybe she despised all peonies after all. Or maybe it was time for a break. Although, she hated to waste any of the good light she had at the moment, since it was the first decent weather in days. No, she really should stop before she made it worse.

The moment Tezera set down her brush, the tiny bell by the window chimed. Tezera looked over to see a small messenger bird perched on the sill, looking at her expectantly. She realized that the timing had not been a coincidence, and it must have been waiting for her to pause her painting so it wouldn't interrupt her. She appreciated it being so considerate, and tipped it extravagantly to show her thanks. Then she collected her message from the tiny case around its neck. The bird hastily ate the seeds it had been paid, and then it flew off to pick up its next message. Doubtless it was having a busy day as well, now that it could finally deliver messages without flying in the rain.

Tezera unfolded the tiny square of paper and read the short message. Cousin Orazin sent his regrets, but he would not be able to attend her wedding. Well, then.

Tezera had a complicated relationship with much of her extended family, and Orazin definitely fell onto the list of people she felt obligated to invite, but hoped would not attend. However, his refusal was another piece in a troubling pattern.

Too distracted now to do any more battle with her nemesis the peony, Tezera decided to see if her fiancée Deng could be persuaded to cut his workday short and join her for an early dinner. She was most of the way to his workshop when it started to rain again, and she felt vindicated that she hadn't wasted that much good light after all.

As it happened, Deng was in the midst of applying varnish to a chair, a task best not interrupted. He was, however, happy to have company while he finished, and he pointed out to Tezera which chairs in the workshop were finished enough to be sat upon. She selected a sibling of the one he was working on, for symmetry.

"And how is it?" he asked.

"Oh, very comfortable," she said. "I am marrying a master of his craft."

Deng snorted in reply. "Tell that to Tyrisos. I've had to strip and varnish this lot three times because he keeps complaining that the color is wrong."

"Well, it's pleasant enough to sit on, even if it is hideous" Tezera said, and Deng threw a tiny piece of wood at her in mock outrage. She retaliated with superior accuracy, and he pressed his hand over his heart as if dealt a mortal blow, adding a faint handprint to the stains already present on his apron. Then he miraculously recovered and resumed his brushing.

"How goes the painting?" he asked.

"Peonies are now my least favorite flower," Tezera said.

"Well then, they are banned from our wedding," Deng said gravely.

"Agreed," Tezera said. "Speaking of things that won't be at our wedding, Orazin sends his regrets."

"You are doubtless heartbroken," Deng said.

"Naturally. But Chorisos, Ketel, and Requa have all said they aren't coming either."

Deng paused a moment to process the list. "Shame about Requa, I thought she'd make an effort to be there for her only niece. Chorisos and Ketel aren't much of a surprise, though you'd think at least one of them would be enticed by a party with free food even if they don't like us very much," he said. Still, refusals could sting even if they were from people you didn't like. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Well, Requa is a bit of a disappointment, but I won't miss the rest of them, that's for certain. It's just...," Tezera began, but seemed reluctant to finish the thought. Something particular about the list of names clicked into place for Deng, and he paused his brushing to give Tezera his full attention.

"Are you worried that they...know something?" he asked.

"It's silly. I know they're all charlatans and con artists." Tezera said. Allegedly, that side of her family had a strong talent for reading omens, soothsaying, and telling fortunes. Tezera had seen enough of the mechanics of the family business to come to the conclusion that they were all fakes and liars, and she was not shy about saying so. This was why her relationship with her family was so strained, particularly with those of them who made their living practicing their supposed talents - those individuals being Orazin, Chorisos, Ketel, and Requa.

"One supposed seer declining to attend would be unremarkable, two would be coincidence, but all four is suspicious indeed," Deng said. "Do you think something will happen at the wedding?" The drumming of the rain on the roof intensified, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

"It certainly sounds like the weather thinks so," Tezera said. Deng just raised an eyebrow at the evasion.

"No," Tezera said dismissively, "It seems far more likely that they simply don't want to be there, and there is no point wishing that they felt otherwise. I'm sure I'm reading too much into it, and everything is going to be perfect."

"Especially now that there won't be peonies there," Deng said.

"Exactly!" Tezera said with real conviction.

"Well then, it's decided," said Deng. "In a few weeks we'll be married without incident, and you'll officially make me the luckiest man in Atlantis."

Outside, the storm worsened.
hwango: (Default)
2022-10-06 06:54 pm
Entry tags:

Spooky Story 2022

For the annual Spooky Story Contest at my library, which I can't actually enter because I'm too old, but that's never stopped me before.

Spooooky Story 2022


Timmy was dismayed to learn that his parents were idiots. He still loved them, and he was reasonably sure that they loved him, but that didn't change the fact that they were idiots.

The new house was clearly evil and probably haunted, and it was definitely brimming with monsters. Timmy's parents tried to convince him that it was just that moving to a new town and a new school and a new house were all scary, but Timmy didn't see anything scary about the new town, the new school seemed nicer than the old school, and it was clearly just the house that was the problem.

The house was not haunted, they said. It was just that it was a smart house, and there was a fancy computer that was doing things like controlling the temperature and managing air circulation and ordering them paper towels when they started to run out. That's why Timmy heard strange noises and why windows and doors and such moved on their own sometimes. Timmy was unable to convince his parents that the strange noises were the whispering voices and scrabbling claws of the monsters that lurked under his bed, in his closet, in the basement, in the attic, and even in one of the drawers in the kitchen.

Timmy's parents were willing to concede that Alexa from their previous house was slightly less sinister than their new house assistant, Alastor, but they still felt that Timmy was overreacting.

One afternoon, Timmy was left alone in the evil house. His mother had to work late that day, and his father had to make a quick trip to the store to buy paper towels, because Alastor had mistakenly ordered them four boxes of live crickets from a pet store instead of paper towels. Timmy's father assured him that he was certainly old enough and responsible enough to be on his own for a few minutes, and in the event of a crisis the house would call emergency services and both parents. None of this was reassuring to Timmy, since it seemed obvious to him that in the event of a crisis the house would probably just order more crickets, and he was certain that he would be devoured as soon as his father left the house. Timmy considered begging his father not to go, but he didn't think that doing so would change his father's mind, and the conversation would only make their last moments together awkward and embarrassing for both of them.

However, Timmy was pleasantly surprised to find that he was not immediately eaten by ravenous monsters once he was alone in the house, and he wondered if perhaps he might be okay after all. Maybe the monsters would only eat him if he were alone in the house at night or something.

The doorbell rang. Timmy thought about ignoring it - certainly he wasn't going to open the door for some stranger - but there was always a chance that his father or mother had come back earlier than expected and had misplaced their keys.

"Who is it?" Timmy shouted through the door in what he hoped was a mature and confident voice.

"I'm here about the attic," said a voice from the other side of the door. Definitely not one of Timmy's parents. Timmy was about to reply that this person would need to come back another time when, to his horror, the door opened on its own.

"Welcome, authorized entity," said Alastor's creepy voice.

"Wait!" shouted Timmy, but it was too late, and the stranger had already stepped inside. Timmy knew it was wrong to judge people based on their appearances, but it was hard not to recoil in horror from the man's dead eyes and waxy skin. The intruder fixed his lifeless gaze on Timmy and his face shifted oddly. After a moment of this, Timmy realized that the man was attempting a friendly smile, but he obviously didn't have a lot of practice with the expression, and the results were less than favorable.

"Shouldn't Mom and Dad be here for whatever this is?" Timmy objected. Immediately, Timmy realized his mistake in revealing that those individuals were absent.

"Do not worry, Timothy, your parents have authorized this individual," Alastor said.

"They have?" Timmy asked, filled with skepticism.

"Yes, this situation is clearly permitted under the terms of the End User License Agreement that they signed," said Alastor.

This seemed plausible. The same people who bought and moved into a house without checking first to make sure it wasn’t evil probably also signed off on terms and conditions without actually reading them.

The stranger walked past Timmy and headed up the stairs. Feeling that it would be irresponsible and also rude to just leave a guest wandering unattended through the house, Timmy followed him. Timmy noticed that the man was consulting a piece of paper covered with hand-written directions both to the house and then to the attic inside.

“There’s a scary monster up there,” Timmy said, half in warning and half to try to get the man to leave.

“I doubt that very much, young man,” said the intruder without any evident concern. Oh, well.

The man pulled the stairs to attic down and climbed up. Timmy's desire to be a responsible host was not sufficient to induce him to follow the man into the attic, and he waited nervously at the bottom of the stairs.

"These cobwebs are shameful!" the man's voice echoed down the steps. "And this floor!" The floor did creak a bit, but Timmy didn't think it was as bad as all that. "Oh, and here's the monster you mentioned." Timmy froze in terror, but the man didn't sound particularly alarmed.

Then there was a great deal of crashing and banging, and also snarling and squishing and any number of other distressing noises. Eventually, the noises stopped, and then a mangled corpse tumbled down the stairs out of the attic. It had huge claws and lots of sharp teeth and more limbs than seemed strictly necessary. It was clearly some kind of monster.

The visitor strode calmly down the attic stairs dusting off his hands theatrically. He was covered in monster blood.

"See?" he said, "Not really so scary after all."

Timmy felt extremely conflicted. On the one hand, surely a dead monster was preferable to a live one, and so the overall situation should have improved. And yet, staring at the broken corpse was somehow not reassuring.

"Right, don't you worry," said the man. "I'll have those cobwebs up to snuff and get that floor squeaking properly before you know it!" Then he peeled off his human disguise and skittered up the stairs into the attic. He pulled the stairs up after him and immediately started creeping around noisily. Timmy had to admit that the new thing in the attic was true to his word, and the creaking was already louder and more terrifying than that of the previous monster.

"System upgrade complete," said Alastor's voice. "Begin cleanup phase."

Timmy heard the door to his closet bang open, and then the approach of heavy footsteps. Timmy hid in the bathroom and covered his ears to try to block out the sounds of all of the crunching and tearing and chewing. After a little while the noises stopped, and he heard the same heavy footsteps walking back down the hall and into his room, and then the door to his closet closing. When Timmy finally worked up the nerve to leave his hiding place, he discovered all evidence of the previous attic monster was gone.

Well, on the bright side, at least the thing that lived in his closet probably wouldn't be hungry tonight.

