What Story Does This Photo Have to Tell?

•July 9, 2012 • Leave a Comment
Hot embers -- the remains of a roaring campfire

Hot embers — the remains of a roaring campfire. Or is it something else?

By Jeffrey Bishop

The usual Scurry Tails production process goes something like this:

1) Get inspired by an idea, notion or concept
2) Think up a plot, characters and a setting to carry the idea.  This happens either consciously or subconsciously.  Sometimes this occurs around a campfire or in a tent as a story unfolds “live”
3) Draft up the story.  Sometimes this occurs via mobile device : )
4) Edit.  Edit again.  Wish we had time to edit some more
5) Create art that illustrates the story in a creating and compelling way.  Or, sit on the story until we come up with art to support the story.  Or, if desperate, post sans art and re-post later with art
6) Wash, rinse, repeat

Knowing that No. 5 in the process can sometimes trump steps 1-4 in terms of time and difficulty, we’ve started the habit of taking pictures of “stuff” that we think might someday support a story that appears on Scurry Tails.  So in recent weeks we have gathered a picture of a vegetation-choked farm house.  We have a new photo of a bonfire that towers over its creator.  We have pictures of mysterious-looking clouds in the sky.  And we were quite thankful to already have this picture of a hiking trail (at Camp Warren Levis) to support our story The Hike.

And we have the photo above; a scene of seething embers — the bitter remains of a once-great blazing campfire.  Certainly it’s full of potential — beyond another soliloquy from Sirius Black.  But we don’t yet have an original story to go with it.

Does this photo give you any ideas?  What supernatural or mysterious force do the blistering coals represent?  Are the embers the end of something great, or the beginning of something terrible?  What stories do you see when you stare into the cooling remains of a summertime campfire?  Share your ideas; we might just use your idea to build a story to go with this picture!

Posted in 4. Non-Fiction
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The Memorial Triangle

•July 6, 2012 • Leave a Comment

 A semi-transparent triangle-shaped map over a photo of a road through the Flint Hills

By Jeffrey Bishop

Your fate is to not escape your fate.

Tell Time: 7 minutes 45 seconds
Scare Rating: 3/5 Ghosts

Dr. Soma had always been interested in supernatural phenomenon.  As a young scholar and professor, he’d built an impressive body of research studying the mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle, known to sailors and aviators as the Devil’s Triangle.  In this large area in the Atlantic Ocean between Florida and the island of Bermuda, ships and their crews have mysteriously disappeared over many centuries.  Those who made it out safely have reported bizarre experiences within the boundaries of the triangle — loss of communications, unnatural light patterns in the sky and malfunctioning navigation systems among the less ominous events.

In his studies, Dr. Soma had successfully confirmed many reports on the Triangle; he’d validated the missing ships and aircraft, and he’d interviewed scores of crews to confirm their experiences.  But he’d not yet been able to explain what caused the supernatural experiences, or why they’d occurred.  And although he was an intellectually curious person, he frankly was also somewhat of a coward, and didn’t really have a strong desire to enter the space himself to try to answer these questions.

So after more than 5 years researching the Triangle, he was rather in a quandary, in that he’d taken the research about as far as he could without a new discovery.  There were plenty of other happenings in the realm of the supernatural that he could study, but he really had no interest beyond phenomena of the Triangle.  Without research breakthroughs, he couldn’t publish, and without publications, he might lose his university post and access to labs and other resources vital to his research.

Dr. Soma got his breakthrough not in the deep, cold seas of the Bermuda Triangle, but rather along the interstate highways cutting through the wheat fields of the Central Plains of the United States, near the university where he taught.  He was driving west on the interstate highway, returning from the airport following an out-of-state conference on the paranormal.  The endless prairie scenery was punctuated by very few distractions of interest:  a crowd of turkey buzzards wheeled high above the Flint Hills, barbed wire cattle fencing traced the contours of the land, and every now and again, a colorful but somber display was erected at the side of the road to memorialize the passengers of a vehicle that had suffered an accident at that place on the highway.

Except that starting at about mile marker 49, Dr. Soma noticed that these posters, bundles of flowers and crosses placed at the scenes of tragic and fatal highway accidents were suddenly innumerable.  Where previously the memorials were spaced a number of miles apart, on this stretch of road, they seemed to be almost continuous, and in some spots, were overlapping, with two, three or more discrete memorials in the same spot.  It was such a fascinating feature, but something that apparently was rather easy to miss; that is, until one noticed it — then it was all that he noticed!  Indeed, Dr. Soma was so excited about the phenomenon that he stayed on the highway and followed it past the interchange that he needed to take to get home.  He kept on for another few dozen miles, until he noticed the prevalence of memorials drop precipitously, to a more normal pattern of infrequent occurrences.  At that point, he turned around and headed back for his exit, and of course, the memorials were just as thick heading east as they had been heading west.

This phenomenon continued even after he took his exit south.  For almost 60 miles, the concentrated roadside memorials persisted, just as they had on the east-west stretch of road.  The T-shape, of course, was intriguing to Dr. Roberts.  Could this be another deadly triangle?  An inland Devil’s Triangle?  There had once been an ocean over this part of the U.S.; was there something about the concentration of salts and of lime in the sedimentary beds that could be causing a similarly shaped, large surface of the Earth’s surface to be so dangerous?

