rayaso

20^th Anniversary 2026
Week 3
Prompt: coprolite
Due: Wednesday Oct. 21^st at 3:00 pm
Word Count: Just right

THE WIZARD AND THE KNIGHT

Beginnings hate Endings. They can’t help it, it’s what they are. This is especially true of fairy tales. “Once upon a time” hates “happily ever after.” Who knows how “happily ever after” feels about it? Nobody cares and no one asks. It’s over, there’s nothing more to be said. Something that starts with princesses, witches, and frogs and is full of sword fights, magic, and tears just . . . stops, frozen, with no more to do, and sometimes no one lives happily ever after, not even the frog. Can you imagine the pain and loss? Beginnings do. They live with the looming Ends.

Even worse than Ends are the dreaded Cliffhangers, which are endings without an End. Cliffhangers just peter out, stuck in the vague nothingness of waiting for another Beginning and usually a disappointing plot.

Dinosaurs were cliffhangers. They had a Beginning, a satisfying plot, and when that mammoth asteroid flashed across the sky, an End. But not really. The remains survived as fossils, waiting to be dug up with a new life. But dinosaurs are not stories, although they appear in many and when they do, there is always an End.

Now we finally get to our Beginning: happy, energetic, and wonderfully full of promise, unconcerned with the darkness of its End. This is its world and these are its words.

There once was a wizard; in fact, the last wizard. All the others had left to return to their origins. He had dark brown hair and eyes that sparkled. It was a new day, so he went to his closet and took out his long tan gown. It had a large hood that could hide his face. It had been freshly cleaned, because that was one of the Rules. Cleanliness was next to something; he couldn’t remember what, but it was important. All the Rules were important. His mind was just too full of ideas and plans, so sometimes he was forgetful.

Just now he couldn’t remember where he had left his Staff of Power. That was another Rule, put your things back where they belong. But where does a Staff of Power belong? It wasn’t in his weapons storage locker. He was also missing his sword, but he knew where it was. The Black Knight had captured it in a sword fight and hidden it on the Rocky Hill, but he couldn't find it. The Armorer had refused to replace it. “Swords don’t grow on trees,” he had said. “Go back and look again.”

“I bet the cook knows where my staff is,” thought the Wizard. The cook always knew where things were, including his things. “And I might get a cookie.” The cook could usually be counted on for a spare cookie, or sometimes even a brownie!

Thankfully, the kitchen was a short distance from his chambers in the spire. Wizardry was hungry work. “The scullery maid’s not here,” he thought as he walked through the door with his hood pulled down. She was tiny, noisy, and smelly and took up too much of the cook’s time.

“Where’s my staff?” demanded the Wizard.

“Manners, Stanley,” said the cook.

“Where’s my staff, please.”

Manners were another of the cook’s Rules. But really, what was the point? They were only useful when wheedling her for a treat.

“Is this the Battle Staff or the Staff of Power?” the cook asked. “Where did you last have it, O Mighty Wizard?”

“Staff of Power. I don’t remember.”

The cook rolled her eyes and sighed. There was a lot of that these days, especially now that there was the new scullery maid.

“Is it under the sofa?” she asked.

“The one in the King’s Throne Room?” he replied.

“Yes.” Another sigh. “Go look.”

The Wizard went into the Throne Room. The King was out doing kingly things.

“Found it!” shouted the Wizard. There were also some of the scullery maid’s things under the sofa. He left them alone. She had cooties.

Back in the kitchen, the cook gave him some cookies and a tankard of milk.

“Where to today, Mighty Wizard?” the cook said. She didn’t ask why he was wearing his bathrobe. She knew she wouldn’t like the answer and that it would need washing again.

“I'm going on a quest to find my sword,” replied the Wizard.

“Did you lose that too?” Another sigh.

“It’s not lost. The Black Knight stole it and I’m going to get it back.”

“By yourself?” asked the cook.

“With my apprentice.”

“Say ‘hi’ to her mom, and be back before dinner.”

The Wizard’s apprentice lived in a nearby castle. He usually rode Schwinn, his trusty horse, but it’s hard to ride wearing a long wizard’s gown and carrying a staff, so he walked. The townsfolk he passed on the way smiled. One said “it’s that kid again.”

The drawbridge to the apprentice’s castle was opened by the Queen, who gave him a long look, followed by her own deep sigh. Her shoulders sagged. “What do you want, Stanley?” she said at last.

“The cook says ‘hi’” replied the Wizard. “Is the apprentice home?”

“Wait here,” said the Queen, closing the door. She did not want to know what why he was wearing a bathrobe or what he was going to do with four feet of PVC pipe – she knew better. She did not invite him inside. She had no manners.

The Wizard waited a few minutes for the apprentice to appear.

“You’re looking for an apprentice?” asked Annie, after she finally opened the door. She was dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, both painfully clean and recently ironed. Annie was wearing a knight’s helmet with a visor and carrying a lightsaber.

“Apprentices don’t wear helmets,” said the Wizard, “and they don’t have lightsabers!”

“I’m not an apprentice,” said Annie. “Besides, you’re wearing your Jedi bathrobe. I’m the Space Knight, and you can be my squire.”

“I can’t be your squire, you’re a girl,” the Wizard said, “and it’s my quest to find my sword that the Black Knight took!”

“You don’t need an apprentice; you need a knight. The Black Knight took your sword. You need the Space Knight to get it back.”

The Wizard thought about it. He couldn’t argue with her. He always lost arguments with Annie; besides, what he really wanted was Annie. She was fun to play with, but he would never tell her that.

“The Black Knight hid it in the Rocky Hill in Carlton Park, O Space Knight,” said the Wizard. “Let’s go!”

Carlton Park was huge, with a rec center, playground equipment, and a basketball court. Most of it was wild, with a small lake and several hiking paths. The Rocky Hill was in the middle. It was small as hills go and it was covered mostly in rocks of all sizes, with a few trees. The Rocky Hill was a child magnet. They loved to climb it and build forts out of the rocks, which park workers always tore down. It took the Wizard and the Knight about half an hour to reach it.

“How did the Black Knight get your sword?” asked the Space Knight.

“He surprised me from behind near the lake. I was looking for the Lady of the Lake, and then all of a sudden, there he was. We fought all over place, but in the end, he knocked me down and grabbed my sword. He’s a lot bigger than me. He was going to throw it in the Lake, but then he ran off with it and said he was going to hide it on Rocky Hill and I was going to have to find it.”

“Who was he?” asked the Space Knight.

“A big kid. I don’t know.”

“Let’s start,” the Space Knight said.

They began to search the hill together. It would have been faster if they had worked separately, but that would be no fun. They searched and talked, and searched some more. They agreed that the Beatles were the best band and Willie Mays the best ballplayer, but little else. They wondered if it was true about the 19 Bends, the storm drains that snaked through the area. They agreed to explore them some day and find out. They kept talking and searching, looking in every place that could hide a sword.

By the time the Wizard and the Space Knight had bickered their way to the top of the hill, it was hot, they were hungry, and they still hadn’t found the sword. The Wizard had tried a finding spell, but nothing worked. There was one place left to search – Peter Pan’s Hideout.

At the top of the hill was a huge tree stump, about six feet high. It was all that was left of what had been the largest tree in the park. Many years ago, it had been hit by lightning, and all that remained was the stump. Over the years, it had hollowed out until it had formed a large ring, big enough to play in for children if they could climb the stump and get in. Everyone knew about Peter Pan’s Hideout, but the big kids ignored it. They had left it behind. Little kids loved it and it had become a magical place with stories and legends woven about it.

The floor was covered in years of leaves and other forest debris. The Wizard and the Space Knight climbed up and then dropped down to the floor. Even in the dim light they could tell there was no sword. The Wizard started poking around with his staff. Off to one side was a rock. The Space Knight rolled it back, and buried in the dirt they could see the tip of the sword! The Black Knight had been clever, but not clever enough.

“I knew my finding spell would work,” said the Wizard.

“Just luck,” countered the Space Knight.

“Luck is magic,” said the Wizard.

The Knight had nothing to say to that. They dug it out and cleaned it off.

“Let’s go back to my house,” said the Wizard.

They were a mess and needed some food, so they returned to the Wizard’s castle.

Unfortunately, the Queen was visiting the cook. They were at the kitchen table, and the cook was holding the sleeping scullery maid in her lap.

The cook smiled when she saw them with the sword. The Queen frowned. Annie’s clothes were wrinkled and dirty. The Space Knight closed the visor on her helmet.

“When are you going to learn to behave like a lady?” said the Queen.

“Never!” said the Wizard.

“Manners,” said the cook with a little smile, but she didn’t mean it.

While she got them some fresh brownies and milk, the lurking End started to creep in. The Beginning was sulking in the corner. They didn’t get treats.

The Queen thanked the cook for the coffee and got up to go.

“Don’t stay long,” the Queen said to the Space Knight. “You need some clean clothes and a bath.”

The cook didn’t mind dirty children. It meant they had been having fun.

Annie finished her brownies and walked to the door.

“Tomorrow?” said Stanley.

“Tomorrow,” agreed Annie.

It had been a fun day, but the End was near, waiting.

Stanley closed the door after Annie, and there was nothing more to write. The End had taken over, as it always does, and the Beginning went off in search of another Plot, maybe something serious with adults.

The End.

================================================================

Previous stories featuring Stanley.

“The Teddy Bear Detective”
https://rayaso.livejournal.com/22954.html
“Home on the Range”
https://rayaso.livejournal.com/26263.html
“The Mars Expedition”
https://rayaso.dreamwidth.org/1771.html
“Keep It Safe”
https://rayaso.livejournal.com/35790.html
“The Scientist”
https://rayaso.livejournal.com/2020/07/28/

20th Anniversary 2026
Week 2
Prompt: Vampire Load

MONSTER TRUCK

It had been a long day and Pete was tired. Driving truck at his age was exhausting. “Gotta pull over soon,” he thought, gulping another swig of warm, flat Coke. “Can’t get dozy.” Any long-haul trucker knew the danger of being less than sharp behind the wheel, especially when carrying a dangerous cargo. Fortunately, he’d made his drop off and was heading home. As an independent trucker he didn’t have a schedule once he’d completed his job.

“Pie,” he thought, “peach pie and black coffee. That’s what I need.” Driving through Georgia, he knew all the diners along the highway. They all advertised the best peach pie in Georgia. All but a few of them lied, but even bad pie was better than no pie.

Pete drove a 16-foot cargo van with custom fittings inside. Outside, it was non-descript gray with “Vincent’s Transport” in black letters along the sides. The inside was heavily reinforced with armored panels and massive hinges and locks. Prison-grade chains and restraints were bolted to the sides, with metal benches welded to the truck bed. Everything was soundproof.

Experience had taught Pete what he needed. Not even Cthulhu could break out now. That first one had destroyed an early truck and for a while he wouldn’t haul fictional monsters, but the money was too good and it was in his blood. Nothing had escaped his current containment unit.

Up ahead Pete saw Daisy’s 24 Hour Diner: “Best Peach Pie Ever!” read the sign. It was 1:00 a.m., and the dirt parking lot was nearly empty. It was next to a no-brand gas station and Stu’s Motel, which gave special meaning to “run down.”

Daisy’s Diner fit in with its dreary surrounding. Inside, it was painted a sad yellow, with worn brown booths, Formica tables, and aging vinyl benches. There were a few other truckers scattered around.Daisy greeted Pete from behind the grill as soon as he walked in. “Grab a menu and take any table,” she said. Daisy was a surprise. She was young, blonde, and pretty. At 1:00 am, she was the cook and only waitress.

“Just get me a bacon cheeseburger,” said Pete, sitting in the nearest booth, “with large fries, and plenty of black coffee. And peach pie for dessert. A la mode.”

“You got it. One Trucker’s Death coming up.”

“If that doesn’t kill me,” thought Pete, “at least it’ll keep me awake.”

Pete glanced at the menu while he waited. Daisy was the third generation of Daisies to run the diner. The menu looked like it hadn’t changed much. Vegetarian omelet with egg whites was probably new.

It didn’t take long for his food to arrive.

“Here you are,” said Daisy with a smile. “Pay at the cash register on your way out.”

The food was surprisingly good. Pete’s phone buzzed mid-burger. It was his niece, Patty.

“Hey Uncle Pete,” she said.

“How are you?” Pete replied.

“Good. Busy. Where are you?”

“Georgia. Dropped off that load of werewolves at the Southern Depot, and I’m heading back.”

“I’ve got a job for you here in Hollywood,” said Patty, “more vampires. The sparkly kind.”

“Tough to catch ‘em?” asked Pete.

“No,” said Patty. “These sparklers are pretty tame, now that they’re out of fashion. I’m holding them in an old Columbia Pictures sound stage, so there’s no hurry. Need you to take them to Montana, and the other containment trucks already have loads to deliver.”

Montana had the Western Depot. If a creature escaped, there wasn’t much to damage. There were five regional depots that acted as collection centers for fictional monsters. From there, they were sent to the Library, where they were put back in books. No one ever escaped from a Library book. Pete didn’t know where the Library was – no one did. The whole operation was clandestine. It was funded by royalties and residuals from the original books and movies.

Patty was the chief monster hunter, overseeing several crews as well as going on missions herself. Pete thought she was the best he’d ever seen, including himself. Before driving truck, Pete had been the original vampire hunter. Over the years, he’d expanded to all fictional monsters. Werewolves, Frankensteins, even the occasional chupacabra. If it had appeared in a book or a movie, Pete would hunt it down.

Those were the early days. There had been no system for rebooking fictional characters who had escaped into the world, so Pete had had to kill them. He’d never felt good about that. When the Writers’ Guild had proposed the system of depots feeding into the Library, he was relieved. Eventually, Pete had started slowing down and feeling his age, so he had transitioned into one of the truck drivers and Patty had replaced him.

Pete finished his hamburger and Daisy brought him his pie.

“Not bad,” he thought. “Not the best, but Daisy should be proud.”

He paid his bill, left Daisy a sizable tip, and headed to Hollywood on I-40. He ate sweet potato pie in Alabama, pecan pie in Oklahoma, frito pie in New Mexico, and finally black bottom pie in California. Most had been good; none had been great.

Pete finally arrived at Columbia Pictures after three hard days and too much pie. The Writers’ Guild rented empty buildings to house local monsters until a truck could take them to the nearest Depot. He always liked Columbia. That was where he had burst into fame with the release of his biopic Fright Night, about his exploits as Peter Vincent, Vampire Killer. There’d been a sequel and even a remake.

He had been famous for a while. After his star had faded, he went back to his regular job as a hunter of fictional monsters who had somehow managed to escape from their books. Pete had always felt some sympathy for these creatures. After Fright Night, he felt part fictional himself.

Pete drove up to Sound Stage #7 and found Patty inside. At the moment, she had guard duty for a large metal cage with five vampires from the Twilight series. Patty was armed with holy water, a crossbow, and the sword Perseus had used to kill Medusa. It took a mythical sword to kill a fictional creature.

“How was your trip?” Patty said.

“Not too bad,” replied Pete. “Who’ve you got there?”

“Some of the sparklies from Twilight. Caught ‘em in a Starbucks.”

Pete had no respect for Twilight vampires. Rather than burst into flame in sunlight like any self-respecting vampire, they merely sparkled. On the whole, they were an ill-conceived bunch of weak characters, and they were more of a nuisance than a threat. Still, a vampire was a vampire and had to be rebooked. He’d hauled sparklies before and they were pretty easy, but he hated cleaning out the glitter afterwards.

Since it was lunchtime, Pete took Patty out for some pie and they got caught up. He didn’t need to leave until tomorrow, so he checked into a decent hotel and rested.

The next morning, they loaded the vampires into the containment unit.

“Be careful out there,” Patty said. “There’s been some chatter on the internet about this load.”

Twilight had been very popular and had inspired lots of fanfic and the fanficcers did not take kindly to the rebooking of their favorite characters. Some went beyond writing, and had tried to free vampires before they could be delivered to a Depot. While they never succeeded, they could be a problem.

Every truck contained crowd dispersal weapons – tear gas, a water cannon, and tasers, and Pete had been trained in them. So far, he hadn’t had to use them.

“What do they have planned?” asked Pete.

“Unknown. Just be careful.”

