C.E. Huntingdon's Blog, page 2

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Apple Soup snack

Chapter 2: Ellen the Harold - Part 2

...continued from part I

A few days later, the group accompanying Ellen, the so-called Harold and recently renamed Himelforth Bread-bringer (as no one liked saying Ellen and or Harold), entered the city of Geriapolis. It was a large and modern city, as much as something can be large and or modern in this time and place.

It was reminiscent of the northern Florencia and Vente Wests of the continent but certainly the southernmost cultural hub. This owed, in large part, to the Abbey on top of Mount Geriatris, for which the city was named. Since its origins, the faith of Riley had spread far and wide, reaching much of the continent and converting a majority of its population (except of course Himelforth, which we've already discussed. A people so ignorant, that when a god actually appears to them, they still could not perceive its divinity).

Snooterwagons zigged and zagged through the paved streets, while dogs sold newspapers, and cats in little suits dispensed change into what appeared to be a public use pigwhistle. Ellen's petite jaw dropped as a pig on a cycle zoomed by the crowd on the sidewalk, calling back to voice his annoyance at their clogging of one of the city's arterial lanes. Ellen was amazed, the Himelforthians were very much, annoyed.

My previous description of the city is not meant to leave out the majority of humans who make up the city's populace, just to emphasize how different it may be for you, the reader at home who lacks a cat in a suit or a pig on a cycle (though by chance, if you do happen to have one of those, see "someone," it'll do you good). Just use your imagination to fill in the normal people where I might fail to describe them. I assure you, they're there.

As the party slowly wound their way through the streets of Geriapolis, they discovered it was quite easy to find their way.

"Look here, the goat-bear's home lies yonder," exclaimed Himelforth Goat-tugger, as he pointed a boney finger at a rather official-looking blue sign that depicted the silhouette of a crowned dog next to a church with an arrow.

Himelforth Hammer-smasher had attempted to clarify once more that there was no such thing as a goat-bear but quickly stopped himself. Realizing that by now, in a city filled with dogs of all coats, if they didn't understand, they never would. He busied himself instead with the type of knots he would tie for his horse when he got home.

There were other signs as well, though, the party could read little of them. Most depicted local industry and manufacturing, such as the Snooterwagon plant and Theedle & Son's All-in-One's department store. These building-wide signs hung from steel girders, attached to three-story towers of brick and window. Even the doors had signs etched into the glass of the entryways all along the sidewalk. Things like Furs & Fleas Dry Cleaning and General Meow's Official Weow's Take-out.

On the topic of the service industry, particularly that of food, Riley's visitation hadn't only sparked agricultural growth across the continent. Fish were more abundant in the rivers and seas, livestock was more alive and then suddenly stock. Food in all shapes, sizes, and intellectual capacity flourished, and so too had the previously marginalized food and hospitality sector. Entrepreneurs, long-time restaurateurs, and anyone with two hands (or paws (or hoofs)) and pockets were hocking food for money. The world had taken a marvelous turn since Riley's arrival, and much of the bleakness had dissipated into fields of golden grain.

And while they are walking to their destination, let's once again revisit how awful the people of Himelforth are and how by now you should understand why eating cats is particularly appalling here. (Oh, and it seems that having left them for a moment, the party has lost their way.)

Even though the amount of signage plastered across the streets was numerous and no doubt pictorial in nature, the party had somehow managed to find themselves scuttling sideways, the wrong way, down a one-way road. It didn't help that every time they saw a directional arrow for traffic that the Himelforthians assumed that this was the obvious formation the group must make in order to traverse the street. This was in no way a reflection on Himelforth Monk-guy, who, upon discovering the signage to the Abbey, was supplanted in his leadership role as Himelforthian Directional-coordinator.

Thumb-twiddler, in his desire to impress the Abbey, reasoned that if he led the party through this last leg of their trip, he would likely receive the credit for guiding the entire journey. Thus the minor coup was enacted, and the group found themselves in a small turnaround with a man and a cat sitting on a bench.

The pair on the bench observed with curiosity the disheveled, dirty, and backwards crowd that had arrived in formational unison and now stood staring at them, with faces that betrayed their confusion. The awkward standoff was broken as a small interruption ruffled through the crowd of Himelforthians.

The cat pinned back her ears and narrowed her eyes, watching as something made its way through the crowd. Much shuffling and bumbling ensued.

"Oof, sthorry. Oooh, scuse me! Ahh, oh no, lurbths! Woah! Okay, sthorry, oooof!"

With more than a few toes trodden on, a small child broke its way out of the masses. Her eyes widened behind her askew glasses as she let out a gasp and began to tug on the robe of the old man beside her.

"Oooh, itsth a weow!" She whispered loudly.

"I can hear you," the cat said, feeling somewhat insulted, having been made to feel the subject of so many stares.

"Oh no, oh. Tho thorry!" Ellen bowed her head low in apology. "You just have such a beautiful coat! It's been a long time since I've been to Weowland, please forgive my woodness."

"You've been to Weowland!?" The grey-striped cat curled her lip into a cat's smile, the girl's accidental rudeness immediately forgotten. "I grew up in Tunapola, before moving here, of course."

"Oh yeah, Tunapola! Yarn Ball Day is my favorite!" Ellen said with a grin.

The cat let out a cry of elation and leaped down from the bench. She ran towards Ellen, her gingham print dress flying around her. With both paws in the air, she worked herself up into a little dance before taking Ellen's hands and bobbing in place excitedly, a motion that Ellen was all too happy to mimic. The two danced around merrily for a bit while the Himelforthians looked on in surprise and uncertainty. As the initial burst of excitement leveled out, the cat formally introduced herself as Asmine.

"Philip!" Asmine shouted behind her to her human companion, "come meet Ellen!" She turned back to Ellen as her companion smiled and proceeded towards them. "Philip and I are getting married next month, and I so want him to see Tunapola and meet my family!"

"Oh wow, that's just great!" Ellen exclaimed with a wide smile. "Hi, Philip!"

The man nodded at the Himelforths as he arrived before extending his hand down to greet Ellen.

"What are you folks all doing out here?" He asked, "visiting the city?"

While he didn't voice it, he did very much judge the crowd by their more common appearance, particularly that of the mud and dirt that clung to the majority of their faces.

"Oh, we're twying to get to the… uh… Babbey?" She looked to Monk-guy, who shook his head and corrected her with the word "Abbey." "But these signs are just so darn confusthing! I think we're lost, unless…" she trailed off while looking around.

"Oh, well, you're never too far from the Abbey. It's on that small mountain in the middle of the city. The whole place is built around it. If you keep walking towards it, you're bound to find a road up to it."

"Oh Philip," Asmine said as if wounded. "You can give them a ride up there, can't you?"

"Well, I'm not really sure I'm supposed to…"

"He can do it. He's a city milkman, and he's just finished his rounds, isn't that right, Philip? You have plenty of time and space for them, don't you?"

"I suppose…" Philip agreed slowly while scratching the back of his neck and eyeing his supposed passengers.

"Perfect! Come and sit up front with me, Ellen. You can fill me in on your travels through Weowland and the news from Tunapola!"

Ellen, Asmine, and Philip arranged themselves in the front of the milkman's snooterwagon, while the Himelforthian's squeezed into the back, with a few trailing behind off the trunk and more than several hanging from the sides. It was a remarkably quick, albeit bumpy ride for some passengers, but it was pleasant enough. Ellen did her best to relay everything she remembered about her trip through Tunopola and how she had come into the company of so many Himelforths. Asmine hung on every word as they zipped through the city streets—this time following the signs (correctly).

As they slowly wound their way up Mount Geriatris to the Abbey nestled at its peak, the Himelforthians had trouble discerning if they were, in fact, climbing a small mountain or just an unusually large hill. For the people of Himelforth, an arbitrary discussion of this nature was as natural to them as their morning dirt washing ritual. It would have horrified them to find out that they had, in this conversation, shared something in common with the people of Geriapolis.

The taxonomy of Mount Geriatris had long been debated and to this day remained one of the most contentious topics of conversation one could broach with a native Geriapolian. But whether it was a colossal hill, an average-sized peak, or a stunted mountain, the Abbey refused to give a definitive answer to its questioning populace. Deciding that a place of such divinity is beyond concrete definition and that relying on one's faith should present the answer.

The milkman's snooterwagon crested the last hill with a lurch, almost dislodging Himelforth Sockmenderson (whose name teetered dangerously on the edge of being un-Himelforthian) from his perch on the snooterwagon's boot.

Liopold the monk, a devout believer of Riley and brother of the Sect of Dogvinians, sat at his station and lapped at a luke-warm mug of tea. It was viscount brown, his favorite blend. He was disturbed from his lapping as a single large milk wagon skidded up to the Abbey gates and slowed to a halt.

The driver nodded before turning to say something behind him. Liopold watched with an ever-dropping jaw as first three, then seven, then twelve, then twenty-three grimy and feculent men and women poured out from the wagon.

The bulk of these strange folks disembarked without a thank you to their driver, and in fact, from what Liopold could hear, most replaced their gratitude with complaints about uncomfortable seating. They huddled around in odd little groups and pairings, suspiciously pointing and complaining about ordinary things, like the gravel that made up the driveway and the unnatural way the gate held itself up and in no way was leaning and or broken.

Himelforth Monk-guy, the only Himelforth to actually thank Philip for the free ride, broke away from the herd to go introduce himself to the dog manning the gates. As he left to get things settled, Ellen turned to Asmine and Philip to say her goodbyes.

"Thanks for the milkman snooterwagon ride, that was gwate!" Ellen said with genuine excitement.

"Oh no, it was our pleasure," said Philip as he eyed the remnants of Himelforthians in the back of his wagon.

"It was so, so wonderful to get to know you and hear all about everyone in Tunapola!" Asmine chimed in with another round of jittering paws, and then in a moment of uncharacteristic seriousness, Asmine lowered her voice and leaned into Ellen. "You're sure you're okay with all these Himelforths?"

"Oh yeah, they're okay people. And besides, I think I'm supposed to be here," Ellen said as she looked around.

"Well," Asmine paused with understanding. "If you are this Harold, then I suppose so, but please take care of yourself, Ellen."

