The flickering tea lights on the dresser help light my way home. It has been three years now since I left, but I visit as often as I can. The children are doing well in school. My husband, Roger, was promoted at work. He has chosen to resume a limited social life, and I approve of that. I am sorry I have burdened him with an uncertain future. It hasn’t turned out the way we both had hoped. Death is always harder on those left behind.
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Battered and bruised, the elderly woman had stumbled and was now crawling to reach her destination. She had been badly beaten but was determined. She was a survivor and somehow I knew she would make it.
When she arrived at the pedestal, she thrust her sword in the ground and used it as a support to raise herself to a standing position. She withdrew the sword from the ground with her right hand and collected her scales with her left. She now proudly stood tall and erect as Lady Justice had finally regained her rightful position. Einstein closed his eyes and thought: he worked best on a full breakfast.
Suddenly, he understood! Newton insisted that everything must have an equal and opposite reaction. There must therefore be an inverse relativity, where if (e=mc2 divided by k1) and (-e=mc2 divided by k2), 0≤k1≤1, 0≤k2≤1 and k1+k2=1. This would allow selective time travel, so all cancers, say, could be treated by rolling back to their beginnings. Now… how to explain that to lesser beings? He began in the usual way: he climbed off his owner’s lap and onto the keyboard. In the murk of the witching hour, the familiar shapes of her garden took on strange, alien aspects. A full moon rose into a sky as black as her prospects, its radiance shining like her faith in a higher power. She started to dance, barefoot on the grass, the cool night air brushing her naked skin like a lover’s gentle caress. Whirling round, faster and faster she span, till words like ‘Tumour’ and ‘Stage Four’ flew from her head out into the darkness. Life is everlasting, she whispered and the stars wept with joy when she rose to join them.
I stand in awe and homage on this ancient ground.
I cannot fail to hear the solemn lament of the pipes and drums wafting along, reverberating throughout the land. Banners wave, the battle cries sound. Women, with children at their side watch their men fighting relentlessly, undaunted ‘til the last breath. Rape and pillage, an attempt to destroy the Highland way of life, to quash allegiance to their Prince. Sacred and silent - no birds sing or fly around this site. Tears spill - my breath is stilled in eternal reverence - a lasting memorial to their bravery. For two months Lai Chan had been preparing for the biennial competition Mother Queen. I was her consultant, commenting on the different hair styles, makeup, clothes, shoes, and her practiced smiles, walks, and turns.
She had decided she would wear the beautiful Chinese brocade gown, in the style of the empress of old. She had ordered the gown from the famous Shanghai tailor. to be delivered a week before the event. The package arrived with only the camisole. Furious, she called the tailor, who nonchalantly replied, “A dress with the greatest impact, Lady Godiva.” Only Bonnie Lass and I ever walked the isolated cliff top. Scampering too close to the edge she slipped over, landing two metres below on a jutting tree branch.
Stretching down I grabbed her collar, but she scrabbled, plunging us twenty metres onto jagged, inaccessible rocks below. Badly broken, my screams matched those of swooping seagulls, but Bonnie appeared uninjured, spooning into me to offer comfort. In time someone might discover her. Rainwater filled rock pools; she just needed food. With my final breath I gave her permission. ‘Enjoy your meal, Bonnie Lass.’ Her survival instinct would eventually kick in. Its floppy bow sagged.
Most shoppers passed the dress without a second glance. Some stopped and pulled it from the rack but put it back. “What an odd color.” “Can you believe that bow? Awful.” “That dress will never sell. Who would want it?” A girl and her foster mother passed by. “This one’s the perfect color. And I love the bow. May I try it on?” “Of course...It looks wonderful on you. Let’s buy it.” The girl’s eyes shined. “Thank you! I’ll look like a beautiful princess at my adoption hearing next week!” Neither noticed the bow straightening itself. Kamala takes a deep breath and mounts her horse under the blazing sun.
