Don't shoot the messenger

 

_________________________ 

Don't shoot the messenger

Patrice Naparstek

Wed, 25 Sep

The silence was dense, and still, and mysterious.  it was as I had read described in countless novels - but had never experienced until now.  A silence that had weight and even form.

And then it was broken by a shout from above and the thundering of feet, breakneck down the stairs.  He had been upstairs packing a bag, getting ready to leave while I was to apologize to this woman for never having trusted her, nor liking her, nor letting down my guard while I was around her.  For wanting to close my door to her, for wanting time with my husband without her presence, to drink my coffee without her clatter in my ear.

When he went to pack, his parting words to her as he passed beneath the archway was, “Tell her who you are.”  He left the room and she pulled a stool in front of me, sat down, her knees almost touching mine, and began to speak.  As so often happens to me when emotions become too big, too fast, too soon, I couldn’t really parse what she was saying though I heard words.  

“Seven years, we feel it’s fate, you knew and did nothing, you never liked me and I deserve to be liked, I am valuable.”

I heard the phrases, I knew their meaning, and I understood that they paved a road that I would traverse in the very near future.  As she talked I thought of all the  past conversations about my fears, my discomfort with their closeness, about her presence, like a second wife, in our lives.  I thought of all the times he told me I was imagining things, I was being immature and I felt wounded in the softest part of my being.  

I thought of his cowardice, the way he hd made her his messenger.  He left the room to pack a bag while I was to sit there

and listen to her tell me “who she was”.  And god help me, I did.  For a while.

I put my hand on the table beside me - letting my fingers rest on one of the small collections of stones and rocks that were scattered throughout the house.  I collected them while gardening or hiking, filling my pockets with their lovely shapes and colors.  I could name every place each was taken from: the hike, those who were with me.  I let the weight of my arm and hand drape my fingers over a handful of the stones and felt their connection to the ground fill me.  

She was still talking.  Earnestly, but beneath I could feel her sense of superiority, her belief that what she was saying was what she should say, that it was a right for her to explain that she loved him, that she was on this earth to help him fulfill his life’s purpose, and in doing so her own.  She was his messenger.  

I thought, “Don’t kill the messenger! Don’t. If you are going to kill anyone let it be him.”  And then I laughed.  Well, at first it was a bubble, a giggle, but then it was an outright guffaw, proportionate to the ridiculous situation.  And with the laugh came a mobilizing energy that broke my docility, my inaction.  I took up the largest rock on the table next to me.  A round white one that I had recently unearthed from the garden and couldn’t put back.  It felt warm in  my hand, I cupped it for a moment and with surprising agility I stood, wound my arm like a pitcher, and flung it as hard as I could across the room.  

I hit my target.  Dead center in the middle of the bay window.  The glass cracked then the pieces fell.  she had  jumped up from the stool, a very satisfying look of fear on her face.  The silence followed.  And then his feet on the stairs.  I turned to see him, bag in hand - I was surprised that he had the foresight to bring it down with him - and I laughed again.  

I thought tea was in order, a sit in the garden, a call to the glazier.  They would do what they had been doing.  I had begun.

 

 

 

Geraldine's story    - DON’T SHOOT THE MESSENGER

 On this very important day, all the citizens, those who felt citizens in the city, in the country,  of the world, were gathered on the main square of the small town they belonged to.

It happened to be a period of history where everything had got crazy : nobody knew the difference between a real and a fake element, nobody knew where to spot the lyers and how to detect  the reliable people, nobody knew what was right from what was wrong anymore.

Where did the devil stand ?  Were was God, and which one ? Why this God and not that one ?

What were the rules for living in Society ?   Who took decisions, why and for whom ?

And in this complete and utter muddle, the citizens were asked to choose the person who would lead their country for the next few years ahead !

 Quite a few of them, completely muddled up, didn’t know what to do, so they didn’t do anything – they quit – they left it to the others !

Some others tried to untangle the different elements and to find a window through which they could start seeing something that looked like possible, maybe naive, but where goodwill was a central feature, others were lead by the character that had the money and the power, a few tried to understand what was going on and how they could really participate to what was still called a « democracy ».

The polling stations where about to close within the next half hour.

From the far, the people gathered around the main place started hearing rumours on the left side of it as well as on the opposite right side.  It looked like 2 columns of people approaching at more or less the same speed.  As they  started arriving on the scene, you could notice that the men (no women)  were carrying guns and dressed in blue and red.

They marched to the middle of the square, the blue men forming a half circle on the one side and the red ones taking place on the right.  This formed a perfet circle, half blue and half red with riffles held on both side.

More and more people were reaching the place.  By now, it looked quite surrealistic, not very far from the last scene of Sergio Leone’s film « The Good, the Bad and the Ugly » but without that dramatic music…

Breaths were held short, silence grew larger…

Then, from very far away, a cavalcade announced itself, dust and earth being lifted and scattered round the rider.  The sound of galloping grew louder and louder and the silhouette of the horse and it’s messenger became closer and closer….

They were going to know !

