The Bumbling Heroics of Bolliver Hoopsleeve

By Austin Scarberry

With his first appearance in Wyngraf #2, author Austin Scarberry introduced us to Bolliver Hoopsleeve, an endearingly earnest gnomish acrobat/picklock/aerial fencer.

Thanks to popular demand, Bollie returned in his own cozy fantasy adventure series. Across twelve hilarious and thrilling stories, Bollie and friends confronted perilous possum people, deadly divine ducks, and lots and lots of locks.

At last, all of Bollie’s adventures are collected in one book, featuring behind-the-scenes commentary from Austin Scarberry and editor Nathaniel Webb and a brand-new, exclusive bonus story, “Bolliver Hoopsleeve and the Skater Skrap!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wyngraf
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224758142

Book preview

FROM THE EDITOR

In August 2022, when we opened submissions for Wyngraf’s second issue, I had no idea what to expect. We’d received some incredible stories for Wyngraf #1, but would we see the same quality and quantity again? Or had the well run dry, after all the cozy fantasy authors with stories waiting got their shot?

Imagine my delight, then, when a story called Hoopsleeve Family Values dropped into the Wyngraf inbox. Great opening line? Check. Cozy high fantasy setting? Check. But ah—it was a comedic piece. And comedy, particularly in genre fiction, is notoriously difficult. For decades, humorous fantasy has been the province of cheap pastiche, groan-inducing puns, and in earlier eras, awful stereotypes.

Hoopsleeve Family Values was different. For one thing, it was actually funny—but more on that later. For another, it wasn’t just a parade of gags. There was real character beneath the surface: Bolliver’s exasperated but loving parents, Brancus’s fragile ego, and most of all, Bollie’s unfailing positivity and desire to do good, no matter how misguided. And as writers know, real humor is always driven by character.

So I snatched the story up for Wyngraf #2 (which turned out great, thank you very much). And the next year, when submissions opened for Wyngraf #3, one Austin Scarberry reached out again. He had another story, and a proposition: a series of Hoopsleeve adventures, appearing in each successive issue of Wyngraf. Like episodes of a TV show, each would stand alone, but over the course of however many issues, they’d add up to a grand plotline.

Now, to understand why this idea got me jazzed, you need to know a little something about me. My grandfather was a professional writer, and he got his start in the pulp mags of the thirties, writing romance, westerns, mysteries, and more. (His lasting claim to fame is creating Grace Redsie Culver, the first female P.I. to star in her own series, in a popular run of backup stories for the mega-selling detective pulp The Shadow.)

In those days, hit characters and serialized stories were the two main tricks pulp editors had to keep readers coming back. But the readership was far larger, in an era when talkies were new and television a far-off dream. By one estimate, when my grandfather’s Grace Culver stories were running, The Shadow was selling three hundred thousand copies per issue, twice a month.

We should all be so lucky!

So, having pondered the changed nature of the magazine biz a hundred years post-pulp, I replied to Austin with a counter-proposal. What if he wrote a story a month for six months, and I sent them out to Wyngraf’s mailing list? It seemed like a fun way to make the newsletter more than just updates and advertising, and might help us convince new readers to sign up.

After six months, if folks liked Bollie’s running adventures, Austin and I could renew his contract for another six. And if those did well…

You hold the result in your hand: The Bumbling Heroics of Bolliver Hoopsleeve, a collection of all twelve newsletter tales, plus a new story commissioned especially for this volume.

But to go back to the beginning for a moment, what was it about Bolliver Hoopsleeve that won my heart (and the hearts of so many readers)? I’ve mentioned his unflappable positivity, and I might add his bravery, eagerness to help, and skill with a lockpick set. But most of all: the stories are funny.

Like, actually funny.

Yes, there are the requisite groaners sprinkled throughout. But those are more like seasoning, just one ingredient in a stew that includes wacky situations, memorable guest stars, and countless clever turns of phrase. I laughed out loud at least once while editing each story Austin sent in. One of the best parts of the job was sharing my favorite line from each month’s story whenever I emailed to let Austin know I’d sent his payment.

Writing humor isn’t easy. Writing humor that arises from genuine characters, lovable but flawed, dropped into wild situations and set loose to be themselves—that really isn’t easy. But Austin Scarberry makes it look effortless. It was as true the first time I read Hoopsleeve Family Values as when I edited Bolliver Hoopsleeve and the Skater Skrap, and for every tale in between.

Maybe you’re a newsletter subscriber and you’ve already read twelve of these stories. Maybe you missed a few months, and this is your chance to catch up. Or maybe this is your introduction to the weird world of Bollie and his friends—in which case, welcome!

