The cold shoulder.
By Ell
It was a Tuesday night; cold and late. She had tried to get to bed at a ‘decent hour’, but somehow it was after 11pm again.
“What are you doing!?” she asked. She was waiting to turn the light off.
Her husband was making noises in the kitchen.
“I’m just putting the dishes away!” he replied over the clattering.
“Jeez!” he added under his breath, exasperated.
From the bedroom ,she prickled and called out,
“Don’t speak to me like that please. I was only asking a question.” Her tone was reproving like that of a mother telling off her naughty child.
“Questions!” louder this time, from the kitchen,
“Always with the questions. ‘What are you doing?’, ‘Where are you going?’, ‘Why are you eating ice-cream?’” He used a whiney voice to mimic her.
She made no reply as she set her plump lips into a thin line of anger and narrowed her eyes.
Her husband now entered the bedroom; he removed a wet-weather coat from the closet and placed it on the hall stand outside the bedroom door.
All the while, she was glaring at the ceiling.
He took no notice of her.
In the silence, their old moggy, Abby, coughed and hacked in her basket beside the bed.
Her husband sat on the bed, with his back to her while he set his alarm clock. He then lay down and covered himself with the blankets. Although he was obviously cold (he was shivering), and she was toasty, (having been in the bed for some 15 minutes beforehand with the hot water bottle at her feet) he chose to lay over the far side of the bed with his back to her.
As she snapped the lamp off, her anger subsided and was replaced by rejection and hurt.
His ‘cold shoulder’ wounded her more than his spiteful tone.
“Goodnight” he gruffed over his shoulder.
She was not impressed and replied non-verbally in the affirmative, drawing out the first syllable to show her disapproval, “Mmmmmm-hmm.”
She had expected him to snuggle up to her, the harsh tones forgotten; she was outraged that he continued this negative mood.
Still lying on her back, in a semi-receptive body position, she thought to herself in the darkness,
‘He’ll say something soon about tea tomorrow night or ask me to wash his work clothes. He’ll not be able to get warm and will back up to me and reach for my hand under the blankets and everything will be forgotten, like usual.’
Her thoughts were broken by his loud snoring.
A fresh wave of indignation washed over her ‘How rude! How uncalled for!’
She had the acute desire to kick him ‘accidentally’, just to wake him up, but settled on over-rustling the blankets and rolling over to see if he stirred.
He continued to snore.
She was determined to be cross with him the next day, but equally content to forget his rude actions if he left her a charming love note- as he did from time to time- apologizing.
She fell asleep with the comforting thought that he still had one more opportunity to redeem himself.
*********************************************************************
The next morning, she was surprised he hadn’t awoken her with the usual,
“I’m off now. Have a good day sweetie/honey/beautiful”
‘I must have slept heavily’ she comforted herself.
She wandered, bleary eyed, into the kitchen, expecting to find the apologetic note.
And there it was! On the kitchen table; a small, white piece of paper that was definitely not there the night before and the chair turned outward as if he’d sat at that very spot to write it!
She went back tot the bedroom to get her glassed from the bedside table, so as to better read his heartfelt words.
She picked up the unfolded piece of paper which contained his tight, printed handwriting she knew so well. She smiled smugly.
With a mixture of satisfaction and adoration for her husband, she put on her glasses to read the note in her hand….
“I have taken out rissoles for dinner.
I will be home at 5pm.
My work clothes need to be washed. -D”
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Young Adult Fiction: Untitled. Chapter 2
Chapter two: The staffroom
Jeremy sat in the foyer of the staffroom as Mrs. Frahmien went to put her tub of books away.
The foyer was known to the students as ‘The holding area’. It was a stark area; the walls were hospital white, with the same blue speckly linoleum on the floor which stopped abruptly short as the plush pile of dark green flecked carpet of the staffroom began.
Emma Fellows of year 7 and Terry Deardry of year 8 were lined up along the wall, also awaiting the firing squad. Emma was absentmidedly drawing stars all over her hand in black biro and Terry slumped back in the blue plastic chair, eyes half closed with the white cords of an MP3 player growing out of his ears. Jeremy could hear the distant thudding of the bass beat as he took the seat next to him.
It looks like they’ve been here for a while...great. I’ll never get out of here. I’m so frickin hungry!
Other staff members filed past, into the staffroom; some ignoring him, some giving him raised eyebrows and a look which said,
‘Hmm…in trouble again? I’m not surprised’.
Jeremy was getting angrier by the moment and began shooting them looks filthier than his footy socks on a Saturday afternoon.
Here I am again, the loser of year 9… Dad’s gunna kill me. How do I get myself into these things? Stupid exploding pen.
Mrs. Frahmien appeared, her large, apple shape taking up the doorframe. She motioned to Jeremy to follow her to a small room next the photocopier, known as the Interrogation room.
The lecture began.
“Mr. Batton. I’d like you to explain to me what just happened in my science class between you and Stephen Burbury. I’ve just spoken to the nurse in sick bay and she tells me that he’s been taken to hospital. He’s in a very serious way!”
