Welcome to Corelandia, a bureaucratic fantasy world where reality is managed by cosmic customer service, filing cabinets have feelings, and Tuesdays are statistically more likely to ruin your life. These standalone tales explore a universe built by well-meaning entities who never quite understood what they were creating.
Emotionally Volatile Aquatic Feature (Pending Review)
Or: A cautionary ripple-tale from the Territories of Mild Concern
Once, nestled between the Vinegar Dunes and the Forest of Loud Opinions, there was a lake who had filed seventeen formal complaints about her job description.
Not just a lake—because nothing in Corelandia is just anything anymore—but officially registered as Body of Water #7B, Temporary Flood Event (Now Permanent), Druid Zone Redacted, Emotionally Volatile Aquatic Feature (Pending Review).
Locals called her Lake Lorna Belle, though “locals” consisted of two cartographers with boundary disputes, one floating bard who couldn’t commit to dry land, and a talking fence post who’d gotten tenure through a filing error.
Lorna Belle was wide. She was deep. She occasionally ate boats (strictly for nutritional purposes, she claimed). And she was profoundly miserable.
You see, Lorna Belle was a lake who did not want to be a lake.
She didn’t care about supporting fish communities. She found lily pads pretentious. She had zero interest in being “serene” or “reflective” or “good for romantic gondola rides where people propose and then blame her if it goes badly.”
No, Lorna Belle wanted one thing: to dance.
Not splash. Not ripple apologetically during poetry readings. Not provide “gentle lapping sounds for meditation purposes.”
She wanted to MOVE. Tango through valleys. Samba down tributaries. Breakdance so hard that tide charts would file for emotional damages.
The problem? She had no feet, no rhythm section, and a sacred restriction against “reckless hydrodynamics without proper choreographic permits.”
But even the most waterproof bureaucracy springs leaks eventually.
One Tuesday (because cosmic inconvenience always strikes on Tuesday), it started again.
First, a rebellious swirl near the dock where Old Hamwick was teaching his grandson to fish. Then a sassy shimmy that sent three ducks into emergency formation. Then—WHA-BOOM—full aquatic interpretive dance.
Boats flipped like pancakes having existential crises. A ceremonial cheese barge carrying the Monks of Sacred Brie was capsized mid-blessing, sending robed figures flailing through the shallows while screaming theological curses that made the fish blush.
“CODE SPLASH! CODE SPLASH!” shrieked Berrick, the town’s Wave Watcher Emeritus (officially retired but still wore the sash because it made him feel important).
“The lake’s having another episode!” someone yelled as a wedding gondola attempted an unsolicited barrel roll, launching the bride’s bouquet into low orbit.
Fish flew in synchronized panic. Frogs filed noise complaints. A kelp harpist was briefly employed as emergency percussion before being flung back to the unemployment line.
The townsfolk, hardy and deeply resigned to supernatural nonsense, convened an Emergency Circle of Moderate Concern. Mayor Plumsworth produced an official scroll with impressive wax seals:
CEASE AND DESIST ORDER #447-B
To: Lake Lorna Belle
RE: Unauthorized Aquatic Choreography
Violation of Municipal Code 14-C: “No Dancing Without Permit, Moon Approval, or Written Consent of All Affected Waterfowl”
They read it aloud with great ceremony. The lake responded by executing a perfect water-spout pirouette that launched a duck into someone’s chimney.
Here’s the thing about Lorna Belle: she didn’t want to ruin fishing season. She hadn’t meant to destroy fourteen weddings, six baptisms, and one increasingly suspicious duck funeral. But when that rhythm hit her depths—when the music only she could hear started playing—she simply had to move.
The bards would later sing of “The Tempest Waltz” (mostly because it rhymed and they were on deadline). The squirrels declared the entire basin “Hydrologically Unstable” and filed paperwork to have their territory moved somewhere with more predictable geology.
But someone else was watching.
High above, hanging like a cosmic spotlight with opinions, the Moon observed. She’d seen empires rise and fall, witnessed the Great Pickle Wars, even survived that awkward century when everyone worshipped doorknobs. But never had she seen a lake so desperate to be more than just… wet.
The Moon, being celestially unemployed since the invention of streetlights, had time to appreciate artistic suffering.
So that night, as Lorna Belle began her usual chaotic flailing, the Moon made a decision.
She leaned in. Just slightly. A gentle celestial nudge.
And suddenly, Lorna Belle felt it—not the manic urge to thrash, but actual rhythm. Real music. The kind that starts in your soul and works its way to your… well, whatever lakes have instead of feet.
Together, they danced.
The lake and the moon. A duet written in gravity and grace. One pulling, one following. Waves that curved like silk scarves. Moonlight that painted silver steps across the water.
For the first time since her creation (during a particularly creative bureaucratic accident), Lorna Belle felt understood.
The waves curled gently. No boats capsized. No cheese was harmed. Even the ducks hummed along—quietly, because they had reputations to maintain.
By morning, the water was still.
The townspeople approached with the careful optimism of people who’d learned not to trust quiet lakes. But Lorna Belle remained calm, finally satisfied. She’d been heard. She’d been held by moonlight. And somehow, that was enough.
Now, once each month when the moon is fullest and the bureaucrats are asleep, the lake dances again. But this time there’s no chaos—only rhythm. Only beauty.
The townspeople no longer file complaints. Some even sell tickets.
And on perfect nights, when the air shimmers with possibility and the squirrels aren’t filing noise ordinances, you might witness it: moonlight and water, spinning together in something so achingly beautiful that you almost forget this is a world where lakes need permits to feel feelings and happiness requires documentation in triplicate.
The Moral?
Even in a reality where bureaucracy conquered physics and joy is regulated by committee, a lake can still find her moon. Sometimes the most beautiful dances happen when someone finally says, “The hell with the paperwork.”
Now playing at the Municipal Opera House: “Lorna Belle: The Musical”
(Tuesdays and Thursdays, weather permitting, no refunds for acts of interpretive hydrology)
