The Miss Laura
by Gordon MacAulay
Write a story containing a CD case, a banana, and a moment of passion.
Listening, you could hear the patterned lapping of the water against the bow as the Miss Laura sailed elegantly into the still waters of Zephyr Bay. Zephyr, because the wind always blew with little more than a light breeze and it was a beautiful place to sail as the sun set in a fiery display over the waters edge. Belinda stood tall on the bow holding tight to the main stay as she reflected on the stillness around her. It mesmerised her mind as her thoughts were cast a million miles away to the horizon with the setting sun. She remembered the beautiful moments of excitement she had shared as a child with her family sailing into the same bay some fifteen years ago. Now it was different. Matt held the tiller and she could feel his strong presence, although a boat length away.
“Belinda, toss it over” Matt called. Belinda took a number of seconds to flip out of her trance. “Belinda, quick or we will be on the coral!” he yelled.
Slowly the boat heeled to the anchor rope and swung to face the wind. Belinda turned to see the sun sinking through the horizon. Then it was gone, apart from a brilliant golden after glow.
Belinda could hear her own voice saying, bring back that moment, but once lost it can never return—time only goes forward, never backwards, she said to herself. As she flipped out of the transported state she became present to all the things she had to do. Habit clicked in. Go down to the galley. Prepare the food, cook the vegetables, set the table and serve it while it is hot. It an instant, this pattern was broken with an idea. She walked right up to Matt still tidying up the ropes and put her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. “Matt, lets sit on the deck with a glass of champagne and music from your favourite CD. It will float across the bay and echo off the hills”, she said.
The music floated across the water as they both sat beside each other, alone, and dangling their feet in the cool water. Belinda sipped the bubbling champagne and it tickled her nose. Matt sat beside her with an arm around her waist and his fine balloon-shaped glass glowed in the fading light of the setting sun. Belinda could feel herself becoming euphoric and ‘dreamy’. She could hear herself saying he is so good looking, so strong, so intelligent and witty—I love him. Yet, she could say nothing. Matt fiddled with the CD case and she thought, doesn't he understand.
Quietly floating past in the water was a banana skin. Matt put his glass out to scoop it up. Like a glass crashing to the floor both fell, splash, into the water and the spell was broken.
28 October 2009.
Tuesday 27 October 2009
Monday 26 October 2009
Shame on me (Heather's competition entry draft)
I drop my spoon, causing it to clang loudly on the saucer of my coffee. I smother the spoon quickly with my hand and avert my head in case Ben looks in my direction.
But I needn’t have worried. Ben is too busy finding a booth at the same time as scanning the room for someone.
What on earth is he doing here?
I replay the scene back at the apartment a few minutes ago. We were both there for lunch and I’d served up a quick salad with the leftover chicken.
“Well,” Ben had said, stretching. “That was delish. Anyway, guess I’d better head off and get the Bentley job finished.” Ben’s an electrician, with his own company, so he comes and goes pretty much as he pleases.
Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what he said.
I’d flipped him a wave and headed for the computer where I’d been working on the wedding invitations.
He followed me over and gave me a kiss. He peered at the screen. “Working on the wedding, I see?” he said. We’re going to have the wedding of the century. Ben teases me about it costing a lot but he’s a pushover. He’d do anything for me. “See you later, Princess,” he said. Now that I think about it, didn’t he caress my hair in an unusual, thoughtful kind of way?
Anyway, I gave him an affectionate push and dove back online where I’d been trying to sort out the font for the invitations. As he walked out the door, I thought to myself, I’m a bit sick of this. I think I’ll go to Ready’s for a coffee and then skip down to the bombonierie to check out their ideas for the little table gifts for the guests.
So here I am. But more to the point, here HE is, when he’d told me a few minutes ago that he was heading off to finish up a job he’d been working on. He lied to me! What for?
He disappears from my view for a second and then startles me by popping into the booth right next to mine, screened by a trellissy sort of thing. I’m trying madly to decide whether or not to pop my head over the screen and say hello.
I am still debating this when a perky brunette comes through the door, breaks into a big smile and heads straight to his booth. “Ben!” she says. “How good is it to see you!” He leaps up and she gives him a huge hug. He hugs her unreservedly back.
I freeze like a deer in the headlights. This is my worst nightmare; it must be every fiancée’s worst nightmare. You catch your man practically in flagrante with someone else just months before your wedding. My fists clench. I have a thought that it’s lucky I don’t have a gun, because if I did, I might start shooting.
Instead, I concentrate on listening.
“Well, congratulations on your engagement,” the brunette says in this fruity contralto voice. “I hear you had a big shindig.”
Ben coughs uncomfortably. “Well, yes, sorry about not inviting you. I’d have loved to but Suz is a little, well, possessive. She goes off like rocket if I so much as look at someone else.”
“That’s a shame,” Contralto Voice says. “So she’s a little insecure?”
I bristle and the anger builds. I’m being patronised? If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s insecure. My friends tell me I’m drop dead gorgeous; well, at least I make the most of my natural features. I’ve had a few small procedures to enhance…
I can’t believe it. Ben is telling her about them.
“For example,” he’s saying, “she’s had a few what she calls ‘small procedures’. She’s had her nose done, and her teeth whitened, and…”
Ben, don’t. Don’t!
“…And she had her breasts augmented. I mean, they’re great, very attractive, the guys give me a hard time which is terrific, but really, it was the last thing I wanted her to do.”
By now I am sitting very very still. I seem to be paralysed. I hear my heartbeat in my ears. I want desperately to be transported to some other part of the planet, Afghanistan, maybe. Where they wear burkas. A train is bearing down on me and I’m powerless to stop it. I can feel every fibre of my being coming unravelled.
“I’ve been to the wedding website, and love your photos. She’s very pretty,” says Contralto.
“Oh, don’t talk to me about the wedding,” Ben says, and another dagger strikes my heart. “I said from the beginning we should just have something small and intimate, but it’s like I’m invisible. This thing is shaping up bigger than the launch of the Titanic.”
“Bad metaphor,” the brunette laughs.
“It’s going to break the bank for both her parents and my parents. But it’ll be impressive and that’s the important thing,” he says. The dagger twists.
“And I won’t be able to come and be impressed,” she says softly.
Ben takes a while replying and sounds sad. “No, I’d never get an ex-girlfriend past her onto the guest list.”
“That’s all right, Ben,” she says. “What I like is a good talk with you. I’m happy to catch up like this.”
“Even if I have to sneak out,” laughs Ben.
“Even if,” she replies, a smile in her voice.
I can feel the bile rising up my throat. I’ve never felt anything like this – a wave of shame so extreme that I think I might die on the spot.
“We call her Princess,” Ben says, betraying me even further. “Her dad used to call her Princess, and now I do. But I do it…”
“…With a hint of irony,” she supplies.
“Plenty of irony,” says Ben.
And then she says: “You sure she’s right for you, Ben?”
The silence that follows is the longest ten minutes of my life. Well, maybe it isn’t ten minutes but it feels like it. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Even the hand holding my coffee cup stops shaking.
Finally he says, so quietly I can hardly hear him, “Oh yes, I’m sure. I’ve never been so sure of anything. She’s warm and funny and so full of life and I just love her,” he says simply. “I’d do anything for her.”
I gulp back a sob and suddenly I can’t endure it anymore. I drop a $10 bill on the table and slink out. “I hope everything was okay, miss,” somebody calls out loudly as I head out the door. I don’t turn back.
Later that afternoon, Ben comes home. I’m ready for him.
He hangs up his jacket and looks at me closely. “Have you been crying?”
“I’ve been thinking,” I say quickly before a fresh crop of tears can give me away. “I’ve been thinking about our wedding.”
Ben looks alarmed. “Princess, we’ve already…”
I cut him off. “Stop,” I say. “I was thinking about doing something much simpler, much more…” I hesitate, “…intimate. Just a few family members, some of our closest old friends, even people from before we knew each other. Maybe in your mum’s garden, followed by some tasty snacks.” I skid to a halt. I can’t say any more.
Ben’s expression flashes bewilderment, flickers for a microsecond on sceptical and finally lands on relieved and radiant. That look is my reward for everything in my life that I have done right. He sits down beside me and I fold into his arms. The brittle terror I’ve been feeling dissolves just like that.
“And don’t call me Princess,” I add. “Please? Okay? I don’t want to be called Princess anymore.”
Word count: 1300
Alternative titles:
I’d do anything for you
Dethroned
The Princess takes a fall
The stranger in my place
Restored to grace
But I needn’t have worried. Ben is too busy finding a booth at the same time as scanning the room for someone.
What on earth is he doing here?
I replay the scene back at the apartment a few minutes ago. We were both there for lunch and I’d served up a quick salad with the leftover chicken.
“Well,” Ben had said, stretching. “That was delish. Anyway, guess I’d better head off and get the Bentley job finished.” Ben’s an electrician, with his own company, so he comes and goes pretty much as he pleases.
Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what he said.
I’d flipped him a wave and headed for the computer where I’d been working on the wedding invitations.
He followed me over and gave me a kiss. He peered at the screen. “Working on the wedding, I see?” he said. We’re going to have the wedding of the century. Ben teases me about it costing a lot but he’s a pushover. He’d do anything for me. “See you later, Princess,” he said. Now that I think about it, didn’t he caress my hair in an unusual, thoughtful kind of way?
Anyway, I gave him an affectionate push and dove back online where I’d been trying to sort out the font for the invitations. As he walked out the door, I thought to myself, I’m a bit sick of this. I think I’ll go to Ready’s for a coffee and then skip down to the bombonierie to check out their ideas for the little table gifts for the guests.
So here I am. But more to the point, here HE is, when he’d told me a few minutes ago that he was heading off to finish up a job he’d been working on. He lied to me! What for?
He disappears from my view for a second and then startles me by popping into the booth right next to mine, screened by a trellissy sort of thing. I’m trying madly to decide whether or not to pop my head over the screen and say hello.
I am still debating this when a perky brunette comes through the door, breaks into a big smile and heads straight to his booth. “Ben!” she says. “How good is it to see you!” He leaps up and she gives him a huge hug. He hugs her unreservedly back.
I freeze like a deer in the headlights. This is my worst nightmare; it must be every fiancée’s worst nightmare. You catch your man practically in flagrante with someone else just months before your wedding. My fists clench. I have a thought that it’s lucky I don’t have a gun, because if I did, I might start shooting.
Instead, I concentrate on listening.
“Well, congratulations on your engagement,” the brunette says in this fruity contralto voice. “I hear you had a big shindig.”
Ben coughs uncomfortably. “Well, yes, sorry about not inviting you. I’d have loved to but Suz is a little, well, possessive. She goes off like rocket if I so much as look at someone else.”
“That’s a shame,” Contralto Voice says. “So she’s a little insecure?”
I bristle and the anger builds. I’m being patronised? If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s insecure. My friends tell me I’m drop dead gorgeous; well, at least I make the most of my natural features. I’ve had a few small procedures to enhance…
I can’t believe it. Ben is telling her about them.
“For example,” he’s saying, “she’s had a few what she calls ‘small procedures’. She’s had her nose done, and her teeth whitened, and…”
Ben, don’t. Don’t!
“…And she had her breasts augmented. I mean, they’re great, very attractive, the guys give me a hard time which is terrific, but really, it was the last thing I wanted her to do.”
By now I am sitting very very still. I seem to be paralysed. I hear my heartbeat in my ears. I want desperately to be transported to some other part of the planet, Afghanistan, maybe. Where they wear burkas. A train is bearing down on me and I’m powerless to stop it. I can feel every fibre of my being coming unravelled.
“I’ve been to the wedding website, and love your photos. She’s very pretty,” says Contralto.
“Oh, don’t talk to me about the wedding,” Ben says, and another dagger strikes my heart. “I said from the beginning we should just have something small and intimate, but it’s like I’m invisible. This thing is shaping up bigger than the launch of the Titanic.”
“Bad metaphor,” the brunette laughs.
“It’s going to break the bank for both her parents and my parents. But it’ll be impressive and that’s the important thing,” he says. The dagger twists.
