Drawing

Posted in Conceptual Art, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , on February 5, 2012 by javedbabar

“Let’s do drawing,” said Naomi.

“Sure, Sweetie,” said Bobby. “What would you like to draw?”

“Everything!”

“Well, we’ve got all day,” he said; his sister wouldn’t be picking her up till six. “Let’s see what we can do. I’ve got some paper in my printer; we can use that, and…”

“No! Not on paper,” said Naomi emphatically. “You have to draw in a proper book. Then it’s a proper drawing. Do you have a book?”

“Will this do?” he said, producing a hardback notebook with black cover.

“That’s perfect!” said Naomi, and found a good page.

“And let me get some pens, I’m not sure what…”

“I’ve got special pencils,” said Naomi. “I always use them for drawing. You can use them too.” She produced a dozen fat, coloured pencils with natural wood casings, their colour only indicated by the lead.

“Thank you,” said Bobby. “Shall we start?”

Naomi nodded, and said, “I’ll draw me, and you draw you.” She started with a circle for a head, and triangle-dress below; stick arms and legs were followed by pig-tails, hands, and shoes. Bobby drew himself: tall and thin, with red hair and beard. When he’d finished, he looked over Naomi’s drawing. She had added more details to herself. She now had facial features, folds and buttons on her dress, and some elbow and knee details. Much better than he’d expected.

“That’s great!” said Bobby. “How do I look?”

“You look ok,” said Naomi. “Let’s draw some other things.” She drew a star and sunflowers. He drew a tree and snake.

“Do you mind if I go and do a few things?” said Bobby. It wasn’t urgent, just checking his email and Facebook, but his habit was unbreakable.

“Ok,” she said. “But don’t be too long. You have to help me with drawing.”

When he came back after twenty minutes he was amazed. She had filled the page with thick jungle. The first tree, sunflowers, and snake were enclosed within it, with the lone star shining above. It was surprisingly good for a six-year-old.

“You took too long,” she said. “I had to do all the drawing myself.”

“I’m sorry, Naomi, there was something important,” he lied. “But I’m back now. What shall we do?”

“Let’s do colouring. Us first. I’ll do me, and you do you.” She filled in her dress bright blue, added shading in the creases, and brightened up the front and sides. She made her skin a realistic milky-golden, and her hair brown-black. She got the hues just right. Bobby thought, she’s got some talent, this one, and began to colour himself. He didn’t quite get it right though. His skin was the colour of potatoes, and his hair and beard seemed fire-engine accessories. He wasn’t pleased with his purple shirt either, which he’d wanted to make black; and was he really wearing turquoise trousers?

Naomi giggled. “You look funny!” she said. “Do you prefer that you, or this you?”

“I think I like this me,” said Bobby, tapping his chest.

“I like the other one!” said Naomi. “Shall I help you finish him?” Bobby nodded. “Ok, you can finish the other things.”

Naomi selected her pencils and got busy. Bobby didn’t want to waste too much time on this. He quickly coloured the star, sunflowers, snake, and tree. He started feeling drowsy. He’d forgotten how tiring it was playing with kids. They seemed to have unlimited energy and imagination, and were happy just being themselves. It was good being a kid! And it was tiring being an adult, with or without them. Even more tiring than usual today; what was going on?

Bobby realized that he was somewhere else. Where was the cabin? Where was Naomi? Where was he? All he could see was jungle everywhere. It was not green, but white – a ghost jungle. He looked at his hands, his arms, his legs – they were coloured naturally – but everything around him was plain.

Leaves rustled in the distance. He wondered whether to hide but then thought, “what from?” and stayed where he was. Leaves quivered close by, and a moment later, Naomi burst out of them. “Hey, you’re here too, Uncle Bobby! Isn’t this fun?”

“Where are we, Naomi?” Bobby was dazzled, and disorientated.

“We’re in the drawing of course.”

“What – actually in the drawing?”

“Yes, that’s what happens when you colour it nicely,” said Naomi. “Didn’t your parents ever take you to art galleries?”

“Sure they did. But only into the galleries. Not into the paintings.” Bobby couldn’t believe he was even having this conversation.

“Didn’t you ever go into the paintings?” Bobby shook his head. “Oh, I only mean into them a little bit, to look around. Only the painter can go into them properly, and see what they really are. But see – You came into my drawing! I know I helped you, but now you’re here. Let me find some other people.” She skipped back through the leaves, but then poked her head out and said, “Just wait here; I won’t be too long.”

Bobby sat on a tree stump – was there logging in drawings, he wondered? – trying to make sense of his situation. He felt cool darkness and turned around. Naomi’s sunflowers towered over him, their heads filled with teeth rather than seeds – looking like octopus mouths – walking hulkily towards him. Bobby ran away from them into a forest clearing. High above, Naomi’s star began pulsing and screeching. It sent down red death rays. Bobby ran faster and further, till he reached a giant tree, and became tangled in its strange branches. He sensed movement around him, a slithering and hissing. It was his own snake about to attack him in his own tree. He shouted, “Help me!”

There was a rustling nearby. Naomi popped out of the jungle. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I should have given you some pencils. It’s hard the first time, till you get used to it. Then if you don’t like something, you just rub it out and redraw it. But don’t rush it this time; remember to colour it in nicely.”

Leave a comment »

Freezer

Posted in Organic Farming, Uncategorized, World Myths with tags , , on February 4, 2012 by javedbabar

Frank had always wanted to be a butcher. He was an embarrassment to his parents at parties during the inevitable round of, “And what do you want to be when you grow up?” Good children said doctor, lawyer or banker, and there was always a nerd wanting to be Prime Minister. Frank was honest and always said, “A butcher”. When asked why, he replied, “Because I want to kill and eat animals”. His parents tried to train him to say something else, but he wouldn’t lie. That’s what he wanted to do, truly.

Franks inspiration was the local butcher’s shop. His visits there with his father were highlights of his childhood. The tinny smell and glistening haunches; the sounds of sharpening, chopping and grinding; slabs of meat slapped onto blocks; paper rustling and wrapping up; the grass – fake he knew – but making it seem like a natural place, where animals were born and died; pink tongues poking out; red livers slipping; trails of white intestines, and black-tipped hooves. The Master Butcher was pleased when little Frank said he would like to join their trade. He wiped his hands, removed his apron, and said, “Would you like to see the freezer?”

