"Coos County Historical Fiction Society Bullet Points"

[Sally]

A rather large and quite imposing sign made of plywood, 2x4s, and plexiglass has been set up outside the Diner, atop a rusty old dolly. The sign is bolted onto the dolly, and the bolts appear to have globs of rubber melted over their heads. Securing the entire rig around the tree is a chain roughly as thick around as a man's wrist, and one of those heavy duty U-locks locks it in place.

The plexiglass covering for the sign is on a hinge, and can be swung open so that papers can be tacked to the plywood. A single paper is so tacked to the center of the sign:




The Coos County Historical Fiction Society would like to announce its debut

For immediate release. My name is Susie-Aileen Lee and for my Summer Project, I am supposed to start a co-llection of short stories. My teacher says that the best way to write is to write what you know. I don't know much, though. Can you all help me? I want to try to write stories about my hometown, but if something was a little off. You know, weird like.

Instead of swamp gas causing funny lights, maybe its aliens. Instead of coyotes eating my chi-hua-ha it was a werewolf. Just daydreamy stuff. But, every time I try and write one, it just winds up like, being a rip off of a Goosebumps book.

If you could help me, I would be very grateful. I would bake you a special pie for the Harvest Festival. Old family recipe.

Spec-ific-ally, if you could maybe write down anything interesting that happened to you on the following dates, I could use them as inspiration for my stories. Even if it was just weird stuff you heard in passing.

AUGUST 31, 2013

SEPTEMBER 30, 2013

APRIL 4-6, 2014

MAY 9-11, 2014

Thank you,

S-A. LEE.

P.S. PLEASE DON'T STEAL MY SIGN. I HAD TO DELIVER A LOT OF PAPERS TO AFFORD IT. MY DAD WILL GET REALLY MAD AT ME IF I DON'T GIVE HIM HIS DOLLY BACK.

[edseel]

Under each entry a rather hasty scawled note:

Moths of unusual size
Butcher
Big Foot - I assure you he is real ... just ask the Winter family

[Owle Isohos]

Two typed up notes appear, elaborating on the hastily scrawled one, one with an arrow drawn towards "Unusual moths" and one pointing at "Butcher".

Oh yeah, those moths...in your story, I think it'd be neat if they were as big as a person! And I've noticed them doing this weird mating dance...it'd be really creepy if the moths in your story were marking people with pheromones so they could lay their eggs in them later. And moths pollinate things, right? You could make the dust from their wings some kinda hallucinogen that drives people nuts, and you could write that staring into their eyes is like staring into the abyss...makes some folks go crazy with fear. I think that'd make a good monster in a story.

You guys have a local legend called the Penance, right? Way I heard the story, it's supposed to show up in the place it'd be most inconvenient for it to be, like the gas station during a power outage. I heard tell it's a vengeance spirit of some kind, and that anything anyone tries to throw at it gets thrown right back at them. Bullets, powerful strikes, you name it - whatever you try to do to it, it does right back to you. Maybe in your stories, you could have it be real, show up whenever the protagonists least want to see it.

[Sally]

Tacked below the lovely advice to miss Susie-Aileen Lee that describe the Moth and Butcher issues is a missive written on the back of a copy of the Last Free Voice. In black ink, someone has drawn a border of scalpels and syringes on the page. But, scribed in red ink, a scratchy hand reads:

You know what would be a right weird experience? Havin a buncha poncy-types in a fancy clothes make folks compete in some kinda capture-the-flower from a GIANT GOLLDARN PLANT MONSTER guardin it, while competin with other people roped inta such a game. Have a real sense-a-menace bout them poncy folks, like they them Super Poncy folk from the Hunger Games, just wantin to be entertained some. An maybe they come back later, tryin to get folks to bend at the knee an such, but a True Patriot (a snoopy type of fella that won't stand for the Truth to be covered up) stands up against him, even on pain of... pain... and lets those floofy folk know that, in America, we don't suffer no tyrants.

Of course, a young lady might not realize this, but the worst monsters in the world are just plain ol folks. Bane-ality of evil an such. So, if you wrote a story about some nutty guy who barricades himself in a trapped cabin cuz he was up to no good and didn't want no law-abidin folks to find him that could work. Maybe have a hero get blown up a bit, but not too bad. Maybe have the nutty guy hang himself, rather than be caught (or even use a dummy as a decoy so he could escape... Plot twists, ya'll).

Or, mebbe some psychonut witta sniper rifle gets people tuckin under tables and duckin thru trees, in broad daylight?

An' speakin' of the Evils of Men- mebbe you could have some sortsa evil company experimentin on prisoners and drivin them nuts. An when those prisoners break out, the evil company uses their pull ta Napalm the ever-loving shit out of them. You'd want to have the bad fella in charge of them be kind of sneaky- charming, like he could lie right to your face. An you'd want him to have a name like Agent Coswell or Cosgrove- somethin that you can really ball your fist up and shake at the sky while yellin, all dramatic like.

