Halloween Special Part Two

It all started on the seventh day and the final hour of his grounding. There came this storm, a right powerful one with gusting winds and tearing rain, that blew in from out of nowhere. There wasn’t a house on the street that did not have a downed tree the next day and the Jansons, they lived right next to me, had their in ground pool blow right away during the strongest gust. I watched it bounce, water and all, over our fence, spring off of its own diving board, and be flung out of sight by the storm.

That might all sound amazing, and it was, but it could hardly compare with the mystery of what Nathaniel saw as he watched the storm through his bedroom window. During a triple strike of lightning there appeared a shadow in the upper window of the old house across the lane. It was one of those old boarded up Victorians. Old man Gunthurner had lived there once, but he’d died ten years before and left such a mess of a will that the lawyers are still trying to sort it all out to this day. Now, that house should have been empty and, worse still, Nathaniel knew it.

Well, being the curious sort, Nathaniel could hardly think of anything but the shadow after that and we all knew he would remain as such until the mystery was solved. We agreed to look for the shadow, but, as a precaution, we set out for the house on the brightest day we could find. The front door was bolted, locked, and had a couple boards nailed into place across it, but the wooden door on the left side for the cellar had a tree fall on it during the storm. Working together we managed to heave it off. To our disappointment, the hole it had made was no more than the size of a toaster, but Nathaniel, he was not one to be discouraged. He just stuck his head through and wiggled around a bit, first managing to get one arm in and then the other. Before long he was inside and opened the cellar for us.

Even though the day was bright, the cellar had no windows and provided nothing to see by. We found a light switch, but it seems the electric company had cut power to the house. Stumbling in a line after Nathaniel, since he was the only one who could see in that accursed darkness, we went up the old rickety stairs and explored the house. We found nothing of course. No unusual shadows, no footprints in the dust on the floor besides our own, no signs that anyone had been there lately at all. The house itself was as one might expect it to be: cobwebs in the corners, furniture covered in sheets, during the day time it was little more than an old house.

We went to get Nathaniel and found him in one of the upper rooms. He was looking into the only item in the house not covered by a sheet: a large antique oval mirror set into a fancy rectangular frame. Its surface was amazingly spotless. There was not a smudge on the mirror and not so much as a spec of dust to be seen on its framework. The mirror was as perfect as the day it had been made, maybe more so.

“We will have to return to this place at night,” Nathaniel informed us then, “For at night did I see the shadow and so at night shall it return.”

Half of us were not as brave as we were curious and the other half returned that night only with great reluctance. Nathaniel, too curious to consider fear, led the way, his cornflower eyes shining like two moons in the darkness. For its part, the true moon was as full as it gets, maybe fuller, and it cast a pale glow through the windows.

This time we had plenty of suspicious shadows to choose from. There was but one shadow that Nathaniel was interested in however. Suddenly he saw it standing lonely against the wall and in the same moment, it also saw him! They both froze and then Nathaniel gave chase, lunging up the stairs after it. We hesitated, but followed wearily, having gone too far to turn back now. Though we could not see where they went, it was not hard to guess. The room with the mirror, we knew we’d find them there.

We gathered in the doorway to watch the scene unfold. Nathaniel stood as one transfixed before the mirror. The full image of the moon reflected back, hanging above his head and where the shadow idly stood within the mirror staring back at him. Nathaniel reached out his hand and touched the shadow at the surface of the mirror then glanced over at us with an apologetic smile.

“It would seem,” said he, “That all this time, the shadow was my own.”

With a slight wave he stepped into the mirror and was gone.

We tried, of course, to follow him, but Nathaniel always had a certain knack for managing things the rest of us could not. Everyone thought he’d return someday, but this time he did not. After he’d been missing for a month we gathered up the courage to go back and investigate, but the mirror was no longer there. His mother soon moved away and took the house with her, selling the land to her neighbors. Come to think of it, not even a year had passed before there was no longer any sign that the amazing Nathaniel Nicholas Night had ever existed in our town at all.

--

Thus concludes my oh so spooky Halloween tale. If you enjoy this sort of a narrator I'd recommend The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, by Mark Twain. His influence definitely was part of what led me to write this.

In completely unrelated news, I put my amazing graphic design abilities to work and made a Blindfold the Moose logo. Ok, so it's a bunch of ovals I connected and colored in paint, but all things considered it could have turned out a lot worse.

Have a Happy Halloween!

