Wherein I take a band name from Scalzi’s Next Band Name list, and spend no more than 20 minutes writing the story with the band name as a title. I didn’t like the way this story was going, so I ended up spending 40 minutes on it, the first 20 writing it one way, and the second 20 writing it this way.

---

Ally knew something was wrong when David came to bed exhausted and smelled of flowers. He rarely smelled of anything other than soap or sweat, and neither of those were flowers.

“You smell different,” she commented when he rolled away from her.

He stiffened slightly next to her. She noticed only because she was close, touching him. He relaxed as he turned around. “New soap at work, I guess.” He kissed her gently on the nose, as he often did.

“Oh,” she responded, not quite believing him. “Okay.”

She didn’t think much of the smell until the following week, when he came home from work, and smelled again of flowers. The same flower smell, or close enough, and Ally was no longer convinced the smell was from new soap at work.

“Good evening?” she asked.

“Yeah,” David responded. “Out with the guys.”

“Have fun?”

“Mostly. We ended up in a couple fights, well, some heated discussions. Those were entertaining, and somewhat invigorating. The rest of it, hanging and all, yeah, that was fun.”

“Cool,” she non-committedly responded. “Going out again with the boys soon?”

“Yeah, probably next week, same day.”

Ally nodded, looking carefully at David, a concerned expression on her face. “Okay.”

The following week, Ally went to work in the morning, but begged off the late afternoon, claiming to be sick, and left work early. She hustled to David’s work, and waited outside the building for him to come out. She noticed several of his friends go into his building, and kept waiting. Eventually the group of five left the building, turned right and started walking along the street. They were joking around as they walked, though Ally couldn’t make out any words.

She followed them as they walked, feeling more and more foolish and they walked farther from where David worked. She recognized all of the friends with him. She was sure none of them saw her when she ducked into a doorway as they stopped and turned to go into a salon.

Ally waited for a short bit to see if they were going to come back out, before walking slowly and casually up to the salon window. She stopped to lean against the wall next to the window and wait for a good moment to casually look in. She brought her phone out of her purse, unlocked it, looked down at it, and pushed off the wall. Keeping her face as much towards the phone as she could, she looked into the window as she passed by the salon.

Ally saw the five guys all standing around a salon chair, but couldn’t really see much else. She continued walking, and made her way home. Yes, David was out with the guys, why had she doubted him?

He came home late that night smelling of flowers again. Ally noticed, however, his hair hadn’t changed from the day before. Walking into a hug, she reached up to put her arms over his shoulders. “You need a haircut,” she commented, teasing his hair.

He stiffened again, but relaxed immediately. “Nah,” he answered, leaning in for a kiss. “I think I’m going to grow it out.”

Ally went back to the salon the next morning. Walking in, the smell of flowers that was on David filled her nose. Yes, this was the source, she thought.

A woman approached her. “Hello. Welcome. Do you have an appointment?”

Ally hesitated. “I don’t. Can you fit me in?”

The woman smiled. “We have an opening, yes, but it’s an unusual experience. Instead of…”

“That’s fine,” Ally interrupted.

“But…”

“Yes, please.”

Lips pressed tightly, the woman nodded. Somewhat curtly, she said, “Okay, right this way,” and turned away.

The woman led Ally to the same chair the David and his friends had been standing around the previous night. Ally hesitated for only a moment, then sat down in the chair.

Immediately the giant full-wrap drape went on around Ally, and she was surrounded by four women. Feeling a little intimidated, she looked at the women in the mirror. They were all smiling, and standing close. They didn’t say anything. Ally wondered what was happening. No one said anything.

Just as Ally was becoming uncomfortable, a fifth woman walked up to her. “Hello! Welcome!” she said cheerfully. “Are you ready?”

Ally looked at her. “Uh… yes?”

“Wonderful! You should change your eye make-up. You have beautiful eyes, but you’re hiding them behind all of that eyeliner and mascara.”

Ally looked at her suspiciously. “What?”

“Are wearing foundation?” another woman asked.

Ally looked at the second woman.

“You need more foundation,” a third woman said.

“Cover up those blemishes,” chimed in a fourth.

“Even out your skin tone,” the last added.

