“Ottie, I have news for you!” Marigold began, squeezing his hands.
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Othmer bounced around her. “What is it? Did my history books arrive today? Or my World Atlas of Insecta card game?”
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“Can’t we put him in a hotel?” Othmer groaned.
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Marigold gasped, “Ottie, I’m appalled!”
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Othmer looked at the floor as Marigold continued, “Though I’ll admit, I considered doing that too.”
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Grinning from one antenna to the other, Errol said, “That settles it! Keep that grease ball out of my way.” He put on his coat and hat, snorting, “Maybe Cloyce can be your assistant for your scientific experiments, Othmer!”
The trio filed out of the office, Errol snickering to himself.
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“I could never do that. He’s too clumsy!” Othmer exclaimed.
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They passed Claudette, who was hauling a box of papers and folders away. She called out, “Talking about Othmer’s experiments again? What is it this time, flying sofas?”
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Othmer rounded on her. “I’ll have you know, Claudette, my floating chair idea almost worked!”
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Claudette plopped the box in its new designated area and tossed her hair over her shoulder with contempt. “It had a couple of springs loose, eh, Othmer?” she sneered, and shot a quick wink at Errol. He returned the wink with a hoarse laugh.
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Leaning against each other, Errol and Claudette guffawed and slapped each other on the back.
Shaking his fists, Othmer snapped, “Well, I’ve moved on to new projects! I’m working on something huge—something that will improve life in Insecta!”
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This announcement marginally sobered Errol and Claudette. Pointing at Othmer, Errol giggled, “He always says that.”
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Claudette wheezed, “Your experiments certainly improve my life. They give me new things to laugh about! Haw, haw!”
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Othmer scowled at them and trembled. They were always quick to point out his failures, or laugh at his new ideas. He growled through gritted teeth, "Not all of my experiments have failed. Two of them almost worked!"
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Noticing Othmer’s anger, Marigold sidled beside him and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let them get to you, Ottie. I believe in your ideas,” she whispered.
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As if broken from a trance, Othmer blinked and relaxed. “Thanks, Marigold.”
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Looking at the cheerful faces of Errol and Claudette, Othmer said, “This project is different. Why don’t you both come back to our place, and I’ll show you what I mean?”
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Errol and Claudette exchanged a glance, their smiles fading. Claudette retorted, “Oh, gee, Othmer. As tantalizing as that sounds…”
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Shrugging, Errol finished her sentence. “We really don’t want too.”
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Othmer blushed as he spluttered, “I just want to show you both what I’ve been working on!”
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Marigold, behind Othmer and out of his sight, clasped her hands under her chin. She gazed at Errol and Claudette with wide eyes, mouthing the word ‘Please’ to them. Errol and Claudette stared at each other again, this time with annoyance.
Errol, pinching his furrowed brow with his fingers, groaned, “Fine. We’ll see what you’ve been up to.” Claudette rolled her eyes as Othmer danced around them.
The group left the building and waited till the rest of the employees had gone. Errol locked the large front doors, and down the path they walked. Othmer stole a glance at the now desolate building. In the darkening shadows, it looked a little creepy. It was a large brick structure with smoke stacks reaching toward the sky. Numerous windows speckled the edifice. Othmer had always believed that the only redeeming quality was the location of the building. It sat on top of a grassy hill that had an incredible view of the ocean, with pine trees creating a cozy line along the property.
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They trotted through town as the sun sank behind the clouds. The winding road rose and dipped between stone buildings. At the crest of the path, beyond the houses and shops, boats could be seen bobbing on the water. Pricking an antenna, Othmer heard the faint shouts of several fishermen returning to the shore and tying their boats to the docks. He quickened his pace. He peeked behind him, making sure the others were still there.
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The group approached an alley. To any other onlooker, the alley looked deserted, but to Errol, Claudette, Marigold, and Othmer, this was a shortcut through town that lead to the forest.
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Marigold watched him, her smile fading. “Now, don’t blow your wig, Ottie.” She grabbed his shoulders and forced a smile. “Your cousin Cloyce is visiting us for the week! Isn’t that swell?”
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“That lousy dew dropper? Just keep him away from me,” Errol, hands on hips, snorted. “He’s always begging for stuff or stealing it if I don’t give it to him.”
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Marigold stared at him. “Now Errol, Cloyce isn’t a…” she paused, clenching and unclenching her hands. “Fine. I’ll keep him away from you,” she sighed.
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They entered the alley. It was a tight fit, and Errol held his hands close to his face, cursing as he scraped his coat against the rough brick walls. A fence blocked their path at the end of the alley. Othmer grabbed a loose board and held it as high as he could. Marigold and Claudette ducked under it, their antennae brushing against the board. Errol stopped and stared at the fence.
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“Hold it higher,” Errol whined.
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Rolling his eyes, Othmer stretched as tall as he could, his arms shaking with the effort. Errol ducked and stepped under the board. Othmer dropped it and sprinted under the fence, and the board slammed back into place.