He led Frank to a room at the back with a big steel door. Inside was really chilly. Frank shuddered as he entered, and his breath created a small cloud. There was strong humming and whirring. The room was filled with slabs of red flesh hung from steel hooks – fat strips dangling, thick legs, and whole sides; white ribs shone within red bodies, like long teeth smiling. There were trays of round chickens, bowling-ball turkeys, and curled strings of sausages. The Master Butcher held up a huge ox heart, and said, “This is what you need for this job.”

A lot had happened since then. Frank was now dating a Vegan; Linda was a beautiful girl with dark glossy hair. Despite their differences, they got on well. Their ethical disputes sometimes got out of hand, but were mostly good-natured. He played up his carnivorous credentials, and she called him a “depraved killer by proxy with ambitions to descend lower”. He didn’t often remind Linda that her father owned the grocery store, and that she had at least partly been raised on blood-money. He only did that during serious arguments, like the one they were about to have.

“Linda, what on earth are you doing?” he said.

“Teaching you a lesson, my love.”

“Come on, don’t be silly. It’s late. Let’s get out of here.” As much as he’d loved the butcher’s freezer as a child, he had no wish to spend the night in this one.

“We can’t, my love.” Her eyes shone strangely.

“Yes we can, watch this,” Frank walked over to the door and pushed the safety latch. Nothing happened. He looked at her, confused.

“I disabled it this morning. I’m sorry, my love, but this is necessary.”

“How long must we spend in here?” He was getting annoyed now.

“Let’s put it this way, my love; our last moments will be spent together.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We could survive all night here if we cuddled up…” He stopped as he sensed something. “What’s the temperature in here? It seems colder than usual.”

“Yes it is, my love. I turned it down to minus forty.”

“Centigrade or Fahrenheit?” Now he started to panic.

“They’re both the same, my love. Minus forty is the same on both scales.”

He had a rush of thoughts. They’d had some colourful arguments, and Linda was the queen of dramatic gestures. She’d worn a meat dress to a fancy ball as a way to promote her views and shock his friends. She’d somehow sourced a piece of in vitro meat, grown in a lab from animal cells, but “without consciousness or the need for murder”. After serving him dinner one day she’d revealed a bandage beneath her blouse and asked how she tasted, for the stir-fry contained a little piece of her flesh. When her mother’s dog had died, Linda used its meat to make him a curry. She said it was a guilt free offering from Scruffy. One morning he awoke to find the bedroom transformed; it held a terrible installation of animal skulls. How she hadn’t woken him, he didn’t know. It had to be Rohypnol. All of these things he’d found exciting; and the sex that resulted was awesome. It was animalistic, complete with roaring sounds. But he should have seen these as warnings, and now she was trying to kill him. But wait a minute; wouldn’t she also be killing herself?

“Yes, I will, my love. You are a murderer by proxy and deserve to die. But I am killing you directly, so deserve at least the same fate.”

What should he do? He tried the door a few more times, but found it was locked firmly. He bashed the insulated steel walls, which didn’t budge. He tried the many controls in the freezer but none were operational. The only thing left was to force Linda to release him somehow. But it seemed that she was very serious, and had thought things through. He would only be hurting a person he loved, and really achieve nothing. He said, “Let’s talk, my love.”

He told her about his childhood dreams of being a butcher. How he had the greatest love and respect for animals which had given their bodies to nourish him. The more he learnt about butchery, the more he saw it as a spiritual exercise. Like native cultures, he honoured his brother cow and sister sheep. He said prayers before each meal, ate consciously, and never wasted meat knowingly. Butchery was a noble profession, he said, a metaphor for the disassembly of self, and a giving of that self to others. The primal cut at the slaughterhouse separated the ego from the self, and secondary butchery destroyed it. He was really angry at her for wasting his life like this, but he wouldn’t hurt her. She was his love. These were the things he said as he became tired and confused. His breathing and speech slowed. He saw her lying beside him senseless. He lost movement in his arms and feet. He dreamt that he fell and shattered.

Leave a comment »

Hot Pool

Posted in Uncategorized, World Myths with tags , , on February 3, 2012 by javedbabar

It’s really nice to have use of a hot tub; to be able to relax daily after work or sport, or just for leisure. But boy those things burn money, especially if they’re outdoors. So Wayne was delighted when he found its natural equivalent: a hot spring bubbling in a mossy pool in the forest. Strangely the hot pool contained a rainbow carp, which swam peaceably among the bubbling waters.

Wayne didn’t know how the fish would react to his presence, so did not enter the water immediately. He dipped in an arm, and waited to see. The fish nibbled a little and then swam around it. Wayne stripped off entirely and jumped right in. Ahhh! It was the perfect temperature – maybe 105.

He soaked in the hot pool every day after work. The fish became friendly and nibbled his cheeks, and swam between his legs. Sometimes it came right up beside him and touched heads, as if trying to send thoughts.

Wayne spent lots of time in the hot pool, and began to experiment with different poses. He stretched out along its rocky side and enjoyed the bubbles tickling his body; the fish swam alongside. He lay diagonally across the pool with arms spread wide, bubbling waters raising him up; the fish swam beneath, and around him. He sank to the bottom and sat like an Indian Yogi, with hands making mudras; the fish settled in his lap.

Beside the hot pool was a tall Norway Spruce. Wayne had noticed its lower branches shaking periodically, but hadn’t paid much attention. Today he saw a ratty face appear for a moment, and large black eyes peer in his direction; whiskers twitched and then disappeared. The next day the face appeared again attached to a slender, silver body and bushy tail. With its strong limbs and sturdy claws the squirrel danced an upside-down jig on the tree, as if trying to attract his attention. Wayne waved at it and submerged. The fish was bothering him excessively today, almost doubling the bubbles in the hot pool.

The next day the squirrel climbed higher in the tree. It crushed some leaves, creating a sweet, citrus-like smell, which made the hot pool intoxicating. Wayne sank to the bottom once more, making mudras. The fish pecked his feet and thighs.

Wayne began to hear squeaking sounds underwater. He wondered if they came from the gap where the water entered, but when he laid his ear against the rocks, realized it wasn’t from there. Could it be the fish scraping something? But it was swimming freely. Oh no, had the squirrel fallen in? He rose quickly as if a sea monster, smashing ships and drowning sailors. The squirrel was high up, staring at him intently. It nodded with ostentation.

After a few days the squeaky sounds began to adhere, and eventually formed words. “Hey, Man! Can you hear me now? Hello? Hello?”

