Actually, this is link self-love, as I’m inviting you to check out my LJ page, in which I will be writing about writing, as opposed to just writing, which is what I do here. I’m new to LJ, so please add me as a friend!

The other linkage I have for you today is the site for my anthology project, once there was.  This is my first foray into publishing other writers’ work, albeit on a relatively small scale, and it’s fun but scary, like all the best things in life.

Thank you to all my readers for your support over the past year. Thanks for loyally sticking around through long periods of not posting, and through the less-brilliant stories, too. I appreciate you all.

May the new year bring you peace, love, and happiness, and success in all your endeavours.

The Smallest was empty.

The Second Smallest knew that the Smallest was empty, and so she felt lonely.

Sister doll suspected that the the the Second Smallest knew that the Smallest was empty, and so she felt lonely, which made Sister doll feel sad.

Mother doll, apple-round and pregnant, couldn’t understand why Sister doll suspected that the Second Smallest knew that the Smallest was empty, and so she felt lonely, which made Sister doll feel sad, and Mother doll could not account for her feelings of sorrow.

Old Wooden Woman, who loved them all, saw that Mother doll, apple-round and pregnant, couldn’t understand why Sister doll suspected that the Second Smallest knew that the Smallest was empty, and so she felt lonely, which made Sister doll feel sad, and Mother doll could not account for her feelings of sorrow; but the Old Wooden Woman kept silent.

Grandmother doll approved of how the Old Wooden Woman, who loved them all, saw that Mother doll, apple-round and pregnant, couldn’t understand why Sister doll suspected that the Second Smallest knew that the Smallest was empty, and so she felt lonely, which made Sister doll feel sad, and Mother doll could not account for her feelings of sorrow; but the Old Wooden Woman kept silent, which made the Grandmother doll smile.

Great-grandmother was tired of carrying so many others, and was irritated by the way Grandmother doll approved of how the Old Wooden Woman, who loved them all, saw that Mother doll, apple-round and pregnant, couldn’t understand why Sister doll suspected that the Second Smallest knew that the Smallest was empty, and so she felt lonely, which made Sister doll feel sad, and Mother doll could not account for her feelings of sorrow; but the Old Wooden Woman kept silent, which made the Grandmother doll smile, and this annoyed Great-Grandmother, who only wanted to rest.

The Oldest doll was so old that she had forgotten there were others inside her, and didn’t know that Great-grandmother was tired of carrying so many others, and was irritated by the way Grandmother doll approved of how the Old Wooden Woman, who loved them all, saw that Mother doll, apple-round and pregnant, couldn’t understand why Sister doll suspected that the Second Smallest knew that the Smallest was empty, and so she felt lonely, which made Sister doll feel sad, and Mother doll could not account for her feelings of sorrow; but the Old Wooden Woman kept silent, which made the Grandmother doll smile, and this annoyed Great-Grandmother, who only wanted to rest, while the Oldest doll did nothing at all and knew nothing at all and forgot everything inside her, as we all must do in the end.

The visitor did not leave her room for two days. On the third day, the Abbess asked me to take some clean towels to her, and stay with her a while.

The visitor took the thin, starchy towels and nodded her thanks. She was walking slowly up and down the room. Each step looked like it cost her in pain, like she was out of her element; a mermaid on land, walking on knives. She could have stopped at any time, but she kept on. She explained, in simple, broken German, that she was trying to become tired, so that she would sleep in her bed. That’s how she put it. She was praying, also. She prayed in English. Our Father, Who Art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name.

When the darkness fell, she washed in plain water and put on a long nightdress. The Abbess came in then, and the two women hugged. Like sisters. Or soldiers.

The Abbess bade the visitor to lie on the bed, and from underneath the bed she produced a length of thick hemp rope. All around the bed and the woman, she wound the rope. Round and round in thick loops. Apologising for the discomfort. The woman said it was not a discomfort, that it had to be done. She did not trust herself to stay, unprotected and untethered. The Abbess tied knots with the proficiency of a sailor. Wherever had she learned such a skill?

The woman was now in the narrow white bed, tied up like a parcel or a joint of meat, her thin face glowing red at the top of the blankets.

“There,” said the Abbess. “You are secure. I’ll leave Novice Agatha here to sit with you whilst you sleep.”

“Thank you,” said the woman.

“Let’s pray together.”

She knelt at the side of the woman’s bed, and silently prayed.

When the Abbess left, the woman closed her eyes and let out a long, deep sigh. Her face seemed peaceful at last, as she slipped into sleep. Her breathing grew very small and shallow, and seemed to almost stop. But before long she woke up, startled by something in a dream, and called out, “Help me, oh please!”

She tried to turn in the bed, but could not move for the ropes holding her.

“Untie me! Please, in the name of our Lord! Sister, please.”

She was speaking in English, sobbing out the words. It was pitiful to see her.

“I am in such pain,” she said. “You do not understand my pain. Ah, you must free me, you must let me go.”