Shit.
“ I paired you two up because I know how good you are at science- even if you don’t want to admit it- and poor Stephen hasn’t got a clue! I thought you would be able to help him. If he fails this class, he will loose his football scholarship, Jeremy, and his parents have no way to pay for him to remain here!”
Double shit.
Jeremy’s guilt returned with a vengeance; a soccer-punch to the gut.
Suddenly that sausage roll waiting for him in the canteen didn’t seem that appetising.
“Well…” Jeremy began, grasping for an explanation.
“It was just a joke! I never meant to hurt him…He was laughing too- at first!” He trailed off.
Excuses never go down well with very strict, very concerned teachers. This, Jeremy should have realised by now. He was beginning to get too familiar with the Interrogation room: its chipboard and veneer topped table covered with graffiti and gouged out channels; the stained, vomit-coloured carpet; and the silver wall vent, to which his eyes usually fell, while he contemplated escape.
“I don’t have time for your excuses- just tell me exactly what happened!
Ummm…how am I gunna cover my ass?
Well!?”
Jeremy gave up trying to think of a way to save himself and blurted it all out in a surge of babble.
“Stephen cranked the Bunsen burner and then turned to start chattin’ up Janey. I saw his pen and pulled out the ink tube-I was just gunna melt the outside of his pen, you know, make it all wavy and cool and stuff, but I thought it’d be funnier to heat up the ink tube, so that’s what I did when you weren’t looking- whacked it over the Bunsen burner- and it exploded! I didn’t know it was gunna do that, seriously! Stephen turned around as it happened and…”
He began to run out of breath.
“ And, yeah…got ink in his eyes…It was meant to be funny…a joke.” He trailed off again.
Mrs. Framien pursed her plump lips into a thin line and furrowed her brow as she absorbed Jeremy’s explanation.
“Well I doubt very much that Stephen is laughing now. What made you think of such an idiotic stunt? What is your dad going to say about this? Do you realize that Stephen could loose his scholarship, never to play football agin, not to mention his SIGHT!?” Mrs. Frahmien’s voice became higher and more shrill, with each question.
Whoah! Question overload!
Jeremy physically recoiled in his chair at the onslaught. He didn’t know which question to answer first, or if they were rhetorical.
“It was just a joke! Jeez!” He pleaded, defensive.
Mrs. Frahmien simply shook her head in disbelief and frowned, her lips now white and invisibly sewn together.
“Mr. O’Neil will see you at the end of the day. I’m just so appalled Jeremy, that you can take this so-called-joke lightly…go to lunch now and think about what your little joke could cost this boy.”
***************************************************************************************
“Man, anyone would think I exploded ink into her face, the way she carried on!” Jeremy complained. Sam was waiting for Jeremy outside of the staffroom. They walked toward the canteen across the green.
Sam chuckled and added, “It was sooo funny though- to see your face, mate! Ol’ Mrs. Military woulda roasted you! Haha! Poor Steve though. He’s gunna be so pissed at you when he gets back to school.”
“Yeah, well, he should learn to take a joke.” Jeremy grumped. The more he called it ‘a joke’ the less funny it seemed, but he couldn’t turn back now. That was his story and he’d stick to it. You had to save face, or you were a wuss.
“What are you gunna do if he’s like, blind and stuff?” Sam asked thickly through a mouthful of salad roll.
“blind and stuff”…What the hell will I do?
Jeremy sat in the foyer of the staffroom as Mrs. Frahmien went to put her tub of books away.
The foyer was known to the students as ‘The holding area’. It was a stark area; the walls were hospital white, with the same blue speckly linoleum on the floor which stopped abruptly short as the plush pile of dark green flecked carpet of the staffroom began.
Emma Fellows of year 7 and Terry Deardry of year 8 were lined up along the wall, also awaiting the firing squad. Emma was absentmidedly drawing stars all over her hand in black biro and Terry slumped back in the blue plastic chair, eyes half closed with the white cords of an MP3 player growing out of his ears. Jeremy could hear the distant thudding of the bass beat as he took the seat next to him.
It looks like they’ve been here for a while...great. I’ll never get out of here. I’m so frickin hungry!
Other staff members filed past, into the staffroom; some ignoring him, some giving him raised eyebrows and a look which said,
‘Hmm…in trouble again? I’m not surprised’.
Jeremy was getting angrier by the moment and began shooting them looks filthier than his footy socks on a Saturday afternoon.
Here I am again, the loser of year 9… Dad’s gunna kill me. How do I get myself into these things? Stupid exploding pen.
Mrs. Frahmien appeared, her large, apple shape taking up the doorframe. She motioned to Jeremy to follow her to a small room next the photocopier, known as the Interrogation room.
The lecture began.
“Mr. Batton. I’d like you to explain to me what just happened in my science class between you and Stephen Burbury. I’ve just spoken to the nurse in sick bay and she tells me that he’s been taken to hospital. He’s in a very serious way!”
Shit.
