Wearing Sweaty Jodhpurs

  • by Kentjust 113 kinds of atoms
  • the crime of performing a protest song
  • like pumpernickel bread
  • the lies he told and the photographs he took
  • “Magnificent!” I replied, with a good imitation of enthusiasm

Tune in next time part 308      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Wearing sweaty jodhpurs two sizes too big is unpleasant, especially when it’s someone else’s sweat. But had they been less sweaty, they’d have been incinerated in the torch flame.

Jove spluttered, and Carla boggled. I ignored them and stuck my arms into my stolen boots. I waddled out of the hut, my damp, warm, floppy pants slapping my hamstrings with every stride. As I came into view of the horde outside, I raised my arms to present the dusty soles of the shiny boots.

It’s quite amazing what can be cooked up using just 113 kinds of atoms. The residue on the soles of Jove’s boots was just a byproduct, but those outside recognized it. They felt its radiation and knew what it meant, and they cowered before it. To challenge the boots was as bad as the crime of performing a protest song. These boots had trod the assembly line where things were… assembled. Complex things, like pumpernickel bread. Good things, also like pumpernickel bread. And powerfully bad things, like the lies he told and the photographs he took when Jove overthrew the island’s previous baron.

The Fire Eaters bowed low, and the TechnoPagans covered their eyes.

One of them spoke, asking, “How go the sacrifices?”

“Magnificent!” I replied, with a good imitation of enthusiasm. “Magnificently,” I amended. “Now it is time for launch!”

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Carla’s Enormous Red Clown Shoes

  • by jenI want to examine them
  • robbing a grocery store
  • Come on, say it! Say “April Fool!”
  • does not actually go into the fire
  • torpedoing your most intimate relationships

Tune in next time part 307      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Carla’s enormous red clown shoes flopped and slapped against the ground as she gamboled with her husband. Jove’s shiny black riding boots made him much more nimble. There appeared to be something unusual stuck to their leather soles. I got Tessa’s attention, and through the nimble movements of my eyebrows and the use of the Mexican Painter’s Code, silently indicated his boots and said, “I want to examine them.”

She wriggled her eyebrows in agreement. It felt good to be on the same side as her again, like that rush you get when you’re robbing a grocery store pharmacy.

At long last, Jove allowed himself to be cornered by Carla. He had his back to the bubbling mud pit and raised his hands in surrender.

Carla aimed the oversized flower in her lapel at him and said, “Say my name, bitch! Come on, say it! Say ‘April Fool!’” She waved the flower menacingly.

Tessa’s eyebrows said, “April? I thought her name was Carla.”

My eyebrows shrugged.

Below us, Jove was whimpering “April Fool” over and over, and stripping out of his ringmaster garb. As he doffed each piece of finery, his clownwife scooped it up and tossed it into one of the flames of the ceremonial torches in each corner. Until he got to his hat. He removed it reverently from his head and said, “Remember, this does not actually go into the fire,” and placed it atop her rainbow wig.

As she pulled a tube of greasepaint from her pocket and squirted a healthy portion onto her hands while eyeing up my naked brother, I decided I’d had enough. I dropped down from the rafters, and said, “Pardon me for torpedoing your most intimate relationships, Jove, but I think your boots are my ticket off this island.”

I scooped the patent leather footwear off the floor of the hut, and the jodhpurs, too, when I remembered that I was naked.

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The Dog Ate My Homework

Our house is overrun with adorable furry demons whose job it is to make it difficult for us to accomplish our writing goals. When the Bandit Lord is not pulling us away from the Writing Cave for a potty break, Lady Marzipan is barking at mysterious intruders only she can sense.

We spend a good deal of time now refereeing the canine drag races that occur in our hallway, and around our sofas, and under the dining room table, then back through the kitchen and down the hallway, with a quick detour into the futon room and back again, around and around. We also spend a good deal of time convincing his Lordship that he shouldn’t chew on the molding, and cleaning up the soggy confetti that he makes out of the cardboard he is allowed to chew on.

And now, instead of just eating up all of our valuable writing time, they’ve moved on to eating our actual writing. We talked before about setting up our new plot rainbow on the table in the dining room, and how well that was working. But then we made the mistake of leaving the sliding door open for a while and the wind (it must have been the wind and not Lady Marzipan’s tail) blew a few of our colorful squares onto the floor. Where they were promptly confetti-ized.

Jen made replacements. It happened again. Sigh.

With visitors coming this weekend we had to clear the table off, so the rainbow is currently safe in a neat pile, secured with a rubber band. The next time we spread it out we’ll have to get clever, buy a couple dozen little paperweights or something.

In the meantime, we bow to the whims of our merciless overlords. Just look at them — so intimidating!

