Day 14 of National Novel Writing Month. Time to move on from reflection and back to writing! This one’s taking me some time to feel out, but I think–I think–I can see what (mis)adventures await teen Soffire. First, though, we’ve got to get through graduation, much to her shagrin.

Day 14, Story 4: Graduation Glums and Glamours

Calling Day. Her Calling Day.

Soffire stood at the end of the line of graduates waiting to cross the garland entry into Pips Row Town Square. Every year, the entire town shut down on the Winter Solstice to celebrate the graduates of Pips’ Pupilry, and once again, the town really put out. Every multi-colored banner from the lamp posts glittered with golden dust for the occasion. Enlarged holly berries and ivy wound around and between every post to celebrate both the Graduates and Winter Solstice celebration. Goodwill and Congratulation streamers hung over every shop window of the Square alongside wreaths of straw, fruit branches, silver, and gems to reflect the specialties of the town. If a town could be a birthday cake, this is what it would look.

Soffire preferred a good chocolate muffin. Alone. Away from human beings.

Not that such a thing was possible on this annoying clear, balmy December day. All cars and carts were pulled from the square to make room for rows upon rows of chairs. Everyone in Pips Row would be here. Everyone wanted to see where the thirteen-year-olds of the town would continue their studies. Farming? Tooling? Smithing? Everyone wanted to know who was Called where.

All those eyes…even the idea of those eyes on her weighed Soffire down as much as the heavy white cotton robe all graduates wore. Why couldn’t they wear the hoods? At least she could hide her face when they call her name and say:

Soffire of the Wool Makers, you are hereby Called to the Dung-Gathering Department of City Cleanliness.

Something like that. It was going to be something like that, she just knew it.

“Good good GOOD morning, Graduates! The Elementals worked especially hard to make this day a beautiful one for us. I really must send them a thank-you card.” Professor Hastlot bustled by Soffire, all bear and lists and spilling coffee. “Let’s see, let’s see. Thirteen robes, good, thirteen graduates, good.”

Maybe Soffire could alter the course of the graduates over a manhole cover so she could disappear.

“Thirteen chairs in the square by the podium, thirteen diplomas on the table by the chairs and the podium, good.”

Maybe Soffire could will the threads of their robes to come undone and leave them all in their PIP PUPIL, PROMOTED! shirts and shorts the school had gifted them on their last day of class. Her inner magic didn’t have terrific control over fabric, but that specialty was in her family line, so she could probably make something happen. Make all winter hats explode? Cause all pants to explode? Could be worth it.

“Wait, where is the Volumizer?! Ack!” Just like that, a little smoke erupted from his ears. “Not the Volumizer! Stay here, Graduates. Do NOT cross until I tell you.” The smoke from his ears swallowed him up in an instant.

Typical crisis for a Calling Day.

I can’t wait to see how Graduation will turn out! Hopefully Soffire won’t cause too many fabric explosions…

Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

Day 11 of National Novel Writing Month! I was so bummed I had to stop writing this morning to attend my university’s conference! Argh. So we’ll have to finish this story tomorrow. The Bee Trainer’s revenge is officially in the works!

Day 11, Story 3: The Bee Trainer’s Revenge

Another bright and glorious morning.

A loud morning! Birds chirping, bees buzzing, dishes clanging, voices chattering and laughing—from inside his house! No one ever laughs in his house!

Nacle Themormo rolled out of bed let out a loud and hit the rugged floor with an indignant “Umph!” Donned in his black silk bathrobe and most dower of expressions, he burst through his bedroom door and bellowed, “Show yourself, intruders!” down the stairs.

“No no, Peach, we should set the dishes over there. Oh! Good morning, Ex-Banker!” Bee Trainer appeared, her overalls and yellow shirt smeared with dust and dirt. The cheeriness of her eyes beneath that ridiculous sunhat churned Nacle’s stomach. “And here I had hoped we could finish our surprise before you woke.”

“Surprise?!” Nacle nearly tumbled down the stairs, in such a state was he. From his meager front hall, he could see at least one man on the floor checking the floorboards in his parlor while a child peered in every book upon the shelves. Even the Strawberry Triplets moved in and out of sight, always with a few of his dishes. “Let’s make sure we give those cupboards a good scrubbing!” someone said from the kitchen.

And all the while Bee Trainer—Queen Bee, more like—stood before Nacle with an innocent smile he was all too keen to wipe off her face. “Madame, you and your co-conspirators are trespassing!” He hadn’t rumbled like this since the Board of Governors dared prod him over those extra emergency funds.

