Do Not Pass (Wendi) Go

12 Jan

In my tiny corner of Jack-All, Canada (otherwise known as “Winnipeg), there has been a blizzard! Now, even though I am immune to all physical ailments up to and including cryogenic freezing, this stupid blizzard has been on the tips of everyone’s tongues. And the tips of other things too if you know what I am saying!

(See, I mean penises and… wait, no, penises get smaller when it’s cold. So, um… I’m talking about nipples? Yeah, nipples.)

Whenever the winds get blustery and the snow gets flustery (My spell check says “flustery” isn’t a word but fuck spell check.), I start thinking about Wendigos. (Now the spell check is saying “Wendigos” is “Ending’s”. Don’t get cheeky with me, spell check.)

The Wendigo is quite possibly my favourite supernatural creature, and I bet half of you have no idea what it even is. It “is thought of variously as a malevolent cannibalistic spirit that could possess humans or a monster that humans could physically transform into.” (Thank you, Wikipedia.)

He needs a bib.

It’s kind of like if a werewolf, a ghost and zombie had awkward sex and this is the result. You eat human flesh in Canada and bam- you’re a Wendigo! The stories sometimes change the rules, so the “how do I become a Wendigo” rules vary. So if you eat a human? Bam- Wendigo. See a Wendigo? Bam- Wendigo time. Get bitten? Bam- Wendigo all up in this bitch!

To add to this bastard’s impressive résumé, the Wendigo is a cannibal spirit that gets bigger the more it eats, not unlike me. It deals in the winter and the cold, making it the best Canadian boogeyman ever, also not unlike me.

If you decide you want to kill a Wendigo (presumably to stick on your mantle piece), fire is apparently their Achilles Heel, and the only way to take one down permenantly. (Does it qualify as an Achilles Heel if it works on everybody?) Although that would probably not be a good idea. I read somewhere that killing a Wendigo turns you in to a Wendigo.

Oh right, I remember where I read that: I wrote it!

Okay, backing up.

About, oh, 5 years ago, me and my dad were wandering through a book story when we got sight of a poster advertising a writing contest for 10 year olds. Specifically, a contest for writing a Canadian horror story. (You can probably see where this is going.)

My dad, always eager to encourage my writing (Well, he was until his fucking heart exploded. That put a downer on things.), signed me up for the contest, introduced me the Wendigo, and left me to my work.

And I did.

I lost the story years ago, but I can still remember it. A grandfather and his grandson are out in the Canadian wilderness, alone. The grandfather recalls the tale of his fight with a Wendigo, then they sleep. The boy wakes up, finds his grandfather missing, goes searching in the middle of a blizzard until…

BOOM! Wendigo grandfather in the face!

WHY IS IT SO ORANGE?!

“Boo.”

I submitted the story and waited.

And waited.

More waiting.

Finally, after much waiting (did I mention waiting? Waiting.), it turns out I… reached 12th place!

Not very impressive, I’ll admit. But still; more proof that I am great!

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One Response to “Do Not Pass (Wendi) Go”

  1. Karen January 12, 2013 at 5:49 pm #

    Ithacqua! Ithacqua! Ithacqua! Saying the name 3 times is how Michael Campbell would summon the Lovecraftian version of the Wendigo. Needless to say we got stomped and your dad spent a lot of time laughing his ass off at us.

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