Saragun Springs

The Oz Exception: Part Fourteen

A pushspring award is a small amorphous blob of clay that has a PDQ Pilsner cap dried into it to represent the button you “pushed” that created your specific awesomeness. Everyone in Saragun Springs (including Gwen and John got one). Mine was for “Least Missed When Missing” (which I hucked into the Spring to raise not a demon, but a smallish pixie of some sort who had a terrible attitude, but did not last long).

The clay blob represents our asteroid and the bottle caps were provided by PDQ Peetie.

I received an update from Mari-Kat on my phone. She looks exactly like Kate Bush in the Wuthering Heights video for a damn good reason, which we will enter into next week. Using magic, I saw her clearly whispering into the ear of the bent over demon tethered to the Spring. Both smiled. She then produced a black tea pot into which he either filled willingly or was sucked into.

I turned to face HeXy (who was watching the event on my phone, looking over my shoulder). “How many of those teapot demons have you?”

She smiled. “It’s a lamp.”

“No, it’s a goddamn teapot.”

“Hardly,” she sniffed.

“No, easily,” I said.

This little exchange of opinions would have continued if not broken up by the arrival of the billigits, in number they are four–identical flying wee folk, about eighteen inches long, orange skinned, named mothball, weasel, pinto and flounder. The billies play many roles in the Springs, but at root they are among HeXopatha’s minions.

Two billies apiece plucked John and Gwen from the audience and flew off with them toward the Enchanted Wood. Oddly, neither protested, in fact Gwen appeared to be taking images with her phone.

“Hey! Where are your flying toadies going with our guests?”

But HeXy vanished in a puff of green smoke. I did hear “It’s a lamp, dunderhead,” from afar, but nothing else.

I sat there for a moment and counted my blessings, of which I had two. It is Saturday, thus tomorrow was the day of rest. And having newcomers to the realm hauled off by flying Wiccan minions does provide a link to the title of the story.

See you on the yellow brick road come Monday.

End part fourteen

The Oz Exception: Part Thirteen

Despite my assurances, the show continued to be disrupted by the towering demon on the horizon. And, as always, when something goes awry in the Springs, I must fix it or take an incredible amount of passive-aggressive abuse.

“I wonderly wonder who aimed the fecal ball at the Spring?” said Daisy.

“Sure would be nice if someone in charge would do something,” said John, whose consumption of Faerie Ale did little for his sense of tact.

“Oh, all right, you babies,” I said, opening the crystal ball app on my phone, which directly connected me to the Great Witch HeXopahta–and the goddam Anita Know just had to bellow out what I was doing. “Connecting to the effective HeXopatha,” she said, which caused a ripple of applause in the amphitheater.

HeXy’s face filled my screen. “Hey you,” I said, “we got another demon at the Spring–the children are acting like there’s a spider in the shower–and they aren’t willing to wait for it to go away.”

“Do you want a giant newspaper?”

“Ha, ha, you are a wit as always,” I said. “I’m thinking that someone with magic knowhow can remove it and set it outside where we can pretend that it will be happier.”

She laughed and it was so loud that she sounded incredibly close and not at her castle in the Enchanted Wood. Alas, she was sitting directly behind me. I was the last to know this and still wouldn’t have if she hadn’t tapped me on the shoulder.

“Remember writing that everyone in the Springs is present at the awards show?”

“Very amusing,” I said, turning to face her. HeXopahta is your basic Beautiful Witch, high cheekbones, raven hair and such. She changes guises every hundred and thirty years, this time she looks half Irish, half Japanese. Yes, like Renfield, but since they are never seen together it is hard to compare. But I knew that Renfield had to be nearby. I considered dispelling “the one and the same myth” right there and now–but that would have meant pushing my capacity once again, so I let it go.

“Hey, you look like–” Gwen began to say, but she detected something in HeXy’s face that suggested she should leave well enough alone.

HeXopahta finished smiling her special smile at Gwen then spoke to me. “Tell you what,” she said.

“Ah, here it comes, the big squeeze…”

“For a hundred more shares of the 16 Psyche, I might be able to help the situation out.”

