The Ramblings of an Albino Squid

Oh my, it's been a while...

Sun, 24 May 2009 08:01:08 GMT

Wow, it's May, '09 and this will be my first entry of this year. Sheesh, I seem to be stuck in this glacial pace, but I'm hoping the summer is going to see some thawing heeheehee! I've been on a mental rollercoaster ride these past few weeks, so I've gone and salvaged some short short stories I've had languishing at fictionpress. It's like visiting a forgotten distant relative your parents didn't want to talk about.

After seeing this, I've wondered at the strange, wacky, and sordid ideas that were bouncing around in the echo chamber of my skull back then...

The tattoo is nothing awesome to behold, yet its sheer beauty lies in its simplicity. Its location: smack dab in the center of the lower back, in the hollow, in the shallow hanging valley above the crevasse. The tattoo glows when caribou migrate in the frozen wastes of the north, but not when you give talking cats a bowl of heavy cream during a blue moon.

I should know because I inked it, and the person who commissioned the work is now lying on my living room floor: dead.

I look out the window and suddenly realize that I am out of ink. No one knows my plight better than the mice and cockroaches that dwell with me. I talk about the harbor and how it is slowly dying from want of dead fish. The old pier at the harbor is rotting, and I can smell it from my empty kitchen.

I chuckle briefly and duck as a shadow passes by the window; it is a game I always play. Sometimes I watch the house across the harbor. The people in it know that I live here and they always direct clients to my door. They have never set foot in this house, which is the only one on this side of the harbor. I do not know how long I have been here.

The wallpaper is peeling.

Has it been that long already? I have looked at the calendar so many times, but something keeps blurring my eyes, and the numbers and days all shift into an incomprehensible haze. It is frustrating.

I forgot to mention that my limbs are chained to the floor. The chains are long enough for me to reach certain items and perform certain bodily functions within my dwelling place.

I never leave the house.

Sometimes my bindings allow me to defend myself from irate visitors, especially clients who disagree with my one and only policy, but this almost never happens. Unfortunately, my last piece of work lies not too far away from the front door.

Every day I gaze at the tattoo on the body.

I thank the cold weather for not letting the corpse rot quickly. I wonder who my next client will be. They always come by for a tattoo. They always follow the rules. The people in the house across the harbor have disappeared, except for the fellow lying near my front door.

Perhaps I should open a window. I notice the flies are slowly creeping beneath the front door. I watch them dance delicately over the corpse’s pale skin, waltzing in and out of the nostrils and tapping their tiny feet against the dried pebbly surface of the lolling tongue clenched by the yellowing picket fence of teeth.

My only policy is simple. All I ever ask for payment is a piece of skin; payment up front. It could be skin from any part of their bodies and it must always be a certain size.

I must keep an updated portfolio for future clients, and what better ground for tattoos than a piece of skin.

The days pass slowly and the sound of maggots feasting is soothing.

All work and no play.

Tue, 19 Aug 2008 06:00:20 GMT

Well, it seems like I've procrastinated long enough. I've been neglecting this for the past few months, but now that I've torn myself away from the monotony of work, I can now add a new entry. The following story is actually an old story from a previous entry.

I had taken part in a Flash Fiction Carnival late last year and the theme for that particular month was Transformation and we had to write a story in less than 1,200 words. Now that I have a little bit of time to fix it up, the story is a bit longer and fleshed out a bit more. I also followed the advice I received from the other Flash Fiction writers that reviewed the earlier version.

And Through the Woods

The leaves are bright against the black trunks of the trees. They flutter in the fading light of the setting sun, briefly covering the surrounding hills with a display of fiery red, orange, and yellow. It is all a blur to me as I follow the signs to the gravel road that leads to my grandmother’s farmhouse. There are a lot of things on my mind, but watching the dying leaves is a pleasant distraction.

Karl, my brother, called me earlier, telling me of grandmother’s request to see me. The old woman was confined to her home, recovering from a debilitating illness. My brother quit his forestry job to take care of her after the doctors examined our grandmother and recommended that she be placed in a home for assisted living. As for me, I had been traveling abroad at that time and was not able to visit or take part in caring for my grandmother. Now I feel a pang of guilt for not giving enough of my time.

In the growing twilight, the farmhouse draws near, beckoning to me with its glowing windows. I glance at the second floor window, hoping to see my grandmother waving to me, but it is empty and dark. Perhaps she doesn’t know that her granddaughter is finally here to see her.

I sit behind the wheel of the car, hesitating and a bit afraid of the welcome, if any, I will receive. It has been three years since I last saw my brother and grandmother. The basket of food in the passenger seat seems like a paltry gift considering my long absence. With a sigh, I grab the basket and emerge from the safety of my car.

The boards do not creak as I step onto the porch. I knock tentatively, and the door opens to reveal my brother.

“Hi sis, did you miss us?” There is a hint of humor in the lilt of Karl’s voice.

“Yes, but did you miss me?”

“Well, a little bit, but all those cards and letters you sent us did a great job of keeping you on our minds. By the way, that’s a lovely red sweater you have on.”

“You mean this little old thing? Grandma gave it to me. I thought it would be nice to show her that I appreciate everything she’s given me. And look, I’ve come bearing gifts of food and wine.” I step into the light and close enough to see the drastic changes in my brother’s appearance. “Oh God, you look like shit!”

“Hey, I was expecting a hug.” Karl smiles and backs into the living room. “Come inside and have a seat. I guess you need an explanation, and while we’re at it, I’ll help myself to some of those goodies you have in the basket.”

“Are you all right? I’m just worried that nobody’s going to help you when an emergency comes up. You could have called and told me what’s going on; now I feel terrible for not helping out.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, but wait until you see grandma. She’s changed a lot.”

“Is she better?”

“You could say that.”

I look at the lines in his face, the graying temples, but I stray from his eyes. I couldn’t bear to see their dullness and the way they seem to peer from their deep-set sockets. Karl is only a few years younger than I, yet he looks older. “What about our relatives? Do they know about grandma’s illness?”

“You mean Uncle Frank and Aunt Rose? Yes, I told them and they came, but they didn’t stick around long enough. I think they’re just waiting for grandma to go so they could get their claws on her estate.”

“You don’t mean that! Other than grandma, they’re the only relatives we have. I hope you didn’t say anything bad to them.” I didn’t like the look that came over Karl’s face.

“I didn’t say anything bad! If you think I’m the kind of person who would do such a thing then I shouldn’t be taking care of grandma. She’s the only reason I put up with Frank and Rose’s lame advice. They tried to persuade me to put her in a home!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know they told you that.” I pat his hand. “Let’s not talk about it anymore, and look, there’s a bottle of wine in the basket. Why don’t we just get drunk?”

We walk to the kitchen, and I am struck by how cold and sterile it is.

“If grandma was up to it, she’d probably join us, plus we can chase it all down with beer,” my brother replies as he uncorks the wine.

“That sounds like a bad idea, but as long as I’m here, I guess I’ll try it.” I look up at the ceiling suddenly. “Do you think she heard us?”

“I think so, but she’s not going to complain about it.” He fills my wine glass before turning away to fill his glass at the kitchen counter. “Hey, would you look at that moon.” Karl is looking out the window and at the full moon rising above the surrounding trees, his red wine forgotten.

