The Violet Long Light: Part Three



Part One

Part Two

That party developed its own weather system, I swear. The Underground had never failed to knock us off of our feet, but this was the best one so far. Here I sat with my two best friends, a buttery man who needed to be taken off to a back room somewhere in this warren of tunnels and interrogated, the best food I had ever eaten, and drinks that did not even get a person truly drunk, just high enough to appreciate the good things in life.

Linda and I suspected that the guys reverse-spiked our drinks to lower the alcohol content, which was fine, because the sights and sounds were already too much to process all at once. There was a gay man, one of those shrill shrieky freaky deakys who probably had spent weeks putting his endearing little costume together.

Now get this: this guy had white hair that started with a widow’s peak, smoothed over his cranium, then cascaded in waves that went to his shoulders. He had body paint that looked like a Matisse landscape, under a clear plastic jumpsuit. It looked like his penis was a little white waterfall between two rocks…nonsense, I say.

“Linda…” I started.

“Oh hell no!” she shouted, having scoped out the gyrating couple who were revolving around the dance floor in perfect synchronization. They were clearly ballroom dancers who specialized in the tango, S and M style. He wore the leash and she wielded the whip.  A line of grown men was laughing and following them, hilariously begging to be spanked.

Franklin threatened to get up and join the group. He was a little too eager to be spanked, and Linda took exception. My companion withheld his opinion on the matter, and rightfully so. It would have been a major faux pas for a man who is on a first date to revolve around a ballroom, begging for a spanking from a woman in floor length patent leather with stainless steel accents that included nipple and penis piercing.



Yes, I said woman. This was the Underground. Anything goes there. A delicately scarified little wisp of a man approached our table and asked if we wanted to hear a story when the music died down. We made a space for him and his dog, a little teacup poodle, and he proceeded to tell us about the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand in a way that was both hilarious and tragically profound.

We wanted to adopt this delightful little bit of human being, but he flitted off to be the delight of someone else’s evening. Before the sound could come back to slam everyone back into their seats, I found out that my companion was named Robert, and that he had a PhD in Anthropology, of all things. I asked him if he had seen any Trobriand Islanders, lately, and he said that he had actually gone there to live among them for a while back in the ‘90s.

“Anthropology is the only social science where people get to actually study people without having to do quantitative analysis just for the sake of doing quantitative analysis.”, I said.

“Will you marry me?” He asked without hesitation.

“If your wife approves and if we do not have to move to Utah or Burundi”. I replied.

“Are you getting married?” Linda shrieked.

The music was pounding again. This time the music was pumping with an acid jazz vibe. Oh boy, what was going to happen now?  A hugely horned devil floated down from the roof of the vault, looking like something from Cirque de San Francisco. He was clad in a body suit so tight…no…it was body paint!  But it was shiny and red, as if he was freshly dipped in blood.  His horns were curled, but would have stretched to at least five or six feet in length, if they were straightened out. He had monstrous, ragged wings that spread out and collapsed as he flew, then stopped and grinned with a horrible delight at the audience.

The entire crowd stopped yammering and stared briefly in horrified awe before bursting into applause.

“They give a standing ovation to the Devil, the sorry bunch of bastards!” Robert griped.

Suddenly, three blindingly white angels, flew in from the dusky corners of the ceiling, their wingspans of at least ten feet flashing in the strobe lights as they bore down on the Devil, engaging in a horrific battle that carried itself down the back wall of the ballroom and out of sight behind the stage.

There was stunned silence. No one had even noticed that the music had died. Then there was murmuring, with no shortage of tension and alarm from the crowd, followed by screams of horror as the formerly white angels, now doused with blood red paint, suddenly rose from behind the stage and violently flapped their wings, rising to return to the darkened upper reaches of the room and disappear.

“What the…” Franklin began.

“Don’t you get it? The angels won!  They sent the Devil back to Hell and ascended back to the heavens!” Linda cheered.

This summation spread through the crowd, which erupted into whoops and cheers as the musicians, who were covered in drops and gobbets of red paint, recovered from their shock, started up the backup music from a recording, then fled the stage. This time, it was a blues number that featured a Black woman who came out in nothing but a few feathers and pearls. She warbled about a problem with her husband’s girlfriend’s wife.

