*Tumbleweed*

I don't think I have the rights to this photo.  Oops.  Anybody care?  No?  Cool.  Didn't think so.

I'm not dead yet... (I'm gettin' better)

I hate making update posts like these.  If I was making enough worthwhile material, I wouldn't have to take time to explain myself.  But the truth is, noveling is taking up most of my energy for writing, and planning a wedding while trying to do everything else I need to do to survive is taking up the rest of it. 

Well... mostly.  The other night I spent writing a short story.  It was one of those occasions where I felt inspired during the day and managed to nurture it well into the night, and actually managed to churn out something I'm halfway proud of.  I literally can't remember the last time that happened.  Once I'm done with the editing and get the thing illustrated by one of the artists in my virtual rolodex (who hopefully haven't a) forgotten about me or b) totally hate me for leaving them hanging for so long), I'm going to be uploading it here. 

I have been working on some other stuff, too... The Beating Of Her Luminous Wings is, of course, still in the works.  Everybody seems to like that one well enough that I couldn't scrap it even if I wanted to (which I don't, so I guess that works out pretty well).  I've also been working on a shorter serial, a sci-fi story that takes place in the same universe as the novel I'm working on.  It'll probably only be three episodes or so, but I think it'll be fun.  The only thing I haven't been working on is eM:I-elle...

The thing about eM:I-elle is that it's actually incredibly difficult to write.  That's not to say that I'm giving up on it... I still love the story and want to see it to its completion.  However, that poetic and nonsensical style of writing takes a lot of time and energy, and I currently don't have the time and energy to give it the attention that it deserves.  That's why I'm putting eM:I-elle on indefinite hiatus.  Once things calm down (y'know, once I'm not planning a wedding and rushing to finish the biggest writing project I've ever undertaken), I'll start working on it again.  Until then you'll have to settle for Cosmia and a few others.  And of course, stay tuned for "The Ones Who Wait."

Thanks for your patience, and as always, thanks for reading!

I DON'T WANT THEM TO GET ME (a poem)

A few months ago while I was searching for a wiring diagram I needed in order to put together a power supply for an old mixing board, I uncovered a poem I almost forgot I'd written.  I read it, laughed, remembered a bunch of stuff, and then thought "I should totally put that on the blog, it would be hilarious."  I then proceeded to do exactly not that for about seven months.  I found it again next to the bed today, and since I've been pretty inactive blogwise for a while I figured it's probably about time I did that thing I actually intended to do a while ago. 

(And just so you know, the novel's going great.  In fact I finished another chapter just last night.  So there, I DO have a valid excuse.  Take that, crippling sense of guilt!  I don't need you anymore!) 

Anyway, here it is.



I DON'T WANT THEM TO GET ME
(a poem)


I went through almost
an entire loaf of bread today
It wasn't very filling
but at least
it had an even number
of slices

and I didn't have to leave
the house.

The Beating Of Her Luminous Wings, Chapter 2

Written By Ivan Overmoyer
Illustrations by Jennifer Gibson
Copyright (c) 2015, All Rights Reserved

(Don't know what's going on?  Start from the beginning!)

Chapter 2 

          What a dream...

          Wallace woke slowly in the fog of the morning. Shades drawn in the living room made the space feel dark and warm. Once awake, he didn't move for several minutes. A dream... yes, it had to be but... then, what was he doing in his recliner? He squinted and shook his head. Must have been sleep walking. It had been a particularly strange and stressful dream, so he wouldn't be surprised if he'd been up and about last night without knowing it. After a yawn and a stretch and a rubbing of his eyes, Wallace released the lever of his recliner. As his head was brought up by the back of the chair, he saw the couch, empty but for the rumpled afghan sitting in a pile to one side, and he suddenly couldn't remember if it had always been there or not. He stood, scratching in between the strands of hair still attached to the top of his head, and with his other hand picked up the afghan, inspecting it for bite marks. There was nothing that he could see at least. 

          “Hmph.” He let the blanket drop back onto the couch, started out of the room, then reconsidered, turning back and folding up the blanket and placing it back on the head of the couch. He knew he'd get annoyed if he saved it for later. That done, he wandered toward the kitchen. 

          What a dream... he was having difficulty remembering some of the details now. There was something about... a girl, maybe fourteen to sixteen years old. Mostly he remembered her breaking through the window. Strange how his subconscious had done that to him... taking his oft-daydreamed image of his late wife as an angel and replacing it with a young woman possessing all the grace of a giraffe on rollerskates. He wondered briefly what Dr. Freud would have had to say on the subject. There had been something else, too. Something important.

He stopped in the door of the kitchen as his eyes came to rest on the old lantern on the table, and he remembered looking up into the night, surrounded by millions of fluttering insects. And there, next to the lantern was the bottle of Tylenol he hadn't put back in the bathroom. 

          It wasn't a dream... The thought occurred to him suddenly, nagging him somewhere near the middle of his mind, but he tried to ignore it. He went to the table and picked up the bottle of Tylenol, noting the child safe cap. Good. I doubt she'd be able to get through that. More nagging. Maybe he'd eaten something off the night previous, or had some milk a little too close to bedtime. Milk had a tendency to give him crazy dreams if he drank it too late. He couldn't remember what he'd eaten for dinner the previous night, though, to say nothing of whether he'd had milk or not. “Oh well,” he muttered, and trudged off to the bathroom. He put the medicine bottle back in the cabinet behind the mirror and stopped. It was like there was some thought trying to poke its way in through the back of his head. Something familiar, but invisible. He ignored it and started brushing his teeth. 

          Something was moving in the morning sunlight streaming through the window above the toilet, flitting about in his peripheral vision and he knew somehow even before he turned his head that it was a moth. Small and white, beating itself against the glass, desperate to get out of the dark of the house. Wallace sighed through his nose and stepped over, reaching down with one hand, and grabbed a length of toilet paper, ripping it off with a sharp tug. His dominant hand still on the toothbrush, he crumpled the paper into a loose ball and lifted it up toward the moth. He struggled to keep his arm centered, unused to using his left hand for such precise actions, especially while his other was operating a toothbrush. 

