Braided Crossroad (SP-RP8/9) 01/2017 - 01/2019
Quote from Adriana on August 25, 2018, 1:16 pmOxer
Somebody is behind me.
I don't need any special lycanthropic super-powers or whatever to tell. When you live on the streets for so many years you learn to read things like that, learn to almost read people's… auras, in a sense. You develop an instinct. When you walk into a room or an alley you immediately know if you're supposed to be there or if there are people ready to pull a knife on you. You learn to automatically be suspicious but to hide that under a thick layer of something like goodwill. Then, and only then, will people leave you alone. Even the knife-pullers do.
So I turn around and smile and throw my spraypaint back in the little compartment next to where my ukulele should be. I certainly wasn't doing anything illegal, dude! I'm a model citizen! Never vandalized a thing in my life!
A greeting of any sort feels a little weird at this point-- how long had he been watching me?-- so I simply shrug as if shooing a fly off of my shoulders.
"Don't see much in the ways of graffiti here, sir?" I ask as lightly as I can, clasping my hands in front of me. Bigfoot is only half-finished, and his face is eyeless for now. His mouth curves down on one side, up on the other. I always draw him like that, ever since I came up with the doodle on the back of one of my homework assignments in the seventh grade.
The man who has come to stare at me resembles the Bigfoot I'm drawing in a way. He's huge, at least a foot taller than me, and has fuzzy sideburns that remind me of a couple of spiky cacti on the sides of his face. I should be scared, yeah, meeting some bulky stranger in an alleyway, but he doesn't compare to some of the characters I've seen in my treks across the globe. When I get the chance, I have to tell you about that hotel manager I dealt with in Juneau-- now that was a scary guy.
Anyway, right now I just offer the man in front of me a smile and start slowly inching away down the alleyway. I haven't determined if this guy is a threat or not and if he's just staring at Bigfoot he probably isn't; that said, I'm suspicious. I can't help it, I'm always suspicious. If I'm not suspicious I'll end up incarcerated or worse.
I toss a lightning quick glance over my shoulder. Behind me, blessedly, isn't a dead end, but alleyways are never promising escape routes. If I have to run back out on the streets past the dude-- which I could theoretically do, he's built like an immovable boulder and I like a bird-- I risk being seen by the few people gathered in the streets.
I swallow and smile again, trying to hide the fact that my mind is making calculations at a million miles an hour. Another group of men have just appeared behind the first, thus closing off my escape route that way, so I keep backing down the alley and hope nobody will notice. The two in the group are deep in conversation, so I turn my attention back to the bulky guy.
Keep staring at the half-finished purple Bigfoot, I plead silently.
Oxer
Somebody is behind me.
I don't need any special lycanthropic super-powers or whatever to tell. When you live on the streets for so many years you learn to read things like that, learn to almost read people's… auras, in a sense. You develop an instinct. When you walk into a room or an alley you immediately know if you're supposed to be there or if there are people ready to pull a knife on you. You learn to automatically be suspicious but to hide that under a thick layer of something like goodwill. Then, and only then, will people leave you alone. Even the knife-pullers do.
So I turn around and smile and throw my spraypaint back in the little compartment next to where my ukulele should be. I certainly wasn't doing anything illegal, dude! I'm a model citizen! Never vandalized a thing in my life!
A greeting of any sort feels a little weird at this point-- how long had he been watching me?-- so I simply shrug as if shooing a fly off of my shoulders.
"Don't see much in the ways of graffiti here, sir?" I ask as lightly as I can, clasping my hands in front of me. Bigfoot is only half-finished, and his face is eyeless for now. His mouth curves down on one side, up on the other. I always draw him like that, ever since I came up with the doodle on the back of one of my homework assignments in the seventh grade.
The man who has come to stare at me resembles the Bigfoot I'm drawing in a way. He's huge, at least a foot taller than me, and has fuzzy sideburns that remind me of a couple of spiky cacti on the sides of his face. I should be scared, yeah, meeting some bulky stranger in an alleyway, but he doesn't compare to some of the characters I've seen in my treks across the globe. When I get the chance, I have to tell you about that hotel manager I dealt with in Juneau-- now that was a scary guy.
