Blue Lagoon

This flash fiction piece was based off Chuck Wendig’s Cocktail prompt. I only got a wee way into it and then it fell through the cracks. It was set way back in April. I wasn’t planning on making it a thousand words, but shorter. I think it might be just a vignette (which at first I thought isn’t so bad) but I remembered a book that I bought that was just vignettes and how shitted off with it I was... nothing happened, nothing went anywhere. Rereading the prompt he says don’t just do a vignette, and we only had 500 words after all. So back under the hood I go (I write the intro after I finish the story. Back in a sec)... OK Done. All better now. No longer an icky vignette. 

As I was saying, the idea was to name your story after a cocktail and give the recipe afterwards. This prompt was set ages ago, so why am I dredging this old one up now? Exhibit A please, last line:

(From the inestimable Mr. Wendig, go buy his shit)

Nano is coming. I want to enter. Last year I didn’t finish, and this year I will. So I have to get in the habit of finishing. So I’m having a go at a lot of little quick writing things (which I also intend to continue with through November and beyond, as they're only little) so I get in the habit of finishing stuff, and giving it the once over rather than just chucking it up there. And I also intend to finish the shit I already started before nano. Sure, there’s still more planning I’d like to do, but I’ve got a good amount so far so I won’t just be pantsing all the way.

Blue Lagoon

Days here felt endless, but that’s not a bad thing when life is so pleasant. It did mean they tended to run together and get a bit sameish, but that was OK. Whoever said you can have too much of a good thing was our of their mind Zeke thought. How could you complain to waking up to the gentle susurration of waves lapping the sands? That never got old.

Relaxation, peace, bliss.

Zeke stretched, looking around his house. Sure, it was small, but it was a prime piece of beachfront property. He ambled outside and was greeted by the first rays of the morning sun, glinting on the breakers on the reef that protected his cove. He wandered down to the high tide mark, looking for anything new or interesting that had washed up during the night. Meandering past the occasional strand of seaweed he kept his eyes peeled but there was nothing extraordinary - there never was.

To cheer himself up, Zeke decided to go for his morning swim, and daintily dipped a toe into the water. The slight chill to it was pleasantly refreshing and he revelled in the feel of it. Always he was amazed at the varieties of colourful little fish that swam about. Sometimes they were together in a school, then they would suddenly spread out haphazardly, like a rainbow’s reflection in a mirror shattered by a hammer.

Later in the day after a nap, Zeke headed to his favourite rocky promontory, to fish. It was rare that he would catch one, but he didn’t care. To him it was more a time of introspection and thought somewhere out of the direct rays of the sun.

Sighing contentedly, watching the moon rise amidst twinkling stars Zeke the hermit crab drifted off to sleep next to his favourite rock pool.

I named it after a Blue Lagoon, but it could just as easily be a Blue Hawaii. They look immensely similar, and taste nearly the same. The lagoon has something carbonated making it lighter on the palate, and the Hawaii has coconut milk making it creamier, but the main point is they both have vodka and blue curacao. The last is the most important ingredient in my mind, because if you drink enough it turns your tongue blue, and your shit lawn green in the morning. So when you wake up hungover and look in the mirror and the can, you think you’re dying - until you remember what you were drinking.


Recipe for Blue Lagoon
Recipe for a Blue Hawaiian (and the picture is also lifted from here)

Who is a hero?

Jeff brought this topic up one day at after work beers, fishing around for who people would say. Some famous names were thrown in the ring, as well as some personal ones (a grandfather in the first world war, for example). I can’t remember what I suggested at the time, but I’m going with an unsung and under-appreciated hero: The Henchmen.

Heroes: The Henchmen

Sure, the “hero” of the story is important, but you can’t be the chosen one without a challenge. Admittedly, hordes of incompetent and faceless minions rarely seem to pose a threat, but like you and me, henchmen are just doing a thankless task, trying to make ends meet.

