Tagged: clothes

“Speaking of Birds”

  • by jenland one on his chin
  • used only body glitter for makeup
  • “You don’t have to worry about me.”
  • backstory about my socks
  • what will happen if I let myself fall asleep

Tune in next time part 769      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Speaking of birds,” said Zeus Pamplemousse. “Before I can allow any wife of mine to spend time with her manstress, she must train a flock of Moon Owls and land one on his chin.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Tessa and I said in unison. The Moon King’s lunacy was quite remarkable. It reminded me of a teacher at the Academy who used only body glitter for makeup, and used quite a lot of it. He was quite sparkly. Problem being the glitter had a high mercury content, and the teacher went quite mad.

I scoped out the zeppelin’s wedding chapel for escape routes, and found them all blocked by candles. Many, many candles. If we made a break for it, it would be quite dangerous. Tessa saw what I was up to, and the look on her face said, “You don’t have to worry about me.” I squeezed her hand.

“And while she is training the Moon Owls,” Pamplemousse continued, as if we hadn’t interrupted him, “she will have to memorize the entire backstory about my socks — my Moon Socks! — and what makes them so special, and why I can never wash them.”

What will happen if I let myself fall asleep right now? I wondered. Will my dreams be any more bizarre than my reality?

I was ready to run for the exit, but Tessa was distracted, mesmerized by Zeus Pamplemousse’s astonishing Moon Socks.

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When I Saw the Distress on Tessa’s Face

  • by jenI hate this guy so much.
  • crawling in dinosaur feathers
  • breathtaking moment of wonder and youthful experimentation
  • once it’s resting comfortably in your mouth
  • first my heart and now my hand

Tune in next time part 751      Click Here for Earlier Installments

When I saw the distress on Tessa’s face, all I could think was, I hate this guy so much. He should be at home, rolling in moon rocks and crawling in dinosaur feathers as befits his station, but instead he’s out here kidnapping therapists and blackmailing beautiful women. Merely thinking of such things reminded me of my time with Tessa at the Academy. Our first blackmail scheme was a shared breathtaking moment of wonder and youthful experimentation that resulted in several afternoons of detention and the respect of the faculty. I was enraged at this moon monster and his nefarious scheme.

“What could you possibly need from me, Zeus Pamplemousse?” Tessa asked icily.

“Just one simple word, Tessa. You know which one. Imagine it now. Picture yourself forming the word with your tongue. Once it’s resting comfortably in your mouth, speak it. Speak that word to me.”

“Never, Zeus Pamplemousse. I will never speak that word to you.” She plucked the purple silk hanky from his pocket and tried to cover her breasts with it. I was stunned that she seemingly had a history with the King of the Moon.

Before I could formulate a question, Zeus cried, “You steal first my heart and now my handkerchief! You are a foul temptress!”

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Fleur’s Celebratory PJs

  • by Kentappear naked, while not actually *being* naked
  • to mock a killingbird
  • more of a psychotic gangster than a
  • wearing an orange hunting vest
  • “It’s… well, it’s a show tune.”

Tune in next time part 706      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur’s celebratory PJs were a pink flannel catsuit adorned with cartoony fruits. There were exactly three fruits — two strawberries and a nectarine — deployed strategically so as to let the wearer appear naked, while not actually being naked. She licked the cake frosting off her lips, then stuffed more cake into her mouth so she could lick her lips at me some more.

“You seem to be enjoying my mother’s wedding more than you enjoyed our own,” I quipped.

“It’s bad luck to mock a killingbird at a Contrarian wedding,” she purred.

“I think in that getup you’re more of a sphynx cat than a bird.” I should have chosen my words more carefully, because she was a warlord’s daughter and really more of a psychotic gangster than a wife. I assumed she would spin around to reveal wings and give me a lengthy explanation of the symbolism.

She did spin around, but there were no wings on her pajamas and she just walked away. I knew from the swinging of her hips that I was meant to follow, and it was a rather pleasant invitation. I wondered if she would lead me all the way to her quarters, or if there was some closer spot she had in mind. I followed her through a maze of corridors until suddenly I found myself speared by a spotlight on the stage. The band had just completed their set. Fleur had disappeared, and a man wearing an orange hunting vest was handing me a microphone.