Ally’s eyes darted from one woman to the next as they spoke, the comments becoming more personalized, more detailed, harder to keep track of. They talked about her hair, her makeup, her earrings, her skin. They talked about her coloring, the colors she wore, the wrinkles she didn’t have, the gray she didn’t know she had. Ally’s eyes darted from one woman to another, their words never stopping, none of them seeming to take a breath, none seeming to interrupt another, but timing so that the words didn’t stop.

The tension in Ally grew with each new criticism, until she just couldn’t stand it. “STOP!” she yelled, throwing up her hands.

The five women jumped back, clearly unexpecting the reaction.

Ally jumped up, ripped off the drape, grabbed her bag and ran out the door, her eyes stinging. She continued to run, tears threatening in her eyes. She pulled out her phone and dialled David.

He met her at the front of the building of his work, and gathered her into his arms as she finally started crying.

When she calmed, he managed to ask, “What happened?”

Ally looked down. “I went to the salon you went to last night.”

He looked down at her. “You went where?”

“The salon you went to last night.”

He closed his eyes. “Oh.”

He was quiet for a bit longer. Ally didn’t know what to do.

“You sat in the middle seat, didn’t you?”

She looked up at him.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“That’s the badger seat. There’s a competition going on to see which group can come up with the most number of grooming suggestions for a customer in fifteen minutes, or before they run away.”

Ally looked down.

“I’m guessing you ran away.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m also guessing you didn’t know what you were getting into.”

“No.”

He pulled her back into a hug. She held on tighter.

“I really was with the guys,” he said.

“I know.”

“We’re currently winning.”

Ally laughed.

Wherein I take a band name from Scalzi’s Next Band Name list, and spend no more than 20 minutes writing the story with the band name as a title.

---

Lee was sweating and he didn’t care. Yes, he knew that sweating was forbidden. Yes, he knew that showing any fear, any nervousness, any concern was strictly forbidden, and right now, he didn’t give a damn.

He didn’t give a damn, because the next meal he was about to eat contained mimes.

Mimes, and he had no idea when these particular mimes were harvested, and he desperately wanted to know. He wanted to know because he wanted to live.

Before he had come to court this evening, he had done his research. He had checked the manifests of the food being used in tonight’s dishes. He had twice checked the authenticity of several of the documents included with the shipments that had arrived earlier that day; he had even rejected the strawberries because the specific farm wasn’t listed on the manifest. That was the proper thing to do.

He wished now he had rejected the mime shipment at the same time. He could have found someone else to blame, perhaps. He had never tried to do that before, and all of the mime paperwork was in order, including the specific farm the mimes came from…

Yes, the farm was there.

The harvest time was not.

And now he was here, at the king’s table, waiting for the final dish to be served, so that he could taste it first.

It’s not like he even liked mimes. He hated mangos with a passion. That mangos could be combined genetically with a lime to produce the accursed mime was just an insult to nature. Of course the bigger insult, he thought, was that the king actually liked the things, was almost addicted to them, was so beholden to the flavor that they were served at any grand function.

There seemed to be a large number of grand functions as of late.

Lee bowed his head in shame. One does not think so poorly of his king.

Damned mimes.

Damned poisonous mimes.

The first mime tasters had died almost immediately after tasting them. While they seemed to go in an almost orgasmic bliss never changed the basic fact that they were dead. Only after the odd luck of a small boy who ate a mime harvested on the sixth full moon after the mime flower had opened, did the mime become a delicacy.

Of course, that timing took the lives of many more tasters before it was figured out.

And Lee had no idea when the mimes in the dish being served tonight were harvested.

Yes, he was sweating. He was sweating because he would be tasting tonight’s mimes before the king, because he had not remembered to ask for the documents that showed the harvest time. It was his error.

He knew which farm the mimes had come from. He had sent dispatches to the farm to ask. He had sent researchers to check the background of the mime farmers: were they loyal, did they support the king? He had made every inqiry he could, but had yet to determine the harvest time.

And now it was too late.

The mimes were brought forth to the king’s table, and set down. The king continued his conversation with his guest as Lee stepped forward and bowed. The king paused his conversation, turned, nodded slightly to Lee. Lee picked up the tasting spoon, and scooped from the pulpy mass in the bowl, knowing that one of the mimes in the bunch would contaminate the whole dish.