“ I paired you two up because I know how good you are at science- even if you don’t want to admit it- and poor Stephen hasn’t got a clue! I thought you would be able to help him. If he fails this class, he will loose his football scholarship, Jeremy, and his parents have no way to pay for him to remain here!”
Double shit.
Jeremy’s guilt returned with a vengeance; a soccer-punch to the gut.
Suddenly that sausage roll waiting for him in the canteen didn’t seem that appetising.
“Well…” Jeremy began, grasping for an explanation.
“It was just a joke! I never meant to hurt him…He was laughing too- at first!” He trailed off.
Excuses never go down well with very strict, very concerned teachers. This, Jeremy should have realised by now. He was beginning to get too familiar with the Interrogation room: its chipboard and veneer topped table covered with graffiti and gouged out channels; the stained, vomit-coloured carpet; and the silver wall vent, to which his eyes usually fell, while he contemplated escape.
“I don’t have time for your excuses- just tell me exactly what happened!
Ummm…how am I gunna cover my ass?
Well!?”
Jeremy gave up trying to think of a way to save himself and blurted it all out in a surge of babble.
“Stephen cranked the Bunsen burner and then turned to start chattin’ up Janey. I saw his pen and pulled out the ink tube-I was just gunna melt the outside of his pen, you know, make it all wavy and cool and stuff, but I thought it’d be funnier to heat up the ink tube, so that’s what I did when you weren’t looking- whacked it over the Bunsen burner- and it exploded! I didn’t know it was gunna do that, seriously! Stephen turned around as it happened and…”
He began to run out of breath.
“ And, yeah…got ink in his eyes…It was meant to be funny…a joke.” He trailed off again.
Mrs. Framien pursed her plump lips into a thin line and furrowed her brow as she absorbed Jeremy’s explanation.
“Well I doubt very much that Stephen is laughing now. What made you think of such an idiotic stunt? What is your dad going to say about this? Do you realize that Stephen could loose his scholarship, never to play football agin, not to mention his SIGHT!?” Mrs. Frahmien’s voice became higher and more shrill, with each question.
Whoah! Question overload!
Jeremy physically recoiled in his chair at the onslaught. He didn’t know which question to answer first, or if they were rhetorical.
“It was just a joke! Jeez!” He pleaded, defensive.
Mrs. Frahmien simply shook her head in disbelief and frowned, her lips now white and invisibly sewn together.
“Mr. O’Neil will see you at the end of the day. I’m just so appalled Jeremy, that you can take this so-called-joke lightly…go to lunch now and think about what your little joke could cost this boy.”
***************************************************************************************
“Man, anyone would think I exploded ink into her face, the way she carried on!” Jeremy complained. Sam was waiting for Jeremy outside of the staffroom. They walked toward the canteen across the green.
Sam chuckled and added, “It was sooo funny though- to see your face, mate! Ol’ Mrs. Military woulda roasted you! Haha! Poor Steve though. He’s gunna be so pissed at you when he gets back to school.”
“Yeah, well, he should learn to take a joke.” Jeremy grumped. The more he called it ‘a joke’ the less funny it seemed, but he couldn’t turn back now. That was his story and he’d stick to it. You had to save face, or you were a wuss.
“What are you gunna do if he’s like, blind and stuff?” Sam asked thickly through a mouthful of salad roll.
“blind and stuff”…What the hell will I do?
Friday, June 19, 2009
Young Adult Fiction: Untitled. Chapter 1
Untitled.
Elley Edwards
Chapter one: The science room.
It was a practical joke that had gone terribly wrong…
Jeremy gasped and clapped his hand over his mouth.
What have I done!?
Stephen was moaning, wiping his streaming, inky eyes.
“Get it out! Get it out! It’s burning!”
Jeremy was also covered in splotches of midnight blue ink.
“I’m sorry man, sorry! Shhh! I didn’t mean to…that wasn’t s’pose to happen!”
Mrs. Frahmien wheeled around from the whiteboard, her plump, red face instantly beaming with rage as she surveyed the scene.
“What have you boys done!? I cannot turn my back on you for one minute without something like THIS happening!”
Uh-oh. I’m totally in for it now. My life is over.
Jeremy slumped back into his chair.
Stephen’s wails and Mrs. Frahmien’s thunderous voice stunned the class. Everyone froze; mid-nose-pick, mid-spit ball, mid-pash (up the back).
All that was audible in the science room was Stephen’s groans of:
“It huuuuurts!”
Mrs. Frahmien boomed, in her military, matter-of-fact way,
“Sarah! Ebony! Escort Stephen to the sick bay immediately. He needs urgent attention!”
Her gaze scanned the room and flicked back to Jeremy who had recovered from his horrified apologies and was now stifling giggles.
‘The Fellas’ were imitating Stephen- led by Sam, his best mate since prep- ribbing him to get his attention. Stephen left the room with his hands over his eyes, letting out a faint sob.
“Alright everyone- pack up! The bell will ring in 2 minutes.”
The class sprang into action.
