jamieproctor.ca

The sun seemed bigger out here. How about that. Less than a day from LA and it was like you were on a different planet, as long as you pointed the camera the right way.

“You’ve gotta talk to her.”
Leslie shaded her hand and followed the sunlight across the grey, cracked rock.

Jasper wasn’t as patient as the rocks; he crumbled a lot faster. “Listen, Les, you’ve gotta.”
The sky was so blue it hurt to look at it, like a sugary-sweet cavity in your eyeball. “I’ve got to do what now?”
She could practically hear the sweat beading on his skin, trickling down his palms and make his eyes blink and sting. “Talk to-”

“What am I talking to her about?”

“About the film.”
“What about it?” God, the water flowing off this man. Another twelve hours of this kind of stress and maybe he’d match the plants; turn into something thin and scraggly with a surface like shriveled plywood.

“For fuck’s sake Les, you know it can’t happen without her!”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes!”
“So why am I only just hearing this now, and why did last night go the way it did?”
“Please Les, c’mon, it’s more than just me on the line here-”

“It’s not my job to fix your fuckups, Jasper. I’m a makeup artist.”
“She listens to you!”
“Right, right, so if the film can’t happen without her, and she won’t work without me, then I guess I’m the goddamned director now. Give me the keys to your trailer.”

“What?! No!”

“We need the good shower and some privacy. You don’t like it, I don’t have to help, you don’t have to be helped, I can be the director once the producers take you out behind that ridge and shoot you.”

She held out a hand without looking and counted. Five seconds before the keys hit her palm with snitty force. Pathetic.

“We’re redoing the contracts tomorrow,” she said, as she turned and strode for effects storage. “You fob me off, you’ll wish the producers got you. You’re welcome.”

***

Finding Helen was easy. Right where she thought she’d be: tucked underneath the hand-painted scaly belly of Zorgg the Beast of Ages, curled with her spine to the room like a nervous porcupine.

She flinched when Leslie patted her back, and metal and wood creaked gently above them both.

Helen didn’t flinch. She’d planned not to flinch. It wouldn’t help.

“C’mon. Let’s get you a shower.”
“Cold.”
“Nope, we’re using Jasper’s. Up and at ‘em.”

Helen didn’t uncurl.

“Remember the pig from prom? ‘Sleep on it’ isn’t advice that works on bloodstains.”

Helen still didn’t uncurl, but she permitted Leslie to uncurl her manually. Hands under armpits, pulling back, legs wobbling into position as shaky as a crane colt. She was holding her shoulders still and looking down. Hiding.

“Are they out there?”
“No,” said Leslie. “Nobody’s out there.” No point in starting early when the shoot can’t happen.

“Okay.”

The easy part was over.

***

Jasper’s shower worked and it had hot water. It also whined like a starving dog at a loaded dinner table, but two miracles was enough to excuse a little mundane shittiness.

Still, Leslie spent the time cleaning up the rest of the room, especially the bed. Jasper wasn’t a complete slob, but this’d be a lot easier if the place were comfortable, and that meant fresh sheets, emptied garbage, and stuffing a few posters into the trash. He’d live to complain about it and like it.

Half an hour. She pulled the best towel she could find (too pink and too big, but still with some fluff in it, somehow) and knocked on the door.

“Towel’s here.”

“Okay.”
“Hot water’ll be going soon.”

No reply, but after twenty-two seconds the water switched off.

Helen took the towel without complaint. She let Leslie dry her hair with the second-best towel she could find (too small and worn on the thin side, but scentless and unstained). She even accepted Leslie’s sleep clothes (too-big shirt, short-legged cotton pants). And then, having taken all the things Leslie offered, Helen laid down on top of Jasper’s newly de-odorized bed and curled up with her back to her.

“I’m going out for a smoke. Back in a sec.”
Helen didn’t nod. The acknowledgement of a nod was there.

Leslie walked outside of the trailer, looked up at that big blue sky – already curdling at the edges from heat haze – and lit up her shortest, least-appealing butt to fulfil the letter of her obligations. She ignored the taste, kept her mind on the plan. Stubbed out the butt of the butt on her heel, made eye contact with Zorgg the Beast of Ages through the open door of effects storage, nodded, and walked back in.

Helen was still curled up. But her spine didn’t jut, and her muscles didn’t tense.

The tricky part was over.

Leslie sat down. Helen didn’t make room for her. She also didn’t turn away from her. Neutral move.

“I ruined everything.”
There we go. “No you didn’t. He started it.”
“That’s a little kid’s excuse.”
“Little kids are smarter than people give them credit. Remember Lester?”
A small snort. Not a sniff. “Adrian thought he was so funny.”
“Yeah, and he wasn’t a little kid, he was a big kid trying to prove we were little and dumb. Hur hur hur I named a lizard after my sister. And he was our first one, wasn’t he?”
Small shuffle. Helen peered back over her shoulder at her, a little confused but in an annoyed way. Good. “No. That was Buzzsaw.”
“No, I mean the first one we worked up. I told you it sucked having a lizard named after me. You said he didn’t look dumb he looked cool. I told you he could look cooler. You asked me what I thought would help, I told you, you drew something, I drew something else…”

“…but we never did anything,” said Helen. “And then Lester got eaten by Ribs.”
“That was the dumbest dog your family ever owned.”
“Don’t be mean!”
“He was mean. And dumb. He choked to death on your Barbie after he ripped it out of your hands.”
“He didn’t mean it.”

Mournful, upset, but old and familiar upset. Still, don’t overpush it. “Whatever. Point is, Lester was our first. We didn’t finish, but we tried, and we wouldn’t have done our second without it.”
“Buzzsaw.”
“No. Buzzsaw was fourth. Maybe fifth.”

Helen sat up all at once, too surprised (and still a little annoyed) to be sad. “What? But we didn’t-”

“We tried a second time with the Barbie Warriors, and that was one we took off paper into action. We started the book after we made the Bird Coffin. I don’t know if your grandma’s dolls count; do you think they counted?”
Helen thought, but only to recheck her answer. “No,” she shook her head. “Those were hers, not ours.”

“Right. So Buzzsaw was fourth.”

“But the first where it happened.”
“Hey,” said Leslie, and she was unfair and caught Helen’s gaze, right after she’d lulled her into moving it off the wall. “Say we don’t do the stuff before it. Does it still happen?”
Her eyes twitched, but couldn’t outright dodge. “Maybe.”
“Does it happen the way it did?”
They slid down to her hands in her lap. Defeat. “No.”
“Then Buzzsaw was fourth.”

“Okay.” Withdrawn, but not withdrawing. Fine.

“Half of what we did for him was built on the Lester ideas anyways. You said the horns would look cool, we made him horns. I wanted a spiked tail club like a stegosaurus, we made him a big spike on his back because it was easier to pin on. The only new idea were the wings.”

“And the eyes,” added Helen. Couldn’t help it.

“You want to count those?”
“We never talked about Lester’s eyes,” she said, and she almost didn’t seem to notice she was volunteering complete sentences. “You said we should try a Barbie idea with Buzzsaw, I found some safe makeup, we made his eyes look scarier. It was new.”
“Okay, sure. So Buzzsaw the Burner, Dragonlord of the Diorama, was all dressed up and ready to trash that shitty shoebox model of a castle. And he was the way he was because of the ideas we had for Lester, and the ideas we had from the Barbie Warriors, and the stuff we wrote down from making the Bird Coffin –”

“We didn’t really make it all up, half of that was just origami advice from your mom’s book.”

“-we took the stuff we needed and used it, that was ours – and we took all of that and put it into Buzzsaw. He was fourth.”
Helen was smiling a little bit. Almost a smirk, meant to mock. “And the first to fly.”

“He was fourth. That matters.”
“He flew. That matters too.”

Definitely smug. Push back, but not too hard. “Yeah, fine. With the puppet strings.”

Back to annoyed, verging on genuine ire. “No. I told you it happened.”
“Pretty quiet happening though.”
“I told you.”
“Right. Okay. Fourth time, first time it happened, I get it.” Throw her a bone. “It’s like Lester. It wasn’t big time, it wasn’t complete-”

“-I TOLD you-”

“-but without it, the next time maybe doesn’t happen, and it doesn’t happen the way it did.”

“Okay.” Helen’s brows were set. Bushy and grumpy about it in that way that made you want to grab her head and fuss up her hair. Leslie wondered if this was how grandmothers felt all the time and hoped it wasn’t.

“So then the sixth was when it happened big time.”
“Fifth,” said Helen.

Leslie raised her own (thinner, less charming) eyebrows. “Really? With the cabinet play?”
“I dropped one of the rods on the clown’s arm. I panicked and just kept going, remember?”
“I thought you used your hand and just faked it.”

“That’s what I said I did.”
“Huh. Sixth was just the first time I couldn’t ignore it then.”
“Yeah,” said Helen. She was stroking the sheets with her thumb. “Because of the fire.”
Leslie grinned and she didn’t even have to plan for it. “Because of the fire.”
“Poor Buzzsaw. I didn’t think it would work.”
“I don’t think he thought it either.”
“He was just a little lizard, I’m not sure he thought at all besides ‘when I’m done doing this, they give me treats.’”

“We did too, didn’t we? Stole half a quart of my mom’s pie berry batch. Boy earned it.”
“Hazard pay,” said Helen solemnly.

“We should’ve gotten some too. My ass was never the same after mom got through with it. ‘Don’t play with matches!’ ‘Don’t tell lies about not having matches, I saw what you did!’” Her mom voice was never accurate; all snotty and whiny. Putting the shriek in right as she remembered needed bone-deep hate she didn’t want to uncover. Not when the fake thing made Helen giggle.

“And then I told you, and you didn’t believe me,” said Helen happily.

“I did.”
“You said ‘that’s bullshit!’”

“Yeah, because it is. I didn’t say it wasn’t real.”
“So I showed you with the Barbie Warriors,” said Helen. “Which makes it seventh?”

“Nah. That wasn’t a new idea. If your grandma’s dolls weren’t five, these aren’t seven.”

“Right. But they marched so well.”
“They did.”
Helen sighed happily. Honestly happily, full on. “How many of them do you have numbered like this?”
“They’re all in there, but I stop lining them up after seven. Real seven – the scarecrow that waved at cars. That’s when we got into the groove, and we stay in that until graduation.”
“Yeah. The prom. With the pigmeat DJ.”
“That was so good.”
Helen’s mouth downturned at the corner. “It was really dumb.”

“We were still teenagers, of course it was really dumb. I’m amazed we only had the one big fuckup.”
“All we had to do was not show off as much. Everyone already thought pigmeat DJ was amazing.”
“Yeah, but going on stage to accept a trophy for our costume when it was still standing in the booth and running the music was amazing.”
“It freaked out everyone.”
“That’s why it was amazing.”
“I should never have let you make me decapitate it.”
“That was the icing on the cake. The pig’s head landed right on the turntable, your aim was perfect. Best thing we ever did.”
Helen buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe they thought it was a radio control.”
“Our teachers were very stupid, Helen. Why do you think I went all the way to LA?”

She hunched over double. Not good. Interesting. “I thought you were mad.”
Oh that was new. “Why?”

A little heave. That’s not laughter. “I thought you lied. I thought you left because you were scared of me.”
Leslie laughed, and she meant it. “Really? A pig’s head on a turntable? That’s what you think made me lie to you and run away to Hollywood? That’s what made me walk right up to you on the set of a shitty B-movie and tell you to start making it happen like I know you can? That’s what made me lock Jasper out of his own trailer?”
Helen didn’t look up, but she didn’t stop when Leslie pulled her face up with one hand. Ugly, ugly silent weeping. Snotty, cheeks wet, eyes squinted shut and sore from timid stress. “I’m sorry.”
“For being silly? Sure, that’s okay. Feel it, get it out, leave it behind. But for everything else? Don’t you dare. Jasper knows about it, you know.”

She hiccupped. “After last-”

“He knew about it before. I didn’t tell him shit, but he’s not a complete moron and your special effects and their budget are the one reason he’s not in the red ten films ago. He pays attention enough when there’s money, and honey? You’re money. He’s not going to burn you over one bigmouthed asshole that thought slapping you was funny.”

“But-”

“Do you believe me?”

Helen looked at her, all of eight years old and in the attic surrounded by marching war-painted sword-armed Barbies again, and she said what Leslie had said to her then, because what else could you say? “Yes.”

“Good. Get some rest. The day’s off for the shoot, don’t worry and don’t think. You can do that tomorrow.” She was going to anyways, but at least now she’d probably feel guilty enough to stop. “I’ll get you some water and start explaining shit to Jasper.

A little touch on her wrist as she readied to rise, hesitant.

“You’re sure it’ll be okay? He was the lead.”

“Absolutely,” said Leslie. Probably. “They’re already over it.” Hopefully. “Jasper can hire another ten Stanley Jacksons by turning over any LA rock and catching whatever scuttles fastest.” Definitely.

“Besides,” she added, because that little touch still felt nervous, “there’s no way in hell anyone’ll try that shit again. This gossip won’t die on its own, and it’s easy to keep fresh. We just don’t clean Zorgg’s teeth.”