“And I won’t be able to come and be impressed,” she says softly.
Ben takes a while replying and sounds sad. “No, I’d never get an ex-girlfriend past her onto the guest list.”
“That’s all right, Ben,” she says. “What I like is a good talk with you. I’m happy to catch up like this.”
“Even if I have to sneak out,” laughs Ben.
“Even if,” she replies, a smile in her voice.
I can feel the bile rising up my throat. I’ve never felt anything like this – a wave of shame so extreme that I think I might die on the spot.
“We call her Princess,” Ben says, betraying me even further. “Her dad used to call her Princess, and now I do. But I do it…”
“…With a hint of irony,” she supplies.
“Plenty of irony,” says Ben.
And then she says: “You sure she’s right for you, Ben?”
The silence that follows is the longest ten minutes of my life. Well, maybe it isn’t ten minutes but it feels like it. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Even the hand holding my coffee cup stops shaking.
Finally he says, so quietly I can hardly hear him, “Oh yes, I’m sure. I’ve never been so sure of anything. She’s warm and funny and so full of life and I just love her,” he says simply. “I’d do anything for her.”
I gulp back a sob and suddenly I can’t endure it anymore. I drop a $10 bill on the table and slink out. “I hope everything was okay, miss,” somebody calls out loudly as I head out the door. I don’t turn back.
Later that afternoon, Ben comes home. I’m ready for him.
He hangs up his jacket and looks at me closely. “Have you been crying?”
“I’ve been thinking,” I say quickly before a fresh crop of tears can give me away. “I’ve been thinking about our wedding.”
Ben looks alarmed. “Princess, we’ve already…”
I cut him off. “Stop,” I say. “I was thinking about doing something much simpler, much more…” I hesitate, “…intimate. Just a few family members, some of our closest old friends, even people from before we knew each other. Maybe in your mum’s garden, followed by some tasty snacks.” I skid to a halt. I can’t say any more.
Ben’s expression flashes bewilderment, flickers for a microsecond on sceptical and finally lands on relieved and radiant. That look is my reward for everything in my life that I have done right. He sits down beside me and I fold into his arms. The brittle terror I’ve been feeling dissolves just like that.
“And don’t call me Princess,” I add. “Please? Okay? I don’t want to be called Princess anymore.”
Word count: 1300
Alternative titles:
I’d do anything for you
Dethroned
The Princess takes a fall
The stranger in my place
Restored to grace
Sickness may be catching (extended) -Kerry
The car door slammed shut in my face. I was alone but his words rang in my ears, competing with the tinnitus that usually has over-riding power in that area.
“That’s it. I’m outta here. I’m getting rid of the stupid things,” he had shouted at me.
He had spoken with such vehemence that his spittle splashed onto my cheek. I recoiled, shocked by his uncalled-for tirade, and pushed myself hard against the driver’s door in an attempt to avoid any more spit. I thought of the germs dripping down my face as I waited for his next volley of rage. I am very particular about hygiene and specially avoid contamination from body fluids. My bottle of anti-bacterial lotion was in the glove box by his knee and therefore out of my reach at this time. I would be all right as long as I didn’t lick my lips. I sat tight-lipped, wishing he would come good with his promise and just get out of the car.
But he sat there in the passenger’s seat fuming with anger. His fat, white hands were working furiously with one another, twisting, pressing against his knees, squeezing together. They reminded me of the ‘stupid things’ he had threatened to rip so violently from my care. Squirming live things, crawling over each other blindly, pressing down on each other. I had to look away. I could feel my stomach begin to turn.
“You tell anyone, you’ll be sorry. Don’t think I won’t be watching you,” he had added.
This time his voice had dropped ominously, sliding, hissing across the car seat between us. I felt dirtied by the hate in his words. They had a bitter, poisonous smell. I reacted instinctively by brushing something off my skirt, not wanting to have his poison settle on me. Nevertheless I nodded furiously, unable to open my mouth but acknowledging that I understood. He apparently took my response as acquiescence to something he had said and smiled grimly. It was a moment of comparative relaxation and I allowed myself to settle back into the seat a little. The door handle had been pressing sharply into my hip, aggravating my chronic bursitis. I needed relief from the pain.
Seeing me relax, however imperceptibly, seemed to aggravate him again. He leaned forward and brought his face up close to mine. He was sneering aggressively. I pushed back and again the door handle sent a jab of pain into my hip. I could feel his hot breath. He smelled like the drunk he was, reminding me of stale cigarettes and late-nights in the pub. I was repulsed.
“I’m taking them,” he shouted at close range.
He leaned back and undid his seatbelt. Twisting in his seat, he reached over to the back seat and picked up the basket. I heard the faint, nervous mewing. He climbed out of the car. With one last look in, he communicated the full slug of his vicious intent.
The car door slammed shut.
Immediately I pulled the antiseptic from the glove box and scrubbed my face vigorously with a tissue. My whole body was trembling violently as I turned the key in the ignition. The car shuddered, lurched forward, then stalled abruptly before I had the foresight to jam my sluggish foot on the clutch. My chin bumped against the steering wheel causing my lip to split. The vile metallic taste of blood made me cough until I was able to stuff a clean wad of tissue between my gum and lip to stem the flow.
I slumped morosely in my seat trying not to think of the sinister activities taking place outside. My tears were as much for myself, for my own helplessness, as they were for the kittens. I had only myself to blame for my life. I had been told often enough how stupid I was. I ripped a tissue out of the box and jabbed angrily at my eyes. I threw it to the floor and tore out another to blow my nose loudly.
I was wrenched from my self-indulgence by the explosive sound of shattering glass. A brick-sized rock had landed on the back seat amidst a scattering of glass shards from the rear window.
He was still out there in the darkness.
I spun round to lock the door beside me but was shocked to see him there; his hairy face looming at the window. He pulled open the door.
“I’m gonna kill two birds with one stone,” he snarled. “Them and you.”
He grabbed my arm viciously, twisting it painfully. My body reacted immediately to his actual physical contact. I clamped my teeth into his fat fingers and lashed out at him with my free arm as I tumbled out of the car. He let go of me with a yelp, giving me the space to jump to my feet and catch him off guard with a blow to the legs. He crashed to the ground. I kicked at him but he grabbed my foot and pulled me down with him. I managed to knee him in the stomach as I fell, winding him temporarily. It was enough for me to twist out of his grasp and scramble to my feet. My breath was coming in ragged gasps as I edged away. And ran.
The single light illuminating the end of the jetty was sufficient for me to make out the basket on the bank. I could hear his shuffling footsteps on the gravel behind me. I bent down and grabbed the basket, sensing its comforting weight and the movement of life inside.
I ran again, sobbing, up the bank and out on to the road, clutching my precious cargo.
I knew I would never return home.
Word count 966
“That’s it. I’m outta here. I’m getting rid of the stupid things,” he had shouted at me.
He had spoken with such vehemence that his spittle splashed onto my cheek. I recoiled, shocked by his uncalled-for tirade, and pushed myself hard against the driver’s door in an attempt to avoid any more spit. I thought of the germs dripping down my face as I waited for his next volley of rage. I am very particular about hygiene and specially avoid contamination from body fluids. My bottle of anti-bacterial lotion was in the glove box by his knee and therefore out of my reach at this time. I would be all right as long as I didn’t lick my lips. I sat tight-lipped, wishing he would come good with his promise and just get out of the car.
But he sat there in the passenger’s seat fuming with anger. His fat, white hands were working furiously with one another, twisting, pressing against his knees, squeezing together. They reminded me of the ‘stupid things’ he had threatened to rip so violently from my care. Squirming live things, crawling over each other blindly, pressing down on each other. I had to look away. I could feel my stomach begin to turn.
“You tell anyone, you’ll be sorry. Don’t think I won’t be watching you,” he had added.
This time his voice had dropped ominously, sliding, hissing across the car seat between us. I felt dirtied by the hate in his words. They had a bitter, poisonous smell. I reacted instinctively by brushing something off my skirt, not wanting to have his poison settle on me. Nevertheless I nodded furiously, unable to open my mouth but acknowledging that I understood. He apparently took my response as acquiescence to something he had said and smiled grimly. It was a moment of comparative relaxation and I allowed myself to settle back into the seat a little. The door handle had been pressing sharply into my hip, aggravating my chronic bursitis. I needed relief from the pain.
Seeing me relax, however imperceptibly, seemed to aggravate him again. He leaned forward and brought his face up close to mine. He was sneering aggressively. I pushed back and again the door handle sent a jab of pain into my hip. I could feel his hot breath. He smelled like the drunk he was, reminding me of stale cigarettes and late-nights in the pub. I was repulsed.
“I’m taking them,” he shouted at close range.
He leaned back and undid his seatbelt. Twisting in his seat, he reached over to the back seat and picked up the basket. I heard the faint, nervous mewing. He climbed out of the car. With one last look in, he communicated the full slug of his vicious intent.
The car door slammed shut.
Immediately I pulled the antiseptic from the glove box and scrubbed my face vigorously with a tissue. My whole body was trembling violently as I turned the key in the ignition. The car shuddered, lurched forward, then stalled abruptly before I had the foresight to jam my sluggish foot on the clutch. My chin bumped against the steering wheel causing my lip to split. The vile metallic taste of blood made me cough until I was able to stuff a clean wad of tissue between my gum and lip to stem the flow.
I slumped morosely in my seat trying not to think of the sinister activities taking place outside. My tears were as much for myself, for my own helplessness, as they were for the kittens. I had only myself to blame for my life. I had been told often enough how stupid I was. I ripped a tissue out of the box and jabbed angrily at my eyes. I threw it to the floor and tore out another to blow my nose loudly.
I was wrenched from my self-indulgence by the explosive sound of shattering glass. A brick-sized rock had landed on the back seat amidst a scattering of glass shards from the rear window.
He was still out there in the darkness.
I spun round to lock the door beside me but was shocked to see him there; his hairy face looming at the window. He pulled open the door.
“I’m gonna kill two birds with one stone,” he snarled. “Them and you.”
He grabbed my arm viciously, twisting it painfully. My body reacted immediately to his actual physical contact. I clamped my teeth into his fat fingers and lashed out at him with my free arm as I tumbled out of the car. He let go of me with a yelp, giving me the space to jump to my feet and catch him off guard with a blow to the legs. He crashed to the ground. I kicked at him but he grabbed my foot and pulled me down with him. I managed to knee him in the stomach as I fell, winding him temporarily. It was enough for me to twist out of his grasp and scramble to my feet. My breath was coming in ragged gasps as I edged away. And ran.
The single light illuminating the end of the jetty was sufficient for me to make out the basket on the bank. I could hear his shuffling footsteps on the gravel behind me. I bent down and grabbed the basket, sensing its comforting weight and the movement of life inside.
I ran again, sobbing, up the bank and out on to the road, clutching my precious cargo.
I knew I would never return home.
Word count 966
Sunday 25 October 2009
Sues short story
The sea of sand is muddled in the dust. The once sharp edges of the high Saharan dunes have melted into the yellowy sky. The wind cavorts around the camels, lashes at their hobbled legs and ferocious needles of sand stab Harry’s bare brown arms. His face is masked with a bit of cloth with only his nostrils engaging with the onslaught. He and Mussafer, the camel train leader are huddled, almost cuddling under a woven carpet shelter.
Just as suddenly, the sand waves slow, the dust starts to seep back into the ground and Mussafer peels off his head gear. A narrow black face with hollowed cheeks and piercing grey eyes widens in a smile of crooked yellow teeth.
Harry grins back, jumps up and starts plodding through the deep sand to find Fanny, his camel. Like a sergeant in the army inspecting the troops, Harry moves down the line checking for his canvas duffle. He wants to whisper into each of their hairy ears, tell them how brave they are, but the smell of overripe regurgitated grass overtakes his love of them.
“Mussafer, Moooo Saaaaa fer” he yells “for God’s sake man, where is Fanny? Didn’t you hobble her to Jasper?”
