Plotting

Today was about plotting the back yard. I drew a rough sketch, and JT and I went out and put measurements to the lines. I wanted to round the dimensions so he'd have an easier time of it drawing the diagram. He was not so keen on this idea. Why put down 21' when the true measurement was 20' 8 3/8"?

I'm borrowing a drafting machine from my boss. Technically, we should only use blank paper in it. (Technically, we should only use vellum, but typing paper's good enough for now.) I didn't want him to have to figure out some difficult ratio like 1':1/8", though, so we went with the graph paper and did it one square equals two feet.



This was actually a fairly big deal. JT is good with math and outstanding recognizing patterns, but he has a hard time translating graphs--you know, like one block equals five pumpkins. He got it down, though, with a lot of help.

Next we worked on spacial relationships. Namely, how big does the fort have to be in order for him to do what he wants to with it? We marked out a 4' by 8' footprint in the dining room. His first question was where would he put the TV? Then we mapped out 6' by 8' on the patio. He wanted it to be bigger, but I think we settled.



He decided he wants the door at a corner, which will affect the plan I'd had for the shelves and other furnishings. So we mapped out--practically--how wide the door needs to be (Yes, you can fit through a 12" opening, but can your friends?) and how much floor space inside the door he'd need to actually get into the space.

That settled, we went on to the benches. How many tushies should fit on each bench? Does everyone have as small a tushy as him? And the shelves. How wide is your biggest board game? He took that information and drew a scale drawing of the interior.


The little circle things are chains that hold up the seats when they're down. They'll be folded flat to the wall during sleep overs.

The block on the bottom left with the thing sticking up? That's a sink.

Now I have to figure out how to put in a sink.

The Mower

For the Friday Challenge

The Sears parts website used to be a treasure trove of information for the domestic tinkerer. Due to its aid, I have fixed a dryer by changing a fuse, accumulated a healthy supply of toothed couplings for my blender (although I've since received a "Magic Bullet" for smoothy-making), and replaced the rack roll kit on the upper drawer of my dishwasher (and then used a rubber band to keep the stopper in place after I broke that).

But the most ambitious and self-satisfying endeavor I have committed to was the repair of a Craftsman 6.75 hp lawn mower.

When we moved to Alabama, we had a little dinky lawn mower and a quater-acre yard filled with #1, Grade-A Alabama weeds. They grew a foot a day and I spent two summers mowing twice a week before I went out after a heavy rainstorm and hand-weeded the blasted place. The mower died everytime the grass was taller than six inches, and I longed for something more. Something that wouldn't jam and cut out when forced to mow a wet lawn. Something with a self-propellor that actually worked. So we ditched ours and I used our neighbor's until we got orders to Hawaii.

Our first house in Hawaii was a beautiful little 1100-sq-footer with rent of $2100/month. The lawn was zoysia--and if you know anything about zoysia you know it's extremely hardy and grows extremely slowly. In addition, the owners hired a yard service.

Ten months later we moved to a four-plex on base with St. Augustine or centipede or some other tropic grass that gave me hives whenever I touched it. I went down to the Hickam BX and checked out their meager selection.

Amidst the Snappers and Briggs & Strattons was an anomaly. A Craftsman, 6.75 hp with no corresponding tag on the shelf and no owner's manual. But the price was good and I couldn't get over the horse power. I could mow a sugar cane field with this baby! So I took it home.

Loaded it with gas and oil and mowed the lawn. Then it leaked all over the shed floor.

I set it out on the walk way that went to the parking area and knocked on my neighbor's back door. "My lawnmower's leaking and I don't know if the gas and the oil will catch the dried grass on fire. I've left our kitchen fire extinguisher next to it. I'm going to get some kitty litter."

In addition, I went back to the BX. Yes, they'd take it back. But, man, it was such a good price. Surely it wouldn't hurt to take a look, right?

