Last World Book Day I had the bright idea about writing about some of my writing heroes. I enjoyed it so much I suggested rather foolishly that it might be a regular feature of this blog. Alas, my life is never like that, and another year has whizzed by without me repeating the exercise. But last night, chatting to my cousin Christina on twitter, I got thinking about some more writing heroes. Maybe, this needs to be an annual event instead. So here, for 2012 (in no order of preference) are some more:
Jeanette Winterson Oh how I love Jeanette Winterson's writing. Oh how I wish I could write like that. She burst into my consciousness in the 1980's with her debut novel Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, surely the best rites of passage novel ever written. It's a longstanding favourite of mine (featuring as one of my rave reviews) recently enhanced by Winterson's brilliant memoir Why Be Happy When You Can be Normal which told the real (and somewhat more painful) story. After Oranges came a flurry of marvellous novels which I devoured eagerly: The Passion, Sexing the Cherry, Boating for Beginners, loving the wit, the fabulism, use of myth, religious imagery and the quest for love and indepence that permeates these novels. I drifted away from her for a bit after that, till I was given Lighthousekeeping - an extraordinary book about people living in fantastical situations on the edge of things - and I was back in the fan club. Shortly after that I read Gut Symmetries which is quite simply a work of genius. Only Winterson would dare to write a book that connects Grand Unified Theory, the Ship of Fools, wormtunnels with stomach illnesses, love triangles and missing persons, all wrapped together with dazzling language, and word play. Gut Symmetries manages to be both a grand narrative that is funny and poignant and a book of ideas that I still think about four years later. So, if Winterson isn't on your bookshelves she should be. You really won't be disappointed.
David Mitchell is another writer I'd love to be. He's one of the rare authors that my beloved and I both adore in equal measure. Since we read his lauded debut novel Ghostwritten in 1999 we have been desperate to grab our hands on everything he's ever written. Ghostwritten appears at first glance to be a series of short stories, which at first seem to have little to do with each other, but gradually the reader notices that the Japanese lovers in the background of the first story about a terrorist, take centre stage in the second. The cheating cleaner who has an affair with the lost financier in Singapore, reemerges as the granddaughter of a Chinese peasant woman who survives the brutality of Japanese and Chinese soldiers on a lonely mountain. The tree that the Chinese woman thinks speaks to her, is in fact a lost soul seeking rebirth. Altogether these stories lead us to consider what we believe, how can oppression be resisted, how do we survive pain, what are the consequences of our actions and what connects us in our humanity. Mitchell is a fine narrative writer, whose use of imagery is outstanding and like Winterson, is a master of wordplay. He is also experimental, as seen in Number 9 Dream where his hero, a Japanese jazz lover fantasises about finding his father as he drifts between reality and imaginary worlds, perhaps pursued by gangster, perhaps not. The book ends in a breathtakingly audacious fashion that I suspect only Mitchell could get away with.Cloud Atlas is my favourite - 6 interlocking novellas in completely different genres (adventure, 1920's cad, thriller, farce, scifi, apocalyptic) all dealing with similar themes to Ghostwritten, and written with skill and passion. Black Swan Green, Mitchell's rite of passage novel, is less interesting, but it is still way above the average writer, whilst The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, after a slightly slow first part, becomes unputdownable. Mitchell's prose is light and airy, his images linger, and his characters are brilliantly drawn. He's a pleasure to read, and on every re-reading, I always find something new. Best of all, he loves to treat his fans with in-jokes, bit characters in one book take a lead role in another, and half the fun of a new Mitchell is spotting the references to previous books. I can't get enough of him and, once you read him, nor will you.
