Prologue
In the world of the elves, there are mainly two career paths in which an elf will be placed into. “Creative Industries”, a toy making company located in the Arctic North, is probably the more exciting of the two. It consists of easy laid-back work all day long on assembly lines piecing together children’s toys for that one special day of the year. Each elf has his own station where he shall sit or stand and perform his task as the toys travel by him. Most of the elves are of elven youth or otherwise small adults. Their downsized hands and fingers can easily put together tiny toys or other projects. These elves enjoy their work and get pleasure out of the joy of others.
Taller elves, or Wood-elves working for “Forrest Build”, follow the career path of environmental rebuilding. They work to fix the damage caused by human industrialists and big business factories that destroy and pollute the land they love. They work in the forests all day, planting and mending cut trees with the magic they can control. Though they can use magic, it is very limited, and so Wood-elves must learn to lift heavy objects and work hard through manual labor.
Chapter I
For as far back as he can remember, Sherman had always worked in the factory. Piecing together toys had been his life. When he was old enough to start working his father, who had long since passed away, brought him to a meeting with the Overseer and Mr. Claus. At first he started with painting plastic models of toys at a work station shared by five other toy elves. His father had trained him in the ways of toy making, and soon enough he had moved up the ranks from apprentice painter to master molds-man. He controlled the production of all die cast toys. Sherman was still only nineteen, and he had his life made out for him, until he started to notice a change.
Sherman was only three-foot-five, he had stopped growing just a year ago which was a good thing for him, as a toy elf. It had been like this for a while, and it didn’t bother him at all. He was surrounded by other elves, none of them being much taller than he was, and this made him happy. He continued to work in the factory taking pleasure in his job. Then one day, it just happened. Sherman noticed that the molds, of which he tended to, seemed slightly lower then they previously were. He checked underneath the table to see if somebody had readjusted the height, but to his surprise, it was the same height it had been for the past three years, and the dust on the handle proved it. Sherman did not understand what could be happening, and then it struck him. Could he be growing again?
It worried him all day long, until he finally got home and stood up against the wall, where his mother had measured his growth as he grew from a child to a teen. The red line at the top marked the previously thought end of his growth. As he stood against the wall, placing his hand atop his head, and then twisting around to see where it was at, he nearly choked as the breath fell out of him. His hand had been nearly two inches above the red line. Sherman let out a loud upset burst of emotions, which echoed through the room and down the hall to where his mother was working busily in the kitchen.
Ellina, Sherman’s mother had not noticed him come home and when she heard his screams, she was given a startled jump. She dropped what she was doing to see what the matter was. Ellina was a caring elf mother, who had raised a wonderful son all by herself since the passing of her husband twelve years ago. She had lived in the village, not far from the factory where her son worked. She had worked there as a cook, making and serving snacks to all the hard working assembly line elves. It wasn’t until a few years after her husband died that she decided to retire her job to the next cook, and live the rest of her life with herself and her son.
So understanding how caring she was for her son, Ellina ran into the room to see what all the fuss was about. She found him huddled against the wall, where just moments before he stood awestruck. She crouched down next to him bringing her face level with his, “What is the matter Shermy”. This was her name for him; she was the only one who called him it.
He looked up at her, tears welling in the brims of his eyes, “I’m growing taller again”.
Ellina looked him in the eyes as a tear rolled down his cheek, she wiped his face on her blouse, as she explained to him that he never really stopped growing, but rather just slowed down a bit. Sherman bit his lip as he tried to stop himself from crying. With the help of each other, they both stood up once more. Ellina returned to the kitchen to continue cooking while Sherman retreated to his bedroom. Though she had comforted him somewhat, the tears came back and he began to cry once more. Ellina stood over the stove stirring a pot of sauce; she too was worried about Sherman. She knew she had lied to him about his growth and now wished she hadn’t. She sobbed silently as a few drops of tears fell onto the hot stove, narrowly missing the pot and sizzling away into the air.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Sherman's Tale: Part One- Into The Woods
Chapter II
Creative Industries
Office of Overseer Wrenchwrinkle
Now here he sat, waiting for the Overseer to call him into his office. Sherman was nervous as to what he had been called in for. He had somewhat of an idea but he had hoped it was something different. He hoped he was being promoted to a higher position where his job would be undoubtedly secured. However, little did he know that today, this would not be the case. The secretary was arguing on the telephone, and whoever was arguing with her had been yelling back pretty loud. Sherman could hear the static voice on the other end of the line as he sat waiting in utter silence.
The Overseer had been contemplating his thoughts in the office for the past half hour. He barely knew how he could tell Sherman the news. The boy had worked in the factory since he was ten, and he was as much a part of the daily workforce as anybody else. Sherman worked to the best of his ability, everyday he could. He never took sick days unless he had to, when Ellina would call in and say, “He’s at it again, sick as a seal. He wants to come in today but I swear I won’t let him. We don’t want anyone else sick now do we?”
The door opened and Mr. Wrenchwrinkle took a step out, still standing in the doorway. “Please Sherman, come inside.”
Sherman slowly stood up and walked in the office. He kept his eyes looking downward and ignored the friendly squeeze on his shoulder. Mr. Wrenchwrinkle closed the door behind them and took a seat at his desk. “Please Sherman; you might want to have a seat.”
Now Sherman knew it was bad. He took a seat and sat quietly, every muscle in his body shaking with nervousness. He knew what was coming, and there was nothing he could do except to undertake the Overseer’s decision.
Mr. Wrenchwrinkle pushed himself up in his chair. “Listen Sherman, I’m going to make this short and simple. It’s not easy for me and you know I’ve supported you in everything you’ve done for this company, but rules are rules and they must be enforced. As you may already know, your height is now four-foot-one, and you’re way over the requirements for being a toy-elf. I’m sorry Sherman, you’re being reassigned.”
It struck Sherman hard, and as much as he knew it was coming, he was still in shock. He couldn’t even get up from his chair; he just sat with his eyes still glued to the floor. Mixed emotions and thoughts scrambled around in his brain as he silently questioned himself as to why this was happening to him, why fate had decided against him.
