Slackbot's text sketchbook

[Slackbot]

Yeah, that was Sam. I don't know if he was wearing a diaper, but he did have a pacifier and he was waving glow sticks around. (The former of which, BTW, hints strongly at MDMA use. Brrr.) Since I was twisting characters around anyway, making Skeeter the dependent "little sis," I thought it'd be interesting to make Sam a sympathetic, nonjudgmental sort.

 

[mostlikemokey]

I love these, especially the Fraggle ones. Even though I write Fraggle stories of my own, it's interesting to read some from a different continuity. More soon?

 

[Misskermie]

I love every story on here! please post more!

 

[Slackbot]

I hadn't planned to follow up on Dancing Through Life. It's a sleazy story set in a depressing universe. But I felt kinds bad about leaving Scooter and Skeeter in such an icky situation. So here is a 'happy ending', relatively speaking, for them.​

*****​

After the Dance​

by Kim McFarland​

*****

Lee’s hand shook as he filled the delicate cups. He drank his down in one gulp. “Don’t you see?” he cried. “The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou shalt,’ meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel—‘Thou mayest’— that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’—it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.’ Don’t you see?”​

-- From East of Eden by John Steinbeck​

*****

Cement and metal. Cinderblocks. Industrial paint with just enough color to look colorless. Doors that clanged when they opened and closed. Informational posters, probably required by law. A clock on the wall that ticked loudly.

Skeeter looked around. This place was depressing. Not as depressing to her as it was to most people, though. She could walk out again.

She and Scooter had been caught and sent to prison. It wasn't their first time being arrested, but this time the charges had stuck. Their luck had run out. Well, not completely. They'd been convicted of misdemeanors. They could have been nailed for a felony or two. Then they'd really have been up a creek.

It had taken her a long time to realize it, but in fact their prison time had been a blessing in an almost impenetrable disguise. It had taken her and her brother out of the world they had been living in, of go-go dancing and hustling and better living through chemistry. Skeeter had wanted to stop, but had no idea how. But Scooter had enjoyed the life, so she had followed his lead. The worst thing about prison was being separated from her brother. The two of them had been together all their lives. Losing him was like losing part of herself. That and withdrawal had made the first month an utter misery.

But after that... it had gotten better. The Powers That Be had determined that she was salvageable. She'd gotten time off for good behavior, and help getting on her feet once she was out on parole. Afraid of being on her own, she had taken advantage of every bit of help and guidance they offered. She never wanted to dance in a cage or depend on a "date" for a place to spend the night and a few dollars. She now had a clerical job. The pay wasn't great, but it was enough.

The door groaned open, and Scooter, accompanied by an armed guard, entered the room. He was dressed in the usual ill-fitting prison garb. It had once been a joke that someone must have a full-time job sorting out clothes so that everyone's outfit was two sizes off. Now it wasn't funny, just a dreary fact of life. Being a half-human, Scooter always got clothes that were much too large. As the guard watched, he walked over in concertina-like pants and hugged his sister. "Hi, Skeet. How's tricks?" he said in a brittle attempt at a cheerful tone of voice.

"No tricks. Not much in the way of treats either," she replied.

They sat side by side, arms around each other's shoulders. They always did. He hated being separated from her as much as she did. Though it had only been a few days since she had visited him last, she asked, "How've you been?"

"Eh, all right. No trouble since last time."

'Last time' was when, a month ago, he had been goaded into a fight by some jerks who had speculated on just how close his relationship with his sister was. When Skeeter found out she had blessed him out for getting so upset over stupid words. She said, "Good. Are you feeling all right?"

"As much as I can," he said with a shrug. "You know what it's like in there, Skeet. I don't want to talk about it. What've you been doing?"

"The job's all right. Kinda boring, but it's safe. I like that."

"Yeah, I know," he said softly.

"And when I'm off for the day I take the bus to the apartment. It's just a one-bedroom basement crackerbox, and the neighbors can be noisy, but they're on the other side of the walls. I can turn on the radio and listen to that."

"You should get a TV."

"I'm going to, next payday or the one after that."

"What'd you have for lunch?"

"Spaghetti and an apple."

"You eat a lot of spaghetti."

"It's cheap."

"It sounds great. Last time I saw an apple it looked like someone had used it as a softball."

She nodded. Prison food was supposed to be bad. As such, the cuisine here was a success. She had tried to bring him some food, but the guards wouldn't allow that. It might contain contraband. "Get yourself paroled and we can have all the spaghetti and apples you want."

