50 Stories For Pakistan
SMASHWORDS EDITION
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this licence, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California 94105, USA.
ISBN 978-87-92692-07-8
This edition published 2010 by Big Bad Media / Greg McQueen, Denmark.
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FOREWORD
by Greg McQueen
A few words from me ...
This book would not exist without the generosity of a hard-working team of readers and editors. It is hard to find the words to thank them for donating their time. They are a group of exceptionally talented writers, dedicated to their craft:
Amy Burns Nick Daws Claudine Lazar Jayne Howarth Dan Powell Jodi Cleghorn Danny Gillan Laurie Brassard David Robinson Maureen Vincent-Northam Gillian Best P.J. Kaiser
I also want to thank Vanessa Gebbie for writing the introduction to 50 Stories for Pakistan. Powerful words from an outstanding lady. And thank you to my awesome wife for taking the time to typeset the manuscript ready for print.
And finally, a couple of special mentions...
While working on this book, I discovered that an author who had a story published in 100 Stories for Haiti sadly lost her husband to cancer. In fact, within days of losing her husband, she received a diagnosis of cancer herself.
On the same day I received this news, I was also told by one of the writers from this book that she has terminal cancer. In fact, as I write this, I have no idea whether she is still with us.
I dedicate this book to them. And to the people their stories aim to help.
INTRODUCTION
THE SMALL JOURNEY
by Vanessa Gebbie
Look at the image on the cover of this book. Please. Bear with me.
A man and a boy, that's all it is, wading towards you, knee-deep in water. Father and son? Uncle and nephew? Teacher and pupil? Or perhaps just a kid, lost, tagging on to an adult, hoping against hope that he will lead him somewhere safe, dry?
Look again at that image. What else? They are wading away from the light, into darkness, gloom. The unknown. Fear. Hunger. Disease. But they are also wading towards you...
Look again. See that shadow across the man? The photographer, who took this photo, standing himself knee-deep in water, throwing his shadow across the man's torso. Without whom there would be no record of this man, this boy. Their small journey towards us...and huge thanks must go to both that photographer, and to Getty Images for allowing this image to be used for the cover of this marvellous collection.
Look again. See the boy holding his shoes clear of the water. And the man. They will be putting them on again, and need to keep them dry. Isn't there hope in that gesture, even if the man's face shows us anguish, fear, and even if the boy's face registers blank bewilderment? Isn't there hope that soon, they will sit at the side of a road to put those shoes back on?
Simple enough things. A small journey, and one that we are making with them, in some small measure. Writing is a solitary occupation. We sit in our studies, or on our park benches, or in our cafes, clutching laptops, pens, notebooks, making things up. We make up other people and gaily give them problems to overcome, because that is what fiction is about. We care about those characters in their struggle to overcome the obstacles we put in their way.
But sometimes, life overwhelms us. The world out there rises up and becomes greater and more powerful than fiction can ever be, and our little worlds crumble in comparison.
It is at times like this that the life of a writer becomes a little less lonely. We may never meet each other, those of us who give our words to Greg McQueen for his marvellous initiative, to help a little. But that doesn't matter, does it?
The writers represented in this collection have made small journeys of their own–sending their words out there, in the hopes that you will read them, and enjoy...but more than that, in the knowledge that each word will help towards raising funds to be used to help this man and boy wheresoever they be now, and tens of thousands like them who may have lost everything.
On behalf of all the writers here, thank you for buying this book, and for joining us all on this small journey.
THE SEA
by Robert Long
It was never silent. Always, behind the houses, the pubs and the little coffee shops, the water swept in and out, white noise with breath, letting me know it was still there.
We arrived at it unexpectedly, the trees parting abruptly to reveal the waterfront. Mary took off her sunglasses and squinted in the blue. I took a photo. She smiled waveringly, not quite pleased to be photographed unprepared. I lowered the camera and grinned. Those were the pictures that I loved the most.
"Come on," she said, gesturing to a little cafe. "Let's get a coffee."
We sat outside with our drinks. "It's beautiful here," Mary said.
I nodded. "I've always loved it."
"Really? We've never been to the coast before. Not once in three years."
I made a noncommittal gesture. The buoy was visible from where we sat. It was a calm day but the orange ball washed briskly up and down with the tide. Our hired boat had bumped it as we strayed too close to the shore; neither of us had been steering.
"I'm so sorry," Claire had said. "I didn't mean for it to happen. It just did." Steering away from that buoy was the first thought I had after she said it, the first thing I knew I had to do.
Mary had froth from her coffee on her nose. I took a photo before she had the chance to wipe it away.
"Hey!"
"Haha, got it."