“Nonsense! We are simply being good neighbors. You know what they say, ‘one good turn’ and all that, ha ha!” She motioned to his folding chair outside the front door. “When I told everyone about those beautiful new flowers you grew for a fence, they were thrilled as can be. That old fence had been such an eyesore, you know!” And before Nacle knew it, that squat bee woman was nudging him to his chair and had him seated so he had to look up at her, the sun creating a halo round her face as it shown through the hat’s weaving. “You just sit and have a nice cup of tea while we do all the work to make sure your house is ready for the cold months. Winters can be awfully harsh in Pips Row.”

“GOOD MORNING, LATE BANKER!” Plum Grower poked his out the parlor window with what was surely an aeronaut’s helmet and goggles.

Has this town gone mad?!

“WE WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOUR FLOORS DON’T HAVE ANY ROT! DANGEROUS THING, ROTTEN BOARDS! DID YOU KNOW A FEW BOARDS ARE LOOSE? I’LL CHECK FOR ANY DAMAGE AND REPLACE THOSE STRAIGHTAWAY, SHALL I?”

Nacle blanched. Yes, there were loose floorboards. He made them loose for those extra emergency funds. “Plum Grower, you must listen to me and leave those floor—”

Nothing but a blank smile on the bastard’s face. “YOU’RE WELCOME!” Back in he went to ruin Nacle’s floor.

“Good morning, Ex-Banker!” The woman from his kitchen huffed. Four different baskets full of jars hung heavily from her arms. “I am so glad the children and I are cleaning your kitchen. Did you know your cupboards had hardly a scrap of proper food in them! I found all these toxic powders instead. Don’t you worry—I’ll be sure to label every one of them POISON lest a child comes to visit. Can’t be too careful with these precious creatures!”

On cue, the Strawberry Triplets tumbled out with armfuls of paper, paper from Nacle’s study. Oh no.

“Precocious creatures, more like, wouldn’t you say, Pear Grower?” Bee Trainer laughed.

“MISS BEE TRAINER LOOK!” The boys plopped the papers at Nacle’s feet. At last, up close, Nacle could see why they shouted: each boy wore wax earplugs with little acorn caps on the ends. Nacle’s voice—and magic—shriveled in his throat. “HE HAD PICTURES OF BEES THAT LOOKED LIKE YOUR BEES SO WE MADE SURE THEY LOOKED DIFFERENTER.””

Nacle stomped on one pile and crushed it under his folding chair. “Oh dear, these are but, but scribbles, ideas your bees gave—”

“Why Ex-Banker, you should have said something!” One Triplet looked particularly proud of the sketch he handed Bee Trainer. It depicted a honey jar with MORMO HONEY. THEY’LL ALWAYS ASK FOR MORE MO! The honeybee in sketch, which already had a spoon and apron, now also had a giant mustache, googly eyes, and fart gas. “I would be happy to guide you in the honey trade if you’d asked. Have you always had an interest in bees?”

Nacle could feel all his blood pool in his feet. “Well, um, I, er—” He didn’t get a chance to finish. Fruit Seller’s truck pulled up to Nacle’s home and parked. Out hopped that blasted Clover Gardener bubbling with words to the passenger departing after her: a peculiarly formal man in an ill-fitting suit polishing a large monocle.

“And I told Bee Trainer I said, ‘Surely Pips Row has never seen such a breed of flower before, it could be from another land altogether!’ And Bee Trainer, she was so worried for Ex-Banker’s lovely new bushes that she felt it important to check with you at the Exotic Plant Registry lest the frost ruin what surely is a priceless investment for that dear, kind man.”

And just like that, the blood rushed right back up Nacle’s bulbous body and pressed against his temples. He rose, straightened his robe. “Oh dear, I’m not nearly so, so properly attired. Please give me pardon, Sir, so I may ready myself for this meeting.”

For a moment, it looked like Nacle had an impact: The suited man’s knees bent a bit, and his face went slack. But only for a moment, since that cow Clover Gardener grabbed the man’s arm and practically shouted in his ear, “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, EXOTIC PLANT REGISTRAR?”

The suited man tapped his monocle to his temple. Sparkles erupted from the frame and settled about the prissy man’s head. Tiny whisps of smoke twirled from his cheekbones and ears as he righted himself. “We shall see. I have very, very high standards.” He held the monocle up to his eye and stared hard at Nacle with his now-giant eyeball. “Your name, Sir?”

