So it's already 49. I have been on a big nonfiction kick and I need to get off it. The majority of nonfiction sucks, I realize now that I have been reading non-classic-books. Business books are just persuasive essays, no matter how good they sound. I choose to believe the stupid facts they put forward, but you can fool yourself into a ton of confidence that way. And confidence equals more writing! Which is what we want, here. My story I do AFTER I finish this book is going to be awesome, I think the character I'm writing about is me before I found a little bit of direction recently. Which makes him real, but unless I keep thrusting him in random situations nothing is going to happen. Oops about that. Hopefully it gets ridiculous today. Also, note to self, stop sleeping 8 hours even when I'm trying not to. Son of a gun.
He had nothing to gather in his cabin, and didn’t recognize himself in the mirror. He slept with the costume on that night, dreaming about the life he had been promised as a child. He remembered being special, being cared for, the world being his oyster. His parents had forsaken him, he thought, although he could hardly remember them and was constructing an image based on his own affinities. The heads started poking up, eyes first, from behind the ravenous overgrown bushes. Spears followed shortly after them.
“Is this some kind of a joke?” He overheard one of these foreign people whisper to the next. Another grunted a laugh and they pushed the bushes out from in front of their faces and stepped forward.
Charles stepped back behind the line and they stepped back behind the bushes. A common mexican standoff.
“Pillow cases, really?” He heard one of them say, indignantly. “And just look at those shoes.”
Charles looked back at Bork, who he did not see, because Bork was so far out of visual range.
“Someone must have put him up to this, he simply can’t be serious about that black face paint. I bet he used acryllic paint, too, he’s going to pass out sooner or later.
He crossed the line with a wobbling toe scraping across the ground tentatively, and spun on a dime backwards. Charles tore the costume off and changed into a T-shirt and jeans which he procured at the general store. I bet she’s not even kidnapped, he thought to himself.
He marched back to the campfire, where the man who had recently been an angel and creepy decrepit figure was standing there as the decrepit figure talking to Bork. He ducked behind a tree on his hands and knees and listened intensively.
“You sent him off to get killed? Well, that’s just as fine. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know where he is or what he’s doing, much less how to save a girl.”
“You want me to go get her? She’s in a locked box somewhere, who’s doing was that?”
Charles snapped a branch with his foot and stumbled forward like he had been shoved.
“What are we going to do with you?” The skeletal man asked. “Are you going to get out there on the opposite side of that white line and try to save that girl already?”
They forced Charles back into the costume despite his feeble protests, his constant questions about what reason he could have to wear a costume. He tried to say he had been ridiculed ceaselessly by the tribe the time before, and Bork laughed, insisting he had a little bit of gumption and willpower.
They shoved him across the line dinging bells loudly, whisking on the top of the ground like patridges. The men appeared from across the line and towed Charles away, with a feeling of falling down a pit.
Branches caught and serated over Charles’s purposeless suit, a wiser looking old man with crudely fashioned glasses followed the unruly gang from the outside shaking his head.
They came upon a quarry and threw Charles in, at which point he temporarily blacked out, the change in his parking meter jingling and resettling itself. He rose up, dusting himself off as an act of habit, and spotted a long purple neck eezed into the ground in front of him. His eye followed it along onto the bona fide body of an award winning christmas turkey, its legs jutting out to prop up its stupidly oversized body like a beanbag and some straws.
The people called down to Charles from the top of the pit, peering over its side like babies watching a insect that they hadn’t seen before. This particular insect was completely trapped with no wings, creeping about on tip toes attempting not to rouse the beast.
A native with a mohawk and Jordy Laforge eyepiece let out a battlecry, and then began to holler “One of us! One of us!”. No one else joined him in his chant, and he left the group dejected. Charles looked up at them and back at the bird, just in time to see a battery the size of a human hand whip past the birds ear. Charles ran in place, his hands clutching his heart. He attempted to scurry up the dirt mound of the wall, digging his fingernails into the dirt and falling back directly onto his back. The smell of dew and fresh soil filled his naval cavities, and blood began to well up underneath his nails.
The bird shook its hind quarters and began to pull with its haunches to ostracize its face from the ground. It looked around bleery eyed, like it wanted to find a cup of coffee, stumbling around letting its legs take turns balancing it. Charles hid himself in the corner, pressed into the wall and pulled the tan colored muffler down over his eyes.
The skeletal man dangled a rope over the side and retracted it, but Charlie wasn’t aware of his attempted torment. The roar of the crowd grew louder as the bird undoubtedly drew closer, Charles could hear the booming scrape of its appendages finding their strength.
Charlie found himself pulled out of his hiding place by a gentle caress. The bird slipped its lower beak under his eye-concealing muffler and pulled it off, chewing it like gum as Charles peered up between the drawn curtains of his eyelids.
The birds face looked like his own, other than the beak and enormous antlers. It had one large eye, the pupil in the middle sloshing around like clothes in a dryer. The creature seemed to take a liking to Charles, who was being pushed around like a rag doll by its every whim.
Bork descended down into the pit and ran to Charles’s side. “You befriended the bird, just like we knew you would.” He chuckled to himself with nervous anxiety.
The bird gestured to its back, and Bork tried to climb on. He was immediately tossed off, and the bird pecked at him ferociously. He punched it in the head, slinging its face back like the ball launcher in a pinball game. It backtracked and kicked Bork in the groin region, which humbled the enormous man.
Charles mounted the creature and it heaved itself with a mighty leap back onto the surrounding forest land. Charles could see everything from its back, and desired nothing more than to have a saddle underneath him to prevent rashing. The bird leaped in long strides like the silhoutte of a hop skip and jumper in an olympic event, carrying them across the horizon line under the sunlit sky with little concern for the overgrowth surrounding it. It showed great resiliency, smashing everything it touched.
Soon they escaped the confining grasp of the forest, the green blurred surroundings slowing and transforming into a sand which was so dense and consistent it did not appear to blur when traveled over quickly. Somewhere, the Red Mazda Miata swirled around in a figure eight and crouched revving its engine on the opposite side of the forest.
The bird showed Charles a world he had never tried to imagine in his wildest dreams. Furthermore, he was stuck looking at it, and could not simply change the channel or go check his Facebook. He grabbed its antlers, and it stopped running immediately and shook its head loose from his grasp and turned around. It’s giant eye centered on him like “You are here” on a mall map and its brow cringed in disquiet dispute. The face reminded Charles of Anne’s, when she was unhappy about things he was unsure over.
It started running again, in the direction of the sand parallel to the water. Mirages started to become clear on the opposite side of the water, oasises and waterbound casino boats.
The bird got off by a series of palm trees hanging out around the edge of the surf. The water cascaded up to theit trunks but went no further, and the creature shook Charles off and began burrowing with its giant face into a truncated hill. It procured a long fishing wire, which it wound around its food and began dragging along the shore behnd it. The line ripped a path for itself across the sand, like removing a copper wire from an abandoned building.
Looks like I have to make up a lot of words over the next couple of days to get to 50,000 this month. I'm at 19,744 (smh). LOL. Internet speak. Damn. I'll do it! Day off tomorrow.
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