I think I’ve mentioned that I’d rather write fiction than a factual blog. So here I was, agonizing over my soon to be overdrawn checking account and decided that was too depressing and then I thought about a dozen other things and decided those were too depressing.
So I’ll stick with what hit my imagination. I was sitting in a big room with a curved love seat behind my huge desk with (yes) orange cushions on it.
Suddenly, two very happy boys of about 10 or so, dressed in winter coats, raced into the room and dropped onto the really ugly couch, shedding 1960’s style polyester filled green coats on the floor.
“Hi,” I said without enthusiasm.
“We’re hiding,” the one closer to me said at once.
“From what?” I asked, not very interested.
“The monster on the next blog,” the same fellow said.
I gazed calmly at him.
He nodded. “In this world, the blog posts come to life. So if a man posts about his anger, an angry man is on that page and he’s real, So once we saw a man who posted about WC Fields who says children are best parboiled. We got away from him fast because he looked hungry.”
“So what actually scared you?” I asked, not aware of any angry man posts or other intimidation or violence on Word Press blogs.
“There’s this guy who has this little Leggo guy who keeps getting killed and just gets up and fights again, which isn’t even logical, but the thing is, this guy is a fighter and he’s looking for his next fight. We’re not it.”
“The little Leggo guy is looking for a fight and that scares you?” I asked incredulously. “That little suicide guy isn’t an inch tall.”
“No, not that Leggo guy,” the second boy said, sounding almost angry. “The guy who created him. That guy, the man who has the blog. It’s his persona you see in this world and that guy has some pretty strange thoughts.”
“Careful,” I said mildly.
“What?” the boy asked, surprised.
“The guy who created that little suicide guy is my son. He wouldn’t hurt a kid on a bet and don’t be dissin on my boy. I like you both well enough, but I’ll feed you to the next angry post if you say one more word against my son.”
They exchanged a quick look and grabbed their coats.
I got up and grabbed them, and dragged them next door, where, indeed, my son sat, larger than life, at a desk surrounded by glass-front bookcases. I wondered if mine had inspired his, but it wasn’t time for that.
“Hi,” he said calmly, the utterly unflappable my fairly emotional teenager had turned out to be. “Friends?”
“Boys who think you’re strange and scary.”
He nodded. “I am. Funny they realized it, though. They’re not 8 if even that.”
“I am so!” the first boy who had spoken spat at him. “I’m ten years old, Mister,”
My son nodded, recognizing what I had not. “And your brother is older than you?” he asked the boy who was 10.
“He is not,” he spat. “He’s 9.”
My son nodded. “And you’re lost and frightened because you’re in blog world and don’t know how to get back to reality. Or am I wrong.”
“Shut up,” the younger boy told the older, and to my surprise, he did.
The younger boy turned to my son. “You’re right. It was like a window we fell through and then it was gone. Do you know where it is?”
“That window? No,” my son said calmly. “But I do know how to get you out of here. But I’m not going to just release you to the streets of Seattle without keepers. Where are your parents?”
“They put us here,” the rational smaller child said. “They pushed us through that window and said good riddance to bad rubbish. We’re not perfect, but we’re not rubbish, either.”
“No, you can’t be. Rubbish is garbage generated by human consumption. How long ago was the push into the window?”
The boy thought about it, shifting from one foot to the other and even scratching his head. Then he turned to his older brother. “How long, Tyler?”
Tyler said, “We had breakfast. We missed lunch, dinner, breakfast, lunch, dinner, and today, breakfast. That’s how long.”
My son nodded and rose. He disappeared from his blog page but he was back shortly with a tray of sandwiches, chips, and glasses of milk and orange juice.
He motioned the boys to the table in his study and they went, dropping coats on the way.
I intercepted them with wet wipes and got most of the dirt off their hands and didn’t even attempt their faces. They sat where his chin told them to and he distributed food and warned them to eat slowly and not spill.
We went to his desk and I sat cross-legged in the chair opposite his.
“It happens a lot,” he said. “Where did you find them?”
“On my blog page.”
He nodded. “No doubt looking for a window and stumbling into all manner of trouble. They have nowhere to go. They can walk out my front door, down the steps, and out onto the street and become homeless or die.”
“Neither is an acceptable outcome,” I said calmly.
“I think we are agreed that you did a pretty fine job of raising me,” he suggested.
I nodded. “I think so, anyway.”
“Your opinion probably matters more than anyone else’s,” he asserted. “Why don’t you take them to your blog page and go home to your place in Wyoming and give them the life you gave me, but they’ll probably want horses, being in Wyoming and all.”
I laughed a bit. “We have running water and electricity in Wyoming. And cars. And even some airports.”
He nodded. “And five acres of grazing land in Thunder Basin, Put up a good, sound building to shelter the horses, hire a man to take care of them and teach the boys to ride, and homeschool them. You know it can work and if you need money, I have some.”
I nodded. “So do I. We’re buying their story?”
“Whole,” he nodded. “I’ve sent kids all over the world from these blog pages. Parents dump them through the first window they find and walk away. There’s no way to open the same window again. I can’t send them back to those parents, anyway. Take them to your blog and take them home. There’s magic in the air. No one will question it, and I’m sure in your ‘cabin’ of 5,000 square feet, you can find room for them.”
The older boy turned to me, his mouth full.
“Whats your brother’s name?”
“Abel,” he said. “He’s OK, really. He’s a nice kid.”
“So are you,” I nodded. “Do you guys want to come live with me?”
“Sure,” he said at once.
I laughed a bit. “But you’d say that to anyone.”
“No,” Tyler said calmly. “You knew we were afraid of your son so you brought us right to him and just sat back and let him solve our problems, taking the monster out of the man and telling us a bunch about you. You like kids.”
“I do,” I nodded. “I never had a childhood so kids fascinate me. Abel, do you want to live with me?”
“I’d rather be your son,” he said at once.
My son nodded. “I can make that happen. Like I said, there’s magic in the air. Tyler, Abel, you are now, as of this moment, sons of this woman, and brothers to me. And I want to give you some advice. Be good to her. I won’t be finding you another one if you break this one.”
Hence began the lives of the men who would someday become known as Tyler and Abel Kauffman, two boys possessed of a magic that some called God’s hand, some called the Devil’s hand, and they called the natural result of blog travel. Wherever it came from, Tyler and Abel cured a war torn land by touching its wounds. They fed the thousands of hungry people left on the American continent and rested confident that they had counterparts throughout the world, taking care of other people.
And, bless their hearts, they never did ask how it was that my first born and I never aged. I was 33 when they met my 39 year old son, who had aged physically to 17 and then stopped again. I had aged to the same and rather than just not aging, I kept regressing and then moving forward to 33 again.
I have no idea why. I suppose my son and I came to be so that the men who saved our world could be saved for that duty. But that’s ego. Tyler and Abel would have saved the world whether my son and I had saved them or not.
I understand a friend of mine found the boys’ birth parents. He made sure they were separated out and kept from the healing hands of their abandoned sons. I think that’s fair.