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hpim3640Our reviewer for the September-October challenge, was once again Susan Toy – the generous writer and passionate supporter of writers and writing.

Susan took time out from her busy schedule, while travelling, to review five entries of approximately 800 words each. She has provided detailed feedback and  encouragement to all entrants. In her response to the Bahrain Writers’ Circle’s Creative Workshop, she said, “…thank you for asking me to critique for your group a second time. You do have many excellent writers among you and I commend everyone for continuing to write and submit to these challenges.”

Susan is a bookseller, an award-winning publishing sales representative, a literacy teacher and a promoter of fellow authors and their books through her company, Alberta Books Canada. Susan is also an author and publisher, her imprints are IslandCatEditions and IslandShorts. Through Alberta Books Canada, Susan represented authors directly, helping them find promotion for themselves and their books, seeking out new readers, and assisting them in making wise career decisions.

Susan continues to promote authors and good books in general, throughout the world and online, on her blog, Reading Recommendations. She created the writing contest, Coffee Shop Author, has sat on the Board of Directors of the Fernie Writers’ Conference, served as a member of the Calgary Distinguished Writers Program steering committee, and was a member of the board of directors for the Writers’ Guild of Alberta. She is now concentrating on her own writing and publishing and divides her time between Canada and her home in the Caribbean.

You can read more about Susan here: https://islandeditions.wordpress.com/about-susan-m-toy/

You can read about Susan’s books here: https://islandeditions.wordpress.com/island-in-the-clouds-a-bequia-novel/

And her other thoughts here: https://theviewfrommytrailerandverandah.wordpress.com

Thank you once again, Susan!

The September-October challenge was to:

Write a monologue of around 500 -800 words about a person/your character who is breaking up, could be: with a lover/ girl-boyfriend/ husband/wife/ resigning a long-term post at a company or institution.

The entrants were encouraged to be creative in their responses and all of these entries were highly imaginative. Well done everyone and thank you for participating.

The entries are published in the order they were received.

A HARD TIME LEAVING

by Gordon Simmonds

On that moonless night in Tabriz, the street lights were off and not even a glimmer escaped from behind the blackout curtains of the buildings on either side of the street. The only sound was the echo of my footsteps as I picked my way down the middle of the road; it was too dark to negotiate the uneven pavements. There was no traffic.

Iraqi bombers hadn’t made any night raids so far, but the curfew and blackout had been in force since eight o’clock; two hours before. Alert for any sound that wasn’t my own, I left the relative safety of the Armenian quarter and turned into Shahnaz Avenue, sensing rather than seeing, the trees along the kerb edge and the smart shops lining the empty street. Here, the pavement was wide and even, so I walked quickly and quietly, aware that the Revolutionary Guards would be patrolling.

Not far to go now. The bus – if it came – would stop on the corner with Pahlavi Avenue, no more than two or three hundred meters away. But then…., I could hear voices. Far away at first, but gradually getting closer as I walked on. Not knowing what would happen if I took these people by surprise, I deliberately stamped my feet with each step, which sounded loud in the silence of the night. Sure enough, as they came to within thirty or forty meters of me, the talking suddenly stopped followed a second later by the unmistakable ‘tchuk tchuk’ of an AK47 being cocked.

They couldn’t see me and I couldn’t see them, but there was no doubting the urgency of the challenge in Persian. I guess they said “Who goes there,” or some such thing, and I replied “Englistani.” I put down my bag, stood stock still and let them come to me. I was suddenly blinded from the light of a small torch as they approached, and said “Mihan Tour,” which was the name of the well-known company whose bus I was to meet. There were two of them in military battle fatigues, so in broken Farsi I explained that I was catching the bus to Istanbul from the stop on Pahlavi. Suspiciously they asked for, and inspected my passport, and then to my absolute surprise, the guy with the rifle slung it over his shoulder (with a live round still in the chamber), and the guy with the torch picked up my bag and said “Come!” They escorted me to the bus stop .

