The Last Call (short story)

   His arms tightly pressed against his stomach to ease the pain of hunger, he sat on a chair and balanced his body back and forth. The cracking noise of the old chair was the only sound in the basement. There was no light and no fresh air.
The man who was not taller than a 6 year old child, did not understand what was going on. His tears formed irregular grey stripes on his stale cheeks but he did not wipe them off.

   He could not remember how long he was sitting there, he lost touch with time and reality. And there was not only silence in the basement but the whole house was dabbled in stillness. He did not speak. Father and son never spoke to each other. The father did not know what to say to what he called 'the creature that was called his son'. The father could not bare the sight of the child with the enormous head on a body with short legs and arms, drooling like a baby and not able to say clear words.
But the father never took the effort to teach his son words, he never had the patience his wife had  but she died of a broken heart when the boy was 3 years old.

   The man could not remember his mother any more. Although, sometimes, listening to the quiet sound of little rat feet rummaging the straw of his mattress in the basement or the moving curtains whispering in the wind blowing through the broken windows in the kitchen upstairs, he thought he heard her sweet voice, calling him by a name he could not repeat.
The basement was so familiar, he spent so many hours here after his father locked him up when there were voices at the door. His father felt ashamed and no one knew about the child who now became a man.
The last visitor was a while ago but he did not know how many days. And ever since there was this complete silence.

   The hunger forced him to leave the basement and not without great fear, he climbed the concrete stairs, pushed the shutter in the floor open and entered the kitchen; the only place he knew. All other doors in the house were locked and knowing this, he did not even think of opening them.
He made a strange noise when he finally realized he was all on his own. He did not see his father or any other person. It confused him but it did not bother him too much. He looked around and found the phone off the hook. He never understood where this black machine was for but he remembered his father occasionally talking to it and than placing the horn back. He also remembered his father turning the disk with all the holes and he wondered why. He climbed the chair in front of the desk and imitated his father by placing the horn back, lifting it again and turning the disk. While he held the horn against his ear, he heard the voice of a woman who said "Hello?". The voice sounded familiar and he wanted to say something but his untrained vocal cords only produced a raw sound. Than the woman hang up.
He was devastated and wanted to hear her again. He dialled and dialled. Sometimes he heard a man's voice which frightened him, sometimes a woman and sometimes a buzzing sound. Every time he heard a gentle voice he tried to say that one and only word from the past that slowly drifted to his conscious: "Mo.... Mo...."

Photo: 'soul_mining'

   Eager to hear that soft voice again, he did not give up and only stopped when he needed something to drink. When there was no water left any more, he managed to open the bottles, again imitating is father. He placed all bottles on the desk and drank when thirsty. After each drink he felt warm inside and it eased the hunger. Than the day came that there were no voices any more. Ad no buzzing sounds; the phone kept quiet which terrified the man tremendously. He tried to repair the wire with pieces of string he found in various drawers but silence remained. He kept on drinking and dialling until he panicked.
The passed sound of all voices he had heard, all buzzing sounds, swirled around in his head like leaves in an Autumn storm. He grabbed his head and ran around in circles, trying to hide for the cacophony of sounds that drove him mad. It was than when he remembered the shutter that lead to the stairs to the basement. The basement where he was put when there were voices in the house. He used all his energy to lift the shutter, the hinges made a squeaking sound. He finally managed to put his foot on the stair and still panicking he tried to move his short legs downstairs. He lost grip and fell; his body spinning round like a doll made of fluffy cloths. It was only seconds before the shutter fell back in place and only seconds before his head touched the ground with a sickening cracking sound that he finally shouted: "Mommy!!!!!"

   "Hello??" He listened to the soft feminine voice. "Hello? Anybody home?". But he could not answer any more. His body long ago mingled with the dust of the basement floor and nobody would ever recognize him. Still he tried to call and call.
The girl who entered the abandoned house could swear that some one answered her hello and when she repeated it, she heard it again at the same time the curtains moved in the wind that blew through the broken windows in the kitchen.

