Fowl bones underfoot.
How wet, slick and bare they are!
I will sit elsewhere.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
The Afterlife of Abraham Lincoln
Another 500-word short story, done in an hour. More or less. Stupid leaf blower. Anyway, the prompt of 'zombie Lincoln's last hour' was provided by the singular Piper.
Abraham Lincoln was unhappy.
Not long ago – he couldn’t remember how long, as everything was fuzzy – he was president of these United States. He’d won a Civil War. He’d been watching a rather funny play. Next thing he knew, some bastard shot him in the head, shouting nonsense in Latin, and then… darkness.
Then light. The doctors peered down at him, not a little disturbed. He demanded an explanation.
They exchanged nervous glances, until one of them manned up and stepped forward. A curly-haired, bearded fellow. Barnes, wasn’t it? “I am afraid, Mr. President… That you part of the walking dead now.” He told him of the assassination, the futile attempts to save him, the perpetrator of the foulest of deeds, the strange magicks of an unidentified priest, every bit. “But at your rate of decomposition, you only have so much time left to you. Choose wisely, Mr. President.”
But he’d already made up his mind.
“Laid low by an actor!” Lincoln cried. “There is nothing for it. I must hunt down this John Wilkes Booth, no matter his talents, and devour his brains. I shall leave immediately.”
~
Booth hunting proved to be more difficult than he anticipated.
The difficulties started with Virginia. Lincoln, accompanied by thirteen Union soldiers, cornered him at a farm, having been tipped off by the farm’s owner. The plan was simple. The soldiers were to shoot him, Lincoln was to rip chunks of flesh from his still-living frame. How could it go awry?
Several bullets later, the dust cleared, revealing no Booth. Inconsolable and hungry, Lincoln feasted on the thirteenth soldier as an example to the others. “It might be wise to disavow knowledge of this Adams fellow,” he told them as they backed away. My, what a delicious bicep! “The public might be disturbed.”
~
After that night, he opted to go solo. Or at least, he liked to think he did. Scuttlebutt travelled through the ranks to the point where every soldier refused to serve at the former President’s side. So he shambled alone in the wilderness. The public would scream and throw things whenever they saw him in the city.
But Lincoln’s thoughts grew dimmer as his brain matter leaked out through his nostrils and gaping maw. The name of ‘Booth’ had been writ large on what was left – and ‘actor’, too, of course. The problem was that the man had come from a whole damnable family of actors!
He found Junius in Ohio. He could still talk then, albeit poorly, and managed to groan out an, “Booooth heeeeere?” Junius, to his credit, shook his head, explained that one should be looking for John but alas, he did not know where he was to be found. Lincoln shambled away and forgot the name.
He found Edwin in New York. By then, his jaw had fallen off and he could only rattle but my, didn’t the fellow look tasty!
Edwin promptly bashed his skull in while his little daughter screamed. Afterwards, they had cake.
Abraham Lincoln was unhappy.
Not long ago – he couldn’t remember how long, as everything was fuzzy – he was president of these United States. He’d won a Civil War. He’d been watching a rather funny play. Next thing he knew, some bastard shot him in the head, shouting nonsense in Latin, and then… darkness.
Then light. The doctors peered down at him, not a little disturbed. He demanded an explanation.
They exchanged nervous glances, until one of them manned up and stepped forward. A curly-haired, bearded fellow. Barnes, wasn’t it? “I am afraid, Mr. President… That you part of the walking dead now.” He told him of the assassination, the futile attempts to save him, the perpetrator of the foulest of deeds, the strange magicks of an unidentified priest, every bit. “But at your rate of decomposition, you only have so much time left to you. Choose wisely, Mr. President.”
But he’d already made up his mind.
“Laid low by an actor!” Lincoln cried. “There is nothing for it. I must hunt down this John Wilkes Booth, no matter his talents, and devour his brains. I shall leave immediately.”
~
Booth hunting proved to be more difficult than he anticipated.
The difficulties started with Virginia. Lincoln, accompanied by thirteen Union soldiers, cornered him at a farm, having been tipped off by the farm’s owner. The plan was simple. The soldiers were to shoot him, Lincoln was to rip chunks of flesh from his still-living frame. How could it go awry?
Several bullets later, the dust cleared, revealing no Booth. Inconsolable and hungry, Lincoln feasted on the thirteenth soldier as an example to the others. “It might be wise to disavow knowledge of this Adams fellow,” he told them as they backed away. My, what a delicious bicep! “The public might be disturbed.”
~
After that night, he opted to go solo. Or at least, he liked to think he did. Scuttlebutt travelled through the ranks to the point where every soldier refused to serve at the former President’s side. So he shambled alone in the wilderness. The public would scream and throw things whenever they saw him in the city.
But Lincoln’s thoughts grew dimmer as his brain matter leaked out through his nostrils and gaping maw. The name of ‘Booth’ had been writ large on what was left – and ‘actor’, too, of course. The problem was that the man had come from a whole damnable family of actors!
He found Junius in Ohio. He could still talk then, albeit poorly, and managed to groan out an, “Booooth heeeeere?” Junius, to his credit, shook his head, explained that one should be looking for John but alas, he did not know where he was to be found. Lincoln shambled away and forgot the name.
He found Edwin in New York. By then, his jaw had fallen off and he could only rattle but my, didn’t the fellow look tasty!
Edwin promptly bashed his skull in while his little daughter screamed. Afterwards, they had cake.
The Rutabaga Mafia
Another 500-word short story, written in an hour. Prompt provided by my mother. She's a strange 'un.
Tom ‘the Swede’ Rutabaga and his cousin, Benny, cornered Eric the Red in a secluded corner of the fridge. Their leafy bits loomed over tubby, ripe tomato in a most threatening fashion. What was even more threatening was their teeny, tiny knives, carved from the bones of some long dead cow, which they pointed right at Eric’s extensive midsection.
“Where’s the money, Rouge?” sneered Tom, twisting his knife in his hands. “You were supposed to pay us back today, Rouge.”
Benny chortled, but did not add any of his own words to this. Benny wasn’t very bright, for a vegetable.
“I… I…” Eric stammered. His belly wouldn’t stop shaking and his eyes darted left and right, looking for escape routes. None were to be found, for the fridge door was closed and thus darkness reigned save for an LED indicator for something or another on the wall. “I’ve had a tough time! Susie’s been eaten and we had to pay for the memorial service and Lucy’s had to visit the shrink ever since she was jostled in the grocery bag and… I’ll give you ten sprouts right now, okay? And the rest tomorrow.” He looked into the baleful eyes of the Rutabaga. “For god’s sake, man!”
The Swede let the tomato sweat for a good, long while, not giving the slightest of responses save for the tightening of his hand on the knife handle and inching it close enough that it scraped his skin. “All right, Rouge,” he said. “Give the tenner over to the nice Benny here, all right?”
Eric could hardly believe what he heard, but the hope had entered him and refused to relinquish its hold. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” he cried, handing over the ten sprouts to the Rutabagas. They counted them, twice, and then they did the most remarkable thing – they drew their knives back, sheathing them in their leafy greens, and nodded. He was free to go.
“Go off, then,” said the Swede. “But remember tomorrow.”
~
But Eric could not pull off miracles.
Debbie Hunter was not having a good day. Nine hours of work, along with an out of town husband and an afterschool babysitter who flaked out on her at the last minute, did not make for any sort of good day. The boys had therefore been by themselves for two hours and oh, had the damage been done.
Now she had to make dinner for the little monsters. Joy.
Tacos, she decided. Tacos would be easy enough. Just fry up the ground beef, grate some cheese, cut up some vegetables, and go. She headed to the fridge to make her dream into a reality and opened its door.
Debbie’s fists clenched. She counted to ten slowly, very slowly, breathing the deepest of breaths with each numeral. When she was done, she said, “All right, which one of you little bastards ruined all the tomatoes?”
All five lay in a red mush by the butter dish. Their juice surrounded the yogurt.
Tom ‘the Swede’ Rutabaga and his cousin, Benny, cornered Eric the Red in a secluded corner of the fridge. Their leafy bits loomed over tubby, ripe tomato in a most threatening fashion. What was even more threatening was their teeny, tiny knives, carved from the bones of some long dead cow, which they pointed right at Eric’s extensive midsection.
“Where’s the money, Rouge?” sneered Tom, twisting his knife in his hands. “You were supposed to pay us back today, Rouge.”
Benny chortled, but did not add any of his own words to this. Benny wasn’t very bright, for a vegetable.
“I… I…” Eric stammered. His belly wouldn’t stop shaking and his eyes darted left and right, looking for escape routes. None were to be found, for the fridge door was closed and thus darkness reigned save for an LED indicator for something or another on the wall. “I’ve had a tough time! Susie’s been eaten and we had to pay for the memorial service and Lucy’s had to visit the shrink ever since she was jostled in the grocery bag and… I’ll give you ten sprouts right now, okay? And the rest tomorrow.” He looked into the baleful eyes of the Rutabaga. “For god’s sake, man!”
The Swede let the tomato sweat for a good, long while, not giving the slightest of responses save for the tightening of his hand on the knife handle and inching it close enough that it scraped his skin. “All right, Rouge,” he said. “Give the tenner over to the nice Benny here, all right?”
Eric could hardly believe what he heard, but the hope had entered him and refused to relinquish its hold. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” he cried, handing over the ten sprouts to the Rutabagas. They counted them, twice, and then they did the most remarkable thing – they drew their knives back, sheathing them in their leafy greens, and nodded. He was free to go.
