The Scribe

High on a hill where the wind howls and blows around huge boulders so as to send them crashing down on Valley inhabitants below, lives a scribe given to scribbling, though not with a quill dipped in blackness. The tales told by this scribe are writ on multiple boulders, etched by pointy fingernails said to be at the tips of long long fingers at the end of long long hands attached to wrists attached to arm bones. If you’ve studied anatomy, you’ll get the drift.

And it’s no surprise that the scribe’s castle is built of bleached bones, assembled in a manner not unlike one which Frank Lloyd might admire. Were it not for the artful arrangement of bones, it would be just another castle in a land where boring castles abound.

It’s rumored that the scribe hangs out in a room studded with diverse, mounted trophies, similar to those found in dusty museums, but not quite the same. The specimens leer and grin, wink and blink, depending on which way the wind blows on any given day. The biggest are heads with half-bodies brought down by bows and arrows; the smallest are delicate toes pinned to the wall, brought down by a mighty blast of Dead-Zone, an endless supply of which is stashed in the scribe’s mossy basement, right next to a pile of XXXL bones.

In this room, on this night of unusually strong howling winds, the scribe, J. Mort (Valley folks guffaw over the name, but not often), humps over a desk of hemlock wood. I don’t say this lightly, as the back of said scribe is actually humped like the back of the chap who swung from the Notre Dame bell tower. Those who haven’t been crushed by cascading boulders think the scribe deserves a break in life, or at least a friend (but not an editor!) to proof-read, help with the copying, make coffee and select the perfect boulders for the perfect tale. The scribe is getting on in years and having an aching hump doesn’t make it any easier. And the boulders – swear on it! – are ever larger with each passing year.

Additonally, fresh specimens for mounting need to be hunted year round, come rain, sleet, snow or hail. There’s that. Most of the supplies consist of glass eyes ordered online (Iseeyou.com), fake fur (hairgalore.com) for plugging the holes ripped by arrows, Stiffstuff for plumping lips and ears and limp parts, and lastly, LashFix for those specimens born with short ones, or worse yet, none at all. The scribe tests all products (including dentures) before using them on anything, or anyone.

Tonight, the scribe is compiling a list of suitable glass eyes to replace the orbs of the formerly sighted. The range of choices is astounding: round, oval, bulging, closed, surprised, shocked and otherwise, though the biggest problem is selecting the proper color to pop in place. Blue for the guys; pink for the ladies? A particular shade of Swamp Green intrigues, but alas! it’s more suitable for wolves, of which there are none awaiting mounting. Okay, so a few of the nastier specimens resemble wolves, particularly when the light is right, but about this I remain mum.

Comes now the problem of eyeglasses (as opposed to glass eyes), for lately it seems, the world abounds with astigmatism of the Tea Party-type. Of course in the chaos of the chase, eyeglasses on faces are often smashed to smithereens, and that means more online ordering for the scribe. The cheaters aren’t cheap, if that’s what you’re thinking. Will it be Buddy Holly eyewear, or those round purple models worn by old hippies and vampires, or will it be a swell pair of cat’s-eye spectacles rimmed in rhinestones? Add to the growing list the need for lipstick (Purple Plum and/or Raving Red?), and dare the list be lacking in Radiant Rouge (cheeksahoy.com) and Max Factor’s Pancake #2? The scribe has no wish to offend.

By now you must be wondering about the tales sent forth on boulders crashing down, for what good is a tale without a smashing end? It would be a shameful waste of nails sharpened by a great manicure, would it not?

And so it is, I end this tale. Frankly my darlings, the hump on my back is beginning to ache.