Monday, 5 December 2011
5
You're not a God.
Good Good. At least I got that right.
You're taking this well.
I think I'm in a state of shock. I can only take this if you're part of my subconcious.
We can deal with that. I can only hint anyway, I can't blatantly tell you what to do. It sucks but we need to work around it.
Why?
Orders.
Wha...?
Don't worry, you don't need to know, and even if you did I can't tell you. I think it's fairly obvious what we need to do, the question is how...
We need to get away from the thugs?
Correct. It's interfering...
What with?
Never Mind.
You're useless! What good is it having a cat inside your head if he can't tell you anything.
That's exactly what I said but would they listen...
Alright Mr Cryptogram. We're going to wake Caesara up, I don't want her near them much longer. Then we're going to get out of here, which means you need to start working now.
Who said I was taking orders?
You!
Well... Yes... But not from you.
Well now you are!
That was when the spluttering started.
Am I right in thinking that you need me more than I need you seeing as how you can't actually help me through your own volition?
I suppose...
In that case, from this point on you will be taking orders and you will be taking them from me.
Symudiad walked off. Silo began to think he wasn't going to help.
Fine!
There was a squeal from the front seat.
"I got BIT!"
Now then smartypants. What're we doing?
A Note From the Team
We'd like to apologise to you all for the delays in it's arrival, however there is a good reason behind it as approximately 80% of us moved to University this September and were simply unable to keep up with the demand of writing on a weekly basis. With that in mind some alterations are coming to Dickens Periodical, from this point on we will be posting on a calendar monthly basis, with an issue appearing on the first monday of every month. It'll keep the same basic format, but hopefully with more people getting involved as we go along. Hopefully this is a pace we'll all be able to maintain on top of studying and other commitments we have.
With that in mind We'd like to welcome not two new contributors. So Welcome on board Clarissa bringing us 'The Unusual Fairytales Chronicles: Bad Timing' and Joscelyn with '
Tourniquet'.
Also in this months issues are updates from some of our previous tales.
Here's to hoping you enjoy.
The Team at Dickens Periodical
Tip 4
It doesn’t matter what genre of fiction you’re writing; you’re going to have to create a large number of characters. These will be the major protagonists and antagonists as well as minor characters that may only appear in one scene. Here are a few tips on how to create those characters.
Don’t start a character with a name or physical appearance. Start with their backstory. You need to know how these characters will react to certain situations and delving into their past is the best way of doing this. That said, don’t waste your time writing every detail of their past. Only write the basics and anything else relevant to the story; you don’t need to know every single detail about their life, just the important bits.
Give your characters problems. The main character in your book must have the biggest problem but the other major characters should also have problems, whether they are the same as the main character, or something else entirely. Start by thinking about this question; “What does this character want more than anything else in the world?”. When you’ve worked their main aim out, start creating problems that will get in the way of that aim.
Empathize with your characters, do not sympathise with them. Understand what makes them tick and understand what causes them to act the way they do, but don’t let that understanding change tempt you to go easy on a character. If they’ve done something bad, don’t let them off the hook if they had a good reason for doing what they did; they need to face the consequences of their actions
Write from your life. If you’ve had a particular experience you want to put in your story, use what you remember to write it. Emotions, feelings, hopes and fears are all a lot easier to write about when you know exactly what it’s like from past experiences.
Prologue
“Oh?” Michael asked, his fists were clenched so hard that this knuckles were white “Tristan...”he began before he was abruptly cut off
“No! Don’t you dare!” Tristan jabbed at his father’s chest “Don’t! You can’t stop me. I will not let you stop me!” he spat, and he wouldn’t let Michael stop him. Not when they’ve finally reached this point; when Tristan could stand before him and not tremble, for once not caring about nor fearing the violence that shone in Michaels frost-grey eyes. Michael smiled laughingly “Where will you go? You’re nothing but a poor naive child” he mocked, then began slowly walking towards his son with the carful deliberate tread of a predator. He placed his hands on the wall either side of Tristan, blocking him in, invading Tristan's personal space, stopping when their faces where no more than an inch apart “Your mine” he growled “To use as I see fit...and I won’t let you go” he hissed
"I told you already" Tristan snapped "I’m leaving and you WONT STOP ME!” He wouldn't, just couldn't stand there and let Michael break him again, he would not stand there and listen to it anymore "Can't I?" Michael asked his voice dangerously low “And I told you before I won’t tolerate your defiance, didn’t I?” He snapped as he struck Tristan across his face who cried out, cupping his nose and mouth trying to stem the blood that poured through his fingers. Michael smirked as he wiped his bloody fist down Tristan's t-shirt "I'd clean that up if I were you, after all you wouldn’t want to go out all bloody” he said “Gives the wrong impression kid”
“I. Hate. You” Tristan ground out through ragged breaths, he coughed as the blood trickled down the back of his throat. He cast another defiant glare at his father who had retreated slightly. Tristan smiled a humourless, bloody smile as he pushed Michael further away and calmly left the room.
