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 |  A public journal? Sounds like a really bad idea! |
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Life is like a box of chocolates a dance floor!
Sometimes you're in the spotlight, sometimes you're not. Sometimes you know the steps and sometimes you feel way out of place. Sometimes you are a graceful ballerina, sometimes people are careless and they knock you down. In the end, we're all just looking for that grand finish. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
Success? Do you remember when you were little and your relatives would ask "So, what do you want to be when you're big?" Each toddling mumbler would regurgitate a rehearsed answer of some grand and awe-inspiring profession; "a doctor!", "a dancer", "a clerk..." Wait, what? No, not one young bundle of ambition thought I want to be an administrative clerk with a tedious, dead end job. So, if we define success based on our professional growth and trajectory... many of us have missed the mark. Surely, we can't all be Richard Bransons, right? We can't all have empires that defy national borders and industry categories? Right? Does that mean we can't have success? I am a stay at home mom, am I automatically disqualified from the race? What if I get published one day, will that mean success? I have a very different yard stick for measuring success. If you can sit at home at the end of the day and feel loved, heard and appreciated, that is successful day. Part of achieving this is being very careful when selecting the people that you want closest to you, because they play a vital part in your success. Best part of the week? And on that subject, my favourite part of the week happens at least a few times each week. Just before bed my hubby and I start prepping for the night and we chat and he makes me laugh like when we first met. For a moment the tedium of our endless 'to dos' doesn't exist and we are just together. We're not perfect, and he doesn't always 'hear' me, but these moments remind me why I fell for him in the first place. |
| So, fantasy fiction and navel-gazing is out for today's prompts (Yes, I'm tackling 2 prompts at once). The first one is about Ebola. I'm surprised that it has taken this long for it to become prompt-worthy... The second is about a hayride. Being not-an-American, I'm nonplussed. Am I the only 'alien' on this site? Ebola has been ravaging Africa and traveling inside the continent is a fretful headache. Now that someone in America has been diagnosed, it's worth talking about... Ugh. Secondly, we don't do hayrides. What is that anyway? Is this like "tailgating"? We also don't do that. We braai, how about a prompt about braai-ing?  It's really not like me to be grumpy about prompts, but these are unfortunate. There are 320 Million American and 6.5 BILLION people from other nationalities in this world. |
| The library was a dome shaped room that lay sleeping under a thick layer of dust. This was the first room in the house that ‘slipped’ from her mother’s mind. She opened the heavy door and immediately began sneezing. Setting her handbag on the old, hand carved wooden desk, she reached in for a bag of tissues. The curtains were drawn and the overhead light had fused many years before. Benita made her way over to the curtains carefully, trying not to trip over piles of books on the floor. She pulled at the dull purple-grey velvet curtains that covered the windows. The fabric had suffered through the years. As she pulled at the drape it tore from just below the top seam and released a thick cloud of dust. Light streamed in from the gash like blood. Benita squinted and turned from the light back to the massive desk. There was a soft reading chair just behind the desk. She thought to sit down but changed her mind when she saw the state of the chair. It was beyond decrepit and seemed like it would implode with the slightest weight. Her hand brushed slowly over the top of the chair and she allowed herself the guilty pleasure of remembering. Her dad would be holed up in the library as soon as he got home and most weekends. He claimed he had ‘work to do’. She would sneak in and curl up on the soft chair and pretend to read. Eventually he would curl up next to her and read from her book until mother called her for bed time. She scanned the shelves of the library with her fingertips. The books were like chapters of her life. All the classics were there and even some unsung beauties. The last book her father had read her was Peter Pan. She had always hoped that she would never grow old… The problem with not growing old, she thought, is that everyone else around you does, and then you are just ‘immature’. She thought back to uncle James’s house just after her dad’s funeral and the fascinating novel she had found. A sigh escaped her chest and she was once again that little witch prancing around the library with her sorcerer dad showing her how to use magic. She was once again a daughter and no longer an orphan, she wished she could live there. |
