Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Feb 7, 2012 13:25:53 GMT -5
IN THE BEGINNING it was just the roof. Looking back, Joe wondered if he should have put his foot down then. If he tried now, it would go right through the floor and end up who knows where, and in who knows what.
The sudden appearance of all those birds was his first clue. Birds are highly territorial creatures, but they aren’t the only ones who are.
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This is the start of my entry in Gawayn's creative writing contest. I hope I've followed the rules - please let me know if there is anything I need to change.
I hope it's ok that I made my entire first sentence the title of the thread - since IN THE BEGINNING was required to identify an entry and I haven't found any others yet, I didn't want to take that phrase and potentially have it unavailable to anyone else; I don't know the underlying protocol of thread creation.
Also, I didn't remember seeing parameters governing the length of entries; I hope I've written enough for a start!
Thanks! Aslana
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Post by Gawayn on Feb 14, 2012 15:07:19 GMT -5
There is no length governance...I want to give your creative impulse free rein. ;D
Was the above written after receiving your first rare in the mail?
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Feb 15, 2012 4:54:42 GMT -5
There is no length governance...I want to give your creative impulse free rein. ;D Was the above written after receiving your first rare in the mail? OOC: No, it was my start. My next installment - after receiving the first rare - is below, in which I'll repeat my start so my OOC comments at the end of my first post don't interfere with continuity.
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Feb 15, 2012 5:02:58 GMT -5
(First 2 paragraphs repeated for reason cited in post above.) ---------------------------
In the beginning it was just the roof. Looking back, Joe wondered if he should have put his foot down then. If he tried now, it would go right through the floor and end up who knows where, and in who knows what.
The sudden appearance of all those birds was his first clue. Birds are highly territorial creatures, but they aren’t the only ones who are.
He was out gathering ingredients for medicines, to trade to the apothecary in town, when it happened. The woman had given him a list of what she needed most, and he figured to concentrate on those today as he headed into the forest.
Three hours, one potato-sackful of coneflower, and at least 3 batches’ each of comfrey, feverfew, lobelia and henbane (had to be careful with that one, last year he forgot his gloves and Gus was only able to locate him in the dark by the screams because thrashing, twitching, sweating and hallucination don’t make much noise) later he was on his way back, when he noticed the fight in the trees.
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Feb 16, 2012 6:55:20 GMT -5
Joe was about to enter Blind Bard’s Plateful, a large bare patch of forest clearing; it was the racket that first startled him. At the opposite end, in the very summit of a huge oak, a nest of crows was being attacked by a group of sparrows outlined against a sky of cold blue swirl.
Now, a crow is big, and tough, and when it’s not cavorting with flying elephants, emits some of the most astonishing sounds to be found in the natural world if you haven’t had the foresight to cut your ears off in self-defense.
By contrast a sparrow is quite diminutive, a mere shotgun pellet. Since Nature doesn't favor the stupid, they never come at you in a small group; it’s more like an over-packed shell. Many an opponent has found itself the sudden center of attention of a plasma, homing in from all directions, of laser-guided, single-minded, feather-covered little individual missiles of agony with mad, rolling birdie eyes. When they’re done, you don’t need a coffin. An envelope is enough.
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Feb 17, 2012 0:19:03 GMT -5
Apparently sparrows are impervious to crows’ main weapon of collective aggression, also known as ‘CAAAAAAWWWWWWWWcroakcroakCAWCAWWcroakCAAAAAAAAAAAAAW!!!!!!!!CAAAAAAAAAAAAAW!’ and repeat as necessary until the brains of your opponent, or anyone really, have finished oozing out of their ears, because the oak tree and everything around it were soon firmly in the grasp of dozens of little sparrow talons and the crows were busy making music in birdie paradise, which probably caused everyone there to depart for a warmer climate.
All this happened before, but not long before, the squirrels showed up. In later years he often looked back and wondered if he should have blasted the first one when it appeared. He liked to believe it wouldn’t have mattered, he really did.
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Feb 24, 2012 19:22:01 GMT -5
The fair had been setting up for nearly 3 days. By now the small, brightly colored tents (“Madame Izmene, Diviner of Hidden Truth”, “Dr. Elgin’s Potions for Every Occasion”, “Treasures from Far Lands”) sprouting around the sequoia of the main goliath already looked like a giant mushroom forest.
