Alistair Vogan's Pumpkins, Only Pumpkins

Pumpkins, Only Pumpkins is the Sixth chapter of Alistair Vogan's novel a) circus.

It was early morning in Taffy's Dinette. Gloria poured the fresh coffee into the white cup, placed before him on the spotless tablecloth. The rich, dark liquid tumbled in and a fragrant vapour rose into the sunlight shining above him through the window. It entered his nostrils and he inhaled in a steady, relaxed manner.

I was able to sleep last night. That's quite important, as I'm sure you can imagine. I woke up with an entirely new perspective on recent events.

Doctor Flees wrote with a steady confident hand. He looked bigger than before. Stronger, as if he had the body of a lumberjack, rather than an Ivey League educated professor.

Yes. I have lost my license to practice legally.

He paused to absorb gravity of this. Yes. He was strong enough, he realized now. He continued on.

And yes. I have lost my 'old' clientele… my office also…My reputation is sullied and...

He fingers and thumb snapped into a fist and the pen flew into the air like a cricket. He looked at the spiteful little writing instrument for a moment and fixed his bowtie. He reached for the cup before him. He brought it to his thin lips. He smiled to himself. Then nodded, his composure returning. He was alive, by heck. And life was mystery! No one knew what lay around each corner, and to presume to know was foolishness. Life was worth living. He reached for the pen again.

…Yet somehow, amidst all this destruction is something...truly positive. Perhaps something quite transcending. I'm learning about myself and about balance. I'm connecting in my way to the common man.

He looked up, watched Kingsley’s mouth opening and closing across the table from him. Kingsley folded his napkins absent-mindedly as he spoke in a cheerful manner that seemed designed to, the doctor inferred, irritate everyone in the room. At the very least, it was getting under the doctor’s skin. This man, Kingsley, wasn’t going to ruin his day. Doctor Flees smiled warmly at Kingsley, “Yes. YES. Indeed!” and snapped his fingers to emphasize, then turned back to his notebook.

He read the last sentence in the notebook and added, Individuals, unfettered by the contrivances of the upper class, and looked through Kingsley. He wondered who would be speaking at the American Psychiatric Association this February. Would it be Ivan Von Noshrilgram? Von Noshrilgram had been eyeing his position in society for sometime. Seen Von Noshrilgram watching, (a touch enviously?), from behind his menu at the convention in Zurich. Being a wild game hunter would surely turn off his former peers, Flees imagined. That mess of hair, that Hemmingway beard, those wire-rimmed glasses… Or, perhaps the world was changing. Maybe Von Noshrilgram would adjust that mic and spill forth his drivel and the world would suck it up.

          The poet dropped his fork onto the floor. He picked it up sheepishly, wiped it on his napkin and continued eating, his eyes buried in his book.

Doctor Flees turned to his troubled client. The doctor nodded. From time to time he shook his head and patted his beard.

Kingsley assured the doctor that he knew he wasn’t Charlton Heston. “I know, that’s not what I’m saying. I know it sounds like I'm saying that I think I'm Charlton Heston but I’m not. I don’t. When I talk this much I get confused.” Yes. He did identify with Mr. Heston. A lot of men of his generation did. If anything this made him normal, which was reassuring. No. Kingsley wasn’t a gladiator or a painter; he was a small business owner. He had a thriving laundrymat. He assumed that Mr. Heston didn’t. But, still, there was something. “…What was I trying to say?  My family is crazy…”

And, by extension, you are, thought Doctor Flees.

“And I hear voices. Yes. There are differences… ” Kingsley trailed off.

The doctor had forgotten about that. Kingsley was crazy. And he was a small business owner as he said. Doctor Flees grabbed the menu, and also thought about visiting his hair stylist. He could get a manicure later in the afternoon, or late morning.

“You're making me get off track,” Kingsley said good-naturedly.

The doctor looked over the menu feeling as though he’d been pushed just too far. 

“Um, I guess the point of...my point, or what I am trying to say is uh, that, well,” Kingsley began, and stopped there. “I think I'm, you know, I'm being inspired in some way. Have you seen The Agony and the Ecstasy?

“Meaning, on a shelf or a coffee table?” the doctor asked.

The doctor’s question seemed to be apropos to nothing. Kingsley’s lips came together and he looked at the doctor searchingly as the doctor thought about the novelist, Irving Stone.

“What is this voice? Where is it coming from? Why me? What’s it trying to say?” Kingsley tried to gain some focus. “It’s not coming from this world. Do you think, maybe, I'm being inspired that way… Does God have a plan for me?”

Doctor Flees thought about this, nodded.

“…It makes a lot sense, in a way. Sort of.” Kingsley said.

Doctor Flees let Kingsley’s words hang in the air. He contemplated simplifying things. In fact, he thought specifically of Henry David Thoreau, the way he’d stripped things down to their essentials, a brilliant academic who chose to turn his back on the excess of his contemporaries. He lived in a cabin, raised pumpkins, didn’t he?

“Look,” Kingsley demanded, “it happened to Michelangelo, the artist.”

The doctor nodded and inhaled through his hairy nostrals, trying to think of pumpkins, only of pumpkins.

