Tuesday 28 September 2010

Duck You - part 2

Dad had joined in, adding that puberty was a time for reflection; it was hardship of the character building type. This was his cue for a walk down Dad’s teenage lane, featuring masturbation and wet dreams, doubts about sexuality and facial hair. Donald remarked that Dad’s facial hair had still not grown, and that his palms were still sweaty. But she paused and listened intently to his rendition of his first encounter with homosexuality. There are many things that children don’t need to know about their parents, such as genital warts and flatulence, but this admission of oddness struck a chord with Donald. She’d always tried to understand her parents’ peculiarity – and perhaps this would elucidate matters.

By this point in the conversation, Donald’s initial malaise had developed into full-on nausea, and her throat, Dad’s point of mire, was tightening which each convulsion of her gut. Dad never held eye contact during his talks. This had always been a sour point between Mum and Dad, where Mum accused Dad of mental infidelity – if there ever was such a thing.

Tuesday 21 September 2010

Duck You - part 1

‘There will come a time when blood will gush out from between your legs, fresh and fragrant like Sunday roast gravy’. This was how Mum had chosen to start that all important talk with her eldest daughter Donald. Dad – who had taken time off work for the occasion –sat, nodding, his hands folded annoyingly over his crossed legs.
Today was the eve of Donald’s thirteenth birthday, and Mum and Dad had thought it appropriate to talk to their pubescent daughter about the changes she should expect in her body.

Mum’s bosom was heaving. Not in an attractive way. But rather like her famous orange and Madeira soufflĂ©, slowly rising, golden and promising, then breathing out (or flopping) with a bubble and splatter. She did that when she felt purposeful, pacing herself to unravel juicy bits and practicality. She’d followed her initial statement with:

‘expect your boobs to grow like melons. That’s if you take after me of course. If you’ve inherited your father’s sisters excuse for tits, then the progress will be slow and the results dissatisfying.’

Letter from LS

AHOY,

Lapland is back from a long, refreshing, inspiring, culinarily enticing holiday... Sat back at her computer after a long absence, she brings you two novelties for the new (school) year - that time of year we're all conditioned to relate with new beginnings. First is the first installation of my new story: Duck You. I'll drip snippets of it as they come/ or as you ask for more. As you know, Lapland really appreciates feedback. She's a real sucker for encouragement.
Two. I'm transferring my non-fiction posts to my new website: www.zelpha.co.uk. If you're more of a non-fiction person (and I know there's lots of you out there) you'll find pieces on food, culture and travel to your heart's desire. Again, we (Zelpha, Lapland and I) LOVE to hear from you, so make yourself heard!

Happy reading and much love,

LS

Tuesday 3 August 2010

Clemence the Insomniac Duckling - part 8

Lately, Clemence had been opting for more reasonable, outer body experiences. She’d spent a whole day as a daffodil, desperate to be on land and resource herself.

As she entered adulthood she found herself to be more contemplative. Although unattached, her decisions would invariably involve one or two factors other than herself. And she’d sometimes be touched by bouts of sadness. Always the existentialist, Clemence had till then known how to keep her ‘questioning’ side at bay. But recently, she’d felt the need to indulge. At first she’d put this change down to spending too much time in the East. Indeed, she’d migrated to Uttar Pradesh, Dhaka and Rangoon, where her spirits had been lifted, dropped and questioned. Prior to this, she hadn’t thought it possible to question a spirit. The day she spent as a daffodil involved warm, moist soil and a wishful breeze. She longed for companionship, for roots – to wake up to the same day every day.

Wednesday 30 June 2010

Clemence the Insomniac Duckling - part 7

By her 7th birthday, Clemence was a mother in her own right.
She’d abandoned the ducklings at birth, trusting a doting admirer would take care of them.

On the eve of her birthday, Clemence had stayed awake, intrigued by a pulsating star above her head. Not for the first time, she felt connected with nature’s elements in an inexplicable way. It was at times like this that she marveled at her luck and the favourable turns fate had dealt her.

She was indeed selfish and self-indulgent, but she also had a knack for silver linings. She was the one who’d transformed the sleepless nights of her ducklinghood into realities so far removed they’d have to be seen to be believed. She was the one who’d defied all odds and surpassed her life expectancy as a stray duckling seven times.

She had moments of clarity, where she saw life for what it was, and it was in these times that she thought of her Mum. She’d feel connected with her mother’s acute sense of level-headedness.

She was unusual, she recognized that, but she also recognized that she was no more than a colourful and fearless version of her own Mum. A true British duck at heart.

Friday 18 June 2010

Clemence the Insomniac Duckling - part 6

It’s the day of their 7th birthday.

The sky is thick with promises of rain and melancholy. Mum has made them a ship shaped cake. She's chosen a grey blue for the sea. She did stop to wonder about her choice of hue, afraid it may expose her sorrows.

She had a sleepless night, reminiscent of her youth. She spent the night stroking the photograph, speaking through it to Clemence, wondering what she’s become. She imagined her to be a beautiful and spirited young woman. Perhaps she’d changed her name from the romantic Clemence to something more modern.

Why was it that being modern was such a concern? She realized now the compromises she’d made for the sake of modernity. She never bought her children toys, waltzed around naked in their presence and discussed politics and war with them as of a young age to fit in with her parenting ideology. But most painful of all, she concealed her daughter’s existence for the sake of a harmonious, albeit modern, family.

Monday 7 June 2010

Clemence the Insomniac Duckling - part 5

Meanwhile, Clemence was indeed still alive. Better still, she was living out her fantasy, alternating between waterbound animals and machines, quite the switchable character. Perhaps in the human world, she would have been diagnosed with schizophrenia or another mental disease involving multiple personas. But Clemence was as healthy as they come, both physically and mentally.

