How to Traverse Terra Incognita by Alfar Dean Francis

Author:Alfar, Dean Francis [Alfar, Dean Francis]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9789719951124
Publisher: Flipside Publishing
Published: 2012-08-20T20:00:00+00:00

ESCAPE

THE LAST FOE fell to the blows of the Whirling Lobster’s good claw, emitting a tart smell as it melted on the dappled forest floor.

“Well,” the Stickman said, breaking the heavy silence. “And that’s that.”

In the aftermath of the furious battle, the three companions stood closely together, their noses pinched and proof against the disagreeable odor, little understanding how fortunate they were to have survived the unanticipated assault.

The Whirling Lobster, whose sensitive nostrils had almost succumbed to olfactory attack, sighed. “I cannot, for the life of me, see why some hearts simply go sour.”

“Some things are simply that way, I suppose,” the Stickman said, gingerly stepping over a curdled corpse that was dissipating in the disinclined breeze. “If you keep hoping—”

“There is nothing wrong with hoping,” interrupted the Whirling Lobster. “For some, it is all they have.”

“Then does it matter if it is sweet or sour?” asked the Stickman. “What would make you sour?”

“Sorrow,” replied the Whirling Lobster, squinting at the setting sun. “Or giving up.”

“Sorrow is often exaggerated,” the Stickman muttered.

“Sorrow is here, in this place,” the Whirling Lobster said quietly. “I do not think these twisted woods will ever be free of their stench.”

“That, if anything, tells us how it is past time we left this terrible place,” said the Ornament Angel. She had kept her silence throughout the ambush and now only wanted to depart.

“Fiddlelyfine,” said the Stickman, “but we still have no idea where we are or where we are to go!”

“True, true,” agreed the Whirling Lobster, waving his remaining claw. Deep in his clockwork eyes, a tiny crack widened just a smidgen—but being blind to his own flaws he, of course, did not notice. “I suppose we just have to make do with what we do do.”

“Well, then,” the Ornament Angel said, clearing her throat. “What we do do or do not do will simply have to do for now. It is certainly better than doing nothing at all. Too much of that, and the world just passes you by. I should know.” And she did, remembering for a moment the tragic circumstances of her melancholic captivity and the endless days and nights she spent looking outside from the inside of a cage.

“Fiddlelyfine,” said the Stickman. “So what are we to do?”

His two companions looked at each other, then at him, then at each other again.

“We go where wings can take us,” stated the Ornament Angel.

“But I have no wings!” protested the Stickman.

“Perhaps I can—” began the Ornament Angel.

“But some things are perhaps not meant to fly!” the Stickman cried, aghast at the notion of leaving the ground.

“I promise to hold you and not let you fall,” offered the Whirling Lobster. “My good claw, after all, is the one the Knave of Spades left me with. You will not fall.”

“Besides,” the Ornament Angel told the Stickman, “even if you do fall, we can always pick you up. You do remember what the Little Girl used to say: ‘sticks is sticks’.”

“They most certainly are not!” roared the Stickman, shocked that anyone remembered the cruel words of that petulant child.

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