“Pretend that this is where we’re meant to go but you think it’s not where we’re meant to go“
“Oh, this isn’t where we were meant to be. We went the wrong way!”
“No, it is the right place. We are meant to be right here!“
“Yes. Yes yes yes you’re right we are meant to be here.”
– An older brother, appeasing the imaginative wishes of his younger sister.
She used to be the type of person who wore yellow gloves on a rainy day because that is where the sun shone. It had to shine somewhere. If not the sky then she would spin it with her hands. Jars of joy. Jars of jam. Preserves, she would correct. Preserves. With pieces of fruit still in them so when you spread it on your crusty toast you would always find a gem or two.
do you know what’s really nice? She asked him one day, holding a piece of her toast in an ungloved hand, when the piece of fruit is intertwined with a knob of melting butter, and it’s on the crustiest part of the toast, so when you take a bite, it tastes like you’re being hugged by a warm, sweet-smelling large-bosomed matron lady. Like Mrs Newman, remember her? Golden curls akimbo and she always talked about her big brother Georgie. As if one could call a sixty year old man Georgie! My but she loved him didn’t she. He was marvellous to her, and she was a potful of comfort and laughter.
akimbo? He raised an eyebrow at that word.
tumbled all over her head. She gestured with her hand over her head in a circular motion, and bit into her toast. Closed her eyes. Her lips curled up towards her eyelashes and her cheeks sunk into two large dimple pools. He liked to look at them.
how much jam have you made today? He asked, leaning his tired head on his hands.
Preserves, PRESERVES! Just one. I had a juicy harvest of mulberries and when we picked them this morning we ate most of them. Oh, the children looked like they had devoured fresh corpses by the time we were finished, and look, my fingers are still stained! She showed him buttery, crumby hands with purple-stained fingertips.
and who gets to have this precious jar of mulberry preserves? He asked, a small smile playing about his eyes. They shone and danced, vibrant when they looked at her. He was always laughing at a secret story with his eyes. She couldn’t help but smile in response.
did you think you would receive it? She said, playful now, running her fingertip across her plate to swipe up the last buttered crumbs. they aren’t for you. they’re for..
She stopped then, and her face became sombre. He was still looking at her, unaware of the change in her demeanour.
…for?
This was Day Four of my Short Story Challenge. The why of which is outlined here, and the challenge of which is outlined here.
O’Henry, also known as William Sydney Porter, said of the short story writing process: “Write stories that please yourself. There is no Rule 2.” That is what I shall do.
It wasn’t the sort of day that required her to do anything, so she lazed about drinking cups of black coffee with lemon-slice shaped ice floating at the top. She picked up a book and flicked listlessly through the pages. She read a sentence about microbes and then another about tapeworm, and she frowned, shutting the book and looking at the front cover. A magnified rendered image of a virus splattered glossily over the front flap, glaring at her menacingly.
When her heart started beating fast she marked it up to her fourth cup of strong black coffee, and made her mind up to stop drinking it. The sun filtered through her window, cutting through the thin white curtains that billowed lazily in the cooling breeze that sailed down the mountains and created a crosswind through the house. Beautiful, beautiful house, she thought, glancing over her shoulder. Scenic photographs of the surrounding lanscape, enlarged and framed, hung on nearly every inch of the cream walls. In between hung little relics of a life well-travelled. Hand-woven rug, coarse yet soft under her calloused feet. The doorframes were painted green, and the window frames white against the dull cream on the walls but you couldn’t notice that because the photography – his photography, hugged every corner of the house and encroached the space.
Encroached? Shrouded?
Embraced.
His presence was everywhere. She breathed and his smell lingered yet. A perfume of warm smells. Tobacco – she took a deep breath. Coffee. Of course coffee. Lemon? No, grass. Freshly mown grass. A little tobacco maybe, a husky sort of smell, and wood. The wood was everywhere though. Hand-carved oak table, carved maple figurines on the mantlepiece, and the mantle itself he had cut and sanded. He loved the smell of pine, he told her, it made him feel at home.
She didn’t feel anything anymore. She could touch what he touched. Without grief or fear of plague. She could sleep on his pillow, and wear his clothes. She wanted to be reminded, now. After so long, she wanted to remember.
When she pushed the curtains away from the window, and the mountain cascaded downwards before her before rising up towards the sunset, she breathed and it was his scent the wind carried. She let it fill her lungs, caress her hair gently around her face. The pines in the valley hugged the foot of the mountain and the lombardy poplars on the slope were silhouettes to the sunset, with the sunrises casting a glorious glow about them. They became alive. Full of character. The sky was vibrant with life. Clouds scudding across the horizon and as the day crept towards night, they began to take on the magnificent hue of the retreating sun, reflecting it back onto earth.
I see you.
The earth was alive in this place. She felt its blood running through her veins.
She saw what he saw, now. His thoughts were hers.
This was Day Three of my Short Story Challenge. The why of which is outlined here, and the challenge of which is outlined here.
