Wooden Spoon Challenge: Starring Daffodil and Calyx
About the Wooden Spoon Challenge
- includes a wooden spoon,
- includes a daffodil, and
- must be science fiction.
I happened upon the “name” Calyx via the Momfia (my lovely mommies group). Apparently some people are now naming their sons Caylix (altered spelling of the word calyx which I knew from my days as a Classics student) which seems strange to me, but proved providential since I needed a daffodil. Although the two groups (Ana’s and the Momfia) don’t collide as such, they do. Oddly enough, this all happened w/in 24 hours of each other.
Such is the way of the cosmos.
And now, the Wooden Spoon Challenge.. but first, a disclaimer (in purple prose, of course)
DISCLAIMER: Wooden spoons are contained herein. If you don’t like strange SciFi spanking short short stories, perhaps read about my trip to the mall or my food storage container lids. Featured photo has been paid for by yours truly via Canstockphoto.com. Don’t steal it.
The Wooden Spoon Challenge
Starring Daffodil and Calyx
(Story the First—Possibly the Last)
Probably the last.
Despite (or because of) the stinging burn on her buttocks, Daffodil knew she was right where she needed to be. No. Wanted to be.
And needed. She needed this as much as Calyx did.
The Day Dawned…
The day dawned – figuratively speaking – as days used to in May if one were still on Earth or at least in a solar system, but one isn’t, anyway, the day dawned warm, a breath of a breeze from the atmosfoyer. Just enough to carry the hint of blossoms and the pseummer to come. In memory of her home planet although she had never been there but she’d heard tell, Daffodil had lined her solarium with her eponymous flower. Their cheery gold helped her feel, for the first time since she broke up with the Elf, a sense of optimism.
Today, she promised herself, today would be the first good day in segments. A quick glance at her astrometre told her she was on patrol in fourteen degrees. And she would be on-time, she vowed. She was not keen to taste the sizzling graphene of Calyx’s wooden spoon again.
Or was she?
If she were a hominid to chew on her lip, she would do so, to illustrate her indecision, but she was not. Instead, our plucky Skoliosexual Ethereal (Level IV) summoned a half-double-decaf with a twist of lemon (a drink she saw on an ancient Earth film: L.A. Story, and was eager to try) and took her seat at the ImagR and logged in to SeekASpaceSpank®. Daffodil was pleased she finally remembered her new ID:
Author’s Note: Actually that sounds wrong. Forget I wrote that.
A quick scan told her all she needed to know. RamBoDiddleySquat. There were no messages. Again, a moment in which she would chew her lip to ponder, if such were here thing. Instead, she just pondered and any SE (L IV) would. Quietly. With a smidge of levitation, but not so much that she’d be mistaken for Doug Henning or a member of Canada’s Natural Law Party.
Write or read, the debate loomed large. There were a few degrees remaining before she was on patrol. Write a new advert, or read her SpaceBook feed?
New advert. Daffodil knew that she would receive no incoming if there were no outgoing. Basic Law of Ad-traction. Her last one was too needy.
Time for brevity, clarity, and impact.
Skoliosexual Spoonophile Seeks Same, she dictated. She knew deep within her hearts that the bipedal (or tetrapod—don’t judge, it’s legal now) she sought would love alliteration. Daffodil nibbled a ninja cookie, pondering her next line.
Must have vigorous load and sturdy fulcrum.
There. She said it. In terms no one could confuse.
Reply given to those sending holos of wooden spoon collection. Preference given to owners of Vitsky Wouldn’’ Spoons®.
Elves need not apply.
That should take care of the crackbeakers, she thought. Always an Elf lurking somewhere. Snitching but never swatting. Eating all the refined C6H12O6, returning nothing but a lingering whiff of CH4 and H2S (Elves are creatures of Underworld, after all) tinged with peppermint.
Aka Elf flatus. Ew.
Daffodil dressed with a sense of purpose for the first time since their break-up in what would have been April if it had been some 400 years ago, and we were still in the Orion Arm, which we weren’t. While it was Daffodil who instigated the rupture, she nonetheless suffered an acute sense of loss and demoralization. After three tepid rounds in the Corner together, she was certain the Elf was just not the biped for her. While Daffodil eventually came to accept it was neither her nor shirs’ fault, they were simply a bad match, she still felt empty like a bowl of yesterday’s Kuiper Crunch (which definitely got to see more spoon-action than she ever did with the Elf).
It was hard to accept that any viridian-serumed Elf in shirs’ first century would really rather play holo Poke-R than give her some sweet Elvish spooning. Not to be Capitán Obvio here, but Timo was nothing more than a goofy Snitch. Her Primary Caregiver had warned her of such creatures. Eschew the Elves was her PC’s warning. They over-promise. Under-deliver. And always as an after-thought PC would add: And they have weak fulcra.
True to form, Elfie ate an irreparable path straight through her heart to the frigideezer, using her coveted Vitsky collection as food utensils, no less.
Shirs’ fulcra were tiny and it was clear to Daffodil, after the first Cornering, that the spooning would not be good. Although easy on the eyes, Elves were good for Snitching, eating, and not much more.
