ALONE

There are those times, when my thoughts wander off on a journey of their own. Times like when I sit alone over a cup of coffee in the sunset, or when I am working on routine tasks that don’t need my focus. My thoughts travel on this winding circuitous route, through memories and facts and musings and secrets, eventually, to you.

And I can’t help but think about you all over again. Sometimes I go over memories I shared with you, the time we sat alone late into the night outside your door and talked, the time we planned to travel together to another town but it never worked out, the time I called you from in the middle of a play to tell you that you should have come. And then, where the memory ends, I just make up a story as I go along – from sitting talking outside your house, we make a crazy plan to go watch the sunrise over a lake a hundred miles away, and the plan to travel together to another city does work out and we have the time of our lives, and when I call you from in the middle of the play, you ask me to turn around and you are sitting in the row behind me.

And then I wander deeper about you. I remember images, of your smile, of your hair, of your tears, and your frown. And I’ll remember how I felt about you, but never quite told you. My mind tries to create its own story where I do tell you everything, and I play it again and again in my head imagining different reactions from you every time.

I’ll go on to remember the awkward silence in the car, as I drove you to the airport. And I’ll remember that moment when you walked in, and I stayed out, and I didn’t call out to you, and you didn’t look back. Another story sparks off on its own, sometimes I imagine you running back into my arms, and other times I imagine that you look back shake your head and carry on nonetheless.

I look down at the coffee in my hand the sunset in my eyes, or at my computer screen at what I was supposed to be doing, and shake myself back into the present. I dare to remember what you looked like one last time, before I finish my coffee, or start with the next round of operations on my computer.

And the last thing I think on the subject is my own lonliness.

CATCHING UP

For a long time I thought the most daunting sight I would ever face was a blank sheet of paper, and an inked pen hovering an inch above it, but no words to connect the two.

That was until the time I found myself staring at the screen of my cell phone, her contact number displayed, and my thumb hovering an inch above the little green button that would place the call.

My head was a storm of thoughts, my gut the hapless occupant of a rollercoaster, and my heart an oil drill. Should I call her? Should I not? What would I say? Would I be able to say anything at all? No, it’s safer not to call. I decided to put the phone back in my pocket, but realized after an eternal moment that I was still clasping it in my hand, my thumb hovering as before.

I’m not sure what it was really – a sudden rush of energy, or a sudden setting in of fatigue – but my thumb fell on the button, and the sounds of a phone ringing could be heard through the ear piece. Gingerly, I brought the phone to my ear, too afraid of what was to follow to breathe easily.

It rang. It rang some more. It rang until the answering machine kicked in, and there was that pleasant voice of hers that I had never quite forgotten.

“Hi, you've reached Christie’s phone. I’m not in right now, so you know what to do after the beep.” Beep. Was it my turn to talk already?

“Christie? Um, hi, Dave here – from college, if you remember that is. Um, call me back? My number’s 88767801, looking forward to hearing-” There was a click on the other end, as I realized that someone had picked up the phone.

“Dave?”

“Uh yeah, hi. I didn’t know you were around, how-”

“David Johnson?”

“Yes, the same.” I said after a hesitant pause. “Christie Roberts?” There was a chuckle at the other end.

“Yes, Christie Roberts. How are you Dave? Where were you?”

Catching up was slightly awkward at first, giving each other explanations about where we had been, and then justifying why neither of us had called. Then it got better, when we started filling each other in on what had happened with us, and how she hated her boss, and how I had quit my job, and how her father had passed away a year ago, and how I was doing the rounds looking for someone to publish my manuscript. It got comfortable from that point, when she insisted on choosing a pseudonym for me and I offered to have a little ‘chat’ with her boss, when she said she’d better go to the kitchen and make herself some coffee, when I said catching a slight across the country to come see her seemed to be a pretty good idea.

“You can’t be serious Dave! It’s almost sun rise – can’t you see the sky turning blue?”

“All the better, the pilots will have better visibility!”

“Shut up, I’ve got to get to work in a couple of hours.”

“Call in sick, do whatever, don’t go today. I’m packing a bag – how many sets should I carry?”

“Dave! Get back into bed!”

“Three shirts should be fine don’t you think? Oh and my toothbrush!”

“While you’re at it, pack you shaving kit – I hate you with stubble.”

“Alright then – keep the phone down, I’ll catch the first flight out, and see you at the airport okay?”

“I cannot believe it Dave. This is not good, not good at all.”

“Keep the phone down Christie, I need my other hand to tie my shoelaces!”

“You cut the call Dave.”

“No, you first.” And that went on. And on. And on. Until I found myself a headset, and plugged it to my phone.

I finally cut the call when my flight was about to take off. I sat on that flight thinking about her, what it would be like to see her again. And I caught myself thinking that a call waiting to be connected would never quite be as daunting as a blank sheet of paper again.

RIGMAROLE VI

Mikros faltered, as if struck by lightning. He could not believe it! The Wizard’s son? His mind started whirling, spinning as he considered the implications of this. The end of his quest, a quest that had lasted a score and four years, the end of all this misery as he would be as tall again, the end of all the teasing and jeering and bullying by the others in his town.

