Bears

“You know, I talked to this old Indian once, like, ten years ago. He was giving out advice. One of the things he said was, ‘If you hear a bear growl at night, it is an ill omen’. I mean, it was phrased differently and in a weird accent, but that’s what it boiled down to. I told him that everyone should know that, because it meant a bear was inside your house. He scowled and left after that. Do you think this bear might be his spirit animal?”

The other two were quiet for a minute before Jesse turned toward me and said, “So, your smart ass is what is going to get us killed by a grizzly? I knew that when we were kids, I just figured it would be a cop or Russians. A bear kind of caught me by surprise.” She slid down the door until she sat on the ground leaning against it. Standing next to her, also leaning, I pat her on the head.

“If it makes you feel any better, I think technically it’s death by Indian. I think he becomes the bear or something.” She scrunched up her face and thought about it, and it got quiet except for the sound of the bear rooting around downstairs.

A few minutes passed before Mark stood up and walked to the front of the door.

“I’m gonna fight that bear.”

Jesse and I both looked up at the same time, but her brain processed “What?” faster.

Mark was stretching his arms and responded, “I’m tired of waiting here. It’s boring. I’ll go fight the bear.”

I walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, man. I know this has been one of your dreams, but seriously, when we get back home, I’ll contact a circus with a trained bear and you can fight that one. I’ll even hire someone to play the banjo. I’ll hire Kenny Chesney to play the banjo for you while you fight that bear. And we’ll have an ambulance nearby. Let’s just wait this one out.”

“We’ve been waiting up here for two hours. I’m bored.”

Jesse looked at me. “Is he crazy?”

I thought for a second. “No, he’s not crazy. He’s really sane. He just gets bored. I think the only thing he won’t do is stuff like skydiving and bungee jumping. He has arachnophobia of heights.”

“Uh, fear of spiders of heights?”

Jesse cleared up my misconception of how phobias worked.

My boat

The Abscondant Hobo: Ok.

The Abscondant Hobo: So.

The Abscondant Hobo: We got this boat, right?

The Abscondant Hobo: Tiny damn thing.  More like a kayak.

The Abscondant Hobo: It's got a hole in it.

The Abscondant Hobo: But for some reason, it ain't sinkin'.

The Abscondant Hobo: So I started an exorcism.

The Abscondant Hobo: And it turns out that my wife was possessed, but the boat was clean.

M4573rF4c70r3r: Go on.

The Abscondant Hobo: So we had to form a posse to hunt down the rogue demon that was possessing her.

The Abscondant Hobo: However, the Priest ended up being a cultist.  He misled us until he finally showed his cards.

The Abscondant Hobo: While he was giving his monologue, Larry, the rancher, shot him.

The Abscondant Hobo: Tom the Accountant took his priestly garb.  He's now the Father.

The Abscondant Hobo: By now, the demon that was in my wife fled the area.  Turns out my real wife?  She's not a whole helluva lotta friendly.

M4573rF4c70r3r: Haha

The Abscondant Hobo: So we had to get Blessed Tom the Accountant to annul the divorce under grounds of demonic possession.

The Abscondant Hobo: We're not sure if that's cool in the Church or not, but he said it was cool, and he IS the priest.

The Abscondant Hobo: The next day, a horde of demons burned our town.  One possessed my kayak.

The Abscondant Hobo: The end

M4573rF4c70r3r: By the wife's demon?

The Abscondant Hobo: I can't keep track of 'em all.

M4573rF4c70r3r: Ah, true.

M4573rF4c70r3r: Fuckin' demons.

The Abscondant Hobo: But that reminds me of another story.

M4573rF4c70r3r: Most things do.

The Abscondant Hobo: So, I was fightin' demons this one time, right?

M4573rF4c70r3r: Right.

The Abscondant Hobo: And we were in a pitched battle.  Neo-Crusaders vs. the Darkened Hordifex.

The Abscondant Hobo: Trench warfare.  Mustard Gas vs. Slung Sulfur.

