The Dagger (teaser)

This is the first part of an upcoming short-story featuring the heroes of CRIT! For more adventures of Linus and his team, check out CRIT! at www.tangentartists.com “Does it ever bother you that we searched the pockets of the people we’ve just killed?” asked Kiyana. Her educated brain was wrestling with philosophy that the others would have just as soon ignored. “Well, it does when you put it that way,” said Linus, the senior member of the party. The middle-aged Ranger frowned at the blonde buxom wizard. “I mean, it’s not as if we killed them just to rifle through their possessions. That’s just barbaric.” “Hey!” cried Quince the barbarian. He looked ready to cry at the accusation. “Present company excluded,” added Linus hastily. “But yes, killing people for their gewgaws is wrong… but looting the pockets of the people who’ve just ambushed us? I’d say that’s restitution.” “Besides, sometimes they have cool stuff!” added her brother, Bart. The ten-year-old rogue was holding up a severed ulna which was sporting a diamond-studded bracer. The little Elf had actually pulled out a jewler’s eyeglass was examining the cut and water of his find. “Thanks for backing me up there,” sneered Linus. “Wotcher,” said Bart. “From the mouths of innocent babes…” quoted Kiyana with a smug smile. “If he’s innocent I’m a bloody penguin,” said Linus dryly. “Morfindel, what’s your take on this?” Kiyana whined to the Cleric. Morfindel, Elven Cleric of the Ardellan Mission, stepped over the bodies of the dead Scath A Dannen. These particularly nasty Fallen Elves from the Dark Dimension had popped up out of nowhere and Morfindel had unleashed his holy fury upon them. The Cleric was smiling grimly with satisfaction at a smiting well done — so much satisfaction in fact, that the others were giving him a wide berth as they searched among the pile of limbs and entrails. He wasn’t blood-thirsty by nature. The Elf had an easy-going temperament that bordered on “wishy-washy” at times; that would disappear the moment that duty called. Morfindel performed his duties with a glad heart. “Morfindel?” Kiyana ventured a second time. “Huh?” asked Morfindel, lost in thought. “I said what’s your take on our ghoulish tendency to steal from the dead?” asked Kiyana. The others groaned at her grim exaggeration. “I don’t really care so long as they’re not proper Elves.,” said Morfindel, and that was basically that. The world came in two flavors for Morfindel: “Elves”, and “everything else.” Morfindel’s holy duty was to protect all Elves from harm and to do no harm to Elves himself. This included Elves who wanted to kick his ass and/or do very bad things to him. It didn’t matter. Morfindel knew he was a racist—he’d often commented on the fact—but that didn’t give him one moment’s pause when it came to blows. Unfortunately it forced Linus to pause quite frequently. Bart and Kiyana were exempt from fighting Elves, being High Elves themselves, but Linus was only Half-Elven and given no leeway. During battles amongst the pointy-eared Children of the Sun, Morfindel would often shout to Linus, “Don’t kill any Elves or I’ll have to kill you! Sorry!” There were a few loopholes in his dogmatic law, but Morfindel was often forced to search for them in the heat of battle. Linus was currently nursing a sizable gash on his bicep that he’d received while fending off blows from the Scath A Dannan and shouting, “CAN I PLEASE HIT THEM BACK?” By the time Morfindel had answered in the affirmative, the battle was half-over. Now that Linus knew that Scath A Dannan were fair game, he filed that information away for future use. Maybe I should write them all down on an index card for quick reference, he thought. Elves: No. Elf Assassin bent on my destruction: No Brainwashed Elves controlled by a vampire: No Fallen Elves from Dark Dimension: Go nuts. While Linus was mentally writing this out he became distracted by the flicker of reflected sunlight. Looking for the source he spied a dagger lying a few feet near its owner’s severed hand. Linus bent down (to a chorus of popping noises from his knees) and retrieved the weapon. He immediately recognized that this was a dagger of superior workmanship. It was light, well-balanced and practically new, judging by the flawless sheen and the fresh leather wrappings. It mimicked the shaped of a typical naval dirk with a reversed guard (somewhat fancifully executed) and had a large red cats-eye jewel at the junction of the hilt and blade. The blade was both artful and diabolical. Hooks, serrates and barbs had been stamped into the metal that spelled instant disaster for internal organs and ribcages. The metal itself was like nothing Linus had ever seen —he couldn’t guess its name or its origin— it was a dark black that glistened with a purple sheen when held to the light. The light played on the greasy purple cast, giving the blade the illusion that it was in constant motion, like liquid. Linus was a practiced dual-wielding fighter, currently favoring a spatha and a ballock dagger. The latter was giving him trouble; the blade was notched and dull, the point had been snapped off, the wrappings kept coming loose, and the blade was off-balance after a plethora of re-sharpenings. It was small wonder then, that Linus made experimental swipes in the air with this new dagger, tossing it in his hand a few times to get a feel for the balance and the weight. After a few minutes he seemed well pleased with it. The old ballock was unceremoniously chucked among the corpses. Linus hunted up the dirk’s scabbard and was strapping his new conquest onto his leg when he heard a shrill voice pipe up behind him and curl the hairs on his neck. “You’re not keeping that, are you??” cried Kiyana. “It would appear that I am,” said Linus. “You’re not serious!” protested Kiyana. “I generally am,” returned Linus, arching an eyebrow. “Why?” “’Cause it’s evil!” Linus blinked. “Run that by me again.” “The dagger is eeeevil!” repeated Kiyana, waggling her fingers for further emphasis while her voice trilled like a sibyl. This gave Linus genuine pause. Kiyana was a university-educated woman which meant that she didn’t have enough imagination to outright lie. She was prone to exaggeration, however, and Linus wanted to know more. “What makes you say that?” asked Linus. “Just look at it! It’s got hooks and squiggles and a big red eye on it!” “Ah. So we’re just arguing about aesthetics, are we?” said Linus relaxing. “I got it off a Scath A Dannan. They just like to put their own little eldtritch stamp onto everything that’s all.” “Evil,” insisted Kiyana. “Look!” grunted Linus, growing annoyed with her. “It’s a tool, alright? A tool can neither be good or bad. It’s all in how it’s used. Now I don’t want to hear another word about it!” “Fine,” said Kiyana coldly. “What do the rest of you think?” she asked the other men. “I don’t care,” said Morfindel with a shrug. “It’s not my call.” Linus smirked at Kiyana. “Bart? ‘Talky-Tim’? What do you think?” he called to the other two. Quince said nothing until realization dawned. “Me? Oh I—I’m ‘Talky-Tim’?” he said eventually. “Yes,” said Linus. “You needed a new dagger, didn’t you, Linus?” asked Quince. “Yep.” “That’s alright then,” said Quince with a shrug. “Bart? How ‘bout you?” called Linus, trying to find where the boy had got to. “Would you shut up?! I’m trying to count up here!” Bart shouted from atop a tree. “The vote stands four-to-one. Motion carries,” said Linus. “Two-to-one with two abstentions,” corrected Kiyana, pointing to Morfindel and Bart. “Not saying ‘no’ doesn’t count as saying ‘yes’.” “That’s a double-negative, princess, so in point of fact: IT DOES,” crowed Linus. “Put that in your thesis and mark it, Miss Coed!”