"You'll regret that," she said, and smiled to let me know I would enjoy regretting it. In front of us a dog ran around in the shallows, its master watching from a distance.
"Can I ask you something?" Mary said.
"Sure."
"Is this the place?"
How transparent I was! "Yes," I said. "I'm sorry, I should have told you."
She placed a hand on my arm. "I thought so. Why come back?"
I let out a sharp breath. "Because of you," I said. "Last time I was here, I don't think I believed in the way things are now. That it was possible." I looked out at the buoy and remembered wishing that it was sharper, that it could puncture the hull of a boat. The water beneath it had looked stronger then, and rougher.
I leaned towards Mary and kissed her. Caught by surprise, she took a moment to respond, moving her lips in imperfect concert with mine, our hands finding each other and sliding together. We gripped each other tightly and suddenly my senses were overwhelmed. For the first time that day, I could not hear the sea.
"Come on," Mary said when we broke. "There are better things to look at around here than a weighed-down rubber ball."
I nodded. Mary stood and as she did I took another photo of her, brilliant against the retreating water, proof that the two of us were here and that we were alive.
ZIPPY BAGS AND POST-ITS
by Alice Turner
We decided to recycle our emotions. Every home was issued zippy bags. We stuck the leaflet to the fridge.
"How will it work?" my girlfriend said, running her fingernail along the airlock.
The bag was the size of a juice carton. The leaflet showed a drawing of a man with worry wiggles on his head. He breathed into his bag. On the next picture, his brow was a smooth Zen garden. Finally, he took out his 'ambition' and left it on top of newspapers and cans. It was easier than we ever imagined. People were just so glad to let go.
The scheme started. The redundant stopped leaving helpful post-its everywhere. "Your fence needs varnish." "Did you know if you'd parked better, someone could use the next space?"
It had been irritating to see the truth, to have its gummed edge stick to your shoes. But I missed the colours, yellow and pink patchworks near the graffiti.
"Occupier: Paint this black. You'll have less of a problem."
"Sorry, Jessie and Callum, Luv is spelled L O V E, I assume 4eva refers to F O R E V E R."
Foil bags filled with old-fashioned values: courtesy, diligence, respect. The council sold them to call centres, made enough for more street sweepers. When retirement villages recycled community spirit there was no need for sweepers at all.
My girlfriend suggested we recycle. I wasn't sure.
"Shall we?" she said. She thought I hadn't done it before. But one night she was in the bathroom so long, I put out the recycling and placed my irritation outside. I wanted to exchange it for patience, but there were too many forms. Waiting lists were huge. More people wanted happiness than anyone was putting out. There was a stockpile of empathy and regret (only guys hoping to win back their girlfriends took it, then recycled it again).
My girlfriend said whatever I felt about it wouldn't matter after. It was the logical thing to do. The place was a mess; work was piling up. There were more things we had to do than wanted to. We resented leaving our cosy bed for work, got irritated by having to visit relatives or friends. We spent too many evenings in each other's arms, the to-do list not getting any shorter. We laughed in non-productive ways.
"Let's just do it," she said, "we can get it back when we've paid our loans."
So we stood in the kitchen, not meeting each other's eyes, holding separate bags. They filled slowly. I breathed out. I thought my bag would burst. Hers didn't look quite as full. We put the bags outside and closed the door. I imagined the two of them like balloons floating away into the night sky. Somewhere, they'd land at someone's feet unexpectedly, someone who might not open them, someone who might not know what they were, or someone who had time for love.
TRASHION PASSION
by Sylvia Petter
She recycled him. Right from the first question: "Got any old jumpers?"
"They're for the needy," he said.
She looked out at him from under her fringe. "They're fashion conscious, too. Give me what they wouldn't want."
"Anything?"
He gave her his teabags and ties, old jeans, zippers and ski gloves.
"More," she said, and so he set off to ask all his friends.
"Why?" they asked.
"She needs them," he said.
They shook their heads.
"All this enough now?" he asked with arms laden.
She nodded and arranged piles on the floor.
"Why?" he said softly.
She winked, shook her head, just said: "Wait and see."
She worked for hours on end, days and weeks, and all the while he sat cross-legged and watched her.
She frilled all his ties and sewed them together and made them into a long shiny skirt.
"You'll need a bodice," he said, his eyes caressing her breasts. "Better still. We could stay here forever."
She blew him a kiss and arranged all the tea bags, strings hanging down like Swarovski pendants.
"A necklace perhaps?"
She blew him a prfft! and proceeded to triangulate all her zippers until she had a collar like Comme des Garcons.
"What if I take you walking in the snow?"
"Can't catch me," she said and slipped her legs into faded legwarmers that covered her Moon Boots and were made from his jeans.
