Not to be rude, but why do so many people talk about your “City of Bears” series? Yes, it was good, but it seemed to be just as good as the rest of your awesome works.

This isn’t rude; don’t worry. In fact, it’s a question I’ve wondered myself from time to time, because, in all honesty, I’ve never thought that the writing in my City of Bears stories was particularly masterful or good–mostly because those stories were all experiments for me in one sense or another. 

The initial run, Big Bears on Campus, was my first attempt at vignettes. The next chunk, Bear Boutique, was–at the time–the longest story I had completed, and while I enjoyed it, it’s a bit…rough in a few places. Part of what has always appealed to me about going back and writing a new take on the series was that I could finally take everything I’d learned over the course of writing the stories the first time, go back, and make everything better–closer to what I’d envisioned them being, but didn’t have the skill to manifest.

But they captured the imagination somehow. There’s something really…powerful for queers, I think, to imagine what a world would be like where we aren’t just dominant, but where the entire fabric of reality has twisted to accommodate our zeitgeist. It goes beyond normalcy–where you could be a bear, walk down the street, no no one would look at you twice–and becomes structural–where if you walk down the street and you *aren’t* a bear, you get stared at. A world where your own desires are reflected everywhere you look. It’s something cis het white men (and cis het white women to a lesser extent) get to experience all the time and take for granted, and it’s hard to resist the pull of wanting to know what that’s like.

At least, that was the appeal to me when I was writing it–it’s a power trip, to take the structures of the straight world and contort them until they only make sense from a queer perspective. But as you write in that context, you find out just how very deep the assumptions and structures of straightness go, and just how much you have to revise in order for the world to make sense. It’s both freeing, but also terrifying, trying to imagine what sort of society could exist in that fashion, and what it would look like, because it would be so alien to anything we could live in as we currently exist.

That’s the best way I can explain it, I think, but I’m sure other readers had different experiences with it. It’s hard to get enough distance away from something when you’re the author, to properly analyze it.

I like the stories with diapers and soiling. And also chastity and small dicks. And also the fatties 😁

I’m not sure if this is the same Anon who asked this last week or not, but it seems to follow in the same line as that one. I like all that stuff too for sure, but I don’t write it often enough really, because it isn’t the place my head goes first. I do my best to hit all the bases, but the facts are that 1) some bases are always going to get hit more than others, and 2) this metaphor no longer applies to baseball the way I’ve used it, but whatever. 

A Dog’s Tale (Part 1)

There are, quite simply, some things that you don’t see every day. There I am, walking down the street, heading for the subway. It’s six in the evening, and I’m finally done with at the office–I have just enough time to get home, eat some dinner, and then I have an eight o’clock conference call with some representatives of a company in Japan we’re looking to do business with–look, it’s very important stuff, but it doesn’t really have anything to do with what I’m looking at here, on the street corner. There is a man–a rather dirty man, probably homeless by the look of him–dancing around in a full body dog costume, asking people passing by to pet him, or to let him lick their face.

This fucking city, I fucking swear.

I just don’t get it. Is it performance art? Is it a scheme to make money, like those weirdos I’ve heard about who dress up in Times Square? The suit does look suspiciously like Scooby Doo, or something. Is he looking for pity? Handouts? Attention? I don’t see a cup or hat or anything, and no one seems to be giving him anything. Actually, here’s a better question–why in the fuck am I still watching him a complete fool out of himself?

No, seriously. I’ve been standing here for a couple of minutes, just watching this fucker, unable to believe his utter lack of shame. I mean…what in the world happens to a person, that they think this is acceptable? Maybe I should call the police, before he harrasses a woman or something, tries to lick her tits like a freak or worse. Oh shit, he looked at me–is he? He’s coming over here, now what…

“You want to pet me on the head, sir? I’ve been a real good boy today, I swear!”

“No–I…don’t you see that you’re bothering people? What the fuck are you even doing?”

“I can’t help it! I have to, see, it’s a real long story–I mean, I could tell ya the whole thing, if you want, sir, but only if you’re interested. If not, I can find someone else, maybe…”

I see the dejected look in his eye, and the businessman in me tells me to just push past him and get to the subway already. I mean, if I don’t hurry, I’ll miss my usual train, and then my whole schedule will get thrown out of whack! But some other part of me, I admit it…I’m curious. Besides, I could at least get him off the corner, where he’ll stop harassing people, if nothing else. If he flips out, I’ll just call the cops.

