Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Anomaly 

Leave a comment

To say that Durosimi O’Stoat had not slept well would be an understatement. He had lain awake all night trying to fathom why his attempt to open a portal to the rest of the world had failed so dismally, despite all of his preparations and precautions. It made no sense! He couldn’t even blame Doc Willoughby, who had carried out his instructions to the letter. Something had gone wrong and he needed to know why; Durosimi did not like failure. 

Daylight seemed to be fighting a losing battle, as it valiantly struggled through the fog of another Hopeless morning. Durosimi had no sooner succumbed to sleep, slipping gently into a delicious sense of comfortable numbness, and flirting with his first dream, when he was dragged rudely back to full consciousness by a serious of urgent raps upon his front door.  Muttering and cursing, the sorcerer stumbled out of bed and padded his way downstairs, flinging open the door with a look that said, “This had better be good!”

Doc Willoughby was momentarily struck dumb by the apparition standing before him, resplendent in a crumpled nightshirt, hand-knitted pink bed socks, and a nightcap sitting at an angle that might have been considered jaunty, under other circumstances.

Before Durosimi could snarl an appropriately scathing matutinal greeting, Doc blurted out,

“It’s happened. We did it. We damned well did it.”

It took a second or two for the meaning of Doc’s words to sink in. Durosimi opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, then dashed back indoors to put on clothes more fitting to the occasion. 

By the time Doc Willoughby and Durosimi reached their destination, a sizeable crowd had already gathered, to wonder at the strange gap that had appeared between the trees. News travels fast on Hopeless.

“What do you think this is?” asked Philomena Bucket, looking up into Mr Squash’s deep, wise eyes. “Could it be another portal opening up?”

“I can’t say that it’s anything like one that I have ever seen,” admitted the Sasquatch. “It is almost as though someone has torn a hole in the air. And I really don’t like the thin green mist that’s leaking from it.”

“I noticed that as well,” said Rhys Cranham, who, until little more than a year ago had been the island’s Night-Soil Man. “It reminds me of whatever it is that’s swirling about at the bottom of the sinkhole at Pooh corner.”

A shiver went down Philomena’s spine. Although she was no wiser than Rhys, with regard to the contents of the sinkhole in the Night-Soil Man’s garden, this did not sound at all good. 

Lingering at the rear of the crowd, Durosimi looked upon the strange rip in the fabric of the morning with mixed feelings.

“I can’t believe that we really managed to do this,” said Doc excitedly.

“Be quiet, you fool,” hissed Durosimi, glaring at his companion. If looks could maim, Doc would been carried home in several small boxes that day. 

“Surely…” began Doc, but was roughly silenced by Durosimi, who drew him away, out of earshot of the crowd.

“No one must know that I… that we are responsible for doing this,” he rasped. “Do you understand? If that thing really is a portal, don’t expect it to take you anywhere that you might want to visit.”

Doc looked confused, and asked, “Then where does it lead to?”

Durosimi drew a deep breath.  “I dread to think,” he replied.

That evening, a council of war was held in The Squid and Teapot.

“We need to keep people well away from there,” said Mr Squash. “I can bang some stakes into the ground and fence the area off, just to be on the safe side”

”Do you really think that it’s dangerous?” asked Rhys.

Before the Sasquatch could answer, Philomena said, “Mr Squash is right. That hole in the atmosphere is a total anomaly. It’s best that we err on the side of caution.”

“In that case, maybe we should get a few volunteers to take turns keeping an eye on it,” said Reggie Upton. “Ideally we should have someone watching the thing around the clock. I could put a rota together, if you like.” 

“That sounds like a good plan,” said Rhys. “You never know, we might even get Durosimi to help out.”

“Oh, yes,” observed Philomena drily. “Perhaps he could patrol the area on a flying pig.”.

Despite Philomena’s scepticism, and much to everyone’s surprise, Durosimi did indeed agree to be part of the volunteer group charged with keeping watch over ‘The Anomaly’, as everyone was now calling it. In fact, he had even put his name forward to do all of his shifts at night, secretly reasoning to himself that this would provide an excellent opportunity to study, without disturbance, and at close quarters, the result of his recent foray into Etruscan magic. 

“He’s up to something,” said Philomena to Mr Squash, when she heard the news. “Maybe someone should be watching the watcher.”

