May. 3rd, 2020

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Sunday challenge time! Your prompt for this week is:

Roll for Persuasion
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Eerie is a town with issues. Whether it's shitty parenting, missing kids, the fact that the spectre of death haunts every pint of milk left on your doorstep or just an overly-amorous hominid pursuing a relationship with you against your will, the people in Eerie have problems, and they need help.

For this challenge, write a letter to an advice column from the POV of one of Eerie's beleaguered citizens, or the reply they might receive. Maybe you could write both, or maybe you could reply to someone else's cry for help.
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The King of the Wild Hunt's eyes were huge and dark. Strange lights moved in the blackest depths of his pupils, twinkling like the last gasp of dying stars in far-off galaxies.

Simon could see himself reflected there, small and shabby and upside-down, and all around him thronged the shadows of green and growing things, swayed by the movement of scurrying bodies that lived and died and ran and bled in the woods where the Wild Hunt dwell.

The King reached down and plucked the yellow dog vest up from the corner of the plastic garden table.

"Interesting," he boomed.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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He lifted the dog jacket up, up over the skyline, beyond the curvature of the earth, to the place where those terrible eyes burned eternal, and examined it.

"Did you slay my cowardly hound?" he asked, his tone more interested than accusatory.

"No!" said Simon, horrified. "Did you kill my NightMare?!"

The King of the Wild Hunt laughed, the sound echoing emptily through streets which had thronged with people moments ago.

"None can slay a creature of Dream!" he said, shaking his horned head in amusement. "Not while humanity still sleeps and frets and fears and brings her forth anew!"

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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"Oh," said Simon feeling a little of the tension ease out of his hunched shoulders. "Well... good, I guess. Can I see her?"

The King of the Wild Hunt gestured to the massed ranks of his ever-growing army, and they parted. The bottom of the Nightmare's once-unshod hoof now sparkled with the incandescent sheen of Faerie metal, and somebody had braided her mane with finger-bones and wild flowers.

It wasn't a bad look, thought Simon, but he was definitely going to comb it out once the King departed.

"And my beast?" the King prompted.

"Oh!" said Simon again. "Yes! Sorry!"

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Simon turned away from the still-smoking grill, remembered the basic fire safety drilled into him by a stern-faced Edgar Teller when he'd gifted them the barbeque, and turned back.

"One second," he said, picking up the walkie-talkie that stood tall and proud amidst a forest of grease-spattered condiment bottles. He pressed the talk button three times and was relieved to hear the answering staccato burst of static from the other end.

"Hey, Mars?" he said. "Could you please bring Mustard out here?"

There came an interrogatory sort of mumble from the receiver.

"No, not the sauce. Mustard like the dog."

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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The King of the Wild Hunt raised one shaggy eyebrow.

"You have named my dog," he said. It wasn't a question.

Simon remembered another lecture, this one delivered no less sternly by Mister Radford, about the importance of names.

"Um," he said. "No?"

Behind him the screen door opened and he heard the sound of padding feet. He realised a moment later that he could hear the tell-tale jingling of Mustard's dog tag, and his heart sank.

"It's more of a nickname, really," he tried.

The King raised his other eyebrow.

"That sounds like a distinction for humans," he said.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Marshall closed the screen door behind him, careful to keep out any flies, beetles, and emissaries of Chimpbee that might try to infiltrate the house otherwise.

"Hey," he said, fiddling with the catch. "Do you want me to watch the grill while you take Mustard for a walk or shall I-"

The door slid home and he turned and trailed off.

"Oh."

"Yeah," said Simon.

"A year's up already?"

"Looks like it."

Mustard, yellow as the jacket he no longer needed and the condiment he was named for, trotted over to sit beside Simon, eyes locked on the charring hotdogs.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The King of the Wild Hunt stared down at Mustard, his features gnarled, his expression unreadable.

Mustard looked at him, then looked at Simon. Then went back to watching the sausages, in case they should stop sizzling long enough to make a daring escape attempt.

The sausages did not look at anyone. They were sausages.

"He is calmer?" Simon tried.

"He is tamed," said the King.

Marshall and Simon exchanged a glance.

"We live in an apartment building," said Marshall. "He had to be a bit tame or we'd have been evicted."

"Only a tiny bit, though," Simon added hastily.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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"Part of the deal was to make sure he could wear a collar without freaking out," said Marshall. "That's that's not something you can usually do to a wild animal."

"And he wasn't wild anyway," said Simon. "He was just, you know... nervous. And a bit weird."

He looked at Mustard. He looked at the glowing eyes and raised hackles of the King's other hounds.

