Scaredy-Cat

By Monica Marier
I’m in a Hallowe’en-y mood today. Enjoy!


“…Kyle looked down at Tommy, and realized that he was dead. What he thought were the sounds of muffled speaking were actually a nest of rats that had carved a hole in his rotten stomach.”

“STOP!” shouted Isaac jumping to his feet, covering his ears.

“Aw jeez,” moaned Phillip through his pillow. “I told you Isaac would freak.”

“Scaredy-cat!” called Lewis and Phillip joined in. “Scaredy-cat! Scaredy-cat!”

Alex stopped the story immediately, a fleeting expression of guilt crossing his handsome face. “Calm down, Isaac. It’s just a story. It’s not real.”

“No! I told you I didn’t want to do ghost stories! I told you!” moaned Isaac, running out of the bunkhouse.

He desperately tried to conceal the tears streaming from his eyes down his pointed features. His spidery limbs shivered in the chilly Fall night as he left bunk 2 for the seclusion of the pine thicket. Isaac didn’t much like it out here either. The wind howled mournfully through the trees as slivers of moonlight broke through the swirling tendrils of black cloud. Other than that, there was no noise out here. No humming of machines, no ticking clocks or the whir of the furnace. It was eerie and dark and very lonely out here.

The one comfort was that no one would see him cry.

Isaac cursed his own cowardice as he sobbed, his slippers padding silently on spiny pine needles. He was ten years old for Pete’s sake! He was too big to go screaming like a girl and crying every time his friends told a creepy story! But he couldn’t help it. They didn’t understand. They didn’t understand that while Alex was describing the rat-infested corpse of Dead Tommy, Isaac could experience everything.

He could smell the rotting flesh, hear the nightmarish squeaking. He could see Tommy’s eyes, milky white, staring unseeing at the ceiling while his friend screamed in unhinged terror. He heard the scream tear the very air as the rats dove for Kyle’s face, clawing at his eyes—!

Isaac had to stop himself in mid-thought as another sob broke free of his tight chest. He was scared —so scared that it hurt. Why did everything have to feel so real? He knew it was a story, yet he knew he wouldn't get a wink of sleep that night. He would be seeing Dead Tommy in his dreams all night.
Isaac squealed as he heard footsteps and whirled around.

“It’s just me,” said Alex.

Isaac relaxed. It was okay to cry around Alex.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” said Isaac petulantly.

“Look I’m really sorry. But you said you’d be okay.”

“No, you said I’d be okay. I said you were full of it,” said Isaac looking upon Alex with an expression of hurt betrayal.

“I keep forgetting you’re such a…”

“Sissy?” prompted Isaac with venom.

“That you’re really imaginative,” said Alex, ever the diplomat.

“I hate it,” muttered Isaac.

“But you’re really good at coming up with your own stories! You know your sketchbook that’s full of dwarves and orcs and manticores and stuff.”

“Yeah, but I only like nice stories, where nothing bad happens. Nothing scary anyway. Bad things… hurt me.”

“Yeah I know.”

“I wish I could be brave like you,” said Isaac. Alex often bragged that he’d seen Friday 13th and Nightmare on Elmstreet without being scared. "I'd rather be brave than creative."

“I wish I could come up with stuff like you,” said Alex with a grin. “Come back inside. It’s freezing out here, and if Phillip’s dad catches us out here we’ll be in trouble.”

“Are the others going to call me scaredy-cat again?” mumbled Isaac.

“I won’t let them,” said Alex staunchly.

Isaac stood up with a sigh. “I really hate camping.”

******

20 years later…

Gilda closed the word document shuddered. She’d been biting her knuckles for the last few pages, her legs curling up on the sofa as she read the last chapter. She forgot that she was supposed to be editing and would have to re-read the last chapter again. She’d gotten too into the story.
Pushing the laptop to one side she glanced up at her husband in both admiration and shock.

