The uninvited guest

Once again, Chuck Wendig has an awesome flash fiction idea: write about an unexpected guest. For me, this topic was a doddle. There's not a lot of fiction to it, this actually happened, though I did embellish it slightly - mainly by making me more coherent and toning down the swearing. A thousand words he says, but this one tops the scales at 1600 or so. But usually mine are anemic, coming in at half way, so screw it, I'm allowing myself a little lee way. For genre, I guess it could be part of my memoirs, though I'm not writing them till we get flying cars and all the other good stuff we've been promised.

The Uninvited Guest

If you’re going to take a bunch of kids on a week long camp, then fourth grade is pretty much the best age group. They’ve grown out of wetting the bed. They’re old enough that they won’t cry because they miss mum and dad. And hormones haven’t kicked in yet making them want to get frisky with each other.

But a week away from all the comforts of home mean that you need to stock up on the finer things in life the night before, so you have good memories to get you through. My classes are always boisterous and rambunctious at school, so once you throw archery and horse riding into the mix, a mental happy place is a necessity. 

Picture from here. Aren't you glad it's not of the star of the story?

The evening before our departure I have a few beers while the sun is setting and the roo is cooking on the barbie. Rare, so the juices can mingle with all the other ingredients on the burger: bacon, beetroot, egg, onions. I’ve read of salad, but I’m not a practicing member of that faith. The meal is finished off with some chocolate - even though it’ll set off my cough a bit. A nightcap, a level or two of whatever game takes my fancy, some tasteful porn, then an early night. Life is grand.

I often drink a fair whack of water during the night, and after an hour or so of sleep, I wake up with a tickle in my throat. In the dark I reach over for where I always put my jug, and being the classy bloke I am, I drink straight from it. I splutter a bit... some has gone down the wrong way. I lie back down mumbling to myself because I’m still coughing. Then I realise I’m having some difficulty breathing; I guess having chocolate wasn’t the smartest move. Oh well, it will pass soon.

Only, it doesn’t. And my throat feels really weird.

Like...  maybe I’ve swallowed a bug!

That thought brings me to full wakefulness. On a normal day, I cough like a returned serviceman who’s been smoking two packs a day since he was fighting in the Somme. When I blow my nose, it’s as if Satchmo stole Saint Peter’s horn and is sounding the last trumpet. So while I shun sport, I have a good pair of lungs on me. This bug ain’t going to hang around, I think to myself, and take a couple of really deep breaths. 

I smack myself on the head. Idiot! Deep breaths in isn’t the way to do this! What, you wanna suck the bug into your lungs? Maybe get it stuck in a bronchial tube? I take a few shallow breaths and then breathe out heavily. I try this a few times, ramping it up with some coughing too. I feel light headed, and lie back.

Maybe there’s no bug. It could just be my overactive imagination. I tell myself I’m overreacting and close my eyes. It doesn’t work. I think I can hear it moving, the sound carried to my inner via my Eustachian tube. I’m not sure if it’d work that way but it seems damn convincing to me.  I sit up, and start hacking and coughing again. I get a brain flash... I know... I’ll hit myself in the throat a couple of times, that ought to dislodge it! Being a slow learner, it takes me about three or four blows before I realise this is a really stupid idea. 

I have some more water, and convince myself that there isn’t a bug (again) and try to sleep. This lasts for about all of thirty seconds before I’m starting to stress about my shortness of breath. I try hanging my head over the end of the bed. Is... is that progress? I think that’s better. I flip over onto my back, and try that way. Yeah, that’s better. But it sure is uncomfortable. Hey, maybe I can see it! I leap out of bed, and head to the bathroom. I open my mouth, and stick out my tongue, trying to look down into my lungs. Can I see something? Maybe. Maybe if I shine a light, that’d help.

