April 2, 2013

From “The Smoke Hunt” by Jerry Eciruam

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The cul-de-sac along the side of the Goldsmith building had once held a condenser which had helped keep the loading dock cool even in the most blistering summer heat. With the new AC system located on the roof of the expansion added in 1997, the fenced-in area had become something very different.

A refugee camp.

Dr. Maarten, from the Department of Biology in abutting Peter Hall, knocked on one of the two wooden gates in the cul-de-sac wall. Both gate and wall were easily nine feet high and built from faded but sturdy pine.

An eyeball appeared at a knothole in the gate. “Password.”

“$5.75,” Maarten replied.

Whispers behind the pine. Dr. Maarten hoped he’d gotten the password right; it did fluctuate day by day, after all.

The door swung open. “You’re clean, come on in.”

Maarten gratefully joined the circle of other PhDs, graduate students, and other Southern Michigan University personnel who were already there. He pulled a battered carton of Marlboros–$5.75 a pack according to the sign at the Gas n’ Gulp just off campus–and lit a fresh coffin nail. Such was the lengths to which SMU’s campuswide ban on smoking had driven people. Someone had told Maarten that intelligent people like professors and lecturers should be smart enough to know better than to smoke; Maarten’s first instinct had been to punch that person in the face, since the nicotine content of his blood had been particularly low that day.

Another knock at the front gate. Maarten, as the most recent arrival, had gate duty. He peeked through the knothole and saw only a blue jacket.

“Password?”

“$11.90.”

That was the price of cigarettes in New York City, not Michigan; Maarten knew immediately thanks to blog posts and colleagues from the Big Apple that assumed their vice tax burden was shared by all.

As he pondered what to do, Maarten saw a flash of silver through through the hole. “It’s a raid!” he cried. “Cheese it!”

The front gate opened with a bang as the assembled smokers fled through the back. DPS officers swarmed into the smokers’ refugee camp, handcuffs ready, pepper spray and tasers in hand. The smokers tried to flee into the narrow allwyways between buildings, only to be confronted by mounted officers bearing down on them with nets and truncheons.

Only a few managed to escape the sweep, the rest being led back to the station in chains.

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March 28, 2013

From “The Bernardshiv Recollection” by Robin F. D. Morgan

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Recently paroled convict Emmett “Blue” Blumenthal hitched a ride as far as Noxtub, and walked the rest of the way under the summer sun. The field, the elm, the fence…it was all as his friend Tim had described in prison.

It was a long, low wooden fence with a big old elm tree about halfway through. Tim was right; it was like something out of a poem by Wordsworth. “It’s where I proposed to my wife,” Tim had said before his escape. “I need you to make me a promise, Blue: if you make parole, if you escape…find that tree.”

Blue followed the fence and then paused near where it passed by the elm, as crickets and katydids jumped before him. He poked around in the roots, looking for what Tim had described…a piece of wood, West Indian mahogany, that had no right to be among Massachusetts alfalfa.

Luckily, mahogany withstood the elements better than most woods; Blue found it, mossy and wormy, and pried it up. “I buried something under that wood,” Tim had said in prison. “It’s something I left just for you.”

Sure enough, there was a Zeppelin-brand cigar box there in the soil; Blue pried it open, shooing away pillbugs and earwigs and a Massachusetts Jumping Spider. Inside was an envelope with some cash and a letter.

Dear Blue,

Hopefully you’ve gotten out and are reading this. I hope that, since you came this far, you’ll come a little farther. I could use your help on my new project.

You remember the name of the town, don’t you?

-Tim

Blue stared at the piece of paper, even turning it over to make sure there was nothing else on the other side.

“Aw, shit,” he said. Tim had told him about that town over ten years ago, once. Blue had no goddamn idea what it was called anymore.

With apologies to Frank Darabont and Stephen King.

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March 22, 2013

From “The Level 30 Librarian” by Altos Wexan

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Sourced from the Ruins & Rogues Adventurer’s Guidebook, 2nd Edition

Librarian Sub-Classes

At level 30 librarians earn their usual 1 skill point but also gain 100 hit points and an extra equipment slot. At this point they may also choose one of the following sub-classes:

Booksassin
Stealthy and deadly, the Booksassin moves as silently as a turned page and strikes as deeply and unexpectedly as a papercut. This sub-class focuses on speed, surprise, and damage at the expense of durability, legibility, and archival quality. Booksassins may use the Tome Travel ability once per day to travel through bookshelves as if casting a teleport spell of equivalent level and do automatic quintuple damage upon emerging from one.