"Oh, huhuha. I uhuhha will. I hope you have a splen-spen-splendif-splendiferous wedding, weally good!" Ellen said.

As they hugged and parted ways, the little girl stopped with a "oh woh!" and began rummaging in her pockets.

"Something wrong, Ellen?" Asmine asked, concerned.

"Oh, hang on! Have to get you a wedding pweasant!" Ellen answered excitedly. As she rooted around in her pockets for a gift for her new friend, there was a type of magic at work that neither could see.

Often a child's pockets are filled with the mundane and benign, collected out of interest and fancy.

Ellen's were a bit different in that she always seemed to find whatever she needed at the moment, though Ellen would never realize this. She was not a greedy person, nor apt in entirely understanding how pockets worked. It was the earnestness of her desire to give her new friend a gift that produced a spectacular and wonderful thing.

"Huh, it's a neat pokey pin! Got thome stuff on it, though." Ellen's little hand held out an ornate antique weow brooch, adorned in the most beautiful catsphire fire gems that had been arranged in the shape of a beautiful bloated tuna.

Asmine let out a squeal of pure delight and a few kitty-cat tears of joy. She clutched the brooch in her paws and hugged it against her as she danced about before giving Ellen another hug in thanks.

"Oh, it's just beautiful! Where did you find this? Oh, thank you, thank you! You write me, we have to stay in touch! Just send your letters to Tunapola with my name on them! I've decided I'm going, and Phillip is ecstatic, aren't you, dear?"

"I am?" Phillip said quizzically, still somewhat concerned with the uncanny smudges in the back of his wagon. "Uh, yes, that sounds wonderful, please do write to us, Ellen, and all the best."

Asmine and Ellen hugged once more before she and Philip departed in their snooterwagon. As they rolled away, Asmine's little body leaned out of the window, waving wildly and yelling, "Don't forget to wriiiitteee!" as they disappeared around the bend of the large hill, small bluff, or whatever type of mid-ranged geographical elevation happened to obscure them.

Himelforth Monk-guy returned just as the snooterwagon's fumes dissipated. "What nice people," he remarked.

"Yeah," Ellen said with a little sniff, "I weally hope the best for them."

"Well, no time to dawdle, we have a meeting, with the Abbit!"

Chapter 2: Ellen the Harold - Part I

Well, what a perverse little world this is. I certainly didn't imagine this is what I'd be writing when I sat down in my little chair. As strange as it is, though, it makes a kind of sense, in a way. Ok, neither of us are buying that, but I encourage you to stick around, if only for the reason that you've come this far and might as well stick it out to see what happens.

...

The day after Himelforth Monk-guy's vision of prophecy, the hamlet of Himelforth had worked itself up into a frothing tizzy. The old monk was insistent that the girl, who had become known as Ellen—whatever that meant they thought—be taken to the Abbey, Riley's holy house atop Mount Geriatris.

Himelforth Thumb-twiddler, one of the village elders, would have none of it. He, along with many of the other Himelforths, thought that absolutely no good could come of leaving their hamlet of Himelforth and venturing through the dangerous and unknown province of Himelforth to then enter a completely foreign and unknown country which didn't sound at all like Himelforth, to reach some bear-goat den at the top of a mountain.

It was with a heavy heart that Monk-guy finally resorted to appealing to the baser instincts of his fellow Himelforths. He reminded them that the Abbey was likely full of food from offerings across the region, along with the newly abundant crops that surely had sprung up elsewhere. Much discussion was had in the cramped space of Monk-guy's hut. But the not too subtle odor of growing bread-farts, owing to their unrefined digestive systems tackling the flaxseed from their gifted buns, slowly encouraged everyone to vacate the hut. They quickly agreed that it was all in their best interest to go to the Abbey and attempt to barter the Ellen-child for food.

Straws again were drawn to see who would escort the child. Though, after several false starts owing to numerous bathroom breaks, the village unanimously decided that they would all go together, as none trusted the other to safely deliver their share of rewards. Everyone except Hinklefister, however, because no one liked Hinklefister, who himself was still ignorant of the Ellen-child's presence in the village.

Together they went to Himelforth Pigwhistel's hut to send a message to the Abbey ahead of their departure. Himelforth Pigwhistle was named as such, being that he was the only Himelforth in town who had been well enough off to have afforded such a luxury as a pigwhistle, the primary form of communication throughout the continent. He was initially disappointed, as he wanted to be known as Himelforth the Rich, but grew to accept the name upon learning that the word "pigwhistle" had become synonymous with "wealth" in this particular hamlet.

Similar occurrences were sprouting up from other places across the continent. Glimpses of Riley and miraculously abundant crops had been reported from many other villages and towns, but Himelforth was the only reported sighting that also included a bespectacled bowl-cut moron as well as such a sustained visitation from the Makers of Food himself.

The usually dismissive church pigwhistle operator was decidedly more dismissive since the Abbey's single pigwhistle, housed in its personal quarters, was being overwhelmed by numerous calls to confirm the divinity of ongoing events. After a few exasperated hems and caws, the people of Himelforth were curtly told they could bring the Ellen-child to the Abbey, if they had to, and briefly relate the miracle they witnessed, which the operator highly doubted had even occurred.

Cheers erupted from the Himelforthians, and what ensued next was the chaotic scramblings of greedy peasants, eager for their prize. The majority of the afternoon was spent packing up what little the villagers had, which one would think would be quite quick, but in reality, it proved indiscernibly difficult to decide which favorite small rock one should bring or how many handfuls of dirt one should stuff their pockets with.

If it seems like I'm being rude, just remember that these people ate cats and shunned a man for his non-homogeneous name. They really aren't the best of people. And speaking of Hinklefister, a brief note was left scrawled into the dirt for him, asking him to mind the village while all the Himelforths were away on a "vacation," along with a stern warning not to use the civic center bathroom, as that was only for chamber of commerce members. Though, as none of the Himelforths really knew how to read or write properly, what was actually left behind was nothing more than some smudgy stick-pokings in the ground.

With bindles packed to the brim, the people of Himelforth ventured from their hamlet. Chattering rose and fell around the procession as the roving band of peasants talked over each other excitedly to discuss what each thought their prize would be and how they would use it. Himelforth Monk-guy, the only Himelforth who actually knew how to get to the Abbey, led up the head of the party alongside the small Ellen-child, who alternated between skipping, hopping, and tripping.

Along the way, they made a few off-the-path excursions to view some of the more enticing tourist traps. For most of the villagers, it was their first-ever trip outside of their little hamlet, and they took every opportunity to explore. Ellen, who didn't really know who she was with or where she was going, was still somehow pleasantly excited to be along for the trip.

Their first stop was to see Himelforth's Largest Himelforth. Some among them lamented loudly that if only they still had their famous cat dog stand and their one-of-a-kind wedged bread buns, their Himelforth could be just as much of a draw as this Himelforth and just as much of an economic competitor in the region. Ellen wasn't exactly sure what she was supposed to be looking at, but "oohed" and "aaahhhhed" along with the rest. (Ellen is a very agreeable person after all, as I'm sure you'll come to find.)

As the Himelforths took advantage of the free camping that Himelforth's Largest Himelforth provided them, along with its complementary outhouse (which was in fact just a toppled tree trunk, though it did have a rather respectable view of a flowing stream which ran under it, and then down through several Himelforthian villages), Ellen and Monk-guy enjoyed a chance to speak as the others in their party bickered over who would sleep where and which one of them would hold their reserve bread awkwardly over the fire to toast the buns.

"Ellen, if I may ask, why do you wear your hair like that?" Himelforth Monk-guy leaned forward on the old stump upon which he sat.

"Like what?" Ellen asked in earnest.

"Well, like a bowl. It's not usually regarded as the most fashionable of hairstyles, nor usually for children."

"Oh, I dunno. I've never really done anything to it. I like it, though," Ellen said while tousling her hair back and forth with a squinty-eyed smile. "Why do you wear your hair like mine?"

Himelforth Monk-guy reached up to touch his own hair, equally as cut into the shape of a bowl as Ellen's, though decidedly less impressive. "Well, it's a symbol of my faith and of my order."

"Order?" Ellen asked with wide, blank eyes.

"The Order of the Geriapolean Monks of Riles-bad. The most divine faith of the land under he who is the bringer of food. All monks wear their hair like this."

"But why?" Ellen queried.

"This haircut symbolizes the giving nature of the bowl, a simple and yet powerful object. From it, we draw out our generous nature, so that we might help others in Riley's good name," Monk-guy smiled and then continued in more detail after noting Ellen's somewhat dumbfounded expression.

"The Abbey, Riley's good house, is the historical source of agricultural production. Aeons ago, the first monks grew food there, and it was with the bowl which they gave that first plentiful gift in. Since then, the Abbey has spread its knowledge of agriculture far and wide, and still to this day, helps manage many of the production fields which the people rely on. Which many have claimed is a bad thing, too much power and such, and of course, the lasting famine. But it is our haircut which I am reminded of in conversations like that. The upended bowl, every monk is reminded by his haircut, to give, more than he receives, even when there is so little."

The older man paused to pass his share of bread to Ellen with a smile to accentuate the point.

"So if you guys know how to grow food, why has there been so little?" Ellen asked as she pinched off a piece of bread with slightly crooky fingers.

"We don't know, it's a mystery, really. We've done nothing different since the first days of harvest, and yet, famine has stricken the people many times, though these last few years have been harder than any I can remember. Which is why you are so very important, Ellen."

"Huh? I'm important?" Ellen somehow looked even more confused than before.

"Of course you are! You're The Harold, Ellen!"

"The who? What's that? My name's… Ellen, isn't it?" The child asked as if she had suddenly become unsure if that was indeed what she was called.

If by chance, or more likely classical education, you think this is just a misspelling of the word and or title “Herald,” be assured it is not. It is, in fact, a man's name I am referring to, which will be addressed in time (and if you spent more time enjoying the story rather than critiquing its grammar, you might find that you enjoy its contents a bit more).

Himelforth Monk-guy let out a deep bellied laugh (and a small bread-fart) at Ellen's confusion.

