More BTBBN CH3 CONT>>>>

That's right, more Ben Thompson Brooks: Boy Necromancer comin' atcha! After this...

Oh, so, John Carter of Mars is one of my favorite characters in pulp fiction. The books are ridiculous fun reads, over the top, blatantly and delightfully racist at times and just good old fashioned adventure. Also, John Carter is frequently not encumbered with pesky things like modern morality and clothing. The science in the books is brilliant, with big ships flying about, propelled by a martian color that we don't have on Earth, and Mars is lush and full of all sorts of interesting flora, including some kinds that walk around and suck your blood with big hose arm things.

Certainly there was so much fun and you really have to love not being held down by things like science when writing your fiction. The only thing more deleterious to being able to write fun fictional works than understanding science is thinking that you understand morality. Thus we're always stuck writing characters who we know and who we think are believable based upon our social mores (then we label them good or bad, etc.) So I think its a lot of fun to read older works where the characters, good or bad, really have a different way of viewing reality.

Anyway, it is being made into a film...by Disney. Fuck you Disney corp. I hope the children you rear with your movies turn into cannibals and eat you.

But I promised you more story...and here it is! (The continuation of the previous post...so read there first.)

Over the weekend, Jacob lamented his situation while his friend Eric listened.
“I just don’t get it. I know it has to be some kind of joke, but they’re just not letting up. What if they really are going to send me away to some weird camp.”
“What’d the slip of paper actually say?”
“Wild Jim’s Country Necromancy Camp and Boarding School.”
Eric flinched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I dunno.”
“You mean you never looked up what ‘necromancy’ meant?”
“No,” said Jacob with a scowl, feeling a little foolish. “But what I don’t get is why they don’t even call it the same thing.”
“Well, what do they call it?”
“Wild Jim’s Country Fun Camp.”
“Maybe ‘necromancy’ is a funny way of saying ‘fun’.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, guess not,” said Eric. “Can I see the flier?”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Why not? I want to see if I see it like they do or how it really is.”
Jacob was glad that Eric at least assumed that Jacob wasn’t crazy and that his family was insane instead.
“That’s exactly what I don’t want,” said Jacob. “You’ll look at it and probably see some fantastic brochure too.”
“I know, but I really want to find out. Maybe they aren’t kidding and there’s some sort of spell on the paper. You know, like magic or something. Maybe it’s a magical camp and they’re going to teach you magic! Just like in the movies!”
“If it were like that, then wouldn’t I be the only one who can see the real flier.”
“Maybe you are! Maybe ‘necromancy’ is another word for magic and you’re the only one who can see it!”
Jacob pondered this for a minute. It seemed pretty backward that the real brochure would just be a scrap of paper with the name of the camp on it. He thought maybe he could show it to Eric after all. Wasn’t that why he had swiped it and put it in his pocket? “Here,” he said producing the letter from his pocket and handing it to Eric, who took it.
“What’s this?”
“That’s it; that’s the flier.”
Eric flipped it over in his hands. “But this is just a blank sheet of paper.”
“Don’t you screw with me, too!”
“I’m not!” said Eric, a little taken aback by his friend’s sudden outrage. “Seriously, I can’t see anything on it. Is this really the right thing?”
“Yes it’s the right thing! What do you mean you can’t see it? It says right there!” said Jacob flipping the paper back to its right side and jabbing at it with his finger. “Wild Jim’s Country Necromancy Camp and Boarding School!”
“I can’t see it. Seriously. I’m sorry.”
Jacob scowled and tightened his lips until he couldn’t tighten them any more. “This is stupid. This is impossible! You have to be able to see it! If you can’t see it then—then, maybe I am crazy!”
Eric looked away, just as lost at what to do as Jacob was. Maybe Jacob was crazy, but the letter being magic seemed much more interesting and therefore much more likely. “Wait,” he said, perking up. “I’ve go an idea! Come on, let’s go to my house!”
In the back of Eric’s house there was a gas barbecue pit with an automatic igniter sitting on the patio. It was still sunny out, so most of the mosquitoes that liked to live in their thick saint Augustine grass were still in hiding. Eric’s dad, Mr. Samuelson, loved to grill, and Jacob frequently got invited over. But even though Mr. Samuelson was always spraying the grass with insecticides, the mosquitoes didn’t seem to do anything but thrive. In fact, the more he sprayed, the more mosquitoes there seemed to be. The repellent they used seemed equally ineffective, so Jacob would stand around in the smoke with greasy skin getting eaten alive by mosquitoes at least twice a month. Even now, the tiny vampires, smelling Jacob’s sweet blood, were being coaxed from the damp grass, hovering ever nearer.
“What are we doing here?” asked Jacob, swatting at a mosquito buzzing around his ear. Their incessant whine bothered him, and he thought perhaps it was not the bites but the callous indifference of the mosquitoes that annoyed him more. They would just whine in his ear, ignorant of their own offensiveness.
“We’re going to set the letter on fire!” said Eric with a smile.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” thought Jacob to himself.
“If it’s really magic, then it shouldn’t burn!”
“Wait,” said Jacob, “Just because its magic doesn’t mean it won’t burn.”
“But whoever wanted you to get the flier needs you to keep it around, right? So that your parents can get the information off of it and send you there. They would make it indestructible until it wasn’t needed any more so they could make sure you made it to camp!”
Eric had quite the imagination, but Jacob thought it sounded reasonable. “Okay, well, let’s light it up.”
Eric grabbed the long nosed butane lighter that hung next to the grill; it was stick from being left outside all the time with all the greasy smoke and bug spray and the bugs that stuck to it because it was already sticky. “Okay, here goes.” He tossed the letter on the grill and held out the butane lighter at it.
Nothing happened.
“What’s happening?”
“I don’t know; the triggers stuck.”
“You have to push that thing on the top.”
“Oh, yeah, I knew that.” He pushed and pulled and a tiny little flame popped out and then was gone. Eric tried again, with no more success.
“Here, let me try it,” said Jacob, grabbing the lighter from Eric. He held it close to the paper, but the pathetic flame never lingered for more than a moment or two. The slightest breeze was enough to blow it out. Finally, when it was dead calm, and though he could feel the itch of a mosquito drawing blood from the side of his face and another on his arm, the flame stuck, and he held it steady as can be next to the paper.
“Look, look!” said Eric excitedly. “It’s not lighting on fire!”
But this was premature. The paper did catch fire, and in a few moments had burned to cinders. They both watched and wondered if they should put it out or let it burn; after all, it seemed like if it was magic, it might be a document of some significance. But neither moved in time to save the burning thing which in the space of a few seconds had become charred and black before falling apart altogether.
“Well,” said Eric. “I guess that’s that.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”

