Also in print and soon on audio. Read all about it here
http://askdavid.com/reviews/book/espionage/8211
http://askdavid.com/reviews/book/espionage/8211
Wednesday, 7 May 2014
A FREE book for bedtime
Tuesday, 6 May 2014
In front of the front line - Bruce Howat
I was surprised to learn that Bruce was an ex policeman and dog handler. When he decided to write a series of episodes about his experiences he immediately attracted a wide audience of readers with some really well written interesting stories about himself and he beloved dog - Cara. I loved this one and hope you do.
Submitted by Bruce Howat on Saturday 23
February 2013
The higher in an organisation a person is
the more distant they are from the front line.
Don, the night shift Senior Sergeant was a
neat guy, but like a number at that rank, they lived in fear of those above
them. Hence, they were prone to
no-decision disease. Don was in his late
forties, a former country Policeman and a cricket fanatic. I was the night shift dog handler and it was
a quiet night. Having a cuppa with Don
and the Night shift Operations staff, I started to tease him about forgetting
the realities of the street. It was all
in good fun and then the 111 light started to flash. No chatting!
The operator needed to concentrate on the call. The second operator was monitoring and hand
signalled for me to get on the road. I
challenged Don to come with me for one job.
He ran into his office and got his cap and handcuffs.
Don could not keep up with me as I flew
down the stairwell to the basement car park. Cara knew my footsteps and was
standing up, tail thumping against the side of the dog van. When the boss rushed like this, something exciting
was ahead. I gunned the engine and then
remembered Don.
He eventually got in.
“You’re going to have to be faster than
that at a job if we are to catch anyone.”
“Shut up and drive.”
Operations had the basement door open. The radio cracked the silence.
A domestic dispute at Whatawhata with a
well-known family.
Past incidents at this family had led to my
colleagues being hospitalised – this family were dangerous. A patrol car was already on the way and dogs
the back up.
As we flew around Hamilton Lake, in my
peripheral vision I could see Don clutching the door handrail. His was extremely pale in colour. The van went through the corners smoothly and
balanced even at speed. Down Killarney
Road at a decent speed and the radio again, cracks the silence.
“Dogs, return to central. Armed offenders’ incident - Whitianga.”
One second the van was doing about 100kph
in one direction and the next; it was doing the same in the other. The techniques from the Police Driving School
were worth their weight in gold to make us feel safe.
I did not notice that Don was not
talking. I called ahead for someone to
bring out my regulation firearm as I pulled up out front of the station. When the pistol etc. passed through the
window I, realised Don was sitting still.
“Senior, you need to get out. I will be away all night – you can’t come.”
Don was physically shaking. The young Constable rushed around to the
passenger’s side and helped a pale Don, who appeared to be going slightly
green, alight from the van. I gunned the
van straight onto the Bridge Street bridge.
The car coming the other way appeared cautious. Later I was to find out it was the AOS (Armed
Offenders Squad) Inspector responding to the call out. I will not repeat what he said to me the next
morning when it was all over; suffice it to say my delicate ears burnt.
Luckily I had refuelled the vehicle when I
went in for my cuppa so I knew I had plenty of fuel for the long haul to
Whitianga (normally 2 ½ hours). I did
not have to conserve fuel for the high-speed trip.
There had been a shooting at the local
Whitianga Hotel and only the sole local Police dealing with the incident. Knowing I would be the first Police to arrive
meant no gentle trip. Two guys, with
more alcohol than they could handle had come into the bar with their hunting
rifles. They started to take pot shots
at ornaments and drinks. Public safety
and a colleague’s life were at risk and the sooner the better. Policing was often a numbers game.
Cara lay down in the back, coiled into a
ball under my window. She could brace
herself without bouncing all over the van.
It was a self-taught mechanism for keeping herself safe in high-speed
situations. The jet-black German
Shepherd was hard to spot in the corner when she was like this. The journey was over a variety of roads, but
the latter stages were through the hills of the Coromandel Peninsula. Coromandel is extremely windy, up and down
piece of road. Through the hill country,
radio reception was intermittent.
As I neared Whitianga I came back into
radio contact.
“Dogs where are you?”
I stopped a short distance up the road from
where I received the call. The offenders
had left the Hotel and believed to be on my road. I was to take a static checkpoint until the
rest of the AOS arrived. Great – time
for a leak. Dog and man had more relaxed
internal bladders.
While waiting, many possible scenarios are
role played in the mind. I did not
role-play for the fun of it – it was all about mental preparation for the
variety of scenarios that might unfold.
About twenty minutes later the rest of the squad arrived. A report came in that the offenders’ car was
at the end of a long straight, around the next corner from where I had
stopped. No one knew if the offenders
were still in the vehicle. The first
thing to do was check out the vehicle.
A couple of rifleman snuck along the side
of the road to check the straight. It
was a beautiful night and if a young man was with a woman, he fancied it was
the perfect night for romance. A full
moon danced its light rays across the roadside flax creating a daylight
effect. Perfect for the dangerous
operation we had ahead.
