One Touch Brings Life

11 Pies (Chocolate and Peanut Butter)

2009-04-24T21:14:30Z

::In the dining room, Ned slowly takes out a piece of paper, looking around quickly to gage the people currently in the room. With a deep breath, he stares down at what he's written, shoulders hunched up, and reads aloud his note::

I don't know how I got on this ballot. No, wait. That's a lie. My roommate put me on, probably out of some horrible, cruel joke. It wasn't funny.

So if there are people out there still voting...Hi. I'm Ned. I bake pies. I'm not conductor material, I'm small-business material. I'm not even voting for myself. And if I try to take my name off the ballot I have a very definite feeling Kukaku may turn violent, which, you know, is something I'd like to avoid.

I'm terrible at speeches, too.

So if you have any...questions or...things like that....I'm here to ask. For now. And then I'll be going back to the kitchen.

Uh...Right. Thanks. Thank you. That's about it from me.

10 Pies (Raspberry Delight)

2009-04-13T21:50:31Z

::The facts were these.

It had been exactly six months, one day, fourteen hours and twelve minutes since the Piemaker had stepped quite by accident onto the train bound for no clear destination. In the Piemaker's continuing, 6-month-long quest for solitude, safety, and the warmth of his familiar home, he had established several small but very important rules in traveling outside his comfort zone. Rule number one was to not get attached to anyone, a rule which he found himself frequently breaking with his friendships between the enthusiastic pyrotechnician Kukaku Shiba and the voracious, volatile and now-living Yuri Hyuga.

A close second was Rule number two, which firmly stated to not go seeking trouble, lest trouble find him. A rule which he was breaking now, for one of the first times since walking onto the train known as Valkyrie Express, by walking out into the open carnival. Danger at every turn, a murder behind every stall, a shadow lurking 'round every corner, and not to mention the distinct lack of anything comforting, familiar, or even clean. As the Piemaker hemmed and hawed and debated, he walked with shoulders crouched, chin touching his chest, eyes darting ever so much around.

It was as it was. And perhaps it never would be. But one thing could be said of Ned the Piemaker: he was, at least, trying to fit in.::

...This was a mistake.

9 Pies (Chocolate Eclair)

2009-03-10T07:56:16Z

::It was with trepidation that the Piemaker thought over his new feelings. What he was feeling at the moment was not unlike something he had felt long, long ago, back before the days of Young Ned had ended and the days of the Piemaker had begun.

It was an emotion, alien to him in the last twenty years and certainly within the last few months. It reminded him of the days long past; before his mother had died, before his father had abandoned him, and before he had discovered just what separated him from all the other normal little boys.

This emotion, he realized, was not going to go away on its own. With a resolute sigh and a shrug of the shoulders, the Piemaker surveyed the new kitchen on the train and decided that he'd best make room in his anxiety-filled soul for this strange, unfamiliar guest.

With a lump in his throat and a faint glimpse of a tear in his eye, the Piemaker grudgingly admitted...::

I'm happy.

I'm happy.

Shit.

8 Pies (Banana Creme)

2009-02-16T20:08:26Z

::The Piemaker was a believer in small, but kind gestures of friendship. His mother had instructed him, once upon a score, that a little kindness went miles, when put in the right place.

After waiting to see whether there existed a Valentine's day on the train, the Piemaker felt secure enough in his masculinity to venture out, two days after the holiday, to perform a little magic of his own. It was not the magic of touching dead things back to life, nor was it stage magic of the kind his illusionist brothers were so fond. Rather, it was the magic of the heart.

As he walked through the A, B, and C resident carts, the Piemaker drew two homemmade, pink cards from a box he'd spent all yesterday addressing. At each door, he taped up a note of encouragement or true, heartfelt sentiment, dedicated to the people living inside.::

7 Pies (Blackberry)

2009-01-23T17:31:06Z

::Young Ned, at eight years, 40 weeks, 5 days and 12 minutes old, had once upon a time contracted a severe case of the chicken pox, which had kept him in bed and away from school for approximately two weeks. When young Ned as a boy would feel ill, or sick, or lonely, his ever-present, loving mother would be there with a pie and a smile, and thus it would not be long before young Ned was feeling better and back on his feet to play again.

