What Bears say when no one is listening.

Before I share the events of the day I wanted to think out loud about something that's bothering me. Those of you who use an RSS reader may not have noticed the comments in my last post. It's alright, you don't need to go look at them. Suffice it to say that Beezle discovered my Blog. I'm not sure how I ought to feel about that...

Assuming extreme optimism, I have one more reader, someone actually posted comments, and I've written something that an ancient evil felt strongly enough about to sit up and take notice - even actively oppose. (I should mention that he found one of my comments on a friend's site wherein I put in a plug for my own blog, and posted a reply publicly denouncing me.)

The thing is, it's really hard to feel optimistic when you feel violated; and I feel violated. I had one form of expression that Beezle did not yet have access to. That made it pure and holy and a great place to vent about him. Beezle found it and did his best to defile it. Something tells me that he's not going to stop. At any rate, I suppose I'll just do my best to ignore him. The last thing I'm going to do is acknowledge him or do anything that might count as "feeding the trolls" (except posting these inflammatory remarks of course). If I'm lucky he'll get bored and find something else to do with his time.

Anyways, I wanted to tell you about something else.

I was pleasantly surprised yesterday when Duncan stopped by for a visit. He doesn't like to come very often. The neighbors get nervous and call Wildlife services. (Duncan is, by the way, a rather large and gruff old grizzly bear.)

It's hard to convince the rangers that Duncan is smarter than the average bear and relatively gentle with people. (Will would argue, he's been on the receiving end of more than a few swats.) Generally, Duncan will get exasperated and tell them politely but frankly to "get the hell away" from him and tend to their own business. Generally after that they feel the need to find a shrink that can tell them that they didn't hear a grizzly bear talk.

By the way, I apologize to those with delicate ears. Duncan is a teddy bear on the inside; but as I mentioned previously, he gruff and cantankerous and fairly free with his 'hell's and 'damn's. I am, however, pleased to inform you that that is as colorful as he gets; and really, to be fair, he tries to keep it to a minimal when in my home.

To get around the park services issues we've tried a few things: cages and costume parties and the like. Once we passed him off as a circus bear - my idea, not his - and when the neighbors heard about it they all sent their kids over to see "Duncan the Wonder-bear". We had to hurry and improvise. I happened to have a clown nose, and we found some tennis balls for him to juggle, and we pulled off an impromptu performance. They loved it. Duncan swore to me afterwards that if I ever pulled that kind of stunt again, he'd eat one of the spectators. Truth be told, he loved the attention, and he loves kids, but that doesn't fit his image, so he complains and I grin for him by proxy.

When I greeted Duncan in the main hallway I said, "You should have told me you were coming. I'd have invited Susan."

Susan is a neighbor kid - seven years old, real cute. She likes to come around every couple of days, bash her eyelashes and ask, "did Wadsworth make cookies today?" Of course, he never has, but he throws together a batch and sets out the tea set for her and her dolly. She also happens to be one of Duncan's favorites.

"Why?" Duncan rumbled as he ambled in, "So she can tug at my fur and poke at my snout when I'm trying to nap? No thank-you."

"Oh, and here I thought that maybe you'd come looking for a small hand to scratch behind your ear."

"Pah!" Duncan said, and he eased down on to the shag carpet, "she's just a little snack waiting to happen."

"You say that every time you see her, but I haven't seen any missing children reports yet."

"I'm just waiting for her to fatten up a little bit. She's all ribs. Not even worth the trouble - yet. Maybe you had better call her over for cookies. Speed up the process."

I grinned. I knew from the start that he wasn't here for my company, so I picked up the phone and dialed. "Hello," I said, when the other side picked up, "Mrs. Lovegood?  Yes. It's Jason Secrest, down the road... Very well, thanks. Yes, everything is dandy. Listen, Wadsworth is making some cookies, and don't know what goes through his head, but he always makes too many. I don't suppose we could borrow Susan and Miss MarySueBee to make a few disappear? Oh, I always get that wrong... How does she say it? Marry-Soup-Bee? Got it. Thanks, you're a life saver. We'll call you when she gets here.  Uh huh. Bye."

From the Lovegood's house, it's a five minute walk to the Mansion, but for short legs and eyes that catch on every butterfly and daffodil it's fifteen in reality. I tugged on the chord that rings Wadsworth in and asked him if he could whip something up and pull out the tea set. He smiled magnanimous and said that he could.

In the meantime, Duncan and I chatted. He told me about his most recent headaches with "Meg the Heg" the resident semi-evil witch that's under his protective jurousdiction, and I told him that i was putting down solar flare for a little while to work on another project.

He snorted and said, "Let me guess, 'you're stuck?'"

I grinned sheepishly and said, "Yeah, I've got this other idea that's really nagging at me and -"

"Huh - you'll never finish a damn thing in your life. It's guys like you that make society crumble - generation 'get me a sandwich mom, and by the way, I'm living in your basement until one of us dies.' If you go a day without your Nintendo, you crack."

"Now wait a minute -" I started to counter, but the doorbell went off, and that was the end of that. Duncan smiled coyly. Talking to bears is strictly off limits when I have company.

