The Fuzzy Animal

Here is a random script I wrote for a comic:

There once was a fuzzy animal. He was sad because nobody knew what kind of animal he was.

Animal (crying): Nobody knows what kind of animal I am!

Then one day, while rummaging through a dumpster for some food, he found a cracked mirror. He looked into the mirror. After seeing himself for the first time, he realized he didn't know what kind of animal he was, either.

Animal: Um...I guess I don't know what kind of animal I am, either. But I sure am awfully fuzzy. I wonder if there's a razor in here somewhere?

And so the fuzzy animal began to rummage through the trash in hopes of finding a razor so he could shave and find out what kind of animal he was, as it was impossible to tell with all the fur covering his body. He eventually found a razor. It was dull, but after much labourious shaving, he managed to get rid of most of his furr. He looked into the mirror again.

Animal: Whoa, I'm a blue whale!

Then the animal died because he realized he was a whale, and whales can't live on land.

THE END.

Mindless; Prologue

I should have posted this first, but I didn't think of it 'til this morning.

 

            “The boy, he proves everything! Don’t you see, James? If we can define his abilities scientifically and mathematically, we’ll be able to use them!” Bernard paced back and forth in a dark library. The glow from a warm fireplace vivified his enthusiastic expression, making it look more like insanity.

            “Bernard,” James said coolly, sitting in a red armchair, “he got shot three times. Anyone could’ve survied that, so the boy doesn’t prove anything.”

            “But he does! I felt his skin afterwards, and do you know what I found? No pulse! His skin was cold, icy even. But then…I can’t explain it! He just…just sputtered back to life! How is he doing, by the way?”

            “Still suffering from fevers. The doctor says he doesn’t think the boy will live through the night.”

            “But just you wait,” Bernard said, stopping, calm thunder etched into his features. “If he does die, he’ll come back to life.”

            Wesley stared into the blurry distance, trying to break free of the fire that held him. Sweat poured down his face, he groaned and rolled over, and the fire stayed. He had never been so miserable in his life.

            A doctor stepped forward. “Easy, son, easy. Drink this tea.”

            Wesley fumbled for the glass, but dropped it as soon as it touched his fingers. He turned about, looking wildly for the tea.

            “Where is it! Where is it! Where is it…”

            “Shh,” the doctor said. “You’re delusional right now. But don’t you worry, it’ll be over soon. Just you wait.”

            “Where is it…where is it…where is it…”

            Wesley suddenly stopped speaking, just as two men entered from the east wing. His eyes glazed over, and his hand fell with a soft thud on the pillow.

            “He’s dead, sir,” the doctor sighed. “Just like you wanted.”

            “Wait!” James said. “You had the boy killed?”

            “There was poison in the doctor’s medicine.”

            “But--why?”

            Light gleamed off of Bernard’s spectacles. “It was the only way to prove my point. Watch.”

            James stared back at Bernard. “You’re not sane, are you?”

            “No,” Bernard said, “but that doesn’t matter. Watch!”

            The boy was still stone dead.

            “Bernard--”

            “Watch!” Sweat poured down Bernard’s face. “He’ll come back to life, just you wait! It’ll prove everything!”

            “You need help, Bernard,” James said softly. “I’ll ring for a real doctor. And you--” he pointed to the doctor that knelt next to the boy. “--you won’t get away with this.”

            “No, no,” Bernard screamed. “No doctors, nothing. I’m not a murderer…he’ll come back, I promise. I promise…”

            Bernard sank down, weeping. James stood stock still in the center of the room. Finally, he lifted a phone from a smooth, metal table. He put in a number and waited.