“No, you know what? I have a few minutes. I can listen to your story.”

“Wait, really? Oh man, this was even easier, this time!”

“This time?”

“It’s part of the story, you’ll see!”

“Look, are you hungry? There’s a McDonald’s back that way, I’ll buy you a burger.”

“A…A real burger? Oh holy cow, that’s amazing! I never get a whole burger!”

He’s jumping up and down like a lunatic. What the fucking hell have I gotten myself into?

“Hey, calm down! Yeah, I’ll buy you a burger.”

“Thanks sir! I forget what its like to get more than kibble, is all.”

Don’t ask for details. I don’t…really want to know. I head for the fast food joint a few store front’s back, and I have him sit at a table, while I order us food. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time I’m in the line, and it’s making me feel a bit self-conscious, to be honest. I adjust my suit as I’m standing there, and smile weakly at him–he has the same, big grin that he’s been showing since I started speaking with him, looking like he has everything he wants in the entire world–if only things were so simple.

Me? Well, I want everything. Money. Power. Authority. I mostly have money at the moment, but hey, I’m only thirty-two. I have the foundation, and that’s the most important part–now I just have to build on it. I’m a rising star! I look like it too–a nice gym toned body, manicured hair, clean shaven face. I haven’t found…an appropriate wife yet, but it’s not like I need to hurry up and settle for just anyone. I get up to the counter, and order a salad for myself and a quarter pounder for my…friend? No, hardly friend. I’d just call him a curiosity. Besides, this might be a good story! Just wait until everyone at the office tomorrow hears about this freak. The food’s ready in a couple of minutes–I wait at the counter, because I honetly don’t want to spend any more time sitting with the guy than I have to…and why in the world am I even doing this? I’ve definitely missed my train at this point, and if I don’t get one of the next few, I definitely won’t make it home in time for the conference call. Whatever–I’ll just listen for a couple of minutes, eat my salad, and then ditch. The guy got a meal out of me, what else could he want, really?

I take the tray back over to the table where he’s sitting, and I swear, if the guy had a tail, it would be wagging. He could barely stay sitting down…and fuck, is he drooling? Really? He takes the hamburger–almost forgets that he has to unwrap it–does so, and starts chowing down, grease all over his face, and a look of near ecstasy in his eyes. What kind of person–no, I mean it. What kind of person feels that way about a burger? Especially from McDonald’s? Couldn’t he at least have some standards or something? He finishes the thing in three or four bites, and licks his chops–his lips, I mean, but that’s almost what it looks like, and he sits back, obviously satisfied. Hell, I didn’t even get him french fries–he’s a cheap date, at least.

“So, your story? I gotta leave here in a few minutes, so you’d better tell the fast version.”

“Oh! Oh! The story! I love the story! It’s really good, trust me. It is kinda long though, and I’m kinda bad at telling it, cause I can get a bit distracted. But look–this might seem hard to believe, but there was a time when you and I–we weren’t so different, not at all. I was wearing a suit, I wanted money, and things, and sex–everything I could get my hands on, and I thought I was happy, just like you think you are. But then I met Master Joel…and Master Joel changed everything…”

August Suggested Stories Ready for Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Hey all! If you’re a patron, you can download the three short stories I wrote this month based off suggestions and requests a couple weeks ago. Below, I have one from last month for everyone to read.

Midlife Crisis

Is this what a midlife crisis is? Les had always imagined them to be something…else. In TV shows, the men in crisis are always so…exuberant. Buying new cars, divorcing wives and dating younger women, but for him it just felt like a crippling depression and a growing confidence that everything he had done in his life had been for nothing. He didn’t want a car, or a boat, or some young thing–he didn’t know what he wanted, but after turning fifty this year it seemed like it had just now dawned on him how…miserable he is.

He should be happier, right? He’d been married to his wife for over twenty years, he had a beautiful daughter who had just gotten married the year before after what felt like an endless courtship, his career was right on track, but there was a hole in his chest all the same. It was a hole he’d always felt his entire life, and it had started aching over the last few months and it refused to stop. But this–he had to stop doing this. He couldn’t keep crying like this.

He wiped his eyes in the restaurant bathroom, hoping they didn’t seem too bloodshot. He and his wife were currently driving to go see their daughter, Kate, and his son-in-law, Gabe, and had stopped to get some food, but he’d…god, why was he crying like this so often now? Everything just felt like too much for him to handle, but there was no one he could talk to about any of it.

