Michael Gattis

@mgattis.bsky.social

1150 Followers 1207 Following

He/him Aspiring #fantasy #author 📖 đŸČ Dad by day, #writer by naptime đŸ§‘â€đŸŒ #AmQuerying (I'm just leaving these parentheses here until I think of something clever to say)

Charlie put her fingers to her neck. They came away bloody. She tried to thank the hero, but she was in shock. The hero slung his bow back over his saddle, clambered down from his horse, and produced a handkerchief. He stepped towards Charlie and she reflexively reached for it. Then the hero wiped his own, sweating brow and stuffed it beneath his breast plate. “Stupidly hot in here,” he grumbled, and stepped past Charlie with barely a glance.
The problem with either decision, though, was the difficulty of escaping all the monsters. She hid behind a pillar and tried decide which option was best. Servers scurried about the dining room. They stood at tables and took orders as if nothing were amiss, even though the monsters didn’t speak at all. One fellow even spoke to them about wine pairings. Idly, Charlie wondered what wine would pair best with her, should one of these monsters get its hands, claws, or tentacles on her.
Luka and the mantis began to circle one another. As they did so, the mantis knocked salt and pepper shakers from the tables and chittered maniacally. “At least it’s a weak one,” one of the dwarf brothers said. Joren or Yoren. You couldn’t blame anyone for getting them mixed up. “Glory!” Luka shouted. He flung himself at the mantis, knocked aside one of its scythes with his trusty spatula, and drove his chef’s knife into the insect’s heart, killing it instantly. At least, that was Charlie’s expectation. But when the knife came out, it was clean. The mantis laughed and flung the KM aside. Then it was on him in a scene eerily reminiscent of what Charlie observed with the garbage phoenix just a few hours ago. He held back the mantis’s scythes with spatula and knife, and fended off its searching mandibles by thrusting his feet upwards, against its thorax.
Upon the wall behind Aremento’s desk hung a painting of black owl. Its eyes took up half the canvas, as if it were attempting to poke lean forward and out of the frame. Unlike the realistic oil paintings in the dining room, the owl was done with watercolors and looked like something a four-year-old might have created. “No,” it hooted. “Eye of worm will make it explode.” Aremento tugged on his beard. “Then what do you propose?” “Easy,” said the owl. “Heart of mouse.” “You always suggest that.” “It always works.”
Charlie wriggled under its grip, to no avail. “Get OFF!” she growled. Then, only slightly more wisely, yelled, “HELLLLP!” as loudly as she could. The automaton raised its knife. Charlie saw herself reflected in that knife. It was rather shiny, for having been locked in a closet for who-knew-how-long. So, this was to be her end? She’d survived a garbage phoenix, a malevolent spirit, and a great worm, just to be minced to pieces by some ancient robot. It was tragic, really. If she could have picked a way to go, it would have been the worm. At least that would have been over quickly. (It wouldn’t have. Kyle’s digestive juices worked slowly. Charlie would have died of thirst in one of his fifteen stomachs.)
Charlie turned to find the cause of the sound. She’d hoped it was one of the fans breaking down or something. Instead, her eyes locked with those of a giant worm. She barely had time to remember back to biology class, during which they’d studied earthworms. They didn’t have eyes. This one had enormous eyes. Not just black dots like you’d expect in a drawing; they were complete with sclera, blue irises, and pupils. Below its gaping, toothless mouth was a nametag: “Hello! My name is Kyle.” Charlie abandoned her parsnips and ran.
Charlie put a hand over her own mouth. Jelly was gone? Truly gone? She hadn’t seen the dog until last night, though Charlie didn’t think anything of it. Miss Lucy didn’t bring Jelly to camp last summer until they’d begun auditions for the play. “I brought peanut butter for her,” Charlie whispered. Miss Lucy walked out of the cafeteria without another word, wiping tears from her face as she went. Charlie did the same, heading for the other door. At least no one would remember she’d made Miss Lucy cry. The curse was beneficial in that way, at least.
