Thirty Days of Text – Day 12 – Mender
September 15, 2009 at 8:35 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (amputation, arm wound, doctor, festering, folklore, grandmother, old cures, putrid, rural, Short Stories, superstition, Thirty Days of Text)
Another WTF do I do with this? word . . . I would have liked to have expanded this more as it ended up reminding me of a little book of spooky stories and poems I had when I was a little girl, but I got tired and fell asleep 
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The Mender
“Oh, the doctor doesn’t know anything! Just put a coin under her pillow and let the Mender fix it!” Through the pain and the fever I could hear my mother and my grandmother arguing. My arm had been treated and bandaged by the doctor who had left little vials and instructions with my mother but I knew grandma didn’t trust what she called the “sly ways of modern medicine”; but despite the pain and the threat of amputation or worse, I would rather put my faith in the young doctor than on my grandmother’s outdated and arcane cures.
“What rubbish. There’s no such thing as the Mender! Just leave the girl in peace: the more you bother her the more pain she feels and she needs to be resting!” my mother snapped back. “The doctor said she was doing well and he knows more about these things than you and your silly superstitions!”
I heard my grandmother huff and walk away grumbling. My mother pulled back the blankets separating me from the rest of the room and sat beside my bed. I was barely conscious but the pain was so severe that I couldn’t succumb to sleep or fainting spells either. Looking at me through eyes full of worry, my mother stroked my hair. In her other hand she held a little glass bottle and a special spoon; she measured some of the vile liquid and made me drink it down. “The doctor said you need to rest. This will help you to sleep,” she said. “We’re all in the other room so if you need anything just ring the bell.” She said, referring to the large brass bell she had placed beside my bed earlier. She kissed me on the forehead and took the little lantern away from my little table, leaving me in relative darkness.
I started drifting in and out of consciousness and my little corner of the living quarters started to bend and spin in my delirium. Through it all I could hear feet approaching my bed once more and I saw someone move over to me. They lifted my pillow and placed something below it; squinting hard and concentrating, I could just make out my grandmother’s face. “Don’t tell you mother. I left an offering for the Mender. She’ll visit you in the night, but just remember: for what she makes right she will demand something in return.” She too bent down to kiss my forehead, “Be brave my girl, and remember to always give thanks . . . ”
Thirty Days of Text – Day 11 – Jury
September 15, 2009 at 8:27 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (angry man, courtroom games, drama, jury, lots of swearing, manslaughter, murder, screenplay, script, Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, trial)
Sorry guys, but major language warning here . . . having a bit of a play with a script/screenplay format . . .
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Blasphemous Rumours
INTERIOR. SMALL INTERVIEW/MEETING ROOM WITHIN COURT COMPLEX, SPARSE, UTILITARIAN FURNISHING. MARCUS MATTEO IS SEATED AT TABLE WITH BRIEFCASE OPEN IN FRONT OF HIM AND SEV BAKAS PACES THE ROOM.
SEV: They’re killing me out there. Understand? They’re ripping shreds off me and what are you fucking doing about it? Huh? What are you doing? You may as well be on the prosecution side for all you’ve done for me out there!
MARCUS: Sev, please. Calm down.
SEV: How can I calm down? How? Their fucking pathologist is full of shit! His evidence was deliberately misleading and what did you do about it? Here’s an idea, Marcus, how about you grow some fucking balls and cross-examine the bastard properly! Now the jury thinks she was killed with a weapon! They’re going to be looking at the report, seeing the words “blunt force trauma” and they’re going to think she was hit over the head with something and they’re going to think “oh, that Sev Bakas! He plays that wife-beater on that soapie on the telly! Well, he must’ve done it! He’s the bad guy!” . . .
MARCUS: Look, we’ve discussed this. We’ve got to stick to the game plan . . .
SEV: The “game plan”?! What fucking game plan?! Sure, we might have a game plan but it seems to go out the fucking window when you’re out there in front of the goddamn judge. I mean, what am I paying you for, Marcus? I could represent myself and do a better fucking job than you. Is that what you want?
MARCUS: Sev, mate . . . look, just sit down. The weapon thing is just a ruse. We’re going to blow that one out of the water: the simple fact is there is no weapon and yes, they’re going to try to insinuate there was one but we’ve got that covered. We’re countering with our own forensic evidence, and most of what they’ve got is circumstantial so everything they’re saying we can undermine . . .
SEV: But who’s going to believe that? They’re going to see, ooh, forensic science, police in overalls and crime scene photographs! Ooooh, it’s frigging CSI! The real thing! The CSI guys are always right, aren’t they? That’s what they’re thinking out there!
