Seasonal Ink

There was a couple who had a healthy, normal life. Life became a routine that they settled in comfortably, one complementing the other to make each whole. The husband earned a living and came home each night, except on occasions where he had to travel to town to barter a good business. The wife cleans the house, sweeps the floor, washes his clothes and cooks his meals every day and night without fail.

One day the wife received a letter; a cousin from the neighbouring village had fallen ill. She needed to visit him, he was kind to her when she needed help. She packed her bags and traveled alone, for her husband had a business to deal with.

Alone, the husband did not do well. The house was in a mess and clothes sprawled all over the room. Spilled juice left stains on the shirt that he had no way of removing. Things that his wife did with seemingly no effort at all were impossible tasks for him.

One day, not long after the wife’s departure, the widow who lived next door knocked on his door for some extra flour. He had no idea where the flour was placed, and would not have recognised it if it was in front of him. The widow allowed herself in and found the sad state the house was in.

She offered to help. Every day she came by to wipe the windows and dust the china. She pressed his clothes wrinkle-free and got rid of the juice stains in one wash. She re-arranged the pantry and had dinner with him every night.

She was almost as capable as the wife was in household chores, maybe even better.

Weeks passed and the wife did not return. She sent letters saying that she would have to stay a little longer because her cousin’s condition was not improving. The husband continued to wait, and the widow continued to visit everyday doing everything that his wife had done for him so immaculately before.

In time she began to hold conversations with him that he used to have with his wife: talks about traveling beyond the borders, about moving to the city, about owning a bigger enterprise than this little village trade. She began to massage his shoulders when he felt stressed, and then his legs when he was tired. It felt better than his wife’s fingers. They began to take walks in the park and play chess together, just like he did with his wife in their leisure time.

Yet the letters came, one after another. A month. Two months. Three. A year passed.

But it wasn’t time for the last letter yet, the one that would say that she would be coming home and they would finally be able to return to their routine together.

Ah, but the husband had been keeping up with the routine. He kept it up with the widow. In fact, they made new routines together. They would sing and dance - something the wife never did in the past. They would exchange word puzzles and see who would be the first to complete them - the husband’s favourite; word puzzles never interested the wife. Apparently the widow was fantastic at them.

In the end, the wife came home, and

(Note: Written in 2005 as part of a role-play character)

They were here two days ago. They were here because I was hiding. They were here and my mum was crying. They were here and my Jenny was scared. They were here but I was hiding.

I’m eighteen, I’m a man, I’m American. I’m eighteen, I’m a son, I’m a brother. The country needs me, my family needs me.

I’m eighteen and I’m here hiding. They are here again.

My mum is sick. My mum is very sick, she can hardly get out of bed. Her legs hurt at night and on rainy days. She has problems breathing. She needs somebody to feed her. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. She needs somebody to give her her medication. Five different tablets a time, three times a day. She needs somebody to sing to her at night when she can’t breath and her chest is hurting. My mum can hardly see, she can hardly see me and Jenny.

Jenny is just six, oh my darling Jenny. Jenny can bake the softest and creamiest bread you have ever tasted. Jenny can read a whole storybook by herself, Jenny reads to mum and I after dinner. Everyday. Jenny needs somebody to teach her words and numbers. Jenny needs somebody to check her homework and makes sure she finishes them. Jenny needs somebody to protect her and make sure nobody at school bullies her. Jenny can’t even plait her own hair, because her brother does it for her every morning.

And Mary, how can I leave Mary. Mary so sweet and tender, Mary so graceful and kind. But Mary doesn’t know how I feel about her. Mary thinks I am her best friend, Mary feels like a sister when she’s with me. Mary who would sit under the stars with me when I am lonely, Mary who would listen to my sad story.

Who is going to work and put food on the table once I am gone? They will starve to death. I cannot go away.

They are here again, and they are shouting at my mother. They are here again, and little Jenny is crying. And then I hear her footsteps. They are fast, they are coming here. She knocks on the door and cries.

“Brother, brother, please come out, brother,” she cries. She bangs her fists on the door hard, and she is sobbing so hard she is hiccuping. “They’re here brother, please go with them.”

I am not going anywhere. I am staying here, I am going to take care of you Jenny.

“They say they are going to send you to jail if you don’t go with them,” she says again. “Mama is very sad. Mama wants to see you.”

Mum can’t talk. Mum can’t tell me to go join the army, because she can’t talk. Mum can’t say I love you, son, I will pray for you, go on and protect our country. Mum can’t talk.

