The Princess and the Pea.

Once upon a time, isn´t that the way all fairy stories begin?
Upon a time, beyond time, a realm where imagination is paramount and rules over a kingdom lush and fertile. So to begin again.
Once beyond a time there was, of course a kingdom. This kingdom is ruled, of course, by a king. The king had a son, a prince of course! The years pass, the king ages and the prince begins to think about finding a princess to marry.
However this is a very picky and determined prince. Not just any princess will do, ( only child). He travels far and wide to search for a suitable princess, but where-ever he goes, the princesses are not to his liking.
Some are too tall, others too short, some are too proud and others too meek. Some were too fretful, others too stubborn. He has an idea in his head about what a REAL princess should be. But he cannot find any that will fit at all. He returns home again feeling most unfulfilled and desolate.
In another kingdom far away ( you knew this bit was coming), the was a princess with a thirst for adventure. She too was most displeased with her local choice of princes, but being a princess, her opinion was not so highly valued. And so, she decided to take herself off and escape from her kingdom. She too travelled far and wide. She travelled so far away that even the stars in the sky looked unfamiliar. She eventually arrived in the kingdom of the prince during an enormous thunder storm. The lightening was so bright, it turned night into day, and the thunder was so loud that the castle shook in its foundations.
The king was preparing for bed, when he heard the jangle of the bell pull outside the castle gate. This in itself was special, as few except those of royal blood could activate the bell. As the servants were all hiding in the cellar from the storm, the king himself went to open the door.
Outside stood the princess. She was soaking. The water ran like a stream off the tips of her hair and dripped from the cuffs of her robe. It trickled into her shoes off her hem and her feet slopped about like boats tossed on the sea. However, only a real princess would wear heels in such weather. The king saw at once that she had many traits of a real princess, so he asked her what she wanted. But alas! The princess was so far from home that she could not understand the language that the old king was speaking. She replied as best she could. ¨Please kind sir, my name is Rosebud and I am far from home. Do you have a place for me to stay the night?¨
Now all clever girls know that it is never a good idea to knock on the door of a strange house, in a strange place on a dark night, and the ask to be let in! However, the etiquette amongst the royals is different in `Upon Time´ places. This is considered a perfectly reasonable thing to do for a young princess travelling alone.
Anyway, luckily `Rosebud´ in the king´s language meant `Real princess´ (fortunate no?) And so the king led the princess inside.
When the prince laid eyes on the princess he was immediately very taken by her. But, being still unable to trust his instincts, he decided to carry out a test to prove whether or not she was truly a real princess.
The prince made up a bed for the princess. He first placed a pea on the mattress, then piled twenty more mattresses on top of it. Over this he laid twenty eiderdown quilts, and twenty woven blankets and twenty silk sheets. He had to place a ladder next to the bed so that the princess could climb up.
The princess thought this bed a little odd, it was quite different to the beds she was used to back in her own kingdom. Yet she put it down to cultural differences and climbed up. During the night she got cold, and so she snuggled down to be under three of the woven blankets. When she went to sleep, she found the blankets too itchy, and so threw them off. She woke up cold again and so wriggled down to the eiderdown quilts. However she got too hot and so threw these off too. As she was lying there, wondering what to do now with no covers, she smelt something tasty. It was late and she had eaten very little, so she sniffed around on the highest mattress to discover what the smell was. She sniffed over the side of the mattress, and found the smell stronger between the next mattress, so she maneuvered herself own to that one and resumed sniffing. This continued down through all the mattresses untill she found herself squashed between the bottom two mattresses with all the others still piled on top. The princess ignored the weight and continued to sniff about, so that she eventually found the pea, now a flat circle of green muck pressed into the last mattress. Still the princess wasn´t going to waste her grand effort, so she scraped off the pea with a fingernail and ate it. She wriggled out of the mattresses bum first and remade a bed with the right combination of everything, except for the mattresses, as it was an adventure for her to sleep so high.
The next morning, the prince came to the princesses room with a cup of coffee. She was just climbing down from her bed, again bum first. Her hair was a mess, it looked like a birds nest due to her nights excursion in search of the pea.
The prince held his breath and asked her how she had slept. `Not bad´ she replied, deducing what the question had been ( she was, after all a very well raised lady) From the state of the room and the state of the princess, the prince knew that it was not the truth.
He knew she had the most delicate skin that could not touch such coarse blankets, such a subtle temperament that could not bear too many quilts and an acute sense of smell that had found the pea. Only a REAL princess could have these attributes.
The princess, as princesses do, had little choice in the matter, but he smelled alright, a proven factor in lasting relationships, and also he was quite kind and handsome.
So they married and learned to communicate with each other and lived in the storybook sense, happily ever after.

