Messages

*     *     *     *     *

   â€œSo this is my theory,” I said.  Grace, Springlegs and I were all standing in front of the boarded-up sapworks, which lay roughly in the direction in which the last ant had scampered off.  “The auto-wagon plant goes bankrupt, what?  Six years ago?  Maybe they had a problem with their ant-hypnosis process, or maybe they just closed up shop and forgot a bunch of ants behind.  But you said yourself, those ants are born and bred to feed on processed sapoline!  The ants find the source of the sap nearby.  Their population explodes, and they self-organize to both maximize their sap take and defend their nests.  The sap never ran dry - it was just diverted!  And there was never a Slender Stalker, just a bunch of ants stacked together working like a team, kind of like-”

   â€œ-in an auto-wagon engine,” Grace finished my thought.

   â€œAnd the black-magic was just a convenient means to an end, what with a dealer operating right between the old auto-wagon factory and the old sapworks,” I continued.  “Those ants that I shot at tonight just scattered after abandoning their disguise, with some of them coming by the paddy-wagon and persuading your engine-ants to have a taste of liberty.”

   â€œGosh, can you really blame them?” Grace said, thoughtfully.

   â€œMy bet is that somewhere between the old sapworks and the roots of the old sap trees you’ll find a network of ant tunnels and one hell of a syphoning operation,” I concluded.  “And, probably more than a few warrior ants equipped with some pretty nasty black-magic.”

   â€œSounds dangerous,” Sergeant Springlegs croaked, still slurping at his fly beverage.

   â€œSounds like an operation for a battle-hardened pixie warrior!” I said smiling, checking my hornet-sting pistol for ammo.

   Grace fidgeted pensively.  “Maybe there’s a way we can resolve all this without resorting to more violence and misery?  Maybe the ants can be given a legal percentage of the sap in exchange for giving up their black-magic?  Without the need to squander so many resources on defending their interests, there’d probably be plenty of sap left over to restore some semblance of prosperity to Happyfield.  Without the business in dealing so much illegal black-magic, maybe this sinister Mister Diggs character leaves town?  If we play this right, everyone could walk away from this better off!  What do you think, Chief Detective Bloom?”

   I gave Chief Deputy Floret a long hard stare.  Gourd-damned pansies and their peacenik ways; they took all the fun out of busting heads!  “I think,” I said, carefully considering the scenario that she had laid out, “that I should have read that damned war-crimes manual.”

[There Will Be Sappiness]

Hehe, sorry for the length, this one got a bit away from me....     The plot features Jade Bloom, a character I developed a couple years back for the FWC topic of flowers.

There Will Be Sappiness

   My name is Bloom.  Jade Bloom.  And I am a 4-inch-tall vessel of destruction.   We pixies are a warrior race born and bred, and we pretty much all enlist for life in the Forest Defence Forces.  Outside of the army there’s really not much for us: no action, no camaraderie, and certainly no market for our head-busting skillset.  Which is why being court-martialed out of the FDF sucks harder than a half-starved leech on a haemophiliac moose butt.

   Yeah, I know, it’s my own damn fault for not reading the whole “war crimes” manual, but that thing was more potent than a bear tranquilliser when it came to putting me to sleep.  Most of that stuff should have been common sense, anyway.  But apparently there’s this “international convention” against the use of skunk gas on the battlefield.  Stupid peacenik pansies and their rulebooks!

   â€œWould you maybe please like to show me your ticket now?” a pansy stewardess asks me in a squeaky voice for the fifth time.

   â€œNo!” I bark, perhaps a little too harshly.  She cringes before nodding acceptingly and moving down the aisle to annoy other patrons.  The eagle-pod is jammed with the civilian elements of the Eight Races: brownies, fairies, pansies, shrews, goblins, elves, gnomes, and of course one fresh-minted civilian pixie.  There are even a few forest creatures peppered in: mice and frogs mostly, with a few more exotic creatures here and there.  My favourite is the drunken ferret who keeps ordering fermented raspberries with his head while his long body snakes all the way back to occupy one of the toilets in the back.  I wish I could navigate civilian life so smoothly….

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

   Happyfield.  Apparently it’s some kinda hard-luck tree-sap harvesting town, only most of the trees ran dry years ago.  Now it’s more of a pollen junky warren with a hard time retaining cops.  As I stand reading the town sign one of the web lines affixing it snaps, leaving Happyfield literally dangling by a single thread.

   â€œClassy,” I remark to myself. 

         â€œI guess, though not really….” a squeaky voice says indecisively from behind me.  I hate it when other folk mistake my opinions for conversation starters.  I turn to see that same eagle-pod pansy stewardess approaching from my six. 

         â€œYou’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” I tell her.

          “Oh, er, kinda… I mean, thanks!  But… no, I’m not still after your ticket,” she blurted.  Actually it was more like squeaky word-vomit.  The worst kind of word-vomit.

         â€œI sorta live here,” she continued.  “Work here, too, actually.  Except… well, my last three paychecks bounced.  Hence the stewardess thing - a girl’s gotta eat!  When I’m in town I’m actually the acting sheriff!  And I bet I know who you are…”

           I grimace inside like a spider feeding on toad warts.  In my left pocket there’s a letter of employment as chief detective for the Happyfield Police Department stressing “no experience necessary”.  They left out the bit about “no pay to be expected.”  The strawberry on the honey frosting was that I was meeting my superior officer for the sixth time today and I was out of money for a flight out of town.

           â€œI’m Grace,” the pansy said to break her awkwardness.  “I mean, Chief Deputy Grace Floret of the HPD.  And you must be our new chief detective….”

            “Bloom,”  I answered.  “Jade Bloom.”

*   *   *   *   *

   Happyfield wasn’t very happy looking, and it sure as hell didn’t have any field.  It was built in a dark sinister looking forest, with most of the inhabitants living in carved out mushrooms or rotting logs on the forest floor.  And even half of those were boarded up, although the how and the why of it defied even the logic of Chief Deputy Grace Floret of the HPD.  Even from a distance it was clear that the rotting logs were already three-quarters of the way to being soil; anyone really interested in squatting in a boarded up unit could simply walk through the rotten wood wall.  It was probably just the death fungus that was still propping them all up. 

   The same could be said of many of the residents of Happyfield.  They seemed to stumble about like zombies, all blank stares and jerky movements.  Most were pansies - any self-respecting being would have left long ago - but there were a few other folk here and there.  A particularly down-on-her-luck fairy begged for gumdrops in an alley, her tattered moth-wings looking like shredded sails after a naval battle.

   â€œYou don’t know what you got till it’s gone,” Grace squeaked sadly, reaching into her purse.

   My own wings twitched like cat ears at some invisible itch.  Pixies and fairies were the only folk with wings, although we couldn’t be more different from each other in every other respect.  Pixies were bad-ass warrior action junkies, while fairies were flaky princesses who….  “...wouldn’t be caught dead wearing moth wings,” I said aloud.  I heaved the wretched creature to her feet with one hand and one of the sodden wings actually broke off. 

        The brownie-in-fake-fairy-wings gave me a gap tooth smile.  “Can I still have the gumdrop?” she asked cheekily before popping into a thousand sparkles and appearing further down the alley.  Stupid brownies.

         â€œGood eye, detective!” Grace praised me squeakily.  “Although I still would have given her the gumdrop.  That’s Belinda Hoaxstra, and she’s a single mom with fifteen kids to feed at home.”

          “How does a single mom end up with fifteen kids?!?” I asked incredulously.

          “Er, well… she has been known to embellish, every once in a while.  And I admit I kinda haven’t cross-referenced her claim with the school board registry….” Grace trailed off.  I briefly hoped that logic was the oil to cure her squeak, but she’d actually lost her duckling-convoy of thought when she noticed a bug-eyed frog in a cop uniform bounding down the lane.

           â€œChief Deputy Floret!” he croaked urgently.  “Come quick!”

