21 Oct 2019
Today’s prompt: “Write a survival guide for a character: Ten things to do in an emergency.”
-
Avoid open spaces in the outdoors. Winged Old Ones and Outer Gods such as Ny-Rakath and Ngirrth’lu will swoop in to devour you.
-
Avoid underground spaces. Subterranean Old Ones and Outer Gods such as Shudde M’ell and Tharapithia will burrow their way to you and devour you.
-
Avoid oceans and other bodies of water. Aquatic Old Ones and Outer Gods such as Dagon and Janai’ngo will find you and devour you.
-
Avoid the woods. Forest-dwelling Old Ones and Outer Gods such as Aylith and Shub-Niggurath will hunt you and devour you.
-
Avoid sculpture gardens. Gloon and Olkoth tend to masquerade as statuary.
-
Avoid ghost ships, forgotten temples, and wandering black holes.
-
Avoid Antarctica (home of Groth-Golka), Egypt (Amon-Gorloth), Texas (Ayi’ig), Memphis (Dhumin), Central Africa (God of the Red Flux), Kansas (Othuyeg), Alaska (Khal’kru), New Mexico (Rhagorthua), Florida (Tulushuggua and Turua), Central American mountain ranges (Xoxiigghua), Myanmar (Zhar and Lloigor), Vermont (Kaunuzoth), and other dimensions in general (so many Old Ones).
-
Avoid anything with tentacles, anything with a formless or nebulous shape, any kind of chimera, anything made out of crystals or goo, and anything that glows. That probably covers a good 85% of the Old One/Outer God population.
-
Avoid black, leafless oak trees that are hot to the touch. Avoid giant sentient plants that are served by mutant rabbits. Avoid were-cats.
-
Ignore all this. The Old Ones and Outer Gods will find a way to kill you anyway.
19 Oct 2019
Today’s prompt: “You’re the White House head chef, preparing a state dinner for the president of India. What do you serve, and how does it turn out?”
You’ve been looking forward to cooking this Indian-Cajun fusion menu for days. Vegetable samosas with potatoes, okra and mustard greens. A modified version of Oysters Rockefeller, touched up with fresh ginger. Catfish chunks fried in cornmeal and turmeric and served with naan, cilantro and diced chillies. Lamb kebabs over muffuletta salad. And a shrimp dish you call Mumbai Gumbo, which brings together elements of gumbo and curry.
You prepped the ingredients early this morning, so now you stroll confidently to the kitchen, eager to open your fridge to bags of diced serranos, marinating lamb chunks, peeled shrimp, phyllo pastry, and lime wedges.
But you don’t see any of that. Instead, there are white plastic containers labeled “Poison,” “Probably Poison,” “Could Be Poison,” “Might Actually Be Safe,” “Cyanide – We Think,” “Not Poison,” “Possible Arsenic,” and “Poison???”
“What the fuck is this?” you shriek.
Your sous chef shrugs. “Yeah, weird. It was like that when I got here.”
“Weird? This is way the fuck beyond weird!” You carefully pry the top off one of the white plastic containers. It’s a dark liquid. You sniff. Tamarind paste? It smells like it, but you can’t be sure it doesn’t have something else in it.
Okay, the ingredients you prepped are gone. But maybe you can salvage something for dinner. It won’t be the state dinner you were planning on, but with the right seasonings and dry ingredients, maybe you can get some hush puppies out to the guests and start a dahl while someone rushes out for fresh ingredients. You open the pantry.
Fuuuuuuucckk. The weird labeling system continues in here.
You’ve had enough. You grab the canister labeled “Flour?” You open the lid. Sure looks like flour. You smell it. Smells like the almost grainy nothingness of flour. You breathe deep, and scoop a little into your hand. “Here goes nothing,” you say. You open your mouth.
I’m so sorry. It was flour and anthrax.
17 Oct 2019
Today’s prompt: “Write from the point of view of a literary character who changed your life.”
Oh no. I petted you too hard. You was so soft, and I petted you too hard.
“Why do you got to get killed? You ain’t so little as mice. I didn’t bounce you hard.” I tilt your little face up so’s I can look at it. Oh no. What about the rabbits? “Now maybe George ain’t gonna let me tend no rabbits, if he fin’s out you got killed.”
I gots to hide you. I’ll bury you under the hay. Scoop out a little hole. But what if someone fin’s you anyways? What if someone asks where you is? Am I in bad trouble? No. Not bad trouble. “This ain’t no bad thing like I got to go hide in the brush. Oh! no. This ain’t. I’ll tell George I foun’ it dead.”
George is too smart to b’lieve that. “But he’ll know. George always knows. He’ll say, ‘You done it. Don’t try to put nothing over on me.’ An’ he’ll say, ‘Now jus’ for that you don’t get to tend no rabbits!’”
