Dark Tales From Dandelion

“Never a dull moment on Dandelion, that’s all I have to say,” said Daisy to the Jakeereeds who sat solemnly at her feet. “I know some of you drank of the dreams of the one in the tale. Tasty stories, those, I know, I’ve just indulged in one myself. Is there a moral to be learned from this tale, you ask?”

“Nobody asked,” said the Bonjean Beetle.

“Nobody asked you, good Bonjean, yet here you are answering,” said Daisy.

“Well you cannot throw claims to the world without being ready to defend them.”

“And what if the claims are outlandish, Bonjean? Never intended for contrary ears to hear, said while in the sanctity of one’s own Daisy-tree forest, hm? Would you say that it would be invasive to make one defend their claims when they’ve stated them in private?”

“Dearest Daisy. I would say one should not be safe in one’s own mind without having a proper argument against oneself, and the ability to counter and then defend again!”

“Really, Bonjean? I would never guessed at such a neurosis playing itself out inside of your brain, or whatever it is you have behind that translucent triangular veil. Where does that lead anyway?”

“My ‘neurosis’ as you’ve decided to call it?”

Daisy sniffed and rolled her cat eyes. “No, Bonjean. What is behind the triangular veil of your head?”

“Ah, that. Well, that leads to a place where Fiona still lives, and no-one bled. And Quint was the father that sent those two poor boys from the tube onto Dandelion to become Entangled Ones for the Necrolore.”

“Sounds quite boring and unlikely and—wait! Bonjean! Were you listening?”

“May have caught the tail end. Maybe some bits in the middle.”

Daisy gave the long-bodied beetle a flat look.

“Okay! Yes! I couldn’t help it Daisy.”

“Oh, Bonjean,” Daisy chortled. “It’s quite alright. A good story is hard to pass on.”

“Well, I never said good, but—”

“That’s neither here nor there Bonjean. What else was different?”

“Well,” the Bonjean Beetle said. “Pip was Leere, not Carter. And the ünta-divers played a bigger role. There was less internal dialogue, and the story followed a more typical structure with a definitive beginning, middle and end. The characters were all less sarcastic, and—”

“Voids, Bonjean.”

“Yes, and ‘Voids’ was said a lot less—uh—maybe not at all. Oh! And the main character was the burping little guy, um—oh, I forget his name.”

“Pohsib?” Daisy offered.

“That’s it!”

“Not bad, Bonjean, of course I prefer my version—”

“As I prefer mine to yours. Nonetheless, Daisy, I am just happy that it is over.”

“Ah, yes, Bonjean. Me too. Me too.”

Daisy flicked her tail, dismissing the Jakeereeds, cleaned her back with her sandpaper tongue, then went to sleep for the next three-thousand years when she would be needed again. Perhaps she’d see the Drake again. Perhaps as Jakeereeds next time? Who knew. The potentials were endless. Daisy purred softly, and dreamed.