Mitch VS Crocodile (excerpt from Fable Nation)

Dangerous creatures lurk everywhere. Each time you kill one, depending on your motives and situation, you receive points or demerits accordingly (Rule 26, page 15 Fable Nation Guide Book)

“Not the time for jokes,” I shrieked.“It won’t eat me right away. It’ll take me down to the bottom of the river, drown me, anchor me with rocks until my flesh rots, and then eat me.”
“Nice imagination.” She sighed. “I know this place is more real to you, but come on dude, do you actually think…”
The croc scampered closer, jaws snapping, reaching out for my leg. A blur of orange and black flew over my head interrupting the close encounter. The ground shook a little when Arluin landed at me feet in his fighting stance. A piece of my brain, the small part where all my good ideas came from, told my body to move, but instead of running for safety I planted myself in front of Arluin.
“Run you idiot!” Furrina was already on top of the dirt hill.
“He’ll never win.”
“Neither will you.”
The air around me vibrated a little and Severious popped at my side. He was shaking all over, but he handed me a long, heavy stick then was gone again. Arluin nudged me, but I didn’t move, not even when croc snapped at my feet, I hit it across the snout as hard as I could, snapping the stick in half.
The monster lunged.

Shell Wars: The peanut vs. the snail

He was a cocky sort of fellow, marching about his area with both antenna raised high and unbent. He thought he was invincible, and well he should have what with his recent victories. Those rolly pollies didn’t see him coming that is for sure. Never did see a pill bug roll so fast, not since the time the giant finger god came from the sky and flicked one into oblivion.

This gastropod was no common slug to be sure. Can’t really comment on his lineage, though many believe royalty from the great sea; it is all speculation. He was just a lone figure oozing his way through our forest, besting the best we had until the day he met his match. Oh what a day. What a splendid, horrific stand off. None of us have any soft feelings toward any of the shells, unnatural it is the way they recoil back into themselves like that. What is it they do in there? And you might know they’re still staring at ya, beady pin eyes and all.

The shell was a mystery. Never had we seen the likes. It had no eyes to speak of, but it sat there unperturbed and self assured. The slug had met his match. It was about to get bloody.

He approached his adversary without caution, had any of us liked the fellow we might have warned him. This new shell was dangerous. How I know I cannot say. It was an instinct born from days living in the wild left to my own defenses. But we stayed silent. Guilty bystanders.

One antenna poked. Then the other. The mystery shell rocked a little. A back and forth dance of pure mockery.

Slugboy, now infuriated that his attacks had garnered no response, reared up on his slimy back end and headbutted his enemy. One massive blow that should have ended it all.

Silent rocking. Cruelty in it’s rawest form.

We had no choice, no choice I tell you. How could we continue just stand by and watch? We might have had no love for the gastropod, but he didn’t deserve that kind of contempt. I rallied my troops and we tapped out the slug and did our worst.

I wasn’t proud. A hundred marching mites…hear our roar.

The shell cracked. The slug oozed over it claiming the victory. And we retreated.

Game over.

Who was the victor?

In an odd twist of fate…the striped chippy, who waited in the shadows, only to claim the shell for his own sadistic purposes. Cannibal.

The fat pug and the pirate Boston

The other day I had an interesting conversation with my dogs.  The fat pug told me I was slacking as a housemaid–writing too much, she lectured–what about the children?  Of course I countered with (and not very nicely as I knew she was manipulating me for barbeque spareribs) “Mind you own business, pug, your tongue is sticking out.”

While this may sound harsh trust when I say that it is most definitely what she needed to hear.  My fat pug is always trying to manipulate me and force her opinion me.   Most days I can handle it.  She is only a dog after all, but sometimes it gets to me you know?  Here I am trying to do my best and it’s never good enough.  Not for her.  Never for her.  If I bathed in hot dog water and let her lick my feet it wouldn’t be enough.

Imagine, if you will, the way in which she says it.  First of all she sounds like an overweight smoker with a chronic chest cold, but it’s the tone that does me in.  So judgmental and condescending.

Waddles up to me without a care in the world, and let me tell you that if my rear end was exposed on a daily basis I might be a bit more humble, but not her.  She walks around inspecting everything as if it is her mandate in life; doggy police for the Kita home.  God help the children if they are doing something they shouldn’t be.  Her little corkscrew tail stands at attention and she lets them have it.  Yip yip yip.

