I've now exhibited here in Melbourne and in Europe and thankfully people have liked my work enough to acutally buy some of the pieces, even in this climate.
Hope you like at least a few of the pieces... cheers Raven!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
STC _ Sexually Transmitted Crime - 2nd MS currently working on.
Currently working on this my second MS
while I perfect my first MS
- comments, critique and fame
and fortune all welcome! lol!
Also, feel free to comment on my art too :) - especially if it's a good comment and your
cheque book is healthy too hahaha
STC –Sexually Transmitted Crime
Chapter 1 – Life outside a Shoe Box
“You need to sign here” he said. It was the first time Mr. Wilson sounded friendly. To be honest I was a little taken aback by it, he even had a sort of smile on his face. My hand was trembling, I was trying to read the page but all I could think was two years, four months and twelve days and after this signature I could leave.
I had been counting down to this day. It was the only way I knew how to survive. At first I counted down the seasons, breaking up those first two years into quarters. Then I counted down the months and finally it was to those last twelve days.
Outside I could hear them all running around. I looked at the clock on the wall above Mr. Wilson’s desk it was 10.50am the 11.00am Muster was about to happen. Through the barred window I could see the others had started to group. Ms Sanders and the other officers were leaving the office to prepare for the Muster. There was another word I now hated; MUSTER. Until I arrived, became one of them, I had only heard of muster referred to animals; cattle or horses, now my vocabulary was increased to refer to a type of human collection.
My mind began to wander through the past two plus years and how they had all fused together; all expect the Parole Board Hearing date. This was the big one. We all expected me to be granted parole but until you get the little bit of paper, it’s still not real. I couldn’t even think about NOT being granted parole; it would have resulted in another nine months in here.
I was trying to read the page Mr. Wilson handed to me but all I could visualize was those four people, the Parole Board, sitting opposite me, questioning me, judging me; again. They held my future in their hands. The scribbles on their pads would determine if I could go home soon. I recall imagining them just doodling on their pads. The other women had told me, one’s who had been in and out of the system, the Board’s mind was already made before they called you in and it was all a form of intimidation. So many questions, such short answers on my part. Feeling frightened, trying to be humble, trying to play the game.
Mr. Wilson interrupted my thoughts, “Don’t be nervous, it’s nearly over, and I have confidence in you, we’ll not see you again will we Isabella” But I was nervous. I had planned and built up to this day but now what. My life was totally different and I had no idea what to expect. The last two and half years were controlled, ordered, organised for me. I didn’t have to think, I wasn’t allowed to think, to be individual, I just had to survive. Suddenly the outside world seemed frightening.
Mr. Wilson was still looking at me. I looked at his uniform, his tie with that hideous logo, his dark blue trousers and pale blue shirt and hoped he was right. Finally, turning my attention to the dotted line where I started scribbling my signature I said “No, I don’t ever want to see you again Mr. Wilson, no offence” Again he smiled and then handed me the last of my personal belongings. A gold plated watch I had bought for myself just six months before this hell began, an emerald ring, my great aunts, which I had treasured since been given it on my 21st birthday, my charm bracelet and a set of gold hoop earrings.
I quickly placed every piece of jewellery on me as though somehow these trinkets would bring back the old Isabella. Finally Mr. Wilson handed me my wallet and my envelope. It was unsealed. He counted out my accumulated income for the past almost two and a half years, eight hundred and two dollars and thirty cents. My entire life seemed to fit in a shoebox. A wallet, some cash and a few pieces of jewellery. I felt like my possessions; we had all been living in a shoebox and finally we were about to see freedom.
He was still talking but I just wanted to get out of there. “So have you got yourself a ride?”
“Yes, Mrs. Langley is on her way to the city and has offered to give me a lift.”
“Well that was nice of her”
“Yes, I know”
My mind wanted to be smart and arrogant and say something like “Lucky me” but my heart was frozen and my stomach was churning, I just wanted to walk out of the building as soon as possible, why was Mrs. Langley taking so long.
“So what are your plans when you get back home” he was still talking. This was the most in-depth conversation I think we ever had and all I wanted was silence and to escape this place.
