Joe Leon
01-20-2010, 01:28 AM
Hi, first time on these forums. My "Short" Story is fairly long, I hope that won't be a problem. This is a first draft, I have not started cutting the fat from it yet. I was hoping to get input on what to keep and what to cut. Also, your opinions on this piece would be greatly appreciated. Feel free to be as brutal as you want, or insult it in any way you please; I want and need an honest reaction.
Paradise Costs
The spectacled man with the straw hat shuffled eagerly behind the other passengers as the March Flower backed gingerly into the dock. His pale, sweaty hands held his black briefcase and dog-eared novel Flying Under the World close to his chest. To the other sun-tanned tourists in their screaming Hawaii T-shirts and sunglasses, the portly man with the pale complexion looked oddly out of place, especially clad in hiker’s gear; a Jon Pinette that should’ve said nay-nay. He had managed to sweat his way through his shirt and vest, and his clammy hands looked like they’d be cold to the touch, in spite of the balmy Australian weather. For his part, the celebrated exotic fiction writer Randall Parr thought of himself as a species apart from the excited tourists, whom he considered of trite nature. His slight sneer slowly transformed into a grin as he turned his gaze to the vibrantly blue sky and distant country-side still not claimed by the sprawling city of Sydney. He had not come to the bottom of the world to taste the city’s “cultural” delights; he had seen the exact same beach resorts, beachside hotels and restaurants by the beach in every other tourist hotspot he had visited. No, he had come for the more subtle attraction of Australia’s deserts and scrubland, its wildlife and wilderness guides. Randall longed for the kind of experiences that were not ostentatiously pleasurable, the ones that gave a fiery pride in having them under one’s mental belt. He wanted to spend time away from the boorish and complex nature of cities, to live in a world a world apart from humanity. Most of all, he wanted great adventures that would make great stories to tell others. It made sense; after all, he had made a living inventing such experiences.
As a teenager, Randall had spent most of his free time exploring new vistas through the medium of fictional novels. At first, Snows of Kilimanjaro and Moby Dick held his sway, but as time passed, Randall grew frustrated with the cumbersome task of seeing through another’s eyes. He wrote his first novel when he was 22, and though it did not sell as much as he’d hoped, he gained confidence and kept writing. He was 35 when he wrote his crown achievement, Flying Under the World, an account of a Flykart pilot who crashes on a small island a mile off the coast of Australia. The pilot finds himself on a slice of paradise, and delays making repairs to his vehicle to enjoy the manifold delights of the island, especially the blessed solitude. Readers like the teenage Randall, starved for explorer fiction from this century, leaped at this vision from the Romantic period. Sales went through the roof and Randall, who had never been particularly well off, became “moderately” wealthy. He took a break from writing to indulge his own fantasies, exploring the wildernesses of the various vistas he had written about, the penultimate location being the Outback of Australia.
As Randall dawdled by the edge of the harbour, waiting for his expected ride, his memory anxiously returned, once again, to his announcement of his intentions at his last book signing, now a year past. Many of his fans had been shocked and, in many cases, indignant to hear that there would be an indefinite halt to the wonderful novels. Randall liked to think that his true fans understood him, understood that this exploration of Earth was to give him perspective for his future writing. When all was said and done, after all, these epic stories were daydreams on paper from someone who had never left Ontario, let alone Canada. Who knew what wonders this could achiev-
Randall’s musings were cut off by a large white sign that caught his attention. His guide had arrived in a 4-wheel drive jeep, and was busily waving some construction paper with his name on it. Randall picked up his briefcase and hurried over.
Jones managed to keep the dismay out of his grin, but it was a close thing. At the sight of his customer, a rotund gentleman with a large briefcase, a paperback novel, spectacles and a skin tone that had obviously never seen the light of day, his hopes of an easy assignment out in the bush had shattered. Gone were the days when only hardened hikers would attempt to tackle the Outback; now, every tourist wanted the “glory” of surviving a wilderness trek, without the burden of actually preparing for the trials. Hence, wilderness guides.
“Hi,” panted the tourist, holding out a sweaty hand while the other vainly attempted to hold the briefcase and novel. “You’re Jones, right? I’m Randall." Jones shook his hand, which was cold and clammy.
“Randall Parr?”
“Yes, yes, the writer. You’ve read my books?” Randall seemed rather pleased that he was known, if his wide grin was anything to go by.