At first, she’d surfed the tide alongside the herons, then, aboard Heron Airways she'd travelled and explored the world. Within the space of 5 seasons, she’d developed beautiful flying techniques and would occasionally school young ducks in in-flight sharp turns and smooth, gliding landings. She did this to earn food and shelter. These were the only times she was happy being a duck.

Otherwise, she’d mosey off to new lands in search of inspiration and new identities. She’d even gone as far as becoming a swimming human. She’d spotted one in the south continent in a very hostile environment. He had been swimming on his back – which unfortunately Clemence was unable to do – but she’d compensated for that shortcoming by deciding that only lame humans swam on their backs. You see, Clemence had soon discovered that life wasn’t a function of limitations, but rather of perception.

Fellow ducks and especially male ducks considered her quite the philosopher. They were without doubt intimidated by her fearless disposition, but fiercely attracted to the mischievous glint in her eye. One of them, Harry from Bangladesh, had even gone so far as to follow her on one of her inter-continental trips. He too had hitched a ride on Heron Airways. He’d been desperately attracted to the way she mystically transcended her duck self into another being. She’d thought him fat and short but quite entertaining. Their idyll came to an end when Harry remembered he was otherwise taken, and Clemence got on with her life.

On the eve of her 7th birthday, she’d spared a thought for her family and wondered whether Mona had lost her baby fat.

Sunday 30 May 2010

Clemence the Insomniac Duckling - part 4

Irma awoke at dawn, panicked at the idea of having slept. She’d had an uneasy night. Herons had visited her in her dreams haunting her with reminders that her ducklings wouldn’t reach adulthood.

She’d sped off to the shelter where they slept and counted. This revealed 6 little bodies, alive and beating. She counted again, unsure of herself.

Had she really slept? Or had she had tea with aging herons over at the Lyons tea room in the city center? She’d immediately thought of waking Doug. Perhaps he’d know where Clemence had gone. But decided against it.

Instead she scanned the area thouroughy, questioning the ants instead of eating them, she didn’t have the stomach for breakfast. She was gone all day. When she returned to their settlement in the evening she had fabricated a story to tell Doug and the children. One that would neither put the blame on her bad parenting, nor on her distrustful genes.

She told him that Clemence had been attacked by a wild cat, that she had sustained serious injuries and that the Doctors at the clinic had been unable to save her. He was distraught, asking to see his daughter, his eyes spilling with tears.

As a pedagogue and parent, Irma had decided that nobody would talk of Clemence. They would be a family of 6, and the 7th, if ever mentioned, would be put down as a figment of the children’s imagination. She thought of herself as a modern Mum with none disclosure parenting techniques. She thought she was protecting her children and herself from undue sorrow and regret. And yet she sensed her daughter was alive. She knew she would never have been able to tame that mischievous spirit, nor, truly, had she wanted to. Clemence represented the duck she had never dared to be.

Saturday 22 May 2010

Clemence the Insomniac Duckling - part 3

The sequence of events was as follows. With the season’s changing Mum and Dad had been forced to move their gaggle to a place where they could keep dry. They’d favoured shallow water and sheltered accommodation.

Relocating had proven quite the ordeal as the ducklings were still too young to fly. They’d finally settled for the night, and Irma and Doug had decided to take turns to guard their nest. First, Doug had checked on them, making sure that Clemence wasn’t faking sleep. She had the longest eyelashes of the lot, and they lay, restful, on her lower lid, indicating sound sleep.
Halfway through the night, Irma replaced Doug and, half asleep, checked on her brood. Despite her guarding duties, Mum had had trouble resisting sleep, exhausted by a day of moving. Her eyelids were pregnant with slumber and she had finally surrendered.

No sooner was that done, that Clemence had shot out of the bedroom. She swam as fast as she could into the moonlight. She was free. She was a dolphin, a fish, a shark and a boat. She was everything she’d ever wanted to be.

Clemence had started to develop unorthodox thoughts from within the egg. She had at a time managed to convince herself that she was a parrot, she’d make sounds that, in her head, were loud and sharp. She grew feathers that were blue and red, and her beak was long and decidedly hooked. She was also an otter with four legs and yacht with a motor.

Most pertinent of all had been her inability to rest. She was a curious sort, always feigning indifference to get away with mischief. Her life had, so far, been predictable. She was fed, loved, and number 7 in a family of 7. She’d long awaited this moment, when for the first time she’d make her entrance into the world as a steam ship.

She chose to take the form of this manmade machine because she felt invincible. Just like a ship, she’d gathered speed and sailed away, queen of the tide. She’d fantasized about this moment every night as she lay awake, unable to give in to sleep. She’d attempted her great escape once before but was too exposed.

On that fateful night, she’d hid in the shadows of the reeds and blended in with the rocks and pebbles, having practiced shallow breathing and prolonged immobility. She had heard of human rescues, but feared nothing as she wasn’t a duckling, but a steam boat with wings. As the night drew to a close, Clemence had rejoined the herons of Willow Pond: her ticket to freedom. She’d only looked over her shoulder once, when she thought she’d heard Paloma cry for her. But it was a duckling from another family, and no concern of hers.

Tuesday 11 May 2010

Clemence the Insomniac Duckling - part 2

The photo developing service promises a 24-hour turn around and therefore has Mum drop her baking activities and waddle off to the city center at Willow Pond. Armed with an envelope full of memories, she returns home and, forgetting the pie in the oven, delves into chapters of ducklings, her heart aglow with that golden shine of motherhood.

