Alan meets Amy! A short story by Anahita inspired by Micheal Thomas Suggestions

by: anahita@boldwriters.co.uk

Rate: U

The Little Girl and The Thin Lady - Part 1 by Anahita

by: anahita@boldwriters.co.uk

Rate: U

The Package

by: yvonne@boldwriters.co.uk

Rate: PG

Escape - A Poem by Anahita

by: anahita@boldwriters.co.uk

Rate: U

Ten Twenty Eight by Anahita - Anthology 2009 Two Hours Left Theme

by: anahita@boldwriters.co.uk

Rate: 13+

Twin Peaks, Fire Walk with Me - A David Lynch Film

by: junying@boldwriters.co.uk

Rate: U

No Hay Banda - A view on Mullholland Drive by Anahita

by: anahita@boldwriters.co.uk

Rate: 18+

Review of 'The Reader'

by: junying@boldwriters.co.uk

Rate: U

The God of this World! A Short Prose on Childhood ...

by: anahita@boldwriters.co.uk

Rate: U

Isabelle & Spot

by: junying@boldwriters.co.uk

Rate: U

A Modern Cinderella

by: junying@boldwriters.co.uk

Rate: 13+

A fresh start

by: yvonne@boldwriters.co.uk

Rate: 18+

As she sat there in the warm afternoon sunshine, sipping her drink, Frankie could scarcely believe that her life had changed so dramatically, in the space of only three months.  If anyone had told her that she would be sitting here now, in Spain, sipping sangria, she never would have dared to believe it.

Shyly, she accepted the admiring glances from a couple of locals, and stretched out her bare golden tanned legs evident beneath the pretty yellow floral skirt she had hitched up well above her knees, to take in the warmth of the sun.  The cream linen blouse she had treated herself to only yesterday, was unbuttoned to reveal a small cleavage; something she would never have dared to do four months ago.

The memories of that time came across like a dark cloud in her mind.   

Four months ago, Francesca would have been polishing the furniture, careful not to leave any signs of dust or fingerprints. Francesca would have spent all morning hoovering, washing, ironing and cooking.  Francesca would have been waiting with dread for the sound of a front door key.  On that signal she would have had to present herself at the door, and reach up to the tall man she had married, to plant a kiss on his cheek.  If she was lucky he would be in a good mood and would return the kiss.  If not...he would most likely glare at her as though she were something which had crawled out from under the carpet.  Then she would have to tread very carefully, so as not to anger him. 

Her husband’s anger was something to fear.  When they had first met, some seven years ago he had seemed like her perfect partner for life; caring, considerate, the life and soul of the party.  One year later, with his ring on her finger, it had all started to go horribly wrong.  

Small things at first, so small she pretty much ignored them, wrapped up as she was with the joy of being a new wife.  A couple of times when they were having a quiet night in, he would give her a gentle slap if she forgot to remind him about a programme on the television.  Once when she put too much pepper on his steak he had pulled her hair; but she just thought he was being a bit rough and moody.  Perhaps if she had left him then....

But no she had stayed with him, persuaded by his charms when he was in a good mood.  She had started telling herself that she must make everything perfect for him.  He had insisted that she give up her job, so that she could be at home and they could spend the maximum amount of time together.  At the time she hadn’t seen it as part of his desire to control, but later she would come to realise that he just couldn’t bear her to have any kind of life which did not completely revolve around him.   

The gentle playful slaps didn’t take long to turn into far rougher treatment.  The first time he beat her up; and it had taken a long time for her to admit to herself that that was what it was; – was on the day after her 24^th birthday. 

They had been out to the local pub for a meal and several drinks. He had been like his old self, laughing with their friends, buying rounds of drinks, stroking her hair like he used to.  The following morning Sam, his best friend had come round to remind him about rugby that weekend.  It was just an innocent throw away comment.   

‘You looked foxy last night Francesca, I reckon the new barman had his eye on you.  Lucky you’re a married woman, eh?’

She had laughed it off, but the look on Nigel’s face made her stomach turn over. Closing the door behind Sam, she turned around to find Nigel towering over her. 

It happened so fast that she didn’t have time to defend herself.  Later, after he had left for rugby, she crawled into the bathroom and threw up.  Gazing at her reflection in the mirror she couldn’t believe that he could have been so cruel.  Her cheek was already bruised and swollen from the punch. 

But after that he was clever.  He never again hit her in the face.  It was usually the stomach, but sometimes on the top of the arm.   She was a slight woman and bruised easily.  He would often lash out at her, targeting an area where he had hit her before.  The pain was excruciating.   

Sometimes when she lay next to him in bed she played a game in her mind; imagining the different and more horrible ways she could murder him.  She had read in the past that abused wives often thought they deserved it, but she never felt like that.  She knew that what he was doing was wrong, very wrong.  She considered confiding in her family, but her parents were dead and she had never been close to her younger brother. He lived seventy miles away and was wrapped up in his life with his girlfriend and her two children.  They exchanged Christmas and Birthday cards (when he remembered), and the odd phone call; but that was their only real contact. 

At first, when Nigel made her give up work, she kept in touch with her friends; but gradually even that contact got less and less. She didn’t want them to see what she had become.  She didn’t even have a contact number for Sophie, her best mate at work, who had now moved out of the area. 

The only way out as far as Francesca could see, was to run away.  But Nigel had total charge of all of their finances, she didn’t earn any money of her own and she didn’t even know where he had hidden her passport.  She was trapped. 

When Nigel got sidelined for a promotion in January of that year, his behaviour became even worse.  He had now become a complete control freak and wouldn’t even allow Francesca to shave under her arms.  He insisted that she kept her hair long, and that it should only be let loose when he came home from work.    The evening meal had to be served at exactly six thirty and if it wasn’t piping hot, he would hold her hand under the hot tap until her skin turned bright pink. 

How she despised him.  She didn’t dare leave the house.  Once when she needed to get some potatoes she had popped out to the local shop.  She kept her head down, not wanting to see anyone she knew; her long brown coat, wrapped tightly around her, even though the weather was in the eighties. When she returned he was waiting for her.  Ignoring her hurried explanation, he dragged her down the garden and locked her inside the shed. That was where she stayed for the rest of that day and all through the night.  She had to wait until the next day before he let her out.  Desperate to empty her bladder she went to run up the stairs.  When he held her fast she thought he was going to kill her. Unable to control it, warm liquid escaped and trickled down her leg.  Her mind close to breaking point, in that moment she actually wished she were dead.

In the mornings after Nigel had gone to work she would switch into auto pilot, cleaning the house from top to bottom.  Her mind focused only on trying to make the house perfect for when he got home.   

She had never had any contact with the neighbours and hadn’t even been aware that the couple next door had moved.  The first she knew was when there was a knock on the door.  She ignored it at first, but on the second louder knock, fearing it was Nigel, she gingerly opened the door.  Standing in front of her was a man of about forty.  He had short brown hair, with the sides just showing signs of grey.  He wore denims and a white t-shirt.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen, but Michael became first her friend, then her lover.  The day that she confided in him about the abuse, she had to physically restrain him from finding Nigel, to beat his lights out.  Afraid of the repercussions, she persuaded Michael to do nothing.  He agreed only after she promised to run away with him.  He had a consultancy business and had always wanted to branch out abroad.  It took a great deal of careful planning, but now, three months later she was sitting thousands of miles away from England, safe in the knowledge that he would never find her. 

She was starting to make a new life for herself; one that was without fear.  For the first month or so she kept looking over her shoulder, fearful of seeing Nigel’s face.  Once she thought she spotted him in a crowd, but when the man turned around it wasn’t him.

Michael was everything that Nigel wasn’t.  He was sophisticated and gentle, with a quiet sense of honour.    The business was going well and they had moved into a beautiful house which overlooked the bay.   

Of course she could not block out the bad memories.  They visited her in the darkness. She would wake up in the night, drenched in sweat from dreaming of Nigel raining blows down on her.  Michael would cradle her in his arms, talk quietly to her and she would slowly feel herself calming down; and, snuggling up to him, sleep would eventually come.

She loved her new home.  The locals were very friendly.  She already knew more people by name here, than she had ever known in her home town, where she had lived for twenty four years.  She did regret not leaving a forwarding address with her brother, but there had to be no possible chance that she could be traced here. Michael too had been careful.  Only very close family had been told and they had been sworn to secrecy.   

With a new life came a new name; and ‘Frankie’ fitted more with the young vibrant individual, that was no longer afraid of her own shadow. 