“My family has been maintaining my apartment for me, my sister in law put a tenant in there and she just moved out two weeks ago, so I guess I’ll be doing some cleaning as soon as I get back”
“Don’t forget, you have that appointment, don’t miss that one, we wouldn’t want to see you back on a technicality!” Was he trying to make a joke; I think it was a sort of joke, I didn’t care I just wanted him to shut up.
“No, no, I haven’t forgotten, it’s for tomorrow”
My mind was screaming, “Stop trying to be nice”. All I could think about was if we ever met in the street one day, in the real world, what would we say to each other “Hello, nice day, how’s the job going?” What is the correct etiquette for conversation with your former prison guard of almost two and half years? I felt his need to make himself human to me; he was just doing his job. It was his duty to randomly rummage through my things, to peep through the slot of my cell when I was sleeping, to march around me in the endless daily line-ups, but I hated it. I hated being there, I hated having to talk about how I was going to do things differently when I got out, I hated having these people know every last detail about me and all I knew was their name and rank. I didn’t want to make friends with them I just wanted to get out of there.
“Ah good, best to get these things out of the way as soon as possible”
“I’m sure you are right Mr. Wilson, do you have any idea how much longer Mrs. Langley will be?”
“I’ll check, I imagine you want to get out of here don’t you?”
My mind was saying “Of-course you idiot” but I managed a polite smile.
“Stupid rules” I thought, I was technically free but now I couldn’t just walk out, I had to be escorted out, so there I was just waiting.
By this stage I was pacing, I really wanted a cigarette but this was a government building and I couldn’t smoke, not until I was outside in the fresh air.
Finally Mrs. Langley appeared, “Sorry for the delay, last minute minor emergency I had to resolve before we heard off, so are you ready Isabella?”
I wanted to scream “ARE YOU CRAZY” but I settled for “Yes”
I followed Mrs. Langley out the first set of security doors, down the short hall that I had walked through when I first arrived here, past the staff kitchen and toward the glass doors. When I walked through them, I felt like I was breathing fresh air, I was still on prison grounds, the exit was a good fifty meters away, but I felt free for the first time in years.
I asked Mrs. Langley if I would have time for a cigarette while she loaded her car. Mrs. Langley was a prison psychologist who also had a private practice in the city, handy for me as she could drive me to my door-step. From what she had told me over the years, she also gave talks and attended seminars around the country.
I watched her check and re-check herself, her documents and papers, her bags. It seemed odd to me that someone who was a psychologist would have her own disorder. I had often observed her re-checking things, placing items in one order and then re-arranging them but on this occasion, it gave me time to have a cigarette and to think.
Because of what Richard had done, I was charged and arrested, I was put through the court system and I was sent to prison. Luckily for Richard, he had found his way out of the country, unluckily for me that resulted in the police knocking on my door.
I was trying to think about what to do next. I still had my apartment, than God for that. I bought the apartment a decade before I met Richard and in my company’s name so it couldn’t be taken from me, even in court. But now I needed to live, to get a job, to start afresh.
My eighteen years of experience and countless qualifications as an accountant were less than worthless now. I was a convicted criminal. Aside from accounting, I had no real experience or training; it was looking more and more like I would need to take up Dalia’s offer of employment. Dalia had been released two weeks earlier and like me, was on parole.
My first meeting with my parole officer was tomorrow, I dreaded the thought of being connected to prison outside but I held out some hope that the duty of a parole officer was to also help find work.
“Are you ready?” Mrs. Langley’s voice broke my thoughts. I nodded yes, put the smoke out under my heel and jumped into the car. Within a few seconds we were out the gate and I was free, well kind of.
Mrs. Langley chatted pretty much the entire trip back to the city. Occasionally I managed a “Yes, Ah-Ha, of-course, I know” but mostly I was silent. One hour and forty-five minutes later Mrs. Langley was looking for parking outside my apartment building.
I unloaded my personal belongings, looked up at the building and down the street, I was home but it all felt surreal. Everything was the same, but I felt the difference too. The season was different, the trees had grown, the building opposite mine had been re-painted and a new NO STANDING sign had been added.
“Are you OK? Do you want me to come up with you” Mrs. Langley was a lovely person and I knew her offer was genuine.
