Granola Prose IX

“So Tony's responsible for sewing your, uh, bum shut?” Becky looked doubtful. “Somehow I don’t see you letting that happen.”

“He sorta snuck up on me,” Merbert mumbled, his mouth full of spud. “And speakin’ o’ bums, iffen I ever get ahold o’ that Maxwell, I’m gonna…but I don’t wanna ruin yer meal, so you folks go ahead and et up. Yuh.”

Becky and Stubs sat down at the table and looked at their respective plates, both of which were piled high with steak and potatoes. Stubs picked up a fork and cut off a piece of steak, tentatively nibbling one corner.

“It’s delicious!” he said, immediately setting into his food with an energy befitting a much younger dwarf.

Encouraged, Becky followed suit. The two travelers hadn’t realized the extent of their hunger and it took three helpings of food and several flagons of mead and Sprite to fill their stomachs.

The Writer chuckled. “Flagon.” That was an amusing word and he really should use it more often. He decided he’d name his firstborn child Flagon and the idea amused him even further.

He was in an exceptionally good mood. It wasn’t often a story moved along with such proficiency and grace. Although trying hard not to become overconfident, he couldn’t help imagining himself standing next to a publisher, each of them holding up one end of a giant check, made out to him, and with many, many zeroes.

Opening up his email, he fired off a message to the Pulitzer committee, telling them all about his book and including a short synopsis. At the last minute, he inserted his phone number. They might want to call up first, just to chat for a bit. Maybe pick his brain for a future study of literary geniuses.

Stubs awoke and sat up. He didn’t remember falling asleep and for a moment couldn’t even remember where he was. He saw Becky lying a few feet away, still sleeping soundly. It was dark, except for a single burning torch, stuck into a crack in the wall. Then Stubs noticed a circle of darkness not far away, with brightly lit…stars? It was the night sky and the dark circle was the mouth of a cave. Merbert!

He jumped to his feet and looked around. What time was it? What day was it? They had to be on their quest!

“Merbert?”

Becky stirred awake at Stubs’ shout and took stock of the situation. “Merbert!”

The ex-wizard had vanished. Becky walked over next to Stubs and they glanced around the cavern. No sign of their kindly host.

“Well, how about that,” Becky said. “The good Samaritan strikes again! Now I guess we’ll never know the full story behind the Mysteriolith Three. I was hoping he could at least point us in the right direction.”

A voice, echoing eerily through the cavern, spoke. “That woulda been too easy! Ah-yuh-yuh-yuh!”

“Merbert?”

Becky and Stubs looked around again, but still saw no sign of their rescuer.

“The one and only. Sorry ta run out on you all, but I’m afraid my part is done fer now.”

“How long have we been asleep?”

“Just a few hours. You folks was plumb tuckered out and without the rest, you’d never’d made it. So I letcha sleep fer a spell. But now that it’s dark, ya might wanna think ‘bout movin’ on. Yuh!”

“Can’t you even tell us if we’re headed for danger, just so we’ll know what to expect?”

“Nope, can’t do that,” said Merbert’s disembodied voice. “Iffen you folks knew the danger, you’d never carry on yer quest.”

“But why do we have to leave at night?” asked Stubs.

“Yeah,” added Becky. “And how are we to find the Mysteriolith Three? And if we can’t find them, how are we going to find the magic stick?”

“So many questions!” echoed the wizard. “First off, stop callin’ it a magic stick. It’s a staff! And secondly, you folks worry too much. And third, it’s really dark in the back o’ this cave, so iffen ya don’t mind, I’m comin’ out there with you all.”

Sure enough, Merbert suddenly appeared beside them, carrying a bucket in one hand.

“We thought you’d vanished!” Becky said. “How’d you get that echo in your voice?”

Merbert held the bucket up to his mouth and spoke into it. “Ya mean this? Yuh! Every wizard worth his salt has an echo bucket.” He tried to toss the bucket over his shoulder, but hit himself in the head. “Ouch, dammit, yuh! Didn’t see that one comin’.”

