Olde Farts
excerpt...finished the first draft of this novel(Olde Fart), no more blank pages, my goal is to have reading draft this Fall
The girl set aside her device and considered the condition of the quip, that life-long mystery of entertaining no mystery. “Why don’t you, stink bug, why don’t you fix that broken butter churn that hangs from your ceiling?”
“We, here at the North Cascade Inn, we churn our own butter with nuclear power.” For a nano second, the quip mused that the matter was discussed and done, yet immortality encouraged excess in all meditations. “This churn had a humble start, where humans, women often, would cut the cream off the top of the milk pail, and put it into the churn, and crank the churn until they had a sweet creamy palette to paint and cure their dishes.” Ebachaneezer Feathers passed gas and floated as quips were known to do when they became lost in thought.
“It is a symbol of patriarchy.” The girl did not query her device. She had come prepared to delude the quip’s gas. “It is broken. You should throw it out the back door and let it burn in Hell.”
“It represents a time and place.” The quip leaked, as gas does, back into the material. “Hard work and sustenance.”
“I should be inspired, old fart, not represented.” The girl talked out the side of her mouth while facing her device.
“Time for bed.” Cyd the cyborg activated mother hen mode. They were all, except the girl, in danger of losing their livelihood.
“It is my restaurant. I decide when it shall close or open.” Ebachaneezer Feathers had words, many words on the churn alone, and they had yet to notify the unofficial official superficial artificial intelligence guild of this creature of the dark light. They would inquire of her rights to this conquest. In a bubble bath of gas, the quip circled the table and the logic. “Your ancestral planet, the artist formerly known as Earth, is a symbol of patriarchy.”
“Polluted, overheated, and not one to follow directions.” The girl was good.
“Cultured, innovative, and self…” Again the creature of the dark light caught them wagging between the nano-seconds.
“Destructive.” The girl was real good.
“Proficient.” If the artist formerly known as Earth was anything, it was complex and fearless with its vision. Ebachaneezer Feathers had read many of its books both literary and geologic on its eras of apocalypse.
“We give birth, bug burp.” The girl’s face was lit with the dark light again. “You lay eggs.”
“You…you eat too many eggs!” The owner and operator of the North Cascade Inn stopped and rose with their hot air into the ceiling. Indeed, the butter churn was broken and perhaps the patriarchy.
And if the insurrection, the dark light, the whip-smart girl, was not horrible enough, their most trusted employee, Cyd the cyborg, served the fray again. “Every man wept on their way out of a motherboard.”
“A proud woman!” The girl would not stop. Was she searching for her words on that device? Was she summoning her voice from the dark light like demonic ethers? Was she, this creature of the dark light, spreading anarchy?
“Then why, girl, then why are you on your way to Hell?” A quip shall quip, and this location inspired much quipping. The North Cascade Inn, halfway to Hell, to the cease and desist of all bodily functions, including neural signals and physiological signs, proposed the somewhat absurd and therefore interesting suggestion, at least to the immortal life form of Ebachaneezer Feathers, that a death might exist after life.
“To eat breakfast, brunch, lunch, and dinner.” The girl was good. “And dessert.” The girl was real good.