Month: January 2025

The Oz Exception: Part Five

Gwen smiled uneasily at me, Penrose and the thirteen Rat conga line we had met outside the Woak grove. I sensed that she wasn’t quite done asking questions after all because she turned to Fenwick with a puzzled expression on her face, but she failed to ask him anything because she saw that he had somehow switched out of his Oktoberfest costume and had dressed as the King, circa 1956, in the five seconds or so since she had last looked at him.

“Today is Elvis’ Birthday,” he said, as though it explained everything.

“But I thought it was Oktoberfest?” Gwen glared at John, then smiled. “You do plan on being of some use soon, darling?”

John spoke. His voice had a slight echoing quality, like the sound effect used in the original Star Trek to make a voice sound mighty. “It seems that the Springs is somewhat mercurial.”

“What does that mean, precisely? As in hot and cold? As in Freddy?”

John ignored the sarcasm. “Depends when his birthday falls.”

Gwen laughed and pulled a “handful” of John’s shoulder out like silly putty and let go and watched it snap back into place. “Tell me lover, do all your parts react like that?”

I, the wearer of the straw hat, took control of the narrative (I happened to be carrying a box, if I forgot to mention it earlier). “Now you’ve done it,” I said. “You are going to be scolded by our censor.”

The holder of the censor job varies from day to day. That way nobody gets hated anymore than anyone else. It turned out that Penrose held the title that day (which was awfully convenient). S/he pulled a clipboard out of the ether and got scoldy with Gwen. “You cannot infer sex-stuff in the Springs. You must say it. We do not approve of coy. Naughty-naughty. Shame on you. This concludes the scolding.”

Gwen looked at me, ”Are you in charge? If so, what is the Flying Stoat talking about?”

“Yes, I am as much in charge as I can be, which ain’t much,” I said. “Anyhoo, in Saragun Springs, you must ask smutty stuff directly,” I said. “For example, you can say ‘Is your dick like this?’–please Mr. Mallory, do not reply. You get scolded by the censor if you get clever about it. We find that forcing the direct approach eliminates that sort of thing altogether.”

“This is a strange place,” said John.

“I’m certain it gets weirder,” Gwen added.

“Depends on your standard of weirder,” I said, opening the box, from which I extracted two Oktoberfest tankards. “I have brought you guys something to drink.”

“How come they didn’t spill?” Gwen or John (really doesn’t matter–one of them asked it).

“Because they contain Faerie Ale, a magic brew, that can be drunk by both the living and the, um, life challenged,” I said, handing a tankard to John.

“This stuff won’t change me into a Toad or anything, will it?” cautious Gwen asked, taking hers.

I just smiled because I had no idea what the stuff might do. Faerie Ale is never harmful, but it occasionally does interesting things.

John, who hadn’t had a drink since his demise in 1978, quaffed his immediately.

Gwen regarded him with a bemused expression underscored (or overscored) with an arched eyebrow (um, her left).

He smiled. “T–riffic,” he said. “Hey, it’s not like it can make me deader.”

Gwen saw that each of us had a tankard of Faerie Ale in our hands/paws/hooves, whatever. Even the the abundant Sheep and Elvis Rats had a tankard. She did not question this, which meant that she was indeed back into the Saragun Springs’ swing of things, and drank. I assumed by his attitude that John was on board instantly, and he had a second Ale–which was good because things do get weirder.

End Part Five

(Happy Birthdays and a toast of Faerie Ale to the memories  of Elvis, Steven Hawking, David Bowie and, of course, the legendary Larry Storch)

The Oz Exception: Part Four

Meanwhile…back at the Vortex

Gwen and John passed through the vortex and were greeted by an odor that residents of the Springs often compare to “boiled diarrhea.” But Fenwick quickly closed the portal and the stench ceased.

“Sorry I forgot to mention that,” he said.

“Jesus, what was that?” Gwen was so overcome by the stink that she had yet to notice that John was no longer a ghost in her device, but was in the guise of a living person.

“The Spring,” said Fenwick, pointing at a bubbling black pool beside the vortex opening (the vortex, or portal is your standard SyFy Channel budget CGI looking shimmering, two dimensional swirl sort of thing). “It is said to originate from a crack in hell, but it serves to produce the magic in the realm. Whenever the vortex opens, the Spring’s smell gets out. That’s why we use it as little as possible.”

