“Mama?” a scared, little voice called.
Phezznibbet Maplebark’s ears twitched, his paw closing around the bottom knife in his bandolier. He poked his head around the slimy dumpster that hid him. At the front of the alleyway stood a figure not much smaller than himself. It didn’t appear threatening, so he took a few
Phezznibbet stood on his hind legs and inhaled the scent. Buttery. Rich. Definitely cheese.
But what type?
He sniffed again. It lacked the tangy scent of Roquefort and didn’t have Juustoleipa’s sweet reindeer undertones. Maybe an aged cheddar?
As if on cue, a grumble echoed through his midsection. He was supposed to meet his
Phezznibbet tucked his tail away from the edge of the bell tower. The market below rang with the clamor of eager merchants and haggling buyers―plenty of noise already without the ineludible racket of Big People spotting a Xintixa. Between those cheering for some exploit and others screeching in confusion at the sight of him
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“I can’t believe her!” Dr. Null paced at the lair’s front door. “She said she thought this lair was perfect for us, but she forgot to mention the colony of warmongering squirrels?”
“Calm down, Your Emptiness,” Inferno quipped. “We’ll just evict the Xintixa and the lairs is ours. No wonder the price is low;
Given his lifetime as a master chef of interplanetary travel, Gurfin knew there was always magic in his ingredients. But this time, he did not know, nor did he really care, where they would land after the wormhole eventually opened.
Some recipes required mastery—others he created simply to taste. The stew before him
“Get your filthy hide out of here!” The broom came dangerously close to shortening me by a tail. I dove underneath the table, but I still felt the tickle of its straw.
Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I was getting attacked by someone with a weapon of mass cleaning. It’s kind of a
“Supercomputer, notify me when the donuts are delivered!”
I licked my lips as the computer chimed affirmation. Orientation Day was the best. Donuts were ordered for the new recruits, and old hats reaped the benefits. For now, though, I withdrew a file from its stack and skimmed the title.
“Monologue Prompts: In the Event
The sticky dough dripped off my fingers as I blew a stray strand of hair out of my eyes.
This is a lot tougher than she made it look, I thought. I eyed the oozing blob of dough on the countertop with suspicion. There was still half the butter to go into this dough and I was already losing the battle with the cloying mess.
I snap my fingers, and the broom leaps from a corner and dances about the room. It sweeps up candy wrappers and stray autumn leaves that had floated into the shop throughout the day.
And what a glorious November day it has been!
My knees creak like an old floorboard as I sit on
Samuel T. Clemens stared down the white sugar slope. He had a task before him that would cause many a man’s knees to melt. Not him though; he wasn’t some soft butterscotch cookie. No, his was a legacy of proud, hard, gingerbread men.
Samuel’s piercing green frosting eyes measured the distance. “Come on!”
I panted, clutching my side as I pressed my back into the parking garage wall. I stared down at the bloody gash across my forearm. Dark veins branched from the cut.
My head spun. I was infected. I studied the progression of the dark veins. Veining became obvious in Stage Two? Stage Three?
“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.
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