Day 9 – April 9 – El Dorado

Day 9 – April 9 – El Dorado

Monomapotapa. The name alone conjured up riches the like of which were only found in El Dorado. Johannes stamped his feet to get some warmth back into them as he waited for the elf to come. The clock in the bell tower tolled the hour of midnight when the cloaked elf appeared in the alley way. He carried a bundle wrapped in a shade-shifting blue cloth. Ah, the dragon egg. It had taken much privatering and a bit of good old pirating to get enough money together to pay for the egg. Especially on the black market. The exchange was made and Johannes was left nearly broke, but with the bundle tucked under his arm. The elf disappeared into the darkness without a word, and a cold shiver ran down Johannes’ spine. Tomorrow he would board the ship for the Cape of Good Hope. On 15 March 1796 he would at last be able to set out on his new life.


On the ship the egg never left his sight or his side. Johannes regarded everyone else on the ship with utter distrust and could barely keep his wits about him for the weeks it took to reach the Cape. If he was to be found in possession of a dragon egg, the people would surely first throw him overboard before smashing the egg. But to his great relief, no one found out what it was that he was always carrying in a rough bag slung across his shoulder.

It was on his third night on land that the egg hatched and he found himself in possession of a bright yellow dragon. Its scales glimmered like gold and its wings were tipped in an emerald hue. Johannes grinned to himself as he fed the young dragon strips of meat. He had read enough about dragons to know that this one would be perfect for hunting gold.

In a couple of months he had bought a wagon, some oxen and provisions and found two men who would accompany him to the mostly unexplored interior. The dragon, which he had named Lalele, had grown extremely fast and already reached to his elbow. He had to get away from the city outskirts before someone found him, and the abundant wild in the interior would make feeding the dragon much easier.

By the time they crossed the Barrier of Spears, Lalele had already grown large enough for Johannes to ride on its back and he set out alone to the north, promising not only payment when he returned, but also a diary telling of everything that would befell him in the coming weeks and months.

**

When his diary was found some five years later, it came to light that he had indeed found his El Dorado, but that he had met his end near the Limpopo River. Some believed that he was caught by a lion, though some maintain that he was rather trampled by an elephant or came down with malaria. Probably we would never know, as his body has never been found. Johannes’ diary was taken to a museum in Bloemfontein to be studied and was hailed as the first fantasy book to be written in Southern Africa. It was published in 1896, but only one of the copies remains in the Literary Museum. It has never been reprinted.

Lalele fled south to the Barrier of Spears and made his home there. It is believed that he took the gold with him to make his bed and that his lair may still be found somewhere in the mountains. He was often seen flying at night and breathing fire at the moon. This is why the mountains where then also named the Drakensberg.

The city made of gold has yet to be found again.

Day 7 April 7 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – It Cannot Be Stopped!*

Well, so far writing a story every day (mostly during lunch) has been quite successful. Even though the flash pieces can all still use a bit of editing and rewriting, it is extremely enjoyable to be (willingly) forced to write something – on thing – every day. And posting – which means I can’t write one sentence and act like I’ve done a day’s work!

I’ve had a list of ideas scribbled down that I just never seem to get to and at least the NoShoStoMo challenge has given me more motivation to have a look at them again.

I also have a Great Plan *play epic music* to translate all of the NaShoStoMo pieces when they are finished – but I’m not going to put a time frame on this!

^*Well, so far so good.

The Door On the Shelf – Day 7 April 7 – NaShoStoMo Challenge

Emily realised she can move between worlds when she found fairies at the bottom of her garden. Well, they weren’t really in her garden – they were on the border between her garden and the fairy realm. It turned out that the fairy realm nearly always bordered on a garden – and always the bottom of a garden. It turned out that she was very adept at finding borders between worlds; the Monster Realm under her bed and in her closet, the Phantom World of Dust and Dirt in various forgotten corners of the rambling house she lived in (though she almost never visited there), a dragon called Flametorch guarding its treasure in the cellar and an old astronomer from Geilgardia that liked to use the house’s roof as a way to study strange skies at night. Even as an only child, she was rarely lonely and barely ever bored. 

