Collective Story Writing

"I meant the Smaller, the Bettor, and the Liar. That's the name of this bar."

"Odd name for a bar," grumps Giraze, fumbling with his boot buckle.

"What's so odd," says Godrik, "about naming a bar for its owners?"

"Those are odd names." Giraze is really too busy tugging at his boots to care, but Godrik did ask him a direct question.

"Those are their nicknames, of course," says Godrik. "The Bettor started this whole enterprise on a bet--and won it, too. The way I heard the story, someone bet him that he couldn't make a go of yet another way station in liminal space, he'd fold within a year and a day, but this place is still here after 99 years, 99 days, and 99 bottles of beer on the wall. Of course, I heard that story from the Liar, so no way is it true. And the Smaller... well, when you meet her, you'll see why she's called that."

 

Frantically, Giraze scrambles for the door. Trouble is, the door has completely vanished. The other trouble is, he now has one boot off and the other boot halfway off, and that halfway off boot trips him. He stumbles and falls ignominiously, landing on his knees.

"Where do you think you're going?" Godrik's tone is full of amusement.

"I'd rather face the dragons again than orcs!" shouts Giraze.

"Why? What have you got against orcs?"

 

"Hello, Godrik," says a voice at his elbow. "Brought us some entertainment again, I see."

"He's quite the clueless lad, I'm afraid." Godrik shakes his head ruefully. "I brought him along to save him from the dragons. It's that time of the century, dragon mating season, you know, and all the macho posturing and fighting that goes with it. The young fool was about to get himself blasted in their crossfire, or become a dragon snack if he managed to escape that. You know how hungry they get after a tussle. But how has the last decade gone for you, Smaller?"

 

"It's male orcs who go that way," said Smaller. "After the age of 300 or so, they lose all sense of who they are, and they just go screaming mad, battle rampaging, even if there isn't any battle around. Female orcs don't have that problem, we just turn into nice ornery great-great-great grannies until we decide to drop off in our sleep, and younger male orcs are, as you know, more civilized than the males of any other race. When that Tolkien guy spread the awful stereotypes about us, he was writing about our old men."

Godrik pressed his hands together prayerfully. "May the Bettor and the Liar rest in peace. So is this bar just called the Smaller now?"

"No," said Smaller. "I kept the name, in honor of my late partners. I even kept the monthly trivia gambling night that the Bettor started and the semi-annual tall tales contest that the Liar started. Now that the Liar is no longer with us, others have some hope of winning. As a matter of fact, the next contest is due to start in one hour."

 

Giraze is curled up on the ground with his hands over his head, whimpering. His new burgundy clothes are definitely ruined. And he's living in the present tense now because the writers of this story can't make up their minds whether to use present or past. The saving grace is that now that Godrik has arrived, everyone's stopped throwing things at him. Either that or they've run out of things to throw.

"Come now," said Godrik, who was stuck in the past tense because the writers still couldn't make up their minds, "up with you. Now that you've had your lesson in manners, a nice cup of nettle wine ought to do you."

Giraze doesn't seem to hear. He remained curled up. "Earthquake! Earthquake!"

 

"A cup of nettle wine for our friend here, if you don't mind, Smaller," says Godrik, "and perhaps a shot of passionflower infusion for his headache. And if you still have your delicious elderflower mead, I've been longing for a glass of that."

Smaller nodded and retreated to the bar to fetch the drinks.

"It's not that," Giraze will moan, "it's that I can't tell whether we're in the past, present, or future. I didn't understand. I won't know. What verb tense were we in?"

"That," said Godrik, "is because we're in liminal space. Don't worry about what tense we're in. All times here are now."

"All times were then," says Smaller, returning with the drinks.

"But you will drink this shot of passionflower," Godrik said to Giraze, holding it to Giraze's lips and pushing his head back till he'd swallowed the whole thing.

Giraze blinks his eyes. "When are we?"


[Passionflower really does help headaches if they come from nervous tension or kundalini-like experiences. Will it work for Giraze?]

 

"Nobody," answers the ethereal voice heard only by Giraze.

"Nobody," Giraze echoed.

"Ah," says Godrik, "he must be hearing the No Body. That formless voice that gives a higher calling. What are you called to do, Giraze?"

"Make a ham and cheese sandwich," said Giraze.

"Anything else?"

"Something about summoning an arrogant jerk. And something about a chosen one. Ow!" Giraze clutched the back of his head, which was getting pinged again.

"Couldn't you remember my instructions for one minute?" The voice sounds both ethereal and irritated. Which one would think would be impossible, but this voice manages it.

"No," Giraze snaps back just as irritated, "how am I supposed to remember anything when it's a time that doesn't even exist? I mean, 9:71?"

"It's 9:80 now," says Godrik, pulling out his pocket watch.

 

"Dammit," says Giraze, who has never said that word in his life (so unbefitting his status!) except when cussing out a servant (servants are, for one like Giraze, always the exception to the rule that one must always be polite). "Now I need a ham and cheese sandwich."

"Try the nettle wine," Godrik said, pushing the cup toward him. "Clears the blood, clears the mind."

"Sorry, we're out of ham," says Smaller. "We have a little long pig, prepared in the ancient style of the South Pacific...."

"Smaller," said Godrik with a tinge of warning in his voice, "not a good idea. Not for his kind."

"Orc," moans Giraze. "Why? And what's long pig?"

"You don't want to know," said Godrik firmly. "And be polite to this orc, son. She is the proprietor of this place."

Giraze will, in a split second, turn very, very pale.