This is the short story I wrote, poked at, and have finally made available.  I’ll be releasing it in bits throughout the week, but if you are impatient and just want to read the whole thing, I have it available here: Dr. E versus Da Goblinz.

 

I parked about two blocks from the house, using some complicated intuition equation, where you don’t have the exact variables and math, but it takes into account how far I’d have to run if there was an explosion, how close I’d want to be to make my getaway, and odds and ends about my general fitness level and laziness.

I wore a black jacket with that soft finish, maybe suede, over a black t-shirt (in white letters “SIDEKICK IN TRAINING,”) because it was chilly, not because it’s cool to wear black.  An old pair of jeans and black sneakers completed the outfit.  I had to think about it before I got in, afraid that at just the wrong moment I’d be halfway over a gate and the jeans would rip.  If you’ve ever had to complete an adventure with your rear hanging out where a pair of pockets used to be, you would understand why it was on my mind.

I went around the wall and, after enough grunting and pulling and heaving to remind myself that that much effort should have warranted a call to the police by any good neighbor (by which I meant an actual concerned citizen, not a fairy) it appeared that Dare’s neighborhood was either used to nightly intruders, or unobservant past their windows.  Either was possible and about as fair.  I took a moment while catching my breath before popping over the side with a thud into some grass.

On my sightseeing tour earlier, I had been on the lookout for an important clue: there were no signs of dogs.  Not that dogs particularly enjoyed a lot of magic; there were plenty of exceptions, but it was an easy rule of thumb and seemed true in this case.  That didn’t mean there weren’t other guardians, but I didn’t have to worry about a rottweiler eating my face. Demons I can handle.  Rotties are a pain.

“Alright,” I said.  “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

I am not quite in my forties, and saying that out loud was probably one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.  Well, staring a dragon in the face was pretty scary, but there gets to be this point where you’re so scared you can no longer feel it consciously.  There are all sorts of fear, and anticipatory fear is what I’m trained towards from all the horror movies I watch.  (Strictly for research purposes, of course.)  I guess people who study fear talk about the difference between it and anxiety, phobias, and the rationality of the fear.  (I read too much.)  It was being five again, though, staring into the darkest blackness of the closet and asking for the bogeyman to show himself.

What do you do when he does?

The difference between an almost-forty year old man, and a five year old boy is that I’ve real weapons to support me.  So when I saw the first thing lumbering towards me, I raised my left hand in a warding gesture my last girlfriend taught me, and spread out the salt packet from my box lunch in a spray of tiny white crystals.  I like to think I struck an awesome pose, which is why the vines on my unprotected right hand side slammed me against the wall.

I’m a practical guy.  If I had a flamethrower, I’d be more likely to roast myself than do anything useful.  As I felt the wall crunch into my ear and nose, and the blood start to flow, I still wanted the flamethrower.  You want to make a final stand, to convince the universe that it all had a point, that you did not accept defeat.

“This,” I said aloud, “would be a terrible day to die.”  I ground myself back against the wall and flung out more salt at where I figured the vines were.  I managed not to do the involuntary rubbing of my jaw that I wanted, and instead faced the movement again.  Anger comes from fear; some of the wisest folk I hang out with say that, and I believe it to be true.  Anger is also just fine for replacing the paralysis fear often brings.

The plants tittered, the fluttering of leaves on the pavement after a heavy rain, crossed with some 80’s electronica.  I felt an opening, and I shut it down with a heavy thump.  My blood dripped from my chin in a no-doubt appealing fashion, and I grabbed at one of the little beasts, pulling it up from its roots.

Pistil, stamen, I didn’t know anything about flowers.  I wanted to be cruel enough, hard enough to pull a petal off it, but since the petals were its face I couldn’t torture it.  The vine snaked at me again, thorns scratching across my cheek and attempting to wrap around my neck, while the sleepy flower turned and bit my hand.  I pushed the vine away, weakly, and smeared the goblin I was holding against the wall with a sickening wet crunch.

The salt was working – plants don’t like it.  I should have brought a bunch of prairie dogs, too.  I would have to learn their chittering language for, “Arise my army!”  That was long term planning, of course.  I was glad that most of the night-blooming flowers were on my side.  Well, Fairy Lily was fairly neutral, but also not hardy given Colorado temperatures.  I was hoping that I could hear the call of Angel’s Trumpet, and as it was poisonous there might have been some method for Dare to have it, but alas, this was a garden specifically built for the other side.

Thorns lashed against me, and yucca sawed faint furrows into my arms.  I pushed through towards the house, thinking to at least break through some of the designs, prevent them from being used for summoning until I could come up with a better plan.  I pulled at things that pulled at me, my hands bloody and smelling of grass.  Moths harassed me, and crickets complained as I pushed through their comfort zones.  I thought I heard the hoot of an owl.

I saw the flash of light from the porch before I heard the sound of the gate.  The flash of light came with a chuckle.  Dare held the glow of sunshine in his hands.  Sunshine isn’t the panacea it always seems to be in the movies; it only means we can see what horrific thing is coming for us.

In this case, he was waking the goblins.

Bushes thrashed, and the horrific little creatures woke to the illumination Dario held, the secret green thumb of his black hortician’s trade.  An army of them, goblins, bog orchids, (“bog” backwards is “gob” if you had any doubt), the creeping death camas, the lilykind.  If I hadn’t been terrified, I would have been flattered.  No one’s drawn up an army against me, before.  Mark that one off the bucket list.