I live in Nowhen, an attic above a clock tower. I stare out my window sometimes, watching the people of my city, frozen in the middle of their conversations - or supping cups of tea. Moments, like pictures, hover every 'where' I look, but the when is all up to me. It takes some practice.
Blink.
There is Mrs. Harper and her old black poodle Tabitha, wandering down main street.
Blink.
Oh, there she is at her house - Christmas Day - her daughter holds wee Tabitha as a puppy.
Blink.
And there is Mrs Harper at her daughter's funeral. Tabitha is only a few years old, head on her paws in the drenching rain.
Nowhen is a lonely place. Sometimes I wish I could return...
See, there I am. Over there in the school yard, waiting to go into bat. Or there, sitting at the edge of the school dance, hoping someone will notice me. And there I am, staring up at the clock tower, wondering why the hands have never moved. If only I could tell myself to turn around. Go home, Lily. There is so much of life to live.
I could have been like Kiera, down at the lake, head on Michael's shoulder watching the sun set. Or Susan, trading a frozen moment of pure agony in the hospital over by the theatre for a family full of smiling faces.
There are more than a hundred thousand paving stones in the street below my window. Go back far enough, it is mud. Go forward and it is overgrown with weeds. People leave and never come back. The clock tower stands all alone, hiding its secret. Hiding me.
Mama never knew where I went.
Blink.
There is Tabitha, sniffing. She barked up at the clock, once. Mrs Harper had stopped to buy tomatoes at the grocer in central park. That was when she lost her dog, and I stopped being quite so alone.
Tabitha and I will never get any older. She is a terrible conversationalist, but then I am not that attentive. Mostly we sit, and I wonder. Maybe I can leave. After all, this is Nowhen, not Nowhere. If I can be here, I can be not here, but how?
Perhaps it is as simple as walking out the door. But that would mean accepting that my 'when' will some day end. I don't know if I am ready... maybe I will watch just a little longer.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Challenge 179: Seal heads
'Too many damn refugees, that's the problem.'
'I haven't seen any,' I said.
'Yeah, but they all get off the boats and stay by the port, of course. Since when do you go down to the port, eh?'
'Is it very different then, with them around?'
Regent adjusted his wreath and shook his head. 'It's crazy. You know they wear seals on their heads?'
'Whats?'
'Seals, of course. It's a small breed, they're not so heavy. Looks ridiculous. The kids have baby seals and the adults have grown ones – though when they die I guess you have to start from the beginning again, of course.'
'Is that why they stay by the ports? To feed the seals?' We reached the end of the street and turned around again.
‘We're in modern times, aren't we? Not like it's that hard to get fish.'
'How do they keep them wet? Tubs in the streets, and in their houses?'
'Yep. They don’t have problems here, of course.'
'Least you can tell who they are, of course. Can't hide with a seal on your head.'
'Actually, there's so many of them these days you'd be better off with a seal on your head than a walrus on your ankle.'
'Phew.' I adjusted my own wreath. ‘Can’t believe I haven’t seen any.’
‘They’ll be taking over the city soon. Already wanting their own schools, can you believe. Privately funded – not sure how refugees can even afford that.’
‘Crazy, I thought our schools couldn’t cope with the numbers as it was.’
‘Mmm, they’re putting pressure on everything…schools, housing, water…’
The other end of the street, and I paused briefly to adjust my trouser leg before turning. ‘Water?’
Regent looked a bit edgy. ‘I heard something interesting the other day. They’re saying…they’re not just here because of the war. Maybe that’s why they started coming, of course - I don’t know…but what I heard was that they’re here because of the seals. Not enough water where they come from, and it’s getting too warm.’
‘Er, eh? So they’re coming to take our water instead?’
‘Apparently it used to be like here – green all year – and now it’s practically a desert. Sad business.’ We’d reached the intersection again, and I took my wreath off, looking for a spot to drop it. ‘Time to go, I think. I’m late as it is - Rex needs a bath and I’ve got a load of housework to do, of course.’ Regent took his own wreath off and was about to trample it into the ground, but suddenly changed his mind and placed it on my head, then took mine gently out of my hands and put it on instead. ‘See you tomorrow.’