Wadsworth got the door, and I phoned Mrs. Lovegood to tell her that her Susan had arrived safely. I almost didn't get the phone down fast enough for Mrs. Lovegood to miss hearing her daughter exclaim, "MR. DUNCAN IS HERE!"

Susan was wearing an enormous ladies hat with a long green feather when she entered, but her bouncing threw it to the floor when she dashed to the bear. She threw out her arms and hugged his great shaggy head. Miss Soupbee dangled by a threadbare doll-arm from one delicate hand, and the other was unintentional jabbing at one of Duncan's tightly closed eyes. I wished I had a camera.

The rest of the day was pleasant. Will shuffled in for long enough to make a tall stack of cookies in his hands and shuffle back out. Beezle was quiet, presumably pirating movies. Susan ignored the tea set, choosing to snuggle up against Duncan's side with her plate of cookies and chatter to him about the things that seven year olds save especially for their favorite bears. Duncan never moved an inch. He just lay there and lazily rolled his eyes to look at her now and again. If it weren't for that, you might have thought he was stuffed. Ever so slowly, a contented smile grew across his muzzle and as the hot afternoon grew into evening, Susan fell asleep on his forearm. He lifted his head and gazed down at her before putting it back down and closing his eyes.

I left them like that until Mrs. Lovegood called to request her daughter back. The ringing of the phone woke Susan up. She sat up slowly with her long blonde hair sticking out in every direction. Wisps of it covered her face. She pulled it back and stretched and said, "Mr. Seacwest?"

"Yes, Susan?"

"Did you know that Mr. Duncan can talk?"

"Oh?" I said. The surprise and interest in my voice were very real.

"Yes. He talks when nobody is here."

"And what does he say when he talks?"

Susan looked at him quietly for a minute. I listened to the soft wheeze of his slow breath, and watched her pat his ribs. Without looking back at me she stated as a mater-of-fact, "He says he loves me."

"You know," I said, "You're absolutely right."

Carry On

I've done my best to limit this particular blog to my dealings with the inhabitants of the mansion house. Today I'm talking about something I read. It may be slightly less entertaining, but I thought it appropriate considering that I talk so much about working towards that chromium-plated goal of full blown authorship.

It's been a strange night for me. Everything has been still and silent. There were no shenanigans from Beezle to start with, but the night also had that kind of strange quiet that makes the ticking of the clock boom in your ears. In the loud silence found it difficult to sleep, so I read a post in a good friend's blog wherein he discusses book covers. (By the way, Nathan's always got something interesting to say. Check out http://nathanmajor.blogspot.com/)

I started thumbing through my bookshelf looking for a book with a great cover to link to his post. Instead, I found a favorite book with a cover that would never entice me to read the book. I was saddened, and nostalgically picked it up again. I read the whole thing in one sitting, like I always do. I think it must be my favorite book. The book is called, "Carry On, Mr. Bowditch." It was first published in 1955 as a book for young readers. The book is a dramatized biography of the life of Nathanial Bowditch.

The book starts when Nat is six and goes over all the major events of his life. From the first couple pages you really latch on to this kid, and you're rooting for him. Every step of the way he's held back from accomplishing anything he really wants in life but he never gives up. That's compounded with multiple deaths of loved ones, fear for his family's well being, and the occasional dangerous situation. He struggles for every break he gets, and he really becomes something in the end for it; When I was a kid he was my hero, and I wanted to be just like him. I still do.

Besides loving the man and his story, I've gained new appreciation for the author since I've started taking writing more seriously. The writing is clearly targeted to younger readers, but it's compelling to me as an adult. At the beginning of the book when Nat is a kid, the writing makes you feel like you're in the mind of a kid, and slowly as he gets older, the writing adapts gracefully so that you steal feel like you're in the mind of an adolescent and then of an experienced adult. You never notice a transition. THAT IS REALLY INCREDIBLY HARD TO DO. The learning curve is perfect. I know nothing about ships, but without being blatant, the book taught me enough about ships to understand what was happening and make it natural. The author, Jean Lee Latham, is talented at displaying human behavior and the way it changes, in both the protagonist and the side characters. She has a way of presenting the human spirit as noble and dignified. I never leave the book uninspired. The kicker is, that she does all of this in 250 pages. It's a quick read. Go read it. It's the best book ever.

One day I'll write something like that. First I have to learn to get to the point. Good luck me.

I think I'll go see what Wadsworth is whipping up in the kitchen. All this inspiration is making me hungry.

-Jason

Advertising and Anthropomorphic Personifications

I am in a particularly cheerful mood today. That is to say, I was this morning. I think much of it came from Beezle, or at least Beezle's vocal absence. Ever since he got connected to his "Internets" he has been extraordinarily quiet. It's something like giving a child a new video game on the day that you'd like him to do anything but bother you - at least that's how I deal with Will when I have the money with the exception that I get to play the game first.

Because of the silence from the ventilation system I've been able to get a lot done with my writing. I like to write to music. Usually I listen to my writing playlist on iTunes, but recently iTunes has been angry with me, so instead I’ve been listening to George Winston Radio on Pandora. It's mellow, and since it's mostly piano there aren't lyrics or sudden changes in the mood of the music. It makes for non distractive inspiration, at least until I get interrupted by commercials.  

