Be Careful, My Ferrets are Loose

Swarmy Interlude

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 02:56:47 GMT

NaNoWriMo is being odd. So I'm writing a brief piece with swarmies. It's only fair.

Setup: The scene starts with Monty,would-be-knight, fresh from a fight with some direwolves, and his traveling companions, two swarmies named Dirt and Stick. Dirt is the ususal gooey cute that most swarmies are. Stick has some issues. What these issues are...go ahead and ask if you want it spoiled. XP

"Montymontymonty?"

"Yes, Dirt?"

"Are you aaaaaalright? That was really scary with those wolves everywhere and I tried to help but they were really scary and so I sorta danced around and tried to distract them so are you ok?" the little swarmy asked.

The other swarmy scampered in from the brush, panting, notably more disheveled than Dirt, crooked, even. When it saw Dirt, its demeanor turned dark and growly. "YOU STUPID CREATURE! What compels you dash into the paths of gnashing jaws?! Do you contain one blasted shred of self-preservation?"

A blank look spread over Dirt's face in response to the swarmy's rant. "I was helping Monty cause they were attacking him and so I..."

"TO THE BLAST WITH MONTY!" the swarmy screeched, "I WANT TO CRUSH Yo-"

Monty took the opportunity to take hold of the loose skin at the base of the swarmy's skull. Though there was a brief struggle and cursing, soon the swarmy's body when limp. Not unconscious, only to a state of calm. It licked its nose sleepily. Monty had heard that holding creatures like this calmed them because it imitated the hold of a mother swarmy when moving them as pups.

Monty had never heard of such an ill-tempered swarmy. It did not match up with any of the myths of the creatures famed bright and cheery natures, like Dirt, for instance. Swarmies, by all accounts, were the best of travel companions, weaselly creatures of good sense, if hopeless innocence. This swarmy seemed to have a screw loose.

"Are you alright Stick?"

"Do not call me Stick," the swarmy murmured, "That's a stupid name." It weakly swiped a paw at Monty's grip.

"You seem rather angry."

"I am angry."

"Why?"

This caused the swarmy to pause. "Hard to put into words, really."

"Are you certain you want to continue on this quest?"

The swarmy groaned. "I guuuuuuuess. Don't really have anything better to do."

"But...you're a swarmy. Your entire race literially...well...swarms at the change to be in a quest. All of the great legends contain swarmy companions. How is it that it does not thrill you?"

Stick squinted at Monty with unamused eyes. "Do you really wanna know?"

Monty considered this. He didn't like the look in this swarmy's eyes. "No," he finally said.

Meanwhile, Dirt was composing a questing song in the background. "Oh, I wanna go a questin' down the path, its gonna be fun if I can find a calf...there's gonna be lotsa barrels o' math, so we shall have to go and laugh..." The weasel-like creature broke down into giggling.

Note: Swarmies were pretty much made so I could give that gitty "yuuuuur so awwwwwwwesome" voice in my head something to do. And I sorta love them for that.

D'aw. I've missed that ferret chainsaw avy

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 20:02:54 GMT

Before I head forth and do stuff today (HA!) I am considering, against better judgment, to do NaNoWriMo again this year.

I've posted these opinions elsewhere, and its helped me start leaning towards one of the tales, but I think I shall put it here for second opinions.

Brief Synopsis of Each:

Oblivion: Teenager accidentally falls off the edge of the universe and lands in Oblivion, the island between dementions, universes, time, and space... about 2,230 years before a portal is to be constructed back to his world. So he takes up residence and employment in the local inn. He soon after occasionally becomes a badger because of an incident with "universal snot"...but that's only the beginning of his troubles.

Firefox Investigations: A steampunk universe primarily populated by anthro creatures (with a fair bit of humans mixed in). The tale follows a raccoon demolitions expert (without copious use of explosives) who runs into problems, when his former mentor's son come and lays claim to his business. And that's just as the murders start, and the raccoon's other profession as a Private Investigator starts heating up...

Domesticated: A ringtailed robot (uploaded with good sense) and a girl (about 13) live in an area void of human life. Everything is kept in shape from the efforts of ever working and self-sustaining robots. The only life that is there is domesticated pets from dogs and cats, to parrots and ferrets, which are taken care of by the robots. An odd post-apocalyptic romp which follows them as they decide to leave and find the human population...or what's left of it, by means of an uplifted raccoon guide, south, into a strange new wilderness.

Northern Weasel Lights: A former general pine marten and his daughter in the middle of a conflict between fishers and wolverines, two species with grand armies and a messy history. They both want the loyalty of the pine marten who led the fishers to victory in the Last Weasel War. He wants no part of it, but plays along with the games both sides play with him...until he realizes the real reason behind the wars in the first place.

This also reminds me that I haven't weighed in on the other NaNo options of other peeps whom I've glanced over...eep...

Escaping otter videos

Wed, 26 Aug 2009 23:20:26 GMT

After about five hours of watching otter videos on YouTube, Zippy decided he was going about this all wrong. For instance, he didn't even know what he was going about doing in the first place, though watching the elegance of otters making figure-eights underwater did not seem to be a prime component in any productive task. Unless he was in some obscure psychological study that made some correlation between watching otter videos and the amount of “d'aw” sounds made.

This was not the case. Zippy currently sat in his host's room while said host attended classes. Zippy could have followed along. Being a mythical creature had such advantages as being ignored by most humans when being coupled with a host. Plus, going to school would give his emotion scavenging tendencies something to gnaw on besides digital images of weasel family creatures. He clicked one more of a baby sea otter in Monetary Bay. Then one more of an otter with a lightsaber. Then a...he caught his right paw with his left paw, and dragged the claws away from the mouse, struggled, then promptly fell off the chair in a fuzzy flump.

This struggle between paws occupied him for some minutes until he got himself to plod away from the computer, tail between his legs in defeat from the logic of his left paw. His right paw twitched. He paused. Ooo, perhaps Ronts had e-mailed him back about Cancun. True, he'd only e-mailed between videos about seven minutes back but still, with time zones as they were and Ronts's perchance to do a bit of texting on the beach...

No, his left paw insisted, not necessary. Even if Ronts /had/ e-mailed, what relavance would it have to Zippy's day.

Zippy's right paw rubbed Zippy's chin in thought. Perhaps advice was needed upon what souvenir to bring from the tropical ambiance.

His left paw tisk-tisked and reminded that Ronts was embroiled in some negotiations with some cupacabras and would most likely bring back an excess supply of goat blood as usual.

Why did Ronts get to do all the fun stuff, Zippy's right forepaw whined.

That just made Zippy feel more miruble, which made him turn back towards the computer and the digital forest of humored videos that he'd yet to view set in Flash Video brilliance...

But what would that accomplish, really. If he were going to spend his time sitting about, shouldn't be be doing something he could show what he had done? Reading a book even would end with this “look, here's the book I read!” The computer was chock full of the accomplishments of others, if that's what they even could be called, it was a library unfettered by walls or even space. The Internet seemed to be the portal to a universe where teleportation had been perfected and laws had been formed that caused this teleportation through space to bend time.

Zippy's right paw hovered over the mouse, the portal awaited to be awakened from the scampering ferret screen saver. His left paw held its metaphorical breath. Zippy looked hard at the fur on the back of his paw. Mmm...a little bit of a fur tuff was out of place. He licked it. There. It said a lot that even this simple act of personal hygine (at least in animal terms) did more than hours of clicking things on the Internet did.

O O O

Zippy's host, a boy, mid-teens, bristled blond hair, and an affinity for Hot Wheels cars (though he hid the fact under his bed), opened the closet and looked down at the pair of glowing green eyes that stared from the darkness.

“Yes, Kyle?” a voice just below the eyes asked, the echo of innocence.

Kyle lifted a wire with a mangled piece of plastic and greenish computer chips on the end.

“I was hungry and it looked like a rodent.”

Kyle opened his mouth. Closed it. Squinted at the darkness with the beginnings of a smirk. “Zippy...no more coffee for a week.” The boy closed the door without another word. Zippy rubbed his white furred tummy, trying to comfort it from the announcement of its decreased coffee intake. He didn't know why he insisted on giving his host's a cheat sheet on proper punishment if he did something unsatisfactory. It did save trouble later on...

Speaking of which, he had at least a short lack of Interweb temptation until they got a new mouse. He snuggled down into the closet's corner and continued to read Agatha Christie under the green glow of his eyes.

Author's Note: Despite what some people might believe, neither Geo nor Ronts are a true representative of me. Sure, Geo, the raccoon form at least, is an avatar of my creative side, the quirkiness, the procrastination, the flailing, and the general madness. But he's not a proper representative (I like calling him a muse still). I've already mentioned many times that Ronts is definitely not a representative of me, he's more an antithesis to my personality, and if he pulls anything from my nature, he feeds off my bouts of reasonable realism.

Really, I don't think characters, even those are technically the writer themselves, can be the same as the writer except in parts. But if I was forced to choose a character who happened to be closest to me, it would be Zippy. This is amusing because I never meant it to be so, my only notes about him upon inception were he a comic relief type character with electric powers and a jumpy personality. Now he's formed into one of the deeper side characters, with varied flaws in his repertoire. He's a tragic hero who ends up in the antagonist role more than once in the plots he enters...and its disconcerting how easily I can place him into my own fears and transgressions. Zippy is one of those characters who I hope someday will be a main character, but I believe he wants to stick with his supporting character roles.

Just always remember, even he's not a true representative of me, and don't read into him too much. Just tell yourself its a work of fiction and just try to relax..

Fri, 19 Jun 2009 15:15:39 GMT

Soon, the muse had calmed, chewing on a piece of beef jerky Zippy had brought along on his quest. It was still twitchy, but that was normal for muses, their beings reacting to any new inspirations that decided to scamper upon them. It was said, if they reached a certain level in their inspiration depository, they began to flail wildly. Zippy did not think this would be good in a closed in setting (neither would be using mini-lightning bolts to incapacitate the raccoon).

Still, squeakiness remained in the muses voice as it tried to explain itself. "There's so many blasted ideas spinning about my head and I don't know what to do with them because NO BODY CARES! And what do I do if nobody cares! I panic and I eat and then I'm found in half a platter of turkey leftovers and kicked out of the house. What do I do?" Traxer asked, face upwards and paws out as if cursing the stars.

"I thought muses lived off the inspirations of others."

"And you live solely off the angst of teenagers?" the muse countered.

"Point taken. Carry on."

Work Break Flash Fiction #9: Mr. Noname

Thu, 11 Jun 2009 15:35:22 GMT

Alas, there's always going to be those characters where the name eludes me...or I just use a name from the slush pile of names that I use for the heck of it. Shadrack, for instance...of course, I've never used that. But here is a character with a name like Noname for the heck of it...not in anyway related to Noname the weasel, the short-lived character in my very old Resident Evil spoof.

"The best darn blade you ever laid eyes on," Noname said, rubbing a finger across the flat of the sword.

In truth, he doubted this, yet crossed-eye human and wolverine who were his audience let a gleam appear in their eyes. This could have been the reflection of the sword, though Noname knew better than that. He knew the flash of interest when he saw it, he was a spinner of those looks, and getting that look was the toughest part.

He continued his spiel, keeping his focus on not scratching at his fake beard. He stole glances at the wolverine from time to time, musing at the claws. Sure, it also had on a thick leather jacket and spear strapped its back, but the claws were the unsettling thing. In all his travels and selling of 'quality' wares, he didn't see many wolverines, or animals of this sort. This was a strange part of the land where this sorta thing "just happened" and Noname was never one to let little details like a customer being a large animal standing on two paws be a deterrent.

The man was merely grizzled and soggy. An archetype which towns the country over were plagued with.

"How's the balance?" the wolverine asked, in a deep, pounding voice.

Noname had expected something about "if it could cut through a deer carcass" but he took the inquiry in stride. He balanced it on his palm, "Impeccable balance, my good sir." He kept vague, just hoping that confidence would be properly settled in his trained tone.

"And what's you name again?" the wolverine asked.

Not a good question. Noname could not sense that there was suspicion in the wolverine's demenior. Then again, he didn't know what to look for. Snarling, perhaps?

"Rufford Lapoe, Merchant of Weapons and Wares," Noname stated, flashing a grin dripping confidence. He didn't really know his name. As long as he remembered, he had been spinning up new ones. Every new ware, he usually changed over his identity and papers, unless problems arose in midrun and he was figured out. He had been going through the pattern for so long, flipping off item after defective item, putting on disguise after ingenious disguise, he forgot who he was before he had done this. He only had a rough outline of what he really looked like. Ratty brown hair, long and pointed features, lanky limbs, and smoky gray eyes. All these could be changed in moments to whatever his fancy. Anything to keep from being himself and on the move. "Noname" is what he called himself in his mind, and it was the closest had had to a real name, and he liked it that way.

This appeared to appease the wolverine, who sniffed, then waved a paw for him to carry on. Noname couldn't keep his eyes off the claws, and wondered how long he could keep flipping, before someone saw through it all, and gutted him

The wolverine bought a claymore. The man bought a sabre and a cutlass. Noname hurried off, to sell a few more blades, before heading off before said blades broke.

Explanation: I think this is a medieval type universe. Noname is just a con-man who's been hovering in my head the last few days and I don't know where to put him. I shall poke him later. The wolverine...well, I think this universe has intelligent animals in certain sectors, but not everywhere.

