Prompt Courtesy @creativepromptsforwriting With Characters From Community Witch, My As-yet-unpublished

Prompt courtesy @creativepromptsforwriting with characters from Community Witch, my as-yet-unpublished queer poly romance novel (okay to RB)

Rav had left his partners looking at potential wedding dates when he ducked out to the kitchen for more coffee. When he returned, both Aspen and Nat were scowling at each other.

"What do you mean it wasn't a date?" Nat asked indignantly. "Of course it was a date!"

"It wasn't a date," Aspen insisted bullishly. "Because it happened completely by accident, and you'd never shown any interest in dating me in high school."

Nat rolled her eyes. "For fuck's sake. You're as bad as Rav sometimes."

"Not that I'm disagreeing, but in what way?" Rav asked mildly, grinning when Nat jumped and cringed guiltily.

"Not being able to pick up on blindingly obvious social cues" Nat replied.

"Insisting that words have meaning," Aspen said simultaneously.

"Whoa." Rav held up his hand and perched on the edge of the couch. "Okay. Aspen, how did this start?"

"Nat suggested seeing if one of our many anniversaries is on a Saturday, which is how we discovered that we apparently different definitions of what 'date' means."

"Aspen thinks that spending four hours walking around town, including a romantic sunset walk on the beach, doesn't constitute a date."

Rav cleared his throat, but was roundly ignored by both of his partners.

"I didn't even know you were living in Parksville!" Aspen protested. "And you said we should 'catch up', not 'do you want to go on a date'."

"Earth to Aspen, 'catching up' is code for 'date', and I was hanging off your arm and making calf eyes at you the entire night! Plus, by your own logic, getting coffee shouldn't count as a date either, even though I kissed you at the end of the night."

Aspen crossed their arms. "I asked if it was a date and you said yes, which makes it a date."

"I think--" Rav began, only to be cut off once more.

"Aha!" Nat stabbed a triumphant finger in Aspen's direction. "If retroactive date-labeling makes coffee a date, then the first one is also definitely a date."

"Please. It was, like, a half-date."

"There's no such thing as half a date!"

Aspen shrugged. "You never dated William."

"No fair." Nat pouted. "You can't play the shitty ex card."

"Maybe," Rav said loudly enough to finally get their attention. "You could accept that different people have different definitions for social constructs like dates, and that different definitions aren't automatically incorrect."

"Right." Aspen said slowly, their eyes twinkling with mischief. "Just like different chili recipes are equally valid."

When Nat's eyes blazed, Rav cut their partners off with a firm, "No. Arguments later. Date-picking now, which means picking a date that includes all three of us."

"Fine," Nat sighed.

"Thank you. Now..." Rav gestured for Aspen to lift their legs so that he could sit between Aspen and Nat, with Aspen stretching out across his lap once he'd settled. "What about our first date with the three of us?"

"Oh, sweetie," Aspen laughed. "Now you're just opening a very similar but entirely new can of worms."

Rav blinked, puzzled. "Am I?"

Nat exchanged an amused look with Aspen. "What would you say our first date was, then?"

Rav took a sip of coffee in a futile attempt to cover his ears going bright pink. "When I was over for dinner and we finally, uh... you know." Aspen and Nat exchanged another, more smug look. "Well what would you say it was, then?"

Aspen cocked their head and thought for a moment. "The first time we did dinner and a movie?" they asked Nat.

"Mm. I was thinking the play. The movie had too much friend-hangout plausible deniability."

"Oh, yeah. You're right, I can totally see that."

Rav fidgeted uncomfortably as he turned an even brighter shade of pink. "That was a date? I thought..."

Aspen and Nat were both staring at him with shit-eating grins.

"I see that I was wrong to intervene," he grumbled. "I liked you more when you were arguing with each other instead of ganging up on me."

When Rav made as if to get up, Aspen octopused themself around him, nearly spilling his coffee. "Don't be like that," they whined. "Staaaaaay. We'll be good."

Rav gave Aspen a sour look. "I highly doubt that."

"Our feelings-and-fucking-versary is actually on a Saturday, if we're still looking at next year," Nat said, looking at her phone.

"Great!" Aspen exclaimed.

