Saturday Story: Black Apples

 

It was too early to be awake. Beth knew that, but she was drawn to the window nevertheless. The apple tree in the back garden was veiled in mist, like a shy bride hovering outside the church, listening for the first notes of the organ to signal that it was time to walk down the aisle. She went downstairs and took the hurricane lamp from the shelf above the light switch in her larder, shrugged on her jacket and stepped into her woollen slippers. The garden was so quiet she was certain she could hear the caterpillars breathing. The tree stiffened at her presence and then shuddered its branches.

Short Story Saturday: Traumsee

She awoke facing the wall. The street light left a rectangle above her as it sneaked between the blinds. Beside her, the bed was cold; the sheets thrown back in haste, and the door was left ajar. She sat up and turned to face the window. The mist hung low around the house and the sun created a glare as it tried to permeate the day with light.

Short Story Sunday: The Mapmaker of Destiny

I was not aware that I had fallen asleep. It took me a moment to adjust to newness of my surroundings. Someone had moved me into the recovery position, and my cheek was resting on my arm. I heard voices; all at once and then distinctly.

Short Story Sunday: Pieces of a Dream

No matter which way he turned, John could not outrun the branches tearing at his hair and face and arms and legs. The faster he went, the harder they scraped against him, cutting his flesh to scarlet ribbons. The light that was guiding him seemed to be slipping away, and all he could think to do was stop. Stand still. Catch his breath. Try to ride out the pain. As he did, the branches pulled back, his wounds healed and the light grew brighter. He heard a voice that seemed to come from within his own mind: Stop running from the truth, John.

Short Story Sunday: Greed and Foreigners

My name is John Akinola and I work as a car guard. You may have seen me earlier, but you chose not to look. Most people don’t make eye contact when they drop a fistful of coins into my palm. I don’t blame them, and I am grateful my mother is not here to witness this. I know you are busy with your shopping and your errands, but I want you to hear my story.

Short Story Sunday: The Compass Star (For Mothers and Daughters Everywhere)

Every night, before she went to bed, Laura looked out of her window at the sky. Her mother, recognising the routine, would fall into the pattern of their conversation.

“What are you looking for, darling?”

“My Compass Star.”

“Any luck tonight?”

“No. But it’s out there.”

“Turn out the light when you’re done looking. Sleep well.”

“Night, Mom.”

When she was older, and Laura’s mother was no longer around to put her to bed, her habit persisted. At university, no matter where she was – or how raucous the party had been – she continued her study of the skyscape. Her varsity boyfriend, Impatient Brian, who specialised in marketing, tried to encourage her to study astronomy so that she would know what she was seeing. Laura declined. There was Orion’s belt and the Southern Cross and the rest was just a mystery – which was completely OK by her. When she found what she was looking for, she’d know. It was that simple. Some nights, when she felt like giving up, she’d see a glimmer of light and her heart would pound expectantly, restoring her hope and her belief in the Compass Star. Perching on the bed, planting her elbows on the sill and resting her chin on her palms, Laura would find herself sighing. It always seemed so close and yet so far away.

The man she married, Lovely Ben, found her search quirky and gave her the time she needed to gaze at the sky before joining him in the cocoon of their bed. During the late nights and early mornings of their child-rearing days, Laura took comfort in the sparkles that dragged the earth back to morning. 

On their daughter’s fifth birthday, Laura was confronted with a question she didn’t expect.

“Mummy?”

“Yes, love?”

“How do you know the Compass Star is in the sky?”

Laura looked up from where she was tidying the kitchen. Her mind imploded, shattering the belief she’d held for as long as she could remember. She walked around the counter, gathered her daughter in her arms and sank into the couch.

“What do you mean, Lizzy?”

“You keep looking for it every night and you don’t find it. Maybe it’s not out there.”
“It has to be, love. Where else could it be?”

Lizzy placed a hand on Laura’s chest, sure of her stance. “In here, Mummy. The only place you didn’t look.”

With a touch of lips to Laura’s cheek, Lizzy slipped off her lap, picked up her doll, Fairy Sarah, and went to her bedroom. Laura could not bring herself to move or end the moment. From the kitchen window, the night beckoned her, whispering promises that this would be the occasion when she’d find her heart’s desire. But her enthusiasm was gone. Her daughter was right. Everything she’d ever needed, ever looked for, she already had. It suddenly seemed so obvious. She stood up, and walked down the passage to Lizzy’s room. Lizzy was talking to Fairy Sarah about Cinderella, which she’d watched earlier.

“Must I go to sleep, Mummy?”

“Not yet.” Laura’s eyes brimmed. “I came to tell you something.” She perched on the bed. “I think you were right about my Compass Star.”

“Ok.”

“But I think I have finally found it. Right under my nose.”

“Where?”