I race back to my room and dig out the portable light made up of a lot of bright LEDs. Back in the bathroom with my tongue sticking out, I blind myself a couple of times trying to work out how to shine the light down my throat instead of into my eyes. Then I decide that the bug might be scared of the light, and scuttling deeper into darkness, like a cockroach in the kitchen. I need natural light, that’s the ticket! Like fire! I go into the kitchen, and grab my candle for when we have blackouts and return to the bathroom. Angling the candle, I assume the pose again, but not for long... hot wax drips from the candle onto my upper inner thigh, barely missing my todger - it’s warm in Darwin so I sleep naked. After a short burst of swearing, I put out the candle. This was a bad idea. I can see the lurid headline in tomorrow’s newspaper: Teacher dies in bizarre sex act blah blah blah autoeroticism blah blah blah hot wax blah blah blah asphyxiation. Anyway, the light isn’t working. Probably it’s crawled in head first, and I am wasting my time illuminating its arse.

Finally, I get confirmation that there is a bug down my throat after a few more coughs and a bit of retching. Something must be working as I’ve now pissed it off, the bug starts biting me. Now I know I’m not crazy. Time to try panicking slightly. It doesn’t work, but I feel better. A few more coughs and this time some progress, but not the good sort... blood in some phlegm. I take some deep, calming breaths, but realise that once again I am attempting to suck it into my lungs. I don’t want this little guy deciding it has to eat its way out through my soft, tender alveoli.

At no stage do I think “I should go to hospital, I’ve been at this for over an hour.” Instead I think I could maybe poke it out, so I go and get a chopstick. Luckily, while I’m psyching myself up to poke it down my throat, I give a tiny feeble cough, and out comes a few legs. This is more like it! A few more coughs with some gusto, and here comes the rest of the bugger. Woohoo!

Now, I’ve always had a thing for killing bugs good and dead before this. I have had a long standing rule that spiders should be hit until they’re in at least three pieces to make sure they are dead. This guy, well, he certainly cops a flogging. I beat him with a shoe, a book, stomp on him with my boots on. When I’m done, he’s a monomolecular stain on the tiles, which I wipe up with toilet paper and then set on fire. Vengeance!

And now it’s time for me to get back to sleep. Easier said than done, I’m awash with adrenaline, full of rage and victory. So I get up and turn on my computer. In practically every game where you’re saving the world, there’s a bug level. So I dig out old save games and have at it, crushing chitin, pounding carapaces, and snapping limbs. I use chainsaws, hatchets, crowbars, machine guns, magic, my fists, tanks, and even spaceships on them. I feel better, even though I’m rather haggard as now it is dawn. Time to get my stuff together and go on excursion.

The first night of the camp, we’re sitting around the bonfire, and the owner of the property says it’s traditional to tell scary stories. He kicks off with a possible, but not very plausible story about a feral pig being attacked recently by a crocodile down by the river. He had been harping on us not to leave rubbish out as it attracts the wild pigs, and this element adds a good reason not to go wandering off on your own so we appreciate it. But the story is none too scary. A few of the kids have a go but they mainly tell retreads of whatever movie they saw recently, or completely over the top versions of the most scariest story ever, with excesses of blood and monsters.

One of the parents says that maybe a teacher should have a try, and with a gleam in my eye, I begin telling them of what happened last night. Of course I swap out phrases like “inbred, poo-rooting monkey fucker” with “Getoutgetoutgetout!” but the core of the story is there. I love story telling, with its facial expressions and tones and cadences, and I’m well into the swing of it with my Teachers Voice. Towards the end of the story, one of the parents is looking kind of green, one or two kids have their hands over their ears, and there’s a gaggle of girls clustered around a parent. I let my voice go rough and thoughtful as I end the story. “I’m not sure if the bug was in the cup of water,” I say, as if to myself “or if it crawled in there, while I was asleep. Maybe it was looking for a place to lay its eggs. Maybe it did.” The other teacher decides we’ve had enough scary stories for one night, and we head off to our cabins.

Recipe

So I've been slack at writing, but we were on holidays. I'm slowly getting back into the swing of things. I'm part way through my entry for this week's Flash Fiction challenge from Chuck Wendig, but I got derailled by yesterday's post by him, where he was asking for a recipe for Unicorn Nipple Cookies.

*****

This is from the Eldritch edition of Cooking Light Magazine. It's out of print these days, but you can sometimes scrounge up a copy in used specialist bookshops.