Mr. Wrenchwrinkle stood up from his desk, pushing his chair back, he walked around to Sherman. Placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder he bent over and whispered in his ear, “I’m sorry Sherman, you know I am and if I was able to bend the rules for you I would, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”
With the help of Mr. Wrenchwrinkle, Sherman stood up, and they both walked slowly to the door. Mr. Wrenchwrinkle put his hand on the doorknob but before he opened it he said a few last words to Sherman before sending him on his way. “Have the rest of the day off Sherman, speak to your mother, I’m sure she will help you work things out.”
Sherman took it slow, walking the long way home that afternoon. He couldn’t stop crying over the loss of his job, and when he got home, with his eyes full of tears; his mother had no trouble guessing what had happened. As soon as he walked in the door, Ellina pulled him into a hug and squeezed tightly as she too cried for him. Together they gradually moved through the house to Sherman’s room, where Ellina laid him down on his bed, stroking her fingers through her hair. She too patted his shoulder, before whispering in his ear, “Rest now Shermy, go to sleep, we’ll discuss the situation in the morning.” Though it was only around five o’clock, Sherman has exhausted himself and quickly fell asleep. The tears rolling uncontrollably down his face, staining the pillow on which he rested his head.
Creative Industries
Office of Overseer Wrenchwrinkle
Now here he sat, waiting for the Overseer to call him into his office. Sherman was nervous as to what he had been called in for. He had somewhat of an idea but he had hoped it was something different. He hoped he was being promoted to a higher position where his job would be undoubtedly secured. However, little did he know that today, this would not be the case. The secretary was arguing on the telephone, and whoever was arguing with her had been yelling back pretty loud. Sherman could hear the static voice on the other end of the line as he sat waiting in utter silence.
The Overseer had been contemplating his thoughts in the office for the past half hour. He barely knew how he could tell Sherman the news. The boy had worked in the factory since he was ten, and he was as much a part of the daily workforce as anybody else. Sherman worked to the best of his ability, everyday he could. He never took sick days unless he had to, when Ellina would call in and say, “He’s at it again, sick as a seal. He wants to come in today but I swear I won’t let him. We don’t want anyone else sick now do we?”
The door opened and Mr. Wrenchwrinkle took a step out, still standing in the doorway. “Please Sherman, come inside.”
Sherman slowly stood up and walked in the office. He kept his eyes looking downward and ignored the friendly squeeze on his shoulder. Mr. Wrenchwrinkle closed the door behind them and took a seat at his desk. “Please Sherman; you might want to have a seat.”
Now Sherman knew it was bad. He took a seat and sat quietly, every muscle in his body shaking with nervousness. He knew what was coming, and there was nothing he could do except to undertake the Overseer’s decision.
Mr. Wrenchwrinkle pushed himself up in his chair. “Listen Sherman, I’m going to make this short and simple. It’s not easy for me and you know I’ve supported you in everything you’ve done for this company, but rules are rules and they must be enforced. As you may already know, your height is now four-foot-one, and you’re way over the requirements for being a toy-elf. I’m sorry Sherman, you’re being reassigned.”
It struck Sherman hard, and as much as he knew it was coming, he was still in shock. He couldn’t even get up from his chair; he just sat with his eyes still glued to the floor. Mixed emotions and thoughts scrambled around in his brain as he silently questioned himself as to why this was happening to him, why fate had decided against him.
Mr. Wrenchwrinkle stood up from his desk, pushing his chair back, he walked around to Sherman. Placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder he bent over and whispered in his ear, “I’m sorry Sherman, you know I am and if I was able to bend the rules for you I would, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”
With the help of Mr. Wrenchwrinkle, Sherman stood up, and they both walked slowly to the door. Mr. Wrenchwrinkle put his hand on the doorknob but before he opened it he said a few last words to Sherman before sending him on his way. “Have the rest of the day off Sherman, speak to your mother, I’m sure she will help you work things out.”
Sherman took it slow, walking the long way home that afternoon. He couldn’t stop crying over the loss of his job, and when he got home, with his eyes full of tears; his mother had no trouble guessing what had happened. As soon as he walked in the door, Ellina pulled him into a hug and squeezed tightly as she too cried for him. Together they gradually moved through the house to Sherman’s room, where Ellina laid him down on his bed, stroking her fingers through her hair. She too patted his shoulder, before whispering in his ear, “Rest now Shermy, go to sleep, we’ll discuss the situation in the morning.” Though it was only around five o’clock, Sherman has exhausted himself and quickly fell asleep. The tears rolling uncontrollably down his face, staining the pillow on which he rested his head.
Sherman's Tale: Part One- Into The Woods
Chapter III
Arctic North Village
Sherman & Ellina’s House
Sherman woke up that next morning to the smell of hot spiced oatmeal and warm tea. His mother had placed his breakfast on a tray next to his bedside. This is what she did every morning before she went out to run her daily errands. Sherman sat up in bed and pulled the tray onto his lap; he had stopped crying now, but was still slightly depressed with his situation. He slowly spooned his oatmeal into his mouth; it was one of his favorite tastes, Ellina’s homegrown oats with cinnamon, nutmeg, and honey. The tea was also prepared perfectly, and just to his liking; black tea with two lumps of sugar, a teaspoon of milk, sweetened with honey, and an apple slice on the rim of the mug. As the tea slid down his throat, it filled him with life as he fully woke up.
When Sherman finished his breakfast, he brought the tray to the kitchen and placed it next to the sink, proceeding to the family room to have a seat on the sofa. He would be allowed to stay out of work for the remainder of the week, and this gave him the time he needed to arrange the plans for his new job. He would be sent down south to work in the forests with the wood-elves. Both Sherman and Ellina feared this might happen, and in no way could have tried to prevent it. This is what needed to be done.
