Tag: short stories

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