          But, suddenly, the moth held still. It fell off the slick glass and came to rest on the window frame, trembling like some small, nervous dog. Wallace stopped, hand frozen in midair as Cosmia's face flashed suddenly into his memory, helpless and scared. Taking one last look at the moth he let the toilet paper fall into the wastebasket. He finished brushing his teeth and opened the window with a grunt. The moth hesitated a moment before it took off, fluttering into the backyard, and Wallace looked out after it, stretching his head through the window frame and into the morning air. 

          The sky was bright and clear over the trees, odd for the morning after such a foggy night. Or was it... had he just dreamed that? Suddenly he wasn't sure. But either way, it was beautiful outside. A good day for gardening. He pulled his head back through the window and looked at where his watch would have been, had he been wearing it. He was still in his pajamas and slippers, too. “Better get dressed,” he muttered, trudging out of the bathroom. He wondered how much daylight he'd lost as he headed upstairs.

           The bedroom door was closed when he reached it. He remembered closing it (in his dream, at least), but it still seemed strange. He was unused to seeing it that way. Wallace opened the door and the nagging in his head suddenly ceased. The crushed lampshade, the smashed window, the floor littered with broken glass.

           It wasn't a dream!

           Was that even possible? Well if it wasn't a dream, then where was she? She wasn't on the couch where he'd left her, she wasn't in the kitchen, the bathroom... Beginning to seriously doubt his own sanity, he turned and thumped down the stairs. Then, breathlessly, back up, checking the closet, the guest room, the guest room closet, the linen closet, the attic room... All empty but for the slight hints of fluttering in the shadows. Wallace cursed silently and all but tumbled back down the stairs, his grip on the banister the only thing keeping him upright. Right about then, a horrible thought occurred to him; He remembered her having talked about flying last night, and she had certainly seemed to believe her own story... what if she had given it a try? His stomach clenched as he imagined the girl leaping from his smashed bedroom window, spreading her arms out in front of her as she plummeted two stories to what, in her state, could quite possibly be her death. At best it would be serious injury. 

          Wallace padded through the kitchen and burst through the door into the backyard. His feet met with air as he'd failed to take the back steps into account and he stumbled and landed in the yard on his hands and knees. Well, at least the yard is soft. He crawled stiffly to face where his bedroom window was and saw... nothing. No crumpled figure in silvery white, no young woman whimpering over a broken leg. He breathed a sigh of relief and sat back with his arms behind him.

Well, it was all well and good that Cosmia hadn't jumped out the window, but then... where was she? Wallace swept his eyes across the yard. He wasn't actually expecting to see anything, but he did notice some movement among the cornstalks in his garden. He got up slowly, aching most places from his fall and started through the dew to his garden.

           “Cosmia?” he called, limping toward the corn. “That you?” There was no response, but the rustling of the stalks continued. He stepped carefully over the electric wire fence, parted the stalks, and there she was. Still just as odd as he'd remembered her from the night before, she appeared completely oblivious to his presence. Her grey-blue eyes stared confused, almost angrily at the corn stalks. Very deliberately she reached out a hand and gave one of the stalks a gentle whack, like a cat playing with an inattentive owner's foot. The cornstalk bobbed back and forth, and she looked bemused at her hand then back at the plant.

           “Something the matter?” Wallace asked, trying again to catch the girl's attention.

           “I don't understand...” she murmured, articulating each syllable very carefully for no apparent reason. She turned to Wallace and jumped suddenly, her eyes wide with surprise. “Ah! You're... here? You can... you can see me?”

Wallace glanced around them quickly. “Yes...”

           “But I thought... I thought that was just a dream!” She raised trembling hands to her head as if trying to her head as if trying to hold it in place. “I thought I just hit my head and...”

           “Well you did,” Wallace said, trying to be as gentle as he could. “When you flew through my window, remember?” He winced suddenly. It sounded even more ridiculous than he'd expected it to.

           She shook her head and Wallace could see tears beginning to form at the corners of her eyes. “No!” she sobbed. “No, no, that isn't right, it can't be right! This is all just a bad dream, a terrible, horrible dream!”

           Wallace reached out and put his hand gently on her shoulder. “Cosmia, calm down... You've had a rough night, and the best thing to do right now is come inside and take it easy for a while.”

           She pulled her shoulder away from him. “No!” she yelled. “I have to go back, I have to go home!” She turned from him and fled through the garden, her cloak rustling after her.

          “Wait!” Wallace called, doing his best to run after her. The soft ground encumbered his footsteps, it was slow going and he wondered briefly how she managed to go so fast through the plants without harming any of them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized unconsciously that she wasn't leaving any footprints. Then, as the thought began to register consciously he saw her cloak spread and separate behind her, shining suddenly in the morning light, and with a great flap she lifted off the ground and shot up into the sky.

Wallace stopped, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. “Hey!” he shouted hysterically. “What are you doing!? You're in no condition to fly, come back down here at once!!” He waved his arms as he yelled trying to get her attention but she was already soaring quickly away and up into the sky. “Heeey!!” he screamed one last time and then gave up, his arms falling limp at his sides. She was getting quickly smaller and he was pretty sure she couldn't hear him any more. He stood there gaping for a while, struggling to comprehend not only what had just happened, but what exactly he was supposed to do about it.

He finally ran, or rather, shuffled quickly back to the house trying to keep his muddy slippers on his feet. Just inside the kitchen door he left them on the mat and scurried to the telephone. He picked up the receiver but his finger stopped just before it hit the rotor. Sure, he could call the police, but what would he tell them? That there was a concussed moth goddess flying over a remote town in Pennsylvania? That she was also possibly a drugged-up hippie child?

          Wait... what?