“Uh, no, but I’ve heard of you,” lied Jones as he got behind the wheel. He had just been making sure he got the right Randall.
“Oh, yeah, I suppose my novels would bore you, now that I think about it,” Randall continued, as he clambered awkwardly into the passenger seat with his belongings. “You already know all about Australian wilderness, huh?”
“You wrote about the Outback?” Jones’ interest wasn’t feigned, though it was tinged with skepticism. “I heard you had never been here before.”
“Well, I haven’t,” whispered Randall in a conspiratorial manner. “I’m here now to actually experience the natural wonders of this fascinating continent firsthand. Should work wonders for my writing, and besides, it’ll be an experience of a lifetime to get away from all the hubbub of city life.” His eyes acquired a wistful, misty expression as he spoke. Jones inwardly groaned as he pulled onto the freeway.
As he strode up the sloping dirt trail, Jones inhaled deeply. This was his favourite part of the trek, when Sydney had just fallen from view behind crumbling dunes of reddish dirt and scrub grass. He was still fresh and spry, his hardy breakfast still at work within his stomach. The sun had not yet torched the landscape into a furnace, instead providing a pleasant warmth. It was early dawn, and the long shadows left more of the arid scrubland to the imagination. The slight breeze rustled the parched grass and swirled the dry soil, as though to take up the background noise niche usually filled by birds. He eagerly strode up to where the path leveled off, and detoured to the crumbling lip of the dune. From there he could dimly make out the first camp point, nestled in a small depression in the rocky desert about 8 miles off. Despite the numerous treks, the shimmering sea of ruddy dunes always got a reaction out of Jones, especially at dawn, when the stark shadows and golden crests conspired to resemble a seething ocean. A feeling of contentment stole over him...
If only the breeze had been slightly stronger, it might’ve drowned out his companion’s wheezing progress up the hill. The sharp sighing breaking his reverie, Jones reluctantly turned to watch the client trudge up the dune, back bent under his reasonably small backpack. Admittedly, he was not in as bad shape as Jones had feared, but that wasn’t the problem. His charge had come here expecting to be overcome by the beauty of nature, and seemed to think that “roughing it” was the proper way to do it. Well, he supposed it might, but the writer didn’t seem to have proper appreciation for what minimal supplies would entail. Satisfied that his charge wasn’t going to drop, Jones slowly turned back to the rising sun. Ahh, well. He’ll clue in soon enough.
Now this, thought Randall, is more like it. In between his breaths, Randall would snatch glimpses to the right and left of him as he progressed, savoring the snapshots of morning on the Outback. The picturesque scenery seemed to have come straight from one of his novels, and the workout from climbing was very cleansing. At last, he was getting his hands dirty, after a squeaky-clean existence of 42 years. He felt like Hemmingway. Hell, he felt like the Marlboro man. He stopped his shuffling and shifted upright again, mainly to take a more satisfactory look around, and certainly not because he needed a break. As he turned, he saw his guide lope up the trail with ease. His hiking attire looked like a cross between Crocodile Dundee’s and Steve Irwin’s clothes, though no cowboy hat was to be found; in its place was an auburn buzz cut. His gnarled walking stick appeared to be redundant, for he strode up the crumbling slope as though it were level pavement. At the sight of his guide effortlessly moving on, Randall gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep walking. He was determined not to become one of those pampered tourists who couldn’t handle a little physical exertion. He set off at a doubled pace, practically jogging up the dune to close the gap with Jones. Once at the apex, Randall furiously stifled his panting and composedly walked to his guide’s side.
“You OK?” Jones had an expression of pity mixed with amusement on his face; Randall couldn’t decide which pissed him off more.
“Oh yeah, not bad… sorry for holding you up there, I was just… admiring the view.” Even more infuriating was his hybrid response of nonchalance and apology, which he doubted would fool a hoary wilderness guide.
“You sure? If you’re feeling tired, we can slow the pace, it’s no trouble for me.” Jones’ eyes flatly contradicted what he was saying. Randall saw naught but contempt and derision in Jones’ ill-disguised grimace.
“Don’t worry, the Australian air is quite invigorating. I’ll be fine.”
“Alright, let’s go.” The guide’s skepticism was palpable. He turned back to the trail, which winded down the dune before brutally cutting through the desert, and strode off. Randall determinedly kept pace with him.
