The Tidgetrotters of the Stinking Waters

The bay has been called the Bay of the Stinking Waters since long before I carried a pencil, and it earns the name in a warm August. The water goes thick and green and the smell comes off it for a mile. I had always taken that for the bay dying. From the point that morning, through the scope, I watched it being defended.

They will not let themselves be seen close, so I drew them at the far end of a glass: a crew of them, none taller than a teacup, working a longboat cobbled out of everything the shore throws away. Mismatched planking, a skull for a figurehead, a sail with an eye painted on it to see what the crew cannot. Bug-eyed, horned, gold-decked things, and as serious as any harbor watch. They circled the point and put back out. They were not scavenging the wreck of the bay. They were the reason the wreck had not gone further.

I had come to the water expecting to record its decline, and recorded its wardens instead. What ails the bay is ours, our runoff, our warmth, our hurry. What holds the line against it is teacup-high and made of driftwood, and asks nothing of us but that we not step on the boat.

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An earlier telling of this plate, recovered with it. Kept as found.

In a realm where reality danced with whimsy and the absurd, there existed a yonderland unlike any other. It was a place where the laws of physics frolicked hand in hand with the imagination, and where tales of the bizarre found their home.

In this peculiar land, there lay the enigmatic Bay of Stinking Waters, a place where the air was thick with mystery and the scent of adventure mingled with the odor of decay. It was a haven for strange creatures, both big and small, who inhabited its murky depths and misty shores.

One peculiar day, amidst the fog that veiled the aqueous realm, this curious observer found himself peering through a viewing scope. With each turn of the lens, the world around them seemed to warp and bend, revealing a spectacle beyond comprehension.

Through the gazing glass, I beheld a band of diminutive critters, no taller than a teacup, scurrying about the rugged shoreline. These creatures, known to me as the Tidgetrotters, were guardians of the bay, sworn to protect its secrets from the intrusion of outsiders.

With their miniature frames and steely determination, the Tidgetrotters embarked on their daily patrol, circling the point with precision and purpose. Armed with tools fashioned from driftwood and seaweed, they labored tirelessly to fortify their makeshift vessel, a ramshackle ship cobbled together from the flotsam and jetsam of the shore.

Their ship, a patchwork of mismatched planks and tangled vines, creaked and groaned as it bobbed upon the briny waves. Yet, despite its precarious construction, the Tidgetrotters navigated it with skill and finesse, weaving through treacherous currents and rocky shoals with the grace of seasoned sailors.

As they patrolled the perimeter of the ethereal currents, the Tidgetrotters remained ever vigilant, keeping watch for any sign of trouble or impending danger. With keen eyes and quick reflexes, they thwarted the advances of would-be colonists, repelling them with a combination of cunning and resourcefulness.

But their duties did not end there. In addition to defending their liquid domain from outsiders, the Tidgetrotters also tended to its ecological balance, preserving its delicate ecosystem with tender care. They planted seaweed gardens along the shoreline, nurtured by the brackish waters that ebbed and flowed with the tides.

And so, the Bay of Stinking Waters remained a sanctuary of wonder and enchantment, guarded by the steadfast vigilance of its diminutive protectors. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting its golden glow upon the shimmering waves, the Tidgetrotters continued their eternal patrol, bound by duty and devotion to their beloved bay.