Steeven Orr Else

The Bears, the Beast, and the Blonde - Chapter Nine

2013-05-15T12:19:00.002-05:00

Goldilocks strolled into the kitchen like the she owned the place, the fire alarm ringing all around her, and went straight to the three bowls of lobster bisque. She went to the largest of the three bowls first, took a spoon, and tried a bit. The bisque burned her tongue and she threw the spoon to the ground in anger as she shouted a curse the likes of which should never be repeated ... by anyone ... to anyone ... for any reason.

It certainly won’t be repeated here.

She cursed again when she realized that she just threw her spoon to the ground and in her rage she swept the large bowl of bisque from the counter and smiled in silent satisfaction as it shattered on the floor, spilling lobstery goodness everywhere. She then went looking for another spoon.

Finding a new spoon she skipped the medium sized bowl, fearing it would be just as hot as the large bowl. She figured that the small bowl, having less in it, would have cooled down sooner and so went for that next. Sadly, she was disappointed by how cold the bisque was and so, like its large companion, the small bowl soon found itself in pieces on the floor, its contents mixing with that of its chum.

So she tried the medium sized bowl. She carefully filled her spoon. She brought the spoon to her lips. She took a small, tentative sip. Her knees suddenly went all wobbly and she fell to the floor, landing on her bottom. She smiled as she let the bisque, which was at the perfect temperature, slosh about in her mouth. She moaned. The taste was like nothing she’d ever experienced. It was like each of her pleasure centers were being turned to eleven at the same time.

She began to feel angry and cheated when she realized that she’d just thrown two bowls of this ... perfection, to the ground. What a waste. She wanted to punch something. Instead she swallowed the bisque and was suddenly swept away by the sheer ecstasy of the flavors that met in her tummy. She actually passed out for a moment.

She woke and pulled herself to her feet, spoon in hand, and bent over the bowl once more. She took her time with the bisque. Savoring every drop. Even licking the bowl clean when she could no longer manage to scoop any more on to her spoon.

Once her belly was full, she decided to go exploring. She was a little tired from her day and wanted a place to just sit for a while. Of course, the continuing high volume claxon of the fire alarm did little to provide an atmosphere of peace and tranquility, but still, Goldilocks had a talent for putting herself in a complete and total restful state pretty much on command.

After just a few minutes of searching she found a room with three chairs that sat before a fire place on an exquisite Persian carpet. There was a large plump recliner, a medium sized wooden rocking chair, and a small bean bag chair. All three sat in a slight arc facing the fire place so that whomever could sit, read, and enjoy the fire.

Silence roared into the room as the sound of the alarm came to an abrupt end and Goldilocks smiled.

She was about to try out the recliner when she heard the unmistakable sound of a large sword being drawn behind her. She turned and found the most attractive man she had ever seen standing just inside the room. It was The Beast. He was holding a large sword in both hands and he was smiling.

“Hello, Lucy,” he said.

“Tim,” she replied icily.

Then she threw a chair at him.

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The Bears, the Beast, and the Blonde - Chapter Eight

2013-05-13T14:26:00.002-05:00

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About the time that Colin Pig was dropping to the floor of the Brick House Gas and Groceries, Jack Horner, the Griswold’s head of security, was serving Goldilocks a cup of coffee in the Griswold House kitchen.

At least, Goldilocks supposed it was a kitchen. Of course, she knew that it obviously was a kitchen, what with all of the ovens and refrigerators and freezers and automated dishwashers. Plus all the counter space filled with mixers and knives and spoons and spices and fruits and vegetables and all the various tools needed to whip up a meal. Then you add to the mix the scores of men and women, both human and animal, all dressed in white uniforms, aprons, and hats. Well, she had to come to the logical conclusion that this was, in fact, a kitchen. She had just never seen a kitchen this size, at least outside of a five-star restaurant.

Goldilocks sat on a tall stool, practically in the center of the bustling kitchen. Everyone worked with a precision that made her think of the ballet. Every single person in this room, apart from herself and Jack, had a role, and they were performing that role with a skill and sense of pride the likes of which hasn’t been seen outside of a Peter Jackson trilogy blockbuster movie set.

“I believe that I should contact the authorities,” Jack said suddenly.

Goldilocks had to truly reach deep inside herself for the strength to keep her eyes from rolling in contempt. She’d used the story that she’d been attacked to get inside the house, and now that she was in, she wasn’t about to let Johnny Law spoil her chance to get a free meal and possibly a pillow to lay her head.

“Oh please,” she said, reaching out and placing a hand on Jack’s arm. “I don’t want to be any trouble. I just want to forget this whole thing. I just want to rest and wait for my friend.”

Then a smell hit Goldilocks. An aroma that enveloped her senses, took her gently by the hand, pulled her into a loving embrace, caressed her hair with thoughtful affection, and mewled sweet nothings softly into her ear before slapping her across the face with a large open palm. She almost fell off the stool with the pleasure that the scent wrapped her in.

She stood, shaking slightly. She struggled a bit to place her coffee on the stool without spilling or dropping it. Then she stuck her nose high up into the air, and without any thought to how a lady might act in polite society, took one, great, loud and long, sniff.

“Oh my,” Goldilocks said, turning to Jack. “What is that enchanting aroma?”

“That is the chef’s famous lobster bisque” said Jack, smiling with pride and pointing to something behind Goldilocks. She turned and saw a large man, whom she determined was the head chef based entirely on the sheer immensity of his great floppy white hat. He was carefully ladling the lobster bisque into three separate bowls. A great big bowl. A medium sized bowl. And a small child’s bowl.

Goldilocks looked from the three bowls to a small red box on the wall. The box had a glass front with a red button behind it. There was lettering just above the glass front that said:

BREAK GLASS IN CASE OF FIRE

Goldilocks looked from the box back to the three bowls. Then she smiled slightly as the beginnings of a plan began to form in her head.

Her plan was simple, Goldilocks would just need to distract the army of people in the kitchen long enough to press the fire alarm. The ensuing panic and chaos of the subsequent evacuation would be enough, she hoped, to allow her to slip away, circle back to the kitchen, and feast.

There were, of course, many flaws to her plan. First and foremost, she noticed that there were sprinklers in the ceiling. Goldilocks wasn’t sure how fire sprinklers worked. She was fairly certain they wouldn’t just start spitting water when the alarm was pulled, but if they did, it would be like eating in the shower. And from what she understands, the water that comes out of those sprinkler systems is old, filthy, and smelly. No thanks.

Secondly, she wasn’t sure what she could do to cause the kind of distraction necessary to draw attention away from her long enough to pull the alarm without anyone realizing that she was the one who had pulled it. She supposed she could start a fire, but a fire would surely get the sprinklers started, and then she was back to eating in the smelly, filthy shower.

The fact of the matter was, despite the sheer size of the house, which was larger than your average Wal-Mart supercenter, Goldilocks didn’t take into account the amount of people she would have to deal with just to get some food and a place to sleep. Usually, when she broke into a place, the owners were away on vacation, so she had the place to herself for a few days. She was really starting to wonder why she picked this house. She’d never tried the whole “home invasion” thing, and while conning a clerk in a convenience store to get you a free burrito was a piece of cake, this job was turning out to be more like a slice of mud pie.

She gave thought to just leaving. Just packing it all in and heading down to the road to find an empty place to loot … but then the smell of lobster bisque took a fantastic voyage throughout her nasal passages, and before she could stop herself, she was pointing to the door on the wall opposite to the fire alarm and screaming in mock, but very convincing, terror.

All heads turned first towards her, then towards the door she was pointing at. This was her chance. She was off like a shot. She crossed the room in little under two seconds, snatched a dish towel from a nearby rack, threw it up over the fire alarm box, and slammed her fist into it, smashing the glass and pushing the fire alarm button at the same time.

The fire alarm sounded throughout the house and a general state of panic and chaos set in as everyone made their way to the nearest exit. The sprinklers did not start spitting forth dirty, stink water, and for that, Goldilocks was grateful.

Goldilocks followed the crowd as they exited the kitchen and began to look for a place to duck out when someone grabbed her by the arm.

“You’re coming with me,” It was Jack Horner. He pulled her from the crowd, down a hallway, and into a room at the end.

The room was small. All that occupied the room were a square wooden table, and two folding metal chairs at either end. Jack pushed Goldilocks into one chair while he sat in the other, opposite her, glaring at her in anger.

“Just what are you up to?” Jack asked, slamming his hand down on the table.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, panic and fear in her voice. “The fire alarm-”

“There is no fire!” Jack interrupted as the alarm continued to sound. “I saw what you did. I saw you push the alarm. What the heck is going on here! What do you want!?”

Goldilocks sighed, leaned back in her chair, and relaxed.

“Ok,” she said. “You want to know what’s going on? You want to know who I am and what I’m doing here?”

“You bet your bleached hair I do!”

“Right,” she said, leaning forward. “But you probably shouldn’t have said that about my hair.”

“Wha-”, Jack began, but before he could finish, Goldilocks was on her feet, and she brought her side of the table with her.

As she rose, she tipped the table up on its end and sent it crashing down on Jack. Then she leaped into the air and brought both feet down on the upturned table with Jack beneath it. She began to scream as she jumped up and down on the table, each word coinciding with her landings.

“NEVER! TALK! ABOUT! MY! HAIR!”

She stopped, took a deep breath, and pulled herself together before opening the door and making her way back to the kitchen, leaving Jack, unconscious, alone in the room.

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The Bears, the Beast, and the Blonde - Chapter Seven

2013-05-10T09:31:00.003-05:00

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Burt wasn’t sure what it was he had just seen. A man in black leathers with a sword on his back, a man straight out of Game of Thrones, a man so incredibly attractive that Burt started to question his own masculinity, had vanished right in front of the Brick House Gas and Groceries. At least, that’s what Burt thought he saw.

“Dad?” Danny asked. “Gum.”

“Burt, are you alright?” Beatrice asked when she saw the look of stupefied bemusement on his face.

“Yeah,” Burt paused, looking once more to the spot from where the man had vanished. “Yeah, I’m fine,” He gave a little snort of laughter. “I’m fine, let’s get Danny some gum.”

The first thing the Griswolds found as they walked into the Brick House Gas and Groceries was the mess. The three bears paused just inside the sliding glass doors and looked with confusion at the candy bars and potato chip bags that were strewn about on the floor before the counter.

That’s when Burt heard the distinct sound of a pig crying and saw Colin Pig behind the counter, his head in his hands, weeping softly.

Beatrice was the first to move, going straight to the counter.

Burt, on the other hand, always felt uncomfortable around crying men, regardless of their species, and so he hung back with Danny.

“What’s going on, Dad?” Danny asked, looking from Colin to the mess on the floor. “Why is Colin crying?”

“I don’t know, buddy,” Burt said, taking Danny’s hand and guiding him to the candy bars and potato chip bags. “I don’t know, but your mom will handle it. Why don’t we pick this stuff up for Colin.”

“But, what about my gum?”

“We’ll get your gum, don’t you worry, but we have to straighten up here first.”

“But, I didn’t make this mess. Why do I have to pick it up?” Danny was beginning to get agitated and Burt could sense a meltdown coming on.

“Because, bud, it’s the nice thing to do. Don’t you want to help Colin out?”

“Fine!” Danny yelled, and that was the end of it. Crisis averted. Danny was able to stop his meltdown with that one, solitary word and the two quickly got to work cleaning up.

Meanwhile, Beatrice had moved over to Colin’s side of the counter and was holding him, rocking gently back and forth and making soft, soothing, shushing sounds as the pig cried without shame. Burt smiled in a nervous sort of way. The way Colin sounded, Burt thought that if this were a cartoon, great streams of tears would be spraying out of the sides of Colin eyes like small high pressure faucets.