“Good grief, babe! I don’t know how you manage to take the English language and write something so terrifying! Woof!” she said.

He just laughed good-naturedly at Gilda as he pulled the nachos out of the oven and stirred the chili. “Sorry. Too graphic?”

“No, it’s good. I think you have another best-seller, it’s just…” Gilda left off and shivered. “Your readers better be made of strong stuff, that’s all I’ll say. Enlighten me, honey. Were you always this ghoulish? Were you one of those kids who ate R.L. Stein books for breakfast every morning and pretended to be Freddy Krueger?”

Isaac smiled at his wife as she looked up at him wide-eyed. “Believe it or not, I was actually quite the scaredy-cat as a kid,” he said.

(Based on a true story.)

The Shooting Party

“So what the hell is a ‘cockadoodle?’” asked Kelly. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf wrapped around his face.

He and Lynald were seated by the crumbling wall of an ancient stable on the edge of Leandir’s field, giving them a clear view of the tree-line. Lynald's cousins were behind similar half-walls and rocks in various states of disintegration. Their breath hung in the air as each man shivered in the freezing dawn. The sun was in hiding today and the pearlescent morning made the dying trees and mown wheat-stalks look tired and old. Kelly fought another wave of sleep as Lynald took another long pull at his flask of coffee.

“I thought I was on this holiday to recuperate,” grumbled Kelly. “How does freezing my bollocks in a field at six in the morning fit into that plan?”

“You’re getting out in the fresh air and taking exercise. That’s how,” said Lynald.

“That’s what walks and outdoor luncheons are for!” complained Kelly. He eyed the long rifles next to him warily. “You know I don’t like guns.”

“Come now, don’t be such a spoil sport,” said Lynald yawning. “This will be jolly fun.”

“You can have jolly fun, Ly-o. I’d rather stay in bed and read a book. Wish I’d brought one now. What’s taking so long anyway?”

“Would you just shut up for two minutes together? I’m trying to enjoy the morning and it’s rather hard with your constant stream of whinging.”

“Oh, pardon me for ruining your morning. Never mind that you’ve already ruined mine.”

“SHUT UP!”

“Git.”

“Ass.”

Just then there was a loud and rather wounded-sounding horn blast from the tree-line. A large orange cloth was being waved by Phelps the gamekeeper.

“That means we’re about to start.”

“You still haven’t explained to me what a cockadoodle is.”

“It’s a cross between a cockatrice and a dog,” replied Lynald.

“Good eating on ‘em?” asked Kelly.

“Of course not!” sniffed Lynald.

“Good fur?”

“No.”

“Then why are you hunting them?” asked Kelly.

“For the sport of it,” said Lynald with a snort. “Besides, it’s the one species in the forest these days that isn’t in danger of growing extinct. They’re a damn nuisance and they breed like rabbits,” said Lynald.

“Then why have a gamekeeper and fosterers?” asked Kelly.

“Oh, that’s one of Leandir’s little ambitions. He’s trying to improve the breed.”

“How?”

“He’s trying to breed a species of cockadoodle that can actually fly.”

“They don’t fly?” asked Kelly in astonishment. “Then how do we shoot them?”

“Ah, well, that’s the other reason for the gamekeeper and fosterers.”

“Huh?” asked Kelly.

“On your marks gentlemen!” came Cousin Leandir’s booming voice across the bare fields. “When you’re ready, Phelps!”

Lynald shouldered his rifle, but Kelly held back, desirous to see what was going on first.

“PULL!” shouted Phelps.

There were a series of twangs and simultaneously five feathery floppy creatures with beaks and long ears leaped into the air like they had been stuck with pins. There was a loud explosion as twelve rifles reported and clouds of smoke drifted across the foggy field. Kelly squinted, trying to get a better look at the proceedings when the wall next to him exploded. He felt a sharp sting on his cheek as he fell over backwards in his chair. Looking up, he saw a large bullet hole, the size of an apple in the crumbling stone wall.