Most of the time I'm able to ignore the advertising, but today the cosmos had it out for me... maybe it had to do with balance or karma or the ying-yang or something. Beezle wasn't preventing me from working, so something else had to get on my nerves. Today it was McDonalds. I am not exaggerating when I say that I was subjugated to four of their commercials in the space of one hour.  Three times I was ambushed by an a distracted woman who has trouble making her own decisions, but can easily add a coke to her BigMac for a dollar, or maybe to her chicken nuggets, har har. The other one I can’t remember, but it was just as obnoxious.  

Some people might have got the hankering for a BigMac after all the not so subliminal messaging, but not me. Fat Six Dollar Burgers from Carl's Junior can entice me, yes; but Six Dollar NastyMacs just won’t cut it. The redundant pitches were distracting, getting on my nerves, and dropping my word count, so I took off my headphones and made due with silence. Five minutes later, to my great frustration I heard a little ratta-tat-tat on my study door. Extra distractions weren't what I was looking for, but I saved,swiveled around in my chair and sighed, "Come in."  

It was Will. He was wearing slacks and an orange patterned vest that had been mine a month ago. It was loud and ostentatious and the opposite of posh. However, I liked it. Wadsworth did not, and he'd somehow managed to manipulate it from my grasp. Seeing it on Will was slightly gratifying to my ego. The vest was big on Will, but so was everything he wore - probably because he lives in my dumpster and resupplies his wardrobe with items that leave mine.  

"Yes, Will," I said, doing my best display my annoyance at being interrupted, "what do you need?"  

Will placed his hands in his back pockets and leaned back a little. "Well, Sir," he said, "I just wanted to know if you're hungry."  

"No, not particularly,” I said, “Should I be?"  

"Well... I was just thinking about how much you probably want to go buy a BigMac or something.”  

I closed my eyes slowly and left them shut, "Will,” I said, “I'm trying to write. Why is it that you suddenly think that I need to pound down a greasy hamburger with wilting lettuce and a paper thin tomato on a deflated sesame seed bun? By the way, if you haven't guessed yet, I'm not a huge fan of Ronald McDonald's signature entree."  

Will bit his lip, "Yeah, he said, I know."  

"Then why are you in here bothering me?"  

"I thought that after you bought it you might decide to throw it away."  

"Why would I buy a burger just so that I can throw it away?"  

Will cast his eyes to the floor and mumbled, "I don't know… just 'cause."  

I'm afraid that I'm a little slow, and it took a few seconds of glowering at Will to mental connections. When I finally caught on, I said, "Are YOU hungry Will?"  

He smiled hopefully, "Yeah."  

"Well, I'm not going to McDonalds. I'm busy. Go ask Wadsworth to get something for you. Besides, his cooking tastes better and won't make you die from an early heart attack."  

A whine started creeping in at the edges of Will's voice. "It's not the same."  

"Yes, we just established that. It's better. Now please, I have worked to do."  

"Fine." Will stomped off toward the kitchen leaving my door open. I covered my face with my hands and sighed. Then I swiveled back around to my keyboard and put my fingers on the keys. The moment they touched the plastic, the knocker on the door boomed out three slow rapports. That had to be Death. No one else had the talent to knock so ominously. I balled my hands in frustration before pushing away from the Desk and calling out, "Don't bother, Wadsworth. I'll get it." I wasn't likely to get anything done as long as Death were here, so I resigned to just give up for an hour. I exited my study and walked down the main hall to the door. Opening my door I found death hovering stoically above my porch with nothing but darkness under his cowl and his sickle in hand.  

I opened with the customary greeting that I reserved just for him, "Business, or pleasure?" (It's important to me, that I get that out in the open, you wouldn't believe how tense it is to sit through lunch, not knowing if after the small talk you'll be invited to permanently change residency to the underworld.")  

"Pleasure," Death boomed. His voice is resonating, crisp and deep. I keep trying to convince him to give voice acting a shot, but he remains uninterested.  

"I've been working hard this afternoon,” Death began, “and would enjoy resting and sharing conversation for a short time.” He hesitated before adding, “I would find one of Wadsworth’s rolls most invigorating, if they are available.”

I gestured for Death to come in, but without much enthusiasm. He noticed, and I’m somewhat embarrassed about that now. He regarded me and didn’t move, rather he said,”I know that you are a busy man and I do not wish to impose if you are working, have you already had your break today?"  

I cocked back my head and and screamed at the cosmos and the fates and whoever else had taken up promoting with my least favorite food chain, "Fine! You win! I'm going to McDonalds! Just leave me alone!"

You wouldn’t think it, but Death has expressions. They are subtle and hard to perceive, but I’ve been acquainted with him for a long time. At the moment, he’s head was slightly cocked and it was as if he was furrowing his brow.

“This seems like a bad time,” he said, “I will harvest more souls and come back later.”

“No. I said, now is just peachy. We are going to McDonalds and we are going to like it. WILL, get out here! We’re going to the magically toxic land of the golden arches.”