Sweat trickles down her neck and contributes to her discomfort. “Jumping Jehoshaphat,” she mutters to herself after she adjusts her cowboy hat and sits tall in the saddle. Spirit stomps his feet, paws the ground and appears out of sorts. Kamala bends down and rubs the side of his neck. “I mustn’t forget the ears. They also deserve some undivided attention.” Spirit neighs. “And let me schedule the run for another day.” He swings his tail freely. Who says horses can’t communicate? Reuben drops onto the barstool and orders beers for both of us. Reuben is generous this way. He doesn’t like to drink with his demons, so he drinks with me and mine.
Reuben spills a handful of colorful ribbons and shiny badges onto the mahogany bar, pushes them with his finger. “The government awarded me these for killing people I didn’t know in another country. If I kill somebody I don’t know in this country, the government will lock me up, maybe even execute me.” His laugh is bitter. “Isn’t that the shits?” he says and orders two more beers. Legacy Bookstore was gone. For 42 years Leslie nobly operated this quaint literary haven. She saw her baby flourish (modestly, of course). Putting all your eggs in one basket might pay dividends, it seemed. But mammon had recently intruded upon Leslie’s Eden. Her landlord curtly informed her that he could get $500,000 more for the space. And he would. MBA vs. MFA yet again.
Instead of sitting shiva, Leslie performed the final inventory. Melancholy reigned until she recorded the sale of “Best Young Poets of 1973.” Inside this ancient anthology resided “Idyllic Autumn” by Leslie Jacobson. Her legacy shall continue. Once upon a time Marianne sat at her desk to write a story.
She decided her Muse was on vacation playing with dragons in a deep, dark cave. She cursed the writer's Block. She decided the Block was like the sword in the stone. She was not Arthur. She cursed the blank computer screen. She decided the Gremlin inside was laughing at her. That night, Marianne went outside, stared at the first star and wished for inspiration. The star twinkled at her. Later that night, she thought, "Forget it. No Fairy Tales for me." She thought she’d cry when the Russian missiles blew off the windows in her house, but there was no time to waste.
She thought she’d cry when down the subway station, in semi-darkness and damp, it smelled like the end of hope. But there were three little frightened kids beside her to play strong for. Then the silence fell, tenderly. The guys in khaki came and took them up to the crispy spring air. The vibrant titmouse trill pierced the debris of the trashed concrete and glass. So joyful and free. She couldn’t help hot tears running down her cheeks. People said I was the prettiest house on the block. Now, I'm falling apart. Windows are missing. Wallpaper is peeling— my floors creak.
Someone is knocking. My door swings open. "Anybody here?" A lady's voice echoes through my walls. I quietly listen. Gripping the hand of a child, she cautiously enters. "I want to go home," the little boy cries. "We are home," the woman says. My foundation rises. I settle. Soon, I'll be a pretty house again. “My birthday cake? Bake that you can’t be serious, how can Mammy do that?”
“In the oven you numpty! she knows how to, and it will taste delicious. It will be creamy and so tasty, Mammy said so and she told me she might turn off the lights and set it on fire because it’s your birthday, but Dad said not to because it will put bad ideas in your silly head, so she’s going to use a blow torch instead.” I ran to my room and looked at the globe, “What was my Mammy at?” “You can’t bake Alaska! Evening unsettled the surroundings she knew well. The lake was calm except for surface ripples advancing towards the beach where she stood.
Her father was the most athletic of the family. His swimming perfected by annual summer visits. He was proud to have achieved traversing the lake’s width. She could hear him whistling tunes of old in preparation for fishing outings. He would unchain a wooden rowboat at the shore. Stepping over new plant growth, she mounted the hill. A dwelling awaited her entry. Someone was due to join her, to assess the cottage and the property it stood on. The large, magnificent assembly hall was filled with people in rich attires, the chief guest with his retinue of security guards, perfumed air, and the intermittent noise of clapping and cheering. The wealthiest man on the earth was announcing his charities in millions.