Michael stood there for a moment seething but seemingly unable to move. How dare he! Michael thought shocked “How dare he!” Michael repeated aloud. He watched as Tristan gathered his few treasured possessions and head towards the door.
Perhaps if Michael had really thought about it, he’d of realised that Tristan had finally been pushed too far and that he just might not come home again. But then again Michael never truly believed that Tristan would leave him in the first place, he’d made sure to break Tristan just enough, enough to make him totally dependent and submissive, which was, if Michael was honest, was the reason why he remained stupefied, stock still and silent. It was why Michael could never let Tristan go...because he needed Tristan just as much if not more than Tristan needed him.
Several hours later...
It was dark when Tristan arrived at his Grandfather’s house. He tentatively knocked upon the blue door. Tristan absently noted that his Grandfather would probably not recognise him due to the ugly bruising that graced his face.
The door opened slightly “Hello?” The sliver of the man that was visible revealed deep green eyes that crinkled at the edges and dark hair.
“Grandfather...Please can I come in?” he asked forlornly, staring at his feet awkwardly. The old man’s eyes widened in surprise as Tristan looked up with such pain and sadness in this eyes that the older man’s breath caught in his throat for second. Tristan’s normally soft hazel eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying, his thick reddish-brown hair was in disarray and the bluish-black bruises stood out starkly against his pale skin.
“Trist? What the hell?” He exclaimed in a shocked gravelly voice “You look awful!” He shut the door a moment unlinking the chain before throwing it open and hugging Tristan forcefully. “I’ll make some tea and then you have to tell me everything...” He whispered softly to Tristan, who was currently clinging to him like he never wanted to let go, Tristan’s grasp was almost desperate. “I mean it Trist. Now c’mon” he extrapolated himself and pulled Tristan in to the warmth of the house.
Prologue
“Stella!” He yelled as books fell from his hand onto the floor.
CRASH!
“What is that noise?” A female voice screeched, seconds later a face matching the voice appeared. She could have been an attractive woman, yet she wore far too much make-up, her clothes were tight, exuding her curves to the point that she may burst. She had evil eyes and wore an evil smile, extended by the fact she had only had her fillers put in that morning.
To Stella this was her daily nightmare, her stepmother Millie.
Stella looked up, as if she had only heard him for the first time. “Sorry.” she mumbled.
Standing up she reached for the pile of books labelled ‘children’s’. She pulled one out and smiled, Cinderella, her favourite fairytale.
Millie snatched the book out of her hand. “You should be helping your father.”
Stella looked her in the eye, then bowed. She was not brave enough to answer back.
Eddie sighed from above; she was always in her own little world, and Millie and her daughters Carmel and Baker were always picking on her.
Climbing down the ladder to pick up the fallen books, he clasped Stella’s shoulder reassuringly and said; “Stella love please can you stop dreaming for once and help me get the books out, the shop opens in a few hours.”
She smiled and closed her notebook “of course dad.” She bent to the floor and cleaned up.
Millie put a possessive hand on Eddie, “Me and the girls are getting our things unpacked then are going shopping.”
Eddie; “Ah excellent idea, we will need some food.”
Millie made a dramatic sigh, “No you idiot, clothes shopping, the girls need to get ready for their first day at sixth form. I can’t have them going in last seasons wear.”
Eddie shook his head; “But Millie, I just spent lots of money buying the shop, can’t your shopping trip wait until we see how business is doing.”
He knew it was a useless plea, Millie Books nee Witchan seemed to put a spell on him the first time he saw her and had done ever since. Ever since his wife had died, he wanted a figure for
Stella, his quiet and beautiful Stella who didn’t know what a wonder she was.
Millie patted his shoulder patronisingly; “Well then you will just have to work harder to make profit first time.”
She turned on her heel and left, she never spent too much time with them unless it worth her while. However that was the way Stella liked it, just her and her dad.
He sighed and shook his head, “We better get a move on then.”
Chapter 1
The opening had been a great success, so many of the locals had come to have a look. She watched and smiled at her father as he shared his knowledge with the kind old Mrs Goodfair.
