DWARF IN A HOLE

Kneeling alone beneath the rattling steeple’s roof lay the dwarf, occupying the outer side of the church’s walls, fled to within moments of awakening to torrential downpour. Clouds smothered the sky gray as dirt came to be mud and the river roared with teeth. To cross the latter, the dwarf had had to clutch Waspig. He watched his pet now play carelessly in the rain, that which came down onto the pigsect with the same force it did the shingles above, sound bellowing below. hollow echoes after. Upon first returning to the church, the dwarf had tried the door, defeated into resting his dome against the dry thick wood blocking they and safety--he and ‘SAVING’, an act he’d been unable to repeat. The dwarf had suffered through too many ordeals, he argued, unsure of what will was wieldable in the face of repetition. Climbing stairs was one challenge--to have them slide into a ramp felt crueler than death. This spurred his thoughts into a spiral. What was death now? Was he the only one capable of defeating the concept? Was the tree which doomed him’s end not guaranteed? Waspig splashed its full frame onto a puddle sending speckles of dirt against the stained glass just hairs from the dwarf, much to the latter’s dissatisfaction. The pet looked up at its owner with guilt glossed eyes, dozen there were. He noticed his creature’s tusks had washed clean of blood, a feat to outdo the river. It returned to its games.

But with his belly full and sleep well gained despite the circumstances of the morning, the dwarf decided to allow a peaceful melancholy wash over and strip clean the sudden dour. He continued to regret his situation and its perpetrator, but the dwarf could not ignore the peace he and his new pet had been granted. Indeed, Waspig continued to roll in glee, brown overtaking pink. Despite having just dried off, the dwarf drew himself out from cover for play as well. The two bounced around aimlessly, Waspig’s antennae wagging in excitement. The dwarf spotted a smooth pebble resembling the sort he’d bounce to sheepdogs in days past. His days now, he realized, would be engaged to fetch with the bewildering matrimony of insect and swine. But no bile rose. Waspig retrieved the rock with a display of intense satisfaction each and every time, a hidden mechanism in his instinct found and scratched. The dwarf stroked his creature tenderly, the two drenched in what would not cease soon.

Having returned beneath the steeple, the dwarf shivered. His animal had joined him, dozing off into a curl. But he could not bring himself to share its wetness, so he sat and suffered alone. The dwarf began to berate himself once more for sealing the shelter’s entrance. He roused himself atop his feet and wandered back and forth under shelter, pacing with no attention particularly paid to anything but his impatience. The dwarf stopped then dead still in a sudden cease seeing a sack against the steeple yet disturbed, full of protrusions, sloped up against brick. He took his large fingers and pulled the bag’s string loose revealing a storage of dry wood. A plan began to take shape within the dwarf’s bald dome. To ensure this being his only resort, he thumped the windows hard. And goading his sleep seeking pet into attacking the glass proved futile. But the dwarf grabbed at his decent beard mellowing in a satisfaction suspected possible...

“SURVIVAL SKILL XP GAINED”

“SURVIVAL INCREASED TO 10”

A fire crept slowly round and up the heavy double doors it scorched. Before the dwarf the church’s entrance blazed, shielded still from rain by the shingles above. He smiled strangely at his fire making escapades resulting in such a bounty of ‘SURVIVAL’, unsure of the connection beyond warmth. He considered the words his father would use to describe the sight--and its perpetrator. A wave of shame splashed in his face, the dwarf recoiling from a stray singing. But Waspig sat still and watched the glow with sustained curiosity. Together the two awaited the fruits of their fire.

Several hours and levels later, the clouds above smoked themselves into pitch

black, only the church to argue otherwise in its fit of red and oranges. The dwarf felt his impatience rise at the speed--or lack thereof--of the door’s burning, making a motion to step over the charred remains of the door only to find his stout form limited and singed further. Around the corner he took a seat against brick with Waspig and stared into seemingly endless downpour. Several fungus headed toads hopped together along the river, then below. Lightning marked its presence with a show demanded of its caliber, each brief illumination casting enormous shadows from the smoke billowing upwards. No enjoyment was had of this by Waspig.