The machine was named Hogarth after the scientist who’d designed it. Hogarth was silent and still. Any of the machine’s surfaces that were flat enough to balance something were laden with dirty dishes. Against the adjacent wall was a three-bay sink, at which two dwarven brothers, Yoren and Joren, stood. Over the din of splashing water, clinking silverware, and slamming pans, they yelled at one another in a language Charlie had never heard of. (It was a lost dwarven language that only they, being former dwarf princes, knew.)
An excel document showing a table of dates, words written on those dates, and whether or not the daily goal was met
“Okay. But we never discussed my salary,” Charlie said. This elicited a chuckle from the KM. “You’re an hourly employee. Standard beginning wage is eight bucks an hour. Time-and-a-half for overtime. Double pay on holidays.” “No health insurance,” Plategleam grunted. “Nor dental,” Spoonshine threw in. “I don’t want any of that,” said Charlie. Luka frowned. “We have to pay you. The Empress doesn’t allow people to work for free.” “Then pay me by finding me a hero.”
Charlie followed Miss Lucy’s gaze. The cafeteria lady, Miss Beth, had begun transferring the leftover tuna salad into clean pans and covering them with tin foil. “I’m sure I’ll get it at dinner.” All they served this year was tuna salad sandwiches. Charlie missed pb&j, the meal of choice from last summer. But this year, one of the new kids had a peanut allergy, so everyone had to eat tuna. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but the cafeteria staff had run out of mayo, and someone had had the brilliant idea of using the juices from the can the tuna came in to keep it moist.
“I saw a goblin,” said Charlie as casually as someone might remark on glimpsing a squirrel. Unlike many folks, who would likely be trying to rationalize away these strange events, Charlie was quite willing to accept what her eyes had seen. She and her sister had shared a deep love of fairytales, so Charlie was primed to believe in all manner of things she’d read about. In her mind, it made perfect sense that things like goblins and trolls would exist on earth. After all, someone had to have seen them at some point. Creatures like those couldn’t have been dreamed up from nothing. Becky sighed with all the drama of a pre-teen being personally wronged by someone who didn’t realize the world revolved around her. She knew all this about Charlie. “Shut the door, princess freakshow,” she grumbled, and drew the covers over her head.
Last summer, Charlie auditioned for Dorothy in the camp’s Wizard of Oz play. It was Ellie’s idea. She’d said being the lead in a play would help Charlie realize her curse was nonsense. “No one forgets Dorothy,” she’d claimed. Charlie was into it, of course. Ellie could have suggested she smash her face in a tray of hot donuts fresh from the oven, and Charlie’s only question would have been what kind of filling they had. Ellie’s ideas were always great, and led to fun things, so Charlie trusted her sister. And besides, she’d have done anything to get to spend more time with Jelly. The audition had gone fine. Charlie had remembered all her lines and delivered them with “zesty zeal.” So said Miss Lucy. But the other kids who’d auditioned had brought an equally zealous zest to the stage, and they didn’t have a curse to contend with.
“Your hand is on my cutting board,” I said. She snatched her fingers away just before I diced them, along with the red onions currently at my mercy. “Sorry,” she sniffed. “And I’m not crying because I’m sad or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.” “I know,” said I, rocking the knife with godlike speed and precision. “It’s because of my face.” “No!” said Charlie. She wiped some snot on the back of a hand. If she’d had orientation, she’d have known to go and wash her hands right away. “It’s the onions.” “Really?” I leaned over my assembled row of third pans, all full and heaping with perfectly diced red onions. “What did you say to this poor girl?” I asked them. “It’s nothing they said. It’s how they smell.” I gave her a horrified look and put my hands on the sides of the pans, as if covering their ears. “Don’t listen to her. You smell just as onions should, my darlings.”
“Want it.” The phoenix nodded. “Instead of eating me,” said Charlie. She pointed to Luka. “And him.” “Eat you and plastic both. Give.” Charlie looked to Luka, hoping for some sort of instruction, or for him to chime in and help her bargain. He was too busy keeping the phoenix’s boney wing from crushing his larynx. From the sweat beading on his forehead and the vein pulsing at his temple, the kitchen manager didn’t look in any position to offer instruction. “Now,” snapped the phoenix. “Give. Hand over.” Then Charlie did something smart. Not that she’d planned it or anything, but the result was the same. She tossed the plastic bottle into the air.
