Day 30 - Container

It's the quiet moments that you both hate and love the most. The times when everything around you falls silent. It's good in that everything else stops—the movement, the noise, the emotions of others, and your own. There is peace.

But then comes the pain, the sorrow, the sense of futility. When the chaos of others is absent, your own chaos bursts forward. It's a silent chaos, a turmoil within you, filled with guilt, remorse, inadequacy, lacklustre, and a loss of purpose.

It's times like these that thoughts come to you of fleeing, ending it. You've had these thoughts long enough to know what they look like. In some ways, you toy with them, dare them, lure them. You know what ideation is, you recognise it; you've been on the edge of it many times. You live with it every day.

You know all the antidotes, placebos or otherwise, to these moments. To think of others, of those you would hurt, to list out the reasons to stay, to live. Distraction, movement, or any of these things. 

Talking to someone, putting it out into the universe. Seeking help.

These are the things they say to do.

You don’t.

You keep it to yourself, tell no one, and simply get on with it. You keep yourself busy, tell yourself it’ll pass, and it does, or you deflect it. You distract from it and throw yourself into things. Work, hobbies, conversation, communication and activities. If you can fill the void that comes with silence, you’ll keep it all at bay.

You've learnt to avoid damaging, destructive distractions, having done enough of that before. Although the insidious destructors boil along insipidly adding more.

You're OK. Or that's what you will say.

Even when someone asks you, "R U OK?"  The second Thursday in September, is a high-probability day.  Although a question, that should be used every day.

But for you to answer 'No' on any given day is a peril best kept at bay.

To answer in such a way would take your silent moments away.

Day 29 - First Person

The chair scraped immediately to my right, dragging my attention momentarily. It was the waiter. He smiled at me, conveying several things but one. I glanced back at my coffee; it was two-thirds gone, not finished. Looking across the street, the piano bench was still vacant, although it was starting to fade. It was 5:30 p.m., 29th of May, the closing days of Autumn. It was getting dark; he’d arrive soon.

“Excuse me, Miss.”

I looked up, smiled, and dropped a fiver on the table. “Thank you.”

Taking the cup, I gulped down the last of the coffee. The cup rattled on the saucer as I stood, a lipstick smear marking its rim. I pulled my coat tighter around me, feeling the chill of the encroaching evening. The air carried the scent of rain and fallen leaves, a bittersweet reminder of the year slipping by.

He’d be here soon,  I looked left and right, stepping onto the street.  I needed to get to the nook before he started before he saw me.  I glanced at my watch, it was 5:45 p.m. He’d be here at 6, on the dot, I always wondered how he did that.  I moved up the stairs, into the shadow of the stoop.  My vantage point, I looked down upon the piano now.

Then I saw him, I couldn’t help but look at my watch, 6 p.m. 

A car turns onto the street, its headlights sweeping across him revealing his silhouette in its entirety.  He walked with a limp, it looked painful, it looked worse than the day before, maybe it was arthritis, the cold impacting him.

I’m sure he knows I’m here.

He sits at the piano bench and lifts the lid. Tapping, tinkling a key or two, getting his ear in.

He starts with Beethoven, Chopin, and Rachmaninoff. The classics.  Then Einaudi, Tiersen, Amalds, all contemporary, all international, Italian, French, Icelandic, how is that even possible?

It ends, and I’m freezing, I’ve been shivering for his last two songs, I can’t leave though. I’m sure he knows I’m here but then he doesn’t, I don’t know.  He’s stopped.

I look down, I watch worried at first that he hadn’t seen it, but he had, of course he had, I’d been leaving it in the same spot for weeks. He takes the twenty, pockets it, and then he is gone.

I descend the steps from my perch, stepping to where he’s just left resting my hand on the piano, watching his back as he returns the way he came, turning the corner and disappearing.

I know who he is, I remember, his repertoire might have changed, but it’s him.  The way he sits at the piano, gets his ear in, strikes the keys, moves.  I remember him, I remember him.

It’s my father.