Salman Rushdie is the reason I'm writing this post tonight, on the back of my cousin Christina tweeting about Midnight's Children yesterday. Midnight's Children is a bit of a marmite book. It's been voted the Booker of Bookers. Its advocates adore the magic realism, the endless diversionary stories, the linking of the hero Saleem Sinai to the history of independent India, which allows Rushdie to shine a light on the country of his birth. Critics say it's wordy and I do have to say, on re-reading they have a point. I tend to love novelists who are spare (like Mitchell, Greene, Forster) and Rushdie's prose can seem florid and bombastic in contrast. However, for me it's part of the charm - Rushdie is deliberately writing as an Indian storyteller in the market place, weaving ever more fantastical elements in his tale. And I adore the central premise of the gifts of the children born in the midnight hour that India came to independence, and how such gifts inevitabley threaten the State. Shame, Rushdie's novel about Pakistan does a similar job about Pakistan by describing the terrible events that occur inthe country of P. Rushdie has a neat trick of counterposing his fable with the odd intercession of an ironic, detached narrator who is always relieved to note that in the real Pakistan, none of these things happen. It's a brilliant device, which cleverly underlines the point he is making. And of course there's The Satanic Verses, a brilliant treatise on what we believe and why, with angels and devils grappling for good and evil, to the ultimate conclusion we have a bit of both in us. I have to confess I haven't really liked much else Rushdie has written, but these three fine novels can't be bettered.
JRR Tolkien gets my vote for The Hobbit and, of course, The Lord of the Rings. I am not a fantasy fan really, but I have returned to Tolkien again and again, with The Lord of the Rings being the book I most love to re-read. I think I love Tolkien so much because I resisted him for so long. My many siblings kept going on about him to such an extent I refused to read him, till one half term when I was 13, I finally picked up The Hobbit out of boredom and found I couldn't put it down. It was one of the most intense reading experiences I've ever had, as when I'd finished, I immediately picked up The Lord of The Rings, reading the whole lot in 4 days. What's not to love about both books? The Hobbit, being intentionally written for children, is obviously much simpler, but it's well written, brilliantly paced, and packed with wonderful characters. Bilbo Baggins' journey from a nervous, ordinary hobbit who likes a quiet life, to a bold resourceful adventurer, whose wit and quick thinking saves his companions time and again, is a wonder to behold. The dwarves he journeys with are all memorable, as are Gandalf, the wizard, and, of course, Gollum, whose brief appearance here, is far more important than the reader first realises. The Hobbit is a brilliant read aloud book, and it's given me great pleasure to read it to my children, as we've all enjoyed the humour and regular cliff hangers. And though it's simpler than the follow up, it is still full of moral complexity, which marks it out from most children's books. The Lord of the Rings is a worthy successor, with Frodo being an equally beguiling reluctant hero. One who chooses the worst of all task, though he does "not know the way" because it is the right thing to do. His journey alone, is a tale worth reading, as he is pursued into the wilderness, and dark places, tempted beyond all endurance to achieve his aim. But his fellow travellers are also a joy to journey with. The other hobbits, Sam, Pippin and Merry, often there for comic effect, but equally grow in stature as they deal with their own individual struggles. Strider, the Ranger, who is later revealed as Aragorn, the returning King. Not being a fan of royalty or soldiers, I should hate Strider, but he's so noble, so strong, yetvulnerable, I fall in love with him every single time. Gandalf makes a welcome return, as does Gollum, whose original ownership of the ring is the cause of all the trouble, and whose own journey is both terrifying and sad. I do find the Elves a little bit twee as I get older, and must confess to skipping over the poetry a lot of the time, but Tolkien's storytelling is masterly and as with The Hobbit, he just keeps you begging for more. In both books, his descriptions of landscape are so rich and sensuous that I have vivid pictures of Mirkwood, Moria, Rivendell, Lorien in my mind. And although there are a lot of battles in both books, Tolkien is clear that they're not from choice. His solution to the war is not for the heroes to destroy evil using the enemy's weapon, Sauron's ring, but to destroy the ring itself. I can't think of a better outcome for violence than that. But, the best mark of a good book is whether you are disappointed when you finish. And I am. Every single time. I'm currently reading it to my 9 year old, his first and my thirty third reading, we're both completely entranced. As I hope you will be.
So there you have it, 4 more heroes, who I hope you'll enjoy too. I doubt I'll get round to doing this again for a while. See you next year?
Thursday, 1 March 2012
Saturday, 11 February 2012
The Wave
The water is calm this evening. The sun sends us a red beam across the water, a final reminder of the beauty of our days, before the onset of darkness. The sky behind is pale blue, but once the sun goes down it will rapidly turn black, the stars will rise to shine on us for this - our last night.
