{"id":441,"date":"2026-01-03T20:39:35","date_gmt":"2026-01-03T20:39:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/piers-anthony-xanth-41-ghost-writer-in-the-sky-anthony-piers\/"},"modified":"2026-01-03T20:39:35","modified_gmt":"2026-01-03T20:39:35","slug":"piers-anthony-xanth-41-ghost-writer-in-the-sky-anthony-piers","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/piers-anthony-xanth-41-ghost-writer-in-the-sky-anthony-piers\/","title":{"rendered":"Piers, Anthony – Xanth 41 – Ghost Writer in the Sky – Anthony, Piers"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Book Preview<\/h3>\n
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Chapter 1<\/p>\n

Night Colt<\/p>\n

Goar was in a foul mood. He hated his job as Night Watchman and Cleanup Man at the local Fracking Complaints Office, partly because teens liked to throw anonymous stink bombs, but mostly because it was a urine-poor chore in itself. When a bomb got through, not only did Goar have to clean it up, using caustic floor wash that burned his eyes, he got the blame for the remaining smell that could not be completely extinguished. But what could he do? It was the only night job available in town, and he was a dedicated night owl. It gave him time to be by himself and dream his dream of becoming a famous writer. If only he had time for that. <\/p>\n

He had tried small pieces and submitted them to publishers. He had real hopes for \u201cThe Head,\u201d about a headache as a life form that kept seeking new heads to honor for a while, but whose aspirations were in the lavatory. Pretty much like his literary career, actually. Then there was \u201cCamelflage,\u201d wherein a camel was really good at hiding, confounding its mean master. What genius ideas! But the rejections arrived almost before the pieces went out. So he tried posting some free on story comment sites, to garner reader comments. One was \u201cDemon Sun,\u201d phrased as an adventure of solar exploration, whose protagonist kept finding himself mysteriously changing sizes. The key was in the pun: Demon Sun = Dimension. What a phenomenal surprise ending! Yet online reviews had suggested that he should try tasks more appropriate to his intellectual capacity, like ditch digging or castrating chickens. So that was no good; story sites were evidently ruled by jealous idiots. What he needed was to get into a novel, where his full range of talent could be exploited. But that would require more focus than he could muster at the moment.<\/p>\n

This night there had been two stink bombs and a firecracker that landed in his pail and blasted soapy water all over his legs. What a mess! And of course he hadn\u2019t caught the guilty teens, who zoomed by in silent cars, tossing their missiles out the windows as they sped by. Sure there was a curfew, but they ignored it with impunity. The police had better things to do than chase after boys who would be boys.<\/p>\n

Goar\u2019s name meant \u201cfighter,\u201d but the only fighting he did was in his imagination. One day he would write the Great American Fantasy Novel with plenty of magic combat, adventure galore, and breathtakingly lovely damsels. If he ever got time to write. As it was he worked by night and slept by day, with the interstice time spent on the dull details of mundane existence. It felt like a treadmill going nowhere.<\/p>\n

His romantic life was no better. His last attempted date had quoted from a popular song: \u201cCatch yourself a trolly car that goes into the sea.\u201d He wasn\u2019t sure what she meant by that, but it sounded negative.<\/p>\n

There was a letter in his box with a lawyerly return address. Was somebody suing him? That might at least make life more interesting. Goar opened and heated a can of mushroom soup for breakfast, not bothering with a bowl or spoon\u2014why generate more dishes to wash, when he lacked a woman to wash them?\u2014and settled down to read the letter as he sipped.<\/p>\n

Then his jaw dropped almost into his soup. It was a notice relating to the estate of Great Uncle Hoarfrost, who it seemed had recently died. Goar had known him only vaguely, and the crusty old man had never liked him. But it seemed Hoarfrost had mentioned Goar in his will, with this terse message: \u201cNow you will suffer as you deserve, you poor excuse for a cow-flop. Make the most of it.\u201d Par for that course. So had the ornery character willed him a white elephant?<\/p>\n

Then it described the inheritance: a generous amount in the form of interest from untouchable principal that would pay Goar enough each month to live on, indefinitely. As long as he focused on writing, producing at least a token amount each month, which he would have to send in to a listed Cloud office. When he missed a month, the allowance would be cut off for that month, and if he stopped entirely the account would be terminated. That was what was astounding. Uncle Hoarfrost was in effect paying him to be a writer.<\/p>\n

