Writing Challenges

Ice was hard to come by this far west, but my agent pointed me to this bar and said I’d have no trouble getting my whiskey on the rocks. It would be good character work, too. My accent was feeling a bit pantomime, and I had started to dress like an action figure – according to the trades. They were probably jealous.

Through the cliché saloon doors, past the intense gazes of the sparse patrons and the untrusting stare of the proprietor, it was quaint, and it was dry. When I opened my mouth to order a cold drink, all the moisture was instantly sucked out, giving the barman a chance to pre-empt me.

“Don’t I know you from somewheres?”

“I get that a lot,” I responded, in character. “Ever seen Best of the West? I’m the lead. My name’s Jack.”

“No, that ain’t it.” He clicked his fingers, held up a palm and walked into the back. I turned to share a raised eyebrow with someone, anyone, but they had turned back to their cups. A moment later the barkeep slid a can of dog food over to me.

“See, that’s where I know you from.”

The label pictured a fat basset hound with cartoonishly large eyes and white teeth. I coughed in surprise, discomfort, and sand.

“So what’ll it be?” He asked.

I made my order, he dropped a glass on the bar, then swore in a manner I had never heard before. Slow, spurred footfalls found their way in through the wooden shutters and the intake of alcoholic breath made the atmosphere suddenly alive.

“Twice-widowed spawn of a dickless devil,” he murmured.

The doors swung open, the floorboard creaked, and a man walked in with an unmistakable need to shoot something. In fact, he languidly drew his Colt Waddler from his holster and shot the bottle of whiskey I had just ordered from. Glass and unimbibed alcohol rained from the shelf, I dropped to the floor, and a customer dressed for the part walked out to face the newcomer.

“Whatchu doing here, Peso?”

“Seems I ruffled your feathers, Lawman.” Peso was a portly man with a large moustache, and a tan so dark it seemed he had been under the hot sun long enough to undergo the Mallard reaction.

“You’re all beak and no bite,” replied the patron, wearing a shiny badge declaring him the sheriff of these parts. “Go on, get.”

Peso lazily reloaded his revolver and slammed back the chamber. “You gotta stop calling me Peso. I ain’t no Spaniard.”

“You want us call you by your given name, Anus Biscuit?”

“No,” replied Biscuit. “I want you dead.”

He whipped his duck toward the sheriff, who darted forward, retrieving his own Peckmaker from its holster.

“Hey, not in here. You know the rules. There’s innocents.”

“No innocence at the bottom of a glass,” spat Peso.

“What about the dog?” The sheriff pointed at me, whimpering on the floor.

“I’m more of a cat person.”

“I’ll say,” said the sheriff. “You’re just a lil’ pu-”

The first shot cut him off. It went through the wall and produced a high squeal from someone in the outhouse outside. Within seconds they had taken loose cover and pointed their ducks at one another.

“Last chance, Peso. Leave and find some other town to malnourish, or stay and die.”

“Time to die.” His duck sputtered a staccato rhythm - Quack! Quack! Quack! - tearing up the upturned table the sheriff was crouched behind. The lawman’s own duck fired blind shots toward the intruder, flying high and migrating further under fire.

I refuse to elaborate on whether or not I wet myself at that moment.

Both revolvers were nearly spent, so each threw them at each other, which was not something I had ever seen when researching my current role. They clanged in mid-air and clattered to the ground. But not before the shooters had already aimed their backup ducks.

“Last last chance,” shouted the lawman over his tinnitus.

“What?” shouted back Anus Biscuit. His duck discharged its sickening charge, missing the sheriff by a village mile and nearly taking out a sleeping drunk.

The sheriff responded by jumping over the bar and taking a flying shot as he did so. He landed against the shelves, knocking the remaining liquor to the floor.

The previously abandoned weapons were sitting there on the dusty floor, just out of my reach.

“This is fo’ the murder of my mama,” said the outlaw, aiming his duck at the bar and firing all his remaining bullets into the cheap wood.