The riflemen were back very quickly and
reported the car on the side of the road at the other end of the straight. The Inspector decided it was too dangerous
for the squad to proceed.
I was to use the dog to check out the
car. I asked for a covering rifleman and
we crept up to the corner. The car was
easily visible in the bright full moon, but it was close to 800 metres
away. To use Cara I would have to use
hand signals to control her and that required getting considerably closer than
we were. There was only one choice. We would have to crawl our way along the road
until I got close enough to be able to use Cara with hand signals only. The other dilemma was the rifleman had a
radio and he had to report to AOS base what was going on. On a still night, the radio noise travels for
miles. We calculated how drunk we
thought the offenders probably were, they were in a closed vehicle (we hoped)
and behind closed car doors. The
rifleman could come about half the distance and then Cara and I were on our
own.
To survive in these moments I had to block
out all risks and rely on sharp wits and instinct. Darkness, my friend was absent, a silent
still night for noise travel, my enemy.
I took the lead of Cara and tied it around
myself. I could not afford the risk of
the chain hitting the road or her giving problems getting it off when we got
close. Cara loved armed incidents. The adrenaline tension in our demeanours kept
her extra alert. Her performance was
always top notch but on an armed incident, it rose a few notches.
The crawl is a command Cara knew, but it
bored her if it took too long to get anywhere.
Tonight was to test her patience and obedience to new levels. Eight hundred metres in daylight, under
normal circumstances is not very far. A
rifle bullet travels reasonably fast and for long distances, so all the risky
scenarios made it a painful, slow journey to get close to the vehicle. The mind and body are on high alert. Cara is twitchy. She is not keen on crawling and I cannot
afford to use voice commands to make her behave. After about 10 metres with me stopping ever
couple to force her back to the crawl position, she settles down. The motion is of seals on land heading for
the water to traverse the distance.
The whole time I am trying to calculate how
close I can get to the vehicle. Once
near the vehicle Cara sent forward to indicate if there is someone inside. My problem is the only command I have for
such a situation is “find and speak”.
Translated into human that means she is supposed to bark if she smells
humans. When Cara gets close to the car,
I realise I am too far away to control the situation. I stop her and seal crawl towards her. This must be close enough. This does not feel good. The adrenaline is fair pumping. My mind cannot afford to race, but there are
so many possible scenarios ahead.
Coolness wins the day or in this case the night.
Cara goes forward. She half crawls, half runs up to the
car. She springs to her feet and is
about to bark when I give her the “drop” signal. The split second it takes her to register
what is going on felt like half an hour.
She dropped by the vehicle. No
barking! Huge sigh of relief!
I signal her to come to me. She just up and runs. I had forgotten to tell her to crawl. I signal the rifleman to come up to us. We wait.
We wait and he arrives. The radio
turned off.
I whisper in his ears, sorry this is not a
love scene. We decide to crawl to the
vehicle ourselves; he will take the left side and me the right. From Cara’s reaction, I am sure the person(s)
are in the back seat. An eternity later,
we are at the vehicle. Looking towards
each other under the vehicle we signal the one two three. In other words, on three we leap into
action. Cara, still off her lead is
beside me, even keeping her tail still at this critical time.
Three!
I leap up, pistol in hand and wrench open the back right door. In pure reflect reaction timing my pistol
drives into his right nostril, why I explain the weakness of his parenting and
anatomy. Between his legs is the loaded
rifle, safety off.
Cara comes alive, barking her head
madly. I yank the rifle from between his
legs and place it onto the road. The
offender, with pistol still assisting nostril breathing, removed from the
car. I pull the pistol back and tell him
to lay face first on the ground. Cara
must not bite, but she is enjoying herself rearranging his clothes without a
mark on his flesh. Handcuffs are
applied. The rifleman has used the same
technique, minus dog. He calls up for
the rest of the squad.
Six hours after leaving Hamilton I arrive
back to pack up for the night. I hear Senior
Sergeant Don had gone home sick. He
lasted until the Whitianga apprehension of the offenders and then told one of
the Sergeants to take over from him. He
left muttering something about he would never travel with that nutter “Howat”
again.
Monday, 5 May 2014
Remember the back room boys and girls.
A comment on Suraya's blog - Governance: Getting the timing right. Read her blog http://www.thestorymint.com/blog/suraya-dewing/governance-getting-timing-right#sthash.R6ojRXtw.WaNdYgbJ.dpuf
I would love to remind members that running
any department of a company like The Story Mint is not a few hours a week job -
it is 24 -7. I am sure, and know from personal experience; Mary Liz will have
gray hair and be taking happy pills on a regular basis as she enters 2014
running the serials. It is such a great high working with talented writers and
publishing their work. I love this blog and am sure readers will begin to
realize how much hard work goes on behind the scenes as they read Suraya's
words. For every serial chapter published there are hours of work involved from
editing and administration work to co-coordinating writers. That is just one
small part of what The Story Mint is about. Bruce has many hats of his own,
business wise to wear, yet he spends hours running FaceBook, LinkedIn, and
chairing meetings. Suraya is involved 7 days a week marketing, educating and
pushing the Style Guide for education in schools and business throughout the
world. As she says, you cannot do this unless you have belief in the product
you are working with and enthusiasm to succeed. She also edits. In 2013 I
started here, thinking what an exciting prospect The Story Mint was - I still
do, even though recently I have taken a back seat as Publishing Manager to
write my next book, and start a new blog, and started using Google+ to push our
serials, oh yes, and keep in contact with members, pushing them to book
chapters. Some back seat! I feel I jumped out of one driving seat into another.