She smiles at Max’s unruly quaff, at Paloma’s tendency to pose, at Deirdre inquisitive looks and Wilfred’s resemblance to his father. She takes out a pen and paper, and begins to chronicle the photos, putting down in writing the series of events and the dates at which they took place. There are 24 photos in the pack. The first series of seven date back to the science fair, and to Deirdre’s outstanding accomplishment. The next ten show the ducklings at play with the neighbour’s kids. The last six are a collection of portraits of each child at various times. She notes various detail down, such as Mona’s tendency to gain weight, making a mental note of portion sizes to serve her at dinner time. She also scribbles some suggestions for birthday cakes. But there’s one more photograph in the pack. It’s facing down, when all the others were organised upwards. She turns it over.

There she finds a frail and very young duckling. She immediately makes a note to return this photo to the shop jotting it down as a sorting mistake. But deep inside she recognizes those eyes, and the pain in her chest, the one she had lived with for seasons after the birth, is reignited. It’s a blurry photograph, but the mischief in the young duck’s eyes shines clearly through the lens.

She remembers taking this photo, back then still amused by Clemence’s wayward ways. That day, Doug and Mum had taken the kids out to learn to hunt. They’d chosen a secluded area of the pond for this exercise. They knew to watch out for Clemence’s distracted disposition and had therefore placed her at the head of the line. Wilfred had vehemently complained that he was the eldest and should therefore be at the head, but Mum and Dad hadn’t taken heed. They’d enjoyed a good day of hunting, and returned home at dusk to put the kids to bed. They’d all fallen asleep immediately, worn out by the day’s activities.

All except for Clemence. It’s at that moment that Irma had taken the photograph, eager to record her daughter’s willfulness, and amused at the growing resemblance with herself. That night Clemence had gone to sleep and Mum’s fears were abated. She could not have predicted what would happen next.

Tuesday 4 May 2010

Clemence the Insomniac Duckling - part 1

It had been a proud day for the Willow family. Their youngest, Deirdre, was the first of the Willows not just to hand a project in on time, but to win third prize for it.

For the occasion, they gathered in front of the dining room mantel piece for a picture, recording: Deirdre age 7, Max age 7, Mona age 7, Philip age 7, Paloma age 7 and Wilfred age 7 – where age is counted in seasons. The photograph remained encased in the film spool for months as Mum struggled to find time to develop it. Finally, on the day their tax returns were due, she managed not just to pass by the post office, but also to drop the film off to be developed. She was eager to discover what other moments she’d captured over the months on her semi-automatic camera - or was semi-automatic a term used hunting guns? – she could never quite remember. She returned home that evening hopeful and purposeful having accomplished two missions on her to-do list.

Irma, as she’s once been called – at least till she became known as Mum to everyone, husband included – had been renowned down at Mirror Pond as the most beautiful mallard. She’d been quite the socialite, wasting away her days on the waterside in anticipation of night. She’d met Doug on one of her night swims, and though she’d been slightly inebriated at the time, she’d immediately seen in him the makings of a good, kind duck. It helped that he was handsome, in a stocky sort of way. They’d been quick to fall in love and move away from the bustle of Mirror Pond.

They’d chosen Willow Pond, where they became parents to 6 adorable ducklings, and were known, as of then, as the Willow family. Upon breaking the news of her pregnancy, Irma had been warned that only two or three of her gaggle would make it past ducklinghood. But she was infused with positivity, filled to burst with happy thoughts of a big, loud family. Doug doted on her, eager as well to see each one of their creations grow into a healthy duck.

On the day of their birth, the ducklings hatched one after the other, in sequence, programmed to come to life at a minute’s interval of one another. She remembers fondly how each egg shook, wobbled and cracked, revealing her most prized progeny. In her accounts of that day, Irma tells of the hatching of 6 eggs, citing Deirdre as the youngest and Wilfred as the oldest.

Thursday 22 April 2010

Ode to a Dead Swan

“Look, a dead swan”. Rupert had been dragged on this cruise down the Thames by his support group at the local community center. His sponsor had thought the outing would air his increasingly dark thoughts and misanthropy, and perhaps provide a hiatus in a series of breakdowns. The day had been uneventful until a dead swan came floating by, clad in death and no longer white. This had deeply agitated Rupert. While no one was looking, he’d snuck over the railing of the boat, looked back at the others with a wide grin, deployed his arms as if holding on to a parachute, and jumped. To everyone’s surprise, they looked out the window to see Rupert surfing on the back of the dead swan, sporting the latest dude attitude.

[In loving memory of that beautiful swan that chose its resting place by my house at chelsea bridge]

Thursday 1 April 2010

House of Diamonds - part 2

[the aim of this exercise for my creative writing class was to write the opening page for a story entitled House of Diamonds]

No sooner had he pronounced the 'op' in shop that a disastrous crash shook the walls of our backroom studio – not yet soundproofed. The shatter of glass and Adele’s squeals provided great atmospheric sound for our recording as Marc continued taping his live account of the happenings:

“a fantastic event has occurred at the House of Diamonds today, as the notorious Kent robbers stoop into our place of business like hungry pterodactyls to their prey. The first casualty is Adele Bremner of Seven Oaks, Kent”.

Interrupted by the belligerent interlopers, Marc looked up to find them searching the corridor leading to the backroom. There were three men in red hoods, their faces hidden by animal masks from our newsagents’ Halloween stock. They didn’t seem interested in the till which they’d skidded past, over the debris, at the entrance of the shop. Instead, they appeared to be in search of a hidden treasure unknown to us.

As I wondered what Aunt Marnie could well be hiding from us, and as Marc resumed his commentary, I heard a deep voice emerge from one of the masked figures. He was repeating a word that at first sounded to me like Garamond, or was it almond. Marc too picked up on this unfamiliar sound, and as he repeated it into his microphone, it all of a sudden struck me that the word was in fact diamond. Yes, these effete gatecrashers seemed very much misinformed as to the nature of our trade. They never suspected us to be hairdressers, or talented radio broadcasters, or even air freshener designers, but had, for some obscure reason, deemed us to be diamond merchants!