“Nice shot, Cousin Algie!” cried Lynald in a dry unconcerned voice.

“Damn thing got away from me!” grumbled Algernon. “Alright there, Kenny?”

“Oh absolutely spiffing.” sneered Kelly under his breath.

“Tip top! No harm done!” said Lynald.

“Jolly good!”

“PULL!” shouted Phelps, and again there was a twanging sound and a chorus of gunshots.

Through his safe spot on the ground, Kelly took advantage of his position and watched at a low hole in the masonry. There were a few more explosions of mortar and crumbling brick, this time Kelly could see that every shooting station was affected. Shots were hitting walls and landing in the dirt several feet from their guns, and a few set a couple of trilby hats spinning. Most of the cockadoodle, apart from the two shot stone dead by Leandir, had landed without incident, waddling unconcernedly on the ground. Occasionally they were forced to leap out of the way of a gunshot, but they fluttered heavily back into place and to continue scratching at the frozen ground.

Kelly tried to get a look at the fosterers and noticed that they were all wearing very heavy leather clothes and wore metal helmets on their head, like jousting knights. At their feet were several hundred cockadoodle milling about and preening good naturedly. A fosterer would then seize a bird-dog in his leather gloves and load him into a device. The device looked something like a large crossbow or slingshot with a stiff leather compartment near the stock. The animal was placed in the compartment and a crank was wound. When Phelps’s cry of “PULL” echoed across the field, the fosterer pulled a lever and the bird was shot ten feet into the air to land with a soft feathery “plop” in the dust. The survivors waddled back to the other cockadoodle by the fosterers.

Whether there was food over there, or they sought out the familiar fosterer, or whether they simply liked being flung into the air was anyone’s guess. It was clear after the first six volleys that there was no imminent danger. Kelly judged that only 10% of them were doomed to die in this exercise, those being the unfortunate birds under Leandir’s keen eye. The kills by his kinfolk however, were esoteric at best and included trilby hats, a straw bonnet, a rifle barrel, a box of cartridges, a pocket watch, six clumps of sod, a folding chair, three walls, and a chipmunk. There was one moment of family camaraderie when all the men and ladies took up arms to decimate a burlap sack that had been caught up by the wind.

Kelly dodged away from his section of wall as another chunk of it was blown into powder and debris. The only sound that could be heard above the reports was the occasional “sorry.”

“Dear God, it’s like a war zone!” cried Kelly gripping his hat and lying in the dirt.

“Pretty much. Better vittles though,” said Lynald taking a pull at his flask of coffee. It was shot from his hand by a sheepish-looking cousin in the next “foxhole” struggling with the weight of his rifle stock.

“Sorry there!” he cried, dropping the gun causing it to fire into the air. There was a soft thump near Lynald as a dead squirrel landed on Kelly’s bowler hat. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, Neelan?” called Lynald sighing. “Just a tip: don’t point a rifle at anything you don’t want to die.”

“Right-o!” answered Neelan, shouldering the rifle again, backwards. There was another shot and when the smoke cleared one of the servants near the chafing dishes had keeled over.

“Did he just kill a man?” gasped Kelly.

“No,” said Lynald. “He just dove for cover the big baby,” sniffed Lynald.

“He alright?” called Kelly.

“He’s fainted, sir!” replied one of the servants attending to a young man whose face was the colour of cold porridge.

“Well pick him up and send him to bed,” Neelan said to him. “But none of you lot get any ideas about falling over like big nancies. The next man to go under is getting shot in the foot.”

"Bloody Elves," moaned Kelly and decided to curl into a ball unpon the dusty ground until they went in to lunch.


Like?> Read book one! Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is now available for pre-orders HERE!

Jeremy Hunted 2: The Lodger

This exchange happens after we've already met Andrew and Jeremy in part 1.  For those of you just jumping in, the only thing you need know is that Jeremy is a vampire and Andrew is his mortal best friend. Together they hunt and kill other vampires.