Sears parts catalog to the rescue. Using their exploded parts diagram, I was able to take the motor apart and find the oil pan was cracked. I think they called it an "oil pan." What it really was, was the entire cast iron bottom of the engine assembly. Cracked right through.

So I did what any reasonable military wife with no job and a pre-schooler would do. I ordered a new one. Of course, the Sears parts store on the island didn't carry them. And shipping was atrocious. But what can you do? It arrived, all bright and shiny and unpainted a while later.

What didn't arrive was the felt seal between the two pieces. And of course it was attached to the old pan and not the upper assembly and refused to come off save in many small pieces. Fortunately, my best friend's husband is a gear head. He had some gasket felt that he willingly gave me having long-ago figured it's far easier to just buy a new gasket than cut it to order. He did give me the great advice to put oil on the raw edge of the pan and press it down on the felt, thereby creating a pattern to cut.

I don't remember how many times I had to go back in and fiddle around to get all the pieces where they were supposed to be. Or how many bags of kitty litter I went through. But, somehow, by the grace of God, it worked. The mower's sitting in our shed now, five years later, waiting for our Kentucky blue grass-mix to grow just a little higher.

And the blessed thing will cut through anything and not stall.

Roses and Aspens

It's low 80s, today, and so clear you get skin cancer just looking out the window. Perfect day to crank up the zydeco music and work in the yard, yeah?

The spot in the yard where I'd like to place the fort was home to two very large rose bushes. I'm not overly fond of roses. My mom and grandma doted over theirs, pruning and fertilizing and picking off the aphids. I ignore mine. Don't even water them. That's probably why mine are threatening to take over the yard and theirs always looked so anemic.

A friend in town does like roses. She recently extended their paver patio and had just the perfect spot for them--where lack of water and over-abundance of dog had killed the grass anyway. She's been talking about coming and getting them for a year, but today was finally the day.



As you can see, they're ginormous. JT and I started by pruning them back. One had a lot of dead branches, the other had a lot of live ones that wouldn't fit in my friend's SUV. I haven't touched the things in the three years we've lived here, and I really know nothing about the care and survival of roses. Hope I didn't kill them.



In the end, we had a respectable pile of thorny sticks that rebelled against any confinement into Hefty bags.

The other day, whilst surveying the terrain, I noticed that our neighbor's little aspen grove had born babies.



I'm all about free trees, so before we dug up the roses, we dug up another part of the yard to transplant the trees. Our soil in CSprings is a thin layer of sod over clay. The type of clay you make bricks out of. So after we scraped away the sod, we had to steal mulch from a currently unused garden and dig it in. It was nasty. But hopefully, in a few years, the trees will block the lights that shine in the living room window from the car dealerships half a mile away.



Lessons learned: JT learned that yard work is hard. Especially when you're in a grouchy mood, anyway. But friends and zydeco music make it better. He also learned what knuckle-busters are.

As for me...I was flipping through a photo album a friend made for us when we left CSprings the last time. She lived behind us and included pictures of our yard. I'd forgotten how much work we'd done to that yard and how it actually turned out pretty nice. I have a tendency to only see (and remember) the mistakes I made, but her album gave me hope. Maybe this will turn out well.

Now our yard is ready for post holes.

Or is it?

Of Stories and Lowe's

datatroll gave a delightful list of what JT should have for his fort. My favorite is the drive-through McDonalds in case he gets hungry driving around in his tank. JT, on the other hand, can't understand why he can't have a tunnel from his room to the fort. Or, for that matter, electricity to power his own kitchen.

After my post yesterday, he did indeed write down his list. Here it is:
1. A carpet.
2. A TV with an X-box. (Yes, troll, great minds think alike.)
3. Game Bords and Puzzles.
4. Desk.
5. sleeping bags.
6. kitchin for small and big kids.
7. A slide that can go under the for [sic] an emergency excit for: er!er!er!er!...[That's the sound of an alarm.]
8. Stairs for an Entrance.
9. some chairs.
10. A coat-hanger.
11. Pictures of me and other pictures.
12. Balls and bats for hiting outside.
13. auto planes and cars.
14. 2 windows.
15. A Door. [That's my boy! The practical one!]
16. Blinds.
17. clock.
18. Plant.
19. computer.
20. Books.
21. Tissus.
22. End of List!

