100TWC - Day 56: Everything For You

Shona dug her friend sharply in the ribs.

"See? It's changed again."
"Ow!" Ella rubbed the spot, frowning. "Yes, alright. So what?"
"It changes every day."
"So you said."
"Don't you think it's strange? I never saw a shop that changed its window display every day."
"You can hardly call that a display," Ella replied, still frowning as she squinted across the road against the early morning sun. "It's only one thing. On a stool."
"I still think it's weird."
"I wish the bus would hurry up."
"I wonder what else they sell?"
"Who knows. Or cares?"
"God. You're so boring sometimes. Nothing ever happens around here and then someone takes over the old grocer's and puts loads of interesting and weird stuff in the window--"
"ONE thing."
"AT A TIME. OK, a SERIES of interesting stuff in the window, and no-one knows what they sell."
"Says everything."
"What?"
"The sign. 'Everything For You'. They must sell everything."
"Don't be daft! Nowhere sells everything. How would they fit it all in that little shop? It's only a grocer's."
"Was a grocer's. I wonder if they still sell fruit and veg and breakfast cereal?"
"See? You ARE interested. Why would they still sell groceries? It's not a grocer's any more."
"No, but they reckon they sell everything. That must include groceries."
"Think you're clever do you?"

The bus arrived, interrupting their incipient argument. Across the road, a thin blue-veined hand appeared inside the door of the shop they had been discussing, and turned the sign over to "CLOSED."

*

Shona and Ella alighted from the bus, their satchels weighed down with text books for the evening's homework, their faces still glowing from the last lesson of the day, which had been P.E. The homecoming bus stop stood right beside the old grocery shop. The sign in the door read "OPEN".

"Let's go in."
"What for?"
"To see what they've got."
"We don't have time! I've got a mountain of homework, and so have you."
"Five minutes."
"No Shona!"

Ella's plea was too late. Shona had already disappeared through the shop door.

"God's sake!" Ella sighed, following her friend into the gloomy interior of the shop.

Whoever owned it obviously had no notion of modern, 21st century retail. No mood lighting, or product placement. No special offer signs. No racks of brightly packaged goods. Beside the door, in the window on the now-familiar stool, stood a blue glass vase painted with an unusual geometric design. The rest of the shop was deserted save for a long counter on the back wall upon which sat an old manual till, its brass and pewter scrollwork shining dully in the gloom. The inside of the shop was lit with two small chandeliers, each holding six incandescent bulbs of very low wattage. They glowed amber and illuminated the shop with a sickly yellow light. The floor, which until only a few weeks ago would have been littered with bags of potatoes and rice, and shelves stacked high with domestic dry goods, was now entirely empty. Its bare boards swept, but uncovered.

"There's nothing here," Ella whispered. "Let's go."
"Can I help you ladies?" a deep voiced intoned. A tall, thin man stepped out from behind a curtain at the side of the till. He placed his hands on the counter. He wore a black suit, tie, and shirt. In the dim light of the shop his dark attire seemed to make his face and hands float eerily above the counter, unconnected to each other or anything else. "Shona, isn't it?" he asked, peering blearily at Shona.

"How do you know her name?" asked Ella.
"And Ella," the man went on. "Did you have a nice day at school?"
Ella swallowed.
"How do you know our names?"
"I think one of the locals might have mentioned you," the man said, cocking his head on one side as if trying to remember exactly who. "How fascinated you are with our little display."
"I never--" Shona began, but the man interrupted her, speaking as he bent down beneath the counter.
"I have something here for you," he said, "that might interest you."
He straightened, and placed a medium-sized book on the polished mahogany countertop.

A TEXT BOOK OF INDIAN HISTORY

read the title in large letters, while underneath in smaller letters, was printed

WITH GEOGRAPHICAL NOTES

"Just what you've been after for your homework, I think?"

The man smiled at Shona. She looked at the text, and back at the man.

"How did you--"
"And for Ella," he continued, opening a cabinet behind the till. Until that very moment Ella would have sworn the cabinet was empty, yet the man took from it a small box. He set it gently on the counter and removed the lid. Inside lay a burnished copper fountain pen. Ella had lost her own pen that very afternoon.

100TWC - Day 55: Separation

The almost-matt brown surface gleamed under the bright halogen lights. Nestling in its carton, the gravid oval roundness suggested fertility even if it gave no clue as to what lay inside. Plump. Ripe. Heavy in the hand once it was plucked from its sanctuary. It was the colour of ripeness too. Of a nut newly fallen from its tree. Not yet ready to sprout and good for the eating.

Eating would be on the agenda here too, soon. But not yet. That silk-sheen surface, still refrigerator cold to the touch, appeared at first glance to be perfect. Unblemished and uniform. Created with almost factory precision, with almost a factory's efficiency and delivery rate too. A closer look revealed the uniformity to be only a trick of the eye. The surface was flecked. Almost pixellated. In places a few hard blebs commingled with the smoothness, wrecking its satisfying curvature on colliding with the eye.

The surface gave a comforting crack as it struck the rim of the polished pyrex dish. Small brown flakes, released by the destructive contact, flew to the floor avoiding the interior of the dish. A lucky escape. Fingernails sought an opportunity, urgently yet slowly pressing, demanding a parting of the carapace. Once begun, its integrity breached, the husk revealed its secret. Glistening and gelid, shining into the open air and the aching light, it lay quivering in half a moon, dripping small gobs of gelatinous content into the open waiting maw of the dish.

With infinite slowness and care, the moon was rotated and the sun rose into view. Appearing through the pale jelly as the heavenly sun might appear through the morning mist. It rose, turned restlessly and fell from the broken ragged lip of the rind like a castle defender tipped from the ramparts by an attacking arrow. But it was caught! Its fall broken by the twin rind held below as the gelid mass slipped between the two and splashed greasily into the bowl to join the vanguard already waiting there.

The fortunate sun rocked gently in its new cradle, bathing now in much reduced waters. Fully four-fifths of its cushion had fallen before the sun was forced to retrace its steps back to the original hemisphere, like an unnatural commuter who could not decide in which continent to settle. On the journey it lost all trace of bathwater, the more liquid remains of the once-resistant gel now warmed, fluid and dripping lusciously from the shell to join its translucent family sitting patiently in the dish.

Now alone and naked in its broken home, defenceless in the face of the chef's desire, the golden orb convulsed in his nervous hand as it was carried to an unknown fate.

Beyond the boundaries of the pyrex dish, hidden from the unwitting contents, a pair of beaters waited patiently, knowing their turn would soon come, eager to spin into action and bring their ebullient effervescence to the party.

100TWC - Day 54: Health and Healing

I had a nasty experience recently. Immediately after it, I decided to make it the subject of this post, as part of the writing challenge. I've been coming up with ideas for each day's prompt in advance (which shouldn't come as a surprise) and at the start of the piece I check back at the few words or couple of short sentences I've written in my "theme pack" (a document that lists the themes, my ideas for the themes, how many are left to write, how many to decide what I'm going to write, etc), get the idea in my head, and set off writing.

Today, it's a couple of weeks since the nasty incident and I've calmed down a bit. With those two weeks' perspective I'm no longer angry. Just sad, and... well... a little resigned. Resigned to human nature.

Some of you already know I'm a Spiritualist healer. To anyone that's just visiting, or is a regular who didn't know that for whatever reason, there are a few pages about it (what it is, how I came to be one) on my website. Shortly after I finished my training, the Spiritualists National Union (SNU) asked me if I'd like to be a tutor for the course I'd just taken. It's a correspondence course (there is a practical element to the healing too, of course. You can't be healed by post) and they were in need of new tutors. Since I'd done so well on the course, achieving the highest mark in my graduation year and winning a prize for doing it, they thought I'd make an ideal tutor.

So since 1997 I've been looking after students from all over the UK and, more recently, overseas, as the SNU spreads its influence and offers the course to people from Europe and beyond. I've had some excellent students in all that time, many lovely comments, some that have required a little more help than others, some who have really struggled but even so done their best, and others who have for one reason or another given up part way through or even not started at all, after having registered.

But until the Sunday before last I have never, ever, been engaged in a shouting match with a student. These are, after all, people who are looking to be healers. Empathic, sympathetic, warm and generous people who want to give their time to help make others feel better. So not the kind of person, you would think, to have an over-inflated ego, a sense of moral righteousness, or - worse - one of entitlement where they believe the highest grades should be handed to them on a plate for a minimum of effort. Such were the sentiments behind the irate phone call I received from this particular student.

One of those people who ask a question and then immediately talk over the answer. Because they're not interested in your answer. They're only interested in telling you what the answer is. What the answer you should have given them is. And that answer is never a C grade. I've never had a C grade in my life and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you give me one now. I'm a teacher and assessor myself, I'll have you know. All courses all over the UK are governed by this or that official body and I know the rules. Show me where in the question it tells me that I need to answer in the way you say? The question asks for X and I've given you X so I should have top marks. I'll take this as high as I have to in the SNU. I'm not having it. I've let it pass and let it pass but I can't take it any more. Everyone at my church is AMAZED at what I've had to put up with and on and on and on.

A lot of the above paragraph is paraphrased or implicit (rather than explicit) in what he said but that was the clear message. Some of it is the real words. And with the best will -- and all the patience -- in the world I found it impossible, eventually, not to rise to the bait. Although I started off calm, I ended up literally shaking with rage. Which, you know, is the most annoying thing of all really. My reaction. The fact that I lost it, when all I really needed to do was keep calmly putting forward my view. My correct view. My 15-year-experienced-tutor view. My 55-year-old world view*. He hadn't done the work. For months he has been trying to get away with the minimum necessary to scrape through the course. And for quite a long time I've shrugged and warned and cajoled and suggested, and been ignored. And this time, finally, the chickens came home to roost and they didn't taste very nice. And there was a clucking and a ruffling of feathers in the hen house.

I hung up in the end. In the middle of a continued tirade from the other end, I hung up. And emailed him to tell him not to call again. I have no idea if he complained, or how high, or whether he's demanding a different tutor, or what. I strongly suspect our student/tutor relationship is too badly compromised to continue, which is a shame (in a way) because he's only one question away from finishing the course. If he can swallow his enormous pride and just knuckle down and get on with it. But I doubt that will happen. And I don't much care either way. One bad apple in a barrel of almost 150 students over 15 years. It's not a bad track record. The guy who organises the training courses was worried it would put me off being a tutor. I have a thicker skin than that. Yes, I was upset, but I got over it.