One of the first things she had done when she moved abroad, had been to seek out a local hairdresser.  She got him to cut off her long locks and style her brown hair into a short bob.  The style really suited her.  The staid buttoned up cardigans and grey trousers had been replaced by short flowy skirts and cool blouses.  As the bruises faded, she felt able to bare her arms.  Simple actions that other people took for granted, brought her immense pleasure. Every day she shaved the small hairs under her arms and her legs were smooth and tanned; toes adorned with crimson varnish.  If her own brother walked down the street, he would scarcely have recognised her. 

She was very excited as today she was going for a job interview.  It was only in the local cafe owned by Giuseppe, and she suspected that she already had the job in the bag.  He was a lovely old gentleman who had taken a shine to the shy young girl who had moved into the town with her gentle giant of a boyfriend. 

The job would not only provide her with an income, but more importantly a sense of worth and her own independence. Michael would happily have provided for her, but recognised that this was something she needed to do, as part of her recovery process.  

Frankie had even started to feel the first stirrings of her maternal instinct.  She knew that Michael loved children and maybe next year they could think of starting a family of their own.  The thought made her stomach flutter with excitement.

Frankie glanced at her watch.  It was three o’clock.  She was meeting Giuseppe in half an hour, so there was just time to wander down to the harbour to pick up some fresh tomatoes and basil to go with tonight’s pasta.  Smiling to herself, she sipped the last dregs of her sangria and reached into her purse to leave two Euros on the table.  With a wave of her hand to the owners, she straightened her skirt and left the bar.   

It was then she remembered the little trinket shop she had discovered yesterday up in the old town.  Hesitating for just a second she worked out that she still had time.  She could pick up the tomatoes on the way back home.

The afternoon sun was blazing down and most of the locals were taking the sensible approach and sitting inside, sipping cool glasses of homemade lemonade.  Unlike this young English girl, she thought to herself. As she squinted into the sun, she regretted not bringing her hat, but no matter, she would not be long.   

Frankie made her way up into the tiny winding streets of the town.  Only a motorbike in the distance disturbed the silence of that lazy Spanish afternoon.

She remembered now it was round the next corner.  Maybe she would find a pretty lamp to go in their bedroom? 

Lost as she was in her own thoughts, she didn’t see in the shadows, the outline of a man.  A man whose hand gripped tightly onto the silver hilt of the knife he held in his pocket; the knife that had already spilled her boyfriend’s blood. 

A cloud drifted across the skyline and for a moment Frankie shivered.

I remember the first time I ever saw snow, I mean, proper, pure white snow. The snow flakes which keep falling from the sky, and covers the roads and houses, the whole earth with a shiny whiteness, soft and tender, decorating our landscape with a deft hand of a free-spirited artist. The snow which we now see outside our windows, on the church spires and roof tops, carpeted the roads and streets and playgrounds. A true winter wonderland, stretching endlessly in front of my eyes.

That very first time when I truly experience snow was twenty-five years ago when I went to study in Nanjing, a city by the Yangzhi River, and about 1000 miles downstream from Chongqing, where I was born and grew up. Chongqing is one of the ‘fire furnaces’ in China when it would become extremely hot in the summer. In winter months it could get very cold but not quite chilly enough to see snow falling and roads frozen. In my mind’s eye, I did see snow sometimes, only from the books I read and in my limited imagination. In my young and naïve heart, like the sea, snow was something very beautiful, like a distant dream, far, far away from my insignificant life, with little relevance.

Quite unexpectedly and without much warning, my journey took me to Nanjing one summer. For the first time, I was able to leave my home province and ventured beyond. En route, I did a de tour and travelled to the coast of northern China and made a splash in the deep blue sea. It was an incredible moment that lingered in my memory long after the actual experience. Then it was winter time in Nanjing.

One morning, I looked out of my dorm window and was nearly blinded by the shining white outside. “Snow.!  Oh my God, It’s snowing,” I shouted, my voice an unnatural pitch. My excitement and exhilaration almost caused me to fall down from the top of my bunk bed, and it certainly woke up my roommates from their dreams, with the girl below me give a sudden jump, banging her head: “Ouch! Have you never seen snow before?” She grunted, and glared at me in utter disbelief, more than a hint of annoyance.

I got out of bed, faster than ever, and out into the cold and the soft pure white world. I touched its coolness and taste it, let it melt slowly in my mouth. It was such an unforgetable feeling, an unidentifiable yet definite happiness arising from the depth of my heart. Maybe it’s like someone who takes drugs for the first time? I am not sure, but it was one of the most delightful moments in my life till then.

We always remember the first time, don’t we? The first time we felt the crush, our first kiss, the first time we truly fell in love, and the sweet memory of all the significant moments in growing up. For me, the first glimpse and touch of snow was just magical.

The years pass by, and I have travelled the world and experienced many more new sights, sounds and touch. I’ve seen the snow and glacier on the Alps, on the Scottish Highlands, on the mountain tops in Cyprus and in Yosemite. I posed in front of the famed Gulfoss in Iceland, where the waterfalls frozen in shining ice and blinding snow.

Less than a week ago I had driven from the snowing Midlands to snowier Yorkshire. The radio announced that many schools were to be shut, and transport had been paralysed, and the UK financial loss adding to billions of pounds. What a paradox! While the children had fun building Snowman and threw snow balls at one another, businesses made losses, to already shrinking economy. Such nature beauty, yet at the same time a great deal of disruption, up and down the country.

I can not think of another nation quite like the United Kingdom. Sometime to me it is just as puzzling as snow, but utterly beautiful and inviting.

Once upon a time, human beings were created by God, or according to Darwin we evolved gradually from Apes to what we are now, depending on what we believe in. Whatever our origin, or wherever we came from, we worshipped the Mother Nature, or a Higher Being up in Heaven. We prayed regularly, for food, for rain, for children, for longer and better life, for sound health and abundance of good fortune. We became more and more smart, and we invented things, machines that would help better our lives and make us more efficient. From very basic tools to more advanced technology through the long passage of time.

Through our turbulent history, there were natural disasters and man-made sufferings, all essential ingredients to test our strength and survival abilities. Lives were destroyed, but never quite extinguished; as our hope to survive stronger than ever. Constant battles and wars did not bring the end of the world; instead men became more inventive and innovative. And the machines became more sophisticated in its design and use, more effective in killing species, especially in attacking our fellow human beings.

Men could fly, from one side of the world to the other. What a miracle that was! But what did we do with that amazing gift of invention? We used it for more destruction, more devastating and on a massive scale. Would it one day end the human civilisation as we know it? Would the day come when our planet is only filled with birds rather than human beings? Would that day ever come when our science and technology are so developed that one touch can wipe out all living species? Would it?

"When the first baby laughed for the first time, the laugh broke into a thousand pieces and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies." J M Barrie in Peter Pan

"Every time a child says 'I don't believe in fairies' there is a little fairy somewhere that falls down dead." J M Barrie in Peter Pan

At “Finding Neverland” we view a film that tries to portray the life of J M Barrie (Johnny Depp), the writer of “Peter Pan”, 1904.

Neverland is where the time stops and boys remain boys. Neverland is where we all want to live in when we find out how difficult is to be a grown up, a person with responsibilities, and too much in our heads to enjoy simple things….

But “Peter Pan” the character who is said to be inspired by “Peter”, one of the Sylvia Llwelyn Davies (Kate Winslet) son’s, is in fact J M Barrie himself. “I am not Peter Pan. He is,” Peter says looking at uncle Jim.

This story clearly portrays the internal dreams of a grown up man, who regrets his boyhood days. Those fantastic times that he had no shadows and he could fly.

But who are fairies? Why J M Barrie had to bring fairies in this? Because fairies are children’s innocence and happiness. They are symbols of JM Barrie’s belief that those little pure smiles will die when we grow up, when we stop to believe in laughing and flying…. But there is one way to get back to Neverland ….To find our happy thoughts. Grown-ups have shadows and no happy thoughts.

As it goes for the J M Barrie’s life, we can picture a man in great anguish, struggling with his sorrow of an unhappy marriage and troubles of unsuccessful career. Here Johnny Depp gives a dark shadow to J M Barrie’s character. His coldness to women around him, and his obsession with his career, takes him to extremes of abandoning his home and spending his time playing with Sylvia Davies’ boys, concentrating on the one he thinks is growing up faster than others, Peter.

Barrie tries to teach the pleasures of writing to Peter, as a tool to escape from the anguish of losing his father and the fear of losing his mother.

Perhaps writing was Barrie’s Happy Thought.

Jack has a secret which he’s taking to his grave.

He was a quiet child who grew up to be a quiet man. He never had much to say to anyone, and those who knew him grew used to his silent ways, and those who did not know him, the strangers who came across his path in pubs and other locations, did not bother him with conversations. In fact, some people quite liked to have someone next to them who just listened to their woes and grunts. For Jack, he kept his watchful eyes around him and his ears open. He filled his life with activities and he kept himself busy doing things he knew would bore others to death.