“Open the door, open the door!” Jenny is shrieking. At last, she has stop banging. She is silent, and then she says very softly, “You’re a coward, brother. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

My Jenny calls me a coward. My Jenny doesn’t want to see her brother anymore. I got up and I reach for the doorknob. I see her standing there, she is looking at the ground.

“Jenny, come here,” I whisper. She does not move. I take her into my arms and close the door again. “Do you really want me to go?”

And then she is crying again, her tears would not stop spilling down her cheeks. “Please go with those people, brother. I have heard from my friends that they will not be kind to dodgers. My teacher said that soldiers are good men, brother, soldiers are brave and selfless. They protect the country. Why don’t you want to protect the country?”

Why don’t I?

“How can I leave you behind, Jenny?” I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to show Jenny my tears. I kiss her hair and look into her eyes. How can I leave my sister here with my mother, while I get myself killed in the battlefield? Jenny doesn’t answer me. Instead, I hear another knock on the door.

“I told Mary you were here,” Jenny averts her eyes. I open the door and Mary wraps her arms around me.

“Jack, Jack,” she repeats over and over again. “Jack.”

She takes Jenny’s hands and she looks at me with those lovely brown eyes of hers. “I can take care of Jenny. I can take care of your mother. Don’t dodge the draft, Jack. You will come back safely, you will. Go with them. They will never let you go if you don’t go with them.”

“I can’t, Mary,” the tears are coming. The tears are rolling down my cheeks, I can’t stop them. “They are going to take me away and I may never come back. My mum, Jenny -”

“Trust me, Jack,” I can see the tears in her eyes. ” I will take care of them until you return. Do this for the country - do this for us.”

Why are they telling me to go? Why must I go? I can’t go, no, I can’t -

The door bang wide open and two men in uniform came in. Mary left the door open. They take me by the shoulders and twist my arms backwards.

“Jack Anderson,” says one of them, pushing me out. “Take the train heading to Boston.”

“No - let me go! I’m not going anywhere!” I try to free myself, but they are too strong. I turn around and I see Mary and Jenny both crying. I don’t want to leave.

“You move one more time and I’ll blow the lights outta ya,” says the other man. “Be a good boy there.”

“Jenny! Jenny! Mary!” I call after them, not expecting anything to happen. They are taking me. I have not say goodbye to mum yet. “JENNY! MARY!”

Jenny. Mary. Mum. Goodbye.

Once upon a time, there was a house on a prairie of green, green grass. The house was built of timber and on the front hangs a wind-chime, and on windy days you can hear the music of the wind playing throughout the field. The fences guard a very beautiful garden, where herbs and vegetables grow, and when the season is right the children will help to harvest them. Before the house was a wide stretch of pristine river, sacred to the family and neighbours. Inside, there was a fireplace; routine story-telling and music playing take place by the hearth.

A large family lived in the house on the prairie. The father was a carpenter; all the furniture in the house was built by him; it was no surprise to find a random note of love under the leg of a chair or in the joint of a shelf where one wood met another. The mother woke up earlier than any members of the family to whip up whole-wheat pancakes and fill the jar with fresh milk, and prepare cornmeal cakes for teatime. The older children rose early enough to have breakfast with their father, and left for school noisily with their rambunctious behaviour. When the house is still and quiet the mother would wake her youngest daughter up, help her dress and serve her breakfast.

There was much to do around the house. Rid the shelves of dust, keeping the floor clean, cleaning the dishes and washing the clothes, drying sheets on a warm day and purging weeds from the garden. Just when the mother could take a breather, the children will be back from school and she will have to prepare dinner: oatmeal was a family favourite, sometimes sprinkled with cinnamon, sometimes garnished with herbs.

Evenings were relatively quiet. The young ones would have tire out by now. At times they would occupy the piano and the harp and the flute and the goatskin drum; a chorus of melodious notes filled the house - lilt sopranos and strong baritones. Most of the time, though, they gathered by the hearth and listened to tales of enchantments and sorceries, of princes and damsels in distress, of beasts and fairy folks. The mother and father were both skilled storytellers. The days ended with the children being tucked in bed, one by one, and wishes of good nights and blessings were said.