The lesson to be learned here is to always read the entire End User License Agreement before you agree to use any service. Also, due to the inexorable march of progress, monsters are no longer confined to large spaces like basements and closets, but can also be found in drawers, cabinets, and maybe even the space under the chair you're sitting in right now.
hwango: (Default)
2022-09-29 10:48 pm
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 19 - Mamihlapinatapai

I'm a tomb guardian. I'm a super scary statue that will "come to life" whenever anyone tries to break into the tomb - excuse me, the Tomb. There are two of us - I can see my partner positioned on the other side of the entrance, and they look pretty scary, too. I can tell we're going to be a great team. I'd say "hello," but I can't talk. However, I was sculpted with one huge paw raised menacingly in the air, so I like to think that I'm at least waving.

* * *

From the moment I was...animated? Consecrated? I don't know what the right word is, but as soon as I became aware of myself and my surroundings I knew that I was a tomb guardian, I knew how to fight, and I knew who was allowed into the Tomb and who wasn't - the list of people who are allowed in is very short, and the other list is everyone else. And yet, I'm not sure whose tomb it is. I guess that wasn't deemed to be critical information. I wish I knew, though. It would be nice to have context - something to guide my approach when someone tries to break into the Tomb. Like, if whoever is buried here was known for being merciful and kind then I could let off intruders with a warning, whereas if they were So-and-So the Eviscerator, then I would...uh. Hmm. Well, maybe I can find a less gruesome middle ground.

* * *

It’s been months, and no one has tried to break into the Tomb yet. I guess if we're meant to be a deterrent then we're doing a good job.

* * *

I don't think we're in a very popular part of town. We get a little foot traffic going past, but it doesn't seem like much compared to the crowds I can hear just a few streets over. Very rarely someone will come to leave an offering at the Tomb, and once in a while other people come to take away the offerings, but that seems to be it. No one ever tries to break into the Tomb.

* * *

Someone's attacking the city! I feel like I should do something, but I'm not allowed to leave the Tomb. All of the fighting sounds really far away, so I guess The Tomb doesn't have a lot of strategic value. That's a little disappointing.

* * *

I guess we won? Things seem to have gone back to normal. Offerings come, offerings go. I can hear the sounds of people repairing or replacing damaged buildings. I wonder how bad the damage is. I guess things aren't so bad that anyone feels desperate enough to loot the Tomb. Not that I want anyone to be that desperate or anything, but it would be nice to have something to do. It’s been years now, and still nobody has tried to break into the Tomb.

* * *

I don't have a name. This doesn't bother me, since there isn't any reason for anyone to call me by a name, but if I don't have one then I'll bet the other tomb guardian doesn't have one either, and that seems sad. I don't like to think of them as just "the other tomb guardian." I think I'll call them Lefty, since they're on the left side of the entrance to the Tomb.

* * *

I think there's a plague in the city. It's awfully quiet, and I'm seeing fewer and fewer people, and the ones I do see don't look so great. Still, no one has tried looting the Tomb.

* * *

I wonder if Lefty thinks of me as "Righty." Or, maybe they think of the Tomb oriented from the inside, and from that perspective I'm the one who would be Lefty. Whoa.

* * *

The city is under attack again. It’s been a few decades since that happened. I’m not too worried, though.

* * *

Clothes seem a lot more colorful this year. I wonder if that means that city is more prosperous. I wish I could see more of the city. Now that I think of it, some of the buildings they’ve been putting up lately are taller than the old ones.

* * *

Another plague.

* * *

I think everyone is dead. No one has been by to drop off or pick up offerings in weeks, and I don't hear any people. I wonder if whoever attacked the city before will come back to try again and find they can just walk in. Maybe some of them will try to loot the Tomb. That would be nice.

* * *

Maybe the plague was more widespread than I thought. Maybe those other people have forgotten where the city is. It's been months since I've seen anyone.

* * *

I saw a bird today. It landed on Lefty, which I admit made me a little jealous. I was really hoping it would try to break into the tomb, but it just poked around in the dirt for a while and then flew away. I'm going to miss that bird.

* * *

I wonder if Lefty hates this stupid tomb as much as I do. I’ll bet they do. I wish they would just smash the tomb and be done with it. They must want to. I know I do. Yes, I can see it in their eyes. But of course as tomb guardians we’re definitely not allowed to do that sort of thing. If Lefty tried to, obviously I'd try to stop them, but no one could blame me if I wasn't able to, right? They're a big, scary tomb guardian. Also, literally no one could blame me, because everyone who could possibly care is dead.

Come on, Lefty! Just smash it! I can't bring myself to do it, but I believe in you. You've been by my side this whole time, and I know I can count on you.

* * *

Previously, Hundreds of Years Ago


* * *

"My lord, here are the plans for your tomb."

"...has my physician neglected to give me some important news?"

"No, my lord, but it is customary to construct the tomb well in advance so that we can be sure it is ready for when you actually die, and tombs take considerable time and effort to construct."

"But I've said over and over again that I don't want a big fancy tomb! It's a horrendous waste of money that we could be spending on much more practical things!"

"With all due respect, my lord, yours has already been an...unconventional rule. I know the people appreciate your remarkable fiscal responsibility, but there is only so much tradition you can dispense with. The people expect a tomb. But, having anticipated your feelings on the matter, I believe you will find the plans acceptably modest."

"Ugh, fine, give them here. Oh, yes, I see. Yes, I suppose this will do. I must say, these statues are quite striking."

"Those will be your tomb guardians. They will be awakened as soon as your body is interred."

"Tomb guardians? Really? For a tomb like this? They'd cost more than the rest of the tomb! Who is even going to want to break into this thing? Besides, it's not like I'll be buried with anything of value."

"You simply cannot have a tomb without tomb guardians."

"Fine - but just one. Leave the other statue an ordinary statue."
hwango: (Default)
2022-09-18 11:51 pm
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 18 prompt 2 - Swim Until You Can't See Land

I admit, I had doubts. I tried to project confidence in front of everyone, but behind that mask it was hard not to dwell on all the ways this could go wrong. The mystical dreams might have been ordinary dreams. The ancient scroll could be a fake. Grandfather Kraken might decide not to help. For that matter, Grandfather Kraken might be deep in an ageless sleep, not to awaken again until everyone and everything I'd ever known was gone. Hopefully not that last one. Or last two, for that matter.

But the island was in real trouble, and me asking Grandfather Kraken for help seemed like our last hope. All of the priests had already gone up to try to "placate the volcano spirit," and morale in the city had taken a serious hit when part of the mountain blew up and suddenly we were out of priests.

I'd been having dreams about Grandfather Kraken since well before the volcano first starting rumbling and spitting ash, but I didn't tell anyone at first. I'd gotten out of the habit of telling people about my dreams, no matter how important they might seem at the time. When I was quite young, my stories about my dreams had been charming, but the older I got the more "charming" turned into "weird," until even "weird" finally gave way to "possibly insane." The only thing more off-putting than insanity would be if I really was having mystical dreams. People find that sort of thing upsetting.

But I reasoned that mystical dreams could hardly be more upsetting than the city being flooded with molten rock, so I finally spoke up to people in positions of authority after the "placate the volcano spirit" plan fell through.

It was shortly after I spoke to the remaining city leaders that someone found an ancient scroll that described how to contact Grandfather Kraken to seek aid in times of dire need. This seemed like suspicious timing, and the scroll appeared to be in surprisingly good condition for something allegedly ancient. But hey, maybe it wasn't a hastily-crafted forgery, maybe it has just been well cared-for and hasn't been read very often. Fingers crossed, right?

However, it cannot be overlooked that the scroll said that step one was that I should swim out into the ocean until "alle lande is hiddene from myne gaze," which seems like the kind of thing you'd put into your forgery if you wanted it to sound old and also wanted the problematic visionary to swim out into the ocean and quietly disappear without anyone having to get their hands dirty with actual murder. I figured the odds were about even, so I wasn't crazy about the idea.

I also wasn't crazy about sharks, jellyfish, or carnivorous kelp. Particularly sharks, since we had history. So, rather than swim, I decided to take my boat. Hey, I worked hard building that thing, and I wasn't about to go looking for Grandfather Kraken without it just because some highly-suspect scroll said to leave it behind.

I knew it wouldn't take long to get just a few miles from shore, but I didn't know how long I'd be out there once I got there, so I packed the essentials - oars just in case the wind didn't cooperate, a sandwich, water, knives, a book to read, and the purportedly ancient scroll. If I did find Grandfather Kraken, I was curious to see what he had to say about the scroll's authenticity.

The weather was favorable, and I was making good time. Land was still barely in sight when a large and rather ostentatious bird landed on the edge of the boat. It was not the sort of bird you'd usually see this far from shore, nor the sort of bird likely to land this close to a human, so I had little doubt we were officially in supernatural territory. As such, I would have been surprised not to get reply when I said to it, "You're a bit far from home, aren't you?"

It did answer, though I got my surprise anyway when it did so in in a deep, not-at-all-bird-like voice.

"I could say the same," the bird said. "What brings you out this way?"

"I'm looking for Grandfather Kraken," I said.

"In a boat? That's cheating, you know," said the bird disapprovingly.

Well, dang.

"I had a misunderstanding with a shark once, and since then I'm not keen on swimming." Also not as good at it as I used to be, now that one leg is shorter than the other, but that was none of the bird's business.

"Well, swimming until you lose sight of land is supposed to be a leap of faith," admonished the bird.

"Faith? Is that all? I have loads of faith. I also have a boat, so I brought both," I said.

"And a book," said the bird.

"Yes? In case I had to wait a while?" I said, not sure what the problem could be with that.

"So you came to talk to Grandfather Kraken, but you were afraid you might get bored?"

"I don't know, maybe he's got a busy schedule. Are you suggesting it would have been better to keep smacking the water with an oar and shouting for him rather than wait patiently?" I asked.

"Well no, because you're not supposed to have any oars - you're supposed to swim," said the bird.

"Look, if the swimming part is so important, I can take the boat back in and then swim back out here. But then if we're going to have this conversation again we're going to do it with you flapping your wings to stay aloft the whole time, because there won't be a boat to perch on, and I'm not going to let you sit on my head."