An Excerpt from Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid

The following is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Madame Blustocking's Pennyhorrid now available for pre-order Through Hunt Press.

“Misters Wingaurd and Kelly to see the council.”
The young doorman nodded and slipped through a servant’s door at the side. After a moment the main doors were muscled wide open with the assistance of four men. A young man, in judiciary black robes and a powdered wig, beckoned to Lynald and Kelly and they were ushered in through the towering archway. The two gentlemen exchanged nervous glances. They didn’t have a clue what was going to happen now.

“So how did they know we were coming?” Kelly asked the Elf in a barely audible whisper.
“I have no idea,” came Lynald’s answer, eyeing a sort of arena ahead of them. Some public forum was in session, consisting of a council seated at ornate wooden desks. These were tiered in a wide circle around a sunken dais.
“So we’re just going with this?” asked Kelly.
“Pretty much,” said Lynald. He seemed to have pulled himself together and was striding purposefully behind their guide. Only Kelly noticed Lynald’s slightly fixed grin; a testament as to how nervous the Elf really was.
“Grand. Bloody grand,” muttered Kelly, shaking his head.

“Announcing Misters Lynald Wingaurd and Evelyn Kelly! Blindsmen, Costermongers, Duffers, Dowsers, Factors, Fulkers, Legerdemainists, Limners, Noontenders, Machinists and makers of fine Wigs!” announced an undersecretary as the two travelers approached the council. The council consisted of about twenty fat middle-aged gentlemen with impressive sideburns; all were dressed in somber black and starched collars. They nodded grimly.

Kelly nudged Lynald. “’Makers of fine wigs?’ Why the hell did he say that?” he hissed.
“I thought it had a nice metre,” said Lynald with a shrug.
“You changed our business card again, without asking me! You always do that!” growled Kelly in frustration.
“Oh hush.”
“Have you ever made a wig in your life?”
“How hard could it be?”
“I bloody hate you sometimes,” said Kelly through gritted teeth.

“Gentlemen,” said one of the councilmen with white hair. Kelly thought he looked like the senior official. “On behalf of the town council I bid you welcome to Poulipolis. What brings you to our fair city today?”

