03 Mar 2019
Today’s prompt: “You are a midlevel Greek deity, hoping to move up the ranks of Olympus. What are your powers, and how will you use them to impress Zeus and the others?”
Oh my gods, you guys, Hera is so nice!
You really don’t know where she got her reputation for being a harpy. Ever since you showed up on Olympus and introduced yourself as the God[dess] of Perception, she’s been nothing but delighted with you.
“Ooh, ooh! I want to see how it works!” she said as soon as you introduced yourself. She tapped her husband Zeus on the forearm. “Honey, turn into a bull!”
“No,” Zeus said, frowning.
“Okay, okay, I’ll turn into an animal. You guys, too!” she told the other assembled Olympians.
“Sure, I’m game,” said Ares. Hephaestus nodded, and Aphrodite and Artemis smiled.
“No obvious animals, like peacocks or rams or owls,” Athena said.
“Okay, close your eyes and count to ten. Then open your eyes and tell us who’s who,” Hera said to you.
You closed your eyes. At first, you heard footsteps as the Olympians traded places, then hooves and the flap of wings as they changed forms. You counted down, then opened your eyes.
There was a vulture in a tree, but after a moment, the image flickered. It’s as if everything goes to static, and then, emerging from the static, the faint outline of a strong, well-armed man with a salt-and-pepper beard.
You pointed to him. “Ares,” you say. You quickly went through the rest of the animals. “The panther is Athena. Aphrodite is the warthog. Hephaestus, you’re the big lizard.”
“Komodo dragon,” he corrected.
“Komodo dragon,” you agreed. “Artemis, you’re a goat. And Hera, you’re a robin.”
The gods all returned to their normal forms and exclaimed over your parlor trick. “We are going to be besties from now on, I just know it,” Hera said. Zeus looked a bit petulant. You don’t know what his deal is.
One day Hera invites you for a visit, so you go to her palace on Olympus. The place is pretty empty when you arrive.
“Where’s Zeus?” you ask after you’ve greeted Hera and made some small talk.
“Oh, he’s off doing his own thing. Anyway, today I thought it might be fun to take a little trip to Earth. Maybe go to the beach.”
“That sounds nice,” you say.
You and Hera stroll along the beach. It’s magnificent – white sand, a slight breeze, brilliant blue water made that much more pleasant by the late June sun. Several men and women are bathing or swimming.
“Look at that,” Hera says. “I wonder why that swan is attacking that woman.”
“Oh, that’s Zeus!” you blurt out.
“Zeus!” Hera says. The swan looks at her, then at you, a look in its eyes as though you’re the skunk at a picnic. Then it flies away.
The woman makes a quick bow to Hera. Hera seems satisfied, and you continue your stroll.
You’re fitting right in at Olympus. Hera has you over every day now. Zeus still doesn’t seem to like you, but he doesn’t interact with you much, and Hera’s so kind, always with the nectar and ambrosia and dishing the hottest Olympian gossip. And then Hera suggests another trip to Earth. “Let’s check out that tower King Acrisius built,” she says.
“Okay,” you say.
You walk around the tower, admiring the view from the ground, but then Hera suggests having a look at the scrollwork at the top of the tower. You both fly up. There, you see a skylight, and a pool of golden rain streaming through the skylight and into the chamber of a young woman.
“Zeus?” you say, honestly surprised to see him in a form like that.
“Zeus!” Hera says.
If water could give you a dirty look, it would have. And then it evaporated away.
“Well, that’s that sorted,” Hera says.
You’re a bit confused. “We’re not just going to leave this woman there, are we?”
“A woman imprisoned on high in a gilded cage?” Hera says. “You’re right, it is a bit … familiar.” With a wave of her hand, the bars over the skylight fall away and a rope ladder attaches itself to the parapet of the tower and cascades through the skylight into the room. The woman shouts out in gratitude and relief and grabs hold of the first few rungs as the two of you fly away.
