The Fox's Den

Yuletide Fiction 2008

2009-01-03T03:22:12Z

This year I got a bit more creative than last year.

My Yuletide assignment was in the GHOSTBUSTERS movieverse genre, and written for greenlily.

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

"She finally called it quits, Venkman." Raymond Stantz, shaking his head in disbelief, handed the note to his colleague, Peter Venkman.

"It was bound to happen," Peter intoned in an I-told-you-so way.

Egon Spengler, striding up behind them both, glanced at the note and shook his head.

"This isn't good, Ray." Egon's matter of fact tone forced the effervescent Peter to look at a brighter side.

"Cheer up, Ray," Peter said. "I mean, how long did you think it would last? A month? A year?"

"It's a wonder it lasted as long as it did," Egon added.

"Personally, I gave it two months," Peter added as an aside.

"I was kinda hoping that, well, it would last...you know...a lifetime," Ray said, eyes misting in fond recollection. Then, looking from side to side at his colleagues, Ray added, "You know we were meant for each other, right? From the beginning. I even said so, didn't I?"

"Yes, Ray," Peter nodded, eyes shutting in affirmation. "Yes, you did." Peter patted his pal on the shoulder good naturedly, then put his arm around his friend.

"A human life's a long time, Ray," Egon added. "Statistically speaking. These things usually don't last more than 30 years...give or take."

"Still. Thirty years is at least a generation," Ray said. "You'd think it would have lasted at least that long." Ray looked to Egon for some confirmation, but none came. Ray's shoulders slumped.

Peter, however, remained upbeat. Hugging his friend a little closer to him, Peter said, "You'll find a new one, Ray. You'll waltz right up to her, give her that big hug, and the rest will be history." Peter could be matter of fact. But his tone was less enthusiastic than Ray had hoped.

"I'm not so sure, Venkman," Ray said wiping a tear from his eye. "She was... she was one of a kind. The way she wobbled when you rode her; the way she made you feel when you slid your body along her thin..."

"We get the idea, Ray," Egon said. "We are talking about the fire pole after all. Right?" Peter passed the note, which had been signed by Janine and Scotch-taped to the doors, back to Ray. Winston, who had been driving the Ghostbusters' modified hearse, honked the horn.

"What the hell!?" Winston yelled out of the window. "Are we gonna park this damn car today, or am I gonna have to wait until Jesus comes back?!" As Winston pulled his head into the car, he muttered to himself, "And he can't come too damn soon, if you ask me."

Ray and Peter quickly opened the carport for Winston. A rush of wind blew them back onto Ecto One's hood, plastering them and their gear against the windshield.

"What was that?" Ray asked innocently after the minute-long guster.

"I don't know, Ray. I don't know." Peter nodded his head toward the pole inside. "But I've got a feeling it's about that girl of yours."

***

The car stayed parked outside the building as the four Ghostbusters carefully, meticulously entered their headquarters. Their heavy nuclear packs, their primary weapon against ghouls and specters, were still on their backs.

The entire place was a wreck. Every one of the six filing cabinets in Janine's office had been opened, with paperwork strewn all over the place. Ectoplasm was everywhere. Ray's pole was still somewhat upright, but the base of it had been clearly mangled. It no longer had its shiny sheen or rigid structure.

"I'm gonna have to tell our secretary to make sure she cleans up her room," Peter said to no one in particular.

Egon, wading through the morass of papers, walked up to the pole. "She's rusted, Ray. Looks like some acid ate through the base of the pole."

Winston, taking a look at the ectoplasm-oozing filing cabinets, nodded his head. "These are rusted too."

Peter, having made his way to Janine's desk, grimaced as he noticed the dribbling ectoplasm covering the desk, chair and computers. With gloves on, Peter daintily lifted up a small can of paper clips she kept there.

"You didn't accidentally turn on the humidifier this morning, did you, Ray? Or blow your nose without a Kleenex?"

Ray ignored Peter's comment, focusing instead on Egon's scientific analysis. "Rust. Just like the Great Engine Crisis of 1848," Ray murmured.

"Engine crisis?" Peter was mildly amused and looked at his colleague over the desk.

"Good thing we kept the car outside, then," Winston shot back, leaving the filing cabinet and finding Ray and Egon inspecting the rusted pole. "I just replaced that engine, and I ain't about to spend another grand on that pile of crap."

"Steam Engine Crisis, to be precise," Ray said, looking back over his shoulder at Peter. "Thirteen steam trains built by Phineas J. Stempf were put into service on the B&O lines in March, 1848. The engines were said to be haunted, so no engineer would take `em. And it's a good thing too, as every last Stempf engine was found to have rusted through. No one knows why they did, though. They thought it was sabotage, but when Stempf's competitors began finding their engines rusted through, folks started wondering if there was, you know, a ghost with an attitude spreading some mischief."

"Nice story, Ray. Sounds like the guy was a little rusty," Peter smart-alecked.

"Yeah," Ray said.

"I'm not sure that your rust ghost was to blame, Ray," Egon said. "Some of the ectoplasm I've analyzed looks very familiar. Like the same stuff I found on Peter when we went to that hotel our first night out."

"You mean...?" Ray stammered.

"Looks like that green vapor that got Peter has a memory."

"Hold on a second," Peter wasn't grasping the logic. "Egon - are you telling me that the little slime ball we locked up, and then had to release, is coming back home?"

"Worse," Egon said. "It looks like that vapor actually ate Ray's pole."

"What do you mean, ate?" Peter said.

"The chemical attributes of the ectoplasm suggested our vaporous apparition liked to dine on just about anything. But it looks like lately he's been eating things that are corrosive."

"Damn," Winston said, rubbing his hand through his hair. "Like, what are we talking about?"

"Chlorine tablets, ammonia, disinfectant. Your basic household cleaners, mostly." Egon's assessment was monotone, as usual.

"What?" Peter said. "That little slimeball? He used to eat hotdogs, and cake, and pudding."

"Yeah. Poor guy," Ray said. "I wonder what happened?"

As if in answer to the question, the green vaporous apparition - the same slimy creature that attacked Peter on their first real job - made his presence known from the legs of Janine's desk. As the apparition floated through it, the metal leg collapsed, causing the desk to tilt to one side.

Already primed for action, Ray was the first to snatch his wand and aim his beam at Janine's desk, obliterating the metallic structure in an explosive stream of energy that lasted just a touch longer than it took Peter and Egon to track the apparition.

"I think you got it, Ray," Peter said.

With the smug expression of a Wild West Sheriff having felled his nemesis, Ray blew on the nozzle of his wand.

"The desk, I mean," Peter corrected.

"That slimeball is still on the loose, Ray," Egon said. "Probably floated upstairs through the hole."

Winston, readying his gear, waved Ray ahead. "After you."

Taking the cue, Ray cautiously moved forward to the fire door and the steps that led upward beyond it. Peter moved in as a cautious second, with Winston close behind. Egon, looking behind them all, covered the rear.

***

In the stairwell leading upward, Ray inspected the scene. Slime and ooze dotted the walls, evidence that the vaporous spectre was still at large. Ray fumbled for a cigarette, only to have Peter swipe it from his lips.

"No smoking on the job," Peter said. "Unless, of course, we're smoking that slimeball."

"You're right, Venkman." With resolve, Ray ascended the stairs. Floating high above them in the stairwell, the apparition swept back and forth, rusting and corroding the copper and steel pipes that were the headquarters' lifeblood. Steam spewed through the corroded pipes and into the stairwell, dousing the Ghostbusters and forcing a retreat.

***

Back in the lobby, Ray grabbed for a cigarette again and lit it before a pacing Peter could snatch it away.

"Well, looks like the stairs are a no-go," Peter finally said. "Any suggestions?"

"A rope ladder might work," Egon offered. "If we had one, that is."

Pausing mid-puff, Ray added: "We could go through the roof."

Peter, not hearing anything better, gave Ray the nod. "The roof then."

Outside, the fire escape was extremely rickety and obviously had been neglected over the years.

"You go first, Ray," Peter said authoritatively.

Ray, apprehensive now as he'd led the last charge, looked to Egon. The stolid scientist merely shook his head, as if to indicate he wouldn't lead under any circumstances. Ray looked at Winston. But the junior Ghostbuster merely urged Ray forward with a disarming smile and a small gesture toward the fire escape.

It took Ray a minute or two - and a boost from Peter and Winston - to get his rotund figure onto the rickety contraption. The fire escape moved wildly first right, then left, as Ray held on for dear life.

"Go get `im, Ray!" Peter yelled up to his friend. "We're right behind you."

Emboldened, Ray ascended to the next step, then the next. Peter, boosted up next, was ready to assist Ray. Egon, tall and fit enough to boost himself, followed, if only to get a fresh sampling of ectoplasm.

As they continued to ascend, Winston watched from below as bolts meant to hold the fire escape to the building were coming loose. "Hey!" he yelled. "Be careful up there!" Ray, in response, waved back as if to say that everything was fine.

But all was not well. The Ghostbusters, now halfway up the fire escape, did not get much further before the bulbous green apparition began to hover above the fire escape. The vapor caught sight of Ray and smiled grotesquely. Peter recognized that grin. It was not a grin he appreciated.

"Ray," he said calmly. "We need to get out of here, Ray."

"Right," Ray said.

