kodiacast - Tumblr blog

kodiacast · 1 month

Text

Timing: Within the last week or so Location: Whichever cemetery is closest to the harbor probably Feat: @recoveringdreamer & @kodiacast Warnings: None! Summary: Just two confused folks lookin at a lobster

Felix had never really understood the appeal of cemeteries. It had always seemed a little morbid, the idea of standing on top of your buried dead and speaking to them as if they were there. Maybe it was the balam’s ability to see ghosts that made the concept a strange one, or maybe it was more tied to the fact that the dead person they’d loved the most hadn’t been buried in a graveyard. (Cremation had made more sense, their father said; the idea of someone digging up his mother for her pelt had been more than enough to convince Felix to agree.)

So they didn’t spend a lot of time in places like this, tended to avoid them altogether when they could. But… cutting through this particular cemetery was the quickest way home tonight, and Felix was tired enough to put aside their discomfort in favor of the shortcut. They had their hands in their pockets as they trudged past the tombstones, trying not to look at the names carved into the granite. Some were familiar; that was a side effect of growing up in Wicked’s Rest for the fourteen years they’d lived here before their father whisked them away.

A scuffling nearby caught their attention, and their head turned towards it instinctively. They were expecting to see a mourner or another passerby. They were not expecting to see a giant lobster. Maybe that was their first mistake.

Blinking, Felix stopped in their tracks to stare, eyes wide. They heard someone else approaching and quickly put their hands up. “Careful!” They warned, turning towards the stranger. Whoa, was he dressed like a fireman? Was it Halloween? Felix stared at him, too, for a moment before snapping out of it. “Um, careful. There’s a lobster.”

—

On the ranch, the weirdest thing Otis ever saw was a cow born with two heads. Only strange as a quirk of nature, rather than something truly bizarre. Wicked’s Rest however, had a panoply of oddities around every corner. The distinction between the stories in the writer’s head and the sights he’d spy on the streets had never been thinner. Never been so unclear.

He’d always seen things. Ones that shouldn’t have been possible, shouldn’t have existed. But hell, he could turn into a bear. Often would, if lacking in the esoteric eating habit he couldn’t seem to shake. Who was he to judge? Even so, he was hard pressed to find much else supernatural on the ranch. He was just an anomaly. Alone in kind but not in heart. His mother’s both saw to that. They didn’t care whatever he was, so he didn’t really put much stock into it either. Still, every so often, they’d be out in town and pass by someone who neither Brenda or Patti noticed a difference in yet Otis saw them for something distinctly un-human.

Maybe he just had a big imagination. Always had, actually. Maybe this was just a part of it. So why couldn’t he just be seeing things as that expansive mind thought they might be, rather than what they were. Otis never minded. Never brought it up even when talking to someone who looked much more like a bush than a barista, more like a shadow than a sales clerk. Wicked’s Rest was full of these strange visions. Otis assumed it was just because he was somewhere new. Somewhere more populated. Maybe the cold and dealing with northern attitudes had made him seek comfort in the strange. That made sense. He was content to leave it at that until, well, right up until–

“A lobster?” The firefighter’s path home had taken him through the cemetery. It wasn’t a great place to be at night (Otis’ relief had been late again, but the bear didn’t mind much) but it was much faster to get back to the shitty little apartment by going through, then circling the length of the whole field. He expected he might see some oddities. Always a daydream of a goth kid or two, some people pretending to be vampires, or an imagining of a zombie or something. He did not expect someone else to see the very same chitinous creature the bear assumed he’d conjured from his thoughts.

“You– you mean the big guy?”

—

The stranger — the firefighter? Were there firefighters in Wicked’s Rest? There must have been, since there were fires and all, but some part of Felix found it strange, somehow, like firefighters were too normal to exist in a town full of giant lobsters. — didn’t seem entirely put off by the lobster, and there was a moment where the balam wondered if they’d somehow imagined it. Had their mind invented a lobster where there wasn’t one? They had been under a pretty great amount of stress lately. Stressed minds saw things that weren’t there, and that probably included giant lobsters. But… no. That was ridiculous. This was Wicked’s Rest. If you thought you saw a giant lobster, there was probably a giant lobster.

This was confirmed when the probably-a-firefighter spoke again, asking about the big guy. Felix blinked, looking back to the lobster and holding up his hands. Palms out, thumbs together, carefully placing the lobster between his fingers as if to measure it before turning back to the stranger with a satisfied nod. “He’s pretty big, yeah,” they agreed, feeling fairly confident in the response. “I, uh… I don’t know if he’s friendly or not, but a lot of things aren’t, and he’s in the graveyard, and maybe he wants to eat someone, so I’d, um… Make a wide path.”