Jack was the last of seven children. When he was younger, his parents were too busy to pay much attention to him. His sisters were always too loud and demanding, while his brothers fought over food, toys and later over girls. From a young age, he seemed to be content with his own company, and eventually his family grew used to his presence without sometimes realizing that he was there.

At school, he was not a brilliant student, nor an incompetent one. He received average marks for most subjects and got by without causing too much concern from his teachers, or too much hassle from his fellow pupils.

He left school at 16 with a handful of GCSEs. He had no grand ambitions, and started working with one of his uncles who had been a gardener. No bullshit form-filling like applying for regular jobs. Jack the Gardener, he was happy with that. It did not need too many skills, and there was certainly no shortage of customers; there were always people who needed their grass mowed and their flowerbeds tended especially the old and the infirm. Jack had enough muscles to oblige and it paid his bills.

For Jack, there was an extra advantage. It allowed him to meet people but kept him on the edge of their lives. He liked being the outsider, the observer, to have a glimpse of the kind of lives other people live, yet not to be part of them. It suited his temperament.

To his customers, Jack was a nice lad, conscientious and kept himself to himself. He was never nosey, did what he was supposed to do and was gone quietly at the end of a job without stepping on anyone’s toes. His appearance was nothing remarkable but not offensive either. He was well built; face always clean shaven and his clothes decent, nothing too flash or chav-like. Certainly no Burberry cap as some of his peers would have worn. In a word, he was safe and unremarkable.

Yet, he has a dark secret which nobody knew about. He had a pet hate.

It was not known whether he had developed this hatred at some stage or he was born with it. He had no idea why he had this unquenchable desire to hurt them whenever he saw cats; black, white, domestic or wild, of any description. He could not understand why people keep them as pets and treated them like their children, perhaps better than their children. For those who had no children, they talked to them as if they were human beings. Had it been a dog, especially an English Bull Terrier, he might have understood, but cats? Where the fxxx were they for?

When he was 10, he had his first taste of pleasure in killing one. He did not set out to kill but it just happened.

It was a black cat which one of his sisters brought home and everyone else just surrounded it and cooed, as if it was a treasure, something bestowed on them from above. His sisters fought to keep it, despite their mother’s reluctance. She worried about the extra cost rather than having the creature around. They had no idea that their happiness was not to last. Suddenly, the cat seemed to have disappeared into thin air, and nobody knew what had happened. Except Jack.

The stupid cat had the nerve to piss on his beloved shoes, and all Jack wanted to do was to get rid of it, fast and without trace.

As soon as darkness fell, Jack lured the cat into the garden with some spare ribs from his dinner. As the cat greedily tore at the bones, totally unaware of the imminent danger, he smashed a rusty spade onto her head. Without even a whimper, the cat was gone. Then he quickly dug a hole at the far end of the garden, near some untended weeds and next to an apple tree, he buried it, using the same rusty tool.

It was a weekend, with his siblings all out and about, either chasing girls or getting drunk in discos. His mother had a job working in a pub. He was home alone and the cat had no in idea that her days were numbered.

Afterwards, he denied any knowledge of seeing the cat, and nobody in his family would have any inclination that he was a cat-killing psychopath, even at that age. Only he knew. He had experienced an unspecified ecstasy, a kind of high he had never known before. That spelled the start of a killing spree, which was to last for many years.

Gardener. It provided a perfect cover for his secret desires.

Over the years, he took every available opportunity and indulged in this blood-thirsty adventure. There were a few stray ones who had the misfortune of coming his way, mostly they were domestic pets belonging to unsuspecting old ladies. After all, they were his most loyal clients and he their loyal gardener.

His latest victim was called ‘Coco’ belonging to a widow Dorothy Jenkins, who kept half a dozen cats. Jack had worked for her for some years, and Coco wasn’t the first pet he had ‘got rid of’ for her. She had been suffering increasing dementia over the years but refused to go to a Home. Her daughter occasionally checked up on her, and so did a nurse from Mental Health. Jack came once every two weeks, attending to the huge garden at the back of her Victorian detached house. Before and after his mowing, trimming and occasionally a planting job, he would always have a small chat with the old lady; usually she did the talking and him listening. When he was gone, Dorothy would continue to talk to her self for sometime, as if he was still around. She liked the fact that he was a regular fixture in her lonely life.

One day in May, the day after her 75^th birthday, she called Jack to come into the house, especially. One of her better birthday gifts had been a pot of yellow roses, called ‘China Town’. From the instructions on the label, it was an outdoor plant, so she wanted Jack to plant it for her. “Somewhere not too far from the French window, so I can appreciate it from here;” She had instructed. With that, she went back to the living room to watch her daytime chat shows on TV, with her horde of cats.

As Jack busied himself with the digging by the fence, he spotted Coco further down in the garden behind an apple tree. Maybe she had found something, using her claws to unearth it with concentration, totally oblivious of the shadow behind. Without a sound, something fell on her body, heavy and brutal, and effective. Coco was smashed and her tiny body shrank and sank into the mud.

A hardly discernable smile spread across Jack’s face, and an overwhelming feeling of relief washed over him. He had been feeling even more frustrated lately, and this instant that frustration was gone, replaced by something very different. He had missed that feeling for quite sometime. Then he made his way back to his roses, uttering something to himself, like a whisper to an unknown listener:

‘There should be no need to dig there ever again.’

It’s choice not chance, which determines your destiny, my Mother always told me.  How right she was!

Looking back, I could have taken a different course.  Well, literally a different evening class anyway.  ‘Go green’ sounded just right though.  I was fed up with the rat race and thought it might be good to try and  do my bit for the environment. 

Each Thursday we would meet for two hours at the local church hall.  The group started with nineteen, but in the end only seven of us hardy souls stuck it out.  I really looked forward to Thursdays; I would race home from work, gobble down a quick bite to eat, jump in the car and arrive promptly by ten to seven.  The rest of the bunch usually managed to turn up anytime between seven and seven thirty.  Actually the main reason why I was so keen to get there – and get there ahead of anyone else, was our Tutor, Pete. 

Pete was in his early forties.  He had deep tanned skin from living the outdoor life.  His dark brown hair just reached his shoulders and he had the kind of rugged look that you associated with tv ads for men who like to surf, but always used deodorants.  Pete dressed casually in faded jeans but always wore a pristine white t-shirt, which served to show off his gorgeous muscles.    Go green – I would have gone anywhere for the man!

We were nearing the end of the course and I was desperate to have a reason to keep in contact with Pete.  On our last session I asked him what he did in his spare time. 

‘Play footie with the lads on a Sunday: and then of course I have my allotment.’

 He had mentioned this before, why hadn’t I taken more notice!  This was the perfect opportunity to keep in touch.  I had no idea about allotments – they were something your Granddad used to do, but I suddenly had this image of Pete, stripped off to the waist, shovel in hand, sweat glistening down his back.  That sealed it for me.

Bringing myself back from a quick trip to Heaven, I probed a bit deeper. 

‘Gee that’s sounds really interesting; it’s something I’ve thought about getting started on for a while.’

 There was a snort from behind me from Mavis.  I turned round and gave her my best evil stare.  Her idea of excitement was probably the next instalment of Coronation Street. Giving me that ‘I know what your game is’ look, she zipped up her anorak, gave Pete a quick peck on the cheek and waved the rest of us goodbye. By now Pete was gathering up his stuff.  I needed to find out where he went.  This was the perfect solution, my excuse to maintain contact.

‘Where do you go, then?’ I asked, trying to sound casual. 

‘Do you know Foxes Meadow?’ Pete replied.   ‘It’s a really good site, the ground is mainly clay, but you can grow some fantastic fruit and veg.’ 

Just as I was about to glean a few more pertinent details, Vic piped up.  ‘Aye lad, there’s a small world, I’ve got a plot down the far end, me self by the stream.  Can’t say I have seen you there, but then I haven’t been there much myself recently, on account of the arthritis.  Gets to us old’uns you know.  I ain’t as young as I used to be.  Do you know about twenty odd years ago I won the best turnip in show competition, two years running.’

Did I want to know about Vic’s prize winning turnips?  No I blinking well didn’t, but he went off into one of his long drawn out, boring and repetitive explanations.  I had to just stand there and seem really interested; otherwise Pete might smell a rat.

Eventually Vic stopped for breath; well actually he stopped because he had to go catch his bus.  Hooray for public transport I say.  That left just the two of us.  Jumping in with both feet I blurted out, ‘Well, do you know if there are any spare plots at Foxes Meadow?  If there are, I would be very interested.’  Pete looked mildly surprised. 

‘Didn’t take you for the outdoor sort, Polly, but if you genuinely want to have a go, then give me your phone number, I will check with the club when I go down on Saturday and if they have a free plot I will give you a bell’. Pete has my phone number.  Yes, I punched an imaginary fist in the air in my head, in triumph.

