Tagged: tune in next time

In This Corner…

There are many differences between the novels that Kent and Jen write together and the chain story that has all but taken over the blog.

There are the obvious things, like our novels having actual coherent plots and rational characters, while the chain story is made of ridiculousness and populated by maniacs. And, long as they are, our novels have endings. Despite Kent’s fervent desires, the chain story doesn’t have one of those yet.

Less obvious, perhaps, from the readers’ side of the page is our underlying approach to these different projects. When writing the chain story we often try to fuck each other over. With our novels we try to surprise each other.

That surprise can often be a difficult thing to accomplish, since we’ve worked together for months hammering out and outline and breathing life into our characters. It comes in the little details that we choose on the sentence-by-sentence level. A snappy bit of dialog here, a quirky scenic detail there. It’s what makes writing with a partner delightful. No matter how well you know the story you’re telling, your coauthor sees it from a slightly different angle.

There are probably writing teams that don’t operate this way. They might enjoy creating impossible problems and handing them over to their partner to solve. And that probably works just fine for certain authors and certain kinds of projects. But for us, it’s better to collaborate on the full-length works and save the gleeful dickishness for our little bits of prompted writing.

The Following Hours Were a Blur

  • by jenthe way you remember a bird pooping into your open mouth
  • ended in the anticlimactic dishonor of
  • not as if she were working at Olive Garden
  • normally wash your shoes
  • I’m your dentist

Tune in next time part 447      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The following hours were a blur. I remember William saying, “I’m your dentist. Now open up.” And later YoYo said “You’d normally wash your shoes after something like that, but you’re not wearing any.” I contemplated tipping YoYo, but decided not to since it was not as if she were working at Olive Garden as a waitress.

The whole thing ended in the anticlimactic dishonor of being walked in on by Yesterday shortly after the mushrooms wore off and the three of us collapsed exhausted. I will remember that tryst the way you remember a bird pooping into your open mouth: a messy, slightly berry-flavored surprise.

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William Penn XII Rolled Off The Bed

  • by Kent“Thanks for a very interesting evening,”
  • The merchant, the lover, the wife, the widow, the mother, the schoolboy
  • stubborn at first, she eventually
  • I super-duper love it.
  • it was a beautiful thing

Tune in next time part 448      Click Here for Earlier Installments

William Penn XII rolled off the bed as soon as he noticed his wife watching us from the doorway. “Thanks for a very interesting evening,” he said as he hunted for his boxers, apparently having forgotten he hadn’t been wearing any. He did locate his hat.

YoYo sat up and began laying tarot cards out on the blankets.

“Where were you hiding those?” I asked, but she ignored me. She recited as the spread filled in, “The merchant, the lover, the wife, the widow, the mother, the schoolboy, the usurper…”

“Ahem,” I said. “Maybe that can wait?” But YoYo kept adding cards and announcing their embarrassing implications while Yesterday sternly watched her husband putting on his cape. “Really, just pause your reading. Please!”

Being stubborn at first, she eventually did stop after saying “the man-whore” in a suggestive tone of voice. William and Yesterday left at last.

“What do you think of this layout?” YoYo asked.

“It’s great,” I said. “I super duper love it.” And in truth it was a beautiful thing. Contrarian tarot are always very ornate.

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YoYo Cradled the Tarot Deck to her Bosom

  • by jenany persons who might be within hearing
  • Don’t you know that I love you?
  • “Hadn’t you better come and ask yourself?” she asked, demurely.
  • melts beautifully on the tongue
  • one of those times we just did oral

Tune in next time part 449      Click Here for Earlier Installments

YoYo cradled the tarot deck to her bosom, closed her eyes, and said, “I call out to any persons who might be within hearing, but who are dead, to guide me.” She then laid one last card in the final position of the spread before her. “The matchmaker! Well, that’s unexpected.” She looked at me and said, “I suppose you’ll have to get divorced.”

“What? Why?” I asked.

“Don’t you know that I love you? It’s written in the cards. There can be no other interpretation.” She tilted her head and squinted. “In truth I don’t feel it yet myself, but the cards don’t lie.” She shrugged.

I was alarmed. “Ask the cards what the Warlord would say if I tried to divorce his daughter.”

“Hadn’t you better come and ask yourself?” she asked, demurely.

“There’s really no reason to,” I said. “I won’t be divorcing Fleur, and you don’t actually love me, no matter what those pieces of painted ivory say.”

“These cards aren’t ivory! How barbaric!” YoYo shuddered. “They’re carved from yeti bones!”

“Yeti bones?”