"I know, I know." He had really been trying. It was ironic that the same skills that had made life easier outside got him into trouble here. There was a black market for all sorts of contraband, and the guards could never shut it down. He could get what he wanted, and he knew what to trade...but his dilated eyes always gave him away afterward. He had been faced with a terrible choice: give up the only thing that eased life here somewhat, or face serving the maximum time, only seeing his sister a few times a week, for years more. It had been a hard decision to make, and it was still hard, but at least he was finally out of withdrawal.

"Thought about what you wanna do when you get out?" she asked.

"Besides eat spaghetti and apples?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know." He shook his head. In a low voice he said, "I don't know what I can do. Besides..."

"Not that. Not anymore," she whispered back.

He nodded without conviction. He could easily go back to that life. And probably end up back here, with a prior on his record... but he didn't have the foggiest notion what kind of job he could do. He and Skeeter hadn't even finished high school, much less gone to college, and what kind of crummy job could you get without a degree? Burger flipper? He'd go nuts on the first day!

"Just be good and get out. And if they offer any help, take it. Once you're out, we'll be together again. And it'll be better," she promised.

"I know. I'm trying."

"You can do it," she said. "If I can, you can."

His mouth quirked in a one-sided, wry smile. He used to be the strong one. He had guided and protected his 'little' sister. Now the roles were reversed. Well, considering where his leadership had gotten them, that had to be for the better. He said, "I trust you."

"Yeah."

They talked quietly as the clock ticked off their allotted time. When the last second was up the guard said, "Mr. Grosse."

"Yeah," Scooter said. He gave his sister a quick hug, then went back. Skeeter said, "See you Sunday."

"Yeah. Love you, sis."

"You too, bro."

The door closed with a heavy, metallic clank. Skeeter left the visitation room, went back through a security checkpoint and several miles of cement hallway, and emerged into the late afternoon sun. She could go home and open up a can of soup. She could go by the store and get something to fix for dinner. She could get some takeout. She could eat anything she liked—within her very tight budget, of course. That freedom didn't seem so significant until you lost it.

She went to the bus stop and waited. Someday, hopefully before too long, she and her twin would be once again riding the bus together. however long it took, she'd wait for him. He needed her as much as she needed him. She saw that now. And when he was out, she'd protect him.

*****

Scooter and Skeeter are copyright © The Muppets Studio, LLC and are used without permission but with much respect and affection. The overall story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.

 

[Slackbot]

Here's a little something that has been knocking around in my head for a few months. I don't know whether I'm going to pursue it or not.​

​

*****​

​

​

​

Within the Music
by Kim McFarland​

​

*****

"This will be your first real test. Are you sure you want to go through with it?"​

"Yes, I'm sure."

The Tunesmith, to his credit, did not shrug, shake his head, or in any other way show his opinion of Jago, one of his pupils. The boy was gifted, but in dire need of discipline. He spent more time dreaming than practicing, and he never could settle on one instrument. If he could just learn to focus he could become a great musician. He was young; he had time to learn. But the earlier the better.

The two Fraggles walked from the Tunesmith's cave and down one of the passages leading out of the colony. There were dangers out here; unstable caves and hungry creatures and territorial plants and, supposedly, a ghost. The Tunesmith did not believe in ghosts, but so many Fraggles claimed to have heard a voice whispering out of nowhere that now everybody believed that these caves were haunted. Jago didn't seem worried. Either he didn't believe the rumors or, more likely, simply wasn't thinking about them.

*

The two Fraggles reached a small hole in the tunnel. A low moaning came from the darkness within. The Tunesmith gestured toward the hole. Jago looked at him in surprise, then peered into the hole. He turned his head, listening. Then he asked, "What whould I do?"

"Spend the night here, in the Piping Cave. Tomorrow, tell me what you have learned."

"What am I supposed to learn here?"

"You tell me."

Jago looked into the cave again. All he could hear was the low moaning of wind passing through long tunnels. It blew against his face, ruffling his flower-colored hair. He stepped in. As his eyes adjusted he could see more of his surroundings. He was in a large room with many tunnels of various sizes leading out on the opposite side. Fresh air seemed to be blowing evenly from all of them, making the room breezy and pleasant. After listening for a minute, he began to sing along with it. He used no words, only the sounds that came to him.

The cave began to lighten in response to his song. The Tunesmith smiled. Fraggle song brightened the caves, and not only in figurative terms. Jago began wandering within the cave, his teacher forgotten. The Tunesmith turned to go back to the colony.

*

Jago wandered within the Piping Cave. The wind blowing in through the tunnels--there were seven of them--was steady and gentle, and, he soon realized, each tunnel's sound was different. The smallest tunnel played a a high, whishing sound. The largest one had a lower tone, the moan he had heard first. The other tunnels made sounds in between. As he walked around the cave he noticed that he heard different sounds depending on where he stood within it.