To be continued…

Hopeless

Not the chosen one

Leave a comment

I’ve never liked fantasy tropes regarding prophecies and chosen ones. Nor am I very keen on the YA trope of special people who can do the things because they were born special. It leaves most of us firmly outside of the story, with little reason to imagine ourselves having agency.

Hopeless, Maine’s Salamandra was brought into existence to serve an agenda. She’s grown up different, and mostly been told this makes her weird and unacceptable. There have also been messages about what she ought to do with her power, often from those who want to use and control her. Over the years, Salamandra has steadfastly resisted any suggestion of being a chosen one, although in the final book she does give it a go.

On the whole she’s not keen to use her power. A lot of that is about not wanting the responsibility. She doesn’t want to have to go round fixing everything for everyone. It’s Owen who has all the inclinations to fix things and rescue people. Usually Owen is the one persuading Salamandra to step up.

It’s important to note that, despite having been born magical, she’s not unique or even standout good at it. Within the graphic novels we have Annamarie Nightshade – a powerful witch, and Lilly-May, who combines making and magic. Meanwhile over at The Squid and Teapot there’s Philomena Bucket, who is remarkably powerful and rather good at figuring out when to use that, and when not to.

I’m a big believer in free will, and resistant to stories about destiny. Whatever power we have, it’s our choice about how to use that which makes most odds.

(Young Salamandra by Dr Abbey, text by Nimue)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Regalia

Leave a comment

It is possible that readers of these Tales from the Squid and Teapot will be surprised to learn that Durosimi O’Stoat is in possession of something resembling a sense of humour. I agree, it’s hard to countenance, but don’t take my word for it – just  take a look at the picture attached to this tale. 

“That isn’t Durosimi O’Stoat,” some of the more astute of you may say. “That’s Samuel Liddel MacGregor Mathers, a British occultist,” and you would be absolutely correct. So, bear with me, and all will be revealed. 

You may remember that Durosimi had discovered an ancient parchment which apparently detailed, in the long dead Etruscan language, how one might open a portal to other lands. While Durosimi was confident that he could successfully translate the document, he had to bear in mind that there is always a danger when dabbling in such arcane matters, inasmuch as uttering a spell even slightly incorrectly might prove somewhat detrimental to the speaker. This might possibly entail turning him inside-out, or doing something similarly disagreeable.

Such danger would have deterred lesser men, but Durosimi has never been one to flinch from risks in the pursuance of knowledge or wealth… but he is, however, a pragmatist at heart.

“Why put yourself in danger, when you can get some sucker to do it for you?” 

This had long been his motto, and, on this occasion, the sucker in question was to be Doc Willoughby. 

It had taken half a bottle of single malt whisky and most of the day to convince the Doc that he was perfect for the job in hand. Although Willoughby professed to be a man of science and learning, Durosimi had always been aware that he was an out and out Quack, and, when it came down to it, not a particularly bright one, either. But Durosimi was not the sort to hold such failings against him. Besides, it made the Doc extremely easy to manipulate. 

“I can’t see why you’re asking me to cast the spell,” complained the Doc, not unreasonably. “After all, you’re the sorcerer.”

“I have other responsibilities,” replied Durosimi, importantly. “It is necessary that I observe the spell unfolding from a safe dist… I mean from a sensible distance. After all, we can’t be certain exactly where the portal will materialise. Besides, the regalia doesn’t fit me properly.”

“Regalia? What regalia?” Doc Willoughby looked puzzled.

“Oh, it’s nothing much,” said Durosimi, airily. “But wearing it is a crucial part of the ceremony.”

This, of course, was total rubbish, but it amused Durosimi, and gave him the great satisfaction of making Doc look ridiculous. I have no idea how the photographic representation of MacGregor Mathers,  one of the founder members of The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, came into Durosimi’s keeping, but this was the inspiration for the costume that Doc was to be wearing when he cast the spell.  It was, Durosimi reasoned, no more than the old fool deserved for being so gullible. 

“So where is this regalia?” asked Doc. “Perhaps I should try it on. After all, it might not fit me either.”

“Oh, I can promise you, it will fit,” said Durosimi. “But you shouldn’t see it before the ceremony, or the magic won’t work properly.”

Doc was far from happy about this, but held his tongue. It is never very wise to argue with Durosimi.

According to the Etruscan parchment, the most auspicious time to open a portal is at the rising of a full moon. Durosimi had calculated that this would be at precisely 4pm on the following Monday, just two days away. Although being in daylight made the possibility of being seen much more likely, this was offset by the delicious prospect of Doc standing in his ridiculous costume in full view of anyone passing by. Durosimi almost smiled with glee. 

