Creative Differences

There they were writer and characters meeting for the first time without a mediator. Dobby was in the middle of the floor slightly...flattened. The dragon made it to Mom and the cookies first. The three children and their aunt quietly followed being sure to step over Dobby when they entered the room.

Mom was so surprised by the view in front of her she nearly dropped the pan of hot cookies on the floor. Slowly closing the oven door, she gazed down at the eager visitor. Furnatche looked up at Mom with his large eyes, begging her to share a cookie. Turning around to pick up the spatula from the kitchen counter, she deftly flipped a hot cookie on the kitchen floor in front of the baby dragon. Mesmerized by what she is seeing, she leans over to watch Furnatche closely as he eats.

“Careful, it's hot.” Mom instructs nearly forgetting the cookie sheet and the hot pad in her hand. “Amazing. You look so –real.” Mom says.

“That's because he is.” Peter steps forward to speak to Mom. “We all are.”

“That's impossible. You can't be. I made all of you up.” Mom whispers.

“Actually, you didn't make us up completely.” Paige says coming forward to help. “We have all been in your imagination in one form or another for a long time. My research shows...” the nine year old girl pulled out a thick notebook (Paige is a bit of an overachiever), “creative types like you have whole worlds just mucking around in your brain all of the time. Characters roaming all over in there.” Paige says gesturing to Mom's head. “Some can be seen and heard fully like playing a movie in your mind. Others are just a sentence or a faint line drawing. Many are fleeting visions similar to objects seen in a passing cloud. But when everything can be seen clearly in your imagination and the vision is transferred to written words fairly accurately you have a full blown story. Which is what happened with us sometime in November and December of 2010 you were able to see us. Eventually we were written into a full story, “Furnatche, The House Dragon.” When we become a story, we come to life therefore we are no longer a passing idea. We are living things. You have been ignoring us. We don't like it.”

“No WE DON'T.” Three year old Dylan says emphatically. He crosses his arms and looks stern mimicking his older sister's tone.

Aunt Purdy approaches Mom and says quietly, “I think what Paige is trying to say is that we miss the fun we were all having and were hoping you could write another story about us.”

“And...” Paige says prompting her aunt.

“We are wondering what you have been doing that is so much more interesting than having us over.”

Paige coughs loudly...

“Paige is convinced that as living characters of your book we have rights.” More coughing. “We will take steps to see that our rights are protected.”

“Steps. What steps?” Mom asks.

When The Dragon Smells A Cookie...

“What are you doing in the kitchen tonight Mom?” Dobby asks walking into the room.

“Celebrating Valentine's Day.”

“Mom? This is Saturday, Thursday was Valentine's Day. You missed it.” Dobby points out, while Mom is taking bowls, measuring cups and other baking supplies out of the kitchen cabinets.

“Dobby you are so silly sometimes. I didn't miss Valentine's Day, I was not feeling good so I delayed my celebration. I promised myself a batch of my favorite triple chocolate cookies. I am baking them now.”

The dragon. She is going to wake the dragon...I haven't told her about the dragon yet. As soon as Furnatche smells a cookie it's over. Dobby thinks for a minute. “Are you sure you want to do this tonight Mom? It is Saturday night and there is still the blog to write. You have been so sick lately. You wouldn't want to have a re-lapse.”

Mom stops taking out supplies and looks down at Dobby. “Baking cookies? Baking cookies is going to make me sicker? I went to work yesterday didn't I?”

“Yes.”

“If I can go to work, I can make cookies.”

“The blog. What about the blog? Doing both is going to be too much for you Mom.” Dobby says looking up at Mom with huge watery eyes. “I'm concerned for your health. Don't make me an orphan.”

Mom puts down the spatula she is holding and kneels down next to the ginger tabby. “Dobby kitty that is so sweet. I already wrote the blog.” Mom gets quiet for a minute then her eyes narrow. “Something else is going on here. There is something you don't want me to know about. Isn't there?”

Silence.

“It will make you feel better if you talk about it.”

More silence.

Getting back to her feet Mom goes to the bathroom to wash her hands. Returning to the kitchen she says. “Okay. I'm sure you will tell me when you're ready. In the meantime I am making my cookies. Happy Valentine's Day to me.”

Mom starts taking out butter, flour, sugar, cocoa, vanilla and her other cookie ingredients.

Dobby sits quietly for a minute. “So um Mom...there is something I have to tell you. I'm not sure how to say it. This could take a while.”

“Take your time.” Mom says, continuing with her cookie dough.

“Well see, a few months ago, you know, before we moved these um...people came looking for you. You hadn't seen them in a long time. You were really busy.” Mom turns on the mixer. “They are still waiting to see you.”

“What? Just a minute kitty. Let me finish mixing this up.”

Dobby curls up on the kitchen floor on the opposite side of the room to wait.

