Writer's Notebook

This week's Fiction Friday prompt is to write a story using text messages or any form of message that is short and often cryptic. I've never been into text messages, but recently I've got hooked on the idea of writing 6 word stories or 6 word summaries of my day, so I've decided to use this form. I hope it's short and cryptic enough to qualify.

Damian where? So much joy. Over.
Unsure at first. Warmed quickly. Miracle.
Days together. So happy. Wonderful memories.
Why? Stupidity. Bewilderment. How could I?
Now? Repair. Tried, failed, rejected again.
Where? Get in touch. Forgive. Please!

"Hello, this is Simon Brightwell, from the Espace Loisirs in Gensdouce speaking. Could you put me through to Mr. Sebastien Boncourt, please."

"Dear Mr. Philippe, following our recent conversation I am writing to confirm your booking..."

"Dear Sir, on behalf of the centre "Espace Loisirs" I wish to express our thanks...."

Looking back over the few months before the centre's official reopening, I wonder what I actually achieved. If I still had the phone bill from those days I suspect, it would give me some sort of an answer to that question. But nothing actually sticks out in my mind. Meetings, phone calls, letters, requests - the daily routine of getting a centre like ours up and running. Routine, I hated that word. And up until now, I'd successfully managed to avoid anything that might be construed as routine. Life was exciting and full of adventure: the adventure of getting to know new countries, conquering new hearts, finding a new home. Routine was inimical to all this - wasn't routine the main reason why I'd left Ireland? That and...?

But now I was getting sucked into routine without even realising it. What's more, routine was becoming necessary - how else was I supposed to achieve anything. Somewhat more disturbing, however, was the way that my relationships with others were becoming the means to an end. If I went to see Thérèse and Guillaume now, it was to talk over a problem, or to discuss a new idea I'd had. I scarcely saw Jean, at all. And relationships with the villagers were growing increasingly distant. So amidst all the routine, I needed to put some spice back into my life. I decided to take a day off and invited a couple of friends to join me on a trip to Besançon. The ancient fortress and citadel had just been refurbished and among the events to mark the occasion was a concert of ancient and modern music given by the students of the conservatoire where Morgana taught. That Morgana had time to do any teaching was a minor miracle because she insisted on typing all my correspondence - a small miracle in my eyes, since I had never got on well with a typewriter. And to think, I'd never taken the time to thank her. I certainly owed her an apology on that one.

It was lovely weather and my heart was singing and there was a quite a buzz in our group as we set off on the trip. We first attacked the citadel and spend an informative and pleasant morning going back into the history of this so pivotal town for our region. After visiting the various exhibits we got together again for a celebratory picnic. The fame of the French when it comes to eating is both well-known and well-documented, but this was the first time I realised that it even spread to their picnics. No soggy bread sandwiches hurriedly made before leaving. Nothing but the best would do, and some of my fellow trippers confided that they'd taken close to two hours to prepare everything. I'm afraid all I had to offer was a white lie, that I'd left my picnic at home. The resulting blush was far paler than it would have been, had I actually unpacked my meagre offering. Not that it made any difference. If I hadn't seen people eat, I would have sworn we took more food home, than we actually consumed. And this was very definitely my first picnic where wine was served. Luckily for me, it was not to be the last.

But it was in the afternoon that I made the find of the year. Thérèse and myself had been bickering for months over the relative merits of our favourite authors. For some years now, I had been seriously obsessed with the Latin American authors and their magical realism. Thérèse also enjoyed them but didn't really consider them serious writers. She far preferred the more philosophical French style prevalent at the time. For her literature had to inform not to entertain. So it was a minor triumph for me when just days before Gabriel García Márquez was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Thérèse was bemused but had to admit magical realism had arrived in the literary world. For weeks before our journey she had promised me a trip to a very special bookstore which specialised in "minority literatures" as the French so beguilingly called them. And it was there that we found a book by an as yet totally unknown author, a young Chilean woman, relative of the deposed former President Salvador Allende. La Casa De Los Espiritus (The House of the Spirits) was Isabelle Allende's first work and we were lucky to have it at all, for no one was interested in translating what was as yet unproved talent. But the store owner's niece had been studying Spanish and had just obtained her degree in translation. To prove her talent and to get a first foot on the ladder she had spent the better part of the last year of her studies translating Allende's book and had persuaded her uncle to invest his life savings by publishing the book. It took him just one reading to be convinced and we were now holding the first French versions ever to be sold. Needless to say both niece and uncle became established figures in the literary world as a result of their championing Allende. And it didn't hurt them financially either. But we couldn't hang around talking all afternoon as we had to get back to the Citadel for Morgana's concert. It was a fitting close to a wonderful day and it convinced me of the need to plan such days into what was rapidly becoming my very busy and lonely schedule.