Work Break Flash Fiction #7: Nap

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 15:24:08 GMT

Oh 'gates, I'm sleepy...and I ought to work on a story for a little pointless contest for no good reason...but sleepy...but ought to write a piece of fiction.

How about a drabble?

...oooookay.

The nap lasted only moments though years had passed. That was the danger of naps, potential brief interludes from the worlds about. If only time would stop in that period, though it would defeat the purpose, Kero supposed.

The Lord of Time and Space lay, not wanting to rise, not yet, watching through half-closed lids at the gossamer of stars.

Gossamer. He liked that. Sounded ethereal. He shifted and pulled the Milky Way closer to his ink black hide.

O O O

An astronomer blinked and decided his telescope was defective. He'd almost saw the glimmer of teeth in the night sky...

Explanation: *snerks* I got nothin'. Might come back to this.

Work Break Flash Fiction #6: Mice

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 15:23:30 GMT

Another interlude with Lee for No Good Reason. I might rewrite a bit of it after work.

Lee didn't like the mice that scampered around the legs of his bed. The rolling scraping noise they made got on his nerves if he was in just the right mood to let it. The clicking when they found some scrap or item quickened Lee's deterioration into madness. No, he corrected himself, he was far past that.

After a long day of bell hopping, skirting slime monsters and calming puffed out varieties of oversized owls, all Lee wanted, was to drift to sleep. His sleeping corners were in a dank corner of the basement, where the florescent lights flickered its ethereal light from time to time. He couldn't call the bellhop, because he was the only one. The Inn was currently on its daily lockdown, to recharge, so it was recommended that no one could be roving around. Being at the edge of multiple universes was unstable, and measured needed to be taken to keep in one piece.

Lee heard the clicking again. Something would have to be done. Drastic measured needed to be taken. He took a breath, and thought of burrowing underneath the bed. The word "burrow" being important. He let himself retract into himself, until he knew the process had completed. It had taken the space of a exhale to become a badger. It bothered him still how easily he could get into the mindset. He shuffled to the end of the bed and carefully lowered himself off. Easier said than done. He fell to the floor in a badgered bundle.

He sniffed the air. Dust, mold, human, some sandwich with unidentified meat left on the bedtable. Lee shuffled to the bed and felt long the top until he felt the soft of the sandwich with his claws. In human form, after getting it from the kitchen at dinner, he'd become discouraged a few bites. As a badger, he finished it off with a passion.

Lee hoped that wouldn't haunt his human stomach later.

He returned to the edge of the bed underneath and snuffed at the darkness. Not a hint of rodent. He knew better than to except that. He saw a glow shifting back and forth. He stalked into the shadows slowly, until just the right distance away, than darted for it. The mouse didn't have a chance. Lee held it down with both paws, resisting the impulse to bite its neck or stomach. It didn't have either.

It clicked in fear, its scroller rumbled between its buttons, the optical light underneath it flashed red. It looked like a computer mouse, its wire tail leading further into the shadows. Well, except for the whiskers, of course. Lee growled at anyway. His badger side displeased that this prey has such little meat. He soon noticed the other red lights nearing, surrounding him. He heard more clicks, not of fear, notably, but of anger.

Lee knew better than to remove this mouse's diode. He knew then, that he would have to just let the issue go...for now...until he could find where the wire tails connected to...

Explanation: Pretty straight forward, a little look at the odd forms of life in Oblivion (in particular the strange mice), and how Lee usually goes about becoming a badger intentionally. Usually it is unintentional. Takes place about a week or so after the accident...but could actually happen at anytime after that.

Work Break Flash Fiction #5: Kris the Werewolf

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 15:42:15 GMT

Topic: Keys

Kris scrabbled around the ring of keys, sweat dripping down his nose, his ears twitching in agitation. he would unbutton the suit, but he didn't want to be unprofessional in the line of duty.

Duty was the code of life for a werewolf. They lived and breathed for duty and honor and, above all, loyalty. Their lives were given to the creatures unable to protect themselves properly. Not that most mythical creatures were not physically or mentally able bodied for such a task, it was just they weren't toned to be both, like werewolves were.

As for Kris's current duty, it lay in patrolling the sprawling outpost on the outer-regions of the Canadian Shield, a honeycomb of rooms where untold secrets lay. Kris never knew how there was known to be secrets in this murky outpost when they were untold. Somebeast must have told these secrets in the first place. So weren't they told secrets.

This sensibility is what caused the young werewolf to be patrolling here. It was a little used outpost, on a craggy stretch of land, lakes dribbled over it as far as the eye could see. Kris didn't see this as much of a punishment, he thought it beautiful. (Such adjectives were yet another demerit against his character.)

The age of the outpost would explain the locks, of which each was opened by only one key on a long ring of keys. Kris fiddled them with his paws, glancing at the never setting sun. If only he could get in and actually patrol the place. Or if he had help.

A lake rippled nearby, in a sinister manner. Kris had never asked why the outpost was abandoned. He never thought to. Until, of course, the dripping of some matter of gooey substance started dripping on the shoulder of his faded brown leather uniform. Werewolves were trained to deal with this sort of thing. Not making any sudden movements, Kris looked up.

It had obviously come from one of the nearby lakes, water running off its sleek hide, long neck bending and twisting the head down towards Kris. It opened its jaws and hissed, sending a damp breath of fishy scents down upon the werewolf. Classic for a sea serpent sort. Kris only grinned and gave a hearty wave. The creature calmed, and settled back upon its wet coils. It hissed again.

"My name is Kris. Part of the Werewolf Special Forces sector of Security, just checking up on how the outpost is doing."

The frills rose from the sides of the serpent's head, a mustard color against the otherwise muddy brown skin. Upon closer look, Kris could see dappled white went down the twenty foot length of the back. The serpent snapped its jaws.

"You're a Ogopogo, correct?"

The serpent nodded, it made a squeak, then clicked its teeth.

Kris lifted up his keys and frowned at them. "Oh...you see, I didn't mean you wake you from a fine nap warming yourself on the loam. Just trying to get this door open and..."

The Ogopogo whipped its tail about, and it swooped past the werewolf, rustling his cheek fur. Something cracked. The door, made of steel and bars, was open, crookedly hanging off its hinges.

"Oh. Thank you."

The Ogopogo clicked.

"Of course. I shall look in the supply room to see if there is any old cans of fish gumbo."

The Ogopogo chirped in satisfaction, then slithered off towards one of the lakes. Kris let himself breathe as he watched the Ogopogo depart. Just showed the value of keeping on good terms with the locals, Kris mused, all in the line of duty.

Explanation: Apparently, just an interlude of the greenhorn werewolf officer, the ever inquisitive and knowledgeable Kris, getting in touch with a Canadian mythical creature. I found the Ogopogo in a quick Google search. A lake monster would be perfect in the many, many lakes of the Canadian Shield.

Work Break Flash Fiction #4: Here Dere Be Weasels

Mon, 01 Jun 2009 20:24:32 GMT

Today we turn to another idea that has been playing with in my mind for way too long. Predictably, it involves weasels, but not in the way you'd expect. I'm playing with some Japanese myth this time, a realm that, considering this legend, I really ought to read up on more. (The chainsaw ferret icon is oddly fitting for this tale.

Topic: Kamaitachi (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kamaitachi)

Folly never knew what to make of his brothers. Of course loved them, they were his brothers, and they didn't do any of the things any worse than what normal older brothers did to their younger siblings. Or so he hoped. Sure, Jip tended to be a bit rough in his mode of brotherly love, taking any premise to do bellyflop onto Folly, that only led to bruises under the fur and some usually minor sprains. And Jab had perhaps and unhealthy habit of poking him with any one of his collection of knives. The wounds never went too far past the fur and hind, simple to mend. That is what he did. He mended whatever his brothers happened to do, in a calm and patient way.

Of the three unusually sized weasels, Folly definitely looked the least rough of the trio, if any traveler on the dirt path were to notice. His brown fur shone in the dusty sun rays, groomed, not even a whisker out of place. Over his shoulder, a small canvas bag hung, a smart red cross on its side. He patted it for comfort as he scampered after his brothers, who plotted together about their usual vendetta. Folly rolled his eyes. They fancied themselves to be the gang of the ill traveled path, though for what gain, Folly had yet to see. He just hoped that there wouldn't be any travelers through the forest today.

Unfortunately, it appeared the forest gods were playing upon his mind. His weasel brothers stopped. Jib cracked his forepaws, neck, and tail, as if preparing for a fight. His grubby cloak was pulled tighter, and he flashed a wicked grin back at Folly.

"We got ourselves a greenhorn."

Meanwhile, Jab was dancing his claws over the belts crossed over his chest, a variety of blades scattered over them, because shaking his head. "I think this can be called a special occasion. Greenhorns be fun game..." He reached back, to unsheathe a sickle strapped across his back. "Please, Folly, could you let them bleed a bit more this time."

"Aye, Folly, why must you be a killjoy every scruffin' time," Jib growled, stepping up to Folly, whom he stood at least a head above. With no warning, he put Folly and a headlock and proceeded to noogie the weasel with the blunt of his claws. He let go and patted Folly on the head, "Come now, Folly, do a bit of natural weaselly deviltry this time aboot," Jib said, with a wink and a punch to Folly's arm.

Folly's arm bloomed into pain from the punch, but Folly managed a smile, deciding it better not to say anything in the affirmative or negative. He patted down his mussed fur and straightened his pack. Always the same pattern. He knew better than to argue anymore. If he let his brothers do their nasty business, they would let him do his. Jib and Jab fell to four paws, long sinew bodies snaking along the bushes that lined the path. Folly followed, albeit more warily, behind. They darted through leaves and dodged roots, brief pauses by Jib and Jab to argue tactics. Folly stopped, and rose to his forepaws, hearing a whistling.

His tail twitched when he reconized the tune.

"Pop Goes the Weasel."

Oh, how he wished they would not bring poetic irony to that chosen tune. A breeze rose, and he knew, the time had come. He hunkered down and followed his brothers who were now a mere blur ahead of him, going forth at the figure trodding down the path. As Folly got up to speed, the figure slowed, and he could see the minute details. The grass sticking out between the lips, the dust in the dark tussled hair, a ragged shirt with oil stains down the back, and jeans, ripped below the knee to make shorts. Bare legs. His brothers would like that. A teen human. Easy prey.

As the human slowed down and the world of dust and rustling leaves seemed to stop about them, Jib and Jab went to work. The two-foot long weasel tackled the back of the human's legs, and the human's body reacted like a ragdoll being impacted by slow motion. Meanwhile, Jab came about the front, bringing the sickle across below the knees, and soon, blood arched through the air, tendrils of red spewing out of the wound. He brought the sickle across again and again and again until Folly caught his paw and held.

"That's enough."

Jab, frothing, blood now flicked on his whiskers from the slow moving blood, stared down at Folly, who stared back. He did not return with the cold gaze that Jab gave him, he looked at him with a neutral level expression, pleading and calm. Jab nodded, once. He beckoned Jib, who scampered over with a huge grin. All three looked at the human, still falling into the dirt as if stuck in a slow-mo reel. "Noice bloody job we did, eh?"

Jab nodded and wiped his blade clean.

A silence settled, Jib and Jab shuffled their paws. The human had fully hit the ground, plumps of dust inched around his body. The two ragged weasels threw nervous glances at Folly. Jib cleared his throat, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, then just sniffed.

They were his brothers, and they didn't mean bad, just wanted to cause some harmless mischief. Folly let himself smile. "I'll carry on from here," he said, patting them both on the back before opening his pack, "Go back to the den, I'll just be a tick or so."

They slipped away and Folly got to work. He knew what to do all too well. He wiped away the blood with a cloth soaked in gin, spread a poultice of herbs on the wound, and made sure stitches were not necessary. No, not too deep this time. Now time to leave.

He didn't. He let himself slow down and let the world catch up. Wind coursed across the trail, whipping up small cyclones of dirt, branches above whipped about, leaves ripped away, visibility degraded: All these effects of the weasel trio's speed. As the air cleared, he heard the sound of pain from the human and watched as it reached down to the wound, feeling only a scab of where it supposed there could have been a cut, but there was not, thanks to Folly's work.

Eventually, the human saw Folly, and the sounds of pain stopped. Folly bowed.

"Sorry for the pain. Just a little weaselplay. You know how brothers are."

To this, the human looked scared a moment, sick the next, then a certain reflectiveness came over its face. "Yes," the human agreed.

"Tell all those you see on the path, beware the kamaitachi!" Folly didn't wait for a response. The weasel scampered in pursuit of this brothers.

Explanation: I think these three might be in the Rewair Tale so you might seem them again in the future. The idea of three weasel brothers with conflicting policies when it comes mischief is just too fun to pass up. And it gives me an excuse to have weasels as relavent characters in a mythical creature plot. w00t!

That wet rewair smell...

Sun, 31 May 2009 12:58:23 GMT

I have a lot of half-finished stories and festering things, that they get lost in the shuffle (HA! You say that every few months!) For now, I give you a little developing story of a reluctant rewair and a demon. I meant to post this last night...but alas, technical issues.

Fireclaw swam out of the rain into the tunnel. His fur and cloak dripped as he tried to warm his forepaws with his breath. Even though summer had come, the rains kept a biting cold in their impact. Soon, steam rose off the body of Fireclaw, and his paws became alit with flame. His fur did not burn, the flames only fluttered around the paws, flickering in the breeze from the tunnel opening. He let his body warm, pulling away from the chill.