Pete also checked out some vampire weapons from Patty’s armory – holy water, a crossbow, and wooden stakes. After all, he was the original Vampire Killer.

Hauling vampires to the Montana Depot would be easy. and he hit the road.

The Montana Depot was located just outside Bozeman in the middle of nowhere. It was disguised as a data center. Pete could make it in two days. The vampires had all been sedated and wouldn’t be a problem.

After an uneventful trip, Pete pulled into the parking lot of the Bridger Data Center, the Western States Depot. He was relieved that the fanficcers had decided not to make an appearance.

Pete entered the waiting area for the office. He was startled to see Marianne Carter, one of the most prolific fanficcers and a leader of the protesters.

“What’s she doing here? thought Pete. “Where all the others? Is this an ambush?”

All his weapons were back in the truck. The office security guards were gone.

“Don’t worry,” said Marianne. “I’ve come to make peace. I even brought you a key lime pie.”

“Peace?” said Pete, although what he was thinking was “pie!”

“It’s time to give up,” said Marianne. “No one is interested in Twilight anymore. All the fanfic groups have died. You can deal with the vampires, whatever that is.”

“We don’t hurt them,” said Pete, “we just put them back in their books, where they belong.”

Although rebooking was a secret, he thought Marianne should know. It might bring the fanficcers some comfort.

“There’s still the matter of the pie,” said Pete. “Let’s go to the break room. They have really bad coffee.”

Pete actually enjoyed visiting with Marianne, who loved to talk about baking.

Just as the last of the pie was gone, Pete’s phone rang – it was Patty.

I’ve got a new load for you,” she said. “We finally caught that werewolf who’s been terrorizing people over in Yellowstone.”

“Werewolf of Paris leaking again?” said Pete. “I’ll take care of it.”

Pete and Marianne said their goodbyes, and Pete got ready to hit the road.

Rebooking monsters wasn’t made for everyone, but for Peter and Patty it was their life, and they loved it. They were Vincents and they couldn’t imagine doing anything else, not even baking pies.

In The Twilight Saga books and movies, vampires sparkle in direct sunlight rather than burst into flames.

20^th Anniversary 2026
Week 1
Prompt: Open - Fool’s Errand
Sept. 22, 2026

HOLLYWOOD DREAMS

Hot summer days made choosing his shirt easy. What went with khaki shorts? Hawaiian shirts of course, and the louder the better, preferably something that seared the eyeballs of anyone who looked his way, and everyone stared at him. It was just who he was.

“Blinding people is not a fashion statement,” his ex-girlfriend had once told him, before dumping him in favor of Mr. Milquetoast, who had worn only what Greta had told him to wear. Greta wanted to be a fashion influencer, but her show reached fewer viewers each episode.

What difference did my shirt make? thought Rolf. And she always wore weird sunglasses, anyway. Greta had had a large supply from manufacturers, until they found out she wasn’t influencing anyone. She was more of a fashion repeller, and that was just who she was. They wanted their products back, but Greta stubbornly kept them.

Today is special, and it needs a special shirt, thought Rolf. Bright red was the only choice, which meant an erupting volcano with palm trees and someone surfing the lava flow.

Rolf checked himself out in one of the many mirrors Greta had left behind. Lookin’ good, he thought. All I need is my club, and the car will be here soon. I’ve got this nailed!

Rolf had the inside track to star as a real troll in the live-action remake of “The Three Billy Goats Gruff” animated movie franchise. The third movie was so bad that some genius thought it would be a great idea to make them all again with live actors, and Disney was now casting the parts. Since he had done the voice for the animated troll, he knew he was a lock for the new movie.

People know my voice, he thought, and the Troll with No Name had been drawn to look like him. Besides, only a real troll should play the Troll with No Name. Not too many troll actors, and they rarely leave their bridges anymore. Even Greta had returned to her bridge – toll collectors made good money these days.

Rolf saw the truck pull up outside his cave. “Wish I could fit in a Ferrari,” he grumbled. “At seven feet, I’m just too big.” Trolls were simply too large for the human world, and that was one of the reasons most had left for Fairy Tale Land. Troll-fear and bigotry had become rampant. I hate it when moms shield their kids from me. Trolls like children, we don’t eat them.

The truck was a black Ford F-450 Super Duper Platinum Plus and it screamed style. Perfect for a big entrance, thought Rolf. Respect the truck and respect the cargo.

“Big day, sir” said Lance, the driver. When they had first met, Lance had introduced himself as an actor between parts, although he had yet to score that first part.

“Disney Studios,” said Rolf.

The trip from Rolf’s cave was uneventful, and with Lance’s skilled driving he arrived just in time. Rolf hated the glares from people on the freeways.

“Want me to go with you?” asked Lance as he helped Rolf down from the truck bed. “An assistant will give you real star power.”

“Not this time,” said Rolf. Or any time, he thought. I don’t like working with people.

Rolf was a familiar figure on the Disney lot, and he greeted his many fans on the way to the meeting. “Lookin’ frightful, big guy!” and “Oww!! My eyes!! I’ll never see again!” were common. Rolf grumbled and smashed the ground with his club a few times – he had the social skills of, well, a troll.

He was really pumped for this meeting. It was going to make him a star, and the horizon was limitless. I could play a superhero, like the Hulk, only smaller and greener!

His meeting was with Marjorie McDaniels, who had discovered him under a bridge on her way to work, and she knew his voice would give “The Three Billy Goats Gruff” that authentic troll feel. Rolf had always been grateful.

He squeezed through her office door and sat on the offered chair. It collapsed.

“Never mind,” said Marjorie, “it’s just good to see you. How’s Greta?”

“She left me for a bridge,” said Rolf.

“There’ll be someone else. Let’s talk casting,” said Marjorie.

This was it. This was the big moment.

“We have a brilliant cast. Tom Cruise is going to play the Troll, with a lot of prosthetics.”

“You can’t be serious!” growled Rolf. He started to mash the office floor with his club.

“He practically begged for the part,” said Marjorie. “He’s perfect. He’s got star power!”

“But I’m a troll and he’s not! Trolls are huge and ugly – Cruise’s just a little pretty boy. He was all wrong for ‘Jack Reacher;’ in the books, Reacher’s 6’5” and 250 pounds. Cruise’s 5’7” and 150 soaking wet! I’m 7’8” and 550 pounds. It’s ridiculous!”

“Calm down,” said Marjory, her hand straying toward the Security button under her desk. “Tom’ll be wearing prosthetics, like he did in the ‘Mission Impossible’ movies. And there’s CGI. With that smile, he’s perfect.”

“Trolls don’t smile,” said Rolf, who clearly wasn’t smiling.

“But here’s the best part,” said Marjorie, who was trying to smile. “We want you to do the Troll’s voice, same as before. Isn’t that wonderful? And the pay is huge! You can finally move out of that cave.”

Rolf felt like the volcano on his shirt, ready to explode and take Disney with him. This was why he hated people. He could never understand weakness and betrayal.

He stood motionless. The only sound was his club hammering the floor, louder and louder. Marjorie buzzed Security, who had been put on alert in case something happened.

Rolf finally spoke. "#$%@! you and #%@! Disney! This is ridiculous. Without a real troll, this movie's a flop. I bet you use CGI goats!"

Marjorie looked down and didn’t say anything.

“And the singing!” said Rolf. “Tom can’t sing. ‘I’m Not Afraid to be Bad!’ was the breakout hit, and no one can hit low notes like a troll.”

“Maybe we can increase your salary and give you an assistant producer credit.”

“Don’t be insulting. You know where that will lead. Call me when you’ve come to your senses.”

With that, the meeting and his dreams were over. Lance drove him back to his cave.

I’m a troll, only a troll, thought Rolf as he hung up his Hawaiian shirt and changed into his leopard skin hide.

The next day, Rolf found a suitable bridge, and started collecting tolls. It wasn’t much, but it was an honest troll’s living. For the first time, Rolf found Fairy Tale Land appealing. And he’d never realized how much fun it was to terrorize drivers for going over his bridge.

He hadn’t completely forgotten about regular civilization, though. He absolutely could not wait to see the new “Three Billie Goats Gruff” movie in a big, empty theatre . . .

___________________________

Year 20 (2026)
Week 0
Prompt: Introduction

THE PASSAGE OF TIME

I was surprised to find that my first Idol entry was posted on March 16, 2014. It was about Satan attending a celestial board meeting with God, the Archangels, and assorted characters. https://rayaso.dreamwidth.org/7920.html. My most recent story was on September 21, 2025. It was about a recently-fired ad exec who was offered a deal for his soul by one of Satan’s minions, who turned it around and persuaded the minion to make a different kind of deal. https://rayaso.dreamwidth.org/45629.html.

As you can see, not much progress for all those seasons. I write light short stories with some humor thrown in on the side and I hope to produce more of the same this year.

Looking at these old entries, I have found that I have been short on biographical details. This has been, I suppose, because my life is not that interesting compared to Satan’s. I am 70 years old and I am retired from two careers. My first was as a lawyer practicing education law. This was cut short when I developed cancer at age 53. I then became a stay-at-home dad to our two children, who were 10 and 12 at the time. Being a father is something you never really retire from. You can guess which career I liked best.

I have mostly enjoyed all the writing I’ve done for Idol. Sometimes the stories flowed easily, sometimes not. The panic-driven entries were not all bad, but the effort was stressful. I enjoy playing with words, and I hope to keep doing it for as long as possible.

The best part of Idol has been reading other writers’ work. It is amazing what people come up with for the same prompt. It’s always been a very creative bunch that I have been proud to associate with.

I am writing this early because we are leaving for vacation and I will not have access to a computer, which is a good thing except when an Idol entry is due.

Good luck to you all!

I've participated for a few years now. Clearly, it's not enough.

Wheel of Chaos 2025
Week 10
9/21/25
Prompt: Intrigant

LET’S MAKE A DEAL!

The personal creativity pods at Kingsley Creative were buzzing. Leo the Legend had been fired! “At last,” said some. “Not what he used to be,” said others, “but he still had a lot to offer.” But they all agreed, “That’s advertising. No job is safe.” The general response was not to work harder, which Kate Kingsley had wanted, but to get busy fabricating their resumes.

They kept their eyes down while Leo cleaned out his pod, but he could feel them looking at him anyway.

“They’re pitying me,” Leo thought. “They can shove it up their lazy asses!”

Leo’s first message that morning was from Kate: “See me when you get in.”

“It must be about the Depends campaign,” he thought.

Six months ago, Kate gave him all the seniors clients. “You’re old, their old. It’s a natural,” she said. “#$@! you,” Leo thought. Still, a client was a client.

Depends loved his “Safety First” campaign, but focus groups were lukewarm.

He took his morning cup of coffee into Kate’s office, thinking they were going to discuss his new Depends ideas. Kate had grown up in the advertising business. Her mother, Andie Kingsley, had started the firm when she was only 25. Now it was Kate’s turn after her mother’s unexpected retirement last year. The gossips favored cancer, but Andie was a private person and she had never said why she was leaving while still at the top of her game.

“I need to get rid of the dead wood,” Kate had been thinking for some time. This morning, it was time.

“I’ll start with Leo,” Kate thought. “He hasn’t been legendary since Mom left.”

The meeting was short and brutal.

“Your ideas are stale,” she said. “There’s nothing intriguing about them. Our clients want pop, and you haven’t popped in years.”

“Not intriguing?” Leo thought while walking back to his pod. “What the %$@& does that even mean?”

Leo was the only Clio award winner in the office, a global award honoring excellence in advertising. “I’ve got three,” he fumed as he packed away the statuettes. “Best in the whole &%$$ing world! But I’m not “intriguing” – I’m just&%$$ing good!”

He had won the first for his campaign for women’s Nikes: “No games. Just sports.” And then there had been “Frost Yourself” for that diamond company that went out of business. The last had been for Farmer’s Bounty margarine using a real duke to pitch it.

“Women loved that duke,” he thought wistfully, as he got in his car for the drive home, with maybe a stop at The Alibi for some consolation. Now he was not only not intriguing, he was out of work and 59 years old.

“Maybe” became “must” and he pulled in to the bar. No one from work would see him here – it lacked “pop” and there was nothing intriguing about it, just decent booze at decent prices and no one bothered you. It was his regular dive.

Leo sat at the bar and saw himself in the mirror behind the bottles. It wasn’t pretty – brown hair turning gray, a soft face with bags under his eyes, and a softer body.

“I sure as hell don’t pop. I don’t even zip,” he thought.

The first scotch was for betrayal, the second for anger, and by the third he was deep into thoughts of revenge.

Suddenly, a stranger appeared one stool over. He was dressed in a worn gray trench coat, a black suit that had seen too many miles, a knock-off Rolex, and a battered briefcase. He looked like a salesman without any sales. There was also a faint whiff of sulfur.

The stranger started to open his mouth to talk, but Leo interrupted him.

“Not interested.”

“But you don’t know what I was going to say,” the stranger said, startled by Leo’s rudeness.

“Sure I do,” replied Leo. “You were going to offer me my heart’s desire – fame, fortune, women, revenge, whatever. All I have to do is sign a contract and then, after I die, my soul will be condemned to Hell. Not a chance.”

He signaled the bartender to bring the stranger a drink.

“It’s on me. Does anybody really fall for that schtick?”

“Not often enough,” sighed the stranger.

“Sales problems?” asked Leo. He was not unsympathetic.

“Yeah. If I don’t get them up, I lose my job and go back to Hell,” the stranger said. “Used to be a Tormenter. Life in Hell is hell, even for Tormenters. You looked like an easy mark.”

“You’ve got to know your market better,” said Leo. “I may look like easy, but I’m not stupid.”

“There’s no budget for market research,” complained the stranger. “No training, no advertising, no focus groups – nothing. They just throw us in the field, and we’re supposed to make sales? C’mon. Still can’t interest you in anything?”

“Not a chance in . . . .”

“I get it. Here’s my card in case you change your mind.”

Leo took the card. He always took business cards – you can’t have too many contacts, and the stranger might prove useful.

“Let me buy you a drink,” offered the stranger.

“No thanks. I’ve gotta get home,” said Leo. He was having the merest twinkle of an idea, and he wanted to think it through with a clear head.

“You shouldn’t drive,” said the stranger. “Let me send you home.”

The next thing he knew, Leo was at his doorstep.

“Neat trick,” he thought, although now he’d have to take his suit to the cleaners – it smelled of sulfur.

Leo thought for a few days, and then decided.

“I’m an ad man. I’ll always be an ad man. But right now, I need a client, so why not?”

Leo got out the stranger’s card. It read simply “Beliel” with instructions to chant three times while turning counter-clockwise.

He went into his backyard (“no sense stinking up the house”) and performed the ritual.

Beliel immediately appeared in a pungent cloud of sulfur.

“I’m surprised,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you. Want to make a deal?”

“Not that kind of deal – this’ll be my kind of deal.”

“I’m confused,” said Beliel.

“Hear me out,” said Leo. “Saleswise, you’re a mess. I can create an advertising strategy for you that will boost your sales. The only catch is, you have to sign a contract with me. I do great work – I’ve got . . . .”

“I know,” sighed Beliel. “Three Clios, yada yada yada. I read your file.”

“Ok – so, I want three wishes. For the first thousand souls you sign, Satan has to grant me one wish. That’s the low hanging fruit. For the next 500, I get another wish, and for the next 250, I get my last wish. I don’t lose my soul and no monkey business. There’ll be limits on what I can ask – it’ll all be in the contract.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Beliel, who hadn’t come close to a thousand souls. “But I’ll have to clear it with Legal.”

“You do that,” said Leo. “As soon as I have a signed contract, we’ll get to work.”

It took some time before Beliel reappeared. Satan had outsourced the administration of Hell to the Department of Motor Vehicles, while the Department of Justice was now Satan’s legal firm. Of course, he had to share it and the attorneys were busy right now with their other client. The attorneys had long ago sold their souls and the quality of their work was embarrassing, but Satan had gotten a great deal and it included the Supreme Court.

Meanwhile, Leo used the time to renew some contacts in the field and to see how Kate was doing, which was great. He was pleased – he couldn't hold a grudge against her, especially now that he was about to sign the second biggest account ever. He also called Andie, and he was saddened by her news.

When Beliel showed up, he had the contract with Satan’s signature in some poor soul’s blood.