But as I said right at the off, my main feeling now is one of sadness. That someone with that amount of hubris cannot set it aside and focus on the long term goal. If he wants to help people, then he really needs to be able to understand them better. And do the work.

*His opening gambit, at the start of the phone call, had been to say "I don't know how old you are, but..." so I told him. Quite took the wind out of his sails to learn I was three years his senior. I'm certain he was expecting me to be younger so that he could play the "age and experience" card on me. Shame ;0)

100TWC - Day 53: Future

The last of the bridge walkers moved out of sight behind the main tower. Steve had already slowed almost to a stop to let them get ahead. Now he did stop. Below him, the East River flowed sluggishly, an oily black slick of freezing cold water more than 150 feet down. At this time of year that water would kill you in under two minutes. He stared. Less than two minutes, plus falling time his mathematician's mind insisted, between him and who knew what?

The current of the river swam before his eyes, screwing with his balance and threatening to tip him off the bridge. Before he was ready, that is. Because there was only one way Stephen Jordan was leaving this bridge today, and it wouldn't be on foot.

He didn't know where he was going when he stepped onto the nothing at the side of the cable. Didn't have that religious certainty of heaven, or the sinner's fear of hell. He sometimes wished he did. Something to look forward to in the one case, or try to avoid by doing the right thing in this life in the other. Ha! The right thing. What the fuck was that? What did that mean to a man like him? He might not know where he was going, but he sure as hell knew where he was coming from, and he wasn't going back to it. No sir. A belly full of lies and cheating, the scum he had to deal with every day, all dressed up in their fine thousand-dollar suits and their silk ties. Their Berluti shoes and their crisp white shirts. New one every day. Perfect on the outside. Respectable. Upright. Living the American Dream. But their insides? Steve imagined them looking something like one of those apples he used to have to take to school for his lunch. All red and ripe and shiny from the outside. Gonna be all sweet and juicy when you bite into it, but it would turn out brown and stinking rotten all the way through to the core. That was like them. Rotten insides, all of them. Souls as black as the icy water flowing under his feet right now.

He changed his grip on the suspensor wire, taking hold with his warm hand and rubbing his cold one against his thigh before ramming it into his pocket. Wouldn't have to worry about cold hands or frostbite where he was going. Wherever it was. Fiery or idyllic or something else that the prophets had never foreseen. Or the black nothing of non-existence that his few atheist friends insisted was all that waited for mankind on the other side of the veil.

A few flakes of snow blew past, sticking to his coat, one or two melting quickly on his lips. Where they caught the suspensor cable they lived a little longer and Steve could almost make out a hint of their hexagonal crystal beauty before they blew off or melted under the sudden warmth of his breath. He coughed a bitter laugh into the fading light. Beauty never lasted. Either it was another façade over a rotten core -- like Justine had been -- or it got chipped and worn away by time and life and too many margaritas. He swayed against the cable, his vision momentarily blurred by unexpected tears. She'd been the one. How did the song go? "You are the one I'd wait my whole life for." And he had waited. All through High School and college, all those years without a girlfriend because his ever-calculating mind would always find a reason not to make the first move, or respond to an approach on those rare occasions a woman would be brave enough to ask. Tumblers clicking, gears whirring, his subconscious would estimate the chances of a relationship working, factoring in height, weight, dress sense, any friends visible on the occasion, smoking, drinking and a hundred other bits of information, and then it would push them all through its filter and come out with no.

Until Justine. He couldn't consciously have explained why she was a yes. His first ever yes. Didn't even like to question it, in case he should scratch the polished surface of her yesness and find there was really a rusty no underneath. He shivered. The wind was stronger now and the snow flurries thicker. Pretty soon he wouldn't be able to see the East River at all. He'd be stepping off into nothing at the side of him and nothing below too. But that was OK. His mathematical mind took less that a millisecond to calculate that nothing into nothing was nothing. And he wanted to be nothing. To cease. To end the pain of the no she had turned out to be, and being surrounded by the rotten suits, and the endless gnawing certainty that there would never be anything more than this. Day after day. Blackness, blackness dragging me down. He looked down. But where before there had been the blackness of that old favourite song now there was only whiteness. Billowing flurries of whiteness, spiralling past and obscuring the river completely.

100TWC - Day 52: Stirring of the Wind

"Are you done yet?"
"Nearly!"
"I'll put the tea on."

Neil leaned on his rake and surveyed the results of his efforts. Nine neat piles, the dark green grass between them virtually free of leaves save for where one or two had escaped the pull of the tines and fallen from the path of the rake. He breathed deep of the autumn scents and smiled. The year was not yet old enough to have a winter chill, but had left summer far behind. Mornings like today -- mist-shrouded and mysterious, damp and cool -- were his favourites. One could do a day's work without breaking sweat and have time left in the still lengthy evenings to enjoy the view, or sit on the deck and savour a glass of wine.

A gust of wind teased Neil's hair as he stood looking over the valley. A few leaves from the tallest piles shook themselves loose and fluttered away onto the grass. Neil pulled a plastic garden sack from his pocket and began stuffing it with leaves from the nearest pile, anxious to complete the clearing up before the wind undid his day's work. As he grabbed handful after handful of the leathery brown leaves their sweet musky odour filled his nostrils, shaking loose memories of school mornings when he and Kate would kick their way to class, scattering the yellow, red and brown threads of the road rug with their polished patent leather, creating new patterns and shapes as the leaves flew and fell, flew and fell. Laughing at the gentle soughing and the smells and the joyous feeling of togetherness; the excitement of a new year ahead. New knowledge and new possibilities, coupled with pangs of old yearning. Wondering whether this would be the year she would start to look at him as more than the boy next door. Kate of the autumn-red hair and brown, gold-flecked eyes that shone and flashed as she laughed at his silly jokes. He played the clown for her to hide his longing. Cracked a joke to mask his embarrassment at the strength of feeling inside him. Stole a sidelong glance at the wonderful curves of her growing body. And fought down the need to declare himself in love with her, for fear of frightening her away.

The wind spoke again, and the trees answered. Sighing and rustling. Neil dashed away a tear with his gloved hand, the suede rough against his cheek. He knotted his bag, stood, and surveyed the garden once again. The few tentative gusts had blurred the edges of his piles, flattening and spreading them out. Sending handfuls of carefully collected leaves back out across the grass. Another few years and it would be too much for him to manage on his own, especially at this time of year. Too many trees, too much grass. And way too many memories. He always knew the leaves would unlock his past. Like evil spirits flying from Pandora's Box, those bitter-sweet rememberings were always set free at this time of year. The season in which he'd had Kate, and the same season he'd lost her. The world had lost her. Like walking into a winter that never ended, and all that was left was cold and dark, crisp and bleak and featureless like a land buried beneath a lifetime of snow. Where Spring could never come.

100TWC - Day 51: Troubling Thoughts

The BBC announcer had adopted his most serious tones:

"These scenes are being brought to you live from Birmingham, where there is now a full-scale riot in progress. In a moment we will be bringing you coverage from Manchester and an update from London, but first a report from our correspondent at the scene of the rioting, Phil Mackie."

Jessie watched the scenes unfolding in front of her. She heard what the BBC reporter was saying but she struggled to understand it. Why now? Why Birmingham? A city with a long and proud tradition of accepting people of all backgrounds. And the boys on her screen! Some of them looked barely old enough to be in long trousers. And girls too! When did girls start to become involved in such behaviour? It was alien to her.

She thanked God that her own son had more sense than to get mixed up in such things. Upstairs in his room he was probably chatting on that Spacebook, or whatever it was called, or getting blown up in the safety of a computer-rendered war zone rather than the real-life war zone flashing red and blue on her TV.

"Police say these incidents across the country are being orchestrated by a few militants who are well known to CID and Special Operations units, through their contact networks built up on social media sites like Facebook and Twitter."

Facebook! That was it. Jeremiah was on Facebook. But only with his school friends and members of the family, including some outside the UK. Thankfully he would have more sense than to get mixed up with thugs like these. A strong and upright family, even without a father's influence, Jessie had always made sure Jeremiah knew the difference between right and wrong. And when he had started down the wrong path, on entering his teen years, she had been there to steer him right. That had been a difficult time. Cold winds blowing across their table at breakfast and supper. She had got through to him in the end though. Weathered the storm and put him back on the right path. He saw the sense of her viewpoint. Came round to it even. As much as a teenager could ever be expected to do what their parents told them. He was a good boy, all things considered. Not as much trouble as some. Especially round here. Jessie had wanted to move to Solihull or Edgebaston, but they couldn't stretch to it on a single wage. But where they lived in Perry Barr wasn't THAT bad. Other people kept to themselves most of the time and there wasn't much trouble to speak of.

The TV report had moved on to Manchester now. Jessie decided she'd better check that Jeremiah had sorted out his sports kit for tomorrow. Her knees cracked as she levered herself up off the sofa. Those old bones weren't getting any younger. She gripped the banister tightly as she climbed the stairs one at a time, her arthritis flaring painfully with every jarring step. Jeremiah's bedroom door was closed. No sound came from inside but that wasn't unusual. Her constant complaining of the noises of explosions and blood-curdling screams had persuaded him eventually to buy a pair of headphones, and her continued complaining for several months after that had convinced him to start using them.

She knocked, waited, and poked her head around the door. The room was empty. The bedclothes were still as neat as when she had made his bed that morning. His computer hummed quietly in the corner, but Jeremiah's monitor was turned off. His school bag was nowhere to be seen. Jessie felt sure he had not entered the room since he left for school this morning.

He should have been home for hours. It had been dark since five thirty and he was never this late on a school night. Jessie crossed the room and turned on the computer monitor. As it warmed up, Jeremiah's Facebook page swam into view. But not his personal profile or newsfeed. A cold chill settled around Jessie's  spine as she read the title of the page he had been reading: "Spread The Hate."

