Night of the Lovies: A Graphic Novel (Chapter Two)

When we last left our hero, Little Pushkin, he had fallen into the clutches of the evil Schtinky Teddy and his band of foul cutthroats, and was sold into slavery on the docks.

To think that, I, Little Pushkin, would sink to such despair. Sold into bondage at the dark and hideous Lovey Work Camp, I was forced to sort nubby plastic pieces by color while the snarling guards watched my every move. Corpses of other workers lay about like disregarded offal. Oh, pity! Oh, terror!

Just as I had suspected, the overseer was none other than the nefarious Schtinky Teddy, who had had his nose repaired by a coquettish seamstress, no doubt. He lurched up over the walls, sauced on Bourbon, and laughed cruelly at my plight. His eyes were battered from a life spent bouncing down stairs and being flung at walls for no reason, and the light of ursine kindness was not to be found there. He had a fine new ribbon about his neck—surely bought from the spoils of his slave trade!

I knew then I must flee. I escaped by cart under cover of night, while terrible slavering hounds pursued me.

I escaped the hideous canine beasts and hid in the jungle, my heart pounding. I was but a wee little creature, and who knew what fiends hid here in this wildness? My withered leg hurt me a bit, but I am made of stern stuff. I, Little Pushkin, would survive!

Good God! He lurched out of the fronds like a fiend from a nightmare, part of his gnawed-upon and licked-upon face dangling down and tickling my neck and filling me with a nauseated loathing. Schtinky Teddy, doth Hell have such devils as ye in it?

He was done with me. "No good as a slave, me poppet!" he shouted. "Your kind are more trouble than they are worth in hoisting bricks and blocks, for you will drive the others into revolt. Prepare to greet your maker!" I was tossed in a chariot filled with rubbish, bricks, and used cars.

He tossed me into the junkheap, where I fell atop a pile of horrid cars due to be crushed later that day. "This is so derivative of Toy Story 3!" I screamed, but his ears were closed to my pleas.

Help was at hand! Three little mice threw me down a rope and rescued me just in time. Their maniacal giggling was unpleasant, but Little Pushkin was in a bind. Now, I simply had to gather a band of allies, defeat Schtinky Teddy at his cruel game, and break up his Work Camp. To be continued!

Pursued by Bears

As some faithful readers of my blog know, I suffer from panic disorder and generalized anxiety. If that sounds a bit passive (for shame!), there is a reason: That's what it feels like. It's pretty horrible and debilitating, to the extent that driving a car much past the grocery store can result in palpitations, dizziness, feelings of unreality, and rabid wildcats loosed in the passenger seat. I will win, however.

The more attention you give the thing, the more it grows. Feed it and it lives. Starve it and it dies. If you distract yourself effectively, or forget that you are driving a large piece of machinery, you can trick the anxiety down into normal levels. The anxiety and panic and fear are entirely created by you, and no one and nothing else. Medication won't cure it. Rather, replacing the bad habit of anxiety with other, better habits—including robust, intellectual diversions—is the cure.

So here's the weird conundrum. One of my "robust, intellectual diversions" happens to be writing. What should I write about? S'pose I wrote a really strange and funny memoir about battling years of panic disorder? (Oh, I have plenty of fodder. I had my first panic attack at the age of three. I decided the toilet was coming to eat me.) Or should I divert myself with the silly YA novel that I enjoy writing? But if I don't write the book about the panic disorder, will I eventually heal myself and then forget what it feels like to have panic disorder and then lose all the horrible details to unreliable memory?

Aw, hell.

I think I will call my book PURSUED BY BEARS. 

Anyway, my 7-year-old let loose with a good old-fashioned panic attack himself tonight. He started out tired and hungry, which is a recipe for disaster. He was taking a shower and he suddenly started screaming like big, black bees were pouring up out of the drain. I ran in and found him covered in suds, with shampoo draining down into his eyes, his elbows at his side in a fixed, bent manner.

"Gemme out of here!" he screamed, hysterical. "I can't breathe! I can't see! My elbows hurt!"

The kid doesn't do well when he doesn't eat right, or exercises too much, or decides that he's had a funny/weird day. Today was a vicious combination of all three—trampoline jumping, garden work, soccer—and he went quite bonkers. I hugged him tight in a towel and thought how alike we are, and about the strange sway of genetics. I heard him say: "This week has been all bad!"

I said, "No, you had a great deal of fun this week. You did so many fun things."

"The week has just started!" he corrected me. "It is Sunday, and the beginning of the week. And the week so far has been all bad. It will not get better. It will go downhill from here."

I dressed him like he was a baby, his white skinny legs goose-pimpled with cold and his hair in stiff wet spikes. It was startling how he reminded me of myself, and the untethered and fine imagination running wild, fast, and reckless to the borders of the garden, pursued by something he has dreamed and divined. Pursued by bears.

Night of the Lovies: A Graphic Novel

Night of the Lovies: Chapter One

My name is Little Pushkin. Having very little in the way of fortunes or relations, I set out in the world to make my way. I had been born with a withered left leg, but this did not impede my spirit and pluck. Nay, I was more determined than my able-bodied brethren to make something of myself in the wide world!

No sooner had I left the bucolic land of my birth when a hirsute stranger happened upon me on the road, and whispered of sweet temptations and evil things. His words were like honey dipped in butter, soaked in whiskey and topped with brandied cherries. He called himself Lambie. He led me to his lair.

There we met Mousie, a swollen and grotesque beast with a penchant for picking pockets...and a murderous skill at knifeplay. "Little Pushkin," said he. "Join us. You'll make a fine and merry cutpurse, as your little stature will be your asset!" He laughed, a trace maniacally.

Lo! From the rafters, like a fragrant leopard, dropped a rapscallion by the name of Schtinky Teddy. I blanched when I saw him, fair reader, for his face was gnawed and tattered, and he bore the faint stench of old saliva about his limbs. Human teeth had been upon him, and he had been roughly handled and tossed about. His eyes were devoid of human emotion.

Oh, depravity! I feared for my soul.

Lambie and Mousie slept the drugged sleep of the damned. Before I knew it, the villainous teddy had clutched me up and bore me away, to a ship docked in the harbor. "Har har, poppet!" said he. "I'll fetch a pretty price for you in the slave markets. Even with that bum leg o' yourn. "

"Don't leave me here!" I cried. Schtinky Teddy, remorseless, left me on the quay in the settling darkness, the fee he had received for me rattling in his paw. Soon, the others would come. The unknowns. I was alone. But I would fight on. Little Pushkin would not perish!

To be continued. Chapter Two here.