With the war in full swing, no one could be certain that the bus would still be operating, but some time later, its headlights became the only light in the city as it arrived pretty much on schedule. It was a whistle stop, and I was the only passenger to get on. The two soldiers loaded my bag, bid me a friendly goodbye and went on their way – still with a loaded weapon. I sat next to an Iranian guy, who eased the journey with his conversation in excellent English. It was April 1982 and I remember the date clearly, because my fellow traveler translated the news broadcast from the bus radio. Some of the passengers were gloating over the fact that Argentina had just invaded the Falklands.

Two days and eighteen hundred kilometers later, I arrived in Istanbul; then on to England. I never went back.

Revolution, war, and circumstances beyond my control had destroyed the order of my life and family. And with that last emotional night in mind , among other things, I wrote these words :-

When I am gone, I will walk into the light

But my soul must bear the scars of an impure life.

I must reflect upon the guilt of countless sins

Developed and accumulated in a lifetime littered with flawed judgement.

The guilt for all the things I should have done, and didn’t do.

For all the words I should have said, but didn’t say.

For mistakes I made in selfishness, or ignorance, or crass stupidity.

I’ve made beds which were too hard to rest my faulted body

Or ‘pon which the fates decreed I should not lie.

I know this now, but careless in the foolish flush of youth, I never thought

That consequence succeeds both action and inaction.

I no longer dream. All that remains is a perpetual haunting image which will stay with me until I die. I see the bedroom; Vanik asleep, Vartan awake and standing in his cot. The tense farewells have been said, and as I kiss my son he looks up and says ‘Baeets menk menag enk’ which in Armenian means “But we shall be alone!”

He was right – I didn’t see my son again for thirty years.

RESKINNING

by Michelle Schultz

I suppose on the morning of our last day together, a goodbye is in order.

I lean forward and brace both hands on the sink so I can see better to take a catalog of my body’s faults. Without my glasses, my features almost blur into beauty. Almost, but not quite.

My teeth are crooked. Despite my begging for braces, Mom insisted that tuition was more important than my vanity. My nose is too big for my face, and no amount of makeup makes it look any less ridiculous. The magazines were wrong about that. The lazy eye that persists even after eye patches and other intrusive measures sits stubbornly to one side, staring at something or someone else.

I hate my face. I can’t wait to be rid of it. Just think of it: after today, no one will glance at me and away while I’m talking, wondering if I’m speaking to them or someone behind them.

The body is no better. I have no discernible shape, whether hips or waist or bust. My fashion blogs say that I should love my less-than-svelte body, but I must dress to make myself look taller. Long pants and tall shoes are in order because they give a slimming effect. I think these are mixed messages, but I bought the pants and shoes anyway.

I won’t have to buy them after today.

Those government agencies or whatever have finally passed legislation allowing minors to re-skin with parental approval. Although my mother does not approve, my father’s girlfriend was all too happy to put the paperwork in with Dad’s name. She reskinned when she was only twenty and Dad was nothing but pleased, so she thinks that I should have that opportunity too.

She’s gorgeous. The elasto-skin of her face is poreless, without blemish. I won’t ever have a zit again, nothing to embarrass me during these last few years of high school. I won’t even have to worry about frizzy hair during my prom. The synthetic hair they implant in my synthetic skin will do exactly what I want so long as I don’t change my mind for a few years. By then, I’ll be an adult and can get reskinned whenever I want. My teeth will all be ceramic, and I can chose to get whatever eye color I want.

Gina, the girlfriend, says that she doesn’t have the visual acuisy, acuitry, acuziwhatzit that she used to have, whatever that means, but I don’t care. I have a lazy eye. I would give anything not to have that in school pictures anymore. If I have to wait a few years for cybernetics to catch up with meat bodies, then I’ll wait. I can always get these eyes taken out in a few years and replaced .

The only weird part is paying for it. I have to donate my eggs once I turn eighteen or go to jail for breaking a contract. I don’t know what I would do with the eggs as I don’t even have a boyfriend much less a desire for a bunch of screaming brats. Might as well put them to good use, right?

Once they plane all the awkward angles off my skull and suck all the fat out of me, there’s no way Jeremy won’t look at me. He said I had horse teeth in elementary school, but reskinning wasn’t possible then. I’ll be better now. I’ll be all fixed.

