Category: Stichomancy Prompts

“Isn’t It Time”

  • by KentUh uh honey
  • a very colorful lovelife
  • while screaming like a demon
  • “I’ll get you a piano”
  • only he and his dream owl know

Tune in next time part 628      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Isn’t it time for us to get some sleep?” I implored Hildegard.

“Uh uh honey.” She shook her head, a wryly seductive sneer twisting her greasepaint mustache asymmetrically. “I’m shocked to hear you complaining. By all accounts you lead a very colorful lovelife.”

“That doesn’t mean I never get tired. Or, that my enjoyment is enhanced if my partner dismounts mid-coitus while screaming like a demon that I should be bidding higher.”

“The prize was a grand piano! And you were messing it up.”

“I’ll get you a piano,” I retorted. “A real one. But you’ll just get pudding all over it.”

“But the prizes in our games are real. Things in the realm of the owl are realer than the things we can touch.”

“What owl?”

“Snorefeather. Oh, I forgot, you’re a heathen from the mainland.” She sat up and cleared her throat. “The sheep we count to fall asleep are tended by a dream shepherd, and only he and his dream owl know (the owl’s name is Snorefeather, but nobody knows the shepherd’s name) and only they know what’s really real, and what only seems real.”

“Oh. Well, in that case I guess I already got you the piano.”

Hildegard winked and laid back on the sticky bed. “But now you owe me one I can get pudding on.”

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Exhausted and Glazed with Butterscotch Pudding

  • by jengot a little gift of his own
  • (only purple)
  • drifting unguided and unmanned
  • a bit flummoxed
  • with each passing hour

Tune in next time part 627      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Exhausted, and glazed with butterscotch pudding, I stared at Hildegard as she did her best Bob Barker impression in the purple honeymoon suite. “Here’s your chance to win a brand! new! car!” We’d been at this for hours. First she’d spoon up the pudding, then we’d play a price-guessing game, then we’d fornicate — before starting the whole process over again. Early on, the bellhop delivered our wedding gifts on a luggage cart, and got a little gift of his own when Hildegard answered the door naked. She’d let him choose one of the purple-wrapped boxes of pudding as his tip. All the presents were pudding, and all were wrapped in purple, to match the decor of the entire hotel. It was like King Midas had strolled through, running his hands over everything and turning it to gold. (Only purple). I felt like my metaphors weren’t working very well, like my mind was drifting unguided and unmanned in an amethyst sea. All the purple and all the butterscotch had me a bit flummoxed, and my flummoxation grew with each passing hour and each passing Showcase Showdown.

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What About Chartreuse Pamplemousse Indeed

  • by Kentcondoms scattered around
  • unfuck them one by one
  • the melancholy croaking of innumerable penguins
  • kissed hers with exceptional vivacity
  • butterscotch pudding and The Price is Right

Tune in next time part 626      Click Here for Earlier Installments

What about Chartreuse Pamplemousse indeed. I pictured him walking in on us in the honeymoon suite, with used condoms scattered around the bed like obscene banana peels. I’d never met this infamous eye doctor and scion of House Pamplemousse, but I envisioned a hulking maniac bent on vengeance, seeking justice by making me track down all my former lovers and unfuck them one by one.

It was snowing again, and when the organist began the recessional I mistook it for the melancholy croaking of innumerable penguins. But there were only the two penguins, as per Bumpengryndian wedding custom, and Hildegard crouched down and kissed hers with exceptional vivacity. Not wanting to prolong this ordeal, I gave mine a demure smooch on its cheek.

I sighed. “Time for Netflix and chill?” I asked, once the officiant was safely out of earshot.

“What? Oh, we don’t really use that expression here,” Hildegard said. She added in a husky voice, “We say ‘butterscotch pudding and The Price is Right.’ And we mean it literally.”

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Though Hildegard’s Vows Weren’t in English

  • by jenAs a former boarding school kid
  • desk lamp selected by the head of the architectural department
  • reduce human-camel conflicts
  • “You don’t trust him?”
  • all traces of its natural color were obliterated by ink stains

Tune in next time part 625      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Though Hildegard’s vows weren’t in English, I understood them easily. As a former boarding school kid, I was fluent in several languages long-considered dead. In my youth I spent many a night hunched over my linguistics manuals, reading by the light of a desk lamp selected by the head of the architectural department to reduce human-camel conflicts in our desert oasis compound. If the polo team’s camels didn’t get enough sleep they were very cranky, and no one likes a cranky camel.

When it was my turn to speak, I leaned in to whisper in Hildegard’s ear. “The officiant knows this is a proxy wedding, yes?”

“You don’t trust him?” Her greasepaint mustache quirked.

