Day 813

Short stories have always intrigued me. Of late my attention span has become so short that those are the only kind of stories I can relate with and appreciate.

Here’s an abridged version of ‘Grief’ by one of the greatest writers of short fiction, Anton Chekov.

‘Grief’

It is twilight. Large flakes of snow are falling. A cab-driver, Iona, waits for a customer. He sits in his cab with his body bent as double as a living body can, immobilized by misery. ‘To whom shall I tell my grief?’

At last an officer arrives. Iona sets off in his cab with the officer at the back. He turns around to speak to him.
“My son…er…my son died this week, Sir.”
‘Hm. What did he die of?’
“It was a fever.”
Silence. Iona turns around again to find the officer nodding off.

As the evening progresses, Iona attempts to talk to someone three times. He tries to tell the story of his son’s death again and again. The second passenger, a high browed businessman interrupts Iona and says, ”We all must die one day.” Another man simply gets out of the sleigh. Later Iona tries to speak with a house porter but he brusquely tells him to drive on. Still later Iona offers one of his fellow drivers a drink but the young man promptly falls asleep. Just as the young man has been thirsty for water, Iona thirsts for speech. There is so much he needs to share.

“One must tell it slowly and carefully; how his son fell ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died. One must describe every detail of the funeral and the journey to the hospital to fetch the defunct’s clothes. His daughter Anisya remained in the village – one must talk about her too. Was it nothing he had to tell? Surely the listener would gasp and sigh and sympathise with him?”

Finally at the end of the working day, Iona returns to the stables. He starts to speak to his horse, “Now let’s say you had a foal, you were that foal’s mother and suddenly, let’s say that foal went away and left you to live after him. It would be sad. Wouldn’t it?”

The mare munches hay and breathes on her master’s hands. She doesn’t close her eyes, nor walks away, nor interrupts with her own wisdom on the matter. And it’s enough. Iona tells her everything.

At the risk of repeating myself, I tell the story I need to tell:

(Special thanks to Diane Morrow and her book: One Year of Writing and Healing)

Day 802

Water Water Everywhere
(A short story)

She lives in sheltered accommodation. As an octogenarian, it is safer. Her sons think so. When she moved in, she had hoped for some company. She likes a bit of chit-chat. She enjoys people. But she is fairly content. Every other day she neatly pins her hair up, wears one of her long skirts with a woolly jumper, wraps herself up in her sea-green duffle coat, puts on a smile and walks to the high street.

Betsy goes to the post-office to buy and post a card for her grand daughter’s birthday. She picks one with flowers and butterflies and queues. The only other person in the queue is a young woman. She has big black cordless head-phones with a ‘b’ in red covering her ears. She also has a vacant look in her eyes. It seems she is elsewhere. No chance of a chat here. When Betsy arrives at the window, the teller appears to be preoccupied. He is worried that the Post office might have to close down soon. He’s not sure how soon. That worries her. Last year her bank had shut down the branch on this high street.

She used to be able to go to the GP Surgery on days she felt a bit off. In the waiting area she often ran into someone she knew. It was good. But now the rules have changed. There are screens with smiley pictures and buttons. Appointments have to be made weeks in advance. One can’t just show up. Now, she feels like an outsider at her own surgery. She doesn’t like to go there anymore.

The grocery store is always a good place for a chat. The staff are friendly. Sometimes she even runs into familiar faces. She strolls around at her own pace and picks up a pint of milk and a pack of 80 PG tips teabags. As she approaches her favourite part, the check out desk, she is ushered in a perfunctory manner towards three ugly self check-out machines. That confuses her. She is not sure what to do.

It’s been one week since she spoke to anyone. On TV they said that the population of the world is the highest ever and rising – 7.4 billion! That must have lots of zeros.

Where is everyone?

Day 799

Happenstance
(An exercise in creative writing)

Carousel number 6 rolled and tumbled squares and rectangles flown in from Dubai to London Heathrow. People crowded around it, like moths to light, waiting impatiently. The black boxes looked suspiciously similar yet, 2 good-looking men in their late thirties, both in well-worn denim jeans and greenish t-shirts, both roughly size 40 picked up 1 each, assuming ownership and walked to the exit. One of them Steve, the other Matt.

As Steve left in a black cab, the thought of his ex-wife from a decade ago, Tara, struck him out of the blue. She most certainly lives in London now. He wondered if she had finally found ‘satisfaction’, smirking to himself. This business trip had been thrust upon him. He tried hard to see the upside with no luck. He had half a day to himself with no plans. He managed to check into his allotted section of the travel factory and sat looking blankly at the heavy maroon silk curtains, really bored.