“It’s beautiful,” I reply as I join him at the kitchen window.

“You know grandma likes to watch the moon rise. Let’s watch this one with her,” whispers Karl.

“Do you think she’ll like it if I bring along the gift basket?”

“She’ll like whatever you bring her.”

We climb up the stairs, giggling like little kids as the wine spills from my unsteady glass. It is colder up here, and I wrap my sweater closer as more wine spills from my glass. I detect a rank animal smell coming from somewhere, but I am distracted.

“Uncle Frank and Aunt Rose watched a moonrise with grandma, but they didn’t enjoy it.”

“That’s unfortunate for them, I say.”

Karl smiles down at me as he steps onto the landing. “Yes, unfortunate for them, but fortunate for grandma.” He reaches for the basket with one hand. “Grandma’s not going to believe you’re here. I bet she won’t even recognize you.”

I laugh at his observation. “Hey, you’re scaring me! Did you do the same thing to Uncle Frank and Aunt Rose?”

As we walk down the hall, Karl looks at me and shakes his head, “No, I wasn’t talking to them by that time.” He stops at the first door on the right. “Why don’t you go in first? I’m sure grandma would be happy to see you.” His voice is gentle as he steps back to give me room.

I grasp the doorknob, wincing slightly at the coldness of the metal in my palm as I turn the knob and step into the room. It is dark in here. I take a couple of steps into the room. There is the rank animal smell again, and this time it is stronger, permeating the room like a thick fog. I turn around just in time to see the bedroom door closing. In the sudden silence, I hear the final click of the lock. It is only now that I notice the heavily boarded window and the reinforced door, its metal gleaming in the moonlight. Reflected in the metal is the bed, and lying in the bed is something that was once my grandmother.

Oh grandmother, what big teeth you have.

Jason Goes to the Movies: A Continuing Saga of Relative Ineptitude

Thu, 28 Feb 2008 23:54:47 GMT

We were reminiscing the other day at a local sushi restaurant. It was a relaxing time, and having spent an enjoyable dinner with my sister who was celebrating her birthday that evening, we started telling stories. Most of the stories centered around the antics of our endearing cousin, Jason. There was one story that stood out that night though; I've never heard it before. It took place at a local cineplex, on the opening night of a big budget flick...

Jason arrived at the theater early enough to not get stuck in the waiting line outside. I guess he made it in right before the staff started to set up a waiting area for the opening night of the film. That left a lot of time for Jason to strategically sit in the exact center of the theater, making sure he would get an unobstructed and not distorted view of the film. He watched the theater fill up with people after the waiting crowd was allowed inside. He told us how almost all of the seats in the central section had been taken, and the aisle seats were filling up quickly. Before the previews started, almost all of the seats in the theater were taken except for two seats. Now these seats were the seats on either side of Jason.

Right before the film started, a couple had come in. They scanned the darkened theater, looking for seats, and when they spied a couple of seats in the center, they headed up the aisles and down the center row. When they finally arrived at where Jason was sitting, they asked politely if he could move over so they could sit next to each other. They were quite nice about it and didn't make a big scene. Jason's answer was a flat "No. I got here early for a reason."

I don't know what sort of reaction the couple had to that, but what I do know is that they spent their time watching the film in separate seats with Jason right between them. We later asked him if he moved one seat over and let them sit together. He said, "Yeah, during the last ten minutes of the film." But he was joking, so we don't know if he ever allowed them to sit together at all.

A few may agree with Jason's actions in the story, but I think the majority would have, as my sister said, "kicked him in the head."

Anything you do can get you tagged, including nothing.

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 04:14:30 GMT

Well, well, well, it seems as if I've been tagged once again by a friend of mine. Oh well, I guess it was bound to happen any day now. Wow, it's been a mere 15 hours or so since I last posted to this journal. This is actually a record since it usually takes a few weeks to a few months for my next post to appear. Speaking of posts, this meme is actually a way of reliving archived entries and for the reader(s) out there (you know who you are) to read and learn more about this particular nut case. Further meme instructions can be found way at the bottom.

So here we go with the entries:

#1 It's all about family! Jason and the Meatloaf If anything can go wrong through sheer bad luck or (as another friend called it) dumbassitude, then there's this little backwater to our family's gene pool. We love him, but we wouldn't want to be right next to a big fuel tanker while on a busy highway with Jason at the wheel.

#2 It's all about friends (or fiends!) An Old Friend's Mishap This entry has the weird and surreal combination of college, rugby, barbed wire, and mint tooth floss. Sounds like a mess, but the end product is quite, um, well, oh you'll find out!

#3 It's all about boring old me! Well, it was the only one that would fit! It's actually one of those "Tell us 5 things about yourself" or else we start kidnapping your fish eggs or something like it, but it does tell the individual (you know who you are) slightly more about me, and yet it's not enough to blackmail me in the end! Mwahahahahaha!

#4 It's all about that thing I love! Being creative is what I love so this entry includes one of the things I'm quite fond of, namely werewolves. Writing (seriously and not as just a side hobby to my illustration work)) is actually a new endeavor I've started this year, and I owe most of it to the evil mastermind behind Finding Boddie and wave_cannon (I know, I know, I still have to work on Tom's adventures!) Unfortunately, I would have had something with squids and octopus in this entry, but strangely enough, I don't have an entry centered around these fascinating mollusks. This is an oversight that I must correct!

#5 It's all about the wildcard entry! Just another day at work speaks for itself.

Well, I guess it's time for me to pass this on. Here goes! alaena_h, grand_sealink, prairie_fire_83, shalimar79, wave_cannon

Archive Meme Instructions--Go back through your archive and post links to your five favorite posts with this catch: the first must be about family, the second about friends, the third about yourself, the fourth about something you love and the fifth is a post of your choice. Once you're done posting, tag five people. At least TWO of them need to be newer readers in order to learn more about them. Then go back through their archived posts and comment on them.

Like the sound a wooden bat makes when it breaks...

Wed, 02 Jan 2008 07:53:02 GMT

A new year has arrived, and I feel as if nothing has changed. I'm not making any resolutions this year (I never do anyways,) but I'm looking forward to turning a year older and getting certain things done before this new year disappears as well! Although I do need to get off my ass to write more and finish my neverending list of art projects. I blame it on my chronic procrastination and the laziness that seems to creep up on me during cold weather. Perhaps it's my habit of being too complacent. Nevertheless, I shall try to end this vicious cycle of starting and never finishing projects. I guess that's what a new year entails; starting afresh and trying new things. Wait, did I just make a resolution with what I wrote? Sheesh!

I do have some other stuff that I didn't get the chance to write about before due to the busy holiday season. Christmas Eve was a pleasant night spent with family and friends. We spent most of the evening cooking, but the rest of the night we spent playing that cursed video game Guitar Hero 2.

It wasn't all cooking and video games though; we did have some interesting highlights. One of them was our cousin's broken arm. A few words about my cousin: he's about 5' 6", around 140-150 lbs. and training to be a mixed martial arts fighter. We asked how he broke his forearm and he replied that he broke it during a practice match where he and his opponent were training for a February match. It seems that both had each other in some sort of arm lock, and I guess my cousin tried to get out of it by lifting his arm, but either the weight of his opponent or the levering force was too much, because there was a loud crack, like the sound a wooden bat makes when it breaks. The whole gym went silent. My cousin and his opponent looked around, and when my cousin went to move his right forearm that's when he knew that he broke it. He was saying "Oh it's me!" as he held his arm out.

