Tuesday, September 27, 2011

No New Narrows, Nectar, Nebulas

We don't know Its true name, either. I don't really think that "Slender Man" is it.

I've got somewhere to be; there are people in need of my admirably accommodating assistance. Rocinante and I ride north in the morn. I shall update in some days, when we arrive.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Many Molehills May Make Mountains

And many men may move them.

If there was one thing I ever tried to do it was helping people. I never managed it, really, so I'm glad I get the chance now to redeem myself.

After all, you know what they say: better late tha̴͘͜n̴̡͟ ̸̛͝n̸͘͟e͏̢̧̧́v̶́̀e̴̶̕r̶̨̡͞

There once was a man who, after a long and hard ordeal, was given a choice: accept the advice of a man named Eight and escape the pains of this life, or pull a lever and let himself out of his cage, thereby continuing to suffer. The man toiled over the choice, and it was many days and nights before he could decide. The man had lost nearly everything by that point, and he was ready to move on into the next world. Little did he know it wouldn't last.

But the moral of the story is: Better Eight than lever. Even if the man didn't stay dead like he was supposed to.

Thursday, September 22, 2011


the phone, but the man reached over the counter and grabbed his arm before he could even lift it off its hook.

"Please," said the man. "I'm desperate. I have the money." He searched in the clerk's eyes for some flicker of understanding, but nothing came. The clerk shook his arm free and snatched up the phone before the man could say another word, dialing what the man assumed to be the police. The man nodded his head unhappily and tried to block out the voices telling him to grab it and run, but he couldn't - not completely. He shoved his hand into his pocket and brought out a fistful of cash, and, dropping it on the counter, the man grabbed the laptop, stuffing it carelessly into his rucksack.

Once outside, the man flagged down a passing truck driver who seemed to be going out of the city. He hopped in the cab and asked, "Where you going?"

"East," said the truck driver. "How far you going?"

"Away," said the man, "just away." The truck driver nodded his head in solemn agreement and pulled back onto the road without any further questions. They had been driving for about two hours when the man thought to ask the truck driver what city they had just left.

"Salt Lake," said the driver. "Salt Lake City. Utah."

The man made no gesture, but instead went on to ask, "And the date?"

The driver had to think for a moment before replying. "January seventeenth," he said. "You know, it was this day in nineteen twenty that the Prohibition act began."

"Prohibition, eh?" Like all his general knowledge facts, the man could see a faint outline of its meaning, but he couldn't quite get at it in its entirety.

The driver looked over at him, seeing his puzzled expression amongst a myriad of others. "Alcohol ban. Lasted nearly fourteen years."

"Alcohol ban, huh? Sounds like

Wednesday, September 21, 2011


The first thing he knew was that his head hurt.

The man raised his eyes and immediately was forced to shade them against the bright sun coming down from the treetops. He stepped forward and immediately tumbled to the ground from his high perch. That didn't help stop the pain. He vaguely remembered that he had climbed the tree to escape from a pursuer, but he couldn't recall any of the details.

When he had managed to lift himself out of the dirt - now with a newly scraped knee and a ringing in his ears - he got his first good look at the mess there was at the base of the tree. Strewn around his feet were various items that looked as if they could be helpful - a rucksack, a compass, a book of road maps, a wallet, and a single half-empty flask of brandy.

"Some party," mumbled the man, and clutched his head again, waiting for the pain to pass.

There were no cards or IDs inside the wallet, just a few twenties and one check for three hundred dollars. Most of the writing was illegible in his daze, but the man could tell that the signature and the amount of money were written by different people. Someone had given him a blank check - who? Why?

The man shrugged and packed it all into the rucksack. He hefted it over his shoulder and began walking towards the line of buildings he could see on the horizon. Something told him he'd be there soon.

Something was nagging at him in the back of his mind, though. Some vital piece of information. The man stopped in his trek and focused on the thought, willing it to come forward where he could see it, and it molded itself into a voice - the first of several. "Do not worry," said the voice. "You just have to

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Loud, Lazy Lads Loathe Love

Time to tell a tale? No, not a tale. How about some detail? Time dar detail? That is what I deduct.

Perhaps - yes, that will do nicely. My place of sleep is luckily nowhere so horrid as a Dumpster or in abandoned Metro tunnels, although it still is less than ideal. No, I rest my head some nights in an arboretum, a collection of coverage of the tree persuasion. It is a very nice arboretum, and one that I can take wherever I go, as it is made not out of material things but instead by some very talented amigos I know, who come with me to many places, though indeed not everywhere. I stay in this arboretum as opposed to an acceptable place of residence such as an inn or a hotel or even a tent, because I wish once again to confront the Slender Man as I did in days of deadlier darkness.

Yes, I speak Its name openly, as I do not temo It or Its name or Its presence anymore. Names have power, and miedo de un nombre only increases miedo de la cosa itself.
There's also something I've got to try.
Rocinante and I rest rather easily in the arboretum. I keep my weapon close and my helm closer - though no shield do I have. (I rather think I should locate one.) And the best part of it all is that it costs me nothing but effort to use, as I have very little to no money most of the time and would not be able to sustain myself during extended periods of time with no sleep. I dare not sleep in the open as I may be ambushed, something that has happened to all of us too many a time to count, though perhaps not always violently or even physically.

No; that's not all true. I do not speak the Slender Man's name any more than I taste the coffee that I sometimes treat myself to in the mornings. It is devilishly difficult to do so without a tongue.