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It probably surprises everybody here to know that I have been busy for the last few years becoming a very successful and lucratizing writer. However, the pandemic has bankrupted me and so I need to stop resting on my larels (sp?) and learn to write again so I can publish new books because my agent told me that after three years you cannot collect royalties on a work as they are now creative commons, so this sucks. I will go in, and give me an ingredient please!
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Aug 11, 2020 05:23
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| # ¿ Jan 21, 2025 13:08 |
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Chopstick Dystopia posted:
Just really quick before we get to the main event: this thread can be hard to find in the forums. Have you ever considered moving it up closer to the top so that people can see it easier? Might help get old writers like me "back in the saddle" if you will. Just a thought! Enjoy!  Alien’s Sexy Mushroom “Are you sure you know what kind of mushroom that is?” I ask Kula, my blue-skinned alien boyfriend who has already impregnated me. “While you’ve been learning about galactic history and all that other boring crap, I’ve been learning about every different mushroom on Lakria. Of course I know what it is.” Sometimes I don’t know what things are and demand he cook them for me so I can try them. Like the time I requested Ukranian salo. “It’s just…you picked it right out of the forest. It was just like, under a tree. What if it’s poisonous? Just scan it, Kula.” He clenches his jaw at me. Part of being an “indie chef,” which is the profession that Kula is, is not using any form of higher technology. No synthesizing, of course, but also doing things like scanning takes away from what Kula does. A chef is supposed to be able to use his senses of touch, sight, and smell to figure out which ingredients are the best. Using a scanner is considered cheating. I don’t want to die of a poisonous mushroom though. “I tell you what,” I say. “Go into the bedroom.” “What--” “Go, Kula.” He goes, and I shut the door so he won’t hear the scanner. I point the scanner at the mushroom. “What is it?” “Therasian Truffle,” the scanner says. Yeah. No idea what that is. “Is it poisonous?” I ask. “No, it’s perfectly safe to eat. It’s highly sought after for--” I turn off the scanner. I don’t want to know any more than I have to, for fear that Kula will say I ruined the “authenticity” of his meal. “Come back!” I shout. He glares at me. “It’s safe, right?” “Yes. You were right.” He grins. “See, Muru?” Muru is a pet name for me that he uses. It’s from his alien language. “You’ve got to trust me. The burned salo incident was months ago. I’m a changed man.” I kiss him on the cheek and nod, and I go back to reading my history book. While Kula is cooking, I chat with him between pages as he cooks. I lay on the couch, and he cooks a meal for us. It’s a pretty nice life. Except for when he burns the salo. “Have you heard of Kalafa?” I ask him. “Is that a mushroom?” “No. It’s a planet. There was this queen there who uploaded hers--” “Hold on,” he says, “the pasta is going to boil over.” I go on reading without talking to him. I know that he needs to focus. The smells from the kitchen start distracting me, and Kula serves up a pasta with a thick green sauce on it that smells absolutely mouth-watering. We pour some glasses of wine and start eating. It’s delicious. The green sauce is nutty and earthy, like buttery, chocolatey mushrooms. The noodles are perfectly cooked and splashed with some oil, and the bread Kula baked earlier today tastes incredibly dipped in the mushroom sauce. “Not poisonous,” he says, grinning. I smile and take another bite, but just as I do, I realize I’m squirming. Because I feel funny. Really funny. Like after I insisted the salo was “fine” and ate it anyway, but not in the same way. I’m looking at Kula now. At his big, broad shoulders. At his bulging muscles, and at his chiseled jaw and cheekbones. My lips are parted, and I’m considering retiring to the bedroom without finishing the meal. “Muru,” he says, putting his fork done. “Are you…” “I’m sweaty, Kula. Way sweatier than I should be.” Is that the poison? He nods. “I’m so loving dizzy and something is bluer than my skin, which is blue, since I’m an alien, if I don’t do something about it right now.” A grunt escapes my throat, even though he hasn’t touched me yet. Kula grunts too. Like when I puked up all that salo. We both look down at the pasta. “Scanner! Tell me more about Therasian Truffles.” “Therasian truffles are prized for their powerful effect as an aphrodisiac. They are so powerful that they are typically shaved very finely onto a dish as a garnish. It would be extremely dangerous to consume more than--” I wave my hand for the scanner to stop. “Did you finely grate the mushroom, or--” “I...I thought it was a different mushroom. The whole entire mushroom is in the sauce. Ellie, my nethers hurt.” “I’m on fire, Kula.” He rips the tablecloth off, but it’s not like in a movie where everything stays put. All the dishes and glasses just slide right off the table and shatter on the ground. I jump up onto the table and fall on my back. He’s in such a hurry that he trips and falls trying to get one of his legs out of his pants. He hits a shard of broken glass, and it cuts into his arm. “You should…” I say, but then I forget what I was saying as I see his naked body glistening with blood. Like if he doesn’t make love to me, I will actually die. We can fix his arm up after we’ve both finished, I figure. We both gasp as his big, six-dimensional dong does its thing. It shimmers and leaks light from the fifth- and sixth- spatial dimension. Those colors are impossible for my brain to process, and I see them as colors that shouldn’t exist. Impossible colors. We keep going. And going. I’m already pregnant, but if I weren’t, this would surely knock me up. “You’re going to put a twin into me,” I say, panting. We both lie there. It’s the most relief I’ve ever felt. The other thing about a six-dimensional dong is that it fills you up emotionally. It’s like when you first saw Avatar in 3-D in the theater. You needed to buy a 3-D TV at home, to watch films like Terminator 2 or Ice Age 2 in 3-D. 2-D would no longer cut it. That’s what a 6-D dong is like, but it means a 3-D dong is no longer going to suffice. The relief doesn’t last long though, because all that work makes me hungry, and I look over at the pasta. It was delicious, after all, not like that burnt salo. “There’s still some sauce in the pot,” Kula whispers into my ears. “Do you want seconds?” he says with an alien wink. The end. 1079 words
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Aug 16, 2020 19:55
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