feat: winter court

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+<h1 id="the-convertible">The Convertible</h1>
+<div class="description">
+
+<p>
+<a href="https://nat1publishing.com/wcwc/">Nat1's Winter Court</a> is a prompt-driven writing challenge! The goal is to write a short story with specific parameters once a week throughout January. This is my first submission. Get your copy of <em>Winter Court: Year One, 2026</em> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0GRGCJXL8?ie=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.P6OQNY7CnMVR1NvzlNriw55uoLAqWRgKV7YvnNSTlblycrsGvTmM1qr-W4MubFtYqZrLQlTiNcPsR3lrwwYhgQKvldz63JOVkJ3POEFphu3Kz8-FqWYsru2H2Q09Zt_980GMbqJ8caQYwac5YZw54nxAGdHSoxK6feTaJfu2WXfa6dM_Wen2eAwcXlbCY66hEGs8YChjKd9ARRXos6xPTgVM5piP1XNkQ2sn0gNJXm0.pK7Qt86-fJhop6akBeOXQ27ioBaO9IRTLun4nzj22BE&qid=1772932438&sr=8-1">here.</a>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<em>Prompt</em>
+<br>
+
+A protagonist walks the same route every day; one day, they see a door that hadn’t been there before.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<em>Required components</em>
+
+<ul>
+<li>The color verdigris</li>
+<li>The word "borrowed," used in dialogue</li>
+<li>A feather</li>
+</ul>
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<p>Brock trudged along the alley, paying little mind to the worn, faded
+red bricks except on the frequent occasion that he stumbled over one on
+his oversized feet. Pink, black, and yellow graffiti was splattered
+across sooty, cracked concrete and fogged windows. Iron door frames and
+braces added trails of rust, which leached out of the tired warehouses
+like tears.</p>
+<p>If he could help it, Brock ignored the bleak surroundings of the
+vacant lots and dilapidated buildings between his high school and his
+foster parents’ apartment. The first day of school was bleak enough
+without remembering where he lived, where he ate, or how he existed.
+Instead, he plunged all of his meager attention and mental effort into
+his phone. He scrolled through reel after reel on every social media he
+had an account on. Often, he let out a small exhalation of breath
+through his nose in place of a laugh if he saw something funny enough.
+Rarely did he invest the muscle capacity to upvote or downvote whatever
+he deemed worthy of the additional effort.</p>
+<p>His stomach lurched as his right foot caught thin air, his left toes
+curling under him as he tripped. His whole body was flung forward with
+momentum, aided by the jerk in his knees when he realized he was no
+longer on level ground. Before he could catch himself, he tumbled into
+the driveway, just barely putting his hands out in front of his face
+before he planted them roughly onto the pavement of the alley with a
+smack.</p>
+<p>Thin, red lines broke out across Brock’s fingers and knuckles on his
+left hand. His right hand clutched his phone, now with a seriously
+decimated screen. It resembled a haphazardly arranged spider web, and
+the facets that remained each showed small slivers of popular videos and
+curated ads.</p>
+<p>“Aw, man,” he hissed as he looked over his other hand. Brock huffed
+and stood up, bewildered. <em>Where’d this even come from?</em></p>
+<p>It was a freshly paved driveway, not gum-spotted like the rest of the
+street. It must have been laid down over summer break. His eyes followed
+it up into the old wall of the warehouse, one he’d passed by twice every
+single day throughout high school. Where there had been cracked brick
+and acrylic tags, there was now a freshly fabricated garage bay door.
+The rolling chain-link barrier was down, but the gaps were wide enough
+to see through and allowed air to circulate.</p>
+<p>Brock got up and, despite his aching knees and palms, half-stumbled
+up to the door to peer inside.</p>
+<p>“Whoa, dude!”</p>
+<p>The speckled gray concrete floor was swept clean and supported a herd
+of whitewall tires. Each set, in turn, supported a colorful antique
+automobile, each different from the last. There were reds, yellows, and
+blues, all the old-world subtle colors that nobody painted anything
+anymore because it wasn’t silver. Each car was curvy and heavily laden
+with thick chrome emblems, bumpers, and visors. Some had skirts on the
+rear, and a couple had their hoods up, exposing engine compartments that
+looked more like jewelry boxes full of silver and gold than dirty,
+mechanical necessities.</p>
+<p>Brock continued gawking at the shimmering display of rolling
+Americana. The sound of a toilet flushing preceded the opening of a door
+in the back corner. A short, hunched man stepped out, wiping his hands
+on his denim coveralls. His dark skin was dotted with shiny grease spots
+and patches of dirt. His palms looked leathery and well-used. His face
+was serious, the wrinkles and dull eyes unforgiving yet determined. His
+block-shaped, graying mustache flared and twitched as he nervously
+puckered his lips, thinking. Above his peppered-gray eyebrows sat a thin
+straw hat boasting an even thinner brown feather sticking out of the
+ribbon.</p>
+<p>He looked up, locking eyes with Brock for a brief moment before
+resuming his work. Brock pointed through the rails of the door at the
+nearest car and called out, “Yo, old man, what year’s that Chevy?”</p>
+<p>The man spun his head around from under the teal-green hood of the
+furthest car, screwing his eyes into a mean and penetrating gaze.</p>
+<p>“You git your finger out of that door befo’ I pull it off. Dat’s a
+Stude ya dumb-bass. Daym kids and dey big empty heads,” he trailed off
+into a string of discontented mutterings that filled only the cavernous
+engine bay.</p>
+<p>Brock quietly retracted his hand but didn’t move from his vantage
+point. Instead, he shuffled to the side and stood on tiptoes for a
+better look at what the old man was doing.</p>
+<p>His hands were busy fussing under the hood of that verdigris
+convertible. From his distant vantage point, Brock saw it was adorned
+with a regalia of fog lights, wire wheels, and a boatload of bright work
+trim. The white interior reflected the dim overhead lamps, giving off a
+soft glow that bounced back up onto the ceiling and provided more