*   *   *   *   *

   Sergeant Springlegs brought us down to the old flower mill, a derelict facility of moss-covered kindling down by a little trickle they called The Brook.  On the ground there lay another cop, only this one was another pansy and he was turned to stone.  Standing over him was yet another cop, this one a bearded gnome, and a mole in a medical coat.

   â€œConstable Rockgarden, Doctor Squintroot, this is our new Chief Detective Jade Bloom,” Grace introduced everyone before getting down to business.  “I’m guessing we’re looking at more of the usual?”

   Usual?  This place just got a whole lot more interesting!

   â€œYes Ma’am!” the old gnome replied.  “Constable Dandelion was on routine patrol when he didn’t check back in.  We found him like this about an hour ago.  Doc says he’s been cold about twelve hours.  Just like the others: no weapon, no witnesses, not even a gourd-damned footprint.

   â€œAny sparkle residue?” Grace asked, remembering our recent encounter in the alleyway.

   â€œThere wouldn’t be any,” I said, examining the ground.  “Brownies might be able to pop around magically, but they still need to stand on the ground in-between pops.  You’re looking for someone who can fly, or tread so lightly they don’t leave a mark.  Goblins or elves, maybe?  Based on how the body fell the shot came from over there,” I continued, waving in Sergeant Springlegs’ direction.  “Sniffer flies find anything?”

   Doctor Squintroot’s nose feelers twitched ghoulishly.  “Nothing recent.  Bits of a crayfish claw between the stones on the east wall, old squirrel turd in the northwest corner.”

   â€œThat rules out Goblins,” I said.  “Those guys leave a trail of stink wherever they go.  Elves?”

   Doctor Squintroot shook his head.  “Not a flicker from the firefly sensor, and they light up wherever the merry folk have been.” 

   â€œHuh.  Gnome trace?” I asked, looking around for a suspiciously sized rock.

   â€œI’m the only gnome in town!” Constable Rockgarden grumbled.  Still, Doctor Squintroot took out a compass and shrugged, tapping at it.  “That only works when we’re in rock form!” the Constable grumbled, crouching to turn to rock.  Sure enough, the needle of the compass bent towards the rock until it turned back to gnome form.

   â€œWell, pixie or fairy wing scales, then?” I asked doubtfully.  “Little microscopic bits are always shedding.”

   â€œI tell you the crime scene is clean as a fresh-minted snowflake,” Doctor Squintroot declared.  “No fur nor feather, no trace nor track.”

   â€œWhat about the weapon then?  I’m guessing black-market black-magic disposable one-shot stone-spell wand, not reliably accurate outside a thirty pace range?”  The mole doctor blinked his beady eyes in surprise.  “Weapons are kinda my thing,” I told him.

   â€œEr, well, your theory matches our best guess, but we’ve never recovered a weapon, not from any of the crime scenes.”  His nose feelers twitched in agitation.  “All five of them.”

   â€œVictims?” I asked.

   Grace furrowed her brow.  “All cops,” she squeaked quietly.

   â€œAny other patterns?” I asked.  “Locations?  Times?  Investigations?”

   â€œNo.  Well, I mean hardly,” she vacillated.  “It’s always when they’re alone.  There are rumours…. More like rural legend, really….”

   I looked around for someone a little more helpful.  “They say it’s the Slender Stalker,” Sergeant Springlegs said.  “A creature half-folk and half-evil, more nightmare than reality.  He has a sinister magic and wears a crooked hat, but if he turns sideways he disappears into the night.”

   â€œThat’s just a bedtime story for little nippers,” Grace squeaked.  “We have no real leads.”

   â€œSure we do,” I said optimistically.  “Whoever’s doing this buys their wands from somewhere.  And,” I continued, “they’re targeting cops, which means they don’t want the police to find something.”

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œWhat are we looking for, again?” Grace yawned more than squeaked.  It was the wee hours of the night, and we were back at the station house going through old case files by firefly light.  Well, Grace was going through old case files - did I mention I’m not much of a reader?  I was polishing my custom polymer-framed short-recoil 2.5mm semi-automatic hornet sting pistol.  Hey, who says working girls can’t find time to spend with old friends?

   â€œContraband seizures, over the last five to ten years,” I said absently.  “Anything magic, or dark, or dangerous.”

   â€œLike that gun?” Grace squeaked before quickly turning back to her files.

   â€œLike something someone got from someplace they shouldn’t, and we can shake that someone down for information,” I said.  “And you should see my knife collection.”

   â€œOh, that’s a hard pass,” Grace squealed more than squeaked.  “Wait….”

   â€œChange of heart?”

   â€œNo, look at this.  About eight years ago, back when the sap was still running.  Old Sheriff Turquartz was still chief detective back then, but he busted a sap-syphoning ring of shrews down in the Old Hoar district.  Items seized included the usual: spiles, hoses, drums….  And one blackened mouse paw necklace of preternatural power.”

         â€œWhatever happened to it?” I asked.

         â€œIt says here it was destroyed in accordance with article 409B after judicial proceedings were complete.  It was classified as a class-C article, requiring no further analysis when not directly used in a criminal act.”

         â€œDoes it say which of those sap-runners it was found on?”

         â€œOne Gwennifer Spleenwart,” Grace squeaked.  “Says here she did three years in Singalong Prison after conviction.  Her last address listed was two years ago when she cleared parole: it’s a run-down apartment block in an old tree stump on Dampmoss Street, out in the sticks.  Maybe we should look her up in the files?”

         â€œMaybe we should look her up on the streets,” I suggested.

*   *   *   *   *

   I’d never ridden in the front of a paddy wagon before.  If not for drunken misdemeanours as a youth I wouldn’t have ridden in the back of one either.  The Eight Races tend to shy away from mimicking humans, but there are some inventions that are just too useful to pass up.  Chief Deputy Floret seemed to concur, as her personality was magically transformed by the power of the steering wheel in front of her.

   â€œTell me that’s not a class-C article containing forbidden magic,” I remarked, referring to the steering wheel’s effect on her.

   â€œStuff it, Pix-Stix!” Grace shot back at me.  “I’m in the driver’s seat now, baby!”

   I almost asked if I could drive on the way back, but something told me Grace wouldn’t be too keen on it.  Besides, I liked this new side to my timid squeaker of a colleague.

   â€œWhat’s this thing run on?” I asked instead.

   â€œHigh-octane sapoline, of course,” Grace hollered over the roar of the engine.  “You think you get 300 antpower acceleration from butterscotch filling?”

   â€œThis thing actually has ants under the hood, doesn’t it?” I cringed.

   â€œThey are the ultimate biological machine of the future,” Grace nodded.  “You know, they used to make these auto-wagons right here in town up until a couple years back.  The pride of Happyfield,” she said, smiling, as she pulled up in front of a boarded-up apartment stump.  “Well, this is it.  Looks like we’re about two years too late.”

   â€œLet’s have a sniff around just the same,” I ventured.  Something about having my hornet sting pistol along for the ride made me feel brave.

*   *   *   *   *

      The abandoned apartment block that looked like an old stump from the outside looked even more like an old stump from the inside.  The wooden access stairs had partially collapsed, making the central courtyard look more like a three dimensional labyrinth.  The interior walls were rotting out, and those left standing were ablaze with graffiti and fungi of all textures and colours.  And to top it all off a gentle night breeze blowing over the caved-in roof far above the central courtyard made the place moan and vibrate like the inside of a dying goose.

   â€œIt’s kind of like the inside of an insane clown brain,” I remarked, dodging cobwebs and detritus.  Grace shuddered and tried to squeak something, but alas she’d left the last of her bravado back in the paddy wagon. 

   â€œBased on these cobwebs,” I continued, “It seems this place is even too run-down for Happyfield residents.”  Grace didn’t seem to think my joke very funny, so I put my grumpy detective hat back on.  “You gotta unit number?”