“I don’t want to accidentally become a bigamist.” My greasepaint eyebrows, a good inch above my real eyebrows, smeared as my forehead furrowed.

“His tongue!” The officiant cried, pointing at my mouth. “All traces of its natural color were obliterated by ink stains! Golden ink stains!”

I wondered what about my tongue tattoo so upset the man. *He* didn’t have to endure the pain of having it applied.

“When He of the Golden Tongue speaks in a Bumpengryndian ceremony it is immediately binding!”

“Now just wait a minute,” I said.

“The Golden Tongue has spoken! You are wed!”

“Hey,” complained Hildegard. “What about Chartreuse Pamplemousse?”

“Chartreuse Pamplemousse is wedded to the both of you. He of the Golden Tongue hath decreed it.”

I wanted to protest, but was afraid of who else I might end up married to if I opened my mouth.

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Many Places Have Quaint Wedding Customs

  • by Kenther mouth so close to his ear
  • wonder just how many eye doctors
  • I just can’t convince myself
  • unique (though I’m hoping not as unique as I think, fingers crossed)
  • paints a pair of eyebrows

Tune in next time part 624      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Many places have quaint wedding customs. I knew Bumpengrynd’s would be weird and embarrassing, like everything about their culture, but I had little idea what I should expect. I certainly wouldn’t have predicted that the officiant paints a pair of eyebrows and a mustache on the bride and groom.

That indignity was mild compared to what I was wearing: an inversion of Hildegard’s tinsel dress consisting of cuffs around my ankles, multicolored strands, static cling, and sheer force of will. I wished for an air vent to stand on as my outfit drooped more and more throughout the ceremony. Finally, we reached the exchange of vows. Of course Hildegard had written both sets.

As she passed my notecards to me she muttered, “These are unique (though I’m hoping not as unique as I think, fingers crossed). I just can’t convince myself that in a few more seconds I’ll be Mrs Dr Chartreuse Pamplemousse! I wonder just how many eye doctors I’ll get to be married to…”

Finally, while I tried to pretend I wasn’t basically nude in front of all the guests, Hildegard spoke her vows in a whisper. Never has a bride whispered to a groom with her mouth so close to his ear, so though her whisper was exceedingly faint I caught every eldritch syllable.

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We Soon Arrived at Hildegard’s Father’s Home

  • by jenI feel like a ghost
  • preparing and circulating false documents
  • Flip out about this, won’t you?
  • phantom limb pain
  • I’m starting to FREAK out

Tune in next time part 623      Click Here for Earlier Installments

We soon arrived at Hildegard’s father’s home, a low-slung stone building that sprawled across several acres. “I feel like a ghost,” I said. “No matter what I say, you both ignore me.” They continued to ignore me as they bustled about, preparing and circulating false documents to arrange the proxy wedding.

Outside the snow was falling thickly again, making escape an unappealing option. I tried to contact Fleur telepathically in hopes she would deny their bizarre request. “I’m your husband,” I thought at her across the miles. “Flip out about this, won’t you?”

But Fleur did not flip out. Permission was granted, with the ceremony scheduled for that very evening. While Hildegard busied herself with last-minute arrangements, she locked me in the guest wing, a series of small, interconnected rooms with no windows and only one entrance. I walked around the whole space, rapping on the walls, searching for a way out. I felt even more like a ghost, haunting this wretched house, and I did so much rapping that I gave myself phantom limb pain in my knuckles.

A few hours later, Hildegard unlocked the door and handed me a garment bag. “Get dressed,” she ordered. “The ceremony is in five minutes and I’m starting to FREAK out! It’s going to be so awesome to be married to Dr Chartreuse Pamplemousse!” I was afraid to look at my outfit, as Hildegard’s gown seemed to consist entirely of long strands of red and silver tinsel that hung from a band around her neck and draped all the way to the floor, with arms and hips and nipples poking out here and there as she moved.

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Hildegard Didn’t Care

  • by KentNot like a sumo wrestler.
  • “Good god, man, are you insane?”
  • a wolf in girl’s clothing
  • most guys’ crotches are stank factories
  • merry, nearly nude traipse through life

Tune in next time part 622      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Hildegard didn’t care what risks our marriage would pose to me, but I did. I had no desire to find out how Fleur would react. Hildegard wasn’t going to listen to reason, while her father showed no capacity for it. But that might give me my way out.

I turned to the old man. “Your lovely daughter here wants to marry me, as you know.”

“Yes! A son of Zeus Pamplemousse! With a mind like a falcon and a heart like a sumo wrestler!”

“Well, my heart is… Not like a sumo wrestler. In fact, I’m not a son of Zeus Pamplemousse. And Hildegard knows it.”

