“I’ve fought some of the meanest men out there. So what am I up against, poison apples? Lightning bolts coming out of their bony fingers?”
“They’re goblins not witches!” House sniffles before continuing. “Ancient ones. They don’t rely on poisons or vain displays of power. They climb into your brain, learn your fears and insecurities then slowly cover your thoughts in slimy, black goo until it breaks you down completely.”
“Psychological warfare.” He says nodding. “As a soldier I was prepared for that, they can’t hurt me. ‘Sides that only works on the weak-minded.”
“So you think that makes you safe.” House says with amusement. “Tell me, how’s the water in the river you’re floating down, I’ve never been on Denial. You poor deluded thing. These aren’t your everyday variety garden gnomes with a bad sense of humor, these are mean girls. I’m not talking about human mean girls. They’re Faerie Mean.”
“Then take care of it yourself. You’re mean enough,” The self-proclaimed mercenary points out, as the beam of light from the carry lamp he’s holding slowly pans over the rest of the attic revealing more slimy, black goo.
“I already told you, I’m not as powerful as they are. My magic is too weak to overpower an Ancient.”
He nods.
“Since I’m the Commanding Officer at this address. I’ll keep everyone safe.”
“You are dense. Getting these goblins moved out and back to Faerie without some serious firepower would be like taking a bucket of snowballs to storm the beaches at Normandy. One man with a single bucket of snowballs.”
“I took down a conference center full of Ninja-Zombies, one little goblin …”
“Two extremely powerful Ancient goblins,” House corrects.
“Two little goblins.”
“And their slimy, black goo.”
Tinkletoes looks down at the goo that is slowly beginning to pool closer and closer to the soles of his boots.
“And their whatever the hell this is, isn’t going to win. I’m too much of a bad ass.”
“You’re definitely too much of something. So you aren't feeling any different? Have you noticed any dark existential dread sucking away at the hope that you have for even the simplest of everyday joys?”
“My capacity for feeling joy of any kind was yanked out of me a long time ago.”
“We’ll see,” House says.
There’s a clicking noise as he turns off the tactical light before tucking it back into one of his many pockets.
“Back soon,” he says. Tinkletoes heads back downstairs, turning off the lone bulb illuminating the attic as he goes.
*****************************************
Those are the cases I get. Cupid told me when he offered me this job that if I took it
he’d help me find Marion. He’d help me find my girl. I think I might have already
told you that. I have to admit for something I always thought was for wimps, this is
really satisfying work. There are some really stubborn, lonely people out there.
We’re about to meet two of them.
“And … what happens next?” Writer Lady whispers.
Nothing happens next because you don’t have any talent. A voice says.
All those stories written, all those years wasted. Only an idiot would do such a thing. A different voice says.
Writer Lady stares at her screen.
“That’s not what happens next,” she says.
Raising both hands to her face, she rests both palms against it.
“I feel like I’m writing six different stories, one sentence at a time.”
That’s because you are.
ADHD that’s what you have. No wonder you can’t hold down a job.
“I don’t have ADHD. A decade. I had that job for nearly a decade. Having any job over three years qualifies as long term.”
Whatever you want to tell yourself.
“These thoughts wouldn’t keep derailing me if I was working on the right story. Which story is the right story?”
The story you actually finish.
“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!”
We’ll never shut up. We’re having too much fun.
The words fill Writer Lady’s head followed by giggling.
Writer Lady focuses on the notebook sitting to the side of her keyboard. Line after line has been scribbled out across pages. Bits and pieces of story after story. So many of them stacked one over the other screaming for attention. She hears the familiar footfall of a self-proclaimed mercenary as he approaches from behind. She feels Tinkletoes standing next to the Big Writing Chair perusing the pages laid out next to her.
“That looks kinda interesting. What’s it about?”
“This one is about the ghost of a mobster who works for Cupid in his afterlife while trying to find out what happened to his one true love. The one above it is about a boy who meets a writer that travels interdimensionally in order to save his characters and try to regain control over his stories when they get away from him. Getting them out of all kinds of scrapes and disasters. This one over here is about a college girl and the other members of the writer’s group she belongs to. They’re all frustrated creatives trying to navigate the world of publishing and online content in an effort to be discovered.”
“What’s that?” He asks.
“A record of the voices in my head I’m hoping Dr. Frankenstein will remove for me someday.”
“What about that.”
Writer Lady looks for what Tinkletoes is pointing to.
Every morning upon waking, she cries. Seeing only the darkest of futures for herself in the early moments before dawn, it’s all she knows to do.
“I don’t … know.”
Wondering what it feels like to be running towards something instead of running away
from whatever is coming her way.
“What’s coming her way?”
“Dying alone in a ditch after she’s lost everyone and everything.”
“Which sounds kinda dark. Your stories are good, funny, happy even.”
“I guess long term unemployment does things to a person.”
The self-proclaimed mercenary gives Writer Lady a blank stare. Clearly he cannot relate to her situation.
“War is hell?” She says.
“It does kinda feel like war, doesn’t it? All the hunting around, submitting requests just to be ignored, we’ve all been there. I saw a lot of that while I was enlisted. The weak ones couldn’t seem to handle it.”
“Do you have even a piece of your soul left?”
“No one has seen anything!” Tinkletoes says, for no apparent reason.
“That’s a new development.”
The self-proclaimed mercenary shakes the last thirty seconds off and moves forward.
“I know you’re feelin’ kinda bad today. Do me a favor. Stay here. You’ll feel better soon.”
He reaches down and attempts to give Writer Lady a reassuring pat on the hand. It’s awkward and a little painful.
“Ow?”
“Sorry about that. I think I’ll get going.” He whispers.
“Okay you get going,” she whispers back, watching as he leaves High Command. “I don’t know what’s worse his complete inability to be helpful or my own negative thoughts.”
You.
It’s you.
It’s definitely you.
We’re sure it’s you.
“Where is this stuff coming from?”
Wouldn’t you like to know.