Sunday, October 18, 2009

Where the Wild Things Are FanFic

At 21 years old, Max pinned a tail to his suit and sailed out towards the island. When he climbed up the shore he found the path to the forest that he remembered by sense of smell alone as now much of the trees that marked it when he was 9 have now been returned to dust. Beyond what was the fort was now a hilltop. It was not there before and seemed to be built as if to hold something secret in its belly. On top was a creature of a mass hugging a round stone. Carol looked up and saw Max and Max saw that on the stone was written "K.W." in a heart. Carol fixed his yellow eyes on Max and said "today's my birthday."
Max led Carol down past the fort and beyond the dusty forest and to the shore that held his boat. Max lifted up the sail and brought out a great chocolate frosted cake.
"It's mine too," said Max and they carried the cake up the hill to the round stone. Great sounds came toward them and Douglas and Ira and Janet and Alexander and The Bull made their way up the tomb.
Carol sat back and put his hand on the stone, unable to look at the wild things.
"Here, have some," offered Max, lifting up the cake and drawing back the attention of Carol's great yellow eyes.
"Yes, have some," agreed Carol, "it's still hot."
And they roared and howled and had cake.
Then the sun came and Max left knowing that Carol was with all his teeth now.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

The National Parks: America's Best Idea FanFic

"I felt their youth pulsate through the trees. I never will shoot a wolf in clear conscience whether in field or valley." - George Morgil
"For all the virtue that George Morgil wrote about, there was little known about the man who many considered the 'great grandfather' of the National Parks." - Harriet Beacher, Chief Groundsperson of Yosemite National Park.
George Morgil was found hung over a cavern three days after the park opened to the public. His body, devoured by the wolves he so often wrote about, was discovered by Teddy Roosevelt's personal secretary and friend, Rodger Helmsmith.
"It was a cool evening, I had just commenced a stroll with my son when we saw his body."
-Rodger Helmsmith.
"Dad, there's a ghost in that cave!" - Rodger Helmsmith Jr.
"That is no hovering apparition, but a human no longer tethered to this mortal coil but instead to a redwood tree over a wolf cavern. Stop crying. That man is George Morgil." - Rodger Helmsmith.
With his son's hysterics put to bed by means of a chloroformed handkerchief, Rodger Helmsmith extracted what were perhaps the final thoughts of George Morgil by means of a note deeply wedged in his throat.
"There is nothing more democratic than the magnificent beauty unmarred by man in his foolish pleasures. The wolf pack knows not of any sculpture or poetry, yet they add more to the landscape than any farmer or patriot. If by chance they eat of my flesh, let me run in them. If they by chance eat of my True self, let me impregnate them so that I may run with their cubs and their grandcubs alike and in stride. Let the children of this great land come to visit these grounds and look upon my children with a sense of equality. And if they hunger, let my wolf pack feed on them and make love to their bodies. Let the howling of the coyote seem dim in the light of the moans of my wolves. Let no great bald eagle fly where my wolves do not den. This is what is possible for I want of nothing less." - George Morgil.
The nation was reborn and in the wake of Morgilian thought and preservation, caravans of station-wagons reconnected with the country's past and ever-present future.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Coco B.C. fanfic

Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel ran quickly down the cobbled steps of her lover's apartment house and slipped on the rain-slicked street.
"Merde!" she said.
A foreigner passerby believed that she said "murder" and ran up the steps and into her Italian lover's hallway. The lover explained the misunderstanding and it was settled. That foreigner felt embarrassed and left a small drawing, signing it: "Pablo, Pablo Picasso." The lover showed it to Gabrielle and she was transfixed by the Spaniard's strange use of form.
Gabrielle picked herself up and continued running down the street as if her accident was a tenured teacher in nihilism. She had to get to the garment district before the boutique opened for the Monday morning rush. They were having a great sale.
She opened shop and stood behind the counter as people came throughout the day to try on wares of the current fashions and highest thread counts. Egyptian cotton was on everyone's must have lists. All around France, things from the middle-east were flying off the hangers - "even the planes" as the joke goes. She stared blankly at a German foreigner who kept responding to her sales pitch with "nein yards." Gabrielle realized what was happening after the third time and politely smiled at the German and moved on to another customer. The German, embarrassed for speaking a combination of German and English in France left the store but not before leaving a note for Gabrielle that read: "Dear Lady, sorry for the inconvenience. Here are 15 francs for the translator of this letter. Sincerely, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe."
Upon reading the letter, Gabrielle looked up to see her lover being taken away by interpol. His hands in interlocking cuffs looked like two letter "c's." She blurred her eyes and put on her "Piscasso filter" -as she came to call it- and saw that not only did they look like two "c's" but it looked like "Coco." Giacomo Casanova was then extradited to the Doge's Palace in Venice and lived out his days with a pet pig.
Coco, as her nametag now read, asked her boss if she could do some work for the boutique and she went on to make two popular quilted bags and five wonderful perfumes. When the boutique owner, Louis-Fran├žious Cartier, moved on to watches and jewelry - not to mention spend time with his son Alfred and grandsons Louis, Pierre, and Jacques - he left the store to Coco. She named it Chanel. Then word came that things were now Anno Domini.