I know that the forest is haunted. Robert told me last time he was over. We found the marks on the tree trunks and he said that they were definitely left by ghosts. Or aliens. Every now and then I can hear Macbeth barking by the house, but I’m in a different world now. I wish I knew the way to the clearing better. When Andy comes I have to be there, or he’ll think that I don’t know where it is and act like it belongs to him again. But it’s in my forest. The clearing belongs to me and the ghosts. Or the aliens.
There is a big branch hidden in the crinkly leaves that I almost trip over. I make sure that I am totally still so the ghosts don’t hear me before I lift it up. It’s pretty heavy, and almost twice as tall as I am, and I decide that it will be my walking stick. If Andy is in the clearing when I get there I will use it to take back my kingdom. I practice swinging it against one of the bigger trees and it snaps in half. I put the piece I’m still holding in a bush so nobody knows what I was trying to do with it.
I keep trying to figure out whether it is louder to step on the leaves and let them crunch, or to push them away with my feet making a crinkly noise. I try each for a little while and wonder what time it is and whether I am closer to the clearing. I see another walking stick and take it. It is smaller than the last one, but I think it will be good enough.
“James!” A voice shouts from far away. “Where are you?”
I run for a little bit towards Andy’s voice, but make sure I am walking when I get to the clearing where he has beaten me to for the second time this week. I like the clearing. It’s a little hole in the forest where there aren’t any trees, but there are these huge branches set up to make this little house that mom says might have been a deer’s nest, but I think was probably made by the last kids who lived here. Robert says it was the ghosts, but I don’t think ghosts are very good at moving things, so I bet it was kids. Or aliens. Andy throws a pile of leaves at me.
“I beat you.” Andy says.
“Nuh-uh. I was here an hour ago and went to find a walking stick.” I tell him.
“You’re lying.” Andy says.
“No I’m not. My house is right there. I came here right after breakfast and have been hunting deer. That’s why I needed a new stick. The last one broke while I was hunting.”
“Oh. Okay. Did you see any other good sticks?”
“A couple, but they weren’t as good as this one.”
Andy and I walk back towards where I was walking earlier. I tell him I think we should get my dogs once we have our sticks because that’s how people hunt in movies. He tells me that they would probably be too loud and scare the deer away. Andy finds a bigger stick than mine, but I find a rock with a sharp enough edge to make a spear, so I guess it’s pretty even.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Oddly Pedestrian Life of Christopher Chaos
Christopher Chaos rode his bright red bicycle to the burning house on the corner of Wood Street and Strawberry Lane. He rode with no discernible urgency and only placed his fingers on the brakes after coming upon the sight of his companions beneath the ancient oak tree.
“Good evening, comrades,” spoke Christopher Chaos, “What have I missed?”
“The dread Mrs. Brindle has surely realized by now that the doors have been nailed shut. We believe she is debating whether to wait for the fire trucks to come or to simply throw herself out a window,” whispered Simon Stryker, with a sadistic grin.
“Or she’s just given up on life altogether!” giggled Simon’s twin sister, Susan.
“Wonderful,” said Christopher, with some consideration. “At last we will be free from her wretched grasp.”
The trees at the end of the block began to glow red and blue with the knowledge of distant police cars and fire engines. The sirens slowly emerged from the silence and with them a tremor rose from the nearby houses as people stumbled towards their windows to see what all the ruckus was about. Christopher Chaos laughed a full-breasted laugh and held out his hands toward the fire, feeling the smoldering heat of destruction.
“Simon! Susan! Get away from the fire! You’ll burn right up!”
Mrs. Stryker rushed towards her children clutching a mug of coffee in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. She wrapped her arms around the twins, accidentally tapping some ash into Susan’s curly blonde hair.
“What in the name of the Lord Jesus is going on around here?” Said a bewildered Mrs. Chaos, appearing from the slowly gathering crowd to ruffle her son’s hair affectionately.
“I believe there is a fire in Mrs. Brindle’s house, mother,” replied Christopher, succinctly.
“Of course there’s a fucking fire, Chris,” Mrs. Chaos said as she lit a cigarette of her own.
“Sharon! Language!”
“Shove it up your ass, Carol.”
A rusty old minivan made its way noisily past the neighbors, stuttering before coming to a stop in front of the burning house. An elderly black woman climbed out of the driver’s seat and adjusted her glasses before stringing together more expletives than the Stryker children had ever heard in their lives. Christopher, of course, knew these words, as he knew many things. He scowled at the late appearance of the miserly Mrs. Brindle.