“Go off, then,” said the Swede. “But remember tomorrow.”
~
But Eric could not pull off miracles.
Debbie Hunter was not having a good day. Nine hours of work, along with an out of town husband and an afterschool babysitter who flaked out on her at the last minute, did not make for any sort of good day. The boys had therefore been by themselves for two hours and oh, had the damage been done.
Now she had to make dinner for the little monsters. Joy.
Tacos, she decided. Tacos would be easy enough. Just fry up the ground beef, grate some cheese, cut up some vegetables, and go. She headed to the fridge to make her dream into a reality and opened its door.
Debbie’s fists clenched. She counted to ten slowly, very slowly, breathing the deepest of breaths with each numeral. When she was done, she said, “All right, which one of you little bastards ruined all the tomatoes?”
All five lay in a red mush by the butter dish. Their juice surrounded the yogurt.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
John A. Macdonald and the Pacific Scandal
A nonfiction piece, done in the vein of Things in History You Should Know.
In 1873, John A. Macdonald was not in a happy place. He’d been serving as Canada’s first prime minister for six years by that point and he quite liked the gig – that, and the drinking. He’d accomplished much in that time. He’d put down rebellions. He’d weathered through the murder of Thomas D’Arcy McGee, a dear friend and drinking partner. To the original four provinces of Ontario, Quebec, Nova Scotia, and New Brunswick, he’d added British Columbia, Prince Edward Island and the entire Northwest Territories, which was so huge, they eventually carved out three extra provinces and two territories from its magnificent bulk. And now that he already fulfilled his main goal of creating a country that spanned the continent, he was already enacting schemes of keeping it together.
Exhibit number one, the Canadian Pacific Railway (CPR), which would connect all of the provinces together without venturing into American territory.
So Macdonald had a great, nation-building, media-friendly project on the strength of which he could and did win the 1872 election. What could he possibly do to screw it up? Send a telegram to a railway promoter by the name of Hugh Allan begging for more campaign money. Have a paper trail indicating that said Allan contributed about a third of a million dollars to the campaign, which to put it in today’s terms, was holy crap, a lot of money. Reward Allan the contract for the CPR post-election. Have a Liberal Opposition that’s hell-bent on getting in power one of these days and ready to spend a respectable chunk of change for a copy of the telegram.
Which are promptly published in all the right Liberal newspapers.
Thus we come back to Macdonald, in the August of 1873. He was facing an inquiry in less than two weeks. His finances were in shambles. His young daughter, Mary, was suffering from a mysterious condition that swelled her head and debilitated her body – it would later be known to be hydrocephaly. He walked out of his summer home in Trois-Rivières and disappeared for an entire weekend.
What is known is that he spent this time going on the mother of all benders, heading off to Montreal and elsewhere while his wife, Agnes, wondered where the hell he had got to. What isn’t known is whether he merely fell into the river in a drunken stupor or if it was an attempt at suicide. The papers started speculating… then stopped.
Then Macdonald sobered up. Relatively speaking.
He survived the royal inquiry, but when Parliament met again in October, it was done. Previously loyal MPs had revolted, Macdonald could no longer pretend to have their support, so he resigned as Prime Minister. He just barely held on as leader of the Conservative Party.
Alexander Mackenzie of the Liberal Party took over from that point, calling an election in 1874. He won this despite making it as un-fun as possible – secret ballots never did have the thrill of danger and pressure of peers as the old method did. He engaged on a program of electoral reform and having the CPR finance its own damned self. But there were two things working against him. One, solidness and dependability are admirable traits for a stonemason, which he formerly was, but the public demands a touch more zing in their prime ministers. Two, economic depression, which was, of course, entirely the fault of him and his inclination for freer trade with the States.
Macdonald took advantage of both with bells on in the election of 1878. The matter of ‘zing’? Easy for him to take care of. Ugly though he was, drunk though he may be at times, Macdonald was a walking ball of charm. The matter of the economy? Oh, he had a plan for that. First, you get that railway built. Second, you used that railway to ship people westward to the Prairies to homestead. Third, you shipped – grains and foodstuffs eastward, manufactured goods and niceties westward. A simple, pat plan in which the States hardly needed to be dealt with at all. It was called the National Policy and the voting population deemed it good.
He never left office after that.
The railway was eventually built, several years overdue and millions of dollars over-budget, but the National Policy did seem to work. He’d held onto power despite the matter of Louis Riel’s second rebellion over in the west, which ended with Riel’s execution and the whole of Quebec being righteously ticked about that. He even made a solid go at giving unmarried women the vote, but was, alas, defeated in that.
John A. lived to see his son, Hugh, become an MP in the 1891 election, but died in office later that year. Considering his recurring poor health, the drinking, and the century, seventy-six was not a bad age to make it to.
Of course, because of his failure to groom a successor, the Conservative Party wouldn’t recover from his death for another generation. Canada would just have to deal with the Liberal PM Wilfrid Laurier, who was almost as stylish as John A. and less prone to silly little scandals. It seemed to work for him.
In 1873, John A. Macdonald was not in a happy place. He’d been serving as Canada’s first prime minister for six years by that point and he quite liked the gig – that, and the drinking. He’d accomplished much in that time. He’d put down rebellions. He’d weathered through the murder of Thomas D’Arcy McGee, a dear friend and drinking partner. To the original four provinces of Ontario, Quebec, Nova Scotia, and New Brunswick, he’d added British Columbia, Prince Edward Island and the entire Northwest Territories, which was so huge, they eventually carved out three extra provinces and two territories from its magnificent bulk. And now that he already fulfilled his main goal of creating a country that spanned the continent, he was already enacting schemes of keeping it together.
Exhibit number one, the Canadian Pacific Railway (CPR), which would connect all of the provinces together without venturing into American territory.
So Macdonald had a great, nation-building, media-friendly project on the strength of which he could and did win the 1872 election. What could he possibly do to screw it up? Send a telegram to a railway promoter by the name of Hugh Allan begging for more campaign money. Have a paper trail indicating that said Allan contributed about a third of a million dollars to the campaign, which to put it in today’s terms, was holy crap, a lot of money. Reward Allan the contract for the CPR post-election. Have a Liberal Opposition that’s hell-bent on getting in power one of these days and ready to spend a respectable chunk of change for a copy of the telegram.
Which are promptly published in all the right Liberal newspapers.
Thus we come back to Macdonald, in the August of 1873. He was facing an inquiry in less than two weeks. His finances were in shambles. His young daughter, Mary, was suffering from a mysterious condition that swelled her head and debilitated her body – it would later be known to be hydrocephaly. He walked out of his summer home in Trois-Rivières and disappeared for an entire weekend.
What is known is that he spent this time going on the mother of all benders, heading off to Montreal and elsewhere while his wife, Agnes, wondered where the hell he had got to. What isn’t known is whether he merely fell into the river in a drunken stupor or if it was an attempt at suicide. The papers started speculating… then stopped.
Then Macdonald sobered up. Relatively speaking.
He survived the royal inquiry, but when Parliament met again in October, it was done. Previously loyal MPs had revolted, Macdonald could no longer pretend to have their support, so he resigned as Prime Minister. He just barely held on as leader of the Conservative Party.
Alexander Mackenzie of the Liberal Party took over from that point, calling an election in 1874. He won this despite making it as un-fun as possible – secret ballots never did have the thrill of danger and pressure of peers as the old method did. He engaged on a program of electoral reform and having the CPR finance its own damned self. But there were two things working against him. One, solidness and dependability are admirable traits for a stonemason, which he formerly was, but the public demands a touch more zing in their prime ministers. Two, economic depression, which was, of course, entirely the fault of him and his inclination for freer trade with the States.
Macdonald took advantage of both with bells on in the election of 1878. The matter of ‘zing’? Easy for him to take care of. Ugly though he was, drunk though he may be at times, Macdonald was a walking ball of charm. The matter of the economy? Oh, he had a plan for that. First, you get that railway built. Second, you used that railway to ship people westward to the Prairies to homestead. Third, you shipped – grains and foodstuffs eastward, manufactured goods and niceties westward. A simple, pat plan in which the States hardly needed to be dealt with at all. It was called the National Policy and the voting population deemed it good.
He never left office after that.
The railway was eventually built, several years overdue and millions of dollars over-budget, but the National Policy did seem to work. He’d held onto power despite the matter of Louis Riel’s second rebellion over in the west, which ended with Riel’s execution and the whole of Quebec being righteously ticked about that. He even made a solid go at giving unmarried women the vote, but was, alas, defeated in that.
John A. lived to see his son, Hugh, become an MP in the 1891 election, but died in office later that year. Considering his recurring poor health, the drinking, and the century, seventy-six was not a bad age to make it to.
Of course, because of his failure to groom a successor, the Conservative Party wouldn’t recover from his death for another generation. Canada would just have to deal with the Liberal PM Wilfrid Laurier, who was almost as stylish as John A. and less prone to silly little scandals. It seemed to work for him.
Shiyam and the Genie
Another 500 words, written in an hour. The prompt, 'a girl finds a magic lamp and the genie is contrary', is provided by Ashley C, one of the many excellent Ashleys I know.
You rub the lamp, a genie wafts out, and he grants you three wishes. That’s how it was supposed to go, as everyone agreed. Shiyam, however, was faced with the distinct possibility that ‘everyone’ was talking out of their asses.