Dewey Deathimal
The Dewey Deathimal classifies and shelves hard-hitting magical and quasi-magical attacks, casting them over a wide area like a shush quiets an unruly mob. This sub-class focuses on intelligence-based area of effect attack spells at the expense of granularity, adaptability, and clarity. Once per day, the Dewey Deathimal may use Books to Bats, which causes all nearby tomes to animate, flap through the air, and descend on all targets in a designated area bringing death from a thousand papercuts.

Bibliothief
As punishing as an overdue library book and as well-stocked as a private college library, the Bibliothief focuses on collection development at all costs. This grants major bonuses to the Acquisitions and Prestidigitation skills at the cost of Cataloging and Circulation. Bibliothieves can use the Bookwalk ability to walk across the tops of shelves and gain a bonus to all Book Acquisition rolls (which the sub-class can apply to any item with words on it, not just books).

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March 20, 2013

From “Wide-Spectrum Oz” by Alf Marbunk

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After passing out once the cyclone had lifted the house, he was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if Theodore had not been lying on the soft couch he might have been hurt. As it was, the jar made him catch his breath and wonder what had happened. Theodore sat up and noticed that the house was not moving; nor was it dark, for the bright sunshine came in at the window, flooding the little room. He sprang from the couch and opened the door.

The Theodore gave a cry of amazement and looked about him, his eyes growing bigger and bigger at the bizarre sights he saw.

The cyclone had set the house down very gently–for a cyclone–in the midst of a country of terrifying darkness. Most of what he could see was pitch-black, with no delineation between sky and earth. Trees bearing fruit and banks of flowers were visible, stark against the darkness and glowing eerily as if under a blacklight. Theodore could hear other sounds—for instance, that of a a small brook rushing nearby—but couldn’t see anything but the fluorescent foliage.

While he stood looking dazedly at the strange sights, Theodore noticed a group of people coming toward him. They were not as big as the folk he had always been used to. In fact, they seemed about half as tall as Theodore, although they were, so far as looks go, many years older.

Three were men and one a woman, and all were oddly dressed. They wore round hats that rose to a small point a foot above their heads and glowed a bright and piercing orange. The little woman’s hat was white, and she wore a white gown that hung in pleats from her shoulders; both colors were so bright despite the darkness that Theodore had to hold up a hand to shield his eyes.

When these people drew near the house where Theodore was standing in the doorway, they paused and whispered among themselves, as if afraid to come farther. But the little old woman walked up to Theodore, made a low bow and said, in a sweet voice:

“You are welcome, most noble Sorcerer, to the land of the Ltmbgjhms. We are so grateful to you for having killed the Wicked Wizard of the North-Northwest, and for setting our people free from bondage.”

Theodore listened to this speech with horror. His parents had always warned him to be wary of twisters and cyclones, for he came from a Technicolor world. Everyone knew that tornadoes from monochrome worlds brought folks to the Technicolor Oz, but tornadoes from Technicolor worlds, on the other hand…

“Oh no!” Theodore cried. “I’m in Ultraviolet Oz!”

This entry incorporates some text from the public domain Oz books at Project Gutenberg.

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March 19, 2013

From “Coach Defrost” by Mulligan Samuels

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The elevator stretched deep beneath the university’s central administration building, and opened on a short hallway with an old-fashioned, cast-iron door guarded by a member of the campus police in a ceremonial uniform.

“This is it,” said the university president to his guest, the head of the alumni association. He waved the guard aside and withdrew a tarnished key on a chain from around his neck. It jangled noisily in the lock.

“But I still don’t understand,” said the alumni association head. “Why freeze the coach, especially with the state of technology in those days?”

The door retracted into the walls, long-disused gears squealing. A circular room lay beyond, with a cylindrical capsule at its center. A beefy man wearing nothing but a primitive wooden jockstrap was suspended in fluid, lit by gas lamps that flickered to life as the president and head entered.

“Because he was too advanced for his time,” the president said, raising his voice to be heard over the low din of Industrial Revolution era life support machinery. “Our sachems knew that one day American football would rise to preeminence among college sports, but a man can only live for so long. So we chose instead to preserve him, to be thawed out only when the need for a bowl game was most dire.”

