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PROMPT CHALLENGE: CHRISTMAS
Dec. 25th, 2017 12:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
froodleMerry Christmas, Eerie fans! What did Santa bring you this year? Hopefully lots of Eerie fanworks, which are due today!
Dec. 25th, 2017
froodle
Musical Mondays
Dec. 25th, 2017 12:01 amfroodleIt's Monday, the start of the working week. To counter-act the post-weekend blues, cheer yourself up with Radio Weird: Songs of Eerie. Whether you're checking out some of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eviinsanemonkey's amazing filks, or taking up deifire's awesome recommendations for Eerie-centric listening, or creating a musical fanwork of your very own, share your thoughts, and your favourites, in the comments!
( Stabbity Steve: a Murder Ballad by Eviinsanemonkey )
( After Wolf Mountain: a Filk by Eviinsanemonkey )
( Pay Attention: a Filk by Eviinsanemonkey )
( Krampus: an Eerie Christmas Poem by Eviinsanemonkey )
( Moo! A World o' Stuff advertising jingle by Eviinsanemonkey )
( Bigfoot Stole My Mail: a Musical by Owen Neil )
( Eerie, Indiana fanvids by Roseveare )
( Weird Science (Don't Leave My Arms): an Eerie, Indiana Melanie/Devon/Marshall fanvid by Current Joys )
eviinsanemonkey's amazing filks, or taking up deifire's awesome recommendations for Eerie-centric listening, or creating a musical fanwork of your very own, share your thoughts, and your favourites, in the comments!( Stabbity Steve: a Murder Ballad by Eviinsanemonkey )
( After Wolf Mountain: a Filk by Eviinsanemonkey )
( Pay Attention: a Filk by Eviinsanemonkey )
( Krampus: an Eerie Christmas Poem by Eviinsanemonkey )
( Moo! A World o' Stuff advertising jingle by Eviinsanemonkey )
( Bigfoot Stole My Mail: a Musical by Owen Neil )
( Eerie, Indiana fanvids by Roseveare )
( Weird Science (Don't Leave My Arms): an Eerie, Indiana Melanie/Devon/Marshall fanvid by Current Joys )
Eerie, Indiana triple drabble: Pantomime
Dec. 25th, 2017 01:16 pmfroodle"He's behind you!" the audience shouted, but it was too late. The neat candy cane border that ringed a smooth lawn of green marzipan grass bent, buckled, shattered into a million red and white striped pieces. Santa's great black boots scrabbled for purchase as he tried to rise, but Krampus brought the still-smouldering Yule Log down across the back of his neck and he slumped, limp amidst drifts of churned snow that smelled like vanilla frosting.
"Kill him!" screamed Harley, jumping up and down in his plastic orange chair. A half-eaten stick of candyfloss tumbled forgotten from one outstretched hand.
At the other end of the row, Marilyn and Edgar exchanged an indulgent look and twined their fingers tighter together.
Krampus tossed the splintered and bloody log aside, reaching for the great iron axe that had lain Chekov-esque above the mantle throughout the pantomime.
Harley roared, a war cry echoed by a dozen other elementary schoolers scattered throughout the audience. Sat on either side of him, Marshall and Simon squirmed in their seats and tried their best to lean out of the splash zone.
There was a wet, tearing, snapping noise from the stage, and Santa's severed head transcribed a high parabola above the neat rows of chairs. Hot blood spattered the upturned faces of the watching crowd, and some of the parents gasped or muttered unhappily about the age-appropriateness of this year's production.
Harley applauded wildly, tears of happiness shining in his wide, wet eyes.
"Is it always like this?" whispered Syndi, bending down a little in order to murmur in Simon's ear.
Simon looked up at her, rapidly-drying droplets of blood mixing with the freckles across his nose and cheeks.
"Yes," he said, pulling a travel-sized packet of wet wipes from his jacket pocket and offering her one. "Merry Christmas."