Kelly and Lynald exchanged glances. They hadn’t gotten a “story straight” yet and weren’t even sure if they needed one. Kelly would have been less worried about this if they hadn’t been in a city submerged in the Undine Ocean. Before he had a chance to whisper this to Lynald, the Elf had stepped forward and was speaking to them in his pleasant tenor.

“If we may be so bold, I must admit that we are at a loss. We had no outstanding plans to visit Poulipolis–no purpose in coming. It was a whim we acted on, only this morning. That being the case, we must ask you: how did know we would arrive today?”

Kelly watched the council anxiously. The black-robed gentlemen seemed a trifle perturbed and mumbled a bit amongst themselves. Finally, the white-haired gent spoke again.
“You yourselves do not know? Well that really is puzzling. It seems we are all wrapped up in this mystery. By any chance… did you receive a note urging you to come here today?”

Lynald hardly needed to answer, “yes”. The astonishment on his and his partner’s face told the council already.
“Yes, I have the note right here,” said Lynald, offering the scrap of paper to the councilman. “Did you receive a note yourself – er – m’lords?”
“Yes. It told us that the renowned team of Wingaurd and Kelly would visit us… and that the city is doomed.”

PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY OF MADAME BLUSTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID HERE!

Campus Spirit

By MONICA MARIER

“You’re a witch?” I asked, goggle-eyed.

Sandy just shrugged and pulled a lock of ash blond hair away from her mouth.

“Yeah,” she said.

It took a while before I could say anything else. One fact kept poking me in the back of the head like a pencil.

“BUT YOU’RE A REPUBLICAN!” I blurted out.

Sandy snorted and rolled her eyes. “So? Doesn’t matter.”

“I thought you couldn’t be both,” I insisted. There was something about Sarah Palin the NRA paired with incense and crystals that didn’t mesh.

“Look, you’re born a witch. It’s not a lifestyle choice like who you vote for or what color socks you wear,” she told me.

I shrugged, but I tried to thoroughly examine my roommate without staring.

It still looked like Sandy Parks: a skinny but rather plain-jane physical therapy major, with horsey teeth and freckles. She still had a drawl after moving here from Norfolk VA —not that it mattered. Her genuine snakeskin boots (that had seen better days) and straw cowboy hat was a dead giveaway.

She told me that she envied my “striking features” and overflowing EE cup, but I didn’t believe it for a second. Who’d want to be a big fat marshmallow when they were a size 2? You can fix bland features with a little makeup (which Sandy never tried to do) but you can’t fix fat.

And then this happened. We were on the floor, eating Milanos (hers) and watching The Last Unicorn (also her movie on her TV) when we suddenly announced she was a witch.

“Alright prove it,” I said, REALLY hoping she wouldn’t.

“’Kay,” she said. She pointed to a box of Pop Tarts (hers) on the shelf and said, “Cthinos h’yel meh taftut.”

 If anyone ELSE had said it without a thick Southern Accent it probably would have sounded really cool.

The box flopped over and remained on its side.

“Pshh. Is that it?” I asked.

“Just wait,” she said and my eyes returned to the box. A rustling sound indicated that something was happening to one of the shiny foil packages. I stared as the rustling got louder and louder until—

“HIT THE DECK!” shouted Sandy suddenly.

 Sandy and I ate the carpet as two shapes went whizzing overhead. There was a dull thudding sound as the room shook and I tentatively got up.

“Sorry,” said Sandy looking abashed. She rose and straightened her denim skirt. “I lost control a little.”

“A LITTLE?” I asked looking at the white cold walls.

Sticking out of the cinderblocks, like ninja throwing stars, were two perfectly toasted s’mores-flavored Pop Tarts.  I gingerly pulled one out of the wall, after it was cool enough to touch. The icing was now a caramelized brulee, but otherwise intact. How it managed to fly into the rock-hard wall without crumbling and showering us with molten sugar was beyond me. Gingerly I bit off a corner that wasn’t covered in plaster. It tasted fine.

“Cool,” I said warily. “So what else can you do, other than fire ballistic pastries?” I asked.

She winced at my comment and I felt ashamed of myself.

“Sorry. I can’t turn the snark off sometimes,” I mumbled.

“Yeah, I know,” she said shaking her head indulgently.  “Well, there’s a reason I told you I’m a witch, now that you ask me.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I asked.

“I need your help with something.”

“Like what?” I asked, uncertainly. I was worried this was going to get uncomfortable and fast.

“I need you to help me get to a book,” she said.

Oh, thank GOD. She doesn’t want me to do something dumb with colored candles and silver knives, I thought.

“What kind of book. Is it expensive?” I asked.

“It’s priceless,” she said nodding. “It’s kept under lock and key at the library and only certain majors can get access to it.”

I nodded. There were a few of those. Our University was one of the oldest in America, which was really one of our only claims to fame these days apart from a champion ping-pong team.

“So where do I come in?” I asked.