Sherman’s father Berk had been a wood-elf. In fact Berk’s family tree consisted mostly of wood-elves until he had married Ellina. He had given up on his job to live with Ellina in the North. Together they raised one child, Sherman. A few years after Sherman was born, Berk was asked to come back to the South, to assist in a major project, a project that required the expertise of the best wood-elves. And so Berk knew it was his duty, his life, his home away from home, he bid goodbye to his wife and child, telling them he would return back once the assignment was completed. He assured them it wouldn’t take too long, no more than a couple of months. Ellina and a young Sherman waited impatiently as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turned to months, and in time, the months turned to years. Berk had periodically sent letters to them but after several months the letters stopped. Ellina assumed that the assignment had grown larger and Berk had grown busier. After a year and a half they finally received word from the South, in a letter from “Forrest Build” management department:
Dear Ma’am,
On the behalf of Forrest Build and the Wood-elf work force, we are sorry to inform you of the loss of your husband, Berk. The workforce here is a family of its own and though we cannot possibly feel as upset as you, we are in a state of dismay over the loss of one of our hardest workers and friends. At the time you receive this letter, it will be approximately sixty days since his death. While he as erecting a tree, with his team, one of the supports collapsed and he was unable to get out of the way, three of the other seven men were also killed or wounded in the collapse. It was quick and unexpected, however we have reason to believe the specific death of your husband could have been prevented had he not helped to move a rookie woodmen out of the way of danger. He has been buried beneath the tree which now stands erected as a memorial of Berk. Though we are sorry you did not get the chance to see him once more, we bestowed him with the best honor and burial. Enclosed in the package are his belongings and his payments that were withheld for the past years work. He chose not to accept them, on the grounds that he worked because it was his life. Once more ma’am, we are sincerely sorry for your loss.
-Morty Oakwood
The day that Ellina received the envelope was the day her world crashed before her, with only a husband and a son to live for, the loss hit her harder than anything else. However, harder than accepting the death of her husband, would be explaining it to Sherman. Sherman was twelve now, and hadn’t seen his father in a couple of years. The last memory he had before his father left, was of walking home from work, his first day, the two of them laughing heartily. He had since then missed his father and was waiting for that one day where he would get home from work and see his father sitting at the dining table, telling Ellina of all the adventures he had in the forests.
When Sherman got home, he was not surprised to see that another day had passed that his father had not returned. What did surprise him however was that his mouth wasn’t watering, as it usually did when he walked in the door to the smell of Ellina’s cooking. She wasn’t in the kitchen, and she wasn’t in the family room. Sherman found her in her room lying in bed weeping, her arms across her chest as she held tight onto a small package and letter. Sherman was confused, he had no idea what was occurring, except that he knew it wasn’t good. When she saw him she fought back her sadness, in an attempt to calmly relay him the news. “Shermy…your father….he’s not coming back.”
She broke out into tears once more and couldn’t stop crying. Sherman sat on the bed next to her and gently pried the letter from her arms. She watched as he read it to himself, before placing it on her bedside table and hugging her tightly. He sat on the bed with her for hours before deciding himself that it was time to leave. He kissed Ellina on the forehead before withdrawing to his room and going to sleep. When Sherman had left, Ellina stood up and pulled a small wooden chest from underneath the bed. She opened it, placing the letter and Berk’s belonging inside, before closing the lid and locking it. She pushed the chest back under the bed and placed the key in the drawer of her bedside table.
Arctic North Village
Sherman & Ellina’s House
Sherman woke up that next morning to the smell of hot spiced oatmeal and warm tea. His mother had placed his breakfast on a tray next to his bedside. This is what she did every morning before she went out to run her daily errands. Sherman sat up in bed and pulled the tray onto his lap; he had stopped crying now, but was still slightly depressed with his situation. He slowly spooned his oatmeal into his mouth; it was one of his favorite tastes, Ellina’s homegrown oats with cinnamon, nutmeg, and honey. The tea was also prepared perfectly, and just to his liking; black tea with two lumps of sugar, a teaspoon of milk, sweetened with honey, and an apple slice on the rim of the mug. As the tea slid down his throat, it filled him with life as he fully woke up.
When Sherman finished his breakfast, he brought the tray to the kitchen and placed it next to the sink, proceeding to the family room to have a seat on the sofa. He would be allowed to stay out of work for the remainder of the week, and this gave him the time he needed to arrange the plans for his new job. He would be sent down south to work in the forests with the wood-elves. Both Sherman and Ellina feared this might happen, and in no way could have tried to prevent it. This is what needed to be done.
Sherman’s father Berk had been a wood-elf. In fact Berk’s family tree consisted mostly of wood-elves until he had married Ellina. He had given up on his job to live with Ellina in the North. Together they raised one child, Sherman. A few years after Sherman was born, Berk was asked to come back to the South, to assist in a major project, a project that required the expertise of the best wood-elves. And so Berk knew it was his duty, his life, his home away from home, he bid goodbye to his wife and child, telling them he would return back once the assignment was completed. He assured them it wouldn’t take too long, no more than a couple of months. Ellina and a young Sherman waited impatiently as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turned to months, and in time, the months turned to years. Berk had periodically sent letters to them but after several months the letters stopped. Ellina assumed that the assignment had grown larger and Berk had grown busier. After a year and a half they finally received word from the South, in a letter from “Forrest Build” management department:
Dear Ma’am,
On the behalf of Forrest Build and the Wood-elf work force, we are sorry to inform you of the loss of your husband, Berk. The workforce here is a family of its own and though we cannot possibly feel as upset as you, we are in a state of dismay over the loss of one of our hardest workers and friends. At the time you receive this letter, it will be approximately sixty days since his death. While he as erecting a tree, with his team, one of the supports collapsed and he was unable to get out of the way, three of the other seven men were also killed or wounded in the collapse. It was quick and unexpected, however we have reason to believe the specific death of your husband could have been prevented had he not helped to move a rookie woodmen out of the way of danger. He has been buried beneath the tree which now stands erected as a memorial of Berk. Though we are sorry you did not get the chance to see him once more, we bestowed him with the best honor and burial. Enclosed in the package are his belongings and his payments that were withheld for the past years work. He chose not to accept them, on the grounds that he worked because it was his life. Once more ma’am, we are sincerely sorry for your loss.