“Argh. What smells of wet dog out there? Blast. If you're that blasted mutt you're not welcome...unless you have a link of sausages with you again. And I am not in the mood to put up your blasted puppy dog eyes...”

The voice stopped about the point the figure came into view, silhouetted by the light further down the tunnel. Fireclaw could smell kindling and beans and the musty emotions of a cranky creature. Emotions changed in age. The gray tattered fur of the creature only proved the age. A demon. Spiky, mostly from spines and teeth, and a notably sharp tail with something akin to a spearhead shape on the end. The rest looked to be a mix of a bat and rat features placed on a pudgy badger body. Fireclaw knew from this lessons that not all demons were bad. Sure, there were the evil ones that wanted to take souls, but there a good proportions of those that just liked to be ill-tempered and make unfortunate pointless events happen, like loosing a good pen that was gotten for free from the bank. This appeared to be a harmless one, Fireclaw could tell from the yellow glowing eyes. Red eyes were the fickle demons that needed to be whacked on the snout for bad behavior.

“Oi, who are you to be dwelling into my dwelling?”

Fireclaw's slanted his gaze. “/Your/ dwelling..” He had a talent with Tone. The demon took note and slithered back two steps.

“You're a rewair.” It was a statement, with a strange echo of reverence. Such an echo from a demon, Fireclaw was not certain if it could be a good thing. “Come in, come in, it be a sloppy day to be hopping the gutters. I gots the place warm. Didn't know, really, that a rewair would decide to trod in. Sorry for the impertinence. Really am.”

“No impertinence needs to be withdrawn,” Fireclaw said, with a cold that made the rain turn warm by comparison.

The demon cocked his head to the side, he fiddled with a ladle in his claws. “In any case, this /is/ a rewair bolthole, so you are completely welcome. I know the old rules. Boltholes be open to any creature if a rewair is not in residence, and if a rewair comes forth, hospitality must be provided under pain of fear. Correct?”

Fireclaw remained silent.

“...well, I mean, those are only verbatim. I could leave if you wish.”

Demons, a scourge of the earth, dwelling in the shadows of earth, an avatar for pain and suffering, and they show honor to rewairs. As did any other creature from darkness. Those that did evil bowed to rewair power. Even with the supposed changes of rewair reputation from the days of old...still this happened. Firelcaw hated his.

“I am not a rewair.”
“Oh, sorry. Ur...emotion scavenger? Is that the official term these days?You know, being this side of Europe I don't get much from the Messenger Birds...that and I'm on probation from getting messages from them since I ate that one...”

“No. I am not an emotion scavenger.”

The demon smelled even more befuddled, the yellow eyes darting over Fireclaw again. He could see a bearish-dogish creature, not much larger than a collie, stocky, wearing a tattered cloak.

“What are you?”

“A dragon.”

The demon snorted, not a pleasant sound. “Sorry, sorry. Come forth, dragon, the meal is almost ready.”

Fireclaw extinguished the ball of white hot flame that had appeared in his paw when the demon had snorted. He sighed and followed.

O O O

Work Break Flash Fiction #3: Friday, I'm in Love

Fri, 29 May 2009 16:03:56 GMT

Day three. And its Friday, and this song is stuck in my head...it makes me all grinny inside.

Topic: Friday, I'm in Love

It took a box of candied hearts to finally spur Robby into action. Being in pocession of the box had all been Rob's fault and Rob had come about because of a very uncomfortable night of sleep. The Easter Bunny in his numbingly squeeky voice of cheeriness and basket of goodies did not help. Rob almost had stuck an Easter egg up his...

In any case, with Easter nearby, the Bunny (as most mythicals called him), was passing through on his annual visit to the Mythical Creature HQ to give doses of sweetiness to all. A lot of creatured hated the Bunny. They only accepted him nearby for the goodies. The Bunny had made the mistake of being cheerful before giving treats to a large, grizzled, snarling Rob stalking to the mess hall. He gave the treats before the grip of the massive paws could crush his body or that egg Rob held with a devious grin could be used.

So, that out of the way, the Bunny had scampered off with less of his endless best wishes, with a more chracteristic lapine twitchiness. Robby stood there with the box in his jaws. He pulled it out, finding teeth marks three times larger than his jaw could make now.

"Rob." Robby said only Rob's name, knowing Rob would know everything from the Tone. A growl echoed in his mind, not quite making it to his maw. Robby sighed, rubbing at the ruby hanging around his neck, the red color returning from gray.

The rewair stared at the box, breakfast and grogginess forgotten. A certain tinge of a feeling nibbled at the base of his skull. He didn't feel like candied hearts, but he knew of someone who would...maybe. He couldn't be sure. He could taste that odd feeling at the back of his throat, sweet and sugared, sharp and tangy...

Love.

Damnit.

Robby made his way to the elevator.

OOO

[to be continued]

Work Break Flash Fiction #2: Broken Headphones

Thu, 28 May 2009 16:38:15 GMT

Day two of this unfortunate endevour. This time with even less of an idea of what to write. But my headphones broke...so I'll work with that.

Topic: Broken Headphones

Soup repositioned himself to get better hold on the sandstone slab. I felt a slight something at the heel of his boot and his headphones jerked. The music ended with little fanfare.

"ARGH!" he yelled to the abyss of a sunny day. Birds continued chirping, insects buzzed, leaves rustled, and Soup didn't apprehiate a one of these sounds. He grunted, pushing the slab into position. He then pulled out his iPod, hoping only a reinsertion of the cord would solve the 'silence' only to find the thingie that plugged into the device was seperated from the wire itself. He gave another "ARGH" and yanked the headphones off his head.

He looked up and down the wall for a gremlin, finding none skittering about. The temperature and sun were at such possition that germlins, even as sporatic and frantic as they were, usuually took a moment to lay in the sun and recharge. They were reptiles, after all, and some even believed the creatures were solar powered. The best bet was to go up and find one of them on top of the wall the slab had been placed into, perhaps warming on the red stone.

Soup squinted up the wall, shimmering rose where it emerged from the trees. While maintaining the wall in the vast Canadian forestlands, with so much work to occupy he time, the only way up to the top of the wall being to grapple up, was it worth it getting the headphones fixed?

The vampire exploded in a mass of bats, leaving one little fuzzball of a bat, sitting at the edge of the wall, wings drapped around a black iPod. In a fragmented mind, flapping up on many wings out of the forest shadows, Soup knew he could not handle the socitude without the Monkees to consol him with their tunes.

Explination: I have no idea. I don't even know what the wall is for. I don't know why there is no way up (well, besides only werewolves use the wall and they can grapple anything quite easily). Perhaps this is in my long mysterous Mythical Creatures HQ area. I guess this is what happens with spur of the moment fictions at times. Meandering. I question Soup's music tastes.

Work Break Flash Fiction #1: Badger

Wed, 27 May 2009 15:37:31 GMT

I have a half hour break at work which I don't bother to use for lunch. I'm gonna attempt using it for Flash fiction of sorts. AKA: See how much I can write in twenty or so minutes.

Topic: Badger

I woke up. I hadn't realized that I had been unconcious until that point. Everything about me felt groggy and smooshy, as if my body were comfortably contracted within itself and wherever I used to be ended up as phantom mass. That made even less sense in this act of waking up. I tried to make as much sense of events preciding as I could, realizing that "making sense" of any situation here would be a mistake, then settled for a recap.

I at least remembered whereever I was waking up was not home, but a quirky area between dementions and universes. I did not want to relearn that premise every time I lost my senses, for it put the senses in position to get lost again. I snuffed and let a yawn wander to my mouth. Both these relatively simple actions did not come in the way they were supposed to. It felt as there were more to snuff with, and the yawn did not quite hit the face the way expected. That thought of "phantom mass" strolled back.

I had sat up, I was sitting on a soft surface. Wait, no, my vision cleared a bit, if a little more blurred and lulled, and I saw the checkered tiles of Oblivee Inn's kitchen floor. Not exactly a soft surface as my rump supposed. I made a confused face and the same weirdness that the yawn had brought up happened again, as if, mere expressed contortions of the face were strange. I tried to bring up my hands to feel my face and found this was impossible unless I bent my snout down and...

Oh, there was a word to stop on reflect on. Snout. Explaned a lot.

It explained nothing actually, but thinking the word so naturally all off the sudden when I looked down my snout and watched my claws grasped both sides of my muzzle made it more acceptable.

What had happened again? The egg, in my hands, chasing the dragon mother off towards the corner edge of Oblivion's white picket fence, her heading through the gate, me yelling, holding the egg above my head, the Inn Manager calling for me to...do something like stopping...but being just hired to be a Bell Boy and letting a mother loose their egg of all things did not seem to be a good first day and I was going to get that egg to her if it were the last thing I...

She had stopped, I knew that, but near her, on the rippling boggy surface of the dimention she was entering, was turmoiled movements, tentrils of goo that leaped and gooed about her, and as I came near, I saw them spark and spittle...it looked muscusy, like...the snot on the edge of a universe, keeping out germs and dust from getting into whatever it protected.

Universial snot is the phrase I made up on the spot...just as, after the dragon took the egg from my hands, that it spurted at me...bringing me...here, sitting on the kitchen floor with still gooey fur and paws, the muscusy liquid still dripping. I licked my nose despite myself. I swore it even tasted like snot...not that I had ever eaten snot, just, you know you know the taste, its in your mouth right now.

I saw the boots, and followed them upwards to the face of Barm, cook extrodrinae, looking down with a bemused expression on his chared face, which almost shimered through the cracks on his cheeks.

"I've been told yer still Lee, are ya?"

I tried answering. The predictable untrained animal sounds followed. I opted for nodding.

"I'll take that as a yes. Ye appear to be a badger."

Ah, nice to know. I nodded again, in a dejected badger fashion.

"I'll make you a mouse pie."

I let, what I now knew to be badger side, growl contentedly, as I tried to rub the snot out of my fur.

Retrospective: This is a brief scene from my Oblvion tale, I guess, in which the main character Lee, finds himself as a badger. This has been plaguing my mind for a few days, and starting off this Flash thing seems to be as good a time as any to get it out in writing. Let's just say the fact he was trying to get a dragon egg to its mum comes to haunt him in the future. This scene, I'm pretty sure, could be placed near the beginning of the Oblvion story, because I've always had Lee as an "occasional badger" during his time working at the Oblivee Inn.)

Drabble

Thu, 16 Apr 2009 14:06:20 GMT

Beasts stalk the rows, slink around the edges, poking their noses into all cracks.

Some refuse to wait, they sneak into the crevasses, sidling into the forbidden places. They hope the Auditors shall not put a dreaded pink mark upon their glass eyes.

Some, the more patient, wait at the boundaries, latching on to the summoners, stalking them to their sleeping beast; Waiting for them to open a passage, to a resting place; Fending off other beasts with a glare or shrill honking growl.

For places are many, yet few remain open, for those who come when the sun still is rising.

So goes parking at college.

The List

Wed, 11 Feb 2009 17:10:25 GMT

I meant to do one of these sooner or later. ^^

Note: I never really started writing seriously until sometime in 2002 around the time that Lilo & Stitch was released. Soon after writing about one Lilo & Stitch fanfiction and about the time that I read Triss and stumbled across the ROC (Redwall Online Community) is when I started writing more consistently.

Fanfictions

Endangered (2006) - Still would love to attempt finishing this piece.
"Doctor Who and the Bloodied Vermin" (2008)
"Lynchbary Towne" (2008)
~~"The Winter War: A Keage and Mone Tale"~~**(2002)
"Bloody" (2005)
13 1/2 Days Later (2002) - Pseudo-sequel to "Bloody, Random, Weird." Possible zombie spoof with Rex, Dringer and Jessi.

Novels

~~Snap. Switch!~~ (2001) - Oldest novel attempt. As I recall, I tried starting it about three times before I finally gave up on the idea. Completely corrupted by the irreverent "Help! I'm Trapped..." series as a kid and it completely shows in this story. It's just a story about a camera that switches bodies. Starts with a kid getting a picture taken with his dog...it goes downhill from there.
The Dragon Act (2002) - A fairly odd idea that has some vague potential. Story about a group of teenagers being sucked into a book of cliche medieval plot, a knight, a maiden, a squire, and one of them comes in later, finding himself as a dragon. Hijinks ensue.
The Tiger's Roar: A Realton Mystery (2003) - Always have wanted to do a mystery plot ever since I noticed how many mysteriously locked doors and nooks there was in my ancient middle school building. My dream was to get to see the bomb shelter that was supposedly under the school. To settle my curiosity, I made this plot about Lee and Tina, two kids who get on the trail of a string of in-school burglaries and find that the plot (and danger) thickens that closer they get to the answer. If I ever came back to this, it would definitely be reconfigured as a murder mystery.
The Weasel Lights (2007) - Failed NaNoWriMo 2007. Basically its a fantasy book about a grizzled marten former general who is trying to protect his daughter from a war closing in around him, instigated by the sly fishers and the gruff wolverines. These two forces fight for the loyalty of the marten's tactical genius, until the marten finds out the real reason behind the war... Has some fun mythic and military possibilities to build up someday.
The Firefox Investigations*** (aka: Firefox Detectives and Demolitions) (2007) - "Steampunk anthros" is the keywords for this odd tale about a raccoon struggling to make ends meet as a demolitions expert slash detective. This gets complicated when his former employer's son, a young red panda, comes to collect his inheritance: the business. The string of murders that start up with the son's arrival don't help... A quirky mystery story at its core.
Oblivion (2007) - A story of a small inn between universes and dimensions, a teenager's quest to get home...while occasionally turning into a badger at incorpotune times. Still needs a bit more plot.
An Unconventional Were Story (2008) - Not sure about this one. I like the little snippets I've written, but it might be more short story than novel material.
Swarmy (2008) - A down-on-his-luck novelist is having writer's block on writing the next in his series of highly-popular (if completely rubbish) fantasty tomes. He proceeds to get captured by his characters and put into the body of a disposable creature called a "swarmy" in his own created universe while a hired ghostwriter begins writing the next book.
Domesticated*** (2009) - A post-apocalyptic world while all humans have disappeared, leaving only younger generations, who have been transfered to Southend. All except for one girl, who is cared for by an intelligent (but rusting) ringtail robot, who remains in an empty town populated by domesticated dogs and cats. Bands of genetically infected woodland creatures are breaking into the solitude. Weird little story about the importance of humanity.