+usable, soft light in the room. It gave the whole car a glowing, angelic
+effect. Between the wide white walls a small puddle of oil leeched
+across the concrete in search of new patches to set stains in.</p>
+<p>“What’s that one you got there? Whachu doin’ to it?”</p>
+<p>The engine bay emitted a grunt, and the man’s head emerged briefly to
+snap, “I’m fixin’ it what de hell does it look like I’m doin’ in here
+wid all dese tools ‘n’ shit?”</p>
+<p>“Yeah, but what is it?”</p>
+<p>The mechanic’s gaze softened, but only briefly, before he screwed his
+wrinkled face back up again.</p>
+<p>“A Packard, dat’s an orphan car. Now you git before I call da po-lice
+to come grab ya and send ya back to your parents,” he said while
+gesticulating with a tightly-gripped monkey wrench.</p>
+<p>Brock snickered at the hollow threat, but backed away from the door
+all the same. He had no interest in dealing with his foster parents
+tonight any more than he had to. Instead, he shouldered his backpack and
+finished the walk home from school, paying attention to the dotted
+bricks and uneven curbs as he did.</p>
+<p>His mind whirred all night with still images: vignettes of hood
+scoops and split windshields. His thoughts always returned to the
+teal-green Packard.</p>
+<hr>
+<p>As the school year progressed deeper into fall, Brock struggled
+harder and harder to concentrate in final period. He’d watch the
+electric clock up high at the front of the room in between long gazes
+out the leaky windows. Instead of focusing on lectures, he fantasized
+about the swoops and spokes of the old cars in that warehouse
+garage.</p>
+<p>Each day when the bell rang, he hustled out of class and half-walked,
+half-ran his route home. He always passed by the garage to see what the
+old geezer was working on. Brock’s foggy breath would puff out while he
+warmed his hands by the exhaust hoses pumping sweet-smelling fumes out
+from the engine of the convertible.</p>
+<p>Invariably, he’d get chased away by the old man after spending too
+much time lingering by the chain-link door. At the very least, they were
+now able to exchange a few phrases before the gentleman’s temper rose
+high enough to shoo Brock away.</p>
+<p>Brock knew enough now to know the Packard convertible had a flathead
+that needed quite a bit of work (he also now knew that <em>flathead</em>
+meant the valves were in the cylinder block). It no longer leaked oil,
+but it didn’t run or drive either. Occasionally, Brock felt brave enough
+to shout out ideas or diagnoses, only to be shooed away even more
+fervently than the previous night for tempting involvement.</p>
+<p>One particular fall afternoon, Brock swung by the shop, and the old
+convertible was up on jack stands. The old man lay beneath it, straining
+and swearing away. Brock sat down on his backpack as he watched. The
+sound of heavy breathing was truncated by the interjection of banging
+metal reverberating off the walls. Sockets clattered out from under the
+car, rolling away across the floor of the garage. One of them popped
+over the threshold and right up to Brock’s shoe. He surveyed it, noting
+the “1/2” markings and the patent stamp proudly declaring the tool was
+made in Toledo.</p>
+<p>A slam and a clunking sound jolted his eyes back up to the mustached
+mechanic’s plight.</p>
+<p>“You dumb-bass!” he cried out from under the car.</p>
+<p>What looked like the transmission had slumped off the wood blocks
+supporting it and tumbled onto the floor. It made a nice chip in the
+concrete when it landed.</p>
+<p>Brock was on his feet in an instant and shouted across the garage,
+“Dude! Watch out for that there.”</p>
+<p>The mechanic shot out from under the Packard, clutching his wrist and
+wincing. He flexed his arm, testing his muscles. All fingers appeared to
+work.</p>
+<p>With much effort, he got to his feet and forced his backbone to
+straighten out. Still rubbing his wrist, he noticed Brock, almost with a
+start as if he’d forgotten he’d been standing there. He eyed the socket
+Brock absent-mindedly turned over with his thumb and forefinger.</p>
+<p>“You give me dat back,” he growled through gritted teeth.</p>
+<p>He fixed his straw, feathered hat with one hand and reached for the
+socket through the steel links of the bay door with the other. Brock
+snatched it closer to his chest and took a step back.</p>
+<p>“No way, dude, you’re gonna get killed like that. You want it back,
+then you let me in, and I help you. You open the door and let me bench
+that up into the car with you so you don’t smash your dome in.”</p>
+<p>The old mechanic’s eyes lost that sheen of rage. For just a moment,
+Brock was sure he could see through them rather than right up against
+them.</p>
+<p>He continued, “Look old creep, I can help. You can’t lift that up
+there by yourself. And besides, if it crushes me, then I won’t be
+bothering you anymore, will I? Now let’s get to work and get it done
+already.”</p>
+<p>The mustached man turned up his sour lips again, curling his facial
+hair into his characteristic disappointed twist. He pointed his finger
+right at Brock’s chest through the door.</p>
+<p>“Don’ touch the paint, don’ touch the chrome, don’ touch a daym thang
+’cept what I tell you!”</p>
+<p>He reached down to his cracked leather belt and jangled loose a
+massive keyring, cursing as he did. Brass, nickel, and other assorted
+keys all shook and shimmered as he flitted through them for the door.
+Brock’s heart leapt. He scrambled to shoulder his bag as the man heaved
+the door up, clanging away as it rolled toward the ceiling.</p>
+<p>For the first time, Brock stepped over the threshold of the door that
+hadn’t existed last year. Just a few feet in it was already warmer than
+the curb. He had a better view of the cars now, too. He could see
+scalloped leather upholstery and massive steering wheels in black or
+white plastic. Shields and emblems adorned door cards, radios, and gauge
+clusters. He could smell them too: old lacquer paint, small drops of hot
+oil, and the kind of warm musty smell of aged rubber.</p>
+<p>The old man stomped straight back toward the verdigris convertible.
