lina1313

It started with an offhand joke, as most incidents do. Morticia and her friends Tambour and Laulaki were gathered for lunch at Morticia’s warmly decorated house, and as the afternoon wore on the conversation turned to lighthearted banter. It wasn’t until Tambour noticed the weather outside, stark white snow falling beyond the thick pane of glass, that he made the joke. The particulars of this joke weren’t particularly notable, save for the famous last words “bet I can beat you in a snowball fight.” Morticia played the part, for a moment, swooning in a melodramatic fashion and declaring that her pride as a snowbrute had been irreparably damaged. “Of course snowbrute don’t automatically win snowball fights,” she said, “and of course someone who exercises regularly would have a little advantage,” but Morticia said it all with a sinister, growing smile. “So why don’t we see if you can put your money where your mouth is.” The long-furred snowbrute playfully led her two friends on a short

You trudge through the sparkling white snowscape, sunlight filtering in from the bare treetops casting gently swaying shadows across your path. You have been following an ominous trail of black snow from the edge of the treeline into the winding heart of the forest. You, Tambour, raise your aquamarine head and look back the way you came. Your back grabbers are tucked close to your back for warmth and your finned tail is kept just above the snow. Despite your layer of short fur, the chill winter wind cuts through you like a knife. Even the thick wool scarf you wear only grants you a small spot of warmth. You turn back to the trail in the forest. The thin trail of black snow that you have been following looks unnervingly like blood from a grievously wounded animal. It swerves through the forest as if the body it originated from was staggering forward on unsteady legs, catching its balance on trees every few steps. There are occasional splatters that mar the edges of the trail, and yet

“Ahh, just look at them, ‘Lene. They’re all potential audience members, aren’t they.” Zenia patted Arlene’s arm fast, like an energetic rabbit. She gestured to her bag, plump with stacks of flyers to advertise the Fireflower Theatre. “So! Where’s our space?” The excitable woman looked around the area, leaning back and forth to see around the people walking around. Zenia and Arlene were at a street that was lined on both sides with festival booths. There were squeals and cheers coming from game booths, delectable smells wafting from various food stalls, and enough pop-up shops to make one’s wallet cry out in despair. Zenia could hardly keep her attention on a single booth, let alone pay enough attention to locate the booth that she and Arlene would be using this afternoon. The two had spent the morning exploring the theatre and chatting with the guards. All of their puttering around attracted the attention of the theatre staff, and eventually the owner. Zenia and Arlene met with the

“Wow! It sure is loud here!” Zenia bounced on her heels and scanned the area with wide eyes. She reached over and patted her travelling companion, Arlene, on the arm, “Look at all the people!” Arlene, looking around at Zenia’s prompting, made a soft sound and pointed toward a large crowd of people gathered around one building in particular. “What’s over there?” The green snapadile asked Zenia, pointing out figures in the crowd, “There’s a lot of uniforms.” “Ohh?” Zenia snapped to attention and squinted her eyes to focus. She spotted the green garb of the guards and more than a handful of local officers. They seemed to be keeping people away from something. “I wanna see what that’s all about! And then get some food. And see where all the kids are getting those red packets. And fireworks!” Arlene nodded and began walking toward the crowd, knowing that Zenia, despite her rambling, would be following close behind. The green snapadile joined the outer fringe of the crowd and rose up on

The sun was setting, small motes of snow were fluttering down from the sky, and Morticia was hosting one very irritated friend in her cozily furnished condo. “I’m going to die of old age before I finish this,” So said the irate friend, also known as Tambour. The finned Grabuki currently had three of his handls tangled up in a knot of pink yarn. Morticia, ever the patient host, nodded sympathetically, “I understand that it can be a little frustrating learning how to knit, but you’ve been making pretty good progress today.” The long furred Snowbrute smiled and gestured to Tambour’s knitting needles, clutched tight in his tail-hand. Tambour looked at his ‘knitting’ and grumbled. His yarn was only a few inches off the needles, clumsily looped together in a lopsided scrap of fabric. He’d dropped a stitch early on and somehow gained back twice as many in his attempts to repair it. His yarn was looped too tightly around the needles and, in his frustration at having to constantly tug more