Category: project

Day #4

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Almagest: The celebrated work of Ptolemy of Alexandria which contains nearly all that is known of the astronomical observations and theories of the ancients

Cat: Any animal belonging to the natural family Felidae and in particular to the various species of the genera Felis Panthera and Lynx

Antediluvian: Before the flood or Deluge in Noahs time

—–

Standing in line for my morning Starbucks Mocha – one shot, no cream, thanks – I was suddenly struck by the oddest thought: Had there been an antediluvian equivalent of reality television?

Had scribes followed Noah around in the years preceding the flood, talking to the bearded weirdo and his family, chipping every word and embarrassing mishap into hard baked clay tablets? Had people copied these words onto papyrus? Onto vellum? And if so, how many calves had to perish so that the Nephilim could keep up with the Noahs?

‘Yes Sir, what can I get for you?’

‘Mocha to go, one shot, no cream – ta.’

‘And the name?’

I hated this bit. Why did he need to know my name? It was friendliness that veered into the uncanny valley, a pastiche of sincerity – and all for fucking coffee. I liked to challenge them.

‘Almagest,’ I said.

Ptolemy’s masterwork felt like an appropriate pseudonym – after all it was something that had once been deemed utterly essential to everyday life, only to be revealed as full of bullshit and lies centuries later. I liked to think the same thing might happen to Starbucks one day.

The barista gave me a strange look that quickly diluted into one that said ‘ha ha, very funny, I know what you’re doing, but I’d rather keep the green mermaid happy than play your little game…’

‘Ok Sir, just stand at the counter and your drink will be ready shortly.’

Moving past the endless varieties of smartly bagged coffee beans – Colombian, Ecuadorian, Brazilian, Something elseian – I recalled that somewhere in Asia there was a type of coffee brewed from beans digested and excreted by cats…maybe weasels? I’m not sure. Maybe it would come back to me after a caffeine boost.

I lingered amongst the other zombies by the counter, half awake city types, a real army of the walking dead. Every single one of us trying our best to ignore each other, avoiding eye contact, desperately waiting for our name to be called first.

Without social media this must have been what Noah and his family’s fans were like. Zombies stood around waiting to see which animal would turn up next, clay in hand for an autograph that was only going to get washed away at some point. At least, that was the case if you believed what Noah said. ‘Can you chisel “good luck in the flood,” please?’ Pathetic.

‘Almagest!’ called a thick Spanish accent.

‘Here!’  I replied greedily, taking the hot foam cup like a grail and instantly taking a sip. Mmm, liquid corporation.

Pushing through the crowd, growing like a sleepy coral reef, I felt relieved to feel a cool breeze on my face again, the acrid tang of South American coffee now no more than a footnote.

I looked at the side of the coffee cup, curious to see how they’d managed to misspell my misnomer this morning.

Written in thick, black strokes were four letters: ‘CUNT’.

(image via : https://www.flickr.com/photos/thomasfitzgerald/)

Day #3

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Iceman: A man who is skilled in traveling upon ice as among glaciers

Desponsage: Betrothal

Hyetograph: A chart or graphic representation of the average distribution of rain over the surface of the earth

—–

Flakes of ice scattered in the wind, like frozen confetti thrown over a newly married bride. The Iceman tested the strength of his pickaxe’s hold, three sharp tugs followed by a pause and then two more. He was always cautious when climbing on glaciers. He’d heard too many stories of people being dragged to their death by a desponsage between their bodyweight and gravity. But not him. He had work to do.

After a climb of several hours, the Iceman was finally approaching the top of a sharp, frozen incline somewhere deep in the wilderness of Montana. Clouds hung heavily above him, as if watching with curiosity. Their dark flanks rumbled territorially and it was clear that a storm was going to break sooner rather than later. The Iceman ripped his pickaxe free, dug the spikes of his shoes a foot higher and smashed the axe back into the ice. He heaved himself up. The movement was almost metronomic now.

A wry grimace flitted across his face, stained desert red from a hidden sun, bleached Siberian white by permafrost. He knew that the thick, thermal suit he wore was keeping him alive, but at the same time he knew that from a distance he must resemble little more than an insect clinging to the side of some giant structure. A woodlouse on bark. Rip, kick, heave, smash, grunt. Tick, tock. Rinse and repeat.

The wind was getting stronger, almost sadistically so and the laminated map that hung around his neck was flapping wildly, a startled bird. He managed to grip it between his teeth, their creamy white somehow purer than the deep blue-white of the glacier, then pulled himself up over the final ridge and onto the top of the icecap. He lay on his back staring up the sky, ragged breath spraying a sea salt mist. Overhead the swirling miasma of darkening cloud boomed a congratulatory note.

Knowing how dangerous a breaking storm could be for anyone in his position, the Iceman pushed himself up, ignoring the silent screams of his aching body. He just had to grab a few core samples for the annual hyetograph and he could leave. It seemed like an awful lot of work for what was essentially a glorified jam jar weather report. No sharpie marker pens to note the rainfall here. He thought of the abseil back down. He enjoyed that part the most – an effortless glide down the back of a ten thousand year old monster.

The Iceman suddenly felt very small again, acutely reminded of his situation: a tiny shellac mosquito, leaching frozen blood from a dinosaur. Hemmed in by the endless snowfield of clouds above. Hemmed in by the frozen ocean beneath his feet. The glacier rippled a strange turquoise colour when the first crackle of lightning erupted.