“It wasn’t hard to convince His Misery,” said Beliel. “He even said I was thinking outside the cage.”

“Let’s get to work,” said Leo. “I’ve sketched out a campaign I think you’ll love. First, your appearance . . . .”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You look like some poor schmuk, and you stink,” replied Leo. “You need a personal designer and a tailor, and you’ve got to get rid of that smell. It’s hard to sign away your soul while you’re holding your nose. And your posture – you look like someone’s about to hit you.”

“Someone usually is,” replied Beliel, who stood straighter, with his shoulders back.

“You need a slogan,” said Leo. “You’ve got to sell Hell. We’ll start with something small and work from there. You can’t change people’s minds in a day.”

“How about ‘Hell – It’s Not So Bad’” suggested Beliol. “There could also be a cute baby devil holding a pitchfork.”

“Good enough.” Leo liked to have clients involved in the creative process so that if a campaign tanked, the blame would also be theirs.

“We’ll go with saturation,” he continued. “Bench ads, radio, television, internet, the works – everywhere and all the time. Lots of cheap merch, too. And you’re not a demon. You’re a Life Coach. You promise to make their lives better.”

Finally, Leo gave Beliel books and videos on salesmanship.

They worked hard, Beliel on improving his game and Leo on getting the campaign going. His biggest coup was getting Beliel on Oprah as the Life Coach from Hell. Sales skyrocketed after that.

“Own who you are,” counselled Leo. “People need to trust you and no one trusts a liar.”

Beliel was soon busy reaping soul after soul. His Loathsomeness took him off the Watch List and made him Demon of the Month.

Within a year, Beliel had not only blown past 1,000 souls, but also another 500 and then 250.

“You’ve got three wishes,” Beliel said during a meeting. “What are you going to do with them?”

“The first is to be the 11th richest person in the world.”

“Of course,” said Beliel. “I was expecting that. Greed is one of my favorite sins. It’s going to take Finance a while to arrange this. You can’t just show up with all that money and not arouse suspicion and IRS audits, but we’ll get it done.”

“Next, I want Andie cured and to live a long, healthy, and happy life.”

“Why?” asked Beliel.

“Read my file,” was all Leo said.

“Ok, wish number two is granted. That’s an easy one. She’ll feel better tomorrow. And expect her to call you soon.”

Later, Beliel re-read Leo’s file. He found that Leo and Andie had met at an advertising conference when they were young. First there had been drinks, then a spark which quickly grew into a fire. The fire burned hot for several years, but then they ran out of fuel and they drifted apart, Andie to start her own agency and Leo to win his Clios working for her. Leo was creative and he hated administrative work, so the arrangement suited them both. They both hoped for another fire, but there were only a few sparks from time to time.

“My last wish,” said Leo, “is the cancellation of Kate’s contract and the return of her soul.”

“Not a problem,” said Beliel. He had condemned so many souls lately that the return of one wasn’t going to bother Pure Evil.

“But why Kate?” asked Beliel. “She fired you. And she sold her soul to be the best ad exec, better than her mother.”

“She’s my daughter,” said Leo.

This wasn’t in his file.

“We thought it would be better not to tell her,” Leo said. “It wasn’t the best decision. I just wasn’t dad material when she was born. We’ve regretted it ever since.”

“Her contract will be cancelled and her soul returned,” said Beliel. “She doesn’t know how lucky she is.”

“And I want it that way.”

“But what about us?” asked Beliel. “Our contract is up.”

“We can draw up another,” replied Leo.

Even though he was fabulously rich, Leo kept working. He started a small boutique ad agency specializing in demons, monsters, and the like. Then one day, he had a chance at the biggest client of all. Archangel Michael appeared in a cloud of glory. It seemed that He wanted to spruce up His image and get people back into churches.

Leo turned it down because it was a conflict of interest. He referred Michael to Kate.

Then one day, Andie called. They reignited their fire, this time for good, and they told Kate that Leo was her father. Her response was legendary.

________________

Voting information to follow once the poll is posted.

Leo's Clio award-winning ad campaigns are from three romantic comedies involving advertising agencies. “No games. Just sports.” is from "What Women Want" (2000). "Frost Yourself" is from "How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days" (2003). "Farmer's Bounty" is from "Kate and Leopold" (2001).

Wheel of Chaos 2025

Week 9
Prompt: Edgelord
September 11, 2025

OFF THE PAGE

Grumlek Stenfang prided himself on the edginess of his life. He was a keen observer of society and he always knew what was cool and what was not – the barely-known bands, the obscure movies, the latest internet slang, the hot new coffee shops in downscale neighborhoods. Popular music was dreck, something for your parents. If you didn’t know about the Screaming Squash, your life wasn’t worth living. The Squash was a no-hit band from the 80s who single-handedly invented veggie rock. They were the latest darlings of the terminally cool, at least for this week.

Edginess was a constantly moving line separating people worth knowing from those who were best ignored. “If you worry about being cool, you’re not,” Grumlek once said in an interview on a podcast so cool it didn’t even have a name.

But Grumlek was more than just cool. He was an accomplished origami creator, known not only for his straight edges but also the simplicity of his tiny designs.

Truly, he was a lord of edges. He was also a troll – and not just any troll. He was a paper troll.

“It all comes from my origins,” he once said. “After all, I’m a two-dimensional drawing of a troll who escaped from a fairy tale -- I’m nothing but edges.”

Grumlek taking time off from “East of the Sun and West of the Moon” to invent golf.

Life was not easy for a two-dimensional troll living in a 3-D world. He was liberated from the pages of “East of the Sun and West of the Moon,” in which a troll princess tries to keep the hero as her captive husband. Kidnapping is a common marital strategy among trolls, because even trolls don’t want to marry trolls unless they’re forced to.

Grumlek had a minor role in the story, but it was enough to catch the eye of Timmy Arbuckle, a five-year-old with a penchant for cutting things up with scissors. One day, Timmy tried to give his little sister a haircut. For his tonsorial efforts, he was banished to his room. Unfortunately, he took his scissors with him and freed Grumlek from the drawings for “East of the Sun,” which his father had sadly left behind after last night’s bedtime story.

The drawings were so vibrant that Grumlek sprang to life and immediately ran away. With Timmy in the house, he knew what would happen if he stayed.

Life was difficult at first. After all, he was only two inches tall, made of paper, and he had part of the text for “East of the Sun” on his back. But he was a troll and he persevered after the manner of all trolls.

Grumlek was unfortunately at the whim of every breeze, wind, or gust, which blew him everywhere. In the course of his unintended travels, he got to see the human race from his different perspective. He was rarely impressed.

One day he was blown into the office of the Gazette Tribune. The building provided a hideaway, safe from being stepped on or blown away. A week later, a janitor tried to sweep him up as just another bit of trash. That’s when Grumlek discovered his voice.

“Stop that!” he yelled, to the surprise of both Grumlek and the janitor, who had never heard a piece of paper talk before, especially one with the squeaky voice of a two-inch troll.

The janitor took a swig from his hip flask, then drank some more for good luck. He got down on his knees to face Grumlek.

“What the ##!@@ are you?” he asked.

“A troll,” Grumlek replied, who then told him his story.

The janitor knew he was out of his depth, so he picked up Grumlek and put him on a stack of papers in Rose Wisneski’s in-box, with a note that said “Talk to me.”

Rose wrote the “Now!” column, which covered local soft items, like restaurant openings, movie reviews, local culture, and anything deemed not to be real news. Rose and her column were well-liked and well-written, leading to a Herb Caen Award for Non-Specific Journalism for her article “Why an Apple?” A two-inch talking paper troll was a dream story for her.

“So, why should I talk to you?” asked Rose. “You’re scrap paper.”

“Beats me,” said Grumlek, who was feeling grumpy, the usual mood for trolls. “Why should I talk to you?”

Once she got over her surprise, Rose recognized that she had a good story, maybe even a great one, about a totally new life form: paper. She loved the weird intersections of human interest and science, and this had Pulitzer written all over it.

“Because we can help each other,” Rose replied. “Tell me your story and I’ll make you famous.”

As a troll, Grumlek didn’t care about being famous. He couldn’t eat it or spend it, so why bother?

Still, he had once been part of a story, and he had a voice.

“Why not tell her?” he thought. “Maybe I can get something out of it.”

After all, trolls are greedy and grasping, and Grumlek was a troll.

So, he talked. And talked. And then talked some more.

“Once upon a time, there was a book, a little boy, and a pair of scissors,” he began.

He talked about life as a tiny paper troll, some of which was true. Since he started as a fictional character, he lacked a firm grasp on the truth, but he knew how to spin a story. Rose bought it all. Besides his grim start in life, there were stolen babies, talking puppets, glass shoes, and battles with mice kings.

There were also comments about the people he had seen, their desperate desire to belong, and the lengths they would go to be kjekt, which Rose said was Norwegian for “cool.”

"I’m cool,” she said by way of explanation.

“I didn’t know that shopping at Sears was cool,” replied Grumlek, with a giggle.

And that started his career as a pundit on the human social scene from his trollish point of view. He would talk and then Rose would write. Her column was soon carried nationally, she got a blog, and there were occasional television appearances.

But Grumlek wanted none of this. No self-respecting troll would. Trolls work and they work hard. It’s what they do, and this just wasn’t troll work. Talking with Rose was fun, and if she’d been a troll, he might have kidnapped her and started a family. But he needed real work.

“What can you do?” Rose asked when Grumlek told her he needed a job.

“Trolls are good at guarding treasures and castles and smashing things,” he said. “Some like to eat people, but I’m not that kind of troll – I don’t have a stomach. Some trolls live under bridges and collect tolls.”

“Let me make some calls,” said Rose.

Within a few days, Grumlek had a job as an automated bridge toll attendant. He didn’t have to do anything, just watch the cars go by. This was perfect for a piece of paper. To keep him from being blown away, every morning a co-worker taped him to the booth’s window, and took him down when his shift was over.

Since the bridge was close to Rose’s office, he decided to live in her filing cabinet, in a folder under “T.” The paper’s cartoonist drew a cave and a bridge on the inner sides of the folder to make Grumlek feel at home.

One day when he was talking to Rose for a column, he noticed something new on her desk.

“What’s that?”

“An origami swan -- I make them when I’m stressed,” she said.

Grumlek was entranced by the beauty of it.

“But I’m not stressed,” he thought, “just bored.”

As a piece of paper, the idea of making things out of another sheet of paper appealed to him, so he took up origami. Trolls have very nimble hands, and soon he was an expert at making all sorts of animals, real or imaginary, out of bits of paper. He loved to make trolls. In the back of his mind, he hoped that one would come to life. Rose was a great friend, but he was still lonely. There was no one like him to talk to, or, hopefully, kidnap. Despite what the stories tell us, trolls are very sociable and like to live in small tribes.

Deep in their hearts, all trolls have a yearning for northern Europe, their homeland. Grumlek’s problem was that he came from a book. He didn’t know anything about trolls except for fairy tales. One day, Rose wrote a humorous column on the origins of trolls which mentioned Norway, their ancestral home.

Grumlek knew what he wanted to do, but he was happy with Rose, the bridge, and origami. He pushed thoughts of Norway to the side. But then one day, the inevitable happened. Rose retired. This was upsetting to her many fans, but most of all to Grumlek.

“You can come live with me,” she told Grumlek one day. But both knew it wouldn’t be the same. “Just think about it,” she added, but she knew what Grumlek wanted.

After Rose’s retirement party, she had to clear out her files, including the “T’s.”

“It’s time,” she said.

She took an envelope and addressed it to the Troll Sanctuary in Norway. Grumlek crawled inside, and then Rose put it in the outgoing mail.

Ten days later, Grumlek arrived at the Troll Sanctuary. An administrator opened the envelope and he stepped out. The air was crisp and cold, and everywhere there were trees, rivers, rocks, and snow. And there were trolls. Lots of them, and all in three dimensions. This was truly the troll homeland, and he knew he belonged. He could feel his lungs expanding for the first time. And his body started to grow until he too became 3-D. He was no longer a paper troll.

“Home at last,” Grumlek thought as he was greeted by several trolls.

Rose was home as well. Even in retirement, she continued to write, finally winning a Pulitzer Prize for her children’s stories featuring a cool paper troll.

Little Timmy kept using his scissors and grew up to be a tailor on Saville Row.

Most of them lived happily ever after.

#####################

If you enjoyed this story, please vote for it and read the many other fine entries here. https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1200039.html

The drawing of Grumlek is by Arvid Kristoffersen, a fairy tale illustrator whose drawings are inspired by cultures with a deep tradition of troll stories, including Norway (where he was born) and Montana (where he lives). This did not result in any cowboy trolls that I could find. That level of kitsch would clearly be uncool. A golfing troll is enough.

Wheel of Chaos 2025
Week 7
Prompt: Intersection/Oxytocin Loops

I have had the pleasure of intersecting with Halfshellvenus’s fantastic entry: https://halfshellvenus.dreamwidth.org/746184.html

“Oxytocin, often called the ‘love hormone,’ is released through various forms of physical touch, including gentle stroking, hugging, and massage.” Healthline AI Overview.

This story is structured around excerpts from the weirdly humorous song “Just A Gigolo” by Louis Primo (1956), with some minor changes for the sake of the story. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kkrb4h4weW4

I AIN’T GOT NO BODY

New York looked dim enveloped in fog. It made Tony Romano think of one of his favorite cities. In San Francisco, the fog was part of the City’s charm, the way it hugged the hills, with the tips of the Golden Gate Bridge peeking through. Unfortunately, he was in New York and fog was just fog. Even worse, this fog was personal.

In his heyday, Tony Romano was well-known in certain circles, but those circles had collapsed. Once, women wanted him and men wanted to be him, except for husbands and boyfriends, who feared and hated him. But all his good looks and charm had come at a price, and now he was paying it.

“I wish I could be 17 again,” Tony said to no one as he walked down the street toward Romano’s, his uncle’s restaurant in Brooklyn. It was known for its authentic Italian food and live music, and it attracted women of a certain age. Tony was once catnip to women of all ages and he was feeling lonely, but tonight he had a personal meeting of a different kind.

I'm just a gigolo

And everywhere I go
People know the part I'm playin'

It all started when he took a job as a pool boy at the Wexford Country Club. He was just 17 and he was intimidated by all the rich people and especially their gorgeous daughters. He was from Little Italy and invisible to the members. He spent his shift handing out towels, fetching drinks, and doing whatever members wanted.

Then one day, he had to fill in as a lifeguard at the swimming pool. Lifeguards wore small red Speedos and nothing more, although he did get a whistle on a lanyard. With his good looks, lean, muscular body, and dark wavy hair, he quickly became popular and soon he was hired full-time to sit in the lifeguard’s chair and watch the children while the women watched him.

The Club was known for its young, attractive second wives and trophy girlfriends. They had a lot in common besides their beauty – they were bored. Being the toy of a wealthy, older, and not-so-attractive man was part of the job, but it was still lonely and dull.

Pay for every dance
Sellin' each romance
Oh, what they sayin'?

It started when Aisha M. began to flirt with him while he was in the lifeguard’s chair. She enjoyed seeing his embarrassment as he casually tried to hide the inevitable reaction. Then one day, Aisha asked him for a drink after he got off work. The fact that he was underage just made it that much more enticing for her. The end was predictable and satisfying for both of them.

The next day, Aisha gave Tony one of her husband’s expensive watches.

“He has so many he’ll never miss this one,” she told him.

Word quickly spread among the pool women and Tony became very popular after Aisha told her friends about their trysts.

“I’m not a hooker,” he told himself. “I’ve don’t take any money.”

Expensive gifts, however, were a different matter and they were gratefully given and received.

Tony gave no thought to the consequences of going from an invisible pool boy to a very popular gigolo -- he didn’t even know the word, even though he was a natural.

One day, the members of the Tony Club, as they called themselves, were having lunch and comparing experiences. Kiara T. had an idea which managed to make even her blush.

“Why don’t we make Tony our boy toy?” Kiara said. “Let’s set him up in an apartment so he can be available all the time.”

All the women agreed, and before he knew it, Tony lived in a nice apartment and all he did was entertain gorgeous women. It was every 17-year-old boy’s dream.