          Wallace put the receiver back down. “I think...” he muttered to himself hesitantly, “I think we can rule out the drugged-up hippie child theory.” He could hardly believe he was considering that, but... well, he knew what he'd seen. Or, at least, he thought he did. He was fairly certain that he'd just seen a young woman take to the sky on massive silvery wings; a girl who, the night before, had come crashing inexplicably through his bedroom window, and who seemed to have attracted more moths than Wallace had ever remembered seeing at one time. And using that rationale to discount the drug portion of the theory, her description of her home and general confusion about where she was also lent itself to something... otherworldly.

          Wallace grabbed his slippers and took them to the washroom in the basement, where he rinsed them off as best he could before putting them in the washing machine. On his way back upstairs he grabbed the broom and dustpan from the basement door and slipped his bare feet into his sneakers before heading up to his bedroom to clean up the broken glass.

          Okay. So he'd found a moth goddess. Apparently lost, and a long way from home, wherever home was. That much was settled. With little effort he'd made her distraught and now she was flying around goodness knew where, probably in a panic. He had to do something... but what? He broke from sweeping for a moment to look out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. What could he do? He couldn't see her, or really anything in the sky. Maybe a distant jet plane, but the idea of Cosmia meeting a jet plane up there only made him uncomfortable so he tried not to think about it. Really, there wasn't anything he could do right now but pray, and even that seemed almost counterintuitive. How do you pray for the sake of a goddess?

          He sighed and went back to sweeping. “Same way you pray for anything else, I guess,” he muttered to himself. “Question is would it make any difference?”

          Sweep. Sweep. Sweep. 

 

          He felt a prompting at the back of his mind and he glanced behind at the dresser next to the closet, the one Cosmia had slammed into last night after trying to regain her composure. Several things had fallen off of it, which only made sense. He must have missed it in the commotion. His pocket knife was on the floor along with his watch and several black wooden elephants which had originally belonged to his late wife. He sighed. If she had been here, that would have been remedied by now. Broken glass or no broken glass, Rosie would have given those elephants her attention before everything else, and it didn't take a huge stretch of the imagination for Wallace to see her picking the little figures up and inspecting their white tusks for damage.

          “And why wouldn't it make a difference, hmm?”

          “What do you mean?” he asked, leaning slightly on his broom.

          “I mean why wouldn't praying for the poor girl make a difference?”

          “Hmph. Call me crazy if you like, but I'm starting to think she might have been telling the truth.”

          “Well obviously...” she said with a smile.

          “So you get my point then? If she's already... I don't know, 'celestial' then isn't she more or less above help?”

          Her smile didn't fade. “Darling, you're making excuses.”

          Wallace stiffened. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

          “Oh come on, think about it. You helped her, didn't you?”

          “Well I only-”

          “You made sure she was alright and safe, you looked after her until she felt better. You did plenty.”

          “Okay, but so what?”

          “So what? So if you could help her, why couldn't God?” She stood, stepping gracefully toward him, her nightgown rustling over her bare feet. When she stepped on the glass there was no sound of crunching. “And besides, why wouldn't He?”

          Wallace went back to sweeping. “Well he didn't do a whole lot to help you,” he grumbled.

          Rosie sighed. “Love, it was just my time. Besides, I went peacefully, surrounded by people I loved, and at that point it was the best I could have asked for.” Wallace clenched his teeth and tried to focus on his sweeping, but she put a hand on his shoulder like a cool breeze, and he found he couldn't concentrate. He looked into her face and felt moisture blurring his vision.

          “Please just give Him another chance, dear. For Cosmia and for me.”

          He sighed and felt his jaw tremble. “I'll try,” he said finally. She smiled and he closed his eyes as she leaned her face toward his. Her kiss was soft and warm, like something from a dream moments before waking, and when he opened his eyes she was gone again. With a sigh he went to the dresser and began picking up the elephants, inspecting them one by one for damage.

          Some time later found Wallace coming down the stairs with the broom, the last dustpan full of glass, and some clothes that were not pajamas. He dumped the glass in the trash, put the broom away and went straight into the garage to get some gardener's plastic and a staple gun. First things first, he had to patch up the window. He took the plastic upstairs, stapled a corner of it to the window frame, cut off the excess with his pocket knife and took it all back downstairs again to put it away. With the window temporarily repaired, Wallace made some oatmeal and had breakfast. After cleaning his dishes he went for a walk down to the road to get the paper, and by the time he got back it was nearly eleven.

Ordinarily he would have sat for a while and read the paper, but after what had happened this morning he just couldn't force himself to sit around, to say nothing of what a late start he'd gotten. He left the paper rolled up on his recliner and went outside to check the garden for confused moth goddesses.

          Cosmia wasn't there, but there were a few small, white moths fluttering clumsily through the corn stalks. Wallace inspected the plants, trying in some small way to figure out what exactly she'd been trying to accomplish by batting them back and forth. As he ran his hand under a leaf one of the moths landed on his fingers. He stopped and looked at the little insect. “What do you want?” he muttered. “She's not here, she flew off somewhere else.” It turned to face him and he flinched. “Well don't ask me, I don't know where she went. Heck, you all seemed to know pretty well where she was last night.” He glanced around the garden. There hadn't been so many moths that morning, but it couldn't just be a coincidence. This was where she had been last, after all. Wallace stepped carefully through the garden to the west, where Cosmia had flown off. The hill was mostly clear here and from the edge of the garden he could see over the road and the next hill, and a good way into the distance. He held his hand up against the sun and tried to see if he could make out any insect swarms, or anything that might indicate where she had gone.

          “Nothing,” he sighed. “If only I'd thought of that earlier...” She was no doubt long gone by now. But, there was every possibility that she'd gotten tired and stopped somewhere or that she'd stopped when she realized that she had no idea where she was going. At least, that would be if she realized that. Either way, he reasoned, she couldn't have gotten that far, and if she was still nearby all he had to do was follow the moths.

