Alecto's Ophelia

I Loves me my Blasted Bluestar Range... (heh)

 
I haven't quite worked it out yet but no doubt I'll work something out and here we go again.

Bluestar the very best gas/propane range for the home kitchen; as close to commercial as you're going to get. So sayeth the ads anyway and having spent a significant amount of time in commercial kitchens I'm inclined to agree. However.

We live in an area with a lot of power surges which I guess beats the heck out of an extended power outage (see A Reed Shaken with the Wind for an exceptional example). Twenty-five years ago I lived here before moving into the Valley where you could count on extended power outages and I remember how often we lost power. So much so that it was a joke in the area and we received no less than three housewarming gifts of propane and oil lanterns. We had a kerosene heater that lived in the house during the winter in the living room where we slept if it got really bad. When my son was two or three weeks old we lost power for eleven days. I don't think we panicked much but we were young and just about anything was acceptable at that point. We cooked on the kerosene heater; it was fine. Shoveling the 1,100 foot driveway with an infant in a front carrier (or even without) was a serious nuisance.

So. In late June or July we had a power surge that took out our electric stove top. I'm pretty sure the oven was still operating but the fact that we'd lost use of the stove top was really irritating. This was the second time in about 18 months and while it didn't take all that long for parts and service it was the perfect opportunity to put in a gas range (which turned out to be propane because we don't have gas lines out here). We selected the Bluestar for a lot of reasons, price included but mostly functionality and expectation.

We lived without a stove for about a month. It was OK. It was even fun. I learned a lot about what you can actually do with a charcoal grill. And also we had a week at the beach which helped. I made bread and rice on the grill in addition to meat and veggies. I was very pleased with myself. When the Bluestar arrived and was functional I went nuts. I went so nuts that I actually ran out of propane because I used far more far faster than would have been expected and when we called the propane people they asked what on earth we'd been doing and did we maybe have a leak. No leak, just exuberance.

In June or July of 2008 we lost the door. Well, we didn't exactly lose it. It's not like it ran off or anything but right after (thank God it was right after) a rhubarb pie came out of the oven and then the door simply refused to open again. The door was getting harder and harder to open but I wasn't particularly concerned. I was too busy being smitten. It took about four weeks to get a new door installed. Again, it was summer and I learned to make pizza and naan on the grill but I was beginning to get a bit irritated. Within about six months of furious use the door started getting sticky again. We called the manufacturer and were told to use a cooking spray like Pam on the door hinges. Again, should have questioned that but I didn't want to wait for service again and we got used to it and that was that.

And then the unthinkable, unacceptable, so very much more than irritating occurred. The door got stuck again in the middle of all the Christmas baking and I'm pretty sure there was bread in the oven this time. I didn't want to actually break the door hinges and the thought of leaving bread in the oven for a month didn't scare me as much as say, a whole chicken. Bread will petrify, chicken will continue to decompose in a furious stench of rot and decay. But I needed the oven so I sprayed and I sprayed and gradually worked it open. I breathed a great sigh of relief and then nearly emptied a can of spray stuff before I stopped and actually thought about this. Alecto, I said, does this really make sense? Just look at the gunk in those hinges. I took out a can of oven cleaner and went to town on the door and the hinges. Awesome! Finally, at least four out of six cylinders firing and all that.

The very next day I started round two of furious baking. I had six little cheese bread loaves in the oven, Stollen on deck and Panetone on the second rise. I had actual Panetone paper this time and was ecstatic over the improved elasticity of both sets of Christmas bread (a serious improvement over the first round). The cheese bread was taking too long. The oven light was on. I turned it down to see where the temp was. I went down to about 250 before I opened the oven. Shit. I played with that thing for quite awhile as the almost cooked cheese bread collapsed on itself. I tried a manual light with a match. Nuthin. I turned on all four burners one at a time. No propane issues. I closed the door and wondered if I'd killed my oven with oven cleaner on the hinges. Um, seriously doubtful.

