Before the continuation of this story, I feel the need to clarify some things.

Mark Twain photo portrait.

Not exactly my face, but close.

1. I am the ‘being’ that Jephrold Gratchfield McNerrister diFlansworth-Smythe predicted might someday read his bench carvings and transcribe them into a more readable format, namely, a blog. I had originally created the blog for the purpose of recording graffiti I had found in an old elevator. Some of you may know of it.
2. I came across diFlansworth-Smythe’s first benchstory in the ruins of Umbleheim on a dig long ago (I am not an archeologist, but I enjoy shoveling) and eventually found and transcribed the other benches in the years leading up to now. This process took longer than one might expect because I also had to translate the tales into English from the long dead language of the author, unknown even to myself. I learned just enough to translate from a teacher in the Nap Lands, whom I could only visit during light sleep. I am unfathomably grateful that I could remember what I learned there after waking, but it was still slow work. Especially while working on the parts that you’ve already read by now, in which nothing really happens. Nothing is something that happens frequently in real life and we must accept that true stories will include it.
3. Some of the stories I found on the walls of the old elevator end abruptly one or two chapters from the beginning. I have entered them into the blog anyway and if I find their continuations somewhere else, I will post them too. If not, I likely won’t.
-your translator,
Chandler R


Murdersocks: Aftersocks: 1: In which things are explained and a traveling companion is found

Donkey Hoadie

(Photo credit: steve goddard)

Great day to you! Now that I am free of the socks, I can say nice things like that. Also, congratulations on finding the latest bench I have visited. The “Prologue Bench” probably should have told you how to find it more easily, but I didn’t think of it at the time.

It remains true and correct that benches are the best thing to write on. I understand that it is a less convenient medium than some, but words written on paper or typed into a word-machine are lacking in a certain quality that I think is essential to tell my (all entirely too true) tales. I call this quality “benchiness” and it can only be achieved through knife-on-bench writing.

Someday, another being may transcribe this tale into another form, and it will still be important and necessary to read, but I assure you, it will not be benchy. To aid in your comprehension of all this, I will be labeling each bench with a number. For example, this bench, which I found in the village of Tremsil, is called 1. I plan to stay here for a short time and then continue to Rooster’s Edge, where I hear there is an existing audience for baked goods.
In other me-related news, I found a feral donkey and adopted it. The donkey’s smile reminded me of my beloved late grandmother, so I named it after her. I never actually knew my grandmother and I wouldn’t have called her by her real name if I had, but Grandmother didn’t seem like a proper donkey name, so Thrumplestance it was.
Thrumplestance now carries all of my possessions (the bench-knife, the recently baked murdersocks, and an assortment of assorted knacks and knicks.) It is a tremendous improvement over my old hat-sack.

Murdersocks: Aftersocks: Prologue

lost tiny grey sock, with cobwebs

lost tiny grey sock, with cobwebs (Photo credit: only alice)

Hello again, friends, readers, and future victims. It has been seven years since my previous autobiography was scratched into a wooden park bench, which I’ll assume you have not read.
Nevertheless, you may have heard rumors of the events surrounding the socks that were once fused to my feet by means I understand less than you probably do (assuming you don’t understand it at all). They drove me to do murderous, murdery, and murderiffic things that I am not proud of. Of course, those rumors did not include the truth of what happened when the murders occurred. They would leave you with the impression that it was I, Jephrold Gratchfield McNerrister diFlansworth-Smythe that killed all those nice people, puppies, bakery customers, and mountainy men. In fact, it was a group of crows (aka a murder) that swooped in and did all of the actual murdering after the murdersocks had stopped time. Seriously, you must believe that I am innocent.
I was simply a Baker and I made simple pies, one of which contained the murderous murder of crows and ended their murderous string of murderosity. Granted, the pie turned into a new pair of murdersocks when it was done baking, but how was I to know that? I thought I was stopping it.
With its favorite crows baked and gone, the socks on my feet had nothing to do and lost their murderous power. I could tell because they turned grey and let me take them off. This left me free to return to my former life of baking and bringing joy to hungry people. I had to search for a new town in which set up shop because I had indirectly murdered all potential customers in the places I had already been.

I’ll update you on what I find.

Murdersocks: Remurdered


This version has numerous corrections,  and revisions, which hopefully help the story more than they harm it.  If any errors remain, you are free to murder me for them.

If you value brevity over quality, the old version, in bite-size pieces is still here.

