Breaking the rules this week (but if I can't, who can?) I'm nominating a non-writer for the top spot, courtesy of Antonia's ever-excellent Stop The Week; I Want To Get Off (123) in recognition of Shaun's car-buying contribution. I do, of course, thank you all for another week of entertainment, in both writing and the ever-important comments, without which this site would soon cease to sparkle.
this week’s words are: custard emboss language
Entries
by midnight Thursday 19th November, new words posted Friday 20th
LOL and who can argue with an appreciation of such superhuman abilities?
ReplyDeletethank you! That offsets the barrage of abuse and ranting i just experienced as my bipolar daughter rants at me over not doing the whole thing myself...
DeleteMany congratulations, Antonia. Well deserving of the magnificent offerings you give us week after week. Such a consistent talent.
DeleteI, too, send my sincere congrats, Antonia!
DeleteI passed on your comments to Shaun who laughed but seemed very pleased! Thank you- just what he needed.
DeleteNews is, am industrial dehumidifier has been working all week and the sop is drying out. Shaun thinks we should offer the repapering, painting etc to the builder who did the damage, on the basis he owes us... and he can charge his insurance company for the work... while we get busy next week finding out what isn't damaged. I have no doubt we will be fit for trading when the third lockdown starts, if anyone's still foolish enough to believe that will end the pandemic...
Incidentally, I love the car!
should have dropped in thee the other big news, burst pipe, flooded shop, heaven knows how long before we open again... going to take a huge effort to itemise the losses and get the work done. More as it happens...
ReplyDeleteOh no ... I'm so sorry to hear that, what a blow. Sincerely hope you get some help. (and can't imagine 'custard' will help - sorry!)
DeleteCongrats to Shaun. Though I doubt he'll have time to revel. Good luck with the shop, Antonia.
DeleteThe Liaison
ReplyDelete“Your tattoo looks so real, like it’s embossed on your skin.”
Her lover said nothing.
She traced his muscular back, felt the contours of the face, the sharp cheek bones, the thin, custard colored hair. When the face spoke in a strange language, she stopped.
“What the hell?”
“What did you expect,” he said, feeding his brother a cracker. “You knew I was in the freak show.”
“I figured you were the strongman or something.”
“No.”
She scratched her alligator skinned arm.
“Let’s get too it then,” she said. “Can he keep his mouth shut?”
I love the way you've conveyed rather than explained - so clever. And so shudder-making.
DeleteAnother very dark - and entertaining - entry from you, John. You have some imagination!
Deletevery dark, very clever, love these complete stories you write in 100 words.
DeleteI need contact information for these guys. They would feel right at home with the Kursaal operation. As always, an inventive and very different story from your talented plume.
DeleteMillicent
ReplyDeleteMother never drove Millicent to school. Too busy with aerobics and foreign language lessons. So, Millicent walked, always confronted by the same gaggle of girls.
They didn't like Millicent, who attended the fancy-schmancy private academy. Posh uniform. Pleated skirt and fitted blazer. They trampled her beret into the mud and emptied her embossed leather satchel into the gutter.
But Millicent was bright. Clever. Inventive.
One morning, she offered the girls a box wrapped in silver foil and then slipped around the corner as they tore open the package. She waited for the delighted squeals: "Ooooh, custard creams!"
And smiled.
Ooh - custard creams - how clever, (and one of my favourites, sadly banned). This a very visual tale, Patricia.
DeleteGood for Millicent. I don't care what she put in the custard creams. The mean girls deserve it.
DeleteI'm a-thinking it's a good job I hate them so I wouldn't be tempted... great use of the prompts!
DeleteDrunken Sailor (what should we do?)
ReplyDeleteWe filled the hold of the submarine with biscuits pilfered from naval catering supplies and crossed the Atlantic to trade custard creams for jewellery. A sweet treat overrides language barriers. We even had embossed business cards identifying us as good will ambassadors rather than mutineers. In the aftermath of a global conflict no one asked too many questions.