I saw my cousin again today and the cast was off, but now he has a medium size scar, about 5", on the inside of his forearm. I could have sworn it still had stitches, but I didn't get close enough to study it because I was too busy playing that blasted video game Rock Band, which is another addicting game.

Christmas Day was fun. I received a few books to keep me occupied for the next couple of weeks. At least I won't have to ransack the local public library or lurk at the bookstore for the time being. My sister's friend gave me The Zombie Survival Guide; now I don't have to throw my countless first cousins and second cousins at the shambling undead during a zombie apocalypse. I also received an omnibus of Predator vs. Alien comics (yeah, I'm quite fond of psychotic extra-terrestrials) and The Big Bathroom Book of the History of the World from my sister. I have no idea why she gave me the bathroom book, but I guess she was having a laugh at my expense.

It's about a boy and his talking cat...

Sat, 15 Dec 2007 07:46:38 GMT

I've been having a couple of nerve-wracking weeks, and I seriously think I'll end up going bonkers if the tension isn't relieved soon. Last night's holiday party at work didn't relieve any of the accumulating stress, but it got me to sing some holiday songs while under the influence of fruit juice and ginger ale.

Well then, here's the story. I have no explanation for the reader about this tale; all I remember is that I wrote it for a friend many years ago during the dark ages of high school. I've since reworked it and ironed out some spots, but it's basically a story from the time I discovered and joined the sordid ranks of authors who write humorous fantasy.

Of Fried Calabash and Licorice

An Incident in Beauregard Groves

Forty-eight years have passed since the grand sorcerer, old Bass Hoopkins, imprisoned a real nasty buttchomper of a thing in the shape of fried calabash and licorice with a curse only Hoopkins could conjure. It may sound insignificant to the reader to know that bit of information, but this particular cursed imprisonment requires renewals every 48 years, especially in Beauregard Groves. If the curse was not renewed, then the evil demon locked within would escape and wreak havoc upon the fair town of Beauregard Groves.

It was two weeks before the 48^th anniversary and the sorcerer’s curse had to be renewed by Bass Hoopkins, but he was nowhere to be found. The old town of Beauregard Groves foremost sorcerer was missing, and the creature that terrorized it 47 years ago was about to make a comeback in two weeks time. The town elders whispered and scuttled their wasted butts throughout the town in hopes of finding Hoopkins, but all of them failed to look in the most likely spot: the local brothel.

It seems that old son-of-a-gun Bass Hoopkins, 134 years old, was playing hide-and-go-seek with a gal by the name of Koko when he met a personal friend by the name of Death in the closet about a week ago. He wasn’t found until Koko decided she needed a new set of whips. Could you imagine the surprise of finding your clients in your closet a week after they’ve died? I know I couldn’t.

Well, the town elders found Hoopkins when they were notified of his demise, but what were they suppose to do? The town wizard was dead, the demon’s seal had yet to be renewed, and the town was out of pink lemonade! Surely, this had to be the most suspenseful time in the history of Beauregard Groves. Where’s Superman when you need him? Luckily, a solution was found in the form of Hoopkins’s apprentice, Joe Starling, the second son of Red Starling and Marli Ann Starling.

Young Joe’s Saturday morning was ruined when he opened the door and found not one, but all eight of the town council. Apprentice Joe, you see, wasn’t used to seeing the ‘young’ old people. He was accustomed to seeing the truly old as in hundreds of years old due to his apprenticeship with sorcerer Hoopkins. The town elders had voted for Joe to be the head sorcerer from now on. The upcoming job was going to be tough for a twenty-eight year old sorcerer’s apprentice who couldn’t tell a dog from a scarecrow in the middle of a blizzard in the first place, and Joe was advised to acquire a familiar, like a black cat or some googly eyed creature from who knows where.

The son of Red and Marli Ann needed a familiar as soon as possible because a sorcerer without a familiar was like being caught naked in a sudden downpour of giant horse leeches. No matter how you protect yourself with flailing arms and running feet, you’d still wish that you had a hat and some clothes on or a familiar that could neutralize such a gross attack.

In the town of Beauregard Groves, the only creature that ever wished to be a familiar was a young tortoiseshell tomcat by the name of Stonewall Lee, no doubt named after two generals from the Civil War.

Lee’s family line stretched all the way to an ancient nameless desert cat rumored to have been a royal cat of the pharaohs. Lee was the only male tortoiseshell in his family, and that made him special since male tortoiseshells do not exist. And don’t tell me that I got my genders crossed because I know this to be true, and I know Joe and Lee can verify this all!

As with all familiars, Lee found Joe Starling when they crossed paths literally. Starling was out in the cow field, thinking of various ways to improve an ancient Hittite spell on cow chip eradication when Lee sauntered by and sat on Starling’s foot.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Washing my paws on your trouser pants; I just stepped in cow poo not too far from here,” replied Lee.

“A t-t-talking cat! Get away from me!” Joe tried to kick Lee away from him, but the cat hung on grimly, yowling and hissing.

“You idiot! I’m here to be your familiar and this is how you treat me? You act as if you’ve never seen a talking cat before!”

It took a while for Joe to calm down. Suffice it to say, the first meeting of the young apprentice sorcerer and his familiar didn’t start off on the right foot, but you just got to love that darn cat!

It was just three days before the expiration of the seal that Starling finally finished the curse that would renew the seal thereby adding another forty-seven years. The townspeople of Beauregard Groves didn’t know the consequences of cursed seal renewals since they’ve never witnessed Bass Hoopkins’s methods in dealing with unwanted creatures from some stinkin’ hole, but they trusted young Joe enough in doing the job right. The only mistake the council made was to trust a new wizard to get the job done right. I guess they didn’t learn that until the creature that looked like fried calabash and licorice made a break for freedom that strange night at 11:50 pm. The only casualty of that escape was old Wrangum’s outhouse.

Jolted awake by the supernatural shockwave, Joe woke Lee up and ran outside only to realize that he was buck naked, which was a no-no to every sorcerer. Running back inside, Joe ran into his father who’d just received a call from one of the council members saying that the demon had escaped ahead of schedule. Rushing into the kitchen and banging himself silly on the fridge, Joe scooped up Lee and proceeded to dress in his overalls and flannel shirt while still holding Lee in one hand. Both cat and sorcerer rushed into the night air while Joe’s father wished them good luck. On the way to town, Joe and Lee had an argument on whether or not to take turns in battling the creature until one in the morning, the time the seal needed to be renewed.

The town looked too quiet from Joe’s point of view from behind the telephone pole. The only person out was a cute young gal who seemed to walk a bit funny. It took a paw slap from Lee for Joe to find out it was the demon in disguise.

“Hey! Why’d you do that for?” yelped Joe.

“You’re blind, boy. You can’t tell a googly-eyed being from a sweet gal,” replied a grumpy Lee.