I smiled, and bent to give a tug at the chain around my ankle, pulling my walrus out of the shade of a bench and into the evening heat.
__________________________________________________
Word count: 480
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Challenge 111: Life in the polar regions
The kitchen is where I'll sleep. It’s the kitchen because the main stove is in there, but we can't do much cooking.
Our first night is colder than usual, and we're gathered around the stove. Dirk reckons we have fuel for months; we shouldn't stint.
Food we're not sure of, unless we raid one of the caches left by a previous party. Perhaps when the storm lets up a bit.
Mac is leaning against the metal trying to warm his hands. Ten minutes ago, he climbed out the window and started shovelling furiously. I didn't understand until he emptied the big metal pot into the bigger metal pot on the stove. The temperature's dropped now that the snow is melting. I shiver, but Mac grimaces because his fingers are starting to thaw and it burns like hell.
'If I leave my gloves here, anyone can use them,' I suggest. 'Mac, that was a bit stupid, not wearing any.'
Mac shrugs and his indifference bothers me. 'Guess we'd better put our tents up, mate,' he says to Dirk.
Seana comes in from the 'pantry' - the semi-frozen antechamber connecting the main entrance to the kitchen.
'Dehy soup for dinner.' She chucks packets of split pea and of black bean on the table.
'Tents,' says Dirk. 'How about you stay and cook up something hot and delicious, lovelies?'
'Fat chance,' I say, and follow them out while Seana makes inchorent fake-angry noises.
Ekker and Pete are in the other hut trying to fix the radios. Tools are scattered everywhere and though they're both mild-mannered, now they're red-faced and snapping.
'Give it a rest and come put up tents,' Mac suggests nonchalantly, picking up a couple of tent-bags, but they ignore him. 'Where the fuck’s the red screwdriver?' barks Pete.
I cut in: 'Pole's broken in that purple one, I was going to fix it...'
'How can we borrow your gloves if you're coming out?' Mac replies. 'What if you stick around, fix up the tent; Dirk and I will put them up. We could even have a glove each...' he winks.
'I've been inside all day! I want real work!'
'If we weren't in a rush, hon, but we need to do this before the weather turns worse.' Dirk gives me a friendly shove away from the door and I shove him right back. Mac gives me a kinda shrug as he walks out with an armload of tents.
'Fucking patronising bastards,' I tell Ekker and Pete, who are looking for the screwdriver and don’t care. Going back through the pantry for duct tape I pass Seana, who asks me to keep an eye on the stove please and wanders to the other hut.
She spends a few minutes bitching (they're treating her like some kind of second-class wife ‘always on at me about the cooking'; she has to freeze in a tent while I ‘fucking trophy wife’ get the hut because I made puppy-dog eyes at Mac). Like Mac would fall for puppy-dog eyes.
Ekker eventually says 'Don't see you putting up tents,' and she tells him he won't get any dinner if he's like that, and he says there's room for two to sleep in the kitchen so why doesn’t she, though maybe she won't care to now since it'll make her look soft.
'Fuck you,' she says ('Sure!'), leaving the lid of the shit bucket off in the adjoining toilet when she storms off.
Dinner's as good as dehy can be (but don't try the black bean, it's vile). Mac brings out chocolate he must've carted all the way from home. Dirk opens a can of peaches 'so we don't get scurvy'. I didn't get the pole fixed, so they’re sharing a mountain tent. I don't want to sleep inside, after what Seana said, but with her in the other little tent and Ekker and Pete sharing the big one, there's hardly room elsewhere.
___________________________________________________
Word count: 655. I cut almost 200 words and didn't want to get any more brutal...so cheated instead :P
Our first night is colder than usual, and we're gathered around the stove. Dirk reckons we have fuel for months; we shouldn't stint.
Food we're not sure of, unless we raid one of the caches left by a previous party. Perhaps when the storm lets up a bit.