What could she mean? Of course she meant to untie the ropes from around her bed. What harm could that do? But it was against the Abbess’s explicit instructions.

I stroked the woman’s forehead and soothed her, while she cried many bitter tears and uttered all kinds of reproaches. After a time, we both slept. In the morning, the bed was made, the ropes had been put away, and the woman was gone.

In this story, a young woman wearing plastic shoes walks into the forest. She is very pregnant, and moves with the grace and whimsicality of a balloon, as she trips light footed over the forest floor. It is morning and the gibbons are singing. She follows the sound of voices.

After an eventful hour or so (in the course of which account we learn that the woman is searching the forest for the reincarnated soul of her dead husband), she comes to the foot of a tall tree and looks up. A male gibbon lies sprawled over the branches, hooting a song as he picks fleas and lice off his belly.

The woman calls up to the gibbon, husband! I am here. She calls him many times, but he does not respond. He goes on with his song and his grooming, until the woman, exhausted, sits at the foot of the tree and cries herself to sleep.

At this point, we are told of the husband’s family, and how they believe that the unborn child is the reincarnation of the dead man. They are planning to take the baby away from the woman as soon as it is born. They have no use for the woman, who is a mouth to feed and a body to clothe. The woman suspects their plan. She hints, in her informative dream, that this is why she has come to the forest with her desperate cry for help.

When the woman wakes, she finds that a female gibbon is sitting with her, picking lice from her hair. She recognises her mother’s soul in the gibbon’s eyes. Together they wander deep into the forest, leaving the lazy, ignorant husband gibbon behind.

The story ends with the woman and her son being adopted into a family. We know they are accepted when they are allowed to play with the baby gibbons. They live in harmony, eating fruit, singing songs in the morning, and watching the children play. It is impossible to prove whether the gibbons are indeed reincarnated souls, but it seems unlikely.

We are left wondering what the point of the story is.

A garage full of spare parts for things that do not go:

flying carpets,

time machines,

a bottomless purse,

and a mirror that reflects inner beauty.

Unwanted spare parts flaked with rust;

they squat in blue corners,

dying.

The oily teeth on bitten metal,

the broken teeth ground down to rubber gums,

arcane engines, stalled. Betrayed.

They whine and hum their

petroleum music

into my nose.

They’re useless and redundant and I hate them.

I’ll put a match to the lot,

And house them in flames.

They don’t belong and they never will.

No they don’t belong, and they never will.

You can burn the witch or you can put out her eyes or you can hammer a nail into the top of her head or feed her poison berries. You can throw acid in the wizard’s face or break his bones or bury him alive.

We are in Akwa Ibom, in the Niger Delta. It is the present day.

A pastor stalks the open air church and stops next to you and puts his hand on your head, which sends a cold sweat right down your back. Your husband died last month. There must be evil close at hand. And the pastor says, ‘Satan is upon you. He is very close. He is in the… in the…’ and your mind is empty, not daring to look down at your two children, and the pastor says, ‘Where is your son?’ and then you look down at the boy who is sitting in the dust at your feet, so young that he has fat baby cheeks still.

Now the pastor takes up the boy and puts his hands on his head and shouts ‘Satan get OUT,’ and your son screams.

‘Someone has poisoned this child with evil,’ says the pastor. ‘Someone in your family.’

Your daughter is five. She goes to school. She is top of her class.

‘There is a witch,’ says the pastor, pointing at her. ‘It is she! Who killed your husband! And poisoned! And infected your son.’

The neighbours around you draw back, muttering ‘witch’. And the girl clings to you, shaking, her thin arms tight around your knees.

‘You must pray. Pray to Jesus.’

You will pray. You will. But you know that praying will not be enough. And you push the girl away from you, wrenching her arms from you. You stare into her shocked face for a second, but then you quickly look away again.

You are not my father. But I am not Luke Skywalker, nor was meant to be. Am an attendant fool – no, worse: a woman. Your daughter, Princess Leia. Princess of nothing. Princess of high heels and long hair curled into earmuffs, and tranquillizers, cocaine, and booze.

All Princesses of Nothing have secrets. They sent me to you as a spy, after all. Me, the leader of the Rebels – and yet I was dispensable. I expected it, don’t worry. It’s the same old story: I take the risks, I have my stomach pumped, I am the compliant body. I am sticky honey in a trap, in a metal bikini, with stupid hair.

You think I am weak. You can crush me under your boot. But I have watched you. I can see behind your black mask, your five wives, your rock and roll. The Force is strong with me.

A girl was married without a dowry to a man much older than herself. What was she, this bride with empty hands? Nobody special. Not a princess. But she was pretty, and her husband liked pretty girls better than anything.

He took her away to his castle, deep in the forest, and he gave her the keys and told her to be the mistress of the place. Then he took her to bed, brutally, and afterwards he left, saddling up his horse and riding out through the forest to who knew where.