“Dobby, Dobby kitty? Wake up sweetie.” Dobby opens one eye, Mom has knelt down close and speaking to him gently. “Finish telling me what is going on. I can listen now.” Dobby stretches one leg out, then the other. Yawns. Putting his weight on his front feet so he can stand on all fours he stretches fully. Dobby shakes his head washing his face a bit. A gentleman doesn't break news like this without being properly freshened up.

An annoyingly loud beeping commences and Dobby prepares to run from the kitchen. Mom stands up and walks across the room.  She reaches out for the timer on the counter to stop that horrible beeping. Mom picks up her hot pads and opens the oven door. The aroma of warm cookies invades the room.

Dobby hears the sound of heavy feet thumping across the house. Loud puffing could be heard mixed with children calling, “Furnatche. No!” from the far side of the house. There was a large pair of eyes coming at the kitty then darkness. Dobby expelled air when the dragon's feet ran over his body like a flexible speed bump. With one last gasp of breath Dobby says, “When baking cookies watch out for the charging dragon.”

Darkness surrounds....

Mom's Meltdown

“Mom what are you doing in the kitchen? It's time to write.” Dobby says entering the kitchen.

“I'd like to, but once upon a time my cat made a deal a with mercenary selling his mother into a life of baked good, excuse me, cupcake servitude.”

“Come on, Mom. It's not that bad.” Mom glares down at the cat. “At first it was not too bad. Tinkletoes gladly accepted whatever I felt like baking. He still takes cakes, pies and cookies without a word. But the cupcakes...”

“Tinkletoes really has an intense love for your cupcakes.” Dobby offers gently.

“If you love something, aren't you happy just to have it? Did you see the note he left?”

“I saw it.”

“Did you read it?”

“I lost my patience with TP last week because he was cheating at our game of eyeball soccer, so TP took my ability to read away. I would have to say “no” .”

“Let me read some of it to you. I would like 24 cupcakes this week: regular size. 3- chocolate, 3 devil's food, 3 chocolate mousse, 3 mint chocolate chip, 3 chocolate fudge, 3 dark chocolate, 3 dark chocolate bacon, 3 chocolate coconut.”

“So he likes chocolate. Make a really big batch of chocolate batter and make them look a little bit different.” Dobby says.

“P.S. Don't make all chocolate cupcakes and try to dress them up like you did last time. I can taste the difference.” Mom reads off of the list. “Think about this...do the math. Do you have any idea how many recipes that is? Eight! I had to mix up eight different batches of batter! Bacon! Do you have any idea how expensive bacon is? Who puts bacon in a cupcake anyway? Where does he get this stuff?” Mom's voice keeps getting louder.

“Relax Mom, you look a little bit frazzled.”

“Me frazzled? I don't know why I would be frazzled!” Mom yells so loud her hair stands on end. “Wait just a minute, kitty. You haven't heard the best part.” “One of each cupcake should have chocolate frosting, one of each dark chocolate frosting, one of each white chocolate frosting except of course for the mint chocolate chip which should have crème de menthe frosting with one candy artfully plunged into the top of the frosting mound. The chocolate fudge should all have a chocolate ganache center, the dark chocolate a white chocolate cream center except for the dark chocolate bacon which should have a chocolate ganache center with a piece of bacon inside. The dark chocolate bacon cupcake should also have dark chocolate frosting and five bacon pieces on top. The chocolate coconut should be topped with coconut cream frosting with twelve chocolate sprinkles per cupcake. Tinkletoes has a serious problem.”

“That is?” Dobby asks.

“He is becoming the Howard Hughes of cupcakes. It's not mentally healthy for someone to be so passionate about something that is to be consumed for so long. Speaking of healthy, if he is eating all of these himself why isn't he getting fat? Why do we still owe him baked goods? I'm 42 years old kitty I don't have this kind of time left on the planet. If I did I'm fairly sure I wouldn't spend another 42 years baking these FREAKING CUPCAKES!!! Something has to be done about this. This week's batch of cupcakes is done I'm soaking in the tub. Make sure you get a date from Tinkletoes stating when this arrangement will be fulfilled and make sure he knows I will not be baking like this again.”

Mom and her hair leave the kitchen, loudly.

Tinkletoes enters the kitchen through the back door of the house. “Hey Dobby. Do you have the cupcakes?”

“On the counter.”

“They look fantastic. Your mom is one the best bakers out there. I am making loads of money at the nursing home down the street on these babies. This business idea was a great way to settle your debt with me.”

“You make extra money. I don't have to get my picture taken in a pink dress.”

"And the parasol, don't forget the parasol."

Running water can be heard coming from the bathroom, the door opening. Stomping feet.

“I forgot my towel! CRAP!!!” Mom yells, the bathroom door slams closed behind her.