Rewair Tales (proposed 2002) - This has been my main plot line for about six years now. A tongue-in-cheek story about mythological creatures and there survival in a human dominated world. Mostly focuses on Thomas, a not-quite-that-normal teen, and his run ins with an unscrupulous species of mythical creatures called rewairs (emotion scavengers).

Ronts
The Road Trip
The Rodney Trails
The Last Rewair

The Maxwell Files
The Veterinarian Returns

Various Story Stories from Rewair Tales

"Raven Dragons" (2007)
"Spitfire of Fuzz" (2008)
"Kitty!" (2007)
"Bloop" (2008)
"Lab Notes" (2008)
"Clique" (2008)

Dozens of Unfinished Short Stories in Dook (2002-2009)
[unorganized at this time]

** Many elements of this story were used in Endangered: Winter Interlude, so it is unknown if this shall be ever pursued at this time
*** These stories may unintentionally be in the same universe, except at different times.

Noone like gnome

Fri, 23 Jan 2009 20:37:42 GMT

About a week ago, I made an absurd little list in my LiveJournal about the odd topics that came up during the course of 2008. I realized, that most of them, could turn into tales for 2009.

And since I keep delaying giving out my NaNoWriMo...

I do not write about Noone the gnome enough, and this was as good an opportunity as any.

Further Obsessions with Weasels
Noone steepled his paws.

"You know, this is really your own fault. There is no excuse for such behavior in my sector of the woods. Do not give me that look. I can hear it in your whiskers. Just let me tell you this, how would you feel if I came into your house and went fishing in your toilet bowl..."

Noone paused, a curved wave of distaste crossing his grizzled features. His grip tightened upon the roll of parchment in his paws. His tone murmured. "Horrible example, really, for though the forest is a dirty place, it is not that dirty and it doesn't have the yellow stained...that's just not even worth considering. Now that just says that this is no better than a toilet bowl and I dare not degrade the status of this place by such a raggled example that...what would I get fishing in...oi, that does not even bode well to consider."

"You know what I mean! Boundaries!" The parchment turned into a baton, pointed directly at the nose of the otter audience of one. The otter stopped picking his nose and pulled the claw out of a nostril. The otter said nothing, though had the sense to stand a little taller on his hind legs. Noone approved with a nod, and continued.

"There is laws to be followed, little laws that everyone appears to forget about because their minds are elsewhere and they don't THINK. Humans just have a problem with the thinking bit. If an animal had the sense ot think they would listen to the laws. But they don't, for they have the Laws of Instinct, while humans are strung to a different set of laws. Laws that should be followed to the little dandelion fluff that doesn't ever quite get shook off in that first or second or fifteenth, blow. You got me?"

The otter shook his head, and licked his whiskers, Noone noticed a beetle leg sticking out the side of the otter's maw. Snacking while he was lecturing. How bloody typical.

"Follow me, you webbed footed, rudder tailed excuse for a fisherman," Noone stated, and headed off at a South Southwest direction. The otter took one step, flopped over onto his belly, rolled about a bit, as if trying to find how his legs worked, then followed, if a little awkwardly, as if the four paws were in a state of disconnection. Noone stopped to watch this is some deep amusement, for some things never got old.

Noone was a creature made up of details that would confound the average biologist. He did not even appear to be one of the more obscure average creatures in the North American woods, like the pine marten or ringtail or binturong (which is not a North American creature but bears mentioning). Noone wore a hide of sleek brown fur, highlighted by streaks gold. Stout, hunkered, broad muzzle, small ears, large floofy tail. Perhaps the closest one could come to his lineage was a wolverine. This would be close enough, if it were not for the fact he was a gnome, the pointed blue hat, flopped over on his head, was the confirmation of that. He shuffled along on his forepaws with no amount of grace.

He lectured the otter, as they passed through the greens of bushes and trees, under the glistening beams of sun rays, along the shores of a bubbling brook...all rather idylic...except for the half-submerged truck, still hissing. Noone would have to deal with that eventually. He kept his focus on the otter, who seemed to be getting used to walking and occasionally dashed into the water when his back was turned to him, being the picture of dripping innocence back on the shore, whenever Noone turned back to check. Good signs, Noone decided.

He knew that now, he spoke more for himself than for the otter. His words fell off from ranting about the forest laws and the wills of humans and the destruction of the environmental and his responsibilities, to simpler things.

"Flowers are pretty," he stated, as if he had just made some startling main point. The otter pounced towards some minnows. The waterbeast didn't even bother feigning innocence when Noone turned towards him. He only cared about the minnows that didn't quite get caught by his webbed paws. Noone watched. He chewed at a claw. "Perhaps I'm using otters too much. I mean, yeah, its a nice creature to use. All sleek and playful, and, I will admit, a certain flair of cool, but...yeah, I think I need to try some variety of creatures. The whole point of this, is a new perspective, wouldn't you agree, Higgins?"

The otter chittered, or whatever sound that otters made in verbal response.

"The whole weasel family though. It gets the mind stuck in a certain mindset when I use ever single one of them. Odd creatures. Got otters, little dancers of the water grizzled maws, the works. Then there is the martens, not those be an underrated beastie. Like a weird mix of fox and squirrel with points. And then fishers, which are not fishers, oddly enough, and are the most vicious creatures ye going to get. And there be minks and...wolverines...puffy fellows. And usually, except for wolverines, swoopy."

The otter splashed in the shallows.

"In the mind of a weasel, there be a subtle thought process that controls jaws that can snap like a beartrap and never let go. A tenacity and blind courage. Bodies that follow lines wherever they may go, squeezing in and out over and under, around and through. And that, Higgins, is why I like using the weasel family so much when I must teach these lessons.

"On the other paw, there are many possibilities for a tenure. I think yours was suitable. I like the poetic irony. Becoming an otter temporally because of illegal fishing...granted, I fish might have been more ironic...but where's the fun in being a fish."

Higgins rolling about on the pebbles, relishing the fell of the texture on his hide, not paying any mind to the gnome's words.

The gnome pulled out the parchment. He jotted something down. The truck rippled into a rotten log. Noone nodded in approval. He raised his hat to the fisherman turned otter. He couldn't help be satisfied. Another lesson made, another point solidified, another law upheld. He was the law of these woods. Where would it be without him?

He watched the otter. Oh, it wouldn't be easy struggling to survive, scrounging for fish, territorial fights, scrabbling for shelter, dealing with the chatting of squirrels (the self-proclaimed frat boys of the forest), fleas, perhaps a case of mange, etc. All this with a slight haunting sliver of humanity screaming at the back of the mind, trying to gain hold on the slippery rocks of sanity, just out of reach. Yet, the consciousness of humanness being consumed by the instinctual nature of a river otter.

Cruel and unusual? Quite definitely. Because certain humans, fishing without a license, throwing rubbish into the shrubbery, spitting on ant hills, carving archaic symbols on trees needed to learn.

Sometimes, Oh rare events, Noone wondered if this was the right way to go about it. Send humans into a beastial form, to the edges of insanity and beyond. When he thought this, he usually shrugged it off.

Noone did not consider it this time. So all he did was wave and say, "See you in a month or two!"

Noone faded into the trees, murmuring, "If I remember, of course, and if I can find you, and if you aren't hitched or something, and if I happen to be in the area, and...well...you know. I'll be back in the general timescale..."

Because moors are awesome settings...

Thu, 08 Jan 2009 04:38:35 GMT

Over the course of three years, I produced hundreds of notes during Adventure in Clothes Retail, written on pieces of scrap found within the plain t-shirt. Occasionally I organize them, and every once in a while, I stumble across an utterly intriguing line.

"Janus on the moors, coming across a corpse."

I have no idea what the original context of this phrase (it must have been written /years ago/) but I was intrigued enough, to think up a story in the last few days and write it out...and borrow sarcastic_hare's character Janus for a little while. It's an odd little story, but I think it was well worth writing.

Moors

Janus, trekking across the moors, came across a corpse. As most corpses are, it was not a pretty sight. Bloated, discolored, the eyes gone from visiting crows, off to see other things, like gizzards and intestines. Still, in better shape then most corpses. No beasts had eaten away the flesh, the clothes had been kept intact. If it weren't for the lack of eyes and the bloating, Janus would have thought it were a fellow taking an awkwardly positioned nap on the moss.

The man in red stared at the corpse some long moments, uncertain. He settled down on a gray rock nearby. The air remained soggy, a dank fog swashing back and forth over the landscape, as if the moor were a bowl rocking side to side its contents. Craggy basalt punctured the land and fog, and the peat that layered the swaths of bogs lent steam to the air. This gave the area a musky scent.

Janus did not leave the body right away, for he decided the company would do him good, even if it were dead. He'd held company with much worse. He casually bit some hardtack. It crunched. The mage choked. Eventually, once his throat was cleared, he spoke, "A nice set up you have here. Nice and cozy place. Just the sort of place there should be something to bite a person on the leg." Janus rubbed his goatee before continuing, "But no, not a shred of business, not a flicker, not a disgruntled fae, a bogbeast, or bed troll. These are to be lands of feared myth. Where is it?" He tipped up his red hat. "Granted, this might because I've been lost a week. Hmm. I shall not bother to ask your name."

"It’s Jacob Frizturner Hobenton Sr."

Janus turned to see the lady emerge from behind a larger crag.

"Or that is what I've been told is name is," she continued. She stopped at the body and lowered the hood of her cloak. "Such a shame. The moor takes another."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh. Sorry to infringe your solitude..."

"J-"

"I shall call you Ruddy."

The voice commanded. No question, no sense of argument, no yelling, just a solid, complete, statement. Nothing to be argued with. She did nothing by means to explain. She still had not turned her attention from the body. "Ah. The crows removed the eyes. Typical. That's what happens. If you would please take the arms, I will take the legs, thank you."

Another of those statements. Janus felt no power to refuse. In fact, no reason to do otherwise came to mind. It certainly didn't appear to be detrimental to his health, unless, of course, the man had died of a moor borne disease. He hesitated.

"Is there something wrong, Ruddy?"

Janus did not like the given name, but he didn't say so. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

The lady stared. This action was more pounding than her words. And in this moment, the details of the lady clarified, and suddenly the word "girl" fit better. Not a "girl" as in pigtails and freckles. "Girl" as in a woman who has not quite escaped their younger years. And not only that, Janus realized as blurred details clarified, she was cute. Cute, not beautiful, not homely, not gawky, not refined, not...any aspect of her features emerged past a profound sense of her being cute. She smiled slightly. Janus's heart fluttered. He didn't like the sensation, caused by a strange female on the moors insisting that he help transport a bloated body.

"Names are just names, Ruddy, titles that are used for a purpose, labels upon vials that contain the human soul. My name is not necessary at this time. I only use Mr. Hobtenton's name because he is past the moment that it can harm him. Still, it would be better that we bring him to the morgue so that his body is not harmed further by the elements."

So many questions could have been pulled from that statement. Janus couldn't find the effort to ask one of them. He sighed, and lifted his half of the body by the stiff, awkwardly angled arms.

• • •

Surreal. That was the word. And in Janus's line of work, when that word was used, it was meant, for any normally surreal event was more likely than not part of the job. It was not used lightly. The girl was deserving of it and Janus knew that she would not argue that. The girl did not argue anything. She said. That's all she needed to do. She tried to be very fair too.

She downed another glass of brandy while Janus still held his fourth in mid-movement to his lips. She appeared disaffected by the liquor and this bothered Janus. Not because of the lack of drunken appearance. More because the lack of care about the corpse, the professional way she'd went about dealing with it. Females should not casually jaunt across the moors to find dead bodies. Janus didn't know much about local traditions, yet he was certain of that.

Janus couldn't help like her at the same time. The morgue keeper appeared to like her too.

The tavern was about as craggy and misty as the moors, as if the landscape infected all in these lands, turning it all to dark colors. Though he hadn't been able to wash his red apparel for days, he sensed he was the brightest item in this world. Other than that, the tavern was like any other, Usuals scattered about with their usual drinks carrying their usual vacant expressions ready to knock the block off any individual who gave the excuse with the usual lack of aim. As much as Janus would have enjoyed watching yokels sprawl themselves on the floor, he couldn't scrounge the mood. He only watched as the girl drowned another glass. Tenth one.