“Bad life, eh?”

Les gave a start, and in the mirror he saw a trucker had entered the bathroom without him noticing. “Just, uh, tabasco in my eye.”

“You can’t lie to me man, I’ve been there. I can see it,” the man pulled something out of his pocket, a golden coin, walked over and pressed it into Les’s palm. “This will help. It helped me, it’s helped lots of people before me too. Just pass it on once you have what you need.”

***

He didn’t know why he kept it. No, Les knew why he kept it–it was because he couldn’t get rid of it. He’d tried to junk the worthless coin, only for it to keep showing up in his pocket every time. He done his best to forget his strange encounter, and instead focused on enjoying time with his daughter…but when they arrived, both he and his wife could sense something was wrong. It was a few days later, on the back patio alone with Kate, that she finally told Les what was wrong.

“I think Gabe is cheating on me,” she said, choking back tears, “I…think it’s been going on for a while, before we were even married.”

Les just listened, stunned, as she recounted all of the clues and hints that had led her to this conclusion, and how things only seemed to be getting worse, how he was almost more…open about it, like he was daring her to try and do something about it. She was at a loss, and Les was too. He’d never gotten the feeling that Gabe was the sort of man who would do that, and his first instinct was to disbelieve it. Still, it was clear that something was upsetting Kate, and that tugged at his heart and only complicated the feelings he was wrestling with himself. In the end, he had nothing to offer in the way of help, but she seemed to appreciate him listening if nothing else.

It had to be wrong–he…liked Gabe. He liked Gabe more than any of the other young men Kate had dated before this, and he…well, he doubted Gabe felt the same way, but he considered him to be the son he’d never had. The feelings were complicated, though, and mixed in with the rest of the mess he was in. He covered it all up with a smile through the rest of the evening, finding himself looking over at Gabe, at his wife, at Kate, one hand slipping into his pocket and fiddling with the coin. It was hot, hotter than it should be, and he found himself getting…angry. Angry at Gabe, angry that he’d cheat on his family with…who knew who. He was going to cry again, wasn’t he? He excused himself before it hit and went to the bathroom, locking himself inside, tears falling, coin gripped in his hand.

It was even hotter now, hot enough to feel like it might burn him, but he couldn’t release his fist as hard as he tried. He just…wanted everything to work out. He wanted what he could never have, what he’d wanted for his daughter, what he’d only realized he’d wanted once it was too late. Everything shuddered, or maybe it was just him. The tears subsided again after a few minutes, and he went back out to rejoin the dinner, pretending everything was normal, like they all were.

“Would you join me for a cigar after dinner, sir?” Gabe asked him, catching Les off guard.

“I didn’t know you smoked, Gabe.”

The young man looked at him a bit oddly, “Well, I didn’t, until you showed me, sir.”

Many people had addressed him as “sir” in his years, but never had it sounded like it did when it came from Gabe. He agreed, and while Kate and her mother washed up, the two men went into the garage. It felt natural, letting Gabe light his cigar for him, watching him kneel down in front of him, hands shaking as he unzipped the fly of Les’s slacks, pulled out his hard cock, and started sucking on it, blowing his own smoke over it. Les was terrified, and yet…and yet he wanted this, didn’t he? No–this was…kind of what he wanted, but not really. The coin–had it done this?

But he didn’t want to hurt Kate…and somehow, she knew. Knew that her father and her husband were fucking behind her back, but he didn’t want to hurt her, he didn’t want to hurt anyone. But this–Gabe, he was so handsome, such a good young man, and he would be a much better man for his daughter if he was under Les’s control. So he could become a better husband, and a better father as well…a man more like him. The coin was hot again against his leg, and once more the world shuddered.

The door to the garage opened, and his wife entered, unsurprised by the sight of Gabe sucking her husband’s cock over cigars, and set down a couple glasses of whisky. “Thanks, Evelyn,” Les said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

“I know what you and your boy need, honey.”

“You always have.”

“You two going out tonight?”

“What do you think boy, think you’ve earned a night out with daddy at the leather bar? I’d like to see your…technique. Make sure you’re pleasing my little girl. No cumming though–you save your seed for her, understand? I need an heir.”

“Yes sir, of course sir,” Gabe said, cock leaking in the chastity device he wore for his master and wife’s sake, sucking a bit harder now, eager for a night out on the town with his father-in-law.

