*Imagine the parentheses as footnotes. (IE, unnecessary, but supplementary, information.)
Rings are not renowned for their ability to work as space heaters. This is a well-documented fact. Despite a general surplus of rings for invisibility, +14 to various qualities and of course wedding rings, the space heater ring has never been exceedingly fashionable. Why should a ring be gifted with warmth when it would be so much easier to add 'Quick Attack Speed'? However, taking past and present into account, it seems the next obvious step in the evolution of the ring is for a ring to equip itself with a 'Quick Warm Capacitor.'
This is not that story. It is the story of someone who wished that her ring had a 'Quick Warm Capacitor.'
Sporke pushed the forest, leaving a trail wide enough for a blind elephant to follow, or, more accurately, large enough that a blind elephant could have followed, had it gone into the animal's mind to follow. Luckily, for Sporke, no blind elephants, or even those of the seeing variety, were following. Luckily as well, neither angry wizard nor slighted tradesman trailed behind, and certainly no garden-variety armed pursuit pursued.
She wore, going against every grain in every novel and film, something practical; or, at least, something that would have been practical had it not been three sizes too large. Cotton dress was forgotten in a lost closet--Sporke had been riding the razor's edge of fashion and glamour, clad in denim pants and cotton shirt. However, even Sporke had her limits: the shirt was not plaid, and the boots, though the obligatory practical leather, were not sequined. Not with the price of sequins these days! Twenty for two cents, and that (Sporke grimaced) was the price on the street for someone to sell at a price to 'cut my own throat.' No doubt there was some sort of black market for the truly desperate, but that was tantamount to suicide where Sporke had come from.
To negate every risk that wearing such masculine apparel caused, Sporke had left her hair braided. No real man braided his hair. And a ring, on her right forefinger, glinted dully. It glinted because, like many rings, it was made of a metal. It glinted dully because, somewhat more rarely, it was made of iron. (Completely useless ring! thought Sporke. Not even invisibility! Why do I even wear the thing?) And, even more surprisingly considering whom the wearer was, it was not the height of fashion. (Not to imply in any way that simply because something is not fashionable it is not worthy of having. For instance: toilets. Has there ever been a designer lavatory? 'Potty Hilfiger'? No, most definitely not. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, nearly every home contains at least one, and quite often more.)
A cold wind blew from some direction. Sporke supposed it was the North, as in books that was the direction important winds always blew from. Either the North or the West, but never the South or East. Glancing down, Sporke took in the rocks and twigs that lay below her feet. Reliving her Girly Guide days, she picked up two rocks and couple twigs, and banged them together. Sporke again felt shame and cold, but at least the other girls whispering and laughing at the only girl in her Troupe who couldn't get a spark didn't supplement this. Oh, she would show them, she would build a roaring fire and walk around with a torch.
Sporke couldn't get a spark, and threw her rocks away. They landed in pine needles, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Sporke trudged through the woods, looking anxiously to the sky. Even her city eyes could tell that there was a storm gathering. The thunder in the distance, the black clouds on the point of explosion, points light in the sky; Sporke knew bad weather was fast on its way, and trudged a bit faster.
'Stop it,' she said, without turning around. The trees discreetly stopped leaning in her direction, and an acorn dropped on her head. 'Stop it.' Upon hearing the Italics in Sporke's voice, the wood became silent. At the sound of silent timber, Sporke smiled. Then she immediately frowned as raindrops kept falling on her head.
Plop, plop.
In another part of the world, far away, a witch looking through a crystal alternately cursed and exulted as her cottage's roof melted and regenerated. Still up, after so little maintenance? It crossed her mind to visit the little place--oh, the memories! The witch, looking to test a new spell (and also being a bit lazy), pulled herself away from the crystal, picked up her cat, a mirror, and some string, then went into a dark room in the back of her house.
Sporke stumbled through the weald, cursing the alcohol and drunkenness that had brought her into this mess. Those little worm drinks packed a punch, all right, but it had been the beer that eventually caused her downfall. Imported beer, fah! It surprised her that the stuff...Funnelweb, was it called...was legal. 'Definitely more than 24 percent pure alcohol.' Sporke shuddered, remembering. 'Definitely.' She looked around. 'And now I'm wet,' she said, almost surprisedly. Shouldn't those trees be keeping her dry? No, she remembered; they were mad at her.
'All right. Come back,' she said resignedly. As water fell on branches and dripped off to her left, right, front, and back, Sporke supposed that creaking and whispers were payoff enough for dry, un-frizzy, hair and not having to put up with the extra cold that comes from wetness. She wished her ring conducted heat all time instead of only in a soup bowl when it was totally unnecessary.