As the messenger was reaching the place, all the riffles were pointed towards him, the red and the blue and the crowd ‘s cry grew louder and louder :

« Don’t shoot the messenger » ! It’s certainly not his fault… 

And when the bang went off, I heard this soft redeeming voice right next to my ear:

« I brought you some coffee sweatheart ! Sounds as if you’ve been through a few nightmares last night »

 

Jackie's contribution

Don’t shoot the messenger

André sat in the café slowly sipping his morning café au lait He was hesitating about eating another croissant –   Relishing in the fact that he was a little early for work and had another ½ hour before setting out He was assistant to the High Commissioner in the city.

A group of men sitting at a table just behind him were chatting and bit by bit their voices got louder and louder piercing the quiet and calm of the café with intersperced laughter and cries – there seemed to be a firey conversation going on.     Slapping the table and stamping feet -  and cries of something he thought could be Arabic

 A few choice words escaped from the loudy group - words he heard that made him gulp and almost choke – he froze and paid more attention to what they were saying.     Pretending to be absorbed by his phone – scrolling down, smiling occassionally so as not to appear to be concerned by their conversation

 

He pondered on the way to work as to whether he should tell someone about what he had overheard  -  but who?  

As he passed children on their way to school, young men off to the gym, women out shopping dressed smartly starting their day. He imagined the chaos that could come about if this information wasn’t relayed in time and the project these men were talking about came true..     Injuries would be numerous and there could even most certainly be loss of life.   

 

    He was desperate to talk to someone.     His boss – he imagined would not believe him in the first instance and so it would have to be a neutral person – a friend perhaps –His old school friend worked nearby at some sort of administrative post – he had never quite discovered what.   40 years ago they played cowboys and indians – In play he was always the victim and the play always ended with him shouting I didn’t do it … but he felt this was someone he could trust and help him with his decision.   

 

Later that day he was called into the commissioners office.   A  usually jovial man -  normally of a sunny disposition – but now he was behind his desk and grunted what amounted to a  greeting  as André walked in – his face sombre even dark and threatening.     I have heard from a good source that you are involved in a very serious threat to our country    What have you got to say about this?   André blanched.    I – I - he stuttered, I overheard someone in a café this morning …and  confided the information to a good friend as I wasn’t sure it was for real.  

But its got nothing to do with me Sir - he added

 

Are you the instigater of this information? If this attack does  occur we shall be completely responsible for anything that happens.  I shall lose my job and you deserve to be shot as the messenger of the information.    NO no André cried,  blinking back tears  thinking of his three children and lovely wife at home.    

 

Andre stood in the firing squad of the cities High commissioner’s back courtyard – a place he had never known existed.   His trusted friend of 40 years faced him with a rifle but not a plastic one this time  – he shouted “Don’t shoot the messenger”  Please

 

________________________________

Don't shoot the messenger – 4  Prime Minister – revised variation 2

(05.09.2024) by Sarah

 

"Holy crap, what've you got that on for?"  Jake was referring to the blond wig his friend Kevin had on.  "And why the hell are you wearing gloves?"

"Just felt like it."

"You're not planning to celebrate."  It was not a question, exactly, though it was half of one.  Kevin said nothing.  They took their places in the crowd in front of the presidential palace and wormed their way to the front.

Normally presidential annoucements were made on television, or in the newspaper.  But this president had been making changes, each one bringing the country or the government or himself closer to the ways and habits of royalty.  Jake and Kevin couldn't care less about royalty, but Jake was always ready for a good laugh, and Kevin, though he took politics more seriously, loved a joke in his own way.  So today, partly as a lark and partly out of real interest, the two of them had decided to go in person to see the event and find out, under these highly dramatized circumstances, who the new Prime Minister was going to be.

The President was apparently going to make the announcement himself.  He had dramatically shut down Parliament four months before, calling for new elections and the stunned country had pulled itself together and voted in an opposition majority.  But in this country things did not happen automatically, and it was not for the majority to name the leader of the new government but for the President himself.  And he had found one pretext after another to put off this nomination, and continue to run the country with the old government, theoretically "resigned" but technically still in operation.

"He's been doing it on purpose," said Jake.

"I know."

"He takes us for a bunch of fools."

"I know."

"There's that insane law that allows him to go on as long as he likes and we can't do anything about it."

"I know."

"You keep saying the same damn fool thing all the time, you know that?"

"I know."

But now the President had announced that he was ready to name the new leader of the government and the country was on tenterhooks, in that no law obliged the president of the country to name a Prime Minister of the elected majority; he was free to name whoever he pleased.  Names were circulating: Blodger, of the far right, and Leczinsky of the far left, but no-one expected either of them to be chosen; Banks, the favourite of the right; Edison and Ford of the presidential party; and Anna Morales of the left, which was now the real majority. 

"If he doesn't name Morales, there's going to be trouble."

"He won't."

"How do you know?"

"He won't."

"There you go again.  Have you nothing else to say?"

"He won't."

Now the presidential door had opened and a man came out onto the balcony.  A murmur of disappointment ran through the crowd.  They had expected the President; it was instead someone almost nobody knew, one James Smith.

"Don't tell me he's named him!"  Jake was puzzled.  "What party does he represent anyway?"

More murmurs, of surprise and curiosity, rippled through the crowd.  But optimisim and curiosity were up.  Everyone was hoping the man would be inclined to favour the party of their choice. 

"Shut up.  Listen.  He's only the messenger." 

Which was true.  When the murmurs died down, the man began to speak in suave, educated tones, excusing the President for having taken so long but things were complicated, etc etc., on and on.

