20
The Fantabulous Clown Machine of London Superior
Challenge #9: Write a story that includes elements of Steampunk, where one of the characters is a Femme Fatale, where one of the themes is whether the ends justify the means, and one other writing convention of your choice (genre, character, theme etc.). One is to be inverted, one is to be subverted, one is to be lampshaded, and one is to be played straight. Today is our birthday (we’re a collective of one). If you’re interested in an additional (though entirely optional and completely meaningless) challenge, try to include a cake somewhere in your story.
The suited gentleman entered the office with that particular swagger that could only suggest pockets bursting with money. Sillywig Stevenson hurriedly set aside his paperwork: customers like this didn’t know the meaning of the words: “just a minute.”
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Mmmmmm, I very much hope so.” With a flourish of his cigarette holder, the gentleman sat down and folded one gangly leg neatly over the other. “It’s my nephew’s birthday and naturally my brother would just have to go out of town. Inevitably it falls to me to organise the little blighter’s party: streamers and cake and all that. I had heard that your business would be the one to visit for the entertainment. That you had some sort of…clockwork humour device.”
“The Fantabulous Clown Machine of London Superior.” Stevenson stood up, moved to the corner of the office and pulled away the oily canvas covering his masterpiece. “Capable of inflating thirty-eight balloons per minute and with a repertoire of sixty-four theatrically distinct pratfalls. The hand painted porcelain face is also one hundred percent pie-resistant.” He hoped that this customer would not notice the large and conspicuously absent R-valve of the left knee piston.
“Oh my,” said the gentleman. “It does look rather…unsettling.”
Stevenson twanged one of the spring-mounted eyebrows. “That’s entirely the point. Clowns are supposed to be scary, and there’s no better clown than my Fantabulous Clown Machine.”
“Well,” said the gentleman. “If that’s the case, I’m sure little Francis Franklin-Melville will be most pleased with it.”
“When are you holding the party?” asked Stevenson.
The suited gentleman took out a very ornate silver pocket watch. “In…almost twenty minutes. Let’s say a quarter past three.”
“Twenty…” Stevenson glanced at where the R-valve wasn’t. “I’m er…I’m not sure…perhaps…”
“I know it’s short notice,” explained the gentleman, placing a hand on Stevenson’s cheek. “But if you could arrange this I would be very grateful indeed.”
“You mean like…you’d pay double?”
The man took his hand away. “Oh. Yes, I suppose that would be reasonable.” Disappointedly, he took out a notepad and wrote out the address. “Be here in…seventeen minutes and I’ll make it triple, just to be fair.”
As the door jangled closed, Bignose Bennie stepped in from the side-office. “That guy was weird,” he said.
“Who cares?” said Sillywig Stevenson. “He was rich. Triple our regular fee? This’ll be the biggest break in the history of mechanical clownery!”
“Not without that R-valve, it won’t.”
Stevenson’s face fell. The thought of all that money had pushed all the less pleasant thoughts out of his head. “Blimey,” he said. “You’re right. Bennie, you must get one.”
“But the shops aren’t…”
“You must get one,” said Stevenson, forcefully, “by any means necessary. I’ll lug the Fantabulous Machine to the party and you can meet me there.”
But the traffic on the high-rise streets of London Superior was as bad as ever that day, and Stevenson began to worry that, whether or not the R-valve got to the party, the clown would never make it. Taking a short detour, he came to a station for the steam monorail and shoved the wobbling Clown Machine through the doors. He double-checked the bit of paper with the address on it. What luck! There was a station virtually next door.
But though the steam monorail reached the station, it did not to do so quietly.
“Stop that man!” shouted the conductor. “He’s stolen part of the train! Hundreds will be late! Dozens will be stranded!”
Recognising Bennie, and the R-shaped lump of brass clutched in his hand, Stevenson booted the Fantabulous Machine out onto the platform so his colleague’s escape would not be hindered.
