Writing

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 is not always right. That which is right is not always legal.” Sara looked over the papers in her folder again. “It’s time to do the right thing!”

Daddy sighed and rolled his eyes. “By which you mean, commit a major felony.”

Sara managed a manic rictus. “Think of it as a series of 208 rapidly successive misdemeanors…”

“..which, I have no doubt, you have already planned before the case started in court?”

“I never start any plan without a plan B, Daddy.”

“…oh dear. At least let me have plausible deniability?”

“Already part of the works.” Sara closed the folder with a menacing smirk. “And I promise I won’t break any of the big laws.”

“Thankyou.”

[Muse food remaining: 7. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]

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

    Old software engineering joke: “Write your code as if it’ll be read three months later by a homicidal psychotic who knows where you live.”

    Spoiler: You know where you live, and will have to read your code three months later, when you’ve forgotten what much of it does.

“Who the hell was the fucktard who wrote this goddamn ugly shitty mess of shitty shit fuck!”

The entire cubicle labyrinth prairie dogged their heads above

In days to come, he would reflect upon the premature nature of that thought. He would ponder it, as a sinner pondered the inexplicable actions of an irritated deity. He would wonder if perhaps, by allowing himself to think it, he had angered the God of Perversity, and Murphy, who is His Prophet. It was the only offense he could think of that might have explained what happened next.

(#000106)

He should never have asked, “What could possibly go wrong?”

Imperial China. They actually had royal dragon caretakers on the payroll. Logic says that this was due to them either having actual dragons (read: dinosaurs), or the Emperor had done off the deep end again. If they really did have dinosaurs they were almost certainly plant eaters … but that doesn’t allow us to imagine T-Rex cavalry fighting alongside stupidly large infantry armies, and that should be it’s own goal.

(#00105)

[AN: Given the nature of actual Chinese

At some point, someone (Sara? Somebody in your own setting?) defines Patience.

Patience, noun: the state of having too many witnesses.

(#00104)

“We reviewed the evidence and personal testimonies,” said the brown-robed Archivaas. “And we thought we might work with you to.. re-evaluate history’s view of Ernest Hackmeyer.”

“That plagiaristic bastard can go rot in fire,” Shayde said cheerily as she poured tea. “Is he goin’ from bafflin’ genius tae scum-suckin&