It seems like these worlds we write about grow of their own accord when we're not looking, as the Furival world is developing itself without telling me. I feel like I'm just making notes on it when something changes... :) I figured you'd probably like Colbert too!
The book A stiff breeze was making the flags and pennants stand firm above the race-course and was pushing little white clouds along like a soccer-mom chivvying her children to practice and dance-class. Birds were wheeling above, disturbed by something from their habitual roost in the branches of the trees. On the ground the stewards were checking the track for the third race, and horses every shade of brown were being paraded around the circle for the Show. Inside the main building there were sparse clusters of people: some families, some gamblers, and a few groups of men in suits who had come along as a team-building event from an office. They had drinks in plastic cups and were listening half-attentively to a heavy-set woman with an alcoholic's nose who was trying to teach them how to bet. The smell of savoury hot fat wafted from a burger stand, and then bumped into the aroma of sweet hot fat from the doughnut stand. The effect, if you were caught in the middle, was mouth-watering and stomach-turning at the same time. A collection of discarded clothes that appeared to have spent at least two winters outside and had probably been used by incontinent dogs repeatedly as a toilet staggered through the doors and the people nearest recoiled in shock. The clothes twisted and turned, and after a moment of horror it became apparent that they were being worn by someone. "You can't come in here." The woman with the red nose clutched her clipboard to her chest and glowered. The men in suits started paying attention: this looked as though it could be interesting. "Passing through," said the wearer of the clothes. His voice, too deep to be a woman's, sounded like someone had poured a sack of marbles into a cement mixer. "You can't do that either!" A dirty hand dipped into a pocket and pulled something out. It was thrust at the woman, who recoiled in disgust, and the men in suits stood up, vying to see what was being offered. "Crap," growled the voice. "Wrong pocket." The severed human nose, still dripping blood and mucus, was disappeared and this time a grubby business card was offered. The woman still recoiled as though touching it would cause her to contract diphtheria. "Suit yourself," said the voice, and the probably-a-man shambled past her towards the door that led to the track. "Who are you?" asked one of the suits. "MacArthur," said the man, not looking back. A sudden silence spread over the rest of the room. At the track's edge Mac looked around and spotted Jimmy the Ferret stood at the BorisBet stand. Jimmy saw him at the same moment, and his eyes grew so wide that onlookers wondered that his eyeballs didn't roll loose and drop out of his head. "What's the book, Jimmy?" asked Mac. His gait was so erratic it looked like both legs were shorter than the other. "I've got fifty to put a fast one." "There's no book, Mac," said Jimmy. Sweat sprang out on his forehead and his armpits turned dark in seconds. Mac looked at the betting stand, carefully examining it from top to bottom and then looked at Jimmy. "Fine, so there's a book," said Jimmy. "But Mac... if I accept a bet from you everyone will think the race is rigged." "You mean you haven't rigged it, for once?" asked Mac.
2 comments:
It seems like these worlds we write about grow of their own accord when we're not looking, as the Furival world is developing itself without telling me. I feel like I'm just making notes on it when something changes... :)
I figured you'd probably like Colbert too!
The book
A stiff breeze was making the flags and pennants stand firm above the race-course and was pushing little white clouds along like a soccer-mom chivvying her children to practice and dance-class. Birds were wheeling above, disturbed by something from their habitual roost in the branches of the trees. On the ground the stewards were checking the track for the third race, and horses every shade of brown were being paraded around the circle for the Show.
Inside the main building there were sparse clusters of people: some families, some gamblers, and a few groups of men in suits who had come along as a team-building event from an office. They had drinks in plastic cups and were listening half-attentively to a heavy-set woman with an alcoholic's nose who was trying to teach them how to bet. The smell of savoury hot fat wafted from a burger stand, and then bumped into the aroma of sweet hot fat from the doughnut stand. The effect, if you were caught in the middle, was mouth-watering and stomach-turning at the same time.
A collection of discarded clothes that appeared to have spent at least two winters outside and had probably been used by incontinent dogs repeatedly as a toilet staggered through the doors and the people nearest recoiled in shock. The clothes twisted and turned, and after a moment of horror it became apparent that they were being worn by someone.
"You can't come in here." The woman with the red nose clutched her clipboard to her chest and glowered. The men in suits started paying attention: this looked as though it could be interesting.
"Passing through," said the wearer of the clothes. His voice, too deep to be a woman's, sounded like someone had poured a sack of marbles into a cement mixer.
"You can't do that either!"
A dirty hand dipped into a pocket and pulled something out. It was thrust at the woman, who recoiled in disgust, and the men in suits stood up, vying to see what was being offered.
"Crap," growled the voice. "Wrong pocket." The severed human nose, still dripping blood and mucus, was disappeared and this time a grubby business card was offered. The woman still recoiled as though touching it would cause her to contract diphtheria. "Suit yourself," said the voice, and the probably-a-man shambled past her towards the door that led to the track.
"Who are you?" asked one of the suits.
"MacArthur," said the man, not looking back. A sudden silence spread over the rest of the room.
At the track's edge Mac looked around and spotted Jimmy the Ferret stood at the BorisBet stand. Jimmy saw him at the same moment, and his eyes grew so wide that onlookers wondered that his eyeballs didn't roll loose and drop out of his head.
"What's the book, Jimmy?" asked Mac. His gait was so erratic it looked like both legs were shorter than the other. "I've got fifty to put a fast one."
"There's no book, Mac," said Jimmy. Sweat sprang out on his forehead and his armpits turned dark in seconds.
Mac looked at the betting stand, carefully examining it from top to bottom and then looked at Jimmy.
"Fine, so there's a book," said Jimmy. "But Mac... if I accept a bet from you everyone will think the race is rigged."
"You mean you haven't rigged it, for once?" asked Mac.
Greg - yeah, they do seem to want to take twists and turns of their own volition sometimes.
Trevor Noah and The Daily Show is my other source of news at the moment.
Ah, this is so great in so many ways. I think the men on the team building event might be my favorite part. Other than the severed nose, obviously.
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