Direct Characterization

She stood at the entryway, hair adorned with hand picked flowers. Her white summer dress was stamped with her own soiled hands as predicted by her mom. In one hand she held a stick, gnarled and twisted with a cluster of green leaves at the end. The other hand held her bottom lip. She had a habit of pulling it when she laughed. Her giggling had subsided. She waited. Feet scratching the back of the other calf as she balanced. The laces of the hard hiking boots made for a good scratch. Her smile longed and anticipated entertainment.

Minutes had gone by. From each angle she tilted, there was nothing to be seen – nothing to be heard – nothing to enjoy.

The strange noises that had drawn her in stopped. At first it sounded like whining, then it sounded like singing, and finally it sounded like it wanted to talk. Also stopped were the funny movements, a sort of dance or a swim that reminded her of a robot toy on its side. All this replaced with the rhythmic sounds of snoring and immobility.

She was bored.

Memories of summer afternoons came, her father asleep on the couch. Covered in his favorite fleece blanket. It was thick, soft, and grey, and she loved the way it felt against her face when her face rested on his tummy. For years she believed her dad gave birth to her and listened to gurgling sounds that came from his tummy, wondering if she was about to get a baby sister. She would stare at him while he slept, following every wrinkle around his face with her finger on her own. This would eventually bore her. She loved her father. And loved him even more when he beamed. An impossible action when he slept. Pulling her sleeve over her hand, she would dangle the end over his nose. In no time he’d sneeze and wake up to an eagerly innocent looking daughter. That was when she’d laugh and that was when he chased her, beaming as he does.

Step by step she made her way over, stick raised, leaves bobbing.

She could barely keep herself from laughing.

“No,” her dad whispered.

He swept her up from behind and carried her out. She had no time to react. She couldn’t comprehend what happened. All she knew was she lost her stick and she left without so much as a wave goodbye.

The ugly bear closed his eyes.

It was still time to sleep.

Sleep long enough to dream.

Dream about all the wonderful stories.

Stories like the one about the girl who awoke the bear.

Awakening in Slumber

Running late and eating dinner while driving is one risky task navigating the streets of Los Angeles. Throw in a phone call and asking for directions made it AAA’s #1 cause for a car accident. So I considered myself very very lucky, as I made it there without being late.

It was dark and quiet, not to the point of silence, but quiet. As in everyone was trying hard not to be loud, keeping their voices down. Whispers of uninteresting conversations breezed by my ear as I shuffled in. Pews and pews of folding chairs were lined up in the middle of the auditorium. Many sat in the front rows while I proceeded to the back, the very back, against the wall back. My co-worker was there tending to some electrical board.

“Just in time, we’re about to start.” He called out to me, “go take a seat.”

“If you don’t mind. I’ll just hang out here.” I asked.

“Sure,” he said hesitantly, “I don’t see why not. Just get out of our way.”

“Oh sorry.” I realized standing in front of them.

Apparently, he was with the sound-board engineer. I stood listening in on some apparent problem with some foreign interference in the “stage right” speaker. My co-worker filled me in on what that meant.

“So it’s my left.” I said.

“Yeah, everything is about who ever is on stage.”

“Their left is our right.”

“Yep. We’re just lackeys.” He continued on, “There’s also up-stage and down-stage…”

Theater was an interesting world. This was my first time being exposed to it from a technician’s point of view. Not saying I’ve performed on stage, no not even close. If it were anything, I would have just be an audience participant in the rare case I found myself in a theater… other than a movie theater. So this was really interesting for someone who sits behind a computer all day.

He went on talking about what volts and watts meant and how they tied into the power capacity. But at this point I had already tuned out wondering why I was actually here.

Other people that stood around back appeared to be technicians too. Talking about the night’s program they kept passing printouts around. A strange sense of anxiety and excitement radiated form them. The aura pushed me to the far corner of the auditorium as I tried my best not to get in anyone’s way. My co-worker had already gone back to the sound-board. He had good ears because I was starting to hear what he had been noticing. Almost like the speaker was picking up a radio station. Impressive. Especially since he was suppose to be the lighting guy.

Then a female voice let out the cue, “Okay, let’s start.”

