TransLink are increasing public transport fares in Brisbane by 7.5% next year. This will raise my weekly costs to about $52.56. But there's a small hack that can change that and save money.
When travelling on a go card, you only pay for the first 9 trips you take in a week, from Monday to Sunday. So if you travel 5 zones to and from work, like I do, your Friday trip home is on the house, and you can travel free on weekends, as long as you worked five days during the week. But 5 zones is expensive, and 1 zone is much less, plus it counts as a trip. So if you go out at lunchtime and hop on a bus in the city - any bus - then travel one stop and get off again, walking back, you pay $2.63 for that pointless (off-peak) trip, which is a lot, but you will rack up another trip towards your first 9 for the week.
So on day 1, you pay $5.84 on the way to work, $2.63 for a pointless trip at lunchtime, and $5.84 home again for a total of $14.31. Do that again on Tuesday and Wednesday and your total for the week is $42.93 so far. But then, for Thursday and Friday, you travel completely free. For me, those few extra minutes and extra pointless trips will save me $9.63 - almost double what the free Friday trip home is worth. It's not a whole lot, but if you did it for every working week of the year (accounting for short weeks due to public holidays), you would save $430.99. That's quite a lot, and definitely worth it. Plus I get exercise walking to and from the bus at lunchtime instead of sitting at your computer absorbing Google radiation. It's the equivalent of nearly 74 free trips, which you would never get in a normal year.
I have allowed for three complete weeks of leave during the year and 7 weeks shortened by public holidays. On those shortened weeks, it is still worth doing this, because you would normally pay for all four days, but with the hack you pay for only three. Your savings for shortened weeks only amounts to $3.79, but that's still better than nothing.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - It is worth doing this no matter what the price.
PPS - As long your 10th and following trips are free, and your commute is more than one zone.
Showing posts with label brisbane. Show all posts
Showing posts with label brisbane. Show all posts
Thursday, 20 December 2012
Friday, 14 December 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Strathpine
The Straight Pine, or "Strathpine" as it was known in the old language, lived true to its name. The grain was straight vertical, the bark split and curled, but always in vertical lines. It was an even twelve metres around. The knots where its branches grew were perfect circles. It housed an entire colony of hippies who were always having to protect the tree from some developer or natural disaster or termite infestation. The tree held great magic, and someone or something was always trying to tap into it or take it away.
The bulldozers parked at the base of the tree, and the foreman of the work crew called up to the hippies on the high branches. Those branches were six stories up, and were some of the lowest on the tree.
"You can't stay there forever!" called the foreman.
After a short pause, a voice called back down, "We've been here for four years so far, and we're self sufficient now. You can't take this tree! It's our home!"
"I mean you have to come down, legally! The land and the tree have been sold! It's coming down!"
"It is NEVER coming down, and neither are we!" A chorus of cheers followed the proclamation down the tall, straight trunk.
"There must be something you want that you can't get up there, right?" called the foreman.
There was a long apparent silence while the tree-hippies conferred among themselves.
"Moonlight says she broke her last sitar string a year ago," called the voice from the tree. "Could you get us a new set?"
"If you come down, sure, I'll get you a whole new instrument!" The foreman wasn't sure what a "sitar" was, exactly, but the only stringed things he knew were instruments, and he took a guess.
"We're not coming down. You get us what we want as a sign of good faith to the wise old Strathpine!"
Oh, good, thought the foreman sarcastically. They're worshipping it now. He called one of his apprentice boys over and whispered some instructions in his ear, not willing to risk the hippies overhearing anything. The boy gave a quizzical look in response, and the foreman shooed him along.
"We're getting your sitar," called the foreman up to the tree. There was no response.
About two and a half hours later, the boy returned with the sitar, wrapped carefully in hessian. The foreman wondered briefly whether the hippies would be offended by the use of plant fibres to wrap the gift, then remembered that the sitar itself was made of wood, so it probably wasn't a big deal. He left the package at the base of the tree and pulled the bulldozers back far enough that they posed no immediate threat.
Then they waited. And waited. It wasn't until the night had fully fallen and the moon has lighting the way that one of the hippies crawled down the trunk, apparently tied to a harness held from above. She looked around for hidden men from the bulldozer crew and, seeing nothing, checked the package.
Don't look too closely, the foreman wished at her. She didn't. Strapping the sitar to her back, she started ascending the tree again, assisted by the rope harness. A quiet cheer was heard from the branches a few minutes later, then the soft sounds of plucked strings started tinkling after them.
Gradually, though, the sound grew fainter, less certain, with more gaps. It faded slowly to rest and silence. The sitar, freed and played, produced a magical combination of music and scents that could put anyone to sleep, and it had done so here. The effect wouldn't last, though. The foreman called in the fire engines with their long ladders to remove the hippies so he could begin felling the tree in the morning.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I'm thinking of ending the Brisbane Suburbs collection in the new year.
PPS - Maybe I'll pick it up again later.
The bulldozers parked at the base of the tree, and the foreman of the work crew called up to the hippies on the high branches. Those branches were six stories up, and were some of the lowest on the tree.
"You can't stay there forever!" called the foreman.
After a short pause, a voice called back down, "We've been here for four years so far, and we're self sufficient now. You can't take this tree! It's our home!"
"I mean you have to come down, legally! The land and the tree have been sold! It's coming down!"
"It is NEVER coming down, and neither are we!" A chorus of cheers followed the proclamation down the tall, straight trunk.
"There must be something you want that you can't get up there, right?" called the foreman.
There was a long apparent silence while the tree-hippies conferred among themselves.
"Moonlight says she broke her last sitar string a year ago," called the voice from the tree. "Could you get us a new set?"
"If you come down, sure, I'll get you a whole new instrument!" The foreman wasn't sure what a "sitar" was, exactly, but the only stringed things he knew were instruments, and he took a guess.
"We're not coming down. You get us what we want as a sign of good faith to the wise old Strathpine!"
Oh, good, thought the foreman sarcastically. They're worshipping it now. He called one of his apprentice boys over and whispered some instructions in his ear, not willing to risk the hippies overhearing anything. The boy gave a quizzical look in response, and the foreman shooed him along.
"We're getting your sitar," called the foreman up to the tree. There was no response.
About two and a half hours later, the boy returned with the sitar, wrapped carefully in hessian. The foreman wondered briefly whether the hippies would be offended by the use of plant fibres to wrap the gift, then remembered that the sitar itself was made of wood, so it probably wasn't a big deal. He left the package at the base of the tree and pulled the bulldozers back far enough that they posed no immediate threat.
Then they waited. And waited. It wasn't until the night had fully fallen and the moon has lighting the way that one of the hippies crawled down the trunk, apparently tied to a harness held from above. She looked around for hidden men from the bulldozer crew and, seeing nothing, checked the package.
Don't look too closely, the foreman wished at her. She didn't. Strapping the sitar to her back, she started ascending the tree again, assisted by the rope harness. A quiet cheer was heard from the branches a few minutes later, then the soft sounds of plucked strings started tinkling after them.
Gradually, though, the sound grew fainter, less certain, with more gaps. It faded slowly to rest and silence. The sitar, freed and played, produced a magical combination of music and scents that could put anyone to sleep, and it had done so here. The effect wouldn't last, though. The foreman called in the fire engines with their long ladders to remove the hippies so he could begin felling the tree in the morning.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I'm thinking of ending the Brisbane Suburbs collection in the new year.
PPS - Maybe I'll pick it up again later.
Friday, 7 December 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Dutton Park
Artifacts as found at the ruin of the homestead of Mr C Kelly, Dutton Park. Catalogued by Acolyte (First Order) R Smith.
Item 1: A plain wooden spoon. Slightly worn handle. A hole at the end with a short length of rope threaded through. Slightly charred.
Item 2: Mobile phone. Brand uncertain. Touch screen melted, casing badly damaged.
Item 3: Frying pan. Cast iron, 30cm. Mysteriously magnetised.
Item 4: Pile of bricks. 11 in varied colours. The bricks have been fused together at the molecular level. They can only be counted due to the odd angles at which they face.
Item 5: Doorknob. Brass. Interdimensionally twisted. Appears to be turning in four dimensions when viewed from different angles.
Item 6: Workbench. 1.4 metres high, 2 metres long, 1 metre deep. Heavily worn and scratched. Appears to have held glass beakers, whose cracked bases are now fixed to the bench. Other shards of glass were found scattered throughout the ruin in various sizes. The surface scratch marks appear to have been made by claws of some kind.
Item 7: Eyeglasses. Gold wire rims, round lenses. Cracked. Stained with blood.
Item 8: Spell book. Remarkably unharmed. Bookmarked at chapter 13, "Summoning".
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I wanted to try something a bit different with this week's Flash Fiction.
PPS - It's good to be back writing short pieces again.
Item 1: A plain wooden spoon. Slightly worn handle. A hole at the end with a short length of rope threaded through. Slightly charred.
Item 2: Mobile phone. Brand uncertain. Touch screen melted, casing badly damaged.
Item 3: Frying pan. Cast iron, 30cm. Mysteriously magnetised.
Item 4: Pile of bricks. 11 in varied colours. The bricks have been fused together at the molecular level. They can only be counted due to the odd angles at which they face.
Item 5: Doorknob. Brass. Interdimensionally twisted. Appears to be turning in four dimensions when viewed from different angles.
Item 6: Workbench. 1.4 metres high, 2 metres long, 1 metre deep. Heavily worn and scratched. Appears to have held glass beakers, whose cracked bases are now fixed to the bench. Other shards of glass were found scattered throughout the ruin in various sizes. The surface scratch marks appear to have been made by claws of some kind.
Item 7: Eyeglasses. Gold wire rims, round lenses. Cracked. Stained with blood.
Item 8: Spell book. Remarkably unharmed. Bookmarked at chapter 13, "Summoning".
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I wanted to try something a bit different with this week's Flash Fiction.
PPS - It's good to be back writing short pieces again.
Friday, 19 October 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Bridgeman Downs
There are several places in Brisbane where the rivers or creeks afford no crossings, either because the banks are too steep or there are simply no bridges to cross in your car. If you find yourself near one of those places, you might employ the services of a Bridgeman.
The Bridgemen are superheroes, not all of them the same, but all specialised in this one small task. They may be super-strong, able to leap with your car across the river, or they may be telekinetic and lift it with their mind. They may be teleporters or space-benders, or they may magnetically stretch your car across the river and compress it back again on the other side. It's hard to know in advance what you're going to get from a Bridgeman. Some are even unscrupulous telepaths who will convince you that you have crossed the river when you have not, or that you never really wanted to go across in the first place. Most of them are all too happy to show off their powers, though.
Fred approached the river at a Bridgeman's point one day, lost and in a hurry, so he was willing to risk his money and his car if it would get him to his destination. As he rolled up to the window of the distinctly coloured booth, a small head peered out over the ledge.
"Hey," said Fred, "Where's the Bridgeman?"
The small face sprouted a scowl. "I'm the Bridgeman! I am! And you can just go home if you don't like it!"
