I Saw A Squirrel: "Make A Wish"

I Saw A Squirrel: "No Time Like The Present"

I think I'm starting to work out a good format for these comics, though of course any feedback would be great.

A Story

Do you ever get the feeling that you are being stalked? I don't mean in that creepy Facebook sort of way, but rather like your being hunted. Like feeling a continuous tingling along your spine, and you know that somewhere, somehow, a pair of eyes is watching you, waiting; the finger just itching to pull the trigger, to let the arrow fly... He had had that feeling all day today.

He was in a mall. He hates malls. He was in the King of Prussia mall to be precise, which is the biggest, most horrible experience of "mall" that I have ever encountered. It's so big that it is actually two malls, which are connected by a land bridge so that foot traffic can avoid the real traffic on the street below. I'm sure it's lovely for most people, but for people who don't like malls it is a frightening mass of brick and mortar and cement and polished tiles. Especially when you have the constant feeling of being watched.

All he needed to do was go to Brookstone, get a barbecue light so his mom would have something to give to his dad for his birthday, and get out. Though he would never have dreamed of spending $50 for what boiled down to a clip-on light bulb, it seemed like a relatively simple mission. Fifteen minutes of consumerism, and he'd be free. (Well, free to drive south for 45 minutes on the turnpike, but there were no perfume counters or mall directories in the car, so it was a step in the right direction). Okay, really more like 25 minutes of consumerism, when you factor in the sheer size of this damned place. But simple. Straightforward.

He parked the car on the ground level of the garage and stepped out onto the concrete. The sound of the locks clicking echoed across the low ceilings. Somehow, despite the bright daylight not 15 feet away, this place was full of shadows. A shiver ran up his spine, and he glanced over his shoulders in response. No movement anywhere. No signs of life. He composed himself and trudged across the roadway, (Speed Limit: 5 MPH), to the sidewalk.

He took a deep breath, held it tight, and pushed through the glass doors.

Bloomingdale's greeted him with its cheery atmosphere and giant posters of attractive yet forgettable men and women. The pale pink flourescent lights made everything glow with false warmth. As predicted, he had entered directly into the department store's perfume section -- why does that always happen? It's a conspiracy of some kind, I swear -- and despite having held his breath he could still taste it floating in the air, each scented particle waiting patiently by his nostrils until he was forced to inhale. He covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve and took a sharp breath. Nope, no good. He could still taste it.

He pushed on, winding around the center display, through a row of women's handbags and large-brimmed hats, until finally he saw the blueish light spilling in from the mall proper. He stepped through the large entranceway and breathed again.

Directly in front of him stood a tall, triangular billboard. It screamed "Mall Directory," although he was currently staring at the silhouette of a man against a washed-out brick wall advertising some sort of cologne. Only the name of the product -- Mistique -- was printed. The mystique for which the advertisers clearly were striving here failed to find its mark; his eyes glazed over, and he looked instead at the only other person in view. A woman was sitting on a bench against a large tiled planter, a small, leafy tree looming over her. Only in a place like this would one require a tree to provide them with shade while they were indoors. The woman was reading a magazine, her purse plopped unceremoniously down next to her, a cane leaning on the armrest. She must be waiting for someone to finish their shopping, he thought. He also imagined she might the sort of person who came to the mall to sit in the indoor shade and read because she found it pleasant. He hoped not.

He turned his attention back to the advertisement. There must be a map of this hellish place on that thing somewhere, he thought, so he went around it to the right. Another advertisement greeted him, this time in the form of a "Hannah Montana In Concert!" poster. He sighed, and completed his lap around the triangular billboard only find yet another advertisement. He glared at the happy-looking woman with the pouty red lips displaying the finest that Maybelline had to offer. He had been fooled, duped, led astray. There was no directory here.

It was then he felt it again: a tingle along his spine. It was so subtle, like a ghost running its finger down the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades, as if the only reason he could detect it was the slight shift in air pressure causing his hairs to sway ever so slightly. It was more of an awareness than a physical feeling, an awareness of being watched.

He peered over his shoulders down the length of the hall. An older couple was walking away from him, the wife on her cell phone, the husband rifling through a white shopping bag. To his left, a planter with shrubbery. To his right, the entranceway to Bloomingdales. No one in sight. This was, perhaps, even stranger than the alternative. Where was everyone? He shifted slightly and looked past the billboard; the woman still sat on the bench, reading her magazine. She had not felt it, clearly. He looked up towards the balconies, where a group of teenagers were being obnoxious in Hot Topic. Fitting, he thought.

...TBC

I Saw A Squirrel: "Loneliness"

Fragment Explosion

In my high school English classes, we would occasionally do exercises called "explosions," where we would take a written work -- usually poetry, though performing this operation on works of prose could be interesting, as well -- and pry at it with our own mind, using a piece of the work as our inspiration. Usually we took a line from within the meat of the poem and used it as the first line of a poem of our own creation. It was especially interesting when, later, our teacher would read through the poem, and wherever we had "exploded" one of its phrases into our own short idea, we would cut the reading off and insert what we had written ourselves. As a result, the original work not only became much longer, it became interesting in a new way. We saw certain words and phrases in a new way based on how our peers had reacted to them. In short, we took the work and made it our own.

