Inktober 2023

Show me a map with ley lines--something I can USE. Show me where all the sea monsters slumber and the whirlpools churn, hungry. 

I want old parchment crinkled and worn from years in a pirate's pocket,  stained with salt and rum. Give me dotted lines that trace the wayward footsteps of my ancestors who had no such map to guide them, but still forged on,  and marked their treasure not with a tidy  "X marks the spot" but with a  line that spells my name.

There's been a faucet running upstairs forever. I didn't know how to tell anyone that I couldn't turn it off. You should just know how; seemed like most folks did.

That things would get wet was a foregone conclusion.

All I do is bail. Pail after damn heavy pail... anywhere but out. I wade inside now. The stairs are a waterslide and the ceiling rains. I let the trash can fill all the way to the brim when the bowls ran out. I've already filled every pot in the kitchen. And there's no more room now in the bathtub. 

You might say: 'Try the basement...'--The basin's full too. Where to put it all? The roiling and the splashing, plopping, dripping--*drip* *drip drip drip*...endless. Even with the valves shut tight still it keeps seeping.

I'm down to thimbles; And I think we all know that those won't work either. Ready to snorkel; me versus the windowpanes, seeing who'll hold out. Somehow I'd sooner wait until the walls explode than open a door.

After they thwarted the Fly Lord's dastardly plans, our merry band of amphibious bards with a taste for adventure had the town abuzz. 

Led by Ochre Clive, a true, quick-witted captain, they roam pond to pond. Their heroics make the nefarious insect hive empire tremble.

There's the blushing rose--fair Mina Constantina--whose rapturous tunes lure, lull and enthrall. Far from her tropical home, she fights for the poor. 

Then there's the brothers--hailing from the forest floor. Ribberto, whose bass croak rattles the earth and whose bass chords stir morale. Stalwart-y Ajax, is the kind hearted muscle (though he'd hurt a fly). 

Lavender Torrance plays an old fret-sword and knows the arts of potions, poisons, and tinctures. 

Gnats and mosquitoes, the no-see-ums and beetles: beware the Toad Bards!

"Sir, your check has bounced." She said it like she would to any old client. He was last in line. The bank was about to close and she was hungry for her dinner date.

Not as hungry as the man before her looked though.

Tall, gaunt and severe, he seemed vexed by her statement: "Vhy, zat cannot be; surely zhere are funds," he protested toothily. Dressed in finery, he was no pauper--but they who have far to fall do so in style.

"Sorry sir," she said, glancing at the clock behind

the old gentleman. She noticed his ears--long and pointed bat-like things--and it all made sense.

"Do you need a loan?" she ventured. "We have good rates." "You offend me, miss," the wounded man said. He itched at his shirt collar; crumbs of dirt fell out.

The clerk just smiled: "You've all the time in the world

to pay it all back."

Now, see, the trouble with necromancers is that they rarely stay dead. Just a year ago, Varghast'd been consigned to death by the battleaxe of some nobody who fancied himself a knight; a dime a dozen "hero" who made off with all the riches he could carry on his horse.

Grimy and annoyed, the risen rev'nant shambled like a turtle to the coastline; back to the cavern where his bony retinue waited. 

On the path...flowers. At the doorstep...the flicker of homey hearthlight.  With undue caution,  Varghast sidestepped boobytraps that would never spring. 

By the fire's glow he glimpsed familiar etchings sank deep into bone--"My servant!" he cried. The fleshless figure swiveled in its comfy chair smiling placidly.

His puppets never smiled; and his cave never reeked of fresh jasmine, like a long-forgotten home since buried, like him. It sparked a fury in the necromancer and through parched lips he sent an old litany, a leaden incantation rumbling through the space which boomed...then faded.

The skeleton gave a laugh, a clanking chuckle. "You've been gone some time." It spoke with neither malice nor fear, which made the wizard bristle more: "Where is my horde, thrall?" he asked. 

"They've been laid to rest."  "That's impossible! Doomed to death everlasting and bound to my will...That's the mark you bear." The reply: "You forged a chain; I made it a crown." 

It was self-possessed; sealed off from his influence. Nothing left to rule. "This is your last life--I hope you'll spend it better. You can call me Ben." 

Ben rose from his chair and bade the sorcerer sit. "I'll get you some tea."

It'd been a long day traipsing through the Sugarwood. Gretel's stomach growled so low Hansel feared a sticky lion stalked them. "I'm starving!" she said.

Above, the pink sky signaled sunset's fast approach. In the blushing light they spied a cottage in a clearing of dead trees, decked in lollipops and frosted like cake.

Their eyes grew wide--ravenous. Sug'ry standing stones kept watch o'er the door. Behind saccharine windows wafted savory scents, guiding their footfalls on flypaper peppermint flagstones shaped like teeth. 

"Come inside, dearies," a sing-song voice crooned within--a plump, sweet siren. Hansel grew queasy; Gretel became uneasy: "Maybe we shouldn't?" she asked her brother. 

And he readily agreed: "I'm keto this month."

Before Cerberus there was another hellhound--his name was Scratchy.

Maybe you can see why it didn't work long-term: he'd open the gates at the mere mention of scritches and belly rubs. That kind of welcome had heroes flocking down to the dim underworld with treats a'plenty.

Don't you worry though, Hades retired him to the Elysian fields where all good boys go. What soul could stay lonely long looking at those grins?

The Bramble King comes, risen from his windthrow den to survey the land. By a thousand names he is called: Horned One, Green Man, Cernunnos and Pan--But the earth knows him by the sound of his hoofbeats o'er the roots and soil.

Hunter of hunters. Hear the scraping of his horns: bone across tree bark. Branches and antlers form a lattice of shadows--shifting and weaving--dancing silhouettes in a forest susurrus aglow with moonlight.

The green youths tremble and the dying die their deaths--none before their time. The trees and grasses bend and bow as he passes, 'til their day draws nigh.

(If you know...you know...)


"Where'd you get those, Joe?"

"Don't worry about it, Frank"

"Oh you little scamp!"