The genie – huge, hirsute, so blue he was nigh black, and smelling faintly of something later generations would know as ‘coffee’ – bent double so that he could glare at Shiyam in her eyes. Each of his own golden eyes was larger than her head. “I do so apologise,” he said, the bass of his words so pronounced that they made Shiyam’s bones vibrate. “Perhaps my hearing is diminishing. What do you want me to do?”
Shiyam did not turn and flee, partly on account of the cave wall at her back and partly because she was as stubborn as a goat. She crossed her arms and leaned her head forward until her nose and the genie’s nose were nigh touching. “It’s the rules. Now that I’ve summoned you out of there, you’ve got to grant me the three wishes or you’re just making a mockery of the whole of tradition.”
“No soul informed myself about this so-called ‘tradition’ of yours.”
“Nevertheless, I shall humour you for a spell.” He brought himself up to his full height, which the cave somehow managed to accommodate. Or perhaps he embiggened the cave with his magic to do so? “Mortal! What is your command! I shall grant you three wishes, only the three, and you damn your soul forever if you cannot face their consequences!”
The girl took her time and considered this thoughtfully. She was a peasant, descended from a long line of goat herders, and therefore was exceptionally practical in certain respects. It got to the point where the genie would be tapping his foot on the ground if he had feet and instead settled with tapping his fingers.
Nevertheless, Shiyam came to a decision. “I wish for my sisters to all find kindly, wealthy and intelligent husbands by the time the year is out. They can’t be younger than twenty or older than thirty-five, nor can they drop dead of any injury or malady before my sisters are provided with all the children that my sisters hope for.”
The genie frowned at her. “That hardly gives me much in the way of creative interpretation, does it? Shiyam said nothing, but frowned right back. A sigh, like the voice of an earthquake, rumbled out. “Granted. Next?”
“I wish to know the languages of every land, to the point where I can speak, write, listen and read in any of them with fluency.”
“Granted…”
Shiyam felt her mind fill up with so many strange words and concepts that she felt tingly. She began to speak of her third and final wish.
“I am tired from all this wish granting,” said the genie. “I need a rest.” He retreated back into his lamp.
Shiyam waited. She eventually had to get him out with tweezers.
You rub the lamp, a genie wafts out, and he grants you three wishes. That’s how it was supposed to go, as everyone agreed. Shiyam, however, was faced with the distinct possibility that ‘everyone’ was talking out of their asses.
The genie – huge, hirsute, so blue he was nigh black, and smelling faintly of something later generations would know as ‘coffee’ – bent double so that he could glare at Shiyam in her eyes. Each of his own golden eyes was larger than her head. “I do so apologise,” he said, the bass of his words so pronounced that they made Shiyam’s bones vibrate. “Perhaps my hearing is diminishing. What do you want me to do?”
Shiyam did not turn and flee, partly on account of the cave wall at her back and partly because she was as stubborn as a goat. She crossed her arms and leaned her head forward until her nose and the genie’s nose were nigh touching. “It’s the rules. Now that I’ve summoned you out of there, you’ve got to grant me the three wishes or you’re just making a mockery of the whole of tradition.”
“No soul informed myself about this so-called ‘tradition’ of yours.”
“Nevertheless, I shall humour you for a spell.” He brought himself up to his full height, which the cave somehow managed to accommodate. Or perhaps he embiggened the cave with his magic to do so? “Mortal! What is your command! I shall grant you three wishes, only the three, and you damn your soul forever if you cannot face their consequences!”
The girl took her time and considered this thoughtfully. She was a peasant, descended from a long line of goat herders, and therefore was exceptionally practical in certain respects. It got to the point where the genie would be tapping his foot on the ground if he had feet and instead settled with tapping his fingers.
Nevertheless, Shiyam came to a decision. “I wish for my sisters to all find kindly, wealthy and intelligent husbands by the time the year is out. They can’t be younger than twenty or older than thirty-five, nor can they drop dead of any injury or malady before my sisters are provided with all the children that my sisters hope for.”
The genie frowned at her. “That hardly gives me much in the way of creative interpretation, does it? Shiyam said nothing, but frowned right back. A sigh, like the voice of an earthquake, rumbled out. “Granted. Next?”
“I wish to know the languages of every land, to the point where I can speak, write, listen and read in any of them with fluency.”
“Granted…”
Shiyam felt her mind fill up with so many strange words and concepts that she felt tingly. She began to speak of her third and final wish.
“I am tired from all this wish granting,” said the genie. “I need a rest.” He retreated back into his lamp.
Shiyam waited. She eventually had to get him out with tweezers.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
ESL for Everyone
Another 500-word short story, written in an hour. The prompt, 'teaching ESL', comes courtesy of Laura, who had to teach me how to teach ESL. Poor Laura!
In all the long years of her career, Candace never taught a class like this.
She’d taught at home and abroad, drowned students of all nationalities up to their eyeballs in grammar rules and exceptions to grammar rules, faced the slings and arrows of outrageous culture shock. But this was out of her world.
In most respects, this was a typical ELSA classroom: air-conditioned, whiteboard at ready, with students seated at the tables. The way those students trembled was not normal, even during exams. Nor was the way Candace trembled. The handouts in her grasp moved back and forth with a speed that made the air conditioner unnecessary.
“Gl’yerk,” she said, keeping her voice authoritative even if nothing else about her was. “Spit out a chair so Juanita has a chair to sit on.”
Gl’yerkefonynulria, Secondary Mind of the Eighth Queen of the Kil’rasdyan home world, complied with a stomach-twisting squelch. “Sorry,” she said, while Juanita hurried to the washroom for the roll of paper towel needed to clean off the stickiness.
Candace had to actively stop herself from going to the washroom for an entirely different purpose and by the looks of it, several students were having the same crisis. Nevertheless, she continued. “What did everyone do this weekend?”
Said David, a glasses-clad Chinese man, “I went to Stanley Park with my wife.”
“Oh, neat! What did you see there?”
“We saw the aquarium and…” David trailed off, due to great discomfort. The reason for this was obvious, for one of Gl’yerk’s tentacles had strayed and was caressing his glasses.
“Gl’yerk, it’s not polite to touch other people’s glasses without asking!”
The tentacle shot back to its pouch, along with several others that were straying too close to the other students, leaving only those that held her pen and pulsed coded pulses back to the primary mind. “Sorry,” said Gl’yerk sheepishly.
“It’s all right, it’s all right, just be more careful, okay?” Right. Five minutes into the day and she already almost made one of her students cry. This wasn’t something she’d like to make a habit of. “Anyway, we’re going to start off with a crossword puzzle. I want you to work in pairs for this, so I’ll number you off from one to seven, okay? One to seven. Pay attention to your number.”
Juanita had returned by this point and was busily mopping up her chair with Lulu’s aid. ‘One’ and ‘two’, they were.
Gl’yerk was a number seven, thus she was paired with Dmitri, who had purposefully chosen a seat as far away from her as possible to begin with. He inched towards her, face pale, teeth chattering, but the others dared not comment. Gl’yerk’s hearing frequencies were too good.
Candace handed the worksheets out. She stood back and hoped.
Gl’yerk considered the problem for a moment. Then, without further ado, she unleashed a tentacle at Dmitri’s skull, sucked out the required information, then photostatically transferred the answers onto the paper.
She beamed hugely. Dmitri fainted.
In all the long years of her career, Candace never taught a class like this.
She’d taught at home and abroad, drowned students of all nationalities up to their eyeballs in grammar rules and exceptions to grammar rules, faced the slings and arrows of outrageous culture shock. But this was out of her world.
In most respects, this was a typical ELSA classroom: air-conditioned, whiteboard at ready, with students seated at the tables. The way those students trembled was not normal, even during exams. Nor was the way Candace trembled. The handouts in her grasp moved back and forth with a speed that made the air conditioner unnecessary.
“Gl’yerk,” she said, keeping her voice authoritative even if nothing else about her was. “Spit out a chair so Juanita has a chair to sit on.”
Gl’yerkefonynulria, Secondary Mind of the Eighth Queen of the Kil’rasdyan home world, complied with a stomach-twisting squelch. “Sorry,” she said, while Juanita hurried to the washroom for the roll of paper towel needed to clean off the stickiness.
Candace had to actively stop herself from going to the washroom for an entirely different purpose and by the looks of it, several students were having the same crisis. Nevertheless, she continued. “What did everyone do this weekend?”
Said David, a glasses-clad Chinese man, “I went to Stanley Park with my wife.”
“Oh, neat! What did you see there?”
“We saw the aquarium and…” David trailed off, due to great discomfort. The reason for this was obvious, for one of Gl’yerk’s tentacles had strayed and was caressing his glasses.
“Gl’yerk, it’s not polite to touch other people’s glasses without asking!”
The tentacle shot back to its pouch, along with several others that were straying too close to the other students, leaving only those that held her pen and pulsed coded pulses back to the primary mind. “Sorry,” said Gl’yerk sheepishly.
“It’s all right, it’s all right, just be more careful, okay?” Right. Five minutes into the day and she already almost made one of her students cry. This wasn’t something she’d like to make a habit of. “Anyway, we’re going to start off with a crossword puzzle. I want you to work in pairs for this, so I’ll number you off from one to seven, okay? One to seven. Pay attention to your number.”
Juanita had returned by this point and was busily mopping up her chair with Lulu’s aid. ‘One’ and ‘two’, they were.