   â€œ5E,” she squeaked quietly.  “But I don’t think those stairs are-”

   â€œWait for me here,” I interrupted, fluttering up through the tangled staircases to the fifth level.  The floor here was a bit squishy in places, but we pixies can tread pretty lightly if we choose to.  The door to 5E was locked, but someone had obligingly left a hole open in the adjacent wall, making an application for a search warrant unnecessary.

   Inside the apartment was even darker and danker than the rest of the building.  The pale light from my firefly torch seemed to evaporate into the blackness, and then began to flicker.

   â€œEverything all right up there?” Grace shouted tentatively from below.

   â€œYeah, it’s just my lamp is glitching…” I replied, trailing off as my thoughts caught up with my words.  Fireflies can’t help but glow where merriment has been, and can’t help but go dark where dark magic lingers.  I let the lamp be my guide, letting it flicker like a strobe light as I crisscrossed the mess of broken furniture, until it went completely dark at the bedroom door.  “I guess we’ll just have to light this up with muzzle flare,” I said to myself, holstering the firefly torch and drawing my trusty hornet sting pistol.  “What are you hiding in there, you Shrew?”

   I knocked the door down in one easy kick, but then was completely enveloped in darkness.  Something shrieked and I was tackled to the floor, except the floor wasn’t there any more.  We struggled for possession of my pistol, me and whatever shadowy thing had come at me, as we crashed through floor after floor.  It scratched and clawed at me, but all the black fierceness in the world is no match for years of grinding combat training.  By the third floor I had whatever it was in a compliance hold, and it broke my fall through the next two stories.  It continued to twitch and struggle a bit after we finally came to a rest on the main floor, but was strangely silent.

   â€œYou can stop shrieking now,” I told Chief Deputy Floret.
   
*   *   *   *   *

   It turns out my attacker was none other than Gwennifer Spleenwart herself, or at least what was left of her after three years of sumac juice addiction and dabbling in the black arts.  Now she was more of a raving wraith, eyeballs completely dark and cloudy, skin grey, clothes tattered to rags and lips peeled back into a permanent sneer.  I guess she’d been living in her bedroom since her apartment block was condemned, subsisting on the slime growing on the walls and her own self-loathing.

   â€œI don’t think a lifetime in Singalong is going to cure her,” I grumbled, wincing as Doctor Squintroot dabbed wood alcohol over the scratch marks on my arms to disinfect them.

   â€œNo, we take a more enlightened approach these days,” the doctor replied.  “It’s not so much an issue of criminality as it is of public health.  These folk are sick,” he stated earnestly.  “They don’t need more prison time, they need help.”

   â€œThey need to read the label before using,” I muttered back.  “And if that doesn’t set them straight, a healthy can of whoop-ass usually does the trick.”

         â€œBarbarous!” the doctor chided.  Our conversation was interrupted by Chief Deputy Floret and Sergeant Springlegs.   

         â€œShe’s not very intelligible anymore,” the frog began.  “But I did get a black-magic supplier out of her.  Well, a nickname for one.  They call him Mister Diggs.  Apparently he keeps office hours in the cemetery after dark.”

         â€œThat’s a pretty good lead!” I grunted as the doctor attacked another scratch.

         â€œWe found three class-C articles on her,” Grace reported.  “Which probably explains why the light was sucked out of the room.  I’d like to send a magic forensics team to sweep the apartment itself, but….”

         â€œ...it’s structurally unsound,” I finished for her.

         â€œYeah.  Oh, and we can’t afford a forensics team,” she continued.

         â€œWell, I hope Mr. Diggs comes through for us tonight,” I said.

         â€œThere’s something else,” Sergeant Springlegs croaked.

          There was a long silence as I looked from the frog to the pansy and back again.  Doctor Squintroot studiously continued his work.  Grace finally sighed and took the lead: “It’s Constable Rockgarden.  He was… found this morning.  Turned to stone, and not just gnome-trick stone, actual stone.”

          “Where?” I asked bluntly.

           Grace bit her lip.  “You might be surprised to hear that it was out by the cemetery.”

*   *   *   *   *

   The ride up to the cemetery was quite a bit more subdued than the night before.  Grace was a nervous wreck, her shaking hands struggling to find the right gears - the poor ants under the hood must have been knocking their heads together.  Sergeant Springlegs sat quietly in the back seat, slurping on some beverage through the built-in straw of a fly corpse.  I stared out the window, thinking.

   â€œWhat did all these folk do before the sap ran dry?” I asked as the blank faces swept past.

   â€œSapworks was the biggest employer,” Grace muttered.  “And there were lots of service jobs that depended on those workers: barbers, vendors, dentists, chefs….  Once the trees ran dry everything just spiralled down the drain.”

   â€œBack when the sap was running things used to be a whole lot different,” Sergeant Springlegs said from the backseat.  “The streets were clean and alive with busy folk.”

   â€œThere used to even be a fun park down by The Brook,” Grace smiled at the memory.

   â€œAnd a bug diner out by the byway,” Springlegs added, licking his chops.

   Grace took a right and started up a steep incline.  “Right, uh, I guess we need a kind of plan.  I think, given the circumstances, we should all stick together.”

   â€œThat’s a stupid plan,” I said.  Grace turned to talk to me, but no noise came out of her moving lips.  “Let me be blunt,” I continued, “all that shrieking back at the apartment complex is likely to get us killed out there tonight.  I know you mean well, but this ain’t small town patrol scat anymore.  I’m trained in weapons, combat, tactics, and battlefield psychology.  I’m taking over this op.”

     Grace pulled up next to a derelict mushroom house and nodded silently.

     It’s gonna play out like this,” I explained.  “I’m heading in there, alone, to extract info out of this Mr. Diggs.  Maybe things go smoothly and I meet you back at the wagon in an hour.  Or maybe things go sideways, and someone starts shooting off black magic.  Odds are he’ll fire a few shots off, but there’s lots of cover in a cemetery.  He starts to get nervous when he can’t see his enemy, so he starts putting distance between himself and the stones.  He’s gonna be making for safety, probably the way he comes in.  That’s where I need you guys, in the paddy wagon.”

        “Why in the paddy wagon?” Grace squeaked.

        “It’s fast, for starters.  And it’s got doors with locks.  Anything cast at you is going to hit the vehicle first, even if you are caught by surprise.  I think you guys are both good with a stone windshield instead of another stone cop?”  They both nodded solemnly.

        “OK, where are we at here?” I asked.

        “Cemetery’s just ahead,” Grace pointed.  “The road runs three quarters of the way around.  The old auto-wagon factory property makes up the other side, but that’s well-fenced.  If you’re right the dealer might flee east, into the abandoned sapworks.  Or north, into the old-growth forest.”

        “Then I need you guys parked at the northeast corner,” I said.  “No lights, and keep your eyes peeled.”  With that I slipped out of the vehicle and into the backyard of the derelict mushroom house.  There was no way I was approaching the cemetery from out in the open; I didn’t fancy having an “oh scat!” expression frozen in stone on my face for the rest of eternity.  Instead I crept quietly through the tangle of abandoned yards, hopping carefully over rotting fences.  When I reached the road I headed west to the old auto-wagon factory gate, and then snuck north in the shadow of the weed-covered fence into the cemetery proper.

        The tombstones stretched out in every direction, following the contours of the land more than any organized plan.  As one would expect of the Eight Races, the tombstones were a tangle of whimsical sculpture, making the cemetery resemble more a petrified orchard.  In the broad daylight the effect was probably one of unrestrained beauty.  At night, however, with a sliver of moonlight casting cold shadows obliquely, it had more of a sinister kill-box kinda vibe.

         I listened carefully for any sign of another being, then crept slowly through the shadows of the tombstones.  I don’t know much about black-magic dealers, but something told me they weren’t the type to linger at the margins of a creepy place.  Stealthily I made my way towards the centre of the cemetery.