But her talent of finding other worlds – or, more precisely, other worlds who no one else could see or enter – made her a bit of an outsider at school. She took to wandering around at the bottom of the sports field during break, looking for fairies or poking around in the empty classrooms looking for a world she had not yet discovered. When the bullying became unbearable, she went to the school library. She didn’t do it because she particularly liked reading – real life seemed just as, if not more exciting to her. After meeting a real dragon and nearly being burned to a crisp, the monk-like figure wandering about the library intrigued instead of scared her. 

He was dressed in a robe of rough brown wool and had a bag slung over his shoulder. Every now and then he picked up a book, looked it over and either slipped it into his bag, or placed it back on the shelf. Emily noticed that his bag never seemed to have anything in it and when he took a book from the shelf there was never a gap where the book had been. She followed him for a while, past the picture books in the junior library and the history books until he reached the natural history books. There he turned around and looked straight at her. 

“Can you see me?” he asked a bit unsure of himself. 

“Of course,” Emily said and stepped closer. “You’re a bit difficult to miss, with not wearing a school uniform – and being the only other person in here.” She looked at the book the monk was holding. “Are you finding anything good?”

He shrugged. “I was looking for a book on dinosaurs for my nephew. He seems to think that they were some form of primitive dragon. You know, before they could breathe fire and so on.” He slipped another volume into his bag. “He needs to write a school report for his Magick Creatures 101 class.”

“You can’t just take the books. It’s stealing. You need a card or something.”

“I am borrowing them, not taking them or stealing them. Where do you think missing books in libraries go to? They won’t give library cards to extra-terrestrials, you know.” He took another book from the shelf and its space disappeared as if there had never been another book. “Anyway, this library forms part of our library back home – as long as you know which door to take. All libraries are fluid creatures.” He took a thick tome about volcanoes from the shelf, opened it and placed it on the floor. “Would you be so kind to just replace the book when I’m gone? I hate to leave a mess.” And with that, he stepped into and through the book and disappeared. 

Emily stared at the book until the bell rang. Only then did she reach out and put the book back on the shelf. Then she looked at all the books around her and wondered which one’s door she should try first.

THE END (for now)

A Drink of Water – Day 5 – April 5 – NaShoStoMo Challenge

Some Airthai fiction for today's NaShoStoMo challenge. Aran is a character I've had in mind for some time - and I think this may be one of quite a few stories about him. Also, having a pounding headache today might have had an influence...

A Drink of Water – Day 5 – April 5 – NaShoStoMo Challenge


Aran struggled along the dusty path and realised he was utterly lost. The sun sat wrong in the sky, the Red Mountains looked wrong, the road showed no sign of soldiers passing. He stopped and looked around him. Somewhere he had taken a wrong turn. He felt at his breast for the letter stowed there – a message he was to take to the Awíkla. He was to send news that a passage to the Lost Ones had been discovered and more soldiers were needed. A sudden gust of wind whipped the red dust around him and Aran shielded his face with the light coloured cloth which he wore around his neck. The valley which he had reached by taking the wrong turn was as desolate parched as the rest of the western part of the Sundered Lands.

He tried swallowing, but his mouth and throat was too parched. He felt at his pocket for the letter. He had to get more soldiers to the pass. He had to keep on running. But where to? The glare from the sun made his surrounds wavy and indistinct and he could not distinguish whether the small outcropping he saw was boulders or nomadic tents. He could see no-one and only the droning of cicadas sounded in his ears. Or maybe it was just his thickening blood that sounded a warning to him to get to water. He shook the dust from his clothes and looked around again. Would he have better luck continuing along this road, or to turn back?