The two of them moved quietly towards the disguised demon, hoping to trap it by stealth, but as soon as they stepped behind it, it turned and whomped Joe with a hail of phlegm. Thoroughly disgusted, Joe countered the phlegm with a swarm of bees, painfully stinging the creature as it transformed into its normal, yet hideous, appearance. Lee ran behind the demon while it was pulling out the rest of the stings that were embedded in its face. Joe fired with his swarm of bees while keeping an eye on Lee. Soon, the cat was in position to chomp on the little demon’s so-called butt when the clock tower rang one o’clock. Turning towards Joe, the demon screamed: “You darn fool! When I get my claws on you, I’m not gonna leave one grease spot to remind anyone of your existence!”

Without hesitating, Joe whipped out his big gun, the spell that would imprison the demented little buttchomper forever. The spell struck the charging demon at full blast, knocking it through several dimensions before slamming it into the vault that had imprisoned it for 48 years. The vault’s countless doors closed one by one, locking in its malevolent occupant once more.

During the ensuing blast, old Wrangum’s outhouse was further destroyed and the whole town was completely covered in phlegm. Joe, beaming and quite proud of his work, sauntered over to Lee who sat with a disgruntled look on his face.

“I suppose you want me to congratulate you on a job well done. For that matter, let’s not beat around the bush: You are the worst sorcerer ever placed on this here Grove. But I’ve never met a sorcerer that I didn’t like,” grumbled Lee.

“You meant that statement, Lee?” cried an exasperated Joe Starling.

“No! You’re the only exception!”

But let it be known that Beauregard Groves has never seen a team as fine as Lee and Joe Starling.

I Thought It Was Meatloaf: A Saga of Relative Ineptitude

Thu, 29 Nov 2007 08:23:32 GMT

Thanksgiving would not have been Thanksgiving if my cousin Jason emerged unscathed from it. The poor guy is known in the family as a bad luck magnet, but sometimes I get the feeling that some of it is caused by his own errors in judgment. This Thanksgiving started ominously with Jason's older brother bringing in his magic-microphone-karaoke-from-the-nether-pits-of-Hell. There's nothing like being serenaded by cousins who think they can sing, but can't.

The food was quite decent this year, except for the sweet and sour pork that was mainly sweet and sour bones. I think some family members were surprised by the shards of bone that hid beneath the thin layer of meat. Another cousin brought in a Banana Nut Loaf, and here's where Jason comes in. Now Jason is allergic to a lot of things, but nuts are quite nasty for him, yet there have been times when he has eaten them unknowingly; only later does he realize that he's eaten something harmful when his tongue starts to itch and swell along with his throat. I swear, it's happened before. This time wasn't so different.

If you're familiar with a Banana Nut Loaf, you know what it looks like, yet my dear cousin Jason mistook it for meatloaf! I have no idea how or why Jason thought it was meatloaf, but he did, and he served himself a few slices. Now who brings meatloaf to Thanksgiving dinner? He told me that he could see the onions and what looked like mushrooms in it; he even thought about putting some ketchup on the loaf. The minute he took a bite out of the loaf, he felt his tongue start to itch then swell, and soon the rest of the cousins found out what had happened. Well, the guy was prepared for such an emergency: he walked to his car where he kept his bottle of pills all the while accompanied by laughing relatives.

Yes, he's our Jason, and as his father would say, "Typical Jason."

The Zombie Turkeys of Planet Tryptophan

Wed, 21 Nov 2007 05:42:56 GMT

It's that time of year again when I go a bit crazy with my box of recipe cards and vegetable peeler. It would also be that time of year when our museum's garden journal would be chock full of drawings depicting demonic pumpkin pies, lurking zombie turkeys, and terrified diners. I don't know why, but my brain tends to draw the macabre side of holiday feasts and everyday food items. In one entry I had a poor explorer with a very large cup of coffee running away from a pack of very angry donut-people. Unfortunately, the garden journal disappeared one day and was never seen again.

The strange thing about all of this is that this could be a creative reaction to a mild case of food poisoning I experienced a while back during one family Thanksgiving. I don't know the particular food item that started it, but my digestive system wasn't the same after that. It's only now that my system is getting back to normal. I've made a note to myself to watch what sort of dishes my relatives bring to the Thanksgiving buffet, and if it looks dubious then leave it alone. It still doesn't quell the anxiety I feel though. Any food item could be suspect, and since our background is Filipino, most of the dishes aren't your typical/traditional Thanksgiving entrée or side dish. Some of our family members are still trying to erase the memory of a dessert one of my uncles brought in. I don't think I'm capable of describing it, but its horror was the benchmark to which the unsavory dessert of each subsequent Thanksgiving would be compared.

Them Rugby Players Sure Are Tough

Fri, 09 Nov 2007 06:03:37 GMT

In response to my sole reader, I'm doing my dastardly best to update this blognal as quick as possible for her bemusement. In return, I expect a double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake. This is a memory I posted a while back on a different site. I thought it deserved a wider audience.

xXx

Recently, I was going through a file drawer of various art implements when I came upon a packet of surgical thread and needles. They brough back great memories of times spent as an intern at a wildlife rescue place a few years back. They also brought back memories of times cursing the darn European starlings for all the chaos they caused; one volunteer jokingly placed a sign on their cages with the title The Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

But it also conjured one memory that brings a smile to my face. I once had a classmate in college who told us about an injury he sustained after rugby practice. He had climbed over a chain link fence that had those barbed ends at the top where the wires cross over each other like a row of Xs. The tips are quite sharp, and if one isn't careful there's the chance of getting a bloody hand. Our friend wasn't careful, and when he climbed over, he managed to catch the palm of his hand ( I can't remember if it was his right or left hand) on the points. The cut was deep enough to require some stitches, so he headed for the nearest emergency room.

At the emergency room, our friend waited and waited; he waited for about 2-3 hours until, fed up, he left and went home where he decided to do the surgical work himself. He found a needle alright, but for the surgical thread, he used mint-flavored tooth floss. He did a good job stitching himself back up, and when he finally went to see a doctor some days later, his handiwork was praised by the doctor.

The only question we asked our friend was why did he use mint-flavored tooth floss. His reply was that he liked it better than the cinnamon-flavored kind.

How do you spell Anise?

Tue, 06 Nov 2007 06:18:34 GMT

There are days when one is caught unaware by a simple misspelling.
It was innocent enough, but let's just say I was caught with the wrong end of the stick. This happened a few years back while I was working in the garden of a children's museum. I had just relieved a coworker for the afternoon, and I was sitting at the table, writing in the garden journal and thinking of things to do if I ever encountered caterpillars (I'd probably run away, gibbering in terror.)

Earlier that day, the previous coworker had cut a few bunches of fresh anise as samples for visitors to taste; he even made a sign calling attention to them. I didn't notice the sign until the supervisor came out for a breath of fresh air. We got to chat a little bit, and then she looked at the sign, then she looked at me.

Supervisor: "How do you spell 'anise'?"

Me: "A-n-i-s-e. Why do you ask?"

She turned the sign around and it read: Come taste the sweet anus.

I was sitting behind that sign for nearly an hour.

Once again...

Wed, 10 Oct 2007 06:40:56 GMT

I missed Cephalopod Awareness Day yesterday, 8th of October! Oh well, *sigh* then again, every day is Squid Day to me! heehehehee!

Gee, it's been a while since I wrote in this journal.