+He turned his back to Brock and started slamming open drawers on a tall,
+fire engine red toolbox. The clicking of ratcheting wrenches trickled
+back to Brock’s ears before the drawers were slammed shut again with
+even more ferocity.</p>
+<p>“Don’ just stand there gawkin’, come gimme a hand,” the mechanic
+admonished, his back still turned to the boy.</p>
+<p>Dropping his bag, Brock hustled over to the driver’s side of the
+convertible. His eyes slipped over its interior. The two-tone
+teal-and-black upholstery was broken up by polished stainless steel
+stripes. <em>Packard</em> was scrawled across the glove box in
+flourishing, underlined script.</p>
+<p>Outside, beneath the driver-side door was a jack handle and the bulky
+head of the transmission, which appeared at first to Brock to be
+bleeding sticky maroon blood out onto the concrete floor.</p>
+<p>The old man whipped around from the toolbox and set his sights on the
+teen. He stretched out his hand, his leathery palm opened up. It was
+hardened with calluses and wrinkles. Brock placed the socket into it,
+and the mechanic quickly snapped it onto an extension.</p>
+<p>He squinted his beady eyes at Brock, but his mustache relaxed
+slightly. “You ever worked on a car befo’?”</p>
+<p>Brock shook his head but kept his lips shut tight.</p>
+<p>“Alrigh’, then here’s what we gon’ do. You’re gon’ listen’ good and
+do everythin’ I tell you and nothin’ I don’. We’re gonna git dat tranny
+back up in there an’ bolt up the cross-member.”</p>
+<p>“Cross-what?” Brock interrupted.</p>
+<p>“Don’ interrupt me. Don’ interrupt me, daym didn’t your daddy ever
+teach you manners?”</p>
+<p>Brock’s eyes trailed the red pool and then held fast to a black paint
+stain.</p>
+<p>“I don’t know my dad. And my foster dad ain’t around much.”</p>
+<p>The old man just blinked and pocketed the wrench. “Lie down there on
+the flo’.”</p>
+<p>He did as instructed and stretched out under the convertible while
+the mechanic knelt and gave him a lesson. He pointed out all the braces,
+frame rails, and cross-member bolts. He walked Brock through hooking up
+the transmission to the flywheel and explained that they would need to
+stabilize the trans and move the jack into place. Then they set to
+work.</p>
+<p>Brock helped the old man lower the jack and roll the transmission
+back onto the block of wood it had been precariously perched on. He kept
+it from rolling as his aging companion jacked it back up again, roughly
+into position. Then, with two hands, Brock helped jostle and jimmy it
+forward. Up a little, forward a little. Up a little, forward a
+little.</p>
+<p>Once it was in place, he held it there while the old-timer rolled out
+from under the car and grabbed a squarish metal tube with boltholes in
+it. He quickly cinched down two bolts and slid the wrench over to Brock
+while he took a hold of the jack and transmission himself.</p>
+<p>Brock fumbled with the socket, which slipped off twice and even
+reversed direction on him once. Eventually, he was able to confidently
+snug up the bolts. The old man lowered the jack and rolled it out from
+under the car with a rattle.</p>
+<p>“Ah-hah, dat’s how you do it! Dat’s how you git dat dumb-bass in
+there!” His whiskers were turned up into a grin, old off-white teeth
+beaming out from under it. Brock met his grin, wiping his hands off on
+his shirt.</p>
+<p>“You got a name boy?”</p>
+<p>“Brock, sir.”</p>
+<p>“You can call me Ray.”</p>
+<hr>
+<p>Work on the Packard continued. For the first few weeks, Ray seemed to
+forget all about the transmission and Brock’s help. He would just stand
+outside and talk through the door until Ray ran into a job that was too
+frustrating to do alone. Then the old man would gripe and cuss and roll
+up the big door again.</p>
+<p>After a month, the door was already rolled up when Brock arrived
+after school let out. Every night was a lesson in how the parts of the
+car went together, which tools did what, and how they were supposed to
+be used.</p>
+<p>The hood stayed open on the Packard while Ray showed Brock how to
+tune up the old flathead, the sweet burning smell of the exhaust
+tingling their noses and eyes. The carb sucked in air, and the tailpipe
+burbled like nothing the teen had ever experienced. It had the soul of a
+boat in the skin of a car, the promise of crossing a sea of asphalt to
+fantastic, unexplored places.</p>
+<p>For his part, Brock grew to enjoy the old mechanic’s company. He was
+still grumpy and stern-looking most of the time, but there was a clear
+wisdom. Years of knowledge had been carefully curated by experience and
+distilled into simple lessons that he couldn’t forget if he wanted to.
+What Ray thought of Brock never came up.</p>
+<p>As winter waned and the first spots of spring began to warm up the
+city, Brock had to hustle through still-cold rain to get to the garage.
+Today was particularly stormy and, although the hours grew longer, the
+promise of later daylight was dashed by thunderheads and downpour. Every
+<em>plod, plod</em> of his footsteps dumped yet more water into his
+sneakers. Using his hoodie as an umbrella, he tried to keep at least his
+shirt dry. Ray would never let him near the car if he was soaking
+wet.</p>
+<p>He rounded the last corner and skipped up the curb to the garage. The
+chain-link door was already rolled up, and the warm incandescent glow of
+the lamps kept the dim gray at bay. He ducked in and threw down his
+backpack and hoodie against the wall.</p>
+<p>“Yo, Ray,” he called out, but got no answer.</p>
+<p>The shop was quiet, and the old man was nowhere to be seen. <em>Must
+be in the bathroom again,</em> Brock figured. He strode over to the tall
+red toolbox to see what he could get started on.</p>
+<p>Curiously, more than half of the drawers were cracked open or piled
+with a random assortment of tools such that they wouldn’t shut. Brock
+never knew a day when the meticulous and ornery Ray failed to slam shut
+every drawer or cabinet door with all the strength left in his arms.</p>
+<p>Upon closer inspection, some key tools were missing completely. Ray’s
+good Snap-On set, which Brock was seldom allowed to use, was gone, along
+with torque wrenches, tachometers, and a battery tender.</p>
+<p>“Ray, man where you at?” Brock called again.</p>
+<p>No answer came, not even a crotchety admonishment from the bathroom
+stall. The hood was still open on the Packard. He stepped quietly over
+to the convertible, the glossy verdigris paint shimmering under the
+overhead lights.</p>
+<p>Something crumpled under Brock’s sneaker. He stepped back and peered
+cautiously at the crushed straw hat, and what was left of its ruddy
+feather, the plumes mussed and destroyed.</p>
+<p>Brock knelt to examine the straw shrapnel. On the other side of the
+car, past the white walls he saw a slumped pile of coveralls and a dark,
+leathery hand.</p>
+<p>His throat went dry as he shrieked, “Ray! Dude!”</p>
+<p>He wheeled around the bumper to find the mechanic collapsed, his face
+down on the hard floor and his fingers balled into fists. Brock rolled
+him over and saw a huge gash in his forehead.</p>
+<p>“Oh, no. Oh, crap man.”</p>
+<p>Brock reached into his back pocket, yanking out his phone. His face
+burned as his heart pounded out of control. His fingers swiped furiously
+across the cracked screen, catching on the spider-glassed edges. He
+punched in 9-1-1, tapping on Ray’s chest with his other hand. Ray’s
+chest rose and fell, but otherwise he didn’t move.</p>
+<p>“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” the operator coolly answered.</p>
+<p>“Yo, hey, you gotta get an ambulance here right now, I’m at the auto
+shop by Pier 14, 301 West Brooke. Please you gotta hurry Mr. Ray got hit
+or something, he won’t wake up!”</p>
+<hr>
+<p>The responder stayed on with Brock while he tried to bring Ray
+around. The old man was still breathing but unconscious when the
+ambulance rolled over the driveway, and the EMTs unloaded their
+stretcher.</p>
+<p>At the hospital, the teen sat alone in the waiting room, shivering.