The thing is, we have all got caught up in a product that we know is a winner
and so we keep pushing. Very soon we (The Story Mint) will land on someone's
desk and as they say - the rest will become history. I think the message to all
members is clear. Keep supporting those who support you in your endeavors to
be published and recognized.Sunday, 4 May 2014
A Perfect Illusion - Anna Zhigareva
'Revenge', her last short posted here, proved very popular so here Anna posts another short that caught my eye and that of a lot of fellow writers. If you have some work you would like to post here please E me at ray@raystoneauthor.com Thank you for your support.
You see the bright ribbon twirl round the
dancer’s body as she skillfully turns it in a spiral again and again until your
vision is filled with a flowing pink strip, curving its way flawlessly through
the air. You then see the flashing lights as they appear and go, silently
signaling the change of scene. You see a beautiful white horse, bred and
trained in the magical expanses of Andalucian hills, cantering towards you, its
mane floating lightly in the crackling air and its nostrils flaring with
excitement. You smile in contentment, marveling at the beauty and perfection of
such earthly beings.
On the surface, everything seems perfect,
unparalleled: the smiling faces of the clown, the cheerful wave of the acrobat
as he prepares for his final jump, the uncanny resemblance of the monkey to his
master that makes even the most disheveled faces break into unsteady grins, and
the broad arms and strong emotional embrace with which the circus performers
greet their new audience. But take a proper look inside those animated eyes and
uncharacteristic smiles and you will see the truth that is hidden so fiercely
beneath the plastered make-up. You will see the hours of tireless effort, the
pain of healing injuries, the heart-aches and personal loss. You will discern the
stressful darts of the eyes towards the wings, where the technical staff bustle
about with panicked glances towards the arena, making sure all is well. To the
clueless eye of the crowd, we are just a bunch of enthusiastic lunatics,
walking the tightrope with no guarantee of making it to the other side,
flipping from beams and bars so seemingly effortlessly that no one ever knows
the gymnast holds his breath every single time he does it. We are known for our
wild stunts, swinging from the horse’s side at full gallop, ours eyes always
filled with hunger to encompass and satisfy the expectant eyes of the audience.
We lead the perilous daily lives of circus performers. It is what feeds us,
gives us energy. It is what keeps our hopes high. Hopes that we can save a
crying child from his horrible memories, or distract, if only for an hour or
two, a devastated housewife who’s husband went missing a few days ago. We raise
people’s hopes, and that within itself, is an achievement worth fighting for.
We are an ordinary circus troupe, touring
the country from one small town to the next. We perform evening shows and spend
the following morning driving to our
next destination, where we once again rig up the tent and wait quietly for the
buzz of the audience to drag us out of our dreary gloom. Some of my mates play
guitar. I have never struck a chord in my life. I prefer to occupy myself with
the animals: feed them, replace the horses’ straw, go into town to buy the
carnivores some fresh meat to present as a treat after the show. No one is
there to set the arena and tent for us, and so we do it ourselves, benefitting
from the extra exercise as we sweat and heave in the scathing summer heat or
shiver and blow miniature puffs of clouds during the cold winter months. Most of
us, we are eager beaver country kids, raised and taught on farms among cattle
and sheep dogs, far away from the urban coastal areas where the rich and
educated reside. We grew up as rural-bred kids, and I am grateful for the
freedom of the secluded world I grew up in, the world the rich attribute as
ignorant and ungraceful. The cultured but consumed world of the elite does not
see past our simplicity and seemingly empty humour. But I know our experiences
were worthwhile, for, as we matured, we became open-minded and independent
individuals, eager to leave the home, where we were raised by loving parents,
to explore and try out the wonders of the big world, excited at the prospect of
new cultures, languages and possibilities.
I myself was born and grew up in a little
religious town called Carpendale, in West Virginia. My name is Randy Burn,
slightly ironic as I almost burnt down the primary school I attended in a
clumsy science experiment, although that was many years ago and I can now
probably coincide that with the fact that my lab partner was a ginger
swashbuckler, never seizing to attempt a ridiculous prank on one of the less
rowdier students. But back to me. My name is Randy and by no means am I here to
make you sympathize with me and my circus friends petty lives, although you do
have a right to do so as you go about reading just like you have a right to
crumple this in your two hands and chuck it at the nearest bin. I would
recommend you the former option. Reading this could not take more than five
minutes of your precious life. Perhaps you have no time for such nonsense of
mine, but perhaps you are one of those lonely people who have just lost your
job and are praying for the first time in your life for a spark of inspiration
to hit your worried little head. Well, I promise you this isn’t a fairytale,
but I trust you already realize the world is not the sweetest smelling rose in
the garden. Be it that or not, I am here to open your innocent eyes for the
first time and point your glazed expression at a side you may never have seen
before, because it hides so securely behind your loyal performers’ twinkling
star-shaped eyes and broad, red-lipsticked smiles. I am here to tell my story.