“No, that’s OK Mrs. Langley, I just want to go inside and shower in my own shower and lay down in my own bed”
“Is your family going to meet you later today, you know you will need support in the coming few months”
“No, not today, I have asked them to let me settle back in, I’m going to call them once I’m inside the apartment, but I just want to be alone today. It’s been so long since I could be truly alone”
Mrs. Langley nodded a knowing nod. “Well you have my card you know you can call me anytime you want to, I’d be happy to talk, if you need it”
I nodded and thanked her for her help and the lift. Finally she drove away. I think that was the first moment of actual happiness I had felt in over four years.
I pressed my security key-pass into the slot and it opened automatically. Walking through those glass doors was a pleasure. Into the lift and to the top floor. “PING” the lift opened to my floor, I was home!
I opened the door, and almost rushed inside.
The apartment was clean, Jenna, my sister in law, must have arranged it for me. The power was on, the phone connected. I dropped everything at the entrance and just wandered around the rooms, on to the balcony, taking in the views, it was magic!
When I got to my bedroom there was a note on my bed, it was from Jenna. She had arranged cleaners through the place, the fridge and cupboards were full and there was an additional two hundred dollars in the envelope.
“I thought you might need some cash, we didn’t know if you’d have any Isa, I hope two hundred is enough, if not just let us know”
I could feel tears welling in my eyes. My family had been so great throughout this time. My poor parents, what they must have gone through, to see your daughter in prison. Mum was going through cancer treatment at the time too so dad was left with supporting her through that illness and me through my mess. I had only seen dad twice during my prison sentence and mum not at all. Sometimes I felt angered that they did not visit more but truthfully I was grateful they didn’t. Even the seldom visits between dad and I just ended in tears and a sense of saddened depression for both of us. Jenna visited more often but I refused to allow the kids, my niece and nephews, to see me inside. Thankfully it looked like both mum and I had made it to the other side of hell.
Phone calls were made to everyone, Jenna included, and then I opened the bottle of red Jenna had left for me, together with some of my favorite cheese and just sat there, on the balcony and watched the world go by.
I didn’t want to think about prison life, about a job, about the bills, about Dalia’s offer, I just wanted to relax. Later that afternoon I went for a walk around the city, even went to a local bar for a drink and non-prison company.
Tomorrow I would have to face reality tonight I just wanted to fantasize about happiness.
Chapter 1 – Life outside a Shoe Box
“You need to sign here” he said. It was the first time Mr. Wilson sounded friendly. To be honest I was a little taken aback by it, he even had a sort of smile on his face. My hand was trembling, I was trying to read the page but all I could think was two years, four months and twelve days and after this signature I could leave.
I had been counting down to this day. It was the only way I knew how to survive. At first I counted down the seasons, breaking up those first two years into quarters. Then I counted down the months and finally it was to those last twelve days.
Outside I could hear them all running around. I looked at the clock on the wall above Mr. Wilson’s desk it was 10.50am the 11.00am Muster was about to happen. Through the barred window I could see the others had started to group. Ms Sanders and the other officers were leaving the office to prepare for the Muster. There was another word I now hated; MUSTER. Until I arrived, became one of them, I had only heard of muster referred to animals; cattle or horses, now my vocabulary was increased to refer to a type of human collection.
My mind began to wander through the past two plus years and how they had all fused together; all expect the Parole Board Hearing date. This was the big one. We all expected me to be granted parole but until you get the little bit of paper, it’s still not real. I couldn’t even think about NOT being granted parole; it would have resulted in another nine months in here.
I was trying to read the page Mr. Wilson handed to me but all I could visualize was those four people, the Parole Board, sitting opposite me, questioning me, judging me; again. They held my future in their hands. The scribbles on their pads would determine if I could go home soon. I recall imagining them just doodling on their pads. The other women had told me, one’s who had been in and out of the system, the Board’s mind was already made before they called you in and it was all a form of intimidation. So many questions, such short answers on my part. Feeling frightened, trying to be humble, trying to play the game.
Mr. Wilson interrupted my thoughts, “Don’t be nervous, it’s nearly over, and I have confidence in you, we’ll not see you again will we Isabella” But I was nervous. I had planned and built up to this day but now what. My life was totally different and I had no idea what to expect. The last two and half years were controlled, ordered, organised for me. I didn’t have to think, I wasn’t allowed to think, to be individual, I just had to survive. Suddenly the outside world seemed frightening.