A few "boo"s, and "get on with it"s were heard from the impatient citizens, but mostly they listened intently, and finally Smith got around to what they were waiting for.

"The new Prime Minister, you will certainly be pleased to hear, with his long record of experience and efficacity, is ... Ethan Banks."

Anger and disappointment stirred the crowd.  Kevin pulled a gun out of his inner pocket.

"Don't shoot the mesenger," cried out Jake in alarm, before he noticed it was only a toy, made of silver plastic.

The ball flew out and landed square on the speaker's white shirt, leaving a spreading red stain.  As the crowd shrieked and began to run in all directions and police began to close in from all sides, Kevin said "Duck" and he ducked himself, tearing off the wig and the gloves and Jake's red cap, throwing them to the ground with the paintball gun.  Then he straightened up again, and pulled Jake firmly by the sleeve before he could protest, as he intended to. 

"Put these on," he said tersely, handing Jake a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

"What the heck ...?" began Jake, who was feeling very exposed without the cap to cover his prematurely bald skull. 

"Shut up and walk."  And so the two young men pushed themselves through the panicking multitude as the police looked for a blond guy and his accomplice with a red baseball cap.

Well, it was only a joke, but it caught the fancy of the public.  Impromptu marches sprang up everywhere, as official protestations would of course not have been authorized.  Half of the work force went on strike.  The movement grew so monumental that it made the economy tremble, and finally the President himself resigned, there was a new election, and by a close margin Anna Morales was elected.  She chose a Prime Minister from her own ranks, and there were great celebrations in the country, as well as vociferous protestations from all the other sides, as usual.  Jake mourned the loss of his LA Dodgers cap and Kevin that of his blond wig, but otherwise they were happy.

Unfortunately, this is not the way things really happened.

 

+ 960 wds

 

 

 

7 Words : Singular - Discover - nineteenth - saffire - timorous - flibertygibert - help

 

Story by Geraldine

COOBER PEDY

Singular – discover- nineteenth – saffire – timorous – flibbergibbet – help

 

 

Hey mate !  I think the only way I can get Jenny’s heart back is with a big saphire !

And I need help, someone to come with me to Coober Pedy to find one. 

What’r think ?  Want to come ? Give me a day or two, Jo.  I need to see if I’m going to loose money or not.

No, mate, you can’t loose money !  You can only get rich, very very rich…. But it is hard work… and a difficult climate though.

Ok, Ok, I’ll tell’ye tomorrow.  I think I’ll go for it with you, answered Tom.

Whatafter, they  pulled through a few beers to seal the arrangement and decided to get ready for the trip.

As we all know, the best way to make quick money in Australia is mining : anything… copper, gold, coal, iron, led, diamonds, uranium etc etc.                .  You leave for six months, travel in a yute, sleep where you can, usually in a swag,  eat what you find and work, work, work all day, the way the first settlers did when they discovered the place 2 centuries ago.

Two days later,  Tom and Jo were heading towards Coober Pedy, in Jo’s old yute, with a full jerrycan of petrol, another couple filled with water, their swags on the top, and all they thought they needed to drill a whole and excavate : a medium manageable derrick, picks, shovels, gloves and hope !

As everyone knows, or doesn’t,  Coober Pedy is the Capital of opals. In the nineteenth century the place did not exist as the search for opals only  started in the 1920’s in a very wild way.  Each miner trying to discover opals would get a small concession, and from there would start prospecting, digging, excavating and when lucky, fall upon a layer of opals all colours, but mainly blue, and have them polished : the main market was Japan, which of course paid well.

In the middle of a very very harsh desert, Coober Pedy was built mainly underground : the minors who decided to stay dag big underground galleries and built singular troglodyte houses for themselves and their families when they began to remain there for a while, as the medium temperature outside is around 45 to 48°C during the summer and can lower to minus 20° in winter times.  There is no sign of botanic life out there : not a tree to be seen, no insects, only a few snakes in the stones and sand to be seen for miles and miles and miles.

Jo already had a concession there, on a rocky bit of land.  Under the burning sun, they started setting up the derrick, drilling with a machine they’d rented in town and down they went with their picks with which they started boring a tunnel.  The rock was hard, the noise and it’s echo tearing their ears, their limbs aching and their heads spinning.  How right he was : it was terribly hard work.  And as the days passed without finding anything that looked like coloured, he also found out how timorous his pall Tom was : he hadn’t noticed this before, but maybe it was due to the very harsh conditions they were undergoing….

Days, weeks and a few months went by before they could see anything looking like a gemstone.  They had opened a gallery in which they could rest, eat and sleep not far from their entrance, so all they needed to do was go to town once a week to find food and booze and get back to work.  Occasionally, Jo would stay in the underground town for a couple more hours attending different brothels whereas Tom, would just wait for him in the Irish Pub where music was played : he was keeping clear for Jenny’s sake.

Now, if you wait long enough for something to happen, it happens.  And this also applies to minors.  At the end of an exhausting day, Jo and Tom were going through the stone they had dug up when suddely :

« Hey, look mate, would this be it » cried Tom.  And he showed a long blueish-green vein along the wall. 

« Yes !  We did it ! I knew this would come up one day ! Hurrah ! « shouted Jo.

