Disasterpieces

Not all performances are good. Some are legendary

Welcome to Day #10. Earlier episodes are listed below.

This little series intersects with other tales based in the world of Nevicata devised by Maryellen Brady 💗📚 for her 24-Day ADVENT-ture 2025. She’s invited us all into her world.

PROMPT (#10): The Light of Memory

Day 1: Welcome to Nevicata
Day 2: A Light Snack
Day 3: Breakfast of Impolite Champions
Day 4: Case of the Nightmare Scarf Lady
Day 5: Ferrel versus the Princess Posse
Day 6: Life Takes Practice
Day 7: Hide-and-shriek
Day 8: Happiness is a Warm Bath
Day 9: Open Mic, Open Heart

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The Banshee had entered the café.

Entered, the way a blizzard enters a village: quietly, steadily, inevitably, and with the strong implication that many would not survive.

The moment Mairead entered the café, Ferrell tried to disappear beneath Solaine’s chair. His tail withdrew so far it should’ve counted as extra-dimensional travel—only the quivering tip stuck out, shaking like a terrified tuning fork.

And now—the Banshee was mingling.
Badly.
But mingling.

Every few steps she’d point at Ferrell like she was delivering a supernatural parking citation.

Ferrell whimpered.

She had braids now—two ominous spider-crafted pigtails that swung like cheerful nooses with every step. Her cloak billowed behind her in a gust of cold air that caused two frost fairies to faint and the Espresso Golem to emit an anxious hiss.

Tessela, who had been smoothing her apron and pretending this wasn’t happening, clapped once—a sharp, managerial clap.

“Okay! Moving right along! Let’s—yes, everyone, please stop staring at the terrifying woman with funeral braids—we have more performers!”

The room remained frozen.

Tessela tried again. “Nevicata! Eyes front! Performances to get through! Chop chop!”

Half the crowd unglued themselves from staring at the banshee.

Mairead, sipping an espresso she’d acquired from an unwitting patron, gave a single elegant point toward Ferrell—just to remind him of fate’s cruelty—then drifted through the room like a predatory swan.

Ferrell made a squeak audible only to bats.

Tessela plastered on the brave smile of someone who had survived the Forest Fairy’s third act.

“Next on our list,” she announced, “please welcome… Yorrick the Melancholy.”

A goblin shuffled onstage wearing a scarf the color of moldy gloom.

He carried a recorder.

The café collectively winced.

He blew one mournful note.
It sounded like a goose dying inside a tin bucket.
He tried again.
Worse.

He attempted a sorrowful melody, hiccupped violently, dropped the recorder, and produced a final toot that sounded like a mouse giving up on its dreams.

A brownie toddler burst into tears.

Tessela sprinted onto the stage. “THANK YOU, Yorrick! A stunning artistic… attempt! Moving swiftly on!”

Yorrick bowed—slowly, hiccupping—and departed with the dignity of a sad houseplant.

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Tessela steadied her voice. “A-and now, the Snowdrift Ensemble!”

Angelo the Ice Frog leapt onto the stage, waving his baton like a sword imbued with destiny.

“Follow my lead,” he commanded. “Unless I mess up—in which case follow your hearts.”

The Pine-Sprites braced. The Frost Mice readied their thimble-drums. Marsha lifted her triangle as though the fate of Nevicata depended on it.

They began.

And for the first time all week…
they nailed it.

A jaunty frost-swing tune filled the café.

The Pine-Sprites tooted with confidence. The Frost Mice drummed a heartbeat rhythm. Marsha, under the watchful glare of the Banshee, hit every triangle beat on time.

Solaine smiled. Ferrell blinked in disbelief.

Mairead, caffeinated beyond mortal comprehension, tapped her foot at 300 bpm.

The band finished to genuine applause.

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Tessela glowed.

Her café was intact.
No one had cried.
Only two sprites had fainted.

By Nevicata standards… a triumph.

She smoothed her apron, patted her hair back into the realm of gravity, and cleared her throat.