Then able seaman Grainger traded half our stock for a case of whisky and fired inebriated insults at the mayor of Rio Largartos.
The coast guard are dropping depth charges.
I doubt we’ll make it out of the harbour.
Smooth, as I doubt the Atlantic was, and wide in scope. Much enjoyed.
DeleteThanks a lot, Grainger! But a long trip across the Atlantic can drive a man to drink. Well done, David!
DeleteMankind has done month over the centuries for whiskey, no doubt with similar outcomes as the goodwill ambassadors had. Entertaining read, David.
Deletegood story, can watch it being played out in my mind, very entertaining.
DeleteThis was so very entertaining. I loved your creative use of the prompt words and it all flowed together like custard over jelly....that's British jelly, by the way. The stuff Americans call Jello. This could so easily become a series.
DeleteOnce upon a time [Threshold 325]
ReplyDeleteAn aunt, whose passion was food, owned an ancient book of recipes for desserts (why I recalled it now, no doubt.) Pages stained and greasy, cover embossed with barnacled pastry ridges, its language theatrical. Names suggested a cast of players: 'Gooseberry fool, 'Charlotte Russe, 'Belle Helene' and 'Vanilla Custard'. I told myself stories about them.
As an adult, lacking food and drink, I regretted remembering. Even more so when we reached the sticky gleaming of the scarlet innards, the scatter of matted and bird-trod skin; the mobile flecks of flies and curling punctuation of feathers.
I vomited bright bile green.
Such a well-crafted entry, Sandra. Great last paragraph!
DeleteWhat a dreadful sticky gleaming they have reached. Great transition into their next adventure.
Deletealmost a yuk overload but held back at the last, leaving some nasty images behind it...
DeleteAnd yet another of your talents, Sandra. The ability to conjure a most unappetizing meal but with enviable skill. Those names are amazing. You simply must write a series of tales involving these enigmatic characters.
DeleteThe Last Word
ReplyDelete"Wotcha got?" asked Johnny.
"Blowpipe. Poison darts." Mikey brandished the embossed weapon.
"What's them symbols?"
"Magic language," said Mikey. "What YOU got?"
Johnny waved a pistol. "Wyatt Earp gunned down the Clantons with this."
"Cowardly custard," taunted Mikey. "Doc Holliday did Earp's killing,"
He whooped away.
"Plug you fulla lead for that!" warned Johnny, giving chase.
They reunited for the showdown.
Mikey's dart was true. He gloated over his fallen friend.
"That gun never belonged to Earp."
The bullet exited the back of Mikey's skull.
Johnny took longer to die. He made the most of his final moments.
"Did too!"
Brilliant boyish boasting, taken a bit too far.
DeleteReliving history proved to be a grave mistake. A very novel and entertaining entry, Patricia.
DeleteNow that... is making the most out of one's final moments. Well done, Patricia.
Deleteoh yes, that's truly classic and so typical of show offs!
DeleteChange of focus [400]
ReplyDeleteA bog-standard, custard-yellow reporter's notebook. Nothing fancy; not embossed with peacock quills or made from panda-chewed bamboo. Just as well because, trying to open it with one hand while holding Philly back, her language less than lady-like, was proving difficult; the effort required to stop himself slapping her distracted, resulting in it slipping to the floor. She lurched forward, planted her left foot on it, but Pettinger's right, already in motion, landed immediately after, with some force, and since she'd not yet put her boots on, and he had, her screech of pain was such he let her go.
'Bastard!'
More tantalizing shenanigans from Pettinger and Philly. What's next?
DeleteThey've resorted to physical blows, but not too bad yet. It may end up being foreplay.
Deletewhy do I think it's turning seriously nasty now?
DeleteI can't see this resulting in anything pleasant. I think I might have said before that Pettinger has probably more than met his match in this one.
DeleteThe Secret Armadillo Soldier (SAS) Diaries - entry 127
ReplyDeleteAmid groans and mutterings of abusive language from the Varks and Pangolins, custard-coloured vomit embossed the grass with sticky, stinking, patterns.
