“MUH.”
Genghis sat down, cracking one of the spindly wooden struts in the back of the chair. Steve had forgotten how big he was. Or maybe it was just that he was wearing a tuxedo. Steve regretted asking him to dress smart. For one thing, a tuxedo was way over the top. He’d suggested smart thinking Genghis would take that to mean smart casual. For another, he looked ridiculous. Bristly red arm hair stuck out of the shirt sleeves, which in turn stuck out from the jacket sleeves, which didn’t seem to have made it all the way over his freakish Popeye forearms. His raging neckbeard poked out around the collar like a ruff. All in all, he looked like an orangutan wearing a penguin. It was not a pretty sight.
“Hey, man,” said Steve, putting out a hand. “It’s been too long. What have you been up to.
Genghis didn’t accept Steve’s handshake, but answered politely enough: “GRUHP.”
“A night class in public health, you say?” Steve made a show of looking impressed. “How interesting. Uh, Emma, you said you did public, uhh...public...”
“Public footpath administration?”
“Public footpath administration!” Steve nodded furiously. “Yeah! So that’s...you know...they’re both public. That’s something in common.”
“Well,” Emma looked up as she thought about it. “That was really supposed to be more of a temporary thing.” She leaned over to Genghis as though confiding in him. “My real passion is parkland bench allocation.”
“FUH.”
Emma giggled. “I know, right? But you’ve got to do what you love.”
There was a pause.
“So, what do you like to do?”
“MUHL...” Genghis turned to her. “IPF GRAHRL BUFSNUH, BUH MUHRNURMUH, SNAH?”
Emma leaned over to Steve. “I didn’t catch that...” she whispered.
“He says he travels a lot. This one time he went to Samarkand, and he got all the local people out in front of the city gates, and he...”
“SWAK! SWAK!” Genghis Khan made chopping motions with his massive slab of a hand.
“...he chopped lots of...wood.”
“IPF GRAPF BUH MURNUH!” He laughed, clutching his belly.
“And then as a symbol of his victory...over the wood...he built a huge pyramid out of...cabbages.”
Emma sat listening intently, clearly waiting for Steve to translate more.
“Everyone had a wonderful time.”
The wine arrived. The waiter poured a glass to taste. Genghis very thoughtfully and ceremoniously passed it to Emma. Then started chugging from the bottle.
“And one for us, please,” said Marlene, not missing a beat.
However, any chance of a quiet meal was shattered when Genghis (who had already finished the wine) stood up, made his way over to the lobster tank, and returned with a crustacean in each hand.
“UNGF BUH BRAAH GRUUG,” he explained apologetically, taking a big bite of lobster.
“Oh, Genghis. I’m sure you can miss your night class just this once!”
“NUH.” The rest of the first lobster disappeared.
“We’d really love it if you could stay,” added Marlene, in a tone that suggested she understood that he desperately had to leave and would sadly be unable to embarrass her further.
“NUH.” Genghis shook his head sadly. Standing, he gave Steve a bone-crushing hug. Marlene wisely remained sitting to avoid this.
“Well,” said Emma, who was apparently not so wise, “it was really nice meeting you. Maybe we could get together some...”
“MYAH!” Genghis Khan kissed her passionately with a mouthful of raw shellfish. “GOODBYE.” He waved with the remaining lobster as he shouldered his way back out the door.
The table was silent for a minute.
“Wow,” said Emma, at last, wiping shell fragments from her face with a napkin.
“Emma,” began Marlene, “I’m really sorry...”
“In retrospect,” Steve interrupted, “I probably should have mentioned...”
“I know, right?” Emma beamed. “He is such a free spirit.”
“Say what now?” Steve and Marlene said it in unison.
“I think...he completes me. Oh, but I never got his number!” And she ran out the door.
The table was silent once more.
“Well,” said Steve, in a rare position to say “I told you so.” “I think that actually went rather well, don’t you?”
Marlene signalled the waiter. “Cheque please.”
10
The Fantabulous Clown Machine of Roger’s Discount Circus
Challenge #5: Write a story of exactly 527.5 words, featuring a circus as an integral part.