It is hard to imagine it sitting here - sipping Rioja and nibbling salt and vinegar crisps, while we cook sausages on the campfire. Hard to face the fact of our deaths when we feel so alive in the warm glow of day's end. Hard to realise this is the last time any of us will listen to the soft splash of the waves on the shore - the sound of the sea swaying back and forth, back and forth till it reaches the high tide mark just below our feet. Today has been like any other summer day, we have surfed and swam, sunbathed and slept. Just another summer day except for this - we will camp out on this beach, we will live to see dawn and then we will die - our fate written in the stars over a century ago. Before our grandparents were born, before we were even dreamt of, two rocks collided in space thousands of light years away and the smaller piece was sent spinning on its inevitable trajectory towards us.
We could sit here filling the air with complaints about the unfairness of it all (and believe me, some of us have). If the scientists had finished their calibrations sooner, if we hadn't moved here to escape the smoggy dangerous city, if only we'd gone to Manchester as we'd planned...If,if,if...we'd be watching on TV like the rest of the horrified nation, instead of sitting here, with the cooling sand slipping between our toes, as the mournful gulls circle above us calling - aak,aak,aak.
We could have joined the futile escape. We could have spent today in endless traffic on the A30. We could have sat in our cars, with the temperature rising inside and out, as our cheese sandwiches congealed, and our engines overheated.
We could have stayed at home, as many have done. We could have bolted the doors, drawn the curtains, and sat under the duvet. We could have watched box sets of Star Trek or Friends, The Sopranos or House, Anything that helped us while away the time and pretend our world is not about to end.
But the wave will come for us whereever we are, and whateever we are doing. So we might as well come here to face it. To watch tomorrow, at 07:32 precisely, as the meteor flies above us. I expect it will be quite a sight - a trail of gold and orange, following the path of tonight's sunbeam, till it hits the ocean beyond the horizon. The sea will shudder to its very depths, drawing in its waters with the deepest of breaths. The water will recede far down the beach, exposing the seabed condemning all its inhabitants,sea bass, cockles, mussels, crabs, and snails to instant death in the dry air. And we will know, then, that the wave is coming for us. Five hundred feet of water racing towards us to sweep us all away.
It is hard to imagine it, sitting here on this perfect summer night. The sun departed, the first stars beginning to light the darkening sky. That tomorrow this will all be gone. We will all be gone. So we try not to. Instead we will sit by the campfire, telling each other the stories of our lives. Hands held in the darkness. Offering comfort in the face of what is to come.
The night will pass slowly. Watch with us if you can. When morning comes, we will be gone.
Copyright c @Virginia Moffatt 2012
It is hard to imagine it sitting here - sipping Rioja and nibbling salt and vinegar crisps, while we cook sausages on the campfire. Hard to face the fact of our deaths when we feel so alive in the warm glow of day's end. Hard to realise this is the last time any of us will listen to the soft splash of the waves on the shore - the sound of the sea swaying back and forth, back and forth till it reaches the high tide mark just below our feet. Today has been like any other summer day, we have surfed and swam, sunbathed and slept. Just another summer day except for this - we will camp out on this beach, we will live to see dawn and then we will die - our fate written in the stars over a century ago. Before our grandparents were born, before we were even dreamt of, two rocks collided in space thousands of light years away and the smaller piece was sent spinning on its inevitable trajectory towards us.
We could sit here filling the air with complaints about the unfairness of it all (and believe me, some of us have). If the scientists had finished their calibrations sooner, if we hadn't moved here to escape the smoggy dangerous city, if only we'd gone to Manchester as we'd planned...If,if,if...we'd be watching on TV like the rest of the horrified nation, instead of sitting here, with the cooling sand slipping between our toes, as the mournful gulls circle above us calling - aak,aak,aak.
We could have joined the futile escape. We could have spent today in endless traffic on the A30. We could have sat in our cars, with the temperature rising inside and out, as our cheese sandwiches congealed, and our engines overheated.
We could have stayed at home, as many have done. We could have bolted the doors, drawn the curtains, and sat under the duvet. We could have watched box sets of Star Trek or Friends, The Sopranos or House, Anything that helped us while away the time and pretend our world is not about to end.
But the wave will come for us whereever we are, and whateever we are doing. So we might as well come here to face it. To watch tomorrow, at 07:32 precisely, as the meteor flies above us. I expect it will be quite a sight - a trail of gold and orange, following the path of tonight's sunbeam, till it hits the ocean beyond the horizon. The sea will shudder to its very depths, drawing in its waters with the deepest of breaths. The water will recede far down the beach, exposing the seabed condemning all its inhabitants,sea bass, cockles, mussels, crabs, and snails to instant death in the dry air. And we will know, then, that the wave is coming for us. Five hundred feet of water racing towards us to sweep us all away.