“Yes Master. Yes, there’s Jasper”
“Yes, but where is Fanny? Where are my clothes?
“Gone Master”
“Gone!? What do you mean gone?”
“Disappeared with the sand riders”
“Oh God” mumbles Harry and he collapses to the ground in a mass of material
“My shoes, not my shoes” he yells to no-one and everyone
He pulls the Arab cape around his body, hugging himself, protecting himself. His tummy catapults into his throat, he nearly chokes and his face feels hot and itchy. He tries to imagine no shoes.
“Bare feet! No way! Can’t do” his brain vibrates
“Mussafer, I can’t”
“Can’t what Master?”
“Not have shoes. I’ve got to cover my feet”
Mussafer’s two back gold teeth glisten in the sun and his face creases in deep furrows of laughter. There’s a long unsettling pause.
“Here master, have my sandals”
“What about my ..........................?” and he stops short of mentioning the ugly red scar that runs between his two little toes and his ankle.
He sits there huddled into the sand. The wind has gone quiet, the camels burp.
Images flash disjointedly through his mind. He’s five years old and his sister says he has funny feet, he’s on his way to Timbuktu to buy an pair of shoes, he’s in hospital as a child, his left foot is bandaged, he’s alone, he moves to Chelsea where no-one knows him, he opens a shoe shop, shit, he’s just lost his favourite beige suede boots.
********************************************
Hurry Master, hurry, the water is cooling fast”. In this picturesque oasis, in the middle of the desert live a small tribe of Twareg. They live in round huts of baked mud and palm leaf thatched roofs, one family to each home, all sharing one space.
Mussafer and his brother, Mo, are sitting in the hut with their feet soaking in a steaming bowl of oily essence-filled water. Harry just stands and stares.
His eyes dart around the room. Grass mats that look low, flat and lumpy lie around the walls and colourful striped blankets are piled into the corner. A lonely lopsided cooking pot sits on a few smouldering charcoals and smoke ambles around the centre of the room. It collides with the steam to move to the door. Harry’s eyes rest on the doorway. It’s cold, it’s winter.
Mussafer and Mo seem to be meditating, their hairy legs exposed to the knee, their brown beautiful feet submerged and occasionally causing a ripple through the water. Harry is frozen to the spot, eyes transfixed on those feet. His legs are taut and stiff like a wooden doll, his blue and purple dishdashah flows down around the ground like a dress, his eyes sting and tears trickle down his cheeks. They sizzle on his embarrassed and confused face.
He clutches his robes and guides them over his feet as he gently kicks off the dirty old sandals. His socks long gone, his feet now bare.
“It’s our custom Master. It warms the spirit, dispenses evil thoughts and relaxes the mind”
Harry makes it to the low wooden stool.
“Shit, oh no, Mummy” he yells as the stool falls backwards and he lands flat on his back, with all, yes all exposed.
Mussafer hoots and cackles. Harry whimpers and whines like a lost puppy.
“Up you get Master, no harm done” and Mussafer helps him to his feet. His scarred feet. Harry gulps, even Clara, his ex girlfriend has never seen his feet.
Mussafer pampers him and settles him
“There, there” he says, just like Mummy used to.
Harry sighs, closes his eyes and relaxes.
A new slideshow of images cascades through Harry’s mind. Mummy is washing his feet in the bath, the scar looks red and ugly, the Arab shoes are full of gems, ducks have webbed feet and they waddle, Clara left him last month, girls always leave him.
********************************************
Harry caresses the soft, kid leather and ambles his fingers around the red rubies. He has a warm gooey feeling in his tummy. The shoes are one of a kind, perfect for Sheik Michael’s wedding, he can vividly picture them sparkling under the Sheik’s cream silk suit.
“Master, do they feel OK? Says Mussafer. “Do you like them?” Harry can almost hear the next phrase “say yes, say yes, please say yes”.
“They are truly beautiful, Mussafer, thank you, thank you both”. He jumps up and grasps both men in a huge wrap around hug.
“Try them on, go on see what they feel like”
Harry goes to take off his sandals.
“Oh”
“What Master?”
“Oh”
“Master you’ve turned a deathly shade of grey. Are you OK?”
“Oh” and under his breath “how come I didn’t realise”
“Maybe, I won’t. Maybe Sheik Michael won’t like them after all”
“Maaaaaaaster!”
“Maybe he doesn’t like rubies”
“Master, think of your boutique, your reputation, your best customer, your friend, you must”
Images collide and confuse him. The sheik is buying him champagne, the Sheik’s future wife, Caroline is gorgeous, the scar is ugly, no-one has seen the scar, the bells of Westminster abbey are chiming, he’s in the Sahara desert, maybe they won’t notice.
Harry draws his dashdashah free of his ankles, and then lets it slide down.
“Come on Master”
Mussafer cocks his head to one side and looks at Harry weirdly.
Harry gulps, he feels like his hair is standing on its ends. He’s twitchy.
“Hey” yells Mussafer “look Mo, look at Harry’s left foot. Isn’t it beautiful? It must be a sign”
“A sign?” says Harry “What do you mean?” he can feel himself starting to roast
“Harry, didn’t you know?”
“Know what”
“That a long, long time ago there was an Arab prince who commissioned a special pair of shoes is made for him.”
“So”
“He had webbed feet. Or rather his left two little toes were webbed”
“What. What did you say?” His face is alight but his eyes hesitate and question
“Why did he want special shoes? Didn’t he want to hide them?
“No, no, no. The prince wanted shoes that would highlight the webbed toes, show them off to the world. So between each toe the leather was stitched and detailed with gems then the two left ones which were bare, were studded with diamonds.”
“Harry your feet? Were they webbed?
“Well”
“Well” and Mussafer and Mo join voices
“Well, yes. I had them separated when I was six”
“Master, your feet, they are glorious, you are like a prince, you must be a prince” Mussafer and Mo throw themselves to the ground and just about worship their new found prince.
“Let us massage them Master, please”
“Wow” is about all Harry is capable of mustering.
All Harry can think about is the massive cover up his life has been. How since he was old enough to be embarrassed, he has been embarrassed. How he’s gone to enormous lengths to hide his feet, to run away from his relationships, to compromise his sex life. How he’s had such a thing about feet and shoes that it’s driven his career, shaped his travels, dictated his wardrobe and perverted his life.
He breathes. He can feel each breath getting longer and deeper. He can feel the muscles in his back relax and sigh in relief. He can feel his face getting younger, his mouth soft and his lips slightly curving in a soft smile. He can feel every cell in his body.
Life does a cartwheel. The images play smoothly through his mind.
Clara is waiting for him at Heathrow, he travels again to Africa with his Mum, he and Clara get married, he opens shoe boutiques in New York and Hong Kong, he is the Sheik’s best man, Mussafer stays a friend for life.
And he has replaced his favourite beige suede boots.
Just as suddenly, the sand waves slow, the dust starts to seep back into the ground and Mussafer peels off his head gear. A narrow black face with hollowed cheeks and piercing grey eyes widens in a smile of crooked yellow teeth.
Harry grins back, jumps up and starts plodding through the deep sand to find Fanny, his camel. Like a sergeant in the army inspecting the troops, Harry moves down the line checking for his canvas duffle. He wants to whisper into each of their hairy ears, tell them how brave they are, but the smell of overripe regurgitated grass overtakes his love of them.
“Mussafer, Moooo Saaaaa fer” he yells “for God’s sake man, where is Fanny? Didn’t you hobble her to Jasper?”
“Yes Master. Yes, there’s Jasper”
“Yes, but where is Fanny? Where are my clothes?
“Gone Master”
“Gone!? What do you mean gone?”
“Disappeared with the sand riders”
“Oh God” mumbles Harry and he collapses to the ground in a mass of material
“My shoes, not my shoes” he yells to no-one and everyone
He pulls the Arab cape around his body, hugging himself, protecting himself. His tummy catapults into his throat, he nearly chokes and his face feels hot and itchy. He tries to imagine no shoes.
“Bare feet! No way! Can’t do” his brain vibrates
“Mussafer, I can’t”
“Can’t what Master?”
“Not have shoes. I’ve got to cover my feet”
Mussafer’s two back gold teeth glisten in the sun and his face creases in deep furrows of laughter. There’s a long unsettling pause.
“Here master, have my sandals”
“What about my ..........................?” and he stops short of mentioning the ugly red scar that runs between his two little toes and his ankle.
He sits there huddled into the sand. The wind has gone quiet, the camels burp.
Images flash disjointedly through his mind. He’s five years old and his sister says he has funny feet, he’s on his way to Timbuktu to buy an pair of shoes, he’s in hospital as a child, his left foot is bandaged, he’s alone, he moves to Chelsea where no-one knows him, he opens a shoe shop, shit, he’s just lost his favourite beige suede boots.
********************************************
Hurry Master, hurry, the water is cooling fast”. In this picturesque oasis, in the middle of the desert live a small tribe of Twareg. They live in round huts of baked mud and palm leaf thatched roofs, one family to each home, all sharing one space.
Mussafer and his brother, Mo, are sitting in the hut with their feet soaking in a steaming bowl of oily essence-filled water. Harry just stands and stares.
His eyes dart around the room. Grass mats that look low, flat and lumpy lie around the walls and colourful striped blankets are piled into the corner. A lonely lopsided cooking pot sits on a few smouldering charcoals and smoke ambles around the centre of the room. It collides with the steam to move to the door. Harry’s eyes rest on the doorway. It’s cold, it’s winter.
Mussafer and Mo seem to be meditating, their hairy legs exposed to the knee, their brown beautiful feet submerged and occasionally causing a ripple through the water. Harry is frozen to the spot, eyes transfixed on those feet. His legs are taut and stiff like a wooden doll, his blue and purple dishdashah flows down around the ground like a dress, his eyes sting and tears trickle down his cheeks. They sizzle on his embarrassed and confused face.
He clutches his robes and guides them over his feet as he gently kicks off the dirty old sandals. His socks long gone, his feet now bare.
“It’s our custom Master. It warms the spirit, dispenses evil thoughts and relaxes the mind”
Harry makes it to the low wooden stool.
“Shit, oh no, Mummy” he yells as the stool falls backwards and he lands flat on his back, with all, yes all exposed.
Mussafer hoots and cackles. Harry whimpers and whines like a lost puppy.
“Up you get Master, no harm done” and Mussafer helps him to his feet. His scarred feet. Harry gulps, even Clara, his ex girlfriend has never seen his feet.
Mussafer pampers him and settles him
“There, there” he says, just like Mummy used to.
Harry sighs, closes his eyes and relaxes.
A new slideshow of images cascades through Harry’s mind. Mummy is washing his feet in the bath, the scar looks red and ugly, the Arab shoes are full of gems, ducks have webbed feet and they waddle, Clara left him last month, girls always leave him.
********************************************
Harry caresses the soft, kid leather and ambles his fingers around the red rubies. He has a warm gooey feeling in his tummy. The shoes are one of a kind, perfect for Sheik Michael’s wedding, he can vividly picture them sparkling under the Sheik’s cream silk suit.
“Master, do they feel OK? Says Mussafer. “Do you like them?” Harry can almost hear the next phrase “say yes, say yes, please say yes”.
“They are truly beautiful, Mussafer, thank you, thank you both”. He jumps up and grasps both men in a huge wrap around hug.
“Try them on, go on see what they feel like”
Harry goes to take off his sandals.
“Oh”
“What Master?”
“Oh”
“Master you’ve turned a deathly shade of grey. Are you OK?”
“Oh” and under his breath “how come I didn’t realise”
“Maybe, I won’t. Maybe Sheik Michael won’t like them after all”
“Maaaaaaaster!”
“Maybe he doesn’t like rubies”
“Master, think of your boutique, your reputation, your best customer, your friend, you must”
Images collide and confuse him. The sheik is buying him champagne, the Sheik’s future wife, Caroline is gorgeous, the scar is ugly, no-one has seen the scar, the bells of Westminster abbey are chiming, he’s in the Sahara desert, maybe they won’t notice.
