Out-of-Context Theatre

Joel: I caught the beginning of Bee Movie.
Rick: How was it?
Joel: Actually good! Except for that girl, um…
Rick: Elaine?

Can I steal your mind for a while?

By JOEL.

Video – Scorpion Flower

Rick was absolutely adamant that I post about music, so here I go. I want to talk about Nine Inch Nails, but first I need to talk about Moonspell.

Continue reading ‘Can I steal your mind for a while?’ »

A Boy Named Nicole

by NICOLE.

The girl who gave me the nickname “Nicole” was a wolf named Pheobe.

Continue reading ‘A Boy Named Nicole’ »

Son of a Widow

By ARTIE.

My father was very quiet when he passed on.

Proceeding news of the cancer, he grew increasingly irate – relentlessly cursing the world and science and his God for cursing him with such malicious and unjust fate. Such fiery, energetic passion and fury did not last though.
Rather, in his final days, my father was quiet. It was not resignation so much as pure exhaustion. He was not tired from the therapy or the doctors, he was tired from the sorrow. The regret of not watching his son grow up, and his failure to provide for his wife. It was a wretched, numbing agony that weighed upon his heart like snow on an old, leafless branch. In his last hours, my father was begging to break and finally rest, to be buried under that snow.

I once found a half-finished letter in a crumbled ball, washed into the gutter on a rainy day. In smeared blue ink it pleaded that her son please consider inviting his father to his graduation party. He worked so hard, and he does love you, and it would mean the world to him. It had no return address, no signature, just the stains of tears that fell from the sky to wash away all intention.

My mother wasn’t the same, but that change came well before my father’s passing, so when he finally left her the greif was softened, as softened as a bullet can be by such sun-stained armor. She didn’t know, but I used to lean on my door and listen as she meandered through the house, rehearsing the art of futility in an effort to perfect what promised to be a masterpiece of loneliness. If she didn’t have me, she would have thrown such efforts to the wind, and when the threat of my leaving was hurriedly whispered into her ear, she seemed all too glad to take the excuse and smash her future into pieces, throwing mine to the ground to lay with the fragments.

And lay there, I did, each piece of glass eagerly digging into my flesh, red stains seeping their way through my fur. My fur, my god, even my skin reminded me of my mother, every day waking up and being reminded of her soft white embrace, how warm it was, and how cold it became when she hung from her neck, suspended by the rafters of that old house.

“Don’t you get enough sleep, Artie? You always look so tired, like you’re gonna fall over at any second.”
“Can’t sleep sometimes, too much on the mind, you know?”
“Sure would like to have a brain like yours! Always thinking.”

I was seen as a very advanced child, so intelligent beyond my years, and the school wanted me to skip a grade. My mother was all for it, but my dad would have no part of it. He didn’t want me to skip that year of social development, he said. I couldn’t skip that year of making friends and learning lessons.

Ultimately it seems I failed. My fur comes from my mother, and from my father comes my quiet, studious attitude. But I failed to pass on one trait of my father, and I felt no rage about this sickness. I moved straight to the quiet, brooding silence and the dark, straining exhaustion.

Most people don’t ever see it, and those who do only catch the slightest hint of it, but I ache. I ache all over, slightly at first but with growing agony as each day grows old. Sometimes I lay on the floor and don’t get up, either by choice or by surrender. The pills help, but they make me dizzy, and it makes it hard to think straight. I could not have written this, at this hour, if I had taken the pills.

Sleep really is one of the only reliefs I have, but even that has been taken from me. But there’s always tomorrow night for that, right?

Kate’s Kid Krew

The group of kids around Kate in comic #162 is a group of children with whom she… plays often.

Continue reading ‘Kate’s Kid Krew’ »

Emily

By KELLY. To take place some time after comic #149.

The thing about conversation for me is that once I get into it, I have no trouble and no awkwardness. It’s the starting of a conversation that’s the hard part.

But, I managed to start, or rather, she did. I had her attention, and the rest fell together. Simple questions! That’s all it takes, really. School, work, hobbies, current events. Try to save politics for the third date, always with protection of course.

As it turns out, Emily, a real cutie of a fox girl, went to the same school as Angie did, studying fashion. I suppose she’s going to the school for “frivolous arts”, but please don’t tell her I said that.

She and I were both done with classes for the day – lucky, huh? – and I implored her to catch a late lunch with me, and though apparently taken aback by how forward I was, she seemed to happily agree. We made a light meal of sharing a salad.

“So this Kurt Vonnegut fellow,” I said, leisurely waving around a forkful of lettuce. “Writes some pretty weird stuff, doesn’t he.”
“Well,” she said, discretely playing with the string hanging from the edge of her book’s mark, “He did. Sorta died, though. Hard to write when you’re dead.”
“Pssh. That’s no excuse. He’s just lazy.”
“Think you can do better, postmortem? C’mon, there’s a bridge nearby. I’ll toss in a typewriter after you.”
“I’ll haunt the crap out of you.”

The conversation did not stop or slow down – I clicked with this girl, plain and simple. She was smart and she was quick, and she carried with her a gentle sarcasm, used not for spite but just for entertainment.

We didn’t live far from each other, but from the tiny cafe at which we ate, we had to part ways. I resisted all urges to kiss her cheek and settled for the slightly-awkward handshake she offered. She had very soft paws. We traded numbers and screen names, which was embarrassing for me as I had to take my cellphone out to tell her my own phone number. Hell if I can remember.

And so we separated, only to catch each other online later in the evening. The fox kept me up all night, though not necessarily online or by phone.

Welcome!

Hey there! Welcome to Concession Chronicles!

This will be a collection of short stories involving the characters of Concession. It will be used to provide insight, back-stories, and will fill gaps in the narrative for which there simply is not time in Concession. Most of the entries will be written in first-person perspective by a cast member, and every story will be canon.

Additionally, there will be world info and some insightful fan-mails, and other tiny essays by or about the characters.

There will be no fixed update schedule, but i will try to put something up every week.

Feel free to leave comments! They will be answered in-character by the poster of the entry. I can’t reply to every single comment, and sometimes a character simply wont have anything to say in response, so don’t feel bad please.

A One-Night Stand

A story by JOEL.

I woke up naked next to a rather athletically built red fox who I cannot honestly recall having ever met before.

Some may call me promiscuous, and honestly, I can’t say that’s too far from the truth, but one thing I am not known for is random sex with strangers. Not often, anyways, and when it happens, I usually recall the night. However, my mind swam and drew a blank as to how I got into this cluttered bedroom next to this strange fox.

I sat up and was greeted with a head ache, accompanied by a wave of blurred, drunken memories. There was a party, there was drinking, and this was a hang over. And this, stirring beside me, was a one night stand.

Continue reading ‘A One-Night Stand’ »

Out-of-Context Theatre

“I don’t see what the big deal is. They should just print ‘WE HAVE LESBIANS’ on their travel brochures and be done with it. Their tourism will skyrocket.”