Helen

Word of thanks: the photo of @soul_mining (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Dan!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @soul_mining

Note: the story is pure fiction!A figment of my imagination!

Writing Contest

Participating in a writing contest is not only exciting but also fun!! Particularly with two stories....
Which one will be on the longlist? Everything beyond the longlist is a bonus!

Some stories evolve during writing, others in my head for days before I get my laptop to put them on 'paper'.
I often know the end and from there the rest of the story develops. And the last part is the titel.
This was the same during the last contest with the subject 'The Sun'. We were all free to write what we wanted as long as we focussed on 'the sun'. One story evolved on 'paper' and the other in my head.

After I e-mailed them to the publisher I tried not to think of the date of the dead line. Instead I concentrated on writing my book and short stories on both my Blog's (Dutch and English).
Because I wasn't successful with a previous contest from a different publisher (which only encouraged me to participate in others) I didn't expect a positive outcome. Who cares, writing is a passion and I have enough imagination to write for the rest of my life!

But this morning I received an e-mail from the Publisher Leessst which said "Congratulations".
It turned out that not only one story will be published but both! And not only both, I am also one of the winners, second to be precise. I have to admit that I read the e-mail a few times before I understood it all; it had to sink in. I was not only over the moon but also very, very thankful!! And of course I want to congratulate my fellow participants who won the first and the third place! I am so much looking forward to read your (and all other) stories!

There are 51 authors in total and all stories will be published in an e-book (from August 1 for sale at Bol.com and Kobo. If you read Dutch it is worth to buy it because from every book sold, one Euro goes to a Dutch Cancer Foundation called 'KWF Kankerbestrijding'.

The paperback will be for sale too for 12,95 Euro excl. P&P but you need to order it before August 1 - 2017. More information in Dutch on Leessst.

Last but not least a big thank you to all members of the jury who did such a great job reading all the stories of all participants. I would love to give you a hug!!

Helen

The Camera (short story)

There is almost complete silence but a good listener hears the sound of the flies who want to escape through the windows. Or the occasional flutter of the wings of a moth or butterfly who also craves for light and fresh air but soon will be caught by the sticky threads of the numerous cob webs that hang strategically in the corners of the filthy windows.
The windowsills and floors are covered in tiny dead bodies of insects that were never meant to live a long life but who died in a desolated decaying black and white world where dust prevents the light to penetrate the rooms.

It is a warm Summer day and the smell is that of dust and old chalk hanging down the wall like grey and forgotten lace. It is only occasionally that the chalk decides to let go because it is tired of holding on to walls that are filled with moist during rainy seasons and crumbling of thirst during days as today.
I do not mind warm days although the times that the wind whistles its way through the cracks in the half rotten roof, are more in line with my usual moods. It is that sound that is my language, the hauling and  the spooky effects are I.
Often visitors don't hear the difference but as soon as they see me, they know the difference. Needless to say I will never see them again. I don't mind, it cheers me up!

The whole house is mine but my bedroom is a place where I do not want to see anyone else and I am often successful in scaring my visitors before they discover my room.
It has always been my room, since I was born. It was a place I loved to be until I reached the age that my father noticed I was not his little girl any more but a beautiful (forgive me for saying such vain things about myself) young woman. At this point his attitude changed and he more or less locked me up in my room. My mother begged him not to do so but the begging stopped. Even worse, I was not allowed to leave my room any more and did not know my mother had died until I died too.
Don't be afraid that I will bore you with this story today.