As a final note, I am sure that all those other princesses that had seemed less than perfect to the prince found their own kind of partners who also considered them to be real princesses.

The girl in the glass case.

In the middle of the forest, in the middle of a glade, in the middle of a clearing was a glass case. Inside the glass case lay a girl, sleeping. She was laid out on her back, her dark hair shining, framing a porcelain, doll-like face. Her arms lay by her sides and a huge bunch of lilies rested on her stomach. No one knew how she came to be there, in fact there was no one to see her, but the animals came from miles around to gaze on her loveliness. The blue birds would alight on the glass and cock their little heads to one side trying to understand what they were seeing. They pecked at the glass, but it left no mark. The squirrels would run all over the glass, trying to find a way in to this giant nut in their forest. But there was no catch that their deft hands could unlock. Even the giant woolly forest bears would come and sleep in big furry piles around the glass case, happy just to be near this strange, peaceful being.

One day a young fawn came tripping into the clearing. It was a clear, sunny day and the light was bouncing off the rim of the glass, making it sparkle. The glass intrigued him, and he moved closer and closer, the glass reflected his own image so he was at first cautious, wondering why this other deer looked so familiar, and moved when he did, he turned to run and the deer followed him, he moved closer and the deer followed him. He turned to the side and the deer followed him. He began to be impatient, this other deer seemed to mock him, and yet he was so beautiful. He turned and ran towards the glass, swifter and swifter, expecting the other deer to turn away; he didn’t of course just being a poor reflection. The little fawn got angry and charged at the glass. His little nose knocked against the hard, cold surface and shock and surprise filled his eyes, he turned and ran out of the clearing, feeling humiliated that this other deer had been so much stronger than him, and yet the beauty of his limbs, his delicate features stayed in his head for a long time.

However, this little fawn had affected the glass case stronger than any of the animals to previously come across it. The case began to move, it began to slide on invisible wheels and soon it was rushing through the trees, away from the clearing, away from the clear glade. The case rushed on, the trees flashed by, the scenery blurred and yet still the girl inside was peaceful.

On the edge of the forest was a city. It was not a nice kind of city, it was not picturesque, there were no sweet blue boats in the harbor or amazing architecture to wonder at. The case was leaving the forest; it bumped down streets, past dingy old shops into the black heart of the central city. Finally it came to rest in a small alleyway, having hit several dustbins. It seemed as if there was some guiding system to the case, as it rested unscathed in a dark alleyway, away from the main streets, away from the bustling people, as if in a brackish backwater of some polluted stream.

The case rested there, shining clear, despite the dingy surroundings and perilous trip from the forest. The girl slept on, unmoving, untouched by any of the recent excitement.

A drunk came stumbling up the alleyway, he looked surprised to see this marvel resting in the middle of all the filth. He came closer, clutching at his bottle of cheap bourbon in one hand. He ran his hand over the top of the case. “Daughter??” he mumbled “Daughter, Susan?” The girl slept on. “Susan!” he screamed “Answer me!” He tried to shake the case, but it was too heavy for his drunken limbs. He beat the glass “What are you doing in there?” In frustration he smashed his bottle of bourbon over the top. “What have I done?” he mumbled, “what have I done?” he licked the drops from the edge of the case mumbling under his breath. He ran his hand over the case again and then licked it, trying to get all the escaped bourbon back to his mouth. Then he stumbled away.

