AFTER THE WAR
By LC McCahon
Part 4
Sandy had washed the tea set, and reclaimed it as part of the household goods. Maurice, afraid another transplant would kill the violets, didn’t challenge this. Janice wondered if they would ever have a tea ceremony again in which Sandy and Maurice talked to each other.
Janice had her own problems. The hens and the ducks had started mating with each other. While she was pretty sure there would be no offspring, this had never happened before and it worried her. She had read years ago that the sperm of one species just couldn’t survive in the reproductive tract of the other, but whether that was duck-on-chicken or chicken-on-duck or both she couldn’t remember. There probably would be no offspring, but if the females were fertilised or simply stimulated correctly less often then there would be even fewer eggs. She wondered if this new behaviour was some sort of symptom of post-traumatic stress.
John was having some luck however. The stream at the base of the hill was providing more and more eels, and watercress, and he was able to bring back a substantial dinner or some sort more and more often. This was also an excellent sign for the increasing health of the stream. Eventually, he hoped, there might actually be other major fish species in the river. He figured there must be some other fish already for the eels to eat, but he never seemed to see or catch any.
One early autumn day, as the sun slowly peeked over the trees, and John was waiting with rod in hand for the first, and hopefully not the last, bite of the day, he felt a quiver in the rod. Expectantly, he tugged, and was rewarded with a surge of pulling that took his line further downstream. The murky water showed him nothing, and the stream wasn’t very deep, so he figured he’d have the fish out soon enough. But the next tug almost took the rod out of his hands, and when he held on tighter it helped jerk him to his feet. Now he was concerned. What creature in this little piece of water could have the strength to do that? As he stood bracing himself on the bank with legs akimbo, all his old fears returned, with an almost superstitious foreboding. He couldn’t help but think of mutant fish, turned ugly and huge with the war’s poisons, reeking of radiation and chemicals, grown cancerous and giant, coming to seek their revenge for all their brethren he’d eaten over the years. As the tugging forced him to lurch downstream along the bank just to keep his balance, his alarm increased, until he found himself yelling,
“I’ve looked after the stream! I never ate too many of you! And I’ve done everything I can to keep the water clean and encourage more life back to the old river system! I used to take only one fish a month in order to let the stocks build back up! We never took more than you could give while coming back, and never more than we needed! Please, please forgive me! I’m a friend to the river! We need each other to survive! Oh God have Mercy!”
His rod gave another lurch and he fell forward onto a mound of grass, and with his full weight immobilised the yanker could seem to yank him no further; the pull remained on the rod, but he remained stationary. Terrified, his brain freaking out at the contradiction between the strength on the line and the depth of the water, he lay there gasping, half-winded from his fall, staring in horror at where the line entered the current.
What do you want to have happen next?
Saturday 25 February 2012
Thursday 23 February 2012
AFTER THE WAR
By L C McCahon
Part 3
It was probably true that once upon a time they all found snails tasted not-very-good; but now, when the hens couldn’t be relied on to lay regularly, the snails were often the only protein source they might have for days, and consequently they now found them delicious. As half the hen and duck flock had been slaughtered by wild dogs some months ago, they not only had fewer egg-layers but the survivors seemed to be a long time getting over their trauma.
Each fowl still wasn’t producing as many eggs as previously, which grieved Janice. Also, it meant there might not be enough to make cakes with violets on, which grieved Maurice. They decided not to tell Sandy this, and especially not to tell her that the only part of a violet plant that was truly edible was the flower, making violets a rather uneconomic crop for subsistence purposes.
Meanwhile, the days ticked by, or they would have if they’d had a clock, which they didn’t. And late summer was upon them, and the days grew slightly shorter. John kept an eye on the fish in the stream, Janice kept an eye on the chickens and ducks, Sandy kept an eye on any creature that might be edible, and Maurice kept a steady, obsessive eye on everything in the greenhouse, and everything growing outside that would eventually need to come in to the greenhouse for winter.
Sandy found white butterfly caterpillars feasting on the cabbages one morning and grew positively wild with rage, grabbing them of the leaves and dumping them in a bucket of water to drown them. She then mashed them up and baked them in bread, getting everyone to eat it before telling them what was in it.
Sandy was extremely possessive of their food sources, and resented even insects trying to have a go at the things that ensured her own existence. She loved to turn the tables on pests by turning the bugs into food for humans. Her vengeance was positively gleeful.
When Janice heard howling once more in the distance one evening, she knew they were likely to have a winter of struggle. If the dog pack set up camp nearby, they would be fending them off for months in between snow storms. And if all the fowls died, there were none to replace them.
That became temporarily overshadowed by a more immediate disaster when Sandy found out by reading a book that violet flowers were used as edible decoration on cakes. She came storming out to the bean plot where Janice was weeding, yelling at the top of her voice.
“Only the flowers are edible! The only freaking part of a violet plant that is edible is the flower! Your useless brother has used the tea set for useless plants! We’re giving up the tea set for months just for a flower crop!”
Of course all her yelling and raging did no good. When she confronted Maurice like this, he only retreated further from communication, and Janice could see him become more determined to keep the violets where they were. No amount of calm words from John helped, and the daily tea ritual became strained and uncommunicative.
About a week later, when Janice, Sandy and John were all sitting on the steps shelling peas, there was a cry of rage from the greenhouse. Maurice came running to them, with a look like thunder.
“Who repotted the violets?” He shouted. “Who?” Of course he looked only at Sandy.
“I did,” Sandy replied, “I swapped them over from the tea set into the cans. I did it properly, and gently, with the right soil and watered them and they should be fine.” She sniffed.
“What if they aren’t fine? What if they die?” yelled Maurice.
“They won’t, or only a few will, surely. Anyway they’re not very edible so they can’t be a priority.”
“They’re the only violets around! There aren’t any in the Wasteland around the farm! They could be the last violets in the country! In the world! We have to protect them!” Maurice was getting a worrying red colour.
“And we have to eat!” Sandy snapped back. “And while decorative plants are a lovely remainder of the Old World, the tea set is more reliable and useful!”
“You intruded on my work! You messed around where you had no right!”
“I thought the four of us shared everything now? That’s what I’m so often told around here!”
“But you don’t understand violets! I leave your snails alone, you leave my violets alone! You know you don’t understand all the greenhouse plants!”
“Well what if you taught me, Maurice!”
“I can’t! The plants don’t like you Sandy! You’re just not a plant person!”
Sandy stood. “So what, the plants talk to you now?”
“Yes! And they don’t like you because you are aggressive!”
“Go back to your greenhouse you deluded old fool! We don’t need a crazy person getting in the way! Am I supposed to feed a nutcase? What do you do to justify your existence?”
“I’m kind to plants! And I’m not crazy!” Maurice stormed back into the greenhouse and slammed the door. Janice could see him pacing around the back.
Oh dear! Will the violets survive being repotted? Will Maurice and Sandy ever speak to other again? Stay tuned...
By L C McCahon
Part 3
It was probably true that once upon a time they all found snails tasted not-very-good; but now, when the hens couldn’t be relied on to lay regularly, the snails were often the only protein source they might have for days, and consequently they now found them delicious. As half the hen and duck flock had been slaughtered by wild dogs some months ago, they not only had fewer egg-layers but the survivors seemed to be a long time getting over their trauma.
Each fowl still wasn’t producing as many eggs as previously, which grieved Janice. Also, it meant there might not be enough to make cakes with violets on, which grieved Maurice. They decided not to tell Sandy this, and especially not to tell her that the only part of a violet plant that was truly edible was the flower, making violets a rather uneconomic crop for subsistence purposes.
