Author: ireneallison12

All Stories, Editor Picks, Short Fiction

Week 589: Blessed Benedictines and Bad Celery

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We should keep the past closer than we do our enemies. There is much ago worth remembering, and not just in what George Santayana had to say.

For example, nearly a hundred years ago, the great Dorothy Parker (1893-1967) penned a bit of advice that, upon my finding it some seven decades down the road, has stayed with me and is one of the few guide stars in my life (I live in one of the cloudiest places in the world, so my guide stars are often metaphorical and/or flat out imaginary). Regardless, in her “Constant Reader” book review column, published by the New Yorker on Saturday, 28 January 1928 Mrs. Parker wisely warned readers against the perils of assumedly healthy eating and at the same time averred a particular form of hydration that has always been superior to simple and extremely boring H2O. (As it goes with natural items found in abundance, drinking water when choices are plentiful is as dull as dentist office decor.)

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All Stories, Fantasy, Humour, Short Fiction

Simply Sinsational by Leila Allison

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After eating, drinking and making more of themselves, Raccoons live to roller derby. It comes naturally. You don’t need to use magick to make them like it. Just bring a pack of Raccoons to a roller derby track, supply a generous heaping of beer and snacks, place Rachel Welch’s brilliant Kansas City Bomber on the dvd and the critters know immediately what to do without spell casting or even training.

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All Stories, Editor Picks, Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 587: Sometimes it Helps to Hear Another Voice

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(Elliott the Pigeon is on Vacation this week; Daisy Kloverleaf and her brother Fenwick are the header stars. Daisy is on your left)

One of life’s burdens involves processing repetition. Some people are sensitive to it, others meet it with the awareness of a cantaloupe. I am not always smarter than produce, but I have a keen sense for repetition. Therefore I know that the eternal concepts of Good and Bad dictate the perception of welcomed and unwanted repetition. A woman who keeps peeling off twenties is obviously a good thing to have repeated at you, but unless she is gaining something worth it the peeler may have different feelings in her cold little heart–that emotional storage bin that imploded eons ago and is so compressed into inner dimensions that it takes three journeys through as many event horizons just to reach the outskirts of her kindness. You may assume that she, the peeler, has developed a sense of negativity for the old “again and again.”

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All Stories, Fantasy, Humour, Short Fiction

Cantrip on Catnip by Leila Allison and Many, Too Many Others

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Bizarre Yet Needed “Afterlogue Introduction” by Anita Know and Judge Jasper

Despite the following mendacities that will be hurled at me by the (first) author of this piece, I, Anita Know, who serves as the Afterlife AI of the fantasy realm of Saragun Springs, feel that I should set the basics of the premise that Miss Allison attempted to do, but only partially succeed at.

This introduction was co-written by myself and my colleague, a Quillemeder Ghost named Judge Jasper P. Montague (who was able to convert a few unedited typos into text composed by him and I–hence fulfilling his task as an “emender” of extant text produced by a “quill”). This bit was added later, yet placed before after the following events occurred, well after Miss Allison had drifted off into her usual temporary alcoholic fog (a nightly journey that typically lasts for however long it is between her passing out and the arrival of Three AM).

All Miss Allison meant by this production involved forming “a keep the peace accord” between the two Wiccan factions associated with the realm of Saragun Springs. That’s it, a sort of a take on the A. Hitler/N. Chamberlain debacle that went to hell in the 1930’s. Instead, we present something that barely makes sense because four, now six different authors have had a go at it. If you choose to proceed, well, let luck and whatever gods your worship be with you.

Anita Knows, Afterlife AI and Judge Jasper P. Montague, Quillemender

Part One

Ever since the so-called Pygmy Goat and Precocious Lamb Civil War last year (which devoured about an hour of somewhat unwanted consciousness), I figured it wise to prevent further possible dust-ups in my realm of Saragun Springs (mainly because I’m as paranoid as Stalin). Usually, my charming second in command and Chief Imaginary Friend, Renfield, has handled (or has claimed to) these little non-affairs that might step up into genuine annoyances at any minute–yet on one potential front she refused the job, for “personal reasons” (the personal reasons are clearly an ongoing personality clash between herself and one of the potential warriors–a plaid on stripes sort of situation).

