Things Grak Hates
Page 34
Grak is nearly at a loss for words. “Well … I guess … you might be right. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention to your advice, Olive Th—” He clears his throat. “I suppose I just always thought you were sort of hanging around because you lacked the sense to do anything else.”
Olive stifles her annoyance. “Well, don’t mistake kindness for stupidity, Grak.” She pauses in thought. “And just so you know, it’d be best if you stopped thinking like that about me. We won’t get along very well otherwise. Friends aren’t supposed to put each other down, Grak. Friends are supposed to be a support for each other.”
Grak smiles. “I like that saying. I’ll have to remember it. Alright. I can do that.”
His smile widens as he looks at his friend. His good friend. He mulls her words over.
Remember that saying, Grak.
Epilogue - But Not Olive
Grak has never disliked Olive, though now he’s beginning to feel something new for her. He glances at the woman seated to his left. In this light, approaching dusk, the green of her eyes sparkles just so. It’s a curious feeling he gets when looking at her, though he’s not quite sure what to call it.
Admiration? Maybe. Respect? I could see that. Hmm, something else though.
From the corner of her eye, she catches him staring, and turns her head. He looks away abruptly, suddenly entranced by the meager wisp of a cloud off to his right.
That was close. Can’t let on. Don’t want her to get nervous.
Grak casually looks to his left again, pretending to suddenly notice her. “Oh, hello.”
Olive smiles and rolls her eyes. “You don’t need to pretend, Grak.”
He puts on his confused face. “Oh? Pretend what?” His voice cracked at the end there, betraying his nervousness.
Olive shakes her head and smiles wider. “What do you have so far?” She looks down at the clay tablet on Grak’s lap.
While he’s thankful for the change of topic, he’s left wondering what that whole “pretend” comment might imply. He opts to set the issue aside for the moment and ponder it later in private.
Grak clears his throat and puts on a thoughtful voice. “Well, I’m stuck on the beginning.”
Olive leans back in her seat. “Read it to me.”
He’s nervous at that prospect, but finds it difficult to deny her anything. “Sure … I mean, it’s short. It’s not much. Just says, ‘I hated olives.’”
“Not bad. Not bad.” She raises an eyebrow. “Though you will make it clear that you differentiate between the fruit and the people, right?”
Grak nods. “Oh yes. Of course. Of course.” He shrugs. “Though it’s not quite right. Doesn’t sound so great.”
He scratches his chin with the stylus. “Maybe if I write it as though in the present. And from someone else’s perspective. Would look more prestigious that way. Like someone else is recording my history for me. The reader might even assume I’ve never seen it.”
Olive taps her lips thoughtfully. “So how would that sound?”
Grak shrugs. “Well, it would just say, ‘Grak hates olives.’”
She nods. “I see. Interesting. Has a nice ring to it. Though maybe it needs something more.”
Grak ponders it for a moment. “‘Truly.’ I kind of like that. ‘Grak hates olives. Truly.’ Makes it more definite. Makes it clear where I stood on the issue.”
Olive gives a hearty and approving nod. “Yes. I like it. Why don’t you go with that?”
Grak smiles and quickly scribbles the words down. Once finished, he leans back in thought. “I think that’s enough for today. I’m getting hungry.” He sets the clay on a scrap of leather to dry. “Hard to think clearly when I’m hungry.”
“Should we head down, then?” Olive sounds truly concerned. “Get some food?”
He shrugs. “Might as well.”
As they stand and stretch, Grak takes a moment to bask in the array of brilliant colors before them. Draped across the hillside is a vivid bed of green grass, dotted about with the intense reds and oranges of maturing leaves. Above, the deep blue, nearly cloudless sky envelopes all in its soothing embrace. Below, between the river fork, the fields of golden wheat stand in bold rows, taking on an even more radiant hue in the setting sun.
