The Happy Park

ACT I

Welcome to The Happy Park

Frisbees thrown, puppies bark

Novels read underneath the trees

Relaxing in the warmest breeze

Children play on slides and swings

Monkey bars and trampolines

Even when the sun has set

The dark day isn’t over yet

ACT II

Wonder why the grass is colorful?

Elves are buried in shallow holes

Why’s there dragon fruit on trees?

A faerie army fell to their knees

Why are the swing sets so sturdy?

Dwarven bones thick and dirty

No Happy Park without sacrifice

Your favorite creatures cold as ice

ACT III

You don’t have to ask questions

As rainbow bubbles grab attentions

Live, laugh, play every day

Nothing wrong with our brutal ways

Your parents pay their tax dollars

So colorful critters will die and holler

Don’t mind the rumbling in your guts

Work a little harder if you’ve got the nuts

CONCLUSION

If you don’t appreciate genocide

We can always take a bulldozer for a ride

Be grateful for the shallow beauty

Picketing is for the fruity

We got the magic wands and staffs

Sorcerers and their belly laughs

Eight foot tall barbarians

Back up your youthful arrogance

Have a nice day! Come back tomorrow

Take the edge off your so-called sorrows

Play in the park and be grateful

Who cares if its history is bleak and hateful?

Beautiful Monster, Prologue

Elves from all walks of life filed into the Magetan church as though they were already in a Death Valley March trance. Farmers, warriors, healers, scholars, adults, children, they had all seen their fair share of trauma by virtue of their light green skin and pointy ears. It was just another form of othering that the human population had gotten far too comfortable with. The Xavier Village was their only refuge from it all, yet the luster of safety was growing dimmer with each passing day, with each missing elf, with each instance of violence and every microaggression. 

The elven flock took their seats in the wooden pews. Some of them breathed slowly to try to calm themselves down. Mothers held their bewildered children in their arms. Married couples of all sexual orientations rested their heads on each other’s shoulders and held hands as tightly as they could, as if letting go would cause them to float away into the dark abyss. Most of these elves didn’t bother dressing up in their finest clothing for this sermon. Dirt-covered overalls, torn leather vests, baggy pants that were the only source of comfort for some, and dresses with faded purple colors were among the fashion of the day. The collective trauma must have made dressing their best seem like a laborious chore. No one could blame them. Combing their flowing locks seemed like the only notable effort.

Conspicuous by her own presence was the woman with prematurely gray dreadlocks sitting alone on the far end of one of the pews. While other elves were simply sick and tired of the grind of their disenfranchised lives, Bijou Birdwing seemed to carry that burden more than anyone else. The bridal gown she wore looked as though it had seen many years of fights and lonely nights in the streets of Morgan Town, judging from the blood and dirt stains smeared every which way. Her body odor was forgivable among the flock, but the constant twitching, muttering to herself, and staring off into the distance caused them to hold onto their loved ones even tighter. Bijou had been through hell and she seemed determined to put the world through worse.

Queen Llewellyn Xavier took notice of every disturbing aspect among the congregation’s presentation, yet remained the sole beacon of hope in this village by virtue of how she herself was presented. Her pristine purple velvet robe adorned with leonine faces and golden trim along with her wooden crown were symbols of her regality, but her calm composure, her hands across her lap, and her gentle stare were what solidified her as a symbol of strength. 

Her therapist and personal confidant Vera Echo rubbing her shoulders helped in keeping her calm as well. One final squeeze and the fluffy blue robed therapist took her seat in the front pew. Llewellyn smiled at her confidant as Vera pulled out her plush doll and flipped it around as her own source of comfort. Everyone had their own things. This was Vera’s. With her age showing in the white strands in her long black hair, she’d seen enough in her lifetime and didn’t want to take shit from people telling her to grow up.

Now that everyone had taken their seats and were waiting patiently for the sermon to begin, Llewellyn took center stage and lightly banged the gong with her mallet. “Nagata,” she said while doing a fist-to-palm prayer stance. Others in the congregation repeated this gesture. This was a sign of respect among the Magetan covenant, a source of siblinghood, and a token of love. These people needed all the love and siblinghood they could get, especially Bijou who continued to twitch like she had consumed something poisonous for her already fucked up mind.

“Welcome, everyone. As you all are aware, there’ve been many changes in our village over the past few months. Most of our brothers and sisters have gone missing through mysterious circumstances. Those who try to investigate end up missing themselves…including my own flesh and blood Windham. He is out there somewhere looking for our loved ones. But until the day comes when everyone returns, it’s important to know why this is all happening. This isn’t but a random occurrence. There’s a history behind these actions. A history of othering. A history of violence. A history of fascism among the human race, the same humans we depend on for our currency with the outside world.”

Llewellyn tucked her head and cleared her throat, the smallest sign of crumbling under pressure, yet invisible to all. “To understand the history of our people, it is always important to remember that this land we call ours doesn’t belong to us at all. It in fact once belonged to a society of dwarves that have since moved underground due to human meddling. It is unclear when they will return to the surface for vengeance. The dwarves were painted as savages and cutthroats, when it was in fact the accidental consumption of a single poisonous plant that caused many of them to lash out the way that they did. Was the Brock Flower planted there on purpose? May have been. But ever since the consumption of that plant, this land was used by other kingdoms as an execution ground for undesirables and prisoners. They would be airdropped into these lands knowing the sickly dwarves would kill them.”