MARCUS: Look, I know it’s hard for you, but you need to remove yourself from the media for a moment. That stuff doesn’t apply in a real life court of law and we’re reminding the jury of that fact at every opportunity . . .
SEV: You’re kidding me, right? You’re fucking kidding me! You’re a fucking barrister and you’re that naïve? They see this stuff on TV and their minds are already made up. I mean, when they see me, they don’t see Sev Bakas. They don’t see the guy who has to live with the image of his girlfriend dead on the bathroom floor, who is still in fucking mourning for her, who has to put his whole life on hold and lived through this hell – for what? Nearly a year? – while they put him through the wringer. No, they don’t see Sev Bakas: they see Andy Mawson. They see the character. They see the arrogant, abusive arsehole that everybody loves to hate and the prosecution are playing on that!
MARCUS: They’ve been warned about that. You know that.
SEV: But it’s not good enough! The thought is already in their mind. The prosecution basically said, right off the bat, that I play a character that hits women, therefore I have the ability to do the same in real life. That was their opening argument . . . Look, Marcus, just call our pathologist. I don’t give a shit about your game plan right now. I know, I know, you’ve got some overarching scheme to the whole thing but you’ve got to get that idea that she was hit out of their minds. She fell. I didn’t kill her. No one killed her. She fell. And while the prosecution’s planting lies and twisting evidence . . .
MARCUS: . . . all they’ve got is circumstantial, they can’t stand on it and we’re going to get most of it thrown out anyway . . .
SEV: But that’s not the point! Just call our expert now. Please, Marcus, do something! (door knock) Please . . . ?
MARCUS: Alright, alright. I’ll make an application and we’ll get our path in. You alright to go back in?
SEV: (calming down) Yeah, I’m good.
MARCUS: Good. (both exit)
Thirty Days of Text – Day 10 – Timing
September 14, 2009 at 1:10 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, sci-fi, timing, torture, dystopic, dystopia, oppression, workplace training)
I’m going to use a “get out of jail free” card for the 9th as I was writing other non-thirty-days-of-text things, but here’s a nice little nibblet for the tenth.
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The Trainee
“It’s all about timing,” my instructor said as we watched the simulation screen. The simply rendered figure paced around in circles in its cell, its movements becoming more agitated and erratic. I went to activate another hallucination, but my trainer held me back. “Just wait,” he said. “Watch.”
The simulation dropped to its knees, screaming and thumping its fists on the floor. Its face – unremarkable, with the minimum amount of features required to display sufficient emotion for instructional purposes – contorted in anguish. I looked over at my instructor, wondering why it wasn’t time to send another barrage of mental imagery at the simulacrum – as far as I could see, it was at breaking point and it was time to make a decisive move.
“Not yet,” he said. The figure on the screen exhausted itself and stopped screaming. Curled on the floor, it appeared to be crying itself to sleep When its sobs had calmed down and its breathing had returned to normal, my trainer patted me on the shoulder. “Right, send another lot and watch what happens. We’ve had some new dissidents brought in overnight, so this afternoon you can watch the real thing . . . “
Thirty Days of Text – Day 8 – Dacha
September 14, 2009 at 0:46 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (children, dacha, refuge, Short Stories, sisters, survival, Thirty Days of Text)
Yeah, ok, I know I’m a bit behind. Well, a lot behind. I wish I had some interesting or real excuse, but the reality is I’ve just been sleepy. Really sleepy. Falling-asleep-after-dinner kind of sleepy. So I’m now several days out, but I will claw my way back, dammit! Anyway, here’s the idea I had for Day 8, which is a slightly fleshed out snippet from the beautiful picture I got in my mind when I thought of the word . . .
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Refuge
Mother hugged both of her daughters tightly, her tears flowing. “Be good girls and stay in the house. Anna will be along son and she’ll make your beds and fix you some supper. But stay in the house and hide if you see anyone coming.” She clasped her girls by the shoulders, squeezing them slightly. “This is very important. Unless it’s Anna or Mummy or Daddy, hide if you see or hear anyone. No one will look for you here but things aren’t safe anymore. I’m going to find Daddy now, but I’ll be back soon.” She hugged them again, crying into their hair. “Mummy loves you both very, very much. Never forget that, girls. Never forget how much I love you.”
And then she was gone, leaving little Katia and Natalia on the front steps of the sprawling and abandoned summer house. They waited for a moment, frightened and bemused but their mother didn’t return. “When will Mummy be back?” Natalia asked her older sister.
“I don’t know, but Daddy has been gone for a long time. That means he must be very far away, so Mummy will have a long way to go before she finds him,” Katia said. “I guess that means we are on our own for now.”
“But what will we do?” said Natalia.