Egon, understanding the situation, began slowly descending the fire escape. Peter followed even more carefully. Ray took another glance, as if to make sure not to lose sight of their target. The moment's glance turned into a staring contest. By this time, Peter and Egon had made it to the bottom.

The blob continued its staring contest with a hideous, threatening grin.

"Come on, Ray!" Peter urged more loudly than he preferred. "Leave that thing, and get down from there!"

Ray was unmoved.

"Ray," Egon shouted. "Come down now!"

It was Egon's voice that broke the spell. Ray looked away and down, and gave a thumbs up.

Then the slimy apparition attacked.

Ray, adrenaline pumping, descended the steps of the fire escape trying in vain to scramble to Peter and Egon, who had waited for their friend before jumping off the rickety structure. The slimy, corrosive-filled apparition floated down and streaked over the fire escape, cutting through the rusty, neglected fire escape like a knife through an orange. Egon and Peter jumped to safety next to Winston, who quickly moved them back toward the headquarters' entrance. But the damage done by the apparition caused the fire escape to collapse, with Ray on it. The lone Ghostbuster held onto the structure for dear life as it crashed upon the ground, buckled and spread itself on the sidewalk below. Shaken, Ray emerged from the rubble with shock and disappointment on his face.

Winston looked up. The apparition, still floating where the fire escape once was, smiled even more broadly and threw itself back into the building.

Turning to Ray, Winston pointed up at the place where the fire escape once stood. "I hate that son-of-a-bitch," Winston said, spitting every word. "And damned if I'm gonna let that blob of lime Jell-O get the best of my friends!"

***

The Ghostbusters were armed and ready to do battle. Winston led them back into the headquarters with resolve. They were not disappointed. As they approached the office area, Ray caught sight of the green apparition popping C batteries into its mouth like candy.

"Venkman," Ray said in hushed tones, pointing Peter to the actions of the apparition.

"Those were for my stereo," Peter said. "Nobody messes with my tunes and gets away with it."

A nod from Peter set all four Ghostbusters on automatic. Four simultaneous streams of energy popped out of four nozzles, and gave the apparition an immediate shock. The apparition, keen now to the whereabouts of the Ghostbusters, flew up and to the right. But Egon, judging the trajectory of the green ghost, changed angles and forced the apparition back toward Peter and slightly to the left of Janine's rusted file cabinet. Winston, noting the shift in Egon's stream and the possible danger of crossing his stream with it, pulled out completely, then relaunched his stream toward the filing cabinet, which exploded into chunks of charred metal and debris. Spooked (if a ghost can indeed be spooked), the apparition jumped right into Ray's stream and was caught. Egon and Peter joined Ray's hold and prepared the trap. Within a matter of minutes, the apparition that had caused all the afternoon's havoc had been captured. It was the matter of another few minutes, and the apparition became part of the vault housing all captured spectres.

As Ray, Egon, Peter and Winston went back upstairs, Janine came through the door and stopped. Janine's hands went straight to her hips as she noted the papers strewn everywhere, the combusted desk, the obliterated cabinet and the generally disheveled look about the office.

"What the hell happened here?" she asked seriously, looking each one of the Ghostbusters up and down. "If you wanted to see the files, you could have just asked!"

None of them, especially Peter, had the heart to tell Janine what had really happened.

"Do you think there are any more like her?" Ray asked. He and Peter were alone in the headquarters office a week after having dealt with their slimy green nemesis. The clean-up had been prolonged as a new fire escape had to be installed and files, torched by the nuclear reactors, had to be replaced. "I mean, she was one of a kind."

"I don't know, Ray." Peter pulled a small piece of paper Janine had given him before she left for home. "Says they're bringing in a new one for you to look at this morning."

"I wonder what she'll be like," Ray mused.

"Probably like all the rest."

Ray went back to cleaning up Janine's office, while Peter began sweeping up some left-over debris.

Just then, the headquarters' bay doors opened revealing Ecto One. But there was no sign of a pole anywhere. Right behind them, a huge semi pulled up. The semi's driver came in.

"Delivery for Dr. Raymond Stantz?"

Ray looked at Peter. "I'm Dr. Stantz."

"Yeah. Well, I got a twisted one for you. They say you want it installed?"

Peter nodded his head in a reassuring way. Ray gulped.

"Yeah. I guess so."

"Well," the driver said. "You wanna look at it first?"

Ray's palms began to sweat. A slide -- the spiral kind often seen in neighborhood playgrounds -- lay on its side.

"She's the real deal," the semi driver said. "Twenty-five feet, and never been ridden."

Ray's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. His heart was pounding so fast he couldn't stand it. Winston and Egon had pulled out all the stops and purchased an old friend.

Ray gaped in awe. "She's...she's beautiful," he said. "And curvy. I can't wait to try her."

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

Also, two treats were written.

1) A fourth episode in the so-called Hunter's Trilogy in the LOONEY TUNES fandom, for my dear htbthomas is below.

ELMER'S CLUE

It was early fall. The leaves had just begun to turn brilliant colors. Elmer, however, had had little luck finding any sign of a rabbit, despite his systematic march through the forest. He stopped for a moment to look around.

"I'm afwaid I'll need to go home," a dispirited Elmer said. "I can't find any wabbits." He turned around, shouldering his gun.

Meanwhile, in another part of that same forest, Daffy and Bugs had donned their hunting gear. Daffy, naturally, had taken the lead. They looked every bit discouraged.

"Bugthy," Daffy said over his shoulder. "I can't theem to find any Elmerth anywhere."

"We'll just have to keep looking, then," Bugs said. "They're bound to be around here somewhere."

Just then, Daffy looked at the ground. The heavy boot prints of a wiley hunter met his gaze.

"Hey, Bugth," Daffy whispered. "Elmer tracks!"

The two hunters stalked through the forest following the boot tracks.

Moments later, Bugs and Daffy, hearing sobs, found a dejected Elmer sitting on a felled tree, his head in his hands.

"Nyaa, what's up, Doc?" Bugs asked, producing a carrot and munching on it.

Looking up through tears, Elmer said, "I've been looking and looking awound for a wabbit. But I can't find one. I've even wooked for a duck."

"Eh, dat's too bad, Doc," Bugs said.

"Yeah," Daffy intoned. "I know how you feel. We've been looking for Elmers all day, but haven't found one yet."

Elmer's head shot up at the mention of his name. Inspecting the two hunters more carefully, he recognized them for what and who they truly were. Elmer reached for a gun.

At the exact same time, Bugs and Daffy realized that this sobbing hunter was indeed Elmer Fudd, the notorious duck and rabbit hunter extraordinaire. As Elmer reached for his rifle, the pair leveled both their guns and fired at the hunter.

Elmer dashed away, scrambling up the nearest tree with all his might.

Stalking Elmer with all their might, Bugs and Daffy actually passed the tree their nemesis had used. Elmer chuckled to himself. "That wascally wabbit and that dopey duck are as good as mine," he said. Pulling out his rifle from his tree-top stance, Elmer caught the hunters in his sights, and fired three rounds from behind them.

Bugs and Daffy scrambled through the woods. Finding an abandoned rabbit hole, they flew into it.

Elmer was there within seconds, popping his rifle down the hole as he'd done so many times before.

"OK, wabbit. OK, duck. Say your pwayers!" Seven shots rang into the hole. Elmer crouched down to get a peek at his prey.

Daffy, by now incensed by the whole affair, popped his head out of the hole meeting Elmer face-to-face and eye-to-eye.

"Jutht a minute, bub," Daffy said, poking Elmer in the chest. "Who'th hunting who? Hmm?"

"Well," Elmer began innocently. "I'm a hunter. I should be hunting."

Daffy shook his head. "That'th where you're thadly mithtaken."

"I am?" Elmer said.

"Uh huh," Daffy said with a slight nod of his head. "You're the prey."

Bugs, having found courage enough to emerge from the hole, agreed. "That's right, Doc. You're the one being hunted."

"But, I don't live in the fowest," Elmer said. "I wive in the city, wiff cars and buses and streetcars."

"So, what are you doing here?" Daffy asked. "Seems to me you need to head home!"

Elmer turned to leave, took four steps, then stopped. Coming to himself, the hunter pulled out his rifle and aimed it at Bugs and Daffy.

But Bugs and Daffy already had their own rifles leveled, and began shooting at the forelorn and confused hunter. Elmer dashed away, finding a rock to hide behind.

Elmer was angry. His face turned red, and steam blew out of his ears. "What do those two wascals mean by hunting me?" he said. "I'll show them who's king of the fowest."

Having reloaded his gun, Elmer went out looking for rabbit and duck tracks. He was soon joined by two other wiley hunters - Bugs and Daffy. All three walked through the forest, looking for each others tracks. After what seemed like an eternity, they all stopped. Elmer was the first to speak.

"Have you found anything?"

"Nope," Daffy answered.

"Double nope," Bugs said.

The threesome continued their march through the forest.

Only after two more steps did they all realize simultaneously that they had been hunting for each other.

Shots rang out in all directions, from Elmer to Bugs, from Daffy to Elmer, from Bugs to Daffy and Elmer to Daffy. After a barrage of ammunition had been spent, and stalemate the result, the three were interrupted by a rustling in the bushes.

"Shhhh," the three intoned. Looking in the direction of the bushes, the three crept forward stealthily.

Out of the bushes emerged a luggage-toting Pepe Le Pew. His wafting scent made its way to the noses of the thee hunters.