—

The scene was something out of a sunday comic strip. Two tall figures at the edge of a winding path, both staring out in disbelief and confusion at a sight that shouldn’t have been possible, but somehow they could both perceive. The monstrous lobster was scuttling to and fro. It paid little mind to the living, fancying itself with the fresh lump of earth it appeared to be quite fascinated by. Otis couldn’t help but be taken by musings. Observations.

Descriptions blossomed in his mind, the way he’d describe such a thing if it were to appear in Tales from Beyond. A mass of bright red bone-like structure, entirely too still until it began to twitch this way and that. Not unlike a spider, but much more bulbous, spiky. Its body swayed with a groaning grind of carapace against carapace as it dug at the freshly turned earth. Long spindly limbs akimbo. Too far to properly get a glimpse of its maw, though that particular fact was more of a blessing than any kind of problem.

Otis tore his eyes away for a moment, realizing how wrapped up he’d been, and how it had made him forget his manners. “...’preciate it.” He nodded, offering the stranger what he believed to be a smile, but in reality was no more than a twitch where his lips met his cheek. “...The heads up, I mean.”

—

It wasn’t as if Felix had never seen strange things in Wicked’s Rest. Felix was a strange thing in Wicked’s Rest. But you never really expected to see a giant lobster scuttering through a cemetery, did you? It wasn’t really something you put on your list of possible activities for the day. And yet, there it was. Undeniably present, unless the stranger at Felix’s side was messing with them. (But he probably wouldn’t do that, right? Firefighters were upstanding citizens. They had to be. They fought fires.)

Glancing over as the man spoke, Felix offered him a small smile. “Yeah,” he acknowledged. “Um, of course. I wouldn’t want you to get… Do lobsters pinch people? Is that — Is that something we should be worried about here? I wouldn’t want you to get pinched. He’s got really big claws, right? It’d probably hurt. My, uh, my brother used to say that normal-sized lobsters could pinch your fingers off. I don’t know if that’s true, but if it is, I bet a lobster that big could take off your whole arm. And you probably need your arms, for the firefighter thing. I mean, assuming you’re a firefighter. And not just dressed as one. I know other people dress as firefighters sometimes. I went as one for Halloween when I was a kid. Not that it’s Halloween now! It’s winter. Or spring. And Halloween is in fall. So…”

Trailing off, Felix looked sheepishly back to the lobster. They’d never been much good at this — at the talking. They always wound up saying too much, rambling on and on about things that didn’t make sense. Leo used to cut them off in the middle, remind them that no one really cared what they were saying. In some ways, Felix had come to rely on that. Without it… They’d go on forever, wouldn’t they? Rambling about things no one cared about to strangers while giant lobsters dug at the dirt. Embarrassing.

—

“...yeah.” While Otis wanted to wax poetic about the size of lobsters, and how he’d heard that up north they got big, and yet he wasn’t prepared to see something quite like the creature a few yards away. Instead, he nodded along. Soaking up the stranger’s words. Considering their position. The firefighter blinked a few times, tried to collect his thoughts into a coherent sentence. “Makes sense with the… big claws.” He nodded knowingly, despite how much he didn’t. “Bigger pinchers, bigger… appendages…right? Like it could take an arm maybe.”

A curiosity spread into inspiration, and the bear took out his sketchbook. Pulling it from the side pocket of the duffle bag he had slung around his back. Otis figured it wasn’t often that he’d get another up close encounter with the local wildlife. Certainly not on his way home. “...You dressed up as a firefighter?” Conversation, people liked that sorta thing, right? The other seemed better at it than he was. Not that that was a hard act to follow. “That’s… sweet.”

—

“Right! Right, yeah.” There was some relief in the way the firefighter seemed to understand the rambling stream of consciousness that tumbled from Felix’s mouth. Most people didn’t. The nice ones would just let him talk, while the less polite would snap at him to shut up. No one had ever agreed with them before, though. They weren’t really sure how to feel about it. It was nice, but it kind of felt wrong. There was something almost sad about the thought.

Craning their head a little as the man pulled out his sketchbook, Felix nodded absently. “Uh, one year, yeah. Another year I was Superman. I went as something different every year. I didn’t really dig repeats, you know? My brother went as Peter Pan every year for five years in a row, but I didn’t like that. I wanted to be different. And — And his Peter Pan costume wasn’t even really a Peter Pan costume, anyway. It was Robin Hood, and our mom just made adjustments, so it wasn’t…” Not important. “Um, are you drawing? In the sketchbook. Are you drawing the lobster?”

—

“... Superman? Fan of…comics then?” Otis liked comics. His moms kept a variety in their ‘library’. Everything from old anthologies to whatever came out recently, if they had a chance to run into the closest town with a geeky store anyway. “...Repetitive could get old, I see what ya mean. But if he liked it… s’pose that's well and good for him. Ta each their own pancakes, er somethin’ like that.”