If you inflict the sting of a cane on my skin
I will pen the letters that form the ugly words of hate

If you punch the hard knuckles of your fist to my jaws
I will pass the tag down to the ribs of your foe

If you point the mouth of a gun to my head
I will rape the ladies of their honour right before their husbands and fathers and brothers and sons

If you knew all my limits
I will not stop

In my prayers I whisper
with all my might for invincibility

I had the most peculiar feeling last night. Amidst the blazing laser beams and the earth-shaking techno beats all I wanted to do was to write. Curious indeed. There was something about about the flashing beams that swept the room, blue, white, green, blue, white, green. Something about how the couch I was sitting on vibrated to the beat of the music. Bad, bad music. What was the DJ doing here? He looked even younger than me. He should be in bed now, school starts early tomorrow. Our table was in this little cocoon of glitter and confetti, lined with ugly printed couches. If I shift my eyes a little to the left I could catch a glimpse of my girlfriends making out. Making out like they had just discovered the passion one could feel in the meeting of lips. Like the first time a tongue ever tasted the sweetness of an uncertain venture. I was certain that if they had drank just a little more of that whiskey they would have stripped each other right there and then with no hesitation. Now why was I missing all that fun? I pushed my thoughts away, surprised at how much I wanted to join in their tongue action. It was their moment, none of my business to interrupt.

In front of me was a big middle-aged man. A big man with a title to his name. Just outside our little cocoon, never out of sight, was his bodyguard. The girl who had been chatting with me just a moment ago was now in his arms, fast asleep. She was just a year or two older than me, pursuing a degree in Psychology. Perky and dramatic, which she explained was because of the drama classes she used to take. I thought it was a case of Coke overdose. As I watched the two, a lady with bobbed hair joined them. She placed her arms carefully on his lap and leaned in to whisper something into his ear. His free arm moved down her waist and his fingers traced the outline of her panty through her tight dress. She giggled, and the drama girl stirred. The bobbed hair girl caught my eyes, and I hurriedly look away.

To my right was a bunch of guys pretending to be humping each other and laughing as though it was the funniest joke in the whole wide world. Recently I’ve discovered that the world really isn’t that wide, and that perhaps people really are related through six degrees of connection. One of them saw me and came over. I quickly took out my phone and pretended to be sending a message.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

He was the fifth person to ask me if I was okay.

“Yeap.”

“Not enjoying?”

“It’s okay.”

“Your friends there, wow.”

I looked at the direction he was nodding at and quickly turned away. I can’t join in the action!

“Yeah, wow.”

“You’re really quiet, aren’t you?”

Not knowing what to reply, I gave him a smile. What do people expect as answer to that question, anyway? If you know that someone is “really quiet” you should excuse yourself and retreat as quickly as possible, not pose another question and prolong the conversation. He began saying something but this time the music changed and more noisy thumping beats were hitting the ceiling; the DJ felt that it was entirely appropriate to yell at the top of his lungs into the microphone for no reason at all. I gave him another smile instead of asking him to repeat himself. I wondered if he thought my braces was cute. Perhaps taking the cue, he nodded to himself and stared into space.

After an unproductive five minutes passed, a half-drunk classmate came over and held his glass up high. “FOR ETERNITY!” Nobody answered. Maybe half-drunk was an understatement. He took my wrist and yank me up. “Come on! FOR ETERNITY!” I took my glass of coke and pretended it was spiked. “For eternity, of course,” I mumbled as I gulped down the drink. Satisfied, he gave a rather loud belch and retreated into the group of humping guys. I plopped back onto the couch and crossed my arms.

A repeat of observing surroundings, and a repeat torrent of thoughts. For eternity, indeed. As I sat there that night I realised how when you decide to stay stagnant for a few hours you could create a routine by not doing anything at all. As I waited for the hours to pass it felt like eternity. As I watched the people around me in a flood of debauchery partying I wondered if I had somehow lost myself in them.

Where was I? What was I doing there?

She was eighteen, maybe younger. Some said she was only sixteen, a fierce young lady with strawberry blond hair and piercing aqua eyes. Her cheeks were always flushed, her hands always seeking. Seeking for money. Seeking for men. Seeking for drinks. Seeking for help. Seeking for love. When her parents heaved their last sigh and the house was taken away, she roamed from one house to another - homes of men who have waiting spouses, men who have a little extra money in their pockets, men who favour young beauties so whole and innocent-looking like her. On nights when she was left on her own, she returned to the humble abode of her brother. It was a shabby apartment with cheap rent because the pipes constantly leaked and the lights go off very often. It was all that her brother could afford for shelter.

This sister of his wasn’t something that he could afford. Afford to live with, afford to share his life with, afford to protect, afford to shelter, afford to bring up, afford to support. Came one night when she tapped on his door at six in the morning and said that she was pregnant, and he went down on his knees and begged her to abort the baby, because no men in that area would want to be responsible for a bastard child. He cried and told her to be sensible, but she held her grounds and said that she was going to have the baby. What do you know about bringing up babies, Shelly? What do you know about having to wake up to the cries of a child and feed him when you do not have enough to feed yourself, Shelly? Because all those years when your Papa and Mama were out gambling their lives away, it was I who fed you, it was I who carried you on my back and sang you to sleep, it was I who had to work late nights to allow you to live a little longer, Shelly. You are not going to have a baby and come to my door and ask for help. You are on your own, Shelly.