"But your shoulders. It's cold outside."
She gestured to him to remain seated while she arranged hundreds of ski gloves in a pattern over old jumpers. She sewed and she stitched hands, wrists, and fingers until a cuddle-warm cape was completed.
He clapped his hands. "My princess," he said.
"Trash is my passion," she said proudly.
He held out his arms. "My trashion is you."
(Inspired by Outsapop, a Finnish recycling designer.)
ALL BOUND FOR MORNINGTOWN
by Susan Lanigan
Ever since the stroke on Wednesday, all sound has become muffled, as if he has his fingers stuck in his ears. People's voices are blocked out by a low, continual hum.
It happened at home. One minute he was picking up the phone, the next his head hit the dusty, laminated hall floor as he fell. It hurts, he thought absent-mindedly, pre-occupied by the pattern of light cast by the stained-glass rose on the panel next to the door. An odd calm fell about him.
His wife found him a few hours later. She was frantic; he wanted to respond but a warm disinclination overcame him, accompanied by the vaguest regret. Of course, it was really paralysis. He was well out of it.
A curtain briefly lifted: he saw the ambulance door opening like a huge dark mouth waiting to swallow him. The next thing he knew he was in bed lying on his back, a habit he always eschewed. Then the curtain fell once more.
#
The waiting room could do with a clean. Plastic chairs are nailed to the floor. A small TV near the ceiling shows music videos and old Australian soap operas. She cannot see him yet. They are giving him a bath.
When she is allowed into the intensive care ward, his eyes are half-open, wandering. He does not respond when she speaks.
Many years ago, she was a trained soprano. For some reason it seems right, in that mechanical place full of beeps and the thud-sigh of ventilators, to try again. To sing a song she might sing to a child.
#
He is nine years old, standing along with twenty other boys in the school choir. Some of the keys on the upright piano are yellow; others have the ivory scraped off them. They remind him of an old man's teeth. He is about to start singing with the others when the teacher comes up. Her breath is meaty-sweet as she bends down and whispers.
"You boys, if you don't mind, you could mouth the words to 'Morningtown', OK?"
He wants to cry out, No, let me sing the song, just as I've sung it with my mother when I'm going off to sleep. Warm and safe.
But the smiling teacher will not let him sing. When his parents are in the concert audience that night, they will think they hear him. But they won't. No song about Morningtown -
- many miles away -
#
He wakes to hear his wife singing quietly about the children in the little train, the sandman and the lantern. When she sees he is listening, her voice breaks into a smile, but she does not stop. He tries to join in, but only a strangled noise emerges. He grips her fingers, wide-eyed with distress. Not allowed to sing.
She bends down and kisses his forehead. "It's OK," she says, "You can just mouth the words for now. Soon we'll sing them together."
SOMETIMES
by Ramon Collins
Shadows circled around the backyard as chickens scampered for safety under gooseberry bushes. Tommy looked up at the screen door and yelled, "Mom! Chicken Hawk—and here comes Sue Ellen and she's barefoot. Can I go barefoot?"
Tommy's mother walked out onto the porch, shaded her eyes and searched the sky, then looked down the gravel road. "It's kind of early for bare feet."
"Sue's a girl. Can I?"
"Oh, I guess so."
Tommy untied his shoes and pulled them off. He stood, folded the bottom of his pants legs up and wiggled his toes. "We're goin' down to the pond to look for frogs."
#
Sue Ellen and Tommy walked between the tool shed and the pump house, helped each other through a barbed-wire fence, then onto a worn cow path that cut through the south pasture, toward the pond. She walked ahead, stopped and turned. "You were thinking about me on the backsteps just now."
"I was watchin' a Chicken Hawk."
Sue Ellen walked on. "You were thinking about me—I saw you."
"Was not. Well, sometimes I do."
"When?"
"Mostly when we're catchin' frogs."
Sue Ellen ducked under a willow branch and held it back. "You were thinking about me and that means you're in love."
"Ah, I'm not in love."
"You are."
"Nuh-uh."
"You are."
They scrambled down the bank and sat down on the cow-mowed grass. Willow trees, tall marsh grass and brambles bordered the pond. Clumps of clear jelly with black dots clung to the stalks of marsh grass in the limpid water. Soon the dots would wiggle out and hundreds of tadpoles would sprout arms and legs and become baby frogs.
Sue Ellen dangled a switch in the water. "My sister told me you're in love when you can't stop thinking about a person."
Tommy rolled his eyes.
Sue looked at him. "Do you think about me in the morning?"
"When we walk to the bus, sometimes."
"After school?"
"Sometimes."