Kingsley backed up, spoke slowly. “Michelangelo was an Italian. He lived in Italy, a couple hundred years ago, and he painted a lot. And, he was good.” Kingsley stopped, “I know I’m not… I’m just saying.” Kingsley didn’t realize he could talk so much.

The doctor nodded, silently, waiting for Kingsley to seize to exist, at least in his life.

“He also wrote poems and drew pictures of buildings, Doctor Flees?” Kingsley couldn’t pinpoint why he was feeling so defensive. “He was an amazing guy. He was Italian!” Kingsley let this sink in.

Doctor Flees raised the pen and tapped the end of it to his nose, back and forth, back and forth. “Let it out Kingsley.”

“You’re with me?” Kingsley asked.

“Yes. I am, of course,” the doctor replied. “Go on.”

“I’m done. That’s it,” Kingsley said.

“You’re hearing voices, you said?” the doctor asked.

“That’s right,” Kinsley said.

“Whose?” the doctor asked.

Kingsley thought of the right word. He’d heard someone in the movie theatre use it, when the lights came up and everyone was walking out. He remembered, “the Muse?”
"Oh. One of the nine deities of Greek and Roman mythology which presides over the branches of learning and the arts. The Muse that inspired all great artists and intellectuals of recorded western history?" the doctor asked.

Kingsley thought about this. “And also Michelangelo,” he added.

“This story you hear, do you hear it right now?”

Kingsley told him it was too loud. If it got too loud Mrs. Filmon would just stop, and wait. She was really patient that way.

“Do you, Kingsley, feel that you might be in a position, a favourable one, to save mankind somehow?”

Kingsley saw himself standing on a street corner with a board around his neck announcing a new date for the End Times. “Not really.” Kingsley responded.

“But there is a strong moral theme, of course?” he asked confidentially.

“I wouldn’t say so. I don't, think so,” Kingsley said looking at his eggs, uneaten.

Doctor Flees took a deep breath and watched Kingsley. “You don't think you're the messiah?”

Kingsley replied in the negative, hurt.

The two men sat there for some time. Gloria returned and, noticing the men avoiding eye-contact, filled up their coffee quickly and left.

Doctor Flees watched Kingsley. He was watching the egg timer. Avoidance. It was classic. “It's a story? …Kingsley?” he asked,

“Its a children's story, about a bird named Nick, and a bank.” Kingsley mumbled. “I don't even like children, particularly...” His voice disappeared.

Kingsley watched Doctor Flees stroke his beard, ineffective. Flees became aware that he was the object of Kingsley’s gaze. He reached into his satchel conspicuously and pulled out a large hard-bound book. Kinsley watched him sift through the book like he was looking for a phone number. The doctor seemed to find what he was looking for. He put his finger on a heading and perused the article. The doctor looked away and saw his pen and notebook. He closed the hardbound book, put it into his satchel and looked at his notebook again, thinking how at that very moment he’d like to lose himself in writing about his own life. How liberated he’d begun to feel writing out his thoughts. How he’d gained perspective, how he was now perhaps moving in the direction of a something that might distinguish him from his peers, in a positive way. He had dreamed of the Nobel. Why not embrace that dream once more? And at that moment, it occurred to the doctor.

“Kingsley. Here’s an idea. You could write it out.”

“Okay,” he said, not intending to do so, confident he wouldn’t.

“It’s a story, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” said Kingsley.

“Then write it out. Find a publisher. It’s that simple”

Kingsley could tell the doctor wasn’t joking. It frightened him. He was starting to feel pushed. Also, if he did something like that, well, everyone would know then, that he was nuts. He tried to consider the doctor’s suggestion, tried to make it make sense in his head. “Okay...Why?” he asked dismissively.

Flees ignored the question, and the tone. “Publish it. Make it a physical thing,” he said matter-of-factly. “Separate yourself from it.”

The doctor smiled, pleased with himself, “Simple knowledge of its origin won’t liberate you.  That idea is horseshit. This, I know. Feel free to ask any psychiatrist, any doctor, worth his weight in salt!”

Kingsley couldn’t really think of any doctors, let alone psychiatrists. After his own General Practitioner, Doctor Chow, and Doctor Flees, the only other doctor he could knew was a veterinarian.

“You've developed a pattern Kingsley,” Doctor Flees said. “You've got to shake it. By publishing it.” He backtracked, “By going through the motions, attempting to publish it, you'll make yourself the master of this… You’ll say goodbye to that woman, once and for all.”

Kingsley thought about it and said, “Hmmmm.”

Doctor Flees smiled impatiently, “You’ve always wanted to write.”

“I have?” he asked.

“Think about it,” the doctor said, almost overlapping.

And Kingsley did and decided that he had. Kingsley remembered something and Flees could see that because Kingsley abruptly sat up straight and leaned in. The doctor looked at the egg timer as it began to ring. He turned back with a sad face and shrugged.

        “We’ve made some good progress today Kingsley.”

Mahmood Farra's Crossed Dreams

Crossed Dreams is a translation from Arabic.

The view is gray. People pass beside me and I can’t recognize them. I don’t try to check their faces. They have no features. However, I just have a strong sense that I know them. The neighborhood still exists. They said that it was demolished, the houses everything. But its still here, as it was. Our house up to the left is still standing.