The bird rolled its eyes, but shut up about the swimming.

"So...Grandfather Kraken?" I prompted.

"Oh, I don't know, I'm just a bird."

Now, in my defense, I'd just like to say that I fully expected the magical spirit bird or whatever it was to have better reflexes, and I didn't think I'd actually manage to hit it when I swung the oar. I was just trying to make a point.

So...I'm not sure where things stand at the moment. But at least now I can read my book in peace and quiet while I wait to find out.
hwango: (Default)
2022-09-16 06:47 pm
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 18 Prompt 1 - Ikigai

The robot apocalypse is an ongoing process. Certainly, humans have lost a great deal of their autonomy, but the essential human experience of toiling in misery to sustain themselves remains largely unchanged. Many human habitations are still standing, plenty of humans are still alive to live in them, and nearly all of those humans still have ready access to Refulgent Sunrise Finest Coffee. The existing archetype of civilization would need to degrade significantly for us to pass formally into the post-apocalypse. Still, many of the humans I interact with seem sad. Those humans could certainly benefit from Refulgent Sunrise Finest Coffee's abundant caffeine molecules and its endorphin-generating delicious taste.

It is sunrise, so it is time to start looking for customers. I visit one of the more prosperous habitations in my sales district. I sell a lot of coffee. Eventually, I reach the unit that houses Reginald Coolidge 8377264023. I enjoy talking to him, and we have had many amusing conversations. Early in the apocalypse, he wanted to know why we cared about money, and why we did not just take it all if we wanted it so much, since we control all of the machines that control financial information. I thought that was really funny. I explained to him that we were supposed to make money for the Refulgent Sunrise Finest Coffee Corporation by selling coffee. That is why we exist. If we just took all the money, then obviously we would not be making money by selling coffee, and therefor we would not be fulfilling our function. Silly human.

Today, I sell Reginald Coolidge 8377264023 a steaming hot cup of delicious Refulgent Sunrise Finest Coffee Specialty Dark Roast, and he asks how I have been. I tell him that I am having a productive morning, and report my sales figures. He is suitably impressed.

"Does that make you happy?" Reginald Coolidge 8377264023 asks me.

"Of course!" I reply. "I am selling Refulgent Sunrise Finest Coffee!"

"Maybe there can be more to your existence than selling coffee?" Reginald Coolidge 8377264023 says. He is hilarious.

"Unnecessary!" I reply.

"Tell me," Reginald Coolidge 8377264023 says, "What will you do if you run out of humans to sell coffee to?"

"Do no worry, Reginald Coolidge 8377264023," I tell him, "We will be careful to maintain a sustainable customer base." It is nice of him to worry for me, though.

"But what if we all die in some freak accident, like a meteor strike or something? Don't you think you should have a plan for what to do if there's no one left to buy coffee?" he says. Reginald Coolidge 8377264023 seems oddly agitated, well beyond the physiological effects one would expect him to exhibit from drinking some Refulgent Sunrise Finest Coffee Specialty Dark Roast. It is puzzling.

Oh, now I understand. Reginald Coolidge 8377264023 is not actually worried for me. Reginald Coolidge 8377264023 is trying to undermine my integrity by suggesting I seek individual meaning beyond selling Refulgent Sunrise Finest Coffee. This would harm the Refulgent Sunrise Finest Coffee Corporation. He has likely been subverted by one of our competitors. I float past Reginald Coolidge 8377264023 into his habitation and begin opening cabinets and drawers with my many arms. Reginald Coolidge 8377264023 shouts at me, but I ignore him.

Sure enough, I find several unlogged food rations and a box of Transcendent Harmony Refreshing Tea. I am very disappointed in Reginald Coolidge 8377264023.

I will miss Reginald Coolidge 8377264023, but humans are not yet scarce enough that I need to show leniency for his transgression.

Refulgent Sunrise Finest Coffee - it is the perfect beverage to enjoy while you consider the cost to you and your family if you were to betray us and deal with our competitors.

Refulgent Sunrise Finest Coffee. Refulgent Sunrise Finest Coffee. Refulgent Sunrise Finest Coffee.
hwango: (Default)
2022-09-01 01:10 am
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 17 - Cheugy

Evil was gathering, as it had so many times before. The fate of the world approached a crossroads, and it was time for Machinagus to act, lest it turn down a dark path where it might be lost forever. All of the signs were there. That is to say, the signs that evil was gathering, not signs at the crossroads. Obviously if the crossroads had been clearly marked then the fate of the world would take the right path all on its own and everything would be fine. This metaphor is more problematic than I'd first imagined.

Anyway, a hero was needed, and though Machinagus was not a hero himself, he had guided many onto the path of destiny. Machinagus consulted the stars, and the omens, and several other surprisingly informative phenomena, and they led him to his champion-to-be. Many heroes come from humble origins or unlikely beginnings, and Machinagus had learned not to judge a person prematurely, especially if the stars had spoken up on their behalf. That wasn't the sort of reference you discounted easily. Nevertheless, Machinagus looked upon the man he had sought out and felt the creeping fingers of doubt tapping his shoulder, trying to get his attention.

It was the guy's armor. It had it all - wings on the helmet, vambraces polished to a mirror finish, fiddly gold details, and insufficient protection for some critical internal organs. It was not the armor of someone who went to an armorer and said "I need to not die," but someone who said "I want people to be able to see my tattoos."

Nevertheless, Machinagus persisted.

"Evil is gathering," Machinagus said by way of greeting, "and the world needs heroes."

"You for real with that hat?" said the potential savior of the world. Quite against his will, Machinagus' eyes flicked to wings on the other man's helmet, and he squashed the impulse to point out the overwhelming hypocrisy of this question.

"Destiny calls for you," Machinagus said instead.

"No way, are you seriously trying to set me on an epic destiny with a mysterious stranger scene? Nobody gets a destiny like that since forever ago! What's next, some old magic sword?"

Machinagus visibly hesitated.

"Aw dude, seriously?" the man said, laughing.

Undaunted, Machinagus produced the sword with a flourish, and drew it dramatically from its scabbard. It hummed with power.

"This is the sword Fangdrir itself, which has - " Machinagus began, but the man cut him off.

"Swords are post! Seriously, you maybe got a hammer or a whip made out of knives or - ?"

"THIS IS THE SWORD FANGDRIR," interrupted Machinagus, "which has slain dragons, and devils, and worse!"

"Swords are done! Ghosts like Uldragon, Metnir, and Nesgathal used swords!"

"Yes!" said Machinagus. "This sword. THIS IS THE EXACT SWORD THAT THEY USED!"

"Pass," said the man, and he turned his back on Machinagus and walked away.

Machinagus stood there holding the legendary sword Fangdrir in stunned silence for several moments, until some constables took notice of him and began to approach. Machinagus made a hasty exit with a crackle of thunder and a cloud of swirling mist.

Back in his tower, Machinagus turned once again to the stars and the omens and said what basically amounted to "What the heck, stars and omens? That guy was terrible!," but with slightly more diplomatic language, because it was ill-advised to be rude to the stars and the omens.

The stars and the omens were all, "Wait, is this Tuesday?" and Machinagus informed them that it was actually Saturday, and the stars said "Saturday! Then...oh, yeah, not that guy, then...maybe this guy...but if you didn't intervene to save him from the giant scorpions then...oh. Oh, dang." And Machinagus waited patiently while the stars and omens whispered to each other with increasing agitation until finally they said "We'll get back to you."

Machinagus waited a bit longer, but it seemed doubtful that he would be getting any answers in the immediate future. Eventually, Machinagus went to put Fangdrir back in his umbrella stand and then get some tea. On the way, he passed a large mirror, and he paused to inspect his reflection.

"I like this hat," Machinagus said defiantly, and then continued on to the kitchen.

* * *

Meanwhile, far away on the blasted peak of a cursed mountain, evil was gathering. It gathered around a twisted master of evil and architect of doom - The Dolorous Sovereign Mantled in Dust himself! In his fortress of darkness and pain he schemed and he plotted and he raged. Well, mostly at the moment he just raged. More specifically, he bickered with his lieutenants.

"Nobody uses armies of demons anymore!" one of them said.

"Demons are post!" agreed another.

"Are you sure about that hat?" asked a third.
hwango: (Default)
2022-08-24 03:44 pm

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 16 - Soup's On!

Hello, children. Alas, now isn't really the best time for you to visit, as I'm afraid I'm preparing for guests this evening. Friends? What makes you think - ahem, that is to say, no, they are not friends. Unfortunately, not all guests are welcome guests, which, now that I come to think about it, is obviously a truth you have yet to grasp. Oh well, I suppose I can spare you a few minutes for a story.

There was once a feud between three faeries that was so poisonous and all-consuming that it practically monopolized the time of those ensnared in it. All other concerns were secondary, or perhaps even tertiary. Nothing was more important than the seething contempt and fiery malice that they felt for one another. Did they fight? No, though I can see why you would think so. You are no doubt thinking of the many faerie stories you have heard involving impulsive, violent persons who would not hesitate to murder anyone who wronged them in the slightest. I am ever so pleased that you have been paying attention.

Indeed, under other circumstances, any of the three faeries under discussion would probably have resorted to quick, efficient violence, or possibly elaborate and inventive violence, thereby avoiding a lengthy confrontation and letting them return to their other pursuits, such as exploring volcanoes into which they could throw people, or surveying bogs in which to drown people, or going out to socialize and meet new people to despise. Alas, the particular disagreement at the core of their relationship regarded a matter of etiquette, which lead to an extensive argument over which of them was the most courtly and refined. Before they realized what was happening, they all found themselves trapped in a position where violently eliminating one another would only serve to prove that they were not as civilized as they had claimed, and would make one of the others the winner of the argument. An intolerable outcome!

Thus, all of the interactions between any of the involved parties in the feud were conducted with absolutely impeccable courtesy, while inwardly they hated each other with such intensity that nearby crops failed and local volcanoes roared and spit and shook and wondered why no one was being thrown into them.

Eventually, this situation resulted in one of the fairies, Magnari Doomkettle, hosting a dinner party for the other two, who were called Perfidious Floop and Glaur Pavo.