“Mmm,” said Helen. “The stain could look nice if we treat it.”

And she smiled, and Leslie knew the hard part was over. They’d done it again.

CRA the Creator, aspiring Maker, checked Their metabox again, and again, and again, and on the seven-thousandth six billionth and forty-second hundred millionth time They found it full of package, and the package was full of promise, and all was revealed unto Them.

“Oh boy oh boy!” They yelled. “It’s here, it’s here, oh hoo boy it’s a good time guaranteed!”

And so saying They cleared off a big section of cosmic nothingness on Their desk and opened the box and shook out all its contents, which promptly exploded into existence and flew everywhere.

“Oops,” said CRA the Creator.

They looked at the side of the package. DO NOT SHAKE was writ upon it in fundamental metaphysics.

“Maybe I can sort of push it all back together?”
They could not sort of push it all back together.

“Well shit,” said CRA the Creator, looking across an infinite extending universe consisting almost exclusively of empty space to the point that matter was a rounding error of infinitesimal, unimaginable smallness. “I guess I’d better just sort of, pick a bit to focus on?”

***

CRA the Creator, Prime Mover and Shaker, gazed upon the foundations of the most convenient piece of Their creation They had found, which was where Their eyeball had rested after they concealed Their vision with one hand and went eeny meeny miny matter.

“It’s a little bit molten,” They said. “Is it supposed to do that?”

So CRA the Creator pulled out the manual and took a look at it, but it was in very small printessence and parts of it were upside down and some of it was back to front and while They were engrossed they heard a cataclysmic sundering sound and looked up and saw-

“AWW, NO! BAD! BAD CITTY!”
-that CAHT the Companion had wanted to help too, and had decided that what this piece of creation needed was for another piece of creation to smack into it at tremendous speed.

“No! That isn’t good! Good cittys keep their paws off creation! Bad!”
CAHT the Companion slow blinked remorselessly, and no amount of scolding improved that, nor did it undo the fact that CRA the Creator’s project was now being circled by a second wobbly lump of great sized comprised of ejected still-cooling rock.

“Oh well,” said CRA the Creator, as They hurriedly splashed water across Their creation. “Maybe it won’t make a big difference.”

***

CRA the Creator, Director of Cosmic Theater, sat patiently and watched, enraptured, as tiny cells begat tiny cells begat tiny cells begat tiny cells begat tiny cells begat tiny cells.

Sometimes, one of the cells absorbed another.

“This is great, this is really peak stuff. See, citty? See how nice things are when you don’t bap at them? Do you see?”
CAHT the Companion ignored Them. This meant it was feeling affectionate, and CRA the Creator was deeply touched and gave them a one-armed noogie as they peered back at their world, now so full of very small and very hardy life. They regarded it all with deep and profound fondness on a scale that, although incomprehensible to their children, they hoped they could feel on some level.

“Oh!” said CRA the Creator. “Look! See, citty? That one’s turned blue-green! Isn’t that beautiful? Look at it. Look!”

CAHT ignored this too.

“So pretty. Maybe we can make a few more of those.”

So CRA the Creator gently reached out and twiddled a submenu to open a window to find an option that unchecked a box that controlled a slider and moved it.

Nothing happened.

CRA the Creator moved the slider a little farther.

Nothing happened again.

CRA the Creator moved the slider a little bit farther than that, then changed Their mind and cranked it all the way to one side.

A preponderance of blue-green algae (cyanobacteria) overran creation, filling its atmosphere with oxygen and exterminating almost all anaerobic life on its surface.

“Oops,” said CRA the Creator. “Well, it’s still a beautiful colour.”

Creation began to rust.

“Oh man,” said CRA the Creator, and began to look for a Help menu. Those were still around, right?

***

CRA the Creator, Diligent Maintainer, could not find a Help menu. Which was annoying, because by now They were pretty sure They needed one.

“Not AGAIN,” They complained. “That’s like, the THIRD time everything’s gone anoxic! What am I doing wrong? Is it the volcanism? I can’t turn that off, can I? Not without losing continental drift.”
CRA the Creator did not want to turn off continental drift. They liked seeing the new patterns older rocks made; it kept Them from getting bored, and making maps was interesting.

“There’s got to be something that I’m missing,” They muttered as They rummaged around inside the packaging for a manual. “I can’t keep losing over fifty percent of all marine species every other geological period, it’s getting embarrassing.” They made manifest the sum knowledge of Their peers and consulted Their Wisdom. “No, no, I don’t want guides to Creation from six omneons ago; I want the rerelease. No, not the REMASTER. Goddamnit. Ugh, whatever happened to WorldFaqs?”

Disgusted, CRA the Creator drummed their fingers on the limitless expanse of their desk. “You know what?” They said, rhetorically, “I can do this Myself. On My own. I can fix this. Just with care, and attention, and limitless love and a lot of patience.”
So vowing thus, They opened Their eyes just in time to see CAHT the Companion carefully, curiously guide a twelve-kilometer bolide directly into Their creation’s atmosphere, directly above a carbonate seafloor underlaid with rich sulfur deposits.

“NO NO NO BAD CITTY BAD CITTY awwwww shit.”

***

CRA the Creator, Break Taker, gave Themselves some time to stretch Their legs and think about other stuff for a minute after putting Caht the Companion in the Time Out Spatial Fold.

It was fine, They decided. Sure, there had been some mistakes along the way, but that just made things exciting, right? Nobody learned from perfection, nobody wanted to watch nothing happen. Messiness was just more satisfying. A rich tapestry contained all kinds of knots, and scars, and loose threads, and so on. Right?

CRA the Creator looked back to Their creation, then zoomed in closer and closer, looking here and there. A small group of hairy bipeds was wandering in a wood, hooting excitedly at each other about ripe fruit, about interestingly shaped rocks.

“Here you go,” said CRA the Creator, and lo, They manifested for an instant and gave unto the little creatures a pile of interesting and pretty-coloured stones containing eye-catchingly shiny alloys. They chose soft ones, so they wouldn’t hurt themselves with them. “Have a good time, guys. Be messy. Learn!”
One of the bipeds picked up the biggest shiny stone and was immediately set upon by two others with tooth and fist, each seeking it for themselves. A fourth desperately started collecting every shiny stone in reach and bit its own children when they came too close.

CRA the Creator got up and took another walk.

***

CRA the Creator, Demotivated Faker, sat by the water on the grass in Their creation in the soft light of dawn and moped for a minute.

“I can’t do anything right,” They lamented. “This is really hard. I’ve just made a mess, and not an entertaining mess, a frustrating and painful one. I can’t even blame CAHT the Companion for it. Shoot.”
Something splashed near Them, and They jumped. Standing at the water’s edge, ignorant of Their presence, a heron of large size and immaculate posture clutched a fish in its bill. Water droplets flecked from its prey, then a blink passed and it was gone and the bird stood still as a statue again, legs steady and eyes clear.

“Okay,” said CRA the Creator. “I’ve done something okay. Look at that! Wow! Those legs! That neck! That’s a really lovely shape. Amazing. I can’t believe I came up with that. I bet I can do it again!”
So CRA the Creator cast about the shore until They located a small, round, quacking waterfowl, fixed it most sternly with Their grasp, and began to work mightily.

“Longer. No, not longer there, longer THERE. Well, the neck’s right, even if the legs aren’t.”
“Bigger – no, not wider, BIGGER. Well, wider IS bigger.”
“Louder – no, raspier, raspier – well, it’s louder anyways.”

The sun was setting when Their work was complete, and They looked upon their labours and saw what They had wrought.

“All else aside,” said CRA the Creator, “I think I can say this: I don’t believe I screwed up this one thing. You are My masterwork.”
“Honk,” said Their creation.

Then it wing-slapped Them.

Charles Escargot Bustle was a businesslike and no-nonsense man, and accordingly so he married Clarice Abseil Clemency at the time and place most convenient and straightforward for them both, and they immediately set about producing a rightful and correct number of dutiful and hardworking offspring. This they succeeded in six times over before producing a single failure (through no fault of their own), and having thus secured their lineage, the next step of their work was to build a fortune.

“We’re going to the least useful place in the world, my children,” Charles told his family. “The wilderness. It’s wild and savage and above all else – here he shuddered – “useless.”

And all the children shuddered too, except for the seventh and youngest, Louise Mendicant Bustle, who was busy playing with knucklebones.

“Oh Lousy Louise!” cried Charles. “Look here, children – here once again is uselessness in its purest form!” And he thrashed her with great love and sternness and then they all packed up and left with many tools and supplies, made lighthearted by their heavy loads.

***

The first order of business in the wilderness was to clear the land. It was benighted and blighted and burdened with many trees and weeds and other insolently useless vegetation, all of which were set about with sturdy axes carried by willing hands attached to strong backs.

Except for Louise, whose back carried her hands to some twine, and that twine to some leaves, and then spent her time flying kites.

“Lousy Louise!” cried her siblings as they chopped and carved and carried – here for the building of the house, there to be burnt as fuel, there to be burnt immediately for ash, there to be cast into the river, there to be stamped flat and spat upon and ritually desecrated as a Thing Lacking Purpose – “you never do anything useful!”

But there were eight useful bodies and only one useless one, so soon the Bustle’s labours were at an end and they were the proud owners of a wide tract of cleared soil and a mighty log home, all helpfully located right next to a broad river.

“Behold the fruits of our labours!” announced Charles triumphantly. And then, with a sardonic crack, the sky broke upon and spilled water everywhere.

This was a little frustrating at first, for the laundry was out and had to be gathered in a hurry by the Bustles. And while this was happening, the true extent of the problem became visible: the water in the river was rising, thick and muddy and fast – the bare and sun-baked soil, unshaded by leaf or limb and unclutched by root, was simply sluicing directly downslope into it.

This was observed only by Louise, who was not busy. So once her family was done gathering laundry and had begun boarding windows, digging ditches, and battening hatches, she took her kite and gathered up as much cloth as she could and very carefully cut-and-sewed –and-sewed-and-sewed until her kite was as wide as anything and as thin as a soap-bubble. Then she took it out in the rain and the fuss and the wind and threw it into the sky, where it spread itself wide and far like a bat and covered the barren field from the rain, starving the river’s gullet of its watery feast. She flew it all day and all night until the rain stopped the next morning.

“Remarkable work, Louise,” praised Clarice. “For once you’ve nearly pulled your weight, although you did skip out on all the day’s other chores while you did so. But half-praise is far better than none! Tell me, what did you use to make such a large kite?”
“Our laundry,” said Louise.

“Oh lousy Louise!” cried Clarice. “You have rendered your whole family as shiftless as you!” And she thrashed her with great love and sternness.

***

The second order of business was to till the soil. The Bustles plowed and planted and watered and spent much sweat and blood and tears on this with utmost diligence and great pain. Particular care was spent on removing the local pests that might graze upon them – every potential plant-eating bird and beast bigger than a gnat that dared stray from the beaten-back woods was culled with weaponry and cat and dog, cooked into pies and smoked into hams and used to build strong, productive muscles for the whole family except for Louise, who was spending her time sneaking off into the woods and doing bird calls.

“Lousy Louise!” cried her siblings as they went by with braces of blackbirds in their left hands and crow corpses in their right while slinging deer carcasses over their shoulders. “You never help!”

But since Louise was just one small useless body and there were eight busy and productive Bustles they begrudged her little, and did their jobs exceedingly well. Soon the crops were approaching the peak of their growth, and from green shoots came tender niblings, which was probably what attracted the attention of what initially looked like a big grey cloud but which resolved itself into a mass of millions of giant and voracious locusts.

“Get the guns!” shouted Clarice, then cursed as a locust slapped itself into her face like a fat chitinous palm. She examined the carcass, then quickly threw it away and corrected herself: “get the nets! Get the carpet-beaters! Get sticks! We battle for the fruits of our labours!”

While the family warred with the locusts in the center of the field, Louise went on a long, meandering walk in the woods, where she twittered and trilled and cawed and coughed to herself. And as she did this, the trees filled with curious little bright eyes attached to round little feathered bodies with long hungry beaks, until the branches creaked under their weight. Then she turned and walked back to her family’s fields, and when her audience saw the feast of locusts before them they fell on them like hungry dogs on stray lambs until they could eat no more – and by then Louise was coming back with her next flock. She walked into the woods and called for birds twelve times over twelve hours and at the day’s end the locusts were all gone and the crops were bedraggled but still alive.

“Quite unprecedented, Louise!” marvelled Charles. “You may have ignored my wise instructions and abandoned your assigned duties, but you did help out in your own odd way. When will the birds leave?”
“When they’re done eating, I expect,” said Louise with a shrug.

“Oh lousy Louise!” cried Charles. “They may have eaten the locusts, but they’re already eyeing our crops as dessert! You’ve sent our field to the birds!” And he thrashed her with great love and sternness.

***

After some years of great industry and hard work by the Bustles, their lands were prosperous. There was a field with sheep in it. There were fields with crops in them. The house was bigger and less made of logs. And Charles Bustle was on death’s door, dying of Cubes.