"Of course you are ‘Ellen,’ but you are also 'The Harold,'" and just as the little girl's eyes began to cross, he continued. "The Harold of Riley was the founder of the Abbey and the city of Geriapolis. It was from him that we learned all about Riley and his good work. The Harold taught us how to farm, brought us together in large cooperative communities, and showed us how to identify the difference between a stone and a small rock. And it was foretold that The Harold would return again in a time of great need and that we would know him by his description through ancient lyrics."

The old man beamed at Ellen for a moment, before closing his eyes and tilting back his head to sing a soft, rhythmic jingle into the night.

"Riley's return, a flaxen bun,

A golden crown, the cresting sun,

A turtle's neck, weathered and fun,

Stirruped in purple will ride the Harolded one,

As through a mirror, see yourself and know they have come."

Ellen stared up at the waning moon for a few moments while contemplating the ancient song, her little mouth silently forming the words thoughtfully. She lightly touched her turtleneck sweater and kicked her stirrup pant legs out in front of her. "Well, this is just what I've always worn, it's nothing special, just comfy."

"And that's why you're The Harold, Ellen. That's why it's you."

…

Several days later, they came upon a village claiming to have the World's Oldest Still-Living but Actively Dying Himelforthian. Their entry fee included one free group question, which Himelforth Thumb-twiddler was elected to ask.

"Great renowned one, what should we ask of the church as a reward for bringing their Harold?"

In which the World's Oldest Still-Living but Actively Dying Himelforthian replied, "Betwixt two trees, lies the roots of both."

This was met with, "hmmmms" and nods, but none actually knew what it meant. (Of course, being the world's oldest Himelforthian, he was deranged and extremely ill, making him a poor source of wisdom and advice. But who knows, we'll see.)

As they finally transitioned from the country of Himelforth and into the greater dominion of Geriapolis, the lively and adventurous Himelforthians quieted down, and their trek grew solemn. Complaints began to replace conversation as they found unknown and suspicious features within the landscape.

"Look at those weird trees, they're too green."

"And those birds, they fly funny."

"The clouds here are much too puffy, not nearly enough gray."

"I'm not sweating enough, the breeze is cooling me off too fast!"

Instead of finding excuses to stop and explore, as they had in Himelforth, the party found excuses to keep going, even forgoing sleep for several days, as they were sure that the ground was far too suspicious to rest on, owing to the fact that of course it was called "ground" and not some derivation of Himelforth.

It wasn't until the group was forced to pass by Dorsendrooble's Smallest Stinksqual Swamp, which was wedged in the shape of a stretched rectangle in the middle of the road, that some mild form of appreciation grew for things outside their comfort.

This miniature ecosystem had been discovered by the road builder, Dorsendrooble. Seeing the importance in preserving such a wonder, he decided that rather than build through it, he would build around it. Several years went by before it was officially listed in Niktay and Splendache's Wildly Renowned Travel Guide, which was much appreciated by those lucky enough to be published in its pages as Spendache and Niktay were far too kind to give any establishment or destination a rating of less than three stars. Dorsendrooble, upon the listing, had it bronzed and displayed on either side of the swamp to bring notice to what others now knew was a wonder worth taking a moment to enjoy.

Splendache and Niktay's Wildly Renowned Travel Guide

Dorsendrooble's Smallest Stinksqual Swamp:

"A quaint take on a larger geographical feature. Viewable from the road and the

comfort of your snooterwagon. Definitely worth a look."

5 Stars

While the Himelforthians didn't actually stop for any period of time, their gaze did linger on the tiny Stinksqual Swamp a bit longer than they would have normally been comfortable with giving anything outside of Himelforth.

To be continued in part 2

Chapter 1: Makers of Food

In the sullen country of Himelforth, in the province of Himelforth, in the district of Himelforth, the cloudy, murky hamlet of Himelforth went about its daily life. Grim, gray shadows lay over shabby huts and barren land. Tired villagers worked dead fields, trying desperately to find any scrap of grain that could be added to their sparse evening meal. Children’s eyes bulged from their heads in hunger, their pets starving on empty bellies until their heads fell off. It is in this very sad, sad village of Himelforth that our story begins.

On the south end of town was the old cat dog stand, where they had sold cat dogs to cat dog enthusiasts and other passersby. Long ago, a villager had shown up with two cats; a male and a female. The village rejoiced as the famine had made them ravenous. But the villager, now known as Himelforth Cat-seed, persuaded the locals to breed the cats, to see if they could make more cats so that more people could eat. They all tightened their belts a little longer and waited patiently as they bred their cats into a harvest. Every now and again, they sampled their product along the way, celebrating a Birthday or a Cuticle Thursday, until the cat farm was finally bustling with yowls and howls. The yowls made mouths water as they passed by and brought about the hopes of a better tomorrow.

It was then they had the idea to see if they could sell the cats, so they could buy better food. But no one passing through Himelforth cared much about eating just plain cat meat, so something had to be done to make their crop more appealing. Thus, the cat dog stand was erected. The villagers had thought this was their ticket to local business revitalization. They had hoped to entice travelers on their way through the hamlet, putting heads in beds and helping the local economy boom.

The locals had spent weeks debating what to call their new product. Some argued for "hot cats" because there was no dog in the meat they were serving, and they were afraid it might confuse people with allergies. Others cried that the title should obviously be "Himel-franks." The whole town argued for weeks until threats of violence finally brought in the mediation of the village council, who voted in their wisdom that the city’s new product be called "cat dogs" as that was the name that would best evoke tubular meat betwixt their famous wedged bread buns.

The cat dog stand flourished, at least initially (it gained an unprecedented twelve Himels rating on Himelforth Eats), and life had been good for a little while, unlike life in other hamlets in other parts of Himelforth.

The people of Himelforth began to dream of more than cat dogs and thought of what their tiny town could really become. A town hall was immediately called to begin discussing the future of the hamlet. Himelforth Rut-rounder was tasked with placing permanent grooves in the road for wagons, while Himelforth Stick-poker would poke holes along the roadside with his stick for saplings to be planted. A real sidewalk would be constructed, and Himelforth Hole-digger would bury the power lines underground to enhance the general downtown aesthetic while also allowing for hand-laid cables to each hut, just in case they ever figured out what they were for.

They had even planned for the installation of the world’s largest cat-pelt bear statue at the northern city entrance. After that announcement, the downtown planning committee lobbied heavily for the cat dog stand to be relocated to the northern entrance as well so that it would be the first thing most travelers would see next to the public art. Energy and excitement coursed through the village. All of this city-scaping would surely revitalize the town and really make Himelforth a spot on the map, a real destination point!

But all this planning would be for naught and was soon to be abandoned. In just one fateful night, Spencer the Catbarian from the wild north clawed his way into town and set the livestock free. He had slain Himelforth Cat-seed with his bare paws and took his lucrative start-up ideas with him. The night the cat farm was destroyed cast Himelforth back into just another famished rural hamlet like all the others. It all amounted to nothing more than a failed business venture, one the village suffered for so greatly that people now pass through Himelforth as quickly as possible.

But that was all long since passed, and the famine had only gotten worse for all of Puzantium.

...

Himelforth Hammer-smasher, the blacksmith, sat at his post just off the dirty cobblestone road, listening to the coughing of the sick and the children begging their mothers for food that none had. He spat into the mud as he worked on shoeing a large cream-colored pony, carefully tying one lace at a time.

Satisfied with how the red sneakers were looking on the fuzzy steed, the blacksmith took a moment to rest his aching back. His wife sat next to him on the porch, furiously knitting a tea cozy. The smith was about to ask his wife why she was so intent on knitting a tea cozy when no one in the village could afford a teapot when a strange tune caught his attention.

“Dun dun, dun dun!”

“What’s that noise?” The wife looked up from her knitting, startled and confused.

“I dunno…” the smith peered down the road and saw a pair of strange figures moving towards them. The singing grew louder as the visitors came closer into view. Villagers flocked about the little procession, cheering as they threw their hands into the air. He could just start to make out the little figure leading up the front.

“...looks like some sort ‘a... bowl-cut moron.”

“A wot?”

“Yeah, a bowl-cut moron singing in front of…some kinda dog? Look there, he’s walkin’ on his hind legs and wearin’ clothes!”

It was not unusual for dogs to walk on their hind legs or to wear clothes, but the people of Himelforth were backwards and ignorant of anything that wasn’t a Himelforth.

The stunned pair left their perch and made their way into the streets to join the others.

“He’s Riiiiiley! King of the Rileys!”

A short child-like creature with a massive bowl cut and bottlecap glasses skipped awkwardly through the village, clapping at the locals in an off-beat while she sang.

“Queen of the Piiiiiileys!”

Dressed in stretchy purple stirrup pants and a coarse yellow turtleneck sweater, the little girl heralded in a figure behind her as she sang, “And makers of food, dun dun, dun dun, yes makers of food, dun dun, dun DUN!”

A shaggy black dog walked upright behind her, clothed in purple flowing robes with a silky ermine cape fastened around his neck and a velvet jeweled crown perched between his ears. The dog gestured with his paws as he passed through the village, tossing loaves of bread into the crowds now forming around the unusual pair.

“And makers of food, dun dun, dun dun, yes makers of food, dun dun, dun DUN!”

As the song continued, the bowl-cut moron gestured wildly for the crowd to join in. The simple words and limited verse were easy to remember, and before long, the entire village rang with the "King of the Rileys."

The girl and dog finished their procession as they reached the other end of town. The last of the bread was thrown, and the lyrics faded away. The starving villagers found that they became round again, and their heads became more solid. The fields burst into golden flowers and thick sheets of wheat.

“It’s a miracle!” someone shouted.

“All hail Riley, King of the Rileys!” voices picked up in chant.

As quickly as he had appeared, Riley and his silken robes vanished, leaving behind a healthy village and a bespectacled moron rocking back and forth on her heels.

“Oh man, my lips are all cracky. Anyone got some chapstick?”

...

As you can imagine, the people of Himelforth did their utmost best to milk the little girl for as much food as she possibly had. To her credit, she turned over a couple of used bandages, a pokey pin, and a leaf, which she thought had a somewhat funny face on it. The people of Himelforth weren’t buying it, though. Their peasant superstitions brought with them peasant assumptions, and if someone was standing next to someone who was magic, then surely they were as well.

