You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘earth’ tag.

We had to combine the March challenge with April as we didn’t have enough entries for one month. In the end we received 7 entries all so different that, as our judge D. Krauss said, “Congratulations to all of you, and thanks for letting me play. You are a rather dynamic group of writers, and it was a real pleasure to read y’all’s work.”

The challenge was a simple phrase: ‘Final Morning’ to be completed in 2000 words and the entrants were allowed to interpret that in any way they wished.

Our Judge D. Krauss

Cropped sitting #3

D. Krauss currently resides in the Shenandoah Valley. He’s been a cottonpicker, a sod buster, a surgical orderly, the guy who paints the little white line down the middle of the road, a weatherman, a gun-totin’ door-kickin’ lawman, a layabout, and a bus driver, in that order. Website: http://www.dustyskull.com

These are his picks for the winning stories

First Place

I Object

by Chandan Sen Gupta

“Na’am?” asked the man at the counter. Accustomed to hearing Bahrainis converse with Indians in Hindi, I blurted out my name. “What?” he bellowed. I realized my folly immediately. His query to me was in Arabic. “Oh! I have an appointment for the renewal of my identity card,” I quickly corrected myself.

The sluggish token display system in the bustling waiting hall was no match for the briskly marching digital next to it. I dropped down into one of the few empty chairs, resigning myself to a long wait, and soon my mind drifted back to the March Creative Challenge. In spite of my best efforts I had not been able to frame a story yet.

Why did the prompt have to sound so apocalyptic, I wondered. The Mayans had been proved wrong; the world did not end in 2012. But the hint of a doomsday in the obligatory phrase – Final Morning – unnerved me. Even the cynical Sandeepan, undeniably the most learned among my friends in matters related to the Earth and its environment, had admitted that things were beginning to look up over the last decade or so. “If it is true that the Chloro-Flouro-Carbons blew a hole through the Ozone layer in the Stratosphere, then tell me why it appeared over desolate Antarctica instead of America or Western Europe? After all that is where most of the CFC was coming from,” the non-conformist Ambarish had posed the other evening, after a few pints of beer. “Extreme cold, freezing vortex wind, frozen atmospheric clouds and six months of darkness…” began Sandeepan. “But Professor isn’t the hole showing signs of closing up already?” I asked, cutting the pessimist short. “You must give humanity full marks for initiating the stitching process by choking out the CFCs.” Sandeepan had nodded reluctantly. Even the North Pole ice, which should have vanished by 2013 if the gory predictions on the effect of Green House Gases and Global Warming had proved right, was now showing signs of revival.

I had tried hard but could not get going with the prompt. The perpetual cycle of day and night, the change of seasons and the cycle of life so fascinated me that I refused to see any finality in them or anything else for that matter. After many failed attempts I had, finally, made it to Riffa Fort for a breakfast last Saturday. But there was nothing final about it. I wanted to go there again and gaze at the country side at the foot of the “Rimrock” – through the windows in its watch tower – just like the ruler Sheikh Salman Bin Ahmad Al Fatah once did.

Last week, while leafing though the newspaper at a coffee shop, a fellow writer let out a whoop and claimed triumphantly that he had, at last, found a thread to the story. “Americans see Blood Red Moon,” I saw the screaming headlines. “A presage to the Armageddon,” he declared, framing an imaginary title in the air. “But its occurrence can be explained though elementary Physics,” I protested. He frowned at me for being a spoilsport. “I know that, but Physics can’t make a good story.”

“Are you sure it is not “Final Mourning?” Sukanya tried to help me out with an alternative approach, yesterday. “Err….but is there a preliminary mourning as well? You die only once, is it not?” Now I was more confused and distressed than ever. “A coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant….” “Please Sukanya, not Shakespeare again. Give me a cue to the March Creative Challenge,” I begged. “Get your laptop out and start pecking away at the keys. You’ll soon be there,” she counseled and breezed out of the room.

A call on my mobile distracted me. “Good morning Sir, this is Tolby.” The name failed to ring a bell with me. “Tolby who?” I asked. “Tolby, from the Holiday Club, Sir. You became our member last night, remember?” “Ah yes, I do. Go on Tolby.” There was no way I could forget the chap. “What are your hobbies?” he had asked, as we took our seats for the presentation the previous evening. “I used to have one when I was about your age. But not any longer.” Penetrating through my defenses wasn’t going to be easy for him, he realized. “You look tired. Are you just back from work?” he enquired, the smile never leaving his face. “Hmm,” I nodded. “How many children do you have, Sir?” he asked again, trying a different approach to pry me open. Before I could utter a word, Mita had given him not only the answer to his query but also a brief bio-data of Ankur and Rinky. From them on he directed all the, seemingly, lucrative club membership and vacation schemes at my wife, realizing that she was the key to open my impregnable guard. “Imagine staying at the best resorts in town absolutely free for the next fifteen weeks, once you have become a member of the Holiday Club,” he said after taking us on a virtual tour of the world – from South East Asia to Europe and America. “But your membership fees account for eleven of those fifteen years,” I pointed out, after a quick mental calculation. “We also have the club facilities that come as a bonus,” he came back promptly. I looked at Mita. Her wistful eyes suggested that she was already in far away Thailand or Malaysia.

“Congratulations Sir, for this wonderful gift to your family. I hope you are feeling better now,” Tolby had said, shaking my hand at the end of the signing of the contract. For the first time that evening the smile on his face looked genuine. God knew who was, actually, feeling better. “Yeah, thanks for showing the way,” I said and turned around. “I thought you mentioned that last year’s world tour was a let down,” I asked Mita as we drove back home. “Yes but we can’t go to Mars, can we?” she remarked. I joined her in the laughter. It was true – a man’s happiness lay in the contentment of his wife.

“Sir, I called to remind you of the photographs that we require for your membership cards,” Tolby said over the phone. “I’ll be there tonight with those,” I said. “Thanks, have a good day, Sir.”

“What is your token number?” asked the security guard, looking down at me as I switched off the mobile. “1090.” “Come tomorrow, 1095 is already at the service desk,” he pointed toward the display on the wall. “Uh! Oh!” I mumbled. The tortoise had finally caught up with the sleeping hare and gone past him. “But how..” I started to protest. “Don’t worry, I was joking,” laughed the guard. “Go next.”