She was the very first customer, and was particularly interested in magical stories; she had sat and chatted to Stella, who had listened politely, she was shy around strangers. Yet when they went, Stella liked to note them down in her notepad; she would turn them into characters in her little fairytales.
She sat down and opened her notebook. She wrote the title The Unusual Fairytale Chronicles. In her head she planned to turn real life into a fairytale. She was Cinderella, Millie was the wicked stepmother, Carmel and Baker the ugly stepsisters, Mrs Goodfair she decided would be the fairy godmother. She seemed the type for the fairy godmother, kind and dotting. Stella sighed, she needed her Prince Charming, but at this moment in time he was unavailable.
“Hello Stella.” A voice said.
Stella jumped and snapped shut her notebook. She looked round to see Mrs Goodfair.
Mrs Goodfair; “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Stella smiled; “It’s ok, I was off in my own little world again.”
Mrs Goodfair nodded to the notepad in her hand. “Do you write?”
Stella held the notepad protectively against her chest. “Sometimes, but they’re just nothings, I just make them up inside my head.”
Mrs Goodfair smiled, “Well maybe I could look some time, I do like a good story.”
Stella nodded, “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Mrs Goodfair grinned; “Yes your father seems to have everything in this place. I needed another fantasy novel; I can’t get enough of those.”
Stella smiled; “They are the best.”
Mrs Goodfair smiled, surprised, it was the first time she had had a proper conversation with the girl. She continued; “Oh, what is your favourite?”
Stella blushed. She never had conversations unless it was with her dad. “Um. Nothing really, uh.
Well I suppose I like the fairytales, which I know are for kids.”
“Oh no dear, fairytales are for everyone, they are the ideal life we wish we could have. Even an old codger like me still believes in them.” Mrs Goodfair said reassuringly. “And don’t let anyone tell you different.”
Stella smiled back, she admitted to herself she liked the old lady and enjoyed her company. She didn’t have any friends; Carmel and Baker’s friends all thought she was weird. Her sisters didn’t deny it; they said; “Oh that’s our stepsister Stella, she doesn’t go to school.” Their friends asked why, and they would reply “She has some condition.” Then their friends would look at Stella funnily and turn their back, she was not one of them.
Stella rubbed her head, “I’m fine.” She mumbled. She stared from under her golden fringe at her stepsister; Carmel was small and large all at the same. Her hair was short in a bob, but it didn’t fit her long pointed face, her body was bulky due to her shortness, causing her clothes to crease round the curves. Carmel said it ‘hugged’ Stella thought the clothes seemed to scream for air.
Carmel grabbed an apple for breakfast, she liked to make out she ate nothing. Yet Stella knew there was a secret stash of fatty food in her bedroom cupboard, after all she cleaned her bedroom to get her off her back. Millie had made Carmel and Baker go on a diet, it seems the trip to the shops was not successful as designer clothes are not forgiving.
It didn’t bode well for Stella as it meant they would be grouchy and their favourite punchbag, her.
Baker waddled in. Her designer handbag almost as big as her. She opened the clutch with a furious snap and dropped bar after bar of chocolate in. She looked at her sister. “Screw it I’m not dieting.”
Carmel looked; “Well if you don’t then I’m telling mummy.”
Baker’s eyes narrowed; “How old are you, stupid.”
Carmel’s face creased to think of a comeback; “Don’t call me stupid, stupid” She pushed
Baker.
Stella stood up to avoid the confrontation, but it was a bad move, as Carmel pushed Baker she flew straight into Stella’s hands, taking the plate out and falling to the floor.
CRASH!
“What is going on in there?” Millie appeared suddenly at the doorway. “Baker what on earth are you doing?”
Baker looked at her stained top, drenched in milk. Her lip started to shake. She screamed; “Stella poured her breakfast on me!”
Stella stared; she couldn’t believe she was going to get the blame.
Millie looked at Stella coldly “Is this true?” Her expression read I’m not going to believe you.
Stella shook her head. Baker got up and shook herself down. “Look at my top mummy, it’s ruined.”
Millie grabbed Stella and forced her into the wall. “Do you know how much this cost me you stupid girl? A lot of money.”
Stella looked at her in the eye. “You mean a lot of my father’s money.” She wanted to say. She didn’t have the guts, so continued to take the barrage of abuse.
Millie; “Well I will ask your father to take the money out your wages. Now, go tidy this place up its disgusting. We have lives to lead.”
Millie turned, ending the conversation yet stopped when she saw the open handbag. She marched over and screamed tipping it of its contents. She turned to the girls who had retreated towards the doorway.
“If I find any chocolate in this household, it is not going to be very nice for that person.” She hissed, staring straight at Stella.