Photo: Darren Nisbett Fine Art Photography

Since my death my room hasn't changed much; my bed is still there with my favourite pillow where you can see the print of my head. The pillow that contains most of the tears I shed in all those years. If I am tired of dwelling through the house, I rest on this bed but leave no prints any more.
I don't leave prints on the floors either but leave mental prints in the heads of my visitors.
You will ask why I do not lock the front door to keep visitors out, well I did but to no avail, the visitors keep coming, it is the state of the house and the decoration that attracts them. I don't know why, it is old, half rotten and dusty.
But they keep coming and although I scare them off, I am also very jealous of their freedom. They can walk out the broken door where I have to stay inside. My death did not change the situation, I am still a prisoner of this house which I hate so much.

It is that hate that makes me more and more hostile and the longer I stay here, the more I look for ways to escape. And I found one! It took me a long time to understand how and when but it is only today, when the man with the advanced photo camera arrived that I know how.
He does not see or hear me, he looks immune to my power and visibility. And he enters my room which no-one had ever done before since the day I died.
A very strange feeling comes over me, I see no need any more to haunt him. Instead I follow him and look through the lens of his camera which allows me a totally different view on my world. Imagine that I could enter the camera!!

I see what he sees: the diffuse light peeping through the filthy windows, lightening the old curtains, the bed but most of all my nightgown. And it is in this nightgown that I recognize myself. Hanging to be forgotten, to pulverize to dust.
I am impressed by the way he captures my room and realize he sees beyond the dust. It feels he looks into the past, it feels he steps into my world.  With the photo he pays respect to my past, something I  never encountered before. His respect makes me aware that I can finally leave this house. Although I do not know anything about the modern world, I am a ghost and move through doors and walls. So I move inside his camera, nestling myself in the photo of my bedroom, knowing this is going to be my new world.

The house is now allowed to decay further and further, people can now explore my room; I found a new one. I do not know what my new future looks like, I do not even know if I can leave this camera again but I know when I am in the right mood again, I may haunt my new friend. Or even you!!

Helen

 Word of thanks: the photo of @darrennisbett (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Darren!

Link: the beautiful website Darren Nisbett Fine Art Photography

Note: the story is (of course) pure fiction!A figment of my imagination!

The Reader (short story)

He always loved reading. He read books and newspapers even before his governess was supposed to teach him reading and writing.
His parents were so proud of him and his father loved to tell everyone who showed even a little interest, how intelligent his son was. Yes, 'his' son. It was only 'their' son if the little boy did not live up the expectation of his father who also wanted to teach him horse riding, hunting and mathematics because, one day he was going to be the Monarch of the Glen. The grand estate and Loch Locherty was going to be his, long after everyone else had gone. Therefore the father was hoping for male offspring of his son and decided who the boy was going to marry long before he could read. As said before, this was at a very young age.

The father introduced his son to the visitors, standing near the enormous fireplace in the cold and dark hallway with in the middle a pompous staircase that led to the first floor, surrounded by hunting trophies and portraits of proud and grim looking ancestors.
Waving with one of his costly cigars made of the finest tobacco, his round belly pushed forward like a display for the golden watch chain, he exposed his young child as the 'natural equivalent' of his own bright and well developed brains which of course his whole pedigree was well known for.
The child learned at a young age that he was more a subject of proud presentation than a son of flesh and blood with emotions and feelings.
His books rescued him from the harsh and cruel world within the boundaries of his existence in the Scottish Highlands with no one else than his father, a mother with a long lasting migraine, a governess who was not known for her exceptional beauty and a long row of servants he was not allowed to talk to: "They will not add anything valuable to your intelligence."

Maybe this was one of the reasons he started to read books at such a young age. His governess was more than willing to teach him the alphabet and to help him to decrypt the symbols called letters.
The children books given to him were soon not satisfying enough and he silently slipped into the library to hide a book or two under his silk blouse to read them in the nursery.

It took a few years before the father heavily disappointed, discovered that all his son could do was reading. Of course he blamed his wife - still suffering from headaches - who had little interest in her son. But to no avail.
The governess was blamed but was not fired because she kept his Lordship's bed warm during lonely nights and she was good at it.