“You’re leaving on the 6th,” said his father.
“What?”
“The 6th.”
“Leaving for where? I’m not going.” Jacob didn’t even know why he was still resisting. Hadn’t he decided this was all just a joke anyway?
“For camp. And yes you are.”
“Fine, alright, yes, camp.”
“You’ll only have a couple days after school gets out, so you better be packed and ready to go by then. You’re going to need to bring the tent, and a sleeping bag...”
“Wait, I need a tent?”
“Yes, didn’t your mom show you the checklist that they sent?”
“No.”
“Well, go ask her about it. Go.”
Begrudgingly, Jacob got up to go see his mother. She was busy cooking something strange for lunch.
“What’s that?” asked Jacob.
“Sea cucumber, it was on your list of things to eat before you went to camp. See?” she produced for him a scrap of paper with a list of odd things that he was not sure were all foods, sea cucumber being one of them. He looked suspiciously at the stewing, rubbery chunks.
“I’m not eating that,” he said matter of factly.
“Oh, come now, dear. Try something new every now and then.”
“But you hate trying new things! You’re the one who gets the same thing at Apple Bee’s every week! I’m not eating it! I’m leaving!”
And without further ado Jacob walked right out of the house and down the street. What was wrong with everybody? The gag about the camp brochure was bad enough, but now they were trying to make him eat weird things. It wasn’t like his mom to go to expense to play a practical joke; it wasn’t even like her to joke. In fact, none of his family really had a sense of humor to speak of, including him! “What’s wrong with them?” he thought, trying to make me try new things all of a sudden!
So caught up in his own thoughts was he, that when he suddenly realized that there was a car chuggily idling along with him as he strode down the sidewalk, it had already been with him for over a minute. He just kept walking, hoping that if he ignored him, he would go away.
“Where ya goin’ Jacob? Ya need a ride somewhere?”
Jacob was in no mood for this. Setting his jaw he fixed his gaze straight ahead and marched on. He had no time to worry about the child molester.
“You running away from home?”
Still, Jacob did not respond.
“You ignoring me? That’s not too friendly.”
“Go away.”
“That’s the spirit. So what’s the problem?”
“My mom wants me to eat sea cucumber.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound appetizing. Get in the car and I’ll take you to get a burger.”
This was dumb. Shouldn’t Jacob be running away or something? But it wasn’t like the man was chasing him; as long as he stayed out of the man’s car, Jacob figured he should be safe. “No, thanks.”
“Hey, Jacob.”
“What?”
“Hey, Jacob.”
“What?”
“Hey.”
“Leave me alone!” snapped Jacob, looking over at the man in the Cadillac for the first time. He was holding a gun and pointing it straight at Jacob.
Jacob was amazed at how fast he was able to get to the fence; it took no time at all to climb over. Perverse laughter leaped over the fence after him. “What’s that guy’s deal, anyway?”
After jumping from yard to yard, and not wanting to return home yet, he stopped at a house where he knew the neighbors worked over the weekend. Their little boston terrier barked at him for a long time and wouldn’t get close enough for him to pet it. After awhile it just went back to its little dog house and growled at him.
It was late afternoon when Jacob woke up; he hadn’t even noticed when he fell asleep. He wondered what time it was. He hadn’t brought his phone with him. Begrudgingly, he got up, jumped back over the fence onto the street, and walked home. Judging by the light, he figured it must be somewhere around 4:30. The house was quiet when he went inside; he didn’t think he’d ever heard it that quiet, but maybe that was because usually he was playing video games or watching TV at that time of day. He heard rustling papers.
It was his mom; she was in the kitchen looking at bills. She didn’t look up when he entered. He was about to leave the room and go upstairs when, still not looking at him, she said, “You’re lunch is on the counter.”
He walked to the counter. The plate was gooey with sea cucumber juice. He started to say, “I’m not going to eat that,” but he thought better of it. “I’ll take it upstairs.”
“No, you’re going to sit right here and eat your lunch. There’s no excuse for you to run out like that and let the food I made for you get cold.”
The plate looked excruciatingly unappetizing. He grabbed his fork and scooped up some of the sea cucumber. Slimy ooze trailed off of it and onto the plate. With a force of will he began shoveling it into his mouth; it was revolting! He nearly gagged with every bite!
At last the ordeal was over, and he panted as though he had just been doing some vigorous running. “That was awful!” he said aloud. “How did you guys eat that stuff?”
“We weren’t going to eat that; that was for you. We just had burgers.”