"Pardon me," the skunk asked. "But, do you know ze way to France?"

Without any further comment, Bugs, Daffy and Elmer dashed into the horizon, leaving guns, bullets and hunting gear behind them.

Pepe shrugged. "Maybe I should have said...Santa Fe?"

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

2) Another was written for Sonya in the ANIMANIACS fandom:

MM MM

In their water tower on the Warner Brothers lot, Wakko was sitting on the couch, his chin in his gloved hands. He stared at the clock - 3:45 p.m. - and sighed.

"I'm bummed," Wakko said. "There's nothin' to do."

"Sure there is," Yakko piped, listing several options in his fingers. "Running around in circles, squeezing out a whole tube of toothpaste, tickling Dr. Scratchensniff..."

Wakko sighed morosely. "I've done that already."

"You could try on all my dresses," Dot offered.

"Nope. Done that, too."

"Maybe you could play tennis with Shirley Maclaine, Alec Baldwin and Alexandre Dumas," Yakko suggested.

"I did that yesterday," Wakko sighed. "Twice."

Dot and Yakko looked at each other.

Looking at Wakko, Dot said, "You need a nice vacation."

"Where would I go? It better not be the usual places."

Yakko pulled a map of the world out - the one that showed all the different places he and his siblings had traveled during the past year. Every last point on the map had been filled - except Schweingefuelltefleischgebackenheim, in the very remotest part of the Black Forest region. Yakko blinked.

***

Within moments, Yakko and Dot had secured a private jet and were flying over the ocean.

"I hope this doesn't take too long," Wakko yawned.

"Here, put this on," Dot said. She forced a pair of Lederhosen - the traditional leather pants worn in parts of Bavaria - on her brother.

Wakko moaned. "Are we gonna sing the friendship song again?" On cue, Otto von Schnitzelpuskrankengeschidtmeier emerged from the rear of the cabin with his accordion and Lederhosen ready to dance.

"I did that this morning," Wakko yawned.

Yakko pulled a release lever, dropping the portly German from his position in the aisles to a watery end below.

The plane touched down at a remote airport. The flight attendants all had braided hair wrapped up in a bun - except for one buxom maid with braids hanging down the sides of her face.

"Hell-oooooo, Dirndl," Yakko and Wakko say simultaneously.

"Boys," Dot says to the camera.

Yakko and Wakko were escorted by the Dirndl to a limousine, which whisked them to the quaint town of Schweingefuelltefleischgebackenheim. Dot found a place next to Klaus, the handsome limousine driver. Klaus paid Dot no mind.

Once in town, the city hall was all abuzz. Paparazzi greeted the Warners to the small town. A man dressed as a pretzel came out and shook each Warner hand as they emerged from their limousine.

Wakko was not amused. "Boring," he said.

Jugglers tossing balls of fire and acrobats doing flips from house to house didn't appease the young Warner Brother either.

When the mayor of Schweingefuelltefleischgebackenheim came out to make a speech, however, the crowd hushed itself in eager anticipation. Wakko paused and looked around. The mayor cleared his throat.

"Velcome Vah-nah Bra-zahz," the mayor, who looked a bit too much like Arnold Schwarzenegger, said. "Vee have a speshell treat for you." Wakko blinked.

Everyone in Schweingefuelltefleischgebackenheim produced an anvil.

Wakko blinked twice. Then grinned.

"Today is Anvil Day," the mayor intoned. An anvil dropped onto the limousine, crushing it under its weight. "Zis day vee celebrate ze anvil."

An anvil dropped onto Wakko's head, crushing him beneath it. The mayor continued his speech as Wakko crawled out from underneath it. "Ze first anvil was brought to our fair city in 1298." Another anvil dropped, this time a large one crushing several of the quaint houses nearby. "But ze anvils kept dropping from ze sky." Prophetically, another one dropped crushing the mayor. From underneath this latest anvil, the mayor said, "So...on Anvil Day vee do not ever mention ze anvil." Two more anvils dropped, crushing both city hall and the statue of the city's founder.

Wakko, who had by now emerged from underneath his own anvil, smiled broadly.

"What a place!" Wakko said. Then, dashing from citizen to citizen, Wakko wished them all health and happiness with a hearty, "Happy Anvil Day!" to which, anvils began raining from heaven until the whole landscape was littered with the blacksmith's best friend.

***

Yakko, Wakko and Dot made their way back to the water tower later that evening. Waiting for them at their pad was Dr. Scratchensniff.

"Und vehr did you travel today?" the psychiatrist asked.

"We went to Schweingefuelltefleischgebackenheim," Yakko said.

"Ah," the doctor said. "Zen I should vish you Happy Mm-Mm Day."

"Happy Mm-Mm Day?" the three Warners chimed.

"Ja. Happy MM-MM Day."

"But," Wakko said. "It's not Happy Mm-Mm Day." Dr. Scratchensniff waved his hands in front of him, hoping to avoid what he could see coming."It's Happy--" Wakko said, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door.

Everyone stopped in their tracks. Dot answered it.

A balding man in a business suit was at the door. "I'm the network censor," the man said, stepping inside. "And this episode has just had too much gratuitous violence."

Yakko, Wakko and Dot produced innocent faces. "How?" Yakko asked politely.

"All this use of anvils falling on people!" the censor spat. To which an anvil fell on the censor's head - smiles playing on all of their faces in fond recollection.
### ### ### ###

Yuletide Recommendations (And there are a LOT!)

2009-01-01T15:28:26Z

Where does one start with 2008 Yuletide recommendations? This year saw so MANY wonderful pieces of written fiction, going through them was like eating one piece of candy after another after another, and by the time you were full and sick of the stuff you just couldn't help yourself and wanted that next morsel, the next rush.

I guess the best idea is to enumerate them as I recall them. Keep in mind, I may update this later ;-)

The first and second most important recommendations are those written for me this year, both of which were pinch hits -- and for as little time as they were able to utilize -- stepped up and batted line drives into the upper decks. The rest are numbered in no particular order, and reflect more my recall than any ordinal or sequenced set. Each is rich in its own way. And as I am not a huge fan of slash, most (if not all) of these recs follow with wonderfully rich, well written general fiction. Please do, however, read these first before sharing them with smaller children. Some may not be appropriate for all ages.

NOTE: These recs are posted prior to any reveals (so far as I know).
Note2: Updated

1) The Kindly King of Hummings and Strummings (Lloyd Alexander -- Chronicles of Prydain books [Taran Wanderer])

2)Resourceful (Robin Hood -- UK TV Series)

3)Sixty Years in a Water Tower (Animaniacs -- USA TV Series)

4)Sing a Song of Sixpence (Father Ted -- UK TV Series)

5)In Which Worlds Collide and Eeyore Investigates a Terrible Crime" (A.A. Milne -- Winnie the Pooh meets Terry Pratchett's Discworld books)

6)Sundae Blues (Blue Beetle comics)

7)The Birthday Party (Blackadder [Second Season] -- UK TV Series)

8)The Peril of Being a Candelabra (Beauty and the Beast -- Disney Movie)

9)What Became of Marie La Fleur (Beauty and the Beast -- Disney Movie)

10)"The Case of the Missing Prince (Disney Princesses -- includes Tinkerbell and Ariel)

11)Encounter with St. George (Dorothy L Sayers -- Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries)

12)All Aboard, Mr. Monk (Monk -- USA TV Series)

13)Con Fuoco (Amadeus -- Movie)

Dear Yuletide Pinch Hitter

2008-12-23T05:20:51Z

If indeed you're pinch hitting for me -- bless you.

I would welcome slice of life vignettes, character interactions in the midst of turmoil (even if the turmoil is unresolved or if the turmoil is yet to be seen), in the absence of full stories.

Anything you write in these worlds will be loved and cherished. If you can weave plot into the mix at this late date, this is icing that will be savored.

Dear Yuletide Author

2008-11-18T02:54:11Z

I love a good story. Humor in the midst of nail biting action is always in season. I'm a sucker for good writing no matter what the subject and enjoy innocent fun more than blatant sexual reference, but am open to such if the story lends itself naturally to such an outcome.

When it comes to mysteries and action series (Robin Hood, Inspector Lynley), I like plots that are complex and with depth of characterization. Angst is OK, but well-crafted suspense is preferred. Good characterization is always welcome, and often makes up for plot inconsistencies. Rescues and twists and turns are most welcome.

The Lloyd Alexander Prydain series is an all-time favorite of mine, with Gurgi and Doli my absolute favorites. King Eiddileg and Fflewddur Fflam are also favorites, but in their own inimitable way. Taran and Eilonwy keep the story going, and snarky dialogue between the two is always in season. I enjoy most the Alexander stories that teach a lesson to the main character, and I would expect something along those lines here -- but don't want to limit any creativity you might have.

The Record of Lodoss War TV series became a favorite of mine in Japan, and continues to enthrall me. I am looking for that "lost episode" and don't want to restrict any part of it. Action and high heroics are expected.

Spider-Man Story

2008-07-18T06:35:09Z

Title: Nightmare, 1/?
Author: foxtwin
Fandom: Spider-Man Movieverse
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,643
Beta: mark_clark
Author's Note: The following is the opener of a Spider-Man story I wrote earlier this year, but just hadn't posted. Please provide comments, what you like and don't, whether I should attempt to write a second part, etc. This story is in the movieverse, and is set after Spider-Man 3.