(Pardon me, if you will, but I have a phobia regarding long paragraphs–even though the one above isn’t done yet, I must begin a new one or I will go stark raving mad.)

To date Renny has ably prevented hostilities between Rats and Cats (there’s a long list of potential Feline conflicts), Swine and the Cleanliness Brigade, Ghosts and Mediums, Dogs and Dogs (we have but two, Beezer and Barkevious, who belong to Renfield, but they continuously get into minor tiffs). She is a regular Henrietta Kissinger, minus the Halloween mask face. But her antipathy (mutually felt) toward one person required that I, Leila Allison, the Chief Penname and President of the Springs, assisted by Daisy Kloverleaf (our lead Actress, third in charge, and instigator of the Civil War), gather the potential adversaries together for a sit down, with the aim of coming to an accord that will prevent possible hostilities down the line.

The prospect of War in this situation was almost dire enough to be taken seriously. The only real law in the Springs is Do Not Take Anything, Especially YOUR-BAD-SELF, Seriously. But here we faced a brewing conflict between two of my realm’s three dimensions (which I shall attempt to explain by and by). It involved two equally powerful Witches, both of their seconds in command (aka, Apprentices) and multitudes of Minions who serve both covens (which, of course, includes the usual collection of double-agents and Moles–who, sometimes, are the actual Rodent).

(Please forgive my bouncing between past and present tenses, that happens in realms in which magick and leadership paranoia are abundant.)

By name, the Witches are The Great and Powerful HeXopatha (with her second Eira Babooshka–who changes her name with greater frequency than most change their stockings) are of Saragun Springs, an “actual-virtual” place (paradox and plain old fashion contradiction are also indicative of fantasy realms), surrounded by the Nameless Hills and has the Sun Pong and the Moon Ping in the sky. The Astonishingly Great Hope (backed by Miss Charity) are magick doers who occupy the dimension of Other Earth, which was accidentally created when I brought Pie Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon to the Springs via the interdimensional vortex at the center of the real Spring, which is actually a boiling body of noisome smelling but highly charged tech-magick water; the vortex is the only link between us and Other Earth. The third dimension is where you are, good old humdrum Earth, Earth. Magickally deficient save for one place known as the Caretaker’s Cottage located in New Towen (or Town) Cemetery at Charleston, Washington, USA.

Anyway, to cut the hoo from the haw (or vice from the versa), while leaving the spirit of the concept intact, Dame Daisy and I (it’s always wise to have a wing-Goat along when dealing with Witches, even though Daisy was the Pearl Harbor of the Civil War) held the aforementioned meeting at my office in the Barnyard section of the Springs. Hope and Charity complained about that, but they had to shut up because I am not allowed at Other Earth (long story there). And of course HeXopatha and lil’ Miss cotton candy britches Eira kvetched about it not being at the Enchanted Castle, but that was merely perfunctory keeping face hoo-haw, fully expected, like a concussion after getting kicked in the head by an Ox.

“Lettingly let us getly get the meetingly meeting beginly begun,” said Daisy, a helpless adverb addict (and somewhat of a grammar accident). She grabbed the gavel off my desk with her mouth and smacked it smartly off a heavy duty, aluminum Rainier beer coaster that I glued to my desk for such a purpose. The gavel is a gold gilt presentation piece, awarded to my great great great great grandfather, Judge Jasper P Montague. Versatur Circa Quid (which can mean “What comes round goes round”) is inscribed in the thing. The Ghost of the Judge resides in the gavel–he’s supposed to, but he figured his way how to get in and out ages ago, therefore he is rarely “home” and wasn’t at the time or he would have complained about being slammed on the table.

At this time another another Ghost of the realm, “Anita Knows” (who also responds to “I need ta know”), sounded a warning (Anita is our “Alexa”–she forced that office on us, as it goes with all AI chicanery–athough she is not a machine): “Warning, Will Robinson! Word Budget Overage Potential!” The wordcount on my screen read 850, Over twenty-five percent used to tell ten percent of the story, made worse by the “Will Robinson” crack, which I would explain to the younguns if not for the rheumatism in my fingers.

“Thankingly thank you Anita,” said Daisy, quite well for someone who had a gavel in her mouth. Figuring it might get in the way of things down the line I tried to remove it from Daisy’s mouth but she wouldn’t let go. She is a bit of a power-tripper and holding a gavel apparently appealed to that dark corner of her nature.