“It is most dire indeed,” the alumni association head agreed, wincing at the thought of the previous week’s 127-3 loss.

Soon the room was full of clatter and steam as the machinery was disengaged. The coach emerged from his pod to behold the president and alumni association head kneeling before him.

“It is time,” said the president. “Lead us to victory.”

“Bully,” said the coach, twitching his handlebar mustache. “We play by Boston rules. I have in my head a secret plan to score more runs per match than has ever been attempted even by the likes of Harvard. No carrying the ball, no unsportsmanlike shoving, just pure and simple contests of fielders versus bulldogs with the fair catch kick rule in play above all.”

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March 15, 2013

From “Swingline Sanctuary” by Fawn Delacroix Pivec

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“Now remember, the Swingline Sanctuary is a safe environment for office supplies from the Southern Michigan University computer lab,” said Rem, the brown and cracked old bakelite-handled staple remover. “We’re on the front lines, the most heavily used supplies outside of the admissions office, and our health and well-being is very important. No one wants a repeat of the Elektro-Stape incident.”

The assembled supplied moved their hinges in agreement. The Elektro-Stape, a motorized stapler with undiagnosed PTSD, had snapped during one fateful final exam period and devoured 50 freshman introductory composition essays. The computer lab posse had been forced to feed him cardstock to stop the carnage.

“Bic, I believe you said you wanted to start us off.” Rev was too old and broken to see the rigors of use anymore, but he had led the supplies placed near the lab’s printing station 1948-1971–a lab record–and was kept around by the juniors and seniors that ran the place because of his “retro” look.

The multi-hue highlighter loaned to students in the lab’s quiet study area moved forward. “I was all ready to spill forth my ink for the first time,” moaned Bic. “It’s an important rite of passage for highlighters, even if the pens make fun of us for it. and then…and then…”

“It’s all right, let it all out,” said Rem. “We’re here for you, Bic.”

“They used me to highlight dirty words in Sixty Shades of Beige,” Bic wailed. “And to draw mustaches and eyepatches on Kym Cardassian’s photoshoot for Person magazine!”

Murmurs of concern and support came from the circle. “That’s awful,” said Rev. “I knew ENGL 401 was using Sixty Shades of Beige as part of their unit on worthless drek, but…wow.”

Stanley, the current lab stapler, moved forward next. He was a 1982 model, and had outlived 177 cheaper replacements due to his sturdy construction…but even he had his demons. “The sign says twenty pages or less, but they just kept…piling them in there,” Stanley said. “When I jammed, they just kept pushing, and pushing, and swearing…the guys at the computer desk had to unjam me with needlenose pliers! I still have a headache from the trauma.”

“If there’s one thing those rotten freshmen won’t do, it’s read the directions,” Rem sighed. He’d been used as a toothpick 1949-1955 despite a sign specifically prohibiting that usage.

Stanley continued: “And my friend HD the heavy-duty stapler is still in intensive care after those brutes tried to use him to staple two and a half pages. They might have to disassemble him!”

“I hear you,” said Cole the hole punch. “I’d like to share a similar story that your struggles are helping me to confront.”

“Please do,” Stanley said.

“Well, the kids can’t usually put too many sheets in me because of my design, thank goodness. But with exams…I’m so full of punched holes that I’m about to back up, and the kids at the desk are too busy to empty me. I haven’t been emptied since May. I haven’t been emptied since May!”

From an idea by breylee.

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March 14, 2013

From “The Secret Life of Psychic Tea” by Lynn Ruelle Badeau

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“Okay, let’s go over everything again,” said the dessicated packet of Old Martha’s Hazlenut No. 1 tea. The oldest packet by far in the cupboard of Madame Vizcacha (born Gertrude Nussbaum), Old Martha’s Hazlenut No. 1 had been forgotten in a corner for years, even after Celestial Seasonings had bought her parent company and ruthlessly gutted it. It had taken on the post of unofficial leader, organizing the other teas and keeping them motivated to pass their prophecies on to Madame Vizcacha with clarity and focus.

“Number one! What’s your prophecy?” Old Martha’s Hazlenut No. 1 said, addressing the contents of a newly-opened box of Château Piccard brand Earl Grey packets.

“Flat tire from a broken beer bottle at the corner of 8th and main!” the first Earl Grey tea barked.

“Number two!”

