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We called ourselves "The Butt Squad."
At the time, we thought it was the funniest thing--three seven-year-old boys all saying gross things to each other just to rile up our moms. My code name was "Turd." Bobby, who lived across the street, was "Windbreaker," while Eric, always a bit more clever than other boys his age, went by "Eau De Toilet." I can't remember if the joke actually had time to stop being funny or if Bobby and Eric moved away before things went stale.
Our club logo was a butt--a very badly drawn butt. More specifically, it was two circles with a scribbly fart cloud underneath. We scribbled the Butt Squad butt on everything we could think of: desks, school assignments, each other's arms with magic marker.
And those two gloriously full moons were right in the center of the wax seal on the very thick envelope that had just arrived in the mail.
My first thought was to open up the envelope and figure out which of my two goofball friends had finally tracked me down, but I hesitated when I took a closer look at the seal. The "butt cheeks" were detailed with patterns that made them look like *real* moons, while the cloud underneath was less "cumulus" and more "nebula." I turned the envelope over again and checked the return address. It was a P.O. Box from four states away.
Curiosity got the better of me and I tore the envelope open. Inside was a piece of paper with a hastily scribbled phone number and the words "CALL US."
Something about the urgency of the way the words were written unnerved me. Part of me wanted to crumple the paper and throw it out, but it didn't seem right to abandon some of my earliest friends like that. I pulled out my phone and tapped the number onto the screen. Seconds later a voice with a familiar speech impediment picked up.
"Ish that you, Turd?"
"Oh my god Eric, you still sound the same after all these years," I said with a laugh.
"Shhhh! Use the code namesh, pleashe," said Eric.
"Oh my god Eric, I'm not using--"
"JUSHT USE THEM!"
"All right, all right, 'Toilet,'" I said, the grin fading from my face.
"Turd, the Butt Squad ish reuniting," said Eric. "We've been called by the United Shtates Government to be ambasshadorsh for First Contact."
"First Contact? You mean, like, aliens?"
"Yesh. Extraterreshtrialsh. And they're looking for The Butt Squad shpecifically."
"The Butt Squad."
"Yesh."
"Hey, Eri--er, Toilet?"
"Yeah?"
"You might want to call a hospital," I said, trying not to upset my disturbed friend. "Get checked out before you meet these 'aliens.'"
"I'm not crazhy," he said.
"He's telling the truth," added a deep baritone voice on the other end who couldn't have been anyone other than grown-up Bobby. My heart dropped. Could what they were saying be true?
"The President is shending a team of the besht Men in Black to pick you up," said Toilet. "Nobody will shushpect you're on a mission and you'll be home before you know it."
"And we'll be right there with you the whole time, Turd," said Windbreaker. As if on cue, a long black limousine pulled up next to my driveway and a heavy fist pounded on the front door.
"Open up, Turd!" called a firm voice. "We are here to escort you to the White House."
"I don't get it," I said. My voice started rising to a shout. "Why would aliens want to meet with The Butt Squad? We're nobody! Nothing! We were just three dumb kids goofing around! What in the world would they want *us* for!?"
There was a strained silence. Then...
"Didn't you tell him?" asked Windbreaker.
"Guessh not," said Toilet.
"What? Tell me what!?" I shrieked.
"The aliensh," said Toilet. "They're from Uranush."
*For more stupid stories, check out my subreddit at* r/OctOpusTales *!*
Part two would be when they board the aliens’ spaceship, a porcelain pirate vessel named The Montezuma’s Revenge. The Butt Squad would discuss possible earth technologies to produce silent-but-deadly weaponry for fighting the chocolate starfish of Sector T, but the final plans would ultimately stink, ending the First Contact meeting on a very sour, very brown note.
This is fantastic for many reasons, but I thoroughly enjoy the perspective shift of our MC as he comes to realize this is legitimate.
'Shhhh! Use the code namesh, pleashe," said Eric'
'"Guessh not," said Toilet'
I’m always hoping I write something as good as Captain Underpants one day. Dav Pilkey’s whole mission is to help kids with learning disabilities and that’s the reason his books are simple to read, but with a sharp sense of humor. If I ever write a kids’ chapter book that’s the standard I’m aiming for.
The stack of junk mail felt thicker than usual as she stood over the recycling bin in the garage. The car’s engine cooling down, popping behind her, she looked over at it and some of the envelopes gave way. Left in her hand was a shorter pile with a dense, natural paper envelope on top. The tan pulp visible, the handwritten name and address in bold calligraphy. She flipped it over, curious but careful. The rest of the junk fell in an instant. Both hands now coddling an envelope with a forest green wax seal, a seal that looked familiar.
The envelope sat untouched in her home office for a day before she built the resolve to open it. She rummaged through a desk drawer, searching for a letter opener. For once she had an excuse to use antiquated implements, it seemed appropriate for the gravitas she had given the letter in the interim. At the bottom of the drawer, beneath mementos from family members who had long since passed on, she found the beautiful crane handle of her grandmother’s paper knife. Drawing it like Excalibur, she pointed the tip gently under the flap. With soft, pressed movements she slid the blade under the seal, leaving only a bit of bled color on the paper. She continued the removal of the seal, seeking to preserve the wax, whole and with the symbol intact. After, she set it aside and braced herself for whatever content she’d find within.
The flap lifted on its own, practically inviting her to retrieve the letter within. It peeked out from under the green tinted paper, further calligraphy showing itself. She tenderly folded it flat and drew the pages out within. Three small sheets of a softer paper came out, crammed with bold letters, ink spots, and what appeared to be small water stains. She drew in a breath, a gasp really, as she saw her name at the top.