BTBBN CH3!

I think this is about where we were. Since I've been working more on Oraphan for the past week (did I actually manage to get 5000 words written?) I haven't spent as much time on BTBBN, so I'll just ration this out in little bits to you guys...like healthcare from death panels. And because I think a post without a picture lacks flare...LAID OUT!!


Chapter 3
Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother

The Smith family happily sat about the dinner table making insignificant conversation. Mrs. Smith asked the boys about their days. The boys each said, “Nothing.” But Mrs. Smith pressed them and eventually they each gave a thorough debriefing of their day, which was, in truth, rather uneventful. Then Mr. Smith railed against the government and gave his nightly political speechifying; this was when the boys and Mrs. Smith learned everything they needed to know about politics. They were all pleased to have him back in town after his two weeks away, for he seemed so much wiser regarding the ways of the world than they were, and his sumonizing meant they did not need to think as much for themselves.
“Jacob,” said Mrs. Smith when there was a lull in the conversation, “why don’t you tell your father about what you’re doing for summer?”
Jacob shrugged, wondering what his mom was talking about. “I-unno,” he said shrugging with his mouth half full.
“Oh sure you do, tell him about that camp.”
The camp? He had thought she’d given up on the camp! “I said I wasn’t going to that!” he protested.
“What camp?” asked his father.
“It is the neatest looking camp ever. I’ll have to show you the informational brochure.”
“I’m not going, mom. It looks weird. I just want to stay around here with my friends.”
“You can’t just lollygag around here playing videogames all summer, Jacob. Now, what is this camp?”
“I don’t even know. There’s no brochure.”
“Oh not that again,” said his mother. “He’s exaggerating. It’s folksy, but very professionally done.”
“You can’t even read it! And it’s all hand written.”
“Oh, honey, that’s just the font.”
“Well, let me see this brochure.”
“No!” shouted Jacob, fearing the same effect would take his fathers senses over the matter. What was wrong with them?
“Clay, go get the flier for your dad.”
Clay got up and left.
“Dad! I don’t want to go!”
“Well if you don’t want to go, that’s fine, but you need to find something to do this summer. Maybe we can find you a job.”
“Oh, dear, just look at the flier. I think you’ll see we really should send him.”
“I’m not going to force him to do something he doesn’t want to do, Emily.”
“Just look at the flier; you’ll see.”
At this time Clay came back with the sheet of paper with the scrawled script. Mr. Smith took it from him, said “What’s this?” while giving it a suspicious looking over. “What is this?” said Mr. Smith, perplexed and sounding a little angry, much to Jacob’s relief. At last, somebody else saw that it was just a crummy rolled up paper with scribbles on it. “What is this, and how come they didn’t have it when I was a boy? Look, rafting!”
“I know!” cooed his mother. “Doesn’t it look great!”
“No!” shouted Jacob.
“Jacob, don’t shout!” shouted his dad. “What’s wrong with you? This looks like a fantastic camp. It beats the pants off that crummy acting camp you go to every year.”
“But I like acting camp.”
“Look at all the manly things they have you do! You’ll be rock climbing, and building furniture, and learning finances…”
“Building furniture? That’s not a camp, that’s a sweatshop!” Jacob didn’t know why he was arguing the point. Where on earth were they getting all this information from? Was it some sort of joke they were all playing on him? That had to be it. “Okay, guys. Jokes over. I get it now. You got me good.”
But they just ignored him and continued to speculate about all the different fun things he could do at camp that weren’t listed on the flier that wasn’t a flier.

wheeeewwwww...wow,slow going. But okay Oraphan Fans, got 3 pages written today so far. I wonder how much 'good' writers get written every day. Just those 3 probably took me 3 hours, golly. I wonder how many Steven King puts out...he does something like a thousand page book every two weeks, right? Oh, but wait, its because he has stock characters with absolutely no depth or realism to them. This is how I keep myself going..."You're a better writer than Steven King..."

