The Courtesan

Simon Burns stood in the garden, the five buckets of frogs stood at his feet. The courtesan at the window oozed jealousy, eyes stabbing like knives as the other woman scurried away, handbag swinging. He guessed that like everyone all she really wanted was to find love. He could sense her portentous determination even across the lilac garden. As he glanced back at her, he saw she was now down to her brassiere, wine cup in hand, but the peacock display in her hair remained untouched. A petal brushed he cheek and he hummed "are you lonesome tonight?"

The copyright of this post belongs to Jenni Crowe

Journeygirl

The journey begins at the base of the spine. Beneath the cerise silk shawl, the sharp white shirt, the green camisole I find that there’s a place for me. The riches of her bones lie in wait, like a shoal of regimented fishes, each one connected to the next like a little punch of promise. We are camping in a garden, in the rain, sisters but not sisters, weaving together a tapestry of many coloured memories to lie beneath. I feed her tea and oranges; she gives me coffee and almond biscuits. This could be the Café Americain, I think, as my fingers paddle their way up her back. The air is thick with imagination. I swallow the gift of her kiss, and travel my hands on, up, round, until I reach the point at which her composure melts.
‘That dress you’re wearing,’ she says. ‘It’s in the way. You should have taken it off when you came flying down the stairs. I thought I could trust you to do that. And the hat. You are seriously overdressed in that hat and that pompom scarf.’
There is a free spirit of enthusiasm in her voice as she draws me into the arc of her arm like a baby newborn. ‘Have you come here for forgiveness,’ she murmurs, ‘or have you come to raise the dead?’
Happiness bubbles in my heart. I know how to help. I know the joyous things that we can do. I raise myself on one elbow, touch my finger to her lips at journey’s end. ‘Meet me in the morning,’ I say, ‘and you’ll find out…’

The copyright of this post belongs to Jill Glenn

The Ostrich Plans to Set Sail

The ostrich marches on board with a quite particular step. ‘It is,’ he says, ‘the embarkation that gives most pleasure’, and then he dips his head shyly, looking overboard to blow a kiss at the shoal of fishes. They dart away, startled, into the turquoise shadows, swimming to the rhythm of a different drum. The ostrich stands like a rock in the sunshine for a moment and looks over his shoulder. There’s no-one there. He turns to Noah.
‘Should there not be two of us,’ he asks. ‘I think there should be two of us’.
Noah looks the other way.
‘Bit of a problem there,’ he says. ‘Accommodation on board a bit tight. You know how it is. All the rooms connected. And so many have brought gifts, such riches, but they all take up space. So there’s only a single cabin for you.’
The ostrich droops. The joy goes out of his day. He feels that tristesse, that melancholy that has assailed him all his life when plans go wrong.
Noah watches. ‘Would you like a drink of punch?’ he asks, hopefully. ‘It’s on the rancid side, having come by sea in a barque, but I know your tastebuds aren’t what they were, so I’m sure you’ll like it. And I know there’s no room for a partner, but I have got you a little friend…’ And out of his pocket he produces a thrush.

The copyright of this post belongs to Jill Glenn

Remembrance

Remembrance cuts through him, sharp as a lemon in the mouth. He is missing many things: several buttons, and the bodkin with which to stitch them on, his parrot, half his false teeth; indeed, as a castrato, he is also missing something else more personally significant – but he is no longer missing his memory. He is Stephen, restored to himself at last. His hand closes over the little angel talisman in his pocket, and he lifts up his voice in a rollercoaster of relief. No sooner has he hit the highest note than he loses himself again. A parrot, vivid as a lime leaf in the sun, darts out from underneath the foliage. A lurking cat appears with a dozen eggs in a basket and a pocketful of change. The jester happens by in a pair of knitted jodhpurs with a shaving brush behind his ear. The table is not set; he cannot find his right shoes. He is no longer Stephen, there is no angel, there is no remembrance. He has taken out the picture from his own photo-frame; he is empty of himself. He begins to cry.