August Suggested Stories Ready for Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Manning Up (Part 7)

I…started fucking with Brock after that, changing his whole look into the kind of man I’d always wanted. I forced him to get a haircut, and gave him a nasty looking mullet, like the one’s from all the 80’s porn I’d always fucking loved, and kept it plenty grungy and greasy. He was so big, it was easier to just buy him overalls and wellingtons for his massive feet, and that’s all he wore from then on–no shirt, not that you could see much of his skin through the thick hair on his chest, arms and back. Still, I insisted on the tattoos anyway. Brock was nervous about it, but…but I turned him onto the idea pretty quick. The pain…I got a bit carried away with that, with making him like it. I liked seeing the welts, and the scars, almost as much as I liked seeing the tattoos peeking through all that hair, but when he saw the first ones, he just turned red and looked away as quick as he could.

In fact, that’s the part I enjoyed the most. I could tell that he hated it, all of it. His body, the clothes I put him in, the hair and the beard, the drinking and the smoking, the fact that every time he spoke now, he sounded like a dumb hick. I’d catch him staring at himself in the mirror, whispering to himself that it was just another couple of weeks, that when he got back to school it would all be back to normal, like nothing had happened. He’d never have to come back here ever again. I heard that, and fuck, it pissed me the fuck off, but I didn’t let on that I’d heard it–instead, I started telling him how much he liked it here. That he liked being stupid, that he liked being a brute, that he liked dressing and looking like trailer trash, that he wanted to smoke cigars like a chimney and get drunk every night, just like me. Yeah, I made him beg me to let him get even more tattoos, made him tell me how hard the sting of the needle made him. I made sure he picked out the sleaziest, most humiliating ones that the local shop was willing to do on him…and we put his new nickname there, across the back of his neck–Brick. Because he’s thick as a brick, and as solid as one too. All the guys on the site called him that. I made him practice writing it at home, a couple hundred times a day. I wanted him to believe it himself. I wanted him to believe it, because if he did, then he’d always need me, and he’d never leave.

He’d marked the day school started on the calendar, and the day before, Brick had the fucking audacity to ask me when we were going to leave–and I told him the truth. I told him he wasn’t going back to school. I told him that he was a liar, that he’d never even gotten through highschool, much the less gotten into college. That he was Brick–not Brock, not some smart guy like that. I told him that his place was here with me, and that’s the way things had to be. Honestly? I expected him to push back, but he just nodded, and then went to the bathroom to cry. I knew I should feel bad, in my mind, but I didn’t…feel shit like that anymore. I wasn’t supposed to feel shit like that, not for some dumb musclepig like Brick. I gave him a couple of minutes to sort himself out, and then ordered him to get out here and clean my dirty hole for a bit–that always helped him feel a bit better, and brightened my mood too. I should have known that wasn’t the end of it though–that a fucker like Brock wouldn’t try to get away with every stupid idea that crossed his mind.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a jolt to the heart, and discovered Brick was gone. I’d gone slack with him, I realized. He’d been paying close attention to my orders, and he’d just…fucking left while I was sleeping. The panic in my heart–I’d never felt anything like it before. Brick was mine–mine! I threw on some clothes, and thankfully the dumbass had left the truck behind and gone off on foot. I did recall forbidding him from driving at some point, so maybe he didn’t have a choice. I got in and headed for the one place he’d try and get to–Hobos, the biker bar outside of town. I’d gotten the ban on him lifted a couple weeks earlier, after I’d shown the owner what a good, obedient fucker Brock could be. I rolled up, stormed in and cracked a couple of heads, but I was too late. He’d hooked up with some grungy biker and made a deal. The man had agreed to drive him somewhere, in exchange for as many fucks as he wanted once they got there.

My fucker, my Brick, had run off with some…fucking biker. Still, I knew where they were headed–where Brick was trying to go. I got back in the truck and blazed out of town on the highway, topping a hundred the whole way, and after an hour, I ran that fucking bike off the road, and sent them both into a ditch.

I raped that biker for an hour, and I made Brick watch. He was a sizable fucker, when I started, but by the time I was through with him, he’d shrunk to around five foot five, weighed around 400 pounds, and was begging me for my piss and cum like a bitch pig. I waved down a trucker and “convinced” him to give the pig a ride in the cab with him, giving the biker his last orders–that he’d spend the rest of his live whoring himself for truckers and bikers on the highways, and make sure he came through town at least twice a year so he could service me–and sent them on their way. Then, it was just me, and Brick.