Halloween Special Part One

Nathaniel and the Shadow

There was once this boy, lived down the street from me, who went by the name Nathaniel Nicholas Night. To tell you the truth, Nathaniel was something of a curiosity to the rest of us. Why is that you wonder? Well to start with, his hair was dark blue. You heard me, dark blue, and no, it was not dyed. In fact, his mother would oft say to him:

“Nathaniel, Nathaniel dear, please come with me and change your hair to a normal color.”

But Nathaniel would always say in response:

“Nay mother I cannot, for I was brought into this world with hair the color of the evening sky and with hair the color of the evening sky I shall leave it.”

And then what was a good mother to do? After all, he also had yellow eyes. Yellow eyes! Have you ever heard of such a thing? Now this was before everyone was running around with those newfangled colored contacts in their eyes, but even so, his poor mother did her best. She bought him a new pair of sunglasses every week, but Nathaniel, he never used them.

“My eyes may be like two cornflowers in the sun,” Nathaniel would say, “but these shades would only dim what is currently bright while obscuring wholly that which is already dark.”

What is the most curious thing about him? Why, that would have to be his inordinate amount of innate curiosity. No mater how curious any of us were about Nathaniel, he was always ten times more curious about something else. The first time we all went fishing, Nathaniel became so intrigued as to what the fish do all day that he up and leapt in the pond, vowing not to return until he had seen it for himself. And he didn’t return. We waited nigh an hour for him to resurface, but once Nathaniel had got an idea into his head, there was nothing and nobody was going to get it back out. It was a good full week before anybody saw or heard from him again. Not too surprising, his mother locked him in his room after that.

“You can ground me if you like mother,” Nathaniel conceded to this, “But I learned such wonders in the last week as they never taught in a school.”

It was another week before he was allowed outside again.

Well now, it may be that the adventures of Nathaniel will go on forever, but alas that is not for us to know. You see, and this is something of a carefully guarded secret, so please don’t go spreading it around, there came one fateful night, not long after the fishing incident, when a few of us watched Nathaniel leave this world for good.

--

I decided to give my adoring fans- all maybe one of you if I'm lucky- a whole short story for Halloween. This was my attempt about a year ago to combine a tall tale with a ghost story. In case my previous clip about a robot practicing witchcraft didn't tip you off, I get some odd kicks out of combining ideas that most people wouldn't bother trying to combine. Anyway, expect part two to conclude it tomorrow.

Yes, it is Complete

“Do you believe in completion?”

She rests one foot on the pavement. Above them the road winds around the side of the mountain. A bead of sweat rolls off the end of her nose as she leans on the handlebars. The air shimmers.

“I’m not so sure about it myself.”

You shouldn’t just stop halfway up.

“Most of my life has been spent trying to finish a homework assignment, check the daily chores off one by one, or watch clock hands for the end of the day. All I seem to do is strive for completion.”

You’re stalling.

“But is completion even possible? If I finish today’s homework there will still be tomorrows. Can we ever achieve resolution or do we only pretend to by dividing larger tasks down for the sense of accomplishment?”

This slope will be a pain to start on.

“I wonder if completion is really just part of a cycle. What if everything is just like the gears on my bike: quick smaller cycles turning slow larger cycles in order to progress? You say we’re halfway there, but once we reach the top we still have half the trek to go, right?”

It’s too hot for this.

“Do you think completion can be anything but partial?”

Around her a clump of flies mingle. Beside her a broken rail marks a boundary. Before her a dotted line leads the way.

--

Not entirely by accident, this completes the story that was started in Almost Perfect. It is the second twin. I used the same form and style to write this one, which should be obvious from a simple comparison of the two. The role of friend held more meaning and expressed more ideas in this rendition. The general placement of the conversation also fit better and felt a little more real to me. When I wrote it I was trying not to waste even a single word. The result you can judge for yourself, but I'm satisfied with how it turned out.

Technomancy?

Do you see that one passing there by the solella vendor? No, not the round guy in the pinstriped tube socks, though I’m sure he’s interesting enough. I mean the one attempting to disguise herself with the flowery hat. To you she may be just another Returner pretending the role of a woman, but to the knowing eye, she bears the unmistakably traces of a witch. I know her as I know any other robot, and that is, only in passing. But they say that if you were to happen by the electronics dumping ground at midnight you may very well see her there, entranced in the darkest of sabbaticals, summoning to her, through such unholy circles as could be known only to one of their kind, the long forgotten viruses which ended the lives of many of her brethren in the decades prior.