Sue Ellen stood up, threw the branch in the water and watched the ripples spread in ever-larger circles. Tommy frowned. "What did you do that for? Now they know we're here."
"Because you love me and won't say it."
"You scared the frogs."
"I don't care about your dumb ol' frogs—I'm going back."
#
Sue Ellen started back up the bank. Tommy stood, brushed off the seat of his pants and followed. She led the way past the pump house but didn't stop by the backsteps. At the road she turned toward town and peeked over her shoulder. Tommy waved as she spun back ahead.
He trudged up the backsteps and plopped down.
"Back already?" his mother asked through the screen door.
"Sue Ellen scared the frogs off. Don't matter; we just throw 'em back, anyway."
Tommy turned his head and looked up. "Mom, am I in love with Sue Ellen?"
"It's kind of early for that, too."
"Mom, can I go barefoot tomorrow?"
His mother looked at the road. "We'll see."
LUCY AND THE TUIT
by Marjorie Tolchard
"What's a tuit?" said Lucy.
"You know, stupid," said her brother, Ben. "Owls. Toowhit, toowhoo."
"It's not an owl. It's something Mummy needs to stitch buttons on my school cardigan."
"Better ask Dad," said Ben.
"You mean 'toot', sweetheart," said Dad. "The noise people make with their car horns."
"Why would Mummy want a car horn?"
"I don't know. You'd better ask her."
"I can't. It's a surprise, for her birthday."
Lucy thought her teacher might know.
"Are you sure she didn't say quoit?" said Mrs Baldwin. "There's a game called quoits in which people throw rings over pegs in the ground."
That didn't sound right either. If Mummy didn't have time to sew on buttons or help Lucy to plant her sunflower seeds, she certainly wouldn't have time to play games. Lucy decided to ask Granny.
"I think you mean a cruet," said Granny. "You don't often see them nowadays."
"But what is it?"
"It's a round stand with a pepper pot, a salt pot and a little pot for mustard."
"Rubbish," said Grandad. "I know exactly what she wants. She wants a round tuit, right?"
"Yes, but nobody knows what it is."
"I do. Mind you, you won't be able to buy one. We'll have to make it."
Lucy looked puzzled, but Grandad didn't explain. Instead he led the way to his shed at the bottom of the garden. They were there for the whole afternoon making the tuit and then they had to wait until the next day for the paint to dry. Lucy gave Grandad a big hug and went to show it to Granny. Granny looked at it and chuckled.
"Of course, I should have known."
The tuit was like a clock. It had a lovely carved top on which was written 'A round tuit'. The white plastic face rested against a wooden circle, like a frame, and was divided into seven segments. At the top of each segment was the name of a day of the week. Grandad had put a spindle through the centre so that the face could be turned, bringing the right day to the top. At one side of the wooden frame he had fixed a holder for a special marker pen and at the other side a hook for a cleaning cloth.
"Now Mummy can write down what she needs to do each day," said Lucy.
"No more excuses," said Granny.
When Ben saw it he said, "Cool."
Daddy said, "Clever. Why didn't I think of that?"
Mummy laughed when she opened her present. "In future I won't be able to say I'll do it when I get around to it, will I?"
ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE
by Anne Mullane
We were in New York and I was determined to have breakfast in a real American diner. I wanted to be served by a waitress sporting an attitude, a ponytail and languidly chewing gum, just like in the movies. Joe's Diner was a long, thin shoebox filled with noise, bustle and steam. Construction workers reading the sports pages squeezed in alongside businessmen shouting into mobile phones and everyone was drinking coffee from earthenware mugs the size of small buckets. Perfect.
"What's a Large Bun and Boston?" I asked Tim.
"I dunno, best stick to what we know. I'm having tea and toast."
"Oh, don't be so English. We're in New York. Live a little!"
The waitress appeared at the end of our table.
"What you want? You want breakfast? You tell me what you want — I get it."
Without waiting for our order, she was off, this scrawny Chinese woman, weaving down the length of the diner, dispensing coffee left and right as we waited for her to relent and give us another chance to order. She didn't have the ponytail or the gum, but boy did she have the attitude. There was no doubt about it; this was not Joe's Diner, this was her diner. She scurried about fiercely scolding any customer who threatened to impede on her dizzying progress up and down the aisle.
"Where you go? You sit down. No room here, you sit down there. Oh you leaving? Food good eh? OK you go then but don't forget come back. You come back, yes?"
And she followed the departing customer through the diner, bellowing, "Have a Good Day" after him. And you felt that he would have a good day because he wouldn't dare disobey her. As she worked, she constantly muttered fiercely to herself in Chinese but as she delivered the plates of food, she would tenderly coo to them.