While the Queen took a brief sigh, Vera clutched her doll tighter while Bijou grew more agitated in her little corner. Other elves held onto their loved ones for comfort. The Queen continued. “These undesirables weren’t killers and hardened criminals. They were innocents that we would have welcomed into our church if given the opportunity. Those with mind ghosts, those who loved the same gender, those who identified as other genders, progressives, artists, they were all airdropped onto this island and killed off as to be expected. But then the kingdom got greedy and dropped too many prisoners onto the island. The prisoners soon outnumbered the dwarves and in fact held their own in combat. The dwarves had no choice but to retreat underground.”

Llewellyn noticed Bijou twitching even harder than before, but continued the sermon nonetheless. “The dwarves are not to blame in all of this. They were victims of circumstance. That is why we take care of their land and grow the finest vegetables and fruits…like this one.” She pulled a baby corn cob out of her robe’s breast pocket and handed it to a small child in the front row, who thanked her with wide eyes and gobbled down on it happily. Everyone smiled at this beautiful gesture. Vera held onto her doll like it was a beloved family member. Bijou calmed down, but only a little bit.

“But as you all know, not all of our vegetables and fruits have turned out to be healthy. A blight had infected our crops, one which could be solved with our grangers had they not disappeared. They too were victims of othering, just like the first elf Ryoka, a warrior with brain ghosts who was among the class of prisoners who forced the dwarves to move underground. She did nothing wrong other than have a skin condition that turned her dark green and struggle with her inner demons. That’s all it took for her to be considered undesirable. She, like many elves after her, was accused of witchcraft after the accidental burning of Morgan Town property. Maybe there was magic in those days, but it has long since been suppressed by human colonialism.”

The initial happiness from Llewellyn’s corn offering turned to more nervousness and head-tucking sadness from the congregation. “But our story didn’t end there. It only began with the emergence of our leonine god Mageta. Nobody knows where this god came from. Nobody knows why he saved us. But just like the dwarves before us, he deserves respect in our people’s history. Mageta slaughtered those who dared imprison and oppress us. His warm fur coat provided a place for sickly elves to rest. His fuzzy paws, though worn with combat, gave us hugs that would last us for generations. 

That was five hundred years ago and ever since then we’ve given him thanks with our worship and our progressive ways. With this small reprieve he gave us, we as elves temporarily broke our cycles of abuse inflicted on us by the humans. We continue to break cycles and be better versions of ourselves than generations before…because Mageta is no longer here with us. After he was savagely hunted down by those he fought against, he forged his own meadow kingdom in the afterlife. He is waiting for us. He wants to give us comfort and love once again. But first…we must carry on his legacy in this world.”

Llewellyn proudly waved her arm around the church decorations. “You see these lion statues? Do you see these stained glass windows of elven legends past and present? Do you see these paintings of us being victorious in battle? Do you see tapestries and rugs designed with the faces of animals we love today? It is our creativity that makes us feel alive in a world that wants us dead. It is our therapy, much like the animals that live in our village themselves. Ever created a sculpture of a whale and had a nightjar sit on your shoulder the entire time? Windham has. Ever painted a picture of your wife with flowers in her hair while a kitten sits on your lap? Ever chiseled a granite weapon while a dog rubs his head against the blunt end? Progressivism, cycle breaking, creativity, animal care, these things are all what we live for. They make life bearable. They make it worth living. That is why we must take good care of each other for the time we have left. Nagata!”

The congregation, Llewellyn included, did the first-to-palm prayer to end the sermon. This moment of clarity was broken when Bijou stood up and shrieked, “Get your hands out of my underwear! Get your bastardly hands off of me!” She had everyone’s shocked attention, but Llewellyn held her ground.

“Bijou! Who are you talking to?! Who did this to you?!”

Bijou went silent as her paranoid eyes darted around to see everyone staring at her with paranoid eyes of their own. “…Nobody…there’s nobody here…”

“Listen to me, my friend,” said Llewellyn in a firm, yet gentle tone. “Dr. Echo’s door is open to you anytime you need someone to talk to. Things haven’t been the same since your sister Juliet left you to join the Atwood Queendom. Her betrayal is unforgivable. She’s the Mother Ruth archetype we hear about so much. I know you two used to play with dolls together. You told stories to each other. You had so much creative energy inside you. Let us help you get your passion for life back. Please…seek help. It doesn’t even have to be a therapy session with Vera. It could be a backgammon game with her. Or a chess game with me. Maybe we can tell stories together. Let us help you in whatever way we can.”

“Help? You want to help ME?!” Bijou screamed, making everyone jump backwards in fear. “I don’t need your damn help, Llewellyn. In fact, I downright despise you. If I had a knife in my hand, I would slash you from asshole to appetite. You’re the reason why my sister is gone. You’re the reason why my mother abandoned us. And you’re the reason why this village is turning to shit. You stand up there all high and mighty and yet you haven’t done a single thing to restore the peace. Your empty words don’t work on me. My words…” She pointed to her own head. “Come from here. They’re the only ones I can trust from now on. Everyone else is a backstabber.” Bijou gave Llewellyn double middle fingers as she stomped out of the church. She even pushed over a granite statue of Mageta on her way out.

The rest of the congregation stared at their Queen with disbelief in their eyes, as though their symbol of strength had let them down. They exited the church the same way they came in: imitating the Death Valley March, a traumatic condition where marching blindly into combat was the only way to the afterlife. 