( Read the rest of the Holmes Brothers here )
( Read the rest of the Trusted Associates verse here )
( Read the rest of the Teller Family History here )
( Ongoing verse: Christmas )
"Kill him!" screamed Harley, jumping up and down in his plastic orange chair. A half-eaten stick of candyfloss tumbled forgotten from one outstretched hand.
At the other end of the row, Marilyn and Edgar exchanged an indulgent look and twined their fingers tighter together.
Krampus tossed the splintered and bloody log aside, reaching for the great iron axe that had lain Chekov-esque above the mantle throughout the pantomime.
Harley roared, a war cry echoed by a dozen other elementary schoolers scattered throughout the audience. Sat on either side of him, Marshall and Simon squirmed in their seats and tried their best to lean out of the splash zone.
There was a wet, tearing, snapping noise from the stage, and Santa's severed head transcribed a high parabola above the neat rows of chairs. Hot blood spattered the upturned faces of the watching crowd, and some of the parents gasped or muttered unhappily about the age-appropriateness of this year's production.
Harley applauded wildly, tears of happiness shining in his wide, wet eyes.
"Is it always like this?" whispered Syndi, bending down a little in order to murmur in Simon's ear.
Simon looked up at her, rapidly-drying droplets of blood mixing with the freckles across his nose and cheeks.
"Yes," he said, pulling a travel-sized packet of wet wipes from his jacket pocket and offering her one. "Merry Christmas."
( Read the rest of the Holmes Brothers here )
( Read the rest of the Trusted Associates verse here )
( Read the rest of the Teller Family History here )
( Ongoing verse: Christmas )
Tags:
- a: froodle,
- char: edgar,
- char: harley,
- char: marilyn,
- char: mars,
- char: simon,
- char: syndi,
- cryptid: krampus,
- fanworks: fic,
- fanworks: ongoing verse,
- ongoing verse: christmas,
- ongoing verse: holmes brothers,
- ongoing verse: teller family history,
- ongoing verse: trusted associates inc,
- seasonal: christmas
froodleA glittering stream of sweets, glorious in foil wrappings of every shade and hue, tumbled down into the octagonal plastic box with a rattle.
"What are you doing, you idiot?" Marshall yelled, jumping off the sofa in a shower of cookie crumbs and throw cushions.
Dash glared up at him, the now-empty tin of Roses in one hand, the newly-refilled box of Quality Street in the other.
"What?" he demanded.
"You can't mix Quality Street with Roses!" Marshall shouted, a vein jumping in his temple. "What's wrong with you?"
"Oh, really?" Dash countered, reaching for the red cardboard tube. "You're really going to hate this, then..."
Simon, who had been steadfastly ignoring them while he flipped through the Commander Cody Christmas Annual, looked up at Marshall's horrified scream. He tried to reach for the Celebrations, but his feet tangled in the heavy throw rug Marilyn had spread over the three boys after lunch, and he went sprawling.
"Dash, no..." he tried, but it was too late.
The Celebrations, gold and brown and red, rustled and clattered as they mixed with the blues and pinks of the Roses and burrowed down amidst the greens and purples of the Quality Street. The room filled with the smell of fondant and melted chocolate, and Dash dropped the now-full box with a curse as the plastic began to heat.
"What have you done?" cried Marshall, as a pair of drippy brown hands appeared over the edge of the Quality Street box and a mis-shapen head, stinking of unpleasant flavour combinations and studded with a thousand Toffee Penny eyes, rose from the churning moil.
"For decades, I have slumbered," gurgled the Selection Box Homunculus, a long string of too-sweet strawberry-orange filling dripping from the corner of it's too-wide mouth. "But at last, I rise again! Cower, foolish mortals, for the curse of all-the-good-flavours-are-gone is upon you!"
"Great," said Marshall, as a nearly-full box of Malteasers flew off the coffee table to be absorbed into the monster's gloopy body. "Thanks for ruining Christmas, Dash."
"How was I supposed to know?" Dash snapped back, making a futile grasp for the last of the Thin Mints as they vanished into the roiling mass of confectionary.