Frances “Frank” Timothy Tercero climbed shakily out of the black taxi and stood in front of 23 Girton Rd NW11 8AG. The cab had driven past it three times while they had looked for the house number, and after some arguing and calculations using the other houses, they eventually realized that it must have been here. Frank gripped his suitcases and gulped at the towering hedges that were trimmed to a tidy and forbidding 10 feet. A small “Rooms To Let” sign was stuck in it, drowning in tiny green leaves. Upon inspection, Frank found a low metal gate peeking out from a portal cut in the privet wall. It opened silently and he peered into the gloom. A large ash tree caressed the red-tile roof of a handsome half-timber house and blocked the few rays of sunlight that were brave enough to climb over the hedge. Sure enough a pair of brass numbers glinted in the dim green light. This was number 23.

“Crap,” he muttered. Steeling his courage, and taking a deep breath, Frank marched resolutely up the walk towards the glassed in boot room. He marveled further at the gloomy front yard. Instead of a lawn there was a sea of ground ivy that strayed onto the flagstone walkway and caught at his trouser legs. A sun catcher made of lead and stained yellow glass twirled idly in an unfelt breeze. Frank wondered what on earth the sun catcher was meant to catch, seeing as there wasn’t a speck of light. He glanced up at the windows and smiled at the old-fashioned diamond shapes of the leaded panes.

“Just like something out of Shakespeare’s time,” he said to himself with a grin. Frank had very little imagination, but he had a highly developed romantic mind. He’d never read a lot of novels as a kid or watched cartoons. He’d preferred to read books about history and famous people of centuries past. While his generation was watching “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” and “Thunder Cats”, he was pouring over books about the Roman Empire and the Ancient Greece. He’d read about the lives of Lincoln, Jefferson, Bonaparte, Charlemagne and Caesar.

And he read about England. It was a fascinating country to him —it was like all the world’s history had been crammed into an island the size of Louisiana.  All his life he’d wanted to visit it. And now that Father Brennan was making him take an enforced sabbatical from Seminary it seemed a good place to find himself. He winced at the memory of that meeting, and with a heavy heart, rang the doorbell.

He waited a while, and no one came. He decided he must not have pushed the button hard enough and tried again, pushing firmly on the button. This time the brittle rubber button became stuck to his thumb and came away from the post, pulling the plastic casing with it. Some wires that looked thoroughly dead and rotten trailed back to the doorpost. Uncertain what to do next, Frank looked around to see if he could spot anyone at the windows, but all he could see were heavy curtains.

Leaning on the glass door it gave way immediately and he wandered into the boot room, twiddling his fingers in anxiety. He approached the heavy white door featuring a brass knocker shaped like the head of Hermes. Frank knocked firmly and the sound bounced off the glass panes. His eyelids suddenly drooped as he unleashed a head-splitting yawn. Checking his cellphone, he noted that back in Baltimore it was 6am, while over here, it was around lunchtime.

He was shaken out of his tiredness when he heard hissing whispers on the other side of the door. It sounded like two people having a heated argument they didn’t want overheard. With a sudden hiss of “shut-it!” the door popped open and two men stood grinning on the threshold. Both of their grins seemed rather forced.

Frank pushed up his spectacles to get a better look at them. They both looked like men in their mid-thirties but their similarities ended there. One looked like a quiet gentleman with eccentric taste in clothing; he wore an overlarge shirt tucked into high-waisted trousers that were held up by very old-fashioned two-button suspenders. He was pale and very thin, almost sickly looking, like some of the chemo patients Frank had worked with — except for a mop of snowy shoulder-length hair. His grin revealed very white teeth with long canines. Frank wasn’t normally put off by these. He was a quarter Italian and all his Mediterranean cousins sported long canines. But in this pale man’s face they were a little eerie.