The boy grew up without love but with the wonderful stories in all the books of the library of Bramhall Castle. He read and read and read. And after his father passed away and the governess became the nurse of his mother, he openly sat in a chair near the roaring fire in the library. The servants brought him food and drinks and kept the fire burning all year round.

The boy became a man who's mother passed away. The governess stayed but was seldom seen; her old rheumatic feet could not walk the stairs any more. And when she finally died followed by a modest funeral, the Reader did not even notice it.
Surrounded by his books, he never felt lonely. Not even when all the servants left the house and he had to take care of his own. He survived a long time on little food and water. While he sat in his straight chair behind the old folding table covered in books, the castle crumbled down around him. Ceilings gave up and caused an extra layer of dust on top of the books in the library. And on top of the reader with his long white beard and hair, his skin tightly leathered around his bones.

Photo: @forgottenheritage (Instagram)

This is what the brave adventurist saw when he explored the long forgotten castle, embedded in large bramble bushes, ferns, trees and so many varieties of weed he never saw before.
The silence in the library, the old man in the chair who still held a book in his mummified hands, he would never forget this.
The police came and said they were going to investigate the 'suspicious' death of the man everybody had forgotten about.

The adventurist returned to the castle shortly after the body was removed and took a photo. The chair as shiny as 30 years ago; shielded by the body of the Reader against thick layers of dust.

Helen

Word of thanks: the photo of @forgottenheritage (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. "I am a great admirer of the photo's of your Instagram account!"

Link: the beautiful book Forgotten Heritage by Matthew Emmett

Note: the story is pure fiction!A figment of my imagination!

One of those days

It is one of those days today.

A day full of all sorts of emotions and one of them is feeling homesick. Strange though as I am at home! And I do feel at home at home! I blogged about homesickness in my Dutch Blog (translation button available) so are not dwelling on that subject here.

The first emotion is my drive to write. The chapters in my new book are adding up nicely. I love the subject and hopefully find Dutch proofreaders to bring me back down to earth as I might be too lyrical at times. Please contact me if you like to volunteer.
When I am writing and need to stop because it is dinner time for the ZOO and me, it feels like I want to take my book to bed and read more and more before falling asleep. But there isn't 'more and more' yet as I still need to write it. That is how I feel about the book, the characters and the development of the story.
I once read: "Just write what you know and invent the rest" and this is so applicable for this book. One of my own fantasies dating from 2002 is going to be fulfilled in the book. Word count today: 22.000

And all of this I write at home. When I look up from my laptop, I see a green garden, yellow sweet smelling roses, lazy dogs enjoying sunshine (finally after a few dark rainy days), I hear the wind in the trees and adorable baby birds yelling for food.
The table in the kitchen is my writing desk. In the corner of the work surface near the oven, is my beloved Slow Cooker sending lovely smells of Thai Chicken Curry
my way. Next to the laptop my favourite Wiener Melange (my only sin). Parrot Rose is saying funny things sitting comfortably on her perch.

This morning my dear friend Elizabeth was here and we had a lovely time, as always.
I am looking forward to the visit of a second cousin - well, in this case a 12th or so cousin as we share the same great great etc grandfather in 1600 - next Saturday. I promised him (the cousin) a Slow Cooker meal, of course British as we both love the UK and Scotland.

Life is good. I know that and that is how it feels and still there is that indefinable feeling that came over me a few days ago and that refuses to leave me.

Photo: Helen Varras

Maybe it is indeed a little bit homesickness as my thoughts often wander off to Yorkshire.
No, I was not born in Yorkshire but ever since I visit it since 1979, I do feel at home. The Dales, the Moors, the lovely villages, the sound of the Grouse, sheep and their lambs. Even the bad weather - often 4 seasons in 1 day - is appealing. And last but not least, the Yorkshire people with their wonderful sense of humour which you don't find anywhere else (Scotland, yes).
Wonderful and wicked. They play with words in a way that makes me laugh and it challenges me to reply which I do without thinking too much. It comes naturally. And the humour keeps your mind sharp.