“Who is this?” said Wayne, which was a dumb thing to do underwater, and he came up spluttering. The squirrel was even higher now, staring down. Wayne submerged again.

The squeaking said, “You don’t need to speak, stupid; just think. I thought you were the one who was more evolved. Anyway, it seems that we understand one another now. Raise your hand and say hello.” Wayne lifted an arm above the water. “Yeah, that’s right. Greetings! Now, look, the issue is this. I’m trying to better myself. Every day I rise a little higher. You’ve seen that. I’ve moved from the ground to way up this tree. Heading skywards. But our friend Fish is stuck there in the waters. She’s swimming in circles forever. I’d like to help her rise also, but don’t know how. That’s where you fit in. I’ve seen your kind. You seem to be able to move between realms – yesterday water, today land, tomorrow sky, the day after, who knows?”

Wayne almost opened his mouth again, but remembered, and thought instead. “How are you talking to me?” He thought. “Squirrels don’t speak.”

“Don’t speak! Don’t speak! That’s a good one!” Wayne heard what could only be laughing; the word “chittering” came to mind. “Don’t speak? Of course we speak! All creatures speak in their own way. Anyway, the point is that Fish really wants to join our conversation, but can’t tune in. You know about evolution, don’t you? She is our ancestor. Not the Universal Common Ancestor, but pisces, the same species near enough. Is it fair to leave her out just because she’s less evolved?”

“Of course not,” thought Wayne. “What can I do to help?”

“Now I saw those strange poses you performed. What do you call them?”

“Mudras,” said Wayne. He only knew three from Yoga 101.

“Yes, mudras. Is there one associated with fish?” The squirrel was speaking progressively faster. More like Wayne would expect one to speak.

“Not that I know of,” said Wayne. “But there is the legend of Vishnu taking the form of a fish and saving the first Man.”

“Well, it’s payback time, buddy,” said the squirrel. “Now you save the fish. Why don’t you sit cross-legged in the…”

“Lotus position?” said Wayne.

“Yes, lotus position, and place her on your lap.”

The fish was troublesome, but Wayne held her on his lap, half-in-and-half-out of the water. Wayne closed his eyes, ready to commune with Supersoul.

There was a rushing sound and light touch on his shoulder. Wayne opened his eyes, surprised. There was frothing in his lap. He jumped up, bewildered. The squirrel ran up the tree, grasping the fish. Wayne stared, open mouthed. The squirrel reached mid-way and stopped to look down at him, superciliously. Wayne waited for him to say something, and then remembered that he must to be underwater to hear. There was lots of squeaking-laughing, and then said skiouros, the shadow-tailed, “It’s survival of the fittest, my friend. Survival of the fittest.”

Leave a comment »

Compass

Posted in Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , on February 2, 2012 by javedbabar

It was a bad situation. A crossroads of life. Peter had gone out that morning with good intentions, but things had not gone to plan. He’d found a beautiful Douglas Fir, thirty feet high with a full fat taper. Its green-blue needles gave a sweet, citrus-like smell when crushed. He was also pleased that this vibrant Fir sat among a group of dead ones, making it easier to pull out. Just perfect, he’d thought.

Peter had decided on a big tree this year so brought his chainsaw; his Nissan Frontier was ready to drag the tree to his cabin, 200 metres back along the trail. Imagine the tree hooked up to eight strings of fairy lights; it would look magical from the road.

But cutting it down proved tricky. A hidden knot sent his chainsaw astray, and as the tree came down unexpectedly, it also pulled down others. The dead trees around it were no longer a bonus; they were a burden, because they sat squarely across Peter’s body. This wasn’t the plan at all.

At least he hadn’t broken any limbs. He tried moving the trees sitting upon his body but they wouldn’t budge. They were way too tangled and heavy. He wondered if he could squeeze himself out. He wriggled about a fraction, but only succeeded in receiving sharp jabs to his ribs and thighs. Ah! Maybe he could make a few inches of crawl space. He scraped snow with his fingertips, but realized that the branches went right through it.

Feeling faint, he rested awhile. He must recover and think. He saw sky, trees, snow, and… animal tracks! He tried to look away but couldn’t. A wide paw, five round pads, and claw points – Grizzly bear. A triangular pad, four asymmetric pads and claw points – gray wolf. Smaller versions of the same – coyote. A little mountain and four widely-spaced, drop-shaped pads – cougar. Uh-oh.

Peter decided to focus. Like animals’ made snow prints, maybe his mind could imprint a solution. He should focus on something. What was the clearest symbol he knew? The first thing that came to mind was a cross. This surprised him, as he wasn’t religious, but it seemed to make sense.

First, the cross was an ancient symbol, a Pagan sign pre-dating Christianity – in the same way that a Christmas tree did. It represented the union of opposites – the horizontal earth, and vertical sky – at whose junction we existed. Second, it was a co-ordinate – a meeting point of longitude and latitude – at which he now lay helplessly. Third, it was his framework for decision-making. There were four people he thought of when faced with difficult choices – his Brother, his Friend, his Mother, and his Niece – each guiding him somehow. What would they do?

He realized there was an extreme choice. He could use the stalled chainsaw manually to saw off one of his own limbs, and slip out from beneath this tangle of dead trees. It was a grisly business, but he had heard such stories; sometimes the limbs were reattached successfully. Which limb should it be?

Peter thought, what would my Brother do? He was incredibly creative, and had one morning taken two scrap metal sheets and some plywood off-cuts, and built a working windmill. He had used this to power a small dynamo, which ran a vinyl turntable, playing dance music. That was how he had woken Peter on his sixteenth birthday. But his brother was at heart a practical person, and would lose the limb that he used least often – his left leg.

Peter thought, what would my Friend do? He hated to see others in pain, and had dropped out of university to care for a schizophrenic fellow student. He had spent that year never leaving her side; there to help her through every suicidal and psychotic delusion, till she reached the other side. To get back on his feet, the Friend would cut off his left arm, and walk out of here alive.

Peter thought, what would my Mother do? She was deeply religious, and believed that God would never burden any of his creatures with more than they could bear. Her solution to everything was ceaseless prayer. She had prayed for many people who had suffered from cancer, heart attacks, and strokes, and all had recovered. Her intercession for orphans, the poor, and the hungry, had resulted in miraculous occurrences. His Mother would cut off her right leg, so that her hands were still able to clasp together in prayer.

