Hmm, well, there's really only one duo I can go to when you're going to use youthful slang as a prompt, isn't there?
Salty "This is a bit posh, innit?" Pestilence twisted in his narrow, hard-armed seat to look at the tiered rows of seats that towered above him. "I wouldn't want to be up there; one slip and you'll have his nibs doing the role-call." "It's opera, bro," said Famine. He was dressed in full opera regalia: tails, white dress shirt with starched collar, black bow tie, shiny shoes, top-hat and cane. He also looked like he'd been dieting for the last sixteen years to get back down to his birth-weight. "The point is to listen to the beautiful singing." "Shush!" said a lady sat on the other side of Pestilence. She was purple: partly because she was wearing a purple dress with frills and ruffles, and partly because she was too fat for her seat and it was severely constricting her blood supply. She was sweating and her face looked like a grape ready for pressing. "Salty much?" said Famine. "Spill the tea, fam, tell me what you really think." "What are they singing about?" Pestilence had given up trying to understand what Famine was saying half the time, and now just carried the conversation on until he felt he could join in again. "The milf on the left is singing about the startender's tight pants," said Famine, pointing helpfully. "The snake pit over on the right side of the stage is tamping about that, and the startender's oblivious obvs. But he's got a boyfriend that the milf doesn't know about it, and the boyfriend's actually the milf's dad, only he's not out and is pretending to be dating the blonde in the snake pit, only she doesn't know he's only pretending, and she's playing hard to get and telling everyone she's eating carpet. Amirite?" "You're spoiling the show," said the purple woman. She was trying for cold, with an angry stare but her predicament meant she achieved strangulated with a look of desperation. "Teapot!" Famine's look of outrage, and near-ultrasonic shriek had three rows turning to look at him. Pestilence pretended to be reading the programme. "I haven't said a word about the millenial promotion that the startender gets when everything thinks he's actually the mistakeholder, not even about the spandau ballet at the end!" There was a chorus of exasperated sighs, and several emphatic tut's. "You've done it now, Fam, bro," said Pestilence quietly. "I don't know what you said, or how they understood you, but they're only about two degrees off summoning his nibs and trying to get him to take us." "He's not a big fan of being the babysitter, is he? QTNA, amirite?" "Come on, Fam, fam, let's go to the bar." "Yeah, they've got a real startender there." The pair stood up and shuffled their way along the row. There were gentle tuts, but the relief that they were leaving outweighed the inconvenience of their departure. "She was salty, bro," said Famine as they climbed the stairs to a level where they could exit. "I know large mammals that would appreciate licking her." "I gave her pneumonic plague, fam. Bro. Sis. Whatevs," said Pestilence. "Better if they didn't."
I got whisked into a D&D campaign a few weeks ago, and this was a moment towards the start of our first session that I quite liked. ===== Qaz leaned against a tree, looking out over the water, holding his cup of tea to his chest. It wasn’t particularly good tea—indeed, it was so thin it barely counted as tea. But he liked the routine, and took pride in how long he had made this brick of tea last, and how much flavor he could get out of just a few scrapings. It was hot, it had just enough flavor, and it was one of the few daily pleasures he could look forward to without interruption.
In that sense, then, it was a good cup of tea.
Back down the beach, the swell of the usual breakfast-making sounds were coming from the makeshift mess hall a bit earlier than usual. Despite the crew’s year of hardship, the quartermaster and kitchen staff did wonders to make sure nobody went hungry—still, it wouldn’t do to let the good chefs’ hard work get cold. So Qaz took another swig and started back towards camp.
Just before he made it to the mess, a large hand stopped him. He looked up to find Ike, one of the cooks, looking down at him and holding a steaming cup in his other hand, which he then held out to Qaz.
With some hesitation Qaz took it, raising a questioning brow.
Ike just nodded encouragingly.
After a pause Qaz took a good smell, and then a sip.
It tasted like the sea—it wasn’t truly salt water, but it tasted alive as the waves are alive. It tasted grounded in the rhythm of the tides, and bright in its spray.
Qaz blinked, then looked back up to Ike with an impressed nod and raised the cup to him in thanks.
Ike merely nodded, then whistled to signal breakfast to the rest of the crew.
Qaz took a few more sips of the tea before getting in line. Even for all his mixed feelings about being stuck here, it tasted like all the liveliness that he liked in his work, and a hope that that liveliness would again work in his favor.
In that sense, then, it was a good cup of tea. ===== It’s been two weeks and I keep thinking about this zarking tea—it’s challenging to figure out what it means when you say it tastes like the ocean feels, but it’s a decent start.
ps: With "salty" as a prompt, I would be totally remiss if I didn't also mention the existence of Salty, a book in Dartmouth College Library's special collections—the paper is made with salt water, and the reader is encouraged to lick the paper. It's currently one of my favorite weird art books.
4 comments:
Hmm, well, there's really only one duo I can go to when you're going to use youthful slang as a prompt, isn't there?