I failed them. I failed them all. Damn it, Windham. Where are you? Where are you, Lars? I need someone to lean on. Yet, everyone I love has turned away from me. These were the thoughts that circled Llewellyn’s head as she tucked her chin and turned her back to the audience so that she wouldn’t have to watch them walk away from her. Bijou is delirious. But some of what she said was right… Vera approached Llewellyn for another shoulder rub, but this time was turned away as the Queen trudged out of sight. If my parents were alive, they wouldn’t let this be. The shameful trek back to her throne room ended with a plop on her comfortable bed, face down like a drunk in an alleyway. I have no right to sleep in a comfortable bed when others are suffering. Windham, please come home. Lars, we need to talk. Can anyone help me?!

To Be a Magetan

What does it mean to be a follower of the Magetan faith? One definition that won’t ring true among the elven covenant is, “Going to snuggle town with a dead cat.” Though dead our lord and savior may be, Mageta was certainly no ordinary cat. A domesticated beast wouldn’t have saved an entire race of people from the greedy clutches of humankind. Only a lion of blessed might could come from the Promised Land itself and annihilate racist tormentors with such ease. A Deus Ex Machina conclusion to a centuries-long story of oppression would seem ridiculous on the surface, but the key word in that old phrase is Deus. Mageta wasn’t a mere lap cat. He was a lion god.

And with this lion god’s protection, the elven race was able to rebuild their once dead society from its crumbling foundation. They made sure never to repeat the evils of their human captors. Instead of lusting for corporate gold, Magetan society became moneyless, trading services for products and fulfilling each other’s needs. They do not engage in hateful politics; this is a religion of love. Even a simple gesture such as holding hands, which would be frowned upon in far-right human society, is encouraged among followers of Mageta. Respect for the animal kingdom is a must for these zealots, whether it’s conforming to a vegetarian diet or taking in wayward pets and giving them the best years of their lives.

Why do the elves practice their religion this way aside from not wanting to repeat the bitterness of human slave masters? They don’t see it as blind zeal, but rather gratitude for a historical figure who paved the way for their culture to flourish. They have carved monuments and statues of him. They gather in church to send him their prayers every week. They encourage creativity among each other whether it’s drawing, sculpting, writing poetry, or constructing prose. Most of the Magetan lore is an anthology of creative writing exercises, all of which didn’t need the approval of human society in order to feel valid.

But sometimes contact with the outside world is necessary to sustain their own culture. Selling fruits and vegetables in the streets of Morgan Town, selling art to elitist galleries, and attending technology boarding schools are just some of the ways elves reach out to their hostile communities. Elves are still met with prejudice and shunning in these societies, whether it’s being called a slur such as “lizard” (due to their light green skin) or “cucumber penis” (due to their vegetarian diets). The beatings ramped up so much that the elves once again had to learn how to fight.

By the time they had enough, Mageta was already slain in battle, hunted for his meat and pelt. Some elves were recaptured into slavery, not just by Mageta’s killers, but also by one of their own: Mother Ruth. She had a specific role to protect Mageta’s literal children, but was secretly earning money to sell them into servitude. The term Mother Ruth had become a slur of its own for elves who turned their backs on their own kind. Because of elven betrayal and human prejudice, Magetan society began to suffer once again. But every day they look towards their savior for the strength to carry on.

Because their lion deity was powerful himself, the elves’ combat training regimen sought to mimic such strength on the battlefield. Exercises for elven soldiers were often so difficult that it wasn’t uncommon to pass out by the end of the session. Running, weight lifting, leapfrogging, and weapons training were all mixed into one session after the other. Soldiers willingly gave up their comfortable love so that they could protect their people, which meant they were mentally tormented by their instructors as well as physically. This would seem hypocritical of a race determined not to repeat their human tormentors’ mistakes, but there was no other choice.

Those who followed Magetan progressiveness and protected each other from the evils of the world were rewarded in death by having a place in the Promised Land, a cloudscape of comfort that they weren’t afforded in the living realm. Laying down in any part of the Promised Land was akin to a soft, fluffy bed that one wouldn’t mind sharing with a dog or a cat. If an elven follower was lucky, they could easily schedule a cuddle session with Mageta himself. He may have been a violent god when dealing with bigots, but only when it was warranted. The remainder of the time, he was as gentle as his booming baritone voice.

The prospect of the Promised Land sounded so appealing to the elves that for some of the more suicidal ones, it was more appealing than the living world. There was plenty for an elf to be suicidal about: trauma, war, unwanted sex, bullying, and a lifetime of negative messages from those who never cared. Whenever the mental and physical stresses of real world combat became too much for an elf, they would descend into a trance-like state known as the Death Valley March. They become so uncaring and unaware of the violence around them that they march blindly into a suicidal scenario.

Not everyone can snap out of this trance, but those who do are tasked with attending therapy sessions with a Magetan shaman. The couch will be as comfy as a Promised Land cloud, the music will be as pleasing to the ears as a tingly massage, and the therapist will be so sweet and empathetic that a traumatized elf can tell them anything they need to without fear of the details leaving the cozy cottage. Talk therapy is the method of choice for these healers. Only in extreme cases will they use herbal remedies and brain salves, but these are not replacements for a much-needed conversation about mental health.