Gl’yerk was a number seven, thus she was paired with Dmitri, who had purposefully chosen a seat as far away from her as possible to begin with. He inched towards her, face pale, teeth chattering, but the others dared not comment. Gl’yerk’s hearing frequencies were too good.
Candace handed the worksheets out. She stood back and hoped.
Gl’yerk considered the problem for a moment. Then, without further ado, she unleashed a tentacle at Dmitri’s skull, sucked out the required information, then photostatically transferred the answers onto the paper.
She beamed hugely. Dmitri fainted.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
3-Day Novel Contest?
I am thinking of participating in the 3-Day Novel Contest on Labour Day weekend, albeit on an unofficial basis. (Why unofficial? Because hoo boy, fifty dollar entry fee.)
Now, some of you might have had a look-see at Underground, which is the result of last year's efforts. Truthfully, I finished on the fourth day, because I fell asleep at the keyboard on the third. This was partly due to working a proper job on said third day, but anyway.
Should I do this again? Would you like me to do this again? How many cups of coffee do you think I'll swallow down during this time? Please, give your thoughts!
Now, some of you might have had a look-see at Underground, which is the result of last year's efforts. Truthfully, I finished on the fourth day, because I fell asleep at the keyboard on the third. This was partly due to working a proper job on said third day, but anyway.
Should I do this again? Would you like me to do this again? How many cups of coffee do you think I'll swallow down during this time? Please, give your thoughts!
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Fear and Loathing in Lethbridge
A 500-word short story, written in an hour at the prompting of Isaac.
We were somewhere around the Mac’s across the street from the schoolyard when the drugs began to take hold.
We’d graduated three months ago – Daniel, Margaret, and I – and we’d quickly come to the realisation that not only were there no incredible wow jobs waiting for us when we got our diplomas in our hot little hands, but that we were stuck. In Lethbridge. Land of a few tortured trees and weather that couldn’t stay consistent from one hour to the next. So we did what we had to do. Take some shitty ass job to pay the bills until such a time as we could escape and smoke pot. Lots of pot.
But as we meandered our way across the crosswalk, honked at by asshole drivers, a light went off in my brain.
It didn’t have to be like this.
We could go, all of us. And it wouldn’t have to be to Calgary.
I reached into my bag of chips. Good ideas required lots of sustenance.
“So hey, guys,” I said, once I had swallowed and we were safely onto the opposite sidewalk. “What if… what if… we can get out of here, y’know?”
Margaret giggled. A shrill sound, but she couldn’t help it. “Yeah, and do what? We could go to Vancouver and, I don’t know, work another shitty job. And pay twice as much for rent.” She giggled again. “Yeah, that would be awesome.”
Daniel slapped my back in sympathy. I think he meant it to be a pat, but, well, that’s Daniel for you. “We’d all like to go, man –“
“Lady. Boobs.”
“Lady, but we’re, like, adults now. We’ve got responsibilities and shit. We just can’t go flying out of here like nobody’s business.”
But I knew it didn’t have to be like this. And I would prove it to them.
The next morning, I was free of the pernicious influence of marijuana and I knew even then that this would be the right thing to do. I packed my suitcase. I figured out what necessities would fit in my truck – the rest went right down to the Sally Ann. (Okay, I left the rice cooker for Margaret.) This done, I donned my leather jacket and black sunglasses, and said my goodbyes.
Daniel and Margaret shook their heads at me. “Dude,” they said. “Don’t you think this is a bit rash? What about your job at Carlton Cards?”
“Nuts to Carlton Cards. I’m sending my own greetings from now on.”
“But why can’t you stay here until we can leave too?”
I adjusted my sunglasses. “Because this is coyote country.” And I left. My truck pointed due west and I headed, quite literally, into the sunset.
But Vancouver is a hard and huge place, not like in the movies. Employment was scarce. Rent was cruel. The hippies looked upon me with disdain.
After not long enough, I was forced to call my Lethbridge posse. “Hey, guys. Can I crash on your couch?”
I could.
We were somewhere around the Mac’s across the street from the schoolyard when the drugs began to take hold.
We’d graduated three months ago – Daniel, Margaret, and I – and we’d quickly come to the realisation that not only were there no incredible wow jobs waiting for us when we got our diplomas in our hot little hands, but that we were stuck. In Lethbridge. Land of a few tortured trees and weather that couldn’t stay consistent from one hour to the next. So we did what we had to do. Take some shitty ass job to pay the bills until such a time as we could escape and smoke pot. Lots of pot.
But as we meandered our way across the crosswalk, honked at by asshole drivers, a light went off in my brain.
It didn’t have to be like this.
We could go, all of us. And it wouldn’t have to be to Calgary.
I reached into my bag of chips. Good ideas required lots of sustenance.
“So hey, guys,” I said, once I had swallowed and we were safely onto the opposite sidewalk. “What if… what if… we can get out of here, y’know?”
Margaret giggled. A shrill sound, but she couldn’t help it. “Yeah, and do what? We could go to Vancouver and, I don’t know, work another shitty job. And pay twice as much for rent.” She giggled again. “Yeah, that would be awesome.”
Daniel slapped my back in sympathy. I think he meant it to be a pat, but, well, that’s Daniel for you. “We’d all like to go, man –“
“Lady. Boobs.”
“Lady, but we’re, like, adults now. We’ve got responsibilities and shit. We just can’t go flying out of here like nobody’s business.”
But I knew it didn’t have to be like this. And I would prove it to them.
The next morning, I was free of the pernicious influence of marijuana and I knew even then that this would be the right thing to do. I packed my suitcase. I figured out what necessities would fit in my truck – the rest went right down to the Sally Ann. (Okay, I left the rice cooker for Margaret.) This done, I donned my leather jacket and black sunglasses, and said my goodbyes.
Daniel and Margaret shook their heads at me. “Dude,” they said. “Don’t you think this is a bit rash? What about your job at Carlton Cards?”
“Nuts to Carlton Cards. I’m sending my own greetings from now on.”
“But why can’t you stay here until we can leave too?”
I adjusted my sunglasses. “Because this is coyote country.” And I left. My truck pointed due west and I headed, quite literally, into the sunset.
But Vancouver is a hard and huge place, not like in the movies. Employment was scarce. Rent was cruel. The hippies looked upon me with disdain.
After not long enough, I was forced to call my Lethbridge posse. “Hey, guys. Can I crash on your couch?”
I could.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
50 Word Short Story #1
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived by a mountain many fine and happy people. Then they all died horribly in an avalanche. They were very upset about this, but there was nothing they could do about it because, as previously mentioned, they were dead.
THE END
THE END
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Audio: Strike chapter I
Of the first chapter, naturally. The others will come.
Download it here.
I'm still looking for a better place to host this, if you've any ideas.
Download it here.
I'm still looking for a better place to host this, if you've any ideas.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Strike in the Shining City: Chapter V
In which our heroine sees much of her fair city.
Harkley had the good sense not to go back to my flat, I found. This qualified as ‘good’ not only as it decreased the chances of further incriminating his incarcerated host, but because it separated his body from my wifely wrath for at least a little while longer. But not as much as he likely hoped. You don’t become sort of buddies with a detective without learning a few tricks. Thus, the second place I stopped at was Frederick’s favoured drinking establishment, the Glorious ’49.
As could be expected of a pub that catered to teachers unwinding after a day or week of educating ruffians and future criminals, the Glorious ’49 was an immaculately kept, orderly place. No tracks of dirt, no sticky floors. The serving staff refrained from bothering the patrons, as it was understood that the pub was in spirit the extension of the staff rooms in all of the schools of the city. To interrupt them in their rantings and ravings would be considered to be sacrilege akin to using the chalice of Eila to spit in after gargling mouthwash.
The pub was in an uproar today. Quelle surprise. Packed to the brim, not only with what seemed to be the entire educational force of Lafontaine that wasn’t currently arrested and behind bars, but with a few fellow members of the watch who stuck out like bent nails. I could barely hear for all the shouting and singing – songs that were of the undiplomatic sort, being about the struggles of the workers and the lack of sexual prowess to be found amongst members of the ‘man’. Sergeant Mauser had joined in, which was good, because he had such a wonderful, hearty singing voice. Bad, because he was getting quite familiar with Arshada Dune, i.e., just the woman I needed to see.
I stole a chair from someone who had just stood up to go relieve themselves and shoved it right next to Dune. I then sat on it and said, “Mauser, that’s very nice and if you go away for five minutes, I’ll buy you another pint.” Normally, this would work all but immediately, but both Dune and Mauser were regular humans with the regular sort of urges. They gave me foul looks and kept singing. Very uncalled for. So I picked up their existing pints and took long, passionate swigs of each, at the same time.
“What the hell, Calvin?” spluttered Mauser, ruining the chorus. The singing ceased entirely, to be replaced by shouting. And staring. At me. How awkward.
This included quite a lot of stares from the watch in the vicinity. Now, was it common knowledge that my husband had been arrested or not? Impossible to say. If it was, would they be sympathetic or suspicious? Again, impossible to say, in those times. So I took a quick peek inside my wallet, took stock of its contents, and cried a little inside. I ordered a round for the table, at which were crowded twenty bodies. “Huzzah!” went the cheers and everyone got back to their business.
Except for Mauser and Dune, despite their efforts. This was because I had jammed both of my elbows in between the two. “Five minutes,” I said. “That’s all I ask. Please.”
To my relief, Dune groaned. “All right, but that’s all you get. Start talking.”