"Isn't it strange how one passion can lead to another," echoed the voice from his TV.

Dai knew exactly what she was talking about. He remembered a time when he'd never taken up a pen in his life, other than when forced to do so by some over enthusiastic teacher who didn't know what was good for herself. Now, several books later Dai's passion shone through his very being. Yet, it had started with his passion for all things Celtic. That, of course, was intricately bound up with his Welshness which had nothing to do with passions. That was part of his very being. But then even being can be passionate.

As a teenager this passion lived and played itself out on the rugby field. But soon Dai got involved with a group of youngsters absorbed by Celtic music. They listened to all the records and went to all the concerts. They lived for their music. But Dai wasn't satisfied. This was passion at a distance. But true passion had to get involved. So Dai bought himself a fiddle and went for lessons. The lessons taught him a lot about technique and right notes but they almost chased the passion out of him. He stopped just in time and started to improvise. He'd go around the country fairs every weekend to play in his own inimitable style. It may not have been polished but it was definitely passionate. Others joined in. Soon they were a small group - Motley Music, they called themselves.

And their passion rubbed off on others. Wherever they played, people gathered round and the dancing followed. And once again Dai was captivated. Dancing gave him a sense of intoxication he'd never known before and he just couldn't get enough of it. Whenever the group was not playing, he would be at one of the other gigs weaving his way between partners, spinning around the sets as if his life depended upon it. It was either that or listening to some of the other music sessions going on. That was where he first saw Bethan and Dai was smitten from the first. His heart could not contain the fullness of his passion for this brown eyed beauty with the angelic fingers which swept across the strings of her harp and conjured him away into the land of many dreams.

Bethan, too, was Welsh but she lived with her parents in Sweden, just spending the summers at the family home In Swansea and visiting sundry music festivals. Dai couldn't see enough of her, and before long they became the talk of the country scene, most agreeing the passion would not last beyond the summer when Bethan returned home. That was when Dai took up his pen. His first letter was so long he'd had to put it into three different envelopes. Others followed and Bethan came back to Wales at Christmas when the couple got engaged. They were married the following summer and went on a honeymoon of country fairs and folk festivals. But although they were now together, Dai did not put down his pen. Once the festivals were over Dai relived and reworked them in his memory and soon one book after another came out, providing more than an adequate income for the couple to live on and for Bethan to pursue her music career.

"It's really quite easy my dear," echoed Dai back to the TV presenter. "You just need a passion for life. The rest follows on without fail."

Clara,

I don't know if you're actually going to get this letter. A parting was so swift and so brusque that I've a lot I still need to say to you. But who's to say that that parting was for ever. I hope and pray every night, that you will one day be able to join me here. I'm not really sure what happened. One minute I was fighting with all might against a worm I was hoping to bring you home for dinner and the next minute I was flying through the air. And wow, was that special! I've never experienced anything like it yet, and I'm sure I'll never quite experience such excitement again. It was fantastic. And just as I'd reached the highest point, I started to get this really strange sinking feeling; like I was going to plummet right back down, not back into the waters beside you but into the deepest depths of despair. And just as I was about to overwhelmed a friendly hand reached out and snatched me up.

Well, it took me a while to come to, but once I did, well it was all so incredible. It was like a completely different world. There are very strange creatures here. They come in all shapes and sizes but they are really very good to me. The creature that gave me a helping hand - they call him boy here - is really very kind. He knew I couldn't stay out in the dry for long so he put me straight into some nice, cool, soothing water. True, there's not that much room to move but he's promised me lots more space when we get home. In addition, it's really very strange water here. You can actually see right through it. I don't mean like we can see through our water and look at the plants etc. all around us. From here we can see things even more magnificent and wonderful than ever we could before. I do so wish you could join me here.