Peter thought, what would my Niece do? She was the most joyful being he had ever encountered – so full of fun. When Peter’s wife had left him, it was his niece that called him daily to play “I Spy” and “Carbuncle” – a game he never properly understood, which involved him – her uncle – visiting zoos in Rolls Royce cars and freeing the animals. She was an adorable creature, who always wanted to play. God forbid – but if she had to – she would use her right hand to cut itself off – with her wild imagination, maybe even convincing herself it was “fun”.

Peter realized that none of these were ideal choices, and they may not even work. He felt that one limb less may ease his passage, but there was no way to be sure. But it was better than doing nothing, awaiting grizzly bear, gray wolf, coyote, or cougar. Before he chose which limb to cut, he focussed again. He put himself at the centre of the cross and thought himself outwards – up to his Brother, down to his Friend, left to his Mother, and across to his Niece. Thank you for everything, he said. Then he reached, with his fingertips, for the chainsaw.

He heard people calling his name, and dogs barking close by. As Peter had thought himself outwards – along the arms of the cross – his loved ones had sensed his distress, and thought themselves inwards, towards its centre where he lay. They were with him here now. A dog ran up and licked his face: Up and Down, then Left and Across.

Leave a comment »

Where To?

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience with tags , , on February 1, 2012 by javedbabar

Mr. Wise waited to take the body from the decedent’s residence to the cemetery. They had kept him waiting for half an hour now, but he was in no hurry. This was not a job for those in a rush.

He looked over his black Rolls Royce Phantom VI; till recently the “Number One State Car” of Queen Elizabeth II. Its long, dark, flowing lines, and commanding grill; its coil springs in front, leaf springs in rear, for unparalleled smoothness of ride; it’s twin SU carburettors and four-speed automatic gearing; its walnut and gilt fittings by fifth-generation English coach builders; its appearance unchanged for three decades of production. There was no vehicle more fitting for a person’s final journey; a journey led by The Spirit of Ecstasy statue, leaning forward, trailed by billowing cloth-wings.

“That’s a nice car,” said a small boy. “Did you put the windows in yourself?”

“Thank you son, do you mean the rear glazing?” Mr. Wise approved of the boys smart black suit.

“Yes, a Rolls Royce doesn’t come like that, does it?”

“You are correct. The donor vehicle is converted by specialists. They extend the body, raise the roof, and enlarge the glazed area.” He could tell him more, but you shouldn’t chat too much to children at funerals.

“And what’s that hatch at the back for?”

He’s a curious one, thought Mr. Wise. “We can fit another coffin in there if necessary. But we don’t use it often. Right now there’s just the spare wheel and my spare uniform.”

“What kind of engine does it have? About six litres like a truck?”

“You are correct. It is a 6.2 litre V8 engine, built in the Crewe factory, in 1968.” He couldn’t help his chest swelling as he said this. He was enjoying talking with this – what was he? – eight year old.

“What did you do before this?” said the boy.

“I worked in the Rolls Royce factory for forty years. I took early retirement when they computerized the systems, and retrained as a Funeral Director. Then I came here to be near my grandchildren. They’re…”

The son of the decedent rushed out. He completely ignored the small boy, and interrupted Mr. Wise. “Some relatives got carried away with crying,” he said. “I think they’re done now. I didn’t fill in the form you sent me, I’ve been too busy. But you know the way to the cemetery don’t you?”

“Sir, you haven’t told me to which cemetery we are taking the gentleman.” The decedent was head of a large family business; “a no-nonsense guy, who didn’t suffer fools gladly,” Mr. Wise had heard. Who knew what he was like under the skin though? You never could tell. But his son was clearly a rascal.

“Lucerne Cemetery,” said the son. “About twenty kilometres up the Valley. Just keep going straight. Only a fool would miss it.” He rushed back in, and quickly came out again. “Did you bring someone to walk in front of the procession?”

“Sir, I am sorry, no. You did not request this service, and I did not wish to presume…”

The decedent’s son glared and stormed off.

The small boy said, “He seemed quite angry. Is he upset about his father?”

“I’m sure he is, son. I should have insisted on him completing the details. That way I would have known the requirements. But he never returned my calls. Never mind.”

“I could do it,” said the boy.

“Do what?” said Mr. Wise.

“Walk in front of the procession. Look, I’ve got a nice black suit.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“Let me check with the head of the family. I’ll see what he says.” The small boy ran off and returned five minutes later. “He says that’s a grand idea. Do you have a top hat I could use?”

“Not one that would fit you?” The boy insisted, so Mr. Wise retrieved his top hat from the hatch. Miraculously, it fitted the small boy. The man-sized cane was also usable.

They loaded the body, and Mr. Wise pulled out of the driveway onto the Valley Road. He took great care as it was very misty. The small boy walked ahead. He started awkwardly, but soon hit his stride. Did he have tails on his coat before, thought Mr. Wise? He must have.

The mist became thick and Mr. Wise lost sight of the other cars. Unbelievable, he thought; they were only a few metres behind but invisible to him. The small boy, however, was not deterred. He just kept walking. In fact, he sped up. How fast was he going? Mr. Wise checked his speedometer – over five miles per hour. He wondered how he could walk so fast. When they’d travelled about one kilometre, Mr. Wise decided it was time for him to stop. The small boy seemed to sense this, and walked back to the vehicle.

He knocked on Mr. Wise’s window and asked him to play some music. “This is highly unusual,” said Mr. Wise, and refused. But the boy looked so deeply sad that he changed his mind and switched on the stereo. It was his grandson’s CD. He recalled being told that it was a British dance band fronted by a bald black man.

The music blared out more loudly than he’d wanted. The little boy ran ahead, and continued leading the procession. He began stepping forward and back – which under the circumstances, wasn’t ideal – in time to the music. Then he threw his arms out theatrically. He spun around twice, and tripped around his cane like Fred Astaire. He began leaping ahead as if he were a D-Day soldier, then hoed like a third-world farmer. He body-popped – is that what it was called? – and twisted, and acted like a robot. The mist flashed repeatedly. He whirled around performing Capoeira – like Mr. Wise had once seen in Rio –

which eased into Sufi whirling – like in Konya. He did a Moonwalk, a Scottish jig, and some Irish dancing. Then he threw his hat high in the air, caught it on his head and bowed.

Mr. Wise was dazzled and clapped, which wasn’t wise when driving. He saw a group of vehicles parked ahead on the road, and recognized the car of the decedent’s son. Through the mist he saw the cemetery’s entrance, and pulled in.