In two years, our senior pictures will make it into the school paper. Best Dressed, I imagine. Maybe we’ll be Prom King and Queen. It would be nice to get asked to a dance. I’ll have something to do with my weekends other than study.

So goodbye, ugly body. This is the beginning of the rest of my life, and I won’t be taking your stupid eye and flat chest with me. Hello, reskinning.

I can’t wait to meet the real me.

Quitting Addiction

by Mounira Fakhro

Never had I thought breaking up on this addiction could be this agonising.

Due to recent allergic reaction towards this delicacy of sweets I decided to quit it once and for all. Though for a chocoholic girl in her early twenties, quitting all kinds of chocolate products appeared to be so much harder to do than I earlier predicted when making such a decision. On the first day, it was quite painful to distract my thoughts of craving for it, especially since there were still dozens of chocolate thrown around in my bedroom, I hid the chocolate somewhere far of my sight and gave the rest away to my cousins and offering it to anyone I came across that day. And for the rest of the evening I held myself from having any sweets, thinking it was good to lose a few kilos by skipping the after-lunch sweets. By that, worst day came to an end.

However, little had I known that the worst is yet to come. Second day came, and so was that time of the month when cravings are almost impossible to control. I would always satisfy it by eating a whole jar of Nutella chocolate but now I need to find something else…now that I think about it, all my favourite sweets has an amount of chocolate no matter how many come up in my mind. Therefore, I spent the most painful day of the month without my serotonin dose I usually get from chocolate and settled for a plain vanilla ice-cream. Surely its cool calmed me and its sweetness filled my craving for sweets and put the chocolate craving on hold, wonder if it’ll last.

By the third day, the rash that spread all over my arms and legs has begun to subside from the last time I had chocolate, and the itch was almost gone, which was absolutely relieving, thinking to myself how my efforts in resisting chocolate is finally bearing its fruit. It was a nice day compared to the heat waves you’d usually get in summer and thought of doing some writing at this new café that’s opened up nearby and try their drinks while at it. So here I was, in front of the table, finished setting up my laptop and heading to the counter to make my order. What I do order when trying out coffee shops’ drinks has always been a medium-sized cup of hot chocolate, and this not being an option anymore made my day hella frustrating. I ended up ordering green tea keeping in mind its ability to supress the appetite though I highly doubt it’ll supress my urge for having chocolate in any way. I had never realized not eating it would affect my habits and routines this greatly.

Forth day wasn’t much easier, for I had gone to a birthday party of a relative of mine with chocolate being the main ingredient in the birthday cake. ‘’It’s a divine test of will strength.’’ I thought to myself, and was able to stall enough time for the little kids to finish off the cake before being offered a piece. I can’t remember which methods I had used; the lack of chocolate has been affecting my concentration and my memory a bit and barely keeping a record of it all.

Fortunately, since the fifth day and so forth, chocolate has been more absent from my mind than before and days would go by without even realizing any feelings of struggling with my urges and craving. Also spending the day without any mention of it has become more and more manageable. The rash has been healing up pretty nicely and barely leaving any traces of scars, and I even lost a couple of kilos a week after! I guess good things really do occur after bad events, I’ve also grown appreciative of green tea and grew fond of vanilla ice-creams, I do hope I don’t develop any allergic reactions to it or else I’ll go through another divine test of will.

The Farewell

By Mohamad Faouaz

I look at her one more time. The doubts resurface again. Should I be doing this? Perhaps we can try again for a few more weeks, but the specialists that examined her said there was nothing they can do. I took her to see the experts but to no avail. It was too late. It was pointless to carry on and it had to end today, a clean break and final farewell.

As I look at her from the covered porch, she stands there before me in her once glorious red dress. The rain falling on her once bright and glistening skin, now faded and dulled by time. Her eyes look at me soulfully, beckoning me to reconsider. I recall those eyes that winked at me so long ago, as they shone in the dark and twinkled in the sunlight. Those eyes are now greyed and sad, the rain tracing around their edges and dropping like tears to the ground.

