Thursday, October 9, 2008


"I guess we could think of something better than a bus," Gordon remarked.

"What do you mean?" Joe asked and Gordon smiled, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "No,"

"Afraid of a little adventure, mate? Didn't take you for the type,"

"Adventure is one thing, but I don't think Parker will be up for the idea of hitch hiking."

"Parker won't or you won't?"


"Just because you don't want to do it we all shouldn't want to?"

"It isn't like that,"

Gordon frowned and sat in the silence for a while, his fingers scraping against the stubble of his face.

"Wherever we go I'd like to get cleaned up some," he broke in and Joe nodded.

"I never thought I'd miss a bar of soap so much."

"Did you ever hear the story of how soap was discovered?" Mali asked and the pair nodded.

"Bodies and rivers and all that,"

Actually, it started with snowfall.

"Liar," Gordon said and Joe shushed him, pointing to the rolled die.

Or rather, the lack of snow fall. You see, there was a town in the northern part of Europe called Celia. For years they had been celebrated for their incredibly beautiful mountains and for the snow that fell on them. Ancient skiers would come from all parts of the world in order to ride those wonderful white slopes, paying top dollar for just one run down the thick white powder.

One year, however, winter came to the town of Celia, and with it came the flood of people and their skis, yet the snow was no where to be found. The clamor for it in the hills drove the townsfolk to elect one person to climb the mountain and find where it had gone. That person was Edmond Soap.

"Good Christ," Gordon laughed.

"What?" asked Mali.

"Edmond Soap? What sort of name is that, love? What sort of thing are you getting on about?"

"Maybe if you'd let me finish I could get there," she replied.

"Finish what? I mean really,"

"Easy guys," Joe broke in, "let her finish her story."

"If you'll remember it was my poem that got us the money, mate. I think I know a little bit about what makes good writing and what doesn't,"


"And what makes good writing?" Mali asked hotly.

"Not Edmond Soap, I'll tell you that,"

"We all helped get the money, Gordon," said Joe, "All of us."

"Some of us more than others I think," he replied.

"Mali had a great poem,"

"About the old bat and her stories?"

Joe stared hard at Gordon for a long time before turning back to Mali. Her face was bright red and her lips were pulled into a tight white grimace.

"Go on Mali," said Joe and Gordon sighed.

"No," She told them, her face unchanged, "I think I'll just save this one for a different time."

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