“Uhh..Robert…let’s get the girls some more drinks, hey?” Franklin yelled. He was a bit agitated and seemed to be up to something. Linda noticed this, too, but the guys had excused themselves and headed for the bar before we could find out what was going on.

A couple of Las Vegas perfection people came and cleared our table of dishes and silverware, then brought fresh fruit and cheeses from the buffet.  We asked them where they were from, but they did not speak English. They spoke to each other in a rapid, clipped language that I had never heard of.  I looked closely to see if they had navels, but they were wearing sheer bodysuits, probably to protect themselves from drunk, horny people.

The bodysuits had an amazing texture that I had never seen before in fabric that was so sheer. It was as if the weave managed to be velvety and sheer at the same time. A pushy woman barged up and tried to feel the Las Vegas people’s bodysuit fabric, but was quickly escorted away by a stern gentleman who did not appear to be her date.

Just when Linda and I were getting back to our speculation and conversation, the blues song ended, and a great mess occurred.

The lights went out. Suddenly, there was only the periodic glow of table lights, the lighted nooks and crannies of the sixty foot high walls, and the strangest thing that any of us had ever seen…a perfectly round orb that looked suspiciously like ball lightening.

Linda screamed. She knew about ball lightening. I had never seen any real ball lightning, so I thought that it must have been another special effect.

“It’s going up to the roof!  We have to get out of here. Where are the guys?” Linda yelled.

“Isn’t that just a special effect?” I screamed back.

Robert and Franklin had returned, bewildered at the spectacle that was slowly moving over the crowd and around the room, as if searching for someone or something in particular.

“Franklin!” Linda yelled, “We have to get out of here now!”

“Why? Oh sweetie, was it that sick show with the Devil and the angels?”

That was all that Franklin got to say before the orb rose straight up, flew around the cavern, then wobbled straight toward a group of about ten laughing, chattering people, pausing only slightly before it dipped down and consumed them in a great gout of fire, burning flesh and boiling blood that spilled over four more tables full of people, who unmercifully, weren’t so instantly killed before the destruction was complete.

That was when the stampede began.

To be continued…


A Not So Serious Literary Writing

Bugeye Du Nord

A Tale of Wit And Love

She sighed, gazing through the mullioned window to the sea. The slightly musky scent of the sea combined with the brisk, cool breeze to cool her fevered brow and to calm her unsteadied nerves.

Her skin was not milky, peaches and cream, or even alabaster. She had the definite wash of color that signified her African Ancestry. But as the Lady of Bouganvilla Manor, Margurite De Lex Croix had no need to fear rejection from a society which had no choice but to cater to her every need and whim.

But recently, her world was shattered. Her beloved husband, Lord De Lex Croix, had been called to sea to battle with the monstrous pirate: Bugeye Du Nord. Du Nord was a disgraced naval officer who had taken to the waves in a stolen barque and manned it with the worst of fallen soldiers, criminals and expatriate natives. There was word that the strangest and most hedonistic behaviors had gone on aboard ship and on land. There were tales of plunder that was cunningly distributed in caves and on isolated islands throughout the Carribean.

Du Nord, however, was secretly admired by many a woman for his male physique and his manly beauty. It was said that he was posessed of courtly manners befitting the highest of nobility, and could seduce a woman with his eyes, neither of which was damaged or could justify his nick name.

The story spread throughout the carribean that Du Nord was engaged in battle with the British, just off the coast of Devon, when he made a critical decision to cut off Lord Fauntleroy and to unleash his side cannons to sink Fauntleroy’s ship, “The Barcalounger” and end all hope of a British victory.

But just when it was time for Du Nord to give the final orders to “FIRE ALL STARBOARD CANNONS!”, a large horsefly flew into his eye, and Du Nord Screamed:

“There’s a fucking bug in mon eye!”

The gunners instantly took that to mean “Aim High”, and the raised cannons fired, but the rounds sailed cleanly over the yardarm of the Barcalounger.