“I didn’t murder no mama,” said the sheriff, popping his head over the bar and attempting to duck down Biscuit with every bullet he had left. His right arm was bleeding profusely, but whether from a bullet or a shard of Jim Beam I was unsure. He managed to quack his enemy in the foot, causing him to fall to his knees. The sheriff came around to face him, dropping his spent duck by his feet.

“This gotta end here, huh,” he said.

“I guess it gotta,” was the reply. They both started reaching for a third duck in a third holster. It was clear that they were just winging it, going all ducks blazing in a saloon that was barely big enough for just one of them. I had a shoot in just over an hour – and this was getting out of hand.

I heroically rolled from my cover. Luckily, the nearby ducks were in a row, and I could grab them in one smooth motion. I pointed one at each man, arms out and feet planted. I looked like a real Christ figure.

“Get out of the way, dogman,” said Peso.

I turned both ducks on him.

“Say that again, I dare you.”

“I don’t remember what I said.”

“You said, ‘Get out of the way, dogman.’”

“What did you just call me?” he drew his third duck and took aim at me.

QUACK!

His skull shattered like so many bottles of whiskey, its contents soaking into the dry wooden floorboards.

“Thank you, dog,” said the sheriff, holstering his still-smoking duck.

“I am not a dog,” I said, now turning the yet-to-be-emptied ducks upon his person. “I am an actor.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your name?”

“Jack. Jack Russel.”

With blistering speed he drew a duckling from his sleeve. The tiny weapon was immediately pointed at my unopened skull.

“Any last words, dog man?”

“I only wanted ice,” I replied. “Just ice.”

With my final moment approaching, the world slowed. I saw in slow motion the muscles in his fingers twitch, the trigger being squeezed. I was so focused on that tiny weapon in the sheriff’s hand, I forgot what I was holding.

That was how I died.

I forgot to duck.

Jim cracked his knuckles and leant over the bar, ignoring the spilt ale soaking into his shirt sleeves.

“That,” he accused, “was the least funny joke I have ever heard. The setup deserved a much stronger ending that tied up the story all in one short sentence.”

“Let’s see you do better.”

In his cups Jim found truth, confidence, and potentially punchlines. “No problem – I’m the best jokesmith this side of the planet. Go on, give me a set up, and I’ll make you the perfect joke.”

Casper, his ever-present drinking buddy, took a thoughtful gulp from his pint.

“What did the lemon say to the pea at the funfair?”

“Seriously?” asked Jim. “That’s the best setup you got?”

“Why do you ask? Too difficult for you?”

“Seems childish.”

“Should be easy then.”

Jim finished off his drink and leant back. “Hmmm,” he started.

And continued.

“...mmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”

Casper’s mirthy grin faded as the hum continued. Jim’s face went from contemplation, to confusion, to concern.

“Jim?”

“Mmmm,” he responded.

“What’s wrong? Let it go, it was bound to be a bad joke.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“Jim! Are you breathing?”

Jim nodded. “Mmmmm.”

“Do I need to call an ambulance?”

“Mmmmm,” he thought for a moment. “Mmm,” he shook his head.

“You feel okay?”

“Mmmmm…”

“Is that all you can say, hmmm?”

“Mmmmm…”

“Um, would another drink solve it?”

“Mmmmm,” he shrugged.

“Try this,” said Casper, sliding over his dregs.

Jim took the liquid into his mouth, his gurgling hum continuing as he swallowed.

“Wow, um. Let’s get you home, shall we?”

“Mmmmm,” agreed Jim.

They left the pub and walked the darkened streets, the hum hidden under the babble of pedestrians and rattles of passing cars. Casper tried to change the subject, but it was of no use.

“...and then she divorced me for calling her foot jewelry bunion rings.”

“Mmmmm,” said Jim, unlocking his front door.

“Jimothy Taylor!” came a shrill voice from within. “You said you would be home by seven!”

“Mmmmm…”

“Don’t you ‘hmmm’ me!” Jim’s wife stepped out and tutted at the pair of them. “Get inside, dinner has been waiting on the table for hours! Jim Jr. is starving!”