Although, then he added a trascan [sic] and movies.

Today he drew a picture of the inside of the fort. Then I had him write a story about what he would do in the fort. He hates writing stories. Usually he'll just copy the plot of a Clone Wars episode. This story was priceless, though.

One day a kid named JT had a friend that day and the friends name was Jordan. That day he helped with my fort and when the fort was done I took a tour by my self and then Jordan paid me one dollar to have a tour also. The rest of the day we played for fourteen ours [hours] intill Jordan had to go. So when Jordan had to go we both cleaned up properly and cleaned up everything except for the X-box 360. That was one of my exciting, fun, extraordinary, exsplosive day of my life with Jordan. (Some other days I may play with other friend in my fort: on Sundays for Bible studys or sleepovers or playdates or for some pets like: fish, frogs, little dogs, small birds like that. Or it can be for some projects for school witch if you ask me it is probably the best place to be on a school day or two.)

I'm indecisive on whether I'll help him correct his spelling. He gets very angry when he has to erase and rewrite something. Then I over-react, he gets sent to his room, and I retreat to the bath.

Later today, we went to B&N to look through some books written by people who actually know how to build forts. One book had four different plans: a pirate ship, a cottage with a porch, a hobbit house, and a fort that sat on top of a storage shed (I so want that one!). Obviously, these people are crazy and have far too much time on their hands.

We did find some good information as to spans for floorboards and floor joists. Looks like we can use 2x4s for the joists, easily.

After sitting at The Green Two-Tailed Mermaid and working out some design options (he liked the idea of benches that can fold up to the wall, but he also wants a hole in the center of the table right over a hole in the floor so he can just scoop the crumbs to the ground) we went to Lowe's and priced out some of the lumber. He also picked out colors for his flames and said he wanted the interior support beams painted in his favorite colors--red and blacked striped. Ugh! I wish his Godmother was here. She could make that look pretty!



Flames? Seriously?



The floorplan of the interior. We actually found a rug similar to his design at Lowe's.

A New Project

I have been remiss in keeping this blog in any state of updatedness. Hopefully, that is about to change.

It is summer. And in the midst of editing stories and schlepping them around to people who might want to read them, I have taken on a Herculean task. I have one boy, 8 1/2, (No, we're not planning on having any more, thank you. If you knew him, you'd know why.) who we'll call JT. He is very bright, but young for his grade, and consistently falls shy of school district standards. (No, I do not homeschool, thank you. If you knew me, you'd know why!) So he benefits greatly by the blessing that is summer school. Sadly, budget restrictions have put the kibosh on summer school this year, so it's up to me.

Poor kid.

In the past, I've half-heartedly relied on Summer Bridge workbooks. I would have loved these books at his age. I thought workbooks were a treat right up there with foot-high ice cream cones from Zo's. But alas, the child is not terribly interested.

What he is, is terribly mechanical. Ridiculously mechanical. How mechanical? Mechanical enough to go from this:



to this:



in about five hours with no help.

So in an effort to have him work on math, writing, reading, and general organizational skills in a way that will bless his heart and keep his excitement up, we are attempting something new. We're going to build a fort. But we're not just going to build a fort. He's going to plan the fort, write a list of things he wants to do in it, write a story about it, plot it in the yard, draw it (using basic drafting skills), and construct it.

I just hope I can keep up. I have a terrible habit of starting these things (guitar lessons?) and getting distracted.

So today I give our first report.

Today we went to Target and Office Max to get planning supplies--paper, mechanical pencils, colored pencils, a 3-ringed binder, basic drafting supplies (man that tape is still stinkin' expensive!), and so forth.

