A Tale from the North Pole

Discussion in 'BOARDANIA' started by sampanna, Oct 17, 2010.

  1. sampanna New Member

    I started this, dropped it, restarted it many times in my head. Its meant to be a short story - but the only hope I have of completing it is if I post here in small chunks. So here goes ..



    The man at the end of the bar was flickering. And I don't mean that in a figurative, philosophical manner – he really was flickering. One moment I could see him, the next moment I couldn't. I wasn't drunk, but I wasn't sober either. If I was, I wouldn't have leaned across the counter, hooked a finger at the bartender and asked him if he could see the flickering man himself. His reaction was the first inkling I had that something was amiss – the bartender, a stoic, stereotypical bloke polishing a mug with a cloth that could still bend started, looked in the direction I pointed and then snapped at me to finish my drink and leave. That didn't work of course, I don't think it ever has. I picked up my drink and walked over to the end of the bar. The man saw me approach, but he didn't react much. Only when I sat down next to him did a vague panicky look enter his eyes. He looked away, flickered, and looked at me again. When he was convinced that I wasn't really a figment of his imagination, he shrugged his shoulders and said “The damn cloaking device is malfunctioning again, isn't it?”

    I nodded. He then fumbled around his belt, and stopped flickering. “I suppose it doesn't matter much at this point” - the rest of the bar was empty - “besides, its not like I owe him anything now”. This wasn't making much sense yet. I looked at him more closely – he was a big, burly fellow – unshaven, with the beginnings of a paunch. And this close, there was a distinctly earthy smell that you couldn't help notice. “You mush be wondering who I am” - I nodded again - “I am ..” He paused, and looked into his drink. After staring it down into submission, he took one long gulp from the mug. Fortified, he looked at me again and repeated “I am the reindeer keeper”. I must have looked confused, for he added “You know, Santa Claus, reindeer and all that? I am in charge of the stables. My name is George”. “Sam” I said, sticking out my hand, “pleased to meet you”. There was a long pause – neither of us had much to say. Curiosity finally got the better of me though, and I asked “Why doesn't it matter much anymore? Sounds like a good job – you are part of the legend, aren't you?” George snorted. “Do you really think so? How many times have you heard of George, the stable keeper?”
  2. Maljonic Administrator

    I never expected a reindeer person. I like the atmosphere you've created in the bar.

    It would be easier to follow if you put each new spoken sentence on a new line, especially when it's different people speaking.

    I wouldn't want too much grammar-picking to get in the way of a good story, but when 'its' is short of 'it is' it should have an apostrophe in it. For example, 'it's a nice day..' I am a bit too obsessed with apostrophes, so I might notice it more than a lot of people. :)
  3. Katcal I Aten't French !

    Nice start, Sampanna, keep it coming...
  4. trees New Member

    Pterry also seems interested in apostrophies so you are in good company.
  5. spiky Bar Wench

    Speaking of apostrophies there was a student whose name started with an apostrophy in the graduation ceremy I went to recently. I don't know where it would be listed alphabetically :)
  6. sampanna New Member

    I finally finished it, sort of. I just added a little more - it's all of one and a half pages if printed.
  7. sampanna New Member

    A Tale About Christmas

    The man at the end of the bar was flickering. And I don't mean that in a figurative, philosophical manner – he really was flickering. One moment I could see him, the next moment I couldn't. I wasn't drunk, but I wasn't sober either. If I was, I wouldn't have leaned across the counter, hooked a finger at the bartender and asked him if he could see the flickering man himself. His reaction was the first inkling I had that something was amiss – the bartender, a stoic, stereotypical bloke polishing a mug with a cloth that didn’t bend, started, looked in the direction I pointed and then snapped at me to finish my drink and leave.

    That didn't work of course; I don't think it ever has. I picked up my drink and walked over to the end of the bar. The man saw me approach, but he didn't react much. Only when I sat down next to him did a vague panicky look enter his eyes. He looked away, flickered, and looked at me again. When I kept staring and he realized that I wasn’t going away, he shrugged his shoulders and said:

    “The damn cloaking device is malfunctioning again, isn't it?”

    I nodded. He then fumbled around his belt, and stopped flickering.

    “I suppose it doesn't matter much at this point” - the rest of the bar was empty - “besides, it’s not like I owe him anything now”.

    This wasn't making much sense yet. I looked at him more closely – he was a big, burly fellow – unshaven, with the beginnings of a paunch. And this close, there was a distinctly earthy smell that you couldn't help notice.

    “You must be wondering who I am” - I nodded again - “I am ..”

    He paused, and looked into his drink. After staring it down into submission, he took one long gulp from the mug. Fortified, he looked at me again and repeated:

    “I am the reindeer keeper”.

    I must have looked confused, for he added:

    “You know, Santa Claus, reindeer and all that? I am in charge of the stables. My name is George”.

    “Sam” I said, sticking out my hand, “pleased to meet you”.

    There was a long pause – neither of us had much to say. Curiosity finally got the better of me though, and I asked:

    “Why doesn't it matter much anymore? Sounds like a good job – you are part of the legend, aren't you?”

    George snorted.
    “Do you really think so? How many times have you heard of George, the stable keeper?”

    “There are just ten of us” said George. “Long hours, back breaking work, and tonnes of reindeer poop to clean up. Two hundred blasted beasts to feed, clean and brush – not to mention the repeated nips from sharp teeth when I have to paint a nose. Sometimes you can’t tell one red from the other”.

    And so the evening trailed off into the night. The bartender kept the drinks coming, and George kept talking. About being on duty all hours of the day, the special jobs he had had to do, the scorn and abuse of the “skilled” elves, and so on. Around 4 am, when the first blush of dawn was trying to make its presence felt through grimy, stained windows, I asked him again:

    “You never answered my first question – why doesn’t it matter anymore? I mean, that statement implies it mattered at some point – what changed?”

    “Budget cuts. He could keep the free drinks and snacks for the elves, or he could keep old George. I’ll be relieved of my duties at the end of the month. Relieved. Humph.”

    A long pause followed. I really felt for this man – the drinks had made us buddies. Looking at the faint light filtering in through the window, I said:

    “What you need is a Union!”

    He didn’t know what that meant of course, I spent the next fifteen minutes educating him. Taught him how to make up slogans. Even sang a few songs.

    I got a lump of coal in my stocking that Christmas.

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