| The last will and testament destroyed what little relationship the siblings had. They all sat in the kitchen of the old house. The lawyer seemed afraid to proceed any deeper into the house of a deceased woman. He was fidgety and blinked repeatedly as he tried to find the correct envelope in his briefcase. The kitchen was quite large and the 5 adults were able to spread themselves around and maintain a significant personal space barrier. The walls had gone up as soon as the funeral was done. They seemed suspicious of each other. As though, what they said now could change what was on the paper. The reading started off with a bang; Darren had been excluded altogether because he had “broken a sacred vow” by getting divorced. His children were given modest trust funds inaccessible until they turned 21. Kieran had gotten the art in house, valued a few years back at a couple hundred thousand. His children were also given modest trust funds. Felicia was given the house, their childhood home. However there was a clause. It was only hers so long as she was still married to Mario. If she should get divorced, the proceeds from the sale would go to a cancer charity. Felicia was offended by the insinuation and began festering in bitterness. She had only been married a couple of months. There wasn’t much else to give. Benita considered being offended too, had her mother simply left her out? The grey haired lawyer continued reading. “I leave the entire book collection held in the library to my youngest. May the stories help you say goodbye at last.” Benita scratched at the breakfast table trying not to cry. “Thank you” she said, hoping her mother could hear. "Ya," Darren interrupted her thoughts, "Thanks, for nothing!" He grabbed his keys and walked out, as was his habit. The glass fruit bowl glinted in the morning sun. She imagined her mother, on the 'other side' watching the scene play out. Is this what she expected? |
| The call came as Benita was brushing her teeth on a Wednesday morning before work. Her mother had passed quietly, in her sleep. For about 3 months, a nurse had been staying at the house with her as her dementia worsened. The day seemed to hurry past in a blur. Before there was a moment of piece, she was sitting in the dining room of her childhood home facing a mish-mash of neighbourly concern in the form of casseroles, pies and even a roast chicken. Knives and forks clinked awkwardly in the place of conversation. Felicia tried to lighten the mood, “Well, at least she can rest now.” “Nice one, Duckie.” Darren quipped at her making the nick name sound like an insult. “I’m not being rude Bennie, I’m just trying to make conversation.” She said defensively. “You just wanted her out of here so you and Mario can move in!” Kieran said accusingly. “I don’t have to stand here and listen to this nonsense!” Felicia pushed her chair back and stormed out of the room. Mario looked down at his hands and slowly got up to follow her. Benita sat watching her siblings, all grown up, with families of their own. Somehow they still behaved like snotty pre-teens. The food on each plate was untouched. It began to congeal as it cooled to room temperature. The kids at the table got fidgety and were ordered out of the dining room. Benita lifted her glass, “To us” she declared raising a glass of white wine, “Orphans.” Darren through down his napkin, gathered his kids and left. Benita knew she had been mean, but no one seemed able to grieve. She was an orphan now. She wanted to grieve. Everyone else slowly gathered themselves and trickled out of the big house. Benita was the last to leave. The nurse popped in to fetch her stuff. Benita insisted that she take some food home with her. “There’s just so much, and it seems no one was hungry tonight.” |
| It was the anniversary of her dad’s death but Darren was in the middle of a messy divorce and Felicia was on honeymoon. The irony left Benita suspicious of love. Kieran brought his boys along and Benita supported her tiny mother as they walked through the cemetery. Kieran’s wife had suffered from antenatal depression since giving birth to David so she never left the house. She wondered quietly if his wife was ‘seeing someone about it’, as Felicia had put it? If she was, it certainly wasn’t helping. She thought of her own therapist who seemed to have given up on her now. The last session, the two women had sat in silence for 45 minutes while Benita refused to say goodbye to her dad, symbolically. She decided not to go back. David and Tyrone ran ahead through the grave plots, zooming and careening through the air like jets. Luckily for the adults, there was no one else around to see the children’s irreverence. It was