Ginger and the Beast by Rachael Lippe Ginger sat on her toadstool and thumped her heels against the stem. Thump, thump, thump, thump, and then some more thumping. Ginger allowed her legs to hang, but the thumping did not go away. Louder and louder, closer and closer until it appeared around the clump of zinkle. “About time you showed up,” she said, glaring at the beast. “Hodani a melama, there was traffic,” he grumbled. Ginger rolled her eyes and flew toward him. She was no bigger than his trumple, but didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. “Come on, let's go,” she landed on his shoulder, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the putrid smell of old fish and garhunkle. “Zunkle hugle tees, my apologies miss. “Yeah yeah,” she said, annoyed that she had to do this.