Sunset

I got my students to do the Monday Mixer as well (their post is here, so if you want to have a look at them, feel free).

Picture from here

I loved to travel along the peninsular and find a quiet place to sit and watch the waves roll in. I’d always take my gear with me, but I was too much of a dilettante to do much more than get my sketch book out - and most of the time that went unopened. It was just too enthralling watching the breakers come crashing over the rocks, collecting shells or wishing on the first few stars. Every week I’d gesso up some frames, thinking this time I’d capture it, but there was always something that took my breath away. This time, it was the way the last rays of the sun hit the spume flung up by the breakers. Hypnotizing. And much more pleasant than mucking around with oil and paints. I’d tried photographs before, but they didn't do it justice. Maybe I’m not really an artist, but I don’t really care.

Cover band

The Mid-Week Blues-Buster is only in its third week, but I but the concept behind it is great, and will have me coming back... 500 words (a loose 500, 300 to 700 is fine) using a song and its video as a prompt. For this week, it was Gerardo Ortiz - Este Amor, a cover of Bob Marley’s Is This Love. I quite like being sung at in a foreign tongue, especially when it is something familiar. I’ve had it happen in a few different languages in my travels over the years. There’s a bit of me in this story, some elements are friends, and some of it is based on other patrons I've had a drink with.

There wasn't much to the bar, but then again there wasn't all that much to the town. Sure, it was on the tourist track, but everyone left after snapping a few pictures and buying some ethnic trinkets to show folks back home how adventurous they were. Unlike most others, I hadn't moved on. Don't get me wrong, there wasn't anything that made this town special. I wasn't seeking a higher spiritual truth like some of those who clambered over the ruined temples (it isn’t sacrilegious if no-one still believes in those gods, right?) nor was I trying to find myself like the ones who were living out of their backpacks and seeing the “real world”. I was here because I just couldn't be arsed any more. Booze, internet and passable food... what else could you want? After about five months, they even stopped trying to sell souvenirs to me. I didn't kid myself that I fitted in, but at least the locals left me in peace. More than I could say for the tourists - they were always trying to ingratiate themselves with me. Thinking I could give them an easy way to connect, so they'd have a bit more of local colour to add to their stories. Wrong!

There wasn't much to the bar.The beer wasn't even cold. But then again in this climate, nothing was. The breeze stirred by the rickety ceiling fan was barely enough to keep the flies away, but sometimes you have to be thankful for the small things. My stool on the verandah was empty, so I took my accustomed seat and began drinking mechanically, watching the unfocused haze of the sunset. A Zen Master has nothing on me, I can sit for hours as long as the succession of beers isn't interrupted and no-one tries to talk to me. Sighs escape me periodically, but I couldn't tell you why. Not contentment. Not sadness. Not even ennui. Apparently there's a word in the local lingo that sums up this state I'm in so perfectly that I could be the poster boy for it, but I don't care enough to learn how to pronounce it.

There wasn't much to the bar. But then again, there wasn't much I was after. I wasn't running from anything and I hadn't burned out. Life here was simple. Predictable. Peaceful. I had a good thing going. The tour guides that often drank here after the last bus departed were more excitable than usual tonight, talking excitedly. Just as the mosquitoes were coming out, a couple of guys rocked up with some instruments. A fiddle, a flute and a harmonica. Normally, that'd be enough to make me head home, but I still had a couple of drinks in front of me to get through, so I stayed and listened. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I had been dreading something "traditional" that the tourists all lusted after but sounded like cats being strangled with their own tails. Instead what greeted my ears was real music, just done differently. It'd take me a while to pick the songs, as they were singing the lyrics in their own language. Who would have thought that a pub cover band with those instruments would work? The Beatles. The Doors. Marley. A bit of Zep. As the night wore on, the music got more recent, but somehow it was still great. Even some that I'm embarrassed to admit to knowing... Aqua. Rednex. That chick with the annoying voice who was everywhere a year ago. The beers had run out, so against my better judgement I swapped to the local rotgut. Still they played on, getting weirder and more eclectic. Stuff I'd heard my parents listen to that I couldn't name, but I knew. When I recognised the notes to Somewhere Over The Rainbow, I started to feel tears trickle down my cheeks. I had a vivid childhood memory of watching Kermit playing his banjo and belting out a song on a similar topic. Not the same tune, but it hit me powerfully for some reason. Maybe I should blame the booze, but I decided that tomorrow I'd head back home.

