#4. “A fairy whose speech is incomprehensible to other creatures.”
“?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“????”
“I… I don’t… I don’t understand?”
“!”
“Well you don’t have to shout now, do you?”
“!??!”
“I assure you, I am just as confused as you are!”
“…”
“Well. It looks like I understand your gestures, at least. Rude beast!”
[Honestly, this one eluded me. I did 30 minutes, and ‘eh’. I may try this one again later. I feel like it has delightful potential. Just… not today.]
Another Prompt
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From the book of writing prompts
#3. I’ll reveal the prompt at the end of this one, for humor’s sake.
“You know you want to.”
“Shh.”
“Gira-aaard.”
“Shhh. M’trying t’sleep, here.”
“So? You’ve been thinking about it all day.”
“Stop.”
“You know how soft I am. How giving.”
“What?”
“Touch me. “
“Gods above, stop.”
“Come on, just touch me. What, it’s not like I could even stop you! Why did you steal me if you weren’t going to take me as yours?”
“You looked expensive! I was going to sell you! Or trade you.”
“I am! Do you have any idea how much I’m worth? Come on, Girard. Don’t you want to know how good it would feel?”
“No!”
“Not even a little bit? Just touch me, Girard. That’s all I’m saying. You should at least know how valuable I am.”
“I’m not going to–“
“One touch, and I’ll shut up and let you sleep.”
“You promise?”
“On my honor.”
“Fine, then. There. You–“
“Ohhh, see? See how soft I am?”
“Ahh, that’s… fuck, that’s nice.”
“It is. The inside’s even better. See? C’mon, Girard. Take off your boots. Please. I want you inside me.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“Did I just–“
“Yeah, you made it weird. M’going to bed now.”
“Fuck, fine. Goodnight.”
************************
Today’s Writing prompt: #3. “A pair of sentient boots.”
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Writing Prompt
2. “A goblin cleric”
“I can’t believe you let it cook, Girard.” The knight shoved past the rogue, pushing him almost into the camp fire, turned cookfire.
“What, don’t be an asshole, Clement; the little one has talent!” Girard tsks.
“That thing? Talent? Khyrin’s big balls, it does! Has it ever washed its mits! It’s gonna put scabs in the soup!” The knight turned and spat at the feet of ‘the little one’, who dodged easily enough, carrying a pot to the fire, adding it to the assortment.
“Seriously, Clement, you’re being a dick.”
“What? It’s not like it has _feelings,_ ” Clement snorted, rolling his eyes. He sighs, finding a seat and putting his boots near the fire, nearly tripping the cook, growling, “Watch where you’re going!”
“Clement,” Girard hissed, raising his brows in warning. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The cook tinkered at the fire, stirring this, adding a little of something, playing about with something bubbling, turning a spit, mumbling quietly and petting the ladle in its hand.
“Bah,” Clement said, looking annoyed. “What’s taking it so long to make dinner, anyway?”
The little cook seemed to finish its murmurings, and perked up, taking the ladle from the larger pot and getting a scoop of this and that out of each of the simmering things, and then cutting a thick slice of meat from the spit and putting it in the bowl. Scampering around the fire, it used the ladle around its neck to scoop from a pot low in the ashes, and poured it over the top. Then, the cook went to to hand out the bowl, but when Girard reached for it, the goblin bared its teeth in a hiss. “No! Is special!”
Girard flinched back, looking stung.
Clement sneered, baring his teeth, and reached to grab the bowl out of the cook’s hands. “Special, is it?”
“For you!”
Clement dove in, a starving dog, slurping and eating like a ravening beast.
“Is good?” the cook asked, smiling up with big yellow eyes.
“Eh,” Clement said, dismissive.
The cook nodded, turning back, and used the ladle from the big pot to serve up a second bowl, a bit of almost everything, and a large slab of spitroasted meat. Something out of every simmering bit, except one, and then he offers it to Girard, nodding to him.
Girard took the bowl, frowning slightly.
“Eat, eat,” the cook said, gesturing.
“Yeah, eat!” Clement snorted. “Slop is slop — fills the belly.”
The cook’s ears drooped, looking at Clement, and then to Girard, hopeful.
Girard looked to the cook, moved to take a bite, hesitant, and then — his eyes widened, and he ate, happily, smiling wide. “It’s delicious!”
“Yes, yes! Delicious! Praise to the goddess!” the cook beams, getting up and getting its own bowl.
“Delicious!” Girard agrees. He eats, happily, saying, “It is delicious, isn’t it, Clement?” But he turned to look at Clement, who had tumbled over, dropping his bowl, dead.