A hundred conflicting thoughts sparked in her mind. Not her boy. Why? Who were these people? How had he got involved? Surely he was just late home from school. Or gone for a pizza with his football team? Why hadn't he told her he'd be late? Was he alright? Safe? He wouldn't do that. Not throw bricks or loot shops or spray graffiti. None of that.

The doorbell interrupted the insane flood of questions and worries. Jeremiah! Forgotten his keys again! Thank God. Not rioting. She'd been a fool to think that of him. Her boy would never...

Two tall dark figures stood on the front door step, their blurry outlines visible through the obscured glass. Not Jeremiah then. She hurried downstairs as fast as her arthritic joints would allow.

"Just a minute," she called.

She paused with her hand on the latch, suddenly terrified. She opened the door, just a crack. Two uniformed police officers stood outside.

100TWC - Day 50: Party

Damn your arrogant ass! You KNOW I'm right.
No I don't. And it's not arrogance to have a different view from you.
What's good enough for me should be good enough for you. I never questioned my father's take on it.
Well maybe you should've.
See? Arrogance and disrespect. Your grandfather would turn in his grave.
Why? I'd have thought he'd be more pleased to see me thinking for myself.
You call that thinking? All you're doing is swallowing their lies.
How do you know they're lies? Your lot have been lying to you for years.
No they haven't.
Of course they have! Look at them now. Is it the same party you grew up with? Grandad grew up with?
Well, no, but--
Exactly. They don't deserve your support. Least, not your unthinking support. I don't know why you keep voting for them. Come to think of it, I don't know why you keep voting at all. Or me, for that matter.
Don't talk like that. Folk fought and died so that we could have the vote.
That was the Suffragettes Dad. That was for women.
I'm talking about the war you dozy twerp. You know what I mean. Do you think people like us would have a say in how the country's run if we were all under Hitler?
Do you think you have a say now? When was the last time your lot did anything for you.
They're always doing stuff for us.
Yeah? Is that why I hear you yelling at the news every night? 
Hmm. Well I don't always agree with everything they do, it's true. But that's party politics. It's not about the little things. It's about a shared vision. Working together for a better future.
Right. And when are we gonna get this 'future' you speak of? I bet Grandad used to spout the same old line, and he never saw any of it did he? And you haven't. And it doesn't look like I will either. It's all bollocks.
Well that kind of thinking won't get you anywhere.
What kind of thinking.
Giving up before you've even started.
I have started! For fuck's sake, what do you think I've been doing for the last six years.
Wasting your time. And don't swear in the house. You know your mother doesn't like it.
She's not here.
No, but it's the principle. And anyway if you get used to it you'll slip up when she IS here, and I don't like it.
Another worthless principle. What does it matter what language we use. It's the message that's important, not the medium.
That's typical of you young ones these days. Chucking out all the principles. What do you actually stand for, this new lot of yours? At least we knew where we stood. What we were fighting for in my day.
Yeah but it's not your day any more is it Dad? Your day's done. Pipe and slippers time for you old man. 
Thanks.
It's true. No use denying it. This is my day. Our day. The young ones, as you call us, although most days I don't feel that young any more. But if we don't get off our arses and DO something about this bloody mess there won't BE a future. I don't want my kids growing up with the sort of shit I've had to put up with.
Nice.
I don't mean in the family. I mean the country. All their snouts in the trough, back-handers and I'm Alright Jack. We've all had enough of it. I know you agree, don't pretend you don't. I can hear you ranting at the TV even when you think I'm not listening.
Well I suppose it's good you're fired up about something, even if you are on the wrong side.
Like I said, your lot have done nothing for us. It's time to change your thinking Dad. Time to get radical.
Riots and stone-throwing never solved anything.
It's not about rioting. It's about direct action.
Well that's rioting in my book.
No it isn't. Doesn't have to be.
Well what is it then?
Oh I don't know. The Occupy movement is one idea.
Oh yes. A load of unwashed idiots in denims sitting down in bank lobbies. Lot of good that's going to do.
And then there's the Internet. Sumofus and 38degrees and all those.
You're talking gibberish now lad. Make sense will you?
They're focus groups and lobbyists Dad, but on our side. On the side of the small guy.
Focus groups? Listen to yourself! What good have they ever done? Petitions! No-one takes any notice lad.
That might have been true in your day Dad, but we've got the web now. Loads of publicity, stuff going viral, instant video whenever one of them puts a foot wrong. Don't you see? They can't cover anything up now. It's all over the world in five minutes.
Hmm. I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you. I'd be very surprised if anything really serious got out that they wanted to put a lid on. Look at that Julian Assange bloke. Stuck in that embassy. Not exactly going anywhere is he?
Maybe not, but the movement he started is. People catch on quick. He was just a catalyst. Like the Tolpuddle Martyrs if you like, but bigger. Global. That cat's out of the bag now Dad. Genii's out of the bottle. There's no going back, you'll see.

100TWC - Day 49: Umbrella

Jeremy stood in the lobby gazing out at the rain. Any other day, the inclement weather would have been cause for depression. Today, Jeremy was on a mission. A meticulously planned mission. One that depended on rain.

He'd first conceived it the day he started at Felicity Mutual. That was, he counted, more than nine months ago. Nine months of sleepless nights and nail-biting days trying to juggle his new responsibilities with the enormous stack of rules and financial regulations he had to learn while all the time the space in his head -- that should have been devoted to these important and urgent tasks -- was filled with one image. The arresting image he had seen as he first took his seat at his new desk. Half-way down the office on the other side of the floor, facing him but giving all her attention to her monitor as she began her work for the day.

Misha.

Exotic, mysterious, raven-haired, fragrant, beautiful Misha. Out of Jeremy's league Misha. Misha who didn't even know he existed. Misha who was regularly hit upon by the senior partners at Felicity Mutual, but who never responded. Oh, sure, she would smile and flash her clear brown eyes at them, and reply with infinite patience and rigorous politeness, but then she would turn away and continue with her work, or discover some vital errand that required her to walk to the other side of the building. She was well practised in the art of dodging unwanted attention while maintaining her professional integrity. All of which, naturally, only made Jeremy love her more.

He twirled his umbrella absent-mindedly and checked the weather again. Still raining. The forecast had assured him it was set for the day but one could never be too careful. His painstakingly constructed pack of cards would come tumbling down if those essential raindrops stopped falling. He glanced at his watch. 12:37. Misha's lunch break started at half past, but she could easily have picked up a piece of work that one of the partners would claim was urgent just to get her alone in the office when everyone else was out to lunch. He dismissed the thought with a frown. Not today. That wouldn't happen today.

The elevator pinged its arrival in the lobby and Jeremy refocussed on the glass in front of him. From his position at the side of the lobby, the marble-faced pillar outside the building created a mirror effect on the glass frontage of the building so he could observe the traffic to and from the elevators without appearing to be watching. To a casual observer it looked as if he were simply staring at the rain outside.

The elevator emptied into the hallway. Misha was not among them. Jeremy checked the other lifts. One at the third floor going up, and the last one at the eleventh floor coming down. He worked on the ninth. Misha could even now be waiting for the third lift on the ninth floor. A tingle ran up Jeremy's back causing his neck hairs to rise at the expectation. He tried to relax as the lift descended. It stopped at nine! He shifted his feet and stretched to release the tension in his shoulders. The lift continued its downward journey, not stopping at any other floors. It pinged again as the doors opened.

There she was! Jeremy swallowed hard and rubbed his free hand on his trousers. He surreptitiously checked his breath. He had flossed carefully this morning -- even more carefully than usual -- and the results were good. As far as he could tell. Misha swayed across the lobby. He could watch her walk all day long. Poetry in motion. She stopped beside the door a few feet away from him and wrinkled her nose at the weather.

"Damn it! It had to rain today didn't it. Of all days. The day I lost my umbrella."

The moment had come. It was now or never. Two steps and one short sentence to change his life for ever. He gripped his umbrella in his right hand and stepped toward her.

"Would you like to share mine?"

100TWC - Day 48: Everyday Magic

The sudden deluge bounced reflected raindrops off the pavement as high as his knees as Bob ran for his appointment. The briefcase held over his head offered the only protection from the downpour, which had come from an apparently cloudless sky. He couldn't afford to be late. Not this time.

Less than a block away from his destination, a voice calling urgently through the blinding rain caught his attention. A well-dressed woman stood dejectedly at the kerb. Already drenched, she glanced from face to face as they passed, pleading. Bob caught her eye as he approached.

"Help me, please." She indicated the gutter. It brimmed with rushing brown water as it struggled to cope with the cloudburst. "My keys."

Bob stopped, momentarily torn between his natural urge to help and his pressing and vital engagement. He gave a mental sigh.

"Where did you drop them?"
"Right here. Here by the door." Her car was parked on a double yellow line, although it was now rendered invisible by the gurgling drain water. "I've felt around a bit, but..."
"This current is strong enough to carry them quite a distance," Bob mused. He rolled up the sleeves of his soaking jacket, offered an ironic smile to the woman, and plunged his hand into the fast-flowing water a foot or so past the point she had indicated. The freezing cold water rose past his wrist, numbing his fingers as he groped along the edge of the kerb.

With a triumphant cry, he fished a set of keys out of the gutter.

"There you go!"
"Oh, thank you!"
"Sorry to dash, but I'm already late."

*

Fiona Broadbent watched the earnest young man as he made his apology and ran for the nearest building. Her car keys dangled from her hand and they almost slipped from her grasp before she clutched them against her chest, opened the door, and slid gratefully behind the wheel out of the torrential rain that continued to fall.

She fired up the engine and pulled into the flow of traffic, almost as heavy and fast-flowing as the gutter from which the gentleman had retrieved her keys. Her wipers struggled to keep the windscreen clear against the continuing downpour. A few hundred metres further on she passed an elderly lady, standing alone at a bus stop. She was bent almost double under the combined weight of two enormous shopping bags and the heavy rain. There were no buses in sight. Fiona had never offered anyone a lift in her life. If anyone had asked her why she chose to make today her first she would not have been able to explain it. She pulled in to the kerb and keyed the window.

"Would you like a lift?"
"Eh?"
"Looks like I'm going in your direction - would you like a ride?"
"Oh, bless you!"