I open its door, and enter. I am overwhelmed by feelings of joy. The courtyard is empty. But the fountain in the centre still exists. It’s strange. It is really our old house. The family house, with my father, mother, brothers and sisters. I stand at the entrance. The floor is wet. My sister has swept and is washing it now with water. I look at her with amazement. “I remember the house being demolished,” I say wondering.

My sister thinks a little and then says: “You must have been dreaming. I also dreamed that! I woke up now,” she said, putting it together, “Just now… You must still be half asleep,” she decides.

The rooms surround the courtyard. The door of the opposite room is half opened. I hear the sound of laughter coming from inside. I recognize my mother’s voice. I can’t believe it. I glance to my sister, "But mother is dead," I say to my sister. She looks at me in a strange way and says, “You’re still asleep.”

I go into the semi- dark room. My mother is there, with my aunts, and they are all sitting on the carpet, leaning on the pillows, whispering and laughing. Their wavy hair, their bright red lipsticks. Their dresses make one think of the fifties. They don’t care about me coming in. They continue their conversation. I sit beside my mother. In a spontaneous gesture she throws and arm around my waist, without even looking at me. She‘s listening to my aunts with deep interest. The happiness overwhelms  me, and I feel  a chill.

I go out of the house and continue walking in the narrow street. It’s empty. The houses are silent. In the last one lives a lonely woman who always sits by the door. I pass close to her but she doesn’t pay me any attention. She‘s preoccupied with something. I don’t know what it is…

Here, the neighborhood ends.

After the neighborhood, there are fruit groves, wild trees, a sparkling stream. I know this place, very well. I’ve seen it in my dreams. I have this enduring feeling that I’ve come here before, that I walked on the grass between the trees and on to the edge of the stream. But even while dreaming, I have had the sensation that there’s no such place in reality.

“What’s there beyond the groves?” I think for a while. I feel I know. I concentrate, but I can’t think of what there might be. I’ve simply forgotten. Anyway, I understand, there’s a chance now to find out, to discover what it is.

I walk among the poplar trees. Everything around me is quiet and silent. I reach an old two-storey house, surrounded by  a fenced garden. I have a feeling that this house is familiar to me. I look carefully. Yes. It is Zainab’s house. Zainab, my girlfriend from university. I wonder how can this house be here? Houses don’t move.

I enter the garden, and walk through the pathway that leads to the front entrance. There‘s a big old tree. Its leaves rustle in the breeze as I approach. I recognize the tree immediately. I can’t be wrong about Zainab’s house. I stop to get some clarity: I’m in Damascus right now, but this house should be in Beirut, somewhere between Rawsha Street and Hamra Street. The last time I visited this house I was  just twenty years-old, a student. But now I’m married. Is it possible that I’m still dreaming? It has been a long time.

Suddenly, the front door opens. A woman appears.  Her features show that she’s around fifty. Her face is well known to me. She’s Zainab.  She is wearing a long loose dress, and a straw hat similar to the one she wore the first time we met. I am astonished, standing at the door, happy and afraid at the same time. I broke up with her during the civil war, then left Lebanon. I never came back. I haven't seen her since. All this time, I’ve dreamed of her.

She comes close and gives me her hand with that warm smile. "You’re here?" She asks happily. ”…You’re back."

"I don’t know," I say carefully. But I’m delighted by her joy of seeing me. It makes my heart jump with happiness.

"It has been a long time since you left the country". She says with a vague smile on her lips.

"I’ve been feeling guilty ever since. I know I’ve been cruel with you,” I say, “but not seeing you was also hard on me."

"It doesn’t matter,” she says, looping her arm through mine, “You’re back now."

"I see that you’re happy with my return. I was afraid that might not still want me."

"I knew you would come someday. I was looking forward to it."

I look at her, contemplate her face

"You haven’t changed". I say, "Same smile, same cynical look. As if it’s only yesterday that we parted. Just a little gray in your hair".

"You too", she says, staring at my face.

"I didn’t know that your house was so close," I say. "Can you imagine that? A grove only separates our houses," I refer with my hand to the grove behind the house. "How come nobody knew about that? The end of the neighborhood in Damascus leads to your house in Beirut near Hamra Street. Why did we take the trouble to travel through mountains and borders? …I just can’t believe it".

"Come with me," she says smiling, taking my hand in hers.

She guides me inside the house. I remember it. I’ve been here once before, along time  ago. It’s exactly the same as I remember it.

 There‘s the living room in the centre, and at the back a stairway leading to the upper floor.

Her mother is sitting on the couch as before, hiding her hair with a white cover, and weaving something in her hands. She turns and looks at us while we‘re going up the brightly-lit stairs. I don’t know if she smiles or not. I can’t see the expression on her face. The room is dim.

We get into her room. It‘s dark. She hurries and opens the door to the balcony. "Here’s the sea,"  she says. The balcony overlooks the Raoushe rock. The gray sea and the dark sky extend to the horizon. I feel the chill when the sea breeze caresses my face. I stand silent and try to gather my thoughts. "What’s wrong?" she asks, her fingers slip gently through my hair.

I look at her, feeling uneasy. I say "My sister said I was sleeping and dreaming and that I have already woken up. But I think it’s the opposite. I think that I’m still dreaming, and all of this is just a dream. This can’t be real. I’m trying to be logical. Things, here, don’t seem logical."