Watchtower

Once again, this Monday Mixer is written with advice and suggestions from one of my students, she decided if Bran was going to live or die. I think for tomorrow's writing task, I am going to give them a simplified version of some of the words and see what they come up with. I managed to fit six of the words in this time: firth, hillock, caltrops, nocturnal, pensive, profligate. The others didn't fit the tone of the piece. Next time, I'll try and take it somewhere warmer. And happier, too.

Picture from here

The onshore wind rustled the tussocky grass sprouting from the hillock. A profligate worrier (certainly not a warrior) Bran had scattered the rocky path that wound up from the firth with caltrops - a futile attempt to slow any raider who came seeking revenge. Deep in thought, pensive about how exposed he was in the watchtower, Bran hunkered down under his cape awaiting either the dawn or vikings.

In the past others had been found asleep at the post, but thoughts of danger about the nocturnal posting petrified the crofter too much to even consider shutting his eyes. Staring at the horizon in the darkness for hours on end like this was mental torture, the worst  thing Bran could imagine. He was wrong... in the early hours of the morning, a longboat silently made its way up the coast. Sobbing in fear, Bran sounded the horn then ran for his farm.

Heraldry

"Aye, I can do it, but it's not a very... regal sort of animal." the blacksmith said.

"Screw those sanctimonious bastards, and their notions of heraldry!" The knight drew breath, and from his previous visits to the smithy, Danny knew he was going to start his long winded tirade yet again. He nodded his head at all the relevant places, pumped the bellows as quietly as he could, and wished he would just pay up and leave. "Beggin' yer parden sir, but if'n you want me to finish this today, then it's best you leave and lets me get on with it." A curt nod and the knight left him in peace.

Danny shook his head in confusion. Lions, dragons or eagles all made sense on a shield. To some degree he could even see the sense in a stag, noble looking with the antlers. But a manatee? A manatee?

Picture from here

I started the Monday Mixer yesterday, after work. There were still a couple of kids in the classroom, waiting to be picked up. One had some input in the story, naming the blacksmith and telling my off for my spelling and swearing. She also suggested trying for the overachiever award, but I couldn’t comfortably cram more words in. She of course loved the toilet definition of garderobe. Sanctimonius, smithy and manatee were enough for this piece though. There were some coats of arms with manatees on, mainly drawn by kids. But when I saw the horribly wonderful pun on the t-shirt, I couldn’t resist selecting that picture.

Progress report on Research Subject C1-MMA

Locomotion: 
When we first received the specimen ten months ago, it was incapable of relocating itself, making containment relatively simple. Initially unable to control its pseudopods, there now seems to be a rudimentary range of movement that has increased dramatically throughout the course of study.

The first signs of progress in this area was the ability to right itself when overturned. This was followed up a month later by a flowing motion which often left a trail of noxious slime behind the subject. Since then, C1-MMA has picked up an alarming habit of transporting itself short distances when in contact with a "carrier". Just recently it has demonstrated the ability to hover unassisted for brief periods. Because of this greater mobility, we are concerned about the containment abilities of the laboratory. Security must be a priority - an escape would have serious consequences.

Appearance: 
C1-MMA is currently about the size and weight of a watermelon, but at the rate it is growing final projections are difficult to ascertain. While documenting its appearance, C1-MMA went through a moulting phase, hence the difference between the data files 0ZI and V13T. So far this has not caused any issues in regards to paperwork, but could become an issue in later dealings with government agencies.

Four white protuberances recently burst forth from the upper section of the subject. The Chief Investigator believes that these could be followed by more very soon as there are bulges stretching out laterally from each growth. Some assistant handlers mentioned such swellings three months into the project, but they were found to be mere speculation.

Sinusoidal growths at the top of C1-MMA has caused some observers to nickname the subject "Medusa".

Sounds produced: 
When the subject first became available for study, the noises it was capable of producing were abrasive and harsh. Now it has the capability to make modulated, subtle sounds, though it does regress at times to its original state. As it gained greater dexterity with its appendages, C1-MMA began using objects to generate sounds. There is evidence it could be attempting to communicate with us, but there has been nothing definite yet, apart from the most basic of copying personnel in its vicinity. C1-MMA is able to manipulate emotions, possibly by emitting some sort of field that we have as yet been unable to detect.

