Ailsa Abraham's Blog: Ailsa Abraham, page 61

A CHOICE

Bit of publicity for Bro today …I love this story!

A CHOICE

by Cameron Lawton

“YOU!”

The disguise no longer fools him once I throw the hood back.

“You’ll get yourself killed you bloody fool.”

He is across the prison cell in a second, despite the leg-irons and gripping me tightly to him, pressing his mouth to mine, his stubble grazing my chin.

“You think it won’t kill me? Being forced to watch tomorrow?”

I’m in control, the prince, commanding, not letting him take the lead as he usually does.

He looks into my eyes and nods.

“Yes, His Majesty will insist.”

“Father won’t win, not this time. I’ve seen it before, I know what they’ll do to you; so don’t say anything noble about suffering it for me. I’m the Crown Prince, they can’t touch me. But I won’t watch you take half an hour to die. Please, hold me, just hold me.”

He folds me in his arms and I slide the dagger expertly between his ribs. Whatever else I am, I was trained to kill. My lover’s eyes open wide and fix mine as he slumps against me. I’m good; he’s dead before he knows it’s happening.

Gently lowering him to the floor, I lie beside him, draping his arm around my shoulder until we’re together, as we were in his bed when we could, when we dared. Taking the small bottle of poison, I turn my head to press a kiss on his forehead and whisper.

“Just wait for me, beloved. A few more minutes and we’ll be together, forever, beyond all this nonsense. Just wait …” I pause, a moment of fear stopping my hand until I re-live the public executions of “our sort” that I’ve had to witness in the past….. I drink.

This work is protected by copyright. It may not be reproduced or copied in any form or way either entirely or in part without the express written permission of the publishers. This also covers the translation of any or all material into other languages as well as its use in electronic retrieval systems. All rights reserved.

http://assassinscreed.wikia.com/wiki/User:Ezio_Auditore_1459 – original

Frigid atmosphere

Today I’d like to thank the stars of yesterday’s blog piece – the maggots. It was entirely down to them that Other Half leapt into the van and shot off to town to buy a new fridge. I have been explaining for some years, ever since he changed the door around, moving the hinges, that it didn’t shut properly. It took living proof (literally) that flies could get in there to prompt him into immediate action.

OK he came home with a fridge/freezer that is far too big and there is now no space on top for the kettle to live. No matter. I will work around it somehow. I didn’t need another fridge/freezer, I needed a small fridge.

This brings me to a subject I rarely touch. The real differences between the functioning of the male or female brain. Economics is a prime example. Female logic is – I saw a gorgeous bag/skirt/pair of sandals but they were nearly 100 euros so I didn’t buy them. I bought one for 10 euros QED – we have saved 90 euros, good girl me!

Man’s reaction is usually – what the f*** are you doing? You have more bags/skirts/pairs of sandals than you could use in the rest of your life!

Right – so I understand. We cannot afford an Indian skirt off Amazon for 10 euros (Prime – no postage) and we are therefore total paupers. Fine! I can work with that, as a kid “we wuz proper poor”.

Male logic is “Me want fridge. Me hate maggots. Me spend 300 euros on very BIG fridge”

Now I’m confused. We don’t have 10 euros for a skirt but we have 300 to spare for over-large white goods which mean I am going to have to re-arrange the kitchen completely.

Hello?

Can anyone explain this to me because it has me beat?

When “frugal” becomes “spew-gal”

 

WARNING – readers of a nervous disposition may find this post distasteful. No sex, nudity or rude words but…

I was brought up with the worthy Scottish principle of “frugality”. My Granny and my mother used to repeat “Wilful waste makes woeful want” and then launch into a maudlin poem.

So I’ve been conditioned to cut out the bad bits of fruit and veg, using the still-consumable portions. Make do and mend. Save the buttons of moth-eaten cardigans.