Himelforth Stick-poker was elected from the gathered mass to elicit more bread from the little girl. They hoped his proficiency with previously mentioned hole poking would convince the child to do more bread magic. Though his pokes only elicited several,

“Ooafh,” and,

“Oh, oh woah!” and a few,

“Huh?”

Day turned to night and the village townsfolk now completely encircled the bowl-cut moron. Chomping on their fresh bread, they waited patiently for the child to produce more, as now Himelforth Rug-rounder (who was in charge of rounding the village's rugs) attempted to bribe the little girl with his newest creation.

While deeply impressed and oddly fascinated with the squidgy patterns, the bowl-cut moron still could not produce the bread they desired, and when reminded that they could now make their own bread from their newly rejuvenated fields, the crowd screamed in protest.

They were far too weak to do the necessary harvesting, as they had only just become round again, and their children still needed minding with their now unusually solid heads. Also, none could remember how to actually make the bread the hamlet had once been famous for, as Himelforth Cat-seed had previously been Himelforth Recipe-card-minder, and unfortunately, his secrets had died with him.

It took the cool-headed and calm demeanor of Himelforth Goat-tugger to calm the ravenous crowd down and convince them that the magic did not come from the girl but from the bi-pedal bear-goat, which they had seen walking through the street. To which Himelforth Hammer-smasher then reminded them, was not a thing and clarified the taxonomy of the now identifiable dog. (Told you they were backwards).

Regardless of whether or not the creature was a dog, or still more likely a walking bear-goat—of which Himelforth Goat-tugger was still slightly convinced—they eventually decided they should pay a visit to Himelforth Monk-guy. One might think their reasoning for this had to do with the fact that Monk-guy, a monk, knew more than most about the workings of magic and miracles and possibly how to bring back the bread. Really, though, it came down to the simple realization that the child and Monk-guy shared the same bowl cut style haircut and therefore must know something about the other. (Oh, and also how to bring back the bread.)

Himelforth Monk-guy had, in his youth, studied at the Abbey of Geriapolis. There he had learned the divine secrets of the All-God, known as Riley, and the many divine works of his followers. He had returned to his village of Himelforth eager to share what he had learned and to convince the people that there was, in fact, a deity not named Himelforth.

The people had largely ignored him and had been very much peeved when his cookie Tuesday sermons had, in fact, turned out to be just a sermon, with no cookies, owing to the fact that there was a famine to contend with. His proselytization had become so wearisome and so taxing on the people of Himelforth that they had relocated his family hut to the outskirts of the village so that he was now neighbors with the much-despised Hinkelfister who, by virtue of a rogue uncle, was in fact not a Himelforth.

The villagers were forced to draw straws between them to see who would be unlucky enough to have to share their bread with Himelforth Monk-guy, as he had been left alone in his hut for far too long and was in need of a bit of a snack (which is not how you should treat elderly ostracized monks, no matter how annoying they are).

When the monk awoke, he was greeted with a, “Hello Mr. Monk!” from a curious bowl-cut and bespectacled child, handing him the bread roll Himelforth Stone-picker had lost. While likely for anyone else an alarming scene to have a strange child, not your own greeting you from a deep sleep, Himelforth Monk-guy instead did not see a simple child (simple as in ordinary, I’m not trying to demean anyone), but a vision of divinity. Where others saw a bowl cut, Himelforth Monk-guy saw a radiant crown. Its glow permeated the simple hut which he had called home for many years.

“You should probably eat something, you don’t look thso good,” the child said in a lisp that was entirely her own, as she poked the roll closer for Monk-guy to take.

Still in awe of the child’s radiance, the old man took the offered bun but stopped short of biting into it. Instead, his eyes widened as he inspected the seeds married into the bread.

“A flaxen bun!” he exclaimed through weathered lips and horse lungs. (…did I misspell it, or is he part horse, who knows?).

“Yeah, I was hopin’ the dog had sourdough,” a Himelforth replied from the crowded hut.

“Riley’s return…a flaxen bun,” the old monk whispered as he glanced back at the child, her head still radiating a golden aura.

“A golden crown, the cresting sun,” he continued.

Tearing his gaze away from the awe-inspiring crown of the bowl cut before him, he gasped as he noticed that the child was clothed in a tattered mustard yellow sweater with a floppy turtleneck.

“A turtle’s neck, weathered…” Himelforth Monk-guy let out a little chuckle as he noted how comically large the sweater looked on the little girl's body, “and fun!”

He shook his head in amazement as he continued to take in the scene. Her violet pants sharply contrasted against the gold and yellow, drawing his eyes to notice that they were strangely cupped around her feet like a horse’s stirrups.

“Stirruped in purple will ride the Harolded one…” The monk collapsed at the girl’s feet, overwhelmed at her very presence. Tears poured from his eyes as an overwhelming sense of joy enveloped him. All his years of hardship, all the rejection and rebukes, the snubs from his fellow Himelforths, his exclusion from Himelforthing at the community center, all had led him here to witness this vision and be part of one of Riley’s great miracles.

“Uh, Mr. Monk? Mr. Monk? It’sth okay. Here, you can have this leaf I found. Sthee? He has a funny face.” The girl let out a short but guttural chortle upon seeing the face again.

Himelforth Monk-guy wiped the tears from his eyes to look up at the child and was shocked to see himself staring back through the obscenely thick lenses of her glasses.

“As through a mirror, see yourself and know they have come!”

Ellen in Puzantium: An Author’s Preface to Skip

All too often, they tell you that you’ve got to hook the reader. The first sentence, the first paragraph, has to reel them in and keep them interested. As if I the writer am some amateur fisher and you the reader a wily fish. I’ve never understood why I’d have to trick such intelligent beings into learning, or at the very least listening…(do you listen to the words you read?). So here I am, a dog in ancient Rome, and (you preferably a person (though equally acceptable if you are a fish—nothing against fish!)) this is my story...though, now that you are reading it, I suppose it’s a bit of yours as well.

The Crucifixion of the Nazarene was playing at the local cinema. It was an older off-brand theatre that got its features cheap after they’d been premiered a while. Which meant that ticket prices were lower, and for a dog (you’ll be reading that phrase a lot) that was a good thing.

“Hear ye, hear ye, by order of Caesar Augustus all are to go to their hometowns and be counted.” That’s how it opens, it’s a biopic, and they always like to start at the beginning. I’m not saying in that statement my view on when an embryo becomes a baby and where life truly begins. I’m just saying that it’s at the beginning or close enough to it for a feature-length presentation.

What we really should be clarifying is the hard “C” in Caesar, but I’m a dog, and you’re a person (possibly a fish), so what do I know. Aside from how you may or may not have pronounced Caesar’s name in the privacy of your own home, or county-funded library, it was a fairly decent two hours out of the day. I would find out much later that there was a post-credits scene which implied more than a few things. Really changed the tempo of the whole production, or so I am to understand.

Now I’m sure you’re asking yourself, “What does a dog do with the rest of his day?” (Provided you’re still not wondering how he paid to get into a theatre in ancient Rome.) Well, I often like to keep a few hours of the day open for something new, but after that, I return to my old haunts.

The fish market would be a good guess considering how often I’ve referenced fish so far, but no, it smells, and not in that dog diddly do good way. No, I like the burbs, or what will classically be referred to as sub-urban living. Or further demeaning the term, a group of people who live outside the city because it’s cheaper but accidentally create a new population density and end up living in thirteen square miles of houses with winding streets and worse traffic comprised entirely of your neighbors who were just as stupid as you (and don’t understand what an acceptable volume is on their TV).

Or me, for that matter, as my domus is smack dab in the middle. And yes, first he pays for a ticket, now he has a mortgage? Really, you shouldn’t get so caught up in other people’s finances (it’s rude). What’s important is that I have a home, I’m fed, and I’m happy, and once at home, I return to my “doguscript.” (I’ve got a little chair and everything!) I tend to spend the rest of my day writing the prophetic utterings and whispers of my mind, and before you ask, yes, I hold the quill with both paws.

And now we’ve caught up to the first paragraph...see what I did there? So why are you here? Well, thank you for asking, and furthermore, thank you for being patient. I know what it's like to read the author’s intro, hoping it somehow relates to the story and that you might glean something from it you wouldn’t otherwise, only to realize that it’s a boring take on how hard it was to write his book (which you’ve now paid for and forgotten what it was about and likely will never read again).

This my gentle companions is the tale of a little girl named Ellen, or at least something with the vestige of a little girl named Ellen, in a time and place that has not yet come about (for me at least, and maybe you as well if you’re a Carolingian) and her journey to saving the world. She discovers not only that Alaska is not an island, but that true friendship and the will to make a better world are often found in the deep embrace, of a good story.

But if already you are thinking too hard and getting caught up in the details, (which is something you’ll have to suspend if you plan to continue reading) just remember that fiction rhymes with diction and that those two seemingly unrelated words are brought together by their shared funny noise at the end.

-Dog

What comes next

We really can't thank everyone enough who's supported us and whose kind words have kept us going. We appreciate so much those who have taken the time to read our work and are so grateful that so many of you have liked it so far.

We know A Simple Thought of Sanity isn't the easiest subject to swallow, especially in such a trying and stressful time. So we thought, if we are going to do this again and write another book, we should have some fun with it!

So, without further ado, please allow us to introduce Ellen in Puzantium.

In the bizarre world of Puzantium, an unlikely hero is found in a bespectacled child with a massive and unflattering bowl-cut.​How can one so small, with such stupey feet and crooky fingers, save the land with song? What does a dog-ific deity named Riley, a bald and cynical Abbit called Porel, a city filled with Weow's, and a closet full of stretchy pants have in common?​Well, maybe one day, you'll find out, if you're not too busy being a smudge in the meantime.

But what does that really all mean? It means we're writing! Yay! But really, we hope to bring you all a fun, exciting, and different look at the usual theme of fantasy. Though, maybe that's setting ourselves up for too much. Maybe you should just expect the usual fantasy, and then you'll be happily surprised when it's different.

We hope by this time next year, we'll have something for you to look at. In the meantime, we thought, what better way to get to know the world and the characters than through the age-old art of funny pictures.

Sporadically, we hope to bring you little slices of the main characters so that you might get to know them a little bit better before you have a chance to fully meet them in our new book.

Thus, we give you... Apple Soup Snack:

Again, we really can't thank you all enough! Have a pleasant day, and we hope to see you again soon.