Sigh.

It is her version of love.

You cannot compare the love of a pug to anything else.  It is pure.  complete and absolute.  It is also, creepy, suffocating and odd.  If you’ve ever seen the Stephen King movie, ‘Misery’ you might understand.  Thank God my fat pug could never hold a sledge hammer.  (of course I’ve hidden it just in case).

So, as I’m lecturing the pug on lecturing me, my Boston Terrier wiggles up to us (honestly it’s as though his butt is an independent appendage someone attached on as an afterthought) and he asks what the problem is.

Now you have to understand that my Boston does not speak in anyway you think he should. Considering he’s as wound as tight as a towel ready to snap you might imagine his voice to be a high pitched whine.  Or maybe due to his linage it wouldn’t be a stretch to think he had a easy going Massachusetts swag.

He doesn’t.

“What the problem, me mateys?  Whose the scallywag this time?”

“Kutless,” I say with as much patience as I can muster (he is after all a Boston Terrier)  “Stay out of this.”

“You two be acting like a bunch of sprogs with this one being a squiffy I ever did see one.”

“Listen here, pal, after what I caught you licking the other day…”

“It was me bath I was takin!”

It is never a win for me when I talk to my dogs.  Usually I pretend they are sweet, loyal pets with floppy tongues and spontaneous flatulence, but sometimes they make it difficult.  Yesterday I saw them salute the neighbor’s cat, and the day before the pug was running laps in the back yard while the Boston counted off with barks.  If they’re planning something…well I want to be the last to know.

Fable Nation: A glimpse into the nightmare

Prologue

If someone told me there would come a time I would not want to play the newest, hottest video game on the market I would not have believed them.  Most times I would play my games until the rents threatened my freedom, or hunger threatened my stomach. Didn’t matter which came first. It never dawned on me something might happen to change my addictive habits, but I am twelve, I don’t think about anything unless it entertains me, or tastes good.

People over thirty have told me I have an active imagination.  I’m not stupid.  I know its adult talk for being a liar. I’m no liar—a mild coward, with a reasonable fear of creepy crawlies—but not a liar.  I like order.  Is that so wrong?  I like things that make sense.  I want to know when I hit my sister I’m going to get in trouble, or if I’m rude to my mom she’ll twist my ear like a pretzel.  These things comfort me.  It’s the simple order of life that keeps my world sane.  After playing Fable Nation nothing in my life would ever again be normal.

Why should anyone believe my story?  They shouldn’t, I am not sure I would if I did not live it, but I have the scars to prove it.  You can’t be nearly consumed by a spider the size of a minivan without suffering a scratch, or major contusion.

This is Mitch from the inside…

Lessons from a Bee

Ah nature!  Smell the rain.  See the beauty that surrounds us.  The dew in the early morning that adorns the grass.  The rambunctious twitter of quarreling Sparrows.   The focused Bee zipping from flower to flower hard at work.  Nature is God’s lesson book for us.  We can learn much from the intricate balance of nature if we pay attention.

Is there something you want to accomplish in your life?   Do you have dreams or goals?   Most of us do.  Whether it is becoming a new breed of super hero with genetic implants or a better Beiber we all strive to leave our mark in this world (hopefully one without traces blood or human waste).

But…

There is a dangerous misconception that if we attempt something we should succeed or at the least it should be an easy road to success.  Our desires are not a direct line to accomplishment.  This becomes more complicated if we have a natural gifting in an area.  But the same principle remains.  Desire coupled with natural talent does not equal success.  There is another essential ingredient.  Effort.

To master something, to be efficient or a success at whatever it is we have chosen takes a great deal of effort.  This is the sweaty, dirty, frustrating and exhausting part.  The behind the scenes ugly stuff no one wants to know about.  We want to read a good, polished book not a rough draft.  We don’t even want to know that the author had to edit the manuscript several times.  We want to watch a musical production and see everyone hitting the proper notes and knowing their lines.  We don’t want to buy tickets for the dress rehearsal.  Would you pay money for a  product that hadn’t been tested and perfected? I hope the answer is no.

Look at the life of the honey bee.  The Queen bee lays her eggs in a six sided cell filled with pollen and honey as a food source.  The top is sealed with wax. When the food source runs out the time has come for the little bees to enter the world.  Before they can do that they must find a way out.  The wax top is so hard the bees are only able to make a tiny hole to escape from.  The process of escape actually rubs off the outer membrane encasing the wings.  This part, though painful and exhausting is essential.  It is in the process of shedding the membrane that the bee’s wings are strengthened enough to use them to fly.