“My dutiful children and wife,” he wheezed between breaths, “how I shall miss all your tender, hard-working faces. How I appreciate that you have spared five minutes from your chores to come and laboriously tend to my sickness by punching large holes in my arms for bloodletting, so the foulness shall rush away from my body. Except for Louise. Where is she, anyways?”

“Playing with garbage or something, goodness knows,” said Clarice, hefting a sixteen-pound hand-drill with a grunt. “Shall we try trepanning again, my dear? Your brain-pan still seems quite inflamed.”

“Crack away, my good wife,” said Charles. “I would assist, but I lack the strength to raise my hands high enough – curse this enforced idleness, the true sickness!”
Louise walked in the door with a big mouldy fruit in her hands.

“Eat this,” she said. “You’ll get better.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Clarice. “But waste not want not, I suppose.”

So Charles ate the mouldy fruit, and began to feel a little better, and after three days of Louise bringing him mouldy fruit he was upright and out and about again.

“Thank you, Louise, for sparing our father from a slothful and unproductive death, if in a gross way,” praised her siblings. “But tell us, how did you find this miracle cure?”
 “I looked around the garbage for mould that killed other growths near it, then rubbed fruit on it ‘till it spread to them,” said Louise.

“Oh lousy Louise!” cried the other six Bustle children. “That fruit was purchased from the market with hard-earned coin; you took that which was not yours and spoiled it!” And they thrashed her with great love and sternness.

***

The seasons came and went, and the Bustles laboured mightily. They built the house higher; they spread the fields farther; they hauled bigger buckets of water longer distances from the river; they herded more sheep and worked longer and longer and longer days.

The one thing they had less of were crops.

“The fields are dying, my good toilbugs,” mourned Charles to his attentive family as they spent their evening polishing the floorboards and performing the weekly repainting of the walls. “They are weak and lackadaisical, shiftless things that earn their keep no more. Our crops grow feebly and with unstout stems and limp and listless leaves, starved of nutrients by the sulky, wretched soil. They have failed us! Our fortunes diminish, our money is low, our good work has been betrayed and as matters stand soon we shall be destitute.”
“What shall we do, what shall we do?!” wailed six of the seven Bustle children as they dusted the corners, swept the ceiling, and renovated the kitchen.

“What we always do,” said Clarice, raising her chin like a war banner. “We will try HARDER. Plowing the fields twice as deep should do it.”
Charles scratched his head with one hand as he hammered nails with the other and ran a saw using his armpit. “No,” he decided. “THRICE as deep, and with three  times the force. A Bustle never doubles down when they can triple down. Our prosperity shall be assured!”

“Hurrah!” cheered six of the seven Bustle children, as the back door swung open and the seventh stepped inside.

“Hey,” she said. “I-”

“Louise!” scolded her mother. “We’ve almost finished cleaning and rebuilding and refurbishing the house for the evening; we already tilled the fields and weeded the fields and harvested the fields and planted the fields in the afternoon; and goodness knows we long ago milked the sheep and slaughtered the sheep and butchered the sheep and cured the mutton in the morning. Ten more minutes and you’d be late for sitting up all night carding and spinning! Where have you BEEN all day?”
“Looking at rocks,” said Louise. “Listen, I-”

“I AM listening,” said her father, the gravest grief settling over his face like a mask. “I am listening and for once I am comprehending. Louise Mendicant Bustle, the youngest daughter of my family, has shirked every act of productivity and work all day from dawn to dusk and beyond, in order to amuse herself with frippery and childishness. And this is not the first day thus spent, nor the last! Oh lousy Louise, what have you DONE with yourself? What have you earned?”
“I found this by the west outcrop, and if you look at it in the light, it-”

Overcome with grief and horror, Candice snatched the stone from her daughter’s hand and cast it through the nearest window, which she immediately began to mend with glue.

“You are no daughter of mine,” she said with love and sternness, “and never will darken this place’s door again. We will crush that outcrop to little bitty pieces and cast it into the river, and through that dusty and tiring labour we will free ourselves from it and from our memories of all the worthlessness you have brought us. Now leave, Lousy Louise, for that is your only name now and this is no pace for anyone not yclept Bustle.”

“Listen-” attempted Louise, but she was confronted with six angered siblings armed with construction, cleaning, farming, and butchering tools and acquiesced with no more word than a sigh. So she left the house, picked up her stone, and walked down the long, winding way to the nearest road to town, examining it with a weary eye.

“S’pose it’s no big difference in the end,” she said, watching the sunset glisten on the rich yellow freckles that studded the rock. “It looks like it’s only a half-ounce-per-ton or so.”

The shark is seventy-three feet long and more than a hundred tons and it looks like a sausage crossed with a subway car crossed with a steakhouse knife cabinet. It is moving with great force and purpose and joy in the bay, just below the water’s surface, fin and back standing proud and tall in the midday sun like some sort of denticle-coated sailboat, the heft and force of it tipping jauntily as its mouth slides gently towards the surface and shatters another yacht at the keel, sending screaming weekenders into the bay. They thrash in fear and desperation, which attracts its interest, followed by its teeth, and some screams stop and some screams start and oh, oh, there is the ferry, crammed with tourists, and there it goes – bam! Right amidships! Look at the list, look at the tilt, see how such a small change in angle and degree makes such a big difference for so many people! Look at how simple and tidy it all looks from here, like a little paper boat sinking on a pond!

Oh, the military are here now. The drones are spotting for the helicopters, the helicopters are spotting for the missile cruisers. Oh, it leaps – a breach fit for a mako, on a body more than a hundred times a mako’s size! It’s in midair, above the deck, mouth open, the bullets all sliding harmlessly past it or tickling across steely skin, mouth open, all the fire and screams in the air, mouth open, the waves are red and churned by its wake, mouth open and Harold woke up in bed with sixteen minutes before the alarm went off. Again.

***

Since he was up early he spent a little more time on the toilet and a little more time brushing his teeth and put together they almost balanced out the a lot more time he spent trying not to remember what he’d been thinking about, and the a lot a lot more time he spent trying to forget about trying not to remember what he’d been thinking about.

Traffic helped. The streets were clogged with the third day of just enough rain to make everyone just a little upset but unable to avoid errands any longer – sorry about your weekend, cheer up, the week’s going to suck too. The bus was a cauldron of angry, damp, uncomfortable humans. Harold’s leg cramped; his shirt was sweatstained; a baby was screaming and someone was screaming at the baby. He was in nirvana.

Then his stop arrived, he walked two blocks in the drizzle, and he went into a building to sit down at a computer and go over the backlog of KRUNCHI data to make sure it wasn’t falling apart in the hands of the tools that were meant to make sure it wasn’t falling apart by checking it against the algorithms that were supposed to inform you if it was falling apart as long as the base code running them hadn’t fallen apart.

Harold’s monitor had a little sticker with a cartoony shark fin on it. Everyone on the team had gotten a pack and been strongly encouraged to use them. It got a little bigger every time he looked at it, which was never, or thought about it, which was every second he was sitting in front of it.

His inbox exploded in fanfares about a quarter of the way into a truly incomprehensible bug report: priority message from the Big Guy. All hands on deck, no slowing down because the weather’s bad and half the city is clogged and the other half is leaking, shape up or ship out, We Get Results or We Go Home, No Excuses, Remember How Badass Your Job Is.

Harold remembered how badass his job was and his arms started shaking a little until he went to the bathroom. Then he finished three-quarters of the next one-quarter of the bug report, took an early lunch, and on the way back – microwaved meal filling his stomach with watery grease – he took the walk by the Pool. Like a kid picking the scab, or poking the bruise.

The Pool was still there, and so was the shark. Encased in glass, swimming its endless, patient laps. Waiting for the Thursday feeding. They fed it variety on Thursdays, pre-vetted for safety but selected for unfamiliarity. To keep it interested.

Harold looked at the glass and wondered how interested it was in testing its thickness. He wondered how much variety it would get from shattering the walls, bursting into the lobby, sliding down the rain-slicked streets all the way to the waterfront. He wondered if the ferry would be there. He wondered if he’d be able to avoid biting his nails all the way back to his monitor and its sticker.

He didn’t, but only because he ground his teeth instead.

***

Another early night, another picture-play of his daytime thoughts. This time the shark is on land; he’d failed to check the bug reports in time and it’s sprouted legs through some kind of godawful reverse-neotenic nonsense, sending it scuttling through the skyscrapers like a centipede through a box of crickets. It flips the streetcars, it tramples the cart vendors, it wades through emergency response teams and tanks and it climbs an old cathedral downtown and heaves air through its gill slits in a deep, booming grunt that sounds like it’s coming from a hog too big for the deepest hells to hold.

Then Harold woke up again, twelve minutes early. So he had a little less time to sit on the toilet.

Fourth day of rain. A little more intense, with occasional pauses for hope. It lashed the windows now and then, to be sure you were paying attention.
He wondered if the shark noticed. It probably could. Megalodon^(™) was mostly C. carcharias in stock, scaled up beyond even the wildest fish-tales or the most Peter Benchley-inspired nightmares, and they had pretty good eyes and liked to check out stuff above water. It probably still had those instincts and abilities. KRUNCHI had added size. Added a ‘more dramatic’ paler colouration; reducing the effectiveness of the fish’s countershading in the process. Made the teeth bigger. Other than that it had mostly contributed a steady flow of bug reports. O. megalodon probably wouldn’t have looked like anything like this, wouldn’t have acted anything like this; but it was what you saw when you looked it up on the internet, and that was always what the Big Guy wanted, so it was what he got.

He wondered if the shark cared. He had no idea. It probably didn’t.

He wondered if he was thinking about the rain or not.

***

Its fins elongate into wings. It soars through the air (that it can’t breathe) and breathes fire (that it really can’t breathe) and it tears the jets from the sky and jukes and dives and rends asunder missiles and fighter-planes alike, a dogfish in a dogfight. It defecates a contrail across the sky; it topples the radio antennas of the tallest towers; it dips its tail in mocking salute as it buzzes the bay one last time and soars away across the water to menace the globe. And twenty minutes before Harold’s alarm was going to go off.  Enough time for toilet and toothbrush AND staring at the ceiling.  Beautiful.

Day five. No raindrops, just eternal mist in coagulated globules that tried to seep into your clothing from the inside out, like alien sweat. The gutters remained full and sullen from yesterday.

Harold finished the bug report. He was informed it was late, and had it explained to him in an automated sort of way that this was bad, and he was also on thin ice because if he wasn’t badass he had no place here, that was just the way evolution and ecology worked.

Harold’s body demanded energy input. Early lunch again, but he dawdled by the Pool until it was merely on time.

Down below, the shark swam. Watching, waiting, whirling.

He ate underdressed salad, for his health, and he worked on a new bug report, for his career, and just as an experiment he filled it with autogenerated genetic lorem ipsum and labelled it complete and then did that three times over and set them up to be handed in one at a time for the next three days and though this was the first time he’d done this since he was a child and stole a jelly bean from a corner store sweet bin he knew in his heart and soul this would not be noticed or caught.

So he worked on a bug report some more, for real, and didn’t look at the shark fin sticker.

And he went home, and he dreamed.

***

It is nuclear powered. It will destroy the world. It is radio-active and cybernetic and genetically modified and powered by generative AI. It is the ultimate organism and it is a big fat fluxing mess squatting on the city, a derivative blob of threatening biological urges. Big hairy body! Big scaly nose! Fangs! Claws! Jaws!

It’s the big bear outside the cave and he doesn’t have a spear there’s no spear big enough.

But then come the jets, pum pum pum go the missiles, and oh they’ve shot it, they’ve shot it and it’s leaking data tables and shoddy algorithms and fabricated bug reports everywhere. It’s leaking, it’s failing, it has so much blood needed to fuel so many organs inside it, it’s just mortal. It’s just an organism. Outnumbered, frail, enmeshed in a reality so much bigger than it is that it can’t even imagine it, let alone defy it, isolated by systems and systemically isolated, a prisoner in a puddle.

So he falls off the city – vulnerable to crude physics, empty, dead – and he woke up in bed with the alarm in his ears.

The rain had stopped. The dawn was soft and yellow. It was a beautiful day, and soon the sun would be shining down into the Pool. By noon it would be the perfect photo op.

So Harold didn’t pack a lunch, but he did pack his best jacket, and he sent his three bug reports early, and went for lunch right on time, in his best jacket. He walked firmly and decisively like he hadn’t since he was six, and he walked past the security on the Pool’s scenic bridge like he paid them, and he walked into the photoshoot, and up to the Big Guy, and he gave him a firm, strong handshake, then a hug, then a hop, then a fall.

Then a splash.

It was a very curious creature, and Thursday WAS variety day. So it moved with great force and purpose and joy

***

The board was divided on the subject.

On the one hand, the project was a money sink. And sunk cost fallacy was a danger.

On the other, to euthanize your advertising campaign seemed a self-inflicted blow. And really, it wasn’t so hard a swerve to sell, was it? Marketing had done more with worse for longer, for less reason.
Sharks were badass. The company was for badasses. And it wasn’t like ‘anti-corpro punk’ was a difficult aesthetic to commercialize, especially when you gave it teeth.