As they made their way back through the kitchen, it became clear to Charlie that Luka was in charge. He tasted the contents of different pots and pans, remarking on their thickness or lack of salt. Here he inspected a cube of cheese and berated the person responsible for its cut size being closer to an eighth of an inch than the expected fourth. There he yelled at another worker for being five minutes behind where they should have on prep. Three different emergencies were brought to his attention in the time it took to walk from the back door to the dining room, and he resolved them all with a plan of action hatched on the spot.
She might have noticed Ellie’s abnormal exhaustion. Typically, Charlie’s Curiosity would have piqued her into asking, but her other chief quality (and Curiosity’s nemesis), Absentmindedness, was at that moment in control. Next to Ellie, growing out of the overturned tree was the sure-fire way to get the part. “Dandelion!” Charlie exclaimed. She plucked it from the stump and held it aloft.
If your personal jar of peanut butter were floating in the air next to your bedside table (instead of on top, where you’d left it) you’d have been as befuddled as Charlie was when she awoke in the middle of the night, at summer camp, on a Tuesday. Most adults would have jumped up, startled by the incredible sight. Charlie was not an adult. Most kids would have hidden their heads under the blanket and hoped the jar would put itself back where it belonged, perhaps with a written note of apology for being so rude. Charlie wasn’t cut of that jib.
Up and up, certain that my story’s disaster awaits me at the top of the hill. I knock spiderwebs out of my way, waving my hand before me like a priest cleansing a haunted house. Normally I would find a stick to do this, but I’m exhausted. The idea of swinging a stick for the rest of my hike sounds disastrous. What if I use all my energy and have none left to fight off the bear? I’m thirsty too, but risk only little sips. A heavier water bottle makes for a greater defense. The bear needs to know I mean business.
“But
The Special is a three-course meal. Are you sure you can pull it off on such short notice?” “Easy as 1, 2, 3.” Chef knocked on a wooden cutting board. “It’s too risky,” said Waiter. “What if you did two courses instead? Less is more.” “I won’t make a long story short!” Chef pulled out her notepad and began scribbling out the meal plan, speaking aloud as she did so. “First, the appetizer: a fast-paced, steamy romantasy, in which a human heroine falls for her elflike oppressor. A real enemies-to-lovers story, sprinkled generously with some absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder. “Next, the entrĂ©e: a slow-burning, epic trilogy about an orphaned thief who turns out to be the true heir to the throne. Swords! Sorcery! Dragons for some reason! We’ll glaze it with some calm-before-the-storm and finish it in the pan with a hint of all-hell-breaking-loose. “Finally, for dessert: an amusing (if tiresome) and self-deprecating short work of satire, thick with clichĂ©s and references to overused fantasy tropes
which, itself, may not be wholly original, but sure seems that way to whoever came up with it. It’ll be a bit hard to swallow, so we’ll beat in some beating-a-dead-horse and add some proof-in-the-pudding and
voila!”
“Let him go,” said Steven. “Cookie bribes are beneath us. We’ll be here when you’re ready to face your mediocrity, Lenny. Third Tuesday of every month. 7pm sharp.” “I appreciate it,” Lenny said. He passed Steven’s mom at the top of the steps and took a couple cookies at her insistence, then let himself out the front door. And there was the rabbit, sitting in the grass, scratching at its ear. So freakin’ cute! It sniffed the air and hopped into the arms of a man – hooded, and dressed all in black – who’d been kneeling behind a tree. The rabbit nuzzled against his ear, as if telling him a secret. “Rabbit Randall?” Lenny asked. “My associate tells me you’ve rejected The Super Pals’ weak offer.” He grinned wickedly. “Hand me one of Steven’s mom’s cookies, and we’ll find out just how many eggs you can scramble following the path of darkness.” Lenny grinned back. “I’m in.” He gave Randall a cookie, then took a bite of another. “Wow. Jimmy wasn’t kidding about these cookies.” Randall’s maniacal laughter filled the cul-de-sac.