“Well you’re a history major, minoring in archaic lore, right?”

“Yeah…” I said, growing nervous again.

“The book I need to get access to is the Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred. I think MU has a copy of it in the Library.”

“Oh,” I said my stomach sinking. Maybe colored candles wouldn’t have been so bad. “Well, see, that’s going to be tricky. They kind of don’t let any students see that book anymore.”

“But they used to!” she cried.

“Yeah, but every time they did someone went bonkers! I think they were theorizing that the book had lead ink or fungoid spores in it — something that was making people go nuts. It’s sealed up in storage now.”

“Shit,” Sandy cursed a rare thing in itself. “Now what.”

“Well, they sell the English version in the campus bookstore,” I said.

Sandy looked up. “That might work,” she said, her eyes hopeful. “We can try anyway.”

“Well, okay. Let’s go — I could use a latte. What do you want it for any way?”

“Well you know how kids have been attacked on campus at night?” she said slowly.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I think the book might give me some clue as to how to stop it.”

I stopped dead as I strung the two factors together. Kids were getting attacked on Miskatonic campus behind the science buildings and Sandy wanted access to occult literature.

“What… are you saying something …weird is attacking students?”

“Rosemary West, what do you know about the reanimated?” Sandy asked me.

CHICKEN SH*TFACED PART 2 of 2

By Monica Marier

This is the conclusion of last week’s story, which can be found  HERE

A special thanks goes to PJ Kaiser for helping me post this on her blog today in a time of techno-drama.

The night was in full swing when the two men trod shivering through the black soup of darkness. The lantern swung erratically in large arcs casting ghostly fairy lights and demonic shadows across gnarled trees. He and Vilori had followed the tracks as they led with distinct purpose to apple orchard that marked the edge of Uncle Red’s farm.

“Think the chickens got peckish and decided to have a late tea of apples?”

“Chickens don’t eat apples, Vilori,” said Harcourt. A thought suddenly occurred to him. “But I hope for our sakes they’re trying.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cause if they haven’t stopped at the orchard, and they’re headed due South… that means that they went into The Terrible Woods.”

“Which terrible woods would that be?” asked Vilori.

“That one! The Terrible Woods! Capital ‘T’—The Terrible Woods.”

“Is that really its name? How unimaginative!” cried Vilori in disgust.

“Yes. It was named by a town of very unimaginative people… WHO KEPT DYIN’ in the woods,” hissed Harcourt.

“What, is it Haunted? Do the ghosts come out at night?” asked Vilori with a snort.

“Ghost nothing! It’s full of dense bracken, sudden drops, peat bogs, wolves, bears, griffons, and dragons, AND poisonous spiders.”

Vilori stopped dead.

“How big are the poisonous spiders?” he asked in a hollow voice.

“They’re poisonous! Does it really matter how big they are?” replied Harcourt.

Vilori nodded. “I concede your point.”

They walked a few more yards in silence, following the razor straight lines of chicken feet and trying not to think of spiders. 

“Oh bugger,” sighed Harcourt. The lantern light bounced in his hand, but Vilori plainly saw the chicken tracks leave the soft earth of the orchard and trail into the tall grass bordering it. The grass had been trodden and bent in a tiny thin path no wider than an arm’s length. It led with mathematical precision to the forest. Vilori snatched up the lantern to examine the tracks.

“Well it looks like this wasn’t done by any man, Har,” said Vilori agog. “There’s no signs in the grass that anything bigger than a chicken has gone through here.

“Which means what?”

“Um… the chickens are in on it?” supplied Vilori uncertainly.

“What, like they’re?” asked Harcourt in disgust.

“Well, I don’t know!” mobilzin’ cried Vilori, waving his free arm in exasperation. “What other explanation have we got?

“A spell?” asked Harcourt.

“….yessss,” nodded Vilori nodding his head. “I’ve never heard of chicken magic before.”

“I have,” said Harcourt seriously. “I heard of men in the hot islands that puts paint on their faces and dances around fires and sacrifices chickens. ‘Hoo-doo’ they calls is. Barbaric,” he added.

Vilori sniffed in similar suspicion. “Ah, well that’s foreigners for you. Sacrificin’ all manner of things. As if pidgeons and goats and virgins aren’t good enough.”

“Goats was good enough for me granddad.”

“Indeed. So you think it’s some foreign hoo-doo thingummy stealing chickens with magic?”

Harcourt scratched his sandy chin. “Dunno. It’s better than your idea of mobilizin’ chickens.”

“Yeah, that was stupid, sorry,” sighed Vilori, flushing red.

“S’alright. I know it’s just ‘cause you’re pissed.”

“And how,” mumbled Vilori stifling a belch. “Well, into The Terrible Woods then,” he said tramping through the tall grass for the tree-line.

“You coming?” he asked when he noticed Harcourt lingering behing.

