29 Dec 2018
Today’s prompt: “What a character holding a blue object is thinking right now”
The old woman with the blue orb is thinking about what you had for dinner last night. She closes her eyes as the taste floods her mouth. The texture of each bite, the smell – she’s experiencing every last bit of it.
The old woman with the blue orb is thinking about the last time you were in a hospital room, pacing the halls, staring out the windows, waiting anxiously for news.
A few stray black hairs nestle in the woman’s white coiffure.
She’s thinking about what you looked like when you danced at a friend’s wedding.
She’s thinking about your first taste of coffee, hot and bitter.
She’s thinking about your first date, uncomfortable clothes and nerves.
The skin smooths at the corners of her eyes.
She thinks about your swimming lessons. A day at your first job, dealing with a difficult customer. Your first kiss.
The woman with the blue orb is thinking about a day you stood on the side of the road with a flat tire. A day you skinned your knee on the playground. A day you knicked yourself with a razor.
The young woman with the blue orb watches as you collapse in front of her on the floor of the cave. She smiles.
28 Dec 2018
Today’s prompt: “The long-lost roommate”
Gideon disappeared a year and four months ago, leaving you all in the lurch. His share of the rent unpaid. His room full of his belongings. You weren’t sure how long to hold on to them. Amy suggested chucking his stuff after three weeks. Brad tried to convince you all that he’d be back, even though he’d never been gone more than two days at a time. It’s not like you hadn’t been worried. Of course you were worried. You speculated where he could be. You fielded calls from his parents when he didn’t call after months, didn’t even show up at Thanksgiving or Christmas. At first you joked that he was dead, then seriously thought he’d been in an accident. You called around to the local hospitals after the third day. Nothing. Eventually, you had to get pragmatic. After two and a half months, you split his Corn Nut stash three ways and gave all his jeans, sweatshirts and Warhammer minis to the Salvation Army. Brad’s new girlfriend moved in a couple months later, and that was that.
Until Gideon showed up again, his hair long and matted, his eyes yellowed and sunken, tattoos you’d never seen before covering his face. He was wearing the same clothes you last saw him in, a Pantera shirt and dark, shredded jeans, all the worse for wear. Cuffs were frayed, seams were ripped, and you could smell the clothes from feet away.
“Gideon,” you say, holding the apartment door open. “How are you? Where were you?”
“Eyes have not seen,” Gideon says, “nor ears heard.”
“What the fuck, man?” Brad says. “We were worried about you.”
“Eyes have not seen,” Gideon says, “nor ears heard.”
“Gideon, you’re freaking us out,” Amy says. “What’s wrong? Say something else, for fuck’s sake.”
Gideon steps over the threshhold.
“Eyes have not seen.”
You back up. He steps forward again.
“Nor ears heard.”
His right hand is busy with something at his waist. You look down. It’s a Leatherman. He keeps flicking the blade open and closed.
“Eyes have not seen.”
Flick.
“Nor ears heard.”
Flick.
“Gideon,” you laugh, a forced, nervous laugh in a register so high it surprises you, “we thought maybe you’d joined a cult or something.”
“Eyes have not seen.”
Flick.
You back up a step.
“Gideon, stop it,” Amy says.
“Nor ears. Heard.”
The last thing you see is Gideon’s Leatherman lunging toward your left eye.
27 Dec 2018
Today’s prompt: “Something you had that was stolen”
Your heart, literally, as the servant of Nyarlathotep carves it out of your chest.
26 Dec 2018
Today’s prompt: “Tell a story that begins with a ransom note.”
“We have the bag of meat-flesh you have emotions for. If you want it back, put 500,000 quatloos in the Dark Matter Vortex behind the Blubby’s Burgers in Quadrant 47,” the alien that looks like a bipedal four-armed sentient burlap sack filled with cockroaches reads.
“Excellent, Vix-trom,” says the fat purple gelatinous alien through its fat purple gelatinous lips. “And I see you made the note from letters cut out of a publication, as is customary among the Earthen meat-sacks.”
“It’s important to get the details right,” Vix-trom says. “Speaking of which, I believe it is also tradition to cut off a part of the body and mail it with the note.”
“We could cut off one of the weird bony tentacles on the ends of its arms,” says the fat purple alien, entwining the fat purple jellylike tentacles at the ends of its arms.
“How would the meat-flesh’s family know it came from their meat-flesh?” says Vix-trom.
“Ugh, all the meat-bags look the same to me,” says the fat purple alien.
“I think you tell them apart by their patches of fur,” Vix-trom says, grabbing your hair.
