Mr Charles

Dear Lady Charles,

My father asked for me to write to explain the passing of your honoured husband Mr Charles. When we heard that a great white hunter would be soon arriving at our village it was said I must be his help on the river as in all the village I have the most quantity of English.

Mr Charles says he would hunt Katongo so the elders first tried to fill him with discouragement; but your husband is too brave and none could speak to him of fear. Our people say that Katongo has lived in the river for two hundred seasons and has drawn to him the knowledge and deception of all things. Mr Charles (who has the great English knowledge of crocodiles) said that a crocodile could only live for forty years but my father was quiet because it is not manners to make disagreement with a guest.

We found Katongo two days later on the warm sands by the broken pools. We think he is sleeping but as we get near to where he is, he is opening one huge yellow eye. He closes his mouth and then slips gently to the cool water. He swims softly among the reeds where none would dare to hunt him.

It is only in this time I know Mr Charles is a fearless hunter when he follows Katongo with the water up to his waist. Because of the fear I was filled with his words are like clarity to me now, “fear not boy, the wily bugger is pretending to be a log but I see him”.

The shining English gun made the rotten log into a thousand pieces flying off. It is in my mind Mr Charles had time to understand. First he looked back at me, he had only surprise. Even as he was taken beneath the waters he never had the look of fear. You must be filled with pride that he was the courageous hunter in my last sight of him

Mr Charles was the greatest hunter from your Tribe of England; but Katongo has long lived within the deep wisdom of the mother waters and no man can match his cunning.

Yours mournfully,

Merawaya

The Other Crito

Crito is sitting in a bar looking mournfully into his empty earthenware vessel, Simmias enters obviously agitated.

Simmias: Have you heard about that fuckwit Socrates? He got himself arrested.

Crito: I know.

Simmias: They say they’re going to execute him tomorrow.

Crito: Yep, the selfish bastard – he puts us all in danger just because he can’t tone it down for the gods-freaks. And now he’s going to die for it and then who will we look to for wisdom.

Simmias: Well I suppose we gotta rescue him, loyal friends and all, shouldn’t be too expensive you know: he’s well liked.

Crito: Socrates’ way of thinking is always too expensive.

Simmias: Well don’t be like that – you can’t be that broke. How about you Cebres – your uncle will lend it to you – will you pitch in for your old mentor?

Cebres walks around from behind the bar wiping out a mug with a dirty cloth.

Cebres: Yeah sure – I got the cash for that old codger; he taught me all I know.

Simmias: I’ve got twelve drachma and old Alcibiades owes me six I think. Gods know that should be enough to buy the life of our friend.

Crito: No amount of money can save his life now: the council has decreed his death and now …  a man of the highest character will enforce their wishes.

Crito motions Cebres to refill his cup

Simmias: Well I heard Meno is guarding the cell block tonight and his highest character rarely costs more than a few score drachma.

Cebres: I suppose Socrates will have to flee Athens for a few years – it’s going to be weird not having him around.

Crito slams his cup on the table

Crito: I already tried, you all know I’ve got money enough – Socrates doesn’t want rescuing.

Cebres: What? But then he’ll …

Crito: Yes

Simmias: I can’t believe it. He would die to demonstrate a point of principle to a corrupt council most of whom slept through the trail. No-one would do that.

Crito: Socrates will, tomorrow at noon.

Cebres pours generously for the whole company who toast silently and drink sullenly.

Cebres: Stupid Fucker; got to kind of respect it though, who would have thought the old fart had it in him?

Simmias: Stupid wastrel – does he hold this life in such low esteem?

Crito: My crazy, foolish old friend – is this how you would be remembered?

Cebres pours again and they drink in silence

The Sure Thing

Originally published on micfic

Jonny told me it was a sure thing, the perfect crime. It was easy to convince me to use my real identity: there were twenty six temporary staff at the party that night and the cops had no reason to suspect me. Anyhow, a fake identity would eventually be discovered and investigated.

Jonny was well informed and his plan clever. As the fireworks reached a crescendo, balloons showered from the ceiling and bounced from the laughing guests. The heiress, drunk and excited, never even looked up as I snipped the gold chain and smoothly pulled the necklace away. After that it was easy. I slipped it into a half-full gravy boat and casually carried it to the kitchen. All that the cameras in the kitchen recorded was me disposing of some waste food. Security questioned everyone that night but paid no special attention to me. I waited around to see the garbage out and then drove to the quarry to wait for Jonny.

It was almost dawn when I heard the police. Jonny must have been caught rooting in the trash and given me up. I was livid; cursing his name when they cuffed me.

One cop seemed kind enough: “Don’t know about your ‘Jonny’ son; we’re here on an anonymous tip – someone saw you out here prying some diamonds from a necklace.” They found two diamonds taped to the inside of the rear bumper when they searched my car.

After I gave my statement, that same cop pulls me aside. “Listen son, you seem a good enough chap, but you stole a million dollar necklace. Someone has to pay. Help yourself: give up this accomplice fiction and tell us where you hid the necklace.”

I realized that Jonny was right: it was a sure thing, the perfect crime.