O’Henry, also known as William Sydney Porter, said of the short story writing process: “Write stories that please yourself. There is no Rule 2.” That is what I shall do.
I always say I DON’T HAVE TIME.
Hurry UP, we’re late.
What are we late for, though? We are homeschoolers. We’re certainly not late for school because we get up when we want to and school ourselves when we want to. For a swimming lesson, yes sometimes. For the bus? Or is this just echoes of my entire life for thirteen years. WAKE UP YOU’RE LATE FOR THE SCHOOL BUS, YOU’RE LATE FOR SCHOOL, WE WILL BE STUCK IN TRAFFIC IF YOU DO NOT GET READY NOW.
Mad, rushed, tired, reluctant scramble to get dressed and leave. Toast eaten while racing down the stairs to the apartment carpark. My dad’s coffee in a mug spilling all over the arm rest as he manoeuvres the great giant beast of a Chevrolet with one hand, holding his ceramic Ikea mug in the other. Swerving and slicing our way through the jam-packed wide roads of that hot Middle-Eastern country.
But why now, as an adult, do I still say this? Why am I always rushed and anxious? I don’t have a full-time job I need to get to (yet) and my kids don’t go to school (also yet).
My daughter says ‘Mama we are disGUSTINGLY late, aren’t we?’
And I stop in my harried tracks. She is only 4, why is she concerned about being revoltingly late?
Yes, but why?
Why can’t I slow down when I don’t live the ‘rushed’ lifestyle?
Why can’t I relax and bake bread and wake them up slowly and slowly make our way to our appointments that never start at 7am?
WHY don’t I have time to do the things I love, and barely have time to do the things I need to do?
SO – with that in mind, I have decided to embark on the journey that is the SHORT STORY. I bet you didn’t see that coming.
I challenge myself to write a short story every day. It isn’t hard. I am currently reading a compilation of The Great American Short Story and it is a fantastic book filled with the great voices of Alcott, Chopin, Hemingway, Twain and Melville.
I don’t like ‘Americans’ as a rule, I think I have been ‘decolonised’ – I think the empire of America and Israel and the Greater West was built on hypocrisy and on the backs of my ancestors (Moroccan, African, Indian, Egyptian – to name a few, I am a very mixed bag). I think the fact that ‘America’ right now is fighting immigration the way it is, is hypocritical and offensive, given the fact that ‘America’ is a land of immigrants. None of the Americans right now doing these raids are genetically tied to the land. But that’s complex isn’t it. American governments are not its people. American policies are not its people – for the most part. So American authors are not to blame.
SO I won’t idolise anybody anymore, I will observe their work, appreciate it, and also look at the works of other ‘greats’ who were not white, who wrote beautifully (in the past, and in the present), from other lands – and I will use all the works to inspire me to write one short story a day.
Grease this machine.
Use my writing brain again.
Get moving.
get clicking.
Let’s go.
Gale force winds tore at the bare branches. Dead, withered leaves flew past, circled the ground, were wrenched here and there until they crumbled under the pressure of the storm or blew themselves into a rut from which they could not escape. Heavy clouds scudded speedily across the sky, grey and gloomy, bright here and dark there, while geese soared against the tempest in their hundreds under the clouds. It was a mighty sight for the sorest eyes.
It was under such blustery circumstances that she found herself being introduced to Thomas Norton, the doctor from South Bridge, a very distinguished young man.
‘Oh,’ he began eagerly, and she recognised his tone, and put her hand out directly, and saying curtly, ‘Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr Norton,’.
She saw his lips part, in surprise, his eyebrows rise in curiosity.
‘But, L-‘ he began again, and again she interrupted, ‘I did not know you were from South Bridge. My family lives there also. I have just taken the train from there this very morning. How long has it been since you left the dear place?’
He looked flustered, and glancing at their mutual acquaintance, regained his composure. She saw him swallow, she saw his fist tighten, she saw the way his chin moved – all these mannerisms she recognised so very well from their childhood, adolescence, early adulthood together, all these mannerisms she knew with such familiarity, and which tore at her heartstrings. Still, she held firm under his discomfort.
‘Two years,’ came his reply. Sombre now.
‘Oh, that’s a while, Doctor.’
‘Indeed it is,’ he murmured.
‘Have you any plans to return?’ she inquired, knowing full well his answer.
‘Not at present,’ and his eyes smarted at her, ‘I have – I have other plans here at present.’
‘Yes!’ gasped Lady Locke, clapping her hands, ‘Why yes! Doctor Norton is to be married soon, Laura, to the wonderful Miss Rosalind Winters. You made her acquaintance yesterday, she came for tea with her cousins.’
‘Oh how lovely,’ said Laura, simply. She smiled, her fullest, brightest smile at him, and he had the gall to look downcast about it. Her eyes danced, her dimples flitted in and out of her cheeks, ‘congratulations, Doctor Norton, I wish you’ she paused, her eyes meeting his, wordless exchange running between them like a current of fire, ‘all the happiness in the world.’ The last came out as a breathless whisper.
