“Edwood, why are you sparkling at night?” Woeisme asked.
“Oh, sorry,” Edwood said, and took off his sequined jacket. “I’m not going to let you have her, Quayle,” Edwood growled. “She’s my daughter. And she’s Jakob’s… something.”
“What?” Something asked.
“Not you.” Edwood rolled his eyes.
Captain Irony has decided to spread his purview to matters outside of his own creation. This just in:
In Washington State, one of the departments at the University of Washington–in order to save money–has had all its phones removed. You can now only reach the professors through e-mail (or by stopping by.) You can no longer call them.
Which department? Glad you asked.
The communications department.
PAD
We were having some networking problems last night. Anyway, here it is.
PAD
NOTE FROM PAD: This sets a new record as our speedy contributors have given us three chapters in less than twelve hours. Outstanding work. Hugh Casey chose to give his chapter a title; subsequent contributors can follow suit or not as they see fit. And I feel confident in saying that with the revelation of the Potato King, we’re hitting new heights of lunacy.
Woeisme, sailed through the woods, riding upon the back of Principal Flutie, and thinking to herself all the while that this was REALLY inappropriate, and would probably get him fired if she reported it, but then if the whole “I’m a werewolf” thing didn’t get the principal canned, then running though the woods with a sixteen-year-old-looking-but-really-an-eight-year-old-girl on his back was really small potatoes.
Speaking of which…
Continue Reading “POTATO MOON, Chapter 17: “In the Hall of the Potato King” by Hugh Casey”
Edwood’s brow was deeply furrowed, as if by a team of horses ploughing furrows of soil into which could be planted, well, almost anything. His hands inched over the soft yielding King Edward potato, caressing it into a highly passable version of Jakob’s features. He was deeply frustrated. Making a voodoo doll of a shapeshifter was so frustrating.
At Jakob’s house, Woeisme was kneeling next to a mooing were-cow. “But mother, he isn’t even a bull.”
“Not now, Woeisme.” Belas eyes were fixated on the pack of werewolves watching from the garden. They had told her that the Potato King wanted to meet her daughter, to talk, but Bela knew in her heart of hearts, that somehow this was all about her.
Meanwhile, in Europe, a small boy was born. Unfortunately, that didn’t help Woeisme since was she currently was hanging upside down outside Jakob’s kitchen window.
Woeisme didn’t have any tracking ability. Bela was simply a terrible driver and had left a pretty clear trail of destruction in her SUV. Finding it parked in the radish bed outside of Jakob’s house, Woeisme heard voices from inside. Using the “Spider-Man’s Completely Safe Wall Crawling For Kids” play-set she got for her 4th/16th birthday, she scrambled up the side of Jakob’s house, and, with an exaggerated flourish that would send Michael Bay’s heart a-twitter, she dangled upside down outside the kitchen window, listening.
Originally published May 8, 1992
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