“I don’t know, “ Katia replied, “but I think we need to explore. This house is big and we need to find somewhere to hide and look out for strangers like Mummy said.”
The girls walked up the rotting wood steps and disappeared into the darkened house. Inside smelt of damp and animals and it made Natalia frightened. There was no electricity and very little furniture; the only room they found that seemed reasonably clean and functional was the kitchen. The pantry had been stocked with a large supply of tins, jars of preserves, boxes of crackers and other non-perishable food. A big old-fashioned wood stove meant water could be heated and food could be cooked, although neither girl had seen let alone used such a stove before. “I suppose Anna will know what to do,” Katia said to sister who stood frowning at the stove.
“But I’m hungry now!” Natalia moaned.
Katia sent her sister over to sit at the little table in the corner of the room. Feeling very grown-up, Katia took a box of crackers down from the shelf and finding some plates and cutlery, she spread some jam and cut some cheese. Together the girls ate their meal, but Katia was dismayed to find there was no running water when she went to clean up. “We need to go out of the house and explore some more,” Katia said.
“But Mummy said we had to stay inside!” Natalia argued.
“I know,” Katia replied, ever patient with her little charge, “but we need to find some water because there isn’t any in the taps. We need water to drink and to wash and to use the toilet.”
“Can’t we wait for Anna? It might be dangerous out there!”
“Well Mummy said that no one would find us here, so if we’re careful and we hide if we see anyone, we can go outside and find water.”
Natalia pouted. “I’m scared, Katia.”
Katia moved over to hug her sister. “I am too, Natalia, just a little. But we have to be brave and look after ourselves. We have to find some water and then we have to find somewhere to sleep and then we can wait for Anna.” Katia looked down at her sister and saw her bottom lip starting to wobble. “Don’t worry, I will look after you,” she took her sister’s hand and gave it a squeeze. She lead her out of the kitchen and to the back door, and the two girls stood together on the threshold, facing the wild, overgrown gardens beyond.
Thirty Days of Text – Day 6 – Rota
September 7, 2009 at 0:59 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (beer, Christmas, conversation, country town, D&M, Great Ocean Road, pub, Short Stories, strangers, Thirty Days of Text, Warrnambool)
I was stumped again with this word but again, a flash of inspiration in the shower. A friend of mine told me about a theory that has something to do with the ions in flowing water stimulating the brain and the creative mind; I don’t know whether that’s true or not, but I seem to get my best ideas when I’m in the shower! Shame we’ve got water restrictions or I could be a genius . . .
Anyway, hope you guys don’t mind a bit of Australiana tonight – it’s just where my mind was.
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The Wheel
“What can I get for you, mate?” The young girl leant over the bar, eyebrows raised.
“I’ll have a Carlton, and . . .” Dave looked over at the woman beside him as she finished the last mouthful of her beer, “what can I get you, young lady?”
The woman next to him laughed heartily – a full-hearted and booming, raspy laugh. “You’re lucky I’ve got a sense of humour, mate. But if you’re buying, I’ll have a pot of Coopers, thanks.”
For a moment they both returned their gaze across the pub’s bar, past the rows of bottles and glasses and past the tables of families and young people out on the balcony to the glistening sea beyond. It had been a scorching hot day but the breeze coming off the Southern Ocean had cooled the evening down and as the clock passed eight thirty the sun slowly started to set.
The girl behind the bar brought over the beers and Dave took a twenty from his wallet. They both took a deep drink and Dave turned to his drinking companion: she must have been around his age, early fifties or so, with a face as gentle as it was hard, olive skin worn by the passing time and too much sun. Her green eyes held a mischievous glint and her hair fell down her shoulders in a shock of wiry curls, flecked through with grey she’d made no attempt to dye or hide. Around her neck set a little square pendant of a curious painting with a wheel and strange figures wrapped around it; Dave squinted, trying to get a better look at it. “ROTA . . . TORA . . . Interesting pendant you got there,” he nodded. “Sorry, not that I was checking out your tits or anything.”
The woman laughed heartily again. “Nah, you’re alright, mate, been a long time since anyone wanted to see ‘em anyway.” She lifted the pendant so he could get a better look. “It’s a tarot card. The Wheel of Fortune.”
“Oh, I’m not really into that stuff much myself, you know . . .”
She shrugged, giving him a wry smile. “You don’t have to be to appreciate what it means, it’s just a reminder of how the world works. Doesn’t matter what religion, what philosophy, whatever you believe in, it all boils down to the same thing: fortunes change; life’s not a constant. You could think things are fantastic then something comes along and trips you up or you could think things are terrible, the worst they could ever be but then they get better . . . it’s all just the wheel turning, mate. Just the wheel turning.”