“So you won’t guide us to the wizards?”

“Can’t. Never wanna see those bastards again. An’ they don’t wanna see me. Better we keep it that way.” Merbert turned away and emitted a tiny yuh. Then he whipped back around. “But enough ‘bout misery an’ strife! You folks have a gruelin’ trip ahead o’ ya. Better be movin’ on. I’ve put some vittles in yer packs and filled yer canteens with water, so ya shouldn’t be needin’ grub. Now, then. Be off with ya.”

Stubs and Becky picked up their packs and moved toward the entrance. “Well, thanks for your help, Merbert,” Becky said. “Perhaps we’ll meet up again soon?”

There was nothing but silence from the cave, so they kept moving until they were outside and some distance from the opening. The night air was cool and, fortunately, the stars were bright. But even though the sky was clear and the moon full, deep shadows spotted the landscape, concealing who knew what. Sharp rocks, sinkholes…Tony. At the thought, Becky shivered and Stubs put an arm around her.

“Not to worry,” he said. “We’ll be fine. And if anything happens, I’ve got my hammer at the ready.”

Behind them, quiet and unseen, Merbert slipped from the cave, wrapped in a large, flowing robe. He observed the scene and smiled. If those two could stay together through the danger that was certain to come, they might just have a chance of making it.

From beneath his robe, Merbert withdrew his echo bucket and risked a single, muffled, “Yuh!” And then, walking quickly in the direction of the Mysterolith Mountains, he disappeared into the shadows.

“Now what is he up to?” wondered The Writer. “Perhaps there’s more to Merbert than meets the eye.”

A banging sound startled him and he instinctively ate some granola. His wife appeared, dragged a large shower unit behind her.

“Almost have the bathroom remodeled,” she announced. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in seeing it when it’s finished?”

“Oooh, now’s not a good time, dear,” The Writer said. “I’ve just introduced a bit of intrigue into the story and, well, you know how it is.”

“Right. Intrigue. How are you holding up on the granola?”

“I could use another box, since you’re asking.” The Writer licked a few granola crumbs from his fingers. “And if you’re not too busy, I could use a ream of high-quality paper. When I print this out to send to the publisher, I want it to look its best.”

“Sure thing,” sighed The Wife. “As soon as I finish the spackling and install the satellite dish.”

“Excellent!” The Writer turned back to his laptop, but remembered something and whipped back around. “Hey, have you heard from the Pulitzer people yet?”

“No, dear.”

“Hmm. Strange. I sent them an email with my telephone number and a synopsis of my book. I’d have thought they would have called by now. Have you checked the machine?”

“There have been no calls.”

“Maybe you just...”

“No calls, dear.”

The Writer knew that tone of voice and it scared him, so he turned again to his laptop and continued writing.

Stubs and Becky hoisted their packs higher onto their shoulders and set a course for the Mysteriolith Mountains. They could just see the peaks rising into the sky, but it was far too dark to tell the distance.

Nervously, Stubs made a practice swing with his hammer, but when he spoke his voice was steady. “Once the sun comes up, we should have a better idea of what we’re up against.”

“I’m more worried about surviving until sun-up,” Becky said, making no effort to hide her concern. “Have you noticed there aren’t any night sounds out here? No crickets, owls, frogs…nothing!”

“So?”

“So this is obviously an undesirable place for wildlife.”

“Uh…so?”

“So it’s probably not safe!”

“Ah. But Merbert seems to do all right for himself.”

“Merbert’s a wizard. At least, a former wizard. Not many people want to tangle with them.”

A few minutes of silence and walking ensued before Becky said, “I wonder why Merbert wanted us to leave at night. It seems like it would be even more dangerous in the dark.”

“Maybe he thought we could slip through undetected.”

“Slip through what? You seem to be forgetting we don’t really know where we’re going.”

“Or at least how to get there.”

“Precisely. But you’d think Merbert would at least have the courtesy to—” Becky stopped talking abruptly and held a hand to her head.

