I guess this new prompt means that there were wasp eggs in that sting and that the back of your knee is now home to a new tenant? I look forward to your prompts turning into an angry buzzing, possibly interspersed with demands for honey....
The tenant "We're heading too far west," said War. His tone was gruff, perhaps even slightly sulky, and he was sat in the sidecar of the motorcycle with his arms crossed. He barely fit: his hypermuscled torso rose up from the confines of the bullet-shaped sidecar like a statue and his blonde hair streamed back from his head in the wind like the fiery tail of a comet. "Well we were supposed to split up," said Famine, who was driving the motorbike. The motorcycle was a sleek, lean blue Yamaha YZR-M1 that buzzed like an excited wasp and whose wheels didn't quite always seem to be touching the ground. "You were supposed to cover a third of the circle, I was supposed to cover a third, and Pestilence and Scuffles would do the rest. And before you decided to pair people up, we were each going to do a quarter." "Oh right, blame me. If you were really listening to me we wouldn't be riding this... pathetic contraption." "Valentino Rossi has won a lot of races on this bike," said Famine. "And if it were up to you we'd be driving a tank, which is both slower and a lot more noticeable." "Modern American tanks are getting a lot more speed, and I did suggest horses as well. Those are traditional and wouldn't attract attention." "So are elephants." "What?" "General Hannibal!" "Chairman Mao!" They subsided into silence watching the landscape blur past them, their eyes and minds alert to changes even while their thoughts bubbled and seethed, hunting for a cutting remark and witty riposte. Then the bike wobbled, and wobbled again. "Parkinsons?" asked War, his tone as dry as desert sand. "A contact," said Famine. He lowered himself over the bike, leaning forward to improve the aerodynamics and then looked sideways at War. "We can't go faster with you sitting there like a fencepost," he said. War sighed and leaned forwards, somehow stretching out in all directions until he seemed almost like a manta-ray. The motorbike shook, shook again, and then starting vibrating nearly continuously. There was a shift in the landscape and the roads suddenly became smaller and narrower, and then the bike lifted higher off the ground and tore across fields and around the edges of woodland. Small streams passed by beneath them, the bike causing tiny white waves to whip up on the surface and puzzle fish swimming lazily below. Then they came to a halt: no skidding, no slowing down, just a sudden loss of all momentum from the bike to somewhere else, outside a pale stone church. "We went North," said War, looking around. "There are... there's almost no-one here. I count... 135 hearts." "Villameriel," said Famine pointing to a sign outside the church. "I wonder why-" "Ah," said War. "The church has a tenant." "A tenant?" "That owns five of those hearts."
Every other post about that I have read about War and Famine has been very dark and disconcerting and sometimes loses me, but this one actually made me laugh (until the last statement). There is always good imagery in the writings, and I can just see these two riding in that contraption complaining and whining like kids. Even one of the other names “scuffles” is just funny. What this is about is not funny, but that is partly how evil works. Distraction.
3 comments:
I guess this new prompt means that there were wasp eggs in that sting and that the back of your knee is now home to a new tenant? I look forward to your prompts turning into an angry buzzing, possibly interspersed with demands for honey....
The tenant
"We're heading too far west," said War. His tone was gruff, perhaps even slightly sulky, and he was sat in the sidecar of the motorcycle with his arms crossed. He barely fit: his hypermuscled torso rose up from the confines of the bullet-shaped sidecar like a statue and his blonde hair streamed back from his head in the wind like the fiery tail of a comet.
"Well we were supposed to split up," said Famine, who was driving the motorbike. The motorcycle was a sleek, lean blue Yamaha YZR-M1 that buzzed like an excited wasp and whose wheels didn't quite always seem to be touching the ground. "You were supposed to cover a third of the circle, I was supposed to cover a third, and Pestilence and Scuffles would do the rest. And before you decided to pair people up, we were each going to do a quarter."
"Oh right, blame me. If you were really listening to me we wouldn't be riding this... pathetic contraption."
"Valentino Rossi has won a lot of races on this bike," said Famine. "And if it were up to you we'd be driving a tank, which is both slower and a lot more noticeable."
"Modern American tanks are getting a lot more speed, and I did suggest horses as well. Those are traditional and wouldn't attract attention."
"So are elephants."
"What?"
"General Hannibal!"
"Chairman Mao!"
They subsided into silence watching the landscape blur past them, their eyes and minds alert to changes even while their thoughts bubbled and seethed, hunting for a cutting remark and witty riposte. Then the bike wobbled, and wobbled again.
"Parkinsons?" asked War, his tone as dry as desert sand.
"A contact," said Famine. He lowered himself over the bike, leaning forward to improve the aerodynamics and then looked sideways at War. "We can't go faster with you sitting there like a fencepost," he said.
War sighed and leaned forwards, somehow stretching out in all directions until he seemed almost like a manta-ray. The motorbike shook, shook again, and then starting vibrating nearly continuously. There was a shift in the landscape and the roads suddenly became smaller and narrower, and then the bike lifted higher off the ground and tore across fields and around the edges of woodland. Small streams passed by beneath them, the bike causing tiny white waves to whip up on the surface and puzzle fish swimming lazily below. Then they came to a halt: no skidding, no slowing down, just a sudden loss of all momentum from the bike to somewhere else, outside a pale stone church.
"We went North," said War, looking around. "There are... there's almost no-one here. I count... 135 hearts."
"Villameriel," said Famine pointing to a sign outside the church. "I wonder why-"
"Ah," said War. "The church has a tenant."
"A tenant?"
"That owns five of those hearts."
Greg - harumph :/
Really enjoyed the descriptions in this entry. And an intriguing destination and tenant await exploration!
Every other post about that I have read about War and Famine has been very dark and disconcerting and sometimes loses me, but this one actually made me laugh (until the last statement). There is always good imagery in the writings, and I can just see these two riding in that contraption complaining and whining like kids. Even one of the other names “scuffles” is just funny. What this is about is not funny, but that is partly how evil works. Distraction.
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