A few of the less hardened ‘Dillos began heaving at the stench. The smarter ones stayed downwind and began pushing the contraption toward the edge of the clearing.
The foul reek didn’t seem to bother Tosca. ‘That potion works well, don’t it,’ he observed merrily picking his way through the mess toward Nigel.
‘Let’s get the daft buggers moving soon as we can,’ Nigel advised Mossy, ‘an’ keep ‘em downwind from the rest of us too. They stink.’
Nigel sounds like he knows what he's doing.
DeleteThis should keep them sober for a while. I'm sure though, that armadillos are like like people. We say we will never drink again, after a bad experience, but we always do.
DeleteI'm sure the dillos will be at again, any time soon, once the drink is out of their systems...
DeleteThis assaults the imagination in so many ways, all of which are top notch in the admiration department. Not going to dwell overly much though....I have something of a weak stomach.
DeleteThe Secret Armadillo Soldier (SAS) Diaries - entry 128
ReplyDeletePink-Fairy took a small, ornately embossed, bottle from his handbag and uncorked it.
An over-sweet scent filled the burrow: Sarg did not need to see the custard-coloured contents to know it contained lethal ragwort-syrup.
She grinned, ‘Yer talking my language, Mr Pink, go on.’
‘Perhaps my establishment with its…’ he winked at her, ‘…unsavoury reputation, might also be a hush-hush place for you to set up a small pocket of résistance.’ He re-corked the bottle but, before he could explain his idea, a disturbance in the tunnel halted conversation, and the large bulk of Atlas filled the doorway.
Ever-fascinating, that Pink Fairy. More, please.
DeleteAnd what shall become of Atlas? Very interesting, Terrie.
DeletePink Fairy's idea should prove effective and interesting for future episodes. Nice one.
DeleteI think they should know better than be taken in by fancy bottles with fancy scents, especially as they belong to Pink...
DeleteI love Pink. He is totally adorable from his name to his characteristics. Of all the 'dillos, I do believe he counts way up there among my favourites.
DeleteNEED HELP?
ReplyDeleteHesmeth Fent walked quickly toward the car through his headlights’ custard glow.
“You okay?” he asked.
The window descended, revealing a man and an obviously alarmed woman.
“Fuck off, pal!”
“That language needs no embossing,” thought Hesmeth. “Need help, Miss?”
The woman fearfully rolled her eyes toward the man as he pulled a gun from his lap.
A bullet entered Hesmeth’s chest, knocking him backward. Still, he staggered forward, reached in the car and pulled the man’s head to him. Hesmeth’s incisors rapidly lengthened and sank deeply into the man’s neck, draining him.
“Feel safe now, Miss?” Hesmeth asked, smiling.
Ooh ... not sure I trust that smile, but enjoyed the twist.
DeleteA vampire (I think) with scruples. Too bad the guy didn't use a silver bullet.
Deleteoh yes, wonderful vampire stuff there!
DeleteUh-oh. Not sure how safe "Miss" should be feeling right now. Hopefully John is correct in that this is a vampire with scruples.
DeleteKursaal (Episode Two Hundred Seventeen) - "Two For Tea"
ReplyDeleteSince the demise of her twin daughters, Lucy and Libby, Mrs. Pepperdyne hadn't been quite right in the head. She constantly muttered to herself in a mysterious language and often nodded in acknowledgment of responses only she could hear.
Every evening at 6:00 o'clock, Mrs. Pepperdyne set the table with her best embossed china for the girls' favourite tea: carefully arranged platter of sausage rolls and Cornish pasties, together with spotted dick and jug of Bird's custard for afters.
She opened a can of Ken-L-Ration for Libby's pup, Lulu, then....sat in her rocker...watched the clock...watched the door...
...and waited.
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To read the earlier installments (a suggestion only) which led to this point in the tale, please visit:
http://www.novareinna.com/kursaal.html
A link to return to "The Prediction" can be found on the site. Thank you.