Harry draws his dashdashah free of his ankles, and then lets it slide down.
“Come on Master”
Mussafer cocks his head to one side and looks at Harry weirdly.
Harry gulps, he feels like his hair is standing on its ends. He’s twitchy.
“Hey” yells Mussafer “look Mo, look at Harry’s left foot. Isn’t it beautiful? It must be a sign”
“A sign?” says Harry “What do you mean?” he can feel himself starting to roast
“Harry, didn’t you know?”
“Know what”
“That a long, long time ago there was an Arab prince who commissioned a special pair of shoes is made for him.”
“So”
“He had webbed feet. Or rather his left two little toes were webbed”
“What. What did you say?” His face is alight but his eyes hesitate and question
“Why did he want special shoes? Didn’t he want to hide them?
“No, no, no. The prince wanted shoes that would highlight the webbed toes, show them off to the world. So between each toe the leather was stitched and detailed with gems then the two left ones which were bare, were studded with diamonds.”
“Harry your feet? Were they webbed?
“Well”
“Well” and Mussafer and Mo join voices
“Well, yes. I had them separated when I was six”
“Master, your feet, they are glorious, you are like a prince, you must be a prince” Mussafer and Mo throw themselves to the ground and just about worship their new found prince.
“Let us massage them Master, please”
“Wow” is about all Harry is capable of mustering.
All Harry can think about is the massive cover up his life has been. How since he was old enough to be embarrassed, he has been embarrassed. How he’s gone to enormous lengths to hide his feet, to run away from his relationships, to compromise his sex life. How he’s had such a thing about feet and shoes that it’s driven his career, shaped his travels, dictated his wardrobe and perverted his life.
He breathes. He can feel each breath getting longer and deeper. He can feel the muscles in his back relax and sigh in relief. He can feel his face getting younger, his mouth soft and his lips slightly curving in a soft smile. He can feel every cell in his body.
Life does a cartwheel. The images play smoothly through his mind.
Clara is waiting for him at Heathrow, he travels again to Africa with his Mum, he and Clara get married, he opens shoe boutiques in New York and Hong Kong, he is the Sheik’s best man, Mussafer stays a friend for life.
And he has replaced his favourite beige suede boots.
Friday 16 October 2009
The door slammed - Sue
The door slammed shut
The plane seems to struggle as it rears off the ground and the landing wheels whirr and grind as they disappear into their housing. The ceiling of the plane visually vibrates and the overhead compartments threaten to throw their contents into the aisle. Sharon hates flying and as she watches Sydney Harbour tilt, she peers up and down the aisle looking for the drinks trolley. She needs a double gin and tonic.
She also hates the cold. Her neighbour has monopolised the air vents and cold blasts stream onto her face.
“What a wank” she thinks to herself
“Oh God only another 22 hours to go” she looks at her watch, calculates the time difference and groans. 6 am in London.
As she struggles into her woolly cardigan, her left arm stubbornly keeps getting caught behind the bloke’s newspaper. Grey steely eyes peer sideways over those stupid half size reading glasses. She’s still cold. And London at 6 am is going to be even colder. And grey and probably raining.
After the second double gin and tonic, Sharon hugs herself further into the woolly cardigan and her tummy has gurgling unsettling rumbles.
“What am I doing, who do I think I am, I’m just kidding myself” she juggles the phrases this way and that.
“A month ago I was a happy go lucky, girly kind of a girl with a great job as the deputy editor of Cleo Magazine” one side of her brain argues.
“But something was missing” goes the other side. “That feeling of power, of organisation and structure. Of absolutely running the show”.
Then an advert had flashed across her PC early one morning. An ad as editor of a men’s fashion magazine in London.
The two parts of her brain had battled it out for several days. Then suddenly, just like a seed that had been dormant all her life, the answer burst through the ground.
“I’ll have a red wine thanks” and the flight attendant hands her a tray of unexciting looking food. She smiles anyway and turns to the bloke next door.
“Hi, I mean hello, I’m Sharon Brown. Sorry I was so rude earlier on. Are you stopping in Singapore or going through to London?”
He grunts but he does collapse the newspaper onto the floor and takes his identical tray of food and red wine.
“Are you travelling on business” she persists.
He turns, the glasses are off, he actually looks quite handsome. “Hey hang on” she says to herself. “this is business – lets practice being blokie”
“I’m going through to London. I live there and I work there. My name is David Hatherley. What about you?”
“I’m starting a new job next Monday, based in Regent Street. The job doesn’t phase me” she lies “but that cold, grey, damp weather is going to be a real challenge”.
“It’s not so bad. Believe me, you will get used to it. You’ll just dress and organise your day to suit”
“What do you mean organise my day to suit?”
“Well, here’s my work day. Up at 5.00 am, drive to the gym for an hour’s workout. Then over breakfast I catch up on the overnight financial news which is on the TV at 6.30 am. I’ve duplicated my work office at home so next I spend an hour catching up on emails or reading the next Board report. My driver picks me up at 8.30 am. He battles the traffic and the weather. I read the papers”.
“Oh God” she swallows the words
“Wow, that sounds really powerful”
The two sides of her brain battle again, but only briefly. Her tummy lightens, she smiles and imagines her new wardrobe. Black wool skirt suits, silk shirts and high black patent stilettos. Such a contrast to the long flowing floral skirts and tees, she wore at Cleo.
The plane seems to struggle as it rears off the ground and the landing wheels whirr and grind as they disappear into their housing. The ceiling of the plane visually vibrates and the overhead compartments threaten to throw their contents into the aisle. Sharon hates flying and as she watches Sydney Harbour tilt, she peers up and down the aisle looking for the drinks trolley. She needs a double gin and tonic.
She also hates the cold. Her neighbour has monopolised the air vents and cold blasts stream onto her face.
“What a wank” she thinks to herself
“Oh God only another 22 hours to go” she looks at her watch, calculates the time difference and groans. 6 am in London.
As she struggles into her woolly cardigan, her left arm stubbornly keeps getting caught behind the bloke’s newspaper. Grey steely eyes peer sideways over those stupid half size reading glasses. She’s still cold. And London at 6 am is going to be even colder. And grey and probably raining.
After the second double gin and tonic, Sharon hugs herself further into the woolly cardigan and her tummy has gurgling unsettling rumbles.
“What am I doing, who do I think I am, I’m just kidding myself” she juggles the phrases this way and that.
“A month ago I was a happy go lucky, girly kind of a girl with a great job as the deputy editor of Cleo Magazine” one side of her brain argues.
“But something was missing” goes the other side. “That feeling of power, of organisation and structure. Of absolutely running the show”.
Then an advert had flashed across her PC early one morning. An ad as editor of a men’s fashion magazine in London.
The two parts of her brain had battled it out for several days. Then suddenly, just like a seed that had been dormant all her life, the answer burst through the ground.
“I’ll have a red wine thanks” and the flight attendant hands her a tray of unexciting looking food. She smiles anyway and turns to the bloke next door.
“Hi, I mean hello, I’m Sharon Brown. Sorry I was so rude earlier on. Are you stopping in Singapore or going through to London?”
He grunts but he does collapse the newspaper onto the floor and takes his identical tray of food and red wine.
“Are you travelling on business” she persists.
He turns, the glasses are off, he actually looks quite handsome. “Hey hang on” she says to herself. “this is business – lets practice being blokie”
“I’m going through to London. I live there and I work there. My name is David Hatherley. What about you?”
“I’m starting a new job next Monday, based in Regent Street. The job doesn’t phase me” she lies “but that cold, grey, damp weather is going to be a real challenge”.
“It’s not so bad. Believe me, you will get used to it. You’ll just dress and organise your day to suit”
“What do you mean organise my day to suit?”
“Well, here’s my work day. Up at 5.00 am, drive to the gym for an hour’s workout. Then over breakfast I catch up on the overnight financial news which is on the TV at 6.30 am. I’ve duplicated my work office at home so next I spend an hour catching up on emails or reading the next Board report. My driver picks me up at 8.30 am. He battles the traffic and the weather. I read the papers”.
“Oh God” she swallows the words
“Wow, that sounds really powerful”
The two sides of her brain battle again, but only briefly. Her tummy lightens, she smiles and imagines her new wardrobe. Black wool skirt suits, silk shirts and high black patent stilettos. Such a contrast to the long flowing floral skirts and tees, she wore at Cleo.
The Phone Call - Sue
“The guest list, the venue details, my address book and mobile phone”. Pete ticks them off and organises them on the coffee table. He settles into the squishy armchair with a beer. He dials.
“Hi Pete”
“Who the hell, who have I called? It’s supposed to be Mark, she’s not Mark” his mind races
“Oh hi”
”Well”
“Well, what?”’
“Why have you called me Pete?”
“Why not?”
“Well it’s been over 2 years”
“A clue!” he scribbles down the clues “female, haven’t spoken for 2 years”
“Oh, um. Haven’t you spoken to Sally either?”
“Sally?”
“Oh shit” but it’s another clue. He and Sally divorced 13 years ago.
“Did you say something?”
“No, well yes”
“Pete, I do have things to do you know”
“Oh, what are your plans this weekend?”
“Is that why you called?”
“No, just being friendly”
“If you must know, I’m playing bridge this afternoon and then partying at a BBQ Sunday”
“Oh” no clues there.
“Anybody I know, I mean at Sunday’s do?”
“Why are thinking of gate crashing?”
“I could, couldn’t I?”
“Oooooooooooh all right. It’s John’s 60th?”
“John, mmmm John who I wonder?” he muses
“Ah you mean John, as in the sailing John?”for some reason this springs into his mind.
“Of course, idiot”
“I’m not an idiot” he prevaricates and runs through his sailing mates trying to get a picture of the voice on the phone. She knows him, or at least his voice. Angela, that’s who it must be, Angela. He takes a deep breath and leaps into the unknown.
“Angela, you’re not still crewing for John are you?”
“Listen Pete, I’ve just about had enough of you and your jokes. It’s Saturday morning and you are being so bloody obscure. Just come out with it. Why have you called?”
“So is she Angela?” he asks himself. Clues now read, female, plays bridge, knows sailing John, may or may not crew for him, doesn’t know Sally, he met her between 2 and 13 years ago, she knows my voice.
He gulps “I called to invite you to my retirement party”
“Oh. This isn’t one of your jokes, is it? Last time you tried something like this it backfired. Remember that gig, as if you could forget? It was a wedding and you had been hired as the MC. You decided to make fun of one of the bridesmaids. What a drunken idiot you were. Jane was my sister, my father was mortified. After weeks of conversations, apologies and angry scenes, you ended up at AA”
“Oh Christ” he doesn’t want to remember those days. It was five years ago. And it was at AA that he had met Suzanne. No wonder she recognises his voice. All those weeks of sharing and crying.
“Oh Suzanne. Those days are long gone.”
“When’s the party?”
“Next Saturday, I’ve booked a table at Monica’s for about a dozen of us. It would be good to see you”
“Done, I’d love to see you too”
“Hi Pete”
“Who the hell, who have I called? It’s supposed to be Mark, she’s not Mark” his mind races
“Oh hi”
”Well”
“Well, what?”’
“Why have you called me Pete?”
“Why not?”
“Well it’s been over 2 years”
“A clue!” he scribbles down the clues “female, haven’t spoken for 2 years”
“Oh, um. Haven’t you spoken to Sally either?”
“Sally?”
“Oh shit” but it’s another clue. He and Sally divorced 13 years ago.
“Did you say something?”
“No, well yes”
“Pete, I do have things to do you know”
“Oh, what are your plans this weekend?”
“Is that why you called?”
“No, just being friendly”
“If you must know, I’m playing bridge this afternoon and then partying at a BBQ Sunday”
“Oh” no clues there.
“Anybody I know, I mean at Sunday’s do?”
“Why are thinking of gate crashing?”
“I could, couldn’t I?”
“Oooooooooooh all right. It’s John’s 60th?”
“John, mmmm John who I wonder?” he muses
“Ah you mean John, as in the sailing John?”for some reason this springs into his mind.