“What’s wrong?” Stubs was instantly concerned. The expression on Becky’s face frightened him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No…” Becky’s voice was weak. “Not a ghost.” She swayed and Stubs hurried to help her sit down. Her face was pale and a sheen of perspiration coated her forehead.

“What then?” Stubs tightened his grip on the hammer.

“It’s The Call. I just heard The Call.”

Stubs had never heard of The Call, but he remained quiet, knowing Becky would continue when she felt able. The fairy was bent almost double, holding her head in both hands, and was obviously in considerable pain.

“The Fairy Syndicate sends out The Call whenever they want to summon all the fairies together.”

“Oh, ESP!”

“Sort of, but it’s more…powerful than that.”

“Is it always so painful?”

Becky shook her head carefully. “Not to everyone. Just to those fairies who’ve been disgraced or try to ignore The Call.”

“So what does this mean?” Stubs was almost afraid to ask.

“It means our time is growing short. The Syndicate wouldn’t send out The Call unless the warlord had arrived. He’s gathering them all together to give them their battle plans.” Becky struggled to her feet. “We have to hurry! It will only take the fairies a day, two at the most, to assemble. After that, they’ll march on the Dirty Forest Man. We must deliver the magic staff before they reach him!”

Their courage renewed by the direness of the situation, Stubs and Becky continued walking toward the Mysteriolith Mountains. So intent were they on their path, they didn’t notice a shadowy figure trailing close behind, flitting from tree to rock and rock to tree.

Technorati Tags: dwarf,granola,prose,fairy,fantasy,stupid

Granola Prose VII

The Writer couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the poor echoes. But, alas, they were fodder for his story and perish in the chasm they must. He fortified himself with granola and the fiber stiffened his spine.

"How are we going to make it across this great chasm?" asked Becky. She sounded really lame, but had delivered the line so as to keep the reader apprised of the situation. "Oh, if only I had wings." She sat down on a nearby rock and began to weep piteously.

The Writer sat back from the keyboard. Should he say 'piteously'? Wasn't all weeping piteous? He had heard many writing instructors issue stern warnings against the use of adverbs, but he liked the word 'piteous.' He really liked it. He liked it intensely. The hell with it, he was going to say 'piteous.'

Becky sat down on a nearby rock...

Of course it would be a nearby rock. Why would Becky go on a long journey merely to find a rock suitable for sitting and piteous weeping?

Becky sat down on a conveniently located rock and wept piteously. Stubs, who fancied himself the strong, silent type, was unsure how to handle the situation. What would John Wayne do? He'd probably slap the woman, who would then dry her tears and become the woman she was always meant to be. But Stubs was no John Wayne. He wasn't even Wayne's younger brother Herman, who was always getting slapped by women.

The Writer groaned. This rambling had nothing to do with the story. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to envision the chasm. Large, deep, dark, rocky...made of harmless rubber? No, too easy. Did he dare have Becky and Stubs wake up from a dream? He glanced over to where The Wife/Girlfriend was greasing the turret to her Abrams tank and decided against it. She hated it when The Writer used 'the dream.'

"It's lazy writing!" she always said. These words were usually followed by an energetic boxing of The Writer's ears. Yeah. The dream was out.

Stubs surveyed the scene with a gimlet eye. "I once signed up for a class on how to construct rope bridges using gravel and sunbeams," he said. "There's plenty of gravel here and the sun is just now coming over the mountains."

"So the problem is solved!" Overjoyed, Becky leaped from the rock and gave Stubs a hug.

"Well...not really solved, per se."

Becky paused in her celebratory fairy dance and looked pensive. "But you took a class."

"I signed up for a class. I'm ashamed to say that I found the class very confusing and I neglected the homework."

"You flunked a class on sunbeams? How could you!"

Her tone put Stubs on the defensive and he crossed his arms truculently. "How was I to know my future would require me to capture sunbeams? That's the kind of thing fairies are supposed to do."

