Wonder Made

Twenty, Part One

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The breakroom of any story, used when the characters need to step off their mounts, put up their feet, and take some time for themselves, rarely becomes occupied during the climax. The coffee in the pot is still the swill brewed from that morning which has thickened to a sludgy, brown adhesive that's impossible to scrub off.

The room is a desperate twenty degrees below what the thermostat is set at because the ice machine has gone rogue after going unused for so long, so it now makes icebergs, big enough to sink ships crossing the Atlantic. Toasters rust to death in corners surrounded by mountains of burnt crumbs and microwaves spin away, plotting world domination. Their step one? To reheat pizza in such a way that it is both too hot and ice cold.

Microwaves, the devil's machina.

Meanwhile, every scene, chapter, main and secondary character is fast at work, tethered to their desks, ensuring the story progresses at a pace the reader deems acceptable. They map out the remaining plot points and detail character arcs in pastel-colored sticky notes. Last-minute edits are rushed out the door before the reader can stumble upon a usage of 'your' that should have been 'you're' an oversight which has the potential to overload all message boards.

Peneloper, much like the story she's been forced to take center stage in, finds there is no time to relax or relish in the way she's conjured her first magic without Heavensley's instruction. Instead, the Council Chamber resumes its work, which remains a mystery to Peneloper as the Council doesn't appear to do much of anything.

What they do do is brew a fresh pot of coffee in their Boyle, Bane, and Derndach Ad Agency sponsored alcove. Welda braids her hair with rotting reeds while swamp muck congeals around her feet. Occasionally, the festering pool bubbles and a noxious green gas bomb is belched into the air. This seems to have the unforeseen effect of multiplying the flies at Welda's feet until both are covered in a solid, writhing black mass.

Quinceton is less gross than his lizard-skinned co-worker. He busies himself tapping tobacco into his pipe, relegating him to the 'normal' one of the bunch, his unique blend of twenty-one herbs and spices gathered from around the layers, a mixture it's taken him hundreds of your 'human' centuries to perfect.

Rayburn Auttsley guides his chair steadily closer toward the Exit. If You Dare door, not so much tempting the fates, as he was more accurately, simply unable to stay in one place for too long unless said place happened to be the atrocious blue affront that was 1809 Melbourne Way.

Peneloper, Crispen, and Chant are wedged into desks with the intent they are to learn of their predicament because, as explained earlier, there is no time to relax. All manner of horrible, terrible, and no-good are about to collide and crescendo and arrive at their doorstep.

Before Peneloper confronts it all, Kelpner wishes to impart some wisdom on the eldest Auttsley before she sets off on a journey in which he can not follow. What comes next, if there even is to be a next, is up to her alone.