+The place felt air-conditioned despite the weather outside, and he was
+still mostly soaked through. After waiting around for almost an hour, a
+couple of cops walked in and asked him to make a statement. Wanted to
+know how Brock found Ray, how he knew him, and all that.</p>
+<p>Over and over he repeated, “Someone hit him, I just know it, there’s
+tools missing, and he usually locks the place up. You gotta find
+em!”</p>
+<p>“Son, settle down. We got em, we just wanna know how you found him so
+he can press charges,” the taller deputy said, scanning his notebook in
+between glances at the worried teen.</p>
+<p>“You mean you got em?”</p>
+<p>“Yeah, pawn shop two blocks down got a big drop of tools, battery
+charging kit, couple of gauges. Owner said he recognized the Snap-Ons
+and called it in. Sounds like the guy went in there a lot looking for
+old tools.”</p>
+<p>“Is he gonna be okay though? The old man, uh, Ray I mean.”</p>
+<p>“He was out when we saw him, but you’ll have to wait to talk to the
+doctor, son.”</p>
+<p>The electric clock up high at the front of the room seemed frozen,
+just ticking back and forth without making any progress. Another hour
+could have passed, maybe two, maybe none, before a woman with dark hair
+and tan skin approached Brock. She was wearing a white coat and blue
+scrubs and held a gray plastic clipboard in both hands.</p>
+<p>“Are you Brock?” she asked softly.</p>
+<p>Brock lifted his head up off his palm. He straightened up from his
+restless slouch.</p>
+<p>“Yes’m I’m Brock. Is it Ray, is he gonna be okay?” Brock coughed to
+settle his voice.</p>
+<p>“Yes, Mr. Perry is going to be just fine. And he’ll see you now if
+you’d like to visit.”</p>
+<p>She led Brock back through the hall of clean white exam rooms and
+gave a soft knock on the last door. The stainless steel panel gave way
+to a pinkish room with a large electric hospital bed. The curtain was
+drawn open, and under a blanket sat the grumpy old mechanic, his back
+and head resting elevated on a pillow. The doctor gave a small wave and
+stepped back out of the room.</p>
+<p>Ray rotated his head to look at the door and Brock. He had a large
+wad of clean cotton gauze taped across his forehead. A few wires ran
+from a finger clamp on his left hand. His eyes were as stern as ever,
+his mustache turned up in another one of his sour grimaces. Brock would
+have chuckled at the familiarity of the sight had the circumstances been
+less serious.</p>
+<p>“Take a seat, boy.”</p>
+<p>Brock did as he was instructed, drawing up a short rolling stool.</p>
+<p>“You find me lyin’ there? You call dat amblance?”</p>
+<p>His eyes were penetrating, and beady though they were, behind their
+usual intent and purpose, there was a gentle twinkle.</p>
+<p>Brock shifted in his seat, and words started tumbling out unfiltered,
+“Yessir, I came by after school and found you lying there. Cops said
+they jumped you and got away with your tools, but they got ’em–”</p>
+<p>“Don’t you hear good boy, I asked you one question and now you
+startin’ jabbin’ away like a daym fool again. Daym right they got dem
+dumb-basses, nobody stealin’ from me.”</p>
+<p>He heaved himself up higher in the reclined bed, as if he couldn’t
+contain himself from leaping out of it and whooping the first person he
+got his hands on. Instead, he cleared his throat and dropped his sour
+look.</p>
+<p>“Actually, you did good. You did real good, kid.”</p>
+<p>Ray rustled his right hand under the cover and, with a jangle,
+produced his large keyring. He sifted through it, flipping old tarnished
+keys over and over until he found the one he was looking for. He held
+the ring up by it and outstretched his arm toward Brock.</p>
+<p>“Now you take ‘em. And don’ go losin’ em or I’ll bust you up, you got
+dat?”</p>
+<p>Puzzled, the teen took the key ring and studied it. The one brass key
+stood apart from the rest, tarnished as it was, there was a shiny wear
+mark where a thumb regularly polished it. The teeth gleamed like they
+were brand new. He looked back up at Ray, whose face was calmer and
+older somehow. Without their usual ferocity, the wrinkles didn’t make
+him look scrunched up, just wrinkly.</p>
+<p>“Dat choke is stuck on da Packard. You go git dat fixed. And do a
+lube job on the Stude, den pick up parts at Waller’s. I’m gonna be in
+here ’nother day, so you git to work.”</p>
+<p>Brock grinned and wiped the nearly-dry hair from his eyes while he
+stood up.</p>
+<p>“Yessir, I will,” he nodded as he pocketed the key ring and made for
+the door.</p>
+<p>“And Brock! Dem keys is borrowed, you got dat? You go make a copy o’
+dat one cuz I ain’t leavin’ the door unlocked no mo’ like a daym
+fool.”</p>
+<p>Brock could have sworn he saw a smile under the old man’s
+mustache.</p>
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+<h1 id="the-rust">The Rust</h1>
+<div class="description">
+
+<p>
+<a href="https://nat1publishing.com/wcwc/">Nat1's Winter Court</a> is a prompt-driven writing challenge! The goal is to write a short story with specific parameters once a week throughout January. This is my second submission. Get your copy of <em>Winter Court: Year One, 2026</em> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0GRGCJXL8?ie=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.P6OQNY7CnMVR1NvzlNriw55uoLAqWRgKV7YvnNSTlblycrsGvTmM1qr-W4MubFtYqZrLQlTiNcPsR3lrwwYhgQKvldz63JOVkJ3POEFphu3Kz8-FqWYsru2H2Q09Zt_980GMbqJ8caQYwac5YZw54nxAGdHSoxK6feTaJfu2WXfa6dM_Wen2eAwcXlbCY66hEGs8YChjKd9ARRXos6xPTgVM5piP1XNkQ2sn0gNJXm0.pK7Qt86-fJhop6akBeOXQ27ioBaO9IRTLun4nzj22BE&qid=1772932438&sr=8-1">here.</a>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<em>Prompt</em>
+<br>
+
+As it turns out, the monster beneath the bridge is not the threat—what it’s protecting is.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<em>Required components</em>
+
+<ul>
+<li>A child's toy</li>
+<li>The word "finally" in the last paragraph</li>
+<li>Snow</li>
+</ul>
+</p>
+
+</div>
+<p>Jethro surveyed the dead whiteness: an empty, desolate plain devoid
+of life and shelter. He rotated his head almost mechanically, his
+hardened features scanning the land ahead. Below his eyes, his grizzled
+jawline was set in a permanent grimace, as if everything he had seen,
+saw now, and would see was grim at best.</p>
+<p>He didn’t feel the cold, at least that’s what he and his men kept
+telling themselves. What kept the boys marching on was Jethro. What kept
+Jethro going was duty. Duty kept that spark, that fiery resolve burning
+in him just enough to melt away the cold.</p>
+<p>From atop the Jeep, he could just barely make out the treeline.
