Skroom Tattlewink
Salutations and tribulations, my dearest readers.
The wind rustles through Ardnard, creaking and cranking our walls and doors. No, it is not your depraved neighbour; it is the changing of season; unexpectedly violent. For who could prepare? We have, after all, lost our weather reporter for quite some time. Did she meddle with the Liquescents? Or did she wake up one morning, saying: “to Fleptimus with all of it!” Who knows? Our woes are for ourselves to wallow in, or defeat, and I take the privilege of a still agile body to face mine with a pen—or in the latest case—by style.
Yes, it is true. I ran out of cash; I ran out of favours. My editor slammed his papers on his desk and told me (verbatim), “Skroom. Old friend. You have to do it. I am but a money-pinching, high-seated, saccharine-speaking bundle of flesh. But you, you are dead.”
Which is why I attended the Marblehang Championship of Journalism. A mythical, sacred championship devoted to words and purple prose that extends beyond human lifespan. Perhaps a stiff subject to those not versed in the brutal world of informational spew, but I pulled up my sleeves and inked my name into the blinding white parchment smelling of “legally binding”.
Oh, for is it not only in the darkness that the mirror of ego is truly revealed? To gaze upon oneself naked and flawed; an aged newborn, both sorrowful and sinful in the very same second. We fly with pigeon wings, scouring the streets, the bins, pecking uncertainly between the cobblestone, avoiding traffic thoughtlessly until we are one day hit by the fishy Krang Harbour lorries. The short-term blotch remains, as the others are reminded of uncomfortable truths, but rain washes the bits and pieces, and soon enough, they return to thoughtless meandering.
It started on Crumb day 1st. A fitting day, I thought, for it was only crumbs I ate for sustenance before meeting up together with the other contestants. A pompous sort for someone grown up in Brumble Lane, but I have conversed with many, and many have I wrangled.
They eyed me suspiciously, and I eyed them back through the hazy film only old krahash leaves on your autumn eyes. We measured each other for the briefest of moments, and then the host spoke.
“Welcome to the tenth year of Marblehang!” She walked past us like a military officer, turning in a harsh dance clearly practised for dramatic tension. “You will face many dangers here, but with swift and steady hands, you can overcome anything. We will delegate you to challenges, some individual, some in teams. May the best of you stand with the golden pen in hand!” And so they ushered us like ducklings, for there was no time to spare.
I entered a workshop filled with wealth and thick, oily scents. The walls were lined with weapons of all sorts: pistols, shotguns, swords of ancient lore, halberds fit for beheading and maces to maul and demolish. What was this macabre test?
“Pick something Mr. Tattlewink.”
An impatient servant tapped his foot. I had many questions, and I started asking them. Why, what, and why again? But these people were highly trained in mindlessness, and no journalistic method of interrogation penetrated their dehanced state of mind.
“It’s a test. Pick something.”
I scoured the room. I do not fear admitting the fear I felt, and that is some bravery in itself. Large and clunky weapons, all too big for me to carry and wield – but then I saw it. A pen. I held it up like a lost artefact.
“This is it, isn’t it?” I asked.
“What?” The servant’s blank face turned a shade of less blank, as if restricted blood released and started flowing.
“The pen. You want me to prove the pen is the mightiest weapon? Is it not? Oh, through words the very essence of humanity stems, separating us from non-literary creatures that only grunt brief paragraphs to lower generations, information lost and gone, or formed to incomprehensible riddles. Battles are fought and won, with no wicked tools of murder. Recipes, lists and instructions are saved forever, improving society by learning from mistakes and building on innovation. Diaries shed light upon the lives of those before us so we can remember that turmoil still brings hope.”
“No! Great Fleptimus, no. You are still going to fight the glorms.”
So, dear reader. Imagine this. Me, Skroom, in the middle of a sandy arena. Alone. The crowd bellows with impersonal bloodlust all around me. I hold a pistol. It has two bullets. I am not sure it even works. Not like I could test it, right? My lungs rattle from the strain of heavy krahash, but I feared it would be the last time and spared no expenses. I am nervous, and realise the breakfast crumbs were a disappointing last meal. Someone shouts something, I don’t care. Iron gates squeak in doom, and out runs three glorms.
That was when I knew I’d have to use it. I knew they’d got what they wanted.
I pulled from my pocket a vial of gleam. No one knows what gleam is—neither do I—but I cracked it open against my thigh and I swallowed the entire gelatinous blubber. If it killed me, then it was a better fate than being splurged by glorms; if it kept me alive, then it kept me alive.
Oh, for isn’t every option an assessment of risk? How many webbed threads of fate do we snip during a day; how many do we slip through before the spider inevitably seeks us out and bundles us? At that point, I saw the spider, and I cut the web as blasphemously as possible. The crowd gasped, and I felt the gleam incorporating itself into every cell and organelle. In one moment, I was human, in another, I was human no more. You might wonder what in Flep is happening? And I will answer with another question. Why are the Liquescents after me? This is why. It is a secret no longer, for they witnessed it from the audience when I decanted that vile liquid into my gab.
Back in the arena, I transcended our state of material presence and slid on a mudslide of ambitious, celestial energy. Big peaks of sharp underneath my boots, with a tesseract sky above. I danced between threads, holding the spider in each hand, spinning it, spinning me, spinning the world. Happsnappingly. You should have seen the eyes widen on the creature, and its little mouth shouting at me to stop, but nothing could stop me, not even myself. Hours could have passed, or minutes or lifetimes. Little did it matter. It was only me and the spider, hateful lovers entangled, until suddenly, the world appeared.
I stood on the sand with three dead glorms around me. One had stumbled into the other, impaling it with its seventeen horns and becoming so stuck that it snapped its own neck when trying to get away. The other had an unfortunate heart attack, determined later by the attending veterinary. I had my pistol with all the bullets. In fact, I had not moved from my spot at all.
“Well, shit,” said the host. I could hear he wanted to see me die. “Looks like you continue to the next round.”
So here I am, dear reader, waiting in my lodging, writing this little piece for you to enjoy. Join me next time, should I survive, and if not, remember that we are never in control. Isn’t that part of the fun?