Flash Fiction - In Aggregate
Jan. 7th, 2015 08:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
semiotic_pirateBelow is the series of posts that I made - after going through the trouble of figuring out how to move my entire journal over - when I was in a really good writing groove. As I mentioned in the post just prior to this one, I've decided to stick with LJ. The devil I know, eh? I'll likely do regular back-up transfers over to the other blog, just in case, but do the original postings here.
As you can see from some of the timestamps I include in the Post Date titles, I was working a long day, then coming home and (after beginning each story in the evening) I would find myself unable to go to rest and sleep until I had purged my mind of the story that had been bubbling in my subconscious all day. Further, I would gather my "offerings" in the morning, upon first arriving at work, because the tabs in my browser would open to my Word of the Day (WOTD) websites.
I welcome any constructive criticism on my writing, both that contained in this post, and anything else you have access in my blog. Though I admit most of my posts prior to 2009 are of the more usual journal fare. Of course, my memory might be faulty. You'll only know if you go wandering through and do some background reading. Don't mind the large section that's been time-locked until I've come to terms with the experiences the posts describe.
You might want to keep this post handy and read each of the below micro stories on their own, over a number of days. Or when you're going to be doing a variety of chores about the home, where every time you take a break you read a story nibble. What I'm trying to get at is - there's A LOT of writing below the cut. The beginning of each post is delineated with a blue title, followed by anything that appeared in the post - the only changes I've made are to some of the visual editor elements in order to make the text more easily read by giving it a consistent style.
Okay then. Enough with the preamble. It was starting to feel like an Evil Scientist Monologue.
5/8/14 - Day One of Micro Story Challenge - 0238 timestamp.
Today I had an idea that I batted about on Twitter a bit. A personal, creating writing challenge in which I would have to use the “Word of the Day” offerings from at least five different websites and create a story from those words. Today’s offerings and story are below.
Gormless – weak of mind or body, especially gullible or clumsy
Tolutiloquent – smooth talking fluency
Incredulous – skeptical; disbelieving
Lionize – to treat as an object of great interest or importance
Wanderlust – a strong, innate desire to rove or travel about
The Tale of The Traveling Dude – Day 15,792,356
Although I don’t consider myself to be a jaded traveler, I found myself marveling at the people that lived in this little hamlet on the north side of Hushabye Mountain. They had somehow made a tradition out of lionizing the gormless. Perhaps it was based on a tendency to root for the underdog in all of us, perhaps it was based on the villagers’ first sighting of Charlie Brown making an attempt to kick the football as Lucy held it upright before snatching it away and making a fool of poor Charlie. Well, maybe not. After all, the only archives remaining of Charlie Brown were located in the undersea library of the Denem Conglomerate. Heck. I’d only seen it because of my demi-doctoral research on the Dudist religion.
Before the wanderlust took me away to some other fantastical place, with traditions and folklore equally likely to produce an incredulous response from me, I decided to track this reverence for the inept and and gullible that had taken hold of and was a guiding force in these people’s daily lives. I made my way up and down the lanes, questioning each passerby and each person that was within hailing range near each abode. I talked to the young and the old, the gendered and the genderless, the tall, the short, the beanstalk and the stout.
Of all the people that were willing to discuss the subject, there was this one person that was able to help me dig out the nugget of original lore upon which was based this now-entrenched behavior. I am unable to fully describe this person as they seemed to be all of the people I had met already and all of the ones I’d met in earlier travels. This individual’s features wouldn’t settle and the same could be said for their clothing; their voice was a multi-hued harmonic blend of other voices. It is rare to encounter such a being, but it is known to happen.
Regardless of the description, this person spoke in a tolutiloquent manner, beginning with how the behavior was practiced today and working backwards through each iteration of change, giving examples of how this metamorphosis occurred and continually segued to what went before. This conversation may have lasted hours or days, it may have actually occurred in a pocket universe with both no and unlimited time. The kernel of truth, when it was finally revealed, was as startling as a crocodile leaping out of a tree as you passed beneath the tree’s boughs, the crocodile’s jaws nearly snapping your head off in passing.
The revelation was made when the storyteller reached into a basket at their feet and brought out a battered device with what appeared to be a glass screen and the size of the paper I’d seen in an ancient cultures exhibit at a museum back in Timbuktu. They passed their hand over the devise and activated a flat-film of people dressed in odd garments of an odious green color. I heard phrases that were still being used by the town residents such as “Shazam,” “Golly!,”, and “Surprise. Surprise. Surprise.” There was a sense of awe upon seeing the travails and circumstances of this Private First Class Gomer Pyle of the United States Marine Corps, that so much of this people’s culture could be steeped in the mannerisms and of an ancient archetype.
Update: This piece was submitted to a flash fiction contest - via @MolotovLitZine's #FlashFool. Maybe I am a fool too.
5/9/14 - Day Two of Micro Story Challenge - 0252 timestamp.
Today’s offerings were nine in number, and nine were the number of offerings.
Wimple – a cloth wound around the head, framing the face, and drawn into folds beneath the chin; worn by women in medieval times and as part of the habit of certain orders of nuns.
Quixotic – idealistic without regard to practicality; impulsive; tending to act on whims
Cataract – a clouding of the lens of the eye obstructing the passage of light; a waterfall over a steep precipice; steep rapids in a river; downpour; flood.
Caprine – of or pertaining to goats
Minatory – daunting or threatening, menacing.
Lustration – to purify by a propitiatory offering or other ceremonial method.
Poori – a light, round, unleavened wheat bread typically deep fried from Pakistan or Northern India.
Adversity – state of misfortune or calamity.
Incompatible – not in keeping with what is right or proper; not suitable to your tastes or needs; not harmonious with other facts.
The Saving
Her walk down the well-worn path was slow, the shock of the day’s adversity crippling her gait. The descent of the locust hordes upon the wheat fields had been only partly held at bay by the fire-shield bearing stilt-walkers. The evening, approaching with a minatory aspect, flung itself across the sky like a red cloak floating upon the smoke that rose protectively above the remaining stalks. The invasion had been incompatible with the demands of the imminent harvest, the scythes were left where they’d fallen to the ground. Exhaustion felled the villagers in turn for their unexpected rescue of the crop that will hopefully still be able to feed them through until next harvest. Her work, though, is not yet done.
She pauses and crouches down on the path’s edge to unsling her zahato of wine and unpack her first set of poori and goat cheese. While chewing on the flatbread wrapped around the cheese, she recalls the work of making this very cheese, and that the sire of the goat from which the milk came was the capering caprine from which the zahato was made. How close her world was bound, the requirement that all food and drink that passed her lips must be crafted by her hands made it so. She finished off a last zurrust before capping the nozzle, then she stood and reslung the bota and brushed the crumbs from her hands.
As the sky darkened into night, with the moon above and the stars coming alight to illumine her way, she slowly unwraps one of the sashes at her waist and begins to rewrap it about her head into a wimple to hold off the cooling of the air from her bare scalp. Through the night she walked. Without faltering, her steps pad softly upon the earth beneath her feet. As the sky lightens back into day, the end of the path comes into sight.
At the end of the path, a cliff face rises up into the air, a cataract of flowering vines obstructing most of the rocky surface. She walks up to the turbulent shock of green and parts the strands to enter the cave lurking behind the foliage. Her journey to the place of lustration complete, she retrieves the items she will need from the various nooks and hooks throughout the dimly lit space. The striker, the tinder, kindling and logs made from twisted bunches of the brush of last year’s wheat stubble, the clay pot of oil pressed from last year’s wheat germ, and a large wooden bowl, these are the items she will need for today’s purification ceremony.
She prepares the hearth in the middle of the space for the fire yet lit, placing the oil to one side of the stones surrounding the fire pit. Stepping back, she removes the wimple, unslings and drops the zahato and pack, unwraps the remainder of the sashes from her body, and drops the shift from her shoulders. Stripped bare, she lights and builds the fire. As the smoke rises from the fire, she begins to wave her hands and arms through the smoke, gesticulating in a quixotic fashion. She does this with eyes burning until every last bit of wheat stubble is gone. After the fire dies, while the ashes cool, she crouches near her shed belongings and breaks her fast yet again with wine, cheese and poori. As she eats, she recalls the making of the wine, she revels each year when she gets to stomp the grapes. A smile steals across her lips. She takes all of her belongings and carefully places them into her pack, and placed her pack near the door for later retrieval.