Meanwhile, the days ticked by, or they would have if they’d had a clock, which they didn’t. And late summer was upon them, and the days grew slightly shorter. John kept an eye on the fish in the stream, Janice kept an eye on the chickens and ducks, Sandy kept an eye on any creature that might be edible, and Maurice kept a steady, obsessive eye on everything in the greenhouse, and everything growing outside that would eventually need to come in to the greenhouse for winter.
Sandy found white butterfly caterpillars feasting on the cabbages one morning and grew positively wild with rage, grabbing them of the leaves and dumping them in a bucket of water to drown them. She then mashed them up and baked them in bread, getting everyone to eat it before telling them what was in it.
Sandy was extremely possessive of their food sources, and resented even insects trying to have a go at the things that ensured her own existence. She loved to turn the tables on pests by turning the bugs into food for humans. Her vengeance was positively gleeful.
When Janice heard howling once more in the distance one evening, she knew they were likely to have a winter of struggle. If the dog pack set up camp nearby, they would be fending them off for months in between snow storms. And if all the fowls died, there were none to replace them.
That became temporarily overshadowed by a more immediate disaster when Sandy found out by reading a book that violet flowers were used as edible decoration on cakes. She came storming out to the bean plot where Janice was weeding, yelling at the top of her voice.
“Only the flowers are edible! The only freaking part of a violet plant that is edible is the flower! Your useless brother has used the tea set for useless plants! We’re giving up the tea set for months just for a flower crop!”
Of course all her yelling and raging did no good. When she confronted Maurice like this, he only retreated further from communication, and Janice could see him become more determined to keep the violets where they were. No amount of calm words from John helped, and the daily tea ritual became strained and uncommunicative.
About a week later, when Janice, Sandy and John were all sitting on the steps shelling peas, there was a cry of rage from the greenhouse. Maurice came running to them, with a look like thunder.
“Who repotted the violets?” He shouted. “Who?” Of course he looked only at Sandy.
“I did,” Sandy replied, “I swapped them over from the tea set into the cans. I did it properly, and gently, with the right soil and watered them and they should be fine.” She sniffed.
“What if they aren’t fine? What if they die?” yelled Maurice.
“They won’t, or only a few will, surely. Anyway they’re not very edible so they can’t be a priority.”
“They’re the only violets around! There aren’t any in the Wasteland around the farm! They could be the last violets in the country! In the world! We have to protect them!” Maurice was getting a worrying red colour.
“And we have to eat!” Sandy snapped back. “And while decorative plants are a lovely remainder of the Old World, the tea set is more reliable and useful!”
“You intruded on my work! You messed around where you had no right!”
“I thought the four of us shared everything now? That’s what I’m so often told around here!”
“But you don’t understand violets! I leave your snails alone, you leave my violets alone! You know you don’t understand all the greenhouse plants!”
“Well what if you taught me, Maurice!”
“I can’t! The plants don’t like you Sandy! You’re just not a plant person!”
Sandy stood. “So what, the plants talk to you now?”
“Yes! And they don’t like you because you are aggressive!”
“Go back to your greenhouse you deluded old fool! We don’t need a crazy person getting in the way! Am I supposed to feed a nutcase? What do you do to justify your existence?”
“I’m kind to plants! And I’m not crazy!” Maurice stormed back into the greenhouse and slammed the door. Janice could see him pacing around the back.
Oh dear! Will the violets survive being repotted? Will Maurice and Sandy ever speak to other again? Stay tuned...
Wednesday 22 February 2012
AFTER THE WAR
by L C McCahon
part 2
Later, John came up from the stream, looking for tea. He found Janice mournfully looking through the cupboards, trying to find something that could pass as a teaset. She told him the problem, and he sighed.
"Well, I suppose we could use some of those old cans as separate mugs," he suggested. "I'm sure I can talk Sandy into giving it a go, if we all have one each. Meanwhile, why don't you try and convince Maurice that the violets could be repotted into something else? Like the cans, for instance?"