“It seems fitting. You need my father to save your village, I need yours to reclaim my life,” Boomed Mikros’s voice with amusement, his chuckle sounding like a volcano, “this adventure is getting interesting. We’ll meet your father first, get me to my height. Then my father will be indebted to you, and will gladly give you the rainbows you need to save your village.” In the distance on the cliff Half Pint had a large smile on his face as well, as he saw the coincidental irony in the situation. In their moment however, neither of them noticed Twerp edging further away from them, a small tear flowing down his face.

Mikros walked back up to the cliff, picked up the two creatures, and they set off again.

“Which direction to your father’s lair, Halfling?” Half Pint pointed in the direction of the setting sun, and the three of them set off. Mikros had put the both of them in his pocket, and they peered over the edge as the landscape approached and faded away just as quick under the giant’s feet.

Just then Twerp looked at Half Pint and said, “You’ve always lived in the village. How come you never lived with your father?”

“It’s a long story. Never mind.” Half Pint replied.

“Speak Halfling, we have a long way to go I’m sure, and there is plenty of time.”

“Well, the name I am known by is not my real name. I acquired it after I spent six months in a bar, drowning my sorrows in mead, until there was only half a pint of mead left in the town. Why I was drinking is of little consequence to this story, but I was extremely upset indeed, and the source of all my sorrow could be traced to a certain fair maiden in the town, a leaking pipe in the town castle, a badly implement recipe for stew, and a set of spells my father cast. I decided at the end of those six months to leave my town and never return. I travelled across the land to a place where the people would have heard of neither my father nor me, and eventually I settled in your village, Twerp.”

“So you hate your father?” asked Twerp, wide eyed.

“I’m not sure, I doubt you can call it hatred after all these years. It’s more like a cold condescension now.”

“And you Mikros? You don’t hate your father too, do you?” But Mikros didn’t reply, not for quite some time. And then finally, Twerp and Half Pint heard him say something, in a voice soft and gentle, almost like one of theirs and not a giant’s.

“No, I do not hate my father. It is the other way round, he hated me. He is the king of our town, the regent of all the giants, the regulator of the rainbows. His father before him was an equally great man, strong, tall, and wise. I was to succeed my father as king, but when I was born, short, weak and incapable of doing all those things giants are supposed to, the elders in the village said that our dynasty was doomed to end with my father death. He tolerated me until I was old enough, and then banished me saying that I was not to return until I was a worthy contender for his throne. And I have been out of my town ever since, hunting for the Wizard of Ounce, hoping that he will give me the secret to growth and wisdom, so I may claim what is mine. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to please my father, nothing in this world, if only he would look at me.”

A tear rolled down Mikros’s cheek, it fell near where Twerp and Half Pint were hanging on, nearly drowning them. But they swam back up and hung on once more to the edge of Mikros’s pocket.

“That leaves only you, Twerp.” Said Half Pint. “Tell us about your father.”

“My father? I never knew him. He is not spoken of in our family. We have tried to erase his name and his memories from our minds.” Twerp said, in a mild, almost lost way, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was saying, and was saying out more out of habit that conviction.


To Be Continued...

HOLDING THE SILENCE

As the orchestra struck up the chords of Mendelsohn, the doors at the back of the church opened, and he saw her. Resplendent in her white dress, a veil of net before her eyes, her arm entwined with her father’s, walking slowly, gingerly almost, down the aisle. He was sure he had never seen her look as beautiful ever before. She looked like Venus descended from heaven to him, nothing less, something poetic in its inspiration.

She looked at no one, nothing, but stared at the red carpet and the rose petals strewn in her path, few paces in front of where she was walking. He hoped she would look in front - at him - but she didn’t. She walked all the way up the aisle, let go of her father with a soft kiss on the cheek, climbed up three steps and took her place in front of the alter. The people who had gathered there took their seats.

As the priest started reciting, blessing the occasion, he looked deeply at her, and thought to himself. Did she know how much he loved her? Would she ever know? Would he ever be able to tell her? Would he ever be able to capture in words what he heart wanted to say to her? She still looked down, at the floor, and he caught himself smiling. Shy, that was typically her. The priest went on with his recitations, the audience watched in awestruck wonder at the couple before them, she kept looking down, and he kept looking at her.

Finally, the priest looked to the gathered people, and said “If anyone has any objection with this union, rise and speak now, or forever hold your silence.”

He was about to stand, when he saw her look up, at the man she was marrying. She smiled, a smile of joy, of contentment, of sublime happiness which made her face glow, of love gushing forth from every iota of her being. And the man before her smiled back at her, a smile that spoke of strength and caring, of a warm love that emanated from a heart already melted.

And he found himself back on his seat, not because he had sat down, but because his knees no longer held. He faintly heard a voice say ‘… pronounce you man and wife’, he barely registered the applause and cheers around him, and did not feel the people stepping on his feet as they filed out around him when the ceremonies ended.

It was a long time before he blinked, when an old man with a broom sweeping the floor around him nudged, and with a heavy Southern accent, said “Weddins ovah. Why you still stickin round?”