“Roll up, roll up!” bellowed Sillywig Stevenson, gesturing with his cane. “See the Fantabulous Clown Machine: capable of inflating thirty-eight balloons per min...erm, hour, and with a repertoire of...several theatrically distinct pratfalls.”
“This R-valve’s getting awfully hot!” came a voice from inside the machine.
“New to Roger’s Discount Circus,” he added, with a flourish of his hat, “the Clown Machine will occasionally utter such gems as ‘Ouch, my face!’ and ‘Let me out!’ Guaranteed hilarity! Ah-hah-hah...”
The audience were not impressed.
“Why don’t you give these nice people a wave, Benn...I mean, Clown Machine!”
The Clown Machine’s arm flapped to and fro in a less than fantabulous manner.
“And how about a pie?” Stevenson winced at the less than elegant segue into the machine’s next bit.
The clown machine flung the confection more into its shoulder than its face. “Ta-daa,” came the voice from within.
There was a patter of polite but ultimately quite disheartening applause, accompanied by someone muttering “Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.” The small crowd moved on.
Bignose Benny’s head appeared from a hatch in the clown’s posterior. “When’s it going to be my turn?”
“To stand out here exposed? In the open? Where anyone might recognise you from that regrettable incident in London Superior? No no no, my most dear friend. Rest assured, it will never be your turn. I am resigned to accept the slings and arrows of these uncultured...non-Londoners.” He shuddered.
“Hey!” shouted Manny the Bearded Maiden.
“No offence,” added Stevenson.
“But if anyone’s going to recognise anything from that mechanical clown rampage, surely it’s going to be the clown? And...I’m inside it. So it seems like you’ve got the safe job.”
“Of course it seems that way: your job is deceptively safe, mine’s deceptively dangerous.” He spread his arms. “That’s the beauty of it.”
“Yeah, okay.” Benny conceded this was true. “But I really think we should at least do something about this R-valve.”
“Do what, exactly?” Sillywig Stevenson booted the crate of scrap tucked away behind the clown machine. “In case you haven’t noticed, mechanical clownery just doesn’t bring in the same kind of dosh it did two years ago. It’d be hard enough to pay for parts even if we could find them in this godforsaken armpit of a county.”
“Hey!”
“No offence.”
“What?” Manny stroked her beard. “I didn’t say anything.”
Stevenson looked past the bearded maiden, and was dismayed to see a blue policeman’s helmet approaching through the crowd.
The face underneath it did not look pleased. “I’d recognise that clown anywhere!”
“Now now, officer,” Stevenson lifted his hands. “There’s no need for that truncheon, I’m sure.” He turned to Bennie. “Fire up that engine!” he hissed. “Full steam pressure!”
“I really don’t think it’ll take that...”
“Just do it!” He turned to the policeman again. “I’m afraid we’re in the middle of a performance here. This one’s called...HIT IT, BENNIE!” He clambered onto the clown’s shoulders, laughing maniacally.
“Erm...” called Bennie, over the thrashing of th
e engine. “I really, really think we ought to do something about this R-valve...”
“Hm?” Stevenson peered down through a gap in the clown machine’s neck. “Oh, for fu...”
The explosion was fantabulous.
11
The Dragon and the Golden Man
Once upon a time there was a thief named Rashid. At first he found great wealth and had many wondrous adventures, but as his fame spread people began to grow wise to his tricks, and Rashid grew hungry. One day, having not eaten anything for a considerable time, he did something he had wanted never to do: he crept inside the great burial mound that lay not far out of town, and which all knew to be cursed.
Within the mound, which was ringed round by standing stones, Rashid found vast piles of treasure. The thief needed no torch to see the riches he had discovered, for the quantity of gold there was so great, its lustre so brilliant, that it gave off its own light. However, though hungry, Rashid was not foolish. He took only a single golden cup, that surely could not be missed. And so Rashid stole quietly away, and neither wraith nor fiend nor devil pursued him from that place.
