Daily writing prompts from June 9th, 2008 to December 31st, 2022
Sunday September 5th, 2021
The exercise:
Write about: the fishing trip.
Met up with the farm family at Kettle River for an end of summer get together. All the kids tried their hand at fishing in the river but nobody caught anything - other than a few sticks.
Well... sticks are easy to look after, and no-one's expected to clean and cook them into something edible... it's not all bad :)
OK, this is too long, which rather surprises me. Sorry for the double post!
Fishing trip "Technically an Embassy is an area of land ceded to the country that holds the Embassy," said the Ambassador. He probably had a name but I was far too low level to know it; I had been told during Induction to refer to him only as 'the Ambassador' or 'Your Excellency'. "However, here on Centis IX, where everything floats, we feel we have only laid claim to a cloud, which is unusually impermanent." There was a flutter of laughter around the room. Guests were crammed in in all the available spaces as there had been high demand for invitations to the last Gala of the Season and the Ambassador hadn't wanted to disappoint anybody. We were seriously crowded, beyond what the fire regulations permitted (the chief of the local Fire-prevention team was drinking an imported Pale Ale near the (thankfully) unlit fireplace) and the security teams were all on edge, looking around nervously and jumping at shadows -- often because they did contain people, aliens and what might be pets, or people, or aliens depending on who their technical owner was. "For anyone interested we will be having a cloud-fishing trip next Season," said the Ambassador, causing a small hubbub of interest, possibly feigned, possibly serious. "After I've learned how to walk on air!"
"Deader, deader. Third floor," came over my earpiece and I sighed. It was probably another false alarm, but we couldn't take any chances, and a death at the Gala would upset everyone. Especially the Ambassador. "On my way," I responded, hearing the start of a snort before it cut off. I slipped out of a small door at the back of the main room, took a narrow corridor that seemed to lead nowhere and then another small, palm-locked door that let me into the servants corridors. The Centissians had no notion of servants but the house had been built to Earth Standards for the States of North America and that called for a building that was essentially two buildings: one for the rich to pose and lounge in, and one for a support staff that, if the records were right, were supposed to be an inferior race of some kind. 'Servants'.
There were issues. The first time there had been a fatal accident on Norrig-3 the Norgs had somehow reanimated the corpse. That had created not just diplomatic concerns, but also philosophical, moral, and scientific ones. The 'corpse' was still alive and looked to have another sixty years of legal battles before anything was decided, and there was a strong interdict against dying on Norrig-3... though for the life of me I couldn't see how that could be enforced.
"Are they actually dead?" I asked. With aliens, and sometimes humans if the doctor wasn't very good, actually identifying death could be oddly difficult. "Dead as a fish out of water," said a woman kneeling on the floor. "They're in too many pieces for it to be otherwise."
3 comments:
Well... sticks are easy to look after, and no-one's expected to clean and cook them into something edible... it's not all bad :)
OK, this is too long, which rather surprises me. Sorry for the double post!
Fishing trip
"Technically an Embassy is an area of land ceded to the country that holds the Embassy," said the Ambassador. He probably had a name but I was far too low level to know it; I had been told during Induction to refer to him only as 'the Ambassador' or 'Your Excellency'. "However, here on Centis IX, where everything floats, we feel we have only laid claim to a cloud, which is unusually impermanent."
There was a flutter of laughter around the room. Guests were crammed in in all the available spaces as there had been high demand for invitations to the last Gala of the Season and the Ambassador hadn't wanted to disappoint anybody. We were seriously crowded, beyond what the fire regulations permitted (the chief of the local Fire-prevention team was drinking an imported Pale Ale near the (thankfully) unlit fireplace) and the security teams were all on edge, looking around nervously and jumping at shadows -- often because they did contain people, aliens and what might be pets, or people, or aliens depending on who their technical owner was.
"For anyone interested we will be having a cloud-fishing trip next Season," said the Ambassador, causing a small hubbub of interest, possibly feigned, possibly serious. "After I've learned how to walk on air!"
"Deader, deader. Third floor," came over my earpiece and I sighed. It was probably another false alarm, but we couldn't take any chances, and a death at the Gala would upset everyone. Especially the Ambassador.
"On my way," I responded, hearing the start of a snort before it cut off. I slipped out of a small door at the back of the main room, took a narrow corridor that seemed to lead nowhere and then another small, palm-locked door that let me into the servants corridors. The Centissians had no notion of servants but the house had been built to Earth Standards for the States of North America and that called for a building that was essentially two buildings: one for the rich to pose and lounge in, and one for a support staff that, if the records were right, were supposed to be an inferior race of some kind. 'Servants'.
I arrived on the third floor, where yet more people were thronging around corridors and the piano room and a pianist was playing something melancholy, and a black-suited security guard caught my eye. A moment later a voice in my earpiece said, "Second door on your left, guest bedroom."
I thanked the voice and walked unhurriedly to the door, slipping by guests and revellers with practiced ease. The door was locked, correctly, and I knocked with the standard code. After a moment it opened a crack and someone I couldn't see inspected me. Then I was allowed in.
I am the Attaché for Cultural and Extradomestic Affairs and if there really had been an accident -- or a murder -- here, that meant my involvement even if the victim was human. The Embassy might be technically North American (Earth), but we were still actually on Centis IX and something would need to be said, some apology made, and the local authorities permitted to investigate and assist to the extent that they felt appropriate.
There were issues. The first time there had been a fatal accident on Norrig-3 the Norgs had somehow reanimated the corpse. That had created not just diplomatic concerns, but also philosophical, moral, and scientific ones. The 'corpse' was still alive and looked to have another sixty years of legal battles before anything was decided, and there was a strong interdict against dying on Norrig-3... though for the life of me I couldn't see how that could be enforced.
"Are they actually dead?" I asked. With aliens, and sometimes humans if the doctor wasn't very good, actually identifying death could be oddly difficult.
"Dead as a fish out of water," said a woman kneeling on the floor. "They're in too many pieces for it to be otherwise."
Greg - yeah, I was fine with only sticks on the line. The boys less so.
This is an interesting new locale. And I am impressed by your ability to bring it back around to the prompt at the end there.
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