The old woman fell in through the open door, dragging her shopping after her. The inside of Fiona's car began to reek of wet old dog and mothballs.

"Where are you going?"
"Well I was going to get the bus to the station, but if you're going that far...?"

Fiona's turn was three blocks before the station, but her new-found altruism blossomed in her mind. "The station it is," she replied quickly, glancing behind as she pulled out once more into the traffic. "Have you got much further to go?"
"I live in Greenfield," said the woman, "it's only about 20 minutes away by train."

*

By the time Brenda McIntyre stepped from the train at Greenfield station the unexpected cloudburst had ceased, the clouds had moved away as quickly as they had appeared, and the late summer sun burned the wet platform into a steaming cauldron. As she walked quickly to the exit, her unused bus fare jingled loudly in her coat pocket. A young boy stood by the exit, looking up at the arrivals board. Brenda reached into her pocket, held out her change to the boy.

"Here you are young man," she said in her best headmistress voice -- unused these past eleven years and yet apparently still in good working order. "I'm sure you can put this to good use."

*

Jonny watched the old woman pass through the exit turnstile with a dazed expression glued to his face. He stared at his open hand, and back at the woman's retreating back. And then, he looked at the flower vendor's display further down the platform. He had another 12 minutes before his Mum's train arrived. He turned in the direction of the stall, counting the coins as he walked.

100TWC - Day 47: Perfection

Jocelyn sat squarely on her stool. Balanced. Grounded. Literally grounded, with her feet planted flat on the cold tile floor of the basement, and figuratively grounded too. Calm in a way she only ever achieved when potting. She weighed the lump of clay, slowly passing it from hand to hand. Thinking of the millennia that had led to this moment, as the sheet granite weathered into boulders, then pebbles, then grains until finally it became clay. This piece held in her hand, in her basement, in her house, could be ten million years old. Twenty million. And its long years of history gave no hint of the future that was hidden behind its lumpen form. Infinite possibilities lay ahead, and potentially at least, more millennia once it became an artefact.

Archaeologists were still unearthing crocks from Egyptian times and before. Ming vases held a special place in the zeitgeist, so unshakeably anchored in the public consciousness that any vaguely Chinese-looking urn was always christened "Ming." An electric tingle ran the length of her spine at the thought that what she created here today might become a fabled 21st century collector's piece in two or three thousand years' time.

She flicked her wheel on and took several deep breaths as it span up to speed. With one final toss of the clay from her left hand to her right, she threw the balled nugget onto the wheel, hitting it dead centre. A perfect start. Jocelyn smiled, and dipped her hands into the tub of cool water beside her.

Her wet hands glistened as they caressed the smooth surface of the clay, moistening it and beginning to coax it into shape. She loved this part of her craft the best. The sensual slipperiness, the earthy smells, the cool solidity of the lump of something she was creating. Often at this stage of the process she had no idea what she was going to make, letting the clay almost decide for itself what shape it would take from her hands, rather than they imposing one on it. Not today. Inspired by her earlier thoughts of Ming, today she knew exactly what she would be making. A vase. A vessel so unique in shape, so perfect in craft, so breathtakingly beautiful in conception that it would deserve to last those millennia she had imagined.

She wet her hands once more. She pushed and cajoled. Scooped and pulled. And gradually, as an iridescent butterfly may emerge from an ugly misshapen chrysalis, her vase grew out of the grey mass, revealing itself moment by moment as her wheel hummed and her insistent fingers demanded. Like an image appearing on paper swimming in a bath of developing chemicals, like a firefighter stepping out of a smoke cloud, where once there was nothing remarkable, now before her intense concentration and beneath her carefully smoothing hands, the amphora asserted its existence. Still as yet unfinished -- the object she saw with her eyes not quite matching the vision she held in her mind -- but the possibilities were clearly becoming reality.

She paused, removing her hands from the work and allowing the wheel to slow so that she could examine the vase from all angles. It did not wobble or gyrate, precess or lean, but instead stood perfectly straight and true, still in the exact centre of the wheel, still absolutely symmetrical from every angle. And the shape. Oh, the shape! She had dreamed it unique and the waking did not disappoint. Another few minutes would see it reach the perfection she yearned for and, she was certain, guarantee her flask its place in history.

100TWC - Day 46: Reflection

"Good morning."
"Hello"
"Please take a seat."
"Thanks"
"May I ask your name?"
"Amir"
"Thank you Amir. I am Doctor Savi. Are you sitting comfortably?"
"Fine, thanks"
"Who have you brought with you today?"
"This is my mate. Wladek"
"And how long have you and Wladek been friends?"
"We grew up together"
"I see. Well, you should make yourself comfortable too Wladek, but please don't interrupt my discussion with Amir. Now, Amir, would you like to tell me why you came to see me today?"
"I can't sleep"
"I'm sorry to hear that Amir. How long have you been unable to sleep?"
"It's been going on about a month."
"I see. And how long do you spend in bed each night, before you get to sleep?"
"I fall asleep right off, but then I wake up again after about an hour and can't get back off again."
"Off to sleep, you mean?"
"Well, yes."
"It's a goddamn AI."
"What?"
"It's an AI doctor for fuck's sake. Let's go."
"No, I need some meds or something"
"Is there a problem, Amir?"
"No - carry on. After I get that hour I can't get sleep anymore"
"What have you tried, to help you get back to sleep?"
"Everything"
"Please, be a little more specific. What have you tried to help you get back to sleep?"
"See? I'm tellin' ya. It's a goddamn machine."
"No it isn't"
"You mean you can't tell? Jesus Christ it's obvious."
"Milky drinks. Reading. Counting sheep. Breathing slowly. Visualisation. Hot baths. Chamomile tea. I've tried the lot. Can you give me some pills doc?"
"I would prefer to try and understand the root cause of your sleep problem Amir before I simply give you some pills"
"God DAMN it. Can't you see? It's just reflecting every time."
"Reflecting?"
"Repeating what you say. Or using your own phrases to make you feel relaxed and comfortable. It's not real!"
"They wouldn't use a machine"
"Who's they?"
"The health people. They wouldn't let a machine run clinics like this"
"Sure they would. How much do you think it would cost to run all these clinics out in the sticks where no doctor wants to work?"
"That's why they do it remotely. They've probably got dozens of doctors online all the time, helping people"
"You're such a goddamn prick sometimes Am."
"Please, Wladek. I did ask you not to interrupt my discussion with Amir."
"See? It reuses the same phrases over and over."
"If you can't sit quietly during the consultation I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to leave."
"And it's so fucking polite. You think a real doctor would be that polite?"
"Amir, do you want to continue with our discussion?"
"Please Doctor. Ignore Wladek. He always likes to pretend he knows what's going on with stuff better than I do"
"I wonder if this tension between you could be the source of your sleeping problem?"
"What do you mean Doctor Savi?"
"It means I'm a bad fucking infuence you dummy. I'm making you crazy and you're bottling it up or some shit like that. And it's there in your brain, stopping you from sleeping."
"Shut up Waddy. For once, hey?"
"Whatever."
"Perhaps you could take a holiday Amir? Get away for a week or two and see if that helps your sleeping."
"It means away from me."
"Not everything's about you Waddy for God's sake!"
"I know that. But this stupid machine will make you think it is. All your problems will be rooted in me, let me tell you. And they'll all be solved by getting rid of me. That's what these damn machines want. Everyone isolated so they can work their schemes."
"What the hell...?"
"I must ask you to wait outside Wladek."
"I ain't going nowhere."
"Amir, please ask Wladek to wait outside."
"Do as he says Waddy. Please"
"Do as IT says you mean."
"Please"
"You're crazier than I thought if you're gonna let that fucking tin quack tell us what to do. Even its name gives it away for Chrissake. Savi!"
"Huh?"
"Sounds like Savvy. Intelligent. Right? You get it now?"
"That's just a coincidence. He's probably Indian"
"Right."
"Are you going to leave, Wladek?"
"Please Waddy. I'll be right out"
"I won't be here."
"You don't need to..."
"I'm not waiting around to see you suckered in any further by that THING. It's your funeral."
"It's unlikely that Amir's sleeping problems will be fatal."
"Can you imagine a real doctor making a statement like that, Am? Fatal sleeping problem is unlikely? For fuck's sake."
"Just go Wad. Out the door or out the clinic or out of sight. I don't much care which"
"Like I said. Your funeral."
"What were you saying Doctor? Something about a holiday?"
"Yes, I have somewhere in mind. Somewhere that has had great success in the past with people who have suffered from similar conditions as yourself, Amir."

100TWC - Day 45: Heart Song

[this post is a continuation of the story begun in "Start" earlier in the writing challenge]

Tani raced through the dark wood, her feet barely touching the soft loam. Almost presciently avoiding the breaking of a single twig underfoot and dodging right and left, ducking and weaving to ensure not even the slightest bend or sway of a branch or leaf would betray her passage. There was barely enough light to see when running in the clear. Here, beneath the dense canopy, the darkness was just this side of total. Her night-adapted eyes swelled to take in every scintilla of reflection to guide her direction. Her mind hummed, processing information and decisions at maximum synaptic speed to match her flying legs.

So far there had been no sign of the Pack, and -- she checked her chronotech -- it was still five minutes until the Hunt began their bloodthirsty quest.

Ahead of her, Tani could dimly make out a fork in the forest path. To the right, the path continued unimpeded. The loam packed solid by the animals and traders that used it, the vegetation well cleared. It was a good choice. She would leave no trace. But in that direction the path travelled straight for almost three hundred metres without deviating and without any natural cover. She could be spotted from far behind. She was nearing the fork now. Had to decide. The left-hand route was even closer to total darkness and heavily overgrown. She would have to take ultimate care and still risked leaving a trace of her entry. But once through and after only a few metres, she would be utterly invisible to any passing hunter. And -- she shook a plasteel flask at her hip -- she had just enough scentblock remaining to give her a chance of eluding the Pack too.

She ripped the flask from her belt and came to an abrupt halt at the fork. Stepping gingerly over the first fronds of bracken she sprayed a fine mist of scentblock behind her, checking as best she could in the crepuscular coppice that she left no tracks. After a dozen metres, convinced she had done all she could and unwilling to spend more time on covering her entry to the dark path, she turned and ran through the thickening undergrowth.