I feel as though I am betraying her. We had been through so much together. She had supported me throughout the last 10 years. She had been the single constant in my life. Never letting me down. She was always there at the end of the day to take me home after a hard days work. She made sure I was safe and warm. She entertained me on those long journeys, singing and talking all the way worrying that I would fall asleep at the wheel.

When my first son was born, she was the one to carry him home from the hospital. She cradled him in her soft warm arms keeping him safe as if he were her own.

She carried him to his first day at school and back, she was there when he had a fever and I had to rush to see a doctor.

She was there when I moved jobs and house. She was always there to help and was ever loyal. Never asking for anything, apart from a drink down the Local once a week. I feel a sadness that it had to end now.

I shall miss those drives down to the coast, she was my companion on all my trips and was witness to many changes in my life. As I have witnessed the effects of time and the elements taking their toll on her beautiful body. She continued to be there unrelenting and always bidding my commands.

My friends told me I should find another, more attractive and younger. Yes, there were a few that were more beautiful than her, some with sleeker figures and better structure, but she had that something that seemed to call out to you.

The experts had said there was nothing to be done. Her once smoothly harmonious voice that sang to me in the morning was replaced with a gargling cough. It was too late. It has to be done.

As I am turning towards the door, I cannot resist one more look at her. A thought comes into my mind as the clouds pass and blue sky breaks through the gray monotony, perhaps parts of her will make others happy. I feel better at that thought, and walk back into the warm dry house into the arms of my wife.

It had been a week since my red Toyota Corolla failed its MOT test and many mechanics had come and gone but they could not do anything for the car.

It was time for a new younger and faster model that will be my companion for the coming years, to keep me warm and sing and talk to me on life’s many journeys.

 

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As you know the September Challenge became the October challenge and that kind of segued into November and we still didn’t have any entries.

I rattled some sabres. Sent out pleas. Threats. Practically begged. All but fell on my knees. Asked repeatedly, ‘Do we want to do these or not?’. The replies almost always came back enthusiastically, not so enthusiastically, but in essence ‘Yes’.  However, by the time November rolled around I had also identified and got on board a writer to critique our stories. And all I had were two entries. So, in desperation and to make up a decent number of entries I wrote one story myself. And I do hope I won’t ever have to do that again.

The challenge was:

One day your smart phone screen changes into a jungle … Tell a story in under 2000 words what happens when you discover this.

Our judge, as I mentioned in one of several emails was Alex Shaw

Alex Shaw

ALEX SHAW headshot BWALEX SHAW B.A.(Hons), P.G.C.E. spent the second half of the 1990s in Kyiv, Ukraine, teaching Drama and running his own business consultancy before being head-hunted for a division of Siemens. The next few years saw him doing business for the company across the former USSR, the Middle East, and Africa.

Alex is an active member of the ITW (The International Thriller Writers organisation) and the CWA (the Crime Writers Association). He is the author of the #1 International Kindle Bestselling ‘Aidan Snow SAS thrillers’ COLD BLOOD & COLD BLACK and the new DELTA FORCE VAMPIRE series of books. His writing has also been published in the thriller anthologies DEATH TOLL, DEATH TOLL 2 and ACTION PULSE POUNDING TALES 2 alongside International Bestselling authors Stephen Leather and Matt Hilton.

COLD BLOOD and COLD BLACK are commercially published by ENDEAVOUR PRESS.

COLD EAST – The third Aidan Snow Thriller will be published in January 2015.

Alex, his wife and their two sons divide their time between homes in Kyiv, Ukraine and Worthing, England. Alex can be contacted via his website www.alexwshaw.com You can also follow Alex on twitter: @alexshawhetman

You can find out more about him here:

FB author page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Alex-Shaw/383476491724127

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6550104.Alex_Shaw

Authorgraph: https://www.authorgraph.com/authors/alexshawhetman

Amazon Author’s page: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Alex-Shaw/e/B002EQ6R9G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

Alex’s Selections were was below:

FIRST PLACE: THE GATE

by Michelle Schultz

I was swiping fat snowflakes from my eyelashes when the phone rang. I dug around in my coat pockets, trying to remember where I’d dumped the phone. I had only bought it last week, one more thing to buy after moving overseas. My half-numb fingers finally found it and pressed it against my cap.

