Please Help Support CTTA By
Checking Out Our Sponsers Products
I like goblins. I hang out with goblins. Some of my best friends are goblins. Just keep them away from the cat. Talkin' Picnic-Crashin' Goblin Blues by Nick Ozment The Blasted Heath is not a pleasant place. The grass is brown and stunted, bringing to mind rock stars on
heroin. The very contours of its hills seem to speak of an unspeakable evil,
despite the fact that hills can't speak, though they sometimes have eyes. Even
the few scant trees are wrong, yet in too subtle a way to pinpoint. They seem to be, rather than growing up into
the sky, instead plunging into the ground to dig around in its dirty secrets.
One could not sing here of a place “where the buffalo roam/ and the deer and
the antelope play.” Indeed, if any natural hoofed beasts were to be found here,
a more apt song would tell of “where the buffalo foam/ and the deer and the
antelope flay.” I regretted choosing it as a spot for a picnic. A friend of mine once said that if I resolved to go somewhere,
between my chair and the door I would find a hundred-and-one things to distract
me before I stepped a foot outside. Hence, some people have accused me of being “poky.” Perhaps
on this day the description would have been not unjustified. I had gotten up
bright and early that morning to go, by myself, on a picnic. When I spread my
blanket and began to set out picnic paraphernalia, it was evening. I had packed
a light lunch; I now realized, in an inexplicably melancholy state of mind, it
would be my supper. I sat there on my blanket, the dry grass beneath me prickling
through the thin fabric, with a slight sense of unease. I could imagine the
trees whispering back and forth to each other, and if I could understand tree
language, I'm sure I would have wanted to wash their bark out with soap.
Speaking of which, I know the saying “his bark is worse than his bite,” but it
was one of the only times in my life when I felt that the trees, if they wanted
to, really could bite. And perhaps just now they wanted to. I had taken a third bite of my second salami sandwich when I
thought I heard something. A rustling
noise. I stopped chewing. The rustling stopped too. Cautiously, I began to chew
again, and again heard the rustling. Each time I stopped, so did the sound. But
each time my jaws resumed, the sound got louder, until I had masticated nearly
all of that mouthful of salami sandwich and I was sure the noise was right
behind me. When I swallowed the rest, in that same instant something grabbed me
from behind. I nearly choked. The sun had sunk behind the hill, as if ashamed to watch what
was transpiring, leaving only the perverse shadows of dusk. Whatever it was
that had snuck up on me now hooked its claws into my shirt and began to drag me
away. I struggled, but to no avail. It could be that I was feeling the effects of the three beers
with which I had washed down my first sandwich, and the fourth beer that I'd
started on with the second sandwich. But my assailant, though small, displayed
unnatural strength. He clobbered me a couple of times over the head, and the
world began to spin. Semi-conscious as I was, I recall only vaguely being dragged
several yards across the ground, and down into a hole that had previously been
concealed from my view. When my head cleared somewhat, and the walls of earth
around me began to stop, I was able to get a better look at my captor. The ridiculously full moon had now risen up over the hill, and
though I was in the bowels of the earth, we were not too far down -- perhaps
the outer rectum -- and some moonlight still filtered in. Enough to tell that
he was four feet tall at most, and scrawny. Pale, wrinkly skin hung in loose
folds on his lanky, almost hairless frame. His eyes bulged like a frog. He was
an albino, only more so. He had long
claws, and sharp pointy teeth. He was entirely naked -- I knew because I
couldn't help but notice what looked like a withered maggot dangling between
his chicken-bone legs. Would that I were spared the sight! He was altogether a
visage of pure revulsion and terror, and for my dear reader’s sake I will not
describe him. Cautiously I sat up, and managed to squeak out, “What do you
want?” “Merely to haunt,” he replied in a voice that reminded me of
sandpaper rubbed briskly on skin, a sound I have rarely heard. He bared his fangs in a grin that I frankly found to be a
little disturbing. Then he squinted one bulging eye at me and hissed, “You
don't want to be turned into rabbit stew, do you?” I decided not to point out that to be turned into that kind of
stew, I'd have to belong to the family Leporidae, and instead acknowledged his
intuitiveness. “No,” I said, “that's right. That's very true.” “Then rhyme with
me!” he exclaimed, looking triumphant. “Pardon me?” I said politely, when he did not immediately say
anything else. “I am challenging you to a rhyming duel.” “I'm, uh, afraid I'm unfamiliar with that particular form of
duel.” “Eh?” my captor grunted. “I said I've never heard of that form of duel.” “Then perhaps you were born a fool!” He looked at me, as if waiting for a response. Finally he
huffed, “You see? We start out sparring. One person says a line; the other
parries with a rhyme. In the final clash, each combatant must recite a poem of
not less than eight lines off the top of his skull.” I thought for a moment, then asked, “What does the winner
get?” “You win your freedom. If I win, I get supper.” He licked his
chops, and my stomach began to feel queasy, forming a sadistic trio with my
fearfully racing heart and pounding head. Barely concealing the alarm in my voice, I asked, “But who
will be the judge?!” Perhaps he attempted a good-natured smile, but his features
were clearly incapable of such niceties. “This is a gentleman's sport. We must
trust each other to express an unbiased opinion, on our word of honor.” “What if we disagree? Surely our tastes in versification are
different.” In more ways than one, I thought. “In the event of a dispute, you will give an argument for your
position, then I shall be the tie-breaker.” “How --” I began to sputter, but he merely raised a white
palm and said, “Because I am the captor. And you are my prisoner. I have the
final say.” Then he added, “But don't worry. I will be fair, and only render a frank, honest decision.” When I said nothing more, he rubbed his long bony fingers
together, some drool escaped his mouth, and he said, “Well then, I shall go
first, if you have no objection... No?
