Explanation: This is a collaborative-writing project, to which YOU, Dear Reader, are invited to contribute! Yes: join our wacky team of living and undead authors in creating a novel with more twists than a waist-length braid.
Whether you define yourself as a writer (or illustrator) and are suffering from writer’s/illustrator’s block, or want to relax with some nonsense after an intense day/night of writing/rewriting 20k words of something “serious”; OR have never had experience of writing/illustrating… but “would kind of like to have a go at it”, you are welcome to join in. And if you’d like to have us post a link to your own website or social-media profile, just say the word! (Check for underlined writers’ names in the list posted just before the action starts, and click on them if you want to follow those writers.)
You have nothing to lose but your reputation!
The Habit
STOP PRESS!!!
- The main text has now been updated to include the first
11 21 44 55 6371 comments.
2) We’d like to encourage ILLUSTRATORS to contribute to this project. But you can’t post an illustration in the comment box below. So please send any illustration as a JPG attachment (max. 1Mb, but it could be +/-200kb) to an e-mail addressed to saga (AT) la-granota (DOT) com – with a covering letter explaining just where you want the illustration to fit in. (e.g. Right after “why there he is, coming towards us!”)
Introduction
Welcome to The Habit: the long-awaited prequel to THE saga. (Which can be ordered at https://la-granota.com/list.htm) You can also read the beginning of THE saga HERE.
Rules
As was THE saga, this will be a collaboratively written novel. Mijnheer Jimmy Hollis i Dickson (Frog-In-Chief at La Gr@not@) has elsewhere laid out 3 of the rules governing participation, to wit:
“1) You are allowed to add a maximum of three (3) sentences each time to the novel.
“2) You must wait for at least two (2) other collaborators to add their bits before you return to the fray.
“3) You must be agreeable to ALL profits of this project going to worthy causes. (The profits from the first instalment [THE saga] will go to 3 groups who work with refugees. This is a cause very dear to Ms. Austen (who managed to shout down Mr. Tolkien), and profits from follow-up projects will go the same way.”
I would like to add the following rules (never transgressed in the earlier opus, but “better safe than sorry”):
4a) You may write as yourself or as a famous author (preferably dead), but…
4b) To protect ALL of us – but especially me as editor in charge of this project and La Gr@not@ as its publisher – from litigation on grounds of copyright infringement and/or plagiarism, no direct quotes of more than 6 words from authors who have not yet been dead for at least 75 years will be permitted! You may copy their style of writing, if you so wish.
5) Contributions by writers dead for over 75 years, however, should be – whenever they can be crowbarred into the plot – exact quotations if possible, or (failing that) with one or two words substituted. As a last resort, you may post an original comment as long as you make every effort to imitate that author’s style. (Examples of all 3 instances to be found in The Austen’s first post, below.) We don’t want Jane Austen writing “Geez, Baby, he was like ‘Go soak your head.’ I HADDA slug ’im!”.
Do we?
6) The above (in point 4) also applies to slander/libel, whether of famous people or of fellow contributors to this project. Stating that one of your fellow writers’ mother was a baboon should NOT be made UNLESS you feel 100% confident of being able to prove the truth of the statement in a court of law.
7) If you feel possessed by the spirit of a famous (deceased) author, the convention is to claim that they have hacked your e-mail account and submitted a maximum of three (3) sentences in your stead. You, therefore, forfeit your turn, and must wait for two (2) others to post before you may recover your own identity as writer. (Not withstanding my long complaint about Jane Austen hacking my account which appears on http:la-granota/saga.html , this announcement/complaint should be relatively short, although it does NOT count against your interloper’s 3-sentence allowance, and humour is appreciated in the “complaint”. Writers who flagrantly and repeatedly abuse this loophole will be reprimanded.)
8) Rules 4 through 8 will not appear in the introduction of the novel when finally published, and I strenuously advise against showing them to any outsiders (non-participants) DURING THE WRITING. Don’t you remember how you upset all of the other children in your class – making that one little girl actually cry – when you announced that Santa Claus doesn’t really exist? Well, I hope that you’ve learnt from that episode and refrain from causing doubt about the existence of zombies!
9) You will notice, from my first post below, that your sentences can be very long. But – with the exception of The Austen’s unnecessary and highly irritating scattering of commas where they shouldn’t be – all of your sentences should be grammatically correct, and use correct punctuation.
10. This one REALLY should go without saying but, unfortunately, there are some nasty people in the world, and some of them are writers. So: no misogyny, racism, xenophobia, nor anti-LGBTQI+ posts will be tolerated. They will NOT be incorporated into the main text. If you see that the latest comment falls into one of these categories, just ignore it, and proceed from the previous comment. (Some of had great fun using Australian slang in THE saga, and that may reoccur here, but this isn’t to be construed as racism: it was done with affection.)
So much – for now – about the rules. More may be added later, as the need arises. I hope that it doesn’t!
Further Info And Tips
As editor, I reserve the right to edit your posts in order to make them abide by these rules. One (one-post) contributor to THE saga took great umbrage at my doing so (she’d broken the 3 sentence rule) and stalked off in a huff. Or – as Groucho might have said – perhaps it was a minute and a huff.
Speaking of Groucho, Jane Austen was originally added to the cast of THE saga because at least 3 of us hold her in the lowest esteem. She was introduced as a zombie, in order to poke fun at her. She took revenge on us by joining the writing team! Lewis Carroll (zombie) was later introduced, and those 3 of us mentioned earlier hold him in the highest esteem. He didn’t post anything in THE saga, but we’re hoping that he might join in in this, its prequel.
Some of us who contributed to THE saga found the following websites to be jewel mines – whether for inspiration or for simple theft:
http://www.koalanet.com.au/australian-slang.html
https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/1265.Jane_Austen?page=1 (and following pages)
And I’ll add to that: https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/947.William_Shakespeare?page=1 (ditto)
Tolkien-quotes websites (for example) should – following on from point 4 – only be used to soak in the style.
Mijnheer Jimmy Hollis i Dickson (Frog-In-Chief at La Gr@not@) was of a mind to send each of you who enlist in this project a copy of THE saga, in order to give you a better idea of what we’re aiming for. Admittedly important in writing a prequel, since we all have to end up more-or-less where the other begins, providing “back-story”. But he’s a naïve young thing of only 66 years – a “babe in the woods”, as innocent as the day he turned 65 – and Wilhelmina and I voted that proposal down. Both projects are for good causes, and giving free samples away to POSSIBLY the only readers they’ll ever have is a bad idea, in our opinion. What if someone SAYS that they’ll collaborate and then never does (or only posts one or two passages of 3 sentences each before abandoning), with a free novel under their arm?!
We have, therefore, with Jimmy’s reluctant agreement, amended the proposal to sending a free copy of THE saga to anyone who has proven of good faith by posting 6 instalments of decent quality. In the meantime, you’ll just have to muddle along with what you see here. Consider it a novitiate test into a secret society. You will be illumined when you prove yourself worthy.
A curious anomaly of prequels is that they’re written (or filmed) after what’s coming next. In this case, although the exact date of the resurrection of certain zombies was not made clear in THE saga, Tolkien’s was certainly brought to undeadness during the timespan of those future events. Zombiefied in a fictitious future, he exists for the writing of this past to that fictitious future… if you get my drift. But will he – and other characters from THE saga – be allowed to appear in the prequel?! A thorny dilemma…
But – as my tenth doctor used to say when referring to timelines – “wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey”. We are going to postulate a nervous breakdown in the space-time continuum (or a wormhole if you’d prefer), and allow people and other creatures to will have had taken [sic] advantage of it.
How To Participate
Unlike THE saga, we are using WordPress to hammer together this one. Your 3-sentence continuations of – for want of a more appropriate term – “the plot” should be posted in the comments section. But PLEASE NOTE that they should follow on from the last comment posted, NOT from what appears in the main body of text! The main body will be updated from time to time (by myself), but – let’s hope – not until several comments have been posted.
You’ll see that I’ve listed the first contributors to the present opus before the narrative begins, in the order of the first posts of each writer. When you post your first contribution, please state your name (or nom-de-plume [alias]) and identifying initials (if you’re Jacob Atkinson, you may become JA2, since JA is already taken by Jane Austen… or you may insert your middle initial). These will then be added at the bottom of the list. After that, please identify yourself with those initials on every post. Thank you!
Finally, on a personal note, one or two of you – of a more enquiring mind and observant eye (read: “nosy parkers”) – might notice that, very often, Wilhelmina Lyre and I post our contribution one right after the other. This is because we are partners – in every sense of the word (except my market-gardening business: W has a talent for making plants wither, as well as one for frightening potential buyers away from my stall) and show our ideas to each other before posting them. Which usually inspires the other’s next post.
Others may be asking yourselves “What’s this lowercase i doing all by itself in the middle of Jimmy’s name?!” I have Jimmy’s permission to reveal that Hollis was his father’s surname, Dickson was his mother’s maiden surname, and i is the Catalan word for “and”. As if you care.
Thank you for your kind attention!
~ Emilie van Damm, editor of this project
The Contributing Writers
The following writers have contributed to this novel so far (arranged in order of first post). As mentioned earlier, we’re [almost] always happy to welcome newcomers to the team!
Wilhelmina Lyre ~ WL
Jane Austen (zombie) ~ JA
William Shakespeare (zombie) ~ WS
Victoria Fielding ~ VF
Mia Creely ~ MC
Oisín (zombie) ~ O
Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde (zombie) ~ OFOWW
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (zombie) ~ MdCS
Charles Dickens (zombie) ~ CD
The Story
Aisha and Jon stood in the immense entrance hall of King’s Cross Station, holding hands because of their nervousness and timidity… except with each other (having been born on opposite sides of Harbinger St., and having played with each other for the eleven years since then).
It was certainly an awe-inspiring – even frightening – jumble of sights, sounds, and smells for two children on their first trip far away from home without their parents. Among the many curious characters whom they could see milling around were: a short, plump man smoking a pipe, who was intriguingly wearing a nun’s vestments, including wimple [admittedly this could have been a nun with a beard], but with bare feet (which seemed to be covered in fur), speaking to a very tall man wrapped in a grey cloak, wearing a tall, pointed hat (also grey), holding a staff which was easily as tall as himself, and whose long, grey beard had just caught fire from one of the sparks from his flashing eyes; a small bear wearing a large, misshapen hat and a duffel coat (with a note pinned to it), with orange marmalade smeared all around his(?) mouth, and looking rather as if he(?) were in the wrong train station; another rather tall, thin man, this one wearing a deerstalker hat and smoking an evil-smelling mixture in a meerschaum pipe, who was accompanied by a shorter, thickset man carrying what looked like a doctor’s black bag; a kangaroo, just disappearing around a corner (but what she’s carrying in her pouch – though Aisha – certainly isn’t a joey!); a couple who looked remarkably like Freema Agyeman and David Tennant, opening the door of a police call box from the 60s; a girl in a blue dress with a white apron, who was chasing a waistcoated, white rabbit, which was holding a pocket-watch and muttering to him(?)self while running along; three men standing together, one of them wearing a conical hat, the second with curly, strawberry-blond hair and carrying a large horn with a rubber bulb at one end, which he honked at passing women, and the third with glasses, a painted “moustache”, and a long cigar; a young, distraught woman who Jon (with his imperfect grasp of vocabulary) thought was wuthering about the heights on the cross-hatched beams above his head; and an unaccompanied boy of their own age, who looked something like what filmstar-heartthrob Daniel Radcliffe might have looked like when he was 11 years old, except that he was wearing round, black specs too big for his face, and had a strange scar on his forehead, in the shape of a lightning bolt! ~ EvD
Aisha jostled Jon and pointed at this last-mentioned, whispering “If he’s trying for the John Lennon look, he’s failed miserably with those plastic frames!”
Jon giggled approvingly, but then wailed “How are we supposed to find platform nine and three quarters if it isn’t indicated anywhere?!”
The strange boy evidently heard this, because he approached them and asked “Are you heading for Pigverrucas Academy For Aspiring Wizards, Witches, And Assorted Geeks And Nerds, too?” ~ WL
“PAFAWWAAGAN, yes that’s us,” replied Aisha, adding “I’m going to be a witch and Jon here is going to be a wizard. Are you going to be a geek or a nerd, if there’s any difference?”
The bespectacled boy said “I’m not quite sure, but a man in a pointy hat told me that I was a born… why there he is, coming towards us!” ~ JHiD
[Oh dammit! I was afraid that she’d show up, but did she have to hack my new e-mail account so soon?! Ladies and Gentlemen, Girls and Boys! I am NOT delighted to present… Jane Austen (zombie)]
The aforementioned gentleman of the pointed millinery, was indeed, approaching the trio of small children with, long elegant strides, and once arrived was saying to his extraordinary companion “Alas, my dearest Dildo, here must we part company, for you are predetermined, to board the 7:18 steam train to Smug the Dragon’s lair.
“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good railway journey, must be intolerably stupid,” he ejaculated.
“I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible,” rejoined his companion, previous to taking his, not tearless leave of those, there assembled. ~ JA
[Oh Lordy, and now William’s hacked mine!]
“Parting is such sweet sorrow!” cried the wizard, sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.
“If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.”