“Hello?” I said. I shifted from foot to foot, wishing there was not so much space between my boots and the hem of my skirt.

Around me, the dim Manchester morning was silent except for the thick static of snowflakes drifting slowly down. On a Saturday, few cars braved the unplowed roads, scoring muddy tracks through the clean white expanse of snow.

I didn’t hear anything, so I pulled my cap aside. I said hello again, pressing the phone tight to my ear. I thought I could hear rain falling.

The slick, cold surface suddenly turned warm and wet against my ear.

I screamed and dropped the phone right in the snow. I scratched at my ear frantically, trying to get whatever was on it off.

My chapped fingers came away wet, streaked with golden pollen.

I looked down. A scatter of pink and purple petals mingled with the pristine snow around the bus stop. My phone had landed facedown in the snow. All around it, the snow was melting, leaving a widening circle of black asphalt.

I gripped the phone by the edges and lifted it up. Instead of the high-resolution icons and default wallpaper, deep green leaves shivered under a patter of rain behind the glossy black frame of my phone. I tilted the screen, noticing the lack of a reflection. I poked at the image of a leaf, and it bent underneath my touch, leaving my fingertip golden.

Holding the phone away from me, I turned and headed back toward home.

“Well, that’s hardly useful,” I snorted. “Why is the window so small? It’s not like I’ll fit through there.”

 

“Melanie? Back so soon?” John asked, peering into the entryway when I banged the door shut. He was still in his flannel pajamas, his feet hidden in slippers.

In answer, I held up the phone. It was still leaking rainwater and the odd petal.

“You’re kidding me!” he said. He took the phone from me, cradling it as if the leaves were going to bite him. “So where’s this?”

“Don’t know,” I said, pulling off my snowy boots.

“You have to,” he said, following at my heels as I went to wash the pollen off my hands. I could see streaks of it on my coat as well. “You make the gates.”

“Not on purpose,” I corrected, rolling my eyes. “They just… happen.”

“Could they happen to something cheap next time?”

“I didn’t want a phone in the first place. Their big reflective screens can be problematic,” I said a little nastily.

As I dried my hands, a butterfly popped out of the phone and started investigating the kitchen.

“Maybe we should close it?” John asked. To his credit, he didn’t look enthusiastic about it. He had been forced to close a few gates over the years when I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It usually involved destruction of the object in question.

“Not yet,” I said. I lay the phone so I could look down into the jungle. “Just put a cloth over it so no bugs get through.”

“You think this one will go away?”

“First time for everything,” I said with a shrug. From my pocket, I pulled the list of items we needed to finish making our new home livable. “I don’t feel like shopping anymore.”

A few hours later, John took the list and walked down the icy sidewalk to the nearest store. I had wanted to explore a bigger city this morning, but my exploratory mood had soured.

Instead, I was curled on the sofa with a notebook, trying to think of a way to start my new blog post. I usually wrote about self-improvement, meaning organic food and positive thinking, topics suggested by my tiny but growing following. I wrote them on paper, and John typed them when he got home from work.

With my condition, it was a bad idea to sit near reflective surfaces for long periods of time, especially if I was trying to be creative. Windows weren’t a problem if they had curtains over them, and our house had only two small mirrors, which I spent very little time in front of.

Next to me, the phone under its cheesecloth cover twittered with strange birds and the intermittent patter of rain. It was a nice sound in the too-quiet house.

I put my head back on the sofa and kicked my feet in their wooly slippers. Truth be told, I hated this blog. A friend had gotten me involved, and it filled the time while I looked for work, but I didn’t care about blogging. Most days, I had nothing to say. What was important was avoiding fiction or things that might make me daydream. If I was bored to tears reading about gluten allergies, then I wasn’t thinking about space flight or exotic landscapes.

I lived such a boring life.

Another bee approached my phone from inside whatever jungle it was connected to. The cheesecloth shifted as the bee bumped against it, then it flew somewhere else. I could hear it receding in the distance.

