Writing for YouTube news program RocketBoom is quickly becoming one of my all-time favorite jobs. It is a really beautiful thing to see a script you’ve worked on turned into a well-produced piece of pop news casting.
A script that I contributed to went live today. You can check it out below; it’s about Cicadas jacking up the East Coast right now.
Because the gods of technology have hated me from the moment I slid into this world 25 years ago, my laptop broke while on vacation in Japan. The reason for its up-in-metaphorical-flames crash? Fuck me, that’s the reason. Also, it probably had something to do with it getting banged around whilst tucked in the overhead compartment of an international super plane.
Thus I have resorted to writing via my good buddy iPad. I figured I would test out the WordPress blogging application while reminding everyone (the two people who read this blog) about my comic site Panel Bound. Or is it PanelBound? Damn, that space gets me every time.
Anyways, I started PanelBound two years ago because I wanted to know how comics get made. When I first set out as a writer, I didn’t have the slightest idea of how to get my work published, in comics or otherwise. Fast forward to 2011′s San Diego Comic Con where at a comic pitching panel a panelist told the crowd that, “talking to comic professionals was the best way to get to know the industry.”
So I lied. I told professional comic writers and artists that I had a site where I interview published pros, which of course, I did not. Luckily, I was working a real shit job at the time where for the better part of a week I created PanelBound (side note: I got fired from that job the same week. Coincidence? I think not).
Since that fateful week, at PanelBound we have been interviewing insane comic talent like Tradd Moore and Paul Tobin. Strictly speaking, we primarily interview creators about breaking into the industry and avoid talking about anything else. It is a site 100% for people who want to break into comics.
We haven’t updated in a while, but we’ve got some great interviews coming up soon including The Legend of Luther Strode writer Justin Jordan. Comics ahoy!
If you’ve been reading comics these past years, then you may have come across this great book:
Skull Kickers is hands down one of my favorite comics out right now. The book’s writer Jim Zub is a really humble creator who I have been lucky enough to interview a few times.
I’m such a fanboy in fact, that last year, when the Skull Kicker’s team unveiled a writing contest for anyone willing to write a script for the book’s next anthology issue, I jumped right in. Alas, my script wasn’t chosen, but I ended up writing it anyways for my blog (you can check it out here).
Of course, this whole introduction has been leading up to something, which is this:
That’s a quote from a Geeks of Doom review I did a while back ago of Skull Kickers. I’m pretty excited that it was featured on the most recent issue of Uncanny Skull Kickers. Huzzah!
A few months ago I started contributing to the YouTube news show RocketBoom. Essentially, the show covers news that ordinarily goes under the radar of larger news corporations. RocketBoom has done shows on a wide variety of Internet culture-centric topics, so it has ben a real honor to work with them.
This week, RocketBoom posted a segment, which I contributed on, about the new SimCity disaster. Check out it below.
“Hey Matt, what happend to that thirty-day creative writing challenge you were working on? It seems that you made it to day five and then the uploads stopped. Were you hospitalized?” — Is something you might be asking yourself if you’ve been following my creative writing challenge (good news: no one actually is).
The truth is, sometimes you just don’t pull your shit together. You’re swamped at work, you’re moving, you just discovered “Nashville” on Hulu — they’re all good excuses that aren’t good enough. On the plus side, besides the constant crippling sense of defeat I now feel regularly, this little excursion taught me a powerful lesson about writing.
Slow the fuck down.
See, the problem is I started writing late in my life. Well, later than most professional writers my age. I didn’t go to college for writing, I barely went to real college. It’s left me feeling like I had to “scramble” to catch up to my contemporaries. In a way, I think we all feel like we have to “scramble” to catch up to someone. Your friends, your husband, co-workers — it doesn’t matter what it is, each one of us is sprinting for the finish line, whatever it may be.
In the mad dash, sometimes we become consumed by the dash itself and forget what we are climbing towards. For myself, and most writers I know, the end goal is to put out something beautiful. It’s easy to pound pavement and keep running for the rest of your life. It’s much harder to slow down and be comfortable with it. Once we do finally take a breath, it becomes much easier to remember why we were doing this in the first place.
Anyways, I’ve got some cool stuff coming out in the near future. Over and out.
