Myshuno--Six impossible Things Before Dinner
I didn't make the blackout before the deadline. I never said I wouldn't write the stories!
Title: Six Impossible Things Before Dinner
Characters: Lytton Goodytwoshoes, Laurence Weston
‘Verse: The Squeaky Clean Legacy, A Squeaky Clean Renaissance.
Rating: G
Prompt: Baa Baa the Dog Sheep, docnerd
Words: 1343
Summary: Laurence is invited to dinner.
This follows immediately after the last story, "Stage Fright." It's one of those bridge stories between Squeaky Clean, Squeaky Clean Renaissance, and Reaper Child and Doctor Death. Cecil has left for the Middle Ages and Max has hit the road like James Dean. Lytton has just met a strangely familiar-looking young graduate student in history who has some interesting tales to tell.
Six Impossible Things Before Dinner
The snow was coming down in heavy, gauzy white curtains, and Laurence Weston ploughed through it ankle-deep, his long coat leaving an uneven trail. His mother had been very excited that he had met a real historian who wrote real books, who might be interested in Puritania. Almost no one ever listened to her stories of the old country that didn’t exist anymore, and no one took them seriously, least of all her son. On learning that he had actually been invited to dinner, she had left multiple voicemail messages, reminding him to be very polite and to wear something neat and to put on a tie and to shave for a change, for heaven’s sake. It hadn’t done any good, as he’d known it wouldn’t. Any clothing he put on became loose or tattered or interestingly lopsided, no matter how hard he tried, and he knew for a fact that she wouldn’t approve of his tie. He could feel the five o’clock shadow already making an appearance, and besides, he was wet clear through.
He probably ought to have taken the bus, but he hadn’t realized Lytton Goodytwoshoes lived so far out on the edge of town. When he’d first arrived at Sim State to go to graduate school, the students who were already there swore that right before the town limits, there was an ancient henge, and next to it was a mansion that looked like a classic haunted house, complete with a widow’s walk and a tomb, and that organ music and the occasional scream could be heard from within. Laurence didn’t believe a word of it. He knew when his leg was being pulled.
He could barely see through the whirling snow and its pale lavender background. A large house slowly became visible. All of a sudden, Laurence stopped in his tracks.
“Wow, Mr. G,” he said aloud, and then was very glad he hadn’t said it in front of Mr. Goodytwoshoes. Still-he’d heard of gingerbread on houses, but it usually referred to cute curly white trim on porches. He’d never heard of a gingerbread house outside of a fairy tale, and yet that was exactly what Lytton Goodytwoshoes’ house looked like, with dark brown walls, colored edges, and trim that looked almost exactly like frosting. With the snow settling on it, it looked as though it belonged underneath a Christmas tree.
He plunged up to the porch. The light spilling out from its windows was inviting, and yet unnerving, as though there were a witch inside and she was waiting for him to come in and be baked. But instead it was Lytton Goodytwoshoes, wading out to welcome him inside.
“Good gracious, Mr. Weston,” said Lytton, “do come inside. I was almost thinking that you shouldn’t come after all, but I’m very glad you did.” Laurence found himself hustled inside and his wet coat removed. He scarcely had the time to be embarrassed about its shabbiness and the way the pockets bulged. As he waited for his host to come back, he stared at the hall and the rooms he could see beyond it. If he had thought the outside of the house looked somehow Christmassy, the inside looked as thought it were permanently ready for a Christmas of Dickensian proportions: red and gold everywhere he looked, windows that were frosted on the interior, and a roaring fire in a book lined study just to his left. It looked eccentric, but definitely warm.
Before he had more than a moment to stand there, dripping, he heard the frantic yapping of a small dog and the scrabbling of nails on the wood floor. Coming towards him, bouncing and barking hysterically, was -
A lamb?
It had to be a dog, but it looked like-
“Oh, er, yes,” said Lytton, who had returned, and Laurence turned to find him smiling nervously and steepling his fingers. “Baa-Baa is a lamb, but he is quite convinced he is a dog. Don’t worry,” he added, as Baa-Baa sniffed around the wet, sagging cuffs of Laurence’s trousers, “he is quite friendly. He doesn’t bite. He doesn’t have much to bite with. He simply wants to know what you smell like, although it won’t do him much good, poor thing. If you will reach into the tin just to your left, you will find some biscuits, and he’ll be quite eager to make friends.”
Laurence reached into the tin and took out a biscuit. Baa-Baa stopped his sniffing and sat back on his haunches, begging for the treat.
“Sit . . .stay. . . good boy!” said Laurence, throwing the biscuit. Baa-Baa caught it mid-throw and crunched it ecstatically.
Lytton gestured for him to follow him into the study. Laurence sat, his clothes gently steaming, while Lytton fussed about him worrying about wet and cold and bustled to and fro with tea and brandy. Finally, there was no more to be done, and his host stood on the hearthrug, looking anxious.