The old man thought that was punishment? \u201cPlease don\u2019t throw me in that briar patch, Unc!\u201d Goar murmured, smiling.<\/p>\n

He called the lawyer\u2019s office, just to be sure this wasn\u2019t a practical joke. He didn\u2019t get the lawyer, of course, but the secretary had anticipated him. \u201cYour uncle says in a codicil, no, it\u2019s not a joke. I quote: \u2018Look at page two, dumbbell.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

Goar flipped the page. There was a check for the first month. It looked authentic. The behest was real.<\/p>\n

Well, now. He would certainly take advantage of this amazing opportunity to become a successful and maybe famous writer. But first things first. He typed an email to his employer: \u201cTake this job, liquify it, and shove it up your leaky tubes. Find someone else to mop up your fecal matter. In sum, frack it! I quit.\u201d<\/p>\n

Then he turned in for the day. Better to sleep on it before he tackled the writing itself. Just in case this was actually a glorious dream.<\/p>\n

He slept well, waking in the afternoon for a lunch of canned spaghetti with chocolate crackers. They were running low; he would have to get out and shop for more. The message and check remained. The deal was real.<\/p>\n

Instead of heading off to work, he sat at his computer, ready to start typing his masterpiece. And discovered that his mind was blank. It was as if a stink bomb had scored on his imagination, making it reek. He had no idea of a title, let alone a story line. It seemed he had dreamed of having written a wonderful novel without actually working out its details. Such as a plot. Such as characters. Such as a unifying theme.<\/p>\n

Oh, well. He tried. The Great American Fantasy Novel<\/span>, he typed neatly in italics. Once upon a time there was a poor excuse for a cowflop\u2014oops, writer\u2014whose fabled ability as a storyteller was all in his weak imagination.<\/span><\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t even need to reread that before deleting it. For one thing, the main text shouldn\u2019t be in italics. He tried again.<\/p>\n

Once upon a time there was a handsome prince who<\/span>\u2014Who did what? Well, maybe it would work better with a pretty girl.<\/p>\n

Once upon a time there was a lovely princess who<\/span>\u2014what, lay down in her own loveliness? And why was he still in italics?<\/p>\n

A wee small voice in the murky back of his mind tried to hint that maybe uncle Hoarfrost had known what he was doing. Forcing Goar to put up or shut up, and so far he was shutting up. He was indeed starting to suffer.<\/p>\n

Maybe princes or princesses weren\u2019t sufficiently magical. Try something that was all magic, like a genie. Once upon a time there was a family of seven genies. G Ermaine was the Genie of Relevance. G Olf was the patron of little white balls. G Nius was the most intelligent. G Ode did his magic with crystals. G Mini was a small pair of twins.<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, wait\u2014that would add a genie, making the total eight. All right, so make it eight genies. Or was the plural still genie? He would look it up in due course.<\/p>\n

G Em Stone was rare and precious, but her brother G Eneric was rather common. So one fine day the seven or eight genie(s) went out to have a great adventure.<\/span><\/p>\n

The text stalled. What adventure? He was back to square one. Just when he was going so well. Sigh. Delete.<\/p>\n

Well, maybe a different protagonist. Once upon a time there was a walking skeleton with fat bones. Worse, he suffered from osteoporosis. All of the other skeletons used to laugh and call him names. They never let poor\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

Delete.<\/p>\n

Maybe something less ambitious, to start?<\/p>\n

Once there was some pocket change that was constantly changing pockets. All it wanted was to rest in the same pocket for a while. But then it wouldn\u2019t be change.<\/span><\/p>\n

Delete.<\/p>\n

He struggled all night, determined not to give up, but just got more frustrated. He generated unprinted reams of deleted efforts that hardly deserved the name of prose. He seemed to have a huge mental block that prevented him from writing. In fact, it was Writer\u2019s Block. He had thought that was humor, but it was turning out to be deadly serious.<\/p>\n

As dawn approached, he fell into a daze, as this was normally the time he came home and got ready for sleep. Then something weird occurred.<\/p>\n