The firefighter didn't look over at the other, might have felt a little bad about it but it seemed they were fairly interested in whatever he was doing anyway, and it required a lot of his attention. The pencil floated over the page, slowly shading in the details that he could see. Multiple angles, gestures and studies.

“Ah, yeah. Y’know. Never seen somethin’ like that before. Are…they common ‘round here?” Otis finally peeled his gaze away, fairly satisfied with the sketches for the moment, back to his manners and his new acquaintance. “I mean, if yer also from ‘round here. Guess there's lots a–” he paused, searching for the word transplants, but failing to find it. “–folks who moved from yonder.” He nodded. Nice. “Me– me too. I'm one of them. Guess you could pick that like a prize pie at a state fair, what with the accent…”

—

“Not really. I just kind of thought his costume was cool. I liked the cape.” And the spandex, though that felt a stranger thing to admit to. “Yeah, he liked it a lot, so that’s his, uh, pancakes, I guess.” They’d never heard it phrased like that before, but the firefighter seemed smart, so Felix figured he knew what he was talking about. If he said pancake metaphors were the way to go, Felix would support him.

It was fascinating, watching the man draw. Felix had never been much of an artist themself — they could manage stick figures, but anything more complex was out of their wheelhouse — so it was interesting to see someone work through a process like this. The firefighter made the pencil look like an extension of his own hand, and Felix didn’t think they could do that with anything. Not a pencil or a paintbrush or a knife or a sculpting tool. They didn’t even know what it was to have full control of their own body, given the jaguar of it all.

Humming, Felix shrugged at the question. “I’ve never seen one before, but I don’t know. That doesn’t mean they’re not common, right?” A lot of things like this had ways of avoiding detection. That was why so many humans lived in Wicked’s Rest without knowing that there was anything odd about the town, wasn’t it? “I grew up here. I mean, kind of. I moved away when I was a kid. But then I came back! So…” They trailed off with a vague gesture. “Yeah, um, it’s a cool accent. Like Bones in Star Trek. Or the cowboy in Night at the Museum. Where are you from?”

—

He could appreciate that. The taller figure nodded along. Thinking it through, remembering the sheet of crimson flowing behind the blue suit. Picturing it and rolling the idea around in his mind. Each thought bubble meandering through a syrup thick stream of consciousness, they met and multiplied, carrying off the bear’s attention through the roster of all things Kal El related. He was a nice boy. That memory stuck out amongst the rest. Otis’ mum had made sure to stress the importance of that to the young bear as he grew up. Superman was strong, but people liked him because Clark Kent was kind.

When the fog lifted, Felix had added more questions to the roster. Ones the man had missed. Lost to the night like the many, many, many limbs lost to the large crustacean by the small pile of corpses it was amassing behind its spiny legs. Otis’ brows lowered, coming to a halt in a straight line over his eyes. His lips responded in kind, curling into his cheeks making him look like an exceptionally confused and confounded chipmunk.

The very last question was the only one to sink past the fortress of frolicking thoughts. Otis shook the concern from his face, chalking down the lobster’s display as just ‘one of those weird WR things’. One he might have to talk to someone about. Probably. Whenever he had a moment. “Uh– yeah, I’m from Georgia. Just a bit outside Savannah, my mamas own a big ranch.”

—

Felix had never really been much of a superhero person. The outfits were cool — they’d always like the idea of wearing a cape — but the concept was a little too much for them. The idea of helping people by hurting them wasn’t one Felix could really get behind, even when the people being hurt were the bad guys. It was something their father had used as an excuse for decades, after all, a thing he’d spouted while Felix was stuck burying bodies. Felix didn’t want to be like that. Having freeze breath or laser vision or whatever superpowers comic books boasted seemed just as stressful as having a jaguar spirit living inside you who’d really like it if you started eating people more often.

The firefighter shot Felix a confused look, and Felix blinked, wondering if they’d said something wrong. They knew they talked a lot, in situations like this one; it was a nervous habit. They liked to fill the silence, liked to make sure there was always something to listen to even if it was only their own voice.

Still, the man didn’t seem annoyed with them, and Felix decided to take that at face value. If someone was mad at you, they thought, it was that person’s job to tell you they were rather than leave you guessing about it, right? They offered him a smile, nodding. “Georgia! I bet Georgia’s cool. There’s a lot of songs about Georgia, right? Um, did you like it? The ranch. Hey, do you know why they call ranch dressing ranch?”

—

“I mean– It’s actually pretty warm. Even in winter.” Otis misunderstood. It wasn’t that he’d never heard the phrase. One of the ranch hands used it pretty liberally, it was just never in the context of a chilly night in Maine where his mind was fairly preoccupied with the large creature going about its business, oblivious to the two chatting away at the edge of the cemetery. “S’pose there is songs, yeah.”