Turning anon to those children remaining, he ask’d “And are all ye bound for Pigverrucas?” ~ WS
“Looks like it,” answered Jon. “Me, I’m going to be a Wizzard, because my grannie’s got all their records, as well as all of The Move’s and ELO’s (before Roy Wood quit the group), and they’re really great! He’s my hero, Roy Wood, he wrote a lot of great songs, and produced other artists, too!” ~ JHiD
Aisha had shrunk away from the growing group to a more sparsely populated – deserted even – corner of the platform, protected as it was by a shield of smell so thick it appeared to be a heat mirage made of grease. At the centre was a ‘Meat-Product-Inna-Bun’ stall with prices so cheap that Aisha, with a youthful disregard for her mortality, elected to purchase and begin to consume. The result was a noise that the nearby crowd mistook for an approaching train. ~ VF
Jon could only watch in admiration as Aisha, now completely oblivious to her surroundings and the growing crowd of slack-jawed observers, demonstrated her impressively hearty appetite with the help of an aptly termed ‘large bucket’, served as it was in a large bucket. Partway into her third unidentifiable meat-burger, however, Aisha let out a yelp of pain (not to be confused with indigestion) and reached up to her mouth. Wide-eyed in surprise, she gingerly dusted the meaty crumbs off the strange object, and held it out with shaking hands. ~ LT
“What on earth….?” she muffled, trying simultaneously to speak and keep her mouth closed, for fear of something equally strange following the spittle-covered object she now – rather reluctantly – held.
“It looks like a teeny, tiny crown…” said Jon, adding “is it metal?” rather excitedly, and following that with “Is it GOLD??”
“Well, it’s certainly not a meat product!” replied Aisha, wiping the last remaining sticky crumbs away from what appeared to be rubies. ~ MC
[O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! The Rev. Dodgson has decided to join us! Well worth having my e-mail account hacked. In fact, I consider myself honoured!]
Aisha cleaned off her find as best she could, placed it on the top of her head, and, turning to a nearby looking-glass, recited: “To the Looking-Glass world it was Aisha that said ‘I’ve a bucket in hand, I’ve a crown on my head. Let the Looking-Glass creatures, whatever they be, Come and dine with Jon Wizzard, the Geek/Nerd, and me.”
But Jon countered with “Speak English: I don’t know the meaning of half those long words, and I don’t believe you do either!” ~ LC
The tall figure cloaked in grey strode up to them, with the young would-be-John-Lennon in tow, and more sparks flashed from his eyes as he raised his staff in the air in a rather dramatic – but somehow ridiculous – gesture.
“The steam train will soon be leaving from platform nine and three quarters,” he pronounced. “And we haven’t bought our tickets yet!” ~ EvD
He patted his legs where most people would have trouser pockets, but he – being a wizard of immense magical power – of course needed no pockets (nor trousers, for that matter).
“I seem to have… ahem, that is… you, boy!” (pointing at Jon). “Be a nice, useful sort of chappie, and get the tickets, would you?” ~ WL
So Jon trotted off to one of the ticket windows and asked for one adult and three halves to Pigscider Station.
“How much will that be, please, Sir, and could you tell me how to get to platform nine and three quarters?”
The ticket seller was a wizened old man, who stared at Jon as if he didn’t understand a word of what Jon was saying. ~ JHiD
[My Goodness! My email account has been hacked by someone purporting to be Oisín, the legendary Irish warrior-poet.]
Ansin labhair an díoltóir ticéad dá bhrí sin:
“Damb-ró Cuchulaind Cualnhge
ria curadaib Craebruade,
beti fir i fuilib de
d’argain Maige Murthemne!
“Dochuaid-sium turus bad sía,
go ranic Slebi Armenia,
rala ág dar aiste,
ra chuir ár [ar] na cichloiste!
“Ba handsu dó meic Nectain
do chur assa prímlepthaib,
cu na cerda, ba mod n-áig,
do marbad cona oenláim!” ~ O
Oisín, mac Fionn mac Cumhaill agus Sadhbh (iníon Bodhbh Dearg) [O]
[For the sake of those of you who don’t speak Gaelic, the following is a rough translation.
Therefore spake then the ticket vendor:
“If Cú Chulainn, Cualnge’s Hound,
And Red Branch chiefs on you come,
Men will welter in their blood,
Laying waste Murthemne’s plain!
“Far away he held his course,
Till he reached Armenia’s heights;
Battle dared he, past his wont,
And the Burnt-Breasts put to death!
“Hardest for him was to drive
Necht’s sons from their chieftest haunts;
And the smith’s hound – mighty deed –
Hath he slain with single hand!”
(signed) Oisín, the son of Fionn mac Cumhaill (AKA Finn MacCool) and Sadhbh (the daughter of Bodhbh Dearg, AKA Bodb Derg), with initial O ~ (note from the editor)]
“Crikey!” exclaimed Jon. “I was only asking…”
But at that point the wizened ticket vendor disappeared in a puff of smoke-simulating dry-ice cloud. ~ WL
The smoke – or cloud – grew and grew, until it filled the whole of the ticket hall of the station. Once it had cleared away, Jon inexplicably found himsef standing on three quarters of a platform with the others of his party, to wit: Aisha (still wearing a tiny, meat-flecked crown), the tall fire-hazard-greybeard, and the John-Daniel-Lennon-Radcliffe mashup.
A figure wearing a kimono and with a head shaped rather like a frog’s was calling through the wrong end of a megaphone: “All aboard for the express steam train to Pigscider Station, leaving in less than no time.” ~ JHiD
On hearing these words, Aisha began windmilling her way past the others and scrambling aboard.
“You know I get travel sick if I don’t sit in the best seat on the train,” she muttered defensively, as Jon followed her into a plush but dimly lit carriage which was already quite full, near the front of the train.
The remaining empty seats were quickly filled by the bespectacled boy and the tall, bearded figure, who then produced an impossibly large scroll of paper from beneath his cloak with what Jon considered an unnecessary flourish. ~ LT
“Hear ye, hear ye!” shouted the wizard, startling just about everyone in the carriage, and setting two babies off in a competition to determine which of them could cry the louder, with bonus points for redness of face.
“Be it hereby beknown to all present that Pigverrucas Academy For Aspiring Wizards, Witches, And Assorted Geeks And Nerds – hereinafter to be referred to as the party of the first part or PAFAWWAAGAN (as the mood strikes me) – is divided into four (4) houses, to wit: GriffRhysJones, Slimything, Crowfoot, and PuffTheMagicDragon, which four (4) houses are assigned to new students by decision of a magic beret, wot once belonged to Pablo Picasso (during his Blue Period).
“The party of the second part – hereinafter to be referred to as the party of the third part or the birthday party, depending on the day of the week – shall be considered the party of the fourth part for tax purposes, unless the tax year begins in a leap year, in which case the party of the first part is to be held at my place, but with the proviso that all guests bring a bottle.” ~ EvD
Jon was trying to follow all of this jumble: a bear which had belonged to Pablo Picasso, birthday parties, yaks’ tears, and Puff The Magic Ryss Jones, all competing with a crying contest, when he noticed the ticket inspector opening the door from the neighbouring carriage.
He hadn’t bought the tickets!
NOW I’m in for it! he thought. ~ WL
[I was just wondering what I could follow on with, when I realised that my e-mail account has been hacked again. Hooray for the Oxford mathematician!]
“Tickets, please!” said the Guard, approaching down the aisle, and in a moment everybody was holding out a ticket: they were about the same size as the people, and quite seemed to fill the carriage. “Show your ticket, children!” the Guard went on, looking angrily at Aisha, Jon, and the Geek/Nerd, while a great many voices all said together (“like the chorus of a song,” thought Aisha), “Don’t keep him waiting, children! Why, his time is worth a thousand pounds a minute!” ~ LC
Aisha saw Jon’s panicked and guilty face scanning the carriage for an impossible escape route and, although she had imagined six impossible things before breakfast, she couldn’t imagine how they could sneak away from the ticket collector under the attention of the hive-mind passengers. She stealthily slipped a dainty pair of brass knuckles onto her fingers and was about to take matters into her own hands when matters unexpectedly and helpfully came out of her intestines instead.
Our friends quite quickly had the whole carriage to themselves, for the ticket collector deemed a thousand pounds a minute was not enough recompense to deal with that particular smell, and the passengers had, as one of course, decided to check whether they’d left the gas on at home. ~ VF
ISN’T it getting “close” in this railway carriage, though?! I don’t think that I left the gas on at home, but someone’s let the gas OUT here… and the damned windows don’t open! Using, therefore, my superpowers as author, I’m going to do all of you readers a great favour and transport you to the Homealone Mountain, where Dildo Buggins is hacking through undershrub and toiling uphill towards the mouth of a cave, from which smoke, tinged with a reddish glow, is emanating. ~ WL
Hampered in his upward struggle by The Habit he was wearing [there: it’s ABOUT TIME that we worked the title of this opus into the text], Dildo kept tripping up and falling into the brambles. “I thought that this wimple was supposed to make me able to fly,” he grumbled. “‘Lift plus thrust’, my arse!” ~ EvD
I wish to state that I don’t actually believe that relocating from a foul-flatulence-filled train carriage to a deep, dark, dungeony cave with a smoke-breathing dragon is NECESSARILY a wise career move, olfactorily speaking.
Given that the dragon’s name is Smug, my bet is that it smokes Gauloises sans filtre or Panatella cigars… or even – The Deary save and preserve us – cherry-brandy-flavoured pipe tobacco.
I, for one (suffering as I do from allergy to tobacco smoke: oh, the migraines I could tell you of!), don’t wish to follow Dildo into that cave, and shall remain out here, describing the flora and fauna of the environs, while the rest of you report the social intercourse of Habit and Dragon. ~ JHiD
Continuing his uphill struggle, Dildo stumbled upon one of the most famous fountains of witty epigrams in the English language: Mr. Oscar Wilde, himself!
“Stumbled upon” is completely accurate, since Dildo – with his eye ever on the mouth of the cave and the smoke issuing from it – tripped over the supine figure of Ireland’s greatest playwright-whose-last-name-is-Wilde… which was face-down among the fallen leaves on the floor of the wooded slope. Scrambling to his feet and turning the body face-up, Dildo deduced that undeadness had not improved Oscar’s looks at all at all, his appearance being rather like one imagines the picture of Dorian Gray to look like. ~ WL
[Who left that zombie on the slopes of Homealone Mountain?! And how did he hack my e-mail account this quickly?! When am I going to be able to write something of my own? ~ EvD]
We are all in the leaf-mould, but some of us are looking up a nun’s habit.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.
I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying. ~ Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde (OFOWW)
For some unaccountable reason, Dildo helped the zombiefied Oscar to his feet, and, leaning on each other, they made their way to the entrance of the cave, and disappeared within.
As I have earlier announced, I have no intention of following them thither, having decided to be the Nature Correspondent for the duration of this cave business.
If we are very quiet and remain absolutely still, we can hear a pair of blue tits greeting the dawn and each other: the one in a twisted hawthorn bush, the other from the lower, moss-covered branches of a lofty pine! ~ JHiD
Meanwhile, back on the train, Aisha had noticed Jon’s look of terror upon the approach of the ticket collector, and instantly realised why…
“We need tickets!” she whispered, quietly enough not to be heard by the rapidly retreating official, but loudly enough for Jon to hear over the surrounding cacophony.
Almost immediately, she felt a strange, warm tingle on the top of her head, directly beneath the meat-encrusted crown, her left eye twitched briefly, and then, suddenly, in her hand there materialised the required tickets! ~ MC
“I’m so glad to have company on this quest!” whispered Dildo to Oscar, after each had introduced themselves according to the etiquette of civilised society, as they made their way down the sloping passage of the cave. “I’m not on it of my own choosing, but Glandhalf The Greybeard told me that it was my destiny. You see, I lost both of my parents to dragons when I’d just reached adulthood.” ~ WL
[I should have known, when Mr. Wilde first hacked my account, that it would be nigh impossible to shut him up. Here he is again…]
There has been enough whispering! I don’t believe in whispering: it is for those who are ashamed of what they have to say, but want to say it anyway.
So I replied to my habit-clad companion in a rather loud voice (I have a lovely voice): “To lose one parent, Mr. Buggins, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.” ~ OFOWW
Once again, Jon could only stare at Aisha in confounded awe, as she regained the attention of the inspector and thrust the tickets triumphantly into his waiting hands.
Decidedly disappointed at being deprived of the opportunity to remove this stench-producing passenger and her apparently besotted companion from his beloved train, the inspector headed to the next carriage, in his endless search for more ticketless ne’er-do-wells.
“That was amazing,” gasped Jon, as his power of speech gradually returned, adding: “What else do you think you’ve got stashed up there?” ~ LT
Holding my breath, I watch as the blue tit – Cyanistes caeruleus – in the pine tree (a magnificent Pinus densiflora, a rare immigrant to these regions) makes a graceful swoop to join its fellow perched on the hawthorn bush (a Crataegus aestivalis). Is it attracted to a possible mate or to the dull red haws, which are rich in tannins, flavonoids, oligomeric proanthocyanidins, phenolic acids, and antioxidants?
The Scots saying “Ne’er cast a cloot til Mey’s oot” conveys a warning not to shed any cloots (clothes) before the summer has fully arrived and the Mayflowers (hawthorn blossoms) are in full bloom, which – frankly – must make things as “aromatic” (in its own way) as the railway carriage which we’ve left behind us. ~ JHiD
In the diminishing light from the entrance, Dildo and Oscar could already see heaps of detritus lying about the cave. Without too much scrutiny, one could see among the worryingly large droppings a fair amount of miscellaneous skeletal remains, coinage of various value and antique furniture which had seen better days.