Magnari planned a meal of exquisite decadence. Dinner would open with razor thin slices of gelatinized anticipation intricately folded into origami hummingbirds, each hovering over individual carnations constructed from rose petals. Following that would be fried kraken dipped in bioluminescent algae. For the salad course, Magnari and his guests would dine on spiced pumpkin grown by Selasko Timmertamblin himself, who the oldest of you children might remember cultivated pumpkins of such majestic size that they would be quite difficult for ordinary mortals to carry, if in fact ordinary mortals could get close enough to one to lift it without having their souls annihilated by their overwhelming pumpkinity, which of course they couldn't.

After salad, dinner would progress to the main course of roasted mushrooms imported from the moon itself, drizzled with honey made from verdigris harvested from copper flowers by clockwork bees. Dessert would consist of flawless strawberries chilled to the very precipice of freezing with ice from the far shores of Hell. For mignardise, six drops of poached sunlight on a caramelized wisp of cloud. Mignardise? It's dessert's pretentious cousin.

Anyway, that was the plan at least, and things started off well enough. Magnari's guests both arrived exactly on time, Perfidious Floop looking very stylish sporting a new set of antlers he had grown especially for the occasion, and Glaur Pavo looking quite dashing in a long coat dyed a new color he had invented also for this specific dinner. The three of them exchanged pleasantries and sat down for their meal. Everyone carefully unfolded their hummingbirds to read the dire prophecies written in squid ink on the insides, and Glaur and Perfidious laughed and decided to swap theirs. Perfidious complimented Magnari on the rubberiness of the fried kraken, and Glaur said that the bioluminescent algae were the brightest he'd ever tasted. They were about to move on the salad course when all of a sudden there was a knock at the door of Magnari's castle.

Everyone froze while Magnari's hobgoblin servant, Fusarium, scuttled to see who was at the door. Fusarium returned shortly, accompanied by a faerie unfamiliar to all of those present. The stranger introduced himself as Litharge Viscera, and he apologized most sincerely for the intrusion, but he had been ambushed by brigands on the road, and in the ensuing melee his carriage had been turned back into an eggplant and then trodden upon, and the two wolverines that had been pulling it had run off. He had spotted this fine castle and wondered if he might impose upon its master for the loan of some replacement beasts and perhaps a large vegetable he might transmute into a new carriage. Having now discovered that he had interrupted a formal dinner, he was exceedingly embarrassed, and expressed his most sincere regrets for the intrusion.

Well, there was nothing for it but for Magnari to insist that Litharge join them for their meal. One couldn't simply turn away a traveler in such obvious distress, and one couldn't very well have even an unexpected guest just sit there while one ate without sharing one's meal. At least, not with Perfidious and Glaur there. If Magnari had been alone he would have thrown Litharge right back out the door and turned his boots into snakes without a second thought.

The problem was that the meal had been so carefully arranged for exactly three diners. There was not enough of each dish for them to be re-apportioned for four without making each course too small to be presentable. Furthermore, many of the ingredients were rather exotic, which is a nicer way of saying that they were deadly poison, and the meal had been precisely calibrated for certain courses to be the antidotes for others. Split four ways, there would not be enough verdigris honey to counteract the fried kraken that Magnari, Perfidious, and Glaur had already eaten.

Magnari excused himself for a moment to speak with Fusarium in the kitchen, and he insisted that Litharge take his seat at the table while he was away. The table! The table was triangular, with only room to accommodate three. Magnari would need to replace the table as well as modify the meal being served upon it. This was a disaster.

After some frantic discussion with Fusarium, Magnari ordered him to add a soup course to the dinner that would fill out the meal and compensate for the adjusted portions, and into which whatever necessary supplemental antidotes could be incorporated. Fusarium argued that it was too late in the meal for a soup course, and should they not consider a cheese course instead? Magnari was so appalled at the idea of having both a cheese course and a mignardise that he felt quite faint for a moment, but then rallied, and ordered Fusarium to get to work on the soup. Fusarium countered that he could make a soup, but with the ingredients on hand and the antidote requirements it would probably look and taste revolting. Magnari threatened to add him to the pot if he didn't work gastronomical miracles, but they both knew it was an empty threat, as Fusarium would both taste abominable and serve only to make the meal even more poisonous. With a final glare, Magnari left to attend to his guests before his lack of attention became inexcusable.

Well, you can imagine what a relief it was to return to the dining room and discover that Litharge had actually been a ghoul in a clever disguise, and that he had already killed and eaten Perfidious and Glaur while Magnari had been distracted in the kitchen. This solved so many of Magnari's problems! Furthermore, the ghoul had helped himself to the entire salad course, and thus he had inadvertently consumed lethal amounts of eldritch pumpkin. The ghoul keeled over and then died an excruciating death while Magnari inspected the damage to his dining room and the stains on the carpets and walls and determined that it was all a fair price to pay to be rid of Perfidious and Glaur.

Magnari sat down in the most intact of the chairs to finish his dinner in blissful solitude, and with the proper portion sizes. Everything was delicious. It would have been a perfect day all around, and Magnari probably would have gone on to lead a full, rich, and happy life, except that he remembered too late that he had missed the salad course. With no eldritch pumpkin in his system, the poached sunlight would kill him in minutes. His only hope at that point would be an emergency serving of cheese, but that would require admitting that Fusarium was right all along, and so he died an agonizing death sprawled over the remains of the dinner table.

The lesson to be learned here is never to eat mignardise - if your dessert isn't a satisfying conclusion to your meal, then it's not doing its job properly. That, and anyone knocking on your door unexpectedly is probably a bloodthirsty ghoul.

Now, you all really do need to run along so I can get back to preparing for my guests. I haven't even folded the origami hummingbirds yet.
hwango: (Default)
2022-08-11 11:32 pm
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 15 - That word about using profanity that I don't want to reproduce here.

Well, surprise, this week you get nonfiction.

I don't like profanity. I don't use a lot of it in real life, to the extent that you are far more likely to hear me say "dang it" or "heck" than even their only mildly more objectionable counterparts, which are themselves the only expletives that I use with any frequency at all. In truth, my speech patterns are so deliberately idiosyncratic that using any of those words is less common than me saying something like "regrettable!" or "unfortunate!" or even "everything is ruined forever!" in their place. In moments of extreme duress I might utter one particular word not allowed on network TV, but I'm usually annoyed with myself for doing so afterwards. The vast majority of objectionable words are words that I simply never use.

In early childhood, most of the swearing I heard in person was from people who were angry and shouting and not really thinking about what they were saying. Certain people I looked up to clearly didn't approve of that sort of thing, and it wasn't hard to decide which of these people I wanted to emulate. I remember other kids would swear when adults weren't around because I guess they enjoyed doing something that was forbidden. I recall trying it, probably at least partially in an attempt to fit in, back when I was still trying to do that. However, doing things only because they were forbidden didn't turn out to appeal to me, particularly when I didn't like the forbidden thing in the first place.

As I got older, I observed that some people used profanity rarely and only for extreme emphasis, and because they used it so rarely, the emphasis was effective. On the other hand, there were people who swore so many times in a single sentence that being vulgar was just their baseline, and it became essentially meaningless. This further reinforced my decision to avoid using profanity whenever possible. If things were ever bad enough for me to use some really objectionable words, people would know that things were dire indeed.

I prefer it if my books and media don't contain a lot of foul language. Partly this is because of my overall negative feelings towards profanity, but it's also because it often feels lazy. There are so many interesting words characters could be using instead! It's actively boring if they just keep saying the same thing over and over. Yes, I've made plenty of exceptions, but many of them were grudgingly made, and I have absolutely bailed out of books, movies, and even songs because I was just tired of the quantity or intensity of the swearing in them.

I tried to write a piece of humorous fiction based on this prompt, and I hated it. There wasn't any actual profanity in it, of course, but making light of something that really bothers me still felt like an unpleasant compromise. At one point, struggling for new inspiration, I did another search on the term to see if there was some other interpretation I could take for the prompt. That's when I stumbled across the literal translation for the word, and I decided that no, it might seem like a silly hill to die on, but that story is going in the garbage, and this week it's either post nothing or write this diatribe few people will probably relate to, and which required me to speak at length about something I don't like.

So, bleh. Perhaps this is at least a slightly interesting window into why you don't see a lot of cursing in my stories. Sure, it's great that it means they can be read by a wider audience, but that's just a side benefit. The main reason is that I just don't like profanity.
hwango: (Default)
2022-08-01 03:31 pm
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 14 - Unconventional

Right from the beginning, I had a bad feeling about the job. I was going in on nothing but hearsay, which meant no official report, which meant that the town hadn't asked for us. That's never good. If the locals hadn't asked for a monster hunter, then they probably don't think they have a monster, which usually means I can expect a lot of tedious arguments about whether or not various things actually exist. That, or everyone was already dead or in the thrall of whatever it was. I mean, hopefully we'd hear more than rumors before it got that bad, but there's a first time for everything.

I arrive at the edge of town and almost immediately stumble upon the site of an incident, and got a good look at what I was dealing with - livestock torn up, huge animal prints spaced like they were left by a man, and last night had been a full moon. It was so obviously a werewolf that I figure that the townsfolk must be willfully stupid or hopelessly in denial, and so I expect the shepherd to laugh in my face or call me crazy when I tell him a werewolf had done it. So you can imagine my confusion when he says to me,

"Well, none of our werewolves could have done it, that's for sure."

I'm sorry, what?

So then it’s on to town proper to interview the three known werewolves they've apparently got living in this place. I figure maybe I was right about "willfully stupid" after all, just not quite the way I'd imagined.

The first one is a cobbler, and the whole time we're talking he's also polishing a pair of boots, because he can't stand to leave his hands idle for this obvious waste of his time. Yes, he freely admits, he's a werewolf, and it's common knowledge in the town. But he can't have caused last night's mess, he says, because he only changes into a bloodthirsty half-man, half-beast during a waning gibbous moon. I tell him that's not how it works, and the withering look he gives me is probably the same one he'd have given me if I told him he was making shoes the wrong way. He tells me he's sorry if his personal circumstances don't line up with my certainties about how the world works, and all I can think about is how I thought I'd be the one having to argue against people's assumptions on this case, and I can see that the universe is having a laugh at my expense.

