“Wise ancestors,” he spoke to the painted urns. “For three moons, the sun has beaten down upon our land. Our crops have died, and our goats and cattle soon shall follow. Take pity on us, please, and make this great drought stop.”
But three days passed, and still the sun beat down, and still the drought continued. From the ancestors, no answer came.
“This is not the way to summon rain,” said Suro. And she took from her store of things a marvellous staff of fine construction. Standing out in the driest field, she turned this staff slowly from end to end, and as she turned it, it produced the sound of raindrops hitting ground. This, Suro knew, would draw the clouds over their land, and let the water fall.
But three days passed, and still the sun beat down.
“What good is it to make the sounds of rain?” asked Saktak. “It is the coolness that we need, and the life it gives to plants.” And so he devised a plan. Piling a great quantity of wood up in the place where Suro had turned the staff, he set a fire. This struck the other tribesmen as being very strange—they had no want of heat—but Saktak was cunning. Onto the fire, he threw potent spices, so that the great heat of the flames would carry them up to the sun’s vast eye and make it weep.
But three more days passed, and still the sun beat down.
Finally, Oktok came to try his hand at bringing clouds to the clear sky. He had no power among the ancestors, no wondrous staff, no clever plan. But Oktok had heard of new magic, from some country far across the waves. Putting on his finest clothes, he took the chieftain’s table—the best to be found for many miles—and dragged it out into the field where the fire had been. Then, he took papers, inscribed with nothing in particular, but necessary nonetheless. Sitting before the chief’s fine table, he straightened these and cleared his throat.
“The weather today will be dry and sunny, with temperatures in the high thirties. There will be no rain all week.”
The heavens opened.
17
A Story about a Story that is Not This Story
Challenge #8: Write a flash fiction piece that is autobiographical in nature.
I can’t quite remember what went wrong that day. In hindsight, it was probably a lot of things, chief amongst them the fact that I’d just stopped caring by that point. But regardless of how it went wrong, it went wrong, and it went wrong in the space of just one question:
“Can I have your creative writing coursework?”
It’s one of those questions that either slips by without a second thought—of course I’ve got my coursework! What do you think I am, some kind of imbecile?—or, as on that troublesome morning, hits you in the face like a wet sack of cephalopods.
I don’t recall exactly how I answered at the time, but it was something along the lines of “I’m sorry. I could do with a little longer just to clean it up a bit. When’s the absolute deadline?”
Whatever I said, it was good enough to get the teacher to go away, giving me the chance to formulate a plan:
1) Check you are wearing clothes.
If I looked down and I was naked, there was a good chance it was all a dream and that a three-headed clown was about to burst into the room riding a horse made of tapioca. No such luck.
2) Check how much coursework you actually have ready to hand in.
Fortunately, this unpleasant surprise had come to me during the one English lesson a week that took place in a computer room. Surreptitiously, I opened up the Word document I’d started the day the work was handed out, and not touched since. It wasn’t much. It also wasn’t pretty.
3) Consider collapsing to the ground and frothing at the mouth. (Probably should have been one spot further down the list.)
4) Quietly start typing.
There is an art to typing furiously without looking as though you are typing furiously. There is, but I haven’t mastered it. At some point the teacher came over and had a look at what I had on screen. Then she did that thing with her eyebrows. That thing that says “I spend thirty-five hours a week watching kids produce work they absolutely don’t want to do, and even I think this is poor.” She then took the opportunity to remind me that I had until three-thirty and that I would do well to use that time.
Panic over. Sort of. The lesson had twenty minutes left to go. I’d have fifteen more minutes to work on my story at break time. Then almost an hour during lunch, and the half hour between the end of the school day and the coursework deadline. A little more than two hours’ heavily-interrupted writing time.
Except that as I sat there, quietly glad that the teacher hadn’t noticed that the literary abomination on screen didn’t even have an ending yet, I realised I couldn’t write this thing. It just...it sucked. I added about five more words, but couldn’t shift the idea that I’d get a better mark even if I just wrote one really pretentious sentence in the dead centre of the page. “Art is a burning swan” or “The pen laughs at structure.” Okay, I wasn’t really going to do that, but there was a chance it might fool someone, whereas what I’d written so far sure wasn’t going to.
The lesson ended, and I hurried up to the library to grab a computer for breaktime. There weren’t any. Also, I realised, even if there had been I wouldn’t have been able to get any work done. If I couldn’t do it back in the (comparatively) quiet classroom, how would I manage here? The library was the only indoor place pupils had to go, and while it wasn’t as packed as it was in winter, it was still pretty unpleasant. Also, there was always someone wandering around pressing Alt+F4 on everybody’s keyboards. And somebody had once tried to garrotte me in there, so it was hardly the ideal place to get anything done. The first bell rang, and I got back into my lessons. There was still lunchtime, I thought. There was still a chance: I’d see if I could weasel my way into one of the computer rooms.