When he got to his modest home near the campus, Dr. Soma immediately started to build his research plan.  He’d study police accident reports and compare this area to other areas for conditions and prevalence of accidents.  He’d revisit the two major highways, but also the smaller arteries, to confirm the triangular shape of the effect.  He knew that he was on to something, and he was excited to hit the field to study the phenomenon first-hand!

~

A week had passed, and Dr. Soma was eager to get in his car and start tracking the memorials around this region of the Midwest.  Perhaps it was the fact that this phenomenon appeared in his own “backyard,” on dry land and on highways he’d traveled on his entire life.  And perhaps it was sheer excitement at the new thesis he’d discovered that might extend his research into the future for decades to come. Whatever the reason — and he wasn’t sure the reason himself — Dr. Soma wasn’t afraid to do this research first-hand.

He’d learned a lot over the week; county sheriff and state and local police reports confirmed a higher-than-average rate of incidents in a generally triangular area corresponding with his theory.  In their meta-analysis of hundreds of accident reports, they also were able to determine together that few of the accidents occurred at night or in generalized poor visibility conditions, and all were single-car events of which there were no survivors.

Research with state and national weather agencies showed no difference in weather conditions in the area when the accidents occurred — indeed, in every instance, the weather was clear and dry.  Further, research with the department of transportation showed no difference in road quality and safety conditions in the affected area than in other parts of the state where accident rates were much lower.  And while the area had a reputation for poor cell service, it wasn’t for want of a lack of towers; in fact, two major providers had cell service areas that overlapped the memorial triangle for miles.  And the communication black hole even preceded the digital age; research showed disgruntled over-the-road truckers had complained of communications issues with their CB radios back in the ’70s and ’80s.  Dr. Soma could find no Earthly reason why the rate of fatal accidents was higher in the triangle than elsewhere in the Midwest.  To learn more, he’d have to take his research into the field.

By noon Saturday, Dr. Soma had traveled 10 miles, and had already recorded 48 memorials along that stretch of road.  The work of recording the occurrences — photographic documentation, GPS location and correlation with accident reports — was exhausting, but also exhilarating.  Dr. Soma really felt like he was on to something.

At noon, the scientist set up a small picnic lunch on the side of the road, where he enjoyed a turkey sandwich and a soda, along with the warm sun from the mid-spring day on his face as a few lonely cars sped past his spot.  His mind was still racing, turning over in his mind the facts he was discovering.

Dr. Soma was still deep in thought as he pulled his car back on the highway, in search of the next roadside artifact.  He was scanning the side of the road so intently that he didn’t notice how dark the sky had become so suddenly.  What did catch his attention, however, was the appearance of a wraith-like image which suddenly appeared in front of his car.  The yellow-green form began to shriek and wail at him through the pane — a haunting and desperate sound that chilled the doctor to his core.  Dr. Soma gripped the steering wheel tightly and instinctively swerved to the left to avoid the ghostly image before him.  Doing so was futile, however.  While the wraith did dissipate before him, the scientist realized that he was headed straight for the center median strip dividing the four-lane highway.

Still gripping the wheel at 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock, he steered back to the right, but realized too late that he’d over-corrected.  His car tumbled and rolled until it collapsed in a ball of flaming metal at the bottom of a ditch at the side of the road.

~

A few days later, there was a small vigil at the site of the accident.  The doctor’s friends and family gathered to place a small wooden cross, some plastic flowers and a picture of the man they’d lost.

“Just ironic,” said the sheriff who had helped him with his research only a week earlier.  “He was on to something.  And that might have been just what took his life.  But now he’ll never know — he’s not here with us to finish his work.”

Unknown to the sheriff or any of the others gathered there, Dr. Soma was there.  The spirit-form of the scientist was standing back, a witness to his own memorial.  Somewhat touched by the emotion, he was much more interested in observing the gathered crowd for his research.

Joining him at the ceremony were other spirits, including the woman whose wraith form had compelled him to leave the road.  Dr. Soma had talked to a couple of the ghost-people already — not in conversation, but in the kind of deliberate, probing chats that are unique to scientists and psychologists.  He’d learned a lot, but he knew there were many hundreds more within the Memorial Triangle for him to interview, and so much more for him to learn.

Indeed, there was an eternity’s worth of research to be done.  Dr. Soma couldn’t be more thrilled at his fate.  While the studious doctor didn’t necessarily live happily ever after, he was happy with his research forever in the hereafter.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Would the doctor have suffered a similar fate had he visited the Bermuda Triangle to do first-hand research?  His life seems rather one-dimensional around his research interests — do you think his horizons will expand in the afterlife?  Leave a comment or a question and let us know what you think about Dr. Soma, his research, and the idea of other mysterious “triangles” outside of the Bermuda Triangle!

Posted in 1. Scary Stories
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The Hike

•June 26, 2012 • Leave a Comment
A dark trail through the woods (at Camp Warren Levis)

A dark trail leads to dark places.