She smiles and says, "If you’re being logical, then doesn’t that mean we’re in reality and not a dream?"

"It’s true, I’m thinking logically," I answer, "but things around me aren’t logical. I mean you, me and the sea behind the grove in Damascus. Nothing is logical. I’m sure that I’m dreaming and that I’m seeing you now in the dream."

She smiles but doesn’t comment. After a moment of silence and asks gently, "What made you dream of me?"

I think deeply then say, "I watched a movie that reminded me of you! It’s (le grand Meaulnes )"

"What do you mean?" she asks.

“It’s the book that you gave me. Le grand Meaulnes. Don’t you remember? I still have it. And I saw the movie two days ago. That’s why you appeared in my dream.

She looks sadly at the sea and says: then we will be separated again, when you wake up.

 We sat silent at the edge of the bed.

"Touch me," I say.

She puts her hand on my face and starts caressing my cheeks.

"Do you feel me?" She asked

"Yes, as if you‘re real and I’m awake. But I know that I’m dreaming… If I doubt whether I’m asleep, or awake, I must be dreaming. This only happens to me while I’m dreaming. I’ve never doubted reality when I’m awake.”

“She sits beside me, holds my hand with both of hers. She leans her head on my shoulder. "Don’t go,” she says. "I feel sadness in my heart. I’m so happy to be with you after all these years. I’ll be very unhappy if you leave me again."

I embrace her with my arm and feel the warmth of her body against mine. "It’s a wonderful dream," I say. "I don’t know if I can retrieve it again. And I can’t be sure I’ll dream again of you either."

"I know that", she says with great sorrow, "I also know that you will forget this dream the moment you wake up. You won’t even wonder what you dreamed of."

I look in her eyes and say, "There must be a way that I can keep you with me when I wake up. You know what? I’ll hold your hand very tight and won’t let it go until I wake."

I take her hand in mine and say, “I’ll try to wake up now". I then try to open wide my eyes. I try very hard, but nothing happens. I don’t wake up.

"You know it’s useless,” says Zainab,  "E if you wake up, you’ll wake up  alone, I won’t be beside  you".

"I feel I  can take you with me, out of this dream with me. I feel it strongly.” I suddenly feel confident. “Let's try to do something else, something that would make us wake up. But don’t ever let go of my hand".

"What shall we do?" she asks.

"We will jump from the balcony".

Slowly, carefully, Zainab looks down over the balcony railing. She turns back to me worried, “It’s high…"

"It’s only a dream,” I say, "Don’t be afraid. We won’t get hurt. We will only wake up, then we’ll be together. Trust me, just close your eyes."

I squeeze her hand in mine. I close my eyes and pull her with me off the balcony. When I realize that we have hit the ground I open them.

I‘m in my bed in Al-Ain. I squeeze my hand without looking. I feel the warmth of a hand. I turn my head and here beside me is Zainab, her hand in my hand.

"We did it," I say with disbelief. "We succeeded. I brought you with me from the dream.”

Zainab sits up and look around her.

“This is your room?”

“Yes.”

Beside the bed there‘s a saxophone and a book. She takes the book. She reads the title to out loud, “Le Grand Meaulnes.”

“See? Didn’t’ I tell you? It’s the book that reminded me of you.”

Zainab puts down the book and picks up the saxophone. It’s clearly heavey in her hands. She looks at it with admiration, “You always dreamed of playing the saxophone.”

I smile and take it from her with perhaps too much display of confidence. I put it to my mouth. I blow into it, and it sings. I see she‘s astonished by my skill, by the ease with which my fingers move and the sweetness of the melody that comes out.

I am too. After a while, I stop playing and lose myself in a thought. She watches me.

“What’s wrong? She asks, anxious.

I look at her then the saxophone in my hands, “I just remembered that I‘ve never learned to play the saxophone. I don’t even have one….”

Edited by Alistair Vogan

Lean Wherret's Engulf Me

The following is an excerpt from Leane Wherett's yet-untitled novel.

Preface

 

I opened my eyes and searched desperately for the reason for the sudden tightness around my neck, the tightness that was beginning restrict my intake of air. With horror, I recognized the hands that were now clamped on my throat, attempting to crush it. They belonged to my lover, my kindred spirit...

 I was instantly aware that this was out of his control when my eyes found his. I noticed his face eerily alight, contorted into a malicious smile. My blood ran cold. I understood at once who had ensnared the body of my soul mate, forcing his strong hands into a vice like grip around my throat.

 As the darkness started to engulf me, my head spinning and my strength rapidly abandoning me, I thought that it would be so easy just to forget everything and give up now, to allow his beautiful strong hands to suffocate me. But when I looked into his dark eyes and could find no trace of him behind them, how could I possibly surrender?

I could not afford to panic now. It was imperative that I keep a level head.

My body lay limp, while I concentrated on his hands, desperately willing the crushing grip to release me. I refused to give the love of my life, the distress that would result should I perish by his hands. The power of my conscience was fighting for two lives.

Chapter 1

                  

I was twelve again. My eyes scanned the small familiar room that was no longer to be my bedroom. Despite being small, it was however extremely cosy and managed to neatly house my matching pine furniture.