“Yeah, I get you,” he nodded. “I’m Dave, by the way.”
“Terri,” she offered him her hand and gave him an enthusiastic handshake, “pleased to meet you. You here for the tourist season?”
“Nah, just passing through. Heading over to Warrnambool,” he replied, swallowing the last of his beer. “You?”
“I run a little café just off the main drag. Shame you’re just passing; you should drop in sometime,” she said. “Not that I’m trying the hard sell on you or anything,” she added with a wink and a quiet laugh.
“Oh, so you’re a local?”
“Pretty much, guess you could call me that. Been here nearly ten years and they still haven’t been able to get rid of me.”
“So what brought you out here?” Dave asked, nodding over at the girl behind the bar again. “Another round?”
“Why not? But my shout this time,” she said, wagging her finger at him in mock sternness. “Oh, but it’s a long story. I guess I just realised after a while, back when I was living in the city, that you gotta be true to yourself. Not just for your own sake – sometimes denying yourself can hurt others more than you realise, if you know what I’m mean.”
Dave nodded slowly, taking in what she was saying. “Yeah, that makes a lot of sense, love. Really makes a lot of sense. So you came here from Melbourne? Seachanger?”
“Nah, not really a ‘seachanger’. I mean, I grew up in Mt. Gambier so this is more like home, really. But yeah, left Gambier when I was still a kid, really. Hitchhiked a bit – gawd, I think about that now and how dangerous that shit is, I’m still amazed I didn’t end up dead – anyway, I hitchhiked and went a bit wild for a bit. Ended up in Byron Bay, Nimbin, spent some time in Sydney. You know, it was the seventies, you did those things back then.”
“Oh, love, story of my life right there. Did the same thing. Went from Perth got as far as Adelaide and kinda tanked from there . . . crazy days, mate, crazy days . . .”
“Yeah, so you know what I mean, right? Anyway, I settled down for a bit, ended up with this fella and we moved down to Melbourne. Got a job, got a house, had a son. Lost the man, lost the house . . .” Her eyes glazed as she stared out over her beer, looking at the sea. “Lost the son . . .”
“He not talking to you? Doesn’t call, yeah? My daughter did that too, we kinda had a falling out but, I mean, I’m lucky. We’re on speaking terms again – that’s where I’m heading now. She’s gunna meet up with me at my Mum’s place over in Warrnambool – our first Christmas together for sixteen years . . .” Dave stopped, catching himself getting carried away, and he noticed Terri was still staring out past the bar: it wasn’t the sea she was looking at but the table of young men, drinking and laughing with each other.
“Dave, you enjoy that time with your daughter for ever minute that it’s worth,” she said, eyes fixed out the window. “Wring all you can out of those days and tell her how much she means to you, yeah? Just promise me that, mate? ‘cause – and Heaven forbid it ever happens to you – but remember that wheel and take every opportunity with both hands while it lasts, yeah?”
“Wh . . . what happened? You know, with your son?” he asked. “Well, not that you have to tell me if you don’t want, you know. Oh, shit, sorry, love, I shouldn’t have . . . “
She looked over at him with a sad smile. “It’s alright, mate. I’m at peace with it now. Sounds cliché but it’s true. But yeah, my boy had troubles growing up, you know? Never quite gave life the chance to settle down and he decided in all his wisdom, aged all of twenty-one, that it was all too hard. Do I blame the drugs? The booze? His friends? My ex? Myself? Yes, sometimes, but you know,” she took a deep sigh, “although it still hurts, I’ve accepted what happened. And it taught me something and although I’d give anything to have him back, the whole thing really brought home how you gotta be true to yourself. If your situation’s not working out and you’re not happy – and I don’t just mean things aren’t going your way but if you’re truly, deeply, spiritually unhappy – you’re gunna be hurting those around you just as much. Doubly as much.” They both stared down into their empty glasses as the sun sank lower and the street lights switched on. Around them were the sounds of people laughing, drinking, enjoying their time with their friends and family. “Ah, sorry mate. I’ve gone and brought the whole mood down again. It’s just Christmas, you know? I don’t really celebrate it myself but it does get you thinking.”
“Nah, you’re alright, love. Sometimes it’s good to talk. Another one for the road?” Dave asked and Terri nodded, eyes still glazed. “So are you doing anything for Christmas?”
“Not really,” she shrugged. “I’m sort of semi-pagan so it doesn’t mean that much to me, but I go volunteer at the old folk’s home, give them a nice Christmas lunch. Some of them don’t have anyone so I make an effort for them and they love it. Makes ‘em feel special.”