Tally:
Target: $17.57
Office Max: $18.74

We recorded the expenses and organized the supplies. Now he's drawing a picture of what he wants the outside of the fort to look like. Apparently, flames will be required.

Car Trouble

It’s not that the Sentra wasn’t up to the task. Less than a year before, it had successfully transported its mistress from Charleston, SC, to Great Falls, MT.

In January.

The only hiccup being the day they’d reached South Dakota and the locks froze. A trucker rescued Chris from her compact prison, and she’d taken away a firm understanding of the number one rule about driving in winter in the north, that being: don’t lock your car.

My aunt and uncle lived on a farm outside of Spokane. I’d gone to high school in town where I’d spent five years mocking rural-dwellers from the Inland Empire who drove to Spokane to shop. But my uncle, a high ranking GS in the BLM during the week, was a mule-breeder on the weekends, and Chris had never seen a donkey farm. We were also in desperate need of good cooking.

I don’t recall, now, why we decided to go south through Helena, instead of north down HWY 200 through Lincoln (home of the Unibomber at the time). Nor why we chose to take her car, other than for gas mileage purposes. But we did.

It was a beautiful Friday afternoon and Great Falls was ten miles in the rear view mirror when the check engine light came on, and an ominous rattling made its way through the classic rock station. We weren’t stupid. As much as we wanted to be on our way, we knew there was a chance something was terribly wrong. Maybe. So we limped to the next spot on the map—Cascade.

It was an American small town, and I don’t suppose you need any more explanation than that. It would have been as at home in Iowa or Central Oregon. Small, steep-roofed houses, grain elevators along the railroad tracks, a single main drag.

And no one at the single auto garage.

We debated continuing on, but soon found a tire store manned by three ancient men. I doubt more than one of them actually worked there. They looked exactly as you think; worn jeans, worn hats, worn faces—retired farmers.

Turned out the one mechanic in town was away at his son’s baseball game. He would be by in a while. In the meantime, they glanced sideways at the little yellow car and made remarks about how we’d let the oil run out.

“No,” Chris said. “It’s not the oil light. It’s the check engine light.”

Couldn’t be. What was an “engine light”? It was the oil light. Add some oil and you’ll be fine.

“I have two different lights,” Chris said, Southern respect fighting with her natural aversion to idiots. “It’s the check engine light. The engine started making a noise, like chattering. Then the light came on.”

The oldest, most weathered of our hosts spat onto the cracked asphalt. “It’s a Jap car. It’s just speakin’ Jap.”

Of all the liberal, hippie, free-lovers I’ve known in the great state of Oregon, it has been my experience that there are no more fiery, explosive defenders of minorities against unthinking bigots than a few select white Southern women. One being the Creature’s God-mother who, upon hearing a campsite of idiots singing the John Denver classic, “Thank God I’m a White Boy”—in earshot of Her Thai God-Baby—paced about our tents, searching the ground, and mumbling, “Gimme a good stick. I gotta whoop me some white boys.”

Chris is another of these fearless defenders. Her normally pink complexion glowed red as hot coals. Her fists clenched. Her teeth ground.

The man repeated his diagnosis in irregular intervals. I stared down the road, wondering if the men were WWII vets and searching in vain for a mechanic-looking truck to save us. Chris gave one more growl and retreated to the car to knead the steering wheel into submission.

We were there an hour. I can’t remember if the mechanic finally arrived to declare his own ignorance of foreign cars, or if we just decided we couldn’t wait any longer. But, at last, we loaded back up and hobbled the reviled car back to Great Falls.

Half an hour later, we were settled in my rig, a ’91 F-150.

We figured we could break down anywhere within a five-hundred mile radius and find help within five minutes.

Lessons learned? Don’t break down in rural Montana in an import.

And Chris doesn’t really like donkeys.

Serpent Flu

An entry for the Friday Challenge.