I’m not talking here about anyone who has a speaking part... unless its along the lines of “Two more tankards of ale, wench!” I mean the ones who may not even be named - in the book or the closing credits of the movie. This guy is no Jackie Chan, he’s played by the extra, in many different guises:

Ruffian with a mustache. Guard holding a pike. Soldier responding to the alarm by running down the hallway. Sentry at the main gate. Patron in the bar in the duke’s livery so your lovable rogue can steal the keys. Faceless grunt who takes an arrow to the chest as you storm the castle.

That guy. All those guys. They’re not the face of evil, they’re just bulking up the enemy numbers, being part of the body count. You could probably get by with only hiring three different guys and giving them a selection of false noses and different coloured helmets and you’re done. Their time in the story is short, but it speaks to all of us... Our work day week isn’t demonic, its more of a ground-down-grey. We’re not black-hearted, we’re just doing our thing, as ordered. Nuremburg all over again, but with our hopes and dreams going to the gas chamber.

But if we identify with these fellows - who don’t even get a second paragraph - why don’t we mind that they come to such a gristly end? I’ll tell you. Just like we see ourselves in them, we see our colleagues too. That guard who gets stabbed while the hero is escaping the dungeon? Jones in accounting. The one who cops the frying pan swung by the plucky kid sister? Obviously it’s Sue under all that chainmail. The Henchman is you. The Henchman is me. Henchmen are the true Everyman. Not the chosen one. Not a prince whose true lineage is kept hidden. Not an orphan who spent years training is secrecy with some wizened old master. Who can identify with that? Henchmen reflect our struggles, our humanity. In every skull shaped fortress, through miles of endless corridors, doing pointless and degrading drudge work, Henchmen hold the true mirror up to ourselves. We don’t like what we see and that makes their job even more thankless.

When there’s someone to be silently garroted then stripped so their livery can be humourosly worn by someone three sizes larger... Henchmen are there.

If there’s a fist to be clenched in salute before stamping off to hours of guard duty in front of a barred portcullis... Henchmen are there.

Should a messenger be needed to tell the dread lord that the princess has been rescued... Henchmen are there (at least until the decapitation scene which shows the inhumanity of said dread lord).

A lax watch needed to be kept so that shackles can be slipped... Henchmen are there.


Henchmen are the true heroes. The pay is lousy, they often die horribly, and they get no respect. But still, they do their job. Next time some joker in a furred loincloth with a dirty great sword makes a rampart out of underlings, spare a thought for their families. Not so heroic on the part of the main character, is it?

Picture shamelessly pinched from Shoeboxblog

First times, second attempt

I already did one entry for Jeff's First Time one, but there was an obvious second story that needed telling.

First times

Ahhh Paris, the city of love. Or is that Amsterdam, with its Red-light district? I spent some time in Paris and there was this girl I liked. The price seemed a bit steep, but it was my first time and I wanted to try it. It was good, but over so quickly. If I am honest, that was my first time, but it doesn’t really count, does it?


Like any young adult, I was curious. I tried it a lot on my own, but it wasn’t very fulfilling that way. It’s not the same if you do it by yourself, so I don’t really classify all those fumbling attempts as my first time.

Occasionally I tried it in a group... the booze flowing, everyone laughing and reaching, hands all slimy. That too was fun, but it still didn’t seem right. Everyone else was having a great time, but something still seemed wrong to me.


The first time I did it properly was only recently. The setting made all the difference. We’d gone up-market, the furnishing were much better than usual, and the light was subdued yet flattering. My wife and I were impatient for it to begin... looking across as each other giggling and laughing.

Slowly, we shed outer layers. My wife proffering hers to my waiting mouth. I took it in - savoring it - rolling it over my tongue. I returned the favour, sporting an impish smile. She pulled back playfully but then looked at me in horror... “Yuck! That isn’t how you do do it Silly! That part of it is dirty, it is full of of shit! Disgusting! Throw that away, this is how you eat ốc!”


So finally, after many years I finally ate ốc  the way it is meant to be. It tastes much better now that I know you don’t get every little bit out and stick it in your gob. A good three quarters of it is grit, shell and fecal matter that is crunchily unpleasant. And there I was thinking I didn’t have a very refined palate and I was missing something.