“For those who enjoyed our surprisingly coherent musical number, the Snowdrift Ensemble will also be performing at the Founders’ Day Parade this weekend. Please toss coins, compliments, or legally harmless confetti.”

She inhaled—bracing herself.

“And now…” Her smile trembled. “…the Frostbite Kittens.”

The room exploded.

Fog blasted across the stage. Purple lights strobed. A conjured mini-snowstorm spiraled dramatically overhead.

Three cat-girls strutted out in coordinated outfits that sparkled like weaponized glitter.

Tiara-Girl seized the mic.
“This track is called Claws for the Cause,”

Then, the beat dropped—hard.

The floor thumped.
Tables trembled.
A nearby icicle cracked under the pulse of the bass.

They danced with terrifying precision: hair flips, tail spins, synchronized paw-choreo.

One did a backflip.
One performed a midair twirl that ended in a flawless split.
One hissed in perfect pitch.

At one point, one of them even levitated—possibly by magic, possibly by attitude.

The performance was so hot, even the Espresso Golem was fanning itself.

A Snowman in the front row slid two inches downward. “Not again,” he whispered, visibly melting.

Two frost hares clutched each other like they were witnessing forbidden romance.

A brownie keeled over dramatically. “I can’t handle this level of ill,” he gasped.

A Yeti covered his eyes. “Too sparkly,” he whimpered.

And from the rafters, a crow shrieked, “THE CLAWWWS! THE CAAWWWSE!”

Ferrell whispered, “Remind me not to make them angry—ever again.”

Solaine patted his head. “Everyone needs a nemesis, sweetie.”

Ferrell sighed. “I just wish mine didn’t come in triplicate.”

The Kittens’ performance ended in a perfect trio-split—paws in the air, tails curled like exclamation points—while a blast of weaponized glitter erupted behind them like celebratory fireworks.

The café exploded with cheers.

Snowmen melted.
Frost hares swooned.
Even the Espresso Golem clapped with its steam vents.

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Tessela darted onto the stage before the glitter could settle, smiling a smile that said: We survived this evening by the grace of eight minor gods.

She raised her hands.

“Thank you, Frostbite Kittens! And now…”

She swallowed.

“Our final performance of the night… Mairead of the Moors.”

A ripple moved through the room. The chatter died. The temperature dropped.

Ferrell whispered a prayer to whatever deity handled emotional collateral damage.

And then—
Mairead rose.

A hush spread through the café like a collective shiver—delicate, reverent, and absolutely terrified. Every face turned toward the banshee.

She walked forward, each step both a threat and a promise.

All eyes followed her—
Hair braided into two ominous spider-crafted pigtails swinging like judgment, eyes burning with caffeine and immortality,
cloak trailing behind her like a storm cloud preparing to devour the moon.

She scanned the room.
Her gaze locked directly on Ferrell.

He whimpered and tried to crawl backward into the wall, achieving only mild scooting.

Someone gasped.
Someone else applauded.
Several small beings dove under tables.

Mairead didn’t acknowledge the clamor. She advanced with the calm inevitability of a funeral that had already chosen its corpse.

Each footfall clicked against the wooden floorboards.

The Espresso Golem hiccup-sobbed into its own steam wand.

A brownie whispered, “She’s going to kill someone with beauty alone.”

A crow croaked from the rafters, “SHE LOOKS LIKE SHE EATS JOY FOR BREAKFAST.”

Mairead reached the stage.

The room held its breath. Ferrell’s heartbeat rattled like tiny cymbals panicking inside his chest.

She climbed the steps.
Her braids swung like doom pendulums.

Her long, elegant hands—absolutely capable of pointing out your deepest insecurities—wrapped around the mic stand.

Her eyes swept the room like a queen deciding which villager to haunt first.

Ferrell tried not to faint.

Angelo whispered, “This is the best night of my LIFE.”

Even the cat-girls went silent—tails tucked, ears forward, instinctively respectful.

Mairead inhaled.
The lanterns flickered.
The shadows leaned in.
She parted her lips.

A hush fell so absolute that even the snowflakes outside paused midair.

