Tag Archives: cryptids

Chiroptera Post

After a particularly harrowing day of flivvervaat birthing, the entire house settled into a deep slumber last  night. There were reports of hail and flash lightening in the area, but no one – not even the littlest dragon – woke in agitation. I rose early to check the garden for hail stones and at the foot of my bed was a bat.

Normally, if you find a bat inside during daylight hours, that creature is ill. An ill bat is a cranky bat, and should you find yourself in this situation, I recommend calling for assistance. However, this bat was not ill. It had a letter for me from my brother.

Leave it to Mordecai to send me a missive via Chiroptera and not the United States Postal Service. I take comfort in the fact that he has apparently given up on heat-seeking-missile-mail. My 10th birthday is infamous in my family for that reason.

But I digress. Here is the letter in its entirety. Undoubtedly, you will find it as interesting as I did.

The bat is sleeping in the attic. I am sending it back from whence it came. With some ginger cake for Mordecai. It’s his favorite, and no matter what, I am a thoughtful sibling.


July 23


I write to you from the dusty, deserted parking lot of La Maisonne, a gentlemen’s club in this lamentable border town. My two guides are spending my generous gratuities within, on libations first and then more carnal entertainments, no doubt. I will join them shortly, after composing this letter to you, beloved brother. Ha! I shiver at the thought of the “talent” I will discover. This town is half-dead. The only youngish human residents left behind are damaged in some way. But then, as you know modest Brother, I do enjoy damaged playthings…

The penetration into the wilderness sector was uneventful. A bumpy jeep ride through a sylvan tunnel brought us to the base of the massif where we made camp. We chose the shortest but most difficult ascent route since my guides have no desire to loiter in the sector, and I have no desire to linger in their company. Guides are an unfortunate necessary. The sector this far north is unfamiliar to me, and disorienting. The forests are vast and dense, and they teem with unknown things, some dangerous. I left Charles behind in my room in the town, 30 miles or so from the mountain. It is best to remain as anonymous as possible with these people, not that they display any interest in who I am or what my purpose may be. I pay, and that is what matters. Still, Charles can be an identifiable conversation piece and I prefer to limit those. It was perhaps an unnecessary precaution as the guides hardly regarded or spoke to me at all. One prattled on in a disgusting monologue about past exploits in La Maisonne while the other grunted occasionally and more frequently drank from a flask.

We began the ascent at daybreak. I climbed a good distance behind my companions. No need for curious eyes to spy what items I removed. We ascended almost completely vertically, shortly finding ourselves immersed in a wet cloud. Every sensation is more enhanced here and this cloud was no different—very wet, very cold, very blue. I inhaled the cloud mist and it had an indescribable taste.  I wonder what changes my body will endure from breathing this cloud. I feel simultaneously more full of vigor and more enervated.

Although most of my targets were to be found above the treeline, I knew I may find some items of interest hidden in the rocks of the scree. I did find some things; I snatched them. Some went into my hiking turban and others into my pack. When I reached the peak, my guides were crouched in a crevice, protected from the wind, chewing on jerky. They regarded me with exhausted, vacant animal-eyes. If they knew what valuable things could be found among these rocks they just might afford to leave the border town, but then again, maybe they wouldn’t want to. Under the pretense of waiting for the sun to burn off the cloud cover, I wandered about the jagged peak. I now have many things to show you, Brother. But first, the treasures of La Maisonne call.



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Flivvervaat Breeding Was a Bad Idea

When the severely pregnant flivvervaat appeared in the garden, I was overjoyed. They are such secretive and private creatures that I took it as a species-wide acceptance.

When the creature headed into the kitchen on my heels the other evening, after an especially moving lute performance by Eggburn (apparently this dragon is more than your run-of-the-mill jazz flutist), I silently clapped my hands, anxious to bear witness to the birthing process and ecstatic that this flivvervaat felt comfortable enough with me to enter my house whilst pregnant.

I should have listened to that little voice that tells me I’m not thinking things through. That little voice being, of course, Bubo, who was tutting and shaking her head so vigorously on my shoulder that a feather got lodged in my ear.

The flivvervaat soon made the lower left cabinet the birthing area. Luckily the only thing I keep in there is rice and a few fire extinguishers, so the loss of the cabinet was no big loss.

This morning I could hear the heavy breathing and dissonant whistling sounds that signal the beginnings of birth. I ambled to the kitchen, soft towels in hand, prepared to boil water or whatever is needed for a new litter of flivvervaats to safely and healthfully enter the world.

Those little beasts have teeth like needles! There are currently fifteen of the bloody things making quick work of my favorite wicker rocker and I’ve blockaded them in a corner of the breakfast nook with piles of Gordon Lightfoot vinyl records. Apparently the creatures have no taste for either records or folk music. (Oh, do not judge, pets. First off, you must admit to knowing most of the words to “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” and secondly, Mordecai sent me a case of them at some point.)

In any case, the flivvervaat is still birthing and according to Dr. Thompkins I can expect about twenty more of the buggers. Once their third eyes open you can bet I’ll be putting them up for adoption. Unless their father takes them back to the park. Which works for me as well. So much of this place is wood and I worry what will happen if they have a run-in with Barkley. One sentient vegetative creatures versus an army of flivvervaat young means I am witnessing the destruction of one sentient vegetative creature.

Did I mention that flivvervaat fathers give birth to the young? Much like the male seahorse carries the incubating eggs of that species, the male filvvervaat carries the young in a hairy satchel that expands beneath his tail. The female flivvervaat, it seems, gets incredibly anxious around the young and will kill them.

I can’t say I blame her.

Oh, goodness. Here comes another batch. I think I have some Pete Seeger and Carly Simon records in the basement.

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The Boonicorn

I lost one fang in a fight with a spider, and now I lisp

I sing in the shower

I don’t like green peas

I think Bubo is secretly relieved that The Boonicorn has been purchased away from the Laboratory; her midnight spider-hunting will be undisturbed by this small pink predator. Plus, and this I know from experience, Bubo loathes shower warbling. Unless it’s her own.

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I believe in reincarnation

I nap often

I love Abbot & Costello routines

If nothing else, Fowler was the perfect house guest. As long as you enjoy Abbot & Costello and long discussions about Karma, that is.

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