The early evening crowd, dressed in predominately earthen colors, buzzed around the pub with a quiet cheerfulness that promised a rousing night once a few more pints had been filled and emptied. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, and darts thunked into the corkboard. Sinead the Leipreachan leaned back in her booth, took a sip of cider, and squeezed the warm, hairy hand that lay beside her on the padded bench.

“Cheers,” Cranjellywart said, lifting his stein and taking a long draught. A foam mustache covered the fur over his upper lip when he replaced the mug onto the moisture-ringed table top. “Any news, then?”

Sinead retrieved her hand from under the table and knitted her fingers together. “No. And it’s worrying me.”

“Well, sometimes these things give us a break, skip a year.”

It was early, yet, for the serpent flu, but past time that the seasonal virus should have been identified and a vaccination/cure made up for international distribution on the seventeenth. She knew Cranjellywart was right. As the Dwarf archivist, he had searched the records and discovered that the serpent flu did occasionally skip a year. But Sinead had a feeling deep in her bones that this was not that year.

On the other side of the pub, the scent of burned charcoal and lavender wafted in from the open door. Sinead couldn’t see over the heads of the crowds, so she contented herself with catching Glowfeather’s eye. The Pixie, perched on a shelf above the fireplace, glanced toward the door and nodded. She kissed her boyfriend, a particularly blue Water Sprite, and fluttered to Sinead and Cran’s table.

Downwhiffenspit, leaning heavily on a cane carved from the fingerbone of a Madagascar dragon, hobbled across the room. A short, neatly cropped beard mostly hid a long scar across one cheek. As regional Paian Council representative, the Dwarf commanded respectful attention from the Hobbits and Leipreachan’s sitting at the bar—and nervous ogles from the Far Darrigs slumped under it. As head of Wee Folk/Biggun Relations and the Counselor’s chief agent, Sinead knew they were all warranted.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sinead said as the Dwarf neared her table. “What brings you out this evening? Nothing distressing, I hope.”

Downwhiffenspit’s green eyes, always lighter than Sinead remembered, sparkled. “Ah, then, Sinead. It’s March Madness and I’m away from my telly. I’m afraid it’s nothing good.” A young Hobbit placed an Irish coffee on the table. Downwhiffenspit nodded and took an appreciative drink. “It’s come. Early this year. But making up for it. It’ll be a brutal one.”

Sinead thought a very bad word in her head. Cranjellywart muttered it under his breath.

“Any reports in, yet? How widespread? Do we have a vaccine?” Sinead asked. But if the answers were easy, Downwhiffenspit wouldn’t be here. “Glow, round up the agents.”

The Pixie, an uncharacteristic grave look on her face, snapped her fingers and disappeared.

“They’re trickling in,” Downwhiffenspit said, shifting her weight. Sinead would have invited her to sit, but knew the back injury, caused by a particularly cantankerous dragon, actually eased up when the Dwarf stood. At least she got a nice walking stick out of it. “I suspect it’s just the calm before the storm, though.”

“We’ll recall all agents, even those on leave. Keoni’s been after me for more responsibility—he can cover the Western Hemisphere. Cran?” She turned to the ever-patient Dwarf, hopeful the regret showed in her tone. “I need data. Why did it stay dormant? Is there a pattern?”

“Of course, Sinead. Should have done it before.” He grouched out of the booth.

Sinead sighed. Her boyfriend was too hard on himself and her agents were too lax.

Downwhiffenspit set the empty coffee glass on the table with a shaky hand. Sinead wondered if she shouldn’t have gotten decaf.

“I’ve alerted the Thusser guard,” the Dwarf said. “They’ll be standing by for your word.”

“It’s that bad?”

“I trust you to get a handle on things. Best to be prepared.” Downwhiffenspit shook her head. “Not that they believe there’s a problem.”

Sinead glowered into thin air. “Just because you’re too stubborn to admit it affects you…”

Downwhiffenspit gripped Sinead’s upper arm. “Let me know if you need anything.”

**

When Sinead reached the clearing outside her tree-bole office, a dozen Wee Folk milled around, chattering in high, nervous voices.