Day 28 - Another Opening

The prompt for this day 28th of May 2024 was:

Take an opening line from a book you love and rewrite it to create a similar, but different opening for your story

That said, an opening I’ve liked in the past, so much so I’ve taken inspiration from the genre on two previous occasions Day 13, 2019, and in a longer short story ‘An Explanation’ in March of the same year. The following is an example opening paragraph from ‘The Big Sleep’ by Raymond Chandler.

It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handker-chief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.

And here is my take. Similar, but different:

The chair scrapped immediately to her right dragging her attention momentarily, it was the waiter, he smiled at her conveying several things but one.  She glanced back at her coffee, it was two-thirds gone, not finished.  Looking across the street the piano bench was still vacant, although it was starting to fade, it was 5:30 pm, the 29th of May, the closing days of Autumn, it was getting dark, and he’d arrive soon.

‘Excuse me, Miss.’

She looked up, smiled and dropped a fiver on the table, ‘Thank you.’

Taking the cup, she gulped down the last of the coffee. As she stood, the cup rattled on the saucer, a lipstick smear marking its rim.

She pulled her coat tight, flinging her scarf around her neck as the chill of the evening descended upon her.

Day 27 - A Retelling

‘What are you doing, woman!’ he screamed, spittle flying as he turned beetroot red and frothed at the mouth. ‘Out of my way!’

Marianne had run between the knight’s horse and the forest looming before him, blocking his path.

‘Stop! The creature has done nothing to you!’ she yelled, turning her back to the woods and waving her arms.

The knight pulled hard upon the reins. The grey horse stopped moving forward and pranced on the spot, its iron-shod hooves cutting divots into the sodden earth. Pulling the reins to the left, he caused the horse to spin anticlockwise as he whipped his head around, looking down at the woman before him.

She was small, or appeared so from his mount, dressed well, not wealthy nor a pauper, her long dark hair pulled back from her face and held by a leather thong. Hands raised, imploring him to stop. Fear and uncertainty showed on her face.

The two faced off, the knight getting his mount under control. He could feel it was still tense and anxious, its nostrils flared, pulling upon the reins, trying to loosen them to get its head free. He glanced beyond the woman into the shadows of the forest behind her, but saw nothing.

‘Move aside, woman!’

‘NO! Why are you here?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

‘I’m to kill the beast! To rid the village of the nuisance!’ he called again as he pulled the reins to the right, turning the horse again, trying to break its focus to calm it. The rump of the horse passing close to Marianne caused her to jump clear, closer to the forest behind her.

‘It’s not dangerous, leave it be.’

‘I can’t. I’m told it is taking stock, causing havoc for the village. They want to see it dead. I must free the village of the creature.’

‘It’s not killing the stock. It is harmless; it eats nothing more than the branches and leaves of trees.’

‘Rubbish, woman, that is not what the village says.’ His horse finally stopped, as the scare of the woman blocking its path faded, to the point that the knight sat into the saddle, easing the grip of his knees, further calming his mount.

‘They lie. They know it’s not the creature killing their stock,’ she pleaded. ‘They’ve seen the creature; they know it is not this creature that does the damage.’

‘I’ve seen the remains, girl. The cattle and sheep have been gorged, their throats ripped, fur and skin flayed by the beast.’ He scanned the forest behind her, trying to see and spy the creature. This was where the villagers had said it would be, in here, where the woodcutter's path entered the woods.

‘It’s not this creature, I swear. If you could see it, you would realise it is not possible.’

He looked down upon her, weighing up the situation, thinking. He’d gotten the village, in their fear, to agree to submit to the word of his god if he was to rid them of the beast. Yet here she stands, declaring its timidness, its innocence. How was it possible? Is she in league with the beast? His mind whirled as he tried to reconcile the bloodiness of the livestock they’d shown him with the woman standing before him.

‘Show me.’

