Marginal improvements! I think I'm going to try to keep the same stories going for a week now, who knows, maybe something will happen to my 2 dimensional characters or there will be plot development. I downloaded a shit ton of classic audiobooks on Itunes, 1984, East of Eden, Journey to the Centre of the Earth, Watership Down, Catcher in the Rye, etc, at the advice of Stephen King. That time I'm wasting singing along to songs in the car or listening to NPR could be spent (subconsciously) stealing plot devices, themes, character (names), etc. Most of these guys do start with nothing, and have you run into a character who knows something no one else knows, or fears something no one else knows to fear, and the rest of the book has that fear veil hanging over it. Where you're expecting something to happen. Tension? Yeah. I'll try to avoid being sentimental or your sense of decorum, but it's pretty safe to say I have to exorcise a few personal demons before worrying about that. Lots of time to write today, let's get a chapter 2 going. Also, listening to Watership Down I understand the points of Chapters. It's your radio break, your commercial segment. Your characters can be doing whatever you want when you get back. That sounds like common sense, so maybe it is. I don't remember the name of my guy from yesterday. Research research research.
It's hard to get finished when it's hard to get started. Another note: I know I'm switching between first person and third person. Today I feel like third person. First person sucks.
It's hard to get finished when it's hard to get started. Another note: I know I'm switching between first person and third person. Today I feel like third person. First person sucks.
Chapter 2
Arnold wandered the forest looking for Duane. There were broken branches all around, footprints leading to stumps, divits in the dirt which could only have been made by humans. There were also “no trespassing signs” nailed over wooden plaques, a sign that at one point these woods might have been used for educational purposes.
Hanging from the trees there were assortments of alien catterpillars. Each one was a different color, length, and produced a different sort of slimy trail behind it as they devoured the trees. It was like a redneck caterpillar family reunion. A few fell from the trees when they would come in contact with one another, and then scurry off under the leaves like they were high school boys lost in a bad neighborhood after dark.
Arnold gave up looking on his friend and took out his cellphone. Their friend Charlie, who Duane was spending a lot of time with when Arnold had decided it was better to give Charlie some time to himself, went out hunting with him nearly every weekend.
After 5 rings, Charlie’s mom answered the phone.
“Hello Mrs. Leslie, I’m looking for your son.” Arnold said.
“One of Charlie’s friends?” She cut him off. “Charlie hasn’t been home in months, you wouldn’t happen to know where he is?” She sounded like she hadn’t left the house for months. Like she had been feeding her paranoia by shutting herself in.
He heard some scrambling in the background, and the sound of the phone switching hands.
“Is this Duane?!” A man’s voice said. “Whatever you have done with Charlie, we will find you, and I personally…” Arnold hung up.
Come to think of it, Duane had disappeared with a couple of guns in a wooded area with the intention of killing anything that crossed his path. Now Arnold felt like the fool, and his first priority was getting out of these woods and as far away from his friend as possible.
Charlie could have committed suicide, he thought to himself. He was always the moody, loose cannon kind of guy with an appetite for unpredictable desires. His parents were the equivelant of grandparents, they babied and spoiled him while blindly turning the other cheek as long as his grades stayed above a B. He spent the majority of his time, like most suburban kids, playing first person shooter videogames. Arnold knew there was no implicit danger in doing such things. Duane, for example, spent most of his time outdoors or trying to be assimilated to social groups.
Arnold found his way out of the woods and into a deforested area, with a cabin on a hill at the end of a set of wooded stairs. He could hear the sound of a generator humming like a beehive. It smelled distinctly of glue, like this summit was being held in place by a bandaid.
Down the path came a man walking a fat german shepard, greeting Arnold with a friendly hand up in the air. He wore a rangers outfit complete with hat, and it was personalized with a cursive stitching that read “Hank Guntry, Park Ranger”.
“What are you doing all the way out in these parts?” He said, retracting the leash closer. The dog growled under its breath; being suspicious was it’s job. The man put a hand on the dogs back and it calmed down, still growling at a barely audible level.
“A friend of mine is out in the woods and we got separated,” I stated matter of factly. I thought I would save the whole bit about his alleged sociopathic nature.
“Well,” He said. “We’re going to have to find him at escort you two out of the woods.”
“Fine with me. If we hadn’t got separated, we’d be lost out here all day. I frankly have no clue where we are right now.” Arnold petted the dog, although it actively struggled to avoid my hand. It knew better than to snap or bite, it was practically part of the park ranger force at this point.
“Some friend he sounds like,” He laughed. He grabbed a walky talky and made a call, and within a few minutes two more rangers came out of the house. They were noticeably agitated, which meant either many delinquint types wandered into this forest or the opposite. Each man carried a gun in a holster, a little overequipped for forest work.
“Do I get a glock?” I joked. These guys were in a serious business type of mood. “Do the interns get glocks?” Neither of them had seen Life Aquatic.
I followed the guy with the dog, and we quickly found a guard outpost with a ladder leading up 100 feet to a station. He handed me the leash and left me at the bottom of the ladder, and he climbed up deliberately, hand over hand, like a driver who had just got a license and was still using 10 and 2.
On the top, he fiddled with a few gadgets. It was sophisticated for this part of the forest, either there was an excess budget for park services or there was something more serious going on in these woods that they were guarding. Arnold pictured security cameras beaming down from satellites, trees turning into guards, Duane digging a hole and jumping in wearing complete camouflage. The dog looked uncomfortable, he either was not used to being in the care of someone other than his master, or there was something supernatural in the air. Dogs can sense that kind of thing.
“The dogs kind of freaking out.” He called up to Hank. It began trying to pull me toward nothing in particular. “I think I’m going to see where it wants to go.”
“Don’t go too far,” He called out. “Here, take this.” He climbed down, handed me a walky talky, and climbed back up into his tree. “Shouldn’t be too long here, all we have to do is triangulate the signal and we’ll find out where your friend is.”
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