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 Рit would later be known to be hydrocephaly. He walked out of his summer home in Trois-Rivi̬res 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 Рit would later be known to be hydrocephaly. He walked out of his summer home in Trois-Rivi̬res 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!
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