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“Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without any address on it?

- Mark Twain

(#00122)

There were designated busking zones on any station large enough to attract the kind of itinerant population that gathered Minutes by entertaining passersby.

Amalgam had hundreds of them.

Rael knew from long, and partially agonizing experience, that Shayde loved them like nothing else. In the hours not taken up by duty, she would take her ‘axe’ down to one at random, and play for pocket change. Allegedly so she could 'unwind’.

This from a being who entertained herself by winding other people up.

The surprisingly unjust part of it was that she could always afford to feed the both of them after just a few sets.

This time, she’d found a dismal corner calling itself the Slop Shop. It catered to the sort of clientele who knew they couldn’t afford anything better and didn’t want to pretend to try.

Shayde ordered a meat pie floater to start and spotted someone in a booth.

They were having the Impoverished Special, which consisted solely of whatever fruit one could get away with picking from the nearest orchard before security got interested. This pallid and washed-out soul was staring at their lone apple in near suicidal despondency.

“Ey up,” said Shayde. One of her many, many call signs of doom. She left her stool to park herself opposite the truly unlucky one in the booth. “Why d'ye sit there lookin’ like an envelope without any address on it?”

“En-ve-lope?” echoed the sallow saurian. He looked to Rael for translation and fished in his pocket. All he had to offer was Seconds.

“She asks why you are sad and despondent,” said Rael. He not only pushed back the Seconds, but palmed an extra Minute into the man’s sad pile.

“I came to see the universe. I believed I could trade on my talent… but nobody notices me.”

“D'ye get stage fright?”

“I do admit nervousness,” the saurian confessed. “But that shouldn’t alter my performance.”

Shayde handed across a ten Minute coin. “Gi’ us a song, then. Up ye pop like you would in t’ hall.”

The instant he started playing, the poor creature blended in with the walls.

“Scared o’ muckin’ up, aye?”

“Er… yes?”

“I’m gonna give ye an’ old Earth song ye can’t possibly muck up. It’s designed to be played bad.” This time, Shayde took the dias.

It was horrible. The tune was both random and out of key, as for the singing the only creature it could attract was possibly a lovesick cat.

And the words… well… they got to the point.

“OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH…. Give me some moNEY! Just gIVe me some MOneeeeyyyy! You can drop it right hErE on the groUND! And if you don’t give me enO-OUGH, I’ll foLLow you HOme… and sIng outSIde your winDOw for the rest of your LIIIIIIIIIFFFFE!”

The saurian blinked. His anger colours flushed. “I shall not,” he announced, “need to play that song.”

“Think of it when ye play the good stuff, then. You omnivorous?”

“Er… yes?”

“Than I can shout ye another floater. You look like you need feedin’.”

The young saurian again looked to Rael.

“Shayde has a habit of feeding strays,” he announced. “She thinks it will count for her in her afterlife.”

[Muse food remaining: 17. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]

“Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.”

(#00121)

“This,” announced the Doctor, “is the Monestary of the Believers.”

“The believers in…?” prompted Sally.

“Everything. Everything that is. And a few things that aren’t. They devote a lifetime to it. Each devotee is not allowed to have the item they’re meant to believe in.”

Sally peeked through the slot. A

To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail.
To a man with only a hammer, a screw is a defective nail.
To a man with only a nail, everything looks like a hammer.

(#00120)

She ran through the darkened streets, harsh breathing absorbed by the endless fog of Lower Cogtown. She’d lost the whistles of the gendarmerie five streets ago, but that was no reason to stop.

It was no reason to even slow.

To a man

The surest way to hit your target is to shoot first and call whatever you hit your target.

“That’s a long way down. You must be pretty determined.”

“Thanks. I wanted to make certain this was one thing I couldn’t fuck up.”

“Finals?”

