tooth soup

photo credit: jurvetson

raptor/carnation/JC Denton

from Johanne’s prompt

The falconer stood on the edge of the roof, watching his protégé spiral down towards the graveyard. Gripped gently in her beak was a splash of red, the falconer’s contribution to the masses of wreaths and bouquets that already adorned the headstone. The body buried underneath that headstone had once belonged to the falconer’s wife, Jennifer, before she was selected to be the recipient of a consciousness transfer.

Nearby to the grave the reception was still taking place. Far from being a sombre affair, many of the guests were drunk and singing to the music that smashed the characteristic silence of the graveyard. The reason for revelry was seated at the head of a long dinner table, surrounded by security personnel. She was, outwardly, a stunningly attractive woman. But the falconer knew the truth. He knew that the mind of whoever that woman had once been was gone, erased in the same procedure that had stolen his wife from him.

Which was why, as the silver streak of his falcon released its payload above the party, the falconer took shelter behind the lip of the roof. The explosion was deafening. He waited a few minutes while the anguished shouts and moans quieted, before holding up his arm and whistling to the distant speck circling above the crater. The grace with which the falcon flew back towards his glove always stunned him. As he took the weight of the landing and fit the hood over the beautiful predator’s head, he leaned in and whispered. That’s it, Jen, time to go home.

photo credit: the noggin_nogged

man/swims/upstream

from Jon’s prompt*

The pale wash of dawn soaks the morning, rendering everything in an flat monochrome. The gentle push of wavelets caused by the man’s side-stroke is the only sound to break the stillness. His movements are not quite graceful, restricted as they are by the clothes he must drag with every extension of his limbs. Attached to his trailing arm is a rope, which is in turn attached to a makeshift raft that follows him in jerky spurts of movement. A box full of bottles, a spare change of clothes, a notebook, a pencil, and a knife. All stay afloat on planks of wood tied together with nylon fishing line.

He shifts course slightly; up ahead is a copse of treetops not yet rotten enough to disintegrate in the push of the current he is swimming against. As he passes them he notes the species of pine tree for recording in his notebook. Sugar Pine, Pinus monophylla. Pine trees have fared well in the floods, probably due to their soft wood and flexibility. But even their resilient fingers couldn’t offer a place of rest in the mirror-flat landscape stretching towards the horizon in each direction.

He knew there would be land soon. The hills that had defined his childhood would come into view by the end of the day if he kept up this steady pace. He could rest in an hour or two, beaching himself on his raft for a few minutes to let the burn fade from his arms. Not too long mind; he was swimming upstream and had no intention of taking two steps forward only to take three steps back. Perseverance was the key, that was what his father had always said.

—

*As a side-note, I did initially consider trying to write something that wasn’t about a man swimming upstream as a ‘fuck you’ to Jon’s evil mindfuckery. Eventually, though, I gave in and acceded to my brain’s constant referral to the scenario, but with the caveat that I would try and twist it a bit. So there you go.

No related posts.