     And then there were voices.  Well, one voice.  A throaty, lispy kind of voice that seemed to wheeze in a pantomime of melody.  I crept carefully between the stones to catch a glimpse of the speaker.  He was ill-defined in the pale moonlight, half obscured by the tangled shadows of the monuments.  Although he stood upright with arms and legs, his head and voice screamed snake.  Whether this was Mr. Diggs the black-magic dealer or not, there was certainly the air of preternatural evil about him.

         But wait, he was conversing with someone!  There, deeper in the shadows, there stood a second figure.  I couldn’t make out any identifying details, but the silhouette resembled that of a trenchcoat and a crooked hat.  I could hear no voice from the second figure, but when he gestured back at the snake-man there was a kind of chirpy clicking sound.  Could this be him, the notorious Slender Stalker?!?  I moved again, careful not to make any sound, trying to get within clearer earshot, but when I popped my head out again for another glimpse a shot of black magic whizzed by and turned the tombstone behind me into an even stonier version of stone.

          Damn snakes with their air-tasting tongues….  In all my efforts to keep silent and out of sight I had forgotten to take the breeze direction into account.  Still, there was no sense in squandering the opportunity for a perfectly good shoot out.  I drew my pistol, tossed a pebble in one direction, and when another black-magic spell shot by on that side I rolled out the other, pistol blazing.
The two nefarious characters scattered, each firing wands off with little regard for aim.  The snake-man dove behind a longer monument while the trench-coated mystery-being stalked unsteadily through the stones - perhaps he was hit?  I let off a few more rounds in his direction, ducked to reload, and then made a mad dash for the longer monument.

           Blast!  There was nothing back there but an abandoned black-magic transform-charm and some snake tracks leading into a hole under it, from whence echoed a fading evil chuckle.  But I still had a chance to take down our Slender Stalker candidate.  I dodged out from behind the monument, another shot of black-magic narrowly missing me.  I shot back twice in the direction that the shot had come from, then ducked into some shadows to approach from another angle.  I scanned the cemetery for movement but could make out nothing except the stillness of stone.

           Wait!  There, by a particularly ornate tombstone, I could make out his distinctive silhouette!  He was crouched, looking in the direction where I had been a few moments before.  I took careful aim this time, then shot twice.  The mystery figure collapsed backwards.  Taking no chances I kept my pistol aimed in his direction as I cautiously approached.

           I found nothing there but an empty trenchcoat and an abandoned hat.

*   *   *   *   *

   Back at the paddy wagon I related everything that had happened.

   â€œWe saw the snake cross the road!” Grace squeaked.  “We tried to pursue, but the wagon wouldn’t start!”

   â€œThe strange thing was, there weren’t even any footprints left…” I mused, handing the abandoned trenchcoat and hat to Grace.  “And look: the stinger holes go right through the coat and out the other side.  Same with the hat:  I hit him three times, but it was like he wasn’t even there.”

   â€œLike I said, he turns sideways and disappears!”  Sergeant Springlegs muttered.  “He’s like a phantom of the night!”

   â€œShouldn’t you be checking on why the wagon won’t start?” I grumbled.  The last thing I needed to hear was more froggy tales.

   â€œI don’t know nothing about mechanicals,” Springlegs confessed.  “And less about bug husbandry, except how to eat them.”

   Grace sighed in frustration.  “I’ll check it out,” she said.  But she wasn’t two seconds under the hood before she squeaked an exasperated curse.

   â€œYou kiss your mother with that dirty mouth?” I asked, walking around the auto-wagon to join her.  But when I arrived I could see clearly by firefly lamp-light what the problem was.  “What about your aunt?”

   â€œVery funny,” she squeaked, for indeed all the ants but one were gone.  The last one scampered about in confused circles before himself slipping out of a hole in the chassis and disappearing into the darkness.

   â€œI never heard of the like,” Grace squeaked grumpily.  “It’s a long walk back to the station house, at least for those of us without wings.”

   â€œYeah, that’s a lot of walking,” I agreed, grabbing the firefly lamp and examining the ground.  “But look, no tracks.”

*   *   *   *   *

All right, all right, you dragged it out of me.  I have an idea!  Or at least the rough outline of one.  Definitely something resembling an idea, though. 

I'm working on lots of stuff!    

But not this.    Not yet.   

[@ Mandle]

Excellent stories, my peeps! 

@ Mandle: I will admit that I was leery at the beginning, as your writing style this time was heavy on wordy descriptions with lots and lots of clauses and sub-clauses.  But I got into it, I suppose as a tourist does, slowly acclimating to a new version of life.  I found the contrast between the narrator's emotionally and actually cold life back in Romania and the warm vividness of the vacation to be powerful, although it strains credulity that he had never experienced a pleasant warm climate in the Romanian summer.  Also - again, something someone who lives with snow 50% of the year would notice - nobody would shovel the driveway the night before so that dad could get out the next morning: snow ploughs and more actual snow would just bury the driveway overnight and you would have to shovel again in the morning to get out.  But that detail aside, I really liked how you framed the mix-up as a life-changing event that I did not see coming.  It's actually a hopeful message, made more so by the dreary hopelessness of your narrator's regular life, that your life can happily change for the better by sheer mistake.

@ Sinitrena:  I had to do a double-take after the first few paragraphs, but then I had a good grasp on who Tim and Tom were.  This story reminds me of family camping trips when I was young - my little brother and I would fence with sticks for hours to pass the time.  Again I will nitpick on details that really aren't that important, but a stick with leaves still on it would never break - the wood would be too green.  To get marshmallow roasting sticks (green wood being better as it wouldn't burn easily) we would find a sapling about 4 feet tall and - not being trusted with saws or knives - we would twist it until it snapped at the base.  It would take a good minute of work, and there would always be those last few tendons of wood pulp still stubbornly attaching the trunk to the root.  But, for the purposes of your story, the sudden and dramatic break makes much more sense.      Although I think the beginning of your story could be more clearly written (are the branches swaying in the tree or on the ground already?), I liked how you describe Tom getting sucked into the imaginative world of the children's play, and I liked the ambiguity of who got the short stick, who got the short end of the stick, who was the broken stick, and what the story actually meant.

[Taken to the Cleaners]

Fun fact: I was too busy this week to sit down and write, but my parents (in their 70s) were coming this weekend for a visit, which usually makes it difficult to sneak away and write.  Instead, we decided to write a collaborative entry as a family activity.  We brainstormed over slo-gin and wrote with scotch, editing the next morning with just a slight hangover.  The story is best served on the rocks - enjoy! 

------------

Taken to the Cleaners

Stealing the money was the easy part.  A slight outlay on party masks and duffle bags, and then fifteen minutes of waving shotguns around down at the bank on payroll day.  Curly and Zippo were prone to over-optimism, but even they hadn’t considered they’d make off with quite so much.  Even piled high, the bundles of bills barely fit on Curly’s kitchen table.  After years of getting the short end of everything, they finally had it made.

“I’m buying a mansion and a bright red Lamborghini!” Zippo declared.

“Don’t be an idiot!” Curly told him.  “Your blabby girlfriend would wonder where you got all that money.”

"I'll just tell everyone that I won the lottery," Zippo said defensively.

"Did we both win the lottery at the exact same time?" Curly asked sarcastically.  "Who'll believe that!  Besides, we all check the lotto winners in the paper every week.  No one will believe it.  And then we’re busted!  No, we gotta be smart about this.”

"So, we’re just gonna drive back to the factory in your clunky old car on Monday, and pretend nothing has happened---with all this money sitting in your kitchen?"  Zippo was a good pal, but he was a long way from the brains of the operation.

“No, no, Zippo, my good buddy.  We need to launder the money.  Make it clean, so it can’t be traced.  Then we come into it all legit like, follow?”

“Oh yeah, I follow Curly.  I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

It was the middle of the night before Curly realized that Zippo had understood his plan quite literally: he caught him down in the basement running bills through the washing machine with all the enthusiasm of a kid running a mud-pie restaurant.  Still, it did make the money look a lot less new, and it gave Curly a great idea, too.

