The Line of the Day--NO CRITTING

She had been an easy one, a trusting person, too trusting for her own good. He met her at Collins Irish Pub, when she bought him a Guinness and sat next to him, which had taken him by surprise. It wasn’t his usual way of choosing his victims, but the urge had liked her, and so he let her take him home that night. It was a night she would come to regret.

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“And exactly what kind of bullshit did you hear?”

“That the U.S. was backing these guys and sending them weapons and supplies. Shit, I even heard there were spooks over here, helping to train the locals.”

“And you actually believed that shit? Kid, you don’t look stupid to me, but somebody fed you a load of crap and you swallowed it. You really think that the President is going to back these people, much less send CIA operatives over here to train these people? Shit son, we just got out of a fuck storm in Southeast Asia.”

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"You should sit here for an hour, but I know you won’t. If you promise me you’ll take crutches like a proper patient, I’ll let you out of here in thirty-five minutes.” When he opened his mouth, her eyes connected with his, pinning him down. “This is not a negotiation, Captain Foster. Take the deal, or I knock you out.”

He took it.

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After much toil, determination and good fortune, Kars Karsten found himself at twenty-eight years with far more money than happiness. In sensible order, he acquired a wife, a splendid manse on a bluff overlooking busy Celibam Bay, a flock of competent and outwardly polite servants, a gilded carriage drawn by four proud black geldings, luxurious clothing fit for nobility, two daughters and a son, and a large golden dog of ill temper but impeccable breeding. But though his money obligingly departed, happiness stubbornly stood aloof.

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One day, restlessly looking out from his splendid manse, Kars observed that the many white sails on the bay looked very fine, and he determined to acquire a boat of his own. In short order and long expense, he commissioned a vessel from an artist of passion, pedigree, and passing familiarity of nautical concepts. After a month, the delivered result was exquisite; a thing of grace and beauty that would make fine statuary perched upon a pedestal, but as a boat made a better bathtub. It leaked from the day Kars took possession until the day — one month later — when it foundered in calm water and sank beneath him, glimmering like a rare fish retreating to the gloaming depths.

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Undaunted but wetter and chastened, Kars set about to find a competent builder of boats. He spent two months learning how, and two more doing. He often heard an odd name, Amunashok Esklijeerah, spoken with something akin to awe. It was variously said that Esklijeerah’s boats were: perfect, simple but elegant, rare, crafted with amazing precision and care, costly, utterly reliable, nigh unsinkable, and gods-damn sturdy buggers that you up-on-the-hill soft grubbies aren’t worthy to be draped in heavy chain and tossed overboard to serve as the anchors of.

The latter opinion was from the grizzled owner of a small Esklijeerah boat; a fisherman, who hawked and spat into the greasy water of the bay after voicing it. But he was achingly proud of his boat, and Kars was canny enough to ignore the salt and flatter the boat, such that the old man relented and allowed Kars aboard for inspection.

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“No, no, no,” Kars growled, “Is it really cannot, or is it will not?”

“They are the same,” said the little man, “I will not, so cannot.”

For half an hour, Kars tried reasoning, cajoling, flattering, blustering, bribing, and finally — from sheer frustration — drawing his sword and threatening. At this, the little man knelt at Kars’ feet, neck bent for a killing stroke, and commenced to calm prayer.

Nonplussed, Kars dropped his sword and lifted the man to his feet. “Come, sir, I’m no barbarian!”

He glared at the boat maker, who stared back unfazed. At last Kars asked, “Will you not at least say why?”

Esklijeerah agreed, but — since he was likewise no barbarian — first prepared tea. When it lay steaming in porcelain bowls, he began.

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I was fortunate [said Amunashok Esklijeerah] to be born in mighty Dalosh, the capital city of the great southern empire of Ansoor. You will not have heard of it, for it is beyond the waist of the world, and is little interested in what lies elsewhere. There I learned my first trade and love, the making of hats.

Now, I must pause to explain. When you hear hat, you think of a simple thing to ward sun or rain, or keep ears attached to heads in this foul climate. When I say hat, I am wishing for a word your tongue lacks. Crown would better serve, save that here only royalty wear them.

In Ansoor, there are birds whose men grow feathers of extraordinary color and length, applied in ornate displays to attract their women, and to jostle for place amongst their peers.

In Ansoor, it is like this for all people, and hats.

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Introversion said:

Uh oh. You mean I'm supposed to be posting stuff that actually fits? Well, that counts me out.