Along with my realization, came theirs, and they instantaneously about turned and traipsed out leaving behind them a collapsed front window and Adele Bremner.

The following story – should Adele ever be revived – will recount the adventures of investigators extraordinaire Marc , Shirley (myself) and Mrs Bremner of Seven Oaks, Kent, as we attempt to track down the House of Diamonds intruders.

Monday 29 March 2010

House of Diamonds - part 1

[the aim of this exercise for my creative writing class was to write the opening page for a story entitled House of Diamonds]

The House of Diamonds is the unintelligent name Uncle Cecile’s wife gave to her hairdressing parlour. When questioned as to the origin of the name, she answered that the stroke of her round brush made hair shine like a diamond. In our 8th year of existence, we spent many a summer afternoon in the back room of the House of Diamonds, mixing shampoo for blonde hair, with shampoo for red hair, and greasy hair. Marc had even developed his favourite mix - one part grey, two parts dry and three parts damaged - which, when mixed with water frothed and bubbled into a green foam that gave off a heady melon smell.

We’d reached the consensus that Aunt Marnie could economise on air freshener by placing pyrex bowls of our concoction in corners of the shop. In fact, we never asked for her opinion on the matter and volunteered to save the salon from its sure demise and spread our fragrance.

Adele was Marnie’s most frequent customer. She was gifted with a very large head covered in an alarming mop of hair for Auntie to plough through four days a week. Along with her bobbing hair and swinging bottom, Adele brought fear to this beauty establishment. She was at once its reputation and its disgrace. She was blessed with a loud, big voice and language of questionable appeal. She could often be overheard at tea parties bellowing the virtues of The House of Diamonds, then whispering its downfall. We were never quite able to pick up the full extent of the dismissal but in our net were words such as cheap products, bad lighting, unusual room scent…

Cousin Marc and I had many hobbies to our name; but the one that would most certainly assure our ascent to fame was our radio show. Based in Kent, we fancied ourselves as great regional voices blessed with a slight estuary tang. Not content with our natural talent, we practiced regional accents, ever striving to expand our repertoire. Marc specialized in dialects from “up north” and Essex in which he gave the news and the weather, while I had a special knack for the romantic West Country flat vowels and slow talking which told short stories and special bulletins of eventful significance.

It was therefore on a fine afternoon, c 1966, that Marc and I sat down to record our daily installment of House of Diamond radio news. I can just remember the room as it stood back then, still and lifeless like in the faded photograph I keep on my mantle-piece today. The rays of setting sun, shredded by the aluminium blinds, cut strange shapes on Marc’s ever growing nose. I sat on the dusty carpet, rocked by the vibrations of Adele’s heavy footsteps in the room next door. The radio was giving off static, reminiscent of the grind of the curtain at the Royal Oak Theatre down the road. The prevailing silence was not unusual for this establishment, and neither was the garbage-like smell. As Adele launched into yet another chapter of the house of spirits in which she truly believed she lived, Marc struck the switch on the recorder and, in his most accurate Lancashire accent yet, announced:
“This is Marc Pillow coming to you live from the House of Diamonds. In today’s headlines, we have an armed burglary at a jewellery shop”.

Wednesday 17 March 2010

Lapland's gone missing...

... could she be under a sleepy Kune Kune pig?

If you find her, please bring her back home.

Monday 15 March 2010

Congraduation Lapland

Dear Readers,

Seems I'm graduating today!!!

I hope you'll excuse my absent post for the day... There'll be lots of stories to tell, so come back tomorrow (or the day after)(depending on how much fun I have tonight!!)

Love,

Lapland M.Sc., M.A., B.A.

Friday 12 March 2010

'High Coup'

[Haiku is a Japanese form of poetry consisting of 5-7-5 syllables which traditionally makes reference to nature and seasonal change]

Chic sleek London bird
Pink flamingo on stilts perched
Cries black tears tonight

Haiku

[is a Japanese form of poetry consisting of 5-7-5 syllables which traditionally makes reference to nature and seasonal change]


Dusk settling sets loose
Big balloon to steeple tied
Lights up sky till morrow

Wednesday 10 March 2010

Baby - part 1

”I want a baby” has been on repeat since the first morning of our honeymoon, three married years ago. “Why so soon?” I asked at the time. She answered that she wanted a baby with my hazel eyes, her little nose and my handsome hands. Quite an appealing sales pitch, I must admit. Three years later and she still voices the same desire, but seems to have made quite a few changes along the way. I suspect the long grueling hours as management consultants have left us with very little time to dream, let alone conceive babies. We did consult a fertility specialist after a year of trying who assured us that all was in order – except for our finances of course. I was reluctant to start a family just yet. My friends who’d already made the big step assured me that it would be the end of my life as I know it, and practically I wondered how our combined salaries would allow for our existing lifestyle, plus baby. My wife was 27 when we married, a successful analyst at a big consultancy, rapidly climbing the corporate ladder whilst others like me stayed back and watched her sail past. I couldn’t believe how lucky I’d been to find a woman like her; “every man’s dream” as my mother described her, adding that I was a very lucky man that she’d chosen me. Indeed Lisa could have anyone she wanted. Why me? I still can’t answer that question. She’s stunningly beautiful. She’s the girl who smiles at everyone but gets a small handful of smiles in return, only from those who are too madly in love with her to envy her. I’d always gotten the impression that both men and women envied my Lisa, as if she was too brilliant a star for the general greyness of earthlings. And yet she inspired them. Where Lisa went others followed, most of the time hoping to pick up the crumbs from her luscious mouth, other times as if they wished her aura to be contagious. This is the woman I married three fateful years ago, and whose presence in my life has lit an unwavering flame. I’m a better man for her. Conversations about our wives down at the pub always end up in a tease fest starring me; when my mates find their wives overbearing and boring, I’m still in awe of mine. Until yesterday.