As the afternoon sun began its descent, Jones threw down his backpack and turned to face his client, who seemed to be supported solely by the walking stick he had loaned him.
“Congratulations, we’ve made it to the first campsite, and the halfway point of our hike.” He spread his hands to indicate the dirt dunes that surrounded them and their fire pit. Randall sat down abruptly, no longer concealing his fatigue. Jones took this to be a good sign.
“Alright, now seeing as we’re to survive out here with a small amount of supplies, this is how it’s going to work. I’m going to go and see if I can find something that we can use as a supplement to our food, and I advise you not to be picky. Lizards, snakes, even scorpions are all fair game out here. Now,” Jones leaned closer and took out his flint and knife. “If you want, you can build the fire yourself. But if you don’t know how, I suggest you admit it. We don’t have time to waste, night comes quick.” Randall looked at him for a moment, in seeming doubt, and then airily waved his hands.
“Oh, it’ll be a snap. I’ve built a fire before, and though I haven’t done it with flint, I’ve seen it done.” Reluctantly, Jones handed him the knife and flint.
“Use the dull side, just so you know.” Randall eagerly grabbed the knife and flint, and tucked them into his belt.
“Well, I’ll go looking for stuff to burn,” he said, standing up unsteadily and once more suppressing his heaved breathing. “I don’t suppose there are many trees out here, huh?” Jones mutely shook his head.
“Just joking, just joking, a few ferns will do.” Randall seemed to be making sure Jones didn’t think he was a novice, which is always infinitely more painful then being with someone who makes no pretenses about his experience. Jones set off for a lizard haunt he knew of, with low expectations of that night’s fire.
“I suppose you get a lot of tourists who don’t really appreciate what this hike has to offer,” said Randall, as Jones turned the lizards on the small grill he had brought along. The fire had been made without his assistance, but consequently seemed to be composed of every green plant within a quarter mile; the smoke smothered them both. “Many can be distracted by the ‘hardships’ (Here Randall rolled his eyes.) of the trail, and not take note the benefits of getting out and about.” If that’s the case, thought Jones, your life must have been full of hardships. Despite his maintained silence, the client continued. “Not me, though. I enjoy the simplicity of the natural world, can’t get enough of it.”
“Didn’t you say this was your first time?” quipped Jones. He immediately regretted his outburst, but simultaneously took a savage pleasure in poking holes in this man’s soliloquy.
“First time in Australia, not on the trail,” he corrected hastily. “Though, to be perfectly frank, I haven’t been at it very long. I’ve decided to acquire worldly experience, to help fuel my writings.”
“Why do you need to go on wilderness hikes? How does that fuel your writing?”
Randall smiled. “I write about thrilling adventures in exotic locations, usually about people who have to survive without all the possible advantages civilization could equip them with. Stories are always more legitimate if they come from someone who’s experienced them, and anyways, I’ve always – what are you smiling about?” Jones had smirked at this latest pronouncement on how the universe worked. He briefly considered not voicing what was on his mind, but decided to pursue the matter.
“Well,” he said, rotating the lizards a little more. Almost done. “It seems that the people who’ve actually experienced that sorta thing would be the ones least likely to write a book about it.”
Randall snorted. “What, you think that active people wouldn’t deign to write a book about their experiences?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. What I meant was, a man who goes through those ordeals is not going to write a novel making it out to be a wonderful time, because it isn’t. That’s why I never read that stuff, it’s pure nonsense spouted by those who don’t know better.” His client raised his eyebrows at his last words. Jones might’ve not made such a brash comment normally, but the man’s blithe assurance spurred him on. “I don’t know,” said the client, now regarding him with an affected look of amusement. “I think that if I’d been in a situation like that, I could still find some joy from it. Hemmingway sure did.”
“That guy was an adventurer who decided to write stories about what he did, not the other way around,” retorted Jones. “I think if you were stuck out here like one of your characters, you wouldn’t notice the prettiness of it all.”
“Well, maybe not then, but certainly later!” Randall smirked, raised his eyebrows to the heavens. “A man can recollect, you know.” By now Jones had gotten a hold of his tongue, and restricted himself to silently shaking his head as he passed Randall his lizard. Randall plucked it from his fingers, and set about the uncertain task of eating meat that didn’t come from a butcher’s shop.