“Have I really got to wear this?” Doc looked aghast at himself in Durosimi’s full-length mirror. The leather helmet was not too bad, he had to admit, but the moth-eaten fur stole, the faded blue cummerbund and a lady’s nightgown, pink and shapeless, were not the clothing he had envisioned himself to be wearing that day. 

“Being on this wretched island means that we have to compromise here and there,” said Durosimi. “Make do and mend, and all that. It’s the intention that’s important, Willoughby old friend.”

“And why do I have to carry a skunk-cabbage stuck on the end of a broom handle? I’ll be a laughingstock.”

“Nonsense,” replied Durosimi, employing his best poker-face. “Anyway, no one will see you, and carrying the plant is an important part of the ceremony. It represents…um… growing life, and other such things. Now come on, it’s time for us to go… have you got the words to the spell?”

Doc looked furtively about him, keen not to be spotted, as the two made their way from Durosimi’s house to the nearby clearing where the portal was to be situated. 

“Stand in front of these two trees, and when you hear the church clock strike four, carefully say those words that I have written,” said Durosimi, pushing Doc forward.

“Where will you be?”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” replied Durosimi, then hurried off to shelter behind a large rock, some fifty yards away. 

The church clock struck four, and Doc Willoughby began intoning the spell in the way that Durosimi had instructed. It was then that Mireille D’Illay, of Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge, chose to wander past. She stopped and stared at the spectacle before her in disbelief, then, with a dismissive shake of her head and a Gallic shrug, she said

“Mon Dieu, he is as mad as the English,” and continued on her way.

“Nothing seems to be happening,” Doc called to Durosimi.

“Then do it again, man. That blasted French dancer must have distracted you.“

Doc repeated the spell, this time without interruption, but the result was the same.

“I don’t know what’s gone wrong,” fumed Durosimi. He hadn’t even had the pleasure of seeing Doc being turned inside out. “I need to study this further… and for goodness sake, get those ridiculous clothes off.”

It was some hours later, and Winston Oldspot , the Night-Soil Man, ventured out on his rounds, accompanied by his friend, Mr Squash. 

“Look,” he said, pointing to the night sky. “It’s the first full moon of the year.”

Mr Squash was about to reply, but suddenly stopped walking, at the same time resting his hand on Winston’s shoulder.

“Stay where you  are, lad,” he said in a gruff whisper.

No more than a dozen yards in front of them, a thin sliver of vertical  light rippled from between the trees, like torchlight shining through a gap in some very long curtains.

“What do you think is causing that?” asked Winston, not a little alarmed. 

“I have no idea,” replied the Sasquatch, “but whatever it is, I don’t think I want to get any closer.”

Even as he spoke, the gap widened a little, bleeding a sickly-green mist into the Hopeless night…

To be continued. 

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

Mrs Beaten is not in hiding

Leave a comment

Mrs Beaten has been quiet for a while. You should worry about what she’s up to when she’s quiet, it isn’t a good sign.

With luck and a fair wind, there will be new Mrs Beaten art along some time soon. There’s also a Mrs Beaten book that has been skulking about in the pantry for a while, eyeing the crockery skeptically and making critical remarks about the jam.

This is just a teaser really, a watch this space kind of post. Starch your collars, Mrs Beaten will be back in earnest at some point, and this time she’s got a really big spoon.

(This post is mostly Nimue’s fault although Keith took the photo.)

Flora and fauna

A Wooden Joker Warning

1 Comment

As we turn towards spring, it seems like a good time to remind citizens about the occasional risks of Wooden Jokers. As yet, no one has determined what manner of entity these are – tree growths? Fungi? Demonic forces? We don’t know. What we do know is that they resemble human men and women, grow out of the trunks of trees and cause nothing but trouble.

Usually they look rather attractive, and can draw the attention of the lonely and sexually destitute. If you fall into this unhappy camp then it is as well to stay out of the woods during the spring, when the sap is rising. Wooden Jokers can be strangely attractive at this time.

My personal theory is that if you find one in the deeper woods, it will probably kill you. Survivors of Wooden Jokers have tended to be on the wood margins, where rescue is feasible. If you are visible to other islanders, someone may come along and cut you free from the tree. This is never a dignified process. The more enthusiasm the tree has provoked in the victim, the less dignified the release is bound to be, if I may speak circumspectly.