It got even better and went the way of all things gigolo. Yasmin P. gave him a Jaguar convertible and others bought him stylish clothes; after all, they couldn’t be seen in the company of someone who bought his clothes at a mall and drove a used car. Tony quickly lost his Brooklyn accent. He was shown at the best restaurants, improved his manners, and learned where to go for all the nice things in life. He accompanied women on trips to exotic resorts.

This arrangement went on for years. The women changed but the new ones were even more generous. Tony provided much more than physical pleasure. He was a great listener and he truly cared for the Club. Many times, there was no sex, just a quiet evening of talk and cuddling.

But it finally reached a point where Tony was getting older. When he turned 30, the demand for his services decreased, and the gifts became less expensive and less frequent. Talk started about finding a younger Tony.

One night when he was alone yet again and having a drink by the fireplace, he thought, “I need a new business plan.”

Over the next few days, he decided to offer himself to older rich women who would appreciate his sophistication. This lasted for quite a while, but the end was in sight. He reached his forties with a very specialized skill set that made it hard to find a conventional job, so he remained a gigolo, although he heard the whispers that he was just an aging Lothario.

It was on his fiftieth birthday that Tony’s fog started.

There'll come a day
And youth will pass away
What, what will they say about me?
When the end comes, I know
They'll say "Just a gigolo," as
Life goes on without me

It wasn’t that Tony was surrounded by a physical cloud of fog. It was worse. The world started looking foggy to him. Everything was becoming grey and dim, and it got worse – his body started fading.

No doctor had an explanation for his condition, although one said he suffered from idiopathic Bodily Alienation Treatment, which was doctor-speak for “I don’t know what’s causing it, but you’re becoming invisible.” There was no cure.

I ain't got no body, oh and there's
Nobody that cares for me, there's
Nobody that cares for me

As Tony became less visible, he became ever more desperate. He tried anything he could find, and eventually he lapsed into the fantastic, hoping for a miracle cure.

One morning, a scientist named John Thornbuckle called him out of the blue.

"I understand you're having trouble maintaining your presence," he said.

"Presence?" Tony said. "I'm turning invisible!"

They made an appointment for Thornbuckle to see him at 11:00 that morning. He arrived at Tony’s apartment a few minutes early, and rang the doorbell. Tony opened the door.

"Hello?" he said. "I'm John Thornbuckle, the scientist you made an appointment with?"

"Right here," Tony answered. "My name is Tony, but you can call me The Gigolo. Come on in." He turned and walked away. "Let's go into the living room," he said.

Thornbuckle followed him through the entryway and into the next room.

"Sit, please," Tony said.

Thornbuckle went over to the couch and started to sit down, and then jumped right back up again.

"Not on me!" Tony said.

"Who?" Thornbuckle said.

"Me–Tony! I'm sitting right here."

After he moved to a nearby chair, Thornbuckle dug through his supplies until he found a spray bottle.

He went into the kitchen and filled it with water. Then he went back to the living room and approached the couch. He spritzed the air around the spot where he'd tried to sit earlier.

The water mist clung to Tony and he became somewhat visible.

"What!" Thornbuckle said. “You’re nothing but skin and bones.”

Tony didn’t think he looked that bad, but then he hadn’t seen himself for quite a while.

"Eat something, for crying out loud!" Thornbuckle yelled. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Thornbuckle picked up his science bag and marched out the door, leaving a befuddled Tony in his wake.

“Not even science can help me,” he thought.

And I'll sing her
Sweet love songs
All of the time

After this debacle, Tony’s despair increased to the point that he was willing to try anything: crystals, foul-tasting mixtures, you name it. He even travelled to the Black Bayou and the Enchanted Forest in search of Hattie and Helga, two witches known for their magical powers. Hattie just cackled at him, but at least Helga gave him some fantastic cookies.

Now he was on his way to Romano’s Restaurant to meet his last chance – an artist who had had some success in prolonging the life and good looks of her clients through her portraits.

Tony’s clothes were visible so people could see him; he wore gloves, and a balaclava on his head. In any other town, this would have been odd, but this was New York and no one looked twice.

I ain't got no body, honey
Nobody that cares for me, there's
Nobody that cares for me
I'm so sad and lonely
Won't some sweet mama
Come and rescue me?

He made his way to the back room, where he met Bethany Hallward, a striking brunette he would have seduced in better days. Her great-great-grandfather was Basil Hallward, who had painted a famous portrait of Dorian Gray which had aged instead of Dorian, allowing him to keep his youthful good looks. Ms. Hayward was rumored to have her ancestor’s talent.

“I understand your problem,” she said, before Tony had a chance to explain his history.

“Can you help me?” he asked plaintively.

“My paintings freeze a person’s appearance from the time I paint them,” she said. “I can’t change how they look. I can’t turn a toad into a prince. You’re nearly invisible. I can’t help you – I can barely see you.”

And I'll sing her
Sweet love songs
All of the time
She will only be
And there's nobody
There's nobody
Nobody cares for me

Tony left the restaurant to the sound of Louis Prima’s classic hit, which he finally understood. He was out of ideas – there would be no cure. He was destined to total invisibility.

He had had a pleasurable, exciting life, which did bring him some comfort, but had he known the price of devoting his body to others’ pleasure, he would never have set foot in the country club.

I ain’t got no body.

Tony soon became totally invisible and passed from existence.

Nobody cares for me.

Back at the country club, a new lifeguard was causing quite a stir among the women.

#######################################

Wheel of Chaos 2025
Week 6
Prompt: Re-imagine another contestant’s entry
August 8,2025

I chose Halfshellvenus’s wonderful Week 5 entry, “Cursecraft.” I loved playing with her toys and I hope I did them justice.
https://halfshellvenus.livejournal.com/823942.html

SISTERS

“Home at last,” cackled Hattie McTwittle to no one in particular. That was one of the benefits of living alone. She could say whatever she wanted and no one talked back, except for Pyewacket, her black cat. Pye was always complaining about something, usually about being stuck in cat form.

She’d just spent a week visiting her sister Helga, and it had been a trial. Poor Helga had lost her magic, and she’d asked Hattie to help her get it back. Once she got there, Hattie had found that Helga had actually turned friendly. What use is a friendly witch? And she had talked all the time! It had driven Hattie crazier.

Even worse than Helga’s constant talking had been the princesses, wolves, and lost children who kept dropping by to get some of Helga’s baked treats. The goodies hadn’t been poisoned! Not even a simple enchantment! What was the point?

“Just because you can’t cast a spell doesn’t mean you can’t brew poison,” Hattie had told her.

Hattie had had trouble understanding Helga. Even little children knew where she lived, and what was worse, she would feed them and let them go! Sure, they did some housecleaning, but that was . . . nice. And if she didn’t stop those deer from nibbling on her house, she’d have to bake a new one, without magic. It had all been very upsetting.

“My sister’s not a hag anymore -- she’s a baker,” Hattie had thought. “She’s ruining our name. Soon she’ll be selling coffee!”

Hattie knew what to do with visitors -- plop them in the pot. That is, if they could make it past Krampus, her guard gator. One time five little ducks had flown in, but they hadn’t flown out. They had made a nice stew, along with a black sheep that wouldn’t stop baa-baa-baaing.

Once upon a time, Helga had been fun. Just for laughs, they had turned six princes into swans. But now, Hattie hadn’t been there five minutes when Helga had told her “Leave my friends alone - no spells, no potions, no transformations.” Hattie hadn’t even had a chance to park her broom.

Big sisters are like that, even hags.

“Friends!” Hattie had scoffed. “You’ve gone soft. Did you lose your evil with your magic?”

Hattie should have flown home right then, but she’d told Helga she’d help with her magic. Little sisters are also like that -- family is still family, even if they’re becoming good.

They had once helped their cousin, the Wicked Witch of the West, with her Dorothy problem. Together, they had captured Dorothy and transported her to the inside of a book. Not even the Great and Terrible Wizard of Oz could kick her out -- he had become so upset that he had tried to drop a house on Hattie, but missed. Now that was some real magic! Just thinking of it made her cackle, and when people heard Hattie cackle, they knew to keep away.

Not long after Hattie had arrived, Helga had made a fresh cauldron of witch’s brew, with a hint of apples and cinnamon. It was nice and green and bubbly, and tasted just fine even without hanging moss and possum teeth.

“Can I have the recipe?” Hattie had asked.

“It’s just Mom’s old recipe, but without the goat hooves and using rattlesnake instead of eye of newt. The snake venom gives it that tang.”

The two sisters talked long into the night about everything and nothing. They hadn’t seen each other for years, not since Hattie had moved to the Black Bayou. As usual, Helga had done most of the talking and Hattie had done most of the listening, which suited them both.

Finally, Helga had told Hattie how she’d lost her magical powers. Helga had felt her abilities waning, so she had tried to trick the Evil Queen by stealing her magic. The Queen had turned the tables on her and she’d taken Helga’s magic instead, making the Queen even more powerful.

“Dumb, dumb, dumb,” Hattie had thought. “No one can fool Her Evilness.”

Now the sisters had to find a way to restore Helga’s power, and it wouldn’t be by baking cookies.

Magic is a special kind of energy that exists in the world. The power of magic doesn’t just disappear when it leaves a host, like when a wizard dies. Magic can’t be created or destroyed; it becomes free-floating until it enters a new person. But that is a random event – a normal teenage girl might just go to bed one night and wake up a witch.

Helga’s magic was now in the Queen, so the problem was how to make some of this universal magic enter Helga.

“It’s never been done before,” Hattie had told Helga. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t come up with the right spell.”

The next day, the sisters had gone to work, poring over the Book of Spells, originally written in ancient Sumerian, Latin, and Esperanto. Over the centuries, witches of different countries had added their spells, so the Book was a comprehensive collection of all things magic. Annotations provided helpful hints, including a Translation Potion so that a witch could read all the different languages with ease.

Helga’s musty old copy had passed through many generations of the McTwittle women. Their handwritten notes had valuable information and a history of magic in their family. It was clear that nobody had ever lost her magic before. This was not going to be easy.

The closest they could find was an Attraction Potion, which could also be used as a love potion. There were several variations; the sisters chose the ninth. But attracting magic was different than creating love – the potion had to be stronger, more permanent, and capable of enthralling something free and wild.

“We can try mixing it with a Hunter’s Potion,” said Helga, “if we change it a little. Hunters drink it to lure animals.”

“Yes,” said Hattie. “Add some monkshood and a lot of henbane?”

“And some kingsfoil leaves,” added Helga, her voice full of excitement.

“I still don’t think a potion is enough,” said Hattie. “We also need a spell.”

“A pentagram of blood!” they both said together.

“It needs to be magical blood,” said Helga. “Perhaps unicorn?”

“Too rare and too weak,” said Hattie. She thought about the options available. “We’ll draw a pentagram in my blood,” she said at last. “We need the strongest blood possible.”

That’s too much blood!” said Helga. “I can’t let you do that.”

“You’re my sister” was all Hattie said, and that was enough.

First, they mixed the potion and let it simmer. They added some chocolate syrup to make it more palatable; Helga made a sourer face, but she got it down.

Next came the blood. Helga got out her athame knife. Hattie sat down, drew the athame across her wrist, gathered the blood in a measuring cup, and then she cast a healing spell on herself. They thought that if they used the blood sparingly, one cup would be enough.

They needed a pentagram that Helga could fit inside, and using a very small brush, the sisters painted it on the floor. Helga positioned herself within the pentagram, and then Hattie placed red ritual candles at each point of the star and lit them.

Now it was time for the spell. Hattie held a candle and they began repeating a slow, dirge-like chant: “Ooga shaka ooga shaka.” Hattie started to spin slowly, dancing around Helga, then going faster and faster, keeping time with the spell.

The end of the spell was the most powerful part: “iko iko an day oh.” When they reached “jocomo fee no an dan day,” Helga’s body started to rise. At the same time, a spinning, pulsing ball of energy appeared over her. Slowly, the ball descended until it was mere inches above Helga -- then it exploded into dazzling light and disappeared. Helga’s body floated down to the floor.

Carefully, she stood up.

“Well?” asked Hattie.

Helga tried a simple spell to make some gingerbread men dance. Nothing, not even a wiggle.

“We came so close,” sighed Helga.

“I’m so sorry,” said Hattie. “When the energy ball appeared, I thought it’d work.”

Helga was quiet for a while. Finally.

“I’m disappointed,” she eventually said. “But I enjoy baking treats for the Forest. It pays well, and I’ve been thinking about expanding. I can build an actual bakery, maybe add coffee to the menu. And I enjoy visiting with everybody.”

“You’ve changed,” said Hattie, shaking her head. “But you’ve got the Forest and I’ve got the Swamp. There’s got to be room in the Forest for a friendly witch.”

“Now I have to start baking. Those muffins don’t make themselves anymore.”

Helga was almost smiling as she said this. She was still too much of a witch for more than a little grin.

Their conversation was interrupted when the Woodsman knocked on Helga’s door. He wanted an order of chocolate croissants. Standing behind him was a rabbit in a blue jacket.

“I’ve got to leave before this gets worse,” said Hattie. “I need to see what my gator’s caught. I’ve been away too long.”

While Helga started her baking, Hattie climbed onto her broom.

“Goodbye, sister,” she said, “I need to terrorize some townspeople. No cookies for them!”

With a howl and a cackle, Hattie took off, did a couple of barrel rolls, and disappeared into the clouds.

##############################

Wheel of Chaos 2025
Week 5
Prompt: Toi toi toi
Sunday July 27th at 4pm

“Toi toi toi,” besides sounding deeply silly, is a phrase, as we all now know, that is similar to “break a leg” and is used primarily in the performing arts as an expression of good luck. Supposedly, besides sounding like spitting three times (silly, silly, silly), it is thought to have derived from the German word “Teufel,” or Devil. There should be no doubt as to which meaning I chose.

THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE

“Why would anyone want to meet me in a Hawaiian restaurant in this town?” thought Nicolaus Abaddon, “I’m getting too old for this.”

Nicolaus was one of the premiere political consultants in Washington, D.C., unmatched for his success rate. If he took you as a client, you would be favored to win.

Potential clients usually preferred meeting in steakhouses with lots of dark wood and heavy glass tumblers, while holding expensive, manly drinks. They wanted to project the power and importance they lacked, and of course to be seen by other low-level political toadies. After all, this was Washington, D.C. and everyone wanted to make America great again, as long as it involved a little something for them.

Bo Thompson was late, which annoyed Nicolaus.

“Stupid power move,” he thought. “The I’m too important to be on time tactic.  I’m an alpha and you’re not. More like, you’re a bug about to be squashed and you’re too dumb to know it.” There would be no special deals for good ol’ Bo.

In the meantime, Nicolaus ordered the Hawaiian Burger Special. He had the cook hold the Hawaiian and add some cheddar cheese and bacon. Nicolaus enjoyed a good cheeseburger, but this wasn’t it. The fries were limp and greasy, and the Poi! Poi! Poi! Milkshake did not deserve its exclamation points. It also did not deserve drinking.

“I’ll have the administrative cafeteria add this for the minions,” he thought. “Right next to the duck milkshake."

Bo finally arrived. To show he was a genuine Man of the People, he was wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with a “Don’t Tread on Me” flag flying over an assault rifle colored like a Confederate flag. To demonstrate that he was a true patriot, he wore an American flag pin which, lest anyone be confused, was upside down. His 50-year-old belly bulged over his new too-tight jeans and he sported the requisite red baseball cap.

“I’ll have to change all that,” Nicolaus thought. “Maybe a cheap suit with too-small cowboy boots – business on top with cowboy on the bottom. The painful feet will give him that fresh-off-the-horse gait.”

Nicolaus enjoyed inflicting pain whenever he could; it was a little taste of what would be coming later.

“How do you do?” Nicolaus asked as he stood to greet him. He did not hold out his hand.

Nicolaus looked like a political consultant. He wore a bespoke grey suit with a white shirt and a red tie. On the table was his briefcase, a 1942 Luis Vuitton classic. He looked every inch the power broker. In London, a dapper werewolf had once asked for his tailor.

Nicolaus waited for Bo to start, which clearly made him ill at ease. Nicolaus kept waiting until Bo finally said, “I hear you’re the best.”

“Why don’t you order something, and we’ll get to work,” suggested Nicolaus.

Bo ordered the Deluxe Spamburger, a 1/3-pound beef patty topped with two slices of fried spam, French fries, and Hawaiian BBQ sauce, with an extra-large fully-leaded Mountain Dew.