“Of course, idiot”
“I’m not an idiot” he prevaricates and runs through his sailing mates trying to get a picture of the voice on the phone. She knows him, or at least his voice. Angela, that’s who it must be, Angela. He takes a deep breath and leaps into the unknown.
“Angela, you’re not still crewing for John are you?”
“Listen Pete, I’ve just about had enough of you and your jokes. It’s Saturday morning and you are being so bloody obscure. Just come out with it. Why have you called?”
“So is she Angela?” he asks himself. Clues now read, female, plays bridge, knows sailing John, may or may not crew for him, doesn’t know Sally, he met her between 2 and 13 years ago, she knows my voice.
He gulps “I called to invite you to my retirement party”
“Oh. This isn’t one of your jokes, is it? Last time you tried something like this it backfired. Remember that gig, as if you could forget? It was a wedding and you had been hired as the MC. You decided to make fun of one of the bridesmaids. What a drunken idiot you were. Jane was my sister, my father was mortified. After weeks of conversations, apologies and angry scenes, you ended up at AA”
“Oh Christ” he doesn’t want to remember those days. It was five years ago. And it was at AA that he had met Suzanne. No wonder she recognises his voice. All those weeks of sharing and crying.
“Oh Suzanne. Those days are long gone.”
“When’s the party?”
“Next Saturday, I’ve booked a table at Monica’s for about a dozen of us. It would be good to see you”
“Done, I’d love to see you too”
Tuesday 13 October 2009
car door slammed Peta
The car door slammed shut, followed by a screech of tyres. Acrid black smoke from burning rubber filled the air. As the car sped away the occupants turned back anxiously.
“D’ya think they saw us?” Joe asked short of breath from the sprint to the car. He chucked the bulging sack behind the back seat out of sight.
“Maybe. Betta hope not.” Steve replied.
Things were not going accordingly to plan. Jo and Steve swallowed air as they struggled to catch their breath and regain composure. Overweight and out of condition, they were in no shape to try and out run the opposition.
“Why does this always happen?” Steve asked as he thumped the steering wheel with sweaty palms. His face red from anger and exertion. “Bloody losers. We had it to the last detail stuffed it up. It that’s bloody idiot Charlie. We gotta ditch him. Got that thing sorted yet mate?”
“Nah. I think its buggered. Probably when Charlie dropped it. D’ya think he made it out?”
“Dunno. He betta ‘ave. Or we’re really up shits creek.”
Joe fiddled with the GPS but there was no sign of life.
“Have to do this the old fashioned way”.
Opening the glove box was no easy task. The lock has rusted long ago. Prising it open with his penknife Joe grabbed the old Medway, pages curling up at the edges.
Flicking through the maps Joe found the one he was after.
“OK Steve, I reckon we take the first left then head straight down to the roundabout. Right then third right should take us straight to the beach. Its 6.30 so we should have just enough sunlight left to get the sign and head back.”
“Fuck fuck fuck”.
“Calm down mate. You’re not helping things.”
“Its easy for you to say. Your reputation’s not riding on this. I have a lot to loose if we don’t get this right.”
Steve’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel turning hard into the beach carpark.
Joe consulted the crumpled list he’d jammed in his pocket.
“OK its that one over there – see the white one with the red printing? Looks like we got here first. Let’s make it quick and get outta here. Stuff Charlie he’ll have to make his own way back.”
Checking around they eased out of the car. Half squatting they moved in unison towards the sign.
SWIM OUTSIDE THE FLAGS AND YOU DIE.
The brutal statement was repeated below in Japanese. Just as instructed.
Steve kept watch while Joe worked the screws at each corner. The sign shook loose of its hoarding. Joe quickly covered it with an old towel. “Got it mate ready to roll.”
“Thank Christ for that. Lets get out of here fast. You drive.”
Starting the engine, Joe graunched into reverse. Foot hard to the floor and they were off again until Joe hit the brakes sharply.
“What the hell are you doing” Steve yelled.
“Its Charlie. Look here he comes and he’s got the teddy bear. He’s got the fucking teddy bear. We’re a shoe in now mate.”
Joe and Steve leapt from the car, blocking the exit to the carpark.
“Charlie you bloody beauty!” Steve gave his old mate a stifling hug as Joe danced around like a lunatic.
“she’s in the bag now boys. Lets get the loot back to the finish line. We’ll show them bastards. No guts no glory. HA! The trophy’s mine again.”
Joe and Charlie stood together staring at Steve bewildered after all they had gone through for the treasure hunt.
“D’ya think they saw us?” Joe asked short of breath from the sprint to the car. He chucked the bulging sack behind the back seat out of sight.
“Maybe. Betta hope not.” Steve replied.
Things were not going accordingly to plan. Jo and Steve swallowed air as they struggled to catch their breath and regain composure. Overweight and out of condition, they were in no shape to try and out run the opposition.
“Why does this always happen?” Steve asked as he thumped the steering wheel with sweaty palms. His face red from anger and exertion. “Bloody losers. We had it to the last detail stuffed it up. It that’s bloody idiot Charlie. We gotta ditch him. Got that thing sorted yet mate?”
“Nah. I think its buggered. Probably when Charlie dropped it. D’ya think he made it out?”
“Dunno. He betta ‘ave. Or we’re really up shits creek.”
Joe fiddled with the GPS but there was no sign of life.
“Have to do this the old fashioned way”.
Opening the glove box was no easy task. The lock has rusted long ago. Prising it open with his penknife Joe grabbed the old Medway, pages curling up at the edges.
Flicking through the maps Joe found the one he was after.
“OK Steve, I reckon we take the first left then head straight down to the roundabout. Right then third right should take us straight to the beach. Its 6.30 so we should have just enough sunlight left to get the sign and head back.”
“Fuck fuck fuck”.
“Calm down mate. You’re not helping things.”
“Its easy for you to say. Your reputation’s not riding on this. I have a lot to loose if we don’t get this right.”
Steve’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel turning hard into the beach carpark.
Joe consulted the crumpled list he’d jammed in his pocket.
“OK its that one over there – see the white one with the red printing? Looks like we got here first. Let’s make it quick and get outta here. Stuff Charlie he’ll have to make his own way back.”
Checking around they eased out of the car. Half squatting they moved in unison towards the sign.
SWIM OUTSIDE THE FLAGS AND YOU DIE.
The brutal statement was repeated below in Japanese. Just as instructed.
Steve kept watch while Joe worked the screws at each corner. The sign shook loose of its hoarding. Joe quickly covered it with an old towel. “Got it mate ready to roll.”
“Thank Christ for that. Lets get out of here fast. You drive.”
Starting the engine, Joe graunched into reverse. Foot hard to the floor and they were off again until Joe hit the brakes sharply.
“What the hell are you doing” Steve yelled.
“Its Charlie. Look here he comes and he’s got the teddy bear. He’s got the fucking teddy bear. We’re a shoe in now mate.”
Joe and Steve leapt from the car, blocking the exit to the carpark.
“Charlie you bloody beauty!” Steve gave his old mate a stifling hug as Joe danced around like a lunatic.
“she’s in the bag now boys. Lets get the loot back to the finish line. We’ll show them bastards. No guts no glory. HA! The trophy’s mine again.”
Joe and Charlie stood together staring at Steve bewildered after all they had gone through for the treasure hunt.
about a hermit - Peta
I travelled to this place to escape – what specifically, I have never quite been sure. My life had become ... how would you say ... mundane and meaningless. People were constantly demanding of my time, my emotions, my physical being. I was stuck in the proverbial rut. Too focussed on material possessions and instant gratification. Just like every one I knew. Carbon copies.
I was annoyed at everything and everyone. And then I snapped. Just like that. No rhyme or reason. One day I woke up and left with nothing more that the clothes on my back, the colour in my hair and a few dollars in my pocket.
I surfed the trains up the coast. No particular destination in mind until I jumped. And here I am. I was lucky to find this place, quite by chance. Wandering along the country roads, I spotted this old deserted, ramshackled cabin from the distance. How I’ll never know. Perhaps a glint of sunlight on the cracked glass of the only remaining window. Perhaps a greater power drew me here. Even now when I am looking, I struggle to see the shelter nestled in the side of the hill surrounded by dense overgrown bush.
The previous occupants had left behind bits and pieces. Rudimentary furnishings like the creaky old rocking chair straddling gappy tongue and groove. Not a hint of luxury. No electricity but a heap of firewood. I have become Tom Hanks in Castaway. How I hated that movie. It all seemed so ridiculous and contrived. Yet here I am living that life.
In the early days I fashioned tools and utensils from treasures found in the surrounding woods. I use these to fish in a nearby lake, to scale and clean my catch. Some days I have luck and some days I don’t but it doesn’t matter.
By night I watch the midnight sky. Lying back on the cold hard earth under the milky way. Eyes wide taking it all in. With no artificial light the stars twinkle, strong and bright. They have become my learned friends, sharing the mysteries of the universe. Sometimes I wish on a falling star, not for material things but for learnings and greater enlightenment.
I am under no illusions that the day will come, and perhaps soon, when I will leave this sanctuary. That I think of this humble existence in those terms still amazes me. But it is here that I have learnt to nurture my soul and my psyche. To be at peace with myself. When the time comes, whether I return “home” or simply move on, I know that I will be a different person from the emotional wreckage that stumbled upon this place, cursing and swearing and blaming everyone else for everything that had ever gone wrong. Self absorbed beyond distraction.
I have learnt that a life alone need not be a lonely life. The trick is to let go of the neediness. Soon you realise that all you truly need is to co-exist with nature and to be at peace with yourself. I am now a spiritual being. Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t found God. I didn’t look for her but I did look for me.
I was annoyed at everything and everyone. And then I snapped. Just like that. No rhyme or reason. One day I woke up and left with nothing more that the clothes on my back, the colour in my hair and a few dollars in my pocket.
I surfed the trains up the coast. No particular destination in mind until I jumped. And here I am. I was lucky to find this place, quite by chance. Wandering along the country roads, I spotted this old deserted, ramshackled cabin from the distance. How I’ll never know. Perhaps a glint of sunlight on the cracked glass of the only remaining window. Perhaps a greater power drew me here. Even now when I am looking, I struggle to see the shelter nestled in the side of the hill surrounded by dense overgrown bush.
The previous occupants had left behind bits and pieces. Rudimentary furnishings like the creaky old rocking chair straddling gappy tongue and groove. Not a hint of luxury. No electricity but a heap of firewood. I have become Tom Hanks in Castaway. How I hated that movie. It all seemed so ridiculous and contrived. Yet here I am living that life.
In the early days I fashioned tools and utensils from treasures found in the surrounding woods. I use these to fish in a nearby lake, to scale and clean my catch. Some days I have luck and some days I don’t but it doesn’t matter.
By night I watch the midnight sky. Lying back on the cold hard earth under the milky way. Eyes wide taking it all in. With no artificial light the stars twinkle, strong and bright. They have become my learned friends, sharing the mysteries of the universe. Sometimes I wish on a falling star, not for material things but for learnings and greater enlightenment.
I am under no illusions that the day will come, and perhaps soon, when I will leave this sanctuary. That I think of this humble existence in those terms still amazes me. But it is here that I have learnt to nurture my soul and my psyche. To be at peace with myself. When the time comes, whether I return “home” or simply move on, I know that I will be a different person from the emotional wreckage that stumbled upon this place, cursing and swearing and blaming everyone else for everything that had ever gone wrong. Self absorbed beyond distraction.
I have learnt that a life alone need not be a lonely life. The trick is to let go of the neediness. Soon you realise that all you truly need is to co-exist with nature and to be at peace with yourself. I am now a spiritual being. Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t found God. I didn’t look for her but I did look for me.
Sunday 11 October 2009
Conversation with Intent (Kerry)
You've accidentally dialled the wrong phone number, but the person who answers sounds familiar. Immediately he/she recognizes you, but because you made the call you're too embarrassed to ask who it is. Using only dialogue, figure out who the person is.
“Hello.”
“Ahh…hello. Who…I mean, how are you?” I stutter into the phone, momentarily confused by an unexpected male voice.