Harcourt nodded. “Yuh. Alright,” he said in a high voice. “Only be careful. The sudden drops in there can break your neck... and the spiders…”

“What do the spiders look like?” asked Vilori warily.

“They look like leaves.”

“Grand.”

***

“Is that a spider?”

“No.”

“Is that a spider?”

“No.”

“Is that a spider?”

“Would you give over already, Vilori!” Harcourt said through clenched teeth. He was trying to keep his voice down, but with Vilori buzzing around him like a gnat it was hard.

“Is that a —”

“SHH!” Harcourt waved at Vilori to shut up. “DO you hear something?”

The men strained their ears for the slightest sound when they both heard it. It was a warbling susurration, like the sound of hundreds of tiny voices having hushed conversations.

“What is that?” asked Vilori.

“It’s chickens! Must be hundreds of em,” said Harcourt advancing slowly. Vilori observed sweat trickling off his friend’s brow in the growing light. “There’s a light up ahead,” he said.

 “Someone’s got a fire lit, I reckon.”

“You were right! There’s Hoo-dooing and dancing afoot, no doubt!” hissed Vilori.

“Well the chicken noise is coming from there, so we’ll see.”

“Good. I’m ready to finish up and get to bed,” yawned Vilori. The night was getting colder and a thick mist was starting to rise from the forest floor, undulating in ghostly shapes in front of the lantern. They grew closer to the fire, and unsheathed their swords. Swords could only do so much in the face of magic, but they could generally sever a head from a neck, which was sometimes enough.

Cautiously, they peered over a bramble thicket to see what they were dealing with.

Both men dropped their swords in shock.

“Is that…?”

“It looks like…”

“Dear GODS.”

A large clearing was occupied entirely by chickens.

There wasn’t the slightest sign of human involvement; only avian. They weren’t milling about in typical chicken fashion, but they were evenly spaced in a circle, five deep around a ring of standing stones. Large fires had been lit in key places around the field casting a weird orange glow on the perfectly still birds. In the middle of the ring was a large flat rock lying lengthwise on the ground.

It was currently empty.

“How do chickens light fires?” wondered Harcourt aloud.

“What is this place?” Vilori managed in a terrified voice.

“It’s the faerie ring! It’s older than…than… really old stuff! It probably predates the word ‘old’,” Harcourt stammered, his face ghostly white.

“The chickens aren’t doing anything! They’re just standing there!” squeaked Vilori.

“No, see. They’re all looking outside the ring on the southwest side…. They’re waiting for something!”

“For what?”

As if in answer a loud roar shook the air and made each man cower with his face in the dirt. It sounded like someone trying to saw a bottle in half with cello string.

Vilori and Harcourt gibbered momentarily before rounding up enough sanity to look at what was approaching. Their swords were still on the forest floor, untouched.

A dark shape sillouetted in the firelight descended on the avian crowd. It walked upright like a bird, but there was something distinctly mammalian about it. It had a snout full of cruel teeth despite its coat of feathers, and its feet were definitely paws. It let loose another shriek, similar to a dog’s howl, but there was no mistaking the consonant and resounding “BWARRRRRK!” that shook the tree tops.

 Harcourt and Vilori were suddenly more sober than a teacher on Monday.

“It’s a cock-a-doodle,” said Harcourt.

“A what?” asked Vilori.

“Part dog-part rooster. Distant relative of the cockatrice.”

“Cor,” said Vilori. “What’s it got there in its paws?”

Squinting in the gloom the men could make out something round and flat with something lumpy on it. It was clutched awkwardly in the cock-a-doodles forepaws as it approached the flat stone in the middle of the ring. The beast then lay the object in the middle of the stone.

“I don’t like this…” said Harcourt, trembling.

“Why what’s he got?” asked Vilori, trying to make heads or tails of the dim shapes.

“That’s the carcass of the chicken we had for tea tonight,” he said.

Now that he knew what he was looking at, Vilori could indeed see a former chicken picked clean with bits of sage still stuck to its insides. It was even on the willow-ware patterned platter Harcourt’s Aunt had served it on and surrounded by wrinkly cold potatoes.

The cock-a-doodle roared again, and the susurration of idle chickens stopped. Silence blanketed the clearing, and even the crackle of the fires seemed to have stopped.

Then the cock-a-doodle began to utter strange sounds in a low monotone drone. After he began the chickens would answer him, all clucking in perfect unison to a strange rhythm.

“BWAARK BWARRK BWARRRK”

“Bok-bok bok-bok b-bok bwaark!”

“BWAARK BWARRK BWARRRK”

“Bok-bok bok-bok b-bok bwaark!”

“It looks like…” began Harcourt, afraid to finish.

“It looks like a ritual,” answered Vilori.