When you arrive back at Olympus, Hera says she’s had a lovely time today and bids you farewell. As you are about to leave her palace, Zeus appears from the shadows and grabs your arm.
“Just because you’re immortal,” he hisses into your ear, “doesn’t mean you can’t be killed.” He lets you go and storms off into the palace.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Some time later, you arrive for your visit with Hera. When she opens the door, she announces, “I thought we’d take a little trek across the countryside today.”
“That sounds lovely,” you say.
You walk past people tending gardens and herding sheep and goats. It’s a lovely day, and the smell of fresh hay is in the air.
You’re just about to pass a field where a young woman is tending a herd of cows and bulls, when you notice a white bull walking toward her.
“Oh hey, Zeus!” you say, and wave at the bull.
Zeus turns to you, still in bull form, looking absolutely furious. He charges toward you. And you feel it for the first time in your life: mortal dread.
You run from the bull, but still it tears after you. “Zeus!” Hera shouts. “Zeus, stop!” He doesn’t heed her cries.
There’s an agonizing sharpness in your side. What is this? Is this what pain is like?
Zeus’ horn pulls away from you, covered in gore. Your blood continues to seep out. It’s a mortal wound. A mortal wound. It doesn’t make any sense.
You look at Hera. There’s a shocked expression on her face. Zeus has transformed back into his normal appearance and stalks toward her.
“Come, Hera,” he says, his massive hand encasing her shoulder as he pulls her away from you, back toward Olympus. You collapse on the road. She glances back at you, and sobs. But she doesn’t fight him.
27 Feb 2019
Today’s prompt: “Choose how you will die.”
Page 187
You awake, your head throbbing, your chest constricted, your arms chafing. You open your eyes. You are tied to a chair in a basement lit only by a bare bulb, rope burns spreading across your biceps. You are surrounded by members of the Brotherhood of the Beast, their faces streaked berry red, muddy brown and chalky white.
The man directly in front of you – clearly the leader – is flanked by a man and a woman loaded for bear with weapons blunt, pointy and incendiary. “Nyarlathotep demands a sacrifice,” he says. “Choose how you will die.”
What’ll it be?
Asphyxiation. Turn to page 192.
Beheading. Turn to page 191.
Blood loss. Turn to page 195.
Blown to smithereens. Turn to page 188.
Bludgeoning. Turn to page 196.
Cancer. Turn to page 199.
Embarrassment. Turn to page 194.
En fuego. Turn to page 189.
Impalement. Turn to page 190.
Old age. Turn to page 198.
Poison. Turn to page 197.
Quietly, in your sleep. Turn to page 193.
Page 188
“Do you have a demolitions expert?” you say. “Because I want to be blown up.”
“We have two,” the leader says. He motions to two men in the circle. One crams a gag into your mouth. Together, they grab your chair and hoist you upstairs. Other cult members hurry ahead to hold the door open or follow the leader outside in a procession. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the man and woman who had been standing next to the leader. They are gathering what appear to be bombmaking materials from a weapons cache in a corner of the basement.
The cultists fold down the back seat of a Suburban and toss you in, chair and all. The back door closes, several cult members pile in, and you all drive out to the desert.
An old man in the Brotherhood draws a pentagram in the dirt with the toe of his boot. Your chair is dragged to the center of it, and the man and woman with the bombmaking equipment get to work.
“I like using all green wires, so nobody ever knows what to cut first,” the man says with a wry grin. The woman is already wiring up the detonator and shooing away cultists who are standing too close.
An old woman hands out ear plugs to the assembled crowd. At last, the man and woman finish assembling the bomb and join the other cultists out of blast range.
“Great Nyarlathotep,” the leader shouts. “We gather today to offer you a sacrifice in the form of a really rad explosion.” He nods, and the female demolitions expert detonates the bomb.
Over the next several weeks, crows feast on the little bits of you splattered over the landscape.
Page 189
“I want to go out in flames,” you say.