Gwen looked around. They were in a meadow surrounded by trees– bucolic, with lots of Sheep grazing far and near; but there was strangeness aplenty.  She saw a little blue sun in the sky, which clearly appeared to be moving. It was hard to look away from a sun zigzagging back and forth in the sky, but when she did, Gwen saw a series of identical hills on the horizon. They were exactly the same and appeared on the horizon in every direction. And there were wildly oversized common objects lying all around. Gwen saw a can opener that had to be three feet long lying near a twenty foot tall “pint” of Jack Daniels; Gwen figured the bottle was mostly empty due to a very long siphoning hose extending from the giant pint to a series of barrels on the ground. Behind the great pint stood at least ten uncracked others, a ladder lay against the first.  “How strange,” Gwen thought, “and this dude beside me looks just like John!”

“What? You’re real here?” Gwen said, realizing it was John. She poked his shoulder, but instead of touching flesh, he was elastic like a sheet of rubber.

“Hey,” John said. He poked Gwen on her shoulder,  but upon touch, his finger bent painlessly sideways.

“He’s real everywhere,” Fenwick said. “But things tend to change a bit when they pass through the vortex unless they are alive. Inanimate objects, as you see, greatly enlarge, which is great for our supplies. Ghosts take shapes that are, um, stretchy.”

Indeed, stretchy was a good word. John appeared to be forced into the fabric of reality. He was three-dimensional, but his existence in the fourth dimension of spacetime was also visual. When he moved, a series of ripples in spacetime formed around his being, as though he were suspended in water.

This was when Gwen figured that the natural laws of the universe were pretty much up for grabs in Saragun Springs and decided to stop questioning things. Therefore, she was not at all surprised to see me and Penrose the Flying Weasel enter the meadow.

End of Part Four

Two Oz

Part Two: The Oz Exception

Keeper transmits a signal from the enchanted Cherry Tree in Alone Park; when the “invitation” is answered (about once, twice a month), the team goes into action. Within minutes after the chime of the bell, heard only in the Cottage, John vanishes and becomes one with Keeper, who either cannot speak or refuses to do so. John learns the particulars of the situation from the Master and passes those to Gwen over her phone–who attends to the person waiting on the bench at Alone Park.

Keeper’s magic is a small power in the physical sense, thus the invitation is extended into the neighborhood across the road from the graveyard only. Gwen figures that the neighborhood is either heavy with despair or it is typical of how things are everywhere and not just in Bollywood. She assumes it is the latter; genuine depression does not call a press conference.

On her way out, Gwen stopped to feed a Townsend Chipmunk (a species that looks like Grey Squirrels with “racing stripes”) who routinely loiters near the Cottage whenever he sees Gwen go inside.

“Hello, Mario,” Gwen said, feeding the mooch the other half of the scone she had bit in twain. “I bet that you guys don’t ruin your food like certain people–”

“Look downhill for something interesting,” John’s voice spoke over Gwen’s phone, which she uses to communicate with John when outside of the Cottage.

Gwen looked downhill. She has superior vision (but of course), and from a hundred yards she clearly saw a small Goat sitting on the bench, on her/his butt, like a person, little legs straight out. The little Goat was clad in one of those Alpine hats with a feather that Gwen associated with Bavarian yodelers, a light blue shirt and a pair of…”What are those goofy pants called, lover?”

“Lederhosen.”

“Lederhosen.” Gwen stood there for a moment and absorbed the awesome weird majesty of the situation. “Um, did Keeper tell you why there is a little Goat wearing lederhosen sitting on the bench?”

“Nope. But the Goat is friendly enough and talks–I know that much. He’s a boy and goes by Fenwick.”

“A talking boy Goat named Fenwick, you say?”

“Seems so–some call him ‘Feckwit,’ but I got the impression that it’s one of those things you cannot say until you know him better.”

“Well, I guess I’d better ask him what it’s all about.”

“Yes, it seems like the best option.”

Gwen reached Alone Park, charmed by the sight of the strange small creature, who was a goat in every way, save for his pose, costume and an extra light in his eyes.

“Hi Gwen, I’m Fenwick,” he said, with a voice that, in tone, was not far removed from that of “Smithers” on the Simpsons.

“Hello Fenwick,” Gwen said, sitting beside him.

A car passed by. For an instant Gwen clearly saw “What the fu-” in the driver’s eyes. But Keeper has a way of convincing unwanted minds that stuff like a goat dressed to go yodeling is a perfectly mundane thing, as common as a pigeon.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” said Fenwick.

“Um, the thought did cross.”

He pointed at an hitherto unknown shimmer on the side of the Enchanted Cherry Tree. “I passed through that interdimensional vortex portal,” he said, as though it explained everything.

“Hmm, what’s on the other side of it?”

“Saragun Springs–a fantasy realm to which I have come to invite you and Mr. Mallory to visit. We are currently having our Oktoberfest celebration and we always enjoy company.”

Well, that explains the outfit, Gwen thought, disregarding the fact that it was the middle of April.