spring time, the trees hung heavy with the weight of their leaves and the grass lay like a thick blanket, covering the dead. It always struck her as an inconsistency, death in a time of new life. They came to the plot where her dad’s name stood. “Loving Father and Husband.” There was nothing else that mattered. Although, Benita had always wanted to write “Sorcerer” on the marble head stone, in memory of the games they used to play. Out of respect for her mother, she never did. Her mom spoke in a whisper; “Benjamin, I’m coming my love. I’ll be with you soon.” Benita hugged her mom closely and fought back unexpected tears. Her mother had always spoken of being buried next to her dad. They had secured plots for their kids as well but not for all the grand kids. It was becoming a race to the finish to see who could join her dad in the ‘family crypt’. Kieran was uncomfortable about growing old, “Don’t- talk like that mom…” he stumble not able to look her in the eye. The three stood in silence for a long while with the sound of the young boys’ games prickling their ears. Benita realised there was new life, Darren had 3 children, Kieran had 2, Felicia was planning on a honeymoon bay if she had any say in the matter. Perhaps one day Benita might also add to her dad’s legacy. So, I'm dead but I'm also alive, Bean? She imagined her dad asking as he leaned against the marble head stone. Does that make me Dracula? She shook her head slightly to chase the image from her mind. “Look mom,” she said pointing at Tyrone, “doesn’t he look just like dad?” Her mom smiled a wrinkled but peaceful smile. |
| The therapist had her usual severe red lipstick and tight high bun, like an old ballerina; elegant and useless. She walked ahead of Benita like a swan. “I’d like to try something with you today, it’s a new type of treatment that is supposed to help people process memories and accept the past.” The room they walked into was dark with only one small window and thick curtains over it. The therapist flicked the main light switch but nothing happened. “Seems its out,” she said moving towards a desk lamp in the corner. Captain Obvious, sir! Benita thought, mentally saluting her. The lamp cast a dull yellow light that showed a beautiful old piano with stacks of sheet music on top. “Your new treatment is an old piano?” she asked unable to hide her disdain. “The focus is on the process more than the instrument.” The therapist stated taking some sheet music and placing it on the shelf above the keys. “You said you used to play when you were in high school. I pulled a few of the songs you mentioned. So, take a seat and let’s see how it goes.” She motioned for Benita to sit. It had been at least 10 years since she had touched a piano, there was no space for one in her tiny flat. As she sat in front of it, she felt comfortable, at home. The song perched on the shelf was Wynken, Blynken and Nod. She smiled as her fingers brushed the cool keys. With each note she felt the room swirl and transform. Reality blurred with memory, as it often did. She quietly sang the lullaby lyrics and for a moment she was a pre-teen trying desperately to sing herself to sleep while her mother could barely leave her bedroom. She had a lovely voice and was even the lead in the school play when she was 14. Her mind drifted back to the opening night. She shook with anxiety as she stood behind the curtain. The play was Peter Pan. Her brothers had been disgusted with her playing a boy, but her column-like frame and husky, grown up voice made her the best choice in a small pool of options. The curtain pulled back and the spotlight moved over the stage until it found her. She had imagined that her dad was in the audience, sitting next to her mom instead of Duckie. She imagined him being with her a lot. It started soon after the funeral and now, in her late 20s she was seeing a shrink to try make it stop. She pulled her hands abruptly away from the piano and the room froze in silence. Dad, she said quietly to her ever present ghost, please don’t leave me. Clear as day her dad moved in front of the piano and asked cheerfully, Why would I ever do that? Duckie doesn’t want me to talk to you. Felicia doesn’t understand the magic we have. Is it magic? Or am I just crazy? “What did you say?” the therapist looked up from her notes and Benita’s dad vanished. “Nothing, I didn’t say anything.” She stood up from the piano shaking visibly. “I have to go now.” |