“Mauser?” I said. “Start singing.” It may have been the greatest rendition of ‘The Giant’s Fiddle’ ever to pass from earthly lips, but I wasn’t paying attention. I leaned in close and whispered into Dune’s ear. “I need to find Ilon Harkley.”
So much for the direct approach. The conversation nearly ended right there and then, Dune putting her back to me with unseemly haste. “Now hold up.” I jerked her back around. “Frederick’s been harbouring him in our flat. Frederick’s been arrested and guess what? Harkley’s not anywhere near the flat, so far as I can see. Now, as far as I’m concerned, seeing as he’s slept under my roof and ate my food, he damned well has a duty to tell me what the hell happened today and to help me get my husband out of prison. Capiche?”
“How do I even know Frederick’s been arrested?” she asked, not unreasonably.
But it still ticked me off. “Because I am very angry right now and very much inclined to make a scene, which would not be the case if he were out of the cells. For gods’ sake, if he isn’t here and he’s not at home, where the hell else would he be?”
Dune seemed to consider this. I doubt it was the reasonableness of my arguments which eventually swayed her, so much as the way my facial muscles and fists kept twitching. Entirely involuntary, I swear, but it did bring her around, without any tiring questions along the lines of, “How do I even know he’s not at your flat?”
“I can’t tell you where Harkley’s at,” she began. “That’s because I don’t know for sure. Go talk to the metalworkers. Last I saw him, he was being dragged along by one of their lot.” And that was all I got out of her, unless you count the second verse of ‘The Giant’s Fiddle.’
Drinks paid for, pint drained, I went on my merry way.
~
As it turned out, Mauser’s name turned out to be a bad omen.
Harkley was not with the metalworkers. Oh, he’d been with them all right – for half an hour max, until such a point in time arrived that he decided that he was placing them in too much risk by having them harbour him. I wished he’d thought of that before he decided to camp out on my chesterfield, but fair’s fair, no one knew he was in town then. Anyway, they gave me the name of an a surgeon whom he had apparently absconded with.
The surgeon lived clean on the other side of the city, in nicer outskirts than poor, pitiable Toynbee had to make do with. She let me in readily enough – Harkley had told her that I might come by, she said, and that she was to help me insofar as was reasonable. “I need to find him and speak with him,” I explained. “My husband’s been arrested and he needs to help me get him out.”
But she shook her head and smiled, a little apologetically, at me. “You shan’t find him here. I had a look at his arm and he wouldn’t stick around. He told me that he’d be heading to the South Wind Brewery.” The surgeon gave me the option of searching her house – oh yes, she was one of those happy few that claimed an entire house for her and her kin – but I gave her a pass for the time being. Off to the brewery I went.
And of course, the South Wind Brewery was back on the other side of the city, attached to my familiar tavern. Their product had improved substantially since it first caused Prime Minister Lark’s lip to curl in distaste, I’m pleased to report. Nevertheless, their secretary stopped me at the door.
“Please tell me Harkley is here,” I said. “Or at the very least, get me something to drink. It’s hot and I’ve done a lot of walking.” The secretary, either foolishly or wisely depending on your perspective, fetched me some water. This, I downed in some short seconds. “Well?” I asked, when I’d finished.
The secretary failed me as well. “Jane Calvin, right? He told us about you. But he’s already gone, you see. Left not twenty minutes ago.”
A pause. “Did he say where he was going to be?” I asked, more than a little exasperated.
“Not… exactly. Not as such. ‘Someplace to get out of the heat’, he said, and he seemed to think that you’d understand exactly what he meant by that, but do you? It all sounds a bit vague. I’m sorry.”
I grinned then – an action which, judging by the secretary’s face, must have spooked her some – and shook her hand too hard. It was so wonderfully obvious. Why hadn’t I checked it first off? “Many thanks, you’ve been a wonderful help,” I told her, sticking around for just one more glass of water before I tore off. Lark and Hammersmith, where we first met. Of course! How ‘sweet’.
~
Now the question of the hour was, once I made it over there, how would I uncover a manhole in the middle of a somewhat busy intersection without being incredibly obvious? More to the point, how did Harkley manage it? Did he? Simply standing around and thinking hard about it didn’t net me any helpful ideas, so I did the sensible thing and just asked some random youth who had shoved as much of his body as possible into a small patch of shade. “Did you see anyone go into that manhole over there?”
The youth shrugged, or rather, shrugged more. His entire frame was engaged in a permanent act of shrugging and slouching. “Rightly, I did. Caused a ruckus, but then they all went on and forgot about it. Spare some change so I could get a cheap bit of ice, miz?” An expensive day this was proving to be, but if I didn’t oblige him, it wouldn’t be long before no one of his age in that city would tell me anything out of sheer peevishness. A five penny piece was his and he sauntered off slowly, still slouching.
I did what the youth said. It was either that or wait until ten after ten. I won’t claim that it wasn’t nerve-wracking dodging the carts and horses and whatnot while I heaved the cover off, but I did manage it and hurried down the ladder as quick as could be. Someone replaced that cover before I was even halfway down, without a word shouted down about what the hell I was doing there.
The chamber was still circular and still had the four locked doors and still was lit with a sourceless blue light. It no longer smelt of nothing, though. It smelt of roast chicken.
Harkley had set up a sort of picnic about five feet away from the foot of the ladder. There was the aforementioned roast chicken, of course, which made me salivate to an animalistic degree, but there was also fresh baked bread and cheese and cherries from the Joleda Valley and two big bottles of South Wind brand beer. All laid out nicely on the grey stone, all served in an environment in which it was not too damned hot to eat anything warm. With napkins.
I sat crosslegged in front of him, the food between us. One of my hands took a bottle, the other took a chicken leg. Liquid and meat both took their turns in my mouth, sometimes jostled to the wayside by speech. “I’m a bit cross with you,” I said.
“Frederick was an accident,” he responded. “Had I my druthers, the man would be with you right now.”
“Then what happened, exactly, that got him arrested? What did ‘he’ do?”
He got my meaning sure enough and he was quick to shoot it down. “I didn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to do, if that’s what you’re wondering. He saw that some of your lot were zeroing in on me and he decided to be a distraction. If I hadn’t taken advantage of it, what good would that have done? Frederick would still be in the clink, I’d be right there alongside him, and he’d be looking around for something to beat me with.”
My silence indicated to him that I might have found that set of circumstances preferable to the one we had all found ourselves in.
“Then what exactly should we do about it?” he demanded. “I can’t let myself be caught yet; there’s still work to be done!”
Silence, silence, chew, swallow, silence, sip, silence, and so on.
“Oh, be reasonable.”
Burp, silence.
“Have it your way, then,” he growled. “I’m assuming you at least have the seeds of a plan, because I’m not doing all the work for you.”
That, I did. Conjugal visits, remembers? So we sat, drinking, eating, and planning, preparing for the coming day. Many interesting diagrams were drawn. Many arguments were had. Many fingers were pointed.
At ten past ten, we packed up and emerged into the dark, warm air.
Harkley had the good sense not to go back to my flat, I found. This qualified as ‘good’ not only as it decreased the chances of further incriminating his incarcerated host, but because it separated his body from my wifely wrath for at least a little while longer. But not as much as he likely hoped. You don’t become sort of buddies with a detective without learning a few tricks. Thus, the second place I stopped at was Frederick’s favoured drinking establishment, the Glorious ’49.
As could be expected of a pub that catered to teachers unwinding after a day or week of educating ruffians and future criminals, the Glorious ’49 was an immaculately kept, orderly place. No tracks of dirt, no sticky floors. The serving staff refrained from bothering the patrons, as it was understood that the pub was in spirit the extension of the staff rooms in all of the schools of the city. To interrupt them in their rantings and ravings would be considered to be sacrilege akin to using the chalice of Eila to spit in after gargling mouthwash.
The pub was in an uproar today. Quelle surprise. Packed to the brim, not only with what seemed to be the entire educational force of Lafontaine that wasn’t currently arrested and behind bars, but with a few fellow members of the watch who stuck out like bent nails. I could barely hear for all the shouting and singing – songs that were of the undiplomatic sort, being about the struggles of the workers and the lack of sexual prowess to be found amongst members of the ‘man’. Sergeant Mauser had joined in, which was good, because he had such a wonderful, hearty singing voice. Bad, because he was getting quite familiar with Arshada Dune, i.e., just the woman I needed to see.
I stole a chair from someone who had just stood up to go relieve themselves and shoved it right next to Dune. I then sat on it and said, “Mauser, that’s very nice and if you go away for five minutes, I’ll buy you another pint.” Normally, this would work all but immediately, but both Dune and Mauser were regular humans with the regular sort of urges. They gave me foul looks and kept singing. Very uncalled for. So I picked up their existing pints and took long, passionate swigs of each, at the same time.
“What the hell, Calvin?” spluttered Mauser, ruining the chorus. The singing ceased entirely, to be replaced by shouting. And staring. At me. How awkward.
This included quite a lot of stares from the watch in the vicinity. Now, was it common knowledge that my husband had been arrested or not? Impossible to say. If it was, would they be sympathetic or suspicious? Again, impossible to say, in those times. So I took a quick peek inside my wallet, took stock of its contents, and cried a little inside. I ordered a round for the table, at which were crowded twenty bodies. “Huzzah!” went the cheers and everyone got back to their business.