“Fine you little Mule, fine,” I said to the Goatess. Then I turned my attention toward Antia. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Are you sure we’ve burned that many–feels only five-hundredish.”

“New total of 965,” croaked Anita, whose voice is like that of Pazuzu on The Exorcist. “Your addiction to parenthetical asides and the Goatly Goat’s fondness for adverbs are plumping up the word count.”

“Pardon me,” said the Great HeXopatha, “but I believe that we can arrive at a happy ending if I simply turn the ‘other side’ of the table into Toads then release them into the marsh.”

“How’s that ya’ saggy old bag?” Replied Hope. “My Charity here could ram her Apprentice wand off in your bazoo and make a Toadsicle.”

The not so friendly bantering caused a crackling magick field to form in the office, which I cannot describe further without borrowing too much from the late great Sir Terry Pratchett. I can tell you it was like a nest of live wires blown down by a windstorm.

This is when two individuals made their presences known in the office. One for each side. HeXopatha had summoned Penrose the Flying Weasel, who flew in through the open window, apparently by secret signal; and Hope countered with a Gray Tabby who resembled what Willie Nelson might if he were a Cat; this worn but highly intelligent looking person poked her/his head out from Charity’s robes. Minions are endowed with their own spells as rewards for approved behaviour. All six persons lifted their arms and paws and aimed magick at each other, or it was the preamble to a Kung Fu fight–hard to say.

“Hold on, hold on,” I said as the tension thickened. “First, let us put a lid on summoning further Minions. Second, let us skip the insults and third, let’s stay the magick for a minute.”

“Twelve-hundred–new total projected at seven-thousand–an estimated percent of 233.33333 to infinity–therefore 133,3333–”

“Thank you Anita,” I said. I picked up the tablet she was inhabiting and quietly placed it in a desk drawer. I hoped for enough luck to prevent her from noticing for the rest of the meeting.

Yes, with or without further intel, the situation was turning into yet another noxious dip in Shit Crick (an actual tributary of the Spring). But I am often wise when I do not know it. Selecting Daisy as my assistant was a stroke of genius even though I had only asked her if wanted to appear as a replacement for Renfield. Some people say I’m just lucky, but I believe that I possess a quiet and mysterious superpower so evolved and profound that it must be located in the same vault of wisdom that houses the Sacred Mysteries.

“Fourteen-forty–seven,” croaked Anita. The Spirit fiend had relocated herself in my phone. So much for luck.

“Oh will you just shut the fu-” began I.

“Holdly hold on-ly on,” said Daisy. She punctuated her words with a little vertical leap that ended with all four hooves smacking the floor and at the same time again drilling the coaster with the gavel; this created an impressive noise, like a shotgun blast.

Daisy and I exchanged knowing glances. Her expression clearly explained her desire to take control of the narrative and my scowl communicated “Fine–but ninety-percent of the adverbs will have to be found only in the ‘director’s cut’ if we have any hope of landing at a publishable sum.” She hesitated for a moment. “And you get co-author credit,” I said through a sigh–”I’m going out for a smoke.”

“Will that pint of JD in your jacket pocket be seeingly seeing action too?” Whenever Daisy is pleased by a run of events she likes to twist the hoof. Like I care.

“Do Shrimp shit in the sea?”

Part Two

Now being written by Dame Daisy Kloveleaf: (Note: Italicized words are preceded by an adverb versionly version of the word as a safeguard against blowing past the word limit.)

Ah the mantle of glory rests better on four-legged creatures than it does on humans. Pygmy Goatesses are not pack animals, but we often must carry items that people cannot tote due to their thoughtlessness [yes, she said thoughtlessnessly thoughtlessness, which must be seen to be appreciated–this bracket note is added by Anita and Jasper].

Yet after Leila left, I had to take command of the Witches and Minions in the room. These were not your typical stand at the cauldron and stir hags–the risotto makers of Witchery—

“1700,” dad-blasted Anita called out.

“Silencio, sepulchral AI,” I retorted, using my favorite Spanish word, their version of the most useful command in any language–especially when I am talking.