It is now 21 years, 6 weeks and 3 days later, and young Ned has grown into the Piemaker, a man perpetually plagued by a case of acid reflux, bourn from the heart sickness that could never be cured, not even with the strongest of vitamins and throat lozenges. The one thing that did seem to do any sort of good to calm the Piemaker's stomach was relieving his stress through baking.

Taking note that the Valkyrie Express was lacking any sort of stove or oven-related appliance meant that today, the Piemaker was very, very, stressed. Which is why we find him here, today, attempting to beg his way behind the counter at the Hall Cosmological Airport's local donut shoppe.::

I told you, I'm the local oven inspector. We're like the health inspectors, only we're paid less and we look like chimney sweeps. Yes, I know, chimney sweep is an outdated profession. Would you let me back in there? Listen, I-I have a job to do, and you're making it very difficult for me to do my....job.

::The Piemaker was not a very good liar, which surprised him. His father had been a very good liar, and most likely remained so to this day. The Piemaker wished that the cosmos had granted him his father's ability to pass a clever lie, rather than what he actually inherited from the paternal gene pool;

His eyebrows::

6 Pies (Blueberry)

2009-01-12T20:32:04Z

::The Piemaker was fast making the Dining cart his own personal sanctum. Having spent a good deal of time in the cart already, by now he was treating it as though it were his second home away from home. Stirring around a cup of lukewarm tea with a spoon, he paused to consider the ramifications his new life on the train had resulted in.

Two people knew about his unfortunate dead-life power; his roommate, Kukaku, and his resurrected new friend, Yuri. After years of never having told a soul, it was eerie to be on the same information wavelength. But also, in a strange and supernatural way, it felt just a tiny bit welcoming, too.

The Piemaker was concentrating on being welcoming, now. It was a new thing for him, this social, extrusive attitude. It wasn't him, and yet somehow it was making him feel a little less homesick with each passing day.

Sitting with his hands folded neatly in front of him, the Piemaker had set up a sign by the trays of food.::

FREE COOKING LESSONS OFFERED.

::At least, he reflected, it would help to pass the time.::

5 Pies (Cherry)

2008-12-19T12:14:33Z

::The Piemaker was never one for festive cheer. April Fool's Day frightened him. New Year's Eve made him cranky and tired and troubled about the upcoming year. Halloween gave him acid reflux.

Celebrating Christmas was something forced upon him by friends and employees, and had always left the Piemaker stubborn and irritable about being coerced into candy and fun. But now, with no old friends or employees to force him into having a festive occasion, the Piemaker found himself missing the holiday cheer. So he'd crept into the Dollar Store in town and brought back to the train tiny birthday candles, which he then arranged into a nine-cupcake menorah, and lit them in the dining room.

He wasn't Jewish. He didn't even know when Hanukkah started. However, the love of his life and long-time secret girlfriend Chuck was Jewish, and lighting a make-shift menorah that was both ceremonious and delicious made him feel that much closer to her, however many miles or worlds separated them.

His Christmas shopping done, the Piemaker leaned back and observed the scrap of paper in his hand. Santa Claus wasn't the only one who had made out a list this year, and it comforted the Piemaker to know that he, too, could be a part of the celebration for once. Checking off names of the people he had found gifts for, he came to the one name on his list he had yet to buy for, and arguably the most important; his roommate and gift-exchange, Kukaku Shiba.

Watching the cheap, nickle candles burn their waxy remains into the cupcake frosting of the menorah, the Piemaker leaned forward and began to scribble his ingenious idea onto a bit of napkin, turning the creative gears in his head from pie-making to fireworks-making::

4 Pies (Cranapple)

2008-12-09T03:24:56Z

::It was four minutes and forty-two seconds since the Piemaker had snuck behind the aptly named Xiao's Restaurant of Horrors and rooted purposely through the dumpsters. To his surprise and delight, what he had found inside the trash cans were days of heaps of discarded and rotted animal innards, many of which he could not identify. Curiosity may have been a frequent cat-killer, but it also had an acute grip on the Piemaker's obsession with his art.