Finally, the ashes cool, she scoops them up and places them in the bowl. Atop this she pours the oil and begins to mix the ashes and oil together into a paste. She takes the paste and begins smearing it across her scalp, over her face, breasts, arms, buttocks, until all but a rough rectangle of her back is covered. As she smeared the paste, she visualized the remaining crop, saw it harvested and stored against the coming winter with the other food stores. She saw it, and enough seed grain leftover, lasting through the winter, through next spring’s planting, lasting until other crops were harvested in time and season as it was once laid out and shall ever remain. Once complete, she walks to the opening in the cave, past her pack, through the vines, and back down the path to the village.
Through the night she will again walk the path. When she arrives at the village, it will be dawn yet again. The villagers will complete their own lustration by washing her clean again. With this, she has learned, she may ward off any further plagues of locusts from this year’s crops. It has always worked for her predecessors. It shall work for her. It must. Her people depended on her. She is their shaman, their bruja, their daayan. They believe in her, and their belief feeds the working of the spells. This is what she knows.
5/10/14 - Day Three of Micro Story Challenge - 0101 timestamp.
Today’s offerings:
Specious – deceptively attractive; have the ring of truth or plausibility but actually fallacious
Wharfinger – an owner or keeper of a wharf
Mien – air or bearing especially as expressive of an attitude or personality; demeanor; appearance; aspect
Diction – style of speaking or writing as dependent upon choice of words; the accent, inflection, intonation, and speech-sound quality manifested by an individual speaker, usually judged in terms of prevailing standards of acceptability; enunciation
Green gown – a dress that has been stained green from rolling in the grass; generally an allusion to sexual activity
Methuseleh – an oversize wine bottle holding approximately six liters; an extremely old person
Mnemonic – a device (e.g. a rhyme or acronym) used to aid recall
Preparations for the Gala
When Darla glanced to the right, down the cobblestone street, she saw a man approaching with the mien of seduction, with each move practiced and poised. His lace cuffs and jabot gleamed in the sunlight and his finely manicured fingers were bejeweled with flashing rubies and gleaming gold. The deep scarlet of his jacket was made bolder due to its pairing with a pair of tight breeches and boots molded to his shapely calves. Darla appreciated the effort the man went to to present so pleasant an image for the female gaze, though noting her companion’s interest she realized he was pleasing to the male gaze as well and nodded to herself that this was as it should be.
She touched Jeremy’s forearm and commented in her typical languorous diction, “One has to wonder if the pretty wrapping is a disguise for a specious intent, darling.” Jeremy chuckled and replied in his crisply enunciated high court accent, “Regardless if it is, poppet, he likely has no trouble generating a trail of green gowns and breeches in his wake. Now, we must stop ogling and move on to see the Wharfinger to see if the Methuselahs for tonight’s gala have arrived.”
Darla began to skip ahead singing softly to herself, “Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can’t Handle and Scottish Lads Take Prostitutes to the Caledonian Hotel.” “Ahh.” said Jeremy, strolling after her. “I see your anatomy class has you studying the carpal bones this week.” In reply, Darla cheekily waved back at him over her shoulder by rotating her hand about on her wrist. Tonight, Jeremy thought to himself, was going to be fun. He wondered if the fabulous popinjay would end up finding his way to the event and began to daydream about such an occurrence as he continued to follow Darla off in the direction of the wharf. Only time would tell.
5/11/14 - Day Four of Micro Story Challenge - 0130 timestamp.
WOTD Offerings:
Retinue – a group of retainers or attendants
Zephyr – a gently, mild breeze
Cognitive – Relating to the process of acquiring knowledge by the use of reasoning, intuition, or perception. Having a basis in or reducible to empirical factual knowledge.
Fret – to make or become worried
Scrip – a certificate representing a claim to part of a share of property
Cymotrichous – (anthropology) Having wavy hair
The Lumberjack’s Adventure
One day, deep in a forest, a man with the demeanor of a lumberjack was walking along a path, with a shining, well cared for ax gripped lightly by its handle in his burly fist and his bright plaid shirt half unbuttoned, revealing a well muscled chest covered in a pelt of reddish brown, curling hair. His tanned leather boots hit the ground soundlessly as he made his way back to the site from which he had been harvesting the red maple that the local carpenter had contracted for next summer. If he cut it over the next few weeks, it would all be well-seasoned and ready to be made into that fifty-guest dining table that the Duchess Goldblat planned to use as the centerpiece of her harvest festival celebration when the King arrived during the royal progress.
As he continued along the path, he considered his options for the evenings entertainment. Although Sven and Haldor had mentioned wanting to take a flitter down to the city for mead and dancing at the Pleasure Dome, he was more inclined to curl up with a good book next to the fire with his Irish Wolfhound Knute laying across his feet. He had just gotten to the part where the excavators had reached the final room of the long barrow of Wayland’s Smithy and was looking forward to moving on to the surrounding mythology of Wayland himself. Funny how his archaeology degree didn’t lead him off to distant worlds, but back to the family lands when his elder brother abdicated the title in favor of being a colonist in the first ships to leave for Bode’s Galaxy. His brother had itchy feet and loved his Heinlein when he was growing up, and now the newest, proven streak drives were making it possible to colonize further out than his family had ever reached before. So, the scrip fell to him and he found himself enjoying his life as a landowning woodsman.
Looking up at the bright blue of the sky through the branches of the surrounding trees, and he smiled as he felt the sweet zephyr run its fingers through his hair as it played in the leaves overhead. Off to the right, a sudden cracking of branches preceded a family group of does and fawns leaping across the path in front of him. The deer, barely glancing at him as they passed, fled further off into the woods, away from what had startled them. Curious, he thought, the nearest predator’s tag showed it much further south. If one of them didn’t startle the deer, then what did? He didn’t have any hikers, traveler bands, or people running a live action roleplay for the Society of Creative Anachronism in the area either. Well, nothing for it but to go see what it is, he thought. The care of the land was his responsibility now.
Leaving the path and moving through the brush that the deer had rushed through, he traveled about thirty yards when he started to hear voices. Better people than some untagged predator he thought to himself, though there were few enough of those these days; only a few wolf-analog dens and hexapuma lairs were missed each season. As he walked on, he realized that the voices were coming from the clearing where he’d found a ring of stones when he was a boy, the stones that had originally gotten him interested in archaeology. Half the universities in the galaxy had sent teams out at one time or another since he had found them, so long ago. He’d actually based his dissertation on them, using research that was partly what many people of Earth a few centuries prior had thought were “ancient alien” myths and proving the now known fact that humanity had gone to the stars many times in its long history.
As he came upon the edge of the clearing he noticed that the people standing in it were dressed very strangely. One one side of a confrontation was a man with golden, cymotrichous hair. He would normally have called it wavy, but this man seemed an archetype in all his parts, including his armor. Although all he could see of it was what was revealed when the growing wind pushed aside the red cloak he was wearing, that was definitely what appeared to be a mix of plate and mail armor. Had he read the calendar wrong this morning? He was still getting used to the difference between the local calendar compared to the universal calendar used on digs and by spacers in general. His thoughts were interrupted by noticing the group the first man faced. He couldn’t clearly see the man directly across from the first aside from flashes of a deep green and… were those horns? But he had never seen the like of the retinue behind the second man. If this world had produced a biped-type upright hominid-analog, they might have looked like this. These beings had four arms, with blue skin and large manes of bright orange hair, wearing armor similar to that seen on the first man. His cognitive functions couldn’t decide whether to be fascinated, frightened, or alarmed. In all the thousands of years humanity had been in space, they had yet to meet another biped anything like itself. The Treecats, native of Sphinx (now spread out on almost as many worlds as had humans), the Whaleflyers of Polyphemous, and the hive-minded Silicates of Antares VI were among the few existing sentient species that humanity had found so far.
