Magic Words

The evil Dr. Sharp fell to the floor, unconscious and defeated. Even with their foe defeated, the work of The Hero Consortium was not yet complete.

“Get the shut-off words already!” The Wet Blanket shouted, using the power of gravity to bring a group of flying drones created by Dr. Sharp down.

Squeak was busy assembling a cadre of sentient balloon animals to help fend off the few remaining minions of the evil doctor, “I’m running low on supplies and it looks like Bookworm and Ocelot are running out of steam against the robot.  Packet, what’s your timeline?”

Packet made her final keystrokes and cracked Dr. Sharp’s encryption.  “I got it! I got it!” Packet shouted back. Continue reading

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Caution or Results

“We should be cautious.  Rushed decisions lead to disaster,” Myla cautioned.

“This isn’t like that weekend in Miami.  We’ll be fine,” Ryon said.

“Caution sent Dex home last time.  We need to make a choice and we need to make it now,” Chi said, bluntly.  He was tired of waiting.  Myla’s caution and Ryon’s inability to take a side had always back their progress.  Chi just wanted it over.  The day had been long and tiresome and the night ahead held no changes.

“Fine. Pepperoni and black olive.  Just place the order,” Myla hoped her choice was not too rushed.

Five Friends on a Bus

Five friends sat or stood on a bus.  The final leg of their journey home was nearly complete.  Their night had been long and full of stories they would one day tell their children to prove a former control of the concept of cool.  The stories would undoubtedly be shared to embarrass said children as well, but that goes without saying.

The bus was smelly.  Another passenger rode with a dog and another was going to ride until the driver said, “end of the line!”  The five young people had spent hours talking and shouting and sharing, so the bus was damaging every sense except hearing.  Silence filled the carriage and the group was left to their own thoughts.

One thought of pancakes.  One thought of their upcoming shift at a diner (a shift a mere four hours away due to poor planning).  One thought of a puppy seen on an SPCA website and had a deep desire to adopt the pup.  One figured out a potentially unbeatable strategy for their League of Legends character.  The last thought of Pluto’s demotion.  The other four had a hard time relating to the last member of the group, but the kid could talk about Pluto.

Not one thought of the experience they just shared.  Not one thought of another.  They had already moved on from the moment, knowing full well they would only summon the story of the night when they needed to upstage a competing tale at a party.  Not one knew they just had one of those ‘top five’ nights that would come to define them.

Five friends rode a bus home. Five friends lost within themselves nearly missed their final stop.

 

 

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Fragile Exits

“We’re almost home free!” The gruff and grizzled expedition leader shouted.  The team had evaded monsters torn from nightmares, creatures bent on their destruction, and traps that could only have created by a most deranged mind.

The loot was worthwhile.  Each of the adventurers carried sacks of gold and ancient artifacts that would make them wealthy beyond imagination, and in some way help the general knowledge of human history which was a very nice secondary perk of the trip.

“They ate Jenkins!” The group’s local historian said, finally able to still herself long enough to realize the horrors the temple had unleashed.

“But they didn’t eat you,” the leader said, trying to keep the historian focused.  “Just a few steps more. I can see the doorway out up ahead.”

“There it is!” The group’s hired gun was overjoyed at the site of one final sandstone slab between him and freedom.

The last three stood in front of the doorway and tried to figure out how to open it.

“If I’m reading this right, the doorway says we have to create something so fragile saying its name will break it.” The historian said.

“Oh! Oh! I’ve heard this one! We have to be silent.  Have to quiet as little mice.  Saying ‘silence’ breaks the silence.  We can’t talk.  Everyone shush.” The hired gun said.

The historian and the leader fell quiet and waited.

“It should just take a moment,” the hired gun said a beat later.  “Just have to be really quiet.  Can’t even hear a pin drop.”

The historian cleared her throat, trying to send a message.

“That’s too loud. Be quiet everybody,” the hired gun said.

From down the hallway, the sound of claw on stone echoed.

“We have to be quieter. How can we be quieter?” The hired gun nervously asked.

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” the leader said.  She placed her hand over the mercenary’s mouth and made him silent.

The door slid downward and the three adventurers escaped the temple.

