Joyce glanced back at the altimeter for probably the hundredth time. “Are you sure about this? There’s, like, miles of solid ground, but we have to use this… floating… thing?”
“You saw the engraving. It was quite clear on that point.” Nick checked a dial. “Barbican waves are as low as they’re likely to get for the next twelve hours; let’s do this.” He reached for a reddish-orange lever, and the landing booster roared to life.
"Graaak!" It replied, eyeing the proffered fruit with what could only be described as a mixture of trepidation and wily insolence. Howard had already wandered on ahead (probably assuming the earlier tremors to be largely coincidental), which left me longing for the intimidation his swarthy mustache could have lent the situation.
Colloquially known as the “swamp stallion”, this aberration of nature boasts the nastier sides of both parent breeds (horse and hydra), with none of their redeeming qualities*. Despite this fact, however, hunting it is expressly forbidden in most countries. (Though most cryptozoologists agree that this is for the sake of each country’s citizen-count rather than a protective measure for the beast itself.)
*Granted, the hydra of legend had no redeeming qualities and seemed possessed of only a single large nasty side in the first place, but the statement is still technically correct.
One of the first recorded “umbrella warriors”, not much is known about Edna apart from what is described in the famous volume, Tales of Edna Weatherspindle, which focuses particularly on her life-long battle with the necromancer Dalsfveg.
She apparently took up the umbrella at quite a young age, and was instrumental in the defense of her town from a roving band of undead poultry. This event solidified the fame of both her and her umbrella “Sleetbane”, and probably marks the origin of her surname. Afterward, Edna essentially took on the duties of a knight errant, wandering the land and delivering swift and spiteful justice as needed. In fact, age seemed not to dampen her fortitude, but instead intensified the aforementioned swiftness and spitefulness until there were scant few evildoers who would not run screaming at the sight of a flowing pink nightgown and raised tangerine umbrella.
Attempts to place Edna within the context of the greater historical timeline are never conclusive, but most scholars believe we can at least target the Middle Ages with a decent amount of certainty. (The fact that the “black plague” is mentioned multiple times is less helpful than it sounds, as this was probably just a reference to the exploits of the Crowmonger during Edna’s childhood.)
Cresting the hill, Edna glared at the unsightly hordes below as they glimmered sickly in the light of the new dawn. With a well-practiced flourish, she pointed Sleetbane to the sky.
“Dalsfveg!” She bellowed to the lone horse-bound figure protruding from the sea of reanimated corpses, “I warned you of the consequences, and yet here you are!” She stood taller in the saddle, silver hair whipping in the wind as if it had urgent business to the North. “And now,” she continued, her voice taking on a harder edge, “I am quite displeased.”
With that, she spurred her mount into the multitude of green bodies, followed in a headlong stampede by the Army of Nine Villages.
This, the last meeting of Edna Weatherspindle and Dalsfveg the Necromancer, was that of which legends are made.
-Excerpt from Tales of Edna Weatherspindle
More Edna: The Walrus Incident | Another Exceprt
Though our knowledge of the arachniturkey is mostly derived from modern-day accounts, there is some evidence that suggests it was also encountered in earlier times, making the common accusations regarding its inception (such as gene-tampering and toxic waste dumpage) somewhat of a moot point.
Take, for example, this medieval woodcut depicting a vicious attack on an unlucky wanderer by a beast which we can only assume to be an arachniturkey. Even though there are a few inconsistencies in relation to what we now know of the animal, such things can easily be attributed to a combination of symbolism and the likelihood that the artist had never actually seen the creature firsthand.
Actually, I have no idea what’s going on here… is that a sun? An explosion? Hmm… sounds like this calls for an Artist’s Statement.
Artist’s Statement
As the Philosopher once said, “Only in darkness does light shine forth bright enough to illuminate the mind’s subconscious.”
In this image, I wanted to show that even something as simple as an explosion could reflect upon the passing ship-like knowledge of the human psyche, bringing to light all those dents and scratches that make up the futile underpinnings of mankind’s pettiness. In such light, how can one do anything but throw off the shackles of greed, jealousy, and hatred, and trade them in for a big heaping plate of Gagh?
This is based on Jay’s submission to my Chino is a Magical Place story synopsis request. (Reprinted below for your convenience.)
The end. That’s what they said, anyway. They were coming for us. Three days. They’d been everywhere else. New York. Boston. Miami. Cleveland. Cleveland? I had hoped they’d skip our sour-smelling stretch of sun-soaked pasture-land, but after I saw what they did to Cleveland, any hope of our little town surviving flew right out the door and into a cow pie.
Wizards. Sorcerers. Witches. Alchemists. All closing in on Chino, CA. I’ve got a shotgun and a bad attitude. Put a little magic in Chino and I’ll put a little lead in your robe, Gandalf.
So, bring it on. Bring the magic and the mayhem. I’ll be waiting with two smoking barrels, a bottle of Jack D., and a spittoon. You want some, Harry Potter? Come get some.
This is probably an illustration for the end of that wonderful children’s story, Blim, the Happy Bear, right after the squirrel tells him his fur looks silly:
For the first time in his life, Blim had a strange feeling in his belly. It was like having a katydid stuck in his ear, but that’s obviously not what it was. Because the feeling was in his belly.
“Why did Squiggle have to say those mean things about my fur?” he said to himself. “Maybe this is how he feels when I make fun of his tail every day.” Blim trudged a few forlorn paces further into the clearing. “It’s not very nice to make others unhappy.” He paused, one foot resting between two newly sprouted mushrooms, and his eyes lit up. “Squiggle is not very nice. I should eat him.”
Slowly a smile crept back onto the big bear’s face. He turned around and began nosing his way back through the thick grass. Being sad was no fun. It was better to be happy.