Du Nord never regained his advantage. In disgrace, he retreated and sailed to Calais, where he outfitted his ship with Marie Antoinette’s money and left for the Carribean, never to return to France (although there were legends of the return of Du Nord to many bed chambers of many high born women throughout the world).

The Violet Long Light: A Horror Story…Part One

This was the last time, and I meant it. That bastard, Jerome said that

we were going out and he was already an hour late. We were supposed

to be at “The Underground” at ten o’clock and it was already eleven.

My makeup was perfect, but I couldn’t stand up all night, trying not to

get my dress wrinkled.

It had been a rough day. Everyone was coming in and out of the office

with stories about people disappearing. Pets, kids, the elderly, and

some folks who had gone out to shop or jog were simply not showing

up where they were supposed to be. These events had been happening

over in San Francisco, and it smelled like a serial something.

The doorbell rang. My heart jumped a few beats, and then came the

rush of joy and relief, followed by the shame at being happy and

relieved.  When was I going to learn to stand up to Jerome and his


I slowly made my way to the door. It was not Jerome. It was Linda

Wadley. Linda never waits to start talking, talking waits for Linda to


“You’re coming with us!”  She screamed. “I just knew that Jerome was

going to be a clown, tonight, so we came to get you. You’re not staying

home on a night like this!”

It took me no thought whatsoever. I grabbed my coat from the front

closet, snatched my bag from the sofa and dashed out into the rain

with Linda.  We were screaming and laughing the whole way.  Linda’s

date, Franklin was driving, so I felt safe. Linda drove like a banshee

back in those days, and her car smelled like fifteen kinds of perfume.

Tonight, the freshest layer of perfume was Lair du Temps, for some

reason. She got off on vintage sniffs.

“Do you know that when a…” Franklin started.

Franklin!” We both yelled. Franklin was a Doctor, and a vast,

humanoid repository of every scientific joke imaginable. Once he got

started, there was no hope for the mascara or eye shadow, because the

tears were guaranteed to flow.  Neither Linda nor I could afford his

humor right now because we were bearing a dangerous mascara load.

Even if it was waterproof, a mascara breakdown of that magnitude

could have been fatal.

We wanted to be perfect for “The Underground”.

Suddenly, Franklin swerved and swore. “What the f**k was that?

Sorry, ladies… What the Fuck?”

A lumpy, misshapen figure had bumped into the car, careened off the

front bumper, and was now barreling on through the night.  We had

crossed over the Bay Bridge and had just taken the branch that

headed toward Fell Street.

“Are you all right, Franklin?” we both asked. For some reason, Linda

and I both talked together whenever we were in the car with Franklin

and something awful happened. Franklin was always a bit of an awful

magnet, but this night was proving to be a deviation from the norm.

That moving thing did not look right. No homeless person or druggie

could take a ding from a fast moving car, and then barge off like that.

I waited. Franklin and Linda were talking a mile a minute, but I could

barely hear them.

One minute later, the Violet Long Light came. This time it was

streaking out from a room that was on the third floor of an otherwise

pitch black Victorian.

I didn’t say anything to them, but something made me want to tell

Franklin to turn the car around and go back to Berkeley, where we

could party in peace at Benita’s house. Benita always put on the best

parties, and we would be safe there.

Photobucket Linda was my best friend in the world, but I had

never told her about the Violet Long Light. It always came when it

made no sense. Always, later, sometimes years later, I would discover

that I had been close to something so evil that it was

incomprehensible. I kept my mouth shut and decided that The

Underground would be fine. After all, I hadn’t died yet from seeing

that light.

Franklin was fine, so we moved on, silent, through the wet and shiny

streets. A fog was rolling in, which meant that the rain had stopped.

We could smell the bay and sneak glimpses up into the lit up houses,

wondering if people were having elegant appetizers and cocktails.

We were not cynical enough at the time to wonder if someone was

fucking their brains out with the wrong person up in those elegant and

expensive rooms.

We rolled up to Fort Mason, where the base had been closed, but

where some of the buildings were “available” to those who had the

connections…like the Mayor and the Chief of Police.  There was a

warren of underground bunkers that no one ever knew existed, and

one of them was the killer destination for those who were in the know.