He looked at him for a moment, and then smiled from behind teary eyes. “I think I lost my way there for a moment.” And with that he put on his hat, and walked out into the streaming sunlight.

THE ROMANCE OF PAIN

“You know something you little prick,” he spat on me, though I barely registered it, “I’d love you see you recognize yourself in the mirror tomorrow morning!” His henchmen laughed out at that, one of them taunted me some more. Then I felt him come closer to me, pull my hair and hold my face up to look straight into my eyes.

“You really chose the wrong guy to mess with, the worst in fact.” He let go of my head, and took a step back, and I knew what was coming next – I just didn’t know where. I almost heard his arm whip across the air as it came and slammed into my eye. Everything went blank and dark, and all I could see was stars-

-stars, tiny shining by the million in the dark night sky. And her eyes, two diamonds with intensity to blot them all out, and for a long time, they were all I could see. She smiled, and raised her eyebrows, as if to say ‘What are you looking at?’, and I smiled back, shook my head, and finally managed to look away.

‘You see that?’ I said, pointing to a bright star in the distance, ‘I’m going to get it named after you. You can register these things these days.’

‘Oh, that? Why a star? Why not something I can actually reach out and touch?’ she said, resting her hand on my shoulder.

‘You know, if your hand went down lower, I’m sure we can find a suitable replacement.’ I smiled a mischievous smile, as she realized the implications. And she laughed in shock and surprise; she chided me, and shook me-

-shook me awake, back on to the dark alley, where his henchmen were holding my arms up, waiting for him to launch at me again.

“Tut tut, don’t you dare faint on me lover boy, not yet at least - there isn’t enough of your blood on the floor yet!”  One henchman snorted, I heard cracks as another flexed his muscles. There was no other sound from the alley.

“I hope you realize why I’m pulping you. It would be such a shame if you didn’t know. Truth be told, you’re lousy. Really lousy, and I don’t like lousy people, I really feel like hurting them. But you know what, all this showbiz tonight is not for your lousiness, it’s because I’ve decided I no longer like your face, and I think I’m going to set it right. Here’s how!”

This time it came round, his fist right at my temple, and my ears rang-

-my ears rang with her laughter, she could barely hold her glass, and I was too entranced by her face to notice much beyond. Why weren’t there more people like her, I caught myself thinking, why were the perfect ones always taken?

“Wait wait wait!” She somehow managed to say, gasping for breath. “There’s a flaw in your theory – New York Taxis couldn’t have been designed after giraffes, if anything, giraffes should inspire cranes. I think taxis were inspired by zebras.”

“In that case, the zebra would have to have jaundice or something like that, you can’t explain the yellow otherwise.” That was just too bad, I thought to myself a moment too late, after it had been said. And she just stared at me, for a good long moment, before she laughed out again. What the hell, I thought, thank god for the alcohol. She laughed, repeating ‘Jaundice’ to herself over and over, slapping the table top, and spilling her drink in the process. Seeing her glass about to fall, I stretched forward-

- stretched forward, the boot in my gut jolting me, making me cough.

“Now look here prick, this will not do. You ditching me like that, it doesn’t work, it only makes me angrier. Listen to me, and don’t faint. I hate it when I’m talking and people want to doze off. You hear me? Just focus, and let me talk. Now, where was I?” He turned to one of his men, this one was swinging a chain menacingly, but he’d been at it the entire time, and it wasn’t that threatening anymore, it was almost monotonous.

“You were saying something about stealing.” The henchman reminded him.

“Ah yes, like I was saying. Stealing is bad. Everyone said it, right from Moses to Sarbanes and Oxley. So when you stole from me, you should have thought a little bit about it. If you had, you would have guessed that I wouldn’t be too happy about it. Especially stealing a person, my person.” His emphasis on ‘My’ was spine chilling.

“So here’s your punishment. For stealing, and for coveting your neighbour’s wife.” He took the chain from his henchman’s hand, and swung it right at me.

My skin split in many places, my mouth filled with blood, and my tongue tasted-

-tasted like an exquisite wine, mysteriously warm yet playfully cool. I opened my eyes to see her smiling, looking at me for a response of some sort.

“Well, how was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What’s that supposed to mean? Was it good, not good, bad, or different? What was it?"

“What lipstick are you wearing?”

She cocked her eyebrow up. “You’re thinking about my lipstick? Really? You know what, you can get lost. I’m leaving.”

She turned, and all I did was catch her and kiss her again, the same way. And she kissed me back, and I smiled.

It was like a sense of warmth filling me up-

­

-filling me up, my lungs burning, my head spinning. I heard someone shout “There’s blood in his lungs, he’s drowning-

-drowning in your love. I mean it, it’s so much more than just falling-

-falling on to the road, as my legs gave way, and the henchmen released me, my arms thrashing-

-arms thrashing all about, trying to find her from behind the blindfold. She would tease me, come touch my arm and move away silently, and I’d turn and search and feel nothing-

- feel nothing, sense nothing but a deep numbness. The pain in my lungs was receding, as was my breath.

There was a cough.

There was a smile.

And there was silence.