The girl slept on, and the night became deeper, blacker. Another man walked past the alleyway. He doubled back and looked at the glass case. He moved closer, hardly able to understand what he saw. He approached the case cautiously and looked around for some kind of catch to open it. He gazed on the face of the girl,” beautiful” he murmured. He leaned ontop of the glass, imagining the girl was just beneath him. He felt a stirring in his pants, a stirring that needed to be fulfilled. He was so entranced; he didn’t notice the sticky liquor now staining his crotch. He looked at her perfect rosebud lips, her pale cheek with just a hint of a pink bloom in her cheek, her eyes closed, peaceful, so peaceful. I have to get inside he thought, I have to wake her, to hold her close, pull her to me and wake her and then to mar that beauty, to tear at her clothes, to bruise her skin. He pulled a knife out of his coat and brought it down on the glass, trying to stab through it, but it slipped and cut his hand instead. He yelled in pain and desperately tried to force open the case, but to no avail.

Finally disgruntled, he stormed off into the night. The girl rolled on her side, crushing the bouquet of flowers that had been resting on top of her. She put her hand underneath her cheek and smiled softly in her sleep.

Cherry Cassidy

This is a story about Cherry Cassidy, a story about a girl who farts. Now listen up all you guys out there! I’ll destroy for your pleasure, here and now a common myth that you all believe. Women. Fart. What’s more they can do it well. They can be long and loud or silent, but violent. They can rival you in your sphinter blubberings any day of the week. You want swamp gas? You’ve got it. Anytime a woman feels that rumble of intestines, she could let fly with a stench so foul, you’ll think you can taste it. You can feel it creeping over your tongue, your teeth as it invades you, overpowering you so that your eyes water. You’ll begin to retch, it’s that bad. Anyone heard of the bog of eternal stench? Just try scorning a woman as you lie next to her in bed, you’ll see what I mean.

This particular girl was particulary talented in the anal region. In fact it became her weapon and yet her weakness. The thing is, she was beautiful, stunning, the type of woman envied by other women. Her svelte figure, her smile, her charm…. She had men falling over her. They claimed ridiculas notions of love at first sight, swearing that she had given them a look meant just for them. Really she was just getting dust out of her eye. She was stalked, kidnapped, secretly photographed for purposes I don’t like to mention.

Yet it had it’s perks. On any night she choose to go out, her drinks were free, she was given expensive presents, such as airline tickets and jewerally, she dined free, attended the theatre or some concert free…. Her life was one big free ride. On occasion these buyers of gifts would feel that they deserved something in return. They were not happy to discover that this feeling was not reciprocated by her, free drinks sure, expensive gifts, fine, but me put out? I don’t think so. Sometimes she could convince these men through voice alone that the night was not going to go as they had planned. However, she was sometimes required to let go a vapour trail so thick, you could almost see it in it’s sulphur-yellow entirety. The men would be revulsed by her, and leave, never to try anything again. Yet her beauty was such that she was always in constant supply of fresh prey, such fools men are!