On the eve of the morrow, the king was set to marry an evil sorceress. The nobles whispered amongst each other at the general wrongness of it. The peasants, being out of His Majesty’s earshot, grumbled more loudly (and quite specifically) about the new taxes levied upon them to pay for the wedding. And the horses ate hay, giving exactly zero whinnies about the whole business. Yet even they suspected some ensorcelling must have occurred in the time between the king’s quest to vanquish the sorceress and his engagement to her. One thing they all agreed on? Having an evil sorceress as queen was likely to give everyone stomach ulcers.
“We’re a support group,” said Louise. “For people with incredibly niche abilities. For instance, I can make a rose smell like a s’mores pop tart, but not the other way around.” “Once a week, I can either add or subtract a freckle from my arm,” said Jimmy. “And I can deliver messages to people’s pockets without them seeing,” Steven said proudly. “As long as they are written by someone else, and don’t have anything to do with government, military, or crime bosses.” “That sounds like it could be useful,” Lenny said. “Useful for a middle school student, maybe. Or if it was still the early 90s, before email and text messaging came to be.” They all stared at Lenny expectantly. “Oh,” he said. “I can fry one egg per day, without a heat source.”
I know I can pull it off, provided I avoid The Guardians. The Guardians run this place. Their rules are arbitrary. Their moods, unpredictable. They think the rest of us are powerless. That our every movement needs monitoring. I shiver to think what consequences await me, if I’m caught. The Guardians wouldn’t send me to The Basement. No, I’m too valuable to them. More likely, they’ll take their fury out on one of my friends; exile them to The Basement or worse. This threat usually quells my heart’s rebellious tendencies. But not this time. I can’t abandon Roby. Won’t.
On the eve of the morrow, the king was set to marry an evil sorceress. The nobles whispered amongst each other at the general wrongness of it. The peasants, being out of His Majesty’s earshot, grumbled more loudly (and quite specifically) about the new taxes levied upon them to pay for the wedding. And the horses ate hay, giving exactly zero whinnies about the whole business. Yet even they suspected some ensorcelling must have occurred in the time between the king’s quest to vanquish the sorceress and his engagement to her. One thing they all agreed on? Having an evil sorceress as queen was likely to give everyone stomach ulcers. To find out exactly what had befallen the king, the nobles hired the most expensive psychologist their peasants’ taxes could buy. His name was Aremento Spellsage, and he was the only psychologist in the tri-kingdom area with a PHD in both witchcraft and wizardry. The king lay down on Aremento’s leather couch. He was under a spell – one of Aremento’s – essentially a hard hypnosis, as opposed to the suggestive sort that was hit-or-miss.
I check through every cage twice, but my friend is nowhere to be found. I risk calling his name louder. “Roby?” Still no reply. Doubt slithers into my mind. Maybe The Guardians didn’t put Roby in The Basement. Maybe he ran away. No. He wouldn’t. He loves me. He told me so only yesterday. A loud sound bangs at the back of The Basement. A click. A whoosh. It startles me into a scream. Then I see it: a monster made all of metal. Sharp corners. Countless steel appendages. And fire in its mouth. I run and hide under a table.
Finally, an idea hits me: I’ll write a short story about my hike today. But every story needs a disaster. When is mine going to strike? The path ahead leads down to the stream. My immediate reaction can be summed up in one, great big, “NOPE.” It’s a picturesque scene, but all that rushing water makes it loud. How will I hear the bear’s approach? And there are so many boulders. Which one is hiding the bear? Which dark, bear-sized cave has it chosen to lay in wait for an unsuspecting hiker (read: snack) to walk by? And when the bear does show up, how will I back away slowly while maintaining eye-contact without tripping, probably startling the apex predator and dooming myself?
Ever upward, I march. I’m tired. What if I’m hit with vertigo, then have to back away slowly from a bear, down a hill, while I’m too dizzy to see straight? A children’s song plays in my head. If you go into the woods today, you’re in for a big surprise 
because today’s the day “I’ll be the teddy bears’ picnic,” I finish aloud. I don’t know all the words, clearly, but it’s a haunting melody at any rate. A lone goose honks in the distance, startling me back into silence.