"You're worried about the body."

"...no."

"Oh yes, you are. Not a normal dweller of the moors, I can tell, not savvy to the dangers that lurk on those marshy lands."

Janus's interest was lured. "Are you saying that there are monsters?"

The girl rose her hood and sipped at the full glass. The barkeep seemed to be a phantom of liquor, filling with no need of encouragement. Janus wondered which side the tab would end up,

"The sinkholes are more to be feared than any monster, Ruddy. Surprised you didn't stumble across one yourself, with no guide to lead you through the moors."

"The man didn't die from a sinkhole."

"I didn't say sinkholes were the only danger."

Janus leaned in closer, trying to catch the girl's gaze, which was now lost in the shadows of her hood. The glass in her hands quivered. The air of the room moved with her breath.

"Does that sort of thing happen often around moors?"

"Moors are a world of their own, Ruddy, a desolate location that holds life, mists, history, and death in its cusp. Only the brave dwell this area at night, and even the light chooses glower down through mists most the seasons. If you would excuse me, I shall return soon. Thank you for helping me, once again."

She slipped away, not so much walking, as gliding.

No sooner had she left, than a mucky finger tapped Janus's shoulder.

"Beware the lass."

Janus turned to see a man on the stool next to him as mucky as the finger, if not more so. He buried his nose in his glass as not to be overcome by any strong aromas. The smell of the man was of pickled eggs. He chose not to bring the scents of brandy away from his nose. "Why?" the mage asked past the glass.

"She is not what she seems."

Janus rolled his eyes. Yeah, that was a surprise. Being offered drinks after helping a girl transfer a body off the moors, that didn't hint towards anything astray. And, out of her presence, he felt a weight lifted. She was not beguiling exactly, it was as if her mere presence demanded...friendship? "What do you mean?"

The mucked man. leaned closer, with that olde towne conspiratorial aire, "She be the companion of death, the she-lass of torture, the harpy of misfortune of all those who dare to drabble in the dark primal sins of men. She is a judge of souls. She is, at her core, a monster who shall not be reckoned with. Beware."

Janus couldn't help a want for this warning to be in a olde towne accent. "I am a monster hunter. Is there need of my assistance?"

The mucky man scratched his gooey bald head. "Did I say she was disliked?"

"Wha-"

A scream, inhuman, definitely. Janus twitched, grip tightening on his glass. Bar patrons let the scream garner a pause, before carrying on with their murmuring. Janus attempted to continue his inquiry. The man was gone, and the girl had returned, with a clink of coins on the counter. She nodded to the barkeep, and mouthed a thank you. The barkeep nodded back, a grim set smile.

"Come, Ruddy. I need to show you something."

• • •

A castle. Or at least what used to be a castle. The craggy basalt that had been formed into blocked forms and put together into walls and parapets and towers. Now the moor had pulled away the foundations, causing hills of rubble, slowly being consumed by the shifting grasses. It had been abandoned for a long time, accentuated by the obscured moonbeams and the lantern light. The girl held the lantern and led the way up the crumbling stairs, casting shadows out of the way, her cloak billowing behind. Janus tried not to think of the mucky words that had been told to him. Did he have anything to fear about this girl? She carried herself with meaning, she retained a kindness that latched onto the soul, and her features spoke of details that changed like the mist. When he tried to focus on these details, they were fleeting, he could not recall her nose, her mouth, her hair, only that she had an appealing appearance and somehow that was supposed to be enough. He could not even recall anything of her bosom, though he could assume that was covered by the cloak, that swirled around her at all times. Even when standing still, or sitting in the tavern, the cloak always was billowing, in a subtle, flowing motion, even without a hint of breeze. When her hood was down, her hair did likewise. Janus chided himself for not noticing this before.

She stopped before him. They were at the halfway point of the tower, which was now the top of the tower, for the rest had fell away with the times, perhaps destroyed by the corroding mists, maybe by the days of siege, Janus had no way of knowing.

A distant howl scampered over the breeze.

She held his sword.

What?

He felt down to find his scabbard empty. Had he given it to her? Had she taken it? He had no memory. Her hair and cloak flowed. She looked out at the moors, one hand feeling across the blade.

"Many deaths on your conscious, Ruddy. I pry into this fact, for it is my duty. While death may be under good intentions, it does not remove the weight that can never quite be brushed away, no matter how much one's blade has been cleaned."

"That's...actually a new blade," Janus murmured. The mage had won it in a slanted game of chips a few days before. He liked the red pommel stone. He'd only been able to test it out on a few unfortunate lagomorphs. Janus did not want his reputation to be scarred by someone sensing that he'd killed a few helpless rabbits (thought they /had/ tried biting him, the buggers) instead of throngs of monstrous beasts.

"I was not reading the blade, I was reading your soul."

"Oh." He quickly tried to conjure up some words of defends in case of anything she might find. Was this girl even a girl? What matter of creature could this being be? The mucky man had mentioned harpy, yet, this girl did not strike Janus as a harpy, and the man might have just been using colorful nouns to be more effective. He could think of dozens of creatures that the moors bred. The mage could not find one that fit this girl. He lay some focus on flames, just in case.

She set the blade down and took hold of his wrist. The speed in which she did this was uncanny, the "and" in between the actions was a blink, a swift swoop, so that Janus was pressed against an unstable wall of black stones infested by moss. He knew, now, when she breathed, why a faintness overcame him, his inner core shifted when she did, his soul moved within its inner sanctum (which was in dire need of dusting and muck shoveling).

Dangerous straits this lass did make.

"Are you a good man?"

"No."

She released his wrist and turned back to the view. The clouds came apart, letting the moonbeams rain down unfettered across the landscape, and mists pulled away, to show the lands that moors held. A place of pristine danger.

"Is that it?" Janus asked, still catching his breath.

"I thought that you needed friendship. I am lending myself to you now. But I always have to be sure. I seek no suitors anymore, but even if someone deserves to be a friend, I must now that they are never deserving enough of having their name uttered by my lips. At least, not before their time."

The name finally came to Janus. He did not say it. She did.

"A banshee. My real name is lost, for if it were known, I would be a danger to myself. Names are trivial things, as I said, the only thing keeping the souls where they are. Without one's name..." She let out a grim laugh. "You may try to destroy me if you wish, for I am the monster which you seek. Doomed to rip souls by the sound of my mournful voice. What say you, Ruddy?"

The moors were strange lands, full of dangers, and mysteries that were not to be unfolded. Still, Janus needed to ask, "What happened to Mr. Hobenton?"

"Tested the fates, Domestic disturbance. His wife's limp bothered me. I needed to seek out his worth. I usually utter the names of sheep, an arrangement of few questions as long as payment is ready. But dark encrusted souls beyond repair, need to be pulled away before they can infect those around them."

Janus nodded, as if this were explanation enough.

"Be careful, Ruddy, of your own." She returned the blade, retrieved the lantern, and headed back down the stairs. She was turning her back on him, letting him make the choice. She had stopped, in fact. To make a better target.

He did not react.

"I fare thee well. Be vigilant for my pet, the black dog to the east. Also, peat gas is occasionally highly flammable."

On his disconcerting information, the banshee left. Janus found the lantern on the bottom of the stair, right next to her cloak, pooled on the ground as if she had disappeared from within it, or had been swept away by the winds.

Dialogue Blitz: Veat and Fireclaw

Wed, 07 Jan 2009 03:24:07 GMT

A brief conversation between Veat and Fireclaw that popped into my head for no good reason and might be only sensible to me, but, when has that stopped me before. I'm just glad I'm getting myself to do dialogue blitzes again after a three year hiatus. Forgive the slight odd humor, I was just watching the new episodes of Scrubs. *squee*

"For one thing, I'm not a girl."

"Pah. That's a small thing, you forget how liberal my horde of dragons is."

"And I'm not a dragon."

"Again, they're liberal. I just need to give them some sense that I am keeping within traditional boundaries as I spread my social tendrils."

"I'm not sure whether I should be more scared by 'traditional boundaries' or 'social tendrils.' You just told me they are liberal!"

"The dragon definition of liberal is that their is slightly less plumes of flame."

"Fireclaw, I really don't want to do this. I've had bad experience with dragons."

"You get along fine with me."

"You're a rewair! And I had to knock you out with a waste bin last week."

"Raised by dragons, same difference. So I get a little demanding."

"You were threatening to burn down the mess hall condiments table because they ran out of orange julius."

"It was orange julius, Veat. Shows you can handle yourself around dragons."

"By whacking them with waste bins?"

"Depending on the size of the bin, yes. What's the problem? I mean, you're a dragonish thing..."

"How many times do I have to tell you. I. Am. Not. A. Dragon. Dragons are on a whole other level and they are not fuzzy."

"Haven't you met my uncle from Tibet?"

"No I have n..."

"Good, he'll be here."

"Fireclaw! Listen to me, you don't understand. Dragons and Dream Weavers, do not make very good bedmates..."

"Yeah, that would be awkward. How would that work actually?"

"I am so thankful I have no answer to that highly disturbing thought. I have to inform you that..."

"Fireclaw! You got the smoke signals. I've missed you and who is your little...is that malignant insect of a demon who dares to possess headwings? OFF TO THE PIT FROM WENST YE CAME!"

"As I was saying. You should know, dragons and DWs, not exactly great history."

"That would explain that food groups leadbook I had as a kid on the tenderness of dream demon meat..."

Red Shoes

Mon, 05 Jan 2009 04:08:57 GMT

Instead of working on things I ought to be working on, I worked on this instead a few days back. I'm not certain why, I was writing it on a piano and I was feeling guilty about not being able to give red shoes to someone for Christmas due to a series of random events.

But, not to be beaten, I wrote a story about red shoes to alleviate this annoyance, using two rather interesting characters who seemed that they would be wandering about in odd locations.

This uses those characters and a new incarnation of Rex, still as a kitsune, but now as a dweller in the ambiguous land of Oblivion, otherwise known as the Random Interludes, an area between universes and dimensions, a swash of land that surrounds a homey inn that is bigger on the inside than on the outside. This is the same universe that my occasional badger character exists and, well, I ought to play with it more. It's got some Possibilities.

Red Shoes
A Random Interludes Tale

Rex could see the wariness in his customer's demeanor. Not his eyes, for those were covered, and eyes were overrated anyway, especially in humans. If this were a more primitive species, say, with tail and ears, the act of figuring out demeanor would be easy, a matter of reading twitches, wags and tilts. A human, however, was more subtle, and it had taken Rex long hours of study to discover the secrets. Not that they came in use much, humans did not often skirt his side of the woods. He never let down his guard however, and now he was ready, all five tails wagging, maw in a loose smile, ears, perked, blower hat off his head, held in right paw, a gray tattered umbrella in his left, pointing out the sights, which were few and not varied.

Foggy tree, foggy pond, foggy rock, foggy scarecrow with fangs that Rex had to fend off with the umbrella. Boring things. Rex half wouldn't have minded for excitement to brush away the kids wariness. Or the chance to put an arm around the kid's shoulder's and say "There, there, cheer up ol' chum."

He did not do this. For one, this was not an "ol' chum" type of person. And two, there was an oily monster stalking between them. It was murky, and yet glinted oil rainbow swirls on his skin, giving over an overall purplish appearance. Rex did not care for the eyes. The ears bothered him. The kitsune kept the smile all the same. He swooped forward, walking backward in front of the kid, not loosing a step. The winter cap was still pulled over the human’s eyes, the brown and green striped scarf over the face, only an innocuous nose could be seen.

"Just passing through then."

A nod. No words. Not yet.

"Nice scarf."

Noncommittal silence.

The fox rubbed his muzzle, "Haven't I smelled you in these parts before. Or should I say, what's a snazz chap like you doing in a foggy place like this? Which one gets your fancy?"

"I am tired."

"Hullo, Tired. I be Rex."

"You have already said your name. Many times."

"Its a pun, you see. You said 'you were tired' and so you were named Tired.' It is quite a mood-lightener if you take the times to let it set."

"Smallcreep."

"Now it is not the time to be calling me names. I'm just trying to be friendly."

"My name is Smallcreep."

A slight moment to take this in. "Wow. Somebeast's parents didn't like them very much. With a name like that, I have just the thing for you..."

The scarf was pulled down, the hat pulled up, and Rex saw and honest, innocent, if scarred face. Not scarred on the surface, tired, winkled on the edges, a sigh on the cheeks.

Rex clicked his claws. "Skin cream," he exclaimed, and set to dig through his pockets.

Smallcreep tried his best to push past the distracted letter coated vulpine out of the way. Squonk sat then in front of the kitsune, licking its chops with a forked tongue. Rather sharp chops at that. Rex produced a steel wool brush, "Toothbrush?"

Squonk snatched the brush from his paw.

"And the payment will..."

Growl.

"Free sample." He scampered back after Smallcreep. "So what brings you to this neck of the woods."

Smallcreep stopped, he removed his hat and ran a hand through some mousey brown hair, ragged around the edges. Rex could smell the melody of the lost. A determination too. Nice. One that was no stranger to helplessness and knew how to slog on. Just the sort of customer that he wanted. He sensed a chill down his spine to the tip of his tails. He dared a look back at the stalking oily creature. It looked ready to pounce upon his tails at any moment.