Plum Grower’s boy appeared with a tea tray, of which everyone primly took a cup. “In this town I am known as Ex-Banker, Sir,” he said with a polite chuckle. “Retired, you know.”

The glass of the man’s monocle flashed with the sun as he hmmm’d and moved on. “So I’ve heard. But if we are to name the breed, it should be done with your name, should it not? Or would you prefer ExBankerus Levandula?”

Well that did admittedly sound a bit silly, even to Nacle.

Who is this peculiar man in the ill-fitting suit, and is Nacle going to find fame after all? I honestly had no clue the story would take this turn a few days ago, but now I see the end in sight and am super excited to reach it tomorrow.

Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

Day 10 of National Novel Writing Month! I wasn’t even sure I’d get this in before teaching tonight. So thankful I did! Bee Trainer Barab Oowi needs help, and thankfully, the residents of Honey Street are there for her.

Day 10, Story 3: The Bee Trainer’s Revenge

Cradling the sick honeybee in one hand, Barab Oowi worked a glove on with the help of her teeth so she could pluck one of the unnatural lavender plants from the bush. She did not dare touch it with her hands; if the pollen affected her little lovelies so severely, she could not imagine what it’d do to her if it touched her own skin. She reached for a particularly large, nasty blossom where the red streaks through the black petals looked like blood from a wounded animal. The tiniest, faintest flecks of red dotted the inner flower—her bees had definitely been there.

Clover Gardener heard the frantic knocking on her back door and quickly shooed her son (with wax earplugs securely in) to go visit Strawberry Growers across the street. “Coming, coming!”

But Barab Oowi didn’t wait. She burst through the door and slammed it just as quickly. Her nightgown was hardly on at this point—granted, honeycomb flannels were hardly scandalous, but it still wasn’t like the Bee Trainer at all to invade another home like this. “He’s poisoned my bees, Clove! Look what he’s done to my little lovelies!”

Clover Gardener took one look at the black blossom in Barab’s hand and let out a low whistle. “Well that can’t be good.” She grabbed a salad tongs out of the pile of drying dishes and plucked the blossom to hold it close. “I recognize the shape of this lavender flower.”

“Yes. Yes, just like my lavender bushes alongside my house. Only these are so much bigger, and their smell and color are all wrong.”

“Was he snooping around your house lately?”

“No…” Barab sat at the kitchen table, her finger gently stroking her sick bee’s back. “But I did include sprigs of my lavender honey jars. I needed to cover up the look of the wax plugs.”

“Yes, yes, I get it, but you gave him a piece of you, don’t you know.” Clover Gardener set a mixing bowl between them and dropped the black blossom into the bowl. “Your bees count on those lavender bushes, and you count on your bees. His Tampering broke that connection.”

The connection broken? How could anyone dare come between Barab and her bees?! It all felt like an impossible nightmare. The little bee in her palm was so still, so weak. “Will my lovelies—” she choked. “Will they—”

“Die?” Clover Gardener had never been a subtle person. “I don’t think so.” She grabbed her trusty trowel and a handful of dried clover before sitting herself down before the bowl. “First I’ve got to learn what he used to curse the plant. Why don’t you see if some proper clover helps that bee? If it’s good for one, it could be good for the hives.”

Barab nodded and headed out back to leave Clover Gardener in peace. Deciphering another’s magic is already a tricky business, rather like undoing the stubborn knot of a shoelace. Deciphering an illegal Tampering is like untangling the ten balls of yarn the Strawberry Grower triplets threw about their living room when playing Spider.

But if anyone was more stubborn than a Tampering, it was Clover Gardner. Barab Oowi had to give her a chance.

So Barab sat down next to the biggest patch of clover in the yard. “All right, little one. I need you to be brave.” She cupped the bee next to some clover flowers, and thought. Thought hard. She felt the pain of the bee in her hand, in the hive. She tapped down her own fears, and called forth her own strength, her own magic. Whispered the words only bees know into her hands. Whispered to the wind to come gently down and pull free the poisonous pollen from the bee’s legs. The peculiar smell left with the wind, and Barab whispered anew to her little one to stand, to flutter her wings, to try the clover. She flew a little higher, a little higher, just above Barab’s hands, just over the clover, just onto the clover. She landed!

“I knew you could do it!” Barab gleefully said through her tears. “Take the good pollen, remember what good pollen is.” The bee laughed as it dug into the clover. “Yes, that’s my lovely. You’ll be all right. So will your brothers and sisters. But oh dear, we’ll have a lot to do. Start from scratch, I think.” Barab sat up and looked warily through the yards to her own. Yes. Whatever honeycomb, whatever harvest could be found in those hives—all would have to go lest old honey taint a new crop. “Perhaps Clover Gardener will find an antidote from the Tampering. Then you can all get stronger faster.”

“I’VE GOT IT!” Clover Gardener ran out with a cloud of black dust trailing behind her. One would think it was a science experiment gone horribly wrong, but then, most Tamperings look like that. “It’s the red lines on the black petals. They’re veins of Ex-Banker’s blood. He put his own vitriolic temperament in the lavender to ruin the bees.”

Barab watched her bee hop carefully from clover to clover. “But why? We’ve done nothing to him.”

“Except put a stop to all the men of Honey Street doing his work for him,” Glover Gardener tisked. “A man like that’s used to getting his way.”

The buzz of the healing bee stirred up the righteous anger in Barab’s heart. She rose, her eyes bright like honey in the sun. “Well then. Let’s see that he gets it.”

Uh oh. There’s something about Barab’s words that makes me wonder what she envisions when giving the Ex-Banker Nacle Themormo “his way.” I’m almost scared to find out! But not quite. 🙂

Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

Day 9 of National Novel Writing Month! Bee Trainer Barab Oowi is about to see how Ex-Banker Nacle Themormo handles people who get in his way.

Resolving this conflict may take a few days, just so you know. I’m also attending a big conference this week, which means several hours of each day must be dedicated to presentations. Blech. Still, for this NanoWriMo Writer, the goal is to get into writing every day, whether it’s just a few hundred words or a few thousand. Thank you for your support as I work towards this goal!

Day 9, Story 3: The Bee Trainer’s Revenge

Another bright and glorious morning.

A late morning!

Bee Trainer Barab Oowi stumbled out of bed, mind in a panic. Had something happened to her bees? They were so quiet!

Sunbeams cut through her shutters and blinded her as she fumbled for her bathrobe. Never minded slippers, never minded tea, she flew open the door to her backyard to see what’s what.

At last, she heard a buzzing. Only it was eerily subdued, as if she had smoked her entire yard to put the bees to sleep. Barab fell to her knees and crawled among the hives, searching for invading wasps, invading slugs, invading anything. No signs of struggles or predators, but every sleeve of every hive revealed sluggish bees, quiet bees, unhappy bees. “Little lovelies, are you are all right?”

One worker bee managed to fly from her place in the honeycomb to land in Barab’s hand. The little thing looked so tired! Her hind legs were colored with a pollen Barab had never seen before—a blackish kind of pollen, with a few tiny flecks of red. Surely no such pollen came from Barab Oowi’s small herb garden. The Peach Growers next door had no such pollen, either. Perhaps down the street?

Or…

Barab stood, mouth agape, at the monstrosity. In place of the rundown wooden fence between her home and Ex-Banker, there now stood the tallest, fattest lavender bushes she had ever seen. Their stems reached several feet, their flowers up to her nose. But their scent wasn’t kind and sweet at all; rather, they reminded Barab of the cleaning potions used to tidy up sick on one’s floor. And the coloring! Wrong, all wrong. Coal-black petals? Even in Pips Row, black flowers are not natural, let alone with streaks of read running through the stem and petals.

A large, sweaty hand peeked above the bushes and waved.

“Why hullo, Bee Trainer! Such a pleasant morning, wouldn’t you say?” Ex-Banker chimed through the greenery. He moved as he spoke, forcing Barab Oowi to pass every unnatural flower. The worker bee in her hand attempted to flutter out of her hand, but barely reached a bush before falling. Barab fell to the ground and caught the bee just in time while Ex-Banker droned on and on. “I simply must thank you and our neighbors for all your lovely hospitality. Such dedication to Nature, such beautiful bounties! You all really did inspire me to do my part. What do you think of this new little border I concocted? So much nicer than those rotting logs. You know what they say about good fences, ha ha!”

Now he was in view by the front walk, donned in a city-person’s absurd idea of country flannel and khakis with leather boots. Barab Oowi scrambled upward (not easy in a bathrobe) and over to meet him. “Indeed,” she said, trying to hide her gasps for breath, “I believe I’ve heard the saying.”