Inspiration part III: Characters

One of the things people seem to be interested in (and by "people," we mean the text my father sent me a couple of weeks ago) is how we got the inspiration for our characters in A Simple Thought of Sanity. So, we thought we'd talk about a few of them.

The Rabbit

Perhaps the very first character that ever existed, was the Rabbit. An intriguing woman with an intriguing Face, who came from an intriguing place (and that's talking about the real-life inspiration). Now, if you're thinking to yourself, "my goodness, I must have missed something, where is there a rabbit in all of this nonsense?" Don't be alarmed, you haven't missed anything at all. The person we refer to as "the Rabbit" is actually the character of the Mouse-faced-girl in our story. We know, a fantastic and magical literally leap from one rodent to the next. We really are savants in our field.

If you've ever traveled to Tokyo but never set foot in Yoyogi Park, a) you're missing out, and 2) you might see some strange things. The first thing you might see, and our favorite, are the Greasers/Rockabillies who like to dance at the entrance. The second thing you might see is a strange woman in a school uniform wearing a rabbit mask, or at least, that's what we saw. But before we go into that, let's talk about Yoyogi Park.

Just a quick walk from Harajuku Station, this beautifully landscaped wonder is a magnet for dog walkers, artists, jugglers, cosplayers, and other hobbyist groups, as well as little-old-lady-pigeon-lovers. Originally part of the 1964 Tokyo Olympics village, a large portion of the complex was given life again as a public park and is one of the larger parks you'll find in Tokyo (which we feel Jane Jacobs would be very proud of).

If you have been to Yoyogi park, you're probably thinking that a woman wearing a Rabbit mask standing in a forest of Ginko trees is the farthest thing from strange you could find there. Of course, you're right, but to us, there was something about the setting and the stillness of her dark little rabbit eyes that sparked... something (as well as the freaky picture we took, which you can find below). Of course, it would take ten years for our Rabbit-faced-girl to come to life, and even then, in the form of a mouse.

And why a Mouse? Well, do we need to say anything more than the intent to avoid the stereotype of tumbling down the rabbit hole?

Thomasson

Parks seem to be a theme in terms of inspiration, and truly what better place is there to sit and observe people.

Because next comes Thomasson. Much of Thomasson's character can be found in our previous post about Hyperart, so no need to dig into that again here. However, there is one very particular man who stood out as the concept for Thomasson, and he too sprung out of a park, not but twenty minutes from our first apartment in Higashinakano (which is in Tokyo).

One day we went out for a walk and had a sit. Simple as that, and there he was. He seemed to be a regular, as we would see him several times after, but there was something about that first time and the picture we took. What an amazing thing the imagination is, to see a person and be able to create a life for them.

Brutus

What about the character of Brutus? Surely there's something to him, right? Not as much as you might imagine. Or at least not in the sense that he comes from someone in the real world.

Brutus is from those bland, tedious aspects of life. That responsible part of your existence that keeps the bills paid and can't afford the time to think about home. He's part waiting in line, half impostor syndrome, with a dash of cold coffee. Which makes Brutus possibly the most relatable character.

He's kind of a tough one to explain, but perhaps it's better that he's born more from fictitious personalities and elements rather than to be drawn from someone sad, like him.

But we think also, that makes him a great character to experience the world of the City. He represents all those people, where life right now is absolute, and what they might do if they discovered things could be different.

Lucian

One day while Christopher was at work, he found the book his colleague was reading, "The Hedonists Handbook." Now, a melody of ideas played in his head upon seeing this title.

"Will it teach me how to drink my absinth?"

"What's the best straw to snort cocaine?"

"Maybe which confined space is the best place to be intimate?"

But when Christopher finally opened the book to find out what was inside, it ended up being more tame than he was comfortable with.

This disappointment grew a thought.

What would an author of such a book that Christopher had originally imagined be like? Someone who sampled the world's excesses and had class enough to write them down.

Thus, Lucian stepped into the light.

A character that would be avoided and shunned becomes the guide to a better life or at least a different one.

And like most illicit substance users we've met, he's always willing to share! (And when you think about it, it's quite the admirable trait indeed. Most people won't even offer you a bite of their sandwich.)

Act III

Many characters in the third act of the book were inspired by Christopher's time working in Hospice.

They are characters constantly coming and going, with never truly enough time to get to know them. People who had already lived a lifetime, and yet we only step into theirs at the end. People with hopes, regrets, achievements, and unfulfilled ambitions.

It was a privilege to work in Hospice and to have been of some service, even if just for a little bit.

Shelby

And Shelby, well, she's just Shelby. She's that piece everyone has that just wants to curl up on the sofa and will do anything to stay there.

There's still more we'd love to share, and as we find time, we'll be sure to do so. Thank you for reading, and we hope you enjoyed the experiences which brought about some of our characters.

Though, A Simple Thought of Sanity is much more about who you imagine the characters to be and what resemblances you find in them. So please, if you have an idea of how these characters look or someone who reminds you of them, keep it that way.

Weremom - Kafenthropy Part II

Continued from Part I >

Jane awoke with a feeling that could only be described as gunked up. Louis had tried to talk to her about tracking dirt into the bed, but she didn’t listen. Her head was splitting, her chest wheezed. Every joint in her body ached. At first, she thought she was simply congested. Perhaps going to B-Pond had set off her allergies. Reaching to her nightstand, Jane pulled a tissue from her bean patterned tissue box and gave a good hard blow. She could feel the impact on the tissue and inspected it to find a dark, mucusy clump of what she knew to be yesterday’s incident.

Hastily wadding up the tissue and tossing it in the wastebasket, Jane continued to blow her nose until all but a few traces of dark grounds were to be seen. She lay back against her pillow with a heavy thud and felt worse now than she had before.

Coffee. That’s what she needed. That would make everything better!

Wrenching her aching limbs over the side of the bed, Jane took each step as if it might be her last. The pain in her body reminded her of the pain in her head as she trundled down the stairs and hobbled into the kitchen. Fortunately, it didn’t take much of a mind to make coffee. For Jane, it was pure instinct by now. She could do it with her eyes closed or with a deathly head-splitting, body-curdling ache. Her eyes were shut tight in pain when she heard the coffee beans grinding, its dulcet tones triggering the endorphins in her body, of the pleasure soon to come.

Jane opened her eyes to see her hand inches away from the grinder, the tips of her fingers dangling into its open cylinder. She immediately jolted it away.

“Oh, you stupe,” Jane muttered before resuming the rest of the espresso ritual with a slightly more lucid pace.

Warm mug in hand, Jane heaved her tired bones into her usual spot by the dining room window. She dipped her spoon into the bowl of Cocoa Peanut Logs cereal she had poured for herself and slowly brought it to her mouth with an aching arm.

“Mmmffgh!” Jane exclaimed as the crunchy puffy cereal she had expected to bite into turned hard. She looked down to see nothing but coffee beans floating before her. Beans again! Exhausted, Jane gave up. She left the cereal where it was, grabbed her latte, and headed back to bed. With the gusto and tolerance that only a caffeine addict could muster, she downed the latte, laid her head down on her pillow, and immediately fell asleep.

The day passed in a sweaty blur. In between sleep and periods of wakefulness, Jane remembered Louis checking on her worriedly. At one point, her empty mug was replaced with a fresh latte, which she had guzzled thirstily. She tossed and turned as fever overtook her, throwing day into night and casting doubt on what was real and what was just a dream.

Jane rose, feeling a thousand times better. She bathed, dressed, and was out the door. She had decided on a walk. Yes, a walk was what she needed right now. She didn’t want to wait for her walking buddies tomorrow, she needed to get out tonight.

The cool evening air was invigorating as Jane drifted down the street. It felt good to move. Her body seemed to glide effortlessly over the pavement. She passed by home after home, judging the owner’s landscaping sensibilities, and doing her best not to think of anything else. The last couple of days had just been, so bizarre.

“Ok, just no.” Jane wrinkled her nose at a distasteful display of garden gnomes, one of which had its little trousers pulled down to moon passing traffic. The real full moon overhead bathed the porcelain posterior in an eerie glow. The one thing Jane hated almost as much as bad coffee was kitschy yard art. It was bad enough that every person with a front lawn in Vente West seemed to have some strange fascination with carved bear statues. It wouldn’t be so terrible if they were just bears, but they always had to be wearing dumb aprons or fishing. It was just so tacky.

Jane continued to contemplate the allure behind bear sculptures of any kind until she came across a familiar face. It was Ken Kenderson, conductor of their local church choir. Jane sometimes helped Ken with the choir’s bookkeeping after their fundraising events. He must have just been getting home from one of his late night choir practice sessions. They did have performances coming up at the community Riles Bad Blues and Brews Festival.

“Oh, hi Ken!” Jane greeted him loudly and gave a wave. Instead of returning her greeting, Jane was surprised to see Ken’s eyes widen. He slammed his car door shut and fumbled in his pocket for his house keys. Jane approached, slightly annoyed by his lack of response.

“Ken?”

With all the speed of a hunted rabbit, Ken unlocked his front door and hastily shut himself inside. The deadbolt clicked audibly. Ears ringing in indignation, Jane skimmed over the entryway and approached Ken’s front porch. As she raised a hand to knock at the door, she saw only a tentacle of brown liquid stretched out before her. Looking down, Jane saw her entire body was nothing but a steaming mass of hot coffee.

Another dream? These were getting a little out of hand Jane thought. Though her awareness of the fact only made her feel calmer and more confident. Once more, extending a prehensile limb of liquid brew, Jane knocked on Ken’s door, sizzling the wood with the heat of her boiling body.

“Ken?!” Jane demanded of her dream-neighbor. “Ken? Why didn’t you wave back to me?”

Silence answered.

He’s not even a good conductor, Jane thought to herself, and his voice has that weird nasally pitch to it that made him a poor addition to the chorus. Jane had always thought it was pretentious of him to have actually purchased his own baton. She wasn’t even sure he knew how to read music, he just poked at people with that little stick, telling them to sing. She could hear him now, "sing," poke poke, "sing now," poke, "sing louder, fabrisimo!" poke, as he raised his hands high overhead with a flourish as if conducting a world-renown symphony rather than a gaggle of gnarled townsfolk. She was also fairly certain fabrisimo wasn’t even a real word.