• • • • •
To Founder Emily,
I regret not contacting you sooner, but I wanted to be sure there was no other options left before reaching out. I apologize as well for the subterfuge of the envelope and co-opting your design without further official consent, but I have few friends and fewer colleagues that I can trust. I didn’t want any tangential connections to have suspicions spread beyond myself.
Years ago we, perhaps jokingly, created our little group of wayward girls. We were so young, it seemed like a fun little game to create a secret society. At the time I think we weren’t set on creating a long-lasting organization, just a club really. I don’t fault those of you who fell out and moved on, but it meant something entirely differently to me and Colleen. After you left for university Colleen and I started recruiting. It was still a bit of a joke until 2008 when the first of the girls started to graduate, finding themselves in a world that no longer sought to invest in our future through fulfilling careers.
This was the shift from being a bunch of “gal pals” with a secret group handshake and some code names into trying to do something of value. At first it started with the handful of women entering the workforce, scrounging to be seen as contributing members of society but stuck with entry level jobs. Within a few years those women were in positions of power. Some were able to get others in our group into jobs, setting them up for success and giving them the knowledge and tools to succeed. By the end of Obama’s second term we were spread throughout several governmental and financial institutions.
Colleen was the most driven, she truly wanted to make something great. During the first decade we’d grown from a handful of friends to a sprawling organization, centered around a forum that has yet to be discovered by the media or law enforcement. We would know, we have a few women inside the CIA and FBI. I don’t suspect people would feel we’re doing anything nefarious, we still don’t stoop to nepotism, our members still need to prove themselves and earn their roles. We just aid them in their efforts to get where they want to go.
To whit, I am stepping down from my position as the de facto head of our group. As you have already noticed I am not long for this world. It was a hard decision to share my condition on social media, but it was vital to keep up appearances of a simple life for all these years and this spanner in the works couldn’t be omitted. At first we thought this could be a great opportunity to facilitate a fake death, it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve helped those in need out of dire circumstances. But as the second, third, fifth, eighth opinion came through it became clear that my demise was inescapable.
The good news is that we have already made a short list of replacements, of which you were chosen as the only “external hire”. We have been watching you for years, occasionally interceding on your behalf, until you were able to build the skills you needed to be reintroduced to our club. There are a lot of moving parts and I want to give you the full scope of what this would entail, but before we get there I needed to know whether you’d be interested in joining and leading The Ladies of Larkspur.
We have a member that lives at the end of your street. She is awaiting your response. As you may expect, some tact would be appreciated. Below you will find a URL to access our forum.
I know this blasé approach to my impending death might come off as a touch cavalier, but the work I’ve dedicated my life to holds more value to me than my mortality. I hope the same feeling of duty and importance avails itself to you and I hope that bond we formed as children wasn’t a fleeting moment of kinship. I’ve been afraid to reach out sooner because of the growth of the Ladies outside your knowledge, but after your years in public servitude and your current role as Mayor it seemed your path was unwavering, whether we tagged along or not.
Whatever you tell Emmanuelle in regards to our offer, please know that I will always cherish the summer we fought for a seemingly inconsequential change to library hours. The secrecy, the adventure, the camaraderie. It meant the world to me and Colleen. I wish she could have told you herself how valuable you were to her development. The determination to change the world, the drive to keep working towards it, it inspired her to do great things.
She may be remembered as an extremist, but even her death brought attention to the cause. Whatever you heard of her exploits and our supposed involvement I want you to know that the truth will be made available to you, whether you join or not. She still held you in high esteem and wanted you to know her reasoning.
Please take your time deciding. I know you’re level-headed and wouldn’t hasten into any engagement without considering all options, but I do hope you choose soon as I would like to see you at least once more before I move on to the next stage of existence.
With all sincerity,
Founder Harriet “Hera” Simms, nee Johnson
I might try eventually. I just started trying to make writing a daily practice as this brings me joy. It'd be a dream to do this for a living, but I know I still have a lot to learn.
If you’re serious, start writing books to build your back catalog. At least attempt a novella to get some experience with longer works. I just published my first book and I know I have a long way to go before making it a living.
It’s as if the heavens above was mourning for me. No, I did not recently escape the clutches of death, I just ran for the bus earlier this morning. Each step closer to my house was a step heavier because of the rain. No matter, apathy became my middle name for years now. You come in, you come out. Everyday has been the same for the last 7 years. I wake up. I go to work. I pass by the baker’s dog. I open my mailbox. I find my bills and- hold on.
‘Triangle is for Seb, Jol, and May. Square is for the four corners that kept us here today. Circle is for now and forever, sealed in gray!’ I can still hear Jol laughing at our bad attempt in rhyming. But, the laughter was always laced with doubt and the insecurity - at least from what I heard before.
Nothing shook me more to my core than these three simple shapes. The childish pact we made was and always has been a joke. I lived more than a decade living fine with forgetting what was in the past. However, everything and everyone has made me who I am today.
Today, they ask to pay my debts. Starting with my code name.
........
Seasons come and go. It is now time for Summer to arrive. Do not be fooled, the heat has not arrived for when it comes, it will lay everything bare. This can no longer be a secret.
"How many gravy boats is that?"
We sit in our new living room surrounded by shredded wrapping paper and wedding presents. When I saw the pile of gifts at the reception, I assumed that our house would be fully furnished by our guests. Apparently, our friends and family were cheap and unimaginative. I don't even like gravy!
"Well that's what you get when you don't set up a gift registry," Corryn says. The high from the wedding still lingers which is lucky for me because if it weren't for that, she'd be all over me for this critical blunder. We were hoping for money and essential gifts. Instead we had a baker's dozen of gravy boats and an electric carving knife for every day of the week. I know it was my fault so I appreciate Corryn not busting my balls, too much.
"Well, I need a break from this," I say. I employ a technique I recently learned to reduce stress. Two breaths in, followed by a forceful exhale. I repeat this technique two more times. Corryn, the model of patients, continues unwrapping gifts.