Day #2

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Unbowed : Not bent or arched not bowed down

Papyrine : Imitation parchment made by soaking unsized paper in dilute sulphuric acid

Approving : Expressing approbation commending as an approving smile

—–

It was the perfect plan. Gaston had spent months scouring the archives, memorising the shapes of letters. The curly flourish of a capital ‘R’. The crucifix of a small ‘t’. The endless ouroboros of the letter ‘o’. Of course, he had been helped along the way, spending countless hours alone with nothing but scrolls, the thick stub of a candle and the Pastor, who despite his saintly façade stood to gain as much from Gaston’s plan as the man himself. After all, it never hurt to have the Lord’s backing.

The Pastor, an elderly man whose back was remarkably unbowed despite his age, was a common fixture in the village. Trusted and feared in equal measure by his flock, he was always willing to interpret God’s word in a particular way if the gold coin bent between his teeth. Bent coins always gave way to a cackle and the same old tired joke that it was a ‘special communion wafer’ rather than bribe.

Was it really a bribe though if the word was never mentioned, or was it merely engendering oneself to God’s approving gaze? And therein lay the rub: you had to take the Pastor’s word for what constituted good and evil. If a gold coin slipped between sweaty fingers was acknowledged as good, then so be it.

Gaston worked in the village tannery. He awoke at dawn, made his way to the butcher’s abattoir and collected the previous day’s hides, many still covered in the yesterday’s gore like a bad dream. Over time his nose had become numb to the smell of rotting flesh and he had learnt to tolerate the buzzing of flies, flitting around the freshly deceased like children clamouring for honeyed gingerbread.

By the time the village slowly began to grind to life, Gaston had already trimmed, salted and washed dozens of pelts, then dumped them in the pit to wait until the hair rotted off. He hated the pit. It was filled with a lime and water solution that smelt so sickly sweet it made him gag. Death shouldn’t smell of flowers.

He wasn’t trusted to tan the leather yet, that came upon completing his apprenticeship. But still, the smoke of the furnaces and the faeces that stained the leather often made his eyes water and his throat burn. It was more a punishment than a job. But the rumor kept him going. He had to cling to it.

The Pastor had pitied Gaston, said he had known the boy’s mother before she died giving birth to her only son. The wily old man had even mentioned that Gaston’s mother had moved in prestigious circles, very prestigious indeed, especially before Gaston had been born.

A stolen gold coin later and here they were. Gaston, memorising his letters and then re-writing his own birth certificate. Gaston watching the Pastor gingerly submerge paper into the green tinted acid, the resulting papyrine indistinguishable from real parchment. Gaston hoping to start a new life. The gappy grin of the Pastor flickering like an empty skull above the flicker of a candle.

Day #1

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Words defined below, followed by the story.

Comptroler : A controller a public officer whose duty it is to examine certify accounts

Needlecraft: An article or articles created or assembled by needle and thread needlework

Spissitude: The quality or state of being thick, dense, or compact like coagulated blood.

——

When the needle fell to the floor from between thick, clumsy fingers, the Comptroller reclined in his wicker chair. Drumming his fingers on the wooden armrests, a dull ache accompanied each tap, the swollen skin like a spade hitting dry ground. He put his needlecraft on his desk and let out a hearty sigh. Across a thin balsa wood frame was stretched a taut, gauze like piece of cotton. Off-white, as though stained by cigarettes, it was an impractically thin sheet of fabric. But wasn’t that the point, he wondered. Thin thread, thin needle, even thinner canvas. It was all about delicacy. Control.

At the behest of his wife, who was concerned by his ambient tumble through life, he had agreed to take up a hobby. He’d thought long and hard, half-heartedly trying one or two things that had quickly fallen to the wayside, drifting past like tumbleweed. Eventually, she had coerced him to take up needlecraft, reasoning with the weight of experience gained through a long suffering marriage, that he could enjoy it from the comfort of his seat, moving little more than his fingers. He’d agreed that that seemed as good a reason as any. The callouses that quickly developed on the tips of his fingers reminded him of tiny snail shells – tough, impenetrable whorls.

He’d been working on this current piece for hours but like most things associated with innocuous middle-management, he had done so devoid of any real purpose, and as such the black thread coiled limply like a fossilized spider web at the end of unfinished words: ‘HOME SWEE’. He’d finish it later maybe. If not, then perhaps tomorrow.

It had been another quiet day in the office, not that many people had much need the finance department at a municipal park, and being one’s own boss meant priorities could easily be shifted. Who’d notice if the grass were a little long for a week? That was what it did – grow. He yawned, stretched, and cracked his knuckles with pleasure pain, an oxymoronic action.

The sun slumped through the windows, a spissitude of golden syrup that filled the room with lazy warmth, both comforting and tiring. Tiny comets of dust flared to life in the late afternoon, then faded like mayflies. The Comptroller’s eyes half-heartedly closed of their own volition, turgidly closing before flicking open again. Beneath, two bags hung like deflated beach balls.

He felt the seductive pull of sleep draw him in, mesmerised like a snake by an elderly, bearded Indian man in strange clothes. How did they do that? Control snakes with music? His head lolled. The insides of his eyelids were burnt a dull red by the sunlight and as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness the last thing that he saw was the pulsing of strange and unnameable colours. The needle lay on the floor and glinted.

NEW PROJECT: 3 random words = 500 word story

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Ok, so I’ve just finished work on the first draft of a longer piece (dropping the word novel just seems to imply a lot of negative connotations – after all, who “isn’t” working on a novel…).

To occupy myself whilst I let it breathe, I am starting a new project to keep my creative juices flowing. It works like this:

Each day I generate 3x random words from http://www.wordgenerator.net/random-word-generator.php .

Then I take these three words and build a short 500 word (max) story around them.

EDIT: Don’t forget to follow the blog to keep up to date on how this all pans out!