A spot light flashed on to a curtain off to the left. Then a thundering voice came on the speakers as a heavy-set figure emerged, welcoming the audience. Draped in blue from his cap down to his jeans, I luckily outsmarted my ignorance and ruled out that he was gang affiliated. His allegiance was to another following.

I couldn’t help but to watch the audience. Their eyes fixated on the orator. Every word seemingly striking a chord I had yet to string. That would have been me. Actually, it was suppose to be me. I am supposed to be sitting there getting my eyes and ears bombarded. A religion was being preached in the undertones of this gathering. An old religion to many, but a renewed one to me, one that I knew well, one that I had left so long ago.

As the man in blue finished his introductions, he presented the first speaker. She was mad, angry, at some establishment of coincidence. An issue that was a result of several solutions aimed at solving a separate matter. I wanted to say it was idiotic. I wanted to say it was trite. This was how the world is and this was how it worked. But as I stood there and listened to the venting, I realized. I had played this game for too long. Been in this world did wrong. Succumbed to the fact that there was nothing I can do to change it. Better yet, why even change it when I can use what I know and reap the benefits I see others do. That’s what we were taught to do, be opportunists. That’s what I have been doing. And these are the people, people like me quell. Yet, they still fight. Maybe they even know as much as I know, or even more, and still they protest.

The next speaker was more eloquent, more harmonic. His ranting was about a lost love. It was geared at tugging on an issue we could all relate to. I moved in closer. Coming closer to the stage area while still hugging close to the wall. The message was unclear to me. Maybe he was just venting, because what else can you do? You loved. You lost. You recover. That’s how things work. Though it was done as a ballad. So it wasn’t so bad to listen to.

Just then my vision was obstructed. You’d imagine standing you’d have a clear view, but I happened. She came up next to her friend and stood in my way. I waited to see if she’d noticed what she was doing, but nothing. Good thing it was a song. I really didn’t need to see the singer, just needed to hear.

She giggled at something her friend said. Then if it were natural to throw one’s head back giggling, she arched herself back and looked at me.

“Hello,” she said.

Wide eyed, I responded, “Hi.”

I turn my gaze back on to the stage. Not because I now have an unobstructed view, but I wanted to act like I wasn’t uncomfortable as she continued to stare at me like that. Not sure how long it lasted, but eventually she turned back to her friend. As the opportunist I am, I took that moment to find another place.

“How are you liking it so far?” My co-worker asks as I head back.

“Interesting.”

“Ha ha. Not like the world of ones and zeros and logic.”

“Nope. A far cry from the corporate world.”

The singer finishes his last song and is met with applause. The man in blue returns to the front. Several announcements are made about local events around the area. None seem interesting so I turn back to my co-worker.

“Ever find out what was wrong with the speaker?”

“No. But check this out.”

I lean back to look at what he was doing.

“If I turn on this light,” he flicks a switch. “We get interference.”

Some radio station announcement comes in as a feint hum through the speaker. The audience is completely unaware. He flicks the light off and back on. The man in blue gives us an annoyed look. We both start laughing.

“How is a light causing that?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out the past hour.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Keep the light off of course.”

I turn to look at the stage, “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Nope. We got plenty of lights. I made sure of that. I think that light is overkill anyways.”

I nod as if I knew what he meant.

“Now get out of the way. Next act is coming on.”

There were a lot more people now standing around. This was just like my old church. Every latecomer feels that standing is a form a penance for being late. Makes you wonder why they just don’t have kneelers for the late attendees.

I decide on a seat this time, the very last row. There was no one but me in the row. This was it. I am committed to this now. I am now an audience member. The next group to enter the stage area was a comedic group, an improvisation group, named after some gelatinous paste I dislike in Asian cuisine. Soybeans, mashed up and presented in cubes supposedly makes for better presentation was hopefully nothing like these people who took on its name.

Actually, they weren’t like their culinary doppelganger – bland, soft, and disgusting. They were pretty funny. I know, not something tasting funny is a good thing, but for them it was. They called out for member participation. Sitting in the back, I didn’t think I was going to be heard, so I blurted out words to help add to the audience commotion.

“And what is your favorite pizza topping?” The man with the buzzed hair and glasses asked.

“Mushrooms,” I said in a tone easily overshadowed by the screams.

“Mushrooms!” the girl at the end of my row yelled out.

“Mushrooms it is!”

