Identity

I am the author and creator of Fennard Black and all the posts written under that name.
My name is Thomas King.
I am, at the time of this post, a sixteen year old student from Royal Oak, a suburb of Auckland City in New Zealand.
I would like to make everyone aware that my work is, naturally, copyrighted.
I hope you have enjoyed these posts, as strange and abruptly ending as they may be.
Mr Black will one day be brought to life.

Like a dog with a pile of bones I hope you have a nice day.


-Thomas King.

email: dobbyglue@hotmail.com

Fidgetness

I wish to announce that I'm going.

I am absolutely bored out of my skull. I have nothing to do and I have come to the revelation that unless I leave here I will always be bored. So I'm going. Not from here. Just from here. With me?
Good.

So I'm packing my stuff. Evo can come with. But where will I go? That I'm not sure of yet. But I'm sure something will arise and spark a direction for travel. I've always wanted to travel south. I'll probably head there.

Spontaneous, you cry? Well of course it is. But I've been sitting here, slowly banging my head against the wall, sgathering a rythmic motion that slowly drives me insane. You'd want to leave too.

Well that was a good burst of fidgetness. Right, now where's my hat? Anyone seen it?

The Absence of Smell

I arrived back home yesterday and because of my long absence there was a pile of mail crammed into my mailbox.

A friend of mine has a father that is a dentist and offered me a discounted rate in lieu of me being able to choose when my appointment was. One of the many envelopes spread over my kitchen bench contained the appointment time. It was 9:15 am today. That isn't the best time to see a dentist but I couldn't say no to the offer.

There is something oddly sterile about waiting rooms; dental waiting rooms in particular. I think it's the smell. It isn't a good smell or a bad smell. In fact, the more I think about it, there is no smell. The smell is absent. The same way dark is the absence of light and cold is the absence of warmth.

Like motel rooms and reception areas, waiting rooms offer plain floral portraits on plain cream-coloured walls, well-read magazines, immaculately clean carpet and small, mildly padded chairs.

If I had the authority I would change the name 'waiting room' to 'reluctantly waiting room'.
It has a nice ring to it.

Nosferatu

I have a new favourite film.

I love old films; ones that were made when it wasn't about making a lot of money and there was still an art to capturing a story onto film.

One of my favourites is Un Chien Andalou, probably the best example of french avant-garde film. It was made in 1928, but does not seem so with its clever effects.

But last night I saw a screen of a very old film entitled 'Nosferatu'. As it is my last week here before I head home I thought I'd treat myself to a ticket. I'd heard of Nosferatu before in high-brow conversations and had seen footage from it but this was the first time I had seen the whole masterpiece. It was the second horror film ever made and probably one of the first breaches of copyright as it totally plagriarises Bram Stoker's Dracula. Harker is Hutter, Renfield is called Knock and the famous character of Dracula is renamed Count Orlock.
Made in 1922 and can still give someone the creeps.

I'm going to try and get a copy.

Itch

Itch is a strange word. It is spelled in a strange way and it is pronounced in a strange way. It is one of those words that, when you write it you have to double check its spelling. Itch. Itch. Something just never seems right about that word. Itch. Is it even a word?

It was hot last night. And Evo went for a wander. I am staying in my brother's house, which I think is incredibly kind after I attacked him and everything. Because I left home at an early age and he is younger than me I never really grew to know him. But I'm learning fast.

So last night Evo went wandering, as bored dogs do.
The sun was setting, rather quickly might I add, and darkness was turning everything into a blob of not much. I spotted Evo in the yard of a house not far up the road.

Not wanting to disturb the occupants I whispered:
"Evoooo, get over here!"
He gave me that look. The "I know I should obey you but this thing I am smelling is soo interesting. Just give me a sec."
Not that dogs would say words like "interesting". That would just be silly.
After a while he came back to me and we went back to my brother's house (I still find it awkward to call him Fennard).

I had about 20 mosquito bites on each foot from standing around and waiting for Evo. The itchiness was driving me insane. I was writhing on the floor in a bout of insatiable itchiness.
Itch Itch Itch.

Good riddance

What do you call the feeling between grief and joy? If there was a word for it, I'd be using it right now.

My mother died. Death is never a great experience, for anyone involved, unless you like the experience, but that would just be awkward.

I never liked my mother. Well maybe there was a small time near the beginning of my life that I may have somewhat enjoyed her maternal company, but for as long as I can remember she was a right cow.