Mac is leaning against the metal trying to warm his hands. Ten minutes ago, he climbed out the window and started shovelling furiously. I didn't understand until he emptied the big metal pot into the bigger metal pot on the stove. The temperature's dropped now that the snow is melting. I shiver, but Mac grimaces because his fingers are starting to thaw and it burns like hell.
'If I leave my gloves here, anyone can use them,' I suggest. 'Mac, that was a bit stupid, not wearing any.'
Mac shrugs and his indifference bothers me. 'Guess we'd better put our tents up, mate,' he says to Dirk.
Seana comes in from the 'pantry' - the semi-frozen antechamber connecting the main entrance to the kitchen.
'Dehy soup for dinner.' She chucks packets of split pea and of black bean on the table.
'Tents,' says Dirk. 'How about you stay and cook up something hot and delicious, lovelies?'
'Fat chance,' I say, and follow them out while Seana makes inchorent fake-angry noises.
Ekker and Pete are in the other hut trying to fix the radios. Tools are scattered everywhere and though they're both mild-mannered, now they're red-faced and snapping.
'Give it a rest and come put up tents,' Mac suggests nonchalantly, picking up a couple of tent-bags, but they ignore him. 'Where the fuck’s the red screwdriver?' barks Pete.
I cut in: 'Pole's broken in that purple one, I was going to fix it...'
'How can we borrow your gloves if you're coming out?' Mac replies. 'What if you stick around, fix up the tent; Dirk and I will put them up. We could even have a glove each...' he winks.
'I've been inside all day! I want real work!'
'If we weren't in a rush, hon, but we need to do this before the weather turns worse.' Dirk gives me a friendly shove away from the door and I shove him right back. Mac gives me a kinda shrug as he walks out with an armload of tents.
'Fucking patronising bastards,' I tell Ekker and Pete, who are looking for the screwdriver and don’t care. Going back through the pantry for duct tape I pass Seana, who asks me to keep an eye on the stove please and wanders to the other hut.
She spends a few minutes bitching (they're treating her like some kind of second-class wife ‘always on at me about the cooking'; she has to freeze in a tent while I ‘fucking trophy wife’ get the hut because I made puppy-dog eyes at Mac). Like Mac would fall for puppy-dog eyes.
Ekker eventually says 'Don't see you putting up tents,' and she tells him he won't get any dinner if he's like that, and he says there's room for two to sleep in the kitchen so why doesn’t she, though maybe she won't care to now since it'll make her look soft.
'Fuck you,' she says ('Sure!'), leaving the lid of the shit bucket off in the adjoining toilet when she storms off.
Dinner's as good as dehy can be (but don't try the black bean, it's vile). Mac brings out chocolate he must've carted all the way from home. Dirk opens a can of peaches 'so we don't get scurvy'. I didn't get the pole fixed, so they’re sharing a mountain tent. I don't want to sleep inside, after what Seana said, but with her in the other little tent and Ekker and Pete sharing the big one, there's hardly room elsewhere.
___________________________________________________
Word count: 655. I cut almost 200 words and didn't want to get any more brutal...so cheated instead :P
Monday, January 31, 2011
Challenge 179
Imaginary Cities
Describe a city that doesn't exist. Concentrate on the food, or the houses, or the organization of the streets, the hand gestures that are somehow related to the geography of the place.
Word count: 500 (+/- 10%)
Describe a city that doesn't exist. Concentrate on the food, or the houses, or the organization of the streets, the hand gestures that are somehow related to the geography of the place.
Word count: 500 (+/- 10%)
Friday, January 28, 2011
Challenge 111: Earthquake House
This house is unfamiliar... eerie at night. Up here in the attic room, I huddle against the wall, sitting on a bed that feels like it was built in the eighteen hundreds. I listen to the wind blowing outside my window and wonder when the next shock will hit. Will I go running to him? Will the roof fall in on my head? I think of my sisters, asleep on the floor below. Will the floor cave in and crush them? It doesn't seem to matter that this house has survived the last three major quakes with barely even surface damage... I am still scared.
I slip out the window onto the balcony. Not the safest place, but I need air. I am suffocating in there. From here you can see the lights of LA, beautiful and yet also a stark reminder of what I left behind today. My own house is down there somewhere, red-stickered and scheduled for demolition. Power is still out in some suburbs - I can see the black patches.