| The living room was the same washed-lilac it was when she was a little girl. Her mother hadn’t even changed a single cushion. It was like stepping through a time loop and landing back in the late eighties all over again, only it was dull now and tattered. The blinking lights that twinkled against the day were misplaced and a little insipid. Benita sat perched on the edge of a billowy sofa covered in an exaggerated mauve floral print. She hung her head in her hands and grasped at a tiny piece of solitude. Squinting through her hands she swore the patterned moved. Shivers trickled down her spine and she jumped to her feet. This place gives me the creeps, she thought, shaking her shoulders as though there was something holding on to her. “Aunty Bean! We found you!” her nephews cried out as they burst into the room. “You sure did, you little monsters!” She picked up where they had left off in the garden a few minutes before and chased them behind the Christmas tree. The two young boys had sandy brown hair and freckles on their noses. David, Kieran’s youngest, had a perpetually runny nose. Slime secretion was his super power. In fact, a few weeks ago they had stayed at her house while their parents went out. David had gone through most of a box of tissues in about 2 hours. Tyrone, his older brother, constantly teased him about it and declared it a genetic mutation. “You’re the slime monster!” he had jeered. David had whimpered, which didn’t help the snot issue. “Be nice Tyrone!” Benita had told him, “You forget, I am Bean the witch. I will turn you into a cookie monster!” The boys had laughed so loudly that her small flat seemed to shake. The whole family had gathered at her mother’s house. It was an unusual occurrence. Since Darren left for Uni and Kieran followed suit the next year, there had only been fractions gathered at any one time. Their mother’s dementia had worsened and they all realised this might be her last Christmas. She rounded the plastic tree and growled like a monster. The boys snatched toy guns from their pockets and pointed them directly at her. Suddenly she felt herself rip through time and land square in Christmas past. She was the tail, the little sister that her brothers loathed to play with. They would aim their handmade pistols at her and shout “BANG! You’re dead!” So they could rush off and play on their own. She remembered standing in the exact same spot a million years ago with her stuffed bunny hanging from her arm and tears brimming in her eyes. “Those don’t work in here,” she said sinisterly, “this is the Monster’s Living room!” The boys shrieked with laughter and ran out the room just as her frail and diminishing mother walked through from the kitchen. “Dear, have you seen your father? He’s late again.” Bean’s heart sank. She hugged her mother and prepared for the fall out. “Mom, dad is gone.” |
| “Tell me about your childhood, what is the first memory that comes to mind?” The therapist set down her pen and stared into Benita’s eyes unflinching. After 3 weeks of this, Benita still felt like a fungus in a petri-dish, being scrutinised. I’m not contagious! She yelled in her own head. “Well, the first memory that comes to mind is the library.” “The library? What about it?” She hesitated, could she trust this woman? Felicia had insisted that she go see someone “about your daydreams, darling. It’s not normal.” What’s so great about normal, anyhow? The silence stretched on for too long, at last Benita began telling the therapist about the library and her unbelievable adventure almost 20 years ago. After my dad died, my mom couldn’t cope with the four of us and her grief. She packed us up and sent us to stay with my uncle James. He was… quiet and lonely. Perhaps ‘lonely’ is the wrong word, I don’t know how he felt. He was solitary. My brothers were older, 13 and 11. I guess they understood that dad was sick long before he was gone. Felicia was 9 and I was 8. Later, I nick-named her ‘Duckie’ because nothing seemed to phase her. Whatever life threw at us it just rolled off her back and she went on smiling and cheerful… It made me angry. At Uncle James’ house, Duckie and I had to share a room. Our beds were pushed against opposite ends of the room but there was still barely any walking space in between. As we climbed into bed the first night, Duckie put the light off because Uncle James had fallen asleep in front of the TV. The tears I had been holding onto all day finally spilled; there was no-one to tuck us in anymore, not even Mom. Duckie scolded me from under covers and sent me out of the room to “pull yourself towards yourself”. Was I was the only one who was sad? I stormed out into the dim passage way. Light from the TV danced through from the lounge illuminating three other doors. My brothers were sharing one room, another was Uncle James’ bedroom and the last was a library of sorts. I pushed the door ajar. The light from the streetlamps was orange… danger? No, that’s red, this was a caution. There was a black plastic office chair by the window and one tall bookshelf against the wall. The floor and the desk were littered with piles of papers and boxes of nick knacks. I stepped over them care- “So, is this the library?” Benita stuttered out of her dream-scape, “No, we’re getting there.” “Well, our time is nearly