“It’s customary for the bride’s son to sing a song,” he said. “A specific song. The lyrics are taped to the stage.” He sounded apologetic. “It’s… well, it’s a show tune.”

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My Ceremonial Pajamas were Polka-Dotted

  • by jenGrandma wore a black, beaded, sequined wedding gown
  • I’m going to remember tonight forever
  • describing him as a drunken maniac
  • jack-in-the-box wound to the breaking point
  • joke about having sex with bigfoot

Tune in next time part 703      Click Here for Earlier Installments

My ceremonial pajamas were polka-dotted, and of the footie variety, with a sash for my medals. I hurried to the reception, wondering about the message on the mirror. Was it true? Could the marriage still be stopped?

When I burst into the ballroom, Mother and John were in the process of handing each other small metal tins. I was too late! They’d exchanged snuffboxes! To make things worse, they were surrounded by my many, many children.

Mother looked at the army of babies and said, “I hope you will all remember that Grandma wore a black, beaded, sequined wedding gown, and that she looked damn fine.”

“I know I’m going to remember tonight forever,” said John with a lewd wink.

I tried to push my way through the crowd to reach them, still hoping to somehow stop things. Mother took up a microphone and gave a toast about her new husband, describing him as a drunken maniac who won her heart in a game of snooker. I was so upset I felt like a jack-in-the-box wound to the breaking point, and that was before my mother praised John’s hairy chest and made a joke about having sex with bigfoot.

“Mother!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “Not in front of the children!”

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Routine Sets You Free

People become writers for all kinds of reasons, but one thing no one ever says is that they just really love sitting and staring at a blank page. Writers want the freedom to create, to express, to put their ideas into other people’s heads. We don’t daydream about pecking on our keyboards; we daydream about readers saying our stories changed their lives.

Writing takes a lot of work. No matter what kind of process you use, whether it’s formal or informal or utter chaos, it’s a lot of work. Here in the Writing Cave, we do have an opinion about this matter. Our process is pretty formal. Not top-hat and cumerbund formal, but it wears a tie. Lots of people would say that the time and energy we spend on pre-writing might as well be spent on actual writing.

Maybe. There’s no one-size-fits-all solution, so do what you find works for you. But a simple trade-off of one task for another isn’t the only perspective to consider.

The thing we like about having a good process is the predictability it brings to the sitting-at-the-keyboard part of the job. We don’t need to devote energy to figuring out if we’re working on the right thing at any given moment, so all our energy can go into figuring out innovative new ways to torment our characters. The creative freedom lies in being free from the burden of infinite pathways.

The expression “having your work cut out for you” is generally meant as facing a big task. Well, if you’re writing a novel then you definitely are. What that phrase really means, though, is that the leather to make the shoes is cut to shape already — you might have lots of shoes to make, but the materials are set up and waiting. That’s what a strong process gives you.

A writing partner is someone who’ll make sure you have your work cut out for you.

The Groom Turned his Masked Face Back to Me

  • by jenapplied a laser wand
  • “Dad? Daddy?”
  • each guest puts on a pair of pajamas
  • gracious meals and gourmet tastes
  • pretty bananas

Tune in next time part 701      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The groom turned his masked face back to me, threw open his green tuxedo jacket, and gestured extravagantly at the aquarium belt encircling his waist. Muddy green eels swam in circles through his belt loops, past colorful strands of fake plastic seaweed.

“Very nice,” I said. If I understood the tradition correctly, this little show-and-tell meant that I wasn’t going to be stabbed. It was the best I could hope for under the circumstances.

The rest of the ceremony took place in total silence. No music. No speaking. The officiant and the happy couple did the whole thing in pantomime. This was very unlike any of my own weddings. Contrarian rites and ceremonies have dozens of sub-variants depending on multitudinous factors. If I was remembering correctly, a silent wedding meant that neither the bride nor the groom were native-born Contrarians.

