Lucas Weismann

Writing Prompts

Another Winter Gone – 11

- Lucas

“Look Marcus, you’re a decent writer and you’ve got some interesting ideas for characters,” said the man in the suit, “We can’t sell this wilderness adventurer stuff these days.  People don’t get it.”

“What do you mean?  Every few years hollywood comes out with a Western or an adaptation of a Jack London novel and they do fine.  Hell it wasn’t long ago they made a good profit on Huckleberry Finn.”

“You don’t get it man, we can sell stories of triumph over nature.  Surivors of a plane crash eating each other to survive.  Young kid dying from eating the wrong plants after having a hissy-fit that his dad was cheating on his mom.  Those will sell, but this?  Who do you think you are, Edgar Rice Burroughs?”

“Of course not.  Burroughs created some of the most memorable characters of his day.”

“Yeah, and they reflected people’s aspirations back then.  The west was still pretty wild before it was tamed by Hollywood, Barbed Wired and Mob-run casinos. People moved out west to live off the land.  Now they build cabins in Aspen and visit during ski season.  Hell, more of the population has lived in cities than the rural areas since 1920 and there’s no sign of it ending.  You know what that means?  Two generations of people who’ve never lived outside the city unless it was to visit summer camp or to visit Grandma and Grandpa.  People don’t understand it and hell, I don’t understand it.”

“What’s not to understand?”

“Okay, you’ve got this character, Joshua right?”

“Yeah.”

“So he lives off the land and helps people out.”

“Yeah.  If they need it.”

“Well, that’s noble and everything, but why does he do it?”

“What do you mean why does he do it?  He does it because they need help.”

“Doesn’t ask for money?  Just leaves after helping them?”

“sometimes, yeah.”

“You know what I call that?” Asked the man in the suit.

“What?”

“Suspicious.  No political agenda, no witnesses?  I mean, he’s not an alcoholic, trying to atone for a past wrong, avenge some injustice?”

“No.  Just sees work that needs doing and helps them as needs it.”

“Yeah, there’s already a character who does that.”

“Who?”

“Superman.  And people hate Superman.  They don’t feel he’s realistic.”

“What?  You’re not supposed to thing he’s realistic.  The man is bulletproof and flies.”

“You’re missing the point Marcus.  That’s not what’s unrealistic about Superman.  What’s unrealistic about superman is that he’s all-powerful and benevolent.”

“Well that’s what Christians say about God.”

“Yeah, and how many of them have read the bible and really believe that crap?  Basic rule of PR.  Tell people something often enough and they’ll believe it.  How many times does the bible say god is good?”

“Probably a few?”

“At least 61 times.  Though I might have lost count in the Gospels somewhere.”

“You counted that?”

“It was to win a bet.”

“Huh, I never figured you for an atheist.”

“I’m not Marcus, but how many times before the new testament does he kill people, order people to kill people or enact ecological genocide because he’s unhappy with the state of affairs of the world?”

“Probably a few.”

“To say the least.”

“Wait, so you’re telling me people will believe in a character who does terrible evil things, but says he’s good, OR they’ll believe in someone who is good, but with some fatal flaw, but they won’t read about a guy who just wants to get the work done that’s in front of him because he wants to live a decent live and doesn’t want to get a bunch of attention as a result?  That’s insane.”

“Of course it’s not insane Marcus.  People hate aspirational figures.  People want models to be fat, we cheer when someone formerly beautiful gains a bunch of weight and loses it; when someone beautiful gets an addiction and recovers.  Hell, we celebrate them more than people who never get the addiction in the first place.  You know why?  Because people without flaws grate on the nerves.  They’re a constant reminder that we’re not good just the way we are.  They’re a reminder that we need to do good things to be good people.  As a species, we won’t stand for it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  You know who the three most famous people to stick to their principles in the face of social pressure in western history are?”

“Who?”

“Socrates, Jesus Christ and Martin Luther King, Jr.  You know what people did to them?”

“Hemlock, Crucifixion and A Gun.”

“Right.  People won’t buy it in fiction and they won’t stand for it in real life.  Go write him as an alcoholic and we might be able to sell it.  Make him guilty over having killed a man and we might be able to.  Make him a racist and have to learn a lesson about the humanity of black people or some shit and we can sell a million copies in the first month.  No one would believe this guy could exist otherwise.”

“No thanks.  I’ll try elsewhere.”

“Your loss Marcus.  Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Thanks,”

“Out of curiosity, where’d you get the idea for the book?”

“I just wrote what my dad did.  Didn’t polish it much either.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.  It must have been tough with a guy like him around?”

“Nah, he showed me what’s possible and how much easier his way was.”

The man just shook his head.

 It didn’t really matter which publisher it had been or what the guy’s name had been in the suits.  They’d all said pretty much the same thing.  No one is buying stories about good people doing the right thing.  Good people gone wrong, or bad people being redeemed was where it’s at.

Oh, Marcus had tried before to write people like this, but there were so many people like that in real life that what was the point in imagining a world that was the same as the one you lived in.