“Basil! I don’t believe it. I haven’t heard from you for ages. You old dog. What’re you up to?” he enquires cheerily, recognising me straight away.
“Pretty much business as usual,” I reply non-committally. “As long as water keeps flowing under the Harbour Bridge I reckon there’s not too much to complain about. No major disaster anyway. And you? What’s happening with you?” I add, hoping to glean some clues about his identity.
“Actually, I’m really good thanks, Basil. Shirley’s retired now too so we’re finally able to loosen up a bit. You know, a spot of travel, the theatre, that sort of thing,” he muses.
“Good to hear that life’s going well. Any special trips on your agenda?” I ask.
“In fact we were thinking of coming over your way for a holiday. Still living in the same swanky part of town I suppose. Never could work out how you could afford it,” the mystery voice responds, challenging me to bite.
“Depends on your definition of swanky,” I reply, bristling with indignation. “We’ve moved around a bit in our time. I guess you could say we’ve made the most of our opportunities. We’re settled in Point Piper at the moment.” In order to cover myself and not to appear discourteous, I add, “Of course, happy to see you again. Just let us know when and how many.”
“Thanks, Basil. You know, we loved that retreat arrangement in the backyard at Vaucluse. Where you put Shirley and me when we visited.”
“Yeah, that old cabin was pretty useful when we had lots of people staying. Specially for our Christmas parties,” I remember, nostalgically.
“We were glad to have somewhere away from the main house to be with the littlies. They’re well and truly grown up now, of course,” he says.
“Of course,” I parrot. “Off your hands, I hope. Young people these days are so hard to get out of the house.”
“Off our hands! I should say so,” Mystery Man laughs, like I’ve missed the joke. “Our baby, Jimmy, just had his fortieth. He’s working in IT in the States. California. Bill and Greg are married and earning enough to support their families. Helps me sleep at night, knowing they’re all independent.”
Three little boys. Forty years ago. Now it’s coming back. It was one of those seventies parties, stretching out for a few days, plenty of beer around the pool, relaxed. Know what I mean? We put the family out in the backyard because of those three little rascals. We couldn’t risk having them spoil the party by annoying the other guests. This is my ex-boss from Hell, Andy Watkins. I handed in my resignation after that party. Couldn’t face dealing with his autocratic ways another day.
“Well, nice talking, Andy. Regards to Shirley.” I feverishly consider a way to put him off coming to visit us. “We’re planning a move overseas pretty soon. Might have to postpone that visit, eh?”
“Hello.”
“Ahh…hello. Who…I mean, how are you?” I stutter into the phone, momentarily confused by an unexpected male voice.
“Basil! I don’t believe it. I haven’t heard from you for ages. You old dog. What’re you up to?” he enquires cheerily, recognising me straight away.
“Pretty much business as usual,” I reply non-committally. “As long as water keeps flowing under the Harbour Bridge I reckon there’s not too much to complain about. No major disaster anyway. And you? What’s happening with you?” I add, hoping to glean some clues about his identity.
“Actually, I’m really good thanks, Basil. Shirley’s retired now too so we’re finally able to loosen up a bit. You know, a spot of travel, the theatre, that sort of thing,” he muses.
“Good to hear that life’s going well. Any special trips on your agenda?” I ask.
“In fact we were thinking of coming over your way for a holiday. Still living in the same swanky part of town I suppose. Never could work out how you could afford it,” the mystery voice responds, challenging me to bite.
“Depends on your definition of swanky,” I reply, bristling with indignation. “We’ve moved around a bit in our time. I guess you could say we’ve made the most of our opportunities. We’re settled in Point Piper at the moment.” In order to cover myself and not to appear discourteous, I add, “Of course, happy to see you again. Just let us know when and how many.”
“Thanks, Basil. You know, we loved that retreat arrangement in the backyard at Vaucluse. Where you put Shirley and me when we visited.”
“Yeah, that old cabin was pretty useful when we had lots of people staying. Specially for our Christmas parties,” I remember, nostalgically.
“We were glad to have somewhere away from the main house to be with the littlies. They’re well and truly grown up now, of course,” he says.
“Of course,” I parrot. “Off your hands, I hope. Young people these days are so hard to get out of the house.”
“Off our hands! I should say so,” Mystery Man laughs, like I’ve missed the joke. “Our baby, Jimmy, just had his fortieth. He’s working in IT in the States. California. Bill and Greg are married and earning enough to support their families. Helps me sleep at night, knowing they’re all independent.”
Three little boys. Forty years ago. Now it’s coming back. It was one of those seventies parties, stretching out for a few days, plenty of beer around the pool, relaxed. Know what I mean? We put the family out in the backyard because of those three little rascals. We couldn’t risk having them spoil the party by annoying the other guests. This is my ex-boss from Hell, Andy Watkins. I handed in my resignation after that party. Couldn’t face dealing with his autocratic ways another day.
“Well, nice talking, Andy. Regards to Shirley.” I feverishly consider a way to put him off coming to visit us. “We’re planning a move overseas pretty soon. Might have to postpone that visit, eh?”
Hide and seek (by Heather)
You've accidentally dialed the wrong phone number, but the person who answers sounds familiar. Immediately he/she recognises you, but because made the call you're too embarrassed to ask who it is. Using only dialogue, figure out who the person is.
Lisa settled into her big easy chair, phone in hand, and chose Marty’s number from her recent calls list. She reached for her glass of red wine. Marty wouldn’t answer til about the seventh ring – it took him that long to finish his move, pause the game, take a swig, find the phone and answer it.
So it was a surprise when the phone was picked up on the second ring and a male voice said, “Hello?”
Lisa frowned. For one thing, it wasn’t the seventh ring. For another, it didn’t sound like Marty. “Hello?” she said uncertainly.
“Ahhh, Lisa, so glad you called! I thought it might be you. How ARE you?” the voice said. It was a confident, sexy, smoky sort of voice. Arrogant, almost. Lisa felt a tingle. She whisked the phone from her ear and peered at the number on the screen.
Damn, it didn’t say “Marty” on the screen and it was an unfamiliar number, definitely not Marty’s. Who an earth HAD she rung?
How embarrassing! Not about to admit the error, she warmed up her voice to match the one on the phone. “I’m very well, thank you. And how about yourself?”
“Oh, I’m well, very well indeed,” the sultry voice said. “I was hoping you’d return my call, and now you have. That’s a promising start.”
Lisa’s brain grasped at the clue. Okay, so this guy had called, and she must have inadvertently selected his number from the recent calls list. But who the hell WAS he? Curiosity partnered up with embarrassment.
“Well, I have indeed returned your call,” she said. “I, ah, was wondering what you had to say.”
“Oh, I’ve got lots to say to YOU,” he replied, the voice as smooth as honey. “Although I’d really like to say it in person.”
Lisa chuckled and took a sip of wine. Who WAS this guy!!? Was he for real? She couldn’t think of a clever riposte so stayed quiet.
“Lisa?” the voice persisted. “I heard you chuckle and can hear you thinking over the possibilities. I think we should explore them too. Plus I’d like to wrap my fingers in that long dark hair of yours.”
Lisa set down the wine glass abruptly, with a first flicker of concern. Where had this guy come from? What on earth was the connection? Was Marty setting this up?
She decided to play it a little safe. “Well, you know me; all attached to another guy.”
“I know,” the voice said, “but he doesn’t treat you very well. Abandoning you all night like that, leaving you for others to entertain. I really don’t think this is the man for you, Lisa.” He spoke her name like a caress.
The penny dropped. Last Saturday night at the pub. A little guy with intense eyes had come over and chatted her up while Marty was playing a game or two of pool. She was several sheets to the wind and couldn’t remember much of the conversation, but she recalled thinking that he was a little spooky. One thing for sure is she wouldn’t have given him her phone number.
“You’re making some assumptions, there, my friend,” she said, attempting cool. “And I’ve been wondering, how’d you get my number?”
“Ah, when the wolf wants his prey, there aren’t any obstacles big enough to stop him.” He paused. “Let’s just say I was resourceful. And then I thought to myself, if she doesn’t ring me back, that’s it; no more moves for me. But if she calls, well, that’s a different matter. There’s no stopping us.” The lazy voice took on a harder edge. “So let’s cut the foreplay. I’ll be right over.”
Lisa leapt from her chair, knocking the wine over in the process. “Hold on a minute,” she said. “For one thing, you don’t even know where I live.” She held her breath.
“Baby, baby, of course I do. I followed you home. Your friend stayed the night, but I thought to myself, he won’t be doing that much longer.”
Your friend stayed the night!? – Lisa tried to register the implications of that remark.
“See you in a few minutes,” the voice said, and the line dropped out.
Lisa looked at the phone, paralysed for a moment. Then she fell back into the chair.
A careless curiosity, a careless politeness – carelessness, really, if one were to tell the truth – governed her life. And now it might have placed it at risk.
She rose quickly. She locked the doors and windows and turned out the lights. She called Marty, who answered after seven long rings and finally cut through her panic to say he’d be over as soon as he could. She went into the bathroom, locked the door and settled down to wait.
But it was only moments later when the doorbell rang. She heard the doorknob rattle and a by-now familiar voice called, “Come out, come out, wherever you are. Come on, little Lisa, don’t change your mind. Let’s play.”
Lisa fumbled into her pocket for her phone, which of course wasn’t there. Carelessness.
“I’ll huff and puff and blow your door down,” the voice called.
She heard the sound of a window softly smashing.
Lisa settled into her big easy chair, phone in hand, and chose Marty’s number from her recent calls list. She reached for her glass of red wine. Marty wouldn’t answer til about the seventh ring – it took him that long to finish his move, pause the game, take a swig, find the phone and answer it.
So it was a surprise when the phone was picked up on the second ring and a male voice said, “Hello?”
Lisa frowned. For one thing, it wasn’t the seventh ring. For another, it didn’t sound like Marty. “Hello?” she said uncertainly.
“Ahhh, Lisa, so glad you called! I thought it might be you. How ARE you?” the voice said. It was a confident, sexy, smoky sort of voice. Arrogant, almost. Lisa felt a tingle. She whisked the phone from her ear and peered at the number on the screen.
Damn, it didn’t say “Marty” on the screen and it was an unfamiliar number, definitely not Marty’s. Who an earth HAD she rung?
How embarrassing! Not about to admit the error, she warmed up her voice to match the one on the phone. “I’m very well, thank you. And how about yourself?”
“Oh, I’m well, very well indeed,” the sultry voice said. “I was hoping you’d return my call, and now you have. That’s a promising start.”
Lisa’s brain grasped at the clue. Okay, so this guy had called, and she must have inadvertently selected his number from the recent calls list. But who the hell WAS he? Curiosity partnered up with embarrassment.
“Well, I have indeed returned your call,” she said. “I, ah, was wondering what you had to say.”
“Oh, I’ve got lots to say to YOU,” he replied, the voice as smooth as honey. “Although I’d really like to say it in person.”
Lisa chuckled and took a sip of wine. Who WAS this guy!!? Was he for real? She couldn’t think of a clever riposte so stayed quiet.
“Lisa?” the voice persisted. “I heard you chuckle and can hear you thinking over the possibilities. I think we should explore them too. Plus I’d like to wrap my fingers in that long dark hair of yours.”
Lisa set down the wine glass abruptly, with a first flicker of concern. Where had this guy come from? What on earth was the connection? Was Marty setting this up?
She decided to play it a little safe. “Well, you know me; all attached to another guy.”
“I know,” the voice said, “but he doesn’t treat you very well. Abandoning you all night like that, leaving you for others to entertain. I really don’t think this is the man for you, Lisa.” He spoke her name like a caress.
The penny dropped. Last Saturday night at the pub. A little guy with intense eyes had come over and chatted her up while Marty was playing a game or two of pool. She was several sheets to the wind and couldn’t remember much of the conversation, but she recalled thinking that he was a little spooky. One thing for sure is she wouldn’t have given him her phone number.
