“Five minutes to midnight, folks!” I called out, my voice echoing in the grand workshop. “Get your lists ready and stretch those fingers. It’s going to be a wild ride!”
Black Friday was nearly the busiest day of the year, second only to Christmas. As Head Elf of the Technology Department, I had transformed
The other thieves whisper that I’m cursed. Dangerous, like all unknowns. They say I’m cold as ice. Heartless. They call me Sixth—a nickname I’d earned in my initiation into their gang—not the name my mother gave her son.
To them, I’m nothing more than the mask I’ve presented.
They might be right.
The biggest problem with being a scarecrow brought to life was the publicity. Memories of my prior existence in the zucchini patch remained fuzzy, but I was fairly certain there were no interviews, cameras, mobile phones, or TV crews before the kid worked his magic.
“Come on, Edgar. It’s one night.”
September 3rd. The first day of school. A prime opportunity for battle.
I clutch Elsie’s right arm and glare at Insecurity, who holds her left arm.
It’s another one of those days I wish Elsie could see us and our battles. Knowing how much power she has over us would help her defeat those lingering self-worth issues, which would deal Insecurity a crippling blow.
Back in my day, we didn’t have so many blasted cryptids running around in the woods. When I worked for Game and Fish, I took my job as cryptid hunter seriously, and I kept nasty beasts to a manageable level. But things changed after I retired, and hunters started using a “holistic cryptid management approach.”
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“Éclairs.”
“Angel food cake,” I counter, crossing my arms and staring my little sister down. “We haven’t had that in forever.”
“Well why don’t we just do both?” Sophie flips through Mom’s gigantic recipe book. “If we make them at the same time, it’ll be really quick.”
I contemplate that. She has a point.
I stand on the Goldberry Bridge, glaring at last week’s newspaper. “Good Boy, Ace!” the headline declares. Everyone in Tuttlesburgh thinks Ace is a heroic golden retriever responsible for dramatic river rescues. But there’s more to the story. I think it’s a ruse, and Ace himself is at the center of it.
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Blood sits heavy on an empty stomach, I thought bitterly as the crimson pool around me expanded. My insides howled with pain, yet I lay motionless, listless in my doomed state. The sticky sand embalmed me while the turmoil in my intestines raged in a battle between empty, gnawing pain and boiling, tumultuous nausea.
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“For first place in the Camp Conniption popsicle stick sculpture competition, we have two winners!” Camp Director Naomi Addison addressed the auditorium of middle school girls. “Our judges gave both Melissa Logan and Zinnia Zunk a perfect ten.”
The girls clapped as Zinnia and I came up on stage to accept our ribbons.
June 7. The day I get my third memory.
I can’t keep a skip out of my step as I hurry down the forest path, humming.
An oddly cold breeze whips around me, blowing my dark curls into my face.
I sigh and roll my eyes at the sky. Though mostly obscured by branches, I can tell it’s gloomy and full of clouds.
Over the centuries I’ve had brief spells where I’ve considered children adorable. But such misconceptions can be very dangerous. My only excuse, I’d caught a March madness.
“Those are the official rules. Any questions?” I snapped the NBA rulebook closed and stared down at the children. Fourteen wide eyes stared back at me.
In Vermont, we call the spring thaw Mud Season, a time of year that gives new meaning to the word battleground, for it’s necessary to battle the ground simply to walk. Either you struggle while the muck sucks at your shoes and even skirts if they aren’t hitched up a bit, or you tumble when it’s too slick, which causes the unwary much irritation.
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