While returning home after work that afternoon, I prayed for clear roads. It had been a backbreaking day at the office and getting bogged down in the weekend traffic could finish me off. On my first day at the Driving School in Isa Town, ten years ago, the Traffic Instructor had posed to the trainees, “What is the major cause of bottlenecks on Bahrain’s roads?” “Saudi Drivers?” a girl suggested innocently. Though the Instructor had roundabouts in his mind, everyone saw her point. As luck would have it, I ran into a snarl at the mouth of Exhibition Road. The lights turned green, then amber and finally red but the traffic remained as static as ever. When, after an agonizing wait of fifteen minutes, the vehicles started moving again, I saw my path blocked by a gleaming Volkswagon Beetle. I risked annoying the others and honked, but the car did not budge. In despair, I watched the lights go back to red. When I finally managed to maneuver past the stranded car, the reason behind its immobility became clear- the exhausted driver had fallen asleep at the wheel!

“Let’ walk down to Exhibition Road and get some Samosas for a snack,” suggested Mita, as I entered the house. “Not a bad idea,” I concurred with her. The sight of young men playing cricket next to our building always enthused me. On most Friday mornings, the sound of their strokes woke me up from sleep. It was wonderful to see Indians, Pakistanis and Baluchis forget their national rivalries and enjoy the game together. Further down the road, we passed the footballers in their brightly coloured jerseys, deeply engrossed in their game. I loved the vibrancy in the air. My program for Friday was already planned – an early morning visit to the heritage buildings along the Pearl Route in Muharraq and a tour of the Al Areen Wild Life Park later in the afternoon. My work load over the next two months, to achieve the project milestones, was substantial, but the thought of the week long trip to the exotic Caribbean islands after that thrilled me no end. How I wished this life would continue forever.

The bleep on my mobile notified me of an email. It was a reminder from Rohini for the March Challenge. My mind was made up. I would write back saying that this prompt was not for me, may there never be a final morning.

2nd Place

Another Long Journey Home

by Gordon Simmonds

Excerpts from the Memoirs of an Industrial Mercenary.

I was thirty something and working as a technician in Saudi Arabia. In accordance with the contract, I only got home to Ireland for two weeks every four months. My employers in Saudi gave us the cost of an air fare direct to the UK in cash, which allowed us the opportunity to book our own flights, and if we could find a cheaper route, we could pocket the difference. It’s hard to believe now, but I must have been more resilient in those days, because the cheapest route I could find was Dhahran to Bahrain, Bahrain to Kuwait, Kuwait to Heathrow, Heathrow to Belfast. I presume it must have been Kuwaiti Airlines because the key condition was that I must travel via Kuwait.

I’m not sure what year this took place but I guess 1977/78 and the weather was fine and sunny although it was not summer. The trip home was long but uneventful and I spent the vacation with my parents in Ireland. On the return, I chose to have a stop-over in London so that I could stay overnight with my brother and his family in Essex on my way back to Saudi.

My flight from Heathrow to Kuwait was at eleven o’clock in the morning, so it was very early and I am almost ready to leave for the three hour journey to Heathrow when there was a knock on the door. Hard to imagine these days, but without a word of a lie, there, on the doorstep were two uniformed policemen. They asked if they could talk to Gordon Simmonds. When I identified myself, they went on to say “We have just received a phone call from your mother to say that your brother hasn’t got a phone so she can’t contact you. She wants you to know that there is a rail strike today and there will be no trains running”. Just that. I thanked them and away they went.

Oh dear, this was going to be tricky. In my usual delinquent fashion, the time I had allowed was adequate but with little room for error. In my defence, I had just spent four months in the desert and two weeks in Ireland, and was totally out of touch with the situation in England. Anyway; my brother didn’t have a car, so straight away I contacted a car hire company……. and another, then another. There was not a car to be had in the whole of Southend. Obviously, everyone knew about the strike – except me.

I’m panicking now. What little spare time I had allowed was gone, so at the cost of an arm and a leg, I called a taxi. At least I was on my way – but not for long. We had barely got out of town when we hit the queue….. forty miles of it. Every commuter who normally went to London by train was on this road – we could have walked it quicker. However, after hours of travelling at a snail’s pace, we got to the airport. Breathless and exhausted I arrived at the check-out with ten minutes to spare whereupon, “Sorry sir. You are too late, the gate is closed.” I begged, I pleaded, I claimed extenuating circumstances. I even appealed to higher authority, but to no avail – the gate was closed, the plane had gone.

OK then. Plan B… Except there was no plan B. So I invented one.

I found out that the next flight to the Gulf was British Airways to Doha leaving around midnight. From there it was only a short hop to Kuwait. In those days there were only two types of passenger, first class and the rest, and a ticket was transferable. The fact that I don’t remember having to pay extra, suggests that I must have been able to use the existing ticket. Otherwise that would only have added insult to injury, and I wouldn’t have forgotten that.

Anyway I’m booked on the flight and I’ve got twelve hours to wait. Then, as now, airports are the most soul destroying places on earth. Nowhere comfortable to sit, nothing to do, and a mortgage required for food and drink. After reading the daily paper from cover to cover and doing all the puzzles, midnight arrived; at which point the message came up on the notice board, “flight delayed”. Two hours later, we started to board. The captain came on the intercom “Sorry about the delay ladies and gentlemen, but if you look out of the left hand window, you will see that this three engined plane now has four engines”. He went on to explain that a Trident was grounded in Doha with engine problems and needed a new one, so they had bolted a spare one on the outside of the wing. This was a novel excuse but sure enough, there were two engines on the left wing and only one on the right. Perhaps they could now call it a Quadrant and I’ve claimed the bragging rights ever since.

We took off and I adopted my usual travelling procedure and was fast asleep before the plane left the ground. Waking only for meals, we got to the gulf six hours later, at which point the pilot came on the intercom and said “Sorry ladies and gentlemen, but there is thick fog in Doha and we are having to divert to Abu Dhabi”. Plan B was looking decidedly flawed, since this now meant I would miss my connecting flight to Kuwait.

I’d been travelling for twenty four hours when we landed at Abu Dhabi and after a while in transit, the fog cleared in Doha and we continued the flight. As expected, my connecting flight to Kuwait was long gone, but with the consolation that there was another later that day. Another interminable wait and then off to Kuwait which by now was in darkness. Now you might be forgiven for thinking that the journey was nearly over – no such luck. My next connecting flight to Bahrain had also gone.

Kuwait airport was under renovation and the transit lounge had plastic sheeting for windows. As I’ve already stated, I’m not sure what time of year this was, but it was either early spring or late autumn because it was cold. I spent a very uncomfortable night shivering whilst trying to sleep spread out across three or four plastic seats. Next morning, I finally got the flight to Bahrain. By the time we arrived I had been travelling for forty eight hours. I must have had to wait all day for a flight into Dhahran, because it was dark again when we landed. Passport control and customs was always slow in Dhahran, so I made sure that I was among the first to get off, and reached passport control at the front of the queue. I presented my well-worn passport to the official and he flicked through the pages, and again, and again. He looked up at me and said “mafi visa” (no visa) and waved me away in that peremptory fashion typical of Arab officials. Stunned, I too flicked through the pages, and again, and sure enough the passport was full and there was no entry visa.

At this point I must tell you that Saudi visas took up a full page of a passport, and flicking through, it was easy to count the visas……. entry, exit, entry etc. until the last page which was exit. What had happened was that the visa office had stamped the exit visa, but couldn’t add the re-entry visa because there were no more pages – and then decided not tell anyone. Eventually one of the airline staff was brought over and I was duly escorted back to the plane I came in on. Next stop Bahrain.

After travelling non-stop for so long, the next few days were something of a blur to me and I remember little of the detail. I took a taxi to a hotel; I don’t know what or where and fell into a dreamless sleep. Now here I must digress to explain that British Embassies are there for the sole purpose of providing a palatial edifice for the residence of the ambassador. Any British citizen in need of help is merely an unwanted distraction to the main business of entertaining rich dignitaries.

My first obstacle to getting into the place was the man on the gate; an unshaven local employee who made it obvious that I was a nuisance and had the cheek to interrogate me as to my intentions. Eventually I got through to a room that looked like a bank, but not so posh. I queued for ages and when I got to the window, I had to go through all the interrogation rigmarole again; looking back now, I realise that I never saw or spoke to an English person throughout the whole sorry time. I was told to come back the next day. I suppose I ought to have been grateful for such a quick turn-around – but at the time, I wasn’t.

Next day was a similar story at the Saudi Embassy. Again, it was come back next day, and again, I should have been grateful, but again, I wasn’t. Eventually, armed with a shiny new passport and another full page visa, I was able to board a flight for the short fifteen minute hop to Dhahran. Six days after I started this journey, I got home and back to work.

3rd Place

Final Morning

by Michelle Schultz

We are withholding Michelle’s story as she is developing it further.

Congratulations everyone!

Other Entries!

Continuing on from last time – with the permission of the writers I am placing a few of the other entries. Please leave your comments so we know what your take is on the stories! The stories are listed in no particular order of preference.

Nancy the Servant

by Noor Nass

It was 1930, when Nancy was cleaning the balcony and placing some lavender flowers on the balcony of the house. Everyone called it Al Jara at that time.

She hears a man entering the door, with his pondering footsteps. The servant who was a part-time maid whispered to her: ” Is it that English man again, the one I spoke to you earlier about”

“What was his name- oh yes, D A I LY. Sargent D A I L Y. Looks like – they found something in those field digs that you heard earlier about, dear Nancy”

Nancy responded to her coworker ” sounds like a break through”

Colonel Daily responded to the servants with a hiss ” is that English I hear?”

“Yes sir!” As Nancy & her co-worker bowed down with respect, and continued cleaning up the Jara house, with what looked like a mopping stick made from palm leaves.

Colonel Daily – with merely a whisper ” we found it, we found it” mumbling with joy to his spirit. “Where is he?” Questioning what looked like a soft physique yogurt skin young lady at an age of 19 years young, that was so focused on cleaning.

” Who sire? ” – Nancy’s Co-worker responded, with thick Gramanic English accent, as she was old.

They might assume that you are an Anglo-Norman, some say.

Nancy responded to DAILY directly “ over their – Sargent!”

As her Majesty enters through the door, “Well, of course – you mean my dear husband,” the Queen enters to the living room bows her head down with respect to the Sargent DAILY as the guest of the day. While, signaling a sign language of dismissal to the servants, so they can receive their signal to leave the room & carry on their house duties or chores.

” Who, are you looking for Sargent Daily, and please be quick & specific” as his highness Prince of the Arabs has been given you enough of his time following the events you handled on some English nonsense.

My dear Queen ” it is time, to inform the Prince of the awaited result”

” We found it, the first Arab dig of Oil ” it is the first in the region it is unbelivable.

The Queen directly ordered the servants back again and firmly spoke to them by saying, “call your Majesty directly and interrupt his Ottoman phone call.”

The events that took place after that shifted rapidly, in the Sheikh and his people lifestyle and economical situation. The Delmonia that they once knew has transformed itself to a considerable important hub, of national and international affairs in the oil industry of the 1930’s of the 20the century.

Delmonia became an export and import of international affairs, which allowed them to invite new neighboring bloods, to take over hand on jobs. While, the people of Delmonia- transformed themselves to a desk job. In order for them, to delegate future aspirations, and environmental security and economical welfare of prosperity. Wealth found it’s way hidden among them again.

These were the days of how life changed, outside the Palace of Al Jara.

As the days ends at the palace, Nancy picks up herself and finds her way out to the awaited carriage, to be driven by the escorted mule to what sounds like a muddy road of pouring rain.

All of a sudden the mule begins to make a sound, and stops to what seemed like a nearby village.

It’s up north from the Palace, and it took Nancy and her carriage some 45 minutes, until arrival. Due, to the darkness with dim lightning’s.

The village was made of five houses placed next to each other, to resemble a neighborhood.

Each house was made from dried palm trees leave and felt very natural as in part of nature.

Nancy stepped down of the carriage and walked to her home alone house of palms, that within her she always dreamed of a different of prosperity.

It was made of 4 bed rooms and a palm rug. In the hallway!

Originally, Nancy’s mother – was brought down by an English navigator from the ports of Phoenicia.