The young wife was alone for the first time in her life. She walked around the castle, jangling the keys in her hands. She jumped on the beds and let the dogs into the kitchen and she rode the horses around the yard. She cooked extravagant meals and shared them with the cats and the mice and they all grew fat and happy and warm, for she made fires in all the rooms. She took up reading, and spent hours playing the instruments in the music room. She even wandered in the forest, gathering plants and mushrooms, and she dried them and stored them in jars, along with rabbitsfoot and toadspawn and other such things.

In short, she was happy and content, until the day her husband came back to the castle. He was furious with her for her wastefulness, making fires in the middle of the day when he wasn’t even home.  He put the dogs out and shot the horses and damped the fires and smashed the jars and drowned the cats and burned the books and broke the instruments and built a huge iron fence around the castle so that she could not escape. Then he left again, because he could not stand to be in the ruined home, with his wife crying and complaining. He left her scrubbing blood off the kitchen floor.

After that, the wife kept to her room, eating plain meals and keeping a small fire going. She was always hungry and cold, but too frightened of her husband coming back to give herself any more warmth than this. She confined her comfort to one room. But here she soon became at home. She found pencils, and drew pictures of the forest flowers and the animals that she missed. She wrote stories like the ones she had read in books, and told them to herself. She sang and danced. And her spirits rose, and her hope.

The next time her husband came home, he brought his friends. They wanted to meet his pretty wife. They had heard so much about her looks and her carefree ways. But the castle was cold, and the wife was thin and unsmiling, and there was no joy to be had, except to torment her. They took away her pictures and stories. They laughed and pushed her from one to the other. And the husband was the worst of all. He was so ashamed of his ugly, miserable wife, who could not stop crying, who could not even keep a house warm, that he beat her until she was half dead.

Then they left, all of them, leaving nothing behind except her. They did not even bother locking the gates, for there was nowhere for such a wretch to run to. She crept into the forest, looking for herbs to heal her bruises and herbs to mend her spirits. And when she was in the forest, alone, her heart rejoiced. She listened to the birdsong and watched the sunlight slant between the trees, and she felt she was blessed. I am alive, she thought, and I can feel the sun in my head.

And when she looked up from the forest floor, back towards the castle, she saw that it was burning to the ground, and turrets of smoke and ash plumed up towards the heavens. The fire gave off a wonderful heat, and she held out her hands to it. Her cheeks grew rosy and hot. The fire warmed her through and through, until she was glowing, until she could believe that she would never be cold again.

They call from her hometown, asking if she is dead yet. She has brought shame on her people. They paint messages on the wall of her mother’s house. She is bad. She deserves to be killed.

She says she isn’t scared. She has lived through worse fear. This is the dress I wore when I did my beautiful dance. She holds up the ivory and silver shalwar kameez. This is the dress of freedom.

She always acts according to her emotions. She says music lifts the heaviness from her heart. She says if there was no singing, the world would be silent.

# 1

“What kind of music do you like?”

I shrug. “Oh, a bit of everything, really.”

“Everything? You can’t like everything. That’s stupid.”

I take the bait. “Why is it stupid?”

“Do you like Shania Twain?”

“Not especially, but…”

“Do you like death metal?”

“No, I don’t really…”

“Do you like car alarm music? Do you like French pop music? Do you like Christian rock?”

“No.”

“Do you like dolphin relaxation music, Jean Michel Jarre, Shakin Stevens, elevator music? Do you like Katie Melua?”

I say nothing. I give him a hard stare, and finally he retreats and leans back in his seat, folding his arms. “I’m just saying,” he says.

# 2

“I love to travel,” he says. “Do you love to travel?”

“Well, I guess I…”

“Me too. Love it. Like, I went to South America last year? Amazing. We went in the Amazon jungle and had like this major party? And then we went to Argentina and it was so cool. The entire economy had like just totally collapsed so we were drinking champagne for like fifty pence a bottle. Awesome. So what about you? You been to South America?”

“No, I just came back from Africa. I was working on a health project in Congo…”

“The Congo? Um Bongo, they drink it in the Congo. Do they all drink Um Bongo?”

“What?”

“Um Bongo?”

“What?”

He gives me his best little-boy smile and I fire back my best quizzical frown. We sit like this, silently, for the remaining two minutes.

# 3

“Tell me everything about yourself.”

“Everything?” I laugh. “We’ve only got three minutes. I hope I can’t sum up my whole life in three minutes.”

“Good point! You seem like an interesting person. I love intelligent, strong women. Tell me about your work. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a nurse,” I say. “A tropical nurse specialist. I work for Medicin San Frontieres. Just come back from Congo, there was a lot of cholera and malaria there, but obviously we were seeing a lot of victims of violence and rape too. Now I’m training other nurses to work in areas affected by civil war.”

“A nurse? Woah. That’s awesome.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I really love my job.”

“I bet you look hot in a uniform.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Hey, we all know what nurses are like. Woo boy. I’m definitely marking your card.”