I had a fire going in the wood stove but it wasn't hot enough. I stoked it up to 400 hoping the top would be hot enough to bake bread in a covered pot. I put the Panetone in the toaster oven and took them out five minutes later with their tops on fire. I wish I'd photographed that because it was really cool. Inedible, but cool. That was Sunday. Last Sunday. I called Bluestar on Monday and got the name and number of an independent service company in, of all places, the Valley. I called the service company and was told they'd have someone out the very next day. Awesome. Cletus was home to let the guy in which meant I didn't have to ask for another work at home day. We need a new safety valve and ignition thingie. OK, I can accept that. It's nearly 2.5 years old and something was bound to go eventually. For about $180 I had that information. Cletus said they'd call with a quote. They called with a quote this morning. Must have gotten it yesterday because Bluestar is closed today and tomorrow.

I asked how long it would take to get the parts because I really do need to finish the second batch of breads. I heard the conversation in the background. Four to six weeks. Huh? For a door I kind of understand. Kind of. For a safety valve and an ignition thingie? Really? And $250? Really?. OK. I gave the man my credit card number. He called back in a little while to tell me Bluestar was closed until Monday. Sigh. OK. I am to be without an oven again and it's snowing out there. And.

I. am. excited. Really, seriously excited about this. Hot damn! Another opportunity to figure stuff out all by myself the same way I did before and kind of like I worked out how to roast the most amazing chicken on a spit over an open fire in the back yard (and somehow was not arrested for doing so which in this town is flat out amazing).

You think I'm  being facetious, don't you? If you've been around awhile, you don't think that at all. And if you haven't, stay tuned! I'll be reporting on progress and results with pictures and everything. Even if we do lose power for an extended period. I'll get the camera battery charged immediately.

How cool is this?

By the way, the photograph above are the loaves of Stollen. They were disgusting. Clearly not the result I want but I've learned a few things.

I'm sorry, Z, she' s not what you thought.

All right. I went viral. It was bound to happen. There's this story thing going about (probably there are TONS of them but this one landed here) and it's this story that starts out innocuous and then takes off from there. This one has a sci-fi bent. My contribution is at the very end. And then at the end I'm going to ask five of you to write the next piece. Maybe you will, maybe you won't. Regardless, I'd be damn interested in finding out what happened after all that grey sludge got wiped off the wall!

The meme:

Here are Splotchy's rules:

Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.

Ready? Set? GO!

The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me.  (Splotchy)

Rivulets of sweat began cascading down my face and I hurriedly wiped one from my brow before its salty bitterness could burn my precious, precious electric eye. No, the fright couldn't simply be attributed to my allergy to cardboard that always resulted in patches of bloody pustules and mottled skin akin to a poorly applied KISS® -- see, Gene? Put your lawyers away -- makeup job nor the fact that a fair number of the riders were curiously dressed like a toupee-less, yet masterfully make-upped Chaim Witz nor the fact that motionless tentacles were protruding from a number of randomly punched holes in the cardboard box that bore the hideous label Contents, frozen spawn of Old One, 72 oz. nor the realization that I had forgotten my glasses and couldn't see not whom, but what, was slowly shambling down the aisle towards me, its apparently glistening appendages slopping on the possibly filthy floor of this potential deathtrap of a bus recklessly driven by an attractively miniskirted, yet maniacal, maniac, her lapel bearing a button barely visible underneath a swath of jet-black hair and emblazoned with I worship Dagon, ask me how!, which I never did by the way.No, the fright couldn't simply be attributed to any of those mundane things. My wind wandered, dreaming up all sorts of misadventure where I stared death in the face and he stared back and then we had a series of staring contests of which I think I won nearly 40% of them, an excellent number against an entity bearing a head-lopping scythe, don't you think?I stared out the window, and the undulating, slowly shifting, tree-saturated landscape stared back. I won that contest but quickly remembered the old saw about looking into the abyss and having it stick its tongue out. I pulled my electric eye back into the bus and stared ahead instead.Next, a cavalcade of nervous fumbling and rummaging through my pockets to make sure I had an extra nine volt battery. I did -- the apparently glistening appendages slopping ever closer amidst a cacophony of bizarre, intermittent noise -- so I knew I wouldn't have to worry about my electric eye running out of juice until I got back.Which, of course, turned out to be the case, for how else could you be reading this erratic, poorly-written account of horror, unless you stumbled upon the abandoned wreckage of the bus and were rifling through my strangely mutilated corpse severely underdressed for the freezing weather and found this sheet of crumpled and charred paper riddled with poor penmanship along with my wallet that contained a drivers license, library card, work ID, three singles and a bus ticket!But you didn't because I'm not dead, for I just handed the bus ticket to the shambling beast which indeed was slimy for it -- and it, despite its general human visage, was the most accurate description I could muster -- was close enough that I didn't need my glasses."Last stoop fer yew vis'turs."Ahead in the distance, beyond the cardboard box's melting water -- at least, I assumed it was water, and you know what they say when you assume: Nyarlathotep tears you a new one, chump -- pooling at my feet, the creepy troupe of riders and the inhuman coughing of it, bathed by the light of the red moon, I saw the low, yet eerily distinct skyline of Arkham. (Randall)

