I tell stories

First, take rye flour and turn it into dough.

Then bake it, long and slow.

That’s real bread. Makes me think of home.

People here, they like things fast. Instead of rich earth and caramel, their bread arrives in an hour and tastes of damp air.

You said, “My job. I’ve got to move.”

I won’t lie. I don’t like this place. The skies are grey, and there are no mountains.

But still, slowly, I’m finding layers here. This city rewards those who explore.

And if bread has taught me anything, it’s that things are always best when given time.

Baum knew, the bastard. He tried to warn us, but we didn’t listen.

And what’s left now? This scrap of land, surrounded by impassable, irradiated desert.

We few survivors, left as mockeries of evolution.

Once, someone set themselves up as a queen. So much strontium in her bones she could give you the sickness just by touching you. Didn’t last long – when you’re that reactive, water does you no favours.

I’ve got nothing to do but keep walking to the blast site… that city now made entirely of glass.

That, and wish I’d read more ‘Oz’ books as a kid.

They should have been having dinner, but naturally Ben found Jack on the roof, hunting for the comet.

“Nothing?”

“It’s here somewhere. I’m going to miss it.”

“It’ll be back.”

“No. It won’t. It’s never been here before. It’ll never be here again.”

“Hon, I barely see you. You’re out every day and now you’re chasing that damn comet every night. Come inside. I’ll be there, and I’ve cooked salmon.”

“Later. That’ll all still be there.”

Ben sighed. “Not all of it will. Hope you find it sometime. See you round, I guess.”

Jack didn’t look round. “Yeah. See you.”

The decision to ban popular culture went down surprisingly well.

After all, in a time of austerity, we had to trim the excesses. And why did we need new plays when we had Shakespeare? What did another novel really add?

And everyone knows music stopped being good after 1997.

Of course, you can still make new art. We’re not fascists. Just don’t take risks. Do what works. It’s good business.

You can see the effects already. Soon, people won’t be capable of any dangerously new thoughts.

Like the fact that elections are coming, and maybe it’s time for a change.

In later years, I felt guilty about telling my brother that old Mr Patterson was a vampire.

But when you’re ten, it’s just what you say to people who are gullible and two years younger than you.

And in fairness, Patterson wasn’t doing anything to help his case. He was really pale, never went out in the sun and had been old forever.

Timmy said he didn’t believe me. I challenged him to go inside Patterson’s place one day, and see for himself.

So he did.

I found his body amongst the rubbish, drained dry.

Sometimes I hate being right.

A crisis meeting was held in the Vatican the night Cardinal Pellia died.

His 7ft 8 height had made him a celebrity, and his charming interviews had brought the Church millions of new followers.

The Pope raised his hand. “People want spectacle. Our ambassador must stand out. All of you, line up against that wall.”

The cardinals shuffled into height order. The tallest, Cardinal Bertone, was only 6ft 5. “I fear that won’t be enough, your Holiness.”

“The Lord will provide.”

The very next day, Bertone found in his chambers a floor-length cassock, and a pair of 12-inch platform shoes.

—–

This one is from the prompt ‘cardinal ordinal’.

Harry started life poor. Then he was a millionaire. Then, one day, he wasn’t.

Business made him. “And broke me, too,” he laughed. “Funny thing… they say be nice to the people you meet on the way up, because you’ll see them again on the way down. And they’re right, you know? It was the exact same crowd, still doing their little deals. Like I’d never left.”

John sighed. “Makes you wonder why you bother, doesn’t it?”

“What?” Harry looked at him like he was mad. “Hell no. So I ended up where I started. At least I went somewhere.”

—–

The prompt for this one was ‘hobnob’, which comes from the Middle English habbe nabbe, meaning ‘to have and have not’. Wikipedia says so.

We never found life on Mars, but we found where life used to be.

A city, with avenues, towers and palaces, and one huge central structure.

Emma’s heart thumped as she stepped inside.

It felt like a cathedral. Pillars supporting the roof. Pictures covering the walls. Abstract, but understandable. Evolution. Civilization.

“It’s the story of a species.” Jack, following behind.

“Or an epitaph.”

“What happened to them?”

Emma traced the line of pictures. And stopped. Over the intercom, Jack heard her breathe, harsh and fast.

This picture wasn’t abstract. One man, one woman. Below, in English and Mandarin: “Welcome home”.

As the waters rose, so we built our walls higher.

Palisades against the beating waves. Levees holding back the charging rivers.

Catherine said we had to dig in, as she piled sandbags around her shopfront. “My family’s lived here for years. I’m not leaving now.”

And she wasn’t the only one. How many generations ago had our ancestors founded this city? How many of my family had worked to build these arches, squares and streets?

Water doesn’t care. The levee holds, but still it seeps from under our flagstones. Slowly, silently, lapping at our feet.

We should have built boats.