Dildo, however, was drawn to one object in particular and, picking it up, saw that it was a hefty tome bound in gold and silver, obviously crafted by elves of the highest magical order, and written in large bold letters on the cover were the reassuring words ‘DON’T GET IN A TIZZ’. ~ VF
Dildo held the book in both hands, with a look of reverence and awe on his fuzzy features.
“Have you got any idea what volume this is?!” he asked Oscar, in a hushed voice (as opposed to whispering). “Give me a few minutes to be quite sure, but I BELIEVE that I’m holding the fabled ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide To Muddled Earth’, for which I’ve been searching all my adult life” ~ WL
[Alright… I might as well be hibernating. Here he is, People: Oscar bloody Wilde.]
“If you are not long, I will wait for you all my life,” I reassured my cross-dressing companion. “In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.” ~ OFOWW
Between the overhanging foliage, we espy a reddish and grey-brown roe deer doe (Capreolus capreolus capreolus). She has come to drink from the stream at the bottom of the slope, where it bends and forms a wide, shallow pool. Completely unaware of our presence, she is a beautiful example of the species, which was once classified as belonging to the Cervinae subfamily, but are now classified as part of the Odocoileinae, which includes the deer from the New World. ~ JHiD
The young doe’s head snaps around to glare at her audience and in hushed, not whispering, but angry tones she says ‘Oh, completely unaware am I, Mr Nature Expert? Have you ever tried to coquettishly attract a passing handsome prince while trapped as a smelly old deer, hmm? It’s very hard to focus on finding the perfect spot of dappled sunlight and batting my suspiciously princessy eyelashes with you staring at me, so, unless you’re the Prince of Wonderland, please beggar off back to your own plotline’. ~ VF
[Oh, Lordy! Someone’s gone and woken up Billy, and he’s decided to join the discussion outdoors. He loves this dodge of maidens in disguise! He flogged it to death before he died, and now he’s up for more.]
Then spake again the princess as doe bedeck’d: “Presume not that I am the thing I was.”
But one of the azure birds enjoined: “Be not afraid of doeness, for some are born does, some achieve doeness, and others have doeness thrust upon them.
“But this would I say to you, forsooth, even this above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.” ~ WS
[I suspect that Bill was having a “siesta” with The Austen, because she’s also showed up at the same time.]
The doe blushed but replied not without, decision “The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a roebuck whom I can really love. I require so much!
“And it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single prince in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” ~ JA
With all the talking animals and zombies (Homo sapiens nondefunctus) thrashing about in the undergrowth, is it at all surprising that three sneaky, creepy, slinking literary agents (Homo agentus literatus) have slinked creepily and sneakily from under a large, moss-covered rock without being noticed?
And I seem to having a spell of déjà écrit! Can one plagiarise oneself? ~ JHiD
[Bill’s still at it, but he’s moved his gaze to the cave/passage/tunnel where he’s found Dildo fondling a book and Oscar fondling… his ego.]
Dildo clench’d his eyes and said: “To hitchhike, or not to hitchhike: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stoppings and startings of outrageous railways,
Or to stick out your thumb against a sea of lorries,
And by this opposing appendage stop them?
To ride: to pay No more; and, by this ride to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That train passengers are heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To hitch, to ride;
To ride: perchance with a madman: ay, there’s the rub.” ~ WS
[And Oscar’s beat Jane to my email account this time. Tennis, Anyone?]
My peculiar companion was NOT reading the book, so, to give him a nudge, I said: “If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.”
And, as he had brought up the subject of the evils of railway journeys, I gave him this piece of glorious advice: “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.” ~ OFOWW
The bewitched princess, catching the scent of zombies (or perhaps of the literary agents) on the breeze, and succumbing to a deer’s shyness and instinctive fear, vanishes into the woods on the far side of the stream. Or maybe the princess (before her transformation) was an aspiring writer (aren’t we all?!) and is acting under the influence of an equally instinctive fear of unscrupulous literary agents. (You see: having read the manuscript to which THIS is the prequel, I recognise these creepy sneaks [AKA sneaky creeps] as the trio who will dig up poor Jane Austen, bring her to undeadness, enslave her… and inflict her on the rest of us [if they haven’t will have had done so already].) ~ JHiD
In fact, as a human, the princess had been known to be shy but had found that walking around nude all day as a deer had cured her of such social anxieties and she firmly planned to be quite outrageous when she returned to her human form for, as they say, when you accept that the universe is matter changing from thingies into whatnot then wearing stripes with plaid becomes easy. For now however, her current skittish endocrine system ruled and sent her on evasive manoeuvres through the woods in a manner most unbecoming and as she pondered how to flee more adorably she plopped clumsily, but somewhat cutely, into a trap. Panting for breath, she caught the scent of aftershave nearby. ~ VF
[And now Jane has jumped the gun by hacking MY e-mail!]
Master Buggins was for a moment transported by, rapture as he exclaimed: “I declare after all there is no enjoyment like hitchhiking! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a motor carriage! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if it is not an excellent camping van.” ~ JA
[Here’s a turn-up for the books! Bill is taking over Oscar’s part of the dialogue.]
“There is no motor either good or bad, but tinkering makes it so,” sayed Oscar.
“The fault, dear Buggins, is not in our cars, but in ourselves, that we are under the leaking brake line.
“All the world’s a mechanic’s,
And all the men and women merely drivers;
They have their ‘last exit’s and their breakdowns;
And one man in his time pays for many spare parts,
His bills reaching seven pages.” ~ WS
The zombies, literary agents, blue tits, and deer princess having left the scene, for a while there is complete silence, and one could almost imagine oneself in a world before KFC, CocaCola, or MacDonald’s.
But, after a short respite, the tranquillity is broken – though none too harshly – by a young girl (Homo sapiens sapiens) running after a white rabbit (Oryctolagus cuniculus, and I would hazard a guess that it’s a “Blanc de Bouscat”, though it’s difficult to be absolutely certain at this distance), which latter is unaccountably wearing a waistcoat and carrying in one paw a pair of white, kid-leather gloves. Quite suddenly, the rabbit pops into the cave into which, earlier, Oscar and Dildo disappeared, and in another moment in goes the young girl after it, apparently never once considering how in the world she is to get out again, after facing the dragon. ~ JHiD
She had not a moment to think before stumbling slightly but, the tunnel not being very precipitous, she was obliged to roly poly for the desired effect. As she passed, she noticed the passage was lined with treasures and other miscellanies and took down a jar labelled ‘Avocado’ but to her great disappointment it was empty.
‘Well’ she thought to herself. ‘After such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of performing a floor routine at the olympics.’ ~ VF
Happening suddenly upon Oscar and Dildo (and startling them considerably in the process), the young girl politely enquired which way she ought to go.
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” Dildo replied rather smugly.
“I need to catch up with that damn rabbit…” she fumed, “as he’s stolen my best waistcoat and gloves!” ~ LT
[Now Lewis has gone and hacked my account…]
Suddenly Alice – for it was none other – came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and her first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the tunnel; but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them.
However, on the second time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted!
Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest pile of treasure you ever saw… with an enormous, blue dragon sitting on the top with its legs folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of anything else. ~ LC
[Alright, Bill, if you must…]
“But, soft! what smoke through yonder doorway snakes?” swoon’d Dildo.
“It is from Collins’ Finest Blend of Turkish and Virginian Leafs, Marinated in Cherry Brandy, and the smoker is Smug.
“Two tobaccos, both alike in toxicity
In foul Homealone Mountain, where we lay our scene,
From soaking in cherry brandy break to new mutiny
Where dragon breath makes all the air unclean.” ~ WS
Was I right or was I right about the cherry-brandy-flavoured pipe tobacco?! OK, so I got it SLIGHTLY wrong about the pipe; but a hookah is a kind of pipe… and for people even more smug than ordinary-pipe smokers OR those who smoke Gauloises sans filtre.
The dragon (Dracus dracus terribilis) is living up* to its name! * up, down, or all around ~ JHiD
Dildo, having no intention of acquiring a second overly loquacious companion, simply watched the frilly chatterbox scutter about disappear before scooping up a handful of delightfully engraved rings and announcing to Oscar that it was time for a Long Dark Teatime. Having diverse tastes, Oscar and Dildo consulted their new book as to the best establishment to order both a nice pot of tea and a glass of absinthe for the book was none other than the ‘Richness Efficient Tourist’s Usher Resource Notes to Other Zones’, the Return to Oz. So guided, they left the gloominess of the lair and began their journey for the Restaurant at the End of the Novel. ~ VF
Or, at least that was their INTENTION; but as soon as they reached the stream at the bottom of the slope outside and tried to cross it, a Level Four Forcefield® stopped them in their tracks, and they heard a stern voice (which Dildo immediately recognised as belonging to his mentor [aka puppetmaster], Glandhalf The Greybeard.
“THERE IS NO ESCAPING YOUR DESTINY! YOU HAVE AN APPOINTMENT WITH THE DRAGON SMUG, AND YOU WILL ATTEND!” ~ WL
“What I can’t escape is that guy Glandhalf!” muttered Dildo to his new acquaintance. “I swear that he even watches me when I’m having a dump!”
”I HEARD THAT!” ~ EvD
Something which – in all my minutes of nature study/commentary – I’ve never seen before happens now: a Homo sapiens sapiens and a Hobbitus vulgaris hortensius moving backwards at a pronounced angle to the vertical WITHOUT moving their feet! In fact, one could almost imagine them being dragged up the slope by an invisible hand – if one believed in such things.
Once at the mouth of the cave they dive (again: backwards) – or are flung? – into it. ~ JHiD
As he picked pebbles and trinkets out of his crevices, Dildo pondered the words of Fauxcrates who said that reality was only perceived by the shadows cast on the wall of the cave and wondered, given his mysterious confinement to the cave, whether he was less perceiver and more shadow but then he picked what appeared to be one of Oscar’s eyeballs off his pants and that felt pretty real. Hobbits are notoriously displeased with missing their teatime so it was a grumpy pair who resolved to confront their so-called Destiny quickly, marching resolutely after Alice while looking up ‘How do you solve a problem like Dracona?’ in the ‘Poor Wayfarer’s Chaperone for Travels through Unfamiliar Environments’.
Their harumph was entirely dissipated, however, when they were confronted by the sight of what Alice was doing to Smug. ~ VF
Four characters arrived at the foot of the hill just in time to witness the second entrance of Oscar and Dildo into the cave. Two were four-legged, each carrying a two-legged creature on its back.
Six minutes later, Jane Austen (zombie) stumbled back into the scene, with a vacant look in her eye sockets. ~ WL
[Mentioning one zombie seems to have called forth another, because Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (b. 1547, d. 1616, z. 2022) has just hacked my e-mail account.]
«Señor» dijo Sancho, «y ¿es buena regla de caballería que andemos perdidos por estas montañas, sin senda ni camino, buscando a un loco, al cual, después de hallado, quizá le vendrá en voluntad de acabar lo que dejó comenzado, no de su cuento, sino de la cabeza de vuestra merced y de mis costillas, acabándonoslas de romper de todo punto?»
«Calla, te digo otra vez, Sancho» dijo don Quijote; «porque te hago saber que no sólo me trae por estas partes el deseo de hallar al loco, cuanto el que tengo de hacer en ellas una hazaña, con que he de ganar perpetuo nombre y fama en todo lo descubierto de la tierra; y será tal, que he de echar con ella el sello a todo aquello que puede hacer perfecto y famoso a un andante caballero.»
Luego, dirigiose a la no difunta señorita Austen ansí: «¡Oh princesa Dulcinea, señora deste cautivo corazón, mucho agravio me habedes fecho en despedirme y reprocharme con el riguroso afincamiento de mandarme no parecer ante la vuestra fermosura.» ~ MdCS [For those of you who don’t understand late 16th / early 17th century Spanish, here is a translation:]
“Señor,” said Sancho, “and is it a good rule of chivalry that we should go astray through these mountains without path or road, looking for a madman who when he is found will perhaps take a fancy to finish what he began, not his story, but your worship’s head and my ribs, and end by breaking them altogether for us?”
“Silence, I say again, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for let me tell thee it is not so much the desire of finding that madman that leads me into these regions as that which I have of performing among them an achievement wherewith I shall win eternal name and fame throughout the known world; and it shall be such that I shall thereby set the seal on all that can make a knight-errant perfect and famous.”
Then he directed himself to the undead Miss Austen thus: “O Princess Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou done me to drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy banish me from the presence of thy beauty.” ~ MdCS
A Eurasian red squirrel (Sciurus vulgaris) skitters down the trunk of an English Oak (also named common oak, pedunculate oak, or European oak, Quercus robur) scurries a few metres across the ground, raises itself upright and chitters at the equestrians (Homo sapiens ibericus) and their mounts (Equus ferus caballus and Equus africanus asinus, respectively). It is the last mistake it will ever make.
With a rapidity which belies her not-actually-aliveness, Jane Austen (Homo literatus non difunctus) snatches up the squirrel, converts it into an ex-squirrel, then a tasty between-mealtimes snack, leaving nothing but its bushy nether appendage, or – as I can’t resist calling it – its grim furry tail. ~ JHiD
Having finished her crunchy snack, The Austen looked up, saw the expression of dopey adoration on the face of Don Quijote, and hobbled into the cave to escape his obvious, amorous intentions, where, hearing the hubbub of voices further down, and sniffing the odour of undead tobacco emanating from a door in the side of the passage, she decided to investigate further.