In the end he plodded on, hoping some shade and water lay before him – and that he would reach it before succumbing to the heat. By the time he reached the next crossroad his head was pounding and the pain reverberated through his whole body. He wanted to cry, but even tears would not come. He squinted against the sun and saw a statue that gladdened his heart. It was a black stone dragon. The carved stone stood stark against the red and yellow stone of the surroundings.

The messenger stumbled to the dark pillar of stone. Surely in this wilderness the pillar would also show where a well is? He wiped at his face and neck as he looked around at the ground around the pillar until he spotted the low stone covering of the well. With his last strength he moved the stone lid and peered down. The low well was empty.

With a cry of despair Aran fell to his knees and started sobbing. Why did he have to die like this? Why would his god let this happen? He was, after all, on his way to the Awíkla! He was serving as best he could. The pain in his head and body intensified and he could not summon strength to stumbled more than a few steps at a time. Was there no one that could help him? He fell again and caught himself on bloody palms. Then he saw another figure approaching.

He forced himself upright and waited, not sure if the figure was even real. The figure was not wearing the light armour of the soldiers or the robes of the Awíkla. And surely a S’wíkla wouldn’t travel all alone in this wilderness? Then he saw the light blue band around the man’s waist. The man was of the Aíhla! Aran drew his knife from his belt and waited for the man to attack. He was a S’wíkla, after all, and would not die without a fight.

The Aíhlaê drew closer and, when he was nearly ten metres away, spoke. “I am Leshem,” he called and revealed his face from beneath its light colouring. “You are lost?” he asked before Aran could answer. “I have not seen any other Awíkla here,” he called and stepped closer. “You look near death, friend, let us help you.”

Friend? Us? Aran glanced around – and saw two other figures approaching in the distance. The rush of blood blocked out all sound as the man who called himself Leshem walked still closer. When the Aíhlaê reached for his belt, Aran attacked with all the strength he had left, and struck straight for the Aíhlaê’s heart. His blade struck true and he fell on top of the dying man before forcing himself to his feet to face the other Aíhla who were approaching. Aran pressed his left hand to the ground as he got up and felt mud between his fingers. He glanced down, saw the Aíhlaê’s water skin spill its contents into the red dust, and realised that the man had not reached for weapon. But it was too late.

Security – Day 4 – April 4 – NaShoStoMo Challenge

Security

We were one of the last complexes in the suburb to upgrade our security. The Jones’ residential complex across the street was, of course, the first ones to employ a golem to guard their property. Sometimes you could see it behind the wrought iron gate or its glowing, red eyes at night as it peered between the electric fence wires on the wall. The wall spikes below glowed like bloodied spears and I tried not to look across to their place at all and even kept my living area curtains closed the whole day as well.


Scared that the robbers would come to their properties if they were left protected only by wires, alarms and armed response panic buttons; the other neighbours soon followed suit. As golems could be formed out of clay, it was the cheapest choice in New Era Security. Only the excessively rich and politicians could afford cyborgs to patrol their grounds. But none of them lived near this part of town. As the inner city slums had mushroomed, the suburbs were soon taken over; and previous open tracks of land were walled in before sprawling houses were built and their elite clients driven with police protection into the scattered idylls still existing in the Golden Province. Inside those walls were everything a person could want – solar electricity and water, schools and enough access to the internet that no one ever had to leave to go to work or look further than the fifteen foot walls enclosing their part of the world.

So the rest of us – the middle classes and the lower classes – lived outside the sprawling mansions of the rich; supplying their power, water and food and trying our best to stay alive. The golems worked for a while. Crime in the area dropped steeply and the few “unsavoury persons” that did try to enter property without the owner’s consent were found dead in the street the next morning. Some were not found at all. But it still seemed the best option – after all, those whose golems had killed a robber or two argued, they could have seen the “WARNING: GOLEM GUARD” notice on the gate and the glowing red eyes glaring at them should have been a clue as well. So we all took to checking the street for any bodies before letting the kids out to go to school. We figured that the bodies would stop turning up in a couple of weeks any way – word would obviously spread that our area was well-guarded. But our complex still did not have a golem.