The witch rolled up her sleeves, and threw the string into her cauldron, along with a sketch of the cottage. She cackled, then in a hagfish voice said: 'Double, double, toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble!' (This is not technically necessary for the spell the witch performed. However, to keep the respect of any villagers nosing around and peeping in windows, the witch sustained a level of drama that would have impressed any wizard. It is a well-founded observation that humans will attack something they don't understand, unless they are properly awed.) The string floated across the sketch and the witch laughed. Hastily, she turned it into cough, then began to cackle properly once again.
Sporke stopped walking. Even the trees drew back a bit, and Sporke with them. Where had that cottage come from?
'Oh, bugger,' said the witch. 'Back to the drawing board for me then, I suppose.'
'Where did that cottage come from?' Sporke wondered aloud.
'Why ask us? How should we know? We're just trees who don't get around much,' several voices replied. Sporke whirled around. Every tree stood with trunk straight as a rod, which was quite strange, as the wind was blowing rather hard. Sporke turned around slowly to stare at the oblong cottage. When she heard a rustle, and a whistle whistled. It was that whistle people whistle when trying to seem innocent (No one knows why people do this. The proper response to such a whistle should be to run as quickly as possible and ring the Watch.) Sporke ran into the cottage. Anything, but just...please not that whistle. She slammed the door, and licked her finger.
'Sugar? What kind of a door is made of sugar?' Sporke opened the door and looked outside quickly. Trees leaning, rain blowing; definitely the same scene she had just come in from. She licked her finger again: 'Rock candy?' (Sporke's mother used to create lovely confections of rock candy, until her house was destroyed by a mob of crazed dentists. No one is quite sure whence the attack came, as the sugar increased their custom many times over. Perhaps, for once, dentists cared more about customer than custom?)
She took a step back, and knocked something over. Futilely, she apologised, then suddenly realised that she was more than likely alone in the saccharine shanty and it was rather ridiculous to apologise to oneself. At any rate, it was only a licorice chair, and, as everyone knows, licorice is perfectly malleable and not hurt by floor. The strange thing was that the table was gingerbread--Sporke would have thought that a matching set could have been created--something mildly kitsch. Something cutesy to match the smell of levulose levitating in the lithosphere.
Maybe whoever had created this candy cottage just had a flair for the unusual. Sporke looked around: definitely unusual, and definitely a flair. What was she in?
A quick look around told her: a dry cottage that edged on the sticky side. But a dry cottage.
Sporke decided to stay, for a bit atleast.
Rings are not renowned for their ability to work as space heaters. This is a well-documented fact. Despite a general surplus of rings for invisibility, +14 to various qualities and of course wedding rings, the space heater ring has never been exceedingly fashionable. Why should a ring be gifted with warmth when it would be so much easier to add 'Quick Attack Speed'? However, taking past and present into account, it seems the next obvious step in the evolution of the ring is for a ring to equip itself with a 'Quick Warm Capacitor.'
This is not that story. It is the story of someone who wished that her ring had a 'Quick Warm Capacitor.'
Sporke pushed the forest, leaving a trail wide enough for a blind elephant to follow, or, more accurately, large enough that a blind elephant could have followed, had it gone into the animal's mind to follow. Luckily, for Sporke, no blind elephants, or even those of the seeing variety, were following. Luckily as well, neither angry wizard nor slighted tradesman trailed behind, and certainly no garden-variety armed pursuit pursued.
She wore, going against every grain in every novel and film, something practical; or, at least, something that would have been practical had it not been three sizes too large. Cotton dress was forgotten in a lost closet--Sporke had been riding the razor's edge of fashion and glamour, clad in denim pants and cotton shirt. However, even Sporke had her limits: the shirt was not plaid, and the boots, though the obligatory practical leather, were not sequined. Not with the price of sequins these days! Twenty for two cents, and that (Sporke grimaced) was the price on the street for someone to sell at a price to 'cut my own throat.' No doubt there was some sort of black market for the truly desperate, but that was tantamount to suicide where Sporke had come from.
To negate every risk that wearing such masculine apparel caused, Sporke had left her hair braided. No real man braided his hair. And a ring, on her right forefinger, glinted dully. It glinted because, like many rings, it was made of a metal. It glinted dully because, somewhat more rarely, it was made of iron. (Completely useless ring! thought Sporke. Not even invisibility! Why do I even wear the thing?) And, even more surprisingly considering whom the wearer was, it was not the height of fashion. (Not to imply in any way that simply because something is not fashionable it is not worthy of having. For instance: toilets. Has there ever been a designer lavatory? 'Potty Hilfiger'? No, most definitely not. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, nearly every home contains at least one, and quite often more.)