The other man was his complete antithesis. While the former looked like a slight breeze would knock him over, this one looked like he could punch through a commercial bus. He was tall, muscular and covered in tattoos and piercings. Unlike his friend, he was more moderately dressed in black jeans and a worn t-shirt advertising the band, “Zombie Cromwell” His head was shaved but his face sported a jet-black goatee broken here and there by scar tissue. His grin revealed a mouth full of yellow chipped teeth.

The silence dragged on, long and awkward, until the pale one broke it.

“Can I help you?” he asked suddenly. He looked uncertain.

“Oh, right!” spluttered Frank in embarrassment. “I’m Frank Tercero, we spoke on the phone.” He extended a hand in greeting, and pale man shook it with a firmer grip than Frank would have supposed.

“Frank, right! I’m Jeremy Bates and this is my friend, Andrew Fletcher. Come on in and we’ll get you sorted. Did you have a good flight?”

Frank nodded and relaxed a little. But couldn’t help noticing how Andrew kept staring at him with an expression of disapproval.

“Andrew, get his bags, will you?” Jeremy said. “Bring ‘em to the William Morris room.”

“The Willie-what now?” asked Andrew.

“The room with the green wallpaper,” explained Jeremy before Andrew had even finished. Frank watched the exchange with curiosity.

“I must say, you’re a lot younger than I expected for a priest,” said Jeremy. “Did you just get ordained then?”

“Uh, no, I’m not ordained,” mumbled Frank. “I haven’t been accepted for candidacy yet.”

“Oh, that explains why you don’t have your little collar-thing on,” said Andrew coming up behind them. He was carrying the two heavy suitcases like they were lunchboxes and when he threw them on the bed there was an ominous creak from the springs. Frank was about to explain that pre-candidate seminarians who did wear Roman collars didn’t wear them on sabbatical, when Jeremy’s head whipped around and gave Andrew a pointed look. He charged into the hall dragging Andrew’s bulk with him.

“Excuse us a moment,” said Jeremy, closing the door.

Frank looked at the door in bewilderment and immediately heard hushed arguing again, like he’d heard on the landing, only this time he could hear every word.

“Don’t’ just throw his luggage on the bed, Andrew. Ask him where he wants ‘em!” hissed Jeremy.

“I’m not a bloody bell-hop, Jer,” came Andrew’s voice through the door.

“He’s a guest!” Jeremy snapped back.

“So am I!”

“Well, he’s a paying guest, so he trumps you on that much.”

“You never asked me to pay!”

“I would never think of asking you to pay, but I think you’d have the common decency to show a little politeness now and then, especially for my tenants!”

“I was being polite! That was me bein’ polite!”

“Argh! You’re so difficult, sometimes,” moaned Jeremy.

“Yeah well you didn’t even ask me if I wanted him to stay, now din’ ya!”

“It’s my house!”

“And you invite a priest here?? You don’t care if he pokes around and discovers our secret!”

“SHHH!”

There were footsteps as the whispering retreated to a further location and became inaudible.

Frank stared at the door non-plussed. He shoved the suitcases on the floor and kicking off his shoes climbed into the bed, fully dressed.

“Oh great,” he muttered. “I’ve landed in a gay love-nest by mistake. No wonder that big fella’s not pleased to see me.”

He had little time to reflect or pray on it before sleep overcame him entirely.

The Night Job

My dear friend Icy got me thinking about England this week. Andrew and Jeremy were characters I'd invented during my short study-abroad at Cambridge. I simply like Andrew for being a large lovable hooligan.  I don't have many characters like that.

Andrew felt himself waking up and fought it. He lost rather quickly. With supreme effort he tried to unglue his eyelids. He blinked red-eyed in the dim light that signified it was the wee small hours of the afternoon. He was suddenly aware that this was not his bed.  It was a familiar bed, and by familiar it didn’t fall into either category of girlfriend or one of his drunken mates. Instead he recognized the leaded windows and oak-beamed ceiling of Jeremy Bates’s house. How the hell had he wound up here? Jeremy was an old friend to be sure, although they hadn’t worked together in ages, but why here? HOW here?