Then, about a week after the last corpse was found, my house was burgled. Luckily during the day when no one was home; but almost nothing was left inside. They had even emptied the pantry shelf and left only a box of cake mix long past its sell-by date. We had to face up to it – we had to get a guard for our complex. I called the toll-free Guards-R-Us number, but gave up after twenty minutes of tuneless electronic music. Figuring there was nothing left to steal anyway, I booked a cheap room at a local hotel and waited for the next morning to come and the call centres to open.

I wasn’t there when a couple of teenagers tried to sneak into a friend’s house for a surprise birthday wake-up. I also wasn’t there when the parents found that the golem had taken the task of keeping unauthorised persons from the property too seriously. I was thankful that I wasn’t the first one to check the road that day and that only came home after the paramedics and police had left. The grieving parents removed the letter from the golem’s brow and watched its enormous bulk turn to dust. Probably the others will follow suit.

Some people are talking about getting a troll or two for the whole neighbourhood as they would still be cheaper than a cyborg. At least trolls have more intelligence than the man-made hunk of clay and would only attack on command if their owner’s lives weren’t in danger. I left the neighbourhood meeting early. When Jones talked of trolls attacking on command, his eyes seemed just a bit too bright as he looked at his neighbour; Smith I think his name is. I think I would rather have a cyborg – at least they have voice and face recognition. Of course, as they are only available to the few elite in the mansions, I will have to quit my job and move away. I hope someone in the mansions have need of a live-in maid or nanny.

The Man Who Spoke to the Sea - Day 3 of the NaShoStoMo challenge

The Man Who Spoke to the Sea

Dark thunderclouds packed together above the small, white washed houses behind the sand dunes. Dense shrubs clamored for space on the top and side of the heaps of sand as if to flee from the waves that today pushed foam fingers farther and farther up the beach. Sand-laden wind blew from the wide water over the dunes, today even lashing the houses huddling behind the dune. The storm came, like many on this part of the coast, with little warning. No warning to those not used to the weather. But here the fishermen knew when the wind blew just so to take their boats to the shore and batten down the hatches. Some said Reinard could even hear the storm two days out by the sound of the waves. All knew that he had had the best sea legs of all the fishermen in Vissermanshoek. Some of the older people in the village even said he had come from the waves, washed ashore as a baby when one of the great merchant ships sailed into a squall and sank, taking all other souls upon it to the salty depths.


But not Reinard. He was saved and adopted by old Dan Shoestring and lived the life of a fisherman, as connected to the sea as any could be. They said he heard it speak. “Not in a language you would understand easily, you know” as old Shoestring said. “He listens to all its secrets,” they said. They also said his wife, Sanna, was of the sea-folk, just like they said she had looked the water serpent in the eyes. Like they said he had given her the jewel from his brow to wear upon her neck. Like they said his family was destined for great things. Like they said Sanna went back to the sea-folk when her youngest daughter turned three. Like they said she had moved to Cape Town to live the life of the upper class. Like they said the rich strangers would come. Like they said Reinard’s heart was too broken to ever heal. They were right about three things. That rich people will come and build mansions to block the sea. That Reinard’s children would not be fisherman like generations before. That Reinard’s heart was broken.

The first to come and prospect for land was a certain sir with an unpronounceable surname that came form the city. Not that the home would be his residence, of course, just over weekends and holidays when he wanted a ‘silent retreat’. He drove in teams of builders and built a house the size of a small village, a three storey high monstrosity with a flat roof where he and his friends could go for a cocktail or three and stare drunkenly at the horizon. Not that he wasn’t friendly at first in a sort of speak-slowly-to-people-not-as-highly-developed-as-you kind of way that said he regarded all other people as imbeciles to be tolerated to do menial work, but not quite being able to reach his own level of perfection.