Her mother was a common country girl, which lived in an upper scale society. She fell in love with a man outside her family circles. The neighbors say, he was an English or French man – that they were not quiet sure about. Due, to the newly introduced – world order back than.

No one knew the true identity of the carrier. As Nancy’s mother, kept it a secret and took the first exit trip on port to a country they called Delmonia for a fresh water start.

There, she gave birth to her daughter at the Path hospital and she named her daughter Nancy, in relevance to a nurse nun that delivered her first baby.

Nancy’s mother was a brilliant dancer and enjoyed life at the night clubs that thy called Malahi. Arwa never understood why some men never enjoyed whisky and gin and strip dancing for clients that paid substantially good amounts.

But, the changing world was coming and Arwa had to stop what she was and settle down with a Muslim man. As the custom of Delmonia was known to be a savior and not a lover.

Arwa loved him dearly, and never understood the world of the laws. And Adnan never knew that she was the best thing that happened in his life. Soon after she passed away, from the Collaria Mosquito – leaving Nancy at the age of 5 years old with Adnan as her step father.

And that is how Nancy was brought up in Delmoni in the 1920’s by a man named Adnan that taught her how to read, write and type on a type writer in English broken grammar as their mother language.

By the age of 15 Nancy found her first job as servant in al Jara and Adnan as her stepfather, moved out to settle with his new wife from a country called Yamen Eden.

When Sergeant DAILY left the house, after his meetings with the Sheikh, all he can think about was Nancy.

Her soft spoken dialect with sweet respect to her Majesty the Queen made him want to keep Nancy all for himself, as a luxury of a hard days work.

Back in the village Nancy began wondering how life would have been if she was ever married.

Pretending that God left her all alone in this world.

Well, off she goes again as her next door neighbor watches her clean the palm rug from the dust and fix the lanterns for reading time in the dark. While supper is boiling, of sweet potatoes, spinach and lentil beads.

All of a sudden she smells smoke – oh no the house is burning. She grabs her necklace and runs to the neighbors. Her neighbor tried to calm her down and made her go to bed directly.

And one final morning as Nancy wakes up and walks outside of her gorgeous savior neighbor’s house, only to find her palm house smashed with mud and charcoal smoke. That covered the whole area of the village with what looked like a black mist of smoky palm leaves. All the neighbors began sobbing and were just thankful that it was the other nigh of element of nature. Due, to the heavy rain that washed away her burned home by Hooligan Thugs out of revenge of someone.

She couldn’t capture what to think or feel at that moment, because she loved him and feared him. Luckily she did not understand authority and how series they are for those that commit to them.

She can see that authority walking right towards on a fine morning day. Sargent DAILY walks beside her and, gets down on his knees and proposes to Nancy. While, she has tears streaming down of her eyes of what was lost of hard days work. She responded back to him, I do not know what to say, as the answer will not please you ears or your mouth alone. I already asked your father, and he gave me my yes. Can you give me yours?

– End –

Prisoner # 42114

by Noor AlNoaimi

Metal sounds echoed in a random but rhythmic hymn of dread. Their steely dank prison was a cluster of square rooms, divided by bars, parted by a slim corridor that slithered past them towards the stairs beyond to the faint light there- Freedom. Teasing their eyesight, yet it was elusive, away, like the air they breathed yet could not touch.

Christopher was in his last days, no longer did he dream like the young men around him, of a home and a wife, of money and fame, of dark deeds done in the night, of continued debauchery, of crimes that were yet left uncommitted jailed as they were.

Murmurs, curses, rotten oaths that bounced off their lips like breath, so commonly said, weightless towards the passing guards that strolled past their bars. He sat there, his empty eyes upon the sight of the free man of the law beyond him, whistling his tune as if the sight of the fallen men around him was a delight.

“You’re up next, Columbus!” Cooed the officer beyond his bars, and for a moment he did not realize the words were to him, he had long ago forgotten his name, the famed surname he carried was exchanged for prisoner number 42114, plastered upon his mucked uniform right against his heart.

“For what?” Snapped his younger neighbor, another prisoner of the metal chambers.

” Just a quick poke in the head, he wouldn’t even have to stand.”

Some gasped, some laughed, others stared in plain horror for that same cruelty might turn to them next.

His neighbour did not go on in his show of defiance, he stepped back, starred at the warden then glanced towards him, Christopher, at a loss for words.

 I will be dead soon. His numb mind predicted, just as the lone officer passed him still humming cheerfully, his glazed hollow eyes stared at the man of the law, swaying up the stairs in good cheer, as if such an event was a jovial one, perhaps it was. He had not led a good life, not in the least. He had smuggled more than any of these common folk dreamed of, he had leached enough to have limitless fortunes overseas, and even more in his motherland.

But it was no use, for they were blocked away, banished from him just like the lifestyle he used to lead, he was now an exile of that life, a nothing, a figment of the man he had been, a loser; and losers always ended up in these situations.

The echoed voices of the men around him carried on, checked ‘Boom’ explosions into the dreadful present, their faces would glance his way, men leaned against their barred cells to talk to the occupants of the next one, “Who was he?”

“Used to be some big shot in New York.”

“Millions! They said he stole it all.”

“How did he do that?”

All eyes settled on him, killers eyed him, assessed him from the top of his white head, to the tips of his chipped shoes. Their disturbing smirks, daggers into his long dead pride, perhaps gleeful that one of those rich show offs was first in line, in what un-doubtfully be their fate too. Younger delinquents looked to him in awe, stricken that they did not know more of the quiet old man that was to die, Others who have witnessed such things did not bat an eye, relics of the place much like the bars behind him, a cool reminder of that the discomfort he felt now would only be temporary, it would all end soon.

Christopher Columbus was a man of very few words; he kept to himself, took a seat at the corner and did not make eye contact with the rest of them. He would look at times but his eyes would blink them out of focus in a moment, it was clear to all of them that he did not want any attachments, and for a cell of emotionally challenged cons that was easy enough, they left him to his solitude, ignored him. For who would care about numb old 42114? Nobody did until now, until death came with the timely proclamation that he was to be jolted and poked until he was gone from this world.

He stared ahead, his startling blue eyes now paler than they’d ever been, his head of fine blonde hair turned shades of white and grey, he was dying as it was, his very body shrinking towards the ground, it did not matter if it was tomorrow or the next, death would come, swift or slow, it will come.

