Iconic Reflections: Adventures in the Land of Staplehorn

By Jeffrey Stoker

Peter Placket dreams of being a hero. Like most heroes, he’s handsome, charismatic, and intelligent. Also he works at a fire station, the perfect venue for showcasing his bravery. There’s just one small problem: he’s made out of paper.

How can Peter be heroic when the fire chief forbids him to get within ten yards of fires?

The answer comes one day when the lower classes revolt against the aristocracy, turning the Apple Kingdom, Peter’s home, into a war zone. Realizing that someone must put an end to the violence, Peter flees to the countryside, searching for an ancient magical object that renders its user all-powerful.

It’s a grand, sweeping journey, during which Peter will find both allies and adversaries, witness bizarre, deadly magic, attempt to cross an uncrossable sea, and visit an island that technically doesn’t exist. Ultimately, the magical object he seeks may do more than end the revolution—it may provide the answer to a mystery as old as time!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984555526

Jeffrey Stoker

JEFFREY STOKER lives in Layton, Utah, taking his dog for walks, working out at the gym, and hoping to one day regain his sense of smell. Iconic Reflections is first book, although he’s also written a novella, a one-act play, and numerous film reviews. He’s currently working on a collection of short stories.

Book preview

ICONIC

REFLECTIONS

Adventures in the Land

of Staplehorn

Jeffrey Stoker

Copyright © 2018 by Jeffrey Stoker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Front Cover Painting by Elettra Cudignotto.

Foreword by Lucinda Stoker.

Back Cover Caricature by Jeffrey Stoker.

Rev. date: 01/07/2020

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

784592

FOREWORD

In March 2014, at the encouragement of a good friend, I signed up for the online dating site Match.com. At the time, I was well into my thirties and ready to meet someone decent, normal and grown-up. Instead, I met Jeffrey Neale Stoker, a quirky, hilarious, definitely-not-normal man whose mother still did his laundry. If I’m being completely honest, I fell in love with Jeffrey upon reading his first email to me — his wit and wicked sense of humor were incredibly irresistible.

Now it’s 2018, and Jeffrey and I just celebrated our third wedding anniversary. His mother no longer does his laundry (that honor is now all mine), but one thing that has remained constant is his ability to entertain me with the written word.

Not long after our wedding, Jeffrey told me of his intention to revise Iconic Reflections and re-release it as a special, ten-year anniversary edition. Being married to an author was new to me, so, in my naiveté, I excitedly replied that I’d do anything I could to help him with the revision.

And that, in a nutshell, is how the grueling process of producing the book you now hold in your hands began. For the past two years, much of my spare time has been spent generating macros, databases, maps and flowcharts in an effort to assist Jeffrey with his research. I’ve also read, and re-read, Iconic Reflections, both times giving Jeffrey my honest, unvarnished input.

Now, I’m sure you’re anxious to start reading this new and improved version of Iconic Reflections, but before you do, I’d like to go over a few of the changes that have been made … .

Right off the bat, you’ll notice that a subtitle, Adventures in the Land of Staplehorn, has been added to the book’s title. Although Jeffrey was a fan of the original title, over the years, he came to feel that it was too cryptic, that it failed to properly convey the book’s tone or genre. Adding the aforementioned subtitle, I’m sure we can all agree, neatly fixes this problem.

Another easy-to-spot change is the book’s cover. Not only has Xlibris, Jeffrey’s publisher, revamped the layout — it’s far more energetic and stylish than the stagnant, overly modest one from 2008 — Elettra Cudignotto, a critically-acclaimed artist, has provided a whimsical painting for it. Cudignotto’s work here is magnificent, truly making it possible for prospective readers to judge this book by its cover.

Iconic Reflections’ interior has also been changed. A decorative drop cap now kicks off each chapter, several typos and continuity errors that were overlooked in the 2008 edition have been corrected and, to ensure that the book’s exposition flows better than it did before, the opening act has been restructured.

The most notable change to the book, however, involves one of its central characters, a hair braids-wearing, breadbasket-toting nomad. Originally, this character was conceived of as a man named Adam; unfortunately, as the book’s 2008 publishing date drew near, Jeffrey lost his nerve, fearing that the public might reject the idea of a male character taking on traditionally female fashions and accessories. Thus, for that edition of the book, Adam became Eve.

Almost instantly, Jeffrey regretted making this change to the book, and I’m happy to report that, for the 2018 edition, Adam has been restored to his rightful place among the colorful cast of characters.