Long ago, the Springs placed a claim on the metal rich asteroid P16 Psyche. As soon as we think of a way to haul it into our sky, we will all be zillionaires (we cut the pie evenly in the Springs). Since our source of wealth is neither less farcical nor more imaginary as it goes on Earth, we feel free to trade shares for favors.

“All right,” I said. “As soon as the deed is done.”

HeXy silently nodded at her apprentice Wiccan, Mari-Kat Lywd, who was seated beside her. Mari-Kat rose and vanished with a poof.

End Part Lucky Thirteen

The Oz Exception: Part Twelve

I saw what the little fiends were up to on my phone. Everyone in Saragun Springs has literal Free Will, we Do What thou Wilt in the Crowley tradition, which means I keep an eye on suspicious activities in the narratives of ongoing stories.

Still, I was a bit late to eliminate the Dung Catapult devised by Tam, Meena and Boaby. It existed and was armed and ready when I understood the intent of the thing. Moreover, being students at Lamb School they had built it correctly and knew enough about physics and geometry to deliver their payload to the Agoville stage (composed of mainly Sheep pellets, intended to disperse like fecal buckshot upon delivery, thus covering the attendees with crap).

In fact, they had already pulled the trigger, so to speak. But I was able to change the trajectory by typing: the shit ball unexpectedly went higher and higher and…

Thus a giant, speeding dark comet sped over the Agoville amphitheater stage; its shape was illuminated by the weird strobe light effect caused by Pong’s incessant peeking over the hills. It made a terrific zooming sound, which caused everyone to look up and watch it blaze past. Ping had to weave to the right to escape it and almost fell from the sky, but he caught himself on a cloud and drunkenly resumed his nightly course.

The comet landed with an audible, rancid splash, “boutta mile” away (as all things are in the Springs). It hit the Spring dead on and was accepted by the putrid waters with sinister gratitude. Then a giant glowing red-eyed, silver-gray demon rose from the spring, and, despite the alteration, the Lambs danced in its honor like drunken Shriners who had accidentally summoned Baal.

“Wha-what’s that?” Gwen asked, gazing at the apparition. It was your standard giant demon, capable of much Pazuzu-esque mischief if it were not safely tethered to the Spring.

“That? Ah, nothing,” I said. “We summon them all the time. It’ll get bored and disincorporate soon enough.”

End part Twelve

The Oz Exception: Part Eleven

The Oz Exception: Part Eleven

We gathered in the amphitheater at Pongset. And at the exact same moment, our green little moon, Ping, rose behind the hill with the giant S on it. Ping was gifted to Saragun Springs by the Discworld realm, when the Great A’Tuin and company crossed our sky a while back. At least that’s what we think happened. But, Pong and Ping claim to be brothers, and Ping is a native of the Springs–regardless, anything remains possible when you don’t have all the facts.

Speaking of unlikely Brothers, Beezer and Barkevious, the Braw Bros. Baw were on the stage, both wearing formal looking bow ties and white dickeys. As stated earlier, my capacity for three active characters in one scene is three plus myself. Since there were 250 or so FC’s in the audience and another estimated 400,000 Sheep and Lambs gathered on S hill to watch (even Pong occasionally peeked over his setting spot to check things out, which caused a weird strobe effect), only up to three will be active at a time, in little scenes, like this:

Scene one

Beezer is a British Bulldog and Barkevious is a Scottie. Inspired Pong shone a single beam on the stage, creating a spotlight.

“Welcome to the first annual Pushsprings awards,” said Beezer.

“How can it be annual if the first ain’t happened yet?” Barkevious asked. They were supposed to follow a script, but since neither can read, the cue cards that I saw held by Penrose were somewhat useless. Beezer had memorized the first line after it had been repeated to him, but Barkevious, being a contrary Scottie, ad libbed immediately.

“That ain’t what you wuz s’posed to say, pillock.”

Scene Two

Gwen was still fascinated by John’s rubbery form to pay attention. I had to smack her on the hand after she had pulled a good section of his knee out for examination, therefore she had missed her cue.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “Wow, what a special night.”

