Category: Stichomancy Prompts

“How Much Do You Drink?” She Asked.

  • by jenHow much do you drink?
  • on the Indonesian island of Flores
  • looks pretty cute in his mugshot
  • vital, sunburnt, carefree
  • dazed but not seriously injured

“How much do you drink?” she asked.

“Like I’m on vacation on the Indonesian island of Flores,” he assured.

She eyed him with a smirk. “You look like a guy who looks pretty cute in his mugshot: vital, sunburnt, carefree. Like the bar fight you were arrested for left you dazed but not seriously injured.”

He shrugged and she admired his lazy smile. “But in any case, you have the right to remain silent.” She cuffed his wrists together behind his back. “I’ll have to ask the booking officer if I can have a copy of your mugshot to see if I’m right.”

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The Captain Cleared His Throat

  • k-avatarThe captain cleared his throat
  • for perhaps a minute
  • rubbed her nose tip
  • cool, hard and prickly
  • And then up.
  • plain khaki shirt and slacks
  • by sonic violence
  • killed in an aircrash

The captain cleared his throat for perhaps a minute. Phoebe shuffled her feet, seeming just about bored enough to create a scene. Hoping to distract her, I reached over and rubbed her nose tip, which was cool, hard and prickly. She smiled. Finally, the captain began his speech, and I along with Phoebe and all the rest learned what real boredom can be. At last, he bade us all take our seats and the vehicle sped down the runway. And then up. The plane climbed like a firework, mashing me back in my seat and flattening Phoebe’s plumage. Our frightful acceleration didn’t seem to impede the hostess, who looked beguiling even in her uniform of a plain khaki shirt and slacks. Phoebe pecked the back of my head when I swiveled it to observe the hostess’s progress down the aisle. I wondered if perhaps the captain’s lugubrious oration might have contained important information, for the rate of our ascent continued to increase, as did the noise. Conversation was rendered impossible by sonic violence emanating from the engines. Thus I was unable to inquire as to whether, should we break apart somewhere above the atmosphere, people on the ground would still say we’d been killed in an aircrash.

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For Too Many Decades

  • by jen— now at last —
  • two jabs of a delicate needle
  • rollicking witch laughter
  • small nostrils wrinkled fastidiously
  • since life crawled from the sea
  • old Doctor Sour-apple
  • godawful Scotch porridge
  • dressed as others dressed

For too many decades I harbored this thirst for vengeance, this desperate drive to make old Doctor Sour-apple pay for his culinary crimes. The godawful Scotch porridge he served every day for breakfast is my only memory of a childhood spent studying and training at his wretched Institute. To go unnoticed on my mission of revenge I dressed as others dressed in the twisting halls of the Institute, the way apprentices have dressed since life crawled from the sea. I kept my small nostrils wrinkled fastidiously as if I could still smell the terrible stench coming from the kitchen, even though years ago, with two jabs of a delicate needle, I severed the nerves in my nose, rendering myself anosmic. In this way, apprentice-berobed and nostrils aquiver, I made my way unchallenged to Doctor Sour-apple’s chambers and peered through the keyhole. From inside I could hear the phonograph he always played, the gargling sounds of rollicking witch laughter that passed for music in his estimation. As the cacophony reached its crescendo, I flung the doors wide and somersaulted into the room, placing three bullets in Sour-apple’s chest.

“I’ve been — waiting for you — so long,” Doctor Sour-apple gasped with his dying breaths, “— now at last — I am — released.” He shuddered and went still, a smile on his gray lips.

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The Sable Fringe

  • k-avatarfetlocks of many oxen
  • something murky and shocking
  • how to proceed with his seductions
  • an act of extreme blasphemy
  • Then he shut his cupboards

The sable fringe adorning the monsignor’s cassock, once the fetlocks of many oxen, swept dry leaves from the path as he hurried to the cloister. His premonition bespoke something murky and shocking, an act of extreme blasphemy. The monsignor moved as fast as he could with the tiny strides permitted by his attire’s slender silhouette. When at last he reached the colonnaded avenue outside the cloister, the monsignor paused. His premonition revolved languidly in his mind, showing him the face of the malefactor. His own face. That visage acquired a delighted grin when the monsignor recalled that Sarah lived in the cloister, and Sarah had a reputation. Better yet, her twin sister was visiting. Walking now, as much to catch his breath as preserve his dignity, the monsignor pondered how to proceed with his seductions.

Ten minutes later, ox-bristle fringe dragged dejectedly over the gravel as the monsignor slogged back to his rooms. His premonition had been wildly inaccurate, Sarah and her sister scandalized by his visit. The monsignor took out a mug to make some tea. Then he shut his cupboards and stood staring out the window, waiting for the kettle to boil.

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I Just Returned From Fashion Week

  • by jenthe yellow stain on his trousers
  • Voilá un homme!
  • the old Mediterranean mafia
  • According to my calculations
  • Stirner’s perpetually mocking attitude

I just returned from fashion week, and I’m thrilled to announce the old “Mediterranean mafia” style is passé! According to my calculations (and Beatrix Stirner’s perpetually mocking attitude), the trendiest look for winter is, quelle surprise, nudity! Before your scandalized boyfriend has to explain the yellow stain on his trousers, allow me to clarify. The most stylish women in New York, Paris, and Milan will all be wearing skin-tight jumpsuits with exaggerated male genitalia protruding from the front. It’s a look that veritably screams “Voilá un homme!” in the chicest possible way.