“Yes mummy.” Carmel and Baker chimed.
“Is that clear Stella.” Millie said.
“Yes Millie” Stella said quietly.
Millie smiled, “Run along and be a good girl and get to work Stella. Baker go change your top.”
Baker and Stella left the room. Baker huffed up the stairs while Stella followed watching her movements and feeling anger build with every step.
Why did you do that Baker? Why do you like to get me into trouble? Stella wanted to scream.
Baker turned, “What you looking at freak? I can’t believe you ruined that top, I was going to impress Marcus today and you ruined it.”
Stella recoiled at the venom, “Who is Marcus?” She muttered trying to make conversation.
Baker stopped, either shocked that Stella had spoken or that she could be so stupid. “Well Marcus Charms is the best looking guy in school, not that you would know, and anyway he wouldn’t look twice at you. He would be like everyone else and acknowledge that you don’t exist.”
Baker grabbed a top out the cupboard; she smiled “No offence.” She slammed the door in Stella’s face.
Stella turned round and sighed. Marcus Charms, I think you may be my Prince Charming.
Her dad appeared “Stella” he said and beckoned her to come down, he gave her a hug,
something he only did when Millie was not about; “I heard what happened. I know it wasn’t you.”
Stella smiled into his shoulder, she missed their closeness. Everything had changed since he married Millie, she couldn’t blame him but she knew she had to break Millie’s spell before she lost him forever.
Stella smiled and said; “Thanks dad.”
Eddie smiled, “You’re my favourite girl, you know that don’t you?”
Stella’s heart warmed, “Yes dad.”
Eddie smiled, yet Stella saw a twinkle appear in his eye as reached into his pocket, “Well as we seem to have a chocolate ban, I think we can risk it.” He lifted two sachets of hot chocolate mixture. “Cream and marshmallows?”
Stella nodded in excitement. Eddie smiled “Our little secret eh? Just hold the fort while I make this.”
Stella sat herself on the counter humming. She picked up the copy of Cinderella on display and flicked through to her favourite part, where Cinderella met the prince. She looked at the illustration; his cloak exposed his macho, lean arms, his face was handsome and bore a smile that rivalled the sun. She read the caption underneath and smiled. “Prince Charming” She was too enthralled to hear the door open.
“Hello?” a warm voice said; Stella looked up and jump falling from the counter backwards, yet the fall never came, a heroic hand saved her. Confused she looked up.
“Are you alright? I didn’t mean to scare you.” He said, she nodded, jumping off the counter and colliding with his chest. She pulled back and took a closer look at his face, smooth and smiling, his grin was perfection as his lips formed a circle of infinite possibilities.
“Hi” she said; “Welcome to Stella Books.” She pulled herself together and smiled.
“Hi.” He replied, “And you are?”
“I’m Stella,” she replied, she raised her eyebrow, your turn.
“I’m Marcus by the way,” He said stepping forward towards her.
She manoeuvred herself out of his grasp; the closeness was creating too much heat. “Were you looking for anything?”
Marcus stared at her curiously “I…” He stared forward, mouth open, Stella followed his gaze, he muttered “Oh no.”
Baker and Carmel came bounded in and chimed together. “Marcus there you are we wondered where you got to!” They restrained themselves from pushing each other but they managed to crowd round Marcus, who became physically uncomfortable.
Marcus “I thought I would come and look at the shop. You talked a little about it and I was just talking to Stella.”
The sister’s eyebrows rose in sync. “Were you?” said Baker, her smile forced; Stella knew she was in for it later. “Well we do love our Stella.” She pulled Stella into a tight hug, but there was no warmth and she let go as quickly pushing Stella to the side.
“Why don’t we give you a tour of the house?” She took Marcus’ arm possessively.
Marcus grimaced, yet the sisters did not notice. “I really have to be going, you know lots of work.”
They pouted and whinged; “Oh Marcus do you really have to go?”
Marcus pulled away; “Sorry ladies, maybe another time.” He looked directly at Stella, their eyes holding, her heart stopped, “I’ll pop by another time.” He said slowly.
He turned and left through the door.
Baker turned on Stella “What did you say to him?” She pushed Stella against the bookshelf.
Stella felt the pain go up her back, “Just hi.”
Baker face flushed with anger; “Well next time, keep your mouth shut.” Baker looked at Carmel.
Carmel mimicked; “Oh, yeah, keep your mouth shut.”
They turned and left as Eddie appeared in the doorway with the hot chocolate.
Baker looked and snapped as she smelt the chocolate; “What’s that?”
Eddie replied “My drink. Now get gone.”