“Colin,” Beatrice was saying. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what happened. Tell me what’s wrong, honey.”

Colin’s crying slowed as he rose from behind the counter.

“A woman came in earlier,” Colin began. “The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Her hair was like gold. She pretended to like me. Then she stole my car.”

“Not your Camaro?” Burt said. “See, Beatrice, I told you that was Colin’s car.”

“Shush, Burt,” said Beatrice. “Go on Colin.”

“Well,” continued Colin. “ She stole my car and then this guy came in looking for her. He had a sword, and a gun. He pointed the gun at me. I’ve never had a gun pointed at me,” tears were forming again in Colin’s eyes.

“Its okay, Colin,” Beatrice said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “He’s gone now.”

“He asked me where Goldilocks, that’s the girl, he asked me where she went, but I was too scared to talk. So he threw candy bars and potato chips at me. But I still wouldn’t talk. So then he put his gun away and started being nice to me. So I told him that she took my car and went east, towards your place."

Colin paused and looked at the mess on the floor that Burt and Danny were cleaning.

“He said he was going to clean all this up. But he never did. He just left,” Colin began to cry again.

“Its okay, Colin,” said Beatrice soothingly, patting Colin’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“My car has been stolen, I had a gun in my face, and the store is a mess!” Colin began to shout. “I didn’t ask for this! I don’t deserve any of this! I’m not even supposed to be here today!” And with that, Colin’s eyes rolled up and he dropped to the floor in a dead faint.

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The Bears, the Beast, and the Blonde - Chapter Six

2013-05-06T12:41:00.003-05:00

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As Danny strolled down Walter Road, hand and hand with his mom and dad, only one thought occupied his mind … gum. Danny loved gum. If it were up to him, Danny would be chewing gum all the time. But Danny was a smart bear. He understood that he had to eat and sleep sometime, and so there would be moments in his life when it wouldn’t be proper, or even safe, for any of the gum chewing he felt he desperately needed to do.

Everyone always told Danny Griswold that he was a good kid. Teachers, relatives, other kids at school, and all the nice people that worked in his house seemed to genuinely like Danny, which was good, because Danny genuinely liked them right back. Danny was in the 5th grade, where he flourished academically, but he had a few social issues. Danny’s mom and dad have told him, on more than one occasion, that Danny’s social issues weren’t really his fault. They told him that he had autism. Actually, they would clarify that while he had autism, he was “high functioning”. Danny wasn’t really sure what that meant. When his mom and dad would talk about Danny and his autism and being “high functioning” he would often picture himself working with his Lego bricks somewhere up in a tree or on the top of the house because he just figured that you had to be somewhere up high to be “high functioning”.

Danny has also been told that he is a “sensory seeker”, which he knows is really just a fancy way of saying that he liked to chew on stuff. He chewed on his clothes, his hands, his toys, pretty much anything that was handy and within reach. His mom and dad have talked to him over and over about chewing on stuff. He’s put holes in his clothes, he’s chewed his fingers till they’ve bled, and he’s bitten his toys into complete uselessness.

That’s what made gum so wonderful. He could chew to his heart’s content and meet that sensory need while he fed his taste buds flavor at the same time. And after all, didn’t four out of five dentists recommend chewing sugar free gum to help promote healthy teeth?

“Dad, don’t forget about the gum?” Danny said as the three bears stepped off of the black top of Walter Road and onto the gravel of the Brick House Gas and Groceries parking lot. “You said we could get some gum?”

“Don’t worry bud,” Burt ruffled the fur on the top of Danny’s head. “Gum is just but a few steps away.

As the Griswolds walked across the parking lot of the Brick House, Danny’s attention was drawn to a man coming out of the store. The man was unmistakably handsome, even Danny could see that, but the man’s extreme attractiveness was not what drew Danny’s attention. It was the sword the man wore on his back.

Suddenly Danny’s father stopped and held his arm out protectively in front of Danny and his mom. Danny knew his dad didn’t like the man with the sword. Danny could feel his dad tense, the muscles in his arm going taut as he stood between his family and what his dad must have felt was a threat to those he held most dear.

“Burt?” Danny’s mom asked, trying to move out around him.

“Stay where you’re at, Bea,” His dad said, watching the man warily.

Danny knew the man wasn’t going to hurt him or his mom or dad. He wasn’t sure how he knew, he just did, just as he knew that telling his dad that everything was going to be okay wouldn’t do any good. Besides, the man with the sword wasn’t even looking in their direction. He was just standing there by the entrance to the store, looking up Walter Road, and … sniffing the air. Danny thought that was funny, but before he could laugh, he noticed the man’s hair. Danny was almost transfixed by it. The man’s hair stirred slightly in the gentle breeze, yet not once did the man’s hair obscure his face. Not even for a second. It was as if the man with the sword kept his hair out of his face by sheer force of will. It was … magical.

But then the man with the sword disappeared. He just seemed to meld into nothingness. One moment the man was there, standing and sniffing the air, and the next moment the man turned slightly to one side, and vanished.

“Cool!” Danny said excitedly. “He’s magic!”

“Um,” was all his dad seemed to be able to muster.

“I’m sure he just walked around to the back of the store,” his mom said, smiling.

“Yeah,” his dad said. “I’m sure that’s where he went.”

“Can we get gum now?” Danny asked, shaking his head. Danny knew what he saw. The man used magic to teleport himself away from the parking lot of the Brick House.

“Sure, pal,” his dad said, laughing. But Danny could tell that his dad’s laugh was a lie. His dad was worried. So was his mom. He could feel it in their hands as the each took one of his.

“It’s okay,” Danny said. “That man doesn’t want to hurt us. He’s just looking for something.”

“Of course he is, pal,” his dad laughed again. “That guy is long gone. Got nothing to do with us.”

Danny just smiled. He knew telling his parent’s that it was okay wouldn’t do any good.

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The Bears, the Beast, and the Blonde - Chapter Five

2013-05-03T12:46:00.001-05:00

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He was known only as The Beast, and yet he was by far one of the most attractive men that anyone has ever seen. His chestnut brown hair blew about in the breeze, yet despite its length, which hung to the shoulders, never obscured his vision nor kept anyone from seeing his striking face, which somehow managed to be both smooth and rugged at the same time. His eyes were the piercing color of glass cleaner and had been known to make Clint Eastwood weep with just a look. He walked with an athletic grace that would make a panther green with envy and his smile could make Cleopatra rise from the dead.

The Beast dressed simply in black leathers, from his boots and pants, to the vest he wore over a black, button up, cotton shirt. On his back rode a two-handed broad sword in a fur covered scabbard. On his right hip was a revolver that looked a little too big to believe. Other weapons were surely secreted about his person, but you did not want to see them if breathing was the kind of thing you were keen to continue with.

The man known only as The Beast was a warrior, a tracker, and a hunter, among other things. His keen, tactical mind was reputed to be as cold and unfeeling as the bitter Arctic nights, and it was a well know fact that The Beast is happiest only among blood, death, devastation, war, and horror. The Beast was an army unto himself. He has toppled governments and ended revolutions. He has abducted queens and defended presidents. In the most general of senses, The Beast was the one man you didn’t want to mess with, and he was now in the town of Grimmelton, Kansas for only one purpose. To find Goldilocks.

The Beast stood in the middle of Walter Road, gazing at the structure that was the Brick House Gas and Groceries. He sniffed the air curiously, ignoring the cars that honked as they sped past him, missing him by inches. Goldilocks had been here. He followed her trail through the parking lot and up to the squat little store. He stopped and sniffed the air again. He could sense that Goldilocks had entered the store. He could also sense that she didn’t stay long. He’d need to determine what she was doing in the Brick House Gas and Groceries and where she went from here. Her scent leaving the store was already starting to fade, which meant she left fast. He knew the direction, but it would speed the process up a bit if he also knew the destination. The Beast would need to see if the clerk knew anything. And if the clerk wasn’t willing to talk … well, they were always willing to talk … eventually they all talked in the end.

The entire front of the store was glass and so The Beast paused, standing off to the side of the entrance, and scanned in the interior. The lot was empty of cars, but he wanted to make sure that he would be alone with the clerk. An electronic ping sounded in the store as The Beast walked in through the double glass doors and went directly to the counter where a pig stood. The pig had his back to the store and seemed to be crying.

“You got a restroom in this place?” The Beast asked.

“In the back,” the pig replied without turning around.

The Beast did a quick check of the restrooms and found them unoccupied. Then he returned to the pig at the counter.

“You alone in here,” The Beast asked.

“What?” the pig turned and looked up at The Beast.

The two stood staring at each other for a moment. The Beast pulled a pack of Lucky Strike non-filtered cigarettes from his pocket, shook one out, plucked it into his mouth, and lit it with a Zippo he produced from another pocket.

“There’s no smoking in the store,” the pig said before blowing his nose.

“Where’s the girl?” The Beast asked.

“You can’t smoke in the store.”

The Beast smiled. Of all the things for the pig to be concerned about, his gun and sword to name but two, the pig was worried about secondhand smoke. But, no one ever said The Beast wasn’t reasonable, so he threw the cigarette to the floor and ground it out with his boot. The Beast continued to smile as he pulled the pistol, pointed it at the pig’s face, and thumbed back the hammer.

“I’m in no mood for killing today,” The Beast said, his voice like gravel being drug across a road of sandpaper. “Why don’t you just tell me what the girl wanted, and where she went, otherwise I’m eating bacon tonight.”

# # #
Colin W. Pig certainly wasn’t the brightest of the three Pig brothers, though he did have more ambition. He even had more imagination than his younger brothers. Colin spent a lot of his free time coming up with new product ideas and money making schemes. He just lacked the brain power and motivation to do anything with his ambition and imagination. This usually meant that his new product ideas were unrealistic or items that no one in their right mind needed, or even wanted. And his money making schemes tended to land people in jail.

It was Colin’s idea to manufacture and sell prefabricated houses made of straw. His thought behind the idea was that you could load more of the materials on trucks due to the lightweight properties of straw, thus you could move more product at one time and save on shipping costs. Additionally the building material was rather easy to come by and was also a bit cheaper than wood or bricks. In the end he only sold one house, and that was to himself. He soon discovered that the lightweight material didn’t do an adequate job of standing up to strong wind. Colin had put everything he had into Pig’s Straw Houses, and now he was broke, which was how he found himself working for his brother, Larry, at the Brick House Gas and Groceries.

Colin didn’t mind the job much. He got to hit on chicks, and had all the tortilla chips he could eat. But some days it just didn’t seem worth the bother.

For example, those days when a smoking hot chick comes into the store, acts like she wants to start a little something, but instead just steals his one prize possession … his precious … his Camaro. And if that wasn’t enough to make a pig feel a little down on himself, some dude with a sword comes into the store and sticks a gun in his face.

Life can just be such a complete and total pisser at times.

# # #
“Hey, pig,” The Beast said. “I’m talking to you.”

Colin just stood there, transfixed, staring down the barrel of the revolver. Colin couldn’t speak. A deep fear of death had caused his body to go rigid and his mind to escape to a better place.

“Piggy-piggy!” The Beast yelled.

Colin was immobile.

The Beast noticed a small set of thick wire shelves full of candy bars and single serve bags of potato chips. They were within reach, so The Beast snatched a bag of chips with his free hand, and threw it at Colin.

The bag of chips bounced harmlessly off of the top of Colin’s head.

The Beast grabbed up a candy bar, a hefty and dense Chunky bar, which was less of a bar, and more of a solid square paperweight with nice, sharp corners. He flicked it at Colin like it was a throwing star. It too bounced off the pig’s head with no apparent harm.