This was her life, and she was content. Then It happened. The one thing that could never be. Cherry fell in love. When she fell, she lost all control of the super farts. She was propelled along the street by little bursts of gas with a dreamy expression on her face. She thought constantly about his eyes, his face, the way he stood, how he sat with his long fingers interlaced. The way he cut a tomato could almost bring her to orgasm, yet instead it released a string of oders so pungent, you would swear that the pot plant behind her died a little. Luckily for her the love was requited, as all beautiful people are generally lucky in love, but Cherry started to worry about her smells. Perhaps she would lose this wonderful being that had stumbled into her life. She tried to control her butt efflusions, she squeezed the cheeks of her arse together as she walked with him, but at looking at him, she would be overwhelmed and relax her muscles. She took desperate measures, attempting to wedge a cork deep in inside her ring, but to her dismay, it popped out and flew across the room when she bent over. Finally, she went to a specialist. He recommended a change in diet, no cheese, no pickles, no onions, no green vegetables. Cherry was allowed foods that were 90% water and white bread only. Under this new regieme, she created wild and wonderful salads of cucumber and watermelon, cold soups of bread, tomatoes and capsicum, desserts of lychee and orange. However it did little to reduce the explosions from her backside.

In desperation she had a surgical mucus taken from the remains of her hymen inserted that would let through solids, but keep back the bubbles of foul air. It worked! She could spend days on end gazing at her lovers face, without a single worry about the overpowering smell of her rear end. So Cherry was happy again. She returned to the public eye and could be seen arm and arm walking the promenades with her lover. They took a holiday at the seaside and Cherry sunbathed nude, read books on the beach and took photos of her lover as he swam powerful strokes at the wave line. The sun beat down on her body and her lover emerged out of the ocean, dripping wet like a Greek god. He lay down beside her and she leaned in to kiss his sweet lips. Just then the worst happened. The butt gas that she had kept inside for so long erupted from her mouth! Her lover turned his head away and started to cough, the tears from the stench running down his face. Cherry was mortified! Then she felt another rising in her throat. She fought it down, swallowing the bubbles that began to come thick and fast. Cherry lay on her stomach concentrating on keeping the fart burps inside. Her lover sat up, his eyes streaming. Then he pointed to her and started to laugh. The surgical mucus barrier was swelling from her behind. It grew larger and larger and to both their disbelief it formed a perfect bubble and floated away from her body. Soon Cherry began to let loose a string of bubbles, pearlescent and opaque with the stench inside. Cherry got up from the beach and ran to the bathroom where she scrabbled at her tight hole untill the barrier came away, bloodying her hand. Cherry let forth a smell so bad that she fainted away on the floor. When she came to, her lover was leaning over her. “ I love you Cherry Cassidy” he said and kissed her mouth.

Hood

I have just arrived in this city, fighting the demons of my recent past, the pain of being alone again. I sit by the river having walked the streets all day, thinking about all that has been, all that was, my shattered life that I must now bring back together. It seems that the river matches my mood, the grey water is ruffled by small gusts of wind like the back of a cat.

I feel so desolate. I must return to the life before, my apartment empty of all memories of these last few years. I remember how she always told me to keep it, just in case, for a place to get away to. Now I see it as her first betrayal, my mind twists her sweet words into a plan that she laid out, a plan now fulfilled.

I sit here, chain smoking and hiding my red eyes behind dark sunglasses. I miss her. I look back and I don’t know what went so wrong between us. I remember all those days we spent in bed, talking, laughing, how we would wake and just lie there, comfortable in the silence. Even though we had different native languages, in those mornings we were in perfect understanding of each other. Now it all seems like a waste. I feel that I could have spent my time studying, furthering my career, or traveling. I lift my head to the sky, wishing it would pour with rain to empathise with me. The sky is grey, but I see black clouds on the horizon and soon it begins to pour down on my head. I feel stubborn, so I sit there, feeling the water seep through the layers of clothing I am wearing.

I watch as the people run down the street, trying to escape the raindrops. Their black umbrellas form a canopy, like the shell of a great beetle, scuttling along. I spot something bright in amongst them. The beetle clears and a girl is left, standing on the other side of the river in a red coat. The brightness of her coat shines through her drab surroundings. She turns to walk away through the crowd. I start out of my seat and before I know it I am running across the bridge to the point where she disappeared. I stumble on the wet cobbles, and my hand hits the pavement, skinning off the flesh on the palm. I rise, wrapping my stinging hand in my coat. I see a glimpse of her through the crowd and set off again. I reach the other side of the embankment and follow her down the street. She is ahead of me, walking slow, but the bettle umbrellas force me to move more slowly. She turns down a side street and I take the same turning. I am catching up to her, and I begin to question why I am following her, what do I hope to learn?