“I want all Bunsen burners, tripods, mats, etcetera returned and left exactly as you found them, or else you’ll all be in at lunch time!” Mrs. Frahmien roared over the bustling movement.
Jeremy tried to look inconspicuous as he hurriedly tidied up the bench where he and Stephen had worked.
He half-heartedly tried to mop up the exploded ink from the table with a smelly, soggy cloth he’d found in the sink up the front, but all it did was smear the mess and make it worse.
Jeremy piffed the stinky-and now stained- cloth across the room and it landed with a loud ‘SPLAT’ in the sink. Swishhhh!
The bell rang and everyone raced to the door, pushing, shoving, and jostling to get out in one massive blob of arms and heads.
Jeremy was in the middle of it and had just elbowed Sam to squeeze out in front, when Mrs. Frahmien called in a shrill tone,
“Mr. Batton! Where do you think you’re going?”
Jeremy stopped, his back still to her, facing freedom.
“Well, I was off to lunch…”
What does she think I’m doing, making cookies for the girl guides?
Luckily for Jeremy, he kept his mouth closed, turned slowly in the doorway and artfully plastered the standard ‘bored’ teenage expression all over himself.
Everyone had left the classroom and the hallway was now quiet as he stood there…waiting.
Mrs. Frahmien continued to pack up her things and wipe the whiteboard clean.
Am I meant to just stand here all day? C’mon! I’m starvin’ marvin’!
Of course, Mrs. Frahmien was deliberately taking her time, delaying the inevitable a little longer, hoping to see remorse of some sort on Jeremy’s face.
She glanced quickly and registered the impatient, bored glare; Mrs. Frahmien packed up a little slower.
Jeremy was itching for the sausage roll, which had his name on it, waiting for him at the canteen.
Mrs. Frahmien finally met Jeremy at the door, tub over-flowing with science and chemistry books. She shoved it in Jeremy’s direction.
“Take this!” she growled,
“Walk with me.”
This is not good.
Chapter two coming...
Elley Edwards
Chapter one: The science room.
It was a practical joke that had gone terribly wrong…
Jeremy gasped and clapped his hand over his mouth.
What have I done!?
Stephen was moaning, wiping his streaming, inky eyes.
“Get it out! Get it out! It’s burning!”
Jeremy was also covered in splotches of midnight blue ink.
“I’m sorry man, sorry! Shhh! I didn’t mean to…that wasn’t s’pose to happen!”
Mrs. Frahmien wheeled around from the whiteboard, her plump, red face instantly beaming with rage as she surveyed the scene.
“What have you boys done!? I cannot turn my back on you for one minute without something like THIS happening!”
Uh-oh. I’m totally in for it now. My life is over.
Jeremy slumped back into his chair.
Stephen’s wails and Mrs. Frahmien’s thunderous voice stunned the class. Everyone froze; mid-nose-pick, mid-spit ball, mid-pash (up the back).
All that was audible in the science room was Stephen’s groans of:
“It huuuuurts!”
Mrs. Frahmien boomed, in her military, matter-of-fact way,
“Sarah! Ebony! Escort Stephen to the sick bay immediately. He needs urgent attention!”
Her gaze scanned the room and flicked back to Jeremy who had recovered from his horrified apologies and was now stifling giggles.
‘The Fellas’ were imitating Stephen- led by Sam, his best mate since prep- ribbing him to get his attention. Stephen left the room with his hands over his eyes, letting out a faint sob.
“Alright everyone- pack up! The bell will ring in 2 minutes.”
The class sprang into action.
“I want all Bunsen burners, tripods, mats, etcetera returned and left exactly as you found them, or else you’ll all be in at lunch time!” Mrs. Frahmien roared over the bustling movement.
Jeremy tried to look inconspicuous as he hurriedly tidied up the bench where he and Stephen had worked.
He half-heartedly tried to mop up the exploded ink from the table with a smelly, soggy cloth he’d found in the sink up the front, but all it did was smear the mess and make it worse.
Jeremy piffed the stinky-and now stained- cloth across the room and it landed with a loud ‘SPLAT’ in the sink. Swishhhh!
The bell rang and everyone raced to the door, pushing, shoving, and jostling to get out in one massive blob of arms and heads.
Jeremy was in the middle of it and had just elbowed Sam to squeeze out in front, when Mrs. Frahmien called in a shrill tone,
“Mr. Batton! Where do you think you’re going?”
Jeremy stopped, his back still to her, facing freedom.
“Well, I was off to lunch…”
What does she think I’m doing, making cookies for the girl guides?
Luckily for Jeremy, he kept his mouth closed, turned slowly in the doorway and artfully plastered the standard ‘bored’ teenage expression all over himself.
Everyone had left the classroom and the hallway was now quiet as he stood there…waiting.
Mrs. Frahmien continued to pack up her things and wipe the whiteboard clean.
Am I meant to just stand here all day? C’mon! I’m starvin’ marvin’!
