writing

The First Appointment

fiction, scene, writing

The doctor asked for Neil’s medical history, took a blood sample, and palpated his back, running cold fingers over what they called his “condition”. The Condition extended two sinuous tentacles and swatted the doctor’s hands until he learned to respect its personal space.

“Interesting,” said the doctor, and rubbed the backs of his smarting hands. “Very interesting. I don’t suppose this runs in your family, does it?”

“No,” said Neil. “No it doesn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” replied the doctor. “That’s not very helpful, is it?” He shook his head and sighed. “The test results will be in within two weeks. We might know what to do by then.”

“I stopped smoking, you know,” Neil said, his voice taking an involuntary rise in pitch. “Eat my greens. Walk every day.”

“That’s good of you,” said the doctor.

Neil tried to keep his voice steady when he asked if the doctor thought his condition was malignant.

“It is unclear at this point,” said the doctor. “But I would characterize it as irritable. Perhaps a bit surly.”

Neil’s head fell into his hands. He didn’t look up from his feet until he got home.

Neil

fiction, scene, writing

This is Neil Vernon Parr.

Don’t mind him. Most don’t. He prefers it that way.

He’s fond of large, heavy books heady as a cup of strong black coffee, books with an air of importance about them, an air of age and an aura of dust particles that glint in the evening lamplight as he settles down to read after a long day at work.
It’s just as well he likes the look of drifting dust – he’s been lax on the finer touches of cleaning of late.

It’s been a rough week.

Neil’s Bookshelf

experiment, fiction, scene, writing

He thumbs through books he’s read a dozen times…

There aren’t many books on his shelf; once he’s done reading, he only keeps the ones with parts that stick in his head and give him the impression he’d be worse off forgetting. He’s fond of old, heavy books based in history and off-the-wall speculations on what most would consider pseudo-history.

A Collection of Twelfth Century Vrellenie Poems (translated by Stanley Fish)

The Maiden Voyage of the Amalthea (and the curious events that followed) by Verosa Ribbons

The Ruins of Alkhaven Roads

The Dictionary

The Amphigorvian Railway

There are others.

There is also a noisy metal box of the sort used to hold paper and coin currency, with a little locking latch. The box sits on the bottom shelf, pressed against the left hand side of the bookshelf. The sticker on top, peeled from the front of a cigarette packet, reads

          Serial’s
Tobacco and Prose.

It matches the label of the little box perched atop the bookshelf. A single pale cigarette peeks out of the opened top.

The Ruins of Alkhaven Roads

fiction, in-world, writing

A nifty compilation of journalistic and folkloric articles regarding the ancient roads and paths that are said to stem from Alkhaven, and the dead ends they lead to.

Neil is aware that the reason the roads lead to so many dead ends is that the smallest villages never paved their own roads, and often laid few foundations, so when populations shifted towards the larger cities and towns, and these settlements emptied of people, they left little trace behind but for the end of an old road and a few stone walls.

This does not stop the skeletal villages from being some of the creepiest places Neil has ever been. Common sense dictates that they are haunted, much as he’d never admit it.

The Green Grocer’s

class portfolio, experiment, fiction, scene, writing

At the grocer’s, Neil tries to remember which sort of fruit is meant to elevate his endorphin receptors. He’s uncertain of what that means, but the language of the doctor’s office has taken root in his brain. He’s drawn to the familiar tart green apples, but knows it’ll take something more exotic to trick him into feeling better. He palpates a large pink fruit, fat and shiny.

It twitches and emits a cloud of spicy spores. He drops it back into the basket, where it wheezes out another peppery puff of spores and deflates somewhat. Neil sneezes into his elbow. Decides to let it go.

He takes his groceries (coffee, apples, spinach, milk) to the counter. As the girl packs them into his bag, the Condition reaches out from under his raincoat, reaches towards the rows of cigarette boxes. Her eyes go big. Neil  grabs the tentacle with both hands, bends it around his elbow, twists until he hears it hiss. He lets it go. Like the slapped hand of a child it retreats under his coat. In the ensuing silence, Neil clears his throat and points towards a pack of his brand.

“Those too, please.”

A Collection of Twelfth Century Vrellenie Nature Poems

fiction, in-world, writing

Gifted to Neil by his younger sister, Junifer, who holds high hopes that introducing some class and romance into Neil’s life will erode his shell. He finds it difficult to give gifts away, and so, conspires to put them to good use.

Having read this sizeable volume cover to cover, to ensure he’d be able to keep up a conversation during her next inevitable visit, he has put it to use as a bookend. It prevents the collapse of The Amphigorvian Railway, the Ruins of Alkhaven Roads, and the Maiden Voyage of the Amalthea, to mention a few.

Its sheer size made it an unwelcome addition at first. It was too tall to sit upright with the other books on his shelf, and heavy enough that resting it upright on one knee while reading resulted in that leg falling asleep. What was initially an annoyance became its greatest contribution the Neil’s bookshelf.