Oh! An like that there post-it says, maybe have that Local Legend a yers come into play. Maybe have a storm 'r somethin blow out power. Maybe a dashing, yet humble engineer has to get some generators goin to get the town safe, but the only diesel pump available is guarded by the Penance. And maybe, to ramp up the tension, ya'll could put down that town folks have to band together and KEEP GOING BACK to get more fuel. Like they have to draw straws, knowin what's waitin for them. Well, x-cept maybe one or two folks that is gung-ho to get another piece of that Big Bastard.

An speakin of creepy local legends, there's lotsa churches around, right? So, maybe somethin about a demon in disguise, pretendin to be a hitch-hiker that comes inta the Diner to get the lay of the land. Maybe gives a name that's somethin kinda dorkly- Percival or Melvin or such- as a cover, but really, he's just trying to lure people out into the woods and rip em apart.

While we're on the topic of rippin apart- kids are all bout zombies these days, right? Maybe they get raised from the grave by some asshole with some sortsa evil Lamp or Lantern or Torch that a plucky band a heroes led by a regular Joe (who's really more like a churchy Hero in disguise as a Civil Servant) steals from him, only to have some OTHER asshole steal it from them.

Man-o-man, this is gettin' weird, and a little dark. How bout a bunch of robotic weirdoes trying to pre-tend to be human, but don't quite get it right? Like, they wear outdated clothes and giant bug-eye glasses, and carry some funky lazer blaster type things that can punch a hole right through an armored tactical vest and into yer gut.

An', while we at it you could have a Sasquatch creepi-


The words run right off the page there, with promise of more rambling nonsense.

[Henry Gondorf]

Tacked off to the side of the board was a page torn from a memo book.

I have always found it is relatively easy to find action packed on action until folks got nothing more in the tank to keep going. Even just reading about how the flood after the earthquake, but before the volcano eruption that caused all the animals to go berserk, woke up the neighborhood big lizard can leave readers gasping for air. Let's not forget while it is good to have action, it is equally important to have characters. What of the people, both on high and down low, who are aware of such oddities? Or even insulate or provoke these strange happening? What of those CEO's who thought it best to play God? Was there benevolence behind their hand or simple greed? What of the average Joe on the street who noticed a foul smelling knot of folks pass by in what looked like badly sewn together suits? And where in this world of media saturation is the outcry over such aberrations? These are some of the questions a good writing should ask themselves before threading together their story. As a reader I know it would do my soul some good knowing if these folks would rush to help if there were screams in the night or button up their homes before loading daddy's boyfriend fidelity promise.

[Sally]

Taped below the torn memo page is a long, thin note written on the back of what looks like was once a flyer for Club Binary's opening. Red pen reads:


Very good idea, to keep track of the characters. My teacher said the best stories are all about the characters. That way you don't get stuck with somethin called a doos-ecks-mockyna. Here's what I'm thinking so far:

The Penance (OMG)

Agent Cosgrove, Grayrock Contractors

Spooky Death Lady all in one color (Maybe white, cuz black is klee-shay, right?)

A Big Bad Wolf with a name that's like a growl (maybe I'll have a funny Little Blue Riding Hood )

A very nice and helpful government dude. Like maybe NSA. Or FBI. Director Black?

Headhunter with a big sword. (My friends Jack and Gillie and Francois and Theo like that sort of thing)

A Fairy Prince in Blue! (Dreaaaaaamy)

A ninja clan, all snazzy like in fancy suits. The Drak-ooza.

What do you guys think? Should i have more?

<3 Susie-Aileen Lee

[Tesla]

The Professor pulls out a copy of the collected works of Robert Frost.

The Witch of Coos
by Robert Frost


I staid the night for shelter at a farm
Behind the mountains, with a mother and son,
Two old-believers. They did all the talking.

MOTHER Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits
She could call up to pass a winter evening,
But won't, should be burned at the stake or something.
Summoning spirits isn't 'Button, button,
Who's got the button,' I would have them know.

SON: Mother can make a common table rear
And kick with two legs like an army mule.

MOTHER: And when I've done it, what good have I
done?
Rather than tip a table for you, let me
Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.
He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him
How could that be -- I thought the dead were souls,
He broke my trance. Don't that make you suspicious
That there's something the dead are keeping back?
Yes, there's something the dead are keeping back.

SON: You wouldn't want to tell him what we have
Up attic, mother?

MOTHER: Bones -- a skeleton.

SON: But the headboard of mother's bed is pushed
Against the' attic door: the door is nailed.
It's harmless. Mother hears it in the night
Halting perplexed behind the barrier
Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get
Is back into the cellar where it came from.

MOTHER: We'll never let them, will we, son! We'll
never !

SON: It left the cellar forty years ago
And carried itself like a pile of dishes
Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen,
Another from the kitchen to the bedroom,
Another from the bedroom to the attic,
Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped
it.
Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.
I was a baby: I don't know where I was.