The leader motions to two men in the group. One of them stuffs a gag in your mouth, and the two of them hoist your chair up and cart you upstairs. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the man and woman who were standing next to the leader walk to a corner of the basement and pick up two gas cans.
The cultists fold down the back seat of a Suburban and toss you in, chair and all. The back door closes, several cult members pile in, and you all drive out to the desert.
An old man in the Brotherhood draws a pentagram in the dirt with the toe of his boot. Your chair is dragged to the center of it, and the man and woman with the gas cans get to work dousing you.
“Great Nyarlathotep,” the leader shouts. “We gather today to offer you a sacrifice in the form of a really rad fireball.” He nods, and the man and woman each strike a match and toss them into your lap.
You went out in a blaze of … well, you went out in a blaze.
Page 190
“I want to be impaled,” you say.
The leader nods to the woman on his left. She walks to a corner where a finely-crafted spear is leaning against the wall. She holds it level with the ground and crouches low. A pause. A breath. And then she runs straight for you.
The spear point buries itself in your chest and tunnels through, splintering the wood of the chair back as it passes through.
As you watch your blood ooze down your shirt, your chest shuddering with pain with every gasp of breath as you slowly, slowly die, you wish you’d been more specific. You wish you’d told them to go for the heart.
Page 191
“A quick death,” you say. “Beheading.”
The leader nods to the man on his right. He unsheathes a sword, and with one deft movement, cult members standing behind your right shoulder are sidestepping your head as it rolls along the floor out of the circle.
Page 192
“Asphyxiate me,” you say.
The leader nods to the man on his right. The man tips your chair over gently until the back is resting on the ground. He then walks to the corner where you see a whole cache of other weapons is stashed, and picks up a big pillow. He walks back to you and places the pillow on your face. It’s the dreamiest, featheriest, fluffiest pillow you’ve ever felt. As he presses down, you try to gasp a last breath, but there’s no air to be had. You die the dreamiest, featheriest, fluffiest death imaginable.
Page 193
“I’d like to go quietly, in my sleep,” you say.
“Pfff,” you hear dismissively from behind you.
“No, no, we can accommodate that,” the leader says. “First, the ‘quietly’ bit.” He nods to the woman to his left. “The vocal cords, if you would.”
She digs in a pouch strapped to her thigh and produces a scalpel. Twenty minutes later and, try as you might, you can’t scream.
“And now, the chloroform,” the leader says. The man to the leader’s right slaps a dampened cloth over your mouth and nose.
“How should we actually kill this one?” you hear the man say to the leader as you wink out.
“Dealer’s choice,” he responds. “Just make sure it happens before they wake up.”
Page 194
“I’d like to die of embarrassment,” you say.
The leader nods to a woman in a blue robe with wide sleeves, her bronze cheeks painted with white wedges. She walks in front of you and gestures dramatically. And then the world goes all wibbly-wobbly.
Suddenly, you are a teenager again.
“Dad, you don’t have to drive me to school,” you say.
“Oh, kiddo, it’s no trouble at all,” he says, parking in front of the school and giving you an affectionate noogie and messing up your hair in the process.
“Dad,” you say. You look out the window. Oh no. Krystal saw the whole thing! Krystal, the most popular girl in the school! She smirks as she walks past.
You fumble the door open and bolt as fast as you can out of the car.
“Kiddo!” your dad says. He’s getting out of the driver’s seat. Oh no! His combover looks worse than usual today, and – crap, there’s a booger coming out of his nose!
Krystal and her posse start laughing.
“Gotta go, dad!” you rush away.
“But kiddo!” your dad says. “Watch out, your–”
You trip on the curb. You fall on the sidewalk. There’s a sound of ripping fabric, and then an eruption of laughter. You look up, you look back, and the jocks, the stoners, the nerds and the popular kids are all laughing at your split pants.
You literally die of embarrassment.
Page 195
“Blood loss,” you say.
The leader nods to the man and woman to his right and left. The man smiles, and the woman rubs her hands together and gives a little squeal of delight.