+Beyond that was the wood. The wood was the mission. What lay beyond was
+just rumor. <em>Or was it a promise?</em> He grunted. It didn’t matter.
+It was the mission. Push on, as always, for the mission.</p>
+<p>Hobbs interrupted his thoughts as he marched up and saluted. “Sarge!
+Batteries are charged, and we’re ready to roll out, sir!”</p>
+<p>Jethro cocked his head down and saluted back. “Good work, Corporal.
+Wheels up, on my command.”</p>
+<p>“Sir, yes, sir!” Hobbs stiffly marched off, barking orders to the
+troops as he went. His arms and legs looked awkward and weary as he
+swung them.</p>
+<p><em>Won’t last much longer out here.</em> They had to push on.</p>
+<p>The men decoupled the charging cables from the second Jeep and
+secured the heavy solar panels to the back of the six-wheel HET. The
+cables were coiled and lashed down to the HET atop the panels. They
+could only charge one vehicle at a time, so they had to do it on a
+rotation.</p>
+<p>Hobbs and two privates piled into the command Jeep. The other Jeep
+and the HET were fully loaded, the last men jumping aboard just as
+Sergeant Jethro gave the order to move out. The three electric motors
+whined in unison as snow flicked off the treads of the oversized tires.
+Jethro clutched the roll bar, still standing, as the platoon bumped
+along the plane.</p>
+<p>The conditions worsened, the sky graying and darkening as large
+frozen chunks of slush fell from it. The headlights were obscured enough
+to be nearly useless, and the men took turns wiping the windshield off
+with their sleeves. Still, they pushed on.</p>
+<hr>
+<p>Just before dawn, the platoon met the edge of the wood, the plain
+giving way to monstrous pine trunks. Each one towered over the Jeep by
+an immeasurable distance, disappearing into the gray-black heavens. Ice
+and snow clung to them, sticking to the evergreen needles until they
+sagged enough for some of it to drip off. The storm raged even more
+violently now, each man’s green uniform plastered with white.</p>
+<p>Jethro scanned the trees and the darkness ahead. <em>Not a sign of
+life, but the trunks offer some protection on the leeward side.</em> The
+HET would be mostly covered, but more importantly, his men needed
+rest.</p>
+<p>“Corporal,” he hollered over the whine of the motor. “Status
+report!”</p>
+<p>Hobbs called back, “Sir, battery levels at 21 percent, sir!”</p>
+<p>“We’ll make camp behind that trunk up there, bring us around, and
+shut it down.”</p>
+<p>Corporal Hobbs echoed the command and signaled to the other vehicles.
+The troops dismounted and helped their Sergeant down from his chariot,
+his pelvis creaking and popping as he did. He hissed as his brittle
+joints seared with pain. Try as he might to hide it, he was old and worn
+out, and just as afflicted as the next man. Moving helped some, but he
+refused to sit. Partly because he refused to show weakness in front of
+the men, and more importantly, if he was going to freeze, he was going
+to do it standing.</p>
+<p>He was infected. They all were, and each and every one of them knew
+their days were numbered. That’s what the disease did to you: froze your
+joints up. Back at base camp, two men had already succumbed, their
+bodies locked like a skeletal prison for their minds to wither away in.
+Unable to move. Unable to die. Unable to do anything but gaze ahead,
+panicking at immobility until you slipped into madness with the new hell
+you were stuck in.</p>
+<p><em>Not to me. And not to them either.</em> Their salvation lay
+ahead; they just had to reach it.</p>
+<p>The strongest men unloaded and set up the solar panels, coupling the
+heavy cables to the HET’s batteries so that at sunup it would get a head
+start at charging. The healthy ones were busy arranging the Jeeps,
+setting up tents, and creating as much shelter and protection as they
+could. A few stood guard. The weak ones huddled together in tents,
+massaging their aching limbs, which slipped, popped, or crunched when
+they moved them too far.</p>
+<p>Jethro didn’t sleep that night. He stood guard, observing the path
+ahead while he thought and calculated. He surveyed his men, too,
+ensuring they got the shifts and rest that they needed. The next leg of
+their trip would take them to the bridge. No doubt Caecelav would be
+skulking nearby, and they needed to be ready. Today was the journey, but
+tomorrow would come the battle.</p>
+<hr>
+<p>The next morning, the men got a late start. Even less sunlight
+penetrated the piney canopies far above them, providing only a trickle
+of power to the solar panels. Sarge gave the order to move out at
+exactly 60% charge, not a lick more. They would reach their goal before
+nightfall and have plenty of time to juice up tomorrow.</p>
+<p>Corporal Hobbs wheeled the command Jeep along the muddy path, black
+clumps of sopping dirt kicking up and splashing the plastic fenders
+where it mixed with the snow. Occasional stony outcroppings in the trail
+staved off their progress, but they managed to crawl over them with some
+confidence.</p>
+<p>It was after the eighth rock crawl that Jethro heard the river down
+the trail, and around a couple more trunks, the platoon sighted the
+bridge. He gave the signal to slow up and look sharp.</p>
+<p>The bridge was a rickety old arched crossing, the rotting green
+boards lightly dusted with fresh snow. There were no tracks or prints,
+but Jethro steeled his men regardless. <em>Ambush. Has to be.</em></p>
+<p>They stopped short of the bridge as he dismounted from the Jeep and
+picked up a machete. Hobbs armed himself with a shovel while his private
+wielded a pickaxe. Brass left them unarmed and under-equipped for years,
+so it was the best they had. Not nearly enough, but it would have to do.