They could put it on stickers.

“Isn’t the sky beautiful today, Bart?”
“Check the fuses.”
“Ah, I did that, I did it – but when I did, well, I looked up and you know what I saw?”
“Check them again.”
“I did, I did – I saw the most beautifully blue sky from horizon to horizon, with just enough wind to keep the grass rustling and the bugs out of our noses, and leave the barest RIPPLES ghosting across the water-”

“Recheck them again. The frogs won’t wait on you.”
“-they’re still there, they’re fine – and I thought what a beautiful place we were standing in, and what a shame it is that we’re going to –”

“Direct order from your corporal: recheck them again.”

“-oh FINE – that we’re going to blow it up, but that really just makes it almost more beautiful doesn’t it? The fragility of it all, the briefness of the lifespan, adds poignancy in depth proportionate to its shortness-”

“Nobody draws portraits of mayflies. Talk less, work more.”
Anthony frowned, which did less than pleasant things to his less than impressive moustache. “Honestly Bart, you never ride Clark like this.”
“Clark does what I ask and doesn’t talk when he does it. Clark, anything to report?”
Clark lowered his binoculars. “Nope.”
“There.”

“Really, am I that unbearable?”
“Private Anthony, you are not the worst case scenario.”

“Oh, you needn’t mince words, Bart – I know I’m the last sort you’d want on your post, but-”

“No you aren’t.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You aren’t the last person I’d want on my post. A romanticist is almost last person I want on explosives duty, but I’d rather have you there than a damned true believer anywhere.”

“Whyever so?”

“You’d only ever get us blown up by mistake. A true believer would do it on purpose and expect a medal. Recheck the fuses again, again.”

“I just did that, I did-”

“Good. Hand them over.  Time for  frog fishing.”
Anthony did so. The little dull grey depth charges sat in Bart’s palm like river rocks, but in the spring sun they shone like diamonds as they arced through the dappled cover of the blooming trees that surrounded the pond, entering the surface with a gentle plop plip plunk, followed by a brief and loud thud and a trio of drearily grey geysers mixed with milky bubbles.

“Pass one complete. Clark, mark time. Anthony, check the next fuses.”

“Already on it, already on it.”
And another handful of unprecious stones went aloft, and landed quietly, and ended loudly.

“It’s just, how can you two not see the poetry in all of this? The emotional qualities? Here we are, in a battle for our future-”

“Next fuses.”

“-and we’re throwing depth charges into a future tailings pond.”
“We don’t question orders, we execute them. Recheck fuses.”
“Yes, and that just adds another layer to the, the futility of the thing-”

“Private Anthony Hastings, you had better not be expressing treason on my watch. That’s a lot of extra work to deal with.”
“What? No! I like the futility. If you think of this entire war as a sandwich – a really BIG sandwich – then our task here is like a spring of thyme. Nobody wants it on its own, but it adds that little bit of something that rounds out the flavour of it all.”
“Have you lost anyone yet, Private Anthony?”
“Half a brother, might lose the other in a month. And of course my aunt’s house was demolished when the Old County got flooded.”
“Well, that gives you the right to your thoughts, but I don’t recommend you share them with others. Could get you in trouble.” Bart straightened up and cricked his back. “Anthony, hand out the wading gear. Clark, mark time.”

***

The wading gear was a thing of contrasts: clammy and yet starched against the skin; keeping all the unpleasant warm sweatiness of the body close and yet forcing a prolonged full-body hug with the chilly depths of the pondwater. It reeked of petrochemicals and rotting plant matter, and it went up just under your armpits, which meant when you got a soaker over the side it went all down your side all the way for good.

Bart put it on, took an entrenching tool, and began probing the shallows.

“Section one, clear. Anthony, check the map.”
“Yes, Section one is clear. Was that a muskrat lodge? We had one of those in the creek near us at home, and-”

“Section two, clear. Mark it.”
“-the juxtaposition of the common word-of-mouth factuality of that lodge’s location among the children against this surveyor’s chart we’re using here is truly astounding, I mean, who’s to say which is actually more true-to-life and representative of the fetid reality of this pond than-”

“Section three – ow! Fuck!”
“I’m sorry?”
“Stabbed my knee on a tree branch,” said Corporal Bart, immediately before the torpedo embedded against his left kneecap detonated, spraying red-hot chunks of tin, rubber, cartilage and bone across the surface of the pond to create a surprisingly delicate series of ripples and a lot of aerosolized red mist.

Bart was screaming. Clark was lowering his binoculars. Anthony, to his surprise, was running down to the water’s edge, reaching for Bart, grabbing his arm, slowing his collapse.

“Hold on it’s all good by god I’ve got you eh don’t worry it’s not your good leg it’ll be-” which was when the acorn-sized incandescent shell landed atop Anthony’s helmet, cracked open like an egg over a frying-pan, and covered much of his (armoured) skull and (unarmoured) face in ‘frog jelly’ incendiaries. This transformed the fatty tissues of Anthony’s features into a grease fire, which he thankfully experienced for only a moment as he inhaled to scream and sucked some of it into his windpipe, choking him and sending him into the pond, which accepted him with the same apathetic lack of prejudice as it had the depth charges.

Bart lay on the bank, wheezing in the foul-smelling air, arms clawing at the reeds for traction. The sun was blocked, an arm reached down. Private Clark’s calm, careful face was over his.

“Hurry,” said Bart.

Clark nodded, reached down, and very gently but firmly turned Bart around and held his face in the pond with one arm until the bubbles stopped. The other arm made a series of careful gestures in the air, a bit like a semaphore, which was what induced the frog subriverine to break cover and rise from the pond’s surface.

It was a little over three feet long, and in profile resembled a pike for purposes of hydrodynamics and camouflage.

“Sub pen’s cleared out of essential personnel,” said the captain from her conning tower, a particularly grizzled amphibian missing an eye and half her jaw (but you didn’t need those to use a periscope anyways). “Should be dismantled within an hour, and we can leave some debris to sell the story of a tough-won fight. But we could’ve done that without you finishing the corporal. Sole survivors are suspicious.”
“Bart was competent,” said Clark. “The cause is safer with him gone. Should I become lost in action? I am prepared to martyr myself, if Frog wills it.”

“Uh. No. That’d give them too many dots to connect in your service history. Just… lay low for a while, alright? More dead drops, less dead bodies. Use the stream point. And hold still for a minute.”

Clark did so as the crew readied the deck gun, then endured a short fusillade to his left arm, riddling it with a light dose of subcutaneous shrapnel.

“There. You escaped under heavy fire after a failed attempt to retrieve the body of your corporal, you are a hero. Now be boring for six months minimum or else.”

Clark saluted and left. The captain stared for a moment – methodically scanning blue sky, retreating spy, blooded pond, and calming water – before retreating belowdecks.

And as the subriverine sunk back below the surface of the pond, the captain – once more shrouded in the comforting brownish blanket of particulate and lukewarm water – shook her head in irritation.

“Damned true believers,” she told Frog, the universe in general, and her first mate. “Always so eager to die and get a medal for it.”

Once upon a time and place there were three brothers. By mean, they were three perfectly moderate men. Unaveraged, they were a little less so.

“My brothers!” cried Fantasist Frank, “I have heard such tales today! Three dragons menace three kingdoms near here! ‘Tis providence! We should go forth and seek our fortunes.”

“Crises mean money,” said Pragmatist Pete. “If it works, it works.”

“Three places claiming to have the same problem?” questioned Realist Ron. “It’s probably one dragon being spotted in three places. If there even is a dragon. What are we working with, eyewitness accounts? Transmitted orally by gossips? Seems unlikely.”

“Farewell!”
“See ya.”
“Goodbye.”

And so the three brothers set forth, with joyous heart, full stomach, and slight headache divided equally unevenly between them.

***

Fantasist Frank took the high road through the dark woods, singing as he strode, and thereby he proceeded to the nearest kingdom with sure steps until he found a dying knight by the roadside.

“Beware the dragon’s venomous breath,” said the knight, “but takes my arms and armour to battle it.”

“Why, ‘tis providence!” cried Frank, and did so with confidence and haste before returning to the road, which became rougher and rockier as it ventured closer to the wild places. There he heard a faint wicker and lo and behold, there was a horse bearing terrible wounds from sharp teeth and claws, and as he watched it ate the fruit of a lone peach-tree and those wounds were closed.

“Why, ‘tis providence!” cried Frank, and he saddled and mounted the horse and took a pouch of the fresh peaches with him before returning to the road, which soon ceased to be a road at all and turned into a hellish canyon, and at the base of that canyon was a foul and noxious pool, and in that pool, spouting poison from its maw, wallowed the dragon.

“Aha, ‘tis providence!” cried Frank, and he charged the dragon three times. Three times it breathed venomous vapors upon him and he nearly died, but was saved from staggering backwards in retreat to sneak a bite of a peach, and on the third he put the peach in his mouth between his teeth when he charged so that when his body weakened he bit down and was refreshed, held his breath, struggled through the mist of death and cut loose the beast’s head.

“Ah, ‘tis providence in truth,” he cried, as he took the beast’s head and heart as a proof to show the king of the land. But the heart was such a tasty-looking thing that he instead roasted and ate it, and no sooner had it passed his lips than he understood all the languages of the birds and beasts, and he overheard the two birds in a tree watching him.

“He knows the king’s going to try to kill him at the wedding, right?” asked one bird.

“Nope,” said the other. “And it’s not like knowing that would do him any good. The king’s a tricky dicky – if the poison in the wine won’t do it, the poison in the meat will; and if the poison in the meat won’t do it, the poison needle in the wedding ring will; and if none of those work he’ll probably ask him to fetch water from the witch-well to clean the church’s steps before the service, which would make god smite him.”

“Wow,” said the first bird. “He’s fucked.”
“Why, ‘tis providence!” cried Frank, and so saying he rode to the king’s castle and presented the dragon’s head, and perceived that the birds had told him no lie: the king was indeed a very crafty and malicious man.

“You shall marry my daughter on the morrow,” said the king. “But first let us toast your heroism!” And so they did, but Frank put a slice of the magical peaches into his cup, and so the poison did nothing to him.

“Now let us feast your bravery!” said the king. And so they did, but Frank ate a bite of meat and then a bite of peach all evening, and so the poison did nothing to him.

“Here is your wedding ring, wear it proudly!” said the king. And Frank thanked him so but begged politely that it would be bad luck to don it before the ceremony, then spent half the evening in his bedroom removing the needle.

The next day the bells at the church were just ringing when the king came running up to Frank in a terrible hurry.

“Oh no oh dear oh no alack alas!” he blurted out all at once. “The steps of the church you are to be wed in are dirty, and will soil my beautiful and kind and true daughter’s feet! You’d better get so water to wash them. Take this bucket and fill it from the well wrought of pure white stone and rinse them quickly!” And Frank took the bucket, but filled it from the common well made of grey stone, which rinsed the steps clean without a single problem. Then he got married and the moment he put the ring on the princess’s finger a bell rang twice, the evil king turned into three ferrets in a crown, and three black birds flew out of the witch-well and pecked out all three of the ferret’s eyes until they were dead.
“Why, ‘tis providence!” cried Frank. And so he was king in that land.

***

Pragmatist Pete took the middle road, which was safest and clearest, and as he did so he kept an eye out until he found a very long and sturdy sapling. He took it with him all the way to the next kingdom, asked around the pubs and taverns where the dragon was, then spent some of the little money he had on paying a blacksmith to make him a very sharp and long and barbed fishing spearhead (which he had fixed on the sapling) and a good tough shovel.

“They’re not pretty, but they’re good tools,” the smith told him.

“Good,” said Pete. “If it works, it works.”

Then he walked to the desolate hillside where the dragon’s cave lurked, found the path the dragon walked (its scaled belly and heavy tread made such a thing no secret to anyone with the slightest eyes), dug a pit, covered it with brush, and sat in there for two days, and at the end of the second day Pete heard footfalls.

He waited. The brush shook overhead.

He waited. A shadow passed between him and the light.

He waited. Something rustled long and low and scaly against the branches, and Pete stopped waiting and slammed the spear upwards with both hands as hard as he could, then let go and retreated to the far end of the pit.

It took an hour of screaming, thrashing, spraying of boiling blood, and wheezing before the dragon tired. When that was done, Pete pried himself loose and looked it in the eye.

“You have won my hoard, murderer,” it wheezed, “but be warned: my gold is cursed, and none may touch it who will not be consumed by it.”
“Okay,” said Pete. And the dragon died.

Pete cut off its head as proof, sliced free its largest and most impressive claws, fangs, and scales, then took them to the blacksmith and asked for some arms and armour and the names of a few clean-nosed local laborers. Then he brought them and some wheelbarrows and a bunch of extremely long-hafted shovels up to the dragons’ den and lo, he brought the wealth back into town, which he only handled to exchange for other coin, and that only with his arms clad in impenetrable dragonmail.