The other question was a lot more to consider. His moms hated the smell of ranch dressing, but Tawny, yet another ranch hand, loved the stuff. Put it on everything. Fries, burgers, peaches. It was a bit much. The sauce had a nasty acerbic stank that wafted out and around. Hurt the bear’s nose, made it itch and twitch and feel like he couldn’t orient himself. Fair to say he avoided the stuff as often as possible. So again, he was quiet for a bit. Stirring the thoughts inside like a big old pot of risotto, until it came together, finally. “Has milk in it.” Otis nodded.

“But- uh– You?” He realized, a moment later, that he’d been rude. When people asked questions, they liked to be asked them in return, right? “Where you from?”

—

“Oh,” Felix let out an uncertain laugh, not sure if the firefighter was joking but not wanting to be impolite either way. Was it worse to not laugh at a person’s joke, or to laugh at something they meant genuinely? Sometimes, it was difficult for Felix to pick up on little things like that. After all, they’d spent most of their life only interacting with their own family. Social interactions weren’t something they were great at. It was difficult to understand tone, sometimes, when the person speaking wasn’t someone you’d known since you were a baby. “Do you, uh… like the songs?” It seemed odd to make small talk in front of a giant lobster, but Felix wasn’t sure what else to do.

Milk? Of all the things Felix might have expected ranch dressing to contain, milk wasn’t one of them. Maybe it should have been, though — why else would it be white? Felix had never cared for the taste and, given their lactose intolerance, that was probably a good thing. Maybe their distaste for ranch had saved them an upset stomach more than once. “Do you eat a lot of it? On a ranch, I mean. Is that why it’s called ranch?” They were half curious, half filling the silence, but they really did hope that the guy might have an answer for them.

“Uh, I’m from here. Wicked’s Rest. I moved away for a while with my family, but I moved back a few years ago on my own. What brought you here? I know it’s kind of got, um, a reputation.”

—

It only ever dawned on Otis that the quip was quop in the presence of a laugh. Half-hearted as it may have been, the great bear was glad to have brought forth any amount of joy. Of course he always sought to add more, but fell short on any additional puns in the present moment. Instead, he nodded along. Thinking briefly on the second question before coming to a response.

“Some of ‘em.” Eloquence. Practically a monologue. Champion of conversation. He almost wished he could blame it on the lobster but, sadly, this was just kind of how the bear acted. Blundering along, all of his thoughts and all of his words so carefully kept and organized behind that thick skull. Never really making it out until he had a chance to put pen to paper or fingers to keys.

“Can't stand it, really.” Ranch dressing. Eugh. Put a bad name to what was a wonderful place in Otis’ mind. The most wonderful, probably. “Maybe… other ranches though.” He affirmed, not wanting to shut down the other’s idea. “We have more of a… peach thing.” A pause. “Orchard. Make all sorts of peach wines and mead. Got goats…. Honey too. For the– use it for the mead.” The words themselves seemed to mozy about with the same languid tempo his accent danced upon. Many pauses and noises that sounded an awful lot like a bear trying to root its way through a pile of rubbish. “Lots of stuff but not– no dressin’ or nothing. Though my mama did try and make a sauce, what with the peaches and the honey. Tasted mighty delicious on some fried chicken, I'll tell you what.” Something about being given space to complain a little was enough to open him up juuuust enough for a few more words to escape. A little more introspection to his introduction. Maybe more than he'd shared with most of the people he interacted with.

In the same respect, the big old lobster seemed to be satisfied with its haul and began to skuttle off, dragging the dirt laden bodies behind it. Heading in the direction Otis had to guess was towards the sea. He watched, half fascinated, half repulsed. “From here? You must be a whole lot more used to the…” A hand shuffled out in front of the tall man. Gesturing vaguely towards the creature. “Not so much of this back–” Half sentences were all he could muster each time before hearing another bone snap, or smelling the putrid essence of death.

“Came here for uhh– inspiration. Writing.” He admitted, though if Otis had been asked, he didn't know if he would answer truthfully to what he was writing. Couldn't risk losing the anonymity of his podcast. So maybe it was a novel. And hey, scary writers loved Maine. Look at Stephen King! Very plausible. “Bit too quiet back home. Strangely enough, it sorta… made it so I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. It's…. Nice to be busy up here. Tryin’ sum’n new.” Otis sighed and tugged at the bottom of his shirt absentmindedly. The fire department was a very different ball game to the ranch. Whole new team too. At first it was…. A bit too much. But it came to be one of the things he relied on now. The routine interlaced with just enough spontaneity to keep his mind flexible. To keep stories coming so he didn't have to… well. Use the strange stone that sat in the back of his closet and whispered in the deepest reaches of his mind.

“What brought you back?”

—

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense.” After all, weren’t there a variety of genres of songs starring Georgia? Country western seemed to be the most popular — for reasons Felix figured were pretty obvious — but there was no hard and fast rule saying a song about the state of Georgia had to be sung with a southern twang. And nobody liked every genre of music, did they? Even Felix, as flexible as they tried to be, had their preferences.