"Don't try blaming this on me," Becky said, her voice rising in anger. "If you hadn't been so lazy, we'd be across this stupid chasm by now and on our way."

"Oh, so this is all my fault, is it?" Stubs grabbed a handful of rocks and hurled them angrily into the dark abyss. "If I'm so stupid, why are you even wasting your time on me?"

Becky emitted a hard, angry laugh. "That's an excellent question. I felt sorry for you, that's why! If it weren't for me, you'd still be stumbling around in the swamp with your ass on fire."

"Oh, sure!" Stubs was shouting now. His face was red with fury and his beard was bristling.  "This is all about revenge to you, Becky. Getting back at the Fairy Syndicate. Speaking of which, why don't you set to work and perform some sort of fairy magic, here. Oh, wait, I forgot. You're not a real fairy because you don't have wings!"

The Writer gasped. How could Stubs have been so cruel?

"You'll regret that remark once the sun goes down," Becky replied coldly. "I hear it gets really dark in these mountains."

And now sweet little Becky? She of the gentle pink machine gun? The Writer flung his fingers back onto the keyboard, hoping to arrest the terrible momentum that had taken over the story.

From a granite ledge overlooking Becky and Stubs, Tony the Antagonist watched the awful scene, an equally awful sneer slithering across his face like a viper through a pool of ooze. "I have them right where I want them," he gloated, rubbing his slimy hands together. "Soon they'll part ways and be forced to abandon their stupid quest. Then I shall be able to go back to the Fairy Syndicate and collect my exorbitant wage."

Ah-ha! So Tony was working for the Syndicate. His job was to stop Stubs from finding the magic stick and taking it back to the Dirty Forest Man. The Writer patted himself on the shoulder and took the opportunity to forage for more granola. The trip to the kitchen took scarcely an hour and once he had returned to his laptop, he ripped open a packet of deep-fried granola and gobbled a few morsels. As the life-giving potion entered his body, The Writer sat back in his writer's chair with a sigh of deep contentment.

"Ah, granola...my soul's balm!"

"Hey, you!"

The Writer jumped and looked at the laptop screen, upon which more words had somehow appeared. "Stubs?"

"Yeah. How about getting back to business? The story's in something of a crisis, here."

"But I was balming my soul."

"Dang your soul! Start typing, fella, or I'll balm you with my giant hammer."

Becky collapsed back onto the convenient rock and buried her face in her hands. "What's happening to us? We have to stick together!"

After a moment, Stubs relented and, leaving his hammer behind, joined her by the rock. "You're right. I'm sorry for my uncouth and calloused remark. I don't care that you have no wings. You'd look silly with wings, actually. You're better off without them. Besides, if you'd been a normal, I mean, an ordinary fairy, I never would have met you."

"And I'm sorry I mentioned your ridiculous fear of the dark," said Becky. There was a moment of silence and then they both erupted in gales of laughter.

On the ledge, Tony gritted his tooth and crushed a piece of granite in his hands. Why, oh why, did the protagonists always have to prevail? Well, not this time. No retarded fairy or charred-ass dwarf was going to humiliate Tony the Antagonist. He climbed to the top of the ridge where sat a giant boulder. With the sounds of merry laughter still burning his ears, Tony began rocking the boulder back and forth, slowly loosening it from its purchase. The boulder teetered...

Below, Stubs and Becky had completely forgotten their squabble. "We still need a solution to the problem," Becky said. "What about your hammer? Does it do anything?"

Stubs thought. "Not really," he finally admitted. "I mean, it's nice as far as hammers go and if you need anything hammed, then it's great, but for crossing scary chasms, it's pretty useless."

"Well, that's it, then," Becky sighed. "We can't cross the chasm and by the time we walked around it, our quest would be in vain. The fairy warlord, Crapulent Fartwing, is due to arrive at the Fairy Syndicate's headquarters within a few days at the most. After that, they'll march on the Dirty Forest Man. It looks like we're finished."