“Delicious!” said the cook, waving the ladle about its neck. “Praise to the goddess!”
“Clement?” Girard whispered, shocked.
He looked over at the goblin cook, who rubbed a green thumb over its blessed ladle. “No scabs for knight. Just mushrooms!”
“Praise the goddess,” Girard said, and they both went back to eating his dinner. “Delicious.”
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My wife got me a book of writing prompts for Christmas
And I have been needing to do the thing where you just write, because you can’t write the good until you write all the crap.
Day 1. “The pampered princeling who considers himself a Robin Hood.”
It was surprisingly hard to take gold from the Treasury, considering it was mine to begin with. I suppose the guards thought it solely my father’s, but as I’m the heir, bear his name, live here, and can spend it as I please, one would assume I’m allowed to take it freely, no?
No.
Five weeks – for five weeks I had tried to get the guard to let me pass.
No.
All in all, it took a good deal of persuasion with one of the cooks to use a good deal of persuasion with one of the scullery maids to use a good deal of persuasion with one of the guards to wander off from his post for a bit of cherry cream pie (not my favorite, but good enough I suppose) and then finally I was able to walk into the treasury, and back out, with more than a few purses full of coin.
Afterwards, for her trouble, I slipped the cook a coin, and for her trouble, I slipped the maid a coin, and then when I asked them if the guard enjoyed the cherry cream pie, I was shown A Look which I was given to understand was Not A Happy Look, and when I asked if there was any left, I received an Even Less Happy Look, at which point I gave each of the women five sovereigns each, and took my leave.
I supposed I wasn’t too unhappy about the pie, and then off I went. Rather than wearing my finest kid gloves, and my deep purple silk cape, instead, I put on a pair of my older doeskin boots and a satin cowl of sky blue. The leather bag that held the purses had only a silver buckle, instead of a gold one. Charmed by my own disguise, I went out the kitchens door, and directly down the smooth brick road to the markets.
I looked for a poor person on whom to bestow gifts, and I found a wretch who had only two horses to pull his cart, and so I smiled as I pressed a purse into his hands, and slipped away.
The next poor thing I found didn’t even have rings for half her fingers. I gave her a purse, too.
I only had one purse left, and I wanted to make it count. I walked far from the castle and found myself in front of a house that had but one level. The outside stone was neither granite nor marble but seemed of simple rock! What a lowly place it was, windows bearing only shutters and no colored glass.
When a child came out and had only a frock and pinafore and no jewels in her hair, I knew I’d found the place. I gave her the last purse, the largest, and told her to tell her mother they could at least eat tonight, if nothing else, and then ran all the way back to the castle, and knew I’d have to talk to the scullery maid again about cherry cream pie, and I hoped this time she could give the guard a larger piece, in order that he might be distracted for longer.
I haven’t had to change anything on this site in so long
I have forgotten how to do half of it.
I have this new thing I’ve been trying, but I can’t figure out how to publish it on here, because all this website is is a glorified wordpress instance, and I can’t remember how the directories work, otherwise, god help me. If the subscription part of this isn’t working anyway, maybe I burn it all down and start over anyway. People are still reading the old stuff, which is delightful, (if fucking weird, in a way) and it would be sad to lose those fingerprints, but maybe its the last of a skin that needs shedding.
I’ve taken to carrying around a notebook with me. A dear friend suggested it, to use as an outboard memory of sorts, to store thoughts and experiences, to put down literal cut and pastes of things, if need be.
I haven’t written a fucking thing in it, of course, except to state that that’s what it’s for. I know my dear friend will read this and shake his head and probably roll his eyes at me. I know my wife will do the same.
It’s more than a habit — it’s a hallmark of all sorts of neurodivergent nonsense. (My editor has a red line under that word; apparently it hasn’t caught up with today’s vocabulary.) I feel like inscribing my journals/diaries/notebooks with their purpose simply curses them into becoming unused husks of unfulfilled purpose.
I’m not sure this will flow through Tumblr, Facebook, or email subscriptions anymore — I’m shouting into the void right now and that’s okay, because I just need to get moving. I’ve been slowly calcifying in body and mind since at least the pandemic if not before, and if I don’t do some kind of writing, art, something, I’m just going to end up a heap of unmoving sludge.
Even if it’s just posts like this to remind myself I’m alive.
I’m alive.
If this showed up in your email, drop me a line — catastrophe.jones@gmail.com, or a comment below? I promise I won’t use your information to sell you trips to Las Vegas.