Can Magetan values succeed in such a disgusting world where racist humans control the majority of land? Every day it seems like a definitive no. Every day the elves wonder what the point of all of this is, especially with a mysterious blight covering their once fresh crops. Every day they pray to Mageta and wonder why his answers won’t help them escape a sex dungeon or a slave auction. Every day they wonder if they’ll be the next ones to take the Death Valley March.

And yet, the religion is still alive in the year 500 AM. That’s because it is not a religion, but a spiritual bond. It is nationalism. It is family. It is protection. The world may be a cold place, but somewhere in life is a warm leonine embrace. The elves may have to search far and wide to find it, but when they do, it is pure magic. Magic may be gone from the elven culture, but it is not forgotten and never will be. Trauma can suppress creativity and lore, but it can’t kill it forever.

A Brief History of Honey Valley

“Honey Valley isn’t known for its bee population.”

Throughout the history of the former dwarven lands, that joke had been beaten to death almost as badly as the soldiers who fought over control of said lands. The younger inhabitants see the word honey and instantly think of elven sex slavery, which in a perverse way had become Honey Valley’s national product. But the bloody roots of the dwarven island run much deeper than a shallow night of adult fun time. Conquest is the word of the day, and the many days after that if history seemed intent on repeating itself.

In the early days of its inception, five hundred years ago to be exact, Honey Valley didn’t even have a name. If it did, it wasn’t kept in any public records. It was simply referred to as the home island of the dwarven culture. The dwarves were labeled as savages by anybody with no knowledge of tribal culture. The dwarves made ends meet by farming and hunting for food, not generally bothering anybody. One of their favorite crops to farm was coffee beans, which they would combine with caramel to make the perfect caffeinated drink, enjoyed by mostly chiefs and other warriors higher on the pecking order.

During the course of this farming for coffee, a poisonous plant was accidentally mixed in with the ground beans and the drink was subsequently consumed by one tribal chief in particular. Instead of killing him outright, the poisonous plant turned him into a psychotic monster capable of ravaging large numbers of his own population. His skin turned bright red, his muscles bulged to the size of cannonballs, his fangs and fingernails grew into sword-like weapons, but it was his aggression that became synonymous with his genocidal tendencies.

As the poisoned chief slaughtered his own kind, more dwarves became infected with his brain-altering disease. This went on for several years until the entire dwarven population was cannibalizing each other. When they got too feral for each other, they swam across the sea to the mainland looking for victims to dine on. The dwarves were so powerful that they couldn’t be fought off by ordinary soldiers and civilians; they could only be negotiated with once the poison tapered off.

In exchange for the dwarves not invading their lands, several kingdoms offered to donate prisoners to the island whether they were deserving of a death sentence or not. This arrangement continued for several years until the prison population exceeded the rabid dwarves’ appetites. Among those imprisoned on the island was a green-skinned woman named Ryoka, who is believed to be the first “elf” in the history of the world.

The greenish hue, pointy ears, and funky-colored eyes were believed to be part of a rare auto-immune disease Ryoka had. As a result of her strange appearance, she was bullied by her peers to the point where she couldn’t find work and ultimately lived on the streets. Her official imprisonment came when she appeared to conjure magic and set one of her tormentors on fire. Ryoka went on a killing spree against those who wronged her until she was caught and sent to the dwarven island along with several other dangerous prisoners.

In addition to Ryoka, an elite human warrior known as Thomas Xavier joined the roster that would be known for driving the dwarven population underground, never to be seen again. The kingdoms got greedy with their prison exiles and sent too many fighters over to the island. Now that the humans and Ryoka were the supreme masters of what would later be called Honey Valley, they started forging their own alliances and building their own towns and kingdoms. The northern territory belonged to the Atwood lineage, Atwood being a literal name for living near the forest. The central territory was home to the Shadow Asylum mercenary guild, a longstanding organization headed by the ultra-rich Rinehart family.

Ryoka and Thomas Xavier found their own paradise in the southern portion of the island, a forested area with a lovely beach at the tip. Because of the threat of the infection keeping the northern, central, and southern territories isolated from each other, Ryoka and Thomas had enough alone time together to forge a romantic relationship and begin the Xavier bloodline. Several generations of isolation has led to a growth period of the elven race, to the point where their magic usage was becoming too much of a threat to the northern and middle territories.

The official start of human racism towards elves began when an elven boy accidentally set Morgan Town on fire with too little control over his own magical powers. An overabundance of magical energy swirling around wasn’t uncommon in those days and ultimately the Morgan Town government and Atwood monarchy teamed up together to keep the elves under control. Generations of brainwashing, beatings, and enslavement of elves were done to ensure no more accidents would happen and that magic would be completely erased from the elven culture. The xenophobia was bad enough, but when the disenfranchisement of elves became a business, that would be how the new generation of prisoners would negotiate with the mainland.

The newly minted Honey Valley was now in good standing with the mainland kingdoms with elven slave trade becoming lucrative. Slavery was even used to rebuild Morgan Town and refurnish the northern and middle territories with technology unheard of at the time. As traumatizing as the slave trade was for elves, they would get their well-deserved reprieve from their nightmares in the form of a “lion god” they dubbed Mageta.

To this day, the elves don’t know if Mageta was an actual lion who succumbed to the dwarves’ infection or if it was a powerful elf who wore the skin of a lion. Either way, this lion god would prove instrumental in keeping the elves safe for a long enough time that they could get back on their feet again. By the time Mageta was hunted and killed by slave trading warriors, the elves were powerful enough that they could forge their own empire with the recuperation time they were given.