Well it got up and bit me in the bum tonight. A piece of cheese that had some rather unsavoury looking edges was pressed into service for supper as part of the salad. I dutifully chopped away the sides and then realised that some of the rind was making its way to the edge of the chopping board. Maggots.

I want you to imagine this in a sit-com episode complete with screaming, retching sounds and probably someone standing on a chair. I calmed him down. I used to be a vet nurse and have had to deal with fly-blown critters before. Maggots are actually rather useful if properly used but that is a different matter and I won’t make you feel any more queasy.

With scrupulous care, I cleaned up the area while my husband pointed with a knife “There’s another one, he’s getting away!” I fully expected him to start attacking them by blade. A maggot-hunt wasn’t what I had planned for this evening but it was an amusing diversion…right up to the moment when I discovered that the Christopher Columbus of the pre-fly larvae had escaped, right into my salad.

OK, I admit it, I just threw the rest in the bin. There are limits. Even for ex vet nurses, even for frugal Scots. I’ll pig out on ice cream instead.

yum yum yum

The Winner

I am delighted to announce that the winner of my very first writing competition is Adele Elliot.  This competition was posted here  and judged by an independent reader.  Warmest congratulations to Adele – you have won a paperback copy of the first in my series Alchemy.

All the entries were great so I’m very pleased that I didn’t have to judge.

Here is the winning story…

THE NEW TENANT

The stranger standing at her gate asked how much her house was worth.

What a peculiar question, Rebecca thought. The “For Sale” sign had been planted in the yard for so long that the paint was peeling off, and weeds sprouted at the base. He could call the agent listed. Why bother me?

“Oh,” she said, “what it’s worth; well the real question should be; what is the asking price?”

He smiled. “My name is Patrick. Your home is lovely; you must be very happy here.”

No one had spoken to Rebecca for many years. She was content to sit on the porch, watching the world unfold before her. In fact, she was sure that she was practically invisible to passers by. The old lady knew that she blended into the faded shingles, unseen and ignored.

“Truthfully, Patrick, I don’t know what the price is. It has been reduced several times. My grandchildren are handling the details.”

He pushed the gate; it opened with a squeak.

She leaned forward in her chair. “My name is Rebecca. Please join me. I get lonely with no one to talk to.”

“I understand. It seems that people look right through me.” He sat on a rusty metal chair and began fanning his face with his sweat-stained hat.

“It’s nice to see a well-dressed man these days. Not many men wear hats, so long out of fashion.”

“I certainly am a bit out of fashion, Miss Rebecca.”

“I must tell you, they say my house is haunted.” She peered at him from the corner of an eye. “Would that bother you?”

“I would like nothing more.”

As they sat quietly on the porch, enjoying a comfortable silence, a car pulled in front of the house and two women got out.

“Oh dear,” Rebecca said. “My granddaughter, with the realtor.”

A woman in a dark suit began straightening the sign. “We’ll have to spruce this place up a bit if we ever want it to sell.”

“Yes,” said the younger woman. “I get the distinct impression that my grandmother is somehow discouraging buyers.”

“Let’s see what we can do about the inside,” the neatly dressed woman said.

They stepped onto the porch, walking past Rebecca and Patrick.

“Grandmother’s been gone for several years, now. I wonder if she misses this place – and us?” whispered the young woman.

“Probably,” said the realtor, waving her hand in front of her face as they entered the dark and dusty foyer.

“Rebecca,” Patrick turned to her. “I would be quite pleased to live here.”

“Welcome,” she replied. “I was hoping for some company.”

THE END

Is this goodbye?

There is a weird synchronicity that goes on in my funny little world. I was writing in Book 3 about a shaman connecting with the spirit of a machine. OK pick yourselves up off the floor laughing and then tell me when you don’t shout at your computer, thinking it might actually do some good.

For me, objects that “belong” develop (or have anyway) a spirit. Maybe we imbue them with our own memories, fondness or whatever but there IS something there.