And that’s your fault, for bein’ dead! “God damn you. Why do you got to get killed? You ain’t so little as mice.” I throw your body away, an’ I sit all curled up, an’ I rock. “Now I won’t get to tend the rabbits. Now he won’t let me.”
I wisht, I wisht that puppy wasn’t dead. That soft soft pup. I pick you up and I pet you again. “You wasn’t big enough. They tol’ me and tol’ me you wasn’t. I di’n’t know you’d get killed so easy.”
15 Oct 2019
Today’s prompt: “A vivid childhood memory from the child’s perspective”
Adults just don’t get us. They call us creepy just because we make sacrifices to the corn god or we crawl out of TV screens or or we stare at you with our glowing eyes. They never understand our fascination with knives and setting things on fire. Speaking of which, do you think Mommy would be more mad about your bloodstains on the rug, or if I just burned your body and the rug?
Hmmm. I’ll go get the matches, just in case.
13 Oct 2019
Today’s prompt: “Write a story using four L words: lipstick, lust, loss, locked.”
You wake up, your body curled tightly, your left hand on a metal drain in a concrete floor, your nose mere inches from the base of a toilet. A strong bleach smell cannot entirely cover up the odor of fecal matter, and you can hear the buzz of a bare light bulb. You try to stretch out and your foot immediately hits a wall. Your head throbs as you push yourself to your feet and take in your surroundings. It’s more stall than room, just a few feet across, just enough room for a toilet, a sink, and a door that opens out. A solid metal door. With weird symbols written on it in red lipstick. The symbols spill out onto the painted cinder block walls all around you.
Sigils, the word pops into your mind unbidden. The crazy old man who cornered you two nights ago called them that. He was muttering under his breath, a constant stream of gibberish to himself, until he saw you. And then he went on a loud rant. What was it? “The hungry ones have marked you,” he said. “Fly away, fly away, before they trap you with their sigils.” And then he started drawing weird symbols on the wall with a piece of chalk.
There’s a mirror over the sink. You look like hell. There’s a bruise by your temple.
You reach for the doorknob. Locked. You look for a toggle on the knob to unlock it, only to see a keyhole. What the fuck? Who builds a bathroom that locks from the outside?
You try the doorknob again, but your futile twists are unable to budge it in either direction. You slam your fist against the door. You kick it. “Hey! I’m locked in here! Someone help!”
You stand in silence for a few seconds, listening for footsteps. Nothing. You bang your fist on the door again.
You start to hear voices. You bang your fist harder, and shout. “I’m here! Help! I’m locked in!”
Still no one comes. And after a minute of unheeded knocking and shouting, you start to notice a few things about the voices. They’re coming from the floor. And while they’re not speaking any language you’ve heard before, you can understand some of it deep in your bones.
The voices speak of darkness, of void, of being trapped for age upon age. Of immense power lost – no, merely submerged. They speak of lust for blood, of the death of armies. Mostly they speak of hunger. Intense hunger.
The sigils begin to glow. Lipstick isn’t supposed to – ow ow ow! Your back – it feels like it’s burning!
You angle your back to the mirror and crane your neck as best you can. Nothing looks abnormal. You pull off your shirt. There. There on your back are lipstick sigils.
The sigils flare. “Ahh!” bursts from your lips.
The voices grow louder. The light bulb fades, but the sigils remain a bright red. And now you feel as though you’re falling. Falling through a void. Falling, until sinewy tentacles catch your leg.
11 Oct 2019
Today’s prompt: “Your dog’s last dream”
Her paws twitch as she dreams of running through the forest, hunting for squirrels and rabbits. Even her subconscious knows that she has to provide for herself, now that your corpse has long since rotted away on the living room floor.
09 Oct 2019
Today’s prompt: “Be your character’s fortune teller. Tell his or her future.”
Madame V’s wide velvet sleeves pool around her elbows as she dramatically flutters her fingers over the crystal ball. Her painted eyelids fall heavily over her eyes as she studies the sphere.
“Your future appears … cloudy,” she says.
You sigh. “Do I need to pay another $20 for better reception?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I just can’t get a good read on you. It’s just cloudy.”
“Did you try shaking it? Maybe turning it off and on again?”
She eyes you with annoyance, then stares at the crystal ball for a full minute. At last, she looks up. “I’m sorry. This is highly unusual. I can’t see anything about your future. Just clouds.”
“Whatever,” you say. “I suppose I could try Psychic Friends Network.”
“Are those frauds really still around?” she asks.
“You should talk. Charging me 40 bucks to tell me my future is ‘cloudy.’”
Madame V tosses two twenties across the table. “There.” You pick up your money and begin to walk out. You glance behind you as you leave. Madame V is still staring at the crystal ball, her face inches from it, muttering softly, “I just don’t understand…”
You walk outside and are immediately devoured by The Cloud-Thing.