gimmick, and they had found seventeen-year-old Noah Raymond. He was quick, and he was imaginative, and he believed. So they waited. A few stories weren’t good enough. They wanted a body of work, a world-acclaimed body of work that could sustain them through this difficult period of future shock and automation. Tolkien had done his share, but he was an old man and they knew he couldn’t do it alone.
And so, on the night Noah Raymond went dry, they were waiting, a commando force of typewriter assaultists specially trained for throwing themselves into their work in the most literal sense. Tough, unsentimental gremlins with steely eyes and a fierce determination to save their race. Assault Force G-1. Each gremlin a hand-picked veteran of extra-dangerous service. Each gremlin a volunteer. Each gremlin a specialist:
Alf, who had led the assault on the Krupp munitions factory’s toilets in 1943.
Charlie, who had shipped aboard the Titanic on its maiden voyage, April 10th, 1912, as sabotaging supercargo.
Billy, who had been head gremlin in charge of London underground subway disruption since 1952.
Ted, who worked for the telephone company.
Joe, who worked for Western Union.
Bertie, who worked for the post office.
Chris, who was in charge of making coffee bitter in the brewing throughout the Western Hemisphere.
St. John (pronounced Sin-jin), who supervised a large staff of gremlins assigned to complicating the syntax in the public speeches of minor politicians.
And the others, and their standbys, and their reserve troops, and their replacements, and their backup support…
Ready to move in the moment Noah Raymond went dry.
And so they began.
For the next nineteen years they came to Noah Raymond’s typewriter every night, and they worked with unceasing energy. Noah would stand watching them for hours sometimes, marveling at the amount of kinetic energy flagrantly expended in the pursuit of survival-as-art.
And the stories spun out of Noah Raymond’s typewriter, and he grew more famous, and he grew wealthy, and he grew more complacent as the total of their works with his byline grew from one hundred to two hundred, from two hundred to three hundred, from three hundred to four hundred…
Until tonight, when Alf stood shamefacedly on the Olympia’s carriage housing, his cap in his tiny hands, and said to Noah Raymond, “That’s the long and short of it, Noah. We’ve run dry.”
“Now wait a minute, Alf,” Noah said, “that’s impossible. You’ve got the entire race of gremlins to choose from, to find talent to keep the stuff coming. I simply cannot believe an entire race has run out of ideas!”
“Uh, well, it’s not quite like that, Noah.” He was obviously embarrassed, and had something of special knowledge he was reluctant to say.
“Listen, Alf,” Noah said, laying his hand palm up on the carriage housing so the tiny man could step onto it. “We’ve been mates now for almost twenty years, right?”
The little man nodded and stepped into Noah’s palm.
Noah lifted him to eye level so they could talk more intimately.
“And in twenty-years-almost I think we’ve come to understand each other’s people pretty fair, wouldn’t you say?”
Alf nodded.
“I mean, I even get along pretty well with Charlie these days, when his sciatica isn’t bothering him too much.”
Alf nodded again.
“And God knows your stories have made things a lot better for the reality of the gremlins, haven’t they? And I’ve done my share with the lectures and the public appearances and all the chat shows on telly, now haven’t I?”
Alf nodded once more.
“So then what the hell is this load’a rubbish you’re handing me, chum? How can all of you have run out of story ideas?”
Alf went harrumph and looked at his feet in their solid workman’s shoes, and he said with considerable embarrassment, “Well, uh, those weren’t stories.”
“They weren’t stories? Then what were they?”
“The history of
And so, on the night Noah Raymond went dry, they were waiting, a commando force of typewriter assaultists specially trained for throwing themselves into their work in the most literal sense. Tough, unsentimental gremlins with steely eyes and a fierce determination to save their race. Assault Force G-1. Each gremlin a hand-picked veteran of extra-dangerous service. Each gremlin a volunteer. Each gremlin a specialist:
Alf, who had led the assault on the Krupp munitions factory’s toilets in 1943.
Charlie, who had shipped aboard the Titanic on its maiden voyage, April 10th, 1912, as sabotaging supercargo.
Billy, who had been head gremlin in charge of London underground subway disruption since 1952.
Ted, who worked for the telephone company.
Joe, who worked for Western Union.
Bertie, who worked for the post office.
Chris, who was in charge of making coffee bitter in the brewing throughout the Western Hemisphere.
St. John (pronounced Sin-jin), who supervised a large staff of gremlins assigned to complicating the syntax in the public speeches of minor politicians.
And the others, and their standbys, and their reserve troops, and their replacements, and their backup support…
Ready to move in the moment Noah Raymond went dry.
And so they began.
For the next nineteen years they came to Noah Raymond’s typewriter every night, and they worked with unceasing energy. Noah would stand watching them for hours sometimes, marveling at the amount of kinetic energy flagrantly expended in the pursuit of survival-as-art.
And the stories spun out of Noah Raymond’s typewriter, and he grew more famous, and he grew wealthy, and he grew more complacent as the total of their works with his byline grew from one hundred to two hundred, from two hundred to three hundred, from three hundred to four hundred…
Until tonight, when Alf stood shamefacedly on the Olympia’s carriage housing, his cap in his tiny hands, and said to Noah Raymond, “That’s the long and short of it, Noah. We’ve run dry.”
“Now wait a minute, Alf,” Noah said, “that’s impossible. You’ve got the entire race of gremlins to choose from, to find talent to keep the stuff coming. I simply cannot believe an entire race has run out of ideas!”
“Uh, well, it’s not quite like that, Noah.” He was obviously embarrassed, and had something of special knowledge he was reluctant to say.
“Listen, Alf,” Noah said, laying his hand palm up on the carriage housing so the tiny man could step onto it. “We’ve been mates now for almost twenty years, right?”
The little man nodded and stepped into Noah’s palm.
Noah lifted him to eye level so they could talk more intimately.
“And in twenty-years-almost I think we’ve come to understand each other’s people pretty fair, wouldn’t you say?”
Alf nodded.
“I mean, I even get along pretty well with Charlie these days, when his sciatica isn’t bothering him too much.”
Alf nodded again.
“And God knows your stories have made things a lot better for the reality of the gremlins, haven’t they? And I’ve done my share with the lectures and the public appearances and all the chat shows on telly, now haven’t I?”
Alf nodded once more.
“So then what the hell is this load’a rubbish you’re handing me, chum? How can all of you have run out of story ideas?”
Alf went harrumph and looked at his feet in their solid workman’s shoes, and he said with considerable embarrassment, “Well, uh, those weren’t stories.”
“They weren’t stories? Then what were they?”
“The history of
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