“You know, if you’re not doing anything – and, I mean, I don’t want to freak you out or anything if you think I’m being too forward or that it’s just the beer talking – but if you want you can join us over in Warrnambool,” he asked. “Mum won’t mind and I’m sure Teesha won’t either. She’s a good kid; she’s gunna be a mum herself soon. Just think: I’m going to be a granddad! Never thought I’d live to see the day . . .”
Terri turned to him again and smiled. “You sound proud as punch, Dave, and I’m so pleased for you.” There was no jealousy in her eyes, and she seemed genuinely happy at his news. Dave looked down again, confused: it had been a long time since anyone had been interested in his life or his meagre achievements and it made him a little nervous. “You know, I’d really love to join you but some of those old dears really rely on me and they’re hard pressed for volunteers as it is. I can’t pull out now. But, I really appreciate the offer and I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, mate. If you get the chance, pop in on your way back. I’ll make you the best steak sandwich you ever tasted and there’ll be a cold one in the fridge with your name on it.” She slowly pushed her bar stool back and hopped down, rosy-cheeked and a little unsteady. “Right, I’m outta here before they get that karaoke machine going. You take care, alright? Have a good trip and you give your mum and your daughter a big hug and tell ‘em you love ‘em. It’ll do you all the world of good.”
She patted him on the shoulder and tottered out past the tourists and into the warm summer night’s air. Dave watched her disappear down the street, his mind swirling with many emotions he hadn’t felt for a long, long time.
Thirty Days of Text – Day 4 – Instrumentation
September 5, 2009 at 23:11 pm (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (flash back, incomplete, instrumentation, producer, recording studio, Short Stories, sketch, Thirty Days of Text)
Yeah, I know. I’m a day out. I started this last night but I got too tired to write and went to bed instead.
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The Second Take
Jay sighed and pressed the speaker button. “I don’t care if you’re “in the zone” or not, just play the fucking thing!”
“Hey man, don’t talk to me like that! I’m tired, man, can’t we have a break?” came the voice back through the speaker, filling the mixing room. Inside the studio sat an over-coiffed thing wearing leggings, a large jumper and too much eyeliner; Jay hated the look, missing the days when androgyny didn’t necessarily mean mediocrity.
“You’ll have a break when you play it right, and put a bit of bloody effort in this time. I want it in time and with feeling, ok? With feeling! You’re playing acoustic so you can’t get out of it with pedals and effects, you understand?” Jay hit a few buttons and sent the click track through the kid’s headphones. The kid started playing again, and again stumbled on the same chord progression. “Cut! Do it again!” Jay called into the studio; he ignored the protests and sent the tape rolling again. Leaning back and watching the lights on the mixing desk dance, he lit another cigarette and grabbed the flask hidden on the nearest rack. The kid was doing better this time – not great, but better – and he was tempted to use this take and call it a day. Jay closed his eyes for a moment and leant back, and as he took a deep drag he felt the room go cold.
“The song’s good but the instrumentation’s all wrong,” a voice said in his ear. Jay jumped, nearly falling off his chair. Beside him was an outline of an adolescent, glowing blue-white and indistinct and Jay dropped his flask to the floor. “Put the kid on the acoustic guitar on a mandolin and replace the keyboard with a harpsichord or something similar. Boost the kick with something electronic, then it’ll work.”
“Wh . . .what?” Jay spluttered. “What are you talking about?”
“Trust me,” the voice said and the apparition was gone. Jay took a moment to compose himself and to curse his thirty odd-years of drug taking. But that voice was vaguely familiar, and the more he thought about it, the more he thought it might just work. The kid had finished playing and was looking through the glass, waiting for approval; Jay hit the speaker button again and rolled over to the mic: “Yeah, alright. We’re taking a break. You guy’s have got an hour so piss off out of my sight!”
The kid dropped the guitar on its stand and stormed out, and Jay retrieved his flask and took a deep drink.
Four weeks later, the album was cut and mastered and ready to hit the shelves. The advanced copies had already been sent out to the reviewers and the promotional juggernaut was in full swing. By this stage, Jay was approaching full-blown insomnia and he couldn’t care less: another record by another lot of vaguely-indie kids perfectly packaged to sell an image. And that was about the only normal thing throughout the whole process. Every step of the way, that fleeting apparition – with it’s eerily familiar outline and voice he just could not pin down – would appear to him and give him more suggestions, every one of them pure artistic gold.
The album was a critical and commercial success, with many reviews citing the “inspired production”. Jay couldn’t help but to laugh at the irony of it all. He knew he should be proud, he should have enjoyed the experience and the success, but all he wanted was a decent night’s sleep. He’d tried cutting down the alcohol, the cigarettes, the pot, but nothing helped and the worry that he might be going mad kept him tossing and turning all the more. It was on one of those nights when he found himself still wide awake at three in the morning; giving up, he got up and padded across the floorboards of his stylishly chaotic room and walked out onto the balcony.