« what next then ? »

« We have to follow it and dig very carefully around it to see how much there is » said Jo.

« OK. That’s made my day and even all the days we’ve been at it for the last 3 months »  « Let’s go to bed and start the new job tomorrow morning » answered Tom.

But Jo wanted to get things done as soon as possible, which meant immediately.

They started working on the seam digging very cautiously around it and extracting big pieces of opal that filled their tired hearts with delight and joy.

« Now you, flibbergibett, don’t go tell no one we’ve found anything !  That’s the best way to get attacked and stolen !  Just keep quiet and act poor !  We’ll find a place in Melbourne or Sydney to buy it from us »

« But…. I wanted to take this saphire to my Jenny whom I love so much !  Give me my part ! »

« Don’t be stupid Tom ! With the money we’ll get from the gems, you’ll certainly get Jenny a big great saphire ! » but meanwhile, we must continue digging, pretending we’ve found nothing and letting’hem know out there, we’re going to give up soon. »  That’s the only way to drive out of here safely !

They continued digging and finding more seams of opal as they went lower, and when in town, still showed long faces and talking about leaving before the winter having no luck this year.

They hid the different stones in various places in the yute : under the carpets, in the lining, sewn in the seats etc… and when they finally felt safe enough to leave the place without danger, started driving back down south towards Melbourne and back to Bega.

They sold most of their gems to a big Company in Melbourne, shared the money,  and Tom finally decided that a beautiful blue opal was good enough for Jenny and with the remaining cash he could alsol offer her a small but lovely house.

He also knew by now, that whenever he was either really short of money or had a fabulous plan to develop, he could count on Coober Pedy and his friend Jo.

 

------------------------------------------

A story by Annemarie

A singular date requiring help  with a not so timorous flibbertigibbet to discover missing a sapphire moon on the nineteenth.

 

Mrs Dodd-Smith looked at son pityingly. “You do realise she'll never fit in with our family. Just look at her - auburn hair today, tomorrow it might be purple...or pink. And Peter, for heaven's sake, she works in the market. I've only met her once and she chats a lot; she says she lives in a council house. Are you sure she's not after your money? If you ask me she seems a bit of a flibbertigibbert.”

“ Mother, I’m not asking you. Karen has her own business making bespoke clothes. She lives with her mother, who's not that well. She has no idea what I do or who father is.  We go out to the country, take long walks. She's different from all the other women I meet,” retorted Peter.[1] 

 “And how do think she’ll fit in with your friends. That dreadful Cockney accent. What will our friends think?”

 “ You’re such a snob, mother. She's funny and kind …and interesting. And despite you not wanting her there,  I shall bring Karen to the charity auction you’re hosting at home. I really feel she’s the one for me.” he added defiantly.

  We'll see to that, my son, Mrs Dodd-Smith thought to herself.

  Peter arranged with Karen that someone would fetch her on the evening of August 19 for the charity auction extravaganza as he would be helping his mother. The cream of society would be there in all their finery, with open cheque books and clipped voices,

  Adorned in a gorgeous sapphire dress - one she’d made herself of course - Karen was somewhat startled to see a Bentley crawl to stop outside their council house home in Rainbow Close. A be-capped chauffeur exited and rang her doorbell. “Mr. Peter sent the Bentley round for you, Miss Karen.”

She really hoped all the neighbours were watching agog, as the chauffeur held open the rear door of the spotless, shining black  Bentley while she climbed in.

  She  was quite unprepared for the sedate drive past  the private “Porters Park Golf Club”, down the long tree-lined drive leading to the Elizabethan style mansion, a mansion of singular beauty in one of the most expensive streets outside of London.

On their arrival the chauffeur asked her to wait while he telephoned Mr. Peter, who soon hurried out to meet her.

“You look radiant,” he said admiringly. “Now come and see the parents.”

“ Gosh, Peter,” gasped Karen ,”I had no idea you lived somewhere so posh.”

They walked hand in hand to the front door where Peter introduced her to his father, whom she’d not yet met. Not quite as tall as Karen Mrs Dodd-Smith nonetheless managed to look down her nose at her. Sending her son off on a mission she took Karen aside and passed her a piece of paper.

“Well it’s nice to meet again, Karen. Perhaps as there is a large number of people here you could avoid speaking to some of them. This  list of names should help, “ she added briskly, leaving Karen surprised and affronted.

   Karen was no timorous female; glass of champagne in one hand and her list of forbidden names in the other and a big smile on her face she circulated the room trying to meet as many guests as possible. Each time she was introduced she blatantly consulted the list and if the guest's name was on it she  announced in an exaggerated 'cockney' accent:

  “Oi'm so sorry, but Mrs Dodd-Smiv 'as asked me not to talk wiv you.”

The list was long. The surprised, bewildered faces of those guests were many.  Mrs Dodd-Smith was embarrassed. Mrs Dodd-Smith was angry.  Karen was satisfied. Karen was happy to be driven home.

  The following day to Karen's surprise and to the astonishment of the curtain-twitchers of Rainbow Close, the Bentley arrived for a second time in two days.This time the chauffeur came to the door with an enormous bouquet of exotic flowers, accompanied with a note from Peter's father apologising for his wife’s behaviour. Would that be enough to stay with her son? Had Mrs Dodd-Smith won?

