48 posts tagged “fiction”

They say when the sun hit the sea and drowned in its big blue depths, turning the tranquil water first gold then red, the angels wept...

Les anges pleurés

...and there came an unearthly scream that raised every hair and fibre of every sentient creature; originating there, from the city in the silver sky above...

Le ciel argenté ci-deuss

...while an explosion like the wrath of Thor rippled over the barren ground, vibrations rumbling through the red earth below...

La terre rouge ci-dessous

...the circle of the aftermath spreading far out further than the eye could see, all the way beyond the crystal cities with their glimmering citadels and the sprawling metal factories, all the way to the impossible boundary of the blue mountains to the east...

Montagnes bleues à l'est

... and far on the other side, past the place where the darkly flowing river met the broken islands, and further still, all the way to the place they have forgotten, deep in the green valleys to the west...

Vallées vertes à l'ouest

...and above the silence, on that day, there was just one sound:  desolation. 

Désolation.

It was the scent that did it.  An innocuous touch, a fleeting awareness of another, interwoven with clean, masculine spice.  Her lids slipped over dark almond eyes, covering the arousal of memories; burning an ache through the softness of her belly. 

Yin and Yang.

We were never meant to be alone.

But the circle is broken.  Incomplete. 

It was the scent of soap and pine needles and fresh seawater... and the subtle tang of cinnamon.  She could taste it, smell it, breathe it.  She remembered heat and solace.  And something not quite remembered, something as instinctual and tangible as the swell and ebb of every tide.

The unbroken circle. 

And here it is, in it's entirety. 

For something that started out as an idea -- a glimpse of a scene for a writing project -- it has turned into something organic and unexpectedly intimate.  I sometimes refer to writing as 'cutting a vein and bleeding'.  With this one, I didn't share only my blood but also part of my soul. 

Thank you for all the wonderful comments and support and for sharing this journey with me. 

In the dreamworld little is hidden.  But not everything is revealed. 

At first it bothered me, the distance he kept between us, until I realised he was holding something from me.  Always there would be excuses as to why he was busy, why he couldn't see me, why the relationship always stayed the wrong side of friendship.  But never with the truth, always with evasive half-manoeuvres that left me cold.  At least give me the dignity of a little truth, I would often think.  But I never spoke up and the half-truths would lie between us, a semblance of courtesy he thought I believed.  

The answers came to me in the form of smaller chunks of a larger puzzle.  That day outside the restaurant, the pieces came together and I stared long and hard at the picture.    

That was the day I stopped dreaming.  And stopped believing in the dreams.  I watched the taxi drive away, Rebecca's distinctive red hair visible in the rear window.  I felt something in me crumble and knew I couldn't go on.  The dreams, I realised, had only ever given me half of the picture.  Whether they were precognitive or not ceased being important.  I let them go.  I had to; the choice was simple.  Lose the hope of a future together or lose myself. 

I started remembering how to live.  How it felt to feel alive and connected to the world.  Most importantly, I remembered all over again, what it meant to be a woman, to be wanted and desired in my own right.  

And then, several days later, he called.  And this time there were no half-truths, only the truth, in all it's modest glory. 

The taxi Rebecca took when she left the restaurant was hit in the side by a heavy goods lorry.  The doctors told Adam she wouldn't have felt any pain--wouldn't have known of the collision.  What do they really know about such things.  She was a daughter, a wife and a friend.  He  grieved for her in the days after.  Grieved for her more than most husbands would ever grieve for their wives.  Rebecca was wrong about that, he did love her, and that was the reason he never left.  He just wasn't in love with her.  

A week later, we met by the monument.  And all my dreams coalesced into reality.  Six months later we were married, in the season of dusk, at an altar I'd already glimpsed.

Another year passes and reveals the fragility of life.  I look up into Adam's warm gaze as I gently rock our newborn daughter to sleep.  We named her, Rebecca. 

A couple of days later, I meet Rebecca at the airport.  She has just come out of a transatlantic flight:  Montreal to London.  We embrace, old friends long separated, now re-united thanks to facebook.  She is over on business but we have time for lunch and coffee.

"You're married?" I ask, surprised.  We're leaving the restuarant, filled with food and coffee and the warmth of friendship.  I realise now that whilst I have been forthcoming about my life, Rebecca hasn't told me anything about her own.  I check her ring finger, it is empty.

My gesture has not gone unnoticed.  "I don't wear it."  She pauses as if debating something with herself, then adds, "He doesn't love me."