A cold wind blew from some direction. Sporke supposed it was the North, as in books that was the direction important winds always blew from. Either the North or the West, but never the South or East. Glancing down, Sporke took in the rocks and twigs that lay below her feet. Reliving her Girly Guide days, she picked up two rocks and couple twigs, and banged them together. Sporke again felt shame and cold, but at least the other girls whispering and laughing at the only girl in her Troupe who couldn't get a spark didn't supplement this. Oh, she would show them, she would build a roaring fire and walk around with a torch.
Sporke couldn't get a spark, and threw her rocks away. They landed in pine needles, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Sporke trudged through the woods, looking anxiously to the sky. Even her city eyes could tell that there was a storm gathering. The thunder in the distance, the black clouds on the point of explosion, points light in the sky; Sporke knew bad weather was fast on its way, and trudged a bit faster.
'Stop it,' she said, without turning around. The trees discreetly stopped leaning in her direction, and an acorn dropped on her head. 'Stop it.' Upon hearing the Italics in Sporke's voice, the wood became silent. At the sound of silent timber, Sporke smiled. Then she immediately frowned as raindrops kept falling on her head.
Plop, plop.
In another part of the world, far away, a witch looking through a crystal alternately cursed and exulted as her cottage's roof melted and regenerated. Still up, after so little maintenance? It crossed her mind to visit the little place--oh, the memories! The witch, looking to test a new spell (and also being a bit lazy), pulled herself away from the crystal, picked up her cat, a mirror, and some string, then went into a dark room in the back of her house.
Sporke stumbled through the weald, cursing the alcohol and drunkenness that had brought her into this mess. Those little worm drinks packed a punch, all right, but it had been the beer that eventually caused her downfall. Imported beer, fah! It surprised her that the stuff...Funnelweb, was it called...was legal. 'Definitely more than 24 percent pure alcohol.' Sporke shuddered, remembering. 'Definitely.' She looked around. 'And now I'm wet,' she said, almost surprisedly. Shouldn't those trees be keeping her dry? No, she remembered; they were mad at her.
'All right. Come back,' she said resignedly. As water fell on branches and dripped off to her left, right, front, and back, Sporke supposed that creaking and whispers were payoff enough for dry, un-frizzy, hair and not having to put up with the extra cold that comes from wetness. She wished her ring conducted heat all time instead of only in a soup bowl when it was totally unnecessary.
The witch rolled up her sleeves, and threw the string into her cauldron, along with a sketch of the cottage. She cackled, then in a hagfish voice said: 'Double, double, toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble!' (This is not technically necessary for the spell the witch performed. However, to keep the respect of any villagers nosing around and peeping in windows, the witch sustained a level of drama that would have impressed any wizard. It is a well-founded observation that humans will attack something they don't understand, unless they are properly awed.) The string floated across the sketch and the witch laughed. Hastily, she turned it into cough, then began to cackle properly once again.
Sporke stopped walking. Even the trees drew back a bit, and Sporke with them. Where had that cottage come from?
'Oh, bugger,' said the witch. 'Back to the drawing board for me then, I suppose.'
'Where did that cottage come from?' Sporke wondered aloud.
'Why ask us? How should we know? We're just trees who don't get around much,' several voices replied. Sporke whirled around. Every tree stood with trunk straight as a rod, which was quite strange, as the wind was blowing rather hard. Sporke turned around slowly to stare at the oblong cottage. When she heard a rustle, and a whistle whistled. It was that whistle people whistle when trying to seem innocent (No one knows why people do this. The proper response to such a whistle should be to run as quickly as possible and ring the Watch.) Sporke ran into the cottage. Anything, but just...please not that whistle. She slammed the door, and licked her finger.
'Sugar? What kind of a door is made of sugar?' Sporke opened the door and looked outside quickly. Trees leaning, rain blowing; definitely the same scene she had just come in from. She licked her finger again: 'Rock candy?' (Sporke's mother used to create lovely confections of rock candy, until her house was destroyed by a mob of crazed dentists. No one is quite sure whence the attack came, as the sugar increased their custom many times over. Perhaps, for once, dentists cared more about customer than custom?)
She took a step back, and knocked something over. Futilely, she apologised, then suddenly realised that she was more than likely alone in the saccharine shanty and it was rather ridiculous to apologise to oneself. At any rate, it was only a licorice chair, and, as everyone knows, licorice is perfectly malleable and not hurt by floor. The strange thing was that the table was gingerbread--Sporke would have thought that a matching set could have been created--something mildly kitsch. Something cutesy to match the smell of levulose levitating in the lithosphere.
Maybe whoever had created this candy cottage just had a flair for the unusual. Sporke looked around: definitely unusual, and definitely a flair. What was she in?
A quick look around told her: a dry cottage that edged on the sticky side. But a dry cottage.
Sporke decided to stay, for a bit atleast.