It is hard to imagine it, sitting here on this perfect summer night. The sun departed, the first stars beginning to light the darkening sky. That tomorrow this will all be gone. We will all be gone. So we try not to. Instead we will sit by the campfire, telling each other the stories of our lives. Hands held in the darkness. Offering comfort in the face of what is to come.
The night will pass slowly. Watch with us if you can. When morning comes, we will be gone.
Copyright c @Virginia Moffatt 2012
Friday, 6 January 2012
Night Watch
The moon is bright tonight.Its pale beams pick out the contours of your face: the soft curve of your chin, the gentle bump of your lips, the hillock of your nose. I am a fitful sleeper, I like to watch you on nights like this, when you are in a deep sleep, still wrapped in the warmth of our recent lovemaking. As you dream the foolish dreams of a contented lover: full of memories of the evening that has just past and anticipation of the nights that are yet to come. You turn over, and sigh, a deep, satisfied sigh. I am everything you have ever wanted. I will fulfil your every need.
You don't know it yet, but I am trouble, with a capital "T". Your friends sense it, as friends always do - the iceberg that lurks beneath my still, calm waters. But by the time they get close enough to expose the danger you are in, it will be too late to send up flares. By then I will have run you aground, your lower decks crumpled, as you begin to sink into my icy depths. They will be desperate in their bids to save you, but their pathetic attempts will come to nothing. Life jackets, rubber rings and tiny boats will flounder in the black waters and be consumed by the waves. For you will give them up, each and everyone of them. You will reject their years of love and loyalty in favour of your mistaken belief in me - your inability to see that I am trouble with a capital "T".
I like watching your face at night time. I like to see you still and peaceful, completely oblivious that I have the power to choose both the time and manner of your ending. Sometimes, on a particularly insomniac night, I wonder if I should pity you. But even as your steady breaths form tiny clouds in the cold airof your unheated flat, I know that pity is impossible. All I have ever had to offer anyone is ice and fog - why should you be any different? The moon sinks across the horizon, drowning in the morning clouds that turn black, purple and pale blue. From the east, the first orange rays of sun drift across your face, warming you awake. You smile and murmur as I lean over to kiss you. Your waking grin is as generous as it is foolish.
"Happy New Year," you say.
"Happy New Year. It's going to be a good one."
You beam back, content in the happiness that is to come this year, enjoying the sight of me getting dressed. I smile back with all the warmth that you deserve.
I am trouble, with a capital "T". You just don't know it yet.
You don't know it yet, but I am trouble, with a capital "T". Your friends sense it, as friends always do - the iceberg that lurks beneath my still, calm waters. But by the time they get close enough to expose the danger you are in, it will be too late to send up flares. By then I will have run you aground, your lower decks crumpled, as you begin to sink into my icy depths. They will be desperate in their bids to save you, but their pathetic attempts will come to nothing. Life jackets, rubber rings and tiny boats will flounder in the black waters and be consumed by the waves. For you will give them up, each and everyone of them. You will reject their years of love and loyalty in favour of your mistaken belief in me - your inability to see that I am trouble with a capital "T".
I like watching your face at night time. I like to see you still and peaceful, completely oblivious that I have the power to choose both the time and manner of your ending. Sometimes, on a particularly insomniac night, I wonder if I should pity you. But even as your steady breaths form tiny clouds in the cold airof your unheated flat, I know that pity is impossible. All I have ever had to offer anyone is ice and fog - why should you be any different? The moon sinks across the horizon, drowning in the morning clouds that turn black, purple and pale blue. From the east, the first orange rays of sun drift across your face, warming you awake. You smile and murmur as I lean over to kiss you. Your waking grin is as generous as it is foolish.
"Happy New Year," you say.
"Happy New Year. It's going to be a good one."
You beam back, content in the happiness that is to come this year, enjoying the sight of me getting dressed. I smile back with all the warmth that you deserve.
I am trouble, with a capital "T". You just don't know it yet.
