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.

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 soufflé, 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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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]

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.

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”.

Lapland's gone missing...

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

If you find her, please bring her back home.

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.

'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

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.

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