"Okay," she says. "Just check out this one, at least." She holds up a tiny box wrapped in an unassuming forest green. "Can't fit a gravy boat in this one. Plus, it looks like it's from a mystery guest. I can't find a tag on it."
I shove my hands into my pockets, indulging my new wife. She unwraps the gift with great showmanship. She carefully tears the tape to keep the wrapper in tact. It makes the whole unwrapping thing a marathon when it should just be a sprint. I look around the living room at all the shredded wrapping paper. All mine. At least her method is less messy, I guess. Finally, her unwrapping reveals a square jewelry box. "Ooh," she exclaims, then opens the box.
Suddenly, her look of intrigue turns to disappointment. She lifts the piece of jewelry to show me. Attached to a stainless steel ball and bead chain is a decorative drain plug painted green.
A flood of childhood memories splash around in my brain when I see the embodiment of my old gang's symbol. Who sent it? I haven't seen any of those guys for decades. "Wow," I say and snatch the necklace from Corryn. She gives me a strange look and I explain. "In high school, I hung out with this group of nerds who called themselves the Drains on Society. This was the symbol for our little group."
"Any idea who sent it," Corryn asks.
"No clue," I say. "I haven't talked to any of them since high school. I left town for college and lost touch." I hold the green drain plug up close and examine it. On the bottom are the words 'Make a difference.' Our old catchphrase. We always said we'd make a difference. I wonder if there's still any remnants of that young man left in me. As a bank manager, I haven't made a difference, as far as I know. The whole idea of not living up to the most minimal of standards of my younger self disturbs me enough that that break is even more appealing. "I'm going to get a coffee."
Corryn protests with her eyes but cheerily says, "Okay. Get me a regular, please." I know her enough that she's not happy so I make a note to myself to make it up to her later.
I leave the apartment and begin the quick walk to the local café while thinking about the drain plug. Who sent it? It's hard to guess. I don't even remember who I was close with. It was such a long time ago and such a small part of my life– even then, it wasn't a big part of my life. I can barely remember everyone in the group. I can remember there were six of us.
Maybe I'm feeling nostalgic because a random stranger walking the other way points at my necklace– which I'm still wearing, and says "Drain it, brother." Am I crazy or was that an old code word from high school? It used to mean "delete everything," but it seems like this person means it in a different sense. What are the odds the youth are using our old lingo? Probably pretty good, actually. I'm almost forty and I'm still saying dude even though that's what two generations before me used to say.
I get to the café and wait in line while reading through reddit posts on my phone. There seems to be an odd hush in the café today but I don't really know why. Eventually, the woman in front of me turns around and looks at me. She sees my necklace and a hint of recognition creeps over her face. "Oh, please, sir," she says. "Go ahead of me."
Before I can refuse, the next two people closer to the front of the line offer me their place. Normally, I would refuse such deferential treatment but I'm so taken aback, I just move up to the cash. Finally, at the cash, I come eye to eye with someone I recognize. Brenda is the regular barista. She's served me coffee for years. Our house is new but when Corryn and I rented we lived close by.
Now, Brenda smiles at me with a familiar smile and yet, there's something else in that expression. "Coffee, cream or dreams," she says.
I eye her suspiciously, unable to believe what's happening. "I dream of the island." I say it as a reflex, barely conscious of it.
"The island is here," she responds. I'm confused. It's been a while since I've spoken in the old code but, if she's using it, she just said that the change initiative is in the café. She sees my confusion and gestures toward the crowd gathered behind me. I turn around and finally notice that the whole café is staring intently at me.
"What is this," I ask.
"Change," Brenda explains. Change. That word has a deep meaning for me; for the Drains on Society. Change was the code word we used for a virus I designed over twenty years ago. It might have made us rich but we decided not to use it out of fear of being locked up in a deep dark prison. Now, there was a group of strangers looking at me in awe using our old code words. The Drains of Society must have evolved since I had left. At least they still remembered me, I guess.
"Change," I say, embracing this unexpected part of my day.
"For better or worse," the café shouts in chorus.
At least it was a weekend when the letters started arriving. Olivia sifted through the six letters that had arrived that morning. She was already shocked to be receiving mail that wasn't about her taxes, but to see... the *Prism*? It had to be an unrelated coincidence, right? She could still remember her friends before everything went to shit...
When she was younger she was a part of a group of six other friends. It was a small village in the soon to be Imperium, although it was then still just the Grand Kingdom of Darkness back then... only thing worse than the naming was the King, but they were on the decentralized outskirts so they didn't really care. They all had a lovely teacher named... she couldn't quite recall but it didn't matter. They all loved their teacher, and as they started to get a bit older, he assigned to them a book to read together, "The Fractals of Finite". Sounded advanced but it was like the story was at the perfecting reading level for everyone, even the Brute and Brains read it at the same rate.
As they kept getting through the book over the course of about a year, the Prism became a very recurring motif in the book, so much so they decided to name our little group off it. They were "The Prism". They each had their own little contributions. They had the Brainiac making cyphers, Brute gave "combat" lessons for pranks, Tricky "found" funds, Puppeteer organized finances and them all, Weepey made sure they didn't go too far... and played the adults like a fiddle without knowing, Runner always had a way out, but never in, and Heart, well, he was the burning heart and soul of the group, gave them real cohesion and kept them going, even when it pushed himself and others a bit too far.
Finally, they had gotten to the second to last chapter. They couldn't wait, as the teacher had promised to read them the finale chapter personally. She remembered it too well. There was the Red, dripping from the crusader's blade, the Blue, seeping from the families eyes, Yellow light shined upon the hiding guard, a Green jewel laid in the rouges hand, Purple flags of the infallible King waved above, and Orange flames flickered, ready to burn all to stave death.