“Then he went and started his own support group for people who wanted to increase their powers,” said Steven. Lenny sat up a little straighter. “Is that possible?” “Well, yeah, but at what cost?” Steven asked. “So, he can make a rabbit come sniff his finger now. So what?” “What do you mean, ‘so what?’” Lenny laughed. “Don’t you want to deliver important secret messages, Steve? And Louise, what if you could make daisies smell like funions? And Jimmy, what if you could
uh
” “Change the color of my freckles to look diseased and get out of taking finals?” Jimmy asked.
The boy hid behind the hedges, watching the witch feed her chickens. She wasn’t as ugly as the townsfolk joked. Her skin was neither green nor gray, but a pleasing combination of the two. She sported a thick beard that would have been considered attractive on any man. In fact, if you looked past the mountain range of warts on her cheeks, her knobby, horse-sized knees, and the second nose growing where her left ear should have been, she was quite lovely.
“It doesn’t pretend to know the impetuses of humankind.” Zaelzagog smothered a yawn in the crook of its arm and a sink hole swallowed one of their hovels. Half the villagers fled into the forest. “Apologies. Its strength grows the longer it remains awake. Mayhap if they turn over proper tribute, it can eat and be on its way?” “No!” the sacrifice cried. “I won’t let you take any more of the people I love!” “You don’t have to watch,” said the demon, quite reasonably. “You’ll have me or no one.” The demon considered her. She smelled terrible, it was true. Like a field of roses slathered in honey. Yet, something was familiar. “Has it eaten of your flesh before, sacrifice?”
Chef had time to neither dilly nor dally. Though it would be a quick read, her short story dessert still needed boatloads of preparation and careful editing. As she worked, Chef’s head floated up to the clouds. She could see The Critic’s article now, calling Cliché’s “the best thing since sliced bread.” The appetizer and entrĂ©e would never win any awards, but maybe she’d enter the dessert in a short story competition to see what would happen.

Well, it was less a superpower, and more a “specific issue resolver.” Lenny Livingston could [insert drumroll here] fry an egg under any circumstances, provided he had a frying pan handy. No, he couldn’t create fire to heat the pan. No, he didn’t have laser vision to cook the egg. And, no, he didn’t switch the uncooked egg for a fried one when you weren’t looking. He merely cracked the egg open, dropped it into the pan, and shook his fist at it threateningly. Moments later, the egg was so perfectly fried, Gordan Ramsay himself would call it “the most amazing” thing he’d ever eaten (before remarking the burnt toast that came with it was “a real shame”). I imagine some of you might be asking questions about Lenny’s power’s limits. How about an omelet? What if you wanted sunny-side up? Could he do an ostrich egg?
Still, Patrick was exhausted; the kind of tired you get from years of working all day, only to come home and spend what free time you have left focused on other peoples’ needs. Helping the kids with their homework. Chauffeuring them to their various extracurriculars. Cooking, cleaning, doctor appointments, home maintenance, car repairs. Patrick and Rebecca thought they’d reclaim some time for themselves once their youngest left for college, but now Patrick’s mom, in her twilight years, needed daily care. With neither siblings nor the money to pay for a home health aide, that, too, fell on Patrick and Rebecca. It was a miracle they could (barely) keep up with the H.O.A.’s stringent demands in between everything else.
After a moment, the king recovered himself enough to ask, “well, what is it? What’s wrong with me?” “Nothing,” Aremento said, his voice hollow. “Only
you are in love.” “Love?” asked the king. “Love.” Aremento looked out the window. He was really going to miss the sunshine. “It would be sweet, if the consequences weren’t so dire.” “Love.” The king nodded, slowly. “I see. Well, what can be done?” Aremento shook his head. “Nothing, unfortunately. Love is the ultimate blessing, but also the ultimate curse. People – even kings, it seems – do stupid things for love.” The next day, the king married the evil sorceress, and the kingdom burned.
There are too many cooks in the kitchen.” “I wondered when we’d see that one,” said Waiter. As the staff shuffled out the door, Chef consulted the rolodex of clichĂ©s in her mind, muttering them to herself. “If you can’t stand the heat
no, not for a dessert. Tip of the tongue? It has potential, but I’d rather her swallow it whole.” Then Chef had it. “Icing on the cake!” That one always pushed a dish across the finish line. Chef thrusted the final course into Waiter’s hands and watched him funeral march his way back to the dining room. Then she leaned against the wall and slid to the floor.