The Abscondant Hobo: Finally, both sides made a final push.  The carnage was terrible.

The Abscondant Hobo: Me?  I went the other way.

The Abscondant Hobo: Made it to a river.  Found a boat.

The Abscondant Hobo: Tiny damn thing.  More like a kayak.

M4573rF4c70r3r: Eheh

The Abscondant Hobo: I rowed it down the river and landed on the other side.

The Abscondant Hobo: Then, just to make sure that no one would try use it to chase after me, I knocked a hole in it.

The Abscondant Hobo: But I had some Futuremesh, nigh invisible fabric used mainly to patch up gaping wounds.

The Abscondant Hobo: So, just in case, I put it on the hole and booked it.

The Abscondant Hobo: I journeyed for days and weeks, never leaving the forest.

The Abscondant Hobo: Eventually, I found a nice spot by the river and built a house, made a life in the nearby town.

The Abscondant Hobo: I found a boat near the river.

You Awaken - First Installment

I'm going to try to at least pretend to participate in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  Here's what I've done today.

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            You awaken several hours later in a daze. The lights are off and you can't see. At your feet you feel something heavy and warm. There is a hard pillow beneath your head. A whirring sound softly emanates from off to your left.

            You reach left and your hand taps into a glitchy lava lamp. The bump causes it to flicker to life, illuminating the room in a red glow. The cat on your feet blinks angrily at the light and moves to under the bed. The door is closed, as are the curtains over the window. You are pretty certain this isn't your room.

            You sit up and open the blinds.  It’s night time and a full moon is out.  You’re on the third floor of this building.  Outside is a narrow, two lane street with cars lining it.  Across the street is an old brick building with a purple neon sign depicting a sultry lady.  A name is on the bottom, but the only letters that work are I, E, and N.

            You try to open the window, but it is jammed.  The cat has emerged from under the bed and is now pawing at the door expectantly.

            You get out of bed to go open the door.  You’re wearing pajama pants and a baggy t-shirt.  The shirt is black with a waving, smiling stick figure on it.  There’s a piece of paper in your right pocket.  It’s a crumpled photograph.  It looks altered, like two different pictures were combined at the center.  Half of it shows a vaguely familiar woman and the other shows a vaguely familiar man.

            You open the door.  Outside the room is a white-wallpapered hallway lit by a series of dingy yellow lights and home to a dark red carpet.  It stretches far to the right, doors lining it at fifteen foot intervals on both sides.  The left has two more doors before it rounds a corner.  Old, tinny music emanates from one of the rooms to the right.  The cat runs to the left and around the corner. 

            You walk toward the music.  You can’t see the end of the hallway.  You pass doors with no discernable labeling order: A37, 1115, 42C, Q. The music seems to be getting closer - Hush, hush, hush, here comes the Bogeyman - but when you turn around, you’re one door down from the room you just left.  The music abruptly fades back into the distance.  A light far in the distance flickers off.

The Creative Process

They say that behind every good man is a woman and behind every good writer is a vicious, carniverous editor.  Actually, I said that.  Just now.  Take notes, I'm making history.

Anyway, I've been told I need to post some of the conversations I have while trying to brainstorm my stories.  So uh, here's the first installment.