Day Five: Write about something in your room
I’m a little behind on the challenge, but day five was a no brainer. My options for things in my room were either stacks of comics or my two cats. Naturally, I went with the cats. I’ve been tinkering with a comic idea about time traveling cats who go back into the past to warn us of an ominous presence threatening to destroy the planet. The only problem is that no one can understand what they are trying to tell us, they are cats after all.
I was able to get out a five page script for issue one of what i’m loosely calling “Time Cats.”
Issue One
PAGE 1 (4 Panels)
Panel 1
An image of Navy gun ship cannons firing rounds at planes.
CAPTION
We are at war with a terrible enemy
Panel 2
A black and white image of several tanks coming over a hilltop.
CAPTION
An enemy of liberty and justice
Panel 3
A bird’s eye view of bombs dropping from planes
CAPTION
To extinguish the light of truth is their mission
Panel 4
Footage of faceless, featureless soldiers marching in a line.
CAPTION
To place all free men in shackles is their goal
PAGE 2
Panel 1
A laboratory full of beakers, electrodes, and stainless steel tools, silhouettes of giant robot-like creatures stand in cryogenic chambers.
CAPTION
Using the latest scientific breakthroughs…
Panel 2
A close-up of robotic head covered in smoke within the cryogenic chamber.
CAPTION
…they have created the most dangerous weapons known to man
Panel 3
A group of handsome clean-cut soldiers saluting in order
CAPTION
However, we are not powerless in the face of this catastrophic force
Panel 4
A steel mill where men are working with at anvils and molten vats.
CAPTION
This is a land innovation and ingenuity after all
PAGE 3 (4 panels)
Panel 1
Several scientists are working in a lab. Some pour liquid into beakers while others looks through microscopes. A clean-cut man in a suit stands next to a wild-haired scientist.
HOST
We are here at one of the country’s top laboratories with Dr. Martin Fennel. Good afternoon Doctor
FENNEL
Ah, h…hello, welcome to our facility.
Panel 2
The host is now at a chalkboard with a diagram of a cat with notes scribbled all around its body. The cat is wearing some sort of backpack apparatus.
HOST
Doctor, tell us about your teams most recent findings
FENNEL
As you can see, we have discovered a way to create wormholes in which a subject may travel through different points in time. We must first speed up one end…
Panel 3
The host is now turned back towards the camera. Dr. Fennel looks confused, he is still facing the host with his finger raised.
HOST
H.G Wells vision brought into reality, terrific. Just make sure you don’t send our troops right into the hungry jaws of a tyrannosaurs doctor.
FENNEL
W…well actually the wormholes are only large enough for a creature ten inches tall and 18 inches wide. A small dog perhaps or in this case the common house cat.
Panel 4
The host and Fennel are now beside a table where doctors are examining a stern looking cat.
HOST
Are you saying Socks here is going to win the war doctor?
FENNEL
Not exactly…but the subjects will be able to travel a short distance into the past where they will warn military officials about potential attacks.
HOST
Incredible. With these ferocious felines on our side, they won’t know what hit ‘em!
PAGE 4 (4 panels)
Panel 1
A house cat sleeps on a windowsill while kids play in the living room. A mother and father watch them happily.
CAPTION
Did you hear that Smokey? Your country needs you!
Panel 2
People lined up holding carriers, soldiers and doctors are examining cats. There is a sign hanging above the center, which reads “Recruitment Center.”
CAPTION
The war effort needs ever able-bodied cat to join the fight.
Panel 3
A little girl is waving bye to a cat on being taken away in a carrier by a solider.
CAPTION
Even little Susie here is saying goodbye to her pal Boots.
Panel 4
Pictures of four different cat faces. Each descriptive word is placed over one of the four pictures.
CAPTION
Picture one: So, what do you say? Is your cat…
Picture two: …strong enough …
Picture three: …and brave enough …
Picture four: … to become a member of the….
PAGE 5 (1 Panel)
A splash page of a cat with the American flag waving behind it, the cat is wearing steel goggles and a steel jet pack apparatus covered in riveted bolts. The text behind the cat will read “TIME CATS” in huge bold script.