Ron beamed. “A choice has been made! Tell him what he’s won, Bill.” “Connnn-gratulations, Patrick!” said a deep, sultry voice from the ceiling. “You’ll spend the next twenty years paying off a debt totaling $38,575. After graduation, you’ll land yourself in a stable career that has nothing to do with your major. Best of all, your choice today will lead you to Rebecca, the love of your life!” “Amazing!” said Ron. He clapped Patrick on the shoulder. “Good choice. Congratulations, Pat. Thanks for playing. And we’ll see you next time on—” LIFE’S! LITTLE! CHOICES!
“Roby?” I whisper into the silence. “Roby, where are you?” There’s no answer. Maybe he’s asleep. But, if he’s asleep, I should hear him snoring. Roby is a chronic snorer, and falls asleep instantaneously, if he’s laid on his back. One by one, I peer into The Basement’s plethora of cages. Some are empty, save for a few scrap parts and discarded batteries. Others house husks of prisoners long past their expiration dates, barely distinguishable from the trash around them. Too late for them. They’ll have a snack time appointment with the monsters already on the books.
Back on the trail I miss the safety of the water. Why had I feared it? I can’t see anything through the trees. Don’t bears climb trees? I come to a fork in the road. This is the perfect time to turn around. But I can’t chicken out now. The tension’s still building. The story needs a climax. Onward I go, following red blazes.
Clifton frowned. “I might have, if you weren’t standing in front of that cartoonishly bright light.” O’Brien looked behind him. There was only darkness, and the storm had yet to produce any great flashes of lightning. “You see The Light?” “See it?” Clifton laughed. “The feckin’ thing follows me everywhere I go. Always hoverin’ in some doorway. Makes sleeping impossible.” “The dead can’t sleep,” said Father O’Brien. “Don’t I know it.” Clifton reached into the fridge and pulled out a bowl of chocolate pudding. “Mind throwin’ me a spoon? They’re in the drawer next to you.”
The upward trek seems never-ending. I’m getting loud from the exertion of climbing. I clear my throat as quietly as I can. I’m breathing through my mouth. Can the bear smell my breakfast? That bagel with lox and cream cheese seems like a bad idea in hindsight. Do black bears even know the smell of salmon? No, that’s grizzlies, not black bears. Right?
I stop on a bridge that crosses a tiny part of the stream. Where’s the troll? My daughter would want to play troll, if she were here. I’d have to tell her no, because we’re sitting ducks down here. Then she’d probably cry, and the bear would come to lecture me on my parenting style.
“It heard what you said.” The demon swept its bottomless black eyes over the villagers. It produced from Nowhere and unfurled a long scroll which rolled out upon the ground, splitting the villagers’ gathered group in half on its way past their feet. “And yet, you are contractually obligated to provide it one.” The villagers looked at one another, murmuring their ignorance. The sacrifice stepped rudely upon the scroll. “Be gone! We will fall not for your trickery, foul beast!” Zaelz put a clawed hand to the place where its prune-sized heart beat (once a decade) in its chest. “Such gall. Your ancestors, at least, showed grace upon signing our agreement.”
But maybe a solitary hike in bear-infested woods isn’t the best idea
 What am I supposed to do if I encounter a bear, anyway? Play dead? Make myself big and scary? I ask Google, and AI gives me the answer. “Stay calm, avoid running
make yourself known to the bear
make yourself appear bigger
back away slowly and calmly
” Seems simple enough. “Hi, Bear, nice to meet you. I’m bigger than I look, and don’t taste nearly as delicious. Please don’t chase me as I walk backwards away from you, because I’ll surely trip and become an easy meal.” Thusly armed with a quick summary of the internet’s collective defensive knowledge vis-à-vis black bears, I enter the woods.
