I aten't ded

[badgersandjam.livejournal.com]

 I haven't posted in a while, because I sort of stopped existing.  But to show willing, I was going to post other LRPstuff--which I now cannot find.  If I do, I shall let you enjoy the three revolting hags I andtwo friends played here.

But here, to cheer you up,. is the full list of the alchemist's notebook from the last CHangeling National, written by songofnewday and myself.

“Spin rate to high – May need to odd another tortoise”

“Mice changed colour at last. Cat only seems to like orange ones”

“Loaf of bread, pint of milk, pound of butter, newspaper, three hundred trout, quarter of a mile of washing line, Portugal”

“Better glue for stick on eyebrows?”

“Send O and M the articulated bit. 50 pence for tea kitty”

“Pliers backfired for third time this week. Tighten springs. Batten hatches. Strap pillow on helmet”

"Matches, matches, matches, matches, matches, matches, ntaches"

"Crank back to third cog. Engage treadle. Results… Cheese detonated. Need to find different method of making welsh rarebit"

"Psychiatrist - 03254 652342, Chemist 0685 32554, Fire Brigade 1"

"2 Pinches - Sour Speculate, 1 Pinch - Cream of SpikePlum, 1 Pint Fulminate of Sulphur."

"Buy new lab-coat, jacket, shirt, plasters, burn ointment."

"2 Pinches - Sour Speculate, 1 Pinch - Cream of Spike Plum, 1 PINCH(!!!) Fulminate of Sulphur."

"Attempt to cast spell summon nyarla… narlyatpopo… yarnylapto… Send for pizza"

"SUCCESS!!! Compass that points away from Reading no matter where you are!!"

"Clockwork piranhas?"

"Cheese exfoliating cream?"

"Toad launcher exploded on third attempt. Rather nice patina effect on walls."

"Pocket universe successfully generated. Should probably have removed from trousers before washing."

"Moon cheese? Moon-cheese? Mooncheese? Munchies??... Remember to cover pan when boiling mercury"

"Wanted: Lab Assistant. Height 4' 2" to 7'6". Sex: Either (or both]. Qualifications: Must be conductive… conducive to new ideas..

Add nutmeg to liver.  Take out liver first.

Let sleeping pencils lie.

Stake =/= steak and does not fry as well.

Mater fulminates better than sulphur does.

Bread and butterflies, but lands butter side down.

Three pints calico and a bushel of lard

Bottle cat’s footfalls and send to J.

Need bigger mothballs.  Last ones eaten.

Adjust wogglesprocket on horsefly device.  Duck.

Pepperoni oil insufficient lubricant, very sore.

Myth of previous successful attempt at independent propulsion exploded.  Pieces not found.

Close blast shield. Activate matter injector stream. Charge to full capacity. Launch prior to catastrophic failure hysterisis point. Add sugar and lemon to taste.

Invent better mouse trap.

Invent better mouse.

Rocket-propelled roller-postmen?

Wickerwork... Cheese... Rubber gloves!

Strip inverse thread to rip steel seams.  Apply transverse ratchet and spoon.  Ignition!

Ow.

Must be something that can be done about the housekeeper.  Finding one might be a start.

Chateaubriand or Beaujolais?  All taste the same after the twelfth explosion.  Cordite replacement sorely needed!

Radical b squared minus 4 ac is rubbish.  Just differentiate the damn thing.

This ruler does not do what it says on the tin!   Must stop buying tinned rulers, no matter the price.

Atomic Auto-zipper testing notes... Voice activation not such a good idea

Seven dimensional wheel finished. Now just need a time travellers socket set to get it attached

Finally. My atomic-powered, cybernetically-enhanced, super-octopus is ready. That should get the washing up sorted

No more twist.

And this especially for James Holloway

[badgersandjam.livejournal.com]

written by songofnewday out of the generosity of his heart and the genius of his comedy.  Again, last CHangeling National.