Franklin, Jerome, Linda and I, along with a few others, had been to

The Underground a couple of times. Each time was an event to

remember. One event was so wild that it went on for two days, and no

one even knew it. We knew not to talk about The Underground outside

of our little group. We feared that no invitations would ever come


Tonight, there was supposed to be a special show, so we were

overdone with excitement. I had a conflicting and sinking feeling

about Jerome, and feared that our business was over. It hurt me to

think of leaving him to fend for himself in the world, but it also felt

just a taste wonderful to think of moving on to a life that did not

involve sitting up on Saturday nights waiting for him to stand me up


As we pulled up to the parking area, something caught the corner of

my eye. I jumped and turned to look, but only saw the edge of

something moving quickly through the gnarled trees, and then

disappearing.  I decided that it was a racoon and left it alone.

Until the violet light came, and I knew that something was going to go

terribly wrong, maybe that night. This time the Violet Long Light was

on a boat, shooting far out onto the bay.

“Do you have your gun, Franklin?” I asked, out of nowhere.

“Why are you asking?” Franklin replied, indignant. Franklin was a

doctor and an F.B.I agent. What a wild combination of stuff he was.

Linda could never understand how the F.B.I ever saw Franklin as an

agent of anything but chaos.

“I just have a feeling that it would be good for you to have your gun.” It

was all that I could say. This may sound like a strange exchange, but

Franklin and Linda knew better than to make a big deal of such

pronouncements out of me. I had been right too many times for them

to argue or freak out.

But two Violet Long Light in less than twenty minutes…?

To be continued…

The Tatzelwurm: A Summer Spooky Story

I was a lost piece of corporate dreck. My current assignment was to clean up an inventory disaster in Germany, and I had just been told that my company was about to set me adrift.  That’s right, some overweight schlub at headquarters in Chicago was going to cut the ropes while my balloon was floating over a foreign country an ocean away!

My work had been a resounding success, with improvements across the board, and I was already pondering a job offer from a firm which supplied mercenaries to support various adventures in countries where  small, private armies were hired to protect corporate, scientific, and philanthropic expeditions.

I had my passport, a lovely little two story rental house, my car, and a natty little German man who’s only fault was a lifelong affinity for peppermint schnapps that was going to kill him soon.

I was told that the schlub had been taking credit for the improvements that I’d worked so hard to implement, while whining that I was so difficult that he had to work overtime to put out the brush fires that I was setting. The problem with that? I didn’t report to him. He didn’t work anywhere near my department.

This is the insanity of corporations.  My home office detractor was the individual who had caused the inventory disaster in the first place! I had been sent to clean it up after he was recalled to the home offices. I suspected that he must be the illegitimate grandchild of the company founder, because during the three months that I had spent breaking my back and brain to correct things, he had been restored to an even higher position than he’d been in before.  His new position allowed him access to the very people who would determine my fate within the company, and apparently they were listening to him.

My source of information was my very own mole in the home offices. I had saved my mole’s bacon when she had engineered a completely unrelated disaster of her own. I cleaned that mess up before even the rumor mill got wind of it, and she was ever grateful.  As a result, she was instrumental in getting me this golden opportunity to fix a major problem, live in glamorous Europe, and return home a hero.

Yeah, right.

No way was I going to trust any of those lizards at home base to send me overseas without a plan and a bailout. Before I left,  I made the corporation pay me a bonus of three months salary, plus expense money for my move back to the US of A. I paid off my debts, and  put the extra money into a savings account that I could access anywhere. I also put a thousand dollars into advance California lottery tickets, because I never missed my lottos.

My transit to Germany was routine. I was quickly set up with a house, and my car shipped over without incident.  Soon, I was a regular little lady, living in a house and stepping out with a dapper little fellow. When he was still able to step out, that is.

So the news was not as devastating for me as people at home were assuming. I had some good backup plans, enough money to make it home and survive, and the lucrative job offer with the mercenary mart. If I took the mercenary mart job, I would be able to stay in Germany.

But all of this came before my friend, Adelhard, set me up with a unique and unbelievable solution to my, and everyone else’s problems.