   She was just sorry she’d missed seeing the biggest blue moon  that had occurred that same evening.

---

 [1]

Sarah's story

Sapphire 1 – Blue

(12.08.2024)

 

It was the nineteenth day of the tenth month after Gwendolyn had been locked in the tower.  This was after she had made the singular discovery that the Count was not her father.  This fact she had found out by accident while rifling through the papers in the desk in the top room of the tower, a place where she was not supposed to be.  The Count's valet, a sneaking sycophant, had discovered her there and had run to tell his master, who had lost no time in cornering her there and locking her up.  Since then she had had much time to ponder.

If the Count were not her father, who was he?  Or, more to the point, who was she? 

The door to the top room was of thick, solid oak; she could bang on it all she wanted, her most vigorous blows sounded like timorous patterings to the people in the castle below.  And who cared anyway?  Her mother was dead, if she had ever had one.  She began to doubt the fact.  The Count had never spoken to her of her mother, nor had anyone else.  Whenever she had broached the question, the conversation had petered out or skithered to a new, only sightly related topic.  Even the servants avoided the matter.  Had she been carried here in a napkin, flown in by a stork, as they told her?  The eventuality was unlikely: although she was slim and light, she was very tall, and even as a baby would certainly have been too heavy for a stork to carry.  So, then, what was her origin? She had heard of the virgin birth, where the child had had no father.  No earthly father.  Was it possible to have no earthly mother?  She pondered further, and came to no answer.  The only remaining fact was that there was no mother to worry about why her daughter had not come down to dinner.

Nor would the servants fret about her absence.  There was not one of them that had ever shown the least interest in her person.  They busied themselves only with sweeping the stairs, polishing the brass banisters, basting the roasts over the fire, scouring the pans and so on.  She had read stories about girls and women who had governesses and lady's maids, who supervised their education and looked after their personal needs, but no such employee had ever crossed the threshold of this castle, so far as she had heard.  It occurred to her at last that she was in fact less lonely up here in the solitary tower than she had been for all of her eighteen years in the bustling palace down below.

She could look out at the sky where the billowing, snow-white clouds floated through the blue on to unimaginable countries, having come from even less imaginable places, giving her a feeling of belonging nowhere herself.  She could look down on the countryside that stretched out to where the earth met the sky, a green and yellow patchwork counterpane rimmed at the edge with a soft purple fringe, and dream that a prince would come over the mountains on a coal-black charger and carry her away.  In short, she passed her days more pleasantly than she ever had before.

Still, she ruminated on the question of her beginnings.  Was she even human, or was she the offspring of a fairy?  And for the first time, she came to the conclusion that she needed assistance.  She could not solve this problem by herself.  As she sat there, musing and staring into the distance, a bird flew up and perched on the windowsill.  A bird of the same deep bright cerulean as the sky, and it began to chirp and flutter its wings as if its mission were to deliver her a message of the utmost importance.  At first she thought she did not know bird language, but  she began gradually to make sense of the creature's twittering.  This flibbertigibbet was offering her the help she needed!

Blue, it was saying, blue is the answer.  Blue as the eyes of your mother.  Blue as the jewels she wore when she came to the castle.  Blue as the cold eye of the Count when he saw her.  Blue as the steel of the dagger with which he killed her and tore out the child she was carrying, the child of his worst enemy.  Blue as the azure field of your father’s coat of arms.  The bird fell silent and cocked its head.  And Gwendolyn realized that she had never seen anything blue in the castle: green, red, yellow, orange, purple, all the other colours had been there, but the blue she had seen was only ever in the sky.

But what did all this mean?  She was hardly advanced in solving the question that obsessed her.  The bird hopped past her and landed on the desk.  Its beak went tap-tap-tap tap-tap-tap on the wood polished smooth with age.  It cocked its head again and fixed her with its beady eye.  How useless, she thought; the Count had shut up the desk with a great key before he left, a key that made the whole internal mechanism click and slide until all the drawers were locked tight.  But the bird still tapped, and she realized he was pecking at one drawer, one drawer in particular.  She approached and touched the drawer, and at that very second it flew open.  There, sparkling in the sunlight, lay a sapphire necklace, blue as the sky, blue as her own eyes when she picked it up and held it against her as she looked in the mirror that hung on the wall opposite her.  The bird seemed now to go mad with impatience.  It tapped not only its beak but its tiny feet against the desktop.

“What do you want?  Shall I put it on?”  For all the world it looked as if the bird were nodding yes.  So she fastened it round her neck, and suddenly, everything seemed to explode at once.  The oaken door flew open, the Count who was rushing up the stairs behind it, was felled by a beam which detached itself from the door frame as the very walls of the castle seemed to fall apart of their own accord, and the bird jumped gracefully off the desk to stand on the floor, now fully clad in shining armour with a blue plume waving at the crest of its, or shall we now say, his helmet.

“You have broken the spell,” he said.  “For you and for me.  My charger is waiting outside.  But hurry, before the castle disintegrates entirely!”

And so they rode off into the blue distance, leaving rubble behind them, heading for the land called là-bas, where there is only order and beauty, luxe, calme and velupté.

 

-----------------------------------

Jackies contribution

Singular, discover, nineteenth, saffire, timorous, flibertygibert, help

 This morning I saved a life.