She turns again, back to a main street lined with jewerally shops. The crowd is like a machine, separating me from her. The umbrellas like cogs turn and I dodge the spiky ends, as if I am being crushed in this infernal contrivance. The girl shines like a light through the grey air. We stop at a crossing and I reach through to touch the hem of her coat, it is made of a rough wool, with a fur trim on her hood. The crowd parts a little and I am almost standing behind her. I don’t know what to do. Then the crowd moves forward again and I loose hold of her. I stop and watch her cross the road, walking away, never aware that I was there.

a cold day

I look out my window at the street below. I wonder what you are doing. Are you out with friends, or sitting alone like me. I picture your room, its cold and it has been like this for several days, if I close my eyes, I can visualize, everything in it. Right down, right down to the broken handle on the third drawer down of the dressing table. And the world outside your room is all so sad and dark on this grey day. The people move about the streets as if they are in a modern shopping centre. Their movements are mechanical and I doubt for the moment if they are real people. Their faces are blank and they turn their heads from side to side looking through the shop windows like circus clowns. In this moment I can stand it no longer to be in my tiny apartment. I put on my red coat, lock my thin door and head down the stairs to the street. I walk slow, looking ahead, not minding the enticing displays to either side of me. I have no idea where I am heading. I think about what I am doing in this city. I am so far away from everything that I know. My friends at home email me to say how they are going on beach holidays, and enjoying the sun in parks while avoiding going to uni. Here I am, in this cold, grey world, with half a degree to my name and no clue as to what happens next in my life. I think of you. Another foreigner, more comfortable in this world, due to the nearness of your country. Yet still I know how you feel drawn away. I wish that it was as easy for me to just return home and regather my strength. I wish I knew where you were. I walk through the city, and memories leap out at me. I pass that park where we sat, the bar where we fought, and the library where I first saw you. These memories are painful, I want to feel everything, but also I wish to be rid of them. I reach the river as it begins to rain. I look out at the river, its back ruffling in the wind. I think how it was once beautiful, but now it is murky and dark. Then I look up, the afternoon light is catching the top of the buildings, it’s beautiful through the rain. I throw my head back to the sky, as if the water will wash it all away and leave me fresh and clean. It rains harder and all the people around me open black umbrellas like dark flowers, blooming in the wet. For some reason I am overcome with an explicable joy, I feel like the only person in this city who is appreciating the weather. I turn and walk homewards, feeling lighter than I have in days. The rain has made a survivor out of me. The streets are slick with water, and the lit windows shine like jewels. I allow myself quick glances at them, as if I am trying not to let them know that I am looking, as if they are fascinating people that I can’t help but take a second look at. I think how this city is filled with such people, how I am part of this world, it affects me, even though my home surroundings contrast so heavily with it. The crowd sweeps me up with it, and I don’t feel like an outsider anymore. I stop at the lights and sigh deeply, breathing in the smells that are so familiar now, but were once interesting and new. I feel like I have just arrived again, that excited feeling, a tremor in my limbs. I return home to peel off my wet things and sit with a cup of tea and a cigarette by the fire, letting the heat seep back into my fingers. This is home, at least for the moment, this is home.

Clifford does sci fi

On 4/2/07, Sara Watson wrote:

It is the 22^nd centaury. The hole in the ozone layer has widened to encompass the whole southern hemisphere. In order to leave the house I must take a portable shield that hovers above my head, filtering out the harsh rays. No one looks up anymore. I see them as they pass my house, taking careful steps, watching their feet, out to places of work or leisure.