It is only fair to our readers to explain at this point that, although Alice had vainly tried the little golden key in the locks of all of the normal-sized doors, she HADN’T tried to simply turn their doorknobs. Not one of them was locked, so – after she had wormed her way down what Mr. Carroll was pleased to tell us was “a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole” – Oscar had sashayed over to another door, opened it, and (ever the gentleman) waved Dildo through it… himself following at a prudent distance. ~ WL
[While Oscar was occupied in “leading from the rear”, The Austen managed to get to my e-mail account… again.]
A true gentlewoman brought up well by, stern but tenderloving parents to be modest and equable, should always be ready to, modify her earlier statements of absolute truths and with that, as my motto, I now am, quite willing to substitute an earlier averring by myself to the following: “I declare after all there is no enjoyment like spelunking! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a dank, dark cave! — When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not a mould-covered, malodorous cellar, especially one inhabited by a dragon if it be of good family.” ~ JA
[As managing editor of this project, I would like to point out that – at this point in our narrative – there are exactly a dozen authors working on it: six of the living persuasion and half-a-dozen hacking-savvy zombies. Since no new living writers seem inclined to join in and the zombies are signing up in ever-increasing numbers, one could project that this will soon be an undead-dominated novel. I merely mention this, not wishing to offend nor one side of the grave nor the other. One could say that literary celebrities are undying like flies. Facts is facts, as my grandfather used to say.
It might not have escaped the attention of others than myself, that we are also now in a tie situation vis-a-vis gender participation, six female writers and an equal number of males being on the team.
However it is a curious fact that five of the male authors are no longer legally among the living, while there is only one female zombie involved in our creative enterprise.
Which curiosity leads me to consider the possibility – and I must stress that it is merely a POSSIBILITY – that either Jimmy Hollis i Dickson is, in fact, a zombie… OR that Jane Austen never really died at all, and has been (for some reason unknown to this poor editor) hiding out all this time in the best of health… OR both eventualities.
But enough speculation! We return to our tale. Which might not be completely furry, nor absolutely grim, but contains occasional patches of both qualities. ~ EvD]
Don Quijote (Homo demens innoxius) dismounted from his nag (Equus ferus crapulus), removed his helmet (alias a 16th century, Spanish barber’s basin), held it against his heart, and knelt on the sloping ground, ordering Sancho to do likewise.
“O Dulcinea of Toboso, fairest of the fair, jewel among women, and brightest star in the night sky; yea: who makes the dark night seem like brightest day, allow me to follow you into that cave with my faithful squire, Sancho, for I would follow you unto the very ends of the earth in order to aid and succour thee,” he prayed.
Sancho Panza’s donkey turned to Quijote’s nag and brayed: “These yoomens is bat-shit crazy!” ~ JHiD
‘Meat-Product-Inna-Bun?’ interrupted the ubiquitous purveyor of mysterious street food. ‘Guaranteed 90% ingredients, minimal donkey, something for everyone, long lasting energy for magical quests and so affordable I’m cutting me own throat though I wouldn’t do that in front your lady friend, eh? What’s goin’ on ’ere then?’ ~ VF
The ingenious hidalgo¹ Don Quijote spared barely a second to glance at the grease-spattered vendor of carnal² delights, before returning to his entreaties to Dulcinea (alias Jane Austen [zombie]), his dreamy gaze fixed on the mouth of the dragon’s cave.
But Sancho Panza³ licked his lips and ordered “Two buckets of Meat-Product-Inna-Bun, por favorº! I’m afraid that you’re not going to be able to sell any to my master: he has sworn not to let food nor drink pass his lips (save for dry bread and water) until his lady Dulcinea has been released from her enchantment.” ~ WL
¹ hidalgo from hijo de algo (son of something [or other]), a very minor member of the nobility
² carnal from the Latin carnale, carnalis (things of the flesh), therefore carnal delights = meaty pleasures
³ panza is an antiquated Spanish word for belly. Panza was a nickname given to our good Sancho by his fellow villagers because of his adoration of food.
º por favor = please
“There’s plenty of dry bread in them Meat-Product-Inna-Bun buckets, I assure you!” argued their purveyor, still hopeful of a further sale. “I use the bits without visible mould for the buns, see, and the ‘meat-product’ is – between you, me, and the doorpost – 60% dry bread. Your boss could eat ’em without hardly breaking his promise, near as dammit, watcha say?” ~ EvD
Sancho arose from his kneeling position (for, although his master, Don Quijote, had ordered him to kneel, his even-greater master, his panza, had ordered him to take possession of the two buckets of Meat-Product-Inna-Bun, which the vendor was holding out towards him), pressed two coins into the iffy-meat merchant’s greasy palm, sat down – with a great sigh and a loud fart for good manners (and to make more room within his gut) – with his back against a sessile oak tree (Quercus petraea), and began to feed.
“Here, you, these ain’t legal tend…” began the salesman, but cut himself short while examining the two coins more closely.
Although a crafter-purveyor of questionably edible creations by training and trade, he was, in his spare time, a passionate amateur numismatist, and quickly realised that what the shabby squire had paid with for his [currently single-minded and noisy] repast were two silver half-reals, dating from late 16th century Castile… each easily worth (to any disreputable collector) his average year’s Income-Inna-Bun. ~ JHiD
Caught in the act of spelunking with the fiery creature, Alice blushed furiously as Dildo and Oscar gaped at her dishevelled appearance. “I do wish I hadn’t drunk quite so much!” she muttered defensively. The aptly named dragon simply smirked. ~ LT
His orations complete, Don Quijote crossed himself, rose (Rosa amblyophylla, ha ha ha, Jimmy!) to his feet, glanced at his squire Sancho but realised that it would be virtually impossible (or possibly dangerous) to attempt to separate him from the two buckets held lovingly to his breast, and – commending himself to God – strode up the slope and disappeared into the cave, in search of his lady.
He found her in a smoke-filled cavern deep in the mountain, in the company of
one (1) 19th century dandy (undead),
one (1) furry-footed being, dressed in a nun’s garments,
one (1) young girl, looking sheepish,
one (1) white rabbit, wearing a waistcoat and fanning itself, and
one (1) dragon, taking occasional and large puffs of noxious smoke from a hookah.
Don Quijote had fought windmills, enchanters, and a flock of sheep, so fighting a smoke-breathing dragon for the glory of Dulcinea was not a challenge that he was about to refuse! ~WL
[Oh mercy, here’s Billy Boy putting in his farthing’s worth!]
But, marry, the foolish nobleman had left his steed without the cavern!
“A horse, a horse: my kingdom for a horse!” he cried. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the chamber up with our Spanish dead!” ~ WS
Having made an exhaustive mental inventory of all the slope’s flora and fauna (and being somewhat disturbed by the uncouth sounds resultant from señor Panza’s indelicate eating habits), I descend to the stream, cross it, and enter the woods beyond its further bank.
A pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus) immediately rewards my decision to wander into its territory by regaling me with its well-known song of greeting, “Heh-heh-heh-HEH-heh, heh-heh-heh-HEH-heh, HEHHEHHEHHEHHEHHEHHEH: it’s the Woody Woodpecker Show!”
While searching the panoply of the surrounding trees (a mixture of Quercus robur, Pinus sylvestris, Pinus radiata, and Betula pendula) for a glimpse of this magnificently patterned avian, I fail to pay attention to where I’m walking, and suddenly, the ground absent beneath my leading foot, I find myself falling into a pit, and landing next to our recent acquaintance, the roe-deer-princess (Capreolus capreolus capreolus var. princeps)! ~ JHiD
‘If you must keep talking about me,’ advised the deer, ‘I’d rather you called me something else like The Youngest (everybody calls me that coz I’m so obviously good and clever and undeniably deserving) although I quite fancy being called Mathilda the Mighty even though everyone says it doesn’t suit me and it’ll put off princes.
‘If you help me get out of this pit I’m sure you’ll receive a mystically appropriate reward to help you with your…quest? I’d do it myself but these deer feet thingies are terrible for fashioning rope plus I’m not at all sure if I’m supposed to be rescuing myself or not as I’m not quite sure what my ultimate allegory is, you see? ~ VF
[A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR
At this point in our tale, a new person(?) has applied to join our writing team: someone identifying themselves as “tiny petite nude babe” and who graciously supplied us with their website URL.
One of the team was delegated to visit said website, but – perhaps unfortunately – the words “tiny”, “petite”, and “babe” appear to have had a cumulative effect and rendered this entity microscopic. Nobody was visible, whether nude or clothed as a victorian vicar’s wife, making it impossible to classify this applicant as either among the living or one of our undead collaborators.
In addition, tiny petite nude babe’s text contribution to this project – although sufficiently salacious – presented several problems, to wit: (1) the spelling and grammar were atrocious, (2) the punctuation was even worse than The Austen’s, (3) it had NOTHING to do with any of the various plots in the current opus (which, in itself, is no deal-breaker… but even Oisín provided a slim bridge to his otherwise 100% non sequitur), and (4) it trampled all over the 3-sentencer maximum rule.
A vote was taken amongst all the members of our writing community, and – although Messrs. Wilde, Tolkien, and Shakespeare were in favour of admitting this microscopic newcomer to our happy band (and were all willing to tutor her in “the rules of the game”), and 2 of our fellowship (Oisín and Mia Creely have very busy schedules) didn’t get their votes in before a convincing majority had been established – the rest of us voted nay. 7 nays, 3 ayes, 2 non-voters.
So there you have it, microscopic naked youngster, Democracy has spoken and you are out. Better luck elsewhere!
For those readers who would like tiny petite nude babe’s URL, you should address your enquiries to Ms. Austen (deceased and rebooted), which will, alas, only be possibe if YOU sign on as a member of our collective and get your email account hacked by her.
(You may take consolation in the fact that the aforementioned website is really not worth visiting.)
End of this interjection from the editor.]
[The greatest poet in the English language (well, that’s my opinion, and you’re welcome to your own… though there is a simple way to resolve this issue: shall we say drawn bayonets at dawn at the north-east end of Cudby Yaw Primary School’s playing field?) has hacked my email.]
Smug and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the dragon took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.
“The time has come,” the dragon said,“To talk of many a thing:
Of clues, and clips, and ceiling cracks;
Of be-bop, blues, and swing;
And why this hobbit wears nun’s clothes
…And if I have the RING.”
Alice folded her hands, and began: –
“You are old, Smug The Dragon,” the young girl said,
“And your scales have become very white;
And yet you incessantly smoke in your bed –
Do you think, at your age, it is right?” ~ LC
[And now the most overrated poet in the English language has hacked MY email account and is quoting from his foul drivel glorifying femicide!]
It was the mention of that word “bed” which moved me to share with the company some little verse of my own (for I am not very good at drawing – bayonets nor any other object – the spoken and written word being my forte) which I trust the reader will find not only apposite but also edifying.
“He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.
“Dear Dildo! these very cavern walls
Suddenly seem to reel,
And its roof above my head becomes
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I am a zombie in pain,
My pain I can not feel.” ~ OFOWW
Princess Roe The Youngest and I look at each other for some time in silence: at last I take some moss out of my mouth, and address her in a languid, sleepy voice.
“The fact may have escaped your notice, Mathilda the Mighty, that – although whichever hunter who dug this trap has kindly provided a deep bed of red bogmoss (Sphagnum capillifolium) to cushion our respective falls into it – his or her generosity has not extended to providing us with any suitable material out of which to braid a rope.
“However, the smell of aftershave seems to be growing stronger, leading me to surmise that he (or very possibly she) is approaching ever nearer, so – not wishing to be found in this embarrassing (and potentially dangerous) situation – I’m going to make use of my superpower as a co-writer of this opus, and whisk us both back to the train carriage, where (I’m sure) the noxious fumes will have dissipated by now. ~ JHiD
[Well, well, well: Oisín has decided to return! I was wondering what had happened to him…]
Ansin labhair mé dá bhrí sin leis na a chéile:
“Más é an fhilíocht an aoibhneas atá agat,ansin tá sé seo ag caint leis seo.
“Nochomtha ní radim de
im dála meic Deictire,
issí mo chobais, ni gó,
con corrossid dobanró. ~ O
[Translation
Then spake I thus to those assembled:
“If poetry is your delight, then hark at this.
“More than this I’ve naught to say,
As concerns Dechtird’s son;
My belief, in troth, is this:
Ye will now meet with your fate.” ~ O]
[And now Billy has stepped up to the challenge of this Battle Of The Poets. But I’m afraid that he’s scored an own goal, by trying to rhyme “love” with “remove”. And the scanning seems a little wobbly to me.]
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring barque,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.” ~ WS
The tall figure cloaked in grey strode up to them, with the young would-be-John-Lennon in tow, and more sparks flashed from his eyes as he raised his staff in the air in a rather dramatic – but somehow ridiculous – gesture.
“The steam train will soon be leaving from platform nine and three quarters,” he pronounced. “And we haven’t bought our tickets yet!” ~ EvD
He patted his legs where most people would have trouser pockets, but he – being a wizard of immense magical power – of course needed no pockets (nor trousers, for that matter).
