A Top-Ten List of Stories to Write

One

“What you lookin’ at?”

It was a sweet voice that asked the question, and one that he was very familiar with. It sounded so normal in the room, in his home and in his life that he didn’t even turn. He only answered, his eyes fixed on the newspapers:

“The obituary that they have inserted here. Even though the picture is black and white, it looks so bright and beautiful.”

“Really?” was the reply he got, and he nodded as a tear rolled down his cheek.

“I don’t know how I’ll go on now,” he muttered as he ran his fingers over the picture.

“You will,” came the answer. “Life goes on.”

He nodded and continued to stare at the picture of his wife; in an hour the funeral cortege would leave for the church, and he had to shave and change his clothes. Still he continued to sit there and stare at the picture – outside the room there was a buzz of conversation and of movement as his family and friends shuffled about. It all seemed so surreal. Out there, they were like ghosts disturbing the peace of his home.

This picture in the papers was so real. He stared at it and the tears came. He remembered her suffering, lying wasted on a hospital bed, drained and exhausted. He remembered her battle – she had fought hard and had died fighting.

Then he broke down, crumpling his face into the newspaper.

When the emotion passed, he smoothened the sheet and glanced at the picture again.

“What you lookin’ at?”

It was odd that the voice asked him the same question again and he snapped his head around. Beside him sat his wife, smiling at him, and even as he stared, she waved out and slowly vanished into the air.

Two

“Don’t get too comfortable.”

The words were spoken silkily, with an oily smile that pushed his cheeks upward into two lumps just below his glittering eyes. His head was bald, shiny and red, and a black ‘mutton chops’ beard paired very suitably with a curled-up moustache. He looked rather weird in the noisy and neon-lit pub; the bartenders were enormously muscled and scantily clad, the music blared loudly, disco balls flashed from the ceiling and gorgeous, naked women gyrated sensuously around poles.

Bizarrely clad in nothing else but a loincloth, he was red toned – one would say that it might have been the effect of the lights, but it really wasn’t – because when the women and their glistening bodies turned green or purple under the onslaught of the illuminated discotheque, he still remained red.

The batch of newcomers, young and old that had entered the pub wondered.

“Enjoy the services here,” he continued with his slippery smile. “It’s…” and he nodded once and sideways, and his bald pate gleamed like the disco balls, “complimentary.”

The newcomers whooped loudly. This was not going to be bad after all.

“Like I said, don’t get too comfortable.” He grinned again. “This is what I call the ‘Honeymoon Period.’ With an aslant nod again, he pulled out a gadget from within his loincloth and peered into it, scrolling his fingers across the screen, giggling all the while.

“My!” he exclaimed. “Scandalous. You folk are truly something.” He winked at them, turned brusquely and disappeared behind an elaborate door, slapping the ample bottom of a dancer as he did so.

And while his new batch of arrivals caroused gaily under the lights, the red man’s slimy smile suddenly vanished; he now glowered pitilessly over an endless furnace, where a million souls groaned in eternal agony.

Three

She looked into the eyes of the old, wrinkled woman before her and whispered, as tears welled in her own eyes, “I’ve seen your face before.”

A great sob shook her sparce frame. “It was a long time ago,” she mumbled. “You were full of life, of dreams, of hope, of love and of laughter.”

The old woman before her was sobbing too.

“Remember?” she continued. “Remember the May trees in summer, and the flowers like fire; and you would run around them, looking up into their flaming branches and wonder why you weren’t a bird.”

She wiped her eyes and haggard cheeks and looked down at her work worn hands where the moisture of her tears glistened.

“You had such big dreams – but they didn’t understand and married you off to the first suitable match they found.”

She smirked. “Suitable?”

She took in a deep breath and looked up again, and some memory caught her because her old eyes began to fill up once more. The old woman before her cried as well, and like twins they stood, weeping before each other.

“I’ve seen your face before,” she said again. “It was so fresh, like spring. You’d sing your songs under the stars and light little fires just to watch the sparks rise to the sky.” A smile spanned her face and her eyes became soft. “You were such a beautiful girl.”

She added sadly, “I wonder what happened to you?”

Somewhere within the house a grandchild wailed; then there was a sharp yell for her help.

The woman sighed and turned around, and her tears glistened on her craggy cheeks. The other woman turned too and as they walked away from each other, nothing was left between them but a long distant past, and an old, stained mirror.

Four

I watched breathlessly as the lights flickered on in the house opposite. It was late, very late and no one was about. My own home was in darkness because we had all retired for the night.

I had woken with the sound they had made as they forced themselves into the house; flashlight beams crisscrossing like swords in the darkness.

They tossed things about, looking for something – I knew they were wasting their time. She had left last week with a new ID, passport and driving licence, and was starting a life somewhere under a new name. She had given me one number to call her if I needed to, a number which would no longer be valid after the end of the month, 10 days away. After that my neighbour would go into oblivion and perhaps, we would never see each other again. But that was okay – as long as she was safe.