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kkbe said:

I've been working on stuff that isn't quite fitting this thread, but I just spent a half hour reading through. . . You guys are posting some really good things here. I miss this thread.

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“You’re going to remember this day, Mr. Bee.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You will, though. Know why?”
I dragged my eyes open and glanced over. “Your head bonk?”
He smiled at that. “No.”
“My meltdown?”
“Nope.”
“Why, then?”
“Because,” he said, “this is the day somebody believed in you when you couldn’t believe in yourself.”
Totally, completely unexpected.
I stared at Steve, slack-jawed.
“How come you’re looking at me like that right now?”
“You’re not real,” I said. “I think you’re an angel. Like what’s-his-name in The Bishop’s Wife.”
“What?”
“Oh fuck, Steve. Never mind.”

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“Every day, Haunte brings the midday meal,” said Esklijeerah. “Eshperole, a local favorite. Would you share it with us?” He lifted the pot lid for Kars, who leaned in to inhale rising steam. A mistake — a sneeze erupted, nearly followed by breakfast.

“It smells… interesting,” he offered, delicately.

“It smells like a dead donkey’s anus,” corrected Esklijeerah. “Lye-rotted fish in vinegar and onions. Fortunately, I am blessed with apprentices, who have never met a culinary abomination which criminal quantities of pepper could not hammer down their insatiable craws.”

“We can hear you!” sang out a voice from the bowels of a partial hull.

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“Every day, Haunte brings the midday meal,” said Esklijeerah. “Eshperole, a local favorite. Would you share it with us?” He lifted the pot lid for Kars, who leaned in to inhale rising steam. A mistake — a sneeze erupted, nearly followed by breakfast.

“It smells… interesting,” he offered, delicately.

“It smells like a dead donkey’s anus,” corrected Esklijeerah. “Lye-rotted fish in vinegar and onions. Fortunately, I am blessed with apprentices, who have never met a culinary abomination which criminal quantities of pepper could not hammer down their insatiable craws.”

“We can hear you!” sang out a voice from the bowels of a partial hull.

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kkbe said:

Intro, I like that. But now I'm wondering if actual research was involved. . .

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smoothopr8r said:

Yeah, you do know that whole "write what you know" mantra is not to be taken literally, don't you, Intro?

Great lines. Here, (offers Rolaid) ...

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“The silver anniversary of my coronation is three months hence. For this, I require a hat twice as tall as your tallest. The face will be cloth-of-gold, with inset precious gems, using metal and stones provided by the royal treasury. Beyond this requirement, you have the freedom to impress me. I place no restrictions on the quantity of servants needed to guide the hat.”

She smiled tightly. “Have I the right man?”

The room held its breath.

Thirty-two spans? The tallest building in Dalosh might be forty spans high. This was utter madness, but… Her majesty’s satisfaction would elevate my shop to a rarified status, while her disappointment could ruin me. I felt I could hardly refuse.

This is never true. One always has choices. Each has consequences.

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Leonard wanted his last day to be special, so he got up early, tossed a giant bag of Cheetos, a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew Code Red, and a loaded pistol into a backpack and hiked all the way to Carver’s Knob.

The city was quiet, streets mostly empty, but he still walked fast, with his head down and shoulders hunched until he reached the Knob. It wasn’t that he hated people, just the assholes; not all the rest of them. He was born with a broken asshole detector, which really sucked. Just for once, it’d be nice to know who the assholes were before a fist or boot told him.

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The Knob wasn’t much. Scrub, weeds, gravel and dirt mixed with cigarette butts and crumpled beer cans and empty potato chip bags, and these weird-ass trees with tiny leaves and thorns everywhere that hurt like hell if you weren’t careful and got tangled up. But it wasn’t the city, and that was good enough. If he went on a morning, he usually got the Knob to himself. Leonard didn’t stay on the Knob when it wasn’t empty, because assholes.

There was a big rock up at the top that Leonard liked. It was wide and flat, and just the right height so you could sit on the edge like it was a chair, or lie back like it wasn’t. He didn’t know what kind of rock it was, but it was grey with sparkly white veins, and there were these flat grey-greenish things growing all over it, like doilies or something — that was cool. Sometimes there was a bird in a hurty tree. He’d sit or lie back, feel the rough grit of the rock and its plant doilies, listen to the bird and the wind, and the cartoon sounds of far-off cars.

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