Little Sister in Siberia Land

little sister in Siberia land
wat exactly r u doing ther?
dont u miss teh sunny british isles?
dont teh snow get in ur hair?

little sister in Siberia land
i miss u so much here
even tho we saw each other
mayb once or twice a year

little sister in Siberia land
wen r u coming home?
pls hurry bk to see us
pls call me on ur phone

luv mxxx

The White Kitten that Harboured Death.

While growing up in Ecuador I remember being frightened about many, many things. I was afraid of the dark, I was afraid of the old lady accross the road, I was afraid of the big dog next door, I was afraid of the crickets that congregated in huge piles outside of my house. I was even a little bit afraid of dolls. But what I wasn't afraid of were cats.

Those fluffy, cute balls of fun were not dangerous to me at all. Why should they be? They looked so harmless! So when a neighbour came round with the cutest little white kitten myself, my siblings and cousin squeeled with delight and spent many lovely hours playing with the darling thing.

We saw the kitten a few more times in the weeks following. And towards the end, the little creature took great delight in licking and nipping our hands. Oh how we laughed!

Being children, the fact that we never saw that kitten again meant absolutely nothing to us. In-fact, I don't recall ever thinking about the fluff ball again until I stood behind my mother one day, saw her answer the door and overheard a conversation between her and the guest about a little white kitten that had died of rabies. And 'oh!' we'd all better go to the clinic and get ourselves checked out against the ravenous neural-viral disease that was incurable after a certain time spent in the host body.

My father was visiting us from England for two weeks. We'd not seen him for nearly two years and the last week of his visit was spent frantically running to the clinic every morning, lying on a bed while getting a set of vaccinations around the belly button for seven days running. My father left wondering if he'd ever see us again.

We're all still alive now, which means either we weren't ever infected. Or we were able to counter the disease before the point of no return.

So! A travel tip for all you adventurers out there: When in Ecuador, never ever pet white kittens!

Sketch: Seared Salmon.

I sat on the stool at a strange angle. Its edge dug into my thigh and left a sting after I hopped off. Another customer was next to me asking for his usual. What was his usual? The Sushi chef nodded and went to his small kitchen. I remember the noise, the heat of that busy indoor market. The sense of inprisonment by the walls and ceiling, making me wonder when I'd see the sun again.

The sun was an unusual concept here. Constantly it hid from our sight behind the great blankets of grey cloud that promised to wring out its cold, heartless rain. And the breeze. Always, always a breeze from the sea-front. Either blustering past us or caressing our faces, teasing us. At least on the few hot days we experienced per miserable year we could be assured our own city-wide cooling system.

Finally I saw the chef bring out four slim, perfectly pink fillets of salmon. He laid them on a stone plate, like an offering on an altar. He bought out a blow torch and I watched, fascinated as the heat of the flame he commanded distressed the perfect, pink flesh.The skin bubbled, fizzed. It cracked and popped open. The sound fed my ears with sizzles and hisses of agony. The vaporised, transendant remains of the whitening, browning sacrifice teased and flirted with my sense of smell.

The Chef laid his masterpiece on some fluffy white rice and drizzled a sticky sauce over it. He handed the food over to the customer without any more show and smiled.

And so the spell over me broke and I sat back on my stool in the same, uncomfortable angle.

Milestone on an Abandoned Highway

sticky
damp grass pokes through the cracks and crannies of the broken road

droplets cling to the stalks
drenching a wild cat whose fur is mired by mud and blood

a dying breeze meets its end at the mossy milestone

the milestone

a marker long since abandoned
on a road no longer traipsed by living human feet
no longer graced by relieved sighs or cursed by disappointed groans

the forgotten mark yet stands

and will stand

until the mossy growth and crying breeze tear it piece by piece
and let the crumbled wastes lie among the sticky
damp grass

Xarisha's Tale : Part II

The light was unbearable, incredible and shocking in one.

Xarisha gasped, her eyes screwed shut and her hand protecting them from the ever present glare. Her instinct was to crawl back down into her dark, painless cave, but she knew she had to press on. Crawling on all fours, she forced herself out and into that blinding light.

She felt the last dredges of earth cling to her feet and knew she was free. But that light, it made her curl into herself and use her body as a shield against it. She heard her own breath. She head the hard, undulating rhythm of her heart pounding. She felt the hot tears drip on her cheeks. She felt grateful that at least those senses still sensed.