He paced and listened. He felt as if the wind was blowing through him. As if he was an instrument rather than the player of one. It was a pleasant, even exciting sensation. After he had walked around the cave long enough to understand its sounds and their sources, he began to sing softly.

"Music flows through the coves,
Wind and stone singing together as one.
Echoing as you sing,
Let me hear your song..."​

Something was listening.

*

He sang, entreating the cave to share its secrets with him, until he felt he had said enough. Standing to one side, out of the main flow of air, he listened to the chord of the seven tunnels. It was pleasant, if a little monotonous. Looking around the cave, he realized that it was like the inside of a giant ocarina, with the tunnels acting as the holes...no. You blow in one side of a flute and change its single tone by covering the holes with your fingers. He put his pack down on the ground and began walking, stepping as silently as he could. He was aware of nothing but the sound of the wind. It would change if he stopped up a tunnel, he supposed. To test that he found the smallest tunnel within reach and leaned back against it. Sure enough, the chord sounded different...incomplete. He stepped away, and the chord was complete again. Taking away wasn't any good, he thought.

Only one of the tunnels at ground level was large enough for him to enter without blocking the air flow. He walked a ways into it, then stopped and listened. Once again, the chord was changed. But this time it sounded good. By entering this tunnel he had raised its tone, which in turn changed the song of the cave.

He stood, looking into the cave, seeing little, straining for all he could hear.

*

Early the next day the Tunesmith returned to the Piping Cave, hoping that his pupil had fared well. Many found the eerie sounds of the lonely cave frightening. But Jago had not run back to the colony during the night--the Tunesmith had checked his family's cave before coming here--so at least the boy had toughed it out.

The Tunesmith looked into the cave. Jago was there, asleep on top of his sleeping bag rather than in it. From the look of it he had simply bedded down without bothering to make a campfire. He shook his head, smiling wryly, then patted Jago's shoulder. The boy's breathing caught, and he blinked and looked up. The Tunesmith said, "Arise, sleepyhead. I hope sleeping isn't all you've done in here."

"No, not at all," Jago replied. He sat up and stretched hard, then wiggled his fingers to limber them.

"Well then, what have you learned?"

"Well... this cave, it's like the inside of a musical instrument."

"Like an ocarina," the Tunesmith said, nodding.

"No, not really. More like my reed flute, if all the reeds blew into one chamber. I've never seen an instument like this. Each tunnel makes a different sound, and it changes depending on where you are."

"And what does that mean?"

"It means that what you hear depends on where you are, just like anywhere else. The music you make changes as you move. Let me show you."

Jago took out a stringed instrument like a small balalaika and stood hastily. He said to the Tunesmith, "Walk with me."

Jago began playing the instrument, singing softly and wordlessly. The wind provided the background chord, and as he moved through the cave he adjusted the song to harmonize with it. The Tunesmith was impressed. This was the lesson the cave had to teach, but the boy had gone beyond understanding the mere principle and used it in his own music. And the tune was improvised; he would have recognized a prepared composition. When Jago finished the Tunesmith said, "Very good."

"Thank you. And, this tunnel--if you go into it, you change the sound it makes."

"Yes, like muting a wind instrument." the Tuneamith acknowledged.

Jago continued, becomeing more animated, "Just as we hear different things by moving around in the world, we can change what is heard just by being in the right place. The song of the world continues, but we become a part of it rather than using it in our music."

If the Tunesmith had ever doubted that Jago was still a dreamer, this would have laid that question to rest. Trust Jago to turn a practical lesson on music principles into a philosophical matter. Still, there was nothing to say that musicians couldn't be dreamers too. "Have you learned anything else?"

"Not yet."

Patting his student's shoulder approvingly, The Tunesmith said, "Well, you've passed the test. You've done very well, in fact. Let's return."

"I'd rather stay here."

Surprised, the Tunesmith asked, "Why? What do you want to do?"

"I think there's more to it. At the very least, I want to listen some more."

The Tunesmith gave him an odd look. Then he said, "If that's what you want to do. Come back when you're ready."

"I will."

The Tunesmith left his odd pupil behind. He had the talent to be a master musician, but with his disposition, who knew what he would finally turn out to be.

Unseen, an entity watched the young Fraggle, and was pleased. It said in a voice so low that Jago believed he was hearing his own thoughts, "Listen."

*****

Fraggle Rock and Jago (under his real name) are copyright © The Jim Henson Company and are used without permission but with much respect and affection. The Tunesmith is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com), as is the overall story. Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.

 

[charlietheowl]

Yay! More Fraggle fic. I really like the descriptions of the Piping Cave. Thanks for sharing.

