Day #4 – Strolling the Red (Cross) Carpet

Short Writings from Silly Prompts, , ,

Today’s prompt: You are the personal stylist for a yeti who wants to be fashionable.

When Patrick emailed me inquiring about my services, I wasn’t sure if he was being honest. In retrospect, he wasn’t entirely forthcoming. He said he was going to be accepting an award at a prestigious event and wanted to appear fashionable. That much was true. He also claimed to be a larger fellow with a commanding presence. His words, not mine. But also true, it turns out. He spoke of being an older gentleman. Now, depending on how picayune you want to be about the definition of older and gentle, that admission was a little nebulous. Whatever the case, he concluded the email with a number where I could reach him. So I called him, and once we got past the niceties, the part I most despise, we got right to business.

“You said you are an older gentleman,” I said. “Could you be more specific?”

Patrick cleared his throat. His voice was deep and throaty. “I may have stretched the truth on that a little. Or underplayed it, more like.”

Just as I suspected.

“I’m not old so much as ancient,” he said. “I’m 185.”

I laughed. “Well, I’m sure you’re young at heart,” I said, deciding to go along with the joke. He was obviously embarrassed by his age and likely not the commanding presence he claimed to be. Perhaps more of a legend in his own mind. He was probably a frail, yet stately, old man attending some podunk awards ceremony at a VFW hall or a Wendy’s.

His booming, almost savage voice betrayed this, though.

“And I’m not always so gentle,” he added. I know. It sounds cringey on paper. But he did not state this in that skeevy way some men have of making everything sexual. “I’ve had to do some things I’m not proud of… for the sake of survival.” He paused again. “You see, I’ve had what some would call a solitary life.”

Oh, okay! NOW I was getting it. I’d gotten him all wrong. He wasn’t a fragile little old man. He was clearly some weirdo, probably living in a bunker, munching on dry ramen, and brandishing an impressive collection of firearms all bearing Biblical names. He probably peed in a can he kept next to his bare mattress, covered with stains that could not and SHOULD not be explained. And the award? Likely a medal or a knife or something from some whack organization like the Conspiracy Theorists of America who find it impossible to get everyone together for the ceremony because nobody believes anybody else about the location or purpose of the event.

“I should have added that I am a yeti,” he finally said. Okay. Fine. I can admit I’m not much of an intuitive person. I can elevate your wardrobe in ways that would blow your mind, though.

“That makes so much more sense,” I said, explaining to him what I’d been thinking just moments before. We both laughed (or bellowed, in his case), and then he shared that he did sleep on a stained mattress, which I didn’t need to know. I’m often the recipient of unwanted information. I suppose that’s the personal part of personal stylist. Or, in this case, yetial stylist.

“I’m receiving an award from the Red Cross,” he said.

“Really!?” I gasped. “That’s so cool! What for?”

“For saving a couple of lost trekkers in the Himalayas.”

“Oh!” I said, truly impressed.

“And, subsequently, not eating them,” he added. “So, do you think you can help me? Can you make an old yeti look presentable on the red carpet?”

“I believe I can. As long as you don’t try to eat me,” I said, only half joking.

“I won’t,” he assured me. “I’m a vegetarian.”

“Then count me in,” I said. “So, I’m going to assume you’re a winter…”

Day #3 – Of Centaurs and Banshees

Short Writings from Silly Prompts, , ,

My job is not an easy one. But it is a rewarding one. Sure, if you’d asked me ten years ago if I’d ever rise to fame as a writer of horoscopes for mythological creatures, I’d have inquired about the mind-altering chemicals you’d ingested and then, depending on my mood, either suggested rehab or asked whether you’d be willing to share. Alas, no one can see into the future. Well, I mean, I kind of do. Horoscopes and all that. And before you accuse me of dealing in astrological hokum, I’d like to regale you with tales of some of my most recent “forecasts” and how they’ve come or are coming to fruition.

First, just under three weeks ago, Chester came clomping up to me on the street and thanked me for helping him get a new job. Chester is a centaur and also an Aquarian, which is an air sign. If you didn’t know any better, you might assume that it’s a water sign. This just proves the intricate and mysterious nature of astrology. It’s exciting, really. So if you weren’t interested before, you should be now. Anyhow, Chester’s horoscope on the day that he applied for that job told him that it was a day to “go forth with confidence and seize opportunities!” So he suited up, picking the most stylish tie that would accent his bare, rippling, muscular chest, and polished his horseshoes to a sheen. And I’ll be damned if he didn’t get that job!