On the eve of the morrow, the king was set to marry an evil sorceress. The nobles whispered amongst each other at the general wrongness of it. The peasants, being out of His Majesty’s earshot, grumbled more loudly and quite specifically about the new taxes levied upon them to pay for the wedding. And the horses ate hay, giving exactly zero whinnies about the whole business. Yet even they suspected some ensorcelling must have occurred in the time between the king’s quest to vanquish the sorceress and his engagement to her. One thing they all agreed on? Having an evil sorceress as queen was like to give everyone stomach ulcers.
When it opened its eyes, all but a clawful of the villagers had absconded. Zaelz wasn’t offended. It must have butchered the third verse. But the sacrifice’s spear penetrating deep into its throat was a bit much. “Its singing isn’t that bad,” grumbled the demon. It sucked the spear into its throat and sent it into the abyss of its stomach, where the iron spearhead would send up bimillennial bouts of gastritis. Unfortunate. Still, the point needed proving. Zaelz was a reasonable demon, but it had its pride.
“Be gone, child, and take your disgusting acne with you. Unless you want to be turned into a toad.” The boy didn’t move. He’d often been advised not to poke a bear. To let sleeping dogs lie, and leave well-enough alone. However, he’d never been told to leave a witch to her chickens. “Could you really do that?” he asked. “Turn me into a toad?” “You are dangerously close to finding out.” The boy pumped his fist triumphantly. “What about a bird? I’d awfully like to be a bird.”
Back on the trail I miss the safety of the water. Why had I feared it? I can’t see anything through the trees. Don’t bears climb trees? I come to a fork in the road. This is the perfect time to turn around. But I can’t chicken out now. The tension’s still building. The story needs a climax. Onward I go, following red blazes. I narrowly avoid stepping on a cute little toad. She’s the first creature I’ve seen since I began my hike. I name her Little Friend and we part ways amicably. I imagine she is grateful for me not squishing her. I’m grateful she didn’t get herself splattered all over my shoe. Her blood surely would have summoned the bear.
The local village (of which Zaelz couldn’t remember the name; it had changed so many times in the last dozen centuries) was due to produce its yearly sacrificial virgin. She would be female, the demon knew, though not because Zaelz demanded that specificity. For whatever reason, when humans heard the word “virgin,” they extrapolated that it must be a woman. A maiden, in fact (though age was another factor he’d never stipulated).
“With a condition,” said the sacrifice. “No more human sacrifices.” Zaelzagog chuckled, and every insect within ninety-nine miles dropped dead. (Excepting cockroaches, of course) “Without tribute, there can be no deal.” “Will you not take some other payment?” “Impossible.” “Then there will be no deal.” The mayor told a few men to seize her, and the sacrifice was handled roughly and a hand clamped over her mouth. “We will honor you with tribute, if you can give us industry,” said the mayor.
“Cluck-cluck,” said the chicken. “Don’t be rude. You try achieving a perfect medium-rare on an insect the size of your thumb.” The chicken growled. “Oh? He’s here already?” She inhaled with both noses. “Yes
I can smell the pubescent body odor from here. Worse than an ill-kept zoo, it is. He’ll come out in his own time.” The witch whipped around to stare at the hedge where the boy hid. “In case you’re wondering, boy, I do mean you.” The boy stepped out from behind the hedge.
“The chickens keep it well. Without chores, they get bored.” She flicked a forked tongue over her black lips. “What did you expect?” “Only what people say about this place,” the boy said, truthfully. “That it’s ‘a sensible one-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bathroom cottage, complete with a kitchenette and a finished basement.’” “Annoyingly accurate,” said the witch. “It was the half-bath that sold me on the place. You never know when you’ll need a second commode. Seems extravagant until that second cup of rat milk comes knocking at your back door.”
Zaelzagog read ahead to the bottom of the contract. “‘The cost of the above will come from the earth itself, until it is unable to bear the cost any longer.’” “That’s when you’ll come to collect,” said the sacrifice. “Indeed,” the demon replied. “When you are long dead, and your names are lost to the ever-deepening chasm of history, buried beneath false idols and uninspiring battles, and the forced memorization of insignificant dates in classrooms
when industry has poisoned the air and killed the animals and wrought extreme changes in the climate. Then
” Zaelzagog drooled. “Then it will come to take what is left. It will take the blood from your offspring’s children’s progeny’s descendants’ –” “Yes, alright,” said the mayor. “Where do we sign?”