Ex-Banker pulled a pipe out of one of those dozen different pockets upon his vest and tapped it with a thoughtful eye on the bushes. “Yes, yes, a fine first attempt, if I say so myself.”

“F-first attempt?” Barab held the poor bee to her chest. It must have looked like she was praying, for that look of victory on Ex-Banker’s face cut her deeply.

“Why of course,” he said placidly. “I am a resident of Pips Row now, am I not?” He stepped right up to the border, just enough to block any sunlight from touching Barab Oowi’s face. “You know, I must confess I didn’t see it at first—the wealth of potential in all you people grow here. But I do now.” The spark of his match transformed his eyes into black pits as he lit his pipe. “Good day, Bee Trainer!” And he waddled into his home and out of sight.  

Ack, not the bees! Well this is one fence that needs more than a mending. What will Barab do? Let’s find out!

Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

Day 8 of National Novel Writing Month! It’s time for the neighbors to start their fencing…in more ways than one. 🙂 This may take me a few days, though–I’m also attending a big conference this week, which means several hours of each day must be dedicated to presentations. Blech. Still, for this NanoWriMo Writer, the goal is to get into writing every day, whether it’s just a few hundred words or a few thousand. Thank you for your support as I work towards this goal!

Day 8, Story 3: The Bee Trainer’s Revenge

It was not uncommon to see the Bee Trainer Barab Oowi gift small jars of honey to the families of Honey Street. On this particular occasion, each jar contained a delicate woodland strawberry flower with some slivers of pear mingling with her golden specialty. In the twine wrapping she often included a few of her own lavender sprigs and acorns for decoration…at least, they were acorns for the jar marked Nacle Themormo. They lonely looked like acorns on all the other jars, when in reality they were little wax earplugs inside acorn caps. Barab counted on this as she braced herself to enact her plan. With her absurdly large sun hat’s peach ribbon tied flamboyantly beneath her chin, she set out down her front steps.

Ah, the sunrise was glorious that day! Yet the wind was a bit chilly, as midsummer mornings often are in those first hours. Dew still sparkled her walkway and front lawn, and even the rundown fence between her and Nacle’s plot gleamed as a woodpecker knocked a beam for its breakfast.

“Good morning, Ex-Banker!”

Nacle Themormo paused in his fiddling with the folding chair. He’d yet to wile anyone out of their breakfast, and he simply must have a good mug of coffee and cream with strawberries in order to perk up. “Morning, Bee Trainer,” he grumbled as he wondered where the blasted Strawberry Grower triplets were hiding. All boys, that lot, and easy pickings for his magic.

“Dear me, you sound a bit down.” Bee Trainer could feign concern with the best of them. “Perhaps you’d like a bit of honey for your morning tea?” She plucked the jar with his name on it from the basket and held it over the fence.

Nacle Themormo blinked. He waddled a bit closer to the fence, but his eyes narrowed at the little jar. “But…I didn’t ask for any honey. Why are you giving it to me?”

“I do love sharing a bit of my harvest with everyone time and again,” Barab held up her basket, the gold of the honey reflecting the sunlight right into Nacle’s face. “Let’s me know how my little wonders are doing.”

Nacle waved away the light with one hand and snatched the jar with the other. “Oh! Oh. Oh I see. Don’t see.” He held up the jar. “It’s just honey.”

“Yes.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

“No bread, maybe, or pot of tea?”

Barab blinked. “Afraid not, Ex-Banker. Well, off to catch other families at their breakfast tables. Perhaps your tea is just inside, Sir? Good morning!” And with a tip of that gargantuan hat she was off to the next house, politely knocking on their door.

Nacle Themormo stood next to his chair and watched Bee Trainer buzz from house to house with her basket, always handing over a jar to some unknown person behind the door. If only a man or boy would peek out! Surely those triplets would embrace this blasted bright summer morning soon. Nacle pulled his flashy wool sweater back down over his bulbousness, and sat. Surely, someone would come. The honey jar grew sweaty in his hand as he waited.

At last, the Strawberry Grower boys! The three tumbled out their front door higgledy-piggledy, laughing over some sort of prank with mouse poo and raisins.

Nacle: Good day, Boys! (His voice reminds one once again of a yawning dog.) Strawberry Lads, hullo!

No answer. How rude! They ran down the street and out of sight, surely going where there were other delectables they should be bringing to him.

Strawberry Grower himself stepped out with his spouse, both armed with sheers, baskets, and smiles.

Nacle: Strawberry Grower, I must speak with you!

No answer. They had the audacity to walk to their backyard without a glance!