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NOTE: Mrs. Pepperdyne as well as Lucy and Libby Pepperdyne together with Lulu the Pup have all featured in previous episodes.
This is horror of a different sort ... haunting and heart-breaking.
DeleteThat's some ritual. Something tells me her waiting will pay off someday.
Deletehey, someone used the full Bird's Custard, congrats!!
DeleteIt is a creepy instalment riddled with sadness, something that's mirrored X thousand times over every day somewhere in the loneliness. Well captured.
Not the best way to keep oneself occupied. This a somber tale of tragedy leading to more tragedy.
DeleteDOONEY
ReplyDeleteJoanie had brought Dooney along to the lookout post. Two years her junior, the foundling had been orphaned and alone so long he had lost much of his vocabulary by the time they’d found him. They named him from the brand embossed on the bag he’d carried.
He was Asian in appearance, but whatever his native language had been, he studied hard to speak English, however bad he managed to scramble idioms.
Joanie slipped on a rung of the makeshift ladder.
Dooney giggled. “You can’t gut the custard!”
“What?” She turned to grimace.
“You can’t–”
“Never mind. Ha ha.”
Clever one, Perry. Dooney has a little humor to him, if you interpret him correctly.
Deleteoh, intriguing one, what underlying meaning is there to Dooney's words? Another sharply observed piece, Perry.
DeleteFor me it is the unsettling nature that creates the horror - clever indeed.
DeleteThis was indeed a very clever little tale. You managed to capture the image and essence of "Dooney" in a very limited supply of words. Magnificently done.
DeleteStop The Week; I Want To Get Off (124)
ReplyDeletePlans? The world quivers like setting custard at the mere thought of doing that. The shop has been flooded. The builder checked every pipe but the one in the flat two storeys above us and it split overnight and we are – doing nothing physical but the language… the car is a dream, a small thing to lift the spirits (in every sense) while water works at embossing the laminate flooring…Now there needs to be twice as much advertising and display creating to rebuild when we’re secure again. I doubt we will make Christmas sales, but miracles do happen…
I was just ready to read Perry's offering, and poof, you appeared before my eyes. I've been waiting for this installment. I feel so bad about your misfortune. I so wish you well with this. If I wasn't a continent and an ocean away, I'd come by and offer a hand.
DeleteBrava! And for more than the setting custard. Glad your car gives joy, hope much else does soon, as well.
DeleteCongratulations on the car and commiserations on the flooding. Miracles have certainly been known to happen and I keep all appendages crossed that you will be up and running for potential Christmas sales.
DeleteThe Joys of Mediumship No 31
ReplyDeleteMiracles happen. Spirit said the car I wanted was blue. I saw a custard yellow Mini but no…then this ‘silver’ Toyota came up. Shaun had his partner and puppy in the back of the car when we went to see it. Shaun got out and called to Tracey ‘tell Dee it’s blue.’ It was as if this car had sent out its own embossed invitation, it’s a Toyota Spirit and the dealer’s name on the number plate starts with Stuart, the name of my publisher/co spiritual person… There is no language available for me to thank spirit for their work.
I've been thinking of you as Antonia so long, I forgot your other name, and didn't realize it is sometimes, Dee. I like it. Good luck with your car, aptly named, Spirit.
DeleteSometimes the stars do align favourably, Antonia. Toyotas are great cars and run forever. I think you have yourself a jewel there which will provide safety and satisfaction for many years to come.
DeleteThe Mad Italian (183)
ReplyDeleteThere is someone who is in need of a custard pie in the face, a lesson in language which begins ‘I concede…’ and an embossed invitation to play golf until he is bored, some time next week, methinks. The nonsense being perpetrated on the American people right now is a disgrace but still the supporters come in their hundreds to declare undying support… they need to see life from my side of the divide, it would make a huge difference. Meantime the wait, the problems, should be a lesson to all who aspire to that high office in years ahead.
I laughed out loud at that first line. A pie in the face would be so apt.