Eddie turned to see Stella had slipped down the bookshelf; he came and sat down next to her. She turned to him and took the drink, they sat in silence. He knew she would put this in her notebook, but what he didn’t know was what damages would happen next.
Monday, 12 September 2011
A Note from the Team
This is Issue 5.
More exciting new stuff happening this week, all combined with various changes for the majority of contributers.
Hope you enjoy!
The Team at Dickens Periodical
4
His first thought was Why the hell can't I move?!
This was a mistake as it was met with the response Think about it Silo. Just put 2 and 2 together. And don't make 5. Reach the logical conclusion. Use your brain, I'm fairly sure you have one somewhere.
"Oh Gods help me. I'm being talked to again!"
"What's he on about this time?"
"As if I know. I told you we should have dumped him miles back."
"Yeah but the wife..."
"I know..."
"And the retributions..."
"I know.."
"And the ... "
"For Goodness sakes I said I know already!"
Silo glanced to his side and saw a large potato sack with feet sticking out of it. Those toes are curling in the exact same way Caesara's do. How odd.
Why Can You Not Just Use Your Brain?!
Silo let out a sob. A noise which sounded rather like he was managing to choke without anything blocking his windpipe.
I always get the Idiots. Just once in a while someone with a braincell would be nice.
Silo felt a warm mass somewhere near his side. It was the strangest sensation. He could feel the heat. He was fairly sure it was a body. But he couldn't identify what or where it was.
Look at your midrift.
Silo gave up on ignoring the voice, it must be some part of his subconcious trying to help him out, and looked down. What he saw was what appeared to be a large ginger hairball. It was breathing.
It's the cat from the farm. Why did Sym follow me home?
Finally the idiot makes progress. Don't interfere they say. Let them work it out for themselves. You'll make it all go wrong. Well either every other one of us had damned genius's. Or they were all bloody saints.
Why is the cat on me? And why are ... OH GODS ... WHY ARE MY HANDS TIED?
Silo let out a yell.
"Would You Shut Him Up?!"
"Why Me?"
"You insisted on bringing him."
"But..."
"NOW!"
Silo shut up. And tried to look at the bodies from which the voices were emanating. They were large and bulky. Smartly dressed. They seemed familiar, although Silo couldn't place them.
And then the one who had been told to shut him up turned around. And he remembered. This was the face which attatched to the fist which had knocked him out which was why he was stuck on this stupid wagon trussed and bound.
The Idiot made it. Halleluliah. I'm applying for Sainthood.
Silo looked at the cat again. And lit up. Symudiad's in my head.
Five gold stars for the idiot, and to think I let you pet me.
Tip 3
Six Quick Tips for Writing Descriptions
- Close your eyes and try to recreate the image in your head.
- Remember that people have five senses. Don’t just rely on visual description.
- Adjectives should describe, not evaluate. Describing skin as smooth or tan is better than describing it as pretty or perfect.
- Don’t over-describe things. A description should enhance the story, not drag it to a stop.
- Don’t describe things that don’t matter. If you spend a paragraph discussing a minor character’s mustache-grooming ritual, it had better be important to your story.
- Draw your descriptions from real-life memories.
Monday, 5 September 2011
3
Why?
Why for once could I not be asked to follow someone who’s at least a little bit less brain-dead? Someone who for example actually pays attention to their surroundings and isn’t in a desperate bid to get themselves killed all of the time…
Symudiad watched his feet going one in front of the other as he loped along, the grass disappearing behind him as he reached the mud track the thugs had taken.
I always have to follow as they get dragged away to some miserable fate.
Don't interfere, what kind of instructions are they? I'll tell you rubbish ones! Who? Who, I ask you, enjoys just watching as their charges are systematically destroyed.
Maybe though... Just maybe this'll be the big one. Get me fast-tracked. On the way to some major winners... maybe I should give him a few hints and tips, surreptitiously like. He'd never notice... he may notice a cat following him though.
Hmm... thought processes.
'What should we do with the woman?'
'How am I sposed to know? We were told to get him, nothing about her. But you said "we can't leave her behind..." so we brought her with us. Only now she won't shut up!'
They're angry... they're my thugs...they're my charges...
'Maybe we should kill her and hide the body... get it over with'
Ok. Sod no interference. I can't let a woman get murdered, even if she is irritating, they do have a point... No! No murders. It wouldn't be right...
Oh Gods what do I do now?
THINK
Ok Ok... hang on... does that mean you didn't really mean the interference?
SHE'S NOT YOUR CHARGE
Ok...
What'll scare them most...?