Saturday night I was just sitting down with a glass of wine to watch some steamy love story when the phone rang.  It was Pete.  The sound of his deep masculine voice, stirred up my hormones.  ‘Sorry to disturb you Polly, but I just thought I would let you know that they do have a free plot at Foxes, if you are still interested.’

Still interested!  You’d better believe I was still interested. It got better.  ‘I am aiming to pop down tomorrow.   If you are free, you can meet me there and I will show you round.’  I felt like they had just called out my lottery numbers.

We agreed to meet the next morning at ten o’clock.

I hardly slept a wink that night, thinking about Pete.  When I eventually fell asleep it was to dream about being chased by giant turnips inexplicably being rallied by a fluorescent green spade who had the face of Mavis.

I arrived at Foxes Meadow the next day, dolled up in my new designer jeans and a low cut blouse.  No sense in not making an impact, I thought.  I had squeezed my size six feet into these gorgeous new pink sandals I had treated myself to the day before. My philosophy in life is that if you buy it, you have to wear it, otherwise what’s the point?

It had bucketed with rain during the night and I realised my first mistake, when I opened the car and stepped out.  My beautiful pink sandals disappeared in about three inches of thick gooey sludge. They sank so far down that the hem of my designer jeans got splattered.  I let out an involuntary squeal of anger. 

‘Them’s not very practical you know’ said a voice behind me.  I turned round and there shaking his head really slowly was Vic. 

‘I know that now’ I said between clenched teeth.I looked around but couldn’t see Pete anywhere.  ‘He’s not ‘ere’ said Vic, as if reading my thoughts.

‘What do you mean, he’s not ‘ere’ I repeated.

‘I mean he ain’t coming.’ I stopped short of repeating the sentence, instead looked at Vic who patently knew more about the situation than I did.

‘He got a call from Barton Rovers.  Seems they was one man short for the match, so he’s gone to step in.  Rang me and asked me if I would meet you instead.’

This wasn’t a good start, I thought.  Here I was dressed to impress, but instead of Pete I had the old fart Vic to contend with.

Later that afternoon when I was soaking my jeans to try and get the stains out, I had time to ponder the events of earlier.  My second mistake had been when Pete has said they had a free plot.  He meant free as in not taken, not free as in free gratis.  I still couldn’t believe they expected you to pay for the privilege of growing a few grotty vegetables, especially when the plot Vic directed me to was covered in weeds that were about two feet tall!  I ask you; couldn’t they at least have cleared it ready?

I can’t believe three whole months have now gone by.  After my first visit to the plot I decided to abandon my rather impractical heels in favour of a sturdy pair of wellies. Pink flowery ones of course. I hung up my beautiful designer jeans, replacing them with a comfy pair of tracksuit bottoms.   I now see Pete every weekend and one or two evenings in the week.  At first we spent our time discussing organic fertilisers and whether to plant in drifts or simple squares and which might make the best early crop of potatoes.  Then one Sunday he invited me back to his flat.  Said he had something to show me.  My god he did as well. 

Last night he invited me to move in with him, designer jeans and all. Pete’s the best thing that has ever happened to me.  So yesterday after I had said yes, I finally summed up the courage to admit to him that yes I wanted to get down and dirty with him, but not at the allotment.  He laughed and said he was surprised it had taken me this long to admit the truth. He had known it all along.

So as far as me and the allotment are concerned, I think I can say for certain that there should be no need to dig there ever again.

Snow in October

It came as a shock to everyone. Even the meteorologists were talking about it. No-one had expected it, and it was predicted only the evening before. The last time it had happened was in 1934, apparently. But there it was, blizzard conditions in October, at the end of the month admittedly, but snow fell, and settled, and stayed.

‘Temperatures,’ said the BBC announcer, ‘are similar to those expected at the end of December.’ Bedding plants, caught by the freezing temperatures, blackened and died overnight. The last few leaves clinging to trees gave up their forlorn struggle and dropped.

But what had happened? What caused this cataclysmic drop in temperature? Why did winter come early to the Midlands? Only now can the truth be revealed, and many will simply not believe the true explanation.

It was my fault.

No, it really was my fault. I should have known better, but I never seem to learn. Goodness knows I have had enough opportunity to learn, enough chances to realise what happens, but I simply cannot seem to keep my big mouth shut. If I had only had the sense… Still, no point in saying that now. Confession is my only way of expiating my sins, the blunders I committed.

It happened like this.

I hate gardening. I mean, I really hate it. It’s cold and muddy and uncomfortable and back-breaking, and I only ever go out there under protest. Plus, there are the crawlies. Now I don’t mind things on two legs – humans, birds, that sort of thing; and I quite like things on four legs – dogs, cats and so on. But anything less than two or more than four and all bets are off. Coming face to face with a slug or a centipede gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies.

Consequently, when I am dragged, kicking and screaming, out into the garden, I tend to grumble. A bit. Well, a lot, then. And all those autumn leaves had to be swept up and left to become compost, in that mysterious way that gardeners have, of turning a soggy mess into something amazing and nutritious for the soil, like Jamie Oliver whipping up a fabulous meal for a fiver.

Now, we like our trees, giving us shade and privacy all year round, but that short season when they shed their leaves does create a mountain of work. So, I grumbled.

‘I don’t see the point of this; it’s a waste of time. We’ll clear the lawn, and then tomorrow morning it’ll all be covered again, and we’ll have to start all over again. We might as well leave them all scattered, anyway, the wind will probably get up during the night and blow them everywhere again.’

So far, not too bad. Anyone might say the same in a fit of gloom. But I had to carry on, didn’t I? I couldn’t leave it at that. Oh, no. I had to say more…

‘Anyway, how come it’s autumn? We didn’t even have a proper spring this year, never mind a summer! All the seasons are just a mish-mash, you can’t tell one from another. Spring and summer were so wet, they might as well have been the monsoon season!’

Anyone listening might have noticed a sudden hush in the atmosphere, a sort of waiting stillness. But I wasn’t listening to anything except my own rant. I carried on.

‘When I was a kid, I remember proper seasons. Nice long, hot summers. Shiny springs and golden autumns. Where are they now? We even used to have proper winters, when the snow came down and stayed down, not like these half-hearted ones we have now. I like knowing where I am with my seasons. Bring back proper winters!’

Even I noticed the stillness now, and I finally ground to a halt with my litany of complaints. But it was too late. Grey clouds rolled across the previously bright sky, and I shivered apprehensively.

Far away, in Valhalla, home of the Norse gods, there was an ominous silence as they digested my foolish words. Minor gods halted in their play; those in the higher echelons paused and turned towards the huge throne. Goddesses drew their robes around them carefully and all eyes turned to the mighty Odin, who sat frowning and almost transfixed as my foolish words penetrated the ether and echoed around the halls of Asgard.

Frigg, Odin’s wife, hastily spoke.

‘She speaks as foolish mortals do, Lord Odin! It means nothing.’ She laid a hand on his, but withdrew it quickly as a tremor ran through Odin’s arm. Only his wife might speak thus to Odin, King of the Norse gods, but even she hesitated to go further. He drew a rumbling breath and spoke in a voice which made Yggdrasil, the mighty ash tree which is the foundation of the universe, quiver deep in Niflheim.

‘I think we need to take this one to Head Office,’ he rumbled.

A sprite with wings at his heels stepped forward and bowed. Hermes, the winged messenger of the gods – the Greek gods.

‘My Lord Odin, I am returning to Mount Olympus even now, having delivered letters from my master, Lord Zeus. May I carry a message back?’

‘Hmm. Hermes,’ remarked Odin. ‘Yes, I believe you may. Repeat to Lord Zeus the foolish human’s remarks and ask for his counsel in this matter. I do not believe it would be well to ignore even these thoughtless sentiments. These mortals grow careless and lacking in respect. Only yesterday we heard similar comments from Leicestershire, and last week, on that abomination they call television, a comedian spoke in jest for at least five mortal minutes about the weather.’

A giant of a god stepped forward, carrying an enormous hammer. ‘Lord Odin, I beg you, allow me to smite these foolish beings. Let them know the wrath of the mighty Thor!’

‘When we have heard from Head Office, Thor, my boy,’ said Odin, almost genial now that he had handed on the problem. ‘Your thunder does set off my dear Frigg’s migraines, rather.’

‘I go at once, my Lord,’ said Hermes with a deep bow. ‘I shall return immediately.’ With which he vanished – only to return, as he had promised, a moment later. Time isn’t really the same when you’re a god.