And clearly, the firefighter did, too. Felix wasn’t sure why they laughed at his response to the question of ranch dressing, but the noise slipped out followed by a quiet murmur of, “sorry.” Peaches, they thought, sounded a lot more appealing, anyway. “Oh, I like peach wine. It’s sweet. You know? I like sweet things more than the bitter stuff.” They couldn’t stand most alcohol because of the taste. More often than not, they found themself practically choking it down just to fit in with whoever they might be with at the moment. Leo had been fond of beer; he’d often chastised Felix for not enjoying the taste, tried to ‘sweet talk’ them into drinking more. Peach wine would have been better, they thought. “Does she make it often? I bet it’s great on chicken.” They smiled a little at the way he spoke about his mother, the look in his eyes, even if there was a distant pang in their gut at the thought of their own mother.

They’d almost forgotten about the giant lobster, what with the conversation and all. They only remembered it when it made a noise as it prepared for its departure, scuttling off towards home. Felix felt a strange sense of envy towards it, in a way; it must have been something wonderful, they thought, to be so sure of where you belonged. “Yeah,” they confirmed, wrinkling their nose at the stench. They were glad their abilities awarded them a way not to always have access to the jaguar’s enhanced sense of smell; they had a feeling this was the kind of thing that was bad enough with human senses. “This kind of thing happens sometimes. You learn to roll with the punches.”

They looked back to the firefighter as he spoke again, offering a small smile. “That’s cool. I always thought a writer looked like a fun job to have.” They’d wanted to try it once, had expressed some interest to Leo, who’d laughed and told them that writers were meant to be smart and Felix wasn’t. Like most other inclinations Felix had, this one had died in infancy, strangled before its first breath. Maybe it was better that way, in some sense. Better to never have a thing than to have it and lose it, right? “What kind of books do you write? Have you, um, published any?” It would be cool to read a book written by someone he knew, wouldn’t it?

The question sent Felix’s gaze back to their feet, and they shrugged. “I, um… I was dating someone who lived here. I moved back to move in with him, but…” They trailed off with another shrug, allowing a heavy, uncomfortable silence to settle. After a moment, they cleared their throat and looked back to the disturbed grave. “I, uh… I think I’m gonna fill it back in. I know the lobster made off with the body, but… It’s not really about the body, is it? And someone might come by in the morning. With flowers or something. So I’m gonna…” They took a step towards the grave.

—

Otis paused, eyes lifted up to the sky as if the stars peering out behind the partial cloud cover would act as some sort of cosmic shazam feature, letting him know all the Georgian songs he hadn’t heard of. When they didn’t, and he still didn’t know, he simply nodded again. A purse to his lips that still held deep consideration. “You got a mighty fine head on you, kin. Thinkin’ a things I ain’t ever pondered.”

This too, was something to sit on. They liked sweet things, and despite not even knowing their name, Otis filed that info away. After all, he’d have to find a way to thank the kind stranger for stopping him before becoming… lobster chow. “Sort of a special occasions thing. We had plenty of peaches, bein’ a peach farm n’ all. But Mama always had a mind about her that if we ate ‘em always, we’d grow tired right quick.” Otis didn’t think he’d ever get tired of them, but that was okay. It wasn’t like he couldn’t go out and sneak a stone fruit on the slightest of whims. What was more intriguing though, was the honey. More than once he’d gone and given himself a quick lick when the hives were calm enough. “Could try and get the recipe if ya like, though I ain’t much of a cook. Always… take it out… too early… More hungry than scared a’ raw stuff I guess.”

His gaze drifted again, on the wind, towards the beastie. Almost invisible beyond the treeline. Well enough out of their path that both of them could probably make their way forward, but ah– His new acquaintance had a better idea. A kinder one for sure. Otis followed, continuing the conversation as they moved to start filling in the emptied grave. “Couple of short stories, but not like… widely published.” His shoulders were built for hard labor. Nothing about this was too different from mucking out the horses' stables, or digging in the fields. Except maybe, the lack of shovel. But whatever. “S’pose if you see fit to give me a number or somethin’ I could send ‘em your way. Along with the chicken recipe.”

—

It wasn’t a compliment Felix got often, and they couldn’t help but smile at the words. They liked the firefighter, were glad that the two of them happened to be in the graveyard at the same time, glad that this strange experience had brought them together for a chat. It wasn’t the strangest way Felix had met a new person in this town, but it was one of the nicer ones. No harm done, no danger. Just two people who could find decent company in one another.

The promise of a recipe only made Felix’s smile widen, and they nodded their head. “Oh, I love to cook. Hey, maybe if I crack it I could make it for you! Then you can eat it without having to worry about being the one cooking it. Right?” After all, it was probably more than Felix would be able to eat on their own. They could share with Luci and Milo, too, of course, but… maybe the firefighter walking through the graveyard at night could use more friends to fall back on. Felix knew they could, at least. “And I promise, I won’t make it raw.”