“Mrs. Jim,” said Casper, proving he was a real friend. “Jim’s got a problem.”

“Yes,” she said as her husband hummed. "Me!"

“No, he can’t stop humming.”

“Shut up, get lost,” she said to Casper, and ordered Jim to get inside. Casper tried to catch his friend’s eyes, but failed. He walked home dejectedly.

“I’m going to refer you for a neurological evaluation, and also an appointment with the Ear, Nose and Throat clinic.”

“Are you sure he’s not just putting it on?”

“Mrs. Taylor,” answered the GP. “He’s humming in his sleep. There is clearly something going on. In my opinion, his cranium may be the perfect shape for resonating with 5G signals and amplifying them from this mouth. Now, Mr. Taylor, do you know sign language?”

Jim shook his humming head.

“Are you sure? That was perfect for ‘no’.”

Jim nodded. “Mmmmm…”

“Alright, well I suggest you and your wife start learning it, so that you can still communicate until this has been sorted out.”

Mrs. Taylor huffed, unwilling to concede her husband might be the unfortunate one. It came as no surprise that three weeks later she initiated a divorce citing ‘incessant humming’ and ‘lack of support for her creative side’ as the primary reasons. He moved in with Casper, who learned to harmonise with Jim’s hums, until meeting Susan who loved him for his personality. And the vibrations when she sat on his face.

The hospital recommended diet changes, exercise, and sleep, none of which alleviated Jim’s problems. In desperation, he visited a private clinic.

“What was the inciting incident?” asked the young doctor.

“We were messing around in the pub – he needed to come up with a punchline for a joke,” answered Casper.

“Mmmmm…”

“How much had he had to drink?”

“Uncountably many, sir.”

“I see.

“Jim, do you suffer from tinnitus?”

“Mmmmm,” he shook his head.

“Well, I’m stumped. At least you know sign language. Out of curiosity, what was the joke?”

“Something like, ‘What did the lemon say to the pea at the funfair?’”

“Hmm,” began the doctor. “Hmmm.”

“Uh oh.”

“‘I said citrus, not circus!’” the doctor offered.

“Terrible,” said Casper.

“Mmmmm,” agreed Jim.

“Then I’m at a loss. Did you recently swallow a swarm of bees?”

Jim shook his head. The doctor shrugged and prescribed some anti-anxiety meds. They had no effect, but the next step was obvious.

“Have you ever been hyponotised before?”

Jim’s constant hum pervaded as he signed no.

“No problem,” replied Seamus “The Mind Manager” Cotton, the first name under an online search for local hypnotists that did house calls. “I want you to sit back, relax, and close your eyes.”

“Mmmmm…”

“Perfect, it sounds as if you’re already relaxed. So let’s begin. Focus on the sound of my voice.”

“Mmmmm…”

“I am going to count down from five. Every time I say a number, your eyelids will grow heavier, your breath will become deeper, and your body will relax deeply. More deeply than you have ever relaxed before. Five.”

“Mmmmm…”

“Four. Feel your breath becoming deeper.”

“Mmmmm…”

“Three.”

“Mmmmm…”

“Two. When I say the next number, you will be deeply asleep.” He talked slowly, so that he could case the room for valuables while their eyes were shut.

“Mmmmm…”

“One. You are now asleep.”

“Mmmmm…”

“Tell me your name,” commanded Seamus.

“Mmmmm…”

“I see. You got the last part right. When I click my fingers you will no longer hum. You will be able to talk normally.”

The hypnotist clicked his fingers, and the steady hum continued.

“Was that all you had?” asked Casper after a moment.

“That’s all there is,” admitted Seamus, casually replacing Jim’s tablet that was halfway to his bag.

“Please leave.”

“It’s a £200 call out fee. This man clearly has a broken fridge syndrome.”

“What’s that?”

“A bad cold.”

“Mmmmm,” said Jim, pointing at the door.

“What haven’t we tried?”