Regardless, the book you hold is the culmination of over a year of plotting, planning, writing, editing, layout, art orders, and on one memorable occasion, stubbing my toe on the coffee table. I’d like to thank Austin for his tireless efforts throughout this adventure (he might make it look easy, but it’s not), and Wyngraf’s devoted readers for enjoying these gems from Austin’s year in the joke mines. I’d also like to thank the incredible Sage Curtis for the gorgeous cover painting. Making Bollie step on an alligator was Sage’s idea.

Now—on to the stories!

Nathaniel Webb

Publisher, Wyngraf

March, 2024

HOOPSLEEVE FAMILY VALUES

Bolliver Hoopsleeve was not a bright boy.

Oh, he could fly the aerial trapeze very well, and he could fence with grace and precision. He could even recite more than a few popular poems in a pinch, speaking by rote when the words became too long and difficult to understand (as they quite often did). In fact, Bolliver could do many things that young men his age could not do, and he considered these skills more than ample to offset his intellectual shortcomings. Not all agreed.

As he sat on a stool in the ringmasters’ tent—his parents’ tent—of the Hoopsleeve Family Circus, Bolliver contemplated this notion. His nubbish gnome legs swung idly as he considered, and his sandy ponytail swished as his head tilted back and forth, back and forth, subconsciously keeping time with the colorful green-and-red bird bobber on his mother’s desk.

It wasn’t a bad place to be sitting and thinking, he reckoned. The ringmasters’ tent was warm but not stuffy, breezy enough for fresh air and a measure of chill to leach inside without compromising the tent’s exceptional coziness. Canvas walls on all four sides were bedecked with posters and promotional materials from past shows all over the kingdom. Bolliver loved these the most. Decades of experiences and misadventures slept beneath the paint and lettering, countless anecdotes which his parents would extract from a poster whenever they were in a storytelling mood. He stared at one of his favorites, from a show in Duggerton, and tried to remember whether it had been the elf prince who had tried to run off with the Hoopsleeve Family Circus incognito and escape his responsibilities, or merely an elf lord, and, for that matter, what the difference really was, practically speaking?

Besides being bedecked in bills, the ringmasters’ tent always smelled pleasantly of camellia and lavender due to the Hoopsleeves’ unquenchable thirst for herbal tea blends. It was a bonding activity for the family, selecting local flora and blending them into new and unique regional teas which they would all sip together while saying things like oh my, that ginger is brazen, or I don’t much care for the surplus of mint here, or does chamomile remind anyone else of apples? Bolliver hoped he had been summoned to his parents’ tent for one such delightful evening. Yet he had a sneaking suspicion (which, in fairness, grew less sneaky by the moment) that he hoped in vain.

Bolliver’s father Benry stood behind the desk, arms crossed, forehead veins poised to burst. His mother Tulia sat at the desk proper, rubbing her temples with two fingers and sighing intermittently. Every few seconds she took a deep breath and looked up at her son, only to fall back into sighs once more and return to massaging her headache. Bolliver felt they were being overhard on him, that after all, he hadn’t really done much damage to the circus, and certainly had only cost them a bit of coin for closing early.

But Bolliver Hoopsleeve was not a bright boy.

Finally, Tulia Hoopsleeve collected herself, steepling her fingers on the desk and frowning at her son.

Now, Bollie, she said, I want you to know that I’m not angry with you, mostly. Just deeply, deeply disappointed. Extremely disappointed, you could say.

On the other hand, Benry Hoopsleeve chimed in, I want you to know that I’m not disappointed in you, mostly. Just deeply, deeply angry. Extremely angry, you could say.

Thank you dear, I can handle this, said Tulia, patting her husband’s hand and sending him off to the commissary tent to fetch a sachet of calming lavender tea. When he had gone, shaking his head all the while, she turned back to her son and continued, Now why don’t you walk me through the evening from your point of view?

Walk you through? Bolliver asked uncertainly. He fidgeted with the wide, bell-shaped cuffs from which his family took their name and glanced around the tent. There seemed not nearly enough room for the distance he had walked that eve.

Yes, said his mother, who naturally was accustomed to this sort of confusion, what I mean is, describe what you did this evening, and why, so that I can begin to understand your actions.

Oh! Okay, that’s easy! replied her blissful son. He adjusted the chinstrap on his pointed cap and scooted to the edge of his seat. First, we were practicing the aerial bear fencing act, in the big top. You were there, and so was dad, and so was Sark, and so was Mackintosh, and so was⁠—

Yes, I remember who was there. And after the rehearsal?

After rehearsal I took Terrence back to his cage.

Bolliver sighed, laying atop the carriage housing Terrence the Bear, and traced the constellations with his finger. He didn’t know their names, so instead drew new shapes and characters each time he stargazed. It was more fun that way, he thought. His mood was floaty and his heart was heavy, both at once, which puzzled the young gnome and drove him deeper into doldrums. At least Terrence was present to provide company, if not consolation.