Nightmare

For the fifteenth time in as many minutes, Spider Man had scanned the rooftops of New York from his lofty vantage point – a favorite outlook atop one of the many apartment houses near Central Park.

The day had been one of those calmer ones: three robberies, two car chases and some thug who was peppered with mace long enough for Spider-Man to arrive at the scene and wrap things up in that seasoned method of his.

Spider-Man’s thoughts drifted momentarily to heftier days, the days of the Green Goblin – Norman Osborn, to the days of his son, Harry, who had both been his friend and his nemesis. He missed Harry. Deeply. Even in his nightmares – and there had been many since Venom’s and Harry’s deaths – Harry had always come to his aid at that last possible split second, the time right before awakening in a cold sweat. Even now he could feel their absence lingering on the breeze high above New York City.

When Peter had finished scanning the city, he determined that the evening could be spent alone with Mary Jane in the relative quiet of his apartment living room. He’d give her a call, maybe meet her at a nice restaurant. Maybe, they could flip through old photos, talk about Harry, talk about…

Feeling the perspiration of the day’s rigors (or was it that anxious perspiration of anticipated intimacy?), Peter felt sure enough of his surroundings to risk taking off his mask. He ran his hands quickly through his sweaty hair before donning the mask once again.

Spotting a place not too distant to attach his web, Spider-Man reached out his hand to spin a web. But before he could, his world went black.

That was all he could remember after he woke up with a stiff neck, a sore back and a pounding headache that screamed for some sort of extra-strength painkiller. What had happened? Where was he?

It didn’t take long for Peter to realize – and recognize – where he was. Whoever had put him in Norman Osborn’s bedroom, let alone his bed, had not bothered to lock the door. It was wide open, almost tempting him to leave in a most nonchalant manner. That’s when Peter figured his spider-sense would kick in. But it didn’t. And that worried him. Worried him enough to be cautious despite the tingle and slightly uncomfortable feeling he got at such times. Rising from his prone position on Norman’s bed, Peter kept his eye on the door and his senses on the area around him.

What time was it? Peter looked down at his wrist, and noted what should have been obvious before. His Spider-Man outfit, the one he’d painstakingly created, was not even on him. He was in civilian clothes that were not even his own. A loose-fitting T-shirt draped his front. A pair of baggy jeans barely fit him, and nearly slid down his legs. His feet were bare. The watch on his wrist – where had that come from? – said 8:36. He didn’t wonder whether it was morning or evening, what with the light streaming through Norman Osborn’s closed windows.

Hiking his pants up, and finding a suitable belt in Norman’s closet, Peter did his best to stay presentable. The dead, he hoped, would not be coming back for their goods.

The manor had been abandoned for months after Harry’s death, taken over by the estate and left in its original condition. No servants worked there anymore, or so the story went. But Peter could tell the estate must have kept up the manor – if only until it was sold. Peter had had no reason to believe otherwise, even now, as he cautiously moved from room to room.

Two thoughts occurred to him as he turned a corner. Either he was dreaming all of this, or Harry was back from the dead. Or Norman was back from the dead. Or both were back from the dead. Okay, so that was more than two thoughts, but the sentiment of them was the same. Peter’s spider-sense, which wasn’t tingling but probably should have been, seemed to have gone on hiatus and left him dry. Were his powers waning? It was enough to make Peter even more anxious. Of course, this might all be the result of too much crime fighting. Heaven knew he needed a break, but he just couldn’t bring himself to take one.

Peter’s cautious optimism that he would find the person who had brought him here spurred him on as he scoured the manor, but he found empty room after empty room. Windows were shut; doors to the outside were locked. Harry and Norman’s lab was likewise empty of everything, excepting the masks, vials and myriad devices they had developed and used against him in their madness. It all made no sense. Whoever had done this to him had been crafty, stealthy and above all, meticulous.

It took Peter almost three hours to investigate the manor from top to bottom, without any sign of Harry, Norman, or even Bernard, the Osborn’s’ loyal butler. No one was at home, which (to Peter’s dismay) was exactly as it should have been all along.

Without much more to go on, but a lot of seasoned caution, Peter took a last inventory of his surroundings, found the front door of the Osborn manor, and fled the massive house in what could only be described as a controlled panic.

As soon as his bare feet hit the cold pavement, Peter regretted not grabbing Harry’s shoes from his room. The thought of webswinging occurred to him – to keep his feet warmer. But doing so would only call attention to himself – especially without his costume.

He missed his costume. After the incident with Venom, the red, blue and black had come to symbolize his virtuous cause and mien. It also reminded him of MJ.

As he made his way barefoot along New York’s streets toward his own apartment, Peter’s thoughts and spirits soured. The events, thoughts and distractions were most disconcerting to Peter’s own sense of duty. Someone – it had to be someone he knew – was playing a game with him, toying with him, showing they had power over him, knew his every move. His only costume was gone, and he could only suspect stolen by…by whom? Despite the logical conclusions, Peter was certain that Norman Osborn was not to blame. He was dead; and Harry Osborn, his one-time adversary – reformed and now dead – was likewise an unlikely suspect. It couldn’t be Venom, Sandman or Dr. Ock. They’d either left him alone or died horrible deaths as well. He shuddered to think about them coming back from the dead.

Shivers of the unknown raced up and down Peter’s spine. His spider-sense hadn’t detected anything amiss, and he hardly believed this to be a dream. It all felt too…real. Peter was, of course, more aware than most of his own limitations. But he also knew his powers and abilities were more than adequate to dispatch even the vilest of evildoers. Yet, this did little to calm his ever-jangling nerves.

Spying every passer-by, building, street corner and skyway for a potential encounter with Harry, Norman or anyone else for that matter who might have chosen to place him in this predicament, Peter became more and more unsure of himself, almost paranoid.

An unexpected tap on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks, causing him to whirl around almost instantly, bracing himself for the fight of his life.

“Whoa, Tiger,” Mary Jane said, taking a step back, appraising him. “I wasn’t sure it was you. I was on my way to go shopping, when I saw you. I’ve been following you since 138^th Street. I’m surprised you didn’t notice. What’s with your clothes?”

“Oh. Hi, MJ. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Mary Jane looked doubtful. “Peter… try me.”

Peter looked down. “It’s terrible, MJ. I was on my way home last night, then found myself this morning in Norman Osborn’s room without my Spider-Man costume. Instead, I had on these clothes.”

“How? Why? Do you have any idea who might have brought you there? I mean, I know you and Harry had issues, but that’s all over now. Harry’s dead. What more is there to prove?”

Peter shrugged. “I’m not exactly sure of the how or the why. But… I can’t help thinking that someone is playing with my mind.”

MJ softened a bit, trying to lighten the mood with a friedly jibe. “You didn’t drink anything, did you? Eat too many clams? Have some bad sushi?” There was a smile on Mary Jane’s face that was meant to be disarming, but Peter was not in the mood. Huffing, he started walking away.

“I’m already uptight, MJ,” he called back. She rushed forward to join him.

“I’m sorry, Peter. I should have been more understanding. This is way too strange.”

“I know.”

“But, first things first. We have got to get you out of these clothes and get you some fabric for that costume of yours. We can’t have Spider-Man going on vacation, now, can we?”

Peter smiled lightly at Mary Jane. She gave him a wink, and then stepped into the busy New York City streets to hail a cab.

Shaking off his fears, Peter threw himself into the cab, thankful to at least have MJ at his side.

----- -----

The old homeless man had been an afterthought, a way to watch Parker and yet not be seen. The man was a … convenience ... as he watched the webslinger and his girlfriend enter the cab.

I’m back, Spider-Man! Oh, yes. I’m back. And the less you know it, the better. Your days of intimidating me are over. I’ve come back for what is mine, and you won’t stop me this time. Not even remotely. Not even…at all.

foxtwin @ 2008-01-01T14:07:00

2008-01-01T19:18:45Z

This is my first, official fan fiction piece from the Blackadder fandom. It was written for kahvi in Yuletide 2007.

"Good Morning, Your Highness," Edmund Blackadder said as he violently pushed wide the doors to Prince George's chambers. "It is now five o'clock in the morning and time for your Official Rude Awakening."

The Prince, asleep under a pile of comforters, stirred only slightly.

"Gmph ampheeh."

"I'm sorry, Sir, but Parliament seems to think you rather a sloth of a fellow, who never does anything. They've passed a law requiring you to wake up at precisely the Crack of Dawn. And since Dawn has cracked, and is now shedding its bright yellow blood into the skies, it has become my duty to awaken you." Under his breath he added, "And a damn fine duty it is, sod them all."

The Prince rolled himself over and lazily shoved the covers from his face. "If I must, then I must. But why does it have to be the Crack of Dawn? Why couldn't it be the Crack of Tea or the Crack of Midnight?"

"Because, Sir, if it were the Crack of Tea, the peasants might think the fine China had been smashed to bits, and if it were the Crack of Midnight, some in Parliament might take to thinking you've been having a late night romp with their cat." Blackadder shut the doors to the Prince's chamber. "Come on, now. Let's get your clothes on."

Prince George emerged from his royal bed fully clothed in his regal attire. "Ready. Now, what's on the agenda, Blackadder? Beating a peasant to death? Getting undressed in the streets? A loud boisterous yelling of `Sod off'? Throwing biscuits at Lord Nelson?"