"And what matter of creature is that?" he inquired, not quite keeping the squeak from his voice.

"A Squonk," Smallcreep said, scanning the ambiguous horizon, acting as if that explained everything. Rex could feel an uncomfortable nibbling on his fourth tail. He decided it was better to ignore it at this time. He barred the way of the kid's path, even though the kid wasn't actually moving, so the barring wasn't so much barring, as flailing arms for attention to make the subject know that they were being barred.

This did nothing to alleviate the blank stare on Smallcreep's face.

"You lost?" Rex asked.

"...yes."

"Well have I got the product for you. Authentic fake leather, durable laces, formed in the skater shoe comforting...form, the footwear that knows there it’s at, these red shooooooooes." The kitsune had produced a pair of, predictably, red shoes from his coat, and hovered them inches from Smallcreep's nose. "Did I mention in the purchase of these shoes that it shall ensure that you have an all paid expense trip Home."

"Home?"

"There's no place like it."

"I don't know..."

"Don't make me start singing the Rainbow song."

"Could you tell me where are?"

If telling him this trivial information could capture his customer, Rex knew he had to relent. He took account of the horizon. Still foggy, over every detail, even the fog was looking foggy now. Rex spread his paws in a presenting way, "This is Oblivion, the interlude between time and space, the place between universes, the vacationing spot of the gods'...sidekicks and other random arrangements of entities. You have wandered into a location few who mean to be here ever return from. The fog of this area senses changes in the thoughts of its dwellers, it forms the land of a creature as it trods, it reaches it misty grips towards the inner pieces..."

"So this is nowhere," a new, hissing sorta voice. No, wait, not quite hissing, Rex decided, more like a sound of someone trying to speak through a layer of mucus, a bubbly tone, yet dangerous. He glanced back at the Squonk, who had stopped biting Rex's tail to speak, temporally. The devious flare in the eyes was undeniable, no matter the species.

"...which is why you need these red shoes, for one payment of..."

"My soul."

Rex's expression fell at Smallcreep's words. "Ur...no."

"Do you want Squonk?"

"What would I need with your pet?"

"Who you calling pet?" The bite was rejoined with Rex's tail. He could feel the needle points digging past the fur, his limbs twitching.

"No, no, no. You misunderstand me. Please, just take the red shoes, I insist. The payment is no worse than anything you have experienced in your travels before..."

Hands took Rex's coat. Smallcreep did not look to be the sort of person who would take someone else's coat and growl, but Smallcreep did look like the sort of person who had been through too much not to do such a thing. Rex went slack under the grip, hanging limply. He wasn't that heavy, he was a lanky fellow under the coat and fur. Smallcreep lifted him closer. "What do you know of payment?"

"That sounds uncharacteristic to a guy like you."

"I've had a long day."

"Oh, I know those days."

"We were supposed to have a guide lead us past the forest, instead we have ended up here. Forgive me for not bothering to buy anything. On top of that, I have no money that could be used even if I wanted to buy anything."

"Oh, is that what you're worried about? Just give me a scratch behind the ear."

Smallcreep held Rex nose to snout a moment more before setting the kitsune down, and doing so. Rex, in turn, pressed the red shoes into the kid's hands while pulling out a scroll.

Tails wagging in pleasure from the scratch, Rex’s paws fubled around his coat, "Now that that's settled out, let's take a look at this map and get you out of here."

"...you're a guide."

"The guide actually. I know the curves and folds of Oblivion like the back of my paw, I do."

"The guide. The one we were going to meet."

"Yep. Guess whoever told you I'd be here didn't tell you about Oblivion. Very disorienting transfer. Makes a mind go kook for a bit. If you remember properly, you never even asked me if I was a guide."

"...payment?"

"Thanks for the ear scratch. Don't know how long it takes to get a proper ear scratch around here. Now, since there appears to be a mound of hay stalking us from the west..."

Rex didn't get further because Smallcreep had hit him across the jaw with the red shoes, sending him fumbling into said hay mound.

• • •

Later, a rather straw-addled kitsune stalked at the lead, a young human followed behind, scarf blowing in the breeze, and an oily creature skipped at the rear, testing out a pair of notably red shoes.

When the fragments are collected, there be some puzzles to be solved

Tue, 30 Dec 2008 05:37:36 GMT

I quite did this a few weeks ago, but its at these times that I realize how often I hide my characters from being properly revealed. There are nervous things, that don't really speak up enough. Don't have the courage to whack me with a frying pan like Ronts does.

We shall try to remedy that soon. I'm pretty sure this idea floated in from floorlamps but can't remember if it floated to her from another source. All well, so it goes.

Sat, 08 Nov 2008 02:12:02 GMT

Under the Bed:
A Rewair Tale and NaNoWriMo Novel

First part of this flailing attempt to work with mythological creature mythos. Who knows if this will make it too the end, make sense, or even be readable...but we'll see in time. Enjoy as I occasionally get myself to post it.

Fluff could sense the change through his wings. His wings made of flax black fur and plush filling. Nothing could explain how, because "sense" is not one of the things that matters to a monster under the bed. There are only the children they protect by any means necessary. These monster knew everything of how these kids worked. They knew every facet of the emotional spectrum, ever action and reaction and twitch and habit and hobby. Their job was to know without actually knowing the kid. If you knew the kid, then the monster was in trouble. Knowing he kid changed everything.

Fluff never listened to this particular rule. He played checkers with a golden haired child called Lily. His found himself losing quite drastically. This bemused him. He'd taught Lily everything she knew about checkers. Lily could never sleep right away. A monster under the bed like Fluff knew that, while children were susceptible during sleep, sleep was also a basic necessity. Without sleep...good night forever.

Murmuring about economic theories and celebrity gossip was the recommended way to deal with a child insomnia issue. Fluff found this boring and did not care who set who's dog who's wife was a cat who's porch was made of solid gold herring who... Whoever. This didn't matter to Fluff and he found even mentioning it aloud made his beak twitch.

He played checkers and felt. He could sense a Disquiet. He could not place what it was, only that it was there, ebbing at the edge of his instincts.

"ing me."

"Sorry Lily. Must go. You sleep now."

"'kay miter penguin. Wub you."

The monster under the bed stopped there, at the edge of bed, about to drop back into his namesake. He saw the girl, simple design, golden hair, round face, piecing gaze, and just...so...magical.

Magic was rubbish in Fluff's opinion, but he could think of no other word to capture that...sparkle. He needed to delve into a dictionary again, He'd been caught in the Ts the last time...

He stepped of the side of the bed, bounced, a little, shuffled past snugglesome dustbunnies, unto the ether. Ether is a substance that doesn't exist, and since it does not exist, it makes it ever simple to understand, and very complicated to use. The art was never to quite notice ether was there, to insist it was false and walk through it anyway. For some reason, ether existed consistently, under beds. And this was how they traveled. The state of travel from one underbed to another is so efficient, that one is where they will be before they are at there.

The lack of sense is what made ether so endearing to MuBs. Fluff stepped to a bed a few blocks north, ill-heated room, shaggy carpet, moving around like fending off grasses of a dense jungle. He could still sense. He could sense the awake heartbeat, still in a gray area, still wary of shadows. A claw emerged from Fluff's wing. He clinked the steel underbelly of the bed. The heart beat quickened. Fluff pulled at a spring, a krikrikri. Covers tightened. This kid wouls stay in bed, any further problem this night averted. He did what he was supposed to do, keep the kid in bed.

The bed was key.

The plush penguin reentered he ether. For three days now, he had moved. Sensing the Something. Poking. Yet he could not find a hint of where it could be. He could only sense that it existed and really didn't like pickles. The pickles part was pure speculation.

He came to another underbed location. Musty. Spilled juice, apple. Comic books. He rustled some pages. A gasp above. Still, nothing of the thing. Strange really. If there were a danger to a child, anywhere nearby, the ether would bring him, and any other MuB nearby, to the point of disturbance. Rarely did they have to hunt. They only had to keeps moving on. Drawn from place to place by the needs of the kids. Fluff never liked dealing with the danger with another MuB though. Different styles clashed with his. He remained too young, too headlong, too old school. His vinyl beak faded to gnarled jaw when he thought on this. There was no room to be careful. What was the point other wise? The point.

Whatever happened to be causing his faux fur to stand on end was in this town. He just needed to keep working through the night. Patrol the dusty realms. Maybe trounce a few ghouls in the process. Maybe it was nothing. Then he could concentrate on a game of checkers.

• • •
Veat rubbed his brushed snout. Never could tell under the fur, but he could feel the purpling marks. All his fault really. Asking questions about what he was doing. And Copper /hated/ questions like that. "A dream weaver needs to know how to go by the pull of his tail, swoop in without plan, to be where they need to be without being told."

Veat had pointed out that he was going where he needed to go, that there was a plan, and that Copper himself had told him. This had led to a well deserved thawp across his snout with the dreamcatcher stave. Not that bad a location to be hit. Copper usually hit in other, more sensitive, locations, that stung, and left him in a fetal position. Copper usually provided tea after doing as such, perhaps in some inner guilt...Veat doubted this. A beast could not hide glee very well. Copper /liked/ causing pain. It was the Nightmare Conjurer side of him. That's what made Copper such a good teacher. Knowing the worse so one could do the best.

How this was the best, Veat didn't know. He did not like sitting in such close quarters to humans. Especially when they were towering overhead, leaning, and...oh blast. He could see the slow meandering strand of globbulous liquid swinging down. A flow of wayward droll in sleep. Veat edged as far to the window as possible. He would have been much more comfortable in he baggage second below. Plus he would be able to scrounge around in the baggage to see if there were any beef jerky sticks.

Copper insisted on the bus travel. Nice casual training for a dream weaver. A dream weaver needed to exist in any setting without notice. Few mythical creatures could do it as well as the DW. Yes, it was an adaptation that existed for most mythical creatures, but DWs had manipulated so much that they could /interact/ with humans, and study them at close quarters and play with their thoughts and, of course, dreams.

How? Something only halfwitted gryphon philosophers dwelled into.

No one saw Veat as a three foot tall, blue, fuzzy, dragon-like creature on a bus. They saw him as Vince, which somehow made him normal. At the least, being Vince made him approachable. In fact, when the drool producing made had been awake, that had conducted a quite animate conversation on socks in scientific experiments. Now, Veat duly noted in his legal pad, the man dreamed of socks, being used in the field for algae studies. Strange. For Veat. Not really. Rather boring in terms of dreams. He kept himself from adding a quotient into them right there and then, perhaps a stamped of lemmings to interrupt the study. Something to cause excitement. Not /fear/ per se. That wasn't his job.

He couldn't bother at the moment. He sighed, watching the drool gob uncomfortably near to his tail. The bus smelled of stale cheetoes, stifled by an over productive heater, magnified by tinny polka music over the speakers, drowned by the tones of snoring.

How could humans stand bus travel without wanting maul someone an hour and ten minutes into the trip? One could only dream of how. And knowing humans, someone probably had.

Veat waited for the destination, somewhere in the Midwest, on a bare budget bus trip into the unknown. A field exercise. Something about evaluating the danger of nightmare conjurers. Something about activity. Copper would call and rant about the importance some more. Veat would nod and be glad he couldn't be smacked through the clawheld radio. He needed to have a break from his instructor., He didn't ask to be a dream weaver. He didn't really want to know how to mess with dreams either. Now he did. And it brought Responsibly.

The man nearby jerked his head, a piece of drool splattered on Veat's headwing. If he had actual /wings/ he would have flown... Veat hated the word “responsibly.”

• • •
Ronts lay sprawled out in the moonlit garden. He wanted to be left to his thoughts sometimes, under sleeping tulips and roses and goldenrods...a skunk snuffling at his footpaw. The skunk wasn't actually part of the situation, but the skunk was there, and Ronts really couldn't deny its existence or change its state of reality. Of course, he could talk to the fellow, have a little chat, he'd had nice chats to skunks before, mostly about how to tell if grubs were gooby or stringy on the inside. But to talk to a skunk, there needed to be fair warning given to the skunk. Now, that the skunk had come up and was investigating and wary, there was not much point to say anything until the fellow had calmed down, and not coiled up into a black with white striped ball, set to become a stink bomb any moment.

He could only wait for the skunk to calm down to say a quiet "hello" and hope that he didn't nibble before that. Raccoon...Ronts would have tackled and tussled and have a good-natured claws and jaws display by this point. Raccoons had no trigger-happy nature that skunk's had. Never could quite trust a creature that had a secret weapon in its...

Nevermind. Ronts waited for the skunk to shuffle off, perhaps following the sound of a cricket nearby, before breathing again. Now he could think sensibly again. Jeremy. Good kid. Solid host. Nice bits of uncertainty, fear, confusion to play off. Had a heart too. Ronts always picked kids with a heart, and not because it meant that they would bleed properly or prove that they weren't a zombie or something. No, more the human version of a heart. Something that meant the kid was not a worthless sap that pursued the advancement of their own personal being. The heart meant they /cared/. Rewairs understood the heart more than most, and not because they had an affinity for it as Russian restraints, because unlike some MCs...they themselves could /care/.

Needed to. Needed to care about the host to really get the emotional good stuff, all tangy and hidden under a tangle of context. Jeremy slept. Ronts wondered. An emotional scavenger wondering about his place. He was part of a dark race of creatures. How did he get here? Helping out some human. He turned over. The skunk was there, watching. Without sound, the skunk padded up, settled down, and rolled up in a ball next to Ronts's fuzzy chest.