It is possible that some Wooden Jokers release their victims after a time. No one has ever admitted to such an experience. I myself make a point of keeping well away from such trees and definitely have no insight into whether there is any scope for enjoying their bounty and then escaping with life and reputation unharmed. It would be unwise to try. No matter how they shake their branches at you.

(Art by Dr Abbey, text by Nimue)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Where Morphemes Concatenate

Leave a comment

Durosimi O’Stoat pulled his overcoat tightly around him, in a forlorn effort to keep at bay the icy wind that was blowing in from the Atlantic. He hoped it would be worth his while, following Mr Squash for yet another long night of apparently aimless wandering. It puzzled Durosimi why the Sasquatch should have chosen to return to The Squid and Teapot at Christmas; after all,  there is no good reason why anyone should be celebrating the season here on this most miserable of islands, Hopeless, Maine. The sorcerer, who was inclined to judge everyone by his own set of standards, could only conclude that the Sasquatch must have had an excellent, and probably dubious, motive to want to return.

For night after night, Durosimi trudged around after Mr Squash, keeping a safe distance downwind, and ducking into shadows at the slightest hint of discovery. When, after a week, and the whole enterprise seemed to be fruitless, he finally decided to cut his losses. It was during that eleventh hour that Durosimi overheard a snatch of conversation which, while heralding no clue as to why the Sasquatch had returned, made his catalogue of discomforts almost worthwhile. 

“If the need arises,” he heard Mr Squash declare to Reggie Upton, “I can always build another portal to Tibet, or, indeed, to anywhere I choose. They’re not difficult to do.”

Durosimi held no illusions that Mr Squash would let him in on his secrets, but it was enough to know that these mysterious portals had been man-made (or Sasquatch-made in this instance) and not some natural phenomenon that could never be replicated. Durosimi was confident that, if the business of building a portal could be achieved by some overgrown neanderthal (his words), then he, the greatest sorcerer in the Northern Hemisphere (again, his words, unsurprisingly), would, with the application of his genius, be able to produce something at least as wonderful, if not better. 

With these thoughts in his head, and the metaphorical bit lodged firmly between his teeth, Durosimi was now totally convinced that somewhere in his formidable library, hidden in that vast assortment of ancient tomes, forbidden grimoires, therimoires, diabologues, spell-books and an almost complete set of farmers’ almanacs, would lie the secret words which would open a portal to anywhere in the world, or, who knows, even the universe. 

Over the following week, anyone passing Durosimi’s window might have spotted him at any hour of the day or night, bent over a manuscript of some description, or wrestling with a huge, leather bound book. His candles were burning from dusk until dawn, for having embarked upon this quest, he refused to eat or sleep until he had found the treasure that he was seeking. 

One grey, misty morning Durosimi burst through his front door and exclaimed to the world, in triumph,

“I have it!” 

Doc Willoughby, who happened to be passing by, hoped that, whatever it was that Durosimi had, it wasn’t contagious. To be on the safe side, he looked him over with a wary eye. Even Doc’s limited medical expertise could detect that Durosimi was not quite as he should be. His tired eyes glowed with a wild light, and he appeared to have lost weight. His skin was as yellow as the parchment he held in his shaking hands.

“It’s Etruscan,” Durosimi said excitedly.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever treated a case of that…”

began the Doc, but Durosimi was too excited to hear him.

“It has been copied from a tablet, but the answer is  here, I’m sure…” said Durosimi.

“Ah, so you’ve got a tablet,” said Doc. “Tablets are good. Be sure to take plenty.”

It was then that Durosimi realised that Doc Willoughby had no idea what he was talking about. 

“Willoughby, come on in, old friend, and I’ll explain everything,” he said. “You might be able to help.”

Doc was more than happy to obey. Old friend, eh? That boded well, and whisky seemed to be involved somewhere or other whenever Durosimi wanted to include Doc in his plans. Even at nine in the morning.

“So, you see,” confided Durosimi “It’s not just the likes of Squash who can build these portals, and the proof is all here, on this piece of parchment. I must admit, my grasp of Etruscan is a little rusty. but …”

“Remind me again what Etruscan is, exactly,” said the Doc, tentatively.

“Oh, it’s an ancient language,” explained Durosimi. “Pre-Indo and Paleo-European, of course, but not dissimilar to the Raetic and Lemnian languages.”

“Ah, yes, the Lemon languages. Splendid,” said the Doc knowledgeably. “Sorry, they had temporarily slipped my mind.”