“Where are those damned children?” She shouted into the night air. “I swear to God above that I will kill those damned kids for this! This is the last straw!”
Mrs. Brindle set her eyes on Christopher, who smiled back with every ounce of charm that his body could muster. She shook her head in disbelief.
“You are an evil child, Christopher Chaos,” she said.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Brindle, what did you just say to my son?”
“You best watch after that boy, Sharon. He’s no good, and deep down I think you know it.”
“Well I’ve had just about enough of this. Chris, come on, we’re going home before this crazy old bitch tries to convict a little boy for arson.” Mrs. Chaos dragged her son by the hand back towards their house, muttering as she inhaled entire clouds of smoke in irritation.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Brindle,” said Christopher Chaos.
And he was gone.
“Good evening, comrades,” spoke Christopher Chaos, “What have I missed?”
“The dread Mrs. Brindle has surely realized by now that the doors have been nailed shut. We believe she is debating whether to wait for the fire trucks to come or to simply throw herself out a window,” whispered Simon Stryker, with a sadistic grin.
“Or she’s just given up on life altogether!” giggled Simon’s twin sister, Susan.
“Wonderful,” said Christopher, with some consideration. “At last we will be free from her wretched grasp.”
The trees at the end of the block began to glow red and blue with the knowledge of distant police cars and fire engines. The sirens slowly emerged from the silence and with them a tremor rose from the nearby houses as people stumbled towards their windows to see what all the ruckus was about. Christopher Chaos laughed a full-breasted laugh and held out his hands toward the fire, feeling the smoldering heat of destruction.
“Simon! Susan! Get away from the fire! You’ll burn right up!”
Mrs. Stryker rushed towards her children clutching a mug of coffee in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. She wrapped her arms around the twins, accidentally tapping some ash into Susan’s curly blonde hair.
“What in the name of the Lord Jesus is going on around here?” Said a bewildered Mrs. Chaos, appearing from the slowly gathering crowd to ruffle her son’s hair affectionately.
“I believe there is a fire in Mrs. Brindle’s house, mother,” replied Christopher, succinctly.
“Of course there’s a fucking fire, Chris,” Mrs. Chaos said as she lit a cigarette of her own.
“Sharon! Language!”
“Shove it up your ass, Carol.”
A rusty old minivan made its way noisily past the neighbors, stuttering before coming to a stop in front of the burning house. An elderly black woman climbed out of the driver’s seat and adjusted her glasses before stringing together more expletives than the Stryker children had ever heard in their lives. Christopher, of course, knew these words, as he knew many things. He scowled at the late appearance of the miserly Mrs. Brindle.
“Where are those damned children?” She shouted into the night air. “I swear to God above that I will kill those damned kids for this! This is the last straw!”
Mrs. Brindle set her eyes on Christopher, who smiled back with every ounce of charm that his body could muster. She shook her head in disbelief.
“You are an evil child, Christopher Chaos,” she said.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Brindle, what did you just say to my son?”
“You best watch after that boy, Sharon. He’s no good, and deep down I think you know it.”
“Well I’ve had just about enough of this. Chris, come on, we’re going home before this crazy old bitch tries to convict a little boy for arson.” Mrs. Chaos dragged her son by the hand back towards their house, muttering as she inhaled entire clouds of smoke in irritation.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Brindle,” said Christopher Chaos.
And he was gone.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
A Discussion of the Woods at Night
The child had been wandering through the camping equipment for a little under ten minutes. His parents had let him sneak away while they examined new washing machine models next door. He had no idea what in particular to look for, and merely stared at the displays of mounted fish and fake campfire scenery. He passed a particularly ugly tent for the second time and found himself once again in the fishing section of the store.
An older man with strange eyes gave the boy a friendly wink as he placed a fishing rod back on the rack. He approached the boy and smiled, beckoning him near.
“Now, what’s a nice young man like yourself doing all alone in here?”
“My dad is taking me camping this weekend. He told me I could come ahead and look.”
“Ah, yes. A young camper we’ve got with us today. Where might you and your pop be going?”
“We are going to the woods. Up north.”
“Hmm… Yes. Well, a young man like yourself better stick close to your pop when the sun goes down. Wouldn’t want something nasty to steal you away into the darkness forever.”
