Moo Yah Treats
Handcrafted Fudge

It began, as many important discoveries do, with laundry.

The dryer had finished its cycle. The clothes were warm, the room was quiet, and the lint

trap was full. Annette pulled it out and scraped the lint into her hand. She was about to drop

it into the trash when she stopped. There was something about it. She turned it over, then

turned it over again. It had no discernible shape, which naturally made her suspicious.

She pulled a small piece from one side. The remaining lint changed shape.

Annette stared at it. “Are you trying to communicate?”

The lint said nothing. This was perhaps its greatest strength.

She placed it on the counter and looked at it again. “What are you trying to tell me?”

Nothing.

She leaned closer. Still nothing.

She examined the lint from the previous load, then the load before that, and then another.

There were differences. Some lint was soft and fluffy. Some was tightly compacted. Some

contained astonishing quantities of hair. One appeared to have the unmistakable shape of

Montana.

Annette stopped. That one deserved further consideration.

She had spent a ridiculous amount of time lately sorting through things that didn't always

make sense at first glance. The house was changing. So was she. There were rooms to clear,

decisions to make, and half the objects in her care seemed completely useless until she

looked at them from a sideways angle.

Annette sat at the kitchen table surrounded by tiny lint samples and wondered, not for the

first time, exactly how her evening had gotten away from her. She was also beginning to

suspect that the dryer knew more than it was telling her.

She picked up one particularly dense specimen.

“What do you foresee?”

Nothing.

She waited. Nothing.

She leaned closer. Still nothing.

Then Annette realized something.

The Oracles weren't predicting the future. They were judging the past.She examined the specimen again. There it was. The message was unmistakable.

You should have cleaned the lint trap sooner.

Annette stared at it. “That isn't prophecy.”

The lint remained unimpressed.

It was, apparently, wisdom.

Annette laughed. And that should probably have been the end of it.

Except the lint didn't seem to think so.

Over the next few laundry days, the collection continued to accumulate. Annette would look

at the latest wad.

“Nah. It's just lint.”

Then, occasionally: “Or is it?”

The Oracles were convinced that everything they produced was significant. Every fiber had

meaning. Every tangle contained information. Every oddly shaped lump deserved

consideration.

Annette regarded them as entertaining fuzz with an inflated opinion of itself. But when

you're knee-deep in a house project that feels bigger than you are, arguing with a piece of

debris in a matchbox is strangely grounding. At least it gave her something to laugh about

while the rest of the house was busy trying to eat her alive.

Eventually, the Oracles acquired a home.

Annette isn't entirely certain how this happened. She remembers finding a tiny matchbox

and deciding that, since the little creatures were entertaining and apparently determined to

remain part of the laundry room, they might as well have somewhere to gather. The

matchbox was just about the right size for them—small enough to be sensible, large enough

to contain their considerable dignity.

A button soon appeared inside. Then a small piece of screw. The button was placed on top of

the screw fragment and promptly became a pedestal.

Annette looked at the arrangement. “You're kidding.”

The Oracles offered no explanation. Naturally, they considered the button pedestal entirely

appropriate.

Annette left it where it was.

The matchbox settled somewhere near the dryer vent, although Annette has never been

entirely certain whether she put it there or whether the Oracles somehow managed to

arrange the matter themselves. She has considered investigating the vent, but there is aportion of it that is annoyingly difficult to reach, and she has decided that some mysteries

can remain mysteries.

The Oracles seem perfectly happy with the arrangement.

Every now and then, while Annette is doing laundry, she hears something from the

matchbox. A faint little sound. A scrape. A tap. Sometimes a rustle.

She pauses and looks over.

Nothing.

She goes back to folding clothes.

A little while later, there it is again.

Annette occasionally checks on them. She tells herself that she is only curious. She does not

believe they are actually Oracles. At least, she doesn't think she does.

But she has to admit that the Oracles are very entertaining, and every once in a while they

seem to have something to say. So she checks.

Because, after all, they are lint.

And yet...

They remain.

Quietly conducting their investigations from their little matchbox near the dryer vent,

surrounded by fibers, threads, hair, and the occasional mystery from the laundry. They

contemplate the evidence. They study what has been left behind. They wait for the next load

to provide fresh material for their deliberations.

No one knows how long they had been trying to communicate. No one knows whether they

actually possess supernatural knowledge. No one knows why one of them once looked

exactly like a chicken wearing a hat.

Annette isn't particularly worried about any of that.

She has laundry to do. The Oracles have lint to contemplate.

And somewhere between the two,

there is occasionally something worth noticing.

Or perhaps not.

It's just lint.

Probably.

Maybe.

The Oracles are convinced otherwise.