"Everyone knows!" said Simon, as peanut m&ms streamed between his frantically clutching fingers and straight into the monster's gaping maw. "It's a basic tenant of the holidays: you never cross the candy streams!"
( Read the rest of the Christmas series here )
( Read the rest of the Microwave verse here )
"What are you doing, you idiot?" Marshall yelled, jumping off the sofa in a shower of cookie crumbs and throw cushions.
Dash glared up at him, the now-empty tin of Roses in one hand, the newly-refilled box of Quality Street in the other.
"What?" he demanded.
"You can't mix Quality Street with Roses!" Marshall shouted, a vein jumping in his temple. "What's wrong with you?"
"Oh, really?" Dash countered, reaching for the red cardboard tube. "You're really going to hate this, then..."
Simon, who had been steadfastly ignoring them while he flipped through the Commander Cody Christmas Annual, looked up at Marshall's horrified scream. He tried to reach for the Celebrations, but his feet tangled in the heavy throw rug Marilyn had spread over the three boys after lunch, and he went sprawling.
"Dash, no..." he tried, but it was too late.
The Celebrations, gold and brown and red, rustled and clattered as they mixed with the blues and pinks of the Roses and burrowed down amidst the greens and purples of the Quality Street. The room filled with the smell of fondant and melted chocolate, and Dash dropped the now-full box with a curse as the plastic began to heat.
"What have you done?" cried Marshall, as a pair of drippy brown hands appeared over the edge of the Quality Street box and a mis-shapen head, stinking of unpleasant flavour combinations and studded with a thousand Toffee Penny eyes, rose from the churning moil.
"For decades, I have slumbered," gurgled the Selection Box Homunculus, a long string of too-sweet strawberry-orange filling dripping from the corner of it's too-wide mouth. "But at last, I rise again! Cower, foolish mortals, for the curse of all-the-good-flavours-are-gone is upon you!"
"Great," said Marshall, as a nearly-full box of Malteasers flew off the coffee table to be absorbed into the monster's gloopy body. "Thanks for ruining Christmas, Dash."
"How was I supposed to know?" Dash snapped back, making a futile grasp for the last of the Thin Mints as they vanished into the roiling mass of confectionary.
"Everyone knows!" said Simon, as peanut m&ms streamed between his frantically clutching fingers and straight into the monster's gaping maw. "It's a basic tenant of the holidays: you never cross the candy streams!"
( Read the rest of the Christmas series here )
( Read the rest of the Microwave verse here )
froodleMarshall examined the glossy tri-fold leaflet in his hands.
"Um," he said.
"Yes?" asked Mister Radford, beaming expectantly.
"Well," said Marshall. "I think having two milkshakes for the price of one on Tuesday is a great idea, and calling it 2-4-1 Tuesday is kinda catchy..."
Radford's moustache curled upwards in a broad smile.
"But," Marshall went on, trying not to feel horrible as Radford's grin faded, and failing badly. "I don't know if you need to call the other days 'Expensive Monday', 'Expensive Wednesday', and so on."
"Oh," said Radford. He took a deep breath, visibly attempting to rally his deflated mood. "Well, what would you call them?"
"Just... normal?" said Marshall.
Radford frowned.
"Normal Monday?" he said dubiously. "I don't know if that would catch on."
"No," said Marshall. "Not Normal Monday, that would be dumb... just regular Monday. Don't call it anything."
Radford still looked confused. Marshall turned to his associates, one of whom was currently finishing off Marshall's full-price Expensive Saturday black cow, for support.
"I tried to stop him," said Simon.
"He did," Dash agreed cheerfully.
Marshall scowled.
"Fine," he said. "Earn your ice-cream fee by helping out for a change."
Dash took the leaflet, scanning the digitally-enhanced photographs of various sandwiches with a barely concealed eye-roll. He folded it up and passed it to Simon.
"Can't help you," he said. "Last time I took a job in marketing I almost got the whole town sent to hell. Depending on how you look at it, I'm either really bad at advertising, or way too good at it."
"I think you can weigh in on Full Price Day: the Strategy," said Marshall.
"Two for One Tuesday is fine," said Dash. "Expensive Monday is stupid."