"Oh, you a lovely plate of ham. Oh, you a lovely burger," she would inform the food before placing it before a customer. "That a lovely burger," she would state and wait aggressively for them to agree. When one unfortunate regular had the temerity to change his usual order, her dismay was comical.
"You sure? You muffin man. I already ordered it! You no want it? So why you no want muffin; what you want instead?" she said incredulously, as if her muffins were suddenly no longer good enough for him.
"Oh, you want egg over easy. OK. It not a problem. You order muffin but now you want egg — no problem."
She stalked off, muttering under her breath. He received his eggs minutes later with fawning appreciation and was duly forgiven with a radiant smile. "Egg," she announced triumphantly. "Enjoy. Egg is good but won't keep you regular like bran muffin!" she winked conspiratorially and was off again down the aisle, trailing peals of laughter.
THE BANGLE MAN
by Nasim Marie Jafry
Every day he rearranges the fruit outside the shop. He wears an old grey sweater, thin trousers and chupples. Molly wants to tell him that he causes her beautiful pain, this old man with dark skin. Only recently she realised that he has a limp.
She thinks of the summer spent in Pakistan when she was a child, almost thirty years ago. They stopped off at Damascus, her white mother held her hand tightly. The man drinking tea in the airport looked sad. He had bloodshot eyes. She thought about him for a long time. She wondered why he was so sad. Then she thought all men with dark skin looked sad. Except her uncle in Islamabad. He was always laughing. He called the ants in the sugar Tom and Ann. The ants were huge. Molly had never seen them so big. Her uncle drove them to Murree hill station. She cried all the way, there were hairpin bends and hardly any barriers. Her mother was scared too, but tried to pretend that everything was fine. At the top, her uncle bought her a pink basket and cracked a walnut between his palms.
When her aunt said the bangle man was coming, Molly was excited. She'd never met a bangle man. The bangle man looked poor and thin. He had bloodshot eyes like the man in Damascus. His cart was outside the house and her aunt squeezed red glass bangles onto her arm. The bangles broke. She got angry and blamed the bangle man.
"It wasn't the bangle man's fault," Molly later told her mother as they lay on the giant white bed looking up at the fan. Auntie Bibi's too fat. The fan was like a helicopter.
Her cousins said she looked like a boy with her short hair. They dressed her mother in a sari, wrapping her up, giggling. The sari was blue with silver stars. It reminded Molly of her Heidi book and its illustration of a midnight sky pierced with silver stars. She told her cousins about it but they'd never heard of Heidi. She missed her Heidi book and wished she hadn't left it at home.
She wrote an airmail letter to her best friend and told her about Tom and Ann and the bangle man. She told her about Tin Tin, the ice cream man. The ice cream was green. She told her that everyone said acha and wore chupples.
When they were older, a bald woman in the leisure centre once leaned over to Molly and said, "I like the Pakistanis, they're nice folk." The woman was simple. Molly and her best friend almost wet themselves trying not to laugh, though Molly was secretly embarrassed.
The old man is rearranging his fruit. It's autumn now and he has replaced his chupples with socks and sandals. She thinks of the bangle man and the man in Damascus. The beautiful pain comes and she smiles.
GETTING WOOD
by Iain Pattison
Geppetto's wrinkled hands shook as he poured brandy into the cracked porcelain cup, the alcohol sloshing over his carpenter's workbench making the sawdust turn a soggy, muddy brown.
He frowned, downing the drink in a single gulp. He'd never been so nervous. And it was going to take a lot more Dutch courage to help face up to what he had to do.
Refilling the cup, he told himself it was ridiculous to feel so embarrassed and afraid. Yet, never in his wildest imaginings had he dreamt he'd ever be having the awkward, intimate conversation with his enchanted son that all fathers must eventually have.
After all, he reasoned, Pinocchio wasn't real, he was made of oak. Geppetto had himself fashioned the magical lad from a hunk of tree trunk eighteen years before. But the puppet had always yearned to live a normal life and recently Geppetto had noticed that although Pinocchio's carved features hadn't altered, his attitude and behaviour certainly had. His boy was becoming a man. Well, a mannequin.
All these women callers at the humble puppet shop. All the giggles and squeals coming from Pinocchio's bedroom. And all that sap.
A knock on the door made the elderly woodworker jump. Draining the cup, he croaked, "Come in."
Pinocchio entered, cap in hand, head slightly bowed. "You-u-u w-wanted to speak to me, Father?" His stammering echoed the old man's discomfort.
Geppetto motioned to the chair beside him. "Yes, my son. I think it's time we had a chat about the, um, birds and bees."
The puppet blushed, turning redder than the darkest mahogany stain.