Revising his work isn’t a task that Jeffrey takes lightly. He’s a perfectionist who obsesses over every detail, striving at all times to tell stories audiences will find captivating. In a very real way, he’s pulled out all the stops for the ten-year anniversary of Iconic Reflections. The writing is much more layered and confident, causing the book to come to life in a way it never quite did in the original release. Personally, by the time I finished reading the book’s last page, I felt like all the characters were friends I’d known for a lifetime.

Over the last two years, I’ve come to see my husband, not only as the love of my life, but as a serious author with talent to match his dedication. I’m grateful for the extreme tests of love, understanding and compromise that working on Iconic Reflections: Adventures in the Land of Staplehorn has demanded of us. Our ability to communicate with each other has grown exponentially, and we’ve learned the importance of teamwork, kindness and patience.

And now, dear friends, I invite you to join me as I explore the vast, awe-inspiring land of Staplehorn. A few seconds ago, I heard a rustling in the Great Apple Forest’s trees, and when I went to investigate, I saw Adam walking towards a clearing in the distance. I’m not sure why, but something about this image seemed vaguely familiar to me — it was almost like remembering a scene from a dream or an illustration from an old storybook.

In any case, I’m intrigued. Soon Adam will reach the Apple Kingdom, and when he does, I want to be there to see all the things he sees and meet all the people he meets. Please hurry! I’m certain that many exciting adventures await us.

Lucinda Stoker

September 2018

CONTENTS

PART ONE:

THE REVOLUTION

PROLOGUE

The Road to Staplehorn

ONE

The Life Race

TWO

A Spurious Store

THREE

The Trial

FOUR

The Fire

FIVE

How the Revolution Began

PART TWO:

THE QUEST

SIX

Point Five

SEVEN

Peter’s Plan

EIGHT

The First Ten Journal Entries

NINE

Trouble

TEN

Help from a Spewel

ELEVEN

A Discussion About the Middle of Nowhere

PART THREE:

THE EULLUE

TWELVE

Crossing the Sea of Hair

THIRTEEN

Sally’s Solution

FOURTEEN

Spying

FIFTEEN

A Decision, a Recapitulation, and a Showdown

SIXTEEN

The Three Spells

This book is

dedicated to L. Frank Baum.

Without Oz, there’d be no Staplehorn.

PART ONE:

THE REVOLUTION

- PROLOGUE -

THE ROAD TO STAPLEHORN

Adam couldn’t believe his eyes. The road had moved. It had actually moved. He’d gotten bored of the path he was following and had tried to walk off the edge of the road onto the grass; unfortunately, the road had followed him. That was something he’d never seen before, and he’d seen a lot.

What the hell? he said, setting his things, a bindle and a breadbasket, onto the ground. He had to make sure he’d really seen the road move. He had to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind. The road’s behavior wouldn’t have been quite so surprising to him if it had been located in, say, New York or California; after all, bizarre things happened in places like those all the time. But this was Iowa, and in Adam’s experience, Iowa was the type of place where bizarre things never happened — even when you were so bored you secretly wished for them to.

Feeling as if he’d been saddled with a travel companion — obstinate and impish, the road was turning out to be more like a person than a path — Adam clandestinely coughed out the words Two’s a crowd, as far as I’m concerned and broke into a light jog. Gradually, the jog picked up speed until it became a full on sprint, and when that occurred, he squeezed his eyes shut and dived for the grass. It was an extreme action to take, but he was ready to be free of the road and on his own again.

Aaaaaagh! he cried as he sailed through the air.

Ugh! he grunted as he landed.

Dizzy and disoriented, Adam kept his eyes closed for a minute. Even without opening them, though, he knew he hadn’t made it to the grass. He could feel the dirt beneath his outstretched arms, could feel it mashed into his nose, mouth, and chin. Mewling with misery, he turned onto his back, then opened his eyes and lay there on the road for a while, motionless. Finally, he scrambled to his feet, dusted himself off, brushed his braids over his shoulders — long and full and tied off at the ends with big red ribbons, the braids were relatively heavy; consequently, he hated the way it felt when they rested against his chest — and gathered his belongings.

Why this road? he thought, looking on. What makes this road so goddamned special? I mean, it’s just an ordinary dirt path in a quiet, run-of-the-mill backwater, for hell’s sake!