Today we may have to say goodbye to my dear old Steve McQueen. He is the eldest of my motorbikes and was cobbled together from two identical and non-functional ones I bought at a military auction.

The fun of taking them both apart and re-using bits of one to make the other work, the joy of hearing Steve fire up again and the almost-audible “Wheeeeeeeeeee” he gave…even if his exhaust pipe is a bit of garden hose because he is so old they aren’t available any more.

He is a despatch rider’s all-terrain bike, only 80cc but go anywhere, do anything fun chum. He carries memories in his ripped saddle and rusty headlight. The time all my Archers-addicts friends came over for my birthday in Brittany and, somewhat the worse for wear, we played the music from “The Great Escape” and staged a “Steve McQueen impression” contest. We had a huge garden, there were loads of us and it didn’t matter if people fell off because it was a soft landing and many hands to pick the bike up again. The gods look after drunks and sailors – well they did that day.

http://youtu.be/Y9lMVDmGth4 – click for the clip from the film.

You see – he is exactly like the one featured in the film, the one that can jump barbed wire fences. My own gave me a withering glare when I suggested it. That’s how he got his name.

Today we fired him up for his regular outing to keep him going and the ear-splitting puttering noise was music to my ears. Unfortunately, half way up the big hill to the Blue and White Lady, he seized up. It could be terminal. I have photos, I have memories but I think his spirit is gone. He is out front, sitting next to Hathaway and I believe Hath has apologised for knocking him over the other week.

Silly, I know, but Buddhist non-attachment is not my forte, not when things actually live for me.

Grandad and baby

 

Very special needs

I did something I regret yesterday. I was a bit over-stern with a lad in our village (let’s call him Marc) It concerned manners on which I’m rather heavy-handed. Trouble is, this guy, looking like most other sixteen year olds, has a mental age of about seven.

He’d turned up at our door asking me to mend a laptop for him. While being flattered that he thought I might be able to do it, my heart sank because Marc is a prime target for the other lads who offload their junk on him either as “generous gifts” or in the worst case, selling them to him. Also, if he asks for something he then comes back several times to see if you’ve finished it. He’s only a little boy, you see, despite being taller than me and that is hard to remember sometimes.

I took the laptop off him and said very clearly.

“OK. I’ll look at it but DON’T come back. I will bring it to your house when I’ve had a look. OK? Got that? Don’t come back asking cos you’ll only get me cross, I’m a bit busy.”

He pushed off and my worst fears were realised when I opened up the case and found a Toshiba that had been dropped, kicked around, had at least five keys missing and a power unit that didn’t work. It was FUBAR. That irritated me because I knew Marc would have taken it with high hopes of having his own laptop, his folks being settled travellers with no money. We used to give him odd jobs to do but had to stop as standing over him to make sure he did as he was asked for his cash was a waste of time and after he devastated our garden completely, we gave up. I wasn’t looking forward to telling him that it wasn’t worth mending and would cost more to put right than buy a reconditioned one.

Sure enough, ten minutes later the doorbell rings and there is Marc. Had I done it yet?

“I told you I will bring it back to your house.”

“Yes but will it be today? When?”

See? A kid. A great big eager kid who wants his new toy and I lost it.

“Marc that is very rude. When someone is doing you a favour you don’t go hassling them and asking “when” because they are doing it for nothing. You wait til they are finished and then you say thank you.”

Alright. It was a lesson he did need telling but I could have been a little kinder. That is why my heart goes out to any parents of kids like Marc. To have to be that considerate and that mindful all the time is waaaaaaaaaaaay beyond me and I’m usually a pretty nice person…or so I’m told.

Handle with care – fragile

Encore by otter

I was sure that I had written a story featuring a wombat. I’m quite sure that wombats are half-brothers and sisters to otters Wombotts perhaps? Unfortunately I cannot find it but I’m bringing back another stranger who joined the riverbank folks ….

http://wp.me/p2UwIj-6I

… ‘To Weep Is Not A Shame’… for all those with unspoken personal inner conflicts… #TBSU… | Seumas Gallacher

… ‘To Weep Is Not A Shame’… for all those with unspoken personal inner conflicts… #TBSU… | Seumas Gallacher.

