For this challenge, I’ll be writing very short snippets for a novel called Witch Eater. They’re all out of context, but they are in some kind of order, although they don’t take place directly after one another. A lot of the ways in which they relate to the daily theme are only really known to me, at least at this point in time.
—————————————————————————
Gardenias symbolize many things, but the main aspect of them that I wanted to focus on is the sending of secret or encoded messages, as well as the concepts of refinement, status, and elegance.
—————————————————————————
The Mavists stand in a half-circle, so stationary it is as if they have been waiting for me this entire time. Their leader, Essla, still holds her ivory flute in one hand. I wonder if it was she who sent the message.
She slips the instrument into the pocket of her cloak. “There’s been a complication. Your-“
“I know. The Mesterie is trying to claim her body.
Essla raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. She can wonder how I know that, where I’ve been, later. “Someone must have tampered with something,” she says, eyes narrowed. “Voraude House had an iron grip on the body.”
Despite the delirium I’ve been enveloped in for the past few hours, I can’t help but think that this is the understatement of the century. We would have received the body by default, simply because my mother was a Voraude, but she had gone to great lengths to make sure that there weren’t any cracks she might slip through. The records detailing her wishes are probably more elaborate than anything else in the Registry.
“Who?” I ask, taking a seat. Essla signals to a junior Mavist, and he walks out of the room, flute in hand. The rest simply stand there.
CONTEXT: Feeling unfeminine, Peggy meets Carolyn (secretly a transitioning drag queen). Hank and Bill have been married for 2 years; Dale and Boomhauer have been married for 5 years (6 in December).
https://archiveofourown.org/works/78774071
The humidity of an August night in Arlen, Texas, clings to the skin like a damp wool blanket, but inside the neon-lit sanctuary of "The Velvet Spur," the air is thick with the scent of cheap hairspray, spilled domestic beer, and the electric hum of a world Peggy Hill is only just beginning to understand. The world feels like it is tilting on its axis. Peggy sits at a circular booth, her posture as rigid and academic as ever, yet there is a softness in her eyes as she looks at Carolyn. Carolyn is a vision in sequins and expertly applied foundation—a woman who, in Peggy’s estimation, possesses the kind of effortless femininity that Peggy has spent forty years trying to brute-force into existence.
Peggy feels a strange, fluttering warmth in her chest, a kinetic energy she hasn’t felt since the early nineties. She thinks of her ex-husband, a man she now realizes was far more "fluid" than the Arlen school board would ever approve of, and she wonders if she is catching a bit of that bug. Spending time with Carolyn reminds her of how she felt when she and Hank were in their honeymoon phase, long before Bobby was born. It is a crush, Peggy realizes with a jolt of pride, and she decides then and there that her capacity for love is simply too big for one gender to contain.
Beside them, the guys are gathered in a rare display of domestic harmony. Hank and Bill, married for two years now, share a pitcher of Miller Lite. Bill looks healthier than he has in a decade, his bald spot gleaming under the disco ball, while Hank wears his wedding band with a quiet, stubborn dignity that says he’ll kick the ass of anyone who has a problem with it. Across from them, Dale and Boomhauer—the veterans of the group with nearly six years of marriage under their belts—are a study in contrasts. Dale is noticeably more grounded than in years past, though no less intense. Ever since Boomhauer had sat him down shortly after the wedding—agreeing to go to therapy himself if Dale would just talk to a professional—the Gribble-Boomhauer household had achieved a precarious but functional peace.
The ADHD medication kept his thoughts from splintering into a thousand directions at once, and the anti-psychotics had smoothed out the sharper, more terrifying edges of his paranoia. He still believes the government is up to no good, but now he plans his counter-offensives with a terrifyingly clear-headed focus. He vibrates with a controlled energy, his fingers tapping out a precise, rhythmic code on the table, while Boomhauer leans back, looking every bit the relaxed spouse.
"I’m telling you, Carolyn," Peggy says, her voice rising above the thump of a remix of a Dixie Chicks song. "Your application of eyeliner is nothing short of surgical. I am a woman of many talents—Substitute Teacher of the Year, three-time Boggle champion—but I find myself a humble student in the school of your vanity."
Carolyn laughs, a deep, melodic sound that carries a hint of the secret she thinks she’s keeping—the estrogen pills tucked away in her purse, the slow, tectonic shift of her soul away from Jamie, the name she was given at birth, and toward the woman she has chosen to be. She thinks Peggy is a "sister in the struggle," a fellow traveler in the world of drag, and Peggy, in her beautiful, narcissistic ignorance, just thinks she’s found a very tall, very talented best friend. The harmony is shattered when Peggy and Boomhauer stand up to head to the bar.
