Short fiction challenge
In my series of short fiction challenges, I post short pieces I wrote for my Masters in Science Fiction and Fantasy at Anglia Ruskin University. We were set a challenge every fortnight, to practise writing in a particular style or genre, and (with permission from my tutor) I’ve decided to share them here.
This week’s challenge was to write a travelogue description of either some place in our world outside of the UK, or some place wholly invented.
Morro Bay lies roughly halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco, and is approached via the Pacific Coast Highway. Perched on the waterfront, the town was historically a Chumash settlement, but these days its main industries are tourism, commercial fishing and the local power plant. A visitor newly arrived from Britain might be tempted in to one of the quayside restaurants and cafes, and conclude that the hearty breakfast they cannot finish is standard fisherman’s fare, filling the stomach before a gruelling day out on the seas – but no, these are simply ‘American portions’.
Walk south from the quay and you reach the gift shops and bars, where townsfolk mingle with day trippers, and residential streets begin to be glimpsed. Whether you’re buying a chilled beer or a souvenir, it’s all faintly familiar: the squawking of seabirds, the dropped ice cream, the exposed flesh, all melding together to offer up the perfect seaside holiday.
Walk north, however, and it’s a whole different story.
Morro Bay is named for the large rock – ‘morro’ in Spanish – that sits at the entrance to the harbour. A short walk from the town centre, it has an almost magnetic appeal, drawing to it visitors and residents alike: courting couples, picknicking retirees, joggers, poets, photographers. Wildlife watchers, in particular, love to make their way up the curving causeway to spot sea lions, sea otters, cormorants and a whole host of other creatures.
The one creature they never spot, however, is the dragon.
It is forbidden to climb Morro Rock. According to the lawmakers, this is because it is a protected reserve for peregrine falcons; and it’s true, the falcons are indeed endangered. But no-one has ever really questioned why this is so. Birds of prey, the fastest members of the animal kingdom: surely they could hold their own against anything that dared to threaten them? But no-one questions the lawmakers, not in a small town like this.
The Chumash are not the only tribe with links to Morro Rock; the Salinan people also consider it a sacred site. They believe that, many moons ago, a falcon and a raven destroyed the two-headed serpent-monster Taliyekatapelta as he wrapped his body around the base of the rock. This is true. What the Salinans do not know is that Taliyekatapelta’s mate lay sleeping inside. Devastated by the loss of her companion, she has spent the subsequent centuries taking revenge on the falcons (the fate of the ravens is unknown), emerging at night to satisfy both her appetite and her need for vengeance.
The townsfolk know nothing of this. The dragon hibernates throughout the month, only venturing forth at the New Moon, when the sky is darkened. Her wings beat to the rhythm of the power plant pumping its fumes into the air; her breath mingles with the faint vapour that drifts over the sea from the factory stacks; she gains further cover from rainclouds in the winter and wildfire smoke in the summer. A stray cat might sense something passing overhead, but only for a moment.
The cat is lucky. The dragon has one purpose, and one prey. While the Morro Bay citizens dream of tourist dollars, and the tourists dream of country breakfasts, the winged serpent circles the rock that is both her home and the site of her greatest despair, and scents the night air for traces of raptor.
© Gwyneth Marshman 2018.