If someone came along and poked holes in the honeycomb the bees could easily escape but without the ability to fly.

Success comes from effort.

Today I am going to choose to sweat over my writing.  I will force myself to write even though I see no point, no light at the end of my tunnel.  I will do this because I understand I must if I am ever going to reach the summit of my goals.

Dill Pickle Dancers

If we don’t say what we are thinking and say what we believe others want to hear are we better people for it?  I understand the idea of being a good person and I do so wish to be good, but what if my thoughts do not reflect that desire?  What if I really hate my friends new shirt or I think someone’s hair cut makes them look like an antelope?  Those are not good things to say.  I know this.  So what do I do?  Say nothing?  Take advantage of the multipurpose  ‘interesting‘ word?  Lie for the good of everyone involved?  I don’t want to hurt  feelings but I do want to be true to myself.  The problem is I’m not always nice, or forgiving or great.  Sometimes I’m petty, deceitful and rotten.  But I want to be known and I want to be authentic.

Even if it means being vulnerable to public criticism.

Have you ever been in a room of people and you had visions of shouting out something ridiculous?

“The penguin pees on ice!”

“Ladies and Gentlemen I have a hairy toe!”

“Can freckles be picked off with a toothpick?”

Now before you whip out your sharpies and assign labels let me be clear that I have not, nor do I ever think I will say any of the aforementioned sentences.  There are so many other wonderfully weird things to say.  But back to my original question, is it better to say what we think or filter our thoughts?  I think it is good advice to try to avoid hurting others but what about showing others who we really are?  Do we even know who that is?

What if I challenged you to tell someone what you were thinking this very minute?

I’m thinking of dill pickle people with olive eyes.  Now they are dancing and singing Elvis songs. 

Good times.

What are you thinking? Is it weird or boring?  Funny or mean?

Is there a difference in speaking our minds if it is nonsense that means nothing as opposed to opinions?  Have you ever kept your opinion to yourself when others were freely sharing? I think it is easier to voice opinions rather than let people really see us.

I have a theory.  We all have stinky, judgmental minds that need some sort of prearranged agreement with our mouths.  Speak and be heard but try not to damage the  feelings of others.  That is not always easy or possible.  It would be beneficial to sift through the garbage our brain consumes daily to find nuggets of  brilliance or mediocre meanderings.

Or perhaps monitor what we take in to lesson the amount of sludge.

But that is another blog and one for a parent or a teacher to lecture.  As for me I’m am going to practice speaking freely and see how many people I can disturb.

It feels like Monkeys in top hats are dancing on my bladder.

I just did it.

It felt good. 

Finding, Keeping, living–our Dreams (and head butting the little voice in our head that tries to distract us)

Do you have a dream?  A plan for the future?  Do you know what you want to be when you grow up?    By the time we’re young children a small seed of desire to ‘do’ something with our lives is planted, but sadly, a drought of apathy comes along and starves our dreams before they have a chance to grow.  Or, sometimes a flood of reality washes away the fragile roots.  Be wary of the person whose sees dreams as a threat to their black and white existence.  These people lost theirs long ago and can no longer appreciate the beauty  and wildness of dreams.  Protect your dreams from the storms of life that would sweep them up in destructive wind and soaking rains.

Do you want to change the world?  Take action!  Do people scoff or roll their eyes?  Ignore them.  Save your pennies and save the whales.  Do you want to immortalize yourself with the power of a carefully chosen word?  Pick up your pencil and write.  Do you want to be the best at something?  Practice.  Don’t listen to the naysayers who try and drag you down into the dungeons of  the real world.  The world is what you make of it.  The dungeon is but an unlit room with self imposed shackles.

There is a voice in all of our heads that likes to tell us we are not good enough, that we will never be as good as the best.  Why even start?  Won’t we just be disappointed in the end?

Don’t believe the voice.  Run from the voice, or better yet chase the voice into a dark alley and show it whose boss, and when it comes back (it always comes back) flex your growing confidence and watch it run.

Dreams are wild, unkempt, sparkling, hopeful, scary, challenging.  They are an ember of beginnings.  Don’t just sit back and watch the light fade, blow on it, feed it, build it and fan it into a blaze.