Not more than fifty metres further and she began to consider the mistake she had just made. It was too late to turn back -- the Pack would certainly be passing the point where she left the path at any moment -- but her progress had slowed to a crawl on account of the heavy undergrowth. Worse, she could no longer make out any path at all. Each gap between trees looked as though it might be a path, until she tried it and found it blocked with bramble, or sickmoss, or trapweed. Tani stopped, trying to quieten her breathing, and considered what to do.

As the pounding of her heart lessened, she became aware of the faint sound of music coming through the trees from her left. She turned toward it, and immediately the gap between the two largest boles in that direction resolved itself into a clear path. Amazed she had not seen it before and determined now to discover the source of the unexpected melody she pushed on along the new passage. The strain became louder with every step. It seemed somehow familiar to her, though she was certain she had never heard it before. She had often heard others talk of how music "called to them," but until now had never experienced it for herself. She felt almost impelled along the path. She had neither the desire nor the ability to turn aside and find a new direction. Her plan had been to veer and jig constantly during her flight, to be completely unpredictable, but all concerns over being caught had evaporated from her suddenly calm mind as she sought out the source of the refrain.

The wood remained as pitch dark as it had when she first stepped onto this eldritch path, yet her feet seemed to find their own way, stepping over obstacles concealed beneath the ground cover, avoiding trip hazards and pot holes. She was travelling almost as quickly through this section of the forest as she had been on the clear path. After another few metres she glimpsed a flash of bright green between the low-hanging branches. The music was much louder now. It filled her mind. Her heart was pounding again, despite the fact she was no longer running. Tani rounded the trunk of an enormous, ancient oak and stepped into a clearing. Other large oaks surrounded it, but between them nothing grew. The forest floor was a carpet of old bracken and leaf litter. The sweet woody smell of the decaying leaves drifted up as she walked over them. In the centre of the clearing, on a low outcrop of rock a very small, very old man in a bright green cap sat playing a set of Pan pipes.


[ this story is continued later in the writing challenge - on Day 82 in "Advantage" ]

100TWC - Day 44: At Peace

The nascent heat of the summer morning enveloped her as she stepped from the air-conditioned interior of the limousine. She revelled in the warmth. Let it sink into her old bones as she stood, straightening slowly against the pain of her arthritic spine and hips. The driver walked around to return her pair of barley-twist walking sticks; family heirlooms handed down from a long forgotten forebear, but which felt especially apposite on this day. She thanked him graciously as he replaced his tall hat and preceded her into the chapel.

Through the door in front of her came the lilting sound of organ music. His favourite tune, played with somewhat less vigour than he would have preferred, she knew, and yet comfortingly familiar even at its funereal pace. She hesitated at the door, gathering her strength against the expected flood of emotion, but on stepping through onto the worn stone slabs of the aisle her only feeling was one of ineffable peace. Her gaze stretched along the aisle to the white-shrouded catafalque. White, because both he and she believed that death was not the end, not something to be mourned, but a new beginning for the one departed and therefore something, if at all possible through the maelstrom of grief and loss and pain, to be celebrated.

A ripple of muted voices passed through the seated mourners as the realisation of her arrival spread. All faces turned in her direction, some tear-streaked, some red-eyed, others grimly holding their grief in check. She smiled at each familiar face as she approached the empty front pew. No family waited there for her. Each of them had been only children and they had lost Geraldine more than fifteen years before to breast cancer. She was the last. Before taking her seat she paused beside the polished oak casket, laying a tentative hand on its lid. Peace at last my darling. After the months of late night nursing, cleaning up the sick and managing the medication, ignoring the pain-induced sniping and drying the tears, reading his favourite stories until the book fell unheeded from her sleeping hands, trying to persuade him to take one more mouthful of a meal he once relished. Peace. For both of them.

The vicar cleared his throat politely, bringing her back to the present. To the reality of the day. Reluctantly she took her hand from the coffin, kissed her fingers and brushed them back along its gleaming surface. The final few bars of music died away as she took her lonely seat on the family pew and reached forward to retrieve the tattered, leather-bound prayer book from its resting place.

In his best, most sincere and respectful tones, the vicar began his eulogy, but she wasn't really listening. The man had barely known him, and had gone through the usual motions of interviewing her the week before to garner sufficient details about him to make a decent fist of it. He wouldn't be saying anything she didn't already know. Her mind drifted, remembering the long cycle rides they had taken in their youth - on just such days as this. Fresh, bright, shining with possibilities. She remembered that queasy, excited, breathtaking feeling she felt when the first hints of love sparked unexpectedly, turning their next-door-neighbour friendship into something that would carry them through 60 years of togetherness. Weathering the storms of less sunny days, basking in the warmth of those which were even sunnier. The heartache of losing their only daughter, of knowing they would never bounce grandchildren on their knees or take them for walks in the fields at the end of their lane. The wonderful holidays they had shared covering the length of Britain, but never venturing to foreign countries; something they each agreed held no interest for them.

The sound of others getting to their feet brought her back to the moment as the organ struck up again for the first hymn. Another favourite of his -- and hers too. She smiled as she opened the right page and a gleaming finger of bright yellow light from the stained glass illuminated the first verse.

100TWC - Day 43: Nature's Fury

This dream stretched back to the dawn of the nuclear age, when man first conceived of how the universe might be put together, concocted experiments to prove those conceptions and created engines to exploit those concoctions.

They were right, those early scientists. Everything that had happened since only served to prove them more right. To refine their models, certainly. To uncover new wonders. But never to countermand that early genius. That incredible leap of imagination that had envisaged the ultimately minuscule in all its glory and complexity.

What had once been a dream was now an incredible reality. Quite literally incredible it would have seemed to anyone from that past who could be given a glimpse of the impossible future. The technological splendours upon which the world had come to rely. And yet, splendid as they all were, the technological runway was about to run out. The dream turn to nightmare. Without this one final step, this culmination of the dream of centuries, mankind was surely doomed. For their appetite for power remained undimmed. Gorging like a starving gluttonous gourmand, they sucked power from the grid as fast as current technology could generate it. Faster, in some cases, whereupon the fragile contrivance that supplied their power would grumble and groan, spark and fizzle and, yes, die. And natural night would fall at last upon hitherto unnaturally effulgent cities.

Fossil fuels all but exhausted, nuclear reactors strictly curtailed by pan-governmental edicts, and the promise of "renewable" energy a spent force that had consumed fully one half of all the world's rare elements and yet produced barely ten percent of its needs, this dream, this one final step, was all that remained of the hope of humanity.

Fusion.

Many still scoffed at the idea that puny man could hope to harness the sun's fury. Those with long memories cited the many examples of cold fusion scams that blighted the pages of even the most well-respected scientific journals. Remnants of once-mighty generating companies and their lobbyists even now still tried to pour scorn and opprobrium on those who led the field. Every bit as much the geniuses as those who first studied the wonders of atoms and discovered how they were constructed. Three people led the field, and of those only one, the one who stood now on the brink of the most radical paradigm shift in the history of history, had had any experimental success.

Small scale, it was true. Yet every nuance and wrinkle of Shami Patel's models held up to the closest scrutiny and the most rigorous and lengthy testing. Three times Patel had built larger test rigs; three times all lights had come up green. His most recent experiments generated enough power to run his entire laboratory. More than enough evidence to commit to the final step. This final step. He and his team had scaled the model up to full production capacity and he stood now with his hand resting beside the main breaker. An insignificant toggle switch that, in an homage to every disaster and science fiction movie ever made, had been mounted on a red bezel and hidden behind a plexiglass cover.

Once again, as before, all Shami's lights were green. Video cameras, digital cameras, mobile phones and webcams were all focussed on him. The army of scientists, investors and journalists held their collective breath while they waited for Shami to throw that switch. He gazed unseeing at the console, his concentration bent inwards, reviewing the road that had led him to this moment. Exploring for the hundredth time all the avenues and dead-ends, the untaken turns, the alternative directions. Convincing himself that this was the right course. The only course. The path to the future when every other path had none.

He gave a small shrug and a beatific smile crept onto his face as he reached for the switch.

100TWC - Day 42: Start

Tani stood in the clearing, her heart pounding as if she had run a sprint race. Another sprint race, she corrected herself. It was, after all, running such races that had put her in this place, at this time. A bead of sweat trickled down her face. She dashed it away with her free hand.

Promecyon -- the alpha sun -- was setting. In another few minutes the only light remaining would be from the beta sun Anubethon, a million times dimmer. A light that barely served to see by. Just this side of total darkness. It was the light that, by countless years of tradition, illuminated The Hunt.

She took small comfort that only the best were chosen. The Hunters meant "the best sport." Those who would prolong the chase and give the most thrills. Take unexpected chances, death-defying risks, maybe even escape capture altogether. It was fabled that there had been one such. A man, in that case. Riki. His name etched in the minds of all who were chosen for The Hunt. One man. One among the thousands who had tried, and failed.

But Tani had a few tricks up her sleeve. In the days leading up to the contest she had spoken to no-one, trusted no-one with her ideas. Instead, she had concentrated on her training. Mind and body she exercised, so that both would work together in total harmony. She knew that, when it came to the moment when her fate would be decided, she might only have seconds. Fractions of seconds in which to decide on a course and execute it. She needed to be at the top of her game, and she was.

So for now, in the last few minutes of alpha light, she breathed deep and tried to calm her racing heart. She rubbed at her tethered hand. The mechocuff chafed, even though she knew better than to tug at it. The post to which it was fastened had been sunk five metres deep into the bedrock and was made of puranium steel. It was said that it would survive a neutron blast. Tani focused her thoughts on her chosen exit from the clearing. She did not look towards it, or even deliberately away from it. She didn't want to give away the slightest clue to her intentions as the seconds counted down to her Start.

Once the cuff released she would have half an hour's lead on the Pack. And another fifteen minutes before the Hunt proper left the enclosure. She discounted those last fifteen minutes. Not much of a bonus when you were faced with being tracked by the Pack. GM wolves with enhanced sight and smell, and legs whose length and musculature had been bred to give them frightening speed over clear ground. Tani did not intend to give them the advantage of any clear ground. Where she planned to flee, the Pack would be hard pushed to follow.