I don’t know, Terrence, Bolliver sighed, it’s just not as fun as it used to be. Don’t get me wrong, I love landing triple flips and sword-fighting with you in midair, but the whole show’s sort of lost its magic, you know?

He leaned over the carriage roof and peered, upside-down, through the iron bars and into his ursine friend’s eyes. Terrence shifted a bit and snorted noncommittally, as bears are known to do when the fancy strikes them.

Right, agreed Bolliver, it just doesn’t feel exciting anymore, does it? Not like it used to when we were little kids.

Terrence the Bear could not speak, due to a chronic—indeed, lifelong—case of being a bear, but even were this obstacle removed he would offer little reassurance. You see, this was actually the sixth or seventh (the Hoopsleeves could never quite remember which, they went through bears so oft) Terrence the Bear in roughly as many years. The aerial bear fencing act was, after all, extremely dangerous, and required a level of focus and agility which most of Terrence VII’s peers found troublesome to acquire. Terrence VII had himself lucked into it through sheer natural talent, as well as the convenience of being the only trained grizzly in the province at the time of his predecessor’s tragic slip.

Such rapid turnover had naturally escaped the notice of Bolliver Hoopsleeve, who was not a bright boy.

Sometimes, continued Bolliver, I just want to take a break from performing and do something different. Only thing is, my folks would never let me loose from the circus on my own. They don’t even let me go grocery shopping without one of the carnival hands along.

(That’s because you need help with reading! protested Tulia. What if you got lost, or worse: what if you couldn’t find the eggs?

I can find eggs, mama!)

A tight triple backflip returned Bolliver to ground level before the carriage. He leaned against the bars and sighed.

Suppose it’s still better than your situation, he told Terrence. Only getting out of your cage a couple of times each day. If it were up to me, I’d let you walk around as you pleased, same as any other performer.

At that moment, something truly extraordinary happened, something that had only happened a handful of times in Bolliver’s fifteen years, something that excited and frightened him at once: at that moment, Bolliver had an idea. It was an idea that he felt quite sure would resolve the matter of his parents’ overprotectiveness and prove that he was a mature, grown man, capable of providing for his own wellbeing and determining his own course, no matter where that course might take him.

But Bolliver Hoopsleeve was not a bright boy.

I’ve got it! he proclaimed. I’ll let you out of the carriage so you can stretch your legs and show them they’ve been scared over nothing! Then they’ll think about how alike we are, and how they should let me ‘out of the carriage’ to ‘stretch my legs’ too!

(Dear me, Bollie, sighed his mother, I do hope the thought process was deeper than that.

What do you mean?

Forget it, ’twas a fool’s hope. Continue your story.)

He made to unlatch the door but was stopped by an elaborate padlock in the shape of a winding wyvern. Three separate keyholes stood in a row on the lock’s chamber, and try as he might, Bolliver was unable to force it open. He stood back and strained his mind as he attempted to think up a solution. After a moment, he clapped his hands decisively.

Oh, that’s right! Papa keeps the keys in his pocket ever since the magic bean incident. Which was hardly even my fault, he told Terrence.

(Tulia raised her eyebrows at this, but remained respectfully, skeptically silent.)

Okay, sit tight, pal! said Bolliver. I’ll be back to free you in no time! And with that, he set off toward the far end of the fairgrounds.

The Hoopsleeve Family Circus was a large and ostentatious affair, lucky enough to draw crowds that could support over a hundred performers and stagehands. This meant, too, that the arenas they set up were rather large, usually encompassing land that could have been an entire village, or two, or even three, depending on local population density. With his short legs, Bolliver was in for a bit of a trek before he would arrive at the Ringmasters’ Offices.

He passed wiggling stilt-walkers, ferocious fire-breathers, and more than one clown crafting unusual balloon creatures like ogres or iguanas, each performer offering a friendly greeting and a smile. Bolliver paid back their good cheer with interest.

Fizzy, looking good! he called out as he went. How’s your night going, Frederic? Bethicca, save me some cotton candy, huh? The pink kind!

Weaving between legs and under rings of fire, Bolliver felt at home. He felt energized, inspired; the Hoopsleeve Family Circus was a melting pot of talent and wonder, and he couldn’t wait for Terrence to finally experience it all first-paw.

At last he arrived at the Ringmasters’ Offices, better known to him as his parents’ tent. He made no effort at stealth. As their employers’ son, no circus hands would question his foray through the flap of their room. Inside was his mother’s familiar maple-wood desk, facing the door and hosting a vacant chair behind. To the left were two freestanding shelves stocked with playbills and guidebooks on animal care. On the right, a curtain beaded in the family colors of blue and purple separated Benry and Tulia’s personal living quarters, and beside it hung a sign requesting, politely, that anyone else keep their nose out lest it be severed from their face.