He shook his head to clear it and realized that he’d never heard the language the two men were speaking, either. It sounded a bit like the old Norse his grandmother had taught him from the cradle, the language which he had studied further at university along with the ancient languages of Greek, Sanskrit, and Latin, with Navaho, and the new variant of sign language thrown in for his current age language requirements. Wait! That word, he knew that word… Brother. These men were brothers, and arguing about something that appeared to be upsetting them both. He couldn’t read well the body language of the blue men, but a tightened grip on a hilt was universal. He didn’t like the odds in this confrontation, regardless of whether they were brothers. He stepped forward into the clearing, ax held at a nonthreatening angle, and his voice rang into the air for the first time that day as he shouted “Excuse me!”
The first man, spun partly around, not giving his back to his brother but far enough to see me. This movement revealed a green-eyed, green-clad, pale man with a horned headdress who had just been in the act of raising his arm up to point at the man in the red cloak and armor. The green-eyed man held out one hand to his apparent retainers, who had taken a step toward me, while still pointing toward his brother. The green-eyed man’s face twisted with a sly grin, and he said clearly “Let it be so.” A flash of light and a popping sound, accompanied by what seemed to be a rapid shrinking of the first man, down into the grass and meadow flowers at his feet. What the…
“What in the word do you think you’re doing?!” he shouts as he steps further into the clearing, simultaneously tapping his com and locator beacon for emergency extraction from the area back to his family Stedd with the code for intruders. Damn it! Why didn’t he bring the transporter beacon instead of just the locator beacon? It would take at least ten minutes for the Stedd’s A.I. to send the flitter out to the clearing. As he fretted over this delay, he noticed that the green-eyed man was stalking quickly in his direction, the blue men at his heels. Stopping abruptly before him, the green-eyed man asked “What is your name, human?” The woodsman tightened his jaw and looked into the other man’s eyes before saying “Loki.”
The green-eyed man began to laugh, slapping his thigh in mirth. “Imagine that,” he said, still chuckling. “Then you’ll likely enjoy this thoroughly” he muttered with a glint of humor still in his eyes as he flicked his hand in my direction. A flash of light, and a popping sound, and the green-eyed man seemed to grow into a towering giant as he and his retinue passed by me and left the clearing.
Loki, his blue eyes flashing in irritation, noticed that the green-eyed man hadn’t actually grown to gigantic proportions, he had somehow shrunk! He looked at his hands and realized they were covered with fur the same reddish brown as the hair on his head. He was still wearing the same clothes he had been, tanned boots, dark brown synthpants, bright plaid shirt. He even still had his ax, com and locator beacon. But as he looked up, expecting to see the open sky of the tree branches, he saw instead the tops of the blades of grass and the underside of the meadow flowers nodding in the wind. The other man, the one in the armor and cloak, this must’ve been what happened to him! Loki started forward in the direction he last saw the other man, exploring what was now his face (a snout?!) and felt something dragging behind him yet touching him at the same time. He turned slightly about to see what it was and yelled “Great googly-moogly, is that a TAIL?!” Knowing there was nothing he could do about this weird transformation now, he began walking again in the direction of the other man’s likely location. As he rounded a boulder that would once have been a rock that he’d barely have felt beneath his boot, he came upon the other man. At least, he figured it must be the other man as he still had the armor and red cloak, he even had what looked like a battle hammer in the hand that had previously been hidden by the movement of the cloak, earlier. However, this was no man, this was a frog. A frog that looked at him with bulging eyes and yelled “NOT AGAIN!” At the end of this exclamation, thunder cracked the sky without a sign of lightning nor storm.
“Excuse me?” Loki said to him. “Again? What just happened? I mean I know you got turned into a frog and I into a mouse or something, that’s obvious. What I’m trying to say is: Does this mean that you know what has happened to us, and also how we may be transformed back into men?” Loki asked with what he thought was an appropriately concerned look in response to the frog’s outcry. The frog glanced his way and he said with a hint of moroseness “Rat. You are a rat. I am Thor, and I am again a frog. Yes. I know how to get us transformed back but that will mean contacting my friend Volstagg through Heimdall; however, it will likely take some time to get the message to him since he is off visiting his third daughter Hildy’s son’s family. Further, he would have to travel back to Asgard before coming to my aid in order to retrieve the Elixer of Recovery before coming here.” Thor paused before looking up into the sky past the meadow flowers and yelling “Damn you Loki!”
“Wait… What?” Loki replied quickly. “What did I do?”
“What?” said Thor.
“You said ‘Damn you Loki’ and I don’t think I did anything to deserve that, your brother looked like he was about to turn you into a frog either way, regardless of my having come into the clearing” Loki said.
At that moment, both of us facing the other with what must pass for puzzled expressions for a frog and a rat, the flitter sent by the A.I. arrived at the clearing and the external speakers of the flitter began broadcasting ‘LOKI! LOKI SIR, ARE YOU STILL HERE? YOUR LAST SIGNAL TRANSMITTED FROM THIS LOCATION BUT NEITHER YOUR COM NOR YOUR LOCATOR BEACON IS FUNCTIONING.’
Loki looked up into the air and began shouting as loud as he could “Here. I am here! This is me, down here in the grass!” Loki looked at Thor and saw the frog with his mouth gaping open and staring back at him in shock. “Your name is… Loki?” he said, faintly. “Yes. My mother had quite a sense of humor and she took pleasure naming me after one of the mythological tricksters. I’m lucky she didn’t choose Nanabozho, Wisakedjak, or Sosruko instead, but grandmother implored her to at least stick with the Norse mythos given our family’s history.” I replied matter-of-factly.
Whatever he muttered in reply was drowned out by the flitter, which having scanned the clearing with its multitude of sensors had lowered further until it was hovering closely above us. The A.I. began speaking through the external speakers again ‘LOKI, AFTER HEARING AND CONFIRMING YOUR VOICE PATTERN, I BELIEVE I HAVE LOCATED YOU. ALTHOUGH YOU APPEAR TO BE A NORWEGIAN RAT, DNA ANALYSIS CONFIRMS THAT YOU ARE INDEED YOU. PLEASE CONFIRM AND FORMALLY IDENTIFY.’ Loki looked up at the flitter, and declared firmly “I am Loki Baldur Nezii K’ai’bii’toonii script holder of Stedd Deepforest, son of Freya Naakei K’ai’bii’toonii, grandson of Alfdis Zah K’ai’bii’toonii.” ‘IDENTITY CONFIRMED.’
Loki gestured with the ax in a sweeping movement and a slight bow toward the craft as it lowered down into the clearing “Shall we retire to a safer location out of reach of the local wildlife and discuss how you need to go about contacting Volstagg through Heimdall? I’m starting to get a bit peckish and have a few more questions I’m pretty sure you might be able to answer.”
5/11/14 - Day Five of Micro Story Challenge; Evening.
Today, I will not be continuing directly on to part two of the adventures of our fair “lumberjack” with Thor. That’s going to have to wait until I do a little more research on alternate dimensions and more things Asgardian. I’ve got a couple of plot points figured out but not all the bits and pieces of stuff to make it all work and be interesting. And then there is some other planned parts that I have no idea what to do with and will need to research how to do those parts well, without falling into stereotype traps or making a mess of it entirely.
So today, it will just be a “normal” microstory challenge and not what turned out to be not a microstory at all, but something closer to what might turn out to be at least a short story. This challenge is bringing out a whole new, interesting world of words. Poetry has been my mainstay for decades, though I did dabble in the microstory when needed for some creative writing classes here and there.
On with the day’s offerings.
Abrupt – unceremoniously curt
Matrifocal – focused or centered on the mother; designating a family unit or structure headed by the mother
Initiate – cause (a process or action) to begin
Pensive – deeply, often wistfully or dreamily thoughtful; expressive of melancholy thoughtfulness
Diktat – a harsh, punitive settlement or decree imposed unilaterally on a defeated nation, political party, etc.
The Day I Left The Mothers
It really started on the day I was born. The fact that I was born with a penis meant that someday, on the age of majority, I might leave the Mothers to join the Fathers. No one ever told me if this was something that could be changed or how long this process had been going on, but I did grow up knowing that it was something that I would have to face and that would have to occur. So the day I was born actually initiated the events that are to occur tomorrow, on the morning of my twelfth birthday.