By Christopher Bishop

Which voice in your head should you heed?  It takes a wise one to hear and to listen.

Tell Time: 2 minutes 15 seconds
Scare Rating: 3/5 Ghosts

Once three Cub Scouts were out on a hike together at night.  Very soon they were approaching a field when one of the boys said, “Yes a field! Now we don’t have to worry about stupid poison ivy!”

So they were walking through the field when they came upon a dead end (literally dead).  So all three of them stepped backwards, when out of nowhere fog appeared along the edge of the field.  One of the boys was a Tiger Cub and he was so scared that he ran through the fog and he disappeared.

The second one was worried about him, so he, too, ran through the fog.

The third boy, a Webelos I, ran through the fog, mumbling “OMG!” to himself. “I mean, seriously,” said the boy.  “I’ve heard about this field; its dangerous!”  So he, too, went into the fog after the two others.

Then out of nowhere they found that they were all together again, on a large rock in the middle of a lake.

Suddenly, an evil voice said to them, “You all have to find a way out.  Two of you will die, one will go back to the field where he will have to find a way out within 5 minutes or else it is the end for you three.”

The Tiger Cub was so afraid that you could see his pants become wet and he said “I’m just going to walk through the water to get back.”  So he stepped off of the rock and disappeared.  The second scout, a bear, stepped off and he too disappeared, so the Webelos scout was actually afraid and so he thought for a minute, looked at his watch, mumbled “4:37,” and then he stepped into the water and appeared in the field.  Suddenly he heard the voice say “3:58.”

“Better hurry,” said the boy.  So he looked in the air and saw his two friends floating dead – but with not a scratch on them – so he prayed and felt tingly and heard a different voice inside his head say “Go over the fog!” He thought in his mind, “How?”  Then he noticed a nearby tree.  So he climbed up the tree hearing the evil voice say “12, 11 … ”and the time was down to “2,” so he  jumped over the fog and into the forest.

His two friends then appeared beside him, as quickly and as quietly as they’d disappeared.  Together, they walked back to the camp site and they lived awesomely ever after.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 1. Scary Stories
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‘How-to’ Packing List: What to Take on a Seven-Day Trip Into the Woods

•June 15, 2012 • 1 Comment
A car trunk fully loaded with camping gear

Junk in the trunk for a week-long camping trip.

By Jeffrey Bishop

It’s summer camp season, and all over the country son and daughter scouts are gearing up to go into the woods for a weekend, for a week or for longer.  Your pack or troop has probably provided a decent general purpose packing list to ensure success, but just one trip in the woods will reveal deficits based on personal preferences and needs that you’ll want to make sure you cover the next time you head out.

The list — Scurry Tails Summer Camp Packing List — reflects the fruits of the packing, camping, list revising process (wash, rinse, repeat) that has been performed dozens of times over the past four or so years.  While more comprehensive than a basic all-purpose list might be, is it all-inclusive?  No — and it’s not meant to be (for that, list, we recommend the Cabela’s store catalog).  But we think it’s pretty solid.  That said, what would you add to it?

One thing we hope you take on every camping trip is this site — www.scurrytails.wordpress.com — we hope you get a lot of enjoyment from the funny, fantastic and freaky stories we regularly post here.

Happy camping!

Click on the link below to download the camping packing list. Leave a comment to let others know how this list worked out for you or if you have suggestions for other items to take!

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in Free Stuff, Scouter's Corner
Tags: , , ,

Don’t Try This at Home

•June 12, 2012 • Leave a Comment

By Jeffrey Bishop

Sad news from the region where Scurry Tails originates:  According to reports from those who were there, a group of youths parked their car on a railroad crossing to play a game called “Ghost Train” — and three of them were tragically killed when the car didn’t start up again and not everyone could get out in time to avoid the crash.  Our prayers and deepest condolences go out to the families and friends of the Poplar Bluff, Mo., youths.

You can read the St. Louis Post-Dispatch account of the story here:  Two Missouri girls playing ‘Ghost Train’ game die when train hits Jeep.

According to lore re-told many times around campfires and by candlelight, the ghosts of people previously killed at a railway crossing are supposed to come back to save the endangered living.  While this sort of thing can be expected to happen in stories like those that appear on this site or in books like Jo-Anne Christensen’s “Campfire Ghost Stories” (see Children of the Tracks for a version of the story that may have inspired the tragic game), it didn’t happen in Missouri. It probably won’t happen for you if you try it, either.

This news story presents a sad cautionary tale for those among the living who would toy with the supernatural, whether by playing “Bloody Mary” in the school bathroom, giving a Ouija board a whirl or playing ghost train on a country back road.  The lesson is that one shouldn’t toy with real magic or the mystical.  As Saul learned long ago when he visited the Witch of Endor (1 Samuel 28:7-19), at best, the supernatural can be indifferent and fickle to the affairs of the living.  Don’t tempt those on the other side with your fate, and don’t count on them to protect you from yourself.

We hope that you continue to seek good stories,  from all genres, but if you read something cool but out-of-this-world crazy, don’t try it at home.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 4. Non-Fiction
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Bad Things

•June 9, 2012 • Leave a Comment
A "bad thing" tries to attack Jake Roberts through the door of the family truck

Yes, that imp IS made from duct tape on a balloon.
Please just suspend your disbelief and enjoy the story (and the artwork)!