Promecyon edged closer to the horizon. In the surrounding forest the night creatures stirred. One more danger for Tani to factor in to her escape. At best, a few of them could be said to be benign. Even these could give the unwary a nasty nip, although they would only retaliate if attacked first. In the worst cases even that small nip could be fatal, as many of the smaller creatures carried napa glands. The deadly poison tipped the arrows, spears and hand blades of the Hunt. But it was the true predators that held the greatest danger. At least, that which lay ahead of her. Behind her the Hunt had determination, weapons, intellect and intent. Ahead of her, the forest presented an almost equivalent menace. Animal blood lust, strength, instinct and blisteringly fast reaction times. And hunger. On this world the predators outnumbered the prey and consequently lived in a perpetual state of attack, always searching for their next meal.

As if these did not present enough of a threat, Tani faced vegetable foes too. Over millennia the forest had evolved its own defences to the animal life that tried to make a living within it. She was well schooled in the almost endless list of vines, shrubs, leaves and spines that she would have to avoid if she were to match Riki and survive the Hunt.

Unremarked by the animal and vegetable threats surrounding her, the forest canopy extinguished the last fingers of light from Promecyon. With a soundless click the mechocuff unlocked and fell away from her wrist. The Hunt was on!

[this story is continued in "Heart Song" later in the writing challenge]

100TWC - Day 41: Fork in the Road

Jason wandered along the forest path. It was a hot afternoon, and his June holiday was ending with the month. He stared at the sun through screwed-up eyes, his squint distorting its edges into horn-like flares. He had decided to take one final walk to the beach before heading home. Not for any special reason or sentiment, but just because.

He shielded his eyes with his hand, noticing something glinting on the path in front of him. A single bright point of scintillation. Curious, he walked over to it and bent down. It was a fork, its polished steel bouncing the strong sun in all directions. A few metres away, closer to the side of the road, lay a plate. He stood up, and walked over to the plate.

It lay at the entrance to a path he had not noticed before. Heavily overgrown so that it was almost invisible beneath the foliage, the path headed off into the woods. Jason had originally intended to keep to the main road on his walk to the beach, but this strange, deserted path intrigued him. He took it.

On entering the first crop of trees, Jason could see there was a clearing ahead. He heard voices. He had been holidaying here for two weeks - how had he not discovered this place sooner?

He entered the clearing, and realised immediately it was a picnic area. To one side stood a man in front of a cooker. Jason was surprised to see it was a bottled gas cooker, right here in the open space. The man stood watching a pan of water that stood on the largest burner.

Several picnic tables were arranged around the clearing, some occupied by holidaymakers. One man, a worried expression on his face, sat in front of a plate piled high with traditional picnic food, scratching his head. He glanced around the clearing at the other people there, as if searching for something. On the other side of the table, in complete contrast to the first man, a second man had less than half of a sandwich remaining. He had taken only a single bite, but his face was distorted in pain and sweat stood out on his brow.

Over on the other side of the clearing one of the picnicker's dogs had been chasing a cat. It stood at the foot of a tree, barking excitedly. The cat stared down at it disdainfully from a tree a metre to the left.

From his right came the sound of a loudly revving truck engine. Jason walked over and saw that the picnic area car park was in a hollow and had been reinforced with stone walls. Someone in a massive 4x4 had clearly taken a wrong turning and ended up sliding down the bank. The vehicle had come to a standstill with its front wheels wedged against the wall. Inside the cabin, the man and his wife were clearly visible, arguing heatedly, while the man continued to try to move the truck despite its precarious position. The front wheels spun against the stone, sending up clouds of toxic smoke.

Jason turned back to the clearing, taking in more of the scene. At another table a family of four were laying out their snacks. Their young son had stolen a bar of chocolate from his younger sister, who lay in her basket and didn't seem to mind. Meanwhile the father had filled a long ancient meerschaum and was trying to light it. Unremarked by the rest of the family, a third child took aim with his catapult at a bird sitting high in the same tree as the cat Jason had noticed earlier. The boy let go with his stone and the bird fell dead into the clearing, shortly followed by another which had been sitting unnoticed behind it on the same branch.

Jason had seen enough of the strange picnic stop. Checking all the paths, he selected one and walked towards it, passing a bed of roses. The air was heavy with their scent but Jason did not stop. He looked back at the clearing. The man's pot still had not begun to boil, but he could not hang around any longer. He turned, blinking against the brightness of the sun, and the picnic clearing was gone.

The afternoon heat seemed to intensify as he walked, but it didn't worry him. The only thing making him really uncomfortable was the strong green smell of the forest, and the moisture being released by all that greenery. The air was full of it.

Before long the beach came in sight below him. He had chosen the cliff path. On the beach he could see a child with a stick, drawing in the sand while his father busied himself setting out a large pile of deckchairs. As Jason watched the man seemed dissatisfied with the arrangement of the chairs and was trying to set them out in a different pattern. On the other side of the path a stream ran slowly down to the sea. Although slow moving, the water was very clear and Jason could see the bottom of the stream many metres below. The stream divided into several different rivulets, but all the channels joined together again before they reached the bridge towards which Jason was walking.

On the other side of the bridge the grassy bank shone in the afternoon sun, a deeper green compared to the sparse couch grass on Jason's side. Before he reached the bridge Jason noticed a tunnel, set strangely high on the hillside.

The path in front of him continued straight, inclining slightly downward to the beach. But to his right, another path snaked up the side of the hill in the direction of the tunnel. Thinking of all that had happened to him that afternoon, Jason had to know. He took the right-hand path, and climbed slowly and breathlessly up towards the tunnel. After a few hundred metres the path passed a small chapel. Through the open door came the sonorous tones of the minister giving a sermon. Jason poked his head around the door inquisitively. The chapel was deserted except for a few choirboys who sat with bored expressions listening to the sermon.

The route up the hillside was hard and rocky, but Jason persisted, determined to see for himself what lay at the top. At length the path fetched up at the side of the track, immediately before the entrance to the tunnel. Placing one hand on the cut stone arch, Jason peered along the length of the tunnel. Through the blackness, a very long way down the track, there was a light.

100TWC - Day 40: Knowing How

"I'm not sure I can figure out this assembly. Do you know how?"

"Sure."

"Great. Can you show me?"

"Show you what?"

"I thought you said you know how?"

"I do."

"So show me."

"Show you how?"

"Yeah."

"He won't be here until later."

"Who?"

"No, How."

"What?"

"No! Make your mind up. I thought you wanted me to show you How."

"I do."

"Well then, you'll have to wait until he arrives."

"Who?"

"No! How! Hu's not coming!"

"I don't know. I don't know who's coming."

"Well he isn't."

"Who?"

"Yes." 

"Who's not coming?"

"That's right."

"No! Who! Who's not coming?"

"I know. No need to keep repeating yourself. It was me told you!"

"When?"

"No, he's not coming either. What is it with you and the Chinese?"

"What?"

"Look. It's quite simple. Hu's not coming. Wen is not coming. And neither is Watt. How could he be coming? He's dead."

"How?"

"No! Watt!"

"No, I meant 'how did he die'?"

"Who?"

"Watt."

"I don't know! Google it!"

"I don't know how."

"Well I'll introduce you when he gets here."

"Who?"

"For pity's sake I already told you Hu's not coming."

"No you didn't."

"Yes. I did."

"When?"

"That's right. Wen and Hu. And Watt."

"What?"

"Yes."

"What's not coming?"

"Yes."

"WHAT?"

"Yes! Don't sound so surprised! He's been dead for centuries!"

"Who?"

"NO! WATT! Anyway, look. It doesn't matter. Here's How."

"Finally! You could have just showed me when I asked you."

"Hi How."

"Hi guys. What's going down?"

"He can't. Apparently he's dead."

"Who?"

"No, Watt."

"You guys are weird. So, where are we going?"

"Are we? When did we decide that?"
"What?"

"That we were going to Ware."

"Where?"

"Yes."

"We didn't decide."

"You just said we did."

"Who did?"

"No he didn't! He's too busy leading China!"

"What?"

"He's dead!"

"Who?"

"No, Watt."

"When?"

"No, he's leading China too. With Hu."

"Who?"

"That's right."

"Where?"

"OK. If you insist. But we'll have to get the bus."

"To where?"

"Exactly. Too far to walk."

A story of two friends, a guy called Howard (known only to one of them), the Chinese leader Hu (Jintao), the 6th Chinese Premier Wen (Jiabao), Watt (the engineer) and Ware (a town in Yorkshire). Inspired by Jim Sherman's short skit written after Hu was elected, which is enacted here. You might guess I ran out of steam after a lot less than 30 minutes this time ;0)

100TWC - Day 39: Out of Time

[this post is a continuation of the story begun in "Online" earlier in the writing challenge]

The scream of the train whistle was matched by a frantic scream from the woman.

"My God! It's coming! The train's coming!"

Niall continued to saw at the rope but he already knew it was not going to be any use. He never sharpened the blade -- never had any reason to follow the advice his father had given him on numerous occasions.

"Always keep your blade sharp, lad. You never know when you're going to need it most."

If Niall had been a praying man, he would have sent up a plea that he could have heeded his father sooner. Now, it was too late. He didn't have time to spare to whet the small blade, but neither did he have time not to.

"You'll never do it," the woman screamed, squirming and twisting against the rope. Her frantic movements served only to tighten the complex knots still further, the half-formed thought that he would be better employed seeking a solution to their conundrum dying in Niall's mind as she did so.

The whistle sounded again, frighteningly closer now. The train would emerge around the bend any moment. Still less than halfway through the rope, Niall stopped, spat on the track, and flashed the blade back and forth over the wetted steel. The soft metal took a slight edge. He prayed it would be enough. The first stroke sliced through several strands. Sweat trickled down Niall's face as he bent again to his task with grim determination.

"Yes! Yes, that's it," the woman yelled in his ear, encouraged by the sudden progress. "Please hurry! You can do it!"

But the knife had already lost its new keenness, each thin nylon strand deceptively resistant to its increasingly dull passage. The track began to thrum under Niall's knees as the train neared.