Humming, they nodded again. Widely published or no, short or long, the stranger had finished something. That, to Felix, was a thing to be admired. Pulling out their phone, Felix offered it over for the man to add his number. Once he had, the balam sent him a quick text so he’d have theirs, too. “I’d love to read them sometime. And make the chicken, of course. Whenever you want…” They looked down at the contact that had been added with a smile. “Otis. It was great talking to you!”

#wickedswriting

9 notes · View notes

kodiacast · 1 month

Text

Timing: Current Location: Outside Maggie's apartment Feat: @woveninstardust & @kodiacast & Beezus Warnings: None! Summary: A firefighter helps a cat in a tree!

She was in a tree… A freaking tree. And it was all Beezus’s fault.

Usually, the cat was content to exist indoors. The fuzzball was, as Maggie affectionately referred to him, the laziest cat in the entire world. There was a faded dent on the arm of the couch where Beezus loafed about for hours at a time like a king holding court. The only thing that ever tempted him to leave the comfort of his throne were squirrels. And on that afternoon where the January snow had started to melt away under February skies, the squirrels were out in full force.

She’d been trying to gather her art supplies and sneak past the cat to go downtown and draw, but for such a lazy boy, Beezus moved like a speeding bullet. Before she could get in his path, the Maine Coon was darting out the door and scrambling up the oak tree in the front yard. Maggie followed suit, dropping pens and notebooks on the grass to gawk up at the bough of the tree. Beezus had lost sight of his prey, and was sat on a branch yowling at the top

It hadn’t been so high, she’d thought. There was a branch that she could pull herself up into and start climbing her way up. But there was a secret rule that no one had told the young woman as she tried to get to her cat: don’t look down.

Now it was Maggie who was clinging to a tree branch, eyes staring at the drop that awaited her should she let go. “Uhhhh…. Help?”

Lost in thought. Most of the time the saying was a figurative one. For Otis, more often than not, it became all too literal. Navigating on the ranch wasn’t hard. If he had been out with the horses amongst the cattle long past the dinner bell, the smell of dinner cooking at the homestead would always bring him home. Probably what brought him to the ranch in the first place. After a long day of work, nothing satisfied quite as much as the promise of a big supper.

Unfortunately, in Wicked’s Rest, all dinners had to be made by Otis, or written by him. All roads in town didn’t always lead back home. Sometimes they lead to a different neighborhood and a dangling body from an old tree. The bear’s gaze stirred from the concrete in front of his feet up and up until he was face to face with shoes. And a… girl? And also a cat. One looking decidedly more stressed than the other.

The branch groaned, gravity pulled. Otis held his arms out, the stranger fell.

A groaning branch was never a good sign. Why had she chased Beezus up the tree? Cats tended to land on their feet, right? Humans didn’t. If humans fell, they fell clumsily. She would fall clumsily. When she’d started climbing up, Maggie hadn’t thought she’d gone so high. But now with an impending fall, the ground seemed miles away.

Gravity was her enemy. Despite her best efforts, her arms grew heavier and heavier. Slipping, slipping… falling. A shriek rang out as the branch finally escaped her grasp. Maggie’s eyes were scrunched tight, bracing for the painful impact that was surely coming for her. But rather than hitting frozen grass and dirt, the girl felt something- someone?- catch her. It was a moment before one eye peeked open.

A man had caught her. A stranger. Had he been standing there waiting for her to fall? Who walked down the street and just caught weird people up trees. “Uhhh….” Her brain was trying desperately to kick into gear. Unfortunately, when one fell from a tree, it seemed the first thought was more ‘oh fuck, I’m falling’- and it didn’t go away very quickly.

“I was testing gravity.” Brilliant… dumbass.

Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that Otis was still in uniform. Walking to and from work was easier than trying to break out the truck, what with the parking situation around the station and all. Besides. The man liked his walks. Liked a chance to breathe in the fresh mountain air. To collect his thoughts. Some of his best stories came from those walks. Anything and everything could be inspiration. And while his uniform was a little uncomfy for the exercise, it afforded him a bit more credibility than a regular joe on the street who happened to catch a falling scientist.

It made sense, in his mind, that she would say she was testing gravity. Things were strange in Wicked’s Rest. There was a massive mountain of deep black obsidian looking stone that appeared out of nowhere (if the stories were to be believed.) There were some odd runs the station had taken Otis on, and a few too many things that couldn’t quite be explained away by his very vivid overactive imagination. Maybe gravity did work differently here. He didn’t know.