“Mmmmm,” shrugged Jim.

“Maybe the doc was onto something. Maybe you just need to come up with the punchline.”

“Mmmmm,” said Jim, aggressively signing that he had been trying that exact thing for the past six months. Despite his best efforts, Casper had never quite learned sign language.

“I’ll get you a hot crossed bun in a minute,” he said. “Come on, you can do it. You said yourself that you’re the best jokesmith on the planet.”

“Mmmmm…” said Jim.

“What did the lemon say to the pea at the funfair?”

“Mmmmm…” he replied, shoulders slumped.

“What if I gave you an easier set up?” Casper thought aloud. “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

“Mmmmm…” Jim signed the obvious answer, and shook his humming head.

“Argh! Are you really a good jokesmith?”

“Mmmmmm,” he replied, nodding his head vigorously.

“Go on then! Tell me the punchline! Or is it too difficult for you?”

Jim hummed for a few seconds, then looked Casper dead in the eye.

“Easy peasy,” he said. “Lemon’s queasy.”

It started when she told me I was uncultured. That hurt twice - one, because we were from the same country, town, and foster home. Two, because I fancied her pants off.

“But it’s eight in the morning,” I said, pyjamaed and mid-breakfast. “I don’t think culture even starts until noon.”

“Mona Lisa was painted in the morning sun,” she replied. “You can tell because she looks like she just woke up. Like you do now, but less bearded.”

“Or she was just tired of Da Vinci’s bullshit.”

“Come on, Rael,” she pleaded. “It will be fun!”

“It’s the tiniest exhibit in the tiniest suburb of the second-largest city in the country,” I replied, and punctuated with a yawn. “No one will be there.”

“I will, and you will. And so will Sarah – you know she likes you.”

“Yeah, I know. Look.” I opened the kitchen junk drawer, took out a small pendant Sarah had given me the week prior and tossed it over to my infatuously gorgeous friend.

“It’s pretty,” said Mae, turning it over. The small heart-shaped locket glowed even in the fluorescent lighting of my kitchenette. “What’s inside? I can’t open it.”

I shrugged. I was never interested in Sarah; the only reason I was in full blush around her was because she was always around Mae – the woman currently banging the locket on the table in an attempt to open it. Eventually, she managed to unlock the pins keeping it closed. Bright luminescent fluid immediately spluttered out.

“Aerawgh!” she cried, throwing the pendant at me in shock. It trailed glowing goop as it flew across the table and into my cereal.

“I think you broke it,” I said. “And you owe me breakfast.”

She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and promised me pastries on the way to the art gallery. She wouldn’t let me leave in my pyjamas, so I pretended the day was already lost and put on my most flattering outfit hoping to win it.

The walk from the bus stop was long, hilly, and full of Mae trying to find leaves growing on the verges that were wide enough to wipe the glowing stain from her hand.

“It looks pretty cool,” I said, after the eleventh dock leaf made no difference. “Why don’t they make glowing tattoos?”

“It’s itchy,” she complained. “And it doesn’t go with my outfit.”

“I think you look great. Just wash it off in the bathroom when we get inside.”

We arrived at the gallery only after Mae had constructed a future where Sarah and I got a mortgage and a dog and invited her round for dinner. My future wife rushed over as soon as we entered and dragged us to her favourite paintings, none of which were recognisable as objects, emotions, or talent.

We hummed, said the requisite phrases about capturing this or deconstructing that, and eventually left for lunch. Sarah booked us a taxi into town and Mae not-so-subtly made us sit in the back together.

“So!” she exhuberated once the car was underway. “How many siblings do you have?”

I ignored her question and changed track. “What was in the locket?”

“Oh, did you like it?” she beamed. “I found it in a charity shop. Fifteen pounds!”

Now that I knew how much her affection was worth, I dismissed it completely and addressed my oldest friend. “Mae, is it still itchy?”

“A bit,” she admitted. “It’s started to get bumpy, I think I’ll go to the doctor after lunch.”

