Tag: short-story

Water in the Wilderness

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Excerpt

Rachael eyed her suspiciously and did not respond to Tyne’s greeting. Tyne followed the doctor into the kitchen which reeked of decaying food and sour milk.
She saw a small sandy-haired boy sitting at a littered table, barely able to see over the dirty dishes and pots. Bare feet with curled up toes stuck straight out from his chair. He had his chin propped in one hand, while the other clutched a glass half full of milk. He wore pajamas that looked as if they were overdue for a good wash.
Tyne walked across the kitchen, being careful to sidestep the litter on the floor. “Hello,” she said, “you must be Bobby.”
He nodded briefly, but did not reply.
“Have you had your breakfast, Bobby?” Tyne asked gently.
He shook his head from side to side. She glanced at his sister, but before she could speak, Rachael blurted defensively, “He’s had a piece of bread; that’s all there was. He wants some corn flakes but there ain’t any.”
Tyne shot Dr. Dunston a helpless glance, and noticed his normally placid features take on a look of disgust. He peered down at the little girl.
“Where’s your dad, Rachael?”
She pointed to a closed door at the far end of the kitchen. “He ain’t up yet.”
Dr. Dunston strode to the door Rachael indicated and rapped loudly. “Corky! Get up, you lazy son-of … you lazy lout. Your kids are hungry.”
Muffled grunts could be heard through the door, accompanied by the creak of bed springs. “Whatdaya want? It’s still night.”
“It’s nine o’clock, Corky. Come out here, I want to talk to you.”
Whether or not the object of Dr. Dunston’s ire knew who stood on the other side of the door, Tyne had no idea, but she raised her eyebrows when, in only a few minutes, the door opened and a disheveled Corky Conrad emerged.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

The idea of moving to Canada became more and more exciting. Oh, to
live in a country that was huge, and sparsely populated, and that seemed
peaceful. You never heard stories about this sort of thing going on in Canada.
I tried to spend even more time with the Canadian ambassador and, given
his passion for fishing, it wasn’t too difficult.
Miloo was the brightest light in his sky. He didn’t know if he was in
love with her – he didn’t know what “in love” meant. He only knew that
some powerful emotion had taken residence inside him that was unlike
anything he had ever experienced. It wasn’t only lust, although that too
played a large part – it was simply that, with Miloo, he found a comfort
that was like coming home. Miloo, had a fire inside her that burned as
bright as his own. When he was with Miloo, he felt as though there was
one other soul on the planet who understood him completely.
Their relationship gradually changed. Miloo told him stories of her
life. She explained that her limp – such a minor impediment – was considered
significant. In Portugal, only the men were allowed to have flaws.
The women had to be perfect.
Ken raged, his anger, as always, flared when he encountered an injustice.
They held hands when they walked and sometimes they stopped
walking so that they could stand with their arms wrapped around each
other. She protested that society would not allow them to be together and
yet she searched him out and welcomed the intimacy.
Then one night, when the tide was low and they walked along the
beach where the water was still warm from the heat of the sun, she suggested
they go for a swim. They took off their clothes and plunged into
the still, moonlit pool. Finally they came together in an embrace and Ken
was lost – they were both lost in each other.
Over the next two years the political situation in Portugal began to deteriorate
rapidly. Secret police, informers and spies were everywhere and
no matter how careful you were, someone was watching and talking.
Ken’s father was unaware that he had a mole in his own office. He had
hired a gem cutter from Antwerp, in Belgium, the world centre of diamond
cutting. His background was a bit shady, but he was an expert in his
craft and Ken Sr. had not inquired too deeply into his background. Lisbon
was the kind of centre that attracted unusual people: the brilliant, the demonic,
and the nefarious – they all gravitated to Portugal’s magic city.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