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On the other side, old trees and numerous types of plants awaited them in the gloomy woods. Fog swirled around the group as they ventured farther into the darkness. Through underbrush and trees they traversed until the forest floor turned into a scruffy dirt path. Eventually a dainty little stone house appeared. Paint was chipping away in large strips from the shutters, and moss and ivy grew on the roof and down the front walls. One lonely and crooked chimney snaked its way to the sky, vines spiraling down its sides. It was the only house in the forest, and a bit dilapidated, but otherwise clean. Marigold was a stickler for a clean house and did not tolerate messes of any kind.
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They walked under the shabby trellis and through the front garden. Daffodils, tulips, and zinnias bobbed as they passed them. The plants were overgrown, and crawled up the walls and over the path where they pleased. Sprinkled among the flowers, large pumpkins threatened to overwhelm the unruly plants. Several of the pumpkins, however, were overly ripe and were rotting on the vine.
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Once they approached the front door, Errol swatted a towering hollyhock plant away from his face and Claudette accidently stepped on a small hyacinth. Errol sneezed uncontrollably, and between sneezes he stuttered, “You both know I’m allergic to flowers. You should try to trim a few!”
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Marigold laughed and playfully pushed Errol. “It’s not your garden, you sap!”
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As Othmer fumbled for his keys, Claudette sniffed, looking down her nose at the garden surrounding them. She jerked her thumb at the plants and asked, “When are you going to get rid of the pumpkins? Why grow them if you're going to let them rot?”
Marigold chuckled, “We don’t know how they got here—” Othmer, opening the door, finished her sentence, “But they keep growing every year! I don’t know what to do with them. I’m not such a savvy cook, you know.”
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Marigold flicked on the lights as Errol flopped in a chair.
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Claudette examined her fingers, retorting, “You don’t have to cook the ugly little things. Carve them up for decorations!”
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Othmer hurried to the kitchen and beckoned to the others. “Come on!”
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Errol rolled his eyes. “Ugh. Why did I agree to this?”
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Once everyone had gathered in the kitchen, Othmer opened the door that lead to the basement. They descended the stairs. Othmer turned on more lights, which revealed a surprisingly large room, with high walls and curved ceilings. Windows let in small pools of dim light. Archways were built into the brick walls, leading to small rooms with tables and other odds and ends. Shelves lined the walls, each stuffed to the brim with books, papers, and odd bits of tools and whatnot. Othmer skipped to a table under the light and grabbed a book from its center. He lifted the book to the others, smiling. The book was titled, History of Insecta, Vol. II.
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The small group stared at it. Claudette busied herself with twirling her finger through her hair, Marigold nodded down to Othmer, and Errol squinted at the book.
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“You want to teach history class? Is that your new idea?” Errol guessed.
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“No, you twit! It’s what I want to bring back from history,” Othmer answered, shaking his head. He opened the book and shoved a page in front of Errol’s nose. An old portrait of a bee and a moth stared at Errol.
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Snorting, Errol disdainfully waved the book away. “So you want to resurrect the dead?”
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Othmer swiped the book back and pinched his eyebrows together with his fingers. He snapped, “Look. What’s the one thing we modern toons lack that our ancestors had?”
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Errol shrugged. “Fashion sense? I don’t know. I never paid attention to my history classes.”
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Othmer glared at him. How could his boss be so stupid? Exasperated, he growled, “Surely you recall something?”
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Errol absently pulled at his mustache. “No, not really. Why would I remember any of that useless information?” he answered, tilting his head.
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“Maybe because it’s important?” Othmer shouted.
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Marigold hurried to his side. “Ottie, just explain your idea to him. Then he’ll be able to understand it better,” she suggested. Othmer regained his composure, nodded, and turned away.
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As Marigold motioned Claudette and Errol to sit beside her in a couple of rickety chairs, Othmer covered the windows with some old tattered sheets. He set up a film projector and turned the lights off. He put in a reel and started to manually spin it. Against a bedspread backdrop, an image of a bee and moth moved. Marigold, Claudette, and Errol watched as the bee and moth started walking together.
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Othmer spoke, “Our world was founded and created by two toons, Roland and Velda. No one knows where they originated from.”
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​At that moment, the bee, Roland, took his head off his shoulders. Errol stiffened as the smiling Roland juggled his head from one hand to the other, unfazed by being headless.
Othmer bounced on one foot, then the other and swept on, “What we do know is that Roland and Velda had amazing abilities.” The scene changed to Velda, the moth, cooking eggs. Except her hand holding the pan was stretched at least nine feet away from her body.
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Errol, stiff as a board, gripped his chair and stared at Othmer, his eyes bulging.
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Othmer continued, “These abilities included a high tolerance to pain.”
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The next clip showed an anvil, falling through the air and crushing Roland into the earth. The squashed bee waved a hand above him, indicating that he was fine, as a slightly annoyed Velda looked on. The film stopped.
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Othmer flicked on the lights and finished: “Over time, we lost these ‘toon physics,’ as I like to call them. But what if we could get them back?”
Othmer stared at his audience, excitement brimming inside him. What an incredible thing to have back in everyone’s life!
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Marigold clasped her hands together. “It sure would be nifty!”
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Claudette, flicking a bit of lint off her dress, yawned. “Could you run that by me one more time? I wasn’t listening.”