The decedent’s son rushed out, irate. “Where have you been?” he shouted. “Where did you go? We’ve been waiting an hour!”

“I am sorry, Sir,” said Mr. Wise. “We must have become separated by the mist.”

“If my father were here, he would be so angry with you, you fool!”

No he wouldn’t, thought Mr. Wise. I think he rather enjoyed his journey. Just before they’d reached the cemetery, the small boy had approached the Rolls Royce and said, “Thank you, I’d always wanted to do that,” and disappeared.

Leave a comment »

Auras

Posted in Unknown, World Myths with tags , , on January 31, 2012 by javedbabar

“What can you see, Akbar?” said Miss Jewel.

“It’s quite hazy,” he said.

“It will be initially. Please concentrate on Monika. Tell me what you can see.”

Akbar gave Monika his full attention. “I see a body, about one inch thick, all the way around her.”

“Good,” said Miss Jewel. “And what else?”

“Then a thicker body, about a metre wide, enclosing her, like an egg.”

Good, she’s well protected, thought Miss Jewel, and then said, “Yes, go on.”

“There are other bodies too,” he stopped to focus. “They’re not too clear. Quite thin ones, like layers. I can see three or four of those.”

“Well done,” said Miss Jewel. “You’re making progress. And returning to our question, do you feel that the perception of auras is a spontaneous act, or one that can be improved with practice?”

“I think it’s something that can improve with practice.”

“Yes, keep up the good work. And now, your turn Monika. Look closely at Akbar. What do you see?”

“I can’t see any shapes, really,” said Monika.

“Well, what can you see?”

“I see colours. I see mainly green around him; a glowing green, kind of like sherbet. The top part is bluish, and the bottom part is mixed with yellow, I think.”

“Very good,” said Miss Jewel. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, there’s some patches of orange,” Monika squinted. “But they’re hard to make out; when I look at them they disappear.”

“Great, well done. What you are seeing are Akbar’s thoughts and feelings charging the space around him. Let’s try someone else now. How about you…” But just then the school bell rang. “Ok class. Thanks for your efforts today. I know this isn’t an easy subject. Keep practising at home. See you all next month.”

Miss Jewel loved teaching this class. She’d wanted to teach school children about auras for years, but the Education Board had pretty much laughed her out – even though she often saw them at The Lotus, buying spiritual gifts and books about sexy vampires. Bloody hypocrites, she thought. So it was great when the International School set up in Lucerne. They had lived up to their promise of a “broad, progressive, global syllabus” and though she only taught Psychic Studies once a month, awareness was growing. She also taught “regular” Religious Studies and English Literature.

She was on a one-year contract. That was the problem with private schools – less job security. And she wasn’t really sure how it was going. English Literature was pretty straightforward. Everyone accepted it was a subjective area – a matter of opinion. Religious Studies was trickier though, in a land where people now defined themselves as “spiritual not religious”. They believed without belonging, and accepted that there were many paths – you just had to find the one right for you (except some paths, of course, that were clearly evil).

Psychic Studies went further, teaching that everything was a matter of direct personal experience. Numinous perception. And this is where the problem lay. She wasn’t sure whether everyone was able to see things like auras – in the same way that not everyone could sing opera, or dance salsa, or eat snails. Sure, they could be persuaded to see them – but then were they authentic? Their “auras” could be caused by stress-migraines, or visual disorders, or eye fatigue. In fact, with the amount of time people spent staring at screens these days, it was amazing that everyone didn’t see auras. Her hope was to teach at least half the class to see hidden dangers, such as vampires.

So many things were still unknown about auras. The main question was whether everybody had one, or just particular people. In sacred art of every faith, holy persons’ haloes symbolized auras; but it wasn’t just Jesus, Buddha, and Vishnu – it was also their companions. Maybe auras were contagious, and would eventually illuminate everyone. There was also the question of internal and external auras. Miss Jewel thought of internal auras as chakras, or the traffic lights of your soul. Some said that external auras had unlimited “skins”, initially embodying your individual manifestation, and easing into the universal soul.

Akbar saw Monika in the hallway later. She was on her way out of school. “Hey cutie!” he called out. “I liked the look of your aura.”

“And yours wasn’t bad either,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Very shapely!”

“Did you notice Miss Jewel’s?” said Akbar.

“How could you miss it? So fiery. And hey, keep your orange spots to yourself next time.”

Akbar smiled. “Do you think she’s seeing Mr. Cooper tonight?”

Miss. Jewel’s class was more advanced than she realized. Many of them saw auras clearly; they just didn’t want to show off in front of her.  To avoid vampires it was good to keep these things quiet. They knew that Miss Jewel was not a Sanguinarian – a drinker of blood; but she was a psychic vampire – who fed on others’ energy to balance her own deficiencies. Miss Jewel always chose her prey carefully. Tall, handsome, nerdy, and vulnerable. She dated them for a year and sucked the life right out of them. Poor Mr. Cooper had no chance. Neither did Mrs.Cooper.

Leave a comment »

Lost Time

Posted in Global Travel, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , on January 30, 2012 by javedbabar

Jenny followed her father around the house. It was the first day of spring and all of their clocks must be changed. They had some old-fashioned clocks with hands that needed turning, but the rest were digital; some changed themselves, and you had to manually change others – and she wasn’t sure about things like the Nintendo.

“How do you know whether to put them forward or back?” she asked.

“Remember I told you, Jenny,” said her father, adjusting the big wall clock. It chimed many times while he did so. “Spring forward, fall back.”

“Yes I remember that, but why do we put them forward or back?”

“It started during the First World War as a way to save coal,” he said, fiddling with the red desk clock; its ticks got louder rather than quieter. “Germany did it first, then Britain and her allies.”

“But why do we still do it today?”

“If you put clocks forward, it means that you start and end the day later.” He repeatedly clicked buttons on her alarm clock, as the radio went on and off. “So you have more daylight hours. It helps farmers.”

“But isn’t the amount of daylight the same? What difference does it make?”

He struggled with the microwave’s buttons; it was beeping and flashing. “People waste daylight in the mornings because they’re sleeping. If you move it to the evening, they can use it for sport.”

“But aren’t days longer in the summer anyway? What’s the point?”

Her father cursed the microwave, which had somehow zapped his nose. He said, “I don’t know Jenny. We just do it every year. Spring forward and fall back. It’s a tradition.”