Day Four: A poem using the words: blue, mistrust, half, twang
Poetry. Blech. To spare myself and anyone reading this from suffering too greatly, I made today’s creative writing challenge short and sweet. That’s right, a haiku in English. Yikes.
In contrast to English verse typically characterized by meter, Japanese verse counts sound units known as “on” or morae. Traditional haiku consist of 17 on, in three phrases of five, seven and five on respectively. Among contemporary poems teikei (定型 fixed form) haiku continue to use the 5-7-5 pattern.
“Green Arrow”
Mistrust a half breath
Arrows released with a twang
Blue blood becomes red
Day Three: Write something that takes place before 1950
I will be honest. I haven’t written a comic script in a long time. Between my job as a blogger and editor, I don’t have much time to work on new comic projects. However, no excuse is a good enough excuse! Hoping to get back in the swing of things, I’ve used this challenge to work on a comic script I was really excited about.
At the beginning of the year, Jim Zub and the team behind the great Image Comics title Skullkickers asked writers to submit stories to be featured in their next anthology. Alas, my story was not chosen. However, I thought it was a pretty fun idea and wanted to explore it further and actually work out a functional script. I imagine the events in the Skullkickers universe all take place before 1950 since everyone is all chain mail and axes. Enjoy!
“Precious Cargo”
PAGE 1 (5 panels)
Panel 1
A caravan is traveling through a narrow valley surrounded by rolling green hills. In the middle of the caravan resides an opulent carriage surrounded by armored guards on horseback. Additional carriages carry beautiful vases, chests, and stacks of paintings.
CAPTION
“The traveling party of Lord Narwhal”
Panel 2
Lord Narwhal, a chubby petticoat-wearing dandy sits with his equally corpulent wife in their private carriage.
LADY NARWHAL
How much longer dear? I fear the road is becoming harmful to my delicate constitution.
NARWHAL
Worry not. We will be arriving at our new home soon my sweet. I to ache for the touch of silk on my hindquarters and the company of … more refined gentle folk…
ROLF
(Off Panel)
So then I grab the slimy $%#* bag and cram me fist right in is’ belly!
Panel 3
Rolf and Rex ride on horses with a group of armored guards. Rolf is waving his hands in the air. Rex is rubbing a cloth on the barrel of his gun. The guards surrounding them look disgusted by the story Rolf is telling.
ROLF
Next thing I know, the bugger’s eye pops right outta his head like a cork!
Panel 4
A guard leans over his horse and vomits. Rolf looks at him confused.
SFX
Blerghhh
ROLF
Aye laddie, the road doesn’t agree with me belly either, which reminds me of the time I used a zombie’s entrails ta strangle the necromancer who summoned him. All blood and guts it was!
Panel 5
All the guards collectively lean over their horses and vomit.
SFK
(All balloon tails point to the same SFX bubble)
Blerghhhhh
PAGE 2 (4 panels)
Panel 1
The captain of the guards is shouting back at Rolf.
CAPTAIN
Stow the prattle half-pint. His grace is paying you mercenaries to guard ‘im and ‘is valuables, not gossip like a group a ninnies.
Panel 2
Rolf has both axes drawn. He is shouting.
ROLF
Half-Pint?! Who ye calling half-pint? I’ll slit you from throat to @$#*. I’ll shove an arrow right through your …
Panel 3
An arrow shoots into the captain’s eye, exiting through the back of his head.
ROLF
…Eye?
Panel 4
A gang of men and goblins race over the hilltops on both sides of the valley waving axes, swords and knives. Rex has his gun cocked. Rolf is smiling with his axes drawn
REX
It’s an ambush!
ROLF
Sweet merciful Manticore, finally some action!
PAGE 3 (4 panels)
Panel 1
Rex fires his gun through the skull of an axe-wielding man.
SFX
Splat
Panel 2
Rolf punches a goblin in the stomach. The goblin’s eyes pop out of his head.
SFX
Pop
Panel 3
Rolf is holding the goblin’s eyes in his fist. The eyes are still attached to the goblin’s skull.
ROLF
See?! It happened again!
Panel 4
Lord Narwhal is sticking his head out of his carriage frantically yelling.