It was Janice's turn to sigh. "I'll try, but I can't promise he'll listen... if you go out and talk to Sandy, I'll make the tea."
John went out into the garden, and Janice went to the living-room to start the fire again, placing a small pot of water on the metal top of the wood-burner. She could hear John and Sandy's voices rising and falling in the distance. It was true what Sandy had said. Maurice wasn't good for much. He was good with plants, but his head didn't work quite like other people's. He could ensure delicate seedlings survived the harsh winters with his endless patient care in the greenhouse, but he was prone to odd notions, and his work was slow. Nothing in the world could hurry him, he seemed to feel no urgency under any circumstances.
And this was incomprehensible to a fast, clever person like Sandy, who had never stopped missing the comforts of the Old Life, and lived in a perpetual state of anxiety. If famine threatened, Maurice took note, and worked to avoid it, but never became frantic, accepting the possibility of more suffering and discomfort largely beyond his control. Sandy however would become a ball of anxiety, working feverishly to try to avoid what was often inevitable. A food shortage could be lessened, but never entirely avoided. The weather was too unpredictable, the seasons too uncertain. But Sandy clung to her old notions about human agency being able to change things completely, her memories of when she felt in control of all aspects of her life.
Sandy also clung to ideas like private property, and doing things properly, and ideas of hygiene that were now redundant in their New Lives. They lived in such close quarters and with such intimacy that it seemed silly to insist on everyone having separate cups, for they were all breathing each other's breath constantly at night. But Sandy insisted on the tea-drinking ceremony being inviolate.
Janice saw the water boil, took the pot off the wood-burner and put it on the living-room table, and got out a new tea-bag from the box. There were also four clean cans. Perhaps they would get to drink the tea after all.
John lead Sandy inside, and then left again, and then returned with Maurice. Everyone sat down at the table. After some coaxing, John convinced Sandy that they could have tea out of a pot and four cans. It helped when Maurice told Sandy that it was possible to eat violet flowers, and that he would make some little cakes with the violets on, that were perfect for being eaten with tea.
"Maurice, please can we have the teaset back?" begged Sandy. "We can have tea in the teaset, and violets in the cans."
"No, Sandy, no. The violets belong in the cups."
"But why?"
"The violets like being in the cups. It's where they want to stay. They don't like having their roots moved around."
"Oh for God's sake, Maurice!" cried Sandy. "They're just plants! Just plants!"
Maurice frowned his familiar disapproval. "They're not just plants, Sandy." He went silent, becoming absorbed in the tea, and Janice knew there'd be no getting anything else from him now.
Sandy sighed like the world was bearing down on her, and sulked into her can. John and Janice drank quietly, used to this sort of exchange. Eventually Maurice finished his and left, no doubt for the greenhouse.
Later, John ventured into Maurice's domain, and when they both came out, Maurice explained that although the violets had to stay in the teaset until spring, they could then be moved into something else, perhaps even relocated outside. They just needed time to grow strong, and go through their winter flowering period, and then they'd be okay. Then Sandy could have the teaset back.
"When the violets survive the winter, then we'll have a teaset, and we'll have violets! Imagine! Two things from the Old Life!" Maurice was beaming.
"Oh! Maurice!" Sandy exclaimed, and in a fit of generosity, gave him a hug.
John smiled at Janice, and she, astonished, smiled back.
That evening, Sandy came in from the garden flushed with pleasure, holding a clutch of sleeping snails in her cupped hands. She had found their daytime hiding spot, and now she could provide them all with protein for dinner.
by L C McCahon
part 2
Later, John came up from the stream, looking for tea. He found Janice mournfully looking through the cupboards, trying to find something that could pass as a teaset. She told him the problem, and he sighed.
"Well, I suppose we could use some of those old cans as separate mugs," he suggested. "I'm sure I can talk Sandy into giving it a go, if we all have one each. Meanwhile, why don't you try and convince Maurice that the violets could be repotted into something else? Like the cans, for instance?"