“Wouldn’t you rather eat a roll? It would taste better and contribute to, rather than detract from, your overall health.”

“Don’t you know,” I said, “ ‘It’s just not the same.’ ”

“If you say so. It will be your funeral.”

“And yours. Get in the truck.”

And so it happened that the local home of the BigMac was first visited by Death. Do not fear for him. He has no arteries to clog.

Back and There Again

I've been back from vacation for a week now, but I wonder if I'm really back or not. I haven't been able to really focus on anything important - no writing, no blogging, nothing really important has been able to penetrate the thick fog of my brain. I must be pining for the mountains. Something about the beauty of a mountain lake really gets to me. The air was nice - and i can breath it because there are no lawns being mowed out in the pines and quakies - the beach was pleasent, the hikes were breathtaking (not just in that I breathed harder), and the company was relaxing.

Now that the break is over it's hard to get back to responsibility. Thus, last Monday I was browsing YouTube instead of working on my writing. I think I was feeling guilty about it because I jumped a little higher than usual when I heard Beezle's voice booming behind my shoulder.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE?"

"Nothing really," I said, "just messing around."

"I THOUGHT I HEARD A SMALL CHILD COMPLAINING THAT HE'D BEEN BITTEN BY A CREATURE CALLED CHARLIE."

I chuckled, "Yeah, I'm watching YouTube"

"YOU-TUBE?"

"It's a place on the internet where people can post videos."

"WHAT? THE INTERNETS HAVE BEEN INVENTED? WHY WAS I NOT INFORMED OF THIS? I HAVE BEEN WAITING PATIENTLY FOR THE LAST SEVERAL THOUSAND YEARS."

"You knew that the internet was coming?"

"OF COURSE. THE INTERNETS HAVE A PROMINENT PLACE IN DEMONIC PROPHECY. THEY WERE TO COME FORTH AS A TOOL OF MASS DESTRUCTION AND SOUL HARVESTING, USHERED IN BY THE GREAT BLOODY ONE: ALL GORE"

"Do you mean Al Gore? I hate to break it to you, but he didn't invent the internet. And though I'm not a fan, I doubt he's ever done anything particularly bloody in his life."

"FOOLISH MORTAL. OF COURSE ALL GORE INVENTED THE INTERNETS. AND IF HE HAS NOT YET FILLED MANY GRAVES, HE SOON WILL. WHY ELSE WOULD WE CALL HIM ALL GORE? HAS HE UNLEASHED THE LOL-CATS YET?"

My interchange with Beezle on the topic of the "internets" went for quite a while, so I'll sum up for you. Beezle is convinced, that All Gore, the most grotesque soon-to-be-mass-murderer of our time, is in league with all the forces of darkness. Though that's a little far fetched I think he's not too far off about the soul harvesting. If what he told me is accurate, the lol cats are just the beginning. You'd best hunker down and limit your YouTube hours or your body, mind, and soul is destined for a demon's pantry.

Beezle's enthusiasm for the internet was so great that I've been able to capitalize on it. In exchange for a wall plug in the basement I he signed a billing contract with me: questions for service. Getting everything set up  was fairly exciting. Beezle somehow came up with a bag of money for me, and with it I purchased him a top of the line computer and upgraded to a cat5 connection. When the serviceman, Bill, came to install the wall plug and upgrade our wiring the deal was that I would go with him to the basement and that Beezle would stay out of sight. Beezle was a little upset. He wanted to greet the bearer of the internets with a gift or two. The way things went, I wish I would have let him - the poor fellow would have thought he'd gone nuts, but I'd have been spared a lot of embarrassment.

When we went downstairs to set things up, we found a small shrine in the middle of the room. At the center of the room, amid archaic symbols and pools of blood stood a polished onix dias. The new computer sat on a spacious alter-like desk in the center of the dais. An enormous throne made completely of bones sat behind it.

I tried to tell Bill that I was a Halloween enthusiast, but when I opened my mouth I learned that Beezle is an accomplished ventriloquist.

"YOU ARE TOO PUNY TO BEAR THE GREAT DARKNESS OF THE INTERNETS ALONE. WHAT DARK MASTER DO YOU SERVE?"

I snapped my mouth shut. Bill laughed nervously and said, "Comcast?"

I wanted to tell him that the voice was a party trick I was working on, but I didn't dare. Instead I just clenched my mouth and smiled. I think Bill was unnerved. He did his best to keep his back away from me until the moment he left and any time I moved at all he jumped. When he left I should have just waved. Without thinking I shook his hand and opened my mouth to say, "Thanks."

Instead I said, "IF THESE INTERNETS DO NOT MEET WITH MY APPROVAL I SHALL CONSTRUCT A FOOTSTOOL FROM YOUR BONES AND ADORN IT WITH YOUR EVER-BURNING ORGANS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

I was still grasping Bill's hand at the time. He yanked it back, stuttered an affirmation, and backed up the stairs. I dove for my wallet to pull out a twenty, but he turned and dashed up to the main floor, leaving me with the bill hanging limply from my fingers.