She felt the burning pain the light inflicted on her eyes lessen. So she experimented and opened one. She cursed. More pain assaulted her. Grasping at the hem of her simple robe, she tore at it until a strip broke off and wrapped this over her eyes. Now she opened them again. This time the sting was lessened and she could finally see where she was.

She recognised walls and cracked tiled floor. She peered up and saw a ceiling. She glanced to her left and right and saw burning torches light the way into a corridor. She peered behind her and saw a barred window. She let out a loud cry and hid back into herself. That was where the glare came from.

What was this place? She wondered, shivering as she felt a cold breeze enter from the window and assault her skin. The torch flames flickered. She crawled forward and felt sharp pain as a broken tile cut her hand, blood droplets spattered the dirty tiles. She cursed again and tried to stand. At first, her legs were shaky and useless, like a newly born gazelle. She grasped onto her father's locket for comfort and pushed herself on and up. Finally she stood in the narrow corridor. What now?

She desperately wished she could face the glare of the window and look out, but not now. Now she looked down at the hole she had crawled from. She felt no desire to return, despite the light's glare. It was as if she stared at a past life, a past way of being. She felt a surge of excitement course through her and clung to her father's locket tighter. The breeze from the window caressed her face and she smiled. She had never felt the wind on her skin before.

Xarisha closed the tunnel back with the earth she had dislodged and then turned to face the corridor. This was the only way she could go now. Clinging to her father's locket, she walked on.

Sketch: Soil

Crumbles. It crumbles apart like well cooked pastry. Earth crumbs littering the pavement as I walk. It's that smell. That grainy, moist smell that happens after the rain splatters on. Damp, heady grass breaks appart the soil. Crumbles.

The Mango Tree

Deviant acts as a child are mostly explained away by the 'We didn't know any better!' line. We tell this to adults with wide eyes and small noses turned up at their big, benevolent faces. But we lie. We do know better and we execute our naughty behaviour with maximum efficiency and the least risk of getting caught.

There is, however, a time when one particular misdeed carried out by myself, my siblings and my cousin, was more obvious than a naked man dancing the cancan at a funeral.

In our defense, there was nothing we could really do to stop ourselves. It was... the perfect plan. Our goal, to reach the juiciest mangoes in the area. Our prize, to feast on the mangoes and relish our victory.

We waited for the afternoon to melt into evening and then into night. The humidity of the Guayaquilanian winter meant that there was hardly any difference in temperature in the dark. It was still sticky, it was still hot. Street lights were an issue, they gave away our position if anyone looked up at the rooftops at the right moment!

My brother led the charge. He's always been a natural leader. My cousin followed closed behind, she moved quickly and hardly made a sound. My little sister was just ahead of me, bounding along and trying not to laugh too much. I stayed behind and watched out for any sign of people spotting us and ruining our fun.

The slated rooftops over most of the houses on the street run over each other and were mostly flat, so clambering over them was easy to say the least. The problem was reaching out just enough to the tree that sprouted in the neighbour's garden and out over the roof tops without being spotted by the same neighbours sitting out, enjoying some down time.

I remember the excitement in dashing across the roof-tops, that sense of complete freedom outside the rule of adults who wouldn't dare cross over the relatively thin slates. We were light, we were agile, we each reached out and took as many mangoes as we could and VICTORY! We scampered back.

We ate the mangoes on the roof-tops, relishing our success, living the moment. As children that's what you do, each moment lived fully, never looking ahead or back. But then we got tired. So we crawled back down to the level of the adults and were faced with their wrath. Apparently they had been alerted by our neighbours that 'your kids are stealing mangoes again.'

Such slander against us! We were shocked. Us climbing the rooftops and stealing mangoes? Why that would be too dangerous and more importantly you told us we weren't allowed...

Unfortunately, it was rather hard to fool our adults. We were covered in dust and our faces were sticky with mango juice, also our stealthy crossing of the roof-tops was rather louder and more obnoxious than we had realised. So we all got the beating of our lives and told, on pain of having all our privileges revoked, never ever to climb those rooftops again.

But those mangoes called to us.

So the next night we laid out a new plan...