“Fantabulous work, Bennie,” said Stevenson. “Took the monorail and took part of it to boot.”
As they rushed towards the swanky house, Bennie took a sad look back at the engine, wheezing pitiful puffs of steam, and at the R-valve in his hand. “But was it worth it?” he said, glumly. “Was it worth wrecking the monorail just for this party?”
“Who cares,” said Stevenson. “That guy’s rich, and we’re here in time for cake.”
21
The Peasants are Revolting
“It’s time to show the living that this has gone on long enough!” The zombie with the tie tried to put his fist in the air, but couldn’t get it above shoulder height. Nevertheless, there was a general grunt of approval from the crowd. “It’s time to make a stand, put our feet down and say No! We’re not all brain-eating scroungers.”
“That’s right!” agreed the zombie with the top hat. “Some of us prefer liver! Liver with a nice Amarone!” Thinking of this fine delicacy, he added: “Th-f-f-f-f-f-f-f.” It was impressive given that he didn’t have any lips.
“Already,” continued the zombie with the tie, “there has been progress. As you know, zombie actors have already appeared in cinema as extras in horror movies, with some even getting major roles as zombie body doubles for famous figures. I understand one such star is here today.”
“Oh, pshaw,” said Leonardo DeadCaprio.
“But it is not enough! Our actors demand roles as regular characters!”
“Quite rrrrright!” said the zombie with a rapier through its stomach, holding up a skull.
“Aaahlaah, oohr Yoryeeh. Ah ooh ihm, Oohrayiioh,” said the skull.
“Great!” The zombie with the tie beamed. “Now let’s get out there and protest our hearts out!”
There was a squelch from somewhere in the crowd.
“Not literally, Ribless Ryan.”
“Erm…” the zombie with the clipboard tapped the zombie with the tie on his only shoulder. “Are you sure this protest is a good idea? I think we all remember what happened when we set up that picket line at the Chainsaw Depot.”
“Don’t worry,” said the zombie with the tie. “This one’s going to be the best protest ever!”
There was another grunt of approval.
“And everyone remember to give a big zombie thanks to the folks at Shotguns ‘R Us for letting us set up on their shooting range.”
22
Product Placement
Challenge #10: Write a fifty-five word story inspired by an image or illustration of your choice.
My chosen image is a photograph depicting a monkey drinking Pepsi from a bottle. Image by Natalia Maiboroda: https://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Guardian/Pix/pictures/2012/7/18/1342623397390/Delicious-Monkey-drinknin-004.jpg
“Even a monkey could do that,” they said. “What’s Britney Spears got that I don’t?”
The answer, it turns out, was nothing. Less than nothing, in fact. People hate pop stars, but they love monkeys. Thanks to me, monkeys are to soft drinks what meerkats were to car insurance, and it’s a sweet job.
Simples.
23
Rhubarb
“Whatcha doin’?”
“I’m trying to come up with something for Flash Fiction Month.”
“How many words do you need?”
“55 minimum.”
“Have you considered just writing ‘banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana ban
ana banana banana banana banana banana?’“
24
The Sign
“I saw them lights again last night,” said Farmer Mills, “and when I got up this morning, there it was again. The message…from up there!” He pointed to the clouds.
Brian tried to look distantly interested with the story, rather than simply annoyed, as the camera swung back to focus on him. “There you have it,” he said to the people watching at home. “Whether elaborate hoax or message from beyond the stars, these mysterious circles will certainly be a talking point in this small town for years to come. And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, people much further away are talking about it too.”
Farmer Mills put out his hand for Brian to shake. Not sure whether or not the camera was still rolling, Brian took it and tried to ignore the eye-watering alcohol fumes that came off the man. The scorched, bent corn stalks certainly were mysterious, but he couldn’t help but wonder why aliens would travel all that way only to leave a message that nobody could read. And why here? He had the feeling that Farmer Mills would struggle even if it was in English.