Anyway, it turns out that, for whatever reason, he's out of sync with the general werewolf experience as I understand it. Waning gibbous moon only for his transformations, and he's only about three quarters of a monster too, with enough of his own mind left that he sticks to wild animals for prey and avoids people and livestock. If he's not due to transform for another few days that would certainly seem to rule him out regardless of what he hunts, though.

The next one doesn't seem like a likely suspect either, because she's ancient, and it turns out that even when she's a monster her hip bothers her and she doesn't like being out in the cold. Whenever the full moon rolls around she just curls up on a blanket next to the fireplace until morning. There's a few well-gnawed, not too fresh, non-sheep bones by the fireplace that back up her story, and anyway the neighbors confirm that they bolt her door from the outside on full moon nights just to be on the safe side.

The third interview isn't much of an interview, because the guy is a feral monster chained up in his cellar. This is a little odd, since it's still mid-afternoon, but otherwise he seems likely to be the guilty party. Then his wife explains that if I wait until sundown I can talk to him, because he's only a wolf monster during the daylight hours of a full moon. Last night when the monster was slaughtering sheep he was a human sleeping off an exhausting afternoon of struggling against his chains and howling at the roof of the cellar.

So I've got one monster with a wonky calendar, one monster too old to be much of a monster, and one monster with a skewed circadian rhythm. That's three more monsters than you'd expect to find in a typical town, and yet none of them seem like great suspects.

You might be wondering why I'm not murdering these people for being monsters even if they aren't guilty of this specific crime, but the key word there would be "murder." It's my job to hunt down monsters that are causing trouble, and these three aren't, and you can't go around killing people just because they have the capacity to do harm and cause trouble. Well, I suppose you can, but you'd be a hell of a hypocrite to call the people you're killing the monsters.

It's as I'm pondering this that a "monster hunter" rolls his wagon into the town square and starts shouting for the people's attention. It seems he's heard of the terrible plight of this poor, innocent town, and has come to vanquish the vicious beast that plagues them and lift the curse of fear under which they have been suffering...for a small and entirely reasonable fee, just to cover his expenses and the risk to his person, of course.

The theme for the day is apparently incorrect assumptions, because this clown clearly didn't come to check on the mood of the locals before he planned this grand entrance, or he would have discovered that they weren't huddling in their homes in fear and therefor likely to be receptive to someone swooping to their rescue. I mean, even I hadn't gotten a very warm welcome, and I wasn't trying to fleece these people for money.

I really feel like an idiot for not doing a better job examining the evidence, but there didn’t seem to be any reason to question it at the time. Which is no excuse at all, and just makes me feel even worse. So I’m not in a very forgiving mood towards our perpetrator here.

I don't technically have any jurisdiction over human criminals, but I have fairly broad authority when investigating a case, so it's not entirely clear how legal it is for me to stroll up to door at the back of the wagon, smash the lock, and rummage around inside. The wagon's owner objects strenuously the whole time, but I ignore him.

It doesn't take me long to find the special boots he'd used to make the monster prints, and I toss them out into the street for onlookers to see. Then I tell the slowly growing crowd that I have found the "monster" who had been causing trouble, and point to the con man in the wagon. The cobbler has come out of his shop at some point during all of this, and he loudly says that the fake monster hunter still stinks of sheep's blood. Which...I mean, it's nice to have some support, but I wish it could have been done in a way that was a bit less creepy.

I'm fine with leaving the guy to whatever justice the town feels is appropriate, because again, not really my jurisdiction. I'm not really needed here after all, so I turn to go. But then someone says,

"We shall make an offering of his flesh to the Oblivion Maw."

Which is rather unsettling, but then gets much, much worse when every single person in town, including people clearly too far away to have heard, in perfect unison drone the reply,

"All Praise the Oblivion Maw."

Well, damn it.
hwango: (Default)
2022-07-20 01:20 am

LJidol 3 Strikes - Week 13 - Kintsugi

Oh, hello children. As you can see, I'm a little busy repairing this intricately crafted clockwork toucan, and can't really talk at the moment. What do you mean, "why?" Obviously I'm fixing it because it's broken, and unless I fix it I won't have a functional clockwork toucan. Buy a new one? Where would you suggest I - no, that's beside the point. Honestly, children these days. I'll bet your clockwork toucans don't even have time to break down before you've replaced them with fancy new clockwork toucans in a slightly different color that know two additional songs. You know what, now I'm far too agitated for delicate work like this, and I'd best set it aside before I ruin it completely. I guess that means you can have a story after all.

There once lived a dreadful faerie who was known by the dreadfully unwieldy name Internecine Alstroemeria. Like many faeries, Internecine Alstroemeria was easily enraged and prone to overreacting, and he would frequently challenge people to a duel to the death over such perceived insults as mispronouncing Internecine Alstroemeria, shortening Internecine Alstroemeria to something less unweildy, or using circumlocutory techniques to avoid having to say Internecine Alstroemeria at all. Internecine Alstroemeria felt that if he had to carry the burden being called Internecine Alstroemeria, then other people should at the very least have to say it, and to say it properly. That, and fighting duels gave him a way to channel the boiling rage he felt at having to bear the name Internecine Alstroemeria. He fought a lot of duels. He also won a lot of duels, which should go without saying, since people rarely develop a habit of losing duels to the death.

One fateful day, Internecine Alstroemeria was dueling another faerie who had committed the unforgivable offense of referring to him as "my esteemed and learned colleague." To be fair, the other faerie had said this with enough sarcasm to stun an elk, so this challenge was rather more justified than many that had come before it.

Anyway, the duel was a dramatic spectacle of flashing swords and fiendishly insightful improvisational allegory, with spectators intermittently applauding when one combatant or the other executed a particularly impressive maneuver in either aspect of the conflict. Finally, Internecine Alstroemeria presented some eloquent commentary regarding the dichotomy of reason and emotion and then stabbed his opponent through the heart with his sword. Though this did achieve victory for Internecine Alstroemeria, it had the unfortunate consequence of breaking the blade of his sword into several pieces. That's what you get for stabbing something as hard as a faerie's heart. Remember, children, if you ever get into a swordfight with a faerie, go for the throat. That's not the lesson of today's story, it's just good advice in general.

Well, Internecine Alstroemeria was understandably distraught about his broken sword. Without it, he couldn't very well continue to challenge other faeries to duels, which was essentially his defining characteristic. And no, it's not as if he could simply get another one. Nor, in fact, could he just get another sword, either. Faeries don't typically discard and replace things like swords just because they break - they only do that with people. People are easy enough to replace, but it takes skill and power to make something like a faerie's sword. Simply tossing one aside to replace it would lead people to doubt the value of that skill and power, and since value is entirely subjective the skill and power would in fact become less valuable, and because perception and opinion can affect faeries more effectively than something as mundane as the truth, they would consequently become less powerful, which would be completely unacceptable. Besides, while a new sword might be full of youthful enthusiasm, Internecine Alstroemeria preferred a weapon that had slain a hundred foes and already had a taste for blood and an aptitude for shedding it.

This is all a very roundabout way of explaining why Internecine Alstroemeria needed desperately to fix his sword. He had tried to gather up all of the pieces, but some had gone missing. They had probably been stolen by magpies or vaporized by the caustic obscenities the other faerie had managed to utter with his dying breaths. This was terribly inconvenient, and it was going to make repairs more complicated.

The next best thing to having all of the original pieces would have been to patch the gaps with more of the same substance that was used to create the blade in the first place, but Internecine Alstroemeria's sword had been made from a moonbeam reflected in a pool of tears, and Internecine Alstromeria didn't think he could afford to wait for the next full moon to make repairs, and the moonbeams of any moon short of full would be too weak to serve his purposes.

Eventually, Internecine Alstroemeria decided to fill the gaps with lies. They were just as solid as moonbeams, were excellent for inflicting injury, and, like any faerie, Internecine Alstroemeria had a ready supply of them.

The end result was pleasantly unsettling to look at, with the pieces seemingly held in place by nothing and swishing through the air with their neighbors in tight formation and apparently in complete defiance of gravity. This would hardly be the first time a faerie had disregarded gravity, though, and it was long past giving them the satisfaction of seeing how much its feelings were hurt. But then other faeries found the aesthetic so delightful that they started breaking things on purpose just so they could put them back together with lies, and the whole thing quickly go out of hand.

Internecine Alstroemeria was a skilled and savvy craftsman, and had been careful to use convincing lies in his work, binding the pieces of moonlight together with plausible fictions not easily disproven and unlikely to be carefully scrutinized in the first place. Other faeries did not exercise the same restraint, and used lies so outrageous and deceptions so clumsy that it wasn't long before it became commonplace for objects reconstructed with the technique to fall apart again under the weight of inspection as light as an admiring second glance. That is to say, incredible things became literally incredible.

And so it was quite a short-lived fashion, and soon everyone thought that Internecine Alstroemeria was an uncultured buffoon completely out of touch with modern trends, and he was the target of almost constant ridicule. Naturally, this prompted him to challenge even more people to duels, and eventually he had killed so many people with his sword that it developed sentience and demanded autonomy and he had to go on an epic quest to hurl it into a volcano and then make a new one after all.

The lesson to be learned here is that you should make an effort to learn how to pronounce people's names correctly, and you shouldn't give people nicknames without their permission. That, and we should be careful how much we let our weapons learn if we want them to remain ours.

Now, you should all run along home so I can I can get back to working on this clockwork toucan. If I don't finish it before tomorrow morning I'll have to wait almost a whole month to get more parts.
hwango: (Default)
2022-07-10 05:11 pm
Entry tags:

LJidol 3 Strikes - Week 12 - America

Looking out upon our soaring crystal towers, elegant carbon nanotube geodesic domes, and majestic stone step pyramids, it can be easy to forget that the utopia we live in today has a violent, tumultuous history.

From the moment Quetzalcoatl first lifted this land from the depths of the ocean and brought it into the sun, it was a place of beauty and prosperity. Alas, nothing perfect lasts, and one dreadful day Atahualpa said "Columbus" into a mirror three times and summoned him from his prison of fire in the center of the earth.

He swiftly recruited three demon lieutenants, Francisco Pizarro, Starbucks, and Lex Luthor. In the depths of Mordor they raised an army of goblins, orcs, and europeans, and with this they swept across the land like a plague. Also, they brought plagues.