“Mr. Brandstead’s wife is considering leaving him for a Nordic masseuse!” cried the second. “That’s what she’ll read in my leaves!”

“Number three!”

“Extinction of all life on earth if the Large Haldron Collider is turned on between 2:17 and 2:19 AM local Swiss time!”

“Number four!” Old Martha’s Hazlenut No. 1 cried at the last occupant of the box, which Madame Vizcacha had been drinking through in reverse order.

“Umm…” Earl Grey No. 4 hesitated.

Old Martha’s Hazlenut No. 1 sighed. “Focus! You need to receive your wisdom from the aether in order to pass it on! It’s your life’s purpose, so make sure you get it right!”

Frankly, Earl Grey No. 4 thought that its life’s purpose was to be a scarf-wearing hipster’s trendy substitute for coffee, but it was in no position to argue. “An angry customer in two hours looking for a refund,” it said at length. “He’s not happy that Madame Vizcacha’s romantic advice didn’t turn out as he hoped.”

“No refunds,” barked Old Martha’s Hazlenut No. 1, echoing Madame Vizcacha’s well-known life motto. “It’s not her fault that prophecy came from a bad Metromart Generic Tea No. 7. There’s a reason those are so cheap.”

From an idea by breylee.

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March 13, 2013

From “Depression Werewolves: What You Need to Know” by Q. Wayne Wilson

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HE 20.402:M 52/2/2013
Lykos Lypimenos: What You Need to Know
A publication from the Office of the Shaman General of the United States

1. Lykos lypimenos can be treated
The first thing to understand it that being a lykos lypimenos (or a so-called depression werewolf) is a legitimate medical condition, and treatable with a combination of medication (most often prescription Selenia™) and therapy. It is, however, a much more complex condition than lycanthropy or depression alone, much like bipolar disorder is much more complex than mania or depression on their own.

2. Observation is essential to diagnosis
It’s crucial for your diagnosis to gather as much information as you can about the behavior of the wolf than infected you:

-Were its ears and tail erect?
-Did it growl or just simply whimper?
-Did it bite you proactively, or did you have to force it into a corner first?

3. It’s important to have a supportive environment
While lykos lypimenos sufferers generally spend the full moon too depressed to maul or kill or infect, tending to sleep or watch TV or write poetry during lycanthropic episodes, a supportive environment is still essential. Try some of the following techniques with friends or family:

-Controlled doses of mood-altering drugs like ice cream (not chocolate) or prescription Selenia™
-Tactile stimulation – petting a lykos lypimenos sufferer releases valuable serotonins
-Games of fetch or keep-away with favorite objects
-Heaping sacks of raw or undercooked meat

4. This part has an old poem in it
“Even one who is pure in heart/and says their prayers by night/may become morose when depression blooms/and the moon is full and bright.”

Remember, with early diagnosis, a support network, medication (most often prescription Selenia™), and other treatment strategies, lykos lypimenos sufferers can live rich full lives. All the other options open to lycanthropes, from indiscriminate slaughter to secluded and horrified contemplation, are ultimately attainable!

This pamphlet is an official publication of the Office of the Shaman General of the United States in association with GesteCo Pharmaceuticals, makers of prescription Selenia™, the once-daily pill for mild to severe rheumatoid lycanthropy. Call 1-555-GES-TECO for more information about prescription Selenia™.

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March 12, 2013

From “Transcript of Princess Search Episode 2S14” by Olivia Nanette-Pauls

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TRANSCRIPT FROM EPISODE 2S14 OF PRINCESS SEARCH PROVIDED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE HARD OF HEARING, EARLESS, GNOMIK-QUAL, HALF GNOMIK-QUAL, AND SUFFERERS OF THE BLOOD SILENCE BY PMTI – PUBLIC MAGICAL TELEVISION INTERNATIONAL.

FOR A FREE TRANSCRIPT OF ANY EPISODE, SCRAWL ITS NAME IN ASH ON A COLD HEARTH DURING THE NEW MOON OR MAIL A S.A.S.E. TO PTMI AT 1 ROCKMOLDER PLAZA.

[Commercial advertisement for Magi-Cola™ (“taste the midichlorians!”) ends]

ADJUDICATOR NOMIS: All right, we’ve come to perhaps the most unbearably painful part of our selection process: singing.