After Mother and her beau exchanged earrings, they each applied a laser wand to the wedding certificate, drawing a stick figure man and woman. The officiant took the wand and drew a heart around their doodles, making it all legal.

Fleur appeared beside me. “Are you going to call him Father?” she whispered. “Dad? Daddy?”

“None of the above,” I whispered back.

The officiant glared at us to be quiet. Then he mimed changing his pants while eating something held in his fist. Fleur translated. “Now is the part where each guest puts on a pair of pajamas for the reception. It will be a grand party, in Contrarian tradition, with gracious meals and gourmet tastes, and a table piled high with bunches and bunches of really pretty bananas.”

“Bananas!” A banana buffet at a Contrarian wedding reception meant that the groom was an old friend of the son of the bride, and also bad at cyphers. “It can’t be!”

“I’m afraid it is,” said John, pulling off his mask. “And don’t even think about calling me Papa John.”

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Fleur Turned Me to Face Her

  • by jeneither stab you or laugh
  • I have become used to this propaganda
  • look at his new fish tank
  • apart from its odd shape
  • your telephone’s been ringing

Tune in next time part 697      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur turned me to face her, and took a moment to straighten my uniform. When the silver dove was dangling just so from the brim of my hat, she twisted its beak to switch on the light inside. A deep red glow emanated from the bird’s eyes.

“As the groom walks down the aisle, you must tell a joke. When he reaches the altar, the groom will either stab you or laugh, depending on how good the joke is.”

“Stab me?”

“I rather hope he laughs, but it all depends on the joke.”

“Fleur, I’d like to say I have become used to this propaganda, this ‘Contraria is so extra’ stuff you always say, but–”

“If the groom laughs, you’ll be fine. He’ll invite you to look at his new fish tank belt, which, apart from its odd shape, is just like any other fish tank. The eels swim in circles around his waist. It’s quite something. You will need to compliment it.”

“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” a butler said, tapping Fleur on the shoulder. “Your telephone’s been ringing for nearly ten minutes.” He held out a silver tray with Fleur’s phone vibrating noisily on top. She reached for it.

“But who is the groom?” I asked, grabbing her hand. I needed to know how likely it was that the aquarium-belt man would try to stab me. I might be the new leader of the stand-up comedy battalion, but the emphasis was definitely on “new.”

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While Jim Waxed Rhapsodic about Agriculture

  • by jendo you really want to be the groomsperson to a deeply unreasonable person
  • spanked me on two nonconsecutive occasions
  • random forks lying around
  • glorious carnality, rapturous eroticism
  • so they can watch him peel his jeans off

Tune in next time part 695      Click Here for Earlier Installments

While Jim waxed rhapsodic about agriculture, I was finally able to work my thumbs deep into the blue fur and release the child safety lock on the panda head. A prerecorded message came from a speaker somewhere deep in the panda suit, a woman’s calm voice saying, “Witnessing a surprise mascot unheading can be traumatic. Please make sure no children are in the vicinity.”

We were in a petting zoo full of children, and Jim couldn’t wait. He had to get that head off. The zoo staff were quick to react. They summoned all of the mothers, and together they formed a human wall to screen the children and all the baby animals from any view of Jim. And just in time! He popped the panda head off and dropped it to the floor. He was exceedingly sweaty. Esmerelda unzipped the fur suit and he stepped out of it, steaming and dripping.

The mothers of all my children suddenly inched closer, attentive. “Ah,” I thought. “Jim’s a good-looking guy. They’re doing that so they can watch him peel his jeans off.”

And that’s just what he did, in an act of glorious carnality, rapturous eroticism, and decadent sensuality.

Just then Fleur strode up. She kicked the chilled fork out of her way, and said, “Why are there random forks lying around the petting zoo? And why is Jim naked?”

“Would you believe me if I told you those things were related?” Jim asked with a smirk.

Fleur ignored him and turned to me. “Why aren’t you at the wedding? You’re supposed to be the groomsperson.”

