March 25th: A Newsletter

In the third month of Christmas...

• Letter from the Editor

• The Ballad of Pete the Toad

• Mint Brownie Recipe

• “The Twelve Months of Christmas” Chapter Three

• Christmas Puzzle to Make You Go Hrmph

The Ballad of Pete the Toad

by Penny Sneezeweed

(ie Amanda)

There once as a toad, his name was pete

he loved to have a little treat

but only once in every year

did he get his wish most dear. 

only on christmas, by the tree,

did he fulfill his inmost dream.

chocolate

"The Twelve Months of Christmas"

by Kafryn Swargyn

***

Chapter Three: Three French Hens

Your bed feels unusually grassy this morning---er, wait---Darn it, am I still in this stupid wood? Yes, yes, you are. You prop yourself up on your elbows and morosely rest your face in your hands. And then mutter curses at the dirt you just deposited in your eyes.   

Still cajoling your eyeballs to stop watering, you hear a familiar sound. Voices? But not those horrible bird voices that keep finding you. These sound like human people voices. On a normal day, the presence of humans would be a deterrent. However, this is a very bad day. You stumble to your feet and go in search of the voices.

Where the ground dips, the trees pull back to make room for a small clearing. A snug farmhouse sits to one side. Closer to where you stand is a chicken coop, with squawks and yelps coming from within. The thought of yet more birds makes your weak little stomach twist. (Wait, when was the last time you put anything in your stomach? Maybe you should eat the next bird you find.) A boot, presumably with a foot in it, kicks the door of the coop open, and out stumbles a disheveled young woman. She slams the door shut behind her, latching it in defiance of the inhabitants. She stands back, wipes muddy hands on her overalls---then freezes when she sees you.

You wave.

“Um, hi?”

“I’m just, you know, passing through. To somewhere or other. Uh…where is this, exactly?”

She shrugged. “No clue. Wouldn’t be here if I had any notion where here was.”

“That’s…really helpful, thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

The door on the coop continued to rattle violently. It looked like it might jump off its hinges at any moment. The woman grabbed a nearby cinderblock and started dragging it toward the coop. Not knowing what else to do, you walk over and help. Soon, the two of you have constructed a barricade in front of the door.

“Welp,” she says, “that should keep them contained for a few minutes at least.”

“A few minutes?”

“This is not an A-grade coop. And they really want their figgy pudding.”

“What the heck is inside?”

“Hens.” You don’t particularly appreciate her duh tone of voice. “French hens, le bane of my existence.”

From some blackened region of your memory, an old song emerges. You sigh and look around the clearing. “Four calling birds next, then?”

“Hmm? Yeah, probably.”

“Are you one of the Caroller’s goons too?”

One of the hens screams so loud you feel as though your bones are ringing.

The woman looks pained as she rubs her head. “Yep, yep, sure thing, I love the Caroller with unwavering devotion.” She gestures for you to follow her around the side of the farmhouse.

“Okay, I know I said those hens are the bane of my existence, but the Caroller is, like, the bane of all banes of my existence.”

“I sympathize.”

“I take it you don’t much like Christmas?”

“Nope. That’s kind of my defining personality trait.”

“How nice. When I was going through my Christmas brainwashing like you, I may have murdered a few of the birds sent to convert me, and this is my punishment. These hens are stationed here to accost curmudgeons, and I get to tend them, yipppeeeeeee.”

“And you don’t know where this place is in relation to anything.”

“Uh-uh. But deliveries of figgy pudding appear now and then when my back is turned or I’m asleep. It’s very annoying.”

The sound of splintering wood came from the direction of the coop. You peek around the corner, and discover that the hens have dislodged the roof.

“Oh no, they’re escaping,” she says in a perfect monotone, making no move to capture them.

“Now what---?” As soon as you open your mouth, you regret it. The French hens all turn to face you, cocking their heads in synch. “I really don’t like this.”

“Course not. See ya.” She grabs the nearest window sill on the side of the house and hoists herself up as the hens charge. She’s safely inside before you can say another word.

“THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR HELP!”

“No worries. These chickens’ve got quotas to fulfill, just go with it. You’ll be fiiiine.” With that, she slams the window shut. And a French hen smacks you in the face.

You find yourself on your back in the grass, head spinning, and a hen standing on your chest. It squawks, hiccups, squawks again. “The CaROLleR Is your MASteR foRTHWItH!”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

Three hens, all standing around your face now, stop. They stare at you a moment. “DID you JusT sAy YES?”

“Suppose I did.”

They make yet more squawking sounds that might be happy. The one on your chest hops off, allowing you to sit up. Cautiously, you rise to your feet. At that moment, a window opens. A can of what you assume is figgy pudding flies over your head, landing somewhere in the grass. The hens chase after it, for the moment forgetting that you even exist.

And with that, you take off running for the woods. Again. How fun.

To be continued....

A Holiday Puzzle Just for You!