Mar. 24th, 2020

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It's Tuesday, so today you get a choice between two prompts. Pick one, combine both, pit them against each other - on Tuesday, you choose!

This week, your options are:

Principal Togar versus Annabelle Lee
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Marshall slammed a handful of Polaroid photographs down on the weathered fence post, getting a couple of splinters for his trouble.

Farmer Ephraim Chambers watched in amusement for a couple of seconds before handing him a pocket-sized first aid kit that contained, among other things, iodine, tweezers, and a small but effective charm for warding off curses.

"Thanks," said Marshall, sucking his punctured fingers in clear defiance of good hand hygiene.

"No problem," said the farmer. "Maybe you can tell me what's brought you storming up here under such a head of steam."

Marshall gathered the scattered Polaroids with his uninjured hand, passing them awkwardly across the barbed wire fence that lay between them.

"You told me there was no such thing as the Lamb of Tartary!" he said. "That was one of the first things you ever said to me, and you lied!"

Farmer Chambers leaned against the rough wooden pole as he sorted through blurry images of something green and roundish and woolly-looking.

He whistled.

"Son," he said. "That's not the Lamb of Tartary, which for the last time is a misunderstanding by olden-times Europeans of how the cotton plant works."

He held up one of the better images, which wasn't saying much.

"What you have here is a pretty advanced case of Lettanthropy," he said.

Marshall blinked.

"What?"

"Lettanthropy," repeated the farmer. "It's what happens when a man goes out to a vegetable patch under the full moon and is bitten by a head of lettuce. Soon enough he starts turning green and sprouting leaves."

He examined the photo again.

"Looks like he's well on his way to becoming an Iceberg, the poor bastard. One of the worst varieties."

"Really dangerous?" asked Marshall, his face pale.

The farmer shook his head sadly.

"Worse," he said. "No flavour."

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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Lillian Bancroft took a long sip of tea, savouring the warmth and the flavour. Beside her, Harley Holmes added one more marshmallow to the towering pink and white mountain that rose high above the surface of a rapidly overflowing hot chocolate.

"Excellent structural integrity," said Lillian. "You did a good job."

Harley nodded, then reached for the catering-sized canister of whipped cream at his elbow. Lillian watched him position the nozzle directly above his mug and shifted her chair slightly to the left.

There was a click as the seal broke, and a brief hiss of compressed air before ropes of aerosolized dairy began flying in all directions. One trailing, sticky glob landed exactly where Marshall's grandmother had been sitting just a moment ago, and she smiled despite herself.

After a long, long time, the pressurized can sputtered empty. Harley, his fine blonde hair coated in white and all his teeth on show in a delighted smile, examined the vanilla-scented snowdrift in front of him. Lillian couldn't see the mug anymore. She could barely see the placemat the mug had rested on.

She looked down at her now-empty teacup where wet leaves clumped in the shape of horns, and laughed.

Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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(set in the same world as Underwater)

The sky is rusting.

That's the first thing that Janet thinks, when she opens her eyes to a world of red and brown. Down at the Baitshop, the air was thick with the smell of brine and exposed metal corroded faster than you could say "table three just got eaten by mermaids, better close their tab."

This place had a similar smell, but deeper, somehow, more ground-in. Metallic, like the Baitshop. Bloody, like the Baitshop. But also stale, which is something she'd never said about the listing restaurant with it's red-streaked floorboards and tanks of colourful sushi swimming in shoals.

She sat up, head pounding, stomach lurching. She was dizzy and sick, and the sky was a metal dome spotted with rivets and pitted with rust.

"Janet Donner," says a voice at her elbow, familiar and strange all at once, and she spins and tries not to throw up.

Syndi Teller raises white hands tipped with blood-red talons, eyes wide beneath a black domino mask.

"Wait!" she says. "Don't be afraid! I'm not here to torture information out of you or anything!"

"What?" Janet almost screams. She doesn't know Marshall's sister all that well, but she'd never come off as the torture-for-information type.

Syndi stands. Her shoulder-pads jut out sharply and the lines of her all-black power suit are severe. She's wearing lipstick and stiletto heeled shoes the same venous red as her nail polish, and on one crisply pointed lapel there gleams a silver brooch bearing the Things Incorporated logo.

"I'm sorry!" she says, wobbling on too-high heels. "It's been a long time since I had a conversation with someone that didn't revolve around super-villainy. I'm out of practice."

She removes the domino mask, revealing perfectly applied smoky eye-shadow and, for some reason, a monocle. She removes that too.

"Dress code," she explains. "Not sure why the Mad Science division is issued monocles when we just tear the eyes out of someone else's head when ours wear out, but here we are."

She stares down at Janet, who tries to remember if Marshall's sister's eyes were always brown.

She'd thought they were blue. Marshall's were blue. Who's eyes was she looking into right now?

"You've probably guessed that this isn't your world," she says.

Janet nods, slowly. It makes sense, and the knowledge is strangely comforting; her world, of blue skies and black waters and tentacles made of rice, is still out there. She'd been lost before and made it home. She can do it again.

"I need you to find Marshall," says Syndi. "The Marshall who exists in your reality. And," she hesitates, swallows a little, and blinks the tears out of her stolen eyes, "I need you to find my Mom."

"Oh," says Janet, who can sort of relate to missing your family, but is also still a little hung up on the eye-gouging, mad science, and that awful metal sky. "Okay, I guess."

She swallows, then asks:

"Do you have a milk truck I could borrow?"

Ongoing Verse: Janet

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Milkman

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The Eerie Nursery and Garden Centre had broken through the wall surrounding the Secret Garden. The noise of chainsaws mixed with chlorophyll-choked screams, and blood-red sap lapped hungrily at the feet of careless passers-by.