He lit another cigarette and scratched his expanding belly. It was a warmish night, and he stood looking out at the night in nothing but his boxer shorts. In the distance he could hear the trucks on the freeway and a siren heading to the nearby hospital, but otherwise he was alone with the two pot plants an ex-girlfriend had given to him years ago. Running his hand over his face, he felt old and warn-out: sure, he had reached the pinnacle of his career, had the awards, the inner-city penthouse in a converted warehouse in a fashionably grungy suburb . . . But he still felt hollow inside, and he thought to himself that he was just filling in the time before the inevitable.
Lost in melancholia, Jay didn’t feel the air beside him getting colder. The apparition walked up beside him, leaning over the balcony in the exact same pose. “You need to chill, man,” it said, causally looking over at him.
Jay jumped. “You! Can’t you just leave me alone? I’m losing my fucking mind ‘cause of you! Please, please,” he begged, “just go away and leave me in peace!”
“C’mon buddy, you know I can’t do that,” it replied. “I’m here to help you, here to get you back on track.”
“What? Are you an angel or something? Were you sent by . . . by God? The Universe? What are you?”
The apparition laughed, “Sent by God? Are you serious? I’m you, you idiot!”
“What . . . ?” Jay turned cold.
“I’m you, the old you. You remember when you first got into this gig? When you were still in bands and when you still had ideas and when everything was still fresh and exciting?” Jay nodded, and a tear involuntarily slid down his cheek as the memories of those heady early days came flooding back. “Remember when you were still passionate? When it was about creating? This is why I’m here. I’m bringing you back to the person you are from the person you’ve become . . .”
Thirty Days of Text – Day Three – Condemner
September 4, 2009 at 0:41 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (bronze age, condemned, condemner, execution, fire worship, mysticism, pagan, penance, pyre, Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, volcano, Writing)
Well, I had something kinda different in mind, but I went to the excellent Pompeii exhibition tonight and was completely blown away, and I came up with something else. It didn’t turn out quite the way I had in mind as I’m pretty tired again, but I think you get the gist.
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The Pyre
Dusk had fallen and the prepared pyre loomed black in tandem with the silhouette of the mountain against the last rays of the sun. The small dirt square, just outside the city’s walls, was empty but for those concerned for the administration of justice and a few curious peasants hanging about the outskirts: the spectacle about to take place was no one wished to see. A handful of officials and a priest of the fire cult sat on wooden benches, some pale and grim-faced, others with the tell-tale rosy complexion caused by the fortified wine that had taken to steel their nerves; soldiers stood posted around the perimeter of the square and the only sound beyond the hushed voices of the officials was the steady creaking of oxen cart with its cargo of the damned.
As the cart reached the square the priest rose to address those gathered. “By the wishes of the great god Sethlanius, condemner and judge of all, I urge this fire be lit!” A small lamp from the sacred flame within the temple in the city was brought forward, and the priest lit the pyre and the torches around the square, muttering requests for permission and forgiveness as he went about his work. The region wasn’t always dominated by the cult of Sethlanius, an older, almost forgotten deity whose cruel and forbidding nature was never in favour compared to the gods of wine, prosperity and water. But after the horrors of the night the fire mountain awoke, sending red-hot tongues down the mountainside and covering the land with ash and rock, the populace returned to the old god. They commissioned statuettes for their newly rebuilt shrines and the new frescoes no longer depicted extravagant, watery gardens but harsh geometric designs in bold reds, oranges and blacks. The administration at first ignored the growing cult: after all, a greater part of the city had to be rebuilt and refugees from the towns and villages on the north-eastern flank of the mountain wiped out by pyroclastic fury had to be rehoused. But the people were unhappy, and blamed the decadence of their ways for their punishment by the reimagined Sethlanius, the austere but fickle meter of justice. His fire was hungry, the people cried, his fire demanded purity and obedience. His fire must be respected!
And so, the cult of the flame became entwined with the city itself, still traumatised by events two generations previous. And now, another consignment of rapists, murderes and blasphemers were to meet their fate. “Bring forth the first!” the priest called and two men in helmets covering all but their eyes and decorated in honour of Sethlanius pulled the first prisoner out.
He was naked, hog-tied and gagged with a leather strap. The priest read out his name and the details of his crime – namely, that he became enraged after becoming intoxicated and killed another man without provocation. The priest took out a thin, ceremonial knife, sharpened to precision, and carved a figure upon the man’s forehead. The observers looked down at their feet as the assistants grabbed the bound man and tossed him onto the roaring flames and the nauseating smell of burnt flesh and hair filled the air.