“Anyway, as I was saying,” continued Durosimi, “as far as I can make out, the words on this parchment have been copied from a tablet that was inscribed about three thousand years ago. I’m sure, with a bit of diligence, it can be translated.”

“How are you going to do that?” Doc asked, accepting another tot of whisky.

“Fortunately,” said Durosimi, “Etruscan is an agglutinative language, where words contain multiple morphemes concatenated together. Do you follow my meaning?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Doc, emptying his glass.

“As you’ll appreciate,” went on Durosimi, “what makes the whole process of translation easier is that the language is constructed in such a manner that each word stem can be isolated and identified as indicating a particular inflection or derivation… you know, passive suffix, causative suffix, etc. on verbs, and plural suffix, accusative suffix, dative suffix, etc. on nouns. Makes it fairly simple, eh?”

“Umm… indubitably,” replied a bewildered Doc, hoping that this was going to yield at least one more glass of whisky.

“So, that’s settled, then. You’ll help me?” urged Durosimi with a smile that he hoped was not too ingratiating. 

“To do what?” asked Doc, who was beginning to wish that he had stayed in bed that morning.

Durosimi sighed and poured them both another shot of whisky. 

It was going to be a long day. 

Hopeless Tales

The Hayezlits

Leave a comment
Possibly Mark Hayes?

At some point, the faceless being, that may or may not be Mark Hayes, stopped his meandering and lay down on the edge of a field. Was he tired after his reawakening? It’s hard to say, for who here has been reawakened in such a manner, devoured by goats, then reassembled from an assortment of empty clothing and given life by uncanny socks? Within moments of his settling down, a weird, muffled, snuffling noise was heard. Was it snoring? But how can you snore without a face, a nose, a mouth?

Presently, an odd group of creatures arrived. Less than a foot tall, they were short of leg and long of arm. Goblin like, hairy and awkward of movement. Let us call them Hayezlits. Of course, I could tell you anything, describe them as anything, make up an outrageous description, for you will never see them. No one has ever seen them, nor will they. I can tell you this with certainty. They carried scraggy brushes made of twigs and durbit fur, odd-shaped pots hollowed out from grerken cones. And they assembled in a rough circle around the no-face of the man, who may or may not be Mark Hayes. Seven of them there were. And all seven started an odd squirmy motion, a strange furtive movement that seemed undirected and random. The pots were now full of ink – but the mechanism for this event was unfathomable.

They took their brushes and dipped them in the ink and started to paint upon the blank face canvas. Where the ink touched, colour appeared: mottled pinky grey for the cheeks, darker pink for the lips, dark hues for eyebrows, and an extraordinary shade of lilac for facial hair. The smallest hayezlit wielded a tiny brush and created an eye in an extraordinary display of skill and magic. Then matched it with another. Giving the face sight to see in this way, would have been an amazing sight to see, except that nobody would ever see that sight. They moved back for a moment and seemed to check their work. One of them touched up an ear, another, the tallest, and most wizened, made a brief adjustment to the eyes.

Seemingly satisfied, they carefully removed the man’s socks and shuffled off.

Now, lying on the ground, was an entity who very much looked like Mark Hayes. In fact, we will call it Mark Hayes from now on.

(Text and uneasy image manipulation by Keith Errington)

Horrorscopes

Horrorscopes for 2025

Leave a comment

The night sky above Hopeless is as peculiar as the land itself, and full of omens – any time to fog clears fo long enough to let you see them. Folklorist Idris Po has come up with some guidance for the coming year based on the star signs he has identified.

Our usual caveat – Idris assures us that this will be as reliable for predicting the future as any other vague system designed to make generalised predictions for large numbers of diverse people.

Hopeless signs may be assumed to align with the more conventional system unless you feel a strong sense of connection with one of them, or get to the end and realise something important about yourself.

The Bemused Starfish – sometimes you’re on the beach, drying out, sometimes you’re tossed about in the sea. It’s isn’t always obvious which one is worse, but this coming year should at least bring you some clarity about what you hate most in life. Your best hope for survival is to stay out of small boats.

The Succubus Wasp – you are probably embarking on a new relationship. You may well have high hopes for this one, and the new year energy is making you fizz. However, expect to be disappointed, again. Your best hope for survival is to avoid getting into a relationship with someone born under the sign of the succubus wasp.

