Kreative Kue 142 asked for submissions based on this photograph:
John W Howell, author of the John Cannon trilogy of My GRL, His Revenge, Our Justice and Circumstances of Childhood, and who blogs at Fiction Favorites, sent:
“I don’t think I would go in there.”
“Why not. It is just a stone closet.”
“A stone closet? I’m pretty sure it is a little more than that.”
“Oh, yeah? What do you think it is?”
“It looks like a spot where they used to torture people.”
“Oh, C’mon. This is not a torture chamber. It is too small.”
“Well, it gives me the creeps.”
“Nonsense. Here take my camera. I want a picture of me in this closet.”
“Okay, but I’m warning you for the last time. I have a funny feeling about this.”
“Here I’m going to stand while you take the picture.”
“Okay. Smile. Wait. Why do you have your mouth open like that?”
“Since you are such a nervous Nelly I thought I would look like I’m screaming.”
“Look here there is a little plaque on the wall.”
“What does it say?”
“Dr Tooth? What the?”
“It’s a dentist office.”
“That’s right ladies. I’m Dr. Tooth.”
“W-what? Who said that? Where are you?”
“Ha ha ha. I am everywhere. Now I need to see your teeth. Open wide. Let me see how many of these beauties need to come out.”
My effort was:
Continued, by special request, from last week's offering, Oh, deer!
Back aboard the Golden Hind, Captain Hr’vak of Colng addressed his bridge crew. “These aliens are a dangerous bunch, deers. You heard the challenge they issued.”
“But, Captain, do they have the wherewithal to back up their threats?” Commander K’nith asked over the comms link.
“We must assume they do, Commander. What’s the story with the attack groups I ordered?”
“Wait small, Captain. I’ll check.”
“Wait small? Wait small? Am I or am I not the ultimate authority on this mission?”
“Of course you are, Captain. It’s just… bear with…”
“Bear with, Sir.”
“Listen, Commander, just tell me where the effing attack groups are!”
“On their way from HQ, Sir.”
“At eighty percent light speed, about seventy-eight full cycles, Sir.”
“How long is that in terms of this planet’s orbits of its star?”
“No idea, Sir.”
“Too long anyway. I’ll tell you what; let’s just go.” Turning to his trusty Lieutenant, he bawled, “Helm – lay in a course.”
“To infinity and beyond, Sir?” the Lieutenant replied.
Commander K’nith chirped in, “And the battle groups, Captain? Shall I cancel them?”
“No, let them come and do what they do best. These aliens deserve it.”
“Course laid in, Captain,” the helm officer reported.
Twenty-three years later (give or take), three battle groups finally arrived and settled into orbit above the third planet of the star known as CSC8615, at the coordinates given by Commander K’nith. Each battle group was made up of fifty sika-class fighters under the control of a caribou-class command vessel. The command ships were the CCC Comet, CCC Vixen and, it goes without saying, CCC Rudolph.
On board the lead vessel, the three Captains: Oono Wahid, Doss Itneen and Trace Talata, with their XOs: Ek-Un, D’oh Dukes and Teen Troy were in conference. Let’s listen in…
Captain Wahid of the Rudolph was speaking, “…clearly not here though, are they? I’ve a good mind to report that charlatan Hr’vak for desertion, or dereliction, or chickening out of a good punch-up. Who’s with me?”
“How will that help, Sir?” his XO asked.
“Shut up, Number One. When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
“Sorry, Sir, I thought you just did…”
Captain Talata (Vixen) fidgeted in his place and pulled his face up from the trough where he’d been taking advantage of the Rudolph’s legendary catering. “Hay,” he said, a wry smile crossing his face before jumping off and alighting on his XO whose face was also in the nosh pot.
“Did you expect something different?” Captain Wahid asked.
“Sorry, Oono. I meant: Hey!”
“Yes, hey what?” Doss Itneen echoed.
“Hey! As we’re here,” he continued, “why don’t we give the troops a bit of target practice? You know; something to do after the long journey.”
The three captains eyed each other with a look that defied description (so I shan’t bother trying). The Comet’s XO, D’oh Dukes, nuzzled his nose next to his captain’s ear and let out a satisfying (or satisfied) whinnying sound.
“Not here, deer,” Doss Itneen chided him, “wait till we’re back on the Comet.”
“No, Sir. I’m trying to pass you some intelligence without anyone else hearing.”
“Why would you want to pass me intelligence?” Captain Itneen asked indignantly, “Are you suggesting I don’t have enough of my own? My IQ is higher than anyone else’s in this room.”
“Not intelligence like that, Sir. We all know what a clever one you are. I meant information.”
“Then why not say that?”
“Intelligence is posher, Sir.”
“Oh, posh now, are we? Being XO and CFP not enough for us now, eh? Have to be posh as well, do we?”
“Shut up, you pair,” Captain Wahid interrupted before the argument turned into something more disruptive, “What intelligence does your XO have?”
“Not much, I’m afraid, but he’s very easy on the eyes.”
“What. Information. Does. He. Have?”
“Don’t know. He hasn’t told me yet.”
“Then perhaps he’d like to tell me. What’ve you got, Dukes?”
“Sirs. Our sensors have positively located the creature that insulted Captain Hr’vak.”
“Better than eighty-five percent, Sir.”
“How did you locate it?”
“Traces of persistent Colngite DNA, Sir.”
“Gentlemen,” the lead captain said, addressing the group, “Who’s up for some real action? Don’t know about you, but playing shoot-em-up games on the consoles isn’t satisfying my bloodlust.”
“Weapons of choice?” Captain Talata asked.
“PLB,” Teen Troy suggested.
“Personal Locator Beacon? What good will that do?”
“No, Sir. PLB2 – Percussive Light Bomb.”
“What’s a one of them?” Doss Itneen asked.
“Haven’t you been equipped with them yet?” Trace Talata asked.
“I believe you’re the first,” Oono Wahid suggested, “Captain Talata; can you explain.”
“I don’t know why I’m the only one to have them!”
“No, Trace. Can you explain how they work.”
“Sure. The Percussive Light Bomb combines the immediate disruptive effects of a stun grenade, or flash-bang, and an EMP – electromagnetic pulse – weapon. It also gives its target a particularly nasty headache, earning it the epithet of flash-bang-wallop.”
Oh, deer. Here’s an image to stick with a body for a long time – six assorted ruminants, at least two of them with faces still full of hay, bellowing out the lyrics of a song from ‘Half a Sixpence’.
A single PLB2 was fired from the CCC Comet. It found its target concealed deep underground and discharged with devastating effect. There was no other action.
Disappointed at having travelled for the equivalent of twenty-three years but seen no action, the battle-trained pilots of the one hundred and fifty sika-class fighters, as well as the crews of the three caribou-class vessels, conspired amongst themselves to mutiny and indulged their proclivity for mindless violence by engaging in a jolly good inter-group, last deer standing punch-up out in the Oort Cloud.
On to this week’s challenge: Using this photo as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; even just a caption for the photograph. Either put it (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at email@example.com before 6pm next Sunday (if you aren’t sure what the time is where I live, this link will tell you). If you post it on your own blog or site, a link to this page would be appreciated, but please do also mention it in a comment here – pingbacks don’t often work.
Go on. You know you want to. Let your creativity and imagination soar. I shall display the entries, with links to your own blog or web site, next Monday.