Unicorn Nipple Biscuits

Ingredients:
1 cup of elf tears
3 tablespoons of ground sassafras root
4 cups of flour
2 griffin eggs
Stick of butter
Pixie dust
1/2 cup of brown sugar
1/2 cup of white sugar
2 teaspoons of honey
2 cups of mermaid's milk


Method:
The night before, soak the ground sassafras root in the elf tears. You only really need enough tears to cover the sassafras, but let’s be honest, it’s so much fun procuring them that it doesn't hurt to be extravagant in your measurements here.

The next morning, preheat your oven to the 3rd Circle - that's Gluttony for those of you still on the old Infernal scale.
Strain out the sassafras (pro tip: the elven tears can still be used to scour your hydra) and set aside.
Separate the egg whites and the yolks. The unneeded griffin yolks can be used in the summoning of a succubus to clean the kitchen afterwards.
Place the whites in a large bowl, and belabour your imp until he has beaten them to a smooth consistency, while you slowly add the white sugar.
When the mixture begins forming peaks add the sassafras.
In a separate bowl cream the butter and brown sugar.
Add two cups of flour, and 1 cup of mermaid's milk, and mix.
Smooth the surface and then inscribe the Sigil of Falgan upon it with honey.
Add the remainder of the flour, and more milk if needed.
Mix the dough thoroughly.  Place it on a baking tray in bite-sized portions.
Smother it in the egg white mixture, sprinkling a pinch of pixie dust on each one.
After chanting Drison’s incantation pop them into the oven for twenty minutes.

Garnish with an iridescent scale from a lesser bronze dragon when cool.

*****

Now back to some more creative writing, there's a slim chance I'll get my Flash Fiction done before I get distracted by his next post

Flash Fiction - Jake and Gran & Gruk: Attorney-At-Law

Friday afternoon and I've just scraped in with getting two entries for this week's Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction. Didn't end up doing it last night, of course I got sidetracked. The challenge this week was to pick any of these sixty random and strange pictures and write about it. There's quite a few that I liked the feel of. I might revisit some of these at a later date. For now, I've done two. Not 1,000 words each, just little lightweight ones. Gruk: Attorney-At-Law's style may be a bit of a struggle to read, but it's in the same vein as Grunt Smash-Kill and writing as him was always popular. Jake and Gran was a doddle to write too. I did it second, but for obvious reasons I figured Gruk should be posted last. It's much more like my normal style.

Jake and Gran

Jake always hated visiting his Gran. She was so old. All her stories were repetitive and boring. This trip sucked. Here it was, the start of summer vacation, and he was stuck in the car, when he should have been in front of the TV playing his X-Box. Stupid Gran.


When they got there - finally - he was still in a bad mood. Hopefully his mother wouldn’t want to stay for the whole weekend. He hated the room he slept in, full of dolls and stuffed teddy bears, and doilies everywhere.  Hate was such a strong word, but when you’re fourteen, you have easy access to so much anger. Slamming the car door he skulked and slouched into the house, trailing a lace in the gravel of his Gran’s driveway, kicking up dust.

After constant badgering from his mother, he sighed, rolled his eyes and gave his Gran a peck on the cheek, wrinkling his nose at her old-person smell. He slumped into a chair, pointedly not making eye contact and grunted or mumbled all his answers until the adults moved onto topics of their own. Jake was itching for the visit to be over. He hummed annoyingly and tuned out of the conversation. It was always the same old crap anyway, about dead people and events from long ago, what a waste of time.

Surprisingly, the conversation ran down faster than normal, neither his mother or Gran seemed much in the mood for talking. Jake smiled. This was more like it. Finally the old bag had run out steam, and they’d be heading home soon! Maybe he’d be able to talk his mother into eating out on the way home - anything was better than the interminably long meals of bland, stodgy pap that his Gran always served up while droning on about the same topics she’d already gone over so many times.

Jake led the way to the door, as his mother helped his Gran out of the chair that engulfed her frail frame. As she hobbled painfully to the door, she stopped enroute and picked up a large, slightly grubby teddy bear. Impatient to be gone, Jake steeled himself on the grass for a goodbye hug. A bored look on his face as his Gran drew level with him, her bottom lip quivering,
“This is Mr. Bugglesworth,” she said, her voice cracking, “look after him for me please Jakey!”
“Gran! I’m not a little kid any more! I don’t want the stupid bear!”
At this, his mother chimed in... “Jake! Mind your manners! What would your father say?”
With little grace he sighed theatrically and presented himself for a hug.
“I guess this is goodbye, Jakey. They said its inoperable, and I’ve not got long left. I’ll miss you,” his Gran said, as she leaned her head against his, and burst silently into tears.