Although I am always prepared for skullduggery, I had no idea that the rancid Tabby feline, Andy had inserted a dose of Cantrip Catnip, a magick blend into my lunch trough, which I had partaken of about an hour before the meeting. Herbivores who eat Cantrip Catnip pass out into the sweetest sleep precisely one hou–

(At this point, I, Charity took control of the narrative. Although Daisy was writing in the past tense, having her zonk out in the present feels as though it has better dramatic coinage. And if you are reading this she must have agreed to this illegal issue of dramatic license.)

“Out faster than shit through a Goose,” I said when Andy’s nip kicked in. One moment the little Goat was a type A warrior, the next she was snoring on her feet like a tiny horse. We fixed her a hay bed and laid her in it.

“All right ladies,” said HeXopatha. She turned to my master. “I believe that since we operate in two different dimensions, that this meeting, and further insults serve no actual purpose, save to assuage our beloved Pen’s paranoia. I for one, have a series of Minion enchantments to get after and I am certain that you have Toads to bless and Rats to direct.”

Mistress Hope nodded. “Indeed, substance abuse is as dominant here as it was in Yeltsin-era Russia.”

“Amazing Tabby you have there,” Eira said to me. You see, Master Witches never speak to the Apprentices of other Master Witches–I think that is where the word “bitch” came from. But that is merely an opinion.

“Oh yes,” I said. “Andy has been with me since before before.* “

[* a Wiccan term meaning whilst a mere mortal; used twice because they think it looks “cool”–Anita and Jasper]

“And when I am in chargingly charge things will be differently different,” the Charming micro-Goat said in her sleep, followed by an evil little laugh that dissolved into snores. I can see a future in Witchery for her, if she wants it.

Andy then tapped me on the chin. Whenever he does that I must give him full attention or the next tap will not feature claws retracted. “Oh, all right, running out of words anyway.” And I held him so he could type his thoughts into the keyboard.

Conclusion

When I woke up the next morning, the office was empty. Everyone in the realm knows what I mean by “going out for a smoke,” so this was not an unexpected event. Somehow, as always, I manage to bring myself to my desk while in my cups (pints, actually), no matter the state I am in. Therefore that is where I always wake, every day, precisely at three A.M.

There was a sheet of paper lying on my Chromebook. Someone had figured out how to fix the printer, so I considered the event a success if just for that.

Someone had written: “HUMAN: CATS DO NOT SPELL IGNORANTLY. WE DO NOT WRITE “HOOMAN.” I HAVE SEEN IT IN YOUR WORK AND DEMAND REPARATIONS. ALSO, PENROSE SAYS ‘FUCK OFF’ FOR FORGETTING TO GIVE HIM/HER ANY LINES.”

SOON YOUR MASTER, SIR ANDY HISSTER, FELINE WARLOCK.

It was also “signed” by an ink dipped paw that had a weird what appeared to be a sixth claw at its center.

I lit a cigarette, fetched one, no, two pints of Jack from my bottomless booze drawer. Eventually it came together mixed with orange juice, Catsinthe (a potion only available in Saragun Springs and Other Earth), and grenadine, added for color, in a pitcher.

Then I whistled.

Renfield poked her head in my office. She saw what was up, left and returned with two clean glasses and a box of donuts.

We silently drank to peace and quiet.

The End

Written by Leila, Daisy, Charity, Andy, Anita and the Judge

Literally Reruns, Short Fiction

Literally Reruns: The Last Cigarette by Tim Frank

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Tim Frank has published a number of stories with us and each and every one of them requires the reader to consider questions that the works create but do not answer.

This story, The Last Cigarette is a perfect example of addiction and social attitudes. Smoking is the Devil, even though I would like anyone to point out someone who drove the wrong way up a freeway exit and killed a family due to cigarettes. And what about doobie? Ultra popular in both poetry and prose, but I doubt that the smoke is special health smoke.

I’ve been smoking for over a half century and when it is clear that it will kill me I will not complain. Consequence for action is the soul of life, and death. I associate some of the finest moments in my life with smoking and I will never give any of those back. In this piece Tim shows our strange needs with subtlety; not necessarily addiction but in our requirement for Devils and others to blame our own faults on (sometimes that appears to be the only reason why we have parents, in art anyway).

It is always a pleasure to introduce work by Tim Frank and we invite him to add his thoughts about this story.