The light around him snapped off, the whispers around him ceased and he closed his eyes for a moment, welcoming the dark.

Next he opened them, it was morning, the metal sounds returned, banging upon the rusty bars of the cells, it was like any other day really, except this time the clanking stopped with him, they opened the bars, and in walked the warden, the same man from yesterday, his hand clasped his belt, his eyes black pools in the dim lighting.

“Stand up, Columbus…Its gonna be over soon.” He said.

Christopher stood, though his knees were wobbly, his step unbalanced, the two officers behind the warden held him by his arms, pulling him out of his dank cell and adjusting his wrists to the hand cuffs they had.

“Like he’s a threat!” Chuckled one of the cons on the opposite side of him.

“ Smooth sailing, Mr. C”

“Bye bye, Mr. C”

“God bless.”

The array of their masculine voices echoed behind him, young and old, deep and boyish, mocking and kind.

But his mouth was mute to reply, he felt heavy as they made him walk the steps towards the elusive light, the effects on his eyes was devastating, for it wasn’t the sun or the stars but fluorescents, rectangular blocks of lightening that blinded him. He squinted, then closed his eyes for a moment as he was led away, letting them take him to the dreaded beyond.

The chill, dark, even dampness of the air, he could smell his own sweat, his hair matted like a pampered dog out in the sun for too long.

“Here we are.” Came the warden’s voice as he banged the white doors open, walking him over to the metal seat at the center of the room.

“You may stand aside, Fin.” Said an accented voice in a masterful tone.

Christopher dared to open his eyes now, the haunting lights made everything look green and sallow, or perhaps it was his own vision that did that.

Behind the long table beyond him, sat three individuals all wearing similar black suits, their frames broad and slim, their eyes held his in an assessing manner, the papers in front of them signified one thing.

He was a job, a workload they wanted to get done and over with. They did not care for his history; they did not care for his past, nothing more than to get him in a grave soon enough to indulge in their morning coffee.

Their voices recounted his wrong doings, his crimes, reasons that had put him into such an existence; reasons for the death he was about to experience.

He stared at their lips, the numbness slowly began to leave him, while the officers exchanged the metal cuffs for the leathered ones to bind his wrists onto the chair’s arms, his neck was also bound against the metal back of the chair, his head too, forced upon with that ominous bondage, wires hung around him in a deathly sway, murderous trappings for prisoner 42114.

“…Following the decree of the condemned, we hereby order to initiate the execution.”

“Any last words?” They asked in union.

Hot saliva snaked his mouth, his gaze blurred a thousand versions of them, and to his aged eyes, they did not look three at all, more like a hundred demons gliding up to meet his helpless gaze to ask that malicious question.

Last words? His brain repeated, an empty echo through his bare mind.

“ Any Last words, 42114?” They asked again, impatience in their tone.

“My name-“ He rasped, “My name is Christopher.” His voice sounded weak, and low so he said it again. “My name is Christopher…”

“We know that, Mr. Columbus. Will that be all?”

“ My name is Christopher.” He repeated. “My name is Christopher.

Again and again he said it, his discarded tongue speaking after much silence, the one truth he knew of his life, his name.

“Commence.” Said the man at the centre, his tone even, still masterful.

The lights around him turned red, purple, yellow…radiant colours that jolted his brain a thousand times over, the electric shots that went through him, burned and chilled him, smoke ensued and he could smell his own burnt flesh in the air, charred skin over fire.

Then it all stopped, his breath caught.

He longed for the sun, the empty sky that so resembled his eyes, but he did not see calm blue, no he saw black, jarring black, peering into his pupils.

“Still breathing!” Barked the warden to the distant corner, obviously to the one responsible for the deadly contraption that would lead to his undoing.

It did not take long for the colours to come back, the smell to return, the breathlessness to continue. The jolts intensified, shaking him a million times a minute, the stabs of the laced wires pulled his soul away, scorched his body until once more it turned dark.

Black, just like the eyes of the warden, emotionless black beads that stared into his.

“There has been a mistake.” The devil whispered.

Christopher’s gaze widened, he looked around him, it was the same room, the same dark fluorescent lighting, but there was no one else, he was alone.

“ Unfortunately, I cannot remedy your death.” The devil went on in that disturbing whisper.

Christopher stared, speechless, shivering at the news the creature spoke to him.

“You were an innocent…a little more than a common thief. I’ve had Pedophiles, Killers, rapists. A lot more deserving of this than you…yet here you are.”

Where am I? He wanted to ask but his teeth were bared down against each other, his mouth immobile to utter a sentence to the menacing face of Satan.

“Lets make a deal.” The devil continued a clawed finger emerged, black and menacing from his oversized fist. “I will let you walk away from the hell I represent if you do this…”

The faces he last saw before he left the world were around him, emotionless as they bore down their gazes at his body, none blinked as they touched his charred flesh, nor did they whisper a prayer for his sake, none cared to.

“Revenge?” The devil murmured against his ear, the vowels he spoke slurred in a song that touched his consciousness, he was under his spell, a deviant urge to rise and kill someone, specifically the men that put him to his doom so unjustly.

“Yes…”He rasped in the dark.

 -End-

 

Advertisements

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Richard Godwin

Our judge for the 4th Creative Writers’ challenge of this year, was born in London and obtained a BA and MA in English and American Literature from King’s College London, where he also lectured. He is also a published poet and a produced playwright. His stories have been published in over 29 anthologies, among them his anthology of stories, Piquant: Tales Of The Mustard Man. You can find out more about him at his website www.richardgodwin.net, where you can also read his Chin Wags At The Slaughterhouse, his highly popular and unusual interviews with other authors.

Richard is the author of critically acclaimed novels Apostle Rising, Mr. Glamour and One Lost Summer.

One Lost Summer is a Noir story of fractured identity and ruined nostalgia. It is a psychological portrait of a man who blackmails his beautiful next door neighbour into playing a deadly game of identity, and is available at all good retailers and online here.