Her father knew more than her friend’s parents did, for sure. They had only told their children about farmers; not about World Wars and sport. But Jenny wasn’t satisfied with her father’s explanations. Her central concern remained – what happened to that time?

Since her birth on February 29th, twelve years ago, Jenny had been obsessed with time. She had, with her father’s help, built a sundial in the garden, as well as a water clock. She had made a model of Stonehenge, and had plans for a tiny Newgrange. But all the time that was lost when putting clocks forward, or shaving off a quarter-day each year and then making a leap year later, or with the creation of a new calendar, as had happened many times in history – that time must go somewhere. Where did it go?

Jenny decided that there was only one way to find the answer. She must chase that time. She observed the effects of annual time changes, and realized that they had nothing to do with helping farmers. Where this notion came from, she had no idea.

Time had to be looked at in context. Ancient societies used solar time, where daylight had twelve hours, regardless of day-length. So depending on the season, an hour could last anywhere from 40-80 minutes, and you adjusted activities accordingly. But modern societies ran on standard time. Their work, school, and transport schedules were rigidly set; they continued regardless of darkness or light; they ran unnaturally.

Farmers were in tune with the seasons. They began at sunrise without the need to fiddle with their clocks. If anything, putting clocks forward hurt their activities. Their labour and supplies were usually on standard time, and arrived an hour earlier than “real” time. This was before the dew evaporated on crops, making harvesting them less efficient; dairy cows milking schedules were disrupted; rural children took long bus rides home in searing early afternoon heat; and it remained lighter longer, so it was harder to get them to bed. Farmers hated DST.

Jenny learnt that a leap year did not have 365 ¼ days. It had 365.242374 days. So even a leap year was an approximation; a clumsy attempt to mark solar time with standard time. We never got it right really; we were only ever guessing. Traffic accidents increased when we switched to DST, there was more cancerous sun exposure; there were timekeeping complications; disruption to travel and meetings; billing and recordkeeping errors; difficulties with complex medical devices and safe equipment operations; and broken sleep patterns.

Losing time was dangerous. Everything we were told about it was lies.

Jenny devoted herself to the study of time. She did a science degree, a postgraduate degree, and then a PhD in “The Chronology of Lost Time Incorporating Ancient Babylonian, Greek, Indian, and Chinese Sources”. Her research took her to these and many other places. She became an international authority on lost time. She had no time to get married or have children herself. Her only concern was to find the lost time. But it always eluded her.

A clue was yielded by a conversation she arranged between a Zimbabwean Witchdoctor and a Mayan Shaman. They spoke of times such as sickness, drunkenness, and madness as being “outside time”. Jenny felt that these were avenues worth pursuing.

When she couldn’t get funding for her research – deemed too risky by academic legal departments – Jenny decided to continue alone. She allowed herself to become sick regularly, and didn’t take her medicine. She drank herself into a stupor. She stressed herself till she had a nervous breakdown. These were all productive experiences which enhanced her knowledge of lost time. But they didn’t go far enough.

She consulted a Finnish sage. He said that the way to hunt lost time was “through the blind eye of the Dreaming Eagle”. He gave her a resin to chew which would help her to “fly high with her sightless feathered brother”. It certainly did, and led her on to other “flights” with other brothers. She used Marijuana, Mescaline, Ayahuasca, Mushrooms, Cocaine, Ecstasy, Amphetamines, Barbiturates, LSD, Opium, Solvents, and Heroin. They each held clues to lost time – especially the Heroin, which “lost” her a night in jail, and then three months as a dealer. A bad batch finally stopped her heart. And at that moment, she realized where time went if not used wisely. It simply disappeared.

1 Comment »

Mirror

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Infinite City, Mystical Experience with tags , , on January 29, 2012 by javedbabar

The fundraiser was much better than expected. Sam had been bullied into attending by the Library Director; every time he went to get a Sci-Fi book, she emerged from her office to ask if he’d got his ticket yet. But he wasn’t ready to commit. He may be somewhere else; somewhere better; who knew? But eventually under pressure he’d handed over twenty bucks.

It was the best investment he’d ever made. He won first prize in the raffle – a night in the Wells Suite at the Regal Hotel. He’d seen that place when visiting the City, but had never imagined staying there. It was the grandest place in town. The only snag was that it had to be this Tuesday. Why couldn’t it be next week, he thought, or last week?

On Tuesday his girlfriend was working late and said she’d join him later, so he checked in alone. The receptionist said, “Welcome, Sir. It is a privilege to have you stay with us. We hear that you attended a charitable event, and won first prize. Indeed good deeds are always rewarded. We hope that you will enjoy our humble lodgings. If you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask.”

The 20th floor penthouse was amazing. It was hard to describe the decor – maybe “retro modern”. Chandeliers brightened its blue-striped walls. The reception room contained a large green table, sofas, and footstools. The bedroom had a four-poster bed, all draped in blue. The bathroom held golden fittings and a claw-foot bath. If only his girlfriend would hurry up – they could make good use of the bed and bath; though he doubted things would get as steamy as they had with some other girls. Maybe he should have invited one of them.

Sam hit the mini-bar – the library was paying after all – and he smoked a joint. His girlfriend texted, saying, “So sorry, love. It’s an emergency. I can’t get away. Will call you later.”

“Bitch,” he said to himself. For some reason he didn’t believe her. Once he’d dreamed of making her his wife, but recently changed his mind. It just wasn’t like it used to be. Their endless laughter and passion were gone, and were unlikely to return. So why bother?

Sam noticed a locked internal door. Had they forgotten to open a room? He called downstairs. The formal receptionist appeared, sniffed the air and said, “Have you been smoking Sir? You do know that this is a non-smoking hotel?”

“Of course I haven’t,” said Sam.

“Very good, Sir. I will take your word for it. Many wouldn’t.”

“I would like you to open this door.”

“Sir, are you sure?”

“You said I shouldn’t hesitate to ask.”

The receptionist unlocked the door and left. It was a spacious windowless room, with a dark desk at its centre. There were bookshelves filled with science texts and holy books. The only other notable item was a full-size mirror with an ornate golden frame. Sam peered into the mirror, cut some smiles, and left the room.

He couldn’t believe it at first. Was he dreaming or drunk?