‘Thank you, very much, Miss Smith,’ was his reply.
When the two ladies carried on their way, skirts tugged this way and that by the wind, shawls flapping behind them, he stood for a few moments as the world darkened around him. He wasn’t looking after them. He looked at the sky. The birds soaring above, the wind was almost visible. It whipped around him, almost carrying him off with the strength of it.
“Let me just go and wash my paws”, my two year old girl said. She got her chubby lil self off the chair and went in search of the sink to wash her ‘paws’.
Two year olds come out with the sweetest things, so I sure am glad I have a two year old.
People call that age the ‘terrible twos’, but with both my kids, I have always found the age of two to be the most precious. It’s that precarious teeter between full consciousness and that soft, plump existence in baby-land. The most innocent thoughts breaking their way into coherence, making their acquaintance with the realities and facts of life.
“Gentle with your baby cousin, L”, I cautioned her the other day, “you might hurt her.”
“Yes,” she said, “If I hurt her she will broke, won’t she.”
And then, in the same breath, “Mama, I really need to wash my beard.”
Chin. She meant chin.
I’m listening.
He said.
as the leaves rustled outside the window, and the distant clouds warned of an impending storm.
She could hear it, a slow rumble, like hills jostling each other over the earth. The smell of wet soil hung in the air, and there was a cool breeze wafting in through the small diamond panes.
Rustling the little curls she had hanging out of her cap.
But you’re not, really. You can’t hear my inner voice telling you the truth. You hear my words, don’t you. You hang onto my syllables, making meaning of the sentences I string together like glittering beads on a piece of stretchy string. Light dancing on the ceiling, in and out, back and forth, random, painful.
I am listening.
When she walked through the big wooden doors she felt it straight away. An absence of it.
Absence of what it was before.
“How do you know you’re listening?” she asked him.
The look he gave her was blank. Questioning.
“How don’t I know?”
He wasn’t listening.
I feed a starter every 3 days.
It is slow to react. An hour passes. Three. Five. Seven.
In time, it rises, bubbles, reaches the brim. The sharp smell of it pierces through my nostrils, and is swiftly followed by a soft sweetness.
I pour it into my metal whisking bowl – the bowl that doubles as a ‘space hat’ or a ‘ringing bell’ or a space ship for people who are two.
I add water, olive oil, salt. Whisk it. Little hands whisk too.
I pour in some strong bread flour.
Mix with my hands until it is a rough, misshapen ball of dough.
I cover with a damp cloth, allow it to sit for an hour. When I check on it, it has become stretchy. I shape it into a ball in fifteen seconds, cover it again, and forget it for a day.
When I check on it again, chubby arms hugging my legs, incessant chatter in my ears, clanging from the ‘ringing bell’ of another bowl reverberating through my skull, it has doubled in size. The dough, not my skull. It smells sour, sharp, sweet, plump.
I shape it again, and put it into a basket lined with a muslin cloth, shove it back into the oven (turned off), and forget about it for a night and half a morning.
At 9am, I pull it out. Again, it has doubled in size. I shape it, cut it, put it into my cast iron saucepan with lid that some people like to say is an oven in a European country, and put it in the now turned-on oven.
After forty minutes, halfway through that time I have taken the lid off and let the loaf brown…
After forty minutes I have a loaf of delicious sourdough bread.
I let it sit for an hour, then I slice into it.
It’s still hot and steamy, and when I put a slice of cold butter on it, it melts immediately.
I serve it to my children, and they eat it, oblivious to the fact that I fed the starter three days ago.
I think of that, though, when I see them eat it. It makes me smile.
I missed my posting on the first of November – I forgot! Here it is a day late.
My four year old boy is at the delightful age where everything he sees is fascinating.
City walls of Chester, for example. Why are they there? Who used to walk on them? Did they used to walk on walls in the olden days, and today we walk on paths? Why did they walk on walls in the olden days? What are enemies?
Mama, said he, as we rushed through the rain past Chester Castle, Mama.
Yes, boy.
I know why people don’t live in that castle anymore.
Why’s that then?
It’s because the roof fell off!
While we meandered through the museum, we came across a painting of the castle. Illuminated by the moon. The moonlight seemed to shine right out of the painting. We stared at it for a long time.
I am supposed to be writing for myself this month but there are six days (about) left and I only have ten thousand words of the fifty thousand minimum limit. I shall give up without much of a fuss this month And hope for the best in the next month I set aside for some writing.
With cheer I say, I do believe I have once again stumbled upon the Writing Blues! Everything seems to come to a juddering halt before the brick wall of discouragement. None of my characters will adhere to my commands. They have wilful souls of their own, and oddly, all seem to be biased towards the defiant, sullen demeanor. This will not do at all, because they can’t all monopolise the brooding inclination. They can’t all have the same damn personality!
These aren’t blues, though, so much as purples. This is not the muffled thump of me falling into a pit of writing misery. This is the tremulous hanging in the airless space between inspiration and avolition. Between red and blue. In purple.
Ocean Bream 