NARWHAL
My treasures! Protect my beautiful treasures!
PAGE 4 (5 panels)
Panel 1
A goblin is pulling an arrow back, which is pointed straight at Rex.
Panel 2
The arrow knocks Rex’s gun out of his hand.
REX
Son of a…!
Panel 3
A group of goblins and men rush Rex weapons drawn. Rex is looking around for some kind of weapon
REX
Ah, ‘er we are.
Panel 4
Rex swings an enormous grandfather clock sending the marauders flying.
REX
Sorry, you’re out of time!
SFX
Bad pun attack
Panel 5
Narwhal is shrieking while sticking his head out of his carriage.
Narwhal
No, you fool!
PAGE 5 (4 panels)
Panel 1
Armored guards are being killed left and right. A greedy bandit approaches a closed treasure chest. His hands are outstretched to grab it.
ROLF
(From inside the chest)
Nice try ye marauding mother #($*@
Panel 2
Rolf pops out of the chest holding two big bags of treasure.
ROLF
Lord Porpoise is payin’ us to guard these er’ treasures
Panel 3
Rolf smashes a bag of treasure into the bandit’s head sending coins spilling everywhere.
SFX
Golden shower
Panel 4
Narwhal is completely unhinged. He is holding his head in his hands and shouting.
NARWHAL
Ahhhhhhh
PAGE 6 (6 panels)
Panel 1
Rex smashes a painting over a goblin’s head.
SFX
Bam
Panel 2
Rolf chokes a bandit with a string of pearls.
SFX
Choke
Panel 3
Rex uses a candelabrum to spear a bandit through the chest.
SFX
Speared
Panel 4
Rolf swings a chandelier like a mace knocking several goblins away.
SFX
Krash
Panel 5
Rex chucks a crate labeled “Precious Jewels” at a group of retreating bandits.
Panel 6
The case explodes on their backs spraying jewels everywhere.
SFX
No longer priceless
PAGE 7 (6 panels)
Panel 1
Rolf and Rex stand side-by-side yelling at the retreating highwaymen.
ROLF
Yeah! That’s right go cryin’ home te yer mommies!
NARWHAL
(Off Panel)
You animals!
Panel 2
A close up of Lord Narwhal red-faced and disheveled.
NARWHAL
You’ve destroyed everything! I’ll have you brain-dead idiots whipped bloody when we get to town!
Panel 3
Rolf is now behind Narwhal holding a giant vase above his head ready to shatter it on Narwhal. Rex has his hand outstretched.
NARWHAL
You’ll be thrown in the deepest dungeon. I’ll have you starved and beaten until you…
REX
Wait!
Panel 4
Rolf stays still with the vase above his head while Rex reaches into Lord Narwhal’s breast pocket.
Panel 5
Rolf pulls out a big bag of coins from Narwhal’s pocket.
REX
Okay, go ahead.
Panel 6
Rolf shatters the vase over Lord Narwhal’s head.
SFX
Krash
PAGE 8 (2 panels)
Panel 1
The Skullkickers are standing around Narwhal’s collapsed body. A SFX bubble appears from Rex’s stomach.
SFX
Ruummbllee
Panel 2
Rex and Rolf walk away from the caravan, which is totally destroyed. A wounded guard is vomiting behind the Skullkickers.
REX
Aye, now that we’ve been paid, let’s grab some vittles eh? All that guarding ‘as made me stomach empty as a keg wit a hole innit, which reminds me a the time you blew a whole in that goblin’s belly. Then ye dared me stick my head through it. Aye, it was all blood and guts it was.
SFX
Blergghhhhh
Caption
“End”
Day Two: Write a fan fiction
Dialogue has never been my strong suit when it comes to creative writing. A big part of the reason I embarked on this creative writing challenge was simply to improve in some areas of writing I struggled with. It’s in this way that I wanted to work on a piece of dialogue-driven fan fiction. I chose Blade Runner simply because the film’s first scene where Holden administers the ”Voight-Kampff” test to Leon is one of the most beautiful pieces of dialogue I had ever seen in a movie before or since.
“Brand, Leo, accounts, public sector, file section, eight months”
“Light?” Roman asked, flicking the stainless steel lighter open.