I came home from work to find Lisa already there: highly unusual for a Tuesday at six pm. When I asked if she’d finished work early, she answered casually that she hadn’t been, preferring instead to stay home and watch daytime TV. I worried a little at this sudden change but decided she was probably falling ill with the flu like Archie and so many others at work. I cooked dinner to the best of my ability and settled for the night slightly intrigued but too tired to fret. I woke up this morning to find another woman in my bed.

Tuesday 9 March 2010

A little secret

For this evening's post, AK helped Lapland find words because her brain seems to be on strike.

She needs a good night's sleep!

Love,

She

Friday 5 March 2010

Lapland needs YOU!!

Dear Readers (Mum? Shisho? Andrew? Anyone else???)

My blog has been up and running for just over 2 weeks now, and I’ve mostly posted short stories.

It’s coming to that point where I need new sources of inspiration! So, if there are any exhibitions, plays, concerts, musicals, restaurants… that you’d like to read about could you please suggest them in the ‘comment’ box below this post. Please?

Thank you and have a lovely sunny weekend!!

Love,
Lapland

253

[This was an exercise for my writing class; it’s based on the online novel “253” by Geoff Ryman. The idea for this project was to write a short character description following Ryman’s format in 253 words. 253 is the number of passengers aboard a typical Bakerloo line train. Geoff Ryman describes each one of these fictitious characters, first in their outward appearance, then in terms of inside information and finally he writes about what she/he is thinking or doing. I highly recommend you go to: www.ryman-novel.com; it’s a fun read!]

Mr Blake Lewis

Outward Appearance
Round featured, with soft ‘mushy’ lips and a bulbous nose. Dressed to look ‘cool’ in an indie sort of way. He carries a used supermarket bag which he twirls around nonchalantly, but not really.

Inside Information
He’s an artist. A painter and student at the Royal Academy of Arts. His favourite subjects are electrical appliances.
Blake’s heart has never been broken, his breath never taken away.
What he is thinking or doing
In the bag is something precious; a secret perhaps.
Blake’s an only child. Born to non-demonstrative parents; “very English middle class” as his friend Paul once put it. He’s reserved, but his aloof demeanour makes his arty. He’s ashamed of his ordinary beginnings: couldn’t he have been the son of a rockstar, or a homeless man?
He uses stories like this to attract the ladies. They seem drawn to his detached persona, gluttons for disregard and punishment. He despises these women, exploits them for pleasure and abandon.
The theme for his next project at the academy is a woman’s love. His tutors have pushed him to explore unknown territory.
He left home today at 4am, headed for Smithfield’s meat market. It’s now 5:23, and in his bag is not what he had intended to buy. He set out to find a fresh cow’s heart as a starting piece for his romantic reverie. Instead, he chose lungs, deemed a more exact gauge of love. “For”, he thought in his cheesy poetic internal voice, “what’s more urgent and vital than oxygen”. He recognized this feeling as what he felt for Anne.

Wednesday 3 March 2010

Sprites

I am who you say I am. I do what you say to do. That is my premise in life, and discipline, obligation and obedience are my strongest traits. I clear the table when you ask. I clap my hands you when you say to do so. Even if it means dropping the plates I’m carrying. I am the mouse of the salon, the dragon of the kitchen, and the toad of my quarters. I slide and morph around corners, my disposition adapting to the footsteps coming my way. Madam, or Sitna as we call her, wears heeled shoes. Not necessarily high heels, but clickety ones. Sir, or Monsieur, shuffles his feet and changes into slippers when he’s home for the evening. And there’s the ever recognizable plimsole, with its occasional squeak and characteristically hurried steps. That’s the other me. The younger one they use for harder labour like climbing up ladders and carrying Monsieur’s suitcases to and from the car. I’ve been a member of this family for so long I’ve forgotten my own age. I am fiercely protective of them, just like the small print in my job description says.

There used to be many more footsteps in the household, reduced pair by pair to the four current occupiers. The daughter of the house has a limp. I used to hear her coming from far, on her trajectory between her room and the kitchen, her kitchen and the room. I would give her my legs to heal that lame foot. She comes home for holidays, and I invariably comment on her weight. She comments on my smoking habit. Both of us polite in the way we express disinterest in the other’s topic. She and I are as close as I’ll allow. There used to be more young ones in this house. The marbled floor was playground to the pitter patter of many a small foot; mischievous sprites who warmed my practical heart. The youngest presented a knee-height head of curly bleach blonde hair, the eldest had golden locks. No, that’s not accurate. The youngest was just a babe. And the daughter played with these young ones, I remember that too. But the daughter grew. And the household was left with but the echoes of those days. Nowadays, I take naps in the afternoons; the only time that I dream melancholic dreams. The kitchen settles after lunch and the dog is taken out for his walk. Sitna and Monsieur are out tending to their business. This is when the echoes are at their clearest. The front door shuts behind the last set of footsteps. And the shadows come to life. I lay on the bottom bed of the bunk I share with the other one, and listen. For the sprites to come back. The first sound is laughter - loud, raucous, boyish giggles. And with it, the others unfurl. There’s an argument, some forbidden swear words, a mother’s reprimanding voice, a dog’s playful bark. There’s running, changing directions, a pursuit, a broken glass, pulled hair and the thump of a body falling to the ground in surrender. There’s a breeze, a sob, a father’s haughty voice and a baby’s whimpers. A stronger wind blows this time, lifting my memories into upheaval. I hear another bark, this time not playful. I hear running again, and broken glass. A pursuit. A thump. A mother’s alarmed voice. A father’s injured sob. I hear crying and pleading. I hear gunshots.