“To you, oh flames, condemner of us all, who judges us, one and all, on the collective sum of our sins, we give to you this man who has wronged you and who has wronged us all. We ask that you take his body that his soul may be purified, and as such the soul of the city and the souls of her citizens becomes purer as a whole. Take the evils of the flesh so that all that remains is true and good . . .” As the priest continued the man in the pyre writhed and squealed behind the gag. His skin turned red as the flames and as he ceased to struggle his body turned black and curled upon itself until all that was left was barely recognisable. The officials observing averted their eyes, squirming in their seats but the guards on the perimeter held their position, not once belying their revulsion. The priest’s anonymous assistants tended the pyre, pressing the charred remains down into the inferno and adding more fuel to keep it burning.
Satisfied with the proceedings, the priest called for the second . . .
Thirty Days of Text – Day 2 – Curse
September 3, 2009 at 0:00 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (curse, evil eye, Short Stories, sisters, sores, Thirty Days of Text, Writing)
‘nother short dialogue vignette again (seems to be my default setting these days)
———————
Evil Eye
“Hey, sis?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you take a look at this for me?”
“What?”
Rose pulled her top up and her pants down to just above the pubic area. Three angry and blackened sores sat in a group just below her bellybutton with a forth a little lower down: they were weeping, and there was a faint scent of decay.
“Oh Jesus, how the hell did you do that?” her sister cried. “Ugh, God, yuck. Could’ve given me a bit of warning.”
Rose’s jaw started wobbling and her eyes brimmed with tears. “I didn’t do anything, Mel! I’ve been cursed!”
“Cursed?” Mel repeated.
“Don’t laugh! It’s true!”
“I wasn’t laughing!”
“You were! You had that face you make when you’re laughing at me but you’re not laughing out loud. I’m serious! Jay’s grandma cursed me!”
“Maybe it’s just a reaction to something? Maybe a spider bite? Like a whitetail bite or something?”
Rose rolled her eyes. “No, it’s not. Seriously, she cursed me! It’s just ‘cause I’m Asian I’m sure . . . “
“I’m sure it’s not. I mean, we were born here . . .”
“She hates me. You should see the way she looks at me. She gives me the evil eye every time I go around there!”
“Well, has she said anything to you to say she doesn’t like you? Or you just think she’s greasing you off all the time?”
Rose slumped down on the sofa, still prodding at the sores on her belly. “Well, I dunno. She doesn’t speak English. She’s, like, Romanian or Hungarian or something. She’s probably cursing me all the time.”
“Ok, you’re not making any sense. Why would Jay’s grandma hate you?” Mel asked, dropping down on the sofa beside her sister.
“Ok, she moved in there with them a couple of weeks ago and she’s always staring at me funny, never smiles or says hello or anything. And you can just . . . feel it. It’s like she’s dripping hatred ‘cause I’m stealing her grandson away or I’m not good enough for him or she doesn’t like the way I look or something. Anyway, she’ll just walk into his room whenever and just stare at me and stuff, so we were outside in his backyard behind their caravan and we were getting . . . you know . . . kinda intimate, and I look up and she’s there! And she starts shouting and Jay takes her back into the house but then the next day I noticed these sores. She cursed me, I know it . . . .” Rose broke off into sobs.
Fighting back her revulsion over her sister’s pussy sores, Mel leaned over and gave her a hug. “You know, curse or no curse, you’re going to have to get them looked at.”
Rose nodded her head and buried her face into her sister’s shoulder. “Just don’t tell Mum.”
“I won’t.”
Thirty Days of Text – Day 1 – Warranty
September 2, 2009 at 0:57 am (Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (genetic engineering, manipulation, perfection, sci-fi, Short Stories, speculative fiction, Thirty Days of Text, warranty, Writing)
Ok, I know this blog’s been *incredibly* neglected lately. I guess there’s been too much to say and none of the confidence or time or energy to say it. But I’ll catch up with all the news later – it’s Thirty Days of Text time again (yay!). Basically for the month of September I’ll be writing a short story every day, be it a complete piece, a character or scene sketch, a vignette, something more out there . . . basically anything goes. Anyway, since I’ve been out of the house for thirteen hours and can barely keep my eyes open, it’s just a sketch today. I had a great idea for this one, but I’m struggling to stay awake right now.
————————-
Warranty
The doctor leaned back in his leather chair and smiled at the young couple seated on the other side of his desk. Between them on a screen embedded into the desktop was a copy of the contract they were in the process of completing.
