Category: Stichomancy Prompts

At Petit Julien’s Entrance

  • by Kentexhilarating hipness
  • the world maps and the blueprints
  • two 12-foot-high anthropomorphic hotdogs
  • butting against them with his rear end
  • also the name of his dog

Tune in next time part 812      Click Here for Earlier Installments

At Petit Julien’s entrance, the entire audience surged to its feet, and all three of the people attending Jim’s play clapped ecstatically, overwhelmed by the exhilarating hipness of being in the presence of the Mime King. These same people would be less thrilled about the situation if they had ever seen what was tacked up to the walls of Mime HQ: the world maps and the blueprints for doomsday devices that never speak a word.

But their foolish fawning was, for us, fortuitous, because Petit Julien can’t resist performing before an appreciative crowd. And, per the idiom, three people qualifies. It was imperative that we make our getaway while he was distracted, but I couldn’t abandon Jim. I tried to subtly draw him down from the stage without breaking Petit Julien’s mime-fugue. Despite myself I was enthralled by what he conveyed. I could really imagine that he was having an altercation with two 12-foot-high anthropomorphic hotdogs, butting against them with his rear end to drive them over a precipice. At least, I chose to believe that was what he was acting out.

Jim was even more mesmerized by the Mime King, too far gone to ever notice my subtle hand signals. I cleared my throat, but he ignored that too. Finally I stage-whispered, “James,” not so much on the basis that using his formal name would get his attention as in the hopes that he would feel puzzlement and concern, because James was also the name of his dog.

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Apart From the Man in the Front Row

  • by jendressed in an all-black suit
  • suede and velvet
  • and tenacity and
  • cutest earmuffs he’s ever seen
  • make this videoconference party special

Tune in next time part 811      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Apart from the man in the front row who’d demanded to know my identity, there were only two other people attending Jim’s pornographic sock puppet show. I didn’t recognize them. On stage, Jim was dressed in an all-black suit as puppeteers often are, but his suit was made of suede and velvet and tenacity and snakeskin. On his head were what he calls the cutest earmuffs he’s ever seen. They’re shaped like penguins, and I have to admit they are adorable. Jim adopted a squeaky voice for the female sock puppet and said, still with his southern-tinged slavic accent, “Tonight we make this videoconference party specialest videoconference party ever, da?”

Tessa and I smirked at each other. That was the start of the raunchiest part of the show. Before it could really get good, though, the door behind us slammed open and an irate Petit Julien lurched into the puppet theater.

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We Dashed Out Of The Airship’s Dinner Theater

  • by Kentthird brother-in-law
  • I’m a super optimistic person
  • I’m sorry, but who is this man?
  • puppets, comrades
  • infamous party that included a bisexual orgy, a black mass, and — most shockingly —

Tune in next time part 810      Click Here for Earlier Installments

We dashed out of the airship’s dinner theater and immediately found ourselves in another, much smaller theater. I recognized the lead performer as my wife’s third brother-in-law, aka my brother Jim. No one would say I’m a super optimistic person, but even I had been pretty sure our situation was due to get less complicated, not more.

Our arrival seemed to have brought the show to a halt. Someone in the front row stood and pointed at me. “I’m sorry, but who is this man?”

“Never mind the interruption,” my brother drawled. But there was something odd about his accent. “Please to return attention to puppets, comrades,” he continued. I wondered what had been happening to him since I last saw him in the petting zoo, and I wondered why he was affecting this slavic persona. But I knew I would need to be patient about asking any questions.

Jim had socks on both hands, and by their “costumes” I suddenly knew which play he was doing. It was something that had been written on a partition in the seediest bathroom at The Academy, accumulating over the decades a line at a time. It contained much that was clearly fiction, but also a blow-by-blow depiction — likely factual — of an infamous party that included a bisexual orgy, a black mass, and — most shockingly — a duel fought (inconclusively) with uncooked spaghetti.

I took a closer look at the small audience, wondering who was attending such a peculiar exhibition.