The room’s decor was completely different. Gone were the blue-striped walls and green furniture. The whole room was white. It had a few sleek items of furniture – more loungers than sofas – and there was no obvious source of light, but everything was glowing. As he moved forward, the light increased around him, as if an aura. A wall-sized screen came alive slowly, showing waves lapping a beach at dawn. Sam peered outside, and saw flying cars. He was so surprised that it took a while to realize that his movements were jerky; he was stumbling along. Then he noticed his hands were wrinkled and knotted with rope-veins, and his feet were like clubs, which shunted rather than flowed. What had happened to him? He tried to return to the study, but the door had locked.

“Knock! Knock!” He wasn’t sure whether to answer the front door. “Knock! Knock!” But what else could he do? There stood the receptionist. He spoke in a too-loud voice. “I thought I’d check up on you, Sir. Is all well?”

“You can see that it isn’t.” Sam’s voice was different. It held a rasp. “What has happened to me?”

“I’m afraid that only you know that, Sir.”

Smug bastard, thought Sam. “Can you let me back into the study?”

“Of course, Sir.” He unlocked the door and left.

Sam sat on the edge of the desk and tried to comprehend the situation. Then he thought he’d better see himself, and looked in the mirror again. He looked just like he should; still forty years old. The futuristic world must have been a delusion. He really should drink less. He left the room.

The room was different again. There was a huge orange wall-hanging, filled with circles, and a fat yellow sofa beneath. The carpet held mixed yellow and orange squares. There was a boxy brown television with many chrome knobs. Sam heard the bells of trolley cars outside. Again he was stumbling along, but in a different way. He tensed his face, and looked down at his hands. They were chubby and small-fingered. Child’s hands. He turned instinctively, but the study door was locked once more. And just at that moment, “Knock! Knock!” He toddled over to the suite door, pawed and eventually opened it.

The receptionist smiled in a patronising way. “Sir, is all well?”

“Nooo. It bad. O-pen door?” He sounded so cute, even to himself.

The receptionist unlocked the door and left.

Sam went straight to the mirror. He looked unchanged; still forty. He decided to leave the hotel immediately. Sure, he’d taken some crazy trips before, but nothing like this. This was way too weird. But when he tried to leave the study, he found that he couldn’t. However much he walked towards the door, it never got any closer. The desk was always before him, and the bookshelves to the right. But the door remained far away. He was stuck in the mirror with no future or past; no fantasy or memory. Just all the time in the world to reflect upon the present.

Leave a comment »

Invisible Horses

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , on January 28, 2012 by javedbabar

Ben used to hear the horses outside his bedroom window. They snorted with surprise and delight, and the earth would shake as they tore across the field. He didn’t see them much in daytime, but at night he heard their strange language of frothy laughs and hoof clicks. He didn’t know much about animals, but the horses seemed happy here. They were rescued horses; who knew what horrors they had endured? No longer whipped at a circus, choked in a mine, or stuck in a filthy basement. Now a field in the Lucerne Valley – surrounded by forests, rivers, mountains, and glaciers – was their home.

But a beautiful location attracts attention. The owner made the mistake of mentioning to a real estate agent at a Christmas cocktail party that she was thinking of selling. The agent had “motivated” buyers on his books already, and the listing attracted many more. The bidding war was won by an Australian couple who wanted the land but not the horses. So the horses disappeared with the previous owners – but to where was unclear. Thankfully Ben, the tenant, could stay in his cabin.

The field outside Ben’s window was soon leased to a farmer. It was ploughed and planted – initially with clover, next year with alfalfa, and then there would be spuds. Ben got used to the silent field outside.

“Did you hear that?” he said to his girlfriend, visiting from the City.

“What’s that, love?” she whispered, moving her head slightly towards him.

“I heard the sound of running.”

“Well go join ‘em, Road Runner, I’m staying in bed.” Then she added a sleepy, “Neep-neep.”

“No, not a person,” said Ben. “A horse. I heard a horse running.”

“I thought the horses had gone, love.” He loved how she always continued conversations, however tired she was. She was especially sweet when half-asleep.

“They have,” he said. “That’s why it’s strange. There aren’t any horses there.”

Ben pushed himself out of bed and went to the window. The moon was almost full. The tight rows of the field shone silver, like a mountain Zen garden. But there was nothing to contemplate but invisible horses.

Another night, Ben heard the horses again. This time their hoof clicks were more pronounced, and echoed along the road. “Can you hear them?” he said to his girlfriend. She liked getting out of the City, and was visiting again.

“Go ride ‘em cowboy,” she said in a manner so drawn out, it became a lament.

Ben threw on his dressing gown and ran outside. He was right! A dozen horses were ambling along the road. They gathered around his neighbour’s magnolia tree, tearing off petals. Some fell like big shining teeth. Ben recognized these horses – they were the wild ones from Lilly, which grazed freely on reserve land. But he had never seen them in the Meadows before – only causing mayhem on reserve roads. He watched them wander, and sometimes canter, up the road, moonlight gleaming off their glossy backs, seeming unexpected lone waves. The next day he heard that they were rounded up, and finally put in paddocks.

Once while cooking, a little drunk, Ben left a bunch of beet tops on a fencepost. He forgot that the horses were no longer there. But in the morning the tops were gone. He wondered if the neighbour’s cow had somehow gotten to them. Would she now produce red milk?

Another day there were muddy hoof prints around the field, but it had rained plenty, so their shapes were hard to define. Large patches of clover had been grazed. Ben wondered if this was by migrating deer.

As well as hoof clicks, there were other sounds. There were long blows, like greetings; vibrating snorts, as if sensing danger; a sort of snickering, like sharing a joke; a loud whinny to attract attention; a squeal of surprise; or a scream of aggression. It must be the wind carrying these sounds, thought Ben, from stables way up the road.

The neighbour’s dogs were always barking. One night they howled, and after that only whimpered and cowered. Had they been scared by a bear?

Ben spoke of these strange occurrences to an Old Cowboy he knew. The Cowboy said that he would come over one night, make a fire, cook some rice and beans with bacon, sip whisky, and watch. “There is more to horses than you’ll ever know,” he said. “Tell me when your girlfriend’s visiting. We can show her something special. Mind you, I’m not sayin’ you don’t already.”

When Ben’s girlfriend next came, they joined the Cowboy around the campfire. He was making lots of food. “Why so much?” asked Ben.

“You’ll see,” he said evasively.

Ben wondered if they would be feeding the invisible horses. When four pickups arrived, he realized they were feeding cowboys. They ate and drank and sang all night. The campfire talk was pretty rich, and Ben’s girlfriend said she was going to bed. What a waste of time this has all been, thought Ben, and followed her in.

“You’ll miss the show,” said the Old Cowboy, slurred and smiling.

