Oct 9, 2013

Three Meditations on How Much Your Spaghetti Sucks

Each of these prompts is set in the imaginary world of Babsyaronkell, which you may develop as you please.

art by Thomas Robson

The basic idea is that Babsyaronkell is Earth but no-one wants to call it that, and whatever you wish would become real, becomes real. The more it inconveniences someone, the realer it becomes. So it’s like a kitchen sink with extra gunge and those little chicken bones that desperately cling to your plate after a couple of washes and you have to go in there with your nail and scrape them off and dispose with them in a bespoke manner. That sort of place.


A sharp pain woke Mysteris at midnight. Something stuck out of his back. It was a corkscrew.
“Augh,” said Mysteris to his bunkmate, Crewsom, “Finagle is at it again.”
“It’s your fault,” said Crewsom not fully awake, grating his words. “Let him bugger you and be done with it.”


Popper Nickel got married to the prettiest girl in the village, pregnant but not yet showing. She carried Popper’s twin brother’s child. She was also a guy.

Popper found out on the wedding night the child would fulfill a prophecy; and this disturbed him greatly, for it lacked originality.


The astronaut pined for his mother’s spaghetti.
“These food tubes,” he said to the other crew members, “I just--”
Europa loomed in the viewport.
“There’s no turning back, Geordie,” said Aline, a xenobiologist. “Earth is gone.”
“I need to cook,” said Geordie, taking meteors for meatballs.

art by Emir Sehanovic

After the jump: Hand-picked music for lovers of meatballs. K├Âttbullar av alla de slag!

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