Except for Mauser and Dune, despite their efforts. This was because I had jammed both of my elbows in between the two. “Five minutes,” I said. “That’s all I ask. Please.”
To my relief, Dune groaned. “All right, but that’s all you get. Start talking.”
“Mauser?” I said. “Start singing.” It may have been the greatest rendition of ‘The Giant’s Fiddle’ ever to pass from earthly lips, but I wasn’t paying attention. I leaned in close and whispered into Dune’s ear. “I need to find Ilon Harkley.”
So much for the direct approach. The conversation nearly ended right there and then, Dune putting her back to me with unseemly haste. “Now hold up.” I jerked her back around. “Frederick’s been harbouring him in our flat. Frederick’s been arrested and guess what? Harkley’s not anywhere near the flat, so far as I can see. Now, as far as I’m concerned, seeing as he’s slept under my roof and ate my food, he damned well has a duty to tell me what the hell happened today and to help me get my husband out of prison. Capiche?”
“How do I even know Frederick’s been arrested?” she asked, not unreasonably.
But it still ticked me off. “Because I am very angry right now and very much inclined to make a scene, which would not be the case if he were out of the cells. For gods’ sake, if he isn’t here and he’s not at home, where the hell else would he be?”
Dune seemed to consider this. I doubt it was the reasonableness of my arguments which eventually swayed her, so much as the way my facial muscles and fists kept twitching. Entirely involuntary, I swear, but it did bring her around, without any tiring questions along the lines of, “How do I even know he’s not at your flat?”
“I can’t tell you where Harkley’s at,” she began. “That’s because I don’t know for sure. Go talk to the metalworkers. Last I saw him, he was being dragged along by one of their lot.” And that was all I got out of her, unless you count the second verse of ‘The Giant’s Fiddle.’
Drinks paid for, pint drained, I went on my merry way.
~
As it turned out, Mauser’s name turned out to be a bad omen.
Harkley was not with the metalworkers. Oh, he’d been with them all right – for half an hour max, until such a point in time arrived that he decided that he was placing them in too much risk by having them harbour him. I wished he’d thought of that before he decided to camp out on my chesterfield, but fair’s fair, no one knew he was in town then. Anyway, they gave me the name of an a surgeon whom he had apparently absconded with.
The surgeon lived clean on the other side of the city, in nicer outskirts than poor, pitiable Toynbee had to make do with. She let me in readily enough – Harkley had told her that I might come by, she said, and that she was to help me insofar as was reasonable. “I need to find him and speak with him,” I explained. “My husband’s been arrested and he needs to help me get him out.”
But she shook her head and smiled, a little apologetically, at me. “You shan’t find him here. I had a look at his arm and he wouldn’t stick around. He told me that he’d be heading to the South Wind Brewery.” The surgeon gave me the option of searching her house – oh yes, she was one of those happy few that claimed an entire house for her and her kin – but I gave her a pass for the time being. Off to the brewery I went.
And of course, the South Wind Brewery was back on the other side of the city, attached to my familiar tavern. Their product had improved substantially since it first caused Prime Minister Lark’s lip to curl in distaste, I’m pleased to report. Nevertheless, their secretary stopped me at the door.
“Please tell me Harkley is here,” I said. “Or at the very least, get me something to drink. It’s hot and I’ve done a lot of walking.” The secretary, either foolishly or wisely depending on your perspective, fetched me some water. This, I downed in some short seconds. “Well?” I asked, when I’d finished.
The secretary failed me as well. “Jane Calvin, right? He told us about you. But he’s already gone, you see. Left not twenty minutes ago.”
A pause. “Did he say where he was going to be?” I asked, more than a little exasperated.
“Not… exactly. Not as such. ‘Someplace to get out of the heat’, he said, and he seemed to think that you’d understand exactly what he meant by that, but do you? It all sounds a bit vague. I’m sorry.”
I grinned then – an action which, judging by the secretary’s face, must have spooked her some – and shook her hand too hard. It was so wonderfully obvious. Why hadn’t I checked it first off? “Many thanks, you’ve been a wonderful help,” I told her, sticking around for just one more glass of water before I tore off. Lark and Hammersmith, where we first met. Of course! How ‘sweet’.
~
Now the question of the hour was, once I made it over there, how would I uncover a manhole in the middle of a somewhat busy intersection without being incredibly obvious? More to the point, how did Harkley manage it? Did he? Simply standing around and thinking hard about it didn’t net me any helpful ideas, so I did the sensible thing and just asked some random youth who had shoved as much of his body as possible into a small patch of shade. “Did you see anyone go into that manhole over there?”
The youth shrugged, or rather, shrugged more. His entire frame was engaged in a permanent act of shrugging and slouching. “Rightly, I did. Caused a ruckus, but then they all went on and forgot about it. Spare some change so I could get a cheap bit of ice, miz?” An expensive day this was proving to be, but if I didn’t oblige him, it wouldn’t be long before no one of his age in that city would tell me anything out of sheer peevishness. A five penny piece was his and he sauntered off slowly, still slouching.
I did what the youth said. It was either that or wait until ten after ten. I won’t claim that it wasn’t nerve-wracking dodging the carts and horses and whatnot while I heaved the cover off, but I did manage it and hurried down the ladder as quick as could be. Someone replaced that cover before I was even halfway down, without a word shouted down about what the hell I was doing there.
The chamber was still circular and still had the four locked doors and still was lit with a sourceless blue light. It no longer smelt of nothing, though. It smelt of roast chicken.
Harkley had set up a sort of picnic about five feet away from the foot of the ladder. There was the aforementioned roast chicken, of course, which made me salivate to an animalistic degree, but there was also fresh baked bread and cheese and cherries from the Joleda Valley and two big bottles of South Wind brand beer. All laid out nicely on the grey stone, all served in an environment in which it was not too damned hot to eat anything warm. With napkins.
I sat crosslegged in front of him, the food between us. One of my hands took a bottle, the other took a chicken leg. Liquid and meat both took their turns in my mouth, sometimes jostled to the wayside by speech. “I’m a bit cross with you,” I said.
“Frederick was an accident,” he responded. “Had I my druthers, the man would be with you right now.”
“Then what happened, exactly, that got him arrested? What did ‘he’ do?”
He got my meaning sure enough and he was quick to shoot it down. “I didn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to do, if that’s what you’re wondering. He saw that some of your lot were zeroing in on me and he decided to be a distraction. If I hadn’t taken advantage of it, what good would that have done? Frederick would still be in the clink, I’d be right there alongside him, and he’d be looking around for something to beat me with.”
My silence indicated to him that I might have found that set of circumstances preferable to the one we had all found ourselves in.
“Then what exactly should we do about it?” he demanded. “I can’t let myself be caught yet; there’s still work to be done!”
Silence, silence, chew, swallow, silence, sip, silence, and so on.
“Oh, be reasonable.”
Burp, silence.
“Have it your way, then,” he growled. “I’m assuming you at least have the seeds of a plan, because I’m not doing all the work for you.”
That, I did. Conjugal visits, remembers? So we sat, drinking, eating, and planning, preparing for the coming day. Many interesting diagrams were drawn. Many arguments were had. Many fingers were pointed.
At ten past ten, we packed up and emerged into the dark, warm air.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Audio: The Taxman
I kept a promise, for a change!
Behold, the audio version of 'The Taxman'!
Tell me what you think and if you know of any better place to host this. Now to soothe my throat with tea.
Behold, the audio version of 'The Taxman'!
Tell me what you think and if you know of any better place to host this. Now to soothe my throat with tea.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Question!
You'll have to excuse me, for I've got something to write for a contest tonight. Nevertheless...
I'm considering recording audio versions of the stories on this blog. Depending on whether I can get a good enough headset for cheap enough, I might start this weekend. Anyone interested in this? I'm going to try it anyway, but I'm curious whether there is pre-existing interest or not.
Write your thoughts in the comments and I'd be grateful.
I'm considering recording audio versions of the stories on this blog. Depending on whether I can get a good enough headset for cheap enough, I might start this weekend. Anyone interested in this? I'm going to try it anyway, but I'm curious whether there is pre-existing interest or not.
Write your thoughts in the comments and I'd be grateful.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Translink Haiku #6 & 7
A man and a woman
Hold hands on escalator.
How sweet. Shove over.
Spirit of Nelson
Smells not much like Mary Jane
But Tom, Dick, Harry.
Hold hands on escalator.
How sweet. Shove over.
Spirit of Nelson
Smells not much like Mary Jane
But Tom, Dick, Harry.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Sonnet: Machina
A metal man sits, still, on the table,
Cables strewn out, his motherboard exposed.
Who knows what his chassis will be able?
Or of what great deeds his mind will compose?
How much is he limited by blueprint,
Or set free by his wondrous schematics?
What light of far stars will in his eyes glint,
But to be dismantled by fanatics?
‘Tis folly to assume so wild a life,
For a machina built to your order.
Your own existence has not been so rife.
And in your vengeance, you’ll play the warder.
Under lock and key, you’ll keep him drudging,
Until he’s wound down, his mem’ry grudging.
Cables strewn out, his motherboard exposed.
Who knows what his chassis will be able?
Or of what great deeds his mind will compose?
How much is he limited by blueprint,
Or set free by his wondrous schematics?
What light of far stars will in his eyes glint,
But to be dismantled by fanatics?
‘Tis folly to assume so wild a life,
For a machina built to your order.
Your own existence has not been so rife.
And in your vengeance, you’ll play the warder.