“So,” the doctor continued, “we’ve got you signed up for a complete cover package with special attention to kidney health considering the past history on the maternal side and you’ve signed up for our life insurance package, which includes a ten percent discount for the first fifty years of your baby’s life. Now,” he paused, looking over his fingertips, “have we discussed extended life-time warranty?”
The young man opposite him raised his eyebrows. “Extended warranty? Why would we need a warranty if we’ve got the insurance?” He reached over and took his wife’s hand.
“Well, the insurance is for things the procedure can’t cover, like accidental death, homicide, technology-resistant cancers and diseases and in certain cases, suicide. The extended warranty covers you in case your child’s body rejects the genetic cleansing after the first five years . . .”
“But I still don’t understand why the insurance doesn’t cover that,” the young woman said, fidgeting in her seat.
“Ok, maybe if I put it another way, it’s a bit like the difference between insurance and the warranty on your car. The insurance is to cover you in case another car runs into the back of you or if someone steals it, but that’s not what the warranty does. The warranty covers you from mechanical faults with the car, say, a problem with a fuel cell . . .”
“Hang on, are you saying there’s a chance your clinic could botch the procedure?” the husband asked. “I thought it was completely foolproof . . . “
“While it’s true we have an impeccable record, with any of these sorts of interventions there is the possibility of error.” The doctor flashed up some graphs and figures on the desktop screen. “As you can see here, there’s a 0.0045% chance of any serious complication causing death or impairment, however the main concern is the child’s body rejecting the cleansing at or around puberty. Again, this is rare – about one in every twenty-thousand – and it’s usually a simple case of the child being hospitalised for a few days to correct and rebalance the original work. There’s a five year warranty included in your package, however if you really value your child’s health and wellbeing the extended warranty is priceless . . . “
Where’d you go? It’s next year already!
January 6, 2009 at 22:55 pm (Bellydancing, Birds, Meaningless babble, Personal, Writing) (2009, boring, budgie, Christmas, found, missing, mundane, New Years Eve, Personal, Short Stories, update, Vacuum Cleaner)
Yeah, alright. I know I haven’t been around much. Or around at all. But I’ve been busy having some sort of real-life, not that I’ve had time to sit down and analyse it or anything so this blog has been direly neglected (sorry).
But I’ll try to keep it brief – the concert went exceedingly well, and I’m really getting into making my own jewellery and accessories as a result. It’s been several weeks without dancing, so I’m feeling a little flat and with the additional of Christmas food and booze, I’m feeling much flabbier again too. Summer school starts up this weekend and then its back to regular classes after Australia day so I’m looking forward to getting back into it.
Christmas, New Years . . . yeah, went as well as can be expected. Christmas was exceedingly laid-back and free of ritual or massive arguments (again, my thanks go to you, dear alcohol) and that suited me just fine.
.jpg "Horror Christmas")
I thought I said my Christmas was "laid back" not "tacky horror"!
All the same, a lot of stress, time, effort and money go into the whole Christmas thing and I didn’t get time off work this year for the holiday period so by the time NYE rolled around I wasn’t so keen on going out: maybe I’m just getting old, but the whole thing is pissing me off more and more every year. Then a friend asks if I want to help out with some some steampunk event doing lighting, serving food, videoing acts, etc, etc . . . free tickets and free booze . . . so in a frenzy of last minute effort I dolled myself up all proper-like and headed out into the night. Like Christmas, the occasion was kinda lost on me since a) I missed the count-down and b) I ended up too pissed to care but ehn, I had fun and avoided the obnoxious Melbourne crowds so it didn’t matter.
What else? Oh. That’s right. I have a dirty secret. I’m not proud of this, but I have to make a confession – I went and bought a new vacuum cleaner and I’m afraid I adore the damn thing. One of those fancy-pants Dyson things, bought half-price in one of those end of year specials, and let me tell you, after vacuuming a tiny square in my living room I’m freaking out over how much shit and dust and grit and what appears to be SAND there is in my carpet. Seriously, anyone who knows me knows I seldom care about housework but seeing all that crap in the little see-through bucket after vacuuming a metre-square section of carpet? Not nice. So yeah, I’m in half-arsed clean-up mode at the moment: half-arsed because I’m sleeping poorly and doing overtime at work so nothing’s actually getting finished (even if I am vacuuming everything that doesn’t move – you are safe for now, budgies!).
Not today, pal!
Last of all, after all that guff . . . I’ve put another story up. I hoped to get a few more extended over the holiday period but busy + sleep-deprived + social life = no writing. But although this one only got 3rd out of 4 in the comp it was in and after talking to Mum there seems to be some historical inaccuracies (and no doubt any Irish readers will be cringing at my attempt of the dialect), I really like it and think it’s one of my better stories this year. So enjoy:
