Spotlight
on
Up-And-Coming
Authors
__________________________________________________________
In this Spring issue of
the RLM we've decided to feature some of the best new writers that have published books over the past year. These books come from talented writers on every inhabited continent and we're sure that no matter what your preference, you'll find a story that interests you...
Wings of Spirit: Pelican Revival
By
George Tielen
Chapter One
In the powerful beam of the searchlight, the trawler is pitching like a see-saw in a kindergarten playground. Hurricane gusts spread the white washed foam from the rolling waves over the sea surface, turning them into snow-covered mountains. Raindrops, looking like silver bullets, are shooting by horizontally. Three sailors are visible on the tiny aft deck, well protected by their yellow windbreakers and the typical sailors’ headgear called Southwester. Ko hovers at fifty feet to their aft port-side, studying the rhythm of the bucking boat. The doctor in the back of the cabin, not understanding the pause, says, “What’re we waiting for? We were in such a hurry to get here.”
“Patience, Doc,” Willem, the hoist
operator, tells him. He sits in the wide door opening of the cabin. “It doesn’t
pay to be in a hurry at this part of the operation. You better know what that
bitch of a boat has up her sleeve. We don’t want to be surprised when we put
Bob on board. For example, the ships mast could hit our rotor blades. Then, we
have five people in the water. That’s why Wings is studying the boat’s
movements for a minute. There’s always a fixed cadence.”
Understanding the procedure, Peter
remains silent. Now he is afraid to break Wings’ concentration. He better gets it right. The frogman is not
the only one who will be lowered on the ship.
Ko breaks the silence first. “Jesus
Christ, you gotta have respect for these guys. How can they sail on that tub
for weeks on end just to make a living?” Not expecting an answer, he continues.
“Okay, Willem, are you ready?”
“Aye, aye, Wings. The door is open; the
hoist is outside. Bob is hooked up.”
“Roger. Bob, what do you think? You still
feel okay about this?”
“Yeah, the sea is a bit too calm, but I
think you can handle it,” Bob answers in jest.
“Be careful, Tarzan,” Ko answers the
tough sounding frogman. To Willem he says, “Willem, take Tarzan from the
intercom system and put his machismo where his mouth is.”
Bob’s giggling is abruptly cut off when
Willem unplugs his helmet. Willem starts the verbal part of the hoist
procedure. This implies delivering a continuous monologue to Ko, directing him
to the right spot, because the pilot cannot see below the helicopter. Only the
monotonous voice of Willem is audible on the intercom. “Move right and forward,
right and forward.” Bob starts going down. “Stop moving forward, only right,
five yards to go... Okay, stop right; you’re in position... Bob is almost on
deck...” Willem unexpectedly chuckles, but continues without a break. “Bob is
on deck; go left; go left; you’re free of obstacles. She’s all yours.”
Ko takes up the same safe position as
before. “Not bad, Willem; you didn’t lose your touch.”
“Yeah, we’re still a pretty good team.”
Feeling the need to explain his chuckling,
Willem says, “If Bob comes up later with a high-pitched voice, we’ll know the
reason. He landed right on the railing with one leg on either side.”
They all look at the boat now. Bob is
cupping his crotch with one hand. Only the doctor doesn’t laugh, dreading his
turn to go down. Bert remarks, grinning, “Serves him right. I wonder what his
Jane has to say when our Tarzan comes home.”
A meek voice comes from the back, “Do I
really have to go, too?”
“Hey Doc,” Ko answers, “It comes with the
territory. Now you understand why I’m the dumb chauffeur and you’re the
intelligent quack. You wouldn’t catch me dangling from that line depending on
the skills of a stupid pilot.”
Willem tells the anxious doctor, “But you
pulled a lucky number,”
“How’s that?” Peter inquires nervously.
“You picked the best pilot in the Navy.”
“Ah, cut the bullshit, Willem,” Ko
interrupts. “Doc, don’t listen to him. Any Navy pilot is trained to do this.”
Behind his back, Willem is waving his
thumb in Wings’ direction, shaking his head to indicate to Peter that he should
ignore Wings’ remark. Without making a sound, he mouths with his lips, “Best
fucking pilot.”
Doc appears a little bit relieved, but
Willem doesn’t improve his mood when he jokes, “Look at it this way, Doc: Even
if you break your neck, you know our next stop is the hospital. So, you’ll be
in Intensive Care before you know it.”
Before Peter can voice a protest, Willem
unplugs his helmet to hook him up to the hoist. “Better not give him time to
ponder the nasty possibilities,” Willem says to the grinning cockpit crew.
“Okay, Wings, I’m ready.”
Efficiently, they lower the doctor to the
dancing deck, where he arrives without any injury to vital parts. After
investigating his unfortunate patient, the doctor knows that the patient needs expert medical care in
sterilized surroundings. The only first-aid the fishermen could give the
victim was strapping a dirty cloth over the profusely bleeding head wound. In
these turbulent circumstances, he considers it too risky to take the improvised
bandage off, not knowing how deep the gash is. Even worse, if his skull is
fractured, his brains might start gushing out. His portable medical kit is not
sufficient for emergencies like this. Peter tells Bob immediately to inform the
helicopter about his decision. Bob, one hand on the support rail, the other on
a portable radio, tells Wings to close in for hoisting. Meanwhile, he watches
the doctor, holding on for dear life, violently losing his dinner over the
side. The doctor finds out the hard way that a fishing vessel, rocking like an
angry bull in a rodeo, doesn’t have the relative stability of a four
hundred-foot Navy frigate. Expressionless, the fishermen watch the gurgitation.
