Monday April 13th, 2015

The exercise:

Write about: the summons.

2,500 days in a row. That's quite something.

Did more weeding in the strawberry patch this morning. It's the worst stretch, so it's slow going, but I'm trying to remember that it won't all be like this.

Hung out with Max this afternoon at Kat's parents house, because that's the only place he wants to go these days. I hope to one day be able to get him into town again.


He ran through the crowded streets, heedless of who he slammed into or knocked over. Angry shouts followed in his wake but if he heard them he showed no sign of it. He was too focused on reaching his destination to be bothered by such things anyway.

Hell, he wouldn't have even noticed that it had begun to pour rain if his long hair hadn't gotten stuck hanging in front of his eyes every ten or twenty strides. As it was, he acknowledged it enough to brush the black strands away with an annoyed grunt but little more than that.

He certainly didn't seem to notice that the rain was washing the crowds away, clearing his path and allowing his speed to steadily increase. But then, he'd hardly noticed the people who had been in his way when he first began his journey.

The sodden guards watched his approach through the pounding rain, brandishing their weapons when they realized he had no intention of slowing. Instead of being intimidated by the swords and spears pointed in his direction, he used the rain slicked road to his advantage and slid between them before bouncing back to his feet and continuing on.

"Should we give chase?" one of the guards asked into the stunned silence that followed.

"Nah," another replied with a slow shake of his head. "That one's clearly been summoned by the king."


Greg said...

Wow, 2,500 is a lot! That's a very nice number to have at the top of your blog :)
Have you considered just sticking Max in a potato sack and only letting him out when you arrive in town? I'm sure that won't have any troublesome consequences at all ;-)
I like the breathlessness of your writing today, and especially the cinematic piece where the boy slides beneath the guards's weapons to get past the gate without having to slow down and explain himself. The description of the rain, and the crowds washing away from it, is very nicely done and draws things neatly to the climax. The guards's decision that he must have been summoned by the King seems most apt as well; I can only hope they're right!

The summons
"Performance art," said Catto. She was sat on a bar stool idly stirring a drink with the paper umbrella that she'd found in it. Cyril harrumphed; he was stood next to her leaning on the bar, which was creaking slightly under his weight.
"It's demeaning," he said, his voice so deep that it seemed to roll around the bar like distant thunder.
"It's a job," said Catto. "And look, I've rewritten it into French iambic pentameter and made it rhyme."
"It must be nice to have had an education," said Cyril. He ran a hand through the long strands of hair that he carefully teased across his bald-spot every morning, dislodging them. They hung down the left-side of his head making him look like Marilyn Manson after a year-long cream-cake binge. Catto said nothing; Cyril's education appeared to have been in lock-breaking, car-jacking, knee-capping and safe-cracking amongst various other double-barrelled crimes. She found herself occasionally envious, but she'd cheered herself up by turning his CV into poetry: These things I did was one of the big attractions for Partners in Rhymes when they toured the circuit.
There was a muted round of applause from the small audience in front of the stage, and Jimmy the Cauliflower bowed unhumbly.
"That's your cue," said Catto. She picked an olive from a dish on the bar and dropped it into the drink. It fizzed.
"Does he even know French?" said Cyril, reading the page she'd handed him.
"He's Canadian, they're forced to from birth," said Catto. "I had this teacher... well, best not to go there, really."
"Lovely," said Cyril. He headed to the stage, his spatulate hands catching Jimmy as he tried to leave and pushing him back on with him. As he started to recite the summons from the Mounties, one hand gripping Jimmy's shoestring tie and holding him three inches off the stage by it, Catto decided that the sleepy-juice would have had enough time to work and started looting pockets, handbags, lockets and glad-rags from the dazed audience.

Marc said...

Greg - thanks, I thought so too!

I can't decide whether I'd prefer if he is being summoned or if he's there for less... honorable reasons.

I do know that I like these two characters of yours quite a bit. Such fun back and forth, with some fun and creative ways to go about their business.