"Do we have to?" he pleaded. "Please, please, can't we just forget what you saw yesterday? Pretend it never happened?"
Geppetto shook his head. "I'm afraid it's not that simple."
He shuddered, trying to blot out the shocking memory of walking in on a scene of total debauchery. Pinocchio had been lying on the floor, face hidden under the skirts of the blacksmith's daughter as she moaned and writhed, yelling: "Lie to me, big boy. Tell me some fibs. Oh yes, yes, I want a whopper!"
At that instant, Geppetto had realised that his son's famous elongating snout—normally a curse which caught out the puppet in every falsehood— was now proving to be a blessing in disguise. Overnight the marionette had gone from knotty to naughty!
"We can't risk there being any accidents," the woodcarver said, avoiding eye contact. "After all, we don't want the clatter of tiny feet, now do we?"
And coughing, he held up the cedar condom.
"I'll show you how to use this," Geppetto promised. "But first, I'll impart a piece of wisdom that all men should know. A fact of life my father told me and his father told him—and is especially relevant to you."
His voice dipped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Never, ever—under any circumstances—stick your nose in a woman's business."
THE SAN MARCO LOVE SURFER
by Annemarie Neary
"You could abseil naked down the campanile and she still wouldn't notice you." Tom wasn't trying to be helpful, turns out he was the one who gave me the idea.
There aren't many surf shops in Venice. I finally tracked one down out in Chioggia, run by an Aussie with highlights. The guy had just the board I wanted: closed-toe technology, minimum drag.
"Who needs a wakeboard in November?" he asked.
I mumbled something about a film.
"What kind of film, mate?"
"A love thing."
"Whoa man. Horny stuff?"
"It's more of an ad, really," I said.
He looked disappointed.
"I need to catch someone's eye."
"Some chick? You dingo, man, you absolute dingo. Still, funny time of year for a wakeboard."
When I told him the plan, he practically leapt over the counter. Even said he'd film it himself.
"Piazza San Marco! Mate, this could go viral. Winch up some bungee rope and you'll be pinging off those columns like a pinball wizard. All you need's an MC and a Tarzan suit. I'll bring my guys along. Lookouts. Crew. Flyers for the Watershack."
I told him that this wasn't some stunt for his shop. This was a desperate last-ditch love bomb and it needed a moon. New moon or full, I didn't care.
Just so long as the tide was high enough to make a lake fit to surf on. Back at base, Tom said he'd help, but he warned me off Tarzan.
"I'd say she's more the tuxedo type," he said.
I chose the next new moon. The Aussies were a SWAT team: setting up speakers, working the rope and winching it tight. Early morning, the water began bubbling through the slabs. Soon the piazza was a lake, glassy and silent, and the high-water siren bleated weirdly.
Somehow, Tom got her to the piazza. Not easy, in the rain: none of the girls liked tottering along the passerelle in their heels. He texted me to wish me luck as I crouched behind the campanile in my tux and bindings.
When the music began, it was some Dubstep remix. Then, booming out over the piazza, the Aussie, "This one's for Alessandra. Let's hear it for the San Marco Surfer. Give it up for the Love Commando."
I tried to find her in the rain-blurred crowd. Picked a girl in a yellow mac, blew a kiss and hoped. Then, I held my breath and straightened my tie. I grabbed at that rope like a last chance and skimmed across the square while the music bounced and the flyers flew and the people cheered.
DETENTION
by Trevor Belshaw
"Peter. You're in detention tonight. Room fourteen, four o'clock."
A look of panic spread over Peter's face. "Not tonight, please, not tonight. The 20-20 game is on. I've got tickets."
Mrs Hilton shrugged. "Sorry, Peter. It's Mrs Tomlinson's direct order. She won't change her mind over a game of cricket."
Peter cursed. "This is because I handed my bit of the environmental project in late, isn't it?"
"I believe so. She wasn't very pleased, I can tell you."
Peter shook his head in disbelief. "It was only a day late. It's not as if the process has been held up, is it? The whole project has to be coordinated yet."
"You had the entire six-week break to finish it, Peter. Everyone else managed to get theirs in on time, even Mary, and her mother was seriously ill in hospital for the entire holiday period."
"But I promised David and Sean."
The history teacher shrugged. "Don't shoot the messenger."
Peter picked up his bag and headed for the door. "I'll go and see her; I'll get her to change her mind."
"You'll be lucky; she's gone to a conference. She left over an hour ago."
Peter kicked a table leg. "What am I going to tell David and Sean? I've got the tickets in my bag."
"You'll have to tell them it's off. It's your own fault."