I can’t say that I had ever questioned the Diktat, for it was the way it always was and the way it would always be as far as I was concerned. The Conclave of Mothers would meet once every three moons and before current matters were discussed, the story of how the Diktat was put in place, a story so steeped in time as to almost be considered myth, was recited. This story described how the Mothers had banded together, after thousands of years of being objectified and treated as property by the Fathers, and brought down the land of the Fathers in order to create a matrifocal society. The events of the story seem almost abrupt or compressed, which is how these stories must be in order to contain all that must be known in something that can be recited in so short a time frame. A long recitation, one involving multiple speakers and lasting three days, occurs every three years, where more of the details are revealed and discussed. I have only witnessed this twice that I can recall. The last time it happened, I was nine. Many of the Mothers, whose cycles are in the correct time, will go out of the encampment of the Fathers that is erected every time of the long recitation for the three days following.
There are not just Mothers and Fathers, there are also the Others, people who are neither Mothers or Fathers. These people live with both the Mothers and the Fathers, choosing which they wish to go to at their age of majority. The Mothers call them the glue that binds the communities together, and the Others work at all the same tasks and live the same lives as the Mothers and Fathers if they choose. My favorite teacher is an Other, they have helped me with my carving skills and say that I have a natural eye for what the wood speaks.
There have been times in the past year or so that I have been pensive about what must occur during those days, the days the Mothers go out to the Fathers after the long recitation. The Mothers and Others teach us basic trades which we show skill toward, as well as many other bodies of knowledge if there is interest, but this learning does not take up all of my time and when I am not working toward excelling in these areas I think about other things. The dreams after I think about these things are confusing as well. I spoke to both my Other and my Mother guardians about those dreams when they first began, and it was then that I was told that I would definitely be going to the Fathers. Those times of melancholy have not expressed themselves often though, which is for the best. I’ve been looking forward to when I go to the Fathers, for it is there that I will learn more about what the rest of my life will be like. Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.
For now, I will sleep. Tomorrow will be the beginning of my new life with the Fathers.
5/12/14 - Day Six of Micro Story Challenge.
Today’s WOTD Offerings:
Cockamamie – ridiculous; implausible, or silly; nonsensical
Auspicious – marked by success; prosperous; suggesting a positive and successful future
Snivel – to run at the nose; to snuff mucus up the nose audibly; to cry or whine w/snuffling; to speak or act in a whining, sniffling, tearful, or weakly emotional manner.
Frippery – finery in dress, especially when showy, gaudy, or the like; empty display; ostentation; gewgaws; trifles
Vindictive – disposed to seek revenge or intended for revenge; showing malicious ill will and a desire to hurt; motivated by spite
Prier – one that pries; an especially inquisitive person; one who inquires narrowly, searches, and scrutinizes
NOTE: below is a made-up word that combines to represent the properties of a cake and a pie, called a cakie, this is pronounced “cake-eye” not like khaki or cakey. Unlike the Pake, which was described in Drop Dead Diva and is an item where all the ingredients are baked together after assembly, the cakie is meant to be assembled AFTER the various pieces are made. There is one other, blatant made-up word, for which I hope you will both excuse me, and recognize as something which may become a real word someday if we are unlucky.
The Shopkeeper in Retrospect
Who would have thought that combining a cake and a pie in such a way could have resulted in such an auspicious event as the opening of a new establishment called The Cockamamie Cakie? The city’s most celebrated up-and-coming entrepreneur, who styled herself Lady La Mode in press releases and interviews, was an overnight sensation who quickly became a beloved icon of the foodies that flocked to her shop. When the line of patrons began to reach three blocks down the road, certain, let us call them Priers, began trying to find out exactly why her cakies were so desired. No one noticed when these people disappeared.
According to historical record, the perfected combinations of piecrust, layers of perfectly baked cake, pie filling, and topping, resulted in a total of twenty unique year-round cakies and twelve limited edition seasonal cakies. According to the variety of press clippings that were still retrievable, this was something that took Lady La Mode years to perfect though there is little evidence of this. In addition, the image of the shop, both the online presence as well as the brick-and-mortar store was said to have been carefully researched by the proprietor, and had been filled to overflowing with a sense of frippery. The finely decorated style of both were reported to be as elegant and and sublime as the cakies themselves.
Anecdotal evidence, as was documented in the social media forums of the time, revealed that people all across the city, and far into the surrounding suburbs, when confronted with a celebration that did not either begin or end with a cakie, would snivel in such a sullen and demoralized manner that everyone’s good time was dimmed. Indeed, it was rumored that after a while, it got to the point where each of those disappointed people ended up in such a dismal state of mind that, instead of sinking into a fit of despair, they would seek some vindictive way to repay whoever had arranged the cakieless event.
The fripperies and air of apparent exclusivity appealed to the vain; the comfortable seats and online ordering and delivery services appealed to the slothful, the consumption of the cakies themselves appealed to the gluttonous; those who could not acquire a cakie a day were filled with envy and lust; while those that were capable of acquiring them were filled with pride; and those that were denied what they saw as their inalienable right to a cakie were filled with wrath.
It is now theologirized by some that the cakie recipes were the result of a fiendish pact. Surely this is proof that Lady La Mode was a force of evil and that the cakies themselves brought damnation to those poor, miserable people of the city that God wiped from the face of the earth. The sanctity of the separation of cake and pie must be upheld.
5/14/14 - Day Seven of Micro Story Challenge.
Today’s WOTD Offerings:
Tormentor of Catgut – a fiddler; a person who plays a violin, especially one who plays folk music
Visceral – instinctual; proceeding from instinct rather than from reasoned thinking or intellect; elementally emotional
Yokel – a person who is unsophisticated and not interested in societal culture; green woodpecker; individual from the countryside that is not well-versed in city living
ad hominem – attacking an opponent’s character rather than answering an argument; attacks that appeal to prejudices, emotions, or special interests
bumptious – self-assertive in an obnoxious way
brazen – (adj) unrestrained by convention or propriety; (verb) to face with defiance or impudence
The Performer
The self-styled Great Vizzini had been lured to the great megalopolis from her small village by the show’s producers. They had told her that she would fill all the seats in the stadium to capacity and would be able to retire on all the money that the show would generate (after they took their cut, of course). The producers, although they had been full of sweet smiles and inspirational speeches, were becoming increasingly bumptious as the opening night of the show approached. She shrugged this off as being an inevitable result of the amount of time and money they had invested into the show for it to draw those crowds and to succeed.
When the show opened, she brazenly took the stage for she did this for the sake of many things which were important to her, including her belief in her ability and for the sake of the music itself. There was no hesitation when she began. Her weak-strong, slurred bowing pattern was perfectly executed, while the melodic phrasing of her broken arpeggio section of the reels had the crowd dancing on their seats, and when she bowed her sequences separately, leaning toward connected, legato bow strokes, the effect was exquisite. As the performance came into its near finale, her increasingly frenetic tempo was interspersed with deliberate and precise cuts, rolls, and bow trebles. When the final note had sounded, the reaction of the crowd, which had indeed packed the seats to the rafters, was distinctly visceral. The silence briefly following the performance was capped by thunderous applause, foot stomping, and stranding ovations.
In the days following her first performances, she was feted as the greatest Tormentor of Catgut in recorded history. However, after refusing the many invitations sent in an overflowing torrent, rumors of ad hominen attacks, the least of which called her an unwashed yokel, began to circulate. The producers stood up before the press in her name and denounced the prejudices of the small-minded, petty individuals whose only recourse to feeling slighted by the inattention of the Great Vizzini was to attempt to tear her down.
The Great Vizzini, as she sat in her dressing room the night before her final, sell-out performance, contemplated the day, in a not to distant future, when she would be able to leave the grasping embrace of the megalopolis. In the morning she would return back to her cottage on the ancient chalk downlands of her ancestors, return to the sheep who were the first to hear her play, return to the family who’s future she had secured, return to being Rebecca.
6/7/14, I realize that I've been writing "Flash Fiction" all along, with a twist at the end.
