It looked for all the beautiful, primeval world, like a pear, but rounder. Eve reached up to pluck the fruit. It was red where exposed to the sun and green on its shadier side.
'I wonder if I, too, have a shadier side.' Eve had not realised she had spoken aloud until she heard the voice ...
'Perhaps you would like to eat from the each side, to see if the flavours are different? You might learn something' A snake slithered into view.
Eve took a bite from each half of the fruit. She decided she liked the dark side …
Sunday, 28 January 2007
Saturday, 20 January 2007
Writer's Block
Writer’s Block
He sits in front of the screen, staring. Just staring. A look on his face indicates puzzlement and his lips begin to move, though without sound. He stares ahead of him and finds his voice.
‘I know him. I know that man. I’m sure it’s him – his glasses seem heavier. Thicker lenses? It’s the glasses I remember. You look old with those glasses.’
He looks away, down at the table, sees the keyboard. He looks closely: Q W E R T Y U I O P … Yes, he knows this. He looks up at the screen, at the man in the screen.
‘You’re a writer, aren’t you? You make books. I’ve read your books. A writer.’
He frowns and looks down at the keyboard again. His left hand moves tentatively and he presses his thumb against the space bar. Again he presses the space bar and lifts his right hand to press on enter. His hands go back to his lap.
‘So you just press these buttons? You just spell out your stories letter by letter, word at a time.’ He giggles for no apparent reason and says ‘Sentenced to death!’
A sudden look of fear transforms his features. He lifts his hands to shield himself from the man on the screen whose own lips are moving, quivering.
‘What did you do that for?’ He asks. ‘Why did you say that? It’s not the end yet – I’ve not started the story yet. I’ve not started the story!’
He’s shouting now, angry with the man on the screen.
‘You always make me stop too soon when I’ve not finished!’
His hands are resting on the keyboard as he accuses the bespectacled man in front of him. He types – ‘Once upon a time’, and giggles.
‘No, that won’t do.’
He smiles and the man on the screen smiles back. He looks at the keyboard and begins to type out words at speed. Occasionally he looks up and the man on the screen returns his smile.
After some fifteen or twenty minutes his pace slows. A thousand or so words typed, and his fingers come to rest. He leans forward over the keyboard and scowls. The scowl changes to a look of despair and grief.
‘It’s gone.’ He slowly looks up and talks to the man on the screen. ‘It’s not there. It’s supposed to be there. Can you remember what it was? What did I write?’
His left hand moves to the space bar and he presses it but it’s an action he’s not conscious of. He stares at the man again.
‘Aren’t you a writer? I know you – I’ve seen you. You’re a writer.’ A gentle smile of recognition and then he says, ‘Tell me what you’ve written.’
His fingers tap at the keys, a subconscious action as he quizzes the writer, a reflex action from somewhere in his past. One hundred words a minute as he taught himself all those years ago. He laughs aloud; his laugh is hard edged and will not stop.
‘What’s the matter, Alan?’ The nurse walks into his room briskly. ‘Do you want me to turn your computer on? Are you going to write us a story?’
He sits in front of the screen, staring. Just staring. A look on his face indicates puzzlement and his lips begin to move, though without sound. He stares ahead of him and finds his voice.
‘I know him. I know that man. I’m sure it’s him – his glasses seem heavier. Thicker lenses? It’s the glasses I remember. You look old with those glasses.’
He looks away, down at the table, sees the keyboard. He looks closely: Q W E R T Y U I O P … Yes, he knows this. He looks up at the screen, at the man in the screen.
‘You’re a writer, aren’t you? You make books. I’ve read your books. A writer.’
He frowns and looks down at the keyboard again. His left hand moves tentatively and he presses his thumb against the space bar. Again he presses the space bar and lifts his right hand to press on enter. His hands go back to his lap.
‘So you just press these buttons? You just spell out your stories letter by letter, word at a time.’ He giggles for no apparent reason and says ‘Sentenced to death!’
