Farian's Revenge

April 1, 2017

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Farian climbed down from one of the trees in the yard and landed lightly on her feet in the grass. Her nose wrinkled at the smell wafting down from the branches and leaves, which were now dotted liberally with dog droppings. Every time the breeze sifted past the boughs, it carried the distinct scent farther from the scene of the crime. She doubted it would permeate the air near the Inn itself, but anyone walking too close to the trees might get a whiff. The real purpose was to have a certain someone land right on a pile, feet or butt first, and suffer the indignity of the smell as long as possible.

It was April Fool's, after all, the perfect time to teach someone a lesson.

By the following afternoon, all traces (and smells) of the poo would be gone.

April 30, 2017

She'll Teach Him a Lesson Yet

The old Gremlin chugged along the street, put-putting along at a rapid speed of ten miles an hour. Farian sat forward, fingers clutching the wheel, peering out the windshield like an eighty-year old grandma. She turned too soon and nudged the curb, missing the entrance to the driveway completely. No bother. She left the back end sticking out, cut the engine, and disembarked the car. It was spotless, all the layers of birdsh*t meticulously wiped away.

Light drizzle was no deterrent for her plan. She opened the hatch in the back and pulled out a medium sized, paisley printed bag. Because the weather was a bit chilly today, she wore jeans tucked into knee high boots, along with an ivory sweater and a dozen unique necklaces that swung from her throat. Closing the hatch, she headed in the direction of a specific tree.

She was not as tall as the lowest limb. Not nearly. Farian set a palm on the rough bark and glanced around the yard. The street. Every which way, even up to the rooftops. Checking for people. Luckily, it appeared no one was here, or they were all inside. Looking back at the tree, she murmured a thing or two, and set a boot against the base. Had that bump in the bark been there before" Sure it had. As had the next, and the next, giving her solid footholds to climb until she could curl an arm around a branch. She hoisted herself into new, green leaves, the bag swinging against her side.

Once she was fully immersed in greenery, perched against a thick branch, she pet the bark and whispered to the tree as if it were an old friend. She slung the bag to her knee and began removing very pretty flowers, all in a distinct shade of fuschia. Farian handled the blooms carefully as she began to attach them to smaller sprigs and branches. Despite the lack of roots, the blooms did not wilt, and would not for some time. She climbed higher, affixing more flowers in specific spots. Creating a perimeter from the edges of the tree inward.

The tree limbs and leaves shuffled, like a dog shaking its wet coat, then settled again. After Farian placed the last flower, she surveyed her handiwork. There was no way to escape the flora she'd added to the tree, especially if a person had a tendency to glide on down and into the tree's foliage quickly. Satisfied, smirking to herself, she began her equally careful descent.

She waited until a woman with a dog had passed by before easing out of the tree altogether. The bag was empty now, tucked under her arm for safe keeping.

Once her boots touched the ground, she panned another look around the yard. The porch. Didn't see anyone hanging around. Perfect. Farian hustled back to the Gremlin and climbed in. The engine turned over with a cough and a sputter.

Assuming her granny position, she maneuvered away from the curb and got going forward again. Slowly. The Gremlin puttered away from the scene of the crime.

Whenever a certain avian reappeared and entered the tree, he would undoubtedly see the feminine display she'd left him. So many flowers! So, so pink.

But that wasn't all.

The flowers were waiting. Had been waiting.

Once the certain avian entered the lair, the flowers emitted a feminine perfume into the air while at the same time, bellowing, "I am not a bad driver!" Loud enough, perhaps, to startle the bird into falling out of the tree.

That still wasn't all. Even as the flowers bellowed, and perfumed the air, glitter burst forth from their laden centers. Pink and silver, of course. So much glitter! Glitter that, once in the hair or on the clothes or skin, did not want to come off.

The glitter loved him.

Embrace the glitter.

"I am not a bad driver!?

Once more, for good measure, just so he would not forget.



*

October, 2017

Hopelessly Devoted To Torturing You

It had taken Farian some time to recover from the horror of the raven invasion. She'd laid low, silently cursing her nemesis while avoiding black birds of all kinds. Months had gone by, time in which she hoped Dove had forgotten all about her. Time which she'd used to plan her next revenge.

She arrived via the foliage near the trees, sliding from the wilting greens and fading leaves, with something quite large tucked under her arm. Once she'd scanned the yard and deemed it safe, she lugged the cutout into the open. The hairy male body was about as atrocious as one could imagine, with a rather large beer belly and swirls of fur around each manboob. It was only a cutout, but even then, the image was easy enough to decipher. The head of the body, turned toward her and away from viewing eyes for the moment, appeared a little at odds, logistically speaking. No matter. She headed for the porch, the feet of the cutout dragging along the ground.

Farian didn't head for the stairs, but the sturdy post at the end of the porch. The manner in which she had to climb, lug and tug the cutout to the roof consisted of feminine grunts, her teeth hooked into cardboard, and the body dragging-bumping-scraping along behind her. But she managed. Falling onto her rump on the roof, she pulled the cutout the rest of the way up with her. One problem solved. Out of breath, she got to her feet and dragged the cutout to a prominent position so that it would greet all and sundry. People driving by in cars could even see the thing.

Farian arranged the cutout on its side, which was the pose of the body, with one elbow propped on the roof and the hand holding up the head.

Except this head was not the one that had originally come with the cutout.

This was Dove's head, in all its grumpy, frowning glory, brows drawn down over his eyes. Dove's mouth was an unpleasant slash, instead of a welcoming grin. To cover the manboobs and the hip area, Farian used one of her own bikinis—since Dove had such a passion for them—and covered the areas quite nicely.

Affixing the cutout from the back to the roof, to keep it in place, she stepped around front to get a good look at her handiwork. There was no way Dove would miss this during his next fly by. To make matters worse, she drew a small black device from the pocket of her sweater, and set it down next to the propped elbow.

Set to go off by motion detection only—meaning something had to pass within roof range of the device—the little recorder nonetheless worked like a charm. Should anything crawl, climb or fly near enough, the recorder erupted into Olivia Newton John's Hopelessly Devoted To You. Someone had dubbed in the word torturing between To and You, making it, Hopelessly Devoted To Torturing You. If the song sounded a bit squawky, well. It was well deserved.

After one final look at her handiwork, she backtracked to the porch post and began a much more fluid climb down to the ground. Once her boots touched the grass, she backed up to the middle of the yard and took in the view from that vantage point. Sigh. What a beautiful sight.

Farian sent a whisper into the wind, drawing forth a dragonfly from the underbrush. Zeus flitted around her once, then zipped up toward the cutout. Only after it reached a certain height did the music come on. "Hopelessly devoted to torturing yoooou." Farian clapped her hands with both satisfaction and delight, and recalled Zeus from his task.

Finished with her current round of torture, Farian escaped into the trees and the foliage. The only thing left of her visit besides the obnoxious cutout was the faint scent of ferns and earth and a touch of jasmine.

Other than that, she was gone.