As Randall’s snores replaced the sighing of the wind, Jones lay awake in his sleeping bag. The desire to puncture Randall’s naïve notions had burned strongly within him that afternoon, and was still conflicting with his practical, safe side that told him not to risk his job on something so trivial. But there was something about that writer, the way he acted like Jones was the delusional one, that goaded him on to recklessness. He saw Randall’s smirking face, heard his disdainful manner of talking, and the matter was settled. Jones would convince Randall that he was wrong, and he would do it with a more persuasive argument then any words could muster.
Randall heard the slight noises in the night, but he pretended to sleep, like a child on Christmas Eve. So Jones wanted to challenge his intent, his integrity. That was fine by him. The trip would be even more authentic, that way.
As Randall woke up, he gave a huge yawn and stretched his arms wide, as befitting a good night’s sleep. He sat up and peered around expectantly, a grin on his face.
No equipment.
No backpacks.
No wilderness guide.
Randall giggled to himself; Jones’ proposed challenge could not have been plainer if he’d left a note. Randall would complete the trip without any provisions at all, and at the end he’d be sure to thank Jones for the wonderful hike too. Randall stood up, and that’s when he noticed that Jones had left him a note: a message scrawled into the wood ashes.
Follow the trail to the second camp spot.
Hah! Even easier. thought Randall. He rolled up his sleeping bag, and looked around for his water bottle.
Ah. Apparently he wasn’t even to have water on this journey. For a brief moment the writer’s determination to complete the challenge was battered by stories he had heard of people stranded in the Outback; tourists who succumbed to heat stroke in less than an hour. Bah, he thought, it’s only a day, you’ll survive. After another brief look around the campsite, he set off.
A few hours passed, and the desert swiftly finished the transition between the bitter cold of the night and the relentless heat of the day. Randall adjusted his hat, and wiped the sweat from his forehead for what felt like the millionth time. The infernal heat rained down from above, and radiated from the baked earth; he could almost hear the dirt sizzling. He stared at his feet as he walked. Every now and then he would look up and take a panoramic look around him at the desert, even accompanying it with a satisfied sigh. But his heart wasn’t in it; after two hours of looking, the dunes all looked the same to him. No doubt he would notice the delightful shimmering of the brownish-red sea when he was on his flight home, but right now it just irritated his eyes. Still, he felt that he was doing better than Jones had expected, and this gave him no small amount of pride.
Still a work in progress, what do you think so far?
Paradise Costs
The spectacled man with the straw hat shuffled eagerly behind the other passengers as the March Flower backed gingerly into the dock. His pale, sweaty hands held his black briefcase and dog-eared novel Flying Under the World close to his chest. To the other sun-tanned tourists in their screaming Hawaii T-shirts and sunglasses, the portly man with the pale complexion looked oddly out of place, especially clad in hiker’s gear; a Jon Pinette that should’ve said nay-nay. He had managed to sweat his way through his shirt and vest, and his clammy hands looked like they’d be cold to the touch, in spite of the balmy Australian weather. For his part, the celebrated exotic fiction writer Randall Parr thought of himself as a species apart from the excited tourists, whom he considered of trite nature. His slight sneer slowly transformed into a grin as he turned his gaze to the vibrantly blue sky and distant country-side still not claimed by the sprawling city of Sydney. He had not come to the bottom of the world to taste the city’s “cultural” delights; he had seen the exact same beach resorts, beachside hotels and restaurants by the beach in every other tourist hotspot he had visited. No, he had come for the more subtle attraction of Australia’s deserts and scrubland, its wildlife and wilderness guides. Randall longed for the kind of experiences that were not ostentatiously pleasurable, the ones that gave a fiery pride in having them under one’s mental belt. He wanted to spend time away from the boorish and complex nature of cities, to live in a world a world apart from humanity. Most of all, he wanted great adventures that would make great stories to tell others. It made sense; after all, he had made a living inventing such experiences.
As a teenager, Randall had spent most of his free time exploring new vistas through the medium of fictional novels. At first, Snows of Kilimanjaro and Moby Dick held his sway, but as time passed, Randall grew frustrated with the cumbersome task of seeing through another’s eyes. He wrote his first novel when he was 22, and though it did not sell as much as he’d hoped, he gained confidence and kept writing. He was 35 when he wrote his crown achievement, Flying Under the World, an account of a Flykart pilot who crashes on a small island a mile off the coast of Australia. The pilot finds himself on a slice of paradise, and delays making repairs to his vehicle to enjoy the manifold delights of the island, especially the blessed solitude. Readers like the teenage Randall, starved for explorer fiction from this century, leaped at this vision from the Romantic period. Sales went through the roof and Randall, who had never been particularly well off, became “moderately” wealthy. He took a break from writing to indulge his own fantasies, exploring the wildernesses of the various vistas he had written about, the penultimate location being the Outback of Australia.