I had dreamed of somewhere with trees last night. The image of trees remained. Now, on my new phone, the thickly clustered leaves of trees moved back and forth.

I wanted to push the leaves aside to see what else was there, but thinking like that was only going to keep it there. I was supposed to be thinking about clean eating, not exotic jungles.

“I know you’re there,” someone said.

I froze. I looked around, but the room was empty. I hadn’t heard the door open, but I called John’s name.

“Not John,” the voice said. “It’s Alexander, or whatever you are calling me these days.”

I left the room.

Hands shaking, I poured myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, focusing hard on thoughts of preservatives and food additives.

There was no Alexander and never had been. All children have imaginary friends, or so I was told. Alexander was just persistent.

“I’m not going to hurt you!” Alexander said loudly, his voice echoing in the hallway from the living room around the corner.

I didn’t come any closer, just tried to think of boring, dull things. If only I remembered more math. Quadratic equations might drive that voice away.

“I don’t know this place. Did you move again?” Alexander asked. There was an odd sound, like he was wheezing. “It smells cold. It’s summer here. You’d like it. Join me, just for a little while.”

“I like it here,” I said, then cursed myself for engaging him.

“You are killing me,” he said. “This place is awful. Why are you thinking so hard about math?”

“I’m…” I started but couldn’t finish. “Take your jungle and go away.”

“Not when you invited me.”

The sound of John moving around outside was a godsend. I darted into the entryway so I could greet him, taking myself further from my wretched gate.

After taking his bags and picking John’s brain about everything he had done, he finally looked in the direction of the living room.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” he asked, and I nodded.

John scratched his head, looking down at his feet. He looked back up with a sheepish grin.

“Why don’t you visit him?” he asked, his eyebrows crooked up in the middle.

“I don’t even know where that gate leads!”

“It never hurt you before.”

“I was a child then. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

I had walked through the gates as a child, at least until Mom figured out what I was using the mirror in my room for. I never went very far into these strange places, and Alexander was there to explain the place to me. Still, my friends’ imaginary friends never took them out of their homes.

“Look,” John said, “Whatever we’ve been doing isn’t working. Maybe you should just… see what he wants.”

I had wanted to be normal. I had picked the dullest degree I could imagine, business rather than art or literature. I had married the most sensible, staid man I ever dated. We didn’t own pets, and living in another country meant that we could forego all of the holiday traveling. I blogged about boring topics and read computer repair magazines for fun.

This wasn’t what I had seen myself doing as a child.

“Why are you always right?” I asked John.

I released his fingers, took a breath to strengthen my resolve, and walked into the living room.

I set the phone on the floor, pulled the cheesecloth away, and tried to step on the screen without thinking too hard about it. My foot sort of shrank and sank into the leaves.

I wobbled before lifting the other foot. It too vanished into the greenery. I closed my eyes.

The sun was red-gold through my eyelids. The air was hot and wet against my skin. I kicked off my slippers, letting my toes dig into the moist earth. The air smelled loamy, sweet with bruised flower petals.

I opened my eyes. Tall leafy trees blocked out the sky overhead, but ahead, the sun melted into a pool of red and orange clouds over the horizon. The land was bright with greenery, unlike the uniform white- and grayness of the English midlands in winter.

“It’s been a while,” Alexander said. He wore a suit, but he always looked out of place in my dreams.

“John thinks I should ask why you keep coming back,” I said, my voice swallowed up by the immensity of the jungle around me. The sawing of insects and chirping of birds was deafening.

“But you know why,” Alexander said with a shrug. He turned and began walking backwards, leading me toward the edge of the jungle ahead of us. “You’re just in denial.”

“What do you want?” I said, remaining in place. “I have to grow up, Alex. There’s no future in this.” I gestured at the world around us.

“There would be if you tried,” Alexander said with a scowl. “You just don’t have the resolve to make all of this and your writing come together.”

I looked away, my eyes falling on a butterfly. I wondered what sort of people lived here, and if they knew what this butterfly was called.

