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koilungfish12/9/07 - FAIL
13/9/07 - 1047 words on It's Not Funny
14/9/07 - Ill
15/9/07 - Ill
16/9/07 - Day Off
17/9/07 - 604 words on untitled TF ficbit
18/9/07 - 744 words on Ark Visit
19/9/07 - Ill
20/9/07 - 744 words on Taste of Empires, 69 words on Pride's Prison
21/9/07 - 23/9/07 - Ill
24/9/07 - Day Off
25/9/07 - Ill
26/9/07 - The Professor's Visitor
The old professor was sitting up of a night, clad in naught but his flannel long underclothes, writing a treatise on why it was that, since it was mathematically proven that bumblebees could not fly, all reported sightings of flying bumblebees must be the result of credulous dupes who had mistaken hoverflies for bumblebees. He was scratching his long mutton-chop whiskers and wondering if anyone had taken the time to mathematically prove whether or not hoverflies could fly, or whether they were perhaps the mass delusion, when there came a knock at the door.
"Who's there?" he said, rising from his chair and pulling on his old silk smoking jacket, its golden dragons long ago worn down to ghosts outlined in pin-pricks.
"I am Count Dracula," said a voice without. Without what? Without a face, since the door was closed. Without familiarity, since the old professor could think of nobody who might have such a voice, such a lugubrious, heavily accented voice, such a tone of cold authority.
"The Devil you are," said the old professor, snatching up the poker from the fireplace and striding over to the heavy oaken door that stood the tower-corner of his old college room.
"No. Dracula I am," said the voice. "I have said this one already."
"You may say it again if it pleases you, or not if it does not, but I shan't believe you," said the professor, standing foursquare before the locked and barred door, leaning on the poker. He wondered whether he ought to ring for a porter to come throw this obvious prankster of a student out, or whether to fling open the door and conk the fool one square on the noggin. "There is no such thing as Count Dracula."
"Begging your English pardon, but yes, there was," said the voice, oak-muffled, calmly Central European and sounding perhaps a mite miffed. "Count Vlad Dracula of Romania, born in 1431 and mostly died in 1476."
"And I suppose you consider yourself to be Count Vlad the mostly dead?" the old professor said, having to raise his voice to ensure he was audible and not liking the effect it was having on his throat. Bad enough lecturing all week without having to shout at this ninnyhammer, he thought, scowling at the door.
"No. I am Count Dracula, the vampire from Transylanvia, not Count Dracula, the impaler from Romania."
The professor rolled his eyes. "And I suppose you're standing outside in full evening dress and opera cape to boot." There was a long pause. Stealing a pace or two closer to the door, the professor could hear a shuffling sound, like a man wiping his feet on the doormat.
"No boots," said the voice, "just shoes."
How quaintly gnomic, thought the professor. "And the opera cape?" he said, as sarcastically as he could manage at high volume.
"In July?" said the voice, the curl of amusement in his tone bringing the words out high enough that the professor had to strain his old ears to be certain of what he heard. Granted it was summer, which indeed was why he hadn't been able to sleep, although the clock had struck quarter to three just before his unwanted visitor came, and indeed also why he was in his underclothes.
"What the bloody hell do you want, anyway?" the professor shouted. "You'll wake the other fellows up."
"I want a glass of water," said the voice from deepest Transylvania.
"Ask at the porter's lodge," returned the professor, laying a hand on the door. He listened closely for the reply, to better gauge the height of his mid-night pest for a bash to the bonce with the poker.
"All I want is a glass of water," repeated the voice, the authority of its tone sidling into an aristocratic wheedle. "A glass of water and a slice of bread alone."
"I don't have any bread alone," said the professor. "Who do you think you are, Gladstone?"
"No, Dracula." The voice sounded close to laughter. "Gladstone is dead."
"I know Gladstone is dead!" shouted the professor, laying his hand on the latch.
"Can I come in?" asked the voice sadly.
"No! Most certainly not!"
The voice made an irate spitting sound, a rasping hrach! "I have tried every door on this landing, but nobody will let me in!"
"And with good reason!" The professor lifted the latch and flung open the door. "Have at yaaaargh!"
Before him, pale as a fish's belly and sad as a melted candle, stood a tall man in evening dress, his tuxedo over one arm and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, his collar undone and his tie hanging loose. Mud stained his untidy hair, the elbows of his sweat-sodden shirt and the legs of his trousers all the way to the knee. His eyes were red with insomnia or beer or worse. A smell wafted in through the door that gave the old professor a sudden flash of memory, of mud and horses screaming, of faces made nameless by gas masks and the obliterating thunder of an artillery barrage.
The professor swung at the apparition, caught the head of the poker on the door lintel and dropped the blasted thing. It rolled away, discretely secreting itself underneath the sofa.
"Well, now that we have got that out of the way," said the man. "Can I come in and have a drink?"
"No!" said the professor, trying to ignore the slithering feeling of his dressing gown coming undone. "There is no such thing as a vampire, so clear off!"
He slammed the door in the man's face, and after the thud he heard a quiet "Bugger," and a sound as of a soft rain of ashes falling pitter-pat upon the doormat.