+Jethro didn’t think about the odds. This was their last chance.</p>
+<p>Nobody made a sound, padding softly as they could along the white
+earth. Every move they made, they checked around the next tree trunk,
+using hand signals to indicate they were clear. The vehicles inched
+forward, barely humming as the snow crunched underfoot. The private
+feathered the accelerator with his foot, nudging the bumper closer to
+the bridge.</p>
+<p>It was close enough now that they could make out the rotten spots
+where entire pieces had fallen away, exposing the grainy, splintered
+holes that remained. Jethro continued to tread carefully, twisting his
+head left and right as he listened. The frigid water rushed below them,
+and chunks of ice bumped up against dead branches as they danced along
+the seething torrent.</p>
+<p>The private’s foot slipped. All four tires broke loose, kicking up
+chunks of muddy snow. <em>His ankle froze up!</em> The Jeep lurched
+forward and slammed into the base of the bridge, sending splintered
+woodchips flying as it did.</p>
+<p>“Halt, private, halt! Shut it down!” Jethro shouted as the Jeep
+bounced up and slid up the ramp.</p>
+<p>An unearthly roar rumbled up from the holes in the bridge. A large,
+purplish shadow swayed and loomed beneath. Long, violet, clawed fingers
+scraped at the border of the railing, digging into the green wood.</p>
+<p>The Jeep stalled out, and the private yelled, “I got it, it’s
+off!”</p>
+<p>Then he screamed, any bravery and sense of might shattering before
+the amorphous, wretched figure of Caecelav. The beast heaved itself up
+onto the deck, its purplish skin rippling and glistening against the
+white-brown backdrop. Its rubber-like muscles flexed to hold itself
+upright as it caught the whole platoon in its eyeless gaze.</p>
+<p>Caecelav’s toothless maw hung open for its gurgling, abyssal voice to
+utter, “<em>No. Go. Further.”</em></p>
+<p>The private continued to shriek with fear. He feebly tried to lift
+his torso out of the seat with his arms, his legs fixed in place.
+Caecelav grabbed the bumper and strained, bellowing as it did. It heaved
+and lifted the Jeep up onto two wheels with its long, tendril-like
+fingers.</p>
+<p>Jethro exploded, “Strike! Strike! Strike!” He dashed across the path
+toward the driver's side of the Jeep.</p>
+<p>Hobbs and the other private took the right. They let out a battle cry
+and furiously hacked away at the monstrous purple blubber with shovels,
+axes, wrenches—anything they had. It recoiled but only briefly, and let
+go of the Jeep long enough to swipe at them with its clawed
+tendrils.</p>
+<p>The sergeant grabbed his driver by the bandoleer, straining to yank
+him out of his seat. The man’s leg was trapped, his toes jammed under
+the dash. Caecelav regained its grip on the bumper and tipped the Jeep
+on its side. The private dangled upside down, his head hovering inches
+from the edge of the bridge. He yelped and clambered back into the Jeep,
+grasping and clutching at Jethro.</p>
+<p>“Take it down!” he shouted, pointing one finger at Hobbs while he
+fumbled with the man’s boot.</p>
+<p>By now, the HET had unloaded, and the whole platoon rushed the beast
+with their weapons. They hacked away at the rubbery purple skin of the
+monster, opening gash after gash. It didn’t bleed, although it roared in
+pain.</p>
+<p>It lifted the Jeep even further. Two more troops grabbed onto the
+running board, trying to keep it pinned to the deck of the bridge. The
+whole Jeep skidded and hit the railing. Hobbs leapt up and grabbed hold
+of the beast’s neck, digging in his axe.</p>
+<p>With a sudden buck, the monster shunted the Jeep over the railing.
+Jethro’s hands slipped, his man and the vehicle turning completely over
+as the railing snapped and shattered beneath the weight. The overturned
+Jeep slammed into the riverbed below with a splash and a sickening
+crunch of the doomed private.</p>
+<p>“Man down!” Jethro bellowed as he bolted across the bridge to reach
+the opposite bank.</p>
+<p>Two privates, along with their sergeant, slid down the bank to the
+overturned Jeep. They grabbed hold of the bumper in an effort to lift it
+out of the water.</p>
+<p>Hobbs widened the gash he had started and then renewed his digging,
+slicing deeper still. The monster slashed and swept its arms at the
+troops. Each in turn dodged and jabbed at tendrils, torso, anything that
+looked open. Finally, Caecelav slumped to the deck. It gargled and
+wailed, clutching its neck. Hobbs lost his grip and jumped off,
+scrambling to his feet. He took a step back and admired his handiwork,
+resuming his stance as he did. The wound was enough.</p>
+<p>“Guess you shouldda stayed back in the bath, punk. So much for
+freedom fighting, huh?” he jeered.</p>
+<p>The eyeless purple face twisted up at him, the crooked grin widening.
+“<em>I die free, I stay free. You survive. Not so lucky.”</em> It
+coughed and continued massaging its neck with its tendrils.</p>
+<p>Corporal Hobbs sobered. “The hell do you mean? We’re free now, we’re
+never going back! We find a cure, and we’re gone, that’s the
+mission!”</p>
+<p>Caecelav chuckled, the ragged rubbery flesh of its neck undulating as
+it did. It coughed again and croaked, “<em>Hell? Devil take you back to
+Hell</em>—”</p>
+<p>Jethro’s machete cleanly took the monster’s head off in one sweep.
+The lifeless husk made a wet slap on the bridge planks as it flopped
+over. The corporal eyed his sergeant warily over the body as the purple
+head rolled down the other end of the bridge.</p>
+<p>He was panting and trembling with exertion. After a pause, he took a
+deep breath and sheathed the machete. He straightened up as best he
+could with his joints.</p>
+<p>“Private Anderson is dead. Get down there and pay your respects.”</p>
+<p>Jethro’s men obeyed the command and marched down the bank.</p>
+<hr>
+<p>The service was rushed and messy. The Jeep sank ever lower into the
+muddy bottom of the river. The platoon extracted as much of Anderson as
+they could. Parts of him had been carried downstream already, and what
+was left was badly crushed. The men doffed their helmets long enough to
+say a few words, toss some soil into the makeshift grave, and then
+trudge back up the bank, some slipping or tripping as they did.</p>
+<p>The Jeep was out of commission. The battery and motor were both
+waterlogged. There was no chance of salvaging them quickly, and they
+were losing light, so they abandoned the wreck where it sank.</p>
+<p>Jethro loaded more men onto the HET and packed as many as he could
+into the new command Jeep. They pushed on over and beyond the bridge.
+They had to. <em>Can’t lose any more men to this mission. Not now.</em>
+If they doubled their efforts, they could be there before sunup.</p>
+<p>The headlamps cut through the black night. Snowfall had let up, and
+an eerie hush fell over the wood, aside from the motors’ humming. The
+men were silent. Not that they were chatterboxes on a good day, but now
+they were determinedly silent. They exchanged glances, and once Jethro
+caught one eyeing him from the other vehicle. He forced himself to look
+ahead; there wasn’t time to reprimand. Once they reached their target,
+there would be no need to.</p>
+<p>The shed, their target, at last loomed into view ahead. Its peeling
+beige paint and ruddy shingles gave it away. It was exactly as the
+scouts described back in camp. The sergeant only dreamed of seeing it
+himself one day, and now he hungrily laid eyes on it. The orange glow of
+a new dawn crept up behind it, projecting yellow beams over the
+roofline.</p>
+<p>The men whooped and hollered, some clapped each other’s backs, and
+others banged on the dashboard. Mission accomplished. Only Corporal
+Hobbs was quiet, although his covetous eyes and grin betrayed his
+satisfaction and deep relief at the sight of the shed.</p>
+<p>The vehicles wheeled all the way up to the doors. The shed’s bulk
+projected hundreds of feet above the platoon like some great cathedral
+promising heavenly gifts. Two privates who could still stand hooked the
+HET’s winch onto the first massive door. It yanked open without
+resistance, bearing the interior to the weary, haggard faces of the
+men.</p>
+<p>Jethro stood gallantly, fixing his eyes on the shelves above.