"It's not that easy, they'll still be on their way home from school. I'm really going to get it in the neck for this. They were looking forward to it so much." Peter put on his best hang-dog look. "I don't suppose you..."
Mrs Hilton shook her head. "Sorry, but it's not my problem. Bye for now, I've got to rush, I'm going to the theatre this evening."
"It's all right for some," muttered Peter.
At four o'clock Peter trudged into room fourteen, dragged the chair away from the desk and sat down heavily. He sighed, looked at his watch then took in the six glum faces staring at him from the desks in front.
"Right you lot, you've been given work to do, I suggest you get on with it."
Benny McMillan took a book from his bag and tossed it onto his desk. "It's not fair, sir. I was supposed to be going to the cricket with my dad tonight. Now I'm stuck here."
Peter nodded sympathetically. "What were you punished for, Benny?"
"I was a day late handing in my summer project, sir. I don't think I deserve this though."
Peter sighed and cupped his chin in his hands. "If it's any consolation, Benny, I agree entirely."
I DON'T EVEN HAVE A NAME
by Dave Clark
I don't even have a name. I'm just the green slime at the back of your fridge. If I lived in the Amazon jungles, botanists would be queuing up to categorise me; a double christening of Latin and common names. But here in the fridge I am strangely unseen and unclassified.
You probably think that you're superior to me. "Urghh, green slime," you say. But here in the quiet of the refrigerator I am able to enter a state of deep meditation and reflection, reaching heights of self-knowledge that would make any human giddy.
In my simple life of contemplation, I observe the manic changes to your life, the fridge frantically filled and emptied around me. I observe those periods, sometimes lasting days or even weeks, when I am all alone in here; other periods when I am surrounded by the camaraderie of greenery, forgotten food-stuffs remoulding themselves into new life forms. I hope you like the joke: re'mould'ing. And they say that green slime doesn't have a sense of humour.
I was here when she moved in, with her tofu and natural yoghurt, and sometimes even tubs of makeup. Then, a year or so later, the fridge was filled with baby's bottles—congratulations!
I was still here when she moved out. No more baby food, tofu or yoghurt. She was replaced by six-packs of lager and occasional remnants of pizza.
Whoosh! The speed of human life is ridiculous. You lack the cold reflection that a fridge-dweller like myself possesses. Deep, deep, inside the mind of a green slime is an awareness of our place in the universe, of our relation to God (yes green slime have a god) and our moral duty to remain green and slimy. I challenge you to name one human being who has remained as faithful to his moral code as I have to mine.
In my state of blissful self-awareness I am, of course, conscious of my own mortality. I await the inevitable coming of the great white cloth with calm and, dare I say, a certain serenity, knowing that whenever my time comes I will have enjoyed a fulfilled and valuable life.
I do not wish to die, obviously. There is so much more of the universe left for me to contemplate but I rest assured that I will not face my fate for a long time, after all, you NEVER clean your fridge.
JUST LIKE HER FATHER
by Pam Howes
Jan caught her breath as the bride, stunning in ivory silk, swept up the aisle like a majestic swan; four tiny bridesmaids—cygnets in her wake.
"Doesn't she look lovely?" the lady next to Jan muttered, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
"That dress must have cost a fortune," the lady's companion whispered. "How old do you think she is?"
"Early twenties." The first lady spoke from beneath the brim of a lilac hat. "The family is wealthy. I've heard the father has dealings with criminals and drug lords."
"Barons, Letty, 'drug barons', and shush, you never know who's listening. We don't want our windows breaking or the cats poisoned."
Jan smiled, glancing at the gossipy pair. As the bridal couple met at the altar, she wondered if the ladies were professional wedding-goers. Surely they would know the bride's father was a solicitor and that the bride had recently celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday.
The ladies certainly looked the part with their floral dresses and fancy hats. But it was the homemade buttonholes—wilting carnations, and a sprig of fern—that gave them away.
Jan turned her attention back to the ceremony. The vicar pronounced the couple husband and wife, the final hymn was sung and the bride and groom disappeared into the vestry.
"Such a handsome couple," Letty sighed.
"Very," Jan agreed. She couldn't resist asking. "Are you with the groom's family?"
"Oh—erm—yes," Letty replied sheepishly, adding, "my friend is related to the groom's grandmother's second cousin."
Jan nodded.
"And you, my dear?"
"Err, the bride's."
"Why aren't you sitting with the family?"
"I was late arriving," Jan said. She wished the bridal couple would get a move on. She needed to go soon. But she could hardly walk out of church ahead of the newlyweds.
She was beginning to despair of them ever reappearing when the organist struck a note and a ripple of anticipation swept through the congregation. The beaming couple appeared and strolled down the aisle, followed by the bridesmaids.