I look over to see the same person that obstructed my view earlier sitting there. A haunting image as to why this person is making my first time here difficult. I’m just glad I’m not being pulled onto stage. When she glanced over, I shot my focus back up to the stage, grinning and acting totally comfortable with myself.

The stage routine goes on using the bits provided the audience. For a team that has to be compared to such shows as “Who’s Line Is It Anyways” they did a good job. I felt myself laughing at times where I quickly hid it, hoping not to give any sign that I was succumbing to the ideologies of this gathering.

Once the act ended and the next one came on. I sat and thought about it. Was the message really that bad? Or was I just scared to take up the ideas once again? Put myself out there and let the wolves try and pull apart what they can. Damn t, why am I such a coward. I couldn’t even tell that crazy girl to get the hell out of my way. If I take up this belief once again I need to be stronger than that. There are many things you can do with that belief. Some use it to rage and protest others to repair and console and obviously others use it just to entertain. They all use it as fuel to just keep up the fight. And the rest of us infidels try our hardest to stop it, actively and passively. That is because deep inside, we are just scared. Scared of those that are creative. They are the ones that lead us all to change, with words and ideas. Presenting a possible level of instability against the solid world of now. That was simply it, the religion of creativity.

As the collection box was passed among the participants, I decided to join, and pulled out two dollars.

“So what do you think?” My co-worker asks after the show.

“I like it.”

“So you want to help me out here?”

“I guess,” I tried to put it delicately, “but maybe not with all this lighting or sound stuff.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t want to think too much.” I thought about it some more. “And I so don’t want to screw up the show. Give me mundane stuff to do. Like I’ll help pack up these chairs and take down the lights.”

“Umm… okay,” he shrugged. “You’re going to her about that.”

My co-worker flags down the organizer of the show. If it weren’t for his swift hands she’d flown right on by. She stops and turns to us with a smile. I recognized her even without her face being upside down. I want to believe I showed no levels of discomfort, but all that equated to was me standing there in awkward silence. She simply took the initiative and introduced herself.

“Hi, my name is Traci.”

The old gray bear’s foot twitches in his sleep. Right about now, I imagine a huge grin appearing deep in his slumber.

Sleep

“It is time,” echoed the low deep voice, every word emotionless.

The muse didn’t react. He sat motionless on the rock overlooking the green valley. It was late afternoon, sun still well above the horizon. For winter, it was a warm day, even with last week’s chill. Today had turned. Once again, the weather that is Southern California returned. Warm rays radiated the copper wrinkled skin of the muse. His eyes were closed. One leg dangled off the rock, while the other cradled in his interlocked hands. He was soaking up the generosity of their star.

The large gray mass had already begun moving.

Each step was slow and tiresome. Each step crushed what little wild life lying under.

“I’m right behind you,” said the muse, eyes closed still motionless.

It wasn’t that the muse was ignoring the large bear. He was simply giving it a head start. Utilizing all the time he had as possible. That was his specialty, efficiency.

Spinning around, he popped up from the rock, at full attention, imitating a soldier. His walking cane shouldered like a rifle. With an adjustment of his cowboy hat, he strode up to the bear.

The muse wore the guise of an old man. He felt it very befitting as he skipped around twirling his cane. Old to many, but full of spirit, this was how he wanted to be seen and this was how he wanted to inspire. Visually, he looked in the seventies. Using the human way of measuring, he was really ten centuries old. However, in his, he was just a sprite – full of spunk and full of ideas of making the complex overly mundane. The bear often ridiculed the muse for over simplifying things. But of course, that would be precisely the muse’s point all the time.

“You’re making things more complex than they should be. It’s simple…”

That was the reasoning to almost everything. It annoyed the bear.

“Why not enjoy the weather a bit more?” asked the muse skipping.

“No,” the bear huffed, heaving as he continued up the path.

“We haven’t seen the sun for a week.”

“It will be there tomorrow.”

“You won’t be.”

“I need rest.”

“From what? All we did was talk,” the muse pushed on.

All he got for an answer was the bear’s enormous lumpy backside, swaying as it trudged up the path. While most grizzly bears were brown, this particular one was gray. The white strands of age made him look silver in certain light. Most creatures, including the occasional human, stood in bewilderment whenever they crossed paths with the beast. Of course, it has been said that humans stood more in fright as the bear weighed in at eight hundred pounds and occupied the space of most large trucks. Actually, there was no real substance for the fear. The bear admired the world of mankind and if it were not for the muse, he wouldn’t have known a thing.