Long Jump Face Plant, Tequila, Vodka Shots, Sake, & Blurt

Tue, 17 Apr 2007 07:50:22 GMT

I spent most of last week enjoying some free time from the family science nights, and no children meant peace and quiet. Unfortunately, I ended up working out with my sister, her friend, and cousin at the local middle school track. A note to self: Never work out with sadists! As for the long jump face plant, well, it was something I didn't expect to do after running around the track.

The long jump course was in a field adjacent to the track, and we were wondering how far we could jump. Here is where the guinea pig comes in, namely me. They had me run down the runway, and just before the line I leaped and landed in the sand feet first, except my momentum carried me forward onto my knees since the place I landed in had been scooped out by the kids that were in the sand pit earlier.

Well, my feet didn't move from the depression, and as my knees landed, my upper body followed suit and I found myself face down in the sand. My sister, her friend, and my cousin burst out laughing. I jumped up, trying to brush the sand off from my forehead all the while asking "Do I have sand on my forehead? Do I have sand on my forehead?" And my sister yelling at me to shut up because she couldn't breathe and her Russian friend trying not to pee in her pants. Ah, the joys of exercising.

Sunday was an interesting day. I turned a year older, but not wiser since my sister plied me with two tequila shots before I blew out the birthday candle on the brownie. We were having a birthday lunch and the very same work out sadists had been invited, along with my aunt, my mom, my other sister, and our cousin's hubby. It was a pleasant time, and the topics of conversation ranged from family gossip and stuff about the recent family get together where we ended up playing a wild game of Taboo and making our uncle swear more than usual after penalizing him on points. At a certain point in the Taboo game conversation, we heard our Aunt blurt out something we would never have heard in polite conversation, especially during a pleasant Sunday lunch at the local steakhouse. From her end of the table, she said, "Oh, like KY Jelly?" We all went "Ewww!" and after that, we saw our 60-something Aunt in a new, albeit strange, light.

The rest of the day was spent trying to digest the food, then my friend called to ask if I wanted to go out for a birthday drink, and I said sure, why not. I ended up at a downtown bar drinking long island iced teas and a shot of vodka my friend handed to me. We then sat at the bar, admiring the stickers plastered all over the bar, and listening to the growl of motorcycles at the entrance while one of the patrons in the bar swore at the bikers to either leave or turn off their bike engines since the exhaust was entering the bar and stinking up the whole place along with the cigarettes.

The bikers left, but everything was so quiet afterwards, except for the sound of the billiard balls striking each other at the pool tables. I managed to finish my drinks while conversing with my friend about lost loves and long ago crushes on boys. We ended up reading about astrological signs and trying to figure out who we were compatible with, then we left for the nearest sushi bar. That's where the sake stepped in. After all that, my friend and I headed back home where she dropped me off, but guess what was waiting for me when I got home? My sadistic work out sister had another shot of vodka for me. I do not fully remember what else I did after downing that last shot, but I do know I ended up sleeping on the living room couch while listening to opera, and then waking up at about 2-2:30 am to help my sister file her income taxes. I couldn't sleep after that so I stayed up till 6:30 until sleep came again.

Today, my sisters told me that I'm brutally honest when inebriated.

Poetry Night at the Tabasco in the Eye Theater

Sat, 10 Mar 2007 06:44:27 GMT

Morituri te salutant
(A Burial in Manila)

The other day a voice spoke to me.
I listened,
But I had forgotten it the next minute.
I paid the undertaker
And I followed the procession
Into the city of the dead,
But also a city of the living.
Sprawling mindlessly,
Like a cancer
In the heart of Manila,
Growing.

Squatters dwell here
Along with their children,
Such plump, well-fed children,
Amongst the gray and crumbling stones
Of tombs and graves.
A quiet horror
Beneath the burning tropical sun
Steals silently upon my mind,
And the voice speaks again.
But I do not answer,
And I do not remember the next minute.

I blink and follow the procession,
Feeling the eyes of children upon me.

Tabasco Sauce in the Eye Theater

Wed, 21 Feb 2007 07:07:48 GMT

Okay, now this was an exercise in random storytelling. Proceed with caution...

Misadventures with the Cinnamon Zombies

The Stork Club was a bar where everybody knew your name because inevitably, it is required that you spend a night singing 'Mairzy Doats and Doazy Doats' while completely nude and dancing a jig on top of the bar. But that was for the longtime patrons, and I didn't count myself as a longtime patron. I was just an accidental bar hopper that forgot to watch out for the strange nimbus of unholy light that engulfed my body as I strolled to the next bar. That same unholy light deposited me in what I now think is a parallel universe and a strange bar called the Stork Club.

Imagine yourself deposited unceremoniously at a table amidst a throng of storks guzzling plankton juice and fishy concoctions, but the horror lay in the other patrons of the bar and the strange city that I glimpsed through the smoky glass. Most of the storks were seated at the small round tables while the whole floor was covered with countless bodies of vastly different species of organisms. I managed to introduce myself to all of them and make a fool out of myself as I began to learn the quaint dialects and outlandish customs of each species.
The whole night was spent drinking the house special which was called boot reer, which was the kind of drink that gives you a kick in the ass whenever you drink too much of it. The appetizers weren't all that bad, but the gooey caterpillars in slime sauce were a bit too much for me.

It was then that I heard the frightening saga of the Cinnamon Zombies, that strange tribe of hideousness that dwelt in the Sugar Lands, a barren desert of sweetness so cloying that one snort was enough to turn an able-bodied man into a shuffling Sugar Zombie, not quite a Cinnamon Zombie, but more horrific since if one is ever caught in a rainstorm, it would melt and leave a sticky spot for any unsuspecting wanderer. Thankfully, no cinnamon zombie has ever thought to attack the city, until tonight when I happened to be in the vicinity. It was just my luck.

It all began with a dire warning from the Dung Men, creatures who marched around with an entourage of flies and a smell that would make the heads on Mt. Rushmore cry boulders if they ever caught a whiff. We were all prepared for their visit as the gas mask vendor came around earlier selling gas masks at a ridiculously low price. The Dung Men talked and talked and talked and talked about a group of Cinnamon Zombies making their way through the city gates and heading for the fast-food chain of Mac Dingles whose motto "We love to make you cry!" was plastered all over the place. The Zombies created a big mess when their order for Big Dings and Spry Flies didn't arrive Super Size. The Zombies were rampaging and every poor inhabitant they came across was rolled in sugar and left behind for the giant desert ants that followed the Cinnamon Zombies everywhere. Suddenly the door burst opened and there, silhouetted in the eerie glow of the city lights, was a Cinnamon Zombie, and boy was it evil looking! The Dung Men fled. The Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot crashed through the wall to get away. A bunch of little booger-colored leeches leeched off to the nearest drain.

I was left behind, drinking a mug of pear cider. The zombie crept through the door and headed straight for me. I couldn't stand the smell of such cloying sweetness, so my nose started to twitch. The zombie sat next to me and ordered a drink. My nose was still protesting, and I could feel a humongous sneeze coming on, but I had time to describe what I saw. Imagine cinnamon colored sand shaped like a gritty version of the Pillsbury doughboy, but with a vacuous leer and skewed eyes that were mere pinholes in an otherwise pudgy face. Every time it drank, I could see the wet streak of the liquid percolating through its body all the way to its toes where it leaked out onto the floor.