“We’re opening a laundromat!” he announced to Zippo.  “Down in the sketchy part of town, where it will make no money at all.  We’ll take this cash here as if it had come into the business and deposit it into the bank, and in a year we can retire as legit entrepreneurs.  What do ya think?”

“I’m too young to retire, and I don’t speak French,” Zippo confessed, scratching his head.

“We’ll get some frontman to do all the work,” Curly continued, warming even more to the idea.  “We’ll be the owners, but we’ll lease the business to this patsy so it’ll be on them if they get caught with the dirty money.  It’s foolproof!”

And so they rented a crummy old building in the sketchy part of town where half the windows were boarded up and bullet holes pocked the brickwork.  They bought the cheapest second-hand washers and dryers they could - all cash transactions - in order to keep expenses down.  One vendor threw in a few broken vending machines to sweeten the deal.  They even got local hoodlums to paint the building up in graffiti in order to scare away as many customers as possible.

“Tell all your friends they can hang out outside any time they want!” Curly chuckled.

In the meantime Curly had found the ideal patsy to front and man their operation.  Mrs. Phong spoke only broken English and wasn’t too fussy about signing random documents.  She might have only been fifty, but she looked a lot closer to eighty, and she had all the endearing qualities of a recent immigrant: a willingness to work long hours cheaply without asking too many questions.  Curly and Zippo toasted their successes over the kitchen table that evening.

“Now it’s just a waiting game, Zippo ol’ buddy ol’ pal!” Curly raved.  “Every afternoon we run half a stack of bills through the washer and dryer, then put them in a cash envelope to deposit at the bank into our names.  In less than a year we’ll have this whole table cleared, and in the meantime we can start spending the ‘profit’ from the new business on ourselves!”

And so they happily went down to the laundromat the next day with half a stack of bills and discretely ran them through the works before stuffing them into the envelope.  “You have yesterday’s take?” Mrs. Phong asked, shoving a cash box towards them.

“What?” asked Curly.  Inside he found hundreds of dollars in small bills.

“Lots of business at night,” Mrs. Phong explained.  “People need laundromat in this area.”

“Even with all the hoodlums outside?” Curly asked.

“Hoodlums good customers,” Mrs. Phong answered.  “Like bright colours with no stains.  Also make good witnesses, lower street crime on block.”

Curly and Zippo took the money with a shrug.  But the next day they were even more amazed, as there was over a thousand dollars in the cash box.  “We only all-night store in area,” Mrs. Phong explained.  “Cigarette machine big business.”

But Curly had begun to get uneasy.  “We’re bringing in too much cash,” he worried. 

“How can you have too much cash?” Zippo asked happily, tossing the bills like they were autumn leaves.

The next day they returned to find the cash-box stuffed with several thousands of dollars.  “What the hell?!?” Curly asked Mrs. Phong.  “Where is all this money coming from?”

“Cheap daycare for night-shift,” Mrs. Phong explained.  “Many single moms in low-income area.  Kids sleep in warm towels under folding tables.”

Curly moaned in exasperation.  “Now listen, Mrs. Phong,” he shouted.  “My partner and I didn’t rob a bank just to get caught running an illegal daycare service!”  But wouldn’t you know it, there were two city police officers standing right behind him when he said it.

“Is this guy bothering you, Mrs. Phong?” one of the officers asked.  “We were just in here looking for a lead on a shooting last week, but it looks like we netted ourselves some bank robbers!”

“And illegal daycare schemes, c’mon man!” his partner chimed in as he brought out the cuffs.  “Have you no decency, sir?”

“But, hey, wait a second, it was Mrs. Phong!  It was Mrs. Phong!” Curly cried.

“Sure it was, Perp, sure it was.  Mrs. Phong is just about the only fine upstanding citizen this neighbourhood has.  You tell the judge it was Mrs. Phong and he’ll probably give you consecutive life sentences.”

And that was the end of Curly and Zippo’s business experiment.  “I STILL RUN LAUNDROMAT!” Mrs. Phong called after them as they were escorted out the door.  She picked up the envelope stuffed with cash from where Curly had dropped it in all the excitement and returned to the little back office that smelled of mildew to start counting the day’s take.

To get the wrong end of the stick is to completely misunderstand a situation.

I might have had the wrong end of the stick my whole life.  I always understood the metaphor to mean you got the bad side of a deal, perhaps through misunderstanding but also possibly due to a power imbalance.  Is this theme open to broader interpretation, or must it involve hopeless naïveté? 

I thought the same as well, but it turns out that "The wrong end of the stick" means completely misunderstanding a situation, but there is a similar idiom "The sharp end of the stick" which is what I think you and I both thought at first, and means to end up on the worst side of a situation.

I think it's the picture that threw me off, since I don't actually know anybody that says "get the wrong end of the stick."  We say "get the shitty end of the stick", which very much means getting the least pleasant aspect of something. 

Thanks for the extension!

To get the wrong end of the stick is to completely misunderstand a situation.

I might have had the wrong end of the stick my whole life.  I always understood the metaphor to mean you got the bad side of a deal, perhaps through misunderstanding but also possibly due to a power imbalance.  Is this theme open to broader interpretation, or must it involve hopeless naïveté? 

His is a well written tale with some historical inaccuracies (or something along these lines) and a slightly weak characterization for the with hunter - he seems somewht off. He's methodical, but not in a logical way. On the one hand, he almost manipulates the villagers however he wants, but he still doesn't really care not just who to hunt but even if he wants to hunt at all. Is he really a fanatical with hunter or just someone doing his duty? I can't place it. The magic show seems anachronistic. With hunting happend for far longer and started far later than most people think, but the pitchfork, burn at stake, spanish inquisition type was certainly over when traveling shows started (as such, on a smaller scale there might have been something similar). These two points took me a bit out of the story, but otherwise i enjoyed it.

Those with hunters are a dubious lot.   

[@Mandle:]

Voted!  Feedback hidden below:

Spoiler

@Mandle: It was hilarious how many horror movie inferences you were able to cram into your teaser piece: telegrams become hellegrams, click-bait becomes crypt-bait, the off-colour aristocrats joke becomes the aristosplats….  It was a fun if short journey, but I was left high-and-dry at the last moment raking my brains for who the “Me-ow Man” referred to, which somewhat spoiled the big reveal for me. 

@WHAM: This story had a very slow-burn build-up, contrasting the normalcy of Hank with the fantasticness of the Black Blaze.  Your local legend oozed charisma and excitement, despite her performance magic being revealed.  The love affair of the two protagonists was a surprise, but then who could help loving the passionate Blaze?  While the story itself is sound (and the technical skill displayed in the writing is excellent), it falls a bit short in terms of the rules of the contest, in that there are all kinds of loose threads when it comes to Hank’s family and what becomes of them.  I’m not sure how much this detracts, since Hank is not himself a part of the local legend, although he probably will be in short order when it is discovered that he has run away with her…. 

@Sinitrena: Yours was a tale thick with ghostly atmosphere.  I particularly liked the vines creeping back into place in the graveyard, and the description of how Atalante uses her powers to sense echoes of the past.  The hazard of a longer story is that there is so much more to edit, and there are sadly many typos to break the reader out of the atmosphere you worked so hard to build up (“went their for service”, “old believes demanded”, “the two man”, “its patter not visible”, “we’re save here”....).  I don’t think the length of the story itself is an issue, and indeed it is necessary to establish atmosphere and give Atalante’s thought processes their proper due, but I did find the dialog drag on a bit (there is rather too much “diplomacy” for my tastes).  So, my final assessment is that proofreading and a bit of editing would bring the best parts of this story to the fore.