Fred eyed the boy suspiciously. "So what's your power? How are you going to get me across and how much will it cost me?"
"Twenty for the crossing by super-jump."
Fred didn't have time to haggle with the high price, nor to question the boy's ability. It was this or go home. He pulled out his wallet and handed the money over.
The boy stepped around to the front of the car wearing some cheap-looking gardening cloves. He put his weight under the front bumper and heaved the car up on its back wheels. Fred was glad he wasn't carrying anything big, like a suitcase, but tried belatedly to secure the few small objects strewn about the car's interior. Most of them rolled under the seats, out of reach, to be rediscovered next time he vacuumed the interior.
The boy must have worked his way further under the car, because it lurched up into the air and swayed unsteadily for several seconds. Just as Fred was about to call out and ask if the boy was okay, the car shot into the air like it had been on a giant spring. Fred could hear the wind whistling past the open windows, and wondered whether he should have closed them. The change in the ash tray started to float gently upwards as the other river bank approached, and Fred thought they might not make it. Then they crunched down, a little heavily, and it was clear there had been nothing to worry about.
It was a couple of seconds before Fred realised that the car was already on the ground, rather than being lowered as the boy got out from underneath. He called out and got no response, then opened the door to check under the car.
The boy was lying there, face down, apparently hurt.
"Hey, are you okay?" asked Fred, feeling silly as soon as he said it.
"Ring ... bell," managed the boy.
"What?"
"Ring the bell!" the boy repeated, with more energy this time. It was then that Fred noticed the bell on the side of the booth on this river bank, with instructions that simply read: "In case of emergency, ring bell." Fred waggled the bell's tongue back and forth as hard and fast as he could, producing a sustained low-frequency tolling from the bell. He went back to check on the boy who sent him back with just one word, "bell". Fred kept ringing it as loud as he could.
It wasn't long before help arrived in the form of a flying, muscle-bound paramedic wearing a radio and a cape. He took one look under Fred's car, shoved the whole thing to the side with one push, then yelled quickly into his radio: "Bridgeman down, Bridgeman down, we have a rookie Strong collapsed under a car. I'm bringing him in."
And without even a glance at Fred, the caped paramedic scooped up the boy and flew off into the sky, leaving Fred alone on the river bank, a little unsure what had happened. But with nothing else to do, he got back in his car and headed on his way, but first he left a little extra cash in the booth for the boy.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This makes story number 15 in my Brisbane suburbs series.
PPS - There's a long way to go yet.
The Bridgemen are superheroes, not all of them the same, but all specialised in this one small task. They may be super-strong, able to leap with your car across the river, or they may be telekinetic and lift it with their mind. They may be teleporters or space-benders, or they may magnetically stretch your car across the river and compress it back again on the other side. It's hard to know in advance what you're going to get from a Bridgeman. Some are even unscrupulous telepaths who will convince you that you have crossed the river when you have not, or that you never really wanted to go across in the first place. Most of them are all too happy to show off their powers, though.
Fred approached the river at a Bridgeman's point one day, lost and in a hurry, so he was willing to risk his money and his car if it would get him to his destination. As he rolled up to the window of the distinctly coloured booth, a small head peered out over the ledge.
"Hey," said Fred, "Where's the Bridgeman?"
The small face sprouted a scowl. "I'm the Bridgeman! I am! And you can just go home if you don't like it!"
Fred eyed the boy suspiciously. "So what's your power? How are you going to get me across and how much will it cost me?"
"Twenty for the crossing by super-jump."
Fred didn't have time to haggle with the high price, nor to question the boy's ability. It was this or go home. He pulled out his wallet and handed the money over.
The boy stepped around to the front of the car wearing some cheap-looking gardening cloves. He put his weight under the front bumper and heaved the car up on its back wheels. Fred was glad he wasn't carrying anything big, like a suitcase, but tried belatedly to secure the few small objects strewn about the car's interior. Most of them rolled under the seats, out of reach, to be rediscovered next time he vacuumed the interior.
The boy must have worked his way further under the car, because it lurched up into the air and swayed unsteadily for several seconds. Just as Fred was about to call out and ask if the boy was okay, the car shot into the air like it had been on a giant spring. Fred could hear the wind whistling past the open windows, and wondered whether he should have closed them. The change in the ash tray started to float gently upwards as the other river bank approached, and Fred thought they might not make it. Then they crunched down, a little heavily, and it was clear there had been nothing to worry about.
It was a couple of seconds before Fred realised that the car was already on the ground, rather than being lowered as the boy got out from underneath. He called out and got no response, then opened the door to check under the car.
The boy was lying there, face down, apparently hurt.
"Hey, are you okay?" asked Fred, feeling silly as soon as he said it.
"Ring ... bell," managed the boy.
"What?"
"Ring the bell!" the boy repeated, with more energy this time. It was then that Fred noticed the bell on the side of the booth on this river bank, with instructions that simply read: "In case of emergency, ring bell." Fred waggled the bell's tongue back and forth as hard and fast as he could, producing a sustained low-frequency tolling from the bell. He went back to check on the boy who sent him back with just one word, "bell". Fred kept ringing it as loud as he could.
It wasn't long before help arrived in the form of a flying, muscle-bound paramedic wearing a radio and a cape. He took one look under Fred's car, shoved the whole thing to the side with one push, then yelled quickly into his radio: "Bridgeman down, Bridgeman down, we have a rookie Strong collapsed under a car. I'm bringing him in."
And without even a glance at Fred, the caped paramedic scooped up the boy and flew off into the sky, leaving Fred alone on the river bank, a little unsure what had happened. But with nothing else to do, he got back in his car and headed on his way, but first he left a little extra cash in the booth for the boy.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This makes story number 15 in my Brisbane suburbs series.
PPS - There's a long way to go yet.
Friday, 12 October 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Macgregor and Mackenzie
The rival clans of MacGregor and MacKenzie faced off across the field. Nobody remembered the details of their hatred any more. All that remained over the hundreds of years was the foundational idea that no MacGregor could befriend a MacKenzie and vice versa. Their differences, whatever they happened to be, were insurmountable.
The MacKenzie commander raised his sword high. The clan shouted and advanced at a run toward the MacGregor lines. The MacGregors stayed put behind their shields, with spears protruding between them. The archers let loose with a coordinated twanging of bow strings and many MacKenzies were felled or injured. The rest kept coming, leaping over their fallen clansmen where necessary. Their war cry continued to echo through the valley.
A short way off, looking on from behind some bushes, the young boys of both clans sat together, watching intently as their fathers, uncles and bigger brothers fought for clan honour. They didn't know any better than their fathers what their clans fought about - land, some political dispute or something else entirely - and they didn't much care.
They swore to each other that they would never continue such a stupid conflict. They signed scrawled pieces of paper, looked each other squarely in the eyes and shook hands, but behind every back, fingers were crossed.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - These two just suburbs seemed to go together.
PPS - Or to oppose each other nicely.
The MacKenzie commander raised his sword high. The clan shouted and advanced at a run toward the MacGregor lines. The MacGregors stayed put behind their shields, with spears protruding between them. The archers let loose with a coordinated twanging of bow strings and many MacKenzies were felled or injured. The rest kept coming, leaping over their fallen clansmen where necessary. Their war cry continued to echo through the valley.
A short way off, looking on from behind some bushes, the young boys of both clans sat together, watching intently as their fathers, uncles and bigger brothers fought for clan honour. They didn't know any better than their fathers what their clans fought about - land, some political dispute or something else entirely - and they didn't much care.
They swore to each other that they would never continue such a stupid conflict. They signed scrawled pieces of paper, looked each other squarely in the eyes and shook hands, but behind every back, fingers were crossed.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - These two just suburbs seemed to go together.
PPS - Or to oppose each other nicely.
Friday, 28 September 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Myrtletown
A species of myrtle, Diospyros Pentamera had overgrown the whole the suburb of Myrtletown over the course of three weeks. Little patches in yards and gardens, rock walls, cracks in the footpath and disused back alleys joined together under the surface, at the roots, choking out other plants and forming a near-impenetrable wall around the suburb. Too many people realised too late what had happened. They needed to leave, but couldn't find their way.
That's where guides like George came in. Ordinarily a high school biology teacher, George had leapt into the role of jungle guide with great enthusiasm, even locating a pith helmet and safari suit in his father's old wardrobe. People paid him to find a way out of Myrtletown for them, and George always delivered.
George was leading a group of four people down a path that used to be Bancroft Road, hacking with his machete to make way. Where the plant limbs were cut off, tiny green shoots started growing back immediately, but as long as the group kept moving, the plant could not grow quite fast enough to block their way again.
The travellers looked nervously around them at the malicious plant. Those with backpacks hitched them tighter, ducking under the overhanging limbs. The woman who had brought a rolling suitcase had difficulty going over the uneven ground.
Finally they reached the edge of the plant's domain, and the travellers trotted forward, eager to be out of reach and into sunlight again, but George held up his hand and stopped them. It was time for his payment. Reluctantly, even resentfully, the travellers lowered their packs and allowed George to rummage through, selecting one item to take for himself. He made sure to look in the very bottom and in the side pockets, too. That was where people hid the things they least wanted him to find.
From the two young girls he took a necklace and a pair of earrings, probably not worth much, but better than nothing. The rough-faced middle-aged man had buried a beautiful old pocket watch under his folded underwear. George nabbed that too, and the man gave him a disgusted look as he turned to walk away.
Last, there was the lady with the rolling suitcase. George saw now that she had actually worn heels for the difficult walk. No wonder she had such trouble keeping up. As he reached for her case, she pulled the keys from her pocket and dramatically stuffed them inside her blouse, then glared at George as if daring him to demand she pay up. George shrugged and split the suitcase's zipper with a ball-point pen. It wasn't the first time someone had tried this. The woman was too stunned to react in time, and George flung the case open to find nothing but cash. George looked over at the woman and she looked equal parts terrified and furious. He zipped the case shut again and passed her the handle.
"Whatever you're running from," he said to her, "I hope you find your way."
She seemed relieved and grateful, gave George a quick "Thankyou" and took off quickly down the road without looking back again. George watched her for a minute, then picked up his machete, patted the pocket where his payments sat, and hacked his way back into the overgrowth.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Opening a locked suitcase really is that easy.
PPS - But only if it closes with a zip.
That's where guides like George came in. Ordinarily a high school biology teacher, George had leapt into the role of jungle guide with great enthusiasm, even locating a pith helmet and safari suit in his father's old wardrobe. People paid him to find a way out of Myrtletown for them, and George always delivered.
George was leading a group of four people down a path that used to be Bancroft Road, hacking with his machete to make way. Where the plant limbs were cut off, tiny green shoots started growing back immediately, but as long as the group kept moving, the plant could not grow quite fast enough to block their way again.
The travellers looked nervously around them at the malicious plant. Those with backpacks hitched them tighter, ducking under the overhanging limbs. The woman who had brought a rolling suitcase had difficulty going over the uneven ground.