Okay, we begin... ‘With this
ring I thee wed.’ Now remember, there's a time limit. If I think you're taking too
long, I will bite you.” This piece of information did not help me organize my
thoughts. The first rhyme that came to mind was, “You must be crazy in the
head,” but instead I said: “Be sure to never wet the bed.” He said nothing for a moment, his face unreadable. Then a
hissing noise began to escape his swollen lips, and developed into a raspy
cough. He was laughing. “ ‘With this ring I thee wed / Be sure to never wet the
bed.’ I like it. Either a stroke of dumb luck, or a hint that I have taken up
with a very clever opponent. One point for you. Now it's my turn. Give me a
line.” I wondered how many rounds this infernal game had, and if it
really mattered. In all likelihood, he planned to make a meal of me in the end,
regardless the outcome. His honor, my ass. So I admitted, “I believe I'm in a bind.” He snapped back, “I suppose it's Ex-Lax time!” “Um, time and bind, that isn't a true rhyme,” I ventured. “Ahhh…” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “We have a stickler here, I see. Won't allow
a little poetic license? All right then, I concede. One to zero, your favor.
Now rhyme with this: ‘A peculiarly powerful monkey...’” When I did not quickly respond, he clapped his hands
impatiently. Flustered, I blurted out: “Is really funky!” He looked at me askance.
“ ‘Is really funky?’ No, no, no. Is there something wrong with your
brain?” “Was riding the back of a junkie!” I amended. “A-hah, you use ‘monkey’ in the metaphoric sense. Clever, but
you are not allowed to change your answer. No point for you.” I boldly dared to ask, “I wonder how long this will be?” He sneered and said, "Because I really have to pee." “But that wasn't --” He held up a clammy hand for silence, declaring, “That is a
point for me, unless you have a good objection to it. And now it is time for
the final round. Since I am the defending champion, I shall go first... Dig up snails with a garden hoe: You’ll have yourself some escargot. Asian food can be quite hasty: Burmese cat is very tasty. Irish lager goes down better With a plate of Irish setter. Midnight snack’s inside the hutch; Girl won’t miss her rabbit much. But tastier than rabbit stew Would be a bowl of some o’ you!” “I don't like that at all,” I croaked. “Bias!” he roared. “Just because you are a subject of the
poem, you should not allow your judgment to be clouded.” “How do I know you made that poem up just now on the spot?” I
demanded. He suddenly tensed up, barely concealing his outrage, like a
molehill volcano about to blow. But he merely cleared his throat and said, “I will disregard
that challenge to my sportsmanship...Compose your poem.” “Now see here --” “Compose your rhyme! Or
you forfeit, and I eat you now.” “Okay, okay, just give me a moment.” Looking at him, fuming there like a miffed mutant midget, I felt
that I could drop-kick him into the cave wall. But then I recalled the strength
he had displayed which belied his puny size. Perhaps he would let me leave,
after all. If not, well, then we'd see how his lower anatomy reconciled itself
to my size nine loafer. Suddenly, I felt a new resolve take shape in my breast. Damned
if I wasn't going to muster up a quatrain, with an a-b-a-b rhyme scheme! I'd
put that pathetic little rhyming goblin to shame! Indeed, I got so carried away that I produced twice as many
lines as the rules called for. I'll never forget those lines, as long as I
live, especially now that I've written them down. Hesitantly, I began: “It moaned in the wall...” He nodded, folding his hands. “It shook the chandelier... It shrieked down the hall...” He grinned expectantly, and interrupted, “Let's see you keep
that up!” Undaunted, I continued: It moaned in the
wall. It shook the
chandelier. It shrieked down
the hall. It creaked on
the stair. It grinned from
the glass that Pauline
peered at. It pinched
Angie's, uh, ass. She blamed me
for that! It lewdly leered
at Liz, and licked her
underwear. Don't know what
the hell It is, or what It's
doing there. It's a horny
little haunt, and spoiling my
chances. Its perverted
taunts are ruining
romances!” “Ahhhh, it is clear!” he hissed. “Clever! The ‘I’' which you
describe in veiled verse is, in fact, the female menstrual period.” My eyes widened. I said nothing, not wanting to contradict my
captor's novel interpretation. In truth, the “It” I'd lamely rhymed about had
only vaguely suggested itself in my mind, perhaps a shadowy ghost of my
adversary. “I yield to you,” he raved. “I had no idea, when I snatched
you, that I had sunk my claws into a real wit! Heh, heh, ‘licked her underwear’
indeed. Anthropomorphization of menstrual flow -- truly you are a master in
this sport!” Then, with a nimble gesture he proffered something, but since
he wore no clothing, I could not tell from whence he proffered it. He offered
it to me. With faint unease, I accepted it. I squinted at the cold
object in my palm. It was a ring. “You have won it, fair and square,” the creature said sadly.