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Errol sprang from his spot, his arms outstretched and his wings waving in every direction. He yelled, “You want toons to be able to decapitate their heads? Be crushed by ANVILS?”
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“No. Yes! I mean no! Errol, I want toons to be able to accomplish more with their lives, using ‘toon physics’!” Othmer objected.
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Errol rubbed his temples, his eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Maybe there’s a reason we don’t have those abilities anymore,” he remarked. He swung around and marched upstairs. “You better drop this bushwa and focus on your job!”
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Othmer stared in stunned silence.
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Stretching and yawing, Claudette got to her feet and brushed out the wrinkles in her dress. She sauntered to the steps. Before leaving, she turned to Othmer and waved, calling, “Welp, this was an evening I’ll forget! Seriously, what were you talking about?”
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Othmer waved his hands at her, squeaking, “I have an idea to improve life as we know it! By—”
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Claudette shushed him by wiggling her finger to his mouth. “Shh. I didn’t listen the first time, I’m not listening now.” She trotted up the stairs, exclaiming, “See you both tomorrow!”
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The lights flickered. Othmer’s shadow danced on the floor.
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Marigold sighed, her hands folded in her lap. Often, she didn’t understand her husband’s obsession with his experiments, but she knew how important it was to him to create something meaningful for Insecta. She smiled a little bit. She knew how important it was to him to make their own lives easier, too. There were many oddities about the Wilt’s house that Othmer had created for that very purpose. The self-lighting candles and the never-ending soap were some of the few things Othmer had invented that functioned as he had intended them to. Marigold tapped her chin. Well, mostly worked. The self-lighting candles weren’t the best idea in the long run, she figured, and they weren’t even self-extinguishing.
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Marigold stood and brushed her hair away from her face. What was important to him was important to her, and she had to make him understand that she believed in him and his ideas.
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She walked to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, whispering, “I think your idea is wonderful, Ottie. I really do.”
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As she hugged him, Othmer relaxed, breathing in the familiar citrus scent of her perfume. He nuzzled her with the tip of his nose. What did it matter if Errol and Claudette doubted him? All he needed was Marigold’s support. He sighed, closing his eyes, whispering, “Thank you, Marigold.”
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BOOM! BOOM!
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Marigold and Othmer jumped. Othmer, eyebrows furrowed, grumbled, “Swell timing.”
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“That must be Cloyce,” Marigold stated. “Shall we let him in?”
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Othmer groaned. That’s the last thing I want to do right now.
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“If you insist,” he conceded.
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Marigold flashed Othmer a half smile, then turned and walked up the stairs. He followed, glancing back to the basement.
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He’d have to work on his special project later.
Short Pencils was Errol’s pride and joy, his livelihood, his reason for getting up in the morning. As a bonus, his friends worked there. Not a bad deal at all, he figured.
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Othmer, a short bespectacled mosquito, knew Errol’s feelings about the company like the back of his gloved hand. If only Othmer felt the same way about his work. To him, this job was just an obstacle getting in the way of his personal projects. He was Errol’s head designer, drawing nothing but pencils, or an occasional pen. He often wondered if art had been the right career choice to follow.
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The morning was bright and cloudless, and a twinge of frustration prickled through Othmer about having to waste it away inside the Short Pencil factory. Othmer was in a meeting with Errol, and both toons were crammed inside Errol’s office. Othmer’s focus kept shifting to the window and the view of the trees outside instead of staying on Errol’s ramblings. Othmer managed to drag his attention back to Errol, where it soon shifted to Errol’s desk. Othmer tilted his head, wondering how Errol could keep anything organized on his desk. Knickknacks covered the top. Several of them dangled precariously near the edge. Because of the crowded conditions of the desk, Othmer had rigged a make-shift easel to present his designs from. Othmer glanced at the large piece of paper that portrayed his drawings. That’s a lot of pencil designs, he thought as he stifled a yawn. I’m bored of drawing all these damned pencils.
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“Othmer!” Errol heartily slapped his desk, jolting Othmer out of his thoughts and sending a few trinkets spiraling to the floor. “Splendid work, as usual. These designs are what’ll sell Short Pencils!” Errol announced.
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Errol paced around. “Now that you’ve finished that assignment,” he chirped, “we can move on to the next one. Three hundred fifty new designs are due this Wednesday!”
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“That’s tomorrow!” Othmer spluttered. “How am I going to get all that work done in time?”
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Errol shrugged and smiled. “Aw, come now, Othmer ole’ chum! It’s drawing. How hard can it be?” Looking at the clock, Errol tsked-tsked. “Well, Othmer, it’s time to head home for the day.”
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The heavy wooden doors swung open and a stout chubby beetle bustled into the room, exclaiming, “Hey fellas!”
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Othmer swirled around and beamed. The beetle who had entered the room was his wife. The sight of his wife, along with the citrus scent of her perfume, lifted Othmer’s spirits. As usual, she had a smile on her face and a spring in her step. Othmer grinned and shook his head. He wondered how she could be so content with her job at the factory. She deserved better than Short Pencils. Reaching his hands out to her, he gently tapped her cheek with the tip of his nose and chirped, “Marigold!”
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