“In the Paradoxica Mountains we use every part of the yeti. The meat is a specialty, served only at high festivals. It melts beautifully on the tongue…”

“Yeti’s aren’t real.”

YoYo gasped. “Blasphemer! I can’t believe I had sex with a nonbeliever 27 times (even if one of those times we just did oral) and am carrying his child!”

“It’s probably twins,” I said. “They run in my family.”

“I don’t believe in twins,” YoYo spat.

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I Assumed YoYo

  • by Kent“the butterlike secretion”
  • growing use of the current slang
  • applied his forefinger to his forehead
  • seems a bit hypocritical
  • their nefarious schemes

Tune in next time part 450      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I assumed YoYo was just being spitefully dramatic, but she was serious about her disbelief in twins. I could only shake my head as she worked herself up into a rant about the myth of multiple births, spread by the ruling class to further their nefarious schemes.

“It seems a bit hypocritical of you to jump into bed with someone like me, if you’re so opposed to what the fat-cats are up to.”

“But don’t you see? I’m trying to liberate you from their clutches! Free you from your sham marriage. As for the whole ‘twins’ thing, that all dates back to a legend that says William Penn II applied his forefinger to his forehead while his concubine applied her forefinger to his foreskin. The wordplay is quite droll in the original, but sadly it doesn’t translate.”

My Olde High Contrarian was pretty good, actually, and I had read the legend of which she spoke. Hers sounded like a heretical interpretation to me. “Are you part of a faction?” I asked her. “Trying to convince high-ranking military officers to defect?”

She nodded, then shook her head, then shrugged. “Everybody’s part of a faction, when you come right down to it. I mean, there must be a faction that would have me, right?” She rambled some more about her ideology and I struggled to make sense of it. Her speech was rife with contradictions and peppered with unfamiliar figures of speech. At least she didn’t seem to join in the growing use of the current slang term “the butterlike secretion” to refer to any disagreeable political view.

I had to find out if there was anyone at Enigma Fortress I could trust. Including YoYo.

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“And in Conclusion”

Happy belated Solstice!

For this year’s Skelleyverse Holiday Extravaganza On Ice, we’ve decided to combine forces and gift you with one bonus-size edition of our chain story, instead of the usual two smaller entries. Our prompt phrases this time all come from a single source: beloved movie A Christmas Story.

Jen will start. She’ll write until she works in the first phrase, then hand the keyboard over to Kent. We’ll alternate until we get to the end of the list.

Have a joyful season, however you choose to celebrate.

  • I can’t put my arms down
  • Only I didn’t say “fudge”
  • Not a finger!
  • you’ll shoot your eye out
  • this thing in the stock which tells time
  • Be sure to drink your Ovaltine.
  • soft glow of electric sex
  • It’s a major award!
  • I triple-dog-dare you!
  • It was… soap poisoning

Tune in next time part 451 & 452      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“And in conclusion,” YoYo said, “That’s how I know that ‘twins’ are merely a trick done with mirrors.”

“That’s preposterous,” I said. “I myself am a twin.”

YoYo made an elaborate show of looking around the room, lifting the blankets to peer under them, craning her neck all around. “I see only one of you.”

“Jason’s not here,” I said. “We’re identical, not conjoined. He’s off somewhere causing trouble, no doubt.”

YoYo sighed sadly. “I had hoped that you would see things my way and that I would be able to finally stop this endless struggle and lay my weapons aside, but I can’t put my arms down yet. Not so long as people like you are out there denying the truth of yetis and lying about the existence of twins.”

“All I can tell you is, I have never seen a yeti but I have seen lots of twins.” Arguing about this was making my head feel soft. “Maybe we just need to accept each other’s differing views, and move on.”

YoYo pointed to her tarot spread. “You denied this, too. You told me I don’t love you, despite the clear message in these infallible instruments of prophecy!”

“Oh, fudge,” I said. Only I didn’t say “fudge” — what I said was a word in Olde High Contrarian that doesn’t really translate but sounds just like “fudge” and means, basically, “please drop this tedious conversational topic, put your clothes on, and give me a few minutes alone to think.”

“It’s like that, is it?” said YoYo. “Fine, General. Have it your way.” She stood and whipped the blankets out from under the tarot cards like a magician denuding a dining table, leaving the intricate card configuration undisturbed upon the mattress. She gathered the blankets around herself like a robe and gave me a particular kind of salute that used only a single finger. Not a finger! How insubordinate!

“I hope that’s not your trigger finger,” I quipped. “Cuz you’ll shoot your eye out on the target range if it is.”