Colonel Indigo-Jones’s Cyder-o-Matic (The Sui-Cider)

In 1863, ex-Life Guard Officer Martlew Indigo-Jones was invalided out on half pay and decided to return to his father’s orchard and cider making business in rural Gloucestershire

The process for making cider at that point was a fairly slow system of gathering the apples, scratting them into pommage, using a large cider press to squeeze the juice out of the cheese, fermentation, etc. Indigo-Jones had, by then, become used to the rigours of military efficiency and the new processes of automation brought about by the Mitrailluse and later on the Gatling gun. So this process struck him as being far from the most efficient method of production.

After many tireless weeks of design, experimentation, woodwork and odd curly flange shaped things delivered by blacksmiths, he was ready to test his new juice extraction system – The Indigo-Jones Mark 1 Breach Loading Pulp Extraction System

It worked along a simple system. Apples were placed in a large hopper and fed into the launch mechanism through a turning shaft with large grooves at intervals around its circumference, each big enough to fit a standard apple. These would then drop into the breach and roll down under gravity. Below them was a small windmill like device lying flat with spinning arms that would catch each apple spin them up to a considerable velocity and then release them through the output nozzle at a much higher velocity. These would then be propelled across the room into a metal grill backed with muslin cloth. The apples on striking the grill would be instantly reduced to pulp and the resulting pommage caught by the cloth.

The design was simple and ingenious and on the day of the first test run many of the local gentry and not an insignificant number of public hangers-on and lower classes turned up to view the device in action.

It should be noted at this point that the device itself clearly should have worked perfectly. Any blame should really be apportioned to the supplier of apples who had been especially called in (It was early March and the local orchard was bare of any fruit). The apples used, coloquially referred to as stabapples were loaded into the machine. The windmill was spun up, much faster than it had originally been tested at by an over-enthusiastic apple-picker and the hopper lever released.

There are very few clear reports of what happened next. This due to considerable confusion, people being blinded by pulp and the few surviving witnesses having to be placed in a local asylum until there wits hopefully return. It appears that the pips proved slightly more than the mesh, muslin and back wall of the shed could withstand. The outpouring of grapeshot from the device levelled every tree in the orchard to a height of three feet. One apple struck a church bell in the nearby village and over thirty people accidentaly turned out for evensong at half past two.

The colonel himself was, unfortunately, stood by the “business end” of the device at the time, eager to examine the quality of the cheese produced. Nothing was found of him until three weeks later when his order of St George was found embedded in a tree two miles away. It was later given a burial with full military honours.

[Awakening] Not an ordinary Friday

[lslaw.livejournal.com]

(Challenge from akonken: "Do a story in which one of your characters has a Freaky Friday. With whoever you'd like." Apologies to Adam and I leave it to your sordid imaginations to work out who if anyone the other characters in the vignette are.)

( Friday )

[Requiem] A simple enough thing

[lslaw.livejournal.com]

It's in the blood, apparently.

It talks to you, talks between you, crackling like lightning, singing like a choir. It's really rather a beautiful sensation.

Scarlett van Doren - an uncommon enough name, but enough for her to hide behind. Florid and romantic, without actually meaning anything much; like the eyepatch. She seems canny and bold, and loyal, eager to prove herself. All good traits. Not bad looking either, despite the scars.

Well worth a follow, for a chap as subtle as me. She might see me, of course, being of the blood and all that - another sneaky-see-y Ventrue - but so far she doesn't seem to be looking that carefully. She's busying herself with some media brouhaha on behalf of Danny Kovacs; Malachai the Monster Hunter, of all things.

I hung around outside while she was working; didn't like to intrude, you know. Seems it didn't go so well; she came out in a hurry, muttering to herself, poor thing.

Followed her down for a while until she ducked into an alley, then caught up, somewhere nice and out of the way.

She was hunched over, muttering in some Eastern European babble and digging at her flesh with her nails. That was no good, so I went over, took hold of her wrists and didn't let go.

She looked up and I spoke to her and she listened.

"Hush con, đó là khá đủ về hành vi này. Đó là thời gian để được mạnh mẽ."