A reservation for eight
pretty much my 500 word fiction for February - and farewell to J Kudelka
Welcome to Sproutings. This is edition #123.
This is not a place for news nor current affairs. This editon #123 is a place for imagination and play.
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Last Saturday evening I took the tram to the city. My plan was to just be. To wander. To immerse myself in Saturday evening sights and sounds. If the idea for a story that met the prompts came to me, then well and good. If not, that would be no bother. So I carried a small shoulder bag, in which I packed my glasses, a moleskin notebook and a pen. In Bourke Street - at the Russell Street corner - I disembarked.
All around people walked, talked, held hands, laughed. Some seemed very down on their luck. Some seemed to walk among clouds.
I floated on the crowd; floated to the north along Russell Street. The clamour of Chinatown had me. I felt drawn.
At the corner of Little Bourke Street, I stood to take a photo (below). Chinatown, the imminent Chinese New Year, human activity, hope, the spontaneous adventure of the night all held me as if I was suspended from wires.
At the base of the arch pictured below, I sat.
Just for a darkening moment, central Melbourne could have been the setting for Blade Runner. After all, AI grows. “Hey Siri, is AI growing?” Still, I refuse to use AI for anything creative - no ChatGPT for me - no way. I find its intrusion into image creation and text creation awful and sad. I find its impact on water resources and energy resources awful and sad. I find its impact on the concentration of wealth and influence awful and sad. AI is the story of speculation, tech bros, power. The owner of ChatGPT is Trump’s biggest donor. No thanks. Besides — want to create a picture? Grab a pencil and paper. Take a photo. Want to write a story? Write one.
Effort is good.
And so on Saturday evening in Chinatown, I walked to the base of that arch pictured below. To the southern leg, the left hand side, and I sat on the plinth. I sat on the plinth and I withdrew my notebook, pen and glasses from my bag, and I wrote a story. I wrote a 500 word story to meet the February prompts.
Sat among shifting humanity and before a setting sun, the story flowed. It was a scene. A scene of dialogue. A scene of dialogue that I present to you here.
Happy play. Happy imagining.
I post here my 500 word fiction for February, based on these prompts given by the Australian Writers’ Centre:
Your story’s theme is ‘EIGHT’.
Your story must include two characters meeting for the first time.
Your story must include the following words: DISCOVER, NOTICE, SHEET (longer variations accepted, e.g. DISCOVERY or NOTICING).
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A reservation for eight
“Excuse me, what’s your name?”
“Hi. Carolina. Can I help you?”
“Yes Carolina, I’m Alistair. What time have you got there?”
“Err, hold on.”
“Can you be exact with it, please?”
“Have you no phone, Alistair?”
“No. I discovered the battery crapped itself.”
“It’s 7:52 pm.”
“7:52 pm. Thanks.”
“What model phone is it then?”
“iPhone 8.”
“Ahh, an antique.”
“Well. Released - what - eight years ago?”
“Like I said, antique.”
“Well. Thanks for the time.”
“Not at all. Shall I give you the date as well?”
“You’re funny, Carolina. Sure. Gimme the date.”
“It’s the eighth of August, right?”
“Right. You seem excited.”
“I am, yeah.”
“Why’s that, now?”
“I’ll tell you why, Alistair. It’s eight minutes - no seven minutes away from 8 pm on the eighth of the eighth.”
“And that excites you?”
“It does, yeah. Are you not excited?”
“Well. Let me answer like this.”
“Ok.”
“I’m sat here at the bar.”
“Yeah.”
“But I have a table booked for 8 pm over there.”
“You do? Come with me and have a look.”
“Ok.”
“For how many people? Let me guess. Eight?”
“Yes, Carolina. Eight.”
“Oh! Yes, you do! Here it is.”
“Great. And would you like to know who is coming?”
“Would I know them? Here it’s all ready for you.”
“Thanks. Well, would you like to know their names at least?”
“Ok. Sure. What are their names?”
“You might need a sheet of paper. There’s me of course - Alistair. And then we have – are you counting? We have Danielle, Nicholas and Victoria. We have Isabella. And we have Felicity, Francine and Benjamin.”
“Ok. Yes that’s eight.”
“What’s eight?”
“There will be eight of you tonight, Alistair. And what are you doing with that bag?”
“That’s right.”
“Eight of you tonight. Seriously what are you doing with those jars?”
“Yes, eight of us tonight, Carolina. Just placing them here. Did you notice anything else about those names?”
“Like what?”
“Like - I don’t know. Anything on theme?”
“What are you doing?”
“Just placing these jars on the table, Carolina. For my friends.”
“Jars? I’m not sure we can do that.”
“Well. What about their names?”
“Their names? Put those jars away Alistair- and let me think.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You what?”
“Carolina – the eight names – all eight are exactly eight letters long.”
“Oh, that is quite a coincidence.”
“Not really.”
“But what about the jars?”
“Carolina – the guests – my friends – are in the jars.”
“What?”
“Look for yourself.”
“Wait! What? In the jars?”
“Have a look.”
“Ahhhh! They’re SPIDERS!!!”
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All previous editions of Sproutings can be found here.
May lovely things shine on you today.
Thanks for being here.
Subscribe, share around, go well.
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Finally, R.I.P. Jon Kudelka. I never met Jon and only know him through his stories, his cartoons and his art. He supported my writing on BlueSky once, unforgettably.
Me: “A bit self-conscious about doing this, but I tag you here J Kudelka as I think you might enjoy it. If not, I’m very sorry.”
JK: “This is indeed enjoyable.”
And he retweeted my story. Very kind.
There’s a sweetness to this story. Perhaps it because I’m a lover of insects, a trait passed down from my mother who was fascinated by bugs. Cicadas, crickets. We saved the bodies of dead mosquitoes: twenty-nine at one count, when we moved into the old house near the bay on Long Island.