+<em>About damn time.</em> The dim light illuminated labels on boxes,
+cans, and sacks. He scanned them rapidly, the earthy smell of potting
+soil and chemicals tingling his nostrils. Up high in the northwest
+corner, he found it.</p>
+<p>With one hand on his belt, he outstretched the other and pointed
+right at the blue-and-yellow label, ordering, “There, bring it
+down.”</p>
+<p>A few minutes later, the can clanged down onto the dusty floor of the
+shed. It rolled over yard trimmings until it was right up against the
+sarge’s face, and the men brought it to a halt. The clear, bold,
+unmistakable letters shone out in the gloom: WD-40.</p>
+<p>“Alright, gents, take a bath.”</p>
+<p>Jethro torqued on the spray nozzle, and the gargantuan can hissed out
+a mist of oily, sweet-smelling spray. Every man got his turn in the fog,
+rubbing the fluid into his joints. Immediately, they limbered up,
+working their arms and legs until they no longer squeaked, crunched, or
+seized. The men felt younger and stronger by the second, emboldened by
+the promise of new life. The sarge and his corporal took their turn too.
+Jethro felt the years flaking off as he massaged his sockets and
+stretched out.</p>
+<hr>
+<p>When every soldier had his fill, they stepped one by one back out
+into the light. They saluted the sergeant as he stepped out, rigid only
+with pride and uniformity, to bask in their revelry. He returned their
+salutes and at last wheeled around, clicking the heels of his boots as
+he did.</p>
+<p>The much younger-looking veteran regarded his platoon with a high
+chin as he dove into his debrief.</p>
+<p>He boomed with a congratulatory voice, “Gentlemen, our hope is
+restored!”</p>
+<p>The platoon applauded, letting out whistles and shouts.</p>
+<p>“Your dedication to this mission has assured not only your own
+survival, but that of your brothers in arms!”</p>
+<p>More applause followed, and rhythmic stomping as heads turned, some
+of the men elbowing Corporal Hobbs for his lackluster celebration.</p>
+<p>“Now we rest, rejuvenate, and plan our next mission carefully. The
+return voyage will not be easy, but time is on our side again. The
+recovery of the command Jeep–”</p>
+<p>Hobbs stepped out of the line of silent privates, his face mustering
+enough courage to mask its graveness compared to the men beside him as
+he interjected, “Pardon me, sir, but I feel obliged to remind my
+sergeant that our final destination is to escape beyond the wood, per
+our mission briefing at base.”</p>
+<p>Jethro scrutinized his corporal, his painted features scratched into
+a stony scowl.</p>
+<p>“The mission,” he replied icily, “is and always has been to return to
+base.”</p>
+<p>“Then the briefing at base camp was inaccurate, sir,” Hobbs retorted
+with a slight edge to his rising voice.</p>
+<p><em>Out of line, Hobbs.</em></p>
+<p>“Hold your tongue, Corporal. I will court-martial you, make no
+mistake,” he reprimanded before turning to the line of privates.
+“Gentlemen, in case I did not make myself crystal clear, our mission has
+always been to save our platoon. Whether by the contents of this shed or
+other ones beyond in the deep unknown. But under no circumstances are we
+to venture further from the borders of our yard.”</p>
+<p>The platoon began murmuring, some men leaning over to whisper to one
+another. <em>Out of line!</em></p>
+<p>“Did I order you at ease?” Jethro roared. “I most certainly did not,
+and you maggots will stand at attention until I order you to do
+otherwise!”</p>
+<p>Hobbs stepped completely out of the rank and file. “Sir, we can’t go
+back there, not for another winter like this one. Not to be handled like
+a plaything and then discarded by that child! We should push on, find
+our way out of this yard, build a settlement<em>, something!</em> For
+the good of the platoon, we must push on.”</p>
+<p>Sarge gripped the pommel of his machete, “You get back in line! If
+that ‘child’ wants to treat us like ‘play-things,’ then he may do so for
+as long as he damn well pleases. And you will respect him as your
+General so long as he holds command, he has earned that rank!”</p>
+<p>Hobbs ignored Jethro and wheeled around to plead with the other men.
+“We don’t need to do this. You men don’t need to do this. We don’t have
+to take orders from that psychotic kid, praying to God we don’t get
+buried in sand or mud or blasted with fireworks. We were built for more
+than that. Caecelav was right when he left the tub for good! He was
+right when he said we don’t have to go back to that hell, not with this
+dev—”</p>
+<p>The words stopped short, and the new silence was punctuated by a
+thump as Hobbs’ head rolled back off the plastic stem of his neck. His
+tin joints buckled as he collapsed into a heap in the snow. Jethro’s
+machete hovered over the corpse midair, his hand shaking and his face
+uncontrollably wild.</p>
+<p>“There’ll be no mutineers here,” he sheathed the sword and clicked
+his heels together. “Atten-<em>tion!“</em></p>
+<p>The troops snapped their legs together and saluted. “I want wheels up
+in five. Dismissed.”</p>
+<hr>
+<p>The wheels of the command Jeep carved out a path through the snow,
+the piney edge of the wood shrinking behind. The sun was shining bright
+high above, the good weather aiding their progress. The hum of the
+electric motors was the only noise in earshot. Beside the Jeep, the HET
+lumbered along, towing the crumpled remains of the waterlogged Jeep.