 A little being shouting help from my kitchen sink  – A spider .   as I was filling the kettle It did occur to me to drown him by pouring boiling hot water over him

I imagined him spiralling down the drain trying desperately to hold on to the slippery slimy tube that was my drainpipe and finally being swept off to no-mans land and then I had a thought …

Perhaps he had a family and his spider wife was waiting for him with four spider children to feed I imagined spider wife crying as her spider husband who was providing the food didn’t appear as he was about to be flushed down the drain in someones house …and they would all die of famine

 

  Since a small child my very religious mother had drilled into me that all God’s creatures deserve a life and never to kill any living creature – except flies and possibly coakroaches which spread disease so this lives on when you hear things in your childhood you obey forever

 

I picked him up In a jam jar and and once captured he proved to be a real flibertygibert rushing round and round the jar trying desperately to get under the gap between the paper rim and escape.   He had the singular good fortune though to be saved at all.

After a closer look I discovered that  this spider was quite attractive.   He had saffire coloured legs, eighteen whiskars with an extraordinary nineteenth whiskar entirely covered in red fur that the most qualified arachnologist admitted to being unusually unusual  

 

I took him into the garden and he scampered timorously into the unknown territory of my flower bed.  

 

The next morning  I had the pleasant surprise to find a whole family of spiders in my sink – spider wife, with four spider children, auntie spider, uncle spider and loads of cousin spiders all come back to thank me for having saved their daddy spider.

 

What did I do then?

Well, I turned on the tap.

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What time is the train?

 

A poem by Patrice

 He sat beside me uninvited and asked my name.

I told him and he repeated what he’d heard twice.

When I corrected him he said,

“What’s in a name?”

He talked of the weather and said “looks like rain.”

I looked to the horizon admiring blue skies and clouds like bunny tails,

the sun my witness.

I didn’t disagree - what’s to gain?

He shifted on the bench toward my thigh.

whispered toward my ear - “your place or mine?”

Hoisting my bag I walked  away.

I heard him stand and call my name - the one that was not mine,

For heaven’s sake,

“What time’s the train?”

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What time the train  by Sarah (16.07.2024)

“What time does the train leave?” asked Thomas.  He was the one who did the deliveries, although today exceptionally there would be no deliveries.
“At 10:40,” said Catherine, the baker.  “We don’t have much time.  But I have something to do first, so you go and make sure Gillian has everything she needs.  I’ve packed her  bag but make sure she’s got some music and things to distract her.  She’s going to need it.”
“But whatever are you doing now?  Isn’t Gillian the most important thing?”
“Yes, of course.  But the next most important is to get somebody to replace her.  I’m seeing some candidates this afternoon, but first I have to add a few items to the contract.”
“What items?”
“Some restrictions.”
“What restrictions?”  Thomas knew that his mother had some odd notions sometimes, but then, as she did not answer he went off to see if his sister wanted to take some music to the hospital with her.  She and he had never had a contract, of course, but they had had a gardener once and Catherine  had put it in his contract that he could not smoke on the premises, not even at the far end of the garden.
“How are you doing, sis?” he asked.
“It hurts,” she said.  “It hurts like--”
“Don’t say it.”  Why was it he had to watch over everyone in the family now that his father was gone?  Gillian had a way of using swear words, and Thomas did not like to hear improper language in the mouth of a girl.
“Well, it hurts bloody awful.”
“There you go again!”
“What’s Mum doing?  Why isn’t she here?  What time is the train?  Why the devil can’t we buy a car?  OK, Dad took the other one, but we aren’t that poor, are we?”
“I’m afraid we are,” said Thomas, “and watch your language.”  But such advice was peine perdue, he knew.
It was bad enough living far from a hospital and the ambulances all on strike, but thank goodness the taxis were working and free immediately, and they could take Gillian to have some x-rays and see what was wrong with her.  She probably had something broken, and it was pretty clear she wouldn’t be able to help Mum with the baking for a while.  By then they could hear the printer’s purring noise, and Catherine’s footsteps coming upstairs.  
“Ready?” she asked.  “Got your music?”
“What music?”
“Thomas was supposed to help you get some music ready.  You might not be coming home right away.”
“Oh, I can’t even think of that now.  Let’s go, please!”
“Thomas, you pick out some stuff.  She’ll change her mind once she’s there and has nothing to do.”
They heard the taxi tooting faintly outside.
“Thomas, get the man to help us carry Gillian downstairs,.  We mustn’t move her too much.”
And from then on they were concentrated on Gillian, who suffered at the least uneven step they made.
Once they were settled in the car, however, Catherine couldn’t help making a remark.  “Why ever you decided to take up soccer, I don’t know.  It’s not a ladylike sport.”
“Mum!”  That was Thomas, guardian of the peace as usual.
“She could have--”
“Mum!  Let her choose her own sport.  She’s eighteen now, you know.  You can’t give her orders any more.”
So Catherine stayed mum, though you could see she was itching to give a lecture.
It turned out Gillian had broken her collarbone.  The doctors were shocked that they had come by train.
“You aren’t aware of the ambulance strike?” asked Catherine tartly.
“Well, she’ll need extra rest now, what with the shock and the strain.  You can count on a week in hospital, at least, and another six weeks’ rest at home.”
“I expected as much,” said Catherine “and I have taken the necessary measures.”
The doctor looked at her, uncomprehending, but then they were saying good-by to Gillian and hurrying off to catch the train home.
“So,” asked Thomas, when they were at last seated in the train, “what additions have you made to the contract?  Besides no smoking.  You can’t just add anything you like, you know.”
“Oh yes I can.  The candidate can accept it or refuse it.  But I don’t want to be caught in a mess suddenly, as I am now.”
“So?”
“I’ve added a provision that none of my employees is allowed to play football or any other game of the sort, even in their spare time.  Maybe you can’t give orders to your grown children, but a contract is a contract!”
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Jackie