Of course, Mrs. Frahmien was deliberately taking her time, delaying the inevitable a little longer, hoping to see remorse of some sort on Jeremy’s face.
She glanced quickly and registered the impatient, bored glare; Mrs. Frahmien packed up a little slower.
Jeremy was itching for the sausage roll, which had his name on it, waiting for him at the canteen.
Mrs. Frahmien finally met Jeremy at the door, tub over-flowing with science and chemistry books. She shoved it in Jeremy’s direction.
“Take this!” she growled,
“Walk with me.”
This is not good.
Chapter two coming...
Young adult fiction: The adventures of Hermon Brown
The Adventures of Hermon Brown.
Elley Edwards.
CHAPTER 1: Meet Hermon and Henrietta
Human life is such a remarkable and fragile thing. From the moment we’re born we enter the race to become the smartest, richest and most fulfilled being we can possibly be.
What if one met the slowest, simplest and least emotionally evolved person one could find? What would that person be like? You might ask yourself. Perhaps that person would be like Hermon Brown.
Hermon Brown, as one would imagine, lived a simple life in Bristol, England. His house was as simple as he; lined up, side by side, next to other two storey, town houses identical to his. Our friend, Hermon was born in this house, on Middle Park Lane. He grew up in this house and when his mother died of a sudden heart attack, Hermon continued to go on living in this same house in Middle Park Lane. His father was killed in the World War when Hermon was a boy. When he was left in this world to his own devices, after his mother died, he didn’t know what else he was meant to do, so he kept on living in that simple house in Middle Park Lane.
Hermon did the same thing every morning, a routine engraved in his mind from childhood: He got up at precisely 7am every morning, showered, dressed and made himself 2 generous slices of jam on toast, and ate it on the balcony by precisely 8 am. He did this because he loved to say “Hallo!” to his neighbors, and anyone else who happened to walk the sidewalk under his townhouse.
Hermon’s balcony breakfast coincided with the 8.15am train at nearby Middle Park station. Hermon would sit on his balcony after his toast was promptly devoured- because Hermon always awoke hungry-and wave to the people rushing past on their way to catch their train.
One such neighbor Hermon liked to say hallo to was Henrietta Berkenstien, who was a longtime widow and lived in the identical house on the left-hand side of Hermon.
Henrietta’s balcony differed from Hermon’s in that she had a small garden of flowers, vegetables and herbs, which grew in little pots and were lined up along the balcony, like cheerful soldiers.
Hermon always marveled on how she could get her hair to match the lavender she liked to cut from her small, potted garden.Hermon noticed little things like that; true he may not have been the brightest crayon in the box, but he was curious enough to pick up on the subtleties of life, and he spent much of his time pondering to himself about such things: like why dogs’ noses are always wet, what the mailman does when he’s not delivering mail and, of course, how Henrietta’s hair became lavender!
Henrietta liked to go to her balcony too, to tend her garden. Often times she spotted Hermon, who would give her an enthusiastic wave and a robust “Hallo!”
Henrietta could never fathom why Hermon was always so cheerful, for apparently no good reason. In fact, she often thought to herself how strange Hermon was.
‘It’s weird,’ she thought, ‘that someone, like Hermon, who is all alone in the world, should be so happy! Whatever is the matter with him?’
Henrietta, you must understand, was not the sweet, little, old lady one expects to meet. For, as you already know, her hair was a curious shade of purple and she always wore a full face of makeup (particularly crimson lipstick). She was tall and bird-like, with poppy, beady eyes and was slightly bent over from many years of gardening. She was seldom ever seen without the layers of gold jewelry that hung from her lanky frame. My, she was a sight to behold-and quite formidable when crossed. She had a very high opinion of herself and detested anyone who contradicted her.
You and I both know by now that there was nothing the matter with Hermon Brown, only that he was peculiar and he found pleasures in the simple things, most particularly the people around him; something that Henrietta Bourkenstein didn’t understand very well at all.
She had seen and experienced a lot in her eighty-odd years and had grown suspicious and resentful. Cynicism festered as the years sped on after her husband died. Mr. Bourkenstein was a warm generous person and before he left for the war he left her a tidy sum of money from which to live off, should he fail to return. This, one would think, would afford Henrietta some sort of peace of mind of not being burden on her children in old age. Unfortunately though, Henrietta had become so cantankerous and difficult that even her two grown children, who lived in nearby towns, refused to visit her; Christmas was the only exception.
So you see, there was a world of difference between Hermon Brown and his neighbor, Henrietta Bourkenstein, excusing one, blindingly obvious similarity: they were both alone in the world.
CHAPTER 2: To be continued...
Elley Edwards.
CHAPTER 1: Meet Hermon and Henrietta
Human life is such a remarkable and fragile thing. From the moment we’re born we enter the race to become the smartest, richest and most fulfilled being we can possibly be.
What if one met the slowest, simplest and least emotionally evolved person one could find? What would that person be like? You might ask yourself. Perhaps that person would be like Hermon Brown.
