Two Sundays ago

Wandering the bushland campus of my first university in the mild spring sunshine, I spied:

* A "leave a book, take a book" hutch containing a number of worthwhile tomes...and a VHS tape by kids' entertainers Hi-5

* An older lady riding a motorbike without a helmet. (Maybe she was only travelling between buildings)

* That whole departments had moved, been amalgamated or disappeared

* A Terracotta Warrior statue like those found in the tomb of China's Emperor Qin. (Snapped a pic and stuck it on Twitter)

* Nowhere to buy vittles except a hole-in-the-wall cafe in a study room under the main library. (At my second uni, there'd have been proper restaurants and a minimart open, even on a Sunday)

* Posters advertising a fully catered retro videogame night held last month. (Wish they'd had 'em in my day!)

* Willie wagtails harassing or being harassed by Indian myna birds. (Couldn't tell which. Probs the latter. Invasive species and all that)

* Asphalt over the green slope where once I'd lain, lost in a Charles De Lint novel in the mild spring sunshine.

22, 45, forever

When my parents wed at 28, it was on the understanding that my father was only agreeing to stay around until he was 50.

My mother says this was because he'd already worked a thousand jobs (across this country and overseas) and couldn't imagine committing to something forever.

At 73, they're still together. It's no exaggeration to say they are devoted to each other.

When Mum reminds him of the expiry date on their marriage, Dad jokes, "You learnt to cook too well."

Distilled to its essence

She introduced me to whisky, but the taxi ride was so damn long it sobered our mood.

Her dog got sooky and insisted on sharing the bed.

The bathroom was overflowing with exotic hair products, like some sort of hair laboratory.

At brekkie, she asked, "How many toasts?" and I thought the pluralisation cute.

Ditto her powder blue jumper.

She let me call in pretend-sick from her landline, then drove me all the way home.

The only continuity would be the whisky.

One-hour writing challenge - "Last Will"

The passenger door of the new white Mercedes-Benz was pulled open and a sweaty, unshaven fellow in dirty overalls jumped in and closed it behind him. The business-suited, perfectly made-up blonde woman in the driver's seat didn't flinch, despite the fact it was after dark and her top-of-the-range car was parked under a broken streetlight in a dodgy part of town.

“Did you get it?” she asked, with just a hint of urgency.

The man was still catching his breath. He didn't answer, but reached inside his overalls and brought forth a small rectangular object, wrapped in a piece of fabric.

“The money's already in your account,” said the woman, her voice all control now. She held out her white-nailed hands expectantly.

With an exhale that was part satisfied whistle, the man handed over the little bundle. “It's not that I don't trust you...” he began, unpocketing his phone and proceeding to log onto a foreign bank.

The driver registered no offence. Her gaze was fixed on her purchase. Unwrapping a piece of silk so old and worn it was almost transparent, she revealed a deck of cards that, while fully intact, somehow felt much older. She reached for the interior light.

“Hey!” said the man in the passenger seat, his messy brown curls glistening with perspiration. “That's not a good idea in this neighbourhood.”

“It would be an unlucky criminal who tried to rob me.” She was gently thumbing through the cards, studying the pictures, running a white-nailed finger over them.

“I've still got to get back to my truck in one piece.”

“I suppose so,” said the woman, switching off the light. “Before you go, tell me again how he died.”

“Not much to tell. Pneumonia with complications. He'd been inside for most of his life, from 18 to 63. Conditions aren't the healthiest. Plus, he smoked. Did well surviving that long.”

“That's a matter of opinion. And you say he was using these right up until his death?”

“Oh, yeah. We knew he did readings for people. Charged 'em for the privilege and gave at least half of the money to the top dog. Funny thing is...”

“Go on.”

“Funny thing is, I don't remember anyone asking for their money back. No arguments, no fights, no unhappy customers. Which is weird when those customers are some of the meanest humans to walk the earth, don't you think?”

“Leave me now. Run back to your truck. Wait three months prior to spending a cent of that money. Do not attempt to contact me again. Fail to follow these instructions and I'll make trouble for you with the prison and with that 'top dog' you mentioned.”

The passenger door of the new white Mercedes-Benz was pushed open and the sweaty, unshaven fellow in dirty overalls jumped out and closed it behind him. Then he ran into the night, clutching a phone that told him he was suddenly a rich man.

The business-suited, perfectly made-up blonde woman in the driver's seat raised a card to her perfect smile, then began biting off pieces, violently chewing and swallowing them. Despite the fact it was after dark and her top-of-the-range car was parked under a broken streetlight in a dodgy part of town, she sat there until she had consumed the entire deck.

One-hour writing challenge - "Dream Ghoul"

[Background: Inspired by a friend who does one-hour game-programming challenges, I've decided to undertake the equivalent for fiction writing. I will sit at my laptop, brainstorm a short story idea (any genre), build a tale around it in 60 minutes, then foist the results on anyone still reading this blog.]

--

Dream Ghoul

It wasn't hard to be a guard in the fortress of the Dark Lord. All that was required, during your eight-hour shift, was to stay in the appointed room or corridor and do your best to impede any pesky adventurers that came along. If the do-gooding bastards happened to make it past you, they'd inevitably fall foul of the ogre twins on Dungeon Level 4 or the dragon on Dungeon Level 6. Rarely did any of them reach the Dark Lord's opulent throne room, and the ones that did were inevitably too weakened to put up much of a fight against His necromantic magicks.

It wasn't hard to be a guard in the fortress of the Dark Lord. Especially if, like Gareth, you were the reanimated skeleton of an ancient warrior, killed in a battle most historians had forgotten. You might lose an arm or leg to sword strokes or, at the very worst, be blasted apart by a Fireball spell. But the Dark Lord would eventually pop up to your remains in a spare moment and repair the damage with an Unholy Mending followed by an Imbue Unlife.

It wasn't hard to be a guard in the fortress of the Dark Lord. What WAS hard was being utterly in love with the ghoul on Dungeon Level 2 when she only had rotting eyeballs for the ghost on Dungeon Level 5. This was the situation in which poor Gareth found himself. Though he'd technically been heartless for centuries, the skeleton felt a burning desire inside his empty ribcage for Serena the ghoul. He could see past her worm-riddled flesh to the hot elf chick she once was, prior to being slain and then magickally drafted into eternal service by the Dark Lord.

Gareth knew in his not-heart that he could win Serena over if he could find a way to eliminate that jerk of a ghost, Sir Adrian, with his dashing blue glow and manly ethereal chains. Whenever Gareth was off duty and headed down to Dungeon Level 2 with a posy of stinkblossoms or, if he could grab it before the ravenous devil hounds, a hunk of fresh adventurer meat, Serena would graciously accept the gift, then begin talking about Sir Adrian. Did Gareth think the stinkblossom she'd placed behind her ear would appeal to the ghost? Was her blood-lipsticked smile too saucy? Would it give Sir Adrian the wrong impression?

Then one day the skeleton came up with a plan. He waited until the next adventuring party rounded the corner into his dingy corridor on Dungeon Level 1 and, instead of advancing on them with his ancient warhammer, held up a bony hand and said, "WAIT! We could do battle and you'd probably triumph. But chances are I'd get a couple of hits in. And this is only the first of six levels before you face...Him. Alternatively, I could give you a lot of advice on what lies in between. Savage beasts, hidden treasures, cunning traps, lovely views of the underground lake. I'd need something in return, though. You see, there's this ghost on Dungeon Level 5..."