-Morty Oakwood
The day that Ellina received the envelope was the day her world crashed before her, with only a husband and a son to live for, the loss hit her harder than anything else. However, harder than accepting the death of her husband, would be explaining it to Sherman. Sherman was twelve now, and hadn’t seen his father in a couple of years. The last memory he had before his father left, was of walking home from work, his first day, the two of them laughing heartily. He had since then missed his father and was waiting for that one day where he would get home from work and see his father sitting at the dining table, telling Ellina of all the adventures he had in the forests.
When Sherman got home, he was not surprised to see that another day had passed that his father had not returned. What did surprise him however was that his mouth wasn’t watering, as it usually did when he walked in the door to the smell of Ellina’s cooking. She wasn’t in the kitchen, and she wasn’t in the family room. Sherman found her in her room lying in bed weeping, her arms across her chest as she held tight onto a small package and letter. Sherman was confused, he had no idea what was occurring, except that he knew it wasn’t good. When she saw him she fought back her sadness, in an attempt to calmly relay him the news. “Shermy…your father….he’s not coming back.”
She broke out into tears once more and couldn’t stop crying. Sherman sat on the bed next to her and gently pried the letter from her arms. She watched as he read it to himself, before placing it on her bedside table and hugging her tightly. He sat on the bed with her for hours before deciding himself that it was time to leave. He kissed Ellina on the forehead before withdrawing to his room and going to sleep. When Sherman had left, Ellina stood up and pulled a small wooden chest from underneath the bed. She opened it, placing the letter and Berk’s belonging inside, before closing the lid and locking it. She pushed the chest back under the bed and placed the key in the drawer of her bedside table.
Shermans Tale: Part One- Into The Woods
Chapter IV
Ellina came home to find Sherman sitting on the sofa, eyes wide open and lost in thought. She had gone to the market to buy ingredients to refresh the pantry. She put the groceries down on the kitchen table as she walked in the family room and sat down on the couch next to him. Immediately he snapped out of focus, turning to her, before asking, “Back so soon, mom?”
She smiled at him and gave him a “good morning” hug before going to unpack her groceries. “Did you enjoy breakfast, Shermy? You haven’t had that kind of meal in a while. With you always getting up early to go work all day in the fac….” she broke off as she noticed the level of depression rise in Sherman’s face. Deciding it was best to keep off the subject for a while, she sat down at the table, gesturing for him to join her. He sat down with her, both of them staring deep in the eyes of the other, lost for words.
Sherman turned his head away, and turned his gaze to the wood grains of the table, “I wanna talk about my next job.”
“Are you sure you’re ready? It’s okay if you want to take some more time before we talk. We can have this conversation tomorrow, or even the next day.”
At her suggestion Sherman slammed his fist down hard, “It doesn’t matter how long we wait. I still have no factory job, and I still have no choice but to go work in the South, or go unemployed.”
Ellina knew that work in the South was dangerous. Berk’s life had been lost to woodlands, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she lost Sherman too. Sherman also knew the work was dangerous, and was anxious to be working with the tall elves. They were immensely strong, largely built, and much taller than him. However, Sherman could remember growing up to all the stories Berk had told him. Stories of how the treetops touched the clouds in the skies, the forest floor carpeted with thousands of leaves, and the weather always warm whether the sun was shining or not. Berk had told him there was no snow, no seals, no ice; that they were all replaced with moist soil, humid air, and all the world’s most colorful creatures. How could such a dangerous place seem so beautiful?
“How certain are you that you want to go to the South,” Ellina questioned Sherman.
“I’m certain that I need to go, not that I want to, but remember the stories Dad used to tell.”
“Well when you decide for sure what you want to do come see me.” She got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen.
Before she reached the doorway, Sherman called to her. “Mom, I’m sure I want to go.”
She turned around and looked at him with a worried, unsure smile on her face, “If you think you’re ready then follow me.”
Sherman got up from the table, wondering what it was she had to show him. He followed her to her bedroom; she opened the door and walked in. Ellina sat on the bed as Sherman still stood in the doorway. She motioned for him to come in, “Sherman come on, or I can shut the door on you and you’ll never know anything more about your father,” she said teasingly.
It was about his father, Sherman instantly became more interested. Curious, Sherman raced through the doorway and fell down onto the bed next to her. Now he was excited. He had not talked about his father since the day he came home to find his mother crying on the bed embracing the letter. Even though the thought of his father saddened him slightly, Sherman was eager to see what his mother had to show him. Ellina stretched, reaching over the bedside to open the night-table draw. She pushed around bits of papers and various items, her hands probing for the key. Having found it, she extracted the small bronze key from the draw, pushing it closed with the back of her hand. She held the key in her palm, its tarnished handle, cold as the night.
She turned to him, “Are you sure you have made up your mind to set off for the woods, and pursue the path your father left behind?”
Sherman was tired of answering this question, he had made up his mind, and didn’t plan on changing it, “Mom? I have decided to go, and I will not change my mind. I must go to the South and work in the woods, my decision is final.”
Half worried about his decision, and half glad of his bold choice, she grasped his hand, holding the key in her other. “Look under the bed Shermy, and pull out the chest.”
Sherman slid himself off the bed and kneeled down, looking underneath. It was dark and dusty underneath the bed, and at first Sherman did not see any chest. He pulled himself under as he pushed around dust bunnies and debris, searching for the strongbox. After a few minutes, he came across a dark shape in the back corner of the bed, fit snug between the wall and one of the bed legs. It was shrouded in the thickest of the dust. Sherman reached out and grabbed it, blowing off the layers of dust as he pulled it closer to himself. He wriggled out from under the bed, pulling himself up and handing the chest to Ellina. He dusted himself off, sneezing as particles of dust traveled up his nose. As soon as Sherman came out of his sneezing fit, he took his seat next to his mother once more.
Ellina held the chest on her lap, the lock facing inward to her. She lifted the tiny lock up and inserted the key into the bottom of it, turning the handle clockwise until the bolt popped open. She pulled the lock off the loops which held the lid shut, and placed it down on the pillow by her hip. “Well Shermy, since your decision is final.”
She pulled back the cover as Sherman leaned over to see what was inside.
