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
Monday 28 March 2011
Wednesday 23 March 2011
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!
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!
Thursday 17 March 2011
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.
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.
Friday 11 March 2011
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
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
Thursday 27 January 2011
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.
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.
Thursday 20 January 2011
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.
Thursday 13 January 2011
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...
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...
Thursday 6 January 2011
Fishing for Lies
Inspired by my father, who worked in an aquarium in his younger days.
Mr. and Mrs. Davies, newly married, hand in hand with self-satisfied grins on their happy, pampered, full faces walked into Sam's shop. Sam liked to think it was his shop at least, he did most of the work that ever got done in that squalid, damp place.
The shop specilised in exotic fish. Beautiful floating beings that swam with lifeless eyes. Bright, inspiring and soothing colours that belonged to creatures that had long ago lost any real spark. The sour smell of treated, used water smothered every other smell in that tiny shack. Fishing rods, fishing bait, fishing everything hung about the walls and ceiling, cluttering any free space. Even the counter and till were drowning in all the rubbish that was on sale.
Sam spotted his potential customers and smiled to himself. He felt a certain sale coming his way.
'You alright mate?' Mr. Davies said, while Mrs. Davies chirped happily away in the background. Sam nodded and put on his best fake smile.
'Afternoon' he replied, eyeing the pretty, plump lady who was currently distracted by an idly swimming butterfly fish.
'Me and the missus want to buy a fish or two for our exotic aquarium,' Mr. Davies boldly announced, brandishing the word 'aquarium' with flourish. He had no idea what fish was what, but it didn't stop him trying to sound impressive. Mrs. Davies giggled behind him, cooing at some Coy flopped miserably on the floor of his watery prison.
'Well, eh.. I can tell you're after something really special.' Sam made his smile broader, kept his eye on his customer and then moved from behind the counter to a tank that had all manner of foliage and shiny, colourful pebbles. 'Now this fish here,' Sam said pointing to a spot on the aquarium, 'used to be rarer than gold. They're called Carassius Suboculi,' he said grandly, 'you used to only ever see them in the wild.' Mr. Davies screwed his eyes up to stare better at the weaving underwater plants, 'but we here at 'Angle and Bait' discovered a way to make them breed in captivity.'
Mr. Davies peered closer at what Sam pointed to, Mrs. Davies merely yawned, the soothing sounds of water bubbling and flowing were making her sleepy. Sam smiled to himself as he saw Mr. Davies try very hard to see the 'Carassiues Suboculi', this was a sure sale.
'Yeah? How much are they? A packet I bet.' Mr. Davies commented, rubbing his chin at the flashes of movement he saw, these highlighted by the gloom that weaved about the place.
'I can give you a very nice price for them,' Sam informed, always the charitable sales-man, '30 quid a pop.' Mr. Davies 'Oohed' and 'Aahed'.
'I'll take two off you for twenty each' Mr. Davies finally said. Mrs Davies smiled blankly and yawned again, the fish weren't that interesting anymore.
'I'll let you take two for forty-five.' Sam pushed, and to his surprise Mr. Davies nodded and fished out his wallet. Sam smiled politely and ran the bill on the till.
'So what's these, Carasus Supoclusi? What's their common name?' Asked Mr. Davies while Sam dipped in a net into the tank, pulled it out with his hand wriggling along the handle and dipped it into a plastic bag full of water.
'Common name? Invisible Fish. Make sure you feed them plenty of specialist fish food, which you can purchase at this store, and keep the water at exactly 23 degrees, or they die.' Sam informed, all the while smiling at them. Mrs. Davies began to whine at Mr. Davies about something unintelligable, she was getting very bored.
'Alright love, we're nearly done. I'll take some of that specialist food too then mate.' Mr. Davies grandly declared, dipping into his wallet again.
Mr. and Mrs. Davies walked out hand in hand happily, a bag full of water and about £300 of extra fish food, exotic tank supplies and a guide on all things fish. Sam simply waved them out and smiled, slipping forty-five pounds worth of crisp notes into his pockets.
Mr. and Mrs. Davies, newly married, hand in hand with self-satisfied grins on their happy, pampered, full faces walked into Sam's shop. Sam liked to think it was his shop at least, he did most of the work that ever got done in that squalid, damp place.
The shop specilised in exotic fish. Beautiful floating beings that swam with lifeless eyes. Bright, inspiring and soothing colours that belonged to creatures that had long ago lost any real spark. The sour smell of treated, used water smothered every other smell in that tiny shack. Fishing rods, fishing bait, fishing everything hung about the walls and ceiling, cluttering any free space. Even the counter and till were drowning in all the rubbish that was on sale.
Sam spotted his potential customers and smiled to himself. He felt a certain sale coming his way.
'You alright mate?' Mr. Davies said, while Mrs. Davies chirped happily away in the background. Sam nodded and put on his best fake smile.
'Afternoon' he replied, eyeing the pretty, plump lady who was currently distracted by an idly swimming butterfly fish.