As these seemingly prophetic words left Becky's mouth, the boulder trembled on the edge of the cliff, dislodging loose rocks and a few dozing hamsters. Because they were both too steeped in despair, neither Stubs nor Becky noticed the falling debris. The boulder of doom rolled slowly forward and seemed to pause a moment on the very lip of the ridge.

"Why, hello, there! Ahh-yuh-yuh-yuh! You 'uns need a lift?"

They looked up and rubbed the misery from their eyes. Could it be? Rising from the chasm was a huge, brightly-colored hot air balloon, piloted by a jovial-looking man wearing a tuxedo and coonskin cap. He halted the basket of the balloon just even with the edge of the chasm.

"I say, I say! You 'uns need a lift?"

"Well, yes!" Stubs said. He and Becky exchanged glances, then traded back again, because they weren't the same size. "But...who are you?"

"Well, sonny, I wouldn't waste time askin' fool questions, 'cause there's a helluva boulder headed your way. Ahh-yuh-yuh-yuh!"

"Boulder?"

Both Stubs and Becky glanced up and saw the boulder hurtling toward them. Just in time, they leaped aside as it crashed onto the smaller rock where they'd been sitting and crushed it into dust.

"Ahh-yuh-yuh-yuh! That was a close 'un. Damn, you're both white as ghosts! And...do ya'll smell somethin' burnin'?"

Becky covered her nose with a handkerchief. "That's just my friend, here. He has difficulty dealing with moments of extreme crisis."

"Oh! A farter! Ahh-yuh-yuh-yuh! I used to be one o' them, 'til I had my bum sewed shut. Where you two headed?"

"At the moment, just crossing this abyss would suit us," said Becky, since Stubs was still too humiliated to join in the conversation. "Could you ferry us across?"

"Well, little lady, could be. But first you'll have to answer a coupla questions..."

Granola Prose V

Before we begin, let me direct the attention of all newcomers to a new sidebar. In an effort to make following the Granola Prose tale a bit easier, I've included a mini-directory, where you will find this and all other Granola posts listed and linked in chronological order. And now, on with the show...

The Writer grimaced. Here it came, the long section of exposition that inevitably showed up in his work. Might as well get it over with. His fingers were poised above the keyboard, ready to begin the dirty deed, when a thought entered his head and began galloping about.

"Why do I keep ending sentences with prepositions?"

Another thought answered, "Who cares? As long as the writing itself sounds decent, a lot of those old rules are kaput anyway. Follow your instinct, son."

This led to yet another, more intriguing thought. "Wait a gol-darn minute..."

[munch, munch]

"I'm sorry, lord," Stubs said. "But to reveal everything about my quest, not to mention my story (which happens to be lengthy), would not only bore the reader, but endanger my mission. How do I know you can be trusted?"

Becky and Tiberius gasped and backed up a step. The Nitwit lord lunged to his feet and teetered for a moment before regaining his balance.

"I cannot bequeath thou spaketh thus to me!" he gasped. "I am Sticky Jake, Lord of the Nitwits, a personable of grunt distraction, and I shan't be spaken to in such a *wheeze* fragrant murmur. Forthby and therewith." He sat down quickly and continued gasping for a minute or two. He motioned to a nearby servant, who brought him a particularly succulent sock with which to refresh himself.

Stubs, who had been startled by the outburst, tried to ignore Becky's gagging and Tiberius' giggling. He gathered his courage and stepped forward.

"I know you find this a serious offense, your lordship, but your title lends one to suspicion. After all, are you called Lord of the Nitwits because you are the wisest among them or simply the greatest Nitwit of all?"

Sticky Jake paused mid-chew, the toe end of the sock hanging horribly from a corner of his mouth. After a moment he finished the sock and then said in a Southern drawl, "That be a damn fine question, boy. And I'll answer it soon as ya tell me why I'm sudd'ly talkin' like a Texas cowpoke."