MOTHER: The only fault my husband found with me --
I went to sleep before I went to bed,
Especially in winter when the bed
Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow.
The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs
Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me,
But left an open door to cool the room off
So as to sort of turn me out of it.
I was just coming to myself enough
To wonder where the cold was coming from,
When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom
And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.
The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on
When there was water in the cellar in spring
Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone
Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step,
The way a man with one leg and a crutch,
Or a little child, comes up. It wasn't Toffile:
It wasn't anyone who could be there.
The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked
And swollen tight and buried under snow.
The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust
And swollen tight and buried under snow.
It was the bones. I knew them -- and good reason.
My first impulse was to get to the knob
And hold the door. But the bones didn't try
The door; they halted helpless on the landing,
Waiting for things to happen in their favour.'
The faintest restless rustling ran all through them.
I never could have done the thing I did
If the wish hadn't been too strong in me
To see how they were mounted for this walk.
I had a vision of them put together
Not like a man, but like a chandelier.
So suddenly I flung the door wide on him.
A moment he stood balancing with emotion,
And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire
Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth.
Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.)
Then he came at me with one hand outstretched,
The way he did in life once; but this time
I struck the hand off brittle on the floor,
And fell back from him on the floor myself.
The finger-pieces slid in all directions.
(Where did I see one of those pieces lately?
Hand me my button-box- it must be there.)
I sat up on the floor and shouted, 'Toffile,
It's coming up to you.' It had its choice
Of the door to the cellar or the hall.
It took the hall door for the novelty,
And set off briskly for so slow a thing,
Stillgoing every which way in the joints, though,
So that it looked like lightning or a scribble,
>From the slap I had just now given its hand.
I listened till it almost climbed the stairs
>From the hall to the only finished bedroom,
Before I got up to do anything;
Then ran and shouted, 'Shut the bedroom door,
Toffile, for my sake!' 'Company?' he said,
'Don't make me get up; I'm too warm in bed.'
So lying forward weakly on the handrail
I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light
(The kitchen had been dark) I had to own
I could see nothing. 'Toffile, I don't see it.
It's with us in the room though. It's the bones.'
'What bones?' 'The cellar bones- out of the grave.'
That made him throw his bare legs out of bed
And sit up by me and take hold of me.
I wanted to put out the light and see
If I could see it, or else mow the room,
With our arms at the level of our knees,
And bring the chalk-pile down. 'I'll tell you what-
It's looking for another door to try.
The uncommonly deep snow has made him think
Of his old song, The Wild Colonial Boy,
He always used to sing along the tote-road.
He's after an open door to get out-doors.
Let's trap him with an open door up attic.'
Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough,
Almost the moment he was given an opening,
The steps began to climb the attic stairs.
I heard them. Toffile didn't seem to hear them.
'Quick !' I slammed to the door and held the knob.
'Toffile, get nails.' I made him nail the door shut,
And push the headboard of the bed against it.
Then we asked was there anything
Up attic that we'd ever want again.
The attic was less to us than the cellar.
If the bones liked the attic, let them have it.
Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimes
Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed
Behind the door and headboard of the bed,
Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers,
With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter,
That's what I sit up in the dark to say-
To no one any more since Toffile died.
2o3 Let them stay in the attic since they went there.
I promised Toffile to be cruel to them
For helping them be cruel once to him.

SON: We think they had a grave down in the cellar.

MOTHER: We know they had a grave down in the cellar.

SON: We never could find out whose bones they were.

MOTHER: Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.
They were a man's his father killed for me.
I mean a man he killed instead of me.
The least I could do was to help dig their grave.
We were about it one night in the cellar.
Son knows the story: but 'twas not for him
To tell the truth, suppose the time had come.
Son looks surprised to see me end a lie
We'd kept all these years between ourselves
So as to have it ready for outsiders.
But to-night I don't care enough to lie-
I don't remember why I ever cared.
Toffile, if he were here, I don't believe
Could tell you why he ever cared himself-

She hadn't found the finger-bone she wanted
Among the buttons poured out in her lap.
I verified the name next morning: Toffile.
The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway.

[Tesla]

*Closes his collected works of Robert Frost*
That is a true old story of Coos County. As for what's happened here in Whisper Hills recently, let me think on that and I'll regale you with tales by the fire later.

[vVv]

As the Professor speaks, a thin, young-looking girl (brightly dressed in overly large and tacky clothing that clearly came from some kinda discount department store), watches intently, her usual sullen-adolescent facade washing away to reveal wide-eyed, childlike wonder. she remains in absolute silence and stillness as he comes to a close..

"WOW!! that is soooo cool! i dunno if i believe in all that or not, but either way i gotta say maybe y'all ain't so boring 'round here after all.."

victor settles even further into her relaxed, crosslegged position on the ground, from which she'd been examining the board with growing interest, and a brightening, mischievous grin slowly creeps across her face til she fairly seems to glow with excitement.