So he simply nodded, and gently let the girl down. “...Still workin’ then?” Otis questioned while looking up at the open boughs and branches. Hadn’t that guy Fig Newton discovered gravity in a tree? Though… that one had apples. This could have been an apple tree, he supposed. It was winter. Wasn’t like he was much of an arborist, the only trees he knew much about were the peach trees back at his mamas’ ranch. And they looked a lot different. Hell, all the trees up north looked different. It was one of the very first things he noticed. One of the first to give him culture shock.

There was still movement in the tree though. Hidden behind bare branches. He squinted, straining to see… right. The cat. He almost forgot. “That yer…” What did scientists have? Interns? Study-buddies? Shoot. “–Coworker?”

It was fortunate that the man- a firefighter, she noted from the crest on his shirt- had happened upon her when he did. If he hadn’t, she would probably be calling WRMed and asking them to send help. At which point a long list of family members and friends would come to yell at her for chasing after a cat into a tree while being patched up.

God, was Maggie relieved that wasn’t the case…

Beezus, the little shit that he was, was sitting on one of the highest branches yowling in frustration that no one had come to lift his fluffy butt down to safety. As the firefighter set her back on her feet, Maggie couldn’t help but scowl up into the boughs of the tree. “Coworker is a nice way of putting it…” Utter doofus fuzzball was probably more accurate.

“Gravity is still working the way it’s supposed to. Which is really shitty for him because he went up and now needs to come down…” She emphasized the last few words, hoping it would summon the cat back down. Instead, he just let out another pitiful meow.

The branches would be a problem. That high up they were more likely to bend and snap than someone who'd just walked out of legally blonde. Otis put his newly empty hands to his hips as he stared. The lonesome meows bellowed out and filled the air with a mournful song. Fortunately, he'd grown up on a ranch. Knew more than his share of barn cats. Knew full well how much they liked to sing, and how it usually actually meant they were doing okay. A little scared, sure, but cats didn't tend to tell people when they were hurt. So that was a blessing too.

“Been up there long?” He asked, still forgetting to introduce himself. Otis was kind of bad at that. For the most part, both of his jobs were functionally anonymous. One by design, couldn't have anyone knowing who wrote the podcast, the other because there was rarely time to exchange information before shuttling someone from the scene of some tragedy to the hospital. The people who needed rescues weren't usually the most conversational. And that was okay. For his part, Otis kind of liked it that way.

His head swiveled around, looking for something they could use to bring the feline back to ground level. They'd need– ah perfect. A house not too far off had a shed. An open one by the looks of it. Otis turned without a word, started trudging off to grab it. Either someone would be there to ask, or he'd get the ladder back where it belonged before they even noticed. It was for the greater good, right? Well, it was certainly for the good of this woman's cat.

Beezus continued to yowl like the most pitiful creature in the world, and Maggie cringed all the while. She swore the whole neighborhood could probably hear him- hell, maybe the whole of Wicked’s Rest was listening to the incessant wailing of a cat that thought himself braver than he actually was. The girl dragged a hand across her face in embarrassment. “Him? No… uh… I don’t think so, I think it just feels like he’s been up there forever because… ya know.” As if on cue, Beezus let out another long, warbling yowl of disdain for his current situation.

Suddenly, the firefighter was walking away. Not another word. Just walking. Right as she was about to open her mouth to thank him for keeping her from hitting the ground, she watched the guy walk across the street onto the Morris family’s front yard and straight towards the shed. Maggie stared, her bafflement turning to surprise as the man walked right back out of the shed with a ladder. Oh… Were firefighters just allowed to commandeer things they needed? Did they actually climb into trees to rescue ridiculous cats?

It felt like some scene from a tv show: do-gooder firefighter solves problem for inept citizen, specifically written in for some giggles. She was just a throwaway character in the story that was WRFD. Though, if there was a tv show about the Wicked’s Rest Fire Department, they would probably have an awful lot more scenes about ooze abnormality rescues or reindeer infestations or shiny crabs trying to commit arson…

“So the whole ‘firefighter rescuing cat’ thing isn’t a myth?” She asked as the man came walking back across the street.

With the shed owner nowhere around, Otis just bumbled in and out, grabbing what he needed and heading back to the tree where he started to set up very carefully. “Oh.” He paused, thinking back on his training before incorrectly answering the question. “Think it is. A myth… Most firefighters are… too busy.” Another pause, then he started to climb the ladder. “...At least while on shift anyways.” Which he wasn't. Though that was probably pretty apparent. Most firefighters stuck around the station for the most part. Unless they were on a run or getting dinner, or ingredients to make dinner. As one of the newer guys on board, Otis was often sent out as the errand boy. He didn't mind. He liked being useful.

A few rungs up the ladder the man stopped to look back down at the concerned scientist. “What’s his name?” Didn't feel right to pick up a furry fellow without at least knowing what to call him. Downright rude, what with the performance he was putting on. Practically an opera singer, open mic. Otis found himself actually sporting something of a smile as he listened. Talkative cats were adorable, he thought. Even if they caused a bit of trouble. Even if they got themselves stuck up in trees from time to time. Otis liked listening to people who knew how to express themself. He always found it… too hard.