The boy giggled; the man did not. The boy stopped giggling.
“There aren’t any bears or anything in these woods. That’s what my dad says.”
“There are worse things in the woods than bears, my boy.”
“Not in these woods. My daddy said.”
“In all woods… Wherever enough trees grow together to blot out the sun. That’s where they live. That’s where they wait.”
“What are you talking about, mister?”
“There are spirits in the woods at night, son.”
“Spirits?”
“They lie in the darkest shadows and hold their secret meetings. For at night the woods belong to them. Every man knows this deep down in his soul, but they choose to ignore it, because they have no respect for magic or superstition... But still, they fear the woods. They know that to walk among the trees at dusk is to incite some terrible evil. Even the bravest man will sleep in a clearing, away from the shadows and the darkness. It is proper to be afraid of the woods, my boy. It is the most natural thing in the world.”
The boy stared at the old man.
“Are you being truthful?”
“Yes, son. I am being very truthful indeed.”
The boy considered, and wrinkled his nose in contemplation. When he looked back up, he noticed the man’s odd necklace of leaves and acorns, and the way the dirt on his hands and face seemed strangely permanent. The boy shifted his feet.
“I’m sorry, I should find my parents.”
“Yes, you should. But remember what I told you. It’s very important.”
The boy looked uneasy.
“I will remember.”
And he left.
An older man with strange eyes gave the boy a friendly wink as he placed a fishing rod back on the rack. He approached the boy and smiled, beckoning him near.
“Now, what’s a nice young man like yourself doing all alone in here?”
“My dad is taking me camping this weekend. He told me I could come ahead and look.”
“Ah, yes. A young camper we’ve got with us today. Where might you and your pop be going?”
“We are going to the woods. Up north.”
“Hmm… Yes. Well, a young man like yourself better stick close to your pop when the sun goes down. Wouldn’t want something nasty to steal you away into the darkness forever.”
The boy giggled; the man did not. The boy stopped giggling.
“There aren’t any bears or anything in these woods. That’s what my dad says.”
“There are worse things in the woods than bears, my boy.”
“Not in these woods. My daddy said.”
“In all woods… Wherever enough trees grow together to blot out the sun. That’s where they live. That’s where they wait.”
“What are you talking about, mister?”
“There are spirits in the woods at night, son.”
“Spirits?”
“They lie in the darkest shadows and hold their secret meetings. For at night the woods belong to them. Every man knows this deep down in his soul, but they choose to ignore it, because they have no respect for magic or superstition... But still, they fear the woods. They know that to walk among the trees at dusk is to incite some terrible evil. Even the bravest man will sleep in a clearing, away from the shadows and the darkness. It is proper to be afraid of the woods, my boy. It is the most natural thing in the world.”
The boy stared at the old man.
“Are you being truthful?”
“Yes, son. I am being very truthful indeed.”
The boy considered, and wrinkled his nose in contemplation. When he looked back up, he noticed the man’s odd necklace of leaves and acorns, and the way the dirt on his hands and face seemed strangely permanent. The boy shifted his feet.
“I’m sorry, I should find my parents.”
“Yes, you should. But remember what I told you. It’s very important.”
The boy looked uneasy.
“I will remember.”
And he left.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Friendship
When working to gain a person’s trust, it is important to convince that person that you trust them. This can be achieved most efficiently by having an array of tragically unfortunate stories about your life, fictional or factual, that you are willing and capable of exploiting in an attempt to inspire genuine interest and empathy towards your well being. The motives for wanting said trust are varied, but in most cases there are certain pieces of information private to that person that have peaked your interest, and the most direct way to unearth these secrets is by forming an emotional connection. In doing so, it is best to know the broad subject of the information you would like to extract from said person. When attempting to understand the events surrounding, for instance, an instance of intense betrayal by a close friend or relative, you should bring up a personal experience that brings out that same feeling of exploitation. Finding a common ground of emotion is absolutely necessary in creating an “open-book” friendship in which extracting personal information from your friend is no more difficult than looking a word up in a dictionary. It is absolutely necessary to continue nurturing this newly developed trust with increasingly relevant feelings and memories until you have come to a comprehensive emotional understanding of your friend. At this point you will find yourself capable of questioning their emotions and conceptions of their personal lifestyle, and ultimately suggest new emotions and lifestyles that you believe will better suit them as individuals and as extensions of your own emotional support system.
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