“Goddammit, that is three pages from now,” I said.

“Am I supposed to say anything?” John, who had been drinking since part three asked.

“Well, now that you did, I guess so.” I deleted the script from my phone, knowing that it was useless.

Scene three

A trio of delinquent Lambs, members of “ASH” (Award Show Hooligans), by name Tam, Meena and Boaby, were on the hill behind the stage, planning a disruption.

“Catapult torque?”

“Check.”

“Sheep shit payload?”

“Check.”

“Chorus of Evil Lamb laughter?”

“Heeheebuwahaha!”

End Part Eleven

The Oz Exception: Part Ten

Novels and pro wrestling have two things in common. Both are fiction, and in both activities there are periods where the author and wrestlers are obviously taking a breather. In wrestling, it is usually an arm bar or another hold that allows the combatants to “take ten” on the mat before getting back to the action. In writing this involves passages in which “tell” briefly takes over for “show.” Where an info dump temporarily replaces exposition and dialogue. Hey, now that I think about it, you can even look at it like a “tag team” match; if so, here is where “Tell” tags in, giving “Show” a much needed break–such a thing is evident when a metaphor starts as one thing and, with little warning, becomes another.

Agoville is Saragun Springs’ “Studio City.” It is where we “shoot” our little productions with Fictional Characters (FC’s) as actors who essay various roles. (Daisy is the major star). Agoville is composed of one short street, five long ones and has a town square that you must pass through to enter. There is no way out from behind, because it is shut snugly against the southern Nameless Hills.

The square features the previously mentioned Giant Clock Radio and various businesses, including the Agoville Studios, the Bank of Saragun Springs, a publishing house/newspaper and the Saragun Springs’ Broadcasting Company, located beside the radio. There’s also a large amphitheater, in which the previously mentioned “pushsprings” awards will be doled out soon. Oh yes, and of course, there are Sheep and bratty Lambs all over the place.

A voice in my head, playing the part of you, the reader, has just called out “Hey, what about the one short street and five long ones? What do they mean?”

Glad you asked. They put the “ago” in Agoville (aka, “Ago-a-go-go”). Each one is set in its own time era. They are based on the lifespan of the “Dubious One” (from here, D.O.) whom I am Pen to. The short lane is Fifties-Street–brief because the D.O. was born in 1959. Everything there is in black and white and is reminiscent of the film Pleasantville. Obviously, D.O. has no memory of that time, so it is highly suspect as far as reality goes.

The longer streets are of the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and one that is everything that has happened after 2000. (According to D.O., “the new decades have no distinct personality–they lack both sentimentality and sting.”)

These are not recreations of those decades either (save for Fifties Street); but one is actually transported into those years for the duration of our three-thousand word budget (another max setting for this Pen). (Perhaps it is worth noting that any time frame before D.O.’s birth, and the future are all shot in the Studio.) (It is unknown how many parenthetical sentences in a row I’m allowed to do, but three appears to be a safe amount.)

Hmmm, I guess it is time to tag “Show” back into the scrum of things. See you at the award show tomorrow.

End of Shameless Part Ten

OZ Exception Part Nine

I waved a hand at Agoville, “Welcome to the strangest town in any dimension.”

Gwen peered at the town. “Is that a giant clock radio?”

“Yep,” I said. “Took a butt-load of Rats to haul the thing from the vortex and place it in the town square. Up close you can see where a giant fist had struck the snooze bar over and over, when it was on Earth–follow me.”

A quick glance at my phone told me that I was accompanied by Gwen, John, Daisy, Renfield and Peety–as a mid-level Penname, my maximum capacity for speaking characters in a scene (not including myself) is three. That meant at least two had to go. I’d been pushing the limit for awhile and my device was starting to overheat. Any further pushing would result in “Narco” a state in which everyone but myself falls asleep right where they are. Renfield solved the problem.

“We’re going ahead to the theatre,” she said. Daisy was still eating and couldn’t care less, and since Peety had no immediate purpose, he tagged along with the others–leaving me with only two characters to support, which also left room for single encounters along the way.