One weekend he even dared to go to one of the houses to quiet the children who we playing outside –five minutes’ walk from his sprawling home. Needless to say that the show of a shotgun and the village driving him back to his own house had his ego bruised enough to stay away from his house in the following weeks. It was during this lull in cocktail parties that The Accident came to the village.

It was a storm like no other – not even Reinard had heard it in the waves, nor saw it in the wind. It was just there, out of the blue, breaking the small fishing boats like kindle and sending Reinard overboard from his. He still survived, though, again saved from certain drowning much like when he was a baby, though this time with a broken leg that wouldn’t quite heal. The village was left in shock. Three of their brothers had been taken by the waves. Five more were in hospital. One thatched roof caved in and the first rich mansion to be built in Vissermanshoek sunk a foot into the sand.

After the house built on sand sunk and one wall was lost to the waves, the village rejoiced that the rich sir Whatshisname would be staying in the city indefinitely. At least now, so they thought, they would be able to live in peace behind the dune, making an earnest living. Unfortunately, this did not stop others from coming to build their own sea-side mansions and host countless people themselves. The working crews were soon transported to the village, shacks spreading out like wild-fire in a few weeks, bringing noise, shebeens and litter.

And Reinard saw it all from his house where he sat on the porch, waiting for his leg to heal and feel the waves beneath him once more. With his children long gone to the cities to work, he felt truly alone, stranded behind the sheltering dune and wishing only to see the sea again. He waited and waited, growing greyer by the day. Most of all he missed the voice of the sea as it spoke to him while he waited for a net to fill.

It was then that the strangest thing yet was said to have happened. Reinard took to walking to the beach every morning, pushing two rows of neatly spaced holes next to his own footsteps in the morning sand as he fumbled along on the old wooden crutches he had been given at the clinic. Then he would sit on the rocks all alone all day until the waters caressed his feet, after which he would silently go back to his empty house before setting out again the next morning. Those that saw him said that he spoke to the sea while he sat there on the rocks. Some said he spoke to himself. Some said he had voices haunting his head. The visit to the hospital had left him pale and wane, but with the sea around him he quickly grew hale again. But he only spoke to the sea. The children of the village took to watching him and poking fun at him, getting an earful from parents who grew scared of the grey old man that only spoke to the sea.

Around him more houses rose from the sand, never heeding the first ill-fated house where it sunk deeper and deeper into the sand. But he never seemed to give a thought to them, simply walking past the row of half-finished houses on his way to the sea.

Erika, the wife of old Shoestring became ever more worried for Reinard, seeing as his children – or anyone else - ever visited anymore. She took to following him to the beach and back, she thought secretly.

Then, the day of his sixtieth birthday, when the rows of houses blocking their view from the sea was finished and filled with rowdy city-dwellers, she followed him for the last time. He walked with his crutches as he always did; his frame smaller that it used to be. Around his neck was the jewel that had belonged to his wife. He climbed into the rocks with difficulty and threw the crutches aside. He held the stone before him and called the name of his long-gone wife.

Now, I know this because Erica told me herself. She said she saw his wife emerging from the ocean looking just like she did forty years ago. She also said he grew young and grew a tail just like a fish. She said he gave her the jewel and followed her into the waves.

They, of course, say it was wishful thinking. They say it was suicide. They say he drowned. The also say there is no water serpent and a fisherman could never own a jewel like he did. But they don’t know the sea’s secrets. They don’t know her language and they still don’t know that a storm is coming when the wind is just so and the waves splash just at that certain angle against your boat.

THE END

The Quack – Day 2 NaShoStoMo

Here's day two's piece for the NaShoStoMo challenge. And yes, the mozzies did have their revenge last night. That will teach me!