Sinead stuck four fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly. “All right, then, people. We have a time of it. As you may have surmised, the seasonal serpent flu has finally hit, and with a vengeance. What have we got, then?”

Twelve voices rose into a clamor. Sinead lifted her hands for silence.

“Blimey, one at a time!” She pointed at Kitsune, the Japanese fox.

“Sinead-San,” he said, bowing his head. “My sources tell me an increasing number of Kobakama are being particularly affected. One small tribe has chartered a weather balloon to tour Mt. Fuji. Another has taken up BASE jumping in downtown Tokyo.”

Sinead rubbed her forehead. “Blast. Soon as they recover and see how high they are, they’ll freeze, be sick, and faint all at the same time. All right. Rent a suite at the Mandarin Oriental. Top floor. Invite them for…an informational meeting on space travel. Keep them there! When they show signs of recovery, shut the curtains and let them go home.”

Kitsune nodded. “Yes, Sinead-san.” He was gone with a swish of his bushy tail.

“Coatl?” Sinead said, catching the glance of the Central American Alux. “How’s your region?”

“It’s all good, Boss, except I’m about strapped. Gotta cover North America, too.”

“Why? Where’s Ts’emek?”

Coatl gave her a big grin. “He found a new hobby. He got some plaid pants and a funny hat. Now he’s trying to register for the US Open.”

Sully, the Far Darrig, ambled into the clearing. “That doesn’t make much sense.”

Sinead felt the meeting, and the situation, float out of her hands. “What? Of course it doesn’t make sense that a Sasquatch would want to play golf. That’s what the virus does.”

“Nah, that he thought he could find clubs long enough.”

Coatl giggled. “I know, right?”

Sinead shook her head. “Sully, go with Coatl, help him out. This is epidemic, people. Keoni has jurisdiction over the Western Hemisphere. Go to him for emergency authorizations.” She stood on her tip-toes to find the Hawaiian Menehune, but he held up a finger and mumbled into his hand.

“I’ll tell him he’s promoted later, when he finds time to join us.” Sinead bit her lip at the unnecessary snark. “Glow, would you send Coatl and Sully on their way?” The Pixie dropped pinches of dust on the pair, and they disappeared.

A tall figure emerged from the darkening trees. “Sinead, what can I do?”

Sinead felt a sense of relief as Apple Turnerblossom, Hobbittess, rushed across the clearing.

“We need the vaccination,” Sinead said, looking up at her best friend. “Your da have a batch ready to go?”

“Yes. It’s almost ready. He was holding it in reserve for the seventeenth.”

“Check in with Cranjellywart, will you? He may have answers as to why this hit us so soon, so hard. Maybe he’ll have an idea which strain to look at.”

Apple rushed away while Sinead searched the crowd. “Where is Indlovu?” Not that the tiny Abatwa would be visible in the dark, in a field of grass far taller than he, but he should be audible.

Keoni stepped forward, sliding a cell phone into a pouch tied above his grass skirt. “That was Nala. She was down visiting her mom in Kenya, yeah? She said the Abatwa have it bad. They’re hangin’ out in Biggun’ bars, sellin’ der land to tourists for treasury bonds.”

“Well, considering everything else that’s going on, that sounds relatively minor. They’ll come out of it hung-over, embarrassed they let themselves be seen, and probably use the bonds for roofs.”

The Menehune smiled grimly. “Greek treasury bonds.”

“Greek?!”

“No worries, yeah? Nala’s got it handled. She’s got her ohana dressin’ up like Bigguns, catchin’ the Abatwa before they go in. She got that new Canon printer for Christmas. Even the little Abatwa can’t tell the difference between the real bonds and her fake ones.”

Sinead sighed. “Well, please thank your darling wife and the other Pigmies for their quick thinking. That’s very considerate of them.”

“No worries. But, since I got promoted, I better go, yeah? Glowfedder?”

The Pixie sprinkled the Menehune and he disappeared.