           

           

Mindless; Ch 1

    “Imagine,” Horace’s master said, “that you were in a tight fix. Say--say that you were engaged in battle with two skilled Gorgons. What would you do?”
    Horace shrugged. “I dunno.” He stared gloomily at his mug of Ginger Tea, yearning for the end of the hour-long lesson.
    “Come now, Horace, you can think of something.”
    Horace ignored the remark.
    “If you’re unwilling,” his master said impatiently, “there are other exceptional scorers that would appreciate the teaching I can offer.” He sounded hurt. “Perhaps we should take you to the office. We can get your apprenticeship revoked.”
    “Master,” Horace sighed, “why can’t I do real magic? It’s been three weeks, and, well...I expected something more...more...I dunno.” He subsided back into silence. Pestering his master was useless, he knew that, but he kept hoping for more than scenarios.
    “I understand your impatience,” his master said, still tapping one foot impatiently, “but you must learn the basics before you can learn spells.”
    Horace glared at the dark band of spice rising from his tea bag. He knew where this discussion was going. It was going the same place it did everyday Horace failed to excite some enthusiasm.
    “It’s like this; imagine you’re going to play chess. You have to learn the rules before you play the game!”
    “But,” Horace countered, “the best way to learn the game well is to play it.”
    “True, but you need the basics first.”
    “And I’ve been learning the same basics for three weeks!”
    His master, Mr. Dickens, contemplated his young, apparently bright student with a bit of distaste. “Fine,” he said finally. “We’ll do it your way.”
    Horace jumped up, accidentally hitting his cup of tea in the process. Dark liquid poured across the smooth, metal surface of the table.
    “Once you’ve cleaned that up, follow me. We’re going out to the pasture.”
    Horace could barely contain his new found excitement. He scurried over to a basket of rags, and then back to the table before he realized he’d forgotten to grab a rag. He rolled his eyes and ran back to the basket. Once he’d managed to get a rag, he re-erected the mug and wiped up his mess. Now out to the pasture!
    The pasture consisted of several acres of sagging, brown-grey hills, scrubby plants that were supposed to be trees, and some unhappy cows. Mr. Dickens made an awful rancher but an excellent wizard. Wizards, however, dragged in a meager living except in times of war when nations realized that wizards were actually useful. Hence Mr. Dickens's attempt at ranching.
    Mr. Dickens was examining one of the cows now, a look of deep frustration on his face. “Stupid cows,” he muttered as Horace got close enough to hear. “Can’t get ‘em to live for more than...” His muttering turned into a murmur that Horace could no longer understand.
    “Mr.Dickens?”
    “Yes, yes, just a minute, Horace.”
    “Okay.” Horace waited for a few moments, shivering in the frosty silence. After several minutes had gone by, he cleared his throat. “Sir?”
    “Alright, Horace, I’m ready. Sit down.” Horace quickly sat down.
    “Since you know how to teach better than I do, what would you like to learn?”
    “Sir?”
    “You’re obviously the better teacher. You tell me what you’d like to learn.”
    Horace knew better than to take the opportunity. It was a trap, of course, an excuse for Mr. Dickens to be angry with him. If his suggestion--assuming he gave one--didn’t turn out well, he’d go back to the same dreary lesson everyday. On the other hand, not giving a suggestion might incite further scorn from his master.
    “You know magic, sir,” he said. “Everything is your decision.”
    “Then why are we out here?”
    “Because I suggested it, and you decided to take my advice. That’s why, sir.” Horace tried not to sound smug, but he worried his master had heard a hint of it in what he’d said. Mr. Dickens was staring down at him with cold, hard eyes. Finally, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
    “You win. We’ll discuss your career first, though. You know there are several different types of wizards, right?”