 

[Slackbot]

Thanks. Heh, it's probably obvious who Jago is, or will be.

 

[Slackbot]

I haven't written many of these little fragments lately. But now that I've gotten the big fics out of my system, I can put down some of the incidental bits.

This is a bit of naughty ush-gush that takes place before the birth of the Fraggle Five Family's first child. It might explain a few things. This is actually the bowdlerized version of the story. It's probably obvious where the cut is and what was removed.

*****

Snack​

by Kim McFarland​

*****

"Mokey?"

She turned around. "Yes?"

Wembley was standing in the entrance of Mokey and Red's cave, looking self-conscious. "Boober wanted me to ask you what you wanted him to pack."

That has been the last thing on her mind. "Oh, hmm.."

"In the picnic basket. Though, well, it's not just a picnic, and he said he'll have to pack two baskets. You know Boober, he doesn't want anyone to go hungry, and—"

She interrupted, "Wembley! Are you nervous?"

He clasped his hands together and smiled sheepishly. "Yeah."

"Oh, Wembley." She held out her arms to him.

He came over to her, and they hugged. He breathed in her scent. For several days every year she had a special scent. It was delicious and fascinating, better even than the smell of fresh radishes. Breathing it in made him feel a little dizzy, as if the blood was rushing away from his head for another destination.

Mokey felt lightheaded as well. She had just come into season, as she did every midsummer. Normally she drank yellowflower tea, a small cup a day, beginning when the flowers bloomed and until her season ended. The tea was a medicine of sorts, and female Fraggles who drank it did not become fertile. This year the family—all Fraggle Five—had made special plans. Mokey had not drunk the tea, and as a result the season was affecting her much more strongly than it had in the past.

Tonight she would join with Gobo, Wembley, and Boober in the Midsummer Ritual to start a baby. It was unusual for groups to participate, but she could not choose one over the other to sire their child. Since it would be raised by them all, it was only fair that everyone have a chance. And, she thought as she hugged Wembley, she felt eager enough to tire out all three. She touched her nose to Wembley's cheek and, when he looked up, kissed him. It began as an affectionate gesture, but intensified quickly.

Soon she felt the evidence that Wembley was as worked up as she was. She smiled down at him. Blushing, he said, "You know what it's like when Boober's planned a great feast, and he's spent days cooking and getting everything just right, and it's nearly time to serve it, everything's ready and you can smell it and your stomach's growling and your mouth's watering, but you still have to wait until the muffins are done?"

"Yes."

"That's how I feel right now."

Though embarrassed by his loss of control, he hadn't pulled away—and she didn't want him to. Softly she said, "I feel the same way. So…how about a little snack?"

"Can we do that?" he asked, surprised.

"Why not?"

"Well—sure!"

She laughed softly and kissed him again. Then she let go of him and went to the stone shelf on which she made her bed. At one side it was just high enough off the floor that she could sit on the edge and lean back against a few pillows...

**

A little while later Wembley returned to Boober's kitchen. Boober was engrossed in the task of mixing the dough that would become the crust of a radish quiche. Wembley tapped his shoulder. Boober yelped and startled. As Wembley wiped a spray of flour off his face and shirt Boober said, "Where have you been?"

"I went and saw Mokey, just like you asked me to," Wembley answered.

Boober, fussing with the dough, did not notice Wembley's peculiar smile. "What did she say?"

"Huh?"

"You remember, I sent you to go ask her if she had any requests for what I should make for the ritual tonight!"

"Uh...I forgot?"

Boober turned and looked at Wembley. Then he shook his head and sighed. "Wembley, Wembley. You'd forget your own tail if it wasn't sewn on."

*****

Fraggle Rockand all characters are copyright © The Jim Henson Company. All copyrighted properties are used without permission but with much respect and affection. The overall story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.

 

[The Count]

First of all, it's a delight to find another of these snapshots from your particular ficverse.

Secondly... When holds her hands out for to come in for a hug...
Posted by Bot of Slacks: He came over to him, and they hugged."
*Shakes head, another fic author who got their gender pronouns mixed-up. I've seen this in other stories at fanfiction.net as well.

Posted by Slack of Bots: "It was delicious and fascinating, better even than then smell of fresh radishes."
"Than then"?
Yes! And then I said I than then!
Uh-oh, sounds like Zoot's skipped a groove again. *Raspy laugh.

There's a reason I liked Mokey. Leaving Wembley with a goofy smile like that. Thank you for posting.

 

[Slackbot]

Typos? *edit edit* What typos? There are no typos such as what you pointed out!

Heh, the goofy grin was almost inevitable. The bit you didn't see involved Wembley's little sound effects, and it's hard not to laugh, y'know?