By Jeffrey Bishop

They say that bad things come in threes. Not anymore.

Tell Time: 9 minutes
Scare Rating: 3/5 Ghosts

The weekend camping trip wasn’t planned, but Mr. Roberts figured they should get away for the weekend.  His son Jake had found Buster, the family dog, dead on the porch, apparently the loser in a terrible fight to the death with  something small but vicious, with long claws – a badger perhaps.  Jake, now 11, had grown up with the pet, and was taking it hard.

They laid Buster to rest in the back yard Thursday night – the same day they found him – and Friday afternoon, Mr. Roberts found himself laid off from his job.  The job loss was totally unanticipated, and only affected six others at the plant.  Now they had a second compelling reason to escape for the weekend.

“Gee whiz, could the week get any worse for us, Dad?” asked Jake as they pulled their truck into their campsite.

Mr. Roberts got out of the truck and turned back to face his son.  A grim expression spread across his face.

“Yes, in fact, things could get a bit worse yet,” he said cryptically.  “Stay close to me and look lively if you see anything.”  Mr. Roberts grabbed his bow and quiver of arrows before grabbing some of their gear and hitting the trail.

Jake hadn’t ever seen his dad quite so serious.  The insistent, urgent tone of his counsel was worrisome – so much so that Jake didn’t inquire any further, but rather, obediently fell in behind his dad, keeping up with the double-time pace the elder Roberts set.  As they carried their gear from the truck to the campsite, Jake dutifully scanned the brush to either side of the trail.  But nothing seemed out of the ordinary as they did the hard work of setting up for the weekend, and by the time they finished pitching their tent and started a fire, Mr. Roberts seemed to have relaxed a bit.

“What’s going on, Dad?” asked Jake as he stuck a hot dog on to a skewer and placed it over the camp fire.

“I feel a little embarrassed admitting this,” said his dad, “because you’ll maybe think I’m a fool for giving any credence to the supernatural.”  An awkward smile crossed his face.

“You ever heard the expression ‘bad things come in threes?’  With the string of bad luck we’ve been having this week, I kinda thought we might run into one of them out here.”

“Run into what?” asked Jake, looking up from the flames at his dad.  “A thing?  A bad thing?  What in the world is a bad thing?”

“I really don’t know,” his dad replied, just as somber as before.  “I ain’t never seen one.  But we’ve had plenty of bad luck in our family, and plenty of bad things have happened to us through the years.  No more’n anyone else, I’d suppose, but every once in a while – years apart when it happens – really bad luck comes in a streak of three.  When this kind of bad luck comes, it comes hard:  death and serious misfortune and personal disaster.

“Some says it’s just luck – and that good luck can hit in threes, too.  I ain’t never experienced that yet.  But some in our family – those that’ve been hit the hardest – says that the bad luck ain’t luck at all.  They say it’s the work of three ‘bad things’ – three devilish imps who take turns giggin’ a person by bringin’ torment, pain and heartache into a man’s life for their own evil pleasures and purposes.”

Mr. Roberts wiped his forehead with a rag and sat down next to his son by the fire.  “I don’t know what I was trying to do with my bow,” he said.  “Maybe I thought I’d learn the difference between evil deeds and sheer bad luck.  Maybe I was trying to prevent a third something from happening to us.  And maybe I thought I’d get some revenge for what we’ve already endured.”

“Dad, I gotta tell you, that all sounds a bit … ”

“Ridiculous? I know son,” the elder Roberts replied with a chuckle.  He set down his bow and quiver and grabbed a hotdog from the cooler.  “It probably is, and I’m ok being wrong and being a fool.  Let’s forget about all this and enjoy the weekend.”

The two did indeed enjoy their weekend, and for the most part managed to put behind them the bad things that had happened to them at the end of the week.  Fishing, hiking and being in the middle of nature is good for that.

After a Sunday brunch of lake fish they’d caught and fried potatoes they’d brought, it was time to break camp and head home.  Jake could tell that his dad was getting a bit anxious again; he’d put his quiver on again and had his bow close at hand as they dropped the tent and packed it up.

When they got back to the clearing where they’d parked, Mr. Roberts quickly scanned the area, then moved around the truck.  He looked into the bed, at the tires and around the wheels and underneath and through the windows to the cab, before he relaxed enough to talk to his son again.

“I think we’re ok, Jake,” he called out.  “Hop in and pop the hood while I check out the engine compartment.”

Jake slid into the driver’s seat and pulled the hood release lever.  His dad lifted the hood, which concealed him completely except for what Jake could see in a two-inch slit at the bottom of the windshield under the raised hood.

“Everything looks ok in here,” said his dad as he lowered the hood.  “Let’s head on home.”  He set his hunting gear into his truck box and climbed into the cab of the truck.

Mr. Roberts started the engine and drove out of the woods and on to the highway.  But no sooner had he reached cruising speed when there came a loud bang sound from the front end of the truck, followed by a rapid flub-flub-flub-flub-flub sound – the sound of a quickly deflating tire.