Lunch came, and finally I got somewhere. Really forcing myself to write, I almost finished what I’d started. The only problem was...it was abysmal. And when I picked it up again at the end of the day—thirty minutes till the deadline—it only looked worse. Staring at this monstrosity on the screen, I realised I had two options: clean up this disaster as best I could, or start again from scratch. I opted for the latter.
Perhaps it was just the fact that hardly anybody else was in the library, but suddenly, everything was clear, inconsequential. It was as though the pressure had become so great that my mind had collapsed in on itself like a neutron star. Out of necessity, more than anything else, the story flowed, and somehow—I’m still really not quite sure exactly how it happened—I got the thing done. Five minutes to go, or I wouldn’t get back to the classroom in time. I knew I had a decision to make: hand in this new thing I hadn’t even read, or go with the story I’d spent all day fretting over. But then, I realised, I didn’t really have that choice: in my haste to write this new thing, start to finish, I’d never put an ending on the one I had before.
I got back to the English teacher just in time to discover that several other pupils were still sat in the classroom, writing. A little late for me to join them. I handed in my work.
The teacher glanced at it. “Yes,” she said, almost immediately. “This is a lot better.”
That was it, I thought. All I had to do was just scrape by.
When the marks came back, that was my best piece of work.
18
Quench your Thirst with Quaff!
“Okay. We have Quaff, Diet Quaff, and Quaff with Lemon. Quaff with Lemon is proving to be very popular. What can we take home from this?”
“Clearly our customers are intrigued by this bold new flavour. It’s quite likely they’d respond well to something even more exotic.”
“You mean something like Quaff...with lime?”
“I think we’re looking for something more exotic than that, sir.”
“Alright. We need ideas, people! Where can we take Quaff next? It’s got to be really off the wall.”
“Actually, I’ve had this idea for a while...it’s kind of crazy, though.”
“Good man, Bert! Right now I think crazy’s just what we need! Let’s hear it.”
“Okay. What I’m thinking: Quaff Gravy.”
“Say again?”
“Quaff Gravy. A handful of people are already adding Quaff to cooking. I feel that something like this might gain a cult following.”
“You’re serious. Quaff Gravy.”
“Is it, like...thick? Or what?”
“Not properly thick, no, but I was thinking...I don’t know...a sort of milkshake consistency.”
“So it’s still a drink.”
“Yeah! But you can also have it on a roast.”
“I’m sorry...just to be clear. We’re talking about a thick, meaty soft drink?”
“That’s crazy.”
“I thought you said...you know...crazy was what we needed.”
“Okay, yes, I said that, but this is just...I can’t get my head around it. Is it still fizzy?”
“Yeah.”
“And sweet?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re suggesting a thick, meaty, fizzy soft drink...with sugar and sweeteners.”
“Yeah! Quaff Gravy.”
“It sounds salty. Is it salty?”
“Well...maybe.”
“You haven’t thought about it?”
“It would need to be taste tested, no question, but...come on! You said you wanted something off the wall!”
“Hmmm. We do. But at the same time, we don’t want to drive away our customers. Our brand is familiar, well-trusted. We want to challenge consumers with a brand-new taste sensation, but it has to be something they’ll accept. Nothing that’ll overwhelm them. No, I don’t think...I don’t think the world is quite ready for Quaff Gravy. But don’t you worry—we’ll come up with something even if we have to sit in here all night!”
This story was brought to you by Quaff with Lime. Quench your thirst with Quaff!
19
The Room on the Bottom Floor
*Challenge #9: Collaborate with one or two other people. The piece must be written in an Epistolary style. One of the characters must be incarcerated. The story must feature the seven deadly sins.
The letters from Oswald Alexander Humphries are my own. The other letters, however, were written by Chelsey Moyer. Her contributions made this one of the more entertaining challenges to tackle!
Dear Sir,
I have been most disappointed with the way I have been treated while staying at your establishment. My room does not have its own thermostat, nor even a window, and the heat is unbearable. This is entirely unacceptable. If this is how you treat a prestigious lawyer, I cannot imagine what the regular riff-raff must have to put up with.
Furthermore, I would like to lodge a complaint against your employee, one “Miles.” He wouldn’t give me a last name—which I think says something about the level of professionalism among your staff. When I implied that I was strongly considering taking my business elsewhere, he had the audacity to laugh at me.
Given the appalling quality of service I have had to endure, I believe some form of compensation is in order.
Regards,
Oswald Alexander Humphries, LL.B.
***
Mr. Humphries:
I am pleased to hear your review of my hospitality! My minions prepared your room just for you, and I'm glad you have found it in good order. However, I'm afraid our accommodations were a bit rushed given the large volume of our "prestigious lawyer" population.
We reserve thermostats for the riff-raff, as those people have only committed a few of the deadly sins. I do love to toy with the underachievers. You should see their dismay after realizing the thermostats only go up. It never fails to amuse!
I would not presume to play such paltry tricks on you, one of my VIP customers. By my review, your record shows you have completed six out of seven sins.