    “Yes sir. Would you like me to list them?”
    “No, no, there’s no need to show off. Just tell me a few that you’re interested in.”
    Horace thought for a few moments. “I would like to do detective work, sir.”
    “I see. Well, as you know, I’m not trained at all in detective work, but they use the same core. I will teach you this core, and I will give you the books that will help you expand in your chosen direction. Fair enough?”
    ‘Yes, sir.”
    “You know what happens during wars?”
    “Battles, sir.”
    Horace’s master laughed. “Yes, there are battles, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Whatever you’re magical profession, if a war starts, you are immediately drafted.”
    “Why?” Horace asked. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
    “It has nothing to do with fairness. We live in a small nation, my boy, and that means we’re the only hope our nation’s got in a war. Our nation is best for having the greatest variety of good magicians, and that’s why we do it. Purely strategic.”
    “Oh. So who does the duties that we normally do while we’re gone?”
    “You are sharp, Horace! Well, usually lower magicians who don’t quite meet the standards we do, but sometimes the position is filled by highly skilled amagi.”
    “Amagi?”
    “Don’t you know Latin yet? ‘A’ means without, ‘magi’ means worker of magic.”
    “So...normal people?”
    “Yes, but enough of that. If this was a story, readers would think we were spouting information for their benefit instead of our own. We don’t have time for nonsense like that, do we?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Let’s get our first lesson learned. It’s a bit of a history lesson...”
    Horace groaned and prepared himself for a long period of boredom.
    “This story starts at the turn of the 20th Century,” Mr. Dickens said. “It was during a time of great angst, especially in Egypt which, by the way, used to be the center of the world. You see, Britain had pretty much claimed Egypt as their own little place. This made Egyptians mad, so they decided to start a rebellion through Civil Disobedience.”
    Horace yawned.
    “Don’t worry,” Mr. Dickens said, “this story gets really exciting. It gets harder and harder to please you young people.”
    “Whatever,” Horace said. “You were saying?”
    “Oh yes. Well, the leader of the rebellion caused a lot of fear in the British, so they banished him. That was a stupid mistake on their part, if you ask me.” He cleared his throat. “Anyways, the people got mad, and the rebellion got violent. Egyptians started learning magic from British traitors (many of whom were secretly executed). Things got bad, and the British gave up. The world was starting to say, ‘Hey, you haven’t got a right to take over other countries.’ Well, there were British wizards and army people that weren’t so happy with this arrangement. So they stayed.
    “The greatest wizard ever known stayed, and the greatest rebel ever known, half British, half Egyptian, meddled with each others business, and the pure British wizard lost his mind. The rebel kid (yes, he was a kid) was never seen again.
    “Legend has it that the wizard’s mind is still out there. He searched for it the rest of his life, but could never manage it. He never cast another spell, and the Brits were forced to leave. The End.”
    “But what does that have to do with me?” Horace asked, feeling befuddled.
    “Well, if the mind is still out there, whoever finds it can bind with it. They’ll then become the greatest magician alive. It’s said that they will also gain immortality.”
    “Why immortality?”
    “The kid who was never seen again, he came back to life every time he was killed. He was immortal.”
    Horace’s face flushed red with more than cold. Excitement, anxiety, and ambition were all contributing factors. He had to hurry with his studies, he decided. If he did, he might find the mind before others did. And then--
    “Remember, Horace,” Mr. Dickens said, “many have tried to find his mind and failed. The wizard himself did.”
    Horace nodded. “Yes, sir.” Inside, however, he had very different ideas. These ideas got him in near fatal trouble the next day.