Plum Grower brought his truck out to the road and parked. He and Fruit Sellar stood by the truck bed, pointing to various spots.

Nacle heaved himself from his seat and waved, waved like he had never waved before. Fruit Sellar, Plum Grower, hullo! I must speak with you urgently!

Attention! The glint of the sun in the honey jar had caught the men’s attention. They looked at him. Then each other. Then back to him.

Nacle smiled his best banking smile with his arms open wide.  Please, gentlemen, I require your attention over here!

Fruit Seller shook his head. He shook his head! “MARKET DAY!” He shouted loud enough for the words to echo down to the end of the lane, where Bee Trainer stood with a jar in hand.

Plum Grower nodded vigorously. “GOT TO PREPARE THE TRUCK! GOOD DAY, LATE BANKER!”

Never in all Nacle Themormo’s years had he dealt with such rejection! Well, that is, except for when the Bank’s leadership was replaced with that obnoxious horse of a woman. How dare she think she could tell him what to do! Now Nacle was dealing with that same rejection all over again, watching others carry on in their lives as if his wishes didn’t matter. He was ready to throw that stupid jar of honey from Bee Trainer at the ground in disgust. That disgusting woman with her phony grin next to Clover Gardener, that cow…Nacle pulled back, ready to throw the jar as hard as he could at Bee Trainer’s house and all her noisy, annoying bees moving about her bushes.

Paused.

The houses Bee Trainer had visited—those were the ones where men and boys no longer heard him. Something about this honey…a magical Working against him?

Well. Two can play at that game.

Eeeeee, what’s he going to do? I can’t wait to find out, and I’m writing this thing!

Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

Day 6 of National Novel Writing Month! Now that we’re starting a new story, I’ll need to explore a bit here, so be forewarned: this may be more setting establishment than story, per say.

Day 6, Story 3: The Bee Trainer’s Revenge

From the very start, Pips Row has been known as a farmer’s kind of town. The entry gates from the farmlands are as numerous as the spokes on the typical wagon wheel. The small but bustling Town Square has all the essentials a farmer does not grow or conjure. And every resident has their own connection to the land, be it through their work out on the farms, the forges for tools to use on the farms, or their own little gardens planted about their homes. This mandatory “down to earth” kind of life does well to ward off those without love of dirt or hard work.

Nevertheless, there will always be a bad apple or two, even in the most prosperous of seasons. You used to find one such apple down Third Southeast Way, also known as Honey Street. Quite a few folks tend fruit trees and wildflowers in this neighborhood, and you can bet your Saturday sugar-bread that they count on the bees of Barab Oowi to pollinate their plants in the warm months. Only there was one year, not too far back, when the bees were led astray, and a street of sweet crops lost to poor taste and ambition.

We’ll begin with Barab Oowi, known as Bee Trainer about the town. Small, strong, and stout, Barab rarely spoke above a hum, her gestures speaking volumes for her instead. Barab never shied from the tough jobs Nature and Neighbors brought to her door, you see. One day she’s carrying barrels of apples and oranges one day for Fruit Seller, the next hexing a wasp’s nest out of a child’s treehouse. In return, her Neighbors often shared meals and tools, and children gave her floral wreaths to wear. Parents of Honey Street were particularly thankful, for there was no better place to send a bored child to than Bee Trainer’s home. There was always a new honey blend to taste, pots to paint, candles to trim, or bees to serenade.

That is, until Nacle Themormo moved in.

How to describe Nacle…well, he was from the capital. That should tell you a lot right there. A banker, apparently, so one who never bothered with the hard work, only the profits earned by it. Fruit Seller had heard he made enough coin to retire to the country, but that didn’t make any sense, for it costs far more to live workless in the country than the city. This mystery added to the distrust of Ex-Banker Nacle, but what could any of us do? The Green Trenches don’t arrest ex-bankers, let alone lazy people.

Of which Nacle most certainly was. A bulbous fellow, rather like a potato, he would plant himself in a folding chair at the edge of his porch and watch everyone and everything on Honey Street, especially when it came to his next-door Neighbor, the Bee Trainer. Within the first few weeks, the folks of Honey Street learned why: Nacle Themormo’s magic lay in the power of his words in the ears of other men.

Hmmm. I think we’ll just stop here for now. I want to keep brewing some ideas of how Nacle and Barab are going to interact so we can see how a simple fence and a hive of bees can throw the rhythm of an entire neighborhood asunder.

Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!