In this way, Pete bought himself a horse, and a retinue, and plenty of armed soldiers. And a good job too, because the kingdom was inexplicably beset with madness and greed, with all the moneychangers Pete had visited coiling their coin in their beds and growing scales and spitting fire from their mouths. He and his men went house to house, saving the townsfolk, killing the infected, confiscating their cursed coins (and the noncursed coins, to be safe), then visiting the next town and very mysteriously finding it suffering from the same sort of outbreak.

“The dragon-slaying hero!” they cheered.

“If it works, it works,” he shrugged. And hired more soldiers.

After Pete had visited every town in the kingdom, taken every coin in the kingdom, and hired every eager –beaver with a spear and a shield and a lust for fighting, he went to visit the king, with the dragon’s head hoist high upon the barbed spear he had killed it with, and the sword carved from the dragon’s peerless and searing fang at his hip, and his army at his back, and bedecked in the armour shaped from the dragon’s impenetrable blade-turning carapace (it hadn’t possessed a plastron, more was the pity for it).

“Hello,” said Pete as he thus stood before the castle gates.

“You know,” said the king, “I was JUST SAYING how I so very badly wanted you to marry my daughter and rule over my lands with my blessings while I spent the rest of my life hunting and not making trouble.”

“If it works, it works,” said Pete. And so he was king in that land.

***

Realist Ron took the low road, since it was the one he actually knew and therefore was least likely to get waylaid on or suffer great accident. There he walked, suffering many blisters in his shoddy shoes from the poorly-laid cobbles and occasionally having to wade through mud, before at last coming to the edges of the kingdom he had lived in, where people quailed and trembled of the dragon.

“It eats maidens,” muttered a drunk in the pub.

“How the hell’s it supposed to know the difference?” said Ron. “Seems unlikely.” And he got a punch in the mouth for his trouble.

“It lurks in the hills beyond a lake of fire, where it spakes blasphemy daily in unholy sermons against the will of god,” warned the priest of the small chapel.

“The only bird I even knew that could talk was one-legged Jim’s pet raven, and it never mentioned the church once,” said Ron. “Seems unlikely.” And so he was chased out of town for his opinion.

“It ate my entire flock last week – wool, bones, hooves and all,” wept a mourning shepherd.

“A whole flock? The size of the one you have right now?” asked Ron incredulously. “Just last week? Seems unlikely. I think it ate your best one and you’re angling for extra sympathy to show off.” And he received a shepherd’s crook to the groin for his hypothesis.

After receiving another half-dozen similar gifts and gratuities, Ron came at last to the village where the dragon had been most recently sighted, where he spent the last of his coin to buy all the rat poison in town and a cheap cow on its last legs, which he took out to the pond where the dragon slumbered and killed humanely by bashing its head in with the sharpest rock he could find.

Then he waited three days, and after the dragon – which resembled nothing more than a big, scaly lizard with a broad snout and a powerful bite – came out and dragged the poisoned cow into the water he waited one more, and then he fished its floating corpse ashore and very, very, very slowly dragged it back into town.

“That’s not the dragon,” everyone told him. “It’s not big enough. And you just poisoned it like a wild dog. That’s not brave enough.”
“Critics, critics, critics,” muttered Ron. “I don’t suppose there’s a reward?  Seems unlikely.”

“Your reward,” said the captain of the king’s guard most grandly, as he and his men picked up the dragon, “is that if you don’t ask for the hand of the king’s daughter in marriage, you can stay for the victory feast tonight and leave with your head attached to your shoulders, even though you are clearly a stranger and a peasant.”

“Seems unlikely,” said Ron, and left in a hurry before anyone could get ahold of him. He travelled home throughout the night without stopping and with many stubbed toes, got home, slept in for three days, and married someone for purely socioeconomic reasons. And so he was not king in that land.

***

And so the three brothers lived, happily, kind of, but not until ever after because there never is an after ever.

Fantasist Frank lived until the age of forty, when his beautiful and kind and true daughter came of age, whereupon he was cursed by a witch, his wife was burned by a dragon, his kingdom was looted by giants, and the day was saved by a hero. He staggered bleary-eyed from his curse’d sickbed and gazed out upon the approaching gallant youth as he crossed his drawbridge, sunshine breaking through the  clouds in his wake.

“Ah fuck me,” he creaked, “‘tis providence.” And lo, he died.

Pragmatist Pete lived until the age of forty-five after many decades of rule by abject terror, profligate bribes, occasional murder, and remorseless executions, when his youngest daughter (age ten), after witnessing her six older siblings perish one after another in failed assassination attempts, snapped and spontaneously shoved him off his castle while they were inspecting the battlements, without a single ounce of forethought or planning. The impact of the fall drove the unbreakable scales of his dragonmail armour (which he never took off, even asleep) through his body and out the other side.

“If it works, it works,” he bubbled absently to himself before he expired.

Realist Ron died in bed age fifty of cancer of the bowels exacerbated by the long-term effects of a life of hard and unforgiving labour with little adequate nutrition, following a decline of statistically reasonable length.

“Yeah,” he whispered to his spouse with his last exhalation. “This seems likely.”

Helen was frowning at the lopsided ruin of her mailbox when fell footsteps came behind her. A subtle rhythm, detectable only to a dedicated student of the village.

“Hi, Louise,” she said without turning around.

“Oh hello yourself Helen how are you doing oh NO what’s happened to your mailbox was it the kids again?”
Who did she think she was kidding? Might as well ask if the sky was blue or green. “Someone’s kids did it, yeah. Clumsy job too – they probably just stuck the bat out the window as they drove by, didn’t even swing or anything. Won’t be hard to fix.”

“Oh yes that’s right that’s right and your daughter how’s she doing?”
You live next door, Louise, why don’t you tell me. “Agnes? Oh she’s fine, fine, fine. Lazy though. Typical teenager.”
“Yes indeedy mostly truly you tell no lie there I tell you what and by the way heard anything about that new neighbour yet?”
And there we go.

“Yeah. He’s a troll. He works with a coal-dark hammer and a red-hot anvil and a set of barbed tongs that could pin a raging bull or pluck the left eyelash from a gnat and he smiths ores and metals into hopes and dreams. I checked his website.”

“Oh my my goodness that’s very impressive very unique very interesting. Is he single?”
“He said he’s married to his forge.”
“Shoot. Well you can’t have everything can you I guess it’s true or at least you can’t always get what you want but then again if you try sometimes you might get what you need are you SURE he isn’t single?”
“Look, you can ask him yourself. I’m going to see him about my lawnmower when I’m done here and I don’t want to give him an excuse to make it run backwards or something. You know how fables go if you piss off the magical folk.”

***

The troll’s home was a hill, hollowed into a hull and shaped into a hall. Windows frowned from under the grass; ventilation ducts and chimneys and exhaust pipes shrugged loose from the loam; a gigantic ironwood door twice the height of a human stood proud in a somber cliff face. It had two doorknobs: one you could barely just reach if you stood on your tippy-toes and jumped, and a second, much smaller one at a more typical height.

A little sign was hanging from the second doorknob. It read “NO SOLICITORS, PRIESTS, REALTORS, OR MARRIAGE PROPOSALS” in firm, mathematically exacting print that looked to have been embossed with considerable force.

Helen knocked, making a sound like slabs rolling loose from sarcophaguses in the most lightless reaches of the deepest tombs.

Then she knocked again.

Then she tried the handle, which was unlocked, and poked her head through and asked “hello?”
“No solicitors,” said the troll. His voice sounded like raw unworked stone with a hint of smouldering cinder, and he had his back to her, hands busy on his work-table with two tools made of iron and glass and a jeweler’s loupe the size of a human head jammed into his left eyesocket.

“I’m not soliciting, I’m here to ask for a commission.”
“Good. One moment.”

Helen waited one moment. While she did that the troll did something unspeakably complex with his fingers – like forming a sushi roll crossed with rolling a coin between his knuckles crossed with some sort of guitar picking – and then put down what he was working on.

It was a very small duckling, made entirely of wire. As Helen watched, it stretched its little wings, flapped twice, took three steps and fell over.

“Done,” said the troll. He picked the duckling up in one hand and deposited it in his apron pocket – where it began to squeak most incessantly – then turned to Helen.

“I need some work done,” she said, deciding that professional was the way to go here.

The troll’s eyes were deep-set caves with a hint of batwing in them. “Yup,” he agreed.

“It’s my lawnmower.”
“Yup.”

“The blades are dull.”
“Yup.”
Helen waited. The troll, too, waited.

She caved first. “And maybe it’s nothing, but my daughter says it’s slow to start.”
“Yup. I’ll get on it right now. Come back tomorrow.” And the troll scooped up the lawnmower in his hands, tucking it under his arm where the duckling began poking at it in hopes it was watercress.

A thought struck Helen as she passed through the door, one hand still on the knob. “How much will this cost?”
The troll looked up from where he was (carefully, discreetly) fussing over the mower like a child with a cranky cat. “You tell me,” he said. And then he refused to say more, and she left to worry a little bit about that and tell herself that she didn’t need to do that and maybe even believe it, if she could.

***

The sun was bright if thin on the morrow’s morning when Helen returned. Outside the door of the troll’s home was a lawnmower fashioned of what appeared to be purest gold and silver, with a pull cord of spun platinum wire and a diamond-carved grip. And on its handle was a small note of plain paper with familiar firm handwriting, reading: Take It.

Helen tried the doorknob first. Locked. Then she tried what the card said.

It was surprisingly light for a piece of landscaping equipment now made entirely of precious metals. Almost lighter than it had been when she towed it over in the first place. And it didn’t rattle, and it didn’t bump as she lugged it across the street, which she discovered as she lugged it over the curb was because it was smoothly and frictionlessly slicing apart every single object that intersected the softly-gleaming blades nestled in its underside.

“Agnes!” she called into the house in general. “Lawnmower’s fixed. Time to go to work”

“Ugh,” said Agnes concisely.

“Go on, it has to get done. You need this more than I do.”
“Fine.”

“And mind the new pull handle; it’s a little stiff. Probably because it’s made of spun platinum wire.”
“Whatever.”

And so Helen went inside, put some tea on, and was just finishing steeping the bag when the door slammed.

“The gas is in the shed, behind the bike rack,” she told Agnes.

“I’m done.”
“No you aren’t. You promised you were going to do the lawn, and you already got a few days abeyance from the mower breaking. You can’t just quit on your commitments like this, people will talk about it and you’ll get a reputation.”

“I finished the lawn.”
“No way you did a good job that fast. You can’t halfass things like this Agnes! It’s how you get fired!”
“Mom. Relax. The mower runs itself. Watch.”

So they went out into the backyard – which was immaculately cut and smelled faintly of grass and vanilla – and Agnes showed her mother how if you pulled the cord like THIS and then turned the knob like THAT and pet the mower gently on its back it would wriggle itself like an excited kitten preparing to pounce and zoom all over the lawn in thirty seconds.

“So yeah,” she concluded. “You’re welcome. Don’t mention it.”
“This was meant to give you a work ethic,” said Helen. Her left arm wouldn’t stop shaking. “So you won’t end up penniless and on the street when I’m too old to do anything to help you because that almost happened to me when your grandmother fucked up when I was little and I dream about you running out of money every month, at least twice, and I feel helpless and terrified that I’m not being a good mother.”

“Mom,” said Agnes. “You’re freaking yourself out. It’s okay; I don’t treat chores my family ask me to do like I would my own professional commitments. My life isn’t going to be financially ruined because I mowed the lawn too fast and didn’t enjoy it. Besides, I do all the coding for cousin Betsy’s streaming setup and she’s already paying me for it. I just never found a good time to tell you.”

They both burst into tears and hugged each other, crying so loudly that across the breadth of their house, lawn, and the road itself the troll had to close his windows and turn up the fans a little so he could focus on carving a living lily out of granite.

***

Louise had her brother Kevin over for coffee the next day.

“And you wouldn’t believe it but Helen said her lawn’s never been cleaner and her and that daughter of hers are actually talking properly again and it’s just amazing really amazing so I’m thinking of maybe looking into visiting and getting something commissioned it’s a real opportunity do you have anything you need done?”

Kevin thought about it. “Yeah,” he said. Then he finished his coffee and walked across the road and knocked on the troll’s door.

Then he knocked again.

Then he opened the door a crack and peered inside and said “hey.”
“No solicitors,” said the troll. He was elbow-deep inside a golden goose’s chest cavity, performing open-heart surgery with a selection of burrs, pliers, and files.

“Got a job.”
“One moment,” said the troll. His hands blurred through something sort of like juggling sort of like polishing a counter and sort of like playing the violin and the goose was sitting up and blinking groggily and honking softly to itself. The troll pet its head gently and slipped it into his apron pocket, where it stared at Kevin with only a lazy echo of the eager animus typical of geese.

“I need a spam blocker,” said Kevin. “Inbox’s overflowing.”
The troll stared at him. “Yup,” he concluded.

“Too many contacts.”
“Yup.”
“Too many promotional offers.”
“Yup.”
“Too many subscriptions to crap.”
“Yup.”
“Staying on top of it sucks.”
“Yup,” said the troll. “I can fix that. Come back tomorrow.” And he walked to his forge and began to pump the bellows with such tremendous force that Kevin had to leave immediately or be scalded hairless.