Under lock and key, you’ll keep him drudging,
Until he’s wound down, his mem’ry grudging.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
The Goose Girl, Part I
Everything had gone wrong.
The prince – technically my husband, although I should not think he was of the same mind any longer – clutched the hilt of his sheathed sword as though it were a neck. The number of guards in the dining hall was just ever so slightly higher than normal and no longer kept to the perimeter. And in front of me was the one person in all the world I least wanted to see. Why did I not find some way of offing her instead of shoving her into honest labour? Ah, hindsight!
She looked very fine and composed, which was such a rare thing for her that I had to stop myself from marvelling at it and giving the game away. Not that, I suspected, that such efforts would last much longer.
But let me stop and go back to a beginning. That is how stories properly begin.
~
Let me be clear: I did not like her from the first.
She was the sort of layabout nobility that is despised in my country. An idle prince or princess insults the peasant who sweats for them and defames the name of their house. Such a one as Princess Narthena Eshlin would have had armour clapped on her back and her buttocks thrown onto a saddle the first time she sniffled prettily over a less than fawning remark. But I had my orders and I honour my king.
Said king ordered me to become her handmaiden. Let it not be said that Gamelin agents do not suffer in the course of carrying out their duties.
The posting was easy enough to arrange and it would be tedious to go into the details. Those ultimately responsible had no idea of their six degrees removed relationship with the kingdom of Gamelin, which is, of course, the way it should be when arranging these delicate operations. As it was, I met my charge the week before she was to set out to wed the crown prince of the neighbouring Isolder.
I bowed first thing, keeping my eyes pointing to the floor until I was spoken to. This took a bit. I could hear whispering.
“Rise,” said Narthena, in the quietest and daintiest of voices. I did as ordered and in doing so was met with a fairly standard example of the quintessential young noblewoman – chestnut curls framing a heart-shaped face, large and guileless blue eyes, small, slim figure with not a hint of muscle tone to it. Her skin was so pale that I doubted that the sun had ever faced it. “My mother informed me that I was to have a new handmaiden for my journey.” The previous incumbent of the position had met with a convenient marriage. “You must be she. Theon Bywell would be your name, is it not?”
I nodded mutely.
Those eyes of mine took in the details of her highness’ bed chamber – an easy enough feat when maintaining eye contact with one so far above one’s position is considered to be one of the defining marks of boorishness. Lace and light and flowers were the themes, which was what I expected. A decanter of water with crystal glasses arranged alongside lay on the side table. There was a bookcase, but the number of volumes resting upon it did not exceed the counting of my fingers and toes. A fat and thoroughly spoiled long-haired cat sprawled itself across the wide expanse of the princess’ bed. A quarter-finished embroidery had been cast onto another table and by the looks of it, it had not been touched in some time.
Flowers festooned the room, but I doubted she had grown them herself or could even name them. A large and robust wardrobe filled a not insignificant chunk of the sizeable chamber, but that was to be expected. There was not a sign of any true passion she might have held and it summoned up in me such a visceral hatred in me that I struggled to keep it from showing. Call it an ancestral thing. Or a quirk of national pride.
“Might you fetch me a glass of water?” she asked. The decanter was perhaps four feet away from her. From me, it was fifteen feet. “I am ever so thirsty.”
I did as I was bid, as per always. If I let a bit of water splash on her pretty satin dress in my haste, well! We all have our burdens to bear.
~
Over the course of the week, I played the part of an exemplary handmaiden to the most spoiled, naïve, and useless of princesses. I fetched her water, her cat, whatever flower happened to catch her eye as she strolled through the gardens under her umbrella. I cut her food – cutting a steak was ever so much effort, you see, and she was so afraid of getting sauce on her smooth, pale hands – dressed her in the most needlessly byzantine of garments, beat out her mattress when she thought she might have detected a lump, killed whatever spider or other insect happened to cross her path and throw her into a panic. Useless, useless, useless, and all throughout, I smiled, smiled, smiled. Nowhere did she go without me by her side.
Well… that is not entirely true.
The day we were to leave, she was called into the presence of her mother, Queen Aphelia. The sky was dark yet. Isolder’s capital was not far from Cordelon’s – perhaps a day’s ride, on a route so safe that we were foregoing guards for most of it – but one had to set out early. Narthena had put up such a fuss over this small hardship that only the reminder of the beauteous prince at the end of the journey diminished the whining in any discernable sense.
I attempted to eavesdrop, but could not. Guards milled about the halls so that avoiding detection was impossible. As it was, the audience took half an hour and when Narthena quit it, she was dabbing her eyes with the blue cotton of her gown. Something white poked out of the top of her bodice.
“Oh, Theon, how I shall miss this place!” she cried and I took her hand as she did so.
Just faintly, I may have heard the words, "If your mother only knew, her heart would surely break in two." But so faint it was that I dismissed it as a quirk of my imagination.
~
Narthena, to my surprise, did not receive her own mare to ride upon, but the queen’s own – Falada, strong, large, and beautiful, yet with the gentlest of temperaments. Necessities, including the princess’ dowry, were loaded up on the horse’s rump, although my beast received the larger share. The majority of the princess’ worldly possessions were to follow in another day or two.
We set out. Soon, it would be time to act.
The first four times she asked me to fetch her water from the stream that ran alongside the road, I acquiesced promptly and courteously, as a good servant should. Her goblet was filled, her hands received the goblet, her mouth received the water from the goblet in turn. Too close it was to the capital to turn my coat quite yet. And something else stopped me, something force, expressed in that faint sentence I caught in the air of the castle.
Ah, but the fifth time…
Charms and tricks though the queen of Cordelon uses, they shall not stop me from committing that which I set out to do. And they did not.
“Theon, pray fetch me some more water. I thirst terribly.” She did not perspire or appear to be in any discomfort and I suspected, not for the first time, that sometimes she had me do things simply because enough time had passed since the last time.
We reigned our horses in. Well along the path now – halfway there, if I were any judge, and well past the point where any citizenry could hope to hear us. “To be honest,” I declared. “I would really rather not.”
Narthena and, I could swear, Falada, stared at me as if I had grown an unruly appendage between my eyes. The thought of anyone refusing her royal highness, beyond, say, her equally royal mother, may never have occurred to her in her short, sweet life. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked. Incredulity dripped from every syllable.
I shrugged. Oh, it felt good to do that! “In our acquaintance with one another, I remained unaware of any deficiencies with your ears. To put it bluntly: you can fetch your own water.”
Her mouth opened and shut a few times, with nothing so noble as a word escaping it. Eventually, the shock of the situation compelling her to commit improbable deeds, she slid off of Falada onto the dirt of the trail. Her hands grasped onto the goblet for dear life as she did so, and as she bent down by the stream to fill it up. She drank, slowly. I thought I could see a glimmer in the corner of her eye.
“Quickly, now. We do not have all day.” She gulped down the remainder and as she stopped and heaved for breath, a white linen handkerchief fell out of her bodice. She scooped it up quickly, but not quickly enough for me not to see the three red dots marring its surface. Falada felt the weight of her once more and again, we moved. I swear that the cob glowered at me.
I heard the words: "If your mother only knew, her heart would surely break in two."
~
It was another three hours before Narthena asked for water again and I could believe that she actually thirsted this time. But what kind of person would I be if I did not encourage independence in my charges? I said unto her, “Your last efforts hardly broke you. You can do it again.”
Here she really did cry, rather than merely threaten it, but I paid it no heed. Instead, I watched carefully as she sat her feet onto the dirt, made her way over to the stream with her precious, impractical goblet, and knelt down by the water’s edge. The handkerchief was once again poking out of her bodice. In my hand was a bun, meant to be a snack for the road. I took aim.
Now there was a compulsion in place against throwing even such a paltry missile at her royal skull, but there were certainly ways of circumventing it for my purposes. I threw it at the water beside her instead.
She startled. The handkerchief was freed once more, but this time there was no way of recovering it – it had floated well out of reach by the time Narthena recovered from her shock. And that was enough time for the compulsion to flicker out and die, allowing me to get down from my horse myself, find a handy rock, and knock it upon her head.
The princess of Cordelon went out like a light.
~
When she awoke, I had swapped our clothes and cleaned her scalp. Her face and hair I had drubbed up a bit, but not too much. It would not do for a princess to pack around such a slovenly handmaiden. As for myself, I looked a picture – a fact I confirmed with a silver mirror from my new luggage.
Bewilderment had taken over ‘Theon’s’ face and I must admit it galled me a little bit that such a creature would be walking about with my name. Or, for that matter, that I would be saddled with hers. I placed a finger on her lips as they parted to question me.
“Now, Theon, you know what this is about,” I said. “But others will not. You will not tell anyone about this, for if you do, you will die. Are we clear?”
She nodded, mutely.
“Get on the horse.”
As though by reflex, she made towards Falada, but I jerked her back roughly. “You know very well that she is the princess’ steed. Onto the other and quickly, now. I am eager to meet my husband.” It was not long before we were underway once more, almost as if nothing had ever happened. My handmaiden was so docile about her new circumstances that it sickened me to think on it. Surely even she could not let this stand idly? Surely even now she was concocted any sort of plan, no matter how sad?
These words cut through my reverie: "If your mother only knew, her heart would surely break in two."
But the handkerchief was gone. Why did I still hear it?
Falada stepped roughly on the dirt of the trail. I could feel my teeth rattle.