“Until you embrace this,” Alexander said, his arms spread wide, “it will keep breaking in.”

He walked forward and pressed my phone into my hand. Now it looked like itself, all brightly colored icons.

“You have the gateway right here. Don’t lose this one,” he said softly. “Otherwise…”

He trailed off. A dry wind whipped up, obscuring the trees with dust. Grit blew into my eyes. The sun vanished, the sweet smells traded for dryness and a chalky taste in my mouth. The ground grew soft and insubstantial.

Alexander grew thin and wasted, and then I could see through him.

“Don’t waste this gift” was the last thing I heard before everything went dark.

I opened my eyes to our living room. I was sitting with my jungle phone in my hand, a pen in the other.

Beside me, John was reading a book. He smiled tentatively when he looked up.

“How was your trip?” he asked.

I looked down at the empty notebook and its crossed-out topics for the blog.

“I’m going to write a story.”

 SECOND PLACE: ESCAPE

by Rohini Sunderam

The jungle has its own unique senses.

There is a sensation of the old. It is primordial and comforting while still able to set our senses on edge, turning them acute and more alive than they’ve ever been in the city or around technology.

The smell is fecund. Peaty and redolent with the odour of birth and rebirth and death.

Silence is the sound of the place. Not the dead muffled silence of a recording booth or an ENT clinic where they test your ability to detect decibels, but the sound of life as it moves between the nocturnal and diurnal, pulsating to the throb of a gigantic heart.

Textures abound. But we daren’t touch anything because we are city creatures. We are afraid that the gnarled bark of a tree, the smooth sharp blade of grass or the velvet of an unknown leaf may hold hidden dangers, saps to which our soft, urban skins may be allergic, wary of resins that could burn and scar.

Ah but the sights! We can’t get enough of those. Our eyes drink in the seemingly million shades of green. We revel in the bright yellows and blues of butterflies and birds, the shy white flowers and ferns of the undergrowth. I look fascinated at orchids in their purple splendour clinging wild and wonderful to a branch. The words bromeliad and epiphyte find their way to the top of my mind, bringing with them memories of my school botany class and the stern teacher staring over his black-rimmed spectacles.

The dappled back of a panther makes us stop in our tracks and whisper as we watch its sinewy black and gold shape glide down a pathway, sending the monkeys chattering up into their trees, its head tossing away flies. It’s unusual for him to be strolling at this time of the day.

Just as it is unusual for us be to here.

It is exactly 11:11 on my smart phone face and the jungle, which appeared magically one day at this exact time, has, on cue, flashed onto the screen. Its tall grasses are once again beckoning us to leap into it.

We’ve made this trip into the portal twice before. The first time was a thrilling adventure. I touched it and it seemed real, even that typical jungle smell came out of it. I turned to my friend and showed it to him, “Check this out, this smart phone is something else.”

“It can’t be,” he said, ever the sceptic.

“Just touch it!” I challenged him.

The minute he did that a tiny fly flew out of the screen and into the room.

He’d opened his eyes wide. “Shall we?”

And without quite knowing why, we both held hands and touched the screen together.

It made a sucking sound and the next thing we were inside the jungle. An instant safari. On foot. And dressed as if we’d planned it: in khaki shorts and long bush shirts, sandals and cotton stockings looking like Dr Livingston with backpacks complete with emergency supplies and water. And what’s more we had a guide, an Indian in long khaki pants, t-shirt and a sola topi.

He looked at us and smiled, “Right on time sir, madam.”

I checked my smart watch and that’s when I noticed the magical: 11:11a.m.

We wandered around for exactly one hour and one minute and at 12:12pm we looked up, held hands together, stretched up to the sky and bang, we were back in my office cubicle.

He looked at me and said, “Were we…?”

“Sure felt like it”. I answered and looked at the smart phone, which had gone back to its regular wallpaper colours of lavender and white.

“Felt like what?” he asked challenging me.

“Like we were in the jungle?” I asked him back.

“Weird,” he replied, “Let’s not tell anyone, they’ll think we’ve been doing drugs or something.”

A few days later he was at my desk again and we were discussing an ad concept and he asked me again, “Was that jungle thing for real or did we imagine it?”