As Randall dawdled by the edge of the harbour, waiting for his expected ride, his memory anxiously returned, once again, to his announcement of his intentions at his last book signing, now a year past. Many of his fans had been shocked and, in many cases, indignant to hear that there would be an indefinite halt to the wonderful novels. Randall liked to think that his true fans understood him, understood that this exploration of Earth was to give him perspective for his future writing. When all was said and done, after all, these epic stories were daydreams on paper from someone who had never left Ontario, let alone Canada. Who knew what wonders this could achiev-
Randall’s musings were cut off by a large white sign that caught his attention. His guide had arrived in a 4-wheel drive jeep, and was busily waving some construction paper with his name on it. Randall picked up his briefcase and hurried over.
Jones managed to keep the dismay out of his grin, but it was a close thing. At the sight of his customer, a rotund gentleman with a large briefcase, a paperback novel, spectacles and a skin tone that had obviously never seen the light of day, his hopes of an easy assignment out in the bush had shattered. Gone were the days when only hardened hikers would attempt to tackle the Outback; now, every tourist wanted the “glory” of surviving a wilderness trek, without the burden of actually preparing for the trials. Hence, wilderness guides.
“Hi,” panted the tourist, holding out a sweaty hand while the other vainly attempted to hold the briefcase and novel. “You’re Jones, right? I’m Randall." Jones shook his hand, which was cold and clammy.
“Randall Parr?”
“Yes, yes, the writer. You’ve read my books?” Randall seemed rather pleased that he was known, if his wide grin was anything to go by.
“Uh, no, but I’ve heard of you,” lied Jones as he got behind the wheel. He had just been making sure he got the right Randall.
“Oh, yeah, I suppose my novels would bore you, now that I think about it,” Randall continued, as he clambered awkwardly into the passenger seat with his belongings. “You already know all about Australian wilderness, huh?”
“You wrote about the Outback?” Jones’ interest wasn’t feigned, though it was tinged with skepticism. “I heard you had never been here before.”
“Well, I haven’t,” whispered Randall in a conspiratorial manner. “I’m here now to actually experience the natural wonders of this fascinating continent firsthand. Should work wonders for my writing, and besides, it’ll be an experience of a lifetime to get away from all the hubbub of city life.” His eyes acquired a wistful, misty expression as he spoke. Jones inwardly groaned as he pulled onto the freeway.
As he strode up the sloping dirt trail, Jones inhaled deeply. This was his favourite part of the trek, when Sydney had just fallen from view behind crumbling dunes of reddish dirt and scrub grass. He was still fresh and spry, his hardy breakfast still at work within his stomach. The sun had not yet torched the landscape into a furnace, instead providing a pleasant warmth. It was early dawn, and the long shadows left more of the arid scrubland to the imagination. The slight breeze rustled the parched grass and swirled the dry soil, as though to take up the background noise niche usually filled by birds. He eagerly strode up to where the path leveled off, and detoured to the crumbling lip of the dune. From there he could dimly make out the first camp point, nestled in a small depression in the rocky desert about 8 miles off. Despite the numerous treks, the shimmering sea of ruddy dunes always got a reaction out of Jones, especially at dawn, when the stark shadows and golden crests conspired to resemble a seething ocean. A feeling of contentment stole over him...
If only the breeze had been slightly stronger, it might’ve drowned out his companion’s wheezing progress up the hill. The sharp sighing breaking his reverie, Jones reluctantly turned to watch the client trudge up the dune, back bent under his reasonably small backpack. Admittedly, he was not in as bad shape as Jones had feared, but that wasn’t the problem. His charge had come here expecting to be overcome by the beauty of nature, and seemed to think that “roughing it” was the proper way to do it. Well, he supposed it might, but the writer didn’t seem to have proper appreciation for what minimal supplies would entail. Satisfied that his charge wasn’t going to drop, Jones slowly turned back to the rising sun. Ahh, well. He’ll clue in soon enough.