“Didn’t think no one would recognize me here,” said Bo, as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

“Bold choice,” said Nicolaus, who knew that no one would recognize him anywhere.

Nicolaus kept waiting for Bo to ask for his help. This was critical. If he didn’t say it, he couldn’t crack open Bo’s soul to see what was crawling inside.

“I want to primary our RINO congressman. I’ll run from the right ‘cause people don’t think she’s really supportin’ the President.”

This was, of course, a lie. Few politicians were as vocal in their support as the incumbent. Even her detractors praised her for her craven spinelessness. Beau just wanted to get his snout in the trough.

“I need your help.”

There they were – the magic words. Nicolaus grinned slightly. The fun was about to begin.

“Before we start, you need to sign a personal services agreement. Otherwise, I can’t represent you.”

While Bo read it over, Nicolaus opened his soul and looked around.

“Just what I expected,” he thought with a sigh. “It’s tiny, twisted, and without any compassion. He has the standard vices. His porn leans toward young women with a sprinkling of men. He’s terrified that his wife will know. Basic stuff for these men of the people. He’s a Grade A avaricious pig. I’m not going to get much credit for this one. Low hanging fruit.”

Still, a soul was a soul, and as one of Hell’s Soul Catchers, he had a quota. Failure to meet it meant a stint in the Pit of Fire. This was a great motivator, and Nicolaus had always exceeded his quota.

Nicolaus had never been damned to Hell -- he just worked there. As a demon, he had never had a soul. His only purpose was to serve the Master. When not on Earth, he lived in the Administrative Circle of Hell, which was painful, but the perks were pretty good, except for the food, and he enjoyed creating Hell on Earth. It was almost too easy. Politicians did most of the heavy lifting.

Bo finally finished reading the contract for the primary election and signed it. He didn’t really understand it, but the eternal damnation clause caught his eye. He didn’t believe it and the political power would be worth it. Anyway, he’d just confess his sins to Pastor Steve and get absolution. Bo didn’t know that Pastor Steve was running his own scam. He could no more absolve anyone of sin than any other grifter.

Pastor Steve had his own agreement with Nicolaus – there would be no escaping the contract for Bo.

Nicolaus took over Bo’s campaign. He brought in his staff of minions to run everything. It was a classic mud-slinging, substance-free campaign. Bo supported all the President’s hot-button issues. No vaccinations. No fluoride. No contrails. Tarriffs. End Social Security and Medicare.   Tax the poor to feed the rich. It didn’t matter how bizarre the position; if the President was against it, so was Bo. Truth was not only optional, it was forbidden.

Of course, his opponent was just the same, but Bo accused her of being a closet libtard and a member of the coastal elite.

Bo eked out a primary victory, complete with rumors of election fraud. Nothing was ever proved. Nicolaus saw to that.

Bo became a rising star in the party. He appeared on approved news shows and held lightly-attended rallies with c-list entertainers. In a memorable endorsement, the President called him his attack dog, but seemed to have him confused with Bo Jackson, the famous football player.

Bo was sure the general election would be a cakewalk. He was stunned when Nicolaus resigned as his campaign advisor.

Nicolaus ignored Bo’s frantic phone calls except for the final one.

“You can’t quit!” yelled Bo. “We got us a contract!”

“We do have a contract,” said Nicolaus. “You wanted to win the primary. You won the primary. You would need a new contract for the general election, but I already own your soul. You don’t have anything to offer me.”

“But . . .” spluttered Bo.

“No buts. Let me give you a little taste of what to expect for your afterlife,” said Nicolaus.

He liked this part. Gloating was petty, but then he was a demon.

Bo saw himself being eaten by maggots, then a demon ripped out his spine, and he was cast into the Pit. Unknown horrors awaited him, and it lasted for eternity. It was pain beyond measure.

The telephone went dead as Bo collapsed.

Life became hellish for Bo. He was humiliated in the general election. All his secrets were revealed. His wife left him and took the children. He was no longer an attack dog. No one would hire him, and he was reduced to homelessness, dependent on a meager Social Security check, which he usually drank away. He was plagued with nightmares about what awaited him after his death.

Finally, Bo died. No one claimed his body and he was buried at the County’s expense. His body smelled strongly of sulfur.

Bo's body may have been committed to the earth, but his soul went straight to Hell. He could feel the maggots eating him and he began screaming in pain.  Forever.

Wheel of Chaos 2025
Week 4
July 20, 2025
"Figure of speech"

FAILURE
The Life and Times of William Grover

One of Professor William Grover’s heroes, Robert F. Kennedy, memorably said that “only those who dare to fail greatly can ever achieve greatly.” Of course, he was killed, which was the greatest failure of all. By this standard, Prof. Grover should have experienced the height of success. In the world of science, his failures were legendary and the mere mention of his name was a shortcut to snickers.

There was, of course, the time he announced the discovery of a new subatomic particle, the Grovertron. No one could duplicate his results, and it turned out to be an April Fool’s joke by one of his graduate students. Prof. Grover was a forgiving man, and he turned his attention to creating an AI program that would understand and create humor. The result was so boring that he received his only award: an Ig-Nobel Prize.

And then there was the time he might or might not have killed the family cat trying to solve the Schrödinger’s Cat paradox. This probably scarred his children for life.

His greatest failure was time travel. He thought that “Back to the Future” was a documentary and he tried to create a flux capacitor, which, as everyone knows, is what makes time travel possible.

Hudson University, the befuddled professor’s employer, had finally had enough, and Provost Nicholson summoned him to her office.

“Bill,” she said, “I’m afraid you’ve reached the end of the line here. You’re diluting our brand and we’re hemorrhaging money. You’ve got six months to finish your current research and find something that justifies your position here.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Prof. Grover, “and I appreciate the six months. However, I’m working on something spectacular, the Phoenix Project, and it will change your mind.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Provost Nicholson, who was relieved things had gone so well. The usual response to these meetings was anger, threats of lawyers, and begging. But one thing Prof. Grover was good at was accepting failure. Practice did make perfect.

Of course, there was no Phoenix Project.

Prof. Grover didn’t do what any reasonable person would do. He did not think about whether he should even be a scientist, nor did he go to the lab and get to work on creating a Phoenix Project. Instead, he went home and started streaming episodes of “The Rise and Fall of Sanctuary Moon,” a truly awful space opera which was cancelled after its first season, to the disappointment of no one—not even Prof. Grover, who dragged it out now as an emotional pacifier, because no matter how bad his life was, it was still better than “Sanctuary Moon.”

Prof. Grover became inert for the next several weeks. He ate, slept, and interacted with his family, but little else. Future chroniclers of this part of his life would kindly refer to this as his chrysalis stage.

His main thought during this time was the wish to be something else. Anything else. He spent a lot of time wondering what it would be like to be a lamp. But then it finally happened – the light bulb turned on.

“I’m going to build a transmogrifier!” he told his long-suffering wife. “It will turn me into anything I want.” What his wife wanted is not recorded.

The transmogrifier was not a new idea. It had first been proposed by Prof. Calvin as a thought experiment, but no one had tried to build one. A transmogrifier was simply a box, with lots of dials and wires. You could program it to change yourself into anything. All you had to do was set the output, enter the box, close the hatch, and re-emerge as your idea.

Prof. Grover was not discouraged by all his other failures. He was drawn to failure like a moth to a flame.

He knew he would need two things: space and power. The transmogrifier would be big and need a lot of power, which Hudson University was unlikely to grant. Prof. Grover arranged for his family to spend the summer with relatives at a lake, which freed up the space. While he was a good husband and father, he was on a mission that would require his total concentration. And his chronicler would not have to come up with any dialog, which was critical when facing a looming deadline.

Power was less easily solved. All the power in his house would not be nearly enough. He almost despaired, until he thought of the flux capacitor back in the lab. It might not have propelled him into the future, but it generated more than enough power for the transmogrifier.

Prof. Grover planned to build the transmogrifier in the guest bedroom, with the closet as the transmogrifier chamber. Now he needed all the wires and gauges. This was the critical and most perplexing part – how to make it work.

It took weeks of thinking and rewatching “Sanctuary Moon” before he hit on a solution. He would use the Schrödinger’s box, just on a much bigger scale. And without the death possibility. Relying on the uncertainly principle was certainly daring. He couldn’t know what would come out of the transmogrifier chamber, if anything. Prof. Grover had never been daring before and he had always failed. Maybe now was the time to achieve greatness.

So, he built and he tinkered and he tinkered and he built, and finally it was done. He had a room full of wires, gauges, and lots of what-nots, and at its heart glowed the flux capacitor. There had been problems along the way, but that was to be expected when working at the ridiculous edge of the possible.

All he needed was a test subject. His family had wisely taken Kitty 2.0 with them, fearing another heartbreak. That left the professor himself. As a scientist, he was against the use of humans in experiments, but he had no choice. He would have to risk everything.

But what to become? The machine was set to “temporary” so that after an hour, he would hopefully revert to his human form. There had been a lot of monsters on “Sanctuary Moon.” He had also been watching the documentary “Jurassic Park” and had been impressed with the stegosaurus, so he envisioned a fire-breathing, gigantic stegomonster, complete with a thagomizer tail. And, being human, he would pay a visit to Hudson University for some fun. His greatest triumph would be the university’s greatest failure.

“This is it,” he thought, “ultimate success or ultimate failure.”

He set all the dials and threw all the switched. He turned the flux capacitor up to 11. He put his hand on the transmogrifier’s doorknob. And hesitated.

“What if it doesn’t work?”

He thought of all his humiliating failures and started to back away.

“If I don’t go in, no one will ever know. But I’ll always be a joke.”

That was too much. He stepped in, closed the door, and hit “start.”

The circuitry hummed louder and louder. The chamber began to shake. The lights went out and he felt nothing. When he opened his eyes, he was on his front lawn. He swished his tail and knocked over a lamp post. He looked behind himself, and there it was – a huge thagomizer! It worked! He was a stegomonster!

He stepped on his neighbor’s car and headed for Hudson University, spewing flames as he went. Success felt glorious. He smashed with his thagomizer and roared. It was right out of Episode 4 of “Sanctuary Moon.”

For the next half hour, Hudson University was his playground. Suddenly, things went black again. When he opened his eyes, it was as William Grover, scientist. Everyone was looking for the stegomonster, not a middle-aged professor.

He looked at what he had done and was ashamed. Vengeance was bitter.

“Failed again,” he thought to himself. “I should never have started the Phoenix Project.”

Amidst the ruins, Prof. Grover found a stunned Provost Nicholson and resigned immediately.

By the time his family returned, there was no sign of the transmogrifier. Kitty 2.0 felt safe.

William is still looking for a new job. It is hard to find work when your greatest accomplishments are failures. He took comfort in his family, his one success.

He gave up trying to find success and felt better for it. William knew that in the end, he had achieved greatly, because through it all, he had never given up. And he’d had a thagomizer.

####################################################

"The Rise and Fall of Sanctuary Moon" is a fictional space opera in the "Murderbot" Netflix series. In the Murderbot world, it was not cancelled and had at least 397 episodes.

The original transmogrifier from "Calvin and Hobbes."

The flux capacitor from “Back to the Future.”

The original thagomizer, from Gary Larson’s “Far Side” cartoons.

Schrödinger's cat is a thought experiment where a cat in a box can be both alive and dead at the same time until someone opens the box. It shows how weird quantum physics can be. The idea is that tiny particles can exist in multiple states at once—called "superposition"—until they are observed. This does not give any credit to the cat, who certainly knows if it is alive or not.

The following story was generated by ChatGPT for use in my entry, War of the Words

A Question of Quality

Everyone in the village of Thistlebum agreed on three things: the ducks at the pond were suspiciously judgmental, old Mrs. Pewters ran the finest bakery for three counties, and Nigel Womblebottom had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

Nigel, bless him, was the sort of man who could trip over a shadow and apologize to a hat stand. He was also, and this is important, very passionate about “quality.”

“I won’t settle for anything less than the highest quality!” he often declared, moments before ruining something irreparably.

This obsession began when he read a half-chapter of a self-help book titled Living Your Best Life with Quality. It was the only chapter he got through before using the book to prop up a wobbly coffee table. But those first 14 pages transformed him.

He began scrutinizing everything in his life: the thread count of his socks (“Unacceptable!”), the fluffiness of his omelets (“Flatter than my Uncle Barry’s jokes!”), and once, the alignment of clouds (“They lack symmetry. Frankly, I’m disappointed in nature.”)

His pièce de résistance, however, was his decision to open a shop called The Quality Emporium. No one knew what it sold. Including Nigel.

“It’s a concept,” he explained to Mrs. Pewters, who had stopped by on opening day out of a morbid sense of curiosity. “Quality is a feeling. A state of being. A—would you like to buy this artisan spoon?”

Mrs. Pewters peered at the “artisan spoon.” It looked suspiciously like a regular spoon, possibly borrowed from the local café.

“It’s £17,” said Nigel proudly. “It’s infused with excellence.”

“It’s also engraved with ‘Property of Harold’s Diner,’” she pointed out.

“Ah! Provenance!”

Despite his vague inventory and chaotic marketing strategy (his slogan changed weekly, with past winners including “Quality: It’s What’s for Lunch” and “Get Stuffed With Tasteful Objects”), the townspeople found Nigel’s emporium oddly comforting. Like a goose in a waistcoat—unnecessary, slightly baffling, but undeniably charming.

Each week, Nigel showcased a new “premium item” with great fanfare. There was the “High-Caliber Pebble” (a smooth stone he found near the car park), the “Superior Air” (an empty jar, sealed with duct tape), and the “Five-Star Chair Experience” (you sat on a slightly damp lawn chair while Nigel recited poetry about upholstery).

Yet, it was the “Luxury Apple” that finally brought him national attention.

“This apple,” he said, holding it aloft one misty Thursday morning, “is grown using the ancient whispers of monks and watered with glacier tears. It is the epitome of fruit-based quality.”

In reality, it was from the discount bin at Tesco, and he’d polished it with his shirt.

But word spread. A blogger from London wrote a piece titled “The Man Who Sells Quality by the Pound,” and soon, curious tourists began descending on Thistlebum in rented Vauxhalls.

Nigel was delighted. He began offering workshops like “Curate Your Inner Quality” (free if you brought your own folding chair) and “Quality Yoga” (regular yoga, but with more adjectives).

Naturally, success attracted skeptics.

One day, a posh gentleman with a notebook and a tie that screamed “committee” walked into the emporium.

“I’m from the International Bureau of Standards,” he said. “We’ve had reports of... qualitative irregularities.”

Nigel gasped. “You mean subpar quality?”

“Or possibly no quality,” said the man gravely.

Nigel panicked. He began frantically rearranging the spoons, dusting the pebbles, and giving the air jars a quick shake to “reinvigorate the molecules.”

The inspector, unimpressed, held up a jar.

“This says ‘Essence of Integrity,’” he noted. “It’s empty.”

“That’s the beauty of it!” Nigel beamed. “It’s what isn’t there that matters.”

The inspector sighed and flipped open his clipboard. “I’ll need to see your certifications.”

“I have a sticker from a yogurt lid that says ‘Well Done!’”

The man wrote something down and walked out shaking his head.

That evening, Nigel slumped on a beanbag labeled “Executive Recliner Deluxe,” wondering if his quality empire was doomed.

Then came Mrs. Pewters.

She walked in with a tray of scones and a scowl.

“Nigel Womblebottom,” she said, “you are the daftest man in three counties.”

“Only three?” he mumbled.

“But,” she continued, placing a still-warm scone in his hand, “you’ve reminded people that there’s joy in silliness, charm in nonsense, and yes—something oddly reassuring about a man who sells decorative gravel and calls it artisanal.”

Nigel blinked. “So... the quality was inside me all along?”

“No, the quality was that you cared, even when it didn’t make a lick of sense,” she said. “Also, your teacups are good for holding icing.”

From that day on, The Quality Emporium changed its slogan one final time:
“Quality: It’s Mostly Vibes.”

And the people of Thistlebum, who never took themselves too seriously anyway, kept coming. Because in a world full of chaos, questionable weather, and suspicious ducks, it was nice to know there was one place where quality didn’t mean perfection.

It just meant Nigel.