“You’re making some assumptions, there, my friend,” she said, attempting cool. “And I’ve been wondering, how’d you get my number?”
“Ah, when the wolf wants his prey, there aren’t any obstacles big enough to stop him.” He paused. “Let’s just say I was resourceful. And then I thought to myself, if she doesn’t ring me back, that’s it; no more moves for me. But if she calls, well, that’s a different matter. There’s no stopping us.” The lazy voice took on a harder edge. “So let’s cut the foreplay. I’ll be right over.”
Lisa leapt from her chair, knocking the wine over in the process. “Hold on a minute,” she said. “For one thing, you don’t even know where I live.” She held her breath.
“Baby, baby, of course I do. I followed you home. Your friend stayed the night, but I thought to myself, he won’t be doing that much longer.”
Your friend stayed the night!? – Lisa tried to register the implications of that remark.
“See you in a few minutes,” the voice said, and the line dropped out.
Lisa looked at the phone, paralysed for a moment. Then she fell back into the chair.
A careless curiosity, a careless politeness – carelessness, really, if one were to tell the truth – governed her life. And now it might have placed it at risk.
She rose quickly. She locked the doors and windows and turned out the lights. She called Marty, who answered after seven long rings and finally cut through her panic to say he’d be over as soon as he could. She went into the bathroom, locked the door and settled down to wait.
But it was only moments later when the doorbell rang. She heard the doorknob rattle and a by-now familiar voice called, “Come out, come out, wherever you are. Come on, little Lisa, don’t change your mind. Let’s play.”
Lisa fumbled into her pocket for her phone, which of course wasn’t there. Carelessness.
“I’ll huff and puff and blow your door down,” the voice called.
She heard the sound of a window softly smashing.
Tuesday 6 October 2009
Life as a Hermit - by Rick
When my friends heard that I was taking a job for 5 months as caretaker at Sunshine Manor, they couldn’t tease me enough. “You must be mad to go up there. No wait! That’s what you’ll come back like.” “Make sure you take your exorcist with you to get rid of all the ghosts.” Those were a couple of their better ones.
But what could I expect? Ever since The Shining anyone who spent time alone in the winter months was going to cop a ribbing. It didn’t help either to point out that (a), Sunshine Manor was a private estate, not a public resort or (b), it was only 3 years old and didn’t have a history of wild and wooly characters that once inhabited it or (c), that no previous caretakers went mad there and chopped up his family or (d), that I was going to be there alone and couldn’t chop anyone up nor be chopped up or (e)…. Well I stopped giving them reasons because it just played into their childish antics. Besides what did I care what others thought about my choice?
Really what could be better? Roland Mathews III, media mogul and multibillionaire would actually PAY me to watch over his estate high up in the Rockies over the winter freeze. The place came with electric power with 2 backup generator systems, satellite internet and phone systems, 14 bedrooms, 16 bathrooms, a heated pool and spa, a kitchen with a walk in fridge and freezer bigger than my current flat and so on. And all I had to do was watch over it, make sure no pipes froze over, keep animals from breaking in and messing it up, keep the place vacuumed and clean, like that. I could do whatever I wanted in my spare time and was supplied with enough food to last me for more than a year. And if I didn’t report in every day it would be assumed that something bad had happened to me and a helicopter would be flown in. Sounded to me like Mr. Mathews had all the bases covered for any emergency. And the 5 months sounded like more than enough for me to get my novel finished.
……………..
Well half a month to go and I sure showed my “friends”. Who’s laughing now Freddy? I’ll admit the first couple of months were hard. Lots of boredom. Lots of loneliness. But then I got into the groove. Regular surfing on the internet, writing each day in my book, making new friends. Suddenly it all fell into place. I sent my novel off to seven different publishing houses yesterday. It’s bound to set off a bidding war I’m sure. Imagine an 813 page novel without a single consonant! I’m sure it’s never been done before. Mickey read it over before I sent it out (he’s my inspiration for it) and said it was destined to be a classic. (But then what does a mouse know? He’s just being nice because we’re friends. Oh, I’m just being overly modest! He’s right!)
Well I better think about getting ready for leaving here. I’ve got to place the order for the fertilizer and bleach. And I’ll have to get a plan in place for having a bath and maybe even shaving. I’m not sure what Mr. Matthews is going to think about Mickey and his family. I told him to keep them all in the guest room, but the youngsters had minds of their own and now are all over the place. Boy they sure did chew up the books! That library will never be the same. (Big deal! Most of those books were over 100 years old anyway.)
Enough thinking. I’m getting a headache again. I’ll have one last look at my emails to see if any contracts came through for the novel and then off for my usual 2 a.m. nap.
But what could I expect? Ever since The Shining anyone who spent time alone in the winter months was going to cop a ribbing. It didn’t help either to point out that (a), Sunshine Manor was a private estate, not a public resort or (b), it was only 3 years old and didn’t have a history of wild and wooly characters that once inhabited it or (c), that no previous caretakers went mad there and chopped up his family or (d), that I was going to be there alone and couldn’t chop anyone up nor be chopped up or (e)…. Well I stopped giving them reasons because it just played into their childish antics. Besides what did I care what others thought about my choice?
Really what could be better? Roland Mathews III, media mogul and multibillionaire would actually PAY me to watch over his estate high up in the Rockies over the winter freeze. The place came with electric power with 2 backup generator systems, satellite internet and phone systems, 14 bedrooms, 16 bathrooms, a heated pool and spa, a kitchen with a walk in fridge and freezer bigger than my current flat and so on. And all I had to do was watch over it, make sure no pipes froze over, keep animals from breaking in and messing it up, keep the place vacuumed and clean, like that. I could do whatever I wanted in my spare time and was supplied with enough food to last me for more than a year. And if I didn’t report in every day it would be assumed that something bad had happened to me and a helicopter would be flown in. Sounded to me like Mr. Mathews had all the bases covered for any emergency. And the 5 months sounded like more than enough for me to get my novel finished.
……………..
Well half a month to go and I sure showed my “friends”. Who’s laughing now Freddy? I’ll admit the first couple of months were hard. Lots of boredom. Lots of loneliness. But then I got into the groove. Regular surfing on the internet, writing each day in my book, making new friends. Suddenly it all fell into place. I sent my novel off to seven different publishing houses yesterday. It’s bound to set off a bidding war I’m sure. Imagine an 813 page novel without a single consonant! I’m sure it’s never been done before. Mickey read it over before I sent it out (he’s my inspiration for it) and said it was destined to be a classic. (But then what does a mouse know? He’s just being nice because we’re friends. Oh, I’m just being overly modest! He’s right!)
Well I better think about getting ready for leaving here. I’ve got to place the order for the fertilizer and bleach. And I’ll have to get a plan in place for having a bath and maybe even shaving. I’m not sure what Mr. Matthews is going to think about Mickey and his family. I told him to keep them all in the guest room, but the youngsters had minds of their own and now are all over the place. Boy they sure did chew up the books! That library will never be the same. (Big deal! Most of those books were over 100 years old anyway.)
Enough thinking. I’m getting a headache again. I’ll have one last look at my emails to see if any contracts came through for the novel and then off for my usual 2 a.m. nap.
Finding peace (by Heather)
Write about your experience of life as a hermit.
I have been a hermit for 336 days now.
Time doesn’t have the same grip on me that it used to, but my one concession has been to keep track of the days. This morning I pencilled the 336th stroke on the laundry room wall.
I am sitting on my little cobblestone patio, watching the sun head quickly toward the horizon. Today is a particularly red sunset. The hills are glowing, the river in the distance burns red. I almost dare to look directly at the sun.
I review my day today: I rose at 5:00 and made tea while the birds cranked up their day as well. I did a half hour of yoga, then chopped up some fruit and had breakfast. I visited with the lorikeets at the bird feeder while topping up the apples and seed. I checked the seedlings in the garden and watered them. I drove down to the ocean and walked the beach an hour each way. I stained the bird house I built yesterday. I scrubbed the cottage floor even though it didn’t need it. A day much like every other in most respects.
The sun has disappeared. A sigh escapes me. I glance at the paper lying on the bench beside me. I pick it up again, and reread the short letter from my daughter, picked up from the mail box this morning.
Dear Mum,
I assume all is well, as I haven’t heard anything from you. I know I promised I wouldn’t disturb your hermitage, but I wanted you to know that…well, how else to say it!? – I’m pregnant. With only 3 months to go. I caught myself WADDLING in the shop window the other day. All is going well with Greg – better than you thought it would!
I don’t expect you to help, Mum. I don’t expect anything, but I realised I really wanted you to know.
Love you,
Carolyn
I catch myself smiling while I envision Carolyn waddling.
This was not the only big thing that happened today. This afternoon (after a couple weeks of procrastination), I phoned to get the results from the long trip to visit my oncologist (that after several months of procrastination).
“Nothing but good news, Julia,” he’d said when he came on the line. “You’re in great shape. You’re in complete remission.”
I sigh deeply again. It’s been quite a day, really. More of a day than a hermit should have to put up with.
I gather up the letter and move into the house. I lean against the door, then go to the bedroom where I reach under the bed and haul out the antique oval mirror from where I stashed it 335 days ago. I sit on the bed with it and inspect the image as objectively as I can. I see a face with a few more wrinkles than when I last peered at it; I see choppy shoulder length hair, long since grown out of its cut, with several inches of salt and pepper followed by its more familiar layer of dark brown. I’m surprised by the colour in the face and an unfamiliar serenity in the eyes.
I mount the mirror on the wall where it used to live, and step outside again. It’s still light enough that I can see, just across the fence from me, a brown cow with a white face walking slowly along the fence line, followed by a miniature version of herself. The calf, probably just a few days old, runs to catch up, then soon forgets itself again and stops to scratch itself with a back leg. It peers in my direction before frolicking off again towards its mother.
The pair disappears behind the trees. I go back inside and draw the curtains against the gathering dark. I walk swiftly to the spare bedroom and drag the big old suitcase off the top of the wardrobe. My heart is thumping.
The 337th day will be something different.
I have been a hermit for 336 days now.
Time doesn’t have the same grip on me that it used to, but my one concession has been to keep track of the days. This morning I pencilled the 336th stroke on the laundry room wall.
I am sitting on my little cobblestone patio, watching the sun head quickly toward the horizon. Today is a particularly red sunset. The hills are glowing, the river in the distance burns red. I almost dare to look directly at the sun.
I review my day today: I rose at 5:00 and made tea while the birds cranked up their day as well. I did a half hour of yoga, then chopped up some fruit and had breakfast. I visited with the lorikeets at the bird feeder while topping up the apples and seed. I checked the seedlings in the garden and watered them. I drove down to the ocean and walked the beach an hour each way. I stained the bird house I built yesterday. I scrubbed the cottage floor even though it didn’t need it. A day much like every other in most respects.
The sun has disappeared. A sigh escapes me. I glance at the paper lying on the bench beside me. I pick it up again, and reread the short letter from my daughter, picked up from the mail box this morning.
Dear Mum,
I assume all is well, as I haven’t heard anything from you. I know I promised I wouldn’t disturb your hermitage, but I wanted you to know that…well, how else to say it!? – I’m pregnant. With only 3 months to go. I caught myself WADDLING in the shop window the other day. All is going well with Greg – better than you thought it would!
I don’t expect you to help, Mum. I don’t expect anything, but I realised I really wanted you to know.
Love you,
Carolyn
I catch myself smiling while I envision Carolyn waddling.
This was not the only big thing that happened today. This afternoon (after a couple weeks of procrastination), I phoned to get the results from the long trip to visit my oncologist (that after several months of procrastination).
“Nothing but good news, Julia,” he’d said when he came on the line. “You’re in great shape. You’re in complete remission.”
I sigh deeply again. It’s been quite a day, really. More of a day than a hermit should have to put up with.
I gather up the letter and move into the house. I lean against the door, then go to the bedroom where I reach under the bed and haul out the antique oval mirror from where I stashed it 335 days ago. I sit on the bed with it and inspect the image as objectively as I can. I see a face with a few more wrinkles than when I last peered at it; I see choppy shoulder length hair, long since grown out of its cut, with several inches of salt and pepper followed by its more familiar layer of dark brown. I’m surprised by the colour in the face and an unfamiliar serenity in the eyes.