"Don't you worry your pretty little head, Dale," Peggy chirps, patting her hair. "We shall return with the nectar of the gods. Or at least some more light beer."
As they disappear into the crowd, the vacuum they leave is filled by two men who smell of Axe body spray and unearned confidence. They are "frat-boy types"—thick-necked, wearing polos with popped collars, their eyes gleaming with the predatory boredom of the small-town bully. They loom over the booth, ignoring Hank and Bill entirely.
One of them, a blonde with a jawline like a shovel, leans over Dale. "Hey, Slim Jim," he sneers, his voice dripping with a lewd, oily subtext. "We heard you’re the flexible type. Why don't you come back to the tailgate? We bet you can bend in ways that’d make a pretzel jealous."
Dale doesn’t even look up from his beer. He adjusts his orange cap, his expression one of bored condescension. The medication allows him to process the insult without immediately spiraling into a panic about kidney harvesters. "My husband seems to think so," he says, his voice flat and tinny. "But unless you’re carrying a Class 4 security clearance or a bag of high-grade bug poison, you’re just wasting my oxygen. Move along, Sasquatch."
The bullies’ faces darken, their ego bruised by the ease of Dale’s dismissal. They pivot, their cruelty finding a softer target: Carolyn. "What about you, 'sweetheart'?" the second one asks, reaching out to flick a sequin on Carolyn’s shoulder. "You look a little… experimental. What’s the deal? You got a permit for those parts, or are you just a confused science project?"
Carolyn flinches, her shoulders hunching. She is used to this. In the world of 2006, the "T" in the acronym is often silent or mocked, and she has learned that silence is her best armor. She stares at the table, her hands trembling.
"I asked you a question, freak," the blonde one says, leaning in close, his breath smelling of tequila. "What are your chromosomes? Are we talking XY or just 'Why'?"
Hank Hill hits the table with a fist that makes the pitchers dance. He stands up, his belt buckle straining against his jeans, his face a shade of red that rivals a ripe tomato.
"Now you listen here, you jackass!" Hank barks, his voice cutting through the music like a saw through pine. "Her chromosomes? That’s asinine! You don’t talk to a person like they’re some got-dang petri dish in a middle school science fair. Her pronouns are she and her, and if you had the common sense God gave a piece of charcoal, you’d see you’re talking to a woman! A lady! Now, get your narrow pipes out of this booth before I show you the business end of a Texas-sized-twelve boot!"
Bill stands up beside him, puffing out his chest. "That’s right! I think she’s a very classy lady. She has better posture than most of the people I saw at the DMV today, and her scent is delightful!"
Dale, sensing the tide has turned, stands up on the bench of the booth to gain height. He points a nicotine-stained finger at the frat boys. Thanks to his ADHD meds, his rant is remarkably structured. "Y'know, you have all these so-called whistleblowers claiming the government is putting chemicals in vaccines and food to make you one of them transgenders or homosexuals. Operation Rainbow-Frog is a documented reality in certain sectors of the deep state!"
He leans in, his glasses reflecting the strobe lights, his gaze piercing and unblinking. "But I’ve never seen a transgender person support the government. Not once! They’re the ones the system wants to suppress because they’ve unlocked the ultimate encryption: changing the hardware! And those 'gay frogs'? They’re just nature’s way of saying the water table is compromised by corporate runoff. It makes you wonder what they’re really putting in your protein shakes, doesn't it? All I’m saying is that Chelsea Manning went to prison for telling the truth, and Mr. Rogan is a millionaire for talking about aliens, and in this economy, you always gotta follow the money. You’re just pawns in a game played by men in suits who want you to hate her so you don't notice they're stealing your social security! You're focusing on her biology while they're digitizing your DNA for the 2012 apocalypse!"
The frat boys blink, genuinely stunned by the sheer, logical velocity of Dale’s rhetoric. They look at each other, then back at the skinny man who seems to have a terrifyingly firm grasp on his own brand of reality. At that moment, Peggy and Boomhauer return. Boomhauer takes one look at the tense shoulders, the trembling Carolyn, and the two idiots hovering over his husband. He sets the drinks down with a heavy thud. He stands six-foot-two of lean, tanned muscle, and his blue eyes go cold as a North Texas winter.