GRAND MUFTI AL-TEMSAH: You will each sing an original song of your choice, be it a war ballad or a love requiem, and we will tear it to shreds in front of millions of viewers at home as is our wont.

DOWAGER EMPRESS HALLUD: Express yourselves and be free, children of the celestial mushrooms!

[NOMIS and AL-TEMSAH exchange glances but say nothing]

AL-TEMSAH: All right, first up is Princess Ndlovukati from the veldt kingdom of Lesthwazil. Hit us with your best shot.

NDLOVUKATI: [singing] Someday my prince will come/Someday I’ll find my love/And how thrilling that moment will be/When the prince of my dreams comes to me…

NOMIS: Whoa, whoa, whoa. Put the brakes on there, Snowderella. What part of the word “original” do you not understand?

Al-TEMSAH: They could be watching and listening right now! Do you have any idea how fast-

[a piece of parchment is handed to AL-TEMSAH from off-screen]

AL-TEMSAH: And there we have our cease-and-desist parchment. And a lawsuit. Thank you for that.

NDLOVUKATI: [sobbing] I’m sorry! My people have no concept of copyright infringement!

NOMIS: Excuses, excuses. Next!

HALLUD: Well I thought that, original or not, it was pretty unique.

[NOMIS and AL-TEMSAH exchange glances but say nothing]

NOMIS: Princess Skald of Kalmarunionen, warble something OR-IG-IN-AL for us, if you please. If I hear a single copyrighted syllable, I’ll whack your pretty blonde head with my scepter so hard you’ll see the astral plane.

SKALD: [clears throat] Yo yo! I’m on probation makin’ it harder for me/Bitch, now she mad cause she ain’t gonna see/Machine gun bulletproof this bitch/Blow yo brains out cuz you been playin’…

AL-TEMSAH: Stop, stop! What the hell was that?

SKALD: It’s a traditional love-song of my people.

NOMIS: Seems a little downtown for a shield-maiden of Nødin in the high halls of Hällvalla. And what’s all this about machine guns and bulletproofing? Your people haven’t even discovered gunpowder yet!

SKALD: Look, I’m just trying to keep it real. My song was born on the mean streets of Daß-Hågen, and it’s about social problems that real people deal with everyday.

AL-TEMSAH: I find that highly problematic and vaguely insulting! You’re a cloistered princess who lives a carefree life of martial training and boastful feasting!

NOMIS: Your kingdom has a homogenous population of 10,000 with an elective monarchy and generous social programs for serfs!

HALLUD: Preach it, sister. Power to the serf on the street with his gat, giving woe to the man like a real woe-man!

[NOMIS and AL-TEMSAH exchange glances but say nothing]

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March 6, 2013

From “Highlights from Season 2 of Princess Search” by Olivia Nanette-Pauls

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#324
“Hi, I’m Diaeyraeiynyae,” the girl said with a curtsey. “I am princess of-”

“I’m just going to stop you right there,” said Adjudicator Nomis. “Do you think there are enough vowels in your name? Maybe room to cram a few more in there? I mean it’s already got a point count high enough to hit infinity with a triple word score, but surely you can do better?”

“I-”

“Listen, sweetheart,” said Grand Mufti Al-Temsah. “Giving a princess a name with more vowels than the Hawaiian language was in about eighteen to twenty years ago, so we’ve seen enough of it to last a lifetime. Sorry, but you’re out.”

#982
“No, I do not think that my name has too many apostrophes in it! It’s a name of proud meaning and lineage among the D’in’olq’toq’plar!”

“All right, how about this?” said Adjudicator Nomis. “You’re argumentative and irritating. We want sparks, yes, but you’ll reduce the whole place to ashes!”

“Free tip, sweetie,” added Mufti Al-Temsah. “Arguing with the judges is almost always a direct ticket to exiting state right.”

#1428
“I’ve killed fifty men, saved countless idiot suitors, and I can do a horse rotation on my carriage while changing my own oats,” said Princess Dil.

“My congratulations to you, madam, but I’m afraid you just don’t have what it takes to make it to the next round,” said the Grand Mufti. “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s because I’m a strong female character, isn’t it?” snarled Dil. “You’re looking for a powderpuff to feed your misogynist princess ideals!”

“No, it’s because you’re not on the list and slaughtered twelve Heron Guards to get here,” said Nomis. “It wouldn’t be fair to the princesses who filled out their applications in full.”

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