Now this, thought Randall, is more like it. In between his breaths, Randall would snatch glimpses to the right and left of him as he progressed, savoring the snapshots of morning on the Outback. The picturesque scenery seemed to have come straight from one of his novels, and the workout from climbing was very cleansing. At last, he was getting his hands dirty, after a squeaky-clean existence of 42 years. He felt like Hemmingway. Hell, he felt like the Marlboro man. He stopped his shuffling and shifted upright again, mainly to take a more satisfactory look around, and certainly not because he needed a break. As he turned, he saw his guide lope up the trail with ease. His hiking attire looked like a cross between Crocodile Dundee’s and Steve Irwin’s clothes, though no cowboy hat was to be found; in its place was an auburn buzz cut. His gnarled walking stick appeared to be redundant, for he strode up the crumbling slope as though it were level pavement. At the sight of his guide effortlessly moving on, Randall gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep walking. He was determined not to become one of those pampered tourists who couldn’t handle a little physical exertion. He set off at a doubled pace, practically jogging up the dune to close the gap with Jones. Once at the apex, Randall furiously stifled his panting and composedly walked to his guide’s side.
“You OK?” Jones had an expression of pity mixed with amusement on his face; Randall couldn’t decide which pissed him off more.
“Oh yeah, not bad… sorry for holding you up there, I was just… admiring the view.” Even more infuriating was his hybrid response of nonchalance and apology, which he doubted would fool a hoary wilderness guide.
“You sure? If you’re feeling tired, we can slow the pace, it’s no trouble for me.” Jones’ eyes flatly contradicted what he was saying. Randall saw naught but contempt and derision in Jones’ ill-disguised grimace.
“Don’t worry, the Australian air is quite invigorating. I’ll be fine.”
“Alright, let’s go.” The guide’s skepticism was palpable. He turned back to the trail, which winded down the dune before brutally cutting through the desert, and strode off. Randall determinedly kept pace with him.
As the afternoon sun began its descent, Jones threw down his backpack and turned to face his client, who seemed to be supported solely by the walking stick he had loaned him.
“Congratulations, we’ve made it to the first campsite, and the halfway point of our hike.” He spread his hands to indicate the dirt dunes that surrounded them and their fire pit. Randall sat down abruptly, no longer concealing his fatigue. Jones took this to be a good sign.
“Alright, now seeing as we’re to survive out here with a small amount of supplies, this is how it’s going to work. I’m going to go and see if I can find something that we can use as a supplement to our food, and I advise you not to be picky. Lizards, snakes, even scorpions are all fair game out here. Now,” Jones leaned closer and took out his flint and knife. “If you want, you can build the fire yourself. But if you don’t know how, I suggest you admit it. We don’t have time to waste, night comes quick.” Randall looked at him for a moment, in seeming doubt, and then airily waved his hands.
“Oh, it’ll be a snap. I’ve built a fire before, and though I haven’t done it with flint, I’ve seen it done.” Reluctantly, Jones handed him the knife and flint.
“Use the dull side, just so you know.” Randall eagerly grabbed the knife and flint, and tucked them into his belt.
“Well, I’ll go looking for stuff to burn,” he said, standing up unsteadily and once more suppressing his heaved breathing. “I don’t suppose there are many trees out here, huh?” Jones mutely shook his head.
“Just joking, just joking, a few ferns will do.” Randall seemed to be making sure Jones didn’t think he was a novice, which is always infinitely more painful then being with someone who makes no pretenses about his experience. Jones set off for a lizard haunt he knew of, with low expectations of that night’s fire.
“I suppose you get a lot of tourists who don’t really appreciate what this hike has to offer,” said Randall, as Jones turned the lizards on the small grill he had brought along. The fire had been made without his assistance, but consequently seemed to be composed of every green plant within a quarter mile; the smoke smothered them both. “Many can be distracted by the ‘hardships’ (Here Randall rolled his eyes.) of the trail, and not take note the benefits of getting out and about.” If that’s the case, thought Jones, your life must have been full of hardships. Despite his maintained silence, the client continued. “Not me, though. I enjoy the simplicity of the natural world, can’t get enough of it.”
“Didn’t you say this was your first time?” quipped Jones. He immediately regretted his outburst, but simultaneously took a savage pleasure in poking holes in this man’s soliloquy.