“Alright.” Brian turned to the cameraman. “You got the aerial footage already, right? Let’s go then.”
Farmer Mills waved as the news van left. Brian didn’t wave back.
***
“Check it out,” said Xarthnon, prodding a tentacle against the side of the saucer’s bubbledome. “I cornpainted a graving of a sklungepford on that planet.”
“Xarthnon, that’s rude!” whoomped Skrillda. “Think of the younglings!”
Xarthnon shrumped. “Who’s going to see it all the way out here?”
25
2012: A Space Oddity
Challenge #11: Write a story inspired by the music of David Bowie.
“Ground Control to Major Tom. Ground Control to Major Tom.”
“Zzzzz…what? Sorry. I took a few ‘protein pills’ this morning.”
“Again?!? I thought you would be clean by now. You’ve at least got your helmet on, right?”
“Of course! Glass thingy at the front and everything.”
“That’s it. We’re calling this mission off…what’s that? Oh. Oh, really? Major Tom, it seems you’re already in space.”
“I had noticed a lot of rockety type noises.”
“It looks like we’ll have to work with what…hang on, someone’s talking to me down here. What is it? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No, I guess…it wouldn’t be true, though. You do realise he’s on the radio right now, right? He can hear what you’re saying. Fine! I’ll tell him anyway. Major Tom?”
“Yes?”
“Major Tom, you’ve really made the grade.”
“That’s very nice of you to say.”
“And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear.
“Actually, I’m not…”
“Because I’m sure we all remember how you were dressed when you arrived. That was unpleasant for all involved.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know how that lobster got there!”
“That’s fine. Let’s just concentrate on the mission: now’s the time to leave the capsule, if you dare.”
“Right-o. Uh. This is Major Tom to Ground Control, I’m stepping through the door, and…I’m floating in the most peculiar way.”
“You did get the jetpack on your way out, right?”
“Uuh.”
“Should I take that as a ‘no?’“
“The stars look very different today.”
“That’s nice, but you’re currently drifting out into space. Let’s focus on that for now.”
“Here I am, sitting in a tin can above the world.”
“Hey! Joe spent all morning on that ‘tin can.’ Try and be a little more appreciative.”
“Planet Earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do.”
“Yeah. You’re pretty screwed. I just wish we’d got an astronaut who wasn’t high to begin with.”
“Though I’m past one hundred thousand miles, I’m feeling very still.”
“Well, without a jetpack, you would.”
“And I think my spaceship knows which way to go.”
“Which would be great if you were on it.”
“Tell my wife I love her very much…”
“Yeah yeah. I’ll pass that on to the lobster. Uh…Ground Control to Major Tom? Your circuit’s dead. I’m pretty sure there’s something wrong. Can you hear me, Major Tom? I said ‘can you hear me, Major Tom?’ Can you hear me, Major Tom? Can you…ugh. We simply have to stop picking astronauts based on David Bowie songs.”
26
Mere Technicalities
“But I am Khamul!” shouted the spandex-clad athlete, thumping a bony fist on the chipboard table. “I am the fastest rider in my great nation! Why is it that I am not allowed to compete?”
“Well, you see…” the organiser arched his fingers nervously. “We have certain…criteria that athletes must meet in order to compete in this event.”
“Oh, really? And what might they be?”
“Erm…” the organiser looked the man up and down. “It’s…erm…”
“Do you not allow black riders in the Tour de France?”
“Oh no!” The organiser waved his hands frantically. “It’s not that! It’s not that at all!”
“Then what is it?” the rider barked. “Spit it out, man!”
“A fellbeast is not a bicycle!”
“Oh.” Khamul looked at his colossal steed, then back at the spindly racing bike of the man in line behind him. “Oh yes. I can see what you mean.”
“Also…” the organiser scanned the spreadsheet in front of him. “I can’t find a ‘Mordor’ option anywhere on this form.”
27
The Barrow Rider
Challenge #12: Write a story in collaboration with one other author.