 

I’ve been on the receiving end of this caring … he means it.

Butt out

Going to have to admit something today. I’m a snob; not about money or possessions but about manners. Things like not talking with your mouth full because I really don’t want to see it all going around in there like washing in a tumble dryer and I honestly can’t understand what you are saying through a mouthful of grub.

I could probably list two whole blog entries with things I dislike and many of you would agree with me but one that I know drives some of my friends up the wall is “being talked over”. You know the situation. You are sitting with people and in the middle of saying something, an interesting anecdote or stating an opinion when someone driving a verbal steamroller just barges in with their own contribution.

It puts the rest of the assembly in a pickle. Do they carry on listening to you or do they (out of politeness) listen to the bargee? That would mean ignoring you which is pretty rude too. I will often stop what I am saying and fix the butter-in with an interested expression, wait til they have finished and smile sweetly. “As I was saying…” before continuing exactly where I left off as if nothing had happened.

“How very interesting! Well worth cutting me off to hear.” That is when I’m getting a bit testy.

“Really?” (icy tone) I am now getting close to the point of physical violence if it’s the same person for the third time.

After this I just sit. I do not take my eyes off the bargee. I do not open my mouth. I listen to the other people talking and may invite the bargee’s comments with a lifted eyebrow but I do not say one word. It gradually sinks in to even the thickest, most ill-mannered git that they have gaffed.

I’m not very proud of this but one of the worst offenders is in my family and the record is the silent watchfulness is over an hour before someone remarked with false joviality “You’re very quiet, Ailsa.” I was finally able to say “Yes. Well as Mr. Blobby here seems to find himself much more interesting than me and has no wish to listen, I thought I’d just leave him to it.”

I must stress that I have to be pushed to the limits for this last exercise to be put into action. It is much preferable to the high-decibel, air-turning blue request to “STF up” which I am tempted to employ.

 

 

Vive mon Bosch

If you have followed this blog for any length of time you will know two things – I am allergic to housework and I’m a shaman. I believe that everything has a spirit. Following a four-day Mexican stand-off with my vacuum cleaner during my husband’s absence for a family do in the UK, I finally decided to put shamanism into practice and coax the spirit of the machine. When you have picked yourself up off the floor from laughing, ask yourself when you last spoke/shouted/swore at your computer, expecting it to have an effect – not quite so nuts, eh?

So first off I realised it needed a bag…or something, but I had no idea where they live. I asked the machine which sighed and pointed me in the direction of where it lives and oh yes, there they were. So I asked it to co-operate and between us we fiddled and farted around getting a new dust-bag in even if bits of cardboard did fly in all directions.

Noticing that his name is Bosch I laughed because that was the French nickname for the Nazis during World War II so I decided to spirit link by singing with him (he is a male by the way … think about it). I often use song to link in with objects, trees etc. Not knowing the words to the national anthem I decided to sing the hymn that was banned in British churches (oh yes, hymns can offend your God, can they?) and Boshy seemed to like it… sung to the tune of the German Anthem.

He even showed me how to remove what must have been a rather painful blockage in his ureter (or what would be a ureter in a human) so I poked it with an ash stick and we got the lumps out and after that things went swimmingly. To the point where I offered to give him a nice rub over with a damp cloth because he was looking a bit dusty and it can’t be much fun having people tread on bits of you with their feet all the time, even if your designer intended it that way.

Yes, he has a spirit. We have clicked. He does not like being called a “hoover” because he isn’t. He’s Boshie. (Bolshie when in a bad mood).

So if you ever come to the Bingergread Cottage and hear me giving out this hymn full-operatic, you’ll know that I’m doing the floors, with Boshie trailing along behind, gobbling up the dirt.