The Beast swore. Colin remained a statue. The Beast began scooping up chips and candy bars and hurling them at the pig. Colin was resolute.

This continued for a full ten minutes - The Beast yelling obscenities, calling Colin various offensive names, and pelting him with candy bars and bags of potato chips - Colin standing stock-still as candy bars and bags of potato chips bounced harmlessly off of him.

Two customers came into the store during this ten minute time frame, and though the two came in a few minutes apart, both had the same exact reactions. From the start there was confusion as their brains tried to process exactly what it was they were seeing. From confusion came a quick moment of clarity followed by understanding. At last came fear. These emotional reactions lasted no longer than ten seconds as each customer walked a pace or two into the store, froze, looked back and forth between Colin and The Beast, then turned and walked back out.

After the ten minutes The Beast determined that he was either going to have to shoot the pig or try a different tactic. He couldn’t get anything out of a dead pig, so shooting him was out of the question. He needed what information the pig had. The Beast had easily tracked Goldilocks to the store, and he could see, sense actually, that she left. He could sense her right up to a certain point in the parking lot, where her trail just simply disappeared right where a pair of burnt tire tracks started. She obviously got into a car. He couldn’t sense a human’s trail once they were in an automobile.

So The Beast put his gun away.

“Look, friend. I do apologize for all that just now. It was quite rude of me to just barge in on your place of business, point a gun at you, and then start pelting you with your own product,” The Beast managed to sound contrite. “I’ll tell you what. How about I pick all this up, then you and I can have a little talk? I just need to know where the girl went.”

“The g-g-girl?” Colin stammered.

“That’s right. Blonde. Smoking hot. Maybe a little manipulative?”

“Goldilocks,” Colin was starting to come out of it.

“That’s the girl.”

“The witch stole my baby.”

“I’m sorry?” Confusion showed on The Beast’s face, this was quite unexpected.

“She stole my baby.”

“She actually stole your baby? Your, uh … piglet?”

“No, my car. The witch stole my car.”

“Ah, okay. Your car. You said she stole your baby and I thought ... well, it doesn’t matter. Which way did she go?”

“East. She took my car east, toward Griswold House,” Colin had begun to weep again.

“Rest easy, son. I’ll find her, and your baby.”

“You really mean it, mister?”

“You bet your curly tail I do.”

And with that, The Beast was gone and heading east.

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The Bears, the Beast, and the Blonde - Chapter Four

2013-05-01T11:12:00.000-05:00

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A thick fogbank of scents rolled slowly through the Griswold’s massive kitchen. Lobster, onions, and a hint of tomato. Jack inhaled deeply, filling his nasal passages with the heavenly aroma as he sat at an out-of-the-way counter, snacking on crackers and cheese and reading a book.

To say that the Griswold’s kitchen was a hive of activity would only belittle the military precision that took place each day in the cavernous maze of stainless steel. Scores of men and women, dressed in white, scurried here and there, knives flying, spoons swirling, all under the scrutiny of Chef Michael Greengrass.

“You need a refill there, Jack?” asked Chef Greengrass.

Jack had been nursing a diet soda for the last fifteen minutes. “Oh, no thanks, Mike,” he replied, looking up from his book.

Jack liked Mike Greengrass. Of course, it was hard to dislike such a man. Mike ruled his kitchen with an iron spoon, yet was always kind and fair. Jack actually considered Mike to be his closest friend and figured Mike felt the same towards him.

“Whatcha reading there?” the chef asked, wiping his hands on his apron.

Jack handed the book over to Mike and took a sip of his soda.

“The new Jack Reacher,” Mike said in awe as he read through the synopsis on the inside cover.

Jack loved to read. He also loved to follow the adventures of characters who shared his name. Jack Reacher, Jack Ryan, or Jack Bauer, it didn’t really matter to him. He just liked to fantasize that he was the hero and saving the day.

“It any good?” Mike asked as he handed the book back.

“So far,” Jack replied. He wanted to elaborate, but was interrupted by a voice in his ear that only Jack could hear.

“Jack, this is Stan at the main door. You copy?”

“Just a moment, Mike” Jack said, holding a finger to his left ear.

The voice was coming out of an ear bud, the cord twisting back behind Jack’s right ear and down into his suit jacket.

Jack stood and spoke into the cuff of his sleeve, “Go for Jack.”

“Jack, we got a young lady here at the main door. Claims she was carjacked. She’s asked to use the phone.”

“She injured?”

“Minor injuries. Cuts, scrapes, possible bruising. Nothing life threatening.”

“Okay,” Jack paused, looking around at the activity in the kitchen as he thought it through. “Have Keith bring her to me in the kitchen. And send Melanie after them. I’ll sort it out.”

“Copy, Jack. They will be with you momentarily.”

“Problem?” Mike asked.

“Not really,” Jack related his conversation.

“Anything I can do to help?” Mike asked.

“Thanks, Mike, but no.” Jack gulped down his soda. “You can have someone clear this stuff away if you really want to help.” Jack smiled.

“Sure thing, pal,” Mike said, and cleared it away himself.

Jack smiled again as he watched Mike carry his stuff away. Mike wasn’t the kind of guy who would ask someone else to do something he was perfectly capable of doing himself.

Jack brushed the cracker crumbs from his tie and adjusted the Beretta in his shoulder holster. It was a thing with Jack, periodically adjusting his side arm. Not because wearing it was uncomfortable, which it wasn’t, but mainly just to reassure himself that it was still there.

Mike always poked fun at Jack for taking his job too seriously. Being the head of security for the Griswold Family didn’t really entail much in the way of, well … security. Grimmelton was in the record books for having the lowest crime rate of any city of like population in the world, but Jack knew better. He had been in the war. Jack had seen and done things he will never forget. Things that twist his dreams and weigh heavy on his soul. He knew that there was still darkness in the world, even in Grimmelton.

It’s why he always had the family shadowed when they went out for their afternoon walk. Jack tried to send a security team out with the Griswold’s whenever they left the house. No, the family wasn’t royalty, nor was Mr. Griswold the President. It was rather unlikely that the family would be the target of a kidnapping, assassination, or simple random mugging. But Jack was being paid to keep the family safe, and by God that’s just what he was going to do.

Besides, he’d really grown to like the Griswolds, and they him. He was practically family, and Jack was raised to cherish family.

So even though Mr. Griswold insisted that he and the family could take a walk about town without five or six of Jack’s guys watching out for them every step of the way, Jack sent a team out anyway. The Griswolds were just unaware that his team was there.

Keith arrived with the young blonde woman, and for a moment Jack found himself speechless. The woman was stunning.

For a few moments, nothing happened. Jack found that he wasn’t able to make himself talk. Jack was typically uncomfortable around women. He found them strange and difficult to understand. Jack was even more uncomfortable around attractive women, which is why he just stood there staring.

“Sir?” Keith said, breaking the silence.

Jack was about to reply when something about this woman caught his eye. Maybe he was imaging it, but while she looked as frightened as a caged deer, Jack swore he could see something else in her eyes. Something like …triumph?

“Sir?” Keith said again, and just like that the spell was broken and whatever it was Jack thought he saw was gone.

“Thanks, Keith,” Jack said, clearing his throat to try and mask the awkward moment. “You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Keith almost saluted before walking away.

Jack then turned to the woman. “I’m Jack Horner,” he said, offering the woman his hand. “I’m head of security.”

“Goldilocks,” the woman replied. She looked at his hand with unmasked anxiety and Jack could see that she was shaking as she looked around the kitchen with apprehension.

“Are you okay, ma’am?”

“Oh,” she seemed almost startled by the question. “Yes, I’m sorry. It’s just,” she paused. Jack thought for a moment that she might cry. The one thing that made Jack even more uncomfortable then attractive women, was women who were crying. “It’s just been a really bad day. Horrifying, really,” she smiled meekly.

“Melanie should be here in a moment to see to your injuries. She’s a registered nurse. In the meantime, please have a seat,” Jack gestured to the very stool he had been sitting at just minutes ago.

She thanked him and sat. She almost didn’t make it. To Jack it looked like she might faint, but in the end she sat and began to look more relaxed.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Jack asked.

“Oh, goodness. It all went down so fast. I don’t even know what happened. I had stopped at a stop sign, then there was a gun in my face and this man was screaming at me, and then,” she started to cry. “And then, he,” her crying became more frantic. She buried her face in her hands.

“It’s okay,” Jack said soothingly, handing her his handkerchief. “Everything is going to be okay. Once I call the Police, you can give them a description of this guy, and then you can maybe get your car back.”

“The Police?” she said, raising her head. “No, please, don’t call the Police.”

Jack was confused. “Why wouldn’t I call the Police? You were attacked.”

“I just need to use the phone,” she sniffed and then blew her nose. “I have a sister in the area who can come get me. I need to get back home. I have a job interview waiting for me.”

“But, what about your car?”

“It was a rental.”

“Ma’am, I can’t let you go without talking to the Police. The rental company will need a Police report.”

“I can’t,” she began to cry again. “I can’t talk to the Police. I just can’t.”

“Ma’am, please,” Jack laid a hand gently on her shoulder.

“No!” she screamed, slapping his hand away and leaping off the stool, cringing back from Jack as if he were something from a nightmare.

The stool that Goldilocks had been sitting on clattered to the floor, echoing into what Jack realized was the silence her shout had caused as the entire kitchen crew stopped what they were doing to see what the trouble was.

“Everything okay, Jack,” Mike asked, drying his hands on his apron as he approached cautiously, a look of concern on his face.

“Yeah, everything’s great,” Jack said, pulling the stool from the floor and placing it upright. “The young lady and I were just having a conversation and she got a little excited. Isn’t that right, Miss …”

“Goldilocks,” she said, hugging herself and shivering. “Call me Goldilocks.”

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The Bears, the Beast, and the Blonde - Chapter Three

2013-04-29T13:22:00.001-05:00

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Burt Griswold liked to joke that he made all his money by investing in salmon futures. One particular salmon, actually. Simon the Salmon had more talent in his dorsal fin that most folks had in their entire bloodline.

Burt liked to think that God was smiling down upon him that day at the county fair. Burt had been wandering among the tents and carnival barkers, on a quest to find the funnel cake stand, when he came across the strangest site he’d ever seen. In an out of the way place, on the very outskirts of the fair, was a small stage. Standing atop the stage was an even smaller salmon. Simon the Salmon.

Simon’s entire body was covered in a special suit that allowed him to breathe out of water. In the center of the suit, over what would have been the fish’s chest, was a small speaker. Perched on the stage, directly in front of the speaker, was a microphone on a stand.

Simon the Salmon was doing standup for a small of onlookers, mostly fairgoers on their way from the parking area and heading towards the main grounds. Burt noticed right away that those who had stopped to see this little fish were laughing, rather hysterically. Furthermore, the once small crowd was growing larger by the moment.

Burt never laughed so hard in his entire life, and he found himself doing something he never thought he’d do. He sought out Simon the Salmon and signed him up for a management contract right there on the spot. It was a standard management agreement. Burt would set up the appearances and get ten percent of everything Simon made.

Using a little luck and some contacts from his time in the military, Burt managed to get Simon booked into comedy clubs all across the country. It wasn’t long before the nation saw what Burt had seen and soon Simon was offered a supporting role in a television sitcom.

The show was a critical success. However, as it aired on Fox, it was cancelled after just four episodes. Neither Burt nor Simon was dismayed. Burt kept booking gigs and Simon kept traveling the country, making people laugh.

Burt then landed Simon a two picture deal with a major movie studio. The movie featured Simon as the comic relief in a Kurt Steel action flick. It bombed, but of course, most Kurt Steel movies did. The studio however, loved Simon in the role and took a chance on his next picture, which Simon wrote himself. That summer, Simon the Salmon and the Slippery Seal of Salisbury broke box office records all across the world. Simon the Salmon quickly became a household name and went on to make seven consecutive box office smashes in a row. The Griswold family was set for life, all thanks to Burt’s keen sense of humor.

Simon’s success brought about financial independence for Burt, his bride, Beatrice, and the child that would be Danny. With financial independence came the Griswold’s desire to build, to lay down some roots, and to help others.

With that in mind, Burt hired as many out of work builders, carpenters, plumbers, electricians and general laborers as he could find, and set them to the task of building his family a house. The work was so immense that it revitalized Grimmelton’s floundering economy and helped save more than one family from starvation and ruin.

When the last nailed was pounded, the paint had dried, and the dust had settled, what stood was an architectural marvel, a sprawling mansion covering over 180,000 square feet and boasting no less than 260 rooms. The building was known throughout the surrounding counties as Griswold House, though to refer to the estate as just a house would be like referring to the Sistine Chapel as nothing more than a church.

With construction complete, the Griswolds were free to hire housekeepers, groundskeepers, cooks, security personnel, and pretty much anyone else who could help maintain the giant house and keep things running smoothly.

The Griswolds were kind and generous employers. They gave every employee a chance to make something more out of their lives. Working for the Griswold’s didn’t just mean a steady paycheck. It meant health benefits, a retirement plan, paid vacations and holidays … even a tuition reimbursement plan for employees who wanted to get a degree. Working for the Griswold Family soon became the most sought after job in town.

To the community, Griswold House was an industry. For the Griswolds, it was home.

# # #
Burt and Danny found Beatrice in her office on the second floor. She was at her desk, glasses perched atop her head, typing away furiously on her laptop.

“How’s the book coming?” Burt asked as Danny leaped into Beatrice’s arms with wild abandon, nearly knocking her from the chair.

“You’re getting too big to keep doing that,” Beatrice said to the boy with a laugh in her voice. She pulled Danny to her, returning the fierce passion that he put into his hug.

Beatrice smiled up at Burt as Danny attempted to burrow his way into her heart. “What?” she asked Burt.

“What?” Burt asked back.

“You said something. I missed it because your son was using me as a tackling dummy.”

“You’re not a dummy,” Danny said, his voice muffled by the crook of his mother’s neck.

“I just asked how the book was coming,” Burt replied, sitting on a couch along the wall.

“Oh it’s coming, you know, one--”

“Word at a time,” Burt finished the line for her and laughed.

“Yeah,” Beatrice laughed with him. “I guess I’ve used that little chestnut a few times.”

“Just a couple times,” Burt smiled.

“Mom, it’s after noon,” Danny began to bounce in Beatrice’s lap. “It’s after noon, Mom. After noon.”

Beatrice checked her watch. “It sure is. I guess we better hit the road.”

Danny giggled. “Hit the road.”

Burt smiled again. He knew that Danny was forming a picture in his head, imagining for a moment that all three of them were standing out on the road in front of the house, pounding their fists into the pavement.

“Hit the road,” Danny repeated. “We gotta hit the road. It’s after noon.”

Each afternoon, as the chef prepared lunch, the Griswolds went for a walk around town. This was all part of their daily routine and they stuck to it for Danny’s sake. Danny didn’t do well with interruptions in his routine. The destination varied each day. It didn’t matter much to Danny exactly where they walked to, as long as they didn’t miss the walk itself.

The smell of boiling lobster meat rolled slowly around them, causing their collective mouths to water as the three bears made their way through the house and out the front door. Today, the chef, Mr. Greengrass, was preparing for them his famous lobster bisque, a meal the Griswold family adored almost as much as they adored Chef Greengrass.

“Can we get some gum?” Danny asked as they set out for their walk.

“Of course, pal,” Burt said, ruffling the fur at the top of Danny’s head. “We'll walk on down to the store. What do you say, Bea?”

"I think that's a great idea," Beatrice said, taking Danny's hand.

"I think it's a great idea too," Danny said, smiling and hopping.

And so, as the Griswold family set out on that sunny day, with temperatures in the mid seventies and a gentle breeze blowing from the north, they had no clue, not one iota of an idea that the day would end in anguish, tragedy, destruction, and death ... But then, not all days can be winners.

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The Bears, the Beast, and the Blonde - Chapter Two

2013-04-26T08:12:00.002-05:00

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Thirty minutes before Burt shot Mrs. Sugarbaker in the head with a suction cup dart, a drifter arrived on the other side of town. This wasn’t your typical dust caked, dead in the eyes, home on their back drifter either. No, this drifter was female with hair of gold.

She looked like she might be more at home dancing the night away in some trendy New York club rather than hoofing it through the back roads of America. But here she was, walking into town with nothing more than a back pack and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

She was dressed appropriately for someone walking the Earth: One pair of large sunglasses, black. One pair of comfortable hiking boots, black. One pair of durable, yet fashionable, cargo pants, khaki. One military green canvas backpack, flung casually over her right shoulder. One low cut spaghetti strap t-shirt, black. Everything that today's woman needs when drifting across the country.

Yet, despite her somewhat plain appearance, she wore her attire like a diva … nay, a queen. She was the star of the show and all eyes were on her.

The drifter arrived in town with an air of indifference. Nothing impressed her, nothing could when she looked so good. The fact was, compared to her, everything else was vanilla.

She made her way through downtown Grimmelton, turning heads as she strolled through the busy town square. She was a stranger in a strange place, but she held herself as though she owned all that the eye could see.

The scene was like a perfume, makeup, or shampoo commercial. She might as well have been walking in slow motion. Men couldn’t keep their eyes off of her. If she dropped her back pack, she knew the area would turn into a cartoon as men fought one another to pick it up. They would kill to be the one lucky enough to return to her that which she had lost (and possibly gain her favor).

The knowledge of that made her smile. Her smile made an old main faint, a lecherous grin on his face.

The drifter’s name was Lucy, though most folks called her Goldilocks, on account of her hair. Her golden tresses were the admiration of any who saw them. What most folks didn’t know however, was that her hair color came from a bottle.

Goldilocks had been on the road for over a year, drifting from town to town, no apparent destination in mind, never stopping long in one place, getting by on nothing more than her good looks and a truck load of wits. Unfortunately, good looks and wits only get you so far, and for the moment, Goldilocks realized that she was hungry. So she set off across town to find an out of the way place where she could do her thing and get some grub.

Half an hour later she found herself on the other side of town, a few miles from the city proper. Her tummy grumbled when she noticed a lone convenience store at the foot of a large hill, surrounded by farmland.

The store was called The Brick House Gas and Groceries. It sat at the crossroads of Walter Road and Hickory Lane. Called simply ‘The Store’ by the locals, the Brick House was considered to be a Grimmelton landmark for the past sixty years. It was owned and operated by the three Pig Brothers; Larry, Gary, and Colin. The place has been in their family for years. Going back to the time when their grandfather, Wilbur J. Pig, opened up the place in 1952. Since then The Brick House Gas and Groceries has been the one place the citizens of Grimmelton could count on to get their gas, and yes, their groceries.

A plan came to mind so Goldilocks stashed her backpack behind a trashcan and entered the store.

Colin was working the counter that afternoon and, as many a wary woman from within a fifty mile radius knew, he had an eye for the ladies. So he noticed Goldilocks the moment she stepped through the door. It was a slow afternoon, and he put down the magazine he was reading, Modern Architecture, and greeted Goldilocks like the player he thought he was.

“Good afternoon, beautiful. Welcome to the Brick House. My name is Colin, and if there is anything I can do for you, anything at all, please let me know. I am at your every beck and call,” the words dripped from his mouth like oil from a can. He grinned confidently, not hiding the fact that he was looking her over, from top to bottom.

Goldilocks pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, smiled, and approached the counter the way a panther approaches its prey. “I’m sure I can think of something you can do for me,” she purred, putting a little emphasis on the word ‘do’ and leaning forward on the counter, her eyes twinkling wickedly.

Colin couldn’t believe his luck. A platinum blonde party girl was standing right before him, and she was giving him the eye.

Goldilocks couldn’t believe her luck. An ignorant pig with delusions of grandeur was standing right before her, and he had control of the store.

“I’m afraid that my car has broken down,” she pouted, her lower lip sticking out slightly. “And I lost my purse last night. It had my wallet and my phone in it. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Is there anyone I can call for you?”

“That’s so sweet of you,” she said, leaning forward a bit more. “But, I have a friend meeting me here in two hours.

“A friend?” Colin looked a little panicked, worried that the friend might mean a guy.

“Yeah, one of my sorority sisters.”

“Sorority?” Colin almost giggled.

“She’s coming to pick me up and take me home. But I’m so hungry. I haven’t eaten since last night,” she pushed her lower lip out even more and added a bit more angle to her frame, providing Colin with such a site to behold.

“Baby,” Colin practically danced. “You’ve come to the right place.”

“My name is Goldilocks, by the way,” she held out her right hand, palm down.

Colin took her fingers and planted a soft kiss on the back of her hand. “Just tell me how I can help, Goldie.”

Colin had this amazing gift of looking at Goldilocks everywhere but her eyes. Goldilocks didn’t mind. Actually, she counted on it. Otherwise should wouldn’t have been leaning over the counter to give Colin so much look at.

“Do you think you could spare a burrito and a drink for me? My friend can pay you when she gets here. I’m so hungry, and I would be so appreciative, and so would my friend,” she smiled and gave her eyebrows a slight flutter.

“Appreciative? How appreciative?”

“Hmm,” she said, looking up with a finger on her lower lip. “I think better when I’m not so hungry.”

Colin smiled, walked out from behind the counter, grabbed a burrito from the freezer, and put it in the microwave. All the while Goldilocks was looking out the glass doors to the lot. The only car in the lot was a shiny new Chevy Camaro, black with white racing stripes.

“Is that your car?” she asked Colin.

“That’s my girl,” he said, filling a soda from the fountain.

“I just love fast cars.”

Goldilocks took a quick glance over the counter and spied a set of keys on a ring lying next to the cash register. Attached to the key ring was a small, plastic novelty license plate. On the license plate were the words:

REAL MEN DRIVE FAST

This was going to be too easy.

“So,” Colin said as he brought Goldilocks her drink. “While we’re waiting for your burrito, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself.”

Goldilocks leaned back on the counter. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, first off. You aren’t from around here. I’d remember running into you before,” Colin leaned in close to her as she sipped her soda through a straw. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from Nunyo.”

“You’re from where?”

“Nunyo.”

“Nunyo?

“Nunyo.”

“I’ve never heard of Nunyo,” Colin said, scratching at the stubble he had growing in on his chinny-chin-chin.

“It’s in the southwest,” Goldilocks smiled quietly to herself. This pig was a real idiot. He obviously didn’t get the joke. Nunyo, as in Nunyo business.

The two stood there for a moment in silence.

“Is the store always this empty?” she asked.

“Oh yeah, this time of day, everyone’s working. We should pick up by 12:30 as folks come in for lunch,” which was just a little over twenty minutes away. Goldilocks was going to have to work fast.

“I like it empty like this,” she said, smiling and leaning closer to Colin. “I don’t know what it is about you Colin. I mean, we just met and everything, and I don’t even know you, but I like being alone with you. You make me comfortable.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. I feel like I can let go with you, Colin. You ever feel that way with anyone?”

“Not until now,” he leaned in even closer, putting each hand on the counter to either side of her, enveloping her. Her eyes were like pools and Colin took a few laps before he bent in to kiss her.

Before their lips made contact, the microwave dinged, breaking the silence. Goldilocks screamed and jumped, which in turn caused her to drop her soda, which in turn caused Colin to scream and jump and back away as the soda fell to the floor, spilling soda all along the linoleum. This was, of course, all part of her plan.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a cute, pouting sort of way that always seems to turn men into putty. “The microwave startled me.”

“That’s okay, baby,” Colin moved back in, awkwardly trying to lean in for a kiss while avoiding the spilled soda on the floor. “It ain’t nothing but a chicken wing on a string.”

“No,” she said, pushing him away. “This isn’t going to work. I have something about spills and messes. They’re icky. I can’t feel comfortable, I can’t, let go, with that on the floor.”

“No?”

“No. Would you clean it up for me,” she stuck her index finger in her mouth to suck off some of the soda that had spilled there.

Had Colin been a cartoon character, his eyes would have shot three feet out of his eye sockets while a steam whistle popped up out of the top of his head and blew a shrill, steady note. Colin wasn’t a cartoon character, but he made a fairly good go of it.

“Sure, sure babe. I’ll clean it up in a jiffy,” he sprinted to the back of the store, to a door that said “Employees Only”.

“Don’t be long,” she called after him as he launched himself through the door.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Goldilocks vaulted the counter, grabbed the keys, vaulted back across the counter, and ran through the double, glass, automatic doors to the outside.

She snatched her backpack from behind the trashcan and got behind the wheel of the Camaro. She tore out of the lot, smoke billowing from the tires as she spun out onto the asphalt, leaving two dark lines of burnt rubber.

As she sped out of the lot and onto the two lane that was Walter Road, Colin came running towards her, fear and confusion on his face. She just smiled, smashed the gas pedal to the floor with her foot, and shot up Walter Road at over eighty miles an hour, passing three bears who looked to be out for a leisurely stroll.

In her rush to get a set of wheels, Goldilocks forgot all about the burrito. She was still hungry and needed a bite to eat. But that burrito was sitting back there in the Brick House microwave, and she wasn’t about to go back and get it.

Goldilocks roared up Walter Road, which took her back into town. She figured she would drive the back roads as much as possible to avoid the interstate and the police. As she crested the hill that made up most of Walter Road, she spied a sprawling mansion off on the horizon. It stood alone. The sun shone behind it, causing the house to glow in an angelic light.

She stopped the car, got out, and stood on the side of the empty road, looking up at the house. This was a place to get a decent bite to eat. Heck, if she played this right, she might even have a place to stay for the next couple of days, and leave with some money in her pocket to boot.

First she'd have to ditch the car. Stash it someplace where no one could find it, but also a place where she could come back and get it, just in case.

Next, she'd have to beat herself up some. After all, no one can resist a damsel in distress.

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The Bears, the Beast, and the Blonde - Chapter One

2013-04-24T09:13:00.000-05:00

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Once upon a time, in the small town of Grimmelton, Kansas, there lived three bears.

These were no ordinary bears, mind you. They didn’t live in caves. They didn’t stand about by great North American rivers, idly swiping salmon from the churning waters as the poor fish struggled upstream in hopes of perpetuating their species. And they most certain did not spend the greater part of their day trying to steal honey from bees.

No, these bears where different.

These bears walked upright, used tools with opposable thumbs, spoke English with ease, wore the most fashionable clothing, and drove only the finest of automobiles. They attended high society functions and ate at the most expensive restaurants.

But these bears, the three of them, weren’t snobs. They gave great swaths of money to varying charities and volunteered most nights at the local soup kitchen where they laughed and made merry with all who walked through the doors. They were well loved and respected by many in the community, and the three bears reciprocated in kind … regardless of station or financial standing.

Burt Abraham Griswold, patriarch of this family of bears, crept silently across the freshly mown grass of his front lawn with a rifle in his hand. Burt was worried and fearful. He only had one round left in the rile. One round, and no spares in his pack. He tried to remain optimistic. One round and the right opportunity was all Burt needed to take his son out and end what the boy had started once and for all.

Burt crouched behind a hedgerow. He checked to make sure the gun was loaded properly. The hedges stretched out on either side of him, making a wall that lined the graveled walk which led to the front door of his house. Burt figured that it was just a matter of time before his son, Danny, came up the walk. Then, he would strike.

The sun shone almost directly overhead, which told Burt that this little campaign had gone on for over an hour now. Too long. He knew that he had to end it. He just needed to be patient.

A few minutes passed. The only sounds Burt could hear were the calls of birds, cars speeding down Walter Road, and a lawn mower somewhere in the distance. He checked the rifle once again.

Burt knew about guns from his tour in the war, but this one was strange to his hands. It didn’t fit quite right, but it was all he had. He would have to make due.

Soon Burt heard the distinct sound of gravel crunching under foot. It was time. He tensed as the footsteps drew near. Burt didn’t dare to look over the top of the hedge, but he knew that sound could only mean one thing. Danny was walking up the gravel path, heading towards the house, just as Burt knew he would.

Burt tensed, ready to spring when the moment came. He rested a finger on the trigger and pressed the rifle’s stock back against his shoulder. As the footsteps came to a point just on the other side of the hedgerow where Burt waited, he popped up like a jack-in-the-box, and squeezed the trigger.

Burt hit his target, but it wasn’t his son. It wasn’t Danny. It was a woman.

Burt had to stifle a laugh at the site of Mrs. Sugarbaker with a suction cup dart sticking dead center to her forehead.

“It looks like you got me, Mr. Griswold,” Henrietta Sugarbaker said, her voice the very essence of restrained fury.

“I’m so sorry about that, Henrietta,” Burt said, still fighting to hold back his laughter. “I thought you were Danny.”

“Do I look like your son?” She asked, her eyes narrowing at the familiar use of her first name.

Burt knew better then to answer. He could spot a rhetorical question at three hundred yards.

“Have you, maybe, seen Danny at all this morning, Mrs. Sugarbaker? You know, while you were out taking care of things?”

“No, Mr. Griswold,” she replied, pulling the dart from her forehead with an audible pop. “I have not seen young Danny.” Henrietta Sugarbaker was the head of grounds keeping for Burt and his family. “I have a feeling, however,” she continued, handing the dart back over to Burt and smiling slightly, “that he will see you, before you see him.”

That’s when Burt heard a faint click and felt something small hit him in the back of the head. Something like a suction cup dart.

“Gotcha!” a voice shouted from behind.

Henrietta Sugarbaker gave Burt a sly wink and walked on up the path towards the house. Burt turned to find a large tooth-filled smile with his son, Danny, standing behind it.

“I gotcha, Dad!” he shouted as he started to dance in place right there on the grass.

“What are you doing?” Burt laughed.

“I’m doing my ‘I Beat My Dad Happy Dance’,” Danny replied, still dancing.

“That looks a lot like your ‘Macaroni and Cheese Happy Dance’,” Burt said, walking over to this son and putting an arm around his shoulder.

“Well yeah,” Danny said, “It’s the only dance I know.”

Danny was nine years old and, for the moment, an only child. Burt couldn’t imagine loving something or someone more than he loved Danny. Except, of course, his wife. But the love he had for Beatrice just wasn’t the same as what he felt for Danny. It wasn’t any more or any less, it was just different.

A small beep sounded from the watch on Danny’s right wrist and the boy took a quick look at the numbers on the face.

“It’s twelve o’clock, Dad,” Danny started to rock back and forth while bouncing slightly. “Mom said we had to be back in by twelve. We gotta go. We gotta go,” his voice raised in pitch as he tugged on Burt’s hand.

“Okay, pal. Okay,” Burt let himself be pulled along.

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The Bears, the Beast, and the Blonde - Prelude

2013-04-22T13:55:00.000-05:00

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It was the coughing that woke him.

It was a hacking cough that he felt throughout his entire body. The cough took control over every muscle and sent pain shooting through each nerve. He’d been living with the cough for a number of years, and now he was dying with it.

After a few moments, the coughing subsided. He opened his eyes to sunlight that shone through the bank of windows behind his bed and he had to blink away the pain that the light brought as it bounced off of the snow outside.

He thought about going back to sleep, but he knew it wouldn’t last. Besides, he’d be dead soon. He could sleep all he wanted then.

He sat up and looked around the room in which he would spend his remaining days. It was a strange amalgamation of rustic hunting lodge and sterile hospital. The kind of place where doctors would spend their work hours tending to patients, and their off hours killing a few of God’s creatures.

His bed wasn’t the only one in the room, though it was the only bed currently occupied. This suited him just fine. He thought he might like to die without a lot of fuss and bother. Besides, if there were others sharing the room with him, they’d be in the same kind of shape he was in, and he didn’t quite feel like spending his last few hours on Earth listening to others wail and moan in anguish. In total, there were twelve beds in the room, six on his side, six on the opposite. That would have been a lot of whining and crying were the place full. Sometimes you just have to count your blessings.

He thought about leaving. Just climbing out of bed, pulling on his boots, and finding some decent place to die. A saloon, for example. He always figured he’d die in a saloon. A winning hand of poker in one hand and a six shooter in the other. At least he could have one last shot of whiskey before the lights went out. That’s one thing they won’t allow him here. That, and a little fun.

A nurse came into the room with fresh water. She looked cheerful and happy; the very embodiment of optimism and hope. He hated her for that reason alone.

“Good morning,” she sang. “How are we feeling?”

“I won’t be so bold as to speak for you, darlin’, but I feel like crap,” he said.

The nurse put the water on the little table to the right of his bed and checked his bedding. “You just tell me what you need,” she said, her face twisting into a smile that he thought made her look like a witless moron. “After all, we want to make you as comfortable as possible.”

“I could use a bottle of whiskey,” is what he wanted to say. Instead his body was wracked once again with a fit of coughing. He grabbed at a little white handkerchief that sat on his bedside table and covered his mouth with it. When the coughing subsided and he pulled the cloth away, he found it flecked with blood. More blood than usual. It was getting worse.

The nurse placed a cold hand to his forehead and made soothing noises meant to comfort and reassure him. He knew she meant well, but he hated her for it all the same, regardless of her intentions. He understood that she knew there was nothing that she, or anyone in the sanitarium, could do for him. His fate was sealed. It was only a matter of time. Yet they all continued to go through the motions, trying to make his remaining time comfortable and free of worry. And for that he would curse them with his last remaining breath.

The coughing fit had passed and so the nurse continued with her morning routine. She fluffed his pillow, made him get out of bed long enough to use the chamber pot, had him sit in a chair by the window as she changed his bedding, and forced him to listen to her prattle on and on about any little piece of information that popped into her empty head.

Soon it was time to get back into bed. As he lay back he looked down at his feet. He was going to die with his boots off. He smiled at the irony.

“The doctor will be in to see you later this afternoon. In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you?” the nurse asked as she tucked the fresh linens in around him, trapping him in the bed.

“How about a bottle of whisky?” he asked.

“You know we can’t allow that,” she replied, a look of sour disappointment crossing her face.

“Damn, this is funny,” was all he could say and sent her on her way with a whack on her behind.

There wasn’t much to do in the sanitarium, no one visited anymore, he wasn’t allowed whisky, and playing solitaire just reminded him of the old days.

All he had left, until death came to claim him, was sleep. He smiled for the second time that morning. Sometimes the irony was just too much.

# # #

He woke from the nightmare, sitting bolt upright in bed, a scream lodged in his throat. He looked around the room in panic, groping at his side for the pistols that were no longer there. He was alone.

He lay back on the pillow, the memory of the dream fading. He tried to bring it back, but it was like trying to grab smoke. There was a bear, he could remember that, a giant grizzly bear. It stood over him, clawing and biting in a frenzy. Ripping into his clothes, his flesh, his soul. That’s when he escaped into the waking world.

The room was dark. He’d slept most of the day. The coughing took him again, curling his body in on itself. It came so suddenly, and with such ferocity that he didn’t get a chance to snatch his handkerchief from the table. He didn’t even bother covering his mouth and instead let the blood spray the pristine white of his blankets.

The coughing subsided and he laid back, thinking that he might go back to sleep. Hoping that this time he wouldn’t wake.

“That was a bad one,” a voice said from the front of the room.

He sat up to find a man in a suit standing in the doorway, the light from the hall spilling over him.

The man’s suit was black, even the shirt. A black bowler hat sat perched at a jaunty angle atop the man’s head. There was something about the man, something … dark.

“You the new doctor?” He asked.

“No,” the man in black smiled. “I’m not a doctor.”

“What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you, John.”

John. No one has called him that in a great long time. “Then talk. I’m afraid I can’t guarantee you that I’ll survive the conversation.”

The man in black smiled again. He had a thick black mustache that hung down each side of his mouth. When the dark man smiled the mustache moved. It was like a black worm wriggling about on his lip.

“You aren’t doing too good, John,” the man in black said, coming into the room and approaching the bed. “I don’t think you are much longer for this life.”

“I got doctors to tell me the obvious. What do you want?” John asked in annoyance.

“John,” the man in black sat at the edge of the bed and looked down at him. “What if I told you that I could make you better? What if I told you that I could take the sickness away? That you could go back to gambling? That you could go back to being you?”

“How do you expect to do that?” John asked, a bitter smile on his lips. “You some kind of preacher? You gonna tell me that all I have to do is confess my sins and ask for forgiveness and then I’ll be allowed to walk through the gates of Heaven and all will be as it was?”

“No, John,” man in black laughed. “I’m no preacher. Well, not in the way you might define it.”

The man in black smiled again and John saw something in his eyes. Something that wasn’t quite … right. A touch of something unnatural. The look held no compassion. The look held nothing but contempt. Not just for John, but for everything. The bed, the room, even the world beyond. There was something about the man’s eyes that held John. Pulled him in. Captivated him. The eyes were somehow comforting and familiar. A chill raced through John.

“Who are you?” John asked, his voice nothing more than a whisper.

“I’m the one who can help you, John. The only one. I can return you to your glory. Imagine it. Imagine it, John. Imagine being back in the saloons. A winning hand, a shot of whisky, the women, the fear you inspired in people. Now imagine it without this sickness eating you up from the inside out. Imagine it, John.”

“It sounds nice,” John said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears as he gazed deep into the man’s eyes

“I can do that for you, John. Me. Only me.”

“How?” John asked. “How can you do that?”

“Just know that I can, John. Do you believe me? Do you believe that I can do this for you? Do you believe in ... me?”

“I do. I do believe,” John said, floating. Floating away as if on a cloud. Loosing himself in the man’s dark eyes.

“The only question, John, is how much would you be willing to pay? What would you give to go back? To go back without the sickness and do it all over again? How much would you pay?”

“Everything,” John said, John whispered, John floated. “Anything.”

“I have a some paperwork here, John. You see?” The dark man was holding a short stack of papers. Papers filled with words written in thick, black ink. Words that looked to be written in an alien or long dead language. The words were scrawled across the pages is such a way that they seemed to be alive, crawling and wriggling around the papers in desperate impatience. But John didn’t see any of this. John hadn’t moved. He refused to break his gaze. His eyes stayed connected with the eyes of the man in black.

“Yes,” John said. “Yes, I see.”

“All I need from you is your signature, John. Just that. You signature, right here on this line,” the man gestured to a line at the bottom of the paper.

“My signature?” John asked dreamily. “That’s it?”

“That’s it, John.” The man in black placed a pen in his hand. “Just sign, John. Just sign right here and everything will change.”

John signed. Not once did he look away from the dark man. John signed the paper, his hand moving as if on its own, a smile of ecstasy forming on his face.

“Good, John. Good,” the man in black said, rolling up the paperwork and standing. “Now, just go back to sleep. Sleep for the last time. And when you wake, all will be different. When you wake, you will be yourself again.”

“Myself, again,” John said, yawning and closing his eyes.

Soon John was snoring, his blankets pulled up to his chin. The man in black remained. Watching. Waiting.

John’s breathing slowed. The dark man waited.

John coughed weakly. The dark man watched.

John's heart stopped. The dark man smiled.

“Now we shall see,” the man in black said to the empty room. “Now we shall see.”

# # #

Three hours after the last breath left John’s body, as the early morning sun began to filter in through the frost covered windows, a girl entered the room and approached John’s bed.

She looked to be about six or seven and wore a plain wool dress that was a gray so dark in color that it was almost black. In general she was a very unremarkable little girl. She did however, have two odd peculiarities about her.

The first was a large five pointed star that was sewn upon the front of her dress, right smack in the center. The star was made from a fabric so white that it seemed to glow and pulse with its own inner light.

Her second peculiarity was her hair. It was a shade of brown that was quite common and not at all remarkable, but it was done up in no less than seven pony tails that stuck up in random points atop her head, the rest hanging to just above her shoulders.

The little girl looked upon John’s lifeless form with sadness as she placed a hand to his brow.

A tear rolled slowly down her cheeck and landed upon the star on her chest.

The little girl removed her hand from John’s brow and placed it upon his still chest, resting there only for a moment, before she let it drop back to her side.

“Don’t worry, John,” she said, her voice just a whisper. “I’m not ready to give up on you just yet.”

She turned her back on John’s body and made her way back across the room to the door, moving in an effortless manner, almost floating across the wooden floor.

She stopped at the threshold and smiled, turning to look back at John once more from over her shoulder.

“It’s never too late, John. It’s never too late.”

And with that, she was gone.

beginning | previous | next

Our Adventure Continues May Never Be The Same .... Possibly

2013-03-18T16:37:00.001-05:00

March 19, 2013, begins a story line that changes the face of Our Adventure Continues forever, at every point in time, and throughout every possible reality!

Maybe.

With such startling news (true or false, you decide), now would be a good time to jump in and get yourself caught up before EVERYTHING CHANGES ... IF IN FACT EVERYTHING DOES CHANGE!

If you don't get caught up, if you aren't there on March 19th (which is tomorrow, by the way) for the beginning of the end, you will end up with an uncontrollable sense of worthlessness that will follow you for the rest of your life.

You will grow to find that every choice you made from this moment forward was wrong.

You will come to discover a burning sensation between each of your toes that will remain with you until the end of your days!

You will lie in bed, each and every night, from this day on, tossing and turning, yearning for sleep, but never knowing it's gentle caress, all because you refused to pay heed to the hyperbole in this message and did not go check out Our Adventure Continues!

Shame on you.

Shame.

www.ouradventurecontinues.com

#Hyperbole

Our Adventure Continues

2013-03-08T07:46:00.000-06:00

Have you read the webcomic I'm writing?

It's called Our Adventure Continues and the art is done by the wonderfully talented Harold C. Jennett III.

Just click the banner there below and it will take you right there.

Put simply, Our Adventure Continues is like the Muppet Show meets Monty Python’s Flying Circus … except without all of the puppets and British people.

But to get more specific, Our Adventure Continues is strip about a couple of fellas going through the trials and tribulations of making a web comic and all the zany stuff that happens along the way.

The heroes of Our Adventure Continues are Harold and Steeven.

Harold is the artist.

He’s angry, impatient, and hates the smell of yogurt.

Steeven is the writer.

He’s happy, a little dim, and loves bacon.

Together the two struggle to create something new and fresh but usually wind up just getting in each other’s way.

So join us every Tuesday and Thursday and see grown men fighting, talking horses, and vikings with smart phones as Our Adventure Continues.

Read an Ebook Week - Get My Book For Free

2013-03-03T16:14:00.000-06:00

Get Norman Oklahoma and the Zombies Fanboys of Doom for free at Smashwords during Read an Ebook Week.

You can find the book here at the following link: www.smashwords.com/books/view/274834 and Use the code RW100 at checkout to get this book for FREE.

This offer is only good through March 9, 2013.

So what are you waiting for.

It's short, it's free, it's fun ... it's just a winning type of situation all the way around.

Our Adventure Continues

2013-02-05T11:42:00.001-06:00

Have you had a chance to look at my new web comic?

It's called Our Adventure Continues and you can find it at the link below:

www.ouradventurecontinues.com

Go check it out ... I dare you.

Where Can you Buy My Book?

2013-01-22T16:59:00.000-06:00

So I got this new eBook out, you've heard of it ... Norman Oklahoma and the Zombie Fanboys of Doom ... that's the one.

Well, there are a few different places online you can go pick on up for only 99 cents.

You can get a copy on Amazon - LINK

You can also pick up an electronic copy on Kobo - LINK

And of course you can get it in multiple formats over at Smashwords - LINK

Got a Kindle, iPad, other eReader, smart phone, laptop, PC, or Mac?

Got 99 cents?

Do you like to read tales of high adventure?

Then what are you waiting for?

Go buy Norman Oklahoma and the Zombie Fanboys of Doom!

How To Purchase the Norman Oklahoma eBook

2013-01-15T09:16:00.002-06:00

My first ever eBook is now available for purchase online for only $0.99.

You can purchase the book in multiple formats over at Smashwords by clicking the following link:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/274834

So if you have a Kindle, you can download it for your Kindle.

If you use the Apple iPad/iBooks, Nook, Sony Reader, Kobo, or most e-reading apps including Stanza, Aldiko, Adobe Digital Editions, and others, you can download the epub version and read it on one of those readers.

If you don't have an eReader, don't fear, you can also download the pdf version and read it on your PC or laptop.

Basically, we got you covered.

So just click on the link and you can purchase the book. It's just that easy.

Norman Oklahoma eBook

2013-01-14T17:35:00.000-06:00

The eBook version of Norman Oklahoma and the Zombie Fanboys of Doom is almost ready to publish.

I've spent the last couple of weeks giving it a bit of a re-write and working up a cover (that's the cover there to the left). That part is complete.

Now I have a couple of folks reading it over looking for typos, spelling errors, continuity errors, and just anything they feel doesn't make a lick of sense.

However, this should be up and ready to purchase for just 99 cents sometime this week.

More information to come.

Oh, and I don't know about you, but I'm flipping excited!

Priorities Script - Page Five

2013-01-09T16:27:00.000-06:00

I've gotten a little behind with these, so you may get another one on Friday.

Anyway, here's the script to Page Five of Priorities.

It's a pretty straightforward page and Harold pretty much followed it to the letter.

Truck goes into the crack, truck comes out of the crack, that's all she (or in this case 'he', meaning me) wrote.

PAGE 5

ROW 1 – One wide panel

The truck drives into the giant crack in the road. Both Jonathan and Martha are screaming. It would be great if their word balloons follow them into the crack.

ROW 2 – One wide panel

Same as previous panel, but no truck, all is quiet.

ROW 3 – One wide panel

Same as previous panel. But Captain Might is flying out of the crack carrying the truck. Jonathan and Martha are still screaming. Again it would be cool if their word balloons follow them out of the crack.

NARRATION BOX: Maybe I can find the time to grab a sandwich on the way back to the office.

It wasn't until after the page was complete and published that I thought of a better line for that narration box. That's they way it goes, I guess.

See the finished page here: http://www.ouradventurecontinues.com/2012/12/005-priorities-page-five.html

Do You Ever Get Tired Of Being A Horse?

2013-01-08T12:40:00.001-06:00

www.ouradventurecontinues.com

No ... That's Stupid.

2013-01-04T08:52:00.000-06:00

www.ouradventurecontinues.com

Priorities Script - Page Four

2012-12-27T14:13:00.000-06:00

I'm really having fun going back and looking at these scripts and then looking at the finished page and seeing how they've changed.

This one didn't really change too much. I wrote it with five panels ... one in the top row, two in the middle row, and two in the bottom.

Harold just did four rows of one panel each ... and, of course, it works.

Heck, it works much better than what I envisioned, but whatever :)

So here you go, the script to page 4:

PAGE 4

ROW 1 – One wide panel

We see an old, 50’s style pick-up truck driving down an old dirt road.

NARRATION BOX: I get two fifteen minute breaks a day and one thirty minute lunch.

NARRATION BOX: Most guys would spend that time with a book, or a cigarette, or both.

ROW 2 – Two Panels

PANEL 1

A middle-aged couple are seen in the cab of the truck. JONATHAN is driving, MARTHA is the passenger.

JONATHAN: All I’m saying, Martha, is that if I want a soft shell taco, I should be allowed to get a soft shell taco.

MARTHA: Now Jonathan, you know those thing go right through you.

PANEL 2

We see the truck from a distance. In the foreground is the road. There is some rumbling sound effects and a large crack is opening in the road.

ROW 3 – Two Panels

PANEL 1

Inside the truck. Jonathan is looking at Martha. He looks angry. Martha is looking out the windshield, she’s screaming.

JONATHAN: I’m a grown man, Martha. I can make my own choices if –

MARTHA: JONATHAN! THE ROAD!

PANEL 2

Close up of Jonathan screaming, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

JONATHAN: GREAT CAESAR’S GHOST!

Now that you've read the script, go read the page:

http://www.ouradventurecontinues.com/2012/12/004-priorities-page-four.html

Priorities Script - Page Three

2012-12-21T12:34:00.001-06:00

Page three of Priorities brings us our first glimpse of Captain Might's secret identity, Oliver Jordan.

I'll admit, there's a bit of me in Oliver.

I'd like to write more of Ollie at work at some point in the future, just to exorcise my own call center demons. If you've ever worked at call center then you know just how painful it can be dealing with callers and coworkers alike. I'm surprised no one has made a movie or television show set in a call center environment as it is ripe for plucking that comedy fruit.

It did take me a while to determine just what kind of call center Ollie would work for. In the end I decided on Solutions Inc. I like to think that they work on all kinds of contracts for varying companies answering a variety of questions regarding a truckload of products and services.

PAGE 3

I’m seeing this page as three rows of panels.

Rows one and two take up the top half of the page. Row three takes up the bottom half of the page.

ROW 1 – PANELS 1 AND 2

Wide panel split into two parts. There is a crowd or reporters that take up the background, like a row of them that stretches across both panels.

PANEL 1

Captain Might is in the foreground, his back is to the reader so he is facing the reporters.

NARRATION BOX: Speaking of priorities …

REPORTER 1: WILL MUDFISH BE BACK?

NARRATION BOX: This doesn’t even make the list.

PANEL 2

Captain Might is flying away.

NARRATION BOX: Besides …

REPORTER 2: ARE THE RUMORS OF YOU AND LADY V TRUE?

NARRATION BOX: I only have three minutes left on my break.

Also, among both of these panels, since there is a crowd of reporters, maybe a few random “CAP!” and “CAP, ONE QUESTION!” thrown in here and there.

Other questions to use if room:

WILL SHADOW FOX RETIRE?

WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT THE UNEMPLOYMENT PROBLEM?

IS CONTINUALLY THROWING MUDFISH INTO THE OCEAN CRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT?

ROW 2 – PANELS 3 AND 4

PANEL 3

Outside some type of building in the background. In the foreground is a sign, something you’d see outside of a big call center (I have a reference picture). The sign says: SOLUTIONS INC.

PANEL 4

Same as Panel 2, but Cap is streaking by, maybe he’s all blurry like he’s moving too fast.

ROW 3 – PANEL 5

PANEL 5

Ollie is sitting at his cubicle. He has a headset on. Maybe there is a name plate up that says OLIVER JORDAN and the word SUPERVISOR under the name. Ollie looks bored.

NARRATION BOX: Here I’m not Captain Might.

NARRATION BOX: Here, I’m Oliver Jordan.

OLLIE: No sir, it’s a foot powder. If you’ve ingested it, I recommend that you hang up and call 911 with all due haste.

NARRATION BOX: I know it doesn't seem like it, but this is very high on my priority list.

NARRATION BOX: After all, saving the world doesn't put food on the table like it should.

Okay, now that you've read the script, go read the page:

http://www.ouradventurecontinues.com/2012/12/003-priorities-page-three.html

Priorities Script - Page Two

2012-12-12T08:11:00.000-06:00

Priorities is the third complete comic script I've ever written, so I'm not really an expert when it comes to the ins and outs of crafting a working script.

Before my first script, I did go out and do a lot of research to learn how it is supposed to be done. I spent a lot of time on various areas of the web that 'taught' you how to format a comic script, and I combed through examples from other writers. When all was said and done, there was one thing I learned through my research, and that is that there really isn't a right or a wrong way to create a script ... in the end it really depends on your artist and the working relationship the two of you have.

Some writers put everything on the paper. They meticulously describe each panel from the pose of the characters to the number of coins that are sitting on a bedside table. Some even go as far as drawing basic layouts for the artist to follow.

Some writers throw a very loose plot out there to the artist with all the dialogue written and then trust the artist to come up with the best visual representation for the story.

I did a little of both.

Page Two is a perfect example of the loose plot method. Heck, all eight pages are. I mean, I had this basic idea and outline in my head and then Harold and I just talked everyday and we took it a page at a time.

Most of Page Two was written by IM, so there is very little in the script apart from dialogue, so I thought it would be fun to post the transcript of the IM and you can read along as a page is created:

August 1st, 2012

Steeven: I have the description to page 2 :)

Harold: I WANNA SEE!!!

Steeven: Well, maybe half of the page.

Harold: Sigh...

Steeven: Captain Might grabs Mudfish by his chest plate and flings him out to sea. That's it.

Harold: I'm going to make the chest plate an old diving helmet.

Steeven: Cool

Steeven: I've decided that Mudfish has a history with the city. He attacks and Cap flings him out to sea. Mudfish can breath underwater, but he can't swim, so he spends two weeks walking the ocean floor back to the city, where he attacks again, and then Cap flings him back out to sea. There's no way to kill Mudfish, and he can ooze his way out of any prison, so every two weeks Cap has to fling him out to sea

Steeven: Can you draw like sea weed hanging off of his helmet and stuff?

Harold: Yup.

Harold: I love that he can't swim.

Harold: So the poor guy walks back every time? LOL

Steeven: Yeah.

Steeven: How much of a page do you think it will take to show Cap grabbing Mudfish and flinging him out to sea?

Steeven: Oooh, wait .... I think I have an idea. Let me see if I can break something down.

Harold: OK

Steeven: OK, help me with a break down. I want Mudfish to say something like: "Our enternal contest continues" but is interrupted on the last word as Cap grabs him, so it's like "Our eternal contest continues--ERK!" So. Should that be two panels, or one panel?

Harold: I think a half page or 1/3 page of Cap flying at Mudfish, while Mudfish is saying his thing.

Harold: A circle shaped panel of Cap grabbing him, with the "ERK!"

Harold: Then a quarter or 1/8 panel of him throwing Mudfish into the distance, towards the ocean, or maybe INTO the ocean.

Harold: So I could do that in about a half page, or maybe 2/3 a page.

Steeven: See, I want a panel that then shows the middle of the ocean with a caption that says: "1.5 THOUSAND MILES FROM SHORE" and then the next panel is Mudfish splashing into the ocean.

Steeven: So all that can fit on the same page, right?

Harold: That added could take up almost the whole page.

Harold: But I like it.

Steeven: I almost want a panel showing him hitting the bottom, then a panel showing him getting up and a panel of him starting the walk back .... but that's too much for this story, we can save that for the all Mudfish short story that goes over this happening all the time :)

Harold: NO NO NO NO NO!!

Harold: I LOVE that!

Harold: I think we could fit that in the whole page.

Steeven: If you think we can do it, then let's do it.

Harold: He says his thing. Cap grabs him. Throws him. Ocean panel with how far away it is, he splashes in. Lands at the bottom. Starts walking, with a "Sigh..."

Harold: Some panels would be smaller.

Harold: Want me to try laying it out for you, instead of coloring?

Steeven: What would you rather do?

Harold: Well, you kind of need to know how many pages you'll have, no?

Steeven: Yeah, kinda. I know that I may want a little narration on the page, not a lot, just some slight narration, so we may have to spread it out among two pages if there's going to be text pages as well ... or one and a half. We can take out the first page just being a splash page of Cap. And this page can be the first one.

Harold: How much more narration do you need? It's just him in a fight.

Steeven: Yeah, but he's going to start in talking about setting priorities.

Harold: I thought he did that on the splash page?

Harold: I think (and I know I haven't read it all yet) you'll need to mix it up anyway.

Harold: One page of narration, then give the reader a page of action and fun, and then the next page can can some more narration.

Steeven: I want to spread out the narration as much as possible. I don't want to have too much text in one place. There will be some narration on the splash page, and possibly 2 to 3 short text boxes of narration on page two

Steeven: I'm not going to use a lot of narration, but I think most pages will have some.

Steeven: For example, the page you are working on now, there may be a one line narration box on the first panel, and a one line narration box on the last panel.

Harold: I think you'll have room. I'll send you a jpeg of the layout I just did.

Steeven: ok

Harold: You might need to throw in there somewhere his name, and that he can't swim.

Steeven: Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.

Harold then sends me a very rough outline of the page. I take that page and add numbers to it. Those numbers represent where I want the narration and caption boxes to go, and then the numbers themselves correspond to the text on the script.

So, here's the breakdown page with my numbers:

Here is the script that goes along with it:

PAGE 2

(1) MUDFISH: CAPTAIN MIGHT! OUR ETERNAL STRUGGLE CONTINUES!

(2) NARRATION BOX: This is Mudfish.

(3) NARRATION BOX: He’s a priority.

(4) CAPTION BOX: 1.5 THOUSAND MILES FROM SHORE.

(5) NARRATION BOX: Oh, don’t worry about him.

(6) NARRATION BOX: He can breathe under water.

(7) NARRATION BOX: He’ll be back.

(8) NARRATION BOX: Eventually.

And finally, you can click on the link below and see what made it on the final page and what didn't:

ouradventurecontinues.com/2012/12/002-priorities-page-two.html

Priorities Script - Page One

2012-12-08T20:29:00.000-06:00

I've decided to start posting the script for a comic story I've written called Priorities. The story itself is being posted one page a week over at ouradventurecontinues.com right now.

So, one after a page goes up there, I'll post the script for it here along with a link to the page itself. That way, you can see how much the page has changed from the script.

Priorities is an eight page story that I created with Harold Jennett for an anthology that sort of fell through.

When we came up with the idea, I started throwing a bunch of stuff on paper until a story began to take shape. Then Harold and I would talk about what we wanted to do, page by page, on IM or email. Because of that, a lot of what's in the script is pretty sparse, and yet some is really detailed.

Here's the script for page one:

PAGE 1

Splash Page – Captain Might is flying directly at the reader with his fist out. If Captain Might was to come through the page, he’d punch the reader in the face.

TITLE: LUNCH HOUR LEGENDS PRESENTS:

TITLE: CAPTAIN MIGHT IN:

TITLE: PRIORITIES

NARRATION BOX: I’m still new at this.

NARRATION BOX: This whole ‘Super Hero’ thing.

NARRATION BOX: You learn real quick that it’s all about priorities.

NARRATION BOX: After all, I’m just one guy. I can’t be everywhere at once.

NARRATION BOX: Believe me, I’ve tried.

You can see the completed page here: Link to Page One

The first difference you may notice is the deletion of the title: LUNCH HOUR LEGENDS PRESENTS.

Back when we first started in on this project, Harold and I planned on calling our little studio Lunch Hour Legends because we worked on each page during our lunch hour. We've since decided against the name ... I think we made a good choice.

Goldilocks? You Aren't Done With That Yet?

2012-10-29T16:29:00.000-05:00

It feels like it’s been two months and five days since I’ve posted anything here on the site … but that’s probably because it has been two months and five days.

Well, I just haven’t had anything to post about.

Now I do.

I’m back working on my final draft of Goldilocks. I made this mistake of trying to go serious with it, even making the bears humans. Then I realized that that just wasn’t the way to go. I originally tried to write something a little silly and that’s what I’m sticking with.

Here’s the new opening:

OUR STORY BEGINS, as some tend to do, at the beginning. Some tales like to start in the middle, or when the author is feeling particularly clever, at the end. Not this story. Not this author. Not this time.

First off, the author in this case, which is me by the way, is feeling anything but clever. Childish, whimsical, maybe even a bit silly. But clever? Not today, thanks.

Secondly, it makes a bit of sense to start at the beginning this kind of tale. That way, you, the reader, won’t be too surprised when the big reveal is made a little later in the book. Of course, there will be some amount of surprise … that’s the hope, anyway … that’s what writers strive for in these types of fantastical yarns, but we also don’t want the reveal to come straight out of left field and take you completely out of the book by smacking you across the face with the fish of disbelief. I mean, there has to be a bit of foreshadowing doesn’t there?

So, with that in mind, we start this one off with a man. A man alone. A man in bed. A man with a cough. A man who isn’t feeling all that well. A man with a mustache.

Okay, so far, not too captivating.

Sorry.

I’ll try a different tack.

It was the coughing that woke him.

It was a hacking cough that he felt throughout his entire body. The cough took control over every muscle and sent pain shooting through each nerve. He’d been living with the cough for a number of years, and now he was dying with it.

After a few moments, the coughing subsided. He opened his eyes to sunlight that shone through a bank of windows behind his bed and he had to blink away the pain that the light brought as it bounced off of the snow outside.

He thought about going back to sleep, but he knew it wouldn’t last. Besides, he’d be dead soon. He could sleep all he wanted then.

He sat up and looked around the room in which he would spend his remaining days. It was a strange amalgamation of rustic hunting lodge and sterile hospital. The kind of place where doctors would spend their work hours tending to patients, and their off hours killing a few of God’s creatures.

His bed wasn’t the only one in the room, though it was the only bed currently occupied. This suited him just fine. He thought he might like to die without a lot of fuss and bother. Besides, if there were others sharing the room with him, they’d be in the same kind of shape he was in, and he didn’t quite feel like spending his last few hours on Earth listening to others wail and moan in anguish. In total, there were twelve beds in the room, six on his side, six on the opposite. That would have been a lot of whining and crying were the place full. Sometimes you just have to count your blessings.

He thought about leaving. Just climbing out of bed, pulling on his boots, and finding some decent place to die in. A saloon, for example. He always figured he’d die in a saloon. A winning hand of poker in one hand and a six shooter in the other. At least he could have one last shot of whiskey before the lights went out. That’s the one thing they won’t allow him here. That, and a little fun.

A nurse came into the room with fresh water. She looked cheerful and happy; the very embodiment of optimism and hope. He hated her for that reason alone.

“Good morning,” she sang. “How are we feeling?”

“I won’t be so bold as to speak for you, darlin’, but I feel like crap,” he said.

The nurse put the water on the little table to the right of his bed and checked his bedding. “You just tell me what you need,” she said, her face twisting into a smile that he thought made her look like a witless moron. “After all, we want to make you as comfortable as possible.”

“I could use a bottle of whiskey,” is what he wanted to say. Instead his body was wracked once again with a fit of coughing. He grabbed at a little white handkerchief that sat on his bedside table and covered his mouth with it. When the coughing subsided and he pulled the cloth away, he found it flecked with blood. More blood than usual. It was getting worse.

The nurse placed a cold hand to his forehead and made soothing noises meant to comfort and reassure him. He knew she meant well, but he hated her for it all the same, regardless of her intentions. He understood that she knew there was nothing that she, or anyone in the sanitarium, could do for him. His fate was sealed. It was only a matter of time. Yet they all continued to go through the motions, trying to make his remaining time comfortable and free of worry. And for that he would curse them with his last remaining breath.

The coughing fit had passed and so the nurse continued with her morning routine. She fluffed his pillow, made him get out of bed long enough to use the chamber pot, had him sit in a chair by the window as she changed his bedding, and forced him to listen to her prattle on and on about any little piece of information that popped into her empty head.

Soon it was time to get back into bed. As he lay back he looked down at his feet. He was going to die with his boots off. He smiled at the irony.

“The doctor will be in to see you later this afternoon. In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you?” the nurse asked as she tucked the fresh linens in around him, trapping him in the bed.

“How about a bottle of whisky?” he asked.

“You know we can’t allow that,” she replied, a look of sour disappointment crossing her face.

“Damn, this is funny,” was all he could say and sent her on her way with a whack on her behind.

There wasn’t much to do in the sanitarium, no one visited anymore, he wasn’t allowed whisky, and playing solitaire just reminded him of the old days.

All he had left, until death came to claim him, was sleep. He smiled for the second time that morning. Sometimes the irony was just too much.

****

He woke from the nightmare, sitting bolt upright in bed, a scream lodged in his throat. He looked around the room in panic, groping at his side for the pistols that were no longer there. He was alone.

He lay back at the pillow, the memory of the dream fading. He tried to bring it back, but it was like trying to grab smoke. There was a bear, he could remember that, a giant grizzly bear. It stood over him, clawing and biting in a frenzy. Ripping into his clothes, his flesh, his soul. That’s when he escaped into the waking world.

The room was dark. He’d slept most of the day. The coughing took him again. Curling his body in on itself. It came so suddenly, and with such ferocity that he didn’t get a chance to snatch his handkerchief from the table. He didn’t even bother covering his mouth and instead let the blood spray the pristine white of his blankets.

The coughing subsided and he laid back, thinking that he might go back to sleep. Hoping that this time he wouldn’t wake.

“That was a bad one,” a voice said from the front of the room.

He sat up to find a man in a suit standing in the doorway, the light from the hall spilling over him.

The man’s suit was black, even the shirt. A black bowler hat sat perched at a jaunty angle atop the man’s head. There was something about the man, something … dark.

“You the new doctor?” He asked.

“No,” the man in black smiled. “I’m not a doctor.”

“What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you, John.”

John. No one has called him that in a great long time. “Then talk. I’m afraid I can’t guarantee you that I’ll survive the conversation.”

The man in black smiled again. He had a thick black mustache that hung down each side of his mouth. When the dark man smiled the mustache moved. It was like a black worm wriggling about on his lip.

“You aren’t doing too good, John,” the man in black said, coming into the room and approaching the bed. “I don’t think you are much longer for this life.”

“I got doctors to tell me the obvious. What do you want?” John asked in annoyance.

“John,” the man in black sat at the edge of the bed and looked down at him. “What if I told you that I could make you better? What if I told you that I could take the sickness away? That you could go back to gambling? That you could go back to being you?”

“How do you expect to do that?” John asked, a bitter smile on his lips. “You some kind of preacher? You gonna tell me that all I have to do is confess my sins and ask for forgiveness and then I’ll be allowed to walk through the gates of Heaven and all will be as it was?”

“No, John,” man in black laughed. “I’m no preacher. Well, not in the way you might define it.”

The man in black smiled again and John saw something in his eyes. Something that wasn’t quite … right. A touch of something unnatural. The look held no compassion. The look held nothing but contempt. Not just for John, but for everything. The bed, the room, even the world beyond. There was something about the man’s eyes that held John. Pulled him in. Captivated him. The eyes were somehow comforting and familiar. A chill raced through John.

“Who are you?” John asked, his voice nothing more than a whisper.

“I’m the one who can help you, John. The only one. I can return you to your glory. Imagine it. Imagine it, John. Imagine being back in the saloons. A winning hand, a shot of whisky, the women, the fear you inspired in people. Now imagine it without this sickness you have eating you up from the inside out. Imagine it, John.”

“It sounds nice,” John said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears as he gazed deep into the man’s eyes

“I can do that for you, John. Me. Only me.”

“How?” John asked. “How can you do that?”

“Just know that I can, John. Do you believe me? Do you believe that I can do this for you? Do you believe in ... me?”
“I do. I do believe,” John said, floating. Floating away as if on a cloud. Loosing himself in the man’s dark eyes.

“The only question, John, is how much would you be willing to pay? What would you give to go back to it? To go back to it without the sickness and do it all over again? How much would you pay?”

“Everything,” John said, John whispered, John floated. “Anything.”

“I have a some paperwork here, John. You see?” The dark man was holding a short stack of papers. Papers filled with words written in thick, black ink. Words that looked to be written in an alien or long dead language. The words were scrawled across the pages is such a way that they seemed to be alive, crawling and wriggling around the papers in desperate impatience. But John didn’t see any of this. John hadn’t moved. He refused to break his gaze. His eyes stayed connected with the eyes of the man in black.

“Yes,” John said. “Yes, I see.”

“All I need from you is your signature, John. Just that. You signature, right here on this line,” the man gestured to a line at the bottom of the paper.

“My signature?” John asked dreamily. “That’s it?”

“That’s it, John.” The man in black placed a pen in his hand. “Just sign, John. Just sign right here and everything will change.”

John signed. Not once did he look away from the dark man. John signed the paper, his hand moving as if on its own, a smile of ecstasy forming on his face.

“Good, John. Good,” the man in black said, rolling up the paperwork and standing. “Now, just go back to sleep. Sleep for the last time. And when you wake, all will be different. When you wake, you will be yourself again.”

“Myself, again,” John said, yawning and closing his eyes.

Soon John was snoring, his blankets pulled up to his chin. The man in black remained. Watching. Waiting.

John’s breathing slowed. The dark man waited.

John coughed weakly. The dark man watched.

John's heart stopped. The dark man smiled.

“Now we shall see,” the man in black said to the empty room. “Now we shall see.”

****

Three hours after the last breath left John’s body, as the early morning sun began to filter in through the frost covered windows, a girl entered the room and approached John’s bed.

She looked to be about six or seven and wore a plain wool dress that was a gray so dark in color that it was almost black. In general she was a very unremarkable little girl. She did however, have two odd peculiarities about her.

The first was a large five pointed star that was sewn upon the front of her dress, right smack in the center. The star was made from a fabric so white that it seemed to glow and pulse with its own inner light.

Her second peculiarity was her hair. It was a shade of brown that was much common and not at all remarkable, but what wasn’t hanging to just above her shoulders was done up in no less than seven pony tails that stuck up in random points atop her head.

The little girl looked upon John’s lifeless form with sadness as she placed a hand to his brow.

A tear rolled slowly down her check and landed upon the star on her chest.

The little girl removed her hand from John’s brow and placed it upon his still chest, resting there only for a moment, before she let it drop back to her side.

“Don’t worry, John,” she said, her voice just a whisper. “I’m not ready to give up on you just yet.”

She turned her back on John’s body and made her way back across the room to the door, moving in an effortless manner, almost floating across the wooden floor.

She stopped at the threshold and smiled, turning to look back at John once more from over her shoulder.

“It’s never too late, John. It’s never too late.”

And with that, she was gone.