__Wrath
X_Greed
X_Sloth
X_Pride
X_Lust
X_Envy
X_Gluttony.
Keep up the good work! Only one more to go!
Satan
P.S. I will be sure to give Miles a commendation. He has always been one of my best employees.
***
Mr. Satan,
My apologies. Shortly before your correspondence arrived, Miles informed me that this is not, in fact, a budget hotel. On reflection, the choice of decor in your facilities no longer seems quite so unusual, and Miles’ staggeringly poor customer service skills are now rather more understandable. However, there are a number of legal issues here that must be addressed:
One: Your failure to properly signpost this establishment as a Hell-themed resort could be construed as false advertising. I personally came here expecting a simple, reasonably priced room, and nothing more. Many of your other patrons seem similarly displeased.
Two: The decorative pools of lava, while quite atmospheric, are a clear health hazard.
Three: Compounded by issue two, I have not seen a single fire exit during my time here. Given the staggering levels of overcrowding, this is a clear violation of local building legislation.
Four: Public indecency. You know what I mean: the whole BDSM thing. Move it behind closed doors, or face prosecution.
I am not sure I understand your review system. You say I have completed six of seven sins. If I wish to be upgraded to First Class, do I need to complete all seven, or are lower scores more desirable?
Yours faithfully,
Oswald Alexander Humphries, LL.B.
***
Oswald:
I assure you, this is not a budget hotel. On the other hand, it is quite a bargain when you consider the duration of your expected stay. A soul might seem like a steep price, but I think it is but a pittance compared to the value we offer.
We prefer to keep our advertising minimal. The influx of new residents has kept us extremely busy as it is. I'm not sure what you're implying about these other patrons. We boast of the highest residency numbers among our competition, and we pride ourselves on our customer loyalty—most of them stay for eternity!
You'll be relieved to note that the pools of lava are for entertainment only. Despite appearances, I think you'll find our insurance and no-deaths-permitted policy is ironclad in its thoroughness.
Concerning fire exits, again, I refer you to our insurance policy. I'm afraid you may have some confusion concerning what "local" legislature is. Did you not notice when you crossed the border? That's okay. Most people find it easy to miss.
Public indecency is just another service our fine establishment provides for your enjoyment! I hear it is very popular where you come from.
You're in luck. To upgrade to First Class, you need only complete all seven sins and we will ensure you receive only the finest benefits available—including all the women and food you could ever want! That means you only need to complete the last one, and you're there. (Low scores are for losers.)
You can do it! Down here, we believe in you.
Satan
***
Satan,
I commend you for your dedication to the part you are playing, and am honestly quite surprised I hadn’t heard of your establishment before I came here myself. It appears to occupy quite a unique niche in the hospitality and catering market. In keeping with the theme of your resort, I have given Miles a sound thrashing with his own pitchfork. I trust this will be wrathful enough to ensure the upgrade I requested.
P.S. I can’t help but wonder about the implications of your “crossing the border” comment. Am I to take it that you operate within some sort of ersatz international waters? Such an arrangement could be very beneficial to some of my clients. Perhaps we could reach some kind of arrangement?
Oswald Alexander Humphries, LL.B.
***
Ozzy!
Congratulations! I am pleased to announce that you have successfully completed all seven requisite sins.
You now qualify to be moved
to our seventh and most prestigious level of Hell. Our hottest property by far, it is my personal favorite—in fact I practically live next door. Perhaps I’ll pop in and give you a housewarming party myself, neighbor!
With a concentration of thirty percent lawyers, you should feel right at home. You’ll even get to rub elbows with the rich and famous—we have numerous celebrities and politicians.
As for your business propositions, I’m always willing to make a deal for the right price.
Satan
P.S. Miles wasn’t amused. He said something about dropping your name around the Death Row block. Weren’t you a criminal lawyer?
20
One Thousand Threads
The farbeast’s claws raked across Khorsa’s back, and he strained to put on just a little more speed. It would do nothing to change his fate—once the beast had your scent, there was no hope left for you—it was for the village. If he didn’t lead the monster far enough away, far enough upwind...it would find them again.
But today the wind was blowing down towards the river, and even that gentle slope had made Khorsa’s legs clumsy and feeble. He didn’t even make it out of the valley. A little more than three quarters of the way up the slope, there was a steep earth ridge. Here, his legs gave way beneath him and he slipped.
Rolling over to face the fiend, Khorsa bared his teeth, drawing the dagger from his belt. A feeble gesture. The farbeast had five knives upon each paw, and its hide was studded with the stubs of old arrows. The creature slowed as it approached, wide mouth cracking into a jagged snarl. Khorsa snarled back, making a pitiful jab with the dagger, still too weak to stand. It had been his duty to run, and he had failed. The farbeast would take two victims today. And if not two, then more.
But the creature came no closer. Instead, it cowered. Khorsa became suddenly aware of someone scrambling down the ridge behind him. Turning, he saw a figure robed in white. She held a golden thread before her, and it was this the farbeast feared. Wondrously, it fled.
Red Herring Page 5