And then—

Read GrousyGirl’s story (below) to find out what happens!

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How Mairead Got Her Wail Back: 10

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CLAWS FOR THE CAUSE!

Live Stage Version
as performed by the Frostbite Kittens

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INTRO (whispered ASMR menace)
ALL THREE kittens crouch, claws to lips:

shhh…
Tonight, the frost bites back…

Beat drops—glitter explosion

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🔥 VERSE 1 – Tiara-Girl

hair flip, tail swish, runway-walk confidence

Step UP, little mortals—
yeah, we prowl through the snow,
Frostbite Kittens claimin’ the spotlight,
stealin’ every show 😎

Claws like daggers, baby—
peppermint chrome,
Nightmare sparkle queens, yeah–
we sit on the throne 👑

camera zoom—wink so powerful a brownie faints on impact

Nine lives on the line—
never miss a beat,
Paws sharp, hearts sharp,
too-cute-to-defeat 🙀

Got frost in our veins,
got glitter in our glide—
Cross us once and you’re in for
a cat-girl joyride 🏍️

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PRE-CHORUS

Backup Kittens, synchronized tail circle + hip-pop

Claw-claw hiss!
Claw-claw hiss!

Hearts in the front row havin’ panic attacks —

Claw-claw hiss!
Claw-claw hiss!

Step aside puppies—
kittens on attack.

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CHORUS – all three, high-energy

We SLAY for the sparkle! ✨
We STRUT for the paws!

When life gets messy—we
CLAWS FOR THE CAUSE!

Fangs out, lights up—
Yeah, we purr with a bite, 🫦 ’
Cause the Kittens bring the chaos
To open mic night! 🎤

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❄️ VERSE 2 – Glitter-Girl

handspring into mic catch—the crowd SCREAMS

Zoom-zoom, frost-boom—
everybody make room,
Kittens hit the stage like
a harbinger of doom ☠️

Got glitter in my bloodstream,
mischief in my bones,
Eyeliner sharper than
your overdue loans 💵

dramatic spin-kick—one Pine-Sprite goes flying

We don’t chase the rhythm—
we bring the beat,
Moves so sweet
they put the Yetis in heat 🍆

We’re your frostbite fantasy
with claws dipped in gloss—
Bow down, peasants—
’cause we the FINAL BOSS 😈

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RAP BREAKDOWN – Feral-Kitty

mic drop—actually drops the mic; someone screams

Little kitty big claws,
call me chaos petite,
I’ll scratch your whole vibe and
still land on my feet 😼

Got a growl like thunder
and a face like “aww,”
You never see it comin’
when I hit you with the PAW!

slam-poetry energy; crouches on a table

We don’t walk—we STOMP.
We don’t sing—we CHANT.
We don’t ask permission—baby, we CAN’T.

’Cause we’re claws-out
rebels with too much flair,
Even banshee’s lady’s afraid of–
our perfect hair.

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DANCE BREAK

Tail-whip figure-eight
Triple hair flip (Frost style)
Glitter burst from Marsha’s triangle accidentally detonating
Angelo the Ice Frog ducking for cover
The Espresso Golem fainting in the back

Kittens chant while dancing:

KLAW-KLAW-KLAW!
KLAWS OUT, KLAWS PROUD!

WE RUN THIS TOWN —
NO DOGS ALLOWED!

(Ferrell winces in the audience.)

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FINAL CHORUS all three, power stance

We SLAY for the sparkle!
We STRUT for the paws!

When life gets messy—we
CLAWS FOR THE CAUSE!

Raise your tails higher—
Let the frostfire burn,
’cause when kittens take the mic
IT’S THE DOG’S TURN TO LEARN.

camera zoom; Tiara-Girl steps forward

We’re cute, we’re fierce—
We BREAK all the laws…

ALL THREE (jump pose, claws out):

WE CLAWS FOR THE CAUSE!!!

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OUTRO whispered, as the lights dim

Tiara-Girl:
Remember kittens… justice is served…

Backup Kittens:
…with claws. 🖕