Jane knocked again.

“I’ve only done your bookkeeping for the last fifteen years! I think I deserve at least a nod of respect. Ken? KEN!?”

With an unearthly shriek, Jane slammed her liquid bulk into the man’s front door. Rather than meet any resistance, her body slid through the cracks with ease, and Jane allowed herself to pool for a moment in the entryway, enjoying the sensation of being such a warm and commanding liquid.

Ken Kenderson sat huddled in his favorite armchair, frozen in shock, tears streaming down his ghostly cheeks. Jane turned towards him, smiling as she felt her body reforming, growing stronger and more potent with each droplet that re-collected. Even though she had splashed herself into bits, Jane felt whole, and a fervent sense of joy steamed inside of her. She was not hollow beans, she was not fragile grounds, she was all of that, and more. A complex blend of nuanced flavors, at once both bold and smooth. Jane drank in the heavy scent of her own poignant aroma as she seeped across Ken’s welcome mat.

“Ken?” Jane asked again as she slithered towards him. “What’s wrong Keeeeeeennnn?” She reached out to him, a hundred tentacles of burning hot coffee with a roast so strong it could singe nose hair from across the room. Something inside her, some long-dormant instinct, urged Jane forward. Her liquid appendages enveloped Ken, and as her scorching hot limbs grappled his body, Ken began to bellow in pain.

“Yes, Ken, fabrisimo!” Jane hissed as she poked at Ken with her oozing limbs. “Louder! Fabrisimo, Ken! FABRISIMO!”

RrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

“Jane? Jane! Wake up, you’re steaming!”

“I’m what?”

“You’re screaming, Jane!”

Jane snapped awake violently as her husband shook her.

“What happened?”

“You must have been having a nightmare, honey. Are you okay?”

“I… I think so.” She sat up in her nightgown, rubbing her bare arms slowly as she delved into her brain to try and catch what was already slipping away. She had been running from something. Something dark and brooding. Or was she the one chasing it?

Jane shook her head as she slid out of bed and wandered sleepily to the bathroom for a shower. She let the water encompass her completely, trying to shake the uneasy feeling that lingered from her forgotten dreams. She turned the water up hotter than usual and enjoyed breathing in the steam.

When she got out and dried her hair, she was disturbed by a brushing sound coming from the bedroom.

“Louis, what are you doing?” She wandered over to see her husband picking at the bedsheets.

“It’s like there’s a stain or something here in the bed.” He paused for a moment, inspecting a dark brown patch dotting the linens. “You must have spilled half your latte here, hon.”

“Well, I have to wash the sheets today anyways,” Jane replied tersely as she pulled on her black stretchy pants and shirt. “I better get going, or I’ll be late for my walk.”

“You’re going out? Feeling better today, then?”

“Yes, I feel fine,” Jane paused for a moment as she smiled with a sense of levity. “I feel better than fine, I feel…bold.”

“Well, that’s just great. Good for you!” Louis wandered over to give his wife a peck on the cheek before hopping into the shower himself.

Jane brewed herself a quick morning latte and poured the cream-colored coffee into her travel cup. The strong urge for a sip overcame her. The sip turned into a gulp, and the gulp turned into a draught until her cup was completely empty. It was delicious as always, but Jane was overcome with the feeling that it wasn’t quite what she was looking for. Something stronger would do, and so Jane brewed herself a rich, bold blend of espresso. It was such a tiny thing, just an ounce of liquid joy. It was a shame to dilute it with more hot water, she thought. And then an idea occurred to her. Looking over to her twenty-ounce travel mug, she poured the shot into the empty cylinder.

“Oops.” A smile cracked from her lips. Why hadn’t she thought of this sooner? Shot after shot, she brewed and poured into the container until it was filled to the brim. “Absolutely perfect.”

She let her mug sit for a moment while she made Louis his usual for after his shower. Leaving his mocha on the counter for him, she hollered up a goodbye, grabbed her keys and raincoat, and headed for the door.

What should have been a ten-minute ride took eleven and a half minutes, thanks to the driver she was forced to follow behind.

“You butt-hook!” Jane screeched from behind the wheel, mug in hand, sipping at its dark contents. A golden snooterwagon piloted by an elderly man had pulled out, causing her to slam on the brakes.

“There’s absolutely no one behind me! Why!?” In her agitation, Jane failed to notice that the abandoned parking lot in front of the old appliance store was vacant once more. The canvas-covered caravan of the Chizgany coffee stand had moved on, brown horse and all.

After what seemed like an eternity, Jane pulled into her usual spot. She made her way over to join the gaggle of ladies waiting for her, a light mist justifying the use of their Southback coats with built-in rain slicking technology. After exchanging their morning pleasantries, Jane and her walking buddies took to their route through the park and then onto the main street.

“Did you hear about the murder on Spruce Street? Poor old Ken,” Kathee let out a long sigh.

“What? No! What happened?” Jane inquired. She couldn’t help the feeling that she had just been thinking about Ken but couldn’t remember why.

“Well, I only know because my nephew is a volunteer firefighter, so he heard on the constable’s scanner. I don’t know all the details, but apparently, Ken Kenderson was murdered in his single-wide last night," Kathee said gravely.

“I think it’s a double-wide,” Linda chimed in. “And how do you know it was a homicide? It usually takes a while to rule it one way or another.”

“No, it’s definitely a single-wide. Barb had to feed his fish for him back in October. And anyways, it is definitely suspicious. My nephew had to visit the home because they thought there was a fire.”

“What!?” Sue exclaimed.

“Well, was there a fire?”

“No, in fact, my nephew said the house looked untouched. The neighbors called because they thought they smelled something burning, but when they got there, it was just Ken in his favorite armchair. You know, the one with the quilt on the back?”

“Oh yeah, Annette knitted that quilt for him ages ago. With the little blue flowers on it?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Well, anyways, I guess he was just sitting there. Looked like a boiled chicken’s foot, my nephew said.”

“How bizarre!” Jane replied.

“Oh my!” Sue said, which kicked up the walking ladies into a frothing tizzy that had not been seen since Bonnie had announced that her daughter Sarah had eloped with a Himelforth.

So engrossed was the group with their current mystery that they didn’t even notice a man powerwalk up alongside them.

“Hello ladies, lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?” the stranger interjected.

Startled, the group of ladies went silent immediately. All that could be heard for a few minutes was the gentle pounding of sneakers on pavement, the man and his ample mustache keeping pace with them.

“Discussing that suspicious death, were you?”

“Ok, excuse me. Who are you?” Jane’s eyes narrowed at the intruder as they began their descent down Woodking street.

“Special Agent Johnson, ma’am,” Johnson said without missing a beat, briskly snapping his badge open and closed in front of them. “I don’t suppose any of you were out last night between the hours of ten and two?”

The group collectively shook their heads ‘no.’

“No? No, I suppose not. A little late in the night for most people. I suppose you’d have to drink quite a few cups of coffee to still be up at that hour. Thank you, lovely ladies, for your time. If you think of anything I might need to know, well, just give me a call.” Johnson pulled a glossy business card from his pocket and handed it to Jane. With a rye smile, he nodded his head and broke off down the adjacent street, still powerwalking as he disappeared around the corner.

“Well, that was bizarre,” Jane stated flatly as she tucked agent Johnson’s card into her coat pocket.

The rest of Jane’s walk was fine, not great, but fine. She’d drained her mug shortly after speaking with agent Johnson. Kathee and Sue discussed their favorite ways to prepare kale, but all Jane could think about was that next cup of coffee. She was quiet as she counted her steps. She knew Sue was completely wrong about her preparation methods. The best way to make a fresh kale salad was obviously to massage it first, so the flavors could come out and then to soak it in warm coffee. The unorthodox technique went completely unnoticed by Jane, as her mind turned with what she knew to be obvious.

As they turned the final corner of their walk and made it back to their cars, the walking ladies parted ways. Jane waved a despondent goodbye as she raced home to the espresso machine.

The orange eye of the machine glowed as it warmed its silver body up. Jane grabbed a bag of beans from the pantry. Holding it with both hands, she breathed in the pleasant aroma of the roast. They clattered merrily as she dumped them into the grinder. She was just about to begin the process of crushing them into grounds when the pigwhistle rang.

“No. I don’t want to talk to you.” Jane yelled at the noise while at the same time marching over to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” An accented male tone replied.

“Who is this? What do you want?” Jane vocalized her thoughts in a less than cordial tone, eager to get back to grinding her beans.

“Is this… Jane? Jane Nelbow?”

“Of course it is, this is my number. Who is this?”

“Right. This is Special Agent Johnson calling. I was wondering if we might have a bit of chat.”

“Well, you already gave me your card, and I’ll call you if I think of anything. I’m very busy right now, though.”

“Oh. Well, it’s a shame, I was hoping perhaps we could speak over a cup of coffee, my treat, down at Brande’s Barista Bar. But, well, if you’re busy, you’re busy. Nothing you can do about that. Sorry to disturb you, Jane.”

Jane stood silent for a moment on the other end. She was going to make her own coffee, but if Johnson was offering a free cup, then Jane could take him up on his offer and still come back and make her own later. Jane wasn’t a woman to walk away from coffee, especially free coffee, and if she was lucky, she might even be able to get several cups out of him, if the conversation took long enough. Even one for the road, perhaps.

“Mmmm…okay. I guess I could squeeze in a quick meeting.”

“You’re sure? I don’t want to impose-”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Okay, Jane, then I’ll meet you there in, oh say, twenty minutes?”

“Let’s make it fifteen.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Johnson said before disconnecting. Any annoyance Jane would normally feel about making a second trip back into town was quelled by the anticipation for that next cup. Grabbing a handful of beans to tide her over, Jane was out the door in an instant.

The morning’s light mist had turned into a gale-swept downpour. Jane was elated to find a parking spot right out front of Brande’s Barista Bar. Jane had been here precisely four times before and had enjoyed their brew well enough. Though, it wasn’t her favorite place to visit. The owners had poured their resources into making the haunt look hip and chic while also rustic and rundown. The tables hung from trendy metal wires that extended down from the ceiling as if the absence of traditional table legs was more affluent. And there were rivets everywhere and corrugated metal, faux distressed with brown paint to give it a look of apathetic rust. But the coffee was okay. If only they’d spent as much time focusing on that.