I donned on my coat, set out in the night and snuck up to her window where the light beams flashed; where the hit men laboured, hoping to find some clue which would give her whereabouts away.

Then, crouched where I was, I heard one exclaim, “found something. Here, take a look. A brochure. Look! One more.”

The other grunted in satisfaction. “I think we might have found her. Let’s move. This time she will not escape!”

My heart sank. I slunk away to my home and dialled her number. After many attempts, she picked up and sounded groggy, but apprehensive.

“Get going from there,” I urged immediately, seething into the phone. “Get going from wherever you are.”

“Oh Gosh!” she gasped. “Why? What happened?”

“You left brochures at your place and they found them,” I hurriedly exclaimed. “Run Girl! Run! They are coming for you.”

Five

Mike did not trust his wife.

He felt uncomfortable as he drove away with Paul for their college reunion, leaving her all alone at the door with Harry, their neighbour. Annoyingly, Harry had popped in at the wrong time to say hello and share a smoke. Somewhere deep down, Mike knew that Liz was cheating on him, only he could not prove it. He’d seen her texting all the time. He’d hear her whispers in the bathroom as she giggled over the phone with someone. He’d noticed her so many times cutting short calls when he was around.

Leaving Liz with Harry was such a dumb thing to do. Harry was always hanging around the house, and Liz always brightened up when he came. Something was definitely going on!

The reunion was going to be so convenient for them.  But then, this was also a good chance to catch her in the act, Mike realised. He bit his lip and wondered what excuse he’d give Paul so that they could turn around and drive back. They were not two minutes from his home.

He hit upon an idea.

“Shoot,” he groaned.

“What’s wrong?” asked Paul.

“I forgot my cell phone,” came the prompt lie. “Think we can turn back?”

“Sure,” Paul said and swung the car around.

When they drove up to his place, Harry was just leaving and Carla, Liz’s colleague from work had stopped by. Mike sighed in relief as Harry walked away home. Perhaps he had been wrong?

“Forgot my cell phone,” he explained red-faced to Liz. He breezed in and out of the house, kissed her light-heartedly and was gone in an instant.

Liz looked at Carla and reached for her hand. They quickly stepped indoors, closed the door and went into each other’s arms.

Six

Frankie bowed before her Sabom, straightened up and left the dojang with a sprint in her legs. She slipped into the changing room and untied the impressive black belt around her waist. Lifting the cream dobok over her head, she flexed her shoulders, and her whipcord, but feminine muscles rippled.

Changing into her tracks, she headed out of the dojang to the bus-stop just across the street. A group of young boys, regulars at the gym which was attached to the dojang lounged around, sweaty after their own workout. They marvelled as Frankie passed them, but gave her way immediately. She was beautiful, but none of them wanted to get on the business end of her fists or legs. Frankie was tough, and she could fight – like a bloke. They had seen her almost shatter the jaw of a big fellow one time, when he tried to get fresh with her.

Waiting for her bus, she made a tall, powerful and proud picture. Then something fell on her shoulder from the tree branch above, with a small, soft thud and she instinctively shook herself free of it.

She glanced down and instantly leapt aside, shrieking loudly and piercingly at a fat, green caterpillar writhing at her feet. This startled the boys, and one of them gallantly came over to see what the matter was. He noticed the poor caterpillar and bent to pick it up.

“Don’t touch it!”

Her scream was almost hysterical, and he looked up at her flabbergasted.

“Use a leaf or something,” she added with a shudder. “Just don’t touch it. Ugh!”

The other boys, standing by the entrance to the gym, watched their friend pick the creature up with a dried leaf, and take it away to safety.

Tough woman? They almost split their sides, laughing.

Seven

“Where are my keys?”

The old padlock was furious. Hanging from the staple with the latch secured by his shackle, he could not be opened, and not a single key was anywhere in sight. They had all gone somewhere – upon the shelf perhaps, to read a book – under the carpet to hide away from everyone, or deep inside a handbag, to just count money.

That’s why he had duplicates, spluttered the lock – so that if one went missing or about her own business, then another could come to his aid and liberate him. What was the use of using some other lock’s keys to try and open him? It would only ruin his insides and probably rend her useless to her own lock.

There wasn’t even one upon the ledge above the door! That was her place; it was her job to be that angel of deliverance, that last resort. When all his other keys failed, he always had her. Now, she had abandoned him too!

They were now trying to open him with some other key. He didn’t care for any other key – unless of course they fashioned and filed her down to suit him. But, really, bereft of his own keys, he could never be opened and that was not a good situation to be in. Then he reddened in greater fury. Perhaps they had taken one of his keys to deliver another lock from a similar predicament. He choked in rage, rattled and screamed – but not for long.