Anyway, right now I just offer the man in front of me a smile and start slowly inching away down the alleyway. I haven't determined if this guy is a threat or not and if he's just staring at Bigfoot he probably isn't; that said, I'm suspicious. I can't help it, I'm always suspicious. If I'm not suspicious I'll end up incarcerated or worse.
I toss a lightning quick glance over my shoulder. Behind me, blessedly, isn't a dead end, but alleyways are never promising escape routes. If I have to run back out on the streets past the dude-- which I could theoretically do, he's built like an immovable boulder and I like a bird-- I risk being seen by the few people gathered in the streets.
I swallow and smile again, trying to hide the fact that my mind is making calculations at a million miles an hour. Another group of men have just appeared behind the first, thus closing off my escape route that way, so I keep backing down the alley and hope nobody will notice. The two in the group are deep in conversation, so I turn my attention back to the bulky guy.
Keep staring at the half-finished purple Bigfoot, I plead silently.
Quote from Adriana on August 25, 2018, 1:16 pmDeseree
Bob rubbed his chin, brow furrowed. "I see... I'm sorry to hear it." he looked on solemnly in the direction of the ranch and his mind wandered off in contemplation.
"Well then.." he sighed after some time, "I won't keep you, sir. It was a pleasure. Oh, let pester you with another question- if I wanted to spend the night in town, where would be the place to go? Any hotels or motels nearby?" he glanced around briefly before setting his gaze back on fellow before him.
Deseree
Bob rubbed his chin, brow furrowed. "I see... I'm sorry to hear it." he looked on solemnly in the direction of the ranch and his mind wandered off in contemplation.
"Well then.." he sighed after some time, "I won't keep you, sir. It was a pleasure. Oh, let pester you with another question- if I wanted to spend the night in town, where would be the place to go? Any hotels or motels nearby?" he glanced around briefly before setting his gaze back on fellow before him.
Quote from Adriana on August 25, 2018, 1:17 pmIndy
Zander almost breathed a sigh of relief when he passed by unnoticed by the Crown Victoria due to a well-timed cough. But so long as he was in town, and so long as the Crown Victoria was parked in it, he dare not relax. Instead he used whatever momentum was left of the motorcycle to idle forward, then ducked into the alley that opened up in the brick wall without even a glance of what he was ducking into. That was a mistake.
Zander was not normally in the habit of checking strange alleyways before he entered them, for the simple fact that he was a werewolf and could hear and smell all he needed to know about them. Yet the motorcycle helmet, while an excellent safety precaution, had interfered with his smell and his hearing. The spluttering sound of his dying engine, on top of it, had entirely drowned out all sensory information until he found himself staring at two strangers in an alley in the midst of some sort of… show down ?
He frowned, trying to discern the scene before him. There was a small girl, guiltily clutching a can of purple spray paint and the wall before her had a half finished… something ( a gorilla?). Meanwhile a large man, who was at least twice the small girl’s weight, was not moving but watching her. The girl was backing down the alley. The gesture was familiar – she was afraid and cornered. As a thing that had been often afraid and cornered, Zander felt a pang of sympathy for the girl.
He could have just as easily exited the alley with no one the wiser, yet he didn’t. His feet remained firmly planted beside his motorcycle. Worse, they started walking slowly towards the two at the back of the alley. What was he thinking? He’d sworn of heroics years ago… but it was just two humans. And he couldn't help feel he owed the girl in some way, if only because the universe had so far ensured his survival in far worse circumstances. He could take whatever punch this guy threw, and maybe that would give the girl a chance to escape.
He removed his helmet, “ Hey now sir, I don’t think the gir—“
And then the smell hit him. He stopped in his tracks, horrified. In this alleyway there was not one werewolf, but three. What had he just got himself into ? This could end in many different ways, and based on his personal calculations, most of them were bad. He wanted to start taking steps back, but werewolves (and many humans) could see such gesture as a sign of weakness and thus a good reason to attack.
He gulped. He had no choice but to finish his sentence and see how they responded.
“ah… err, the girl meant anything offensive,” he concluded with a forced cheerfulness.