First, Rashid took the golden cup to the jeweller. “Look at this fine cup I found in the desert,” he said, presenting it to her. “Surely you can appreciate its worth.”
“Indeed I can,” said the jeweller, “and I would pay handsomely, had it been brought to me by anyone but a thief.”
Second, Rashid took the golden cup to the merchant. “Look at this fine cup,” he exclaimed. “A djinn appeared from the ground and presented it to me, but I would much rather have some bread. Perhaps you would like to trade?”
But “No no no,” said the merchant, mopping his brow. “You are a thief, Rashid. A thief and a trickster. If this cup is not stolen, it is cursed.”
Finally, Rashid took the golden cup to the king. “Eminent Highness,” he said, bowing, “I...”
“Leave my palace or I will have you thrown in jail,” said the king.
And so Rashid beat a hasty retreat.
But the true danger was already upon him, for as night fell, a great dragon awoke within the mound. Knowing that some small part of its hoard was missing, and catching the scent of man about the place, it flew screeching for the city lights on the horizon.
The dragon flew above the houses, raking their roofs with its vicious claws and spewing flame down into the streets. “Bring to me my treasure before the sun rises,” it cried, “or I shall burn this city down!”
As soon as they heard this, the jeweller and the merchant and the king all realised what had happened, and before long everybody was tearing through the streets with torches and spears, desperately seeking Rashid.
But no sooner than he had been driven from the palace, Rashid had gone back to the jewellers shop and—having let himself in—begun to melt down the golden cup. The cup was trouble, that was plain enough. But surely no shopkeeper could find fault with a few shapeless blobs of gold.
However, though the golden cup was small and unassuming, it held a secret unmatched by any other treasure of that desert mound. As the final remnants of the drinking vessel’s form melted in the crucible, a face appeared in the molten metal.
“Thank you, kind stranger!” said the face, with a peculiar golden voice. “Thank you for freeing me from the chalice!”
Rashid stumbled away from the fire. “Who are you?”
“I was once a hero,” explained the face of gold, “sworn to defeat the dark priest who dwelled within the halls of the dead. But I was found wanting: he cast a spell upon me, and for a thousand years I have remained sealed in that cup.”
At that moment the jeweller burst in, for she had realised at last what Rashid must have done. “There you are!” She slapped Rashid soundly. “A terrible dragon sits atop the palace and has threatened all kinds of things, should its cup not be returned before a new sun rises.”
“That is no dragon!” exclaimed the hero in the gold. “Long have I watched with emerald eyes: that is a noble princess, who was also cursed. Always is she doomed to watch over the dark priest’s hoard, for if it should be divided from her when the sun rises, she shall surely die.”
This, the jeweller thought, was even worse than the city being razed, since the princess was blameless. She turned to Rashid. “See what your thieving ways have done?” And she slapped him again for good measure.
But Rashid’s thieving ways were not all bad, for he had cunning. “Wait!” he shouted. “Bid the townspeople bring the whole hoard here, to your shop. I see a way that all can be resolved.”
So, after some coaxing, the jeweller did this. And after more coaxing, the king agreed. A great procession filed forth from the city, and before even the faintest touch of dawn had lit the sky, every treasure of the mound was gathered in the jeweller’s shop.
“Now,” said Rashid, “The hoard is with the dragon, and the dragon with the hoard, and this is good.”
This time, it was the king’s turn to slap Rashid. “Is this dragon to perch atop my palace forever?” he cried. “This is not good at all!”
But Rashid was more cunning still. He bade the jeweller devise a vast and wondrous mould, and pour into it all the melted gold of the dark priest’s hoard. And when this was done, all the people of the town saw at last what Rashid had devised. Because what emerged from that clay form was no mere trinket, but a hero’s body all of gold, as well proportioned as any statue, and as intricate as any clockwork.
And so both the dragon and the golden man were free from the necropolis at last. Though each is bound to the other’s company, neither much minds. And neither do the jeweller and Rashid, who were wed not a week later.
12
Sicklefox
Challenge #6: Write a story for a child encouraging them not to tell lies.