Sometime after the twentieth publisher he got the idea.  Rather than write a world like that into existence, why not just live it.  He’d been doing so for some time, but that was where he got the idea.  Screw them for saying people wouldn’t want to live near someone who lived their convictions.  What kind of cynical foolishness was that?

Upon reflection, it wasn’t foolishness at all.  If that was how the world worked then fine.  Didn’t mean it had to be how he worked.

“There’s nothing someone can do to make me act against my convictions,” he thought.  “I don’t have time for people who are so small.”

One of the things Marcus learned over the next few years was that there were few people who would in fact, stand up when the situation demanded something of them and do the right thing.  Too many people who would instead, wait for someone else to solve their situation for them.

Why shouldn’t they, after all…  Lawyers solve your legal problems when you run afoul of the law, Accountants solve your  financial problems when you miscarry the ‘1’, restaurants and fast food solve your culinary problems, which lead to health problems, which pills and pharmacists solve for you.  That’s ignoring the whole technological industry of gadgets whose sole purpose seems to be creating problems that they can then solve (for a year or two) with their new widgets.-most of which, weren’t problems if you didn’t buy the previous widget anyway.

He remembered his Grandpa Jack (whom he’d named his son after), welding a splitting wedge to a tube and running it on a pole so that his wife and grandkids could safely split wood with a light hammer when he was in town on business in the winter.  It hadn’t been hard, it had needed doing.  So he’d done it.

It had taken a few years, but that was the start of it.  No need to raise Jack in the mire of this business.   Initially skeptical, Rosemary eventually agreed and they decided to build a cabin in Ely, Minnesota.  She’d been no stranger to hard work, having grown up on a 30,000-hen chicken farm, but she’d also liked living in the city because it was so much more exciting and there were so many people around.  Now that she was raising Jack, she didn’t like the focus the boy had on TV and comic books.  And some of his friends were worrying to her.  Not because she thought he’d be lead astray.  (Actually, Jack was well-liked and charismatic), but because she was worried he’d lead them astray.  Jack was a good boy of course, but his ability to find trouble and be in the middle of it with none of it landing on him seemed a bit unnatural to her.

But then, that could just be a mother’s natural inclination to worry about he kids.

Another Winter Gone – 14

- Lucas

Janet picked up the phone and dialed.  After a few rings, a voiced picked up the phone.

“Yes, hello?”

“Hello Marcus, this is Janet from the Echo, we spoke earlier.”

“Ahh, yes.  The fluff piece on me.  Wanting to know about why I’m out in the woods and all that.”

“Yes, well.”  he needn’t have put it like that she thought (not realizing Marcus was feeling the same way). “Anyway, I’m writing the piece and I had some questions about some of the newspapers written about you in the past.  Jessica, the girl you saved from the cold and Sheriff Bleeker and a few others.  Except that it seems like in nearly every case you keep your name out of the papers and disappear before anyone can take a statement.”

“I don’t really care to have a fuss made about me.  Anything I may or may not have done is no more heroic than chopping firewood or doing the work in front of me that anyone with half an ounce of sense would do if they were in my position.”

“All the same, I’d like a chance to talk with you and to find out more about what makes a man like you.”

“I’m not sure I know what makes someone like me, or if there should be more like me in the world, but I suppose I was unnecessarily brusque last time you were over.  Do you want to come out to my place?”

“That would be fine.  When should I come out?”

“Any time before Sunday would be fine.  I’ll be home.”

“Thank you.  I’ll come out Wednesday afternoon.”

“See you then.”

She hung up the phone.  Alright then.  Wednesday.

Another Winter Gone – 13

- Lucas

“Alright Jack, you’re old enough now, you get to learn how to build a fire.” Said Marcus.

“really?”  Asked Jack.  Jack was 10 years old, and had not been allowed to be nearer than a marshmallow stick to the fire up until this point.

“Yep.  With supervision.”  Marcus wanted him to learn a skill, but he wasn’t stupid.

“Okay!  What do I do first?”

“Well, what do we need before we can have a fire?”  Asked Marcus.

“Marshmallows!” Said Jack.

“Close.  What else?”

“Matches?”  

“Sure, for now.”

Jack looked at his father, puzzled.  “What do you mean ‘for now’?”

“I mean, matches are a good start, but they’re not the only way.”

“well yeah, lighters” said Jack.

“Lighters too, but there are other ways.  Flint and steel, a magnifying glass, a 9-volt battery.”

“What?” Jack was suddenly skeptical, “a 9-volt battery?”

“Trust me,” said Marcus, “It works.”

“Huh.”

“Okay, so the answer we’re looking for is Tinder, Kindling, and bigger wood that will burn for longer.  Your job right now is to gather things you think might make good tinder and put them in little piles so we can see them.  I’ll get the kindling and larger firewood.”

From there, Jack and Marcus spent the next half hour looking for Birch Bark, Pine Needles, Jack Pine, and all manner or small flammable things.  Marcus showed him how the exposed grain of the wood burnt much better than the bark and how to split wood safely with the hatchet and a broad stick.

Then they built a fire, and had their s’mores.  Even today, the swell of pride at the memory of their first fire burned within him when he remembered that day.  The way that Jack had been so careful of the fire, without being timid; how he’d built up the size slowly, heeding Marcus’s warning that fire was easier to grow than to shrink; and how at the beginning, the fire had almost gone out, but jack had quickly grabbed some tinder and gently breathed life back into the fire.  