It would be well if you never saw her there. The dark purple lightning, which crackles and leaves singe and soot on her chest plate, is said to blind even the most bio-enhanced eye.

--

I have absolutely no clue where this is heading. Possibly nowhere. It is the direct result of a brief conversation I had this morning with a friend of mine. Her homework was to write a five page sequel to a story about a man and a wife who raise a robot as their son. I'd tell you more, but that's all I was told about it. She had three pages and still needed to come up with a way to write two more so I suggested a plot twist where it turned out the wife was secretly a robot like her son. As an afterthought I added, "And also a witch." Of course, she refused, so I said, "Well if you won't do it, I guess I'll have to," and so I pulled out my computer and typed up this little blur.

As I reflect on it, I'm going to blame the 'she's a witch' thing on Hawthorne. Having just finished reading 'The Birthmark' and 'Young Goodman Brown' adding in a witch almost seems like a given. It sparked another interesting debate with another of my friends who read this over my shoulder and remarked on how a robot couldn't use magic or witchcraft. I'll admit, it's not a concept I've really run into, but I challenged the notion on principle. In a world where we accept magic as possible, what is it that would limit it to something only a human can do and not a machine? My friend suggested the necessity of a soul, to which I replied, "Ah, but there you see, this is witchcraft, so they would have had to have given it to the devil in any case."

Almost Perfect

“Do you believe in perfection?”

She sits with her back against the rock. In a sea of swaying grass it is the only landmark in sight. The crooked tree on top grows with its roots wrapping around to the ground. It is her friend’s favorite perch.

“I’ve been thinking lately.”

You think too often.

“I’ve spent most of my life trying to get better at things, improving at this or that, removing my flaws one by one. It would seem that the ultimate goal to such a quest would be perfection.”

It isn’t possible.

“But what if it was? What if you had all the time in the world and could just refine your flaws away until one day there was nothing left at which you could improve? Would that be perfection?”

Sounds kinda boring.

“Though, I wonder if personality arises from the flaws. How much of us do you suppose would be left if we chiseled away all of our imperfections? Would that be too much like trying to refine the impurities out of this boulder?”

You’d kill the tree.

“Do you think it’s possible though?”

Before her the horizon burns. Above her black and stars push. Behind her there is rock and tree and nothing. Below her there is only crushed grass.

--

Er, this is actually complete in a sense. It was the first part of a larger three part story I wrote for my creative writing class at the end of my last term. The third part is something of a twin to this one. Together they formed a frame around the bulkier middle section which was more of a traditional story, although in this case I use the word traditional extremely liberally. I've considered writing another 'girl and friend' story or maybe a series of them. They're kind of fun to try to piece together.

The Epic Slipper Quest

I was sitting in my great room
I was reading my new book
Outside the storm was howling loud
I did not need to look

My feet were getting chilly
My toes were feeling numb
I knew I’d need my slippers
Before the night was done

The dog lay in the hallway
His sprawl blocked off the path
My way I made it careful
Lest I test his doggie wrath

The cat stood in the kitchen
No food sat in his dish
I knew there’d be no passing
Without a second fish

The fish was wrapped in plastic
It smelled strongly of the sea
I cut myself a small piece
But the cat was eyeing me

--

It's a poem! Well, the start of one anyway. My mother, father, and I were all taking turns reading paragraphs from one of Ralph Waldo Emerson's essays on Self Reliance and trying to decipher what exactly the guy was rambling about. Smart guy, Emerson, but he writes like he's talking to a whole other century or something. Anyway, my father ran off to check on the laundry and I announced basically the second stanza and then went and got my slippers. Quite obviously I was smitten with myself and decided to turn it into a longer poem. It might be dramatized from any actual occurrences... just a little.

Discontinued, but not Forgotten

A white owl glided through the snow covered branches. Its shadow flicked over the ground, in and out, as the little light which broke through the frozen trees was lost and found again. Spreading its wings it flapped them, once, twice, and then landed on one of the frosted branches. Below stood a solitary figure shivering from the cold. His skin, an unhealthy shade of dark yellow, was exposed to the biting air for the full length of his arms and most of his face. While his pants were long enough to stretch down to his padded shoes, he wore nothing but an olive sleeveless muscle shirt above his waist. Leaning against the tree he exhaled, his breath spreading out in a rapidly dissipating cloud.