The Window

The attic window was being battered by the torrent of falling rain. It overlooked the old man's garden, blossoming with late-season flowers and ripe with the season's harvest. Pumpkins swelled to great sizes and the apple trees beyond the garden filled the trees, dragging their branches nearly to the ground. The scent of the the apples mixed with the mild scent of the rain and wafted through the window, reminding me of my aunt's pie, as well as that I was thirsty and that I hadn't eaten since noon. In my nervous struggle to stay focused on reading a language I didn't understand, I had completely forgotten my hunger. My stomach rumbled. It was too late now. Crook was most likely in bed, and the maid had probably finished working by now. I continued to look out the window.

As I gazed over Crook's property, I suddenly noticed movement I did not expect. I thought it might have been a person, but wasn't entirely certain. I strained my eyes to see if they could determine what it was beyond the yard that they had seen. For a time, I did not see anything again. But my curiosity was peaked; it was obvious that Crook's collection of books was as far from typical as one could get, and I sensed a sort of insecurity in Crook's personality throughout our short conversations. I wanted to know why he behaved that way, and what his involvement was with the supernatural, for that is what I assumed his book collection was about. I was certain that midnight intruders would be connected to all of the above.

Then I saw the movement again, just beyond the apple trees. A black, humanoid shape, I guessed about six feet tall, had just taken a step toward Crook's house from the shadow of the neighboring house's eaves. I lowered myself so that I was just peeping above the edge of the window. Whoever was out there held an umbrella, but not over its head; the person was also holding a large, open book, and placing the umbrella just over it as if to protect it from getting wet in the storm. It was looking around the place, up and down the house. I became nervous, but was certain that with the moon being obscured that night that it wouldn't be able to see me through the window.

Then lightening flashed, revealing all that was obscured by the dark night. I was certain it had seen me, for as soon as the lightening had flashed, it kept staring straight at the window I was peering through. A chill crawled through me, and I ducked out of view, my breath quickening. After a few minutes, I caught my breath again. I slowly moved to peer out the window once again, my hands trembling a little as I placed them on the wall for balance.

As I looked out again, I couldn't see the figure where it had stood. I scanned the entire view, and I could find no trace of the shadowy being. I sighed with relief. I was about to lay down and go to bed when I noticed a faint warm glow coming from below the window. The source of the light was too close to the house for me to get a good angle on it, and I couldn't see what it was. After a moment, I decided to sneak down the ladders to get a look through a window that would be level with the light source.     

Spontaneous Poetry by Bryceus Lowryeus

Chocolate pie, cheesecake

And Chocolate cake,

These are what dominate this kitchen.

So stop your whining, throw away your peas,

And satisfy your sweet tooth itchin'.

Spontaneous Poetry by Katticus the Uninspired :B

In a little cranny

Beyond a little moor

A little swab was sweeping

and mopping up the floor.

Magicae Artis freewrite

A bent,​​​​​​ venerable ​​​​​​​​​​man​​​​​​ sat​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ on a bench staring at the falling autumn leaves. As a leaf would detach itself in a slow, melancholy manner from its summer-long tree limb, the great-bearded man's eyes would follow it as it swayed back and forth, downward until it softly touched the grassy ground. Then the man's eyes would look up again and follow another leaf in exactly the same fashion. Every now and then a leaf would land on his long, white beard. After a time, he began to look like an old tree himself, so still except for his faded green eyes slowly following the gentle fall of the leaves, his beard now more orange with leaves than white with whiskers. I began to wonder what he was doing, but tried again to focus. If the man noticed I was paying more attention to him than to my studies, he might be slightly perturbed, but that wouldn't do; I was trying my best to impress him with my pretended scholarly nature. Sitting on the grass, I quickly glanced back at my book; an old, weathered, leather-bound tome that was scribed in Latin, probably hundreds of years ago. That's all I could decipher, however, and was trying to think of the best excuse I could give the man when he asked what I learned from reading the book. I only knew several words in Latin, such as 'caesar,' 'gymnasium,' and 'vomitorium.' Not exactly an impressive vocabulary, and far from the scholarly experience the man was hoping I had nearly as much of as my aunt had promised him.

"You're not even reading!" snapped the old man, suddenly. His previously wandering eyes were now eerily intensified and locked on mine.

"Yes sir, I am," I replied, and in as sweet a tone as I could muster.

"No, you're not. Don't lie to me, boy," he paused momentarily, glancing briefly at a leaf that was falling near him. He looked back at me. "Your eyes have been darting back and forth from me to the book. But you're not reading the book when you look at it. Your eyes aren't following the lines. You're just staring at the pages in their entirety and it's ridiculous! If you're half as knowledgeable as your aunt has told me, how did you get to be? By daydreaming? By staring at strangers?"