Harcourt and he exchanged glances of pure horror, before watching the birds and their master again, helplessly captivated by their own curiosities and the mounting terror of events.

The standing stones began to glow an unearthly green and the light channeled by the outlandish carvings in the stones fed into the oblong stone table where the sad remains of dinner sat. The boks and bwarrks grew louder, faster, more fervent as the light grew brighter. Vilori felt the hairs on his arm stand up and felt his ears block up as an oppressive cloud of energy grew around them. Just as the chickens were so frenzied that they seemed about to break out of their orderly ranks the last of the light flowed into the now-glowing dead chicken. Silence reined again.

The men held their breaths as they stared at the carcass. If birds could hold their breaths, it was very likely the chickens were doing the same. Only the cock-a-doodle seemed cooly confidant.

Then it happened.

It was subtle, but every eye, beady or otherwise, caught it.

One of the naked wings began to twitch.

Harcourt and Vilori didn’t know how they got back to Uncle Red’s farm. To Vilori it was all a blur, and if Harcourt remembered, he wasn’t saying anything. Uncle Red and Aunt Primula took it with the resigned attitude of “boys will be boys,” assuming it all to be a drunk hallucination and were kind enough to never bring it up again. It didn’t seem there was any harm done anyways, since all the chickens were back in their coops the following morning.

Although… and this was the strange thing…

…It seemed there was one extra bird.

Chicken Sh*tfaced Part 1 of 2

Vilori Reagan is a character from my 2nd book "Runs In Good Condition." He was such a crusty, rude unlovable character that he quickly became one of my favorites. Oddly enough, I started wondering what his youth had been like (before it all went wrong) and this ZANY story popped into my head.

“What is it?” asked Vilori Reagan in confusion. He scratched one of his pointy ears and smoothed his white-blond hair.

“It’s a chicken ,” said Harcourt in mild disbelief.

“You sure?”

“YES, Vilori! What did you think it was?”

Reagan examined the beady-eyed feather duster in curiosity and (he noted the sharp talons and spurs) some apprehension. “I’ve never seen one before,” he admitted.

“You’ve never seen a CHICKEN?” demanded Harcourt.

“Well not a live one anyways,” mumbled Vilori. “I’ve seen them in the poulterer’s windows and such. As a child I recall having a picture book about a little red hen but…” Vilori trailed off. The picture-book had had such jolly woodcuts in it of a fat flouncy chicken in a bonnet. The mad, twitchy, beasts going “BWARRRK” around him were not of the bonnet-wearing variety.

“I grew up in a mansion, you pillock,” he finished.

“What! Didn’t your family keep chickens on the grounds?”

“Might have done,” said Vilori looking around. He didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t been let out much in his youth. Having only just reached the tender age of 30, the immortal Elf hadn’t much been exposed to common things like boot-blacking, burlap, and scary flappy feathery things that went “BWARRK.”

“You’re such a nancy,” sighed Harcourt, fingering the hilt on his short-sword.

“So why are we looking at chickens?” asked Vilori in disgust. “What did your uncle want done?”

Harcourt eyed his friend nervously. “He… er… wanted us to find out why the chickens were disappearing at night.”

Vilori made a noise of utter annoyance. “But we’re bloody RANGERS, Harcourt! We’re not farmhands!”

“He’s family!” moaned Harcourt. “I told you we were doing it as a personal favor!”

“Yes, but CHICKENS?” moaned Vilori. “If his farm was being overrun by wild bears, I might concede his point, but disappearing chickens! What he wants is a good fox trap.”

“We  know it weren’t a fox. There’s no paw prints, no blood, no feathers, just a lack of chickens!”

“So, poachers?” asked Reagan sounding mollified. This was more like it.

“Dunno,” said Harcourt. “Haven’t been any strange boot prints.”

“Maybe it was Elves,” said Reagan darkly. “I’ve known a fair few that could walk without leaving a trail. And speaking of boots, I wish you’d told me to wear proper footwear. My slippers are all covered in mud.”

Harcourt looked down at the silk slippers on Reagan’s feet and shook his head. He decided that now was not the ideal time to mention that it was not entirely mud. “Eeeeyah. So anyways, come nightfall, Uncle Red wants us to keep watch.”

“So are these all new chickens?” asked Vilori.

“No.”

“Seems your Uncle has quite a lot of chickens despite the burglaries.”

“Well, that’s the strange part, you ken…” began Harcourt scratching his sandy head. “…they all come back.”

“What do?” asked Vilori in confusion.

“Most of these chickens were gone for three days… but just this Tuesday… they all come back.”

“Really? What do the farmhands have to say?”

“They don’t want to talk about it.”

Harcourt scratched his arm absently, his surplus of muscles bulging under his linen shirt as he did so. Vilori wished for a moment that he’d been blessed with a powerful farmer’s physique rather than the build of a female ballet dancer. It certainly didn’t earn him any respect in the Northern farmlands of Buncham.

“What do you think it means?” asked Vilori.

“I dunno. Something has the farmers around here worried”

“Then why aren’t they out in a bloody chicken pen at night?”

“They did that last Monday-week. The next day, young Alistair went missin’. Now they want Rangers.”

“Rangers?  I’m beginning to think that what they want is a wizard.”

“Well you know how farmers feel about magic.”

Reagan nodded. Farmers were down to earth people that knew better than anyone the trick to patience, determination and blind optimism. The idea of waving a wand to fix your problem was an insult to the farmer’s own special brand of country magic.

“Best get comfortable then” said Harcourt, shooing some chickens off a pile of sacking and sitting down. Vilori made a face at the none-too-clean seat and gingerly sat on it so that as little of his expensive clothes touched it as possible.

Hours passed.

Night fell and a few stars winked in the overcast night. A thin sliver of moon garnished the navy-blue cocktail of night which made Vilori look wistfully down the road to the pub.

“Do we get a dinner break?” he asked mildly still looking at the far away windows glowing yellow.

“I suppose we could in an hour,” said Harcourt who had begun staring with him. After all, it’s not like we’re expected to go without for 12 hours.

“Right,” agreed Vilori.

“And this way we won’t wake any of the house,” said Harcourt, pointing to the black windows of his uncle’s farmhouse.

“Right.”

The two men sat in silence a while.

“I mean it’s not like were even getting paid by my uncle,” added Harcourt.

“Uh-huh,”

A few soft “bwucks” were the only sound as they two men anxiously watched Harcourt’s pocket watch.

“Nice night,” observed Vilori looking about at the monochrome landscape.

“Very mild, yes,” said Harcourt.

…

…

“If memory serves, the pub does ploughman’s pie on Thursday nights,” said Harcourt.

“With those little round onions?” asked Vilori

“Yuh.”

Both men silently contemplated the virtues of tiny crunchy onions.

“Right! Best take our break now so we can concentrate on chicken-watching later, eh?” said Harcourt rising to his feet.

“Good plan,” agreed Vilori.

The two men, being very quiet so as not to disturb the household or the chickens padded softly off the farmlands and (when they were out of earshot) legged it down the road to the sign of the Fiddler’s Riddle.

A one hour break turned into a two hour long rest which turned into a “lemme buy yus jus’ wummore round,” and finally became a “we shu’ definly (hic) definly be getting’ back, we should. When the landlord shoved the two men out the door so he could finally get to bed, Harcourt and Vilori stumbled back to Uncle Red’s chickens.

“Shhhhh!” hissed Harcourt in a voice that would have woken stone.

“Whazzut?” shouted Vilori.

“SHHHHHHHH!” hissed Harcourt in a louder hiss, spraying his friend liberally in the process.

“I fink you’re deflating,” slurred Vilori. “I hear an air leak somewhere.”

“So we should ge’ back to the chickens,” mumbled Harcourt.

“Your uncles gon’ go spare,” mumbled Vilori.

“Nahhh nahh…. Nah… nah nah nah… nah…” said Harcourt shaking his head in intervals. “I mean, YES, but he’s not going to find out!!”

“Oh,” said Vilori flopping onto the sackcloth where he sat for a while, letting his organs sift through the hefty amount of toxins he’d just dumped in ‘em.

After an hour of silent processing a thought occurred to a slightly more sober Vilori.

“Harcourt?”

“Mm?”

“Have you noticed something?”

“What’s that?”

“That suddenly there’s a distinct lack of chickens on this chicken farm?”

Jumping to his feet (and managing to find  them on the second attempt) Harcourt blearily stumbled around the yard looking into the coops. They were, to the last bird, EMPTY. Blood and alcohol drained from Harcourt’s face.

“Oh bugger,” he gasped.

“Harcourt?” called Vilori.

“Yuh?”

“How organized are chickens?”

Harcourt pondered this for a moment, “The HELL do you mean, how organized’re chickens?”

“Well some birds travel in “V” formations, right”

“Yeah, well that’s PROPER birds, innit? Not bleedin’chickens.”

“So most chickens don’t walk in single file, do they?”

“No!” shouted Harcourt until Vilori’s question probed at him. “WHY?”

“Because these chickens did,” said Vilori pointing to a thin chain of chicken tracks leading out of the yard in a PERFECTLY straight line.

READ THE CONCLUSION HERE!

Friday Flash Anthology

Assuming I haven't already missed the deadline for this,
I've been wondering which story to submit for the BEST OF FRIDAY FLASH 2 Anthology. As John W. already posted, authors are CRAP at picking their best stuff so I thought I would narrow it down to 3 stories and let you guys pick. I know you're all busy, so I've stated the premise of each story next to the title if you don't have time to read or re-read it.

Three Finalists:

1. Joe Milgrave and the Devil: Joe summons the Devil (who doesn't REMOTELY look like Burt Reynolds) to beg one favor: Make Mrs. Milgrave agree with him.

2. Mr. Peterson's Tale
A wizened old exterminator tells of his harrowing encounter with "Ol' blinky."

3. Doctor Frankenstein's House of Pancakes The good Doctor F, his promethean construct, Igor and Stephanie are the staff at your not-too-average breakfast joint. "Try the thrcrapple."

Please vote for you favorite by leaving a comment with the number or title of your favorite story. If you've liked a different story that you think deserves submission, feel free to state as such.

I REALLY appreciate you taking the time to read this and vote. SUPER thanks in advance.

The Nature of Magic

This is an Excerpt taken from my YA novel, Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid. It's slated for publication next winter. In this quasi-Edwardian world, Magic has all but disappeared. All that is left are a few stray Elves, Dragons, Magic Crystals, and ...occasionally a few very mad wizards. Evelyn Kelly is one of these sad magical men. His partner in crime is one of the last Elves, Lynald Wingaurd.

Kelly was lost to the world and it wasn’t due to any indulgence in spirits this time. In fact he hadn’t had a drink in over seventeen hours and it was beginning to tell on his sparking, fizzing nerves. But it meant that his brain was alive and running on energy more potent than a dynamo. He was reading his prized tomes, the hand-written heirloom grimoires of the Amazing Meriwether Maydock, wizard and machinist extraordinaire. Inspector Slaven had readily retrieved them, along with Lynald’s tools, from the evidence locker. Reading the grimoire was a lengthy process. Meriwether, whether out of typical wizardly paranoia or sheer bloody-mindedness, wrote in his journals using encrypted code. This code would differ from page to page depending on what Meriwether felt like using.

Maydock’s Code was derived using a complex magical algorithm written at the top of each entry, and each formula would vary, producing a different code. Being the product of a wizard’s imagination, the formulae tended to defy conventional mathematics and required a kind of (as Lynald put it) ‘fluffy wizard logic’ to solve it. Lynald had once tried to solve one of the algorithms and had needed to lie down for an hour afterwards. Kelly, however, had already solved two-thirds of the seven-hundred and ninety-two collective pages after only a year. His mind was more attuned to solving problems like “If green is to 28 as Jam is to Wednesday, where did I leave my socks?” The answer of course, being, “well, where did you last see them?”

Kelly would then plot the alphabet on a Venn diagram where the “x” was labeled Jam and “y” as Wednesdays and “z” as green. For example: There were 6 kinds of Jam beginning with “B”: blueberry, blackberry, boysenberry, bilberry, black currant and blood orange. None of those were green. He’d eaten two kinds last Wednesday and it had taken him 7 minutes to find his socks. So B was given a value of 15 with a green value of 0.

It didn’t make sense, but then sense always takes a back seat to “logic.”


You can currently read the first four chapters of Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid at Dr. Fantastique's Show of Wonders.

GO BACK TO TESSA'S NATURE OF MAGIC BLOGFEST

(I coudln't get the images to fit.) :P

BOOK 2 IS NOW ON SALE!!

UPDATED, 9/6/2011
'Runs in Good Condition' by Monica Marier is now available in paperback and e-book formats from lulu.com

Linus is back from his travels with money to burn and a grateful family. Only now he finds himself swept up in a danger worse than dragons and kobolds: Politics. Nominated for Union President Linus goes toe to toe with crooked leaders, a tank of water, dancing slippers, pop singers, corsets, and even a werewolf or two. That is if he even passes the qualifying rounds… and if he can avoid planting his foot in his mouth every two seconds.

Whether you’re liberal, conservative, or nihilist, there’s nothing as impolitic as Linus Weedwhacker: Candidate at Large!

Praise for Must Love Dragons (Book 1 of ‘The Linus Saga’)

**“…A dungeon crawling adventure with heart and a sense of humor. Five stars all the way.”

**“Linus [is] 'John McClane in Middle Earth.'... a real page-turner”

**“A Fun Fantasy Romp! With great characters and terrific plot twists, this book was fun, from start to finish.”

**“It's a wonderfully witty book, that pokes fun at growing older, dealing with impudent newbies and wondering just how good were the 'good ol' days.'”

**“This is a beautifully written story full of truly likable characters.”

**“A fun satire of the classic 2-d fantasy character turned three dimensional… I'd recommend this to any humor/fantasy and especially any Pratchett/Discworld fans.”

**“It takes a good sense of humor as well as a stiff upper lip... Highly recommended.” ~ Midwest Book Review

ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY!
FROM LULU
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Still haven't read Book One, 'Must Love Dragons'?
You can order it here!
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FROM BARNES & NOBLE