“I seem to have… ahem, that is… YOU, boy!” (pointing at Jon). “Be a nice, useful sort of chappie, and get the tickets, would you?” ~ WL
So Jon trotted off to one of the ticket windows and asked for one adult and three halves to Pigscider Station.
“How much will that be, please, Sir, and could you tell me how to get to platform nine and three quarters?”
The ticket seller was a wizened old man, who stared at Jon as if he didn’t understand a word of what Jon was saying. ~ JHiD
[My Goodness! My email account has been hacked by someone purporting to be Oisín, the legendary Irish warrior-poet.]
Ansin labhair an díoltóir ticéad dá bhrí sin:
“Damb-ró Cuchulaind Cualnhge
ria curadaib Craebruade,
beti fir i fuilib de
d’argain Maige Murthemne!
“Dochuaid-sium turus bad sía,
go ranic Slebi Armenia,
rala ág dar aiste,
ra chuir ár [ar] na cichloiste!
“Ba handsu dó meic Nectain
do chur assa prímlepthaib,
cu na cerda, ba mod n-áig,
do marbad cona oenláim!” ~ O
Oisín, mac Fionn mac Cumhaill agus Sadhbh (iníon Bodhbh Dearg) [O]
[For the sake of those of you who don’t speak Gaelic, the following is a rough translation.
Therefore spake then the ticket vendor:
“If Cú Chulainn, Cualnge’s Hound,
And Red Branch chiefs on you come,
Men will welter in their blood,
Laying waste Murthemne’s plain!
“Far away he held his course,
Till he reached Armenia’s heights;
Battle dared he, past his wont,
And the Burnt-Breasts put to death!
“Hardest for him was to drive
Necht’s sons from their chieftest haunts;
And the smith’s hound – mighty deed –
Hath he slain with single hand!”
(signed) Oisín, the son of Fionn mac Cumhaill (AKA Finn MacCool) and Sadhbh (the daughter of Bodhbh Dearg, AKA Bodb Derg), with initial O ~ (note from the editor)]
“Crikey!” exclaimed Jon. “I was only asking…”
But at that point the wizened ticket vendor disappeared in a puff of smoke-simulating dry-ice cloud. ~ WL
The smoke – or cloud – grew and grew, until it filled the whole of the ticket hall of the station. Once it had cleared away, Jon inexplicably found himsef standing on three quarters of a platform with the others of his party, to whit: Aisha (still wearing a tiny, meat-flecked crown), the tall fire-hazard-greybeard, and the John-Daniel-Lennon-Radcliffe mashup.
A figure wearing a kimono and with a head shaped rather like a frog’s was calling through the wrong end of a megaphone: “All aboard for the express steam train to Pigscider Station, leaving in less than no time.”
SORRY! I didn’t initial that last comment ~ JHiD
On hearing these words, Aisha began windmilling her way past the others and scrambling aboard.
“You know I get travel sick if I don’t sit in the best seat on the train,” she muttered defensively, as Jon followed her into a plush but dimly lit carriage which was already quite full, near the front of the train.
The remaining empty seats were quickly filled by the bespectacled boy and the tall, bearded figure, who then produced an impossibly large scroll of paper from beneath his cloak with what Jon considered an unnecessary flourish. ~ LT
“Hear ye, hear ye!” shouted the wizard, startling just about everyone in the carriage, and setting two babies off in a competition to determine which of them could cry the louder, with bonus points for redness of face.
“Be it hereby beknown to all present that Pigverrucas Academy For Aspiring Wizards, Witches, And Assorted Geeks And Nerds – hereinafter to be referred to as the party of the first part or PAFAWWAAGAN (as the mood strikes me) – is divided into four (4) houses, to wit: GriffRhysJones, Slimything, Crowfoot, and PuffTheMagicDragon, which four (4) houses are assigned to new students by decision of a magic beret, wot once belonged to Pablo Picasso (during his Blue Period).
“The party of the second part – hereinafter to be referred to as the party of the third part or the birthday party, depending on the day of the week – shall be considered the party of the fourth part for tax purposes, unless the tax year begins in a leap year, in which case the party of the first part is to be held at my place, but with the proviso that all guests bring a bottle.” ~ EvD
Jon was trying to follow all of this jumble: a bear which had belonged to Pablo Picasso, birthday parties, yaks’ tears, and Puff The Magic Ryss Jones, all competing with a crying contest, when he noticed the ticket inspector opening the door from the neighbouring carriage.
He hadn’t bought the tickets!
“NOW I’m in for it!” he thought. ~ WL
[I was just wondering what I could follow on with, when I realised that my e-mail account has been hacked again. Hooray for the Oxford mathematician!]
“Tickets, please!” said the Guard, approaching down the aisle, and in a moment everybody was holding out a ticket: they were about the same size as the people, and quite seemed to fill the carriage.
“Show your ticket, children!” the Guard went on, looking angrily at Aisha, Jon, and the Geek/Nerd, while a great many voices all said together (“like the chorus of a song,” thought Aisha), “Don’t keep him waiting, children! Why, his time is worth a thousand pounds a minute!” ~ LC
Aisha saw Jon’s panicked and guilty face scanning the carriage for an impossible escape route and, although she had imagined six impossible things before breakfast, she couldn’t imagine how they could sneak away from the ticket collector under the attention of the hive-mind passengers. She stealthily slipped a dainty pair of brass knuckles onto her fingers and was about to take matters into her own hands when matters unexpectedly and helpfully came out of her intestines instead. Our friends quite quickly had the whole carriage to themselves, for the ticket collector deemed a thousand pounds a minute was not enough recompense to deal with that particular smell, and the passengers had, as one of course, decided to check whether they’d left the gas on at home. – VF
ISN’T it getting “close” in this railway carriage, though?! I don’t think that I left the gas on at home, but someone’s let the gas OUT here… and the damned windows don’t open!
Using, therefore, my superpowers as author, I’m going to do all of you readers a great favour and transport you to the Homealone Mountain, where Dildo Buggins is hacking through undershrub and toiling uphill towards the mouth of a cave, from which smoke, tinged with a reddish glow, is emanating. ~ WL
Hampered in his upward struggle by The Habit he was wearing [there: it’s ABOUT TIME that we worked the title of this opus into the text], Dildo kept tripping up and falling into the brambles.
“I thought that this wimple was supposed to make me able to fly,” he grumbled. [link to be added: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Hua7m6wQuw%5D “‘Lift plus thrust’, my arse!” ~ EvD
I wish to state that I don’t actually believe that relocating from a foul-flatulence-filled train carriage to a deep, dark, dungeony cave with a smoke-breathing dragon is NECESSARILY a wise career move, olfactorily speaking.
Given that the dragon’s name is Smug, my bet is that it smokes Gauloises sans filtre or Panatella cigars… or even – The Deary save and preserve us – cherry-brandy-flavoured pipe tobacco.
I, for one (suffering as I do from allergy to tobacco smoke: oh, the migraines I could tell you of!), don’t wish to follow Dildo into that cave, and shall remain out here, describing the flora and fauna of the environs, while the rest of you report the social intercourse of Habit and Dragon. ~ JHiD
Continuing his uphill struggle, Dildo stumbled upon one of the most famous fountains of witty epigrams in the English language: Mr. Oscar Wilde, himself!
“Stumbled upon” is completely accurate, since Dildo – with his eye ever on the mouth of the cave and the smoke issuing from it – tripped over the supine figure of Ireland’s greatest playwright-whose-last-name-is-Wilde… which was face-down among the fallen leaves on the floor of the wooded slope. Scrambling to his feet and turning the body face-up, Dildo deduced that undeadness had not improved Oscar’s looks at all at all, his appearance being rather like one imagines the picture of Dorian Gray to look like. ~ WL
[Who left that zombie on the slopes of Homealone Mountain?! And how did he hack my e-mail account this quickly?! When am I going to be able to write something of my own? ~ EvD]
We are all in the leaf-mould, but some of us are looking up a nun’s habit.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.
I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying. ~ Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde (OFOWW)
For some unaccountable reason, Dildo helped the zombiefied Oscar to his feet, and, leaning on each other, they made their way to the entrance of the cave, and disappeared within.
As I have earlier announced, I have no intention of following them thither, having decided to be the Nature Correspondent for the duration of this cave business.
If we are very quiet and remain absolutely still, we can hear a pair of blue tits greeting the dawn and each other: the one in a twisted hawthorn bush, the other from the lower, moss-covered branches of a lofty pine! ~ JHiD
Meanwhile, back on the train, Aisha had noticed Jon’s look of terror upon the approach of the ticket collector, and instantly realised why…
“We need tickets!” she whispered, quietly enough not to be heard by the rapidly retreating official, but loudly enough for Jon to hear over the surrounding cacophony.
Almost immediately, she felt a strange, warm tingle on the top of her head, directly beneath the meat-encrusted crown, her left eye twitched briefly, and then, suddenly, in her hand there materialised the required tickets! ~ MC
“I’m so glad to have company on this quest!” whispered Dildo to Oscar, after each had introduced themselves according to the etiquette of civilised society, as they made their way down the sloping passage of the cave. “I’m not on it of my own choosing, but Glandhalf The Greybeard told me that it was my destiny. You see, I lost both of my parents to dragons when I’d just reached adulthood.” ~ WL
[I should have known, when Mr. Wilde first hacked my account, that it would be nigh impossible to shut him up. Here he is again…]
There has been enough whispering! I don’t believe in whispering: it is for those who are ashamed of what they have to say, but are determined to say it anyway.
So I replied to my habit-clad companion in a rather loud voice (I have a lovely voice): “To lose one parent, Mr. Buggins, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.” ~ OFOWW
Once again, Jon could only stare at Aisha in confounded awe, as she regained the attention of the inspector and thrust the tickets triumphantly into his waiting hands. Decidedly disappointed at being deprived of the opportunity to remove this stench-producing passenger and her apparently besotted companion from his beloved train, the inspector headed to the next carriage, in his endless search for more ticketless ne’er-do-wells.
“That was amazing,” gasped Jon, as his power of speech gradually returned, adding: “What else do you think you’ve got stashed up there?”
~ LT
Holding my breath, I watch as the blue tit – Cyanistes caeruleus – in the pine tree (a magnificent Pinus densiflora, a rare immigrant to these regions) makes a graceful swoop to join its fellow perched on the hawthorn bush (a Crataegus aestivalis). Is it attracted to a possible mate or to the dull red haws, which are rich in tannins, flavonoids, oligomeric proanthocyanidins, phenolic acids, and antioxidants?
The Scots saying “Ne’er cast a cloot til Mey’s oot” conveys a warning not to shed any cloots (clothes) before the summer has fully arrived and the Mayflowers (hawthorn blossoms) are in full bloom, which – frankly – must make things as “aromatic” (in its own way) as the railway carriage which we’ve left behind us. ~ JHiD
In the diminishing light from the entrance, Dildo and Oscar could already see heaps of detritus lying about the cave. Without too much scrutiny, one could see among the worryingly large droppings a fair amount of miscellaneous skeletal remains, coinage of various value and antique furniture which had seen better days. Dildo, however, was drawn to one object in particular and, picking it up, saw that it was a hefty tome bound in gold and silver, obviously crafted by elves of the highest magical order, and written in large bold letters on the cover were the reassuring words ‘DON’T GET IN A TIZZ’. ~ VF
Dildo held the book in both hands, with a look of reverence and awe on his fuzzy features.
“Have you got any idea what volume this is?!” he asked Oscar, in a hushed voice (as opposed to whispering).
“Give me a few minutes to be quite sure, but I BELIEVE that I’m holding the fabled ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide To Muddled Earth’, for which I’ve been searching all my adult life”” ~ WL
[Alright… I might as well be hibernating. Here he is, People: Oscar bloody Wilde.]
“If you are not long, I will wait for you all my life,” I reassured my cross-dressing companion. “In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.” ~ OFOWW
Between the overhanging foliage, we espy a reddish and grey-brown roe deer doe (Capreolus capreolus capreolus). She has come to drink from the stream at the bottom of the slope, where it bends and forms a wide, shallow pool. Completely unaware of our presence, she is a beautiful example of the species, which was once classified as belonging to the Cervinae subfamily, but is now classified as part of the Odocoileinae, which include the deer from the New World. ~ JHiD
The young doe’s head snaps around to glare at her audience and in hushed, not whispering, but angry tones she says ‘Oh, completely unaware am I, Mr Nature Expert? Have you ever tried to coquettishly attract a passing handsome prince while trapped as a smelly old deer, hmm? It’s very hard to focus on finding the perfect spot of dappled sunlight and batting my suspiciously princessy eyelashes with you staring at me, so, unless you’re the Prince of Wonderland, please beggar off back to your own plotline’. ~ VF
[Oh, Lordy! Someone’s gone and woken up Billy, and he’s decided to join the discussion outdoors. He loves this dodge of maidens in disguise! He flogged it to death before he died, and now he’s up for more.]
Then spake again the princess as doe bedeck’d: “Presume not that I am the thing I was.”
But one of the azure birds enjoined: “Be not afraid of doeness, for some are born does, some achieve doeness, and others have doeness thrust upon them.
“But this would I say to you, forsooth, even this above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.” ~ WS
[I suspect that Bill was having a “siesta” with The Austen, because she’s also showed up at the same time.]
The doe blushed but replied not without, decision “The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a roebuck whom I can really love. I require so much!