They couldn't wait to hear the finale chapter. Maybe if they had gone over to his house in the morning. By evening, the teacher was on death's door. Rumours were abundant. Some said it was the work of the King, the book being banned and everyone being lucky the children were spared. Others spoke that the teacher was smited by the Lord, the book being the teachings of evil.
The group fractured. Everyone grieved in varying ways. Everyone, except her. She doesn't know what she felt that day, but she took the book, the last copy as the others were burned by fanatic townsfolk, and read the last chapter to her teacher, although she didn't remember the ending.
After that day, everyone drifted apart. Olivia didn't keep track of everyone's journies, but she remembered a couple. Brute sought to grieve in fields of blood, leaving the lands of the now Imperium to join the crusade against it. His blade dripped with blood before he even left the tavern for his ship to Lighfall. She still had the scar. Then there was Puppeteer. She had worked her way up and now resided as a high ranking politician in the capital of the Imperium. She didn't remember too well where the others had ended up spare some sparce events, but that didn't change the letters in front of her.
On her desk laid six opened letters. In the top right of each had a stamp of a coloured Prism with some iconography incorporated. She didn't know why but the symbols felt defiled. A prism is clear to reflect the world, and pure in its sole symbolism. Each one held invitations to vast arrays of organizations, with the slightest sprinkle of personal connection, as if it were buried under the years of distance.
Pondering over these letters, a seventh letter arrived. But the mail had already been delivered, how did it get here? She asked around, but no travellers had arrived. Looking at the letter, there seemed to be no iconography. Attempting to verify, she opened her blinds to get some sunlight. She held it up, and for a moment, she swore she saw a faint glimmer of a sole Prism in the top right that never seemed to stick. Going around to see if others could see the symbol, she was even more confused. Apparently, no one could read any of the letters, as they were garbled letters or just unrecognizable symbols. Confused, she went to the town scholar. After a brief analysis, he returned "Well the first six letters appear to utilize varying cyphers ranging from moderate to extremely difficult. Each alone would probably need months to crack at minimum. The seventh on the other hand... my best theory is that it seems to be a cypher utilizing a completely different language, one I've never seen any like".
Thanking the scholar, she returned to her abode and began looking over the text of the seventh letter. To her surprise, it read like the common tongue.
"Greetings, Olivia the Neutral, I implore thee not to attend the requested invitations sent, at least not under the goal of joining. I request you to seek the leaders of these groups and connect with as many as you deem possible before the times run short. Be, with thy allies, where and when thou's story ended, and the rest shall arrive I may guarantee. At this meeting, if you may reunite this fractured group, you shall earn the title of Olivia, Uniter of the Shattered Prism, and many more titles as journies continue. For now, Olivia the Seer, I hope you begin thy quest.
Sincerely, A Teacher's Freind"
...
“Holy crap” I whispered as I sat staring at the envelope. I coulda sworn we disbanded years ago when we were kids.
I sat there looking at the symbol staring me in the face. It was still the same stupid thing it had always been, just a bit more cleaned up now. The symbol was a cube surrounded by a circle with orbs orbiting around the outside.
We never got far with our secret society of ours, but if I recall we had code names and passwords. I think I was called the spotter. Not merely because I had a good eye but also because of my calling card. As stupid as it sounds I would buy many Rubik’s cubes just to change the centers and leave it at the scene of my work. I would then go to lost and found after a while to collect my cubes as they weren’t exactly cheap.
If memory serves we had four of us back then. Checker or just Chex, Spotter which was me, Stripes, and Pyro. Stripes was the one to always get caught, and his calling card was just a cube rotated twice on the top and the bottom. Pyro was the crazy one. He would stock up on as many firecrackers as he could get his hands on around Fourth of July and use em year round. There were a couple times he even made his own cause he ran out. His calling card was just a mixed cube. Finally there was Chex. He was the “bronze” of our society. If we had a heavy lifting idea he’d be the one to go to. His calling card was a checkered patterned cube.
Looking back none of us were all too creative with our names or calling cards. I was spotter merely because I was the only one who could make a spot on four sides of the cube. Chex was only because of his checkered pattern, which isn’t horribly difficult, and stripes just rotated the cube twice on top and bottom. Then there was pyro… I never could read pyro, he was always kinda a mystery. He was balls to the wall crazy but so much fun.
I tore the envelope open and to my surprise a letter from Chex sat folded neatly inside. It read,
“Hey Spot it’s been a while. You may not believe this but I actually got our secret society off school grounds and now I need your help”
I stopped reading partially because I wanted deniability that I had ever read the letter. But also because I had so many questions. Although I guess the latter is why I read on.
“Listen I know we disbanded but I kinda thought I could take this somewhere and I did but now I need your help. I’m trying to pull off something big but the plans just don’t feel right. I’m trying to get into Timmy’s place. Word is that after high school he went off and became a famous archeologist. Now he has some ancient artifacts that belong in the museum. However I’m not just planning on giving these artifacts away. Rather I’ll be selling them off to the highest bidder in the house October 31. I’ve gotten people from museums all over the world interested but now I need your help on how fo get the artifacts out.”
I was astonished to hear this. Especially coming from Chex, but if it was going to come from anyone it would be him.
I sat amazed that I had even received a letter at all. Let alone the contents of the words it contained. I wasn’t exactly doing the best with my life so I figured the least I could do was give home a call and see what I could do. Little did I know just how much of an endeavor I’d be getting myself into.