Finally they reached the edge of the plant's domain, and the travellers trotted forward, eager to be out of reach and into sunlight again, but George held up his hand and stopped them. It was time for his payment. Reluctantly, even resentfully, the travellers lowered their packs and allowed George to rummage through, selecting one item to take for himself. He made sure to look in the very bottom and in the side pockets, too. That was where people hid the things they least wanted him to find.
From the two young girls he took a necklace and a pair of earrings, probably not worth much, but better than nothing. The rough-faced middle-aged man had buried a beautiful old pocket watch under his folded underwear. George nabbed that too, and the man gave him a disgusted look as he turned to walk away.
Last, there was the lady with the rolling suitcase. George saw now that she had actually worn heels for the difficult walk. No wonder she had such trouble keeping up. As he reached for her case, she pulled the keys from her pocket and dramatically stuffed them inside her blouse, then glared at George as if daring him to demand she pay up. George shrugged and split the suitcase's zipper with a ball-point pen. It wasn't the first time someone had tried this. The woman was too stunned to react in time, and George flung the case open to find nothing but cash. George looked over at the woman and she looked equal parts terrified and furious. He zipped the case shut again and passed her the handle.
"Whatever you're running from," he said to her, "I hope you find your way."
She seemed relieved and grateful, gave George a quick "Thankyou" and took off quickly down the road without looking back again. George watched her for a minute, then picked up his machete, patted the pocket where his payments sat, and hacked his way back into the overgrowth.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Opening a locked suitcase really is that easy.
PPS - But only if it closes with a zip.
Friday, 21 September 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Burpengary
Gary drank almost an entire 2-litre bottle of Coke. That was a mistake, especially before his big job interview. As the prim, thin woman sat across from him in her neat business suit, he could feel a familiar gurgling in his stomach. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he pinched his lips tightly together.
Then he realised the interviewer had asked him a question. Gary thought to himself, "maybe if I relax just right, I can burp it out quietly". He took a deep breath and sat up straight, but when he breathed out, instead of a quiet, unnoticed exhalation of CO2, his body betrayed him and he belched the whole 2 litres of the gas forcefully at the interviewer whose wide-eyed stare of shock told Gary everything he needed to know about his chances of being hired.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Just a short, silly piece this week, though still part of the Brisbane series.
PPS - I left it a bit late.
Then he realised the interviewer had asked him a question. Gary thought to himself, "maybe if I relax just right, I can burp it out quietly". He took a deep breath and sat up straight, but when he breathed out, instead of a quiet, unnoticed exhalation of CO2, his body betrayed him and he belched the whole 2 litres of the gas forcefully at the interviewer whose wide-eyed stare of shock told Gary everything he needed to know about his chances of being hired.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Just a short, silly piece this week, though still part of the Brisbane series.
PPS - I left it a bit late.
Friday, 14 September 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Upper Mount Gravatt
Muller and Smith had hit a bit of strife, just metres away from the peak of Mount Gravatt. Tethered to one another, it seemed they had each fallen prey to separate gravity wells, and were now being pulled apart in a tug-of-war. Muller with his heroic moustache tried to coordinate a double-self-rescue with Smith, but their voices were being snatched away in the freezing wind.
Muller had his climbing axes buried as deep as he could in the ground, but Smith had lost his into the gravity well behind him. If Muller crawled his way out, Smith would be lost for sure. If Smith tried to pull himself up on the rope, Muller might lose his grip.
It was just then that Muller spotted Earl coming over the ridge with that ridiculous helmet of his, and a smug grin plastered on his face. As if things couldn't have gotten any worse.
But then Earl noticed the serious predicament of Muller and Smith, and his smile turned to intent seriousness. He dropped his pack quickly and rummaged for some spare rope, shouting redundantly at them both to "hang on".
Earl the Mountaineer tied the rope around a sturdy-looking stump to anchor it, and laid one end aside for Muller before tying a climbing axe to the other end and lowering it slowly and carefully towards Smith. Smith gratefully took the axe and, with a deep *thunk*, sank it as far as he could into the ground, then held on for dear life.
With Smith secure, Muller began a slow crawl out and away from his gravity well, and Earl began pulling Smith to safety. As soon as Muller was upright again, he assisted, and Smith was free of the anomaly.
And there they sat, out of breath, rivals for the peak, but brothers in strife. When Muller had recovered enough, his gruff pioneer's face returned, and he bid Earl a curt farewell before heading off with Smith again. Smith, considerably more grateful, gave Earl a heartfelt (but silent) gesture of thanks, to which Earl responded with a modest hand wave of his own.
And though both Muller and Earl did reach the peak of Mount Gravatt and both braved the gravity wells to return home again, neither could be coaxed to say who had reached it first, for the rest of their days.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - That's the most respect I could imagine either character giving the other.
PPS - Next week's suburb is yet to be decided.
Muller had his climbing axes buried as deep as he could in the ground, but Smith had lost his into the gravity well behind him. If Muller crawled his way out, Smith would be lost for sure. If Smith tried to pull himself up on the rope, Muller might lose his grip.
It was just then that Muller spotted Earl coming over the ridge with that ridiculous helmet of his, and a smug grin plastered on his face. As if things couldn't have gotten any worse.
But then Earl noticed the serious predicament of Muller and Smith, and his smile turned to intent seriousness. He dropped his pack quickly and rummaged for some spare rope, shouting redundantly at them both to "hang on".
Earl the Mountaineer tied the rope around a sturdy-looking stump to anchor it, and laid one end aside for Muller before tying a climbing axe to the other end and lowering it slowly and carefully towards Smith. Smith gratefully took the axe and, with a deep *thunk*, sank it as far as he could into the ground, then held on for dear life.
With Smith secure, Muller began a slow crawl out and away from his gravity well, and Earl began pulling Smith to safety. As soon as Muller was upright again, he assisted, and Smith was free of the anomaly.
And there they sat, out of breath, rivals for the peak, but brothers in strife. When Muller had recovered enough, his gruff pioneer's face returned, and he bid Earl a curt farewell before heading off with Smith again. Smith, considerably more grateful, gave Earl a heartfelt (but silent) gesture of thanks, to which Earl responded with a modest hand wave of his own.
And though both Muller and Earl did reach the peak of Mount Gravatt and both braved the gravity wells to return home again, neither could be coaxed to say who had reached it first, for the rest of their days.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - That's the most respect I could imagine either character giving the other.
PPS - Next week's suburb is yet to be decided.
Friday, 7 September 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Mount Gravatt East
They simply called him "Earl the Mountaineer", and he was a humble man but for one goal: to be the first to climb Mount Gravatt. Nobody had yet succeeded because of the mountain's infamous gravity disturbances, but Earl was sure he could do so with nothing more than his wits and his grandfather's dowsing rods.
He was also convinced he could do so before that pompous Captain Muller.
Earl took in the mountain air and watched the sunrise sitting outside his tent. The air was sharp and clean. He flicked cigar ash into the wind and dreamily watched it float away, thinking of his grandfather, the one who had taught him to climb and taken him on his first expedition when he was eleven years old. The old man had taught him how to read a trail, how to pick your footing across uncertain ground, all the practical necessities of climbing, but he also taught Earl how to sense the moods of a mountain itself.
Yesterday, the mountain had been in a bad mood. It didn't want to be climbed. The gravity wells had sprung up all over the place, sometimes directly in Earl's path, but he patiently circled around them or turned back down. No sense agitating a mountain you're trying to climb.
So Earl had settled down, taken his time to get to know Old Lady Gravatt and her funny moods. He had spent the day tracing the outline of the peaks, feeling the texture of the snow, and, at sunset, listening to the birds settle in for the night. He liked to call it bird politics. At dusk all the day birds congregate in the trees and argue loudly for the best spots. The best arguers get the best branches. Just like human politics, or as much as Earl cared to know about such things.
So this morning he was ready to head up again, with a much better understanding of the mountain. Earl fixed the dowsing rods to his helmet, took his climbing poles in each hand and headed up the mountain's East side with his tent packed on his back. And today, it seemed, the mountain was much more in the mood to be climbed. And that, he took it, was a sign that Mount Gravatt liked him just a bit better than it liked Captain Muller.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This is a sequel to last week's story, Mount Gravatt.
PPS - Next week, the conclusion: Upper Mount Gravatt.
He was also convinced he could do so before that pompous Captain Muller.
Earl took in the mountain air and watched the sunrise sitting outside his tent. The air was sharp and clean. He flicked cigar ash into the wind and dreamily watched it float away, thinking of his grandfather, the one who had taught him to climb and taken him on his first expedition when he was eleven years old. The old man had taught him how to read a trail, how to pick your footing across uncertain ground, all the practical necessities of climbing, but he also taught Earl how to sense the moods of a mountain itself.
Yesterday, the mountain had been in a bad mood. It didn't want to be climbed. The gravity wells had sprung up all over the place, sometimes directly in Earl's path, but he patiently circled around them or turned back down. No sense agitating a mountain you're trying to climb.
So Earl had settled down, taken his time to get to know Old Lady Gravatt and her funny moods. He had spent the day tracing the outline of the peaks, feeling the texture of the snow, and, at sunset, listening to the birds settle in for the night. He liked to call it bird politics. At dusk all the day birds congregate in the trees and argue loudly for the best spots. The best arguers get the best branches. Just like human politics, or as much as Earl cared to know about such things.
So this morning he was ready to head up again, with a much better understanding of the mountain. Earl fixed the dowsing rods to his helmet, took his climbing poles in each hand and headed up the mountain's East side with his tent packed on his back. And today, it seemed, the mountain was much more in the mood to be climbed. And that, he took it, was a sign that Mount Gravatt liked him just a bit better than it liked Captain Muller.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This is a sequel to last week's story, Mount Gravatt.
PPS - Next week, the conclusion: Upper Mount Gravatt.
Friday, 31 August 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Mount Gravatt
Captain Muller's team broke camp early in the morning, halfway up perilous Mount Gravatt. It would have been a difficult climb even without the mountain's unique nature. That just made it more of a challenge, and more prestige for the one who reached the summit first. If Muller had any say in it, that would be him, even if nobody could say for sure how tall the mountain would be when he got there.
They packed their tents, took up their climbing poles and consulted their gravimeters, which let them see, in theory, gravitational anomalies approaching before they became a problem. The immediate path looked clear, so they set off.
But barely an hour into the day's climb, they hit a snag. Smith, in the lead, held up his hand and stopped the climbing party with a "whoah there". The easiest path started to look less certain on the gravimeters, and to go around would either mean backtracking to find another way, or attempting to scale a cliff. Muller was determined to go as far and fast as he could - preferably further than anyone had ever gone up Mount Gravatt - but the cliff was clearly dangerous. He stood stroking his thick moustache for a minute, pondering his options, then placed his hands on his hips to face the rising sun. The rest of the team suspected he struck these heroic poses on purpose, to try and be more inspiring. Half the time it worked. The other half, it just looked ridiculous.
This was one of the inspiring times.