They know what it is like the first time. They all went through the motions one
time or another.
“Left, go left; you’re free of obstacles.
She’s all yours.”
After half a minute Peter appears in
front of Willem, looking ten years older.
“Here’s Kermit’s brother,” Willem
observes dryly. “My God, I never saw somebody so green.”
When Ko hears the beep of Peter plugging into the intercom system, he quips, “Hey Doc, didn’t you appreciate your lasagna last night?”
“Shit! I’ll get back at you some day,
Wings. I would like to see you on that fucking boat.”
“Hey, watch your language in front of the
kids,” Ko responds jokingly. Bert interrupts the kidding on a serious note.
“Wings, don’t you think the engine oil pressure is a little low?”
Swiftly, Ko’s eyes swing to the middle console. After a quick glance, he turns his eyes back to the boat. “Yeah, but that gauge always reads a little low. Keep an eye on it.”
Willem, also one of the mechanics in the
ground crew, bends backwards from his position at the open door to glance into
the two-foot space between the cockpit seats at the middle console. He offers
his professional opinion. “Yep, that shitty gauge does always read on the low
side, but it’s still in the green.”
They proceed with the hoist operation of
the patient without delay, and three minutes later, only Bob is still on the
boat.
“Only Tarzan to go,” Willem reports. Ko
is already hovering back to the tumbling boat, where the ship’s captain is
shouting his gratitude in Bob’s ear, trying to be heard over the screaming
tempest and roaring blasts from the Lynx.
“Last, but not least,” Ko says, “let’s
get our boy up. I’m getting seasick from just watching that tub. I almost feel
sorry for you, Doc,” he adds teasingly.
“Yeah, right,” Peter mumbles angrily
while attending to the hurt fisherman. “We better get to the hospital fast.
Blood pressure and pulse of this guy are too low for comfort.”
“What is our
“You won’t believe it. We are one hundred
eighty nautical miles out, which would normally take an hour and a half . But,
we’ll have this sixty knot wind right on our tail, which will make it only one
hour.”
“Roger that,” Ko answers. “Let’s get on
with it, Willem.”
“Okay, move right and forward; the hook
is going down...”
The mariners on the boat watch Bob
ascending, while the thunderous helicopter slowly moves away from them.
“Our man is in God’s hands now,” the
captain says, voicing the thoughts of his crew. The rugged weather-beaten
fishermen are watching the helicopter with mixed feelings. The fate of their
colleague depends on the risks these few good men take to save one life. The
seamen have had their religion deeply ingrained in their very being through
centuries of losing close family to the cruel sea. The Navy crew, consisting
mostly of educated men and women with worldly experience, is blasphemously
blustering through life. Still, they do have a tremendous respect and high
regard for each other’s line of work, which renders them non-judgmental toward
each other.
Abruptly, a change of frequency is
noticeable in the engine whine. The fishermen notice the frogman dangling on
the hoist cable, not moving anymore,
questioningly looking upward to a gesticulating hoist-operator.
“CAPTAIN, THE HELICOPTER IS CALLING US ON
THE RADIO.”
A seaman stands in the open door to the
little bridge, shouting at the top of his lungs, “IT’S URGENT.”
Meanwhile, in the cockpit of the
helicopter, Ko and Bert are going through the emergency checklist, which they
know by heart.
“Kill engine number one.”
“Engine number one is out.”
“Close fuel valve number one”
“Engine number one is secured”
The engine oil pressure is suddenly lost
and Bert warns Ko just in time. If the engine is not secured fast enough, it
will jam and be irreparable. They can fly on one engine, delivering twice the
required power for a limited time. Additionally, another dilemma requires their
immediate attention. With engine number one out, the hydraulic pump for the
hoist doesn’t function anymore. Bert says what the others are thinking: “We’ll
have to cut the hoist cable,” which is a euphemism for, “We have to drop Bob
and expose him to the cruel sea.”
“Yeah. Well, let’s not jump to hasty
conclusions,” Ko answers in an almost languid voice, trying to have a calming
effect on the crew.
“What about the power on engine number two?” Bert asks, anxiety creeping into his voice.
“Don’t worry, look at the temp, Bert.
It’s in the yellow. Not in the red. We have five minutes. I started the
stopwatch. Give me a countdown on every minute... Willem, how far down is Bob
stuck below us?”
“I know what you’re thinking, Wings, but
the line is too short now to put him on board of the Johanna Maria. Too many obstacles on deck that low. We would chop
off our blades.”
“Too bad. Well, the only chance we can
give him is to cut the cable a little left and front of the trawler so they can
pick him up. He’s wearing a dry suit and a life vest, so he won’t freeze or
drown.”
“Come in, Navy helicopter 282. This is
the Piet Heyn. We have an important
storm-warning for you.”