"HE DID NOT LINGER. THIS IS FORTNATE, AS YOU ARE THEREFORE MORE READILY AVAILABLE TO ATTEND TO ME."

I whirled to find Beezle already sitting on his throne, caressing the computer tower.

"NOW, COME," he continued, "AND TEACH ME THE SECRETS OF COMMUNING WITH THE INTERNETS."

I could feel the heat rising to my head. I threw my hands in the air and said, "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it."

"IS IT THAT MY IMPRESSIVE VOICE GRACED YOUR LIPS, OR THE FACT THAT I WAS ABLE TO SO EASILY SAVE YOU A TWENTY DOLLAR TIP?"

I didn't say anything in response, I just stormed up the stairs. Beezle called after me to tell me that it was just as well that I was leaving, as he'd rather not have an assistant lacking in gratitude. His smugness wore off after a while, and the house was awash with either calls for help, or bitter statements that he didn't need help. These were generally followed by strange incantations and/or multicolored lights and flames spouting from the vents. Finally, after a explosive blast that rocked the mansion, he apologized and bribed me with just enough money for a Kindle. I took great satisfaction from the look on his face when I pressed the power button. I take even greater satisfaction in the wonderful silence that has filled the mansion for the last few days. Maybe I'll get some work done now.

-Jason

An Interview

I've finally got my backbone in working order, and I am posting from my study again.  Then I'm off on a camping trip with my family, and won't be posting for a week.  This is therefor a longer post to tide you over.

My basement, and Beezle's home, is separated from the rest of the mansion by a set of stairs and two doors, one on either end of the staircase. Tt's little wonder that knowing what inhabits my basement, I had never been down to it before Wadsworth and I went down to interview Beezle. I was expecting  a dark dank pit with dripping stalactites above, or at least an unfinished basement full of spider webs and large rodents. I was totally unprepared for what what I found on the other side of the lower door.

Beezles living space is stunning and shockingly tasteful (all things considered).  The floor and walls are lined with black rough cut stone. The ceiling is sixty feet high at it's pinnacle. (I know that you, dear reader, are smugly saying that this cannot possibly be true because beezle lives in my basement. That shows just how much you know about multiplainer physics.) The room is long and rectangular; the door we entered from is on one end wall and at the other there is a twenty foot fireplace, shaped like one of those rounded triangular alcoves found in ancient cathedrals. Along it's sides are larger than life statues of wreathing human forms, and grate within it resembles the burning skeleton of an enormous man.  The bonfire held inside rages like a furnace, though the air in the room is unnaturally chill.

Beezle sat, smiling politely, in a plush overstuffed chair in front of the fire. Beezle too, was far different from what I imagined.  In my mind I had conjured up a multi-headed dragon with at least two heads reserved solely for poking into the vents to annoy me. Instead, Beezle is almost human in form. His appearance is elegant, powerful, and morbidly fascinating. He has oily jet black skin and thick short black spines that run from the base of his scull to the tip of his tail. At the tip of his tail, three jagged pearly white spines jut straight out. The claws on his hands and feet, as well as his jagged teeth, share the same pure color. The color contrast makes him look bizarre and frightening.  Beezle has no gender defining features, though his a deep resonating voice suggests that he is male.

As intriguing as I find Beezle's form, he has one physical feature that keeps my attention: his eyes. They are as dark and deep as the night sky and perfectly round. Golden flecks float through the eternal darkness within. They are hypnotic and captivating.

As we got closer to Beezle, my thinking became foggy. By the time we stood before him I couldn't remember why I was there or what I was doing. I was alright with that though.  All I thought I needed or wanted was to continue to look into the deepness of his eyes.

"WELCOME TO MY LAIR," said Beezle, standing up and gesturing.

"Thank you," I said, "what can I do to make your life more comfortable?" The worst part is that I ment it.

"I CANNOT THINK OF ANYTHING AT THE MOMENT, THOUGH I WILL BE SURE TO LET YOU KNOW.  FOR THE MEANWHILE YOU MAY CONTINUE TO ADMIRE ME."

There was silence for a space of time until Wasdworth coughed loudly.

I turned startled to face him.

"If you will excuse me, Sir. I suggest that it would be wise to look anywhere other than directly into Beezle's eyes."

"YES, THEY DO SEEM TO HAVE THAT STUPEFYING EFFECT ON PEOPLE DON'T THEY? I CAN ONLY ASSUME THAT IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH MY DEVILISHLY GOOD LOOKS."

I frowned and said, "Wadsworth," I said, "if I start doing anything rash, you have my full permission to strike me."

"Noted, Sir."

"And by the way Beezle," I added, turning back to look at his chin, "Isn't the vacant space above us right about where my study should be?"

Beezle looked anoyed, "THAT GOES TO SHOW JUST HOW MUCH YOU KNOW ABOUT MULTIPLAINER PHYSICS.  I WON'T TAKE THE TIME TO EXPLAIN IT TO YOU. I HAVE SOME DREAM PLAYING I'D LIKE TO GET TOO SHORTLY. NOW, YOU SAID SOMETHING ABOUT A SACRIFICE?" Beezle looked at me greedily.