Jan slid out of her seat and went outside, pulling the brim of her hat over her face. The wedding bells pealed as she hurried towards the gates. She turned to observe from a distance. The radiant bride, her mother fussing with the veil, fixing straying blonde curls into place. The photographer, herding family members into position.
Jan's elderly neighbours made their unsteady way towards her.
"Not waiting for photographs?" Letty asked.
Jan shook her head. "I just wanted to see her take her vows."
"I'm sure it was worth it," Letty nodded. "She's so beautiful. Just like her father."
"The very image, but then, I always knew she would be." Jan took one final look at her stunning daughter and her heart filled with pride. The day would be stored in her mind, to reside with the long-ago memories of her first love, and the baby she'd given up for adoption.
THE LONG JOURNEY
by Rob Innis
As I stepped from the ship the rain ceased, which I remember thinking was a good omen. How wrong I could be.
We had heard tales of vicious treatment, nothing short of slave conditions. But I had always been positive despite my wrongful conviction. Somebody may have stolen the calico, but it was not me. I had been brought up to be God-fearing and uphold the law. But God had failed to look after me that day in court and now I faced seven years while the real thief was at large.
The journey had been miserable. Locked below decks for most of the day with only short periods of exercise on deck. Mind you, most had preferred it below. It was cramped, dark and dirty, but at least you could not see the rolling water that caused the dreaded sea sickness.
"Move along, let's get on with it," called the gang master, a huge, brutal man who shoved us down the gang plank onto the quayside. What a way to spend my twenty-seventh birthday, arriving in Botany Bay on January 18, 1788. The captain had told us that we were the first convicts to arrive in this faraway land. Well, somebody could have had my place, and by rights, should have.
But at least I had survived the journey. Many hadn't, poor souls. Disposed of over the side, they were food for the fishes swimming free.
"Line up. The captain is coming. Stop talking."
The captain made us stand to attention and salute the flag. He then offered a prayer for our safe arrival. I joined in, happy that God had at least let me arrive and that I was not rotting at the bottom of the ocean.
After so many months it felt so strange to be on land, my legs and body still swaying from the rhythms of the sea. I felt sick not to be moving. Hearing my name being called out shook me from those thoughts.
"Samuel Dalton, carpenter—this way." I did as I was told and walked with some others to a storeroom, where the boss gave out the tools. They were mostly old and rusty. However I had worked with worse before in London.
"Right, men. You know why you are here, to serve your king and country. We have to get the houses built for the new settlers arriving soon. But first you have to build your own huts so let's get started. Any man not working hard or fast enough will be dealt with."
I remember it all so clearly even though it was seven years ago today. My time has passed quickly. I have lost count of the houses I have helped to build in this land of blazing sunshine and strange animals. Now on my thirty-fourth birthday I have regained my freedom and decided to stay.
THE SUMMER CONTEST
by Joanna Campbell
My cousin and I spent summers, long and lazy, in the scorched cornfields or climbing to the summit of the hay stacked in the cool of the long low barn. It was where Danny lived. We saw his skinned knees and traced the greenish grazes on his lean arms. We saw the steaming golden arc when he turned to relieve himself on a straw bale. We played Truth or Dare and made him touch the electric wire that prodded the flesh of grumpy sows. Fifteen seconds he stood there. He never flinched. All his shining blonde leg hair stood to attention.
There were no winners when we played our games. It was never a contest. It was a rounded triangle of summer joy that flowed from one to the other, to the next, and round again.
But last summer his voice was new, as if he'd borrowed it. And he couldn't look at us. I scanned his tiger-green eyes and saw a changed light, a flicker, a dance of fire. I saw the down on his upper lip. And I felt a fire, without understanding how it was ignited.
That summer was golden, even in the rain that marched through the sodden yard and reduced the hens to miserable feathered rags flapping by the kitchen door. When I left for home in the city, my cousin stayed. She had finished with school. I waved to her and to Danny. On the train that took me from the fading sun, I recalled her slow smile of goodbye and the slender hand she slid into his as she finished waving.
The colours of summer bled into the grey of the chill city, the clanging of sirens, then melted away. I was back. The fast rhythm swept me into the epicentre. Fast and pacy. Frantic and racy. But hollow.
I had exams, tests, interviews at colleges. My body crossed roads, hailed taxis, leapt on and off hissing buses. On and off life itself. My soul was deep in the furrowed soil of the farm. Soil as moist as gingerbread.
When the next summer came, my cousin was standing closer to Danny at the station. She was wearing cornflowers in her hair. His lip bristled with new hairs and his voice was richer, his muscles pushing through like sappy buds bursting through, pulsating.