“Price?” he called back through the door as he hurried out.

“You tell me,” said the troll. And then the handle was too hot to hold and the door slipped shut.

***

It was a misty mild morning when Kevin drove down again to his sister’s place, where he left his car and walked across the road to the shrouded haze of the troll’s hall.

The door was shut fast and locked. But hanging from the doorknob was a sturdy scabbard of dragonhide, descaled but still impervious to harm, and inside the scabbard was a blade so impossibly exact in its proportions that it hurt Kevin’s eyes to look at it even through his contacts. It felt like a little piece of mathematics had fallen from the heavens and intruded onto the messy disproportionate and unmeasured bounds of reality.

A note on the hilt was printed in firm and decisive handwriting: Hold Me And Speak This Word: Defenestrate.

So, feeling somewhat foolish, Kevin drove home with his sword (obeying all the speed limits very carefully, in case he had to explain to a police officer what the hell he was doing), went home, stood in front of his computer, unsheathed the blade, held it aloft, and spoke the word: “Defenestrate.”
The sword leapt from his hand like a salmon through rapids, spun once with dazzling speed, and, with the precision of a cat falling upon a chipmunk, cut his computer into six pieces with a single slice.

Kevin stared at several thousand dollars’ worth of damage. “Huh,” he managed.

Kevin stared at the sword, now returned soundlessly to its scabbard. “Huh,” he repeated.

Kevin stared out the window, at the nice day. “Huh,” he concluded.
Then he went outside and stayed outside for about a week straight before he ran out of groceries.

***

“And I really was impressed at the sword you made my brother I saw it when I went over of course he wasn’t bragging about it or anything but it was sitting there when I came in and took a nice look and of COURSE I’ve seen Helen’s lawnmower and what I’m getting at here is I’m very interested in seeing if you can do something for me if that’s alright I’m sure you’re very busy since you’re so skilled but it’s just a little thing a small problem I’m sure you can handle it super easily no trouble at all if that’s okay.”
The troll’s door squeaked open a crack in front of Louise.

“Everyone else knocked and then went in,” he told Louise.

“Oh I’m sorry I just didn’t want to impose is all and then I started explaining myself and I got a bit carried away you know how I get carried away I’m sure Helen mentioned it ahahahaha why I mean you know how it is when you’re worried about filling up a bit of awkward silence the worst thing in the world isn’t that so?”
“Mm,” said the troll. He raised his hand and gently flicked a small tin woodpecker into the air, where it fluttered free before landing on one of his chimneys, which it began to enthusiastic hammer on.

“Anyways it’s just a small thing just a little project I’m sure it’ll cost nothing at all it’s so tiny teeny eensy-weensy of a chore it’s dead simply why I’m sure you churn out things like this between breakfast lunch and dinner as easy as blinking as simple as pie as straightforward as one to three like falling up a log you can do it under your sleep just like that, surely.”
“What is it.”

“I need you to make my car cool and convenient and spacious and good for the environment and healthy for me,” said Louise.

The troll peered over her shoulder into her driveway. “Yup. Leave it. Come back tomorrow.”
“Oh okay do you need me to leave the keys too or-” but the troll had already gently hooked one finger under the bumper and began to tow Louise’s SUV into his hall, slowly but inevitably, and by the time she’d scurried out of his way and brushed the dust off herself the door was beginning to shut again.

“Oh dear I didn’t ask the price is it free?”
“You tell me,” said the troll.

“Oh well would two hundred be alright or-”

The door shut.

Louise spitballed numbers for another half-hour before she gave up and went home. Her sleep was restless.

***

The morning was bright and cloudlessly bluer than the fiercest robin’s egg when Louise crossed the road and stood before the troll’s hall. She didn’t notice it.

She noticed only the car.

It was… different. The same, but different.

Every angle was just so. Every bit of bodywork precisely adjusted. It was obviously the same car, but it was somehow, inconceivably, incomprehensibly, impossibly slightly tweaked so that it looked perfect. Also it was trimmed with silver, including its new and incredibly stylish hood ornament (a finch?).

The finch cheeped at her.

She opened the door. Again, it was the same. The same in every way. It just somehow had gained an extra row of seats and had more cargo space. Louise’s eyes informed her that this was totally reasonable no matter how hard she looked for the seams. The surfaces were of identical plastic and pleather, but they made it look better. Made it look good. Made it look flawless. It was ideal in every way.

Louise sat behind the steering wheel and gently gripped it, feeling warm and comforted and at peace with the world. Then her eyes alit on the little message sitting at precisely twelve o’clock between her hands, printed very firmly on a sturdy square piece of paper.

It Costs 5 Cents More Per Litre Than The Pump Reads.

Louise considered this for a while. Then she drove it across the road and parked it and considered it a bit more.

“Well if you price it out considering the work was free it’s quite good quite good indeed I can drive it quite a lot before it starts costing me more than the renovation would’ve otherwise I’ll just have to plan around it yes maybe ratio my kilometers I can make a chart and in the meantime I can walk more and get that old bike Helen kept offering me yes I can use those for getting around town and just break this beauty out for when I’m off to visit Kevin and actually I can ask HIM to visit ME more often since he’s spending so much more time offline good for him really and you know I think I can make this work and-” so on and so forth on and on and on.

***

Saturday evening, Agnes came by the troll’s home. No job needed doing, just a little tin of cookies from her mother to say thanks. And hey, it was just across the road, so it was no trouble at all.

The chimneys sat silent and empty of smoke. The windows were shuttered. The door was locked tight. And a big sturdy piece of card was fixed over the smaller, lower doorknob, on which was printed in very firm and large handwriting: Gone Fishing.

And below that, slightly less firmly – as if the author had added it on spur of the moment: Make What You Need Yourselves.

Agnes laughed at that for a good long while.

“Please,” she said. “Like that wasn’t already happening. They didn’t notice?”

Then she wedged the cookie tin against the door with a rock, spread some seed for the little brass chickadees that chirped at her from under the grassy eaves, and went home still chuckling.

Soon after that, the sun went down. But that just meant it was already morning somewhere. 

Anna and Adam didn’t agree on much.

“Kids!”
But one thing they would never, ever argue on-

“Kids! Up and at ‘em!”
-was the joy of sleeping in deep and warm on a winter morning.

“KIDS! IT’S TIME TO GET UP!”
But alas, it was spring, and with it came spring cleaning, and with it came their mother’s kind, gentle, warm, reassuring hurricane bellow, and so Adam and Anna shook off the cobwebs, gritted their teeth, and trudged through their ablations in a haze of their own misery until they had metamorphosed into a pretense of presentable.

“Lovely, lovely, lovely,” said Mother, beaming at them. Her arms were already full, every hand occupied with a different project. “You know the drill, don’t you? I don’t have to tell you twice? Go on! Get it done! Do what you do best! Shoo!”
And so urged on and on they were laden with products and tools and solutions and kicked out the door, and though they ignored each other and made no small talk so as to make the journey take as much time as perceptibly possible, at last, inevitably, the dread conclusion lay in sight at long and gruesome: the wide and vast woodlands, just-thawed, still-damp, and ready for change.

“Damn I hate spring cleaning,” groaned Anna, burying her face in her hands.

“YOU hate it?” retorted Adam, already elbow-deep in a bucket of loose buds. “All you have to deal with are the animals. I’m up to my eyebrows in plants.”
“At least yours stand still! And animals includes lots of stuff; you ever heard of bugs – I mean, you ARE one, so-”
“At least yours are low-effort! Every tree needs every leaf set up and running! You just have to poke all the groundhogs awake and call it a season!”

“Oh please! You only think my job’s easy because you couldn’t tell a groundhog from a wild hog! A blind baby could do your job! And do it faster!”
Adam smiled at his sister in that particular little tight-lipped way she never tired of pointing out was entirely stolen from their mother. “Prove it, you blind baby.”

“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Do my stupid lame easy moron job that a blind baby could do, and do it better than I can. Go on. Try your best. It should be easy, right?”
Anna grinned at her brother in that particular too-many-teeth way that he always insisted was just mom’s Winter Face. “Sure. Dead simple. And YOU, of course, can definitely pick up my slack since you’ll be doing my job, and doing it very well and making no mistakes at all and finishing it super fast. Since it’s so easy, right?”
“Right!”
“Right!”
Agreement reached in all good cheer and venom, they departed, then returned and swapped tools without making eye contact or saying anything above a mutter, then departed again.

***

“This will be easy,” said Adam to himself as he walked through the woods, banging on the tree-trunks and drumming on the burrow-holes. “Hoy! Birds of the air and beasts of the field! Get up! Get going! Wakey wakey time’s-a-wastey!”

A blackbird scuttled down to a lower branch to trill at him reproachfully. He swooped it up in his hand and scoffed. “Look at you! It’s spring and you haven’t even sprouted yet – oh, my sister REALLY never even tried with you. Let’s get your colour going. Is it this one – yes, it must – oops.”

The blackbird fled to a nearby tree, dripping bright red paint from both wings and scolding him mercilessly.

“Well, that was just an honest mistake. Who brings red paint for fresh buds, anyways – what a weirdo my sister is!” He bobbled the bucket in annoyance, carelessly sloshing it all over a cardinal that had been picking stray seeds from his shoes. “Oops. Are you not being fed and watered enough, that you have to do that? Honestly, she really is a lazy pill. Well, I’ll get things fixed up around here, don’t you worry. Where are some better colours?”
So Adam rummaged through Anna’s paints and spent a good while shaping up the birds for the spring, with many a mumble, slip of the brush, and “who keeps THAT colour around anyways?” excuse. But he was running out of paint and birds and excuses for errant splashes, so he took a moment to pull the checklist out of the duffle bag and scoff at it.

“Humdrum claptrap bullshit,” he sneered, carefully running his eyes over every entry. “’Remove Winter Fur’ – ha! I’d like to see her remove autumn leaves! I can finish this in a single second!” And so, with the utter confidence of the completely self-aware, Adam reached one-handed into a burrow and extracted a groundhog, which bit him.

“Fuck! Mean thorns on you, little nettle. Now let’s – oh my sweet pumpkin seeds, LOOK at you! You’re absolutely LOADED DOWN with last year’s growth! Well, we can fix THAT I hope!” And thus saying, Adam produced his (private, personal) hedgetrimmer from his pocket and began to work on fixing that.

“Stop squirming, please,” he muttered, over the indignant squeals. “Working on such irregular and stubby limbs is very hard even without them moving windlessly. There! That’s not so bad, is it? You’re nice and ready for your fresh foliage. Git! G’won! Who’s next?”

His question went unanswered, his audience remained slumbering in their dens.

“Honestly,” sighed Adam, rolling up his sleeves and jamming his arm into a hollow stump, where it contacted squirrels. “Oh, why do you all have to make such a simple thing so COMPLICATED. Oh! Shelf fungus. Is that an animal? Well, it certainly isn’t a plant, so it must be an animal. Let’s get you trimmed!”

***

“This’s going to be easy as hell,” mused Anna as she strolled through the woods, juggling her brother’s canvas backpack from hand to hand. “Look at this shit! It’s just standing there in the open, right ready for it! Hey trees, catch!” And so saying, she turned the bulk of the pack inside out and vigorously shook all the buds inside out into the air, where they flitted about and landed on pretty much everything but what she was aiming at.

“Wow, looks like SOMEONE didn’t bother to make you all aerodynamic,” said Anna, shaking her head in dismay. “This is what not looking at the birds’ll get you. Guess it’s up to me to set things straight here.” And so saying, she picked up the buds and stuck them to the sides of the trees, where they wouldn’t be so exposed and fragile.

“Why he insisted on putting you guys on the tippy-tips of the wimpiest little twigs on these things, I’ll never know,” she said, shaking her head in dismay (and spraying pollen everywhere).

“ANYWAYS, what’s next on the menu? Flowers? Eergh, he’s let them get all infected and rotten, look at the colours! What a wasteful boor!”

So Anna buried the rotten old colourful flowers, took her brother’s big vat of green paint, and set them all up more sensibly.

“Everyone knows plants are green,” she said to herself as she diligently worked over a fallen log. “Everyone except my big smart clever BROTHER, apparently – and why would he know, it’s not like they’re his JOB or anything, no no no, better not try to learn what he’s doing there, why bother when he can leave it ALL to his sister to do it properly. He’s never going to hear the end of this one. Hey, are mushrooms plants? Pretty sure they’re plants. Well, they’re not animals, so they’re probably plants. Hold still for your touch-up!”

***

The sun set eventually, much to its great relief. It wasn’t sure if it could take much more of this. In the long slow shadows of its descent the two siblings met in the woods. Each held their head high.

“Done and done,” smirked Adam.

“Dead simple,” mocked Anna.

