The Bear and Barnacle

Although he hits every bench in town (inside and out, and not a single one outside the borders), he doesn't hit every chair. That's a more random spattering. None belonging to anyone he's ever called family; don't draw attention there, and besides, eurgh. So there's just, here and there (and there, and there, and there) a chair that, when sat on, begins to silently rumble and purr pleasantly against its occupant. The shadowing spell will eventually wear off the little stones worked into their legs, but not, he thinks, for a good, long time. Not if the little snatches of astral body (mere grains, replenished every meal, less than is burned off with laughter) they take from their occupants in payment and to fuel their movement keep being renewed with sitting.

So: the innocent pleasure dispersed, the cleansing, pleasing deaths to follow, those without even a trace of his astral scent. This should give the little hell-brat a headache at the very least, drive him to distraction, in the best case, and out. Gadfly was always his role; he can't really hurt the prince of hell, but he can, maybe, annoy him enough to leave him alone.

It's dark when he finishes. He's heard about some winter deity-saint who touches every house in the world (of one faith, anyway) in a night, and spares a moment for admiration. But it's interrupted when he sees a certain store still open. Some temptations aren't worth resisting. With a candle in his pocket, smelling of autumn and spice, and two seals in the form of a fox and a smiley-face, he wends home. After all, he hasn't hit home either, knowing how well that would be received, and that's just not fair.

from the Kent Messenger

Margate- Residents and tourists in the seaside resort town got a bit of unexpected weather yesterday when a rain of fish suddenly dropped on a quiet block near the beach. The rain began at approximately 8:05AM GMT and ended some ten minutes later. Professor Fred Windbright of the Royal Meteorological Society theorised that the fish (which were mostly deep-sea dwellers) might have been the result of a water spout in the Atlantic. “They’re like Hoovers you know, waterspouts,” he commented. “Suck up anything in their path and then when the wind goes, it just drops. Not an unheard of phenomenon. Rare though, certainly. There was a rain of frogs in Essex a couple of years ago.” Naturally, this has caused some consternation for the town council, who will be meeting in emergency session to try to decide what to do about the mess. Local homeless advocates are chivying for saving the fish to feed the needy. The local animal shelter has been overwhelmed with calls to come and remove various cats, dogs, birds and other animals that are helping themselves to the bounty. The waste removal force is already complaining about the extra work this means for them, busy as they are with the increased rubbish of the season. “My lads will be clocking up the overtime,” said R P Taylor, supervisor of the local union. “I just want to know who’s going to pay for it all.” Residents of the house where the majority of the fish landed refused to speak to reporters.

Val has been four for rather more than half a year when he decides enough is enough. Each year he ages is one year closer to adulthood ... or as close as he ever got, anyway. Two hundred is maybe not quite adult for a dragon.

First he quells lurking fears by having Jack measure his height and wingspan to ensure that he actually is growing. Lacking any real idea of when he was born the first time beyond "when it was warm," he chooses Midsummer Day to serve as his birthday. In the incredibly convoluted calendar of this locale that falls on the twenty-first of June.

What he didn't expect was Dora's resistance to the idea.

"I'm going to grow up," he said at last, stubbornly, to she who had been five over two birthdays now. "If you want to stay older then you have to grow up too." He added generously: "I'll share my birthday with you this year." At last she agreed.

So a compromise cake was baked, lemon with pink icing on one side and chocolate on the other. The pink side has six blue candles and the chocolate side has five. The whole vast, sticky confection, grimly but perfectly iced by Ivonka, sits proudly in the center of the bar at the Pub.

Val thinks this is an incredibly bizarre way to mark the turning of age, but he's not about to argue with tradition ... or cake.