Category: Stichomancy Prompts

With My Right Fist I Drew a Figure in the Air

  • by jendescribed as peanut shaped
  • “One of your lovers?”
  • spider venom coursing through his veins
  • five kinds of tranquilizers
  • those polarizing candy cane striped couches

Tune in next time part 791      Click Here for Earlier Installments

With my right fist I drew a figure in the air, one that my sensei once described as peanut shaped. It was designed to distract and mesmerize an attacker. I hoped it would work when there was more than one.

“Who taught you that?” the taller man asked. “One of your lovers?” The way he said it I could tell he was hoping to upset Tessa by implying she was not my only paramour. She ignored his taunt and pulled out a blowgun, and moments later both the tall man and his little buddy were on the floor, not moving.

“They’re not dead, are they?” I asked. I wasn’t sure how Fleur would feel about that sort of thing on her airship.

Tessa smirked. “Not unless either one of them is allergic to the spider venom coursing through his veins now. Or any of the other five kinds of tranquilizers.”

She’d dosed them both with mime juice. I shuddered. You can take the girl out of the invisible box…

“I wonder who sent them,” she said.

“I know how we can find out. Help me drag them over to those polarizing candy cane striped couches flanking the altar, and when they wake up–”

Tessa finished my thought. “We’ll polarize them.”

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If You’re Like Most People

  • by Kentviolent constipation
  • I know what a kitchen is for
  • he’s… “passionate”… about… fish?
  • “Observe: a perfectly shaped square.”
  • movie stars with long hair, rosy cheeks, and beards

Tune in next time part 790      Click Here for Earlier Installments

If you’re like most people, you’ve given a lot of thought to what someone who lurks in the shadowy recesses of a pickle chapel should look like. And, how someone whose greetings are vulgar and hostile should dress. In neither case do you probably expect movie stars with long hair, rosy cheeks, and beards that could conceal adult raccoons.

The owner of the booming voice was a hairy adonis, as was his companion. Both men held up their left hands, palm outward. Booming-voice said, “Observe: a perfectly shaped square.” Inked onto his palm was a lopsided oval that might have been an eggplant. The other man’s hand displayed a horseshoe, complete with nail holes.

“Who are you?” I demanded. Under my breath I added, “And who taught you geometry?”

“All things are squares to us, for we are Right Anglers. Your ass-kicking is the thing I’m second-most passionate about, right behind our finny underwater friends.” He stood, and I was startled by how little difference it made. His companion, however, was fully a head taller than me.

I tried to inventory the situation, but it made no sense at all. I’ve never heard of this guy, but he wants to kick my ass, and he’s… “passionate”… about… fish? Then what’s he doing on an airship? Now he’s coming toward me, so I better do something.

My favorite stance for unarmed combat was the one they called a kitchen in my dojo. There were all kinds of other options, from powder rooms to breakfast nooks, but their purposes were never clear to me. I know what a kitchen is for: not getting my ass kicked.

“Ugh, men!” Tessa huffed. “Your emotional landscapes are nothing but violent constipation.”

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I Didn’t Care Why She’d had a Xylophone Glued to her Head

  • by jenBetween every single smooch I was sopping up sweat
  • Jeepers creepers!
  • the standard inking method
  • enters her wedding night tongue-tied
  • weirdly pleasing metallic smell

Tune in next time part 789      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I didn’t care why she’d had a xylophone glued to her head. Simply knowing that Tessa was an ultra-secret spy was a total turn-on. I leaned over and kissed her, hard, on the mouth. The pickle brine on her tongue made my eyes sting, and her kisses raised my body heat. Between every single smooch I was sopping up sweat with the tablecloth, but I kept going back for more.

“Jeepers creepers!” Tessa cried. “You’re going to drown us both!”

“I’ll be dehydrated soon,” I murmured, in what I hoped was a seductive voice. I must have been wrong because Tessa immediately started talking about tattoos again, and how the standard inking method wouldn’t work if she used the pickle skewer, but she was willing to improvise.

“Tessa, no. No improvisation. No tattoos.”

“You’re acting like some blushing bride who enters her wedding night tongue-tied and scandalized, but I know you. You’re a man of the world. You’re the sort of man whose copious sweat has a weirdly pleasing metallic smell. The kind of man who is up for anything. The kind of man who–”

She was interrupted by a deep voice booming from the depths of the pickle chapel. “The kind of man who’s about to get his ass kicked.”

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The Aztec Twelve-Step

  • by Kentsecret network of spies
  • standard practice to have a pig diagram tattooed on your body
  • … well, your friend, really
  • I touched his arm that day in the park
  • glued to your head

Tune in next time part 788      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The Aztec twelve-step was thought by many to be a myth, but those of us in the business knew it was the initiation protocol of a very secret network of spies, like, even more secret than a regular spy network. Steps one through eleven were not too hard to track down, but of course the twelfth and final step was the one for all the marbles.