She treated me and my siblings like we were the scum of the earth. One would blame it on the disappearance of my father when I was four years old. But that would be a lame excuse. No one in their right mind would treat their children that way just because their husband abandoned them. Though I never thought my mother was very sane.

The only thing I have inherited from my mother is an envelope with the papers stating the change of my brothers name when he was only twelve years old. That was six months after I left and she changed his name to Fennard. Probably to replace me. God only knows.

Oh Brother I Haft Found Thou

I have a brother.

3 days ago I met a couple of guys in a bar. In a mildly drunken state, I told them what I was doing and where I was going. In their morethanmild drunken state they agreed to help me out.
So come Wednesday morning, early morning that is, we went to give Mr Black a small visit.

He lived in a small apartment out in the boondocks of nowhere. When we knocked on his door he didn't answer, so Rob, one of the guys, kicked it down.

There he was.
We pounced on him, and even though he kicked and fought like a hard-arsed monkey, we held him down.

It turns out that there is two Fennard Blacks in this world. He knew me, but I didn't know him.

There's a reason why I hate Onstanska. It was, back then, the small town that I grew up in. It was the town that my father ran from, leaving my wretched mother and me. I'm sure you can understand why I hate this place. It is the skidmark on the arse of civilisation.

The Mighty Stanska

Wow this place is different to how I remember it. Or maybe it's so similar it's eerie. It seems so primitive, probably because of the fact it took me 3 days to find a place where I could write this down. A Chinese lady let me use her machine, as long as I didn't tell anyone where she was. I can tell that the other Black is here in this town somewhere, in Onstanska, hiding, from me no doubt.

Curiosity killed the cat can mean a few things, for example, a cat was killed by a dog that was named Curiosity, or maybe the cat's curiosity led it to it's death. Sadly, in this case, the former example is the one that applies. You see, the Chinese lady told me that she had found a dead cat, or rather, the remains of one in her backyard where her dog lives. It appears that her dog ate the cat. This made me feel disgusted so I left her place swiftly.

Fennard Black is here somewhere, and I'm going to find him, but I must be quiet at it, otherwise he will flee like last time. Chances are he has altered his name, because he probably knows that the first place I'll check if the phonebook. I thought about it for a while and figured out what name I would change to if my name was Fennard Black, which it is, and his, which is mine too.

Fennard Baxter lives at 27 Brighton St. I think I'll give him a call.

The Idea Of North

One may find many things frustrating in life, like not being able to talk normally, dividing complex fractions or tying one's shoelaces. For many years I found it difficult to tie my shoelaces until a strange man taught me a catchy little rhyme to go with it. But today I found something else frustrating, or rather someone else frustrating.
A telephone operator.

It turns out that the word 'Evolution' wasn't the only thing inscribed onto Evo's tag. On the back was a phone number. I recognised the prefix but for the life of me could not remember the area it represented. Obviously, neither could the operator.
"It could be Tonkston. Or maybe Raikann."
"Don't you have all the prefixes and the areas they represent written down somewhere?"
"No. I'll just go ask my supervisor."

I mumbled some angry mumblings several times. In the end the operator told me it was a number in Onstanska. I mumbled a thank you and hung up.

I didn't dare call that number, but I knew it was from Onstanska, and from my knowledge, Onstanska isn't a huge place. I should be able to track this guy down really fast now.

So Evo and I will probably end up hitching a ride on the back of a truck; buses don't allow dogs.
I don't see why. Because they are dirty? Trust me, I've seen dirtier things than dogs walk onto the bus with two legs and a face full of munch.

Bunny bunny BANG! That always calms me down. I better get some sleep.

Evolution

Hints come in a wide variety of forms. You may receive one while watching a quiet play about a man who killed his brother to gain access to a vast fortune. You may receive one while in a race around the world. You may even receive one while eating muffins. To be specific, blueberry muffins that were missing the blueberries.

While on the bus into town I noticed a bakery that boasted it made the 'Best Cantarned Blueberry Muffins In the World'. Now usually I wouldn't care much about this, but to wake up in an unknown place with nothing but a box of blueberry muffins...well I'm sure you can tell I was suspicious.