So apparently what I had been doing prior to this – and calling Micro Stories – is actually a format called Flash Fiction.
As of two minutes ago, I submitted my first piece.
Gaaaaaaaaaaaah!
All caught up now. Woooooooooo!
As you can see from some of the timestamps I include in the Post Date titles, I was working a long day, then coming home and (after beginning each story in the evening) I would find myself unable to go to rest and sleep until I had purged my mind of the story that had been bubbling in my subconscious all day. Further, I would gather my "offerings" in the morning, upon first arriving at work, because the tabs in my browser would open to my Word of the Day (WOTD) websites.
I welcome any constructive criticism on my writing, both that contained in this post, and anything else you have access in my blog. Though I admit most of my posts prior to 2009 are of the more usual journal fare. Of course, my memory might be faulty. You'll only know if you go wandering through and do some background reading. Don't mind the large section that's been time-locked until I've come to terms with the experiences the posts describe.
You might want to keep this post handy and read each of the below micro stories on their own, over a number of days. Or when you're going to be doing a variety of chores about the home, where every time you take a break you read a story nibble. What I'm trying to get at is - there's A LOT of writing below the cut. The beginning of each post is delineated with a blue title, followed by anything that appeared in the post - the only changes I've made are to some of the visual editor elements in order to make the text more easily read by giving it a consistent style.
Okay then. Enough with the preamble. It was starting to feel like an Evil Scientist Monologue.
5/8/14 - Day One of Micro Story Challenge - 0238 timestamp.
Today I had an idea that I batted about on Twitter a bit. A personal, creating writing challenge in which I would have to use the “Word of the Day” offerings from at least five different websites and create a story from those words. Today’s offerings and story are below.
Gormless – weak of mind or body, especially gullible or clumsy
Tolutiloquent – smooth talking fluency
Incredulous – skeptical; disbelieving
Lionize – to treat as an object of great interest or importance
Wanderlust – a strong, innate desire to rove or travel about
The Tale of The Traveling Dude – Day 15,792,356
Although I don’t consider myself to be a jaded traveler, I found myself marveling at the people that lived in this little hamlet on the north side of Hushabye Mountain. They had somehow made a tradition out of lionizing the gormless. Perhaps it was based on a tendency to root for the underdog in all of us, perhaps it was based on the villagers’ first sighting of Charlie Brown making an attempt to kick the football as Lucy held it upright before snatching it away and making a fool of poor Charlie. Well, maybe not. After all, the only archives remaining of Charlie Brown were located in the undersea library of the Denem Conglomerate. Heck. I’d only seen it because of my demi-doctoral research on the Dudist religion.
Before the wanderlust took me away to some other fantastical place, with traditions and folklore equally likely to produce an incredulous response from me, I decided to track this reverence for the inept and and gullible that had taken hold of and was a guiding force in these people’s daily lives. I made my way up and down the lanes, questioning each passerby and each person that was within hailing range near each abode. I talked to the young and the old, the gendered and the genderless, the tall, the short, the beanstalk and the stout.
Of all the people that were willing to discuss the subject, there was this one person that was able to help me dig out the nugget of original lore upon which was based this now-entrenched behavior. I am unable to fully describe this person as they seemed to be all of the people I had met already and all of the ones I’d met in earlier travels. This individual’s features wouldn’t settle and the same could be said for their clothing; their voice was a multi-hued harmonic blend of other voices. It is rare to encounter such a being, but it is known to happen.
Regardless of the description, this person spoke in a tolutiloquent manner, beginning with how the behavior was practiced today and working backwards through each iteration of change, giving examples of how this metamorphosis occurred and continually segued to what went before. This conversation may have lasted hours or days, it may have actually occurred in a pocket universe with both no and unlimited time. The kernel of truth, when it was finally revealed, was as startling as a crocodile leaping out of a tree as you passed beneath the tree’s boughs, the crocodile’s jaws nearly snapping your head off in passing.
The revelation was made when the storyteller reached into a basket at their feet and brought out a battered device with what appeared to be a glass screen and the size of the paper I’d seen in an ancient cultures exhibit at a museum back in Timbuktu. They passed their hand over the devise and activated a flat-film of people dressed in odd garments of an odious green color. I heard phrases that were still being used by the town residents such as “Shazam,” “Golly!,”, and “Surprise. Surprise. Surprise.” There was a sense of awe upon seeing the travails and circumstances of this Private First Class Gomer Pyle of the United States Marine Corps, that so much of this people’s culture could be steeped in the mannerisms and of an ancient archetype.
Update: This piece was submitted to a flash fiction contest - via @MolotovLitZine's #FlashFool. Maybe I am a fool too.
5/9/14 - Day Two of Micro Story Challenge - 0252 timestamp.
Today’s offerings were nine in number, and nine were the number of offerings.
Wimple – a cloth wound around the head, framing the face, and drawn into folds beneath the chin; worn by women in medieval times and as part of the habit of certain orders of nuns.
Quixotic – idealistic without regard to practicality; impulsive; tending to act on whims
Cataract – a clouding of the lens of the eye obstructing the passage of light; a waterfall over a steep precipice; steep rapids in a river; downpour; flood.
Caprine – of or pertaining to goats
Minatory – daunting or threatening, menacing.
Lustration – to purify by a propitiatory offering or other ceremonial method.
Poori – a light, round, unleavened wheat bread typically deep fried from Pakistan or Northern India.
Adversity – state of misfortune or calamity.
Incompatible – not in keeping with what is right or proper; not suitable to your tastes or needs; not harmonious with other facts.
The Saving
Her walk down the well-worn path was slow, the shock of the day’s adversity crippling her gait. The descent of the locust hordes upon the wheat fields had been only partly held at bay by the fire-shield bearing stilt-walkers. The evening, approaching with a minatory aspect, flung itself across the sky like a red cloak floating upon the smoke that rose protectively above the remaining stalks. The invasion had been incompatible with the demands of the imminent harvest, the scythes were left where they’d fallen to the ground. Exhaustion felled the villagers in turn for their unexpected rescue of the crop that will hopefully still be able to feed them through until next harvest. Her work, though, is not yet done.
She pauses and crouches down on the path’s edge to unsling her zahato of wine and unpack her first set of poori and goat cheese. While chewing on the flatbread wrapped around the cheese, she recalls the work of making this very cheese, and that the sire of the goat from which the milk came was the capering caprine from which the zahato was made. How close her world was bound, the requirement that all food and drink that passed her lips must be crafted by her hands made it so. She finished off a last zurrust before capping the nozzle, then she stood and reslung the bota and brushed the crumbs from her hands.
As the sky darkened into night, with the moon above and the stars coming alight to illumine her way, she slowly unwraps one of the sashes at her waist and begins to rewrap it about her head into a wimple to hold off the cooling of the air from her bare scalp. Through the night she walked. Without faltering, her steps pad softly upon the earth beneath her feet. As the sky lightens back into day, the end of the path comes into sight.
At the end of the path, a cliff face rises up into the air, a cataract of flowering vines obstructing most of the rocky surface. She walks up to the turbulent shock of green and parts the strands to enter the cave lurking behind the foliage. Her journey to the place of lustration complete, she retrieves the items she will need from the various nooks and hooks throughout the dimly lit space. The striker, the tinder, kindling and logs made from twisted bunches of the brush of last year’s wheat stubble, the clay pot of oil pressed from last year’s wheat germ, and a large wooden bowl, these are the items she will need for today’s purification ceremony.
She prepares the hearth in the middle of the space for the fire yet lit, placing the oil to one side of the stones surrounding the fire pit. Stepping back, she removes the wimple, unslings and drops the zahato and pack, unwraps the remainder of the sashes from her body, and drops the shift from her shoulders. Stripped bare, she lights and builds the fire. As the smoke rises from the fire, she begins to wave her hands and arms through the smoke, gesticulating in a quixotic fashion. She does this with eyes burning until every last bit of wheat stubble is gone. After the fire dies, while the ashes cool, she crouches near her shed belongings and breaks her fast yet again with wine, cheese and poori. As she eats, she recalls the making of the wine, she revels each year when she gets to stomp the grapes. A smile steals across her lips. She takes all of her belongings and carefully places them into her pack, and placed her pack near the door for later retrieval.