Friday, 21 October 2011
A Liberal Feminist Wrings Her Hands #fridayflash
I just don’t know what to do. Milly wants a Barbie for her birthday. Where on earth did she get that idea? We’ve always been so careful not to gender stereotype. Dolls and toy cars, teddy bears and train sets. Mind you, she’s insisted on wearing pink since she was three, because that’s what girls do don’t they? It goes against the grain, but we’d hate to give her an identity crisis. And she does look adorable in that fairy outfit she insisted I buy her.
We have to draw the line at Barbie though. Those improbable breasts. The invisible waist. The endless legs. The first of too many unattainable images. The kind that lead girls into anorexia, bulimia, unsuccessful boob jobs. It’s not just that though. You can’t buy one Barbie. You have to get them all - fashionista, bride, anchor girl - or your life is not worth living. And now I’ve heard Mattel is carving up half the Indonesian rain forests to make her packaging. Anti-feminist, consumerist and ruining the planet. They’re not the values we want to teach Milly.
But…at bedtime, after I’d turned Disney Channel off and tucked Milly up, she looked at me with her large brown eyes and whispered, “I AM going to get a Barbie for my birthday aren’t I Mummy?”
What could I say? What's more important? A principle or our child's disappointment?
"Of course you are sweetie, " I said, giving her a kiss.
There's nothing else for it. We'll just have to get her one. And keep telling her why Barbie is so wrong. We can always give Greenpeace a donation as well. Fifty pounds should do.
I’ll go out to Toys R Us first thing.
We have to draw the line at Barbie though. Those improbable breasts. The invisible waist. The endless legs. The first of too many unattainable images. The kind that lead girls into anorexia, bulimia, unsuccessful boob jobs. It’s not just that though. You can’t buy one Barbie. You have to get them all - fashionista, bride, anchor girl - or your life is not worth living. And now I’ve heard Mattel is carving up half the Indonesian rain forests to make her packaging. Anti-feminist, consumerist and ruining the planet. They’re not the values we want to teach Milly.
But…at bedtime, after I’d turned Disney Channel off and tucked Milly up, she looked at me with her large brown eyes and whispered, “I AM going to get a Barbie for my birthday aren’t I Mummy?”
What could I say? What's more important? A principle or our child's disappointment?
"Of course you are sweetie, " I said, giving her a kiss.
There's nothing else for it. We'll just have to get her one. And keep telling her why Barbie is so wrong. We can always give Greenpeace a donation as well. Fifty pounds should do.
I’ll go out to Toys R Us first thing.
Saturday, 15 October 2011
Life Lessons #fridayflash
My Dad said I'd never amount to much. Slacker, he called me. Good for nothing! Sitting in front of that damn thing all day, when the sun is shining. What's wrong with you? Why don't you play outside like a normal boy?" Yada, yada, the soundtrack of my teens.
I didn't care back then. High School was dull, full of idiotic tribes whose inane rituals bored me. My teachers with their constant nagging, You won't get a good job without decent grades, even duller . My parents were tolerable, but they weren't exactly setting the world alight. Dad with his dreary job at the tax office. Mom with her bake sales and bridge clubs. Why would I aspire to that? Is it any wonder DS was where I came alive?
At first it was the film games I loved the most - Transformers, The Green Lantern, X Men. I loved playing all the lead roles, fighting for justice, defeating the bad guys. It was a blast. That was till I came across the war games - Battlefield, Halo, Soldiers of Anarchy. Soon I found whole worlds to command - my strategic skills and quick fire reactions winning battle after battle. I conquered lands, and empires. My enemies fled at the sight of me pumping bullets with my AK47s. It was an adrenalin rush all right. No wonder daily life sucked.
Dad never got it of course. How could he? Tied to his desk and his spreadsheets and ledgers. I doubt he ever had an exciting moment in his life. He was such a loser. No wonder that heart attack killed him at 50. I expect it was the stress of living so monotonously.