“All we ever do is talk old man.”

The muse smiled walking on, “I guess we do. I like talking.”

“Yes you do.”

“It’s the simplest form of communication. Besides, you can’t read.”

As true as that was, the bear wished the muse knew when to be quiet. His voice could be heard half a mile away when the bear hunted. That resulted in a new vegan diet of nuts and berries whenever he came around. And on some nightly visits, the bear had to keep him outside and let him talk about the stars as the bear slept. The muse was an endless supply of tales. Then again, he wouldn’t be a good muse if he could just turn himself off at anytime. The lore of a muse is that he or she should always be welcomed.

“I have always wondered…” started the bear.

“Wondered? I’m finally getting through to you old furry friend!”

The bear waited for the laughter to stop saving most of his breath for their hike.

“What do muses dream of?”

The words stung the old man. He wasn’t sure if the question was an insult or some rhetorical conversation opener. The mere thought invalidated his existence.

“Dream? Are you sure know what that is?”

“Yes.”

The old man words barely formed, “Why… my friend, would you ask me that?”

“Curiosity. You provide dreams, why can’t you dream?”

Laughing, figuring it was a misunderstanding in semantics, the muse answered, “You mean inspiration. I provide inspiration.”

“No. I mean dreams.”

“Inspiration.”

“Without a dream there would be no inspiration to come out of it.”

The old man’s face gave a strange puzzled face. Even he noted the expression. Muses hardly were puzzled all they did was talk, sing, or dance, all to inspire. Being puzzled never came across in his line of work.

“That’s an odd way to think of things.”

“What do you dream?”

Again. The question felt unnatural.

“A generous man never wants anything in return, that’s a contradiction to the term. If he gives out food, he doesn’t want food in return. Gives out money, obviously he doesn’t need money. A muse is the same thing, right?” his thoughts went on.

“I don’t know,” the words were flat. “I guess I never know exactly what you creatures go through. Day in and day out, you do the same old thing. Wake up, do what ever it is your kind expects you to do, eat, then back to the same thing, eat again, then sleep.

Then I come around and something changes. You do something your kind either scoffs at or praise. Smiling or frowning, you go back to the same old thing. Sleeping, eating, working, eating, then sleep. There are other things you creatures do. They range differently among the species. Interactions with one another, humans say love, animals say nurturing, I just say reproducing. It’s as simple as that. Something I lump into working, something your kind expects you to do.”

Trees were crowding the path now. The warm sunlight flickered through the movement of leaves. The pressed on in silence, question still fresh on their minds.

Mulling over his thoughts, the muse went through his generalization of the animal kingdom. There was something in there he was curious about. Something that drove all creatures. It was simple and it was found beyond just that of the animals.

“Maybe there is.”

For once the bear turned to the muse, still not losing one lazy stride.

“If I could dream, I’d imagine I’d dream of… cooking.”

“Cooking?” the bear stopped in his tracks.

“Yeah…” the muse looked beyond the clearing ahead. There was something there besides the bear’s cave. It was a picture of him doing what he’s seen others doing. “Yeah, cooking.”

Images of himself making culinary delights for people raced through his head. All would be laughing and smiling as they devoured his food. The praise and thanks he would get. The feeling gave him a warm feeling in his stomach.

“You are still generous dreaming for yourself,” the bear admired, turning toward his cave.

“I guess. I’d called self-conscious, if you break it all down.”

The bear rolled his eyes as he left the muse behind.

“What do you dream of?” asked the muse.

“Salmon,” roared the bear.

The muse was thrilled. “Salmon! Ha. I wetted your appetite.”

“Rivers full of them.”

“Ah yes. So full, you wouldn’t even have to move to catch them. Just open your mouth and let them hop right on in!”

Grizzly bears don’t laugh, but with a huff, this one did.

“That’s called prosperity. Where you hardly lift a finger to get fed.”

“Then it is prosperity I  dream of.”

Coming to a clearing

“Well, prosperity will come in its due time. Maybe after even after you wake.”