*****
OK ốc is a generic catch-all term for most shellfish, and a bunch of them I had eaten long before coming to Vietnam. And the snails in France were different again. But why let facts get in the way of a good story?

First Times

This has been sitting around for a while, needing a last couple of sentences and a once-over to check for editing. Jeff said about doing a first time story, and two ideas leapt out at me. This was the first, my first day of teaching. Especially since Amazing Superpowers did such a great cartoon of it (which I also redid, for one of their competitions... my version is after the story).

 http://www.amazingsuperpowers.com/2009/04/the-first-day/

Chalkie

 Nature. The Great Outdoors. The countryside. I’m so not a fan. Nature is just a euphemism for being amongst hordes of biting and stinging insects with no electricity. The Great Outdoors aren’t. Sure, I like building a sandcastle at the beach, but that’s the extent of it. And as for the countryside, I like towns and cities. Chickens should be frozen or deep fried, not covered in feathers and clucking. So it seemed to be counter-intuitive when I applied to the Northern Territory for work. But not really, as if I had tried getting a teaching job back in Canberra or near where I’d gone to Uni, I’d be unlikely to get anything permanent, and I was too lazy for the extra effort that is incorporated into relief teaching - plus I wanted a steady income. Besides, my parents had met in a small town in the NT, so how bad could it be?

It turns out it can be pretty bad. It didn’t take long for me to be offered a job via email. I tried looking it up on a halfway decent map... no dice. I had to write back for some more information so I could locate it. It turned out the school they were suggesting for my first teaching gig was a one teacher, multi-age and class school in the middle of the Simpson desert. I’d be the teacher, principal, and do all the paperwork, in a small, dry (as in no alcohol!) aboriginal community. I know taking that would be setting myself up for failure, and knocked them back, knowing that would put my name on the bottom of the list of applicants. Bummer.

Luckily though, the list of applicants was humourously short, and within a fortnight, I was offered another job, this time in a town called Borroloola. At least I’d heard of this town before, and the school and the town sounded OK. A lot of our friends got phone calls for job interviews while playing Quake, and the same happened to me, an auspicious sign so I thought. In hindsight though, when we were in our rooms we were either playing Quake or asleep, so I guess it wasn’t that surprising really. The interview with the principal went well, and I accepted the position he offered me at the end.

I had a farewell to civilisation party with all my mates, and headed up north. I met the other teachers at the local pub, and told them I was into reading, computer games and a bit about myself. Little did I know they opened a book on how long I’d stay, with the longest bet being a week (I showed them, by sticking it out for three years).

The first day of my first teaching job, I handed out what I thought was a quite reasonable test to my 4/5 class, to gauge their ability, starting out with half a butterfly and the instruction to finish the picture by completing the other side along the axis of symmetry. A few hands shot up, and I was getting ready to answer the question “What does symmetry mean?” Instead the kid asked me how to spell his name. He wasn’t the only one. I sighed, and collected the tests, reeling back my expectations. Instead, I picked a picture book at random and started to read. It was called Toby, and was about a dog, a golden retriever. Page one: This is Toby, my dog. Page two: Toby died yesterday. It continued on, a sad paean singing the praises of a little boy’s pet. I think I was in tears by page 5.

As a first time, it wasn’t great. But really, isn’t that what you want? For something to suck badly at the beginning, so each day is an improvement... no sense peaking too early.

 I did a hidden comic for this one (like many of the ASP ones, done lightly in blue) but they didn't post it when I got a commendation, so I guess it didn't make the grade.

Experimentation

Friday again, and another micro flash fiction. Use 3 of the 5 seed words: enzyme, ivy, bishop, blister, lollipop and do it in 100 words. I picked ivy, enzyme and blister. 100 on the dot.

Experimentation

To: Lab07
From: Backer3
Initial tests of batch 208-P show promise. Proceed to stage 4.


