Spes Magna Games

Slower going today with 258 words.

The Mutiny

“Sometimes I feel so deserted by all the pretty girls with whom I’ve flirted.”

Impromptu verse. It gave me something to do other than bob up and down under the scorching sun, atop the gently rolling waves aboard the inflatable raft. I chuckled. Was I being clever? Was it the heat? The lack of water? What was it Coleridge wrote about water everywhere, but none it potable?

I adjusted the makeshift canopy I’d made out of the small oars and my clothes, but it didn’t matter. Part of me still ended up baking in the sun, so my real choice was which parts could stand a little more burn.

“Well played, gentlemen.”

I never saw it coming, ‘it’ referring both to the treachery as well as the rough hands that grabbed me while I was having a smoke on deck. They didn’t bother to explain. We all knew the why of it. I’d made promises that I’d been unable to keep, and five people died and the rest sailed half way across the Pacific, all for nothing.

“C’est la vie.”

I chuckled again. We had been close. I was certain of that, but, like they say, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. It does not count in treasure hunting with mercenaries, following a faded map found in the back of a nineteenth century journal. I guess, in retrospect, the idea of an undiscovered island in this day and age of GPS and spy satellites is a bit silly, but I’ve always been a romantic at heart.

Tags: #8MWH

My prompt for today yields this very short story in just over eight minutes and nearly 300 words.

Janie’s Project

“Soon, I shall be reborn,” she said.

I sighed. She was so beautiful, but hers was a severe beauty, like that of classical sculpture brought to life and full color without losing the granite. She was also smart, so much smarter than I’d ever be.

“Are you really sure, Janie? There’s no going back if you’re wrong.”

“I’m sure. I’ll lock the door once I’m inside. There’s no going back now.”

For years she’d worked in the cellars of our home, remodeling, installing, arranging the assembly lines, the generators, the robotic arms and computers, so many things that I understood in broad strokes only because she’d explained them to me. She dutifully kissed my cheek and shut the door. I heard the hiss of the locks.

I knew what people said. I was a cradle robber. A dirty old man. That she was a gold digger. That she was using me. Et cetera. I didn’t care. I loved her. I certainly loved her more than she’d ever love me, which is why I agreed to this project of hers.

A could feel the machinery thrumming through the floor. It wasn’t audible, but it was running. She was on that conveyor belt by now. The various apparatus were doing their work, cutting, removing, replacing. I retreated to the library, poured myself a vodka on the rocks, sat by the small fire. It wasn’t cold, but I was chilled. What she was doing…. Wasn’t it monstrous?

I must have dozed off. I didn’t hear her until her new feet were close enough that their clacking on the hardwood floor woke me from fitful dreams. I looked up. I couldn’t speak.

“Am I not beautiful?” her voice said through the electronics. “Am I not perfectly free from the marvelous meat machine that was my human body?”

Tags: #8MWH

Well, my track record for a daily eight minute writing exercise this week has been spotty at best. I decided to go back in time to when Matt Jackson posted his first piece, this one on the prompt of “The Shot”. I had an idea about where my story was going, but I didn’t get there before the on-line stopwatch let me know my eight minutes had passed. Regardless, here’s the results (all 211 or so words).

The Decision

He sat near the end of the bar, canted a bit on the stool to see both the entrance and the door leading to the latrines. Near one elbow was a manila folder, thick with its contents. Near the envelope waited a shot glass. The whisky in the glass glowed softly in the dim, yellow light. Few other patrons were in the bar. It was early, only a few hours after most people had to be at work.

He walked his eyes from person to person. The bartender: fat, bald head already shining with perspiration, neatly trimmed beard, tattoos done in fading blue ink, one of the back of his hand showing fanned playing cards, aces and eights, a dead man’s hand. The others were customers. Regulars. He knew them by face if not by name, each one always present. He wondered if they ever went home. If they had homes to go to.

“You gonna drink that today?”

He fixed on the bartender’s rheumy eyes, waited a beat or two, and then shrugged. The bartender shrugged, turned away to wipe down the bar yet again. The shot glass shimmered as the light shifted from left to right: a truck passed by outside, reflecting the late morning sun.

(This story continues here.)

Tags: #8MWH

Matt Jackson over at www.msjx.org has started a daily eight-minute writing drill aimed at developing the habit of writing at least a little bit every day. This sounds like a good habit and, especially as I draw closer to Lent, it sounds like something I ought to participate in. So, here’s my first effort on the prompt “Crashing Clouds”. I ended up with about 280 words in about eight minutes.

The Master’s Method

“Crashing clouds?”

“You heard me,” the master said.

“That doesn’t make sense. Clouds can’t crash. They’re made of nothing.”

The master smiled. His student drew no comfort from that smile. It held no warmth, but instead was full to the brim with icy condescension.

“How can something be made of nothing?”

“What?”

The master smiled more broadly. “You heard me.”

The student bit his bottom lip and tried to maintain eye contact, but the master’s gaze seemed to have weight. Holding it was too heavy a burden, and the student’s eyes dropped. The student knew the master would sit and smile and wait silently as long as it took for an answer. Silence loomed.

“I guess something can’t be made of nothing,” the student said. “Every thing is made of something.”

“Correct.”

“But it still doesn’t make sense. For things to crash into each other, they have to be solid. They have to be able to…to crash.”

The master’s smile relaxed. He leaned forward slightly. “I disagree.”

The student wanted to respond in kind, but he knew better. The master had a lesson to teach, but he fully expected his student to suss out the answer on his own. More silence followed the master’s last syllable. He watched the student, his face a mask showing no emotion. Several minutes passed. The student gasped.

“If two clouds crashed into each other, they’d join each other. They’d both change shape, growing larger, and then maybe they’d split apart again, but neither one would be the same cloud. By crashing into each other, each changes the other.”

“So too with those you meet even in passing,” the master said. “Now, report to the yard for afternoon practice.”

Tags: #8MWH