“Is everybody a goat in–how was that again?”

“Saragun Springs–no, just me and my sister. We are Pygmy Goats.”

“Does this have something to do with Keeper?” Gwen decided to go for broke, she wanted to know just how much the little guy knew.

“Oh yes, Keeper has intimated several times that we all should meet.”

John finally added to the conversation. “Hi, Fenwick–I have had time to review your invitation with Keeper –we will be delighted to visit.”

Gwen, who was always up for new things, despite what John had said earlier about the scone, was a bit peeved that he didn’t ask her and told him so. But she smiled sweetly at Fenwick, “Despite Mr. Man’s ordering for me, I too look forward to it–do we go now?”

“Yes,” said Fenwick. “But first I must inform you of the Oz Exception–which means that one minute of your time here equals a day in Saragun Springs. Over there I’ve been gone for a week, but this little feather fob in my hat lets everyone know I’m safe and all right. I’m telling you this because if you stay for a month, and we hope you do, you will only be gone for a half hour in this realm.”

“I see,” Gwen said. “What about John, being a ghost?”

“No problem, we have a large Spirit community in the Springs–all you need to do is carry the phone and follow me.”

And with that Fenwick rose and hopped into the shimmering distortion on the tree and vanished. But he stuck his head out and beckoned. Gwen looked at John on her phone and simultaneously both displayed a what the hell sort of shrug before entering the vortex.

(to be continued on Monday–6 January. Have a nice weekend)

The Oz Exception Prologue

Prologue

According to my second in command, Renfield, everyday is Bring Your Pet to Work Day in Saragun Springs. At least it is in our office, that braintrust of the Springs from which the best bad ideas possible are concocted.

Renny has three pets that she allows to charmingly run amuck. Two are “The Braw Brothers Baw, Beezer and Barkevious” (who insist they are brothers even though Beezer is a British Bulldog and Barkevious is clearly a Scottie). Just yesterday, the third member of “Team Renfield” leapt onto my desk with that insolent indifference perfected by Cats, who know the precise moment when to leap from an unseen spot and land in front of you, thus giving your heart a test far more conclusive than that of the treadmill.

“Oh, you little fuckstick! What have I told you about that?” I damn near fell out of my chair when Renfield’s Black Cat, Professor Moriarty (or “Pro-Mo”), pulled that old trick on me for at least the fiftieth time in a week.

All Cats in Saragun Springs have cultured, mid-Atlantic speaking voices. The Professor ignored my complaint and started in with the insults, as is his habit. “You humans don’t have a sense of smell, outside the stenches you create–If you did possess my olfactory keenness, you would have been aware of the godly fragrance caused by my magnificence.”

I lit a smoke and hooked my thumb at the litter pan in the far corner of my office. “Tell me, Oh Magnificent One, what god creates something straight up from beer-shit hell? And if the Germans had sprayed the Allies with Cat pee in the Great War we’d all be singing David Hasselhoff songs today. And what’s that goddam thing doing in here anyway? You’re Renfield’s Cat.”

“Tut, tut,” Pro-Mo said, shaking his head. “I am my own master; ‘tis amazing that your head stays inflated with so little in it.”

I have a deft hand with Cats. Before he could swat me I landed “scratchies” on top of his pointy little head. He immediately fell into an opium daze. All Cats become hopeless stooges when involved with scratchies; we all have our weaknesses. “I’m putting you in a story,” I said. An epic day to day thing and you, little sir, will like it.

“Yes, yes, yes, in a story” he purred. It’s disgraceful how little of their bad temperament Cats retain while under the influence of scratchies. Whilst I had him under my power (my hand was starting to cramp), I whistled for the Bros Baw.

Renfield’s fiends will appear (by and by) in a daily  opus that begins tomorrow and will last all month.

See you in the morning…

Leila

Welcome Back to Saragun Springs: 2025

Happy New Year! Here’s hoping that you are not starting 2025 off in a jail cell or any other less than desirable location, and that you did not heed any “creative” ideas suggested to you by Tippleganger Ghosts, who live for New Years Eve.

Big doings in the realm this year. To open things we are writing an on the fly book that will appear a little at a time everyday (except Sundays, my Fictional Characters are unionized and do not work on Sundays) until it either satisfies brilliantly or keels over dead. We proudly call it The Oz Exception. It begins tomorrow with the prologue, which is followed by the first section on the 3rd. Those are the only pre-written parts of the opus. After that each entry will be written the day before it appears. Call it a bold move, biting off more than we can chew or a cheap gimmick to attract readers who are not obviously spam AI’s. Call it whatever as long as it is not late for happy hour.

Speaking of such, we are confident that your bail will be posted soon.

Your servant,

Leila