River fulls. That would be a good dream. All the others will be there as well, even the little one. Every one of them, not knowing what to do in the flurry of salmon that jumped around, all they had to do was open their jaw whenever they were hungry. The times will be great once again. The rivers may be emptying up now, but if we dream hard enough, we’ll make those rivers flow again. Flow full of salmon.

“Sleep well old friend,” the bear entered his cave.

The muse rooted himself outside, like he did every winter. “And you, dream and dream well. Tell me more stories when you awake.”

The old bear found his smooth slab of rock inside. Curled. And went to dream.

The Farm

Roger rolled over pinning JP under his chest. He was having another nightmare. Whispers and broken phrases about school life randomly spewed from his mouth. He tossed and turned, but not once was it enough for JP to squirm free. JP was powerless to do anything. Being only five inches tall, JP was minuscule compared to the nine-year-old Roger just over four feet. It may also be detrimental that JP was in fact a stuffed animal.

JP Bear, as his full name appears on his birth certificate, is a little brown furry bear with a red sweater. His head was small and round with two lumps serving as his ears and two black beady eyes sunken into his furry face. A sole indentation under his protruding jaw hinted at a permanent mischievous smile. His limbs were mere stubs ending in a patch of light brown. None of which could help him under the weight of Roger.

So JP did what other stuffed animals do, just lay there and wait. He had plenty to think about. Predicaments like this were rare. Usually the gentile Roger knew where his lovable bear was. He took every precaution necessary to keep JP out of harms way. At times, Roger had also fended his mother off from bathing JP. It was something JP deplored. Not only does the whole ordeal leave him soggy and wet, it robs the scent from his fur. It was the only thing that made the two so alike and told any other stuffed animal that he was his. These days, for Roger to just even acknowledge a wave from JP, was wishful thinking.

Roger was growing up and every attempt JP had of getting his old friend’s attention always ended up with the same old line.

Jumping in front of the television, “Bad bear!”

Pushing off other toys off the bed, “Bad bear!”

Unplugging the computer, “Bad bear!”

And that was all he got stowing away in Roger’s backpack, enduring an four hour drive out to the cabin, only to pop out of the bag and seeing Roger’s disapproving look, “Bad bear!”

The words hurt deeper than he imagined. Even the permanent grin engraved on his mouth couldn’t erase the mood that came over JP. That was it, he thought. It was time. JP needed to grow up as well.

Roger finally turns onto his side revealing an outstretched little bear. His form slowly refilling from the time it was compressed. Though, JP still laid there staring up at the ceiling. He looked over at Roger, came to him, and gave him one last hug, breathing the last scent of his adolescents. Turning away he started to make his decent off the island, the bed. Once a sanctuary, the bed overlooked the ocean of what was below. As JP came down, he saw everything. A lost ball under the bed. Dirty clothes thrown about on the floor. The bedroom door was left open and JP ventured to the living room. It was dark and empty, except for a few night lights that lit up various areas of the room. His beady eyes scanned till it found the front door. With just one last glance back into the room, JP made his way out the dog hatch and was off into the wilderness.

JP’s first steps into the woods foreshadowed what his new life will entail. No longer is the ground clean and hard like the tabletops of desks or soft and bouncy like the beds and couches he once played on. No, this ground was damp, dirty, and very unforgiving. Every step he took, darkened the light patches of fur on his feet. Small twigs and insects threatened to snag him as he walked aimlessly by. There was no real sense of direction – just tree after tree, brush after brush. The only point of reference was the cabin, which disappeared behind him a good thirty minutes into the journey. He was officially lost. But this lost was different from the stories of being lost Roger had read. No monsters we chasing him, no hunger to worry about, and most sadly, no one was looking for him. He was just out there, living what he believed living should be. It went on like that for days. Wandering around the forest, seeing new sites, watching the skies in case rain came, trying to communicate with squirrels and birds. Until finally, he came across what he’d imagine could help him. A den of bears, brown bears. This was it. He found where he belonged, among bears. They were larger, and of course, none of them wore a red sweater like his, but they were brown bears. He rushed and greeted everyone with a more than enthusiastic wobble of his arm. The bears let out a short roar, which didn’t sound threatening nor did it sound agitated. JP paused to judge any reaction that came from them, but since none came about, he joined the bears.