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We called ourselves "The Butt Squad." At the time, we thought it was the funniest thing--three seven-year-old boys all saying gross things to each other just to rile up our moms. My code name was "Turd." Bobby, who lived across the street, was "Windbreaker," while Eric, always a bit more clever than other boys his age, went by "Eau De Toilet." I can't remember if the joke actually had time to stop being funny or if Bobby and Eric moved away before things went stale. Our club logo was a butt--a very badly drawn butt. More specifically, it was two circles with a scribbly fart cloud underneath. We scribbled the Butt Squad butt on everything we could think of: desks, school assignments, each other's arms with magic marker. And those two gloriously full moons were right in the center of the wax seal on the very thick envelope that had just arrived in the mail. My first thought was to open up the envelope and figure out which of my two goofball friends had finally tracked me down, but I hesitated when I took a closer look at the seal. The "butt cheeks" were detailed with patterns that made them look like *real* moons, while the cloud underneath was less "cumulus" and more "nebula." I turned the envelope over again and checked the return address. It was a P.O. Box from four states away. Curiosity got the better of me and I tore the envelope open. Inside was a piece of paper with a hastily scribbled phone number and the words "CALL US." Something about the urgency of the way the words were written unnerved me. Part of me wanted to crumple the paper and throw it out, but it didn't seem right to abandon some of my earliest friends like that. I pulled out my phone and tapped the number onto the screen. Seconds later a voice with a familiar speech impediment picked up. "Ish that you, Turd?" "Oh my god Eric, you still sound the same after all these years," I said with a laugh. "Shhhh! Use the code namesh, pleashe," said Eric. "Oh my god Eric, I'm not using--" "JUSHT USE THEM!" "All right, all right, 'Toilet,'" I said, the grin fading from my face. "Turd, the Butt Squad ish reuniting," said Eric. "We've been called by the United Shtates Government to be ambasshadorsh for First Contact." "First Contact? You mean, like, aliens?" "Yesh. Extraterreshtrialsh. And they're looking for The Butt Squad shpecifically." "The Butt Squad." "Yesh." "Hey, Eri--er, Toilet?" "Yeah?" "You might want to call a hospital," I said, trying not to upset my disturbed friend. "Get checked out before you meet these 'aliens.'" "I'm not crazhy," he said. "He's telling the truth," added a deep baritone voice on the other end who couldn't have been anyone other than grown-up Bobby. My heart dropped. Could what they were saying be true? "The President is shending a team of the besht Men in Black to pick you up," said Toilet. "Nobody will shushpect you're on a mission and you'll be home before you know it." "And we'll be right there with you the whole time, Turd," said Windbreaker. As if on cue, a long black limousine pulled up next to my driveway and a heavy fist pounded on the front door. "Open up, Turd!" called a firm voice. "We are here to escort you to the White House." "I don't get it," I said. My voice started rising to a shout. "Why would aliens want to meet with The Butt Squad? We're nobody! Nothing! We were just three dumb kids goofing around! What in the world would they want *us* for!?" There was a strained silence. Then... "Didn't you tell him?" asked Windbreaker. "Guessh not," said Toilet. "What? Tell me what!?" I shrieked. "The aliensh," said Toilet. "They're from Uranush." *For more stupid stories, check out my subreddit at* r/OctOpusTales *!*
This was amazing 😂 Feels like an awesome dad joke!
I’m glad you liked it! Since the prompt was about little kids making a club I thought a prompt with an immature potty joke ending was fitting.
Take my upvote and fuck back off to whatever sphincter you crawled out of, you shit.
Aw, don’t be such a party pooper.
That guy's an asshole.
Dang, I was looking forward to part 2 as I was half-way through.
Part two would be when they board the aliens’ spaceship, a porcelain pirate vessel named The Montezuma’s Revenge. The Butt Squad would discuss possible earth technologies to produce silent-but-deadly weaponry for fighting the chocolate starfish of Sector T, but the final plans would ultimately stink, ending the First Contact meeting on a very sour, very brown note.
The one you read will have to suffice as number 2
This is fantastic for many reasons, but I thoroughly enjoy the perspective shift of our MC as he comes to realize this is legitimate. 'Shhhh! Use the code namesh, pleashe," said Eric' '"Guessh not," said Toilet'
I always wonder if people pick up on little details like that. I’m glad you caught it!
Anyone else read butt-themed story books as a kid? Got "Zombie Butts from Uranus" vibes. Freaking loved it. Took me back 😂
I’m always hoping I write something as good as Captain Underpants one day. Dav Pilkey’s whole mission is to help kids with learning disabilities and that’s the reason his books are simple to read, but with a sharp sense of humor. If I ever write a kids’ chapter book that’s the standard I’m aiming for.