“It felt very real.”

And then I smelt it, the jungle, sending out its earthy perfume. I looked at the smart phone and sure enough 11:11am and the jungle was back on the screen.

“Let’s get something to prove it this time,” he said, “even if it’s only as a confirmation.”

So we went again. And as before the guide was there with his, “Right on time sir, madam.” But his smile seemed a bit different this time.

No cause for concern, because at 12:12pm we returned again as before. Only this time I’d surreptitiously picked a tiny flower, from its roots.

When we returned I put it into soil and watered it. It had taken root and had grown quite large in just two days.

“We won’t do it again,” my friend advised. “I felt uneasy about the guide this time.”

“So did I.” I confessed.

And yet three days later, 11:11 a.m. I was alone. And the jungle was calling me in to the phone.

‘How dangerous could it be, to go alone?’ I asked myself. ‘All I need to do is stretch up at 12:12pm and I’ll be back.’

So taking a deep breath, I held my hands together and with my index finger I touched the screen.

The loud sucking sound pulled me in.

And everything was exactly as before: the safari gear, the guide, with his, “Right on time madam.” Only this time he chuckled. I was not sure if it was my imagination but his laugh made the hair on my neck stand on end.

Instinct is as primeval as the jungle. And as a sense it should be obeyed.

The trouble with those of us who are and have been urban and civilised for so many millennia is, that we treat instinct as though it were a myth. Not real. To be mistrusted. And what’s worse, ignored.

After that initial laugh from the ‘guide’ and that uneasy sensation I allowed myself to be lost in the tour.

This time we went to a marshy sanctuary with a pool in the centre. It was loud with the buzzing of mosquitoes and dragonflies, bees and hornets. And birds of so many hues I couldn’t believe my eyes. There were waders watching the marshy pool intent on catching their prey. Other birds had their heads tucked under their wings asleep. Some flew from one branch to another chattering with their relatives and friends. Rarely speaking to another species.

The air of predatory earnestness in all the creatures gave the scene a sinister sense of foreboding.

“I’d like to see something else,” I said to the guide.

“Come,” he said. I still hadn’t asked his name, and somehow felt it wasn’t up to me to do so.

The guide then took me up into a tree house from where I could watch the lemurs.

“I will be back madam,” he said, “Just a small job to do.”

I was camouflaged in the leaves and the heat made me drowsy. I must have dropped off for, well more than a few minutes, because when I awoke it was way past 12:12pm, in fact it was one o’clock.

The guide was nowhere to be seen.

I started to worry, but then I thought perhaps this isn’t time related and I clasped my hands together and pointed upwards. Nothing happened. I was still in the tree house.

‘Okay,’ I said to myself, ‘maybe it is time-related’. At 1:01pm I aimed my hands upwards.

No. I’m still in the tree house.

Okay, I think. Let’s try 13:13 on the 24-hour clock.

Nothing.

The guide hasn’t returned.

I look up and can see my office friend peering down at me from the sky.

I wave at him.

He can’t see me.

“Hellllp!” I shout.

He can’t hear me.

It’s one thirty now. My friend has gone from the sky. The guide isn’t back.

I’ve tried getting out at 2:02pm, 14:14, 3:03pm, 15:15…

“Helllpppp!” I cry weeping, frantic. “Helllppp!”

They can’t hear me on the other side. They can’t feel me on my smart phone screen. They can’t see me.

“Oh dear God!” I cry as tears of panic threaten to choke me, “I want to go home…please, somebody, anybody, bring me back.”

With an excruciating effort of will I control the panic, “I have to be patient. I have to try again.”

When it comes to our smart phones and technology so many senses are stimulated to such a degree that in the end they are deadened.

It is now 5:05pm and I haven’t been able to return.

I’ll try again at 17:17.

I hope I have enough water in my backpack to last until 12:12pm tomorrow…

 THIRD PLACE: THE MIST OF SKARA

by Noor Nass

The story is being worked on, in the light of Alex Shaw’s comments. And when she’s ready, we’ll post Noor’s story here.

July 2018
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