After the inevitable – all though many
would argue with me on the matter – Wall Street Crash of 1929, my parents,
having lost most of their savings and belief in the better America, moved out
of the crowded city and strutted about aimlessly, living no more than a month
in each small town, until, that is, they realized my Mum was pregnant with me.
I will not bore you with the story of their only child bravely volunteering and
dying in the Pacific during the First World War, just like I will not
purposefully stretch the joy it brought them to learn they had conceived another
child, the prospect at which their loving hearts fluttered and soared. Of
course, they would have given anything for a second chance at raising a child.
Carpendale seemed like the obvious choice,
and so they settled at last. Small town, Christian school. Quiet neighbourhood
with people keeping to themselves, minding their own business. Oh, yes, my
parents would take pleasure in raising me the way they had always wanted to
raise Joe. I was to eat healthily, study notoriously, and, when the time came to
start pondering over my near future, there was no uncertainty. I was to
graduate from my Christian school and apply to become a pastor.
Ha. It must have come as a vicious blow
when I walked into that church, the same one I was baptized in, called for
Father Michael…and ripped the signed application papers in half before throwing
them into the astonished man’s face and walking out just as determinedly as I
had entered. You see, religion requires your constant, unconditional love and
attention. Drilled into my head from the day I could coherently speak and
believed my parents were the sole and rightful main characters in my story. I
was sick of it. Beyond sick. I was tired and angry of having people dictate my
life, even if it had raised me as a good, respectable man. That same night I
packed my bags before my parents returned home from work, ate a perfectly
reddened apple from the tree outside my window – the only perfect thing I
remembered for a long time after that – and walked out the door.
I bumped into my neighbour as I walked out
onto the street. He was Dad’s friend from church. No doubt he had already heard
about the incident from some perk of a witness that had been silently praying
to God or Jesus or whoever it was I didn’t care anymore when I had caused the
commotion, and so was here to lecture me on my newly acquired sins. You see,
even in little towns that appear to be so quiet and respectful, gossip spreads
like hushed whispers inside a cathedral’s walls.
My neighbour scrutinized me, contemplating
whether to physically bar my way or try to reason some sense into me. Then he
nodded curtly. I nodded back. And that was the last conversation I had in the
little town of West Virginia.
I cannot remember how exactly – 36 years
have passed and I am an older man now – that I got to New York, and from there
boarded the first shop sailing out of the port. It was a heavy, container
loaded, metal red beast, heading to England. Build in the 1940s, it was not a
new ship, and creaked and groaned constantly, pleading for a call that would
finally signal its right to redundancy. I snuck onto the massive thing and
allowed, each time someone inquired, for a little harmless white lie to spread.
I pretended, as I had dreamt so many times through childhood, that I was one of
the caregivers for the animals. I had always found a distinct fancy to the cat,
though I had never been fortunate enough to look after the marvellous creature.
In fact, the only contact I had ever had with one was when, one sunny summer
afternoon, I noticed something orange cowering and shuffling around in the
shade of a bush by our property. What I picked up and carried into the house
back then seemed some sort of a ginger blob of fur and sparkling green eyes. I
let the stray curl inside my warm jacket for the rest of the late summer month
and I marvelled at its beauty whenever I came back from church school. The
little furry ball would always be waiting for me at the doorstep, mewling for a
bit of attention, which he always received perhaps even in larger doses than
was healthy. Those were the happiest days of my life, but only two weeks after
I had acquired this precious little being, my parents heard his meowing one
Saturday evening and kicked the poor thing out. I never heard the end of it for
six years. And the little ginger cat never came back.
The containers held three large cats: a
lion, lioness, and a half-grown yellow cub that often stared at me with his
luminous crystal blue eyes. The other animal caregivers distanced themselves
from his cage and never made eye contact with the lovely creature, wary of his
ever lasting presence in the damp oceanic atmosphere. On those rare occasions
that they had to feed him while I was sleeping or mopping the deck on the far
side of the ship, they would carefully kneel down, shove the meat through the
narrow space between two bars and hurry off, pointedly staring ahead as if they
were teribly late for another job. Indeed, everyone, even the captain’s crew
that visited us on a daily basis, always walked past the cub’s cage, their
gazes firmly trained forward, seemingly oblivious to the young persona staring
up at them intently through the bars of his confinement.