It is a Sunday. Today I have no chores to complete and my mother has allowed me out to talk a walk. I step out of our sealed chamber and walk toward the ocean. The bay is walled off from the outer sea with transparent plastic. The water is murky, my grandmother told me it was green once. This used to be the one of the most beautiful countries, full of greenery and clear water, so clear. She used to stay that when she walked with me. At least the plastic keeps out the stench of the sea, it smells rotten, like this island is rotten.

There was a storm last night, the usual kind with lightening electrifying the air particles. The air is always thick, transparent, yet I feel it on my skin. The sand is grey, the sea a pinkish brown. I stop on the beach and activate my hover chair that keeps me from touching the sand. I put on thick gloves and take out a small shovel from the canister attached to my shield. I sit on the chair and turn over the sand below.

Today my efforts are fruitful. I find three pieces of metal with fluted edges and rusty ancient logos on top. The all contain the word ‘beer’, but I cannot think what that could be. I dig further. The top layer of sand has been swept away in the storm, so that the sand almost has a colour to it. I strike something hard, it makes a hollow thud against my shovel. I carefully dig around it, I don’t want to damage it, or for it to crumble through my fingertips, like so many other found treasures.

I brush away the sand gently and lift out a metal box. I am excited by my find, thinking of the story of Treasure Island that my grandmother read to me on stormy nights. I use the end of the shovel to prise open the lid. Inside is some unsophisticated plastic that glints in the light. I can just make out pictures of some stylized flowers in lines on the plastic. I pick one out. It is a small sheet, a bit smaller than my palm, each end is rumpled, but the centre is smooth, as if they have been wrapped around something in the centre. Parts of the plastic are transparent with age and water rot, but I can faintly read a word on the side. “Roses” I breathe the word aloud. It means nothing to me. This box is so beautiful, full of ancient things. I paw at the box and my hand hits something hard. In amongst the plastic wrappers is something small and round. I think it must be a stone, as it is cool and heavy, yet I have never seen one so smooth and white. It jogs something in my memory of a picture I once saw of a beach entirely covered in stones of all colours. I pack up and head home, stowing the stone in a pocket on my breast. Once home I place it on my shelf and it seems to shine like a tiny moon, but whole instead of broken into pieces.

I think of how it came to be on my beach in an old box. Whoever put it there must have been long gone from this place. This piece out of the past is so precious. As I go to sleep I think of the present and the past that few remember.

“I remember” I whisper to the stone, yet I know that my memories are just stories told to me by my grandmother. I turn over and watch the shattered moon through my window until my eyelids become heavy and I drift into a deep sleep.

Shelley

I saw her at a bar, she was dancing with her mates, three of them in a group. Later I was outside having a cigarette and she came out and stood, rubbing her arms in the cold air. She asked for a light and we got talking. Usual stuff, books, movies etc.. She told me that she had a skateboard and I told her how I liked to photograph feet. She laughed and asked if I had a foot fetish and I answered seriously, telling her how undervalued feet are, how overworked and stressed. I told her how I would look at pictures of celebrities and examine their stressed feet in hight heels in comparison to their painted smiles. I looked at her face, she had a teasing look and I felt stupid for being so serious. "Maybe just a little fetish?" I grinned " maybe".

She was cold and leaving, so I walked her home. At her gate she pulled me towards her, two hands grasping my collar. I shyly followed her inside and we fucked for two hours. In the morning, I woke first and looked around, confused at where I was. She had an antique vase filled with dried roses, transparent purple beads hanging over her lamp and yellow and white polka dot curtains. I looked at her bare back. She had a tattoo of Betty Boop on one shoulder and her her back was long and brown, beautiful.

She woke and made me coffee, bitter and black. I got her number.

I thought about her all that day, but didn't call. The next day I felt shy, did she want to see me again? She'd given me her number in an offhand way. I analysed how she acted that morning, my thoughts moving forward and backward like chickens pecking corn. The next day I plucked up courage and called. No reply.