Part 2
Note from the Team
We're back with Issue 4... doing way better than we ever expected :)
Hope you enjoy
The Team at Dickens Periodical
Monday, 29 August 2011
2
Silo saw Symudiad near the feet of the man who’d just spoken. Something clicked.
“What did you say your name was? And how did you know my name?”
“I didn’t. And we have been watching you. Watching and waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“You.”
Beginning to get frustrated at this point Silo demanded. “How can you possibly have been waiting for me if you were watching me?!”
“We were waiting for you to be ready. You have power. You just figured that out. Our master wants you working for him like we are.”
“Who is your master?”
“You don’t need to know. But you will work for him. You have no choice. You may not start now, but if you disagree your journey to that point will be much more painful.”
“I will not work for him.”
Tip 2
Note from the Team
This is Issue 3 and we hope you've been enjoying our stories so far.
This week we'd like to wish a happy Birthday to Jonothan and a happy bank holiday to everyone else.
Have fun reading
The Team at 'The Dickens Periodical'
Monday, 22 August 2011
Chapter 2
cool tiled floor. He would not budge for Salil, no matter how much gentle
prodding he tried. In the end Salil decided to wash the floor around the cat
and come back to that patch after finishing the rest.
If the cat would not move, then Salil felt he may be forced
to throw the dripping wet cloth at him.
But the house was large and there were many polished floor
tiles for Salil to clean. The household of Aahil Farah was a splendid place to
behold, the bathroom mosaic alone had been rumoured to cost a king’s ransom.
The elder women of the town debated the worth of the large house over coffee
while lounging in the shade of the Barbary fig tree, extolling the house’s
virtues and denouncing them in equal measure. Whatever the flavour of the
opinion however, all agreed that Aahil Farah; owner of the most stalls in the
market place, son-in-law to some of the most highly positioned people in the
region, had good taste.
Salil felt floors that needed cleaning three times a week
had little sense to them, even if they did look nice.
An hour and many polished tiles later Salil found himself back
in the sitting room with the cat. The cat which had not moved an inch.
After gentle poking had earned him three scratches to the
back of his hand Salil tried threats, which did nothing at all, after
convincing himself that it was the only way to get the cat to move and the
floor washed, Salil took aim with the cloth and-
‘SALIL!’ Shrieked the all too familiar voice of Haajar Farah,
his father’s third wife. ‘PUT DOWN THAT CLOTH NOW, YOU HORRID LITTLE MONSTER!’
Haajar The Wrathful rushed over to the cat, ‘oh little baby!
Has that wretched child frightened you again? Oh, your mummy will make things
well.’ The woman cooed. ‘SALIL! What do you think you are doing? Hateful boy,
you should have been put to the streets years ago!’ Haajar continued roughly
grabbing Salil by the wrist in a painful vice-like grip.
‘Binesh!’ called Haajar. ‘BINESH, I NEED YOU HERE NOW!’
‘’Oh No,’’ though
Salil, twisting to see the doorway where his inevitable doom would be walking
through. Haajar, was the daughter of Mr Shadid, one of Tuinis’ higher
magistrates, and not a man easily cowed. But Salil was fairly certain, no
matter how brave Mr Shadid was in the city halls- even he must have been a
intimidated by Haajar. Yet Haajar (as loud and ill tempered as she was)
frightened Salil a whole lot less than Binesh did.
‘What are you yelling for, Haajar?’ said another woman, Rubi
Farah, sauntering through the doorway making Salil’s heart leap unpleasantly as
his agony was prolonged.
Rubi Farah was the second wife of Aahil Farah, she was a
‘business acquisition’ so Salil had overheard from some of his father’s market
stall boys. As far as Salil could make out; a wife acquired as part of a
business deal meant someone gave you money, and you accepted responsibility for
a lazy woman that no one else wanted to marry.
Or that was Salil’s reasoning at least. Rubi Farah was the
spoiled young daughter of the well-off Daher family, she had spent much of her
youth spending all her father’s money on clothes and jewellery, and now she was
married she spent all her husband’s.
As Rubi threw her shopping on the floor and flopped down
onto the low sofa, scattering silk cushions everywhere, another woman’s
silhouette appeared at the door.
Salil was not so frightened this time as the large outline
was unmistakably that Khuzamah, the greedy one. Khuzamah daughter of Aaghaa Maalouf, a purveyor of dancing
bears, trained monkeys and other party entertainment.
‘Fingers in many pies’ as Haajar had
waspishly whispered to Rubi one day.
‘It’s more likely that his chubby fingers are
leading rich men around by their masculine tendencies,’ Rubi had replied, setting the
two of them off in giggles until Binesh had come in, scolded Salil for
listening in on conversations he was not involved in, and instructed both Rubi
and Haajar to hold their tongues or lose them.
