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!

Day 4 of National Novel Writing Month! We’re still with Private Miks Tavus on his sting operation to take down a dragon-egg smuggler. I didn’t get as far as I wanted with this one, but we are ramping up the tension, which is good.

Day 4, Story 2: Never Say Your Name

What’s the hag with the turban want?

Well, “hag” was as strong word—Tavus could see that now that the dusty lamp over his table lit her features. Sure, she had a few rivers of shadow on her face, a wart or two, but nothing out of the ordinary for an older woman…especially an older troll. Between the turban and all the sparkly garb, no one’s gonna look at her for more than a second.

IF she was the troll. Not enough evidence. Need more evidence.

With a sneer and a hitch-up of the pants, Farmboy straddled on back to his stool at the bar, but there was no more hee-hawing to be had from that pair. Fine.

“May I join you?”

Tavus motioned to the battered chair while Waitress came over with his stew. “And some fresh coffee for my guest here,” he ordered with a smirk. “Though frankly, Ma’m, I can’t imagine you want to socialize with the likes of me.”

No one else did. The loner’s posture had gone stiff. The pair of legit Trade Couriers were hissing something back and forth—hopefully not a hex. Not an uncommon thing—Couriers are damn competitive for clients. But a hex could cause Tavus’ badge to light up in deflection, and there goes this operation, right down the crapper.

The wind twirled in the snow outside leaving frozen curls upon the diner’s window, its whistle long and lonely. The Waitress tisked, wiped the counter. “Way past that wind’s bedtime. You two ought to send it home to its momma.”

If farmers love to talk about anything, it’s the weather.

“I was ready to give that wind a spanking last week. Fella blew my hay bales all over…” Off those two went, competing for the worst dealings with wind, judged by Waitress.

Tavus dared to sigh, just a little, and faced The Turban. “So what can I do for you, Ma’m?” He took care to let the broth dribble down his chin while he ate.

Turban looked back on her rock-still servant. Whatever she saw, Tavus guessed she didn’t like it. The lump of a servant hadn’t moved much in the two hours they’d been here. Sick, maybe? Turban’s jaw shifted, and her eyes flat. “Serving, or seeking?”

Typical opener for hiring a Trade Courier—good, I’m actually selling this. Tavus sucked the spoon thoughtfully before letting it clang loudly in his bowl. “Bit of both. Hoped to help a partner of mine tonight with his job, but this storm, think it held him up.”

Turban’s finger traced the swirls of ice on the window. “Seems we’re all held up tonight. Pity.”

“There is the Inn, you know,” Waitress lobbed the words over. “Pearl’s Price, just down the block. The night watchman would let you in.”

“I thank you, Waitress, but I am sure the storm will be parting soon.” She pulled out a thin pipe from the folds of her coat. “Is that why you didn’t approach my table? Your colleagues certainly weren’t shy when they first arrived, but I prefer not to employ occupied Couriers. You’re a greedy lot as it is.”

Contact, this could be my contact. “Right you are, Ma’m. We burn through money pretty fast.”

A wince—right at “burn.” She has to be the troll I’m looking for. But where are the dragon eggs? Hidden in her robes, by the servant? Dammit, I should have cased her better when she came in. No bags or cases. She’s gotta keep them someplace warm. And if she could fit a pipe that long in her clothes, she could probably stash an egg or two.

The wind howls angrily at the cold, cold night. Snow drifts start to reach up the diner window. It was going to be damn hard to maneuver out there without magic now. Even the Gaptooths were eyeing the snow anxiously. The walls of the diner pressed in, close, mingling everyone’s stink of the day. Tavus was certain he could hear the loner’s heartbeat from across the room.

“Traveling by moonlight—is that a problem?”

“Not at all.”

“Even on western roads?”

“Even then.”

“Then let us shake, Alexander, and mark your service.”

Alexander? Tavus raised an eyebrow. “Courier will do, Ma’m.”

“Nonsense. I loathe vague references.” She rose and held out her gnarled hand streaked with tobacco and ash. “You are an individual who deserves identity, even a false one. When the job is over, you are released from the name.” No human could smile the way she did then.

