Three Basic Defenses against Web Goblins

by Rudi Dornemann

Viruses, trojans, malware, spoofing websites–for the unsuspecting websurfer, the online world was fraught with dangers enough as it was, and now there’s the threat of goblins. There have been plenty of articles online lately with background information (who knew that so many leprechauns were so heavily leveraged or that the changeling futures market would tank so precipitously and have such a ripple effect throughout the economies of the fairy realms?) or tips for spotting an infestation (a flickering greenish glow behind your keyboard; your cooling fan begins to sound like it’s muttering in some consonant-rich unearthly language) but practical advice for solving the problem has been noticeably scarce. In the spirit of good net citizenship, we at the Daily Cabal offer some strategies we’ve found effective:

1. Iron
The oldest of anti-fairfolk remedies is still one of the most reliable. Many online retailers carry rusty iron USB flash drives, some with charmed silver circuit boards–which may or may not increase their potency. Take care, however, not to search on “thumb drives” when searching the magitech sites that carry such things, or you may wind up with something made from an actual thumb, on a principle similar to the black magic Hand of Glory. While these do wonders for extending battery life, they do nothing for your goblin problem, and may imperil your immortal soul.

2. Trolls
Just as it’s helpful to introduce ladybugs to a garden to control aphids, introducing hot-button political or religious issues to one’s blog can attract trolls, which will in turn cause most goblins to flee in panic. Unfortunately, your normal readership may flee in a similar manner, and you may need to purchase some alpha predator plug-in to return the natural balance, such as BaLrOGger.

3. Enya
Elves love the New Agey Irish songstress; goblins hate elves. Therefore, a continuous loop of Enya MP3s can be highly effective, at least in the short term. Some goblins develop a resistance, in which case you may notice your Enya collection transmogrifying first into some female-fronted Nordic opera metal band (e.g. Nightwish) before sliding all the way into superblackened death metal with song titles that will summon unspeakable horrors out of the abyss and onto your hard drive. In these situations, administer controlled doses of Loreena McKennitt or, in extreme circumstances, Björk, who, as is commonly known, actually is an elf.

Of Few Words

by Luc Reid

Esme only speaks once every ten years, on the first sunny day in October, usually in the middle of the morning when the light’s still gentle. At other times she’ll smile or shake her head or point or make a disapproving noise or even sing wordlessly, but only on those rare October mornings does she speak.

It’s traditional for the family to gather for these times, piling into the old house Esme shares with her daughter Julia and Julia’s girlfriend, Mish: all six of her children with their spouses or lovers, their children and dogs, sleeping in every available space in sleeping bags or on cots from the old hunting cabin. Mish makes Austrian pancakes in the mornings, and they have barbeques and softball games and they play canasta whenever it isn’t morning and sunny.

Most years a family or two is missing, but this time everyone is there, and even by-the-book Marshall has pulled his kids out of school, because Esme is dying. They all know it. This will be the last time.

It has rained for three mornings in a row, but today came up crisp and bright, and frost silvers the brilliant leaves on the maple outside the kitchen window. They make their way into Esme’s room early, bringing their plates of Austrian pancakes with confectioner’s sugar and preserves, their coffee and grapes and cranberry juice and scrambled eggs with paprika. When the room is full, more of the family settles down just outside, in the hallway.

Esme sleeps for a long time this morning, restlessly. When she finally opens her eyes and hush spreads across the room and out the door, she smiles so joyfully that the room seems to get brighter.

It’s Jackie she motions to, her youngest grandbaby, only eight years old. Jackie squeezes through to Esme’s bed and climbs up to lie down next to grandmama.

When Esme speaks, her voice is so soft and cracked, no one can make out the words except for Jackie.

Esme says: “You always ask me why, but it’s just that nobody used to listen. You see?”

And Jackie nods seriously. She does see.