Jack took to it and was even excited to split the wood.  They had laughed so hard the first time jack had come up with the “death chant technique” of getting more power from his 10 year-old body with each strike.  He’d hit it shouting “Die! Die! Die!” and would manage to get a surprising amount of power out of his strokes.

They stayed up late into the night and were treated to clear skies under a multitude of glittering, glimmering stars.  At least, that’s how Marcus remembered it.

Who knows what the weather had been.  It didn’t matter.  Sometimes details are shaped and perfected in our memory allowing the spirit and meaning we attach to them to shine through, more than if they were unrefined.

 

Murder

- Lucas

“But why do you assume the killer and victim knew each other?”  He asked.

“Most people feel it’s rude to murder someone they haven’t been introduced to. That’s generally reserved to governments and serial killers.”  was my reply.

There are always subtle clues, as anyone familiar with police procedurals on television would recognize.  Lack of a forced entry, two glasses on the coffee table, both with coasters, and the man’s coat hung in the entry closet, when there are no other signs of a male inhabitant at this apartment.

Another Winter Gone – 11 – removed, I think

- Lucas

Marcus walked over to the cabinet where he kept the whiskey (or Whisky- a point of contention at the local watering hole with any Canadians who came over.)  It was a Laphroaig quarter cask.  Not easy to come by in Northern Minnesota.  It had been a gift years ago from that guy, Nick was it?  The guy who held up the convenience store.  That’s funny, the clerk up and moved back to Minneapolis, thinking it was a lot safer there for some reason.  People are really funny, always closing the barn doors after the cows escape.  Probably in the hopes that it would look like a divine miracle to anyone who might own the cows and barn; and who might be in the mood to ask questions vis a vis the state of the doors before they had been closed.

People always looked for an answer they could rely on as ultimate without having to ask too many questions.  Probably why religions, political parties, astrology and the NFL are so successful, he thought.  Wave a flag *BAM* instant identity. Crisis over.

Never mind the fact that it was the only holdup they’d ever had at that time in Ely.  Never mind that he was a LOT more likely to get held up in any part of Minneapolis than he was up here.  He was filled with religious fervor after that too.  It would have depressed Marcus to think of it when he was a young man, now it just made him somber.

Ironic too, that the guy who he knocked out and got sent to prison saved his earnings and had his mother deliver the bottle to him.  Sealed and unopened, Marcus wasn’t a fool.  He knew some people harbored grudges.  The letter that accompanied it thanked him for busting him and getting him sent away.  It explained that he’d been desperate to get a score or fix or whatever, and that being in treatment in prison was working for him.  Kept him away from most of the people and that he was hanging with the crowd of “Jesus-freaks” who spent their time in the gym.

Another irony, Marcus had mused.  Here he was an Atheist, doing God’s work.  He opened the bottle and shared a shot with the kid’s mother, who’d had an uncomfortably hopeful look in her eye.  Afterward, he penned a letter thanking the young man and telling him he’d had a nice conversation and raised a glass with his mother and should he get out on time or early to look him up if he needed some work.

Marcus didn’t really need the work of course, but the kid would have a hard enough time when he got out.  Maybe if he really had changed, he could vouch for the kid and get him work at one of the local bars or something.

It was odd though, that of the three, the guy who got sent to prison would be the most grateful.  Marcus supposed it had something to do with human nature.  Or maybe because he realized that prison was a lot better than where he might have gone if Bleeker hadn’t been taking a piss at the time.

Marcus looked at the bottle and the hash marks he’d drawn to make sure that when the kid got out they’d be able to share a last glass.  Just a few months.

He hadn’t heard from Nick in several years, but people had a way of popping back into your life when you didn’t expect it.

Another Winter Gone – 10

- Lucas

Janet made her way up the driveway to the rambler on the edge of town.  A wooden sign had been cut with a jigsaw to form the name “The Bleekers” at an upward angle, and featured a wood-burned Loon on a lake edged with pine trees.  The left side of the walk was considerably cleaner than the right, meaning either someone who was in a hurry to shovel and didn’t do the edging, or possibly someone who favored one side over the other, when it came to physical activity.

She knew which it was.  Sheriff Bleeker retired some fifteen years prior after getting shot by some meth head who had held up a convenience store the Sheriff happened to be at.  He’d been a popular figure in town, generous and more Andy Griffith than Wyatt Earp.

Getting shot had come as a surprise to the law man, who’d come out of the bathroom at just the wrong moment completely unaware.  The papers didn’t report what happened next, but there were rumors of a black truck and a man in a Fur-Lined coat leaving the scene of the crime after the paramedics arrived.  The paramedics found the assailant cuffed in the back seat of the car, asking to please be taken to jail now.

Janet had been surprised reading the story.  It was obvious that Marcus had been there, but why had he been able to leave the scene without making a report.  That just didn’t add up.

She knocked on the door.

“Sheriff Bleeker?”  The sounds of an uneven gait assisted by a cane on a wood floor were audible as Janet waited outside.  The door opened to reveal a bearded man of about 50 who was still well-built, despite his infirmity.