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I was in the Same Airborne Dinner Theater as Petit Julien

  • by jenmade with real human bones
  • everyone acted like you’d pooped on the floor
  • assortment of exotic jerkies
  • while grunting like a zombie
  • (and in denial)

Tune in next time part 809      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I was in the same airborne dinner theater as Petit Julien, the most dangerous mime in the world, (and in denial). All I wanted was to have a few peaceful hours alone with Tessa, the woman I loved, but our lives were too complicated for even that simple pleasure. Tessa had commandeered the theater’s sound system and was blasting Deuce Pamplemousse’s disco anthem Hop on My Caboose in what I hoped was an effort at distracting the deranged mime. Her attempt was moderately successful. While grunting like a zombie, swaying his hips, and occasionally thrusting one finger to the sky, Julien was still lurching toward me. Hearing a mime of such high calibre making any noise at all was as unexpected as finding an assortment of exotic jerkies in a vegetarian buffet. Mimes are mercilessly shamed into silence early in their schooling. If you so much as sneezed, everyone acted like you’d pooped on the floor.

The audience seemed baffled, and the actors on stage opted to wing it and pretend this was part of the show. I wished them luck as Tessa exited the control booth and the two of us ducked out the back door. I didn’t know what would happen when the song ended, but I did know that Julien had a secret recipe for his white face paint. It was made with real human bones ground into a powder and mixed with petroleum jelly. Contrarian thespians are made of stern stuff, but I wasn’t sure they were up for this particular adversary.

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The Situation Was Dire Indeed

  • by KentWhat kind of traps?
  • why there was a whole cucumber back there
  • purple leather shorts
  • Ha ha ha. (In my personal experience.)
  • not a disco album?

Tune in next time part 808      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The situation was dire indeed if it truly was Petit Julien we faced, the mime no invisible box could hold. What kind of barrier would be effective? What kind of traps? Tessa knew far more mime lore than I did, so I hoped she was aware of some critical weakness we could exploit.

She vaulted over the bar and disappeared through a door. I gave chase and found myself dashing through a commercial kitchen, leaving it behind so fast I barely had time to wonder why there was a whole cucumber back there when the chapel only served them brined and sliced.

Tessa hadn’t slowed down, so I couldn’t afford to either. I pursued her through the dinner theater. I couldn’t remember what show they were running, but the lead actor’s purple leather shorts jogged my memory. It was a Contrarian comedy about dehydration. It was full of dry humor. Ha ha ha. (In my personal experience.) (The animated version ran on weekday afternoons when I was a kid.) (And I was a weird kid.)

I risked a look back. The burly man was still following, and seemed to be gaining. That momentary glance away was all it took for me to lose sight of Tessa. I kept running, scanning the crowd. A few seconds later I deduced that she’d gone into the control booth, based on the sudden blast of music. I hoped this was actually something the Mime King would be vulnerable to. I had no idea what might be effective, so why not a disco album?

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“Don’t Look Now, Enzo”

  • by jenburly man with a thick neck
  • appears to be a sequined ballgown
  • fondness for partying, drinking, and womanizing
  • photographic evidence of the handholding toilet experience
  • they had a civil marriage

Tune in next time part 807      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Don’t look now, Enzo,” I whispered, “but there’s a burly man with a thick neck creeping up behind you. He’s wearing what appears to be a sequined ballgown.”

She whispered back, “It sounds like he’s the sort of guy who has a fondness for partying, drinking, and womanizing.”

This was a game we played, our own variation on What’s Their Story. Only everything we said was in code, so that we could relay important information to each other without anyone becoming suspicious.

I nodded. “I think he’s a salesman for Hizzenherrs Toilets, and always carries photographic evidence of the handholding toilet experience they try to promote.”

Her eyes went wide. “His parents founded the company. They liked to poop together because they had a civil marriage. Their motto was ‘Never go to the bathroom angry.'”

If that were true, it was worse than I thought, and the man sneaking up behind her wasn’t just any old mime. He was the most ruthless mime of them all, their king, Petit Julien.

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“That Would Be Cruel”

  • by Kentshook his butt
  • walk around in ugly pajamas
  • rhythm helps your two hips move
  • writhed around like he was being electrocuted
  • focusing less on his lemon

Tune in next time part 806      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“That would be cruel,” Tessa chided. “First we shoot them with blowdarts, and then we just abandon them to post-polarization syndrome?”

“You shot them with blowdarts,” I corrected. “Feel free to lay the abandonment entirely on me and we’ll call it even.”

