The Tent by Margaret Atwood Read Free Book Online

carcasses littering the cottage premises, gnawed on by crows and such, but not cleaned up neatly the way the maggots would once have done it.)
             
    Last scene: Amanda is trying to poke holes in the flint-hard soil with a knitting needle. Chris comes out of the house. He has a cup containing their last scrapings of decaf instant coffee. “At least we’re together,” says Amanda.
             
    Or should I have Chris yell, “Where are you, fucking worms, when we need you most?”

    Maybe Amanda should yell it. That would be unexpected, and might show that her character has developed.
             
    Now that this has happened – this cathartic, revealing, and somehow inspiriting yell – a small, still-wriggling worm might be discovered in the corner of the garden, copulating with itself. It would sound a note of plangent hope. I always like to end on those.
    2. SPONGEDEATH
    In this novel, a sponge located on a reef near the coast of Florida begins to grow at a very rapid rate. Soon it has reached the shore and is oozing inland, swallowing beach condos and gated communities as it goes. Nothing is able to stop it. It shows no respect for roadblocks, state police, or even bombs. A sponge on the rampage is a formidable foe. It has no central nervous system, not like us.

    “It’s not like us,” says Chris, from the top of his condo, where he has gone with his binoculars to reconnoitre. Amanda clings to him fearfully. What a shame this is – they just bought the condo, in which they had great sex in Chapter One, and now look. All that decor gone to waste.
             
    “Could we sprinkle salt on it?” Amanda asks, with appealing hesitation.
             
    “Honey, it’s not a slug,” says Chris masterfully.
             
    Should these be his last words? Should the sponge fall upon him with a soft but deadly glop? Or should he be allowed to defeat the monstrous bath accessory and save the day, for Florida, for America, and ultimately for humanity? The latter would be my own inclination.
             
    But until I know the answer to this question – until I’m convinced, in my heart, that the human spirit has the wherewithal to go head to headless against this malevolent wad of cellulose – because as a writer loyal to the truth of the inner self you can’t fake these things – it might be as well not to begin.
    3. BEETLEPLUNGE
    I heard it as if in a dream. “Beetleplunge.” I often get such insights, such gifts from the Unknown, They just come to me. As this one came.
             
    That word – if it is a word – might look quite stunning on the jacket of a book. Should it be “Beetle Plunge,” two words? Or possibly “Beetle Plummet?” Or perhaps “Beetle Descent,” which might sound more literary?
             
    Let’s think outside the box. Scrap the title! This is now a novel without a name. Immediately I am freed from the necessity of having to do something about the beetles. I saw them so clearly when I was first thinking about this book – all the beetles in the world plunging over a cliff, like lemmings, driven by some mysterious instinct gone wrong – but they did pose a problem: that is, what was to follow as a result?
             
    Maybe I misheard. Maybe it was “Bottle Plunge.” Maybe it was Chris and Amanda, in Chris’s green Volkswagen, being forced off the road, and perilously close to the edge of an escarpment, by a black Mercedes driven by Amanda’s drunken husband. Chris and Amanda had great sex in Chapter One, but Amanda’s husband arrived in Chapter Two, in the Mercedes, just as Chris – who is their student gardener, at the gated community – was giving Amanda a post-coital explanation of the infestation of Coleoptera (red and black, with orange mandibles) currently ravaging the herbaceous borders.
             
    As Chris was pronouncing the word ravaging, the husband sprang in through the French