Gus’s perennial favorite act was The Strong Man, and the patience of Joe’s technically elder brother was beginning to erode fast. Joe kept watch for signs of frustration; when it appeared he would try to find a pleasant task for Gus to do, in addition to Gus’s daily routine of minor duties. (Gus had been so proud to master completely each small task as it had been presented, and Joe had learned to rely heavily on the advice of the forest’s Weird Woman in his quest to help his brother lead a life as happy as possible.)
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Mar 8, 2012 0:48:56 GMT -5
That had been Gus’s last fair, although no one knew it then.
His name was Tripod. It had to be. Joe found him on his next foraging expedition in the forest, this time on an errand from the shire’s ranger, who needed fletching materials, and, as a sensitive soul, knew that Joe needed errands. Tripod had been caught in a hunter’s trap, a trigger-and-wire rig set up on the ground under a pile of leaves, that should have finished off any rodent who wandered into it, and resulted in someone dining on Coq au Rabbit or Mock Rat Stew, Hold the Mock. But the mechanism had caught on Tripod’s left rear leg, and he must not have been there long when Joe found him, because the little guy had not yet reached a state of frenzied desperation.
Tripod lay still within the trap, breathing heavily; it was clear he’d already exhausted himself trying to escape, and had entered the short window of time in which he was open to suggestion. Tripod looked up, and as Joe looked down, he saw fear, hope, and just one more day, please, beginning to be replaced by resignation and soon to follow, a maddened abandonment of dignity and identity, whoever it belonged to. In a sudden wash, surging as unexpectedly and powerfully as he had stomped them down (had it really only been 4 months, 2 weeks, and a day?), the sorrow, the melancholy, the loneliness and over all of them, always lurking, the memory, had Joe on his knees before he could remember how to breathe. The memory of Gus, of a smile that pulled you upwards to your better self, a heart with room for anyone, anyone, to climb into, and unfortunately, little else. Gus had been born the elder brother, but his luck had ended there. Gus had died the elder brother, and that’s where Joe’s luck seemed to have ended too.
Reaching out and down, he managed to locate the trap, despite the sudden wall of water pouring in front of his eyes from somewhere. Working quickly and as gently as he could, he cradled the squirrel, trap and all, rose, and made for the home of the Weird Woman. She wasn’t far, Joe was sure he knew which direction to turn his water-blinded face, and the squirrel seemed to understand this wasn’t the time for a fight, so maybe Joe did still have some luck left.
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Mar 9, 2012 12:19:08 GMT -5
At least he’d managed to run in generally the right direction. Someone grabbed him around the shoulders as he passed, gently but insistently, slowed him, and steered him. Joe continued cradling the injured squirrel delicately, and followed the guiding hands. The voice of the Weird Woman guided him through the threshold of her home and into a chair at the table. He gingerly lay the heavily breathing but still-calm squirrel gently on the table, his hands left shielding, cradling, and soothing his new friend to prevent panic setting in.
She took down from among the room’s many shelves a large grimoire labeled “Karadinizim”, bound in leather colored the blue of a deep sky, consulted the index, and turned to a page within the book. After a brief trip to a shed used to dry and store herbs and other supplies, she came back with a small bag and a mortar and pestle. Into the apparatus she dropped a handful of hazelnuts taken from a nearby jar, then crushed them into as fine a grind as was quickly possible. In went the powdered herbs from the supply shed; after a quick stir in went a little honey and some water, and she folded it all together. She took it over to Joe and put it in front of him.
Joe looked up, and she nodded toward the squirrel and handed him a tiny wooden spatula. “Just a little for now.” Joe took a small dab of the preparation and offered it to the squirrel, who examined Joe’s eyes briefly, sniffed at the spatula, then holding it in his front paws scraped off the medicine with his teeth and ate it. “The same amount, again, if you can.” Joe offered; the squirrel accepted, and seemed visibly to relax further even as he ate. Soon the squirrel was sleeping heavily. The Weird Woman sat down next to Joe and began examining the squirrel’s injured leg gently and more closely.