Indy
Zander almost breathed a sigh of relief when he passed by unnoticed by the Crown Victoria due to a well-timed cough. But so long as he was in town, and so long as the Crown Victoria was parked in it, he dare not relax. Instead he used whatever momentum was left of the motorcycle to idle forward, then ducked into the alley that opened up in the brick wall without even a glance of what he was ducking into. That was a mistake.
Zander was not normally in the habit of checking strange alleyways before he entered them, for the simple fact that he was a werewolf and could hear and smell all he needed to know about them. Yet the motorcycle helmet, while an excellent safety precaution, had interfered with his smell and his hearing. The spluttering sound of his dying engine, on top of it, had entirely drowned out all sensory information until he found himself staring at two strangers in an alley in the midst of some sort of… show down ?
He frowned, trying to discern the scene before him. There was a small girl, guiltily clutching a can of purple spray paint and the wall before her had a half finished… something ( a gorilla?). Meanwhile a large man, who was at least twice the small girl’s weight, was not moving but watching her. The girl was backing down the alley. The gesture was familiar – she was afraid and cornered. As a thing that had been often afraid and cornered, Zander felt a pang of sympathy for the girl.
He could have just as easily exited the alley with no one the wiser, yet he didn’t. His feet remained firmly planted beside his motorcycle. Worse, they started walking slowly towards the two at the back of the alley. What was he thinking? He’d sworn of heroics years ago… but it was just two humans. And he couldn't help feel he owed the girl in some way, if only because the universe had so far ensured his survival in far worse circumstances. He could take whatever punch this guy threw, and maybe that would give the girl a chance to escape.
He removed his helmet, “ Hey now sir, I don’t think the gir—“
And then the smell hit him. He stopped in his tracks, horrified. In this alleyway there was not one werewolf, but three. What had he just got himself into ? This could end in many different ways, and based on his personal calculations, most of them were bad. He wanted to start taking steps back, but werewolves (and many humans) could see such gesture as a sign of weakness and thus a good reason to attack.
He gulped. He had no choice but to finish his sentence and see how they responded.
“ah… err, the girl meant anything offensive,” he concluded with a forced cheerfulness.
Quote from Adriana on August 25, 2018, 1:17 pmMae
The other man muttered about this and that in reply to Chapman, scratching the back of his head and looking up and down the street.
"Oh-" The fellow said after a moment and put his eyes and ears forward again in leveling with the other. "It's back apiece, that way. Yeh probably passed it comin' in from, eh... Did ya, er - Middlecrest, is it?"
The man fell into mumbling and shuffling again and pointed up the street where beyond the trees and utility poles the mountains stood tall in front of the sky.
"Anyways its just down there on the corner." He concluded.
Mae
The other man muttered about this and that in reply to Chapman, scratching the back of his head and looking up and down the street.
"Oh-" The fellow said after a moment and put his eyes and ears forward again in leveling with the other. "It's back apiece, that way. Yeh probably passed it comin' in from, eh... Did ya, er - Middlecrest, is it?"
The man fell into mumbling and shuffling again and pointed up the street where beyond the trees and utility poles the mountains stood tall in front of the sky.
"Anyways its just down there on the corner." He concluded.
Quote from Adriana on August 25, 2018, 1:17 pmOxer
"Nothing offensive at all!" Flies right out of my mouth. Do I have an ally now? Maybe? I sneak a glance at the new guy who has just showed up and wonder distantly if this town even has a police force. Meaning, do I have anything to be afraid of?
This new guy who just showed up on his motorcycle wouldn't be much of a policeman anyway, I reason. That poor old machine looked about dead and it wouldn't do squat for a getaway for me. Not that I would steal (it's too loud, anyway), but I won't pretend the thought hadn't crossed my mind.
I rub the back of my neck, which has grown sweaty and gross. Then I start to slowly back away.
"It's just, I'm... uh," Shoot, what do I say? There are too many people in this alley for my liking-- my skin is starting to crawl. "I'm looking for this guy." I gesture to my art like I'm some sort of critic taking a stab at its deeper, cryptic meaning. "Big, hairy, tall. I put this up so people would know he might be, uh... around. Like a warning!"
Worst excuse ever, but when you're always running from people you don't develop much in the way of lying skills.
Oxer
"Nothing offensive at all!" Flies right out of my mouth. Do I have an ally now? Maybe? I sneak a glance at the new guy who has just showed up and wonder distantly if this town even has a police force. Meaning, do I have anything to be afraid of?
This new guy who just showed up on his motorcycle wouldn't be much of a policeman anyway, I reason. That poor old machine looked about dead and it wouldn't do squat for a getaway for me. Not that I would steal (it's too loud, anyway), but I won't pretend the thought hadn't crossed my mind.
I rub the back of my neck, which has grown sweaty and gross. Then I start to slowly back away.
"It's just, I'm... uh," Shoot, what do I say? There are too many people in this alley for my liking-- my skin is starting to crawl. "I'm looking for this guy." I gesture to my art like I'm some sort of critic taking a stab at its deeper, cryptic meaning. "Big, hairy, tall. I put this up so people would know he might be, uh... around. Like a warning!"
Worst excuse ever, but when you're always running from people you don't develop much in the way of lying skills.
Quote from Adriana on August 25, 2018, 1:17 pmOxer
Yeah, I'm out.
How I had missed the loose board /hole on one of the buildings beside me I have no clue. My survival instincts get weird when I'm being confronted with a ton of people, honestly.
I take one last look at the crowd gathered-- all by my alleyway-- and without further ado my brain kicks into gear. No longer concerned about stealth or what-have-you, I'm dropping my pack and then shimmying through the hole into some dark, dusty storage unit-thing that probably hasn't been touched in years.
I'd be back for my pack once everyone left. I don't think anyone is small enough to fit through the hole I just did.
Oxer
Yeah, I'm out.
How I had missed the loose board /hole on one of the buildings beside me I have no clue. My survival instincts get weird when I'm being confronted with a ton of people, honestly.
I take one last look at the crowd gathered-- all by my alleyway-- and without further ado my brain kicks into gear. No longer concerned about stealth or what-have-you, I'm dropping my pack and then shimmying through the hole into some dark, dusty storage unit-thing that probably hasn't been touched in years.
I'd be back for my pack once everyone left. I don't think anyone is small enough to fit through the hole I just did.
Quote from Adriana on August 25, 2018, 1:18 pmIndy
Zander felt about the same as the girl, but he unfortunately lacked the appropriate hole to scurry into. Looking at her disappeared form almost forlornly, he grit his teeth and turned back the opposite direction before the big burly werewolf had a chance to even respond. He held the sad, dead husk of his motorcycle tightly, gently leading it further down the road, and further away from the parked white, Crown Victoria...
Until he was standing a good distance away, looking upwards at a very particular building as though it would swallow him whole. Which, it might. Mrs. Buttermilk had not particularly enjoyed his company the last time he'd been here. Yet desperation bred a certain kind of recklessness. He was cold, tired, hungry, and looking at some serious repair bills.
"Well, old girl," his grab tightened on the handlebars of the motorcycle as though for reassurance, his voice briefly faltering in his hammering chest, "I'm sure it will be fine. I'm sure she is... a delight... full of wit and sympathy once you get past her thorny exterior"
His complexion continued to pale, shakily kicking out the kickstand and releasing his grip on the handlebars,"But.... If not. I suppose you might just rust out here... and I really am sorry if that's the case".
He brought forth a manila envelope from his backpack, and very very cautiously, knocked on the front door of Grandma Buttermilk's antique shop.
Indy
Zander felt about the same as the girl, but he unfortunately lacked the appropriate hole to scurry into. Looking at her disappeared form almost forlornly, he grit his teeth and turned back the opposite direction before the big burly werewolf had a chance to even respond. He held the sad, dead husk of his motorcycle tightly, gently leading it further down the road, and further away from the parked white, Crown Victoria...
Until he was standing a good distance away, looking upwards at a very particular building as though it would swallow him whole. Which, it might. Mrs. Buttermilk had not particularly enjoyed his company the last time he'd been here. Yet desperation bred a certain kind of recklessness. He was cold, tired, hungry, and looking at some serious repair bills.
"Well, old girl," his grab tightened on the handlebars of the motorcycle as though for reassurance, his voice briefly faltering in his hammering chest, "I'm sure it will be fine. I'm sure she is... a delight... full of wit and sympathy once you get past her thorny exterior"
His complexion continued to pale, shakily kicking out the kickstand and releasing his grip on the handlebars,"But.... If not. I suppose you might just rust out here... and I really am sorry if that's the case".
He brought forth a manila envelope from his backpack, and very very cautiously, knocked on the front door of Grandma Buttermilk's antique shop.
Quote from Adriana on August 25, 2018, 1:18 pmMae
Several Months later...
*********
Nothing traveled fast through the town of Reknab Bend except word of mouth. Anyone who came in was likely to stay a few months at least, and that was the outcome of the three visitors.
Meanwhile, town gossip continued at its usual pace. The most exciting news came from the Chandler Ranch. It was said firearms had been exchanged in the woods beyond there and that someone had been shot, but no one knew who. As a result, many assumed the late Chandler's daughter released her ranch-hands and loaned out her prized cattle to the Geltons before leaving. It was rumored that she went to live with relatives further east, and she wasn't the only one unsettled by the business either. Mister Trodder sent his granddaughter back to live with her aunt, and his Grandson Joshua took over managing the livestock. Many suspected the town redneck Harvey and his gang of the crime, but Harvey and his right man Alfred were in town that day, so no evidence ever turned up. Thus the story went, exciting people and everyone heard about it, but nothing ever came of it.
As the season grew weary of the warm summer days, autumn crept in like a welcomed stranger. The mountain's green peaks became flushed with an orange glow and soon the crimson season had spread to the foothills and out across the fields. Ripened corn ears were beginning to brown and made the farmers look forward to a long awaited harvest.
Mae
Several Months later...
*********
Nothing traveled fast through the town of Reknab Bend except word of mouth. Anyone who came in was likely to stay a few months at least, and that was the outcome of the three visitors.
Meanwhile, town gossip continued at its usual pace. The most exciting news came from the Chandler Ranch. It was said firearms had been exchanged in the woods beyond there and that someone had been shot, but no one knew who. As a result, many assumed the late Chandler's daughter released her ranch-hands and loaned out her prized cattle to the Geltons before leaving. It was rumored that she went to live with relatives further east, and she wasn't the only one unsettled by the business either. Mister Trodder sent his granddaughter back to live with her aunt, and his Grandson Joshua took over managing the livestock. Many suspected the town redneck Harvey and his gang of the crime, but Harvey and his right man Alfred were in town that day, so no evidence ever turned up. Thus the story went, exciting people and everyone heard about it, but nothing ever came of it.
As the season grew weary of the warm summer days, autumn crept in like a welcomed stranger. The mountain's green peaks became flushed with an orange glow and soon the crimson season had spread to the foothills and out across the fields. Ripened corn ears were beginning to brown and made the farmers look forward to a long awaited harvest.
Quote from Adriana on August 25, 2018, 1:18 pmIndy
His grandmother had always told him to never feed strays. Her yard had been a magnet for stray cats, much to her disdain. They were feral monsters, she’d always insisted. But even in spite of their hissing and shows, he’d enjoyed feeding them spoonfuls of peanut butter or else tuna if his grandmother didn’t notice.
Zander was ever the contrarian to her advice. For the the third time that week he left his shift 5 minutes early so he could carry a ham sandwich and a new article of clothing to the park bench at the outskirts of the downtown. It was always the same. But that was how you had to move around strays: gentle consistency, never changing, never deviating so their fear reduced and in time they learned to trust you.
He set the sandwich and garment (this time a very pink shirt with what was either a peace sign or an alien) on the far corner of the bench. He took a seat at the opposite end and looked the other direction. Then he waited.
For not the first time that week, Zander felt suddenly very guilty. He’d never liked lying to people, even lies by omission. Sitting on a park bench at very specific time with very specific items made him feel like a criminal. Maybe his employer was the compassionate type — maybe — but something told him Mrs. Buttermilk was a lot like his grandmother and she wouldn’t approve of him feeding strays either.
He sighed. He could hear the stray approaching, but he didn’t acknowledge her yet. He couldn’t risk spooking her again.
Indy
His grandmother had always told him to never feed strays. Her yard had been a magnet for stray cats, much to her disdain. They were feral monsters, she’d always insisted. But even in spite of their hissing and shows, he’d enjoyed feeding them spoonfuls of peanut butter or else tuna if his grandmother didn’t notice.