Turning dramatically to his men, he pointed up the cliff face and instructed them to pair off and ready their pitons, as they knew he would. Smith went first, tethered to Muller, and he climbed quickly and skillfully. The other climbers could see his breath in the cold air, a sign of how hard he was working. As he crested the top, they gave a cheer, but he called back down to them that there was room only for two men up there at the most. Most of the party would have to turn back while the rest completed the climb without them. Since Smith was already up and Muller led the expedition, everyone knew who would be going on.
They opened packs and exchanged some contents, giving Muller the best of the remaining food, some spare batteries and one smaller oxygen cylinder. He thanked his men with genuine gratitude, then turned to face the cliff as Smith prepared to reel in the rope from above. The six who would be left behind watched Muller climb up to meet Smith before they waved a farewell and turned to head back down the mountain again.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Mount Gravatt East and Upper Mount Gravatt to follow.
PPS - I might have to speed up on this Brisbane writing project at some point.
They packed their tents, took up their climbing poles and consulted their gravimeters, which let them see, in theory, gravitational anomalies approaching before they became a problem. The immediate path looked clear, so they set off.
But barely an hour into the day's climb, they hit a snag. Smith, in the lead, held up his hand and stopped the climbing party with a "whoah there". The easiest path started to look less certain on the gravimeters, and to go around would either mean backtracking to find another way, or attempting to scale a cliff. Muller was determined to go as far and fast as he could - preferably further than anyone had ever gone up Mount Gravatt - but the cliff was clearly dangerous. He stood stroking his thick moustache for a minute, pondering his options, then placed his hands on his hips to face the rising sun. The rest of the team suspected he struck these heroic poses on purpose, to try and be more inspiring. Half the time it worked. The other half, it just looked ridiculous.
This was one of the inspiring times.
Turning dramatically to his men, he pointed up the cliff face and instructed them to pair off and ready their pitons, as they knew he would. Smith went first, tethered to Muller, and he climbed quickly and skillfully. The other climbers could see his breath in the cold air, a sign of how hard he was working. As he crested the top, they gave a cheer, but he called back down to them that there was room only for two men up there at the most. Most of the party would have to turn back while the rest completed the climb without them. Since Smith was already up and Muller led the expedition, everyone knew who would be going on.
They opened packs and exchanged some contents, giving Muller the best of the remaining food, some spare batteries and one smaller oxygen cylinder. He thanked his men with genuine gratitude, then turned to face the cliff as Smith prepared to reel in the rope from above. The six who would be left behind watched Muller climb up to meet Smith before they waved a farewell and turned to head back down the mountain again.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Mount Gravatt East and Upper Mount Gravatt to follow.
PPS - I might have to speed up on this Brisbane writing project at some point.
Friday, 24 August 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Stafford Heights
In the thirty years since she deposed the old wizard and took up residence in his tower, Astrid had become quite adept at using Stafford, the fording staff, capable of controlling water. She had discovered she could use it to bring better rain to crops for the villagers, and for a time everything worked well for everyone.
But some villagers grumbled that Astrid would be just as bad as the old wizard, and she did have just as much power. They said no person should wield the fording staff at all - power should be shared, or at the very least rotated among others.
Astrid kept an ear out for such things and subtly influenced the rain to pour a little less generously on those who displeased her. But over time her patience grew thinner. Couldn't they see she had done them a favour? She destroyed the old wizard who had been oppressing them all this time! All she asked in return was their gratitude, and they were so stubborn that they couldn't even give her that.
She stopped rain entirely on those she now thought of as "rebels", causing their crops to fail. Then, once the ground was dusty and dry, she opened the heavens and poured out a torrent on them, flooding their houses and washing away what remained of their loose soil. She glared down from her tower, watching them run with their meagre possessions, trying to find higher ground.
But that was the last straw for even those villagers who had been supportive. They took up rakes, hoes and pitchforks to storm the tower and force Astrid to give up the staff and her control. Astrid practically laughed at their foolhardy gesture, and caused the moat to swell and crash at its banks as a warning. Try to cross, it said, and you'll be destroyed.
The rain poured down hard and lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the scene for brief moments at a time. The villagers stood on the other side of the moat, angry but stuck. Astrid stayed high and dry, watching from her tower, waiting for them to back down so she could dispel the storm.
An enormous crack of lightning showed that the villagers had been joined by three hooded figures in light-coloured robes, holding their hands over the moat. And even through the storm, Astrid could hear their voices, a low humming sound, punctuated by occasional rumbles or beats.
Then suddenly the water in the moat turned still as glass. It wasn't foaming or rising at all, not a splash or a ripple crossed its surface. It wasn't even flowing! Astrid swept her staff down in a low line towards the moat, and she felt her power, directed by the staff, flowing down through the water, but at that still point, it was a bump, as if her power could not enter there.
The three hooded figures stalked across the moat easily, still chanting their power song. Astrid flew down the stairs inside the tower and it suddenly struck her that this must be how it had looked to the old wizard so long ago. She burst from the door and stood before the figures who threw off their hoods in unison. Two she did not know, but one was her old mistress, the teacher from whom she had stolen the staff in the first place. She hesitated...
...and her mistress, with a quick flick of her bony, aged wrist, called Stafford to her. It leapt out of Astrid's hands and jumped to her mistress. Astrid grasped at air in its wake, but fell to her knees in the rain-softened earth as she failed to bring the staff back to her.
Astrid's mistress stood with Stafford in her right hand and a serious expression on her face. Astrid was cowed - she had been scolded by that stare often during her training, and she had no power here any more. The rain was already clearing. Astrid expected to be executed, but her mistress merely pointed north. The instruction needed no words. Astrid picked herself up and, as quickly but with as much dignity as she could muster, hurried away, as far as she could, from the villagers who would surely have taken their revenge on her. She had been shown mercy, and she would not let it be in vain.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Sequel to last week's story, Stafford.
PPS - I haven't decided next week's suburb yet. You'll know when I do.
But some villagers grumbled that Astrid would be just as bad as the old wizard, and she did have just as much power. They said no person should wield the fording staff at all - power should be shared, or at the very least rotated among others.
Astrid kept an ear out for such things and subtly influenced the rain to pour a little less generously on those who displeased her. But over time her patience grew thinner. Couldn't they see she had done them a favour? She destroyed the old wizard who had been oppressing them all this time! All she asked in return was their gratitude, and they were so stubborn that they couldn't even give her that.
She stopped rain entirely on those she now thought of as "rebels", causing their crops to fail. Then, once the ground was dusty and dry, she opened the heavens and poured out a torrent on them, flooding their houses and washing away what remained of their loose soil. She glared down from her tower, watching them run with their meagre possessions, trying to find higher ground.
But that was the last straw for even those villagers who had been supportive. They took up rakes, hoes and pitchforks to storm the tower and force Astrid to give up the staff and her control. Astrid practically laughed at their foolhardy gesture, and caused the moat to swell and crash at its banks as a warning. Try to cross, it said, and you'll be destroyed.
The rain poured down hard and lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the scene for brief moments at a time. The villagers stood on the other side of the moat, angry but stuck. Astrid stayed high and dry, watching from her tower, waiting for them to back down so she could dispel the storm.
An enormous crack of lightning showed that the villagers had been joined by three hooded figures in light-coloured robes, holding their hands over the moat. And even through the storm, Astrid could hear their voices, a low humming sound, punctuated by occasional rumbles or beats.
Then suddenly the water in the moat turned still as glass. It wasn't foaming or rising at all, not a splash or a ripple crossed its surface. It wasn't even flowing! Astrid swept her staff down in a low line towards the moat, and she felt her power, directed by the staff, flowing down through the water, but at that still point, it was a bump, as if her power could not enter there.
The three hooded figures stalked across the moat easily, still chanting their power song. Astrid flew down the stairs inside the tower and it suddenly struck her that this must be how it had looked to the old wizard so long ago. She burst from the door and stood before the figures who threw off their hoods in unison. Two she did not know, but one was her old mistress, the teacher from whom she had stolen the staff in the first place. She hesitated...
...and her mistress, with a quick flick of her bony, aged wrist, called Stafford to her. It leapt out of Astrid's hands and jumped to her mistress. Astrid grasped at air in its wake, but fell to her knees in the rain-softened earth as she failed to bring the staff back to her.
Astrid's mistress stood with Stafford in her right hand and a serious expression on her face. Astrid was cowed - she had been scolded by that stare often during her training, and she had no power here any more. The rain was already clearing. Astrid expected to be executed, but her mistress merely pointed north. The instruction needed no words. Astrid picked herself up and, as quickly but with as much dignity as she could muster, hurried away, as far as she could, from the villagers who would surely have taken their revenge on her. She had been shown mercy, and she would not let it be in vain.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Sequel to last week's story, Stafford.
PPS - I haven't decided next week's suburb yet. You'll know when I do.
Friday, 17 August 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Stafford
The dark wizard had ruled too long from his tower. Now that Astrid had the staff, the counterpoint to the wizard's own, and the training from her white witch mistress, she was determined to take on the wizard herself. Astrid's mistress did not know she had taken the staff and gone out on her own. The old worrier would only have tried to stop her anyway.
Astrid's white cloak with silver trim, the outfit of a water acolyte, whipped about her legs in the growing wind. She held the clasp closer to her chest and muttered a short incantation to try and stave off the chill. The wizard was powerful and the wind was constant. The moat around his tower, diverted from Kedron Brook and magically enhanced, was impassable.
That's where the staff came in. At the edge of the moat, Astrid planted the staff in the soft earth with both hands. A faint shimmering ripple spread out across the ground and the water of the moat stood up on both sides, wobbling slightly like jelly.
Astrid forded the moat on the spongy creek bed, careful not to step on the fish in her path. The wind pulled harder at her cloak and fanned her hair out behind her like fury. She climbed the opposite bank with one hand clutching the staff tight in her near-frozen fingers. She saw the skin under her nails turning blue from the cold wind and knew she had to hurry.
The door to the tower burst outwards as Astrid reached it and the wizard stood there, bold and defiant, clutching his staff. His beard and cloak were still, the only things not caught up in the raging wind. Astrid levelled the staff at him and he sneered in response. A flick of his wrist sent a strong gust of wind at Astrid and her staff, but she stood firm. After a moment of confusion, the wizard finally saw that Astrid held the fording staff, Stafford, the water elemental weapon whose power matched his own. His eyes grew suddenly wide.
Astrid gave her staff a twist and the wizard froze in place. With a mighty effort he tried to bring his own staff around to counter her power, but by then it was far too late. The battle was decided already. Astrid gave the staff another twist and swept it low. The wind died abruptly and the old wizard crumbled to dust.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Next week: Stafford Heights.
PPS - I'm having some fun with these.
Astrid's white cloak with silver trim, the outfit of a water acolyte, whipped about her legs in the growing wind. She held the clasp closer to her chest and muttered a short incantation to try and stave off the chill. The wizard was powerful and the wind was constant. The moat around his tower, diverted from Kedron Brook and magically enhanced, was impassable.
That's where the staff came in. At the edge of the moat, Astrid planted the staff in the soft earth with both hands. A faint shimmering ripple spread out across the ground and the water of the moat stood up on both sides, wobbling slightly like jelly.