          Wallace went back into the house. It was time, he reasoned, to go for a drive. He got his binoculars from the hall closet and went straight to the garage where his old Jeep Commanche pickup truck was. Setting the binoculars on the seat beside him, he backed out of the garage and started down the driveway. A bumpy minute or two later he was on the road, heading west and keeping an eye out for any large groups of moths, hoping to see them before they met an untimely end on his windshield. He drove slowly and carefully, scanning the area around him as thoroughly as he could but by the time he got to town he hadn't seen anything. He drove a hasty circuit around town, still slowly and carefully. As he turned down Main Street he passed the bakery and saw Catherine, the building's owner and sole proprietor on the front steps, beating out the welcome mat. She saw him and, instantly recognizing his truck, waved. Wallace waved back and groaned inwardly when he saw her curious expression as she continued to wave. She was expecting him to stop and talk and while he didn't dislike Catherine, he was in sort of a hurry. He pulled the truck over anyway and leaned across the cab to crank open the passenger window.

          “What's the matter, Wallace, you lost?” She brushed a stray strand of greying red hair back in line with her ponytail and leaned on the window frame. She was a middle-aged woman whom he had known for several years, ever since she had bought the old post office and turned it into the bake shop that it was today.

          “What do you mean?” Wallace asked.

          “You're driving all slow like you don't know where you are. Plus me and the boys missed you for coffee this morning, thought maybe you got mixed up on the way here.”

          Wallace flinched. He hadn't even realized what day of the week it was. “Ah jeez, it's Wednesday already?” Catherine gave a concerned nod. “Shoot... completely slipped my mind. If you see Rusty and Jack, give them my apologies, won't you?”

          Catherine raised an eyebrow. “You doing alright, Wallace? You don't seem yourself.”

           Well you see, Cath, a moth goddess crashed through my window last night. She flew off in a panic this morning and she's got a concussion so I'm trying to find her before she gets into any serious trouble.

          “Yeah, I'm alright. Just, ah... doing some errands.”

          “Alright... well, if you're sure.”

          You haven't seen any suspiciously large swarms of moths, have you?

          “Don't worry about it,” he said, trying to smile reassuringly. “I've got to go, I'll talk to you later.”

          “Okay... bye.”

          Wallace drove off, not bothering to close his windows. On Wednesdays he'd usually spend the morning at the bakery and play cribbage with a couple of old friends, and if Catherine wasn't too busy she'd join in too. It was something he looked forward to every week and it kept his mind sharp. Oh well... one week wouldn't kill him. He continued west through town and kept going through the farmland beyond. A few times he thought he saw an insect cloud, but each time it ended up being a tractor stirring up dust.

          After several hours of fruitless searching, Wallace finally gave up and started what was now a long drive home. He turned on the radio and caught the weather report. Apparently the wet spell they'd been having was over in favor of a few warm and sunny days. That was good, at least as far as Cosmia was concerned. Wallace didn't like the idea of her being out there alone in the rain. He continued to look for moths as he drove home, but his heart wasn't really in it. He'd lost her.

          He was hungry by the time he got home, so he warmed up some leftover soup in the microwave. It was about dinner time anyway, so he made up some salad as well and toasted a couple slices of artisan bread he'd gotten from Catherine a few days before. It wasn't exactly a feast, but it tasted good and filled him up. When he was done, he opened the kitchen door up to the screen to let some fresh air in and washed the dishes. It was a peaceful evening, but he couldn't relax with the nagging at the back of his mind. What had happened to Cosmia?

          Dishes done, Wallace went into the living room and opened the abandoned paper and sat down in his easy chair. His eyes skimmed the words without really reading them and after about a minute he set the paper down with a sigh. “Alright Rosie,” he murmured. “You win, I'll give Him a shot.” He leaned forward and folded his hands in front of him.

          Wallace prayed silently, thinking the words to his prayer, first expressing hopes that his wife was doing okay up there. Then he moved onto Cosmia, praying that wherever she was (and whatever she was- he still felt weird about calling her a goddess while talking to God himself) she was safe and getting plenty of rest. Then after thinking about it for a moment or two he asked that she make it back home safely, wherever that ended up being.

          It was a good prayer, he thought. Sincere. Even if he wasn't confident it had been received, he had meant every word of it. He sat back in his chair and sighed, lifting the paper back up. There. He'd tried. “Ball's in your court now,” he muttered.

          A sudden crash came from the kitchen and Wallace froze for an instant. His gut reaction couldn't tell if it was relieved that she was back or just upset that she was still apparently running into things. Either way, he jumped up and hurried into the kitchen and was immediately disappointed. There on the floor, tangled in the splintered remains of his screen door was a different young woman who was certainly not Cosmia. She had a large, dark coat on which would have hung to just above her ankles had she not been on her hands and knees. As it was, it covered her like a shroud, and the sleeves were far longer than her arms. Her hair was short, well kept, and black but with a strange blue iridescence that shone in the evening light. She looked up at him as he came into the kitchen with an expression that was either confusion or ire. He couldn't tell which, and it might have been both. She had a regal face with bright blue eyes and a prominent nose.

          Wallace felt his eye beginning to twitch. “And just who the heck are you supposed to be!?” he yelled.

          The girl jumped to her feet, quicker than it looked like she ought to be able, and shook herself like a bird ruffling its feathers. The front of her coat was open, revealing a purple and white striped shirt, brown pants, and what looked like saddle shoes. She scowled at him. “I might ask you the same question,” she said. 

 

          “I asked first, and besides that you broke my door down and I'd like an explanation!” Wallace fumed.

          She looked around her at the bits of wood and screen scattered about her feet, then back at Wallace. “I did knock.”

          “No you didn't!”

          “Umm...”

          Wallace sighed and brought his head to his face. “What is it with you people and crashing through things?”

          “Look I didn't see it okay? And further more-” She stopped. “Wait, what do you mean 'you people'?”

          Wallace waved his hand in her general direction. “Oh,” he said, “I know what you are, so just cut to the chase. Which one are you? Goddess of ridiculously big trench coats?”