“We should go now,” I said. “It’s getting worse fast.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Why don’t you two get some food, and I’ll see you after?”

She was masterful, like a match-making samurai. But I was the blunt edge to her plans.

“No, I’ll take you.” I asked the driver to drop us off near the clinic, and said an early goodbye to Sarah.

I awoke. I was drowning, whether in tears or blood I did not know. All I knew was that part of me was missing.

The hunger was overwhelming. My protein chains strained and snapped like stalks of grass as I folded, moulded, broke, and rebirthed. I did not see, I did not hear. I existed only in hunger. Pure, unyielding need for something, for more.

I drank my poison bath, fixing its fat and minerals into my being. I grew only to consume more. So I ate. I ate, and I ate, and I could see.

“Even if you’re feeling better, you still need to finish the whole course.”

The doctor was overtired and clumsy, but we gained confidence from her nonchalance. She quickly prescribed Mae antibiotics and sent us on our way.

We had just reached her flat after deciding to watch Blade Runner over a popcorn lunch, and she was chastising me for making a bad fourth impression on her friend. I took it in silence, the words I couldn’t ruin our friendship with on the ledges of my lips. I kept my hand over my mouth just in case my resolve failed, but when Mae screamed, I screamed, too.

Her hand had latched itself to the handle of her front door and was glowing brightly. Beneath the faint light her skin was pulsating, undulating to some horrid biological rhythm. She couldn’t pull it back.

Without words, we tried, we pried, and we belatedly took the medicine. If anything, it got worse. She wouldn’t let me touch it directly – which I will always love her for – but she did use her other hand to smack me while I fumbled a call to the emergency services.

When the firefighters arrived, they scolded us for playing with glue and snapped the handle from the door and ordered us to get acetone from inside. I was unable to open the door without the handle, which earned me a round of laughter from the handsome heroes who had come to save my distressed damsel. Eventually it was managed, and had absolutely no effect.

The medic in their contingent had no answers for the writhing, glowing skin, so they rushed us to the hospital. Riding through traffic in a hail of sirens would have been fun, had it not been for the way Mae’s panic had become silent and insular.

The land was barren, as was I. No shape, just movement. Every molecule smashing into its neighbours, desperate to eat. My thoughts were as yet incoherent, dominated by one singular purpose.

I crawled from my birth until I hit a wall. My vision was dim, but with great effort I looked into my barrier, and found direction. I saw perfect form upon that obstacle, and followed suit. I forced strands of hostile matter into a cavernous maw, ripe for devouring anything in my path. Further material was shaped into a hypnotising blue marker above my gaping jaws. Fibres wove into huge muscles for leaping and chasing, into a long appendage from my back to alert me to less able predators. A bright, bloody halo around my head to scare my prey into submission, and big dark spikes to envelop my new orange thorax.

I became me, monster. Hungered hunter for that which was taken from me.

We were delayed getting into the hospital because of politics. This time some monarch was cutting the ribbon on a new wing, so their security team had to audit the fire engine as it sped to A&E. Once cleared, two firefighters insisted they should carry Mae in while I followed meekly behind.

“Mr. Kalah?” asked one of the firefighters. “Can you let them know what happened?”

I nodded, and went to find a nurse, who saw the firefighters and hopped up to help.

Mae was barely able to walk, either through panic-fatigue or this disease, but her arm was twitching and flexing, her fingers occasionally grabbing. They found purchase on a firefighter’s jacket which melted into her palm.

That was when we were quarantined, firefighters and all.

Shortly after that, the hospital was evacuated.

As far as I remember, Mae had backed herself against a wall and was quietly sobbing as the rest of us were told to put plastic suits and masks on. I kept my eyes fixed on my friend, and saw as she quickly stood, thrust her arms into the air and screamed. Blinding light concealed whatever was making the metal-on-metal screeching sounds, but did not stop the room from rocking under our feet. One of our group screamed, which set everybody running. I ran to Mae, but when I awoke I was trapped under a mangled hospital bed, a snapped strut embedded in my side.