Working as deftly as possible with a pair of pliers and wire-cutters, she cut and removed the trap, and quickly and thoroughly cleaned the wound with witch hazel and a soft cotton cloth. She then offered Joe another cloth for his own face, and, where he removed a hand from the squirrel, did her best to replace his in propping up and soothing the little guy until Joe could attend to it again.
After a few minutes and a few times of reminding himself to breathe, the prognosis came: “He won’t be able to use the paw normally, and he’ll always favor the other rear leg, but he might eventually be able to limp well enough. In the meantime, he’ll be tilting all over the place as he gets accustomed to using the 3 remaining paws only. Are you willing to take care of him?”, which Joe considered more of a miracle than a question, and so Joe met Tripod. They left that night with a jar of the mild depressant that had Tripod sleeping, a hastily-constructed sling holding the squirrel warm just inside Joe’s jacket, and a directive to visit the apothecary in the morning for more extensive medicines.
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Mar 12, 2012 20:08:45 GMT -5
The first thing to remember about the apothecary is Try To Avoid the Confusion.
It wasn’t her fault. She’d been hit by a runaway cart year before last. Now when you talked to her you just had to keep one eye in the direction you wanted the conversation to go, and the other one on what direction she was facing so you could turn her around, and everything should be fine eventually.
Joe found her the next morning in her shop in the merchants’ section of town. He’d brought Tripod with him. As he walked in, the bell above her door rang, but no one appeared to be around, until he remembered to look over the shop counter.
“Mistress Ellswith?” he called down, as he peered over the counter.
She squinted up at him. Her skirts were bristling with mousetraps fastened loosely to her belt with wire and bits of string; there were few places where cloth was even visible. She appeared to have been setting more under the counter, although to Joe it appeared there wasn’t much floor space under the counter that wasn’t already crowded by mousetrap.
“I’ve come because of this little fellow here.” Joe opened his jacket to reveal a peacefully sleeping, lightly snoring, still slightly sedated Tripod the Squirrel.
“Ah, yes, of course. Do you like venison?” she asked as she rose from behind the counter.
“Er, yes…….”
“Then I know just what you want!” She turned to her many shelves of jars, passing along them until she came to a row marked “Mutatis Mutandis”. That shelf was full of jars, all of which appeared empty. Her index finger passed the labels of jars, reading under her breath, until she came to one marked “Deer”. Taking the jar, she turned around.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have venison tonight, we’ll soon have that little fellow turned into something especially delicious!”
“No, no!” Joe backed away in horror.
“Oh, I am sorry! Perhaps you’ve had enough venison? How about a nice boar?”
“No!”
“Hm. Pheasant? Peacok? Griffin? I’m telling you now, though, I won’t turn it into a dog. I don’t hold with those exotic tastes. Besides, dog will give you indigestion.”
Joe sighed, and prepared to steer. “No, I want him to be better, not eaten. He has an injured leg.”
“Ah, I see! How about a walrus, then?”
“Wh-h-h-h-h---- ?? ?? ?”
Mistress Ellswith turned back to her shelves, busily searching the labels of the apparently empty jars again and muttering under her breath, and Joe felt his grip on the conversation slipping. He shook his head, took a deep breath, and asked, “Why walrus, Mistress Ellswith?”
“They can swim, ducky, even if they have an injured tail or fin.”
Joe nodded, and felt pavement beneath his feet again. “Mistress Ellswith? I want him to remain the same shape, I just want to heal him.”
She turned back, and peered at him over her spectacles. “Ah, I see, ducky! Prefer squirrel for dinner after all, do you?”
Joe sighed, and tried for a convenient fork in the road. “Yes, Mistress Ellswith. I want healthy squirrel for dinner. Can you see if there’s anything you can do to help him heal more quickly? I’m getting awfully hungry.”
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Mar 14, 2012 7:13:21 GMT -5
As Joe walked home, he noticed that the population of sparrows he’d first seen in the forest last year seemed to have expanded as far as his own neighborhood, and were now vigorously attacking the residents of another nearby tree. He also noticed a hole in the attic regions of his own house and made a mental note to check it later that day.
Breakfast that morning consisted of eggs and dried beef (for Joe) and seeds, hazelnuts, gathered acorns, and medicine from the apothecary (for Tripod). Since the little fellow was still a bit groggy, Joe laid him gently in the makeshift nest he’d created from soft old clothing, and set about cooking eggs.
As Joe ate his breakfast, he let his mind wander as he often did in mental preparation for the coming day, and found his train of thought took him from “eggs” to a job he’d heard of once, a chicken sexer. Joe didn’t think of chickens as particularly sexy and shrugged as his daydreams made way for thoughts of investigating the hole in the attic. He went to the barn and fetched a ladder.
Closer investigation revealed the hole to have been chewed out of the wood, and the light dawned for Joe. The territorial gains of the sparrows had come at the expense of previous tree-dwelling residents and since birds don’t chew through roofs, that left one culprit – members of the local population of red squirrels. They must have been chased out of their home by the encroaching sparrows and sought new lodgings in Joe's attic.
After returning the ladder, Joe re-entered the kitchen to prepare a meal for Tripod. Opening the door to the kitchen, he was startled to find a pair of squirrels stealing some of Tripod’s acorns. The culprits seemed just as startled to find Joe walking in, and scampered quickly away. Since they had also scampered with part of Tripod’s breakfast, Joe grabbed the broom and chased them until they disappeared into a hole in the ceiling and, presumably, the attic above him.
Joe decided it was time to get some rodent traps for the attic, and remembered seeing someone recently who was practically festooned in the things. After the days’ work had been completed it would be back to the apothecary to see if he could borrow some mousetraps.
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Mar 14, 2012 20:21:28 GMT -5
After another visit to the apothecary late that afternoon to borrow mousetraps and try to navigate a runaway conversation, Joe returned with half a dozen traps. Afraid to leave Tripod alone in the house with intruders, he had brought the still groggy squirrel in the sling with him. On the way, he noticed a hole in the gate to the barnyard and made a note to contact the fencer for materials to fix it.
Taking the traps up to the attic, setting them, and fitting them with a little mashed acorn and soft cheese mixture took about half an hour. Once downstairs, he noticed Tripod seemed alert but not alarmed in his new nest. Joe reached his hand out slowly to the little guy so he could get used to Joe’s scent while fully awake, as the Weird Woman had suggested. After a few minutes of quiet bonding, Joe prepared some mashed seeds, acorns, and hazelnuts in the mortar and pestle borrowed from the Woman in the forest, then mixed in the proper dose of healing medicines from the apothecary. After folding in a little water and honey, he offered some to Tripod on a tiny wooden spatula; Joe’s new friend already seemed to be twitching his nose in anticipation and the dinner was accepted with gusto and apparent trust.
Joe found himself enjoying the birdsong of the sparrows that evening, so he put a bowl with a small amount of birdseed in a branch in a tree to attract more of the finches and other songbirds he’d caught glimpses of. Spring was one of his favorite times of year because of the chance encounters with returning songbirds. He looked up at the hole in the attic, and planned a patching job for the next day.
Up early and outside the next morning, Joe noticed all of the birdseed he’d left out last night was gone. He thought he’d been up before any birds could have finished it but maybe some were hungry enough to have gotten up even earlier than he had, so he shrugged and refilled the birdseed bowl. That’s when he heard the *SNAP* in the attic, and the howling.
Spinning around, Joe saw an adolescent squirrel run howling out of the hole in the attic, trailing a tail that had definitely fallen victim to a mousetrap. This was apparent because the mousetrap was still attached to said tail, and caught on a tree branch as the squirrel tried to make its getaway, ultimately resulting in hamstringed upside-down little squirrel flailing in the air. After a minute, the squirrel stopped flailing and threw a pathetic glance at Joe, while spinning slowly around in the spring breeze.
Joe looked, sighed, hung his head, then went in search of his ladder. Soon he was rescuing another squirrel, and returning to the Weird Woman for another trap removal and first aid job. The squirrel required a splint. Joe thought Joe required an examination of his mind, by a professional. The Weird Woman thought the new squirrel might require a name, and so Joe met Mousetrap.
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Mar 15, 2012 20:31:16 GMT -5
Patching the hole in the attic took the rest of the afternoon, after which Joe tended to his growing rodent infirmary. Mousetrap just required mild sedation to prevent him trying to dig the splint off his tail and was sleeping in his own new hastily concocted nest of Joe’s old clothes. Tripod had glanced meaningfully at the sling Joe used when traveling, so Joe tried placing him in the sling after dinner and wearing the sling next to his own chest while he tended to his evening's duties. Joe took the opportunity to inspect the squirrel for signs of infection or disease; everything looked fine. The squirrel settled in contentedly and was soon snoring gently and peacefully. Joe moved Tripod’s nest onto a table and placed it between his own bed and the adjacent wall so he could keep a close awareness of the healing process and anything that might disturb Tripod during the night.
Walking out in the now-evening light, Joe noticed that the birdseed bowl was empty again, so he made a mental note to get another handful in the morning and refill it then.
The next morning Joe rose later than usual, and turned first to check on Tripod – sound asleep and quietly snoring. Next stop Mousetrap, whose nest was on a table against the opposite wall of Joe’s bedroom. Also sound asleep but no snores.
Stifling a yawn and stepping outside, Joe stopped short. The birdseed bowl was crowded with nearly a dozen squirrels. As a group, the squirrels turned toward Joe’s sudden intake of breath, their mouths stuffed with birdseed. One or two of them seemed to drop its eyes guiltily for a moment, then they unfroze as one, turned and ran scampering away up into the treetops. As Joe stood still, amazed, one of them returned to the bowl, spilled the birdseed out of its paws and mouth back into the bowl, hung its head and dropped its eyes shamefully before scampering back up into the trees.
Joe stood still for a moment torn between angry and amazed. Then he turned, checked on his patients, fed them and gave them the appropriate medicines, and packing the happily and patiently waiting Tripod into his sling, placed it gently over his chest, and headed into the forest and the advice of the Weird Woman.
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Mar 18, 2012 7:49:59 GMT -5
She was laying out herbs to dry in the distant sun flames of the clearing she lived on the edge of. Joe explained the problem with the squirrel invasion and the theft of the birdseed. She listened, nodded and beckoned him toward her house while she disappeared into a storage shed.
She entered the house a few minutes later wearing heavy gloves and carrying a small bowl of dried peppers and a red-colored mortar and pestle. Placing these on the table and still gloves-clad, she gently dumped the bowl of peppers into the apparatus and pulverized them completely, then poured the powder carefully into a small waxed canvas bag and folded it over, sealing it closed by pinching the waxed surface together with gloved hands.
“You have gloves at home?” Joe nodded Yes. “Use them every time. Mix the powder with the birdseed. It does not bother the birds. I think it makes them healthier. It will bother the squirrels, who smell the pepper and avoid the seed. You want poison to place inside your house?”
Joe had a vision of Tripod in a trap and Mousetrap hanging from a tree branch, then squeezed his eyes closed. “No.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
“Think about it.”
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Aslana
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Post by Aslana on Mar 19, 2012 10:50:31 GMT -5
That evening, after taking care of his injured charges, Joe grabbed his sturdiest gloves, the birdseed bowl, his jar of birdseed, and the bag of crushed pepper. On his way to the barn he opened the bag of pepper and cautiously sniffed. A sudden wind gust resulted in a bigger sniff than he had intended; Joe managed to pinch the bag closed again on his way to the ground, engulfed in sneezes, watering eyes, and a nose that suddenly felt like an incinerator.
He lay there for a few minutes after he'd finished rolling around on the ground sneezing and cursing and trying to shake pepper powder out of his nose. Eventually he recovered enough to proceed to the barn, stick a clothespin over his nose and a piece of cheesecloth over his mouth, and put his gloves on. He resisted the urge to handle the bag of pepper with a pair of blacksmith’s tongs he’d inherited from his granddad.
He poured out some birdseed into the bowl, gingerly poured a tiny bit of powder on the birdseed, and gave the lot a quick stir with an paint stirrer he was sure he could live without when he burned it. No, he’d bury it instead. In a deep hole near a water source. Covering the birdseed bowl with an old piece of canvas, he carried it outside and returned it to it’s place in the tree, went back inside, checked on his new friends – both sleeping peacefully – and prepared to retire for the night himself.
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