Adjacent to the door, sat a chest of drawers with a mirror hanging directly above; the combination served as a makeshift dressing table. Beside them was a desk where both a TV and PC monitor were squeezed together as much as they would allow, only just able to fit in their designated area. Opposite, the two door wardrobe fit snuggly in the far corner, sandwiching the bedside table between itself and the single bed that faced the door. The bed was now stripped, and on top of the bare mattress,lay my much-used overflowing suitcase, which held every other item that was not on display.

          My mother had given her all too common order to pack up as we were to be going away for a few days. However, with my mother, a few days always meant a few months and we never returned to the same place twice. So over time I had learnt to be resourceful and take as much as possible.

Our departures were always sudden and swift; my mother would announce we were to leave and within two hours,we would be gone, abandoning the house and anything else too big for the car to accommodate. This behaviour had almost become a routine that stretched back as long as I can remember. We never stayed in one place for too long and were lucky if we managed to get more than six months. When I was younger I would find this lifestyle very unsettling; a new house, new school and a new everything but I had grown used to the sudden departures, and came to expect it. I had once asked my mother if we were “crimimals” on the run and received a laugh for an answer.

As I grew older and my sense of cost had matured, I often wondered how my parents could afford to buy everything new whenever we relocated. Although I never asked any questions and quietly accepted our nomadic customs, I had already promised myself (future husband and children) that I would push myself to work hard, go to college and university so that I could raise a family in a nice house and only seeking out my suitcase for family trips.

          I crossed my room to take one final look through the window. I had often sat here, watching the local children playing out on the street. I would feel a mixture of emotions, sometimes envy at their ordinary lives, longing to be playing with them and able to call them my friends. On the other hand, I had often felt relief and gratitude that I had kept my distance, protecting myself from the inevitable pain that would surely come should I form any attachments, only to be torn away.

I often felt that I was different from ordinary children, strange and alienated; as if they were to get too close they would see the difference and reject me anyway. I couldn’t explain why I felt this way but often consoled myself by blaming the gypsy like lifestyle.

          There were no children playing now as it was both late and dark. The large trees that were planted periodically along the grass banking between the road and pavement obscured the dim lights from the street lamps which silhouetted the neighbours cars and front gardens.

I sighed before retreating from the window and beginning the struggle of zipping my suitcase. Victorious, I lead it out of the bedroom on its wheels and onto the landing to enquire whether my mother needed any assistance.

Visible from my position, I noticed the front door was wide open and I assumed that mum had started to load the car in preparation for our one way journey. I was surprised when my father strode into the house clutching a suitcase. He had been out when my mother had explained that we were leaving and she had called dad and explained to him that our time here was over. He was clearly angry; I had heard him yelling down the phone with my mother and I now noted his red face as my mother followed him,

“We need to leave. Now.” My mother’s voice was pleading with a hint of authority. My curiosity kept me quiet, my body motionless like a statue, silent, trying not to breathe in case they would hear me. My father threw the suitcase to the ground. I almost jumped with fear. I had never seen him this angry before. He turned to face my mother,

“No. We’re staying. I’ve had enough of this running and hiding. It’s not fair on any of us, especially Emily. She needs security, a proper home where she can stay in the same school and make some friends. Not once has she had a friend visit or an invite to a slumber party. If she doesn’t get a chance at a normal, healthy, childhood now, there could be serious problems when she’s older. I’m only thinking about her.”

“So am I.” she snapped, “You think that I don’t care about her wellbeing? She could never be a normal child, you know that, and we could never give her a normal upbringing. I wish we could, but I do this to protect her and us from them.” Her voice softened and the desperation returned “They’re coming, right now. If we don’t go now they will take her and I don’t even want to think what will happen to any of us. I’ve seen it; it’s too much for me to bear.”

          Panic started to overwhelm me, rising in my chest, making every breath difficult. Her words had sent a shiver down my spine, making me shudder.  Someone was coming for me. I don’t know who or why but they are. They must know. They know that I’m different and strange, wrong even. Everything fell into place, it all fit, our continuous movement, my parents apparent lack of jobs and my aversion to other children. I was being hunted, hunted down like a rabbit.

“I don’t want to be taken away.” I alerted my parents to my presence and obvious eavesdropping. Silently I begged my father to take us far away, away from danger, somewhere safe, together as a family.

“Let’s just get away now and we can talk later” my mother implored, tears were silently falling down her cheeks. My father was aware that he was outnumbered and defeated “Okay. But we can’t keep running.”

He grasped the handle of the suitcase that he had earlier thrown in his fit of anger and promptly left the house. My mother’s tear streaked face looked up to mine; composing herself, she asked if I were ready to go. I nodded and proceeded to follow my father, my luggage clunking with every step of descent.

          A few minutes later, we were all buckled safely in the car, my dad behind the steering wheel and we made a hasty get away. I watched as my mother’s hand delved into her bottomless handbag and retrieved her mobile phone. She had dialled a number and raised the device to her cheek waiting for someone to answer her phone call.

“Hi, Malcolm, it’s Sue.” Her voice seemed exceptionally loud as it shattered the current silence. I had often heard my parents mention Malcolm, but I had never met him.

“I need to talk to you … no, no, in person … we’re already on the way, we should be there in a few hours … I know where you are … OK, I’ll see you soon. Bye.” She hung up.

“Mum? I’m sorry.”I ventured.

“What for Darling?” tenderness was flowing into her voice. It made it harder for me to attempt holding back my tears.

“Because I’m different and somebody knows about me, so we keep moving.” I blurted out “I heard you and daddy” I added guiltily, although knowing that it was already apparent that I had overheard.

“Listen to me very carefully …” she had swung her body into an awkward position, which enabled her to make eye contact, her face deadly serious. “You do not have anything to feel guilty about. You are different just like daddy and me are, but it makes you a very, very special person. When you are a little older I will explain just how special you are. Until then, we have to keep you safe, but we are both so proud of you and we love you so much.”

Her hand reached for me and gently with the tips of her fingers, she sweetly stroked my wet face. The gesture immediately filled me with contentment and a strong sense of security, the same that any child who feels loved would, and I fell silent.

          “You look tired sweetie” she observed and I nodded my agreement. She suggested that I get some sleep. I thought that might be difficult as my head was swimming with thoughts. I tried to comprehend this new jigsaw piece of my life as my heavy eye lids kept closing, fighting to keep them open I watched the street lamps racing by.

Brian Borgford's Lenore Street Rooming House

Lenore Street Rooming House is chapter two of Brian Borgford's novel Gil.

Gil saw the flowered drapes to the living room flutter as he walked up to the Lenore Street rooming house.  He heard the patter of mouse-like feet and detected the wooden floor squeaking while placing his rumpled beige trench coat and grey fedora on the brass hooks by the front door.  He chose not to glance towards the sofa where obviously someone was trying hard not to be seen.  He looked straight ahead as he bounced up the stairs in perfect rhythm to an unheard tune echoing in his head.   Upon reaching the summit of the flight of stairs, he opened his door, leaving it wide open as usual.  He had a feeling there would be a visitor soon.  He doffed his tie, throwing it on the bed and sat at his desk to roll a cigarette. 

The creaking and groaning of the water heating system did not hide the movement Gil sensed at the base of the stairs.  Wooden floors and stairs were unforgiving for those trying to move undetected.  Then he heard voices, first the voice of a little girl, “Whatcha doin’?” followed by what sounded like a startled jump.

“Shhh.  None of your business; go away,” came a loud whispered response.

Next, Gil could hear a whimper bordering on an outright cry, then some hushed whispers followed by momentary silence. Once again, the wooden stairs betrayed cat-like movement, obviously ascending the stairs one slow step at a time.  Awaiting the inevitable arrival of the source of the mystery sounds, Gil continued to form his hand-rolled creation.  Before he could set it down to open one of his long-necked refreshments, he saw his stalker.

Gil emitted an involuntary cough as he glanced at the floor just outside the open door.  Big blue eyes framed by a long skinny pale face looked in horror at being discovered.  A head with long black hair lay sideways on the floor, frozen in fear, like a cow about to be plowed out of the way by an approaching train.  Gil’s voice shattered the trance of the bodiless head lying on the hallway floor.

“Well, helllooo,”  Gil said to the head on the floor at the edge of the doorway.  A long slender neck pulled at the head, which disappeared, frightened away by the unexpected discovery.

“Would you like to come in and visit?”  Gil called out in a gentle voice and waited for a response.  He never moved from his chair.

“My name is Gil.  I live here.  Are you the new landlady?”  Gil teased, thinking this might embolden the frightened little girl.  As she poked her head into view, a crinkled smile formed on her face – almost the prelude to a laugh at that comment.

“No, that’s my mom.  I’m just her daughter.  My name is Kay.” The little girl got brave enough to ease into the doorway, her eyes wide, taking in the infinite treasures before her. Gil’s possessions looked like nothing she had ever seen in her short life.

“Do you want to come and visit?  I like visitors,” Gil continued. “As a matter of fact, I have a visitor’s chair right here beside my desk.”

“Is all this stuff yours?”  The skinny girl looked around the room with wide eyes.  “I’ve never seen so much stuff before.  The nuns never let us have stuff in our rooms. Just crucifixes and things like that.”

“Nuns?  What nuns?”  Gil quizzed.

“Sibby and me used to live in the convent, when mom was sick.  But mom’s better now.  Is that a real skull?” Kay spied a life sized skull.

“No, that’s just an ornament, the top comes off and you can put stuff in.  See?”  Gil lifted the life sized ceramic skull and made its jaw move.  The he lifted the top off the skull to reveal some hard candy inside.  “One of these is for you – but only if your mom says OK.”

“Wow, where did you get that?”

“My sister made it.  She is kind of an artist – painting, pottery, leather,” Gil replied to the wide-eyed, gap-toothed little girl.

“What’s that?”  Kay pointed to a wad of chewed gum wrapped in a piece of paper with the number 1921 written on it.

“I’ll tell you about it someday.” Gil made a semi-promise as he covered his mouth with his hand and coughed into it.

Kay continued to cast her eyes around the room full of treasures.

“Kay, where are you?”  Footsteps thundered up the stairs.  “I need your help in the kitchen.  Oh, I’m sorry. Kay come out of there and let the gentleman alone.”  The voice emanated from a slim middle aged woman wearing a flowered housedress and a soiled white apron.  She looked embarrassed standing at the door to Gil’s room.

“It’s no problem. I invited her in.  You should go and help your mother,” Gil looked at Kay, not wanting to create any family issues.  “You can come back anytime you want.  I always leave my door open.”

“I am so sorry; I don’t want my children to bother the boarders.  I told them before we got here.”

“I don’t mind, really.  My name is Gil.  You must be the new landlady,” Gil stood and extended his hand.  Kay’s eyes darted to the perfect hand, examining every detail.

“Oh, yes.  How rude of me.  My name is Mary, and this is my older daughter, Kay.  She’s ten. This is her little sister, Sylvia.  She’s the baby of the family,” Mary rubbed her right palm down her half-apron, as if to remove some unseen dirt and clasped Gil’s hand in greeting.

“I’m not a baby, I’m eight years old.  I’ll be nine this year.”  Sylvia popped out from behind Mary’s flowered house dress, where she had been hiding.

“Why yes, you are no baby.  You are a pretty young lady,” Gil looked at the slender blond girl.  A self-indulgent grin spread across Sylvia’s face.

“It’s very good to meet you,” Mary continued.  “We just moved in and I’m trying to get a meal ready.  I haven’t had a chance to meet all of the boarders yet.  You’re the first.  Mr. Beatham told me there was you and two other families.”

“The Meddleycot’s, Art, Joan and their little boy, are in the next room.  Dave and Susan Hanford live at the end of the hall with their two children.  They actually have two rooms.  I can take you to meet them if you like.”

“I really should get supper ready first.  I don’t think we can fit everyone around the table at once, so maybe you could check with them and see when everyone would like to eat.  Come girls, give me some help.” 

“OK, I’ll see you at supper.  Good to meet you all.” Gil watched as the three females descended the stairs.

“See you soon,” Kay called over her shoulder as if she couldn’t wait to return to all the treasures Gil’s room contained.

Gil sat down at his desk and cradled his head on his hand as he pondered what he had just experienced.  He looked at the smoldering, untouched cigarette in the ash tray, rolled another and lit it from the embers of the first, before extinguishing it in the mass of butts.  As he drew in a lungful of soothing smoke, he noticed a warm feeling pouring over him. His mouth formed a contented grin, as he took another draw on his rollie.  More visitors in this month than in the past year.  Things were looking up.

Alistair Vogan's How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming

How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming is the 7th chapter of Alistair Vogan's upcoming novel, a) circus.

That evening after he had locked up Laundry-Land, Kingsley carried an old typewriter he’d purchased from a pawnshop, and the stack of paper piled on top of it, to the dining room table. He stood before the table. Mrs. Filmon talked cheerfully in the otherwise quiet room. ...all alone, he thought about his dilemma. It occurred to the fluffy blue jay Nick, as the wind whistled and the rain poured down upon his soggy backside... ...in the lonely field, that the First National Bank at the... She was like filthy wallpaper you might pull away from in a window-less room. Although it caused him great anxiety, especially when he thought about it, had he been another person listening in he would have concluded that the woman speaking was gentle, loving. That she meant no harm. But, it was the inescapable quality that tormented him. Feeling he was powerless.

He dropped the typewriter and the paper on the table loudly and heard her pause, as if she were regaining her composure. And then she started up again. He opened up the lid and saw an official-looking paper folded beneath a thin, clear plastic case. “Schreibkontrolle”, he read aloud. He lifted the package off and looked at the Adler J-4. On the left of the machine at the top a small paddle, like a shining stainless steal shoehorn, stuck out. There were switches, levers, buttons and deep inside its guts, tiny little pieces of metal laid side-by-side like the handles of cutlery all packed up. It was overwhelming. He peered in closely and could make out the tine engravings on each piece of thin metal. He’d need a college degree to operate this thing. There were symbols he couldn’t recognize. On the outside he noted the rows of pedals, possessing the same shape as the heal of a shoe. On these were the letters of his alphabet. He put the palm of his hand on the pedals and pushed. The metal cutlery handles with the foreign symbols shot up and lodge together before a rolling pin-like cylinder embedded in the device. Great, he thought, he’d broken it. Mrs. Filmon seemed to grow louder.

At a loss, he opened up the clear plastic package with “Schreibkontrolle” written inside and pulled out the Adler J2 and J4 Instructional Manual.  It was in English.

Writing on J2 and J4

In buying your portable typewriter you have chosen well. The fully operational instructions are intended to serve you as guide enabling you to fully enjoy the various advantages offered by this typewriter. The essential points to be observed when typing with “J2” or “J2” are briefly described hereafter. 

Feeling reassured, he read on, noting the five additional features that his Adler Nr. J43906762 possessed compared to the Adler Nr. J2 model. He congratulated himself for purchasing such a fine machine, though noting on some level that he’d most likely never use those extra features. Still, like purchasing just a little extra life insurance for safe measure, he indeed felt more secure. He reached for a pencil and made notes along the manual and parts he might forget, underlying crucial points, sometimes twice.

