Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Dim Sum ❯ Second Course ( Chapter 2 )

More little bits of nothing. I forget these after writing them just as fast as you forget them after reading.

 

#6: Fashion- Aged

 

I hear them whispering in the market:

 

`Look at him.'

`Can you imagine, wearing that in this day and age?'

`I never knew people actually wore those.'

`My granddad used to tell me about them; didn't know they still existed.'

 

Only a few are rude enough to point, but the whispering is bad enough. It wasn't so long ago that we were all still close enough to consider everyone family and no one's dress was considered odd. Now there are people whose names I don't know, people I know only as names, and (I suspect) even people who don't know about me.

 

I wear what I've always worn. It's comfortable and shows no sign of wearing out even though it's almost as old as I am. I suppose something of the Garden has remained with it through the years, and I'm glad of it. Figs don't grow here, and no one has found one nearby, so I don't know what I'd wear if it wore out.

 

The fact that the young ones have never seen a fig tree doesn't bother me half as much as the ridiculous idea of changing what they wear for no reason at all. Some leaves are only in season for part of the year and are only worn then. But yesterday I saw a woman wearing a skirt of holly! And I overheard another say that `laurel is so last month. Everyone's wearing ash now.' I think I've lived too long if I've lived to see a time when people think more about what they wear than how they will eat.

 

 

#7: Joy- News

 

Victory! All the news channels are proclaiming the Selvan surrender. The Navy smashed their fleet at Ragash II and a mad dash to their homeworld found it undefended. Not even a tugboat remained in their shipyards and they had no orbital strongholds. Their Emperor gave the surrender order almost as soon as communications were established. And so ended the decades-long war between the two great galactic leagues. Images of our shining ships and valiant soldiers fill every channel; old war movies from Earth, Taura, and all our allies are played for the first time in centuries.

 

The newscasters are late. My friends in the service sent me word as soon as it happened, days ago. The latest messages say that no serviceman is buying his own drinks, meals, or women from Earth to Selva. There's dancing on the streets on a dozen worlds, and public holidays planned for more. My friends also asked me to pass the news on to their girls- the ones who hadn't moved on. But for me, the war ended when I lost my legs at Misha, and I can't help but think of the ones who aren't here to hear.

 

#8: Children- Morning Games

 

The windows were frosty and a foot of snow lay on the ground- or would have been if it had been Christmas somewhere further north. Here, the palm trees swayed in a gentle breeze and the air was barely chilly as the sun peeked over the horizon. Even so, children charged down the stairs to the little plastic tree with its string of lights and red glass globes. Among the brightly wrapped packages piled under the tree was a broad, flat box that turned out to have a single word in big red letters written across the top.

 

And because even small things are inevitable, the parents came downstairs to a crowd of children shouting, `Daddy, Daddy, will you play with us?'

 

The father answered, `After breakfast.' And so the box sat on the counter while the kitchen filled with the smell of bacon, eggs, pancakes, juice, and coffee. The children ate quickly, since the sooner they were done the sooner they could play. Father sent them into the living room to set up the board while he finished up. The oldest two, who knew how to read, immediately took charge. Paper money was distributed, cards were shuffled, and little plastic bags torn open.

 

When Father came out of the kitchen, the children were already sitting around the board with piles of money and little metal tokens on `Go.' He chose his own token and they rolled the dice to decide who went first. And soon enough, the conversation started to resemble every other that had taken place around that board:

 

`No, William, you have to own all the properties of that colour to build.'

 

`And how am I supposed to do that if those two the ones on either side?'

 

`How much are you willing to pay?'

 

`I'm not selling.'

 

`That coffee should've been Irish' (This under his breath to avoid the inevitable question and his wife's wrath).

 

 

#9: A Playboy- Archives

 

Brother Beaumont looked carefully to either side before turning the key and pushing the door open. It turned silently on well-oiled hinges and he slipped into the vault. Here, rumour said, were hidden certain ancient texts written before the Hammer fell. None of the whisperers knew just what they were: some said they held designs for the weapons that had destroyed the world, others the secrets of a sorcery blacker than the ancient science. However, Brother Archivist often took brandy for his insomnia and slept soundly enough for someone to take his keys.

 

By the light of his candle, Beaumont could see long shelves lining the walls, and a table set near the door with a small candelabra. He set his candle in an empty socket and pulled a volume at random from a shelf. It was a thin, floppy thing, printed on glossy paper that had aged surprisingly well in the cold climate- what the ancients called a magazine.. He opened it and gasped: it contained images of naked women! A little searching along the shelves turned up more of the same, along with texts by various heretics and atheists in the Church's Catalogue of Forbidden Books. The Catalogue had been maintained even though most of the texts had almost certainly perished, leaving no more than a title and a denunciation.

 

Beaumont returned to those archives several times over the following months. On his last visit, he stepped through the door as always, but stopped short when he realized the candelabra had been replenished lately- and lit. The abbot was sitting at the table with one of the magazines lying closed in front of him. He rose slowly and said, `Brother Beaumont, so you are the one who has been sneaking in here to drool over these lascivious images.'

 

The young monk blanched and stammered out the age-old formula for one caught in such a situation: `M-M-Milord, I swear, I only read them for the articles!'

 

 

 

#10: A Dance

 

`May I have this dance?' I felt a light tug on my arm and slowly returned to consciousness. I shook my head and stammered out something resembling an apology.

 

`Wha- I- I'm sorry. I didn't notice you there.'

 

`You were asleep, weren't you? I've never met anyone who could sleep with his eyes open while standing up.' She giggled behind her pale blue fan. I vaguely remembered her as the daughter of one of my father's business associates; the gossips considered her charming but eccentric.

 

`Please don't tell Mr. Sullivan. I think he believes I was just waiting for someone.'

 

`I think you know the price I'll ask. The musicians have finished their drinks.'

 

`I'm surprised they can keep time after so many numbers and drinks between them.'

 

`That only makes the dance more challenging. Now stop stalling and take me to the floor.'

 

`As you command, milady.' It occurred to me just then that two people could get along very well without knowing each other's names- I had forgotten hers after our introduction and I did not doubt she had done the same. As she predicted and I feared, the musicians kept a peculiar beat that seemed quite irrational. I stepped on her foot at least once, she stepped on mine at least twice, and that was better than the couples next to us.

 

When the music stopped, I bowed her and took my leave. She asked, `You've forgotten my name, haven't you?'

 

I smiled and returned, `Do you remember mine?'

 

`No, but everyone knows it's different when men and women forget things.'

 

Notes

#6: I would like to claim that this is a little inspired by some of Mark Twain's writings on Biblical characters. He did it rather better than I do, though.

 

#9: Apologies to Walter M. Miller for borrowing a bit of the premise for A Canticle for Leibowitz, but I've always wondered: Just what would a group of monks like the Albertian Order of Leibowitz do with a Playboy or similar publications?

 

#10: I use irrational in the mathematical sense of a number that cannot be written as a ratio of whole numbers. Musical meter is usually written as 3/4 or 2/2 and so on.