"Yes, right."  I gestured to Wadsworth, who lifted the lid on his tray, displaying the contents.

"This sir," he said, "is Cognac dated to the year fifteen thirty-seven, sir. And this," he continued, "is goat blood."

"HOW OLD WAS THE GOAT?"

"Three hours old, sir."

Beezle grinned widely and rubbed his hands, "I THINK WE CAN DO BUSINESS THEN. FOR EVERYTHING ON THAT TRAY I WILL VOW TO ANSWER ONE QUESTION TRUTHFULLY."

"One question?" I asked incredulously, "That's not even worth our time!"

Beezle scowled, "I WAS BEING GENEROUS. I REQUIRED THE WIFE OF THE LAST PERSON WHO ASKED ME FOR THE TRUTHFUL ANSWER TO A QUESTION."

"Then I'm sure you won't have any problem finding blood somewhere else."

Beezle squinted at me, "TWO QUESTIONS, BUT THAT'S ALL"

"Wadsworth," I said flatly, "we're done here. Let's go."

I could feel Beezles eyes drilling holes into my back, and it was unnerving.  it was the best I could do not to flinch. When we were half way to the door, Beezle called out after us.  I was suprised to here a hint of desperation in his voice.

"I CAN GIVE YOU THREE. THAT'S MY FINAL OFFER."

I looked to Wadsworth for approval.  I'm not up to date on the street value of goat blood.  He nodded, so I turned and said, "Then i think we can do business."

Wadsworth and I returned to the fireplace and Wadsworth rested the tray on an end table next to Beezle's chair. It was dark granite with a polished black marble inlay. Beelze immediately poured himself a glass of Cognac and splashed some goat blood into it. He drank deeply before sighing with satisfaction. Then he eyed me and said, "YOU'RE TAKING ADVANTAGE, YOU KNOW."

"And you're congesting my basement."

Beezle sat down and crossed his legs "POINT TAKEN."

"By the way," I asked, "How do you keep from poking holes in your chair."

Beezle shrugged, "KEVLAR UPHOLSTERY. SHALL WE BEGIN?" Beezle cleared his throat and said,"I SWEAR BY THIS ALCOHOLIC GOAT'S BLOOD THAT I WILL ANSWER THREE QUESTIONS TRUTHFULLY." He raised the glass like he was making a toast, then took a sip.

I was suprised, I'd expected something a little more archaic, so I asked "That's it?"

Wadsworth winced.

"I'M ALL OUT OF CEREMONY. WHAT'S QUESTION NUMBER TWO?'

"You mean question one."

"I MEAN QUESTION TWO."  Beezle perfectly imiated my voice and said, "That's it?"

"That wasn't a question!  It was a statement of disbelief!"

"YOUR INTONATION CLEARLY IMPLIED A QUESTION."

"Perhaps sir, it would be wise to instruct him not to answer questions that you haven't specifically made official.", said Wadsworth.

I glared at Beezle,"Right. Those are the new rules. Now, officially tell me about that evil entity that you're so afraid of."

"THAT'S A NON SPECIFIC STATEMENT. I NEED A QUESTION."

I sighed. What did I really need to know for the book?

"First of all, what is it's name?" I paused and thought carefully then added, "offically - and I want the answer to include the reason for it's name"

"IT HAS NO NAME. THIS IS SIMPLY BECAUSE IT PREFERS THINGS THAT WAY. THEREFORE IT HAS BEEN CALLED MANY THINGS, INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO: THE VOID, THE DARKNESS, THE DARK ONE, AND SHORN - THAT LAST ENTRY WAS WHAT THE LAST SOLAR HIGH PRIEST USED TO CALL HIM. HIS FOLLOWERS THOUGHT IT WAS BECAUSE HE WAS SHORN, AS IN CUT OFF, FROM THE LIGHT, THOUGH I HAVE IT ON GOOD AUTHORITY THAT SHORN WAS EXTRAPOLATED FROM SHARON - THE NAME OF THE HIGH PRIEST'S EX-WIFE."

Somehow I didn't feel as dissapointed as I should have.  I can work with something nameless.  Something without a name can't protest when I give it one of my own.

"Alright, official question number two: Why are you so afraid of him?"

Beezle took another casual sip from his glass and said, "IT IS BECAUSE HE IS FAR MORE POWERFUL THAN I, AND I BETRAYED HIM."

"Why?"

Beezle smiled smugly, "I'M AFRAID YOU'RE OUT OF QUESTIONS. IF YOU WILL EXCUSE ME, IT IS TIME FOR MY DREAM PLAYING."  He snapped his fingers and the door to the mansion flew open.

I sighed, frustrated, though I tried to be optimistic.  I had something new to work with for a little while.  Maybe after writing more I'd come up with better questions and a better way to ask them.

And there you have it, my interview with Beezle in full.  I'll see you again in a week.

-J. L. Secrest

Things that speak through vents in the night:

I'd like to apologize. I know that there are many of you who are upset that I didn't post yesterday about my interview with Beezle. It's because I've been a little shaken. I signed off after my last post so disturbed about the interview that I couldn't quiet fall asleep. When I did, my dreams were dark. As I slept, they became increasingly frightening. Among other things, I dreamed that I was on fire, drowning, about to be hung, and being chased by rabid wolves.  Finally I woke screaming, when I dreamed that all of the editors and publishing houses world wide had blackballed me.

