Tagged: food

My Father Had Been Dead for Years

  • by jenWait, what?
  • “preferably dead,” she added.
  • sang the last line of the song
  • just toast, maybe a boiled egg
  • a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices

Tune in next time part 209                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

My father had been dead for years, but there he was, boarding my brother’s presidential zeppelin. I drained my subpoena and smacked the glass down on the bar, upside down as per Pinkie Swears tradition. My head was swimming. I tried to focus on the image on the tiny phone screen. It couldn’t really be my father, could it?

I realized the bartender was speaking, and had been for some time.

“Wait, what?” I said.

She sighed heavily. “After the sex scandal, we thought we were done with your father. We thought he’d be disgraced, imprisoned,” her eyes darted to the door, “preferably dead,” she added.

“That’s a bit harsh,” I slurred, wishing I had some food to counteract the alcohol. “Everyone involved was a consenting adult. Even Freya.” I hiccuped.

“Jason’s here.” She grabbed me by the front of my shirt and hauled me over the bar where I sprawled on the floor. Out amongst the balloons I heard all the Pinks take up a chorus of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. The bartender stood up and sang the last line of the song along with the rest of them.

Staying low, I made my way through the door into the kitchen. I was hoping to find something to eat. Nothing fancy — just toast, maybe a boiled egg. I found neither of those, but I did see a frozen daiquiri machine and a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices.

As I stuck my head under the daiquiri nozzle and opened my mouth, the bartender came through the door. “Now’s our chance to get out of here,” she said, pulling me away from the machine, “while they’re all distracted. We need to get to that zeppelin and stop your father!”

Her breath in my face was even more flammable than my own, and I realized I was tangling with a representative of the Guild of Fire Eaters. I couldn’t let her know that Jemma was just downstairs.

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A Couple of Hours at IHOP

Another big storm rolled through our area earlier this week and knocked out our power. Again. This time it was only out for about four hours, so it was a lot less of an inconvenience than last time. We didn’t even lose our DuoLingo streaks this time!

For some reason the fact that we’re going to want to eat every day takes us continuously by surprise and we often waste a good half-hour taking an inventory of our pantry and debating the merits of various take-out options. Just as we were getting warmed up for our daily dinner negotiations, the lights went out and the battery backups all started chirping, and thus our decision was easy. We shut down all of the electronics, grabbed our trusty steno pad, and absconded to IHOP.

After stuffing our faces, we got down to business. It was our waitress’s birthday, so we tried to be easy customers, demanding only endless coffee (for Kent) and water (because Jen actually has tastebuds) refills. We spent the next few hours reviewing the notes we’d already made about Sibling of Music Novel. There were some points that are already moot, and some sidetracks we’ll probably ignore. We thought of a few things that had been discussed but never written down, so we added those. Some characters have already been renamed. It was interesting to find so much progress on a project that’s still really in its infancy. And it felt really good to see how much material we already have.

Eventually our electricity came back on and we were able to go home, but even so, progress was slow this week. Kent had a business trip, and instead of writing in his absence, Jen used the time to binge a whole bunch of stuff he’s not interested in watching.

And speaking of binging, we finished up the program we mentioned last time, and are happy to say that we don’t have to replot anything. We’re sure you’re as relieved as we are.

Don’t Turn Your Novel Into a Turducken

The other night we had a conversation in the writing cave about ways to flesh out a story. We know there are things we neglected to spell out, or perhaps omitted altogether, because of being a little too close to them. However, not everything that you could add is something that you should.

Obviously, you don’t include the stuff that’s irrelevant or uninteresting. But sometimes you need to hold off on making additions even if they’d be fantastic. Because not every nugget of gold belongs in the tale you’re telling right now.

Consider a scenario where your main character makes a decision after tons of soul searching, a decision that’s going to determine the direction of the narrative. You can feel the turmoil of your character throughout his sleepless night. It’s tempting to try to bring the reader into that space of conflict, share the doubt and trepidation of the protagonist. To show (not tell!) all the alternatives that were contemplated, all the attempts to bargain away the painful but inevitable outcome. And in many cases, it’d be the right call. But not always. All that’s essential for the reader to know is what the decision is, and that reaching it was difficult.

Forcing the issue will hurt the whole book. If this moment falls during escalating kinetic tension, then inserting a digression into someone’s interior world is likely to kill the mood. Dwelling on this particular moment for this character might detract from the image you intend to create. And in such cases, no level of prose quality will change the basic fact: it doesn’t fit.

Including a scene that’s a tonal or thematic mismatch is like stuffing a different story inside the one you’re trying to tell, like jamming a bird inside of another bird. Maybe turducken is delicious, in which case the metaphor falls down. Just be sure that all your ingredients really do work together.