There was the sound of horse\u2019s hooves echoing on his roof, which was odd because he lived in a basement apartment; the roof was ten floors up. Then a black horse came through the wall as if it were made of smoke. The horse halted right in front of Goar as he sat facing the computer, but now the computer wasn\u2019t there, just the horse.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe must talk,\u201d the horse said.<\/p>\n

Goar focused on what he could manage at the moment. \u201cYour lips didn\u2019t move. How can you talk?\u201d Let alone the fact that few if any horses talked at all; if you asked them to they said \u201cNeigh!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTelepathy,\u201d the horse said. \u201cMy projected thoughts are entering your mind, and your mind is translating them to your familiar words. Similarly, your thoughts are reaching me, your words being superficial.\u201d<\/p>\n

Oh. Nice to have an explanation. He was obviously imagining this. Give his imagination some credit for making a modicum of sense. \u201cUm, I never heard of a talking horse, outside of old TV humor programs, and anyway, you don\u2019t look like Mister Ed. So what\u2019s happening here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI am the Night Colt. I have a deal to propose that may significantly benefit us both, if you are interested.\u201d<\/p>\n

Goar had been schooled never to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he had never been much for schooling. \u201cWhy should I make any deal with an imaginary horse? It will dissipate the moment I wake up. I may be a fool, but there are limits.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI see you desire more background, but I don\u2019t want to bore you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Was that a warning? \u201cBore me,\u201d Goar said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI come from the fabled Land of Xanth. Are you familiar with it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cZanth? No.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a magic realm resembling the state of Florida with added dragons, tangle trees, nickelpedes\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhoa, there, horsie! I know what dragons are, but then you veered to left field. Can you flash me pictures, maybe?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d The Colt flashed him pictures of carnivorous trees with green tentacles instead of leaves that grabbed unwary passers-by and hauled them in for meals. Also of bugs like giant centipedes with pincers that gouged out nickle-sized chunks of flesh. \u201cMany Mundanes are eager to visit Xanth.\u201d<\/p>\n

Goar was taken aback. \u201cWhy should anyone ever want to go there?\u201d<\/p>\n

The Colt flashed another picture, this time of attractive nude nymphs running around, screaming cutely, kicking their lovely legs high, and swinging their long hair around fetchingly. \u201cThey love to celebrate with men in the natural way.\u201d<\/p>\n

Goar licked his lips. It had been some time since he had had a girlfriend, even one wanting to put him on a trolley to the sea, and she hadn\u2019t looked remotely like that. Nor had she been eager to \u201ccelebrate.\u201d In fact it was just after he had made his interest known that she made her remark. Possibly that was not coincidence. \u201cPoint made. Go on.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cXanth is a kingdom where every citizen has a magic talent, ranging from the simple ability to make a spot on a wall, up to making motions slow or even freeze, or even Magician caliber transforming to other shapes. It is also largely made of puns.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, crap. Right when it was getting interesting.\u201d He had just spent the night trying to wrestle puns into a writable story, and was sick of them.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou might like some of the puns. Shoes grow on shoe trees. Panties grow in pantrees. Zombies live in Zombie Houses. Step on an Infant Tile and turn into an infant. Shin digs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat digs?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMusic that lures you in, only to feel a kick in the shin. A little like Boot Rear.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRoot Beer?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a pun. You get a kick out of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI see. Continue.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen there\u2019s the husky tail that lends people different talents, the Tail Lent. Lots of people would like to grow one of those. And some folk dwell in cheese cottages.\u201d<\/p>\n

Goar grimaced. \u201cCottage cheese?\u201d But he was becoming intrigued. Maybe this land would be worth visiting, if only for its weirdness. \u201cHow could I get there for a look-see?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t. Not physically. Only in your imagination.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDouble crap!\u201d Goar swore. \u201cIf I had imagination, I\u2019d be writing my novel.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I sensed your frustration. That\u2019s what summoned me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, you call yourself the Night Colt. Exactly what does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAs I said, I don\u2019t want to\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBore me,\u201d Goar commanded.<\/p>\n