“Dang it all!” Jake’s dad growled as he struggled to maintain control of two tons of steel and to safely bring it to a stop.  He pulled the truck to the side of the road, and then, to Jake’s surprise, quickly jumped out.

“Stay inside the truck!” he shouted to his son.  He grabbed his bow and quiver again and ran toward a break in the woods, tracking something that had crashed through there only moments before.  Jake sat in the truck, face pressed against the glass to watch as his dad disappeared into the dense undergrowth.

The seconds since his dad disappeared stacked up like minutes as Jake waited.  Impatient and worried – about his dad’s sanity perhaps as much as his safety, the younger Roberts rolled down the window and called out.

“Dad!  Dad!  Where are you?”

As if in response, something that looked like a tornado cutting through the woods came toward Jake in the truck – back from the path his dad had made.  Before Jake could react, the tree line exploded as a tiny creature tore its way out of the brush and leapt toward the truck.

In a panic at the monster coming at him, Jake ducked down in the seat and had the presence of mind to crank the window back up.  He’d got a good look at the animal – if it was indeed an animal – that was aiming for him.  About the size of a bull terrier, the thing seemed to be all upper body, with a barrel chest and a large head full of teeth and crowned with horns.  Its front arms were thick and powerful, ending in claws, while its back legs were lithe and might have ended with cloven feet.  A whip-like tail thrashed back and forth behind it, mowing down whatever it cut across.

Jake heard a heavy thud against the side of the truck. He looked up and saw that terrible face again, peering into the window as the creature gripped the steel door of the truck.  He saw a fierce grimace spread across the gaping tooth-rimmed mouth as the monster raised a club-like paw to smash the window in.

Choking on a scream, Jake covered his head and braced for the assault.  Expecting a crash, he instead heard another heavy thud – this one sounded wet, though – followed by an awful squealing shriek from the beast.

There was a third thudding sound, and the squeal stopped.  Jake looked up to see two arrow heads had pierced the door in front of him.  They were covered with a reddish-black blood.  He looked through the window to see the monster slide down the glass to hang limp against the truck door, pinned in place by the two arrows.

Looking past the creature, he also saw his dad standing at the tree line with another arrow nocked.  He quickly approached the truck where Jake sat trembling with fright.

“It’s ok now son,” he called.  His dad walked around to the driver’s side and helped Jake out of the truck.  Relaxing the draw on his bow, they walked together back to the passenger’s side of the truck.  As they rounded the fender of the truck, they both got a very good look at the creature that had hunted them, even before Mr. Roberts had hunted it.  Pinned to the sheet steel door, the beast oozed a brackish blood from its fatal wounds.  The thing emitted a sulfurous smell that choked their lungs, and as they backed away from it, they noticed the damaged front tire, with four long rips across the sidewall that neatly matched the deadly critter’s claws – and also the injuries that killed Buster.

“There were three of them.  I took chase after ‘em all,” said Mr. Roberts, “but they split off, and I was only able to stay after this one.  But I don’t think the other two will bother us again, now.”

“I wouldn’t expect so, either, Dad,” said Jake, still shaking from the experience, but clearly relieved.

After burning the evil imp in a shallow pit fire at the side of the road and changing the tire, the two Roberts – father and son – climbed into the truck and headed for home.

“I hope we can expect to see our luck change for the better now,” said Jake to his dad.  “But I guess they’ll have to change the saying to ‘bad things come in twos!’”

“That they will, son” replied Mr. Roberts with a grin.  “That they will.”

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 1. Scary Stories
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‘How-to’ Experiment: Make an Awesome Bat Center-of-Gravity Wing!

•May 25, 2012 • 5 Comments
Photo of a completed bat-shaped center-of-gravity wing project

A completed project, ready to amaze you and your friends!

By Jeffrey Bishop

Two cents and a handful of common household supplies — plus our nifty template — and you, too, can make this awesome bat- or more traditional bird-shaped center-of-gravity wing!

Noting that this is not at all a spooky campfire story, it’s nonetheless a cool project that we think will appeal to the same audience as our readership.  Plus, making a bat wing is kinda spooky!

This project can be used to partially complete Webelos Scientist requirement 11; indeed, it was inspired by the experiment on page 423 of the current Webelos book.

Click here to download the printable bird- and bat-shaped Center of Gravity Wing Templates.

Instructions
1. Print and cut out template
2. Trace template onto poster board / card stock
3. Cut out and decorate
4. Affix pennies to wing tips
5. Balance the nose of the bat on your finger, a pencil eraser, the corner of a table or a similar point
7. To learn more, try some of the experiments listed at the end of this post
6. Enjoy!

Supplies
• This template
• Scissors
• Pencil or pen
• Poster board / card stock
• Pennies
• Tape or glue
• Markers or paint

Tips
• Use your first card stock wing as a durable template for others
• Used cereal boxes work great
• Use painter’s tape to test different coin locations before permanently securing them
• Use hot glue or epoxy to secure pennies to wings

Experiments
• What effect does using a lighter coin have? What effect does using a heavier coin cause?
• How does the location of the coin affect the center of gravity?