My fingers pick at the peeling paint on the banister. The Howards obviously have not spent much time thinking about maintenance lately... That's cruel, I know. Their father works all the time and the boys have no reason to be thinking about the state of the paint job on the upper balconies. It's not like they ever come out here anyway.
The is a screech of wheels on the gravel and I notice that Dylan is home. I would recognize that bike anywhere. I duck back into my attic room before he notices me watching.
Back to the squeaky bed then. This isn't so bad. I could paint the walls... No. I am not going to get comfortable here. It's not my house.
There is a deep rumble. I tense, knowing it is coming... where do I go? Under the bed? In the doorway? I shrink back into the corner of my bed and watch the window sway in my vision. I will not cry, but I can't seem to stop shaking. Eventually, the house calms down, only shivering a little. I clamber off the bed and feel something akin to sea-sickness. Dammit, why can't you just stand still, you stupid house?
I make myself climb down the ladder. I am not staying up there tonight, I don't care if I have to sleep in Angelette's corvette. I don't want to be in the house any more.
It's on the second story that I see him.
Motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm, his eyes lock with mine and I flush. I am not really dressed to be seen in public.
"Hey," he says in a soft, deep voice. "You okay?"
I nod furiously. Admitting that I'm scared to Dylan is unthinkable...
The tears on my cheeks give me away.
"You want to go out?"
I nod, betraying my own resolve before it has a chance to cement.
"Come on." He doesn't even smirk or try to make fun of me. "You'll want to grab a jacket."
I slip out the window onto the balcony. Not the safest place, but I need air. I am suffocating in there. From here you can see the lights of LA, beautiful and yet also a stark reminder of what I left behind today. My own house is down there somewhere, red-stickered and scheduled for demolition. Power is still out in some suburbs - I can see the black patches.
My fingers pick at the peeling paint on the banister. The Howards obviously have not spent much time thinking about maintenance lately... That's cruel, I know. Their father works all the time and the boys have no reason to be thinking about the state of the paint job on the upper balconies. It's not like they ever come out here anyway.
The is a screech of wheels on the gravel and I notice that Dylan is home. I would recognize that bike anywhere. I duck back into my attic room before he notices me watching.
Back to the squeaky bed then. This isn't so bad. I could paint the walls... No. I am not going to get comfortable here. It's not my house.
There is a deep rumble. I tense, knowing it is coming... where do I go? Under the bed? In the doorway? I shrink back into the corner of my bed and watch the window sway in my vision. I will not cry, but I can't seem to stop shaking. Eventually, the house calms down, only shivering a little. I clamber off the bed and feel something akin to sea-sickness. Dammit, why can't you just stand still, you stupid house?
I make myself climb down the ladder. I am not staying up there tonight, I don't care if I have to sleep in Angelette's corvette. I don't want to be in the house any more.
It's on the second story that I see him.
Motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm, his eyes lock with mine and I flush. I am not really dressed to be seen in public.
"Hey," he says in a soft, deep voice. "You okay?"
I nod furiously. Admitting that I'm scared to Dylan is unthinkable...
The tears on my cheeks give me away.
"You want to go out?"
I nod, betraying my own resolve before it has a chance to cement.
"Come on." He doesn't even smirk or try to make fun of me. "You'll want to grab a jacket."
Challenge 111
Use a house in a story fragment. Think about the power of rooms (kitchens, basements, unfinished attics, walk-in closets) on psychology and conversation. In this fragment, make the house a unique, though passive, participant in the unfolding efvents.
Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)
Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Challenge 30: Whydunnit?
He knocked very gently on the frail cottage door, as Dylas always had when they visited. “If she thinks it’s one of the neighbours, she won’t open it,” he’d explained. She was peering through the window, but he avoided looking.
Lanu didn’t see who it was, but it wasn’t one of the villagers, so she opened the door to see Santor on the doorstep, alone. “Come in,” she said, sickened suddenly.
“I’ve got really bad news,” responded Santor shakily.