He’d left the bike at the flat, he was sure of that. He couldn’t remember getting on the train last night and taking the Northern Line to Golders Green (that would have involved two transfers!). Nor could he remember stumbling down Finchley Road trying to look sober. That walk would have taken hours at any rate. Had he really gotten THAT pissed last night? That wasn’t like him. Realizing he was fully clothed, Andrew stuck his large clumsy hands in his pockets to look for clues.

 When he pulled out the ring, he remembered. Sasha had left him.

Kicked him out, come to think of it—that was a first. He wondered what protocol was for getting his stuff back. Most of it was Sasha’s and a lot of it wasn’t worth bothering over, but he really wanted his motorcycle helmet, and the commemorative 1966 World Cup Champions mug that had been a gift from his Uncle Arthur. Maybe Jeremy knew how the standard “I’m-really-sorry-and-I-know-you-said-you-never-wanted-to-see-me-again-but-can-I-pop-in-and-get-my-rubbish” transaction went. Did he have to bring a “second?”

He thought more about Sasha and fought back the tears that sprang to his eyes. It wasn’t too hard; he’d had a lot of practice after 36 years.

Unable to go back to sleep, and not sure he wanted to in any case, Andrew wound his way down the narrow staircase. He heard a clattering in the kitchen and made his way towards the large and very old dining table, currently set for one.

Jeremy was in the kitchen, heating up baked beans in a saucepan. Two pieces of bread suffering from third-degree burns were smoking pathetically on a chipped plate. Andrew managed a half-grin. Only Jeremy could have buggered up beans on toast.

“’Morning,” said Andrew by way of greeting.

“Afternoon more like,” said Jeremy kindly in his polished clipped tones. “No —tell a lie — it’s almost evening. Gloaming perhaps?”

“Twilight?” suggested Andrew with a grin.

“Hur hur hur,” answered Jeremy, rolling his eyes

“So…er…uh…”

“You’re going to ask me what happened last night and how you got here,” said Jeremy. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes please,” mumbled Andrew.

“I found you this morning while I was getting the paper. You were at the street corner trying to bash in a postbox. You kept screaming, ‘this bloody thing took my money and won’t give me a Kitkat.’ Sound familiar now?”

“Uh. No.”

“I…well…” Jeremy looked uneasy and suddenly became interested in the caramelizing beans in the saucepan.  “I called Sasha to come and get you… and…” He faded into silence as he poured the beans over the gluten-based charcoal briquettes.

“Yeah. We broke it off,” finished Andrew. He watched Jeremy try to chisel the remainder of his beans out of the pot with a lemon zester.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jeremy.

Andrew frowned. “No you’re not,” he countered. “You never liked her.”

Jeremy had the pained expression of one determined to make a clean breast of it. “She was an illiterate chav with more piercings than brain cells who thought that the greatest contribution to modern civilization was Heinz’s line of microwavable puddings.”

Andrew was shocked and hurt by this statement but one bald fact stood out: “SO AM I!!” he blurted out.

“You’re literate,” sniffed Jeremy taking his sad plate to the dining room.

“Yeah, but I don’t read if I can help it,” said Andrew.

“That’s because you need glasses.”

“And there’s no cause to complain about microwaves when you can’t be fussed to buy one,”

“Nasty horrible things. Ruining food,” muttered Jeremy. He winced momentarily as his tooth came down hard on a petrified bean.  “Well as far as girls go, you’ve done a lot better than Sasha.”

“You’ve never liked any of them, Jer.”

Jeremy seemed loath to admit this and didn’t sound convincing when he said, “Christine. I liked Christine.”

“No you didn’t” snorted Andrew.

“Well her tattoos were spelled correctly at least,” said Jeremy loftily. “So what happened with Sasha?”

Andrew let his head rest on the cool table and said nothing for a minute. “The same reason all the others left,” he said.

Jeremy dabbed at his chin with a napkin for a moment before regarding Andrew. “Ah,” he said softly.

“I just wish one of them would give me a chance,” Andrew said to the table.

“They can’t help it. You mention your line of work to anyone and they all think you’re a loony.”

“Or that I watch too much Torchwood.”

“Torch-what?”

“It’s just a show.”

“On the wireless?”

“No. I keep telling you, Jer. People don’t do shows on the wireless anymore… nor do they call it a wireless,” he added.

“So what did Sasha say?” asked Jeremy, ignoring him.

“She said, ‘How in the hell after all this time can you come out and say such utter plonk? Telling me you were seeing another girl woulda been more honest than this rubbish about bein’ a vampire hunter!’”

“Ouch. So she just thought you were a rake then.”

“Eh?”

“A louse, a cad, a…” Jeremy snapped his fingers, looking for a less-dated word. “ A ‘player’?”

“ Yeah. One of those. I’ll admit it’s a first. Usually they call an ambulance and I’m under surveillance for a few days.”

“Until I fetch you and say you’ve been off your pills.”

“Yeah, we need a new cover story by the way. You don’t look old enough to be my dad anymore.”

“On the contrary— you don’t look young enough to be my son anymore. It’s not my fault you keep aging,” said Jeremy lightly.

“Brother?”

“With this face? I look nothing like you, you ugly sasquatch,” said Jeremy.

“Lover?” joked Andrew batting his eyes.

Jeremy grunted and flashed him an annoyed look. “NO. Call me something else, please.”

“What do you call a vampire that teams up with a vampire hunter?” mused Andrew.

“MENTAL,” was Jeremy’s answer. “Welcome back, partner.”

Andrew didn’t answer; his mind was occupied elsewhere.

“Er… so how much money did I shove into that postbox?”

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.

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
FROM AMAZON(Kindle)


Still haven't read Book One, 'Must Love Dragons'?
You can order it here!
FROM LULU
FROM AMAZON (and Kindle)
FROM BARNES & NOBLE

#Twitterpocalypse

The rash of bots has made me paranoid. This story is the brainchild of that paranoia. Enjoy.

Image of Fail Whale by Yiying Lu


The sky was blue, an unnatural neon shade that made one see bright orange upon blinking. White puffy clouds dotted the celestial dome like darling cartoon sheep, only they stayed fixed in the air, unmoving.

The four figures stared up and blinked at the static, sunless sky. With a deafening fanfare and an explosion of fireworks, they saw it. Descending from the sky, suspended by a multitude of chubby birds was a large whale. The leviathan nodded benevolently at his small assembly as the birds (with no small effort) lowered him into his tank. It sang a few bars of “Pokerface” and then turned to his men. Whales cannot giggle, but a cetaceous squeal of mirth was piped in the air as it breached.

“WELCOME!” said the Fail Whale. “I’ve invited you three to this special hashtag chat (#twitterpocalypse) because as denizen of this social media network, I have grown bored. I believe that Twitter has evolved beyond its purpose and must be destroyed. What started out as a neat way to stalk celebrities and piss off people with abbreviated sentences has turned into a place for people to connect and share ideas and promote and support each other. It makes me sick. That being said, with my awesome Fail Whale powers I hereby begin the destruction of Twitter! That’s why I have called you four together! What say you?”

The four avatars looked either unimpressed or ignorant of what was going on. The Whale eyed them critically. One was a smiling man in his late fifties standing on his yacht in Eddie Bauer shorts. Another was a Young woman with far too little clothing, who kept shifting into poses she probably thought was alluring. One was a badly sampled image lifted off the internet of a Cat with a Lime rind on it’s head. The last was simply an egg. The egg confused the whale most of all.