“I Would Kill For a Cup of Coffee”

  • by jen“You’re supposed to know!”
  • not using a pseudonym
  • the baffled animal beneath me
  • so cheesy and dramatic
  • Jennifer’s wedding band

Tune in next time part 183                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

“I would kill for a cup of coffee,” I said. Those scorpion donuts made me thirsty.

The strip-tease waitress just looked at me askance and moved away, shimmying her hips and not pouring any coffee. Mother smacked the back of my head. “That was a code phrase!” she whispered angrily. “You’re supposed to know!” She whacked me again like I was a puppy that piddled on the carpet. “After all that tuition I paid to the Academy you’re supposed to know ALL the spy stuff! And here you are, ignorant of even the most common codes, running around Harmonia, not using a pseudonym or anything!”

Oh, Mother wanted spycraft did she?

I pushed past the patrons gathered around the stage, all of them hoisting tiny pitchers of maple syrup, ready to “make it rain” for the dancers. I leapt onto the stage, my saddle shoes skidding in a pool of melted butter. I caught myself on the gingham stripper pole and looked down at the baffled animal beneath me, Mother’s ape-like henchman standing stupidly at the edge of the stage.

The music that was playing was so cheesy and dramatic I couldn’t help but do a little bump and grind. I’m sure you know the song. It’s by that weird group Jennifer’s Wedding Band. The audience erupted into hoots and boos, and in the ensuing chaos I was able to run backstage. I almost made it out the back door, but was stopped in my tracks.

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My Lace Jumpsuit Was So Tight

  • by jenThe tongue action is explicit
  • We are not moving
  • in a very satisfactory manner
  • all the men were much too stupid and ugly to mate with
  • “It’s gonna match. It’s gonna match. It’s gotta match.”

Tune in next time part 171                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

My lace jumpsuit was so tight I could only indulge in one Scorpion Angel donut. My captor watched me eat it with unseemly glee in his eye and a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. No matter how much I cajoled, he himself did not partake. When I had finished the last bite, he put his gun away and licked the powdered sugar from my fingertips. It was very unsettling, but my training had prepared me for things like that and I reacted calmly. The tongue action is explicit and precise in this kind of code, but you have to pay close attention to pick up the nuances.

“Well,” his tongue said. “Time to get going. Tessa is waiting for you.”

Tessa!

I allowed the man to herd me out of the donut shop. If he would lead me to Tessa, I would follow him practically anywhere.

Memory Lane was clogged with tourists on their way to the bachelor auction. My companion and I were trying to fight our way upstream.

He grabbed my hand and licked a message on my palm. “We are not moving in a very satisfactory manner.”

Suddenly the tide turned and all of the women surged in the opposite direction. From what I overheard, the bachelor auction was a bust because all the men were much too stupid and ugly to mate with, especially if you were expected to pay.

One of them, an Asian woman with green hair and cotton candy stains around her mouth, spotted a numbered tag fluttering from the zipper of my jumpsuit. She shrieked with delight and pulled a raffle ticket out of her pocket. She compared the numbers, chanting, “It’s gonna match. It’s gonna match. It’s gotta match.”

What would I do if I was this woman’s prize? I had to get to Tessa.

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My Stomach Growled

  • by jen“Tell us more about these scorpion angels,”
  • got married just a month after they met
  • a lie from start to finish
  • his accomplice killed him
  • been required to eat cold meat

Tune in next time part 169                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

My stomach growled. Donuts sounded amazing right now. The last time someone with a gun foisted food on me I’d been required to eat cold meat off the body of a lithe young man. He’d been sent by the White Faces mime syndicate to infiltrate the ninjas while disguised as a platter of sushi, and his accomplice killed him after discovering that his life story was a lie from start to finish. He must have been a very convincing liar because he and his accomplice had got married just a month after they met.

My trip down memory lane ended abruptly when my gun-weilding friend directed me to turn down Memory Lane. There, between a hot pink wedding chapel and a stall selling furry handcuffs was a donut shop. We entered and perused the very unusual menu board. There were flavors here I’d never heard of.

We approached the counter. “Tell us more about these Scorpion Angels,” my captor said to the clerk, who was dusted from head to toe with powdered sugar. “Are they made with real scorpions?”

“We couldn’t very well call them Scorpion Angel Cremes if they weren’t,” huffed the fastidious donutmonger.

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Based on the Similarity

  • by Kentthe Three Stooges sitting with a salad bowl
  • (Vehement cheering.)
  • therein they differ from those of Switzerland and Norway
  • The wine was excellent.
  • you know how when you make hard boiled eggs

Tune in next time part 166                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Based on the similarity in note-taking styles, I thought this man must have graduated from our rival academy. But when I flipped to the cover of his book, I saw an unfamiliar school crest: the Three Stooges sitting with a salad bowl.

Wasting no more time on academic nostalgia, I consumed his text as fast as I could. This was obviously where the plans of Svetlana and Heinrich were all leading. Some kind of coalition that they meant to disrupt, or maybe join. I held the minutes of their last secret meeting.