Animal magnetism. Ronts really needed to look up that term someday.

• • •
A raccoon and a fox slept in the cab of a semi-well-kept truck. The fox had five tails, twitching in reaction from some dream. The raccoon clutched a half-full box of moldy powered donuts.

A pine scent air freshener swayed back and forth from the rear-view mirror, glistening in the headlights of a passing squad car. A police officer in the squad car ignored ever seeing the truck.

• • •
"Plans never actually exist to be followed word for word. That is why I tell you all so little of what this plan is. Because, you see, this is a story in process. I know little of how to explain that which is no formed. So I give to pieces that will be figured out in the future. Perhaps your piece will be used, perhaps not. Adapt to the moment and trust my judgment."

"Heck, I'll even say the fated words. 'What's the worse that could happen?'"

The audience to these words laughed uproariously. Perhaps not a laugh in human standards. The description of the reality defeats the purpose of mentioning. But it would go something like RRRRRGGGGGRRAGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRARARAAGGR.

Or a badger trash compactor. Take that as you will.

• • •

A town on a lake. Not big. Not small. Not quite rural. Not quite urban. No big industry. A series of small ones, sustaining it nicely. Nice town, is what visitors said. Very nice, is the most they said, for little more could be said. Never use the word "normal" though. Towns don' take kindly to the word normal. to say a town is normal, places an expectation. That expectation leads to speculation. Speculation leads to confirmation. And before you know it, there are poisoned beats at the next community center picnic and "normal" escapes scott free of any blame whatsoever, to the next town, where the deer population might just be "normal"....

For the sake of argument though, Limerick, at this time, the Morse code dashes and dots of dawn scrolling the horizon, was a normal town, therefore completing its fate to be doomed.

• • •

wub

Wed, 22 Oct 2008 16:11:13 GMT

I can't think of how to lengthen this piece. And then I realized I really don't have to. Misty and Ronts need some more awkward conversations.

In sooth, this was only written for "smitten." Very nice little word.

"I am smitten by you, miss," Ronts stammered, every part of him drooping, "Everything I hear you speak, my mind wants to respond, then can find nothing suitable, and then I don't say a thing, and then worry that you shall think nothing of me if I don't say a thing. And so it goes."

Misty didn't stop spinning the daisy in her paw. If she kept doing an action, it made everything make a little more sense. Except for this. This was quite beyond the spinning of a daisy. A rose, perhaps, that would have the thorns to get between the pads as it spun. Nice thing about roses. They gave doses of reality when gripped by the stem. The beauty of the petals connected to the irritating pricks of the thorns. That's why roses made good analogies in poems and Shakespeare. Misty would prefer more metaphors about raspberries, how it took some thorns to get to the sweet taste... Not as clean. The bright community garden was a nice place to think on these thoughts.

All this served as a border from thinking about Ronts, making himself miserable in front of her. Cute. The folded right ear. That's what the other female rewairs agreed his cutest trait was. Not Misty. She really thought the floppy ear was overrated. She liked his golden eyes. Yes, they weren't /truly/ golden, only flicked with gold on a muddy color. They still sparked on the sides. That's what counted.

She sniffed the daisy. She smiled down at Ronts. "Lovely day, Mr. Ronts."

She liked adding "mister" in front of things. Made her feel as if she were in a Jane Austen novel, in some obscure way. Or maybe just in a Wall Street Journal article. A very mean way to respond to Ronts, she knew. She just didn't want to give a real response. Yet. The white furred rewair glanced to the side, at a bush of rhododendrons. She let her fur ruffle in the breeze. She let Ronts whimper. The smile held back.

So difficult.

"Yes. Lovely day, Miss Misty."

Rather awkward thing for Ronts to say. She could forgive him. Her name made the words sound off. If her name were Catherine, it could have worked better. Alas.

Snapshots of fuzzy dementors

Fri, 03 Oct 2008 00:10:58 GMT

An exploration into most of my main rewair characters written in mid-August. Still messing with most of their natures but some of them are settling down a bit. Still playing with the premise of rewairs in general. It's a twisty road...

Ronts grinned at the kid, floating at eye level. He lay in midair on his stomach, forepaws folded under his chin in reflective calm. He heard way the kid, Jake, was saying, and yet he didn't really listen that closely. When going from teenage host to teenage host, one picked up things on teenage conflicts. They were like stories, same plot, same elements, except the characters and location changed (and even then, the lunchroom was a cliché location).

Jake was a dime a dozen at his core. Like most of those in middle school, he was confused, and like most, he was conflicted, and like most, he needed help that he didn't know where to get from. A flakey supply of friends, parents who "just didn't understand", and teachers who intimidated or bored kids to death. An honest to goodness mentor was hard to come by.

Ronts hated rewairs being referred to as "mentors" and he knew most other rewair shared his opinion. "Mentors" made rewairs sound like these roving plush animals that gave enlightenment for children everywhere. In fact, rewairs were forced into the role of teenage sounding boards for the species own selfish needs: so they didn't end up ravaging the souls of teenagers at will. The alternate name for rewairs was "emotional scavengers" after all, and what better foundry for emotions was there besides the human teenager?

Ronts could never consider himself to be a mentor when he occasionally debated sucking Jake completely of emotions, leaving the kid as a fleshy husk of null personality. He thought of this now as Jake relayed the lunchroom part of his day. He could smell of the embarrassment coming up. He upheld the calm expression, though couldn't suppress the slight licking of his muzzle. Emotions were funny things, they tended to get stuck in a rewair's whiskers, to be found by the tongue later, a dose of joy from a good report card, for instance, like a cherry dipped in cinnamon glaze.

This was what he tasted now. Jake was a good kid. Ronts wouldn't actually do anything his instincts whispered in the night. He couldn't say the same for all rewairs...

• • •

....because rewairs were slimy, underpawed, disrespectful, fuzzbuckets in the realms of mythological creatures.

Or so Fireclaw had been told as a pup. This lesson became troublesome later on when he was informed he was not a small, wingless, furry, gray-white dragon nymph, but actually a rewair. He'd spontaneously combusted at the time, which was fine because he was a pyromaniac, a primitive way of saying he could manipulate flames at will. All rewairs had their vices, that was Fireclaw's.

He tapped his paws on his muzzle. It was a classic intimidation problem. Young humans did it all the time, usually the ones called "jerks." Fireclaw knew how to deal with them.

Fireclaw raised a paw in a motion of lecture, "The art of hitting them without getting suspended."

"Come again," Kyle said, putting down his Star Wars comic.

"We must find a way to set their britches afire."

"I'm sorry, you are completely loosing me."

Human teenagers. So slow. Not as bad as the big version of humans. Still a few talons short of a griffin. Fireclaw learned to keep from aggravated growling years ago, still couldn't keep from his claws emitting a few licks of flame. This gave a slight smell of burnt fur to the air.

"I know from experience: you are not going to gain respect if you do not have power." Ah, the days of young dragon hierarchy, learning to spit back flames at the best of them, the smell of BBQ in the morning. How Firclaw missed them. "And not always psychical power. Face it, I've seen more muscle on a muck monster. But you're a smart kid."

Kyle quirked a brow, "Is that...a compliment?"

The rewair couldn't help growling this time as he yanked on his ears, "rrrrrraaayas. Nevermind that, the basic point is you..."

• • •
"...need to be more self-confident," Misty whispered over the lunch table. Misty wasn't feeling that self-confident at the moment, but hoped it didn't show under her illusion. Her wariness came from young humans eating in all directions at quarters. Of course, she looked completely like one of them. She made sure she had mixed her traits just enough to blend in into this middle school cafeteria. As long as no one inquired who she was directly, Misty was alright. As a rewair, her form of shapeshifting was fragile at best.

But Karen needed her presence for now, and she could put up with a few hours of casual mingling to keep her on the right track. The blare of middle school emotions radiating every which way remained a distractionary threat in Misty's mind. She felt as if she had snorfed an entire bag of jellybeans and the ensuing taste exposé left everything dulled.

Misty could still taste the uncertainty of Karen past it all. The girl twisted her hair around her thumb as she spoke, "I don't wanna talk to them. It just...I really can't. I don't know."

The usual vagueness. Misty smiled, and offered a cupcake. The new kid story. Shyness. Breaking into one of the seemingly impenetrable "cliques".

"If you don't try, there really isn't knowing. It's just a matter of...thinking outside of the box. Appearances are deceiving," said the small-bearish rewair who currently looked like Average Preteen USA.

Identity didn't have to do with appearance, it never did. It was just a fun illusion that Misty attempted cracking in this situation.

Speaking of which, another girl, dark hair, dark eyelashes, dark hair...perhaps not as dark in black as dark in dark violet...sat along side Karen, ripping off half of a industrial school biscuit as she spoke, "So, you write?"

Keren gained that panicked look that harpies got when kicked out of the nest. Before any fight or flight decision could be made, Misty deftly cut in. "Oh yes, she has been making huge strides in into fantasy narratives." She had done some research, printed off one of Karen’s stories, and accidentally dropped it next to this girl’s locker.

The goth girl gave a odd look at Misty before turning back to Karan, "I read this story, you must have dropped it in the hall. Love the when the unicorn impaled that guy. We got a writer club meeting after school. Wanna swing by? Do you have any other writings that need critiques or the like?"

As Karen babbled, Misty snuck away. When it came to this part, it was best...

• • •

...to let it all out. All the problems and worries after a long day, a fuzzy friend on their lap to pet on the way. Heck, if dogs and cats were more sentient, rewairs would be out of a job.

Then again, Robby mused, dogs and cats probably did a good enough job of it as it was. He didn't even have to say a word as Penny's mind wandered over her verbal thoughts. Tucked on a window seat in the attic, pillows about, two glasses of cherry kool-aid to lap. Could there be a better way to wind down after a tough day.

The rewair could even taste the fear and loathing melt away with each scratch behind his ears. Too bad Rob had to mess with this system every once in a while. Rob, his alter ego, who got stirred whenever tensions rose, when Penny was too distraught for Robby to calm. True, as monstrous as Rob was, he never did anything /bad/ per say, he just...gave horrible rambling advice that took Robby days to smooth over the effects of later.

Simplicity was the key. A few words, or even no words. Just to let the kid know he was being listened to by a completely reliable source. Somewhat like those phantom-like imaginary friends...except you couldn't properly cuddle an imaginary friend except in dreams.

Emotions were fickle. No need to push. After Penny had finished, Rob asked, "Did you say sorry to her?"

She sniffed a little and shook her head.

The small rewair licked his wet nose before continuing, "Best call. And..."

• • •

"...worry. Worrying gets you no where. You need to appreciate what you have. I mean...you have a bloody iPod! I don't even have an iPod."

"I didn't know mythical creatures had iPods."

"Only if we have the money. We usually smooze off our hosts." Zippy never beat round the hide. He was always very honest with Lucas, and the kid took it in stride. He knew as much about rewairs as Zippy did, which, granted, wasn't much, but painted the picture that rewairs feed off excess emotion. Of course, this led to questions on if rewairs made teenagers angsty, to which Zippy explained that those the taste of angst was fine dining for a rewair, it was like dark chocolate. Rich and bittersweet, and fine in moderation. He avoided the part he would occasionally binge on angst during exam week. Honesty did not mean telling all.

"That is swooping through conflict, finding the frosting in the mold, being at one with thine self."

Lucas paused in packing his backpack, "What if I break my leg?"

"Your parents have you well insured, and you shall get ice cream in your hospital room, you shall get off dodgeball in gym this coming month, and you shall be a force to be reckoned with when you have those metal sticks to hit people with."

Lucas couldn't help break a smile, "Crutches."

"Same dif...because there's a little song I wrote, you might want to hear it note for note, don't worry..."

"I've heard that enough Zippy. I think I still hear it echoing from the last time."

"Was the verse I added too much?"

"Perhaps the ferrets could have been left out."

"But they're so cheerful."

Zippy liked playing off kids, because kids were a lot more open to thinking abstractly, and when one thought abstractly, they could see something new in everything. It all came back to his theme. "Be happy."

"I know, I know," Lucas said, edging out the door.

'Course, the tactic could backfire. They needed to be little worries, just enough to keep studying and whatnot. Satisfaction in a job well done and such. Zippy made sure that equilibrium existed.

“¿Usted estudió para la prueba hoy?”

"I studied for that test. Don't worry."

Zippy waved farewell. Ah, good times, just needed to beware of a crash, and starting to think too much about what was wrong. He let a quick sigh escape. Every rewair tactic to help reign emotions had...

• • •

A few problems. Reboot had failed again. Hopefully for the last time, because he was dropping this life. Rewairs helping out teens in their eras of emotional turmoil? Who's idea was that. He threw a furious glance at the picture of the kid. He couldn't quite remember the name. Good riddance. He wasn't made for this anyway.

Science club? BAH! That was not how you settled yourself up. You did it by conforming to people's wishes and becoming something they wanted to see. Only then could you be happy. Everytime he tried to teach a kid that, the same thing happened.

In theory, it should have worked. Heck, Reboot was a master of getting beasts to like him and depend on him and being cool. Why wouldn't he be able to teach a kid how to do it?