“Though it is my prize possession, I bestow it now to you.” “Thank you, really, but I'm not really into jewelry --” “Oh, but it is more than just an ordinary ring. Here, give it
back and I will demonstrate what it can do.” “No, that's quite all right. It's very pretty, isn't it? Thank
you, thank you, thank you...” Hoping to wrap up this impromptu kidnapping quickly and be on my
way, I graciously bowed and slipped the diminutive trinket onto my pinkie. He immediately squealed, “No! Don't put it on!” Instinctively, I stepped back at this sudden outburst. Yet he
continued to address the spot where I had just been standing. In a nasal whine
he pleaded, “Take it off now. I was merely showing it to you, for you to
admire. I can't part with it. It's MINE! My VALUABLE. Mucus. Mucus,” he
croaked. Then he leapt at empty air. I quickly side-stepped as he flailed blindly around the foul
den. I managed to back my way out the hole. When I reached open air, I could
hear him still howling in impotent rage down below. Then came scrambling, nails clicking on
gravel -- he was coming up after me. I ran, not even bothering to stop for my
picnic basket, back to my trusty old Corvair. As I drove home, trying to maintain a safe speed, the
creature's true perversity dawned on me. Not satisfied with merely devouring
his prey, he made me play his sick rhyming game. Perhaps he would present the
magic ring, even let the hapless victim hold it, then ask for it back so he
could “demonstrate” the ring's power. Immediately donning the ring, the
now-invisible brute would pounce and make his meal. The victim would succumb
knowing that for a moment he had unwittingly held the creature's secret weapon
in his hand, while the creature was powerless. I could even imagine the beast
taunting with this fact, between bites. Shuddering, I put the thought out of my head. Then I smirked.
He had not reckoned on me. The little white rhyming sonuvabitch had met his
match. *** Work
the next day was the same old routine. Except I had a secret. When the monotony
became too great, I would slip my hand into my pocket, and feel the reassuring
presence of that burnished gold. After work, I decided to head down to the employee gym for a
quick work-out. If something like this ever happened again, I wanted to be in a
little better shape for it. As I walked in, a girl from human resources was just
finishing. She picked up her duffel bag and headed for the showers. A naughty idea gripped me, and I couldn't pry its dirty
fingers off my mind. I could get a better look at her, much better. All wet.
Right now. I could actually enact almost every fellow's high school fantasy.
Like that teen sex romp Porky's
without bothering about a peephole. I grinned like a schoolboy as I slipped my hand into my pocket,
then pulled it back out with the ring on. Cautiously, so as not to make any
noise, I did what I have rarely done in my
life. I went into the ladies' locker room. *** The sound of water running...Steam wafting out...Fog on the
mirrors...My heart pounding, racing faster and faster… I tiptoe to the showers.
Then I peer around the wall, and there, in all her glory, is the woman from
human resources. She's turned toward me, the perfect angle, but her eyes are
shut to the hot spray on her face. Her boobs are pointing right at me, as if
accusing: “She can't see you, but we can!” I start to pull off a loafer, but then I think, “No, if I
set those down, they'll not be touching
me anymore and she'll be able to see them.” So, to get a closer look, I step
into the shower fully clothed. So what if I get soaked? Drenched, I stand there, mere inches from her, soaking in the
view. She starts fumbling around for the little shelf and the bar of soap --
wouldn't it be amusing if I picked it up and handed it to her? Giving up her
blind search, she opens her eyes to look -- and screams! I don't understand -- I glance at my hand to make sure the
ring didn't slip off when it got wet, but it's still there! I look back at her,
and she's trying to cover herself and screaming at the top of her lungs. Then I realize I've been taken for a fool. There really is no
such thing as magic rings after all.