*****

Gruk: Attorney-At-Law

“Hi, it me, Gruk, atterny at law. I is a lawyerer, and I do lawyerring werking heer at Johnsun, Smif, Winters and Assossyates.” 

“‘But Gruk,’ yew miyt be saying, ‘Yew is uh cave man! How can yew be heer, dooink all dis stuff?’”

 Dat is gud kerwestion, it awl hass to do wif takkyon beem mannyypullayshun. My rowl is dat of cellyberrity tell a vishun lawyerer. Dat probberly wear yew rememember Gruk from.Heer at Jonhson, Smiff, Winters and Assyociates, we cayter to awl sorts of littygayshun. Have a complex constachushunal case? No proberlem, we hav reefined and diggernified barriersters too. On starf, we hav amybulanse chaysers, skreeching devorse harpees, serlymee co orp erate mussil, yew name it, we doods it!”

“Gruk has wun agenst such prommynent sulissiters az Cownsiller Gerrtruude de Sinkink Cow, Robo-Tron Lawinator 8500, Misster Libbertary and de Masked Lejustator. Heer at Jonsun, Sermiff, Wintaz and Assyoshiates, we onlie hiers de best!”

“Call me! Call me now! - I pick up de fone and seys ‘Hi, it me, Gruk, attorrnery at law... what yew wearink? Dat coz Gruk awlso do moonliting as sexy fown callerer too. Dat just part of de servis yew get at Jonhnsun, Smif, Winterers an Asosoiachates!”

“Wevver yew is arfter a huuj payowt, gettink off skot free, a kerippiling injunctshun or just yor tiym in de spotterlite, Gruk can help yew. Rememba de naym: Gruk... atterny at law!”

Progress, of a sort

Nothing really to upload at the moment, but I have been progressing. I did a bunch of reviews for the New Hanoian, picking up one of the monthly prizes, which is I what I was shooting for. They have a little box on the main page called featured member which gives a summary of some of the past prize winners. The times I won before were ages ago, and so I wasn't in the lineup. I'm not sure if they still update it,  I hope so. If not, oh well, its only vanity.

 A few friends and I have been doing some collaborative writing, as well. That's been interesting and fun, especially when one of us takes it in a place the other wasn't expecting. I like it, and hope that the wheels don't fall off due to other distractions - I'm partially guilty of this what with my short attention span.

Chuck Wendig has a great flash fiction challenge up,  where you go to this website, and pick one of the random, silly stock photos to write about. I've picked three I like, so I will make a start on one of them after this... unless I get distracted by something else. 

I've been doing some reading as well, and found even more useful, well written and informative websites about writing - but I realise this is a bit of a rabbit hole I don't want to get sucked too deeply into... its not just about reading about how to do it, I actually have to do it, too. I'm home sick today, so I can't post the links, but someday I'll get around to it.

Plus, I've talked Tho into letting me get a Kindle (I'm pretty sure), yay!

Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony

As our school expanded, so did our playground areas, and our playground duties. I picked up one in a new area, which was forlorn and lifeless as it was just used as a thoroughfare. Practically my only companions there would be the occasional teacher passing through... and Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony. After a while (over a term late, of course) our sports supplies arrived, and the area sprouted badminton nets and a basketball hoop, so there was an explosion in the student population. Through long months of playground duty, Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony stood vigilant guard with not just me, but other teachers on duty, but I think she went largely overlooked. Incongruous, yet easy to miss... a light blue, with a smattering of rich dark purple stars on her hind quarters and matching hooves. Her mane, flowing free in the wind of the ether. Her face was joyous yet solemn at the same time, and she had a wistful look in her eye. Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony had a coat that felt like suede. “Merely” a sticker, placed by some happy student on one of the windows, overlooked by most. I always greeted her as I walked past, and waved goodbye when I went off duty.