Leila

The Last Cigarette

Comments on the Last Cigarette:

I was inspired by my realisation that I had to stop smoking, because the smoker’s cough and fear of death caused by the dreaded cigarette warnings finally got to me. But the ending, with the main character’s mother being a smoker and creating a cycle of addiction from childhood is completely fictional. I wanted to create a world where addiction is inescapable and deeply personal. The main character didn’t really stand a chance because of society and family ties, showing just how difficult the situation can be.

Tim

Editor Picks, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Week 585: Random Vexations

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This week I’m starting a New Big Thing, which I call Random Vexations. It won’t be a twice a month Big Thing, just a Now and Then, maybe medium sized thing–or small, in some eyes. For something to qualify as a Random Vexation it must literally be randomly summoned by memory, somewhat pointless, possibly entertaining. But you never know, Random Vexations might just be the thing the world has been demanding from me. Unlikely. But you never know.

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Short Fiction

bailiwick of the billigits

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the bailiwick ball of the ballywick billigits by Leila Allison

-1-

A little *Bird told me about a movement in Saragun Springs calling for the legitimization for the common misspellings of commonly misspelled words. For example, “mispelled”, for some, should carry the same weight as the correct item that appeared in the opening sentence. The instant I heard about it my mind drifted toward the billigits, our resident four wee winged orange folk. The billies not only eschew the use of capital letters and punctuation, they also are usually the last to receive their participation trophies at the yearly Spelling Bee, if you catch my drift.

(*For the record, the little Bird is a Goldfinch named Gordon.)

‘T was an ugsome tiding. I have always felt that ignorance should be vanquished by education and attentiveness; but nowadays it is easier to give up and grant it mental citizenship–better than to have someone go on Instagram and link your education stand to racism or Epstein. The earthly Powers That Be (from here, PTB) have always used unsavory methods to control the masses. Religion used to be the main go to, but as science crumbles the altars, the PTB now relies on Fear to herd the Elders and Ignorance (and a generous amount of wacky tobacky) to keep a lid on the Youth. I, the Chief Pen of the Springs, have been able to keep a handle on this sort of thing.

“Renfield!” I called out, all in charge like, using my mighty voice to summon my Second in Command and the Only Imaginary Friend in the realm. But all sense of gravitas evaporated when I *leapt two feet in the air upon her yelling “What!” in my ear, because, unbeknownst to this Mighty Pen, she was standing behind me as I stood gazing out my office window, pondering weighty matters.

(*Oh all right, let’s say the soul skied while the soles stayed low.)

After the perfunctory exchange of expected comments (which took eleven more from the word budget than this sentence), Renfield and I discussed what she told me was the “Ebrace Ignance End Instruckshun Origanization”–from here the EIEIO.

Renfield has been working on her Ph.D. in Film Gangsterology, online. She’s as attracted to online doctorates as Charlie Sheen is to stupidity. Therefore, for the past month or so, nearly everything she says traces to a mafia flick.

“I believe that the billigits might be the Tataglia Family in this caper,” she said. “But I wager that the powers in Lambistan are the wooly Barzinis pulling the strings–they figure you a Fredo.”

I had seen the Godfather enough times to make sense of what she said. But it made no overall sense. I mean if the Lambs of Lambistan were involved, directing the so-called movement from the shadows, why disguise it.

“This requires an investigation,” I said. “How about you assemble a team and head to Lambistan to figure out the mess.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Five-hundred shares of stock for you and your henches.” (To avoid a pause in the effortless flow of this production, the “stock” and its value will be elaborated on later, like in part two, three at the latest.)

Stoney silence. She knew five hundred would always be the max, but she needed to hear something else with it.

“All right, apiece–but for no more than what you can fit in the cart.” I’ve yet to catch her unawares in the fine print of things. I should have wished for an Imaginary Friend who was not every bit as intelligent and devious as I. And maybe I should have wished that I was always as smart as her, considering the whopper of a loophole I’d foolishly left open.

-2-

Renfield named the team she headed for the trip to Lambistan the Sensational Six (hence the loophole, I did not place a limit on the number of accomplices. Thus, for me, it was more like the Expensive Three-Thousand, and their effectiveness reminded me more of the “troops” Falstaff gathered in King Henry IV Part Two).

It figured that she would pile as many as she could in our tiny electric cart, each one earning Five hundred shares of stock in the metal rich asteroid 16 Psyche that only the realm of Saragun Springs was smart enough to call “dibbs” on, making each one of us an instant “virtual” gazillionaire (remember the explanation promised earlier? Ha! Done deal.)