The sections written in italics are by kaleidofish on deviantART https://kaleidofish.deviantart.com/
The thing had eyes like embers, arms like ash boughs, and it carried itself in a wheelbarrow. Liam had heard it before he’d seen it: that one creaking wheel echoing plaintively through the trees. Then had come the eyes, twin sparks that did not shine so much as suck away the dark. Then the arms, lanky and rotting, drawing the rusting chariot ahead. Reach, squeal, stop. Reach, squeal, stop. Caught momentarily in the glare of the campfire, its image was the only thing he could see as he turned and fled into the darkness.
Fear became his compass, the needle swinging wildly as he couldn’t tell which direction to make his escape in. Without his flashlight, all he could rely on was pure instinct shooting him further into the woods. He tried going right, but the monster’s lurching became louder. Going left nearly caused him to fall over an exposed tree root. The diagonal path seemed like Liam’s best bet.
He ran so hard that he had to spit when he finally stopped. His lungs were burning; his heart was pounding. In the distance, he could still hear its wheel as it dragged itself along on its search. Was it trying to kill him? It never stopped. Whatever that thing was or what it wanted, Liam would tire out before it. Rusting monsters don’t need air.
Despite its lurching movements and its hideous face, that was the most unsettling thing about it: however far he ran, he could always hear the wheel. Though the creature could only move at a crawl, it somehow kept pace with him. There were times when he could almost believe he had lost it, the creaking faint enough that it might have been the limbs of old trees, but then it was loud again, louder than ever, and right behind him.
Eventually, Liam came to an old wooden building. Perhaps a cottage of some kind, but really little more than a shed. In the night, he would have missed it had he not stumbled across the gravel path leading up to the door: there were no lights in the windows.
“Hello!” He hammered on the wood, rattled the handle, felt his voice crack. Out in the darkness, hands clawed through dead leaves and the squealing iron wheel turned over fallen branches, wet clay…gravel.
No answer. His
call was met with silence. Liam rammed his body against the door in desperation. The wood splintered as it gave way.
“Hello?” He repeated. Squinting his eyes, he could barely make out a covered form in the corner of the room. The thought of searching for a candle entered his mind as quickly as he dismissed it. Light would only broadcast his position. As it was, he probably was only a few minutes ahead of the creature.
Liam put his hand on the wall to guide himself as he walked towards the lying figure. Another person or a weapon - he’d take either at this point, even if that thing’s arms were too dried and withered to bleed anymore.
“I need your help,” he whispered, in case the pile was a someone instead of a something. “There’s something bad out there. It’s not safe here.” Liam reached for the blanket, and pulled it down to see who or what was beneath it.
As the blanket came away, it clanked, but after that there was silence. Nothing moved. Metal parts shone in the little light cast by the window. It was a motorcycle, but it was in a terrible state. This building, he realised, was a workshop of some kind. Spanners and hex keys of all sizes rested in a rack above a desk, but had apparently not been used for some time. Picking up a cobwebby chair, Liam took a step towards the door, ready to wedge it beneath the handle, but there was the creaking wheel again. This time, however, it was not the plaintive squeak it had been before. The creature came screeching hand over hand into the workshop, hauling itself through the doorway in one great lunge, terrible eyes gleaming in the darkness.
He thrust the chair towards it, hoping that that would at least slow it down. Its hand smacked the chair aside as if it were a toy. No such luck. Liam backed himself up against the desk and grabbed at and threw whatever he could find.
Screwdrivers, hex keys, and all sorts of metal bits went flying through the air. The monster shuddered after every hit, stopping momentarily to shake itself. Its putrid smell made it hard for Liam to breathe, much less focus on finding a decent weapon to stop the creature.
He pulled something heavier that couldn’t leave the desk. It was like a long piece of metal leading to a tank with valves. Liam had to guess it was a welding torch. If it could burn metal, then it had to be able to disable the thing that crawled closer by the second.