\u201cIn Mundania, which is the dreary realm you occupy, folk mostly generate their own bad dreams. But in Xanth these dreams are crafted under the direction of the Night Stallion, and delivered to worthy dreamers by the Night Mares. It\u2019s quite an industry, as they devise the screenplays and get them acted out by licensed actors, then deliver them to each sleeper. Similarly the Day Mares deliver daydreams to waking clients. Those are generally pleasant, such as finding patches of jelly bean plants, each bean a different flavor, like grape, strawberry, cherry, or other jelly, and completely non-fattening. The Night Stallion has a comprehensive catalog of sleepers who deserve punishment, so as to know exactly when and to whom to make every delivery. Timing is vital. It\u2019s an essential job.\u201d The Colt paused. \u201cOne I would very much like to assume, one day.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOho! You crave advancement.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cExactly. I\u2019d love to rule the herd, and have access to all those mares, apart from the importance of the position. But the Night Stallion is jealous of any possible competition, and ruthlessly eliminates any males that make the scene. I dare not go abroad by night lest he catch me and destroy me. But neither can I go abroad openly by day, where the day horses are; I\u2019m a night horse. I have to remain completely silent and invisible, on pain of extinction.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you\u2019re up the creek without much of a paddle, let alone canoe.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cExactly,\u201d the Colt agreed again. \u201cI need to survive until my time comes, but I am severely constrained. I can risk it only between shifts, when neither the days nor the nights are out. That\u2019s half an hour before dawn and half an hour after sunset.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you do in those limited times?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo far, nothing. But I could deliver bad dreams, if I had them. I can\u2019t craft them, because I\u2019m a deliverer, not a creator. I need a private source.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI think I\u2019m beginning to get a glimmer. You want me to craft you some dreams to carry, so you can torment sleepers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAlmost,\u201d the Colt agreed. \u201cI can\u2019t deliver bad dreams, because that\u2019s the province of the mares. Also, if I go abroad before dawn, many of my subjects would wake before the dreams really take hold, wasting my effort.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you\u2019re screwed,\u201d Goar said.<\/p>\n

\u201cGelded,\u201d the Colt agreed. \u201cBut there may be a loophole. Suppose I deliver a dream of any type just before the client wakes\u2014to take effect in the waking state? Not a daydream, but a happening? It would give me valuable practice without technically violating either the night or day realms.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe so,\u201d Goar agreed thoughtfully. \u201cBut tell me this: why should I bust my behind crafting dreams for you to take the credit for? What\u2019s in it for me?\u201d<\/p>\n

The Colt hesitated. \u201cMay I speak candidly?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSpeak,\u201d Goar said. \u201cI really want to know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are a failed writer. You have never written anything worthwhile, and now have walked smack into a Block so you can\u2019t write even bad stories.\u201d<\/p>\n

That was more candor than Goar had sought, but he had to concede its accuracy. \u201cSo I\u2019m a dismal flop as a writer, just as my scheming uncle said. How can I prove him wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBy doing what you can<\/span> do, which is devising apt titles and opening situations, then letting them play out with real people in Xanth. Let them work out the continuations for you, because they will have no choice. You can put them into situations that they must find their ways clear of.\u201d<\/p>\n

Goar considered. \u201cIt might be like seeing my stories made into movies, and I could watch what happens and make notes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cExactly,\u201d the Colt said once more. \u201cThen you could write the full stories, having seen their continuations, and be on your way to success and fame.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf I can\u2019t go to Xanth myself, how will I know what happens there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t go there, but I can. I can\u2019t show myself by day, as I explained, but I can be there, and watch what happens, then tell you in the dusk session.\u201d<\/p>\n

The notion had its appeal. \u201cBut suppose\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOops, my time is up,\u201d the Colt said. \u201cI shall return at dusk.\u201d He faded out.<\/p>\n

And Goar woke up. Had it all been a dream? More correctly, had it been real? The Night Colt visiting him in the dream state, but with a real deal? This seemed likely, because otherwise it evinced more imagination than Goar had managed all night, literally.<\/p>\n

Well, he had about twelve hours to prepare for the next stage, assuming it was real. He needed to devise some story titles and settings for the Colt to deliver.<\/p>\n