YoYo flounced from the room in a swirl of bedding. I wondered how she would feel about twins after giving birth to some.

Exhausted from my afternoon’s sweaty exertions, I fell asleep. I was awakened sometime later by the fortress’s dinner bell. I was starving. As I rolled out of bed, I noticed that the tarot cards had been shuffled about by my naptime thrashing (my legs tend to be quite restless). Maybe their new message would dissuade YoYo from the ridiculous notion that she was in love with me. I barely had time to put my pants on before the door swung open and a soldier entered, bearing my meal on a tray. It was a simple meal, merely a small loaf of bread and a bowl of thin soup. I prodded the soup with my spoon and discovered this thing in the stock which tells time. That is to say, a pocket watch. Who could have slipped such an item into my dinner. And why?

I was so hungry that I ate the soup anyway. As I dipped the bread to soften it and then gnawed the soggy loaf, I took a shot at decoding the disarrayed tarot cards on the bed. To my amazement there seemed to be something there, if I treated it as an instance of the soothsayer’s code. B… E… S… U… Maybe I was mistaken about it being meaningful, but I plowed on, spiraling into the center of the chaotic spread. R… E… T… O… And eventually, I had a complete phrase.

“Be sure to drink your Ovaltine.”

Just then came another knock on my door, and a soldier entered bearing a glass of what looked like rich, creamy, chocolate milk.

At this point I became unsure that anything from the past several hours had actually happened. Perhaps those mushrooms hadn’t been aphrodisiac purple rangers. Perhaps they had instead been hallucinogenic purple paladins. But the soft glow of electric sex emanating from my groin told me that at least some of the events had indeed occurred.

“Do you ever have one of those days?” I asked the soldier. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“You should apply for the Lost Marbles. It’s a major award! Only the most tragically insane have a shot at winning, but from what the rumor mill is saying about you, General, I think you should enter.”

I surged to my feet in outrage as the yeoman yodeler said, “Enter the contest, General. I triple-dog-dare you!”

The presumptuous soldier quickly set down the glass and darted backwards from my quarters, pulling the door shut behind him. I retrieved the beverage and raised it to my lips, but something about its aroma halted me before sipping. I swirled the drink and took another whiff of the odd bouquet, trying to identify it. The salty broth of my soup, after so much perspiration earlier, had left me quite parched. Whatever type of smoothie the concoction was, it didn’t seem very thirst-quenching, but it was probably better than nothing.

I pinched my nose and chugged it.

There came yet another knock on my door. I burped and said, “Enter.”

It was YoYo. I was very surprised by her return, so soon after our rancorous conversation. She said, “I forgot to tell you this earlier. As I’m sure you know, the last four generals who ran Enigma Fortress died mysteriously.” I did not know this. “The autopsy results have finally come back.” As she spoke, she dug in her pocket and then squinted at a crumpled paper scrap to read it. “It was… soap poisoning.”

I burped again, emitting three tiny bubbles into the room.

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“Soap Poisoning?”

It’s New Year’s Eve! What better excuse for another joint writing prompt? Unfortunately the most famous traditional song for this particular holiday has very few lyrics that anyone would recognize, and half of those are in Scottish. So we went another way with our inspiration. Can you guess it?

Once again, Jen goes first with Kent batting cleanup.

Next week we’ll return to our usual schedule of one prompt each. Happy New Year!

  • all is quiet
  • world in white
  • with you night and day
  • nothing changes
  • be with you again
  • under a blood red
  • crowd has gathered
  • arms entwined
  • newspaper says it’s true
  • torn in two

Tune in next time part 453 & 454      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Soap poisoning?” I felt queasy. “Drinking soap wouldn’t be good for you, but surely it isn’t fatal.” I hoped.

“I’m just telling you what the autopsies show,” said YoYo. “And don’t call me Shirley.”

I belched again, releasing a fusillade of bubbles. Not wanting to take a chance with something so dire, I ran to my luxurious ensuite and made myself vomit into the alabaster commode. I rinsed my mouth and returned to my bedchamber where YoYo stood, looking puzzled.

“I think my Ovaltine was tainted,” I said. “It disagreed with me.”

YoYo pressed her ear against my stomach for a few seconds. “All is quiet now, General,” she said.

“I think that’s a good sign. Assuming I survive the night, what further duties might I be expected to perform?” I was beginning to wonder if the rank of general was purely ceremonial, and if I would be tasked next with parading around the world in white shoes or something equally meaningful.