Well, best unpack and venture out for a walk, he thought. Surprisingly, the number-lock on his suitcase was undone. However unlikely, he must have forgotten to lock it before departure, said his rational mind. He opened the black Tumi and was hit by an explosion of floral perfume. Looking through the fragrance, the contents of the box appeared textural and colourful, most unlike his own belongings. A red feather boa lay strewn across the top. He was shocked and intrigued, completely sucked into the suitcase. He picked it up like a thief, peering shadily around the empty room to check if anyone was looking. It was softer and lighter than anything he had ever touched before. He had to know what it felt like on his cheeks, so it automatically came up to his face. It was so soothing that his eyes closed all by themselves. After a while he respectfully placed it on the bed. On second thoughts, he bravely wrapped it around his neck. He then pried back into the box.

A pair of purple silk net stockings came next, another delicate, tactile article. It seemed ridiculous that he had a strong desire to try them on. For once, he allowed himself to go with it and changed into the sexy, luscious, figure-hugging, perfect leg wear. His hands didn’t want to let go of it but his legs loved it even more. Then came the little black dress, the dramatic fake eye-lashes, the flashy silver bracelets, the red pencil heels, the gorgeous make up, the Jitterbug perfume and the flamboyant blonde wig. And, they all fitted him superbly!

Suddenly a jarring sound shocked him out of his rhapsody. It was the blasted phone. The airline-man said there had been a mistake with baggage handling. Steve didn’t know how to speak with lipstick on but before he knew it a feeble ‘yes’ escaped his lips. It was arranged for him to take the suitcase back to the Information Desk as the owner of this suitcase was in a hurry to have it back. Steve felt somewhat curious and embarrassed.

A handsome couple stood at the desk, slightly pensive. Steve feigned complete innocence as he blokishly shook hands with Matt who leaned forward slightly to pick up the fragrance of Jitterbug perfume on Steve. He gave him a slightly crooked knowing smile that Steve dodged and furtively looked away. His eyes fell upon an older, more elegant Tara, Matt’s partner.

Steve’s ego was shot to pieces but he was grateful for this introduction to his own little piece of heaven.

Day 793

“Take a left and the M2 is right there. You can’t miss it”, said the man giving me directions. He had no idea what I was capable of missing. When I reached Bangor, I knew something was wrong. I stopped the car in a lay-by, rolled the window down and asked someone walking their dogs, “Can you please tell me the way to Antrim?” They tried unsuccessfully to hide their shock and amusement, asked me to turn around and go about 20 miles in the other direction on the M2.

Left and right is manageable but east and west is a bit much. North and south add further complications. My emotional and physical dependence on the Tom-tom is apparent from the panicked state I get into when it decides not to play. I feel abandoned without it. I can proudly claim to have successfully managed to go round in circles, despite a working sat-nav. Communication gaps between man and machine are inevitable. The small advantage is that the machine is not programmed to yell at me when I make a mistake. In a zen-like manner it states ‘recalculating’.

That’s our code. Si and I have chosen it as the most appropriate declaration at times of misunderstandings. It is a way of buying time, naming and identifying the probability of approaching danger. Luckily we haven’t had to use it much.

“Recalculating!!!”

 

 

 

 

Day 766

“I have only a story and my belief in the power of story to save us.”
– by Bruce Weigl.

“We are beings who require language to be. It is an existential imperative that people share stories. Indeed, the human experience is contingent upon the interaction of stories.”
– by Frances Driscoll, a survivor of rape and a writer with the power to heal through poetry as a way to process pain, giving voice to the voiceless.

Island of the Raped Women

There are no paved roads here
And all of the goats are well-behaved.
Mornings, beneath thatched shelters,
we paint wide-brimmed straw hats.
We paint them inside and outside.

We paint very very fast.
Five hats a morning.
We paint very very slow.
One hat a week.
All of our hats are beautiful
and we all look beautiful in our hats.

Afternoons, we take turns:
mapping baby crabs moving in and out of sand,
napping, baking.
We make orange and almond cake.
This requires essence and rind.
Whipped cream. Imagination.
We make soft orange cream.
This requires juice of five oranges and juice of one lemon.
(Sometimes we substitute lime for the lemon. This is also good.)

An enamel lined pan.
Four egg yolks and four ounces of sugar.
This requires careful straining,
Constant stirring, gentle whisking.
Watching for things not to boil.
Waiting for things to cool. We are good at this.
We pour our soft orange cream into custard cups.
We serve this with sponge cake.

Before dinner, we ruffle pink sand from one another’s hair.
This feels wonderful and we pretend to find the results interesting.
We all eat in moderation
and there is no difficulty swallowing.
We go to bed early.
(Maybe, we even turn off lights. Maybe, we even sleep naked. Maybe.)
We all sleep through the night.

We wake eager from dreams
filled with blue things and designs for hats.
At breakfast, we make a song,
Chanting our litany of so much collected blue.
We do not talk of going back to the world.

We talk of something else sweet to try with the oranges: Sponge custard.
Served with thick cream or perhaps with raspberry sauce.
We paint hats. We paint hats.

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