What titles? What stories? His Block remained in force.<\/p>\n

Maybe he could get an idea by checking some real stories. He checked his bookshelf and picked up the first book he saw. Relentless Fairy Tales<\/span>. Well, maybe it would do. He started reading\u2014and promptly fell asleep. Because daylight was his normal sleeping time.<\/p>\n

He woke in the afternoon, hungry and with a pressing bladder. And with his mind full of punnish takes on the fairly tales. Such as \u201cThe Princess and the Pee.\u201d Well, why not? It wasn\u2019t as if he would have to work out the main story himself.<\/p>\n

At dusk he fell into another daze, and the Colt did come. \u201cBad news,\u201d the horse said. \u201cI remembered a crucial limitation: only the mares can actually carry the dreams. I don\u2019t qualify.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ouch! But Goar, in his sudden desperation, actually came up with an imaginative answer. \u201cBut surely I can carry them, since I\u2019m inventing them. So I can ride you, in my dreams, and you can take me to Xanth and to the places we need to be, where I can sow my stories. You will still be instrumental in delivering them.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Colt considered. \u201cThere was a time when a girl managed to ride a night mare. I suppose a man could ride a night colt. But only in your dreams; I have no physical substance here in Mundania, and not much in Xanth.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen let\u2019s do it,\u201d Goar said. \u201cI\u2019m asleep now. Let\u2019s do a test ride.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you know how to ride a horse?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. I suppose I can hang on to the saddle horn.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t wear a saddle.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI have to ride you bareback? That\u2019s beyond credence.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat complicates it,\u201d the Colt agreed. \u201cI will be leaping into the sky. What happens if you fall off?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI guess I\u2019d wake from the dream as I hit the floor. But since this is<\/span> a dream, let\u2019s amend it: I will imagine that my legs stick firmly to your hide, so I can\u2019t fall.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAt least, not without pulling my hide off. Why not simply imagine you\u2019re an expert rider?\u201d<\/p>\n

Goar\u2019s jaw dropped. \u201cWhy not, indeed! Okay, I\u2019ll be a fine experienced rider.\u201d He promptly jumped onto the Colt\u2019s back.<\/p>\n

The Colt leaped up through the ceiling. They passed through all ten floors and out the roof, leaving some folk staring. This was a realistic dream!<\/p>\n

Then they entered the Fantasy Land of Xanth and galloped through the sunset. The sky was turning red. The Colt jumped from cloud to cloud, gaining elevation.<\/p>\n

\u201cYahooo!\u201d Goar cried, waving his imaginary cowboy hat as they soared. \u201cYippee ti-yi, or whatever.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s get down to business,\u201d the Colt said a bit sourly. \u201cSpread some dreams.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay. How about \u2018Goldilocks and the Three Beers?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow does that go?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGoldilocks is a little girl. She wanders into this bears\u2019 house while they are out taking a walk. She finds three beers on the table, and sips from each. One is super spicy so she can\u2019t drink it. The next is so bland she spits out the sip. The third is just right, so she drinks it down and gets instantly drunk. That makes her sleepy, so she tries the three beds. The first is hard like a board. The second is so soft she\u2019s afraid she\u2019ll sink to the bottom of the earth. The third is just right, so she lies down and falls asleep. She\u2019s still there when the three bears return. \u2018Someone sipped my beer!\u2019 the papa bear exclaims. \u2018Someone sipped mine too, and spat it out,\u2019 says momma bear. \u2018Someone sipped my beer, and gulped it all down,\u2019 says Baby bear. Then\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cWe have a problem,\u201d Colt said. \u201cWe don\u2019t have any bear family like that in Xanth, and bears here don\u2019t drink beer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, find any three bears, and we\u2019ll make them fit the story.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Colt swooped down low over the green jungle, and soon did find three bears who were snoozing near a honey pot. \u201cThe story of Goldilocks and the Three Beers!\u201d Goar called. The words drifted down and sank into the bears.<\/p>\n

Nothing happened. Was something wrong?<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe the timing is incorrect,\u201d the Colt said. \u201cThis is the evening, when they\u2019re sleeping. We need to catch them just before they wake. Because this isn\u2019t a real dream, for them; it\u2019s supposed to be a story for them to act out awake.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll try it again in the morning,\u201d Goar agreed, nevertheless disappointed.<\/p>\n