Maybe there was a rule when someone became a firefighter that they had to be super brave. Maggie certainly couldn’t take a ladder up to the top of a tree without thinking. But the stranger clearly could. He didn’t even seem to hesitate when considering the climb up. How had she planned on doing it? She couldn’t even get halfway up- how the hell would she have gotten down with an armful of screaming cat.

“Beezus.” She’d thought he was a girl when she’d adopted him. Named him for one of her favorite books from when she was little. She and Frankie were probably a bit like Ramona and Beezus at times, though now she saw so little of her sister that she couldn’t make the comparison. Frankie was the smart one. Maggie was the artsy one. Frankie didn’t like monsters and Maggie did. It was just the way it was. “Despite the way he sounds, I swear, he’s a sweetie…”

“Beezus.” Otis repeated, committing the name to memory. If it was a reference, it wasn't one he understood. [Lou does though, Lou read the heck out of those books] In his mind, it sounded like something relating to a bee. And with the scientist's glowing testimony of the cat's supposed sweetness, he assumed the moniker was given because of how a purring feline often sounded like they’d swallowed a happy hive. Maybe it was a play on words. Bees and Fuzzy? Or maybe because he was sweet, it was like Bee Jesus? (Truthfully, the bear didn't know much of the gospel or anything like that. Mostly just heard the guy's name being used as a show of shock, or as a thanks for a harrowing rescue.) Not that it mattered too much. Not while Beezus was still terrified and tree bound.

“C’mere Beezus.” Otis cooed soft as his voice would allow. The tree was still softly swaying in the wind, but if there was one thing any firefighter worth his spit knew, it was how to properly anchor a ladder. His feet planted firmly, his arms were just below the yowling animal. The cat was scared, and looking for an exit, but he'd run out of branches a while ago. With a slow methodical patience, Otis brought his hands close, then quickly together. Capturing the capricious kitty in a gentle but sturdy hold. Claws dug into the arm that supported the little guy's undercarriage, but aside from that, he wasn't squirming all too much. Seemed safe enough to make his descent.

Two feet back on the dirt, turned towards Beezus’ buddy and carefully held out the cat. “There y’are.”

The moment the firefighter had climbed up into the tree and scooped Beezus, he stopped yowling altogether. Fussy baby. If she had managed to make it the whole way up the tree, Maggie had no doubt that Beezus would have dug those little murder mittens into her head and yowl the whole way down.

Beezus looked downright pitiful curled up in the man’s arms. By the time the the pair were on the ground, the cat was rumbling like an engine and snuggled into his hero’s arms. He meowed pathetically at her, as if offering a half-hearted apology. Little criminal, causing trouble…

Maggie sighed as she took Beezus into her arms, planting a kiss in between his ears. “Stinky. You are a stinky little guy.” She grumbled before looking back up. “Thank you, again…” Had she never asked his name??? Idiot. “Mr. Firefighter man… whose name I never got- I’m Maggie. But thank you..”

Cats usually felt so small in Otis’ arms, this Beezus was a welcome change, almost felt as big as one of the baby goats back at the ranch. Back on the ground he had half a mind to ask her about it. The idea lined up, the question formed, but all that came out of his mouth was. “Well alright, Miss Maggie, happy to help... I’m…Otis.” Between the long pauses, the bear somehow forgot how to smile properly again. Or perhaps he really never knew. What resulted from his efforts was more of a grimace. Lips drawn into a thin flat line, puffing up his cheeks just so. He nodded and stepped back, assuming that this meant the interaction was done. Wouldn’t have been the first time he assumed wrong, but wouldn’t be the last either.

“Keep–” Something tugged at his shoulder, begging him to turn and engage a bit more. Maybe it was the echo of his moms voice, telling him to get out of his apartment more often, maybe it was the warm spring weather making the sleepy bear feel a lot more sociable. “Keep a good eye on him, y’here? Got a good… cat there.” Another nod, and he felt satisfied. It was an attempt. A step outside his comfort zone. Hopefully he didn’t seem rude. That was the last thing Otis wanted.

It seemed to her that Otis was more at ease with animals than he was people. Maggie couldn’t say she blamed him in the least. People were hard, so fickle, so confusing. Animals, on the other hand… Beezus bonked his head against her shoulder, still rumbling on like a freight train, demanding love and affection after his clearly terrifying ordeal. The girl sighed a little and shook her head as she looked down at the silly cat. He was a handful, but he was indeed a good cat.

“Thanks Otis…” She called out after the man as he started to walk away. The cat in her arms gave a loud meow, as if mimicking his owner. “Beezus says come back any time if you promise to pet him!”

#wickedswriting

6 notes · View notes