He ignored the small clinking as if it were a wind chime. He preferred to think of it that way. It brought him peace and the ability to get started. Sixty minutes. He lined up the colors; always the same colors and always in the same order. Brushes were immaculate and meticulously arranged. Their bristles almost sharp. The only chaos was his pallet. It was smeared with passion and vengeance; streaked with darks and assaulted with bright digging shades. He smoothed the canvas; stark white and begging for his touch, his angry color. He wanted it to breathe for him, live for him; just like his favorite model. Hannah. The clinking came again. He ignored it choosing to hear instead her bangle bracelets colliding down her slim wrists.
He loved how she'd stood; tall, dignified, fearless. Her thick dark hair cupping her high cheek bones; accentuating her full lips and fiery green eyes. The wind caressed her mane, giving her a pouting sensuous look. Her skin was pale and silky. The brushes stroked the canvas lovingly as he painted, refined her image and immortalized her elegance. This made him happy. Painting Hannah. Loving her in his art.
Another clank. Forty-five minutes? This one was heavier which caused him to pause only briefly.
" Mustn't lose focus; a masterpiece at stake" he thought harshly and he picked up the fan brush. It hungrily scooped up the crimson and almost seemed to pant with anticipation. Red. She was always in red. It stirred in him seductive pleasure and warmth. It highlighted her frailties, lending innocence and a sexuality only he could enjoy. Her background was best suited as midnight; velvety silent midnight.
There was a thunk of metal and a dragging. This one startled him. Although, he laughed at himself for jumping. Nothing new. Nothing was ever new. His stroke became less gentle now. The brush could be heard for the first time; scraping, harried and panicked. Sweat began to trickle along his brow. Twenty minutes? He glanced around nervously. His calm demeanor took a rushed, disappointed rigidity. No longer could he enjoy the textures and colors. He became irritated and bothered by the boundaries of the lines he himself had created. His strokes became wild and slashing; ripping and distorting his beautiful forever Hannah. He was grunting and panting with each movement.
Clang....it rang all the way into his soul. He began to cry, his shoulders sagging with regret that it was not complete.
"Are you finished?"
"These things take time." he huffed dejectedly.
"You have plenty of that, but none left for today." came the voice sternly.
"A little longer?" he asked like a wounded child
"Nope. One hour. Come on Picasso."
The cell keys jingled menacingly. He dropped his head defeated again. Like every day.
One of the guards stopped to look at the paper the shackled inmate had coveted for the last hour. It was black with red streaks in it; slashed and jagged. The paint was so heavy it could be smelled, metallic and bogging to the nose. He winced at its total effect on him.
"What is it?" he asked his partner quietly on his escort down the block.
"Who." the painter corrected. "Hannah. My greatest masterpiece was always Hannah."
The trip back to his cell was silent where his death loomed like the colors he'd used to recreate her murder; dark and deep.
I don't know where this one came from but I like it. It's a little less predictable and has fewer constraints as my others. I like it's attitude. I hope you did as well.
Thank you for stopping in. I hope to get back on track so we can see each other more. We always have such a good time. ;)
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Just like new
Well I confess that my 2011 has gotten off to a rocky start, as you can tell by my absence here. So sorry my friends. I thought I would wait until it was funny to me to write about it. It's certainly taken some time.
We had some car trouble on my birthday weekend and had to rent a car. Inconvenient, but we survived and even managed to have a ton of fun in the snow. You betcha, so when Friday came, we returned to enjoy a SECOND weekend. This included awesome snowboarding and sledding down our hill at remarkable speed. Beeswax on Flexible Flyers? THE BOMB!!! To treat ourselves, Cheech and I went down the mountain to dinner in our "new" old truck.
Hands down it was the worst experience of my culinary life. Rarely has a fork poked this chubby face with the result of "Ew. I don't like that. At all." And to make it worse? I passed it along to Cheech. Kind of in the fashion of "Hey, I think this milk is bad. Smell it." We endured poor service and mediocre half-assed slammed together meals and were happy to have both decided to never return. Out to the truckwe went. There was a problem. It wouldn't start. No it wouldn't even CONSIDER it. No movement in the ignition. It was as if Hal had refused to open the pod bay doors. So in we trudged to get AAA out and find a cab. Really? in the mountains at 11pm??? Ya think it was easy? Now let me confess another funny. I was in my mink. Running around in the woods in the dark in a FUR coat...I'm lucky no one yelled BEAR and no shots rang out in the night. Although some dude in a pissed off Ford Expedition tried to run me down. Hmmm I'll learn to put on a safety orange vest one of these days.
The tow truck lumbers up and Radar from MASH gets out. He walks around the truck and clucks like a yard chicken. He gets in to try to start it. HA it doesn't work. I know, it's trite, but I still like it. Ever feel like such a schmuck when you try and try and then someone comes along with minimal effort....like the pickle jar thing...I just loosened it for ya. Well, this did not happen. But Radar DID ask us for our keys and then said the wisest thing I've ever heard. "hmmmmm I think I see your pro'lem. Your keys are too heavy. They broked the g'nition."
Well now THAT was a brilliant statement. My husband shot me a look that warned he'd be the one shooting the classiest bear in the parking lot if I said ONE WORD. I did not. I walked away. Jingling my apparently janitorial sized ring of keys. Cheech cleared his throat as a warning. Radar took our truck. We got a cab and spent the rest of the night trying to find a way home.
Another rental car and several hours later we made it back to NJ. We called the service station and by the end of the week, we headed BACK up to get our NEW new old truck. We pulled in. It was dark. There was only a guy there to dispatch a tow if needed. Hulking cars sat in snow and ice. We saw our "black sheep of the family" and went over to pat it. Welcome it home. But we DID mutter something about leaving it in a forgotten place if it misbehaved again. Third time a charm? Welllll don't push it. Cheech got in and found ...something on the seat. something that didn't belong on the seat but had the look of belonging SOMEWHERE inside, mind you, INSIDE the truck. He walked back to the office and asked Radar..."Do you know what this is?"
He squinted, took a slug of grape Neehi and said flatly. "nope."
"Do you know where it goes?"
This drew a longer, more dramatic pause; "Nope."
"Is there someone who does?"
"Yep. I s'pose"
"Is he here?"
"Nah. He went home."
"Can we call?"
Do you see it boiling up? Can you smell it? It stings your nose a little; that's frustration Ladies and Gentlemen.
So Radar swaggers out and opens the garage. He gets into an SUV and drives out. He had to drive less distance that it was to hobble over to his friggin truck. I guess he didn't want his Teddy to be cold so he drives out. He gets in to the truck and looks. He is turning the piece in his hand thoughtfully. A second man comes around the corner (from where I don't know) and he is driving also. HE parks behind Radar and gets out. Finally a third car comes in the drive and whips around. A man gets out and they are all lined up to see and ponder the piece of truck on the seat. It was our Pocono Area 51...and a half if you count the Teddy on the seat.
"Hi. I'm Larry. This is my brother Daryl. And this is my OTHER brother Daryl. We gonna fix you car riiiiiight up." It scratched at my brain until I thought I would choke on the guffaw forming deep in my chest.
I saw a spark and heard a hiss as some welding too place. There was a lot of hand wiping on rags and pacing. Then they popped the hood and stared at the engine just to look...smart? Yeahhhhh ummmmm. I'm blond so you don't have to go the extra mile. ;) I can fake it too.
They slammed the lid proudly and wiped their hands some more. Good job? Nice going? Then like little bugs they all crawled away and disappeared into the snowy night.
The long longer of it? We are here at promises. We think our car works, but we brought an extra just in case.
*sigh* I'm tired folks. I'm glad to be here and hope that our odds improve; 1:3 is not promising...but we are hopeful. A little extra finger crossing if you don't mind...
Thanks for coming over. Sorry I've been such bad company lately.
See you soon.
Tessa
We had some car trouble on my birthday weekend and had to rent a car. Inconvenient, but we survived and even managed to have a ton of fun in the snow. You betcha, so when Friday came, we returned to enjoy a SECOND weekend. This included awesome snowboarding and sledding down our hill at remarkable speed. Beeswax on Flexible Flyers? THE BOMB!!! To treat ourselves, Cheech and I went down the mountain to dinner in our "new" old truck.
Hands down it was the worst experience of my culinary life. Rarely has a fork poked this chubby face with the result of "Ew. I don't like that. At all." And to make it worse? I passed it along to Cheech. Kind of in the fashion of "Hey, I think this milk is bad. Smell it." We endured poor service and mediocre half-assed slammed together meals and were happy to have both decided to never return. Out to the truckwe went. There was a problem. It wouldn't start. No it wouldn't even CONSIDER it. No movement in the ignition. It was as if Hal had refused to open the pod bay doors. So in we trudged to get AAA out and find a cab. Really? in the mountains at 11pm??? Ya think it was easy? Now let me confess another funny. I was in my mink. Running around in the woods in the dark in a FUR coat...I'm lucky no one yelled BEAR and no shots rang out in the night. Although some dude in a pissed off Ford Expedition tried to run me down. Hmmm I'll learn to put on a safety orange vest one of these days.
The tow truck lumbers up and Radar from MASH gets out. He walks around the truck and clucks like a yard chicken. He gets in to try to start it. HA it doesn't work. I know, it's trite, but I still like it. Ever feel like such a schmuck when you try and try and then someone comes along with minimal effort....like the pickle jar thing...I just loosened it for ya. Well, this did not happen. But Radar DID ask us for our keys and then said the wisest thing I've ever heard. "hmmmmm I think I see your pro'lem. Your keys are too heavy. They broked the g'nition."
Well now THAT was a brilliant statement. My husband shot me a look that warned he'd be the one shooting the classiest bear in the parking lot if I said ONE WORD. I did not. I walked away. Jingling my apparently janitorial sized ring of keys. Cheech cleared his throat as a warning. Radar took our truck. We got a cab and spent the rest of the night trying to find a way home.
Another rental car and several hours later we made it back to NJ. We called the service station and by the end of the week, we headed BACK up to get our NEW new old truck. We pulled in. It was dark. There was only a guy there to dispatch a tow if needed. Hulking cars sat in snow and ice. We saw our "black sheep of the family" and went over to pat it. Welcome it home. But we DID mutter something about leaving it in a forgotten place if it misbehaved again. Third time a charm? Welllll don't push it. Cheech got in and found ...something on the seat. something that didn't belong on the seat but had the look of belonging SOMEWHERE inside, mind you, INSIDE the truck. He walked back to the office and asked Radar..."Do you know what this is?"
He squinted, took a slug of grape Neehi and said flatly. "nope."
"Do you know where it goes?"
This drew a longer, more dramatic pause; "Nope."
"Is there someone who does?"
"Yep. I s'pose"
"Is he here?"
"Nah. He went home."
"Can we call?"
Do you see it boiling up? Can you smell it? It stings your nose a little; that's frustration Ladies and Gentlemen.
So Radar swaggers out and opens the garage. He gets into an SUV and drives out. He had to drive less distance that it was to hobble over to his friggin truck. I guess he didn't want his Teddy to be cold so he drives out. He gets in to the truck and looks. He is turning the piece in his hand thoughtfully. A second man comes around the corner (from where I don't know) and he is driving also. HE parks behind Radar and gets out. Finally a third car comes in the drive and whips around. A man gets out and they are all lined up to see and ponder the piece of truck on the seat. It was our Pocono Area 51...and a half if you count the Teddy on the seat.
"Hi. I'm Larry. This is my brother Daryl. And this is my OTHER brother Daryl. We gonna fix you car riiiiiight up." It scratched at my brain until I thought I would choke on the guffaw forming deep in my chest.
I saw a spark and heard a hiss as some welding too place. There was a lot of hand wiping on rags and pacing. Then they popped the hood and stared at the engine just to look...smart? Yeahhhhh ummmmm. I'm blond so you don't have to go the extra mile. ;) I can fake it too.
They slammed the lid proudly and wiped their hands some more. Good job? Nice going? Then like little bugs they all crawled away and disappeared into the snowy night.
The long longer of it? We are here at promises. We think our car works, but we brought an extra just in case.
*sigh* I'm tired folks. I'm glad to be here and hope that our odds improve; 1:3 is not promising...but we are hopeful. A little extra finger crossing if you don't mind...
Thanks for coming over. Sorry I've been such bad company lately.
See you soon.
Tessa
Thursday, January 13, 2011
LETTING GO
The car purred along in the hot sun along the river, humming through the little hills and turns. Dena sat next to her mother Peggy as the air swooshed around them in scorching gusts. It was too hot for the birds she noticed. They preferred to sit stoically on the branches with their beaks open, panting. Cicadas seemed to be the only ones happy with the weather. They buzzed contentedly until she thought her brain would spew from her ears; stupid bugs.
“Air Mom? Please?” It seemed to peel a year off her life as she asked.
“We’re almost home. We can tough it out.”
Dena decided to stare at the water instead. Even IT looked hot; a slow moving current trickled passed them pretending to refresh the bent and spindly trees that dipped low hoping for relief along its dry banks. She sighed heavily and closed her eyes against the angry humidity.
Peggy kept her eyes on the road but smiled softly as her daughter moped about the air conditioning. It was broken again and would pump out a heat worse than that of Hell’s kitchen if she flipped the switch. Good Lord it was hot. She glanced longingly at the river, wishing there was a soft breeze or imagining that the water would cool her if she touched it. Cicadas thrummed all around on the trees back here. She turned the car and followed the twists of the road. She caught sight of the second car jumping into her rear view mirror. She saw it hug the curve as it growled up behind her. “Asshole” she muttered. But she held her speed and pulled a little right. The idiot only had a few more yards before the double yellow line and her favorite part of the road began: a series of wicked turns and bends that always made her giddy. She rubbed the wheel in anticipation. “This is gonna be something else.” She thought. “Hurry up you moron.” She shook her head and waited for him to rush by.
The car jerked out next to her and began to pick up speed. Peggy was shocked to see the driver staring her down and flipping the bird at her. She gripped the wheel and braced herself. The other driver was yelling something. She pulled her eyes back to the road and screamed. A semi had come around in the opposite direction, heading right for the angry buffoon. The passing auto cut in, too closely of course, forcing her to lock up the brakes. Gravel and dirt stirred Dena from her doze, plinking against the door.
She sat up confused and startled. “Mom?” it came from her in a panicked question.
There was a heavy “ka-chunk” as the offender clipped the front bumper, mashing them into the scrawny trees. Branches smacked at her and warned her to keep all limbs safely inside the vehicle at all times.
“HOLD ON!” her mom grunted.
Seeing it in slow motion, Dena thought her mom was trying to turn the car from the inside.
The dry dirt became mud and the engine whinnied as they crashed through the trees plunging into the water. Dena remembered gasping and thinking “It’s colder than it looks.” The car began to fill and Dena began to scream.
Peggy went with the skid until the jerk hit her. Then she fought it and the trees rushed in to scold her as did the river. As hot and sticky as she was, she did not find relief from the curious water. She scrambled for her belt and began to pull at Dena’s. It was jammed. She tugged and yanked, whipping up a frenzy of curses as it mocked her, holding steady. The water flooded in to see what was happening as the car floated out and downstream flipping back upright. Dena was screaming. Peggy was yelling for her to help but there were too many fingers and the belt was stubborn.
“Climb out Sweetie, come on. We have to swim out together. Come to me!” Peggy was pulling at her daughter and the belt, hoping it would come loose to permit Dena to at least crawl through it. The car struck a stump and lurched like a sick carnival ride. Dena wiggled free and began clinging to her mom. Peggy pulled back out of the open driver’s window when the car spun and kicked again. Pain clipped her back, crunched her shoulders. “Keep swimming to me Baby. Almost there.” she said through gritted teeth.
In the distance, she heard sirens and shouting. There seemed to be people everywhere along the banks crowding the road like ants. They trailed along following her blue skylark as it was carried away. “Doesn’t anyone see me? Why won’t they help my Baby?” Peggy wondered through the pain.
“I’m stuck Mommy!” Dena’s grip got tighter. Her leg was caught on something; pinched somewhere. Water covered her chin forcing her to look up and breathe in choppy, frightened gasps. Her fingers clenched like tiny vices at Peggy’s hands and arms.
“Hurry Dena. PLEASE!” The emotion of the moment was catching hold. Peggy was yanking at Dena, her voice was getting louder. Gone was the encouragement and confidence from the beginning. She was losing her grip on Dena and she was panicking. “I’m here. Right here. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go…I’ve got you Baby.” The words were like a chant.
The car lolled once more and Peggy’s legs were clenched between the tree and the car. She was losing sight of her daughter as it filled with water, sank and threatened to pull away from her completely. She was still yelling for Dena to hang on and push toward her when a man grabbed her and tried to tear her back. Thinking it was the jerk that’d caused, this, she swung wildly and growled “GET OFF.” Another man raced down the bank and threw a rope jumping on top of the car. It bounced warily and ducked below the surface.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” She wailed shoving at them. She heard Dena sputter and spit water. Her voice was choking. She was drowning. “Jesus GOD!” The car moaned and shrunk away from her, muddy water spewing from the car like a horrible wound. Her knees cracked and a pain hotter than the sun chomped through her body. The screech took her voice. A hole of fear ripped through her heart as she thought: If I let go, I’ll lose her. The first rescuer caught her as she fell forward on to the car; her head thucking heavily and bringing blood and thick darkness. He pulled her free without a fight, dragging her unconscious body through the mud to one of the ambulances. Her legs dangled uselessly, shattered by the force of the vehicle.
The second man was joined by a third and they began to tie rope everywhere to secure the renegade Skylark. Dena was slapping at the water. Her fingers were just barely visible out the open window. The force of her sobs was matched only with the gulps of water she was swallowing. The third man let the current carry him to the side where he began to reach for her. Her eyes were bulging with terror and no words were left for her to scream. She simply gasped and swam; all in vain. The stranger closed his eyes, said a prayer and pushed himself face first into the sinking car. Dena was losing strength. He had prayed he had enough for them both.
When she awoke, Peggy found herself shivering; the memory charging up behind her eyes to see and live over again. Her hair was still damp and there was a sharp pain in her back running all the way down her legs. “DENA” she yelped. She felt a small movement across her belly and grabbed it. Her daughter’s bruised hand curled around her hip. A sleepy, drug induced sigh warmed her side. The two of them were lying in a hospital bed; their bodies soaked and broken. Peggy's face streaked with solace and naked joy at the touch of her daughter, her mere smell. The hole in her heart flooded with relief much faster than that damned Skylark had with water.
She stroked Dena’s hair. Promising to never let go.
Although the end was different : my mom stepped on the gas, followed him and flipped HIM the bird calling him a...motherfiretrucker, I still remember the branches against the car, the swoosh of the water and seeing it come close enough to my face to steal my breath.
Thanks for coming. I'll see you soon.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Consumed
The first body in 1984 made me throw up; right then and there. I couldn’t believe it had ever been a person. All that was left were a few clumps of hair, a couple of misplaced bones, and the lump of crimson goo. The second and third were not as devoured. They were still intact minus the skin and some “bites”. It seemed like a rushed job by comparison. I could hold myself together by then and when we got to number five I began to look. Really look. Whatever it was, these people didn’t fight. There were no defensive wounds. They simply looked as if they had gotten tired and lay right down to sleep; maybe in the street or next to a dumpster; we even had one in the park. But they had been skinned; completely. I fought hard to cover the story and was immediately consumed by it; not much exciting happens in Tacoma. I was desperate to find out what was going on around me and better yet, who knew about it. A story like this could shoot me to the top.
Police brought in the FBI and profilers. There was enough forensic equipment to start a museum, but nothing really came of it: A white male, probably solitary and removed from social circles or contact; unassuming and forgettable. There were no weapons, no cut marks on the bodies. They all tested positive for different bacterial infections; like Lyme disease or syphilis. Most of those reporting or investigating decided it was due to environmental contamination or poor life choices. When the bodies began to show up elsewhere, like Puyallup and BonneyLake, we packed up and moved along too, trying to find answers and stop the madness. I watched it all from the front row and took notes; observed.
But I wanted to explore beyond the obvious crazed killer and after so many months, seven to be exact, we were no closer a solution but deeper in bodies. I went to my friend Jake for a little advice. We were perfectly content, during my mandatory vacation, to check out the most ludicrous possibilities. To tell the truth, it brought levity to what had become such a dreary and hopeless existence for me. We went as far as researching legends of the surrounding Indians of the Northwest and Canada as well as Jake’s familial mythology in the Ojibwa tribe. We got a match. Witiko or Wendigo. They are creatures of great gluttony, feasting for power… on humans. They can become so strong; they are able to take their form (using the flesh of its host or victim as a costume) for easier hunting. Jake and I carried on for days about this, printing everything we could find. I stayed with him until they found another body. To so many these grisly murders seemed disconnected. I thought so too until I began to apply the Wendigo intellect. It took me another six months of research but I got it. Jake laughed at me until I began to write the piece. Then he seemed to slip away, maybe embarrassed by my obsession with such a crazy thought. But I was finding no contradictions when I chased this lead.
Wendigos or skin walkers are thin creatures. They are constantly on the hunt and lull their victims with their personalities, getting in close for the kill. There is always a touch needed to initiate an attack. Through their skin erupts a small proboscis overlaying a smaller tube or mouth with razor like jaws. These will slice the flesh and inject chemicals to numb the innocent; much like a tick; so prostaglandins, vasodilators, anticoagulants and a chemical that breaks down Bradykinin are all contained in this monster’s saliva as well as an enzyme for breaking down flesh. And just like those nasty little arachnid cousins, they might carry diseases common with that species; bacterial infections such as: Rocky Mountain spotted fever, Lyme’s Disease or Syphilis. What does all this mean? Well, you never know what hit you. Your body never gets alarmed and you simply, quietly dissolve; your body, your soul, everything is melting away into this voracious, demon. You will die. The skin walkers began to appear in the 80’s after Mt St Helen’s eruption. Before that, they were mostly murmured about in British Columbia, Saskatchewan and Manitoba. These beasts were stirred by environmental changes and adapted quickly to suburban life, choosing the forms best suiting their hunting grounds: dirty skin walkers choose dirty people because they fit in and can easily disarm their victim. Often times, they chose transients or misfits; those who wouldn’t be noticed or missed. However, as I said, they are gluttonous, thinking only of their next meal as they gorge themselves. Power is ultimately what they’re after; in the form of flesh or energy.
I triumphantly presented my case and evidence to my pal. He read and re-read. He opened a beer and did it all again. I sat, stood, paced and raked my hair. “Well?”
His breath was drawn slowly and he clucked like a muttering chicken.
“It’s bullshit and you need a life” he said cautiously through a slurp of beer.
“WHAT? You’re nuts. How can you not see this?” I slapped the papers angrily, bunching them in my fists. “I have carried all this …THIS around for SO long; finally finding where the pieces of the puzzle fit and you burp on me and tell me it’s BULLSHIT?” I was gulping hot anger.
“You took a legend from an ancient tribe and smeared it around to cover a story to give your deranged sad life purpose. No one will buy this. Not one. You need to go back to Tacoma and write about corrupt politicians, drug busts in high schools and charity events.” He drained his beer.
I smacked the can from his hand.
“You jackass.” I hissed and snatched all my work; cramming it into my briefcase and storming out. I insulted him silently all the way to my car. I wished him a slow painful death the entire ride home, pounding my steering wheel for emphasis.
I made the appointment with my editor anyway, showing everything I had: the pictures, the lab work, interviews and yes, my Wendigo history. She sat back and sucked on the end of her pen. I fidgeted in my seat.
“We’ll run it as fiction.”
“But it’s not.” I pouted.
“We have no proof.”
“We DO. Right here.” I got up and tapped the papers impatiently.
“Let me discuss this with the chief.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Meet with us again tomorrow morning for coffee and bagels. It will run regardless, but we need to be ready if we are going to go main on this. Understood?”
My heart leapt and thudded in my chest. I think I drooled on her desk. “Yes. Yes I do and I will take this to the end.” I raced out and dialed Jake as fast as I could.
“Hey Douche bag!” I gleefully shouted. I was even pointing at the phone as I waved my victory in his face.
He was quiet. “No congrats from the skeptic?” my voice was sharp, filled with gloat and disdain.
“You are mistaken, my friend. But let’s put this behind us and have dinner. I will celebrate what you see as a victory.”
“You’re buyin. Loser.”
We met at our favorite spot. I sat across from him as he somberly walked in and took his place at the table. I chunked the papers on it and patted them lovingly. The waiter brought wine and I made my friend listen to me toast myself. He did not drink but raised his glass and spoke:
“You just couldn’t stop. You know, I fed your little fantasy for a while; even encouraged you. Bad on my part now I see. It’s led us here. You are delusional and confused. This legend of our faith, our people is not subject for your “big break”. It is part of who we are and it does not belong splashed around some two bit paper looking to bolster readership. You don’t understand what you think you’ve uncovered. It is a myth. It is a fable, and untruth, whatever you want to call it…but it is NOT fodder for you…” abruptly he pushed back, stalking out of the restaurant. I followed him calling out. He picked up his pace but faltered at the corner, thinking of where to go next. I caught up with him.
“Wait. Jake.” I stopped him. My voice was soothing and gentle. “I have no intention of raking you or your people through the coals. I know the damage it would do. Trust me, my friend. Let’s fix this.”
He relaxed, permitting me to slip my arm through his and catch his hand. I smiled as we headed down the side street, drinking him in and thinking of my next meal...with my editor.
I guess this isn't a very cheery welcome back from my hiatus, is it? Well, I got caught up in some research on this one and here it is. I love legends, urban myths and ghost stories. This one caught my eye and I ran with it. I kinda like it. It's just creepy enough, ya know? Well regardless, it feels good to sit with you again. I have missed our time together more than you could imagine. I have another one marinating so let's get together soon and do this again, shall we?
Thanks for stopping by. It's been great. See you soon.
sources researched: Wikipedia :(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wendigo)
Maps of Canada and the northwester US : (www.bing.com)
www.google.com
www.nativearts.com
www.americanfolklore.net
Police brought in the FBI and profilers. There was enough forensic equipment to start a museum, but nothing really came of it: A white male, probably solitary and removed from social circles or contact; unassuming and forgettable. There were no weapons, no cut marks on the bodies. They all tested positive for different bacterial infections; like Lyme disease or syphilis. Most of those reporting or investigating decided it was due to environmental contamination or poor life choices. When the bodies began to show up elsewhere, like Puyallup and BonneyLake, we packed up and moved along too, trying to find answers and stop the madness. I watched it all from the front row and took notes; observed.
But I wanted to explore beyond the obvious crazed killer and after so many months, seven to be exact, we were no closer a solution but deeper in bodies. I went to my friend Jake for a little advice. We were perfectly content, during my mandatory vacation, to check out the most ludicrous possibilities. To tell the truth, it brought levity to what had become such a dreary and hopeless existence for me. We went as far as researching legends of the surrounding Indians of the Northwest and Canada as well as Jake’s familial mythology in the Ojibwa tribe. We got a match. Witiko or Wendigo. They are creatures of great gluttony, feasting for power… on humans. They can become so strong; they are able to take their form (using the flesh of its host or victim as a costume) for easier hunting. Jake and I carried on for days about this, printing everything we could find. I stayed with him until they found another body. To so many these grisly murders seemed disconnected. I thought so too until I began to apply the Wendigo intellect. It took me another six months of research but I got it. Jake laughed at me until I began to write the piece. Then he seemed to slip away, maybe embarrassed by my obsession with such a crazy thought. But I was finding no contradictions when I chased this lead.
Wendigos or skin walkers are thin creatures. They are constantly on the hunt and lull their victims with their personalities, getting in close for the kill. There is always a touch needed to initiate an attack. Through their skin erupts a small proboscis overlaying a smaller tube or mouth with razor like jaws. These will slice the flesh and inject chemicals to numb the innocent; much like a tick; so prostaglandins, vasodilators, anticoagulants and a chemical that breaks down Bradykinin are all contained in this monster’s saliva as well as an enzyme for breaking down flesh. And just like those nasty little arachnid cousins, they might carry diseases common with that species; bacterial infections such as: Rocky Mountain spotted fever, Lyme’s Disease or Syphilis. What does all this mean? Well, you never know what hit you. Your body never gets alarmed and you simply, quietly dissolve; your body, your soul, everything is melting away into this voracious, demon. You will die. The skin walkers began to appear in the 80’s after Mt St Helen’s eruption. Before that, they were mostly murmured about in British Columbia, Saskatchewan and Manitoba. These beasts were stirred by environmental changes and adapted quickly to suburban life, choosing the forms best suiting their hunting grounds: dirty skin walkers choose dirty people because they fit in and can easily disarm their victim. Often times, they chose transients or misfits; those who wouldn’t be noticed or missed. However, as I said, they are gluttonous, thinking only of their next meal as they gorge themselves. Power is ultimately what they’re after; in the form of flesh or energy.
I triumphantly presented my case and evidence to my pal. He read and re-read. He opened a beer and did it all again. I sat, stood, paced and raked my hair. “Well?”
His breath was drawn slowly and he clucked like a muttering chicken.
“It’s bullshit and you need a life” he said cautiously through a slurp of beer.
“WHAT? You’re nuts. How can you not see this?” I slapped the papers angrily, bunching them in my fists. “I have carried all this …THIS around for SO long; finally finding where the pieces of the puzzle fit and you burp on me and tell me it’s BULLSHIT?” I was gulping hot anger.
“You took a legend from an ancient tribe and smeared it around to cover a story to give your deranged sad life purpose. No one will buy this. Not one. You need to go back to Tacoma and write about corrupt politicians, drug busts in high schools and charity events.” He drained his beer.
I smacked the can from his hand.
“You jackass.” I hissed and snatched all my work; cramming it into my briefcase and storming out. I insulted him silently all the way to my car. I wished him a slow painful death the entire ride home, pounding my steering wheel for emphasis.
I made the appointment with my editor anyway, showing everything I had: the pictures, the lab work, interviews and yes, my Wendigo history. She sat back and sucked on the end of her pen. I fidgeted in my seat.
“We’ll run it as fiction.”
“But it’s not.” I pouted.
“We have no proof.”
“We DO. Right here.” I got up and tapped the papers impatiently.
“Let me discuss this with the chief.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Meet with us again tomorrow morning for coffee and bagels. It will run regardless, but we need to be ready if we are going to go main on this. Understood?”
My heart leapt and thudded in my chest. I think I drooled on her desk. “Yes. Yes I do and I will take this to the end.” I raced out and dialed Jake as fast as I could.
“Hey Douche bag!” I gleefully shouted. I was even pointing at the phone as I waved my victory in his face.
He was quiet. “No congrats from the skeptic?” my voice was sharp, filled with gloat and disdain.
“You are mistaken, my friend. But let’s put this behind us and have dinner. I will celebrate what you see as a victory.”
“You’re buyin. Loser.”
We met at our favorite spot. I sat across from him as he somberly walked in and took his place at the table. I chunked the papers on it and patted them lovingly. The waiter brought wine and I made my friend listen to me toast myself. He did not drink but raised his glass and spoke:
“You just couldn’t stop. You know, I fed your little fantasy for a while; even encouraged you. Bad on my part now I see. It’s led us here. You are delusional and confused. This legend of our faith, our people is not subject for your “big break”. It is part of who we are and it does not belong splashed around some two bit paper looking to bolster readership. You don’t understand what you think you’ve uncovered. It is a myth. It is a fable, and untruth, whatever you want to call it…but it is NOT fodder for you…” abruptly he pushed back, stalking out of the restaurant. I followed him calling out. He picked up his pace but faltered at the corner, thinking of where to go next. I caught up with him.
“Wait. Jake.” I stopped him. My voice was soothing and gentle. “I have no intention of raking you or your people through the coals. I know the damage it would do. Trust me, my friend. Let’s fix this.”
He relaxed, permitting me to slip my arm through his and catch his hand. I smiled as we headed down the side street, drinking him in and thinking of my next meal...with my editor.
I guess this isn't a very cheery welcome back from my hiatus, is it? Well, I got caught up in some research on this one and here it is. I love legends, urban myths and ghost stories. This one caught my eye and I ran with it. I kinda like it. It's just creepy enough, ya know? Well regardless, it feels good to sit with you again. I have missed our time together more than you could imagine. I have another one marinating so let's get together soon and do this again, shall we?
Thanks for stopping by. It's been great. See you soon.
sources researched: Wikipedia :(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wendigo)
Maps of Canada and the northwester US : (www.bing.com)
www.google.com
www.nativearts.com
www.americanfolklore.net
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
And so here I am inundated already in the new year. Resolutions? I rarely make them but I have a few things I want to work on in '11.
I have been truly busy and just finished submitting for a small competition in the middle of this month. My plan is to strap myself into my chair and really hit it hard this week and weekend. I've missed writing; not just updating friends and family with our silliness, but really writing. This competition has sparked me, so we'll hope for the best. Fingers don't fail me now.
I hope that you had a wonderful holiday season and are off to a great start in 2011.
Let's get together at the end of the week, shall we? I'll be done with all my appointments and such and should (you know how I love that word...) be back to, dare I say, normal? Well for me anyway.
So take care and let's get back together soon and catch up.
Tessa
I have been truly busy and just finished submitting for a small competition in the middle of this month. My plan is to strap myself into my chair and really hit it hard this week and weekend. I've missed writing; not just updating friends and family with our silliness, but really writing. This competition has sparked me, so we'll hope for the best. Fingers don't fail me now.
I hope that you had a wonderful holiday season and are off to a great start in 2011.
Let's get together at the end of the week, shall we? I'll be done with all my appointments and such and should (you know how I love that word...) be back to, dare I say, normal? Well for me anyway.
So take care and let's get back together soon and catch up.
Tessa
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