"Sharpen it again!" screamed the woman, fractionally later than Niall's identical thought. He spat again, stropped again, cut again. The train came around the corner, lights already burning in readiness for the tunnel on the other side of the station. Only seconds remained. Niall's arm ached with the effort, his hands were beginning to cramp. He pressed harder against the rope, cleaving strand after strand, but even though less than a quarter of the thickness remained the man-made fibres, designed to bear triple or quadruple the weight of a falling climber, held fast.

The woman's shoulders slumped as the train bore rapidly down on them.

"It's too late!" she cried. "Leave me! Save yourself!"

Niall knew absolutely that she was right, yet he could not leave her. Scant seconds remained. Logic bellowed through his mind that even if he managed to sever the rope he still had to unravel it and lift the woman clear. He needed minutes, and had only seconds. A fat blister burst on his finger and the knife, slippery with his serum, slipped from his hand. It was over.

"I'm sorry," Niall murmured, knowing she would never have heard him over the roar of the train. He jumped back, eyes closed, rolling across the gravel bed of the track. With a grinding clatter the train shot past, drowning the woman's screams in a welter of mechanical pandemonium.

Silence. Not even bees disturbed it. Niall lay on his back, winded. He was bruised, shaken, but otherwise unhurt. He definitely did not want to open his eyes.

"Uh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh-huh-huh."

The sound of gentle sobbing surprised him into a glance at the track, where he had expected to see the gory result of the train's passage. The woman lay, unharmed, in exactly the same place as before, her head cradled in her hands as she cried. Niall stared at the second track and rubbed unconsciously at his broken blister.

100TWC - Day 38: Burning

Sheelagh was subconsciously aware something was wrong even before she awoke. She had been dreaming about petrol. About filling her car and the nozzle coming off the hose and splashing the thin pungent liquor all over her clothes and face. The boundary between dreams and reality blurred as she woke up, because the air in her bedroom was redolent with the heavy, intoxicating smell of the petrol from her nightmare.

A loud "whooomp" from outside her door brought her fully awake. Shadows danced through the crack of the half-open door.

"Bernie! Bernie!" she nudged her snoring husband. "Wake up! Somet'ing's wrong!"
"Mmm? Whassat?"

Sheelagh threw off the covers and ran to the door. The sound of crackling, faint at first but swelling quickly, echoed through their sparsely-furnished hallway. And the smell. Woodsmoke. Its first tentative tendrils already creeping up the stairs, looking for airways to choke. Sheelagh slammed the door shut, grabbed the top sheet from her bed and ran to the sink in the next room.

"Get up Bernie for God's sake! We'll be burned alive!"

Their danger slowly filtering through his torpor by a combination of Sheelagh's voice and the cold from lack of a sheet, Bernie sat up in bed.

"What you? What the hell is going on?"
"There's fire in the hall," Sheelagh shouted from their bathroom as she plunged the sheet into cold water. "Don't open the door."

Bernie started towards the door but Sheelagh shoved him roughly aside, plugging the gap between door and floor with the sodden sheet. She rounded on her husband.

"Will you wake up properly yer feckless eejit? Help me tie these sheets together." She was already retrieving spare sheets from the divan drawer when the smoke alarm went off.

MEEPMEEPMEEPMEEPMEEPMEEPMEEP

The loudness of the staccato siren finally penetrated Bernie's consciousness. He grabbed two sheets from Sheelagh and began tying them together. Sheelagh ran to the window. Opened it. A chill November gust blew in. The sudden influx of fresh oxygen elicited a roar from the landing beyond the bedroom door as the fire greedily sucked new fuel, climbing the stairs at a lick. An ominous orange glow shone around the cracks of the doorframe, encircling the door in a fiery halo.

"Hurry Bernie!"

Her husband tied one end of the sheet rope to the radiator pipe while Sheelagh flung the rest through the opened window. She peered out into the dark. The streetlights were out at this time of night and there was no moon, but the garden below was illuminated redly by the flickering light of the blaze in their hall. It had already crept into the living room and begun consuming the sofa. Acrid chemical smoke billowed out of a crack in the window immediately below her, stinging her eyes.

"Come on!" she cried, "It's in the lounge already -- we've no time!"

She grabbed hold of the sheet rope and swung her legs over the sill. The last sheet flapped dangerously far from the ground but she had used all they had. She knew she'd have to jump the last few feet. Swallowing her fear she slipped off the sill, gripping the sheet as tightly as she could, and held her breath against the clouds of smoke from the window below.

100TWC - Day 37: Mist

Opaqued into whiteness by condensation, the ranks of greenhouse roofs stretched for miles across the unrelieved flatness of the old alluvial plane, like teeth in the widened maw of a colossal beast. Occasionally a pane would open or close fractionally at the impulse of some hidden temperature or humidity sensor, but that apart nothing disturbed the stillness of the scene.

No birds flapped. No rodents dug. No beetles scurried. There were no trees or bushes to react to any breath of wind. The only sound was the creaking of horticultural glass as it stretched and groaned under the midday sun, fiercely bright in the cloudless sky.

Beneath the glass, all was not still. Not always. The interior of the glasshouse, partitioned into areas the size of midwestern cornfields from a distant age, occasionally resounded to mechanical activity. In some partitions, automated diggers churned the soil, adding white powder to the deep brown dirt and leaving the surface finely milled. The diggers were followed closely by wheeled hoppers, clicking quietly as they dispensed seeds one at a time into the depressions left by the diggers. As first the diggers and then the hoppers garaged themselves inside the partitions, a gentle rain fell from sprinklers set on the glazing bars high above.

The scene in other partitions -- those behind the one in which the automated agricultural machinery had been busy -- was not so idyllically sylvan. It more closely resembled the aftermath of apocalypse. The ground, devoid of any distinguishing marks, steamed evilly. Faint patches of grey slime puddled into slight pockets in the soil, or ran in small odorous rivulets to join others on their way to the pools. The air in these partitions reeked. The glass had lost its whitened condensate in favour of grey, casting a depressing pall over the space.

But beyond the machines, and beyond the destruction, colour and ripeness could be found. Acre upon acre of burgeoning vegetables, filling the air with the scents of mellow maturity. In the nearest of these, any opened lights were slowly closing. All of them. Once the last few had clicked shut an enormous motor kicked into life and the myriad clear irrigation pipes were filled with a pale blue liquid from a single vast tank, stamped in letters a metre tall with a capitalised word in a similar pale blue: MIST.

And the mist fell. Finer than the germinating rain in the planted sections, the tiny droplets of iridescence were hardly large enough to fall, yet fall they did. Slowly. And at the first touch of shining blue on their ripe perfection, the vegetables began to dissolve. Tomatoes bubbled and popped. Courgettes dripped. Peas and beans slipped from their stems. Within the space of a few minutes the entire section was reduced to a flood of reeking grey slime. From a central partition, huge mobile tanks emerged, sucking up the juice. They too were marked MIST but now, below the blue heading in smaller, black letters, another legend could be seen: Macerating Interspersal Spray Technology.

100TWC - Day 36: Dreamer

He was running. From what, or where to, he wasn't quite sure. One thing he was sure of though. Whatever it was was gaining on him. And it was a monster. Two things he was sure of. He couldn't decide which of them was more terrifying.

The landscape was unfamiliar. At first he thought he recognised it. The woods behind his childhood home, where once there was nothing more terrifying that a rook unexpectedly taking wing beyond the dappled green of the sap-steeped hollows he used to frequent as a boy. Vincent N'tanga didn't have a lot of friends. He had learned very early in life how to amuse himself. How to avoid the taunts of the neighbourhood children. Avoid their eyes, even, lest he give unintended offence for some unrecognised wrongdoing. But the paths through this wood were not the ones in his wood and, as he ran, his surroundings changed unusually quickly.

He ran around a corner straight into his kitchen. His mother was standing at the sink, peeling onions. Tears rolled down her face. He called out to her.

"Mother."

She turned, blinded by her tears, brandishing the knife.

"Who's there?"
"It's me, Vince."
"It can't be Vince. He never comes home before tea time."

She lunged at him with the peeler and Vince dodged through the kitchen and into the hall. Only it wasn't the hall. Where the hall had been was now an enormous, white, featureless room with a marble floor. From the door behind him came the roar of the monster, still gaining on him, its bellow echoing around the marble room as if it were coming toward him from all directions. He turned, trying to get back into the relative safety of the kitchen, but the door had slammed shut behind him and there was no handle on this side.

"Vince, this way!" called a low voice.

He spun around again, trying to locate the voice among the echoes.

"Over here!"

He could not make out the direction the voice was coming from. It came again, this time from right behind his ear.

"Come on! Hurry!"

A girl stood a few yards away along the same wall as the kitchen door. At first glance he thought it was his sister Toya, but as he looked closer he saw this girl was taller, older, and had longer hair. He stared once more at the kitchen door. It had begun to smoulder.

He turned back towards the girl, tripped over his feet and fell headlong into cold, fast-flowing water. He struggled to get a breath as the current bore him along. From the bank a branch overhung the river. It was covered in grubs, but offered the only available hand-hold. He reached for it, crushing several bugs into slimy brown mush as he pulled himself from the water. The slime began to eat away at his hand and in the space of a few seconds had exposed the bones of his fingers.

Without realising he was arriving at a conclusion, the explanation for the strange and rapid changes of terrain and the appearance and disappearance of people both known and unknown dawned on him. He was dreaming.

But if that were true, he should be able to wake up. He didn't remember exactly how old he was when he discovered that it was possible to become aware inside a dream. To control the dream, if you were careful. Or end it, if you weren't, or if it was the kind of dream you didn't want to prolong. It was a long time ago, that was for sure, and in the intervening years he had become quite adept at it. He stopped running, and forced his consciousness up through the levels of dreaming, like swimming up from the bottom of the pool where he had been holding his breath, trying to frighten Toya. He pushed, and pushed, and... opened his eyes.

He was still standing on the bank of the river, and nothing remained of his hand but bones. He began to scream.

"Mum!"

His hand fell into the river.

"MUM!"