“Blast,” Sinead said to Glowfeather. “I meant to talk to him about Pele. First Haiti and then Chile?”

The Pixie tinkled.

“You’re right. Priorities. First let’s fight the epidemic, then we’ll deal with the menopausal lava spirit.” She looked over the crowd. Had it actually grown? “Who’s next, then?”

Every hand shot up.

**

Dawn was just breaking when Sinead sent her last agent away with instructions. Not that the Scottish Water Sprite could hope to accomplish much. When the far-reaching virus caused Nessie to overcome her shyness and play “water spout” with the local tourist boats, the tiny Fairy could only keep track of the victims and report their positions to the waiting Naiad emergency crews.

Sinead entered her office and heard the sudden stillness of a TV being shut off.

“Hello?”

Cranjellywart came in from the back room. “Hullo, Sinead. Thought I’d wait for you here. How’s the fight?”

“We’re still at it.” She went to her mini-fridge and pulled out a bottled frapaccino. “Vanilla?”

“Do you have a chai?”

Slightly puzzled at his choice, she pulled a chai from the door and tossed it behind her. It thunked on the floor. Funny. They’d never missed before. But she heard no broken glass, and he didn’t say anything. She opened her own coffee-sugar-frappe-yummy and took a drink. The caffeine coursed through her veins in a way that made her wonder why these things were still legal.

“How about you?” she asked. “Any luck?”

“Wily bugger, but we think we got it. Record from 1938, around New Jersey, reports an extraordinarily early outbreak. Even listed the virus responsible.” He sniffed and took a drink. “Old man Turnerblossom says he has a fungus that should cure it up. He’ll have the first batch ready tonight.”

“I hope that’s soon enough.”

He scuffled his feet on the worn floor. “I’m sorry Sinead. I shoulda been lookin’ sooner.”

Sinead reached over to the desk lamp and turned it on. “Your eyes are red. Have you been—”

“Old reports. Full of dust.” He sniffed again. “Gettin’ to my allergies.”

“Okay. I think Glowfeather has some confiscated Sudafed in the cabinet.”

“I’ll be all right.”

The Pixie burst through the open window with a frantic explosion of tinkling.

“Slow down, Glow,” Sinead said.

“What’s she sayin’?” Cranjellywart asked.

The Pixie landed on the desk and panted, then resumed jingling at a more deliberate pace.

“It’s Sully,” Sinead said. “He was gathering up some Hobbits who were chopping down trees in the Adirondacks—what?”

Cranjellywart whistled. “They must have it bad.”

Glowfeather planted her fists on her hips and glared at them.

“Sorry, Glow,” Sinead said. She continued translating. “There’s a monastery there. Sully tried to take orders.”

Sinead reached back for her cloak. “He’s at the Paian Council, now. I’ve got to go get him. Bloomin’ Thussers don’t believe in the virus. They’ll probably send him to prison.”

“Nah, won’t he just get probation?”

“Last time they tied a Kobakama officer to his ankle, he whizzed on it. I don’t think probation is an option.” She turned to her boyfriend—the word still sounded new enough to give her delightful chills. “Cran, would you be so good—”

“Right. I’ll tell Turnerblossom the first batch goes to those Hobbits. I’ll get the remaining priorities from Downwhiffenspit.”

“Don’t forget to save some for here. You do realize Downwhiffenspit was drinking an Irish coffee last night?”

“Was she? I thought she was an ale-totaller.”

She kissed Cran on the cheek just to watch his face glow red. And because she liked to kiss him. “Come on, then, Glow. Off to Oslo to save our boyo.”

**

Eleven hours later, Sinead, Glowfeather, and a very contrite Sully popped into the town square. Glowfeather waved listlessly and collapsed under the nearest bush.

“Ooooh,” Sully said, holding his head. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in me life.”

Sinead put a hand on the Far Darrig’s shoulder. “Not when you shaved the manes off all the Lipizzaner stallions?”

