December 23rd~

The Hopping Elf is the biggest factory in all of the North Pole and it’s in full swing. So are hammers, needles, scissors, saws, hot glue guns, and a great number of other sharp, heavy, jagged, hot, deathly tools.

To get through our busy day treating patients with unpleasant procedures and servings of spiked nog (an elf’s best pain killer), I coined a song the nurses and I can sing to cheer up the E.R.

🎶On the first day of Christmas, my nurse gave to me…

9 syringes squirting! 8 stitches fraying! 7 ice packs cooling! 6 beds-a-rolling! 5 GOLDEN SLIIIINNNNGS! 4 body casts 3 French sutures 2 turtle bed pans AND A MONITOR TO MEASURE THE HEARTBEEEAAT!

We were enjoying ourselves immensely, and even had some rather drunk elves singing off-key with us. But then, Mrs. Claus came by with her customary cookies for the patients. The humor of it was totally lost on her, unfortunately.

Until the next entry, Nurse Twinkletoes

It’s hard to be inconspicuous when you’re hanging upside down, And the propelling gear from Temu Has twisted round and round

It’s hard to steal a priceless painting When lasers block your path And the anti-laser suit you bought Would barely fit your cat

It’s hard to be a fine art thief In this ai generation For there never was a better thief Than ai impersonation

It’s hard to write this poem From a prison, dark and cold —Your final resting place For that forgery you stole

The park is getting dark And the dusk is rather cold A fog is creeping in And the shadows become bold

The giggle of a hiding child The growl of a stalking beast A snap and rustle in woods nearby — will I be its feast?

I think back to the early morn, When I took this shady dare To chase the ghost in Holy Park with her mane of fiery hair

A flash between the trees, The tail of a flowing flame My mind and knees go weak When I remember why I came

And so against all sense and reason I chase her through the night And she of blue soul and gold fire Shimmers brilliant in the flight

We reach the end of the wooded park Sometime near the rise of dawn Exhausted, I stop, then watch in shock As she changes to a grazing fawn

It looks up at me, uncomprehending Eyes flat and disengaged Was this all? I wonder, unimpressed Then my soul ignites, engraged

No — that’s not my soul burning hot That’s not an emotion, but real flame And all at once I realize The ghost got me at her game

Where once my solid legs stood firm There is now a wispy, ghostly hue Where once my hair hung dark and straight Strands of burning gold lick against the blue

I am no more…

Except for one goal…

To roam Holy park….

and a beseech soul.

Melanie Mint was in the right place at the right time, doing the right thing at the right second: taking a photo — just as an accident occurred and just as I was there to save lives, incognito.

At least, I was supposed to be incognito.

But Invisibility Boy was, for certain inexplicable and supposed-to-be-improbable reasons, half visible that icy morning in that busy intersection. Half visible.

And there that photo now is, scrolling by on every phone’s Momentgram’s feed: my upper half hanging by itself, mid-air, stopping a spinning car from bowling into the crowded sidewalk.

The features of my face are as clear as water — the color of my eyes, the small mole on my right ear lobe often mistaken for an earring, my university coat because there was no time to change. All there for anyone to recognize me by. And, as this intersection leads to my school’s main entrance, there will be plenty who recognize me.

I suck in my breath as I read her caption: Caught this on my phone! Is it a ghost?? Superman?!

This is it, I sigh angrily. I need to move. Again. And track down Subliminal Sally in the Alps somewhere to come and brainwash them all.

I scroll to the comments, expecting to see my name, my department, my anything mentioned there, and hold my breath as I read. . .

Mooblycon4: Photoshopped

Bentley94: Nice try. Worst photoshop ever. Lmao.

Sarahcunninghamproperties: That corner shop is for rent! 15000sq ft of prime commercial property! DM me for details!

Istillplaywithhotwheels: I know him. Kid from the IT department. 😂 terrible photoshop.

I should feel relieved. I should, right? I should.

But somehow it’s all. . .so. . .deflating.

A full moon is an obnoxious thing, much too bright for my feared kind.
I’ve nothing left those nights but to sing, and use a tune to pass the time.

I begin with some taps, a scratch, and a pat— just one foot, my left foot, deep in the back. My right talons then start, with a melodious rap.

Rap-rap-tap! Scratch-pat-scratch! Tap-tap-rap! Pat-scratch-pat!

Oh what fun! I hum and chuckle, but this comes out more like a rumble, In turn, these old cave walls do buckle,
and rocks join my song as they rain and they tumble!