“Well, why don’t you wake us up for it?” said his girlfriend.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

There was a dark tapping on the window, blended with light thundering. Ben and his girlfriend went outside.

“Look,” said the Cowboy, pointing to the sky.

Subtle shapes slipped across the heavens. Within these moving patches, the stars shone more brightly, as if cut out of the sky. Ben saw that there were many of these patches, and as they drew together, their thundering became intense, and neighs and whinnies echoed through darkness bejewelled. Brilliant stars glittered at the front of each surging patch. Ben gazed in wonder at these leaping constellations.

“Those horses hadn’t finished their healing yet,” said the Cowboy. “Their souls were stuck here; they couldn’t leave. We stroked them with the Old Songs and sent them on their way.”

2 Comments »

God's Guest

Posted in Alternative Energy, World Myths with tags , , , , on January 27, 2012 by javedbabar

It was foolish to leave it so late but at least he’d started. Rob had laid down the structure, and now it was time to fill in the blanks. It was mainly stuff he knew – which had been swirling around in his head for weeks – but he had yet to distil a conclusion. The issue was how to install the first four wind turbines without killing birds? He’d been trying to push this project through a year. The client was okay with the turbines’ power production and payback period, but stalling on their danger to birds. Sure a few would get mangled; what could you do? This was the cost of green energy.

As he took his last mouthful of pinot noir, his fingers were flowing. Tap-tap-tap. Thank God he could touch-type. That halved the time. Touch-type. Tap-tap. Tap. There was another tapping. Was it the boiler settling? Or some part of the cabin cracking? Tap. No, it was someone knocking. At this time? Tap.

“Hello,” said the woman. “Can I stay here tonight?”

Rob was baffled. Was this a joke? Before him stood a woman of about sixty, in too many layers, surrounded by bags. There wasn’t the tang of pungent oranges, but she hadn’t seen a shower in a while; and her clothes were strangers to the laundry. “Are you lost?” he asked eventually.

“No, I wanted to stay here,” she said, then spoke in a flurry. “Someone gave me a ride up the Valley, they were very kind. It was a little out of their way, but they brought me here. I didn’t tell them where I was going, of course. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the ride. But it was dark you see, and I don’t have a vehicle. I couldn’t have made it otherwise.”

“Where do you think you are?” said Rob, peering behind her.

“At the shelter of course.” She smiled as she spoke, her cheeks becoming hard and round.

“The shelter?”

“Yes, the women’s refuge. You’re less welcoming than I remember.”

“Less welcoming?” said Rob. “Excuse me.” He took a few steps past her, to see if anyone else was there. “Are you really by yourself?” She nodded, still smiling. She was about to speak but didn’t. “Why are you here?”

The woman’s face fell; her eyes jolted as if he’d told her that someone had died. Rob realized that he was “in a situation”. He said, “Ok, come in. Let’s have some tea.”

She cradled the cup between her palms, enjoying its cosy cheer. “Nice cup,” she said, testing the china. Tap-tap. She told him that she had once lived in Lucerne. This building was used as a home for distressed women and their families. Whatever their trauma – financial, marital, or criminal – this was a place of safety for them when they fled their nests. It was in a discreet, out-of-town location, and the neighbours all had dogs, treating visitors to a canine chorus. She’d never needed to stay at the shelter herself, but knew women who had taken flight there. “When was this?” said Rob.

“Twenty years ago,” said the woman.

“Twenty years ago!” said Rob reflexively. He saw her flinch and become fearful.

“Have I made a mistake?” she said. “Oh dear. This isn’t the refuge, is it?” She twisted her hands together and looked down. “I’d better go.” She stood up and began to collect her bags, three in each hand, looking like a fussing bird.

“Hang on a minute,” said Rob. “Where will you go?”

“I’m not sure. Back into town. Do you think I will find a ride at this time?”

“Look, I can give you a ride if you want. I have friends who own a B&B.” Then he realized that a bag lady would not be seeking three-star accommodation. “Scratch that. Listen, why don’t you stay next door?” He felt ashamed even as he said it; a woman like his mother, and he was sending her to an unheated garage. “Scratch that too. Why don’t you stay here tonight?” But here was a single female looking for a women’s shelter, and he was asking her to share with a male. She didn’t say anything, just smiled nervously.

There was no solution to this problem, thought Rob. And on top of that, the old woman had broken his flow of thoughts. He had to present his findings at 9am tomorrow, and now he had a crazy houseguest. What to do?

The woman relaxed after her second cup of tea. Tap-tap. She took off her coats. Beneath was a full length, bright blue dress, filled with white swirls. “It’s amazing what people throw away,” she said.

She looked around and then said, “The local hospital closed down and there are no hospitals nearby. So I have to travel very far. When they do blood tests, they take four big tubes full of my blood. I say why? They say there are four different laboratories. Ginger is good for acidity, garlic is good for joints; onions, I don’t know, but I put them in everything. I do a big shop monthly, someone takes me, and a small shop daily on my walk.” She was an animated speaker, and her dress shifted as she spoke. The white swirls were moving, almost spinning, as they followed her elbow and knees motions.

Rob let her keep talking for a while, and then said, “I have an important meeting tomorrow. Please excuse me, I must go to bed. Will you be alright on the couch here?”

She made a sour face, which annoyed him. Then she said, “Do you have a separate room?”

“Yes, I will be in my bedroom. You will be alone here.”

“No,” she said. “I mean for me. I need privacy.”

The cheek of this woman! Rob could have her thrown out, but where would she go? He said ok, showed her to the bedroom, took her coats and bags there also, and settled himself on the couch. He heard her lock the bedroom door.

When Rob awoke, he realized that he would have to work quickly to complete his presentation. It was best to go straight to the office and finish it there. He knocked on her door. Tap-tap. But there was no reply, and it was locked from within. He peered in from outside. The window was ajar, with a few blue feathers caught in the grille. He called her again but she didn’t answer, and it was too dark within to see. Damn that woman! He didn’t have time to deal with her right now, so drove to work. He opened his windows for fresh air.

Down the Meadows Road, he saw a mass of clouds milling in blue sky. It almost seemed like beats from his dance tunes made them whirl. One tune in particular sent them crazy. It was by a British band fronted by a bald black man. When its powerful riff exploded – a swirling tap-tap-tap-tap – a flock of blue birds shot into the sky and flew away rapidly.

2 Comments »

« Older Entries
Newer Entries »