The late morning was already hot, and sweat beaded on the faces of the thirty men, young and old, who lined up expectantly in the sun. They had paid good money for this stay on a dilapidated Majorcan farmhouse, where they had discovered after a long bus journey from the airport that accommodation was dismayingly austere. Formalities of registration had proven unusually vexing in the heat, but the thought of the week's programme drove them on: Balearic braiding, distance shooting, hunting with slings, duelling, casting lead, and other arcane matters. Now they awaited the entry of the Balearic master slinger who would teach them his secrets, and they were determined to get the most out of their money.

At last he emerged from his comfortable and modern caravan, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He did not bother to look at the thirty men, who, standing to attention, stiffened with anticipation. At his side, the interpreter and manager of the slinging camp, already much hated by the men for his officiousness, shambled along in a cloud of cigarette smoke. The master mumbled in Catalan, his words translated by his acolyte to the attentive residents:

"Do they all have slings ?"

The men earnestly waved an assortment of straps and cords, self-made in a diversity of materials, modern and would-be ancient, the pennants of their passion, now freely indulged, far from neighbours and spouses.

"Now they will learn the most important secret-- how to sling-- in the authentic Balearic way."

The men nodded and grunted and shifted in expectation and excitement. Now the discomfort of the accommodation, so painful for Americans used to artificially cooled air or denizens of much colder and wetter lands than the island, was forgotten; some already were mentally composing the messages they would later post on blogs and bulletin boards, or imagining the little films that would broadcast their excellence to the world.

"Do they see this pile of stones ? Good. These are all Balearic stones, the special ones for slinging. Do they see the olive tree at the end of the field ? It is one hundred paces away. Now your lunch packs are hanging in the branches of this tree. You must knock these packs off the branches of this tree if you want to eat today. This is the Balearic way, the way of our fathers".

A ghastly suspended moment passed, before the men scrabbled and stumbled over the gravel pile, and started wildly swinging their contraptions in the air-- in horizontal moulinets, in swishing arcs, in odd figures around their bodies. Baseball caps and floppy hats were knocked off heads; there was much swearing and jostling for place, and squinting at the distant olive tree, its leaves alternately green and grey according to the wind. Hunger did not improve their aim, and it would worsen during the long scorching hours.

Pipo and Luis went back to the caravan, to open their first beer of the day.

nice

Very nice! You've whetted our appetites now. More please!

This belongs with some of Desert Pilot's prose from a year or so back.

I tried to write one for the forum about the battle between David and Goliath using David's thoughts as our perspective.  It ended up really sucking bad so it was never posted, of course.  I guess some of us have it and some don't.  Are you a professional writer of some sort?

  Very nice, Thearos. Thanks!

Very well written, the saying; one born every minute, comes to mind.

I almost thought it was real. Thanks for the great first installment???