It’d not be so bad if I kept my sound down, but it appears they heard me, down the hill, in the town—

A rash of torches outside my cave, I see glints of swords and ghost-white faces, Oh, what else can I do but entertain my dear fans who came all these paces?

So I sing in my cave, as loud as can be, But I’m afraid to their ears it’s not quite the same, For some faint and some scream and some dare demand to know ‘this beast’s name!’

I grin my toothy grin as their fires go out, As they flee like a mad, dashing throng, They’ve luck I’ve no taste for toadies with gout— I just want to finish my song!

Popper Bob kilt mor people than all the poxes togethr. A hard an’ angry man as ther ever wuz, havin pride n’ fire. An’ thick, fat fists like slegehamers. They done swung like it too.

I visitd him only once at th’ county jail. Only once in his lifetime sennance.

An’ time did no fixin of Popper Bob.

Forty yars an’ Popper Bob wuz still crazy.

“Well, Popper,” I said to him. “Are ya a new man now?”

He shiftd a bit acros’d th’ floor, keepin his feet in a patch a’ light shinin down from th’ cell winder. Minuts passed an’ he mov’d a lil mor.

“What’s he doin?”

“Chasing time.” Th’ officer said. “He follows that patch of light every day, from the time it appears on the east side of the room, treks a path across his cell, and disappears into the west wall.”

“Every day?” I echo’d. “Well Popper Bob, ar you chasin’ time or is time chasin’ you?”

My only answer wuz a string a’ curs words I’ll need a whole yar to clean from my ears.

Entry 146 2055.06.12 Merrick Burdearro NASA Astronaut Occupy Moon Mission

With the Darkside Station complete and fully operating, we voted to set up one of the many recreational activities we prepared for before leaving Earth.

The winning event was a bungee jumping platform on the northern edge of a canyon, a short distance west from the station. The canyon runs vertically; its shallowest end measures approximately 84 meters deep.

It took one hour to fall 50 meters.

Extreme sports on the moon are unfortunately tame.

Next, we will try potato sack races. Somehow, I feel this activity will be far more exhilarating.

The king is a monkey The queen is a bear The prince is an elephant Balancing on a chair

The princesses are big cats Of which there are two Jumping in tandem Through a flaming hoop

The jester is the ringmaster And he calls my name To present me to these fools one and the same

I stand in the limelight A thousand eyes on me Somehow I’ll blunder through — in a moment I’ll be free

I curtsy first to the crowd And what follows is a hush As I spin and drop a bow To the offended royal flush

I know it immediately I did something wrong They kick me from the farce And push me through the throng

I leave the Royal Circus To the sound of a wail To the tears of my parent: “Oh - how could you fail?!”

Eighteen years of life and ten summers of the hunt were enough to teach Demiric, son of the chief, that the stag before him was a rare trophy indeed.

The majestic creature weaved between a web of low slung branches and thick patches of morning-bright fog. It looked his way, then stilled like stone.

Dem notched an arrow, muscles taut and aim ready, and a breath later let it fly. The shaft cut silently through the air.

He missed.

By a long shot.

The arrow thunked against a solidified black trunk, splintering into shards.

“Runt’s foot,” he cursed through clenched teeth, expecting the animal to flee.

Instead, the stag dropped lifeless to the ground.

Dem stood and pivoted, searching the wood for another hunter. Had someone followed him? He thought he was the only one in the hunt to cross the mudflat and hike above the falls. No, no one was there—

He returned to his crouch and waited.

Somewhere beyond the kill, a young woman with a bow emerged and picked her way between trees and through the underbrush.

Her hair was a curtain of night, thick and dark, falling to the small of her back—except for a single crown of braid, plaited with luxurious strands of silver and purple. If that telltale feature didn’t convince Dem of what he suspected, the polished moon clasp fastening her cloak at her shoulder did.

Grvani. What was a Grvani doing on his land. . .

An atrocity and blight to his hunt, if there ever was one.

“I hardly think the animal is worth the price you will have to pay for trespassing on Rokka land, merria.” He spoke in Grvani as he stepped out of hiding and walked toward her. His words came slow and measured, but he hoped it was heard as a tone of warning rather than as one clumsy with her language.

She startled from her deer inspection. In one swift movement, her bow was up, loaded, and pointed — directly at Demiric’s nose.

It took less than a heartbeat for her to realize she, too, stared at the glinty end of an arrow.