Heaving a sigh of frustration, Adam picked his stuff back up and continued on his way, pulling the road farther and farther off course. Eventually, the road brought him to a gold archway (or to be more precise, he brought the road to a gold archway), and, naturally curious, he stopped to look the resplendent structure over.

The archway’s poles, positioned an inch or two past either side of the narrow, winding road, were corrugated, tapered, and capped with extravagant finials. Its keystone had an extravagant finial, too, and situated just below this decoration, going with the curve of the archway’s crown, was a series of lofty, curlicued letters. Adam, intent on knowing what the letters spelled, craned his neck — he was 5'3", and the keystone hung about ten feet over the ground — and shaded his eyes from the sun.

Stay . . . pull . . . horn, he said, sounding it out.

Strange.

Twelve years ago, the day he turned eighteen and could legally be on his own, he left the life he knew behind for a nomadic existence. Since then, in the intervening years, he’d sailed the seven seas and been to all seven continents — traversing, in said continents, all manner of jungles, deserts, and mountains. He knew the planet inside and out — especially America, the country where he’d spent the pre-nomadic years of his life.

Due to his itinerant lifestyle, Adam had, by degrees, developed a sixth sense when it came to geography. He was Brother Place, so to speak — second cousin to Jack Frost, great grandson of Father Time. He watched over direction and area; the veins in his body were like the lines printed onto maps.

And yet . . . and yet he’d never heard of a place called Staplehorn. What was it? Had it been here all along? If so, how had he managed to miss it up until now?

His curiosity was piqued. Without meaning to, he’d walked right into an odd, wonderful mystery, and one way or the other, by hook or by crook, he was going to get to the bottom of it.

* * *

The moment Adam passed between the poles, ready to wrestle with the vast expanse of sloping hills that stretched before him, the archway sank into the ground, disappearing without a trace.

Sch-WUMP!

At this sound, Adam whipped his head around, and although it was too late for him to witness the archway’s disappearance, he was just in time to witness something else suffer the exact same fate: the dirt road.

This . . . can’t be . . . happening, he said, as, with a pl-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t! sound, a fine film of dewy grass grew over the dirt beneath and in front of him (incidentally, the now-trod dirt behind him remained uncovered).

The grass grew at a rate of about a millimeter a second, and before Adam had quite had time to wrap his brain around what was happening, the road, like the archway, was no more. (Later, whenever he had reason to recount the details of his arrival in Staplehorn, he tended to downplay the effect that seeing the grass blot out the direction-changing road had had on him. Where I come from, he’d say, grass grows too slowly to be perceptible. So it was just a given that seeing its growth occur in real time that day would bowl me over.)

Um . . . okay, Adam spat. So essentially I’m stuck here, right? With a black look, he cast his eyes skyward, as if the answer to his question might be written somewhere in the clouds (of course, bearing in mind the road-and-archway-and-grass to-dos he’d observed only this minute, they very well could be). Well, we’ll just see about that!

In a huff, Adam left the road’s new ending behind, suddenly in an all-fired hurry to search for civilization. Going up the hills, he took long, even strides (or as long as his short, spindly legs would allow, anyway). Going down them, he jogged, finding that the best way to avoid stumbling.

Throughout this hike, the word psychedelic echoed repeatedly in his head. And for good reason. All around him, everywhere he looked, the ground was sheathed in flowers-and-rocks-constituted patterns — concentric circles, stripes, paisley, argyle, polka-dots, the patterns covered the entire sweep of decorative designs, from the simple and prosaic to the elaborate and bizarre.

They oughta call this place the ‘Patchwork Wonderland’! Adam haughtily declared while tottering across a pink and green swirl situated at the base of an expansive dale. "That’s a much more appropriate name than Staplehorn!"

As the day wore on, passing slowly into night, Adam’s feet began to drag. He was exhausted, and he felt like getting some shut-eye; however, being the dogged and determined person that he was, he forced himself to keep trooping forward. There were so many things he wanted to know about this peculiar land he’d inadvertently traveled to, and so far he knew exactly zero of them.

At one point, hoping to revive himself, he started whistling.

You there! The man with the braids! Cut that out! Some of us are trying to sleep!

Startled, Adam instinctively moved into a defensive stance. Then he turned his head this way and that, looking for the person who’d spoken.

But there was no person. A few feet ahead, sitting on its haunches at the crest of a smallish hill, was an aardvark — but the presence of an aardvark didn’t account for the admonition that he, Adam, had received just now for whistling.

Who’s there? Adam asked.

Me.