Mr. Wilson was still looking at me. I looked at his uniform, his tie with that hideous logo, his dark blue trousers and pale blue shirt and hoped he was right. Finally, turning my attention to the dotted line where I started scribbling my signature I said “No, I don’t ever want to see you again Mr. Wilson, no offence” Again he smiled and then handed me the last of my personal belongings. A gold plated watch I had bought for myself just six months before this hell began, an emerald ring, my great aunts, which I had treasured since been given it on my 21st birthday, my charm bracelet and a set of gold hoop earrings.
I quickly placed every piece of jewellery on me as though somehow these trinkets would bring back the old Isabella. Finally Mr. Wilson handed me my wallet and my envelope. It was unsealed. He counted out my accumulated income for the past almost two and a half years, eight hundred and two dollars and thirty cents. My entire life seemed to fit in a shoebox. A wallet, some cash and a few pieces of jewellery. I felt like my possessions; we had all been living in a shoebox and finally we were about to see freedom.
He was still talking but I just wanted to get out of there. “So have you got yourself a ride?”
“Yes, Mrs. Langley is on her way to the city and has offered to give me a lift.”
“Well that was nice of her”
“Yes, I know”
My mind wanted to be smart and arrogant and say something like “Lucky me” but my heart was frozen and my stomach was churning, I just wanted to walk out of the building as soon as possible, why was Mrs. Langley taking so long.
“So what are your plans when you get back home” he was still talking. This was the most in-depth conversation I think we ever had and all I wanted was silence and to escape this place.
“My family has been maintaining my apartment for me, my sister in law put a tenant in there and she just moved out two weeks ago, so I guess I’ll be doing some cleaning as soon as I get back”
“Don’t forget, you have that appointment, don’t miss that one, we wouldn’t want to see you back on a technicality!” Was he trying to make a joke; I think it was a sort of joke, I didn’t care I just wanted him to shut up.
“No, no, I haven’t forgotten, it’s for tomorrow”
My mind was screaming, “Stop trying to be nice”. All I could think about was if we ever met in the street one day, in the real world, what would we say to each other “Hello, nice day, how’s the job going?” What is the correct etiquette for conversation with your former prison guard of almost two and half years? I felt his need to make himself human to me; he was just doing his job. It was his duty to randomly rummage through my things, to peep through the slot of my cell when I was sleeping, to march around me in the endless daily line-ups, but I hated it. I hated being there, I hated having to talk about how I was going to do things differently when I got out, I hated having these people know every last detail about me and all I knew was their name and rank. I didn’t want to make friends with them I just wanted to get out of there.
“Ah good, best to get these things out of the way as soon as possible”
“I’m sure you are right Mr. Wilson, do you have any idea how much longer Mrs. Langley will be?”
“I’ll check, I imagine you want to get out of here don’t you?”
My mind was saying “Of-course you idiot” but I managed a polite smile.
“Stupid rules” I thought, I was technically free but now I couldn’t just walk out, I had to be escorted out, so there I was just waiting.
By this stage I was pacing, I really wanted a cigarette but this was a government building and I couldn’t smoke, not until I was outside in the fresh air.
Finally Mrs. Langley appeared, “Sorry for the delay, last minute minor emergency I had to resolve before we heard off, so are you ready Isabella?”
I wanted to scream “ARE YOU CRAZY” but I settled for “Yes”
I followed Mrs. Langley out the first set of security doors, down the short hall that I had walked through when I first arrived here, past the staff kitchen and toward the glass doors. When I walked through them, I felt like I was breathing fresh air, I was still on prison grounds, the exit was a good fifty meters away, but I felt free for the first time in years.
I asked Mrs. Langley if I would have time for a cigarette while she loaded her car. Mrs. Langley was a prison psychologist who also had a private practice in the city, handy for me as she could drive me to my door-step. From what she had told me over the years, she also gave talks and attended seminars around the country.
I watched her check and re-check herself, her documents and papers, her bags. It seemed odd to me that someone who was a psychologist would have her own disorder. I had often observed her re-checking things, placing items in one order and then re-arranging them but on this occasion, it gave me time to have a cigarette and to think.