The operator on the bridge removes his
headset for a moment and looks up at Lieutenant Schot. “They aren’t answering,
sir. I’ve been trying for five minutes now. I don’t think their radio is
broken. I talked to them when they left. They must be very low, probably in the
hover at that fishing boat.”
“Did you try on HF?”
“Yes, but I heard from the FDO that they
had troubles with interference. I guess they switched it off for the moment,
because they have to talk to the boat on marine VHF.”
“Damn. We’re really out of luck! Well, keep
trying. Don’t let up.”
Sim starts pacing along the bridge
windows, looking into the night. He has sent a sailor down to wake up Commander
Vandermeer, as is routine when something out of the ordinary happens. They can
only pray that the Lynx is not too low. That would be disastrous. The trawler
also doesn’t answer their calls. Poor
bastards.
Ko says, “I’ll call the Johanna Maria and tell them our
intentions.”
“Three minutes to go,” Bert calls out.
“Johanna
Maria, please respond. This is Navy 282. We have an emergency.”
Ko watches one of the men on the ship
hurrying to the bridge. A few seconds later, he hears a voice through his
headset. “This is the Captain of the Johanna
Maria. How can we be of assistance?’
“We lost one engine, which also implies our hoist is useless now, so we have to cut the hoist cable and drop the frogman. We want to do this in front of your ship on your port side. Can you pick him up?”
There is no hesitation in the answer. “Go
ahead; we’ll pull him out.”
“Thanks, Captain. We appreciate it.”
“Two minutes to go,” Bert announces
anxiously.
The aircraft glides a little forward,
hovering to a spot roughly fifty yards in a thirty-degree angle from the bow.
Arriving at the spot, Ko opens the spring-loaded protective cover of the cable-cutting
button on the stick.
Bob knows what is going to happen to him
the moment he hears the engine closing down. He prepares himself for the shock
of the cold water. But, that is not his real concern. He has saved enough
people in water of this temperature. His dry suit is made for that. Bob
understands what Ko’s intentions are. He also understands how lucky he is that
Wings is the driver. Only he is prepared to take this risk with one engine
overheating. The trawler starts to turn already. Almost the whole crew stands
at the railing with ropes and life buoys. He looks at the boiling sea and
whispers bravely, “Ah, piece of cake. I’ve survived more difficult challenges,” but he can’t remember when that was.
Ko depresses the switch after a little hesitation, severing the frogman’s only lifeline to the helicopter. He murmurs, “I’m sorry, Bob. Take care.”
An anxious voice in his headset says,
“Wings, one minute to go.”
Wings of Spirit: Pelican Revival
By
George Tielen
Published: July 2009
Available wherever fine books are
sold…
Reflecting
By
Jerome Schorr
Reflecting
A mirror
Doesn’t reflect
Who you are
It only shows
What others see
And they
Don’t see
What you see
As you reflect
That is Life
Life has a lot of
Quirks and twists
And how it ends
Is often not
How you might think
In my elementary class’ social pecking order
I was at the bottom
I stuttered and showed little skill
Whereas my twin
Ascended quite high
The smartest of them all
Was my best friend
Who went on to be
A successful accountant
My twin
Maintained
His status quo
And me
I left
To travel the world
Where I helped to write history
In foreign lands
I write to inform
That life is full
Of change
I should add
The most popular student
Ended up working
Thirty years in a local factory
His good looks faded
As his body grew in girth
People change
And so
Will you
The Day’s Forecast
On the bus I take everyday, I find
The weather ever changing
While the sun shone outside
I saw storm clouds brewing
Between a married couple
And clouds gathering over the head
Of a young woman
Who sat staring blankly out a window
I’ve seen stars
In the eyes of young lovers
And the sun shining on the face
Of a young man who stood
With a bouquet of roses
Clutched tightly in his hands
While the rain pelted the windows outside
One hot blistering day
I saw some women fashionably dressed
Looking quite cool
While in the winter
I saw these same women
Looking quite hot
I never watch TV
Or listen to the radio
I don’t even read the paper
I can always count on
Getting the day’s forecast
On my way to and from work
On the faces of the people
I see everyday
What Matters Most
Being first
Isn’t all
It’s made out to be
I may not
Have been the first to
Kiss her
Taste her love
Share her pillow
Give her flowers
Dry her tears
Or hold her hand
I was however
The last
And
In the end
Isn’t that
What matters most?
Disbelief
A man
Who lived his whole life
Believing
There was no God
Died
And found
He was right
Another
Lived his whole life
Believing
There was a God
Died
And found
He was right
Both men
Saw each other
Soon after
On opposite ends
Of a gulf
Each with their mouths
Gaped opened
Not believing
What the other
Was seeing
Simplicity versus Complexity
Simplicity
Is like blinders
It keeps us focused
Complexity
Expands our vision
Simplicity
Poses few questions
Complexity
Continually creates
New ones
Simplicity
Shields us
From things
We don’t really
Need to know
Complexity
Exposes us
By informing us
Of things
We really don’t
Need to know
The child
And
The adult
Simplicity
Versus
Complexity
Unhinged
A middle-aged man
Strolls down
Empty forgotten streets
In tattered
Unkempt clothing
Occasionally
He stops and shakes his finger
Ranting
As if to make a point
To an unseen soul
His oily hair
Rancid odor
And darting eyes
Ensure his privacy
His chatter
Reeks of irresponsible behavior
Both as a husband and a father
A woman
With faded beauty
Mumbles to herself
About raising children
With no husband
And little money
She is oblivious
To life around her
As she stands
Ankle deep
In gutter water
Hunched over a pile of rags
That she washes
Again and again
Her children left her
In the same position
As her man
Abandoned and alone
Holding the Advantage
Put a gun
In a man’s hand
And he’ll hold the advantage
Now
Put a gun
In the other man’s hand
To level
The playing field
With the advantage lost
What’s left?
Two dead men
For neither
Will give up
Their advantage
A Slanted View
Take the obscure
And the abstract
One moment
They’re there
And the next
They’re gone
With a turn and twist
They catch your eye
In the light’s reflective glimmer
Sometimes you see them
Sometimes you don’t
It all depends
On your angle
The Lover’s Portal
Like the sailors of old
I have someone waiting for me
At every portal
I throw out my line
And wait
Until I get a nibble
Then
I reel them in
Soon
We are chatting
For hours on end
Sometimes
We let our words take us to places
Where strangers
Rarely go
When it’s time
To bid farewell
I do it with flair
I lay a dozen red roses
At their feet
Before giving them a kiss
We know
We are parting
More than mere strangers
Having said my good-byes
I retire to my chamber
Where I will rest
Until I can
Renew
Resume??
My journey
Anew
Reflecting
By
Jerome Schorr
Published: July 2009
Available wherever fine books are
sold…
Including The Raider
Bookshop
www.RaiderBookShop.com
By
Mary Jay
– 1 –
Monday – 4th February
No one was around to hear Polina Dashkova scream out in pain, ergo: she died peacefully. Except that fear has big eyes and the look of suffering showed through the millimeter of ice covering her flesh.
When Calgary Police detectives forced their way into her Mount Royal townhouse at 11:45 Monday morning, they found the body of Polina Dashkova in near pristine condition—courtesy of an ambient air temperature of 30° below zero. Looking at her now, one could imagine that she had been beautiful in life—white blonde hair, hazel eyes, and much softer facial features than one would normally expect to find on a Russian woman. She had a lean, athletic frame. In short, all the pieces that made up Polina Dashkova fit together perfectly—in correct and pleasing proportions.
Aside from being encased in ice, the only thing amiss was a beating heart. It would be much later that Detective Geoffrey Davis would discover that even when Polina was alive, her heart was ice cold.
“So tell me again,” Const. Carl Jenssen said, “Why were we called out in this god-awful cold instead of the uniforms, eh?” He stood in place, shuffling his feet and rubbing his hands in front of his warm exhale while they waited for the medical examiner. “Wouldn’t the presence of highly-trained detectives be overkill if Ms. Dashkova here just partied too hard last night and decided she was too hung over to go to work?”
Davis didn’t bother to address the reality that a victim was lying dead on the living room floor, not in bed with a hangover.
Jenssen had been his partner for two months. As part of their training rotation, a 5th Class Constable—the lowest ranking officer—paired up with a Detective from the General Investigating Unit. Davis had heretofore enjoyed working with new recruits; their enthusiasm for learning was infectious. They also displayed a high level of respect for their senior partners. Jenssen was an anomaly. He seemed to be under the misconception that his job description was to go out into the cold of a Calgary winter to pick up doughnuts as a break from sitting at a desk in a warm police station. Statistically, there was a near zero per cent incidence of one officer assaulting another. If his partner didn’t stop with the whining, Davis was considering upping it by one.
“The citizens in this particular area of the City are sensitive to the perception of crime—they think that police presence should be subtle. So, instead of sirens and flashing bubbles on patrol cars, we’re called out as responders.” Davis was weary of repeating himself with this explanation.
“Well, I guess they’ll be offended big time today,” Jenssen said. “I think the medical examiner and his posse are about a block away. Maybe someone should tell them to cut their sirens, eh?” He answered himself with a snicker.
Davis and his partner had pulled into the driveway of 421 Earl Grey Drive at 11:22 a.m.—an employee had not shown up for work; calls went unanswered.
He had scraped enough frost from the glass sidelights on the entrance door to see through the entry hall to the living room. From that angle, there appeared to be a prone body adjacent to the fireplace. He took his baton to the glass and reached his hand in to unlock the door. The GIU Staff Sergeant had dressed him down in the past for what was cited in his record as impulsively damaging personal property to gain entrance. Fortunately for Davis, no one could charge the entry today as impulsive.
“Good to see you, Phil.” Davis shook the medical examiner’s warm hand. “Sorry you’ll be working in the cold today. Up to my partner,”—he jerked his head in Jenssen’s direction, out of earshot—“he’d have the thermostat jacked up to 20° by now [68°F].”
“Cold is better. In the heat, I can pronounce the victim dead from half a block away. My technicians go through a lot of Vicks, but they hate it when a rookie upchucks all over the crime scene. Your boy apt to do that?”
“Probably, if I had let him turn the heat on,” Davis said.
The two long-time friends shared a laugh before getting down to business.
“We’ll be standing over there out of your way, Phil. Need anything, yell.”
