Tagged: explosion

With a Mighty Swing of My Arms

  • by jen“I believe your name is Troy.”
  • I’ve heard old Rosie was a wild one
  • father of three of her children
  • still married to another man
  • seems, like, hard and stuff.

Tune in next time part 309      Click Here for Earlier Installments

With a mighty swing of my arms, I whipped Jove’s boots at the two nearest Fire Eaters. The rare earth minerals clinging to their soles ignited in the eye-watering fumes wafting from the Fire Eaters’ mouths. In seconds, a chain reaction of explosions rid the clearing of the entire Fire Eater war party, and a good number of the TechoPagans as well.

The Mizzenpreistess stepped forward unscathed, and pointed a bony finger at me. “I believe your name is Troy.”

I couldn’t imagine where she’d gotten that idea as I didn’t look much like my brother Troy or his twin Trent. We didn’t even have the same father.

The old woman read my incredulity on my face, or maybe my eyebrows were still giving coded messages. Either way she laughed and said, “I’ve heard old Rosie was a wild one.”

My mother’s name is ZsaZsa, and my father calls her Ralph, but to her siblings she was always Rosie. Was this TechnoPagan priestess my aunt? I tried to think which of Mother’s sisters she might be.

“Wild Rose we called her,” the woman continued. “Always carrying on with married men. Did you know that the Warlord of Contraria is the father of three of her children, at least, and she’s still married to another man? She said she had to stay in the marriage to keep up appearances so she could be president, but that seems, like, hard and stuff.”

“She and my father have an understanding,” I muttered. I’d always wondered why Mother had such a soft spot for Contraria, and this might explain it. I could only assume that I was not one of the children fathered by my father-in-law. I took comfort in the strong resemblance I paid to Jack, the man I’d always been told was my sire.

Standing among the smoldering remains of so many Fire Eaters, Jason looked hard at the Mizzenpriestess and asked, “Are you our fabled Aunt Xylona?”

I gasped, knowing it must be true.

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“Where Was I, Tessa?”

  • by jenit was an accusation
  • a sort of swinging pocket
  • Six hours after injection
  • grandmother is calling me a “home-wrecker”
  • There was one reason.

Tune in next time part 247                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Where was I, Tessa?” I could hardly believe her. “Where was I? Where were you?”

“What kind of question is that?” she asked.

“It wasn’t a question, it was an accusation. You were so busy fucking around with John I bet you don’t even know that Tallulah is on the loose.”

“You think my mission with John is just ‘fucking around’? Like I’m in a sort of swinging pocket of 70s hedonism while you’re out there saving the world all by yourself?” She sounded furious and her tears had stopped.

I didn’t want to fight with her, but lately fighting was all I knew. “You gonna let me out of these handcuffs?”

“Six hours after injection,” she said, brandishing a syringe. “By then we’ll be safely at our destination.”

I flinched away from her. Could I make it into the Viscount’s wacky crystal castle? Surely he had handcuff keys in there somewhere. Or at the very least a hacksaw.

“Don’t even try it,” Tessa said. “You know how your grandmother is calling me a ‘home-wrecker’ all the time? Well, I finally decided to live up to the name.” She held up a little remote control and pressed the button.

Viscount Arlo’s architectural wonder exploded in a fireball of molten plastic and toxic black smoke.

I couldn’t think of any reason Tessa would do that.

Well, that’s not true.

There was one reason.

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We Only Made It a Few Hundred Yards Down the Boardwalk

  • by jenwidely presumed to be sexting constantly
  • “See ya later.”
  • like a tantalizing love machine
  • it helps to have a mirror in the room
  • a “mechanical control abnormality”

Tune in next time part 80                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

We only made it a few hundred yards down the boardwalk before a light on the dashboard started blinking, signaling a “mechanical control abnormality” and smoke poured out of both the engine compartment and the taffy bin.

“Scheiße!” cried Ulrike, frantically squeezing the brake lever.

But we did not slow. Our rocket sled hurtled out of control, klaxons blaring, like some post-apocalyptic ice cream truck. I reached around Ulrike’s unrestrained bosom and hit the button for the ejector seat. We shot upward, clinging to each other and dangling from our single parachute. Below us our taffy sled rocketed through the railing at the end of the pier and hurtled into the sea.

The massive cloud of steam generated by jet engine meeting salt water hid us from view as we made a clumsy landing on the beach. Ulrike grabbed my wrist again and dragged me into the nearby funhouse before the fog cleared.

“When hiding from one’s enemy it helps to have a mirror in the room,” she said, and shoved me into the hall of mirrors. We were suddenly surrounded by dozens of versions of ourselves, some perfect copies, others stretched and warped in hideous ways.

Ulrike gazed around at all the mirrors and breathed hotly in my ear. “I had forgotten how much like a tantalizing love machine you are.” Or at least she tried to. She actually breathed in the ear of one of my reflections, fogging up the glass.

I laughed and said, “See ya later.”

Luckily I had this particular labyrinth memorized. I closed my eyes and ran through, leaving Ulrike cursing and stumbling behind me.

Upon exiting I pushed my way through a group of teenagers. All teens are widely presumed to be sexting constantly, and these did nothing to dispel that stereotype. With any luck their overabundance of hormones would confuse Ulrike’s sensitive nose when she finally blundered through the maze, and allow me to make good my escape.

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