'Me and the missus want to buy a fish or two for our exotic aquarium,' Mr. Davies boldly announced, brandishing the word 'aquarium' with flourish. He had no idea what fish was what, but it didn't stop him trying to sound impressive. Mrs. Davies giggled behind him, cooing at some Coy flopped miserably on the floor of his watery prison.
'Well, eh.. I can tell you're after something really special.' Sam made his smile broader, kept his eye on his customer and then moved from behind the counter to a tank that had all manner of foliage and shiny, colourful pebbles. 'Now this fish here,' Sam said pointing to a spot on the aquarium, 'used to be rarer than gold. They're called Carassius Suboculi,' he said grandly, 'you used to only ever see them in the wild.' Mr. Davies screwed his eyes up to stare better at the weaving underwater plants, 'but we here at 'Angle and Bait' discovered a way to make them breed in captivity.'
Mr. Davies peered closer at what Sam pointed to, Mrs. Davies merely yawned, the soothing sounds of water bubbling and flowing were making her sleepy. Sam smiled to himself as he saw Mr. Davies try very hard to see the 'Carassiues Suboculi', this was a sure sale.
'Yeah? How much are they? A packet I bet.' Mr. Davies commented, rubbing his chin at the flashes of movement he saw, these highlighted by the gloom that weaved about the place.
'I can give you a very nice price for them,' Sam informed, always the charitable sales-man, '30 quid a pop.' Mr. Davies 'Oohed' and 'Aahed'.
'I'll take two off you for twenty each' Mr. Davies finally said. Mrs Davies smiled blankly and yawned again, the fish weren't that interesting anymore.
'I'll let you take two for forty-five.' Sam pushed, and to his surprise Mr. Davies nodded and fished out his wallet. Sam smiled politely and ran the bill on the till.
'So what's these, Carasus Supoclusi? What's their common name?' Asked Mr. Davies while Sam dipped in a net into the tank, pulled it out with his hand wriggling along the handle and dipped it into a plastic bag full of water.
'Common name? Invisible Fish. Make sure you feed them plenty of specialist fish food, which you can purchase at this store, and keep the water at exactly 23 degrees, or they die.' Sam informed, all the while smiling at them. Mrs. Davies began to whine at Mr. Davies about something unintelligable, she was getting very bored.
'Alright love, we're nearly done. I'll take some of that specialist food too then mate.' Mr. Davies grandly declared, dipping into his wallet again.
Mr. and Mrs. Davies walked out hand in hand happily, a bag full of water and about £300 of extra fish food, exotic tank supplies and a guide on all things fish. Sam simply waved them out and smiled, slipping forty-five pounds worth of crisp notes into his pockets.
Sunday 2 January 2011
The Creature that comes at Night
You are in a room. You are paralysed, unable to lift a finger and you feel a murderous chill bite your prone body. As you shiver, you hear whispers, hints of the something that lives in this room. The inhabitant wheezes. You have little choice but to remain still and wait.
Are your eyes closed? You try to open them, nothing is revealed. You try to close them and are subject to the blind panic you were in before. The creature growls, close to your ear now, you can feel its breath on your exposed, cool cheek. Your heart pounds and your skin becomes clammy with terrified sweat.
You feel the thing's drool lather your mouth and chin. It is the only warmth afforded to you. It growls again, deeper. Then again, each growl coming more menacing than the one before. The sound of your palpitations and your own rasps of panic deafen your ears. Where is the creature now?! Is it with you still? The growls come faster, your eyes refuse to open and your body will not move.
You feel a sharp jab of pain in your side. The creature has struck and you scream in terror.
You are momentarily grateful that you can move and you sit up. The room is dark, but you can see faint outlines in the gloom. A voice next to you murmurs, 'Please darling, I can't catch a single wink with you making that racket.' Your eyes hungrily roam your surroundings for any sign of that beast as your hand wipes traces of spittle and drool from your mouth and chin.
At last you're convinced the creature has gone and you settle yourself down to sleep. The wheezing and growling starts up again.
It's back.
Your eyes fly open in horror.
Are your eyes closed? You try to open them, nothing is revealed. You try to close them and are subject to the blind panic you were in before. The creature growls, close to your ear now, you can feel its breath on your exposed, cool cheek. Your heart pounds and your skin becomes clammy with terrified sweat.
You feel the thing's drool lather your mouth and chin. It is the only warmth afforded to you. It growls again, deeper. Then again, each growl coming more menacing than the one before. The sound of your palpitations and your own rasps of panic deafen your ears. Where is the creature now?! Is it with you still? The growls come faster, your eyes refuse to open and your body will not move.
You feel a sharp jab of pain in your side. The creature has struck and you scream in terror.
You are momentarily grateful that you can move and you sit up. The room is dark, but you can see faint outlines in the gloom. A voice next to you murmurs, 'Please darling, I can't catch a single wink with you making that racket.' Your eyes hungrily roam your surroundings for any sign of that beast as your hand wipes traces of spittle and drool from your mouth and chin.
At last you're convinced the creature has gone and you settle yourself down to sleep. The wheezing and growling starts up again.
It's back.
Your eyes fly open in horror.
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