It was Janice's turn to sigh. "I'll try, but I can't promise he'll listen... if you go out and talk to Sandy, I'll make the tea."
John went out into the garden, and Janice went to the living-room to start the fire again, placing a small pot of water on the metal top of the wood-burner. She could hear John and Sandy's voices rising and falling in the distance. It was true what Sandy had said. Maurice wasn't good for much. He was good with plants, but his head didn't work quite like other people's. He could ensure delicate seedlings survived the harsh winters with his endless patient care in the greenhouse, but he was prone to odd notions, and his work was slow. Nothing in the world could hurry him, he seemed to feel no urgency under any circumstances.
And this was incomprehensible to a fast, clever person like Sandy, who had never stopped missing the comforts of the Old Life, and lived in a perpetual state of anxiety. If famine threatened, Maurice took note, and worked to avoid it, but never became frantic, accepting the possibility of more suffering and discomfort largely beyond his control. Sandy however would become a ball of anxiety, working feverishly to try to avoid what was often inevitable. A food shortage could be lessened, but never entirely avoided. The weather was too unpredictable, the seasons too uncertain. But Sandy clung to her old notions about human agency being able to change things completely, her memories of when she felt in control of all aspects of her life.
Sandy also clung to ideas like private property, and doing things properly, and ideas of hygiene that were now redundant in their New Lives. They lived in such close quarters and with such intimacy that it seemed silly to insist on everyone having separate cups, for they were all breathing each other's breath constantly at night. But Sandy insisted on the tea-drinking ceremony being inviolate.
Janice saw the water boil, took the pot off the wood-burner and put it on the living-room table, and got out a new tea-bag from the box. There were also four clean cans. Perhaps they would get to drink the tea after all.
John lead Sandy inside, and then left again, and then returned with Maurice. Everyone sat down at the table. After some coaxing, John convinced Sandy that they could have tea out of a pot and four cans. It helped when Maurice told Sandy that it was possible to eat violet flowers, and that he would make some little cakes with the violets on, that were perfect for being eaten with tea.
"Maurice, please can we have the teaset back?" begged Sandy. "We can have tea in the teaset, and violets in the cans."
"No, Sandy, no. The violets belong in the cups."
"But why?"
"The violets like being in the cups. It's where they want to stay. They don't like having their roots moved around."
"Oh for God's sake, Maurice!" cried Sandy. "They're just plants! Just plants!"
Maurice frowned his familiar disapproval. "They're not just plants, Sandy." He went silent, becoming absorbed in the tea, and Janice knew there'd be no getting anything else from him now.
Sandy sighed like the world was bearing down on her, and sulked into her can. John and Janice drank quietly, used to this sort of exchange. Eventually Maurice finished his and left, no doubt for the greenhouse.
Later, John ventured into Maurice's domain, and when they both came out, Maurice explained that although the violets had to stay in the teaset until spring, they could then be moved into something else, perhaps even relocated outside. They just needed time to grow strong, and go through their winter flowering period, and then they'd be okay. Then Sandy could have the teaset back.
"When the violets survive the winter, then we'll have a teaset, and we'll have violets! Imagine! Two things from the Old Life!" Maurice was beaming.
"Oh! Maurice!" Sandy exclaimed, and in a fit of generosity, gave him a hug.
John smiled at Janice, and she, astonished, smiled back.
That evening, Sandy came in from the garden flushed with pleasure, holding a clutch of sleeping snails in her cupped hands. She had found their daytime hiding spot, and now she could provide them all with protein for dinner.
Monday 20 February 2012
AFTER THE WAR
by L C McCahon
part 1
There would be no tea today, as Maurice had used the teaset to plant his seedlings in. When confronted, he had told Janice that he had thought nothing would be cuter than tiny violets in china cups, to emphasise their tiny size and add a whimsical touch. And yes, he'd done it with the teapot too.