I could hold my sneeze no longer, and I let lose with a barrage of fine misty sneezes. Each puff blew a portion of cinnamon off the bewildered zombie and onto a whole tray of sugary buns. I couldn't believe my eyes, and the zombie was squawking with horror as it started to come apart with each successive sneeze that burst from me. The shocking event gave the other patrons(the ones brave enough to come back inside) ideas and so, armed with blow dryers from the blow dryer vendor who happened to be selling blow dryers at a ridiculously low price, they marched out and began blow drying the heck out of the rampaging cinnamon zombies. Soon the carnage gave way to a boom in a new confection called cinnamon buns that the city enjoyed, and what was left of the cinnamon zombies fled back to their native Sugar Lands, until the city ran out of blow dryers.
But that is another tale...

In the depths of the night...

Sat, 03 Feb 2007 10:52:38 GMT

Another night and I sit here, typing till dawn perhaps, but I know that fatigue will set in and my eyes will blur.

It's already the second month of this new year, and I find myself slowly recovering from all of last year and from the events that preceded it in the last months of 2005. Sometimes my thoughts would stray to past events, making me cry or shake my head in regret at lost opportunities.

Regret is not a comfortable thing to live with, and I shouldn't dwell on it too much. Yet I tend to live in the past, remembering all that was good or all that was bad. I was told that I must not bear a grudge, but I never listened. It's only now that I've let things be. Turning the other cheek is something I've been learning to deal with. Although the black mood takes me when I'm not aware, when I'm not sure of myself. One of the things that I have always feared was failure which may stem from my habit of dwelling on the outcomes of anything I undertake. It has come to a point where I've thought of all the things that could go right and what could go wrong, weighing each until I start letting the wrongs outweigh the rights. You can imagine what I did next: Nothing; I had already weighed what I was going to do, and I found myself wanting.

It's only late at night when I write all of this down, when my thoughts bubble and can't stay still any longer in the mire of memories hidden deep within my mind.

The second part of the story The Lioness from the previous post:

The roar of a rifle brought Peter out of his deep slumber. He looked around, searching for Nessa. The woman was nowhere to be found and Peter saw that the door was ajar. Stepping quickly to the door, he opened it wider, letting in the harsh morning light. As Peter surveyed his farm, he saw Nesselrod crouching in the dust, grinning with a secret delight.

“Good morning Retief! I could have sworn you were still keeping a lion with all these tracks crossing your yard! I just hope that big pet of yours is gone for good or else I might have to kill her when I see her,” smiled Nesselrod.

Peter looked down and saw the large paw prints of a lion. Intermingled with the tracks were the blurred imprints of human feet. Nesselrod returned to his waiting horse, his rifle cradled in the crook of his arm.

“I have been tracking the rogue lion that left those prints. She is an old one, and I have seen her kind before; too old and slow for the pride. Her tracks led me to your farm. She has already killed the livestock of some farmers down south and it nearly got one of my cows. I’m out to get it before it kills more.” With these last words, Nesselrod galloped off.

Peter thought about what happened last night, and he was afraid for the woman. Nessa must have seen the lion as she was leaving. He hoped she was safe and unharmed.

xXx

Nessa had found the old female, and being alone, she accepted the solitary lioness; together they roamed the land across the river. Nessa did most of the hunting because of her youth and speed; she was the scourge of the animals on the savannah. The coming of night saw her transform once again and this time she looked forward to returning to the little farm of her human lover. A silent communication between Nessa and the old lioness reassured both that Nessa would return at dawn. The old female melted into the shadows of the riverbank and Nessa loped across the grassland towards the man she loved.

Her amber eyes captivated Peter as she entered silently. He watched her lie down once again before the hearth; so stricken was he by her languid beauty, he longed to hold her in his arms. Nessa continued to gaze at him; her limpid pools of golden amber captured the glints of reflected light as the candles flickered in the soft dry breeze coming in through the window. Peter could not control himself any longer. He stepped towards her suddenly. With supernatural speed, Nessa rose and backed away from him. Peter nearly tripped over his feet in reaction to her movement. For a while, the two of them stood, eyeing each other and waiting for one of them to back down. Peter thought how stupid of him to startle her. He was about to return to his seat when Nessa padded up to him and caressed his face. Her eyes were bright as she smiled; her teeth gleamed in the firelight.

Peter could smell the warm sun upon her bare skin and the wild scent of the grassland. There was a musky smell to her as well, an aroma he could not quite place, but familiar in its spicy subtleness. Closing his eyes in pleasure, he breathed her in deeply and shuddered when he felt her soft breath upon his lips as she brushed her own lips against them with their velvety softness. Soon the brief contact was broken and Peter opened his eyes to see Nessa at the door, looking back at him with longing. She finally turned and rushed out into the night, leaving Peter behind with the memory of her upon his lips.

The rainy season ended and Nessa continued her nightly visits. Contact was kept at a minimum, but soon Peter was able to hold her in his arms as she grew more comfortable with him. He learned to live with the strange schedule she kept and he stopped inquiring about her. He did not mind her silence, in fact, he enjoyed the quiet evenings alone with her. He never told anyone about her, not even his own father.

Well into the dry season, the farmers began to talk of seeing two lions, one unusually large and the other old, attacking their livestock. The large female was familiar to the farmers since they knew Peter Retief once raised her. They blamed Peter for the lost livestock. His father came to him one day and told him of the hunt the farmers were organizing to capture and kill both lions. Peter accepted the fact that the problem could only be solved in that manner.

Nesselrod was awakened at dawn by a snarl that sent chills down his spine. He looked out his window and saw a lion caught in the snare he had set up beneath the old tree. The cattle were lowing in fear as they tried to move away from the captured predator. Nesselrod came out with his rifle when he realized he had captured the old female.

“Finally!” said Nesselrod as he walked up to the captive lion. He brought up his rifle and aimed it at the lion’s head. With a sharp crack, the rifle ended the old female’s life instantly. A sudden intake of breath behind Nesselrod caused him to turn quickly, aiming his rifle at the newcomer. When he saw the woman before him, Nesselrod’s fear disappeared and he smiled at her.

“What are you doing out here without any clothes on?” leered Nesselrod as he stepped forward to grasp the woman’s arm.

Nessa growled menacingly and rushed forward unexpectedly, biting Nesselrod’s extended hand.

“Hey!” yelled Nesselrod as Nessa continued to advance upon him, changing in form as the sun rose behind her. He was in shock as he saw Nessa transform and leap towards him. Nesselrod fell back as the canines tore into his throat and the murderous claws ripped his body to shreds.

Nessa continued to feed, gorging on the hot flesh of the tormentor who had killed her companion.

xXx

Peter’s father saw to it that Nesselrod received a proper burial. Peter gazed at the spot beneath the spreading tree where Nesselrod’s remains were found. He felt it was his responsibility to end the attacks for the last time. It had been three days already and still no sign of the lioness. Nessa had been curiously subdued during the past three nights, but he blamed it on the tension and fear caused by the presence of a dangerous lion nearby.

“Now that the lioness has tasted human flesh, she will attack anything, humans and cattle alike. Nesselrod was a rough man, but he did not deserve to die this way,” Peter’s father said as he gazed into the limitless expanse of the bush. “The farmers are going to look for her. I will be joining them.”