They returned to Goar\u2019s apartment in Mundania. At least they had had a trial run, proving their ability to fly through the sky of Xanth. Great things might be in the offing.<\/p>\n

\u201cI will return in the morning,\u201d the Colt said. \u201cMaybe you should have a different story ready.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI will,\u201d Goar promised as the Colt leaped back through the ceiling and disappeared.<\/p>\n

He spent the night, his normal waking time, refurbishing the stories suggested by the fairy tales. He decided to try \u2018The Three Little Prigs\u2019 next.<\/p>\n

In the morning Goar was ready. \u201cI have a different story,\u201d he said as he mounted the Colt. \u201cIt\u2019s about three little prigs. Three teenage girls, each of which is fussier about minor deals than the others. Then comes the Wolf, who wants them for a nefarious purpose. But he\u2019s big and messy and has carrion breath, so they\u2019re not interested. When he comes after the first girl, she slams the door of her straw house in his face. But he huffs and he puffs and he blows her house down and catches her. Then he goes after the second prig, and she hides herself in her wood house, but he huffs and puffs and blows it down too, and gets her also. Then he goes after the third prig, but she barricades herself in her brick house, and he can\u2019t get her. So she lives and dies an old maid.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not much of a story,\u201d the Colt said as they flew across the landscape of Xanth.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, it\u2019s what I got.\u201d Goar didn\u2019t want to admit that it was rather freely adapted from a fairy tale, his own imagination having failed him. \u201cFind me three prigs near a wolf.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Colt swooped down over a village. They could see into the houses as if they were roofless. Some villagers were out and about, but though they glanced at the sky, they obviously didn\u2019t see anything unusual. Goar and the Colt were invisible. Which was fine. It allowed them to do their business without fear of interference.<\/p>\n

And lo, there were three houses near the edge where teen girls slept. \u201cThe Tale of the Three Little Prigs!\u201d Goar hollered as they passed over the houses. He saw the girls stir as they received the dreams.<\/p>\n

They flew back to his apartment. \u201cI will watch and report what happened, tonight,\u201d the Colt promised.<\/p>\n

Goar waited impatiently for the night report, meanwhile adapting more fairy tales to his purpose. But when the Colt came, he was disappointed. \u201cThey woke up and shook off the dreams,\u201d the Colt reported. \u201cNothing interesting happened.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are we missing?\u201d Goar asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think your stories lack sufficient definition. You need to nail them so they can\u2019t be dismissed. Maybe if you wrote the title where folk could see it, so they know it\u2019s a story setting.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd maybe I can name the girls, for this purpose,\u201d Goar said. \u201cSo they\u2019re tagged, as it were, and can\u2019t move on until they have fulfilled their roles.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll try again tomorrow,\u201d the Colt said.<\/p>\n

Before dawn, they flew to the village again. This time Goar made a smoking torch\u2014in his dream he could conjure things as needed\u2014and held it aloft as the Colt made letter patterns in the sky right above the three houses.<\/p>\n

THE THREE LITTLE PRIGS<\/p>\n

\u201cWho are named Eenie, Meanie, and Minnie,\u201d Goar pronounced. \u201cWho are about to encounter the Big Bad Wolf.\u201d<\/p>\n

Then they hurried back to Mundania, because making the aerobic title had taken time and they had to be gone before dawn.<\/p>\n

The Colt appeared that evening. \u201cI have good news and bad news,\u201d he said. \u201cThe story worked. But it didn\u2019t play out exactly as you had plotted it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI will endure,\u201d Goar said, secretly relieved, because what he really needed was not a timid adaptation but an original story.<\/p>\n

It turned out to be some story. It seemed that the first Prig, the one named Eenie, woke first, got up, opened her door, and was confronted by the Wolf, exactly as specified. The Wolf was dressed like a big lunk of a neighbor boy. \u201cWell, little girl,\u201d Wolf said with a lupine smile that showed too many teeth. \u201cYou and I are about to have a fine time. Let me into your house and we\u2019ll indulge on your bed.\u201d He eyed her contours, which actually were good ones.<\/p>\n

Eenie considered that for all of a microsecond. But Wolf was shaggy, and his teeth weren\u2019t clean, and his breath smelled of carrion. That turned her off. She was very fussy about such details. \u201cNot by the hair of your chinny chin chin,\u201d she replied, and slammed the door in his face.<\/p>\n