"Nothing of the sort, Your Highness. While the beating of peasants would add a bit of spice to the day, and throwing things at Lord Nelson would be fine sport, it has been left to me to outline a daily routine for you." Blackadder produced from his doublet a small piece of parchment as the Prince cringed awaiting his fate. "Your routine is as follows: Crack of Dawn - wake up; Mid-Morning - Breakfast; Midday - Supper; Tea Time - Tea and Crumpets; Moonrise - To Bed." With each item on Blackadder's agenda, the Prince cringed, and crumpled his own sequined coat in anguish.

The prince tossed himself back on the bed in despair. "I have to do all that?" he asked Blackadder. "When do I get to have any fun?"

"I'm afraid `fun' is out, Your Highness. But look here, this is only a start. If Parliament were to find out that you were doing more in a day than written here, something responsible or educational, perhaps, it might reconsider and let you get back to your regular routine."

"Right. So, what would you suggest?"

***

Within the hour, the Prince found himself in dawn's early light outside of the palace for the first time in almost a year, walking through the palace gardens. Blackadder, at his side, had led him here in hopes of educating the Prince about the flora and fauna that surrounded him. His secret expectation, as well, was to get any casual onlookers to notice the Prince outside of his chambers.

As they traveled the path through the gardens, Blackadder was explaining various shrubs and flowers to the Prince.

"Ooh, Blackadder," the Prince suddenly said, stooping to notice a flowering plant along the side of the path. "What kind of flower is that, with the flat yellow head and the spiky-looking leaves? Looks damned dangerous--and beautiful."

"That, sir, is called a `Dandelion.'"

"Dandy Lion," the Prince echoed. "Yes. You know, I like Dandy Lions, Blackadder. And one day, when I'm King of England, I'll make sure that everyone has Dandy Lions in their gardens, too. And not just in their gardens, but their yards and meadows, too."

Blackadder maneuvered the conversation to another flower.

"This plant, over here, is a `Foxglove.'"

Prince George shook his head. "Foxglove, indeed. Why, a fox would have a very hard time putting those on."

"And this, Sir, is a shrub named `Forsythia'"

"Well," said the Prince, much put off. "If it's for Scythia, why is it in my garden? I should think it should be called `For-George,' don't you. Really, Blackadder, I will have to tell father that the gardener here has been planting other people's flowers around the palace."

"No, Your Highness. The plant is not for Scythia, it's called `Forsythia.'"

"Now, really, Blackadder! How can a shrub call for anyone?"

Just then a voice in the distance cried out, "Milord! Milord!" Blackadder turned and saw his dogsbody Baldrick rushing toward him. But the Prince, still puzzled by the shrub's name, perked up and pointed to it saying, "You hear that, Blackadder? The plant is calling for someone, but not for Scythia. It sounds like `Millard, Millard.' And you know? These shrubs sound just like Baldrick. I'll have to tell him when I see him next. Do you suppose that there are both boy and girl shrubs, Blackadder? Do you suppose they call each other at night, here in the garden?"

The Prince's attendant did not answer, as Baldrick came closer bearing a note in his hands.

"Baldrick, what's that in your hands?"

"A letter, milord, from the Prince's Secret Admirer."

The Prince, hearing talk of secret admirers and recognizing that Baldrick was at hand, turned around.

"A secret admirer? I wonder if it's Scythia over there..." The Prince said.

"Let me see that, Baldrick," Blackadder said as he snatched the parchment from Baldrick. "It seems, Your Highness, that this letter is indeed from a secret admirer. It says they would like to meet you at midnight, outside in the garden. It says here you are to come alone."

The Prince blushed with pride, "I think you'd best tell Scythia to keep quiet then," the Prince remarked. "It just wouldn't do for her to begin calling for Millard, especially if he happens to be my secret admirer..." The Prince stood a moment contemplating the evening's meeting. The prospect of a midnight tryst excited him. Visions of a woman, scantily clad, waltzing toward him on the soft, marshy ground made the Prince swoon. Blackadder, seeing the Prince behaving thus, took time to remind the Prince of his role.

"Sir, this admirer's ardent affections must be tabled for now..."

"Yes, Blackadder. Having this admirer on a table would be much more exciting, and..."

"No, Sir. Tabled...meaning, put aside for now. We have so many other things to do to make sure that Parliament alters your daily schedule." Turning to his dogsbody, Blackadder asked, "Baldrick, where did you get this note?"

"I was given it."

"By whom?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"What do you mean, not at liberty...? Look here, Baldrick, the Prince Regent is to meet someone, and I want to know who it is."

"If I tell you, Mrs. Miggins won't give me my turnip!"

"Aha! Mrs. Miggins!" Blackadder clapped his hands together in delight, but stopped short. "Miggins? Our Mrs. Miggins?" Blackadder was aghast.

"Mrs. Miggins???" The Prince was instantly jostled out of his reverie by the revelation that Mrs. Miggins might in fact be his secret admirer. Without another thought or word, the Prince fainted straight away.

***

As the Prince was recovering in his bedchamber, Blackadder was in the kitchen interrogating Baldrick and preparing the Prince's midday supper.

"Mrs. Miggins, Baldrick? Are you sure?"

"No."

"Then, who is the Prince's admirer?"

"Well," Baldrick paused a moment, considering his answer. "Me, sir."

"You, Baldrick?" Blackadder shook his head. "A flea has more intelligence than you, Baldrick, if you think the Prince would fall in love with the likes of you."

"Oh sir, I've seen how you go about with His Highness. You wait on him hand and foot, pressing his coats and stealing his socks...You spend so much time with him, and I'm down here in the kitchens day after day, scrubbing pots, and polishing lamps, and shoveling dung for my supper..."

"And you think your time has come, do you?"

Baldrick stepped closer to Blackadder, a new boldness enveloping him. His eyes beamed brightly. "Yes. I have a cunning plan. I went to Mrs. Miggins and had her write this note for me, see, telling the Prince he had a secret admirer - Me! So tonight, I'm going to dress up as a young girl and sweep the Prince off his feet and we'll go live in some enchanted castle somewhere, and we'll both live happily ever after, like Simple Simon."

"That's Cinderella, Baldrick."

"...And Mrs. Miggins said that if I did get married to the Prince, she would help us raise lots of turnips." Baldrick looked dreamy-eyed, caught up in his own thoughts.

Blackadder snapped him out of his reverie. "If you're Cinderella, Baldrick, then who's the Fairy Godmother?"

"Yoo-hoo! Bal-drick!" As if in answer to the question, Mrs. Miggins descended the kitchen stairs. In her arms was an astonishingly beautiful blue satin dress, complete with precious stones and ruffles. Blackadder's jaw went slack.

Spying the `secret admirer' over her bundle, Mrs. Miggins gushed, "Congratulations, Baldrick! I'm sure the Prince will be most pleased. Look what I brung ye."

Blackadder, thinking again, stopped Mrs. Miggins with a pointed finger. "How did you come by that dress, Mrs. Miggins?"

"It's my sister's. I told her I was going to a high society ball, and she's loaned it to me for the evening."

"Baldrick wouldn't know high society if it were floating on the ceiling! Better tell your sister; he'll likely have that dress looking like his dungy knickers before the night is out." Blackadder, convinced of the idiocy of Baldrick's plan, added, "But no matter. I'm sure the Prince will easily smell Baldrick before he sees him - dress or no. There's comfort in that."

"Now, Mr. Blackadder! I think it's sweet what Baldrick is doing," Mrs. Miggins said. "`Twill do His Highness some good to be mixing with the peasantry. Come Baldrick, let's try this dress on."

As the two left Blackadder to himself, the Prince's butler shook his head and yelled after them, "Well, you definitely deserve each other..." then more softly, "...problem is, ye both might bloody well go through with a wedding and decide to raise turnips." With a shudder coursing through his steel nerve, Blackadder gathered the foodstuffs and made his way from the kitchen to Prince George's bedchamber. He tried not to think about recent events.

***

"What do you think, Blackadder? Isn't it smashing?" Prince George had changed out of his usual frippery and put on a monk's habit, his face concealed by the cowl.

"I see you've determined to go celibate," Blackadder said as he entered the Prince's chambers. "So much for your secret admirer, then."

"Posh," the Prince said. "I got to thinking..."

Oh, God, not again, Blackadder said to himself.

"...I can't very well go about looking like the Prince tonight, now can I, all dressed up and prim? People might notice me, especially with any suitors about. And if they think I'm a monk - or priest - then they won't think twice. A woman in Mrs. Miggins' condition - it would be like going to Concession."

"Confession, Your Highness," Blackadder corrected.

"Oh, all right! It was bound to come out sooner or later," Prince George said. In confiding tones, the Prince continued, "I've never been so in love, Blackadder. I've only heard of her. A whisper on the wind." Prince George's eyes got a rather dreamy cast to them. "I've always wanted to have an illicit affair with a peasant woman. If she's got her eyes on me, I...I can't help myself."

"Mrs. Miggins, Your Highness, is as ugly as a tortoise and ten times as wrinkled."

"Yes, but I hear that her pie is divine! No, Blackadder, I must play the peasant to marry a peasant."