Peter was worried about Nessa. He was thinking about the danger the lioness posed to the woman he loved. “She has always been my responsibility. I should be the one to put an end to her. I am going back to my farm. The lioness might come back there since it is familiar ground.” Peter hoped that Nessa would be safely inside once night fell.

xXx

Nessa was sunning herself on the riverbank when she heard the baying of hounds in the distance. She stood up, sniffing the afternoon air, sensing the group of men heading for her. A familiar fear placed its cold fingers around her heart as she realized the men were hunting her. She bounded away, across the river shallows and into the bush. The pursuing hunting dogs burst through the surrounding shrubs of the riverbank, followed closely by the farmers armed with their rifles. The hounds soon picked up Nessa’s scent and the chase was on as they tore through the scrubland. The lioness bounded in fear through the dry landscape, circling around in order to return to the river and to the farm of her human by nightfall. The hounds were gaining on her, so she decided to hide and attack them by surprise in order to slow their pursuit long enough. As the first dogs came running by, Nessa leapt from a rocky outcropping, striking out at the beleaguered dogs. She managed to kill one and seriously injure the other. Soon the other dogs arrived and she kept them at bay with the outcropping behind her. She roared her defiance at them, but soon her roar changed to a painful howl as a bullet tore past her flank, gouging deeply. Nessa turned and bounded up the outcrop and over the other side as bullets flew at her.

The setting sun was a comforting sight to Nessa as she re-crossed the river; she winced at the stinging sensation along her flank where the bullet grazed her. All too quickly, the baying hounds were at her heels once more, and the farmers were yelling at the top of their lungs. Nessa ran as fast as her tired legs could carry her. Her lungs felt as if they were about to burst. She felt countless bullets fly past her and into the dirt around her paws. The sun was nearly gone. Its dying glow gleamed upon the windows of Peter’s farm. Nessa hoped she could make it in time.

xXx

Peter heard the commotion off in the distance. Picking up his rifle, he stepped out onto the porch and peered into the dusk as the golden glow of the setting sun saturated the landscape. The sound of shouting men and baying hounds grew and Peter realized they were heading towards his farm. He knew what it meant as he readied his rifle, aiming carefully at the lion hurtling towards him. Just as the last rays of the sun touched upon the golden form, Peter fired.

xXx

The impact of the bullet nearly flung Nessa backwards. The pain that seared through her heart was almost too much to bear and with failing strength, she managed to land at Peter’s feet. Peter stepped forward to end her suffering, and as he raised his rifle to her head, night fell and the shadows of twilight stretched upon her body, causing her to transform and die in the throes of exquisite pain.

xXx

Peter gasped in shock as he looked down to find Nessa at his feet. Slowly, he dropped to the ground, cradling his arms around her. He closed her sightless eyes and silently rocked her back and forth, speaking to her softly as his tears fell upon her face.

When his father and the other men arrived, Peter did not look up. When the men saw him and the burden he held in his arms, they quietly left. Peter did not look up as they disappeared into the night.

The End

An old story...

Thu, 01 Feb 2007 09:00:16 GMT

I wrote this tale a while back as a homage to the old pulp stories of Weird Tales and others. I don't remember the exact dates I wrote this, but this story has been lurking on my computer for a while. It's a fantasy and a romance that includes a were-lion. Oh well, it's just a little ditty.

The Lioness

Peter Retief shouldered his rifle as he watched his father stalk the lioness. He could see her pale golden body at the edge of the stream, quietly lapping at the water. He remembered how lovely it was to observe the lions outside of his father's farm, the farm he grew up on, but now he had a farm of his own in the vast grasslands of colonial Africa.

Peter saw the lioness lift her head up. He held his breath as she slowly returned to her drinking. Retief's father had arrived that morning asking him to hunt this particular lioness with him. He recalled what his father had said to him: "She has been attacking my livestock for the past month. It is just recently that I found her lair, and now I ask you to join in the hunt for her. It will be a moment’s work, and you will have plenty of time to see to your own farm."

Peter could almost feel a pang of sorrow at the destruction of such a magnificent creature. He watched his father take aim. A loud crack and the lioness leapt into the air with a strangled cough. Her body landed in a heap, in the wet mud of the river.

Peter emerged from his hiding place and stepped towards the body of the lioness. He could tell that she was uncommonly large and that she had gone through tough and terrible times; scars covered her patchy coat. He wondered where her pride was and why she was alone. Peter could hear his father beside him, examining his rifle and reloading it just in case. A soft mewling sound attracted Peter and he went to investigate a thick clump of reeds. Moving aside the reeds, he was surprised to find a female lion cub not yet weaned. She was helpless as he picked her up. Already, she was showing evidence of following in her mother's footsteps in size and coloring.

"Now I know the reason why she was not in a pride. She must have been an outcast and avoided the nearby prides for the sake of her only cub. That must be the reason why she has preyed on your cattle for the past month; she needed to feed the young one," explained Peter.

Franz looked at his son and admonished him. "It’s best to kill that cub now, son. She will only grow up to be trouble."

"She’s too young and besides, if I raise her, she will be my responsibility. I was thinking that her coat might fetch a nice price once she's full grown," answered Peter as he stared at the cub's amber eyes.

"Then you are old enough to live with that responsibility. When the time comes to take her coat, give her to me. First, help me with the carcass. We will burn the body; nobody will want its ragged coat," said Franz.

xXx

A few years went by and the cub grew into a magnificent creature, but Peter Retief’s livestock failed miserably in the harsh climate of the bush, and one by one, they died. He managed to hold on and scratch a living as a tracker, guiding hunters deep into the bush, but even that held little enjoyment. The only thing he looked forward to during those joyless hunts was riding on horseback through the arid scrubland. His other, but secret, joy was the lioness that he kept penned up in a large area surrounded by stout wire, feeding and caring for her.

Peter could not bring himself to name her, so she remained nameless as befits a wild animal, though he caught himself calling her The Lioness as if she was the prime example of her species. She would stare at him every time he came to feed her with the game he caught on one of his hunts. The growing lioness acted curiously whenever she saw Peter, and during those moments, he thought she would whisper a secret to him. It was often that he spoke to her about his private dreams since he was alone and his farm far from civilization. He wondered at the strange amber eyes that stared at him intently behind the wires of her pen, and he would quietly whisper such things as ‘you are my secret joy’ or ‘if only you could share in my dreams.’ During those moments, she looked as if she understood his every word.

xXx

One day a new farmer arrived named Nesselrod. He lived nearly two miles away and already had the reputation for being a rough fellow. The lioness had just been fed, and she was lying quietly as Peter sat watching her, dreaming about her haunting amber eyes. The rough voice of the farmer startled Peter out of his daydream.

"Retief, that big lion of yours is trouble waiting to happen! No matter what you do to her, she will still turn on you when your back is turned," said Nesselrod. "You know she is more of a liability than livestock. Give her to me and I will get rid of her for you. I could give you some cattle in exchange.”

"I was planning to send her to my father instead," answered Peter.

"Here, I will pay you 50 pounds to take her off your hands. I could get her tomorrow then and take her to my place," said Nesselrod as he spat at the lioness.

Peter thought about it, but the look in the eyes of the lioness brought a twinge of guilt. He had taken care of her for so long, and now he was tempted to hand her over to the farmer. "No. I promised her to my father. She will be going to his farm tomorrow.”