Final Version Posted
13/9/07 - 1047 words on It's Not Funny
14/9/07 - Ill
15/9/07 - Ill
16/9/07 - Day Off
17/9/07 - 604 words on untitled TF ficbit
18/9/07 - 744 words on Ark Visit
19/9/07 - Ill
20/9/07 - 744 words on Taste of Empires, 69 words on Pride's Prison
21/9/07 - 23/9/07 - Ill
24/9/07 - Day Off
25/9/07 - Ill
26/9/07 - The Professor's Visitor
The old professor was sitting up of a night, clad in naught but his flannel long underclothes, writing a treatise on why it was that, since it was mathematically proven that bumblebees could not fly, all reported sightings of flying bumblebees must be the result of credulous dupes who had mistaken hoverflies for bumblebees. He was scratching his long mutton-chop whiskers and wondering if anyone had taken the time to mathematically prove whether or not hoverflies could fly, or whether they were perhaps the mass delusion, when there came a knock at the door.
"Who's there?" he said, rising from his chair and pulling on his old silk smoking jacket, its golden dragons long ago worn down to ghosts outlined in pin-pricks.
"I am Count Dracula," said a voice without. Without what? Without a face, since the door was closed. Without familiarity, since the old professor could think of nobody who might have such a voice, such a lugubrious, heavily accented voice, such a tone of cold authority.
"The Devil you are," said the old professor, snatching up the poker from the fireplace and striding over to the heavy oaken door that stood the tower-corner of his old college room.
"No. Dracula I am," said the voice. "I have said this one already."
"You may say it again if it pleases you, or not if it does not, but I shan't believe you," said the professor, standing foursquare before the locked and barred door, leaning on the poker. He wondered whether he ought to ring for a porter to come throw this obvious prankster of a student out, or whether to fling open the door and conk the fool one square on the noggin. "There is no such thing as Count Dracula."
"Begging your English pardon, but yes, there was," said the voice, oak-muffled, calmly Central European and sounding perhaps a mite miffed. "Count Vlad Dracula of Romania, born in 1431 and mostly died in 1476."
"And I suppose you consider yourself to be Count Vlad the mostly dead?" the old professor said, having to raise his voice to ensure he was audible and not liking the effect it was having on his throat. Bad enough lecturing all week without having to shout at this ninnyhammer, he thought, scowling at the door.
"No. I am Count Dracula, the vampire from Transylanvia, not Count Dracula, the impaler from Romania."
The professor rolled his eyes. "And I suppose you're standing outside in full evening dress and opera cape to boot." There was a long pause. Stealing a pace or two closer to the door, the professor could hear a shuffling sound, like a man wiping his feet on the doormat.
"No boots," said the voice, "just shoes."
How quaintly gnomic, thought the professor. "And the opera cape?" he said, as sarcastically as he could manage at high volume.
"In July?" said the voice, the curl of amusement in his tone bringing the words out high enough that the professor had to strain his old ears to be certain of what he heard. Granted it was summer, which indeed was why he hadn't been able to sleep, although the clock had struck quarter to three just before his unwanted visitor came, and indeed also why he was in his underclothes.
"What the bloody hell do you want, anyway?" the professor shouted. "You'll wake the other fellows up."
"I want a glass of water," said the voice from deepest Transylvania.
"Ask at the porter's lodge," returned the professor, laying a hand on the door. He listened closely for the reply, to better gauge the height of his mid-night pest for a bash to the bonce with the poker.
"All I want is a glass of water," repeated the voice, the authority of its tone sidling into an aristocratic wheedle. "A glass of water and a slice of bread alone."
"I don't have any bread alone," said the professor. "Who do you think you are, Gladstone?"
"No, Dracula." The voice sounded close to laughter. "Gladstone is dead."
"I know Gladstone is dead!" shouted the professor, laying his hand on the latch.
"Can I come in?" asked the voice sadly.
"No! Most certainly not!"
The voice made an irate spitting sound, a rasping hrach! "I have tried every door on this landing, but nobody will let me in!"
"And with good reason!" The professor lifted the latch and flung open the door. "Have at yaaaargh!"
Before him, pale as a fish's belly and sad as a melted candle, stood a tall man in evening dress, his tuxedo over one arm and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, his collar undone and his tie hanging loose. Mud stained his untidy hair, the elbows of his sweat-sodden shirt and the legs of his trousers all the way to the knee. His eyes were red with insomnia or beer or worse. A smell wafted in through the door that gave the old professor a sudden flash of memory, of mud and horses screaming, of faces made nameless by gas masks and the obliterating thunder of an artillery barrage.
The professor swung at the apparition, caught the head of the poker on the door lintel and dropped the blasted thing. It rolled away, discretely secreting itself underneath the sofa.
"Well, now that we have got that out of the way," said the man. "Can I come in and have a drink?"
"No!" said the professor, trying to ignore the slithering feeling of his dressing gown coming undone. "There is no such thing as a vampire, so clear off!"
He slammed the door in the man's face, and after the thud he heard a quiet "Bugger," and a sound as of a soft rain of ashes falling pitter-pat upon the doormat.
Final Version Posted