Finally, the ashes cool, she scoops them up and places them in the bowl. Atop this she pours the oil and begins to mix the ashes and oil together into a paste. She takes the paste and begins smearing it across her scalp, over her face, breasts, arms, buttocks, until all but a rough rectangle of her back is covered. As she smeared the paste, she visualized the remaining crop, saw it harvested and stored against the coming winter with the other food stores. She saw it, and enough seed grain leftover, lasting through the winter, through next spring’s planting, lasting until other crops were harvested in time and season as it was once laid out and shall ever remain. Once complete, she walks to the opening in the cave, past her pack, through the vines, and back down the path to the village.
Through the night she will again walk the path. When she arrives at the village, it will be dawn yet again. The villagers will complete their own lustration by washing her clean again. With this, she has learned, she may ward off any further plagues of locusts from this year’s crops. It has always worked for her predecessors. It shall work for her. It must. Her people depended on her. She is their shaman, their bruja, their daayan. They believe in her, and their belief feeds the working of the spells. This is what she knows.
5/10/14 - Day Three of Micro Story Challenge - 0101 timestamp.
Today’s offerings:
Specious – deceptively attractive; have the ring of truth or plausibility but actually fallacious
Wharfinger – an owner or keeper of a wharf
Mien – air or bearing especially as expressive of an attitude or personality; demeanor; appearance; aspect
Diction – style of speaking or writing as dependent upon choice of words; the accent, inflection, intonation, and speech-sound quality manifested by an individual speaker, usually judged in terms of prevailing standards of acceptability; enunciation
Green gown – a dress that has been stained green from rolling in the grass; generally an allusion to sexual activity
Methuseleh – an oversize wine bottle holding approximately six liters; an extremely old person
Mnemonic – a device (e.g. a rhyme or acronym) used to aid recall
Preparations for the Gala
When Darla glanced to the right, down the cobblestone street, she saw a man approaching with the mien of seduction, with each move practiced and poised. His lace cuffs and jabot gleamed in the sunlight and his finely manicured fingers were bejeweled with flashing rubies and gleaming gold. The deep scarlet of his jacket was made bolder due to its pairing with a pair of tight breeches and boots molded to his shapely calves. Darla appreciated the effort the man went to to present so pleasant an image for the female gaze, though noting her companion’s interest she realized he was pleasing to the male gaze as well and nodded to herself that this was as it should be.
She touched Jeremy’s forearm and commented in her typical languorous diction, “One has to wonder if the pretty wrapping is a disguise for a specious intent, darling.” Jeremy chuckled and replied in his crisply enunciated high court accent, “Regardless if it is, poppet, he likely has no trouble generating a trail of green gowns and breeches in his wake. Now, we must stop ogling and move on to see the Wharfinger to see if the Methuselahs for tonight’s gala have arrived.”
Darla began to skip ahead singing softly to herself, “Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can’t Handle and Scottish Lads Take Prostitutes to the Caledonian Hotel.” “Ahh.” said Jeremy, strolling after her. “I see your anatomy class has you studying the carpal bones this week.” In reply, Darla cheekily waved back at him over her shoulder by rotating her hand about on her wrist. Tonight, Jeremy thought to himself, was going to be fun. He wondered if the fabulous popinjay would end up finding his way to the event and began to daydream about such an occurrence as he continued to follow Darla off in the direction of the wharf. Only time would tell.
5/11/14 - Day Four of Micro Story Challenge - 0130 timestamp.
WOTD Offerings:
Retinue – a group of retainers or attendants
Zephyr – a gently, mild breeze
Cognitive – Relating to the process of acquiring knowledge by the use of reasoning, intuition, or perception. Having a basis in or reducible to empirical factual knowledge.
Fret – to make or become worried
Scrip – a certificate representing a claim to part of a share of property
Cymotrichous – (anthropology) Having wavy hair
The Lumberjack’s Adventure
One day, deep in a forest, a man with the demeanor of a lumberjack was walking along a path, with a shining, well cared for ax gripped lightly by its handle in his burly fist and his bright plaid shirt half unbuttoned, revealing a well muscled chest covered in a pelt of reddish brown, curling hair. His tanned leather boots hit the ground soundlessly as he made his way back to the site from which he had been harvesting the red maple that the local carpenter had contracted for next summer. If he cut it over the next few weeks, it would all be well-seasoned and ready to be made into that fifty-guest dining table that the Duchess Goldblat planned to use as the centerpiece of her harvest festival celebration when the King arrived during the royal progress.
As he continued along the path, he considered his options for the evenings entertainment. Although Sven and Haldor had mentioned wanting to take a flitter down to the city for mead and dancing at the Pleasure Dome, he was more inclined to curl up with a good book next to the fire with his Irish Wolfhound Knute laying across his feet. He had just gotten to the part where the excavators had reached the final room of the long barrow of Wayland’s Smithy and was looking forward to moving on to the surrounding mythology of Wayland himself. Funny how his archaeology degree didn’t lead him off to distant worlds, but back to the family lands when his elder brother abdicated the title in favor of being a colonist in the first ships to leave for Bode’s Galaxy. His brother had itchy feet and loved his Heinlein when he was growing up, and now the newest, proven streak drives were making it possible to colonize further out than his family had ever reached before. So, the scrip fell to him and he found himself enjoying his life as a landowning woodsman.
Looking up at the bright blue of the sky through the branches of the surrounding trees, and he smiled as he felt the sweet zephyr run its fingers through his hair as it played in the leaves overhead. Off to the right, a sudden cracking of branches preceded a family group of does and fawns leaping across the path in front of him. The deer, barely glancing at him as they passed, fled further off into the woods, away from what had startled them. Curious, he thought, the nearest predator’s tag showed it much further south. If one of them didn’t startle the deer, then what did? He didn’t have any hikers, traveler bands, or people running a live action roleplay for the Society of Creative Anachronism in the area either. Well, nothing for it but to go see what it is, he thought. The care of the land was his responsibility now.
Leaving the path and moving through the brush that the deer had rushed through, he traveled about thirty yards when he started to hear voices. Better people than some untagged predator he thought to himself, though there were few enough of those these days; only a few wolf-analog dens and hexapuma lairs were missed each season. As he walked on, he realized that the voices were coming from the clearing where he’d found a ring of stones when he was a boy, the stones that had originally gotten him interested in archaeology. Half the universities in the galaxy had sent teams out at one time or another since he had found them, so long ago. He’d actually based his dissertation on them, using research that was partly what many people of Earth a few centuries prior had thought were “ancient alien” myths and proving the now known fact that humanity had gone to the stars many times in its long history.
As he came upon the edge of the clearing he noticed that the people standing in it were dressed very strangely. One one side of a confrontation was a man with golden, cymotrichous hair. He would normally have called it wavy, but this man seemed an archetype in all his parts, including his armor. Although all he could see of it was what was revealed when the growing wind pushed aside the red cloak he was wearing, that was definitely what appeared to be a mix of plate and mail armor. Had he read the calendar wrong this morning? He was still getting used to the difference between the local calendar compared to the universal calendar used on digs and by spacers in general. His thoughts were interrupted by noticing the group the first man faced. He couldn’t clearly see the man directly across from the first aside from flashes of a deep green and… were those horns? But he had never seen the like of the retinue behind the second man. If this world had produced a biped-type upright hominid-analog, they might have looked like this. These beings had four arms, with blue skin and large manes of bright orange hair, wearing armor similar to that seen on the first man. His cognitive functions couldn’t decide whether to be fascinated, frightened, or alarmed. In all the thousands of years humanity had been in space, they had yet to meet another biped anything like itself. The Treecats, native of Sphinx (now spread out on almost as many worlds as had humans), the Whaleflyers of Polyphemous, and the hive-minded Silicates of Antares VI were among the few existing sentient species that humanity had found so far.