‘My Lord: Lord Zeus sends kind greetings to you and to all here in Valhalla,’ he began, ‘and agrees with you that such careless remarks cannot be allowed to continue. He suggests, my Lord-‘ here he paused, enjoying the fact that the entire court was gathered around, hanging on his every word. ‘He suggests that you give this impertinent mortal what it has asked for: proper winters.’

Odin thought for a moment, and then his face lit up with amusement.

‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘The very thing!  The human’s words were “Bring back proper winters”! This foolish human shall have its wish! See to it, you minor gods,’ he ordered casually. A group of those listening scattered hurriedly to do his bidding, while he turned to Hermes, who was waiting deferentially to be dismissed. ‘My compliments to Lord Zeus, Hermes, and thanks for his advice, which I shall follow.’ With which Hermes took his leave, with a quick twitch of the winged sandals which were his trademark.

‘My Lord,’ murmured Bragi, son of Odin and god of eloquence and poetry. ‘My Father, is this wise? The seasons are already…’ He stopped abruptly, for Odin had risen to his feet and was towering over him with a less than kind aspect.

‘Wise?’ thundered Odin, and all of Asgard trembled. ‘Wise? Do you presume to tell me, Odin, what is wise? Begone! I decide what is to be done here! I, Odin…’

He ranted for a few minutes and on earth, in my garden, things took on a decidedly chilly feel.

Well, you know the rest. Next morning, it rained, icy rain which later turned to sleet, and by mid-afternoon it was a blizzard. In October. I knew why, of course, but didn’t say anything. Until now. I thought that if I confessed, maybe – just maybe- Odin would relent. And now that it has all thawed, and we’re not quite as frozen as we were, I promise that I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t criticise the weather or the seasons again, I promise.

But there was quite a nasty ice storm in Devon last night…

Fionnuala M. Kelly

October 2008

August was at its highest heat. The scent of walnut leaves filled the mature garden. Mashti was there, between the hushed trees, silently working. He worked on this garden all his life, working for Akbar.

Akbar owned the land. His granddad cultivated the walnuts on the relatively big land 100 years ago. The trees grew slowly but spread their branches higher and higher towards the sky. Their fruit provided wealth and prosperity to Akbar’s family.

Mashti worked in this garden as long as he remembered. When Akbar was younger, they used to play football with the cheap and hollow stripy red and white plastic ball. However, Akbar grew up to be an important man and Mashti remained to be only a gardener’s son.

Mashti followed his dad’s trade to be a gardener and stayed where his dad worked. He married and brought his bride to the little mud break hut at the end corner of garden. Soon after he married, he realised that his pregnant wife was ill. She gave birth to his only son Sina and didn’t get the chance to live much longer than a year after the birth.

Mashti wanted to bring up his son on his own and teach him to be an accomplished gardener. Therefore, he never re-married another woman. He woke up everyday, turned his small transmitter radio on to listen to the morning news, then performed his morning prayers before he started the exhausting daily labour of maintaining the garden. He baked his own bread, cultivated his own vegetables, and kept to himself.

For Sina, up to the time he learnt climbing trees, the world was inside the walls of the garden. There wasn’t anything outside. The life was how it was, him, Mashti, the garden, their donkey and of course God who Mashti prayed five times a day.

From the early age, Sina learnt to help Mashti with the cooking and cleaning too. He learnt how to fill up the oil in samovar and how to brew a pot of tea. He also learnt how to cook a hot vegetable stew over the cooking oil lamp.

Once a week Mashti put some of the stored walnut out on the back of their donkey, named Khar, and he came back with some other rations such as rice, a small portion of fresh meat, a sack of charcoal, a gallon of oil, and some pulses such as lentils and chick peas.

Sina sat and watched Mashti leaving the garden gate when he was tinier, but as he grew older, he wanted to know what happened to Mashti behind that wooden gate. It was then that Sina started to be a rebel.

“So where did you go Mashti?”

“Go and get on with your own business son. Have you performed your prayers yet?” he said harshly. Soon Sina learnt that there was no point in asking Mashti about it. There was no answer there.

Sina followed so many unwritten rules in his tiny world that consisted Mashti and him. He had never seen another human being. There was no TV, or he did not even know that TV existed, and there were no books, apart from the prayer book, no papers, and he was not even allowed to touch Mashti’s radio. Mashti only turned it on at morning, just before he prayed and quickly turned it off, took batteries off and carefully placed them in a cigarette box he always carried in his trousers pocket.

When Sina asked for the first time, at the age of five, that if he could have a go with a small black box, Mashti turned red from anger and told him that there was nothing interesting about that box. Sina never dared to even try when he was tinier and not still a rebel. Therefore, he kept playing with the walnuts, stones and ants in the garden.

The days of Sina being a good son, the same way that Mashti was to his father soon ended. Sina got himself into learning new skills, such as climbing trees. Mashti normally used a ladder to get to highest branches and used a long flexible stick to drop the fruits, but Sina was not strong enough to carry the ladder. He did not even have the key to the padlock on the storage to get the ladder out. The key was where the batteries and other Mashti’s valuable items were always kept, in the huge pocket of his work trousers.

So one day, when Mashti went out for his weekly visits to the world outside, Sina decided to see where Mashti disappeared to after carefully locking the wooden gate behind him.

He was exactly seven that day, but he had no idea what a birthday meant. He never had a kiss, a cuddle, or any gift. May be Mashti didn’t know it either. May be Mashti didn’t want to know it.

Sina didn’t know what birth was. He didn’t know the difference between a boy and a girl. He never saw any woman in his life! He didn’t know what young meant, what old meant. He knew he was changing taller as Mashti changed shorter. He noticed that he was getting stronger than Mashti.

“These trees you see my son, are here from hundred years ago,” Mashti once told Sina. “They are old and strong,” he said with pride and Sina immediately made a connection between getting stronger and becoming older. That gave him a very good feeling.

“We are like plants in this garden too, we are part of God’s creation, and we are here for a test. We have to prove we obey His way,” Mashti spoke to Sina mainly after his evening prayers.

When Mashti left the garden that morning, Sina was ready for his first real climb of the oldest walnut tree. It felt as the tree was talking to Sina, asking him for a pat on the shoulder, one of those that Mashti gave to Khar, every now and then.

He knew by instinct that he had to be quick, as he had no sense of time.

Sometimes when Mashti left, Sina got busy playing with his round walnuts, targeting random trees in the garden, and time passed ever so quickly as if Mashti went out and came back in a wink of an eye. Other times, especially on dark and grey winter days, when Sina had to stay inside their dark, damp and cold mud hut and look at the flock of ravens searching for food on snow, it took like infinity waiting for Mashti to appear from the end of the muddy path.

Sina grew to be a friend of the nature and part of its miraculous ways. He reached the tree, which was quite near to the gate and the wall to outside in a few springy steps. His bare feet felt dry over the hot soil. He had a pale pair of second handed jeans ,which was brought in by Mashti one day when he came back from one of his out the garden trips, no shirt, and certainly no hat.

He grabbed the trunk of the tree and pulled his tiny body up. The tree was rough and so Sina’s skin. He tried harder and harder as he felt the gravity under his feet. He felt Mashti’s presence a split second when he struggled to pull up. A cold sweat captured his sun-tanned skin. Nevertheless, in no time he forgot about all the dangers and consequences of his actions. If Mashti was beyond that wall, so he was to see him there on the Khar. He grabbed a thick branch and pulled himself over. He was there on his way to see the unseen, to experience the forbidden. A crow sat on the tree beside and screeched a nasal cry. Sina dried his sweaty face with his bare hands and looked above the wall.

The sun dazzled his eyes as he first looked out his cage. A strange looking creature was passing by, wrapped in a flowery patterned sheet. There were mud houses with their walls cracked under the hot sun. There were trees and gardens and there was someone else there playing with a huge round thing, a lot larger than Sina’s walnuts. “It must be a kind of fruit like watermelon,” Sina decided. But it was not green. It was stripy red and white, perhaps made of plastic.

The moment that Sina saw the world beyond the wall, he knew he would soon   get there no matter how impossible it seemed at the time.

Sina didn’t have a watch. There was a small clock in their room, but it was not to be moved around as Mashti once told Sina: “keep away from this son,” Sina remembered when he first was tall enough to see and touch the decoration over the window seal.

As well as the clock next to the window pane, there was a mirror in the middle of two candle holders, a vase, which was always empty, and the prayer book wrapped in a very old green velvet cloth. The candles in the candle holders were burnt half way down, but Mashti never used them. One was a bit taller than the other, both a creamy colour with layers of dust and oil over their tops.

With nothing to measure the time, Sina sat on the old tree and watched the new world outside the walls. The sun shone brighter out there, as there were fewer trees and the muddy roads around the garden were occasionally used by people not known to Sina.