A sudden look of fear transforms his features. He lifts his hands to shield himself from the man on the screen whose own lips are moving, quivering.
‘What did you do that for?’ He asks. ‘Why did you say that? It’s not the end yet – I’ve not started the story yet. I’ve not started the story!’
He’s shouting now, angry with the man on the screen.
‘You always make me stop too soon when I’ve not finished!’
His hands are resting on the keyboard as he accuses the bespectacled man in front of him. He types – ‘Once upon a time’, and giggles.
‘No, that won’t do.’
He smiles and the man on the screen smiles back. He looks at the keyboard and begins to type out words at speed. Occasionally he looks up and the man on the screen returns his smile.
After some fifteen or twenty minutes his pace slows. A thousand or so words typed, and his fingers come to rest. He leans forward over the keyboard and scowls. The scowl changes to a look of despair and grief.
‘It’s gone.’ He slowly looks up and talks to the man on the screen. ‘It’s not there. It’s supposed to be there. Can you remember what it was? What did I write?’
His left hand moves to the space bar and he presses it but it’s an action he’s not conscious of. He stares at the man again.
‘Aren’t you a writer? I know you – I’ve seen you. You’re a writer.’ A gentle smile of recognition and then he says, ‘Tell me what you’ve written.’
His fingers tap at the keys, a subconscious action as he quizzes the writer, a reflex action from somewhere in his past. One hundred words a minute as he taught himself all those years ago. He laughs aloud; his laugh is hard edged and will not stop.
‘What’s the matter, Alan?’ The nurse walks into his room briskly. ‘Do you want me to turn your computer on? Are you going to write us a story?’
Tuesday, 2 January 2007
Rain Forest Rain
A pair of toucans flew overhead.
The pulsating blueness from the sky reflected in the river. Nearer the banks the reflection of the equatorial rainforest shimmered with the consequence that it seemed like a mirage. Now and then pink dolphins had broken the surface, playing catch me who can with one another, avoiding the mats of vegetation that drifted from unknown places past the ramshackle poussada.
Looking down from the balcony of the dormitory it was impossible to miss the broad areas of cattle pasture that broke the tracts of jungle, but the jungle was there nonetheless and it was magical, magnificent and full of lives to be explored.
The storm didn’t arrive suddenly. It crept noisily and flashing from somewhere the other side of the river. Its forked lightning followed the darkening skies that heralded the change in the weather, but, above all things, the clearest sign of what was to come was the silence. The silence between the rumbling thunder rolls was a profound change from the tinnitus of jungle noises that unnoticeably filled the background of one’s perception during the sunny spells. Obvious noise when it stopped, and when it stopped it was indecipherable. Who could say how the noise was constructed? Perhaps you would guess – the sound of the river, insects in the jungle and across cattle speckled fields, trees tenderly touching at canopy level and creaking like old people if their branches pressed against one another more strongly. Certainly these noises can be heard, but you’re just picking out the boldest instruments in nature’s orchestra. The others which give the song of the forest depth and substance are stilled as the storm approaches and must be listened for more closely when analysis becomes possible once more.
From the balcony the clouds could be seen gathering over the canopy of the forest some while before the electrical discharges began to split the sky horizontally and vertically in the distance. As the storm’s darkness grew in its approaching, the noise of the thunder became more frequent. The birds were silent or had moved away. The reflective river had become troubled with ripples stirred up by an increasingly strong wind, and the cloud army massed and advanced. The new silence of the forest gave way to the sound of the sky’s onslaught against the earth.
The greyness of the rain when it came dimmed the view over the river so that it was no more than a distant faded curtain, its colours washed out. The rain’s force against the poussada’s roof and walls, its balcony and terrace, and over the trees and fields provided a percussive sound that drowned all but the thunder. It kicked up the dirt where it landed, splashing mud inches up the posts of the railings and walls of the buildings. It carved the beds of rivulets that dribbled red water towards the mighty river.