Soon he was yelping in astonishment, and crying and begging that the alien key be tried again – Perchance another alien key was around somewhere?

Obviously, no one heard him; he was just an old padlock. Instead, a huge hacksaw blade cut right through his shackle and gutted him open.

Eight

The Woods! A thick, dark expanse of wilderness running about 25 square kilometres across – no one dared to even linger upon its edge. It was dark, dank and smelly. Some said it was so dark that even the bats who lived in its caves never slept! Others claimed that they sometimes heard strange howls, whispers and wailing.

My home wasn’t exactly along its border – but it was close enough. From the window, even at the distance I was, it appeared a grey, mysterious line under the buttery sun of the morning.

Marina, my next-door neighbour, stared long at it and shivered as a childhood memory of the place came back. At that moment, Pippacat, a silky tabby wriggled through the window, bounced off the sofa and made straight for a bowl of kittle by the trellis door.

Though a feral, she had become my friend, demanding her kittle with loud ‘meows’ when she came visiting. She ate or drank nothing else. Chicken was ignored. Fish was despised. Milk was shunned, and yet she was glossy, healthy, clean of parasites and very well-fed.

“What a pretty cat,” Marina gushed at the furry, four-legged visitor. “Is she yours?”

“No,” I replied. “No one owns her.”

“She looks well-fed and healthy. She definitely has a home. Do you know where she comes from?”

“She lives in the woods.” I glanced at Pippacat and added. “At least I think so.”

“The Woods?” Marina gasped. Something clicked in my head and I started too. Pippacat was so well cared for – if she lived in the Woods, who looked after her?

Pippacat gazed back at me and her green eyes gleamed. She crunched some more kittle and then darted across the room, through the window and was gone, heading for the grey line of the Woods.

Nine

It was a New Year’s party, sometime in the early ‘80s, and Leo was tipsy, or almost there.

He was a tall man, dressed in a brown silk shirt of some large print, with collars like wings. His trousers were of a lighter brown, tight at the hips and unnecessarily fastened by a thick belt, with a large steel buckle of a ‘Texas Longhorn.’ Towards his knees the trousers flared out – at his boots, it was a wide cone of fabric, flapping away as he danced.

Now some blokes got together to play some very nasty tricks on each other, and at some point, Leo became the bait.

Someone produced a plastic funnel, and another conjured up a coin. The funnel was shoved into Leo’s belt, just between the longhorns, and the coin was placed on his forehead.

“The rule is simple,” said Rico, the mastermind. “All you gotta do is drop the coin into the funnel. No hands – just by tilting your head. You get three tries.”

Tilt One was quick, clumsy and unsuccessful. Tilt Two was slower, carefully timed and…unsuccessful. Leo was now wound up. He was going to nail this.

He measured and calculated Tilt Three, his eyes on the ceiling but his mind focussed on the coin between them. At that moment Rico nonchalantly tipped a bottle of beer into the funnel.

It fizzed to the top instantly and someone hissed:

“It’s full.”

There was smothered laughter as the beer swirled in the funnel, disappearing down Leo’s pants.

It took a second from the calculated stance of Tilt Three. Stung by the icy beer, Leo’s body snapped forward, and the coin, so precisely poised for victory went flying.

Honest, we all learned some new dance steps that night.

Ten

Simon and I were eating ice-creams that evening and his dad, Uncle Rolly was paying the guy selling them. We must have been all of five at that time, best friends, favourite cousins and classmates in kindergarten.

Uncle Rolly got us two more and turned to Simon.

“Remember what I told you,” he said. “Remember our secret. No one must know. Least of all Mum.”

Simon nodded unconcernedly as he licked his fingers and a line of cream that rolled down the back of his arm.

“Did you hear me Son?” he persisted.

“Yes Da,” Simon replied. “But why were you kissing her? Can I kiss her too?”

Uncle Rolly muttered something under his breath. It was a bad word, I think. My mum would have taken my face off if I used such a word!

“Not a peep to your mother,” Uncle Rolly tried again; then with a smile he added, “more ice-cream?”

We nodded eagerly.

We were thus slurping away when Auntie Marge arrived on the scene, red-faced and breathing fire. Without a word she walked up to Uncle Rolly and slapped him resoundingly across the cheek. I stopped my gormandising in total shock, and Simon rolled his eyes. Evidently, he had seen his mum and dad duelling before.

“Guess what you creep,” she cried furiously and slapped the other cheek. “I’ve found you a wife.”

He tried to laugh off the slaps – it was embarrassing before two children and the ice-cream man.

“Yes, a wife and she is the servant; the one who is now carrying your child,” she seethed. “You can now marry her Rolly, because I am divorcing you!”

I glanced at Simon. How could the servant be carrying him when he was here with us? And what in the world was the meaning of ‘divorcing?’