A beautiful person with very long hair passed by quickly carrying a yellow basket of fruits. Sina could see grapes and apples. He immediately thought of angels as described in the prayer book. Could it be a way to heaven from that gate? Did Mashti know how to get to heaven? Sina’s heart started to bit faster as he saw the angel walked back, but this time she passed slower and Sina could hear her singing some tunes.

The sun got a lot hotter and outside the garden was stand still and quiet when Sina heard the bells over Khar’s neck. Mashti was approaching. Sina felt something was freezing in his body, something that he never experience before. He wanted to get down the tree, but he was shivering and his limbs were shaking so badly that he could not control his next step. Sina decided to jump, but the tree was very tall and he was so small.

Mashti opened the gate and entered the garden. He went straight towards the storage, where they kept their rations and garden tools. He unlocked the door and took the first package from Khar’s back.

“Sina son, come here to help Mashti,” he shouted while unpacking the goods. Sina was frozen in place, unable to move. Mashti seemed to not mind about Sina not responding. He continued his unpacking, fastened the Khar inside the storage, and locked the door.

Then he started to walk towards their hut. In his way to the hut, Mashti stopped, looked around, and then went towards an old tree near the west of the garden. Sina forgot about his fears when he saw Mashti getting away from where he was. Sina waited until Mashti walked for five minutes. The garden was quite huge and Sina noticed that Mashti virtually was running towards an unknown direction. It was not their hut or any particular part of the garden that Sina knew. He stopped suddenly, looked around and then sat down. Sina could not see exactly what he was doing, and found himself down the tree and running towards the hut as fast as he could once he still had the chance.

Once he got to the hut, he quickly went to a corner and pretended that he was asleep. Time did not pass quickly afterwards. Sina opened his eyes after a while and stared at the old clock’s second hand moving forward, slower than usual, tick-tuck, tick-tuck, the sound that was fast in his ears started to stretch and got longer and longer. Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick-tuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuk, tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick-tuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck……

When Mashti entered the room Sina was fast sleep. His cheeks were as red as fresh summer peaches. Mashti closed the door quietly and looked at the clock. It showed one. Mashti noticed a patch of sun over his son’s face. He approached the curtains and drew them half closed. He quickly washed his hands, and brought some fresh cheese, grapes, and bread out of his package and neatly placed them over the small table in the corner of the room. He then put the samovar on, changed into his pyjamas, and started his prayers.

The last seven years weren’t the hardest of the years that Mashti experienced in his life. Having Sina was a blessing and brought Mashti the happiness he never experienced before. When he married Farah, he was already 40 and considered himself an old man. He always thought of himself as very old. He felt very very tired and run down. The garden was his life in the sense that it gave him the opportunity to switch off from the past that he did not want to recall.

His solitude was considered madness from the eyes of villagers. His attitude to his son was not approved by the head of the village. But he wanted to do what he considered being the best for his son. He wanted to protect him from what happened to him. He wanted to provide him with food, shelter, and a carrier that was free from pain. Garden was peaceful. Trees could not hurt you. Flowers were friendly. There was tranquillity and life.

When Mashti finished his prayers, he brought out his prayer beads from his pocket and started to turn the beads around. Looking at them made him sad and initiated memories of his late dad. Mashti always thought about his dad and the love he left behind for him. He felt responsible to his spirit. Mashti remembered how he was always there for him all the time so much that he never felt the lack of having a mum. Mashti never saw his mum too. She left Mashti after the birth and disappeared form the village. Villagers did not say much about her and most of the time they kept quiet about it. But it was bitterness in the sentences Mashti heard from other children. “Oh, his mum was mad… She ran away…. She set fire to their house… She left the kid in the plastic dustbin… Mashti always felt depressed and confused. He could see how other children go home to have the warm supper made for them by their mums… Mashti also had warm supper ready, but it was made by his dad and did not taste as good as the ones he tasted when meeting his friends homes.

When Mashti was younger he often got in to trouble fighting with the kids who called names on his mother. Many days he got back home with a nose bleed or bruise made by elder kids. His dad was the only person who loved him and took care of him. Everybody else was enemy. But Mashti was not a rebel. He did not like riot and loud noises. He was a peaceful person who wanted his own space, his own corner. He loved the garden, because the atmosphere gave him just what he needed. The tranquillity, the calmness, and the feeling that came with taking care of those strong trees satisfied him.

Mashti kept turning his prayer beads round and round and with each round he felt more and more intoxicated with the spirit of God he obeyed. His head fell forward as his neck bent nearer to the soil he believed he came from. The soil that was going to accommodate him as it did for his father. He felt lighter and free. Words started to come louder from his hidden lips beyond the long black and white beard that covered most of his face. With each movement of the beads and each prayer he felt giddier and less conscious of his surrounding. God was all around him with his angels all queuing behind.

This status of being with the love of his life, the God, the Almighty, was a routine in Mashti’s afternoon prayer. He looked at his face in the mirror once he finished, and he definitely saw a shine in his eyes that was created by God’s attention to him. He felt satisfied and could not judge how the time fleet away. His vivacious eyes stared into the mirror adoring the man that lived original and inspired.

Immediately after the prayer he poured himself a cup of tea and lit a cigarette. The skin of his hands cracked and chapped from the heavy garden work, and some of his fingertips were orange from the continuous smoking. He started to hum a sad song he knew from his childhood whilst spreading the mattresses and duvets on the floor, making them ready for the afternoon sleep he much needed.

When he woke up, Sina was not around.

Sina woke up soon after Mashti fell to sleep. He grabbed a piece of bread, filled it with fresh feta cheese, and rolled it to a little sandwich. He took quick bites, swallowing each bite without chewing it, before he put a few grapes in his mouth.

The afternoon was hot and Mashti looked so peaceful in his sleep. Sina found himself outside in no time. Everything around him seemed so fuzzy and blurred getting away from one point in the garden, the gate.

Sina wanted to get out and discover the world outside, the universe that was taken away from him, perhaps a taste of the promised heaven. But he could face dangers as well. There was a possibility of that the devil tricked him.

“Devil is always there, ready to get you in trouble, pleased to guide you to hell” Mashti told Sina. He did not follow God’s wish and so was dumped out of the heaven. Devil was not happy and he wanted to revenge. “God put his spirit in human’s clay” Mashti thought Sina, “and Devil wanted to stain this spirit.”

As Sina strode towards the gate his trepidation increased. He felt something new in him that he never felt before, confusion. And for the first time in his life, he questioned himself. He did not know whether he should stay inside the gate or step outside. And what is inside was outside! What if the place that he was in now was the heaven. What if all the creatures he saw today on the other side of the gate, were not allowed to come in, as they did not have the key to the gate. What if Mashti is God and now it is Devil that is directing him to get away, to enter hell.

Sina stopped near the gate, his heart thumbing with pain. Some ants were queuing to get to an unknown destination under the ground. He sat there and watched them as they entered the dark hole and appeared from others. Something sparked in Sina’s head. They cannot be seen when they are under the ground. What if he made a way out the garden that was similar to ants subways.

Without knowing Sina started his first day in the school of nature. He decided that he could learn from these creature who did not communicate with him verbally, who were not of the same appearance as him, but they survived and lived around him.

If he made the secret subway, he could sneak out and come back in without any keys, and without being noticed by Mashti or any curious pair of eyes outside. He could evaluate the world that was unknown to him and decide how to face it. Sina smiled as he went over his subtle plan.

“What are you up to son?” Mashti’s voice clutched in to Sina’s thoughts and crushed them to death.

“I am just playing Mashti…” Sina rushed an answer.

“With what son?”

“Ants,” was Sina’s short answer.

Read more at part 2 coming soon ... in celebration of the novel writing month, November.

If you had the time to read to this point, please email me your feedback to anahita[at]boldwriters.co.uk

One

Dark clouds, spring showers, it was a rainy day in early May when I returned from school. As usual, I stayed in school as long as I could, not only because there was so much home work, but more because I preferred school. I don’t know how other girls perceive their home, but ‘home’ to me is hardly a sweet and warm place to be. I don’t remember it ever has been in my sixteen years. In my home there has been full of cursing and crying, shouting and smashing of little furniture there was, and violence. I had assumed that was the norm for everyone, until when I was older and a little wiser. Once I was invited to one of my classmates’ home in town. The feeling of envy overcame me, not just for their material abundance. Other people’s homes seemed to be filled with cheer and laughter, warmth and a genuine bond, in complete contrast to mine.

It gradually occurred to me that we were poverty-stricken underclass, in more ways than one. My father had been a poor peasant and he married another poor peasant who soon became my mother. My mother was very young when she gave birth to me, no more than 18. I had no idea why she married my father, who looked old and ugly, a vile temper and no education, while my mother, in her happier days, she looked quite pretty. I saw one of her old photos as a young girl. People had commented that I took after her, which was a compliment. At least she attended school briefly and able to read and write simple letters.