          “Hmph!” She stuck her nose in the air. “I am Bellatrice Coterie, Lady over all starlings and the chatters thereof. Furthermore, if you're the one who's taken Cosmia captive then I must insist that you return her at once, or else I'll... I'll break more of your precious doors!”

          Wallace stared at her for a moment. “You're serious, aren't you.”

          “Of course I am, and so help me I will!”

          Wallace sighed. “Well you're a few hours late. She flew off this morning, went westward. I... I don't know where she went.”

          “Aha! So she escaped your cunning wiles!”

          “I wasn't keeping her captive! She hurt her head coming through the window last night and I was helping her recover! She shouldn't be flying around in her condition, she needs her rest.”

          Bellatrice screwed up her mouth in thought. “I... see. To the west, you said?” Wallace nodded. “Very well. I will look for her. And upon my return you will help her recover or your doors will feel my wrath. Do I make myself clear, human?”

          “Sure. Fine.”

          “You will wait here for me.” And with that she bounded out through the door frame. There was some indistinct dark movement beyond and a loud flapping noise and she was gone. Wallace threw up his hands in resignation and trudged back to the living room. First moths and now starlings. Great. He should have just told Bellatrice to take Cosmia home and make sure she didn't do anything too strenuous for a while. But then, this Bellatrice didn't seem like she would have listened to him anyway. Maybe it was better this way. He unplugged the floor lamp and brought it out to the backyard, setting it a little way past the back stairs. From the garage he grabbed a lawn chair and an extension cord. Five minutes later he was relaxing with his newspaper, facing the west and watching for the imminent sunset. No goddesses in sight for the time being. He turned the lamp on and waited. 


This go-around's featured artist is Jennifer Gibson.  You can check out more of her work at www.jgibsonillustration.com 

Want to have your work featured on Stuff and Nonsense?  Find out how here! 

Ruminating on the Fate of Daisy Owl

I used to read a webcomic called Daisy Owl. It was a heartwarming and humorous story about an anthropomorphic owl who adopts a pair of runaway genius human-babies from space, and his best friend who is an anthropomorphic grizzly bear. I know it sounds a bit stupid when I describe it that way, but it was witty and entertaining, and, surprisingly, very touching. What I'm trying to say is it was a great comic and I had a great time reading it. I discovered it a year or two ago, not too long before I started my own blog, and read it from start to finish over a period of two or three weeks. The last comic took place after a major story arc wherein Mr. Owl and Steve the Bear rescue the titular Daisy and her little brother Cooper from their evil scientist creators, who kidnapped them and took them to a Space School on the moon. It was a wacky and fun adventure involving a lot of brooms, and when it ended I was so excited to see what trouble Daisy and Cooper would get into next that I could hardly wait for the next update. Then, when I looked at the copyright information at the bottom of the very last comic, I noticed that it had been posted in 2010. To this day, the last thing Daisy and Cooper have ever done was decide to pull a diamond heist (because they were bored, why else?) and rope their adoptive dad who is also an owl into going with them, and that was it. That was the end. It didn't seem like it was going to be the end, but it's been five years with no updates and nothing to suggest that there will ever be an update, and I'm left forever wondering how the diamond heist would turn out. 

I have a sort of pathalogical fear that that Stuff & Nonsense will turn out the same way, and I think it's this fear that drives me to post something every month or so even if I don't have a whole lot to say. I get absolutely terrified if I haven't posted anything in a while that everyone (myself included) will just forget that this little journal exists and I will have completely wasted an opportunity to share with the world things that would otherwise just sit in uncategorized notebooks and be forgotten, or worse, rot away in my brain, unexpressed and bottled up for the rest of my life and never even brought into the world in the first place. When that thought inevitably occurs to me I become painfully aware of my own mortality. When I'm reminded of my own mortality I get all existential and depressed, and then I get mopey and drink a lot of milk. 

Part of the problem is that since I've been trying to focus on fiction and featured artists, I haven't been producing a lot of posts, which makes sense really. When I envisioned the serial stories with illustrations by featured artists, I wanted to crank out a post every month, but that obviously hasn't happened. I put a lot of work into my stories, the artists I've been working with put a lot of work into the illustrations, and when the posts are finally finished, I can't say I'm not proud of the result; Quality takes time, and I know that's the tradeoff. Add in the fact that I'm also holding down a full time job and that my only New Year's resolution was to finish writing my sci-fi epic Far From Home by the end of the year, and it only makes sense that I wouldn't post as much to my blog. But then I remember Daisy Owl, or Bee Power (which doesn't even exist anymore as far as I can tell), or even the ubiquitous HomestarRunner.com, and the next thing I know Jess doesn't have anything to eat her cereal with. 

Websites are not people. Consciously, I know that. I imagine most people do on a conscious level. But when a webcomic or blog goes inactive for that long with no explanation, I always seem to imagine an authorless computer sitting on a desk, the cobwebs that cover it illuminated by the monitor, the homepage of the website burned into it as the abandoned house crumbles to dust all around. I wonder what happened to the author; did they just lose interest in their webcomic, even though it brought joy to so many readers? Did they abandon their blog in favor of a more lucrative career as a VCR repairman? Are they dead? The possibilities are endless, not knowing drives me crazy, and I'm sure I'm not alone. I know for a fact that I wasn't the only person who was legitimately worried when Allie Brosh wrote about her crippling depression on Hyperbole and a Half, then didn't post anything else for several months.