“It doesn’t pretend to know the impetuses of humankind.” Zaelzagog smothered a yawn in the crook of its arm and a sink hole swallowed one of their hovels. Half the villagers fled into the forest. “Apologies. Its strength grows the longer it remains awake. Mayhap if they turn over proper tribute, it can eat and be on its way?” “No!” the sacrifice cried. “I won’t let you take any more of the people I love!” “You don’t have to watch,” said the demon, quite reasonably.
The demon considered her. She smelled terrible, it was true. Like a field of roses slathered in honey. Yet, something was familiar. “Has it eaten of your flesh before, sacrifice?” The sacrifice raised her chin defiantly. “You had my niece last year, and another the year before. My sister fifteen years back. And my lover before we had the chance to—” “Say it not,” said Zaelz, plugging its ear holes with four claws and beginning the Song of the Infernal Symphony in D minor. This was why Zaelzagog only deigned to awaken once a year. The proclivity of humans to speak freely of their
lewd encounters. It was enough to make a demon throw up all six hundred and sixty-six bones in its body. When Zaelz opened its eyes, all but a clawful of the villagers had absconded. The demon didn’t hold it against them. It must have butchered the third verse. But the sacrifice’s spear penetrating deep into its throat was a bit much. “Its singing isn’t as bad as all that,” grumbled the demon. It sucked the spear into its throat and sent it into the abyss of its stomach, where it would send up bimillennial bouts of gastritis. A necessary sacrifice. The point needed proving. Zaelz was a reasonable demon, but it had its pride.
The sound of a rifle blast exploded in the village. Mr. Tourist threw Olive’s body to the side with inhuman speed, dodging the bullet, and rounded back on the president. They clutched Speckhardt’s throat in one hand, lifting him against the Tattletree, and pummeled his stomach with the other. Eight incredible blows later, they tossed Speckhardt to the side and ripped a spear from one of the Akkira’s hands. The president curled into a ball on the ground, spitting blood, clutching his gut. He didn’t see the spear tip as it flew at his head, but by some miracle turned just in time so only his right ear was split by its blade. Mr. Tourist cursed. Olive kicked Speckhardt over so that he lay on his back. They put their boot on his windpipe and pushed down.
“Olivia Olivero?” he asked, astounded. His beady, black eyes roamed over The Brumble curiously, then settled on Daisy. He twitched his whiskers in disgust. “You can’t have a dog in here. She’ll urinate on the papers.” Daisy growled. “You’ll be lucky if YOU’RE still dry by the time I leave, mouse boy.” “You can’t run this story,” she told the curtayl. “It’s already out.” He frowned. “I thought your boss would have been happy with this one. It’s very flattering of him.” The reporter didn’t seem happy about that. “He’s not my boss anymore, and everything he says is a lie.” “Well aware,” he said. “Except when it comes to you, it would seem.”
Olive scooted back away from Daisy. “You’re from the Tattlewood.” “Of course I am! Don’t you remember?” She wasn’t sure what there was to remember. If Daisy’s allegiance was to this horrible place, how could Olive trust her? Daisy’s ears fell. “Don’t worry. I would never hurt you. It’s against everything a tattlehound stands for to hurt her vassal.” “Vassal?” Olive asked. “I’m not your servant.” “Uhh? You brought me food. You washed me and cleaned up my droppings every day.” Daisy’s tail swung with her laughter. “Honestly, Olive, just because you sound like an idiot doesn’t mean you should act like one.”
A sign that says restroom by goat
Olive stood behind her chair, which probably costed more than most homes in Residential, gripping its gilded back. “You’re angry,” she said. “I understand. But—” “You understand nothing.” Speckhardt smashed the desk with an open palm. “You stepped out of line, Olivia. You abused the power I gave you and spat at the Directorate in full view of the public.” “I was only trying—” “And you set criminals loose onto my streets. Vermin whose only loyalty is to themselves and Prudence Popkins.” He wrinkled his nose as if he’d caught a whiff of his own overpoweringly pungent cologne. “Maybe your loyalties lay elsewhere as well.” “No!” Olive said.