“The Royal Contrarian Mountain Police will arrive this evening in their sled pulled by mountain goats. They will work with you night and day to determine who it was who poisoned your predecessors.” She crinkled her nose and shook her head. “But don’t get your hopes up for actual justice. These investigations are all for show, and nothing changes no matter what they uncover.”

I crossed the room to my wardrobe and began a perusal of the many uniforms it held. Which one should I wear for my first meeting with the RCMP and their goats? Contrarian tradition is very particular.

YoYo cleared her throat.

“Dismissed,” I said.

“But General,” she simpered. “They won’t arrive for several hours. There’s time for me to be with you again so that you can learn to love me like the cards said.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” I said over my shoulder. “Take those cards with you.” She looked crestfallen. But, much as I enjoyed YoYo physically I couldn’t afford to indulge her outlandishly romanticized ideas about us. I turned to face her. “Take those cards with you, and that’s an order.”

I stared imperiously until she complied, then turned back to the selection of military finery in my closet. Maybe I should have tried to bargain with YoYo for advice about the proper uniform for the occasion, but it was too late now. I was on my own, so I decided to wear the one with the indigo vest under a blood red tail coat. It looked both pompous and outdated, so it probably projected a great deal of authority in Contrarian culture.

There were so many epaulettes and sashes and ribbons and medals and sock garters, it took the better part of half an hour for me to dress myself. Once fully decorated, I left my quarters and attempted to retrace my steps to the courtyard. Along the way I met the yeoman yodeler who had brought me my soapy beverage. He looked quite surprised at my appearance, and I snagged him by the collar and placed him under arrest. Perhaps the RCMP would not be needed after all.

I shouted orders and a military tribunal was quickly convened. “The crowd has gathered samples of soap from every corner of this fortress,” I said. “We’ll see which matches the residue in my Ovaltine glass.”

The glass had been sent down to the fortress’s basement laboratory, along with all the soapy samples. When the analysis was complete, the results were brought to the hall of tribunal by a cadre of alchemists who entered the hall in ascending order of height — arms entwined — until the final member of the retinue had to duck to pass through the door.

“Tell us,” I declaimed, “what you have ascertained about this vile assassination attempt!”

The alchemists began to sing in four-part harmony. They started with ‘Sweet Adeline,’ as per tradition, and eventually came around to the results of their analysis: the soap was unlike any found in the fortress, and was in fact Svenborgian in origin.

“Arlo,” I muttered. “That dick.” He must be making another play for Fleur.

While the alchemists continued their concert, I had the yeoman yodeler thrown in the brig, then telegrammed my wife at home in Funkistan, warning her of the Viscount’s treachery.

Her reply was, “I won’t believe it until the newspaper says it’s true.”

I sent another message, a long rant about her blindness to Arlo’s nefariousness. The telegrapher’s wrist was aching by the time he sent the whole thing. Then, of course, per Contrarian security protocols the entire message had to be calligraphed as well, for the express purpose of being torn in two so that each piece could be burned separately to ensure it didn’t fall into enemy hands.

Reformation of Contrarian military comms procedures suddenly leapt to the forefront of my goals for how to use my influence. But, later. I had other things to tend to first.

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Like Any Good Bureaucracy

  • by jen(read: glitter storm)
  • visited the forbidden basement
  • I almost gasp
  • murmured to the trembling creature
  • “Gimme a fucking break, girlie!”

Tune in next time part 455      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Like any good bureaucracy, Contraria makes liberal use of red tape. But only in the low country during the week of the new moon every other leap year. The University of Pittsburghistan offers doctorate level studies in proper tape usage, and without a degree from that hallowed institution it’s impossible to enter the diplomatic corps.

This being the Paradoxica Mountains, and the moon being a waxing crescent, with the barometric pressure falling, I needed pale blue tape with multicolored sparkles (read: glitter storm). Enigma Fortress kept their tape in an underground vault behind a door marked “No Admittance: Authorized Personnel Only.” Being the highest ranking officer in the fortress I decided I was authorized, and so visited the forbidden basement to get the consecrated tape and other stationery supplies to file my report.

I almost gasped when I flipped on the fluorescent lights and beheld a shaggy white bear-like beast huddled in the corner. It looked for all the world like a yeti, but that was obviously ridiculous. I approached slowly and murmured to the trembling creature, hoping to get a better look and determine if it was actually a dog or what.

Its growls sounded like a person imitating an animal more than an actual animal. I screwed up my courage and tugged on the furry head. It came right off, exposing the pink bald scalp I had hoped to never see again.

“Arlo!” I spat. “I knew you were behind the poisoning attempt. Why are you disguised as a mythical creature?”