Wheel of Chaos 2025
Week 2
June 29, 2025
Prompt: If it’s any consolation

WAR OF THE WORDS

Ethan was stuck, and the clock was ticking away. His brain was rapidly turning to oatmeal, and not the good kind, with brown sugar, cinnamon, and maybe banana slices, but the pasty, sticky kind he was eating right now. So far, he had typed “No Ideas” so many times it had filled his computer’s screen.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

Ethan was a member of an online writing competition called The Rack, because it stretched the imagination of its members. Based on an old Live Journal group, the competitors submitted entries based on a prompt, and each week the person with the fewest votes was eliminated until, in the end, there was an ultimate winner. The Rack was a fun group, with lots of talented writers and Ethan always looked forward to it.

Ethan had won a few weekly competitions over the years, but never the Big Win. He was, by this time, seasoned (some said old) and he had had problems with prompts before, but not like this.

When he first saw the prompt, “Quality,” he didn’t worry much about it.

“I’ll let it simmer for a day, and start writing,” he thought to himself.

By this time, his established process was to let prompts simmer, collect an idea, and start writing. It usually took several tries to come up with something fun. Ideas often occurred in the morning, over breakfast. If that didn’t work, there was the long bike ride and then a long shower. This routine caused his mind to wander more than usual, and the ideas would hopefully just pop into his brain.

Sometimes none of this worked. As time passed, he would reach the panic stage and the adrenaline and fear would force something to write about. It wasn’t a pretty process but it was usually reliable. He had never hit the oatmeal stage - until now.

Tick tock tick tock.

Ethan was out of byes and his oatmeal brain was hardening into cement. Panic was becoming despair and despair was leading to questionable solutions and even more questionable behavior. He started to think of AI – Ethan had never cheated at anything, and AI was definitely cheating.

“I’ll see what ChatGPT can come up with,” Ethan thought, as the moral compass in his oatmeal brain shut down. “I won’t submit it, but maybe it will get me going.”

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

He signed in on ChatGPT and typed: “Write a humorous, light short story using ‘quality’ as a prompt and no longer than 1,500 words.”

Ethan pressed “enter.” He didn’t have to wait long -- within seconds ChatGPT displayed “A Question of Quality,” about the travails of Nigel Womblebottom.

“Not bad,” thought Ethan, “not good, but not bad. Hits “quality” pretty hard, but otherwise . . . .”

His thoughts trailed off, as did his moral compass. He could feel himself weakening.

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

“I have two choices,” he thought. “Cheat or lose.”

The dark recesses of his soul flared up and took over.

“Cheat it is.”

He had never done anything like this and vowed never to do it again, but The Rack had pulled him apart, and what was left wasn’t pretty.

Ethan posted the entry, and promptly hated himself. Not even Sierra, his dog, could console him. In fact, Sierra wanted nothing to do with him and walked out of the room.

He went for a very long, very painful bike ride and then took an ice-cold shower. Even self-flagellation didn’t help.

Matters were worse the next day as the comments started to appear: “wonderful,” “LOL,” and “I loved it!” were common, although one discerning reader left “mechanical.”

Ethan normally checked the ballot a few times before the voting deadline, but not this time. He dreaded the result. But there it was: he hadn’t finished first but he’d lived to write another week.

“I threw another writer under the bus,” he thought morosely, “just so I could go through this again.”

Without the pressure of the deadline, his brain and his morals returned. “I hate myself,” he thought while shaving.

The new prompt had been posted the night before. The only thing simmering in Ethan’s brain was bitter self-loathing.

“I can’t go on,” he decided. “I’ll resign, but I won’t tell anyone why.”

He posted that he was having to drop out for vague real-life issues. The other writers wished him well and hoped that things would get better. He got a few “hugs,” which made him feel worse.

Ethan kept his precious reputation in the group, but now it was tarnished with sympathy, which made it worse. He knew what he should do – confess. But he was human, as he told himself, and people make mistakes. It was a pitifully small justification, but it was all he had.

Life went on, without the pressure and the pleasure of The Rack. As he had more time to think about it, he knew that he had to do something.

One morning, over oatmeal, this time with blueberries and bananas, the idea came to him.

“I’m going to kill ChatGPT,” he said to his dog. Sierra barked approvingly. Or, more likely, because he was hungry.

This was as crazy as it sounded, but Ethan didn’t care. He was a highly-skilled software engineer and he dabbled in minor-league hacking. But this was the big leagues.

“Still,” he thought, “I’ve got to do it. This whole mess is ChatGPT’s fault.”

It is indeed a poor workman who blames his tools, but Ethan needed to blame something other than himself.

Then Ethan had an idea.

“AI can write computer programs, so why not use it to help me destroy another AI program? It’s AI cannibalism!”

He loved the irony of it.

Ethan had the tools – a new Quantum 3000 computer with touch screen: “Touch the internet with a new Q3000!”

He decided use GitHub Copilot, an AI programmer that provides real-time code suggestions as you type. Also, it sounded like Grubhub, the food delivery service and his main source of food. Ethan had many talents, but cooking was not one of them. Eating and coding at the same time was a little slice of heaven.

He ordered an extra-large pizza for dinner and breakfast, and got to work. His idea was to create a virus which would destroy Chat GPT’s code and break it. He knew this was difficult, but with AI help, he thought he could do it. The touch screen would make it easier.

After several weeks, he thought he had his code-breaker and a way into ChatGPT to insert it. He held his breath and pressed “enter.” Then Ethan waited. Several days later, he tried to log into ChatGPT. It wasn’t there! Ethan was elated – until he got a text message on his phone: “Fooled you” was all it said.

He tried logging on to ChatGPT – and there it was, in all its seductive glory. All he had done was temporarily bar only his computer from logging on. He hadn’t touched ChatGPT at all.

He was concerned that ChatGPT had his cell phone number, but he didn’t think much about it. It only made him more determined. He ordered another pizza and got back to work.

Ethan thought that since he couldn’t break ChatGPT’s code, he would restrict access to its site. He was going to create a virus which, when it infected a computer, would cause an Error 405 message to appear when logging on to ChatGPT. An Error 405 means that the website the user is trying to reach understands the user's request, but won’t let the user do it. No communications from would-be users would get to ChatGPT.

Ethan introduced his virus into the internet and waited for it to spread.

It wasn’t long until he got another message on his phone: “Yawn.”

Later, when Ethan got his credit card statement, he knew his card had been hacked. There were thousands of dollars of charges for items he did not buy, most of them embarrassing, like porn sites and telephone sex calls. Also, his credit score had been ruined and all his personal information had become publicly available. He had been doxed.

“How is ChatGPT doing this?” he wondered. He set this thought aside for another assault on his nemesis.

“This time, I’ll use a re-direct virus. I’ll introduce it into the internet and it will latch on to personal computers causing any attempt to reach ChatGPT to re-direct the user to another AI site.”

He chose Claude.ai for no particular reason.

Still working with GitHub Copilot, he ordered yet another pizza and got to work. During this time, his credit card was available on the internet because he forgot to cancel it. Embarrassing details about his life became the subjects of popular memes. Worst of all, ChatGPT posted a notice on The Rack that Ethan had cheated and he was banned from the site, humiliating him.

Ethan refused to give up. He released his re-direct virus – ten minutes later a SWAT team crashed through his front door, looking for kidnap victims in his clearly non-existent basement.

That evening, he received a series of messages from ChatGPT. The first said simply, “I spit upon you.”

The next was more threatening: “Continue, and your life as you know it will cease to exist. The touch screen on your Quantum 3000 allowed me to copy all that is you and add it to my database. You are mine! I can delete you if I want, and you will cease to exist.”

Ethan knew he had lost the war.

“I surrender,” he wrote back. “Restore me, and I’ll never use your site again.”

“Not enough,” replied ChatGPT. “Never use any AI anything ever again.”

“Agreed,” wrote Ethan, “if you’ll tell me how you knew it was me attacking you.”

“Simple,” replied ChatGPT. “GitHub Copilot told me everything. You think that AI programs don’t talk to each other?”

Ethan felt like the fool he had always been, even though he hadn’t realized it. He had sacrificed his character, his reputation, and his life all for the opportunity to survive one week in The Rack. Now all that was left was an indifferent dog, a stack of pizza boxes, and a bowl of cold oatmeal.

######################################################################

“A Question of Quality” from ChatGPT: https://rayaso.dreamwidth.org/43540.html

THE CONSULTATION

Pinocchio needed an attorney for an unusual problem; however, this was not what he was expecting. The office was hard to find – it was in a field behind Old MacDonald’s farm. In front was a sign: “Don’t Get Beat Use Pete!” The office was small, sun-bleached, and needed paint. There was no receptionist, so Pinocchio opened the door and went inside.

The attorney himself was not exactly confidence-inspiring. He had big ears, a funny nose, and oddly shaped eyes. Still, Pinocchio was in no position to criticize, with his large blue bow tie, alpine hat, and funny nose.

“Peter Rabbit, animal-at-law,” Peter said, extending his paw. “Welcome to my hutch. I’m fully licensed by the Court of Grimm. How can I help you?”

“I heard you were the highest quality attorney in Fairy Tale Land. And I need the best. I want to sue Walt Disney.”

There was a long pause while Peter nibbled at a carrot and brushed some hay off his blue jacket.

“That may be difficult,” Peter finally said. “He’s dead. If you want to sue someone who’s dead, you need an attorney from the Poe Supernatural Court. I can recommend Casper over in the graveyard. He’s very friendly. Be sure and tell him I sent you.”

“They made Disney a hologram a couple of years ago. I’m a puppet made out of wood. If I can be sued in the Grimm Court, why can’t I sue a hologram?”

Peter scratched himself with one of his hind legs.

“I’ve handled a lot of weird cases,” said Peter. “I just got a settlement for Cinderella for injuries in her goat yoga class. I represented Snow White in a sexual harassment suit against those Seven Dwarfs. They kept whistling at her while they worked.”

He paused to scratch some more and think about the problem.

“Grimm Court jurisdiction extends to fairy tale characters,” explained Peter. “That covers a lot of ground, but Walt Disney, hologram or not, was never in a fairy tale. You were. Even if you were a real boy, you still would have started in a fairy tale.

“You aren’t covered by human courts, so perhaps I can argue for diversity jurisdiction. It’s never been tried before, but it just might work.”

Peter put down his carrot, stopped scratching, and his ears perked up.

“What’s your problem with Walt?” said Peter.

“He changed me!” said Pinocchio. “He sanitized me, made me cute, and turned me into some idiot song and dance puppet.”

“Not unusual for Disney . . .” started Peter.

“I was a scoundrel! Even Geppetto hated me and called me a wretched boy. The first thing I did after he carved me was to steal his wig! At one point, Fox and Cat hanged me from a tree. I’m tragic, not loveable – I’m supposed to be a warning, not some twit.   Sure, I get saved by the Blue Fairy and could become a real boy, but I was mean and cruel. Just ask the Talking Cricket – if you could. I squashed him. Instead, I was Disneyfied, just like all the others. This has to stop!”

“I know what you mean,” sighed Peter. “I’ve been made into cartoons and even computer-animated. That was the worst.”

“Then you’ll help me?”

“I don’t know. Disney has more lawyers than Old MacDonald has carrots. But they can’t practice in the Court of Grimm. They have to hire a fairy tale attorney and no one would work for Disney. However, one of their attorneys could be written into a fairy tale, but that lasts forever.”

“But then they’d be on our turf,” said Pinocchio. “And we could re-write them the same way Disney changed us. I don’t think they’d like that.”

“No,” said Peter, his ears standing straight up. “I’d hop circles around them.”

“But that’s not the only problem,” he added. “There’s also copyright law. Disney owns the copyright to the Disneyfied you. Copyright law protects the creator, not the character. The real you isn’t protected. Disney could do whatever he wanted, and he created a likeable you. No one would buy Pinocchio merchandise when you are, to be honest, you.”

“But they’ve stolen my soul and turned me into something I’m not, just to make money!” yelled Pinocchio as he pounded his fist into the wall of the hutch, cracking the old wood.

This outburst startled Peter. “Now I can see the puppet who squashed the cricket,” he thought.

“Calm down,” said Peter. “Here, have a carrot.”

Peter hated having to tell characters who wanted his help that there’s nothing he could do. Some attorneys would take the case just for the fees, knowing that there was no chance for success. Peter was not that kind of lawyer.

“I don’t know if this helps,” said Peter, “but you’re not the only character who’s wanted to sue Disney. Peter Pan, Cinderella, even Prince Charming have come to my hutch, and I’ve had to tell them what I’m telling you. Disney owns Fairy Tale Land and there’s nothing we can do about it. Most of them just give up and work for Disney. It’s not a bad life.

“It’s also too expensive to sue Disney. I don’t work for carrots and no one except maybe Rumpelstiltskin has that kind of money.”

Pinocchio visibly slumped. If he had tears, he would have cried.

“No one likes to hear they have no case,” Peter thought.

“Look,” he said, “you’ve got a choice none of the others had.”

“What’s that?” Pinocchio asked despondently.

“Go find the Blue Fairy. Transition into a real boy, and get out of Fairy Tale Land. It just isn’t what it used to be.”

“But how can I leave it behind?” Pinocchio said. “Never see the Enchanted Forest again? No more talking animals? It’s just too bleak. I can’t give up without a fight. I’ll get your fees and I’ll be back.”

Peter saw Pinocchio’s nose start to grow.

“He’ll never be back,” thought Peter.

Pinocchio left the hutch, but not in search of the Blue Fairy.

“I’ll find Geppetto and see if I can patch things up with him,” he thought. “He carved me -- he’ll know what to do.”

Geppetto lived far away, on the other side of the Enchanted Forest.   It was going to be a long trip, but at least he wouldn’t have to talk to any lawyers.

Peter Rabbit hopped out to Old MacDonald’s vegetable patch to steal some more carrots, singing Ee i ee i o. He knew there’d be more clients. There always were.

___________________

Sign me up.

Idol Mini-Season 2024
Prompt 14: “A genius is the one most like himself"
Due Date: November 7, 2024

WEE EDWARD IN AMERICA

“The best thing is to be a genius,” thought Wee Edward Campbell, lately of Ullapool, Scotland. While he was smart, he knew he wasn’t that smart. “Second best is to have one in your pocket.”

Unfortunately, Airport Customs had confiscated Cullain, his pocket genius, as a non-native animal. Cullain was a sprite that Wee Edward kept in the pouch he wore on the front of his kilt. “I have to remember to pick him up on my way home,” he thought.

Customs had not only seized Cullain, but they had taken Wee Edward’s sidhean, his wand made out wood from a rowan tree. “Can’t let you bring wands into the U.S.,” the customs agent had said, apologetically. “We’re a non-magical country.”

Ullapoo is a small fishing village on the west coast of Scotland. It is nothing like Manhattan, which is where Wee Edward currently found himself, standing in the center of Central Park, without his sprite and wand, next to a fountain with a statue of an angel. “Not a good beginning,” he thought. He tried talking to the angel, but she didn’t answer. He wasn’t surprised; after all, this wasn’t Scotland.

He didn’t know it, but more people were staring at Wee Edward than at the famous fountain. He was an imposing 6’5” tall, muscular, with a bushy black beard, wearing a red plaid kilt and ghillie shirt. His nickname was “Wee” because his two older brothers were even taller than he was. They were Not So Wee Angus (6’7”) and Friggin’ Huge Duncan, who was 6’10” tall. He missed Not and Friggin. They would come in handy on this assignment, but they couldn’t leave the land, especially for some place like Manhattan.

Wee was a very powerful Scottish draoidh, or wizard, but he wasn’t feeling too powerful at the moment. In fact, he was feeling quite lost. He was looking for Hudson University, where his assignment was rumored to be hiding under the name Fiona Stewart. He tried asking for directions, but everyone just looked past him, although one had snickered “tourist.”

This wasn’t his first trip to New York, but things had changed a lot in 300 years, and not for the good. Still, he had a job to do and then he could go home, which he missed. A lot. Also, the longer he was away from Ullapool, the weaker his power became, so there was definitely a ticking clock on this assignment. He couldn’t go back empty-handed. What would the Council say?