The Quack – Day 2 NaShoStoMo


All Joseph Henry Robert James wanted in life was fame. He thought he had tried everything, but his legal career was even shorter that his singing career. After a year nobody even remembered that there had ever been a song called “Cerebrations on Helen of Troy” and he looked wistfully at the opera houses and theatres where many others were making a name for themselves. He tried politics, but found it quite boring. He tried seafaring but found the ever-moving ocean waves and bug-filled biscuits not much to his liking. He then tried a writing career, but found barely anyone to read what he had written, and none to enjoy it. At last he decided, on the age of 33 summers, to study to be a doctor. He found the lectures quite agreeable and did not faint at the first sight of blood or of a corpse, which was always a good thing. Yet, when he tried to cure his patients as he was taught to, they never got well. Some even died overnight, as if a sudden plague had swept through the hospital wards. It truly seemed as if his fame would rather be infamy. Joseph could not bear to have another patient of his die and decided to rather leave the medical profession as well.

Joseph Henry Robert James left the city and roamed the country side, doing odd jobs, but more often than not causing rot, blight and sudden locust attacks on the farms he visited. He took this also as a sign that he had not yet reached the place he was meant to be. He was sure that his fame lay just over the next horizon and kept to the roads and to himself, following his feet by day and sleeping under the stars by night.

One day he reached a small town and decided to visit the barber for a good shave and clean-up. He got talking with the barber and soon decided to try his hand at being a barber. How difficult could shaving and cutting hair be, after all? He soon found out that there was a skill to it when his first customer died from a severed jugular. Joseph was chased out of another town.

By nightfall he came to an open field wherein stood a lone wagon and two grazing horses. Rain was coming, and Joseph decided to try his luck at finding shelter in the wagon for the night. He knocked on the rickety wagon door and waited for an answer from inside. Sure enough, a faint voice came from within, telling him to open the door. He opened it slowly and peered inside, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

The inside of the wagon seemed a lot larger than the outside and held not only three large bookcases filled with tomes, but also a rack of drying herbs, some bottles containing strangely coloured liquids and an enormous black, three-legged cauldron under which a greenish fire was lit. Inside the cauldron a brownish liquid was bubbling and steaming. Standing behind the cauldron and stirring it with an over-sized wooden spoon was an elderly man dressed in a swallow-tailed coat and top hat. A thick, grey beard hid most of his lower face. He looked up from the cauldron and grinned.

“Greetings, traveller,” he said in a rasping smoker’s voice. “What brings you to this part of the world?”

“There is rain coming and I was hoping to get shelter for the night.” He gave a wary, lop-sided grin.

“Well, boy, you come as if you were called. My apprentice is still out gathering firewood and I need someone to keep stirring here. I guess you’re as good as anyone. Come, I need to add the secret ingredient before the mixture is overcooked.”

Joseph took the spoon and started stirring the thickening liquid. “What is this?” he asked.

The old man rummaged through the bottles on the shelf, muttering to himself and every now and again touching the brim of his hat as if he wanted to make sure that it’s still there.

“That, my dear boy, is General Proudtoe’s Great and Wonderful Cure-all Medicine Patent 212! You see, as soon as I add this distilled Newt Eyes, that solution you are stirring will turn green and start to smoke with red smoke and then the true magic is released! With Patent 212 I am sure I will rule the world – and cure all illness, of course.” He took a spoon from the recess of one coat pocket and measured out a spoonful of the garish green liquid in the bottle. With a flourish he added the distilled Newt Eyes to the concoction brewing in the cauldron. As Joseph stirred, the liquid began to bubble and boil and turn green. Soon blue smoke rose from the liquid and started to fill the wagon. Joseph wondered if the crazy man would follow him if he started running now.

Before he could make his decision, however, the wagon door opened again and another man stepped inside, a bundle of firewood under one arm. At least, he thought it was someone of the male persuasion, although at first glance he wondered whether it was human. The person walked bowed, with a humped back. He wore a worn suit of brown and his face and hands were spotted a myriad of colours. Even his hair – what few strands he still had left of it – stood on end, giving him a strangely disturbing halo of green, blue and brown. Joseph looked at the bubbling cauldron and back to the man – supposedly the apprentice – who had just entered. The same, strange colours mirrored in both.