“I ought perhaps to have explained about Baa-Baa. I acquired him for my wife, RubyBlue-you will be meeting her in a minute or two. We married on Christmas Eve, you know. I’ve always been quite fond of Christmas. She was a shepherdess: her maiden name was RubyBlue BoPeep.” Laurence choked on his brandy. “I thought the lamb would make her feel more at home, but instead he seems to have decided to be a dog.” Lytton sat at the chair next to his desk. “More tea?”
“No, I’m quite warm. Why do you think he decided to be a dog?”
“Well,” Lytton said, and hesitated, “I believe-I cannot be sure, you understand-but I believe that he knows there ought to be no such thing as a pet lamb here. Pet cats, yes-my family is very fond of cats--and dogs, and womrats. We had one at the college house named Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. And birds, and my brother collects exotic fish, but lambs are quite impossible, and Baa-Baa knows it. He is, if you will, occupying the only social niche open to him.”
Laurence sat back comfortably, his shabbiness and dampness entirely forgotten. Baa-Baa butted his wet nose against his hand, and he scratched his head absent-mindedly. “Actually, Mr. Goodytwoshoes,” he admitted, “you won’t believe it, but that makes a lot of sense.”
All at once, Lytton sprang to his feet, and Laurence rose as a sweet-faced red headed woman appeared in the door of the study. “Ah, my dear, do come in,” said Lytton, “this is our dinner guest. May I present to you Mr. Laurence Weston?”
The woman extended her hand, and then tilted her head with a puzzled expression. Her eyes darted from the neat figure and bespectacled face of Lytton Goodytwoshoes to his own bedraggled appearance and back again. Once again, Laurence knew that he was not creating a very good impression, and fought down the almost irresistible urge to amuse or entertain this pleasant woman to make up for it.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Weston,” she said. “For a moment, you almost looked like someone I know.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Goodytwoshoes,” he replied, making her the most graceful bow he could manage, which if he’d known it, was very graceful indeed.
“Do come in to dinner,” said Lytton, “and you mustn’t think of going home in this dreadful weather. I do hope,” he added in a worried tone, “that-well, the house being a bit exuberant, and the lamb-I do hope you won’t find us too eccentric.”
You say that as though it’s a bad thing, thought Laurence, but said nothing as he followed his host and hostess out of the room. He fished another biscuit out of the tin for Baa-Baa, who sat back on his haunches again. He tossed the biscuit to the excited lamb, who raced after it down the hallway, hooves scrabbling wildly. Fairy-tale houses, lambs who thought they were dogs. . .
. . . maybe his mother’s stories wouldn’t sound so ridiculous after all.
Title: Six Impossible Things Before Dinner
Characters: Lytton Goodytwoshoes, Laurence Weston
‘Verse: The Squeaky Clean Legacy, A Squeaky Clean Renaissance.
Rating: G
Prompt: Baa Baa the Dog Sheep, docnerd
Words: 1343
Summary: Laurence is invited to dinner.
This follows immediately after the last story, "Stage Fright." It's one of those bridge stories between Squeaky Clean, Squeaky Clean Renaissance, and Reaper Child and Doctor Death. Cecil has left for the Middle Ages and Max has hit the road like James Dean. Lytton has just met a strangely familiar-looking young graduate student in history who has some interesting tales to tell.
Six Impossible Things Before Dinner
The snow was coming down in heavy, gauzy white curtains, and Laurence Weston ploughed through it ankle-deep, his long coat leaving an uneven trail. His mother had been very excited that he had met a real historian who wrote real books, who might be interested in Puritania. Almost no one ever listened to her stories of the old country that didn’t exist anymore, and no one took them seriously, least of all her son. On learning that he had actually been invited to dinner, she had left multiple voicemail messages, reminding him to be very polite and to wear something neat and to put on a tie and to shave for a change, for heaven’s sake. It hadn’t done any good, as he’d known it wouldn’t. Any clothing he put on became loose or tattered or interestingly lopsided, no matter how hard he tried, and he knew for a fact that she wouldn’t approve of his tie. He could feel the five o’clock shadow already making an appearance, and besides, he was wet clear through.
He probably ought to have taken the bus, but he hadn’t realized Lytton Goodytwoshoes lived so far out on the edge of town. When he’d first arrived at Sim State to go to graduate school, the students who were already there swore that right before the town limits, there was an ancient henge, and next to it was a mansion that looked like a classic haunted house, complete with a widow’s walk and a tomb, and that organ music and the occasional scream could be heard from within. Laurence didn’t believe a word of it. He knew when his leg was being pulled.
He could barely see through the whirling snow and its pale lavender background. A large house slowly became visible. All of a sudden, Laurence stopped in his tracks.
“Wow, Mr. G,” he said aloud, and then was very glad he hadn’t said it in front of Mr. Goodytwoshoes. Still-he’d heard of gingerbread on houses, but it usually referred to cute curly white trim on porches. He’d never heard of a gingerbread house outside of a fairy tale, and yet that was exactly what Lytton Goodytwoshoes’ house looked like, with dark brown walls, colored edges, and trim that looked almost exactly like frosting. With the snow settling on it, it looked as though it belonged underneath a Christmas tree.