Its the little things, the silly things, that I keep looking for. Who needs a gorgeous sunset over a beach, or other magnificent sights on a grand scale, when you can have tiny patches of wonder. Lower the bar, and keep your eyes peeled for small gifts. Then your joys are abundant, and the payout is even greater when you do ser something large and awe-inspiring.

I kept meaning to take a photo of Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony, and even though I always have my camera on my hip, I was hesitant to do so. It may have been I just wanted to hold her in my mind, pristine and ranging free, instead of corralling her in a soulless picture, miss-filed and then forgotten. Last week, when I went on duty, she was gone. That doesn’t mean she didn’t touch my life. A damp and miserable duty meant there wasn’t many kids to supervise, so I spent time daydreaming about her instead. Where she came from, and where she went, because she couldn’t have been only a sticker. I started to write a short silly story in honour of Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony as a creative writing exercise one night, but then we went to bed after the first paragraph. Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony was in my mind as I was drifting off to sleep, and I couldn’t help but think there was something familiar about her.

A bolt from my subconscious jolted me awake... Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony was a My Little Pony! I wasn’t completely sure, but my hunch felt reasonable. Last night, I started poking around, trying to find out if my suspicions were true. Her form seemed similar to the ones on their website, but I couldn’t find an exact match. Maybe a knock off. Maybe I was wrong. How about an image search, with a few terms thrown in to narrow it down. I found her, my poor Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony. Good old Rule 34 strikes again. At least it wasn’t too extreme. So after that, the wheels fell off my version of happiness for her. My inner child isn’t just an inner child, but more of an complete unit... I don’t really have much space - or use - for an outer adult (except maybe to buy booze). I’m happy and confident with my inner child, and while I don’t mind rainbows and bright shiny colours, I’m not so sure I can knock out a paean of happiness to Blue Belle the My Little Pony. To Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony yes... but it may take a little coaxing to get her to trot back into my life. So instead, I expanded this explanation as the writing exercise. So that’s two unfinished ones in quick succession. Let’s hope that someday, the publication deals come as thick and fast and easily!

*****

Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony

The herd stirred, and nickered softly in the glow of the Aura of Happiness. It was time for them to go out into the myriads of worlds at different periods in the timestream, taking diverse forms. The stallion whinnied in benediction, and dismissed them with a flick of his tail. Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony galloped without motion, and after an infinitesimal moment that somehow seemed stretched, she found her place and purpose. Part of a set of children’s stickers, Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony knew it would be easy this time for her to spread joy. Much better than last time, when the only way she had been able to do so was by being eaten. When she was depressed, she could still feel the tiger’s claws rending her. It had taken the herd many revolutions indeed to be able to summon her back into existence.

*****

Ceased due to Rule 34, even though it wasn’t overly graphic. May come back some day. I will always love you, my Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony!

Monosyllabic - Swords at Dawn

I wasn't a fan of Chuck Wendig's challenge for this week - baby noir - so I finished (well, restarted really) an idea I had a few years ago. I remember I was playing Pirates of the Burninng Sea when I thought of it, a monosyllabic story. A duel seemed the best bet (again, probably influenced heavily by the game) and I started it, but got sidetracked.

It was fun doing it, and harder than I thought it would be. A couple of times, I found a turn of phrase that was good, but it fell down when I realised something was polysyllabic. A few words are a bit dicey if they're one or two (steel, duel, wild, a few others) but I did the clapping thing like I teach my kids in class, and even after doing that, moment nearly slipped through until another read.

That's enough yammering, on with the short story.

Swords at Dawn

Dawn. First light with a glint of sun in the dew on the grass. A few days gone by words had been said and it was time to seek an end. So it had come to this, drawn swords and bare steel. They could not turn back now, a sneer on the face of one proof that this must be. Sad eyes, mad face, low bow, curt nod... duel!

Slow, step by step, they spun, to seek flesh, to cut. Tense then a thrust, the clang of steel, a curse. First blood! A small cut on the hand, just a nick, but it led to rage. A wild swing... a deep breath then calm once more. Look for a way, test with a feint, then drive the point home. A miss, this time. Their world shrunk to the blade, the eyes, the foe.