The standoff was sure to last until one of their arms gave out from the tension.

“Merria? A mountain rat is calling me merria?” She seethed. “That endearment in your tongue is a smear in mine. And I did not know I crossed over. I saw no markers.”

He watched her carefully for signs of untruth, but the Grvani were known for their shifty eyes and it would be impossible to tell. Hers, however, watched him steadily.

They were bright gold. And almost metallic. Eyes the color of rolling lowland fields at harvest, reflecting an autumn lightning storm.

How long would they stand here like this? Until the kill atrophied between them?

He felt a familiar burn crawl up his arm. He would not last so long, he thought irritably. His bowstring was fresh, and thus far too tight to hold for any length of time.

“Let us talk. I will put down my bow,” he said as he moved to do so. But the movement was a mistake.

There was no time measurable between the sound of her arrow flying and the sting of it sinking into the flesh of his right chest. He made a strange sound — a strained, deep exhale.

She had let go on impulse of survival, but the moment her hand had loosed the string, his words sunk in.

“Oh no! I am so sorry!” She fell forward in shock, scrambling toward him as he stumbled to the ground. “I thought you were going to shoot me!”

“At least your aim was off,” he mumbled, in his own tongue this time, as she fretfully settled him on his back. He watched her worried frown float above him as his vision grew dim and murky, like the tepid waters of Brackish Lake.

Did she guess who I am? He wondered as waves of pain rose up and oblivion pulled him down.

It must be infuriating for Cupid to reach such a humiliating point in his career.

No matter how many arrows dripping with love he shoots, none of his couples stay together. He increased the strength of the dose countless times. He hit his targets with a spray of arrows all at once. Still, the lovers split.

Today, he means to find out why.

Cupid tucks his fluffy plumage into the confines of a black business suit. Other than appearing as if he has a set of shoulder blades hewn from the Himalayan mountains, his wings are at least contained.

“Maybe don’t turn your back on whomever we’re interviewing today?” I offer a bit of advice I know will go ignored.

He slides a random pair of thick, black-rimmed eyeglasses onto his nose. And before I can ask if they are really his, he squints through the lenses like he’s chopping onions.

“Well, you look. . .sharp, boss. Who are we investigating first?”

“Floria, of course! She’s either getting rusty at making me love potions from her flowers, or she’s concocting faulty mixtures on purpose so the love fails. Today, we find out!”

“Ah. Is this supposed to be a disguise then? She’ll recognize you straight away, sir.” I warn him, again knowing he won’t listen.

I’m not one of his kind, but it doesn’t take being one to know an acquaintance of some odd thousand years can see right through a modern human disguise.

But his grin flashes quick and bright. “Don’t fret! I’m prepared for that!” He produces a hat from nowhere, flipping it into the air until it lands on his head slightly askew. “Let’s go!”

He looks every bit like a limo chauffeur. I bite back the urge to ask him to drive instead of me to Floria’s hidden shop among the crammed alleyways of the human world.

Cupid saunters across the room and into the door with flair and a loud thud. He mutters beneath his breath some ancient curse word before adjusting his borrowed specs and fumbling around for the knob.

“Let’s go,” he says again, stepping to the side. “You lead the way.”

We pull to a stop a half hour later in front of Floria’s place, operating as a typical plant nursery tucked between a book store and a tea shop. With some wrong turns due to Cupid’s new vision, it’s another ten minutes before we find her office buried deep in the flowered labyrinth.

“Ahem,” he announces himself at her door and her gaze snaps up sharply from her task of trimming a plant. He continues, “I have a few questions for you, ma’am—,”

Floria launches herself toward the pair of us, her face turning an impressive palette of reds and purples. Cupid and I flinch and jump, clashing shoulders and wedging ourselves in the doorway.

“You!” She yells. “You have some nerve, Cupid! Just how many dates have you stood me up for — can’t you take the hint that I don’t want to help you any more?!”

Cupid stands frozen, mouth dropped open in shock. Obviously, no hint was taken.

So, it’s a lover’s spat. The faulty potions make perfect sense now. I sigh at his obtuseness on romance, laughable being the king of love himself, and duck behind him giving him a light shove between his hidden wings.

He falls forward woodenly, and I step back, closing the office door on them to work this out with some degree of privacy.

I walk around the peaceful shop while waiting, admiring the rows and rows of lush, vibrant plants, and bouquets of ready cut flowers, and find myself at the front registers.

“Excuse me, can I have an application?”

I think it’s time for a new job.