I haven't read "The Name of the Wind", but I am impressed with its scale. How did a first time writer get a book so big published? I read the first chapter or so, and I wasn't thrilled by it, but maybe that's because I don't like the whole well trod 'high fantasy' setting. Tolkien's high fantasy wasn't nearly so...high. Most of the time its like reading video-game scripts with these things. I pick them up and think "I ought to be able to write better than you, but I'm just not sure...maybe my writing is bad, too..." Then I think, "No, it can't be that bad...because at least I don't start out every-single-fantasy-novel with a bunch of guys riding through lonely hills with red glowing eyes." You see, red glowing eyes means you're bad...even if you're the 'good guy', you'll be a bad boy. I think one day I'll write a story with a guy with stoplights for eyes.

More Ben Thompson Brooks: Boy Necromancer!

I'll need a better way to format this so it comes out cleaner when I put it on here. In the meantime, my apologies. Here is an adorable and maybe frightened panda to make up for it. Stick 'em up Panda. I want your bamboo.

Chapter 2
The Unlettered Bottle

It was Sunday morning, and the post man had not yet come, for he did not come on Sundays, of course. Nonetheless, there was a letter on the doorstep. Moreover, the letter clearly did not come from the post office, because the post office was not in the habit of delivering unmarked glass bottles. The bottle was worn and dinged and chipped, and looked like it had been tossed around on the sea for quite some time; it even had what looked like a bit of sea salt caked around the screw top. It took Mrs. Smith a few times to get the rolled up piece of paper from out of the bottle, shaking it upside down and trying to catch a bit of it with her finger, but eventually she succeeded. All along, she thought nothing at all out of the ordinary in her behavior, even though she was usually of the firm belief that when something strange appears on one’s doorstep, one should probably throw it away or maybe even phone the police. Yet she could not stop herself from her investigation of this penurious parcel.
Falling lightly into her hands, the coiled paper unfurled almost of its own accord. Looking at it, she saw it was an advertisement for some kind of summer camp: “Wild Jim’s Country Fun Camp and Boarding School”. It looked professionally done in a folksy sort of way, the camp seemed of high standing, the celebrity endorsements were convincing enough, certainly. This would be something fun to do for Jacob over the summer, and the prices were very reasonable.
“Jacob,” called his mother.
“Yeeees?” he answered from upstairs.
“Come down here a minute.”
“Just a second!”
It was a long second, because he wasn’t anywhere near a save point, but his mom waited patiently, looking over the advertisement. “Look at this, Jacob. It’s for some sort of summer camp out in the country, at some place called Dog Tick.”
“Dog Tick? Why would I want to go there?”
“It’s just a name. I think its some sort of reading camp. They’ll teach you all about ancient civilizations and such.”
Jacob looked at the paper for the first time. “But this is just a bunch of scribbles.”
“What? Of course not, look, here’s a picture of their ropes course.”
“It’s all hand written.”
“No, that’s just the font.”
“What are you talking about? It’s just scribbles on a piece of paper!”
“Look, Jacob, if you don’t want to go, then just say so. But I think it looks like a lot of fun.” Also, she saw the promise of “GPA boosting study classes, habits that every sixth grader should know!”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Well, think on it.”
“No.”
“Jacob Alexander Smith,” she said firmly, putting her hands on her hips and cocking her head to one side so that all her blonde hair hung over her left shoulder. “You’re going to at least think about going to this camp. I think it will be a good experience for you.”
Jacob stood perplexed beyond belief, but he didn’t have the strength of will to countermand his mothers semi-disciplining. What was she talking about? There was nothing on that little leaf of paper but odd squiggly writing. He could barely even read it except at the top where it said “Wild Jim’s Country Necromancy Camp and Boarding School.” “What’s ‘necromancy’?” he wondered to himself.