Astrid forded the moat on the spongy creek bed, careful not to step on the fish in her path. The wind pulled harder at her cloak and fanned her hair out behind her like fury. She climbed the opposite bank with one hand clutching the staff tight in her near-frozen fingers. She saw the skin under her nails turning blue from the cold wind and knew she had to hurry.
The door to the tower burst outwards as Astrid reached it and the wizard stood there, bold and defiant, clutching his staff. His beard and cloak were still, the only things not caught up in the raging wind. Astrid levelled the staff at him and he sneered in response. A flick of his wrist sent a strong gust of wind at Astrid and her staff, but she stood firm. After a moment of confusion, the wizard finally saw that Astrid held the fording staff, Stafford, the water elemental weapon whose power matched his own. His eyes grew suddenly wide.
Astrid gave her staff a twist and the wizard froze in place. With a mighty effort he tried to bring his own staff around to counter her power, but by then it was far too late. The battle was decided already. Astrid gave the staff another twist and swept it low. The wind died abruptly and the old wizard crumbled to dust.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Next week: Stafford Heights.
PPS - I'm having some fun with these.
Friday, 10 August 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Eagle Farm
"Dad, why do we farm eagles?"
"Well, we do live at Eagle Farm, boy. Everyone farms eagles here. Why, are you getting sick of it?"
"No, it's not that, Dad. It's just that I wonder what it's all for."
"You sound like you don't like it."
"No, Dad, I really do love it! I love tending their nests up in their high roosts, I love taking care of the orphaned eaglets, I love teaching them to hunt their own food. It's really great, Dad! It's just ... well, why did you start farming eagles?"
"Like my pa before me and his pa before him, we farm eagles because it's the family and regional business, son. It's what we do because we're here and we're here because we do it. Simple."
"Yeah, okay, just ... what happens to the eagles after we farm them?"
"We ship them to the king, of course! You know that."
"Yes, I do, but ... what does he do with them? Why does he need a whole region of eagle farmers working to supply him with eagles?"
"Well ... he's the king, isn't he? Gotta have eagles if you're the king. Wouldn't do to have a king with no eagles, would it? All them other kings would be pointing and laughing at the king who had no eagles at all! Look at 'im, they'd say! Look at the old no-eagle king! Hasn't got a single eagle! Not fit to be king, is he? Why, if I were a king with a thousand eagles and I knew some other king had none, I'd take over from that no-eagle king as fast as you please."
Harold sighed exasperatedly. This kind of conversation with his father always seemed to go around in circles. A king needs eagles to be king, and that's that.
"Okay, Dad, how about this: what if our king didn't have eagles at all, but, I don't know, albatrosses or vultures or something? What would that be like?"
Harold's father squirmed uncomfortably. "Well, he'd be some kind of emperor or duke. No, wait, dukes is ducks, I think. Gotta have ducks to be a duke."
"Dad-"
"Hold on, son, hold on, I'm just thinking here. Look, eagles are a form of status symbol for kings, they are. That just means that kings need eagles like you and me need a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. You've seen magpies collecting shiny things, right? All the coins, metal shavings and pretty stones they can get hold of? It's like that with kings and eagles! Only the king collects the birds, not the other way around."
"So it's just a tradition, then? The way of the land?"
"Right, Harry! Tradition!"
"So where did the tradition come from?"
"Oh, why didn't you ask that in the first place? There was this great battle once, a long time ago, between these two armies fighting for a couple of kingdoms, see? The kings had their soldiers lined up across the valley and ready to start, then suddenly one of them blew on this kind of whistle and a whole flock of eagles swooped down out of the trees and started pecking and clawing at the other army. They made such a nuisance of themselves that the other king had to withdraw and surrender! From then on, it just sort of escalated, you know, so one king kept a roost of five hundred eagles, then the next one had to have six hundred and so on. Of course they don't use them for battle any more. These days its all trades, land and crops, but they still keep the eagles, just in case."
"Just in case someone wants to attack them and they have to save themselves with eagle air superiority?"
"Exactly, my boy! Exactly!"
Harold sat, deep in thought for a while, then spoke up again. "Dad, has any king ever tried to train his eagles to go and attack the roost of another king directly?"
"Well, there'd hardly be any point, would there? All thos other kings have farms like ours, and since the eagles are just symbolic now, it wouldn't accomplish much."
"Okay, yeah, I suppose, but what if you managed to cripple the farms? If, say, you got a cuckoo's egg into one of the farmed eagle nests, and they started out-breeding the eagles?"
His father scratched his head for a second. "I suppose you could do something like that. Might make a bit of a fool of that other king if all his eagles turned into cuckoos. What made you think of that?"
"I think someone might be trying to do it to us."
"WHAT?"
"I found this cuckoo's egg in one of the nests this morning."
"Harold, you are as dumb as a sack of hammers, you know that? Why didn't you come in and tell me that right away? It was probably that skunk Evans. He's been eyeing our commission for years."
"I just thought, well, would it be so bad if we were farming cuckoos instead of eagles? It would be different, and it would make our king unique, wouldn't it?"
"Oh, yes, certainly it would, Harry. Unique! He'd be the most unique laughing stock of all the kings of the valley, he would!"
"But-"
"Go on and get your ladder and climbing gear, son. We've got some more nests to check and probably a lot more cuckoo eggs to pitch out."
Mokalus of Borg
PS - To my surprise, there are no eagle farms at Eagle Farm.
PPS - I'm not totally sure there are any eagle farms anywhere, actually.
"Well, we do live at Eagle Farm, boy. Everyone farms eagles here. Why, are you getting sick of it?"
"No, it's not that, Dad. It's just that I wonder what it's all for."
"You sound like you don't like it."
"No, Dad, I really do love it! I love tending their nests up in their high roosts, I love taking care of the orphaned eaglets, I love teaching them to hunt their own food. It's really great, Dad! It's just ... well, why did you start farming eagles?"
"Like my pa before me and his pa before him, we farm eagles because it's the family and regional business, son. It's what we do because we're here and we're here because we do it. Simple."
"Yeah, okay, just ... what happens to the eagles after we farm them?"
"We ship them to the king, of course! You know that."
"Yes, I do, but ... what does he do with them? Why does he need a whole region of eagle farmers working to supply him with eagles?"
"Well ... he's the king, isn't he? Gotta have eagles if you're the king. Wouldn't do to have a king with no eagles, would it? All them other kings would be pointing and laughing at the king who had no eagles at all! Look at 'im, they'd say! Look at the old no-eagle king! Hasn't got a single eagle! Not fit to be king, is he? Why, if I were a king with a thousand eagles and I knew some other king had none, I'd take over from that no-eagle king as fast as you please."
Harold sighed exasperatedly. This kind of conversation with his father always seemed to go around in circles. A king needs eagles to be king, and that's that.
"Okay, Dad, how about this: what if our king didn't have eagles at all, but, I don't know, albatrosses or vultures or something? What would that be like?"
Harold's father squirmed uncomfortably. "Well, he'd be some kind of emperor or duke. No, wait, dukes is ducks, I think. Gotta have ducks to be a duke."
"Dad-"
"Hold on, son, hold on, I'm just thinking here. Look, eagles are a form of status symbol for kings, they are. That just means that kings need eagles like you and me need a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. You've seen magpies collecting shiny things, right? All the coins, metal shavings and pretty stones they can get hold of? It's like that with kings and eagles! Only the king collects the birds, not the other way around."
"So it's just a tradition, then? The way of the land?"
"Right, Harry! Tradition!"
"So where did the tradition come from?"
"Oh, why didn't you ask that in the first place? There was this great battle once, a long time ago, between these two armies fighting for a couple of kingdoms, see? The kings had their soldiers lined up across the valley and ready to start, then suddenly one of them blew on this kind of whistle and a whole flock of eagles swooped down out of the trees and started pecking and clawing at the other army. They made such a nuisance of themselves that the other king had to withdraw and surrender! From then on, it just sort of escalated, you know, so one king kept a roost of five hundred eagles, then the next one had to have six hundred and so on. Of course they don't use them for battle any more. These days its all trades, land and crops, but they still keep the eagles, just in case."
"Just in case someone wants to attack them and they have to save themselves with eagle air superiority?"
"Exactly, my boy! Exactly!"
Harold sat, deep in thought for a while, then spoke up again. "Dad, has any king ever tried to train his eagles to go and attack the roost of another king directly?"
"Well, there'd hardly be any point, would there? All thos other kings have farms like ours, and since the eagles are just symbolic now, it wouldn't accomplish much."
"Okay, yeah, I suppose, but what if you managed to cripple the farms? If, say, you got a cuckoo's egg into one of the farmed eagle nests, and they started out-breeding the eagles?"
His father scratched his head for a second. "I suppose you could do something like that. Might make a bit of a fool of that other king if all his eagles turned into cuckoos. What made you think of that?"
"I think someone might be trying to do it to us."
"WHAT?"
"I found this cuckoo's egg in one of the nests this morning."
"Harold, you are as dumb as a sack of hammers, you know that? Why didn't you come in and tell me that right away? It was probably that skunk Evans. He's been eyeing our commission for years."
"I just thought, well, would it be so bad if we were farming cuckoos instead of eagles? It would be different, and it would make our king unique, wouldn't it?"
"Oh, yes, certainly it would, Harry. Unique! He'd be the most unique laughing stock of all the kings of the valley, he would!"
"But-"
"Go on and get your ladder and climbing gear, son. We've got some more nests to check and probably a lot more cuckoo eggs to pitch out."
Mokalus of Borg
PS - To my surprise, there are no eagle farms at Eagle Farm.
PPS - I'm not totally sure there are any eagle farms anywhere, actually.
Friday, 3 August 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Manly
Far in our future, the suburb of Manly has been made into a prison, surrounded by tall, harsh concrete walls. A prison where men are put for the crime of being born with a Y chromosome. Men emerge from there ... changed. Not physically, although in some ways that might be less cruel. No, they are changed mentally. They are broken. Tamed. Domesticated. The warrior spirit from long ago squeezed out of them.
Before or after conditioning and training, the men are in some way unacceptable. They are brutes, slaves to their hormones, their passions, their muscles, and then the conditioning makes them docile, cow-like, obedient and calm but lacking any interest whatsoever. They will do the work set before them, but within a year most slip into a depressive coma and die. No domesticated man has lived past three years.
Lady Mara Adelbury purchased a manservant from the prison at Manly to assist her maid. She was assured that the collared brute had been conditioned to the highest standards of the facility, and that, should he die within six months, he would be replaced, free of charge. She was apprehensive at allowing a male onto the premises - no male had set food on the Adelbury estate in over two hundred years, since the gender wars - but the work was getting to be too much for her aging maid and you couldn't teach the young girls of today anything. Her own daughter was proof enough of that.
The man actually came shipped in a box, chained up, but loosely. Apparently comfortable enough. His handler, a square-shaped, heavy woman in leather armour and carrying a shock prod, kept a severe, distrusting eye on him the entire time, and even backed out of the room after Lady Adelbury had signed the delivery papers, watching the back of the man's head for any sign of sudden violence and betrayal.