To: Backer3
From: Lab07
Acknowledged. Resulting enzymes in 208-P have been cross-pollinated then introduced to a selection of plants... ivy, rhododendrons, gladioli and holly. Awaiting further results.


To: Lab07
From: Backer3
The administration is getting antsy - it looks like funding could be rescinded any moment. Speed it up, skip animals... go straight to human trials. Repeat, begin human trials immediately.


To: Backer3
From: HandlerCrew
Problem has been liquidated. Minimal injuries our end. A few cases of slight blistering after contact. Handler Crew standing down.

Flash Fiction: Bloodfeud

The entry for this week is just a wee little tacker, only meant to be 100 words at most on the topic of revenge. I'll shut up now so the into can be shorter than my entry.

Bloodfeud

Like a pack of inhuman monsters they had attacked us, howling for blood and death. Terrible to behold, and without pity. They had driven families from ancestral homes and put them to the torch, slain elderly and those who could not protect themselves. A blight ravaging the countryside. A stand had to be made. 

I waited, late one night, reduced to skulking in the shadows. After closing time in the tavern I approached a wine-sotted reveller. “The Count sends his blessings to you and your village!” I whispered as I sunk my fangs into his neck.

Swords and Cybery

This week's Terribleminds entry was to combine two genres in a story. I chose sword and sorcery and cyberpunk.

Swords and Cybery

Grelt the technomancer disconnected the electrodes from his staff, retracting them back into his tearducts with a grimace. “We must hurry, for the minions of Parity Decay will be here soon.” Shouldering their gear once again, the pair of them set off up the steep scarp. It had been months since they had been this way, yet the path was familiar. Soon, signs of the enclave became noticeable, and they picked up speed, impatient to be home.


The Temple of Dajin was crowded. Expectant faces looking for a sign of hope. Grelt and Dreen passed amongst them giving the occasional nod in acknowledgement. For a moment, Dreen stopped and swept her son into her arms. Sspinning him around and making him smile she put him on the ground andcontinued to the interface of the satellite link that surmounted the altar. After lighting a censer of incense and scanning her sub-dermal RFID chip, she opened a heavily encrypted channel to the orbital in the Lagrange point where the Avatar of Dajin dwelt.

Blessed by His presence, Grelt began. “It is as we feared. The Shigamorori Conglomerate will soon come to an understanding with Parity Decay.” A groan went up from the listeners, but he waved them to silence. “There is still hope. We may be able to prevent their union, if we act quickly. We have also heard that our allies - the dwarven clan Silverstrike, devout followers of Dajin... Blessed be He... have seen a great improvement in the skills of their craftsmen. They inform us that soon they will be able to create the weapon spoken of in the prophesy: the Rune-etched monfilament blade! Spread the word, my friends, that soon the lands will be free!”

Crouched under a camouflage net, Dreen clutched at the amulet of far seeing, and scanned the road. Through the heat haze, she could make out the vanguard of the skeleton horde, the bulk of Parity Decay’s forces. After some tense moments waiting, they had advanced enough that the armoured palanquin which bore the offerings for Shigamoroiri Corporation came into sight. Dreen spoke into her throat mic “Grelt, do you read me? It is go time, I repeat, it is go time!” In his summoning cirlce within the temple, Grelt completed his ceremony by sprinkling powdered capacitors and nanite statues of Daijin’s Avatar onto a smoking brazier.

Appearing low on the horizon, an emerald beam shot out, stirring the clouds into into fearsome shapes above the skeletons. With a roar, Daijin manifested in the aspect of a circuit dragon, and fell upon the forces of Parity Decay. Being mindless, they did not flee in fear, but their counterattack was useless - railguns and explosives could not punch through the scaly hide of the God, and the spells of their mages were paltry compared to the glory of Daijin.He quickly seized the palanquin betwixt his teeth, and ground it to pieces. With a swipe of his forepaws he decimated the skeletons, before dematerializing, and returning to his Orbital. Their attack successful, Dreen shifted form into that of an eagle, and flew back to her friends, hope stirring in her heart once again.