The codger squinted up at me. “Good god, man, are you insane?” He lowered his voice. “Play along, if you know what’s good for you. My daughter is a wolf in girl’s clothing who’s looking for a mate. Since most guys’ crotches are stank factories she’s being picky. I don’t blame her. And you shouldn’t resist. Just smile, and nod, and in another few days you can set out on a merry, nearly nude traipse through life (if you don’t mind a little frostbite).”

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“Listen, Hildegard”

  • by jensoulmates and unicorns and all that jazz
  • Mars is like Manhattan
  • which fork to use
  • three waffle irons
  • send coded nasty messages to family members

Tune in next time part 621      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Listen, Hildegard,” I said. “I don’t believe in soulmates and unicorns and all that jazz, but I also don’t want two wives. The one I have is more than enough.”

“Pish posh,” Hildegard replied. “How can you say you only have one wife, when everyone knows you’re married to both Fleur and Isolde?”

“That was a proxy wedding. I was merely standing in for Harry.”

While we squabbled, Hildegard dragged me along the street, and I dragged her father who was still clinging to my elbow. We passed a hotel, the only two-story building I’d yet seen on the island, and Hildegard said, “We’ll have the reception there. It will be lovely. Provincial though it may be, in many ways Twerkistan is like Mars, and in many ways Mars is like Manhattan. At a fancy wedding reception you never know which fork to use, and by the time all the presents arrive you have at least three waffle irons and four toasters, and you use the Thank You notes to send coded nasty messages to family members who went rogue and bought gifts that weren’t on the registry.”

“Busy though she may be, Fleur would skin us both if we married without her permission.”

“Then I’ll get permission. Daddy will wire her and demand that you act as proxy for the son of Zeus Pamplemousse. Everyone will be happy.”

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I Muttered

  • by Kentor creating a movement language
  • six goddamn marshmallows
  • a very polite way of putting it
  • skin as smooth as a woman
  • Let. Me. Enjoy. My. Snack.

Tune in next time part 620      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I muttered at the woman out the corner of my mouth, “What’s to discuss? You know I’m married already.”

“This is Contrarian soil,” she responded airily. “What in other lands would be called bigamy here is as natural as sneezing or creating a movement language.” She tittered. “And anyway, the warlord’s daughter has had a lot on her mind of late. I doubt she’s spared a thought for her absent husband.”

“… but only six goddamn marshmallows,” her father growled on my other elbow. “Does no good to complain, certainly not worth thinking of a very polite way of putting it when you do. And they know they got ya. They know!”

I tuned him out and turned my attention back to the familiar woman. She wore opera gloves over skin as smooth as a woman who wore gloves all the time. A memory of tinsel, of a train, brought her identity along with it. And gave me an idea for another gambit to get myself out of this mess.

“What would Maurice think?” I asked her.

She merely shrugged, then tittered again.

The old man was still ranting. “After making me wait all that time, ignoring me, now they wouldn’t leave me alone. The nerve! I finally have enough marshmallows and now I can’t eat them for all the interruptions. Let. Me. Enjoy. My. Snack. That’s not so complicated!”

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I Glanced Over My Shoulder

  • by jenprizes to promote mingling
  • licentious, creative French culture
  • into a leather diaper
  • she will marry a son of Zeus
  • “Hello, Doctor.”

Tune in next time part 619      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I glanced over my shoulder, hoping to see someone else — anyone else — the old man could be talking about. I saw no one. And before I could make my escape, the two of them descended on me with so much back-slapping and hand-shaking it was as if they were attending a conference where the coordinator was awarding prizes to promote mingling.

I gathered from their excited exclamations that they had mistaken me for someone else, an expert in the licentious, creative French culture they loved so much. Something about my horny necromancer getup gave them that impression, although they kept trying to turn my cape into a leather diaper, despite my numerous protestations.

“Pleasure to meet you, gentlemen,” I said, “But I need to return to my hotel.” The sooner I got away from these randy geezers, the sooner I could track down John.

“Hotel!” cried the marginally older of the two. “I won’t hear of it! Any son of Zeus Pamplemousse who dares to chance our fair Isles of Bumpengrynd will sleep under my roof!”

The other one nudged me in the ribs and whispered loudly, “He wants you to meet his daughter. The prophecy says she will marry a son of Zeus Pamplemousse, and you’re the first to show up. As soon as you blow the lid off this whole thing, he’ll get the two of you in front of the shaman.”

I had, of course, heard of Zeus Pamplemousse. Who hadn’t? And given my current attire it was understandable that people would mistake me for one of his relatives. It was even sort of flattering. But what my life didn’t need was any more complications. I turned to dart away and ran right into a beautiful woman with a familiar face.

“Hello, Doctor,” she said. “Daddy told me you’d be arriving today.” She hooked one elbow with me and one with the oldest old guy. “Shall we head home and discuss the wedding?”

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