From behind Vince's closed eyelid, a single tear emerged. It began to roll down his cheek before freezing, leaving a shining icy path behind it. Beyond his cryochamber, Professor David Redhead and Doctor Peter Barton were recording their outputs and observations in their logs. Barton's attention was caught by the reflection from Vince's crystalline lachrymation.

"Is that... a tear? David?"
"Autonomic response probably. There may be some irritation of his corneas."
"You're sure he can't be dreaming?"
"Not a chance. There's not enough brain function to sustain a dream at these temperatures. We have to make sure of that. A five-year-long dream would send anyone mad."

100TWC - Day 35: Forgotten

The memories of those warm summer days were all that was left to it now. Day trips to the river with the man and his son. Sunlight flashing and sparkling on the slow-moving water. Early morning mist and the distant muted sound of weekend traffic on the bridge, making its way into the city. Back then the phrase "retail therapy" hadn't been invented, but that's what they would call it now.

It felt useful, on those days. The man's work-roughened hands were warm and strong as he fitted it into place. Into its well-worn groove. It liked that. Being in the groove. It sounded modern. Which for an antique piece was an exciting thing. Slotting into the groove had been part of its experience for countless years. It had belonged to the man's father. And before that, to his father. During those most recently remembered summer mornings by the river, there was no hint that the family tradition wouldn't be continued with the son. The boy who accompanied them on these frequent trips to the water's edge and sat disconsolately munching on a chocolate bar to keep him from fidgeting and disturbing the prey.

On such working days, there would be time to think. Out in the fresh air, tainted with the damp green smell of the river, the faint oily scent of the traffic fumes from the bridge, there were long periods of inactivity. Of gentle contemplation and relaxation. Occasionally there would be conversation between the man and his son. Quiet words, so as not to scare off the timid prey, but deep too. The kind of subject matter that a father would share with his son. The wisdom of ages. The reminiscences. The juvenile, innocent questions. A bonding experience it felt privileged to be a part of, even if only a supporting role.

Then, on good days, there would occasionally be a burst of excited activity when the prey took the bait and its full abilities would be tested to their limits as the battle raged, sometimes short, others long, until the prey was secured and the bait cast out again.

Distant memories, long gone. Now it occupied a lonely corner of a window sill in the old shed. The sill too high to catch sight of anything outside. Gardening activities had stopped soon after the outings to the river, and the shed was rarely opened up any more. Whole seasons, entire years went by with no visitors except the woodworm that rasped at its dull mahogany surface and the spiders who covered it in gossamer.

Soon, even the spiders left. Died out through lack of food in the closed-up shed, or left to seek their fortunes in more well-stocked larders. Their ancient cobwebs slowly gathered dust, hiding it further from sight, and from memory, one mote at a time. Its handsome varnish had long been worn away by the hands of erstwhile owners, and the exposed woodwork decayed gradually under the influence of the damp air of the shed. Brass ferrules and chasings had long lost their shine and become tarnished and pitted.

The shed door opened. A remembered voice disturbed its reverie.

"God. All this too."
"Ugh! I can't go in there. Too spidery. What's that round thing on the sill?"
"What, this?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, wow! My Dad's old reel! Haven't seen this for years."

100TWC - Day 34: Shades of Grey

How many shades of grey do you think there are? I'm guessing that, unless you've been entirely out of touch with the zeitgeist over the last few months, the first and possibly only answer that's popped into your head is: 50.

I haven't read it. I don't intend to read it. Not my kind of thing at all. But I have read reviews of it, and while I'm the first to admit that one should never judge anything solely on the basis of reviews of that thing, the reviews I've read of 50 Shades of Grey have been universally condemnatory. Sometimes exceedingly eloquently so. And other times side-splittingly amusingly so.

So, armed with my Shield of Smug, I will continue to protect myself from being sullied by any and all exposure to the actual text of the document in question. Unfortunately my shield is of little use against other works of similar "quality," many of which regularly crop up as book club choices. I can't remember how old I was when I began to think, while reading, "God. I could write better than this," but I was almost certainly still in short trousers.

In the intervening (*counts on fingers*) 46 years, things haven't got much better. Of course, I've read some good stuff during those years. Many, many examples of excellent writing that have thrilled, captivated, engaged and transported me to their writers' worlds. But there's an almost equal number of appalling turkeys in the mix, and the question that comes back to me, time after time, is: how on Earth does this drivel ever get published?

As a writer myself (if you hadn't noticed) I'm all too painfully familiar with the concept of a publishing gatekeeper. Enough of them have slammed their blimmin' gates shut in my face over the years, so I should be. They have SUCH little time, and SO many submissions, and they can ONLY take on ONE new writer this year. So I'm sorry, your manuscript is not what we're looking for, or we're not actually looking for anything at all, or we're too busy with our existing client base, yadda yadda yadda.

So if all that's true, wouldn't you think that they would expend their oh-so-precious time and resources actually sifting out the nuggets from the endless piles of dross that fly across their desks every day? Is it just that they become so exposed to utter crap that when they eventually bother to read a piece that's just this side of crap, they think they've uncovered the next Virginia Woolf? A woeful lack of perspective brought on by living too close to worthless rubbish.

A little while ago I read an interesting bit of speculative insight into what might be going on. It debated the success of books that are really quite badly written, versus the opposite story, often told, of the well-written book that doesn't do well with sales. There's an example of this latter category in the side bar over there on your right. Cough. It's a common theme with self- or e-publishing that the gatekeeper I referred to above -- agents and traditional publishers, editors, etc -- has been removed from the process and hence (potentially) the floodgates have been opened to (yet more) half-arsed dross. But through all this, the interesting point of the article was that really successful books have a compelling story AND are well-written, but books will also generally do reasonably well if they have the former but not the latter.

That is to say, a poorly written book that has a compelling story will still be read. A well-written bore will not. This is an unpalatable truth for those of us writers who take utmost pride in the craft of writing. Grammar, spelling, punctuation, tone, vocabulary -- selecting EXACTLY the right word to replace the ALMOST right one -- this takes a lot of effort. It took me, for War of Nutrition, years. Literally. Although admittedly part-time. To the majority of readers? It doesn't matter. They absolutely do not care if I chose one word or the other. Whether I keep to the point-of-view rules or not.

Whether they can't tell the difference, or they don't notice, or they DO notice but they don't care because the story is SUCH a page-turner… I don't know. But even quite a few 1-star reviews complaining about grammar and spelling will not slow the sales of a book that also has a good smattering of 5-star reviews saying "I couldn't put it down." It's galling, and I would never lower my standards to get a book out faster based on that truth, but that doesn't make it any less of a truth.

In the case of 50 Shades of Grey, many many reviewers bemoan the awful English. The poor sentence structure and grammar. The parroting of hackneyed phrases. The bad word choice. But the sad fact is the subject matter had a popular launch point (as Twilight fan fic) and has an even more popular, naughty, faux shocking, main subject. And it sells by the million.

So have I told you how good my book is? It's got chases and set backs and world-wide sickness and a hero who... [spoiler deleted]. And it's got a bit of risqué sex. And some regular sex. And every single person who has read it has told me how much they enjoyed it, and what a page turner it is, and some of them have even gone into print on t'Interweb to say so. Publically. For which I'm sincerely grateful. But as of now, it's not selling millions. Unfortunately.

I live in hope.

100TWC - Day 33: Seeing Red

[ this is a companion piece to "Exploration" which immediate precedes it in the writing challenge - on Day 32 ]

Yevgeny Orlov stopped, unable to move, at the last rung. Twenty centimetres above the rust-red dust of the Martian surface, on the very brink of achieving his lifelong dream, Yevgeny froze. Inside his environment suit, a miracle of modern engineering designed to protect him from external extremes far beyond what he was likely to experience on Mars, a fan whirred into life, spurred to action by the suit's sensors which detected a considerable increase in humidity from the sweat which now stood out on Yevgeny's brow. The biomonitors reported his condition to the lander.

Doctor Singh's voice crackled into his ears. "Problem, Yev? Your stress levels just spiked like I have never seen."

He cleared his throat, which seemed to be reacting to the still-settling dust cloud the lander had thrown up, even though none of it could possibly have breached his seals.

"Give me moment," he managed. "This big event for me."
"For all of us, Orlov," Captain Hu broke in. "But Richards and Kowalski still need to get down here, so if you would be so kind as to get a move on, we can get on with our tasks."

He passed a gloved hand over his visor, wiping away the thin layer of dust that static had attracted, and looked out again at the dimly lit landscape. The sun, close to its zenith, shone pale and tiny in the ochre sky. Forcing his hands to unclamp themselves from the ladder, Yevgeny stepped at last onto his first new world.

He took a tentative step away from the lander, remembering to compensate for the less-than-half gravity compared with Earth that they had practised under during the months of training for this mission. Jan Kowalski appeared at the rim of the hatch above him.

"Look out below!" he yelled, launching himself out into the thin atmosphere, catching the ladder with one hand and sliding down it like a clown entering the ring. "Wheeee!" he shouted, causing Yevgeny to reach for his intercom volume adjuster. The engineer had no sense of occasion. He behaved like he'd just arrived on a day trip to the solar system's biggest playground.

Yevgeny turned his back on  Kowalski's childish antics and set off in the direction of Curiosity, which they had overflown during landing. He intended to retrieve the rover's data set before too much was overwritten, duplicating what their lander and the Red River still in orbit above them were already recording. If their last reports were accurate, there had been considerable seismic activity recently, completely at odds with everything they thought they knew about Mars' geology.

Captain Hu said something unintelligible. Yevgeny increased the gain on his intercom.

"Say again, Captain?"
"Don't waste too much time on your pet rover," Hu repeated. "We have a full schedule of tasks as it is, without wasting energy on an almost-dead probe."

Wasting energy? Didn't the man realise they wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the trailblazing, plucky little rover? The least Yevgeny could do was grab its data. By now he had emerged from the artificial dust cloud. He had a clearer view across the plain towards Mount Sharp, where the rover had completed its mission. Flicking controls on his arm console, he deployed the telephoto lenses mounted on his visor and panned the horizon.

After ten minutes scanning the entire crater wall in this quadrant, and checking back with Richards that this was definitely the direction from which they had made their final approach, Yevgeny had to admit: there was absolutely no sign of Curiosity.