Months went by as JP adjusted to his newly found life with the den. This was growing up. The bears taught him how to hunt and gather and even eat. It was something JP failed at miserably, but he tried his hardest. He was too short and slow to run after any animal. He had no real mouth to bite let alone eat. He just spent his time gathering berries for the den. Most of which fed only one cub. This was the harsh reality of growing up he assumed. Work was hard at it barely seemed enough. There was no longer play time. This was the way it is as a grown up he thought. And their form of play was nothing he could enjoy. The way the gnarled and climbed over each other was a feet far beyond his capabilities. Although, there was one occasion he did try to play with the smallest cub. That only ended up with JP’s head covered in saliva and dirt. Which was the least of the damage as he saw what the fangs could have done to him.

So JP had settled his role with the den. He provided berries for the young for a small spot in the cave. This was his life, humble and productive. Yet there were nights he sat and wondered about the life he had before. It was naive of him to think it would have lasted forever. Everyone has to grow up. That was the reasoning he gave himself. Now this is the life he’s expected to live from this point on.

It wasn’t until one day he was returning home to the cave. Carrying more than his usual load of berries that topped just at eye level, he walked straight into a rose bush. The thorns poked and scraped him. The priority of berry gatherer dropped to the ground and JP spent the next moments carefully untangling himself. It wasn’t because the thorns caused him any pain. Of course not, he was a stuffed animal. It was the fact that a thorn could rip him, damage that would render him useless as a stuffed animal. It was tedious getting all the thorns off of him. Even the sweater received as much care. But the one thorn that was the most important rested just under a thread that shaped his paw. JP had freed the rest of his body just so he could deal with that one with his other limbs. But before he could get to it, one of the cubs came over and shoved him over to get to the berries. With all the wear and tear his paws had endured from this lifestyle, it didn’t take much for the thorn to snap the thread. JP fell to the ground and stared at the dangling thread. He’s come undone! JP frantically waved his paws to get attention. But none of the bears understood. They just saw a happy bear waving to them. So they just roared and went back to the den.

Why didn’t any of them understand? A broken thread for a stuffed animal is terminal. There’s no way he could do anything to fix it. It’ll only take a matter of time before it starts unraveling. That thread probably held his whole body together. It was mortifying.

JP sat in that spot for three whole days. Not moving in fear the situation would get worse. Only the same cub from before came by to see him and it was only on the first day. Seeing JP had no berries for him, the cub never returned. Once again, JP was forgotten. It wasn’t until the third day did someone come. The footsteps were familiar, almost forgotten, human footsteps. JP turned frantically back and forth until he saw him.

The man stood tall. JP wanted to think it was Roger, but this man bore no resemblance. His hair was blond and his eyes were sunken with a rough beard just growing in. He wore a cowboy hat with matching boots. The outfit fit most depictions JP saw in Roger’s picture book for a cowboy.

“Well hello little fella,” the man knelt down to greet JP. “My goodness, what do we have here.”

JP wondered if he should growl and be mean like he’d imagine the other bears would, but he decided to nod.

“The name’s Seb, good to meet ya.” JP accepts Seb’s handshake. “OK son, let’s have a look. Ah, you’re just snagged, just take a sec to unravel it.”

Seb’s surgical hands untangled the leftover thread from the thorn bush. He notices JP squirming and keeping his eyes averted from his feet.

“There you go. Bet that was a relief.”

Slowly, JP turns and stares at his foot. He lifts it up to reveal the dangling thread.

“If you want, the misses can patch that up for you.” Seb looks back toward the den. “That is, if you’d rather go back to your kind.”

With a little shake of his head, they were off.

If it weren’t for the mess in Seb’s truck, JP would have felt guilty for being so dirty. He looked more like a black bear these days. His red sweater was soiled from months of being in the forest and the little brown patches of light fur were no longer distinguishable. It was only his head that kept most of his original color. He left a small patch of dirt on the spot he sat on when he tried to look out the window. Just hoping to see one of the bears looking for him or even more unlikely, his old owner. It was futile. He couldn’t even stand high enough to look out the window.

The drive took most of the afternoon. The sun had gone down by the time they pulled up to Seb’s farm. JP couldn’t see too much when Seb brought him inside, just the house with its porch light.

“This is my one and only, Barbara.” Seb set JP down on the coffee table in front of her.

“Hi there,” Barbara pinched his foot with a smile. “And what might your name be?”