The elves were so grateful for Mageta’s help that they built an entire religion around him, which is still practiced to this day. Because actual history was lost in the elven/human conflict, most of the mythology surrounding this religion was crafted by creative minds. Storytellers, artists, and poets came together to give the elven race their epic Magetan tale, which is why many elves are regarded as being creative types. But with this creative prowess, there was still a need for the elves to defend themselves against the humans that hated them so much. Many Magetan zealots became soldiers hardened by combat and rigorous training. While elves are seen as being overly sensitive, the trauma they hold deep is just waiting to be unleashed on a xenophobic human waiting to strike.

Just as the southern elves began a quest to find their missing brethren who were lost to the slave exchange, another force emerged in the form of a mobile castle run by the Stonewall Kingdom. The knights were sent to investigate the happenings of Honey Valley, but they were short on manpower due to some of their own soldiers and citizens being caught up in the slave trade despite not being elves. Without the support of their superiors, the Stonewall Kingdom had no choice but to throw money at Shadow Asylum since they had no loyalty to any crown.

The current Queen of the Xavier bloodline, Llewellyn, wants to secure a trade deal with the current Stonewall King, Lars, since his mobile castle brought so much technology with it that the elves could use for farming and rebuilding. While Lars and Llewellyn have the same goal in mind of eliminating the slave trade forever, they are two different rulers with a lack of real communication between them.

And now here we are in the year 500 PM (Post-Mageta). The table is set for all out war among the different kingdoms and territories. The Atwood monarchy seems intent on expanding its power and not giving up any sliver of it to the other territories. Shadow Asylum wants to maximize profit and grow fat together off of their earnings. The Xavier and Stonewall monarchies want to put an end to generations of torment and anguish, which all began with the bullying of a green-skinned woman with pointy ears. Who will survive?

Somewhere beneath the surface are the dwarves who have not been heard from since the takeover of the mainland prisoners. Will they rise again? Will they take back their island and erase the Honey Valley name forever? If the threat is not real, then the paranoia is.

I Don't Belong Here

 Rodger Hyde had no damn clue what a Snow Moon Village was…even though he was smack bang in the middle of one. He looked around with glazed and puffy eyes at the wonders around him: gnomes running and playing in the street, bearded wizards in pointed hats selling potions, barbarians in furs laughing it up and chugging beer together, and green elves sharpening their blades with whetstones. The architecture of each building had that old-timey English medieval look, whether it was the cobblestone streets or the wooden structures of the Restful Wishes Inn, Dragon Blade Weapons Shop, Hellforge Armory, or Ogre Tears Tavern. The sounds of flutes and harps glided through the air as half-elf bards played their whimsical tunes, dancing in the streets as they were doing so.

This entire setup jumped straight from the pages of a Dungeons & Dragons handbook. And yet, all Rodger could whisper to himself was…”I don’t belong here.” To his credit, he stood out like a nun at a porn convention with his Crossfade T-shirt, messy brown hair, green khakis, and green marijuana radiating from his clothing. His self-hating mantra was confirmed even further as passersby gave him strange looks, ranging from sorrowful concern to smelling something suspicious.

“I don’t belong here,” he whispered to himself again. Even with all of his experience playing Dungeons & Dragons as a teenager, all the monster-slaying adventures he put his paladin through, all of the seas he crossed with his wizard in toe, all of the pockets he picked with his half-orc thief, the only words that rang true to him at that moment were…”I don’t belong here.” Somebody in his head was saying that to him, but the weed he smoked that morning ensured he wouldn’t have any clear answers.

He was snapped out of his zombie-like trance when a muscular barbarian slapped him on the shoulder and squeezed it. “Hello there, little laddie! Where’re you coming from?”

“I…I don’t know…”

“Well, where’re you going?”

“D…Denny’s…”

“Denny’s! A worthy quest if I’ve ever heard one! Perhaps we can venture together, laddie!”

“I…I don’t…I don’t think so…I, uh…” Rodger wandered off as another barbarian made a weird comment about how awkward he was. That barbarian was right, but the words he really meant to say were…”I don’t belong here.”

Just a few more agonized, cringey steps and he would be out of the Snow Moon Village, on his way to a Moons Over My Hammy with French fries and diet soda. That was his favorite meal as a kid, which he was surprised he remembered so vividly considering the rest of his mind was just as scrambled as the eggs in his would-be sandwich. A few more strange looks, minor giggles, and offers for potions later, Rodger finally made it to the edge of this LARPing convention. Over the hill was the Bastion of Breakfast itself: Denny’s. Maybe the Moons Over My Hammy would have to be scrapped in favor of a rib eye steak. Or a stack of pancakes a mile high oozing with maple syrup and drowning in butter. Or French toast with even more syrup and butter. And then…the realization hit him: “I don’t belong there either.”

What would the other patrons think of him, his wardrobe choices, and his disheveled appearance? Surely, Denny’s had that kind of clientele on a regular basis…but not him. There was something too awkward and flimsy about him. How did he know? The mysterious voice in his head told him so: “I don’t belong here.” And with that, he sat on the sidewalk with face in his hand. How defeated he was to not belong to a place that only cared whether or not he paid for his meal.

Somewhere in his lost thoughts, Rodger overheard a barbarian saying, “Murphy! Miss Witherspoon! I believe that young man over there needs some help.”