The Bucket –  you’re dreaming that this will be the year when you do something wild and memorable. You won’t. You’re a bucket by nature and far too sensible, but on the plus side this makes it unlikely that you will die an especially weird death.

Cuttlefish Overlords – this is a good year for plots and schemes. Start planning now to get ahead on your enemies. To survive the coming year, be especially vigilant about anything that could have poison in it, which means you will have to do all your own cooking. Stay paranoid to reap the benefits the coming months have to offer.

The Night Soil Carrier – sometimes being willing to do what no one else will do brings incredible benefits. Well, this is not your year, there’s just more being put upon to look forward to, and increasing demands on your ability not to be squeamish. You’ll probably survive – you are good at that.

The Ominous Watcher – it’s time to pick something new to obsess over. Move on from whatever you’ve been fixating from and find a new victim. Watch out for anyone who takes undue interest in your nail clippings or who asks to borrow your chamber pot.

The Ur-Deer – hiding in your home is going to be the best choice for you, much as it was last year. Avoiding people is always a great survival tactic, although you need to work on your gardening skills if you intend to eat. Starving to death is your greatest risk in the coming months.

The Half Person – direct attention to other people’s dire secrets in order to avoid too much scrutiny. Make sure that the secret place you go to for doing unspeakable things is properly secluded and that you aren’t being followed.

The Large Angry Mammal. –  this year will bring you plenty of things to get angry about, You’re going to be incredibly cross about what happens in the spring while events in the coming summer will make you truly incandescent. Try not to actually set yourself on fire if you want to live.

The Scuttling Entity – Stay away from toadstools, toads, toadies and other people’s toes for the best chance at surviving the coming year. Stay low to the ground and try not to attract attention by fidgeting. You cant hide effectively if you fidget.

Mostly teeth – smile at the world and the world will recoil in horror. This year is going to live up to your expectations – sorry about that. Try not going out after dark, and do your best not to bite the things that make you feel uneasy.

Night Potatoes – it’s all about digging in for you. Dig in, and if that doesn’t work, dig in a bit more. If you dig in too far you’ll probably disturb some eldritch horror that will then consume you, but you probably wanted to go that way anyway.

Inexplicably Standing on the Roof – no one is quite sure where this star sign fits in the year as it comes and goes erratically. Much like you. If you are the sort of person to inexplicably stand on the roof then this is your sign, no matter when you were born. No one has any useful advice for you because nothing you do is going to make a great deal of sense and you probably aren’t even trying.

(Star sign images and text by Nimue)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Sanctuary

Leave a comment

The cold, foggy air hung like a sullen blanket, clinging stubbornly to everything that it touched. Even before he set off on his rounds, Winston Oldspot, the Night-Soil Man, could feel the icy dampness sinking through his clothing and into his bones, but for once he did not care; Mr Squash had returned to Hopeless!

Standing on his doorstep, at The House at Poo Corner, Winston smiled, and his heart gave a little leap, as he watched the huge and familiar figure emerge from between a tangle of  twisted trees. It had been no more than a couple of months since the Sasquatch had left the island of Hopeless, Maine, but Winston had missed his company terribly.

“Oh – hello Mr Squash,” he said nonchalantly, “I heard that you were back.” 

Being only sixteen, Winston felt that to have shown any semblance of excitement or emotion would have been decidedly uncool.

“It’s darned good to see you, youngster,” boomed Mr Squash. throwing his great arms around the Night-Soil Man, and giving him a joyful hug. When you are more than half a millenium old, worries about trivial stuff, such as appearing to be cool, cease to be an issue.

“Steady on old chap,” said Reggie Upton, who, so far,  had remained unseen, standing as he was, quite literally, in Mr Squash’s shadow. “I’ve still got the bruises from when you gave me a hug on Christmas Eve.”

“I’m fine, honestly,” declared Winston, quietly wincing in the darkness.

With the pleasantries over, the three friends set off into the night, their conversation only ceasing temporarily for Winston to service the occasional  privy.

Reggie related to the Sasquatch how Philomena had destroyed his mystic portal to Tibet, in her battle with the evil lama, Dawasandup. 

“Not to worry, I can always make another portal to the Himalayas, and put it somewhere other than Hopeless,” said Mr Squash. “They’re not that difficult to do. At least Dawasandup wont be able to come back and cause any more mischief.”

“No, he jolly well won’t,” chuckled Reggie. “The blighter was last seen being eaten by a demon of some sort or another.”