Hermon Brown, as one would imagine, lived a simple life in Bristol, England. His house was as simple as he; lined up, side by side, next to other two storey, town houses identical to his. Our friend, Hermon was born in this house, on Middle Park Lane. He grew up in this house and when his mother died of a sudden heart attack, Hermon continued to go on living in this same house in Middle Park Lane. His father was killed in the World War when Hermon was a boy. When he was left in this world to his own devices, after his mother died, he didn’t know what else he was meant to do, so he kept on living in that simple house in Middle Park Lane.
Hermon did the same thing every morning, a routine engraved in his mind from childhood: He got up at precisely 7am every morning, showered, dressed and made himself 2 generous slices of jam on toast, and ate it on the balcony by precisely 8 am. He did this because he loved to say “Hallo!” to his neighbors, and anyone else who happened to walk the sidewalk under his townhouse.
Hermon’s balcony breakfast coincided with the 8.15am train at nearby Middle Park station. Hermon would sit on his balcony after his toast was promptly devoured- because Hermon always awoke hungry-and wave to the people rushing past on their way to catch their train.
One such neighbor Hermon liked to say hallo to was Henrietta Berkenstien, who was a longtime widow and lived in the identical house on the left-hand side of Hermon.
Henrietta’s balcony differed from Hermon’s in that she had a small garden of flowers, vegetables and herbs, which grew in little pots and were lined up along the balcony, like cheerful soldiers.
Hermon always marveled on how she could get her hair to match the lavender she liked to cut from her small, potted garden.Hermon noticed little things like that; true he may not have been the brightest crayon in the box, but he was curious enough to pick up on the subtleties of life, and he spent much of his time pondering to himself about such things: like why dogs’ noses are always wet, what the mailman does when he’s not delivering mail and, of course, how Henrietta’s hair became lavender!
Henrietta liked to go to her balcony too, to tend her garden. Often times she spotted Hermon, who would give her an enthusiastic wave and a robust “Hallo!”
Henrietta could never fathom why Hermon was always so cheerful, for apparently no good reason. In fact, she often thought to herself how strange Hermon was.
‘It’s weird,’ she thought, ‘that someone, like Hermon, who is all alone in the world, should be so happy! Whatever is the matter with him?’
Henrietta, you must understand, was not the sweet, little, old lady one expects to meet. For, as you already know, her hair was a curious shade of purple and she always wore a full face of makeup (particularly crimson lipstick). She was tall and bird-like, with poppy, beady eyes and was slightly bent over from many years of gardening. She was seldom ever seen without the layers of gold jewelry that hung from her lanky frame. My, she was a sight to behold-and quite formidable when crossed. She had a very high opinion of herself and detested anyone who contradicted her.
You and I both know by now that there was nothing the matter with Hermon Brown, only that he was peculiar and he found pleasures in the simple things, most particularly the people around him; something that Henrietta Bourkenstein didn’t understand very well at all.
She had seen and experienced a lot in her eighty-odd years and had grown suspicious and resentful. Cynicism festered as the years sped on after her husband died. Mr. Bourkenstein was a warm generous person and before he left for the war he left her a tidy sum of money from which to live off, should he fail to return. This, one would think, would afford Henrietta some sort of peace of mind of not being burden on her children in old age. Unfortunately though, Henrietta had become so cantankerous and difficult that even her two grown children, who lived in nearby towns, refused to visit her; Christmas was the only exception.
So you see, there was a world of difference between Hermon Brown and his neighbor, Henrietta Bourkenstein, excusing one, blindingly obvious similarity: they were both alone in the world.
CHAPTER 2: To be continued...
Adult fiction/Sci-fi: My life as an invisible
My life as an invisible.
Elley Edwards
I’m not sure when it started, or when I consciously recognised it. It was so gradual and insidious that I was in too deep long before I knew what had developed. Now? Well, now I have to deal with the consequences, the mess, I suppose you’d call it. I sometimes hardly think that I’m able, but, by some unforeseeable force, I’ve come to this point in my life and Lord knows it’s too late to undo or reverse what has happened.
I’m not sure if it is the Lord whom I should refer to…I’m not exactly what you’d call a religious person. Spiritual, sure, but religious: church every Sunday, belief in a higher power which controls your life’s outcomes…nuh-uh. That’s definitely not me. Oh, sure I’ve prayed a couple of times during these past few months, simply out of despair of not knowing who to turn to, who else to put my faith in, but I’d hardly call the Vatican and announce another believer.
My irritation has clouded my judgement and I’ve clearly omitted the whole story of how this came about; my life as an invisible.
Elley Edwards
I’m not sure when it started, or when I consciously recognised it. It was so gradual and insidious that I was in too deep long before I knew what had developed. Now? Well, now I have to deal with the consequences, the mess, I suppose you’d call it. I sometimes hardly think that I’m able, but, by some unforeseeable force, I’ve come to this point in my life and Lord knows it’s too late to undo or reverse what has happened.