Lee brought the spoon to his mouth, and put the whole end in his mouth.

It tasted incredible.

It had never tasted so exquisite before.

Did that mean something, Lee wondered.

Wherein I take a band name from Scalzi’s Next Band Name list, and spend no more than 20 minutes writing the story with the band name as a title.

---

Wilson flipped the last page of the large stack of papers over and signed it. After the last two hours of signing papers, his hand was cramped. He was, however, not going to let the man sitting across the table from him know that. After taking a deep breath and letting it out, he set down the pen, picked up the fat stack, neatened it, and laid it back down on the table. He looked up, and pushed it towards the other man.

“There you go. Signed. Once you countersign, the project will be transferred and you will be done. Congratulations.”

Jack looked down at the pile of papers pushed towards him, then looked back across the table at Wilson. Without lifting his hands to the table, he replied, “Fifteen dollars.”

Surprised, Wilson didn’t respond immediately. After a few moments, he did. “Excuse me?”

“Fifteen dollars.”

Silence for a moment, Wilson wondered what the hell Jack was talking about.

“Okay, fifteen dollars what?”

“Fifteen dollars is how much is left owed on the project. Before I sign this and sign over the project, we want to be paid.”

Wilson looked at Jack dumbfounded.

“What?”

“Fifteen dollars is how much…”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Wilson interupted. “I heard that part. Are you insane?”

“Not last time I checked.” He turned to the man standing off to the side of the room. “Harrison, am I insane?”

“No, sir.”

Turning back to Wilson, Jack replied, “He says I’m not, so, fifteen dollars.”

“Are you kidding me?” Wilson exclaimed.

“No.”

“Fifteen dollars?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, fine, whatever, let me call and get you a P.O. number.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, unless you are okay waiting until the P.O. has been paid, which, at your company’s pace, is six to nine months.”

“Fifteen dollars is less than one percent of one percent of one freaking percent of the cost of this project, why would you care about an amount that small?”

“It’s the principle of the matter.”

“Fifteen dollars is a matter of principles.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Your company doesn’t pay in a timely matter. Your company doesn’t pay in full. Your company contests every line item submitted. At this point, if we don’t insist on full payment, we lose face for all future projects. It’s fifteen dollars this project, one hundred the next project, a thousand the next, and maybe a million the following. That is not acceptable. So, fifteen dollars.”

“It’s fifteen dollars!” Wilson cried. “Fifteen lousy dollars! Not a thousand, not a million, it’s fifteen… dollars.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to sign until you receive fifteen dollars for this project.”

“That’s right.”

“And you won’t accept a P.O.”

“No.”

“This is stupid.”

“From your perspective, maybe.”

“From any perspective! It’s fifteen dollars.”

“Yes.”

Wilson stood up in a huff, opened his briefcase, grabbed all of the papers he had just spent two hours signing, and started stuffing them into the briefcase. He had cramped his damned hand in the signing process, and this guy was now whining about fifteen freaking dollars? This was stupid, he was leaving.

“You realize,” Wilson started huffing, emphasizing various words as he crammed groups of the paper into the different briefcase slots, “that you,” stuff, “have just lost,” stuff, stuff, “any future business,” stuff, “with us.”

“Yeah, that’s what the last guy said, too.”

Wilson paused. “The last guy?”

“Yeah.”

“How much did you hold out with him?”

“Two dollars.”

“Two dollars?”

“Yes.”

Wilson looked at Jack for a moment longer. He looked up at Harrison standing to the side. Harrison shrugged. Wilson looked back to Jack.

“Do you have change for a twenty?”

Wherein I take a band name from Scalzi’s Next Band Name list, and spend no more than 20 minutes writing the story with the band name as a title.

---

He noticed the chicken by herself in the corner when he went out for a passing check on them in the morning. He thought nothing of her scratching on the ground, chickens do that when looking for bugs or scooping dirt for a small nest. Though why she would be doing that when she could lay in the roost, Darren didn’t know.

The feed bucket was full; the cistern full enough. Darren left without giving the chicken any more thought.

The next day, however, Darren had to notice. Not only was the hole yesterday’s chicken made now huge, it was filled with another dozen chickens all scratching and pecking at it. He let himself into the coop, and wandered over to the corner with all the chickens working furiously. Oddly, they didn’t stop when he approached. They didn’t scatter.