Sometimes I worry that people will wonder what happened to me in a similar manner if I let Stuff & Nonsense go for too long without any updates. Most of the time I just remind myself that Hyperbole and a Half is a much more popular blog than my own and I shouldn't flatter myself in such a way. But by the same token, Stuff & Nonsense recently broke 1200 views, and while a lot of those views probably came from my mother and my sisters, that's still a pretty dang big number and those fine folks can't possibly account for all of it. Generally, my family is aware that I haven't just wandered off like Ambrose Bierce, never to be heard from again, but there are people out there who have read my blog and don't necessarily know that. This is for them:

I'm working hard. Emielle and her ilvi friends are having their backstories written out and their future planned without their knowledge. Cosmia and Bellatrice are being unruly and troublesome for old Mr. Wallace, and you haven't even met Bellatrice yet. Don't worry, you will have met her by the end of the month. But that won't be all you'll be hearing about. Oh no. For the first time since I've been on my own, I have a steady job that I don't hate myself for going to every morning. I'm getting married in about seven months to an awesome lady who has for the most part kept me sane for the past eight years (and who recently started her own blog, which I am shamelessly plugging in the hopes that it'll get her to keep adding to it). I'm completing a novel, which will probably end up being the first of many. I've got short stories and poetry and who knows what else swimming around in my skull just waiting to be put down on paper, and there are even plans of transferring Stuff & Nonsense to an actual website all its own.  

Maybe I've lost focus in the last few months. It's been a busy holiday season aftermath and I've got more responsibilities now than I ever have before, but I've also got a lot to write about. There will be more to come, and that is a promise. Thanks for sticking with me, and as always, thanks for reading.

A Lament for AMC

I was born in 1988,

the same year you folded and were bought out

by people who think that left-handed lug nuts

are a pretty neat idea.

Twenty six years later

evidence you existed is hard to come by-

the truck my father traded for $800 and a rifle

is long gone by now, in the care of someone

I'll never meet

and all I'm left with are stories told

by old folks who can still remember

Going off the road in a broken down Gremlin

bought from some bloke for two hundred bucks,

or getting a crate full of car, some assembly required,

back when “Jeep” really meant something.

I'm nostalgic for a time I have no right to be,

an era I never experienced, not really,

besides fading memories of an old Commanche pickup,

and seeing a yellow Pacer parked outside a barn

halfway to nowhere.

And I would have bought it if I'd had the cash

just to experience it,

just to have it,

even though I know it would be a terrible idea.

(Image courtesy of Wikipedia)

eM:I-elle, A Techno Fairy Tale. Part 1: There Was... (Chapter 3)

eM:I-elle, A Techno Fairy Tale.

Part 1: There Was...

Chapter 3

Written By Ivan Overmoyer

Illustrations by Ross Chirico

Copyright (c) 2014, All Rights Reserved

 

(Don't know what's going on?  Start from the beginning!)

Down past where red mosses grow,

O'er the cleary waters,

Lies an oasis where I go

To see the one I love.

           A simple melody, Cabel sang softly. His voice high and reedy, he thought, not suitable for song, but he could not stop himself, and so the music came timid from his mouth.

Sand lies on the grassy shores,

'Round oasis waters,

and there sits the one who pours

her heart to only me.

           This last line came quieter than the rest, and with a grimace. It had pronounced better in his thoughts. Another sheaf of insulage grass he pulled from the roof beams, fragile and damp and flecked white with mold and musky dust smell. Last of the rotted sheaves. He dropped it past the edge wall and listened for the plak of it landing on the mulch pile below. Allowed himself to stand, feet wide on thin beams, hands to back, craning face-up and gazed on the plates, six-sided, forming the ceiling so high above.

          Judging the sun strength from above it was perhaps mid-day. He thought this and his gut grumbled the affirmative yes, it was time to eat. Down he went, balance over sloping roof beams, grip ladder and climbed jaunting down rung by rung until soles hit solid ground.

           “Was that her new poem?”

           Cabel jumped at the voice unexpected. The young girl behind him, blanket-wrapped, barefoot and dirty, her eyes questioned his, bug and new and dark brown. Pressure left his chest. “No, Tamarind. Those were my own musings.”

          “What about? I barely heard.” She stood rock-still, not even a shiver in the frigid air of the day.

          “Nothing important,” Cabel replied smiling. A bundle of rag sat lumpy by the house wall, his fingers snagged the knot at the top and he lifted it next to a stone, then sat. “Come, Tamarind, share my lunch.”

          The shroud of blanket, wrapping girl, stepped lightly to the stone and sat by Cabel, waiting for him to untie. The sack held bread and pig cheese, both he broke and gave pieces to her, waiting patiently by him.

          “There was a new poem, you said.” A bite of cheese, a bite of bread.

          “There was,” replied he, “there is.”

          Another bite of cheese, another bite of bread, dull flavor mixing textures on her tongue. “Where is it?”

          “In my father's house.” He ate quiet and slow, the way he imagined the poet must.

          “Why didn't you bring it for me to see?”

          “One does not carry treasure when he works.”

          “Why not?”

          “It could be damaged, or lost.”

          “When can I see it?”

          “When I am not so busy.”

          “But when will that be? You've not given me a reading lesson in six days.”

          “I don't know,” sighed Cabel. “I have food to make up. I will try soon.”

          A silence.

          “Cabel?”

          “Mm?”

          “Is it hard?”

          “What?”

          “Working for food.”

          And Cabel thought, bread and cheese tongued in his cheek. Houses of Shady Grey drifted foggy through his thoughts, the roofs, the walls, the doors, the people... men and women and their children, farmers, hunters, builders and cleaners, crafters and servers... and the poet. She dwelled long on his mind, and he smiled. “I don't work for food, I work for the village. We all do. The food is thanks.”

          Tamarind furrowed brow. “But you need it to live.”

          “Then I am lucky I am liked.” His meal finished, Cabel wound sackcloth to his arm and stood as the door from the house opened. A woman, mouse-brown of hair wisps reaching from underhood looked timid from inside.

          “Cabel,” said she, “your work is finished?”

          Head tick-tocked side to side, “no,” he answered. “I've yet to put on the new thatch.”

          “Ah. Is Tamarind bothering you too much?”

          He smiled, again tick-tocked. “No. I like the company.”

          A single breathless nod. “Good then. I go townward, on errands. Tamarind, stay with Cabel, and do as he says.”

          “Yes Mum.”

          “I'll report your work to Smith before I return.”