"Maybe not that weird, actually," he said. "By your standards."

The King of the Wild Hunt cocked his head. His crown of antlers scraped the sky, tearing the clouds to tatters.

The King didn't notice.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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"In this house dwells a beast with three heads, twelve eyes and a coat of black vipers," said the King. "Liquid darkness oozes beneath your doors, smelling of maple syrup. The Anti-Christ walks freely here, though every door in the place is warded. And a man who was a boy built of spare parts and malice has fallen asleep on the sofa, even though he was supposed to be doing the washing up."

"Oh, for-" Marshall started to turn back, then froze. "What?"

"What indeed," said the King. "So many strange things live here. And yet, my hounds are weird?"

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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Simon hadn't realised he'd grabbed Marshall's arm until his fingers began to ache from squeezing so tight. He loosened his grip a little, feeling the dull prickle as blood began to flow back into his unclenched hands.

"Don't," he said, very quietly. The moment before Marshall nodded agreement seemed very long.

The King of the Wild Hunt smiled, and his teeth were too long and too many, and they crowded his mouth and turned his expression to a gory, bestial smear.

"Perhaps there's a question you'd like to ask me?" he asked. "I could give you answers, after the chase."

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The world around them seemed very quiet. The ever-present hum from Chimpbee's sprawling hive seemed suddenly very far away. The low smoulder of charcoal and the hiss and bop of cooking meat was muffled, as though they watched from behind a pane of glass.

Marshall's eyes drifted back to the house. Simon tugged on his sleeve to get his attention, something he hadn't done since he was a decade younger and almost three feet shorter.

"Don't," he said again. "You'd never outrun his dogs, and you'd never let yourself join them."

The shadow of Wolf Mountain loomed large between them.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Harvest

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The Harvest King was there, and he was Marshall Teller, and he was something else entirely.

Simon could see the crown, not dry and dead and brittle like the skeletal brown thing withering in the Evidence Locker but bright with red berries and yellow corn and green leaves that had never known the killing kiss of an early frost.

It circled Marshall's head and tangled in his hair, and parts of it were growing from and through him, and some of those berries were beads of blood meant to feed the soil and his eyes were the gold of cornfields-

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Harvest

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Marshall blinked, and his eyes were blue again. The creeping vines that had burst from beneath his skin were gone, and they'd left no bloody wounds or seeping holes in their wake. His hair was full of dried up leaves and he brushed them away, absently.

The King of the Wild Hunt stepped back.

"Ah," he said. "It's like that, is it?"

"It is," said Simon, slipping between the King of the Wild Hunt and the already-crumbling mantle of the Harvest King. "Thank you for reshoeing my horse, we'll be keeping Mustard and you probably shouldn't come through here again."

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Harvest

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The King of the Wild Hunt didn't sneer. Simon supposed he didn't need to, what with being the anthropomorphic personification of terrified flight and ravening hunger.

He did turn away, though, and no longer being pinned beneath that predatory gaze sent a shockwave of relief through Simon's entire body. He thought he might cry, or faint, or vomit, and he pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes and willed himself to do none of them.

"We're leaving," the King said, and the masked and faceless riders and slavering hounds sighed like a cold wind that presaged snow.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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"So he just dumped his dog on you and took off?" said Marshall, over half-charred burgers and sausages scraped free of their carbonised outer shells.

"Looks that way," said Simon, drawing a smiling face on a paper plate with the ketchup bottle and setting it down in front of Mustard. "I guess we did spoil him a bit."

He ran greasy hands through the thick yellow ruff around Mustard's neck, then laughed as the Wild Hunt's hound tried unsuccessfully to lick himself clean.

"Are there rehoming programs for Faerie beasts?" asked Marshall. "Maybe Harley knows someone down under?"

Simon shrugged.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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Simon used one hand to lift the oversized floppy brim of the oversized floppy hat Mrs. Teller had made him wear, raised the binoculars to his face with the other, and squinted.

The sun dogs, white-gold and almost too bright to look upon, danced over the water, one on either side of the real sun that hung low over the lake.

"Wow," he said. "Marshall, this is incredible!"

Marshall lifted his head from the viewfinder of his Dad's old-fashioned video camera, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his vision.

"Yeah," he said. "Too bad about all the lens flare."

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Syndi regarded Things Incorporated's newest experimental blender design with well-founded mistrust.

The glass in her hand was cold, clinking with ice-cubes. A "summer fruits" mix of frozen berries sat in a bowl next to the sink, slowly defrosting in the bright y sunlight that streamed through the kitchen windows.

"Do it," whispered a low voice. "It's hardly even a misuse of power, not really."

She spun to find her brother sitting at the breakfast table, staring at her over the Cornflakes box.

"You were going to Miss Tornado Day yourself a smoothie," he said. "Go ahead. Make me one too."


Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Weather

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By now the comb had lost so many teeth that it almost wasn't a comb anymore. Really, thought Marshall, looking at the sad lump of plastic in his hand, at this stage it was basically just a handle with a few jagged and broken edges sticking out here and there.

"I don't think this is going to work," said Simon, meeting his eyes via the small vanity mirror that sat precariously atop a sagging chest of drawers.

Marshall shook his head.

"No," he agreed. "I think maybe we should ask my mom for help."

He swallowed.

"Or maybe even Syndi."

Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Syndi was in the living room when he came down, watching 60 Minutes with their parents.

"How's it going up there?" asked Marilyn, her smile bright and expectant. Marshall noticed the camera standing ready at her elbow.

"Um," he said. "Not great."

He held up the ravaged comb. Edgar whistled.

"You know, my team's working on a new conditioning pomade that-"

"Thanks, Dad," said Syndi, unfurling from her position cross-legged in front of the television. "Is it in your workroom? I'll give the boys a hand while they try it out."

Marshall met his sister's eyes, mouthed a silent "thanks".

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Things Incorporated's Sleek and Smooth Styling Substance for Conditioning and Control (patent pending) sat in the cluttered corner of the basement that served as Edgar Teller's home study. It was glowing faintly.

Syndi rummaged around the densely-packed shelves until she located a lead-lined box with a heavy padlock, into which she placed the alleged hair care product.

"You're not going to use that on Simon, are you?" her brother asked cautiously.

Syndi smothered a laugh.

"No way," she said. "No offence to Dad or his company, but I wouldn't even use this stuff on you, and I actually like Simon."

Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Syndi made him wait in the hallway while she retrieved a heavy-looking washbag from her room.

"You brought all that home for a weekend visit?" he said.

"Well, I wasn't about to borrow any of Dad's stuff, was I?" she pointed out, and Marshall had to give her that one.

Simon was still sat on the edge of Marshall's bed when they walked in. He was wearing a freshly-ironed t-shirt that Syndi recognised from her brother's wardrobe, and a crisp plaid overshirt hung neatly from the closet door.

"So, your first date," she said, setting her bag down. "You excited?"

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Simon squirmed, his face reddening.

"A bit," he allowed. "More nervous than anything right now."

Syndi laid a row of jars, bottles and squeezy tubes out atop Marshall's unmade bed.

"Well," she said. "They're probably just as nervous, if that helps."

Simon made a noise indicating that even if it did help, it didn't help that much.

Syndi picked up a jar, examined the label, and set it down again. She uncapped what looked like a travel-sized tube of toothpaste, sniffed, and handed it to Simon.

"What do you think of that one?" she said.

Simon sniffed.

"What is it?"

Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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"It's a variation on the hair serum Wally gave me the first time I got struck by lightning," Syndi said. "Some of the stuff he used isn't available in Indianapolis, so this semester I've had to improvise a bit when I make it."

"It smells nice," Simon offered, handing it off to Marshall. "What do you think, Mars?"

Marshall thought the smell was kinda strong, but since it was probably designed at least in part to cover up the scent of ozone and burned hair, he decided not to mention it.

"What's in it?" he asked instead. "Weather god stuff?"

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Weather

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Syndi took the bottle from him. Squeezing out a little drop, she rubbed it between her thumb and index finger, warming it.

"Cockatrice egg," she said, "For hold and sheen. Ground fulgurite, to capture a moment of incandescent brightness. Coconut oil, for detangling and smoothing. Jasmine, for scent. And the tiniest kiss from a tornado, to help blend it all together."

Marshall thought about his hair had looked after his run-in with Old Bob. He looked at Simon's red-gold curls, matted and snarled after their misadventure with the comb.

Couldn't hurt, he thought.

"That sounds kinda neat, honestly," he said.

Ongoing Verse: Weather

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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"Look at you!" cried Marilyn, vaulting up off the settee with so much force that she almost dropped the camera she'd been holding for the last half-hour.

Edgar stood too, crossing the room to place one congratulatory hand on Simon's shoulder.

"All ready for the big day?" he asked.

Simon swallowed, then nodded.

Marilyn was already snapping pictures, a running commentary about exactly how handsome and grown up Simon looked accompanying every click and flash of the camera.

"You do look great," Marshall told him, carefully stepping out of shot as his mother circled the living room.

Syndi nodded, grinning.


Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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