With no real vocal chords, JP looked around for any form of communication. Frustrated at no computer in the house, he simply stood and wrote his name out on the table. When he was done he was shocked that the grimy dirt had actually written out his whole name. He cringed and waited to be yelled out, but all that came from them was his name.

“JP Bear, how adorable.” Barbara smiled at Seb.

“He’s injured on his right foot.” Seb stated removing his hat, placing on a rack. “Found him outside a bear’s den.”

Barbara was in disbelief. She tried to formulate words, but to no avail. She simply turned back to JP.

“Well, let’s have a look.” She picked JP up by the back of his sweater and examined him. “I see. I can have that fixed in no time. But I suggest we do it after a bath.”

JP’s body erupted in panic. He shook his head in desperation and held his chest tight. There was no way he wanted to be washed, not now. The truth of the matter was that under all the dirt, all the mess, and all the time, was Roger’s scent. Under his sweater, his fur was still clean and kempt, and with it, the scent of the old world. It was his escape back to the only happy life he knew on nights he needed it the most. And recently, it had become every night.

He broke free and fell back onto the table. He scurried to the end of the coffee table.

“Okay okay. It’s okay, JP.” Barbara apologized, “There’ll be no bath. No bath at all. You have my word.”

JP stared.

“We’re people of our word JP. Don’t ya worry about that. No water will come near ya without ya approval.” Seb’s reassurance was powerful, an old fatherly tone that he rarely heard. In fact, he really hadn’t talked to many grown ups. This was about the longest conversation he’s had with one.

Cautiously, he moved back from the edge of the table, staring back at the thread that followed. Barbara smiled at him and went to get her tools.

“Sorry JP, didn’t realize ya don’t wanna be washed. Barbara will fix ya up nice and good. Stay anywhere on the couch ya find fitting. I need to get some shud eye for the mornin’s work.”

With not even a full hint of sunrise, JP could hear Seb waking up in the other room. His boots were on and he was already in the kitchen. JP still laid there on the far side of the couch, looking at the job Barbara did on his foot from last night. It didn’t take much for her to repair it and make it look as good as new. Well, as new as it could be under all the dirt. It certainly felt new. He gave it a few stomps and rolled his foot back and forth to see how it held up. Nothing came undone. JP shrugged and looked over the couch back into the kitchen. Seb was standing in front of the stove. The kettle was on the fire and Seb was aimlessly setting up his cup of coffee while reading the newspaper. JP’s nose was barely over the back of the couch as he stood on the armrest. He raised his paw to wave. Seb smiled and motioned JP to stay put. After making his coffee, taking a sip, Seb made his way over to JP, his boots echoing on the wooden floor of the house.

“Morning to ya little guy,” he tapped JP’s head with his finger, and stared out the window. “Here it comes, sunrise.”

Seb picked up JP in his arm and cradled him on his forearm. Walking over to the front door, he opened it and walked out.

The farm looked small. Off to the left grew a field of small crops. It was no more than a hundred yards across. The low-lying vegetable stocks signified that it was far from being harvested. On the right was the driveway, where the old beat up truck sat parked next to another station wagon, which was probably Barbara’s. In front of the house was a field leading up to another house facing directly back to the house. With all the small doors along the front resembling a chicken coup.

Setting JP down on the porch, Seb adorned his hat and walked toward the other house. “Gotta start the day.”

JP just sat and watched the peculiar Seb at his morning duties. Over at the chicken coup, hpulled out large rolls of white fabric and lined them up. They all sat one after another in front of the building. One by one, he unrolled them, pulling out a huge white sheet until he came to the porch of his own house. He continued this until the entire field was laden in white. Then he walked back over to the building and flipped opened the door. What JP expected to be chickens was nothing he’d imagine. Slowly and groggy, a small trickle of stuffed animals came out onto the sheet. Seb tipped up his hat, smiled and greeted each one that came out. They were all types of animals. Dogs, cats, giraffes, and even other types of bears came out. Soon the stream became a flood as they all bounced onto the field, some bringing their own toys as they played with one another. Seb just stood and watched everyone pile out. As the last animal came out, Seb looked over at JP and smiled. If JP had a jaw, it would have dropped. He didn’t know what to do but just sit on the porch and watch.

A couple of animals stopped at looked up at JP, a puppy and a polar bear. They held up a ball to JP inviting him to play. JP looked away and ran behind a wooden chair, trying to hide. He always threw off other stuffed animals when they came on his island. Now they wanted to play with him. He didn’t know what he was feeling.

Seb came over and sat on the chair. He sat there and watched over his flock with a smile.

“Yup, this is a stuffed animal farm.” He looked down to JP who slowly switched from holding onto the chair leg, to Seb’s leg.

“Didn’t know there was such a thing did ya?”

Seb looked down into his newspaper and spoke while he read.

“It’s plenty to take in. Never been around other stuffed animals like ya self have ya?”

JP shook his head as he craned his head up to Seb.

“Bet ya only played with ya owner before.”

JP looked back down at the field. The words brought back that sad feeling once again. Slowly JP started to nod.

“Well, this may surprise ya, but I learned a lot over the years. Yep, that’s right. I’m one old man who’s had his own problems to deal with.”

JP looked back up at Seb who was now looking down at him.

“Not sure how close the two of ya were, but I know it must be hard to let go.” He paused and stared out to the field. “If there’s one thing I could teach ya in my life time, it’s this. Sorrow is caused by attachment. Not saying attachment is not important, but if ya hold onto it more than ya should, all ya get is sorrow. If either of us were to end tomorrow, we wouldn’t want to know our lives ended in sorrow now do we?”

JP looked back out to the field. The silence may be awkward to most, but Seb allowed the words to sink in and didn’t wait for a response.

“Spend time being happy and making others happy. That’s my motto. I hope that’ll be ya motto too.”

There was no other response from JP. He just sat and watched the field of animals playing. As the sun sank down in the horizon, a few of the animals returned back into the building. It wasn’t a chicken coup after all. The doors were made form a chicken coup, but inside, JP could make out living areas, all miniaturized to their proportions. It was inviting, but JP still sat there.

“Ya can stay with me here on the porch as long as ya like. But anytime ya want to join the others, just say the word. Don’t feel bad for old Seb here. I’m not going any where and I’ll see you every morning.”

Seb watched the last animal retired back into the building, returning a wave from the character. He goes into a reverse routine of putting away the field of sheets. Again, JP just sits and watches.

Weeks go by with the same routine. Seb sitting on the porch telling stories of his life as a kid, his life with Barbara, and about stories about the town he visits weekly. JP just sits and listens. He is a stuffed animal after all. No real vocal chords to talk back. No real ability to help out Seb. He was just there to listen to him. And listen to him he finally did.

Instead of following Seb one morning, JP waited on the couch for Barbara. As she came out of the bedroom, JP waved to her from behind the couch.

“Good morning JP, how are you doing today.” Barbara shuffled over in her slippers.

JP nodded.

“What can I do for you?”

JP stared down at his feet, which swayed side to side. He couldn’t believe he was going to do it, but he looked back up and pointed to the bathroom.

“Are you sure?” Barbara asked and leaned over to him whispering, “You know this may wash away everything. You’d have to start all over as a stuffed animal.”

The smile on JP’s face was finally genuine. It displayed how he really felt as he nodded. Barbara beamed a smile down to JP and carried him off to the bathroom.

Barbara was experienced. She made sure the water was just right and there was just enough soap to not overly agitate his fur. It took several wash cycles to get all the dirt and return his fur to the normal color. JP was glad it took as long as it did. The water hid the final tears he let out as the memories of Roger washed away. The scent was gone. He now smelled like… Woolight. A different kind of smell, but a smell he’ll get used to. After a careful dry, Barbara set him on the porch to Seb’s surprise.

“My, this whole time I thought ya were a black bear!” Seb chuckled, “Why look at you.”
JP gave a small salute and looked out onto the field. His beady little eyes scanned the sea of colorful fur. It took several scans but he finally saw them, the puppy and the bear. He waved to them and eventually they saw him and waved back. Without any hesitation he jumped off the porch onto the soft and familiar sheets and made his way over to them. Barbara and Seb just smiled and watched.

“He sure came through faster than the others,” Barbara said resting her hand on his shoulder.

“Yes he did.” Seb leaned back in his chair putting his hands behind his head and sighed. “I still wish I could do the same.”

Barbara leaned over from behind the chair and gives him a hug, “I miss him too honey.” She gives him a little peck on the cheek, “I miss him too.”