It was not long before I realized the
reason behind those silent blue eyes. Tommy, as I had temporarily christened
him, not once looked up when I rattled the cage lock to supply his daily meals;
he did not stumble awake when a burst out in laughter from the crew would have
woken even the heavily asleep cat in the captain’s cabin on the other side of
the ship. A week into my new routine, I revealed in a great dismay of certainty
that the cub was, in fact, deaf. He never growled, only stared silently at
passersby, as if contemplating on his being, or perhaps simply enjoying what little
company the crew could muster. At first, this fathoming knowledge struck me as
a shock of sympathy and helplessness, turning to fear as to the likely
inadequacy of the cub if this trip was ever to result in a commotion. Soon,
however, I knew in ascertainment and without a single speck of doubt that this
youngster would not hurt a soul if he could help it. I saw the outmost
gentleness and generosity that a large cat could ever show with which he took
his food from my hands, the way he delicately ate and then licked his paws,
aware of several other animals’ eyes on him, testing. We both felt secure and
strong in our new-found bond, and basked in the happy few days of this unlikely
friendship.
A few days before our arrival to
Southampton, England, I began picking the puzzling pieces of what little chunks
of information I had about these animals and placing them in chronology. I
quickly learnt from the head caregiver that an old bloke on the outskirts of
London was setting up a little circus and that he had been able to acquire more
than sufficient funds from rich colleagues and friends. The man had a
reputation of a ‘bag of wind’, as people used to say in my hometown. He was
known as an avid spokesperson, though rarely carried his projects through to the
end. He famously bragged of the fantastic life he was so fortunate to lead
under the steady eyes of God, and of his wonderful career and philanthropy. All
of this was, of course, a fat bag of tell-tales. The man had nothing to stand
behind his charming charisma. Or at least that is what I was told.
Interestingly, despite the negative relationship the ship crew seemed to
experience with him, British towns were buzzing with sheer excitement,
impatiently waiting to pour over his new development. People desperately needed
– and always will need – encouragement from bright flying banners fanning over
the round arena of cheerful red smiles beaming up at their audience as if they
have the power to take away all the worries in the world.
A circus is many things: a glitter party, a
well-choreographed performance, an electric charge of energetic current running
through both the crowd and performers, an impeccable vision to experience for
two hours. But, for many, it is simply a world of foolish happiness, into which
all ages would gladly submerge for eternity if it was enough to erase their
hopeless lives. Those two hours of enjoyment and pleasure in a relieving and
relaxing atmosphere are a hiding place from the ever-crowded lives we lead; it
is an oasis in the empty desert of people’s tired minds; it is a rewarding
escape for those in need. And even when the music dies, the audience is left
with a feeling of self fulfilment, of power, as if they themselves had just
performed a triple salto in front of a roaring crowd and had been shot out of
the blue cannon as a finishing act to land with all the elegance in the world
on the upper level platform of the circus tent. The energy of the performers is
transferred through a magical combination of colours and flight to the happy,
marvelling eyes of the audience, so that they in turn are able to feel agility
and speed. So that they are able to believe… Unconsciously, the ordinary member
of the crowd suddenly becomes a young and once again robust teenager, ready to
spring into battle.
I hitched a cheap ride to London from the
port as soon as I was off the ship. Charlie, a ginger kid, and two years my
junior, offered to take me to wherever it was that I was going. As it turned
out, he was heading for the same place, having heard that the owner was in the
process of hiring staff and performers for his new ‘development’. He didn’t
blink an eye-lid when I confessed in an array of tired emotions that I had no
skills needed for this type of job. Apart from having a friend teach me how to
juggle three round oranges some five years ago, I was as close to offering my
services as an acrobat or juggler as I was to flying a plane. So to speak, I knew nothing whatsoever about
circus procedures.
“We’re all in the same boat, man,” was all
he said, shifting gears as we rounded the last corner and headed down a gravel
path towards what seemed to be a double-chimney house with an adjoined shed
full of cages from the container ship that had probably arrived a few hours
earlier. Six or seven of these cages were stacked carelessly on top of each
other in a mess of lions, horses and chimpanzees, while the other three were
placed at random angles in the corner of the shed as if someone had simply put
them down and left.
An acrid smell filled the air before my
nostrils as we got out of the car and approached the heavily panelled wooden
door. I longed to comfort the wild cats and soothe the hairs on the little
chimpanzees’ necks, and then replace their dirty bedding with fresh sweet
straw, but Charlie had already pounded his fist on the brown oak. This guy
seemed to like his protection. And who wouldn’t? After all, even back then, we
lived in a world full of secrecy and deception, with seemingly lovely and
cultured individuals waiting for just the perfect moment to trip us up on our
path. Who was I to say I knew better? Did I not single-handedly destroy what
connection I had with something I always related to as home? Only two weeks
ago, I had been comfortably sitting beside my fellow Sunday school attendees,
so engrossed in Father Michael’s powerful sermon, that no one could have ever
predicted my life would take such an abrupt turn as to fling me all the way
across half the world to end up in a smelly yard of some wannabe millionaire,
who knew nothing about the circus, or wild animals for that matter, that is, if
I was to judge by the smelly crates so carelessly piled in the poorly lit shed.
“May I help you?”