“First time in Australia, not on the trail,” he corrected hastily. “Though, to be perfectly frank, I haven’t been at it very long. I’ve decided to acquire worldly experience, to help fuel my writings.”
“Why do you need to go on wilderness hikes? How does that fuel your writing?”
Randall smiled. “I write about thrilling adventures in exotic locations, usually about people who have to survive without all the possible advantages civilization could equip them with. Stories are always more legitimate if they come from someone who’s experienced them, and anyways, I’ve always – what are you smiling about?” Jones had smirked at this latest pronouncement on how the universe worked. He briefly considered not voicing what was on his mind, but decided to pursue the matter.
“Well,” he said, rotating the lizards a little more. Almost done. “It seems that the people who’ve actually experienced that sorta thing would be the ones least likely to write a book about it.”
Randall snorted. “What, you think that active people wouldn’t deign to write a book about their experiences?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. What I meant was, a man who goes through those ordeals is not going to write a novel making it out to be a wonderful time, because it isn’t. That’s why I never read that stuff, it’s pure nonsense spouted by those who don’t know better.” His client raised his eyebrows at his last words. Jones might’ve not made such a brash comment normally, but the man’s blithe assurance spurred him on. “I don’t know,” said the client, now regarding him with an affected look of amusement. “I think that if I’d been in a situation like that, I could still find some joy from it. Hemmingway sure did.”
“That guy was an adventurer who decided to write stories about what he did, not the other way around,” retorted Jones. “I think if you were stuck out here like one of your characters, you wouldn’t notice the prettiness of it all.”
“Well, maybe not then, but certainly later!” Randall smirked, raised his eyebrows to the heavens. “A man can recollect, you know.” By now Jones had gotten a hold of his tongue, and restricted himself to silently shaking his head as he passed Randall his lizard. Randall plucked it from his fingers, and set about the uncertain task of eating meat that didn’t come from a butcher’s shop.
As Randall’s snores replaced the sighing of the wind, Jones lay awake in his sleeping bag. The desire to puncture Randall’s naïve notions had burned strongly within him that afternoon, and was still conflicting with his practical, safe side that told him not to risk his job on something so trivial. But there was something about that writer, the way he acted like Jones was the delusional one, that goaded him on to recklessness. He saw Randall’s smirking face, heard his disdainful manner of talking, and the matter was settled. Jones would convince Randall that he was wrong, and he would do it with a more persuasive argument then any words could muster.
Randall heard the slight noises in the night, but he pretended to sleep, like a child on Christmas Eve. So Jones wanted to challenge his intent, his integrity. That was fine by him. The trip would be even more authentic, that way.
As Randall woke up, he gave a huge yawn and stretched his arms wide, as befitting a good night’s sleep. He sat up and peered around expectantly, a grin on his face.
No equipment.
No backpacks.
No wilderness guide.
Randall giggled to himself; Jones’ proposed challenge could not have been plainer if he’d left a note. Randall would complete the trip without any provisions at all, and at the end he’d be sure to thank Jones for the wonderful hike too. Randall stood up, and that’s when he noticed that Jones had left him a note: a message scrawled into the wood ashes.
Follow the trail to the second camp spot.
Hah! Even easier. thought Randall. He rolled up his sleeping bag, and looked around for his water bottle.
Ah. Apparently he wasn’t even to have water on this journey. For a brief moment the writer’s determination to complete the challenge was battered by stories he had heard of people stranded in the Outback; tourists who succumbed to heat stroke in less than an hour. Bah, he thought, it’s only a day, you’ll survive. After another brief look around the campsite, he set off.
A few hours passed, and the desert swiftly finished the transition between the bitter cold of the night and the relentless heat of the day. Randall adjusted his hat, and wiped the sweat from his forehead for what felt like the millionth time. The infernal heat rained down from above, and radiated from the baked earth; he could almost hear the dirt sizzling. He stared at his feet as he walked. Every now and then he would look up and take a panoramic look around him at the desert, even accompanying it with a satisfied sigh. But his heart wasn’t in it; after two hours of looking, the dunes all looked the same to him. No doubt he would notice the delightful shimmering of the brownish-red sea when he was on his flight home, but right now it just irritated his eyes. Still, he felt that he was doing better than Jones had expected, and this gave him no small amount of pride.
Still a work in progress, what do you think so far?