“Finals is only the start of it,” she said. “I lost my flat, my girlfriend, my car, my pet, my parents… failing finals just means

A Mage teaching their Apprentice an ancient Bio-Hazard Disposal spell for failed experimental breeding subjects (as we all know, the traditional answer for a ridiculous and/or ridiculously dangerous creature is “A Wizard Did It”), and why Australia’s wildlife is so… unique. (At least, according to the rest (Real Life - Australia portion) of the world.

(And some of us)

“Co-ordinatum expelarmus…”

“Co-ordinatUS, expel-ee-ar-am-us,” corrected the master. “One wrong syllable, Mistress

Anywhere in the story:

Some people are like Slinkies - Not really good for anything, but they still bring a smile to your face when you push ‘em down a flight of stairs

(alternatively, substitute “see 'em fall” for “push 'em”)

Sara objected to formal fundraisers at the best of times, and tonight wasn’t one of them. Her target, multi-billionheiress Egypt Ritz[1], was the exact sort of person Sara had grown to despise on

A story in which this:

“It’s time to do the right thing!”
“By which you mean commit a major felony.”
“Think of it as a series of 208 rapidly successive misdemeanors!”

Occurs.

“This is not right,” said Sara.

“It is legal, sweetheart,” said Daddy. They both knew it, but he had to remind her. Her near-reality orbit frequently ignored things like that which was legal.

“That which is legal

Anywhere in the story, possibly as a result of a situation originating from Forge tinkering:

If we can confirm its existence, then it interacts with the physical world. If it interacts with the physical world, we can, theoretically, blow it up.

“Sara Louise Adrien, what a surprise seeing you here,” said the Doctor. He’d just literally run into her as the worlds changed.

“Ah,” said Sara. “You again.”

“Still dimension-hopping?”

“Yes,

Whoever said words can’t hurt you has never been pegged with a dictionary.

Sara was drawn to the child’s tears. She knew that kind of crying, having done a lifetime of it herself.

“Something the matter, dear?”

“…go ‘way.”

Sara knelt. “I promise I won’t tell you that you’re overreacting if you promise not to tell me I can’t understand.”

The kid looked up.

RAF WWII slang: Exdigitate - get your finger out.

(#00113)

There are days when it was fun and exciting to be married to a genius. This was not shaping up to be one of them.

“Come along, darling, you need breakfast.”

Todd opened an eye. There was bacon and eggs and -sweet heaven, thank you- coffee gently steaming on his bedside table. “Mrghl…”

“Exdigitate, dear.”

“Mnnnh…”

Sara dragged him upright and gently

“If at first you don’t succeed, label it version 1.0.”

“Fuck this fucking thing to fucking fuck!”

“Problems?”

“Why did we release this stupid piece of shit?”

Andrews peered over Laslie’s shoulder. “Oh. That. Budget overruns. Time under-runs. Figgis-fiddis. You name it, that one had it. I think we all ended up calling that one Project Icarus at the end.”

“Doomed to crash and burn?”

Anywhere in the story: “There is no font size big enough to describe the ‘oh shit’ that is about to occur.”

The body corporate had done it. They’d finally leashed the beast of their own making. They controlled the internet. And there wasn’t even time to celebrate.

“Now, we need to start talking about the three 'sisses’. Censorship, sponsorship, and shill. Every single page, every site, every last goddamn corner of the

Parent: [Character name]? How much uranium is in the house…?

Child: [after much dancing about about whether it’s uranium at all, and if so, how much] Okay, a lot…

“Jachyx…” came the warning call of Parental Prime. “How much uranium is in the house?”

Jachyx hid her work and emerged from her private space. “Who says I have any uranium?”

“Security detected fissionable material, grubling.”

Gah. She hated it

You’ll have to forgive my uncle, sir. He has a very unique sense of humor which involves not being funny.

Since she wasn’t riding horses, today’s costume was that of a paige. She was too tall and not chesty enough for the typical wench and the material still hadn’t come through for her chatelaine outfit, it was either a paige or a time traveller and people tended to be hostile to the latter.

Sara