Blackadder turned away, setting down the Prince's supper. "First of all, Your Highness, you'll be in the palace gardens. Shouldn't your secret admirer be able to recognize you for who you are, and also appreciate you for what you are?" The Prince wrinkled his nose as if the thought of just being himself was beneath him. "You are, after all, a handsome chap who needs to flaunt his assets." Upon hearing his assets could be flaunted, the Prince's disposition changed. He smiled broadly.

"Secondly, if any of her pie-loving customers... eh... suitors... were to catch you, which they undoubtedly would - you're not the fastest horse in the field, you know - you'd still be the Prince, and you'd be dead." It took a moment for the Prince to comprehend Blackadder's logic and imagery. Once it registered, however, a look of sheer panic crossed the Prince's face. "But, not to worry, Sir. I've discovered that Mrs. Miggins is not your secret admirer."

"Oh, damn!" Prince George exclaimed. Pulling the cowl slowly over his head, revealing his royal undergarments, the prince despondently tossed the habit on the bed; it was all he could manage given the revelation. The Prince Regent plopped himself in his large comfy chair for a pout. Not wanting to know the truth, but fearing further emotional pain, the Regent asked, "Well, who is it then?"

"Baldrick, Sir," Blackadder said smugly. "And, he's quite looking forward to the occasion."

"Baldrick?!" The Prince rose suddenly from his chair in astonishment, nervous beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow. "Wh-what shall I wear, Blackadder? I-I can't go looking like this. And all this time, I...I thought he was a man."

"He is a man, Your Highness," Blackadder said, matter-of-factly.

The Prince didn't seem to hear. "H-he sees me every day." Looking down at his undergarments, the Prince added, "I can't go like this. I-I'll have to get my best wig and jacket and socks and..." The Prince dashes from his chair to his bureau. Pulling out clothes one-by-one, he looked at each, discarding most of them upon the floor.

Blackadder looked at the Prince incredulously. "You can't be serious, Your Highness. It's Baldrick, for god's sake. He's bound to have you live in the sewers underneath the palace for the rest of your mortal life."

"Yes, well, Parliament did say I need a change of scenery," The Prince said, finding a wonderful pair of yellow stockings in the drawer and laying them neatly aside. "You've said as much yourself, now, haven't you?"

"And, what about your clothes?"

"I'll just take them all with me. Even the ones with holes in them. Maybe then, I'll be able to wear all of my socks. Matching them won't matter any more. Besides, there'll be less room to lose them in."

"But...what about the stench?"

"Hmmm, there is that," the Prince said, stopping for a moment to ponder it. Then shrugging it off, said, "I'll have to get used to it, I suppose."

"What about your meals, Your Highness? I doubt you'll find dung and turnips to your liking."

"Have you ever tried them, Blackadder?" Prince George said seriously, stopping to make sure Blackadder has his full attention. "I dare say you haven't. Neither have I, as you well know. But Parliament says a prince should be doing new things, and I intend to try." Prince George raised his chin in the air and went back to looking through his belongings for something to wear. Finding a nice velvet vest to add to his growing pile of possibilities for the evening, the Prince waved his hands in the air to dismiss his servant. "Now leave, Blackadder, before I put you straight out! You may bring my tea at the appropriate hour."

Stunned by the Prince's change in attitude, Blackadder leaves calmly enough. However, after the doors were closed, he emitted a rather loud, "Daaaaaaamn!" before heading back to the kitchens. The Prince and Baldrick - a match made in heaven. Now, how the devil to strike it so that it burned them both?

***

The bulk of the afternoon saw Edmund Blackadder stewing at Mrs. Miggins' coffee shop. Two hours had passed, and Blackadder had, uncharacteristically, been at his wit's end to find some way to intervene. It wasn't Baldrick's cunning plan, naturally doomed to fail, that had Blackadder in a whirl. It was the Prince. Never in all his time of service had the Prince so deliberately, so maliciously dismissed him. It was this, Edmund realized, that had begun to form knots of jealousy in the crannies of his heart.

Mrs. Miggins brought a cup of coffee and a few pastries to his table. Hoping to console him, she said by way of encouragement, "Well, at least you'll still have me." She allowed herself to bend over, showing him a bit of bosom.

Blackadder sat straight up, diverting his eyes. "Mrs. Miggins, as much as I enjoy your company, a pack of rats biting at my tenders at tea time in a wheat sack would give me more pleasure than marrying you."

"Still," she said, unfazed. "You can't be all down on yourself. You're bound to find yourself a nice cottage in Somerset, where ye can retire."

Blackadder looked up. "It's not done yet," he said, determination in his words. "And I'll be damned if some guttersnipe of a dogsbody is going to marry the Prince."

***

Leaving Mrs. Miggins', Blackadder made his way to the kitchens of the palace to prepare the Prince's tea. Along the way, thoughts of poisoning the Prince, or Baldrick, or both, came to mind - but were quickly suppressed by his sense of loyalty. The Prince was, indeed, his friend. Likewise Baldrick, as silly and incompetent as the little bugger was. It was a difficult truth to own, this loyalty. Despite that, Blackadder found himself looking for that container of rat droppings Baldrick collected. Perhaps the Prince would savor the odd taste, and call it a delicacy.

Finding the container hidden behind a small stash of oddly shaped turnips, Blackadder held his breath as he opened the container. Stealing a peek, he was disappointed to find it empty. Cursing his luck, Blackadder set to making the Prince's tea.

Quickly made, the prince's tea would not have his customary sweetmeats. Instead, Blackadder plucked three blackened crumpets from the hearth, topped them with butter, and placed the tea not-so-daintily on a fashionable tray. This is too good for the likes of Prince Floppyhead, Blackadder mused as he ascended the stairs and out the kitchen.

"I'll take these choicest crumpets," Blackadder said aloud to no one in particular, as he walked steadily toward the Prince's bedchamber. "..And shove them up his Royal Highness, if he so much as mentions Baldrick!"

Approaching the Prince's closed bedchamber door, Blackadder turned to enter backwards. Not a moment after he nudged the door open, a dramatic fanfare of horns blared so loudly and unexpectedly, that it was all Blackadder could do to hold onto the tea tray without toppling it completely. Quickly regaining his composure, and steadying the tray, Blackadder turned forward again to see the Prince smiling from ear to ear. Standing behind him, in full tabard, were seven of the royal musicians with horns set to lips.

"I see you've come with my tea, Blackadder. You may lay it down over on that table, there." The Prince, to Blackadder's dismay, was still being rather standoffish. Maybe some Blackadder charm could get him back in the Prince's good graces. Setting the tray in its place, Blackadder chose to engage the Prince in some light conversation.

"I see you have brought the musicians in to serenade you and prepare you for this evening's affairs, Your Highness."

"Indeed I have, Blackadder. I thought to myself, `Blackadder will be here with my tea soon.' and what do you suppose goes best with tea, Blackadder?"

Blackadder looked at the prince, shrugged and suggested, "Music?"

"Trumpets, Blackadder. That's the way peasants have their tea, Blackadder. With trumpets!"

"Crumpets, Your Highness. I believe you'll find they have their tea with crumpets," Blackadder corrected.

The Prince spied the trumpets suspiciously, and seemed to notice an oddity in one of them. "Well, yes, this one looks a bit crumpety, Blackadder. But the others are perfectly straight and well formed..."

"Crum-pets, Your Highness," Blackadder tried again.

"Really, Blackadder," the Prince said, turning back to his butler with a dubious look on his royal face. "I've heard of dogs and cats, but crumbs as pets. I shall have to talk to Baldrick about that. It just would not do to have a crumb as a royal pet..."

Blackadder threw his hands in the air just as the Prince stared off, contemplating life with a small crumb running around the palace. Wrinkling his nose, then shaking his head, the Prince decided, "No, I'd be sure to find it, pick it up and eat it. That would set Baldrick off, no end. And I'm afraid I'd never be able to live with myself."

"Yeah," Blackadder mused under his breath. "Just wait `til you've got a turnip running around the house!"

***

The hours since Tea had been slow, and the great Edmund Blackadder could do nothing to make them speed up. He'd attempted to stay with the Prince beyond his appointed hour, but the Prince would have none of his assistance.

"If I'm to be a peasant, Blackadder, I shall have to learn to dress myself like one." So said the Prince, who looked worse than the part some two hours later as Blackadder was summoned again.

The legs of the Prince's breeches were two different lengths, his white wig had been replaced with a red one. His jerkin was one size too small, and his jacket one size too large.

"Sir," Blackadder said, not unkindly. "If you are to make an impression on young Baldrick, might I again suggest that you just go as yourself. You'll be much more comfortable."

"Perhaps you're right, Blackadder. Now, leave me. I have much preparation to do."

"Indeed you do, Sir. Indeed you do," was as much as Blackadder could manage between clenched teeth.

Blackadder's walk back to the kitchens was perhaps the heaviest they had ever been. The Prince and Baldrick both were getting ready for their midnight madness, whilst he - upstanding butler that he was - remained detained in the kitchens doing the menial tasks he would usually have Baldrick doing. Two hours - maybe more - of making sure the ovens were hot, the floors had been swept, the mice had been fed and the rat dung collected. The tasks were beneath him, and his heart yearned and ached for some resolution. But none came. Justice, Blackadder noted, was well sighted and downright cynical. As Blackadder was about to douse the candle for the evening and make his way to his own apartments, Baldrick's voice roused him from melancholy.

"Mr. Blackadder! Mr. Blackadder!" Baldrick, in his flowing gown, was picking up its train as if he'd been gathering turnips in it.