The kitchen is simple with a small gas stove, a fridge that hums and shudders from old age and a cracked  linoleum floor that hides years of dust from 50 years of use.     He sat in his old wooden chair stained with a life of wear.      He is asleep, or seems to be,  his chin sunk deep into his chest, head heavy, his hands holding a chipped metal coffee mug and just able to read “God is good” .

The television is blaring but he doesn’t  hear.  

 

Far away in his dreams he could hear his wife calling him from her tomb in the nearby cemetry.     Don’t let yourself go dear husband, – don’t forget that I’m here and watching you from above.   Cheer up and get on with life.   We had a wonderful time together – look at the photo album and remember how lucky we were to have had each other.

Sad and unable to gather strength to face another day without her he buried his face on his folded arms on the table and sank into a more profound sleep.

 

It was there that his daughter found him and shook his arm gently – Papa - wake up its midday and I’ve brought you some lunch and also there is an envelope for you.      After consuming his lunch and tea he relunctantly opened the envelope fearing that it was another condoleance letter from family or friend.    

Inside was a ticket – looking closely he saw that it was a train ticket.  Its for you Papa a gift from me to you.    Oh no he said, what is this?  I can’t accept it and anyway where would I go to – I don’t know anyone except from my village and I’ve never even been on a train in all my 83 years of life.     I look at the tv and that’s the extent of my travelling – handing back the envelope to his daughter.    

 

But Papa you need a change after everything that you’ve been through – this will open you up to new scenery and people make friends and see a bit of life.

 

Sitting on his seat with a brand new suitcase on the rack above him he couldn’t help feeling a sense of excitement.   Watching the rolling countryside go by he was amazed at the beauty of France, the variety of nature and the rumbling cities he went through.    The train travelled slowly,  he was allowed to absorb everything he saw –landscapes he had never dreamed possible, he met people getting on and off at stops and exchanging news and ideas – sometimes putting the world to rights and wrongs and having a laugh and listening to other peoples lives.    The train ticket was an Interrail Global Pass, allowing him to travel through several countries – stop off or stay on the sleeper.

 

They went through, France, Spain, Portugal and then back up through Italy, to Germany and back 

Feeling rested and a new man he arrived home.   Thanking his daughter profusely for having painted the kitchen, replaced his appliances and made his home welcoming.   

Christmas was coming and he was asked what he would like to do

When is the next train?   He replied

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Geraldine's story

What time’s the train

 

Lucy knew she was to go back to her parent’s place in Normandy that Sunday for a very important event.

She had started her Theater course, rue Blanche, in Paris last September and this had completely changed her life.  She had always dreamed of theater since her early childhood, when she would act, as from 4 years old, Snowhite, Alice in Wonderland, the Little Mermaid or even later, boy’s characters such as  Robin Hood or Harry Potter.

She’d lived in the small village in Normandy, where her parents held a milking farm.  Her main friends, as an only child had been the cows she would patt while they were being milked by the machine : she would give them, in turns, armfuls of hay and talk to them in the ear.

The schoolbus would take her to the school situated in the nearby little town.  She would leave quite early in the morning, hop on the bus and greet her friends.  Lunch was taken at the canteen, more classes in the afternoon, and homework started in school. Then, the bus back home and… Mun and Dad and the cows !

Week-ends were also mainly spent on the farm, because as we all know, but some don’t, a milking cow needs milking everyday….  Maintaining a farm is a real vocation.  So week-ends were the time when Lucy could dream of being somebody else.

She was tall and slender, with a body closer to a reptile than an elephant ! She loved playing with her long fair hair, leaving it, in turns, stroling down her shoulders and back in long waves, the next being a casual bun held by pins, or platts roled around her ears.  Her eyes reminded the nearby sea, bluish-grey, big and round making her look as if she was always astonished by something or other.  On the whole, she was a very good-looking young girl feeling good about herself.

These personal small trips into another world were what held her together. She would go for long walks with « Dick », the farm’s dog, usually in the nearby forest with her earphones on, broadcasting rap music, helping her with her pace.  And she would learn them all by heart and play them back home in her room, disguising herself each time into the main character. That’s probably what gave her this deep taste to theater, including French and Literature were also her very favourite subjects in school.

So, after her Baccalaureat, which she succeeded with a « Très Bien » mention, she braved her timidity and presented about 5 or 6 entrance exams to the different theater schools in her Region and Paris, that was not that far away, and got into the well known Rue Blanche Theater School.

At the begining, she so missed the farm, the freedom in the countryside, her parents and her favourite cows, she almost dismissed to run back home.  But her parents who knew farming didn’t have a great future, were wise enough to let her go and then to help her in her first steps into her new life, not to turn round or come back.