Murdersocks: Epilogue

Bench near Cawthorne Camps car park. Wooden be...

Image via Wikipedia

I am writing this tale on a wooden bench I found just beyond the Umbleheim gate with my ever-pointy and scratchulent hobby knife that I always keep in my hat-sack.  I would have used a pen and ink like a civilized baker should, but I want my story to be permanent and wood-carved letters are as permanent as I can do right now.

This town is very much unlike what I expected when I set out for new friends with which to share my crow pie.  For one, no one is here.  There are no signs of any disasters, natural or artificial, but the absence of all life is vexing.  The albino kittens that I encountered on the road are still with me and refuse to go away.

I tried placating them by throwing a piece of of crow pie their way, but it was pie no longer.  The metamorphosis I had noticed the beginnings of in the oven had continued in my hat-sack and the two unpie-like forms were now clearly socks.

It is a known law of nature that cats enjoy little more than playing with socks, but given my recent history with the evil foot-garments, I put them back in my sack and went back to writing.  The kittens have gotten gradually more aggressive in their attempts to ensock themselves, but I am so far still able ignore their adorable little claws and keep writing.  I wonder how much longer I will be able to keep this up because

Murdersocks: Chapter 9: In which a party is planned and a new location is entered


Image by Public Domain Photos via Flickr

Since my own village of Schlimpshire was so thoroughly depopulated, I concluded that looking for pie-enthusiasts to invite to my party here would be an exercise in frustration.  There might be some survivors left, but they would run in fear when they saw me, not knowing my footware had been defanged.
This left the neighboring towns of Umbleheim and Aetchburgh.  All the nearby horses had also been murdered and I had never learned to ride anyway, so I would have to walk.  Umbleheim and Aetchburgh were in opposite directions and the former was slightly closer, so that was my choice.
Our villages had little contact with each other, so the Umbleheimers would not know of the vast swath of murderous murder that the Socks had brought to us.  I brought the pecular baked-goods (hard to call pies at this point) with me in my hat sack so that the event could be held there.
As I walked down quiet dirt path through the dry and silent fields, I thought of what I would say and how I would present my role in it that would make them want to attend my celebration rather than throw me into a volcano.  This would be a challenge.
I was so lost in concentration that I almost didn’t notice the herd of bone-white kittens that followed me.
There were at least eleven of them, all the same size and the same degree of kittenosity.
I tried not to step on them and kept walking.  I could see the town gate up ahead already.
I am at the gate now.  I already like this place.  Maybe I’ll move here.

Murdersocks: Chapter 8: In which an unknown quantity of black birds are baked in a pie

A Murder of Crows (album)

Image via Wikipedia

Just as planned, the murder of crows came for the food and was trapped in the pie as the top crust fell upon them from above with a hearty “splounkcht”.  The extra-doughy dough I had prepared ensnared their murderous little feet and weighed down their wings like a patch of nutritious, delicious, and deadly whole-grain quicksand.
No sound escaped that chewy prison, though I knew they would be calling out with the full murderous strength of their birdy throats.  The silence filled me with a rush of victorious mirth.
“I won!” I said and cackled aloud with gusto as I carried the pie to old iron pie oven.
I carefully slid the pan onto the already hot oven rack and stood there, watching it bake.  I’d normally be too busy, but this was too important to miss.  It wasn’t as if there were customers waiting either way.
The crust began to acquire a golden-brownosity only a few minutes later.
And then the Socks began to glow with their regular murderosity.  They were on to me now, but I had the upper hand.  Without the crows, they couldn’t do anything.
“Yeeheeheeheeheeee!”  I looked into the oven and saw a marked increase in appetizingness.  I would have to serve this pie at a party with all my nonmurdered friends.  I had to stop to think about this..  Did I have any unmurdered friends?  My dead friends were now avenged, and would be celebrated, but they were not big eaters.
No matter, I could meet new friends.  New friends who like delicious pies made with murderous birds.  That was what I, Jephrold Gratchfield McNerrister diFlansworth-Smythe, would do right after I left here.
But what was this?
Another glance into the oven revealed that the pie was different now.  Still looking more and more delicious, but also changing in other ways.  It was redder for one, which was odd because it’s ingredients were light brown or black.  It had also somehow divided itself into two equal sized shapes that didn’t quite look like pies any more.  It was a mystery of great mysteriousity, but it would still be foodtastic and full of now-harmless murder.
I placed it on the cooling rack and started the exilerating task of seeking out still-living party guests.