Ellina came home to find Sherman sitting on the sofa, eyes wide open and lost in thought. She had gone to the market to buy ingredients to refresh the pantry. She put the groceries down on the kitchen table as she walked in the family room and sat down on the couch next to him. Immediately he snapped out of focus, turning to her, before asking, “Back so soon, mom?”
She smiled at him and gave him a “good morning” hug before going to unpack her groceries. “Did you enjoy breakfast, Shermy? You haven’t had that kind of meal in a while. With you always getting up early to go work all day in the fac….” she broke off as she noticed the level of depression rise in Sherman’s face. Deciding it was best to keep off the subject for a while, she sat down at the table, gesturing for him to join her. He sat down with her, both of them staring deep in the eyes of the other, lost for words.
Sherman turned his head away, and turned his gaze to the wood grains of the table, “I wanna talk about my next job.”
“Are you sure you’re ready? It’s okay if you want to take some more time before we talk. We can have this conversation tomorrow, or even the next day.”
At her suggestion Sherman slammed his fist down hard, “It doesn’t matter how long we wait. I still have no factory job, and I still have no choice but to go work in the South, or go unemployed.”
Ellina knew that work in the South was dangerous. Berk’s life had been lost to woodlands, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she lost Sherman too. Sherman also knew the work was dangerous, and was anxious to be working with the tall elves. They were immensely strong, largely built, and much taller than him. However, Sherman could remember growing up to all the stories Berk had told him. Stories of how the treetops touched the clouds in the skies, the forest floor carpeted with thousands of leaves, and the weather always warm whether the sun was shining or not. Berk had told him there was no snow, no seals, no ice; that they were all replaced with moist soil, humid air, and all the world’s most colorful creatures. How could such a dangerous place seem so beautiful?
“How certain are you that you want to go to the South,” Ellina questioned Sherman.
“I’m certain that I need to go, not that I want to, but remember the stories Dad used to tell.”
“Well when you decide for sure what you want to do come see me.” She got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen.
Before she reached the doorway, Sherman called to her. “Mom, I’m sure I want to go.”
She turned around and looked at him with a worried, unsure smile on her face, “If you think you’re ready then follow me.”
Sherman got up from the table, wondering what it was she had to show him. He followed her to her bedroom; she opened the door and walked in. Ellina sat on the bed as Sherman still stood in the doorway. She motioned for him to come in, “Sherman come on, or I can shut the door on you and you’ll never know anything more about your father,” she said teasingly.
It was about his father, Sherman instantly became more interested. Curious, Sherman raced through the doorway and fell down onto the bed next to her. Now he was excited. He had not talked about his father since the day he came home to find his mother crying on the bed embracing the letter. Even though the thought of his father saddened him slightly, Sherman was eager to see what his mother had to show him. Ellina stretched, reaching over the bedside to open the night-table draw. She pushed around bits of papers and various items, her hands probing for the key. Having found it, she extracted the small bronze key from the draw, pushing it closed with the back of her hand. She held the key in her palm, its tarnished handle, cold as the night.
She turned to him, “Are you sure you have made up your mind to set off for the woods, and pursue the path your father left behind?”
Sherman was tired of answering this question, he had made up his mind, and didn’t plan on changing it, “Mom? I have decided to go, and I will not change my mind. I must go to the South and work in the woods, my decision is final.”
Half worried about his decision, and half glad of his bold choice, she grasped his hand, holding the key in her other. “Look under the bed Shermy, and pull out the chest.”
Sherman slid himself off the bed and kneeled down, looking underneath. It was dark and dusty underneath the bed, and at first Sherman did not see any chest. He pulled himself under as he pushed around dust bunnies and debris, searching for the strongbox. After a few minutes, he came across a dark shape in the back corner of the bed, fit snug between the wall and one of the bed legs. It was shrouded in the thickest of the dust. Sherman reached out and grabbed it, blowing off the layers of dust as he pulled it closer to himself. He wriggled out from under the bed, pulling himself up and handing the chest to Ellina. He dusted himself off, sneezing as particles of dust traveled up his nose. As soon as Sherman came out of his sneezing fit, he took his seat next to his mother once more.
Ellina held the chest on her lap, the lock facing inward to her. She lifted the tiny lock up and inserted the key into the bottom of it, turning the handle clockwise until the bolt popped open. She pulled the lock off the loops which held the lid shut, and placed it down on the pillow by her hip. “Well Shermy, since your decision is final.”
She pulled back the cover as Sherman leaned over to see what was inside.
Shermans Tale: Part One- Into The Woods
Chapter V
Forrest Build Project Site #152
Northern Brasil
Berk was 22 years old back then. He was a tall elf, standing at six-foot-eight and weighing in at two ten. He was not the least bit overweight, maintaining his size and stature. Dark brown skin covered his massive structure, with streaks of black where his body had been scarred. His eyes were green as the leaves in the trees of which he worked with. His hair had been kept straight, about neck length, though most of the time he was working, it was matted with the sap of bleeding trees.
Berk was a Wood-elf, sworn into duty by his parents, who had long since passed away. They too were Wood-elves, working in the forests all their life. They felt no need to live outside the forests, or ever bother. Their work was their life and they were dedicated to it. Berk was born in a Project Site, not too far away from where he worked now-#127-which has since then been finished and is now used to house the workers still in the area. His mother died giving birth to him, and his father who was at work most of the time, left him in the care of his grandmother who raised him mostly by herself. His father would stop by every couple of days during his breaks, to see his son. Not too many years after, Berk’s father died, just of old age. “It was just his time to go, he did his part and we are thankful for that,” Berk’s grandmother explained to him. She raised him until he was able bodied enough to work as a Wood-elf in the forests below.
When she was ready to give him up to the work-life set before him, his care was transferred to a retired Wood-elf, Fern Birchbark. Fern was the assistant manager of Recruitment Affairs for Forrest Build, but even more he was a friend of the family. It was with him that Berk was to enter an apprenticeship, and learn the ways of the woods. Fern had decided that for the sake of learning, Berk should come live with him at his home, in his workshop. It was just an hour’s walk from his grandmother’s and he would be allowed to return to visit her on the weekends, so Berk was happy.