Nesselrod nodded at Peter’s reply and said, "Well, it is going to be his problem now." He turned and walked off, but not before spitting once more at the caged lioness.

Peter simmered inside at Nesselrod’s behavior. He was thinking of releasing her instead, in some place far away from this area; he wanted to take her to the deepest part of the bush where nobody could disturb her. It would be a nice drive in his battered wagon, and he wanted to give the lioness a chance to live on her own terms, but first he had to inform his father of his decision.

That night, the lioness waited until she knew the man was asleep. She began to dig and tear away at the ground below the wires. When the hole was big enough, she crawled out on her belly; she was finally free from her confinement. Silently, she rushed out into the dark and vast African plains.

Peter woke up that morning to find the lioness gone. He decided to find out what became of her so he followed her tracks into the bush. He saddled his horse and rode after the lion. After miles of meandering, the tracks ended at a large unnamed river. Peter knew that the lioness had forded the river; he doubted that she would ever return to him.

Peter Retief turned his horse and urged it into a gallop; he never once looked back.

xXx

Many nights passed and the lioness enjoyed the sights and smells that engulfed her, but there was something missing in her newfound freedom. She no longer had a companion and that made her pine for the love the human male, Peter, had given her. At the time of her escape, she was nearing the age of adulthood and now she felt the stirrings of growth and other emotions within her. She did not really understand the strange feelings within her mind, and her instincts told her that to be with a human was dangerous. Her sensitive nose detected the changing weather; the metallic scent of moisture in the air telling her that the rainy season was coming soon. The lioness could feel the soft breath of the wind as it blew harder. It carried with it the dry, hot grass scent of dying day slowly giving way to night. The waxing moon ascended, making its presence known to the lioness.

She could see the bright glow of the rising moon, shining brilliantly against the deep purple dome of the sky. As she was glorying in its rays, sudden pain, burning and fierce, shot throughout her body. She arched her back, trying to relieve the frightening sensation of agony coursing down her spine as every fiber of her body began to transform. For the longest time she shuddered as her body revolted against the confines of her skin, then she blacked out.

xXx

The pain was suddenly gone. All she could feel was the cool breath of wind caressing her bare skin, now devoid of the thick pelt of golden hair that had covered it. She remained on all fours, staring at what her paws had become, wondering at how fragile the long fingers looked against the memory of her sturdy claws. She crawled on hands and knees to the river’s edge and looked at her reflection in the dark, mirror-like surface. She was curious at the face that looked back at her; it had the same amber eyes, but the shape was different.

The lioness now knew why her mother lived away from the others. They were separate creatures, living and dying in an eternal struggle between the human and the animal. Shunned by both men and lions, they traveled the lonely paths through deserts and equatorial rainforests, hiding in the shadows, scavenging the detritus of human settlements, and rarely hunting in the open. A bright ember of memory flared in her mind. She could now remember what her mother use to call her when she was a young cub, and the memory brought with it a soft, indescribable yearning.

She could feel the dull pain of loss slowly squeezing her heart; she tried to say her name, to form the magical sounds her mother whispered close to her ear on the lonely nights when the hyenas were silent and the stars wheeled above them. What came out was a soft sound, quite different from a lion’s growls and grunts. One more time, she said her name: Nessa. This time, she was satisfied with it.

That night, Nessa enjoyed her transformation immensely since it brought pleasure to her senses, but at heart, she was still a lion. In her newly transfigured form, she began to think of the one true joy in her short existence: Peter’s love and companionship. She felt a yearning for his soft voice and gentle face. It was that simple urge to be with another being that made Nessa return to the man she had once escaped from.

xXx

A quiet noise caught Peter’s attention as he sat reading by the fire. The sound of somebody or something outside his door brought him quickly to his feet. He reached for his rifle; what could be waiting outside? Looking through the window, he was surprised to find a woman standing before his door. More curious than ever, Peter opened the door wide, letting the glow from his fire illuminate the figure of the woman. She was naked and she stood innocently, unaware of any embarrassment her nakedness caused. Her tawny skin glowed as she entered the doorway, and her amber eyes glittered with the reflected flames of the fire.

Peter was speechless as she came inside, looking around curiously and stepping carefully over the rugs as if her feet were not accustomed to the feel of them. Peter managed to close the door and walk back to his chair. He sat there looking at the unknown beauty before him. Picking up a thin blanket, Peter offered it to her so she could cover herself and alleviate his embarrassment as he tried to avert his gaze. She sat upon the floor, letting the flickering flames dance their shadows over her golden skin; she ignored the blanket. Her hair was dark yellow, limned with golden highlights, resembling the waving grasses of the savannah during the dry season.

Peter could only gaze into the deep amber eyes of the woman as she languidly settled back, her long hair covering the swell of her chest and her lower hips. Her eyes reminded him of the secret joy he once shared with the lioness before her escape. Their haunting beauty only intensified Peter’s yearning for that dream he had of the captive lioness as she sat in the warm sunlight listening to his voice.

“What is your name?” whispered Peter as he sat forward in his chair. There was no answer, yet the woman continued to stare at him. She gave no sign to indicate whether she understood what he said. Once more, Peter asked the same question, but this time there was a hesitant, breathless answer.

“Nessa.” It was said so softly, as if the woman breathed it.

The burning wood crackled, and the woman jumped at the sound of it while she stared in the direction of the rifle as it leaned harmlessly by the door. Peter noticed her reaction and was about to comment on it, but said nothing when he saw her return to normal, the look of intense fear disappearing quickly from her face. He thoughtfully whispered her name under his breath, noticing how quickly she looked up into his eyes. They were twin golden pools, and he lost himself in their depths.

“Who are you Nessa? Where is your family?” said Peter as he continued to fall into her gaze. Silence answered both questions, and Peter did not notice. For the rest of the night, he continued to talk to the silent woman, never hearing her answer the questions he asked. He wondered at what catastrophe the woman experienced to render her mute. She looked so innocent, and it made Peter wonder even more about her identity. She must be one of those solitary people of the bush, half-breeds, shunned by the natives and his society. All these questions and explanations haunted Peter until sleep overcame him. The last thing he saw was Nessa lying upon the floor, staring intently at him.

xXx

The sky was beginning to brighten and Nessa began to feel a sharp pain throbbing down her spine. She stood up and walked over to the sleeping figure of Peter as he slouched in his chair. Nessa brushed away a stray lock of his hair and slowly brought her head down to his face, deeply breathing in his human scent. Another stab of pain coursed through her and she left, leaving through the door and hurrying out into the dawn.

She ran blindly, her long human legs beginning to shorten as the sun rose; her back was curving and she could feel her skin explode with the tiny spears of hair that thickened all over her body. The pain was nearly unbearable and still she pushed herself, running for the river, hoping that its cool waters would quench the burning her transforming body caused as she reverted to her natural form. Her jaw lengthened and pain screamed in her skull as it changed back.

Her transformation now complete, Nessa finally collapsed under the shade of a tree, panting with exhaustion and hunger.

A new site for a new year

Sun, 21 Jan 2007 08:33:51 GMT

This site may very well be a repository for the writings my decrepit mind feels obligated to dictate to me during those quiet nights I spend on the computer. So I apologize now for the frightfully strange, inanely humorous, disgustingly droll, and uniquely skewed world view that may incur your abject scorn and pity.