“Thanks” Leo muttered, grabbing the lighter from Roman.
“So, Mr.….” Roman scanned the holographic file in his hand “Mr. Brand, are you married?”
“Yes, just recently. We got married last year.” Leo answered. “How long is this going to take?”
“Your wife, Kristine, she eve older or younger than you?”
“What does it matter?” Leo asked pulling the cigarette from his mouth.
“Just answer the question Mr. Brand”
Leo closed his eyes, taking a deep drag from his cigarette “Younger, she is younger. By ten years.”
“That puts her around what? 25? 26?” Roman asked, his eyes still on the folder in front of him. “You like young girls Leo?”
Leo leaned back in his chair smiling to himself. “What the hell is this? I don’t have to answer a fucking thing. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Is this making you angry Leo?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong. Why am I here?” said Leo.
“Are you angry Leo? Are you angry that everything in this folder points toward the fact that you like fucking young girls?”
“That’s not true” Leo cried, his cigarette falling from his lips hitting the steel table in a flash of red and orange embers.
“What’s not?” Roman asked. “That you like fucking little girls?”
“Stop saying that, god dammit” Leo shouted springing to his feet.
Roman reached for the blast pistol at his hip “Mr. Brand please sit back down.”
Leo pulled his chair back up to the cold metal table. “I don’t do that” he said, “I’m happily married.”
“To a little girl” Roman shot back. “Which means, you must like screwing kids”
“Fuck you” Leo hissed reaching in his pocket for another cigarette.
“Are you angry Mr. Brand?” Roman asked, this time sitting in the chair opposite Leo.
Leo placed a cigarette in his mouth patting his pockets for a matchbook. “You are pissing me off.”
Roman flicked open his lighter “That’s funny” he said.
“What is?” Leo asked leaning over to light the tip of his cigarette.
Roman looked down at the illuminated screen of the folder in front of him. “That machine you’re hooked up to, it says you’re not.”
Leo wiped away a bead of sweat forming under his chin. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“This machine, it measures things like pulse, heart rate and some other vital signs. Brain waves and shit like that. It tells me how you are feeling, truly feeling and right now, you are not angry. So why did you tell me you were?”
“I don’t know, I was angry before, n… now I’m not” Leo stuttered.
“No, you were never angry” Roman said nodding at the folder. “This says you never were.”
Leo shifted in his chair taking a drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke deep in his lunge before exhaling. “I don’t know what to tell you. Your machine is broken I guess.”
Roman tapped a few buttons on the screen in front of him. “The problem with replicants is that they can’t feel. People will tell you they can, but they’re wrong. Our feelings, love, lust, greed, all that, it’s in our brain.”
“Are you saying…. You’re kidding me,” Leo said, a smile parting his unshaven face. “You think I’m a….” Leo suddenly burst into fits of laughter. “Fucking LAPD, don’t you have better things to do than waste my time?”
“Leo, in a moment some men are going to come in here, take you to a secret location and retire you.” Roman said. “Are you afraid?”
“You’re lying” Leo whispered, his eyes looking down at his hands. “You can’t, I have a family. A wife. People will know I’m gone. They will come here and ask about me.”
“See? You’re not actually afraid. It’s all right here.” Roman said, turning the file so Leo could see it. “It’s your brain. You can’t trick your brain. You were built that way. It’s a sort of safety measure. A guarantee.”
“Mother fucker” Leo snapped leaping at Roman, clearing the table in one motion.
Roman pulled his pistol firing a round straight through Leo’s skull. Leo hit the table with a hollow thud. The lines on the holographic file now flat.
Two officers burst into the room pistols drawn. “It’s fine, take it out of here” Roman said.
Wiping the blood from his hands and face with a handkerchief, Roman pressed a button on the wall. A light above his head flashed red then green then blank.
When it comes to my personal writing, aggressive procrastination has become a skill that I have not only become quite adept at, I’ve mastered it. On the spectrum of irritating conversations I have with people, “I’m writing a book. What’s that? No, it isn’t finished, I’ve just thought of a really original idea” sits just below “Oh, in (insert country someone visited for a semester in college) they are so opened minded, not like Americans” and just above “You’re a vegetarian who doesn’t like vegetables. Why, what on Earth do you eat?” The answer of course is, copper wire and dry wall because without vegetables and meat, there is nothing.