He shook his head to clear it and realized that he’d never heard the language the two men were speaking, either. It sounded a bit like the old Norse his grandmother had taught him from the cradle, the language which he had studied further at university along with the ancient languages of Greek, Sanskrit, and Latin, with Navaho, and the new variant of sign language thrown in for his current age language requirements. Wait! That word, he knew that word… Brother. These men were brothers, and arguing about something that appeared to be upsetting them both. He couldn’t read well the body language of the blue men, but a tightened grip on a hilt was universal. He didn’t like the odds in this confrontation, regardless of whether they were brothers. He stepped forward into the clearing, ax held at a nonthreatening angle, and his voice rang into the air for the first time that day as he shouted “Excuse me!”
The first man, spun partly around, not giving his back to his brother but far enough to see me. This movement revealed a green-eyed, green-clad, pale man with a horned headdress who had just been in the act of raising his arm up to point at the man in the red cloak and armor. The green-eyed man held out one hand to his apparent retainers, who had taken a step toward me, while still pointing toward his brother. The green-eyed man’s face twisted with a sly grin, and he said clearly “Let it be so.” A flash of light and a popping sound, accompanied by what seemed to be a rapid shrinking of the first man, down into the grass and meadow flowers at his feet. What the…
“What in the word do you think you’re doing?!” he shouts as he steps further into the clearing, simultaneously tapping his com and locator beacon for emergency extraction from the area back to his family Stedd with the code for intruders. Damn it! Why didn’t he bring the transporter beacon instead of just the locator beacon? It would take at least ten minutes for the Stedd’s A.I. to send the flitter out to the clearing. As he fretted over this delay, he noticed that the green-eyed man was stalking quickly in his direction, the blue men at his heels. Stopping abruptly before him, the green-eyed man asked “What is your name, human?” The woodsman tightened his jaw and looked into the other man’s eyes before saying “Loki.”
The green-eyed man began to laugh, slapping his thigh in mirth. “Imagine that,” he said, still chuckling. “Then you’ll likely enjoy this thoroughly” he muttered with a glint of humor still in his eyes as he flicked his hand in my direction. A flash of light, and a popping sound, and the green-eyed man seemed to grow into a towering giant as he and his retinue passed by me and left the clearing.
Loki, his blue eyes flashing in irritation, noticed that the green-eyed man hadn’t actually grown to gigantic proportions, he had somehow shrunk! He looked at his hands and realized they were covered with fur the same reddish brown as the hair on his head. He was still wearing the same clothes he had been, tanned boots, dark brown synthpants, bright plaid shirt. He even still had his ax, com and locator beacon. But as he looked up, expecting to see the open sky of the tree branches, he saw instead the tops of the blades of grass and the underside of the meadow flowers nodding in the wind. The other man, the one in the armor and cloak, this must’ve been what happened to him! Loki started forward in the direction he last saw the other man, exploring what was now his face (a snout?!) and felt something dragging behind him yet touching him at the same time. He turned slightly about to see what it was and yelled “Great googly-moogly, is that a TAIL?!” Knowing there was nothing he could do about this weird transformation now, he began walking again in the direction of the other man’s likely location. As he rounded a boulder that would once have been a rock that he’d barely have felt beneath his boot, he came upon the other man. At least, he figured it must be the other man as he still had the armor and red cloak, he even had what looked like a battle hammer in the hand that had previously been hidden by the movement of the cloak, earlier. However, this was no man, this was a frog. A frog that looked at him with bulging eyes and yelled “NOT AGAIN!” At the end of this exclamation, thunder cracked the sky without a sign of lightning nor storm.
“Excuse me?” Loki said to him. “Again? What just happened? I mean I know you got turned into a frog and I into a mouse or something, that’s obvious. What I’m trying to say is: Does this mean that you know what has happened to us, and also how we may be transformed back into men?” Loki asked with what he thought was an appropriately concerned look in response to the frog’s outcry. The frog glanced his way and he said with a hint of moroseness “Rat. You are a rat. I am Thor, and I am again a frog. Yes. I know how to get us transformed back but that will mean contacting my friend Volstagg through Heimdall; however, it will likely take some time to get the message to him since he is off visiting his third daughter Hildy’s son’s family. Further, he would have to travel back to Asgard before coming to my aid in order to retrieve the Elixer of Recovery before coming here.” Thor paused before looking up into the sky past the meadow flowers and yelling “Damn you Loki!”
“Wait… What?” Loki replied quickly. “What did I do?”
“What?” said Thor.
“You said ‘Damn you Loki’ and I don’t think I did anything to deserve that, your brother looked like he was about to turn you into a frog either way, regardless of my having come into the clearing” Loki said.
At that moment, both of us facing the other with what must pass for puzzled expressions for a frog and a rat, the flitter sent by the A.I. arrived at the clearing and the external speakers of the flitter began broadcasting ‘LOKI! LOKI SIR, ARE YOU STILL HERE? YOUR LAST SIGNAL TRANSMITTED FROM THIS LOCATION BUT NEITHER YOUR COM NOR YOUR LOCATOR BEACON IS FUNCTIONING.’
Loki looked up into the air and began shouting as loud as he could “Here. I am here! This is me, down here in the grass!” Loki looked at Thor and saw the frog with his mouth gaping open and staring back at him in shock. “Your name is… Loki?” he said, faintly. “Yes. My mother had quite a sense of humor and she took pleasure naming me after one of the mythological tricksters. I’m lucky she didn’t choose Nanabozho, Wisakedjak, or Sosruko instead, but grandmother implored her to at least stick with the Norse mythos given our family’s history.” I replied matter-of-factly.
Whatever he muttered in reply was drowned out by the flitter, which having scanned the clearing with its multitude of sensors had lowered further until it was hovering closely above us. The A.I. began speaking through the external speakers again ‘LOKI, AFTER HEARING AND CONFIRMING YOUR VOICE PATTERN, I BELIEVE I HAVE LOCATED YOU. ALTHOUGH YOU APPEAR TO BE A NORWEGIAN RAT, DNA ANALYSIS CONFIRMS THAT YOU ARE INDEED YOU. PLEASE CONFIRM AND FORMALLY IDENTIFY.’ Loki looked up at the flitter, and declared firmly “I am Loki Baldur Nezii K’ai’bii’toonii script holder of Stedd Deepforest, son of Freya Naakei K’ai’bii’toonii, grandson of Alfdis Zah K’ai’bii’toonii.” ‘IDENTITY CONFIRMED.’
Loki gestured with the ax in a sweeping movement and a slight bow toward the craft as it lowered down into the clearing “Shall we retire to a safer location out of reach of the local wildlife and discuss how you need to go about contacting Volstagg through Heimdall? I’m starting to get a bit peckish and have a few more questions I’m pretty sure you might be able to answer.”
5/11/14 - Day Five of Micro Story Challenge; Evening.
Today, I will not be continuing directly on to part two of the adventures of our fair “lumberjack” with Thor. That’s going to have to wait until I do a little more research on alternate dimensions and more things Asgardian. I’ve got a couple of plot points figured out but not all the bits and pieces of stuff to make it all work and be interesting. And then there is some other planned parts that I have no idea what to do with and will need to research how to do those parts well, without falling into stereotype traps or making a mess of it entirely.
So today, it will just be a “normal” microstory challenge and not what turned out to be not a microstory at all, but something closer to what might turn out to be at least a short story. This challenge is bringing out a whole new, interesting world of words. Poetry has been my mainstay for decades, though I did dabble in the microstory when needed for some creative writing classes here and there.
On with the day’s offerings.
Abrupt – unceremoniously curt
Matrifocal – focused or centered on the mother; designating a family unit or structure headed by the mother
Initiate – cause (a process or action) to begin
Pensive – deeply, often wistfully or dreamily thoughtful; expressive of melancholy thoughtfulness
Diktat – a harsh, punitive settlement or decree imposed unilaterally on a defeated nation, political party, etc.
The Day I Left The Mothers
It really started on the day I was born. The fact that I was born with a penis meant that someday, on the age of majority, I might leave the Mothers to join the Fathers. No one ever told me if this was something that could be changed or how long this process had been going on, but I did grow up knowing that it was something that I would have to face and that would have to occur. So the day I was born actually initiated the events that are to occur tomorrow, on the morning of my twelfth birthday.