The person that appeared on the doorstep
was as close to the man I had painted a thorough picture of in the back of my
mind as a lion was to a zebra. He had slick black hair; in fact, so slick, that
I doubted it stood out of place even when he was sleeping. His eyes sparkled
unpleasantly, making me want to return to my original idea of tending to the
animals first. The menace in them reminded me of a vicious dog I once
encountered coming home from school. Its eyes had been enough to send me racing
back the way I had come from. I remember waiting till nightfall before poking
my noise out of hiding and skitterishly heading home, aware of every single
pebble that crunched under my shoes as I walked along the deserted road. The
man himself seemed to be well-mannered and welcomed us appropriately once we
had announced out interest – no matter how inexperienced – in his circus.
Strangely, I still cannot shake off the crooked smile he bestowed upon us
throughout the following few months as we began settling into our daily jobs,
but neither I nor Charlie dared to speak a single word of his lacking dentine fitness.
He had, after all, given us a job.
It is now 1988, the height of the rock era,
and you may think that with all the evolution of new music genres and teenagers
that could not care less about fluffy toys and silly birthday clowns waving
bright balloons in their faces, but would rather waste time on dirt bikes and
chains, that the public has lost all regard for the circus. Well, let me assure
you of no such thing. With the comings of new technology, interests may have
developed beyond the simple joy of upbeat march music and walloping monkeys,
but I am now fifty-four, and have seen not one show where the stands
surrounding our little arena were not packed to the top. Indeed, people may
diverse into groups of common interests and leisure pursuits, but there is not
one person out there who could truthfully tell you they have no love for the
circus, for its bright colours and flashing lights, its smiling acrobats and
magical tone.
The Duglas Circus, as it was called back
then, was set up not long after I was hired. I took care of the animals, while
Charlie was in charge of grooming the country in search of talented young
performers searching for an escape, a somewhat stable yet relatively
spontaneous environment among friends although with no real attachments. He
picked out farmers’ kids, school drop-outs and class clowns, from time to time
mixing in an elite couple of gymnasts to help the nightly shows flow smoothly.
The circus is like any European country, really, holding within itself a
comfortable clash of different cultures, creatures and emotions, where all
these sides manage to coexist in a semi-perfect harmony. Of course there are
the odd hassles and squabbles, but most would find that we circus freaks
actually have a whole deal more in common with you than any other type of
entertainers. We are a family, perhaps slightly larger than one would expect,
but a family nevertheless. Believe me, were we not as close as to be able to
practically read each other’s thoughts, I, for one, would not still be here.
And neither would the acrobats, jugglers, the ever-cheerful clowns, and the
grim ringmasters. In a circus, we are a microcosm of the world, as well as a
fragment of a puzzle, without which the world would simply not be the same.
As we toured the country, and even visited
Charlie’s hometown, Dublin, in Ireland, the lion cub, or Tommy, as he kept
going by, and I built a more trust-bound friendship and learnt to treasure and
respect our unique bond. It frightened my friends to often see me curled up
fast asleep beside the snoring cub, and months took it up in their steady pace
to eventually convince them there was no one in the world the cub loved more,
and that this connection was mutual. But years go by, do they not? And soon –
if ten years can really fly by like an insignificant fraction of one’s life – I
was stood before the grave of my best friend. My one true loyal follower and
partner, someone who I could put the trust of the world into, lay before my
feet and there was not one word of consolation I could utter to make up for
this loss, not one syllable worth of compensation.
Well, a story always has to come to a
close, at some point it is going to happen, but I do not wish to leave you in
baffled silence, for I long for the whole world to once more share
conversations of flying banners and the sound of galloping hooves on sand like
a sign of serenity among chaos, a brought back memory of a long-forgotten
holiday on the coast of Spain or Australia. I want the world to once again be
consumed in talk about us circus freaks, and how Natasha does the triple salto
every night without a single flaw in technique. It is as simple as sipping
lemonade on a hot summer’s afternoon, while the rest of the troupe busies
themselves with rigging up the tent for the night’s performance, not that I
have ever experienced the luxurious pleasure of such relaxation. It is simple,
it is not enough for me to see the glowing eyes of the crowd every night. My
heart swells in pride when we stand shoulder to shoulder for the final bow
while Katrina flies like a soaring eagle from one beam to the next and lands in
a graceful somersault in Ben’s outstretched arms. However, the lingering
feeling of the foul breath that is reality, behind our never fading stage
smiles, denies me a restful sleep every night. The irony of pleasing the
audience when our own lives are in tatters has gone beyond the selfish will for
change. Not a single person, man or child, notices the hurried stitches on the
red pants of the juggling clown, or the sweat beneath the thick coat of make-up
that so securely hides our true side. Humans see what they want to see, what
they come here to see: glowing costumes, bright banners…without noticing the
cheap tag at the back. The circus is really all one big illusion, but such a
realistic one that we are able to fool even the sceptics into a world of happiness
and joy, and let their eyes swim with images of beauty and perfection. The
audience also innocently misses the fear behind the older performers’ red
smiles. The life of any actor is short. And when that realization creeps in at
the weakest of moments: an injury, a sickness, emotional strain, there is no
turning back and your life seems to plummet faster towards the dark end than
you ever imagined it capable. Yes, the circus is a true illusion, a pretty
picture to the mind, holding light promises on the wind, and then with a
twinkle and a flash, it is all gone and people have to return to their normal
lives. It is like a gold medal a kid gets awarded for his first ever win at a
talent show. The side you see is gold and shiny, projecting youthful energy and
an open, ambitious heart, but no one in the audience ever sees the other side,
the cheap, ugly grey of the plastic that the two-faced medal really is.