Without asking, she turned and walked to a hedge at the edge of the path they were upon, reaching into it and snapping, tearing a branch free, a clump of leaves coming off with it. Walking towards the nearest tree on the edge of the forest, she thrashed the branches against the trunk and whistled, calling into the woods. ‘It’s okay, little one, you can come out.’ She shook the branch.

After waiting a minute, he was about to speak and declare enough, and then it appeared, extending towards the clump of leaves—a creature's head, easily the same size as his horse’s. Before the creature could bite the head of leaves from the branch, Marianne stepped away, taking the branch with her.

The creature stopped momentarily, its head tilting a little, and began to move forward. Revealing a neck that went for three to four feet before revealing the true bulk of the creature, it was enormous, its girth as large as two horses, its shoulder broad and an easy 18 hands high, higher than his mount, towering over the woman in front of it.

The horse's ears flattened to its head, whinnying. Again stomping, pulling at the reins, trying to get its head—to flee or attack, he did not know. He reined it in again.

Marianne shook the branch again, cooing, luring the creature further from the shadows of the forest. ‘See,’ she spoke over her shoulder towards the knight in a calm, semi-quiet tone, ‘no claws, not even teeth. There is no way this creature could have done the damage you’ve seen.’

The knight leant forward, patting his horse, talking to it quietly, calming it.

‘Can you lead it to the village?’

She looked at him. Could she trust him? ‘Why?’

‘If you want the creature to live, we need to show the villagers that it is not the killer. The most expedient way to do this is to show them.’

He looked alien to her, sitting atop the grey, his plate armour polished, the long pole rising 10 feet vertically from where it rested in the stirrup next to his right foot. His face, though, was human. She studied him.

‘You will need to help.’ She doubted it, what she’d heard of him before she even sighted him. Rumours said he did little; it was his lackeys, his squire, that did it all for him. Even now, she could see the squire in the distance, waiting, simply standing, watching from afar.

‘How?’

‘Go ahead, leave branches, lucerne, hay, anything you think would tempt a horse or cow. Leave it in the path, and we will follow.’

Without a word, an assumption of an unspoken command, he pulled the reins to the left, turning the horse, and walking it back towards his squire.

Marianne pulled the branch from the beast, having to tug it away, taking the opportunity to remove it as the jaw slackened whilst chewing. She began walking, following the direction the knight had taken. As she arrived at the point the squire had been standing, a carrot lay on the ground.

Breaking it in half, she held her hand out flat. The creature took it, crunching and eating, stepping forward, approaching her, nudging her, clearly wanting the second part of the carrot. Marianne smiled and walked on.

The carrot was followed by another, and as they passed through the orchards, apples took their place. The knight and his squire were nowhere to be seen, just the treats for the creature. This is how she proceeded, heading back towards the village.

Arriving mid-morning, she was surprised to see the fields leading to the town were unusually vacant, with no one working the fields, no driving of ploughs or drays, empty, as if it was the seventh day, the day of rest.

Getting closer to town, it became apparent why. The villagers who should’ve been in the fields were gathered in the town square, silent, waiting. In the middle of the square stood two troughs, one with water, the other burgeoning with heads of lettuce.

The creature paused at the sight of the crowd. Although they stood still, it sensed their presence, sniffing the air, hesitant. Marianne grew worried it would flee.

Standing to the right of the trough containing the heads of lettuce stood the knight, bereft of his horse, plate armour and lance. He stood in a padded leather doublet, trousers and fine boots, a sword sheathed over his left shoulder.

He bent and grabbed a lettuce, tossing it to her feet. ‘See if he likes lettuce.’

Marianne looked at him. He looked more human now, out of his armour and at the same level as herself. She nodded thank you to him, bent and picked up the lettuce. Turning, holding it high, she shook it towards the creature, which in its alert state had risen to its full height, three feet above where she held the lettuce.

The movement and the scent of the fresh lettuce grabbed its attention again, distracting it from the presence of the stilled crowd. It bent and took the lettuce whole in its mouth, returning upright, surveying the crowd, the sound of the lettuce crunching audibly as the creature chewed. Swallowing the lettuce, it sniffed the air, trying to discern the scents about it, searching for more of the sweet smell of lettuce amongst the smell of humans all about it.