In those fields and in the neighboring “village,” as they call it, Grak’s new people are bustling about. Activity tends to pick up like this at the end of the day. Even more so in this part of the “year,” as they refer to it. “The harvest,” they say, is a very busy time. Although, from what Grak has noticed so far, it’s a little too hectic. Disorganized, even.
They could use some tips, really. On organization. Just a few. To show them how to make things run more efficiently. Before you know it, they won’t be such an uncivilized people.
Olive begins to leave, so Grak stores that thought for another time. He starts to follow her, then pauses abruptly.
He looks at their seats, then back down to the village, estimating the distance. “Olive. Should we take these with us?”
She checks the sky. “Well, it doesn’t look like rain. I think they’ll be fine for the night. They’re too big to carry every time we want to come out here.”
Grak takes offense at her comment. “What does that mean? You agree with everyone else? That my work is a monstrosity? Because you know how I feel about that.”
Olive smiles. “No, Grak. I’m simply stating the truth. They’re too heavy. If we don’t have to carry them, let’s not bother with it.”
But he’s still offended. “Because you, of all people, know that I put a lot of work into them. And the extra supports were simply for necessity. And I don’t think all the extra wood makes them ugly. Not at all. I think it even adds some character.”
Olive touches his cheek with a gentle smile and looks deep into his eyes. “I like our chairs, Grak. Well, now that the splinters are all gone. And now that we’ve taken care of the nails that were poking through. I just don’t want to carry them. That’s all. And what does anyone else know?”
Grak melts. She has a way of stopping him before he goes too far.
He smiles and nods. “Alright. Let’s go get some food.”
As they head down the hill, Grak looks back one last time. He’s quite proud of his handiwork. Definitely his best ever. Very solid. Very sturdy. He had to make them rather large, though. With lots of wood. But no matter. He likes them. And so does Olive. And that’s all that matters.
She catches him looking back and smiles. “Still thinking about your chairs?”
Grak shakes his head. “No. And you know, I wish you would stop calling them that. They’re better than normal chairs.”
She rolls her eyes in reply. “Right. Sorry, I forgot. What was it you wanted me to call them?”
“My thrones,” Grak says with a gleam in his eye.
Thanks
Alvi, you are priceless to me. Your help and encouragement while I wrote this book have been what made it possible.
Andy Peloquin, thanks for being a support and inspiration during the writing process.
And special thanks to everyone else who has indirectly contributed to my writing over the years.
.
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About the Author
Peter J Story lives in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and their two pugs. He writes code by day and fiction by night, considering himself an author of deliberate, genre-free stories with a soul. While his is not a pen name, he does enjoy chuckling to himself about how well it suits his passion.
Being extremely shy as a youngster, Peter spent his days in two primary hobbies: studying people and reading. He found both pastimes equally fascinating. Among his favorite characters were Encyclopedia Brown, Sebastian the Super Sleuth, and Sherlock Holmes. When in search of new mystery stories, he read Murder on the O
rient Express and found the tale intriguing. Unfortunately, he felt that the name “Hercule Poirot” was unseemly, and abandoned any further inquiries in the character’s direction.
Then one day, at the age of ten or so, Peter’s uncle introduced him to the work of J.R.R. Tolkien, and his world changed forever. He was carried away by the story and tried his hand at mimicking the epic. Unfortunately, due to his existing love for Star Trek: The Next Generation, this took an unholy turn toward a hybrid of the two worlds. But he enjoyed it, nonetheless, and isn’t that what matters most? Of course it is.
As he grew, Peter learned to enjoy a variety of new writers, such as George Orwell, Leo Tolstoy, Herman Melville, Ernest Hemingway, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Stephen King, Dave Barry, and C.S. Lewis, all of whom had a tremendous impact on his writing style. He planned to go to college (with a vague notion of majoring in something to do with literature), then decided to instead spend seven years as a missionary (mostly in Mexico City). The time paid off, however, and taught him even more about human nature and the art of telling a subtle, character-driven story.