Apostle Rising is a dark work of fiction exploring the blurred line between law and lawlessness and the motivations that lead men to kill. It digs into the scarred soul of a cop in the hunt for a killer who has stepped straight from a nightmare into the waking world. It is available here

Mr. Glamour is about a world of wealthy, beautiful people who can buy anything, except safety from the killer in their midst. It is about two scarred cops who are driven to acts of darkness by the investigation. As DCI Jackson Flare and DI Mandy Steele try to catch the killer they find themselves up against a wall of secrecy. And the killer is watching everyone. It is available here.

His fourth novel, Noir City, will be published next year in English and Italian by Atlantis. In it a Gigolo seduces the wife of a Mafia boss and is hunted across Europe.

Thank you Richard for that background information and a new addition to our manner of posting our monthly challenges.

The prompt for our October Challenge was:

While preparing your garden at the beginning of spring, you find the blueprints for your house buried in the earth. When you pull it out and examine it, you find that there is a room in the blueprint that doesn’t exist in your house. Both disturbed and intrigued, you set off to find the missing room. Write what happens next?

There was a slight change if someone wanted to base the story in Bahrain and that was that the blueprints could be found in some location other than ‘buried in the earth’ such as at the back of a shelf, in a box anywhere. The rest was left up to their imaginations. The word count was for 2000 words and all our entrants stayed well within the specified limit. Congratulations to our winners.

The following were selected as our winners:

In 1st Place we have Rebecca Young

Congratulations, Rebecca you’ve won first place for the third time!

THE MASTER PLAN

They had seen a dozen villas that day, but when the realtor showed Kate and Matt the Paradise Palms development, they were sold. It was a huge, new development, still under construction. It aimed to be the premier housing destination for young, hip families in the Kingdom of Bahrain.

Paradise Palms had everything on their wish list. It was huge, a labyrinth of quiet streets- all named for exotic flowers. Sidewalks lined every street, perfect for morning jogs, weekend bike rides and nightly strolls with Ella, who was almost 2.

At the front and center was the heart of the development, the clubhouse. The clubhouse included a playroom, a mini-theater, a conference room, a spacious workout room and a party space. Outside was a huge pool, chilled in the summer, heated in the winter, a nice lawn area with two picnic gazebos, a large playground and some tennis courts.

“I love all this! Just think, we’ll be able to entertain here. You’ll be able to play doubles, maybe there will be a playgroup for Ella. It will be perfect,” said Kate. The villa they decided to lease was several curved streets away from these amenities, on Hibiscus Lane, tucked away in a quiet corner of one of the first phases. Kate loved it because it had a larger yard and there would be less traffic.

“It will still be a while before Ella’s riding her bike around,” remarked Matt. “But it will be perfect when she is older.”

The development was brand new and over half of it was under construction. The empty streets with shells of houses in various stages of construction were a little eerie, another reason they chose their villa, on a street farther along the path to completion. A large empty space was kitty-corner from their villa.

“I’m sure it will be built up soon now that the economy is picking up,” assured the realtor.

So the couple signed the lease and in less than a week, they moved from their hotel into the villa. Their house was five bedrooms, which had seemed a little excessive for the three of them. Just more spaces to furnish. But one could serve as an office for Matt and the other could be a playroom for Ella, even though her room really was large enough for all her toys.

Given a generous furniture allowance from Matt’s company, Kate enjoyed outfitting the house. Their shipment came less than a month later. It was providential; Ella had become bored with the small selection of toys they had brought in the carry-ons. And Kate was feeling so homesick for her family pictures, their throws and pillows, her owl-shaped kitchen timer; homesick for all those touches that transform a house into a home. Once they were unpacked and carefully placed, Kate finally felt settled in. Just like that, Villa 264 was home.

“I love living here,” remarked Matt, coming home sweaty from some early morning doubles.

“It is paradise,” said Kate.

The only fly in the ointment was the fact that the development seemed to screech to a standstill. Partially completed villas remained unfinished and no new ground was broken. The empty parcels of dusty earth drove Kate crazy. Especially the lot kitty corner across the street, because all that empty expanse of dirt blew across the street and into her house, sneaking in through the gaps and windows. A fine layer of sand coated everything, her counters, the floor, the fruit in the fruit bowl.

They had lived in Paradise Palms for nine months when Kate had to go to the development’s main office to register their new car for a security sticker. She had walked there, with Ella in tow, asleep in her stroller.

“Hello? Anyone here?” Kate asked as she pushed her stroller through the door. She walked over to the desk, where the secretary, Jeanie, had left a note that read: “Out to lunch, back at 2 p.m.”

Since it was a quarter till two and Ella was still asleep, Kate decided to just wait in the office. She sat down and picked up one of the complementary magazines. She quickly discovered she had already read this issue of Bahrain Confidential. Bored, she looked around the office.

Across the room, one wall was covered in a huge poster, an artists rendering of the aerial view of Paradise Palms. It was a little difficult to decipher at first, but Kate oriented herself and was able to see just how large and ambitious the development was.

While looking at the rendering, Kate spotted several features in the master plan that were not yet built. There was supposed to be a small mosque and cold store in the southeast corner, by Gate Two. Over off of what appeared to be Magnolia, there was supposed to be a play structure in an empty lot. And there, on Hibiscus Lane, just kiddie-corner from their place, was another park. The artist had chosen to illustrate this with swings, a play structure with a good-size slide and some monkey bars.

“This will be fantastic for Ella!” Kate said to herself. “I hope they get to it sooner than later.”

Just then Jeanie walked in, back from lunch and started cooing over Ella, who woke up when the door banged open. She secured the car tag and dreamed the whole walk back of their own playground, just across the street.

“Guess what?” she asked Matt that night. “There is going to be a park across the street from our house in that empty lot!”

“If they ever get around to it,” was his pessimistic reply.

Month after month Kate watched the lot, dreaming of the fabulous play space Ella would have, just a stone’s throw away from the house. They could go there every day, not worrying about bringing along water bottles and snacks and worrying about bathroom timing, because they could just dash home and dash back. As Ella got older, she might be able to play there herself while Kate watched her from her front porch or while puttering around in their garden. It would be perfect.

They had gone to Dubai for a long holiday weekend and when they returned late at night, Kate noticed some construction vehicles had arrived while they were away.

“Oh look, they are going to work on the park,” she remarked to Matt as they were hauling the suitcases inside.