Careful not to touch, the Piemaker had taken it upon himself to clean out the dumpsters and put what was good and useful in a cardboard box, which he was now carrying back to the train. On the box was labeled, simply, Offal: a word used to describe animal organs and innards and pronounced, quite accurately "awful."

In the cold and the setting sun, the Piemaker trudged back to the train, anxious to cook up a selection of Christmas meat pies, hugging his smelly package in both arms and doing his best not to inhale. Rounding a corner, he entered the train station, shivering but content. As his mother had once told him, so many years ago, "Waste not, want not."

Perhaps a better expression would have been in this case, "Want not, waste plenty."::

3 Pies (Pumpkin)

2008-12-04T03:01:20Z

::Young Ned was nine years, forty-eight days, eight hours and thirty-seven seconds when he first discovered the many varied and useful abilities of his invention known only as the Stick. With the Stick, Young Ned could give his beloved dog Digby the love and affection a good pat on the head demonstrated, without directly touching Digby and therefore returning him back to the dead. For Young Ned had already touched Digby once before, and as he knew from his mother's tragic and unfortunate second passing; One touch life. Second touch dead, again. Forever.

It had been eleven days, three hours, fourteen minutes and twelve seconds since the Piemaker had accidentally touched the previously dead Yuri, simultaneously murdering by proxy a hapless bird who had been fluttering in the wrong place at the wrong time. Since then, the Piemaker had striven to avoid going near not just Yuri, but everyone on the train in an irrational fit of fear that anyone he may bump into might also happen to be dead.

As the Piemaker sat huddled in the Dining Cart, he finished up his latest invention for Not Touching. What he had done was taken his pair of gloves and half stapled, half glued them to the ridges of his long-sleeved shirt::

They're like foot pajamas. Only for hands.

::Putting his shirt back on over his undershirt, the Piemaker stood up and tested his design; So far, so good. Tying a scarf around his neck, he considered himself sufficiently bundled up, except for the face. And, he hoped, no one would have the sense to touch him there.::

2 Pies (Apple)

2008-11-22T06:24:44Z

::Young Ned was eight years, one hundred and twelve days, ten hours, and twenty-three minutes old when he took a ride on his first train. It was the express, running from the village of Coeur d'Coeurs into the city of Lakeshore, and his mother had insisted he go with her to her dentist's appointment.

The seats were hard, the ride lonely and boring, and his beloved dog, Digby, wasn't there to play with him. Young Ned hadn't liked it.

It is now nine days, twenty-one hours, fifty-eight minutes, and twenty seconds since the Piemaker had arrived so suddenly and without warning on the Valkyrie Express. During those nine days, he had managed to alienate everyone he spoke to, including Kukaku, the one-armed fireworks and pyrotechnics expert, and reluctant roommate to the unfortunate Piemaker.

His pieshop was gone, his friends were missing and possibly presumed him dead, and Digby wasn't there. Most of all, the Piemaker missed Chuck. He missed her smile, and her laugh, and the mouth that made the laugh and the smile. He missed everything about her.

He found he didn't like this train, either::

....I hope I didn't leave the ovens on.

1 Pie (Rhubarb)

2008-11-13T03:15:08Z

....Hello?

Chuck? Emerson?

Olive?

....Great. Kidnapped, again. And on a train. And everything's different.

Why is everything different?

....Is there someone I can call to go home? Hello? You can't just kidnap people and then ignore them, that's...that's poor villainous behavior. I mean, I don't want you people to kill me, I just want to know why I'm here, and when I can go home. Or somewhere. Stop the train, I'd like to get off now.

Hello?

....That...didn't work like I'd hoped it would.

[[Ned is wandering around the cars poking his head into doorways, looking for assistance or at least witness to his hyperventilation.]]