up for today, so can we fast forward to the end?” The magic had vanished, reality was all too bright once again. “I went over to the bookshelf and scanned the titles. There was a book called The Haunted House. The first scene was in a library.” She said it all without any of the relish this memory usually evoked. “Your memory of childhood is about a scene in a book?” “Yes, what’s yours?” she snapped sarcastically. A few minutes later she was on the train heading home. The sun was setting behind her and cast her shadow in front of her like a guide. She kept perfectly still but her shadow played against the wall of the train like a small child; jumping up and down, darting sideways and disappearing at times. It seemed to beckon her…She closed her eyes and remembered... I sat down carefully on the squeaking office chair and opened the book. There was just enough caution light to make out the words, so I read the most fantastic story. “Bean,” her dad called, nose buried deep in a thick, dusty book of spells, “hand me Volume 4 of the Pink Witch’s Guide to Gardening.” Bean giggled, her father spun towards her wide-eyed and chased her around the circular library, bellowing “What’s so funny, little witch?” She laughed all the louder, “A pink witch!” “I’ll have you know that the best witches are pink!” Her dad told her raising his eyebrows. Bean felt that she would explode with joy. Her dad leaped around the library again conjuring beautiful flowers from thin air and once ‘accidentally’ conjured a pile of wormy sand. “Ugh!” she pulled her face at the squirming wormings. He gently took a worm from the pile and danced towards her while she squealed. “If I’m going to teach you to be a great witch, my precious daughter, you can’t be scared of a worm! Now, do you remember the spell for daisies?” |
| Silence crept through the lab like mist. Benita couldn’t ignore it any longer, so she looked up from her microscope and realised she was completely alone. Her colleagues had all packed up and gone home to their lives. The fluorescent lights denied time but she could see out the window that the sun had set already. The street lights now led the way; illuminating in one direction and warning in the other. She sighed and blinked a few times. Analysing fungus spores for hours left her eyes dry and red. She shifted her wrist and saw that it was already 6:45. If she was late Felicia would have more ammunition to throw at her. She pressed re-dial on her mobile, she rarely called anyone else so it was a safe bet. “Don’t you dare cancel on me, Bennie. I’m already at the restaurant.” Her sister pre-empted her. “Don’t be silly, Duckie, I’m on my way... Just running a bit late.” Benita quickly changed her mind about cancelling. “Ok, I’ll have a cocktail so long. And please! Stop calling me that. My name is Felicia.” “Bye” Benita hung up and swiveled in her chair. Her stomach growled loudly, luckily there was no-one around to hear the roar. She decided it would be good to see her sister and get some food. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday when one of her colleagues brought stale birthday cake to work. She ate some because she knew they’d think she was a snob if she didn’t. Never mind that coconut make her feel nauseous. She grabbed her purse from the back of her chair and went to the bathroom. The light was even worse in there, stark and overhead like the midday sun, casting shadows on her face that made her squint in disbelief. She looked ghostly. The white lab coat made her think of her dad, he would be so proud that she had become a scientist. Not just a scientist, he would have drawled eerily, a maaad-scientist! She smiled at the thought. She was his name sake and clearly his favourite. He had entertained her every whim. When she was very young, he read her a book about witches and sorcerers. From then, she always dreamed of having magic powers. Her dad would hoist her through the air as though she was flying and pretend to be a gargoyle doing his mistresses bidding. I may not be magic, she thought taking out her make up bag, but I can wave this wand of beauty and transform from a witch into a beautiful princess. She wielded the mascara and the lipstick ‘wands’ dramatically across her face and felt like a little girl playing dress up. She took off her lab coat and realised that Felicia would moan about her baggy jeans and long sleeve shirt. Ugh, it’s your birthday Ben, why are you dressed like a poor college student? Felicia had invited their brothers but they both had ‘other commitments’. She eyed herself one last time in the full length mirror. I wish I was still 6, she thought sadly. |
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==> Sorry! 
I wonder how often a scam like that would work. I mean, adults have the money, and most adults aren't naive enough to fall for that nonsense. Opportunistic fool. 