I mount the mirror on the wall where it used to live, and step outside again. It’s still light enough that I can see, just across the fence from me, a brown cow with a white face walking slowly along the fence line, followed by a miniature version of herself. The calf, probably just a few days old, runs to catch up, then soon forgets itself again and stops to scratch itself with a back leg. It peers in my direction before frolicking off again towards its mother.
The pair disappears behind the trees. I go back inside and draw the curtains against the gathering dark. I walk swiftly to the spare bedroom and drag the big old suitcase off the top of the wardrobe. My heart is thumping.
The 337th day will be something different.
Oldsmobile Triptych (by Heather)
Begin your story with: "The car door is slammed shut ..."
JUNE.
The car door is slammed shut and the brand new robin’s egg blue 1955 Oldsmobile leaps to life. My cousin Kathie presses her nose against the glass and crosses her eyes at me. I can’t help giggling, though I’m already feeling sad that she’s leaving and I won’t see her for another two weeks. Beside her, Susan, Lyndsay and Bob bounce around jockeying for position on the back seat. Uncle Jack is driving and Aunt Ellen is holding baby Norman. John disappears into his position on the floor of the back seat and little Ralph wriggles in his spot on the back window shelf. Theresa, who’s the oldest and the biggest, sits in the front between her mum and dad.
My dad’s hand is on my shoulder. Grandpa and Grandma stand beside us, and we’re all waving goodbye as the car pulls out of the driveway and accelerates down the dirt road toward the city. Uncle Jack loves a little speed and he wants to show off his new car.
My nine cousins come out from the city two or three times a month, especially during the summer. They have a big plot in my grandparent’s garden, to help feed all those mouths, as my mother says. I love it because I’m an only child (until recently) and it’s lonesome in the country sometimes.
As we’re turning away getting back to normal, there is a thump and we all turn to look as the door to the outhouse opens – and out comes Christine, next youngest after Kathie. We all look at each other in alarm. Christine hasn’t figured out the problem yet, and she’s concentrating on her zipper at the same time as trying to carry a handful of dandelions.
Dad breaks out of our freeze and swings into action. He runs to her, grabs her, tosses her into his car and floors it down the driveway. You can see her face trying to decide whether to cry or not. Whether his old Ford can catch the Oldsmobile is another question but Dad’ll give it a go!
JULY.
The last car door is slammed shut. Everybody has exploded out of the Olds, as you would after spending over an hour in the car with 10 other people. My grandfather and I are the receiving party this time. As I look around for Kathie, I slowly become aware of an agonised wail. We all stop what we’re doing and look at the source of the sound. There’s Kathie, tight up against the car, with a huge scream building up and slowly releasing itself. I’m the first to notice that, while the rest of her is all out of the car, her middle finger is still stuck in the door near the hinge. Uncle Jack leaps to action and opens the door while Aunt Ellen grabs Kathie and holds her hand out for inspection. That finger looks completely smushed to me. The three of them hop back in the car and head off for the doctor’s in Tomahawk, a few miles from where we live.
I can’t believe what I’ve just seen. Everything about Kathie is perfect. She has perfect blond hair, and perfect clothes, and a perfect laugh and is perfectly beautiful. I can’t believe that she’s not going to be perfect any more.
AUGUST.
The car door is slammed shut. This time it’s me on the inside, at the window, where I’ve been given the place of honour as the special guest going into the city for a holiday with my cousins. My dad and mum are standing outside the window waving. Mum is holding my baby brother Paul. I felt so excited a moment ago, and was so impatient to be off, and suddenly the bottom drops out of my stomach and I’m feeling completely forlorn. I put a big smile on my face and wave furiously at Paul and my parents, and at Grandma and Grandpa. John, on the floor at my feet, is crabbing at me to get my feet out of his face. Christine and Susan are arguing about whose turn it is to sit next to Bob, who gets to sit by the window. Uncle Jack shouts in his huge voice, “All of you, shut up,” and there isn’t a sound in the car. I feel lost inside this big family. The week stretching ahead has never seemed so long.
JUNE.
The car door is slammed shut and the brand new robin’s egg blue 1955 Oldsmobile leaps to life. My cousin Kathie presses her nose against the glass and crosses her eyes at me. I can’t help giggling, though I’m already feeling sad that she’s leaving and I won’t see her for another two weeks. Beside her, Susan, Lyndsay and Bob bounce around jockeying for position on the back seat. Uncle Jack is driving and Aunt Ellen is holding baby Norman. John disappears into his position on the floor of the back seat and little Ralph wriggles in his spot on the back window shelf. Theresa, who’s the oldest and the biggest, sits in the front between her mum and dad.
My dad’s hand is on my shoulder. Grandpa and Grandma stand beside us, and we’re all waving goodbye as the car pulls out of the driveway and accelerates down the dirt road toward the city. Uncle Jack loves a little speed and he wants to show off his new car.
My nine cousins come out from the city two or three times a month, especially during the summer. They have a big plot in my grandparent’s garden, to help feed all those mouths, as my mother says. I love it because I’m an only child (until recently) and it’s lonesome in the country sometimes.
As we’re turning away getting back to normal, there is a thump and we all turn to look as the door to the outhouse opens – and out comes Christine, next youngest after Kathie. We all look at each other in alarm. Christine hasn’t figured out the problem yet, and she’s concentrating on her zipper at the same time as trying to carry a handful of dandelions.
Dad breaks out of our freeze and swings into action. He runs to her, grabs her, tosses her into his car and floors it down the driveway. You can see her face trying to decide whether to cry or not. Whether his old Ford can catch the Oldsmobile is another question but Dad’ll give it a go!
JULY.
The last car door is slammed shut. Everybody has exploded out of the Olds, as you would after spending over an hour in the car with 10 other people. My grandfather and I are the receiving party this time. As I look around for Kathie, I slowly become aware of an agonised wail. We all stop what we’re doing and look at the source of the sound. There’s Kathie, tight up against the car, with a huge scream building up and slowly releasing itself. I’m the first to notice that, while the rest of her is all out of the car, her middle finger is still stuck in the door near the hinge. Uncle Jack leaps to action and opens the door while Aunt Ellen grabs Kathie and holds her hand out for inspection. That finger looks completely smushed to me. The three of them hop back in the car and head off for the doctor’s in Tomahawk, a few miles from where we live.
I can’t believe what I’ve just seen. Everything about Kathie is perfect. She has perfect blond hair, and perfect clothes, and a perfect laugh and is perfectly beautiful. I can’t believe that she’s not going to be perfect any more.
AUGUST.
The car door is slammed shut. This time it’s me on the inside, at the window, where I’ve been given the place of honour as the special guest going into the city for a holiday with my cousins. My dad and mum are standing outside the window waving. Mum is holding my baby brother Paul. I felt so excited a moment ago, and was so impatient to be off, and suddenly the bottom drops out of my stomach and I’m feeling completely forlorn. I put a big smile on my face and wave furiously at Paul and my parents, and at Grandma and Grandpa. John, on the floor at my feet, is crabbing at me to get my feet out of his face. Christine and Susan are arguing about whose turn it is to sit next to Bob, who gets to sit by the window. Uncle Jack shouts in his huge voice, “All of you, shut up,” and there isn’t a sound in the car. I feel lost inside this big family. The week stretching ahead has never seemed so long.
Sunday 4 October 2009
Sickness may be catching (Kerry)
The car door slammed shut in my face. His last words rang in my ears, competing with the tinnitus that usually has over-riding power in that area.
“That’s it. I’m outta here. I’m getting rid of the stupid things,” he had shouted at me.
He had spoken with such vehemence that his spittle splashed onto my cheek. I recoiled, shocked by his uncalled-for tirade, and pushed myself hard against the driver’s door in an attempt to avoid any more spit. I thought of the germs that must surely be dripping down my face as I waited for his next volley of rage. I am very particular about hygiene and specially avoid contamination from body fluids. My bottle of anti-bacterial lotion was in the glove box by his knee and therefore out of my reach at this time. I would be all right as long as I didn’t lick my lips. I sat tight-lipped, wishing he would come good with his promise and just get out of the car.
But he sat there in the passenger’s seat fuming with anger. His fat, white hands were working furiously with one another, twisting, pressing against his knees, squeezing together. They reminded me of the ‘stupid things’ he had threatened to rip so violently from my care. Squirming live things, crawling over each other blindly, pressing down on each other. I had to look away. I could feel my stomach begin to turn.
“You tell anyone, you’ll be sorry. Don’t think I won’t be watching you,” he had added.
This time his voice had dropped ominously, sliding, hissing across the car seat between us. I felt dirtied by the hate in his words. They had a bitter, poisonous smell. I reacted instinctively by brushing something off my skirt, not wanting to have his poison settle on me. Nevertheless I nodded furiously, unable to open my mouth but acknowledging that I understood. He apparently took my response as acquiescence to something he had said and smiled grimly. It was a moment of comparative relaxation and I allowed myself to settle back into the seat a little. The door handle had been pressing sharply into my hip, aggravating my chronic bursitis. I needed relief from the pain.
Seeing me relax, however imperceptibly, seemed to aggravate him again. He leaned forward and brought his face up close to mine. He was sneering aggressively. I pushed back and again the door handle sent a jab of pain into my hip. I could feel his hot breath. He smelled like the drunk he was, reminding me of stale cigarettes and late-nights in the pub. I was repulsed.
“I’m taking them,” he shouted at close range.
He leaned back and undid his seatbelt. Twisting in his seat, he reached over to the back seat and picked up the basket. I heard the faint, nervous mewing. He climbed out of the car. With one last look in, he communicated the full slug of his vicious intent.
The car door slammed shut.
“That’s it. I’m outta here. I’m getting rid of the stupid things,” he had shouted at me.
He had spoken with such vehemence that his spittle splashed onto my cheek. I recoiled, shocked by his uncalled-for tirade, and pushed myself hard against the driver’s door in an attempt to avoid any more spit. I thought of the germs that must surely be dripping down my face as I waited for his next volley of rage. I am very particular about hygiene and specially avoid contamination from body fluids. My bottle of anti-bacterial lotion was in the glove box by his knee and therefore out of my reach at this time. I would be all right as long as I didn’t lick my lips. I sat tight-lipped, wishing he would come good with his promise and just get out of the car.
But he sat there in the passenger’s seat fuming with anger. His fat, white hands were working furiously with one another, twisting, pressing against his knees, squeezing together. They reminded me of the ‘stupid things’ he had threatened to rip so violently from my care. Squirming live things, crawling over each other blindly, pressing down on each other. I had to look away. I could feel my stomach begin to turn.
“You tell anyone, you’ll be sorry. Don’t think I won’t be watching you,” he had added.
This time his voice had dropped ominously, sliding, hissing across the car seat between us. I felt dirtied by the hate in his words. They had a bitter, poisonous smell. I reacted instinctively by brushing something off my skirt, not wanting to have his poison settle on me. Nevertheless I nodded furiously, unable to open my mouth but acknowledging that I understood. He apparently took my response as acquiescence to something he had said and smiled grimly. It was a moment of comparative relaxation and I allowed myself to settle back into the seat a little. The door handle had been pressing sharply into my hip, aggravating my chronic bursitis. I needed relief from the pain.
Seeing me relax, however imperceptibly, seemed to aggravate him again. He leaned forward and brought his face up close to mine. He was sneering aggressively. I pushed back and again the door handle sent a jab of pain into my hip. I could feel his hot breath. He smelled like the drunk he was, reminding me of stale cigarettes and late-nights in the pub. I was repulsed.
“I’m taking them,” he shouted at close range.
He leaned back and undid his seatbelt. Twisting in his seat, he reached over to the back seat and picked up the basket. I heard the faint, nervous mewing. He climbed out of the car. With one last look in, he communicated the full slug of his vicious intent.
The car door slammed shut.
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