A little belatedly, but I had fun with this prompt. So… taking you up on the offer to publish the results in the comments, here's the rough-drafty version I came up with. :)
**
Father and the Crocodile
“So now, my children, Father is giving each of you this because he is generous and—”
“Kind!” they all scream.
The emissary spreads the candy among the children. The sugary colors stick together from the same heat that makes the windows blurry, so the kids get a piece each that has the weight of five or six. The children peel wrappers with the picture of Father on them and suck on the candy that says FATHER in red letters.
”Tell us,” a boy who is still chewing says, “the one about Father and the crocodile.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to hear about the Father’s nephew, who is being investigated for money laundering? Or about Father’s son, who mowed down a crowd with his car while drunk one night and got sentenced to a year of vacation on our magnificent Caribbean islands? Wouldn’t you rather hear about that?”
“Father and the Crocodile!” the kids chant.
“Well, then, Father and the Crocodile it is. You see, Father was born with coarse skin, the coarsest skin in his village. That’s why everything bounces off of him. Well, he wanted his skin even coarser, because he wanted everything said about him to bounce back to the person who said it. So he sought the biggest Crocodile in our whole country. Father wanted to steal its skin.”
The children stare. Their cheeks are round from the candy stuffed in their mouths. They don’t blink.
The teacher tiptoes inside. “Is it too hot in here for you? I know you’re from the city. Our heat is often too much for you emissaries.”
“No, it’s fine, it’s fine,” the emissary says.
“Please, let me help.” She walks across her classroom. Slender forearms, strong calves. “It’s our village manners, you see.”
She turns on the ceiling and watches as it spins, massaging the hot air trapped in the room. The teacher clicks to a higher setting and waits for the fan to reach a higher level. Another click, another wait.
“Father and the Crocodile!” the kids say in chorus, candy gone.
“Don’t let me distract you,” the teacher says. The ceiling fan flicks moments of coolness at the kids huddled around the emissary on the floor.
“Well, as I was saying, Father was a brave little kid, just like all of you. One day, he was helping his family run errands in town when he noticed something wrong on the wall separating the sewer water from the river. As he ran toward it, he noticed cracks all over it! He started gathering tree sap to smear the walls and protect the town when a mighty crocodile jumped out of the river. Do you think Father was scared?”
”No!” the kids screamed.
“Of course he wasn’t! Father is too quick for a silly crocodile. He did the bravest thing of all: he jumped on top of the crocodile, shut the animal’s jaws with his ten-year-old hands, and kicked its sides like a cowboy. He rode the crocodile right into the mayor’s building and reported the cracks in the wall. The town was saved!”
“Yay for Father!”
“Yay for Father indeed,” the emissary said. The teacher winked at him, and he smiled back.
Her wink sticks on his skin, on his beard, melted there by the heat. It flutters across his mind as he eats guavas and plantains and tries to listen to some of the local councilors’s grievances and gossip. It unravels his fingers in his pockets as he walks among the cawing and howling that weave into the night sky. It meets him at the side of the pond, by the statues of the Patriots splattered with the whites and grays of pigeon feathers and feces.
It is there with him when the crocodile splashes out of the lake, mouth open, a line of teeth glistening under the little moonlight that drips through the branches. He shakes his head, thinking of Father riding the crocodile toward law and order, the symbol of the country. He rubs his eyes. He knows no crocodiles are left since the Great Reptile Rush of a decade ago, all of them folded out into purses and hanging on shoulders where there is snow and daffodils. Down here, only the crocodiles from the emissary’s stories survive. The crocodile snaps its mouth and approaches him in a rush that crushes the grass beneath it.
He knows it is impossible, but it comes toward him still, and fear comes with it. The wink is gone. Hope is gone. Truth.
He thinks of leaping on the crocodile’s back, wrapping a vine around its neck, feeling its coarse plates biting into his skin. He sees it happen as he plays it out before a group of schoolchildren, all of them amazed by his bravery. He slides to the side, jumps, his legs curled into place. But he isn’t Father. Father isn’t Father. He knows this as he is dragged into the lake, and the animal’s tail is all that’s left.
What a marvelous collaboration (which I discovered a year later!). I would love to see Meg's take on this prompt as well. :)
A little belatedly, but I had fun with this prompt. So… taking you up on the offer to publish the results in the comments, here's the rough-drafty version I came up with. :)
**
Father and the Crocodile
“So now, my children, Father is giving each of you this because he is generous and—”
“Kind!” they all scream.