Arkum hums with a high electric whine, a noise that is like tinnitus to the nth. The man with the monocle who was so strangely dressed coughed on me as the bus lurched to a stop. I hope it wasn't the virus. Now I hunch my shoulders against the freezing wind that hugs the frozen ground. I have two cloptomiters to go before I'm home and it's dark but for the purple neon gloom, looking like a distant nuclear disaster but is merely low light bouncing off the distant metropolis along with the nearly unbearable high whine. And then the wind blows it back upon itself and for a few moments of relief I almost hear silence. I can barely see the ground beneath my feet.What was I thinking when I dressed for the day? My feet are freezing. Thank the dog for the electric eye. I can see the faintly pink glow of my signature footprint along this well trod strip of stone. But it seems eerily empty for now. Odd. This time of night is usually humming with voices coming out of the dark. All I hear is the high city hum and the wind. Several layers of skirts fly up from a gust of wind and I almost topple backward. These tall rubber boots on their platforms are wonderful in a crowd, extend the stride, and strengthen the buttocks, lifting its heft of weight into the air like a pillow. But skirts? I hear the dog once and know I will turn left half way up the lane to my bunker. His voice always rings out once when I reach this spot and even without the eye I turn left, arm raised, palm flattened upward to make contact with the wire of the compound. I trail my gloved fingers along the fence until I feel the gate. Here I must remove my glove and place my naked palm against the freezing surface of the palm ID pad. And it slides open almost silently. I enter and hear it slide shut behind me. It locks with a hollow sound that makes me shudder with pleasure. Now small photocell lights flank the path like little pale full moons.I have a single bunker. I am gifted in certain arts. I can talk to the mad and read their minds. I can smell danger. And I am old. No small accomplishment in these times. So the dog, as he calls himself, and I live together in a cube of concrete with a pyramid roof alone, in silence, but for the sound of my own voice softly talking to myself and his rare great bark or low growl.He doesn't rise when I come in. But I hear him panting softly in his dark corner. The room is only warmed with his body heat. All the fuel was burned long ago. But food will be brought for both of us. He could so warm me better if we slept together but he will not. So I wear all my clothes trying to keep from shivering. I would never ask to sleep in his bed but have invited him into mine. Often. No luck.And now before my fingers stiffen in the cold I must answer the questions sent to me by the mad. Only the mad understand the mad, but not all the mad have my gift to hear their inner voices. We are all somewhat gifted. Some of us have visions, hear voices, but I can only listen to the inner voice, the one that never says aloud what it most fears. Utah Savage

The irony of hating that Will Smith movie where he was the only pure human he knew of makes me laugh until I cry only once a day usually, but this makes the second time today.

I'd like to be able to distract myself from this existence as I sometimes can with some maudlin or quirky tale that was uploaded to this confounded eye, but for the time being I just place it on its charger, wondering yet again what renewable substance has been able to sustain the charger's life these 25 years. If I knew that, would I be freezing here like this?