Laura stroked Lizzy’s cheek. “In you. You give my life meaning. When I was a girl, looking for my star, I think I was waiting to meet you. And I think that, one day, when you have a daughter, you’ll find your star in her too.”

“Ok, Mummy.” Her brow wrinkled. “Fairy Sarah is sleepy now, so we have to stop talking.”

“Yes, you’re right.” She kissed her temple. “Goodnight Lizzy. Goodnight Fairy Sarah.” She turned on the nightlight, which cast galaxies on the wall, and walked to the door. Laura watched Lizzy snuggle her doll and whispered: “Goodnight, Compass Star.”

Poetry Post

Arbor Dreams

I am trapped
No, rooted; bound
By the elements of
Concrete and soil.

The wind rustles me,
My limbs resist, though
I yearn to stretch
And sometimes yield.

I am shade.
I am home.
I am the bearer of
Hearts and intials.

The years appear in rings.
I flake and splinter, slowly,
Slowly climbing until
The sun and I are one.

Holding out for a Hero

I recently began watching a TV series about a man who, after years away from home, returns to find everything he left behind in shambles. He then has to shoulder the responsibility of rebuilding it all again, and getting used to a new normal. What impresses me about this character is the fact that he decides to live by his own rules. No matter what society -- or even propriety -- require of him, he is unapologetic about the way he chooses to conduct himself.

I think our human experiences predisposes us to liking and supporting heroes. We look for people who, despite seeming ordinary, manage the extraordinary. Hollywood has realised the need for heroes in an age where villains seem to be winning, so it's no surprise that Iron Man, Batman, Spider-Man, Captain America and Thor (amongst others) appeal to people who long to live vicariously through those who are ordinary taxpayers by day and crime-fighting stars by night. Or whatever.

I have a poster of Batman pulling a funny face with the caption: "Be Your Own Hero." I think there's an important message there: save yourself, rescue yourself and uplift yourself through your own actions. We can't wait for someone or something to come and right the wrongs, slay the bullies and kiss the damsels. It's up to us to create that kind of life -- if that's the life we want.

The heroes in my life are people who don't know that they're heroes. They are people who go about living in a way that inspires me. They are people who aren't afraid to take risks, to go after their dreams. They are those who scatter kindness and offer genuine interest and concern about others' wellbeing. They are people who say the right thing at the right time and don't even know how much their saying it then and there means to the people who hear it. They are the true heroes -- and they don't have anything in Spandex to prove it. Most of the time, I'm willing to bet, they have no idea that I even consider them heroic. Here's my tribute to the unsung heroes. And my heartfelt thanks.

While I am on the subject of thanks, there is one particular person (you know who you are) to whom I dedicate this blogpost: thank you for believing in me and for encouraging me to write. Your support makes you one of my heroes. Thank you.

Our Souls are Deep with Dreams

When I was younger, I had a recurring dream of my grandmother. It started around the time that I found out from an insensitive friend that she had died. I was three years old. I couldn't believe that my mother would withhold that kind of information from me: I loved my grandmother very much and the idea that she was never coming back traumatised me -- especially because I never got to say goodbye.

So, my brain invented this incredible farewell with a library and laughter and balls of fire and the seaside. None of the elements matter all that much, but the important thing is that I got to see, in my dreamstate, my grandmother's ascent to heaven. It was spectacular and terrifying (how often do you see great balls of fire exploding around your grandmother as she laughs her way into the afterlife?). My dreams were a way for me to process something that I had been excluded from, and I have yet to attend a funeral that matches that level of entertainment.

I got thinking about other dreams as well. When I was working on my poetry anthology, I had a dream in which my dreamstate supervisor gave me the title for the collection. When I have had something pressing to say to someone, I could shout it to them in the dreamscape, especially when it wasn't polite to do so in real life. And when I met someone that I felt I couldn't quite trust, my dreams gave me a dramatisation of his despicable and underhanded nature.

These aren't our only dreams, however. There are awake dreams too; the ones where we do the equivalent of what Sting suggests in "Brand New Day": turn back the clock, start over and do the things we love with reckless abandon. In my experience, it's easier to ignore the dreams we have when we're asleep because we can rationalise them as figments of our imagination. The dreams we have right now, for our day-to-day lives, will persist until we chase them. They will haunt us with things like "could have", "should have" and, my  favourite, "what if".

Perhaps it's because I find myself at a point where I know that big changes are coming to my life, but I have made a decision to go after my dreams. It's absolutely scary and infintely exciting at the same time, but, more importantly, it feels right. If I were to complete Martin Luther King Jr's famous refrain, I'd say: I have a dream that I will live my dream of being a writer. (You know something? I already am: this blog and the projects I have going are allowing me to live my dream. It's so awesome I could burst.)

I'll leave you to think about your dreams, the ones you'd do if money were no object and you had all the time in the world. And, whatever you do with those dreams, see life as the amazing adventure that it is. Most importantly, dream on!