The emissary spreads the candy among the children. The sugary colors stick together from the same heat that makes the windows blurry, so the kids get a piece each that has the weight of five or six. The children peel wrappers with the picture of Father on them and suck on the candy that says FATHER in red letters.
”Tell us,” a boy who is still chewing says, “the one about Father and the crocodile.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to hear about the Father’s nephew, who is being investigated for money laundering? Or about Father’s son, who mowed down a crowd with his car while drunk one night and got sentenced to a year of vacation on our magnificent Caribbean islands? Wouldn’t you rather hear about that?”
“Father and the Crocodile!” the kids chant.
“Well, then, Father and the Crocodile it is. You see, Father was born with coarse skin, the coarsest skin in his village. That’s why everything bounces off of him. Well, he wanted his skin even coarser, because he wanted everything said about him to bounce back to the person who said it. So he sought the biggest Crocodile in our whole country. Father wanted to steal its skin.”
The children stare. Their cheeks are round from the candy stuffed in their mouths. They don’t blink.
The teacher tiptoes inside. “Is it too hot in here for you? I know you’re from the city. Our heat is often too much for you emissaries.”
“No, it’s fine, it’s fine,” the emissary says.
“Please, let me help.” She walks across her classroom. Slender forearms, strong calves. “It’s our village manners, you see.”
She turns on the ceiling and watches as it spins, massaging the hot air trapped in the room. The teacher clicks to a higher setting and waits for the fan to reach a higher level. Another click, another wait.
“Father and the Crocodile!” the kids say in chorus, candy gone.
“Don’t let me distract you,” the teacher says. The ceiling fan flicks moments of coolness at the kids huddled around the emissary on the floor.
“Well, as I was saying, Father was a brave little kid, just like all of you. One day, he was helping his family run errands in town when he noticed something wrong on the wall separating the sewer water from the river. As he ran toward it, he noticed cracks all over it! He started gathering tree sap to smear the walls and protect the town when a mighty crocodile jumped out of the river. Do you think Father was scared?”
”No!” the kids screamed.
“Of course he wasn’t! Father is too quick for a silly crocodile. He did the bravest thing of all: he jumped on top of the crocodile, shut the animal’s jaws with his ten-year-old hands, and kicked its sides like a cowboy. He rode the crocodile right into the mayor’s building and reported the cracks in the wall. The town was saved!”
“Yay for Father!”
“Yay for Father indeed,” the emissary said. The teacher winked at him, and he smiled back.
Her wink sticks on his skin, on his beard, melted there by the heat. It flutters across his mind as he eats guavas and plantains and tries to listen to some of the local councilors’s grievances and gossip. It unravels his fingers in his pockets as he walks among the cawing and howling that weave into the night sky. It meets him at the side of the pond, by the statues of the Patriots splattered with the whites and grays of pigeon feathers and feces.
It is there with him when the crocodile splashes out of the lake, mouth open, a line of teeth glistening under the little moonlight that drips through the branches. He shakes his head, thinking of Father riding the crocodile toward law and order, the symbol of the country. He rubs his eyes. He knows no crocodiles are left since the Great Reptile Rush of a decade ago, all of them folded out into purses and hanging on shoulders where there is snow and daffodils. Down here, only the crocodiles from the emissary’s stories survive. The crocodile snaps its mouth and approaches him in a rush that crushes the grass beneath it.
He knows it is impossible, but it comes toward him still, and fear comes with it. The wink is gone. Hope is gone. Truth.
He thinks of leaping on the crocodile’s back, wrapping a vine around its neck, feeling its coarse plates biting into his skin. He sees it happen as he plays it out before a group of schoolchildren, all of them amazed by his bravery. He slides to the side, jumps, his legs curled into place. But he isn’t Father. Father isn’t Father. He knows this as he is dragged into the lake, and the animal’s tail is all that’s left.
Tickled to see you and Etgar collaborating! And always kudos to Jessica, Etgar’s translator! ❤️
It was an absolute delight.
The alien visits are prompting Meron to chose death while they give him pills to stay alive.
I have not yet written a story using the prompt, but I love it and I want to say how much I enjoyed reading Etgar Keret’s story.