German land is insanely well managed. In the region where I lived, there are large areas of forest, punctuated with farmland and dotted with villages and larger towns.  My neighborhood consisted of a village with about 3,000 residents, an adjoining forest, and a riverbed.  As a consequence, some windows of my house overlooked the village, and others looked into a huge, dense forest.  I could merely walk down the street and be in a completely different world within 5 minutes.  Walking for 10 minutes more could result in becoming hopelessly lost, if it weren’t for the well preserved roads and signage which easily directed a wanderer home.

The German forests do double duty as sources of timber and as places for exercise and recreation. They are not places for just walking into and setting up casual camping. There are campgrounds for that. The forests are for regular fresh air walking exercise.  From large, organized events, to simple family and friends strolling, Volksmarching is a big deal in Germany.

So, almost three months into my fascination with everything German, I went for a volksmarch with some co-workers.  I had arrived in mid-March, when the weather was frightful. Now, it was a clear, slightly warm Saturday in early in June. The day was so beautiful that no one could resist a chance to walk indefinitely in the fresh air.

Ten of us headed down a paved road into the vast forest, yakking our outrage at the terrible politics that the company had saddled us with. No one knew about my situation yet, or the outrage would be even worse, and the walk would be ruined.

We turned and proceeded down a logging road which ran past the ruins of an ancient castle.  Soon we were marvelling at the beautiful world that had completely replaced our normal and familiar settings. There was no shortage of commentary about Hansel and Gretel and just about everything we could dredge up about forest based nonsense.

One clown, a recent arrival named Randy, who hailed from some red state started babbling about Robin Hood.

Tarrant told him to “Shut up! Robin Hood was English, for crikey’s sakes.”

Tarrant was an Australian fellow who had been present for the entire inventory debacle and recovery. He had zero patience with idiots.

One of our German co-workers, Adalhard, was a village boy. He was full of information about fairies and demons and gnomes. He cracked us up with long-legged stride, his enthusiam, and his dramatic descriptions of his adventures in the very forest that we were enjoying.

But something told me that Adalhard’s stories had more meaning than he was letting on with his humorous retellings of ancient myths and childhood pranks.

Adalhard is only in his twenties, and has that incredible, clear skinned beauty that young German men and women have, but which fade so quickly.  No way would he have personal memories of the bad times that his parents may have lived on the edges of.  Even his parents would have been children when the Nazis ruled. We avoided going there.

No, his stories were full of meanings which we were supposed to figure out.  And we were supposed to figure them out quickly, judging from his frequent glances at us to see if we were getting some kind of point.

Suddenly, I heard a faint scrabbling noise coming from a dense patch of ferns.  No one else heard the noise, and only I turned to look for the source.  I looked closely and stepped back in shock.

From beneath a huge mass of ferns, a pair of eyes was staring back at me.

They were baleful, malignant eyes.

To be continued…

And End Of Certain Days

The morning smelled of woodsmoke and crushed cedar.  The sky was an abstract painting of blue greys, slight purples, barely white and cerulean blue, so marbled and delicately painted that no artist could do it justice, even with glaze after linseed oiled glaze.  The sunlight was a  watery yellow wash over everything in the world.

Dave I and Dave II, a pre prop 8 gay couple, had the school pool for the day.  Her heart was broken, watching her little one’s backs as the scumbled into their car seats.  Like her, Dave and Dave had a boy and a girl.  Thick as thieves those kids were.  They had been in the same neonatal ward, and were like siblings.

She thought about an e-mail joke an old school friend had sent her that day:


She used the car payment money to pay the power, phone, gas card, and cable bills.  She had hoped that starting a pot of beans with onion, garlic, green pepper, a tabasco pepper, chicken stock, and some bacon ends would give her some sense of accomplishment; of fending off disaster for another day.  Her ex was late with the child support payments, but he was good about paying, even if a few days late, so the car payment would be allright.

But then her sister called. Her sister was a master of sucking the last drop of joy out of life.  The sister survived by tormenting those who were lesser, smaller, weaker. She tortured her victims with words, her lying, and her hair trigger temper. And that was when she was sober.  She was violent and abusive when drunk.

She was well developed in her ways of standing up to her sister, but knew that would not be enough.  On that day, her sister’s latest and final outrage began with accusations of not dressing appropriately, and ended with threats ever so vile.