“Oh, no…”said Rodger silently to himself, anticipating more awkward interactions ahead from this Murphy Witherspoon person. As sure as the sun shone brightly enough to fuck up his eyes, a light blue elven lady with long red hair, a white puffy shirt, and black baggy pants sat next to him on the sidewalk. No doubt this was her.

“Guess what?” she said in an Irish accent. “Our bards don’t know how to play Crossfade songs.” She chuckled at her own joke while Rodger could only give a weak smile, which in her mind was probably better than none. “Share a story with me?”

“About what?”

Murphy giggled and hung her head. “Your story, of course. Everybody has a story to tell.”

“Well…I, uh…I got out of bed…smoked a roll of weed, and…just wandered here, I guess. I don’t know.”

“That…sounds exciting. Very adventurous.”

“Look, I know I don’t belong here, okay? You don’t have to tell me, because I already know.”

Murphy placed a hand on Rodger’s shoulder. “Nonsense, of course you do. The Snow Moon Village welcomes people of all kinds.”

He made a flat tire noise. “Tell that to the people who were giving me funny looks today.”

“Oh, don’t mind them. They’re worried about you, that’s all. You came here looking like you got mugged by some ogres and spit out by some dragons. It’s only natural that they’d want to know more about you.”

Rodger raised his voice. “I don’t even know about me, okay?!” Murphy edged backwards a little bit. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“No worries, my friend. I’ve faced horrors much worse than an angry pothead. I’ve ventured into fiery caves and blood-covered mountains. If you ever decide to come on an adventure with us, bring lots of potions, like this one.” She held a bottle of red liquid underneath his nose.

Rodger pulled the cork and smelled it. “It’s fruit punch.”

“All that weed must have stunted your imagination, laddie.”

“More like my mom’s boyfriend.”

And just like that, Rodger’s eyes grew wide with the realization of where he heard that familiar phrase before. He let it slip. It all came back to him in an instant. His shouting matches. The shoving. The tears from his own mother pouring down her red cheeks. He suddenly remembered the pettings she gave him on his fluffy hair in order to calm him down from a yelling session. The hugs that were as warm as a thick blanket and much more comfortable to be wrapped around in. He could fall asleep during one of her comfort sessions if not for the nightmare that awaited him when he woke up, hence the reason he smoked so much pot to begin with.

“Are you okay?” Murphy asked, probably noticing a small tear pouring down Rodger’s face.

“…I told him I didn’t want to get a STEM degree…I just wanted to write stories and play D&D…but he kept telling me to man up. He said that real adults don’t play with that kid shit. He said that money was more important than my dreams. We argued like this for hours and…I’m sorry, I don’t mean to dump all of this on you…What was I thinking?” He wiped the tear from his eye.

“So he’s the one telling you that you don’t belong here?”

“…Yes…wait a minute…how did you know I was saying that?”

“Have you seen the concerned faces of everyone around you? Of course they heard you.”

Rodger shook his head. “Who says those things? Why would anybody…it makes no sense…It’s just stupid shit…”

Murphy scratched her fingernails along Rodger’s back. “That says more about your mom’s boyfriend than it does about you. Imagination and creativity should never be suppressed in favor of capitalism. That piece of horse garbage has no idea what he’s talking about.”

“I can deny him all he wants, but it doesn’t make the pain go away.” He wiped another tear from his eye. “Look, I appreciate you trying to help me, but I really just want to eat myself to death at Denny’s, okay?”

“We don’t eat Moons Over My Hammies here in the Snow Moon Village. We eat dragon stew with extra chunks of meat and potatoes.”

“I told you, I don’t belong…”

“Yes, yes, I know what you said! Your mom’s boyfriend said you don’t belong here! I get it! But…I’m saying you do. You belong everywhere you go. Do you understand? If you’re worried about the Crossfade T-shirt and not fitting in, then…” She smiled. “I’m sure we can find some nice wizard robes to dress you in.” Rodger’s eyes started to light up behind his puffy sadness. “Or if you’re more of a fighting man, we can get some splint mail. Or demon-skin boots. Anything you’d like.”

Rodger breathed heavily. “Thank you…thank you so much.”

“The name’s Murphy. Murphy Witherspoon.”

“Rodger Hyde. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands.

Before his grin could fully form, the same barbarian from before slapped his shoulder again, jarring him out of his skin. With a hideous fanged smile, he asked, “What’s your mom’s boyfriend’s name?” He held up a battleaxe. “I’d like to have a word with him!”

NOW was the right time for Rodger to smile. Of course, murder was still illegal, but the sentiment was all that mattered. Belonging in the Snow Moon Village was all that mattered. Belonging anywhere at all was all that mattered.