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Joseph Made a Habit

  • k-avatarsneering at cultures
  • commodity as fetish
  • aped the follies and vices
  • “Shell? Milk? Moon? Jasmine? Crystal? Snowflake?
  • coupled with cruelty

Joseph made a habit of sneering at cultures lacking decadence, peoples who simply aped the follies and vices of wild animals pursuing crude gratification. So when traveling to Svenborgia, he naturally booked his ticket on the official national airline. And naturally, he flew first class.

“Shell? Milk? Moon? Jasmine? Crystal? Snowflake?” importuned the stewardess. Her almond eyes and alabaster complexion marked her as deep-lineage Svenborgian. Ah, theirs was a truly magnificent decadence: commodity as fetish.

“Alabaster,” replied Joseph with a wink. The stewardess laid aside her tray and led him to the lavatory, where they kissed with sang-froid and coupled with cruelty.

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In the UFO’s Holding Cell

  • by jenlike a malicious genealogist
  • the fireflies’ sexual organs
  • with a jackknife
  • manners, gestures and physiologies
  • This was his sole fear

In the UFO’s holding cell, Kevin felt like a firefly in a jar, like the ones he spent his childhood collecting in the backyard. The alien scientist assured Kevin that he and his race came to Earth merely to study humankind’s manners, gestures, and physiologies. They had no desire to mate with humans, to tamper with their family tree like a malicious genealogist. The alien peered down with the same detachment Kevin had employed as a child while removing the fireflies’ sexual organs with a jackknife. This was his sole fear, that they would treat him the way he had treated those long ago insects.

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It Was a One-Way Window

  • k-avatar“Squint your eyes
  • but he’s a whizdang now!
  • noise made down here
  • It was a one-way window
  • felt a minor isolated quiver
  • A tourist in Glasgow!
  • They call me Smith
  • should keep it sharpened

It was a one-way window with a no-way view, because of all the green smoke in the interrogation room. Harold wondered if this was normal Scottish police procedure.

“Squint your eyes and you can just see the point of his hat!” proclaimed Harold’s new partner, Seamus MacCallahan. “Lafferty used to be a siphontopper, but he’s a whizdang now! Aye!”

Harold didn’t bother squinting, because he still remembered Lafferty’s tall, blue wizard’s hat, and the matching robes. He thought they should be more concerned with whether the suspect was still in the room, and no amount of squinting was going to help with that.

“They call me Smith,” said a booming, gravelly voice from somewhere in the roiling smoke. Harold felt a minor isolated quiver in his left arm. Something about the Caledonian weather, no doubt. Just this morning he’d been a tourist. A tourist in Glasgow! But now he was a detective inspector in Edinburgh, and he was determined to do his best.

Lafferty didn’t ask any questions. The unseen Smith spoke, his voice like cumulonimbus fender-benders, like no noise made down here on terra firma. “One thing my teacher always told me about my pencil,” Smith droned, “I should keep it sharpened.”

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The Host of My Favorite Music Podcast

  • by jenentirely the wrong kind of inflection
  • turned into wobbly rubber
  • delicately touched the sleeve
  • because of technical embargoes
  • liquor and the jellies
  • with ice in his voice
  • only to force cursing
  • Caesar, the Decembrists, Prince Charlie, Xerxes

The host of my favorite music podcast made the announcement with ice in his voice, and entirely the wrong kind of inflection. Big Jim Caesar, the Decembrists, Prince Charlie, Xerxes and Lolita, and KGI would all be playing Bonnaroo this year, but because of technical embargoes, Liquor and the Jellies (my favorite band), would not. The news seemed designed only to force cursing from me, and I complied, letting loose a stream of profanity that did not stop until my neighbor pounded on the wall. My stomach turned to wobbly rubber when I remembered how much I’d paid for my ticket on Craigslist. I delicately touched the sleeve of my kimono to my cheek to blot my tears of disappointment and fury while inwardly I vowed vengeance against the president’s new War on Synthesizers.

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The Floodgates Were Opened

  • k-avatarIt never ended.
  • were opened three times a day
  • indistinguishable from the rustling of a tree
  • Limping up to the altar
  • graveyards for machines

The floodgates were opened three times a day, to manage the pressure. Beatitude manifested spontaneously in the cold stone building. It never ended. And if it wasn’t bled off on a regular schedule, the strain would become too much for the ornate stained-glass windows to handle.

No one could go inside, of course.  Too intense. Just being within a two-block radius at any of the thrice-daily ventings of surplus divine grace tended to overload most people’s sensibilities. No one lived that close to the cathedral anymore. Respectable businesses couldn’t operate in the hot zone, so the textile district had shifted north, abandoning the old work floors to be graveyards for machines.

I camped under a disused loom in one of the old mills, just yards from one of the huge double doorways that served as relief valves. After two days I felt accustomed to the bizarre climate of the zone, like a mountaineer adjusting to thinner air. But already my skin was raw and my mind was growing brittle. I had to make my move.

I knew the floodgate schedule well, so I was ready when the doors gave forth their gust of rose-scented golden light. I was off to one side, and dashed inside the building after the radiance had diminished, seconds before the doors boomed shut again.

The bird roosted on the pulpit. I couldn’t look directly at it, the glow from its plumage was too dazzling. The pressure was building fast, but I knew that right now it was as low as it ever got. Limping up to the altar, I shut my eyes and groped toward the shining creature. I only needed one feather.

The bird spread its huge wings with a sound indistinguishable from the rustling of a tree. I kept my eyes closed tight and leaned forward until I feared I would lose my balance. I strained to reach the shimmering avian beast.

I only needed one feather.

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