A tree fell over. Any noise that it made was obscured by the torrential rain. The dumb-show death of the banana tree seemed to be in slow motion, perhaps due to the strobe like effect that the wall of rain created. The thin topsoil had been washed off the shallow roots and, like a man who has had too much to drink, the tree fell. In short time its place would be taken by new growth, precarious and desperate to climb to the light.
The deluge lasted some hours. But then the deep greys yellowed over the forest and the strip of evening light grew broader as the darkest clouds passed overhead. The thunder and lightning are behind you temporally and geographically now. The smell of the watered forest symbolises in its freshness a new beginning as the day begins to draw to an end. The yellowed sky becomes redder and the night noises of the forest begin their song. The river reflects the oranges and crimsons on its re-mirrored surface and the shadows in the forest become the disguises for the wildlife of the night to protect themselves.
A pair of toucans flies overhead.
The pulsating blueness from the sky reflected in the river. Nearer the banks the reflection of the equatorial rainforest shimmered with the consequence that it seemed like a mirage. Now and then pink dolphins had broken the surface, playing catch me who can with one another, avoiding the mats of vegetation that drifted from unknown places past the ramshackle poussada.
Looking down from the balcony of the dormitory it was impossible to miss the broad areas of cattle pasture that broke the tracts of jungle, but the jungle was there nonetheless and it was magical, magnificent and full of lives to be explored.
The storm didn’t arrive suddenly. It crept noisily and flashing from somewhere the other side of the river. Its forked lightning followed the darkening skies that heralded the change in the weather, but, above all things, the clearest sign of what was to come was the silence. The silence between the rumbling thunder rolls was a profound change from the tinnitus of jungle noises that unnoticeably filled the background of one’s perception during the sunny spells. Obvious noise when it stopped, and when it stopped it was indecipherable. Who could say how the noise was constructed? Perhaps you would guess – the sound of the river, insects in the jungle and across cattle speckled fields, trees tenderly touching at canopy level and creaking like old people if their branches pressed against one another more strongly. Certainly these noises can be heard, but you’re just picking out the boldest instruments in nature’s orchestra. The others which give the song of the forest depth and substance are stilled as the storm approaches and must be listened for more closely when analysis becomes possible once more.
From the balcony the clouds could be seen gathering over the canopy of the forest some while before the electrical discharges began to split the sky horizontally and vertically in the distance. As the storm’s darkness grew in its approaching, the noise of the thunder became more frequent. The birds were silent or had moved away. The reflective river had become troubled with ripples stirred up by an increasingly strong wind, and the cloud army massed and advanced. The new silence of the forest gave way to the sound of the sky’s onslaught against the earth.
The greyness of the rain when it came dimmed the view over the river so that it was no more than a distant faded curtain, its colours washed out. The rain’s force against the poussada’s roof and walls, its balcony and terrace, and over the trees and fields provided a percussive sound that drowned all but the thunder. It kicked up the dirt where it landed, splashing mud inches up the posts of the railings and walls of the buildings. It carved the beds of rivulets that dribbled red water towards the mighty river.
A tree fell over. Any noise that it made was obscured by the torrential rain. The dumb-show death of the banana tree seemed to be in slow motion, perhaps due to the strobe like effect that the wall of rain created. The thin topsoil had been washed off the shallow roots and, like a man who has had too much to drink, the tree fell. In short time its place would be taken by new growth, precarious and desperate to climb to the light.
The deluge lasted some hours. But then the deep greys yellowed over the forest and the strip of evening light grew broader as the darkest clouds passed overhead. The thunder and lightning are behind you temporally and geographically now. The smell of the watered forest symbolises in its freshness a new beginning as the day begins to draw to an end. The yellowed sky becomes redder and the night noises of the forest begin their song. The river reflects the oranges and crimsons on its re-mirrored surface and the shadows in the forest become the disguises for the wildlife of the night to protect themselves.
A pair of toucans flies overhead.
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