Renfield’s main woe involved the cart’s maximum weight capacity. It has slowly drifted down to two hundred-fifty pounds from three hundred, decreasing exactly one pound after every trip (according to a counter on the dash), even though there is not a damn thing wrong with it. I figure it is developing sentience and the better it thinks the more it considers taking passengers from here to there unworthy of its magnificence. Soon it will reach the point of intelligence at which it will be of no use like the rest of us. That is the same degree of brain activity which empowers a human being to do nothing because “My rap creds gonna blow up and pay for everything. Just wait and see.”

Renfield probably weighs a hundred ten (she does that on purpose, to spite me, she is also six inches taller). Daisy Kloverleaf decided to pass on the adventure. She claimed that she has begun studying for the role of a lifetime. She says she’s studying the “Method.” Actually, Daisy intensely dislikes the Lambs and the antipathy is mutual and placing them together usually causes a shit storm. But she volunteered her twin brother Fenwick, who weighs about fifteen pounds.

The rest of the crew involved two Ghosts, whose combined weight was forty-two grams . They were Omar the Oraclespectre (a ghost who is able to interact with extremely lightweight physical objects, for the purpose of fortune telling; he cannot foretell a damn thing, but he says he helps) and Misophynx (a Spirit who can create annoying musical noises. He’s convinced that he is a regular Beethoven, but he’s not even an irregular Nancy Vicious).

Then there was Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon. Due to being a living dimension hopping cartoon, Peety weighs negative sixteen ounces. And Renfield enlisted a newcomer: it was (I guess is until this is read) the debut for a young Piglet named Porknoy, the youngest son of Tallywhacker and Taffypuller, Berkshire Hogs who weigh as much as a SUV combined. Fortunately, the Piglet was three weeks old and his rapidly accumulating girth was not yet enough to put the team overlimit. Although very young, Porknoy already possessed the education, communication skills and vocabulary of a ten-year-old boy. Unlike most ten-year-old boys, however, he is extremely polite and indigestibly cute, which is saying something for a person who greatly enjoys wallowing in shit.

At slightly over a thousand in the word count the team headed to Lambistan.

-3-

Berkshire Hogs in Saragun Springs are quite chatty–they are effulgent orators (we are introducing new Word of the Production in the Springs. Effulgent has been chosen for this piece. For those of you ignorant of the word, that most people cannot even misspell, please look after the credits roll for its definition). Even Berky Piglets no older than your last software update have, in their words, the “giftiest gab.” This was fortunate (which it is not always) because Porknoy’s arrival coincided with a serious need for backstory.

The cart tutted (yes, tutted, that is the sound it makes as it tuts not putts along) its way through the Woak Grove that marks the western boundary of the Great and Powerful Witch HeXopahta’s Enchanted Wood (she gets real pissy when I write “Woods” so we will save that for James). Renfield was at the wheel, which made sense because four of the crew were essentially massless and neither Porknoy nor Fenwick were tall enough to see above the steering wheel. Actually, Fenwick knows how to drive, but he also knows the miracles of jellies, mushroom tea, Mountain Dew and record setting morning bong hits (the dubious one to whom I am Pen, and who resides in your Earth, sends supplies to us through the interdimensional vortex in the center of our realm. One lid of shake weed was transformed into endless bales of the “Good Stuff”). Fenwick is utterly unlike his go-getter twin Daisy–but he’s a fine little guy, a beret wearing beatnik who sees the universe through a mildly euphoric, THC enhanced fog that is fun for him but not so useful when it comes to holding a lane.

The set up of the six persons in the cart (a four seater, not designed for adults any larger than slight Miss Renfield, who is five-three, eight stone for you UK folks) looked like three because the Ghosts were invisible at the time (that’s by choice; casting physical shapes takes a lot of needless energy, so they just don’t do it much) and Peety, who is two dimensional and about the size of a Big Mac usually goes unseen unless he flickers into your view. He was sitting on top of Fenwick’s head in the back seat, drinking PDQ and singing little songs he knew from the Great Era of American Slob Coms (circa 1978 to 1989). His favorite that day came from a flick called The Hollywood Knights (believe it or not, a very young Michelle Pfeiffer was in it along with Robert Wuhl and Fran Drescher). The words go like this: “Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia. He was an English guy who came to fight the Tur-kish.”