At the present time however Salil stood, wrist now made
painfully sore by Haajar twisting it harshly, listening for any movement beyond
the wide arch of the doorway. He heard the wind catch the delicate hanging
birdcage on the balcony, he heard the purrs of the pampered cat Aswad as he was
cradled by Haajar. With each moment the room felt more alive as the women
around him talked, chattered, compared purchases; their voices a muffled noise
as Salil strained to hear beyond them, his hope that Binesh was not in the
house growing each second.
Despite his hope Binesh walked through the door.
She was the oldest of the women, around 46 at least, her
gaze eerily cold through the warm colour of brown eyes. She was not a woman of
high breeding or the relative of someone with powerful connections, in
comparison to Mr Farah’s other wives her social standing put her far below
them.
Never the less, the woman once known as Binesh Kassab,
daughter of a simple market butcher, walked into the room with authority borne
of knowing you are the one in control.
Haajar started up only to be silenced by Binesh, who pointed
at Salil, still in his compromising position. ‘I’ve been to the bedrooms, there
are clothes all over Rubi’s bed,’ said Binesh.
‘Yes,’ Salil agreed. ‘’He
had finished putting Rubi’s clothes away this morning! How on earth had she
managed to get the room messy again since arriving back from shopping?’’
‘I’ve also been to the kitchen, the food was almost
burning,’ said Binesh.
Salil highly doubted that as he had put the dinner on later
than he was supposed to but he would never have admitted that to Binesh. ‘Yes,
Binesh,’ he answered.
‘Also,’ said Binesh Farah beginning to walk slowly round the
room. ‘I see you plainly haven’t carried out your instruction to wash the
floors.’
Salil was aghast; he had spent all morning, many agonising
hours, washing the floors. ‘But I have, Binesh!’
She looked at him sharply, strode over, and grabbing him by
the ear forced his head down so he could look at the floor. ‘That,’ began
Binesh. ‘- is not a cleaned floor!’
Salil looked and then realised, ‘I’m sorry Binesh, but the
cat was laying on that bit, I was about to move him when you came home!’
‘LIES!’ screeched Haajar. ‘He was about to maliciously
attack Aswad!’
‘No!’ said Salil a little bit panicked. ‘It was only a bit
of water to get the cat to move! I couldn’t pick him up, he scratches me!
That’s why the floor wasn’t completely clean, I promise!’
Still while holding onto his ear Binesh pinched Salil hard
on the arm. ‘Don’t promise me lies, Salil’ she said guiding him round in a
circle to look at the rest of the room. ‘I don’t know what ‘’clean’’ means to
you, child, but this house is not clean!’ she continued, ‘the food is not
edible, the rooms look untouched, you are cruel to Haajar’s animal- no doubt to
spite her- and the floor of this room is dirty and dusty!’ she finished pulling
Salil in a circle and let go of his ear so he was able to stand and look at the
apparently unclean room.
Which it was.
There was the patch of unwashed floor where the cat was,
there were cushions that Rubi had knocked everywhere along with her shopping
strewn all over the place, the wet cloth that Salil had dropped when Haajar had
taken hold of him had unfortunately been soaking a pool of water into the rug, and
where the women had walked in from the market they had trailed dusty
footprints. Salil looked at his feet and started picking at his cuticles, there
was no point in him explaining that the house had been almost spotless before
his father’s four wives had arrived back. As Binesh dispassionately commanded
him to clean up his mess Salil
started making a prediction of the other wives instructions.
‘‘Khuzamah will ask
for food,’’ he thought, kneeling down to re-wash the floor with the
retrieved cloth, ‘’Haajar will want
tougher punishment for me next time, Rubi will want her shopping put away, and
Binesh- she will always find something for me to do.’’
As he worked around the room, Salil’s predictions came true
and he carried out the orders obediently, his arms and legs growing achy and
tired as he silently worked, closely watched by the women of the house as they
ate, drank cool refreshing drinks, talked and relaxed. At 12:25 the Adhan sounded in the streets of
Tunis, calling the faithful to prayer. Salil, loved that sound; it’s melody
meant much to the Muslim people, but also to Salil it signified the end of his
hard day and gave him respite from his father’s mean wives.
After midday prayers were complete Rubi rooted around in the
cupboards getting out cleaning cloths to be washed and knocking things
everywhere, she also got in the way of Khuzamah who had taken over the cooking
and this resulted in sharp words being exchanged that Salil could hear from the
sitting room. Salil had cleaned himself for his prayers and dressed better in
preparation for the return of his father. He couldn’t care two monkeys what the
women thought of him, but his father’s pride was like sunshine to him.