"But Maurice! How will we have tea? How will you have tea?" Janice had exclaimed, even though she knew the terrible answer.
"Janice, we can use teabags in a pot and take turns with the mug," Maurice had explained, although they both knew that Sandy would object. There would be no tea, and Janice of course would be the one to explain the terrible news.
Indeed, Sandy objected to all of the sharing a mug, "like animals," as she put it, and went to rebait the snail traps with water and eggshells so she could sulk in peace. "At least I'm good for something! I catch us protein!" She yelled. "What good is your brother for anything, Janice? When the winter comes, we can't eat dwarf violets! And now there will be even less space in the greenhouse!"
It was true. They would be hungry.
This is the first part I wrote in ten minutes in class last Thursday. What will happen next? Stay tuned! What would you like to happen next? Make a suggestion!
Edited to fix typo. Thanks Andreas!
by L C McCahon
part 1
There would be no tea today, as Maurice had used the teaset to plant his seedlings in. When confronted, he had told Janice that he had thought nothing would be cuter than tiny violets in china cups, to emphasise their tiny size and add a whimsical touch. And yes, he'd done it with the teapot too.
"But Maurice! How will we have tea? How will you have tea?" Janice had exclaimed, even though she knew the terrible answer.
"Janice, we can use teabags in a pot and take turns with the mug," Maurice had explained, although they both knew that Sandy would object. There would be no tea, and Janice of course would be the one to explain the terrible news.
Indeed, Sandy objected to all of the sharing a mug, "like animals," as she put it, and went to rebait the snail traps with water and eggshells so she could sulk in peace. "At least I'm good for something! I catch us protein!" She yelled. "What good is your brother for anything, Janice? When the winter comes, we can't eat dwarf violets! And now there will be even less space in the greenhouse!"
It was true. They would be hungry.
This is the first part I wrote in ten minutes in class last Thursday. What will happen next? Stay tuned! What would you like to happen next? Make a suggestion!
Edited to fix typo. Thanks Andreas!
Testing, testing...
Testing, testing...
So, one component of my creative writing degree is called "Contextual Studies" and one part of contextual studies is an assignment requiring me to interact with something technological that impacts Writing. I have to look at how Writing is affected by technology and do stuff related to this. As I find most exercises like this extremely dull, the only way to make it into something interesting is to make it as connected to actual storytelling as possible. So, this will be a blog on which I write a serial story for the next approximately two weeks. Possibly longer if I think it's fun. Who knows what this might eventually turn into? Probably nothing.
The properly interesting bit is that I will encourage feedback, especially ideas and suggestions for the plot.
As it is highly unlikely anyone will read this unless I actually promote it, you are presumably here because I sent you an email or facebooked about it or something and you know me. Alternatively, you could be here because someone I know sent you a link. It doesn't matter very much. If you have time and are curious, have a read and send in a suggestion! All suggestions considered... seriously. Including non-serious ones!
-L C
So, one component of my creative writing degree is called "Contextual Studies" and one part of contextual studies is an assignment requiring me to interact with something technological that impacts Writing. I have to look at how Writing is affected by technology and do stuff related to this. As I find most exercises like this extremely dull, the only way to make it into something interesting is to make it as connected to actual storytelling as possible. So, this will be a blog on which I write a serial story for the next approximately two weeks. Possibly longer if I think it's fun. Who knows what this might eventually turn into? Probably nothing.
The properly interesting bit is that I will encourage feedback, especially ideas and suggestions for the plot.
As it is highly unlikely anyone will read this unless I actually promote it, you are presumably here because I sent you an email or facebooked about it or something and you know me. Alternatively, you could be here because someone I know sent you a link. It doesn't matter very much. If you have time and are curious, have a read and send in a suggestion! All suggestions considered... seriously. Including non-serious ones!
-L C
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