Mama? Bolliver called. Papa? Are you home?

When no response came, he nodded and pumped a victorious fist.

Okay, step one: get inside the office. Done! Now for step two: find the keys, he said, speaking aloud to remind himself why he was there.

Bolliver wondered where he might like to reside were he a backup keyring, but this mental projection proved too demanding. Instead, he picked a random spot in the tent and worked outward from there. He lifted letters, crawled under chairs, sorted through drawers, and even became so desperate as to begin pulling books from shelves into a big heap on the floor.

("Aha! exclaimed Benry, who had since returned with the tea. I knew someone had been mucking around our shelves! See, Tulia? I would never have left a row of books unalphabetized!"

Yes, very well, dear, she conceded.)

At last, Bolliver was forced to admit defeat without having found a single key. He put the books back on their shelves in the same order he had found them in, as far as he could tell, and tidied up a bit so his parents wouldn’t notice the intrusion. It seemed that Terrence VII would forever remain a prisoner, unrewarded, his talents taken advantage of for the remainder of his long life—or at least until his paw slipped from the trapeze and Terrence VIII carried on the awful arrangement.

As he morosely marched back to Terrence’s carriage to break the news, Bolliver heard a familiar voice call out to him, refined and academic. It was not the sort of voice one often hears in a circus company, and so Bolliver knew at once who the voice belonged to: his good friend and often-frustrated teacher, Brancus of Shiggles.

Brancus was a tall, dark human with two degrees from Shiggles University and a desperately sparse beard that he was nonetheless exceedingly proud of. He taught lessons to the employees’ children, including Bolliver, so that they could gain literacy and some measure of useful worldly knowledge should they ever decide to leave the Hoopsleeve Family Circus. Bolliver knew Brancus to be a problem solver, yet he doubted that even such a learned man could find a way out of the current quagmire.

Ho, Bolliver! shouted Brancus. Why, that step of yours lacks its usual spring, if I am not mistaken. In point of fact, I do believe it contains the opposite of a spring, which I will now deem, the terminology having never been documented to my knowledge, an anti-spring. Or does nega-spring have a better ring?

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bolliver moped. But I’ve got trouble, Mr. Brancus.

Trouble, you say? Did you say trouble? asked Brancus, who had a habit of speaking roughly twice as many words as were warranted.

I said trouble, confirmed Bolliver. I need to open a lock, but I can’t find the key.

Hmm… ruminated Brancus. And have you, my boy, thought to ask the ringmasters, that is to say, more concisely, and in concision there is true intellect, of course, have you asked either of them where to locate the object of your objective?

Did I ask what?

Did you ask your parents where the key might be found?

(In a better world, muttered Tulia, looking somewhere far away, a more sensible world…

Bolliver craned his neck trying to see what she saw, at which point she snapped out of her reverie, shook her head, and motioned for him to continue.)

I can’t, explained Bolliver. The point is to show them I can do things on my own without their help.

Whyever would one such as you, a cherished son, I might say, wish to forgo the aid of his familial support network? queried Brancus.

Huh? said Bolliver.

Why don’t you want their help?

Bolliver thought about it for a moment or two. I s’pose I want to be able to do things on my own, like go to the grocer, or lots of other things, without somebody coming along to nanny me.

Ah, sighed Brancus wistfully, and he winked at Bolliver as if they now shared a secret, the youthful yearning for independence. I know it well. I’ll have you know the same urge arose in my own breast when I was but a boy of barely nine. Of course, you should also know that my grammar and mathematics were exceptional even at nine, and mine own parentage held not a scrap of doubt as to my competence, and they allowed me anything I so desired, provided I put forth the request in a well-reasoned and eloquent manner. Excepting these distinctions, our situations stand nearly identical.

Uh-huh, nodded Bolliver.

Therefore, Brancus continued, I shall assist adroitly against all obstacles occupying the present path to our mutual raison d'être.

Can you just…? sighed Bolliver as he rubbed his aching temples.

I will help you find the key.

That’s terrific! the boy yelped, headache immediately forgotten. Where should we start?

Brancus crossed his arms and closed his eyes. His eyebrows were thick as a broom, and when he was thinking hard they tended to twitch up and down, up and down, which did little to dispel the resemblance to a diligent sweeper. Bolliver took note of the intellectual posture and followed suit. He soon began to wonder if his imitation were imperfect, however, since he struggled now more than ever to produce a cunning idea. He cracked an eyelid, noticed Brancus thinking hard with all his might, and presently abandoned his own efforts. After all, he thought, there was no way he could think up something Brancus couldn’t. The man had two degrees.

Suddenly, Brancus’s eyes snapped open like a springing rat trap. He snapped his fingers together, a skill Bolliver had always envied, and made a noise somewhere between Oho! and Hmhm!

Did you have an idea? asked