But shortly after midnight, stadium lights flooded their bedroom and the deafening sound of idling semis filled their house, punctuated here and there by back-up beeps, revving engines and bang-clanks.

“What on earth?” said Matt, going to the window to investigate. “I don’t think they are building a park, babe.”

“You think?” she quipped, crossly. Just then Ella woke up and came to sleep with them. They passed an awful night, trying to block out the sound and light. Finally at 6 a.m., the noise knocked off, just in time for Matt to wake up and get ready for work. Kate tried to stay in bed with a restless Ella, but figured going back to bed for maybe another hour until Ella woke up just wasn’t worth it.

“What do you suppose they were doing?” she asked Matt. “Drilling an oil well. Only thing it can be. I’ll ask Bob, he might know,” he answered. “But I doubt they’re finished. We better brace ourselves for another night.” Matt’s words turned out to be prophetic. It wasn’t just another night, it was two and a half weeks of drilling. Kate put up blackout curtains on top of their shades and ran fans at night to try to block out some of the noise, but they were still on edge and exhausted by the end. The drilling always started late and night and finished just after the first call to prayer.

“Why, oh why, does it have to be at night?”

“Something about the gases and it being cooler. And Bob said if we ever hear an alarm, that means they hit this poisonous, odorless gas they run into some time. He said we need to go to the roof right away until it dissipates.”

“So there is a chance they could hit a gas that could kill us and they didn’t think to warn us?” Kate was incredulous.

“Hey, it is paying for our lifestyle and we drive a car. We have no room to complain about a little oil well,” said David. Kate stuck her tongue out at him, which she knew was childish but it made her feel better.

Kate stewed over the oil well the whole time. Ella was crabby due to the lack of sleep, then got sick, so they were housebound. From her room, Kate could see the cranes parked, the equipment at the ready for another night of drilling. She kept thinking about how that was supposed to be her park! Ella’s park. Were they going to still fit a park in front of the well? That was the main selling point of Paradise Palms after all: the green spaces and the parks, not dirt lots, construction noise and oil wells. Finally one day, all fired up, Kate decided to walk over to the development’s main office and get to the bottom of things. Thankfully, Ella crashed out in the stroller the minute they turned the corner.

Jeanie greeted her, “How can I help you today?”

“Hi. I want to know why they are drilling an oil well across the street from my house?” asked Kate.

“You must live off of Hibiscus. We have been getting some complaints, but they are approaching the end of the construction, right on track, within the 20 day estimate.”

“Yes, but why is there an oil well there?” asked Kate.

“Because there is oil there?” said Jeanie, puzzled.

“Obviously, but I thought it was supposed to be a park!”

“Oh no. Oil well. Not a park. But we have a lovely park just off of Orchid and of course there is the one right out here.

“But on the master plan, it shows one right across the street from us,” said Kate, trying to be patient.

“Oh, that thing?” said Jeanie, looking at the wall. “That was before we got government approval for our plans. That was the sales pitch to investors. Not a real master plan.”

“But why do you have it up then, if it isn’t what the development is actually like?”

Jeanie shrugged. “It looks nice. And it would have been nice if we could have done all that. See how much bigger the clubhouse and park are on there? And see the third gate there? And this extra bit of walking trail? You have to dream big, then scale back. It is still a nice development. Just a pity about the oil well. But it should be done and dusted soon enough.”

“Yes, a pity,” said Kate, feeling foolish. The differences were glaringly obvious now that Jeanie pointed them out. “Well, thank you.”

She took the sleeping Ella back home. When she got to her villa, she turned to the lot, where the oil pump stood, partially installed.

“Khalas,” she sighed. “Not a park.” Kate was grateful Ella didn’t realize she’d been cheated out of slides, swings and a jungle gym. She thought about some of the other wells she had seen. Once in a while, they would paint them like giraffes, zebras or birds. “Hmmm… I wonder what it would take to get them to paint it?”

And with that, she went inside, put Ella down for a nap and got online to look for play structures for their back yard.

In 2nd Place we have Simi Kamboj

Congratulations, Simi once again you’re a winner!

THE ROOM OF BEGINNINGS

We are withholding Simi’s story at her request as she is developing it further.

In 3rd Place we have Kelli Horner

Congratulations, Kelli! This was your first challenge and we look forward to more stories in the future.

THE BLUEPRINTS

“I’m not your gardener!” I moaned as my mom handed me the gloves and a shovel.  It was the first day of summer and I’d just finished my freshman year of college.  I needed a couple of days to de-stress before my summer job as a camp counsellor started.

But mom had other ideas.  Apparently, she missed the free manual labour I provided, pre-college.  She decided that it was time to say goodbye to the old apple tree in the backyard, the one that had been slowly dying since I was in diapers.

She smiled a sweet smile, kissed my head and gently shoved me out the door.

“I’ll bring you some sweet tea in a bit, dear!” she promised, shutting the door.  I knew she planned to spend the day in her sewing room, working on a hand-made wedding dress she had been hired to make.  She was going to make $10,000 for this one job, which was why I had to be the one to uproot the apple tree- she couldn’t risk hurting her hands.

Grumbling, I marched towards the tree.  As far as I remembered, it had never produced a single apple in the twenty years we’d lived in the house, though mom told me that the previous owners had used it as one of the main selling points- fresh apples whenever you wanted.  It had supposedly been planted eighty years ago, when the house was first built.

I started digging, hoping to get the whole project over and done with as soon as possible.  It was already hot and extremely humid- summer in Savannah always was.  I had been digging for about thirty minutes when my shovel struck something harder than the dry Georgia earth.  I hit it again and it made a hollow, wooden thud.  With a renewed energy, I quickly dug up a wooden box.  It was about the size of a breadbox and it had been nailed shut.  It looked hand-made and it definitely appeared to have been there a while.

Dropping the shovel, I hurried to the tool shed to grab some of my dad’s long-neglected tools.  I sat on the edge of the patio and worked at opening the mysterious box.  When I finally cracked the lid, I discovered it had been lined with tin to protect another smaller box, this one an old, expensive looking lock box.  Someone had gone to great extremes to protect whatever was inside.

I felt like a detective, working to open this new box, not knowing what I would find inside.  I hammered, banged, poked and kicked until finally, the lock fell away, winking at me in the morning sunlight.