Adam hesitated. Me? Erm . . . that’s pretty vague. Could you be more specific?

Could you be more observant? I’m right in front of you, sir. Notice that handsome aardvark sitting on top of the hill? That’s me.

Adam looked twice, full of misgivings; simultaneously, he let go of his bindle and breadbasket, both of them falling with hardly a sound to the ground. Y-you . . . c-can . . . t-talk? he managed to say, fidgeting uneasily. The back of his neck was caked in gooseflesh.

Mm-hmm. I can also sleep. Speaking of which … . Insouciantly, the Aardvark went from sitting on his haunches — the sound of the Aardvark’s voice made it clear to Adam that he was speaking to a male, not a female — to lying down. Then he curled himself into a ball and closed his eyes.

Wait.

The Aardvark saw no reason not to indulge him. "What do you want now?" he asked, opening his eyes.

Can all the animals around here talk?

Except for newborns and the occasional mute, yes.

Adam mopped his brow. "What exactly is this place? A city? A state?"

It’s a country — good night!

Scoffing, Adam turned away and sauntered off. There were more than a few additional questions he would have liked to ask the Aardvark, but that fact notwithstanding, he was relieved to be moving on. This was the first time he’d ever had a conversation with an animal; for that reason, we should have no trouble forgiving him for finding the experience unsettling.

Once the Aardvark was out of sight, Adam sat down on a field of orange-and-blue-gingham grass and kicked off his weather-beaten running shoes. That done, he shed the white, short-sleeved dress shirt and loose-fitting denim jeans he’d been wearing, then threw on a pair of freshly washed, pinstriped pajamas.

I wonder what the natives are like, he said, earnest-faced. A couple seconds later, though, he reversed this position. "Actually, I don’t wonder. I’m sure they’re just as petty and obnoxious here as they are everywhere else."

Being a nomad with an unconventional appearance, Adam often found himself the subject of gossip and ridicule in the towns through which he promenaded. Just last week, for example, after coming across a farmers market and deciding to stop and take a look at all the wares, he’d noticed a couple gawking at him from behind a fruit stand.

Wow! he’d heard the wife/girlfriend say to her husband/boyfriend. "A man wearing his hair in braids? What’s up with that?"

Beats me! the husband/boyfriend had replied. "Up until a second ago, when you pointed out that it was a man, I honestly thought it was a little girl."

No matter. Adam had never been one to worry about fitting in. He was an individualist, a contrarian — so much so, in fact, that he sometimes wondered what he’d do if it ever became the norm for men to wear their hair in braids. Would he leave his hair the way it was now, even though he might come across as a conformist, or would he cut it short, just to be different?

But of course he knew what he’d do without having to actually be placed in that situation. He’d keep his hair long no matter what anyone else in the world was doing. The look of braids, irrespective of a person’s gender, was an aesthetic that had always appealed to him. Moreover, he considered himself to be a master craftsman, a genius with his hands — not only had he weaved his breadbasket himself, using nothing but a bundle of reeds, he made all his own clothing, sutured any serious cuts he received amidst his travels, and, on occasion, made arts and crafts to sell for money, food, and/or shelter — and the daily process of braiding and unbraiding his hair allowed him to hold onto that part of his identity.

Yawning, Adam stretched out on his back, unbraided his hair — as always, his thick, golden-brown tresses provided a first-rate cushion for his head — and gazed up at the stars. Before long, he’d fallen asleep and deep into dreams.

* * *

Early the next morning, Adam came upon a forest of apple trees and, knowing he’d want the shade once the sun rose, went inside.

"Adam, ya brilliant bastard. Always thinking ahead, aren’tcha? Keep it up and I bet you’ll live to be a hundred — maybe more."

Our wayfaring fish out of water ambled along for hours, eating apples from the trees whenever his stomach growled, occasionally stopping to rest. It seemed like the forest would go on forever, but then, by mid-afternoon, the trees finally began to thin out.

It’s coming, he thought, tightening his grips on his bindle stick and breadbasket handle, bracing himself for whatever lay ahead. It’s almost here. I can feel it in my bones. I don’t know whether I should be excited or petrified.

Sure enough, after a short time, the canopy of leaves melted away into sunlight and Adam found himself standing at the edge of an immense, grassy clearing (the grass here, unlike that which he’d tromped over the day before, was a solid, patternless green, completely devoid of flowers and rocks). In the center of this clearing, about a quarter of a mile from where he stood, was a pair of massive, spherical cities. The one to the