“Come in Ms. Rogers.  I haven’t been a Sheriff in awhile now, so Frank will do me just fine.”  He lead her into a house whose walls were covered in pictures of kids of various ages, mostly fishing or doing other cabin-related activities.  A picture of a pyramid of water skiers from the 1970s caught her attention as she followed him through the living room to the kitchen.  They sat at a table by a window.

“Alright Frank.  In that case, please call me Janet.”  He nodded in reply.

“What can I do for you Janet?”

“I’m looking for information about Marcus.”

“Now why would I give you information about Marcus Ms. Rogers?”  She noted the change in demeanor.

“Look, he’s not in trouble or anything.  I just want to find out more about him for an article I’m writing for the Echo.”  The retired lawman’s shoulders relaxed fractionally, “There have been rumors and stories floating around The Range for years and I’d like to find out which of them are true and which are not.  I’d also like to get people together for a dinner to thank him for the effect he’s had on the community.”

“Marcus knows about this does he?”

“I’ve spoken to him,” she said stating an unrelated truth, hoping it would work.

“Well, in that case, what would you like to know?  Though I must say, the man is frosty.  I have a hard time believing he’d take part in any sort of honors or awards or anything.  Doesn’t seem the type.”

“Well, you know what they say about appearances.”  She said, hastily. “I’d like to know what happened at the Voyageur 66.”

The Sheriff grunted and shifted uncomfortably.  She continued.  “It’s just that I’ve read the story in the Echo about the incident and there are some things that don’t add up.  I was just hoping I could hear the story from you and see if there’s something interesting to follow up on.”

“Well you’ll have to understand, I’m not the best witness” he said with a rueful chuckle.  “On account of I didn’t see anything after having been shot in the hip by some hop-head.”

“Hop-head?  The papers said he was a meth user.”

“Hop-head, crackhead, glue sniffer.  Whatever.  The man was high as a kite apparently and decided to hold up the station.  I came out of the bathroom after he made everyone get on the floor, he turned and shot me.  I think I heard someone say “Excuse me”  then, heard a few thumps.  The rest I’m telling you I found out afterward in the official reports.  Apparently Marcus came over with the first aid kit from behind the counter, staunched the bleeding and made the clerk hold pressure on the wound while he called paramedics.”  He paused and shook his head.  “He must’ve grabbed my cuffs off me or something because when the paramedics got there, they said that the criminal was in the back seat wrapped up like a christmas present, polite as you please.”

“Sorry, that’s all I know.”

“Did they ever release the name of the criminal, or is the clerk around?”

“Nah, the clerk was just some kid who moved to the cities shortly afterward.  The criminal is probably still serving time at Arrowhead, drugs plus assault with a deadly weapon on a cop isn’t likely to get him a light sentence.”

“I see.  Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“No.  I’d just recommend you make sure this is alright with Marcus before you go making a fuss.  He generally doesn’t like that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Frank.”  She stood up and extended a hand.  “Thank you for your help.”

“No problem.”  He smiled and shook her hand.  “Marcus is a good man.  I’d like people to know about that too.”

“I’ll see my self out.  Bye now.”

“Good bye ma’am.”

Another Winter Gone – 9

- Lucas

“Fiction is nothing more than an unmitigated pack lies redeemed by a grain of truth.” Marcus said.

“Dad, you’re trying to sound like Mark Twain again.”  Jack looked annoyed.  “That doesn’t help me.  I’m supposed to write a story for class and it’s supposed to be fiction.”

“Why not tell the story of the time you stopped the thief as a three year-old.  No one would believe that anyway.”

“Dad, that story is true.  We can’t use things that really happened.  It has to be fake.”

“Biography is the telling of lies to flatter the subject of the work.  None more so than autobiography.”

“Who is that supposed to be?”

“Me.”  Marcus smiled.  “Not all quotes come from dead people.”

 

Even decades later, that memory was vivid.  He and Jack had been in Minneapolis visiting Jack’s cousins.  Jack had been in the front seat of their Black ‘69 Mercury Cougar and was wearing his Spider-Man-Man pajamas.  At the time, his favorite game was playing “chase the bad guys.”  Jack would be Spider-Man and he would insist that Marcus be Batman (Marcus never argued.  Copyrighted material isn’t particularly important to three year-olds and everyone knows the old Bill Murray adage.  ‘Always Be Yourself!  Unless you can be Batman, then be Batman!’)

After all, the Cougar looked a lot like it should be the Batmobile reasoned Jack.  It only made sense that they should chase bad guys in it.  So that’s what they did.  His wife Rosemary was shopping at some stores in the Uptown neighborhood and parking was terrible.  Jack was getting impatient, so Marcus suggested the game.

Driving around, they chased “Doc Ock”, “The Riddler” and “Green Goblin” (pronounced Green Gobble-inn)”  and it was too much fun.  All of a sudden, Jack jumped up.  “A real bad guy!  A real bad guy!”

Just then, a young man dressed like he really, really wanted to belong in an gang and wasn’t succeeding ran out of the store carrying a dress.  He jumped on a bicycle and started pedaling down the street as the women from the store came out and shouted “Stop!  Thief!”

Not to be outdone, her coworker came out half a beat later and shouted “Help!  Somebody help us!

Jack jumped up and down, his face glowing with righteous indignation, “Get ‘em dad!”

“You got it bud.”  Marcus revved the engines and started to follow the thief into the neighborhood south of the shopping area.  They followed the thief who pedaled harder and cut into an alley.  They circled the block and entered the alley.  As soon as he saw them, the thief turned around on the bicycle, losing momentum and sticking his foot out to help his turn. He was up in a flash and pedaling hard.

Marcus pulled the Cougar up behind the crook, knocked it into neutral and revved the engine.  The thief panicked and shouted “I give!” and dropped the dress on the asphalt.  As soon as he was out of sight, Marcus and Jack exited the vehicle.

“Good Job Spider-Man.”

“Good Job Batman.”

The dress in the street was an off-white brocade dress, the kind that someone might wear to a Mother’s Day Brunch.  It was slightly scuffed from where the bike tire had rubbed it during the chase.  There was a bit of dirt on it, which Marcus hoped would wash out.

Jack picked it up and got back into the car.  “We need to get that guy Batman.”

“I don’t know,” said Marcus. “If the police catch us with him, we’ll get in trouble for making them look bad by solving their crimes.”

“But he’s a bad guy.” said Jack with a small stamp of his foot.”

“I know Jack-I mean, Spider-Man.  But he didn’t get the loot and we can still get it back to the store before your mom-

“Catwoman”

“Sorry, before Catwoman is finished shopping.”

“Let’s get back to the store.” Jack said decisively.

When they returned to the store, Marcus let Jack carry it in.  He’d even found his Spider-Man Halloween mask that Rosemary had made him the month before.  Jack entered the store, the conquering hero with the dress as spoils of war.  The girls in the store were suitably impressed and flattered his ego, offering Jack his pick of anything he wanted in the store.  Unfortunately there wasn’t a lot he might want.  The store had a few toys as a display, but was mostly adult clothing.  He picked a black Pashmina scarf and declared that he would give it to Batman so he could have a cape.

Jack smiled at his son’s generosity and did what you had to do in these situations.  He swung the cape over his shoulders with a flourish and tied it at the neck.

“How do I look, old chum?”  Asked Marcus in his best Batman voice.  (These were the days when Batman was on TV and much more suitable for children).

“I’d say you look purr-fect” came a feline voice behind him.  Marcus felt familiar arms wrap around him from behind.

“Mom- I mean, Catwoman!”

“Hi Spider-man!  How are you?  And why is Batman wearing that… …cape?”

“We caught a bad guy!”  His face shone.  Rosemary knelt down and put her hands on his shoulders.

“Were you playing that game again honey?”

“We were at first and I’m not honey, I’m Spider-Man!  But then, I saw a real bad guy and we chased him in the Batmobile and Da-Batman chased him and was gonna run him over and he threw the dress and-“  Jack stopped speaking as he saw his mom was fixing his Dad with a look™.  She stood up slowly with controlled movements and pulled Jack toward her in a protective motherly embrace.

“I didn’t run him down.  I just pulled up behind him and revved the engine in Neutral.  He dropped the dress and Jack brought it back here.”

Jack wriggled his way out of the grip and tugged her sleeve.

“Did daddy do something wrong?  We stopped the bad guy!”

“We’ll talk about it later honey,” she said in a tone that was soft and reassuring, but was a warning that there would be a ‘discussion’ later on.

 

The ensuing discussion had been considerably less heroic.  Rosemary made it clear she didn’t approve of vigilante justice outside of fiction and that it was reckless and dangerous to include a three year-old in this sort of nonsense.  Later of course, Marcus realized she was right, though at the time, he wisely did not point out that this was Minneapolis, not Chicago or New York and that the man had been fleeing on a bicycle.  She already knew that and to fight her on it would be as dumb as poking a Badger to see what would happen.

They agreed that they wouldn’t play “chase the bad guys” in the car again for awhile and that he would even hang up his “cape”.  Jack and Marcus decided to have a retirement ceremony for Batman in the Batcave (basement), where they put it in a box and put it on a shelf of identical boxes just like in the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Once in awhile though, just once in a while, when it was just the two of them, they would remember that afternoon and bask in the glow of their remembered heroics.

Not long after that, he ended up agreeing to sell the Cougar, which Rosemary said was an impractical car car for a family, on account of the two doors,

 

“What if you change the ending?”  Asked Marcus.

“What?”  Asked Jack.

“What if you changed the ending of the story.”

“You mean, what if we didn’t get in trouble from Mom?” he snorted.

“Yeah.  That- or what if your mom had been right and the thief was a brave criminal who was armed?”

“Whoa, like if he’d pulled a gun or something?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, what would have happened then?”  This was another of his favorite games to play with Jack.  Jack was often bullied in school and one of the ways that they dealt with it was to discuss the situation at a distance.

 

Marcus remembered being a kid better than most adults.  Most adults remember the lack of responsibility that kids have, but kids remember the lack of control.  Being a child is having all of the fears that adults have, without the experience to know which ones are real or how big they should be.

Since a child’s world is on a smaller scale, the human sense of the epic plays out on that scale.  The freckled, chubby kid who bullies you is an Unstoppable Juggernaut who is impossible to make fun of back, because he’s so scary!  The principle or teacher is the Judge, Jury, Cop, Bailiff, Warden and Executioner.  A fight with your friend is the falling out of Remus and Romulus writ small.

Marcus figured it was because of this that it didn’t work to talk with Jack directly about the problems.  It was far better for the situation to remind Marcus of a “story he remembered” about “Benji the Wrestler,” or about a similar situation from when he was a kid.

Parents have mostly been in the situations their kids find themselves in, or something similar.  That’s why they can tell if you’re lying and always have the advice that drives you crazy, no matter what situation you’re in.  Anything you’re doing, they’re likely to have done before and that makes most teenagers go nuts when they talk to their parents.

After all, as a teen, you’re striking out on your own, hoping for independence and to be your own person.  Then this old person, worse- in most cases a fallen hero- comes and tells you that a lot of what you’re going through isn’t a big problem.  That THEY have been through it before.  That your experiences are nothing new?  How dare they?  Your love is one that NO ONE has ever felt before.  You can acknowledge that your parents love each other, or that they might have at one time, but how could that compare with Jeannie’s smile.  How could their boring commitment to each other compare with your love and the way her long dark hair falls down her back like an onyx waterfall, how her lips must feel if you were to kiss them (this part is often speculation, of course).

Besides, they were always old!  How could they?  They couldn’t, that’s how!

Marcus knew all too well that this was the likely outcome if he tried comparison, and that’s why he mostly stuck with stories.  He loved telling stories.  He made them up for his son all the time and they would work on them together.  Hopefully this exercise would help Jack with his writer’s block.  Not fun for anyone, but especially not for someone going through all that, plus a healthy heaping of teen worries.

“Let’s chart out the story like in the timeline Back to the Future.”  Said Marcus.

“Ugh, dad! C’mon…”

“Jack.  Let’s do this.  I’ll take the boring timelines and you take the interesting ones.”

“Okay, fine.”

“Okay, first.  Let’s do the real events as our baseline and see what happens if we change any of the points in time.”

“Fine.”  He pulled out a piece of white paper.  Okay, what happened first.

“We dropped Mom off at the store.  Then we couldn’t find parking.”

“Then you were getting impatient”

“Ugh, dad!  Fine.  I was getting impatient, so we played the ‘Chasing Badguys’ game.”  His eyes met Marcus’s for a moment and there was a brief smile.

“Right.  Then what?”

“Then after we chased some ‘Bad Guys’, I saw a real Bad Guy.”

“Alleged bad guy”

“Fine, I saw what I thought was a bad guy.  Then I saw the ladies from the shop scream and ask for help.”

“Right.”

“Then I said, ‘Get ‘im Dad!’ and we chased him.”

“Okay.  Then what.”

We cornered him in the alley and he turned and ran.

“We cut him off.”

“What?”

“We cut him off, we didn’t corner him.  If we’d cornered him, he wouldn’t have an exit.”

“Okay, fine.  We cut him off… Then you pulled up behind him and revved the engine to scare him into dropping the dress.”

“Right.  Then we picked up the dress and I wanted to chase him, but instead we went back to the store, and we got the cape and mom was mad.”

“Err… well, right.  I think it’s more fair to say that Mom was worried.”

 “Okay.  Then later we got lectured about safety and after that mom made you sell the Cougar.”  Jack stood and stretched.  Damn, that kid was insightful.  He’d probably still have the cougar if it wasn’t for that stunt.  He looked up at his son.  The kid must be six feet tall.  When had that happened?  “Okay, now what dad?”

“Now choose how you want the story to go and write it.”  He smiled.

Luke vs. Dexter Writing Contest – Round 1 – Pie, Hatchet, Dog

- Lucas

The following are the results of a short writing contest between me and my nephew Dexter.  The rules were that it had to use the words Pie, Hatchet, and Dog.

I was to write after he started and stop when he did.  Hope you enjoy! 


Dexter’s Entry – 

One nice pie was living in ancient Egypt. He had a pet dog named Hatchet. Unluckily, his dog loved to eat pie so he had to put him in his in his boat where the food storage was. One day he went fishing millions of miles away in the ocean carrying his boat the whole way. As every one knows pies have super strength and super speed. It only took him about 3 minutes. When he got there he saw a seal and said “OK.” Then got on his boat and saw his friend Roger and caught him with a fishing rod. “f*****uck” Rodger said as he was pulling the fishing hook out of himself. “Whoa man watch you language” Pie said. Suddenly Pie felt hungrier than ever before he felt an urge for cake the he reached down under his tarp. Suddenly Hatchet said “the cake is a lie” then Pie screamed and jumped into the ocean and that was the life of Pie.

Luke’s Entry – 

I remember looking at the dog as I picked up the hatchet.  The savory scent of fresh baking wafted out of the house and on down to the woodshed.  He looked back at me opened his mouth in a lolling doggy grin.  Our breath steamed in the winter air.

The sun was low on the horizon and the trees in their skeletal winter form make the cabin seem warmer and more inviting by comparison.  I put the hatchet back in its sheath on my belt and headed toward the house, warming my hands with my breath as I did so, before grabbing an armload of wood.

Snow crunched underfoot as I approached the house and the way I stamped my feet must have gotten her attention, because when I looked up, I saw Elsa there, framed in the doorway like a backlit angel.

She smiled to see me and I suddenly forgot the cold.  Okay, it was mostly the smile, but knowing that after dinner we would be having a freshly baked apple pie might have had some effect.

“God kväll Elsa,” I said.  Most of my ability to speak Swedish was limited to greetings, asking about the weather and giving basic directions.  Fortunately, she spoke English at least as well as most people I grew up with in these parts.

“God kväll Lucas,”  She pronounced it ‘Luu-kass’ and it was one of the few traces that remained of her accent when she spoke English.  Elsa kindly held the door for me and I entered, trying my best to kick off my shoes so that there would be minimal water in the rest of the house as I carried the wood into the living room.

The fire was already burning.  It had been since the power had gone out two days before.  I didn’t mind.  It just made the whole place more cozy.  There was camping gear lined around the living room and over the fire, there was a dutch oven, in which baked an apple pie.

“You know, I think we live better when the power is out, than when it’s on.” I said, “I certainly feel better at the end of the day.”

“That’s because you’re getting exercise for a change,” she said playfully.  “Your mood is always better after you’ve worked up a sweat.”

“And an appetite!” I agreed.  “I think I’m happier because being trapped here with the roads closed means there’s enough time for us to cook real food.  Eating out is never as good as the food you make at home.”  Elsa smiled awkwardly.  It was true, she was an excellent cook, but neither her Swedish heritage, nor my Midwestern upbringing would allow either of us to accept compliments well.

“It’s just a good thing we got all those barrels and that salt pork.”  She said.  “Oh and that your brother-in-law thought that I’d want 4 kilos of pickled herring.”  I liked that she used the metric system even after ten years living in the United States.  It made me do some mental arithmetic whenever it came up, but I liked it all the same.

 “That’s just Andy being Swedish.”

She wrinkled her nose.  “No Swedish eats that much pickled herring, except at christmas maybe.”

“Maybe not, but you’ve got it lucky.  You grew up there and so you get to be Swedish without doing anything.  Poor Andy has to do Swedish things to ‘connect to his past’ otherwise, he risks losing his heritage.”

“Well, his weird American version of being Swedish might save our lives.  He bought what must be twenty cases of Julmust at the ikea down in Minneapolis.  Between that, and that outhouse you put on the lake, we might have enough food to last until the snow melts and we can head down to somewhere less remote.”

“It’s an ice fishing shack,” I corrected her.  “it makes it less miserable to get us some fish.”

“Not so much less miserable.  I tried it last year.”  She crossed her arms and pretended to be mad.

“Well, we should have enough fuel for the next eight hours or so.  Then I’ll bring another load of wood.”

“Tack så mycket” she said with a polite nod.  “I’m afraid it won’t be very exciting, since we’re running low on real food and only have the pickled things, soda, alcohol, and whatever is in those military food things your brother left.”

“Well, we have a full spice kit and you’re a great cook, so I’m sure we’ll be fine.”  It was true that I was a bit concerned.  The last week or so had been terrible.  It snowed at least eight inches every night.  And the 20.3-ish it was in centimeters didn’t make it sound any easier.

The reality was that as kind as we were trying to be to each other, we needed food, heat, and electricity- and soon.  Right now, we were doing our best to keep fed and warm as the cold and hunger threatened outside the small protections we had- a cabin and a fire.  The depth of the snow made it just possible that we could live in a snow fort for awhile, okay… but really?  There just wasn’t a good solution.

We were about a mile out from the nearest road, and homes or cabins were fairly uncommon.  twenty miles from the nearest town or person likely to be in a position to help us made leaving more dangerous than staying.

No matter how you sliced it.  We were in trouble, or we would be soon.

 

Bonus – Shortest stories using the required words.

Sale:  Dog, Pie, and hatchet- used.

Sale:  Dog Pie, and used hatchet.

Sale: Dog, pie and hatchet used.

Another Winter Gone – 8

- Lucas

“Hello Ms. Rogers,” Said the old man.  “What brings you out here today?”

“Hello Mr. Johnson,” she replied, “I’d like to ask you some questions for a piece I’m writing.”

“Oh?” He asked.  He seemed happy at the prospect. “Do come in and have a seat.”

She did and accepted a cup of coffee, black with two sugars, she looked around the cottage.  It looked like your typical hunting cabin, trophies that were all clearly antiques, except for the fish.  Those were recent.  None of the animals were less than 60 years old.  Everything was scrupulously clean and there were little to no sharp edges anywhere.  Even the rifle over the fireplace had the trigger mechanism removed.  This was a man who was very precise about fitting in and doing the right thing, but he didn’t like guns or hunting or risk of any kind.  Why even have the animals then? she wondered.  Amos reentered carrying the two coffee cups on coasters on the tray and set it down on a placemat on the coffee table.

Once they’d exchanged a few pleasantries, Janet decided to get to the point.

“I’d like to ask you about a mutual friend of ours, Mr. Marcus.”

“Not Mr.” he said smiling, “and no you’re not.”

“What?” She asked.

“Marcus is his first name.  The only one he gives out himself as a matter of course, and anyone who’d be a friend of his would know that.  Not that he has friends really, not what’d you call friends.”

Shoot.  She’d miscalculated.

“Oh?”

“Anyone who knows Marcus knows the man is more antisocial than a skunk with distemper.”  The words were said like he was angry, but Amos was known to be one of the worst (and most enthusiastic) poker players in the whole of the Iron Range and the increased twinkling in his eyes was giving him away.

“Really?” She said.  “He seemed nice enough when I was there.”

“I’ll daresay he was tolerating you Ms. Rogers, and if he did, it was because he likes your writing.”  he sniffed. “can’t say I care for it much myself.  I prefer to read the paper for the funnies.”  He was clearly winding her up, though she couldn’t see just why.  It was probably best to just let him know what she wanted.

“I am writing a piece on Marcus to show the effect he’s had on the people around him.”

“Does he know you’re doing this?”

“No.  I had the idea that it might be nice to have a party for him after the article comes out.  A sort of ‘thank you’ from the people around here who’ve been touched in some way by the things he’s done.”

“Is this about Jessica?”

“Not just her Mr. Johnson.”

“Amos, please.”

“Not just her Amos.  Did you know that she saved thirty people in her time as an EMT and a first responder?  There are other people he’s helped over the years.  I’d like to see what the effect has been beyond just the immediate circle of people he’s helped.”

“I don’t know…  I don’t think he’d approve of the attention.”

“Yeah, but he should know what effect he’s had on the people around him.”

“Listen ma’am, I don’t know if I like the idea of you using Marcus to get a story.  Especially if he doesn’t know about it.”

“Please Amos, do you think it’s fair that he should be alone, 95 years old, stuck away in the cabin with no one.  No man is an island.”

“I used to believe that, until I met Marcus.” he said, “What exactly do you want to know?”

“I want to know anything I can find about him.  Who he was before he came here, why he came, who are the others who he’s helped over the years.  There are rumors of a man in an oilskin or fur-lined coat coming out of nowhere to help stranded people, injured people, even people who’ve gotten injured doing illegal things.  Then, as soon as he’s done the work and gotten them to the hospital, he disappears.  Why does he do it?  Somewhere there is a story in here if I can just find it.  Please Amos, help me.”

“I suppose I’ve resisted enough to say I’ve put up a fight.  I’ll tell you what:  I’ll give you the stories as I think of them and you follow them wherever they lead, but I can’t promise he’ll like the article, or even come to an event thrown in his honor.  Marcus just isn’t the type.”

“Thank you Amos.  Where do I begin?”

“If I were wanting to know more about Marcus, I’d go talk to Frankie Bleeker.  He’s probably had as much contact with Marcus over the years as anyone I can think of.”

“Frankie Bleeker?  You mean Sheriff Bleeker?”

“Yep.  The one and the same.  Think about it.  You’re looking for someone who would be everywhere that Marcus has helped someone, that is somewhere where there’s been trouble.  Sheriff Bleeker has been there too, often after the fact, of course.  He’s the one you want though.”

“Thank you Amos, I’ll do that.  And please, let me know if you think of any other information I can use.”

Writing Prompt 5 – Pebble

- Lucas

Like a pebble disappearing as it sinks into water, so are those who incur the wrath of the Great Khan.

Upon mountains of skulls and a throne of bones does he build his great and lasting peace.

For his will is the divine will of heaven, so say the Priests of the Christians, the imams of the Muslim, and the Monks of the Buddha.  All pray for the health of the Khan that he might bring us the wealth of the city-dwelling cattle.

Those beasts of burden whose art serves to glorify the horde.  Whom we seasonally harvest when they are ripe, just as our women pick the berries at summer’s end.

Woe to any who resist the Khan, for to do so is to stand against heaven.  See how the Golden Khan has fallen.  This once proud group, who were free men of the Steppe are now lowly beasts in their nests.  See how their weak were culled and the strong added to the glory of the horde.

See how merciful is the Khan, who allowed those whom he spared to prove their loyalty by being the first to fight for his honor against their former comrades and neighbors.  How when given the chance to be free, they join and become men at last, if only for a second.

Note too, how any women of worth join the horde and become wives to the Khan and his men.  For truly it is the first time many of them have seen a Man, rather than these paper-worshipping pigs they called husbands.

It is only too sad that all are not fit to live free.  Such as the men who fought about whether to resist or join the horde and killed their OWN countrymen.  None could trust men of these and the Khan mercifully ended their lives that they might seek a better one the next time around.

Wise is the Khan, who will not be questioned, but seeks the wise council of the engine-makers who fight city to city, and the sages, monks and other wise men of all nations, that he might be as wise as they and truly understand how best to bring heaven’s will to pass.

Glory to the Khan, may he live a thousand years, in this flower of peace he has  wrought though the fertilizer of war.

 

– Unknown Khan Officer

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