He plunged up to the porch. The light spilling out from its windows was inviting, and yet unnerving, as though there were a witch inside and she was waiting for him to come in and be baked. But instead it was Lytton Goodytwoshoes, wading out to welcome him inside.
“Good gracious, Mr. Weston,” said Lytton, “do come inside. I was almost thinking that you shouldn’t come after all, but I’m very glad you did.” Laurence found himself hustled inside and his wet coat removed. He scarcely had the time to be embarrassed about its shabbiness and the way the pockets bulged. As he waited for his host to come back, he stared at the hall and the rooms he could see beyond it. If he had thought the outside of the house looked somehow Christmassy, the inside looked as thought it were permanently ready for a Christmas of Dickensian proportions: red and gold everywhere he looked, windows that were frosted on the interior, and a roaring fire in a book lined study just to his left. It looked eccentric, but definitely warm.
Before he had more than a moment to stand there, dripping, he heard the frantic yapping of a small dog and the scrabbling of nails on the wood floor. Coming towards him, bouncing and barking hysterically, was -
A lamb?
It had to be a dog, but it looked like-
“Oh, er, yes,” said Lytton, who had returned, and Laurence turned to find him smiling nervously and steepling his fingers. “Baa-Baa is a lamb, but he is quite convinced he is a dog. Don’t worry,” he added, as Baa-Baa sniffed around the wet, sagging cuffs of Laurence’s trousers, “he is quite friendly. He doesn’t bite. He doesn’t have much to bite with. He simply wants to know what you smell like, although it won’t do him much good, poor thing. If you will reach into the tin just to your left, you will find some biscuits, and he’ll be quite eager to make friends.”
Laurence reached into the tin and took out a biscuit. Baa-Baa stopped his sniffing and sat back on his haunches, begging for the treat.
“Sit . . .stay. . . good boy!” said Laurence, throwing the biscuit. Baa-Baa caught it mid-throw and crunched it ecstatically.
Lytton gestured for him to follow him into the study. Laurence sat, his clothes gently steaming, while Lytton fussed about him worrying about wet and cold and bustled to and fro with tea and brandy. Finally, there was no more to be done, and his host stood on the hearthrug, looking anxious.
“I ought perhaps to have explained about Baa-Baa. I acquired him for my wife, RubyBlue-you will be meeting her in a minute or two. We married on Christmas Eve, you know. I’ve always been quite fond of Christmas. She was a shepherdess: her maiden name was RubyBlue BoPeep.” Laurence choked on his brandy. “I thought the lamb would make her feel more at home, but instead he seems to have decided to be a dog.” Lytton sat at the chair next to his desk. “More tea?”
“No, I’m quite warm. Why do you think he decided to be a dog?”
“Well,” Lytton said, and hesitated, “I believe-I cannot be sure, you understand-but I believe that he knows there ought to be no such thing as a pet lamb here. Pet cats, yes-my family is very fond of cats--and dogs, and womrats. We had one at the college house named Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. And birds, and my brother collects exotic fish, but lambs are quite impossible, and Baa-Baa knows it. He is, if you will, occupying the only social niche open to him.”
Laurence sat back comfortably, his shabbiness and dampness entirely forgotten. Baa-Baa butted his wet nose against his hand, and he scratched his head absent-mindedly. “Actually, Mr. Goodytwoshoes,” he admitted, “you won’t believe it, but that makes a lot of sense.”
All at once, Lytton sprang to his feet, and Laurence rose as a sweet-faced red headed woman appeared in the door of the study. “Ah, my dear, do come in,” said Lytton, “this is our dinner guest. May I present to you Mr. Laurence Weston?”
The woman extended her hand, and then tilted her head with a puzzled expression. Her eyes darted from the neat figure and bespectacled face of Lytton Goodytwoshoes to his own bedraggled appearance and back again. Once again, Laurence knew that he was not creating a very good impression, and fought down the almost irresistible urge to amuse or entertain this pleasant woman to make up for it.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Weston,” she said. “For a moment, you almost looked like someone I know.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Goodytwoshoes,” he replied, making her the most graceful bow he could manage, which if he’d known it, was very graceful indeed.
“Do come in to dinner,” said Lytton, “and you mustn’t think of going home in this dreadful weather. I do hope,” he added in a worried tone, “that-well, the house being a bit exuberant, and the lamb-I do hope you won’t find us too eccentric.”
You say that as though it’s a bad thing, thought Laurence, but said nothing as he followed his host and hostess out of the room. He fished another biscuit out of the tin for Baa-Baa, who sat back on his haunches again. He tossed the biscuit to the excited lamb, who raced after it down the hallway, hooves scrabbling wildly. Fairy-tale houses, lambs who thought they were dogs. . .
. . . maybe his mother’s stories wouldn’t sound so ridiculous after all.