I’m not sure if it is the Lord whom I should refer to…I’m not exactly what you’d call a religious person. Spiritual, sure, but religious: church every Sunday, belief in a higher power which controls your life’s outcomes…nuh-uh. That’s definitely not me. Oh, sure I’ve prayed a couple of times during these past few months, simply out of despair of not knowing who to turn to, who else to put my faith in, but I’d hardly call the Vatican and announce another believer.
My irritation has clouded my judgement and I’ve clearly omitted the whole story of how this came about; my life as an invisible.
**************************************************
When I was a little boy, I loved going to the airport with my dad to see the jets take off. We’d go out there on a Saturday morning and watch the small planes magically rise from the ground as if being pulled up into the clouds by an invisible string. That was our thing: dad and me. Dad used to be a pilot until his eyesight forced him into the lesser job of a baggage handler. Dad had to go to our small town airport 2-3 times a day to collect the baggage of the passengers flying in and out. Being a small airport, with one carrier connecting to larger city airports, the carrier would ensure that their employees could do more than one job. This saved time and money. Dad’s job wasn’t just collecting the baggage and transporting it to the aeroplane’s empty belly, but he also served as a marshal on the runway. He would don his hi-vis orange vest and direct the pilots to a safe take-off.
Dad loved these jobs, but not as much as he loved to fly. So on his days off, when they fell on a weekend, we would go out to the airport together and sometimes he’d take me behind the baggage desk and show me the radio in which they talked to the incoming planes; other times we’d just lean against the cold, chain link cyclone fence and watch the spasmodic flights of the planes landing and taking off… I thought it was awesome and couldn’t wait for those days off to spend time with him.
I guess from the early days I knew I wanted to be a pilot and by the time I graduated from high school I was already qualified, having attended flying lessons and flown with dad from the age of 14. I was ready to apply to a commercial airline. A random twist of events set me on a path that was far more ambitious than flying commercial planes. I was looking for more excitement and glamour. I wanted to fly fighter jets.
To be continued...
Where I’m heading in this story possibly...Jet fighting leads to astronaut in space program ET encounter or space experiment gone wrong.Conflict: literally invisible? Part of the group of astronauts who are being shunned by public/government after a tragic event.
Ending? Hoping for a ‘cure’ or a resolution/ recognition.
IDEAS?
Adult Fiction: Daniel and Paula
Daniel and Paula.
Elley Edwards
That was the moment when Paula lost her ‘give a shit’. That was the moment: after two years and ten months of being together and one year and six months of living in the same house that she felt nothing.
It wasn’t that he stood there, telling her to “Calm down” in that patronising way; that he stood, staring at her, while she had a miniature (by her standards) hissy fit over the state of the house, or even that he failed to take the hint and use some initiative; it was the fact that, at that moment, she did not care about him. Let me re-phrase that: she did not care-in that moment of miniature hissy fit- wether or not his feelings were hurt.
Oh, and they were! He’d never experienced someone so quick to frustrate, so quick to spit out poisonous words from her forked tongue. This was why he automatically told her to ‘calm down’ when the slightest bit of hysteria crept into her voice, or her questioning became rhetorical and sarcastic, and worse- when she morphed his name into a feminine substitute: “What do you think is the matter with me, Danielle?”.
As soon as a phrase like this was uttered, Daniel knew she’d gone too far. Not ‘gone too far’ like he’d ‘put his foot down’ and ‘bring her into line’ for dealing a sly blow to his masculinity, but gone too far for her mood to be salvaged and too far gone that he could crack a joke without her throwing him a deadly look, or worse- the plate in her hand, or the vase on the table.
That is definitely how Paula felt sometimes when the frustration levels got too high. It was made even worse that his brain seemed to be on pause through the whole disagreement/ argument/fight…whatever you want to call it. Daniel genuinely seemed dumb to her in those moments: deer in the headlights, ‘I just got caught pulling my dick’, faced-with a-million-dollar-question retarded. And he wondered why Paula reacted so severely!?
Daniel did wonder why Paula was so severe on him. Perhaps she had a mild case of bi-polar disease. Lord knows her mood swings were impressive! Daniel was easy target and fell for every tantrum hook, line and sinker.
Daniel thought that Paula was the easiest person to talk to, but not when she’d worked herself up into a mood. There was no point in talking to her when she was dramatically flailing arms, stomping around and growling like a caged animal; but oh, she was beautiful in her fury and Daniel couldn’t help but love her, as bewildered as he was by her frustrated outbursts.
In retrospect, Paula knew that her frustrated outbursts confused Daniel, but even though she took it out on him, she could still hear that he loved her. Felt it. He would continue to say loving things like “What can I do to help, darl?” and “What’s the matter, honey?” Sometimes, in the back of her mind, she would recognise that he was only saying those things to placate her. Yes, the love was still there, as evidenced by the ‘honey’s’ and the ‘darls’, but the concern? He wasn’t concerned about why Paula became that way; only when the mood would pass and all the egg shells had been stomped on.