"Your husband?" I'm confused and slightly shocked.  Rebecca appears grim but not unhappy.

"He married me because he felt he had to...  I moved to Canada, left my family and gave up mychildren.  All for him."  Her painted lips twist with some emotion--regret?

 "Oh," said I, as if it suddenly all made sense.  But it didn't.  Something occurred to me, "You say he doesn't love you but--"

She nods.  "Yes, I love him.  That's why I agreed to go ahead with it.  Selfish of me, wasn't it?"

She doesn't expect a reply, which is well, because I'm unable to think of anything appropriate.  I think of Rebecca, married three years, to man she left everything for, and who doesn't love her.  "Your husband--" I start to say after a long while but she cuts me off.

"Adam."

My gut clenches at the name.  There are a million Adams in the world, I tell myself, it's just a word.  But I can't rid myself of a sense of dread.  "Adam," I repeat.  "He must be in the marriage because he wants to be."

"No."  Rebecca is unexpectedly firm.  "He's in love with someone else."  She turned to look at me for the first time in the conversation and I realise there are tears in her eyes.  "You'd think I'd want him to be happy too.  That if he loves someone else, that I should let him go--grant him his chance at happiness.  But I can't do that."  Her voice breaks on the last word, and she fumbles in her pocket for a tissue.  "I can't let go of the hope he might wake up one day and discover he loves me.  Am I too selfish to want that?"  

"No," said I searching through my handbag.  "You're not.  It's perfectly natural to want him to love you."  A tissue is found and offered.  "So how do you know he loves someone else.  Surely there's a chance?"

"There isn't."  And this time the bitterness in Rebecca's voice was sharp enough to make me pause.  "Believe me, I know him.  The way he is now, smiling, confident, so happy--I've never known him like that.  Not even when we were together and planning a future together."

I am silent for a moment, absorbing this information.  At length I ask, "Have you talked to him about it?"

"No," she dismisses the question.

"Then how do you know--"

"I do.  I just do."  She looks so sad and tired that I put my arm around her and hold her tight.  She resists initially but then crumples in my embrace, crying against the dark satin of my shirt.  Something flutters to the ground.  I give her a final hug and bend to pick it up.

It's a photo.

I turn it over, my throat inexplicably tight.  On the front is a 6x4 glossy photo of a man smiling at the camera.  In the background are the pyramids and a blue, blue sky.  It's a photo from Rebecca's holiday.  A picture of her husband.  A picture of Adam--my Adam.  There are millions of Adams in the world, but this--this is a picture of the face that lingers in my dreams.

I look back up at Rebecca, the colour bleached from my cheeks, but in those few moments, Rebecca has already left.  I catch a glimpse of her as she hails a taxi and jumps in.  Her hand comes up in a brief farewell.   And then she is gone.

Nearly six months after that initial correspondence, Adam is a part of my soul.  Yet I'm also frustrated and hurt.  I've just slammed the lid of my laptop--metaphorically and physically--on another conversation that has seemingly deteriorated for no good reason.  I hug my knees under my chin and wonder how we have got to this point; this fraying bridge.

Echoes of the conversation pass through my mind; despair and hope woven through with strands of confusion.  It wasn't always like this.  Even now, I remember laughter and joy.  The initial months were like the breath of summer in a frost-drenched room.  Snatches of memory repeat, discordant, through my sorrow; whispers of closeness, shared memories and confessions.  The delicate mingling of dreams lit by the flame of shared understanding and the implicit perfection of familiarity; a simple trust of two souls content to be in the illuminated shade of the other.  

And yet he doesn't remember any of it.  I trace my finger slowly over the symbol on the laptop.  At times he is so distant, and I'm nothing more than a stranger.  It hurts more than he can know.  My finger stills.  I look up and see myself reflected in the mirror opposite.  My eyes are tired, my face is worn.  Transposing itself on my reflection, is the image of another face -- masculine, weathered and warm.

I know it's him though I've never seen a picture.  In the hours of darkness just as the sun is readying to make it's journey across the sky, he walks the fields of my dreams.  And as we walk together, hand in hand, he shares all he keeps hidden through the waking hours.  I've seen the shadow of his face, and heard his declaration of love.  I've wept on his shoulder and come to know the faces of his friends and family.  And in the season of dusk, I have seen us wed before an altar, our hands intertwined, his devotion so sweetly earnest, and I drenched in my bridal finery.  And I've seen beyond...  