The copyright of this post belongs to Jill Glenn

The National Supper

Dapper in his fisherman’s sweater and jodhpurs embroidered with silverfish, the jester thinks himself a fine figure of a man. In a good light you might notice that his shirt is a little faded, that his shoes are tawdry, that he still has a couple of rollers left at the back of his hair, to illustrate the pains he has taken to in preparation. But the light in the huts is not good, and so he looks at his reflection in the polished coaster with unwarranted pleasure. He is the joker in the pack of hosts at this national supper, at which octopuses will dance with themselves, and herons fish for compliments. He furnishes the whole affair with that air of demi-monde. Oh, the jester, the guests will say: you know what he’s like, with his commas and his moons, his fish-on-a-Friday, his xtra-large portions. Fishhooks and knickerwhiskers, how he fancies himself. What a pollock!

The copyright of this post belongs to Jill Glenn

What Makes A Giraffe Laugh?

“What makes a giraffe laugh?”
My little granddaughter, a girl with laughing blue eyes and a perfect round face, looks up at me with glee. She is giddy with delight as we are on a trip out together, without encumbrances or limitations. It is midsummer day and so we have determined to make the most of the long, sultry daylight hours, and just be.
I feel a sense of becalmed joy as her tiny fingers touch my jewellery.
“I bought you those earrings for Christmas, didn’t I grandma?”
“Yes my darling, and they are my favourites” I respond, my love for her almost tangible in the air that surrounds our bodies. Hers, petite with a grace and freedom of movement exquisite. Mine, bigger, taller, and broader, with the streams of the years crossing my face like all the suns and shadows I have known. I smile.
“Why are you always smiling grandma?” she asks.
“Because I love to be with you”, I reply.
Geese, forming a big V in the summer blue sky fly overhead.
“Look” I say, “our own letter from the alphabet. We both have it in our names, the geese are saying ‘hello, have a nice day’ “.
Olive giggles and blinks long luscious eyelashes, jumps up and down in delight, and with a burst of fun filled radiance, she runs along the geranium fringed path to the next enclosure. This pace suits me, some quiet questions of contemplation and some running and jumping. With this, I can keep up because I experience an uplift in my bones, being aware of the gratitude in my spirit to have this little girl in my life. She wants to see and talk and draw and question, like a palmate leaf open to all that the universe can offer.
After explanations, the little drawings in our sketch books, we head for the café where tourists sit under red umbrellas. An Inman in his robes with his holy countenance engenders more inquiries from Olive, who is fascinated by other cultures and costumes.
“I have a sari at home grandma, mummy bought it for me on Brick Lane, and sometimes she draws me a bindi”.
“What is a bindi?” I ask, amused by her knowledge.
“It is a little beauty spot, and it goes right here” Olive retorts in a voice aghast at my ignorance. Pointing to her forehead, her little fingernail is painted candy pink and on her brown arm little bracelets, childish and sugar pink, rattle and tinkle.
“What shall we eat?” I ask, “my breakfast porridge has disappeared into my feet”.
She giggles.
“You are funny grandma, there is no porridge down there!”
We have so much to still enjoy on this midsummer’s day, which I will never forget, but know that she will.

The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule

My Name is Buttercup

I hold a granny smith in my little hand, it is my token against all disaster. It comforts me. I am called Buttercup and I love everything that is yellow. I heard on the Children’s News bulletin that there was an outbreak of Yellow Fever on Christmas Island, and I wondered if that was where all the Christmas trees grew, and if I could catch the fever myself from our tree. It stands now in a bucket of brackish water in the back yard. In our yard there is also an old pram where I keep my pet stoat. He is called Pear, which I think sounds rather Japanese. I like Japanese people because they look yellow. One of my brothers, a particularly horrid boy of indeterminate parentage, calls me Buttercup the Cow, and my pet the Rotting Pear. He doesn’t like me, and tries all the time to rile and torment.
But it doesn’t ever work. I think placid yellow thoughts, resigning myself to always being the odd girl out. At least in this family.
After I feed and pet Pear, I go up to my little cot bed at the top of our house. I enjoy the smell of my own pillow and rejoice that I am a girl, even if an odd one. Because if I’d been a boy, I’d have to sleep down there amongst them all.
The boys, all noisy and bothersome, have no interest in the wild life I love.
And they are not at all beguiled by yellow.

The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule