Here it comes again...

I had almost convinced myself that I would completely ignore November this year. Last year was such a let-down; I couldn't even get into the Urinal Cakes thread with any sort of enthusiasm. Is my NaNoMoJo gone forever? Maybe.

Nevertheless, my good pals over at the Piker Press have been exerting a bit of peer pressure. KK for example made his participation conditional upon mine. "I'll do it if you do it." OK, if the old guy can do it, why can't I?

So that decision is made. Now, what to write? Start something completely new? Just head on over to the Seventh Sanctum and generate a random plot and get to work? This might be a good idea. Starting fresh with no preconceived notions of where I am going has worked well in the past. And yet I still feel that I would do better with a well thought out outline.

There are a couple of works-in-progress (meaning moldering away in that huge "I'll get to it" pile...) that I could pick up. This would technically be a bending of the NaNo rules, but would be serving a higher purpose: to get me writing again.

There is "The Education of Fred" which I have written a few scenes from. There is Zeniff the Spaceman and his trusty mining droid. I really have been wondering how he will get off that desert moon. "The Boy Named Sue" was a pretty good idea I had a few years ago, until I decided to make it a sci-fi western and tried to insert some old characters from another unfinished novel.

Whatever I decide to do, what Lao Tzu said about a journey of a thousand miles is true about writing a novel: it begins with a single word. (OK, he said step. But I am sure you knew that already.) I haven't done any writing at all for several months. This blog entry stands as the first writing of any kind I have done.

It also serves as a single step. Only 50,000 to go.

Wish me luck!

© 2010 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

The Looberry Shack

(Just a note by way of giving credit where credit is due. The entries that tell stories about Looberry Island are all my original work, but not all of the settings, plot devices, and/or characters are. They belong collectively and individually to a wonderful group of writers who come together every November in the Urinal Cakes thread on the NaNoWriMo forums. (And other places in the off-season.) I enjoy our random absurdity so much, I decided to continue it on my own, just as a writing exercise. If you are one of those wonderful authors, and you are not happy that I am borrowing your character, please let me know. I promise I will stop. But I hope everyone will see this as a tribute to this strange wonderful world we create together, and not plagiarism.)


The elephant, having decided that I was clean enough now, was sitting in front of me with a look of expectation on her face. (Yes, sitting. Like a dog, in fact.) I stared back, not sure what to do. "She's waiting for a treat. You need to give her a treat after all that hard work." The typist said, without looking up from her Macbook.

"Ummm... what do... I mean... what does...umm... I don't..." I stammered. What do you give an elephant for a treat?

"Poetry."
I jumped. The lady in black was back. She had a large mug of what I was pretty sure would be cooking sherry in one hand, and a tattered notebook in the other. I could smell the notebook from here. In fact, like a cartoon, I could see little wavy lines of stink rising from it. I felt nauseous.

"What is that?" I asked through the rising gorge I felt in the back of my throat.

"Cooking sherry, naturally." She answered, taking a long pull from the mug. I shook my head and fought the urge to cover my nose.

"No. What is that smell?"

"Oh. Poetry. I have a talent." The lady in black seemed pleased that I had asked, and she opened up the notebook. The elephant jumped up and began running around in circles, her little tail wagging back and forth. The ground was shaking, and I was feeling pretty nervous, but nobody else seemed to even notice that the elephant seemed to think it was a dog.
"You think that is weird? Wait til you meet the dog." The woman in black said.
I forgot she could read minds. The lounging typist had reached beneath her chaise and located a set of what appeared to be knitted ear muffs and was busy affixing them to her ears when a swarm of seagulls appeared out of nowhere.
I stood there, mouth agape with no clue where to turn, or what to do. I almost jumped out of my skin when someone grabbed my hand. I spun to see who it was, then my mind did some more spinning when I saw that it was a disembodied hand floating a few feet above the sand that had grabbed me. I thought I was going to pass out, but then the woman in black snapped: "Twilly! Invisible!"
A muffled voice replied: "Oh yeah, right. Forgot." The hand lengthened into an arm, then a shoulder, then a complete body holding a shimmering piece of knitted cloth in one hand, my hand in the other. It was a chubby guy wearing a "Dave Barry for President" t-shirt and a pair of tattered khaki shorts.
"You might want to get inside. It is about to get fishy out here." The flock of seagulls circling round the woman in black were dropping payloads at regular enough intervals that it sounded like a rainstorm, and then the pelicans showed up. Twilly tugged at my hand, and gestured with the shimmery cloth up the beach, away from the cavorting elephant. I looked where he was gesturing, and saw what I took at first to be a pile of construction waste. On second glance, I realized that it was actually some kind of a building.
"Let's go! You really don't need to hear this!" Twilly appeared to be getting nervous, and he looked longingly at the lounging typist's earmuffs. "I gotta get Chaimann to knit me some too!" The woman in black cleared her throat, and looked around imperiously at all of the people gathered around her on the beach. (By which of course I mean the elephant, the lounging typist with the knitted earmuffs, who was managing ten-finger typing while holding the tattered umbrella to protect herself from seagull payloads. And myself and the person she called Twilly, although he seemed to be determined to subtract us from the total.)
"Ode to Spatulas Employed as Disciplinary Tools" she proclaimed. And I swear I heard the elephant gasp: "OOOOH! My Favorite!"
Then Twilly was literally dragging me across the sand, shrieking at the top of his lungs: "I CAN'T HEAR YOU! I CAN'T HEAR YOU! I CAN'T HEAR YOU! LALALALALALALALA!" A fish dropped from out of nowhere to the sand, and a flock of gulls and pelicans pounced on it. I finally came to my senses enough to get my feet moving and Twilly and I picked up speed. As he neared the ramshackle building he screamed: "POETRY WARNING! TAKE COVER!" Several fish fell flopping to the sand, and a dark-haired woman in a tropical print mu-mu ran out with a skillet and caught two or three before dashing back inside. We reached the porch and Twilly dragged me up the stairs three at a time, all the while keeping up an ear-splitting racket of nonsense syllables and warnings of impending poetry and fish showers. The door slammed behind us, and Twilly collapsed against it, gasping for breath.
"What is this place? And why does it smell like a truck stop bathroom?" I asked the quivering Twilly. He looked at me for a second, then without a word, flung the shimmering fabric up and over his head. One second, he was sitting there staring at me with wide gaping eyes, and the next, I was staring at the spot where he had been sitting by the door. The gong orchestra in my head was back, and ticked off at the lack of applause. I was also beginning to feel a bit nauseous. I saw a tattered couch nearby, and I decided that for now, that looked like a safe place to relax and lose my mind. I plopped into it and massaged my temples. I was just beginning to calm down when I heard an imperious voice with an obviously fake British accent speak.
"Most Exalted of Castaways, may I interest you in a beverage and an anti-inflammatory tablet for your headache?" Finally! Someone interested in my comfort and sanity! I looked up to see who this un-looked for savior was, and the gong orchestra went berserk.

A baboon dressed in a starched tuxedo stood in front of me, holding a polished wooden tray with a glass of ice water (with a slice of lemon perched artistically on the rim) and what looked like two Extra-Strength Tylenol tablets on a neatly folded napkin. I gaped for only a moment, before nodding my head and taking the proffered refreshment and medication. I swallowed the tablets and drained the glass in one long gulp, then held it out to the baboon with a trembling hand. Although I am not an expert on animal behaviors under normal circumstances, I was positive that the baboon's eyes lit up with delight.
"May I serve your excellency some more fresh spring water?" I nodded numbly, not sure whether the very toothy smile the baboon was wearing was ingratiating or predatory. He placed my glass back on the tray and with a very polite bow turned and walked quickly out of the room.

Elephants that think they are dogs, fish that think they are rain, and now a baboon who thought he was a butler. What could possibly top all of that?

© 2009 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

Cooking Sherry?

Bacon. It was the sound of bacon frying that had drug me from the depths of unconsciousness. It had to be bacon the way it sizzled and hissed in my ears. That meant it was time for breakfast. Bacon and orange juice, with some toast and jam. That sounded wonderful. My stomach rumbled with hunger, and I realized that my throat and mouth were parched, and tasted of seawater. And sand. My mouth was full of sand. How did my mouth get full of sand?
I tried to open my eyes, and felt sand in them too. And my ears. I was covered in sand, I could feel it gritting between my toes. I could feel it between my pants and my skin, rubbing me raw. I wiggled my toes a bit, then my fingers. I tried to open my eyes, but the coating of sand over them had crusted them shut. I tried lifting my head. That was a definite mistake. Lights exploded in my head, pain shot from the crown of my head, down my spine and radiated like lightning across the back of my legs. I tried to cry out, but my throat only made a hoarse rasping noise which caused even more pain. My head dropped back down to the sand beneath my head.
Ouch.
That was stupid. I should just go back to sleep. Except I could still hear the bacon frying. Only I couldn't smell it. Probably because my nose was full of sand. Something cold and wet touched my feet, and my muscles twitched involuntarily. The cold wet receded, then with a rising hiss covered my feet again. Water. Why was water hissing at me like frying bacon and touching my feet? Why was I laying here, covered inside and out with sand?

"Why are you just laying there covered with sand?" A voice asked from somewhere above my head, startling me. My startled twitch caused the lights and lightning to explode again. Begging my head's forgiveness, I lay still again. A hoarse laugh came from the same place out there in the darkness, and I tried my hardest to pretend it did not exist. If it existed, then I would be forced to look and see who it was. Looking to see who it was would require movement of my head. Movement of my head seemed to trigger a torture device of some kind. Torture was bad. Never having been a great fan of pain, I tended to avoid torture. So I did my best impersonation of a statue. A statue covered in sand, listening to bacon fry, feeling water touching my feet. The laughter continued. I continued to deny its existence.
"You can't deny my existence.” Oh yeah? I thought, watch me.
“Any more than you can keep laying there in the sand. The tide is coming in." Apparently the voice could read my thoughts.
“Nah, I am just good at reading people.” That was strange. Especially for someone who did not exist.
"Do too..."
I refused to argue with a voice that did not exist. Especially with my mouth full of sand. And my ears. And my nose. And my pants. The sand in my pants was really starting to bother me. Almost as much as the non-existent voice. Then the coldness hit my feet again, this time travelling up as far as my crotch before receding. Perhaps the non-existent, mind-reading voice was right. Sand in all of my body crevices was one thing. Water in those same places would go from uncomfortable to downright dangerous.
Steeling myself for the effort, I tried again to get up. I got one hand beneath myself, pushed against the sand and rolled over to my side. My eyes were still crusted shut but I could tell that I was now facing towards the harsh sunlight. I continued rolling until I was on my back. The pain was still quite intense, but seemed to be mercifully receding a bit. I tried to take a deep breath in preparation for an attempt to sit up, but the sand in my mouth was somewhat incompatible with my throat and lungs. I gagged, choked, coughed and swore simultaneously as my body involuntarily sat up in an effort to clear my airways. Another wave of water chose this moment to splash into me, and I accidentally gulped a lungful of seawater to match the sand already in there. I rolled over to my hands and knees so that I could more properly wretch my guts out. The water had de-crusted my eyes at least, though they were still bleary and unfocused. I could make out two grayish shapes in the tan colored blur before my eyes. Must be my hands. Another wave rolled in, covering my hands with blurry foam. The wave came up at least as high as my elbows, and I realized with sudden horror that the non-existent voice had been right about the tide coming in. I crawled painfully up the beach, blinking my eyes and coughing and retching to clear my airways.
The non-existent voice was now cackling loudly. I was beginning to wonder if I should continue to insist on its nonexistence, since I needed some serious help and non-existent people are not very helpful. At least in my experience. I continued crawling away from the water hissing across the sand. (My initial fantasy of a nice bacon breakfast having been utterly ruined now.) I was picking up speed as my lungs found themselves processing more oxygen than sand and seawater now. My eyes were also clearing up, and the two grayish blurs became two grayish hands, which I recognized faintly as my own. I was crawling past bits of dried seaweed and driftwood now, so I guessed I was somewhere close to the high-tide water line. I stopped crawling and collapsed to one side in the sand. I lay there gasping for breath for a moment, until I noticed the blurry black shape a few feet away. It seemed to be a human shape, but my eyes were still refusing to give me anything more than a rudimentary impression of anything they were seeing. I tried to gasp out some kind of question about where I was and who it was, but got nothing more out than a sandy grunt. The black shape rippled with another short bark of laughter, then responded.
“Welcome to Looberry Island.” It said, waving one black-clad arm expansively. “Where all of your most demented pipe dreams come to life and run around quaffing cooking sherry.”


Cooking sherry?

(To be continued...)


© 2009 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved