Mar. 25th, 2020

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What have you been working on this week, Eerie fans? Now's the time to spread the word about any fannish treats you've got cooking: a line of dialogue from an upcoming fic, linework for your latest art piece, the yarn colours for a new toy. Let us know in the comments!
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It's the year 2020, and to mark the occasion we'll be running weekly prompts based around Just Say No Fun, the episode that introduced everyone's least favourite optometrist.

Your prompt for this week is:

UNDERCOVER IS MY LIFE
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"What's this?" asked Marshall, his eyes narrow with suspicion.

Dash glared.

"It's soup," he said. "If you don't want it, give it back."

Marshall hesitated, then tucked the dented can of beef stew into the pocket at the front of his oversized hoodie.

"No," he said. "It's mine now. Why are you bringing me tins of soup?"

"Your mom said you were sick," said Dash. "I thought soup was a... sick thing."

"Oh," said Marshall. "Thanks."

There was a long silence.

"I'm not actually sick," Marshall whispered, eventually. "I just didn't want to go to class."

Dash grinned at him.


Ongoing Verse: First Kiss

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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"Janet," said Tod, his voice low and gentle like he was facing off against a dog holding a gun.

Janet didn't look up, continuing to wield the shovel with ferocious concentration. There was dirt on her face, in her hair, and white blotches on her hands marked the site of incipient blisters.

"Yeah?"

"We're friends, right?"

She did look up then, a puzzled frown wrinkling her forehead and cracking the makeshift mud mask smeared there.

"'Course."

Tod sighed in relief.

"Good," he said. "So you're not making me dig my own grave or anything?"

"What?" said Janet, seeming honestly confused. "No! That's not- Tod, has someone asked you to do that before?"

Tod dumped another spadeful of soil, then jammed the blade into the disturbed earth and leaned against the handle.

"Well, no," he said. "But usually when you ask me to help out with something, it's, you know... kitchen stuff. Not digging holes in the middle of the Eerie Woods."

"Oh," said Janet. "Shit, no, Tod- I'm sorry, I didn't think about how it looked."

She climbed out of the shallow pit and crossed to a small patch of bracken, pulling the snarl of branches away to reveal several large boxes wrapped tightly in plastic.

The sight of them did not have the desired effect. Tod's eyes widened and his voice rose in both volume and pitch.

"Am I helping you bury other people's bodies?" he asked. "Janet, did you just make me an accomplice to Eerie's youngest serial killer?"

"No!" said Janet. "Tod! How much real death does the Eerie Death Metal Fanclub involve that this is where your brain goes?!"

She reached for the multi-tool at her belt, took in his pale, panicked face, reconsidered, and used her fingernails to peel back the waterproof wrap on one of the boxes.

"It's just camping supplies!" she said. "Tinned food and wet wipes and gas canisters for portable stoves!"

She stepped away, her hands held open and empty in front of her.

"It's my stress relief," she explained. "I bury caches of food in secret places so I know I can hide from the Garbage Men if I ever need to."

Tod moved slowly towards the stack of crates, the shovel clenched tight in both hands.

"That's a weird coping mechanism," he said.

Janet nodded.

"Fair," she agreed. "But your brain leaps straight to serial murder, so, glass houses."

Ongoing Verse: Janet

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The polished wood of the old tombstone radio gleamed in the buttery yellow light of the Secret Spot. Tinny music drifted from the speakers and beneath the domed glass covering the dial, the needle quivered.

The raudive voices that whispered beneath Cole Porter's "Night and Day" abruptly rose in volume, drowning out even the ever-present hum of static. The radio gave a shrill whine as it changed both station and time period, the music switching to a high-energy pop number that repeatedly implored anyone listening to "shake your booty"

"Sorry, song," said Marshall, reaching for the off button. "Not today."

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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It was a warm day and the Phantom Ocean had manifested, filling the Eerie Baitshop and Sushi Bar with a pale golden haze and making the air smell of salt. Customers and wait-staff cut furrows through it as they walked around the restaurant, their wakes lingering a moment before the fog moved back into the empty spaces.

Janet ran a dishcloth across the front of the pie case, completely failing to dislodge the concealing mist that hid the days' fresh-baked pastries, and sighed.