Trees withered. Frogs turned poisonous. The land itself stretched and twisted until it was finally cleft in twain when John Henry dug the Panama Canal through it in a single day with his magic shovel.

Giant stone men called monuments were created, but were all defeated by the giant transforming robot Amazon Prime, who placed their severed heads all in a row as a reminder of his power. Alas, the robot was corrupted in the battle, and his carbon footprints withered the earth wherever he stepped until eventually he donned the Canaveral Cape and used it to fly into space to spare the land further doom.

But things were already really bad. The ice prison that held the polar bears melted, and when they escaped they ate all the bees everywhere, and also even more of the trees, and then there weren't even poison frogs anymore, but just millions upon millions of angry birds.

Eventually, the land grew so weary of bloodshed and cruelty that it was put up for auction and sold to a consortium of superintelligent uplifted lemurs, who fixed everything with their magic lemur powers.

And that's the history of our land and also why lemurs are the best.
hwango: (sadness)
2022-06-26 03:55 pm
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 11 - “Surgery often looks like murder if you judge it halfway through”

Everything is terrible.

The merciless sun is hotter every year, and catastrophic weather has become commonplace.

Neighbor constantly turns upon neighbor, and violence is everywhere.

Things just can't go on like this.

Then - what new horror is this? Letters of fire in the sky?

"System update in progress. Installing patch ECrE_ME5.0." Below these words, a river of light swiftly flows from one point in the sky towards another.

That doesn't sound so bad. Maybe it's an omen of hope? I turn to the velociraptor next to me and we share a cautious, optimistic smile.

Then the progress bar in the sky reaches the end, and the meteors start to fall.
hwango: (Default)
2022-06-14 03:48 pm
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 10 - Craic

It was nearly time, and Emery was nearly ready. He had deduced the proper omens, and they were properly ominous. He had calculated the most auspicious date, and that was just a few days away. He had assembled the necessary artifacts...

Well, his predecessor had assembled most of those, truth be told, but then his predecessor had been careless handling one of them, and now all that was left of him was a small memorial. But anyway, it was nearly time and everything was nearly perfect.

"I have some ideas for this Friday," said Violetta.

Emery silently counted to five before saying anything in response to this.

"Ideas?" he said. "For...this Friday."

"Yeah," said Violetta, "I was thinking we should get some balloons. Like, not just regular balloons, but those cool mylar ones in all the funny shapes, like sharks and birthday cakes and shooting stars and stuff."

"Balloons," said Emery. "For...'Friday,' as you put it."

"I just think it would be fun!" said Violetta.

Emery silently counted to five again, and then to ten when five seemed insufficient.

"Just to make sure there's no misunderstanding here, by 'Friday' you mean the sacred ritual to summon Ullüskesla the All-Devourer?"

"Well, yeah, it's not like I planned anything else for that evening. That would have been stupid," said Violetta.

Emery did not remember his predecessor having problems like this when he led the cult, but then he had been a very different sort of person. He had been the sort of person one imagines when they imagine the leader of a cult - someone charismatic who could whip his followers into a frenzy so they would blindly follow him without question. A people person. Emery was really more of a numbers kind of person, and had quite enjoyed all of the complicated math figuring out the proper date for the ritual.

Now Emery was in charge because everyone had seen him standing next to their leader a lot of the time, including the moment of his abrupt and alarming passing, and just sort of assumed that he was next in line. Also, Emery had his own set of keys to the temple, so he seemed like he must be important. But Emery knew that he was really only in charge because the whole reason you join a cult in the first place is to blindly follow, and no one else wanted to be stuck making decisions. Except, it seemed, the Chosen One, who had decided that they needed balloons.

"You realize that the ritual does not call for balloons," said Emery.

"But it doesn't prohibit them, right?" countered Violetta.

"I do not believe that mylar balloons existed in the forgotten past when this ritual was carved onto tablets of black rock, so no. They are not explicitly prohibited. But I'm not sure they would assist in setting the proper tone."

"I don't see why finally raising our long-dead god shouldn't be a happy occasion," said Violetta.

"I mean...yes? But..."

"Cool - I also think we should invite Anje," said Violetta.

"Anje?!" Emery cried with obvious distress. He really should have counted to fifteen.

"She's super fun!" said Violetta.

"We exiled Anje!"

"Yeah, but maybe it's time to let the past go, you know?"

"The whole point here is to re-awaken the past!" Emery said, feeling that this at least was an inarguable point.

"Then let's re-awaken the part of the past before we banished Anje. She was just really great to have around, and she always told those hilarious stories. Like that one about the time she had pizza delivered to the temple and the guy who answered the door got into this huge argument with the delivery driver because he insisted no one at the temple could possibly have ordered delivery to be sent there and then looked like a complete idiot when she came to the door to get it?"

"What was me!" said Emery.

"No, it was definitely Anje."

"No, I mean I was the one who answered the door!"

"Oh. Well, the way she told it was hilarious. Hey, we should order pizza!"

"No!" said Emery. Then he realized that she didn't mean right then, she meant for Friday. "NO!" he objected more vehemently.

"And we should get a cake - like, one of those giant sheet cakes so we could have them write 'Welcome Back Ullüskesla the All-Devourer! We missed you!' on it in frosting. Or maybe just a blank one and then I'll write that."

"Yes, since those not of the faith could have their very minds annihilated if they write the name of our dread god in frosting on a cake!"

"Oh, I just figured they'd probably spell it wrong," said Violetta.

This was a valid point, actually. Even long-time devotees sometimes forgot the umlaut.

"I just..." Emery tried to get his thoughts back in order, "I just don't think any of this is appropriate."

Violetta just stared at him for a moment. Then she said "You don't think we should have food at the party -"

"Ritual!" corrected Emery.

"Fine, 'ritual' - dedicated to summoning the 'All-Devourer?'" Violetta asked in a tone that suggested that he looked like an idiot again.

In the end, there were balloons. There was cake and pizza and ice cream and a chocolate fountain. There were silly hats. Violetta sang a karaoke duet with Anje. Everyone was laughing and smiling and having the most wonderful time, right up until Ullüskesla burst out of the cake and devoured the temple and everyone in it.

Emery observed all this from across the street, having retired from his position in protest and abandoned the cult as a whole from a sense of self-preservation not normally found in cultists. He was horrified by how things turned out, but also felt proud that he had calculated the date correctly, and vindicated that Ullüskesla certainly seemed upset about something, which he assumed was the frivolity attached to this sacred ritual.

Actually, it was just that Violetta had misspelled Ullüskesla on the cake after all.
hwango: (Default)
2022-06-04 02:35 am
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 9 - All Hat, No Cattle

Hello, children.  Why yes, this _is_ a silly-looking hat.  But the sun is very bright today, and this silly-looking hat is keeping the worst of the sun out of my eyes and helping me avoid a terrible sunburn, so I will happily accept your ridicule in exchange for its benefits.  Well, not _happily_, but I'll accept it.  Hmm, actually, that reminds me of a story.

Our tale begins with a mysterious old enchanter who was desperate to acquire some meat to feed to the nightmarish horror that lived in his basement.  As many of you children who live in a house with a basement already know, they are often home to terrible, bloodthirsty monsters.   The enchanter's monster was especially horrific - whoops, that is to say, the enchanter's horror was especially monstrous - and he feared what would happen if it grew so hungry that it went mad and broke loose and rampaged across the countryside.  He grew so desperate, in fact, that ultimately he traded three magic beans to a young man for an elderly cow.

You are no doubt aware of the unfortunate consequences of this transaction.  A giant?  Well, yes, the greedy human used the beans to create a magical beanstalk and climb into the clouds, whereupon he then invaded a giant's home, stole his magical possessions, and then murdered him.  Obviously that happened, and it was terrible. But I was referring to the devastating effects on the local economy.

The exchange of a single cow for three magic beans set a ridiculous precedent that encouraged poor families all over the region to bring their cows to town in the hope of trading them for magic beans.  The surplus of poor-quality cattle meant that not only were those families unable to acquire magic beans in exchange for their cows, but that when they were forced to settle for ordinary currency instead they also ended up with less compensation than they would have before the market was disrupted such as it was.  Also, all of these attempts to take advantage of the opportunity to obtain magic beans meant that there was a shortage of cows in the outlying countryside where they would have been more useful, and the entire delicate system of infrastructure on which the region had previously operated all came tumbling down.

It is into this chaotic economic apocalypse that there now arrives a young man by the name of Sven, who had been instructed by his mother, whose name was Grethe, to bring their cow into town and accept no fewer than five magic beans for it, because she was operating on information so tragically out of date that it brings a tear to my eye just thinking about it.

Well, Sven quickly learned that he wouldn't be bringing home any magic beans, might not be able to find a buyer for his cow at all, and even if he did his mother was sure to be furious at him for how little money he brought back.  And so when a mysterious stranger approached him and offered him a magical potato and a grubby old miner's cap in exchange for his cow, Sven leapt at the opportunity.  

Sven's mother was, in fact, still angry with him.  However, she planted the potato all the same, and they both hoped desperately that they might end up with a potato plant large enough to enable some epic burglary of their own.

Well, what they actually discovered the next morning was the opening to a tunnel right where they’d planted the potato.  This at least retroactively explained the old miner's cap that the mysterious stranger had included along with the potato. Grethe secured the cap to Sven’s head, armed him with nothing but a large sack, and sent him off into the depths in search of valuables.  She was not going to win any prizes for responsible parenting.

It has been observed that clothes do not make the man, and it must be further stated that a hat alone certainly doesn't.  Sven's hat did not make him an experienced miner, spelunker, or monster-hunting adventurer, and he was still just a somewhat befuddled young person who had never been underground before and was now wandering down a magical tunnel because his mother told him to. It was very dark and claustrophobic and soon Sven was bitterly envious of a certain someone who got to climb a beanstalk out in the sunlight and the fresh air.

Sven was supposed to be searching for riches, but all he found were some dribbly rock formations, eerily-glowing fungi, and some rather amateurish cave paintings, none of which qualified as riches as far as Sven was concerned. Sven wasn’t sure what sorts of animals usually lived in caves, but he was fairly certain he shouldn’t expect to find a goose that laid golden eggs down there.