I push the laptop aside.  Knowledge is an edged sword.  I've lost count of the tears I've spilled for knowing what will happen, yet being unable to reconcile it with strangeness of actual events.  Had I not known, I wouldn't have cared.  But I do know and therein lies the thorn.  Sometimes I feel privileged, other times cursed.  But my attitude doesn't change anything -- I still know -- and every day that passes repeats the events of a previous dream and brings us another step along our predefined destiny.  

Reluctantly, I flip open the screen, impatient with myself and filled with compassion for him.  But he's gone.  Disappointed and annoyed, I am about to shut down when a message flashes across the background.  It's Rebecca.

An Inspector Calls - Act IV

Written as a school assignment within set parameters, when I was about 15... which makes it nearly 20 years old (eek!)  Presented here, unedited and unabridged. 
...

"That was the police.  A girl has just died -- on her way to the infirmary -- after swallowing some disinfectant.  And a police Inspector is on his way here -- to ask some -- questions--"  Birling spoke slowly, as if he could not believe what he had just heard.

The rest of the company sat, staring guiltily, all of them at a loss for words.  They remained so for quite a while, as if paralysed, then, Mrs Birling intervened, a cool detached mask replacing the shocked, vulnerable countenance of before.  "This is utterly ridiculous.  Mr Croft, I suggest that you leave at once.  This is a family matter and need not concern you."

"Mother!"  Sheila exclaimed, shccked.  "Gerald was a part of this, as any one of us.  He has a right to stay."

"Sheila, be quiet.  I have had enough of these goings on; I will not permit my home to be abused in this manner.  No-one will tell anything other than the truth."

"Father."  Sheila spoke in relief, a radiant smile upon her face.  Birling ignored the remark and continued, "If some of these atrocities got out, it could cost me -- my knighthood y'know..."  He paused to gulp down some of the beverage in his hand.  "Anyway, we'll tell 'em the truth -- that nothing ever happened.  That girl worked for me.  I sacked her, and that's all there is to it."

Both Eric and Sheila's faces turned to one another.  Expressions of disgust, horror and indignation flew back and forth, with the realisation of their father's words.  Before anyone else could interrupt, Edna materialised and announced that an Inspector Newman had arrived to see them.  Shortly after those words were spoken, a tall, clean-shaven man, similar -- very similar -- physically to Inspector Goole, entered.  He glanced at everyone in the room, briefly assessing them.

"My name is Inspector Newman.  I have come to investigate the suicide of --" pausing, he referred to his notebook.  "Eva Smith, also known by the name of Daisy Renton.  She died by swallowing a considerable amount of disinfectant."  Here, he glanced up; his eyes were a cold grey -- positively sterile.  "She left behind  letter, and a interesting number of diaries... dated from September nineteen hundred and nine, to Thursday, March the twelfth, nineteen-twelve... which I believe was last night."

"Inspector-"  Arthur Birling was indignant.

"Mr Birling, I would appreciate your silence until matters deem it otherwise."  The voice was crisp and firm. 

Birling's colour rose dramatically at such treatment.  "I'll have you know I was Lord Mayor, just two years past, and I'm still on the Bench, so you'd better watch your words, Inspector!"

He was ignored.  "In her diaries, Miss Smith wrote about all present company.  Mr Arthur Birling, Mrs Sybil Birling, Sheila Birling, Eric Birling and a Mr Gerald Croft.  She always wrote something on the people she met -- some more than others -- but on all persons present, she wrote a considerable amount.  Would you like to hear what is said about each of you?"

Silence.

"Mr Newman, please reach the point of your visit, or kindly leave."  Mrs Birling spoke haughtily, a light dusting of boredom had been artistically injected into the polite words. 

"If you bear with me ma'am, I was coming to it.  I was wondering if any have an idea as to the motive of her suicide.  The Police Department have none, and so would be glad to hear of any news concerning the death.."

Mrs Birling, catching Eric in the very act of saying something, smoothly cut in and asked if the Inspector required a drink.  Eric, frustrated, and irritated, angrily left the room; the loud snap of the front door could be heard banging shut.  The Inspector raised a quizzical eyebrow at the abrupt departure, and then at Sheila's equally perturbed exterior.  "Inspector--" she began.

"We have nothing to say."

Almost exasperatedly, "Mr Birling, I appreciate your most sympathetic attempts at helping, but stay out of this."  All traces of the detached, almost cold man had gone.  It's wake left nothing pleasant. 