I wish someone, anyone, could or would answer that question. I wish Lilith were here to ponder it with me.

Yes, there are the halflings, but they really are not very good company. The electronic portions of them seem to override most of their humanness. But, compared to those the blogoscopic entities have fully infiltrated, they are a veritable schmorgesborg of spontaneity. I am not sure if I should admit that my insane mother was right and that my "specialness" would "save" me in the end, but those like me are few and far between these days.

What was once a blessing, my telepathic tendencies, has become such a curse that I would no doubt kill myself were it not for Lilith. My only hope is to find her. (Frieda Bee)

But wait! If my telepathic tendencies were more reliable, I would know where Lilith is. But I do not know where she is. So perhaps I should rely more on my psychopathic tendencies, which are very reliable. You may recall that I am mad… quite mad, I might add, and in my delusional state I am certain that I no longer need Lilith to ponder with or pander to, as the case may be. What I do need, and need badly, is a man! A real man, 100% human, and with only one tentacle (ahem), if you know what I mean.

I am keeping my electric eye open (thank Xeus for that extra 9 volt battery!), but so far, neither the slimy, multi-tentacled, oddly dressed, freaks on the bus, nor the selfish dog-man in my cold concrete cube measure up to my strict standards.

Of course, there is a strong possibility that I should lower my standards, given the fact that, as I mentioned earlier, I am fricking old and getting older by the minute, and I’m crazy as a lonesome loon howling at the moon. So, I think I’ll try something different…maybe a train ride. I think there’s some kind of law that requires train engineers to be human, and it’ll be nice and warm in that engine room.(Madam Z)

But the engine room was, in fact, cold. The engineer slumped over her control console, the grey, blood-speckled brain matter once in her head splattered on the windshield, the walls and ceiling. Lilith took a bullet from a passenger who found the bus too crowded and too cold. I had followed him onto the train from the bus in the hopes of finding some warmth myself. My electric eye tracked his red, nebulous shape as he stalked off the bus, up the stairs of the train platform, and onto the first car of the empty commuter train. He took a seat near the engine room waiting for the train to move when Lilith emerged from her "office" and kindly informed him that her train was out of service.

"Excuse me, sir," she said " but this train is out of service. The track switches are frozen solid. You need to catch the bus if you want get into town soon. Otherwise, you're welcome to sit here and wait."

She turned to walk back into her solitary confinement followed closely by her mystery killer. He kicked her into seat of her cab, reached deep into his trousers for his .44 Magnum and unloaded his piece into her head. The sound of the gun fire coming from the engine room was unlike any I'd ever heard. This was no cannonade fury of white, booming sound, but the violent, liquid explosion of sweet crude from a newly-tapped well.

I ran. Fast. I was out of breath and back on the bus in no time. I could feel my heart beating like a bass drum in my chest and the soreness in my stubby legs from the Olympic sprint I performed through cold bitter wind, now whipping up the dry, wispy snow piling up on the street. (Spartacus)

It took Lilith awhile to clean up the mess. He’d blown off most of her head splattering grey matter over two of the three standing walls. She managed to repair her skull with an old tube of something called crazy glue unearthed from a time capsule planted at something called ‘high school’. Crazy glue was a way cool thing right up until you got some stuck on your tongue. Not advisable. So the head has been put back together, grey matter scraped from the walls and floor, stuffed back in its shell, reattached to her shoulders and Lilith is good and pissed, this having just about ruined her day.(Alecto)

 

I know, it was short and gory but that's my frame of mind lately.  I only need one of you to pick this up but I'd love to see the following:

 

 CG

Cielo 

Madeline 

Lewis 

erm, yeah, you, Jimbo, I'm talking to you 

 

And I also recognize it's getting a bit LENGTHY but maybe somebody will work out a way to condense the links. 

 

Thanks, Spartacus, this was fun. I suspect you meant to leave her dead but I just couldn't help myself. And also, really, no crazy glue on the tongue.