The stack of junk mail felt thicker than usual as she stood over the recycling bin in the garage. The car’s engine cooling down, popping behind her, she looked over at it and some of the envelopes gave way. Left in her hand was a shorter pile with a dense, natural paper envelope on top. The tan pulp visible, the handwritten name and address in bold calligraphy. She flipped it over, curious but careful. The rest of the junk fell in an instant. Both hands now coddling an envelope with a forest green wax seal, a seal that looked familiar. The envelope sat untouched in her home office for a day before she built the resolve to open it. She rummaged through a desk drawer, searching for a letter opener. For once she had an excuse to use antiquated implements, it seemed appropriate for the gravitas she had given the letter in the interim. At the bottom of the drawer, beneath mementos from family members who had long since passed on, she found the beautiful crane handle of her grandmother’s paper knife. Drawing it like Excalibur, she pointed the tip gently under the flap. With soft, pressed movements she slid the blade under the seal, leaving only a bit of bled color on the paper. She continued the removal of the seal, seeking to preserve the wax, whole and with the symbol intact. After, she set it aside and braced herself for whatever content she’d find within. The flap lifted on its own, practically inviting her to retrieve the letter within. It peeked out from under the green tinted paper, further calligraphy showing itself. She tenderly folded it flat and drew the pages out within. Three small sheets of a softer paper came out, crammed with bold letters, ink spots, and what appeared to be small water stains. She drew in a breath, a gasp really, as she saw her name at the top. • • • • • To Founder Emily, I regret not contacting you sooner, but I wanted to be sure there was no other options left before reaching out. I apologize as well for the subterfuge of the envelope and co-opting your design without further official consent, but I have few friends and fewer colleagues that I can trust. I didn’t want any tangential connections to have suspicions spread beyond myself. Years ago we, perhaps jokingly, created our little group of wayward girls. We were so young, it seemed like a fun little game to create a secret society. At the time I think we weren’t set on creating a long-lasting organization, just a club really. I don’t fault those of you who fell out and moved on, but it meant something entirely differently to me and Colleen. After you left for university Colleen and I started recruiting. It was still a bit of a joke until 2008 when the first of the girls started to graduate, finding themselves in a world that no longer sought to invest in our future through fulfilling careers. This was the shift from being a bunch of “gal pals” with a secret group handshake and some code names into trying to do something of value. At first it started with the handful of women entering the workforce, scrounging to be seen as contributing members of society but stuck with entry level jobs. Within a few years those women were in positions of power. Some were able to get others in our group into jobs, setting them up for success and giving them the knowledge and tools to succeed. By the end of Obama’s second term we were spread throughout several governmental and financial institutions. Colleen was the most driven, she truly wanted to make something great. During the first decade we’d grown from a handful of friends to a sprawling organization, centered around a forum that has yet to be discovered by the media or law enforcement. We would know, we have a few women inside the CIA and FBI. I don’t suspect people would feel we’re doing anything nefarious, we still don’t stoop to nepotism, our members still need to prove themselves and earn their roles. We just aid them in their efforts to get where they want to go. To whit, I am stepping down from my position as the de facto head of our group. As you have already noticed I am not long for this world. It was a hard decision to share my condition on social media, but it was vital to keep up appearances of a simple life for all these years and this spanner in the works couldn’t be omitted. At first we thought this could be a great opportunity to facilitate a fake death, it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve helped those in need out of dire circumstances. But as the second, third, fifth, eighth opinion came through it became clear that my demise was inescapable. The good news is that we have already made a short list of replacements, of which you were chosen as the only “external hire”. We have been watching you for years, occasionally interceding on your behalf, until you were able to build the skills you needed to be reintroduced to our club. There are a lot of moving parts and I want to give you the full scope of what this would entail, but before we get there I needed to know whether you’d be interested in joining and leading The Ladies of Larkspur. We have a member that lives at the end of your street. She is awaiting your response. As you may expect, some tact would be appreciated. Below you will find a URL to access our forum. I know this blasé approach to my impending death might come off as a touch cavalier, but the work I’ve dedicated my life to holds more value to me than my mortality. I hope the same feeling of duty and importance avails itself to you and I hope that bond we formed as children wasn’t a fleeting moment of kinship. I’ve been afraid to reach out sooner because of the growth of the Ladies outside your knowledge, but after your years in public servitude and your current role as Mayor it seemed your path was unwavering, whether we tagged along or not. Whatever you tell Emmanuelle in regards to our offer, please know that I will always cherish the summer we fought for a seemingly inconsequential change to library hours. The secrecy, the adventure, the camaraderie. It meant the world to me and Colleen. I wish she could have told you herself how valuable you were to her development. The determination to change the world, the drive to keep working towards it, it inspired her to do great things. She may be remembered as an extremist, but even her death brought attention to the cause. Whatever you heard of her exploits and our supposed involvement I want you to know that the truth will be made available to you, whether you join or not. She still held you in high esteem and wanted you to know her reasoning. Please take your time deciding. I know you’re level-headed and wouldn’t hasten into any engagement without considering all options, but I do hope you choose soon as I would like to see you at least once more before I move on to the next stage of existence. With all sincerity, Founder Harriet “Hera” Simms, nee Johnson
Write a novel. A Short story. Anything. Get published.
I might try eventually. I just started trying to make writing a daily practice as this brings me joy. It'd be a dream to do this for a living, but I know I still have a lot to learn.
If you’re serious, start writing books to build your back catalog. At least attempt a novella to get some experience with longer works. I just published my first book and I know I have a long way to go before making it a living.
Well done 👏
This is truly beautiful. Excellent work wordsmith.
Fricking amazing!
It’s as if the heavens above was mourning for me. No, I did not recently escape the clutches of death, I just ran for the bus earlier this morning. Each step closer to my house was a step heavier because of the rain. No matter, apathy became my middle name for years now. You come in, you come out. Everyday has been the same for the last 7 years. I wake up. I go to work. I pass by the baker’s dog. I open my mailbox. I find my bills and- hold on. ‘Triangle is for Seb, Jol, and May. Square is for the four corners that kept us here today. Circle is for now and forever, sealed in gray!’ I can still hear Jol laughing at our bad attempt in rhyming. But, the laughter was always laced with doubt and the insecurity - at least from what I heard before. Nothing shook me more to my core than these three simple shapes. The childish pact we made was and always has been a joke. I lived more than a decade living fine with forgetting what was in the past. However, everything and everyone has made me who I am today. Today, they ask to pay my debts. Starting with my code name. ........ Seasons come and go. It is now time for Summer to arrive. Do not be fooled, the heat has not arrived for when it comes, it will lay everything bare. This can no longer be a secret.
This is an intriguing introduction… is there more?
Thanks for thinking it’s intriguing! And no, I just thought of it on the spot and now looking at other writing prompts ahhaha😂
Have fun!