That annoyed Wolf, for some reason. \u201cWell, I\u2019ll huff and I\u2019ll puff and I\u2019ll blo-o-ow your house down,\u201d he growled.<\/p>\n

\u201cGet lost, fur-face,\u201d Eenie called from inside.<\/p>\n

So Wolf huffed, and he puffed, and he blew out a blast that compared pretty well to a hurricane. It blew the house apart, exposing Eeenie. \u201cWell now,\u201d Wolf said, licking his chops. \u201cShall we get to it, you delectable morsel?\u201d<\/p>\n

But Eenie\u2019s talent was the Flee Market. The one magic thing she could do was flee fleetly to that market. So she fled to it, with the Wolf in slavering pursuit. Unfortunately he mistook it for the Flea Market, where fleas went to pick up their dogs, and the fleas mistook him for a dog and leaped on. It took him an hour with noxious chemicals to get free of fleas.<\/p>\n

But the Wolf had by no means given up the chase. The first little prig was gone, but there was another next door. She lived in a wood house, which she was now busily cleaning, being persnickety about such details. Wolf pounded on her door. \u201cOpen up,\u201d he cried. \u201cI have urgent business with you, you tasty little twerp.\u201d<\/p>\n

Meanie had a certain streak, and she didn\u2019t much like being termed a twerp. \u201cForget it, hair for brains,\u201d she called without opening the door.<\/p>\n

So Wolf huffed and puffed and it was like a tornado blasting the house to smithereens. Meanie was exposed in more than one sense; the wind had also blown away her clothes. That annoyed her.<\/p>\n

So when Wolf stepped into the wreckage and took hold of her, she tapped him on the chest and invoked her talent. That knocked the wind out of him, in a single powerful gust, leaving him so depleted he had to struggle to gasp. But he managed to get out a few words. \u201cThat was mean of you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you,\u201d Meanie said. \u201cNow get your carcass out of here before I touch you again.\u201d It was no bluff, and he reluctantly retreated. What business did girls have with magic talents? They only impeded progress.<\/p>\n

But one house remained. Once Wolf had recovered his breath, he approached the third house. It was made of solid impervious brick, so he did not threaten to try to blow it down. This was the occasion for a bit of discretion. \u201cLet me in, trollop,\u201d he called politely. \u201cI have big things in mind for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Despite Wolf\u2019s politeness, there was something about the way he addressed her that Minnie found annoying, so she responded in kind. \u201cBy all means, bush-tail,\u201d she said as she opened the door and presented her nice bare shoulder. Wolf eagerly put his paw on it, a prelude to much further touching\u2014and froze in place. She stepped back, and he toppled, flaking off chips of ice. Her talent, of course, was the Cold Shoulder.<\/p>\n

Then Minnie called in her friends Eenie and Meanie, and the three of them shoved the frozen Wolf into the neighboring sewer and watched him float away. Chances were that he would not be bothering the Three Little Prigs again. Meanwhile, Eenie and Meanie would have to move in with Minnie, at least until their houses were rebuilt. None of them mourned the Wolf. Maybe if he had taken a bath and brushed his teeth it would have been a different story, but they were self-righteously choosy. They knew they could do better elsewhere.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd that\u2019s how it went,\u201d Colt concluded. \u201cIt seems that Wolf is just not into Prigs, however much he might have desired it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cToo bad,\u201d Goar said. \u201cStill, it pretty much proves the case. I will make notes for my novel. We can choose future prospects more carefully, and get some really interesting stories.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd maybe mess up some staid Xanth traditions along the way,\u201d Colt agreed.<\/p>\n

The two exchanged a mental smile. They were in business.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n

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Book Preview Chapter 1 Night Colt Goar was in a foul mood. He hated his job as Night Watchman and Cleanup Man at the local Fracking Complaints Office, partly because teens liked to throw anonymous stink bombs, but mostly because it was a urine-poor chore in itself. When a bomb got through, not only did … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":440,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[21],"class_list":["post-441","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-piers-anthony"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/441","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=441"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/441\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/440"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=441"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=441"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=441"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}