“Come and taste, Igor, come and taste!” the old man cried and dished out a spoonful which he held out to the apprentice while Joseph looked on with his mouth agape. With a sigh Igor put aside the wood and took the spoon from the old man. He looked up to the sky to say a quick prayer before swallowing the awful liquid in one gulp. He fell to his knees, clutching at his throat and making gurgling noises before falling to the floor, senseless.

I am going to die a famous man on the gallows, Joseph thought as the old man said: “Well, that’s never happened before.”

The man who only wanted to be famous stared at the man he had just helped kill. He wondered if he could run fast enough to get away from the law. Then, almost imperceptibly at first, but then faster and faster, a change came over the man at his feet. First the multicoloured patches on his skin faded to a ruddy, sun-browned colour and then his hair, too, changed to a rich black. Even the hump on his back seemed to melt away.

“Hallelujah and eureka!” the old man shouted. “I’ve done it at last! No! No! You, young man, you’ve done it! I’ve made 211 batches of that cure-all and they have all either killed my apprentices or have them looking like Igor had done only a few minutes ago! It’s a miracle! You have the touch my boy! We’ll be famous!”

The Flight of the Mosquito - Day 1 of NaShoStoMo

I saw yesterday that the talented Dan Wells has decided on a quite insane idea - write a short story a dey - each day - for the month of April. Find more info at: http://www.nashostomo.org/

Well, I couldn't resist, so here is day one... The Flight of the Mosquito.

The Flight of the Mosquito

Gerry didn’t know if he should curse or pray for strength and patience. He glanced at the red numbers on his radio clock and decided on cursing. It was already 2:30am, he had to get up in two hours and still a lone mosquito was buzzing in his ear. One mosquito, unfazed by the plug-in mozzie poison, the mozzie spray and rub-on, the wrist bands and enough citronella candles to make his room look as if some bizarre cult was about to walk in, wearing dark cloaks and chanting. Even his flailing arm and slaps when he tried to figure out where it was, never hit it. He switched the bedside lamp on and looked around the room. As usual, there was just as suddenly no sight of the bloodsucker.


As if she knew he was going to turn on the light.

The buzzing-screech had stopped just as abruptly.

Maybe the thing wasn’t even natural. Maybe it was just that, a bug. Sent to covertly draw blood for some covert government operation. Like the ants they had walking around at school. Sure the other students thought he was a bit crazy for even having the idea, but what better way was there to listen to what the students are saying? And ants could be anywhere – in the quadrant, on the sport fields, in the classrooms and even going into the lockers. Maybe that was why they never had to have big drug busts at the school – the governing body already knew who the culprits were. And now They have perfected a way to draw blood without you thinking about it twice, or even knowing about it. No one would think mosquito bites strange in the middle of summer. It was brilliant, actually.

But how was he to test his theory? He flicked off the light again and heard the buzzing start immediately. Maybe it doesn’t work in a certain level of light? He sat up in bed, leaving his arms above the blanket and waiting for the light tingle when the bug lands to feed.

At last! He smacked his arm and felt something squash beneath his palm. He turned on the light again to see if he really got the mozzie. Sure enough, this time he had the awful thing. And he had got it before it had time to bite him – there was no blood visible. He looked closer at the smudge on his arm. It must be some kind of new substance that could mimic the real thing. The scientists were getting really clever. But he will be them one ahead, Gerry thought. If they come to the citizens in the dark, he will never be caught in the dark again, even if it means that his electricity bill skyrockets. He will find some way to cover it. He lay back down to sleep, pulling the blanket over his head slightly to block out the worst of the light. Just as he drifted off, his heart skipped a beat.

What will happen when there’s load shedding again?

Gerry didn’t think he would ever be able to sleep again. Or maybe he should think about emigrating to Australia again.