Salty
"This is a bit posh, innit?" Pestilence twisted in his narrow, hard-armed seat to look at the tiered rows of seats that towered above him. "I wouldn't want to be up there; one slip and you'll have his nibs doing the role-call."
"It's opera, bro," said Famine. He was dressed in full opera regalia: tails, white dress shirt with starched collar, black bow tie, shiny shoes, top-hat and cane. He also looked like he'd been dieting for the last sixteen years to get back down to his birth-weight. "The point is to listen to the beautiful singing."
"Shush!" said a lady sat on the other side of Pestilence. She was purple: partly because she was wearing a purple dress with frills and ruffles, and partly because she was too fat for her seat and it was severely constricting her blood supply. She was sweating and her face looked like a grape ready for pressing.
"Salty much?" said Famine. "Spill the tea, fam, tell me what you really think."
"What are they singing about?" Pestilence had given up trying to understand what Famine was saying half the time, and now just carried the conversation on until he felt he could join in again.
"The milf on the left is singing about the startender's tight pants," said Famine, pointing helpfully. "The snake pit over on the right side of the stage is tamping about that, and the startender's oblivious obvs. But he's got a boyfriend that the milf doesn't know about it, and the boyfriend's actually the milf's dad, only he's not out and is pretending to be dating the blonde in the snake pit, only she doesn't know he's only pretending, and she's playing hard to get and telling everyone she's eating carpet. Amirite?"
"You're spoiling the show," said the purple woman. She was trying for cold, with an angry stare but her predicament meant she achieved strangulated with a look of desperation.
"Teapot!" Famine's look of outrage, and near-ultrasonic shriek had three rows turning to look at him. Pestilence pretended to be reading the programme. "I haven't said a word about the millenial promotion that the startender gets when everything thinks he's actually the mistakeholder, not even about the spandau ballet at the end!"
There was a chorus of exasperated sighs, and several emphatic tut's.
"You've done it now, Fam, bro," said Pestilence quietly. "I don't know what you said, or how they understood you, but they're only about two degrees off summoning his nibs and trying to get him to take us."
"He's not a big fan of being the babysitter, is he? QTNA, amirite?"
"Come on, Fam, fam, let's go to the bar."
"Yeah, they've got a real startender there."
The pair stood up and shuffled their way along the row. There were gentle tuts, but the relief that they were leaving outweighed the inconvenience of their departure.
"She was salty, bro," said Famine as they climbed the stairs to a level where they could exit. "I know large mammals that would appreciate licking her."
"I gave her pneumonic plague, fam. Bro. Sis. Whatevs," said Pestilence. "Better if they didn't."
I got whisked into a D&D campaign a few weeks ago, and this was a moment towards the start of our first session that I quite liked.
=====
Qaz leaned against a tree, looking out over the water, holding his cup of tea to his chest. It wasn’t particularly good tea—indeed, it was so thin it barely counted as tea. But he liked the routine, and took pride in how long he had made this brick of tea last, and how much flavor he could get out of just a few scrapings. It was hot, it had just enough flavor, and it was one of the few daily pleasures he could look forward to without interruption.
In that sense, then, it was a good cup of tea.
Back down the beach, the swell of the usual breakfast-making sounds were coming from the makeshift mess hall a bit earlier than usual. Despite the crew’s year of hardship, the quartermaster and kitchen staff did wonders to make sure nobody went hungry—still, it wouldn’t do to let the good chefs’ hard work get cold. So Qaz took another swig and started back towards camp.
Just before he made it to the mess, a large hand stopped him. He looked up to find Ike, one of the cooks, looking down at him and holding a steaming cup in his other hand, which he then held out to Qaz.
With some hesitation Qaz took it, raising a questioning brow.
Ike just nodded encouragingly.
After a pause Qaz took a good smell, and then a sip.
It tasted like the sea—it wasn’t truly salt water, but it tasted alive as the waves are alive. It tasted grounded in the rhythm of the tides, and bright in its spray.
Qaz blinked, then looked back up to Ike with an impressed nod and raised the cup to him in thanks.
Ike merely nodded, then whistled to signal breakfast to the rest of the crew.
Qaz took a few more sips of the tea before getting in line. Even for all his mixed feelings about being stuck here, it tasted like all the liveliness that he liked in his work, and a hope that that liveliness would again work in his favor.
In that sense, then, it was a good cup of tea.
=====
It’s been two weeks and I keep thinking about this zarking tea—it’s challenging to figure out what it means when you say it tastes like the ocean feels, but it’s a decent start.
ps: With "salty" as a prompt, I would be totally remiss if I didn't also mention the existence of Salty, a book in Dartmouth College Library's special collections—the paper is made with salt water, and the reader is encouraged to lick the paper. It's currently one of my favorite weird art books.
Greg - always, always happy to have these guys back for a visit :D
g2 - ah, a pleasure to read your writing again :)
And... that's definitely weird. In a good way. I think?
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