Clinging To The Rafter

  • by Kentboth moved to laughter as they gazed upon it
  • these are aphrodisiacs
  • That’s kind of a nice thing
  • a foot in a sock
  • crazy like a fox — and just as hard to corner

Tune in next time part 306      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Clinging to the rafter, I worried that Carla or Jove would glance up and spot us. I worried that Jason would sneeze and give us away. I worried, a little, that John or Tessa would cause us to be noticed, but they’re competent agents with whom I’ve been in worse situations before.

But what I should have been worrying about was the spectacle that was about to unfold below my hiding place.

Jove doffed his top hat and reached inside, where he found another ceramic animal figurine. I didn’t get to see what it was before he popped it into his own mouth. He and Carla then kissed, her round red nose squeaking softly against his cheek. When they drew apart, a strand of elastic material stretched between their mouths, and by its color I knew it was ceramic animals, which must not have been ceramic at all. Some kind of gum, evidently, and whatever the flavor Carla and Jove were both moved to laughter as they gazed upon its droopy wet slackness.

Jove took another curio from his hat and said, “They do taste funny, but these are aphrodisiacs. That’s kind a nice thing to have in a hat, don’t you think?”

“Even nicer than a foot in a sock,” Carla simpered, leaning in for another kiss and getting the horny gum all over his tailcoat.

“You know I’m crazy about you,” Jove slurred into their kiss. He raised his head then, and went on, “Crazy like a fox — and just as hard to corner!”

And thus commenced a tedious sex game wherein she chased him around the hut pretending he was too nimble for her to catch him. It lasted hours. I tried to arrange myself so that if I dozed I wouldn’t fall off my perch.

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With a Shrug, Jason and I Stripped

  • by jen“Here I am and in I’m coming.”
  • frantic desire to throw his feet in the air
  • a total of five times
  • with a ceramic squirrel
  • he gave a muffled buzz

Tune in next time part 305      Click Here for Earlier Installments

With a shrug, Jason and I stripped. We were twins after all, so seeing each other naked was just like looking in a mirror. It was a relief to be out of my burlap sack from the submarine.

We lined up behind John, with Tessa bringing up the rear. As I belatedly wondered where John’s escape plane could be hidden, and why its captain would insist on nudity from his passengers, all sounds from outside the hut ceased. The eerie quiet was breached moments later by waves of whispers from the squabbling Fire Eaters and TechnoPagans in the village.

“The King!” they whisper-shouted. “The King!”

There followed a ceremonial fanfare played upon honking clown noses, and then an all-too-familiar voice said, right outside our temple hut, “Here I am and in I’m coming.” It was either Jove or Jupiter.

Jason’s eyes went wide and I could read upon his face his frantic desire to throw his feet in the air and flee. I’m not sure where he picked up such an unusual sprinting technique, but I’d seen him use it a total of five times.

The sixth time would not be now, because there was only one way out of this hut and it led straight into Jove’s arms. Unless they were Jupiter’s.

Tessa leapt up and grabbed the rafter above her head, and pulled herself up onto it. In a snap, John, Jason, and I all followed her. The four of us yanked our dangling legs up just as the packing tape strips over the doorway parted, flooding the interior of the temple hut with moonlight.

I watched from above as my brother, still in his flamboyant ringmaster garb, rode into the room upon the back of his clown wife. I recognized them as Jove and Carla. Once they thought they were alone, Jove climbed down and Carla rose to her feet. Jove said, “Thank you my darling,” and presented her with a ceramic squirrel small enough to fit in her mouth, which is where she put it. She gave a muffled buzz of contentment.

Jove was so tall, his top hat was mere inches below our hiding place. If Carla looked up she would see us, and that would be a disaster.

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Jack and Jill of All Trades

The plotting of our latest novel continues apace. We know the basic story line, have known it for months. But who wants a basic story line? The parts we’re working on fleshing out are all the fun side trips and frustrating (for our characters) detours. Lately this requires us each to wear many hats.

We’ve been steadily working to fill in the plot rainbow, but we’ve also dipped our toes into a few prose character studies to get to know our new cast members better. Jen’s gotten to go wading through her vast collection of baby name books to give them proper monikers. Kent’s done some deep dives into new research topics in order to flesh out their jobs and give them interesting hobbies. All in all we’re swimming in this project.

Instead of many hats, maybe, given the aquatic nature of the metaphors in that last paragraph, we’re each wearing many bathing suits.

Would You Like Me To Challenge You To A Duel

  • by KentOr a game of dominoes?
  • I live by the river
  • the Actor-Robot’s overwhelming hate
  • little sister, can’t you find another way?
  • and not a penny less

Tune in next time part 304      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Would you like me to challenge you to a duel?” I yelled at John. “Or a game of dominoes?” Both questions were nonsense, as I lacked any weaponry or spotted game tiles, but maybe they would confuse John long enough for me to think my way out of this mess and off of this island. Perhaps I could get back home. I live by the river, and with my luck the house had been washed away by now. I had been away for a long time.