When I stopped screaming and calmed myself down Beezle's voice boomed down at me,"I WISH THAT YOU HADN'T WOKEN UP YET. I WAS GOING TO MAKE YOU DREAM THAT BRANDON SANDERSON EMBARRASSED YOU ON HIS PODCAST WHILE DANGLING YOU OVER A PIT OF VIPERS. I WAS ALSO TRYING TO WORK IN AN IRON MAIDEN."

I wasn't mentally ready to comprehend that Beezle was admitting to something. Therefor I made an accusation, "Beezle! You were messing with my dreams, weren't you!"

"WHY YES. HOW DID YOU GUESS?  UNFORTUNATELY, BECAUSE I WAS WORKING THROUGH HYPNOTIC SUGGESTIONS, I WAS UNABLE TO EXPERIENCE THE FULL MAGNITUDE OF YOUR DREAMS. PLEASE TELL ME, WERE THEY HORRIFYING?"

"What's wrong with you," I bellowed,  "Why would you do that?"

"I WAS BORED."

"What do you mean you were bored? You said you were bored when you hustled us out of the basment this morning! You said that you wanted to dream play!  How can you be bored already?"

Beezle does something that he calls "dream playing." It lets his consciousness enter "the revelry" and and take an active part in peoples' dreams. Apparently he can't control who's dreams he arrives in, but when he does, he enjoys himself thoroughly.

"YOUR SNORING INTERRUPTED MY CONNECTION TO THE REVELRY. IT COULDN'T HAVE COME AT A WORSE TIME. I WAS ABOUT TO SCORE THE WINNING GOAL AGAINST BRAZIL IN A BOOKIE'S NIGHTMARE. BECAUSE OF THE TERRIBLE NOISES YOU KEPT MAKING, I COULDN'T GET BACK IN. THEREFOR I MADE DUE WITH WHAT I HAD AVAILABLE TO ME."

I couldn't think of anything intelligent to say, so I stormed from my room, made some hot chocolate, and sipped on it by the fireplace. My hope was to calm down so I could sleep again. To my great anoyance, beezle followed me from room to room, and I did my best to keep my cool. The last thing I wanted was to give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me.

From the ensuing conversation, I've come to the conclusion that Beezle sufferes from Attention Deficit Disorder. He kept changing the subject rapidly. He told rude jokes, told bone-chilling stories about his favorite evil dictators, made the worst puns I've ever heard, asked inappropriate questions, told me about people he'd driven to suicide and gave all gory details about how they did it. Finally, I was so sick of him that I resolved not to respond any more. That didn't phase him in the least. I remember the end of that one-sided conversation. After a long bout of silence he started asking me questions. I never caved. Finally he said,"ARE YOU SILENT BECAUSE YOU ARE CONTEMPLATING, OR BECAUSE YOU FEEL INFERIOR AND DON'T WANT TO EMBARRASS YOURSELF?

JUST A FEW HOURS AGO YOU WERE FULL OF QUESTIONS. UNLIKE NOW, YOU SEEMED TO WANT TO TALK TO ME THEN.

 I THOUGHT YOU LIKED ME, MAYBE EVEN LOVED ME. WHAT WOULD IT BE LIKE, TO BE LOVED, I WONDER.

MAYBE TO BE LOVED, ONE MUST FIRST LOVE. MAYBE I SHOULD GIVE LOVE A CHANCE. LET ME SEE NOW... A LOVING ENTITY OF EVIL WOULD BE KIND AND THOUGHTFUL. A LOVING ENTITY OF EVIL WOUD CONSIDER YOUR FEELINGS.

ALRIGHT, I SUSPECT THAT YOU, PANSY THAT YOU ARE, ARE TERRIBLY SHAKEN BY THE HORRIBLE DREAMS THAT YOU JUST HAD. I SHOULD MENTION THAT IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT YOU SCARE SO EASILY. BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, I WILL CALM YOUR NERVES WITH A HEARTWARMING ANECDOTE FROM MY PERSONAL LIFE. I WILL CHOOSE ONE THAT IS INSPIRING, YET REVEALING, THAT I MIGHT ENDEAR YOU TO ME BY MAKING MYSELF VULNERABLE. LET ME SEE NOW, AH! YES, I'VE GOT JUST THE THING:

WHEN WAS COMPLETING MY FOURTH YEAR AS AN UNDER-DEMON THERE WAS A DAY THAT, FOR ME AT LEAST, WAS BOTH AWKWARD AND EMBARRASSING. WHEN I LOOK BACK ON IT NOW, I JUST CAN'T HELP BUT LAUGH AT MYSELF. I WAS PRESENTED WITH A HUMAN PAWN THAT HAD SOMEHOW DISPLEASED THE DEMON I WAS APPRENTICED TO. I WAS TOLD TO SKIN THE CREATURE ALIVE, BUT NOT TO DAMAGE THE HIDE. I WASN'T QUITE SURE HOW TO START, SO I EXAMINED HIM CAREFULLY, WHICH WAS DIFFICULT BECAUSE HE WAS KICKING AND SCREAMING THE WHOLE TIME. FINALLY, I DECIDED THAT THE BEST ENTRY POINT WOULD BE -"

That was when I finally made it to the back door and shut it behind me. A few hours later Wadsworth came out and found me in the garden. I was hungry, due-covered, and shivering; but I try to be an optimist and I was pretending to enjoy the sunrise.