"We are not calling it that." Rav realized his mistake as soon as the words had left his mouth, sighed, and course corrected. "Or rather, we're not telling wedding guests about the fucking part."

"Deal," Nat and Aspen chorused.

"Remind me why I'm marrying you again?"

Prompt #1106: IYO (19)

Imagine your OTP where both of them cannot agree on what their first date was.

It's a hellish time to be unemployed.

"AI" has enshittified already-terrible ATS (applicant tracking system) software, making it even harder to get your resume seen by a human.

Text-generated AI spam applications means that new jobs are being posted for 2 days before being closed because they're being flooded with hundreds of fake applicants.

HALF of hiring managers admit they think it's acceptable to post fake jobs, and two fifths say they've done it in the past year.

So it's no surprise that nearly 4 months after being laid off, my job hunt is Not Going Well. And today I broke 3 digits on job applications!

My job hunt in 2022 was hellish - 127 job applications and 17 companies interviewed with to get my last job. And yet, I'd give just about anything to go back to THAT job landscape and not this enshittified nightmare fuel hellscape.

Fun game unlocked: re -deciphering my mental illness symptoms

Am I exhausted because of T? Or am I exhausted because I spent the day applying to jobs and depression is hitting different?

Another rejection, from the agent who'd requested a partial manuscript, but this one was at least very nice.

That leaves me with one outstanding request for a full manuscript, and a lot of open queries at 3+ months, so... time for another round of queries.

I was NOT AT ALL expecting where this ended up

Soviet Birds.

The secret facility that I work in has holes in the ceiling. We don't know how to get them fixed.

We tried asking the government to fix it, once. We told them that the holes in the older parts of the facility had gotten large enough to fit birds through, and that birds were getting through, and that, perhaps, a Soviet Spy could fit through as well.

After all, it is well known that Soviet Spies and pigeons are approximately the same diameter.

Our hope was that that this vague and nonsensical threat would put a little fire under Uncle Sam's feet. If the fed couldn't be bothered to give a shit about the giant gaping holes in the roof of our facility, perhaps they could be persuaded to give a shit about... Soviet Spies.

This attempt at manipulation 100% blew up in our faces.

See, the government does not need to be persuaded to give a shit about Soviet Spies. It still wakes up most nights, drenched in cold sweat, terrified and confident that a Soviet Spy is hiding in their nightstand. If it sees a rock on the ground, it flips it over, pistol drawn, ready to shoot the Soviet Spy it fully expects to slither out from underneath. Which is to say: The government is crazy. So when we dropped those two words - inflitration risk - in the repair request, they came in guns-a-blazin'.

Does that mean that they fixed the roof? Of course not. Don't be stupid. No, instead of performing basic maintenance, they installed a state of the art alarm system throughout the facility - lasers, sonar, the works - and told us to always be on the guard. Because of the roof holes.

Then they left.

So now we had an extremely good alarm system... and birds. Which have combined in incredibly obvious and predictable ways to produce an unending fountain of problems.

For Example: About once a month, someone gets called in by the local airforce dispatch because AAAAAAAAAAA a Spy is in the Rad Lab! We're all gonna die! Except every time, it's a bird. And I get why we have to check, but every time, the dispatcher is panicked and the person going out has to be like listen, listen: It's a bird. It's always a bird. It's been a bird every month for the last fifteen years. It will be a bird next month. All this stress? Bad for your heart.

Second Example: Sometimes, birds get in while we're actually working. And when it's in the morning, you know, it's a nuisance, and it stops testing (we are not going to risk irradiating a bird) but it's not an all-hands-on-deck situation because it doesn't take ten hours to get a bird out. But surprisingly often, the bird gets in riiiiight at closing time, and in that situation, everyone goes feral because nobody can leave until the alarm is set, and we cannot set the alarm while the bird is there, because the bird would immediately trigger it and then we'd have to stay another 4 hours to confirm that it was not a Soviet Bird.

So in order to go home, everyone's top priority is Get That Bird. And we have a system for it.

Step 1: The test stands tend to be located in rooms with 30+ foot ceilings. We can't catch birds in places like that - so we have to lure the bird into the relatively low ceilinged (8 feet only) upper offices.