I can’t say that I had ever questioned the Diktat, for it was the way it always was and the way it would always be as far as I was concerned. The Conclave of Mothers would meet once every three moons and before current matters were discussed, the story of how the Diktat was put in place, a story so steeped in time as to almost be considered myth, was recited. This story described how the Mothers had banded together, after thousands of years of being objectified and treated as property by the Fathers, and brought down the land of the Fathers in order to create a matrifocal society. The events of the story seem almost abrupt or compressed, which is how these stories must be in order to contain all that must be known in something that can be recited in so short a time frame. A long recitation, one involving multiple speakers and lasting three days, occurs every three years, where more of the details are revealed and discussed. I have only witnessed this twice that I can recall. The last time it happened, I was nine. Many of the Mothers, whose cycles are in the correct time, will go out of the encampment of the Fathers that is erected every time of the long recitation for the three days following.
There are not just Mothers and Fathers, there are also the Others, people who are neither Mothers or Fathers. These people live with both the Mothers and the Fathers, choosing which they wish to go to at their age of majority. The Mothers call them the glue that binds the communities together, and the Others work at all the same tasks and live the same lives as the Mothers and Fathers if they choose. My favorite teacher is an Other, they have helped me with my carving skills and say that I have a natural eye for what the wood speaks.
There have been times in the past year or so that I have been pensive about what must occur during those days, the days the Mothers go out to the Fathers after the long recitation. The Mothers and Others teach us basic trades which we show skill toward, as well as many other bodies of knowledge if there is interest, but this learning does not take up all of my time and when I am not working toward excelling in these areas I think about other things. The dreams after I think about these things are confusing as well. I spoke to both my Other and my Mother guardians about those dreams when they first began, and it was then that I was told that I would definitely be going to the Fathers. Those times of melancholy have not expressed themselves often though, which is for the best. I’ve been looking forward to when I go to the Fathers, for it is there that I will learn more about what the rest of my life will be like. Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.
For now, I will sleep. Tomorrow will be the beginning of my new life with the Fathers.
5/12/14 - Day Six of Micro Story Challenge.
Today’s WOTD Offerings:
Cockamamie – ridiculous; implausible, or silly; nonsensical
Auspicious – marked by success; prosperous; suggesting a positive and successful future
Snivel – to run at the nose; to snuff mucus up the nose audibly; to cry or whine w/snuffling; to speak or act in a whining, sniffling, tearful, or weakly emotional manner.
Frippery – finery in dress, especially when showy, gaudy, or the like; empty display; ostentation; gewgaws; trifles
Vindictive – disposed to seek revenge or intended for revenge; showing malicious ill will and a desire to hurt; motivated by spite
Prier – one that pries; an especially inquisitive person; one who inquires narrowly, searches, and scrutinizes
NOTE: below is a made-up word that combines to represent the properties of a cake and a pie, called a cakie, this is pronounced “cake-eye” not like khaki or cakey. Unlike the Pake, which was described in Drop Dead Diva and is an item where all the ingredients are baked together after assembly, the cakie is meant to be assembled AFTER the various pieces are made. There is one other, blatant made-up word, for which I hope you will both excuse me, and recognize as something which may become a real word someday if we are unlucky.
The Shopkeeper in Retrospect
Who would have thought that combining a cake and a pie in such a way could have resulted in such an auspicious event as the opening of a new establishment called The Cockamamie Cakie? The city’s most celebrated up-and-coming entrepreneur, who styled herself Lady La Mode in press releases and interviews, was an overnight sensation who quickly became a beloved icon of the foodies that flocked to her shop. When the line of patrons began to reach three blocks down the road, certain, let us call them Priers, began trying to find out exactly why her cakies were so desired. No one noticed when these people disappeared.
According to historical record, the perfected combinations of piecrust, layers of perfectly baked cake, pie filling, and topping, resulted in a total of twenty unique year-round cakies and twelve limited edition seasonal cakies. According to the variety of press clippings that were still retrievable, this was something that took Lady La Mode years to perfect though there is little evidence of this. In addition, the image of the shop, both the online presence as well as the brick-and-mortar store was said to have been carefully researched by the proprietor, and had been filled to overflowing with a sense of frippery. The finely decorated style of both were reported to be as elegant and and sublime as the cakies themselves.
Anecdotal evidence, as was documented in the social media forums of the time, revealed that people all across the city, and far into the surrounding suburbs, when confronted with a celebration that did not either begin or end with a cakie, would snivel in such a sullen and demoralized manner that everyone’s good time was dimmed. Indeed, it was rumored that after a while, it got to the point where each of those disappointed people ended up in such a dismal state of mind that, instead of sinking into a fit of despair, they would seek some vindictive way to repay whoever had arranged the cakieless event.
The fripperies and air of apparent exclusivity appealed to the vain; the comfortable seats and online ordering and delivery services appealed to the slothful, the consumption of the cakies themselves appealed to the gluttonous; those who could not acquire a cakie a day were filled with envy and lust; while those that were capable of acquiring them were filled with pride; and those that were denied what they saw as their inalienable right to a cakie were filled with wrath.
It is now theologirized by some that the cakie recipes were the result of a fiendish pact. Surely this is proof that Lady La Mode was a force of evil and that the cakies themselves brought damnation to those poor, miserable people of the city that God wiped from the face of the earth. The sanctity of the separation of cake and pie must be upheld.
5/14/14 - Day Seven of Micro Story Challenge.
Today’s WOTD Offerings:
Tormentor of Catgut – a fiddler; a person who plays a violin, especially one who plays folk music
Visceral – instinctual; proceeding from instinct rather than from reasoned thinking or intellect; elementally emotional
Yokel – a person who is unsophisticated and not interested in societal culture; green woodpecker; individual from the countryside that is not well-versed in city living
ad hominem – attacking an opponent’s character rather than answering an argument; attacks that appeal to prejudices, emotions, or special interests
bumptious – self-assertive in an obnoxious way
brazen – (adj) unrestrained by convention or propriety; (verb) to face with defiance or impudence
The Performer
The self-styled Great Vizzini had been lured to the great megalopolis from her small village by the show’s producers. They had told her that she would fill all the seats in the stadium to capacity and would be able to retire on all the money that the show would generate (after they took their cut, of course). The producers, although they had been full of sweet smiles and inspirational speeches, were becoming increasingly bumptious as the opening night of the show approached. She shrugged this off as being an inevitable result of the amount of time and money they had invested into the show for it to draw those crowds and to succeed.
When the show opened, she brazenly took the stage for she did this for the sake of many things which were important to her, including her belief in her ability and for the sake of the music itself. There was no hesitation when she began. Her weak-strong, slurred bowing pattern was perfectly executed, while the melodic phrasing of her broken arpeggio section of the reels had the crowd dancing on their seats, and when she bowed her sequences separately, leaning toward connected, legato bow strokes, the effect was exquisite. As the performance came into its near finale, her increasingly frenetic tempo was interspersed with deliberate and precise cuts, rolls, and bow trebles. When the final note had sounded, the reaction of the crowd, which had indeed packed the seats to the rafters, was distinctly visceral. The silence briefly following the performance was capped by thunderous applause, foot stomping, and stranding ovations.
In the days following her first performances, she was feted as the greatest Tormentor of Catgut in recorded history. However, after refusing the many invitations sent in an overflowing torrent, rumors of ad hominen attacks, the least of which called her an unwashed yokel, began to circulate. The producers stood up before the press in her name and denounced the prejudices of the small-minded, petty individuals whose only recourse to feeling slighted by the inattention of the Great Vizzini was to attempt to tear her down.
The Great Vizzini, as she sat in her dressing room the night before her final, sell-out performance, contemplated the day, in a not to distant future, when she would be able to leave the grasping embrace of the megalopolis. In the morning she would return back to her cottage on the ancient chalk downlands of her ancestors, return to the sheep who were the first to hear her play, return to the family who’s future she had secured, return to being Rebecca.
6/7/14, I realize that I've been writing "Flash Fiction" all along, with a twist at the end.
So apparently what I had been doing prior to this – and calling Micro Stories – is actually a format called Flash Fiction.
As of two minutes ago, I submitted my first piece.
Gaaaaaaaaaaaah!
All caught up now. Woooooooooo!