Radford's shoulders slumped.
"I already had them printed," he admitted.
Even Simon groaned.
( Read the rest of the Microwave verse here )
"Um," he said.
"Yes?" asked Mister Radford, beaming expectantly.
"Well," said Marshall. "I think having two milkshakes for the price of one on Tuesday is a great idea, and calling it 2-4-1 Tuesday is kinda catchy..."
Radford's moustache curled upwards in a broad smile.
"But," Marshall went on, trying not to feel horrible as Radford's grin faded, and failing badly. "I don't know if you need to call the other days 'Expensive Monday', 'Expensive Wednesday', and so on."
"Oh," said Radford. He took a deep breath, visibly attempting to rally his deflated mood. "Well, what would you call them?"
"Just... normal?" said Marshall.
Radford frowned.
"Normal Monday?" he said dubiously. "I don't know if that would catch on."
"No," said Marshall. "Not Normal Monday, that would be dumb... just regular Monday. Don't call it anything."
Radford still looked confused. Marshall turned to his associates, one of whom was currently finishing off Marshall's full-price Expensive Saturday black cow, for support.
"I tried to stop him," said Simon.
"He did," Dash agreed cheerfully.
Marshall scowled.
"Fine," he said. "Earn your ice-cream fee by helping out for a change."
Dash took the leaflet, scanning the digitally-enhanced photographs of various sandwiches with a barely concealed eye-roll. He folded it up and passed it to Simon.
"Can't help you," he said. "Last time I took a job in marketing I almost got the whole town sent to hell. Depending on how you look at it, I'm either really bad at advertising, or way too good at it."
"I think you can weigh in on Full Price Day: the Strategy," said Marshall.
"Two for One Tuesday is fine," said Dash. "Expensive Monday is stupid."
Radford's shoulders slumped.
"I already had them printed," he admitted.
Even Simon groaned.
( Read the rest of the Microwave verse here )
froodleFrom the living room came the sound of something big hitting the floor. A series of soft, explosive pops followed, exactly as though a dozen fragile, carefully-panted glass balls had burst on impact.
Marshall set his coffee mug down, already regretting not having added a festive shot of ten-am Christmas Morning rum, and opened the kitchen door.
The Christmas tree had been a bedraggled and lopsided affair, all wire branches and plastic needles and artificial snow long since faded to ash-grey. Still, they'd managed to disguise the worst of the bald spots with multiple layers of tinsel, and used baubles to counter-balance the tree's tendency to lean.
Now it lay amidst shredded heaps of colourful foil and broken glass, looking much bigger spread over their couch than it had wedged into the corner behind the TV. The manticore was making muffins on the tangled branches, stripping away the few needles that still remained. It's purr rattled the cheap framed prints that had come with the apartment, and it's segmented tail with the barbed and poisonous stinger lashed happily amidst the carnage.
"Monster," hissed Marshall.
The manticore appraised him with desert-yellow eyes, and coughed up the severed head of an angel.
( Read the rest of the Microwave verse here )
( Read the rest of the Christmas series here )
Marshall set his coffee mug down, already regretting not having added a festive shot of ten-am Christmas Morning rum, and opened the kitchen door.
The Christmas tree had been a bedraggled and lopsided affair, all wire branches and plastic needles and artificial snow long since faded to ash-grey. Still, they'd managed to disguise the worst of the bald spots with multiple layers of tinsel, and used baubles to counter-balance the tree's tendency to lean.
Now it lay amidst shredded heaps of colourful foil and broken glass, looking much bigger spread over their couch than it had wedged into the corner behind the TV. The manticore was making muffins on the tangled branches, stripping away the few needles that still remained. It's purr rattled the cheap framed prints that had come with the apartment, and it's segmented tail with the barbed and poisonous stinger lashed happily amidst the carnage.
"Monster," hissed Marshall.
The manticore appraised him with desert-yellow eyes, and coughed up the severed head of an angel.
( Read the rest of the Microwave verse here )
( Read the rest of the Christmas series here )