I look down and find the babe in my arms again. Silent, faking death through her long blonde eyelashes. I feel her quickened heartbeat against my bosom. And her warm moist breath down my shirt.

I fall asleep on Thursday afternoon. For a short half hour, they relive and I live again with them. I’ll see them again on Friday afternoon, and Saturday afternoon and perhaps even Sunday. These sprites that I love so.

Friday 26 February 2010

Dear Dad - Part 2

Mrs Blake had lived on Anglesea Drive for over thirty years now. She’d watched Rosie’s gender transformation, as well as Frank’s stunted evolution. She thought she remembered Frank’s mother, but her husband Jack assured her it couldn’t be. Rosie always strutted outside Mrs Blake’s home, a queen bee in her hive. She held her head particularly high when she crossed the doorstep of number 11 Anglesea Drive. She did this to exude confidence, hiding the fear Mrs Blake evoked in her.

She would inevitably think back to the night she murdered her wife, for she remembered the light in number 11 turning on as Alice drew her last breath. It was unusually warm that evening. Frank had been put to bed in his nappy, with the window open to ease his first sweat. Alice and Ed shared a glass of wine over which they exchange amorous glances hinting at a heated night ahead. A pineapple stood on the kitchen counter, ready to be carved. Ed was hungry, and fretted that Alice had forgotten to prepare his dinner. She’d been distracted since the arrival of the baby. In truth, she’s been distracted by the events of a fortnight ago and the strong feelings she felt for her husband despite that night’s revelation. Ed had seen her watch him play in the arms of a man, as uninhibited and daring as he’d never been with her. He could feel her stare on his naked back, but never turned around to meet her eye. He’d carried on loving the stranger in his house, occasionally looking up to Alice’s reflection in the mirror. He was amazed at the pleasure he felt, fuelled by his anger at his wife, and the murderous spark he caught in his eye. Alice and Ed never revealed each other’s secret. To Alice, she’d caught her husband with a man. To Ed, he’d enjoyed a passionate moment with an anonymous lover and revelled in the immense pleasure brought on by the presence of a spectator.
Hunger rumbled in Ed’s stomach, echoing the excitement he felt for the upcoming entertainment of the evening. His plan was to woo Alice into alcoholic submission, and squeeze her throat until life spewed out of her. He would then dispose of her useless body in the creek behind number 11; the unimaginative Blakes would never suspect him. And so, on an evening like so many others, she drank, died, and disappeared, leaving behind a son and a relieved husband. He would always blame her for leaving. He would tell her family they had quarrelled and she had left in a rush, crossing their road inadvertently, hit by a bus. Frank slept through his mother’s murder, and awoke the next morning, clueless.

Frank has been clueless since; always led to believe that bad things happen to good people – “that’s just the way it is”, would say Rosie. She would add “you’re a thinker, not a doer, so don’t expect much from life”. She saw him as the simpleton he was, a young man who believed that life would happen to him. He was tall and ginger like her, and easily the most uncharismatic Frank to be born on British soil. He spoke in murmurs and offered a limp handshake to the rare few who extended theirs. His breath smelt of hunger, though he was regularly fed. And the sweat on his brow had never truly left him since that warm evening 22 calendars ago. She would laugh to herself as she found various ways to describe him, one more demeaning than the other. He wasn’t worthy of her love, which is why, she told herself, she would never try to love him. She was left with other duties towards him which she performed negligently. She always assumed the trade-off between her life with Frank’s mother, and their current arrangement, as fair. She kept him warm, clothed and fed in exchange for being at once the woman and the man of the house. She thrived on this thought. Rosie’s teachers at her all boys’ school had once described her as uncompromising; an astute observation, she thought.

Frank is planning to go church this evening. He’ll be taking a shortcut to get there. As he sets off, he rethinks the letter, redrafting it but always using the same beginning and end. He wishes that his Dad could see him today: a hardworking, churchgoing, strapping young lad. He walks through dusk, like a puppy finds its way to the nipple, trustful and instinctive. But tonight his footing is clumsy, he trips over a raised pavement slab. He can’t fathom the reason for his gaucheness. He’s distracted by his inadequacy, convinced that his father must be watching from his seat in heaven, ‘tutting’ away in disapproval. He attempts to correct his gait, clutching his fists, and frowning a determined frown. In doing so he hopes to appear confident once again. He reaches the shortcut fast, and despite his awkwardness, decides to take the narrow alley between number 11 and number 13 Anglesea drive. He peers into Mrs Blake’s window hoping to catch a glimpse of teatime and intimacy. But the lights are off. It seems the Blakes are out for the evening. Emerging from this thought, he notices he’s halfway down the passage. This realisation brings him back to awareness, and he feels uneasy again. The walls are dizzying in their proximity to each other, and a foul smells rises from the stagnant water collected where the sloping cobbles join. He walks as if on ice, afraid to slip, fall and humiliate himself. As an afterthought, he remembers the time, and decides against shortcuts in the future. But there’s an intriguing moistness in the air tonight which is making his thoughts clammy and unclear. It’s compelling somehow. He feels the need to investigate. He sees a lit window looming ahead, towards which he shuffles attentively. He peers in. At first he’s taken aback by the sight of an unusually tall woman, but soon recognizes the shape as that of his aunt Rosie. But she isn’t alone. She’s in the company of a man. Frank is startled and can’t look away. But she sees him, always the eagle eyed member of the family. He panics and sets off like a hunted deer, eyes alight with the burn of the setting sun.
He’s an action film star. He runs, jumps, rolls on the ground, dodging the invisible enemy and showing off. He finds a gate, and attempts to jump over it. But the alley is too narrow to gather speed. He tries the handle and the gate swings back as if waiting for him. He dashes in, breathless.