And Shelly just stood there by the door, staring at her brother and said not a word. David could not know what Shelly was thinking. He did not understand why she insisted on keeping the child when she knew that it would soon become a burden for everyone. She knew that the child wasn’t going to make it in the world. She knew that she would not be able to give the best to the child. And so she left. She left her brother weeping for her. She left the men who had betrayed their spouses and one of them now has a bastard child. She left for nine months. And for nine months David thought his sister had taken her own life.

When the baby’s first cry filled the night, his mother hitched a ride and returned to her hometown. Cheeks as flushed as ever, hair wet and dishevelled, she tapped on the door of her brother’s apartment just like she did nine months ago. No words were exchanged, her eyes rolled and she passed out. David held the child just in time. The baby had a dirty shade of brown curls, and when he opens his eyes, they would tell the world that he was Shelly Maddox’s child. Shelly was laid to bed, the baby in her arms. David spent the night on the couch wondering what was to happen in the future. It didn’t do much to wonder, because the future was something David would never be able to predict and probably something that was not in his power to change.

When his eyes snapped open the next day, she was gone. With the baby in hand, he marched down to the pub, empty and silent but there she was, downing beers. Two things was laid clear to her: David wasn’t going to take care of the baby, and David was most certainly not giving her money to spend. With that said, he thrust the baby in her hands and left the pub.

Shelly stared at her baby. He did not have a name, she couldn’t be bothered. She thought he was a very ugly baby, pink wrinkled skin and hair still tangled and matted with blood. Finishing the last drop of beer, she paid the waitress who had been staring very intently at her baby and went back to the apartment. She bathed and wrapped him in white sheets, fed him warm milk and laid him on the bed.

When David returned home that night, all he could hear was the baby’s cries and his sister was out of sight. Things had been pretty much the same for the next three months, with Shelly disappearing for days every now and then, and sometimes, weeks. David never gave his sister a single cent, but he bought clothes for the baby, changed his diapers and fed him when he cried. How could he not? Eventually he named the boy Luke.

One day, the same waitress who had served Shelly two months ago started telling her about her futile attempts to conceive. She stroked baby Luke’s soft hair and told Shelly what a beautiful child he was, and all Shelly said was, “A pitcher of beer and he’s yours.” The waitress gave her a smile, and went on and served her the pitcher of beer. Perhaps she wasn’t expecting anything, but ten minutes later, Luke was left alone on the bar, and Shelly was gone.

Candlelights and starlights on a cool night, a dinner in the garden. There is a round table draped in a white table cloth, decorated with expensive crockeries and neat cutleries. The gentleman pulls back the heavy wooden chair for his sweetheart, and she thanks him with a graceful smile. It was home, but they had on their best suit and dress, coat and shawl.The music plays softly in the background, one that they had sung together on a night quite like this fifty years ago. Now they are old and frail, white hair and wrinkles defining their age, and they clunk their wine glasses together and wished each other a happy fiftieth anniversary.

We were sinking below, deeper and deeper, void of all human contact. Civilisation was like a stranger. The last breath in my lungs was exhaled, I ceased to observe my surroundings to see how many were sinking with me. Before me was pale bodies and floating hair behind a vast canvas of black water. The deep sea. We were sinking into the deep sea. In another few hours our bodies will float and we will be on the front pages of the news, just like the ones we read every day with our cup of hot coffee.

Perhaps I wanted to cry. A big surge of feeling came over me, I was overwhelmed, the idea of death. It was just right there. But I could not struggle anymore. I even tried to push the thoughts out of my mind. What would Papa be doing at home now? Is Mama enjoying her daily routine of soaps on the television? Maybe Rover is still digging in the garden and Papa will get crossed again.

Stop, stop, stop. Silence was pressing hard against my ears.

And that was it, I needed to breath, I needed to breath but all that would go in was water. Air was too high up, I was out of energy already. My head was spinning and this time I was not sure if I really did cry. All of a sudden something grabbed my hand and out of shock I opened my mouth and sucked in water. Fast enough just to look up and see a dark silhouette of a man. I tried to grab his hand, maybe if I held him tight enough he could bring me to air. I needed air. My fingers hit metal. He was wearing Josh’s watch. In a moment I wondered if it could ever be Josh’s hand I was holding, that he was here to save me, that he knew I was on the ship with his best friend. I wondered if he would forgive me if we could get out of here alive.