He begged me to understand. He begged me to take him back to school, to let him go. That if he didn’t get there by dawn, he’d never be normal–we’d never be normal. Instead, I fisted his ass in the ditch for a couple of hours, facing him east, so he could watch the sunrise, and then we got back in the car, and headed back home. Brock’s gone now–probably forever–it’s just me and Brick now. I…I can remember everything too, in ways that I couldn’t before, and honestly? I…I feel terrible, about what I’ve done, about who I am now, but I can’t stop. Neither of us can, now, and honestly? When I have my thick cock buried in Brick’s hole, listening to the big brute grunting around those huge cigars I make him smoke? I can almost pretend that everything that happened was for the best. I know it’s a lie, but that’s all I got. That’s all anyone’s got, I think, the lies we tell ourselves. Still, you asked, right? For the truth? Do you feel better, or do you like the lie better?

Manning Up (Part 6)

I asked the guys at the site what the hell they were all standing around for, acting good for fucking nothing, but none of them could answer me. I told Brock to face the truck and not move, that if anyone went to touch him he’s shout for me, and I started investigating, expecting a trap, but Aaron was still nowhere to be found. I asked about him, and finally I got an answer out of someone, that Aaron hadn’t shown up at all, not since leaving the day before, my cum still running down his legs. I asked them why they hadn’t gotten to work on their projects, and a few of them kicked the dirt.

“We were…waiting for you, sir.”

“Didn’t want you mad at us, sir.”

“Just, after yesterday, we…well, you’re the boss sir.”

I cussed them all out, called them a bunch of lazy fucks, and told them to get to work–they scurried off and double-timed it. I marched into the trailer and started sorting through paperwork–I’d been working with Aaron long enough that I know the basics of his job, and the holes filled themselves in easily enough. It took me close to an hour to realize I had no idea where Brock was, and my heart skipped two beats. I shoved my head out of the trailer, and saw him still standing in front of the truck, staring at the hood, sun beating down on him, sweat pouring down his back. I ordered him into the trailer with me, got him some water and told him he’d been a real good boy for staying just like I’d told him to do, and then told him to get to work with the rest of the guys–but that if a single one of them made a move on him, he’d better come tell me. He nodded, unable to look me in the eye, and squeezed his massive frame out of the trailer.

It was afternoon when Aaron’s Jeep came rolling up, but the man who climbed out…he looked like Aaron, but something was off about him. He looked shorter for one thing, and fatter. I could see that his clothes didn’t quite fit right, his gut hanging out the bottom of his shirt. I ordered his ass into the trailer, and he jumped to obey. He apologized profusely and begged me to forgive him–and then he went a step further, and begged for my cock again. That surprised me, but fuck, his ass had been nice yesterday, and listening to him beg for his job had gotten me hard as a rock–still, I gave him a good beating with my belt for being late before raping both his holes again, and then I dragged him back out and tied him down to a sawhorse out in the yard. As a team building exercise, I made every guy take a turn–all of them were straight, of course, but none of them were willing to disobey. I even let Brock take a turn, though he had a very hard time performing as a top, even with his eight inch cock. I let everyone know that, from now on, Aaron was the bottom rung around here, and that his ass was fair game, anytime and anyplace. That if he refused, come tell me, and I’d set the pig straight. Aaron was terrified, but his stubby cock was rock hard after I said it. I let everyone go home early, and back home…I noticed something, when I went to go have a shower.

Aaron wasn’t the only one who looked different after yesterday. I…I barely recognized myself in the mirror. Six foot one and probably 275 pounds of mostly beef–last time I’d weighed myself I’d been 260 with a pot belly, but my gut had mostly disappeared, with just a thick layer covering a hard core. I had more hair all over, and a good amount of it was turning a bit silver. My scruff had grown into a full beard, my hairline receding slightly–and fuck, I reeked. I took a good whiff of my musk, and my cock started leaking in the front of my jeans. I skipped the shower, and gave Brock a good long fuck instead, and then I sat down with him, and asked him if he’d noticed what was happening to me.

“A bit,” he said, “I…not too much before, but after my dad, and after Aaron…yeah. You…got really fuckin’ sexy, sir. Smell really sexy too.”