Jane looked around at the crowded establishment but did not see the mustached man she was looking for. She headed to the counter with a soft ‘tsk’ and was met by a surly-looking youth.

“Hello. Do you do ten-shot espresso?”

“Uh, sure, I guess.”

“Ok. I’ll have one of those then.”

“What size mason jar do you want?”

“What?”

“Do you want a grande mason jar? Do you want a vente?” The young man behind the counter tucked a curl of hair back behind his ear as he stood with his mouth slightly open, still trailing off of the ‘vente.’

“Don’t you just have cups?”

“Uh, we have sleeves for the mason jars, so you don’t have to worry about burning your hands.”

“But you had cups last time.”

“Uh, yeah. But then we got the mason jars, so we have those now.”

“Hmph. Fine. I’ll have a ten-shot espresso in a…mason jar.”

“Cool. So that would be…” the youth trailed off as he ticker-tapped away on a nearby pad.

“Oh, and I’m meeting a man here, so he’ll pay for it when he comes in,” Jane interjected as she waved her hand at the barista, batting away the price from his lips.

“Oh… uh…Okay,” He shrugged his shoulders and turned to fill Jane’s order.

Jane waited a few moments, listening to the sweet grind of the industrial espresso machine until her order was slid onto the pick-up counter. She grabbed the sleeved mason jar and headed to find a spot for two by the window. It was bizarre to drink a hot cup of coffee out of an artesian mason jar, but the blend was okay, so Jane tried to move past the presentation and just enjoy the contents. The coarse cardboard sleeve wrapped loosely around the jar gave her the most irritating feeling as it slid against her fingertips, making her all sorts of squidgy. Jane decided to discard it, sliding it up and over the rim.

For a moment, she thought the glass might be too hot. Mason jars, after all, weren’t designed to protect against hot liquids, let alone be used to drink coffee. She gave it a try, though, and was pleasantly surprised by how welcoming she found the warmth. Lacing her fingers around the glass, she pressed them in as tightly as she could and sipped neatly with both hands.

As she let her attention wander from the comfort of the drink nestled between her hands, her eyes looked over an acrylic stand with a disconcerting note wedged between. It read:

Brande’s Barista Bar looks forward to honoring Saint Rosebeary’s Intervention. Artisanal teas will be served in place of any caffeinated beverages in observance of the holiday.

Jane nearly dribbled her coffee as she read. She had completely forgotten about Saint Rosebeary’s Intervention! Her mind buzzed wildly in a near panic. She would have to run to the store today and grab coffee for the rest of the week, that is, if they weren’t sold out already...

Her feverish planning was interrupted as Special Agent Johnson trounced through the door, giving Jane a friendly wave. Jane managed a wry smile and held up her coffee jar in response. Johnson raised his eyebrows and headed to the barista bar. A few moments of awkward exchange passed between Johnson and the curly-haired youth behind the counter. The barista shrugged as he pointed towards Jane, who watched Johnson slowly dig bills from his wallet.

A few moments later, Johnson joined Jane at her seat by the window, carrying a well-worn travel mug with him and an empty mason jar. Jane stared at him, looking puzzled.

“Oh, I just had my own already,” Johnson said, noting Jane’s eyes boring into the catbarian pattern that danced across the jacket of his travel mug.

“I didn’t know they let you bring in your own drinks,” Jane replied, immediately annoyed that she could have possibly brought her own mug in to save herself from the unconventional mason jar that sat innocently before her.

“Well, I paid for a coffee anyway to excuse the rudeness,” Johnson trailed off as he tapped his fingers against the empty glass. “Not sure why they actually gave me a jar…Anyways, what’s that you got yourself there, Jane?”

Johnson cocked his head forward in interest before almost immediately recoiling. Jane could almost see the hairs of his mustache curl back in protest as the robust scent of her mighty espresso pierced his nostrils.

“Eh heh,” Johnson let out a little cough, “and I thought I liked my coffee black…”

Jane smiled and took a sip in response while quietly trying to garner an idea of what Johnson could have brought in his mug. Taking a few subtle sniffs, she tried to make it out. Was it a Florencian Fine Roast? No, she could sense no hint of bitters. Perhaps it was a Himelforth Blonde Coffee blend. They did have a weaker brew, maybe that’s why she couldn’t smell it. Regardless, the overwhelming scent of her own shot-filled mason jar created a wall of smell so powerful it quickly blunted any other scent in the vicinity. Smiling again, Jane took another delightful sip.

“So, whadda ya say Jane? Nothing beats the last sip of coffee before Saint Rosebeary’s Intervention, eh?”

“Hmmm…” Jane nodded her head in agreement while inwardly protesting. She hated the Intervention holiday but had always found ways around it. A coy smile crept onto her face, quickly hidden by another sip from her mason jar.

“Well, Jane, I’m just hoping I can touch base with you here and ask you about the last couple of days. I hear you helped out Ken Kenderson with some of his bookkeeping, so anything you can tell me would be a real help to our investigation.” Johnson paused as he pulled out a small notepad and flipped it open while palming a pen in his other hand.

“So, how long have you and your husband lived in Picante Vista?”

“You mean Vente West?”

“Yes, sorry. I’ve been ah… moving around a lot.”

Jane nodded away Johnson’s error. “Well, we moved here in eighty-five, no wait, eighty-four. In the spring. I remember we were moving in right around Schmendricks Day, so the traffic was just terrible and-”

“So you’ve lived here for a good long while, alright.” Johnson nodded his head as he jotted down a few notes. “A lot of crime here in Vente West? Would you describe the town as, uh, murderous?”

“No, not at all,” Jane answered honestly and couldn’t help herself from blurting out, “so was it a murder? Is it suspicious?”

A crinkled smile creased Johnson’s face as he took a sip from his travel mug. “Well, Jane, I certainly don’t know many people who’ve been boiled alive under not suspicious circumstances.”

“Hmmm.” Jane wrinkled her brow at the mystery that unfolded before her. “How bizarre!”

“So, anything out of the ordinary happen over the past few days?”

“Hmmm…well, no. Everything’s been fine, as far as I’m concerned…”

Johnson took notes while Jane rattled away the details of her last few days.

“... and then I had to go to the store around noon, which I hate to do because they have discounts for all the old people. So of course, that took forever. Why is it that most people can’t navigate through a grocery store? But it turned out alright because I found some fun new oven mitts, so I had to get those too…”

Johnson inhaled sharply and widened his eyes at the vast and numerous details of Jane’s continuing statement. He flipped another page on his notebook as he continued to write.

“...and then my husband went up and took a poor man’s hot tub-”

“Let me just stop you right there, Jane. Just uh, want to clarify something here. A ‘poor man’s hot tub.’ What, uhh…what is that? Some kind of outdoor bath?”

“No. No, it’s just a shower. We don’t have a tub.”

Johnson cocked his head as he stared at Jane, his eyes squinted in genuine confusion and mental fatigue.

“I don’t...I don’t really...it’s a shower?”

Jane couldn’t understand why Johnson was so confused. “Yes, of course, it’s a shower.”

“Alright…well, let’s just move on to what you did yesterday.”

“Hmmm…well, I was very sick. I woke up early, and I had a terrible fever. I ended up just going back to bed, and then Louis brought me a coffee-”

“Ok, that’s great. What were you doing between the hours of ten at night and two in the morning?”

“Well, I was asleep, obviously.”

“Can someone vouch for that?”

“Louis could, I’m sure.”

“And you’re not sick today?”

“No, I feel much better.” Jane eyed Johnson cooly.

“Kinda a quick turn around for the flu, hmm?”

“Well, I don’t know if I had the flu, I was just sick. I don’t know what it was.”

“Maybe you just, didn’t have enough coffee, Jane,” Johnson cracked a smile again and raised his brow as he took a sip.

“Probably right.” Jane let out a forced cackle.

“So, tell me how you knew Ken Kenderson.”

“Well, like you said, I helped him with his bookkeeping. We go to the same church, and he’s very active in the community.”

“Yes, I heard he ran the local choir. Were you ever a part of that?”

Jane scoffed loudly.

“Oh, not a fan, huh?”

“Well, not to speak ill of the dead, but I just wasn’t a fan of his directing. But he was a very nice man.”

Johnson’s eyes lowered. He hunched his shoulders slightly and leaned in towards Jane.

“Nice man, doesn’t mean he didn’t have his... moments,” Johnson paused as he let the punctuation of his words settle. “Did he ever do anything that, made you mad or made anyone else mad? Ever a little too hot and heavy with his baton? Make anyone, stay too late for practice? Too reckless with his finances? Too many doodles, and not enough zeros and ones? Or maybe just, I don’t know, maybe he just had... one of those faces?”

Jane had the faint feeling that Johnson already had the answers to all of his questions, that he’d already gotten a good measure of Ken Kenderson. But she didn’t budge, she’d read enough Tutor McGouch to know better. Plus, she had nothing to worry about. Why was he treating her like this?

“As I said, he was a nice man. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt him.” She chanced a glance at her watch and saw it was now half-past ten. A chill ran through her, it was getting late. If she waited too much longer, she would have to fight the church crowd at the store, and at two o’clock, they would be taking the coffee off the shelves, as was tradition for the Intervention.

Jane barely heard Johnson asking her another question as her mind raced. She knew what she had to do. If she ordered a cup of coffee to go, that would at least last her until she got home. She could then make herself another cup to get to the store. If she timed it right, she would have just enough time to grab an extra five, or wait maybe seven, bags of beans.

“Jane? Everything okay?” Johnson voiced his concern.

“What? Oh, I’m fine. I’m sorry, I’m just very busy today. I hope I’ve helped you enough, but I have to go. Good luck!”

“Oh, okay then,” Johnson was taken aback. “Well, call me then… if you think of anything else...”

His voice trailed off and was buried under the grinding of beans as Jane approached the counter to order her coffee to go.

“Would you like our disposable mason jar to go? Or would you like to pay just ten dollars more and get our eco-mesh bio-reusable mason jar, to go? That one comes with a lid too, and a reusable straw.”