It was not a sight that filled Lady Adelbury with confidence in her purchase.
The Lady found it odd that such a "highly conditioned" male would still be so distrusted by a prison guard, but thought better of saying anything on the matter. She looked her new acquisition up and down. He had close-cropped hair, wore plain denim overalls and simple work boots. His eyes were dull, and he had a brown leather collar around his neck.
Lady Adelbury was uncertain what needed to be done first. She asked him his name, and in a voice that was deep and quiet but clear, he replied, "Rodney, ma'am". Lady Adelbury had never heard a man's voice before, and it made her uncomfortable in a way she could not quite fathom.
"Rodney," she paused, wondering where best to put him to work. "The ... uh ... the gardens need tending. Pull the weeds in the north courtyard, then fetch Millicent to show her when you are done."
"Yes, ma'am."
Rodney turned on his heel and slumped out of the house, making his way to the north courtyard. For the next few hours, Lady Adelbury busied herself in the library, indexing and cataloguing her mother's handwritten biology notes, until teatime when she began wondering what had happened to Rodney. Had she been too quick to let him out of her sight? She made her way tentatively to the courtyard, peering around corners with excessive caution.
Lady Adelbury found Rodney on his knees in the courtyard, filthy, sunburned and his hands cut to painful ribbons by the thorns and thistles, now trying to pull weeds with his elbows.
For a second, Lady Adelbury was angry, and was about to ask why Rodney did not get himself some gloves to work with, before realising she had not told him to do so. The prison had said specifically that his conditioning was to do nothing he had not been instructed to do.
She led him inside by the wrist, sat him down at the kitchen table, and began to gently tend to his wounds, plucking the thorns from his palms with tweezers and disinfecting the cuts before bandaging his hands up. As she did so, she saw, just for a moment, a look of gratefulness in his eyes, but a moment later it was replaced by the standard blank stare of his conditioning.
Lady Adelbury wondered if that look had been part of his training - a bonding reflex they had programmed into him - or whether men were actually capable of gratitude and even love on their own. She wasn't sure, but she thought she should find out, and also read some history of the gender wars. And maybe she should find out just what kind of conditioning was really done at Manly.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - When I write it, I think Manly West will be a sequel to this story.
PPS - And that may be the best way to handle such similarly named suburbs in this series.
Before or after conditioning and training, the men are in some way unacceptable. They are brutes, slaves to their hormones, their passions, their muscles, and then the conditioning makes them docile, cow-like, obedient and calm but lacking any interest whatsoever. They will do the work set before them, but within a year most slip into a depressive coma and die. No domesticated man has lived past three years.
Lady Mara Adelbury purchased a manservant from the prison at Manly to assist her maid. She was assured that the collared brute had been conditioned to the highest standards of the facility, and that, should he die within six months, he would be replaced, free of charge. She was apprehensive at allowing a male onto the premises - no male had set food on the Adelbury estate in over two hundred years, since the gender wars - but the work was getting to be too much for her aging maid and you couldn't teach the young girls of today anything. Her own daughter was proof enough of that.
The man actually came shipped in a box, chained up, but loosely. Apparently comfortable enough. His handler, a square-shaped, heavy woman in leather armour and carrying a shock prod, kept a severe, distrusting eye on him the entire time, and even backed out of the room after Lady Adelbury had signed the delivery papers, watching the back of the man's head for any sign of sudden violence and betrayal.
It was not a sight that filled Lady Adelbury with confidence in her purchase.
The Lady found it odd that such a "highly conditioned" male would still be so distrusted by a prison guard, but thought better of saying anything on the matter. She looked her new acquisition up and down. He had close-cropped hair, wore plain denim overalls and simple work boots. His eyes were dull, and he had a brown leather collar around his neck.
Lady Adelbury was uncertain what needed to be done first. She asked him his name, and in a voice that was deep and quiet but clear, he replied, "Rodney, ma'am". Lady Adelbury had never heard a man's voice before, and it made her uncomfortable in a way she could not quite fathom.
"Rodney," she paused, wondering where best to put him to work. "The ... uh ... the gardens need tending. Pull the weeds in the north courtyard, then fetch Millicent to show her when you are done."
"Yes, ma'am."
Rodney turned on his heel and slumped out of the house, making his way to the north courtyard. For the next few hours, Lady Adelbury busied herself in the library, indexing and cataloguing her mother's handwritten biology notes, until teatime when she began wondering what had happened to Rodney. Had she been too quick to let him out of her sight? She made her way tentatively to the courtyard, peering around corners with excessive caution.
Lady Adelbury found Rodney on his knees in the courtyard, filthy, sunburned and his hands cut to painful ribbons by the thorns and thistles, now trying to pull weeds with his elbows.
For a second, Lady Adelbury was angry, and was about to ask why Rodney did not get himself some gloves to work with, before realising she had not told him to do so. The prison had said specifically that his conditioning was to do nothing he had not been instructed to do.
She led him inside by the wrist, sat him down at the kitchen table, and began to gently tend to his wounds, plucking the thorns from his palms with tweezers and disinfecting the cuts before bandaging his hands up. As she did so, she saw, just for a moment, a look of gratefulness in his eyes, but a moment later it was replaced by the standard blank stare of his conditioning.
Lady Adelbury wondered if that look had been part of his training - a bonding reflex they had programmed into him - or whether men were actually capable of gratitude and even love on their own. She wasn't sure, but she thought she should find out, and also read some history of the gender wars. And maybe she should find out just what kind of conditioning was really done at Manly.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - When I write it, I think Manly West will be a sequel to this story.
PPS - And that may be the best way to handle such similarly named suburbs in this series.
Friday, 27 July 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Milton
There used to be a bowling alley in the suburb of Milton. In it, if you went at the right time of night, you might see a man who looked like he was built entirely of muscle. He would be bowling alone, in a lane at the end, with a ball so heavy that nobody else could lift it, let alone bowl it. The name on his score monitor says "Thor".
The ball swung up high behind him, then curved down in a long arc. The bowler released it only when it kissed the lane, smooth as silk. Then came the rumble, deep in the boards of the lane, so low-pitched you could barely hear it. You felt it deep inside your bones instead as the ball rushed along the polished wooden boards of the lane. Finally, the ball would complete its journey with a crack as the pins flew away before it, exploding in all directions and coming to rest either spinning on the lane or knocked far back into the well. The rumble lingered on just a little longer than it seemed it should have done, and then the ball was on its way back through the chute.
Thor didn't especially like to bowl alone. It was just the only way for him. His scores were respectable, and the thunderclap of his ball was not easy to follow with your own twelve-pound ball. Thor's sixes made your strikes sound wimpy by comparison. But the main reason Thor bowled alone was that he wasn't much of a people person. Thor seemed not so much like a lost soul, but more like a lonely one. Someone for whom the normal company of other people was very difficult or too awkward.
I met the man who called himself "Thor" on the lanes late on a Sunday night, when the alley was normally quiet and clear. He was huge - a metre across the shoulders.
Thor swung back his mighty ball and propelled it down the lane with as smooth a delivery as I've ever seen. The interesting part was that his feet were rooted to the ground. They never moved, while most other bowlers would take a few steps to build up some speed, Thor's power was all shoulder.
His technique was a bit lacking, though. The really good bowlers would spin the ball so that it curved across the lane and struck the first pin on an angle. Thor bowled head on, straight line, and his heavy ball just plowed right through the pins. It was common for him to end up with a bad split.
Being a coach myself, I wanted to offer my services, to teach Thor a little finesse. I mean, power is one thing, and plenty of bowlers would have loved to have power like Thor's, but if you can't direct that power on anything but a straight line, you'll miss all your spares.
I took up the lane next to his and started easing out a few strikes. I didn't want to make him feel bad - if I had, I would have used a kids' six-pound ball - but I wanted to show him that I knew my stuff. Power isn't everything. He huffed to himself, set his jaw and swung out the most thunderous, incredible frames I have ever seen or heeard, but didn't score more than seven on any of them.
I knew he wouldn't ask for my help, and he clearly wasn't going to accept if I offered it to him, so I tried something else.
"Could you show me how to bowl with power like that?" I asked him.
He took a second for his eyes to focus, as if he had been expecting something else from me. Then he kind of smirked and picked up his ball. He wasn't much for words.
Obviously there was a lot of muscle in Thor's power bowling, but it turned out there was a lot of developed technique, too. Keep the arm bent, he showed me, until the last moment. Follow an ellipse, not a circle. Before long, I was hurling my ball down the lane at dizzying speed, and the crack of the pins as it connected was quite satisfying.
I thanked Thor for his help and watched him bowl a few more frames before taking up my lane again. I put some of Thor's power moves into play, but used them to enhance my own finely-targeted technique. It seemed clear to me that he wasn't going to ask my help, but he could watch me mix his power with my style. He could figure it out on his own, if that's what he wanted.
A few weeks later, I saw that the "perfect game" sign above the lane had changed, listing one "Thor Odinson" as having bowled a 300 game there recently. I smiled as I saw that the lane was also being repaired. A perfect game from Thor must have meant quite a punishment.
I kept going back to the alley until they closed it down years later, but I never saw Thor again. Maybe he found a new haunt, or maybe he just decided he was done with bowling after his perfect game. Either way, I can't hear a thunderstorm now without smiling. I like to think they had to close the old alley because of Thor - because their aging lanes couldn't take his particular brand of power any more - but I'll never know for sure.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - The real story of why Milton Bowl closed is more mundane than this, obviously.
PPS - I used to bowl there now and then.
The ball swung up high behind him, then curved down in a long arc. The bowler released it only when it kissed the lane, smooth as silk. Then came the rumble, deep in the boards of the lane, so low-pitched you could barely hear it. You felt it deep inside your bones instead as the ball rushed along the polished wooden boards of the lane. Finally, the ball would complete its journey with a crack as the pins flew away before it, exploding in all directions and coming to rest either spinning on the lane or knocked far back into the well. The rumble lingered on just a little longer than it seemed it should have done, and then the ball was on its way back through the chute.
Thor didn't especially like to bowl alone. It was just the only way for him. His scores were respectable, and the thunderclap of his ball was not easy to follow with your own twelve-pound ball. Thor's sixes made your strikes sound wimpy by comparison. But the main reason Thor bowled alone was that he wasn't much of a people person. Thor seemed not so much like a lost soul, but more like a lonely one. Someone for whom the normal company of other people was very difficult or too awkward.
I met the man who called himself "Thor" on the lanes late on a Sunday night, when the alley was normally quiet and clear. He was huge - a metre across the shoulders.
Thor swung back his mighty ball and propelled it down the lane with as smooth a delivery as I've ever seen. The interesting part was that his feet were rooted to the ground. They never moved, while most other bowlers would take a few steps to build up some speed, Thor's power was all shoulder.
His technique was a bit lacking, though. The really good bowlers would spin the ball so that it curved across the lane and struck the first pin on an angle. Thor bowled head on, straight line, and his heavy ball just plowed right through the pins. It was common for him to end up with a bad split.