Davis tugged on Jenssen’s arm to keep him from intruding as the technicians lifted prints and scraped blood, skin, and hair samples from the corner of the fireplace. Until the medical examiner determined the cause of death, the room was a crime scene.
“Listen, Jenssen, why don’t you take the car to Tim Horton’s around the corner and get coffee for everyone, and . . .” —Davis couldn’t believe he was saying this— “a box of doughnuts.”
With Jenssen out of the way, Davis moved about the house. A couple of things piqued his curiosity: First, someone had locked the front door but not the back. He figured this would earn him a reprimand for not checking all entrances before smashing the leaded cut glass at the front. Second, someone just didn’t turn the heat down—no thermostat setting went that low—the furnace pilot light was also out.
“Phil, you mind if I put in a requisition for a furnace repairman? Or would you prefer I wait until the body is taken away?” Davis queried.
“Go right ahead. Even if he showed up now, we’d be finished before this place warms.”
Davis made the call. Bob’s 1-Hour Furnace Repair was on its way.
The Forensic Team packed up their gear. Dr. Philip Harrison was supervising the placement of the body bag on the gurney when Jenssen showed up with a box of coffee and doughnuts in one arm while latching onto a man who could biblically be referred to as three score and ten.
“Look who I found wandering around outside . . . the fella that’s going to make this place toasty warm,” Jenssen announced.
Everyone stopped what he was doing to look.
The stranger plowed in like someone who thought twenty-four hours was not enough to do everything that needed doing in a day. His brown bib trousers were covered in a two-inch thick down-filled vest emblazoned with the words Bob’s 1-Hour Furnace Repair. His handmade toolbox was of such substantial weight that his right shoulder looked an inch shorter than his left.
“Sorry I’m late, fellas. With all these turns and similar-sounding street names, I found myself on Earl Grey Close instead of Earl Grey Drive. Damnedest thing.” A headshake, cobwebs out.
With Bob’s novelty—all one second of it—extinguished, Jenssen ushered him down the stairs to the furnace room.
“This is an accidental death, eh, Doc?” Jenssen worked his way back into the action, enthusiastic to be part of the team.
Phil and Davis exchanged a will-they-ever-learn look.
“Could be just as it appears, son––she stumbled and landed headfirst on the corner of the stone fireplace hearth,” Phil said. “But I have a job to do and so do you. Death—accidental or otherwise—is a serious matter and I’ll take no shortcuts nor will I speculate. Follow the lead of your senior partner, son, and you might one day be as good a detective as he.”
Phil shook Jenssen’s hand, a departing gesture that there were no hard feelings for his earlier rebuke. “I assume a few of those coffees and doughnuts are for us . . . mind if we help ourselves?”
Jenssen nodded.
“When I fix time and cause, you’ll be the first to know,” Phil said. The front door closed behind him.
Bob re-appeared in the living room, strolling over to the thermostat. He seemed more relaxed now that the dead body and the people attending it were gone. “You may want to cover that hole in the glass by the front door so’s you don’t wind up heating the outside when the furnace kicks in. I got some plastic sheeting and duct tape in my van you’re welcome to. That’ll fix the problem temporarily.”
He threw his van keys to Jenssen, who caught them on the fly and darted out the door to get the plastic and tape. Within minutes, Jenssen had the hole sealed. They could already feel hot air coming through the floor registers.
“Working fine . . . pilot light was out. Sign on the line so’s I can get paid.” Bob passed the clipboard with the work order over for Davis’s signature.
Davis already knew about the pilot light; what he wanted to know was what caused it to be out.
“A draught will do it, but that didn’t happen here. Someone shut off the gas control. And just so’s you know, whoever did it was real considerate,” Bob said.
The two officers exchanged glances, brows knitted.
“They also shut off the water supply and bled the pipes. In the cold we’ve had for the last several days, someone would’ve had a huge plumbing bill repairing burst pipes. I assumed you wanted me to turn the water back on as well, so I did. Have a nice day, fellas.”
“Grab a coffee before you go, Bob.” Davis was grateful not only for the heat, but for information that would turn this case into a homicide if he could only make the connection.
“No thanks, coffee keeps me awake. And the name’s Pete . . . Bob’s my dad.”
Accidentally Dead
By
Mary Jay
Published: May 2009
Available wherever fine books are
sold…
Including The Raider Bookshop www.RaiderBookShop.com
When The Dye Is Cast
By
Anthea Japal
Cesselee came to recognize the therapeutic value of reflecting on the past. These reflections seemed to endorse her perception of the world around her, and pure delight in them guaranteed a good day each and every time, no matter what the circumstances. Nothing worked better to replenish her maturing womanhood. Girlhood rituals seemed to come to mind much more easily than before and with the slightest promptings, if any at all. She was unsure of the future, but not of her past. Memory was a place of pleasure and pain that was all her own to claim.
Like the flash of a television screen, the picture of three adolescent girls stooping on the edge of the dry, dusty road peeing in unison appeared before her mind’s eye. An involuntary audible chuckle accompanied the invisible thoughts. The sound propelled her back to her present surroundings, where she found the eyes of proximate sunbathers skeptically examining her entire person.