Sometimes when Daniel did take initiative and thought to be helpful, Paula’s tone would soften, and if he caught her mood in time, it would even soothe her into mild annoyance; a mood which easily-and quickly-passed. He’d learned some of these ‘hit and miss’ tricks early on in the relationship, but it seemed as though Paula had caught onto them, and the pacifying affect was now, short lived and momentary.
To be continued...
Elley Edwards
That was the moment when Paula lost her ‘give a shit’. That was the moment: after two years and ten months of being together and one year and six months of living in the same house that she felt nothing.
It wasn’t that he stood there, telling her to “Calm down” in that patronising way; that he stood, staring at her, while she had a miniature (by her standards) hissy fit over the state of the house, or even that he failed to take the hint and use some initiative; it was the fact that, at that moment, she did not care about him. Let me re-phrase that: she did not care-in that moment of miniature hissy fit- wether or not his feelings were hurt.
Oh, and they were! He’d never experienced someone so quick to frustrate, so quick to spit out poisonous words from her forked tongue. This was why he automatically told her to ‘calm down’ when the slightest bit of hysteria crept into her voice, or her questioning became rhetorical and sarcastic, and worse- when she morphed his name into a feminine substitute: “What do you think is the matter with me, Danielle?”.
As soon as a phrase like this was uttered, Daniel knew she’d gone too far. Not ‘gone too far’ like he’d ‘put his foot down’ and ‘bring her into line’ for dealing a sly blow to his masculinity, but gone too far for her mood to be salvaged and too far gone that he could crack a joke without her throwing him a deadly look, or worse- the plate in her hand, or the vase on the table.
That is definitely how Paula felt sometimes when the frustration levels got too high. It was made even worse that his brain seemed to be on pause through the whole disagreement/ argument/fight…whatever you want to call it. Daniel genuinely seemed dumb to her in those moments: deer in the headlights, ‘I just got caught pulling my dick’, faced-with a-million-dollar-question retarded. And he wondered why Paula reacted so severely!?
Daniel did wonder why Paula was so severe on him. Perhaps she had a mild case of bi-polar disease. Lord knows her mood swings were impressive! Daniel was easy target and fell for every tantrum hook, line and sinker.
Daniel thought that Paula was the easiest person to talk to, but not when she’d worked herself up into a mood. There was no point in talking to her when she was dramatically flailing arms, stomping around and growling like a caged animal; but oh, she was beautiful in her fury and Daniel couldn’t help but love her, as bewildered as he was by her frustrated outbursts.
In retrospect, Paula knew that her frustrated outbursts confused Daniel, but even though she took it out on him, she could still hear that he loved her. Felt it. He would continue to say loving things like “What can I do to help, darl?” and “What’s the matter, honey?” Sometimes, in the back of her mind, she would recognise that he was only saying those things to placate her. Yes, the love was still there, as evidenced by the ‘honey’s’ and the ‘darls’, but the concern? He wasn’t concerned about why Paula became that way; only when the mood would pass and all the egg shells had been stomped on.
Sometimes when Daniel did take initiative and thought to be helpful, Paula’s tone would soften, and if he caught her mood in time, it would even soothe her into mild annoyance; a mood which easily-and quickly-passed. He’d learned some of these ‘hit and miss’ tricks early on in the relationship, but it seemed as though Paula had caught onto them, and the pacifying affect was now, short lived and momentary.
To be continued...
Monday, May 25, 2009
ODD SPOT
“We’ve got a call out Mac." Steve jabbed the lumpy man beside him.
"Wha...?" Mac replied with a start arms flailing as he sat up in the ambulance's passenger seat, trying get his bearings.
"Yeah, apparently about 15 of AT &T's staff have rang through in this morning complaining of a foul smell. Sounds like someone's carked it. We better roll." He started the engine.
Mac said nothing, but slowly fastened his seat belt as Steve sped off from the corner of Main and 56th street, the empty Starbucks coffee containers rattling around on the floor at his feet.
Mac and Steve ended up outside AT &T's head office in Dallas, Texas.
The weather over the past week had been unseasonably warm, at least 10 degrees above average for August. It was bizarre to see the people on the streets without their heavy overcoats and scarves, as is usually the norm for autumn.
Steve noticed that Mac wiped sweat off his upper lip as he heaved himself out of the ambulance van.
"Wha...?" Mac replied with a start arms flailing as he sat up in the ambulance's passenger seat, trying get his bearings.
"Yeah, apparently about 15 of AT &T's staff have rang through in this morning complaining of a foul smell. Sounds like someone's carked it. We better roll." He started the engine.
Mac said nothing, but slowly fastened his seat belt as Steve sped off from the corner of Main and 56th street, the empty Starbucks coffee containers rattling around on the floor at his feet.
Mac and Steve ended up outside AT &T's head office in Dallas, Texas.
The weather over the past week had been unseasonably warm, at least 10 degrees above average for August. It was bizarre to see the people on the streets without their heavy overcoats and scarves, as is usually the norm for autumn.
Steve noticed that Mac wiped sweat off his upper lip as he heaved himself out of the ambulance van.
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