Still. I've showed him. I've showed them all. Those whiny teachers with their lousy report cards. The principals who hauled me in their offices for their tedious Pull Your Socks Up lectures. See, it turns out, after all, those years weren't wasted. All that playing with joysticks and staring at computer screens was perfect preparation for a life worth living, serving my country. All that time to get me ready for this:
My computer screen has a perfect image, relayed back to me through the clear blue sky. A man is standing on the dusty street below, waiting outside a single story brick house. The intelligence on the ground has confirmed it, but I am waiting for him to turn round. To see the face of my enemy. Across the street, I see someone hail him. He turns round, relaxed, easy, unaware of the danger he is in. I cannot pick out his features. I zoom in. The picture is blurry, but that long beard, those black rimmed glasses and hook nose are unmistakeable. It's him alright. My pulse is racing, as I call it in.
"We have confirmation, target is on the plot. Repeat. We have confirmation. Target is on the plot. Do I have permission to fire.Over?"
The response is sweet. The words I've been longing to hear.
"Target approved. Fire at will.Over."
I wipe drops of sweat from my forehead and reach for the controls. For a second, nothing happens. Then the flash of the bomb. The flume of smoke. Rubble, dust. People running.
"Target taken out. Over."
"Nice job sergeant. Over and Out."
I pull off the head-set and hand over to my co-pilot. I walk away from the booth and grab myself a Coke from the machine. The sweet taste of victory trickles down my throat as my colleagues surround me with congratulations. Another kill for my country. As always, it's quite a rush. I can't get enough.
My Dad said I'd never amount to much. If only he could see me now.
I didn't care back then. High School was dull, full of idiotic tribes whose inane rituals bored me. My teachers with their constant nagging, You won't get a good job without decent grades, even duller . My parents were tolerable, but they weren't exactly setting the world alight. Dad with his dreary job at the tax office. Mom with her bake sales and bridge clubs. Why would I aspire to that? Is it any wonder DS was where I came alive?
At first it was the film games I loved the most - Transformers, The Green Lantern, X Men. I loved playing all the lead roles, fighting for justice, defeating the bad guys. It was a blast. That was till I came across the war games - Battlefield, Halo, Soldiers of Anarchy. Soon I found whole worlds to command - my strategic skills and quick fire reactions winning battle after battle. I conquered lands, and empires. My enemies fled at the sight of me pumping bullets with my AK47s. It was an adrenalin rush all right. No wonder daily life sucked.
Dad never got it of course. How could he? Tied to his desk and his spreadsheets and ledgers. I doubt he ever had an exciting moment in his life. He was such a loser. No wonder that heart attack killed him at 50. I expect it was the stress of living so monotonously.
Still. I've showed him. I've showed them all. Those whiny teachers with their lousy report cards. The principals who hauled me in their offices for their tedious Pull Your Socks Up lectures. See, it turns out, after all, those years weren't wasted. All that playing with joysticks and staring at computer screens was perfect preparation for a life worth living, serving my country. All that time to get me ready for this:
My computer screen has a perfect image, relayed back to me through the clear blue sky. A man is standing on the dusty street below, waiting outside a single story brick house. The intelligence on the ground has confirmed it, but I am waiting for him to turn round. To see the face of my enemy. Across the street, I see someone hail him. He turns round, relaxed, easy, unaware of the danger he is in. I cannot pick out his features. I zoom in. The picture is blurry, but that long beard, those black rimmed glasses and hook nose are unmistakeable. It's him alright. My pulse is racing, as I call it in.
"We have confirmation, target is on the plot. Repeat. We have confirmation. Target is on the plot. Do I have permission to fire.Over?"
The response is sweet. The words I've been longing to hear.
"Target approved. Fire at will.Over."
I wipe drops of sweat from my forehead and reach for the controls. For a second, nothing happens. Then the flash of the bomb. The flume of smoke. Rubble, dust. People running.
"Target taken out. Over."
"Nice job sergeant. Over and Out."
I pull off the head-set and hand over to my co-pilot. I walk away from the booth and grab myself a Coke from the machine. The sweet taste of victory trickles down my throat as my colleagues surround me with congratulations. Another kill for my country. As always, it's quite a rush. I can't get enough.
My Dad said I'd never amount to much. If only he could see me now.
Friday, 7 October 2011
#fridayflash Blue Sky Thinking.
The sun burns bright today. Electric-yellow rays scorch the earth, even at this early hour. The blue sky is empty of clouds. The only thing visible is the heat shimmering on the horizon. Today is a day when a sensible man would stay inside. Cool, collected, protected from danger. But I am not a sensible man, and the sun is not the only thing I fear.