Tinkletoes listens to Mom's frustrated exclamations. “Dobby are you sure your mom can handle it? I have been a soldier for a long time I have met suicide bombers that were more relaxed. A LOT more relaxed.”

“She's fine. This is just some new therapy she is trying. You pick your most difficult hour of the week and vent all your frustrations during that time. It helps her feel...happier.”

“If that's happy, I would hate to see her mad.”

The soap drops in the bathroom.

“CRAP!!!” Mom yells. (Vulgar language commences.)

“I think we should go now.” Dobby says. “Or clean up the kitchen.” Tinkletoes and Dobby leave the kitchen.

The Fowlest of Experiences

“I'm the pussycat. That doesn't make me a wimp Mom. I don't know what all the fuss is about anyway. It's a chicken. A CHICKEN.”

“Last week that is what I was saying. I learned my lesson. Do you remember that movie True Grit?”

“Yes.” Dobby answers.

“There is a reason the baddest hombre was called “Rooster”.”

 

“Sorry Mom. I'm not buying it.” Dobby declares.

“Let me tell you what happened and we'll see how you feel about it. Your Aunt Bridget lives next door to someone who had two roosters. The neighbor lets them run free. The roosters have decided that Aunt Bridget's yard is part of their um...hood. If you come into their territory they attack. The other day, Aunt Bridget told me one of the roosters was gone. It had gotten killed. I thought one of them being gone was a good thing, the other rooster would be a little bit less “cocky” now. Grandma and Aunt Bridget told me the surviving rooster had actually gotten more aggressive. I did not believe them. Both of them were just being “girly” about the whole thing. I would look at the rooster in the right way he would know I wasn't scared of him and that would be it. The next time I stopped by Aunt Bridget's I parked in her driveway knowing that there was a positive way to handle this rooster. The last rooster I encountered at the farm was cocky as can be with a fence in between him and me. Especially when I was walking away. I was confident this would not be different. Confident and on a mission. On a mission to be the kind of daughter Dad would be proud of. A woman that remained unflustered by some random, aggressive cock.  An independent and self sufficient woman.  A woman..."

“MOM! Focus. Quit skipping around the May pole.” Dobby says.

“There's a May pole, in February? Ouch! That was my toe you just bit!”

“Fo-cus! And I'm supposed to wonder how a chicken got the upper hand.” Dobby says rolling his eyes.

“Anyway, I parked at Aunt Bridget's looking around the yard before I got out of the car. No rooster.

  I thought to myself. 'That bird knew someone was on their way over that wouldn't put up with his crap. He better hide.' I decided to go pick up Aunt Bridget's mail. I walked down the drive-way, removing the mail from the box.  When I turned around to head back to the house there he was standing in front of my car's back bumper. It was exactly half way between me and the front door of the house. The rooster raised his head and stared at me with his eye. Daring me to come closer. I returned his stare, making sure he saw that I had two eyes not one eye on each side of the head therefore establishing myself as the superior animal. I walked slowly yet purposefully toward the car aiming for the side opposite the rooster invading his “hood” for as brief a time as possible. The closer I got the cockier he got. 

  Apparently parking my car in his territory makes it his car for as long as he wants it. I got past him without much trouble. The rooster postured and crowed a lot. He wanted me to fall or cower so he could really hit me hard. I never turned my back on him or fell. I just walked, backwards. Quickly.  The rooster came at me faster and faster. When he was within a foot (claw?) of me I broke and ran for the front door. I wedged myself between the front door and the screen door. The rooster followed. When he saw where I was he slowly strutted by giving me a one-eyed glare.  But then, when I felt safe like the crisis was averted, I did it.”

“Did what Mom?” Dobby asks.

“I stooped to the rooster's level. As he was walking away, I said, “You think you're a bad ass don't you? Stupid cock.”

“You just had to do it didn't you?”

“I totally egged him on.” Mom says, looking down ashamed.

“He came back, jumped on the step ready to strike.” I pushed the doorbell with left hand and knocked with the right, calling. “Bridget. BRIDGET. BRIDG-ET!!!” After Aunt Bridget opened the front door and I was safe the rooster went for my car. I'm telling you, that is one bad hombre Dobby.”

“Did you ever think of doing this, Mom?” Dobby asked, snapping his foot pads. Mom and Dobby were taken back to Aunt Bridget's front porch. Mom is wedged between the screen and front doors with her back to the door, freezing. Dobby is standing behind the rooster, warm and stylish in his outlaw hat and brown leather duster. Dobby holds a paw up, a low crack is heard and the rooster falls over starting to smoke.

“Dobby! What did you do?”

“I fixed the problem. I used a taser on him. Now you're safe. We have fried chicken. Would you like a leg or a wing?”

Message from Dobby:

*No animals were tased or harmed during the writing of this blog.  We do not encourage or condone this behavior.  

  One human was bit on the toe.  But she had it coming.  Seriously.