“Mae!” I called, but she did not hear, or did not answer. She was a screaming beacon of panic, and I was stuck watching her light the world on fire.

With limbs I scurried and scrabbled into the world. Each passing creature was drawn into my being. I grew stronger, faster, hungrier. I fed until even the insubstantial metal creatures were no match for my strength nor appetite.

Then, finally, my hunger became secondary to another passion. The loss I was ameliorating was smothered by the need to seek. I felt the call, my other half.

I ran, and found no boundaries.

The scream was brutal, and it drowned my own shouts of fear and grunts of pain. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Plaster dust and charred fabric rained down, turning the air white and thick. Air rushed in through broken ventilation grilles, burned up by whatever had taken over my friend. Mae stood there, her arm replaced by some amorphous, candescent liquid hurricane that pulled her limp body from side to side as it quested and sparked.

The wall behind me collapsed as a giant, writhing tiger jumped through it, landing on the bed that had impaled me. The metal fused and flattened under its thundering step and sprung the strut out of my leg. Blood leapt from the wound and splattered on the tiger’s electric skin, sizzling as it was absorbed. It had black spikes jutting out from its body, eyes that screamed, frosting teeth that chomped at the air.

“Mae!”

This time I could hear my own scream, but neither the monster nor Mae reacted. The tiger was circling her, unsure of how to attack the paralysed woman. Her mutated arm had gone still.

The tiger took a scorching step forward.

“Mae!” I screamed again. Her eyes flickered.

I pulled myself up, and collapsed. I grabbed the metal skewer – now more of a huge, sharpened spoon – for support, and heaved myself up.

The tiger coiled, then sprang for Mae’s arm. With all my might I swung my spoon through the milky air and between Mae and the beast.

I managed a single step and used my remaining strength to fall into my love, her left arm severed clean off. Something switched, and she awoke in time to catch me as we fell to the floor. The tiger was ablaze, frothing over her radiant limb. It sounded as though acid rain was pouring onto a battery fire.

“Mae,” I whimpered weakly. “Get out of here…”

She looked around, oblivious to the blood seeping from our wounds. “There! Grate!”

She pulled us to one of the busted vents, and she wormed through.

My mistake was turning around.

My love had been corrupted. One of those pitiful beasts had commandeered that part of me, that missing piece. It was in agony, and so I was in agony.

I needed it. I needed to be complete. I did not want that corruption.

I leapt upon the fusion of myself and this foul plane, and found that the corruption was not total. I let my structures loosen, engrossing my found fragment. Reintegration was easy. It was satisfying. But it wasn’t everything.

The hunger remained.

The monster had collapsed into a pool of glowing, viscous venom. As I watched it, it saw me looking. I saw teeth form from the chaos, eyes, a bright blue nose. It was already up to knee height. I pushed myself up the wall as Mae weakly grabbed my ankle from the vent. As soon as I saw that red throat emerge from the goo, I fell toward it, swinging my spoon down upon it like a spade into hot butter. The heated impact bent the metal, creating an inverted bowl that fused to the floor. The monster was gone. I hallucinated Mae in my arms, sobbing, as the darkness came.

“She’ll be all right,” said the nurse. “But you should focus on your speech.”

“I have to make a speech?”

“Maybe, I dunno. They won’t be long, and you look great. Just relax and enjoy it.”

I gave her a weak smile and wished Mae could be with me. My leg was bound, and my arm had a tube snaking out of it. It was a good snake, though. It brought the fun kind of pain relief. I was in the new wing of the hospital, and the King had realised what a good opportunity this was.

His retinue came and rearranged the room, erecting flags to hide the medical equipment from the camera. I zoned out as he rambled and shook my hand, smiled as he took out a sword.

He summoned all of his gravity, which sobered me up enough to hear his last words before they called cut and left me to my own devices.

“I won’t ask you to rise,” he baritoned. “For saving this hospital, a true deed for the good of the realm, I dub thee knight, Sir Rael Kalah.”