Wednesday 24 February 2010

Dear Dad- Part 1

Sitting at his desk in a window frame across town is Frank, my childhood friend. Frank is always at his desk lit by a small flickering lamp, like a star assuming its assigned position in a constellation, purposeful and diligent. When away from his desk, Frank can be found in deep contemplation at a chapel two streets down from Anglesea Drive where he lives. I sometimes visit that chapel, if only to catch a glance of an old friend.

‘Dear Dad, I am the son you never had’. That’s how Frank starts his letter to his absent father. He was raised by Rosie, his aunt. She often told him about his mother who died 22 years ago. Frank is 23 today, and according to Rosie, his father doesn’t know he exists.

But Frank’s dad has always been his best friend. The one he speaks to in times of need or even writes his most intimate, most imaginative, thoughts to. He’s always striven to make him proud, choosing to study when others were out playing football, or down at the pub. He studied accounting rather than theology and took maths and physics A-levels instead of art and philosophy as he would’ve liked.
He imagines his Dad to be tall and ginger, just like him, with strong commanding hands instead of stubby fingers and a powerful voice where Frank has a lisp. His Dad has freckles, but only on his face. His Dad is an airline pilot and a war veteran. He fought a meaningful war and grew up in a time of deprivation and rationing, risking his life to make his family proud and bring food to the table. He’s never drunk himself into a beer induced stupor, but distinguishes malt beers from ‘hopsy’ ones. He comes from Esher in Surrey, a sunny little town not far from Kingston where Max, Frank’s friend from school, grew up. He appreciates nice things but is never frugal with his spending. On most days, his name is William, a strong regal name, but he’s also been called Fred when he’s played the piano, or Peter if he’s attended mass. When he walks into a room, heads turn and voices quieten. His women are treated as ladies, and the one he chose to love was Frank’s mother. His passion for her was strong and their relationship tumultuous, but they made a striking pair straight from the studios in Shepperton. Their idyll ended when he was sent off to war, and not because she fell pregnant with an unwanted boy. She was his Yoko, he was her John.
Frank is anxious to meet his true sweetheart, and promises not to make her pregnant until they wed. He pictures her blonde and buxom, a true English princess, an artisan of exquisite pork pies. And when they meet, he will send his father a wedding invitation along with a letter which will end with ‘I hope you are proud Dad, I followed in your footsteps’.

But Frank wasn’t all that observant. He was never really a stickler for detail, much more a poet and a dreamer. Had he been the pragmatic realist his father was, he would have paid more attention to footsteps. And more particularly to his Aunt Rosie’s footsteps. He may then have noticed Rosie’s unusually big feet, and her alarmingly ginger hair. Her strong hand and smoker’s voice. Or the curiously big silhouette she cut against the opening of his bedroom door.

That evening, as Frank sat at his desk redrafting the letter, Rosie stood behind him peering over his shoulder, her shadow so large it was easily confused with the looming dusk. As she read the lines of Frank’s correspondence she smiled and thought of that night she’d spent with Frank’s mother, the night he was conceived. She thought again of the night she strangled Frank’s mother when Frank himself was but a year old. She smiled again as she thought of the deceit Frank lived in, and the comfort he took in the stories he made up about his father.
If Frank were really so keen to follow in his father’s footsteps, thought Rosie, perhaps he should pay more attention to feet. This intended pun made her laugh to herself, appeased by the familiarity of this scene; yet another deceitful situation of her design.
Rosie never thought of Frank as a son. She was barren, as the doctor had informed once he’d completed the change. And this suited her. She had never felt maternal despite all the other feminine emotions she’d been subjected to since adolescence. She’s settled with the contempt she suffered for Frank, and blamed this on his general lack of intelligence. She took pleasure in mocking him, and watching him grow into an insecure young man. He occupied a room in her house and ate the meals she heated up for him, never asking for more. This she considered a good thing because she wasn’t ready to part with any of her creature comforts, let alone make any form of compromise to better accommodate his existence. He lived off his inheritance from his mother. She delighted in the idea of this malformed adult that she shared space with, and his awkward ways that made hers seem so graceful.

Monday 22 February 2010

Letter from LS

Dear LS readers (ie my very good friends),

I think it’s time to tell you a little about this blog’s reason for existence.
The main objective is to get me writing. You’ll find below a series of promises, principles according to which this blog will function.

My first pledge to you is that this project will never become an online journal.
Instead, you’ll find some fiction pieces posted from time to time. Some of these are assignments for my Creative Writing class. This is particularly relevant to Friday the 20th of February's posting which could easily be mistaken for a journal entry. It is not, so to my friends out there, don’t worry, the dark thoughts aren’t mine.

Alternatively, you’ll come across some book reviews, art reviews, as well as my humble opinion on films and magazines. It’ll also soon become apparent that I like to eat but that’s the understatement of the decade! I absolutely live to eat. And write. So writing about food is the epitome of pleasure for me. I do however pledge not to make this blog JUST about food.

I'm also considering adding a column about people. That’s all I’ll say for now.

Another pledge I make to my readers (and to myself), is to write/ or post a photo as often as humanly possible.

It would be really great to hear from you, whoever you are out there … I don’t kid myself, I can name the people who've read me so far, and you’re very good friends for doing so. But I’m hopeful that with time, my reader base will expand way beyond SW London and the suburbs of Beirut. So please spread the word!

Thank you for reading, and stay tuned!