Darren looked at the hole they were digging, and a hole it was, no longer just a shallow ground dimple. Just over a meter wide, the hole was three decimeters deep. Puzzled, Darren stood over the chickens and watched for a bit. They didn’t seem to be hurting each other. He let them be, turned to fill the food and water buckets, and left.

The third day, Darren had to watch for a short bit to figure out how the chickens were removing the dirt from the hole. They seemed to be eating the dirt instead of pecking or kicking it, then hopping out of the hole, no small feat given the two decimeter depth. Maybe. It could have been deeper, Darren couldn’t tell.

As he watched, a chicken hopped on the back of another chicken and jumped out of the hole. She wandered unsteadily for a bit, then started making some noises, then appeared to throw up.

Could chickens throw up? Darren didn’t know. This one seemed to be able to.

Looking back at the hole, Darren noticed a rock in the bottom of the hole, pretty much in the center. It was oddly shaped, with a glassy surface as if it had melted. Rarely a curious man, Darren crouched down on the edge of the hole to look more closely.

About the size of his head, the rock extended below the bottom of the hole. After a few moments, Darren shrugged. If the chickens were going to keep digging and uncover the rest of the stone, he was going to let them. As he stood up to leave, however, another chicken hopped out of the hole off the back of another chicken, seemingly squawking at Darren as she did.

Darren took a quick step back, shook his head, and left.

The next morning was missing some of its usual sounds. Darren couldn’t place the loss until he saw the chicken coop, and realized it was empty. Muttering about a fox or raccoon, he began cursing when he realized all the chickens were gone. He walked around the coop to find the varmit’s entrance and couldn’t find one. Puzzled, he walked into the coop to see if he could find one from the inside. He skipped over the chicken-dug hole on his first pass, but nearly fell in on the second pass, and had to stop to look.

The hole was a meter deep. The rock seemed fully uncovered. It was weird. Darren couldn’t think of any other word than “Weird.”

His chickens were gone, and he had a big hole in his coop.

With a chicken statue in it.

Sam Without Pants. Here is wherein I take a band name from Scalzi’s Next Band Name list, and spend no more than 20 minutes writing the story with the band name as a title.

---

I’m stumped.

I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know what I should do about the fact that I don’t know what to do.

Stop that kid.

Okay, so, I should be doing some of the tasks on my list. I look at that list of things, and it’s just so big, and so overwhelming, and, oh god, kid, will you just stop that? Go to the other room. No, you can’t watch TV. Just give me five minutes, okay?

Sigh.

Okay, start. My list. Crap.

Okay, what’s the next thing due? I should do that.

Wait.

I keep doing that. I keep doing the next thing due, not the step that will take me one step closer to not having to do the next thing due, one step closer to my dreams. WHAT? No, you can’t! Go into the other room and play there! Yes, you can do that.

Okay, what’s the big thing I want to do? Well, there are so many things I want to do, I don’t know where YES! You can grab a juice out of the fridge. Take a box, not from the jug, okay?

Deep breath.

Should I count to ten, too?

Meditation, yes, that’s one of the big goals I have. Not sure I can meditate with this deadline tomorrow. Wait, tomorrow’s deadline, the article. Okay, yes, I know what I should do now, the article. Okay, bringing up my editor… title of the article?

Crap.

Um…

Okay, this is why I hadn’t started this last week, or the week before, or the week before. Does everyone do their tasks just before the deadline or is it just me? I guess I could do an article on procrastination and mock myself for procrastinating, but wouldn’t that just mean that the next client who is thinking of hiring me is just going to read it and thinking, nope, don’t want to torture my editor with that kind of slacking. Of course, if they knew their stuff, they’d give us deadlines that could be missed, and still be on time.

I guess that wouldn’t be a deadline then, would it.

And why does deadline have dead in it. Is it a dead line, a line not breathinga any more? I mean, what does a line have to do …

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Sam?

Come on, kid, answer already.

Sam!

I swear, kid, you are Calvin incarnate. Where are you?

Okay, here’s your shirt.

And your…

Is that you in the front yard?

Really kid?

Naked?

Sigh.