She had some idea why Santor was there and her son wasn’t. “I know. Come in.” He followed her in and sat at the table. Lanu lifted a kettle from the fire and began pouring hot water into mugs. Santor sat in nervous silence, but she put the kettle down and dropped into a chair without making the tea. “We were trying to free the quarry workers at Haithek. Dylas fought well but he was attacked by two men and…and there was nothing we could do.”
Lanu sat in silence. Her son, attacked by brutal swords. Ever since she’d let him go – over three years now – she had dreaded it. Now it was almost a relief to let go; she need never worry again. But to be killed by those swords…
“I’m so sorry,” Santor repeated desperately. “I never thought this would happen, or I wouldn’t have asked him to come.”
She shook her head. “It was bound to happen. I should not have let him go.”
“You can hardly blame yourself.” But she didn’t blame herself – she blamed him, of course. The whole village would. The outsider, the recruiter, who’d sweet-talked their boy into a harsh – and apparently short - life in the resistance.
She rose and found a woven box of tea leaves, which she stirred into the mugs. “Please,” she set one in front of him. “Was it…was it quick?”
“Yes,” he said hastily, not knowing if it was true, “but he hardly had time to say anything.”
“You…you buried him?”
“At the quarry,” Santor admitted reluctantly. “We couldn’t afford to take them back, the others said. I wish there’d been some way…I brought his sabre.” He bent and removed the cloth-wrapped blade and dagger from his pack but Lanu, although she reached out to touch, didn’t take them. “You can have them.”
He’d rehearsed something while walking into the village, to tell Lanu that her son had been his best friend, that the friendship had kept him sane and human; but what came out was: “They’re all saying he was a real martyr...”
Because he took on the captain, who’d only been doing his job too.
“Oh,” said Lanu softly and it occurred to Santor that she didn’t want to hear it.
At his village, they’d sat around talking the day after it happened – Santor sunk in misery and not ready to do anything apart from huddle in a corner.
“Crazy, taking on their captain when he was already injured,” said Revan, who’d seen it too, with a mixture of admiration and confusion.
“Would we have been able to get out if he hadn’t?”
Santor thought they would have, but he didn’t say it. The others hadn’t talked to Dylas beforehand; they hadn’t heard the frustration in his voice, or the guilt at the violence the resistance perpetrated.
“No, it was definitely the best thing to do, but he never struck me as the all-or-nothing martyr type,” Revan pointed out. “Too shy...too thoughtful... not crazy enough.”
What if they realised Dylas hadn’t done it for them, but for himself?
Why couldn’t he have waited another hour or two until it was over, and taken the straightforward option of saying, “Santor, I’m going back to the peace mission”? But he’d tried already, and got Santor’s ‘It’s worth sacrificing your conscience’ routine.
“Hate to be the one saying it, but before we turn him into a martyr, isn’t it possible he just got impulsive and did something stupid? Maybe he was caught up in the moment and didn’t realise how dangerous it was.”
_______________________________________________
“You needn’t feel bad,” Lanu added, breaking into Santor’s reflections. “Dylas knew what he was doing. You aren’t responsible for him.”
Santor regained his composure enough to stand. “I should be going.”
“You’re welcome to stay here for the night.”
“No, I should go,” Santor insisted firmly, desperate to leave, finding his way out the door with a mumbled goodbye and an apology.
Lanu shut it behind him and sat back at the table, staring numbly at the mug still steaming on the table. She rubbed her eyes in bewilderment, about to get up to clear it away; then pushed it aside, unable to believe herself. She didn’t care whether it had been quick or if he’d said anything. It didn’t change much. She should have been upset – she was – but underneath it she could feel a slow, dreadful relief surfacing; her resilient will already recovering and being grateful that at least she would never have to worry again. Because, after three years, at least it was all over. As the warm sun crept down her back, Lanu fumbled for something unbreakable to throw, just to hear it thudding against the wall. She rubbed her eyes again, then, resigned, laid her head down on her arms.
____________________________________________________
Wordcount: 880
Lanu didn’t see who it was, but it wasn’t one of the villagers, so she opened the door to see Santor on the doorstep, alone. “Come in,” she said, sickened suddenly.