Once upon a time, when the Arabian Nights were real, and not just stories to soothe me to sleep, too much sunlight was the only thing that frightened me into the dark. That was in the days before Our Enemies came. Infidels from East and West with their bomb-filled aeroplanes dropping death and destruction. At first we were able to spot the warning signs. The drone of engines, the glint of steel, the trail of smoke were enough to alert us to run for cover. If Allah was kind, the wind was fair, and we were slight of foot, we'd escape the blasts that ripped our communities apart.
But Our Enemies are clever and their tricks became ever more devilish. Soon we discovered the Russian Roulette of the yellow packages. Glinting, gold bars, dropping from the sky into the welcoming arms of juniper bushes. What treasures would they reveal? One day, a gift of sugar and flour, enough to feed a family for a month; the next a curse of metal shrapnel, enough to fill a child for life.
Was it any surprise, I grew up to curse Our Enemies, East and West? Between them, they robbed me of my Grandfather, Mother, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins. For a while I cursed Allah too, blaming him for my losses, till Mullah Ahmed showed me the error of my ways. It was through him, that I learn that God had made me suffer in order to prepare me for the fight. That the violence I had endured had a purpose. I must beat the Infidel as they had beaten me. Teach my countrymen to burn them as they burnt us. Destroy them as they destroyed us.
I preached this message, and as the Mullah predicted the people followed. For a while, I was blessed with Allah's beneficence, I prospered, married well and fathered children. In Allah's name I smote my Enemies, and brought destruction to their Citadels. And truly, I had no fear, until...the worst fear of all overcame me. The soundless, sightless attack. At any time, in any place, the bomb falling from the pitiless sky.
And now, the Enemy is mine alone. I am on their list - a Wild West villain beyond the democracy they pretend to believe in. My Father appeals to their courts of law in vain. I am only safe if I put myself into their lion's den, allowing myself to be transported to Guantanomo or some other sightless hell. I will not submit, I cannot. Yet my refusal condemns me to this - a life in perpetual motion attempting to out run a killer I can never see. Inside or out, I can never be safe, for the remainder of my days.
It is months since I have seen my family. Proximity to me places them in the gravest danger. One brief visit, and I would be their executioner.So I move from day to day, hoping to survive another day underneath the radar. Hoping my good deeds will be sufficient for Allah to preserve my life for another day.
The sun beats down as I leave the house. The horizon melts into the distance of possible escapes. Above me the blue sky is devoid of life. When the moment comes I know it will show me no pity. A sensible man would disguise himself and be smuggled across the border to freedom.And yet, I cannot leave the country of my birth, and so each day I wake, I pray, I run. Hoping, insh'Allah, that by the day's end I will reach safety.
The sky above is devoid of life. When the moment comes, it will show no pity.
Once upon a time, when the Arabian Nights were real, and not just stories to soothe me to sleep, too much sunlight was the only thing that frightened me into the dark. That was in the days before Our Enemies came. Infidels from East and West with their bomb-filled aeroplanes dropping death and destruction. At first we were able to spot the warning signs. The drone of engines, the glint of steel, the trail of smoke were enough to alert us to run for cover. If Allah was kind, the wind was fair, and we were slight of foot, we'd escape the blasts that ripped our communities apart.
But Our Enemies are clever and their tricks became ever more devilish. Soon we discovered the Russian Roulette of the yellow packages. Glinting, gold bars, dropping from the sky into the welcoming arms of juniper bushes. What treasures would they reveal? One day, a gift of sugar and flour, enough to feed a family for a month; the next a curse of metal shrapnel, enough to fill a child for life.
Was it any surprise, I grew up to curse Our Enemies, East and West? Between them, they robbed me of my Grandfather, Mother, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins. For a while I cursed Allah too, blaming him for my losses, till Mullah Ahmed showed me the error of my ways. It was through him, that I learn that God had made me suffer in order to prepare me for the fight. That the violence I had endured had a purpose. I must beat the Infidel as they had beaten me. Teach my countrymen to burn them as they burnt us. Destroy them as they destroyed us.
I preached this message, and as the Mullah predicted the people followed. For a while, I was blessed with Allah's beneficence, I prospered, married well and fathered children. In Allah's name I smote my Enemies, and brought destruction to their Citadels. And truly, I had no fear, until...the worst fear of all overcame me. The soundless, sightless attack. At any time, in any place, the bomb falling from the pitiless sky.