In the days that followed, Berk had take his necessary belongings, bid goodbye to his grandmother, and moved out to live with Fern. Fern had a workshop that branched off from his main cottage underneath the tall trees of the tropical forests. It was here that Berk would be quartered. The workshop was small, but cozy in a sense, and Berk had no problem with that. The ground below was covered with thick layers of saw dust and wood shavings, keeping the cold soil of the earth below from seeping through. In the middle of the room sat a workbench. Many woodworking tools were laid out on top. On the floor next to it sat a wooden bucket, filled with dirt covered planting tools. There was one window, on the east wall, and below it, a small cot, placed so that the sun would shine on it in the mornings. Aside from that the room was bare, though it allowed plenty of space to move around.
The night that Berk moved in, he shared a meal of fried plantains and five berry jelly, with a piping hot cup of tea to wash it down, before going to bed. As he was finishing his unpacking after dinner, Fern had silently waltzed in. When Berk turned around to see him, he jumped in surprise. Fern looked out him with mock curiosity before saying, in a deep gruff voice,”Hurry up and finish, get to bed soon, your training starts tomorrow.”
At hearing this Berk got excited. He was anxious to start his training, but before he could ask questions, Fern had walked out, pulling the door shut behind him. Berk did as Fern had said and hurriedly finished unpacking his belongings, before lying down on the cot to go to sleep. However, his excitement got the best of him. Berk soon broke out in a cold sweat, and he reached down to pull the sheets tight around his body. Falling into a deep slumber, his dreams of the path that followed pulled him.
Forrest Build Project Site #152
Northern Brasil
Berk was 22 years old back then. He was a tall elf, standing at six-foot-eight and weighing in at two ten. He was not the least bit overweight, maintaining his size and stature. Dark brown skin covered his massive structure, with streaks of black where his body had been scarred. His eyes were green as the leaves in the trees of which he worked with. His hair had been kept straight, about neck length, though most of the time he was working, it was matted with the sap of bleeding trees.
Berk was a Wood-elf, sworn into duty by his parents, who had long since passed away. They too were Wood-elves, working in the forests all their life. They felt no need to live outside the forests, or ever bother. Their work was their life and they were dedicated to it. Berk was born in a Project Site, not too far away from where he worked now-#127-which has since then been finished and is now used to house the workers still in the area. His mother died giving birth to him, and his father who was at work most of the time, left him in the care of his grandmother who raised him mostly by herself. His father would stop by every couple of days during his breaks, to see his son. Not too many years after, Berk’s father died, just of old age. “It was just his time to go, he did his part and we are thankful for that,” Berk’s grandmother explained to him. She raised him until he was able bodied enough to work as a Wood-elf in the forests below.
When she was ready to give him up to the work-life set before him, his care was transferred to a retired Wood-elf, Fern Birchbark. Fern was the assistant manager of Recruitment Affairs for Forrest Build, but even more he was a friend of the family. It was with him that Berk was to enter an apprenticeship, and learn the ways of the woods. Fern had decided that for the sake of learning, Berk should come live with him at his home, in his workshop. It was just an hour’s walk from his grandmother’s and he would be allowed to return to visit her on the weekends, so Berk was happy.
In the days that followed, Berk had take his necessary belongings, bid goodbye to his grandmother, and moved out to live with Fern. Fern had a workshop that branched off from his main cottage underneath the tall trees of the tropical forests. It was here that Berk would be quartered. The workshop was small, but cozy in a sense, and Berk had no problem with that. The ground below was covered with thick layers of saw dust and wood shavings, keeping the cold soil of the earth below from seeping through. In the middle of the room sat a workbench. Many woodworking tools were laid out on top. On the floor next to it sat a wooden bucket, filled with dirt covered planting tools. There was one window, on the east wall, and below it, a small cot, placed so that the sun would shine on it in the mornings. Aside from that the room was bare, though it allowed plenty of space to move around.
The night that Berk moved in, he shared a meal of fried plantains and five berry jelly, with a piping hot cup of tea to wash it down, before going to bed. As he was finishing his unpacking after dinner, Fern had silently waltzed in. When Berk turned around to see him, he jumped in surprise. Fern looked out him with mock curiosity before saying, in a deep gruff voice,”Hurry up and finish, get to bed soon, your training starts tomorrow.”
At hearing this Berk got excited. He was anxious to start his training, but before he could ask questions, Fern had walked out, pulling the door shut behind him. Berk did as Fern had said and hurriedly finished unpacking his belongings, before lying down on the cot to go to sleep. However, his excitement got the best of him. Berk soon broke out in a cold sweat, and he reached down to pull the sheets tight around his body. Falling into a deep slumber, his dreams of the path that followed pulled him.
Monday, November 16, 2009
8 Kids
What about
all those people
who have
eight kids?
They’re like
fucking rabbits fucking,
All day
and
all night fucking.
Don’t they have
anything better to do?
And then we give them
TV shows and front covers,
Octo-mom, and Jon & Kate,
These people
I just really hate.
Oh my god
they’re just below
celebrity status.
For what reason?
other than having a vagina so loose,
So loose,
I can stick both hands in and clap.
They can’t even afford,
to take care of all of them.
Relying on media publicity,
to bring in the dough.
We shouldn’t encourage,
such bullshit.
It shouldn’t be tolerated,
in times like this.
Using children
as
a money making scheme.
Be like normal people and try one kid,
then two if you can handle it,
then three after the first two age a bit.
But
eight kids
within a year of each other?
I mean what the fuck?
Slow down,
and take a breather.
And for God’s sake,
If you can’t control yourself,
sew that thing up,
enough’s enough.
all those people
who have
eight kids?
They’re like
fucking rabbits fucking,
All day
and
all night fucking.
Don’t they have
anything better to do?
And then we give them
TV shows and front covers,
Octo-mom, and Jon & Kate,
These people
I just really hate.
Oh my god
they’re just below
celebrity status.
For what reason?
other than having a vagina so loose,
So loose,
I can stick both hands in and clap.
They can’t even afford,
to take care of all of them.
Relying on media publicity,
to bring in the dough.
We shouldn’t encourage,
such bullshit.