John did seem confused, but his hold on my arm didn’t loosen. His gaze lunged around the hut at each of us, and spittle flew when he snarled, “I cannot sense the Actor-Robot’s overwhelming hate. Without it I can’t get my bearings.”

“Now he thinks we’re robots!” Jason threw up his hands.

“I will deal with him,” Tessa said. She used her big toe to strike a pressure point on John’s arm, freeing me from his clutches. Her leg drew back for another kick, and I knew how deadly she could be.

John had caused me tremendous trouble over the years, betrayed me more often than I would likely ever know. But at the sight of him in mortal peril, something in my chest burst forth. “Oh, little sister, can’t you find another way?” I cried.

Everyone stared at me, especially Tessa. I wanted to amend my outburst, not call her that, but it was too late.

John rubbed his arm and said, “Look, I gotta get outta here. You guys are welcome to tag along as far as the plane, but then you’ll have to negotiate with the captain. He might fly you off this rock, for a price. He’ll want double the fair-market rate, and not a penny less.” He sized us up, nodding at Tessa but frowning at me and Jason. “You twinsies will have to strip down. He’s very strict about proper attire.”

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John’s Sudden Attack

  • by jen— mind the lobsters —
  • one weird trick
  • determine how much blood it would take
  • rank, leather-like odor
  • glimpse into his violent mind

Tune in next time part 303      Click Here for Earlier Installments

John’s sudden attack gave me a glimpse into his violent mind, and brought me far too close to his rank, leather-like odor. My own eyes began to water.

I twisted away and looked for a weapon, whilst trying to determine how much blood it would take for him to lose before he lost consciousness. At the Academy they taught us one weird trick to remember the blood loss formula, a mnemonic. And then it came to me — Mind The Lobsters — that was the key.

Now all I needed was a weapon, and a minute to complete the calculations.

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Brainstorm Until It’s Not Fun Anymore

In our preliminary brainstorming sessions for the current work in progress, the ideas were coming out faster than we could jot them down. We couldn’t help but come up with tons of good ideas, like there simply were no other kinds of ideas. The recent brainstorming sessions, on the other hand, have been characterized by phrases like, “But I don’t think that will really work,” and “Not that we would actually want to do it that way.” The few ideas that we did feel good about were things we’d already come up with at least twice, according to our notes.

This is a signal that it’s time to stop brainstorming. Early on, everything is wide open and there’s lots of room for ideas. But the more you flesh things out, the more constraints are piling up. Any really new idea that you throw in will be the enemy of something else that you’ve already decided you like. If you aren’t sure if you like your story that way, then by all means keep storming your brains. But if you have a good basis for a story that you’re looking forward to telling, then move on to another step in the process.

For us, that means laying out a rainbow. So that’s what we’ve been doing, although we’ve broken with tradition by using the dining table for this one rather than doing it on the floor. (Our helpers are far too enthusiastic about rainbows, alas. Plus, floors lack much to recommend them, ergonomically.)

And — it worked! Being able to visualize the flow and structure of the story immediately shook loose a new set of good, usable ideas for us. They’re not only good, they’re compatible.

Working with a partner makes brainstorming much more fruitful and enjoyable, but don’t overuse it. Documenting and visualizing your progress is always helpful, and it becomes essential when you have a partner to communicate with.

 

As John Cackled Nakedly

  • by Kentunder a layer of plastic
  • stooping to pick up the paper
  • in the right-hand corner of the davenport
  • all he kept was the duffle bag
  • in his rubbery grip

Tune in next time part 302      Click Here for Earlier Installments

As John cackled nakedly on the floor, Tessa folded her arms across her bare chest and huffed. Jason looked over at me and his mouth opened and shut several times as he thought of things to say and then thought better of them.

John picked up his bag and shook out its contents on the floor of the hut, beside the roiling mud pool. A bewildering assortment of bric-a-brac tumbled out, but John seemed intent on a particular item that came to rest under a layer of plastic sandwich bags. He stood to raise the duffle bag over his head for a final shake before stooping to pick up the paper airplane amid the baggies, in the right-hand corner of the davenport that he must have stolen from a dollhouse.

He unfolded the airplane, revealing a printed message. He scowled and flung it into the mud. While Tessa, Jason, and I exhorted him to explain himself, he used his feet to scuff all his belongings into the bubbling pit. All he kept was the duffle bag.

Then he lunged at me, showing sadness in his watery eyes and catching my arm in his rubbery grip.

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