It had a few poems within that Neil was sure were good poems, though they were not to his taste, and though he would not recommend it to anyone he knew, it had taken to its role as bookend with fervour and determination. In short, elthough Neil could not, by its contents, call it a good book, he had come to feel that it was, by temperament, a Good Book.

It didn’t.

fiction, scene, writing

After a few days, it occurred to him that it wasn’t going away. When he stretched, went to crack his back, his hand cupped unfamiliar flesh. He was sure it had swollen, gained palpable weight.  At home, he stripped, showered, dried, sat on the edge of the bed, ran his hand over the swelling. It put him in mind of a bruised fruit. He could feel soft cords of raised flesh beneath the skin, radiating out from the center like the arms of a starfish.

He tried to think of his family medical history. The cords under his skin twitched. He retracted his hand. Tried to think of something else.

After some trouble, he secured an appointment at the medical office.

Somche

experiment, fiction, in-world, writing

The fruit in question is a somche, a sort of hybrid between a fruiting fungal growth encased in the thick rind of a somsin fruit.

The spores have a mild, sweet, peppery flavour, and are used in seasoning. The fungus-impregnated flesh is moist and meaty. Cooked properly, wrapped in somsin leaves to prevent the expulsion of spores, the mature somche is said to be among the most healthy and invigorating foodstuffs available.

It is unique in fungus-impregnated simple fruits for having been officially declared, by a host of culinary experts, botanists, and epicurean scientists across the known territories, as “objectively delicious.”

It is high in potassium, vitamin C, vitamin D, vitamin E, and tryptophan. Because of its pleasant flavour and nutritional value, it is considered a Good Food. For those same reasons, five years from the time of writing, somche will be the subject of an immense foodie trend, which will lead to increased demand, an absurd leap in price that will make it difficult to obtain by its own growers, and the release of many statements by agriculturists and food scientists alike that could be generalized to read,

“”Honestly. You people. It’s a fungus-impregnated simple fruit, not a miracle cure-all. Leave some for the natives and get more exercise. You want a revolutionary nutritional law to live by? Everything in moderation.”

If Neil knew this, he would feel somewhat superior for passing it up. Given what we now know of the somche’s virtues, however, we can see that Neil’s ill-informed decision cost him a delicious meal that would have been a perfect pick-me-up after a rough week.

It began with a dull ache.

fiction, scene, writing

It had been a long day at work. When he peeled himself bare and ran a shower, he was disgusted to find the acrid chemical smell of the warehouse had saturated his skin, gotten caught in his bristly hair. The pipes groaned and the shower sputtered rust-flecked ice-water for a moment, but soon cleared and warmed. He scrubbed his hair, rinsed himself off, blew his nose six or seven times, stood there with his eyes shut until the water went too cold for his liking. Even then, the ache in his back, just above the right hip, put him in mind of growing pains.

He tried to remember if he’d jarred it, lifted something wrong, bruised it somehow. He told himself it was a sore muscle, a knot, a symptom of a day’s physical labour. It’d relax and untie within the week.

It didn’t.

A palpable condition

class portfolio, fiction, flash fiction, writing

A palpable condition

(working title)

The doctor asked for Neil’s medical history, took a blood sample, and palpated his back, running cold fingers over what they called his “condition,” a sort of tumour that rested above his right hip. The Condition extended two sinuous tentacles and swatted the doctor’s hands until he learned to respect its personal space.

“I stopped smoking eight years ago, you know” said Neil, gritting his teeth. “I eat vegetables, too. Walk every day.”

“That’s good of you,” said the doctor. “The test results will be in within two weeks. We might know what to do by then.”

Neil was given leave from work, advised to avoid bright lights, loud noises, crowds, stressful situations, anything that might aggravate the Condition. He sat in his apartment, alone, with the blinds shut, and waited. The Condition grew until it was big as half a grapefruit. The darkness of his empty apartment soaked into his brain and dragged him down like a damp sweater. He thumbed through books he’d read a dozen times, lay on his stomach, eyed the pale paper roll that perched atop his bookshelf. Smelled it. Stale. It had been sitting there for eight years, a mute dare. He stared it down. Blinked first. Time to go for a walk.

At the grocer’s, Neil tries to remember which sort of fruit is meant to elevate his endorphin receptors. He’s uncertain what that means, but the language of the doctor’s office has taken root in his brain. He’s drawn to the familiar tart green apples, but knows it’ll take something more exotic to trick him into feeling better. He palpates a large pink fruit, fat and shiny. It twitches and emits a cloud of spicy spores. He decides to let it go.

He takes his groceries (coffee, apples, spinach, milk) to the counter. As the girl packs them into his bag, the Condition acts up, reaches out from under his raincoat, reaches towards the rows of cigarette boxes. Her eyes go big. He grabs the tentacle with both hands, bends it around his elbow, twists until he hears it hiss. He lets it go. Like the slapped hand of a child it retreats under his coat. In the ensuing silence, Neil clears his throat and points towards a pack of his brand.

“Those too, please.”