"What is it, Baldrick? Aren't you supposed to be meeting the Prince in the gardens soon?"

Baldrick, having made it successfully down the stairs, chose that moment to stumble into a kitchen stool. Recovering clumsily, Baldrick looked at Blackadder sheepishly. "That's just it. I can't do it."

"What do you mean you can't do it, Baldrick?"

"I mean, I've got wet feet."

"Don't you mean cold feet, Baldrick?"

"Yeah, that too." Baldrick looked down at his feet, as if to make sure.

"What about this cunning plan of yours? Sweeping the Prince off his feet?"

"That's just it, Mr. Blackadder. I'm not ready. I don't know that I'll ever be ready."

"You look pretty damn ready to me right now, Baldrick," Blackadder said, sarcasm and jealousy mingling in his tone.

"Well, you see, I'd been getting ready all day. And Mrs. Miggins was so helpful, and all. But then, I was getting ready to meet the Prince when I realized... He's him, and I'm me. And, well, I got scared, Mr. B. I realized that if I marry the Prince, I'd be the one staying at home raising the turnips, while he did his Prince things. I'd be doing his cooking, his cleaning, his washing, his scrubbing, his mending... And... I'm just not ready for that kind of commitment."

"Well spoken, Baldrick," Blackadder said without any hint of sympathy. "You're right. The Prince has as much need for you doing his washing as swine have bathing in the River Thames... well, most of the year, anyway. And he has as much need for your cooking as a rat who has just eaten twelve pounds of rat poison."

"Yeah," Baldrick interjected, looking rather dreamily into the cooking fire. "I do like the extra taste of rat poison with my meals." Coming out of his dreamy state, Baldrick added, "It's just, I don't want to disappoint His Majesty. He's been so gracious to want to see me all decked out. He may never speak with me again, if I don't show."

"Baldrick, His Majesty the Prince Regent already talks to you less than a stone talks to a pebble, so I hardly think one night out in the chilly air without your dung-y smell is going to burden him."

"I suppose you're right, Mr. B." Baldrick slouched, defeated. Blackadder patted him on the shoulder once, but made no comment as he tended to the supper cooking on the hearth.

All of a sudden, Baldrick's head shot upright, and a broad smile lit his face. Blackadder became immediately suspicious.

"Baldrick! You look to be hatching one of your cunning plans again."

"I am, sir, though not so much hatching as born."

"What do you mean?"

"I have a cunning plan that will get the Prince to send me away. I will disguise myself, such as I am, as a pregnant maiden."

"Oh dear god," Blackadder said.

"When the Prince sees me tonight, he will say to me, `Get away, you pregnant maiden. You shall NOT be my wife!"

Blackadder brightened. Baldrick's plan might actually work.

"Yes... Baldrick, yes. That should do nicely. Here... let's see... we'll need a pillow and a few of these pig bladders and..."

Edmund Blackadder could not believe his luck - and Baldrick's simple mind - that could get him back into the good graces of Prince George. He set to work at once to make Baldrick's plan his own...and help its flaws to be less noticeable.

***

The night was darker and chillier than even Blackadder had anticipated. Baldrick, having not taken to the softness of a pillow, or the bloatiness of a pig's belly, determined instead to use the large turnip Mrs. Miggins had given him for his pregnant roundness. Blackadder and Baldrick secreted their way through the palace's lower corridors to exit into the gardens and conceal themselves among the hedgerow bushes.

Prince George did not disappoint them. His entrance was on cue and in perfect form. His royal demeanor, along with his naïve boyishness, was captured by the light of a half-moon as Baldrick and Blackadder looked through the cracks in the hedgerow.

Baldrick danced nervously on his feet in obvious distress.

"Will you quit, Baldrick?" Blackadder said. "The Prince is bound to hear your rustling feet. This is no time to back down from your plan."

"I'm sorry, Mr. B., but I forgot to use the chamber pot."

"For godssakes, Baldrick!" Blackadder said. "Here. Let me help you." Lifting the dress high so that Baldrick could do his excretory business in the bushes, Blackadder hoped their cover would not be blown. Unfortunately, the rustling sound of liquid urine hitting the bush leaves seemed to attract His Majesty's attention, because the Prince Regent made his way in their direction.

"Hurry up, Baldrick!" Blackadder whispered, not politely. The Prince was getting closer, and stopped just directly in front of the hedgerow. The Prince could tell that someone was behind the hedgerow, but was unable to see them clearly in the darkness.

"I have come to meet my Secret Admirer," the Prince said. Baldrick, behind the hedge, began to get even more nervous. A nudging by Blackadder in the ribs seemed to give the dogsbody courage.

"I am Your Secret Admirer," Baldrick said in a high-pitched falsetto. Blackadder shook his head in dismay. But the Prince, upon hearing the voice, brightened.

"Yes! And a saucy wench you must be, my darling," the Prince said.

"I am not a sausage wench!" Baldrick said. "I am... a pregnant maiden."

"Even better!" said the Prince. "I love it when they can hide the evidence in their bellies. Come now... show yourself, so we can be wed on the morrow."

Baldrick was unsure of himself. Blackadder less so. But a look of courage and determination set onto Baldrick's face as he walked the few yards to the hedgerow's end, and rounded the corner so he could face the Prince. Seeing Baldrick in a stunning gown, his beard and whiskers poking out on his face, the Prince smiled with delight.

"Why, Baldrick! You're not a saucy wench at all! But... how did you become pregnant? Who... who did this to you?"

"Why, Mr. B, of course! Come on out Mr. B!"

Blackadder walked out from around the hedge, determined to make these two feeble-minded buffoons learn a thing or two.

"Now see here," Blackadder said as he rounded the hedgerow. "Baldrick is not pregnant."

"Not pregnant, Blackadder?" the Prince said with an embarrassed laugh, pointing to Baldrick's middle. "He's certainly got a big belly. And, from what I can tell, you're the one who got him that way."

"It's a turnip, Your Highness," Blackadder said, as if that would explain everything.

The Prince did not seem affected in the slightest by this news. "And what kind of baby did you expect, Blackadder? Of course, it's a turnip! And it's an illegitimate turnip, too, if you ask me."

Blackadder was getting visibly agitated by the Prince's remarks. "Baldrick, lift up your skirt and show the Prince you're not pregnant. Show him."

Baldrick hesitated a moment, but did as he was told, popping out the large turnip that had acted as his pregnant roundness.

"Here it is," Baldrick said, holding the turnip as a mother might hold a child.

"Oh, Baldrick," the Prince said, coming closer. "It's beautiful." Baldrick beamed. The Prince looked at Baldrick a moment, then at the turnip, then up at Blackadder.. "It looks just like you both. I hope you'll be very happy together."

This was not at all what Blackadder had wanted. "Now see here, Your Highness..." Blackadder began. But the Prince cut him short.

"No, you see here. Baldrick came here to see me. But you go off and get him pregnant. And now, this turnip is born. Seems to me, Blackadder, that this young thing needs a nurse, someone to take care of it."

Blackadder was now completely non-plussed and beside himself with frustration. But the butler composed himself enough to speak politely to his Prince.

"Sire... this turnip is not mine. It belongs solely to Baldrick, and I think he should decide who should take care of it."

Baldrick nodded. Then, ever so carefully, brought the turnip closer to the Prince, and handed it off as a mother might hand off a baby.

The Prince smiled broadly as he brought the large turnip to his chest. "Oh, thank you Baldrick," he said. "Finally, a turnip to call my own."

The Fox's Yuletide Recommendations Are...

2008-01-01T05:07:01Z

PG Wodehouse -- Jeeves and Wooster

"Jeeves and the Female of the Species" is a lovely, if twisted take on Bertie's ups and downs with Honoria Glossop. Well written and truly inspired! One I have enjoyed reading over again :-) BIG THANK YOU!!!

Robert Jordan -- The Wheel of Time

"A Walk in the Westwood" is a fabulous futurefic that offers a glimpse at a possible meeting of Mat and Rand after the final battle. The characters are perfect, and the situation emotional, appropriately awkward and exceptionally shippy! Kudos again to the mystery author!

Bible -- New Testament

"The One My Soul Loves" is a wonderful, innocent glimpse of the Apostle John's admiration & affection for Christ. It is very, very well written, and is *best* read with purity of mind.

Blackadder

"Pipe Dreams" is just about bang-on for dialogue, wit and all those things that make for a good Blackadder episode. I'm still in awe.

As read more, I am sure to update this entry in one form or fashion.

Poem Drabble for the Rabble

2007-10-18T18:58:48Z

A/N: This is a rhyming game, that might be fun for some of you drabble lovers. The theme of this poem is money and buying things. Yours might be different, or you might want to add your own lines to my poem.

Rules: You take a word in the beginning of the sentence or line and at the end make it rhyme. See how it goes, now? If you're in the mood, don't be rude. Reply to this post, with your own poem for the host.

===

Mr. Underwood's in the 'Hood
With a card that's plastic and hard.
Got a name and number on the same,
Buyin' a lot that he hasn't got.

He bought a Coke(R) for the bloke,
A steak for the sheik,
Two cars for the Stars,
A collar for a dollar,
A house for his spouse,
And some glue for his shoe.

His brother told his mother
When the daughter got an otter.
"That man spent a gran'
Just on biscuits and stale Triscuits (tm)!"