+<em>Brass’ll want it back. We’ll fix what we can at base camp.</em></p>
+<p>It didn’t matter; duty pushed the sergeant on. The Jeep and the HET
+were just accessories. Jethro was the real deal, limited edition. Now
+that they functioned again, it was only a matter of time. The boy would
+finally play with him again. He just needed to loosen up a bit. Now he
+was as good as new, just like the other new toys. He and his troops
+would be fun to play with again. The privates would understand once they
+got back to base. After all, that was the mission.</p>
diff --git a/posts/2026-01-25-tower-on-the-moor.php b/posts/2026-01-25-tower-on-the-moor.php
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+<h1 id="tower-on-the-moor">Tower on the Moor</h1>
+<div class="description">
+
+<p>
+<a href="https://nat1publishing.com/wcwc/">Nat1's Winter Court</a> is a prompt-driven writing challenge! The goal is to write a short story with specific parameters once a week throughout January. This is my third submission for the fourth week. Get your copy of <em>Winter Court: Year One, 2026</em> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0GRGCJXL8?ie=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.P6OQNY7CnMVR1NvzlNriw55uoLAqWRgKV7YvnNSTlblycrsGvTmM1qr-W4MubFtYqZrLQlTiNcPsR3lrwwYhgQKvldz63JOVkJ3POEFphu3Kz8-FqWYsru2H2Q09Zt_980GMbqJ8caQYwac5YZw54nxAGdHSoxK6feTaJfu2WXfa6dM_Wen2eAwcXlbCY66hEGs8YChjKd9ARRXos6xPTgVM5piP1XNkQ2sn0gNJXm0.pK7Qt86-fJhop6akBeOXQ27ioBaO9IRTLun4nzj22BE&qid=1772932438&sr=8-1">here.</a>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<em>Prompt</em>
+<br>
+
+The cat in the library is essential for everybody’s safety.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<em>Required components</em>
+
+<ul>
+<li>A spiral staircase</li>
+<li>A pair of homonyms used in the same sentence</li>
+<li>Petrichor</li>
+</ul>
+</p>
+
+</div>
+<p>In far off place and distant time</p>
+<p>Did warming rays of gold light shine</p>
+<p>On earth and leaf of grassy moor</p>
+<p>Where old rain called up petrichor</p>
+<p>’Tween river and deep sea’s embrace</p>
+<p>Great arching tower of wood face</p>
+<p>And torches bright with orange flame</p>
+<p>A library’s figure proclaimed</p>
+<p>Where weary minds and feet found rest</p>
+<p>And hungry readers’ eyes were blessed</p>
+<p>With stacks of shelves and quiet nooks</p>
+<p>That teemed with mountains of old books</p>
+<p>For these they quested far from home</p>
+<p>Some to consult a magic tome</p>
+<p>Or maybe ancient tales of dead</p>
+<p>Perhaps the secret to good bread</p>
+<p>Among the rafter’s bird’s eye view</p>
+<p>One could perched see the tall corkscrew</p>
+<p>And watch the bustling visitors</p>
+<p>Close, open and pass through oak doors</p>
+<p>To access volumes leather bound</p>
+<p>Did that great staircase spiral round</p>
+<p>It twisted up and down again</p>
+<p>To airy spire and deep dark den</p>
+<p>One not secured by lock or key</p>
+<p>For every title there was free</p>
+<p>All written truths were on display</p>
+<p>To be enjoyed through night and day</p>
+<p>Old myth and fact on heaven’s grace</p>
+<p>Deep secrets hid in that grand place</p>
+<p>‘Mong reams of childrens’ painted scribbles</p>
+<p>All these belonged to old wise Nibbles</p>
+<p>This Nibbles, guests would speculate</p>
+<p>Kept to himself to concentrate</p>
+<p>They did not know or failed to see</p>
+<p>The true form of this addressee</p>
+<p>Since teacher, bookworm, study too</p>
+<p>Could truly not be sure just who</p>
+<p>He was he came and went as pleased</p>
+<p>To rub his chin upon their knees</p>
+<p>Mentees ignored his trotting round</p>
+<p>The tower’s dorms and maintained grounds</p>
+<p>His spritely hunting of white rabbits</p>
+<p>And lengthy, lazy sleeping habits</p>
+<p>In fact they paid no mind at all</p>
+<p>To that cat’s slumber in the hall</p>
+<p>Yes, whiskers white and coat of gray</p>
+<p>Adorned the master of their stay</p>
+<p>Curled up in lap he sometimes read</p>
+<p>Whilst getting pet upon his head</p>
+<p>Rare times at their fingers he nipped</p>
+<p>One man’s notes were freshly ripped</p>
+<p>But for their respite so secure</p>
+<p>In his great tower on the moor</p>
+<p>Did Nibbles have but one lone rule</p>
+<p>Books mustn’t cross the vestibule</p>
+<p>These writings he would share with all</p>
+<p>Should never leave his reading hall</p>
+<p>To take a book twas leant not sold</p>
+<p>Was certainly a crime of old</p>
+<p>In the dark nightfall wreathed in black</p>
+<p>Dared bands of bandits to attack</p>
+<p>With quiet, skulking thieves to take</p>
+<p>His tomes but not for learning’s sake</p>
+<p>Whilst raiders leered and lurked about</p>
+<p>The cat’s sharp claws did protrude out</p>
+<p>Those not asleep up high in dorm</p>
+<p>Saw Nibbles in his lion form</p>
+<p>Great razors grew from small cat claws</p>
+<p>To befit shaggy mane and paws</p>
+<p>So massive, gray, and outraged he</p>
+<p>Defended his vast library</p>
+<p>He crept and stalked the thieves of night</p>
+<p>Who wished that they had died of fright</p>
+<p>Instead he rent them flesh from bone</p>
+<p>And purged their bodies from his home</p>
+<p>When twilight waned and dawn arose</p>
+<p>Would Nibbles yawn and twitch his nose</p>
+<p>Exhausted from his dim campaign</p>
+<p>And he became tomcat again</p>
+<p>So beast of claw and sharpened tooth</p>
+<p>Curled up again on window booth</p>
+<p>No reader ever was the wiser</p>
+<p>They just presumed him a late riser</p>
+<p>And thus the tomcat of the halls</p>
+<p>Did keep his books to share with all</p>
+<p>For questers coming to and fro</p>
+<p>To seek the orange torchlight glow</p>
+<p>Not once would they raise the alarm</p>
+<p>While on his watch they saw no harm</p>
+<p>Don’t try to ask to them; they won’t say</p>
+<p>They minded not the cat of gray</p>
+<p>Birds and rats and rabbits too</p>
+<p>Know Nibbles more than humans do</p>
+<p>And keep his secret without doubt</p>
+<p>They do not dare to rat him out</p>
+<p>Should journey you in place and time</p>
+<p>Heed this bird’s warning of short rhyme</p>
+<p>Ye burglars had just best beware</p>
+<p>The fat old cat with the gray hair</p>
+<p>Who slinks among his books and purrs</p>
+<p>But after dark he grows and stirs</p>
+<p>There’s no place for wayward crooks</p>
+<p>Among the stacks of Nibbles’ books</p>