Once upon a time there was a naughty boy. He was about your age, if I’m not mistaken. This naughty boy loved to run and jump and play with his friends, but more than anything he loved sweet things. So when he spied the baker coming down the street with two trays of iced buns, he wasted no time in running over to him.
“Aren’t you afraid carrying all those buns?” asked the naughty little boy.
“Afraid?” asked the baker. “Of course not—why would I be?”
“Why,” lied the naughty boy, “because Sicklefox likes nothing better than iced buns, and I hear he is nearby. If he finds you, he’ll cut out your tongue and eat it.”
The baker stopped. This was new to him, but all had heard tales of Sicklefox and all knew them to be true.
“Perhaps I should take half,” said the naughty boy, “and walk a ways behind, so that Sicklefox will only be half as likely to smell either of us.”
The baker said that this was wise, and said that the naughty boy could have one bun for being so helpful and brave. But the naughty boy took two: one he stuffed into his mouth, the other into his pocket.
It was not long after the iced buns were delivered that the naughty boy spied the grocer coming down the street with two baskets of juicy apples. When the naughty boy saw this, he wasted no time in running over to him.
“Aren’t you afraid carrying all those apples?” asked the naughty little boy.
“Why, no,” replied the grocer. “Should I be?”
“I would,” lied the naughty boy. “I hear Sicklefox is nearby, and that he likes nothing better than juicy apples. If he finds you, he’ll cut out your tongue and eat it.”
The grocer stopped. He had not heard this exact tale before, but he had heard a great many tales about Sicklefox, and knew these to be true.
“Perhaps I should take half,” said the naughty boy. “That way, Sicklefox will be only half as likely to smell either of us.”
The grocer thanked the naughty boy profusely, and said that for being so very helpful, he could have one juicy apple. But the naughty boy took two: one he stuffed into his mouth, the other into his pocket.
It was not long after the apples were delivered that the naughty boy
spied the confectioner coming down the street with two boxes of sticky caramels. The naughty boy wasted no time in running over to him.
“Aren’t you afraid carrying all those caramels?” asked the naughty boy.
“Well, no,” answered the confectioner. “Why should I be?”
“Because,” lied the naughty boy, “I hear Sicklefox is near. He likes nothing more than sticky caramels, and if he finds you he will cut out your tongue and eat it.”
The confectioner trembled to think of this. He had not heard that Sicklefox liked caramels, but he had heard of Sicklefox, and the news troubled him greatly.
“Perhaps I should take half,” said the naughty boy. “Then Sicklefox will be only half as likely to smell either one of us.”
And so the confectioner was very grateful, and said that the naughty boy could have one sticky caramel for being such a help. But the naughty boy took two: one he stuffed into his mouth, the other into his pocket.
It was not long after this that the baker and the grocer and the confectioner got to talking, for they had all been delivering their goods to the same party. And as each in turn told his tale, they realised they had been tricked. But the naughty little boy was nowhere to be found, because he had run to the woods at the top of the hill to enjoy the feast in his pockets.
The naughty boy was just about to tuck into the iced bun when he heard a voice from quite nearby.
“That smells very tasty indeed,” said Sicklefox, drawing a whetstone along the blade of his sickle.
Now the naughty boy was afraid. “If you think it smells tasty,” he said, “you can have it.” And he held out the iced bun to Sicklefox.
“Mmm...” Sicklefox sniffed at the sweet icing and moist bun, whiskers quivering. “Yes, this does smell good. But I couldn’t possibly eat your only bun. Have you had one yourself?”
“No,” lied the naughty boy, “I have not.”
“Well then,” said Sicklefox, “I shan’t have that. But I smell something else very tasty indeed: have you a juicy apple in your pocket?”
Quickly, the naughty boy offered it to Sicklefox. “If you think it smells tasty,” he said, “you can have it.”
“Mmm...” Sicklefox sniffed at the apple, its crunchy flesh and bright red skin. His nose twitched. “Yes, this does smell good. But I couldn’t possibly eat your only apple. Have you had one yourself?”