When mail arrived for a special sale,
Mr. Underwood, who thought that he could,
Determined to buy like the limit was sky.
But the sale was for ale,
And his tears turned to fears
As bills for his thrills
Came down by the poun'.

Sure 'nuff that was awful tough,
Paying for goods for the Underwoods.
But he ended his spree,
And all was happy hand-clappy,
For Mr. U knew what to do.
He'd toss the cards to be the boss
Of his own financial zone.

Now in a flash, he pays in cash,
His smile is now linked with his style.

Some Limericks (Meme Alert)

2007-08-17T00:55:30Z

I'm not sure why the Irish blood in me has been SCREAMING lately (Down, lad. Down, Derry, Down!). Perhaps its the lack of Guinness...Mmmmm, Guiness....

So to try and exorcise -- ahem -- exercise this beloved muse, I have determined to begin a meme of sorts -- a limerick challenge, if you will. I submit my own *original* and *clean* limericks for your amusement and enjoyment. If you choose to join this meme, please keep your limericks *clean* and *original* and post on your own site referencing

foxtwin

***.

A musician without any shoes
Walked onto the stage with his news:
"My feet are so swollen;
My shoes, they were stolen.
My sole is now all blacks and blues.

There oneth wathe a cow with a lithp
Who chewed up her grath until crithp
One day she got hammered
And thuttered and thtammered
'Bout crathity chewity grithp

A man with a heart full of sin,
Sought romance at once to begin.
His countrified charm
Was meant to disarm --
But he was no match for a mannequin!

A talented drummer named Ned
Confounded the critics who said
His downbeat was mired
By arms that were tired.
So he played on the drums with his head.

Meme Spam, Too Spam!

2007-08-16T02:24:03Z

bistyboo1974 sent me the letter "S" to continue the Meme -- so here goes:

"S"

1. Singing Songs Sonorously Scribed
2. Silly Songs Sung Spontaneously
3. Short Short Stories
4. Spidery Spandex Sporting Superheroes
5. Symphonic Sonorities
6. Strike-sensing Southpaws Sending Small Spheres Speedily
7. Senators, Statesmen, Shenanigans
8. Shiloh, Sherman, 'Sixty Southern State Secession Squabbles
9. Splenda-suffused Sodas
10. Sultry Spousal Suggestions ;-)

On Pitching Pathetic Pitchers & others worthy of scorn

2007-07-03T12:07:04Z

In light of the recent turnover in the MLB, I humbly submit this parody:

(Ahem)

Where have all good pitchers gone?
Long time catching.
Where have all the aces gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the Fellers gone?
Gone to Heaven every one
When will their fastballs burn?
When will those rookies learn?

Where have all the good plays gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the pop ups gone?
Into the lights.
Where have all the Ozzies gone?
Sent them packing, every one.
When will management learn
Good talent must return!

Where have all the baseballs gone?
Past the pitcher.
Where have all the baseballs gone?
Into the hole.
Where have all the baseballs gone?
They've been flipped, and dropped and...ooops!
Oh when will they ever learn *facepalm*
Oh when will they ever learn.

Phoebe

2007-06-19T23:05:36Z

NOTE: This short short, while somewhat depressing, is also laced with hope. I really tried to give this a feminine touch (I am a straight, married male). This is only my second or third foray into writing in the mindset of a character whose gender is not my own. Please let me know what you think -- and even what you (especially if you are a female writer) think I could improve in the pathos to make such stories better.
###

An hour of her time. That's all that Phoebe had wanted. An unadulterated hour of her time.

Sam walked away from the gravesite, wiping her hands as she went as if she hadn’t wanted to get her clothes messy. She hadn’t wanted to wear an elegant dress. Jeans – hole in the leg, rip along the rear – and an oversized T-shirt to hide her butt were all she cared to throw together. Her brother said she was callous, wasn’t reverencing the dead. Sam had told him to mind his own business. But deep down, it hurt. Got her to thinking. Got her to wishing. It had even got her to praying a short prayer.

The part that bothered Sam most as she got to her car was that Phoebe hadn’t really been all that. She’d been just as obnoxious as Sam could be – maybe more. But now that she was dead, things had turned themselves upside down. Perspective had changed. Three A.M. would never be the same. And for Sam, Hell had somehow gotten ten miles closer.

Phoebe had never been much of friend, either – if truth be told. A friend doesn’t steal your boyfriend, turn him against you and make life a living Hell ever afterward. A friend doesn’t go behind your back, then make you feel like everything was your fault. But that had been Phoebe. And all that didn’t mean a hill of dirt now. Not unless, in a twisted way, she considered Phoebe’s grave a hill of dirt.

Behind the wheel, Sam’s thoughts continued to churn. How had Phoebe managed to stay sane those twelve days? How had she managed to keep from freaking out. She knew she was going to die. Sam turned left onto Brisbane Lane, and continued north onto Highway 323. The insanity of sanity! How dare Phoebe die on her! How dare she! And there she was. In a grave – six feet under. Flowers on her grave accented – somehow even gave credence to – Phoebe’s chastity. Ha! If only they knew the truth. Sam pulled out her cell phone from purse as she made the Lincoln Street exit. Didn’t see the car. Felt the jolt. Heard the sirens. The voices. Saw the blackness and dim grayness and flashing red-yellow-green-blue-orange-white.

And so, in her hospital room, she weeps almost all the time. Cries out Phoebe’s name – curses Phoebe’s name, sometimes – as her brother – her god-love-him brother -- gives her an hour of his time. Every day.

Straw-Stick-Brick-N-Bean Poll

2007-06-16T02:16:45Z

I've got such eclectic tastes that I need some help with story ideas. Don't let the questions fool you too much. First impressions are not necessarily what I'm looking for, but an honest answer is always welcome.

View Poll: Straw-Stick-Brick-N-Bean Poll

Poetry: Getting a Handle on Musical Fireworks

2007-05-30T00:18:03Z

A silly poem

Oboe, Flute, Clarinet and Lute

Sat by the fire in amusing attire.

Said Oboe to Clari, “I think it is scary

When players will fail to play minor scale.”

“What’s scarier yet,” remarked Clarinet,

“Is when players fail at a proper exhale!”

The flute did concur in verbiage demure,

Though Lute said, “It’s false at the root!

It’s players who strum, and choose then to hum,

Who cause all the stress and started this mess!”

An oboe, a flute, clarinet and lute,

Argued together on all but the weather –

And as went their ire, so ignited the fire

And anger was spread from this one little thread.

It took an outsider to be the provider

Of solace and calm to this unsettling qualm --

A niggling suspicion by a master musician

That sounds cacophonic from inst’ments symphonic

Would sour the tune of any bassoon!

So, gathering her dress and the need to confess,

She rose from her seat and conceded defeat.

“You’re right, it is true, that players play you

In ways that might not delight.

But we practice and play every hour of the day

To make hollowed wood sound ever so good.”

Oboe, Flute, Clarinet and Lute

Sat by the fire, and settled their ire.

And for days ever after, they recalled with laughter

Their fiery debate and the player’s check mate –

Which helped them refrain from cause to complain.

Pick-Your-Own-Drabble Drabble

2007-05-29T22:39:47Z

I love the idea of drabbles so much, I'd like to see what y'all do with this one:

Directions: Pick ONE item from Column A (Mood), ONE item from Column B (Character), and ONE OR MORE items from Column C (Object). As some of my students have been wont to read the Ending first and the Beginning last, write an ENDING to a story that just as easily could be at the BEGINNING, keeping the word count at no more than 100 words. Please don't spoil your choices for us, unless you *absolutely* must; let your writing spoil it for us :-)

MOOD                    CHARACTER                OBJECT
Elated                    Batman                           Bird Feeder
Self-righteous       Spider-Man                    Rusty Waffle Iron
Humorous             Superman                       Cheese Sauce
Romantic              The Incredible Hulk        Dirty Diaper

NOTE:   If you post it in your own LJ, let me know and I'll link it back to you from my page. Otherwise, you may add your drabble in the comments. My own contibution will be forthcoming (gimme a day or so to catch up with my own idea :P)

Dead Bunny Drabble

2007-05-28T00:09:49Z

My contribution to the htbthomasdead bunny drabble. It's a *Wonder Pets* spoof -- but rather a-typical and not for the faint of heart.

Ming-Ming was seriously upset. The bunny wasn't moving. Its brown fur a mere lump rising above the grass on the lawn outside the school house.

"This is serious," she sang in a minor key.

"We have to help her." Tuck's words were spoken in a Mozartian aside, almost hushed.

As Lenny approached the bunny, not hearing a sound, he feared the worst. "We're here to rescue you, little brown bunny." The words were sung out in a hopeful key. But the long fermata of silence afterward told them all that no amount of rescuing would bring this bunny back to his mother alive.

With the stoic resolve of every hero reaching a fallen comrade, the trio made their airship into a stretcher, laying the broken bunny inside. With downcast eye and depressed spirits, they moved the corpse toward the den where its mother was waiting for news.

Heartbroken at the thought of failure, but knowing their duty as Wonder Pets, the three sang a dirge -- in minor key a tempo largo:

"We found the bunny...
"Out in the field..
"We tried to help it...
"It was serious...
"We tried to save it...
"To save the bunny...
"But when we got there..
"It was already dead...
"We're really sorry...
"We're really sor-ry."