“That’s not how it works. We’re in this together.” She hopped off her barstool and danced across the chapel to where Rosencrantz was flailing about on his couch. She jostled the couch forcefully, which shook his butt right off it.

He was too woozy to stand on his own, but sharp enough to give me the stinkeye and say, “You must have some reason to walk around in ugly pajamas all day.”

“I’m dressed as a scientist,” I complained.

Meanwhile Tessa had gone to the other couch and dislodged its lanky occupant. As she shoved on the couch, she explained to him, “The rhythm helps your two hips move out of the polarization zone.” He sprawled on the floor. “Hey, Seahorse,” Tessa called. “How we doing with those pickles?”

“Calm down, Enzo.” Against my better judgment I took a couple of gherkins and some fruit garnishes over to Rosenkrantz. He first tried to bite my hand, then writhed around like he was being electrocuted in order to fend off my efforts at feeding him. He seized a wedge of citrus from me and tried to weaponize its juice, aiming for my eyes. He only managed to stain my lab coat, but by then I was focusing less on his lemon and more on the newest arrival in the pickle chapel.

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Rosenkrantz and His Tall Companion

  • by jencreated a lot of real headaches
  • hungry yet oddly belligerent
  • medieval nonsense from an old song
  • world’s least-sexual use of lips
  • as though by magic

Tune in next time part 805      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Rosenkrantz and his tall companion ceased being polarized in perfect synchronicity, as though by magic. The final stage before normalcy resumed had their facial features squirming around like an organic Rubik’s cube, truly the world’s least-sexual use of lips. Nonsense words sprang from those writhing lips, sounding like medieval nonsense from an old song.

“Better get some pickles ready,” Tessa said.

I nodded. Polarization makes one hungry yet oddly belligerent about eating. If you weren’t able to cram some food into a recent polarizee’s mouth pretty immediately it created a lot of real headaches.

Then I had another thought. “We could just leave.”

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Our Next Move

  • by Kentthe eerie exhibition
  • optimal number of dogs
  • never fun for someone else’s drama to splash on you
  • stroked the back of her hand over its rough surface
  • both became fairly competent rappers over the years

Tune in next time part 804      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Our next move was apparently to remain stationary for a while longer wondering what the hell was going on. In a way it was ironic that Lyudmila and Jason were enemies, because they both became fairly competent rappers over the years. Seemed that way to me anyway, not that I considered myself an expert. But I began to wonder if this was the common thread that would explain the coded message.

Tessa ordered another pickle, saying it would help her think. I said I didn’t think that was wise, but she ignored me and stroked the back of her hand over its rough surface, so intent on this action that brine was flung from her fingers and got all over me. It’s never fun for someone else’s drama to splash on you, especially not when that drama is in the form of Contrarian pickle brine.

A hazy recollection rose up, something I’d overheard at one of Fleur’s family functions. “The optimal number of dogs is one cat…” and then there was more that I didn’t quite catch. But why would John’s sister be referencing Contrarian idioms in messages to my twin?

I swiveled on my barstool just in time to observe the eerie exhibition of two polarizing couches simultaneously running out of juice.

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Choosing a Code Name

  • by jenyou rapacious bird of prey
  • ever seen an old lady with a secret
  • using a plain old corkscrew
  • room-quaking vocal performances
  • not even her children knew

Tune in next time part 803      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Choosing a code name is something you shouldn’t overthink. Everyone wants something badass, something that will inspire one’s enemy to gasp, “Night Talon, you rapacious bird of prey! I surrender!” But it rarely works out that way. Mostly they laugh because you tried too hard. For that reason I was leaning more toward the seahorse or spaghetti end of the spectrum. I opted for Seahorse because it seemed the most innocuous. I mean, have you ever seen an old lady with a secret pasta recipe? They are vicious! My own grandmother once pinned my Aunt Züg’s hand to the table using a plain old corkscrew when Züg tried to guess the secret ingredient in her infamous buttered noodles. Züg gave one of the most room-quaking vocal performances I’ve ever heard, screaming in pain and outrage. That was the thing about Granny. Not even her children knew what might set her off.

So anyway, code names chosen, Enzo and the Seahorse were finally ready to make their next move.

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