He shook his head.

“Or when you snuck into the formal dinner at the American’s White House?”

He pursed his lips. “Good eatin, there.”

“How about the time you stood outside the Japanese princess’s room with a boombox held above your head playing ‘In Your Eyes’?”

“I thought, if she believes in aliens…” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Nooo. A monastery? Really? What was I thinking?”

“You were sick, Sully. That’s all.”

He straightened up and looked her in the eye, with only half a leer. “And you were brilliant. Bleedin’ Thussers, thinkin’ they know everything.”

She bumped him with a shoulder. “No worries, Sull. I think they’ll be ‘round soon enough, asking for the cure. I reckon you infected the whole lot of them.”

“I surely hope so.” He let out a long sigh. “I think I’ll turn in early. Get some shut-eye.”

Sully going to bed before he was passed out? Sure sign he was still sick.

“Let’s go ‘round to the pub, first. My treat.”

Even a dead Far Darrig rarely refused free beer. Sinead watched him long enough to make sure he’d drained the mug Old Man Turnerblossom pulled for him. Shortly after, her hard-working/harder-playing agent was snoring on the countertop.

Sinead swished the dregs around the bottom of Sully’s glass. “Why green?”

Old Man Turnerblossom shrugged. “’Tisn’t. ‘Tis blue. Has been ever since St. Patrick found the fungi that cures the virus. Course it was us Hobbitses who thought to put it in beer. Nasty stuff otherwise.” He set a mug in front of her.

She took a drink. “Cranjellywart been in today?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

She drained her glass in one long pull. Blech. She much preferred stout to ale. “I’ll need one to go, then.”

**

Her tree-bole office was dark save for the flickering light of a TV screen. This time it didn’t shut off when she quietly opened the door. She crept to the entry to the back room and took in the scene.

Cranjellywart sat on the old couch, huddled under an afghan, his socked feet perched on a green and orange doily on the coffee table. Sinead swallowed a snort. Edvard had given her that doily. After the grief he’d given her today, she could think of few places she’d rather see the thing beyond under Cran’s sweaty feet. Maybe Sully’s loo. But, if she was right, Edvard would soon be suffering enough. She wondered what effect the virus would have on the Thussers. Might give them a personality.

DVD boxes littered the rest of the table top. Tissues surrounded the afghan. Used tissues. Puzzled, Sinead finally took in the TV.

“The Notebook?”

Cranjellywart’s head jerked up, his red, swollen eyes staring at her in surprise. “I—he—” He pointed a shaky finger at the TV. “I don’t think she’s going to make it.” He burst into sobs.

“Oh, Cran.” Sinead snuggled next to him on the couch. “It’s all right.”

“It’s just so sad!” The Dwarf pulled out another tissue and blew mightily. “It’s not fair.”

“Here you go, then,” Sinead said, handing him the covered stein. “Maybe this will help.”

He drained the mug, set it down, and was snoring in moments.

Sinead shut off the movie and leaned her head against Cran’s shoulder. “Happy St. Paddy’s Day, love.”

Fitz of Distraction

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Calendars of "Fitz of Distraction" comics are available. Email kersley.fitz at yahoo dot com

Whoop!

OK, how many venues can I post this on? One more, at least.

My first acceptance! "Showing of Sustenance" has been picked up for the November 2009 issue of the emag Digital Dragon. No, they don't pay anything, but considering the first draft of the story was posted on my blog, this is very, very cool. Gotta love the acceptance, too:

"I’ll be honest; I wanted to dislike this piece as it didn’t have the feel I was originally looking for. However I couldn’t put it down. You created an intriguing world, characters you felt for, and a great short story. I am more than happy to have it as part of this issue, and to introduce our fans to your work."

Sorry if everyone who reads this blog has already heard the news. Don't worry, you'll hear it again :)

Writer's Block

The calendar of Writer's Block comics is now available. Although it will have a different name. email Kersley.fitz at yahoo dot com for more information.