Suddenly, it stopped sniffing, looking directly towards the trough of lettuce, and for the first time, broke from Marianne's lead and trotted about her directly towards the trough, bowing its head to take another lettuce. Again, returning to full height, looking about, surveying the crowd.

Swallowing, it bent down again and took another lettuce, returning upright to scan the crowd.

And another.

As it bent towards the trough again to get its fourth lettuce, the knight struck. Decapitating the creature in one fell swoop, severing its head immediately behind the skull.

The crowd broke into shouts and screams of horror, none louder than Marianne’s.

The knight shouted above the din, ‘IT IS DONE!’ thrusting both hands into the air, as if calling for the crowd's adulation, or upon his god for recognition.

‘IT IS DONE! NOW AS AGREED, YOU’LL BEND YOUR KNEE TO ME, YOUR LORD AND SAVIOUR, SIR GEORGE!!’

Day 26 - Backstory 'The Undertakers'

Harria and Uktar are two ex-lovers bound together by the decisions they’ve made. As thespians within the grand city of Waterdeep, they were lovers both on and off stage. However, they decided that acting was not profitable enough to achieve the wealth they desired quickly.

So, they began looking for ways to get rich fast. Their searches often turned back to their art, leading them to run some piecemeal con jobs in the city. These activities eventually brought them to the attention of Waterdeep’s underworld, particularly the notorious Xanathar’s Guild. Through their connections with the guild, they found themselves in the underground town of Skullport.

In the dark catacombs of Undermountain, they devised their latest money-making scheme: conning foolhardy adventurers lured by promises of unimaginable treasures. The ruse? Pretend to be vampires and threaten adventurers as they transition to the first level of the dungeon. To pull this off, they recruited several struggling thespians and stole make-up and disguise kits from the theatre they last worked with.

Their gang, known as the "Undertakers," has had some success, enough that each member has a bit of coin and occasionally ventures into the City of Splendours. However, tensions have arisen lately, with Harria and Uktar bickering over the future of their enterprise. They have even moved to opposite ends of their lair as communications have broken down between them.

When adventurers arrive from the south, they first encounter Uktar. Despite the tension with Harria, he continues the ruse, attempting to extort 10 gold pieces per adventurer in exchange for safe passage through this level to the one below. The challenge, however, is that they must bypass one or two Xanathar’s Guild outposts whose sole purpose is to prevent adventurers from descending deeper into Undermountain.

Here’s how the situation might play out:

• The Proposition: Uktar, the spokesperson, greets the adventurers as they enter, masking his surprise and casually engaging with them. He says, “Friends,” gesturing to several of his gang members, “I see we have adventurers among us, some new clientele.” Then, addressing the adventurers, he adds, “Presumption dictates that I offer you our services.” He gestures broadly at the gang. “My friends and I can offer you safe passage to the lower level for a mere 10 gold pieces each. This level, as shallow as it is, offers you nothing but trouble, as it’s been stripped of all treasure by your predecessors.”

• The Issue: If the party lacks sufficient gold, Uktar suggests they could pay with a ring or a magic item. The gang subtly spreads out as the discussion progresses, preparing for a potential fight.

• Bought Passage: If the adventurers pay the fee, the Undertakers lead them south, then east into the Grick Snack Watch, which inevitably results in a battle. The logic here is that the Undertakers must have come up from Skullport and must transit through here when wanting to spend their ill-gotten gains.

• Complication: The Xanathar’s Guild outpost is under strict orders to prevent adventurers from descending deeper into Undermountain, fearing it will disrupt their operations.

• Fight, Fight, Fight!: A fight is likely to break out (I will have to sprinkle a healing potion about). As the first gang member dies, another will break from the fray and run north to alert Harria of the trouble. If the tide turns against Uktar, both he and Harria will try to flee north. Let’s count this as when the party has killed 50% of the originating gang members.