So that is where I went last night. I packed my bag and took the long, dark, silent walk to the bakery I noticed. At that time of night it was still closed, but I knew that in a few hours the baker would arrive to start doing what he does best, which apparently is making blueberry muffins. If I do say so myself, I didn't think they were that great, even taking into account that they were missing the blueberries. I arrived and took a look around the outside, but it was empty. There was a house behind it though, and curiously, it had its front door hanging wide open. There even seemed to be strange noises coming from inside.

There are occasions when one should have a small knife in one's hand, and for me, this was one of those occasions, so I got mine out of my bag as I gingerly walked in through the front door. The place looked like it had only recently been ditched, that is, someone had gathered up all they could and left in hurry, possibly because they had been alerted to the presence of a man who they had stolen the identity from.

I could still hear the noise. It was coming from one of the far rooms, a sort of whimpering.
It turned out I didn't need the knife after all. The cause of the noise was a starved dog, chained to the floor by a big nail sticking right out of one of the floorboards. He didn't seem too threatening, so I checked his collar for a tag.
'Evolution'.
Well that certainly is a good name for a dog, even if it is a bit of a mouthful. I unchained him. This seemed like enough snooping for one night, so I took the dog with me and snuck him back into my room at Ted's parent's house.

I think I'll just call him Evo.

The Absence of Blueberries

Do you know where I am? Because I certainly don't. I'm a fencepost. Or at least, I feel like one. You see, this morning I woke up on the side of a remote country road, which certainly is an odd place to wake up, unless that is where you had gone to sleep each night for the last two decades. But this was the first time I had woken up on this particular road, so it was odd. And to make things even odder I found that all I had for company was a box of blueberry muffins. Well the box said they were blueberry, but when I took a bite into one I found that there were no blueberries at all. How deceitful.

The blueberry muffins without the blueberries made a fitting breakfast nonetheless and I decided I should walk north and see if I could call for help from a farmer's house or similar. But after a few hours of walking I spotted a car on the horizon, driving towards me, so I flagged it down. The driver was alone, an elderly chap. I told him what had happened and he said he thought it sounded like I had been drugged and left there. He offered me a ride back into town.
On the way back I was trying to remember what had happened the night before and why anyone would want to dump me, unconscious, on the side of a country road. It may be that someone from the council had tipped off the imposter Fennard Black.

I made it back to Ted's parent's house, and I am packing my bags right now. I think I've figured out where this fake Black lives.

Turnips

There was an odd scent that was carried with the wind this morning when I woke up. I spent the night at Ted's parent's house, and true to his word, the butter chicken curry was superb.
I knew that today I had to search further for the man that was posing as yours truly, but first I had to find out what that smell was.

It smelled like some kind of vegetable and naturally I asked Ted what it was. He told me that there were several fields filled with turnips at this time of year. The farmers grew them to feed to their cattle. Fields of turnips? This was something I had to see.
In place of grass was a huge mass of bright green leafyness. And the smell was even stronger. It wasn't so much a pleasant odour, but it reminded me of something, like home maybe, not that I ever had much of a home.

But I didn't let the marvel of turnips distract me, so I headed for the local council building to see if they knew anything about Black.

Although it may not be as great as a field full of turnips, the council building in Bighsville is still a sight to see. It was a round building made of brick and stone and had long, white banners streaming from the flagpole that stood outside. Apparently it is wedding season.

I asked inside if anyone knew of a Fennard Black. They said no, but checked a few records anyway. Still nothing. One man told me to ask at the police station. I told him I would even though I knew I wouldn't. The last thing I want is to be near a policeman. They're always probing for answers, no matter who you are, and there are things I'd rather they didn't know.
So I went back to Ted's parent's house.


Maybe I will have some better luck tomorrow.

Greasy Windows

There must be some substance in people's hair that when they rest their heads against window panes a smear of extreme greasiness is created. Many people will find that when one is bored out of their skull, one notices trivial things. Like the gum sticking to the back of the seat that was in front of me, or the name of a young punk etched into the wall, or the way the word 'seat' was misspelled 'seet' on a nearby sign. But my boredom has thankfully been interupted.

Many things in life require frequent interuptions, and boredom is one of them. So is romantic film, heavy metal music and political speeches.

Ted said I could stay with his family for a few nights, just while I am searching for this other Fennard. I am looking forward to his mother's butter chicken curry. He said it tasted like "the best butter you ever tasted with the best chicken you ever tasted in the best curry you ever tasted". I can't say no to that.

So for the next few days I will be staying with the strange family of a strange man in a strange town whilst looking for another strange man. Hmmmm, strange.