“You need to dress for yourself!” The sister barked into her ear.  “You need to get your hair done and your nails…I’m coming over…we’re going to the spa.  If you would have listened to me, you’d have a new husband to take care of you and the kids.  You can’t do it, yourself!”

Then her sister went into a rambling description of everything about herself, her children, her numb nuts, henpecked husband, and her fabulous, if boring day.

Her sister took a brief break to scream at her youngest son, a completely out of control brat.

“I can’t do anything with him…he just does what he wants to…anywaaaaay…I taaaalked with your friend and told her that you would find a way to make trouble for her if she keeps calling you…Her brother commited suicide and she doesn’t need your inputs.  Suicide is the most selfish….”

Something happened.  The air turned green.  Blackness came into the edges of her vision.  She had let the evil sister have it at that point.  She started at point A, causing a spate of her sister’s screaming, out talking, overtalking, and other desperate ploys to take back control of the conversation.

Those ploys didn’t work.  When the sister went into her “dead air” mode, which signals a complete temper meltdown, she made progress toward point zed.

“You need help!” She had screamed.  “You never let up with your sick, thoughtless, negative shit!”

She took a breath.

“Look…you need to stop that mouth of yours and leave my friends and me alone!   You have the nerve to accuse people who are in so much pain that they kill themselves of being selfish? Frank had inoperable end stage cancer! He did what he wanted to do about it.  But what would you know?  It’s all about you and the next thing that’s going to come out of your mouth!”

“You’re crazy!” The sister responded. “We’re going to have you locked up and take over everything!  You’re crazy!  I’m going to call that school and tell them that you’ve gone crazy!”

The sister knew full well that her children’s school would refuse to talk to her.  She had caused more than enough trouble over there, and had been told not call anymore.

“Get off my phone and don’t call me any more.  I have to call Sheila and tell her not to take your calls any more.  I don’t know how you got her number, anyway…”

“I got it from your cell phone.  Somebody had to tell her about you…”


If one could slam down a cell phone, she slammed hers down on her sister’s final words to her.  She had made a decision…no more contact with her sister. That’s it. She needed a restraining order, or her sister would show up at her house, contact the neighbors again, make a loud scene at the market…

She paced around for about five minutes, knowing what was coming next: the call from Mom.  Mom called.

“What did you say to your sister?” She wailed. “You screamed at her and hung up on her?  What’s gotten into you?  You were always a pain in the neck!”

Like mother, like daughter.

She quietly and slowly told her mother to back down from that right now, or stay off her phone. “You two have each other, now. Dump on each other to make yourselves feel better than you deserve to feel about yourselves, but don’t you ever talk to me like that again.  And tell your daughter not to call me again.”

“You’re crazy…” her mother squawked before she cut the connection.

She went to her medicine box and saw a full bottle of Vicodan.  Up to then, she had never taken the Vicodan or much of any painkillers, even though her doctors wanted her to take it for her Rheumatoid Arthritis. Mom and sis, again. They were already calling her a “druggie”, since sis had rifled through her bedroom and found her medicine box.  Her ex had been furious and put a stop to both of them and their lying about drugs.

She didn’t write a note.  She had her cell phone and her I.D. with her.

She had started on the path to the little pond behind her house when her phone rang.  Oh no.  It was her friend. The one who had gotten the slander call from her ex-sister.


“Hello?” She said, expecting to get an earful of questions about her failings and faults;  how her friend was no longer her friend, thanks to that call from Evilene.  Evilene was expert at interfering with her marriage, her friendships, and her relations with others outside the family.

“Are you allright? Your sister called me!  I don’t know how she got my number, but that woman is crazy!  I don’t care if you feel you need to stay in that family, but enough is enough!  I’m worried about you!”

“Oh, It’s done.” She said.

“Noooo!  Where are you?  I’m coming over!  I’m calling an ambulance!”

“Noooo back to you!  I told her and Mom not to bother me again!  My ex-sister wouldn’t have just called you and badmouthed me. She had to tell me that she did it, or she wouldn’t be satisfied.  Then Mom got on the warpath with her. That’s it.  I’m not having any more of those two.  That’s it.”