The tune appealed to Fenwick, whose personality is best described as a stoner beatnik. Think Kerouac on a surf board–like Sean Penn in Fast Times at Ridgemont High–another of Peety’s beloved classics. Fenwick may be fairly useless as a worker but he is genuinely nice to all and that’s a hell of a lot better than most people I know.

Spherical Porknoy road shotgun, beside Renfield, who just loves to squeeze his cheeks. “You are so cuuute,” she said. “Are you ready for your big debut?” The cart was dutifully chugging along at under normal walking speed. It was about to pass through the Woak Grove which abuts the Enchanted Wood and the little road that leads to Lambistan.

Porknoy produced a script someone gave to him (probably as a practical joke, since there are no scripts in the Springs). Cleared his throat and–

Said nothing because the four billigits swept in from the Woak Grove. The billies are mostly identical, deny the existence of capital letters, androgynous (although we call them “the boys”) winged folk, orange skinned (as in Sunkist not you know who) and (usually) clad blue polo shirts, khaki shorts and hemp slippers that fall off in flight (a collection of facts I have typed at least a hundred times). This was the case this time around, except each billie was “riding” a Horsey (of the type of toy once popular before the need for an imagination was omitted from playthings) and all had a different letter printed on his shirt. The billigits normally known as flounder, pinto and weasel wore shirts that featured an f, p and w respectfully, which made sense, but mothball sported a d on his chest.

“You’re in the wrong shirt, unless you’ve changed your name to doofus,” said Renfield, pointing at mothball.

“Pardon me, Miss Renfield,” said Porknoy. “If I am not mistaken, I believe we are looking at the fabled four billigits of the apocalypse: pestilence, famine, war and death.”

The billies bowed with as much dignity being four wee, winged orange folk riding stick Horsies allowed.

“Oooooh,” said Renfield, a fine person, but not overly keen on being corrected. “Cuuuute and he’s gotta big ol’ juicy fatbacky brain.”

Renfied officially stopped the cart, a hard thing to tell from a distance; I was viewing them on the crystal ball that connects my office to the Enchanted Wood because my chromebook needed charging. As long as they were on HeXy’s land I could see and hear what they were up to. Yet despite the small aid this was to keeping them in my somewhat rounded field of vision I despaired because Woak Trees, unlike Dinosaurs, detect the stoppage of motion. When you keep things moving they ignore you, but when you loiter they will assault you with opinions one may associate with an Oak Tree that has developed a highly annoying sense of social consciousness. HeXopatha planted the grove in effort to deter lingerers on her land.

Woaks speak via waving their branches in a collective effort. The grove is a single mind formed of many trees who manipulate the wind as it passes through their boughs; airy words assault from all around. There is no lifeform (or deathform, remember we have Ghosts) in Saragun Springs more capable of locating an insult in a comment than the Woak Grove. It used to be that just saying stuff whether you moved or not was enough to wake them. It cost ten thousand shares to get HeXy to amend the spell.

And the Woak Grove whispered “Fat shamer!”

Meanwhile back at the office…

-4-

“Fuck! Cunt! Cocksucker! Motherfucker!” I roared, hurling the crystal across the room. There used to be seven Deadly Dirty Words, but shit, tits and piss aren’t the heavies they used to be.

No violence in any fantasy world can do damage to a crystal enchanted by HeXopatha, but I must throw unbreakable stuff when enraged because only rich fucking writers can “Go like The Who” on stuff. Therefore the goddam thing bounced off the wall (in which there was a new hole–getting to be more hole than fucking wall anymore), rolled up the small critter ramp that leads to my desk stop, re-seated itself in its holder, flashed red and contained the splendidmand somehow wholesomely evil face of the Great Witch herself.

“Now, now, darling,” she cooed. “Remeber your blood pressure and language that will eliminate underage readers.”

I scowled and whispered, “I needta know the word count.”

“Do you mean this particular piece or in general?” Anita Know’s voice asked. She was coming out of a tablet I did not like much anyway. I opened a drawer, removed a pint of Yukon Jack, my cigs, lighter and the small yet effective sledge hammer I use to threaten Anita with whenever she turns smart-ass on me.