“And it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single prince in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” ~ JA
With all the talking animals and zombies (Homo sapiens nondefunctus) thrashing about in the undergrowth, is it at all surprising that three sneaky, creepy, slinking literary agents (Homo agentus literatus) have slinked creepily and sneakily from under a large, moss-covered rock without being noticed?
And I seem to having a spell of déjà écrit! Can one plagiarise oneself? ~ JHiD
[Bill’s still at it, but he’s redirected his gaze to the cave/passage/tunnel where he’s found Dildo fondling a book and Oscar fondling… his ego.]
Dildo clench’d his eyes and said: “To hitchhike, or not to hitchhike: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stoppings and startings of outrageous railways,
Or to stick out your thumb against a sea of lorries,
And by this opposing appendage stop them? To ride: to pay
No more; and, by this ride to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That train passengers are heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To hitch, to ride;
To ride: perchance with a madman: ay, there’s the rub.” ~ WS
[And Oscar’s beat Jane to my email account this time. Tennis, Anyone?]
My peculiar companion was NOT reading the book, so, to give him a nudge, I said: “If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.”
And, as he had brought up the subject of the evils of railway journeys, I gave him this piece of glorious advice: “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.” ~ OFOWW
The bewitched princess, catching the scent of zombies (or perhaps of the literary agents) on the breeze, and succumbing to a deer’s shyness and instinctive fear, vanishes into the woods on the far side of the stream.
Or maybe the princess (before her transformation) was an aspiring writer (aren’t we all?!) and is acting under the influence of an equally instinctive fear of unscrupulous literary agents. (You see: having read the manuscript to which THIS is the prequel, I recognise these creepy sneaks [AKA sneaky creeps] as the trio who will dig up poor Jane Austen, bring her to undeadness, enslave her… and inflict her on the rest of us [if they haven’t will have had done so already].) ~ JHiD
In fact, as a human, the princess had been known to be shy but had found that walking around nude all day as a deer had cured her of such social anxieties and she firmly planned to be quite outrageous when she returned to her human form for, as they say, when you accept that the universe is matter changing from thingies into whatnot then wearing stripes with plaid becomes easy. For now however, her current skittish endocrine system ruled and sent her on evasive manoeuvres through the woods in a manner most unbecoming and as she pondered how to flee more adorably she plopped clumsily, but somewhat cutely, into a trap. Panting for breath, she caught the scent of aftershave nearby. – VF
[And now Jane has jumped the gun by hacking MY e-mail!]
Master Buggins was for a moment transported by, rapture as he exclaimed: “I declare after all there is no enjoyment like hitchhiking! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a motor carriage! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if it is not an excellent camping van.” ~ JA
[Here’s a turn-up for the books! Bill is taking over Oscar’s part of the dialogue.]
“There is no motor either good or bad, but tinkering makes it so,” sayed Oscar.
“The fault, dear Buggins, is not in our cars, but in ourselves, that we are under the leaking brake line.
“All the world’s a mechanic’s,
And all the men and women merely drivers;
They have their ‘last exit’s and their breakdowns;
And one man in his time pays for many spare parts,
His bills reaching seven pages.” ~ WS
The zombies, literary agents, blue tits, and deer princess having left the scene, for a while there is complete silence, and one could almost imagine oneself in a world before KFC, CocaCola, or MacDonald’s.
But, after a short respite, the tranquillity is broken – though none too harshly – by a young girl (Homo sapiens sapiens) running after a white rabbit (Oryctolagus cuniculus, and I would hazard a guess that it’s a “Blanc de Bouscat”, though it’s difficult to be absolutely certain at this distance), which latter is unaccountably wearing a waistcoat and carrying in one paw a pair of white, kid-leather gloves.
Quite suddenly, the rabbit pops into the cave into which, earlier, Oscar and Dildo disappeared, and in another moment in goes the young girl after it, apparently never once considering how in the world she is to get out again, after facing the dragon. ~ JHiD
She had not a moment to think before stumbling slightly but, the tunnel not being very precipitous, she was obliged to roly poly for the desired effect. As she passed, she noticed the passage was lined with treasures and other miscellanies and took down a jar labelled ‘Avocado’ but to her great disappointment it was empty. ‘Well’ she thought to herself. ‘After such a fall as this, I shall nothing of performing a floor routine at the olympics.’ -VF
*think nothing- edit -VF
Happening suddenly upon Oscar and Dildo (and startling them considerably in the process), the young girl politely enquired which way she ought to go.
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” Dildo replied rather smugly.
“I need to catch up with that damn rabbit…” she fumed, “…As he’s stolen my best waistcoat and gloves!” ~ LT
[Now Lewis has gone and hacked my account…]
Suddenly Alice – for it was none other – came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and her first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the tunnel; but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them. However, on the second time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted!
Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest pile of treasure you ever saw… with an enormous, blue dragon sitting on the top with its legs folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of anything else. ~ LC
[Alright, Bill, if you must…]
“But, soft! what smoke through yonder doorway snakes?” swoon’d Dildo.
“It issues from Collins’ Finest Blend of Turkish and Virginian Leafs, Marinated in Cherry Brandy, and the smoker is Smug.
“Two tobaccos, both alike in toxicity
In foul Homealone Mountain, where we lay our scene,
From soaking in cherry brandy break to new mutiny
Where dragon breath makes all the air unclean.” ~ WS
Was I right or was I right about the cherry-brandy-flavoured pipe tobacco?! OK, so I got it SLIGHTLY wrong about the pipe; but a hookah is a kind of pipe… and for people even more smug than ordinary-pipe smokers OR those who smoke Gauloises sans filtre.
The dragon (Dracus dracus terribilis) is living up* to its name!
* up, down, or all around ~ JHiD
Dildo, having no intention of acquiring a second overly loquacious companion, simply watched the frilly chatterbox scutter about disappear before scooping up a handful of delightfully engraved rings and announcing to Oscar that it was time for a Long Dark Teatime. Having diverse tastes, Oscar and Dildo consulted their new book as to the best establishment to order both a nice pot of tea and a glass of absinthe for the book was none other than the ‘Richness Efficient Tourist’s Usher Resource Notes to Other Zones’, the Return to Oz. So guided, they left the gloominess of the lair and began their journey for the Restaurant at the End of the Novel.- VF
Or, at least that was their INTENTION; but as soon as they reached the stream at the bottom of the slope outside and tried to cross it, a Level Four Forcefield® stopped them in their tracks, and they heard a stern voice (which Dildo immediately recognised as belonging to his mentor [aka puppetmaster], Glandhalf The Greybeard.
“THERE IS NO ESCAPING YOUR DESTINY! YOU HAVE AN APPOINTMENT WITH THE DRAGON SMUG, AND YOU WILL ATTEND!” ~ WL
“What I can’t escape is that guy Glanhalf!” muttered Dildo to his new acquaintance. “I swear that he even watches me when I’m having a dump!”
”I HEARD THAT!” ~ EvD
Something which – in all my minutes of nature study/commentary – I’ve never seen before happens now: a Homo sapiens sapiens and a Hobbitus vulgaris hortensius moving backwards at a pronounced angle to the vertical WITHOUT moving their feet! In fact, one could almost imagine them being dragged up the slope by an invisible hand – if one believed in such things.
Once at the mouth of the cave they dive (again: backwards) – or are flung? – into it. ~ JHiD
As he picked pebbles and trinkets out of his crevices, Dildo pondered the words of Fauxcrates who said that reality was only perceived by the shadows cast on the wall of the cave and wondered, given his mysterious confinement to the cave, whether he was less perceiver and more shadow but then he picked what appeared to be one of Oscar’s eyeballs off his pants and that felt pretty real. Hobbits are notoriously displeased with missing their teatime so it was a grumpy pair who resolved to confront their so-called Destiny quickly, marching resolutely after Alice while looking up ‘How do you solve a problem like Dracona?’ in the ‘Poor Wayfarer’s Chaperone for Travels through Unfamiliar Environments’. Their harumph was entirely dissipated, however, when they were confronted by the sight of what Alice was doing to Smug. – VF
Four characters arrived at the foot of the hill just in time to witness the second entrance of Oscar and Dildo into the cave. Two were four-legged, each carrying a two-legged creature on its back.
Six minutes later, Jane Austen (zombie) stumbled back into the scene, with a vacant look in her eye sockets. ~ WL
[Mentioning one zombie seems to have called forth another, because Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (b. 1547, d. 1616, z. 2022) has just hacked my e-mail account.]
«Señor,» dijo Sancho, «y ¿es buena regla de caballería que andemos perdidos por estas montañas, sin senda ni camino, buscando a un loco, al cual, después de hallado, quizá le vendrá en voluntad de acabar lo que dejó comenzado, no de su cuento, sino de la cabeza de vuestra merced y de mis costillas, acabándonoslas de romper de todo punto?»
«Calla, te digo otra vez, Sancho» dijo don Quijote; «porque te hago saber que no sólo me trae por estas partes el deseo de hallar al loco, cuanto el que tengo de hacer en ellas una hazaña, con que he de ganar perpetuo nombre y fama en todo lo descubierto de la tierra; y será tal, que he de echar con ella el sello a todo aquello que puede hacer perfecto y famoso a un andante caballero.»
Luego, dirigiose a la no difunta señorita Austen ansí: «¡Oh princesa Dulcinea, señora deste cautivo corazón, mucho agravio me habedes fecho en despedirme y reprocharme con el riguroso afincamiento de mandarme no parecer ante la vuestra fermosura.» ~ MdCS
[For those of you who don’t understand late 16th / early 17th century Spanish, here is a translation:]
“Señor,” said Sancho, “and is it a good rule of chivalry that we should go astray through these mountains without path or road, looking for a madman who when he is found will perhaps take a fancy to finish what he began, not his story, but your worship’s head and my ribs, and end by breaking them altogether for us?”
“Silence, I say again, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for let me tell thee it is not so much the desire of finding that madman that leads me into these regions as that which I have of performing among them an achievement wherewith I shall win eternal name and fame throughout the known world; and it shall be such that I shall thereby set the seal on all that can make a knight-errant perfect and famous.”
Then he directed himself to the undead Miss Austen thus: “O Princess Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou done me to drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy banish me from the presence of thy beauty.” ~ MdCS
A Eurasian red squirrel (Sciurus vulgaris) skitters down the trunk of an English Oak (also named common oak, pedunculate oak, or European oak, Quercus robur) scurries a few metres across the ground, raises itself upright and chitters at the equestrians (Homo sapiens ibericus) and their mounts (Equus ferus caballus and Equus africanus asinus, respectively). It is the last mistake it will ever make.
With a rapidity which belies her not-actually-aliveness, Jane Austen (Homo literatus non difunctus) snatches up the squirrel, converts it into an ex-squirrel, then a tasty between-mealtimes snack, leaving nothing but its bushy nether appendage, or – as I can’t resist calling it – its grim furry tail. ~ JHiD
Having finished her crunchy snack, The Austen looked up, saw the expression of dopey adoration on the face of Don Quijote, and hobbled into the cave to escape his obvious, amorous intentions; where, hearing the hubbub of voices further down, and sniffing the odour of undead tobacco emanating from a door in the side of the passage, she decided to investigate further.
It is only fair to our readers to explain at this point that, although Alice had vainly tried the little golden key in the locks of all of the normal-sized doors, she HADN’T tried to simply turn their doorknobs. Not one of them was locked, so – after she had wormed her way down what Mr. Carroll was pleased to tell us was “a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole” – Oscar had sashayed over to another door, opened it, and (ever the gentleman) waved Dildo through it… himself following at a prudent distance. ~ WL
[While Oscar was occupied in “leading from the rear”, The Austen managed to get to my e-mail account… again.]
A true gentlewoman brought up well by, stern but tenderloving parents to be modest and equable, should always be ready to, modify her earlier statements of absolute truths and with that, as my motto, I now am, quite willing to substitute an earlier averring by myself to the following: “I declare after all there is no enjoyment like spelunking! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a dank, dark cave! — When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not a mould-covered, malodorous cellar, especially one inhabited by a dragon if it be of good family.” ~ JA
Don Quijote (Homo demens innoxius) dismounted from his nag (Equus ferus crapulus), removed his helmet (alias a 16th century, Spanish barber’s basin), held it against his heart, and knelt on the sloping ground, ordering Sancho to do likewise.
“O Dulcinea of Toboso, fairest of the fair, jewel among women, and brightest star in the night sky; yea: who makes the dark night seem like brightest day, allow me to follow you into that cave with my faithful squire, Sancho, for I would follow you unto the very ends of the earth in order to aid and succour thee,” he prayed.
Sancho Panza’s donkey turned to Quijote’s nag and brayed: “These yoomens is bat-shit crazy!” ~ JHiD
‘Meat-Product- Inna-Bun?’ interrupted the ubiquitous purveyor of mysterious street food. ‘Guaranteed 90% ingredients, minimal donkey, something for everyone, long lasting energy for magical quests and so affordable I’m cutting me own throat though I wouldn’t do that in front your lady friend, eh? What’s goin’ on ‘ere then?’ -VF
The ingenious hidalgo¹ Don Quijote spared barely a second to glance at the grease-spattered vendor of carnal² delights, before returning to his entreaties to Dulcinea (alias Jane Austen [zombie]), his dreamy gaze fixed on the mouth of the dragon’s cave.