“So you’re not going to do anything to yourself?”

“Oh hell no.” She lied, buying time.   “That way, those two monsters would win. Those folks would love to get up to that podium and make it all about themselves at my funeral.  Didn’t you know that ‘Living well is the best revenge?'”

“Oh, if you’re quoting George Herbert, then you are definitely alright” Her friend laughed, nervous and not quite convinced.

They talked for about an hour as she sat by the little pond and fingered the bottle that she had taken from her medicine box.  After the call from her friend, she carefully read the label.  It said

“Tylenol Arthritis Strength 500 mg”.

“Take one pill every four hours as needed for pain.”

She opened the bottle, shook out one pill and gulped it down with a wash of bottled water, reminding herself that she had to get the chicken seasoned and marinating by noon and make some afternoon snacks for the kids. Then she was scheduled to volunteer at the legal clinic. They would tell her today that she’d been hired as a part time counselor.  The money would come in handy.  She’d need a babysitter…


An Adult Fairy Tail: Part I

Little Lena was a comely lass who lived with her significant others in a deliciously wrong arrangement.  She and her man would make love all day long when her lover was away, fighting the Troll Wars.  Then she and her lover would make love all day and night when her man was away, selling prophylactics.


When they were both  gone, she would gather things from the forest and the nearby ocean.  She didn’t know which one she loved the most: the forest with it’s magical ferns and canopies; or the ocean, with its blustery waves and coves.


She would find small and tasty animals, then cure their meat and tan their little hides.  From the hides, she would sew exquisite dresses and suits for the wealthy hunting men and ladies.  She was known throughout the realm for her fine stitchery and pliant leathers.


The local people traded fruits and vegetables for her smaller works, and she canned and brewed and preserved them up just fine.

Her little cottage was a wonderment of stone and wood and mortar.  Her man was a master wood carver.  His role in the Troll wars was to make the bows and arrows and wagons and bongs and folding chairs.  Her lover was an intense interior decorator. So Little Lena’s cottage boasted the finest lintels and mantles and accents, not to mention freaky sex.

Her lintels and mantles were a favorite of the hunting men and ladies who came for fittings of their new leather clothes. Those people paid well, but could be incredibe beyotches if the leather bothered their crotches.

Life was good, indeed.  Until the day that the Hunumgous arrived.  The Hunumgous was a very special source of news, a beast of the same proportions as a bear, with the look of a large, pink rabbit.  Sometimes, the Hunumgous had good news, sometimes bad.

One always fed the Hunumgous a meal of grits and shrimps, ribs, collards and gumbo and fruit and beer, then waited patiently for the news.  It was unheard of to show impatience, since the Hunumgous would be very, very sensitive, and it would take hours to coax it out of a closet or root cellar.

If the Hunumgous found  root beer in the root cellar, it would be disaster, because the creature got horny when drunk and there were already too many of them around.  Things would get ugly, indeed, since Hunumgous babies were born 20 at a time. So, when she heard that she would have a visit, Lena immediately started to cook. Her root cellar had way too much root beer tucked away.


After her meal, the Hunumgous burped greatly, then  made  an increasingly common announcement, since the Troll Wars were not going well:  “You will be challenged greatly.  A great evil has come upon the land, and only a few of you have what it takes to defeat such evil.  In three days time, you shall be confronted by beasts so revolting, annoying and cruel that you will become weak, just looking at them!…

The Hunumgous

“You will be armed with these talismans.”  The Hunumgous handed Little Lena a beautiful little box which was covered in carvings and sayings such as “Always wear clean never know!”

Lena opened the  box.  It was lined with purple velvet, but it was empty.  “It’s empty!” She yelled.

The Hunumgous sighed a great sigh and closed it’s kind and lovely yellow eyes and said “Each talisman will appear when you need it. These will offer great protection, but not all protection.  You must also use all of your wit and wisdom to defeat the evil.”

Then, the Hunumgous hoisted it’s large bulk and left Lena’s cottage.  She stood at the doorway, stunned, watching the beast make it’s way until it was no longer visible.

“What manner of evil approaches?” She muttered, closing the door.

End of Part One.