The Tent

I am the master, the chief, el supremo, numero uno, king of my domain, emperor of my tent.

 

I can do anything I like in my tent. For ten hours a day I have no cares, I can sleep eat, I can even read, I have a lamp I can burn any time I like, no-one will stop me. I can read all through the night if I want to.

 

The tent is massive, a ‘two-man’ tent, for just one of me. If I stretch my arms and legs out full-stretch I barely touch the sides. When I sleep I can choose whereabouts in the tent I lay out my sleeping bag, though in truth I always prefer the bottom left corner.

 

The tent is of the highest quality, thick as a fortress, said to be made from camel hide, whatever a camel is. It’s water-proof, wind-resistant and completely noiseless, a bomb could go off outside my flap and I wouldn’t hear a thing.

 

My choice of vocation is not for everyone. Working fourteen hours a day down the mine, the hardest physical labour there is. Some say the rewards for such labour are insufficient, food and water, a ten-minute crap-break and somewhere to lay my head at night; but it’s a good life, my needs are simple and my reward is here, in the silence and sanctity of my tented kingdom. There is no prince, president or king anywhere in the world with a greater domain than mine. 

 

For those ten hours per day I would willingly work my body and soul to their bare-bone remnants over the other fourteen. It’s a fair exchange.

 

xxx

 

Terrible news! I’m going to have to share my tent. Following the expansion of the mine, there isn’t enough accommodation for everyone. As a temporary measure, those of us with two-man tents to themselves will have to take in a lodger.

 

It’s a blow to my entire way of life, but, I reconcile myself, even with another inhabitant the tent is still spacious and comfortable.

 

The only downside is that my new companion doesn’t approve of all of my habits. He likes to return to the tent and crash out asleep, as soon as he’s finished supper and his trombone practice. He complains when I light the lamp to read. I guess I shall have to get used to less reading time while he’s here.

 

xxx

 

A third person has joined the tent, due to the closure of the West Field. The exact circumstances are unclear, but it is rumoured that the Governor’s Mansion is being expanded. At least I still have my own warm corner to sleep in, but it’s decidedly cramped in here now.

 

xxx

 

The new contract is harsh. A sixteen-hour day. There are 12 of us to the tent now, rotating in shifts, four of us crammed into the tent at one time. My own little corner is no longer my own, being occupied by whoever sleeps there while I work.

 
xxx

 

Hank crashed through the doors of the saloon as loudly as he could, spurs jangling, feet clomping on the floor. Everyone pretended to ignore him, conversations continued, the piano didn’t stop playing, but he knew that all eyes were on him.

 

“Where’s the kid,” he shouted to the barman.

 

‘I’m sorry, what’s going on, this is my story. Why’s it turned into a western?’

 

“It’s my story now. You’ve had your 500 words.”

 

‘But it’s my story!’

 

“Not any more, there isn’t enough space in the world for everyone to write long stories. The new edict means that all stories must stop at 500 words. It’s my story now.”

 

“The kid’s over here.”

 

Hank turned to face the centre of the saloon, where The Kid was standing.