That was an easy one and Stubs answered without hesitation. "Because The Writer's a moron and has no sense of characterization."

What? The Writer sat back in his special writing chair and reread that last line. His own characters were beginning to mutiny! He'd always read it was a good thing when the characters began taking over a story, but now that it seemed to be happening, he was finding it rather scary. He poked his head out the window and called down to his wife/girlfriend.

"Honey? One of my main characters just called me a moron."

"Readers will probably identify with him. That's a good sign, dear."

The Writer wasn't sure if this was a compliment, but decided not to press her on the issue. After all, she looked really busy stirring that cement for the new driveway. He turned back to his laptop and the small morsels of granola debris scattered about the desk. Scooping together a little pile, he used his cupped hands to funnel the granola into his mouth.

[munch, munch]

"Okay, fine," said Stubs. "I've always been a sucker for Southern accents. I've been sent by the Dirty Forest Man to find a magic stick that he plans to use against the Fairy Syndicate. Without the stick, he can't hope to prevail. Time is also of the essence. Word has it that the Fairy Syndicate is awaiting the imminent arrival of their warlord, Crapulent Fartwing. After that they plan to march upon the Dirty Forest Man and, if he is not in possession of the magic stick, wipe him out."

Ah-ha! The Writer chortled aloud and pounded his clavicle in glee. Not only a quest (basic plot), but also necessity and a deadline, the main ingredients of suspense! Now if he could just give Stubs a reason for continuing the quest...

"Waaaait a minute," Becky interrupted. "I thought you told me you knew nothing about the mission. That the DFM simply set your pants on fire and scuttled you into the swamp."

Stubs acted coy. "I didn't know you then. I saw you were a fairy and was afraid you might take their side."

Sticky Jake was looking skeptical. "The Filthy Frabjous Mule infers to decorate brittle against the Furry Scintillate?"

Even Stubs couldn't figure this one out, so he turned to Becky for help.

"He doubts your word that the Dirty Forest Man intends to declare battle against the Fairy Syndicate."

"It's true!" Stubs insisted, turning back to Jake. "As soon as he gets his magic stick, it's curtains for the fairies."

"Curtails? The Dairy Furbished Minion warrants to constrict droops for the..."

"You're getting a little carried away with that character," said a voice over The Writer's shoulder.

The Writer hooted in panic and farted. "Don't sneak up on me like that," he admonished The Wife.

The Wife wrinkled her nose and began backing out of the room. "Don't worry, I won't. Perhaps granola isn't the best diet choice for you after all."

"Never mind that. What do you mean I'm getting carried away? Sticky Jake is hilarious!"

"In small doses, yes. But you're making the reader work too hard to figure out what he's saying. I think you should tone it down a bit. Give the reader a taste, not a steady diet."

"And what makes you such an expert? All you can do is fix sinks, pour concrete, weld, install heating and cooling systems, wire houses, and build Corvettes from scratch. You seem to be forgetting who's the writer, here."

"Just thought I'd mention it." The Wife turned and walked serenely from the room. The Writer ground his teeth a little. He hated it when she was serene.

Finally understanding the gravity of the situation, the Lord of the Nitwits emitted a sigh and began wracking his wizened little brain for a solution to the problem.

And a problem it was. The dwarf's quest was clear enough: obtain the magic stick and return with it to the Dirty Forest Man. Sticky Jake knew of this magic stick and, although not aware of its exact location, possessed enough knowledge to point Stubs and Becky in the right direction. But the Nitwit lord was also indebted to both the Man and the Fairies for past favors. To aid one would most certainly incur the wrath of the other.

As he pondered, little plumes of smoke began wafting from his ears and a clearly audible grinding sound could be heard.

"I have made a decisive!" he announced after some minutes of deep deliberation.

Stubs and Becky snapped to attention, while the stout Tiberius raised an eyebrow, became exhausted, and fell immediately asleep.

"Yes, my lord?"

"I shall eat a sock!"

"But about the quest!"

"Oh, right. I have decided to...