“Why you ever thought you could get away with claiming this took even a single snot of skill or effort is beyond me,” said Adam. “Behold! The birds of the air and the beasts of the field!”
“They’re woodland animals, you – oh my FUCK! What did you DO to the birds!?”
“I put them in spring colours – lavender, violet, and so on,” said Adam. “So the bees can fertilize them with pollen. Obviously. Admittedly, their petals were a little trickily-shaped, but-”

“Oh dear deer you PAINTED them?” Anna clawed at her hair like a drowning ape reaching for oxygen. “Feathers aren’t flowers! Feathers aren’t flowers at ALL!”
“Well they’re close enough,” said Adam loftily. “And anyways, I think they look pretty good now. Except for the goose, I couldn’t decide what looked best on it, so I tried a bit of everything. The leaves look fine, I think.”

Anna gently cradled the goose, ignoring his (exhausted) attempts to twist the flesh off her arms and examining every square inch of the bouquet he had transformed into. “Wings.”
“What?”
“They’re not leaves. They’re wings.”
“Oh, what’s the difference.”
Anna looked up with the expression of someone who had seen the face of Satan in their breakfast toast. “What’s the DIFF- OH MY FUCK WHAT THE HELL IS THAT WHAT IS THAT WHAT DID YOU DO?”

Adam’s brow furrowed, gently at first then with escalating concern as he followed his sister’s trembling arm and outstretched finger. “A bear?” he replied tentatively.

“Why is she BALD?”

“Well, I had to trim off the old growth,” explained Adam reasonably. “Since SOMEONE let all the mammals keep their foliage after last autumn instead of shedding it properly, like they’re supposed to. Look how the fresh air is shaking her branches!”
“She’s SHIVERING you VACUOUS DIPSHIT oh my SHIT I am GOING to MURDER you TWICE, ugh ugh ugh ugh UGH!” wailed Anna, stamping her feet in an agony of dismay.

“I don’t see why you’re being so fussy over a few extraneous extremities,” said Adam. “It’s not like they were living tissue or anything, like is that a flower?”
“Fur is NOT FLOWERS, you TREMENDOUS-”

“What you’re standing on. Is that a flower?”
Anna looked down and lifted one boot experimentally. “Yeah,” she said, the seething hate gently, carefully pushed aside for the sake of very patiently answering a very dumb question from someone she knew to be very stupid.
“What kind?”
“You tell me if you’re so smart.”
“Is that a daisy?”

“Sure, why not.”
“Why is it green?”
“Because it made more sense than it being like, pus white and bruise yellow? It’s a plant, dude.”
Adam swallowed his tongue before the scream escaped, then coughed it back up. “Green.”
“Plants are green. Duh.” She pointed at a patch of bluebells. “Green.” She pointed at a nearby toadstool. “Green.” She pointed at the nearest tree – a sturdy birch. “See? Green. You’re welcome. I guess SOMEBODY had to fix that eventually.”
“Why are its buds sprouting on the trunk.”
“So they don’t fall off? Double duh.”
Adam didn’t swallow his tongue in time, and the howl that escaped him sounded like it had been retrieved from the bottom of a trapped jaguar’s lungs. “Did you do ANYTHING right you – you DIPSHIT?! Don’t you know your precious animals need to eat plants to LIVE?!”
“Uh, yeah, triple duh,” said Anna. “I did all the berries. See?”
Adam desperately crawled into the midst of the thicket he was directed to, hands trembling and a fleck of spittle sliding down his chin. “These are raspberry bushes,” he said at last.
“Sure.”
“Why are they sprouting blueberries.”
“Well, it’s not a big difference.”
Adam plunged into a second patch. “These are blueberries. And they’re growing strawberries.”
“Yeah? I ran out of blueberries.”
“And where,” demanded Adam, plodding free of the patch, vines over his shoulders and desolation in his eyes, “Are. The. Raspberries.”
“Where do you think they are? In the maple trees.”
At this Adam lashed out his fist into his sister’s brisket, but Anna’s autonomous nervous system had been tense as a wire since she laid eyes on the goose and it counteracted with a knee to the groin, followed by applying said goose to Adam’s nose. Adam’s free hand stuffed poison ivy down the back of Anna’s shirt and it all continued as it thus began, but moreso, and moreso, and moreso, and moreso, until at last Mother heard the ruckus from clean across her globe and came downstairs to separate, investigate, and interrogate.

“I told you,” she said in her most severe and wintery tones, a child in each hand, “to do what you do best. This scarcely seems it.”

“ANYONE could do what they do best!” Anna and Adam agreed violently, pointing bitten and scarred fingers at the other.

“Oh,” said Mother. “I see my mistake. You’ve done exactly what you do best together, it just isn’t anything useful. Well, what’s done is done. Time to fix it.”

And they did, and it took as long as you thought and was as tedious and frustrating as you’d imagine, but in the end spring – reluctantly, slowly, gradually – sprang, and everything was as it was intended to be.

But no matter how long she made them scrub, they never could get the red paint off those two birds.

The day dawned bright and big and bold upon town and it shone upon a dread and gruesome sight: a tent as big as the sky and as brightly coloured as a forest of springtime birds in full song. Joyous tinny music spilled from it, and a man with a truly spectacular moustache and a megaphone strode out from it, big blue eyes crinkled in joy under his gigantic top hat.

“Atten-shun all! Young and old! Thin and fat! Boys gals and nonbinary pals! You must come here, one and all, and give us your money or your lives!”

Then he put away his megaphone and went back inside the tent. As an afterthought, a big and bold-fonted banner was unfurled proclaiming it GIBLO’S MAGNIFICENT AND MARVELOUS TRULY TERRIFIC SHOW.

But everyone already knew that.

***

“I don’t see why we ought to do as he ordered,” argued Little Flek, as her mother busied herself digging up their family savings from the hidden chest under her wardrobe.

“Sweetness,” said her mother with a friendly smile, “Giblo’s Magnificent and Marvelous Truly Terrific Show has terrorized this green good earth of ours for over one hundred years. They are a crew of the finest cutthroats, robbers, and tricksters ever assembled, and their leader – Giblo the Grandiose – is believed to be an actual and truthful wizard. We’ve got utterly no choice but to do as they say.”
“Nonsense,” said Little Flek. “I bet I can handle it.”
“You are eleven.”
“Nearly twelve! And besides, haven’t you read me all those fairy tales and stories all this time? I know exactly what to do. The only way I’d have a better chance is if I were the third of three sons and you set my two older brothers out ahead of me.”
“Those were stories for children, sweety.”

“Are you saying you left out the important bits?” demanded Little Flek.

“No. But there are truths hidden in them you may not yet be old enough to-” and here Little Flek tuned her out, for those were the magic words to get your children to stop listening to you. She nodded and hummed and when her mother was done she said “that’s fine. Now give me a bit of the old grey cheese from our fridge.”

“I like the old grey cheese in our fridge. And take water with you, it’s warm out.”
“I’ll make good use of it, I promise,” said Little Flek. “And I KNOW it’s hot out GEEZ.” And she took the old grey lump of cheese (and a bottle of water, begrudgingly) and split off a little corner of it and placed it on the ground outside their door until she attracted a mouse, which she picked up, pet, and put in her pocket (don’t do this at home). She put the cheese in her other pocket and while she was at it she broke some pale twigs from the birch tree by her home’s front door and took them too. Thus equipped, she set forth for the entrance to the midway, which was easy to find as it was being guarded by a twelve-foot-tall man with the muscles of a rhinoceros.

“HELLO,” he said to her, crouching down on one knee for ease of conversation. “I AM STRONGMAN STU, THE TICKETMASTER. DO YOU HAVE A TICKET FOR THE SHOW, LITTLE LADY? OR PERHAPS HOUSEHOLD BELONGINGS YOU ARE GOING TO GIVE TO US IN EXCHANGE FOR YOUR LIFE AND THAT OF YOUR LOVED ONES?”
“Neither,” said Little Flek in her most fearlessly bored voice. “I came here to shut you down. It will be a trivial matter, as I am the strongest person in the world.”
“GOOD ONE,” said Strongman Stu with genuine admiration. “ALWAYS HAPPY TO MEET A FELLOW PRACTITIONER OF THE PATH. BUT TELL ME, CAN YOU DO THIS?” and so saying, he scooped up a stone from the ground and ground it to juice in his palm.

“Easily,” scoffed Little Flek. And she produced her grey cheese, which she wrung to whey.

“NICE,” said Strongman Stu. “TRADE YOU.”
“I’m sorry?”
“OBVIOUSLY WE SHOULD CHECK EACH OTHER’S WORK. LIKE SO!” and so saying, the ticketmaster flicked a droplet of the rock-juice in his palm into his mouth and drank it thoughtfully. “SEDIMENTARY WITH A STRONG BOUQUET,” he opined loftily. “TRY SOME.”
“No thank you,” said Little Flek.
“SURE,” said Strongman Stu with a big nasty grin. “AND I BET YOURS DOESN’T TASTE LIKE WHEY AT ALL. THE CHEESE-ROCK IS THE OLDEST TRICK IN THE BOOK, KID. GO HOME AND BEG MOM TO PAY US OFF. LESS OF A WASTE OF EVERYONE’S TIME.”

But Little Flek was not defeated yet. “Your suspicions are unwarranted,” she said dismissively. “Exactly the sort of thing a puffed-up weakling would say. Why, I bet you aren’t even strong enough to pick up this midway.”

“PLEASE,” laughed Strongman Stu. “YOU INSULT ME.” And he picked up the entirety of the midway rides, cotton candy, balloon games and all, but he did it with one hand – his right hand – and held the other one out in challenge to Little Flek. “AND I CAN STILL ASK YOU FOR YOUR TICKETS,” he mocked. “WERE YOU HOPING TO TRICK ME INTO STANDING HERE WITH MY HANDS FULL? READ A BOOK WRITTEN WITHIN YOUR LIFETIME, SQUIRT. CASH OR GET ROLLING.”
And Little Flek didn’t want to admit it, but that rather had been her plan. However, the words of the strongman and the rucking-up of his tank top had given her a different sort of idea, and so she stepped quickly around to his right side, reached into the back pocket of his jorts, and yanked out his wallet.

“HEY!” shouted Strongman Stu, almost dropping the Midway. “GIVE THAT BACK!”

“Go get it!” called Little Flek. And she threw it into the nearby wondrous portable outhouse the circus had placed nearby for their patrons, where it splashed thickly. And as the ticketmaster ran to the toilet and jammed one hand in while the other desperately balanced the midway in the other, she advanced upon the big top quite unbothered by anyone.

“Hmm,” she said to herself as she did this. “Hmm.”

***

The big top was a hundred feet high and girded in iron-and-bulletproof-glass and sparkled like a prism left under a sunbeam. At its steel entryway lounged a tremendously bored woman, dangling in the trunk of an even-more-bored-looking elephant. Attending her were sixteen baboons with broadswords, a lion with an eyepatch and a sabre between his teeth, a bear with brass knuckles, and a tiger with a rocket launcher.

“Halt or whatever,” she monotone’d to Flek. “Show’s not on. Go away. Buzz off. Beat it.”
“But I need to go into the big top to speak to Giblo the Grandiose,” whimpered Little Flek in the most drippy tones she could manage, wringing her sleeves desperately to conceal the movements of her pockets.

“You really don’t.”
“I really do,” sobbed Little Flek, and as she covered her face with her hands she slipped loose the mouse from her pocket, which ran across the ground between her and the elephant, scurrying over its foot as it fled.

The elephant shifted gently from one shoulder to the other, unbothered.

“Kid,” the bored woman said, looking even less impressed (if possible). “That’s an old wives’ tale. And I know your mom is probably like, thirty, but even she probably wouldn’t be dumb enough to tell you it’s real. Don’t you go to school or something?”

“Oh no I don’t know what you’re talking about at all,” mumbled Little Flek, saying all the very bad words she knew inside her head as fast as she could. “Oh no no no, I don’t at all. Oh I’m so sorry for all this trouble!” and saying so she threw herself at the feet of the lion and apologized left right and center while checking each paw quickly and carefully.

Darn gosh it to heck. Not a single one of them had a thorn stuck inside.

“Oh my god,” said the woman, choking the words out between the giggles and wheezes of a virulent laughing fit. “Oh wow.” She slammed a fist into the elephant’s cheek and got herself under control. “You believe in THAT shit too? Whoops sorry, I mean that ‘stuff.’ Can’t swear in front of a nine-year-old.”

“I am ELEVEN!” snapped Little Fleck, incandescent with rage. “And I wasn’t!”
“Sure. Sure. Sure! Y’know why my lion doesn’t have thorns in his paws?”
“No! Yes! Maybe! I don’t care!”
“Because I train them in old parking lots and mesh cages and he’s got enough scar tissue on those toes to block BULLETS,” she mocked, striking a match on the side of one of the baboon’s heads and lighting a cigarette. “Y’know why my elephant isn’t scared of mice?”
“I’m not listening!”
“Because elephants aren’t scared of mice, they’re just scared of little scurrying stuff they can’t recognize, and this elephant spends all day standing in a dark, dinghy stall with mice and roaches wandering around over and between her feet! She doesn’t give a shit! Much like the shits I only intermittently remove from her enclosure! And by ‘I” I mean ‘the monkeys’ because I’m too important to do that myself! It’s great!”
“You’re treating these animals very poorly,” said Little Flek. “Why?”
“Because they don’t matter!” said the woman loudly, stubbing out her cigarette butt in the tiger’s right ear. “I care about one thing! Money! They get paid in peanuts so I get paid in benjamins! It’s great! They don’t even know that you can exchange money FOR peanuts!”