I only ask now for the younger generation,
who are presented as open-minded and innovative saviours of the twentieth
century, to continue the dynasty – if it can possibly be called that – of what
we do. It is not much to ask for. After all, we are just a bunch of drop-outs
or renegades, simply seeking a fulfilment in our daily motions.
So when you next see a circus tent erected
on the field by your school or in the neighbourhood, busy yourself in attending
the one show we offer in each town. We do not provide the luxurious stage set
of Las Vegas theatres and we cannot afford the exorbitant decorations and silk
costumes of Cirque de Soleil, just like we cannot hire infamous Russian
acrobats, but what we do create is an atmosphere filled with love, regard and
static energy. We let out music and colours flare and sound in the ears of the
audience like the music of a cagebird flying free for the first time. We amaze
with our energetic swoops from the very top platforms of the tent and the
gentleness with which we guide the clumsy bear cub to his blue box at centre
stage.
It may be a numbing routine or an
unnecessary risk to many, but it is our job. Perhaps lacking in pay. Perhaps
dangerous and heart breaking, but it only takes a second to see the spotlights
run freely over the joyful smiles of the crowd and you forget all of that. The
risk is what it takes to see the gleam in an orphan’s eyes or a smile appear on
a widower’s tear-stained face. Then, the distraught and darkness of life behind
the curtains does not matter at all.
Thursday, 1 May 2014
The Legends of the Milky Way - J Celeste
A very talented young writer who burst upon The Story Mint scene last year with this superb piece of work.
Submitted by JCeleste on Saturday 30 March
2013
There are stories, whispered among children
huddled around a campfire, about the Milky Way:
Once upon a time, long before there were
trees and rivers, planets and stars, or the moons that circled them, there was
a thing—dark, plain and full of possibility—called Space.
At that time, the children of the Gods––who
were Gods themselves, but didn’t know it yet––set up playgrounds in Space where
they could do whatever they wanted.
One of these children we will call
Infinity.
Infinity had been to the other playgrounds
and saw that some of their toys––which they called planets––had people who had
adventures on their own piece of the planet and died. These people were sad
when they had to let go, because they wanted to be where they had just been,
because they missed the people and things they had left behind.
Infinity decided to take her playground and
make it a home to all these lost and lonely people. From Infinity’s section,
the people could look down on their loved ones, disguised as a star.
At the break of dawn on their home planet,
the stars hid for a while. The people played with each other until night came
and they could watch over their friends again.
Sometimes, when people tried and their
loved ones listened, they could have a conversation. Occasionally the
conversation came in a dream or as a random thought, but it made the people
very happy because they weren’t alone anymore, and the others from their home
life were not alone either.
Word got out among all the people of all
the universes and soon Infinity’s playground was nothing but a white sea of
stars, so she called it The Milky Way.
***
Once upon a time, in a Space playground,
there was a beautiful planet with whispering rivers, erupting mountains, and
forests and deserts that stretched out forever. In an itty-bitty part of that
planet, a boy and his father made their own playground and had many adventures
together.
One day the father didn’t wake up and the
boy was left alone. He was sad because he never got to say goodbye. He kept
dreaming his father promising, “I’ll be right there.” But his father was
nowhere, just a vision in a dream, a feeling in the air, sometimes a voice in
the boy’s head that whispered things his father had once said.
This boy had a friend, a girl who believed
in fairy tales and second chances, and she told him it was a sign that his
father came at night. She dragged him outside and shared the story of how the
Milky Way came to be. She pointed to the North Star. “That’s got to be your
dad; it’s the star that shines brightest and it’s the only star you can see
wherever you are. So no matter where you go or what you do, he will always be,”
she took the boy’s hand and pointed, “right there. See?”
He doubted this, since he mostly believed
in things he could see, touch and smell.
She insisted the stars could whisper, and
share secrets with the people they had loved or who had ever loved them, if
they listened real carefully.
She went back inside and he listened, but
he had to close his eyes to hear the best, so he did, still facing the star.
The breeze whispered, it’s all right. A voice inside followed with I’ll be
there for you, always. He sensed warmth, and knew his father was next to him.
“Dad?”
Without having to use words, but sometimes
using them anyway, the boy found himself having a sort of conversation with his
father, where he even heard his father laugh.
The boy’s sense of abandonment vanished.
Instead he possessed a warm certainty that, no matter where he was, or what he
did, his father would always be right there––even if only in a whisper, a
feeling, or a voice in his head—and always in the stars.