“That still doesn’t explain your escape,” I said.

“Well you see, it enabled me to become initiated, and the secret network released me so I could go on my first mission for them.” Tessa’s eyes became evasive. “I never completed that mission, so now I’m considered a defector.”

“Teach me the twelfth and final step,” I said. “Then maybe I can clear your name.”

She shook her head, but then she scrunched her forehead and stared at me. “All I can tell you right now is, for male initiates, it’s standard practice to have a pig diagram tattooed on your body.” She smirked. “We could kill two birds with one needle, if you let me ink you… well, your friend really… with that design.”

“No deal,” I said. “I want to help you out, but not like that.”

She gazed off into the distance. “If only I’d known where it would all lead, when I touched his arm that day in the park.”

“Whose arm?”

“I didn’t know it was him until later: the Silent One, the Prime Mime. It was an honest mistake! I was distracted. You would be too, if you had a xylophone glued to your head.”

“Why was there…” I trailed off. I knew she wasn’t going to tell me.

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“What Happened to Timmuth-A Through Timmuth-D?”

  • by jenno easier way to put someone in a box
  • gently inserting the tines around the circumference
  • on a gondola in Venice
  • drinking mimosas in secret
  • the Aztec twelve-step

Tune in next time part 787      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“What happened to Timmuth-A through Timmuth-D?” I asked, knowing it wouldn’t be pretty. Mimes are ruthless.

“There’s no easier way to put someone in a box and get them to stay there than to kill them.” Tessa looked haunted. “At least that’s what Timmuth-E said.” She’d picked up the pickle skewer and was gently inserting the tines around the circumference of the kosher dill she’d been nibbling on.

“That’s pretty dark,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you to say they were all on a gondola in Venice, drinking mimosas in secret or anything, but, shit, man. Mimes.”

Tessa nodded solemnly. “Mimes are the worst.”

“Except Timmuth-E helped you escape…”

“No he didn’t. He slipped up and spilled some intel he shouldn’t have, that’s all.”

“What was it?”

She looked me dead in the eye and said something that took my breath away. “He taught me the twelfth and final step of the Aztec twelve-step.”

I couldn’t believe it. “You mean…”

She nodded and threw back another bite of pickle.

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Tessa Steeled Herself With Another Chomp of Pickle

  • by Kenta lot of maraschino cherries
  • giggling under inappropriate circumstances
  • flirting with my husband forever
  • never done anything more musical than cupping his armpit
  • usually requires special eye drops

Tune in next time part 786      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Tessa steeled herself with another chomp of pickle and continued her tale.

“They knew my mission was hopeless, but they sent me in anyway. They sent me in there for answers, knowing it’s impossible to make mimes talk. Well, I tried my best and all I did was make a bunch of very important enemies. It didn’t take long for them to catch on that I was up to something and lock me up. At first it wasn’t so bad, because they just put me in one of their invisible boxes. But I got sloppy and they figured out I was escaping, so then they used an actual cell.”

“You mean like in a jail?” I asked, smirking.

“It wasn’t jail!” Tessa grumbled. She bit into the pickle again. “You know what this needs? A nice garnish. Most bars have a lot maraschino cherries and shit like that. Can we get some?”

I signalled the bartender while making a rolling gesture to tell Tessa to go on with the story.

“Anyway, it was technically solitary confinement because I was the only one there. And being alone too much made me act weird, like giggling under inappropriate circumstances and hallucinating that I had a husband and then hallucinating that my sisters were flirting with my husband forever. Which, of course is what they would do. But giggling is against the rules, as is shouting at hallucinatory siblings, so my punishment kept getting extended. That’s why I was still there when another malcontent got put in the slammer and suddenly I had a cellmate. His crime: singing.”

I whistled. “That must be verging on treason in the mime community.”

She nodded, then shook her head. “It was a total frame-up. He had never done anything more musical than cupping his armpit, which they all do. It’s why their hands smell.” She glanced around. “Where the hell are those cherries? Whatever. The new guy’s name was Timmuth-E, which he told me in one of the many notes we passed back and forth. We wrote them on thin air with our fingertips, and reading them usually requires special eye drops but we got good at it. Eventually, he shared the information that enabled me to escape.”

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“Don’t Be a Baby”

  • by jenLast I heard, you were in jail.
  • chew it a little if needed
  • know that you are very rude and are also now my enemy
  • throw the glove in her face
  • You got guts, kid.

Tune in next time part 785      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Don’t be a baby,” Tessa cajoled. “You can take it. You got guts, kid.”

“What I have, Tessa, is the need for you to listen to me. You can’t give me a tattoo there, and if you don’t stop pushing my boundaries, I won’t let you give me a tattoo anywhere.”

I knew I was being blunt, but sometimes that sort of thing is called for. I did not intend to metaphorically throw the glove in her face, but she took it as an insult anyway.