Beads of sweat drip from his face, fear in the eyes as he knows that his skill is less.  Sweep the blade in an arc, and hope to hit. Aim for the head, but no luck. Fall back, give ground to a rain of blows. He is sure the end must soon come, arm sore, a hand that shakes. A cut to his arm, and his blade starts to weave as the blood runs free.

The next thrust, less of a block than a weak push. His foe grins and steps in his guard, spears his leg with the tip of his blade. As flesh is torn, so too is a cry from his lips. Red stains his pants, his groin hurts. He steps back from the lunge at his chest. Too slow, too late, pain there as well. A weak cough, blood on his lips, last words just a croak. He falls to the ground in a heap and can’t move. He does not want to feel this, wants it not to end this way. His foe wipes his sword on the grass with not a glance spent on the dead. It is done.

Writing Challenge

 Chuck Wendig has decided to throw these up every week. This time, it was a picture entry the one above... Can't do the direct link to his Flickr due to scotch, but somehow I don't think I'm neccessary to drive traffic to him, so its all good.

My entry was supposed to be a hard boiled private dick sort of story. Didn't work. This is all I've got, it sucks dead donkey balls. Maybe I'll fix it. Maybe I won't. Maybe its just a start that'll get fixed someday. Didn't even finish writing, it wasn't going anywhere. Didn't really edit, either.

I'm not too down, while the picture is great, I couldn't get in the style this week. But I've done a bunch of reviews, so I am writing (a few meh's and a fail I think, but screw em).

Gumshoe

"Same again, thanks sweetheart" I say, waggling my empty coffee cup at the dame in the waitress uniform. She sighed, and came back with a fresh cup of Joe. I'd had two already, and a third would mean no sleep for a week, but when you're on a stakeout, you gotta look the part. I slurped off a mouthful and then surreptitiously turfed the rest out in the potted plant. With a generous pour from my hip flask, I refilled the cup with the good stuff... just enough to counteract the caffeine high. In this line of work, you need steady hands. It's not so bad, being a private dick, sure the hours are longer than back when I was on the force, but I'm my own boss, I don't have to answer to no-one no more. I notice a twitch at the curtain to the room the mark is in, and like a shot I'm engrossed in the funny pages... head down, just a regular schmoe having a break. This dive of a flop-house is more up market than his usual haunts, so business must be on the up and up. I'm sure the boys in blue would love to have a chat with him about that, but they'd only scare off the big fish. In the reflection of the glass, I see him heading out the door, so I throw down a five spot to keep the waitress sweet on me tomorrow and hoof it after him. I've got a knack at being a subtle tail, after the time I put in down in the Bronx, but a New Orleans Jazz band could be banging and blaring away for all the care he's paying. Can't say as I blame him, as its bucketing down and the wind is making sure that your birthday suit gets soaked.

Down to the wharf, and into a little hole in the wall bar - not his usual stomping ground, so maybe he is working tonight after all. I give the area the once over then head on in. I order a beer and a bourbon, and hunker down at a table with my back to him, but close enough so I can hear what he's saying, and fish out my deck of cards and get all engrossed in a game of solitaire. Our chum is getting nowhere fast with the skirt behind the bar, and I think the evening may be a complete washout. Then bold as brass, in waltzes one of Harvey's boys. So I'm back to earning my keep, as even if these hours ain't billable to my current client knowing what Harvey is up to is always bankable.

Next morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed, I'm warmly greeted by the dame in the diner. I take a stool where I can see the hotel out the front window, and order the blue plate special. I think I'm gonna haveta linger over coffee yet again, but once more there's the twitch to the curtain, so I shovel the last of the eggs and hash into my gob, and wolf it down. Telling her to keep the change, I'm out the door and after him like a flea on a dog. After last night's conversation, I definitely don't want to lose him so I stay as close as I can, doing my best not to be too conspicuous dodging the puddles. We go by Shanks' Pony over towards Brooklyn and in my head I'm already counting the notes, crinkling that filthy lucre in my fingers and trying to decide if I should pay my overdue rent or splurge.

*****

There's always next week, as he's doing it every week now.  And there is my stuff too, so I don't look at it as a defeat.