I was disappointed to say the least- it was nothing but some old blueprints and a key that I distractedly stuck in my pocket.  Still, it was better than digging up a tree. Maybe they’d be of interest to someone- dad perhaps.  Looking more closely, I noticed that they appeared to be the original blueprints to our house, back before the garage had been added on and the kitchen expanded.

Smiling, I walked my fingers over the blueprints, taking my home-from-school-route from the front door to the kitchen to my bedroom when I noticed something strange.  Between the dining room and the stairway, there seemed to be an extra room.

No one had ever mentioned this room to me.

Scooping up the blueprints, I headed inside.  I could hear mom’s sewing machine humming and I knew better than to disturb her when she was in sewing-mode.  She could be a scary dragon lady when she was working.

Feeling like a detective, I went into the dining room and knocked on the wall that ran alongside the stairs.  But it didn’t really do me any good, since I didn’t know what I was listening for.  So I went around to the stairwell. Trying to make as little noise as possible, so mom wouldn’t catch me inside instead of outside, I started to move things out of the closet. It took me thirty quiet minutes to make enough space to be able to fit into the closet.  The closet had a sloping ceiling that ended in a point at the base of the stairs.  When I was little, I used to pretend it was a secret fort.  But if there was a room on the other side of the wall, it would stand to reason that there would need to be a door, and in all the time I spent in this space as a child, I had never noticed a door.

I started knocking on the wall again, not sure what I was listening for, hoping it would be a movie moment and I’d know it when I heard it.  And sure enough, I did.  As I squeezed myself down into a squat position near the back of the closet, I knocked and it sounded different.  It sounded hollow.  Could there really be a door behind this wall?  How did I not know about this?  I poked my head out of the closet and heard my mom’s sewing machine still whining.  I was probably safe for a little longer.

I ran outside and got the hammer and brought it in the closet.  I tap-tap-tapped along the wall until I found the spot where the sound changed.  Knowing I was probably going to get in so much trouble, I hit the wall with the hammer and felt the satisfying give of the dry wall.  I pulled down the rest with my fingers and found that there was, indeed, a door behind the dry wall.  Someone had put a wall over the existing wall specifically to cover this door, it seemed.  The door was small- if I was going in, I was going on my hands and knees.  There wasn’t a handle, only a keyhole.  The key from the lock box!  I pulled it out of my pocket and put it in the hole- it fit, of course.  I turned the lock and slowly pushed the door open.

At first it was too dark to see.  I felt along the wall but couldn’t find a light switch.  I almost had a heart attack when something brushed up against my face, then I realized it was the pull string for a light.  I pulled it and it took my eyes a second to readjust.

When they did, I was confused and then horrified.  The room, which was long and so narrow that I could touch both walls with my elbows when my hands were on my hips, was covered with newspaper clippings and articles about murders.  The newspaper articles dated back more than twenty-five years and were from big cities all over the US- Houston, Washington D.C., Portland, and San Francisco.  And Savannah.  Cities where my parents had lived.

Young girls had been murdered in every city.  Their heads had been cut off and placed on their stomachs with their hands propped up and holding the head in place, like a gruesome Jack-o-Lantern.  The killer had left their eyes open.  Their lips had been sewn shut.

“Oh my God,” I whispered.  The girls were all sixteen to nineteen years old.  They had all been good girls from good families.  They had all gone missing from their high schools or colleges.

The sudden realization sickened me.  My dad was a college professor.  He had taught at all the colleges that the girls had attended.  He sometimes guest lectured at local high schools.  He was kind of weird, a real introvert.  I remember him asking my mom to teach him to sew, so he could fix seams or rips when he was traveling.  He was terrible at it.

Panicking, I knew I had to get my mom out of the house- we had to leave before he got home from work.  Whirling around, I gasped as I ran straight into my mother who had somehow managed to crawl into the small room without me hearing.  My heart was pounding.

“Mom, we have to leave!  Dad might be a serial killer!  Look at this…”  I trailed off when I noticed that she was calmly blocking the doorway, holding up a needle and thread in one hand and a dress in the other.  The look in her eyes, though, was maniacal- like nothing I’d ever seen.   “What are you doing?  What is this… all this about?  Mommy?” I whispered.

She started at the word mommy and for a second, I saw the mother I knew- the one who baked cookies and was president of the PTA; the mom who had driven me to gymnastics and Girl Scouts.  My mom, who insisted on family Christmas pictures in matching sweaters and who woke me up every year on my birthday at 4:26am with a cupcake.

“It shouldn’t really be you,” she started, talking to herself more than me.   “I’ve been so good for so long, only a few girls here and there.  You were such a good distraction.  But you left.  I’ve been bored,” she trailed off.

“Mom?” I whispered again, terrified.

“I’ve been working on this dress for you,” she said, holding an old-fashioned, high-collared dress up.    “It’s going to fit so nicely,” she smiled, seemingly lost in thought.  “This room is sound-proofed, you know?  The people who built the house had a crazy mother-in-law who liked to scream and sometimes she would wander out of the house at night.  This was the only place she couldn’t be heard, couldn’t escape from.  It’s a perfect space, really.”

I whimpered.

“It was never supposed to be you,” she muttered.  “I should’ve buried the box somewhere else.  Then we could’ve had apples… Then everything would have been okay.”

She moved around me, dropping the dress to the floor.  She ran her hands lovingly over the newspaper articles taped to the wall and started reading one of the articles.

“ ‘The clothes they wore were not their own- families and friends were able to say this conclusively.  They were hand-made and fit each victim perfectly, as if they had been made specifically for them.’  They were, you know?  Made specifically for them.  I saw them and could judge their sizes perfectly, even from across the campus.  They never really appreciated the hard work that went into making those beautiful clothes.”

Without warning, she spun around and took my face in her hands and started to squeeze.  She forced me to my knees.  I looked into her eyes and saw that my mom was gone, replaced by this other, insane woman.  She held up the needle again.

“No one appreciates quality anymore. Your father won’t be home for hours.  It’s time I gave you a sewing lesson,” she said, closing the door behind her.

December 2018
S M T W T F S
« Aug    
 1
2345678
9101112131415
16171819202122
23242526272829
3031  

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 47 other followers

Blog Stats

  • 10,422 hits
Advertisements