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in Free Stuff, Scouter's Corner
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

The Fear of a Word Like ‘Friggatriskaidekaphobia’

•April 13, 2012 • 1 Comment

By Jeffrey Bishop

The fear of Friday the 13th is called friggatriskaidekaphobia. 

The fear of unnecessarily long words is hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia.

Enjoy what’s left of the day!

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 4. Non-Fiction
Tags: ,

Dead Man Come Alive

•April 9, 2012 • Leave a Comment
Trampoline with outline showing where the dead once laid

“Dead man, dead man, come alive! Come alive at the count of five!”

By Jeffrey Bishop

Celebrating Easter with a resurrection story of a more sordid sort.  Thankfully it wasn’t ring-around-the-rosy that they played.

Tell Time:  4 minutes
Scare Rating:  2/5 Ghosts

Andy found himself in the middle of the trampoline, yet again blind and immobile on his back.  He was dead, at least for the moment.

“Dead man, dead man, come alive!  Come alive at the count of five!” chanted his cousins, Jimmy and Hank, as they tramped around the seemingly lifeless body.  “One!  Two!  Three!  Four! … Five!”

At the fifth count, Andy stood up.  His legs were shaky beneath him, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight so that he couldn’t see.  But he was alive again, and he was on the prowl.  With arms outstretched for balance, he hobbled around within the netted confines of the trampoline, listening for his cousins and reaching for one of them whenever he sensed they were nearby, in this dry-land version of Marco Polo.

Moving from the center of the circle, Andy felt a light bounce and heard a faint shuffling sound just behind him.  Quickly he wheeled around and lunged, and made contact with something.  He opened his eyes to see his younger cousin Jimmy, with a sour expression on his face.

“You’re it!” Andy shouted.  “You’re it!”

“I know,” sulked Jimmy.  He’d been “it” a few times already, and wasn’t interested in being it again so soon.

Andy and Hank exchanged high-fives while Jimmy moved to lay down in the center of the trampoline.  He was starting to suspect a conspiracy against him.  As the new dead man, he clamped his eyes shut and awaited the chant that would bring him back to life.

Instead, he heard something much worse.

From the street on the other side of the house came the sound of screeching tires and a dull thwump sound, followed immediately by screams from Aunt Marlene, Andy’s mom.  Jimmy popped his eyes open and saw Andy staring at Hank, slack-jawed and in shock.

The three boys slid off the trampoline and ran to the front yard.  In the street was a Trans Am, with its beautiful eagle painted across the hood.  But that eagle was marred by blood.  As the driver, in a daze, looked down before him, Aunt Marlene lay over the body of her husband, Uncle Todd.  Andy was afraid to go up to her; she was sobbing violently and shaking his father as if to rouse him.  Slowly he approached, and saw that his father’s head had split upon the pavement.  It rested in a deep pool of his own blood.  Silently, Andy’s eyes welled up with tears as he watched his mom’s desperate and hopeless attempts.

Other family members stood at the curb and waited for the emergency vehicles to arrive.  But young Jimmy wasn’t content to wait.

“Get him to the trampoline!  We can save him!” he said.  Aunt Marlene looked up at him quizzically.  He yelled again, much more insistently.

“Get him to the trampoline!  We can save him!”

“Can we … can you?” asked his aunt.

“What are you talking about?” asked Andy, through his tears.  “Dead man’s just a game, doofus!”

“No it’s not, doofus!” replied Jimmy, somewhat unimaginatively.  “I’ve been dead plenty of times and you always brought me back to life.  We can do it for your dad, too!”

“Help me move him to the trampoline!” yelled Aunt Marlene to the gathered onlookers.  Desperately hysteric, she was desperate to try anything to bring her beloved husband back.

Grudgingly, a few of the men picked up Uncle Todd’s limp body and carried him to the backyard trampoline.  They gingerly laid him across the mesh mat.  Jimmy ran onto the trampoline, while Hank and Adam followed behind.

“This is a dumb idea, Jimmy,” muttered Hank to his brother.  “Let’s get it over with.”

The three boys gathered around Uncle Todd’s corpse.  Slowly, they walked around the body, chanting the familiar rhyme.

“Dead man, dead man, come alive!  Come alive at the count of five!  One!  Two!  Three!  Four! … Five!”

The boys stopped and looked down on the limp form before them.  Slowly, miraculously, the saw the body twitch, then the fingers stretched out.  Uncle Todd was coming alive before them, just as Jimmy thought he would!

Aunt Marlene stood to the side, hands over her mouth.  Tears of joy replaced tears of grief as her husband stood up onto the trampoline mat.

“Wow.  What just happened to me?” asked Uncle Todd.  “Surely I was dead only moments ago.  Who do I thank for bringing me back to life?”

Andy, in shock but clearly grateful, gave Jimmy full credit.

“Good thinking, sport!” Uncle Todd stepped across the trampoline to his young nephew.  He clasped his hand on the youth’s shoulder to embrace him.

When he did so, the boy’s body went limp as he collapsed to the mat, dead.