Being a coach myself, I wanted to offer my services, to teach Thor a little finesse. I mean, power is one thing, and plenty of bowlers would have loved to have power like Thor's, but if you can't direct that power on anything but a straight line, you'll miss all your spares.
I took up the lane next to his and started easing out a few strikes. I didn't want to make him feel bad - if I had, I would have used a kids' six-pound ball - but I wanted to show him that I knew my stuff. Power isn't everything. He huffed to himself, set his jaw and swung out the most thunderous, incredible frames I have ever seen or heeard, but didn't score more than seven on any of them.
I knew he wouldn't ask for my help, and he clearly wasn't going to accept if I offered it to him, so I tried something else.
"Could you show me how to bowl with power like that?" I asked him.
He took a second for his eyes to focus, as if he had been expecting something else from me. Then he kind of smirked and picked up his ball. He wasn't much for words.
Obviously there was a lot of muscle in Thor's power bowling, but it turned out there was a lot of developed technique, too. Keep the arm bent, he showed me, until the last moment. Follow an ellipse, not a circle. Before long, I was hurling my ball down the lane at dizzying speed, and the crack of the pins as it connected was quite satisfying.
I thanked Thor for his help and watched him bowl a few more frames before taking up my lane again. I put some of Thor's power moves into play, but used them to enhance my own finely-targeted technique. It seemed clear to me that he wasn't going to ask my help, but he could watch me mix his power with my style. He could figure it out on his own, if that's what he wanted.
A few weeks later, I saw that the "perfect game" sign above the lane had changed, listing one "Thor Odinson" as having bowled a 300 game there recently. I smiled as I saw that the lane was also being repaired. A perfect game from Thor must have meant quite a punishment.
I kept going back to the alley until they closed it down years later, but I never saw Thor again. Maybe he found a new haunt, or maybe he just decided he was done with bowling after his perfect game. Either way, I can't hear a thunderstorm now without smiling. I like to think they had to close the old alley because of Thor - because their aging lanes couldn't take his particular brand of power any more - but I'll never know for sure.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - The real story of why Milton Bowl closed is more mundane than this, obviously.
PPS - I used to bowl there now and then.
Friday, 20 July 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Ashgrove
In the middle of the suburb of Ashgrove lies a dense grove of ash trees, hence its name. They weren't deliberately protected, amid the rise of houses and businesses, but nobody felt a need to cut them down, either. So there they stand, weirdly placed, an odd interruption to the urban landscape, like a block that was never developed or someone's tiny, misguided nature reserve. Get up closer and stare for long enough and you might see tiny lights flitting back and forth between the ash branches, as if fireflies existed in Australia. From the inside, those lights move at a very different speed. Much more slow and sedate. They are the Fae of the Ash Grove, and it is their entire world within those trees. Their lives whiz past ours at blinding speed and to them we are ponderous stone giants.
Two sisters, Tania and Monica took turns daring each other to step closer to the trees, each trying to get better photos than the other. None of them turned out very well until Tania stuck her arm in, past the tree trunks, and snapped a picture there with her phone. It hurt her hand somehow, but when she pulled it back, they could see at last. The tiny creatures flying back and forth among the grove had dragonfly wings and wore tiny silken clothes made of spider webs. They had leaves woven through their wiry hair and they appeared so magical that Monica did not waste any time on thinking. She dove right between the tree trunks as quickly as she could, and she was gone into the mysterious gloom.
Tania didn't know what to do. She called out to Monica a few times, but there was no response. Her mother had told her not to play in the ash grove, but here they were, and her mother had also warned her to take care of Monica. She couldn't abandon her sister, even if her mother would be angry. She followed Monica into the trees, and the quiet thumped into her ears like a thick blanket.
The world grew darker for a moment, but soon the faint lights of the place - from the creatures and even from the trees themselves - began to show her the shape of things. She couldn't see Monica anywhere.
She looked around her at the wonder of the place, so much more than a grove of trees. It was a whole world, and she stood towering above it like a skyscraper. She could see tiny ploughed fields under her feet and little Fae farmers shaking their tiny fists as she inadvertently trampled their crops. There were roads paved with pebbles and little Fae houses in the tree branches - mansions made like birds' nests of interwoven twigs.
And off a little way, there was an old woman, who must have been ninety, sitting on a throne woven together the same way, from hundreds or maybe thousands of tiny twigs. There were Fae weaving to repair little tears in her spider-silk dress, and she had leaves arranged in her hair, like the little Fae themselves.
"Excuse me," called Tania, "Have you seen another girl like me, only a little younger?"
The old woman looked puzzled for a while, as if she were trying to figure out some riddle in the speech. Then her eyes suddenly brightened and she reached into a bag beside her throne to withdraw an old battered mobile phone - Monica's phone! Its battery was long drained, but through some Fae magic, the old woman waved her hand over the phone and called up some photos. There were those first few pictures the girls had taken from the edge of the grove, and the one from inside, then a series of portraits of Monica herself. As the old woman flicked past the photos, the face grew older and more worn. Wrinkled, but more beautiful. Tania gasped and her little sister - now an old woman - nodded and smiled.
"You have to come back!" said Tania, but old Monica shook her head. "No, you have to! I promised to take care of you! I'm sure ... someone can fix this, or the faeries can make you young again with their magic, maybe?"
Monica smiled gently and shook her head again. She pointed to her throne and gestured at the miniature wonders around them as if that explained it all.
"But what will I tell Mum?"
Monica took a long time to form words. She hadn't spoken in decades. "Tell ... her ... I am ... happy ... and she was .... right. Don't ... come back ... and don't ... eat ... the ..." she made a clutching motion with her hand and furrowed her brow, then pointed at a big ripe fruit on one of the trees.
"Fruit?" prompted Tania.
"Yes! Don't ... eat the fruit. It will ..." Monica made a vague hugging gesture, "... keep you here."
Tania turned to go, but took a long last look at her sister, now aged long past her prime. She gave the frail old woman a hug, then tweaked her nose like they used to do.
"Mum's gonna kill me." She said in parting.
"Then ... bring her here. She can ... see for herself."
"Alright, I will." Tania lingered a moment longer. "I'll miss you."
"And ... I have missed you. It was ... good to see you again."
Tania gave a weak smile, then stepped out of the grove into daylight again.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I have realised that, if I stick to this pace, it will take me 3 years and 8 months to finish all of Brisbane.
PPS - I may have to take some breaks along the way.
Two sisters, Tania and Monica took turns daring each other to step closer to the trees, each trying to get better photos than the other. None of them turned out very well until Tania stuck her arm in, past the tree trunks, and snapped a picture there with her phone. It hurt her hand somehow, but when she pulled it back, they could see at last. The tiny creatures flying back and forth among the grove had dragonfly wings and wore tiny silken clothes made of spider webs. They had leaves woven through their wiry hair and they appeared so magical that Monica did not waste any time on thinking. She dove right between the tree trunks as quickly as she could, and she was gone into the mysterious gloom.
Tania didn't know what to do. She called out to Monica a few times, but there was no response. Her mother had told her not to play in the ash grove, but here they were, and her mother had also warned her to take care of Monica. She couldn't abandon her sister, even if her mother would be angry. She followed Monica into the trees, and the quiet thumped into her ears like a thick blanket.
The world grew darker for a moment, but soon the faint lights of the place - from the creatures and even from the trees themselves - began to show her the shape of things. She couldn't see Monica anywhere.
She looked around her at the wonder of the place, so much more than a grove of trees. It was a whole world, and she stood towering above it like a skyscraper. She could see tiny ploughed fields under her feet and little Fae farmers shaking their tiny fists as she inadvertently trampled their crops. There were roads paved with pebbles and little Fae houses in the tree branches - mansions made like birds' nests of interwoven twigs.
And off a little way, there was an old woman, who must have been ninety, sitting on a throne woven together the same way, from hundreds or maybe thousands of tiny twigs. There were Fae weaving to repair little tears in her spider-silk dress, and she had leaves arranged in her hair, like the little Fae themselves.
"Excuse me," called Tania, "Have you seen another girl like me, only a little younger?"
The old woman looked puzzled for a while, as if she were trying to figure out some riddle in the speech. Then her eyes suddenly brightened and she reached into a bag beside her throne to withdraw an old battered mobile phone - Monica's phone! Its battery was long drained, but through some Fae magic, the old woman waved her hand over the phone and called up some photos. There were those first few pictures the girls had taken from the edge of the grove, and the one from inside, then a series of portraits of Monica herself. As the old woman flicked past the photos, the face grew older and more worn. Wrinkled, but more beautiful. Tania gasped and her little sister - now an old woman - nodded and smiled.
"You have to come back!" said Tania, but old Monica shook her head. "No, you have to! I promised to take care of you! I'm sure ... someone can fix this, or the faeries can make you young again with their magic, maybe?"
Monica smiled gently and shook her head again. She pointed to her throne and gestured at the miniature wonders around them as if that explained it all.
"But what will I tell Mum?"
Monica took a long time to form words. She hadn't spoken in decades. "Tell ... her ... I am ... happy ... and she was .... right. Don't ... come back ... and don't ... eat ... the ..." she made a clutching motion with her hand and furrowed her brow, then pointed at a big ripe fruit on one of the trees.
"Fruit?" prompted Tania.
"Yes! Don't ... eat the fruit. It will ..." Monica made a vague hugging gesture, "... keep you here."
Tania turned to go, but took a long last look at her sister, now aged long past her prime. She gave the frail old woman a hug, then tweaked her nose like they used to do.
"Mum's gonna kill me." She said in parting.
"Then ... bring her here. She can ... see for herself."
"Alright, I will." Tania lingered a moment longer. "I'll miss you."
"And ... I have missed you. It was ... good to see you again."
Tania gave a weak smile, then stepped out of the grove into daylight again.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I have realised that, if I stick to this pace, it will take me 3 years and 8 months to finish all of Brisbane.
PPS - I may have to take some breaks along the way.
Friday, 13 July 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - Sunnybank
"You are NOT leaving the house dressed like that!"
Nobody quite knew by what magic the suburb of Sunnybank existed in perpetual darkness, but that's the way its resident vampires liked it. Once it became clear that the situation was permanent, vampires felt free to come out of hiding and take up (relatively) normal lives above ground and during "daylight" hours. But as much as they adapted to the world around them, they were still vampires at heart. That's what bugged Christine about her parents. They were so stuffy and old-fashioned, with their facial piercings, gloomy decorations and wearing nothing but leather. To their dismay, Christine refused to get even a single neck tattoo.
"Dad! I'm nearly sixteen! You can't tell me what to do all the time!" She hated the whine in her own voice, but it always came out that way when she fought with her parents about this.
"Well, just look at that skirt! It's so long! And what's that stuff it's made from?"
Christine rolled her eyes as she replied "Wool, Dad."
He made a face and turned back to his newspaper. "You could at least put on some eyeliner."
"Oh, come on, Dad! All the kids are dressing like this now!"
"Well, you're my kid, and no kid of mine is wearing her hair in that ... horse-tail thing, or ... what do you call those shoes?"
"Ballet flats."