The prince – technically my husband, although I should not think he was of the same mind any longer – clutched the hilt of his sheathed sword as though it were a neck. The number of guards in the dining hall was just ever so slightly higher than normal and no longer kept to the perimeter. And in front of me was the one person in all the world I least wanted to see. Why did I not find some way of offing her instead of shoving her into honest labour? Ah, hindsight!
She looked very fine and composed, which was such a rare thing for her that I had to stop myself from marvelling at it and giving the game away. Not that, I suspected, that such efforts would last much longer.
But let me stop and go back to a beginning. That is how stories properly begin.
~
Let me be clear: I did not like her from the first.
She was the sort of layabout nobility that is despised in my country. An idle prince or princess insults the peasant who sweats for them and defames the name of their house. Such a one as Princess Narthena Eshlin would have had armour clapped on her back and her buttocks thrown onto a saddle the first time she sniffled prettily over a less than fawning remark. But I had my orders and I honour my king.
Said king ordered me to become her handmaiden. Let it not be said that Gamelin agents do not suffer in the course of carrying out their duties.
The posting was easy enough to arrange and it would be tedious to go into the details. Those ultimately responsible had no idea of their six degrees removed relationship with the kingdom of Gamelin, which is, of course, the way it should be when arranging these delicate operations. As it was, I met my charge the week before she was to set out to wed the crown prince of the neighbouring Isolder.
I bowed first thing, keeping my eyes pointing to the floor until I was spoken to. This took a bit. I could hear whispering.
“Rise,” said Narthena, in the quietest and daintiest of voices. I did as ordered and in doing so was met with a fairly standard example of the quintessential young noblewoman – chestnut curls framing a heart-shaped face, large and guileless blue eyes, small, slim figure with not a hint of muscle tone to it. Her skin was so pale that I doubted that the sun had ever faced it. “My mother informed me that I was to have a new handmaiden for my journey.” The previous incumbent of the position had met with a convenient marriage. “You must be she. Theon Bywell would be your name, is it not?”
I nodded mutely.
Those eyes of mine took in the details of her highness’ bed chamber – an easy enough feat when maintaining eye contact with one so far above one’s position is considered to be one of the defining marks of boorishness. Lace and light and flowers were the themes, which was what I expected. A decanter of water with crystal glasses arranged alongside lay on the side table. There was a bookcase, but the number of volumes resting upon it did not exceed the counting of my fingers and toes. A fat and thoroughly spoiled long-haired cat sprawled itself across the wide expanse of the princess’ bed. A quarter-finished embroidery had been cast onto another table and by the looks of it, it had not been touched in some time.
Flowers festooned the room, but I doubted she had grown them herself or could even name them. A large and robust wardrobe filled a not insignificant chunk of the sizeable chamber, but that was to be expected. There was not a sign of any true passion she might have held and it summoned up in me such a visceral hatred in me that I struggled to keep it from showing. Call it an ancestral thing. Or a quirk of national pride.
“Might you fetch me a glass of water?” she asked. The decanter was perhaps four feet away from her. From me, it was fifteen feet. “I am ever so thirsty.”
I did as I was bid, as per always. If I let a bit of water splash on her pretty satin dress in my haste, well! We all have our burdens to bear.
~
Over the course of the week, I played the part of an exemplary handmaiden to the most spoiled, naïve, and useless of princesses. I fetched her water, her cat, whatever flower happened to catch her eye as she strolled through the gardens under her umbrella. I cut her food – cutting a steak was ever so much effort, you see, and she was so afraid of getting sauce on her smooth, pale hands – dressed her in the most needlessly byzantine of garments, beat out her mattress when she thought she might have detected a lump, killed whatever spider or other insect happened to cross her path and throw her into a panic. Useless, useless, useless, and all throughout, I smiled, smiled, smiled. Nowhere did she go without me by her side.
Well… that is not entirely true.
The day we were to leave, she was called into the presence of her mother, Queen Aphelia. The sky was dark yet. Isolder’s capital was not far from Cordelon’s – perhaps a day’s ride, on a route so safe that we were foregoing guards for most of it – but one had to set out early. Narthena had put up such a fuss over this small hardship that only the reminder of the beauteous prince at the end of the journey diminished the whining in any discernable sense.
I attempted to eavesdrop, but could not. Guards milled about the halls so that avoiding detection was impossible. As it was, the audience took half an hour and when Narthena quit it, she was dabbing her eyes with the blue cotton of her gown. Something white poked out of the top of her bodice.
“Oh, Theon, how I shall miss this place!” she cried and I took her hand as she did so.
Just faintly, I may have heard the words, "If your mother only knew, her heart would surely break in two." But so faint it was that I dismissed it as a quirk of my imagination.
~
Narthena, to my surprise, did not receive her own mare to ride upon, but the queen’s own – Falada, strong, large, and beautiful, yet with the gentlest of temperaments. Necessities, including the princess’ dowry, were loaded up on the horse’s rump, although my beast received the larger share. The majority of the princess’ worldly possessions were to follow in another day or two.
We set out. Soon, it would be time to act.
The first four times she asked me to fetch her water from the stream that ran alongside the road, I acquiesced promptly and courteously, as a good servant should. Her goblet was filled, her hands received the goblet, her mouth received the water from the goblet in turn. Too close it was to the capital to turn my coat quite yet. And something else stopped me, something force, expressed in that faint sentence I caught in the air of the castle.
Ah, but the fifth time…
Charms and tricks though the queen of Cordelon uses, they shall not stop me from committing that which I set out to do. And they did not.
“Theon, pray fetch me some more water. I thirst terribly.” She did not perspire or appear to be in any discomfort and I suspected, not for the first time, that sometimes she had me do things simply because enough time had passed since the last time.
We reigned our horses in. Well along the path now – halfway there, if I were any judge, and well past the point where any citizenry could hope to hear us. “To be honest,” I declared. “I would really rather not.”
Narthena and, I could swear, Falada, stared at me as if I had grown an unruly appendage between my eyes. The thought of anyone refusing her royal highness, beyond, say, her equally royal mother, may never have occurred to her in her short, sweet life. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked. Incredulity dripped from every syllable.
I shrugged. Oh, it felt good to do that! “In our acquaintance with one another, I remained unaware of any deficiencies with your ears. To put it bluntly: you can fetch your own water.”
Her mouth opened and shut a few times, with nothing so noble as a word escaping it. Eventually, the shock of the situation compelling her to commit improbable deeds, she slid off of Falada onto the dirt of the trail. Her hands grasped onto the goblet for dear life as she did so, and as she bent down by the stream to fill it up. She drank, slowly. I thought I could see a glimmer in the corner of her eye.
“Quickly, now. We do not have all day.” She gulped down the remainder and as she stopped and heaved for breath, a white linen handkerchief fell out of her bodice. She scooped it up quickly, but not quickly enough for me not to see the three red dots marring its surface. Falada felt the weight of her once more and again, we moved. I swear that the cob glowered at me.
I heard the words: "If your mother only knew, her heart would surely break in two."
~
It was another three hours before Narthena asked for water again and I could believe that she actually thirsted this time. But what kind of person would I be if I did not encourage independence in my charges? I said unto her, “Your last efforts hardly broke you. You can do it again.”
Here she really did cry, rather than merely threaten it, but I paid it no heed. Instead, I watched carefully as she sat her feet onto the dirt, made her way over to the stream with her precious, impractical goblet, and knelt down by the water’s edge. The handkerchief was once again poking out of her bodice. In my hand was a bun, meant to be a snack for the road. I took aim.
Now there was a compulsion in place against throwing even such a paltry missile at her royal skull, but there were certainly ways of circumventing it for my purposes. I threw it at the water beside her instead.
She startled. The handkerchief was freed once more, but this time there was no way of recovering it – it had floated well out of reach by the time Narthena recovered from her shock. And that was enough time for the compulsion to flicker out and die, allowing me to get down from my horse myself, find a handy rock, and knock it upon her head.
The princess of Cordelon went out like a light.
~
When she awoke, I had swapped our clothes and cleaned her scalp. Her face and hair I had drubbed up a bit, but not too much. It would not do for a princess to pack around such a slovenly handmaiden. As for myself, I looked a picture – a fact I confirmed with a silver mirror from my new luggage.
Bewilderment had taken over ‘Theon’s’ face and I must admit it galled me a little bit that such a creature would be walking about with my name. Or, for that matter, that I would be saddled with hers. I placed a finger on her lips as they parted to question me.
“Now, Theon, you know what this is about,” I said. “But others will not. You will not tell anyone about this, for if you do, you will die. Are we clear?”
She nodded, mutely.
“Get on the horse.”
As though by reflex, she made towards Falada, but I jerked her back roughly. “You know very well that she is the princess’ steed. Onto the other and quickly, now. I am eager to meet my husband.” It was not long before we were underway once more, almost as if nothing had ever happened. My handmaiden was so docile about her new circumstances that it sickened me to think on it. Surely even she could not let this stand idly? Surely even now she was concocted any sort of plan, no matter how sad?
These words cut through my reverie: "If your mother only knew, her heart would surely break in two."
But the handkerchief was gone. Why did I still hear it?
Falada stepped roughly on the dirt of the trail. I could feel my teeth rattle.
I hereby give a solemn promise.
It doesn't really hurt to type anymore. I've gone through the worst of school. In eleven days, my schedule will open up like a jack-in-the-box. Therefore, I say: I will post something every day from now on. Starting this evening.
Stay tuned.
Stay tuned.
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