Food: 
Originally the subject subsisted only on secretions from the host it had infected. It has since moved on to include a wide range of foodstuffs, some of which appear quite disgusting to the staff assigned to feeding it. Disconcertingly the subject will now attempt to eat anything that it can get within close proximity of its maw. At times C1-MMA will smear food on its carapace in what we believe is a territorial display.

When constrained, the subject has a tendency to revert to a more flaccid state, for example flopping down in the nutrient container, or squirming about fluidly and uncontrollably. This can sometimes be alleviated by emitting food for it from specialised nozzles.

Final thoughts:
Although progress has been made in establishing a useful corpus of knowledge on these beings, the findings will not be able to be corroborated unless we acquire another specimen in the future. Until that happens, it is the opinion of all those involved in the study of C1-MMA that the utmost care should be taken in handling the subject.

*****

Subject C1-MMA feeding

It's been a fair while since I've done one of Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenges. Either I've been "too busy" (but his latest post destroys that defence), or I haven't liked the prompt - and that's not a different way of blaming my muse not coming through for me, as I like Oglaf's approach to her:

Oglaf: The Blank Page (HIGHLY NSFW website)

Oglaf: Muse (website hasn't magically become SFW)

The prompt for this week was write what you know... but change genre. Obviously it's a sci-fi study of an alien. C1-MMA stands for Child One, Madeline. She's just started staying vertical without holding onto something the other day. The photos in her passports look like completely different babies. Her teeth started showing just before Tet, though my father and I thought they were imminent when she was three months old.

When I saw what the prompt was, this was the obvious idea. A lot of fun, and if she was older than 10 months, I'm sure I would have a lot more material to work with (that's a lie, there was plenty more, but I am guessing there is only so much you want to read about someone else's kid, even when its been jazzed up thusly).

Thịt chó

The meat sat there in her bowl, an anathema.

“Go on, have a bite! Be brave! You’re a tourist, do touristy stuff! This is an experience you can’t get at home.”
“It’s not one I am sure that I want.” A grimace. “What does it taste like?”
“It depends how it’s cooked, like most things. The one in the bowl is fairly rank - too much ginger and lemongrass. And there’s still the occasional hair on the skin. If you liked black pudding like Dad, I would have given you the stuffed barbequed intestines. But the sliced, boiled meat is like a gamey roast beef.”

Picture sourced from here The dishes at 12:00, 1:00, 30:00 6:00, 7:00 and 11:00 are to be found on the reasonable to delicious side of the scale. The soupy one I can take or leave, and the lemongrass and ginger one I'm not a fan of, nor another one which seems to be cooked with small sticks of yuck (but again, that's the fault of the spice).

This is obviously fiction, as my mother has categorically stated she won’t try dog, for the same reasons she won’t eat kangaroo. It wouldn’t be fair to trick her. The rest of it is true though. Mắm tôm, the purple dipping sauce can take a bit of a run-up as well, if you’re not Australian. It puts me in mind of a liquid Vegemite. An old wives tale here is that eating dog’s feet is meant to increase a nursing mother’s milk supply. Tho declined, but her sister was gnawing on two or three a day for a while there, not that it seemed to help.

The prompt for this piece was ...what does it taste like... for week number 78 of the 100 Word Challenge. I shouldn’t have written it before breakfast though, as now I’m hungry.

The Ogre's Arms

I missed last week’s Monday Mixer because we were visiting the in-laws for Tet. A nice peaceful time, but internet free. The words I picked for this week are derisive, taproom and cosh. Looking for a picture to go with it, I had to pick this one from World of Warcraft. It’s making me homesick a bit, but while I enjoyed my time spent there, I’ve moved on now.

Picture from here, nestled in scenic Loch Modan if I am not mistaken

“You call this a stout? It’s paler than an albino’s ghost!” The derisive comment was greeted with a range of chuckles from the assembled drinkers. “About as full bodied, too!” Such comments were common in the taproom of the Ogre’s Arms, and nowadays Magnus let them wash over him. Occasionally he’d even join in berating his own stock. Not so when he’d first opened his doors. Back in those days, before his beard was even long enough to braid, he’d leap over the counter, cosh in hand, ready to blacken eyes and split lips for insults to his family’s recipe. Nowadays though, he was older and wiser. In the lowlands, things were different. Dwarves were still dwarves, but sense of self superseded that of clan and kin. Looking round at his regular patrons, Magnus realised that they were now dearer to him than those he’d left behind in the Clanlands.