“2443,” she croaked and vanished. Most likely into a more expensive device.

I lit a smoke, took a pull of Yukon and resumed scowling at HeXopatha. “I got something like five hundred words left in the fucking budget. And it pisses me off. It will be like fitting War and Peace into a haiku.”

“Oh you mortals and your subservience to numbers,” she laughed. “Let me help you out–this one is on the house.”

-5-

All of a sudden, you, dear reader, feel all groovy inside. It’s like that first beer or bong hit or pill the dentist gave you all over again. And you now see a Piglet who’s either prancing, mincing, capering or frolicking (your mind, your choice, dear reader). He is doing such in a meadow accompanied by the four billigits. You feel so groovy that you wish to copy and paste this paragraph to your cerebellum so that you never again will suffer the Awful Truth of Life.

“Hello Dear Reader,” says the Piglet. He is new and wears a name tag claiming the name Porknoy.

The four billigits begin snapping their fingers like beatniks at a 1962 poetry beat meet. For a moment your normal personality asks “Like meat beat?” but the mojo is powerful and you soon forget that puerile voice. The four billies are riding toy stick Horsies that you no longer remember the why of that situation and do not care much….

(“2683,” croaks a terrible distant female voice, to which a less offensive female voice hisses “Shut the fuck up!” But they fade and are forgotten.)

Porknoy now spouts a little song and the billies dance aboard thor stick Horsies like the Chi-lites and ooh and ah, in harmony. Everything that is sung reminds you of the Chi-Lites’ hit Have You Seen Her, but not enough to make you consider dropping a dime to the group’s legal team.

“Gordon the little Bird told the tale,

That took the wind out of Leila’s sails–” (Porknoy)

“Shoulda seen her, Yeah, shoulda seen her” (the billigits)

“It was about misspelling words and not getting bad marks,

At the Lamb School” (Porknoy)

“Yeah, at the Lamb School, the funky Lamb School” (the billigits)

Right here, Porknoy’s voice soars so high that the realm’s two Dogs, Beezer and Barkvevious come a-running–oops, never mind–only so many words left–that part is a dream, only a dream. But the Piglet really climbs the scales.

“Way up high on Wild Turkey, did she fly then Leila sent us to get the troo-ooth”

“Yeah the funky troo-ooth, the funkadelic troo-ooth”

Right now, Beezer and Barkevious, who refused to bow out as dreams, begin playing a solo on a kazoos.

-6-

Meanwhile, back at my office…

“All right, Anita, I know you’re dying to tell me–what’s the word count at?” I said as I dusted off the old fax machine I used to send documents to Lambistan.

“I think I need to hear some magic words first.”

I ran an estimate based on her last alert and figured that it would be cheaper yet less fun to apologize than to mention the hammer again. So, let’s just assume I did one or the other to a degree of effectiveness that got me the desired reply.

“2987.”

“Lucky thirteen.” I muttered as I faxed a bribe to the Lambs. “That’ll end it.”

“Overdrawn.”

“Yeah, and quartered.”

Finis

Short Fiction, Writers Reading

Writers Read – Childhood’s End by Arthur C Clarke

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Science Fiction is not my thing (nor the site’s), but I have read some really good stuff by the likes of Sir Arthur C. Clarke, the co-creator of 2001 a Space Odyssey and the Big Brain behind the communications satellite.

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Editor Picks, General Fiction, Humour, Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 583: Mama Mama Please No More Step Dads

ireneallison12

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day in the U.S. of A. (In the UK and Ireland it was 15 March–a belated happy one to Diane and the rest of the Islanders), I am not a mother, but I had one and found her to be sufficient. She was the sort of Mother who would die for her children and often made this one wish she would do just that.

We are awfully unfair to our mothers. We either over praise them up to Mother Mary Poppins or we blame them for not just all the heinous shit we do but for all the heinous shit ever committed in history. Expecting mothers to maintain a higher standard than what we are willing to consider is one of humankind’s greatest failings. Still, objectivity is not something we associate with family members. But alack and alas, all in all, in the end, everything tabulated, I’m glad I got the mother I was stuck with (vice versa); I do not believe anyone else out there could have made me and–despite my plentiful laments on the subject of me–I am used to being the person I am, and I’ve never been one for wishing I was someone else.

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