“Keep the straw, give me the cup,” Jane spat out as she slapped down the exact price of the reusable-bio, eco-bio, reusable-mesh mason jar-thingy, plus the cost of her vente 20 shot espresso.

Never before had someone driven so fast, while staying within the speed limit, throughout all of Vente West. The caffeine coursing through her veins gave her the clarity and predictive abilities to shift and merge between the lanes of the various butt-hooks that impeded her way. Her tires screeched in protest as she barreled into the driveway before turning around and backing in so she could make a quick getaway to the store.

“Okay, it’s ten forty-five. I just need to make a quick latte and then get back on the road,” Jane talked to herself in a feverish frenzy. “If I can get to the store by eleven, I should have enough time to buy eight bags of coffee, no maybe ten bags. I hope I can get the french roast. They should have plenty of bags of whole beans left. No one ever buys the whole beans, everyone wants that nasty pre-ground. I don’t know how they stand it. Or even worse, instant coffee. Blech! Those people should be shot.”

“Oh, hi honey.” Louis’ greeting shot past a busy Jane as she turned on the espresso machine and pulled her favorite to-go mug out of the dishwasher. It was green with a little pattern of white beans spiraling around the base.

“-or decaf. What if there’s only decaf left? I mean, why even drink coffee at all? What’s the point? And all these fancy pod things too, what a waste of a-”

Jane stopped dead as she flipped on the grinder and heard it whimper. It was empty, though she was sure it was stacked full of beans that morning. “Hmmm…well, that’s okay, it’s always fresher straight out of the bag.”

Marching over to the pantry, Jane pulled open the doors and let out a horrified gasp.

“The coffee! Where did all the coffee go? Louis? Louis!? WHERE’S THE COFFEE?”

The pantry was nearly empty. The pullout drawers that normally sagged from the weight of excess beans were completely barren. Suddenly, she felt a nervous presence behind her. Jane turned around, her sockets as dark as burnt grounds.

“Oh, uh…well, I threw it all away for St. Roseberry’s Intervention,” Louis said as he shifted his feet and scratched the back of his balding head. “I know you had your morning cup already, so I thought I’d save you some trouble and get everything ready for the Week of Intervention.”

“You did what!?”

“I just…threw the coffee away…” Louis noticeably shriveled, like a snail that had been caught out of his shell. “Last year, we didn’t quite throw everything away. We really should be more devout. A lot of people go without, and it’s only fair we do the same.” Louis took a moment and chose his words carefully. “And well, I think maybe you could use a break too… it’ll be good for you, Jane…”

Jane didn’t have to craft her rebuke, she knew exactly how to take Louis apart. His weaknesses, his flaws, his shortcomings. His idiotic idea that a banana was the perfect fruit because it came in its own carrying case! Who was he to judge her? To restrict her access?

But then, before she could even move to speak, the scent of coffee crept into her nose. Jane sniffed the air. Walking coldly past Louis, she followed her nose to the kitchen sink, where she saw a lone ceramic mug sitting innocently in the basin. A mug stained from dark liquid and a bit of sludge resting in the bottom.

It was a mocha.

“What’s this? Louis? What is this!?”

“Well… I just made myself a quick one before I put everything away.”

“And you didn’t think to make me one?!”

“I… I… well, you already had one this morning… and didn’t you just come back from Brande’s?”

“Typical, just typical. Louis, always thinking about yourself. Always brewing just one cup of coffee, never asking if anyone else wants one. Never heating anything to the right temperature and the foam! Always so much foam, and so little coffee.”

Jane continued to spew out a hideous rant as she slowly walked towards Louis. A strangeness had clouded her face, casting dark shadows under her eyes. Her lips almost seemed to drip as she seethed at him. Jane reached out and wrapped her fingers around Louis’ arms.

“Ow, ouch! It’s hot, Jane that’s hot! It’s too hot!”

“No, it’s the perfect one-hundred and eighty degrees, just the way it should be.” Jane squeezed Louis’ arms, her fingers long tendrils wrapping around his flesh. She could feel blisters forming under her touch. She could smell his flesh sizzling.

“Jane, stop!” Louis screamed as his skin began to burst. “Oooooohhhh!”

“Don’t worry Louis, I won’t forget the extra FOAM!” Jane shrieked as she flowed around Louis, encompassing him with her now steaming liquid body.

As he burst apart, she could taste the beautiful nectar that spilled out, that last little bit of coffee that remained within his body. Jane thirstily slurped up every last drop before slithering out of the house, leaving Louis crumbled on the kitchen floor, completely, decaffeinated.

To be continued...

Inspiration Part II: Hyperart Thomasson

In a little corner of Japan in the 1970s, the very talented conceptual artist Genpei Akasegawa discovered a strange variety of organic works of art haunting Tokyo's many prefectures. More specifically, he discovered a staircase. Not just any old staircase, but a well-maintained and neatly kept staircase that went absolutely nowhere. Yet it stood the testament of time affixed firmly to a building that may have once had good use for it.

And thus, the Thomasson was born.

Thomasson #1: The Yotsuya staircase. Genpei Akasegawa, Hyperart: Thomasson, translated by Matthew Fargo (New York: Kaya Press, 2009 [1987]), p.4.

At first glance, a Thomasson appears to be a completely useless anomaly. A forgotten doorbell, a leftover step, a useless bit of space overlooked as the city grows over the past. Most people walk by Thomassons every day without realizing they exist. Akasegawa, however, took the time to look and, when he did, found that these little forgotten pieces are, in fact, quite the opposite of useless. In reality, a Thomasson has transcended its past usefulness to become something more.

But we're getting a bit ahead of ourselves. You're probably wondering where the name Thomasson even comes from. After all, it's not a very Japanese-sounding name.

It was inspired by none other than the legendary Gary Thomasson, the former U.S. major league baseball player who made a career move to Japan's Yomiuri Giants. The Giants thought they had won big with their newly acquired prize and reportedly paid for it with the largest contract the Nippon Pro Baseball league had ever given out.

Somewhere in that transition, though, Gary Thomasson had lost the ability to actually hit the ball and nearly set the strikeout record for the entire league. Yet, even in all his uselessness—sorry Gary—the Yomiuri Giants maintained him as their very special prize...well, for a couple of years anyways.

Just like poor Gary, a Thomasson is both completely useless, yet at the same time, its existence is painstakingly maintained. Beautiful in its uselessness, a Thomasson finds its purpose in what we make of it. It is not created by any one person for the purpose of art, yet in being allowed to remain and to be enjoyed by everyone, they transcend art becoming, as Akasegawa coined, "hyperart."

We first learned about Thomasssons in one of the many art history classes we were lucky enough to attend in Tokyo. It was probably about midway through our second year in college when we were shown the concept and how very surprising it was to learn that we'd been missing so much of an already massive city.

That's the other beauty of Thomassons, though. Once you learn of their existence, you can never stop hunting for them. It's a bit of a curse really, like learning some bit of unseen magic you were never supposed to know.

So, now that we've talked about Thomassons a little bit, let's see if you can find one.

Sure, you saw the doorbell, and good for you...

...but did you see the doorway?

Here's a bit of an obvious one. You can see above that there is an empty lot where a building once stood. The imprint of its side is leftover and neatly intact, pressed into the brick of the structure it butted up against. Akasegawa lovingly categorized this ghostly type as an "Atomic Thomasson."

Growths like these are also common. A piece of road that didn't get properly removed, or some other such obstinate structure. Yet, it remains and as you can see, is well kept and accepted as part of the building.

Once you know what to look for, Thomassons are everywhere, and not just in Tokyo. Any place in the world that people gravitate to, any city that is lived in, will eventually create a Thomasson. They are the ghosts of the past, memories of previous iterations of the city left behind in the wake of progress.

Another thing that makes Thomassons special is their persevering nature. They are the surviving piece of a structure that was deemed expendable. Yet these pieces survive and sometimes even outlast what replaced them. There's something awfully commendable about that.

On a deeper level, Akasegawa even theorized that Thomassons are a part of a shared soul. Creations with no creator, left behind and appreciated privately, yet collectively, by those lucky enough to observe them. The continued maintenance and care for these architectural anomalies could further point towards a shared reverence. A shared understanding that they are pieces of history, preserved as art in the present.

"All works of hyperart, much like Gary Thomasson himself, are in a constant state of uncertainty, never knowing when their contracts will be terminated. And when they do disappear, they disappear for good. And with them, whence all of Japanese culture...?" - Akasegawa

Now for the inspiration bit...and some spoilers ahead.

By now, if you've read our book past the first few chapters, you'll probably have come across a character we respectfully named in honor of Thomasson, as well as the features of the City that remind Brutus of him.

Thomasson, the character, is unusual in the City in that he expressly clings to the past. So much so that he's given up his daily life to maintain what's left of it and to share with others who have stumbled upon it like himself.

The Thomassons (what we now know as hyperart) in A Simple Thought of Sanity are just like what Akasegawa discovered for himself in Tokyo. They are forgotten and left behind moments, pieces of the City to remind people of their shared past. For Brutus, they are keys to understanding that there is more to his life than what he's been allowed to perceive. These inconsequential objects seem to pop up at crossroads in his journey, though as a help or a hindrance, we leave up to you.

As much meaning as we've hoped to place in the book (and there is quite a bit more we'd love to share with you later), what really matters is what you take away from it.

Remember that art is as much for the observer as it is for the one who made it, and so is its meaning. What we do hope for is that you walk away with a newfound appreciation for the world of left behind and useless things. As well, that you can picture a little bit better what Brutus might have seen in the City. Sometimes the things that we quietly overlook might just be worth our attention after all.

Sadly, Genpei Akasegawa passed away in 2014, but his legacy of hyperart continues. If you've found a love for Thomassons, we highly recommend Akasegawa's book "Hyperart: Thomasson" which is excellently written and wonderfully translated into English. It is temporarily out of stock, but well worth the read if you can manage to nab a copy: https://kaya.com/books/hyperart-thomasson/

Akasegawa always encouraged people to share their Thomasson findings with others, which thankfully you can still do in the subreddit r/Thomassons or on your favorite social media account using the hashtag #Thomasson.

"As long as people have cities, and as long as they are conscious, the hyperart of Thomasson will continue to flit in and out of view, and in the space between mind and metropolis." - Akasegawa