“Um, guys?” asked the Fail Whale. Perhaps they hadn’t heard him.
“‎"We must not allow ourselves to become like the system we oppose." - Bishop Desmond Tutu” said the man on the boat.
“i wood totally have hawt sex w. lady gaga!! ; )” said the young woman.
“GLENN BECK IS THE DEVIL WE SHOULD STAB HIS BRAIN WITH A TOOTHPICK!” said the cat in all-caps.
“writers wanted: http.tiny/iouoa9357q9ls.fke” said the egg.

“You’re not the traditional four horsemen are you?” asked the whale with sinking realization.
“Visualize the “you” you want to become. You are only as strong as that positive image!” said the man on the boat.
“OMG! Jus Beiber iz cuttin hz hair!” cried the girl.
“OBAMA IS A RACSIST WARMONGER!” shouted the cat, beginning to foam at the mouth a little.
“Protect your computer,” said the egg, who then posted another link.

“Who the heck ARE you guys?” asked the Fail Whale in despair.

The be-shorted man blinked and briefly got off his yacht.
“We’re the four horsemen of the Twitterpocalypse. My name is “Life Coach.” You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t interact with people much. I generally just post quotes by other people and platitudes.”

“Why do you do that?”

“I like to think that if I follow several million people and one million of them follow me and find my quotes inspiring that I can feel educated and superior.”

“But they’re not your thoughts or words. You haven’t posted one original idea!”

"Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm." - Sir Winston Churchhill”

The whale shook his head sadly. Life Coach would not be his lead horseman. He lacked initiative and originality. Maybe the others would make up for it. He eyed the scantily-clad girl with enthusiasm. She was evil, there was no doubt.

“Would you like to bring this media site to its knees, um… are you ‘Porn?’”
“Um… kaynothnxbye,” said the girl in annoyance. “Im, StalkR. I foloo pple I like an post evry aticrle, video, and link abot thm. I alzo offr my body daily to thm in the hopes tht they aknoldg me or evn block me.”

The Whale had trouble deciphering the string of consonants and creative spellings, and eventually stopped listening.

“Why can’t I understand you?”

The girl flipped her hair and scoffed. “YU tri tweetg whl drivin, ass! Itz fcking HARD!!!1”

The Whale lamented that the one word the girl had bothered to spell correctly was “ass” and moved on to the cat. He hadn’t much hope for this one. His doubt was justified.

“Alright. Who’re you?” he asked the cat.

“COLD WATER GIVES YOU CANCER! THE LIBERALS FUCKED THE WORLD! MY FOOT HURTS! WHAT IS A GLEE? GLENN BECK IS HIDING ON MY LAWN IN A PANZER!”

“Oh, you’re a Moron. I get it,” said the Whale. He swam a few inches away from the glass walls of his tank in case the cat attacked. Breaching again, he cursed his luck. How could he bring about total destruction with a small army of paranoid, elitist, illiterate ass-hats? He looked at the egg.

“Okay, egg. Impress me.”

The Egg Robot spun a little on it’s wide base and glowed. It then began shouting a strange litany in a monotone voice.

“United Church of God, Masses Weekly! (link) RT this ad to get a pink iPad 2 (link)! Real estate Prices are crashing! Get your forclosure today! (link) Obama wants to pay you to go back to school! (link) Why you need liability insurance! (link)…”

The whale froze in awe of the robotic voice devoid of emotion trying to reach the hopes and fears of hopeless mortals. The egg spun faster and glowed brighter. The Whale could feel the glass heating up from the shear energy and turned his large head. After a blinding flash of light, the whale dared look out the glass again.

There were millions of them.

A million eggs. Each spinning and glowing and making more eggs. An army of eggs. An invasion of cold, unattached mercenary eggs.

The Fail Whale looked out at the egg robot army and nodded his approval. It was good. He would lead this army to the ruination of Twitter.

It was the dawn of the Twitterpocalypse. None would be left in their wake.

Parody picture by Sabrina @introvertedwife