When Kingsley had completed looking through the manual he confidently freed the jammed keys. Next, he extended the paper support with terminal indicator and, of course, released the paper bail. He then inserted a crisp sheet of white paper under the rollers and, with his thumb and index finger, turned the platen knob counter clockwise with his right hand before expertly pumping the line space lever. He felt like William Shakespeare…

He sat back and waited for Mrs. Filmon to finish the story. He waited relaxed, like a young boxer in his prime, watching his delusional, aged opponent strutting about the ring just before his last match. 

He looked down at the keys lazily and noted, somewhat disconcerted, that they were not, as one would assume, in alphabetical order. He listened to the voice march on.

...that the First National Bank at the intersection of First Avenure and Finch was the last friendly bank in the courteous and smiling little village not to have installed a security camera monitoring system...

He realized that he didn’t know how to type. 

“..Please stop,” he said.

But she continued.

The xylophone chimed at the end of the story and Kingsley positioned himself for her to begin again. He looked around to the four corners of the ceiling waiting. He cleared his throat. “I would like you to say the story as slowly as you can,” he said to no one.

He waited for “Once upon a time.” He sincerely hoped that she would begin slowly, thought she might. However, she began the story at the customary speed, and he looked for the letter ‘O’ key. When had he found it she was on the second sentence and moving on viciously from there.

He slammed his fists into the keys. “I hate this story!” he said petulantly. “I hate it AND I HATE YOU!!” His anger disintegrated to anxiety. He could feel something happening. The walls seemed to undulate slowly and menacingly around him. He felt like he was at sea. “Please…”

He rushed to the bathroom and vomited, mostly in the toilet. Her voice was above him. His eyes darted back and forth and stopped at the window. Through the window frame was a darkness he couldn’t remember. It seemed to be seeping in. He saw the colours of the wallpaper, the doorframe, his hands, and sensed the blackness beneath everything. A cold electrical jolt moved through his body, enveloped him. For the first time in his life he sensed he could see through the world around him, saw that it was all illusion. Nothing was real. Not himself, the water flowing out of the facet, the buzzing of the tungsten light about him. It seemed as if all of humanity had disappeared and he was deep beneath the earth, in a catacomb.

  Out of the darkness a large gloved hand stretched towards Kingsley. He could make out the figure of an interplanetary traveler, its head encased in a large egg-shaped helmet. Just barely, he could make out the eyes blinking behind the copper-tinted visor, looking at him. Suddenly the vision dissolved before him and, for a moment, it was utterly silent. He became aware of his heart pumping. It was building up speed, pounding, louder and louder. His heart was going to explode. Frantically, he reached for his new shower curtain from Ron's Hardware and tore it from the rings.

Kingsley ran out into his bedroom and spun around trying to strike the voice. He could hear Mrs. Filmon’s voice patiently rising over the high-pitched shrieking of an insane woman. He swung the shower curtain to the left and right and caught his face in the mirror for fraction of a second. His mouth was opened in a scream. Sweat poured down his forehead, tears filled his eyes. He whipped around and around. With a series of movements not his own he found himself in the living room rushing over the coffee table and up the couch. Suddenly, without warning, it seemed as though someone had kicked his legs out from under him, when in fact, while attempting to move in two opposing directions he had tripped over his own legs. He found both these legs in the air before him. He saw his socked feet ever so slowly eclipsing the dining room lights hanging from the ceiling. He hovered what felt like an eternity then descended like Daedalus onto the back of his old couch and crashed into the worn and dusty wood of the floor.

A sharp pain issued from behind one ear. On his back, Kingsley’s elbows slid over his torso and thumped wetly on the floor. His forearms and the palms of his hands followed, his body behaving like a dead goat he’d once seen in the butcher's shop. Gradually he grew aware of a grey rectangle before him. It was his ceiling above, framed by the back of the couch and the wall.

He closed his eyes and turned what was left of his focus to the dull pain behind his ear. It was his right ear. For some time he thought only of the pain. It was the only thing at that moment he knew for certain, the only thing he could count on. Somehow, it was grounding. From the certainty of this pain, he expanded his focus: he was behind the couch; the wall was to his right; he was lying on his back. He was Kingsley Kuchner. He lived at 177 East-Seventh Street. He was 51. A woman was near... He couldn’t see her. She was speaking to him. He felt a pang of anxiety, but swallowed it. He knew the pain was close at hand to retreat to if that darkness descended. Gradually all the broken pieces of Kingsley returned, approximately, to their proper spots.

He listened to Mrs. Filmon. She was talking about a First National Bank. He wondered if she even knew he was there… “Who are you?” he whispered. He waited but there was no reply. He was alone. He sat up, then looked over the side of the couch. The shredded shower curtain lay in different locations across the room. A chair lay on its back, a picture on the opposite wall rested at an angle, the rug had been pushed up – and was curving in on itself – against the wall. The stack of paper, the Adler J4 and the User’s Manual, all existed undisturbed where they had been, as if waiting…

The light above the table shone like a spotlight.

He picked himself up and approached the table.

He freed the jammed metal pieces inside the inside the typewriter. He would, rather than wait for Mrs. Filmon finish her story, begin with what he did know. Painstakingly, he punched the keys with his index fingers ...

Once upon a time…

and was surprised to discover that he knew the entire story, word for word.


We would like to gratefully acknowledge the assistance provided by The Muse, Al Ain, the United Arab Emirates.  
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