@ Stupot: This was a gripping tale with great pace and build-up.  Top marks on the best first line (“Blackbridge was a shithole.”) and best last line, heavy as it is with double meaning (“I thought we could both use the change”).  The way you build the legend through hearsay and unreliable narrators was fantastic, and the twist at the end caught me entirely by surprise.  The drug trip itself I think could use a bit of work, as its over-the-top gore contrasts strangely with the rest of the story’s tone.  Other than that, and a few minor editing issues, this was an extremely well-written story!

[close]

It sounds like we're going to need to vote on whether to vote on voting systems....   Yay!   

Ooo!  After we're done voting on the stories we can have all kinds of fun voting on voting systems!   

[Quoth the Raven]

Quoth the Raven

   In the tiny mountain village of Bergwaithe they had thirty-six local words for fog, or so outsiders liked to claim.  In fact the reality was slightly more nuanced, for anyone resident long enough on the cloud-shrouded slopes would understand that there were in fact many distinct fogs, each subtly different from the others and requiring its own separate name.  There was the rolling fog that ebbed and flowed as it churned over the hillsides, tricking the eye and the mind as it obscured and revealed like the peddling swindler it was named for.  There was the fog as thick as sheep's wool that made it seem as if one was blindfolded.  There was the fearsome blowing fog that left half a man soaked and the other half bone dry, and the mizzly fog that was almost rain and seemed to linger on like a woman's foul mood.

   But of course these distinctions were lost on Jairus Cain, Witch-Hunter.  He had been in the village of Bergwaithe all of one day and had come to the characteristically quick conclusion that all fogs were in fact the same: nasty, mischievous, and no doubt devil-spawned.  He spat on the ground outside the village's one inn, sneering as the rain began to soak the pyre in the village square that had been his day's work.

   â€œActually, sir, it's just a Weeping Fog...” the stable boy began before being silenced by the Witch-Hunter's glare.  In Jairus' experience these isolated villages were usually well-insulated from the devilry that seemed to rot at the underbelly of larger centres, but sometimes their own ignorance began to work against them.  Too much fog on the brain, he supposed.

   â€œIt is time for the meeting,” the Witch-Hunter told the boy brusquely.  “Are the good-hearted men and womenfolk of the village assembled?”

   The stable boy nodded.  “I haven't seen the inn's common room so packed since the great Dancing Fog of â€" er, well, they're all here, sir, yes.”

   Witch-hunting, as a profession, was sadly not all forest-chases and flames.  There was the scouring of gossip and the muscling of informants to find good prospects for a hunt.  There was the hard days of travel to the very corners of the map.  Then, once arrived, there was the building of the pyre.  Aye, before any speeches or any investigation, there needed to be a pyre.  Its presence focused minds, and was handy to have ready just in case.  And then, then the real work began.  The good people of the community had to convince themselves of what had to be done.  The act itself.  The thrilling, terrifying, odiously righteous act.  Timing was everything: they would weigh the evidence one way and the other through the evening, with especially the women having their fair say on the matter.  But as the night drew on he would subtly steer the crowd, stoking their prejudices and their fears, working them into an over-tired and half-drunk state of frenzy by the wee hours.  Then the torches would be lit and the menfolk armed.  Before anyone could talk themselves out of it the hunt would begin, falling upon the witch's lair just as the first rays of dawn sapped her of her vilest strength.  Jairus considered the waning day (or was it just a denser fog?!?) and decided it was time to begin.

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œBut why, grandfather?” asked Shyla with all the curiosity of a seven year old.

   â€œWhy, because it is fun!” the old man replied, the bells braided into his long white beard jingling merrily.  “And at every village I show them I can earn at least six shillings.  Ten, in the larger ones!  You wouldn't believe the fuss when I first arrive: the townsfolk purses are as open as their gaping mouths!”

   But of course Shyla could believe it, for she was thoroughly entranced by the majestic creatures.  Her grandfather's ravens were so black they seemed slightly blue-tinged in the light, with ferocious looking beaks and claws but oddly pensive looking eyes.  They were brilliantly intelligent, as her grandfather demonstrated to Shyla's great delight, able to perform the most complicated of tricks and the most entertaining of pranks, all on cue.  But it was their speech that truly awed her.  How could a bird be taught to mimic the voices of men?  It was all so magical.

   â€œPatient training,” her grandfather assured her.  “Kindness, persistence, and no small amount of food for motivation,” he laughed.  “But I'm no genius.  In fact, as much as I've taught these birds, they've taught more back to me.  It's with an open mind, and an open heart, that the truest magic is possible.”

   The words, the birds; Shyla drank them all in.

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œShe put a curse on my sister!” Mrs. Flaber told the crowd.  “Made her break out in hives and swell up like a singing frog.  These things I know!”

   The crowd gathered in the inn's great hall cheered and booed in equal measure, allowing Jairus to gauge their collective temperament.  It was too soon, he knew, far too soon to set things in motion yet.

   â€œYour sister used to swell up like that even as a child!” Mrs. Jorring retorted.  “Every time she got into Granny Tata's acorn cake she'd be out like the fur on a scared cat's back.”  Slightly more cheers than boos: far too soon.

   â€œShe helped my son,” Mrs. Whorler said.  “I don't know the how of it, but she found those roots what no one else could find.  And from them we made the medicine what saved him!”

   â€œAnd she saved the Corksen boy that got lost in the snows a few years back!” someone else shouted.

   â€œWhat's to say she wasn't the one that lured him off the path?” another anonymous voice shouted.

   â€œAnd how does she know all the news three valleys over?  She hardly ever leaves her cottage in the woods!”

   â€œNonsense!  She is well-known in Kleindorp, and all the way in Wasslefuhrt.”

   â€œSome say they've seen her riding on a stag....”

   â€œThat's just a trick of the Peddling Fog!”

   â€œOld man Jom and I crossed paths on the Aerie path some ten summers ago, and when the Bridal Veil Fog lifted he was there across the way in the distance, but she was there between us.  We both remarked upon it afterwards, as she had passed neither of us to get there.”

   Murmurs of agreement spread through the hall.  Few nursed grudges with the Lady of the Dell, as she was known, but the strangeness of her abilities was agreed upon by all.  Jairus nodded encouragement, and waited.

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œHush, dear friend,” Shyla said, trying to stop her voice from quavering.  She gave a nut to the great black bird perched on the gravestone and absently patted his beak.  He cooed back at her, in a voice he must have learned from a dove. 

   Her grandfather had been dead for a week already, but this was the first opportunity since the family had left for her to bring the birds down to say their proper farewells.  People, even her people, didn't really understand the birds.  At best they were seen as dogs would be, as beasts that served a function, although even those people thought it bewildering that these creatures had the run of the house as if they were members of the family.  To most, there seemed something slightly sinister about the hold the black creatures seemed to exercise on their handlers.

   The ravens slouched and bobbed their heads at the stone, each taking a turn to hop atop of it and mumble something soft and gentle in recognition of the bond they shared.  Shyla wept again, despite herself.  There was no question of her keeping Grandfather's house: her cousin Bayle would take possession once he returned from crusade.  But there was no one but her to take the birds.  Take them where, though?  Her father's cottage was high in the forest two valleys over, but the creatures would be most unwelcome there.  Her step-mother had not even bothered to come to the funeral, so scared she was the black wraiths, as she called them.  Shyla shivered slightly, although it was much warmer than she was used to down here in the valley.

   One of the ravens - Cothar was his name - landed gently on her arm and nuzzled her cheek affectionately.  Shyla blinked back her tears and smiled wanly at the beautiful bird.  “We're in a bit of a spot,” she confessed to the bird.  “With grandfather gone your care must fall to me, but I have no home to which to take you.”

   The bird cocked its head, quizzically.  “Why?” he asked.

   Shyla smiled more broadly, for the magic of her grandfather's ravens had never ceased to warm her soul.  “Because a teenage girl does not make the rules of the world,” she whispered.

   The bird turned its head to stare more deeply into her eyes.  “Why?” he repeated.