 

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Deck and Amy and the Long Weekend

“You know how I have a pretty tough time saying no when people request things from me?” Amy said.

Deck stopped sipping his coffee, put his paperback on the table beside his chair and looked at Amy wondering exactly what she had done.

“Good, you remember,” Amy said.  She moved to the couch to sit next to Deck.

“Well,” she continued, “we’re going to be house sitting for Mark and Cayla from work this weekend.  They’re going to Baton Rouge and think their dogs will have a tough time at a doggy daycare for three days.”

“That sounds awful,” Deck said.

“It does.  We need to think up ways to make it suck less,” Amy said.

“We could not do it,” Deck suggested.

“Too late for that,” Amy countered, “next?”

“We could pay someone else to take care of it,” Deck was already pulling out his credit card.

“What if we put it on AirBnB? We make bank and someone else is there!” Amy said, giddily clapping.

“We turn it into a haunted house outside of Halloween season. Hipsters will love it,” Deck rambled.

“We paint that snake symbol from Harry Potter on the ceiling and don’t say a word unless prompted,” Amy said.

“We take up the carpet, draw every symbol from Supernatural underneath it and put it back,” Deck said.

“Behind every framed photo or piece of art, we write a seven letter Scrabble word,” Amy rattled off.

Both lost themselves to laughter plotting and pondering how to make a house sitting weekend be less awful. The suggestions flew for another five minutes growing more and more outrageous with every word.  Finally, Amy had had enough.

“We’re going to sit in their house and order pizzas all weekend, right?” Amy asked.

“Oh, that’s a given. Could you imagine actually not doing this to the best of our ability?” Deck said, panic in his voice.

“We’d have to move,” Amy said.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading!

Dear Future Past Me

Dear Future Past Me,

In a first, I think I have found one of these letters before you! Before I ducked out of a party to write this very note, I looked over at a wall and saw a framed piece of parchment from a trip to 19th century Japan that we’re apparently going to take.  Exciting stuff ahead!  Anywho, the note was a bit weird to figure out, but I thought perhaps giving us an extra bit of warning would be prudent.

The note was written in 1883.  We found ourselves in the fabled American West for a spell before taking part in a trade expedition across the sea.  Now, you’re going to read the note eventually and learn all about the lack of bean-based foods and covered wagons, but I need us to know as soon as possible that apparently there are so, so many packs of wolves wandering about.

The note details a particularly violent encounter that seems sort of “Beast saves Beauty in the snow-covered woods” ish.  In this case, we are Beast and “Beauty” is a crate of beef jerky that winds up being our only food for a trip to California.  The wolves are still wolves though.

I have the memories you have, but you do not have (yet) the memories I have.  In all the memories I have accumulated, I do not recall any training to fend off wild animals during a cross-country wagon trip!  Start training, dude/me! The letter sounds like we get away with the jerky box only because a trapper shows up and starts throwing radishes at the hellhounds.

It is one wild letter.  Please though, start training.

I am heading back to my party now. It is 1923 and we’re in a Speakeasy!  The floors are gooey and everything smells bad.  That part was left out of the movies too.

Happy travels, Us.

 

 

Thanks for ready!

Jenkins Leaves a Note

“Jenkins!” Old Man Thompson shouted from behind his closed office door.

Jenkins sighed, another task was to be barked at him.  It was not that Jenkins took issue with the work or extra assignments, but the limited people skills of his boss were taking a toll.  Jenkins dutifully went into the plainly configured office, took a new task and returned to his desk.

“How do you deal with that?” Beth from accounting asked.  She was waiting for Jenkins with coffee in hand.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Jenkins said, “and I’ve found some ways to make the work bearable.”

“Like what?” Beth prompted.

“Well, for one, every report I type up if you read the first letter of every line it spells ‘Give Jenkins a Ten Thousand Dollar Raise.’  It takes some time, but I do think it is having an effect.” Jenkins explained.  He smiled ever so slightly, quite pleased with this tactic.

“That sounds like an incredible amount of effort to put into something so subliminal,” Beth was less impressed.

“I’m here on weekends and gave up weeknight bowling, but I’m pretty good with it,” Jenkins took a sip of his coffee.

 

 

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