Archive for the ‘Luc Reid’ Category
When They Return
Wednesday, July 7th, 2010
And at last, on the eighty-first day of their travels, the village came into sight through the trees, incomprehensibly peaceful and familiar and dull. The two surviving members of the quest limped, exhausted, toward the council house.
They didn’t have to announce their arrival: awed children–Second Trout, the flinter’s son; the orphans Birch-Leaf and Birch-Bough; Small Badger; and the others–coalesced around the adventurers with shrieks, clapping their hands excitedly against their thighs. Their families and neighbors left hides curing, grain half-pounded, roofs part-mended. By the time the two reached the council house, the Elders were already hurrying in, and almost the entire village trailed behind them in a raucous parade.
The younger traveler collapsed onto the cool dirt floor, laughing weakly. Two of the unmarried girls brought him water in a gourd.
The older traveler, Broken Tooth Wolf, gripped the center pole for support but remained standing. Under his free arm he held a hide-wrapped bundle somewhat larger than a man’s head.
“Broken Tooth Wolf!” said the Eldest as she creaked into a sitting position on a reed mat. “Where are Red Tailed Hawk and Bullfrog and Turtle Beak?”
“They’re dead, and their bones are scattered and trampled in places we don’t dare to return,” said Broken Tooth Wolf. Another elder opened his mouth to ask a question, but Broken Tooth Wolf spoke quickly. “We don’t have much time. Our journey was not successful. I have only been able to bring back one thing to help us, and you will see that it is not what we hoped for.”
Broken Tooth Wolf loosened the hide wrapping of his package, then threw it to the floor, where the coverings fell away to show what it was. The council house went quiet.
The Eldest looked up at Broken Tooth Wolf in surprise. Broken Tooth Wolf nodded, wearily.
“It is all we have,” said the Eldest. “We will do with it what we can. War chief, kill Broken Tooth Wolf by the black rocks and bring back his head. You others, get to work now. We must be prepared before they find us.”
Broken Tooth Wolf went unresistingly with the war chief. At least his lot would be easier than that of the ones who would stay to fight.
The Plot Against Barbie’s Life
Friday, July 2nd, 2010
Barbie knew she had enemies–that creepy clown doll, the sadly plain-looking ballerina, even (though this was more of a bitchy rivalry) Skipper. But it wasn’t until she stepped on the brakes of her hot pink sports car and got nothing but a dull clunking noise that she realized someone was trying to kill her.
She wasn’t helpless. Barbie had learned something from dating more than a few action figures in her time–G.I. Joe still sent her whiny Facebook messages. She dove out of the car, rolled, and came up in a crouch. The hot pink sports car smashed into a bedpost at a speed that would have pretzeled her. The room was silent. After a few watchful moments, she crept away.
Three days and two spa treatments later, Barbie had nearly forgotten the incident. She was having tea with Malibu Ken, who was as gay as a songbird.
“Did I tell you her brother has a new set of X-Men figures?” Ken said. “Hello, Wolverine!” There were more emotionally developed gay dolls in the room, but Ken was the most fun and the best dressed of them.
Barbie shook her head and lifted her teacup to her little plastic lips. Suddenly Ken squealed, lurched across the table, and swatted the cup away.
“I’m so sorry,” Ken said. “I forgot and put sugar in it! You could’ve gotten fat!”
The teacup’s contents spattered over a pop diva dress Barbie had been wearing earlier. The tea ate through it with a hissing noise.
“Oh. My. God,” Barbie said.
“Oh Barbie!” Ken said in despair. “And that dress was fabulous on you!”
Barbie wasn’t listening: she’d caught a glimpse of blonde hair disappearing under the bed sham and she dove after it. In the darkness under the bed, she grabbed hold of someone or something.
It was a rough fight: there was scratching, biting, and shrieking. Hair was mussed. Ken ran away, screaming for the weeble policeman. When they finally rolled into the light, covered with dust bunnies, Barbie was able to identify her attacker.
It was another Barbie–but from a fashion nightmare. Her hair had been “styled” into a page boy-meets-weed-whacker cut, and her face was grotesquely made up with magic marker. She looked old–her plastic scratched, her breasts distinctly 1990’s-shaped. Clearly this was Barbie’s predecessor, who had been handed down to the little sister. Barbie thought she would rather die than look like that.
Fashion nightmare Barbie just looked at her, tears streaming down her disfigured face, and nodded.