“Fuckin’ pig–you wanna sleep in my bed tonight? Your face buried in my pits?”

He nodded, a bit reluctant, but I knew what he wanted–what he needed. I knew what was best for him.

“But sir…don’t forget you promised. You said you’d take me back to school, don’t forget, please don’t forget. I trusted you with this because you’re…good. A good guy. No one else would.”

I’d completely forgotten about it, to be honest, but I nodded. Fuck, it had seemed so long ago at that point, I had a hard time even remembering what Brock had looked like before all of this. Still, I told myself that I had promised…but I had my doubts too. What was a big lug like him going to do at a college? He was too stupid for that shit. Besides wasn’t he happy here? He should be happy here–this is where he belonged, right? With me, with his daddy. With his master.

But this wasn’t me. I kept trying to tell myself that, for the next few days, but it was becoming harder and harder to believe. It just…it all felt so right, you know? It felt right, and I fucking enjoyed it too, I’ll be honest. I could make Brock do anything I wanted, whenever I wanted, and no matter what it was, he’d thank me when I was finished. I…I could have the man I’d always wanted. I hadn’t realized how exhausting it was, being alone like I had been, until I had someone with me. Someone I could trust, someone I could own. I know, it’s fucked. It’s too late now anyway. He’s not a person, not really. Besides, if I let him go now, what the fuck do you think would happen? He’d be dead in a week–if I don’t tell Brick to go to the bathroom, he shits and pisses himself like an animal. You see? I have to do this, for him. Because I am a good guy. No one else would put up with this, not now. I’m the only guy he has left.

Would it be annoying if I asked about City of Bears? I’m just gonna slide it in anyway. Any news on new chapters? That series is amazing.

No, not annoying, just….sigh….hard to talk about.

No, there’s no new chapters or anything on the immediate horizon. While I know there’s a future for that story, and those characters, somewhere, I feel like I’ve lost the thread on what that looks like, especially after the chunk I wrote for NaNoWriMo a few years back. 

I touched on some of my worries about that story, and others like it, a couple of weeks back, in an ask I answered about politics in my writing. Looking at City of Bears in particular, something I’ve always said, and always thought, was that the series itself was *never* meant be become as large as it got. It fact, that first series was just meant to be a string of silly, off hand vignettes inspired by a few drawings I’d seen online, and some of the stupid observations around my college campus. 

That said, it grew. It was somewhere around the eighth episode of Big Bears on Campus that I started to really feel like there was something bigger there that I wanted to explore, and honestly, I’ve always felt like I kind of butchered it relentlessly every step of the way. It’s a good story! Don’t get me wrong, I certainly don’t regret writing it, but the person who wrote it, and the person I am now don’t…line up well in terms of skill, or vision.

I’ve batted around the idea of rebooting the whole thing a few times, but it’s such a massive undertaking, that even thinking about it is difficult, especially given the rapid pace that I have to generate writing. Still, that’s just praxis, really–the truth is, if I knew what I wanted the story to be, I’d write it, but I don’t know what it is.

The central issue I run into, when I do sit down and think about it, is the question of whether the City of Bears story I want to tell treats the setting as something static, or dynamic. That probably seems a bit strange, so I’ll try and explain. The first three chunks of City of Bears treat the setting as something dynamic–that is, it’s an origin story, describing how the city developed through the actions of Tristan et. al. and the setting is very fluid. But when I hit the third arc, something really fundamental shifted in the story. It wasn’t about the city changing anymore–everyone was essentially changed. Now, it was a story about people actually having to learn how to exist in that new world, while grappling with the remnants of the old one at the same time. It was a lot more complex, and a lot harder to write, but it yielded a lot of writing that I’m proud of. 

I’d like to explore the setting more, that much I know. What needs to happen most, I think, is that I have to just break the scab off, and get back into it. It’s become such a monster to me, because I’ve never known how to “resolve” any of it, especially given where the story last left us. But I’ve come to wonder if these sorts of things really need a resolution, or consistency. Certainly Pigtown isn’t consistent, and all of those stories make sense together. I think City of Bears needs to become something more like that.

So, long story short, yes, there will be more. No, I’m not sure when there will be more, but I’d like it to be soon. Whatever I produce, I doubt it’s going to be a direct continuation of the story, but it will probably pick a few of the characters and delve a bit deeper into the issues arising from the setting itself. Beyond those vague notions, I honestly don’t know.