Our house had been built on a hill, in a small village, on the edge of Tongnan County. I don’t know who built it, and how long my family had lived there. Nobody told me. It looked ancient and shabby, very cold in winter and extremely hot in summer. It was also very cramped, with my grandparents sleeping in a small bed in one corner, and another bed built of mud on the other side, which used to be my parents’ bed before they went away, to work to maintain my family. Their bed had become my bed which I shared with my little brother until recently. Now I sleep on the floor, on a pile of dry hay. Not comfortable, but at least my own.

My little brother was not so little any more. He would be twelve in two months’ time, and almost as tall as me. When I tentatively complained about him kicking me at night and me falling on the floor, not for the first time, I got told off, initially by Grandma, then Grandpa. They said things I wish I didn’t have to hear. “Who do you think you are? A Princess? You want to have the bed all to yourself? You are just a stupid, stupid girl, a girl nobody wanted, not even your own parents. Now you want a bed for yourself? Do you live in fantasy land?”

Ever since I could remember, I had heard constant arguments in our house. It took little to start a fierce fight and lucky to end without resulting into physical assaults. Sometimes the fights were limited among the adults, often about money, and lack of it, usually started by either my father or mother, and quickly involving either or both of my grandparents. If by chance I was around, one of them would lash out at me, as if it was entirely my fault. For what? For their inability to make enough money to support the family? Or me for being born a girl? What did I do to incur their fury and to be slapped around? “If you were a born a boy, we would not have to pay the fucking huge fine incurred for the birth of your brother, would we?” Father had slapped me and spat on my face. So I was to blame for China’s ‘one child policy’ and for the consequent punishment they had to face for failing to follow the rules. In other words, I was a mistake; not due to my father’s sperm, but my very existence.

Life unfair? Soon and sure enough I resigned myself to accepting my fate. Nobody was going to hear my grievances. In comparison to what adults of this world had to face, mine was minimal and not worthy of mentioning. One day I would grow up, and I know damn sure that whatever life has in store for me, I shall get the hell out of here. I have no desire to live like my parents, their parents before them, and for God only knows how many generations. I want a different life.

Two

Dear Dr Zeng,

I am delighted to have the opportunity to write to you and I’m very grateful that you have decided to sponsor me. I fully appreciate that you are supporting me because you want to benefit our society and to make contributions to our country. You also hope that the person you sponsor will make contributions to the society and to our country in the future, and to be a useful person. I shall definitely not let you down. I shall study hard and achieve the best results to repay you, to repay our school and our country. I am forever indebted to you.

It made me grin to see the students today still use some of those fancy words we were once taught to use, the same old patriotic and Communist ideals. As I sat in my study and read the letter from Yanli Yang, the girl whose family was too deprived to support her through high school, I felt very sad and reflective. Through the media in ever increasing frequency, China’s picture has become more and more glamorous. If you go shopping in any high street retailers in the UK, you would invariably find the goods made in China, from cut-price clothing to toys and electronic goods. Only a couple of years ago, a little known Chinese truck-maker bought the prestigious British brand, the Rover. More recently, China, with the biggest foreign currency reserve in the world, was reported lending money to the USA so the Americans can continue to buy the Chinese products. With Olympic spectacular in the summer of 2008, the whole world looked up to Beijing and few failed to be impressed.

Once in a while there were reports about China’s human rights record, its treatment of political dissidents, and its notorious one-child policy. Most recently, Chinese iron-fist rule in Tibet and its persecution of protesters. When I went back to visit, I heard horrid stories of girls being abandoned, even killed by their parents, in order to have sons to carry on their family names. It was during one of my overseas conversations with my mother that I had an idea – I had to do something, to help someone helpless, to make life easier for someone in need, and maybe to make myself feel more useful as a human being. It did not take me long to formulate a plan and to put it into motion.

“I’d like you to contact the Headmaster in Tongnan Middle School for me.” It was a school where my mother had taught her whole working life, and acted as a deputy head during the last twenty years or so. It was also the school where I spent five formative years and took the university entrance exams.

“What do you want me to say to the current headmaster?” Mum asked, wondering.

“Tell him that I want the school to find a female student, preferably an orphan, someone who comes from a very poor family, motivated to study but can’t afford it. Tell him that I am going to pay for her education.”

“How are you going to do that?” My mother knew that once I had made my mind, there was no turning back.

“I am going to send money to you. I know you don’t live in Tongnan anymore. Maybe you can ask someone you trust at school to give a monthly allowance to this girl. There is no way I am going to hand money to the school, then nobody knows where it goes. I am not going to trust the officials. I want whatever financial support I provide to go to the student directly, without any interference from the bureaucratic authority.”

How often did I hear about the prevailing corruption among the different levels of Chinese officialdom? How often did I read about the disasters and heartaches caused by such shameful acts? In a country which saw phenomenal economic growth, corruption went hand in hand, like a Siamese twin. Not a day went by without revelations of people in power abuse their position. They took money and profits which did not belong to them. They gave contracts to their relatives and friends. Closer to home, my brother Jun had paid out all his savings, in an attempt to get his wife a job promised by the local authority.  The money was shared by a few top officials but the job never materialised.

Three

This morning after my Chinese lesson, I was called for a meeting with my tutor-in-charge, a friendly female Maths teacher who had been in charge of my class for a year. I knew what it was about, and wished that it was good news. It was two weeks since I submitted my ‘application’ to this Doctor Zeng who used to be a star student of my school, and who has now ‘made it’ in a far away country. She had offered to sponsor a student to complete her high school, then university, just as Ms Zeng did many years ago. She must be very rich, or very kind-hearted, or both, to do this.

Teacher Ma sat me down in the chair opposite to her desk, and offered me boiled water. I didn’t want any. I was too nervous and impatient to learn the outcome. I knew that the school had encouraged another girl in the same grade to write to Dr Zeng and her tutor-in-charge had written a very good reference for her. I have no idea what kind of sob story she had told this potential sponsor. As far as sad tales go, we all have something to cry about. Poverty is a disease; it affects millions of people in my country. I am certainly not alone in struggling in everyday life and face the grim prospect of not able to continue my studies. What am I going to do, if my father did persist in his view that there was absolutely no point in sending a girl like me to school? “What possible benefit could it be for her to continue? She’s only going to cost us more money, which we don’t have. Trust me, it’s far better if she starts to make a living and contributes to this family. Girls much younger than her are working for their keep, why can’t she? What’s so bad babysitting or cleaning hotels?” My father’s shouting rang in my ears constantly, and I had been unable to sleep properly for quite sometime.

“Yanli,” Teacher Ma said at last, breaking my train of thoughts. “I have had word from Dr Zeng’s mother, and she said that her daughter had picked you. It is great news, isn’t it?” She smiled, showing her imperfect teeth.

No kidding, it’s the best news ever in my life. I feel like getting up, jumping about and shouting aloud in happiness. But I didn’t. I am not the kind of person to betray how I feel easily. Sometimes I wish I could be more like girls who show their emotions readily. I just can’t. It was barely a month ago when I sat in the same chair and cried shameful tears in front of my teacher, not repeating the stupid things that my father had said, but pleading with her: “I’m so sorry that I have not been able to pay the school fee for this year. My parents are away and have not sent any money home for a long time. My grandpa has diabetes and my grandma suffers from high blood pressure and heart disease. They can’t even afford their medication. The crops in our small land are not ripe enough to sell. I don’t know what to do. I probably have to give up my studies and find work.”

I remember Teacher Ma handing me a handkerchief and saying she was sorry. Now by some twist of fate things have changed. I stood up, and bowed to Teacher Ma. All I managed to say was a feeble “Thank you, thank you so much”, although it was not exactly her that I should be bowing my head to. But right then, it was all I could do, to hide the rising tears in my eyes. How could Teacher Ma possibly know what this meant to me? How could anyone?

Whatever Teacher Ma followed up saying, they didn’t register. It was the usual cliché as to how much the school had their faith in me, and how much hard work I had to put into my studies, so I would not let the school and its authorities down, and so on and so forth. Fortunately no response was required and I did my best to nod enthusiastically. All I could think was the monthly stipends which I was going to receive, and how that would keep me going until I finish high school. With the generous support, I would be able to afford school books, stationary, food, maybe a mattress and some new clothes. I could even buy medicine for my grandparents. Most of all, my father’s could no longer force me in getting a job.

Before I got up to leave, Teacher Ma handed me a big brown envelope. “Dr Zeng has written a kind letter to you, together with her address and how you can keep her informed of your progress. I hope you shall not disappoint her, and damage our reputation.”