But, I digress. Slowly, I’ve seen myself become the “I’m writing a book” jerk off without even realizing it. I hate that guy, I don’t want to hate myself. So, here we are.
Because of my lovely fiance, who found this challenge courtesy of MyCreativeWriting Challenge, I will embark on a 30-day marathon of creative writing. Most of it will be terrible, some of it will be passable and, if the cruel gods of fiction smile upon me, I might string together at least one coherent sentence to be proud of.
Day One: Re-write a classic fairy tale.
I decided to re-write “Tale of One Who Set Out to Learn Fear.” It’s a really terrifying little story about a young man who is either too dull or too brave to understand that everything is trying to kill him. In a true act of clever story crafting, I’ve titled my short story:
“Tale of One Who Set Out to Learn Fear”
In an ice-covered village far to the north, a chieftain had two sons. As the eldest son was born, the people of the village saw him grow. He was strong and sharp like a newly shaped blade. When the chieftain’s younger son was born, people gossiped that because he was born on a moonless night, he would be cursed with a terrible fate as dark and crippling as the night he emerged from his mother.
The two brothers grew hard and cold as the land around them. The eldest brother was the pride of his father, strong and brave as any of the village’s storied heroes. The younger brother soon grew jealous of the praise his brother received asking, “Brother, where does your courage come from?” To which his brother responded, “From fear, I’m brave as to not be consumed by fear.” How strange, the younger brother thought, he had never felt fear in his life. He had heard warriors of the village speak about the terror that gripped their hearts in the dark of the night when footsteps followed in stride with their own. But when they turned to face their stalker, nothing but ice capped hills surrounded them.
The youngest son drove his family to madness with his constant quest to find fear. After expressing his frustration about his son’s obsession with terror with the village shaman, the holy man offered to take the boy hunting to show him what terrors lay within the ice and snow and darkness of their frozen land. Once the shaman and the boy set out on the hunt, a great snowstorm separated the two leaving the boy directionless.
Seeing the boy in the distance, the shaman fixed the antlers of a stag to his head and bellowed at the youngest son, his voice carrying over the frozen wind.
“Who’s that?” shouted the boy in return, “make yourself known.”
Feeling he was truly scaring the boy, the shaman moved closer still letting out a terrible guttural roar.
“Show yourself or I will bash in your head,” threatened the boy now racing towards the shaman’s obscured outline.
The shaman lowered his head charging the boy in return hoping to frighten him into running away. However, the boy picked up a slick frost covered stone and brained the shaman instead. Crumpling to the ground, the shaman’s blood spread across the white snow staining the area around him with thick gore. Seeing now that it was the shaman, the boy fled back to the village confessing the murder to his father.
“You’ve destroyed the family name. Go before I gut you where you stand” his father threatened, waving a shining blade in front of him.
“Yes, I will go and I will learn fear and courage. I will return like my older brother,” the boy said racing through the door out into the black night. Having no direction, the boy walked towards the horizon muttering, “If I can learn fear I can be a great warrior and return home.”
Suddenly a thin man with a grey beard appeared before the boy naked to the waist. He pointed a long gnarled finger at the boy “come to me for fear boy” the old man whispered in a voice that the boy heard deep in his skull.
“Grandfather, I will follow you. Lead the way” the boy said drawing his blade and stalking towards the wrinkled apparition. The old man let out a high-pitched hissing noise and limbs began bursting forth from his torso. The old man transformed into a great ice spider with razor sharp legs and jagged pincers that gushed steaming fluid.
“Grandfather, you don’t look so well” the boy said “let me end your suffering.” The boy leapt at the monster slicing its head clean off.
When the boy studied the separated head, it had turned back into that of the old man, his eyes staring blankly at the sky. The boy continued on, still unable to feel fear in his heart yet seeking shelter. It was then he found a small village not unlike the one he was born in. The people of the village kept their heads down and avoided the boy’s eyes. The boy entered the village inn and asked the owner “why does such a darkness grip this place?” Moving closer to the boy, the innkeeper whispered, “it is a great darkness, our chieftain’s home is cursed with evil spirits. Those who have entered never come out again. It torments the chieftain so greatly that he has offered his daughter to any man who can survive three nights in the lodge.”
