Jan. 7 - written by Christopher Rohan

Week 5

1-3-22 - Prompt: Whisk

Jean’s heart was set on a tarte au pamplemousse meringuée. It wasn’t complicated, just took a little time and patience. The problem with most attempts at baking was a profound lack of patience and an arrogance that one could skip some steps. Jean was different. He had never made meringue, but knew that it would take a lot of work since he didn’t have a mixer. He always did like using old world techniques instead of the modern conveniences.

“Let’s get started,” he said to himself.

The tart needed gentle cooking, over water with slow, smooth movements to guarantee the right texture. He loved the slow methodology. It was meditative in a way. Mix it with the forethought needed to land the various parts in a timely manner so that all came together at their peak. He’d only just found an affinity for baking and it quickly became an affection.

The layers began to come together. Now the meringue. Jean took the remaining whites of the four eggs he had separated and with a pinch of salt in a large mixing bowl began to whisk vigorously. Beating eggs by hand is a chore and one finds the need to engage many techniques so that the arms do not tire too quickly. Jean started with an amateur’s circle and quickly noted that it was just swirling the whites. He adapted to a violent back-and-forth as bubbles began to form in the viscous liquid. Egg whites have great surface tension and the whisking will introduce a lot of air into the liquid. The tension traps the the air, forming bubbles, but they are large at the first. With continued effort the bubbles will sepparate into smaller and smaller until a micro foam is rendered, the air and tension combining to make a soft, silky texture.

Jean, at about half-whisk, added sugar. The sugar not only added sweetness to the concoction, but also the grit of it amplified the movements of the whisk. He shook his arm and decided to switch to his right. Awkwardness amplified fatigue and he decided to go back to his dominant left. The movements imediately matured. Now he whisked back and forth, in circles, then figure eights, then stars, and back to back-and-forths.

1-4-22 - Prompt: Caravan

The valley of Araf Zeniir was treacherous. It was cradled between the great heights of the Akhab Mountains to the north and tablelands of Sifanel to the south and east. The Akhab was a fortress. Even the rain could not cross its mighty walls, and the sun was unabated in its gaze upon Araf.

Sand was the only economy and it brought imbalance. Very little could survive, but what did grew greater than all else. The Bu’undiir were bulbous monstrosity, with twenty legs and hulking bodies. They burrowed in the grainual hillsides escaping the heat of the midday and the cold of the night. In the evening and morning they were deadly sentries. All others were trespassing.

This was the land set before us. With promise of fortune awaiting through the Western Breaches, where the sand could not penetrate, but caravan could, we set out, probably, to our doom. We were a caravan of fifty camel and thirty men.

Our camel carried glittering ore that our hills hoarded. Zo’or we called it. When rendered and formed it could not be unmade. The shape it took was the shape it stayed. Beyond this it shone in the sun of endless hue. Colors danced in its lustre. It was beyond compare in beauty and desire for all that lived beyond the sand.

We only cross the sand once. 

1-5-22 - Prompt: Fallen

Sam opened his eyes to the pain of assaulting light. Rays shifted as he squinted to ease the onslaught. It was all he should see. He closed his eyes again looking for releif, but the light still prevailed through blood vessels and skin. He rolled his eyes to hide them to no avail, then, blinking, he tried to raise his hands, but found that they wouldn’t move. 

What can I do? he thought as his mind trailed into the last things he could remember.

He loved to explore. His parents would scold him for always going a little further than they liked. Last he could remember he had resolved to go until he couldn’t. Both his parents had shifts in the digging and he had the next eight hours to trek paths they’d disapprove. He always went upward. The red lamps that filled the vast corridors had come to an end and still the boy continued.

Sam could see well enough even in the darkest room and this was no exception. It was always odd to his young mind that, though they all lived in darkness, they’d need even the red-hued lights. He had heard of creatures further below than they that had no eyes, their world so dark that sight was no advantage. For them it was no different, except that they’d made the lights. But all the stories said they’d lived in perpetual darkness.

Sam’s mind had swirled again with these thoughts as he continued climbing in the darkness, until, at last, turning a corner he saw the shape of the tunnel wrapped in a silver hue. he pressed on all the more eager to see what he’d not yet seen. 

The silver light wrapped around him as he rounded the turn. The way was shut before him,but his eyes were drawn to the floor. On it was cast light from another source, but so intense that it bounded off the stone onto the walls and roof. He walked around the beam, scared at such an instensity. Then gaining courage, he stepped closer. He thought of passing his hand through the light, but before he could, the floor beneath him started to shake and crumble. The last he could remember was falling before a knock on his head and blinding pain. His mind had retreated to the dark.

1-6-22 - Prompt: Steward

“This little urchin deliberately smashed my cart!”

The smell of fruit was stronger than the man’s accusations.

“Not true,” replied the small voice of a boy.

“Then how do you explain my fruit all over your filthy rags?”

“Yes,” replied the boy, “I smashed the cart . . .”

“You see!” shouted the fruitman, “he admits it!

“However,” continued the young voice, “it was not on purpose.”

Bashiir looked up from the large stack of papers that filled his humble desk beside the royal diases. The two made for a curious court. The man, large and round, had a cruel look , though his countenance said the look was unfamiliar. His garments would have been white, but for the speckles of smashed ruby red pomegranate seeds, splashes of squashed oranges, and pungent brown smirs of figs. 

The boy beside him was the opposite. Small and thin, all the markings of life in the cruel streets of the small capital. His clothes were browned with necessity but bore that same smattering of sweet fruit, their only communion.

“That is hardly an excuse,” came the fruitseller’s incompassionate reply.

“It may hardly be an excuse for the circumstance,” began the steward’s verdict, “but I ask you good fruiter, what do you propose as consequence?”

“Oh, uh,” stammered the man, “Revered . . .”

“Yes,” said Bashiir.

“I suppose he should have to pay.”

At this the boy’s face went pale, his mouth went slack and his eyes began to dart this way and that.

“How do you expect payment?” Bashiir asked.

“With coin, of course.”

“What coin? Don’t you see the child? I wouldn’t expect any coin on him. In fact, any that he’d have would just fall through the holes in his pockets.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“What was the value lost?”

“About fifty coin.”

The steward grabbed a small piece of paper and scribbled a brief note.

“Take this out the door and to the right. There the royal treasury will compensate you for your losses.”

“Oh, ah, thank you,” said the man as he took the slip and began to walk through the doors. Then, stopping, he turned, “and what about the boy?”

“Not your concern. We will handle him.”

The doors shut with a resonant thoomb.

The boy looked up at the revered steward now standing, as a sheepish grin crawled across his face.

“Truly,” began the reprimand with a tinge of disappointment, “one of these days Your Highness will be sorry for this rambunctious behavior.”

1-7-22 - Prompt: Serendipitous

Johnny was having the best day. He’d awoken to the sound of springtime birds chirping just outside his window, which is a very nice way to wake, just before his mom shouted up the stairs to tell him if he didn’t get up now he’d be late for school. His mom had made a healthy stack of pancakes with blueberries and maple syrup for the growing lad which filled him up completely alongside a tall glass of orange juice.

He quickly finished his breakfast and grabbed his school bag, then ran out to his bike. Off he went down Meribell Street with a quick right onto Main and a left onto Jacobsen Road and down the gentle slope of the dirt road. This was the back way. It wasn’t any faster, but it was his favorite. 

The wind was cold and made his eyes tear up as his tires crunched over rocks and twigs. He wiped his eyes on his sleeves and that’s when he saw a bright glint of morning sunlight amidst the glaring dew just inside the grassy verge. A sudden backpedal and his rear wheel stopped and sent the bike to skidding. Dirt and rocks flew though the air as he came to a halt.

The grass was tall and almost hid two silvery quarters. He glanced this way and that wondering if it belonged to anyone, but seeing no one he quickly snatched the dewy coins and shoved them deep inside his pocket.

The rest of the ride, and the rest of the morning were all rather normal. Science and arithmetic were the irritation they’ve always been to every young boy, no surprise there, but the quiz that he hadn’t studied for was canceled and the day ended early. 

He had completely forgotten about the shortened day. It was all planned and he remembered knowing about it, but sometimes plans forgotten then sprung upon feels like fortune.

So, with a spring in his step, Johnny made his way to the pharmacy to spend his newly found wealth on some well deserved candy. Mr. Gumble had a questioning look as Johnny spent a whole quarter on a chocolate bar, a lollipop, five hard candies, and a soda pop, but Johnny didn’t care in the slightest. He had some sweets and no adult judgements would keep him from enjoying them to the fullest.