But Sancho Panza³ licked his lips and ordered “Two buckets of Meat-Product-Inna-Bun, por favorº! I’m afraid that you’re not going to be able to sell any to my master: he has sworn not to let food nor drink pass his lips (save for dry bread and water) until his lady Dulcinea has been released from her enchantment.” ~ WL
¹ hidalgo from hijo de algo (son of something [or other]), a very minor member of the nobility
² carnal from the Latin carnale, carnalis (things of the flesh), therefore carnal delights = meaty pleasures
³ panza is an antiquated Spanish word for belly. Panza was a nickname given to our good Sancho by his fellow villagers because of his adoration of food.
º por favor = please
“There’s plenty of dry bread in them Meat-Product-Inna-Bun buckets, I assure you!” argued their purveyor, still hopeful of a further sale. “I use the bits without visible mould for the buns, see, and the ‘meat-product’ is – between you, me, and the doorpost – 60% dry bread. Your boss could eat ’em without hardly breaking his promise, near as dammit, watcha say?” ~ EvD
Sancho arose from his kneeling position (for, although his master, Don Quijote, had ordered him to kneel, his even-greater master, his panza, had ordered him to take possession of the two buckets of Meat-Product-Inna-Bun, which the vendor was holding out towards him), pressed two coins into the iffy-meat merchant’s greasy palm, sat down – with a great sigh and a loud fart for good manners (and to make more room within his gut) – with his back against a sessile oak tree (Quercus petraea), and began to feed.
“Here, you, these ain’t legal tend…” began the salesman, but cut himself short while examining the two coins more closely.
Although a crafter-purveyor of questionably edible creations by training and trade, he was, in his spare time, a passionate amateur numismatist, and quickly realised that what the shabby squire had paid with for his [currently single-minded and noisy] repast were two silver half-reals, dating from late 16th century Castile… each easily worth (to any disreputable collector) his average year’s Income-Inna-Bun. ~ JHiD
Caught in the act of spelunking with the fiery creature, Alice blushed furiously as Dildo and Oscar gaped at her dishevelled appearance. “I do wish I hadn’t drunk quite so much!” she muttered defensively. The aptly named dragon simply smirked. ~LT
His orations complete, Don Quijote crossed himself, rose (Rosa amblyophylla, ha ha ha, Jimmy!) to his feet, glanced at his squire Sancho but realised that it would be virtually impossible (or possibly dangerous) to attempt to separate him from the two buckets held lovingly to his breast, and – commending himself to God – strode up the slope and disappeared into the cave, in search of his lady.
He found her in a smoke-filled cavern deep in the mountain, in the company of
one (1) 19th century dandy (undead),
one (1) furry-footed being, dressed in a nun’s garments,
one (1) young girl, looking sheepish,
one (1) white rabbit, wearing a waistcoat and fanning itself, and
one (1) dragon, taking occasional and large puffs of noxious smoke from a hookah.
Don Quijote had fought windmills, enchanters, and a flock of sheep, so fighting a smoke-breathing dragon for the glory of Dulcinea was not a challenge that he was about to refuse! ~WL
[Oh mercy, here’s Billy Boy putting in his farthing’s worth!]
But, marry, the foolish nobleman had left his steed without the cavern!
“A horse, a horse: my kingdom for a horse!” he cried. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the chamber up with our Spanish dead!” ~ WS
Having made an exhaustive mental inventory of all the slope’s flora and fauna (and being somewhat disturbed by the uncouth sounds resultant from señor Panza’s indelicate eating habits), I descend to the stream, cross it, and enter the woods beyond its further bank.
. A pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus) immediately rewards my decision to wander into its territory by regaling me with its well-known song of greeting, “Heh-heh-heh-HEH-heh, heh-heh-heh-HEH-heh, HEHHEHHEHHEHHEHHEHHEH: it’s the Woody Woodpecker Show!”
While searching the panoply of the surrounding trees (a mixture of Quercus robur, Pinus sylvestris, Pinus radiata, and Betula pendula) for a glimpse of this magnificently patterned avian, I fail to pay attention to where I’m walking, and suddenly, the ground absent beneath my leading foot, I find myself falling into a pit, and landing next to our recent acquaintance, the roe-deer-princess (Capreolus capreolus capreolus var. princeps)! ~ JHiD
If you must keep talking about me, ‘advised the deer, ‘I’d rather you called me something else like The Youngest (everybody calls me that coz I’m so obviously good and clever and undeniably deserving) although I quite fancy being called Mathilda the Mighty even though everyone says it doesn’t suit me and it’ll put off princes. If you help me get out of this pit I’m sure you’ll receive a mystically appropriate reward to help you with your…quest? I’d do it myself but these deer feet thingies are terrible for fashioning rope plus I’m not at all sure if I’m supposed to be rescuing myself or not as I’m not quite sure what my ultimate allegory is, you see?
A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR
At this point in our tale, a new person(?) has applied to join our writing team: someone identifying themselves as “tiny petite nude babe” and who graciously supplied us with their website URL.
One of the team was delegated to visit said website, but – perhaps unfortunately – the words “tiny”, “petite”, and “babe” appear to have had a cumulative effect and rendered this entity microscopic. Nobody was visible, whether nude or clothed as a victorian vicar’s wife, making it impossible to classify this applicant as either among the living or one of our undead collaborators.
In addition, tiny petite nude babe’s text contribution to this project – although sufficiently salacious – presented several problems, to wit: (1) the spelling and grammar were atrocious, (2) the punctuation was even worse than The Austen’s, (3) it had NOTHING to do with any of the various plots in the current opus [which, in itself, is no deal-breaker… but even Oisín provided a slim bridge to his otherwise 100% non sequitur], and (4) it trampled all over the 3-sentencer maximum rule
A vote was taken amongst all the members of our writing community, and – although Messrs. Wilde, Tolkien, and Shakespeare were in favour of admitting this microscopic newcomer to our happy band (and were all willing to tutor her in “the rules of the game”), and 2 of our fellowship (Oisín and Mia Creely have very busy schedules) didn’t get their votes in before a convincing majority had been established – the rest of us voted nay. 7 nays, 3 ayes, 2 non-voters.
So there you have it, microscopic naked youngster, Democracy has spoken and you are out. Better luck elsewhere!
For those readers who would like tiny petite nude babe’s URL, you should address your enquiries to Ms. Austen (deceased and rebooted), which will, alas, only be possibe if YOU sign on as a member of our collective and get your email account hacked by her.
(You may take consolation in the fact that the aforementioned website is really not worth visiting.)
[The greatest poet in the English language (well, that’s my opinion, and you’re welcome to your own… though there is a simple way to resolve this issue: shall we say drawn bayonets at dawn at the north-east end of Cudby Yaw Primary School’s playing field?) has hacked my email.]
Smug and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the dragon took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.
“The time has come,” the dragon said,
“To talk of many a thing:
Of clues, and clips, and ceiling cracks;
Of be-bop, blues, and swing;
And why this hobbit wears nun’s clothes…
And if I have the RING.”
Alice folded her hands, and began: –
“You are old, Smug The Dragon,” the young girl said,
“And your scales have become very white;
And yet you incessantly smoke in your bed –
Do you think, at your age, it is right?” ~ LC
[And now the most overrated poet in the English language has hacked MY email account and is quoting from his foul, repetitive drivel glorifying femicide!]
It was the mention of that word “bed” which moved me to share with the company some little verse of my own (for I am not very good at drawing – bayonets nor any other object – the spoken and written word being my forte) which I trust the reader will find not only apposite but also edifying.
“He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.
“Dear Dildo! these very cavern walls
Suddenly seem to reel,
And its roof above my head becomes
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I am a zombie in pain,
My pain I can not feel.” ~ OFOWW
Princess Roe The Youngest and I look at each other for some time in silence: at last I take some moss out of my mouth, and address her in a languid, sleepy voice.
“The fact may have escaped your notice, Mathilda the Mighty, that – although whichever hunter who dug this trap has kindly provided a deep bed of red bogmoss (Sphagnum capillifolium) to cushion our respective falls into it – his or her generosity has not extended to providing us with any suitable material out of which to braid a rope.
“However, the smell of aftershave seems to be growing stronger, leading me to surmise that he (or very possibly she) is approaching ever nearer, so – not wishing to be found in this embarrassing (and potentially dangerous) situation – I’m going to make use of my superpower as a co-writer of this opus, and whisk us both back to the train carriage, where (I’m sure) the noxious fumes will have dissipated by now. ~ JHiD
[Well, well, well: Oisín has decided to return! I was wondering what had happened to him…]
Ansin labhair mé dá bhrí sin leis na a chéile:
“Más é an fhilíocht an aoibhneas atá agat,ansin tá sé seo ag caint leis seo.
“Nochomtha ní radim de
im dála meic Deictire,
issí mo chobais, ni gó,
con corrossid dobanró. ~ O
[Translation
Then spake I thus to those assembled:
“If poetry is your delight, then hark at this.
“More than this I’ve naught to say,
As concerns Dechtird’s son;
My belief, in troth, is this:
Ye will now meet with your fate.” ~ O]
[And now Billy has stepped up to the challenge of this Battle Of The Poets. But I’m afraid that he’s scored an own goal, by trying to rhyme “love” with “remove”. And the scanning seems a little wobbly to me.]
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring barque,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.” ~ WS
To the astonishment of the remaining occupants of a certain railway carriage, the roe-doe/alleged-princess and I appeared in two luggage racks on opposite sides of the centre aisle.
After we’d clambered down onto the seats and – interrupting, interfering, intertwining, and interchanging each other’s account – explained our respective situations to the startled group staring at us (not counting Glandhalf, who’d apparently fallen asleep), Aisha remarked “So you’re an enchanted princess [she was addressing the roe, I presumed: not me], you say? Well, it just so happens that I might be able to return you to your proper shape, with the help of this crown that I’m wearing and the words ‘We need the deer to turn back to her true form.’”
Aisha felt the by-now familiar, warm tingle on the top of her head, directly beneath the meat-encrusted crown, her left eye twitched briefly, and then, suddenly, she saw, sitting opposite her, a tiny, petite, nude babe – who has evidently insisted in inserting herself into this story, by hook or by crook! ~ JHiD
[Oh my goodness! The Austen has decided to join the Battle Of The Poets, submitting what I must guess is her idea of a limerick. But she has none (idea of a limerick, I mean): the scanning is non-existent, and the rhymes leave a lot to be desired.
Could someone please put the rest of us out of our misery by burying the poor creature again? In concrete, preferably.]
There was a, not over-young parson’s daughter of Buckinghamshire
Who wished to be wed but, was not entirely sure
Whether, the local squire’s nephew
Or, her cousin George should be, her beau.
So she fainted away on the entrance, hall’s floor. ~ JA
Let’s see whether I can do better.
Tiny, nude babe (petite) of Detroit,
You seem to be rather adroit
At invading this opus.
Is your plan to soft-soap us
Into watching you wriggle and hoit*?
[* “Hoit” is an obscure, but valid, verb: meaning “indulge in riotous mirth”: It is – probably – the basis for the (archaic meaning of) “hoity-toity”, i.e. frolicsome.] ~ EvD
The truly small, naked person now sitting in the railway carriage blushed all the way to her cuticles and follicles, causing Aisha and myself to realise that this was merely A COINCIDENCE, and that the poor, embarrassed girl had absolutely nothing to do with the other “tiny petite nude babe” (according to Emilie, of Detroit) who had attempted to join our writing team, and who would – supposedly – have delighted in exhibiting her unclothed charms for all to see.
Aisha dug her elbow rather sharply into Jon’s ribcage and motioned with her head, first to his shirt, then to the naked youngster sitting opposite them: the first (more forceful) action causing him to break out of his trance; the other two (more nuanced) moved him to take off his shirt and offer it to our rosy-red companion, who put it on gratefully and (she being so much smaller than Jon) was relieved to see that it covered her quite modestly.
“I’m afraid that I haven’t quite got the hang of this magic crown,” began Aisha, “and I forgot to add that we needed you to be properly clothed… and I’m very sorry, but Jon and I have been doing extensive experiments,” [she indicated the strange assortment of objects piled on other seats] “and it turns out that I can only use the magic again after a recharging time of six minutes, thirty-nine seconds.” ~ JHiD
Precisely six minutes and forty seconds later, the formerly nude but still small girl was properly attired in a manner more befitting of a genuine princess; that is to say, she was wearing many-pocketed combat trousers, sturdy boots and a nice, warm sweater. Admittedly, she had cast a few envious glances at Aisha’s meaty crown, but the latter simply rammed it more firmly down into her hair, effecting a formidable regal appearance (and no small amount of pain).
“Any chance I could get that shirt back now?” Jon meekly enquired.
~ LT
‘You’ll excuse me if I’m a little disorientated, Your Majesty’, piped up Mathilda the Youngest, ‘but I’m not sure of the laws of this land and you did transform me back to normal , kiss or no, and you do seem to be wearing a crown and most definitely in charge; so are we on the way to our wedding now? Only I’ll need some mysterious magical objects if you’ve got some handy and I’ve got this stepmother who might give us some bother. Has anyone got some meadow grass?’ ~ VF
And now the White Rabbit got into the poetry lark: not with a GREAT deal of success, but at least its rhymes were superior to those of poor Jane bloody Austen. It thumped its chest, cleared its throat, and began:
“Oh dear, oh dear, I shall be late;
I’ll salt my paws and oil my pate.
Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it’s getting;
the Queen will be fuming, the King will be fretting.
“Oh, the Duchess, the Duchess, oh, won’t she be savage:
If I’ve kept her waiting she’ll writhe, rave, and ravage…”
but here his squeaky voice trailed off, and he looked even more nervous than previously. ~ WL
Then Don Quijote thumped HIS chest, cleared his throat (spitting on the rabbit in doing so) and recited*:
“¡Oh, quién tuviera, hermosa Dulcinea,
Por más comodidad y más reposo,
A Miraflores puesto en el Toboso,
Y trocara sus Londres con tu aldea!
¡Oh, quién de tus deseos y librea
Alma y cuerpo adornara, y del famoso
Caballero que hiciste venturoso
Mirara alguna desigual pelea!”
* “recited” is quite right, since he was not the author of these verses, having “borrowed” them from the Lady of Oriana.
[Rough translation:
Oh, who wouldn’t, beautiful Dulcinea,
For more comfort and more rest,
Have Miraflores placed in the Toboso,
And trade their Londons for your village!
Oh, who with your desires and livery
Their soul and body would not adorn,
And look upon some uneven fight
Of the famous Gentleman whom you made venturous!] ~ EvD
The ticket collector returned to put his head through the carriage door and announce “Pigscider Station: end of the line.”
He did a double-take (he took a double?) to see the piles of varied objects piled on the seats at the front of the carriage – not to mention a young woman in combat trousers and sturdy boots handing a shirt back to an equally bare-chested Jon – coughed nervously, then barked “You’ll have to clean that up before you leave the train!”
And not even he was absolutely certain to exactly what he was referring. ~ JHiD
The dragon looked down its long snout at the humans, hobbit, and rabbit aligned before it and drawled… or – as Adrian Srioca would have insisted (this is an in-joke for several of us, but especially dedicated to Ms. Victoria Fielding) – said “Well, this Eisteddfod / Competición Poética / Muddle Earth’s Got Talent has been all very pleasant, but the time really has come to talk of many a thing, including your various reasons for disturbing my peace.
“Speaking of peace,” it continued [said], “I can’t offer you a peace pipe, but would any of you like a puff on this magic dragon’s hookah?”
“Not for me,” replied [said] Dildo, “as I’m trying to kick The Habit.” ~ WL
[Ah, once again, Oscar flaming Wilde has taken over my allotted space! Who taught these zombies to hack email accounts, anyway?!]
I – Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde (zombie) – promptly aimed a solid left-footer where Mr. Dildo Buggins’ trousers seat would have been if he’d been wearing said garment, because I can resist anything except temptation.
The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it, for resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. ~ OFOFWW
Aisha – leaving Jon and The Princess Formerly Know As Capreolus capreolus capreolus to take care of dressing themselves – waved her hand at the piles of accumulated objects and spoke the words: “We need all this stuff to disappear!”
And (AS IF BY MAGIC), the train seats were cleared of everything from a baby’s rattle (which might, in fact, have belonged to one of the babies in the crying contest which we witnessed earlier and not been a magicked-out-of-thin-air wotzit) to – you guessed it – the kitchen sink.
Aisha had been very careful not to aim her waving hand anywhere near the direction of the ex-doe, so that she [the Princess, I mean] remained fully clothed. ~ JHiD
Iron wheels screeching and screaming on iron rails, brakes squealing, its engine huffing and puffing, the train slowed down as it approached Pigscider Station – which was very aptly named, as the atmosphere surrounding it was overcharged with a heady ‘perfume’: a delicately balanced combination of the aromas of rotting apples, alcohol, and pigshit.
Glandhalf, wafted into wakefulness by the scents of home, breathed deeply, sighed, sat up, and began a local-geography lesson for the edification of his young companions… a lesson which was entirely unnecessary:
“The chief industries of Pigscider, the closest [still-inhabited] village to Pigverrucas Academy For Aspiring Wizards, Witches, And Assorted Geeks And Nerds (also known as PAFAWWAAGAN or the party of the first part) are the breeding and fattening of pigs, and the fermenting of a very economic (not to say cheap) brand of cider, ‘Pigcider’s Finest’ ”. ~ WL
“We need eight heavy-duty gas-masks, NOW!” Aisha managed to gasp without gagging.
Jon was not quite as successful and vomited copiously on the opposite seat, the trajectory of effluent neatly missing the princess.
The effect of this was actually to IMPROVE the air quality! ~ EvD
The 3 future scholars at Pigverrucas Academy For Aspiring Wizards, Witches, And Assorted Geeks And Nerds (also known as PAFAWWAAGAN or the party of the first part), the once-and-future princess, Wilhelmina, Emilie, and I scrambled for the gas-masks and fumbled them into place as quickly as possible, But Glandhalf (The Greybeard) seemed either oblivious to the stench… or even to enjoy it.
The train having shuddered to a halt, the carriage door swung open to reveal a ragamuffin urchin wearing a scruffy top-hat and other apparently Dickensian attire.
“Velcome back, Glandhalf, me old fruit, and who’re vese uvver specimins?” was his chirpy greeting. ~ JHiD
The little so-and-so stood there waiting for a reply for what seemed like weeks, thought Aisha, but surely it can have been but a matter of mere moments and it only takes a moment for a lady’s imagination to jump from admiration to love and this was starting to get a bit too Jane Austenish (not that Aisha had ever read Austen she announced to anyone reading her thoughts) so she shook herself off and, in lieu of any response from anyone, hacked up a goodly ball of phlegm and spat pointedly at the chipper urchin’s scruffy shoes. Unsure if this was the correct etiquette, several passengers followed suit until the young buck was positively glistening with goo of varied flavour and consistency. Glandhalf, however, was already long gone long before the long threads of sputum had landed being in great need of a long visit to the restroom, shouting behind him ‘A wizard pees precisely when he means to’.
~ VF
The Artful Dodger (for it was he – and fortunately copyright has run out on Charles Dickens’ oeuvre, though I fear, Jimmy, that you MIGHT be summoning forth yet another literary zombie!) had been spat at a great deal in the pursuit of his career, and so took this all in his stride.
And stride he did (after cheekily doffing his hat to Aisha and the others sharing her carriage): up the hill in the direction of PAFAWWAAGAN, AKA Pigverrucas Academy For Aspiring Wizards, Witches, And Assorted Geeks And Nerds.
“Luck’ly the guvner don’t neffer traffel wif any baggidge,” he said to himself, “an’ I’m not porterin’ fer any of vat lot!” ~ WL
[And YOU, Victoria, have summoned Jane Zombie Austen, who has once more hacked my e-mail account, while I was thinking of something of my own to add to the story.]
Aisha, who had been, brought up (as far as an eleven year old may be, considered to have been brought, up) to be a young, lady, was not overlong in regretting, her unfortunate behaviour.
“How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my good friend Jon, and have just now gratified my vanity in useless or blameable expectoration!” ~ JA
[You were right, Wilhelmina: Dickens has, indeed, been summoned. And it is only fair punishment that he’s chosen my account to hack. Can you all forgive me?]
But goodhearted Jon laid a hand softly on Aisha’s arm and said to her: “Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but – I hope – into a better shape.
“A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.” ~ CD
Up in The Great Hall (as opposed to “Ve Liddle ‘All”) of Pigverrucas Academy For Aspiring Wizards, Witches, And Assorted Geeks And Nerds, AKA PAFAWWAAGAN, AKA “Yon Crumblin’ Auld Castle Fulla Wierdies” in local parlance, a scruffy but hubris-powered beret was waiting impatiently for the latest conscripts so that it could assign houses to the fresh-faced, eager members of the youngest year.
Legend, Tradition, and Propaganda tell us that the magic beret – when crammed over the ears of the new recruits – could read the talents and personalities of these newcomers, and used these readings to decide which of the four houses (GriffRhysJones, Slimything, Crowfoot, and PuffTheMagicDragon, in case you haven’t been paying attention) was most suited to each new entrant, and vice versa.
But Legend, Tradition, and Propaganda are notorious, bald-faced liars with their pants a trio of raging conflagrations, and the truth of the matter was that the beret rolled a die in three out of every four cases. ~ WL
If it rolled a 1 or a 2, the child went to GriffRhysJones, a 3 or a 4 sent them to Crowfoot, and a 5 or a 6 meant that they ended up in PuffTheMagicDragon.
However, if the magic beret had one talent, it was to recognise instantly nastiness whenever it came into contact with it.
Creeps, liars, bullies, animal-torturers, snitches, and psychopaths were all bundled into Slimything. ~ EvD
Aisha, Jon, the princess, and the nerd/geek aspirant trudged up the hill, lugging their luggage (natch), and heading for the door through which Glandhalf had disappeared, and The Artful Dodger was even now passing – and you may have noticed that I wrote ‘door’ and not ‘doorway’, for they passed through the thick oaken planks as if by… magic?
“What’s your name?” asked Jon of the bespectacled one, “because we can hardly keep calling you ‘the nerd or geek, as the case may be’.”
“I’m an orphan, brought up by my aunt and uncle,” began his companion – which was information that Jon had not asked for, but whatever – “and I’ve been cautioned not to reveal my true identity or my life will be in peril,” (ditto, and surely not the sort of information which he should be giving out to a relative stranger), “but you may call me Hazzy Ceramacist, which is the alias under which I’ve been living with my relatives, Verbal and Begonia Thirsty at 4 Privy Ride, Little Whinger, Surrey.” (ditto ditto, with knobs on!) ~ JHiD
Arriving at the door, Jon tried to emulate their predecessors, and got a bent nose for his attempt.
There was neither knocker, nor doorbell (pull nor electric, nor one of those fancy ones, which are real, hanging bells, with little hammers on chains to strike them with), so Aisha knocked on it with her knuckles, but there was no response.
Having waited a quarter of an hour (occasionally taking turns at knocking), they all fell to, beating upon it with fists and palms and kicking it. ~ WL
[And here’s that nice Mr. Carroll, showing up again!]
“There’s no sort of use in knocking,” said a footman, who appeared from behind a large rosebush, “and that for two reasons. First, because I’m on the same side of the door as you are; secondly, because they’re making such a noise inside, no one could possibly hear you.” And certainly there was a most extraordinary noise going on within – a constant howling and sneezing, and every now and then a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces. ~ LC
Mr. Carroll neglected to mention that the footman looked remarkably like a frog (a result of his not being sufficiently obsequious to “Minefield” McGooglies, a senior member of the PAFAWWAAGAN staff).
“That’ll be just a few of the first-year pupils, upset because they didn’t get into their preferred houses,” he explained, as a teapot crashed through a large window and bounced across the lawn, transforming into a rabbit as it did so.
Princess Roe (AKA Mathilda the Mighty) took advantage of this occurrence, cleared the broken glass from the window-frame, stepped through it, and – a few seconds later – opened the door for the rest of them from the inside. ~ JHiD
“I SAY, Mathilda! Jolly good show! HURRAH for Mathilda!” enthused Jon, who had grown up on a surfeit of Enid Blyton books (and lashings of ginger beer).
Aisha gave him a withering look as she stepped into the entrance hallway. ~ WL
In keeping with the Lewis Carroll imagery, another footman appeared, this one with a head like a fish. Pointing at the new students’ luggage, he caused it to waft through the air, over to a corner.
“They can stay there,” he informed the children, ” until you’ve been assigned to your respective houses.” ~ EvD
[To forestall comments of a pedantic nature, may I point out that the footman was not privy to my use (in my capacity as one of the narrators) of the collective (singular) noun, “luggage”, and so was perfectly entitled to use the plural pronoun, “they” – which might have stood for “your things”, “those bags”, “these scuffed-up suitcases”, etc. (Editor’s note)]
[A further note from the editor: If any unscrupulous literary agents are thinking of forcing Enid Blyton (as a zombie) into the writing team, might I remind you that she died in 1968, so her oeuvre is still under copyright? No direct quotes from same will be allowed. Ms. Blyton might be willing – or an unwilling, mindless zombie – but her estate would probably kick up a fuss over infringement.]
The fish-headed footmen led the children up an increasingly narrow staircase and along a dim and dusty corridor, then halted in front of a large set of quadruple doors: the doors leading to The Great Hall, through which were coming the noises of hooting, boos, slow-clapping, jeers, and the stomping of dozens of pairs of hobnailed boots.
You may be wondering, Dear Reader, how it is that with The Great Hall on the first floor (“second floor” in Yankspeak), the teapot – mentioned earlier and explained as having been thrown by upset first-year students (second-year students, according to those in the USA) – had come flying through a ground-floor (first-floor to readers of the American persuasion) window (possibly “doorway”, for all I know, across the pond).
SPOILER ALERT: There’s Magic afoot (or, possibly, ahand)!!! ~ JHiD
The footman opened the two middle doors, each of which belonged to a different pair of double doors, so that they both were hinged on a central column.
“Boys on the right,” he said, “girls to the left.”
Aisha and Jon ignored him and, holding hands, entered The Great Hall through the same door, followed by the Doe-Princess and the would-be need or geek. ~ WL
“Ah, here they are at last!” announced “Minefield” McGooglies in a stentorian voice that caused the glass in the tall windows to shake, and Princess/Doe Mathilda to quake in her sturdy boots.
“The last arrivals of Year One have decided to present us with their graces… and about time, too! Step forward.” ~ EvD