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œThe facts speak for themselves,” the blacksmith spoke to nods of agreement.  “She has lived alone in the old Hagley cottage for three dozen years or more, without any visible trade or income.  And yet she seems better off than the honest woodsman her father was.  She seems better travelled than the Wandering Fog, and she has an uncanny power in the forest.  I tell you, there is only one explanation, and that is that she has harnessed the power of magic!”  The resounding cheer that greeted this speech was exactly what Jairus the Witch-Hunter was waiting for.

   â€œMy friends,” he called to the crowd, stepping up onto a bench to be better seen and heard.  “My friends, we have deliberated long into the night, but I think we have arrived at the truth of the matter.  The woman of the woods, the so-called Lady of the Dell, truly does wield a supernatural power.  And while some of you may see it as a kindness that she has used it to your benefit, you must realize that the devil tempts more with honey than with vinegar.  She has ingratiated herself, but to what end, I ask?  Did the serpent cause Adam's fall with naked animus or apparent generosity?  Your Lady of the Dell is but a wolf in the guise of a gentle sheep: do not be fooled by her deception!  Steel your hearts, brave friends, for you know now what must be done to purge the devil from your midst.  It is the only way to be sure that your children will not disappear in the night!  Join your fellows of good heart and pure soul and do what must be done!  Join in the fiery work of God's most righteous judgement!  Join me in the Hunt!”

   The crowd cheered.  Torches were lit.  Pitchforks materialized from under tables and behind benches.  Jairus Cain the Witch-Hunter was eager for the chase.

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œBut there is nothing in the cap,” Shyla noted quizzically, shaking the felt cap to the roaring amusement of the crowd.  The cap's owner had turned beat red in front of the crowd, chuckling himself.  A few people shouted him encouragement as he was a well-liked member of the community, which only helped in the illusion as the crowd would not expect him to be complicit.  Shyla shrugged her biggest shrug, addressing the crowd once more.  “Well, I guess I owe you three silvers...” she said sadly, handing the cap back to the man.  But at the very last instant before he touched it she carelessly dropped the cap to the stage.  She feigned clumsiness, miming an “oops” to the crowd as the man stooped down to collect his hat.  A sudden roar of laughter erupted from the crowd as he picked it up, revealing the bunny at the front of the stage.  The man turned even redder, grinning from ear to ear, and the crowd erupted into applause.  Shyla grinned, spread her arms wide, and curtsied.  Two ravens flew to perch on her outstretched arms as she did so, the others bobbing merrily from atop the stage's backdrop.

   â€œEncore!” some men shouted as her temporary assistant descended from the stage to cheers and applause.

   Shyla grinned again, flourishing a small wicker basket.  “Perhaps....” she began, and the crowd quickly fell silent.  “Perhaps, if you help me with one small trick, I can persuade my poor hungry birds to perform a slight while longer.  If my bird can fill this basket with small change in five minutes or less, we shall be able to afford enough birdseed to keep the show going!”  At this the raven in her arm grabbed the basket in his beak and flew off to perch on the edge of the stage, shaking the basket expectantly.  There were laughs and guffaws and no small amount of people pressing to the front to contribute a farthing for the cause. 

   Shyla's cheek muscles hurt from all the smiling, but they were doing a roaring trade this day.  She took a few steps back and relaxed her cheeks ever so briefly as she took a much needed drink of water from a flask she kept hidden at the back of the stage.  “That rabbit was almost too late,” she whispered through smiling teeth to the raven that still perched on her other arm.

   The raven inched up her arm to speak equally quietly into her ear.  “He's new,” he said softly.  “The old one ran off yesterday to make babies.  I'll get Roffla to speak to him.”  Shyla nodded ever so slightly.

   â€œCroda!” a shout came from the top of the backdrop.  Shyla turned to see one of the ravens perched there nodding skyward, and she soon picked out the familiar form of yet another raven descending from the sky.  She reached out her free arm and Croda deposited a small roll of paper that he had been clutching in his claws before joining his fellow ravens atop the stage backdrop.

   Shyla unrolled the paper and read it, frowning.  The ravens on the backdrop shook their heads and murmured: bad news travelled faster on tongues, no matter the species.  The raven on her shoulder looked at the paper curiously: “the hen-scratch paper marks still perplex me,” he admitted.

   â€œIt is father,” Shyla told him.  “He has fallen gravely ill, and my step-mother has left him.  I think it might be time to go home.”

   The raven on her shoulder nodded solemnly.  “Is it time for the grand finale?”

   Shyla nodded, the fake smile returning to her face.  The raven flew off to whisper to its brethren.  There was a flurry of activity as birds rushed here and there, preparing.  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Shyla shouted, “Do I have a treat for you!  Not only will you have the honour of seeing my most daring trick to date, performed in public for the very first time, but also you will have the great privilege of storing my wagon-stage for the rest of the season.  Do treat my few possessions kindly: one never knows when a raven might be watching.”

   The crowd whispered in confusion as the whole troupe of ravens swung into action, decking Shyla out in her travelling cloak and a sack of her necessities (money and food, mostly).  And then they perched on her, the whole flock, gently clutching at her shoulders and her feet and her arms and her legs.  “Good day,” she smiled, and then the birds began to flutter madly and she rose up into the sky.  The crowd gasped as she disappeared over a hill, one stray raven with a basket full of coin flapping after her.
   
*   *   *   *   *

   â€œBrace yourselves!” Jairus Cain the Witch-Hunter shouted, waving his torch for attention.  “We are entering the witch's domain, I can feel it!”  Actually the local stable boy had informed him about the invisible property line (and the maddeningly Inauspicious Fog), but the Witch-Hunting craft required a certain amount of theatrics to keep all of the protagonists engaged.  “The clearing is now but five hundred paces ahead and the cottage slightly beyond.  And look, the blessed rays of dawn are here to wilt the witches powers.  Charge on, my friends!  Bring her to ground!”  A somewhat tired and less-than-enthusiastic cheer went up, and the townspeople surged forward up the steep wooded hillside.

   â€œStags!” someone shouted, and indeed their outline could be seen, dozens of them silhouetted in the morning fog, in a line across the slope as if arrayed for battle.

   The villagers exchanged glances somewhere between fear and bafflement, and the charge came to an abrupt stop.  “Do not lose heart!” Jairus shouted, waving his torch menacingly behind the men in front of him, which caused them to reluctantly resume their ascent.  But through the fog he thought he could see villagers discretely backing away along the flanks. 

   The men in the front made some brave lunges at the stags, who for their part lowered their antlers and engaged in the fight.  The slope was against the villagers even if they had been more daring and less over-tired, and so quickly most were pushed down the slope, some rolling headlong.  But the Witch-Hunter himself and a few other zealots found a gap in the stag's line and continued to climb.

   But what's this?  Soon the men in front screamed of burning, and danced about as if their legs were aflame.  Jairus could see no sign of fire through the fog except on the tip of his own torch.  Nevertheless the men flung themselves down slope, rubbing and jumping and twitching laughably as they went.

   â€œAnts,” muttered the stable boy, pointing to the ground.  The boy and Jairus were all that were left of the once numerous party.  They picked their way past the swarming insects, continuing to climb through the trees.  Light and shadow now played with their sight, as the full sun suddenly burned very near above the fog.  “It is the Vivid Fog,” the boy said.  “A great truth shall be revealed this hour.”

   â€œIndeed it shall,” said the Witch-Hunter, drawing his sword.  “Today you shall see that the forces of devilry are no match for -GAH!”  The sword was suddenly knocked out of the Witch-Hunter's hand by a flash of dark lightning.  Then the torch disappeared in a similar manner.  Jairus stared at his hands in disbelief, blood dripping through deep rents that had appeared in his lower sleeves.  And then suddenly there was cloth wrapping around him, binding him from neck to toe, and he could see that they were birds that attacked him so.  He could not move, but nor could he fall, for they had tied a thin rope from his back that attached up into the tree branch above.  As quickly as they had fallen upon him, the birds disappeared again into the dazzlingly white fog.