Another wrinkled nose face. "What happened to your nice platform boots, Raven?"
"They're too tall, besides I grew out of those last year. And I told you to call me Christine."
Her Dad pinched the bridge of his nose like he was getting a headache.
"No. Look, this is all too much. I can almost deal with the woollen skirts and the lack of tattoos and makeup, but Raven is the name I gave you! You've had it since you were newborn. What's wrong with it all of a sudden?"
Just as Christine was about to spit her retort back at him, her mother stepped in to make peace.
"Oh, Memnox, leave her alone. You've seen her friends wearing outfits just like that all the time. Let her go."
Her Dad snapped his newspaper up and buried his nose in it. "No. Not without any makeup."
"But Dad...!"
"I said no!"
Her mother made a little "Shh" gesture and led Christine upstairs to the bathroom. There she pulled from her own makeup bag a soft, understated pink lipstick.
"Mum! Where did you get this?"
"Oh, it's just something I wear now and then ... for fun."
Christine gave her mother an uneasy, but thankful, look, applied the lipstick and was ushered out the front door before her father got another look at her.
"Now, just be good, Christine, okay?"
"Of course, Mum," she replied, and gave her a full-fanged smile in the perpetual moonlight.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Second in my series on Brisbane suburbs.
PPS - This one was originally titled for a train station called "Sunshine".
Nobody quite knew by what magic the suburb of Sunnybank existed in perpetual darkness, but that's the way its resident vampires liked it. Once it became clear that the situation was permanent, vampires felt free to come out of hiding and take up (relatively) normal lives above ground and during "daylight" hours. But as much as they adapted to the world around them, they were still vampires at heart. That's what bugged Christine about her parents. They were so stuffy and old-fashioned, with their facial piercings, gloomy decorations and wearing nothing but leather. To their dismay, Christine refused to get even a single neck tattoo.
"Dad! I'm nearly sixteen! You can't tell me what to do all the time!" She hated the whine in her own voice, but it always came out that way when she fought with her parents about this.
"Well, just look at that skirt! It's so long! And what's that stuff it's made from?"
Christine rolled her eyes as she replied "Wool, Dad."
He made a face and turned back to his newspaper. "You could at least put on some eyeliner."
"Oh, come on, Dad! All the kids are dressing like this now!"
"Well, you're my kid, and no kid of mine is wearing her hair in that ... horse-tail thing, or ... what do you call those shoes?"
"Ballet flats."
Another wrinkled nose face. "What happened to your nice platform boots, Raven?"
"They're too tall, besides I grew out of those last year. And I told you to call me Christine."
Her Dad pinched the bridge of his nose like he was getting a headache.
"No. Look, this is all too much. I can almost deal with the woollen skirts and the lack of tattoos and makeup, but Raven is the name I gave you! You've had it since you were newborn. What's wrong with it all of a sudden?"
Just as Christine was about to spit her retort back at him, her mother stepped in to make peace.
"Oh, Memnox, leave her alone. You've seen her friends wearing outfits just like that all the time. Let her go."
Her Dad snapped his newspaper up and buried his nose in it. "No. Not without any makeup."
"But Dad...!"
"I said no!"
Her mother made a little "Shh" gesture and led Christine upstairs to the bathroom. There she pulled from her own makeup bag a soft, understated pink lipstick.
"Mum! Where did you get this?"
"Oh, it's just something I wear now and then ... for fun."
Christine gave her mother an uneasy, but thankful, look, applied the lipstick and was ushered out the front door before her father got another look at her.
"Now, just be good, Christine, okay?"
"Of course, Mum," she replied, and gave her a full-fanged smile in the perpetual moonlight.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Second in my series on Brisbane suburbs.
PPS - This one was originally titled for a train station called "Sunshine".
Friday, 6 July 2012
Friday Flash Fiction - The Gap
The Gap opened up in the road overnight. I mean, it must have done, but nobody heard or saw anything. It was just a massive gash in the world, dividing the suburb in two. And now I was stuck on one side while my family was stuck on the other. We could just see people on the other side, but The Gap seemed to swallow up all sounds from the other side. It also seemed to be consistently just too far to throw anything, too, no matter who you were or what you used. The Gap was uncrossable. I mean, presumably you could fly across, but since nobody had a helicopter, we weren't sure about that.
I'm not sure who started calling it The Gap, but it was kind of confusing. After all, that was also the name of the suburb we lived in. I guess someone thought it was funny.
The army arrived at noon with a couple of scientists - seismologists, I think - who set up laser distancing equipment on either side. The Gap was expanding, and it was also warping space. In one sense, technically, it was infinitely wide: you could never build a bridge to cross it, because as far as you could build, there would always be further to go. In another sense, it did not exist at all: if you measured from far enough back, the distance was exactly what you'd expect - no Gap at all.
The phones still worked, so that was good, but unfortunately for me, my Dad, stuck on the other side, had never been big on technology. He did own a mobile, but it stayed at home, usually with a flat battery. I could see my Dad on the other side of The Gap, jumping up and down, waving and shouting to get my attention. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but I could tell he was shouting, the way he did, with his hands cupped around his mouth and leaning forwards as if those few extra centimetres would help the sound carry further. It didn't. Through some big semaphore-style gestures, I tried to communicate that I was going to try and walk around to meet him at the other side. I figured even if it took all day I'd be there before the army was willing to ferry people across in the helicopters. Dad gave me a big two-thumbs-up gesture with his whole arms. He approved.
I had to make a stop first. I went over to my friend's place and told her about my plan. I was going to borrow a little food and a bottle for water, but Ange wanted to come with me. I'm not sure why - her family, after all, was still on our side of The Gap, so she wasn't trying to get to them. I guess she was just a good friend, trying to help me get over to my own family. She crossed her arms and gave me a solid stare that said she wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. There's no arguing with her when she gets like that, so we packed up two bags and headed out together.
For a little while, my Dad followed us from the other side, until we got to the mountain. His big gestures at his knees probably meant that they were playing up again. He wasn't an old man, as such, just getting older, and his joints weren't in such great shape any more. He turned around with a big, exaggerated wave goodbye and we kept going.
We trudged up the mountain and, at the top, got a good view down the valley and across several other suburbs. The Gap - the chasm, not the suburb - extended a long way, jagged-edged, deep and wide, perhaps curving slightly, but not going on forever.
It took us two hours to walk two suburbs over, through Keperra to Arana Hills, where the hole seemed to gradually close up. We were able to go around the end of it and head back on the other side, which took another two hours.
Although it was only afternoon by then, we were both exhausted, and the army and scientists didn't seem to be getting anywhere, so we went with Dad back to his place, and had some dinner. The people on the news spent a very long time saying they had no idea what was going on, so we all just hit the hay. Ange was planning to walk back to her family the next day.
In the morning, the other side of The Gap was invisible. The gaping ground yawned before us, a canyon that surely dwarfed anything else in the world. The darkness at the edge was scary, and there was no visible bottom to it. No more hope of crossing in helicopters. No more far side, as if the Earth had just broken it off and sailed it away. One guy with a telescope on his roof said the other side was still there, just much further away now.
I wondered aloud to Dad and Ange about what might happen to the other side. Would it keep functioning? Would The Gap close on itself, pinching off that piece of land and trapping everyone there?
Then Ange reminded me that we'd seen the end curving left - to the West - and, presumably, extending further around as time went on. We'd crossed it to get to the inside of the curve, which meant I would get my answers soon enough: we were on the inside. We were trapped here now by whatever mysterious force created The Gap, and unless someone could find a way out, or The Gap spontaneously closed on its own, we could be trapped here forever.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I've decided to do a series named after and set in Brisbane suburbs.
PPS - Just because I can.
I'm not sure who started calling it The Gap, but it was kind of confusing. After all, that was also the name of the suburb we lived in. I guess someone thought it was funny.
The army arrived at noon with a couple of scientists - seismologists, I think - who set up laser distancing equipment on either side. The Gap was expanding, and it was also warping space. In one sense, technically, it was infinitely wide: you could never build a bridge to cross it, because as far as you could build, there would always be further to go. In another sense, it did not exist at all: if you measured from far enough back, the distance was exactly what you'd expect - no Gap at all.
The phones still worked, so that was good, but unfortunately for me, my Dad, stuck on the other side, had never been big on technology. He did own a mobile, but it stayed at home, usually with a flat battery. I could see my Dad on the other side of The Gap, jumping up and down, waving and shouting to get my attention. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but I could tell he was shouting, the way he did, with his hands cupped around his mouth and leaning forwards as if those few extra centimetres would help the sound carry further. It didn't. Through some big semaphore-style gestures, I tried to communicate that I was going to try and walk around to meet him at the other side. I figured even if it took all day I'd be there before the army was willing to ferry people across in the helicopters. Dad gave me a big two-thumbs-up gesture with his whole arms. He approved.
I had to make a stop first. I went over to my friend's place and told her about my plan. I was going to borrow a little food and a bottle for water, but Ange wanted to come with me. I'm not sure why - her family, after all, was still on our side of The Gap, so she wasn't trying to get to them. I guess she was just a good friend, trying to help me get over to my own family. She crossed her arms and gave me a solid stare that said she wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. There's no arguing with her when she gets like that, so we packed up two bags and headed out together.
For a little while, my Dad followed us from the other side, until we got to the mountain. His big gestures at his knees probably meant that they were playing up again. He wasn't an old man, as such, just getting older, and his joints weren't in such great shape any more. He turned around with a big, exaggerated wave goodbye and we kept going.
We trudged up the mountain and, at the top, got a good view down the valley and across several other suburbs. The Gap - the chasm, not the suburb - extended a long way, jagged-edged, deep and wide, perhaps curving slightly, but not going on forever.
It took us two hours to walk two suburbs over, through Keperra to Arana Hills, where the hole seemed to gradually close up. We were able to go around the end of it and head back on the other side, which took another two hours.
Although it was only afternoon by then, we were both exhausted, and the army and scientists didn't seem to be getting anywhere, so we went with Dad back to his place, and had some dinner. The people on the news spent a very long time saying they had no idea what was going on, so we all just hit the hay. Ange was planning to walk back to her family the next day.
In the morning, the other side of The Gap was invisible. The gaping ground yawned before us, a canyon that surely dwarfed anything else in the world. The darkness at the edge was scary, and there was no visible bottom to it. No more hope of crossing in helicopters. No more far side, as if the Earth had just broken it off and sailed it away. One guy with a telescope on his roof said the other side was still there, just much further away now.
I wondered aloud to Dad and Ange about what might happen to the other side. Would it keep functioning? Would The Gap close on itself, pinching off that piece of land and trapping everyone there?
Then Ange reminded me that we'd seen the end curving left - to the West - and, presumably, extending further around as time went on. We'd crossed it to get to the inside of the curve, which meant I would get my answers soon enough: we were on the inside. We were trapped here now by whatever mysterious force created The Gap, and unless someone could find a way out, or The Gap spontaneously closed on its own, we could be trapped here forever.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I've decided to do a series named after and set in Brisbane suburbs.
PPS - Just because I can.
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