“Oh dear. How very sad,” lamented a deadpan Mr Squash.

Winston’s next client was the hermit who lived in a mausoleum-like cottage on Ghastly Green. Long before the trio came within sight of the building, they could hear the hermit’s pet raven, Lenore. She was perched on one of the many statues that stood in the garden, and was raising the alarm by calling the hermit’s name.

“Neville Moore, Neville Moore,” she cawed (though, on second thoughts, she might well have been quothing).

Neville came out onto his doorstep and waved.

“Nothing for you tonight, Winston,” he shouted. “Unfortunately, my old trouble seems to have returned.”

“Hello Neville. I picked some senna leaves when I was in the tropics last month,” Mr Squash called back. “I’ll bring them over in the morning.”

Neville gave a thumbs-up and shuffled back into his cottage.

“By Jove,” said Reggie, admiringly. “The tropics, eh? You seem to manage to get around quite a bit, old chap.”

Mr Squash frowned.

“Indeed,” he admitted, “But I won’t be doing anything like as much travelling in the future.”

After seeing Winston safely back to his home, Reggie and Mr Squash made their way to The Squid and Teapot. It was the wee, small hours of the morning, and they found the inn to be in darkness, and wrapped in a silence that was broken only by the raucous rattle of Drury’s snores, which emitted from the general direction of the snuggery. Even the Tomte was taking a nap.

 “Are you sure you won’t come in?” asked Reggie. “It looks as though there’s a storm brewing.”

“I’ll be fine,” replied Mr Squash. “I’ve been living outdoors since before Columbus came to the Americas. Anyway, I feel safer being here than I have for a long time.”

“Really?”

Reggie couldn’t hide his surprise.

“Why on earth would a chap like you ever feel unsafe?”

“I’m being hunted,” said the Sasquatch, after a pause. “Wherever I go, there seems to be someone wanting to trap me. They bang stones on tree trunks, and make unearthly whooping noises. The fools believe that I’ll wander along to investigate, then they can nab me. For reasons that are beyond me, they even take plaster casts of my footprints, would you believe? At least on Hopeless I don’t feel as though I’m being pursued all of the time. This island has become my sanctuary.”

“Dashed scallywags,” fumed Reggie. “Do they never bother your relatives?”

“They would if they could,” said Mr Squash, bitterly, “but my folks all live in the far northwest, deep in forests where few humans have ever ventured.The truth is, they’ve banished me, and said that I would bring them only trouble.  It’s my own fault, I suppose – I’ve always had itchy feet and been keen to explore the world. That’s why I made all of those portals, and look what good that has done for me!”

“If it’s any consolidation, old chap,” said Reggie, “we’ll all be more than happy, I’m sure, to have you lying low on Hopeless for a spell.”

“That’s comforting to know,” said the Sasquatch, “but I’ll have to slip out secretly, now and then, for some provisions. To be honest, I don’t like the diet on the island. I’m a herbivore, and there’s not a lot for me to eat here.”

“So you’ll be popping through a portal, now and then, to go shopping?” asked Reggie, suddenly excited.

“Well, not shopping, exactly…” began Mr Squash, wondering where this was going.

“Splendid!” exclaimed Reggie, not really listening. ”I’ll get a list together. There are a few things that we could do with around here.”

Mr Squash sighed. 

He hoped that this plan wasn’t going to prove to be more trouble than it was worth. 

Hopeless Tales

The uncanny socks of rebirth

2 Comments

For some days, the cursed trousers of Mark Hayes lay where they had fallen. Although many came to view them, no one dared to touch the abominable things. The trousers themselves showed no sign of damage despite the Yule Goats having successfully eaten Mark from inside them.

Trouser magic is a dastardly art that few dare to practice.

After a few days, a shirt was brought to lie with the trousers. A hat was later added, and then finally a pair of socks placed at the ankles. Whether all these items played a role, or only the socks were imbued with uncanny power, I do not know.

With the coming of the socks, the trousers themselves began to take shape as though occupied once more. Slowly each item of clothing filled out, assuming the form of a man. This could reasonably be assumed to be Mark Hayes himself, although while he lacks for a face, it is hard to be certain.  This too may only be a temporary setback.

And so it is that Mark Hayes, or something that has assumed the approximate form of Mark Hayes has risen up from this place of demise and sauntered cheerily in the direction of the New Year. As omens go, we’ve certainly seen worse ones.

News for the residents of Hopeless, Maine