Xanax and Perrier

VERSE 1

My weirdest dreams are of school it seems

Naked in front of the students and deans

A grown adult fighting it out with teens

Doing crystal math until my eyes bleed

Dreading the day I receive my grades

Failing every class, I cannot be saved

There’s always next year, no question about

It’s hard to speak up when my teeth fall out

CHORUS

Xanax and Perrier to end my day

My oldest kitty is snoozing away

Eight hours until I feel the sun’s rays

Back to the theater, back to the craze

VERSE 2

My wildest dreams are of music and screams

Heavy metal menus in the strangest venues

Pantera tore it up in a grocery store

3DG in a lecture hall, I want more

Rammstein shot flames in a Chinese diner

Roger Waters at the Stonehenge, not bad, old-timer

Brit Floyd in a museum, not an easy feat

It’s hard to sing songs with loosening teeth

CHORUS

Xanax and Perrier to end my day

My oldest kitty is snoozing away

Eight hours until I feel the sun’s rays

Back to the theater, back to the craze

BRIDGE

Sometimes all I want is to go the fuck home

But these dreamy busses are so damn slow

The foot ferries splash as they’re about to crash

The airplanes race into outer fucking space

VERSE 3

My nerdy dreams make me want to cream

Comic book shops on every street block

Libraries with dark fantasy sweetness

My dream theater knows my favorite weakness

Seeing my notebooks being sold on the shelves

Seeing my novels being read by elves

Hearing my poems being read by pixies

My dreams come true whether it’s now or sixty

EXTENDED CHORUS

Xanax and Perrier to end my day

My oldest kitty is snoozing away

Eight hours until I feel the sun’s rays

Back to the theater, back to the craze

Every youngster has the right to dream

Every adult can set them free

Never give up, never let it die

Spread your dragon wings and fly

Demon Axe, Chapter 17

“It’s always darkest before the dawn.”

These gentle words brought a flood of light into Raven’s blacked out field of vision. She squinted so that her eyes could adjust, but they were still stinging from her battle with Roger Zee. Upon being reminded of that hideous name, she sat up with a quickness only to clutch her aching ribs and be laid back down again by powerful hands on her arms. Every part of her body felt like it was branded with a hot iron. Yet in this familiar man’s care, she remained relaxed.

Her burning eyes opened some more until the blurry shape before her straightened into focus. The long brown hair, the middle-aged face, the rock n’ roll T-shirt, they were all there. Raven couldn’t believe such gentle care came from a man whose occupation required fiery aggression. It was him alright. The man she had so many petty arguments with, yet couldn’t be without. Daniel Mercer smiled down on her with the face only a mother could love…a Mother of Dragons, that is.

“Daniel…we have to….we have to find my father…” whimpered Raven.

“I know, Raven. Trust me, I know. Shawn and I got here a little too late. I’m so sorry,” said Daniel.

With her clear vision, the elf princess gazed around the room to find she was lying on a police blanket in the back of a SWAT van. The dented shelter wasn’t pretty nor was the van mobile at all, but it was better than the battlefield of dead bodies waiting for them outside. Tears welled up in Raven’s eyes as she thought of her lost comrades.

Daniel wiped them away with the bottom of his shirt and said, “It’ll be okay. We’re going to find your father and that bastard Roger. But you need to rest for now. You were badly beaten when we found you.”

“How can I even think about resting when…?” cried Raven.

“Listen to me,” said Daniel as he held the elf’s hand in his own. “I know how much your father means to you. But if you go out and look for him in the condition you’re in, you won’t stand a chance. I know this, because I too had to stay in the hospital before I came here. That’s the reason why I was late.”

Raven’s face oozed with concern and sorrow when she asked, “Why were you in the hospital, Daniel? What did Roger do to you?”

The singer breathed a deep sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a few more heavy breaths, he said with trepidation, “He tortured me. I formed a new band just as I said I would…and he took all of us to a black site…he…” Daniel rubbed the sogginess out of his eyes. “He killed all of them right in front of me…and he took me to a dark room…he fucking tortured me with my own music…”

The elf princess squeezed Daniel’s hand in sympathy while using her other hand to brush his long locks. “That’s awful…He’s a goddamn monster!”

“For a while, I didn’t think I could ever be interested in metal music again. I thought my dream was over. The very thing that got me through life was going to be taken away from me. And then…I, uh…the place I went to in order to stop the pain…was you, Raven. I thought about how lovely you were…how much you cared…how you saved me from my own nightmares…It’s the only thing that got me through it all. If it wasn’t for those images, I probably would have…killed myself,” sobbed Daniel.

Despite having a bruised and battered body, Raven found the strength to slowly sit up and give her friend a loving hug, which he returned. They stayed locked in each other’s embrace for the longest time. Long enough to finally ignore their own pain, both physical and emotional.

“There’s something I have to tell you, Daniel. It’s about why you were chosen to take on Roger,” confessed Raven.

When the embrace was gingerly broken, the singer said, “You don’t owe me an explanation. I know what I must do and why I should do it.”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s deeper than that, Daniel. Please, let me explain,” said Raven as she laid back down on the blanket. “My father has been around for many generations. He doesn’t have much longer to live. For a while we’ve been looking around scouting for a new king to rule over the elves. My father chose you, Daniel. He’s been watching you for a long time. He knows how passionate you can be. He knows where your morals lie. He believes in you.”

Daniel’s expression softened when he said, “But…I don’t know how to be a leader, Raven. I don’t know anything about being a politician. I led two heavy metal bands and all members of both bands are fucking dead. They’re dead because of me.”

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” asked Raven. “What did I teach you when I showed you the EMDR technique at the arena? Besides, I’m not much of a leader either as you can tell from the dead bodies outside. But if we’re judging our leadership skills based on another asshole’s actions, then you are really the only option we have. How is this any different from the politics of your human world?”

“Gee, thanks, Raven,” said Daniel with a light chuckle. Raven giggled as well. “But if we can be serious for a moment, what do I have to offer the elves if I can’t even handle my own goddamn life?”