“The theatre?” Gwen asked.

“I thought we had you going with the flow–John there isn’t asking much.”

“I accept the overall premise–since I work in a magic graveyard, I’m open to a lot of things. But I retain the right to ask simple questions,” Gwen said.

“Sigh–loud sigh,” I, well, sighed. “If you’re gonna be a pill about it, the gang is checking in on the preparations of an Awards Show, um the pushsprings–yeah, that’s it–the pushspings awards–It was supposed to be a surprise until you got all quizzy.”

“Awards show?” John Asked.

“Et tu, with the third degree, John?”

“Know what? I bet you just made that Awards Show thing up right now,” Gwen said. “Know what, I’m going to hold you to it.”

A Lamb, a Ewette, dyed green, named Riff Randi, a student at the Rock and Roll Lamb School, poked her head from behind a salal bush and called “Hey Blondie-gotta a message for you!” (Gwen is blond and takes a surprising amount of shit about it.) Gwen glared in Riff’s direction and the jd Ewette spat out two loud fart-like noises known as “raspberries,” at the same time tugging on an invisible cord, mimicking the pull of a truck horn. With that shared, she bounded off into the woods.

“Aren’t you at your maximum daily word capacity yet?” Gwen asked, through clenched teeth.

“Hey, you aren’t supposed to know about that. But now that you mention it, I am.”

End Part Nine

The OZ Exception: Part Eight

(Please note that edited adverbs still marked with *)

“Um, where are we going?” John askly asked.

“We’re headed to Agoville,” Renfield * said.

“Why did Leila go to Other Earth and how did she change it?” Gwen said, with a lot of hintly hinting in her voice. Perhaps she wanted to stay on the * topic we opened at the finish yesterday, before asking about Agoville.

“Oh, that,” Renfield said. “Leila converted an old flip phone into a time machine and chose to go back seventy some odd years into Other Earth’s past via the vortex. Why she thought that up and did such things are mysteries. But it worked. Naturally, she was duped out of her modern technology by a mad scientist at Other Earth circa 1947. The scientist sent Leila back to the Springs without her phone. You aren’t supposed to bring stuff back from the deep past through the vortex–strange shit happens. Leila just happened to be holding a picture of Peety, who was a prototype cartoon mascot for PDQ Pilsner–on her way back through,” Renfield hooked a thumb at Peety who * always has a * bottomless bottle of PDQ in his winglike hand, changed into the creature you see now.”

“‘Put a sock in it boy, or you’ll be outta here like shit through a Goose’–Dean Wormer, the Book of Animal House,” Peety squawked.

“You’d think that the first known incident of time travel might yield slightly more scholarly results,” Renfield addingly added. “But we’re fond of Peety, he grows on you.”

“Other Earth got a whopper of a changely change,” I said. “The mad * scientist used the technology she stole and created a race of nuclear monsters who to this very day inhabit the southwestern US desert on other Earth.”

“But why?” John asked.

“To rule the world of course,” saidly said Renfield, surprised that anyone would ask such an obvious question.

“So, Other Earth is a world like an Edward D. Wood movie brought to life,” John said, philosophically. “Then again, if it’s brought to us by the same God, who claims to be everywhere, it matches the typical pathetic lack of consistency.”

“No need to get deep, lover,” Gwen said. “We are in a land where Lambs smoke doobie and moon passersby–Hah! Your best side is showing, Gyro-bait!”

We roundingly rounded the bend that leads to Agoville.

“We is here,” Renfield said and stopped the cart.

We saw Leila. She was * seated on a * bench in a small park that lyingly lies outside Agoville.

“How did you get here first?” Gwen asked. “I thought you said we were going to have adventures.”

“On the wings of a deus ex machina,” Leila replied. “Anyway, change of plans. Life is all about the editing–I suggest you recall how much happier you were when you stopped questioning things.”

“Mysterious ways,” John said, nodding wisely. He had been consuming Fairie Ale non-stop. His tankard magically refilled itself therefore he refilled himself.

Leila smiled at me and retook the narratively narrative after patting my head, giving me a feed bag full of cauliflower and saying “That’ll do, little Goat, that’ll do.”