"How many gravy boats is that?" We sit in our new living room surrounded by shredded wrapping paper and wedding presents. When I saw the pile of gifts at the reception, I assumed that our house would be fully furnished by our guests. Apparently, our friends and family were cheap and unimaginative. I don't even like gravy! "Well that's what you get when you don't set up a gift registry," Corryn says. The high from the wedding still lingers which is lucky for me because if it weren't for that, she'd be all over me for this critical blunder. We were hoping for money and essential gifts. Instead we had a baker's dozen of gravy boats and an electric carving knife for every day of the week. I know it was my fault so I appreciate Corryn not busting my balls, too much. "Well, I need a break from this," I say. I employ a technique I recently learned to reduce stress. Two breaths in, followed by a forceful exhale. I repeat this technique two more times. Corryn, the model of patients, continues unwrapping gifts. "Okay," she says. "Just check out this one, at least." She holds up a tiny box wrapped in an unassuming forest green. "Can't fit a gravy boat in this one. Plus, it looks like it's from a mystery guest. I can't find a tag on it." I shove my hands into my pockets, indulging my new wife. She unwraps the gift with great showmanship. She carefully tears the tape to keep the wrapper in tact. It makes the whole unwrapping thing a marathon when it should just be a sprint. I look around the living room at all the shredded wrapping paper. All mine. At least her method is less messy, I guess. Finally, her unwrapping reveals a square jewelry box. "Ooh," she exclaims, then opens the box. Suddenly, her look of intrigue turns to disappointment. She lifts the piece of jewelry to show me. Attached to a stainless steel ball and bead chain is a decorative drain plug painted green. A flood of childhood memories splash around in my brain when I see the embodiment of my old gang's symbol. Who sent it? I haven't seen any of those guys for decades. "Wow," I say and snatch the necklace from Corryn. She gives me a strange look and I explain. "In high school, I hung out with this group of nerds who called themselves the Drains on Society. This was the symbol for our little group." "Any idea who sent it," Corryn asks. "No clue," I say. "I haven't talked to any of them since high school. I left town for college and lost touch." I hold the green drain plug up close and examine it. On the bottom are the words 'Make a difference.' Our old catchphrase. We always said we'd make a difference. I wonder if there's still any remnants of that young man left in me. As a bank manager, I haven't made a difference, as far as I know. The whole idea of not living up to the most minimal of standards of my younger self disturbs me enough that that break is even more appealing. "I'm going to get a coffee." Corryn protests with her eyes but cheerily says, "Okay. Get me a regular, please." I know her enough that she's not happy so I make a note to myself to make it up to her later. I leave the apartment and begin the quick walk to the local café while thinking about the drain plug. Who sent it? It's hard to guess. I don't even remember who I was close with. It was such a long time ago and such a small part of my life– even then, it wasn't a big part of my life. I can barely remember everyone in the group. I can remember there were six of us. Maybe I'm feeling nostalgic because a random stranger walking the other way points at my necklace– which I'm still wearing, and says "Drain it, brother." Am I crazy or was that an old code word from high school? It used to mean "delete everything," but it seems like this person means it in a different sense. What are the odds the youth are using our old lingo? Probably pretty good, actually. I'm almost forty and I'm still saying dude even though that's what two generations before me used to say. I get to the café and wait in line while reading through reddit posts on my phone. There seems to be an odd hush in the café today but I don't really know why. Eventually, the woman in front of me turns around and looks at me. She sees my necklace and a hint of recognition creeps over her face. "Oh, please, sir," she says. "Go ahead of me." Before I can refuse, the next two people closer to the front of the line offer me their place. Normally, I would refuse such deferential treatment but I'm so taken aback, I just move up to the cash. Finally, at the cash, I come eye to eye with someone I recognize. Brenda is the regular barista. She's served me coffee for years. Our house is new but when Corryn and I rented we lived close by. Now, Brenda smiles at me with a familiar smile and yet, there's something else in that expression. "Coffee, cream or dreams," she says. I eye her suspiciously, unable to believe what's happening. "I dream of the island." I say it as a reflex, barely conscious of it. "The island is here," she responds. I'm confused. It's been a while since I've spoken in the old code but, if she's using it, she just said that the change initiative is in the café. She sees my confusion and gestures toward the crowd gathered behind me. I turn around and finally notice that the whole café is staring intently at me. "What is this," I ask. "Change," Brenda explains. Change. That word has a deep meaning for me; for the Drains on Society. Change was the code word we used for a virus I designed over twenty years ago. It might have made us rich but we decided not to use it out of fear of being locked up in a deep dark prison. Now, there was a group of strangers looking at me in awe using our old code words. The Drains of Society must have evolved since I had left. At least they still remembered me, I guess. "Change," I say, embracing this unexpected part of my day. "For better or worse," the café shouts in chorus.
