In progress

2017’s NaNoWriMo endeavor. The third installment of my modern fairies trying to live in the Pacific Northwest alongside Big Folke.

When the quirky tourist town of Pie, home of a popular cartoon creator, gets invaded by ultra-conservatives, the beloved Oregon town stops being so beloved and instead becomes a showdown between isolation and diversity. Pie fights turn into fist-fights, petty crimes increase and become ore violent, sasquatch tours become mobs turning on each other and suddenly the economy beceomes desparate as tourists go from being welcomed to becoming people under suspecion.

More than gravity waves got skewed here!

Excerpt:

Jacob climbed the wooden spiral and poked his head up. Dark brown wooden figurines were scattered across the large model of “Gravity Falls”, mirroring his own Pie in a very loony-tune manner.

To one end was his decrepit-appearing Mystery Shack. But all long the length of the scaled-down town, all the figures were sleeping. “Hey, What’s up, Dudes?” he greeted. Nada. “Ahem – who’s up for going on a monster hunt?”  Still no movement. He walked over and prodded the Douglas Fir-wrought inventor. “Tootlebottom? You in there?” Tootlebottoms leg, made a slight jerk, like a dog having a dream but then he laid silent again.

Jacob stood back and thought hard – he suspected the gnomes of some tomfoolery, but there was something he was missing …

The sap in the bowls? Of course – the brownie’s had gotten the upper hand by brewing up a sleeping potion for his workers – still upset with him for evicting them from a bucket he had needed. Jacob sighed, this will require some high-level diplomacy.

Pulling a small jug out of his reserve backpack, he popped the cork and inhaled. The sickly sweet fumes of blackberry mead filled his sinus and made him feel slightly tipsy.  He wanted this mead for himself – it was an awesome treat for when his producer visited – but this episode was now late and he needed to get into production schedule again. And then he tucked a skein of silk into a pocket of his gray signature vest.

He mused that he must look quite a sight as he crossed his yard from decrepit porch to decrepit mini-saw mill – much like a gangly twenty-something casually walking around with ill-gotten gains, his scruffy brown hair falling over his forehead. The over-sized eyes, the tiny nose – One could easily mistake him as a grown-old Dipper – and be correct.

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