And now, the Enemy is mine alone. I am on their list - a Wild West villain beyond the democracy they pretend to believe in. My Father appeals to their courts of law in vain. I am only safe if I put myself into their lion's den, allowing myself to be transported to Guantanomo or some other sightless hell. I will not submit, I cannot. Yet my refusal condemns me to this - a life in perpetual motion attempting to out run a killer I can never see. Inside or out, I can never be safe, for the remainder of my days.
It is months since I have seen my family. Proximity to me places them in the gravest danger. One brief visit, and I would be their executioner.So I move from day to day, hoping to survive another day underneath the radar. Hoping my good deeds will be sufficient for Allah to preserve my life for another day.
The sun beats down as I leave the house. The horizon melts into the distance of possible escapes. Above me the blue sky is devoid of life. When the moment comes I know it will show me no pity. A sensible man would disguise himself and be smuggled across the border to freedom.And yet, I cannot leave the country of my birth, and so each day I wake, I pray, I run. Hoping, insh'Allah, that by the day's end I will reach safety.
The sky above is devoid of life. When the moment comes, it will show no pity.
Friday, 30 September 2011
#fridayflash White Wedding
"You didn't get married then?"
Sylvie shook her head.
"Wow, that's...I mean...I thought you two were so close." Sophie's green-black eyes shimmered her concern.
"We were."
"When I saw you at the bar that night, it looked like you were eating each other."
"He is tasty, there's no denying." Sylvie seemed fascinated by a mark on one of her feet.
"So, what happened?"
"I had the most divine dress."
"Designed by?"
"Stella McCartney of course." Sylvie gazed down at her long black limbs, "V neck, vertical line, three quarter sleeves, white silk - perfect for the hour glass figure."
"And?"
"I happened to glance at our engagement photo and it came to me..."
"What did?"
"It was his diet, you see."
"You left him because he went on a diet?" Sophie's mouth opened in a perfect "O" , exposing a set of jagged teeth.
"He wasn't the person I'd fallen for," Sylvie sighed, "When we met, he was round, cuddly, juicy. Now he's just skin and bone."
"Ah."
"I guess you could say, he went out of flavour."
"That's a lousy joke." Sophie giggled anyway, setting Sylvie off into convulsions. They shook so much that strands of silk holding them together split apart, swinging them in opposite directions like trapeze artists. Sylvie spun sticky threads rapidly as she passed her friend doing the same. They worked hard and in ten minutes they were hanging upside down in the centre of the newly fixed web.
"Has it put you off?" panted Sophie.
"A white wedding? Nah, it'll happen, and with any luck, quite soon..." Sylvie nodded at a bulbous brown male scuttling along the floor below. "See that? Delicious."
Sylvie shook her head.
"Wow, that's...I mean...I thought you two were so close." Sophie's green-black eyes shimmered her concern.
"We were."
"When I saw you at the bar that night, it looked like you were eating each other."
"He is tasty, there's no denying." Sylvie seemed fascinated by a mark on one of her feet.
"So, what happened?"
"I had the most divine dress."
"Designed by?"
"Stella McCartney of course." Sylvie gazed down at her long black limbs, "V neck, vertical line, three quarter sleeves, white silk - perfect for the hour glass figure."
"And?"
"I happened to glance at our engagement photo and it came to me..."
"What did?"
"It was his diet, you see."
"You left him because he went on a diet?" Sophie's mouth opened in a perfect "O" , exposing a set of jagged teeth.
"He wasn't the person I'd fallen for," Sylvie sighed, "When we met, he was round, cuddly, juicy. Now he's just skin and bone."
"Ah."
"I guess you could say, he went out of flavour."
"That's a lousy joke." Sophie giggled anyway, setting Sylvie off into convulsions. They shook so much that strands of silk holding them together split apart, swinging them in opposite directions like trapeze artists. Sylvie spun sticky threads rapidly as she passed her friend doing the same. They worked hard and in ten minutes they were hanging upside down in the centre of the newly fixed web.
"Has it put you off?" panted Sophie.
"A white wedding? Nah, it'll happen, and with any luck, quite soon..." Sylvie nodded at a bulbous brown male scuttling along the floor below. "See that? Delicious."
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