Jacob’s older brother Clay came back from a friend’s house that afternoon. Clay was a strapping lad of Fifteen, and Jacob looked up to him as though he were a god. Clay was a starter on the JV football team for Akin’s High, and was one of the few boys Jacob knew who actually had a steady girlfriend. It lent a sort of credence to his coolness that legitimate ability could never do. She was tall and blonde and had something that girls Jacob’s age didn’t have, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, no matter how much he tried. She treated him like a little kid, and he ate it up. Even though they weren’t that much older than him, they always took him places and treated him to movies and ice cream. Sure, neither of them actually worked for the money they spent on him, but it was nice that they thought of him anyway.
Clay had his hardship license since their dad was always traveling on business and his mom needed her car for her work as well. He wasn’t the only fifteen year old at school with a car, and it wasn’t even the nicest one—Leon Metzner had a new Mustang—but it still put Clay ahead of most of the kids his age, and was one more way in which he was the coolest older brother ever.
Currently, they were just playing a game of Super Smash Brothers, and Jacob was getting squarely beaten, which he usually did as soon as Clay decided to stop going easy and play as Lucario. “Mom says she sending you to some new camp this summer,” said Clay offhandedly.
“No,” said Jacob with amused aloofness, thinking the very notion ridiculous. “I’m not going to that. Did you see the flier?”
“Yeah, I think it looks pretty cool. I’d go if I weren’t too old. They got a rock climbing wall and a river for swimming…”
“Wait, wait, wait! You saw the flier?”
“Yeah.”
“But there was nothing on that flier!”
“What are you talking about? Sure it was a bit folksy, but it looked professionally done. Didn’t mom show you the picture of the ropes course?”
“Why would I want to go on a ropes course? What is a ropes course? Would you want to go on a ropes course?”
“Well, no,” said Clay, pondering the question to himself, “but I still think that you really oughtta go for some reason. I think you’d have fun.”
“Just play. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not going. I want to stay here for the summer, not go to some crazy camp with a flier that isn’t even readible.”
“It was just the font they used.”
“It wasn’t the font,” muttered Jacob under his breath.

The last two weeks of school passed without Jacob hearing anything more about the bizarre summer camp with the unintelligible flier. The Cadillac man also seemed to have ceased stalking him, but that did not allay Jacob’s anxiety. Far from it. It seemed the more time that went by without seeing the creeper again the more afraid Jacob was that he might suddenly appear out of nowhere. Not a day went by that he didn’t hold his breath a little as he exited the school doors, expecting to see that crummy whiskery face with its crooked smile waiting for him where his mom should be. And when he was out and about with friends, he constantly looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being snuck up on. It got to the point where his friends kept asking him what he was looking for. Jacob would just shrug and mumble something.
On Tuesday he was supposed to take the bus home. He had wanted to just go over to Eric’s after school, but his mom had said she wanted him home right away because he needed to be clean and ready for some guests that were going to come over. His parents and the guests were going out to dinner, and Jacob and his brother were not invited, so he didn’t at all see the need to be clean and at home to greet anybody.
He never remembered what his bus number was, so he just walked along hoping that the kids on the bus or the bus driver looked familiar. One of the bus drivers did look familiar. He was sitting in a blue bus, smaller than the rest, and painted on the side it said “Jacob’s Bus.”
“Well hello there,” said the bus driver with a craggy smile.
“Trade in the Cadillac?” asked Jacob acidly.
“No, but usually I don’t want to take this one out for a joy ride. A bit hard to maneuver. Do have to take her out occasionally though, just to make sure the battery doesn’t die on me.”
“I don’t think this is my usual bus,” said Jacob as he turned to leave
“Wait, this bus only makes one stop. We’ll get there faster.” But Jacob had already left.
Another child came by. “Is this my bus? My name’s Jacob.”
But the man just waved the kid away impatiently.
Luckily for Jacob, he recognized the Giraffe; he had forgotten that they pasted the animal pictures on there for the younger kids from the elementary school, of which the bus was practically overflowing. He hadn’t remembered there being so many younger kids on his bus, and he hadn’t remembered that they smelled so bad either. He found a seat next to some boy with glasses; the kid was looking out the window and picking his nose. A hint of urine wafted from somewhere behind him. It seemed like ages passed. No more kids were getting on the bus, and yet there they waited in the stifling heat, with only the open windows and the tiny fans running to keep the inside of the bus cool, but it was practically buzzing with kids. Jacob recalled that the inside of a bee hive was considerably warmer than outside, though he didn’t remember the exact difference in degrees. He thought something similar must be happening here. If only he could dump some of the kids on the creepy man’s bus; he probably wouldn’t bother them. After all, it was Jacob’s name on the side of the bus.
After an interminable period of fetid moisture stagnating in the still bus, they were finally away. Coughs of diesel exhaust from the busses ahead sifted through the child clotted windows and packed innards of the bus.
They passed the blue bus; the man just waved and smiled as they drove by. A lot of the kids waved back. “He’ll be in an ice cream truck next,” thought Jacob.

Rant: RED VS BLUE

Deleted for thinking

A new story begins...