The Presidential Soup

Originally published on micfic here

I know I won’t enjoy the soup no matter the outcome: I never liked lobster bisque. It was Helen Xaing, the eighth president, who started the tradition of bisque. In a famous post-soup speech she called for the plain grey broth, directly from the soup stations, to be “richly flavoured to reflect the prosperity the new soup democracy has brought for all”.

As I sit down before the bowl and see, for the first time, the rich orange liquid I try to forget about the constant strobe of the photographers’ flashes. Instead I try to concentrate on the symbolic aspects of the soup. This bisque was made by a million hands: a gift of sorts from each one of the citizens I have led these past two years. This week each of them has gone to a station and selected an ingredient for this soup; now, on live television, they will see the outcome.

I was twenty four when I first chose the Black ingredient. It felt no different to selecting the White, the symbol for trust and support, despite its mortal consequence.  I remember walking up to the soup station and showing the official my identity card, walking into the booth and carefully selecting a pinch of the Black powder and throwing it into the thin grey broth.

I wasn’t alone in thinking our leader dishonest; President Grate died 14 minutes after drinking that soup. When I heard I was shocked: unwilling to express my emotions; unable to explain my new understanding. An hour later I decided to enter politics.

I give the cameras a genuine smile and tuck into the soup with reckless gusto. Lobster bisque always makes me queasy.

Counting Breaths

Originally published on micfic here.

Eight hundred million breaths is a lifetime.

The first, I imagine, was unwilling. Drawn from me on a mid-winter’s night by the practical violence of a doctor’s slap.  A wet uncertain gurgle bubbled forth as pink lungs first tasted the world’s sweet air. Then the clawing animal vitality, the desire for life, surged forth in a scream that pierced the still Highveld night. When that long cry sputtered and faded, it was for lack of air not passion.

Eight hundred million breaths is a lifetime.

The last, I hope, will be willing. Embraced by me on a warm summer’s evening as I would an old friend. A smooth, deep inhalation and I will taste, one last time, this world’s sweet air.  Then a soft lingering sigh and the last life within me will join those soft summer breezes. The urge to life, its passions fulfilled, finally expended.

Eight hundred million breaths is a lifetime.

The next, I know, is my choice. With twelve thousand I could read a good book and only a million are needed to write one. Instead I use twelve hundred to write this; two thousand to polish it; and just twenty to post it. You used thirty-eight to read it.

The Gloom of Righteousness

Originally published on micfic here.

The pain was gone at last. The rest is easy, just head into the light and ignore the distractions of the world. Silently the man congratulated himself on preparing so well. Slowly, savouring the moment, he opened his eyes.

The light, the glowing doorway to eternity, was before him. Deep within he felt the warm satisfaction of being right. Jackson might have got that corner office, the girl and the BMW but one day he would be standing here and know the wisdom of investing in the spiritual.   As his eyes adjusted he saw the Master sitting at his feet on the dirty maroon floor.

Dressed, as always, in simple black cotton he looked, as always, utterly serene.

“You taught me all about the light and a place of eternal gloom but you never mentioned a maroon carpet. So you don’t know everything after all.”

The master looked up at him with a sad smile and said, “Moron.”

“I studied at your feet for seven years; paid good money to learn to die – but now I see any idiot can walk into the light.”

“You’re an idiot. What are you waiting for?”

In life, the Master had never spoken to him with such disrespect.

“Did you ever teach me anything useful?”

“Did I ever teach you anything?”

“Well I might have missed some lessons but I read the book and it didn’t mention any smoky, red office cubicles. I took all that stuff really seriously.”

The man considered all he had sacrificed: the steak he resisted; the hours of Zazen; endless fees and hours of effort.

The Master rose smoothly, walked away into the doorway of light. He closed the door behind him

Flipping Cowherds

Originally published on Worth1000 here

Dear Jury_One

I was astounded when I received your mail informing me of my possible disqualification in the contest entitled “Getting Even.” My previous entry had been disqualified on the grounds of unacceptable profanity; so I followed the advice, given after that disqualification, which I quote here:

“Although we do not, as you so clearly state, deny the existence or significance of artists such as Quentin Tarantino and Eminem; we must stand by our decision to disallow the vocabulary constituting so significant a proportion of your entry. Try to rework these pieces substituting ‘flipping’ for that most animal of human functions and perhaps ‘cowherd’ for that noun that has been called ‘the most offensive English word’.”

I assumed that such substitutions would be acceptable and was surprised to see my latest entry described as incoherent. To assist your comprehension I have copied the first sentence of my entry highlighting the substitutions by quotes:

Now I ‘flipping’ knew that ‘sherbet’-eating ‘flagon’ of a ‘nightjar’ for the ‘cowherd’ he was, and I was never going to let a ‘cowherdish’, ’acorn’-eating, ‘merry-flipper’ like that ‘flip’ my ‘botticelli’ and then go boast  to his ‘merry-flipping’ boys about it neither.

I am sure this will convince your judges of their error in commenting, “A word jumble, randomly assembled.”

Yours, in flipping earnest,

Cowherd_at_Heart