"You know," she told the murk, "If you want to order dessert, you can just ask me."

Ongoing Verse: Janet

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Farmer Ephraim Chambers tethered down the last of his Vampire Holsteins, turned, and glared down at the assembled townspeople.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves," he said. "Sneaking out to a man's private property, manhandling his livestock without permission."

The mob, those who had survived, stared at their feet.

"Do you want to be over-run with minotaurs? Because humans grab-assing at random beasts without knowing what they're about is how you get minotaurs."

Nobody said anything. The farmer pointed at the gate leading to the main road and said, "Leave."

They left.

"Is that how you get minotaurs?" asked Marshall.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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The sidewalk-hags were gathering, clotting the pavements and forcing pedestrians to walk in the gutters and on the roads to avoid them.

"Excuse me," said Simon politely. They ignored him. The vast black Hellhound who walked at his side barked, the tone sharp and reproving. The hags did not move.

Marshall put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. The hags looked up, then moved a little way apart, blocking even more of the walkway. He looked at his companions, his hands raised in helpless exasperation.

Dash sneezed. It was loud and obviously fake, but it worked. The hags fled.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Smoke rose from the barbeque, filmy and blue and rich with the smell of cooking meat. Squeezy bottles of ketchup and mustard stood sentry beside a platter of fluffy white rolls and fried onions wrapped in tinfoil warmed over the smouldering charcoal.

"Boys," Marilyn called, tongs in hand, grease splatters on her apron. She tilted her head towards the small recessed window of the attic. "Food's almost ready."

She waited for a slow count of twenty, but there was no sign of movement.

"I'll get 'em, Mom," Syndi offered, setting down her magazine and sitting up on the cushioned sun lounger.

She stood, stretching for a moment in the warm spring garden, then put both hands on her hips and widened her stance.

"Oh no!" she shouted, aiming her words up at the house. "Bigfoot has taken my burger!"

Loud, excited voices. Footsteps on the stairs.

Syndi rolled her eyes.

Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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The raven set a single glistening eyeball down at the edge of the table, cawed once, then hopped down onto the wet lawn. It bobbed and strutted it's way over to a small flowering shrub, where it flew up and settled amongst the blossoms.

Simon stared at the eye. The eye stared back, and then, in defiance of both good taste and logic, it winked.

"Ah," said Simon. He looked at the raven, which preened and fluffed it's feathers expectantly.

"Thank you," he said, tearing a chunk from his half-forgotten sandwich and tossing it to the bird. "That's very kind."

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Marshall's eyes were full of cosmic horror and a thin trickle of blood ran from his left ear down to a rapidly-spreading stain on the collar of his t-shirt. Pinkish tears dripped unheeded down his cheeks as Simon guided him to one of the holy water eyewash stations that lined the halls of BF Skinner Junior High.

"Mars?" he asked, voice quiet and barely audible over the sound of the faucet. "You okay?"

Marshall raised his head and blotted uselessly at his wet face.

"Simon," he said hoarsely. "Never, ever open the door to the teacher's lounge without knocking first."

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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The roof of the lych-gate was thick with lichen, the wood swollen from the constant wear of winter freeze and spring thaw, and the rusted hinges screamed in all but the slightest breeze. The church it had once given entry to had long since burned down, a misguided attempt by the Eerie Chamber of Commerce to rid the town of a burgeoning ghoul infestation, but still, the lych-gate remained.

Marisea Carter walked the forgotten corpse roads, the high sheen of her patent-leather shoes glinting in the last light of the day. In the neat drawstring bag at her waist she carried a rosary, a small jar containing ashes from a sacred fire pit, and a large hammer. The last was in case she found herself in need of an emergency exit, as rotted walls make excellent doors when hit with sufficient force.

She saw the figure, all in black, leaning against the tilted gatepost, and for a brief and heart-stopping moment she thought it was Death. A second look and the handy comparison of the lych-gate reassured her, however - the Grim Reaper almost never chose an aspect that short.

"Melanie," she said, smiling. "Devon. Lovely to see you both here."

Ongoing Verse: Andrea/Marisea

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Ongoing Verse: The Children

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