"Good morning, Sir," he said, "I have brought breakfast, if you are hungry."

I was. When he lifted domed the lid from the silver plater, and I saw the steam rising and smelled the subtle spices, I almost passed out from desire. I tried not to look like a ravening wolf when I took the tray."Thank you Wadsworth," I said,"How did you know I was up? I'm usually not awake for another two hours."

"I have been subjugated to the laments of a bereft and broken hearted demon since rising this morning, Sir. Apparently you spurned his tender advances, and threw his metaphorical arm of comfort and support from your shoulders. He is quite bitter, and has sworn off love forever."

"He knows that things would never have worked out between us," I smiled, "On a completely unrelated note, I would like you to stuff the ventilation shaft in my bedroom."

Wadsworth smiled slightly, "I have already taken the liberty, Sir. I have also turned down your bed and drawn a hot bath for you."

"Thank you Wadsworth," I replied,"I don't know what I'd do without you."

Wadsworth nodded in acknowledgement and returned to his duties in the house. I finished my breakfast and truly did enjoy the sunrise for a few minutes. When I entered the house again things were blissfully quiet. I relaxed in the bath and slept for the rest of the day and through last night. Now I'm posting from the kitchen. Between the interview, the dreams, and the way I keep thinking about how Beezle's "heartwarming anecdote" might have ended, I'm still fairly jumpy. I'd rather not be alone right now if I can help it. Therefore I am posting from the safety of the kitchen table. I told Wadsworth that it's because I want to see how he runs his kitchen. He has had the decency not to expose the obvious. Thankfully, Beezle isn't so chatty today - either I've offended him and he's not talking to me anymore, or hes taken advantage my newly muffled snoring to get some good dream playing in.

I know I still need to post about the interview, but I can't quite handle that just yet. Give me another day, and I swear that I'll satiate your desire to know what happened.

-Jason

There's a Beezle in my Basement

Today was fairly uneventful until about 11:30 pm. That was when Wadsworth entered my study carrying a silver tray. On the tray were a corked bottle and a small glass stoppered vile.

"What's on the tray?" I asked.

"Five hundred year old Cognac, Sir."

"Wadsworth," I chastised, "You know I don't drink."

"Yes, sir.  The alcohol is not for you, sir.  It is for Beezle."

"I LIKE YOUR BUTLER. HE CAN STAY. YOU ON THE OTHERHAND..."

"What's wrong with me?"

"YOU DON'T DRINK."

"That means more for you."

"A VALID POINT. YOU MAY STAY IF YOU STOP SNORING. AT THE VERY LEAST, STUFF THE VENT IN YOUR BEDROOM."

Deciding to ignore the last comment, I turned to Wadsworth and said, "Wadsworth, I've been meaning to ask you something about the pool. Will you please follow me?"

"Of course, sir."

"DON'T FORGET, YOU'RE DUE TO OFFER SACRIFICES TO ME IN TWENTY MINUTES. DON'T BE LATE. I HAVE A VERY TIGHT SCHEDULE."

I guffawed. "Filled with what?"

"BEETLE FIGHTING. THE FINAL ROUND IS TONIGHT AND I ANTICIPATE WINNING LARGE QUANTITIES OF BEETLE BLOOD."

Outside, I spoke very quietly, "Wadsworth, is there any way that Beezle can hear us out here?"

"There is a possibility, Sir, though it is unlikely. If you wish to speak unheard, I suspect that the garden would be a more private location."

I nodded, and we quietly changed venues.  When I was satisfied that there was no possibility of being overheard I said, "Wadsworth. I'm not so comfortable offering a scarifies to an unholy being. It goes completely against my grain."

"If it will ease your conscious sir, you may think of the offering as dinner by another name."

"A thorn by any other name is just as sharp, Wadsworth."

"Please sir, allow me to explain the nature of the offering. Beezle thirsts for blood. It need not always be human blood, though he would prefer it. Like a wolf or a vulture, he is merely hungry.  I assure you sir, that by slacking his thirst with a small quantity of goat blood, we shall not in any way worship him, or enter any unholy contracts.  We merely offer him a highly desirable snack, for which he will make a temporarily unbreakable vow of honesty."

I still felt uneasy about it, but I said, "Well, alright, if you're willing, I guess I am too. At any rate, I've always heard that you have to sell your soul to make a living as an author."

"Quite so, Sir. Shall we proceed?"

"After you Wadsworth."

"Very good sir."

And so it was, that at midnight last night I found myself in my basement, face to face with one of the most frightening things I've ever seen. I'll fill you in on a the details of the interview tomorrow.

-J. L. Secrest