"You're late again you know."

Above him came a hardly audible pop, the sound of his friend entering her true form. She hung from the branch for a moment by her hands and then dropped down into the snow beside him. She was much smaller and younger than he. Wiser too apparently since her garb, a bear skin that covered her entire form and left only her face exposed, was better suited to the weather. She hissed at him.

"I was getting some dinner."

The man pushed away from the tree, rubbing his hands together for some warmth.

"Have I told you how silly you look in that outfit?"

"Have I told you how cold you look in yours?"

The man coughed and scratched the back of his neck with his hand, looking up at the sky.

"Touché."

--

This was the start of a collaborative story I started a couple years back where one of us would write a piece and then the other would write the next piece. We had two different stories going with different characters who would have eventually met if it hadn't stopped off short when the other person dropped out. The story has been abandoned and I have no intention of resurrecting it, however for these two characters I managed to develop a distinct fondness in the short time I spent with them. They may eventually get their own story from me if I happen to come up with another plot that calls for a shape shifter and a martial artist.

Absolutely Nothing to do with Anything

It's my dog Scout! I could tell you that he's my inspiration for an up and coming story, but there's no sense trying to rationalize this. Actually, I just wanted to play with my ability to add a photo to the blog and I incidentally uploaded all the pictures I'd been storing on my camera for the last year or so earlier today. Um, Tada! Yeah, turns out it's fairly easy.

If I write enough words on here I think it'll wrap around and under the photo. I don't have much more to say though, so in honor of the final push, let me share the words I wrote on the chalk board in my syntax and style class: The elephant sat on my purple chair. That's a neutral sentence in case you were wondering. Down with prepositional phrases! I was trying to write an active sentence, but trying to do it is like guaranteeing I won't. Well, that's not entirely true. It's easy to write an active sentence: The elephant ate the peanuts. I was just trying to make mine more interesting. That's where the utter failure comes in. Oh well, at least it gave me something to blather about to fill in text under the photo. Huzzah!

Edit: And now I get to test the edit feature too! Mostly to realize that the spacing on the blog is different than the spacing in this text box I'm writing in. I was already under the photo before I even talked about my desire to be there. See, my need to test this feature is justified by my inability to accurately predict the outcome!

A Girl Named Anomie

Dearest Reader,

Be you from the unknown future or the forgotten past, another world or simply another land, or if by some small and perhaps innocuous chance are reading this in the here and in the now, know that should you ever one day decide to take leave of your home and travel into foreign realms, your reality may soon become little more than a frame of reference.

K.K.

--

And here we have the intro to a story I can't seem to start to my satisfaction. The largest struggle has been a mater of voice. I have never before written a story with a narrator who talks directly to the audience and isn't an acting character in the events. It definitely wins the prize for personal most restarted narrative.

That aside, I'm relatively excited about writing this tale. I am focusing on exploration and setting it in a world where each corner has something worth exploring in sights, in moods, and in ideas. Some of my favorite stories (The Hobbit, Watership Down, Etc) involved embarking on a journey into the wide unknown. Surprisingly, given the success of those books it is hard to find stories like this that weren't written before I was born. In my perfect world, maybe I could restart a trend.

The Chest of Eighty Wonders

His hat was that of fine velvet and her eyes the greenest of greens. They danced amid the petals of pink tree blossoms and sang silent songs to those who would listen. Jenny stared at the two unabashed.

How can that couple be so carefree? She wondered. If I was trapped in that tiny space, dancing would be the last thing on my mind.

Carefully she placed them back on the shelf. The blossoms swirled a little and then settled as neatly as before.

“Caught your eye, have they?”

The elderly man smiled at her. She had not heard his approach.

“Did you make this one Mr. Tinkin? They look beautiful together.”

“This pair is the gift that inspired my others. They were a farewell many years ago.”

“From the one who taught you?”

“Taught me?” His cough was laced with laughter. “She taught me many things, but no, not the making of snow globes.”

--

That's the first couple lines from a story I might eventually finish someday. The name of Mr. Tinkin is more of a placeholder than a done deal in this case. When I write out a sketch for how a story might start I don't waste time trying to think of the best name for a character. It's easier just to jot something down and decide if anything would work better at a later date. The title of this post is my working title for the story. It'll probably stay.

And don't expect me to update this rapidly all the time. I'm just on an excitement high from starting a blog, can't sleep, and haven't thought far enough ahead to avoid using good backup material so soon.