The boy says he's going to take me home and put me in his garden. He'll give me lots of food and after a few days I'll be invited to his birthday party. His house must be cold because he's told me all about the nice hot oven they will prepare especially for me. You see, how wonderfully kind he is. He's making sure I feel really at home. I'm wondering whether he'll bring me back to you after the birthday party. But to be quite honest... well I just wish you could join me here. It's all so amazing and so beautiful. Remember that old couple we met last year just before the holipond leap-year? They amazed us with their wisdom and puzzled us with their parting remarks:

"We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after a year."

We had no idea what they meant at the time. Well, I understand completely now that I'm here. My scales have been opened and my fins are all on edge. Yet, it's so amazing, I just can't describe it all. If you do come, bring Versify our champion fish poet with you. I'm sure he'll find the words needed to build a thousand and one pictures of this amazing new world.

I love you very much and do so hope to see you soon.

Your baited lover,

Rod

Back in Gensdouce it was time to get down to the serious stuff. Officially, of course, I was still a trainee on placement and occasionally an experienced centre manager got in touch to see how I was doing. But effectively, I was on my own together with the small team I had gathered around me. Our aims were simple. To get the centre up and running and to make sure it served our little community. This, in itself, was quite ambitious. Not so much the serving the community part, the centre had always done that, and so long as it was under the responsible of the town council, no one had really had to unravel the financial side of things: no one, that is, until Mr. Demille came along. Which was why, now, we also had to make it financially viable. And not only that. My first twelve months salary as administrator were guaranteed, but beyond that the centre would have to pay me; a heavy burden for such a small community.

My first evening back I'd arranged to meet with Thérèse and Guillaume at the pub, so that Jean and Annie were able to be present. And Thérèse had invited another person to the inner circle. This was the first time I'd met Morgana. Whilst she wasn't exactly pretty, her appearance was definitely striking. Her flame red hair and emerald green eyes left no one in any doubt as to her Celtic heritage, lending her a charisma which it was difficult to fathom. She felt quite at ease in our presence and as the evening wore on I realised just how much she had taken this project to heart. She was with us heart and soul was obvious.

My first priority was to put together a team susceptible to back me up in my tasks as administrator. I needed some wise counsellors, who would advise me and with whom I could bat around any ideas I had. I also needed someone with enough punch to stand up to me if I made mistakes and refused to listen. At first, I'd asked Jean to take on that job, but he felt an outsider would be better and thought he knew someone who would fit the bill. Guillaume agreed to take on the post of treasurer for the centre and Thérèse proposed Morgana for secretary. She herself would act as advisor to this ad hoc committee along with Jean. I'd also proposed Gérard in this role but the consensus was that it was too early for this and it might compromise him in front of his father bringing down further wrath on us.

Our first major task was to put together the program for the first year's activities and we jotted down all those who were willing to help in any way. I was amazed at the latent talents within our little community. We had activities that some of the larger centres were green with envy over, including the already thriving folk dance evenings, wine tasting sessions, a creative writing workshop, French classes for the many foreigners who had found a new home in some of the villages around the big city, and a car maintenance workshop run by the now retired village mechanic who still hung his oily T-shirt in front of his house in remembrance of old times. The one area we were still weak on was music and I saw a wistful look in Morgana's eyes as we talked about this. How she must have longed to share some of her skills with the villagers she had come to know and look upon as her family.

I went home that evening with a light step. With a program like that how could we fail to attract a large audience. We had a chance of success and since that success lay in our own hands, then we would succeed. For the first time in months I felt we really would make it. That's what comes of leaving Gensdouce, I thought. A few months away and you'd lost all hope. Just one day back and you can conquer any mountain. And then I thought of one other person who had left Gensdouce. Why had she gone? And where was Violette now? Was she all alone? Did she need help? One lonely creature in an unloving world.