          “My thanks,” with a bow.

          A nod and off down path, clutching cloak in one hand and basket in other. Cabel started around the hovel's side and gathered up two large baskets stuffed with reed grasses. Well-practiced ease, he slung them each over a shoulder and walked no-handed upward, rung by rung till feet met roof board. The baskets he set side by side and went to work. A moment later and the faint creak of barefoot girl up ladder met his ears. Wordless, the child began taking sheaves of thatch from their baskets and laying them as Cabel did on the roof's crosspieces.

          “You have been practicing your letters, yes?” Cabel inquired as he bound the sheaves.

          “Yes,” Tamarind replied. “And I taught Mum as well.”

          Cabel flinched. “Your mother wants to learn?”

          Little shoulders bobbed. “I don't know. She was just curious, I think.” Another sheaf laid by its brothers. “But she liked Fiddler of Grasses when I read it and she asked me of the letters, so I told her how you showed me to read them. She said not to show Smith, or to speak of it to him.”

          “Ah...” The word left as a laugh. “Wise words.”

          A pause in talk. Another sheaf. “Why should we not tell Smith? Do letters upset him?”

          Cabel leaned back from his work, elbows resting on knees. “Smith's mind... works in numbers. Letters distract and confuse him. A man who does as he cannot allow that.”

          The girl thought. “But Mum said I shouldn't even let him know I am learning them. Why?”

          “He may not understand that others don't live with numbers as he does.”

          “Can't we just tell him?”

          Cabel sighed. “Have you ever spoken to him?” Her head slowly shook. “I thought not. You should do as your mother says.”

          They worked long in the day laying sheaves over meager roof, binding to the beams, going over letters and their sounds. The sky grew dark and Tamarind's mother returned, smell of smoke and food issued from the smoke hole soon after. The girl was called inside and bid Cabel farewell as light rain started to fall. The warmth and must of the smoke comforted him in the droplets falling around him. Work finished. Clambered down wet rungs, slung baskets bound by rope over one shoulder, ladder over other. It was a long, hard trek home to his own meal. He sang softly through the mist.

          Bango, come see! A beetle I've caught, a beetle! Corner of the room, a pile of rags, rump of an ilvi stuck out tail flailing. Back feet scraped stone floor, Senegal dragged out his catch, a black beetle skull-sized and struggling silent in his jaws.

          Bango flopped her flat feet forward, away from trying to get her sister to wrestle, nose-holes woofing at the shiny black carapace. Pretty glistenbug, sparkle and shine! Excitement electrified her tail. There might be more! Where found you it?

          Under pile, yonder, Senegal replied, the beetle sluggish scraping to escape his jaws.

          Bango leapt into the pile thrashing cloth around her slinky middle. I want one! I want to see it sparkle in the sun!

          Senegal watching, tossed his catch a little and regripped with teeth, carrying the bug off to a quiet corner. Tested carapace with his jaws and felt it give, spiky legs gently pricking tongue, taste bland and empty. Oh, but the curious nerve, it burns...

          Do not eat the beetle, Senegal.

          Dropped the prize suddenly, like a guilty dog, looking around to see who had caught. Voice in his head, ancient and wise... Mother Critter? Eyed the bug crawling blind across stone.

          Senegal, you know better.

          He was by Mother's box, mistaken its slats for a room corner. Looked up guilty, saw long ears peek over the edge. But wild moss pigs eat the beetles, why not us?

          And are you a moss pig?

          I am not...

          Grow you tired of her writings?

          No, but-

          You wish to grow sick?

          No...

          You will leave the beetles, you will leave the meal.

          Yes mother.

          No more from the matriarch. Ears sank below the rim of the box and Senegal slunk to a quiet spot to mope off his humiliation. By the box, beetle took out aftwings and buzzed to air, spiraling confused to the wall, away and found itself sudden and unexpected tangled in short brown hair.

Wordless, Emielle's hand raised, closed cagelike around the insect, pulling it from her head and around to her eyes, like waking from a dream. “Oh, hello.” A glance around the room, and the Ilvi in her lap squirmed from lack of ear-fondle. Next it jumped back to floor as the poet's crossed lap unfolded, walked, disappeared through cloth-covered door.

          Monk grunted to himself, disturbed from his nap. Plod across floor to underchair, finding young Senegal already there. Snort. Young one, what troubles you here?

          Slowly opened eyes, logi in low light. Mother Critter held chosen words for me she did. A scolding scalds.

          Shivery spine and a tiny hiss. I'll give you another if you pun at me again, whelp. Half turned away, then pause. Wait, the Mother Critter had words?

          Hard ones, she did. But Monk already bouncing away, calling for his brother. Awakened in his hidey hole by Monk's frantic cries, Mung unfurled and climb-squeezed through dry-rot wood and plaster, up into the main room. Out in the open he shook dust from fur and yawned, stretching front feet luxuriously.

          Monk, what excites you so? Almost midday it is.

          Bounce twist, jump circles around his brother. Mother Critter awakes! Wee ones must be named soon!

          So fast Mung's front paws moved to scramble they slipped and chin hit floor. Senegal uncurled, looked to Bijou. Too young are we to understand the excitement?

          Bijou peered from his vantage at the two ilvi running about, scratching at Mother Critter's box. It must be, he answered.

          And Terak, woken by commotion struggled out of her shirtsleeve and plodded sleepy to where Monk and Mung danced. And what happens here, older nonaps?

          As Monk clawed wooden sides Mung bounced his paws, sniffing the wee one's nose. Mother is finished her feeding the kits. They go on written word today, and they will choose their names.

          And we can take the overflow! Monk with his head stretched back, down the boxside.

          Yes. For this the Starchaser sacrifices a book. A rare delicacy for the likes of us.

          A book? Terak yawned. Never tasted one of those.