"Excuse me, sir. I can see why you'd think that," I stalled, trying to fabricate a story for why I didn't appear to be reading. "You see, I found one particular passage to be quite interesting and so I paused to read and re-read it and to think more deeply upon it." I smiled, and for a moment believed I had made the perfect excuse. Then it dawned on me that he would ask, "And what did that passage read?"

"And what did that passage read?" He asked, mimicking my thoughts. I'm sure he saw the luster in my face fade like the moon at sunrise, and I looked down at the book again. I mulled the title of the book over in my mind, looking for clues as to what the book might be about. The title was Magicae Artis. ​Then I looked at the chapter heading again, which, luckily for me, was on the same page I had been looking at all along. I sighed with relief, glad that I wouldn't have to discount myself further by physically perusing the book for clues. I only recognized one word in the chapter title. "Egyptus." And then my time was up. I had to invent my explanation.

"I was just surprised that this book traces the um, the art of magic back to Egypt." I looked up at the old man, and aside from beginning to wonder if he had a name, also wondered if I had done the trick or said something that was so simple to him that I should be embarrassed.

Much to my surprise, the man smiled. "Maybe you do have the mind of a scholar after all, which I doubt," he said, and quickly stood up, brushing his beard in an attempt to dislodge the thick layer of leaves that was enmeshed in the whiskers. He only half succeeded in this attempt, and leaving the other half of the leaf-mound still in his beard, quickly walked over to me. "You may close the book for now. But carry it for me. It's rather a distant walk to my place, and I am old and quite weary. Especially after watching your study habits."

"So you're accepting me as your apprentice?" I asked. He didn't look at me as he answered.

"Yes, we'll give it a try. But if you prove to be worthless after all, which I'm sure you are, then it's to the streets with you!" 

I gulped. "All right. Um, what kind of apprentice will I be? I mean, what is your trade?"

"Merely a simple book-keeper. And your tasks will be easy. All you need to worry about when you begin your training is keeping the books organized." The old man looked around the grove we'd been sitting in, put on his hat and began to walk down the earthen road that lead back to town. I watched him for a moment, then began to follow him.

"Sir, may I ask your name?" I said as I walked behind him. He was slow, and it was hard for me to feel natural about walking so much slower than my typical walking speed. After a while I began to doubt he would answer my question. Suddenly he stopped and turned around. I nearly ran into him, and in my attempt not to bowl him over I nearly fell over backwards instead. He let out a single laugh that was almost more of a grunt.

"All you need know me by is Master. If I decide I like you enough, you can call me by my name. But even though I've agreed to take you in for now doesn't mean I like you. Understand? We're not friends. We're not on a first name basis. Well, you're not. But I can call you whatever I want, Charles."

"All right, but are we on a last name basis?" I asked, trying not to be put off by his ill-tempered attitude. But inside I was starting to feel sorry that my Aunt Beth had given the man my name at all. Then I could have the satisfaction of also witholding my name from my new acquaintance. 

"My surname is Crook. But you call me Master, because that's what I am." He shook his finger at me as he spoke, then slowly turned around and began to walk along the path again. 

"And what is the town called where you live?"

"So many questions! Can't you just think and look around and enjoy the beauty of this place? Autumn only happens once a year you know, and it shouldn't be disturbed by young whelps such as yourself or their ceaseless questioning." A leaf above him began to fall, and his eyes were immediately transfixed upon it. He watched it until it landed at his feet. Then he looked at me and said, "You see, if I had answered your question and become engaged in a meaningless conversation with you, I could have missed the fall of that leaf. It's the only life that leaf will ever know and that means it only falls once!"

"Drat!" I sighed, "A leaf in England just fell and you missed it!"

"Shut your mouth, brat!" He said, and began to walk toward town much faster than I would have imagined he was capable of. I laughed aloud and began to follow him again, this time walking at a pace I was comfortable with in order to keep up with him.