It shouldn’t be tolerated,
in times like this.
Using children
as
a money making scheme.
Be like normal people and try one kid,
then two if you can handle it,
then three after the first two age a bit.
But
eight kids
within a year of each other?
I mean what the fuck?
Slow down,
and take a breather.
And for God’s sake,
If you can’t control yourself,
sew that thing up,
enough’s enough.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Part2 aka Mike's "More Magic"
The day the cops came was a Sunday. John had off from work, and I was locked in my room all day, like always. Growing up, for me, wasn’t like all the other kids. I couldn’t go and sit in my room all day like others would. In my room, I didn’t have a huge television; I didn’t have a bunch of videogames, or a loud stereo system. I didn’t have any of that stuff. My room was small, like a walk-in closet. I had a cot in one corner, like the ones you buy in a military supply catalog. There was also a plastic container that held my clothes, a small seat with no cushion, and reading lamp. The walls were dirty white, and the only window in the room was barred from the outside. John did permit me to have books. I read a lot; after all it was one of the few things I could do to pass the time.
I was in my room reading Rage a novel written by Steven King in the early stages of his career. It was about a high school student who shot his math teacher and held the class hostage, while he used the time as a therapy session to relieve his feelings. Somebody outside the apartment knocked on the door twice. Though I could not see what was happening I heard it all. John opened the door. Two men with deep voices asked if they could come in. He replied to them asking what the fuck they wanted. I heard the heavy footsteps enter out living room, and they began talking. A lot of what they said was in whisper, but I could tell by their tones, they were interrogating John, and he was anxiously defending himself. After a couple of minutes, I heard footsteps approaching my door. Somebody tried the handle, and then said it was locked. Then I heard John approaching, he had heavy footsteps, and they were clunky too. I could always tell it was him whenever he was walking around. He unlocked the door and one of the officers opened the door to see me lying on my cot reading. Unfortunately I didn’t have a shirt on, and the bruise John had left on my chest the night before was clearly visible from the doorway. They asked me to stand up, and come out to the living room to join them. I did so without saying anything, not a word.
When I got out to the living room, I saw both the officers standing up, their bodies angled with their gun away from him. Good for that, I don’t trust him either. But is he really stupid enough to attempt something like that? John was sitting on the couch, sweat was beading on his forehead, he was nervous but at the same time his teeth were clenched and he was pissed. He was staring right at me, my chest exposed, and the black and blue mark just below my left nipple. I was thin, but healthy, though you could still make out at least three ribs on my side. I walked out to the living room, and over to the wall opposite them all. The walls in the living room were white, pure white, like sugar. John constantly cleaned them to keep them presentable for his guests and girls. I leaned against the wall and put my foot up on it. My soles weren’t exactly clean, and I knew this would piss him off even more. His stare hardened and I knew at this point he was straining himself to not jump up and beat the daylights out of me.
The cops wanted to ask me some questions, while one of them asked my father to get up and move into our kitchen, I moved over to sit down on the couch, leaving a dirty smudge on the wall where I stood. As we walked past each other, our eyes locked for a quick passing moment, and I knew he was on his last nerve. Part of me was laughing at how easy it was to get to him, while the other part was nearly shitting bricks just thinking about what he would do once the cops left. I was lying across the couch, with the cop sitting in the armchair across the coffee table. He wore a full uniform- navy blue shirt and pants, black leather boots, a utility belt wrapped around his waist, and a navy and gold patch on his left shoulder. His name tag read Officer Miller, and his badge number was 5440; these last two details were the first two things I noticed when my bedroom door opened, probably because I was eye level with his chest. As I stared at the other end other the couch, I noticed from my peripherals that he was staring into my eyes, almost like he was probing for something. In truth, I didn’t want to speak up first.
“What’s your name, son?” he whispered to me.
Son, who was he to call me son, so I mockingly replied; “Son, I am not your son, I have no father.”
The officer stared at me, and I knew what he was thinking. He was awed to believe that in the midst of trying to help me, I had mocked him, and still not given him the answer to his question. After a couple of seconds, he just gave up and moved on.
“You look a little thin, should I call some pizza for delivery?” he was playing the good cop routine, trying to gain my trust. However, I don’t give my trust to no one. Just as well, I had not had dinner last night and hunger was gnawing at my insides. My face lit up when he asked, and I could not switch back to seriousness fast enough. He knew what my answer was before I even said anything; I know this because he pulled out his cell phone and ordered for delivery. A regular pie and a bottle of Coke, when he had finished placing the order he asked the other end to hold on for a second, while he covered up the microphone with his hand and turned to me.
“What’s the address of this apartment,” he asked.
“You drove here didn’t you,” I smartly replied.
I could see in his eyes he was slowing tiring of my attitude and we hadn’t even gotten anywhere yet. I made myself comfortable and stretched out on the full length of the couch, slouched but not quite laying down. He’s not an idiot; he’d figure it out himself. Miller here, called into the next room to the other officer, apparently named Lincoln, who remembered the address. Miller finished the order and put his cell phone back into the clip on his belt. Cops must have some kind of pull when talking to people because the delivery guy came quicker than I’ve ever seen, and he didn’t even bother asking for a tip, not that officer Miller intended to give him one anyway. He just paid and shut the door. A little rude I thought, but he probably wants to stop wasting time and get some food in my stomach with the idea that maybe I’ll start talking.
The box was hot and steamed up the glass coffee table. I could smell the pizza in the steam that wisped out of the side vent holes. My mouth was watering, I think I may have drooled, but I couldn’t find out where it dripped. Miller cut open the box and then called to Lincoln in the kitchen who tossed him two of John’s nice drinking glasses. Holy-fucking-shit, I thought to myself, John’s going to kill me when they leave. He poured us both out of the bottle of Coca-Cola and let me grab the first slice of pizza before taking a piece for himself. I scoffed down the whole greasy slice and grabbed a second, as he merely bit the tip of his. Table manners, those died four years ago as well. By the time I had finished three slices, only stopping to knock back a few cups of Coke, I looked up to see Miller still on his first slice, nearing the crust. I could feel the oils of the pizza dribbling down my chin and quickly wiped at it with the back of my hand and then down the side of my pant leg.