Sleep evaded him. He tossed and turned a hundred times, eyes closed, counting sheep, counting all the different remedies for sleep that were possible. But this was no time for sleep. His mind was awake. He was full of ideas. This was the time to banish sleep and let creativity take over. He got up and crept into the salon so as not to wake anyone else. But as he put pen to paper, he realised, this was the wrong pen. This was to be a work of art; he needed his plume, nothing else would do. But how to get hold of it without waking his wife. He crept back into their room and crawled to his desk. Waiting a few minutes to let his eyes get accustomed to the darkness, he opened the draw and pulled out all he needed. Back he went, but hardly had he got outside, then he realised inkwell was missing. He must have put it down beside where he was sitting and if his wife got up and knocked it over, there'd be hell to play. This is when he realised, that it was no use. The creativity had gone out of him now. He'd probably never right again. He crept back to his bedroom hoping beyond hope that he might get a little sleep, when his alarm clock woke him out of the fretful state of unconscious he'd been in for the last few hours. Why on earth had he set his alarm clock. Of course! He had to get to his agent's up in London by 9 o'clock. Today he was signing the contract on the first book: "Sleepless Nights".

Rick was fed up of hearing the words battered baby. He'd made sure that not many people actually saw the scar just behind his ear; his long hair had seen to that. But everyone who did see it, immediately uttered those two dreadful letters: BB - Battered Baby. He'd first been labeled with the etiquette the day he started school. The teachers had conducted a test to check everyone's hair was free of unwanted organisms, and the beast, though small, could not be overlooked. The fact that his aunt had tried to put a bandage on it, only served to fuel suspicion. The next day Rick was called to see the school doctor and for the first time had to defend himself against the accusations of being a battered baby. After all, who else was there to accuse? His parents had been killed in the accident that had given him this reminder that the world was against him. As Rick could only stammer a few incoherent words in his defence, both teacher's and doctor's reports were unanimous in their condemnation. Rick Albeen was a battered baby.

As he was no longer allowed to wear a bandage to school, Aunt Debbie let him grow his hair long. She was very bitter in her condemnation of the authorities so quick to point the finger at those who could no longer defend themselves. She knew her sister was not a baby beater, but how to prove that? Especially, since the doctor had conveniently forgotten to mention the scar in his report of the accident. Had he too suspected Rick was a battered baby.

Two years later the chance came to begin over again. Uncle Jonathan got a new job in Newcastle and they all moved north. The teacher's report, of course, went with him, but his long hair meant that none of his friends were able to see what he was hiding. Not, that is, until his first game of rugby. As he was quite strong and thickset, he was picked as prop forward and received a bandage around his head to enable his fellow prop to get a good hold. Making sure the bandage was on firmly, the teacher recoiled when he saw the scar, and after checking up his report gave the students a long lecture on the horrors of baby battering. Once again the long finger of accusation was leveled against him, and it didn't take long for the students to discover who the battered baby, in question, was.

Another move followed, this one forced upon his aunt and uncle by the increasing taunts leveled at Rick from what had been his school friends. Another move, another new beginning. But that new beginning once again turned into a nightmare and Rick lost all ability to explain what had actually happened. Maybe, he was after all a battered baby? Would relief come from admitting that? Accepting what he knew wasn't true?

At eighteen Rick went up to university. There he avoided all contact with sports clubs and threw himself into his studies. In fact, as much as possible he avoided contact with anyone. Most of his acquaintances had normal fingers but Rick knew from experience how the could grow when raised in accusation against him. And as he avoided others, they tended to do the same, not shunning him but not going out of their way to get to know him. True, some students did ask for help with various essays. After all, he was one of the best students of the class. But beyond that they had little to do with him. Then, he met Bethan.

Bethan was pretty much a loner herself. She'd never been a popular girl and was desperate to find someone to talk to. She latched onto Rick who was glad to have someone around. As Rick had never been much of a talker, he threw himself into listening, glad that it afforded him the luxury of not having to talk himself. Bethan and Rick grew closer, and in a while Rick began to believe he had, at last, found someone who would not recoil in disgust upon hearing his story. The two went together everywhere and the two were unwittingly the subject of quite a lot of student banter. But Rick wasn't worried. Say what they want, he felt safe with Bethan like he'd felt safe with no one before. He even began to envisage cutting his hair and telling her his story. For him BB no longer meant battered baby but Bethan Bolten... until the evening of the scream.

They'd shared a wonderful meal together before walking out along the bank of the canal to watch the sun set over the town. Bethan was standing behind Rick stroking his hair when she saw it. The scream was as unrehearsed as it was unavoidable. It did its damage. From that moment the letters BB only ever had one meaning for Rick.