I tried again that evening and got an older voice, shaky.

"Hello?"

" Um.. hi..is Shelley there?"

The other person broke down in tears.

"She's gone"

"Gone?"

"She died in a car accident last night."

I put the phone down. I felt shattered.

The funeral was Saturday. I went, I don't know why. I guess I was curious, this girl I knew but never knew.

I recognised her mother instantly. Her face was the same, that sharp nose and fuller lower lip. She stood, speaking about Shelley's childhood, her buoyancy and laughter. Her nose was red and the tears streamed down her face. Her friends stood up and shared exploits with laughter and tears. She was talented, had a way to make people open up to her. She had dreams of travel to Spain and Portugal. I could picture her there, sipping a small coffee at a cafe, smoking a cigarette and watching the unfamiliar world pass by. She would write on postcards with pictures of Gaudi and Picasso on the front. She would write about walking down tight alleyways and looking up at the lines of washing overhead. She would drink too much sangria and dance in a square with a fountain under strings of white lights. I put myself in the picture, dancing with her, taking photos of her amongst ruins and trees. We would be together so far away.

I was overwhelmed with what might have been. And I bawled like a lover, a husband, a friend with the rest of the people in that little church, on a bright day and felt close to her.

The Klutz Anecdote

When I was young, I had this childhood friend. We were near neighbours, as her house was across the park from mine. The first thing that struck me about her, was the myriad of bruises on her shins. I thought perhaps she was beaten, perhaps she played hockey or soccer, something that would account for contact between shins and hard things.
It wasn't long before I discovered the truth. We were walking along together when she tripped over her own foot and skinned both knees on the pavement. I rushed to help her, but she was already getting to her feet. " whoops" she said.
This was just the first of many accidents I was witness to. She had no sense of where the world stopped and she began. She hit her head on corners, tripped on curbs and bashed her arms and legs on table tops and chair legs.
As we grew older she twisted her ankles while wearing high heels, fell out of windows drunk and still continued to complain about supposedly unexplained bruises on her shins and elbows.
She was constantly checking herself for new spots of purple and yellow skin and then marvelling at their existence as she located a new one. She picked off scabs before they healed and seemed dotted with small scars like a subway map.
Years later, when we had drifted apart, I ran into her on the street. She walked into my chin, then stood rubbing her forehead. Recognition dawned on her face and she lept towards me with open arms and hit her fingers on a drain pipe. We were exchanging pleasentries when three children ran up behind her. One was pointing to a bleeding knee, the other rubbing his elbow and a third crying and sucking a finger. "This is Mark, Shelley and Paul" she said.
Later I heard she had slipped into a coma after she tripped on the soap and fell clutching wildly at the shower curtain in order to steady herself. Unfortunately this had brought the rail down too and impaled itself in her stomach. She had lain there all day as her three children were all too weak to reach her or hear her cries as the had all contracted mumps in the same week.
When I was sixty I saw her again, looking well and healthy. " I've taken up rock climbing" she said.

After Angela

Susan liked sounds and anti-sounds, she liked to write lists of her favourite words, sounding them out as she wrote them in a whisper and circling the silent parts of them.

"sweetheart" that inaudible 'th' soft, like a caress.
"phonograph" the long and short combinations.
"knight" the sister word to night, its secret letter only revealed on paper.

Susan lived with her grandmother, a loud woman whose voice carried through the house. Susan would listen sitting on her bed writing out her lists, as her grandmother talked boomingly on the phone, or while she entertained friends.
Susan became an eavesdropper to conversations over tea and chocolate cake.