Yes, I know, even in Yorkshire you need to work for a living; life in the UK does not come cheap. I understand the people who move to Spain or France.
Still, nothing beats the beautiful scenery and the sense of humour of my most beloved Yorkshire.

Dear readers, I close my eyes and allow myself to cross the North Sea.
Fantasy and imagination; two beautiful gifts.

Helen

My relationship with James

James is special, very special. I love him to bits.
No, he is not the love of my life but my feelings for James are.... eehhmmm... special to say the least.

He is always there for me, is patient, not afraid of trying new things, warm hearted, easy to handle (although sometimes I need gloves and no, James a not an animal), he is not demanding, he is a money saver and best of all, he cooks me lovely meals.
I can't tell James that his cooking skills are the only reason I love him. It would break his heart so please keep this between us
.
Yes, my cooking skills are at the bottom of my skill list. My mother (an excellent cook) tried hard to teach me cooking but never managed to be successful. It often smells delicious but doesn't taste good.
I love baking cakes and quiches and are very good in that but here it ends. Well, you can't do everything right, can you. My late husband was an excellent cook like a good friend in Spain but both could and can not bake cakes.

The problem with cooking is that you have to know in what order you need to prepare and cook, it feels like juggling with pots and pans. And here it is where it goes wrong for me.
Plus, when I write my book, I tend to forget the time. As soon as the dogs ask for food, I know it is half past 5 and always too late to cook a good meal.

That is how James came into my life. He saved me by taking care of my meals. Healthy meals.
Around 6 (Dutch dinner time) the only thing I have to do is laying the table. Nothing more and nothing less. James has taken care of the rest.

But (I can hear you asking) who is James exactly, how does he look like. Is he handsome, tall?
No, he isn't. He is (depending which James we are talking about) appr. 20 - 25 cm. 'tall'. James comes in Aluminium, Black or Red. James is either hand operated or digital. My James is Red and looks terrific in my kitchen. His favourite place is on the work top, always accessible.

James is his surname, Andrew his first name.
My James is Andrew James. My James is a Slow Cooker!

Bon Apetit.

Andrew James at 'De Slowcookery'

Helen

Panda or a chimney sweeper's girlfriend?

Tears are rolling down my cheek, my nose is making awkward sniffing noises and my handkerchief is within reach. No doubt I am developing a brand new Panda look at the moment. Or maybe look like someone who made love to a chimney sweeper! My eye make up is not tear resistant, unfortunately.

Give me a moment please....... have to blow my nose.
Thank you.

Inspecting the black spots in my paper handkerchief, I realize I need a few more but feel almost sorry to spoil their virgin like white surface with my mascara.
This morning it is different to other times, I very, very seldom have tears running down my cheeks.
But today they are hard to stop.

I know, it should not have come this far. Yes, yes, I know I should have taken measures to minimize the risk of tears but I did not. And here I am, blowing my nose, hoping that nobody can see the black stripes on my face.
I can hear you asking "what are the measures you should have taken?"
Well, to be honest, for instance I should have been keeping a hot tap running. This is a very effective way to avoid tears. Or the exhaust. No no,  not the exhaust pipe! Just the exhaust....
But I did not so.

While typing this (I can assure you this is proving a improbable task at the moment) it feels like the tear-duct of my left eye is finally short of fluid, at least I can see again what I type. Please don't post comments about my typo's.

Sorry, I realize that you might not have a clue why I cry. Or what I just wrote about minimizing the risk for tears. My fault.
I did not tell you that I prepared my evening meal. All ingredients are in the Slow Cooker that automatically switches on at 12. Today is Buffalo Candied Yams. For sure that is where the word 'Yammie!" comes from.

"Did something go wrong with the ingredients?" you will ask.
No, on the contrary, but poor me, I can't stand cutting unions!!

Bon apetit!

Helen