Then, about ten days ago, I received a letter from a hydra, postmarked from the Lake of Lerna. This hydra had been lamenting never being able to find love, given its disagreeable nature and poisonous breath. (The poor creature had to have the letter transcribed by a kind Selkie while in human form, donning a gas mask.) The hydra was a Pisces, which IS a water sign. So go figure. But the thing with those born under the Pisces sign is that they can be very indecisive. In the hydra’s case, this was compounded by having multiple heads. The hydra had recently learned about the option to be a subject in an experimental surgery that could remove the poison from its breath and blood to make it more desirable, or at least not deadly, to others. It was unsure if it wanted to go under the knife. But then, it read in its horoscope that day that it should “go forth with confidence and seize opportunities!” The hydra did just that. And though the poison could not be completely removed, the hydra found love with an itinerant koala whose system that could handle the poison of the eucalyptus made it also able to tolerate the hydra’s reduced toxicity. It’s a classic love story, really. And if that doesn’t pull on your heartstrings, you may be a sociopath. Or a Virgo.

Perhaps you’re still not convinced of my ability to prophesy. Well, I’ve saved the best for last. Just three days ago, I received an email from a banshee named Bertha. She struggled with her role in the world as a loud harbinger of death. She said she didn’t feel it was really in her wheelhouse. Bertha told me she was a quiet and introspective type, an emotional and nurturing creature. Classic Cancer, I thought. Yet, not compelled to leave the comfort of her mother’s womb (also classic Cancer), she was born under the fire sign of Leo. She’d recently been trying to embrace the naturally confident and charismatic nature possessed by Leos. I encouraged her to do just that and shared with her her horoscope for that day, which read, “Go forth with confidence and seize opportunities!” Bertha transformed from a shy wallflower to an emboldened screamer of impending tragedy. It was really beautiful.

So yeah. Writing horoscopes is not just a bunch of hooey. It’s the real deal. I’ve even befriended some of my readers. Bertha is coming by later, in fact. She says she has something she needs to share with me. My gut, which is rarely wrong, tells me it’s gonna be something good.

WRITING PROMPT: You have a job writing horoscopes for mythological creatures.

Day #2 – Dangerous Work

Think About It, , ,

“So why… dragons?” he asks.

It’s a question I’m frequently asked. And I get it. “I guess I thought it would be exciting.”

“And is it?” He smiles, revealing a row of yellowing teeth. “Exciting, I mean?”

“I knew what you meant,” I say, looking over his x-rays from six months before. “It hasn’t been boring. Let’s just say that.”

“I imagine it hasn’t,” he smiles again. It would be easy to mistaken it as a lecherous smile if he were human. But it is not. It is a little sinister though. Over the years, I’ve learned to interpret their expressions. Mistakes were made along the way. It would have been helpful had someone authored a guidebook for humans on the matter before the whole blood and fire incident. Live and learn, I suppose.

I set out my tray of oversized tools and rub a blurry smudge from one of the handles so that it’s gleaming. I look back into his mouth. This guy has not been good to his teeth. Given the advanced state of his plaque that were likely caused by lack of flossing after consuming any myriad of life forms, I’m thinking he would fare well with a power washer. Or a sledge hammer. But insurance doesn’t usually cover that. “To answer your question more honestly, I find humans dull,” I say, carefully centering the curette and scaler because to do so eases my OCD.

“You find their mouths dull?” he asks.

“What comes out of them, largely,” I say, to which he lets out a roaring laugh. “I take it you agree?” I add, blowing out the tiny flame on my sleeve caused by his laughter.

“I honestly spend very little time with humans. Or at least, speaking with them,” he says, and his tail does a little shudder which I’ve come to understand (again, no thanks to any guidebook) means he is nervous. Or that he has to urinate. I’m hoping it’s the former. The latter never goes well. Though a nervous dragon is not without its problems. Which would have been nice to know before the jittery claw incident.

“So why… me?” I ask him. It’s a valid question.

“I’ve heard you’re the best,” he says. “My sister was here last month and said you were,” he pauses, “magical. In as much as a human is capable of magic, of course.”

“Of course,” I say. And I know exactly which dragon is his sister. Their mouths are nearly identical, right down to the yellowing teeth. So are their eyes with that lustrous shade of murderous red. Genetics work the same way with dragons as they do with us. That’s where the similarities end though. “I appreciate the compliment,” I smile at him. “So whadya say I start some of that magic on you?”

“Have at it,” he says, opening his mouth wide and exhaling. I quickly pull my mask up over my nose to guard myself from the hot rush of foul air. His sharp teeth glimmer like yellow topaz under the dental lamp and I can see I have my work cut out for me. This will easily be a two-hour job. But I don’t mind. It’s for the greater good. The world needs dragons. Since their introduction last century, they have proven to be our greatest protectors. Especially against ourselves.

PROMPT: You are a dental hygienist for dragons.