Salt Or Not?
Author’s notes: Kyrano, prompt #4, cooking. Inspired by fic simplicity’s prompt #21, salt.
Kyrano sprinkled salt onto the peeled, boiled potatoes, added milk, butter, and black pepper, then began to whip them. The well-cooked chunks became mushy, then creamy beneath his ministrations. He tasted them, dipping a finger into the thick mash.
“Hmm.” Frowning, he sampled his handiwork again. He spilled some salt from the shaker into his hand, tasting the crystals. Muttering a Malaysian curse, he put the bowl aside, pulling out more potatoes to peel. He glanced at the ruined dish; a sly smile crossed his face.
“I believe I will save a special portion of this for Mr. Gordon.”
Author’s notes: Grandma, prompt #6, mother love. Inspired by fic simplicity’s prompt #22, diapers. Based on Marriott’s contention that Lucille died giving birth to Alan.
“You poor little thing.”
Grandma rubbed medicated cream on the baby’s bottom, soothing the rash that set him wailing. She diapered him snugly, then picked him up, holding him to her shoulder, rubbing his back and rocking as she did. The baby’s head drooped; his thumb found its way into his mouth. Blond fluff moved under her breath as she put him to bed.
“You poor little thing,” she whispered again, smoothing a hand over his head. “To never know your mama. I guess I’ll have to be mama to you… at least until your daddy’s up to the job.”
Spit And Polish
Author’s notes: Parker, prompt #2, FAB-1.
Parker kept an eye on the sky as he rubbed the chamois across FAB-1’s bonnet. He whistled as he worked, buffing his employer’s prized possession to a high gloss.
He stopped whistling long enough to mutter, “Never thought HI’d come t’ like the color.” He rubbed some more, standing on tiptoes to reach as far as possible. He glanced up as a flight of ducks winged overhead. A large drop splattered on his handiwork; he shook a fist at the retreating flock. “Bloody birds!” Turning back to the Rolls, he wiped up the mess, cooing, “Did they muck yer, milady?”
Author’s notes: A Thunderbird’s POV – in this case, Thunderbird 3, prompt #1, pilot.
I have two pilots.
Blond, blue-eyed – in looks, alike as peas in a pod.
Yet at my helm, they are different as night and day.
The elder is cautious, precise, a stranger. He does not know me. He is faithful to Five, the patient stargazer.
But the younger knows me… every sound, every shiver. His hands gently caress my controls. He needs no instruments to tell when something is wrong. He feels me in his bones; his spirit soars with me as I lift off. No terrestrial passion could compare.
He is my lover, and calls me his lady.
Author’s notes: A scenelet from The Imposters. International Rescue, prompt #4, Jeremiah Tuttle.
“Maw? That there Lady Penny-lope… she’s gonna find the goin’ a mite rough for them fancy clothes o’ hers.” Jeremiah pulled off his hat, scratching his scalp. “I’m a’thinkin’ we’d best follow her an’ that Parker fella. They might could be gettin’ into a heap o’ trouble.”
Maw sighed. “I ‘spect you’re right, Jeremiah. You most always are.” She got up from her rocking chair, groaning. “I’ll fetch us some beans. We might could need ’em.”
“Good idea, Maw. I’ll get my shotgun.” Jeremiah followed her inside. “If’n I’m right ’bout who’s out there, we’re shore gonna need it.”