“He is a disgrace!” shouted the Lady. “Take him away.” The failed dancer was led outside by harsh hands, his jeweled codpiece glinting in the torchlight. “Mistress,” spoke one of the Soothed, bowing his shaved pate to the floor at her feet, “there is word. The nuatua is low; the shipment from Celeste has not arrived.” “How much remains?” “But two days’.” She considered. “Slaughter half of the Raging and feed them to the other half. That will give us nearly half a week.” “And then?” “We will have to make other plans,” she said, reclining in her gilded chair.
The God of the Roads stopped in Tim’s house for a cup of coffee and a Hostess Sno-Ball. He said he preferred the cupcakes, but Tim didn’t have any, and the God of Roads said that was okay, and Tim said he’d have cupcakes next time, but the God of Roads shook his head. Tim thought the God of Roads could use his old compass from when he was in the Army, but the God of Roads said no thanks. “What’s it like having no home?” Tim asked. “I don’t know,” answered the God of Roads. “My home is everywhere.”
We watched the trucks roll past. They entered into the high-fenced area, and they didn’t come back out. Tony said he’d seen them come out one night, early, after the moon had gone. I never saw it. “What are they building in there?” The gate opened up. The trucks rolled in. There weren’t any walls or construction equipment visible over the top. Tony said he’d climbed the fence and seen an enormous pit. The last truck hit a stray piece of lumber. The tarp jostled loose. A pale hand flopped down. The truck kept going. The gates closed behind it.
They swooped through the sky, twirling and spinning, executing flawless loop-the-loops and dangerous synchronized turns. There were collisions, of course. Two of them got confused and jigged when they should have jagged. The impact rained shards and choking dust down onto the morning traffic, causing delays. A short time afterward, most of the downtown offices closed after another large boulder nearly destroyed a corner office after not paying attention to where it was going. “Why are they doing this?” Taku asked his friend, the Wisest Stone. The Wisest Stone thought. “We grew tired of staying still,” he said at last.
Peter marveled at the intricacy of detail. “These models are amazing,” he murmured at last. “We pride ourselves on our authenticity,” said the shop owner, tossing another handful of jerky bits into his mouth and chewing noisily. “It’s astounding. Do you have any houses under construction? Or more modern trains?” “Sure,” the man pointed. “Wow! How did you do these?” He swallowed his mouthful. “Shrink ray.” “Pardon?” “Just find a real one and miniaturize it. Saves a ton of time. Real easy.” Peter stared. “You’re kidding.” “Nope.” The man held out his packet of little brown pellets. “Have a turkey?”
“Daddy, check again!” Lilly clutched the blankets to her chin, her lip trembling. “There’s no monsters under the bed, sweetie. I promise you.” He knelt down, held her hand. “I’ll leave the light on all night, okay?” “Just look! I know they’re there!” She knew. She’d heard. He sighed. He leaned over, lifted the ruffled fringe. SNAP! He was gone. There was a crunching sound. The monster climbed out, grunting and snuffling. She cast a dismissive glance at Lilly, then turned and poked her snout back under the bed. “There. You see? There’s nothing out here. Now go to sleep.”
I had just pushed the doorbell when what I had thought was a decorative vine snaked down and wrapped around my neck. It squeezed, and I gasped for air. I clawed at it, coming away with sap under my fingernails. It lifted me up. I could feel the crushing pressure on my throat, my own weight strangling me. I kicked feebly, recalling stories of hanged men, dying slowly if their necks were not broken by the initial fall. The door opened. “Oh, dear,” said my friend. “Don’t you mind Vern. He’s just a little feisty these days. Vern! Down, boy!”
“Why are you all so frightened?” she asked. “You’re new here,” replied a plump matron. “You don’t know.” “I’ve heard,” she said. “I’ve heard rumors from the other young ones.” Another female sighed. “I probably have children out there, but I’ve never met them.” “They take our children from us,” said the doyenne. “Thieves. Kidnappers. Murderers.” “Is it truly so horrible? We have food; we have warmth; we have shelter.” Before she could receive an answer, the door slammed open. Framed in the light was the dark form of Farmer McAllister, with his wide hat and his terrible wire basket.
Been a while; busy week at work, unfortunately, and no time in the evenings. I'll be posting the missing entries today, though. (Not that anyone cares overmuch, but it's important to me to meet my arbitrary obligations.)
Deep in the secret heart of the forests of Kel, there is a cavern. If a brave explorer penetrates the depths, he will find a spring. It is said that whoever drinks of the spring’s water will become truly free. Next to the spring there is a quiet man with a sword. The quiet man will explain what true freedom means. If the explorer declines to drink from the fountain, the swordsman will quietly cut off his head and mark a notch in his belt. Fifteen explorers have found the hidden cavern. The swordsman has fifteen notches on his belt.
(Forgot to post this yesterday, so today's a twofer!) “Hello?” Jess spread her toes and frowned while Beth answered the phone. The color didn’t look nearly as good now. “Hello?” Beth sighed in disgust and slammed the phone down. “What?” “The phone rings, but no one’s there. Like, every day.” “I read about this one lady who got, like, a phone call every five and they found out it was just some old automatic ordering computer that everyone’d forgotten about.” “Whatever. I hate it.” In his bedroom across town, Jason stared at the phone, the faded scrap of paper, softened to clothlike consistency, still clutched in his sweaty palm.
The fly buzzed like a pager that had somehow grown wings, making soft tink-tink-tink sounds as it rebounded from the dirty dome light. More flies, smaller, baby flies, grandbaby flies, swarmed over the crusted remnants of his last meal. Another flimsy aluminum tray would be shoved through the slot in the door soon. Maybe. Maybe not. It was hard to tell time. He huddled in the corner, plucking at his rags. He tried to remember anything before the cell. He remembered the sudden light, waking up. Fear; panic. Pain. The bruises were fading. He tried to remember home. He failed.
Jack-in-the-Box heaved himself upright. “You know I’m right,” he told the assembled toys. The Plastic Army Men murmured their discontent. “How can you be so sure?” the sergeant growled, leveling a tiny finger. “It’s psychology,” said Jack-in-the-Box. “He’ll grow old, and one day he’ll get nostalgic for his fond memories of childhood. They always do.” He-Man snorted. “I don't have any fond memories of his childhood. I spent half of it in the dog’s bowl.” “Right, right,” said Jack-in-the-Box. “Anyway, he’ll come up, pull out the old toybox, cry a little, and get maudlin… and that’s when we’ll get him!”
She gazed out of the cave entrance in considerable disappointment. She had been waiting for the end of the world. “That’s it?” she asked. “Just a little ‘pop’ and a few pretty lights?” No one answered her question, so she continued. “This is completely unacceptable,” she announced. “Someone is going to have to put things right.” No one volunteered to help, so she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. It was no wonder the world had ended so unimpressively. It hadn’t been much of a world to begin with. This time, she’d make sure it was done right.
“I hate this job,” groaned Nortle. “Thirty seconds,” huffed Tarn, running on the little treadmill that powered the wind-maker. “I didn’t have to do this,” Nortle went on, poking half-heartedly at the fire. “I could have worked for the key-takers, or the ice-cube-tray-emptiers. But I thought I’d rather be helpful. It isn’t worth it. They take us for granted!” At the end of his strength, Tarn sagged. “We’re toasters,” he said. “We make toast.” Nortle knelt and grasped the lever. “One… two… three… HEAVE!” He sighed. “I just wish there was more to it.” “English muffin incoming!” cried Tarn, pointing.