Normally I'm proud of being able to fit just about any prompt you throw at me into an ongoing story but this morning I'm just not seeing how I can fit any kind of coach into Lord Derby's tale. It's also the second day of our software platform migration and I'm a bit tired from yesterday, so I might just drop in something a little easier, and revisit the gentlemen thieves....
The coach The coach-house was being used as a part-time stable now, and there were two placid horses at one end, chewing hay and whickering to each other. The smell, unsurprisingly, was horse manure, but there was also a vegetal undertone, something ripe and almost sweet. Electric lights had been installed at the coach-end, and the horse end was oil lanterns and dirty, mullioned windows. Bill turned the lights on, and they were revealed as spotlights nailed to the splintered wooden beams that supported the rafters. They spotlit a tawdry coach which had the dull orange colour of fresh rust and the shape of the Hindenburg before the crash. "This is it?" Bill walked around it. On the far side he tried the door handle, a green braid tassle. The green turned out to be mould and a cloud of spores lifted into the air and drifted around catching the light. The door clicked open and a skeleton fell out, collapsing into a pile of brown, brittle bones and dusty fragments of cloth. "This is it," said Ben. "Careful." Bill picked the skull up and turned it around. It was elongated and the jaw was larger than the brain-pan. A couple of murine teeth at the front made him frown. "Does this look human to you?" Ben came over and looked at it as well. "Coachman," he said. "You know the Chinese had that foot-binding thing? Well, some cultures do skull-binding. I think it's to improve their map-reading and navigation skills." The look on Bill's face -- his eyebrows at different levels, his nostrils flared slightly, his lips just, but not quite, snarling, conveyed a combination of disbelief and distaste. "Oh come on," said Ben. "It's the past, it's not like we can change it." Bill's expression didn't change. "And it's not like we're doing it ourselves." Bill looked around. "Did the Henchling get lost again?" he said. Ben sighed. "Hench is too old for skull-binding," he said. "We'd do better getting Google to put a couple of chips in their head, I think." There was a sudden snap, like a very large mousetrap triggering, and then a bout of swearing. "Ah," said Ben with a smile, "the missing component!" He wandered over to the horses and came back some minutes later. In one hand was a slender rod of polished wood, and in the other was a struggling fairy-godmother, her feet kicking feebly in the air and her plastic wings sagging sadly from the back of her NY Mets jacket. "Fairy-godmother?" said Bill. He looked at the coach again, and then at the skull in his hands. "You're kidding," he said, as realisation struck. "We're stealing-" "Cinderella's coach," said Ben, waving the wand at it.
Greg - my apologies! I realized this might be a tough one, but it was inspired by my start as a coach of one of the kids programs at the community centre. It's called Active Kids, for ages 5 to 12. Max is in there, along with 11 other kids. The idea is to teach them fundamental movement skills (kicking, running, jumping, throwing, etc) through games and activities. Two classes in so far, going reasonably well.
Haha, apology retracted. Because this is what resulted from your inability to work the prompt into the Derby tale and it made me very, very happy :D
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Normally I'm proud of being able to fit just about any prompt you throw at me into an ongoing story but this morning I'm just not seeing how I can fit any kind of coach into Lord Derby's tale. It's also the second day of our software platform migration and I'm a bit tired from yesterday, so I might just drop in something a little easier, and revisit the gentlemen thieves....
The coach
The coach-house was being used as a part-time stable now, and there were two placid horses at one end, chewing hay and whickering to each other. The smell, unsurprisingly, was horse manure, but there was also a vegetal undertone, something ripe and almost sweet. Electric lights had been installed at the coach-end, and the horse end was oil lanterns and dirty, mullioned windows.
Bill turned the lights on, and they were revealed as spotlights nailed to the splintered wooden beams that supported the rafters. They spotlit a tawdry coach which had the dull orange colour of fresh rust and the shape of the Hindenburg before the crash.
"This is it?" Bill walked around it. On the far side he tried the door handle, a green braid tassle. The green turned out to be mould and a cloud of spores lifted into the air and drifted around catching the light. The door clicked open and a skeleton fell out, collapsing into a pile of brown, brittle bones and dusty fragments of cloth.
"This is it," said Ben. "Careful."
Bill picked the skull up and turned it around. It was elongated and the jaw was larger than the brain-pan. A couple of murine teeth at the front made him frown.
"Does this look human to you?"
Ben came over and looked at it as well. "Coachman," he said. "You know the Chinese had that foot-binding thing? Well, some cultures do skull-binding. I think it's to improve their map-reading and navigation skills."
The look on Bill's face -- his eyebrows at different levels, his nostrils flared slightly, his lips just, but not quite, snarling, conveyed a combination of disbelief and distaste.
"Oh come on," said Ben. "It's the past, it's not like we can change it." Bill's expression didn't change. "And it's not like we're doing it ourselves."
Bill looked around. "Did the Henchling get lost again?" he said.
Ben sighed. "Hench is too old for skull-binding," he said. "We'd do better getting Google to put a couple of chips in their head, I think."
There was a sudden snap, like a very large mousetrap triggering, and then a bout of swearing.
"Ah," said Ben with a smile, "the missing component!" He wandered over to the horses and came back some minutes later. In one hand was a slender rod of polished wood, and in the other was a struggling fairy-godmother, her feet kicking feebly in the air and her plastic wings sagging sadly from the back of her NY Mets jacket.
"Fairy-godmother?" said Bill. He looked at the coach again, and then at the skull in his hands.
"You're kidding," he said, as realisation struck. "We're stealing-"
"Cinderella's coach," said Ben, waving the wand at it.
Greg - my apologies! I realized this might be a tough one, but it was inspired by my start as a coach of one of the kids programs at the community centre. It's called Active Kids, for ages 5 to 12. Max is in there, along with 11 other kids. The idea is to teach them fundamental movement skills (kicking, running, jumping, throwing, etc) through games and activities. Two classes in so far, going reasonably well.
Haha, apology retracted. Because this is what resulted from your inability to work the prompt into the Derby tale and it made me very, very happy :D
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