“Gimme a fucking break, girlie!” my nemesis cried. “Everyone knows that yeti are real!”

“I’m assuming you don’t know what they do with yetis here in the mountains.”

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I Heard the Distinctive Tromping Cadence

  • by Kentdiplomats of any rank
  • dissolved into just the notion of an omelette
  • having an extra nipple
  • recover hope all ye who enter here
  • mind-bending music

Tune in next time part 456      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I heard the distinctive tromping cadence of a guard patrol in the corridor.

“Don’t move!” I barked at Arlo. Then I hauled the door open and summoned the guards into the room. “Arrest this foreign agitator!” I ordered.

“Who, the yeti?” asked the first guard.

Arlo had put the furry mask back on over his shiny bald head. Fine.

“Yes, the yeti!” I said. A smile crept onto my face. “Arrest it, or, treat it in the customary manner. I am told that in the Paradoxica region, you use every part of the yeti.”

“Never mind that,” said the second guard. “But might I inquire as to your business in this tape storeroom? The signage clearly indicates–”

“I am a general, and I am in command of this fortress. That’s my business in this and every room. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir. Except, you see, while diplomats of any rank are free to peruse the tape stockpile, military personnel, including all officers, must be properly escorted.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Fine. Take the yeti and chop it up and throw it in the larder. Better yet, it’s fresh. Why not make stock? Simmer it until its bones have dissolved into just the notion of an omelette. I’ll worry about the glitter storm tape later.”

They rousted Arlo to his feet, him still making his pathetic imitation animal grunts. I was surprised he maintained the charade, given my suggestions for how to deal with a ‘yeti’ like him.

“Bit short for a yeti, isn’t he?” asked the first guard.

“Oy, ew!” exclaimed the other. “Can’t cook with any shrimpy yeti having an extra nipple. Too gamey!”

The yeti costume worn by Arlo was indeed equipped with a supernumerary nipple. And in the armpit, a tattoo reading “recover hope all ye who enter here.”

I harrumphed. “In that case, let’s go back to where we started: arrest him!” And I yanked on the costume’s headpiece. It didn’t come off, and Arlo made sad whimpering noises.

“No disrespect, sir, but we do try not to mistreat the yetis. We hunt them for sport and meat, sure. But we never pull their hair.”

“This is no yeti,” I insisted, but they were openly doubtful. We were all interrupted by a new sound from the corridor, mind-bending music like a swarm of wasps skimming the inner contours of a sousaphone.

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“What is That Racket?”

  • by jengeneral costumes
  • is kinda like cilantro
  • wearing a long crocheted dress and, I was certain, even from my distance, no brassiere
  • lunk-headed older brother
  • dictionary definition of quixotic

Tune in next time part 457      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“What is that racket?” I asked.

“That’s the zeppelin detection system,” said the first guard.

“Someone is arriving from the capital,” said the second.

“What about the blizzard?” I asked. The heavy snow was the reason I had been stranded here when my wife summoned me.

“The royal zeppelins all have flame-throwers,” said the first guard. “But of course you know that, General. I suspect you’re just testing us.”

“Of course, of course.” Did my zeppelin have a flame thrower? If so, why had everyone pretended I was snowed in? Motioning to Arlo, I said, “Take this criminal to the stockade.”

The guards saluted and hustled the whimpering Arlo off. I grabbed a roll of glitter storm tape and returned to my quarters to figure out which of my general costumes I should put on now. It would help if I knew exactly who was on the incoming airship. Contrarian military garb is kinda like cilantro — some people enjoy it while others are genetically predisposed to find it repulsive. For the most part I’m in the former category (who doesn’t like to look fancy?), but I was getting a little tired of all the quick-changes.

Down the zeppelin’s gangway waddled a heavily pregnant Isolde. She was not dressed for the weather, wearing a long crocheted dress and, I was certain, even from my distance, no brassiere. I couldn’t fathom what business she had at Enigma Fortress. Shouldn’t she be somewhere near a maternity hospital, so close to giving birth? And wasn’t her husband Harry in some sort of trouble? My confusion only grew when I saw who was with her: my rapscallion brother Jim.

The two of them approached and we made all of the appropriate courtly gestures of greeting. Jim stage-whispered to Isolde, “My lunk-headed older brother looks surprised to see us.”

Trying to track all of the inter-familial machinations in my life was the very dictionary definition of quixotic.

“Let’s get you inside where it’s warm,” I said. I may have been acting as Harry’s proxy when I impregnated Isolde, but my protective impulses toward the children she was carrying were genuine.

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