Cesselee’s exotic features complimented her sapodilla-brown skin well. Elegant well-shaped limbs wrapped in dark brown glossy skin were the best features of her slender frame, which was crowned with a generous mass of natural black braids. Generous lips competed with bright intelligent almond-shaped eyes for attention on a narrow, lean face. A Negro beauty laughing to herself on the famed Silver Sands Beach was no one’s idea of normal, but what anyone might think or feel was not a part of Cesselee’s thoughts at that moment. She was not about to let anything disturb her foray into the past.
Travelling in groups of three or more friends, sisters, cousins made the long trek uphill easier. Scrubbed clean, anointed with coconut oil on the face and head, the girls hair braided into neat squares, they walked, ran, hopped all seven miles every day in anticipation, not of the lessons to be learnt in school but of the leisurely walks home on afternoons, when eventually and unconsciously the bittersweet bonds of sisterhood would give way to the first fruits of womanhood.
In the speckled shade of the “break-neck” tree, under the hot Caribbean sun with Christine and Margaret— warm buts bare, homemade cotton panties around delicate but strong ankles— Cesselee aimed her salty, fetid fluid at the chosen spot in the dust, willing it to foam as it hit the earth with the force of her cradled loins. This time, abundant froth covered Cesselee’s little mud puddle. This time, finally, she had the most foam, dug the deepest hole, and made the biggest wet spot of the three. She would be the one to challenge from now on.
The chuckle, by now, become a full-blown laugh-out-loud. She could feel the bitterness of “a million days” roll off her.
For Everything, There Has to Be a Reason
“What brought this on?” she mused, even as she vaguely took note of the black-skinned Rastafarian youth who boldly appraised her body. Indeed lately, since Grandmother Mavis passed, there was this inclination to reflect on what many might consider her unfortunate past. But was it unfortunate?
The word spread that she was the one to beat, and all the boys heard of it, too. They would help her with her water bucket from the pipe stand at the crossroad all the way to the top of the hill and stay there to rest as an excuse to gaze at her full, firm breasts heaving and bumping every time she moved, the large young nipples protruding through her faded old cotton dress. They vied for her attention with unnecessary wrestling matches. She was assured a chair at the front of the class, whilst her favourite got to carry her books in his arm. She especially liked the way he tickled the back of her neck with a sprig of grass flowers just to turn her attention to him, away from the others. The girls wanted to be her friend, as if vying for the first runner-up position in a beauty contest, as being in her company guaranteed attention from some of the nicest boys at school.
An Island scholarship one year later was synonymous with change— not only a change of venue for school but also a change in mode of transportation from manual to mechanical. Cesselee could count the number of available bus rides she had made to the city on one hand. The first was a trip with Mother Mary to the provision market one early Saturday morning. The dawn created a series of ethereal images in her mind with the voices of Mother Mary and her cronies as an apposite background. Or, was she asleep all the time? Sitting on her mother’s knees inside the huge wooden bus, the trees and buildings seemed to her to be walking quickly by. Although the bus was moving at great speed, she was sitting idly still.
But every day that year, she sat with new friends— some of whom were familiar but not as dear as Christine and Margaret— and lessons were becoming the paramount purpose, as Mother Mary stipulated in a mother-to-daughter talk on orientation day.
“You take your lessons real serious from now on, Cesselee, on account of the sacrifice to buy you those expensive books and fancy uniform. An don’t talk bout the bus fares.”
“Yes, Mother Mary”
“Thank God for your grandmother. She promised to help me with that. Lor-deee, I’ve never seen that old woman so proud. And none of your older sisters got to wear shoes and bras at your age, you know.”
“I know, Mother Mary.”
“You be a good girl for all of us; you hear me?”
“Yes, Mother Mary.”
All the while, Cesselee busied herself with getting dressed for her first day at her new school, turning this way and that in front of the old defaced wardrobe mirror. She felt like a brand new person, even as she harboured a little sadness over the anticipated loss of her old jaunts.
The friends continued to meet for the journey to Mass on Sundays at dawn or at the annual Easter Harvest in addition to the occasional community events like funerals, christenings, and maroons, but things were the same; the essence of their characters— whatever that was— was lost, so much so that often times they found themselves in the company of each other’s friends. In the latter days of her short youth, theirs were no longer exclusive friendships.
Cesselee compensated for the loss of her grandmother by spending lots of time indulging in these bouts of reverie, with more appreciation for herself and others than before.
Grandmother Mavis remained true to the implied contract in regards to Cesselee’s education, and so too did Mother Mary, despite extreme financial difficulties. She worked as an apprentice to the community seamstress on leaving school at the age of fourteen in standard six. The way of thinking then was that there was no point in usurping scarce resources to give a girl further education just to have her become somebody’s wife and mother when she grew up. But, her apprenticeship complimented well what she was naturally: a good mother. She made all her children’s clothes with her hands and sold others to supplement the family income, in addition to taking in washing and selling home grown eggs, vegetables, and ground provisions. However the Syrians soon came walking the highways and byways, peddling their wares.
“Good Tellelene, my friends, good Tellelene. Take less than a minute to drrrrye.”
Soon ready-made clothes had more appeal than those that were homemade, so much so that Mother Mary’s aspirations for her own sewing business never amounted to anything.