Splashes, cold air, so very cold. I spluttered and coughed, my ears and nose hurt and my eyes stung. Fear shot through me as I began to sink again. Help! I wanted to scream, I cannot swim! But I couldn’t, I couldn’t scream at all, all I could do was to flung my arms around. The man turned and held me.

“You are the stupidest person in the world, you know?”

Ah, the voice. I was sobbing, heart aching more than anything else right now, laying my head on his chest and holding him tightly, sobbing and sobbing. I could not do anything else.

“Shush honey, shush,” he was saying. He sounded so faraway, I could well be dreaming of this happening. Was Josh on the ship? Did he know? Why didn’t he tell me? “Shush, everything will be all right in a while.” He lifted my head, but I could not face him. “Come on, look at me.”

And he kissed me, a brief one but it was all it took to give me the will I needed to stay alive. To stay alive and stay by Josh, he was a good man. A small wind blew, and he held me closer again.

“OVER HERE!” a distant voice called. “OVER HERE!”

And then there was a hushed voice, chiding the one that was shouting. It was two men and a child, holding on tightly to a safety float.

“Do you want us to sink?” one was asking.

“Do you want them to die?” the other one replied.

The child was white as a sheet, shivering and chattering. I hesitated, but Josh pulled me and swam towards them.

A float. With five people. A sunken ship. Three thousand passengers, dead or alive. Me against my Josh, a shivering wreck. As the waiting continued, suddenly it seemed that being under the water and waiting for death was more inviting than waiting for rescue. It was on our minds all the while, would they come?

Would they come?

Would they come.

On the mat of grass it was ours to own. Waking up in the morning I knew that maybe, just maybe, today we would be able to go to the apple tree. Every morning that would be the first thing that comes to my mind, and sometimes I get so excited my dry lips would crack into a tiny smile. Brushing my teeth, I might be making mental notes of what to say, or plan what snacks to bring with me, or wonder if he would like me to wear my pink tank top that he said made me look like a princess. His princess. Sometimes I would just lay the thoughts aside and let things be, and maybe just a tiny bit, wonder if he would give me a surprise.

We normally talk on the phone in the afternoon when he has his lunch breaks. I would pop a suggestion about the apple tree if I was too impatient. The question normally pops up during the evenings. “Would you like to go to the tree today?” The answer was always the same.

At the tree was where we liked to camp out at night, bringing torch lights and breads in a little bag. On nights like this we told stories to each other, just like the campfire nights we had at school. At times it would be something really ridiculous, at times it would be a childhood story we wanted to share. Most of the time it was stories of the suffering unspoken people from all over the world. He liked hearing stories from my work, I would keep going on like a train and he wouldn’t stop me except to pose questions. When these stories are told, sometimes tears would fall, sometimes laughter and hope filled the air, sometimes uncontrolled anger over the ignorance of people that have caused the sufferings of others are released. It always ended in hugs and soft coos of how confident he was that my work would could change the world. Sometimes when words failed us, the handy mobile phone will be whipped out and all we would do is lie on our backs and listen to the soft blaring of music from the phone, fingers lacing together.

If we chose to visit the apple tree in the afternoon, sometimes Bongo would come with us. Bongo likes to watch the children playing in the park, sometimes unable to contain his excitement and begin barking at them. I would stare at my sweetheart next to me - I always do so, and he never quite understood why I liked to do that. Afternoons would be card trick time. He brings a pack of cards with him wherever he goes, just so that he could show me tricks at any time of the day. Sometimes we will have our backs rested on the tree, him reading the newspapers, and me, with a good thick book. Dessert was always a pleasant surprise. I would bring him a batch of fresh homemade cookies, or he would take-away a sinful, decadent chocolate cake from the bakery near his office.

Today was just like any other ordinary day. Except that today, neither of us mentioned about the apple tree. Perhaps the number on the calendar has a significant meaning - it does after all says that it has been exactly ten months since he first told me how much he wanted to be a part of my life. On the mat of grass it was ours to own. I put on the plainest T-shirt I own and pulled on a pair of shabby old shorts even though the result of my excessive consuming of chocolates are evident. I left my hair the messy way it was and slipped into my slippers. Feeling exceptionally comfortable, I stepped out into the cold after-rain weather and walked to the park. I took my time. It was serene to walk on my own today. This time I did not bring anything else with me except for a waterproof picnic cloth; the greatest gift today would be to be able to sit with him under the apple tree. I hope he did not buy me anything. It would be perfect if he too felt that all we needed was each other, and not material goods. But even more so I hope he would come. I gave the good old tree a pat, and pressed the glossy cloth onto the damp grass and sat down.

And then I waited.