“If that’s how it is, then know that you are very rude and are also now my enemy,” she huffed. She turned her back on me and crossed her arms.

The bartender approached obsequiously, with an oversized pickle on a tray. The fumes wafting from it were eye-watering. He murmured, “This will calm the lady down, sir. She can sniff it, or lick it, maybe chew it a little if needed. The mix is very potent.”

“Thanks.” I took the pickle from him and he scuttled back to the bar.

I laid my hand on Tessa’s shoulder. When she whirled around, I offered her the alcoholic vegetable. “Maybe we should slow down,” I said. “We spent so many years apart, it’s hard to jump into a relationship, much as we both might want to. We need to get to know each other again. Tell me your story,” I coaxed as she eyed the pickle warily. “Tell me what happened to you all those years we were apart. I lost track of you when you went to South America. Last I heard, you were in jail. Mime jail.”

“It wasn’t jail.” She took a hefty bite of the pickle. “At first I was undercover, and then I was their prisoner.”

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Contrarian Pickle Brine

  • by Kentlittle piles of salt
  • located at the base of your spine
  • suitcase full of raw meat
  • meant to be a group experience
  • I have held my tongue

Tune in next time part 784      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Contrarian pickle brine is extremely volatile and evaporates rapidly, leaving little piles of salt to mark each place where it has dripped. The air inside St Mungo’s was mostly brine fumes, and Tessa was less adapted to such an atmosphere than the bartender or myself. She giggled and her eyes had become a bit glazed, but she spoke distinctly. “I want you to have a three-pointed tattoo, and I want it to be located at the base of your spine,” she said.

That was a welcome change of plans.

“…in the front,” she finished belatedly. Even through the haze of Contrarian pickle-brine vapors, the look on her face made me feel like a suitcase full of raw meat in a tiger cage.

Tessa summoned the barkeep with her finger. When he leaned close, she said loudly, “Help me take his pants off.”

Intimate tattooing is not, in my opinion, meant to be a group experience. The bartender sized me up, then muttered something about needing to arrange the gherkins as an excuse to go back behind the bar. Tessa seemed undeterred, brandishing the skewer and shaking the ink bottle. Please understand that I wasn’t afraid of tattoos in general. I have applied ointment by the quart to my chest. I have held my tongue between ice cubes. There’s a lot I’m willing to go through, but we all draw the line somewhere. And I draw the line at where I’ll let anyone — even Tessa — draw the line.

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Mincers and Bustlers Alike

  • by jenroom to enjoy pickles
  • drunk and frisky
  • gathered there in St Mungo’s
  • I kept a toothbrush there
  • wiping the perspiration from his forehead

Tune in next time part 783      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Mincers and bustlers alike were tripping over their feet far more than even the scathing reviews had led me to expect. When I realized where they had just come from, it all made sense. Every Royal Contrarian Airship has a Pickle Chapel (a room to enjoy pickles in), and Contrarian pickles have a very high alcohol content. Spending time with high-octane phallic objects had left the dancers drunk and frisky, and promised to make their next show quite interesting. I wondered why they were gathered there in St Mungo’s Pickle Chapel. It was nowhere near the auditorium.

“Let’s go in,” I said to Tessa. The pickle chapel was one of my favorite places. I spent so much time in St Mungo’s, I kept a toothbrush there. Once Tessa tasted the pickles, she’d forget all about giving me a tattoo.

We dodged around the inebriated dancers and entered the hush of the chapel. The bartender looked exhausted, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with one hand while refilling the pickle barrels with the other.

The sting of vinegar and alcohol in my nostrils made my eyes water. Tessa seized a pickle skewer from the tray on the bar and grinned. “I was looking for something sharp to give your tattoo with!”

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Tessa Slipped My Grip

  • by Kentput the paper back into the envelope
  • Come, girls, bustle about.
  • all the feathers were in their correct positions
  • “throwing ice cubes at a parade”
  • bag of greenish-brown sludge

Tune in next time part 782      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Tessa slipped my grip and took hold of my briefs-weasel once more. “You know you want it,” she purred. Her fingers performed an elaborate shimmying dance in there.

“But, um,” I stammered, “that’s just it. I’m not sure, but what I do know is that you can’t, uh, put the paper back into the envelope. Or something. There’s no going back.”

Just then a nearby door burst open. A dozen people trooped into the corridor, last of all a woman in jodhpurs who barked, “Come, girls, bustle about. Boys, keep mincing. Good, good. We don’t need a repeat of the matinee, when not all the feathers were in their correct positions!”

Some of the bustlers and mincers glanced our way, but no one fully acknowledged our presence. The sudden crowd did distract Tessa long enough for me to escape. If I was not mistaken, we were witnessing a rehearsal for the show one Contrarian critic described as how it would look if a troop of wombats began “throwing ice cubes at a parade” and less enjoyable than “drinking an entire bag of greenish-brown sludge.”

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