He could never make it, and he could taste the contempt on the kids breath. He refused to bother with the kid's faulty logic. That he felt fine. That he liked learning about geology and rocks and such boring stuff. Popularity was nothing? Hah. Reboot threw the picture away, it shattered against the floor. No, no...he couldn't do that. He held his paw over the frame and broken glass. Clinking sounds. He picked the picture back up, glass fixed as it was a few moments before. Reboot felt a little pain of...something he couldn't quick lick.

Perhaps guilt, not from anything the kid radiated, from within himself.

"Well, kid, I wish you..."

• • •

"...the best."

Ronts knew he had done his best, and so he hoped that would bring Jake his best. He hadn't done a thing to change Jake. He never had to for most kids he did, A dash of listening there, a bit of advice there. The only thing that needed to change, was Ronts. Ronts needed to change to be what he needed to be for the kid. There was no bossing emotions around like lemmings who didn't want to go over a cliff. Emotions were not only tastier than lemmings, but more fickle and strong too.

So he gave a helping paw, as he hoped most rewairs did. He really didn't know. They did the best they could in a weird position. The Rangers of Emotions, the Wranglers of Angst, the Ranchers of the Tween Frontier.

"Ronts, shall I ya stop by sometime?" Jake had that forced grin, that meant something was being suppressed in this farewell. Ronts floated up and complied with the ensuing hug.

"Ah, others need help, I need a chance to be lazy, and you need to do your own math homework for once."

"Maybe..."

"My e-mail is not to be used for that sort of emergency." Ronts bared some teeth for good measure.

"Thanks, Ronts."

Past it all, past the feeding off the emotions, dealing with teen problems, the works, that last phrase always made it worth it.

He rolled his eyes. Then again, he always was a bit of a romantic.

A plush penguin walked into a bar...

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 03:52:15 GMT

This is in ill-updating states, which is interesting because I have various stories that are hanging around in different states of repair.

For now, I leave you with a very short nonsense story, possibly non-canon, about Fluff, the lovable monster under the bed...not under a bed. (Inspired by conversation with sarcastic_hare on locations ^^)

Scotch

"Another please."

The barkeep did not question the request. Who was he to question an enchanted creature? By all means, it was a creature of fabric and stuffing, and yet from time to time, parts of it faded into something of scales and claws. At the least, it paid for the drinks. He poured the amber liquid quickly and skittered away to other customers, something interesting to see from one of his girth.

It did not take much of the amber liquid to get Fluff in a well cultivated haze. Being a monster under the bed, he had the nice talent of entering other worlds, and this one suited him right at the moment. Somewhere to get his mind to stop working properly with a thing called "alcohol." He was certain most of his clients would not approve of his habit, and he didn't care much. He empted the glass in one gulp, letting the liquid burn the inside his beak a moment before swallowing, letting it be soaked in by plush unknowns.

Nice tavern atmosphere, nice shades of brown, nice sticky layers on all surfaces, nice warty and scared and haggard customers. All giving him Looks. Like they hadn't seen a plush penguin with jaws before. Really, nice silly people. He rose the empty glass to them, much ducking under tables occurred with the action.

"Anothuur plz." The words were slurring, mostly because his form was becoming less consistent with each dash of alcohol, his maw cascading between vinyl and jaws, and his height on the stool going between one foot and five. This made him dizzy. He smiled at a lady a few seats over. A little cold looking. Lots of pink between cloth peaces. Dark. The barkeep was filling the glass again, shakily. "Fill 'er up too," Fluff said, motioning to the lady.

The barkeep shuffled over to do this, the lady asked something, the barkeep pointed, she looked, and Fluff waved a clawed wing. Oh. Nice. She smiled back. The glow in Fluff's eyes rekindled. He tried for a nonchalant pose. He had stopped at three feet now, mostly scales with tuffs of fabric, and still rounded at the edges. He wanted a sense of intrigue.

A lull fell over the tavern. Bets were made if the strange creature would eat the lady. Fluff licked his lips to lap some fragments of peanuts snarfed earlier. Probabilities went down.

Against convention, the lady moved over to sit next to Fluff. This might have been because she was brave. It might have been because Fluff always had a sizable bag of coins in full view on the counter. She gave one of those smiles. She flipped some bleached hair. Fluff missed the detail. She smelled like pickles, with a dash of mothballs. He liked pickles.

"So..." she hissed, as a lady of her caliber could do, "Thank you for the drink what are you?" The way the lady mixed sentences made Fluff hiccup. He only shook his glass. The drink wasn't quite so amber this time.

"Are you a fae or pooka? A wizard's familiar? To be certain, I have heard of you, and not believed anyone’s stories. Now you are here, and you give me a drink." A button above her bosom popped off and bounced of Fluff's snout. He sipped his drink.

“I’m a monster from under the bed.”

Nothing new for the lady, only different part of bed. “What brings you here?”

"Oh, I just ripped somebeast's neck out," he said, clear.

A sound of a dozen bar chairs being pulled back five feet chorused. The shadowed corners of the tavern became tightly populated.

The lady did not dash, she had encountered scarier in her work, which is why she never cut her nails short anymore. "Oh, that's nice. Rather scary. Still nice. Anyone I know?" she cooed, hopeful.

"Orc. Primitive thing. Wanted to take some kid's innocence. Bothersome. A kid ought not be hurt. A kid is perfect. Their mind is new and weird and fantastic. Like a diamond."

"Apparently you haven't had children." The lady rolled something besides her eyes.

"In sooth. I have had millions." Fluff moved the money pouch from her grasp, and her nails dug into bar counter. He faded back into his natural plush penguin form, "Thank you."

The lady squinted, not certain how to handle being eluded from easy money. "You are cute."

"Again, thank you." Fluff bowed, then slipped off the bar stool.

Blender

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 03:08:54 GMT

This has spent a long time stewing in my computer, getting lost and found over the course of many months. Tis another tale about Zippy and his problem with focusing. Also, pulls from personal experience. Zippy, for years, has been meant to be a simple, pointless, comic relief character, but in the past year, he has become dissatisfied by this generalization, and bothered me into writing tales about him.

Also, you can see my little struggle in trying to explain rewair in a few lines.

I just like the ending of this. Zippy is a fun little fellow to write about when I'm exceptionally morose about...anything.

To-Do List

"Make the bed, please."

"Of course."

"And...maybe do the dishes."

"There's a dishwasher. Small task."

"Vacuum."

"Now that's just fun."

"Are you sure you want to do my chores? I mean, I..."

"Feel no guilt, good miss. Your wish is my desire."

The girl stopped, and took account of the small bearish creature once more. By all rights, she should not be taking any word from his maw seriously or even as something part of reality. Still, her chores had been done every day she came back from school and she wasn't going to question that, whether she had physically done the chores herself or not.

A looming math test in the first hour beckoned. She left.

• • •
Simple line of tasks. Very simple. Quite simple. Simpler than simple then, but what was simpler than simple? The simplest. This was the simplest of tasks that could be imparted upon him. One, two, three. He could even count that high on his four digit paw, which was saying something. It was saying something, that it was the simplest dang tasks ever conceived upon the face of this Eastern Coastal-ish region. Zippy settled with a satisfied grin.

It was unfortunate that he thought the word "however" for that word brought with it that despite these simple tasks that were many more To-Dos to be done in the contexts and beyonds of those tasks that would not be simple. They would malform them into the opposite of simple. The Anti-Simple. Zippy growled at imagining the conflict against that mendacious foe.

Mendacious?

Sounded right to his mind and not to his ear.

Like pudding.

And here, the bearish creature sat. lost in this moment of debating something that now seemed infamously far from a simplest of tasks.

Maybe he should watch a little tv before doing anything, just to settle the mind down and let the tasks with clips of reruns running through the head.

This never went as planned, nothing ever went as planned for Zippy. Some theorized that it was because of his species and in turn, his inherited abilities. He was a rewair, an emotional scavenger, a creature usually found following teenaged humans to leash off the excess amounts of emotions lying around. Even rewairs admit that this feeding process did not come without its side effects. The second part of rewairs was the elemental powers most of them picked up from cubhood. In Zippy’s case, he could manipulate electricity rather well, if you replace “rather well” with “marginal at best so you better stand back when he is welding a toaster.” The electricity that festered in his system was though to make his thoughts and actions jumpy sometimes.

In truth, he just had a short attention span.

The short interlude of TV viewing ended in about four hours, seven minutes and fourteen seconds. Zippy gaped at the weird-eyed kitty clock in the kitchen for thirty-four seconds before this settled in. He’d hit a marathon, he chided himself, and he didn’t want to miss seeing if Jack defeated the terrorists or if her daughter got eaten by a puma or…needed to get to the chores.

The bed was simple enough, the balancing act of filling the dishwasher not so much so. He nearly found his paws about to grip the blender but he quashed that unfulfilled love story by setting onto the vacuuming task. He placed his especially made electrical gloves over his paws and set about to setting the Dirt Devil upon the demon mites. His mind wandered as he swooped the vacuum head over carpets.

Almost done with the tasks set for him. Then what? The girl’s father had a library, filled with classics of fiction, non-fiction, and guilty-pleasure-thrillers. Then there was the girl’s sister, who had an art desk he had been meaning to get to for some time. Then there was the blender…he stopped himself before considering any relationship. Oh, and maybe do that recording for mum’s birthday coming up. Maybe just do something for the girl, make a shake for her return. Did she like shakes? She never had had shakes when he was about. She never mentioned shakes. She mentioned that the bully stalked the front of that desert café and she once requested that he get milk and he knew that she enjoyed plain vanilla in a stale waffle cone. Did she like shakes? Maybe rearrange her collection of plushies. She only had three. Wouldn’t it be nice if Freddy the Spidey were hanging from her door when she arrived back? No, no, that would be going out of bounds. What if her mother came around…

Zippy clicked the vacuum off, the rumbling vibration stayed in his paws, and his head.

Just read those books. Do that sketch. Clean some more. Do that thing for mum. Shakes? Cake, maybe. Her birthday coming. Hope she was alright. Get her to trust. Trust. How did you do that. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.

To-do.

The creature curled up on the carpet, still warm from the vacuum running over its plush surface, and Zippy waited. To-do. He needed to-do, or he would be nothing. To-do, accomplish. What happened when he forgot to make her bed that one time? She didn’t look sad, or even taste sad from her emitting emotions. Zippy knew, that somehow, she wouldn’t trust him, he needed to-do to be able to have her trust him. Without doing anything, he would cease to exist to her. He treaded that line. And besides that, he needed to be known, he needed to be an example. He couldn’t be quirky and carefree when his insides were muddled wondering what else there was to do.

From the corner of his eye, out the window, a little distance away, peaking about the trees, an electrical transformer stood. Zippy sat up. He wondered.

OOO

Power failures caused chaos as they spread from New York to Detroit, and Toronto to Ottawa.
Traffic lights failed, underground railways were evacuated and people were trapped in lifts in offices and apartments.
Canadian officials said a fire at a power plant near the upstate New York town of Niagara caused the outage, but US officials disputed that theory, although they said terrorism was not to blame.

OOO

Zippy had finished. He had read Twain, Nabakov, Stephen King, Catch-22, Ender’s Game, the complete collection of Encyclopedia Britannica (except for K, inexpiably missing), the complete works of Shakespeare, Edgar Allen Poe, Douglass Adams and C.S. Lewis, five collections of Calvin and Hobbes and ten of Peanuts, Gideon’s Bible, Mad Magazine (No. 173, March ’75), The Once and Only King, Dog to the Rescue, How to Draw Anything, My Many Colored Days by Dr. Seuss, Bill Cosby’s Fatherhood, and a pamphlet on How To Control Stress. He had made her bed, organized her stuffed animals in color, then in alphabetical, then finally in size order. He had painted the room into a space motif with baroque undertones, painted her parent’s room in Renaissance with H.A. Ray inspirations, painted the toilet in light turquoise with highlights. He wrote letters to Ronts, Robby, Zippy, Kani, Roberto (his chubacabra compadre), and sent a platypus carved out of soap to his mother for her birthday. He had taken a photo of a beagle eating a watermelon. He had reconfigured the web connection to be 16.333 times faster. He had done a dozen things more.

Zippy napped.

OOO

It was dark. The girl had been confused. He had lost trust. He could taste nothing. Could have been a side effect from biting that wire. She still smiled. No trust. And even though he accomplished so much, he couldn’t win her trust. She hugged him, ruffled his fur, pricked her finger on a little bit of static, she made a pun. Zippy nodded. He wasn’t real to her anymore. Her parents were more confused. Not only for what had happened, because the girl took it such in stride. He needed to go.

When he entered her room, she was looking at the list from the luminescence of a flashlight. His accomplishments, he had written it at the end of his blurred moments. He sat next to her.

“Sorry.”

She laughed, at the list or him, he couldn’t tell. “Zippy, don’t be sad…did you really carve those designs in the door frames with your teeth?”

He nodded and sighed.

“You got a lot done.”

“Not really…”

She turned the paper over to see the rest of the list. “My grandpa used to say that you’ll always be unaccomplished until you die.”

Zippy’s ears swiveled. That made sense. Unaccomplishment always existed. Considering his charred fur, he should have been accomplished today. Made a bit of sense. So there would be more to-do lists, more worries, more pain.

He didn’t have to leave just yet, he wasn’t done.

He requested one thing from the girl.

Zippy went to sleep snuggled under the bed with the blender in his paws.