The elephant raised a single large, delicately-feathery eyebrow at this. Then she turned the woman upside down, turned out her pockets with two quick shakes, then swung her trunk and sent the woman sailing hundreds of feet through the air, where her flight terminated in the outhouse. The baboons plucked up the discarded worldly possessions, boarded the lion, tiger, and bear, and the entire procession headed off out the front gates hooting and hollering with great enthusiasm.

“Hmm,” said Little Flek as she watched them leave. Then she turned on her heel and strode into the darkness of the big top. “Hmm.”

***

In the big top all was dim and disheveled. Rings and netting and audience seating lay as half-assembled dinosaur skeletons in the dark. A little sun of dim morning light slunk down in a shriveled shaft from the apex of the tent, high high high above Little Flek’s regard.

On the far side of the big top was a little trailer that said OFFICE on it. And in front of it was a clown.

“I seek to speak to Giblo the Grandiose,” Little Flek announced to him. “Stand aside!”

“Go home, kid,” said the clown in the voice of a man who’d surrendered to life long ago only to watch helplessly as it took no mercy upon him.

“Don’t make fun of my size,” snapped Little Flek. “I am a great and terrible ogre, who crunches the fingerbones of men between my teeth!” and as she said this she produced her handful of white birch twigs from her pocket and snapped them to bits in her jaws with much snarling.

“Those are clearly sticks,” said the clown.

“They are NOT!” shouted Little Flek. “You should be afraid of me!”
“I’ve got a gun,” said the clown, brandishing it half-heartedly and half-assedly.

“Oh, well, you too have fearful power then. Want to play a riddle game?”
“No,” said the clown.
“Look behind you!” shouted Little Flek.

The clown looked behind himself, turning his spine with a noise like slow-popping corn in a battered tin pan. When he winched himself back around he looked down at his feet and sighed from the very bottom of his shallow, tar-soaked lungs. “So. My big floppy shoes have laces made of rope built into their outside entirely for the look of it. They don’t come undone, and you can’t tie them together.”

“I KNOW that!” snapped Little Flek, scrambling away with flushed face and furious brows. “Don’t explain it to me like I’m five!”
“You’re basically five.”
“I am ELEVEN!”
“Spend your day more productively, kid. Go home and get mommy and daddy to pay up so we don’t bulldoze the town.”
“My daddy’s dead and it’s my MOTHER not my MOMMY – I SAID I’M NOT FIVE!”
“Boo hoo cry me a river,” said the clown without particular venom. “Life’s hard for everyone. You think I’m doing this because I’m living the good times? I had no money so I joined the show; now I owe THEM money for my fanciful clown suit, greasy clown paint, tiny clown car, and unlicensed clown gun. Plus interest.”

“What’s interest?”
“Uninteresting but expensive.”
“Look behind you!” shouted Little Flek.

The clown shut his eyes and breathed through his nose very heavily. “Fine. One. Two. Three. Oh look, nothing’s there. Still. And I still don’t have real laces, so –”

The tiny clown car’s controls were sized appropriately for Little Flek’s use. The horn, however, was slightly louder than average, which she held down with her elbow as she wedged the accelerator with one of her shoes until she bailed out as the big top’s wall loomed above her. The clown howled in wordless anguish and pursued his renegade vehicle across the dusty once-midway grounds until it hurtled into the doors of the outhouse and he – still screaming – launched himself after it.

“Hmm,” said Little Flek as she considered this. But her journey was almost over, and she was only half-shoed, so she did not tarry long. “Hmm.”

***

No one answered when Little Flek knocked on the door to the trailer that said OFFICE. At length she opened it.

It was full of stars. Distant stars, so dim they could barely twinkle. Near stars, glaring balls of nuclear hellfire. Dead stars, pale-glowing corpses of impossible density that made lead seem lighthearted. Rending stars, turned to ravenous vacuums that ate anything near them. And they swirled as one choir around the head of the figure in the center of the office, cross-legged, two-headed, many-eyed.

He was still wearing his gigantic top hat, but his spectacular moustache had fractalized into something that looked like but was not a beard. He did not need a megaphone anymore.

“I am Giblo the Grandiose,” he explained. “I am a wizard of the Ninth Sceptre and the Seventh Sphere. I know all of the Great Mysteries and two of the Little Mysteries, and can whisper the Hidden Truths and Utter Lies. I take gold and turn it to coal; I take coal and turn it to magic; I take what others have and turn it to my own; I take what I want and turn it to what I need. Unravel your wits and lay bare your devices before me. Unspool your strength and lie prone before me. Take action against me if you should dare do so.”

Little Flek stood there and thought and thought and thought with her mind like a rat in a wheel, her hands in her pockets.

Her hands found something in her pockets.

“Hmm,” she said. “Hmm.” Then she pulled out her water bottle, removed its cap, and poured it all over Giblo the Grandiose’s laptop. It made several nasty noises and a nasty smell and died most tragically.

“WHAT?” shrieked Giblo the Grandiose. “How am I meant to handle payroll now?!”

But he was talking to himself, for Little Flek had already left. Himself, and every employee of Giblo’s Magnificent and Marvelous Truly Terrific Show within earshot, at the top of his impressive lungs.

It wasn’t easy to fit the entire OFFICE into one (already overoccupied) outhouse. But if faith can move mountains, spite can at least tip a trailer, and bounced cheques can push it a few hundred yards in a big hurry. 

***

“I’m home,” said Little Flek, eyes downcast and sore of foot. “And I lost a shoe. I’m sorry.
“That’s alright, sweetie. We can afford more now that you’ve saved us and our life savings by getting Giblo’s Magnificent and Marvelous Truly Terrific Show disbanded and scattered to the winds.”
“But I didn’t do it the right way,” pouted Little Flek. “I tried all my best magical tricks and not a single one of them worked – everything that DID work was based around property damage and fiscal desperation. You were right: all my big ideas were just stories after all.”

“Oh you silly goose,” smiled her mother fondly. “Maybe you weren’t paying any attention to those fairy tales? Property damage and fiscal desperation are the most powerful magics and most timeless stories of all.”

And Little Flek knew her mother was right, and gave her a hug, and though she remained little in size she grew a bit larger in wisdom that day.

The outhouse was left behind and eventually had to be demolished.

Well, most of the issue was the ice storm.  Worst since ’68, in my reckoning – and I was just a little kid back then and my grandpa said he’d never seen it so bad in all his years.  Every tree turned into an ice bomb, branches and trunks snapping lines across town so fast you could hardly hear yourself shout over it. 

But we were ready to pick up and start piecing things back together once it left.  The second storm actually HELPED with that – all that warm midnight rain.  Except it was a thunderstorm, and well, wouldn’t you know it, lightning went and hit the sewage plant.  Talk about unlucky!  And what were the odds that it would start a fire?  The storm drains were overloaded from all the water to begin with, now we had a town full of downed power lines, falling tree branches, and spreading sewage slicks.  Which was probably why the second ice storm made things so much worse – it froze a lot of things to the ground we’d rather have been able to remove.  It also turns out it’s hard for an arborist truck to brake and turn carefully over black ice made of ‘sewer grease,’ who knew?  Certainly not the guy driving the cherry-picker that crashed through town hall and put the mayor in a body cast.  Oh boy, that sure slowed down coordination of relief efforts a bit, I’ll tell you what.

After that a lot of the emergency repair crews took it slow, which meant more time without power, which meant even more stuff in fridges and freezers going bad, which meant more garbage going out, which meant the raccoons and possums were well fed enough to have leisure time, which they used to master fire and confederate under a Trash Lord.  And THAT meant the garbage guys had to go and deal with that immediately, because if you don’t get in there fast before they establish a line of succession – or (god forbid) elected government –you’re looking at a federal-level issue.  So everyone was still making a lot of trash but nobody had time to pick it up because they were trying to get squirrel wetworks teams to get a hit on a possum, and the trash was just piling up in everyone’s garages.  This created lots of bad vibes, which resonated with each other, sunk into the bedrock, and deharmonized our local skeleton sedimentary layer.  Half of the town’s on Precambrian granite, so that was safe (you can’t get ghosts from igneous rocks any easier than you can wring water from them), but the south edge is all limestone from the Ordovician, which on the plus side meant most of the angry risen fossilized dead come to roam the surface weren’t actually SKELETONS per se because most of them were things like trilobites, molluscs, brachiopods – you know, invertebrates.  And the odd sea scorpion which boy howdy let me tell you did NOT make anyone happier to go outside.  Nobody died, but some of them committed property damage, some of them kept people up all night, some of them got embroiled in local politics and sided for and against the Trash Lord… it just was one more big headache in a week of big headaches, one more damned thing.  So really everything EQUALLY led to the town’s psychic reservoir overtopping and eroding containment, this was just the last straw.

Now, I know that reservoir was put together with the very best and most modern designs and the finest materials money could buy, but that was in the seventies.  The early seventies.  I’m not pointing fingers, but if I had to, I’d point them at the budgetary decisions in subsequent decades, not the initial planners.  We had a good thing handed down to us and we didn’t do due diligence in keeping it healthy, which is why our own fitful nightmares slid free of it and filled our lives with imagined horrors, leading to us running screaming from our beds into the night and colliding with torn trees, fallen wires, angry Paleozoic ghosts, militant bands of marsupial and placental wildlife, and black ops garbagemen kill squads.  While sliding on ice made of sewage.

You know, I don’t like to complain, I really don’t, but I feel like it was really unfair for the media to call it a ‘shit-storm.’  The shit was a third order knock-on effect at best, and even if it DID get into the drinking water a bit that didn’t cause half as many problems as the subsequent contamination of the lake with metajungian fluids, catalyzing it into a collective unconsciousness driven by a series of obtuse and mystical archetypes that it didn’t understand or want because it was a body of water and sediments and thereby causing it to defend itself by counter-flooding the town.   

This was a major problem, because the racoons and opossums had turned most of the city trash bins into fortified strongholds by then and they discovered they could float.  I don’t know if you’ve read up on Mahanian naval doctrine yourself, but they figured it out on their own pretty fast and before afternoon hit they’d neutralized most of the city’s water-capable vehicles with molotovs (siphoned from lawnmowers and snowblowers, mostly) and had free control of the water, granting them rapid-access deployment to anywhere in the city.  This display of power clearly elevated the Trash Lord to a Trash Duke, which automatically granted them authority over all nearby bears, which automatically granted the Primary Reserve the authority and duty to take command and use all available force to suppress the threat, which they did by automatically deploying a hypersonic dog whistle in the opera house’s basement, which had (unfortunately) suffered water damage and just sort of howled uncontrollably in a human-audible pitch that made everyone weep black tears and see things.  It also made the bears speak the tongues of man to say really nasty and hurtful things AND then on top of that they started trying to summon demons and although that didn’t work too well because as I said previously we’re on limestone and granite here they DID also start setting fires, which wasn’t too good because although the town was flooded it also had a lot of little outboard-motor-using trash bin boats floating around running on volatile mixes of whatever they could siphon.
Yeah, it wasn’t great. The main flotilla got caught down on Main Street when the traffic lights fell over and blocked escape to the harbour and boy you could smell the burning fur for blocks, it was just awful, just awful.  But it WAS food and the seagulls down by the harbour got curious and ate it and well it turns out some of it wasn’t cooked through and they got racoon roundworms in them, which normally would be a big deal on account of long-term neurological damage to the host but in this case was problematic because the mass suffering from the trash fleet was also big enough to cause a half-proper demonic offering and incarnated some sort of embodiment of despair into the roundworms, causing them to spontaneously overrun their hosts in a dang gruesome flurry of nematodes and merge into a worm-king gull bigger than the clock tower which tore the roof off the supermarket and started eating all the spoiled food from when the trash flotilla siphoned their backup generators to make explosives.  And THAT meant the Primary Reserve had to initiate another automatic countermeasure, which turned out to be cloud seeding with blessed table salt to create a holy water rainstorm, only due to the complicated patterns of heat and moisture coming off the fire, floods, and ice (physical AND metaphysical) it made some sort of tornado instead, which carried away the ghosts, the nightmares, the bears, the worm-king gull, and the entire lake, plus the supermarket.  That actually helped a lot but when all was said and done it turned out the Trash Duke was the highest ranking official left in town with full use of all four limbs so they promoted themselves to Trash Mayor and started passing decrees. 

Since then, it’s been mostly okay.  Mixed blessings, you know?  We’ve got the branches off the lines and the lines off the ground and we cleaned up the sewage and the power’s NEARLY back on, but our new town hall is the garbage dump and you can’t legally serve on the council unless you’re covered in fur and have tiny little paws that look like hands. 

Still, it’s really a very pretty little town most of the year.  You’ve just caught us at a bad time, that’s all.