Naturally, the school authorities have already opened the correspondence addressed to me and knew of its contents. I hurried out of Teacher Ma’s office and headed up to my favourite spot just outside the school compund, a hillside below an old banyan tree, where I did my revisions sometimes, especially in summer when it’s dry, sunny and shaded. Now I just wanted to be alone and savour the moment.

Four

On returning from a hard day’s work in court and on arriving at home, I went into my study. I don’t understand why some people have access to email then don’t use it on a regular basis. Surely it is not too much to expect a few minutes of their time once in a while, just to touch base with family and friends. Except when going on holiday, I always spent part of the day in front of my PC and signed in my hotmail at the first opportunity.

I clicked open my inbox, and several personal messages appeared, one from China, my Brother had sent it on behalf of my Mother.

Dear daughter,

We have received the £500 you sent to us and it’s been safely transferred into my bank account with China Construction Bank. Thank you. I have been in touch with Teacher Liu in Tongnan, and she has agreed to give Yanli 300 yuan every month from the pension she collects fro me every month. You are right, it is a bit of trouble to Teacher Liu this way, but she did not mind it at all. She said to me that if you were so kind as to spend your hard-earned cash on some poor student unknown to you, it was no trouble at all for her to do something to assist. It would be her pleasure. She also said that the school was extremely grateful to your generous and charitable act.

As your mother, and your family in China, we’re very proud of you, for your selfless support, and your loving gesture.

By the way, following your instruction, I have also asked Teacher Liu to give the other student, Miss Wang, a 500 yuan one-off payment, to thank her for writing to you, and to wish her good luck in her studies. 

Since then, I have regular updates from my mother and sometimes Yanli. She used her school computer and sent me occasional emails. Attached with one of her recent emails was a photo: she stood in front of the massive fields of rape, a bright yellow background; the sun reflecting happy smiles on her young face. I took out the small photo she posted to me two winters ago, she appears taller, her figure fuller and the sadness on her face gone. In her August 2008 message she wrote:

Dear Dr Zeng,

I have received my higher education entrance exam results and my total marks are 595, 50 marks higher than the acceptance rate for key universities. I have applied for a few medical schools and have been accepted by Chongqing Medical University. I’ll start the course in September.

Thank you again for your support in the last two years, with which I was able to concentrate on my studies and not to worry about anything else. Without your kind help, it would not be possible for me to go to university. This is a dream come true and it’s all because of you. You have changed my life and I am eternally grateful to you.

Her good news had made my day, a huge smile on my face and a cheer in my heart. I am delighted for her. She is on her way: studying medicine and becoming a doctor, saving lives and contributing to society.

What more could I have wished for? What better ways to spend one’s money?

Autumn arrived with a different colour when I was twenty-seven. It was a blue autumn that year, with the shades of grey and dark purple hiding the leaves and the sky.

I remember stepping into the garden in my silk dress, trembling in the wind, saluting to the darkness of yet another night. The cold leaves crushed under my bare feet and turned to silvery ashes of dust, twinkling and dancing in the breeze.

My dark long black hair brushed the charcoal canvas of the surrounding garden. I stretched my hands towards the dark indigo sky in harmony with the longing of my body.

“Touch my face” I whispered to the ears of the wind, “with your cold hands”.The reply was an anguished howl.

Under the black velvet skin of the night, a heap of dust and smoke stood in front of me, portraying my broken dreams, my wasted youth. Nothing was left to pray and care for. Everything seemed to be gone forever.

Staring at the aged oak tree, I repeated, “love once; live once,” refreshing the memories of the day we carved our names together on the body of the old tree. That night I experienced my first real fall: falling in love.

He had cancer. He died. He was only twenty. I seventeen. When he died, I stayed away from love, and kept talking only with the night. The silence of the night taught me how to stay awake and repeat the memory of the first and the last kiss I have ever had. The only thing I hugged ever since was the oak tree and the only lips I kissed was the carving on the skin of the tree that was aged and cracked but was still full of life.

Ten years I went on with that memory, ten years of broken windows and ruined dreams. I was present there, out in the dark every night since; in the heat of the short summer nights and through the freezing snow of the bleak winter ice. I went on to keep the fire that burnt me once, and lived in my blood.

And then when I was twenty seven, I experienced my second fall. I started to cry covering my face with the tears that I held from bursting for ten years. I was in love again! In that blue autumn, I closed my eyes and I kissed the carving goodbye. The rain came to wash my tears; the wind carried my soul to him.

The night stayed dark, hugging the oak tree tight: love once, live once.

Seattle, 2007

*Happiness is not something found in science labs or even the heaven. Happiness is when we unlock closed doors and create something extraordinary.*

On a clear starry night, a black hole was about to open its gateway to a timeless tick. The universe was at its quietest moment ever. God was sleep and didn’t know that one of his naughtiest children was about to find his way out of the eternity.
There was a gate and the key to open it was locked in the infinity of repeated mirrors.

“What is behind there?” Jack remembered asking his father.
“Nothingness,” He replied.

“What is nothingness?”
“Absolute void, my son.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
“Can I go there?
“No. It is forbidden.”
“Why?”
“Because of time.”
“Time?”
“Yes, my son. Time is a weapon. It will kill you.”
“Kill me. Then what happens.”
“Nothingness.”
“I want the key to there dad,” Jack said.
God smiled: “That gate is not an exit. It is an entrance.”
“You mean we can’t go outside?”
“No, because we are already outside living in infinity”
“Show me a way to there dad,” Jack begged his father.
“You see those two mountains in the distance facing each other my child?” God said in doubt.
“Yes….”
“They are made of mirrors…,” He continued.
“Yes…,” Jack said impatiently.
“The key to the gate is between them. No body can unlock the gate without that key.” God knew deep inside that Jack also would not be able to get the key.

But Jack did. When everybody was lost in the fake reflections, Jack reached the mountains and found millions of virtual keys floating in space. But which one was real? Jack covered the mountains and there it was, one key to his freedom.

Jack instantly was on Earth and soon he figured out that he was invisible within human world. Jack decided then to be a human!

Soon he met a lonely girl, called Lily. A small built, shy research fellow at the Central University, Lily seemed to live in her physics lab.

“Can I …..help …..?” Lily asked while shaking from the shock.

“Hello! My name is Jack.”
“How…. I mean how… did….”
“This is not the first time I pass the locked doors,” Jack smiled and looked into Lily’s eyes.

Lily looked down and blushed. Jack entered Lily’s world.

“Do you love me?”
“Of course I do,” Jack replied knowing it was very important for an Earthling woman to be loved.
“My mum always said that, somewhere out there in that starry sky, there is a star for you,” Lily whispered to Jack’s ears,” I became a cosmologist to find my star, never knowing that mine was actually so near to me,” she continued.
“Where you thought your star was?” Jack replied with his fake human voice.
“The universe is so vast. You never know, you could be living beyond time,” Lily joked.

One hot summer, when Jack and Lily were kissing each other under the umbrella of a starry night in the rose garden, Lily started to cry.

“Why you are crying?” Jack wanted to know.
“I am so lonely, even with you, even in my rose garden, even with all these stars twinkling their smiley little faces at me,” Lily murmured.

Instantly Jack realised that he never saw Lily so unhappy. With his absolute knowledge Jack was still a child of God and therefore lacking a sense… sense of feelings. Jack knew that he had to cry and he had to laugh, but he was just a player on Earth, nothing more. 

“I long for a child,” Lily said all of a sudden.
“I don’t understand,” Jack said in shock, but Lily was already asleep.
“Father… Help me if you can hear me, I want to live on Earth with Lily. She is mine and I am hers. But why? Why you do not let me? Why?” Jack found himself pondering around between the rose bushes and jasmine trees, not feeling what Lily always described as sweet smell of jasmines and soft petals of red roses. For Jack the garden was a frozen photo.

“Why did you leave me?” God answered.
“Because I hate closed doors,” Jack howled.
“You are behind one now….” God smiled in his absolute calmness, “find your way out.”

When the first rays of sunshine sparkled over an early morning dew of a distant rose bud, Jack knew he found his key. He picked a jasmine flower and rushed towards the glittering rose. Jack poured his invisible blood over the jasmine petals.

And there it was, a spark went from Jack’s finger to his heart and he felt butterflies in his stomach. Something started to beat inside his chest. His face started to warm up and before his eyes the whole garden was on a sudden bloom with jasmine petals snowing over the fiery roses. Jack inhaled the air. There was something there he never experienced before; the sweet scent of jasmines! For the first time he felt the rose’s soft velvety skin, when he kissed it.

“I am human,” he screamed from happiness, as he tasted the salty tear on his warm lips.

Over at the gateway to Jack’s world, a black hole disappeared forever. God was sleep again and did not see Jack unlocking the gate to Lily’s eternal happiness.