Love,

Lapland

Saturday 20 February 2010

An outing goes seriously wrong

I died yesterday or maybe today, I can’t remember. Talk about an evening ending badly; for everyone but me. It had been a still and rainy February afternoon disturbed only by a phone call from a friend suggesting dinner and drinks. I do remember that exact moment as if it were the moment I died. I’d enveloped myself in my large red fleece dressing gown, also enveloped in the sad comfort of my solitude. I’d always been one to accept facts and I’d indeed accepted that I would be a solitary, overweight, underpaid thirty-something Londoner. My days were cloned replicas of each other, and this couldn’t be disturbed. I don’t remember why or when I withdrew from the world. It wasn’t an amorous disappointment or a professional failure. It wasn’t a death in the family, or the loss of a pet or a child. It just happened. The doctors called it depression, but I couldn’t agree with them. To me it felt like my calling. Just like some are designed to become brokers or vets, I felt at ease in my sadness. I actually thought I was at my best. I couldn’t imagine life any different. The idea of leaving my warm, spotless cocoon was a travesty. The thought of the exterior, of fresh air and human contact, sent me into a panic. I reveled in my independence and the soft light of my living room. The familiar touch of my keyboard and the format of the websites I visited the most. My mother accused me of living by correspondence, she called it ‘distance living’ and liked to repeat that term amused by her play on words. No one made me feel more alone than my mother and her detached parenting. She’d show concern, and offer advice, but I could always hear her rummaging around the house, leaning over to pick up my dad’s mess, putting away the washing or googling depression as we spoke. To google is another of my mother’s modern terms.
I used to have friends but their achievements drove me away. I couldn’t continue pretending I felt the same sense of purpose as they did, or their yearning for husbands, wives and children. I would never associate myself with a man, I couldn’t conceive of sharing my intimate self. I would lose myself. As for children, I would feel guilty bringing them into this world.
As a result I was alone. Not even a cat lady by now. Just an independent individual with a mock sense of purpose. My days were ruled by the television schedule, cooking times for light and improved recipes, laptop battery life and the delicate cycle on my washing machine. Twice a week, I’d enter slots in my calendar for the supermarket delivery man, and the cleaning lady. Once a month, I’d go to the local clinic for my prescription anti-depressants which I pretended to take. I lived off my unemployment allowance, and let my Mum pay my rent.
But I still seemed to have some unrelenting contacts with the outside world. People who’d once been friends; if the term applies. They still called, emailed, sent letters and even knocked at my door. I wouldn’t answer. It wasn’t my place to afflict myself on others. I feared I’d suck the colour out of them too.
But for some reason, that day I took the phone call. I never really questioned my actions, having given up on that infuriating hobby a while ago. Instead I acted on impulse. I was greeted by Maureen’s overly cheerful “hiya hon!”. She made lots of noise about it being my birthday. Delving in to my register of quirks, I picked out the impulsive streak again and acted without thinking. I reminded myself of my mother.
I surprised myself by dressing up for the event. I chose my flowery wrap dress said to suit curvaceous bodies, pairing it up with pink sling backs and a touch of makeup. I was acting completely out of character. But I was acting, I was still in control.
We met up at the local pub and drank. I didn’t eat because I was on a new diet. But I drank white wine. I lost count of the drinks I ingested, but didn’t forget to take my pills. I’d prepared a cocktail of anti-depressants for the evening. I thought I’d go with the celebratory theme. The people in attendance drank as well that evening. And Max drove us home.
As we drove, we passed a series of trees. This leitmotiv of tree-darkness-tree-darkness, made me content. I shut my eyes.

Tuesday 16 February 2010

Red

What I so greatly feared happened. My boyfriend left, and with him he took my red hat.

And not just any hat might I add, the one I kept lying in the bottom of my suitcase; my travel hat. “Why? Did he travel?” asked my grandmother Edith. “No”, I replied “he just left”. It had been a very still night, the ground was still damp from a recent downpour and he and I had eaten bone dry chicken on a bed of dehydrated broccoli. The television was on mute as our incomplete video game stood on standby, and the CD to which I cooked our parched dinner had played its last track. The dishwasher was full and the flowers watered on top of the stagnant water I’d added a few days back. He paced the living room, a wild cat in a caged enclosure, lifting in his wake the dust that had settled and my heart that had not. This silence which feigned comfort was thick with untold storied and unrealized wishes. The man in the room would never reveal his, the woman, however, would break the silence with a trite ‘what’s wrong’? Even the furniture in their 8 * 6’ living box knew the answer. This was a conversation which had been on loop for a while now, always prompted by the evenings settling into nights. He would answer: “What…What’s wrong?”, she would offer: “You know what I mean”, which inevitably ended in: “no, I don’t”. But in tonight’s performance of their scripted three-line scenario, there was a twist. Tonight, he would decide that he did know what she meant, that he felt the same appetite for melodrama as she did. Tonight, he would star in a romantic drama of his making, featuring his monologue. And she would sit and cover her legs with the living room quilt, arrange the remote controls on the sofa by her right thigh in order of size. And he would speak. She would carefully select a strand of hair and slowly roll it around her middle finger, and then, slowly, unroll it. And he would speak. She would reach for her manicure kit and apply her cuticle softener. And he would speak. She would unplug her laptop and open her browser. And he would speak. And then silence. In the second act of tonight’s ‘improv’, he would search for a suitcase to pack his belongings. And she would stand up, concerned. He would reach for his smaller bag, and then decide on hers, bigger. She would stagger towards him in disbelief. And he would speak again, in interjections hurried by his urgent packing. He would pack the essentials as well as his ukulele. She would stare as the ukulele arranged itself on top of a hat in the bag. And he would walk out the door faster than she would catch up. He’d be gone without further words. She’d be left with no memory of the conversation. She would return to her sofa, to the ‘remote’ and the cuticle softener, and the memory of their last trip together, the one where she wore a hat to shield her head from the sun. It was a red hat, she remembered clearly.