***
Once upon a time, when the pretty marble
planet was still new but a bit older, the girl who had once believed in fairy
tales and second chances found out she loved the boy who had once believed in
only the things he could touch, smell and see with his eyes.
Somewhere in the confusion and adventure of
growing up, they had switched places––he would spend nights watching for the
new stars and talking with his father, while she pretended to believe but
sometimes cried herself to sleep, because deep in her, she knew that someday
she would be left alone. Yet when she was with him, she was happy.
They had grown up together and were still
best of friends, completely in love and ready to grow old together. But one day
he did not wake up and she grew old in a minute and died in the heart. She
wouldn’t hear the whispers in the breeze, the voices in her head, and cut off
the feelings in the air, that warm, unexplainable understanding that it would
be all right.
The little planet whirled around and
everywhere people were being born, growing up, growing old and dying, but she
didn’t know about it because she had shut herself up in a little room with only
one window, and one balcony, where she could see the ocean, lit by stars.
She mostly stayed in her little room and
slept, but one day she woke up and it was morning. She stood on the balcony and
gazed at the ocean, coming in and going out, lit by the sun, which slowly
crossed the azure sky. The sky became pink, gold and purple, then cerulean and
black, lit by countless stars and a quarter moon.
She stared at the sky but couldn’t really
see it, because she was imagining the days when she and her love had once
camped out in the daisy field and told each other stories.
A shooting star reminded her of a legend
she had believed in as a girl, about the Milky Way.
Sometimes the person would take his place
in the Milky Way, but he missed whomever he had left behind too much, so he
came back.
His star would fall and anyone who saw this
would say it was a shooting star.
Because the sight was usually restricted to
those who the person had loved, and was coming back for, the shooting star was
considered rare and magical.
Those who saw it would make a wish, and
very often their wish would come true.
She closed her eyes and made a wish, that
she could see her love again, that she could believe in fairy tales and second
chances, even if it just meant she wouldn’t have to be alone.
In that moment, the wind picked up and
whistled through the trees, chimes from who-knows-where tinkled, she saw him
smile, and the night which had been so cold, grew warm.
It’s going to be all right.
She breathed deeply. Without having to use
words, but sometimes using them anyway, she had a conversation with him. From
then on, she was never alone; she carried him with her, in a whisper, a
feeling, a memory, and in the stars.
***
-Epilogue-
Years later, the girl wrote down her tales
of the Milky Way, so she would never forget that childhood magic, born of
campfire stories.
One night, while looking for her
constellation in the stars, she revisited the forgotten tale of how
constellations came to be created.
At first, people just took whatever little
section of The Milky Way they wanted. But then they decided they wanted to
share their place with everyone they had loved, whom, with the comings and
goings of time, also died.
They had to organize a system for this,
because otherwise two people wanted to be in the exact same location and this
kept causing stars to collide, sometimes creating new planets.
So it was decided that the people would
figure out how they would want to take their place in the sky, before any in
the group died.
Some people liked bears, so they formed a
bear. Others who had a very large group of loved ones needed something with
more detail, like a unicorn with a fairy riding on its back.
This made the sky very beautiful, because
there was always someone adding to a constellation somewhere. But only those
who would be part of the constellation could see it.
The girl smiled at her constellation: a
daisy with its petals embracing her from light years away.
Her boy was close, his presence a blanket
about her shoulders, gentle and warm. The wind carried his whispers that she
had nothing to fear.
She wrote down the constellation tale by
firelight to say goodbye. As she closed her eyes to sleep, she took her place
among the stars.
©2013 Joanna Celeste (USA)
Last call
FREE for the next five days
Book Review 1: Isia’s Secret
If you like political thrillers and
investigative journalism, you will definitely enjoy reading Isia’s Secret as it
is one of the best examples of this genre. Enda, a journalist, is given an
assignment to write an article about a Greek tycoon, Paul Hrisacopolis who
seeks Greek sovereignty for Cyprus. Although he is asked to write something
‘nice’, he decides to look deeply into Hrisacopolis’s past. He teams up with
Jessica, his lovely and smart assistant to reveal the truth about Paul
Hrisacopolis’s greedy plans and his family secrets. As they put different
pieces of a puzzle together to disclose Isia’s secret, the POV frequently
switches from first person to third person. I especially like this technique of
storytelling as the reader can see the story from different angles.
Isia’s Secret is a dazzling and enjoyable
read which takes you to an adventurous journey from London to Cyprus and
Istanbul. Raymond Stone artistically and brilliantly uses some historical facts
to create an intriguing storyline for his novel. I very much enjoyed the
characterizations, the relationship between Enda and Jessica and the vivid
description of different settings.
5 out of 5 stars and look forward to
reading Raymond Stone’s other works.
Azadeh Nafissi
Screenwriter/Filmmaker (Paris) FREE for the next 5 days - http://www.amazon.com/Isias-Secret-Ray-Stone-ebook/dp/B00FCRGON8/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1384027074&sr=1-1&keywords=isia%27s+secret
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