What Daffodil needed was someone belonging to any of the eight universally recognized genders, blessed with a good swing (always check the fulcrum of any creature’s elbow–equivalent was another of her PC’s axiomata) and a penchant for Thai cuisine. She never truly had a species preference. Any semi-hirsute in a vortex was her motto. So why was it so difficult to find someone with a reverence for wood and a libido to match?
Or a cat. A cat would be nice. Good company. Eat the dust trolls. Elfie hated cats. That should have tipped her off.
As she straightened her wispy “welcome to spring” dirndl which would certainly gather every breeze coming by if one existed, Daffodil realized she was tired of dating half-finished bipeds.
Today, she was dressing for swatcess.
Daffodil returned to her bedroom and stood before the mirrored sliding closet doors
Author’s Note: you know these are going to come back into the story in some lascivious way. Well, you hope they will. I only have 2K.
and did a quick assessment. She was 72 sections young, about to finish her M.Scrub in General Topology. In good shape, curvy and totes pulchritudinous, Daffodil was also blessed with a tumble of chestnut hair which blended perfectly with her beard. She was part of the 0.1% there. Seamless chromatic integration was a highly sought feature among her people. Wavy and starting to streak with seasonal highlights, soon her hair would glow tiziano. Her myopic coral eyes were behind contact lenses for work, allowing her to see infrared and ultrasonograms. She hated her glasses and wore them only for school. Her looks made people discredit her intelligence and while she knew it was a stereotype, she found people did treat her better when she wore glasses.
Oh, and she had great boobs.
Calyx was not amused.
Calyx was not amused. While this was the last late degree he’d be slogging away on the project known universally around the tetrahedron as The Post-Penultimate Failure, he knew he’d be too tense to go home and crash, hopefully to sleep for the next few segments.
He’d much rather be working on his own project and so far his start-up, SpaceSpoon®, was doing great. Part philanthropy, part money-maker, SpaceSpoon® provided temporary gravity for those living in diminished gravity zones. Calyx knew there were milliards out there lacking the necessary force to truly make an impact in their wooden spoon play.
Although they had no problems here on Orion’s Left Ankle, he smiled inwardly as creatures tend to do although I’ve never really seen it.
Author’s Note: Groan. Sorry. Couldn’t help myself there.
Lots of gravity for a swingin’ good time. Calyx adjusted his accoutrements, thinking of the last disciplinary measure he doled out to that saucy Skolio L IV, Daffodil. While it was true, it was “just a job,” Calyx was a hominid who enjoyed his work. And the sight of the dulcet Daffodil’s dirndl delicately rising rising rising to reveal a sublime satiny seat gave Calyx ideas he hadn’t had since Anastasia left him for Elfette.
Looking back, he knew the two of them were up to something. Always tittering, whispering behind their worksheets.
Love was blind, but lust was cataractoid.
He checked the astrometre. His mitral valve fluttered a tad.
Daffodil would be late again. And this time, he would use the Vitskys®.
— the end — for now
Tick Tock Tick Tock
Back when there were such things as analog, a clock would have been ticking Hitchcockian. A series of jump-cuts of a pendulum (Foucault’s would be nice, to keep with the cosmological theme, but perhaps too slow or too subtle. Maybe just a GrandParent Clock would do) intercut, eventually with the growing look of horror (yet adrenaline-pumped thrill) showing on Daffodil’s face as she realized
She was late.
And Calyx would be waiting for her.
Tick Tock Tick Tock
In a bold move, Daffodil removed her bloomers. Unless she were bent at less than 16°, no one would be the wiser.
Tick Tock Tick Tock
Now she was profoundly late. But bloomer-free and beard freshly brushed, Daffodil dashed to report in, knowing and fearing and hoping against hope she were good and late.
No. Bad and late. Yes, better to be bad.
Tick Tock Tick Tock
He was waiting.
What Happens at 15° Stays at 15°
And stays. For a very long time.
The first swat was a warm-up. Daffodil knew that.
But let me begin at the beginning.
He was waiting. The corners of his dark eyes crinkled in the corners like the armpits of a shar-pei. In his hand:
The Vitsky® is the ultimate in space spoon design: a bewitching alternative to spatulae and paddles. Why not consider a Vitsky® for birthday parties, picnics, office breaks or just all-purpose day-to-day use?
Although we don’t recommend it: the Vitsky® can also be used as a spoon.
Our ergometric handles them perfect for any disciplinary action: erotic or just good ol’ DD (we don’t judge).
“Daffodil,” his voice surprisingly husky even to his ears. “Daffodil, you are late.” He tapped the spoon on the palm of his hand, cleared his throat.
“I know,” she replied. She realized all her dreams were about to come true. “I am ready.”
His accoutrements ached at the sight of her at 15°. The ruffle of her dirndl caressed the crest of
LIMIT REACHED: 2,000 words
An Ode to a Wooden Spoon
I knew I’d be late posting, so humbly offer to Anastasia my punishment poem (with sincere apologies to Keats):
THOU still unsanded spoon of wood,
Thou implement of Desire and Correction,
Stern-browed Anastasia, who has thus placed
An Elf-hating Tracey. She now in th’ corner stood:
Til feet sang numb, bottom exposéd, dreams 5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
Slice quick or slow the scowling fleet of Air?
What Utensils are these? What spanking loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What paddle? Where Corner? What Knee o’erturn? 10