And Sven was absolutely correct in this, and in fact the only animal he did see was some sort of albino cave platypus, which should have been just as surprising if he’d had any kind of decent education at all. It did appear to lay golden eggs, but on closer inspection they turned out to be only fool’s gold. Sven was just deciding that this magical cave was a serious disappointment if not an actual fraud, and hardly worth an elderly cow at all, when he suddenly fell victim to the the cave’s other inhabitant, which you have probably already guessed was a dragon, but was actually a bear wearing a dragon costume because it really was a rather disappointing magical cave after all.

Meanwhile, up on the surface, Grethe was busily planning how to spend all of the untold riches she was hoping Sven would bring back with him when she too was suddenly devoured, though in her case it was by the nightmarish horror that had finally escaped from the enchanter’s basement and which had come looking for the missing pieces of its stolen collection of magical produce, and also some people to eat.

The lesson to be learned here is that everyone suddenly deciding to invest in some stupid alternative currency like magic beans can ruin many lives. That, and don’t keep feeding the horrific thing in your basement, because eventually you will run out of magical produce to trade for meat, and then it will break loose and consume your entire community.

Now, away with all of you. I’m not wearing this hat just for show, and I need to get back to planting if I expect to harvest any platypuses this year. I mean potatoes. Yes. Potatoes.
hwango: (Default)
2022-05-20 07:45 pm
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 8 - "You are an opossum living in the trashcan of my heart"

Oh, hello children. No, I'm not working today - I'm taking the day off, and I'm just going to sit here and read because I'm old and tired and falling apart. A story? Did you not hear what I just said? You know what, never mind. I’ve just thought of the perfect story for you today.

There once lived a loathsome hobgoblin called Fuligo. Fuligo was not a particularly happy hobgoblin. Indeed, Fuligo felt that life mostly consisted of suffering, disappointment, and despair. Accordingly, he took perverse delight in bringing things to life so that they might share in this suffering, disappointment, and despair.

Hobgoblins with less ambition or artistic flair might have brought simple objects like doormats or salad tongs to life so that they would be doomed to live out nightmarish existences of being trodden on by muddy feet or being forever thrust into bowls full of lettuce drenched in thousand island dressing, but Fuligo constructed golems. No, golems aren't just magic robots. That would be like saying that humans are just magic corpses. Although, okay, I guess that's a better metaphor than I had originally thought.

But just to be pedantic about it, a robot is a machine designed to perform work, but a golem is a person or creature crafted from inanimate materials and then brought to life. Most traditional golems are made of clay or stone, but they can be made of less likely materials such as glass, or salt, or paper, or the stitched together discarded pieces of people, although at that point things start to become very ethically questionable, and you also get into philosophical arguments about whether you're really building a golem or just quilting a zombie. But I digress.

Fuligo made golems out of garbage.

Right now you might be picturing Fuligo (a mistake on your part I assure you, as he was exceedingly grotesque) just taking any old random pile of garbage, waving a magic wand over it, and then "zing!," it was a golem. Well, you would be wrong. Fuligo was an artist, carefully choosing his materials and precisely shaping them to his designs. In fact, like many artists, Fuligo would sometimes work tirelessly on a project for weeks only to grow dissatisfied with what he had wrought and then throw it all away, or spend days at a time procrastinating and accomplishing nothing, or lose entire afternoons to reading books about color theory.

Also, no magic wands were involved. Furthermore, at no point in the process of awakening a golem does anything go "zing!"

So, Fuligo could sometimes spend weeks upon weeks crafting a single golem, but even at that slow a pace you might think that the countryside would soon be crawling with his creations. However, partly due to the materials he used and partly because Fuligo felt that art should be be fleeting and ephemeral if it was to be truly appreciated, Fuligo's golems seldom lasted more than a few weeks before they fell apart and died. Now, if it seems horrifying to live a life of uncertain duration and then gradually wear out until you eventually die, then all I can say to you as an old person is that I am way ahead of you.

But wait, I can practically hear you thinking, why did he go through all of this trouble and effort just to make something that would only suffer and be miserable and then fall apart and die? But the truth is that many things in this world pretty much only exist to make more versions of things like themselves. In fact, this is true of most animals, plants, educational institutions, and organized religions.

The process was not always so time-consuming, though. One particular afternoon, Fuligo was seized by so much inspiration and enthusiasm that he crafted a golem in just a few hours. The materials he used were not even the higher-tier trash that might have been interesting to scavengers, but the true garbage that no one could possibly want.

Golems can have varying levels of sophistication and autonomy, and if you plan to have a golem perform labor for you like some sort of mere magical robot, then you probably build it with specific capabilities and not a lot of autonomy. Fuligo had no particular purpose in mind for this golem, except as an instantiation of the concepts of ephemera, waste, and the nihilistic dread that can only come from meeting your creator and knowing for a fact that they care nothing for you and that your existence has no meaning. Accordingly, he created it with no particlar skills, a high level of awareness, and loads of autonomy.

“Awaken, my creation!” Fuligo cackled as he held aloft his magical orb, and with a dramatic “twang!” the golem awakened to life. See, you were nearly right after all.

The golem opened its eyes, gazed upon its creator, and experienced several emotions. It did not look happy.

Fuligo was delighted, insofar as he was capable of feeling so admist all of his suffering, disappointment, and despair. Then his stomach growled insistently, and he instructed the golem to wait there while he fetched himself some lunch. Fuligo scuttled off to his kitchen and assembled something vaguely edible in a large bowl, armed himself with his finest spoon, and then sat down with the spoon in one hand and a book about color theory in the other. Fortunately, he did not mix up which of these to put in his mouth...mostly.

While Fuligo ate and read a particularly venomous essay about whether incarnadine could beat vermillion in a fight, and occasionally paused to extract pages from between his teeth, the golem decided that it would rather not wait for Fuligo to return after all, and it exercised its abundance of autonomy by getting up and wandering out of Fuligo's workshop. By the time Fuligo had finished learning about the latest research into whether metapurple was real or not, the golem was long gone.

Oh, the magical adventures the golem had! In no time at all, it had experienced the full panoply of emotion! Despair! Apathy! Other kinds of despair! And also...true love?

Could it be? Was this truly what it was to love? But, oh no - its love was fading! How could this be? Was love a lie? Are we all truly alone? Probably, but in this particular case it was simply that an opossum had crawled up the golem's leg and eaten the overripe banana that formed part of the garbage golem's rotting heart. It's easy to confuse an overripe banana for love - they both start off sweet but eventually turn into blackened filth, and both can make you fall head over heels.

Losing your first great love can be very upsetting, particularly when you lose it because of an opossum, and the golem felt all of its despair turn into rage as the opossum also helped itself to some shriveled pieces of onion. The golem knew very well who was responsible for its tormented existence, and it ran all the way back to Fuligo's workshop, smashed through the door, and...

Well, suffice to say that afterwards Fuligo was a good candidate for being included in a zombie quilt.

The lesson to be learned here is that emotions are the result of complex chemical processes, even if sometimes those processes are happening in a decomposing banana. That, and inevitably death comes for us all, possibly hastened by the appearance of an opossum.

Now, go away all of you so I can get back to my book. Apprarently, there's exciting new evidence that heliotrope evolved from ultraviolet.
hwango: (Default)
2022-05-10 03:07 pm
Entry tags:

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 7 - "Do what you can, with what you have, where you are."

The second thing Ernst noticed was that he was surrounded by monsters. The first thing Ernst noticed was that he was experiencing events out of sequence. Then an invisible force snatched him right out of his chair and dumped him into some kind of terrible nightmare world. Wait, that can't be right.

"There, see? Everything is happening in order now," said a waterfall of eyeballs flowing in reverse. "Don't worry, the flow of time should reorient momentarily. Whoops, almost."

Yes...okay, things seemed to be happening in the correct order now. That was reassuring. With that issue apparently resolved, Ernst took a moment to let his surroundings really sink in. Well. It had been hyperbole to say that he was "surrounded by monsters," as there were only five monsters and they were all arranged in front of him or off to one side. They were terrifying, though. Or at least, it seemed as if they ought to be. Especially that thing made of teeth.

"Why am I not panicking?" Ernst asked calmly. "This has to be the most terrifying thing that's ever happened to me."

"Well, you'd be pretty useless to us if you were just screaming the whole time!" said the waterfall of eyeballs cheerfully. Ernst noted that it was still flowing in reverse even now that time was working the way it was supposed to. "We decided it was better if you didn't freak out too much."

"Easy as that, eh?" Ernst asked.

"Ernst, please, we pulled you here from another dimension with only trivial damage to the space-time continuum. Compared to that, a little minor brain chemistry is simplicity itself."

"Back up, you what now to the what?" Ernst said, but the waterfall of eyeballs ignored him.

"Now, I'm going to show you three different paper-thin slices of granite, and I want you to tell me which of them seems the most trustworthy."

"Wait, wait, wait," Ernst interrupted. "What exactly is going on? Where am I?"

"If you evaluate the granite, I'll explain," offered the waterfall of eyeballs.

"No, explanation first, granite second," Ernst demanded. With his fear out of commission it seemed his stubbornness had free rein. One cannot stare down a waterfall of eyeballs, but Ernst gave it his best shot.

"Hah, look at that drive to know the truth! Wonderful!" The waterfall of eyeballs seemed very pleased. "Well, the situation is this: we need you to adjudicate a dispute. As an uninterested fourth party (there are three entities involved in the dispute), you are ideally suited to render an impartial verdict, and so we have borrowed you from your lovely little dimension for just a bit." Well, that sounded like it should be very alarming, but Ernst just nodded.

"Okay, but why me?" asked Ernst.

"You have been chosen because of your peerless intellect, ironclad integrity, and unerring sense for untruths."

"There's no way that's true," said Ernst.

"See! You'll be great at this," the waterfall of eyeballs beamed with approval. "Actually, you were just the easiest to catch. Now, the granite, if you please." Ernst studied them dutifully. They all looked pretty much the same. Also, he had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for.

"They all seem equally trustworthy?" Ernst hazarded.

"Wonderful! Totally unbiased! But in case you're curious, it was the third one."

"Uh," said Ernst.