So sitting down at the table, better dressed and well kempt,
Salil began his lessons with Haajar. Today it was reading and he was to read
aloud perfectly or get a rap on the knuckles with a swishy stick that Haajar
had found a long time ago and had employed in Salil’s lessons ever since. Only
three raps today, he was getting better at reading it seemed.
Binesh, after making sure everything was in order, stationed
herself by the sitting room doorway. Fussily arranging the lavish curtains and
neatly positioning her golden bangles at equal distances. Binesh was a very
proud woman.
Soon raucous laughter echoed through the balcony arch and
everyone shifted and settled so they were looking their best. Salil heard the
scrape of the front door lock, the heavy shuffling of a tired man, before-
‘Now where is my welcome party?’ Mr Farah’s voice boomed
down the corridor before the man himself loped into sight from the shaded
corridor beyond.
Salil zoomed off the chair before anyone could say anything
to stop him, ‘Father!’ he shouted happily.
Mr Farah laughed heartily and spread his arms wide, exclaiming,
‘My little Salil, come and make a fuss of me, I’ve worked ever so hard today.’
Salil would have gratefully leapt up but he happened to
catch the eye of Binesh so skidded to a stop just short of his father’s arms
with a slight stumble, bowed respectfully and took a step back.
Mr Farah laughed again, ‘Aha, such respectful manners,’ he
observed. ‘But I think I’ll have my fill of frivolity first.’ Scooping up his
young son and plopping him on broad shoulders. At any other time Salil was sure
that his father’s wives would have said something about childish behaviour, but
with his father there, Salil felt no fear of retribution.
From his high perch Salil watched each of the women greet
and fuss over their husband, Khuzamah making her excuses afterwards to tend to
the dinner. Rubi went to fetch a bowl of water and a cloth as Haajar and Binesh
seated themselves around the low sofa which Salil was plonked on before Mr
Farah sat down next to him and cuddled the young boy closer to him.
The adults chatted, Binesh throwing jealous looks at Salil
for being allowed to sit next to her husband. Rubi accepted praise from Mr
Farah for the lovely presentation of the house as he washed his hands in the
beaten copper bowl she provided for him.
The rest of the evening was quite fine, Salil, again was
permitted to sit closest to his father at dinner and was flattered at his
father’s praise for the good meal, even if Khuzamah did take the credit.
‘So what useful lessons has Haajar taught you today, Salil?’
asked Mr Farah.
‘Many things,’ Haajar said, jumping in before Salil could
swallow his food to answer. ‘We did reading mostly, and then Salil offered to
bathe the cat while I went out shopping with the others.’
Her irony was lost on Mr Farah, but Salil noted a definite
shuffle of feet as Rubi stomped on Haajar’s foot in warning of getting too
cocky.
For a moment Salil thought his father had noticed as he
frowned slightly but he only enquired after who had escorted the women to town.
‘My brother, Majidah, attended us all the way from the front
step and back again,’ said Rubi.
Salil sat and chewed pensively as the women informed his
father about the fabricated day’s work they had all done. Salil was never sure
if his father knew Salil did all the work while the ladies bossed him about and
made more and more work for him. He remembered that one day the brother Rubi
mentioned, Majidah, had visited the house and Mr Farah had broached the subject
of Rubi not doing as much as she could around the house, but Majidah seemed to
convince his brother-in-law that there was no issue and things had carried on
as normal.
Later that night, when the sun had set and he had been sent
off to his bedroom with a kiss from his father and four icy stares from the
women, Salil mentally ticked off another day in his head. One less day until he
could try for The First Kiss.
The First Kiss of the day from the lovely Princess.
The First Kiss bestowed every Wednesday just before Sunset
prayers; the prayers which Salil took with his father, their routine excuse for
going off alone together to visit Salil’s mother.
The First kiss of the day from Chanda Farah, Aahil Farah’s
secret fifth wife.
Reenie’s Notes:
-
Aswad is an Arabic name for ‘black’, I imagine
Aswad as an overfed, mostly black tortoiseshell cat. My Thanks go to the lazy
feline next to me for his unremitting commitment to indolently lolling about
and providing the inspiration for Aswad.
-
Just as a side note, Aahil and Salil go to Chanda’s
secret room every Wednesday at 4pm under the pretext of Aahil setting that time
aside to take afternoon prayers with Salil. Aahil, Salil and Chanda pray as a
family in separate rooms and then use the rest of the time to talk to each
other.