Cesselee did not kept up her end of the contract. At sixteen in the fourth year of her secondary school career, she had become pregnant “for the man in the Hillman car.” Ms Mavis’ pride and joy— and the queen of San Simeon—fell from grace.
When The Dye Is Cast
By
Anthea Japal
Published: April 2009
Available wherever fine books are
sold…
The Scarecrow
By
Andrew Dunsbergen
1
The day begins just like any other; the obnoxious
sound of an alarm clock fills the room. In a bed next to the alarm is a woman.
She squirms and stretches as she slowly opens her eyes and looks at the
annoying machine that woke her from her sleep. She reaches out and slaps at the
snooze button a few times before it turns off. She closes her eyes again trying
to get a few more minutes of rest. She isn’t a lazy girl; she just enjoys her
sleep.
Not much later, the alarm goes off again. She
attempts to put it back on snooze but accidentally knocks it off the small
shelf that it rests on. Now it’s being loud and annoying on the floor.
She forces herself to get up and turn the alarm
off. It’s fairly early, 5 in the morning, and through the curtains she can
already tell that the two suns are already in the sky. She walks to her window
and opens the curtains only to look blankly outside at what used to be a nicely
maintained garden. Now it looks as if it was picked clean by rodents and
scavengers trying to get an easy meal.
Even further out, on other people’s properties, it looks the same. She
closes the curtains to get it off her mind.
She hears a loud beeping noise coming from a
different room.
“Well, it looks like someone wants me to get up.”
She puts a robe on and walks out of her room into
the living room where the noise is coming from. On her television the words
“Incoming call” are flashing.
“Hello?”
About two seconds later the screen turns on and a
large creature appears on the screen. He has a thin coat of fur covering most
of his body. If he didn’t have the fur he could easily pass off as a human.
“Catalina, you lazy human, ha. I’ll bet you just
woke up! Good morning!”
Catalina smiles at him.
“Oh don’t get me started, Wally! Unlike you Megnans, I actually have to sleep more than 4 hours a week.”
“Yeah, well, I say that is still no excuse. Say…
is that what I think it is behind you?”
Wally points at a box that is against the wall in
the back of Catalina’s living room. It’s small, and unmarked, just a plain
cardboard box.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she chuckles.
“Indeed I would. After all, I’m paying you for
what is in that box, or have you forgotten that I am your boss?”
Catalina laughs “So that’s what you are, huh?
Last I remember, you came to me begging me to help you. There aren’t too many
people in this colony with the skills that I can provide.”
“No, perhaps not, but those skills are useless if
what you have in that box stays in that box. Am I wrong?”
“You are absolutely correct. So, I assume you
want me to hurry over as fast as my puny human legs will take me, right?”
Wally laughs. “I love you humans! Always full of
jokes, I don’t see too much of that anymore. It’s too bad there aren’t too many
of your species anymore.”
“I'll keep that in mind for the next project you
want me to work on Wally. Bye.”
She waves at the screen which signals it to shut
off. The words “Transmission ended” flash for a few moments before the screen
goes blank.
She pauses for a moment before walking back into
her room. She thinks about the comment Wally made about there not being too
many humans anymore. It doesn’t really bother her. She has lived on this planet
for her entire life and doesn’t know much about the planet called Earth, except
for what she learned when she was in school.
She looks back at her clock, 5:30 a.m. already;
she must leave by 6 if she wants to catch the planet shuttle. She dresses
quickly; something simple- blue jeans and a white shirt. The smell of a pot of
coffee being brewed flows into her room. She decides not to have a cup and
instead grabs the box that Wally had asked about and rushes out of her home.
She arrives at the station via a taxi service. As
soon as she steps out of the taxi she enters a large walkway with an arch over
it that says “Planetary Shuttle Central”. The area is filled with different
species of humanoids, mostly Megnans due to the fact that Megnan is a
neighboring planet. Other species such as the Wylods, which are very thin, dark
complexioned creatures with four legs and three arms, and the Coul, which are
very muscular yet small creatures that almost look like a mix between Megnan
and a different race that Catalina has never seen, are there too. The fur
covering the body is similar, yet the facial structure is not of the Megnans;
it has ridges on the chin and cheeks. Some Coul are known to shave their faces
to show off their facial ridges. Apparently it makes them more attractive to
their females.
She crosses through the archway and follows the
flow of people, always looking out for the proper shuttle that she needs to get
to Megnan. She never understands why, but the shuttles are always reassigned to
different docks every few days. As she continues searching she notices the
daily business similar to what goes on at any shuttle station: the hauling off
of crates and boxes containing trade goods, clothes, furniture basically
anything you would ever want, even animals; probably the same type of animals
that caused this once beautiful planet to now become a near barren wasteland.
The planet’s eco-system was disturbed on a catastrophic level, when the first
of the animals broke free several generations ago during transport. They
quickly began breeding and they kept alive by devouring the crops on several
farms. Long story short, millions of people starved due to their farms being
picked clean by the animals and not having any other source of income to feed
them. Some people still live outside the city, but close enough to get to
safety should the creatures come by for a quick snack.
She eventually finds the shuttle heading to
Megnan, and from the looks of it, she has arrived just in time. She notices
people have already began loading into the shuttle and finding their own seats.