A little away from the spectacle was seated a man in tattered clothes, broken by hunger, under a nude tree. A compassionate passer-by offered him a piece of bread. As he was about to mouth it, an urchin approached him, begging for food. The man handed his entire piece and began to wait for another compassionate passer-by. I gazed out of the window, ‘Why had I walked into the kitchen?’ The garden looked pretty, but that wasn’t the point.
Absentmindedly I washed a coffee cup and turned to put it away. Dizziness grew, I steadied myself wondering ‘What’s up? Maybe I should write my book!’ Back in the living room the world made even less sense. I sat dazed, feeling tired and woozy. Something nagged at the back of my mind, slowly I reached for my emergency Diabetes pack. Zombie like I ate 4 Jelly Babies. Very.. very.. very slowly the world steadied itself to level.. “Way-hay, up they’re rising.”
Good people, lemme share a song that I’ve adapted on me lonesome. “What yer gonna do with bumper profits? Invest them wisely in renewable energies, stick em in the bank for a rainy day?” I’m gonna roam among you good people as I sing. Slap me on the left cheek if you like the song, and the right cheek if you don’t. “Whatcha gonna do with bumper profits, invest in people and sustainability? Or give a bonus to the CEO, and a smart yield to the shareholder?” Oooarr. Stick it in your smoke and pipe it. Fifteen years on and still the terror caused Joan to wake screaming.
Young, terrified, with the inside of the trunk muffling all sounds except for road noise, she lay curled in the darkness, suffocating. With her screams ignored and laughter the only response to her frantic knocking she knew torture and ridicule awaited her on release; still, that was preferable to being buried alive in such a confined space. She had been grateful for their invite to the movies, but discovering she had claustrophobia sneaking into the drive-in had traumatised her for life. In the lonely house a blind woman prepares a sandwich while listening to the news, a dangerous inmate has escaped from the local asylum.
She can feel the reassuring presence of her dog, as she strokes his curly coat and feels his hot tongue on her hand. Locking the doors she retires for the night, as a storm rages outside. The next morning the police come to check the outlying homes, upon entering hers, they find her dog dead at the foot of the stairs. On the wall written in his blood is the legend "humans can lick hands too!" “Courage,” she whispered to herself.
A slow glance around. Quickly, picking up a loaf, she lifted her tunic and stuffed it inside her pants. In the next aisle, a bottle of peanut butter disappeared into those pants. Casually, she headed towards the front door. “Madam.” A voice behind her. She stopped. Heart beating fast, she turned around. An old man was holding out a bag of groceries. “You’ve left this behind,” he said. Shocked, she merely stared at him. He reached out and placed the bag in her hands. “Don’t be hungry,” he whispered. Smiling through her tears, she nodded. It stormed into the garden, that wild boar, churning the grass and stamping its foot as it glared at the house. It was young, male, and angry. It crushed Mother's roses, upended the dustbin, scattered kitchen waste all over what was left of the lawn.
'Go away, you stupid pig!' I yelled, throwing stones. Snorting, it turned and fled. Stupid pig. Mother used to call my brother that. In our dysfunctional family, I was the golden child. He, the scapegoat, died when he was fifteen. No-one spoke of him again. 'I'm sorry,' I wept. 'Please come back.' He never did. A 71-year-old Mr Gregory was known as a solitary man among his neighbours. Yet, he was a warm person. Mr Gregory would help anyone who needed his help at the drop of a hat.
After he did his business, he made a beeline to a pond near the town, sat on his usual bench, read a book, and stayed there until suppertime. People who happened to pass the pond and saw him greeted him, and he nicely greeted back. That day on the pond, there was no Mr Gregory. Only a book on a bench. The ambulance sirens wailed unstoppably. Once I found a river, glassy and still as a mirror. But then it surged without warning, raging beyond its banks.
Was someone inside? Battered by rocks and waves, a man was thrown clear – I ran to help. I recognized but couldn’t place him. “Do I know you?” I asked. He grinned but coughed, struggling to catch his breath. “A dam burst? You were swept away?” But he shook his head. “What is this river?” I pressed him. “You know what it is, just as I do." Then, with a wink, he threw himself back into the tumult, disappearing downstream. |
"Classic"
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