By the time the dwarf returned to check on the progress of his arson, he noticed immediately not only the door had been reduced to ash and rot but the red rolled carpet too caught and paid a sprawling price. Waspig waddling behind, the dwarf stepped over charred candelabras making a grand return to the church, coronating the moment with the blank book laid open at the altar.

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO SAVE YOUR PROGRESS?”

He did, and he did. The dwarf turned round and caught a glance of the hole crawled out from in days past, a flinch rising, rain still falling. Completing the turn, the dwarf found his creature on guard, teeth bared and wings twitching in warning. A tall figure stood in the doorway, hatchet in its hands. Coming into the light, the dwarf realized it to be only vaguely humanoid. The stranger’s legs strode forward with the confidence and bend of muscles upright, but its upper torso repulsively stretched into a wide mushroom, its cap crisped as the carpet. Arms spilled out from beneath the head in a variety of lengths and directions, some ending in human-like paws and others, nothing, a few equipped with torch and parasol. Two eyes could be realized from beneath the cap, no nose present above the jaw that unhinged to evidently speak.

“WHO DARES SET SUCH SIN ABLAZE...?”...

Red roared accepting its prize: fresh log. Above laid an arc of mantle of which supported miniature paintings, each sealed behind a variety of intricate frames. Within one, a mushroom headed being not dissimilar to whom the dwarf encountered within God’s halls waved mightily with its many arms. Another picture sported a smaller version of the sentient fungus, and a third, the both of them, joy expressed as well as the dwarf could ascertain. The dwarf himself rested on a padded wooded couch, not entirely comfortable yet relishing the unbelievable upgrade in quality of rest. Three blankets smothered him. When the talking toadstool offered just one, it either misheard or cared in the school of cruel hospitality, returning with two more in tow. The dwarf thanked it regardless and said little else, his eyes comfortable in the gaze of oranges and yellows. The being sat itself near the dwarf in an equally unpleasant looking armchair, an “Aah” escaping from the noseless face regardless. Behind, the window watched the green dotted planet travel across a clear night sky.

“Fungus bread finishing soon,” it announced, or warned. The dwarf nodded gently, then nodded off himself...

“Fungus bread finished,” it woke the dwarf to. The fire spoke little. It occurred to the dwarf the night might not be last’s but its successor. Despite the stiff sleeping conditions, he knew himself much renewed over any awakening previous since his becoming. The dwarf still laid sore and with aching throughout, but he allowed another wave of peace to wash over. Before realizing it, a spoonful of fungus bread shoved itself into his mouth accompanied by a terrifying attempt at choo-chooing--at least, the dwarf considered so. Two hands reached out to grab his beard and jaw, a third resting atop his dome. The chewing began, the feeling of pampering in this manner unpleasant. He swallowed. He fell asleep once more...

A church sermon began just as the boy returned to the auditorium sneaking past push doors with head bent low. He managed to re-identify his father in the sea of seniors, the boy soon marooned on an island far from neighboring continents. His ear jerked in the air: reprimanding. The boy’d only been to the bathroom, but he restrained a pout. The preacher worked himself into a frenzy, the issue picked apart unintelligible to the child. The boy smelled ash. He turned to his father and the man of mushroom forced another spoonful of bread down his throat, then stacked no less than fifteen blankets atop him. A train blared and the pastor dove just barely avoiding a gruesome fate. The audience suffered uniquely, runaway cars smearing elders across floors and walls. The child screamed his guts out but found the sheets and comforters dampened his range, no ears to prick. The giant chicken slain within the egg returned and mounted the stage, pecking at the preacher who sent the clucking beast on a seemingly endless chase. A fire overtook curtains and congregation. The boy’s chair began to seriously discomfort him, and he shifted atop the padded wood fruitlessly. It sunk through the tile, and the boy’s face sprouted feathers. The dwarf collapsed onto the floor vibrating black wood from out beneath the mantle, chips scattering in all directions. The sun poured through a window offering consolation, a replacement for his lost fabric. The fungus considered now friend blasted through the halls and into the parlor, screeching:

“WHO DARES TRESPASS INTO THE HOME OF... Dwarf. Eating logs?”