Zander was ever the contrarian to her advice. For the the third time that week he left his shift 5 minutes early so he could carry a ham sandwich and a new article of clothing to the park bench at the outskirts of the downtown. It was always the same. But that was how you had to move around strays: gentle consistency, never changing, never deviating so their fear reduced and in time they learned to trust you.
He set the sandwich and garment (this time a very pink shirt with what was either a peace sign or an alien) on the far corner of the bench. He took a seat at the opposite end and looked the other direction. Then he waited.
For not the first time that week, Zander felt suddenly very guilty. He’d never liked lying to people, even lies by omission. Sitting on a park bench at very specific time with very specific items made him feel like a criminal. Maybe his employer was the compassionate type — maybe — but something told him Mrs. Buttermilk was a lot like his grandmother and she wouldn’t approve of him feeding strays either.
He sighed. He could hear the stray approaching, but he didn’t acknowledge her yet. He couldn’t risk spooking her again.
Quote from Adriana on August 25, 2018, 1:18 pmOxer
Staying in one place usually isn't a thing for me, and yet here I am, months later. Bumming around the same old mountain town, getting older by the second, sketching birds and rocks and having graffiti wars with the local police force. Purple bigfoot, I hope, is slowly taking over the town. I do him everywhere, with that same characteristic half-smile, half-frown.
I'm running out of paint, and they don't sell it here, so I've had to do some green ones; mix it up a bit.
But why am I still here, in this town whose name I didn't even bother to learn? I can't say. I haven't seen any signs of cryptids, so research has ground to a halt and, thus, so has my income. Nothing happens here that I can see.
Maybe some things are happening. I've run off into the woods at the full moon and managed not to hurt anyone. I found a new species of deer. I turned 20. I've searched to exhaustion for my ukulele. But these are all wrong things to be happening. I want to be moving forward again.
Another wrong thing that is happening is my new and strange relationship with a guy that brings me food.
Day in, day out, it's the same thing. He sits on this bench, sets whatever he's got down next to him, and looks away. Always away. Like I'm a stray dog or something. We never speak. Which, I'll be honest, is much appreciated but also quite embarrassing.
Today was just another one of those days-- or so I thought. The time I pop up at the bench is never consistent, just whenever I happen to be in the area, but today I see him. Ham sandwich, alien shirt folded up neat, and an almost melodramatic stare off into the distance. Very clearly avoiding me. Good.
So then I have the courage to sidle up to the bench, grab the stuff, and take a seat next to him. Just so that he knows that, on some level, I'm appreciative.
Oxer
Staying in one place usually isn't a thing for me, and yet here I am, months later. Bumming around the same old mountain town, getting older by the second, sketching birds and rocks and having graffiti wars with the local police force. Purple bigfoot, I hope, is slowly taking over the town. I do him everywhere, with that same characteristic half-smile, half-frown.
I'm running out of paint, and they don't sell it here, so I've had to do some green ones; mix it up a bit.
But why am I still here, in this town whose name I didn't even bother to learn? I can't say. I haven't seen any signs of cryptids, so research has ground to a halt and, thus, so has my income. Nothing happens here that I can see.
Maybe some things are happening. I've run off into the woods at the full moon and managed not to hurt anyone. I found a new species of deer. I turned 20. I've searched to exhaustion for my ukulele. But these are all wrong things to be happening. I want to be moving forward again.
Another wrong thing that is happening is my new and strange relationship with a guy that brings me food.
Day in, day out, it's the same thing. He sits on this bench, sets whatever he's got down next to him, and looks away. Always away. Like I'm a stray dog or something. We never speak. Which, I'll be honest, is much appreciated but also quite embarrassing.
Today was just another one of those days-- or so I thought. The time I pop up at the bench is never consistent, just whenever I happen to be in the area, but today I see him. Ham sandwich, alien shirt folded up neat, and an almost melodramatic stare off into the distance. Very clearly avoiding me. Good.
So then I have the courage to sidle up to the bench, grab the stuff, and take a seat next to him. Just so that he knows that, on some level, I'm appreciative.