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[17:46] TheAuburnDragon: I can't stop playing Tales of Monkey Island.  My story is not getting written.
[17:46] M4573rF4c70r3r: Dammit.
[17:46] M4573rF4c70r3r: This makes me sad.
[17:47] M4573rF4c70r3r: C'mon! You had so many ideas yesterday!
[17:48] TheAuburnDragon: Here, I'll give you a paragraph snippet
[17:48] TheAuburnDragon:      Enter Jerebiah Dangall Crumps.  Once a farmboy, he left the homestead to pursue his true calling in marketing, a profession that had thus far been avoided in this serene, happy world.  Switzerland collapsed when these two gentlemen met up, heralding a significant number of our Norse mythology – Fenrir would swallow the sun and the world would be bathed in blood and battle – but all it signified in this alternate Norse mythology was that rabbits would breed especially well in the coming spring and the wise hunters would set up traps that preserved the integrity of the pelt.  Jerebiah had never quite hit his stride, always attempting to candy up his items.  The motto on his business card read, “If Candy Cain’t Fixit, People’re Dum!”  Llewellan was a poor judge of character and an even worse judge of talent.
[17:49] M4573rF4c70r3r: Hmm.
[17:50] TheAuburnDragon: That's actually going to be my motto.
[17:52] M4573rF4c70r3r: Has candy corn been invented yet?
[17:52] M4573rF4c70r3r: Make it a vegetable marketing ploy.
[17:52] TheAuburnDragon: Llewellan has a corn fetish
[17:54] M4573rF4c70r3r: Aha.
[17:54] M4573rF4c70r3r: A strange subsect of foot fetii.
[17:55] TheAuburnDragon: During his stay in the American Midwest – Towns don’t matter, this is the futurepast, remember? – Llewellan became obsessed with the corn farms that stretched for miles throughout Possible Illinois.  For a short time he considered dropping his failing Invention Racket in order to pick up a career in Corning (I cannot believe spell check isn’t busting me for that word), but a marathon showing of the Children of the Corn movies gave him a phobia of farms.  Wrenched away from his most desired calling, Llewellan began plotting.
      Llewellan wanted everyone to know the joy of corn.  Little kids, old folks, guys going through midlife crises, housewives, Siamese twins, and fanatical faux meat enthusiasts were all his target audience.  “But corn doesn’t market,” he would brood over a fine cup of corn-off-the-cob.  “I need to get it to the people.”

[18:02] M4573rF4c70r3r: Hmhm...
[18:02] M4573rF4c70r3r: Where does the time travel come in?
[18:02] TheAuburnDragon: After they invent candy corn and it is SHUNNED by this good, decent world.
[18:03] M4573rF4c70r3r: Hmhm...
[18:03] TheAuburnDragon: So probably in another page.
[18:03] M4573rF4c70r3r: Get thee to writing!
[18:03] TheAuburnDragon: But there's a kitty in my lap.  And a cat on facebook to annoy.  And I'm huuuungry  :(
[18:03] M4573rF4c70r3r: Solution: Eat kitty, shun cat.
[18:04] TheAuburnDragon: Cannibalution:  Reverse that.

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[22:01] M4573rF4c70r3r: AHOY, MATEY!
[22:01] TheAuburnDragon: Avast
[22:01] M4573rF4c70r3r: Progress?
[22:01] TheAuburnDragon: I had some soup!
[22:02] M4573rF4c70r3r: Hurray!
[22:03] M4573rF4c70r3r: ...story?
[22:03] TheAuburnDragon: What stor--oh.
[22:04] TheAuburnDragon: I knew I forgot something today
[22:04] M4573rF4c70r3r: Hah.

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Unfortunately, facebook doesn't save chat, so here's the little bit from today.  This switches immediately into the next chat segment, we just switched to trillian.

Adam

So, what's down, homie?

9:52pmMatt

Well, I went to the store and bought five bottles of juice, some beer, and a packet of cat toys. Then I came home and ate soup for an hour and fifteen minutes while watching House and Family Guy, then I came here and I'm playing with my cat.

9:52pmAdam

Kitty!

KITTY!

KIIITTYYYY!!!

9:53pmMatt

Yeah, she really likes playing Games.

9:54pmAdam

Cats, however, cannot lose them.

CATS ARE OUR ONLY SALVATION.

10:31pmMatt

HOOOBESSS

PROGRESS IS NOT COMING

ALSO I MAY BE DRUNK

I'm not, but I can never be sure.

10:31pmAdam

You're always dunk.

drunk.

Okay, what is the last thing that happened?

10:32pmMatt

Well, I sat on facebook for 45 minutes and chatted with people.

Also, my cat keeps making me go get her toys.

10:35pmAdam

Okay, last story thing that happened.

10:36pmMatt

Oh

I saved it and went to Iaido.