“Arts and crafts time!” they say in unison, high-fiving each other.
Each takes a dagger out of one of the scabbards hanging at their waists. They begin carving pictures on your arms and legs. The man starts carving leaf patterns, and then the face of a tiger peeking through. The woman carves a unicorn, and it’s honestly impressive with its flowing locks and muscular neck.
The blood drips slowly from every picture, and you gradually get a little woozy. But it’s taking forever.
The man is putting the finishing touches on a flaming skull with wings, and the woman is most of the way done with a koala nibbling eucalyptus, when the leader says, “Okay, kids, wrap it up.”
“All right, all right,” the woman says, finishing her picture before plunging her dagger straight into your heart.
Page 196
“Bludgeoning,” you say.
The leader nods to the man and woman to his right and left. The man smiles, and the woman rubs her hands together and gives a little squeal of delight.
“Human piñata time!” they say in unison, high-fiving each other.
A man behind you affixes two clamps to the back of your chair. The clamps are linked by a chain with a carabiner in the middle. You can see in your peripheral vision that the carabiner is attached to a thick rope fed through a system of pulleys. A couple of cult members grab the other end of the rope and hoist you and your chair into the air. They tie off the rope to a large metal ring sticking out of the concrete floor, leaving you suspended just slightly. They play around with raising and lowering you by tugging on the length of rope between the pulleys and the ring.
The man who was standing to the right of the leader has blindfolded the woman and handed her a baseball bat. He pushes her toward you, then spins her three times, and she staggers slightly to the left, but quickly recovers. She feels around with the bat a little bit until it clinks against one of the chair legs. Then she pulls the bat back, chokes up a bit on the handle, and swings.
Complete whiff. But she won’t make that mistake twice. She feels around with the bat again, this time making sure she knows where at least two chair legs are. She repositions herself, and swings again. Ahh! Right in the shin!
She swings again, and whacks you in the knee before taking off the blindfold and handing the bat to the man. She secures the blindfold around his eyes. After one missed swing when the cultists standing by the ring in the floor hoist you up too high, he hits you in the thigh and the side.
The leader motions to the people who have been moving you up and down to cut it out and leave you at a lower height. It’s the woman’s turn again. She hits the back of the chair once, but gets in a great kidney shot and hits you in the right shoulder.
The man is up again, and this time hits you in the right arm and upper chest with one blow. With his second hit, he gets you right in the head. And piñata time is over.
Page 197
“Make it poison,” you say.
The leader nods to a woman in blond braids with red curves painted over her cheeks. She ecstatically runs to a table and returns with a plate full of untouched cookies.
“What kind are they?” you ask.
“Poison!” she says. “And chocolate chip oatmeal.”
“You know,” you say, after swallowing a few bites, “I’ve always liked the texture oatmeal adds to a cookie. Too bad so many people just put raisins in them.”
“Yeah,” she says. “They’re so good with chocolate chips!”
“And poison!” you say, taking another bite.
“And poison!” she cheers you on.
Page 198
“I want to die of old age,” you say. Ha ha, got you there, you think.
“So be it,” the leader says. He nods to a man across the circle wearing a pale gray robe. The man in the gray robe strides in front of you, plants his feet, thrusts his arms out and starts doing jazz hands.
You start to laugh, and then you start to cough. You begin to feel weak. Your muscles feel atrophied against the ropes, and your skin slackens. A wisp of your hair in your peripheral vision whitens in a heartbeat. You age decades in the space of a TV commercial.
You die of old age, all right. But that’s not going to stop them from sacrificing you tonight.
Page 199
“I want to die of cancer,” you say, with a trace of smugness. Let’s see them kill you of that.
The leader nods to the woman on his left. “When’s your birthday?” he asks her.
“July 13,” she replies.
“So you’re a cancer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, hop to it,” the leader says. The woman grabs an axe leaning against a nearby wall. Her blow lands dead in the middle of your skull.