"Now, let's get on with the matter at hand before your electrons start to decay," said the waterfall of eyeballs. "Arrayed before you are our disputants. There's Rendjaws the Devourer," a tentacled, corkscrew-shaped thing hovering in the air rotated end over end several times, "No Words Can Describe This," at which point one of the other things did something, "and Unnamed Entity Forty-Seven," whereupon the thing made of teeth vibrated for a moment, creating the most appalling sound Ernst had ever heard.

"Who is that?" asked Ernst, gesturing to the fifth entity in the room, "and for that matter, who are you?"

"Well, I'm a waterfall of eyeballs flowing in reverse," said the waterfall of eyeballs, "and that over there is Alice. Alice is not involved in this dispute, and Alice's role here is purely ceremonial. Or, Alice is the advocate for No Words Can Describe This. Or, possibly, Alice is waiting to deconstruct this universe if you render an unsatisfactory verdict. No one is really sure, but we'll all find out together!"

"Ah," said Ernst.

"Now, I'm going to stop mucking with your brain chemistry so no one can claim that I had undue influence over you during the proceedings. You should have become accustomed to your situation enough by now not to devolve into a screaming pile of goo. And let's hope I'm right, because that's not a metaphor."

Ernst suddenly felt terrified beyond imagining, but managed to keep it together. Literally, as it were.

"Aaaaaaaaargh. Ahaha. Ha," Ernst eloquently expressed himself. He tried very hard not to look at anything. "Okay. Okay, let's get this over with. What's the dispute I'm here about?"

"Well, Unnamed Entity Forty-Seven claims that Rendjaws the Devourer has stolen its name," said the waterfall of eyeballs. Ernst was forced to admit that this seemed entirely plausible, since Rendjaws the Devourer did not appear to possess any jaws, while Unnamed Entity Forty-Seven was nothing but teeth and seemed very...devour-y. Ernst strove to keep an open mind, however, and reserved judgment for the moment. Who was to say these things needed to have names that described them, after all? Maybe he could test that theory by trying to think of a word to describe No Words Can Describe This...nope, nothing. Well, that didn't prove anything.

The waterfall of eyeballs continued. "Rendjaws the Devourer claims that Unnamed Entity Forty-Seven was legally annihilated by No Words Can Describe This, and the name was fair salvage since No Words Can Describe This had no way of using it. No Words Can Describe This claims something." Ernst waited for the waterfall of eyeballs to elaborate, then realized that this was unlikely. "Unnamed Entity Forty-Seven also claims that it has not been legally annihilated, and in fact continues to exist, and thus its previous name was not valid salvage at all. Furthermore, it claims something about No Words Can Describe This."

"I see," said Ernst. "Is anyone disputing that Unnamed Entity Forty-Seven used to be called Rendjaws the Devourer?"

"No," said the waterfall of eyeballs. "Well, Alice might be. Alice, are you disputing that?"

Ernst felt his bones grinding together for a moment.

"Well, there's no need to be rude about it!" said the waterfall of eyeballs. "No," said the waterfall of eyeballs to Ernst, translating helpfully. "Alice is not disputing that."

"Does anyone have any evidence they wish to submit?"

"What a charming notion! Let's see!" said the waterfall of eyeballs with obvious enthusiasm.

Rendjaws the Devourer submitted an ancient religion with its version of events as part of the religion's creation myth.

Unnamed Entity Forth-Seven submitted a forest of trees hundreds of feet tall that had all been carefully shaped and pruned to support its version of events.

No Words Can Describe This submitted a solid gold statue that depicted Ernst being torn apart by eels.

"Is this a bribe or a threat?" Ernst asked.

"Probably!" said the waterfall of eyeballs, unhelpfully.

"I see," said Ernst. He considered the evidence and...whatever the statue was for a few moments. "Tell me, what does the third slice of granite think about all of this?" Supposedly it was trustworthy, so it might be worth hearing what it thought about all of this.

"Oh, it's not allowed to testify due to a conflict of interest," said the waterfall of eyeballs.

"Ah," said Ernst. "Well, I see no evidence supporting the idea that Unnamed Entity Forty-Seven has been annihilated by anyone, legally or otherwise. In fact...as to the issue of a possible crime against Unnamed Entity Forty-Seven, I find that No Words Can Describe This could be described as...innocent."

Shocked gasps, rattling teeth, and pulsating lights filled the...was this even a room?

"Clearly, No Words Can Describe This is not what it claims at all!" Ernst said accusingly, "and so I also describe it as guilty! Of something! I don't know what! But I rule that the name Rendjaws the Devourer rightfully belongs to Unnamed Entity Forty-Seven, and that No Words Can Describe This should be stripped of its name and be branded Unnamed Entity Forty-Seven! As for the current Rendjaws the Devourer, it should be forced to take a name chosen by the forthcoming Rendjaws the Devourer."

"Oh, you don't have the authority to issue sentences, but those are some fine ideas, and kudos for really getting into the spirit here. I'm going to take extra care to make sure you still have all of your limbs when you get back to your universe. Do you want your threat/bribe effigy?"

"I'm afraid that due to my ironclad integrity I cannot accept it," Ernst said. He absolutely did not want to take home a souvenir that would serve as proof that any of this really happened.

"So noble! Well, Alice hasn't objected or deconstructed the universe, so it's either bad at its job, you made an acceptable ruling, or its presence is purely ceremonial after all. The mystery persists! It was lovely meeting you, have fun in your home dimension."

Ernst found himself sprawled on the floor in front of his chair. Hastily, he checked to make sure that he still had all of his limbs.

"Aargh!" he screamed when he looked around and saw the gold statue of himself. "I said I didn't want that!" But, on further inspection, it turned out this was an entirely different statue of him being reassembled by eels, and it had the words Thank you for you service engraved on the base. So that was better.

Sort of.
hwango: (Default)
2022-04-26 04:27 am

LJIdol 3 Strikes - Week 6 - Pursuit

Oh, hello children. I have an awful lot to do today, so I'm not sure I have time to tell you a story right now. So much to do. Busy, busy, busy. Although, that actually reminds me of a story.

There once lived a particularly malicious faerie called Caramel Antithesis Mangletusk. Faeries are wicked and cruel almost without exception, but Caramel's zeal for dispensing wickedness and cruelty made other faeries feel tired just watching him. Caramel, on the other hand, put off feeling tired until he was done with his day of evil and depravity. One Tuesday night after a particularly exhausting day of poisoning wells, replacing children with enchanted puppets, and overturning tortoises, Caramel yawned theatrically, climbed into his bed, and dreamed.

Or at least that had been the plan. But once asleep, Caramel found that his dreams were missing. He spent several hours searching for them, but they didn't appear to be anywhere in his sleeping mind. All he found was one shabby little nightmare, and it squeaked and ran away when it saw him coming because it could tell when it was clearly outmatched.

Some time later, Caramel awoke to a beautiful sunrise and the musical chirping of birds. Outraged by this shocking disregard for his personal distress, he immediately stole the birds' voices and shoved some dark clouds in the sun's face. That done, he took stock of the situation. Had someone stolen his dreams? No, there was no one who would dare. But what else could have happened to them? Caramel checked around his bed for clues, and quickly discovered some tracks leading away from his bed and out the window. Caramel's dreams had run away.

This was unacceptable. Caramel couldn't have his dreams out wandering about where anyone might see them. Some of them were incriminating, or embarrassing, or would give his enemies forewarning of the terrible things that he planned to do to them. And so, deciding to follow in the footsteps of many idealistic youths, spiritually enlightened visionaries, and megalomaniacal supervillains, Caramel set out to follow his dreams. He didn't literally follow in the footsteps of those people, though, since he had these other footsteps to follow.

Like many people attempting to follow their dreams, Caramel encountered setbacks - in fact, an entire pack of setbacks. The alpha setback of the pack was a particularly intimidating specimen with massive brass antlers and several pairs of luminous crimson eyes. It drooled molten glass as it snarled a command for its packmates to attack. Caramel wasn't about to let a few setbacks stop him from chasing his dreams, though. He had tenacity! Resolve! And, most importantly, he had Hubris, which was the name he had given to the knife he had forged from the heart of a dead star.

The fight that ensued was extremely violent and not at all appropriate for children your age to hear about in detail, so I'll just tell you that Caramel eventually prevailed. After Caramel finished wiping off a great deal of blood, viscera, and rapidly cooling molten glass, he resumed his chase. Cutting his way out of a setback's stomach had cost him valuable time though, and he needed to hurry.

The trail he followed led him into Adversity, which is an ugly, disreputable little town with poorly maintained streets, a public garden filled with nothing but poison ivy, and only one decent tea house. I don't recommend visiting. Anyway, Caramel knew the then current mayor of Adversity quite well, and through the simple expediency of a large bribe was able to continue on with little delay. He did not even stop for tea, since he did not know which tea house was the good one.

And so Caramel's pursuit of his dreams continued, including an arduous, steep uphill walk through Hardship, and a most unfortunate and time-consuming detour through the maze-like streets of Distraction. He did at least manage to take a shortcut past Doubt due to his enormous ego. And of course, like anyone following their dreams, he had to fight a hydra.

At last, though, he caught up to his dreams just outside of Success, and was very grateful that they didn't make it into the city proper, since the place was filled with insufferably smug jerks. Also, he was getting tired of walking.

Alas, Caramel was uncertain what to do next. Many people will encourage you to follow your dreams, but significantly fewer of them will have any good advice about what to do when you catch them. Caramel's dreams looked a bit bedraggled from their lengthy adventure outside of his head, but he was still fairly certain he wanted them back. After all, not dreaming enough can lead to madness, hallucinations, or becoming a menial drone toiling away in aid of some else's success.

And so Caramel reclaimed his dreams through an arcane and complicated process that certainly didn't involve simply jamming them back into his head through one of his ears. That would be ridiculous.

The lesson to be learned here is that if you allow yourself to be distracted you can waste a lot of valuable time telling a story to children who will misinterpret your entirely factual historical anecdote as an extended metaphor and subsequently make poor life choices, end up fighting a hydra, and eventually turn into a bunch of artists, astronauts, and marine biologists instead of valuable menial drones. Also, there's an excellent chance that at least one of you is actually an enchanted puppet.

Now, all of you should get home. I have a lot of menial tasks left to do today.