I mention this only because it is how and why I approached the following bit of prose. If you read a few posts below, you may notice one labeled "(Fragment)", and that what follows is an expanded version of it. I suppose in the real world one might refer to this as "expanding on a previous idea," or even just "the process of writing." Which is true. But in the same way that the first (Fragment) was written in a spurt of inspiration as the sentences formed in my subconscious of their own volition, this is merely an explosion of that original idea. Perhaps it will grow little by little until I get a publishing contract for the 300-page novel it will become. But for now, baby steps.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

And beyond hope, beyond his kindest dreams, a surprise greeted him when he awoke. Dew clung to the grass, each blade glistening like a crystal, a precious keepsake polished with care. It clung to the tips of his hair, and as he shook it loose it rained down as a fine mist, each tiny prism flashing, breaking the light into a thousand colors that mixed with the air around him and saturated every detail of the morning.

The light.

The sun did more than rise in that moment; it smiled. And he shined, golden, into the new day.

I Saw A Squirrel: "A St. Paul Holiday"

Fragments and Thoughts

Below, you will find a number of little poems, or thoughts, or fragments of thoughts that have passed through my mind recently. I wrote them down in random places, and decided to collect them here, lest I forget them entirely.

I've been having a lot of vivid dreams lately. I can't explain them; I can't really even remember most of them very clearly. As with most dreams, I am left with ghosts and flashes -- like the colors that shimmer in the blackness behind your eyelids when you close them tightly -- when I finally shake free of them and awake. They fade like a dream is supposed to fade.

But what I do seem to remember are their formal qualities. They are thick, and saturated with color. There is a weight to these dreams. When I am submerged in them, I hear ambient sounds, I feel the things around me. I can smell the food in front of me. I feel the heat from a person's hand. I have memories, actual thoughts within the dream, that guide me. It is hard to come away from.

So I've been thinking a lot recently about the plane on which dreams exist. Mostly it is invisible, ethereal, like watching a story unfold in the infinitely thin surface of the water as it ripples and bends. But sometimes, it seems to me, you are able to plunge your whole face down into the pool and watch the scene as it was meant to be seen.

And sometimes you dive in head first, and become one the players.

(fragment)

And beyond hope, beyond his wildest dreams, a surprise greeted him when he awoke. The sun did more than rise that morning; it smiled.

And he shined, golden, into the new day.

With You

The day may be gray
and dry, pulling warmth
from the earth, from
the thinnest fingers
of bare trees,
from the coldest stones
beneath out feet.

But a light lingers
in your mind,
and radiates
in every
color from the
prisms of your eyes.

Happy Having Dreams

I am happy having dreams.
The good ones leave you flying;
the bad ones leave you falling.
Either way, you know you're still alive.

(Fragment)

And he sighs as he searches the skies for a sign,
while all of the time she is dancing directly beside him.

I have curled up into my dreams

I have curled up into my dreams, my love,
It is for their wonders I yearn;
And if I can learn to fly, my dear,
I fear I may never return.

But you can follow me straight, my love,
Through mist and magic and prayer,
For when in your dreams you appear, my dear,
I'll soon be with you there.

Played the Fool

I played your aimless games,
I took the drink that nobody would drink,
I heard you say that you could never think
of me that way again,
and drove home in the rain.
Now I throw my flag, I tip my king,
I kneel, and forfeit Boardwalk Ave.
And you? What do you have
to say? You simply play
the same hand, again.

Ellipsis

When the sun set, they held their breaths for it.
When the moon rose, they bathed their faces in it.
When the rain fell, they opened their mouths to it.
When the morning dawned, they filled their lungs with it.

And they were new again.

In the Dreaming

...And ere I wander through the mind and mist,
I chance a backwards look o'er my bare shoulder;
And seeing not the window of this place
I proceed on, and never miss my growing older.

It Starts

Alright, boys and girls. This is the beginning. This is the place where unemployment meets boredom. Then they go to a bar, pick up creativity, and head back to their apartment for a fun time.

Anyway, there's no telling how or when this blog will grow. It may become a wild, thriving landscape of poetry, prose, comics, song lyrics and other mindless ramblings. It may become an outlet for the things bouncing around in my brain, the imps that scribble and sing and howl at the moon, the devils that cause me to leap from one thing to another, never staying still long enough to finish what I've started. It may become a breeding ground for inspiration. It may become a symphony of thoughts and ideas, sparkling with a shimmering music that glows warmly in the darkness. It may become a home.

Or, it may become a desolate landscape, uninhabited by any living soul for years to come.

Exciting, eh?