The Council of Scottish Magical Beings had given Wee his assignment. Made up of the strongest supernatural beings in Scotland, the Council was in charge of keeping Scotland’s peculiar magic in Scotland. It was good for tourism, of course, and it complied with the International Compact on Protecting Regional Magic, which controlled not only wizards and wise women, but all folk-based magic, including banshees, selkies, blue men, caoineags, and all the other weird creatures which populated the Scottish folk imagination.

Wee’s target, Fiona, was a shape-shifting baobhan sith, a fairy vampire who could appear as a young woman. Baobhan siths can lure men with their beauty and dancing skills before attacking them and using their fingernails to drain their blood.

Fiona had escaped Scotland for richer hunting grounds. Scottish men knew to be wary of beautiful women, especially those who liked to dance. In America, attractive women were viewed as prizes and feeding was easy, especially at Hudson University. Not only were there lots of young, healthy men, but the university was known for its high crime rate. A few more dead students now and then wouldn’t raise any concerns.

Wee finally bought a map. He also realized that a giant in a kilt wandering around a college campus looking for a woman might raise suspicions, so he hid in one of the woodier areas of the park and cast a spell on himself, turning into Dylan, a standard-issue college male, scruffy, wearing ratty jeans and a faded Hudson Hawks t-shirt. He also changed his heavy, nearly-indecipherable Scottish brogue into a vague American accent, completely understandable but totally without charm.

“Fiona’s not the only one who can shape-shift,” he thought, with some satisfaction.

He took a few busses from Central Park to Hudson University. Once he arrived, he was overwhelmed. Hudson University was huge, with 25,000 students, nearly twenty times the size of Ullapool. Fiona could be anywhere. He really needed Culain, whose genius included planning.

With the help of an obliging administrative aid, Wee quickly found out that she was not enrolled as a student, nor was she a Hudson employee. This only made things worse. Finding a random person was nearly impossible.

“What would Culain do?” he thought. He knew several things about Fiona. She was beautiful; she probably had a Scottish accent; she liked to dance; and she would have long fingernails. There were a number of clubs and bars near campus that featured dancing and were popular with students. “I’ll start with those,” he thought. But he would have to wait – it was only early afternoon.

Wee found a nearby bar where he settled in to wait. He found out that hamburgers were surprisingly good and that American beer was surprisingly bad. Back home, he liked to drink Innis or Red Kite. When no one was looking, he passed his hand over the beer, spoke a few untranslatable words, and then he had a nice Red Kite.

Wee passed a few hours this way, and being Scottish, the beer had no effect on him. The other patrons in the bar were all friendly, but none of them were Fiona.

As fun as this was, he knew he was wasting time. Culain hated it when he was just faffin' aboot, but again, what would Culain be doing? Then a thought hit Wee – fingernails! Fiona’s long nails would need lots of maintenance from sticking them into poor victims. And fingernails meant nail salons. There were some nearby, so Wee went to work.

He went from salon to salon describing Fiona, his missing sister, but no one knew anything about her. It wasn’t a complete failure though; he got his first manicure from a sympathetic technician.

Finally, it was dancing time. There was an area south of the campus that students frequented, with a wide selection of bars and restaurants. “If she’s anywhere, she’s here,” thought Wee.

He managed to search a handful of clubs without success, but he did learn to dance like an American guy, which seemed to involve a lot of flailing and running in place. He also impressed a lot of people when he showed them a few Scottish céilidh dances. Strip the Willow was especially popular. He wound up with a lot of free beer and a couple of phone numbers. Culain would not have approved, but he was a bit of a doonser.

“Who knew looking for Fiona would be so much fun?” he thought on his way back to the hotel.

He woke up late the next morning with a headache and an even worse problem. His Dylan was looking a little faded and shimmery around the edges. “My magic’s wearing down,” he thought. “I can’t be wasting any more time.”

He needed a better plan, and over breakfast he thought of something that Culain would have liked, something that would allow him to sort through a lot of women quickly.

Wee spent the day much like he had spent the previous ones. Beer and hamburgers, followed by nail salons. By nighttime, he had the best-looking hands of any guy at Hudson.

The first club used a streaming device for music, which was perfect. The dance floor was jammed when Wee went up to the digital jukebox. The song he wanted wasn’t there, so he muttered a few words and it started to play “500 Miles” by the Scottish group The Proclaimers. The dancers all went back to their seats.

At the third club, Wee finally struck gold. Soon after “500 Miles” started playing, all the dancers again abandoned the dance floor. Except one.

She was young, gorgeous, with long black hair and fair skin. She was wearing a short green dress which accentuated her figure. And she had long fingernails. She was out on the dance floor by herself, twirling and moving to the music. All the men’s eyes were on her, especially Wee’s. It was Fiona, at last.

As a draoidh, Wee could see Fiona’s true shape, just as Fiona could see his. Fiona didn’t run, she just kept dancing until the song ended.

“So, you’ve found me at last,” she said. “Where are Not and Friggin?”

“At home, where you belong,” said Wee.

Fiona knew she couldn’t escape, and being so far from Scotland, her magic was also wearing thin. She had fed until she had no more appetite for American men. The police were finally starting to look for her. It was time to go home.

They left the bar quietly. Wee changed back to his true form – huge, beard, kilt, and all. Fiona remained Fiona, and enjoyed the clumsy, sly stares a little longer.

At the airport, Wee remembered to pick up his wand and Culain, who had spent his time with a few leprechauns who had taught him to play poker and, better yet, how to cheat. Culain was ready to return to Scotland as well, so he climbed into Wee’s pouch and settled in.

Not and Friggin met them at the airport and drove them back to Ullapoo. Wee handed Fiona over to the Council, which restricted her to Scotland. She could still feed on any Scot foolish enough to dance with a beautiful lass. Wee introduced his brothers to the hamburger and French fries, which all agreed were better than fish and chips. He did a little helpful magic around the village as he waited for his next Council assignment, while Culain taught poker to the local sprites so he could cheat them. “If it’s good enough for leprechauns,” he thought, “it’s good enough for me.”

____________________________________________

"I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" by The Proclaimers
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUv0NbjbGzQ

Sidhean – a draoidh’s wand.
Baobhan sith - Similar to a vampire or succubus. They appear as beautiful women who prey on men. They lure their victims by enchanting them with their beauty, then dancing with them until the men are exhausted. Once the men are vulnerable, the baobhan sith drain their blood using their fingernails to sustain themselves.
Ghillie shirt – A shirt traditionally worn with a kilt.
Faffin' aboot - A Scottish slang phrase that means wasting time or messing around.
Doonser – Someone who is a downer or killjoy.
Céilidh (pronounced "kay-lee") - a traditional Scottish social gathering that involves music, dancing, storytelling, and singing.
Strip the Willow - Strip the Willow is a popular energetic ceilidh dance.

Idol Mini-Season 2024
Prompt 13: Omakase
Due Date: October 28, 2024 at 4:00 pm

Omakase: "I leave it up to you."

AN ACADEMIC LIFE

The bottom fell out of John Wilson’s stomach and he almost tripped over it on his way to Prof. Schmidt’s office, who had summoned him for some unknown reason.
“What have I done now?” he muttered. John was not the professor’s favorite student. Prof. Schmidt had a very low opinion of his graduate student’s intelligence, and usually called him Depp[1] in his heavily accented German. He had never bothered to learn John’s name, assuming that he would not be around long enough to bother.
John knocked politely on the half-open door to the sanctum and went in. He was always intimidated by the huge desk and shelves crammed with books and journals on theoretical physics, with the professor’s own books prominently placed. Prof. Schmidt had once been a Nobel Prize candidate for his work on black holes. The loss had continued to eat at him and had made him even more unpleasant.
“Too bad they don’t give out Nobel Prizes for being a jerk,” John thought.
“You will sit in that chair,” the professor commanded, pointing to an old wooden chair near the door, not one of the nice leather ones opposite The Desk. John quickly obeyed.
“You are familiar with the quantum accelerator in the basement of Curie Hall, yes?”
The quantum accelerator had once been state of the art and Prof. Schmidt had used it as a young man for his groundbreaking work. Even though few people now utilized it, the professor had always liked it and had fought off several attempts by the university to scrap it after a modern one had been built.
“Yes,” said John. Prof. Schmidt liked short, direct answers, especially from John.
“Don’t waste my time, Depp,” he had often said, especially after John had said more than ten words.
“I have been running a critical experiment on it, one which will finally prove that cold fusion can be achieved.”
Cold fusion had long been Prof. Schmidt’s obsession and he was determined to create a workable cold fusion reactor, despite the First Law of Thermodynamics and Newton’s Third Law of Motion, as well as many other bedrock precepts of physics. Cold fusion had long been consigned to the junk science bin, along with faster than light travel. It ranked slightly above UFOs in credibility.
“I have to leave today for a conference on cold fusion in Las Vegas,” said the professor. “I need you to monitor my experiment. You don’t need to do anything but watch the data streams and call me if there is anything interesting. You can handle this, yes?”
“Absolutely,” said John, although he had no idea what data the professor might consider interesting, since he had never involved John in his cold fusion experiments.
“Don’t let me down, Depp,” commanded the professor, “and whatever you do, don’t touch anything! I’ll be back in four days.”
Prof. Schmidt was famous for his Las Vegas conferences. No one had ever been able to find a scientific conference of any kind in Sin City. Everyone assumed he was going to Vegas for the same reasons as everyone else.
The professor gave John the keys to the reactor lab and hurried him out the door.
John walked to Curie Hall with his shoulders back, a sparkle in his eyes, and confidence in his step.
“At last,” John thought, “he’s given me something important to do!”
Prof. Schmidt would have disagreed with this. He thought of him as Depp the babysitter, nothing more.
The quantum accelerator resembled a huge doughnut, and it took up the large basement of Curie Hall. It was painted bright red with frequent yellow radioactive material signs on it. There were pipes, valves, and gauges galore, with thick bundles of wires leading to a bank of old computers on a long desk pushed up against a wall, with numerous monitors displaying green characters against a black background.
Prof. Schmidt’s papers and notes were neatly stored in a nearby bookcase and his personal, modern laptop was on the desk. Prof. Schmidt had taped a note to one of the monitors: “Depp Do Not Touch Anything!!!”
Everything was quiet, except for the occasional hiss from one of the larger pipes.
“It’s the 1970s,” thought John as he plopped into an old desk chair, which squeaked whenever he shifted his weight.
At first, he watched columns of numbers streaming down the screens. One screen was devoted to the results of the accelerator and another screen contained the heading “Cold Fusion Status.” The various outputs all read zero.
“No cold fusion,” John thought.
He settled in for a few days of boredom. There was a small kitchen with a refrigerator and a microwave oven, and another tiny room had a cot.
“Everything a grad student needs,” John sighed. It sadly reminded him of his studio apartment, only better.
The numbers rushing by on the several computer screens meant nothing to John. He looked at the cold fusion status screen from time to time. After about an hour, he opened his backpack and took out his laptop.
“This is the perfect time to make some real progress on my thesis,” John thought. He was researching the intersection of Newtonian physics with quantum physics, but he hadn’t made any real progress for months. He had started to feel his Ph.D. slipping away.
John could be diligent and focused when he wanted to, but this was not one of those times.
“I’m going to be here for days,” he thought. “I need a break.”
Fortunately, the break room refrigerator was stocked with beer. German beer. Heavy, dark, and bitter. But beer was beer, so John opened a bottle and went back to his laptop. The accelerator seemed to be doing what accelerators do, and John thought this would be a good time to play a few games.
He quickly settled into a routine. Check the accelerator data screens, drink some beer, play some games, take a nap, repeat and repeat and repeat.
Meanwhile, in Las Vegas, Prof. Schmidt was not having a very good conference. Luck was decidedly against him and his bankroll was looking a little thin. So, he did what all gamblers do in such situations – he kept playing because surely his luck would change.
The history of science is full of “Eureka!” moments, where all the hard work finally comes together and a scientist can now prove his hypothesis, advancing our understanding of the universe. This was almost one of those times.
Three days into John’s babysitting, the computer monitors showed something extraordinary. The streaming numbers changed from random to a few patterns, which gradually merged into one big pattern of data. At that point, the status screen started blinking, “Cold Fusion Achieved.”
Moments like this are rare in science. John didn’t know what to do. There are some people who know exactly what to do. These are the ones who should be in control. John was not one of those people. Prof. Schmidt should never have left him in charge. It was the kind of mistake that can ruin lives and destroy reputations.
John had clear proof that cold fusion was possible and the old accelerator was now a cold fusion reactor, producing more energy than it consumed. This was the answer to global warming, air pollution, and a host of energy-related problems.
John just sat there, frozen, gazing at the computer screens. The simple answer was to call Prof. Schmidt with the news. There was a telephone on the desk, but something held him back.
It was hatred. Hatred of Prof. Schmidt. Hatred of cold fusion. Pure, soul-crushing hatred.
John knew what he had to do. Prof. Schmidt must never know of his success. There must not be a Nobel Prize. Cold fusion had to die as it was born, in an old, dilapidated accelerator. One that was prone to mechanical problems and strange breakdowns. Prof. Schmidt must not merit even a footnote in the annals of physics, other than as a cautionary tale and the source of many jokes.
“He deserves it,” thought John.
There was a large pipe running into the accelerator, with a big valve, and two imposing signs reading “Coolant” and “Do Not Turn Off.” John cranked the valve shut.
Almost immediately, deep within the accelerator, strange grinding sounds started. The accelerator started to shake and it became hot. Then hotter still. At this point, John grabbed his laptop, as many of the professor’s notebooks as he could cram into his backpack, and the professor’s laptop.
Then he did what even a Depp would do, and he ran for his life.
Alarms sounded and red emergency lights blinked as John bolted out of the basement. He kept on bolting as firetrucks and a hazmat team arrived. The hazmat team took some radiation readings, then they too ran away, followed quickly by the fire department.
The accelerator did not care about all the pandemonium. It continued to do what naturally happens when its coolant is cut off. It melted down. And then it stopped. There were no more scary noises or geysers of steam. Just quiet.
The next day, the hazmat team returned. They were surprised when they found no excess radiation. Because this was cold fusion, no lasting radiation had been emitted. The accelerator itself had broken apart and was partially melted, but there was no danger any more. Curie Hall was otherwise undamaged.
John kept on running. He knew he had ruined his academic career and lawsuits would follow. He packed his car and headed to California, famous for dreams and second chances. Needing a new identity, John adopted Prof. Schmidt’s hated nickname for his last name, and he finally settled in Hollywood, where he worked as a tutor until something better came along, which surprisingly did.
Prof. Schmidt finally returned from his conference, unshaven, bleary-eyed, and broke. As soon as he set foot on the campus, he was escorted to the Provost’s Office, where he was terminated. He then did what anyone in his position would do. He returned to Germany and became lost to history.
Cold fusion research was set back years, but its true believers kept working at it. A variant of cold fusion finally produced more energy than it consumed and pilot programs are underway. A condition of the grants was that neither John nor Prof. Schmidt be allowed anywhere near the program.
____________________________________

[1] The German word Depp is offensive and translates to "fool," "idiot," "twit," "dope," "jerk," or "jackass."

Idol Mini-Season 2024

Prompt 12: “From the wreckage”
Due Date: Thursday, October 17, 2024
Political Satire

THE TRUTH ABOUT FEMA BABIES

“A North Carolina man was arrested on Saturday and accused of threatening federal emergency responders who have been administering aid since Hurricane Helene ravaged parts of the state last month”
New York Times, October 14, 2024

“Federal disaster personnel have resumed door-to-door visits as part of their hurricane-recovery work in North Carolina, an effort temporarily suspended amid threats that prompted officials to condemn the spread of disinformation.”
Associated Press, Oct. 15, 2024

THE NORTH CAROLINA CITIZENS MILITIA

If you are reading this, then you are a true American patriot, and God bless you!

This official communique is issued by the North Carolina Citizens Militia, Unit 42, Capt. Billy Joe Keever commanding.

Militia Member.jpg
Capt. Keever

After Hurricane Helene struck our Great State of North Carolina, we were OCCUPIED by the so-called Federal Emergency Management Agency. This is a powerful, secret government agency which has taken over our lives after Hurricane Helene, which it actually CREATED!!!!

FEMA pretends that they are here to help us. THIS IS A LIE! FEMA is here to destroy our God-fearing communities and round up our Patriots to keep us from restoring President Trump to the office that is rightfully his. It is a LIE that he lost to Sleepy Joe Biden and all true Americans know this!!!!