Its a web exclusive sneak preview of my brand new story! Featuring the all new adventures of Ben Thompson Brooks, boy necromancer in his first feature length novel:

Ben Thompson Brooks and the Philosopher’s Stone!


“Get in the car, Jacob,” said a creepy man in a beat up Cadillac outside of Covington Junior High. It was clear he was some sort of kidnapper or child molester. But how did he know Jacob’s name?
“How did you know my name?” asked Jacob.
“Don’t be stupid. Everyone’s name is Jacob nowadays.” It was true, three of Jacob’s friends were named Jacob.
“Are you a child molester?”
“Yes, but not in a sexual way.”
“I gotta go now.”
“Well fine, but I’ll be seeing you later,” said the creepy man with a sideways smile that was moreso a sneer. He didn’t seem friendly at all. Probably a kidnapper should be less sinister looking if he wants to be a successful one, but Jacob was nonetheless disturbed by him.

Jacob moved away as quickly as he could, hiding in the doorway of the school. Eventually the man left and Jacob’s mom pulled up. He told her about the strange man, and she said she would call the school and warn them. The next day there was an assembly about safety and avoiding strangers, and several more security guards than usual were posted outside after school.
Jacob was eleven years old and small for his age. He also had a nasty looking scar on his chin which looked like a backward thunderbolt near his lip, and a guppy nearer his neck. This did not bother him much, as his mom always told him that it was what was inside a person that was important. He had an enjoyable life, filled with all the things little boy’s lives should be filled with…video games, television, acting camp, and a recreational soccer league where everybody got a trophy at the end of the season.
A week later, on Friday, Jacob’s mom did not pick him up. He was supposed to go home with his friend Eric to stay over the night. Jacob’s father hated for him to spend the night at Eric’s, because he thought Eric was gay, so Jacob and his mom always said he was spending the night with his friend Erica instead. Probably if Jacob had known that Eric’s mother wasn’t picking them up after school, he would have had to tell his own mom. She wouldn’t have let him stay over if she knew they would be walking to his house, even though he lived nearby the school.
At first Jacob was worried about it. They walked away from the school and over to the Taco Bell. Even the prospect of crossing the road without a conveyance seemed somewhat strange; the rushing metal beasts that roared by them as they rushed through the intersection, only to be stopped by traffic shortly after, seemed menacing and dangerous. He held his breath against the exhaust fumes which the cars quietly emitted from their back ends, but Eric seemed not bothered at all.
“Come on,” said Eric in his effete way as he began crossing the street.
“But it says don’t walk.”
“Don’t be a sissy. The cars aren’t even moving.” It was true, they were covering the crosswalk, but there was enough space to go between them. With some trepidation, Jacob followed, waiting for the inching cars to close space between one another and crush his legs. A couple of cars honked as they lurched forward angrily, as though they had to stop suddenly, and Jacob looked to see angry drivers gesticulating from behind bug eyed sunglasses. Eric paid them no heed, and just kept on walking.
Things didn’t seem so bad to Jacob after they finished eating at Taco Bell. It was hotter outside, and there was even more traffic, but he had survived once, and he was pretty sure he could do it again. It didn’t take long for them to get to Eric’s house. They jumped on the trampoline for a bit, then played Eric’s Wii, then his X-Box, then they ate dinner when Eric’s mom brought home KFC. She was sweet and kept on giving them knowing looks and winks and saying things like, “You boys stay out of trouble.”
“Yes, ma’aaaam,” they would reply.
When Eric’s mom went to bed, it was dress up time. Jacob had been shocked the first time he had gone to Eric’s house and Eric had begun trying on girl’s clothing; he kept a stash of different outfits in a box in his closet. But after being over there several times, it began to seem fun, and Jacob would help Eric put on makeup and clap and whistle at Eric as he strutted and posed and made pouty lip faces. It was nothing Jacob wanted to do himself, but he didn’t mind that Eric did it. Eric always invited Jacob to join, but Jacob pointed out that if they both did it, there wouldn’t be a boy there to clap and whistle.

Eric walked with Jacob to the school in the morning for a soccer game. Eric didn’t play soccer, but he said he would watch the game. Jacob’s mom asked Eric if he needed a ride home after the game, “No, thanks, Mrs. Smith,” said Eric. “I’ll walk.”
“I’d really prefer if you came with us, Eric, it’s too dangerous to be walking around the neighborhood alone.”
“Mom!” began Jacob, thinking to kill two birds with one stone. “Can we go by Jack in the Box for lunch?”
“I guess so.”
“Come on, Eric. Come eat with us.”

Eric could not rightly decline that offer, and so he joined them. Eric and Jacob both sat in the back seat talking about whatever it is pre-adolescent boys with disparate interests talk about. Mostly video games and occasionally girls, which neither of them understood, though they both understood they were supposed to find them unavoidably preoccupying. Nobody noticed when a beat up Cadillac pulled up beside them at a light; it was gone a few moments later.
They ate their lunch in the back seat of the car in front of Eric’s house, and when they were done they said their goodbyes and he ran back into his house.
“I think I need to talk to his mother,” said Mrs. Smith on the way home. “I don’t think it’s safe for him to walk around as much as he does.”