“Mmmmph,” you attempt to say through your gag.
“We should cut off its head and send it to the meat-bag’s family,” says the fat purple alien, removing its own head with its tentacle arms. “That way, they know we have their meat-bag, and they can just reattach the head when we give them the body back,” it says, demonstrating with its own head.
“Mmmm mmmm!” you say.
“Good idea,” says Vix-trom. Its lower right arm produces a thin, gleaming blade and slashes all the way through your neck. Your head hits the floor with a thud and your body slumps in its chains.
“Is it dead?” says the fat purple alien. “Stupid meat-sacks.”
25 Dec 2018
Today’s prompt: “You are an astronaut. Describe your perfect day.”
The day couldn’t have started better. Somehow, hidden in all the packages of freeze-dried creamed spinach and chicken teriyaki, there was a packet of beef enchiladas and, wonder of wonders, some shrimp cocktail. You could have sworn you were out of the good stuff. Maybe the beef enchilada fairy visited overnight.
Conditions were perfect for the descent to Mars. You and Maria take the lander down to the surface. It touches down as smoothly as a fat snowflake nestling in the branch of a fir tree.
“Let’s draw straws for who gets to go first,” Maria says. She produces two foil strips she’s saved from the tops of food packets, one trimmed shorter than the other. She turns her back to you, fiddling with the strips, then turns back around, the two ends poking out of her fist at an equal height. You suck in your breath and pick the one on the left. She opens her hand and holds up her strip, showing you she has the short one.
“Lucky bastard,” she says.
You step out of the lander. The surface is curiously springy, the powdery dust giving way below your footsteps. Despite the bulk of your space suit, you feel exhilarated. Maria follows, and then Paul, Aubrey and Colin from the other lander. You all set to work connecting pieces of the base.
You look up, shading your eyes against the sun’s glare. Deimos and Phobos are both out in the orange-y sky. It’s breathtaking. Your heart swells. You’re the first ones. The first humans on this planet.
You and Maria hop back aboard your lander to head back to the orbiter for more equipment. As you lift off, you hear a clank. You radio to Aubrey, who’s pulling the last of the gear out of the second lander, “I think I heard something as we took off. Can you see anything out of order on the outside of our lander?”
“I can’t see anything from here. Have Scott check you out as you get closer,” she says.
You relay the same message to Scott up in the orbiter, and he agrees to keep an eye out as you ascend.
You’re almost to the orbiter when Scott radios down, “I can see it now. The docking mechanism came loose. It’s still partly attached, but you’ll need to rebolt the one side. Easy fix.”
“You want to handle it?” Maria says. “I know you love your space walks.”
You do love your space walks. When you rode roller coasters as a kid, at the moment before the big drop, you always wondered if walking out in space alongside your ship would feel like that. But fixing a broken part on the outside of a spacecraft is like free climbing in Zero G. It’s intense.
You’ve just reattached the docking mechanism when Maria calls out, “There’s something wrong with the controls. The fuel – I can’t–”
Any further explanation is immediately cut off. The lander burns through a sudden burst of rocket fuel and jolts toward the orbiter. Your torque wrench is long gone. You’re lucky to hold on to the railing.
The lander hits the side of the orbiter with a crumpling sound, then pulls away. “Maria?” you call out on your radio. “Maria!” No one answers.
You work your way to the lander’s door and pound on it. “Maria!” No response. Frantically, you pound with both fists. You’re not even trying not to cry, even though you know your tears have nowhere to go. You beat both fists against the door.
Which is when you notice the frayed end of your broken tether float past your face.
You reach for the railing, but it’s already too far away.
24 Dec 2018
Today’s prompt: “Write Facebook status updates from the year 2017.” (The book was published in 2012.)
“TFW you didn’t get any sleep last night because your neighbors were up all night chanting ‘Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.’”
“The liberal media doesn’t want you to know that Hillary’s email server was hiding direct communications with Cthulhu himself. WAKE UP SHEEPLE!”
Buzzfeed article: “20 Reasons Why the Ascendancy of Our Dread Lord Cthulhu Might Not Be as Bad as You Think.”
[Facebook posts cease as, much like all its users, the site dies on Aug. 17, 2023.]
23 Dec 2018
Today’s prompt: “A houseplant is dying. Tell it why it needs to live.”
“You’ve got to be strong. You’ve got to carry on.”
The philodrendon’s yellowed leaves and wilting stem are unaffected by your pleas.
“Come on, plant, you have to live! After all,” you sputter, the blood from your throat pooling around the philodrendon’s pot, “one of us has to.”