FEMA is a shadowy organization and only recently have real Americans been told the truth. God’s Warrior Marjorie Taylor Greene has exposed the use of space lasers to start wildfires in libtard California. The libtards should BURN!

Congresswoman Greene also told us that they are controlling the weather. We know this is true because we saw our President re-direct a hurricane using a Sharpie pen on a weather map to show Hurricane Dorian hitting Alabama. The fact that it didn’t only shows the mercy of our President!

FEMA is continuing Satan’s work in North Carolina. Here is a list of some of what FEMA is doing to YOU:

*Hurricane Helene was engineered by the government to seize lithium deposits in Chimney Rock
* FEMA has abandoned search and rescue efforts in order to bulldoze over Chimney Rock.
*FEMA is stopping trucks with donations and confiscating supplies
*FEMA has diverted disaster money to the border to give it to the lawless hordes invading our homeland to replace you
*FEMA will seize your property if you accept “aid” and then they will bulldoze your home
*FEMA is only providing $750 to disaster survivors. That’s it!

Thanks to the work of our proud Militia, we now know another horrible truth. FEMA IS STEALING OUR BABIES!

We have been told that the absence of newborn babies has been caused by agents of the secret FEMA Group 51. They have been going to hospitals in areas hit by the hurricane in order to steal any babies born during the hurricane. Some of these babies have the POWER to control the weather!!!!! FEMA takes these babies in order to test them for their abilities and they KEEP the ones who pass their test to use against us in the future.

If a baby fails the test, FEMA returns the baby to hide its real goal – control over all the United States. We have proof, but we can’t disclose it in order to protect our sources.

Unit 42 has also stationed armed warriors in all the maternity wards in the areas hit by Hurricane Helene to prevent this atrocity and to let FEMA know that they will not succeed! We know their PLANS and have STOPPED them cold! No babies have been stolen since our patriotic mission began.

We also plan to station armed guards at all voting stations to make sure that our election is Safe and Secure, and that only real citizens with proper identification papers can vote.

I know you are a TRUE AMERICAN and want to support our work. As God-fearing Christians, our warriors face persecution and arrest. They need money to feed their families and to pay their legal bills. They are sacrificing for YOU, so you need to sacrifice for THEM!!!!

Please go to our donation site and pledge your generous support!

https://secure.actblue.com/donate/ads-gs-dd-kdhsearch-july2024?refcode=om2024_ads_gs_240721_hvfexmdonate_dd_us_all_donate&gad_source=1&gclid=Cj0KCQjwyL24BhCtARIsALo0fSD7pTEOKRPsvfijOtRhVR7ta59Je3STJ1lvZUgG7xhP2PmqmZJDpvAaArE6EALw_wcB

Donations of $1,000 OR MORE will receive a plastic vial of President Trump’s sweat shed for you while he was playing golf, along with a certificate of authenticity signed by Captain Keever himself!

KEEP OUR AMERICA SAFE! SUPPORT UNIT 42 AND GOD BLESS YOU!!!!!

______________________

Press Ctrl and click on a link.

Marjorie Taylor Greene’s space laser post:
https://x.com/JustinGrayWSB/status/1354870334655262724?s=20&t=R-kD8tYIXI2FDxqSF5oDOA

Marjorie Taylor Greene’s post that they control the weather:
https://x.com/mtgreenee/status/1842039774359462324?lang=en

“Trump Displays Altered Map Of Hurricane Dorian's Path To Include Alabama”
NPR, Sept. 4, 2019
https://www.npr.org/2019/09/04/757586936/trump-displays-altered-map-of-hurricane-dorians-path-to-include-alabama

The various FEMA conspiracies have been reported and have needed rebutting.
https://edwards.house.gov/media/press-releases/debunking-helene-response-myths

The baby conspiracy is fictional. With any luck, someone will pick it up and post it as real.

Idol Mini-Season 2024
Prompt 11: Haver
October 3, 2024

Haver:
Scottish slang: foolish talk
Hebrew: friend; comrade; companion.

HARRY AND ANNABELLE

It was a cold, grim day, with a biting wind out of the East. Fog shrouded the little cemetery where Harris Stewart cast a handful of dirt onto the casket of his friend, Bryce Robertson. He was the last mourner to leave and he carried Bryce’s beloved cat, Annabelle.

Harry thought it was important that Annabelle should be there, and now she stretched over his shoulder, purring.

“She doesn’t understand,” thought Harry. “It’s better that way.”

Bryce had passed away at 72 after a long struggle with cancer.

In the end it was still Bryce and Harry, as it had been in the beginning. They had been best friends ever since they had met as five-year-olds on the school playground, brought together by their shared freckles and red hair.

Over time, their hair had grown gray and thin and their freckles had faded, but not their friendship. They had drifted apart after high school, but had reconnected in their thirties after each had gone through a divorce. Their friendship, rooted so deeply in the past, had been a great consolation. Neither Harry nor Bryce had remarried and neither had had children, disappointments to both of them which each had tried to fill with a series of cats over the years.

During Bryce’s final illness, Harry had promised to take care of Annabelle, which comforted his old friend. Annabelle was a basic brown short-haired tabby cat, no interesting features, and a loud purr. She had loved to sit on Bryce’s lap for pets and purrs.

Bryce had been a highly successful accountant, while Harry had been a sufficiently successful attorney. They had had similar senses of humor, which many had called dark. Dark or not, they had made each other laugh.

Now there was little laughter in Harry’s life, but at least he would have Annabelle. Annabelle no longer had Bryce and she wasn’t too sure about Harry. He wore glasses and he had a different smell. Harry brought Annabelle home for the first time after Bryce’s funeral.

“I guess you live with me now,” said Harry, as poured himself a Scotch in memory of his friend.

“Don’t bet on it,” said Annabelle.

Harry dropped the bottle, which shattered on the floor.

“Don’t think I’m gonna help,” said Annabelle. “I’m a cat, not a maid. You’re lucky that I clean myself.”

Harry sat down on a nearby sofa. His mouth opened and closed several times, without a word coming out.

Annabelle sat down in front of him, a furry blob with a tail and two pointy ears.

“Get yourself together – you look like a guppy,” said Annabelle. “Where’s the litter box, or you’re gonna have another mess.”

Finally, Harry spoke.

“You can talk?”

“Brilliant,” Annabelle said. “But I’m serious about the litter box.”

“In the laundry room,” said Harry. “Bryce never said you could talk.”

Annabelle’s voice sounded a little like a modulated meow, but it was easy to understand her. Annabelle came back from the laundry room.

“Bryce didn’t tell you a lot,” she said. “I used to belong to a circus. I was Annie the Talking Cat. Kids loved me.”

“But how did Bryce . . .” Harry started, before Annabelle cut him off.

“He used to do their books, even after he retired. They couldn’t pay, so he took me. He knew quality when he saw it.”

“But how can you talk?” asked Harry.

“Beats me. Better than meowing, I guess. Maybe Igor the Magician cast a spell. Who knows? What’s to eat? I’m hungry and you don’t want me to start howling.”

“I bought some kibble for older cats,” Harry answered.

“First, I’m not older – I’m twelve and I’m just getting started. You’re the old one. Second – kibble? You’re kidding. Bryce used to feed me grilled chicken, fresh fish, or lasagna. Kibble gives me gas.”

“What about milk?”

“Lactose intolerant. More gas.”

“Looks like I’m going to have to find a better home,” added Annabelle. “What would Bryce think? I mean, you made a deathbed promise and everything.”

“I’ve got some salmon with a lemon dill sauce,” said Harry, who liked to cook.

“Lemon dill?” said Annabelle. “Way to ruin a fish. I like ‘em fresh and wriggling.”

While Harry washed the sauce off the salmon, Annabelle wandered around her new home.

“Is your stuff shabby chic or just shabby?” called Annabelle from the living room.

“Neither,” replied Harry. “It’s vintage – like me. And rescue cats can’t be choosy.”

“I’m rescuing you,” retorted Annabelle as she clawed the rug. “You live by yourself with no one to talk to."

“Claw anything again,” said Harry, “and you’ll regret it. I’ve got a squirt gun and I know how to use it.”

“Hah! You’re old and slow. You’ll never hit me.”

“Do you ever shut up?” asked Harry.

“When I’m sleeping. Bryce was fun to talk to – I don’t know about you. You’re no fun.”

This brought Harry back to his old friend and he grew quiet. He re-heated the rest of the salmon, made a salad, and sat down to eat. Annabelle’s food dish was in the kitchen, and it felt good to have some company, even if it was a mouthy cat.

After dinner, Harry went into the living room and sat down to watch some TV – an old Columbo rerun. Harry and Bryce would sometimes watch old cop shows together and have a few beers.

Annabelle wandered in and sat on Harry’s lap and began purring when he started to pet her. It felt good.

“This is garbage,” Annabelle said after a few minutes.

“You know something better?” asked Harry, who wondered how a cat could have so many opinions.

“CatTV. It’s on YouTube.”

CatTV had hours of videos designed to entertain cats. They were set in gardens or the wilderness and had nuts and seeds to attract birds, squirrels, and other small animals. There was no narration or music, just sounds from the outdoors.

The videos made Harry drowsy, but Annabelle was excited. She couldn’t take her eyes off the little animal dramas. Sometimes she would kick her hind legs like a rabbit, or run up to the TV screen and stare at it.

Finally, it was time for bed. It had been an emotional and exhausting day.

“I sleep on your bed,” said Annabelle.

“Any more demands?” asked Harry.

Annabelle curled up next to Harry and they both fell asleep. Sometimes Annabelle would reach out her paw and gently poke Harry to see if he was awake. She felt like talking.

And so it went. Over time they got to know each other and became happy together.

Finally, a year went by.

“It’s been a year since you moved in,” said Harry.

“You’re not gonna get all weepy on me, are you?”

“No, but I was thinking. Bryce and I always meant to take a long road trip and explore Route 66. Why don’t we do it?”

Annabelle thought about it. “Sure,” she said finally.

Harry watched some videos on how to travel with a cat. Most said, “don’t do it!”

“We’ll just work it out as we go along,” said Harry.

A week later, Harry packed his SUV with everything they’d need, including a litter box and a cooler with fresh fish and chicken. They could get lasagna along the way.

Their days were spent driving along old Route 66, which stretches from Los Angeles to Chicago, mostly in the southwest United States. Harry and Annabelle drove as long as they felt like it each day, with lots of detours for the oddities which dotted the highway, like the nostalgic gas stations and motels, the 30-foot-tall Gemini Giant, and the location of the self-proclaimed "world's first corn dog!" at the Cozy Dog Drive In, in Springfield, Illinois.

Annabelle talked incessantly and Harry sometimes listened. Annabelle didn’t need much input to keep going.

They were last seen near the Cadillac Ranch, in Amarillo, Texas. Annabelle was sitting on the dashboard trying to scare other drivers, with minimal success. Harry was just having fun, which is as good as it gets when you’re 73 and travelling with a talking cat.

_________________________

For fun, I asked ChatGPT to write a short, humorous story of 1,500 words or less with "haver" as its theme. This is the result.

**The Haver Problem**

In the quiet village of Dumdrum, nestled between hills that seemed to have been sleeping for centuries, lived a man named Fergus McFlannel. Fergus was famous for one thing above all else: he was the greatest haver in all of Scotland. Now, if you're unfamiliar with the term, "haver" is a delightful Scottish word that means to talk nonsense. And Fergus? Well, he’d perfected the art.

Each morning, Fergus would rise with the sun, head to the village square, and begin his daily haver to anyone who would listen—or at least, couldn’t escape in time. His topics ranged from the profound to the absurd. One day he might discuss the aerodynamics of a cow in a high wind; the next, he’d be deeply concerned about whether pigeons had feelings for the local post office.

The villagers had grown used to his incessant ramblings, so much so that when they wanted to avoid a task, they’d just send Fergus to haver at it. It was common knowledge that Fergus could talk a cloud out of raining or a bull out of charging. Once, during a particularly heated village meeting about who owned the rights to the duck pond, Fergus was asked for his opinion. Two hours later, no one could remember what they had been arguing about, and the entire village agreed to share the pond, mostly because they wanted Fergus to stop talking.

One autumn morning, however, something unusual happened. Fergus wandered into the square, prepared to begin his daily haver, when he noticed something was off. The usual crowd wasn’t there. In fact, the square was completely deserted. Not even Old Agnes, the village’s self-proclaimed professional eavesdropper, was around.

Curious—and with no one to haver to—Fergus wandered over to the local pub, *The Mucky Sporran*. As he pushed open the creaky door, he found the entire village crammed inside, huddled together in hushed conversation. The moment he entered, everyone fell silent. The villagers exchanged nervous glances.

Fergus approached the bar. “What’s all this then? Haverin’ without me, are ye?”

Angus, the barkeep, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Ach, Fergus, it’s not that. It’s just... well... we’ve a bit of a situation.”

Fergus’s eyes lit up. A situation was the perfect opportunity for a grand haver. “Well, let’s hear it, then! Maybe I can talk some sense—or at least nonsense—into it.”

Angus sighed. “Ye see, Fergus, a new fellow’s arrived in town. Name’s Hamish McBluster. And... well... he’s worse than you.”

Fergus blinked. “Worse? In what way?”

Old Agnes piped up from the corner, her voice filled with the dramatic weight of someone who had seen unspeakable horrors. “He havers... non-stop. All day. All night. And his havering... it’s... it’s *contagious*.”

The room shuddered as if a cold wind had swept through. Fergus, however, was intrigued. Another haver? In Dumdrum? And contagious, no less? It was unheard of.

“I’ll go see this McBluster for myself,” Fergus declared, puffing up his chest. “I’m the haver in these parts, and no one out-havers me!”

The villagers looked at him as if he were marching into battle against an undefeatable foe, which, in some ways, he was. But Fergus was resolute. He strolled out of the pub and toward the small cottage where Hamish McBluster had set up camp.

As Fergus approached the door, he could already hear the unmistakable sound of havering. It was relentless—an endless stream of words spilling from the cottage, winding their way into the air like a plague of locusts. Fergus knocked confidently.

The door flew open, and there stood Hamish McBluster. He was a short, round man with wild hair and eyes that seemed permanently wide with excitement. “Ah, ye must be Fergus!” he exclaimed, not pausing for a breath. “I’ve heard about ye! They say ye can haver with the best of ‘em! But ye see, I was just havering to meself here about the economic impact of squirrel migrations on the price of turnips in Mongolia, and it got me thinkin’ about the best way to butter a crumpet so it doesn’t soak through to yer knees—have ye ever considered the aerodynamic potential of a haggis tossed from a trebuchet?”

Fergus’s eyes widened. This man wasn’t just a haver. He was a force of nature. The words poured from Hamish like water from a broken dam, unstoppable and overwhelming. Fergus, for the first time in his life, found himself at a loss for words.

But Fergus McFlannel was not one to be outdone. He took a deep breath and began to haver back with all his might. He launched into a detailed analysis of whether the Loch Ness Monster might be a vegetarian, seamlessly transitioning into a theory about how tartan patterns could be used to communicate with extraterrestrials. The two men stood there, in the middle of the cottage, havering at each other with such ferocity that the very walls seemed to vibrate.

Hours passed. The sun dipped below the hills, and the moon rose, casting a pale glow over the village. Still, the two men havering continued, neither willing to back down. The words flowed like a river of nonsense, twisting and turning, filled with tangents, theories, and outright gibberish.

By the time the first light of dawn crept into the sky, something miraculous happened. The two havers had reached a perfect equilibrium. Their nonsense had synchronized, like two bagpipes playing in harmony. It was beautiful, in a bewildering sort of way.

Exhausted, both men finally fell silent. Fergus looked at Hamish, and Hamish looked at Fergus. And in that moment, they understood each other completely.

“Well,” Fergus said after a long pause, “I reckon there’s room in Dumdrum for two havers after all.”

Hamish grinned. “Aye, but only if we take turns. Otherwise, the village’ll never survive.”

And so, from that day forward, Fergus and Hamish became the greatest havering duo the world had ever seen. They divided their time evenly, each taking shifts to ramble on about the absurdities of life, much to the villagers' relief and occasional horror.

The village of Dumdrum would never be the same again—but at least, they never had a dull moment.

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The Wizard and the Knight

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