"Now, Miss Birling, you were saying...?"

"I -- I know why Miss Smith committed suicide -- or the events leading to it."

"Proceed."

"She was--"  Here Sheila's courage failed her, as she noticed the stiff, starched emotions on her sire's visage.  Suddenly anger flooded back, as Sheila remembered the visit by Inspector Goole, and how things had to change.  She gulped nervously and continued.  "We all contributed to her death.  We are all guilty."

"Inspector, she talks of social crimes," reiterated Gerald hastily.  Newman regarded him through narrowed eyes before noting down the relevant information. 

"That excuses our guilt then?"  Eric spoke from the doorway, he had a haunted look about him, but also, renewed determination shone in his eyes.  "Gerald, there is someone in the hall who wishes to speak to you."

Gerald rose quickly, curiosity making him depart hastily, as did Mrs Birling, going to take care of her unwelcome guest.  Voices could be heard, raised then lowered deferentially.  Birling frowned at the commotion, told the Inspector that he had not finished with him, then he also departed the scene. 

After the initial surprise, at the sudden evacuation, Sheila glanced around and noted that the Inspector had made himself comfortable in a high-backed armchair.  He looked relaxed, and at ease.  His eyes met Sheila's and she noted that they held a wry kind of amusement.  Eric, observing the same, saw the truth dawning in front of his very eyes.

"Maybe, you know an Inspector Goole?"  The phrase from Eric's lips was more of a statement than question. 

The Inspector smiled, not altogether unfriendly.  "Maybe."

"And you are here for the same purpose?"  Sheila interposed.

"Perhaps."

"What part do we play in this?"

"A large part.  I came specifically to talk to you two.  Your parents won't change -- they never will -- Gerald hasn't the spirit or fight in him to take up your worthy battle, but you two, you are the hope of this world.  It is people like yourselves who can change the society in which we live.  Don't feel discouraged by others around you, but gain courage from the fact that it is you who are going to change all of this."

"It is you that will?"  Eric echoed questioningly.

Inspector Newman looked slightly uncomfortable, as if caught revealing confidential information.  "Yes, well, and... so, don't lose hope in yourselves, reach out to each other for support, and courage."

"Do you know what the future holds for us?"  Sheila asked eagerly.

"Maybe," the Inspector said hurriedly, trying to change the subject.

"Could you tell us?"  Sheila pressed on. 

"Inspector!" Birling bellowed. 

Newman sighed wearily.  "Birling?"  The Inspector queried as the former approached him, fury making his stride stiff and awkward. 

"This is all your fault!  There's a newspaper reporter outside, and he wants to know about our connection with Eva Smith's death!  How did the press get hold of this so quickly?"  He paused then, and smacked his palm against his forehead.  "My knighthood!" he muttered in utter despair.  "Oh Lord, my knighthood!"  Gratefully, he sank into the sofa nearby, and stared silently into space.  "Sybil," he moaned, then more strongly, "Sybil, get that blasted popinjay out of my home!"

The company heard a series of noises, then the silent pause after the cracking shut of the door.  Mrs Birling entered with Gerald close on her heels.  "Disrespectful!  Absolutely no consideration for their better.  All these people should learn their proper place."

"Mother, will you not learn?"

"Learn about what, dear?"  A hint of exasperation entered the voice.

"Everything has got to change; we, Eric and I are the future, we will set the pace, and make this country all it will ever become.  We don't need your prejudiced views for--"

"We can do it ourselves," Eric cut in.  "Father, I am leaving, I have no further need of this house anymore; I am going out into the world to fulfil my own needs."

"A fine speech, Eric, but a foolish one.  What would you know?"

"Don't patronise him, Gerald.  If you think that's the way you're going to talk to my family, then you may as well leave these premises."

"Mr Birling, please -- I was just offering--"

"Now!" roared Birling.

Mutely, Gerald appealed to Sheila for support.

"Go Gerald.  It is wise that you do so.  I'm sad that our engagement had to end this way, but it is all for the better.  We could never have had a relationship built upon lies.  Go, forget me, forget this family, but never forget the lesson learnt today." 

Gerald looked around the Birling living room for the last time and left, without a backward glance, never to re-appear in their life-span. 

"Well, that was a fine mess," Sybil remarked into the awkward quiet following Gerald's quittance.  "Edna... Edna, where are you?" she asked as she disappeared in search of the maid, her mind full with rotas and social engagements that had to be organised. 

"So, you're leaving the nest.  Well, it's for the best... you weren't much good in the company anyway."  The harsh words were belied by the moisture in the old man's eyes.  "You'd better get going... I've -- I've got..." Birling muttered something obscure and left the two siblings devoid of human company. 

The Inspector watched all the while, seated quietly, uobserved and totally forgotten for the present.  He watched as Sheila and Eric tearfully embraced and departed for their separate ways.  Eric for a totally new way of life, and for Sheila, to amend her old views and ways. 

It was only when Sheila thought to glance back into the armchair, a little while later, that she noticed the Inspecter had disappeared from their lives, but he had left a momento of his visit.  In the place were he had sat, lay a single, white feather; on closer examination, Sheila noticed that in deep, blood red, the words Hope and Peace, were engraved along the midrib of the feather. 

An omen for the future, perhaps? 

...

I enjoyed re-reading this when I found it, despite the obvious need for editing.  A couple of spots in particular made me wince and laugh but there was one thing that really struck me about the writing, and that it hasn't changed significantly in 20 years.  How it was formed stylistically and structurally at the age of 15, is pretty much how it is today.  And that's an interesting thought. 

It is the book, of course.  That's what started it--that and the turn of season.  Every significant moment in my life has been triggered by the moods of mother nature.  Sometimes, I look back and feel the hand of fate, serendipity--call it what you will--heavy against my back, pushing me onward.

On that crisp, autumnal morning, huddled on the train into work, I am busy stealing the transient warmth of the stranger next to me when I look over to see what he is reading and notice a picture gaping from a page of the book.  The image is a lavish display of sepia tinted collages reminiscent of the colonial era.  I lean in further and skim the title:  Griffin and Sabine.  It's not one I'm familiar with, but I am sufficiently intrigued so that when he gets up at the next stop, leaving the book behind, I pick it up and flick open the front cover.

Pasted across the front page of the book in it's cheerful yellow brightness is a distinctive sticker advertising bookcrossing.com and an unique identification number. 

At work, I log into my computer and google the website.  In moments I've created an account, read the history of the book's travels and sent a message to the original owner.  After a late lunch, I check my email.  The book's owner has replied. 

London, wow, I never expected the book to go all the way back home.  I set it free in a park in Montreal, where I now live.  Have you read it yet?  The book is an interesting approach to the idea of serendipity, belief and imagination....

Serendipity...  my gaze lingers over the familiar word.  I re-read the message and smiling to myself, tap out a reply.    

He catches up with me by the mouth of the tube station.  I turn on a whisper of wind, and there he is, right in front of me--tall, masculine... real.

"Why'd you do that?" he asks.  The same eyes I'd admired earlier, now stare at me with a deep intensity.  He looks angry, and hurt.

"How did you know it was me?" I whisper.  I am afraid, unsettled by his tangible but unexpected presence.  His scent, like smoke, drifts across a breath of air.

"Your coat," he says, a glint of something like amusement breaking through the fire.  "It's red."

I look down, almost confused, before my lips curve into a smile. 

Encouraged, he pulls the daisy from his pocket.  The stem is bruised and it is missing a few petals.  Tears well in my eyes.  "It's beautiful."

"Like you."

My smile deepens and the tears spill over onto my cheeks.  I lean forward into his embrace and let him hold me, absorbing his heat and strength--oblivious to the commuters pushing past us and the obstacle we create.

"So why'd you do it?  Why'd you run away?"

"I didn't run," I correct, laying my cheek against the roughness of his coat.  I stare out at the blur of faces passing by.  "I just couldn't do it.  Rebecca--" my breath catches on a sob.  Fresh tears, hot and salty wet my face.

"Shh..." his arms tighten around me.  "She told you how it was for us."  His voice is hoarse but controlled. 

I look up into the grief-lined shadows of his face and know he is remembering how we first came to know each other.  It's there in his gaze, that softness of memory.

Her gaze was hypnotic as she handed me the card.  I read the words slowly, to be sure I hadn't misunderstood.  Raising my gaze, I held hers firmly.  I felt sure my shock was visible.  There, embossed in gold and cream, was the date of my death. 

I thought of all the sunsets and sunrises.  Of sand wedged between toes and the salty spray of surf on skin.  I smelt again the scent of babies and felt the warmth of being held.  I remembered all the indefinable pleasures of this transient earth in the time it took my heart to beat.

The card fluttered to the ground.