   â€œI'm the Corksen boy,” the stable boy admitted.  The Witch-Hunter looked at him in confusion.  “You know, the one that got lost in the snows.  She saved me.  They saved me, the animals that is.  If that's devilry, well, then I guess I'm a lost soul.”  The boy stepped away, but turned to look up slope as the fog suddenly lifted.  There she stood, a wolf at her side, a raven on her shoulder, her hair white as the dazzling departed fog.  She waved at the boy, and the boy waved back.

   â€œPerhaps you will come back for another lesson later?” The Lady of the Dell asked the boy.

   â€œI'd like that, Ma'am,” the boy replied, before turning down slope towards the village.  He turned back towards the thoroughly perplexed Witch-Hunter still dangling in his bonds.  “Good bye.”  And with that, he disappeared back into the fog.

   â€œYour powers won't work on me!” shouted the Witch-Hunter, although it came out as more of a squeal.  “I have been blessed with holy water: you dare not spill my blood, lest it burn you to ash!”

   The Lady of the Dell spoke something that could only be the language of birds, and the raven fluttered away.  “No,” she said with pity in her voice.  “No more blood shall be spilled.  But your ideas are far too dangerous to be allowed to propagate in our fair mountain home.  You will be taken to the Pinnacle, a small plateau atop a quite unscalable spire of rock, deep within our mountain fastness.  There is a cave there for shelter, and my friends shall supply you with food and fire wood.  Perhaps even the odd book to pass the time?”

   The Witch-Hunter shook his head.  “I don't want anything from you!”

   â€œNor I you,” the Lady confided to him.  “But the better angels of our nature tell us we should at least try to get along.  Fare well.”  And then suddenly the rope was cut and he was seized by birds, great eagles with wings longer than his arms, and he was lifted up into the air and disappeared into the fog, his screams receding as if a squealing piglet were running away through the forest.

   The raven Cothar returned and settled onto his mistress' arm.  “Please convey my thanks to the stags and the ants and the birds and the wolves,” she said to him in his tongue.

   â€œCertainly mistress,” Cothar replied in hers.

   â€œAnd do let them know that we are happy to repay the favour whenever they find themselves in need,” she added.

   â€œIndeed,” Cothar nodded.  “The Great Wolf here tells me the only thing he would like is the favour of your famous smile.”

   Shyla grinned widely and turned to the wolf at her side, rubbing him gently behind the ears.  He closed his eyes and nuzzled against her hip briefly before loping off into the Vivid Fog.  The distant ranting of the Witch-Hunter was suddenly pierced by a howl as the Great Wolf gave orders to his pack.

   â€œHe says all is well in the mountain world once more,” the raven translated. 

   â€œSuch good neighbours am I blessed with here in my mountain home,” Shyla said to her ancient companion.

   â€œA kind word reaps its own blessings,” the wise old Raven remarked as they turned back towards their cottage.  “One day, perhaps there will be thirty-six ways to say that.”

I've got something in the works!  It's a little fuzzy around the edges still, though.  Well, more feathery than fuzzy.... 

Ah, I totally missed the "feast of Stephen" and the "roundabout" reference....   

Well done, BarbWire!

[Mandle]

And that's a wrap, folks!  A ...Christmas wrap? 

It was interesting to see where different authors took their trolling. 

Mandle created a winter wonderland replete with sentient snowman preachers, snow demons (?), and most disturbing of all FREE BEER!  Frankly it's a wonder that anyone at all could survive that winter hellscape with their liver intact, and I'm not talking about the organ-eating snow creatures in the upper passes.     Still, it was bizarre even in the enchanting environment that the young couple walked through town to their wedding on the slopes, even though both families seemed to be camped up in the mountains near where the couple's body was found.  Just a thought but... why not get married in town if the folks were back up the mountainside?  Otherwise, as a horrific wonderland your story was certainly gripping, at least in a white-walker kinda way. 

Stupot exposed the weirdness of Wham!'s lyrics - the hell you gave his heart away?!?  How does one even do that?  Well, Stupot knows how.  Yeah, there are a few loose threads (or are those arteries?), but as an exercise in incisive literalism I think Stupot takes the blood soaked Christmas pudding. 

BarbWire played a tune on my own heartstrings by having a run at good King Wenceslas (one of my favourites).  I liked how it was updated to modern times (the "gathering winter fuel" insight has already been remarked upon), but in the end I think it's missing something as a character lesson.  Your Kingsley renders help from the comfort of his Rolls Royce, while Wenceslas himself was out there slogging through the rude wind's wild lament to help the peasant (and later his page).  I think as the gesture requires less sacrifice on Kingsley West's part, so the story lacks a bit of the power of the original.

Sinitrena launched a bloody revolution against seasonal injustice with a kamikaze reindeer and an army of elvish troglodytes.  It's an unfortunate undertone that the story affirms the hopelessness of dealing with bullies and glorifies suicide as a means of vengeance, but I think your trolling cleaves closer to reality than many would be comfortable with.  At the very least your story makes us think about the conditions in which things we take for granted are produced/transported, but I still found it a depressing tale.

Anyway, let's see what our voting public thought:

Mandle with 12 votes
Stupot with 11 votes
Sinitrena with 9 votes
BarbWire with 8 votes

It was clearly a close affair, but in the end it is Mandle who wins the competition by the slimmest of margins!    Congratulations, Mandle!!!  It now falls onto your shoulders that awesome burden of contest administration.  Bear it well, my friend! 


....and to all a goodnight!

OK, voting will remain open until Stupot votes (or until Friday night, whichever comes first).

[Mandle]

...and we're closed!  Nice to see such a bevvy of submissions - the competition will no doubt be as stiff as a troll's left horn. 

We now proceed to the voting phase of the competition.  Our entrants, in order of appearance (chronological, not beauty - sorry Mandle):

Mandle with The Plans That We've Made
Stupot with Dear Y---
Barb Wire with SNOW WAY!
Sinitrena with Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer

Voting will be via PM to me.  You have 10 votes to allocate in whole integers as you see fit.  Thus, your favourite entry might receive 5 votes, while the runner up and the runner after that get 3 and 2 votes respectively.  It's entirely up to you to distribute votes as you see fit, based on the merit of each story in your personal opinion.  As we have a fairly global holiday intervening in the voting period I will extend the voting deadline to Tuesday January 4, 2022, with results to be published the following day.  As always, while the votes themselves are secret, it is considered classy to post a bit of feedback here in the thread to help the authors hone their craft.

Good luck to all participants!

Excellent, my good Mandle!  It's as if someone has distilled the pure essence of Christmas itself (from the juiced remains of those who tried to celebrate it)!   

Keep 'em coming, folks!

[Troll the Ancient Yuletide Carol]

What's with those lyrics of yore?  Why come they make some little sense?      Or maybe they do....  Are round yon virgins actually plump?  Do nautical explorers repeat the sounding joy?  If one were to ring a ling would water drip out?  Perhaps verily some of our authors might toil along the climbing way as we...

Troll the Ancient Yuletide Carol


Did you know that in Iceland Christmas trolls (above) eat naughty children??!?  Kinda puts the old lump o' coal to shame....

The theme in a roasting chestnut shell:  Reinterpret a seasonal song/story/trope, in a good or bad way as you see fit.  In a footnote after your story please include a 1-2 sentence indication of what you were trolling, as not all seasonal songs/stories/tropes are universally well-known.  The seasonal element that you remix could be as short as a line from a song or a poem, in which case just citing the lyric/line would suffice.  Tangents, expanded universes, and collateral damage are of course all welcomed and encouraged so long as they keep their hands to themselves under that infernal mistletoe.

Deadline:  I'm thinking we can try to have our stories in by Thursday December 30 to avoid any conflicts with the Gregorian calendar.  So, let nothing you dismay and may the rude wind's wild lament not refer to any of the works submitted herein.    Good luck!