We do this by turning all the lights off in the test rooms, then putting floodlights by the exits. I don't know why this works - some kind of evolutionary brain fragment shared by both Bugs and Birds - but work it does. The birds almost always follow after the lights. From there, it’s just two guys moving the floodlight and a third guy to turn off the lights.

Step 2: Everyone else has been waiting for this step. There is this long stairway up from the basement level into the offices, and in the final stage, the floodlights are brought to the base of the stairwell to bring the bird up. At the top of the steps there will be a group of tennish people, waiting for the signal. The light guys will set up the final transfer, everyone will tense, and then, swish...a bird will flit up the stairs and into the offices.

It's like watching werewolves on a full moon. Before the bird cometh, we are engineers. Nerds. Pale and skinny things, trembling under the fluorescent lights. After the bird, we are beasts. Feral, gnawing things, glowing under the orange sunrise of the 70's halogen floodlights.

And like all beasts, we cannot help but give chase.

Step 3: The were-engineers begin the hunt. The goal at the start is not really to catch the bird - just exhaust it. So the pack simply does not relent. Because the stakes are going home on time, the group is basically given free reign to go anywhere in the building. If someone's door is open, and the bird goes inside, they're going to have to deal with ten sweaty panting maniacs leaping around their office. They don't get to say that they're busy, or remark on how all this movement is a terrible distraction. They are allowed to sit in silence during the chaos, and perhaps thank the war party for chasing the bird while they sat comfortably on their ass. This has been explained several times, and it will continue to be explained until cooperation is achieved.

Anyway.

The chase can go on for quite some time. Sometimes, the bird will get tired and find a crevice to hide in, where it can then be reached through standard cornered-bird catching techniques.

Other times, it will slow down enough that someone can actually yoink it out of the air. But this will go on until someone catches the bird and triggers Step 4.

Step 4: The Finale. This is the get-the-bird-out-of-the-building stage, and it requires someone to adopt a specific role: To Become the Sacrificial Vessel of Bird Removal.

This job is both coveted and feared. It's coveted, because holding a wild bird in one's hands is a precious thing. To feel how small, and fragile, and scared it is, only to free it from the building? That is what it's like to be a benevolent God. But the cost! Oh, the cost. The entire time the Vessel is in motion, the bird will be biting the hell out of their fingers. And I cannot emphasize enough just how painful bird bites are. Their entire face is a set of needle posed pliers, and they know tricks the even the cartels haven't figured out yet. So there's always a little hubbub about who shall be The Vessel while onlookers, stranded outside The Office of Bird Capture, can only look on. Quiet arguments and pleas are heard, little fragments of fear and pride and glory trickling out of room like the silver dust left behind in a bag of well shook quarters. The sound of concensus is silence, and the argument will go on until that's all that's left. And then, from the darkness of the final office, the chosen sacrifice will step forward: Hands gently cupped, tears streaming down their face, fingers trembling from the pain of the ongoing bird chomps.

And this scene is what organizes people. Not leadership, not truly. No one can think and coordinate a crowd while their fingers are being attacked with a combination nutcracker/ear piercer. But the crowd sees the suffering of their annointed, and it is driven to do everything poossible to make the process flow. People instinctively flair out, finding the fastest path outside. Doors are held open. Paths are cleared. Someone, somehow, always knows the way forward and can describe it to the sufferer. Left, left, forward. Corner closet. Yep, there's a hall in there. Forward. Two-hundred more feet man, you're doing great. Just hold it together a little longer. You're killing it.

Then the final door swings open, and the bird flees out into what remains of daylight. And yet, even here, the deed is not yet done. I cannot explain it in words, but the crowd that helped is never content until they can see and speak on the Bird Vessel's wounds. They all have to pull the fingers back and see what was given. Estimate the price: One day to get better - No, three - No, a week! Are you blind? Do you see that blood blister? -Yeah, that's not going away anytime soon - Damn, can you believe how feisty those things are? Like wolves without teeth.

(They cannot help but touch as they go. It has always been this way. Even Thomas was not content until he felt the wounds in Christ's hands.)

Only when the last of the helpers has seen, and commented, and commended, will the engineers scatter. It is their return from the underworld that announces to the sun living surface dwellers that they too can go home. (@somerunner tolja it needed to be a post.)

Just got rejected for a job I applied THIRTY SIX MINUTES after I applied. These fake jobs are absolutely nuts.