End Part Eight–Tomorrow is Sunday, to be continued next week

The Oz Exception: Part Seven

Greetingly greetings readly readers, I, Daisy Kloverleaf have assumed the narrative. You should see an uptick in quality even though I know that Miss Leila will cull most of my brilliantly brilliant adverbs from this.

[That’s for damn sure–every time you see * , it means that a bizarre adverb has been deleted–but at the end of the book a list will appear in their order of usage-LA]

Gwen and John got inside our golf cart. Renfield * drove, I rode * shotgun, Gwen and John sat in the back. Peety peetily fluttered about. We bade everyone a temporary farewell and set off.

“What a cool little toon,” John said, * amazed by Peety.

“Is that a rabbit in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” Peety said. “Dolores, Who Framed Roger Rabbit.”

“Oops, forgot to warn you about that,” Renfield, who is a pretty, wispily wispy young woman, half Irish, half Japanese, said. “Peety’s entire vocabulary is formed from quotations from movies like Roger Rabbit, The Terminator, Porkies and his favorite Animal House. And he always credits the film and speaker. It’s no use siccing the censor on him, he really doesn’t mean to be crude, could say he’s just drawn that way.” Renfield smiled, * pleased with her little joke.

“Leila says he’s from another realm,” said Gwen.

“Yup–Other Earth.”

“‘Other Earth’?”

“It’s like this,” Renfield said, * navigating the golf cart * toward the hills in the south (which Gwen assumed was the direction since there were four hills in the circle around the realm that had N, S, W, E embossed on their sides; they were headed toward, surprise, S). “Leila and the * dubious sort who * invented the realm * decided to invent a sister realm called Other Earth, a place identical to your Earth–and it was until Leila bungled and had to visit the place, which greatly altered its history.”

“Hey!” Gwen said. “That little Lamb wearing the Motorhead scarf made an obscene gesture–Up yours too, ye little jack-off!”

We were surroundingly surrounded by Sheep, as it goes everywhere in the realm. The adultly adults who entered the realm via the vortex from Scotland, when it was accidentally stuck open last year, are regular Sheep, but their * offspring, those born in the Springs, are obnoxiously obnoxious talking Lambs, prone to make obscene gestures, even with hooves.

“Everything you see is a longly long story,” I said. “Fortunately, we’ll have time to tell it tomorrow.”

End Part Seven

The Oz Exception: Part Six

Gwen liked the Faerie Ale, but she remembered the foul spring. “Hey, this isn’t brewed from that is it?” She asked, pointing at the spring. Ponglight (the little blue sun she saw earlier is named Pong) was passing through its spray, creating little black and grey rainbows.

“No way,” I said. “PDQ Pilsner is, though.”

“What’s that?”

I smiled, and maybe a tiny light bulb appeared above my head. I was looking for something for us to do except stand around in the meadow chit chatting, something that would prevent me from again considering the possible foolishness in writing a story a page or so per day, with no real thought put into a plotline. But Gwen’s question saved the day.

“So glad you asked,” I said.

As though by magic, the realm’s only vehicle entered the meadow. It contained My Imaginary Friend and second in command, Renfield, who drove, Fenwick’s sister, Daisy Kloverleaf, and Pie Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon–who is a lot like John, connected to reality as though pasted in due to his arrival into the Springs from another realm. But unlike John, Peety is a two dimensional being, neither alive or dead, a cartoon Pigeon who was/is the mascot for PDQ Pilsner–the lowest possible budget beer.

“I’m now handing you guys over to my friends, Miss Renfield, Daisy and Peety. Consider this a guided tour of the realm. And you know what, I’ve a notion that you guys will experience an adventure or two before we meet again.”

“You’re not quittingly quitting for the day here, are you, Miss Leila?” Daisy, who is the lead Fictional Character and general yet congenial pain in the butt, asked (Daisy is also addicted to creating strange adverbs which will be trimmed for the most part).

“You better believe I am,” I said. “You, my little hooved friend, will take the narrative when it picks up tomorrow.”

End Part Six

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)