After nearly nine months in her new life, Lucy had adapted, had learnt a lot about herself and interpreting the others, and had also met a friend with whom she felt cosy, intimate, and maybe was a little in love…

Back to this Sunday where she has to be there for this extremely important event, we follow Lucy to the station where her train is due to leave at « 3.20p.m.

Lucy missed the first metro from Bercy to Gare St Lazare, and because it’s a Sunday, had to wait for 13 minutes for the next one.  She hopped on and nervously looked at her phone, counting the minutes needed : 12 minutes ! She might make it.  It’s  3.02 pm.

-       « If I get there up to « 3.16 that leaves me 4 minutes to run from the metro to the platform.  Keep near the door, ready to move and run. I should be able to make it ».

But, at Châtelet, the metro stopped for a while when the voice came :

            « For reasons of security, we will de delayed by 4 minutes »

She felt her knees wobbling, her breathing accelerating, she would be missing the train !  That wasn’t possible.

Lucy got her phone and started typing « What time’s the next train for Cabourg ». The schedule came up on the screen : 4.28 arriving in Cabourg at 5.42p.m.  She quickly counted mentally : 10 minutes walk to her village : it’s should be all right.  Her heart beating started slowing down to normal again and she relaxed.

At the station, she had plenty of time to discuss with her friends on the network while   waiting for her train.  Then the train started off to Cabourg and fortunately, which is not always the case, there was no delay.

As she got off, she starting running towards the village with her rucksack shaking on her back and saw the clock on the Mairie showing 5.54 p.m.  Three more minutes…. It should be OK now….

Two minutes before the end, Lucy put the little square bit of paper with, we hope, the right name on it, into the slot, a voice came up saying loudly « has voted », signed where she was asked to, and left the townhall with a feeling that she had, for the first time in her life participated,  in her own country, to he own future. 

--______________________________________________

Paula's story

Here you go.

**************

Deadlines. Appointments. Obligations. Our lives have been constructed and conditioned to revolve around time. It’s time to get up. It’s time for dinner. It’s time to have a baby. It’s time to buy a house. It’s past time to call it quits on the marriage. Or: My period is early; I’m not prepared. I arrived too late; I spoiled the surprise party. “Please be on time,” my mother would always say. “You know your father hates cold food.”

Time seems to govern everything. 

So as I sit on the platform waiting for the train to Paris, I can’t help but wonder what would happen if the train was two minutes early? Or two minutes late? Arriving in the city earlier, or later, than expected — would I meet someone by chance? Would my life take a different path? Would such a small difference in minutes or even seconds result in a metaphysical difference in the universe?

I check the board again. The train is on time. As it pulls into the station, I climb aboard and find my seat, and I feel a little sigh escape my lips. All the what ifs have disappeared. I will arrive in Paris at the appointed hour. Hans will be there to meet me, as arranged. We will walk to his mother’s apartment at noon, as arranged. We will share lunch, until 2 p.m. After lunch, Hans and I will shop for a gift for his friend Alec, whose birthday party is at 8. Hans will want to leave the party before 11. All will go according to plan. My life is governed by time. 

As Hans and I stroll back to his place in the 4th arrondissement shortly after 11, I feel an inexplicable urge for a dozen oysters. I can almost feel the salty, tangy goodness sliding down my throat. Turning to Hans, I say, “You go ahead. I’ll join you shortly. I have a brief errand to run.” “At this hour?” he asks, but he shrugs his shoulders and turns toward home. He has always indulged my whims. I head to the St. Paul metro stop. 

Two stops and seven minutes later, I exit at Gare de Lyon, cross the street, and within seconds, I am installed at a table at L’European, where I order a dozen oysters and a glass of chilled Sancerre. I am alone in this alcove of the grand cafe and I am undeniably happy. 

A few minutes later, as I contemplate my nearly empty plate, and my nearly empty glass, I notice a man two tables away. He has the exact duplicate of my meal. He meets my eyes and shrugs, in that French way. We exchange smiles. And then, he is standing beside my table. “Can I buy you another glass?” he asks. He has blue eyes and a shock of brown hair. I realize he is American. So charming in his forwardness. So charming in his openness. So charming.

I let two seconds go by, then nod. “And may I join you?” he asks. “Oui,” I respond. 

For the next hour, time has no meaning. We talk, we laugh, we enjoy our wine. We realize we share a love of travel and adventure, a desire to escape from the world every so often, an urge to experience life by leaps and bounds. The oysters are gone, our wine glasses are empty, and the waiters are standing in a row near the door, watching us. 

Suddenly he bolts out of his chair. “Oh! The train to Marrakesh! I must be late! I’m such an idiot! I’ve forgotten, what time is the train?”

I pull out my phone to check the app. He has 15 minutes to collect his things and sprint for the train, I tell him.  

“Come with me,” he says. “Let’s have an adventure together.” 

Time stands still, for just a moment. And in that moment, I think of Hans, back at the apartment, glancing at the clock and wondering when I’ll return. I think of my life up to now, prescribed by that same clock, the minutes ticking away inexorably in a comfortable world where very little changes and very little matters. I think of what it would mean to not go back to that world, ever, no matter what happens with this stranger.

“Yes,” I say. “Let’s.”

Paula O'Byrne	10:24 (il y a 4 heures)
À moi

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