Jacob still felt conflicted on the matter and didn’t know what to say. His mom had always taught him about being safe, and most all his knowledge derived from her. But nothing had happened when they had walked around the previous day, and nothing had happened to Eric ever, even though he walked all over the neighborhood on his own all the time. When his mom was out that afternoon, he thought he’d try it again.
“I’m going to the store,” called his mother up the stairs. “Do you need anything?”
“No, ma’am,” he called back from his video game den, where he was playing the latest incarnation of Call of Duty.
“Okay, love you, buh bye.”
“Love you too, Mom!”

He heard the garage door close and immediately he was up and out of the house. It was an oppressively hot afternoon, especially by the street, so he walked across people’s yards instead. On the grass and in the shade it felt a whole lot cooler. He hadn’t realized how far apart everything was. Even getting out onto the main street from his cul-de-sac took awhile. He knew the way, he had to take three turns to get there, but it seemed a whole lot further than he had imagined. By the main road it was even hotter still; it seemed like the cars added to the heat, and their exhaust fumes made him think he was being poisoned.
There was a bird in a tree nearby singing. Jacob stopped to look at it. The bird paid him no attention, and he wondered what sort of bird it was. Seemed like everything was just a bird. This one made a peculiar noise; actually it didn’t make a peculiar noise so much as it just made lots of different noises. He hadn’t realized that a bird would make more than one kind of chirp. He whistled at it; it looked briefly at him, and then flew away.
“That’s no way to talk to birds,” said a familiar, gruff voice. The man in the Cadillac was idling by the curb. “I can teach you how to talk to birds, though you might not like what they have to say. They’re interesting enough, but a little single minded.”

Jacob was running.

He ran as fast as he could down the side walk, but the man easily kept up, his car rolling along lazily, as he taunted Jacob through the open passenger side window. “Where you going boy? Don’t you want to know about birds? You do realize the road follows this sidewalk, don’t you?”

Jacob veered through a person’s yard, he thought to run to the door and see if anybody was home, but even if they were, and got to the door in time, how would he explain this to his mother? So he ran aside the house and over their fence. Long years of training in rules and property rights had trained him never, ever to do such a thing, and it had almost cost him his life!
“It’s a lesson in non-linear thinking,” drawled the man from the car.
Running, Jacob found it surprisingly easy to leap over the wooden fence, into somebody’s back yard. But the dog came running out after him and he jumped right back over the way he had come.
“Wrong one? Are you gonna let one little dog boss you around?” shouted the man from the still idling car.
Jacob ran to the next house and dove over the fence. The dog next door was at the edge of the fence, snarling and scratching at the treated wood. Jacob waited anxiously, holding his breath without realizing it. Was there a dog on this side too?
“I’m coming to gitcha, better run!” The man’s gruff voice was just on the other side of the fence! Jacob bolted, launching himself over the next fence and into another back yard. He would just be on the next street over, but he was already feeling lost and confused. He unlatched the gate and crossed over into the front yard, running to the street lest somebody see him wandering through other people’s property and getting him in trouble. But wouldn’t they understand if he was being chased by a scary stranger? The houses here looked familiar, but he was unsure. Was he on his own street, or just one nearby. Maybe if he had some time to think the houses wouldn’t all look so much alike as they did right at that moment.
Then the Cadillac turned the corner down the street. Across the street Jacob took to flight, leaping a sprinkler and scrambling over the fence. He could hear the squealing car tires as he ran from one backyard, over a fence, and into another again. He knew this house! He was close to home! What was more, the car still must be on the other street, and even if it wasn’t, he could stick to the back yards until he got home. He crawled slowly over each intervening fence, watching the street to see if the man passed by while he was in view, but he never saw the Cadillac once. Occasionally he thought he heard the growl of its engine and would duck low under some bushes until it subsided; he wasn’t sure he even heard it or if he imagined it sometimes.

Finally he made it home. He had to go into the front yard because that was the door he left unlocked. Since he wasn’t supposed to be out on his own, his parents had never given him a house key. He closed the door and locked it behind him, but feeling anxious in the house. There was no sign of the car, and how could that man know where he lived? Could the man have slipped in the open door while Jacob had been winding his way back home?

He thought about calling the police, but then he’d be in all sorts of trouble for going out on his own. Even if they weren’t mad, his mom would be all kinds of worried. Wasn’t it always the bad kids who were out without their parents, roaming around on the streets, getting into fights, smoking cigarettes behind the high shrubs that were supposed to hide the gas station from the neighborhood it sat adjacent to? Indecision churned in his stomach.