 

          Senegal perked his head and Bijou leapt from his table, the only oblivious was Bango, still rooting the ragpile for beetles. Monk clawed over the top of the box, pushing his shoulders in. And for that they come. Typical. The kits, curled and sleeping tucked safe in Mother Critter's crescent moon tummy. Two striped brown and grey, one fluffy brown, the last shiny black. Mother looked sleepy up to Monk's inquiring rose. She thought nothing to him, her eyes half closed, contented and tired. Monk's tongue flicked over his nostrils. Rest yourself, Mother. I only come to look. We wait upon Emielle for their names. And Mother Critter rested her head again.

          As the youngsters gathered slowly around the box Mung plodded to the twitching ragpile. Buried his head inside where Bango fought fiercely with her tail, dragged her out by the scruff of her neck. Let go! I'm snakefighting!

          You're tailfighting. Now come, this is important. The babies will be named.

          And why should I care?

          You will have new siblings to look after. Also there is a book in it for us.

          Suddenly stopped struggling. A book?

          Now sit still. Plomp on the ground, and she sat straight as Mung ordered, but tail still flicked about.

          Monk lifts his head, looks about the room. Where comes the poet? These new youngsters need their food.

          Wordless Mung leapt up and out of the room. Through curtain door and wallhole he went and turned head to sniff the wind. Horizon drear and grey, rocky flat but for the town far downhill. He smelled before he saw her bundled figure sat on a low boulder overlooking the valley. Her must and dusty cloth danced to him on the wind and tickled his nose with its comfort familiarity. He bounded for her over scrub, rock and dirt, slowing to stop at the rock upon which she sat, and his rump it dust as he straightened upright by her side.

          Eyes wide blue at nothing, clear of all but hair that blew in breezes around her face. She only moved to plop a friendly hand between Mung's ears. A sigh, they shared. What troubles you, Starchaser? He knew she could not hear him like his brother and sisters did. She was not built like they, not privy to their bickerings, their games, their little world. Yet somehow he knew she would answer. She always did, in time. A long while they sat and the babies and Mother Critter and their imminent feast gnawed at the back of his mind but still he sat, waiting as her fingers scritch-scritched at his fur crown.

          “Something's changed, Mung,” she murmured after a moment, and what words he understood he cocked his ear to listen. “Something's different, and I fear what's changed is me.” She sighed. “I think I may have lost my touch, if such is what I had.”

          Inclined his face to move her fingers to a better spot. A touch you have. You feed us well.

          “I keep productive for you, your brothers and sisters... I have to keep you fed, but I feel there's such limited supply.” Head leaned back, eyes to the CitySky. “And all the books you bring me cannot seem to rekindle the fire, as grateful as I am. I use the same words over and over... how to avoid shallow cliché, when my reserve dwindles so.” A rueful laugh and renewed scritching for Mung's batwing ears. “I often wonder how it tastes to you. Do you get bored with my tired words? Is the taste as bland as I imagine?”

          Mung stared, his head cocked.

          “And for how long I've been here, this house on this hill, living on what charity I can trade for verse... I would trade books but none will take them, be they treasure or trash.”

          The Odann are a strange bunch, they are. They know not worth when they see it.

          “Oh Mung,” she whispered... “What am I doing here?” Her eyes closed and he could feel her trying to remember, felt her mind straining against the wall it had built itself to protect her. And Mung reined in his own memories for fear that they would leak into hers. He knew she had seen the empties from him the other night, and he could not put her through something like that again. He had to protect her. Instead he thought of the kits curled tight against Mother's bosom, and nuzzled her knee. Broke from her thoughts she looked down into his expectant eyes.

          You care for us, Starchaser, and we for you. And she smiled and he felt a small hope that she had heard him blossom in his belly, one last look to the horizon she gave and the light peeking under the great CitySky before she stood, started back to her leany shack with ilvi eagerly in tow.

          Back inside they went to see the congregation round Mother Critter's wooden box, Matriarch now sleeping. And Emielle smiled, animals parted to let her through while Mung took place next to a fidgeting sister. Poet knelt by the box and gentle, slow, reached inside and one by one removed four babies, laid the new long bodies over arm. She turned, set them one by one, side by side on her blanket bed. A glance round and she chose her book, which she had tried so hard to read since Monk and Mung's return. A quick flip through and she set the book open for the kits as the older ilvi gathered slowly round.

          Fluffy brown crawled forward first, tender claws dragging weak body forward to the new smell. Reaching page the young female scraped paper with claw, working toward what word smelled sweetest. Emielle assisted, turning page for the new muscles just learning to scratch, until finally stopped, turned snout to meet the hunted letters. Emielle leaned forward, read, then careful with pen point tore the word from its page.

          Waness

          A timid lick, and picked paper up by tongue with slow mealy-mouthed chewing. The next forward was grey and brown, one of two male twins. Two pages scratched by before the word was found.

          Infoo

          The second twin came next, sensing a word on the same page.

          Bitroot

          And lastly small and black, runty male, scratched by page after page until finally.

          Twem

          As younglings digested their first word, Emielle took the book to Mother Critter, nudged her with knuckle till she gently woke. “Here Mother. Eat your fill. You no longer share with four.” Book placed open in Mother's box, a sleepy sniff and pages tore out with teeth.

          The poet turned to find kits surrounded by ilvi, sniffing curious and licking secrets into their ears. She knelt, closed her eyes, listened. Will they understand us? Not yet, they've eaten but one word. When will they eat more? Their bodies must get used to it first. They've only just been weaned from Mother's meditation. Will they join us to eat the book? Eek! Twem just licked my nose! The younglings gathered round the weaned kits grunting and dancing and investigating. Monk looked on, bug Mung distracted, saw the poet smile, eyes shut.

          Mung, his brother noticed, What troubles you here?

          A look or two between the poet and Monk, and Mung saw that his brother didn't see, perhaps didn't understand. Nothing.

This month's featured artist is Ross Chirico.  You can view more of his work at his website, www.chiricodesign.com.  (If you've been to Rochester NY, you may have already seen some!)

Want to have your work featured on Stuff and Nonsense?  Find out how here!