10:36pmAdam

...and what had you written about, again?

10:37pmMatt

That pooooor baby raptor. Also, the Ministry of Shenanigans.

10:39pmAdam

Right!

Okay, so, he killed a baby raptor.

10:40pmMatt

I never said killed

He hit it with a door

10:40pmAdam

He sees it. He's insane, what does he think.

Right, not killed.

10:40pmMatt

"Where's my kitchen?"

10:40pmAdam

Priorities.

He has 'em.

10:40pmMatt

"Looks like you just hit sumbody's dawg, Sarge."

"That's a zerglin', Lester. Smaller type o' zerg. But they wouldn't be around here unless--...Oh shiyit."

10:42pmAdam

Starcraftastic.

10:44pmMatt

I'm currently in the Ministry of Shenanigans.

10:44pmAdam

Alright.

Ministry.

Who runs them?

Why?

10:45pmMatt

Who cares who runs them. It's an international organization designed to prevent shenanigans. It's kind of like the U.N., but in a place that doesn't have warfare.

But what we DO know is that there are two agents hot on the case of the Bastards Who Went Back In Time With Candy Corn.

Designated Case Number C.

10:48pmAdam

Cool.

Did they just get the case?

10:48pmMatt

Yeah, let me show you what I've got.

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[22:50] TheAuburnDragon: Ok, this is the entire little chapter bit I have on the Ministry so far, haha
[22:50] M4573rF4c70r3r: THANK YOU, YES.
[22:50] TheAuburnDragon:      “Sir, we have reports of Shenanigans.”  The young man in the suit handed a dossier to the older man in the exact same suit who sat behind an unnecessarily large oak desk.
      The old man sighed.  “Shenanigans, in this day and age.  Well, let’s have a look-see.”  He opened the file.  Inside was a single sheet of grey paper.  “…What is this?”
      “Well, sir, it used to be a photograph of the Peacerary in Harmony Square.  It’s since faded, and our top scientists are detecting some sort of scientific stuff happening in the space time thing.  I don’t really know what they said, I’m a bureaucrat, not a physicist.”

[22:52] M4573rF4c70r3r: How much power does this organization have? What resources do you have at your disposal.
[22:52] TheAuburnDragon: So, you know the power that the theoretical Masons have?
[22:53] M4573rF4c70r3r: Yes. Elaborate. I want to know about the Ministry of Shenanigans.
[22:54] TheAuburnDragon: The Ministry of Shenanigans employs the top Scientists and the bottom level Bureaucrats.
[22:54] M4573rF4c70r3r: Haha
[22:54] TheAuburnDragon: They have fabulous amounts of wealth that is terribly mishandled.

-----------------------

Man, this is even more hilarious than I remember it being!

Back to the original purpose...

While in no way forfeiting this war, I refuse to allow it to fully disrupt the noble origins of this blog.  In order to accomplish this, I'm posting a creative writing assignment I turned in today.

The assignment had two parts.  The first was to describe a place that had some kind of significance to you.  Not to tell a story, just describe it.  The second part was to actually tell the story in this now fleshed out area.  While the options for places that are important to me are countless, this is what I picked.


------------------------------------------

 

Part One

I grew up in a cabin in Chattanooga, Tennessee.  My parents lived there, tucked away about a mile off East Brainerd Road, until they got divorced when I was six.  My mom decided to move to a townhouse in a neighborhood a few miles closer to the actual hub of civilization.  Whereas before we had one family that lived nearby (About five minutes of hiking through woods), we were now surrounded by other families.

The neighborhood was a short drive from Hamilton Place Mall, an area that was just entering a phase of what continues to be a constantly expanding part of town, and a slightly longer drive to downtown Chattanooga.  Across the street was a church with a terrifying (to a little kid) depiction of Jesus hanging from the cross.  Next door was a Subway, and the ultimate responsibility to the adventurous 9 year old was to ride a bike all the way down there, buy subs for my mom, sister and myself, and make it back without tipping over.

My mom chose the neighborhood because it had a lot of kids for my sister and I to play with.  This was true, but it was also a “stopping point” type of neighborhood.  People rented for a year or two and moved on.  We didn’t.  We lived there for around six years, and by the time we left, it was almost devoid of playmates.

When we moved in, next door was a forest.  The road continued, and on the left side were apartments, but the right was all forest.  It was later cut down to build more cheap homes, but for a few years, it was the place where kids shoes were muddied and imagined adventures played out.  Deep within was a lake.  A swamp, really, but we called it a lake.  In the winter it would freeze over just enough to give the impression that it was solid enough to slide across.  It wasn’t, although my mom’s mood to my frozen pants and chattering teeth was fiery enough to make up for my fall.

There was a cat that roamed the neighborhood.  An outdoor, grey striped warrior named Boo-boo due to the constant marks of battle on him.  He was there before we arrived as a sort of neighborhood cat.  There were about five families that kept food, water, and a bed out for him.  My mom, a lover of cats, joined the cause.  When we left, we were the only family still feeding him, so we formally adopted him and took him with us.  Probably the toughest, most capable, most loving cat I’ve ever seen, I always imagined him as a noble warrior or samurai: intelligent, composed, confident, and fully able to take care of himself in any situation.  The entire neighborhood was his domain and he knew it.

 

Part Two

This neighborhood, unnamed but residing on Stratton Place, drastically changed during our stay there.  The place changed, the people changed, and the atmosphere changed.  The changes, be they for better or worse, it taught a lesson to me about treasuring memories.

I already mentioned the forest next to my mom’s townhouse.  It wasn’t a terribly attractive forest filled with tall trees, pine needles carpeting the soil, and a soft, green light permeating.  It was a scraggly, dense cluster of thin, wispy trees, bushes, weeds, and ivy.  Demolishing it, as the neighborhood owner eventually did, was removing an eyesore and a great business move.  As kids, we hated them for it.

The denseness of the forest made it a fortress.  The trees and bushes worked together to build walls surrounding it.  There was an easy path in, but even for seven to ten year old kids, we had to hunch over to get through.  A winding path led us to a clearing in the center, where there was, inexplicably, a decaying old tool bench.  The sky opened up above letting in light, and we kids would gather around the table and plan things we would build in the forest with our rusty screwdriver and brittle hammer.  While the actual construction never got further than me ruining a steak knife from my mom’s kitchen while trying to cut a limb out of a tree, the idea and knowledge that when we got older we’d have an awesome tree fort filled us with excitement.  This was our base; our war room.

And then, one day, a sneak attack destroyed our base.  It seemed to happen overnight.  One day we were playing in our forest and the next day over half of it was being loaded into a truck to be sent for scrap lumber.  I remember very clearly watching as some of the larger trees, the foundations of legitimacy for this forest, were sawed down.  Flocks of birds fled, squirrels were displaced, and I sympathized with them.  I had lost half of my home, too.  My mom tells me I cried, but I refuse to admit it.

Construction started within a week.  Initially it was nothing special, mostly just bulldozing and digging for a while.  But this was also the origins of our guerrilla movement.  We took to organized resistance, waiting until after they got off work to abscond with the little marker flags, write angry notes in cement, and carve curses on the wood.  We thought we were really getting to them, although there was no evidence to support that.

Construction finished months later.  The neighborhood of townhouses and apartments now had full fledged houses, although they didn’t fit with the rest of the neighborhood.  Cookie cutter design, no trees in (very small) yards, and a sense of permanence that the rest of the neighborhood lacked characterized them.  People moved into those homes to settle down, and that divided them from the rest of us.  I remember this period as the time when the other kids started moving away, and I never met any kids, if there were any, from the new houses.

I don’t know what ever happened to the decaying old tool bench.  It disappeared in the first day or two of construction, probably just dumped off at a landfill.  I really hope that the marker notes, a splash of color on the dilapidated old wood, caused someone to think about what that place meant to us.  The loss of our headquarters heralded the destruction of the club of neighborhood kids.