Hearing this, the boy sought out the chieftain proclaiming his desire to stay in the lodge, “perhaps I can learn fear there” the boy explained. Mistaking the boy’s proclamation for courageousness, the chieftain offered him three items for each night he stayed within the cursed home. The boy asked only for a fire, a hatchet, and a five-stringed lute, which was the most popular instrument in the region.
On the first night, the boy sat by the fire the chieftain had provided and quietly whittled a piece of firewood with his hatchet. Out of the shadows, several beasts with long wolf-like snouts and the bodies of beetles crept towards the boy. They hissed and snapped at the boy who steadied himself with hatchet in hand.
“Come, warm yourselves before we battle” the boy said gesturing towards the glowing flames. The beasts cautiously approached the fire turning their carapaces over and warming their undersides. As they did this, the boy grabbed them one by one thrusting their heads into the fire melting their eyes and igniting their furry manes. When the beasts were dead, the boy threw their burnt bodies fully into the flame where they gave off a thick acrid smoke.
As dawn broke through the windows of the lodge, the boy still had no better understanding of fear and was met by the village people with much cheering and adoration. As the second night approached, the boy once again bid the chieftain farewell and lay by the fire considering the true nature of fear. As he did this, an enormous bat creature flew from the rafters beating out his fire with its massive wings.
“You will fear me,” the creature wailed opening its massive mouth displaying its knife-like fangs.
The boy approached the creature and said, “If I am to fear you, first let me feel your flesh to know this true.” Grabbing the creature’s throat, the boy quickly hacked away at the beast’s body spilling its organs into the fire. They smelled sweet as they roasted in the fire and the boy ate them on a stick throughout the evening. Exiting the lodge on the second morning, the chieftain clapped his hands in excitement, shocked at the boy’s bravery. Once again, he promised the boy his beautiful daughter if only he were to stay one more evening in the lodge.
On the third and final night, no creatures or spirits visited the boy until the moon sank below the hills and the night grew darker than anything the boy had ever known. As total darkness fell upon the lodge, a massive man standing over nine heads tall rose from the boy’s fire, his skin the deep blue of someone frozen to death. His body creaked as he approached the boy.
“Now you will know death,” the monstrous man told the boy, swinging a giant axe made of black crystal.
“First” the boy said “let me play a song to guide my spirit to the next world.”
Nodding reluctantly, the man allowed the boy to play the instrument. His fingers raced over the strings as fast as lightning and as clear as thunder. The song mesmerized the creature as the boy continued to play with the ability of someone unafraid of slipping and missing a note. The enormous man soon began to weep dropping his axe to the ground where it shattered into thousands of glittering black pieces. With that, the boy rose to his feet and pulled the creature’s head back drawing his hatchet across its neck in a shower of crimson blood.
The next morning, the chieftain gathered the boy in his arms, “I felt it last night as I slept” the chieftain said, “The curse is broken.”
The boy was married to the chieftain’s daughter who was beautiful with skin the color of fresh snow and eyes as clear as a mountain spring. They lived together in the once cursed lodge, the same lodge the chieftain’s daughter was born and raised in. At night, the boy would tell his wife of his home and his brother and the great sorrow that brought him to her. In turn, she would tell him of the curse that nearly destroyed her father and drove her mother to take her own life. They shared these things and this home and each other.
The boy lay awake at night wishing that his father could see his new life. He wished for these things among other heartfelt wishes, but most of all he wished to feel fear. Even in his time at the lodge, he still felt no fear. Without fear, the boy still felt like a ghost merely drifting through the land of the living, not known, not mourned.
Lying next to his bride one evening, the boy confessed this to her. Without a word his wife rose and lit a fire where the boy had once sat alone during the three nights he spent in the haunted lodge. She returned to him now, her skin as cold as ice and blue as the Summer sky. She touched his chest, her long pale finger now tracing symbols in his flesh. “You will know fear,” she whispered softly gazing at him with eyes of smooth black crystal. “You will know fear,” she repeated. And the boy knew fear.