“I’ve got really bad news,” responded Santor shakily.
She had some idea why Santor was there and her son wasn’t. “I know. Come in.” He followed her in and sat at the table. Lanu lifted a kettle from the fire and began pouring hot water into mugs. Santor sat in nervous silence, but she put the kettle down and dropped into a chair without making the tea. “We were trying to free the quarry workers at Haithek. Dylas fought well but he was attacked by two men and…and there was nothing we could do.”
Lanu sat in silence. Her son, attacked by brutal swords. Ever since she’d let him go – over three years now – she had dreaded it. Now it was almost a relief to let go; she need never worry again. But to be killed by those swords…
“I’m so sorry,” Santor repeated desperately. “I never thought this would happen, or I wouldn’t have asked him to come.”
She shook her head. “It was bound to happen. I should not have let him go.”
“You can hardly blame yourself.” But she didn’t blame herself – she blamed him, of course. The whole village would. The outsider, the recruiter, who’d sweet-talked their boy into a harsh – and apparently short - life in the resistance.
She rose and found a woven box of tea leaves, which she stirred into the mugs. “Please,” she set one in front of him. “Was it…was it quick?”
“Yes,” he said hastily, not knowing if it was true, “but he hardly had time to say anything.”
“You…you buried him?”
“At the quarry,” Santor admitted reluctantly. “We couldn’t afford to take them back, the others said. I wish there’d been some way…I brought his sabre.” He bent and removed the cloth-wrapped blade and dagger from his pack but Lanu, although she reached out to touch, didn’t take them. “You can have them.”
He’d rehearsed something while walking into the village, to tell Lanu that her son had been his best friend, that the friendship had kept him sane and human; but what came out was: “They’re all saying he was a real martyr...”
Because he took on the captain, who’d only been doing his job too.
“Oh,” said Lanu softly and it occurred to Santor that she didn’t want to hear it.
At his village, they’d sat around talking the day after it happened – Santor sunk in misery and not ready to do anything apart from huddle in a corner.
“Crazy, taking on their captain when he was already injured,” said Revan, who’d seen it too, with a mixture of admiration and confusion.
“Would we have been able to get out if he hadn’t?”
Santor thought they would have, but he didn’t say it. The others hadn’t talked to Dylas beforehand; they hadn’t heard the frustration in his voice, or the guilt at the violence the resistance perpetrated.
“No, it was definitely the best thing to do, but he never struck me as the all-or-nothing martyr type,” Revan pointed out. “Too shy...too thoughtful... not crazy enough.”
What if they realised Dylas hadn’t done it for them, but for himself?
Why couldn’t he have waited another hour or two until it was over, and taken the straightforward option of saying, “Santor, I’m going back to the peace mission”? But he’d tried already, and got Santor’s ‘It’s worth sacrificing your conscience’ routine.
“Hate to be the one saying it, but before we turn him into a martyr, isn’t it possible he just got impulsive and did something stupid? Maybe he was caught up in the moment and didn’t realise how dangerous it was.”
_______________________________________________
“You needn’t feel bad,” Lanu added, breaking into Santor’s reflections. “Dylas knew what he was doing. You aren’t responsible for him.”
Santor regained his composure enough to stand. “I should be going.”
“You’re welcome to stay here for the night.”
“No, I should go,” Santor insisted firmly, desperate to leave, finding his way out the door with a mumbled goodbye and an apology.
Lanu shut it behind him and sat back at the table, staring numbly at the mug still steaming on the table. She rubbed her eyes in bewilderment, about to get up to clear it away; then pushed it aside, unable to believe herself. She didn’t care whether it had been quick or if he’d said anything. It didn’t change much. She should have been upset – she was – but underneath it she could feel a slow, dreadful relief surfacing; her resilient will already recovering and being grateful that at least she would never have to worry again. Because, after three years, at least it was all over. As the warm sun crept down her back, Lanu fumbled for something unbreakable to throw, just to hear it thudding against the wall. She rubbed her eyes again, then, resigned, laid her head down on her arms.
____________________________________________________
Wordcount: 880
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