She finds a vacant one and sits down next to a rather large Megnan. He looks at
her when she sits down and smiles at her.
“Hello there, human,” he smiles.
Megnans are known to be very friendly.
“Well, hello there, Megnan,” she says smiling.
The Megnan laughs as he shuffles in his seat to
get more comfortable. After a few moments a voice is heard through the intercom
system.
“Trade Colony 14 Shuttle heading for planet
Megnan will be departing momentarily. Travel time will be between fifteen and
twenty seconds…Standby.”
The slight vibration indicates that the shuttle
has left the dock and begun flying into the sky. The engines at the back of the
shuttle power up and in a brilliant flash of light, the shuttle is gone, with
only a light trail of smoke showing which way it went. Catalina hates riding on the shuttles because
they constantly shake, sometimes almost violently. She doesn’t see anyone else
panic so she assumes it is perfectly normal and just holds on and keeps to
herself. This trip however, is going fairly well with almost no turbulence.
Roughly fifteen seconds after they have taken off, the intercom is turned on
again.
“We are now entering Megnan arrival port.”
After a few more moments the doors open up and
everyone begins exiting the shuttle.
Walking into the main receiving terminal it’s
easy to notice that the planet Megnan is exactly the opposite of Trade Colony
14. It’s very clean and plant life is abundant which can be attributed to the
fact that little to no trade is done between Megnan and other planets. What
trade is done, however, is thoroughly inspected and tagged. There is a very
strict rule that’s been in effect ever since Trade Colony 14 was devastated on
the introduction of new animal life. If any similar instance happens on Megnan
and is tracked back to a particular person, he or she is held liable for any
damage done. The fear of punishment keeps the traders in line.
“Hey, there you are, you silly human!”
The familiar voice of Wally was heard from among
a large group of people in the terminal. Catalina waited for him to find her.
The crowd is moving fast and she doesn’t want to get caught in the flow. She
can see Wally charging through the crowd, almost knocking a few of them over.
He is rather large, even for a Megnan. His eyes focus on the box that Catalina
is holding.
“Ha ha! I knew you would get here early! You are
so predictable. I love you for that!”
He picks her up and gives her a big hug.
“Whoa! Careful there, big guy. You don’t want to
break me in half. Then who will show you how this thing works?”
Wally lets go of her.
“Yes, you are right. C’mon. I’m starving. Let’s
get something to eat before we get down to business.”
Catalina looks a bit worried.
“I don’t know, Wally. I am all for trying new
things but the last time I had Megnan cuisine it didn’t agree with me,
especially the part of the meal that was still alive.”
“Nonsense. It’ll make you big and strong like me.
We don’t want you wasting away. Let’s go. I insist.”
“But I…”
Wally charges back into the crowd before she can
object. She knows Wally is heading to the food court. As she struggles to make
her way through the crowd she thinks about the last time she visited and ate
foreign food. She had ordered what she thought would be a salad. “It shouldn’t
be too bad,” she had said to herself. When she got it there were what looked
like lettuce leaves, but they were garnished with what appeared to be small
worms, still alive. She didn’t want to insult her friend so she ate it and
barely managed to hold it in. She especially remembers the feeling of the worms
wriggling down her throat.
As she breaks through the crowd she finds Wally
standing at the same food vendor they had patronized the last time.
“Took you long enough. I almost had to order a
search party to find you. The last thing we need is a dead human at the
station,” he says jokingly.
Catalina looks at the food in the display… at
least she thinks it is food.
“So what do you have for me this time?”
Wally scratches his head
“You know, I think you might like it.”
“I think that scares me just a little bit,” she
replies.
Wally turns to the Megnan that is behind the
counter and says something to him in a language that Catalina doesn’t
understand, obviously the Megnan language. The person then reaches below the
display case and pulls out a small package. He then makes a plate of the same
“salad” that Catalina had had during her last trip. He hands both of them to
Wally who then hands the small package to Catalina.
“Check it out!”
Catalina opens the package and pulls out what
certainly looks like a sandwich.
“Look! That’s real bread. I pulled a few strings.
It was really hard trying to locate some…what do you call it? Chicken! That’s
it.”
Catalina looks happy.
“Wow! I’m surprised that you did all this for
me.”
“Yeah, well I know you tried your best during the
last visit. I didn’t want to see you struggle through another meal.”
“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you!” She gives
Wally a small hug.
“Watch out now, little human, don’t you go
falling in love with me. I’m a married man! Ha ha!”
“Oh, please, you are so full of yourself!”
“Yeah, maybe. I think some of that sense of humor
that you humans have is rubbing off on me. But enough joking. You came here for
business, so let’s get to work. I’m just dying to see if this thing works.”
“Do you live far from here? I don’t see your part
of the project?”
“Yeah, I left it at home. Don’t worry. It isn’t
far.”
The two of them leave the station and head to a
taxi service just outside. It is refreshing for Catalina to be able to see
trees and all sorts of plant life. Even the air smells clean and fresh. A
vehicle pulls up and they get inside. Wally says something to the driver in the
Megnan language and they are underway to Wally’s residence.
The Scarecrow
By
Andrew Dunsbergen
Published: July 2009
Available wherever fine books are
sold…