“Wedding?” I asked. “Who’s getting married?”

“A man who spanked me on two nonconsecutive occasions.”

Before I could ask any questions she took me by the arm and marched me away from Jim and the women. I asked myself, “Do you really want to be the groomsperson to a deeply unreasonable person, the sort of person who spanks a warlord’s daughter?” The answer was no, I did not want that. But did I have a choice?

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I Stared at the Teeth in my Palm

by jenMandatory Festivity Alert! Each year during the thick of the winter holidays, we search out seasonally appropriate sources for our Stichomancy Writing Prompts. This year, we’ve chosen to pull random lines from that 1964 Rankin/Bass stop-motion classic, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Off we go to the North Pole!

  • I’d like to be a dentist.
  • better known as the North Pole
  • I’m cute! I’m cute! She said I’m cute!
  • square wheels on your caboose
  • you’ll go down in history

Tune in next time part 653      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I stared at the teeth in my palm. “I used to think I’d like to be a dentist.” I dropped the horrible little things into a vase on Dr Ferguson’s mantel. “Right now I’m happy I’m not.”

“Stop stalling and put on the uniform,” Dr Ferguson ordered. “My orders are to start our encounter with Position #34.”

Position #34 is better known as the North Pole Vaulter, and that at least meant she’d be doing most of the work. I doffed my makeshift toga and stepped into the awful, scratchy pants. My copious body hair protruded through the crochet holes in a very unappealing fashion.

“Well don’t you look cute?” Dr Ferguson tried to suppress a laugh.

I feigned enthusiasm. “I’m cute! I’m cute! She said I’m cute!”

“Stop bellyaching and choose your slug.” She handed me the tray and finally took her coat off. She was naked underneath. After folding her coat into a neat square, she turned and placed it on the coffee table, and I spotted an unexpected tattoo.

“What’s with those square wheels on your caboose?” I asked.

“They were a gift from Chartreuse’s brother Deuce.”

“Deuce Pamplemousse? The disco artist?”

She nodded. “That’s who the third slug is for.”

I froze, even though I was standing practically in the fire. Dr Ferguson erupted in laughter. “I’m just kidding. He’s only here musically.” She tapped her phone, and hidden speakers in the rafters started pumping out the driving disco beat of “Hop on My Caboose.”

“Then who is the third slug for?”

“You! One for me, two for you. After tonight you’ll go down in history as the first person to use two icicle slugs at the same time!” She snapped on a latex glove and scooped up a pair of clear gastropods. “Well, maybe not history, but in the organization’s files anyway.

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I Gazed at the Moose

  • by jenlong puffy sleeves
  • bees cannot live when their stings are broken
  • dream about mousetraps and poison darts
  • result of our extra-marital affair
  • “I DESERVE this!”

Tune in next time part 649      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I gazed at the moose as snowy air stung the skin of my bare arms, jutting as they were from my duvet-toga. “What I wouldn’t give for some long, puffy sleeves,” I muttered.

“And some shoes?” Dr Ferguson asked, handing me a pair of slippers from the hotel’s spa.

I grunted my thanks and put them on. “Why the hell did you enter a moose raffle?” I asked.

“Everyone knows bees cannot live when their stings are broken.” She smiled the smile of a woman who has a recurring dream about mousetraps and poison darts, and, what’s more, enjoys it. Her statement would sound to many people like a coded message, but to me it sounded like a metaphor. But for what? I studied her from the corner of my eye as I stroked the moose’s velvety snout. It seemed quite docile.

“You’re trying to figure me out,” she said. “But don’t worry. The result of our extra-marital affair will be complete understanding. And maybe a little rug burn.”

“We’re not having an affair.”

“You won’t be able to say that tomorrow,” she said. “At least not honestly.”

“Lady, I don’t have time for this. I need to find my way off this island.” I held the reins out for her to take. “Your moose is ready.”

She ignored the reins. “Who do you think you are, turning me down? I worked hard to get to this desolate place to save you. I went against all of my training, and a direct order from your mother!” She stamped her foot in the snow. “I DESERVE this!”

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