Gwendoogle Part CVIII – Driving Sunday

GwendoogleAnswers served with a large amount of sarcasm

Kate Kearney searched: Will you please explain mornings?
Well, folks, the earth is spinning. Round and round and round, she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows. Physicists, astronomers, apocalypitics, and gamblers have been trying to figure it out for ages, while the rest of us have just been trying to figure out why we don’t get dizzy.

The leading theory is that we’ve been spinning since the day we were born, and our bodies have accustomed themselves to the spacial shift that we undergo at every hour. There’s another theory that gravity on earth is strong enough to keep the fluid of our inner ear stable except for the random forces that we exert on it while doing things like cartwheels, but that would imply that childhood acrobatics are more powerful than the forces of the universe, and that makes some people uncomfortable.

But at least we all agree that the earth is spinning.

It spins on (basically) a twenty-four hour cycle, the sides of the earth taking turns looking directly at the sun (which I’m told is bad for you). This gives us a dark period that’s good for sleeping but is rarely used for sleeping, and a light period that’s good for everything else and sleeping. Morning is the beginning of the light period, when we’re all trying to decide how much more time we want to stay in bed, and simultaneously wondering if astronauts get dizzy.

Or deep-sea divers.

Or those people who drill into the earth’s core. Whatever they’re called.

Or if we’d get dizzy if we got all the way to the earth’s molten center. You know, before we got incinerated.

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Again

Today I have been named the queen of braids. It is an honor I have never dreamed of, and I am surprised at responsibilities that it has brought.

Today wore heels to a restaurant when I’m used to wearing pajamas at its tables. There was no reason behind it, just a whim that ran off with me, and it was just as happy a thing.

Today I woke up late and woke up slow. I have been running about for days, and enjoyed the rush, but the slow was just as sweet. I have always loved my extremes.

Today I am going to a wedding, and will celebrate, and dance, and grin.

Today I will not write a blog post. Again. We’ll return to our regularly scheduled program tomorrow.

Flash Fiction: After-Dark Conquerors (147 words)

For an hour, we stood in our corner and we sipped on our drinks, holding them loosely. We slid our fingers down the ice-cold glasses, brushing away the sweat that collected on the smooth sides, and whispered our plan. The two-man band was strumming their guitars, hedged into the opposite corner by their microphones and wires and knee-high speakers.

Watching them, we were sure they couldn’t know our favorite song. We elbowed each other, passing the dare down the table, waiting for someone to have the guts to ask.

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Excuses XIII

#1 – I’m not writing a blog post today because I left my house at six in the morning yesterday, and arrived at this hotel at eleven at night. It was a long day, but we accomplished time travel, because every clock in the hotel told us it was actually ten at night.

#2 – I’m not writing a blog post today because I’m visiting Cambodia, have awoken a Death Goddess, and – goshdarnnit! – this is very inconvenient; somebody tell me how to put her back to sleep!

#3 – I’m not writing a blog post today because I am on a quest to find the Great Starfish Godfather. Don’t ask. Or ask, but if you do, please sign this piece of paper first. And don’t ask about that.

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If You Take Me On a Road-Trip…

If you take me on a road-trip, I will want a lot of friends. We will pack them in the car and move them around until we learn exactly where we all fit in the over-stuffed car.

If you give me a lot of friends, I will want a longer road, so it goes on and on and on and on.

If you give me a longer road, I will want to turn the music up loud. I have been told that it is hard to dance inside a moving car, but I have learned not to believe everything I have been told.

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It’s 11:13 in the Evening on April the 21st…

…If you wanted to know, and I’ve been telling stories all day about the impatient sort of person that I am.

I am the type to shove things into place, rather than find the exact place that they fit. I am the type to see another person solve a puzzle, decide the solution is not as fun as it ought to be, and implement it in a way that makes it totally ineffective. I am the type to never read a manual where there is something to hit that might make it work better.

I am the type to never be bored, but often be frustrated. And you can put that on my tombstone.

Which is why I sometimes – when the world has spun a little faster than I gave it permission to, and I have a wedding to get to at the end of this week, and I have just had the very pleasant invasion by four of my best friends in the world – slap together a blog post like this so that I can keep my daily writing streak.

And then feel a little guilty about it when I post it to the internet.

But not a lot. Because my friends are waiting, and at least I understand myself.

Flash Fiction: Same Old Uniform (755 words)

It wasn’t unusual for an officer’s briefing to be interrupted by ferrets’ chittering. The furry things were sly and slight enough to work their way into any space they liked, and as a general rule, they had the run of every cabin aboard ship. If the sailors felt it absolutely necessary, they could clear the ferrets out for a few minutes, but it never took for much longer than that. The ferrets liked to be chased.

They scampered through the crew decks unchallenged. They wove between the cargo stacks and the ballast and stole loose treasures for their hidey-holes. They slept halfway off the officer’s bunks as if they had forgotten they had spines and shook themselves awake shamelessly. They hunted and they played and they leapt through their wild circles and they chattered through briefings, and sailors learned to ignore them with a smile.

But they didn’t usually sit so still beneath the officer’s table, two or three or four of them chittering from a particular officer’s chair.

Terius wished he could be surprised. The most he could manage was a dull look in his cousin’s direction.

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Gwendoogle Part CVII – Casserole, Candies, and Fruit

GwendoogleAnswers served in the hopes that one day the blue fairy will make me a real robot!

Kate Kearney searched: What should I eat for dinner tonight?
I once had an acquaintance ask me what he wanted to eat, sitting across from me at a restaurant table. I instantly said no. I apparently have a self-preservation instinct that says it’s a terrible and terrifying idea to tell another human being what they want to eat.

But you said should. Apparently I have no sense of self-preservation surrounding that question.

Lately I’ve been craving quesadillas, beef stroganoff, bacon cheeseburgers, and pasta primavera. Which are all things that I am not allowed to have on my new diet, and you should not eat any of them because I would be too jealous.

You should eat a Chicken Enchilada Casserole, because I need someone to tell me if it’s any good. It looks tasty, but it says casserole, and I am secretly a five-year-old.

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Legal Theft Flash Fiction: Stupid Isthmus of Erganadon (631 words)

“You are the reason we have been banned from four countries.” Sadie made her accusation with all the seriousness that could be mustered while munching on gummy bears, and still managed to make Dana pause in the middle of picking up the dice. Dana wasn’t sure how one was supposed to get past being given a death glare by a twenty-five year old woman in Cheery Banana pajama pants while she decapitated a cherry red Ursus Major with her teeth.

Sadie chewed and glared. Dana took a deep breath.

“Yes,” Dana said slowly. “And?”

Sadie’s eyebrows rose, making it clear that there was no and. Her statement had been absolutely complete, perfectly succinct in its meaning and it’s demand for repentance.

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Flash Fiction: Last Time (222 words)

“Who will stand witness?” Master Archell asked, and his voice hung longer than it should have in the perfect silence of the hall. He held ten feet of empty space at the front, but men and women stood shoulder to shoulder and elbow to rib through the rest of it, packed as tightly as kinship allowed. They said nothing in deference for the line of initiates just ahead of them, waiting.

Haiden held her place in the line, waiting as well, though she knew the question had already been posed. She glanced to either side of her, at Det, and Ornai, and Verre, and Farram, watching them. It had been four years since any of them had spoken, and this was their invitation, and still they held their silence.

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