Miller finished his slice and dabbed at his lips with a napkin, before tossing it onto his paper plate and pushing it to the side. He reached for his cup, downing his whole drink in one quick swig, being careful not to slurp the cola as it got shallower towards the end.
Note: Left the story open-ended again, maybe I'll put in some more work at a later time. By the way Mike, I got another story going, it's not really a badass one like I tried to make this but at least its an effort, I'll post the beginning of that a bit later on.
I was in my room reading Rage a novel written by Steven King in the early stages of his career. It was about a high school student who shot his math teacher and held the class hostage, while he used the time as a therapy session to relieve his feelings. Somebody outside the apartment knocked on the door twice. Though I could not see what was happening I heard it all. John opened the door. Two men with deep voices asked if they could come in. He replied to them asking what the fuck they wanted. I heard the heavy footsteps enter out living room, and they began talking. A lot of what they said was in whisper, but I could tell by their tones, they were interrogating John, and he was anxiously defending himself. After a couple of minutes, I heard footsteps approaching my door. Somebody tried the handle, and then said it was locked. Then I heard John approaching, he had heavy footsteps, and they were clunky too. I could always tell it was him whenever he was walking around. He unlocked the door and one of the officers opened the door to see me lying on my cot reading. Unfortunately I didn’t have a shirt on, and the bruise John had left on my chest the night before was clearly visible from the doorway. They asked me to stand up, and come out to the living room to join them. I did so without saying anything, not a word.
When I got out to the living room, I saw both the officers standing up, their bodies angled with their gun away from him. Good for that, I don’t trust him either. But is he really stupid enough to attempt something like that? John was sitting on the couch, sweat was beading on his forehead, he was nervous but at the same time his teeth were clenched and he was pissed. He was staring right at me, my chest exposed, and the black and blue mark just below my left nipple. I was thin, but healthy, though you could still make out at least three ribs on my side. I walked out to the living room, and over to the wall opposite them all. The walls in the living room were white, pure white, like sugar. John constantly cleaned them to keep them presentable for his guests and girls. I leaned against the wall and put my foot up on it. My soles weren’t exactly clean, and I knew this would piss him off even more. His stare hardened and I knew at this point he was straining himself to not jump up and beat the daylights out of me.
The cops wanted to ask me some questions, while one of them asked my father to get up and move into our kitchen, I moved over to sit down on the couch, leaving a dirty smudge on the wall where I stood. As we walked past each other, our eyes locked for a quick passing moment, and I knew he was on his last nerve. Part of me was laughing at how easy it was to get to him, while the other part was nearly shitting bricks just thinking about what he would do once the cops left. I was lying across the couch, with the cop sitting in the armchair across the coffee table. He wore a full uniform- navy blue shirt and pants, black leather boots, a utility belt wrapped around his waist, and a navy and gold patch on his left shoulder. His name tag read Officer Miller, and his badge number was 5440; these last two details were the first two things I noticed when my bedroom door opened, probably because I was eye level with his chest. As I stared at the other end other the couch, I noticed from my peripherals that he was staring into my eyes, almost like he was probing for something. In truth, I didn’t want to speak up first.
“What’s your name, son?” he whispered to me.
Son, who was he to call me son, so I mockingly replied; “Son, I am not your son, I have no father.”
The officer stared at me, and I knew what he was thinking. He was awed to believe that in the midst of trying to help me, I had mocked him, and still not given him the answer to his question. After a couple of seconds, he just gave up and moved on.
“You look a little thin, should I call some pizza for delivery?” he was playing the good cop routine, trying to gain my trust. However, I don’t give my trust to no one. Just as well, I had not had dinner last night and hunger was gnawing at my insides. My face lit up when he asked, and I could not switch back to seriousness fast enough. He knew what my answer was before I even said anything; I know this because he pulled out his cell phone and ordered for delivery. A regular pie and a bottle of Coke, when he had finished placing the order he asked the other end to hold on for a second, while he covered up the microphone with his hand and turned to me.
“What’s the address of this apartment,” he asked.
“You drove here didn’t you,” I smartly replied.
I could see in his eyes he was slowing tiring of my attitude and we hadn’t even gotten anywhere yet. I made myself comfortable and stretched out on the full length of the couch, slouched but not quite laying down. He’s not an idiot; he’d figure it out himself. Miller here, called into the next room to the other officer, apparently named Lincoln, who remembered the address. Miller finished the order and put his cell phone back into the clip on his belt. Cops must have some kind of pull when talking to people because the delivery guy came quicker than I’ve ever seen, and he didn’t even bother asking for a tip, not that officer Miller intended to give him one anyway. He just paid and shut the door. A little rude I thought, but he probably wants to stop wasting time and get some food in my stomach with the idea that maybe I’ll start talking.
The box was hot and steamed up the glass coffee table. I could smell the pizza in the steam that wisped out of the side vent holes. My mouth was watering, I think I may have drooled, but I couldn’t find out where it dripped. Miller cut open the box and then called to Lincoln in the kitchen who tossed him two of John’s nice drinking glasses. Holy-fucking-shit, I thought to myself, John’s going to kill me when they leave. He poured us both out of the bottle of Coca-Cola and let me grab the first slice of pizza before taking a piece for himself. I scoffed down the whole greasy slice and grabbed a second, as he merely bit the tip of his. Table manners, those died four years ago as well. By the time I had finished three slices, only stopping to knock back a few cups of Coke, I looked up to see Miller still on his first slice, nearing the crust. I could feel the oils of the pizza dribbling down my chin and quickly wiped at it with the back of my hand and then down the side of my pant leg.
Miller finished his slice and dabbed at his lips with a napkin, before tossing it onto his paper plate and pushing it to the side. He reached for his cup, downing his whole drink in one quick swig, being careful not to slurp the cola as it got shallower towards the end.
Note: Left the story open-ended again, maybe I'll put in some more work at a later time. By the way Mike, I got another story going, it's not really a badass one like I tried to make this but at least its an effort, I'll post the beginning of that a bit later on.
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