I wrote this yesterday after someone I speak to said something that gave me an idea.
Recently this person has stoked a greater desire in me to write than I usually have, and so I’ve collated a bunch of ideas into a list so I know what I’m writing and I can properly prepare them rather than just rattle the ideas off and move on. It was not an intentional move on their part, and I greatly appreciate it.

Anyway, after the thing was said I churned this out. Was about thirty-four minutes of writing. It’s rough; it’s sloppy, but I got something out of it, and it was a fun bit of writing to write.

I hope you enjoy.

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So once upon a time, in a land known as “Canada”, was a wee man by the name of Bevan. Bevan was your regular go-getter with certain skills and abilities that helped him make the most of his skills in the art of using words to make sentences. He meant well and did no harm intentionally.

Anyway, one day whilst going about his usual routine of making and creating, and disseminating, Bevan felt this thing in his brain. He didn’t know what it was, but it was there. Didn’t feel like a block; didn’t feel like an itch. Didn’t feel like anything, really. But it was definitely felt, but it was small. It was insignificant. It was annoying, but insignificant.

Over the days and weeks Bevan continued with his routine, and both gradually and insidiously the feeling grew. It was mostly ignored, but as it came to prominence, it became harder to do so. It seemed to itch, and that itch turned into something akin to a burn.

It grew and grew, and even though Bevan was able to get through his daily routine and his act of creating, the feeling would create more distraction, and drops in attention, and take time away. There would be time lost to this sensation. It grew and grew, and it moved from a burn, to something else.

It felt hot. It felt intense. It felt like a fire. In the brain.

It ate more time and it kept on going, and all these ideas would flow out and Bevan would capture them where he could, but he could not put them down for the fire was too much. Eventually he could no longer keep pushing past it, and so he decided to do something about  the issue. He wanted his life back, for it was the loss of his time that saw his life dispersing.

It was a particularly biting winter at the time, but Bevan had a focus that was driven by the distraction. He went outside, and looked upon an axe. “Ah, old trusty axe” Bevan said with a knowing smirk. It was there, lodged in the last stump that it had helped bring to the world. From the stump had sprouted something small, and near it was where the axe lay embedded. “Life does spring from the direst of situations”, Bevan said to no one in particular.

He then focused on the axe. He tried to stare at it as much as it he could, and he tried to keep focus. The brain fire did not react… not at first.

It was cold and it was the afternoon, and afternoon shifted to twilight, and twilight shifted to night, and nothing seemed to change, but it did. The brain fire seemed to howl inside. It started reacting to this focus on the axe, and the axe it did not like.

It howled and shrieked, and in its lashing out and feeling a greater weakening and desire to escape, the brain fire caused pain fantastic and unimaginable. However, Bevan kept on focusing. He knew he would win in the end so long as he refused to relent.

Suddenly Bevan felt his head snap upward, and a great physical manifestation poured out from his mouth and nose and ears. It heaved outward with a violence, and with it left a heaviness. Bevan had clarity again, but this clarity was a mere distraction, for the brain fire was now in front of him and preparing to strike.

By sheer luck Bevan narrowly dodged the forceful sweep, and by sheer luck he was able to start running. He had no idea how to fight such a thing, and it was between him and the axe. However, he had a thought that could lead to an idea, and so, as running, he called out “LORNE, IT’S TIME”.

You see, many years ago, when Bevan was much younger, he met a moose by the name of Lorne. Lorne was known by many names: The Mighty Under; The Singer of Trees; The Poet of the Graven; The Walker of the Horizon’s Line. However, only Bevan knew Lorne’s true name: Lorne.

How Bevan learned this was through being in the right place at the right time. He was lost in the woods, having gone on a walk to allow himself the time to think in the introspective manner. He saw the moose, and it seemed momentarily dejected. Bevan said “Same”. The moose looked up from its cigarette and said “Name’s Bevan, by the way”. From there, they came to each other’s aid where necessary, and many an adventure was had.

So when Bevan called out as the brain fire chased after him, it was no surprise that Lorne came charging and got a grip on the axe, taking the stump out with it, then gingerly tossed it to Bevan at the right angle so as to get around the brain fire. Bevan, with his eternal reach, caught the axe by the hilt. Then, turning around at just the right time, turned around and spun threw the axe at the brain fire.

The axe, rotating rapidly, passed through the brain fire as though nothing. Rendered paralytic, the last look on the brain fire’s face was one of incomprehensible feeling. Lorne came charging toward Bevan as the brain fire started rapidly expanding. Bevan hopped on and Lorne moved faster than a peregrine falcon.

They kept going, but the brain fire caught up… almost. Suddenly it stopped expanding, and something reacted within it and it exploded with grand magnificence and danger. In its wake, dying flames and ruin and wreckage, but safety. However, Bevan and Lorne kept going. They had won this battle, but what it signified was a war, and one that only they could fight, and so they charged off into the dark of the night, away from the dying flames and toward their destiny.