Abruptly one summer, her grandmother died, leaving her alone in the house. The house had been in Susan's family for generations. her distant ancestors had brought the land and built it, but now Susan was the only one left. After the death of Susan's grandmother, it seemed that the house had been only held together by her shouts. It began to creak and sway in the wind that perpetually blew.
At night Susan listened to the rattling windows and shifting of the floor tiles. It seemed that the house spoke to her, whispering secrets of the long since past.
As Susan walked about the house, or shifted in her bed at night, it was as if she replied to those creaks, those muffled moans through cracked brick and broken mortar. The sweep of her corduroy trousers answered the wind blowing under dusty doorways, the crackling of her satin bedspread as she turned over spoke to the popping window panes.
She continued to write out her lists, including the soft language between her and the house. When she ran out of paper, she wrote on the walls, over the pinstripe wallpaper. The house became it's own reference to her new language, and new words continued to spill from it's rusty hinges.
Susan wrote letters to her house colloquist, and posted them in the dark cracks between the window sash or through the floor boards. The letters gradually seeped out, becoming like a second skin over old brick. Her fingers were blackened with ink, so that she herself became stained with her own words. "I am full up of new words" she would think as she wrote, " I am brimming with stories".
On the anniversary of her grandmother's death, two young boys passed by her house talking in loud voices. The loud sound remained her of her grandmother, so she peered through the brass letterbox and listened again to the speech of others. But Susan had spent so long in her house, that she thought that the boys words were the same as the gentle communion between her and the house.
In actual fact, as Susan had passed her quiet existence alone in the house, the once wealthy neighbourhood had become derelict.
Her new neighbours were Koreans, Germans and french new Caledonians who had moved to seek out a new life, only to find the new place was hard and cold. Their savings had been so meagre that Susan's area was all they could afford.

Susan leapt out of her door, speaking her soft housewords in hope of communion with the outside world once more.
The two boys looked at her dusty clothes, stained hands and white face. Their eyes became saucer-large and they ran off down the street screaming about witch women. Susan sighed and rambled to her house, then silently closed the door on the world once more.

Inkling and me

At 5pm I went to feed Inkling my Octopus his regular snack of tuna fish sandwiches. I looked into his tank of silver and blue, but to my surprise, Inkling was gone! There was a shiny, slimy trail leading away from the cage and out the door.
I knew what to do. I put on my Octopus hunting costume:

One long Octopus tentacle glove
Silky green dress
Long shiny embroided coat
Octopus tracking boots

I followed the trail. I went over bridges, under street lamps, and through tunnels. I arrived in town to find that the trail had stopped. Where was Inkling?
I sat down on a stone step and cried aloud " Alas my Octopus!"
Then I became aware of the sounds of a party, coming from a nearby apartment building. I looked up. The window was covered with cutouts of seaweed, shells and silvery fishes. A perfect place for a runaway octopus!
I marched through the door and up the stairs. There, in the centre of the party was Inkling. He was slithering from shoulder to shoulder in the crowd, his tentacles entwined around fingers, crusts of bread, cake and a cup of something greeny. I watched as he dove into the guacamole and climbed up an unsuspecting arm, now leaving fresh stains of guacamole behind him.
"Inky!" I shouted " You naughty Octopus!" He made his eyes all roundbutton-like and reached out a slithery tentacle in my direction. " What are you doing leaving trails of guacamole and crumbs on shoulders everywhere?" He looked abashed. The surrounding people said " It's ok, we like him and we don't mind his slimy stains".
I wiped off the guacamole and he climbed onto my shoulder and gave me a pleading look. " Please stay" said the others, " I looked at Inky and sighed "ok" and Inkling wrapped two clammy tentacles around my neck. Then he lowered his eyelids halfway, and wavered a tentacle at the dancefloor. We stayed and danced under a ceiling covered in all manner of fishy things, even an octopus! while green and blue lights flashed on and off. Inkling curled and uncurled his tentacles, and I tapped my toes and shook my hips, rustling the silky dress.
On the way home, Inkling sat on my head like a heavy hat, his tentacles drooping with tiredness.
I put him to bed in his tank of silver and blue and crawled into my own bed.
"Night Inkling" I called, but he was already asleep and dreaming.