The prospect of calling the cops was awful, and as the seconds ticked by and the whisker faced stranger did not jump out from anywhere, calling the police seemed worse and worse than being chased through the house by a psychopath. He knew he shouldn’t, somehow, that he should stay alert, but it was too frightening to be there alone in the house. He went upstairs. He hadn’t even turned his X-Box off because he didn’t want to lose his progress in the game, so he sat down and started playing right where he left off. There were the normal creaking sounds of the house, which sent chills across his flesh momentarily, but in the warm video game induced stupor he could write them off, as distraction shuttled away the fear.
“Hi, honey.”
Jacob jumped in his skin; his mom had come up the stairs behind him and he had not heard her at all.
“Hi mom,” he said, his fingers still working the remote.
“How are you doing, sweetie?” she bent over and kissed his cheek. “I’ll have dinner ready in thirty minutes, okay?
“Alright, mom.”

You're Wrong Stephen Hawking

Proof against time travel? Here it is. People are dumb; they use any technology they have, no matter how dangerous. If people could actually travel into the past, they would, and we'd know about it, because they (we) are not smart enough to follow the "prime directive". So, yeah, time travel? We already know it won't work, do not be fooled by Mr. Hawking's pretty eyes.

An angsty article about video games

Disturbing in its lack of direction, the author uses video games to express deep metaphysical emptiness:

http://wii.ign.com/articles/108/1088891p1.html

Show Me

Dream Analysis

We came to a familiar pool we had swum in many times before, though when I had been there last I could not remember. Crossing the water upon some stones, I looked down and saw that resting on the bottom of the pool several caimans, and I saw nearby even several smaller ones upon the rocks we were crossing.

Then the other side of the pool was full of people, their children playing near the edge of the pool. I rushed over there and shouted for them to beware, not to let their children in the water. A man looked at me callously and said, "If our children get in the water, then we'll go in and get them."

At this time, a little blond boy swam alone into the center of the pool, I shouted, but he did not hear. A juvenile caiman, little larger than the boy, swam up from the bottom, and latched onto his arm. The boy swam to the side as fast as he could, at the urgings of his father. He tried to shake off the caiman, and to swing himself and strike the caiman against the chain link fence beside the walk, but as he did, the caiman climbed higher on him until it latched onto the boy's throat. Then, as the boy tried to shake him off again, his neck suddenly snapped broken to one side, and water began gushing out.

I rushed to his side, followed by a crowd of onlookers, but his father said to stay away, not to worry. He spilled no blood, only water, and though his wounds were awful, he seemed like he might live.

Then the father said, "Looks like you'll have to spend some years, son."

"No, daddy, I don't want to," said the son.

But the father told him he had to.

A strange vision of ogres, enshrouded in total darkness, though their skin glowed a bright green. They danced to a perverse, off kilter rhythm, shaking gnarled canes which glowed alternately green and red at the ends.

The boy awoke, standing, a tall, strongly built adolescent. His hair was no longer blond, but dark and curling, like a young Samson. The crowd still surrounded him, watching. Then, though he had stood as a marble demi-god, he called in a small voice, "Daddy?" And looked around afraid.

Then the crowd parted, and a decrepit man stood there, shrunken with age, his cheeks dark with large liver spots. "I'm here son," said the man.

Then I woke up.

Like a Cyclops, but in reverse!

Tyrone, my sister's tiny white poodle, was sniffing me today, and I had a sudden realization. Dogs can see into the past. This is incredible! My brother could come home and I'd say, "Where have you been? Who have you been with?" But a dog can tell who I have been with, so long as he's met them before, and, who knows, maybe he can tell something about them only by their smell. "You've been with children all day," says Tyrone, "I can smell middle school BO and remnants of Axe body spray."

Why, oh why do the stupid little boys wear axe body spray at school? I think I'd rather them stink of sweat than Axe; good gravy its awful.

But, yes, no other senses can tell us so directly where we have been. I cannot look at you and see the past three hours of your life, nor can I hear it, unless you tell me. There are no echoes of your activities, nor shadows from the days events, nor impressions upon your skin which I can feel, but if I could smell well enough, I'd know so much more with just a whiff.

Truly, animals are amazing, being able to see into the past as they do.

Ouuuuch

Just finished reading Lonesome Dove. Rough. That may be the most emotionally draining book I've read in a long time.

Drawing

What business does a writer have drawing? None. But I haven't been writing lately...got stuck. So here's a quick sketch (ok, it took me an hour) of Amuel. In truth, the body type is more like what I had imagined for Bren, but in the many attempts at the face a scar formed that looked really cool...so its Amuel.

More steps back...

5 more pages deleted in Oraphan Cycle. Somewhere I felt I lost the grittiness. My supposition is nobody else would notice, but I felt the plot had forced the characters into not being themselves, so back to the drawing board.