DeleteAt the risk of being nefarious, I'd plump for a bullet to the brain instead of a pie to the face...although I must admit the vision is exceedingly pleasing. I think a straitjacket and butterfly net over the head, accompanied by a crew of men in white coats, will be the only things to resolve this incredibly embarrassing fiasco.
DeleteCripplegate Junction/Part 248 - O Brother, Where Art Thou?
ReplyDeleteThe train inched toward the Arches and further back in time travelled the memory of Miss Constance. She remembered when she and brother George had been so close. Less than a year apart, they had invented their own meaningless language when very young, embossed with gobbledygook that meant nothing.
George had always been a blatherskite. One time, when playing "Clue," he had proudly announced it was: "Colonel Custard in the Refrectory with Soap-On-A-Rope." Pure nonsense, of course, yet both of them had collapsed into uncontrollable giggles.
Cherished recollections.
"Do you remember, George? George?"
But George failed to answer.
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To read the earlier installments (a suggestion only) which led to this point in the tale please visit:
http://www.novareinna.com/cripplegate.html
A link to return to "The Prediction" can be found on the site. Thank you.
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Oh, what a great title. And the story ain't too shabby either. The train inching along is a good sign. Though it may be a little wild if the dang thing ever gets going.
DeleteOh dear - is Constance also losing her marbles? Or has George gone walkabout?
Deletelast week I wrote to my sister to ask if she remembered the piece of nonsense our father had invented and which we thought was hilarious, and she did... that kind of nonsense stays in the mind. Is George brooding on it, or just generally losing it?
DeleteVirtual Learning
ReplyDelete“Don’t forget the Alamo, according to Custard,” Alyson said, thumbing her notes.
“Isn’t your History test tomorrow?” her mother said.
“Yes, second hour, right after Language Arts.”
“You need to study more…. Custard?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Custard, Theo I think.”
“Theo Custard?”
“Yes, geez, his name is embossed right there on his uniform jacket.”
Alyson’s mother looked at the picture. “This is Mad Magazine. They do things like this on purpose. Where’s your textbook?”
“I gave it to some homeless guy.”
“Harold! Alyson needs help with her homework.”
“Ok,” Harold said. “I’ll help. Isn’t it a little early for vodka?”
If you noticed any similarities to Patricia's Cripplegate story and the way she mixed up the custard prompt, it's purely coincidental. Or, it may be my neighbor's fault. It's legal to grow marijuana here now and my neighbor dropped off a small sample earlier. Not that I partook or anything.
DeleteAs someone who read '1066 and all that' the night before failing a history exam, I sympathise. Should've tried to reverse it with vodka but my parents only had sherry in the house.
Deletelove it - history is not taught well at school, says me who these days hears the other side of the events. Good little tale.
DeleteI should think Harold would jump at the chance for an early swig or two of vodka.
DeleteI used to devour Mad Magazine back in the day. This was a wonderful example of exactly what might have featured in its pages. You are a true treasure, John.
DeleteThe Book From The Sea 4
ReplyDeleteWispy clouds embossed a custard-coloured sun as Malook hugged Prekor, ‘It’s a long way, but I’ll write when I can.’
Prekor nodded and watched until his brother, with a final wave, disappeared from view.
Weeks later, at dusk, the tall towers of castle-keep came into view but it was midnight before Malook came to the entrance gates: Wrought of an extraordinary green metal and decorated with spidery glyphs in the same mysterious language as the book; they were locked.
The keep beyond was unlit for the old man had kept no servants.
Malook felt his pocket for the castellan keys.
World-building with a skill I can only stand in awe of. What next for Malook?
DeleteAs always, your writing is amazingly visual and draws the read into the tale from the beginning. I find this story to be particularly enchanting. And again, as always, it is necessary to "hunt and peck" to find the prompt words, so intricately are they interwoven.
ReplyDeleteI doubt I could build a world as clearly as this, beautifully done and more than that, intriguing. More please.
ReplyDelete