Ken did as he was asked and came back to his grandfather’s side. He
rearranged the pillows and as he settled the old man back, he noticed that
his hands had become still.
“Come close,” Don Hymie said, wrapping his arms around his grandson
and holding him near. Then he gently pushed Ken back and held him
at arm’s length. “I want you to listen to your old grandpa,” he said. “And I
want you to listen very carefully.” His eyes, that only an hour before had
been hazy and clouded, were wide open and shining.
“Look at me,” he said. “I’m going to make a prediction for you and I
don’t ever want you to forget it. You have to keep it inside you – don’t
tell it to anyone. You’re going to have a very bright and beautiful life. It
won’t be an easy life but it will shine. The gods favour you. You are one of
destiny’s creatures.”
He gave Ken’s shoulders an almost imperceptible squeeze and lay back
against the pillows. Ken held his hand, wondering what his grandfather
had meant. Were these just the ramblings of a dying man? Did he have a
vision? He noticed that the old man smelled different. “Is this how you
smell when you’re dying?” he wondered. And then the old man’s hand
became limp and his face changed. Ken listened, but the sound of his
grandfather’s breathing was no longer present in the room.
He sat by the old man’s side while time stopped and his thoughts stilled.
Then he wrapped his arms around him and held him close and felt a large
weight lift – a shadow disappeared and peace settled on him.
When he left the room to join the others he told them that Don Hymie
had died. He left the house and walked aimlessly up and down the streets
of Miraflores for hours, feeling as though he was floating just above the
cobbles, his mind suspended in a place that thoughts could not penetrate.
When he returned he found his grandmother in the garden. She came to
meet him, put her arm through his and walked with him down the street.
“Did you have a good talk with grandpa?”
“I did.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Why?”
“Grandpa knows things.”
Don Hymie’s body was taken to Valencia where the funeral took place.
An enormous throng of people crowded into the huge cathedral and lined
the steps and sidewalks. Everyone came: the powerful and the peasants –
and perhaps the peasants grieved more than the ruling elite. Seeing the
tears of love and loss and listening to the heartfelt tributes these people
paid to his grandfather, Ken thought how strange it was that this outpouring
came upon death. How sad it wasn’t done while he was still alive.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Excerpt

Near the end of the term, when Ken had counted 138 beatings, he once
more entered the office and this time, instead of standing in front of the
big desk, he sat down.
“Don’t sit down,” the headmaster growled. “I haven’t invited you to sit.”
“Well, I’m doing it anyway,” Ken said, placidly. “And I want to tell you
what I think of you. I think you’re a little man – a very, very tiny person.”
Ken held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart to demonstrate.
“The people who have hired you and who have hired all the people here
have taken very tiny people who will obey their rules, no matter how ridiculous
or horrible those rules are. And you do it because you have no
other place in the world to go. This is your last refuge. This is the way you
have to be. I think you’re evil.”
A light flickered in the headmaster’s eyes. He sputtered incoherent
words as he reached for his cane.
“You cannot inflict pain on me,” Ken said. “Not physically. The pain
that I feel is in a different place.”
The headmaster came at him. Ken pulled down his trousers and lifted
his shirt. “Go on then,” Ken taunted him.
The man lost control and flailed Ken’s back and buttocks until his arm
could no longer lift the cane. He threw down his weapon, stormed out of
the room and slammed the door. Slowly Ken pulled his clothes back on,
feeling the blood soaking into his shirt. This was his moment.
He left the school and walked home. By the time he got there the blood
had begun to congeal and each movement caused pain. Ken Sr. had left
his office early that day and was at home to greet his son. His smile of
welcome faded. You don’t look well,” he said. “You’re white.”
“I’m not too well,” Ken said.
“What happened?”
Ken moved to take his jacket off, but when his father saw the pain it
was causing he put out his hands to help. “What is this?” he asked. The
shirt under the jacket was soaked in blood. His face grew white and his
lips compressed into a thin line. Gently he put his arms around his son,
“What on earth happened?”
Ken told him the story.
His father’s lips grew whiter and thinner until they formed a colourless
line. When Ken had finished his tale, he said, “We’re going to the doctor
right now and we’re also going to the police. He documented the evidence
of the beating with a camera and had charges laid against the headmaster.
The man was arrested and left the country within a month.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573