“It looks like Jimmy’s ‘it’ again!” groaned Hank.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 1. Scary Stories
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Dr. Zombie

•April 1, 2012 • Leave a Comment
Dr. Zombie

Fresh zombie brains — a delicacy

By Jeffrey Bishop

Help sometimes comes from unexpected places.  So too does harm.

Tell Time: 10 minutes
Scare Rating: 4/5 Ghosts

Alex’s friends were terrified — and none more so than Janie, his girlfriend.

Against better advice, the couple had been downtown with their friends after dark.  They’d had a great time – one of the best times they could remember since the start of the Zombie Apocalypse.  As the street lights came on around them, however, they were still joking around and talking, and didn’t immediately notice the mob approach them.

The group knew to get out of there fast, but one of the zombies in the pack managed to grab Janie’s arm just as they got to their friend Rob’s car.  Instinctively, Alex jumped between his girlfriend and the creature.

“Let go of her, you freak!” he hollered as he slammed the heel of his hand against its face in a classic Chuck Norris move.  Like a flip-top head, the rotted lid flopped over on its jaw hinge.

Stunned, but only slightly, the monster loosened its grip enough to allow the four teens to make their escape.

Safely in the car and with the group quickly driving away from the city square, Alex saw that he’d been wounded.

“That creepster bit me!” he said, examining the torn flesh under the car’s dome light.  “Get me some of that antiseptic from the glove box, fast!”

“Technically, it was your hand that bit his teeth,” Rob said, handing back the salve from the car’s first aid kit.

“If I get infected, I’m coming for your lunch first!” was Alex’s retort – which was only half in jest.  While Janie and Alex worked on his bite wound, Rob pointed the car not toward their homes, but onto the freeway to the city.  There was no sense taking chances; he was going to take Alex to see “Dr. Zombie.”

By the time they got to the doctor’s clinic, Alex was shivering and in a cold sweat – clearly infected.  Janie gripped his arm tightly as they entered the waiting room.

Dr. Zombie was famous in the area for apparently having the power to stop an infected zombie bite from advancing the victim to the undead state.  With his proprietary formula, he had established a degree of celebrity status — so much so that he starred in his own late-night TV commercials.  If Alex was indeed infected, Dr. Zombie was the only person who could do anything about it.

Incredibly, Dr. Zombie himself came into the examining room almost immediately after they’d been admitted.  He was a thin man in his early 30s.  It was possible, Rob thought upon seeing him, that he wasn’t a doctor at all — at least not a medical doctor.  But his cure was supposed to work in at least half of all infection cases if the intervention is provided within an hour.

“You’ve got to help Alex!” cried Janie to the doctor.  “We used antiseptic on the wound, but I don’t think it did anything!”

“You did all the right things, and you did everything that you could for him,” he said reassuringly as he began the examination.  Dr. Zombie had seen hundreds of cases like Alex’s since the dawn of the Zombie Apocalypse, and understood the girl’s response.  But by this time, the hysterics of friends and family members were somewhat amusing to him.  Peering into Alex’s pupils with a penlight, the doctor nonetheless managed to maintain his composure.

“This zombie virus has advanced considerably in the last five years; it no longer responds to normal interventions – and never has responded to any of the gimmicky new-age treatments you’ve probably heard of.  You did the right thing by bringing him to me.

“There’s still a chance to save him — he hasn’t slipped into the catatonic-but-alert stupor that precedes the transformation and the rage.  But we’ve got to act now.”  From a small refrigerator in the corner of the treatment room, Dr. Zombie removed a large vial.  He filled a syringe with a thick orange gel, then approached Alex.  Slowly he slid the needle into the boy’s neck.

“No alcohol to disinfect his skin, doc?” asked Rob.

“Under these circumstances, do you really see a point in it?” the doctor answered dryly as he finished injecting the solution.  Alex flinched as the needle came out; he eyed the doctor warily.

“But what was in the needle?” Janie asked.

“What we’ve just given your friend is a specific cocktail of industrial chemicals – including ammonium hydroxide, which is used in the food service industry to “wash” meat byproducts to remove E. coli and other diseases in order to make them fit for human consumption,” Dr. Zombie informed the friends.  “This serum may block the spread of the undead virus to his brain.  If we can prevent that, he’ll have a chance at remaining normal.  We won’t know, however, until the moment of truth.  He’ll go through the entire transformation process, whether our solution works for him or not.

“When your friend is about to transform, he’ll go stock-still for a number of hours; he’ll appear to be dead – to the point that his body will become rigid as from rigor mortis,” the doctor continued.  “But don’t be mistaken – he’ll remain alive.  He’ll be very alert, and he’ll be stoking a killer appetite.

“Throughout history, many of those who have been buried alive weren’t dead, as their loving family members supposed; rather, they were undead.  That’s why our folklore always shows zombies emerging from graves and tombs.

Alex and his friends listened intently, hoping for hope in the doctor’s speech.

“At the moment of transformation, death comes.  And after death, his body will start back up.  It will restart as either life restored, or as an animated corpse.  That is the moment we’re waiting for,” the doctor said with grave intentionality.