"Mm-hmm," Boomhauer says, stepping into the frat boys' personal space. He doesn't shout; he just vibrates with a quiet, dangerous authority. "Man, talk about, dangol, choose-your-own-path-in-line, man youknowwhatI’msaying? It’s like, youdon’talwaysgottaplaythehandyou'redealt, man, sometimesyouget aroyalflush, sometimesyouget nothin', talkin' 'bout kings and queens, man, it’s a beautiful thing you come in here with that, dangol, hate in your heart, man, like some kind of wolfsbane, man talkin' m'bout treachery and misanthropy, you just move on, man, before I, dangol, show you the door, yo."
The frat boys, faced with a man who looks like he could be a Calvin Klein model but talks like a runaway freight train, finally decide the "freaks" aren't worth the hospital bill. They mumble something about "weirdos" and vanish into the night. Peggy immediately slides into the booth, wrapping a protective, large-boned arm around Carolyn.
"Are you alright, sugar? I tell you, some people were raised in a barn and not the good kind of barn where they keep the prize heifers."
Carolyn wipes a stray tear, her mascara miraculously holding firm. "I’m… I’m okay. You guys didn't have to do that. I’m used to it. Really."
"Well, you shouldn't have to be," Bill says softly, reaching across to pat her hand. "I know what it’s like to want to feel… different. I like to crossdress myself sometimes. It makes me feel pretty. Like a different version of Bill. A better one."
Dale nods, sitting back down and reaching into his pocket to check his pill organizer—a habit Boomhauer had helped him establish. "I’m all for it. If the government wants us to be one thing, the most patriotic thing you can do is be something else. It jams the radar. Plus, my therapist says self-actualization is the ultimate defense against psychic intrusion."
Boomhauer nudges Dale with a grin, proud of his husband's progress. "Man, tell 'em, yo, 'member that time, dang'ol, we dressed up like, you know, ladies of the evening, man? For that, dang'ol, operation? Long story, man, but I tell you what, yo, Dale makes a hot woman, man. Talkin' m'bout, legs for days, yo."
Dale winks at Boomhauer, the tension of the confrontation melting into a familiar, domestic flirtation. "Oh, you think so, Jeff? You want me to dig those fishnets out of the crawlspace? I still have the wig. It smells like mothballs and patriotism."
Carolyn laughs, a genuine, hearty sound this time. She looks at this strange, dysfunctional, fiercely loyal group of Texans—the propane salesman, the barber, the exterminator, and the ranger—and she feels a sense of safety she hasn't felt in years.
"I tell you what, Dale," Carolyn says, leaning back and finally taking a sip of her drink. "I’ve got a whole closet and a vanity full of professional-grade makeup at my place. If you’re going to do it, you’re going to do it right. No more mothball wigs."
Peggy beams, her heart full. "I shall supervise!" she declares. "As a woman who has mastered the art of being herself, I believe we have a lot to discuss. Starting with the fact that blue eye shadow is a privilege, not a right."
In the corner of the club, the treachery, the hate, and the misanthropy are kept at bay by a wall of light beer and the unconditional love of four men who just wanted to make sure their friend could be a lady in peace.
CONTEXT: The deep red juice represents blood or protection. Mr. Burns is 97; Smithers is 27.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/78702871
The air in Burns Manor hangs thick with the scent of antiseptic and old money. Outside, raspberry brambles claw at the windows like desperate fingers, their swollen fruit splitting against the glass—deep red juice trickling down in slow, syrupy streaks. Mr. Burns collapses mid-tirade, his skeletal frame crumpling against the mahogany desk. Smithers lunges, catching him before he hits the floor, his own knees buckling under the weight of devotion.
"Oh no, Mr. Burns! We've got to get a doctor!"
Burns' eyelids flutter like moth wings. "Absolutely not!" he rasps. "No quack sawbones is going to apply his leeches to me. As long as there's an ounce of strength left in me, I—" His breath hitches. He goes limp.
Smithers' pulse riots in his throat. He fumbles for the phone, dialing with trembling fingers. Dr. Hibbert arrives with the weary efficiency of a man who's seen too many rich men die theatrically.
"How long does it take to sterilize a needle?" Smithers demands.
Hibbert blinks. "A few seconds."
Smithers tears open his shirt like a man offering his ribs to a starving god. "Oh, skip it! Just leave me enough to get home."
Hibbert's silence is a verdict. The needle glints. The vial fills. The raspberries outside burst under the weight of their own ripeness.
"Not a match," Hibbert says softly.
Smithers stares at the dark liquid in the vial—so like the juice on the window. So useless.
BrandFlakesForBreakfast posted the story about a group of geniuses that created a happy machine for the F5 Fest (the official theme was actually "happy").
Watch the video below and be stunned by the final product. I wish this was in the lobby of my building. I wouldn't mind cramming into a sweaty elevator with strangers if I got to stare at this for a few minutes each morning.