Something is very, very wrong. Miks better be careful, or he’s apt to lose more than his cover…

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

Day 3 of National Novel Writing Month! I do so love a good police procedural, and wanted to try one of my own. Let’s see what life is like for a Private on a sting for the local law enforcement known as the Green Trenches.

Day 3, Story 2: Never Say Your Name

Half past eleven, and the troll still hadn’t showed. Private Miks Tavus rubbed his left temple and glared at the snow clinging to the diner’s window. If those plaid Gaptooth hicks at the counter hee-haw about the spotty cornstalk and diary girl one more time, I will blow my cover just to shut them up, he thought.

Which would be a pity, because Tavus had worked pretty damn hard on it. Picked up a clawed leather coat and bloodstained pants from the morgue. Used his day off to forge a new ID at the Records Office (probably shouldn’t have done that, but if he makes this collar, it won’t matter). Even gave himself a black eye and bloody lip to complete the look of a Trade Courier down on his luck. Just another loner on the roads, hunkering down in this random farming town until the snow blows over…

…when in reality he’s on his first undercover assignment for the Pips Row Green Trenches.

“And then the girrrl told the wife, ‘those ain’t his moles, lady, them’s—”

“Ack, Farmboy, you’re gonna make me gag,” the waitress groaned as she smacked one of the farmers with her notepad. Her curves looked none too comfortable in the drab grey dress most hospitality folks where in these parts, but she glided easily enough among the smoke and dimly lit tables. Only a few others sat in the diner besides Tavus and the Gaptooths: a couple legit Trade Couriers with their sacks tucked under the table, some old sequined hag with a turban and her servant, and another loner.

That one…something off about him. He sat in the far corner with his back to the wall. He never took his bushy scarf or hat off, even to slurp his broth. Squat and wide, like many trolls, and he could be keeping his hat on to hide the giveaway plants that grow atop troll heads instead of hair.

But why hide it? Pips Row sees its share of trolls and elves and goblins and were-folk like any other town. Maybe less, because of the Gaptooth hicks, but still.

Trolls aren’t for trapping themselves, either. If they can get at the dirt, they will escape you no matter what power your badge wields. And that was the last thing Private Miks Tavus wanted. If he was to catch the Dragon-Egg Smuggler, he needed his suspect to reveal the route before another piece of the downtown caught fire.

If he only knew what his suspect looked like.

“Waiting for someone?”

Miks Tavus’ eyes shifted from the window to the waitress. Not a young thing, but still looked good in those heeled boots of hers. One strand of her green hair peeked out from her white snood.

“You been sitting here a solid two hours drinking Merl knows how much coffee. How about a little beef stew? Farmboy over there brought the meat in fresh this morning.”

Dammit, I’m obvious. “Sure.” Tavus leaned back, scratched his chest. “Snow’ll freeze me up fast enough once I’m back on the road…” Double-dammit, don’t look at her chest for a nametag. “…Waitress.”

Names. People protected them in Pips Row like they were gold. For some reason, the moment any kid around here got their apprenticeship, you stopped using their names and went by profession instead. Old Corporal down at Headquarters once said it had to do with a sorceress gathering names up, doing some sort of Tampering with them years back.

Just one more thing Miks Tavus had to learn for himself after being assigned to this weird intersection of the country.

Waitress gave him the once-over and saw the blood on his pants. Good. “Not easy out there.”

“Nope.”

“Where ya headed?”

“West.”

The hee-hawing stopped. Both Gaptooth Farmboys peered over at Tavus from the counter. “Them’s the wilds, Courier. Geese territory.”

Just stare at your coffee, Miks. Don’t give’em the fightin’ eye. “Yup.”

Tavus could hear the groan of the bench as one Farmboy straddled over. The smell of manure and magic churned Tavus’ stomach, but he remained still, even when Farmboy leaned over to growl in his ear: “You rile up another Gaggle, I swear to Merl I’ll get my hounds and—”

“Good Farmer, if you please.”

What’s the hag with the turban want?

What DOES she want? Will we find the troll or the smuggler?

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