Marshall pulled the stopper out of a My First Science Kit test tube and moved towards the crimson tide, intending to get a sample for the Evidence Locker. Or possibly to plant in the small vegetable plot intended for the students of B F Skinner Junior High.

A twisted length of bramble ending in seven gnarled fingers clutched at him, and he leapt back.

Never mind.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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"Fifteen minutes," said the skeletal conductor, his white bones exposed except for the top of his skull, which he covered with a Casey Jones hat perched at a jaunty angle.

Floating a little above the plush red seat of an otherwise empty carriage, Devon wondered why a Ghost Train like the Eerie Express would feel the need for a timetable. He'd thought the afterlife would be some kind of eternal, unending now.

He stared through the window as the thin mist dissipated, revealing the landscape, and felt the heart he no longer had sink in despair.

Eerie Indiana. Pop: 16661.


Ongoing Verse: The Children

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It's getting colder, now. The sun is going down and outside the sky is cloudless and grey. There'll be frost overnight. The shadows, emboldened by the retreating light, are getting longer, slipping across the asphalt to brush the edges of the dead lawn.

Simon pushes the worn office chair back from his cramped desk and stands, rubbing warmth back into fingers grown cold on an unresponsive keyboard. His shoulder hurts as it always does, the ache reminding him that when it mattered most he was too late, too slow.

He shuts the computer down. Tomorrow, he'll try again.

And again.

Ongoing Verse: The Children

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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"Bert!" Marshall called, holding up one hand. "Ernie! Wait a minute."

The twins stopped and make a slow half-turn in perfect unison. They both carried reusable shopping bags bearing the World o' Stuff logo, and the bulge of the contents was the only difference between them.

"Marshall!" the first twin said, brightly.

"Teller!" the second twin finished, just as happily.

"How is your summer internship going?" they inquired.

Marshall jogged across the road to meet them, pausing to check for milk trucks before he stepped off the curb.

"Hey guys," he said. "Internship's going great, thanks. Have you got a minute? I need to talk to you about the Future Homemakers Club."

Their smiles widened.

"Are you interested in joining?" one of them asked, beaming with delight at the prospect.

"How wonderful!" said his brother.

"Oh," said Marshall. "No. Thanks, but no. My free time is all booked up right now."

The Wilson twins issued matching regretful sighs.

"Shame," they said as one. "Then what can we do for you?"

Marshall fished a half-completed enrolment form out of his jeans pocket.

"You know that weird kid who sometimes shows up to your class?"

"The head-banger?" asked one.

"No, the-"

"The girl out of time?" asked the other.

"No, I mean-"

"The two dozen moray eels stuffed into a skin suit?"

"No- wait, what?"

"Quite the knack with soufflés," one of the twins informed him, while the other nodded enthusiastically.

Marshall tried to absorb this, then shook his head.

"No. It's... you know Dash? Grey hair, talks like this," he added, dropping his voice to a cartoonish growl.

The twins nodded, their faces expectant.

"Well," Marshall said, holding out the printed sheet. "He forgot to fill in his enrolment form. And pay his class fees. I just wanted to drop it off and settle up."

One twin held up one hand in a "stop" gesture. His brother shook his head.

"No payment needed," they said. "Any friend of Marshall Teller's is a friend of ours."

Marshall blinked.

"Seriously?" he said.

"We owe you," they informed him, round faces radiating sincerity.

Marshall thought about this.

"Does Dash know he gets his lessons for free?" he asked.

"No," said the twins.

"He seemed to enjoy getting away without paying," said one.

"We didn't want to spoil his fun," said the other.

"Our little secret," they said, winking. "You'll keep it, right?"

Marshall nodded.

Ongoing Verse: First Kiss

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Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Janet

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Tod pinched one last perfect crimp into the pastry case, and stood back.

"Well?" he said. "What do you think?"

Janet pulled the dish towards her, turning it carefully.

"Pickles," she said. "Pork. Pastrami." She looked up at him. "Pickles and deli meat under the pie crust?"

"I call it a New York Deli Pie," said Tod. "It's for Marshall's birthday. I thought he'd like something that reminds him of home."

Janet bit her lip.

"You know he's from New Jersey, right?" she asked carefully.

Tod made a face.

"I know," he said. "But I can't make a pie out of toxic waste and used hypodermics."

Janet nodded.

"I mean, you could," she said. "The World o' Stuff stocks both of those things. But it doesn't say 'happy birthday'."

"Nope," agreed Tod, reclaiming the pie and carefully lowering the pastry lid over the rolled pastrami and chopped gherkins. "He'd think it was a death threat, or an insult, or maybe a come-on."

Janet let out a snort of laughter.

"Oh Gods-in-the-Cornfield," she said, covering her mouth. "He totally would."

Tod shook his head.

"No judgement, y'know?" he said. "But between you and me, so much judgement."

"So much," Janet agreed.

Ongoing Verse: First Kiss

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Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Janet

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"I'm not mad," said the Cultist, popcorn flakes pouring from his mouth and from the bloodied sockets where his eyes had been. "I'm just disappointed."

The rest of the cult members moaned in despair.

"Forgive us," one of them cried, throwing themselves at the flaked and buttered feet of Poplio's chosen vessel. Others followed suit, prostrating themselves on the sticky multiplex carpet, wailing into the stain-splattered nylon.

The Popcorn God's mouthpiece coughed up a handful of kernels, some of which got stuck in his broken teeth.

"Repent, children," he gargled. "Repent, and swear never to mix sweet and salty again!"

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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