“You have something that Roger hates with all of his might. You have creativity. You have music. You have a soul. A good soul, at that. Elves are passionate about the arts as you can tell from the lovely shapes of our buildings…before they were destroyed of course. Elves especially love music. That microphone we gave you is imbued with the souls of lost musicians. Every time you scream into the mouthpiece, you’re channeling their energy into every word you speak. When you sang that line about darkness before dawn, you made me believe in myself again. That’s how powerful your words really are. That’s why you must be next in line for the elven throne.”

Daniel hung his head in contemplation while petting Raven’s arm. The weight of the elven world rested on his shoulders, but he was determined to carry it with a titan’s strength. He lifted his head up to give an answer and a tiny smile was etched on his face. “If I become king of the elves…does that make you my queen?”

Raven threw her head back and giggled lightly enough to not aggravate her injuries. She thought it was just a joke, but when the laughter ceased, she saw the passion in Daniel’s eyes that King Arthur Triscloud himself boasted about. That was the look of someone with a purpose. That was the look of a hero. He knew he couldn’t rule this kingdom alone. He also knew he couldn’t live this life alone. He’d done the latter for so long throughout this campaign.

“Oh, Daniel…” whispered Raven as the two of them leaned in for a passionate kiss. As they brushed lips together and wrestled tongues, every ounce of energy they held back before came rushing into this loving moment. They spent so long denying each other and bickering senselessly. Neither of them wanted to give into each other until this private moment together. They kissed deeply, hugged tightly, and brushed each other’s hair wildly.

They were jerked away from their sexy moment when the back door of the van flung open and Shawn Henry stood there wide-eyed and with healing herbs in hand. He awkwardly said, “I found the medical supplies from the castle….in case you’re interested.”

“Um…yes, uh…of course we’re interested, Shawn. Thank you,” stammered Daniel as he crawled off of Raven and snatched the leaves out of the detective’s hands. He turned back to the wounded elf and said, “These, uh…these will help you recover, and…”

“We’ve used those before, Daniel. I know how they work,” said Raven.

The Lord of the Pit shakily crawled back to Raven and began applying the healing leaves and medical acid. He tried to be as nonchalant as possible when he said to Shawn, “You can leave now. I’ve got it from here.”

“Try not to have too much fun in there,” said Shawn with a smart-ass grin as he shut the van door.

Daniel smiled himself and said, “Well, that right there is what I like to call reverse Viagra.”

“You humans and your boner pills,” giggled Raven before she clutched her ribs in pain. “Hurry up and put that stuff on me, I’m hurting like hell!”

“Yes, Princess, I mean, Queen Triscloud!”

In Perfect Harmony

***IN PERFECT HARMONY***

I have no idea why, but the lyrics to the Within Temptation song “In Perfect Harmony” made me dewy eyed when I read them online. That’s not the same is full-fledged crying, but it was close. I still hold the 2007 record for the last time I bawled like a baby. But if you all want to know what these lyrics are, keep reading. You might get dewy eyed too.


VERSE 1
In a world so far away
At the end of a closing day
A little child was born and raised
Deep in the forest on a hidden place
Mother never saw his face

CHORUS
Ancient spirits of the forest
Made him king of elves and trees
He was the only human being
Who lived in harmony
In perfect harmony

VERSE 2
The woods protected, fulfilled his needs
Fruit by birds, honey by bees
He found shelter under trees
He grew up in their company
They became his family

VERSE 3
A thousand seasons
They passed him by
So many times, have said goodbye
And when the spirits called out his name
To join forever, forever to stay
A forest spirit he became


The question of the day is: did anybody else become teary when they read that or am I just fluff and stuff? We’ve got ears, say cheers!


***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

A new week means a new prompt. This time we’ve got “cabin” as our keyword and it turns out only one of my synopses fits the prompt. My story this week will be called “Cemetery Gates” (named after the Pantera song) and it goes like this:


CHARACTERS:

AJ Robbins, Traumatized Boyfriend
Eve Mills, Loving Girlfriend

PROMPT CONFORMITY: AJ and Eve are spending a weekend together in a cabin.

SYNOPSIS: AJ and Eve have been a couple for a long time now and all of the sudden Eve feels like her boyfriend is keeping secrets from her. When the two of them eat dinner together, she presses him about it and AJ becomes defensive. The secrets he’s been keeping are too traumatic for him to talk about and he prefers to keep those memories buried forever. AJ even refers to his mind as a cemetery gate since it keeps a graveyard of buried secrets underneath. The argument between this couple is a classic debate between having no secrets and respecting traumatic privacy.


***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

The last drawing I did was of Levi Lincoln, who’s basically Bray Wyatt in a British Guard shako. Up next? Marcus Edge from “Stardust”, who’s basically Clinton “Skink” Tyree from Carl Hiaasen’s novels with druidic magic and a hotter temper. Mitch O’Connor (space mercenary from “Stardust”) could have worn all the armor he wanted to, but his ass was lunch meat the minute Marcus Edge laid eyes on him. Yikes!


***OCCUPY WRESTLING***

I’ll be the first to admit that I haven’t been moving any faster than a snail’s pace when editing these chapters. But getting them edited I’ve been doing and it will continue with chapter six and seven, where the police get a nasty surprise in the form of hooded druids with snake masks and magical powers. Where the hell is Marcus Edge when you need him? Better yet, where the hell is Mitch McLeod when Debra Winter needs him?!


***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do pop music and scissors have in common?
A: Rock beats both of them.