“This assembly will now come to order. (Vehement cheering.) Our quail egg parfaits include gold leaf, and therein they differ from those of Switzerland and Norway. (Quizzical laughter.) The wine was excellent. Sorry there wasn’t enough for anyone else to have any. (Disappointed whistling.) Back to the parfaits, though: you know how when you make hard boiled eggs you need to adjust the time to your altitude?”

I smiled, as the lacily attired man on the floor groaned. I knew who was behind these political machinations!

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This Was Not Part of the Plan

  • by jensufficiently versed in the stranger’s system of stenography
  • sealed in a test tube of acid
  • you’d have to pay pounds and pounds and pounds
  • One September morning
  • a traveler’s worst nightmare

Tune in next time part 165                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

This was not part of the plan. It was in fact a traveler’s worst nightmare. Forgetting for a moment that I wore only a dog collar, a spiky codpiece, and the tinsel still clinging to my thigh hair, I was surrounded by a busload of school children on a field trip, all of them hyper from the cotton candy they ate by the fistful. One September morning, during my first year at the academy, I’d gone on a field trip much like this one, only instead of visiting a whimsically saccharine paean to love we had taken a tour of the recently excavated mime settlement. The looks on the faces of our chaperones were burned into my memory and you’d have to pay pounds and pounds and pounds of either British Sterling or Swiss chocolate if you ever expected me to participate in another field trip in my life. And even then I’d probably rather sacrifice a body part and see it sealed in a test tube of acid.

What I’m saying is I don’t really like kids. Especially not in groups.

The pink, sticky horde took up the entire walkway through the heart of Valentine Village. To avoid them, I vaulted up onto a heart-shaped sign hanging over a shopfront, and from there clambered through a window.

A man dressed entirely in lace frills was seated at a desk, scribbling something in a small notebook. Upon my arrival he leapt to his feet. Before he could sound the alarm, or even cry out, I applied a nerve pinch to his neck and he collapsed.

If I was quick, I could escape this ghastly place. I began to strip the lace costume off my victim, but my eye was snagged by his abandoned notebook. Luckily I was sufficiently versed in the stranger’s system of stenography that I could decipher his notes with little trouble.

What I read shocked me. If it was true, it would blow this whole operation wide open!

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The Young Waiter Flambeed the Smores Tableside

  • by jendied to a faint murmur
  • only trying to protect her son
  • strange, but harmless enough
  • because of their stormy marriage
  • in his velveteen uniform

Tune in next time part 127                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

The young waiter flambéed the smores tableside, as is customary in Contraria. In his velveteen uniform he had to take care not to set his sleeves on fire. As he dished our individual portions I studied his face, trying to place that magnificent chin. Beneath my tuxedo jacket, Tallulah began a new series of peculiar pulsations. These squeezes were short and businesslike, not erotic, and in just a few moments I realized she was communicating through Morse Code.

Because of their stormy marriage, Tallulah and her husband often resorted to giving each other the silent treatment. But, being in the line of work they were, they still needed to communicate, so they mastered non-verbal techniques such as this one. It was strange, but harmless enough.

Her message to me was a desperate explanation of all of her prior bad deeds and how she was only trying to protect her son. My son. Our son.

I looked up at the waiter in shock and said, “Is it true? Am I your father?”

The conversations around me died to a faint murmur as I awaited his answer.

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As I Lumbered Around the Table on My Way to the Loo

  • by jenan extremely rare bluish black color almost unheard of in the US
  • all five of them
  • Boom.
  • when I first let Nathaniel move in
  • in a series of digital manipulations

Tune in next time part 123                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

As I lumbered around the table on my way to the loo, I was compelled to exchange greetings with a great many people. I knew that Tessa’s bladder was about to burst, so I shook hands in a series of digital manipulations so blindingly fast I got cramps in all of my fingers.

At last I burst into the little gentlemen’s room. After ejecting the attendant, Tessa and I had the space to ourselves. Tessa let go of my neck and slithered out the bottom of my jacket to stand on her own feet again. Her eyebrows rose when she took in the room.

“This reminds me of when I first let Nathaniel move in and he brought his porcelain doll collection,” she said. “Their creepy eyes follow you everywhere.”

As she peed she went on talking about how creepy Contrarian bathroom design is, but I couldn’t follow her. At her mention of Nathaniel my mind broke. Boom. Just broke.

“I thought you hated Nathaniel and all his brothers,” I interrupted. “Last I knew, all five of them were your mortal enemies.”

The person on the toilet, who I was now convinced was not really Tessa after all, stopped talking. She blinked, dislodging one of her tinted contacts and allowing her natural eye color to show through. The eye told me everything I needed to know. It was an extremely rare bluish black color almost unheard of in the US and it could only belong to one person. The most dangerous person I’d ever met. Tessa’s sister.

“Tallulah,” I breathed.

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