“The next eight hours are critical – we won’t know until dawn whether our intervention has worked or not. Our protocol is to keep him isolated in a confined cell, in case it doesn’t work.  Doing so protects everyone – his friends and family and our staff, anyway.”

Janie protested: “I want to be with him!  I want to help him through this!” she cried.

“There’s nothing you can do to help him at this point,” replied the doctor.  “As you can see, he’s not able to respond to you at all.  However, typically someone on staff stays in the room to monitor and observe as part of our research efforts.  If you’d like, I can stay with him the entire time.”

Grudgingly, but somewhat reassured that Alex wouldn’t be alone, Janie assented and watched as an attendant restrained her boyfriend in a wheelchair and rolled him out of the room.

“Wait out front.  I’ll let you know how he is in the morning.  Have hope!”  With that, Dr. Zombie left the teens to join Alex.

~

It was 4 a.m. in the small, windowless room where Alex and Dr. Zombie were quarantined.  The room was stark and bare, with steel plate walls and an intercom system at the door.  In the corner was a small stainless steel shelf bolted to the wall; on it was a small collection of tools.

Dr. Zombie had busied himself through the night by reviewing research reports and annotating Alex’s condition at half-hour intervals.  Clearly, the good doctor was a nocturnal creature.  As dawn approached, he became increasingly interested in his patient, and began addressing him directly.  Still in an attentive stupor, Alex didn’t move, but listened as the doctor began what sounded like a well-rehearsed soliloquy.

“My work has been fascinating, young Alex.  I’ve certainly learned a lot about this disease and about zombies – perhaps more than anyone else around today.  Indeed, that’s but one reason why they call me Dr. Zombie.  One reason …”  The doctor’s voice trailed off as a thought seemed to briefly pass through his mind.

“I’ve learned a lot, because I’ve had to.  For instance, did you know that it takes about 12 hours for the virus to travel throughout the central nervous system to get to the brain?  And while it’s common knowledge that the human brain is a special delicacy to the zombie, what’s not well known – by humans or amongst zombies – is that the “prime” cut” is the new zombie brain: the brain of a human right after he has changed over to a zombie.

“As disgusting as zombies are with their flesh-eating habits, they are decidedly not cannibals,” said the doctor.  “strangely, they love our brains, but they won’t eat each other’s brains.  As a result, very few of them are familiar with this treat.  More than just a delicacy, however, we’ve discovered that fresh zombie brains have curative powers.  Indeed, they are the active ingredient of my famous cure.  And although we advertise a 50 percent cure rate, we’ve actually achieved 100 percent efficacy with our current formulation.”

Alex was more alert than he had been all night; his eyes tracked the doctor pacing back and forth before him.  Though his body was frozen, his mind was racing: why was he in lockdown away from his friends if he had been given a cure?

“We’re doing research now that we hope will allow us to permanently cure humanity of the zombie scourge,” the doctor explained, almost as if he’d heard Alex’s thoughts.  “But to do this work, we need fresh new zombie brains.  This means that while we can help everyone, we choose to only help about half the victims that come to us.

The doctor looked straight into his patient’s eyes.  “To put it plainly, Alex: we need for you to fully change into a zombie, so that we can harvest your brains for our work.  That orange gel was just a placebo.”

If he had the power to do so, Alex would have screamed.  Powerless to move, yell or fight, he instead succumbed to his terror in silence, as Dr. Zombie strode across the room toward him.

“I can tell you are getting upset.  I don’t blame you.  This work is historic.  And you, young Alex, are going to help us make history.  Your brains are, anyway.”

Suddenly, in his panic, Alex noticed that he was now able to move a bit, as though the imaginary ice that captured his muscles was thawing.  He started to struggle against his restraints – if he could free himself in time, he knew he’d be powerful enough to take down his tormentor.

Dr. Zombie crossed the room to the shelf on the wall behind Alex.  He didn’t seem to have noticed Alex’s struggle.  If only …

“There’s one last thing to share with you before your transformation,” the morbid doctor added menacingly – the charitable wunderkind doctor was no longer in the room.  “While we’ve discovered that an injection of new zombie brains offers a cure for preventing permanent zombification of a new victim, we’ve learned of one additional medicinal effect.”

On the table, from next to a small ball peen hammer – and a fork – the doctor gingerly lifted a scalpel and turned back to Alex.

“New zombie brains, when consumed in the raw by full-blown zombie, temporarily reverses the zombie curse.  Eating this delicacy restores the monster to a mostly human-like condition,” talking mostly to himself now, the doctor was almost giddy.  “I serendipitously made this discovery first-hand, when I was a young medical school student and starving zombie.”

Alex desperately, but hopelessly, rocked from side to side within his restraints.  He was about to become breakfast; the transformation was complete.  He could struggle but not free himself; he could finally attempt a scream, but what came out of his mouth was a guttural “Eeearrrrggghhhhh!” instead.

The doctor smiled at the outburst.  Like an egg timer going off, the bizarre wail-growl simply meant that it was time.  He placed the blade of the scalpel to Alex’s head for the first incision.

“Farewell, Alex,” said Dr. Zombie.  “I can’t thank you enough.

“Wish us luck with the research.  And wish me bon appétit!”

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 1. Scary Stories
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