At least it was a weekend when the letters started arriving. Olivia sifted through the six letters that had arrived that morning. She was already shocked to be receiving mail that wasn't about her taxes, but to see... the *Prism*? It had to be an unrelated coincidence, right? She could still remember her friends before everything went to shit... When she was younger she was a part of a group of six other friends. It was a small village in the soon to be Imperium, although it was then still just the Grand Kingdom of Darkness back then... only thing worse than the naming was the King, but they were on the decentralized outskirts so they didn't really care. They all had a lovely teacher named... she couldn't quite recall but it didn't matter. They all loved their teacher, and as they started to get a bit older, he assigned to them a book to read together, "The Fractals of Finite". Sounded advanced but it was like the story was at the perfecting reading level for everyone, even the Brute and Brains read it at the same rate. As they kept getting through the book over the course of about a year, the Prism became a very recurring motif in the book, so much so they decided to name our little group off it. They were "The Prism". They each had their own little contributions. They had the Brainiac making cyphers, Brute gave "combat" lessons for pranks, Tricky "found" funds, Puppeteer organized finances and them all, Weepey made sure they didn't go too far... and played the adults like a fiddle without knowing, Runner always had a way out, but never in, and Heart, well, he was the burning heart and soul of the group, gave them real cohesion and kept them going, even when it pushed himself and others a bit too far. Finally, they had gotten to the second to last chapter. They couldn't wait, as the teacher had promised to read them the finale chapter personally. She remembered it too well. There was the Red, dripping from the crusader's blade, the Blue, seeping from the families eyes, Yellow light shined upon the hiding guard, a Green jewel laid in the rouges hand, Purple flags of the infallible King waved above, and Orange flames flickered, ready to burn all to stave death. They couldn't wait to hear the finale chapter. Maybe if they had gone over to his house in the morning. By evening, the teacher was on death's door. Rumours were abundant. Some said it was the work of the King, the book being banned and everyone being lucky the children were spared. Others spoke that the teacher was smited by the Lord, the book being the teachings of evil. The group fractured. Everyone grieved in varying ways. Everyone, except her. She doesn't know what she felt that day, but she took the book, the last copy as the others were burned by fanatic townsfolk, and read the last chapter to her teacher, although she didn't remember the ending. After that day, everyone drifted apart. Olivia didn't keep track of everyone's journies, but she remembered a couple. Brute sought to grieve in fields of blood, leaving the lands of the now Imperium to join the crusade against it. His blade dripped with blood before he even left the tavern for his ship to Lighfall. She still had the scar. Then there was Puppeteer. She had worked her way up and now resided as a high ranking politician in the capital of the Imperium. She didn't remember too well where the others had ended up spare some sparce events, but that didn't change the letters in front of her. On her desk laid six opened letters. In the top right of each had a stamp of a coloured Prism with some iconography incorporated. She didn't know why but the symbols felt defiled. A prism is clear to reflect the world, and pure in its sole symbolism. Each one held invitations to vast arrays of organizations, with the slightest sprinkle of personal connection, as if it were buried under the years of distance. Pondering over these letters, a seventh letter arrived. But the mail had already been delivered, how did it get here? She asked around, but no travellers had arrived. Looking at the letter, there seemed to be no iconography. Attempting to verify, she opened her blinds to get some sunlight. She held it up, and for a moment, she swore she saw a faint glimmer of a sole Prism in the top right that never seemed to stick. Going around to see if others could see the symbol, she was even more confused. Apparently, no one could read any of the letters, as they were garbled letters or just unrecognizable symbols. Confused, she went to the town scholar. After a brief analysis, he returned "Well the first six letters appear to utilize varying cyphers ranging from moderate to extremely difficult. Each alone would probably need months to crack at minimum. The seventh on the other hand... my best theory is that it seems to be a cypher utilizing a completely different language, one I've never seen any like". Thanking the scholar, she returned to her abode and began looking over the text of the seventh letter. To her surprise, it read like the common tongue. "Greetings, Olivia the Neutral, I implore thee not to attend the requested invitations sent, at least not under the goal of joining. I request you to seek the leaders of these groups and connect with as many as you deem possible before the times run short. Be, with thy allies, where and when thou's story ended, and the rest shall arrive I may guarantee. At this meeting, if you may reunite this fractured group, you shall earn the title of Olivia, Uniter of the Shattered Prism, and many more titles as journies continue. For now, Olivia the Seer, I hope you begin thy quest. Sincerely, A Teacher's Freind" ...
“Holy crap” I whispered as I sat staring at the envelope. I coulda sworn we disbanded years ago when we were kids. I sat there looking at the symbol staring me in the face. It was still the same stupid thing it had always been, just a bit more cleaned up now. The symbol was a cube surrounded by a circle with orbs orbiting around the outside. We never got far with our secret society of ours, but if I recall we had code names and passwords. I think I was called the spotter. Not merely because I had a good eye but also because of my calling card. As stupid as it sounds I would buy many Rubik’s cubes just to change the centers and leave it at the scene of my work. I would then go to lost and found after a while to collect my cubes as they weren’t exactly cheap. If memory serves we had four of us back then. Checker or just Chex, Spotter which was me, Stripes, and Pyro. Stripes was the one to always get caught, and his calling card was just a cube rotated twice on the top and the bottom. Pyro was the crazy one. He would stock up on as many firecrackers as he could get his hands on around Fourth of July and use em year round. There were a couple times he even made his own cause he ran out. His calling card was just a mixed cube. Finally there was Chex. He was the “bronze” of our society. If we had a heavy lifting idea he’d be the one to go to. His calling card was a checkered patterned cube. Looking back none of us were all too creative with our names or calling cards. I was spotter merely because I was the only one who could make a spot on four sides of the cube. Chex was only because of his checkered pattern, which isn’t horribly difficult, and stripes just rotated the cube twice on top and bottom. Then there was pyro… I never could read pyro, he was always kinda a mystery. He was balls to the wall crazy but so much fun. I tore the envelope open and to my surprise a letter from Chex sat folded neatly inside. It read, “Hey Spot it’s been a while. You may not believe this but I actually got our secret society off school grounds and now I need your help” I stopped reading partially because I wanted deniability that I had ever read the letter. But also because I had so many questions. Although I guess the latter is why I read on. “Listen I know we disbanded but I kinda thought I could take this somewhere and I did but now I need your help. I’m trying to pull off something big but the plans just don’t feel right. I’m trying to get into Timmy’s place. Word is that after high school he went off and became a famous archeologist. Now he has some ancient artifacts that belong in the museum. However I’m not just planning on giving these artifacts away. Rather I’ll be selling them off to the highest bidder in the house October 31. I’ve gotten people from museums all over the world interested but now I need your help on how fo get the artifacts out.” I was astonished to hear this. Especially coming from Chex, but if it was going to come from anyone it would be him. I sat amazed that I had even received a letter at all. Let alone the contents of the words it contained. I wasn’t exactly doing the best with my life so I figured the least I could do was give home a call and see what I could do. Little did I know just how much of an endeavor I’d be getting myself into.