Because of what Richard had done, I was charged and arrested, I was put through the court system and I was sent to prison. Luckily for Richard, he had found his way out of the country, unluckily for me that resulted in the police knocking on my door.
I was trying to think about what to do next. I still had my apartment, than God for that. I bought the apartment a decade before I met Richard and in my company’s name so it couldn’t be taken from me, even in court. But now I needed to live, to get a job, to start afresh.
My eighteen years of experience and countless qualifications as an accountant were less than worthless now. I was a convicted criminal. Aside from accounting, I had no real experience or training; it was looking more and more like I would need to take up Dalia’s offer of employment. Dalia had been released two weeks earlier and like me, was on parole.
My first meeting with my parole officer was tomorrow, I dreaded the thought of being connected to prison outside but I held out some hope that the duty of a parole officer was to also help find work.
“Are you ready?” Mrs. Langley’s voice broke my thoughts. I nodded yes, put the smoke out under my heel and jumped into the car. Within a few seconds we were out the gate and I was free, well kind of.
Mrs. Langley chatted pretty much the entire trip back to the city. Occasionally I managed a “Yes, Ah-Ha, of-course, I know” but mostly I was silent. One hour and forty-five minutes later Mrs. Langley was looking for parking outside my apartment building.
I unloaded my personal belongings, looked up at the building and down the street, I was home but it all felt surreal. Everything was the same, but I felt the difference too. The season was different, the trees had grown, the building opposite mine had been re-painted and a new NO STANDING sign had been added.
“Are you OK? Do you want me to come up with you” Mrs. Langley was a lovely person and I knew her offer was genuine.
“No, that’s OK Mrs. Langley, I just want to go inside and shower in my own shower and lay down in my own bed”
“Is your family going to meet you later today, you know you will need support in the coming few months”
“No, not today, I have asked them to let me settle back in, I’m going to call them once I’m inside the apartment, but I just want to be alone today. It’s been so long since I could be truly alone”
Mrs. Langley nodded a knowing nod. “Well you have my card you know you can call me anytime you want to, I’d be happy to talk, if you need it”
I nodded and thanked her for her help and the lift. Finally she drove away. I think that was the first moment of actual happiness I had felt in over four years.
I pressed my security key-pass into the slot and it opened automatically. Walking through those glass doors was a pleasure. Into the lift and to the top floor. “PING” the lift opened to my floor, I was home!
I opened the door, and almost rushed inside.
The apartment was clean, Jenna, my sister in law, must have arranged it for me. The power was on, the phone connected. I dropped everything at the entrance and just wandered around the rooms, on to the balcony, taking in the views, it was magic!
When I got to my bedroom there was a note on my bed, it was from Jenna. She had arranged cleaners through the place, the fridge and cupboards were full and there was an additional two hundred dollars in the envelope.
“I thought you might need some cash, we didn’t know if you’d have any Isa, I hope two hundred is enough, if not just let us know”
I could feel tears welling in my eyes. My family had been so great throughout this time. My poor parents, what they must have gone through, to see your daughter in prison. Mum was going through cancer treatment at the time too so dad was left with supporting her through that illness and me through my mess. I had only seen dad twice during my prison sentence and mum not at all. Sometimes I felt angered that they did not visit more but truthfully I was grateful they didn’t. Even the seldom visits between dad and I just ended in tears and a sense of saddened depression for both of us. Jenna visited more often but I refused to allow the kids, my niece and nephews, to see me inside. Thankfully it looked like both mum and I had made it to the other side of hell.
Phone calls were made to everyone, Jenna included, and then I opened the bottle of red Jenna had left for me, together with some of my favorite cheese and just sat there, on the balcony and watched the world go by.
I didn’t want to think about prison life, about a job, about the bills, about Dalia’s offer, I just wanted to relax. Later that afternoon I went for a walk around the city, even went to a local bar for a drink and non-prison company.
Tomorrow I would have to face reality tonight I just wanted to fantasize about happiness.
Chapt 1MS - Five Jewels of Croatia (Fictional Fantasy)
Chapter One: feel free to comment - and if are sleeping with or related to a GOD publishing house or Literary Agent; please feel free to wax lyrical about my WONDERFUL talent!
(PS All photos of paintings on my profile are my own work also)
Chapter 1 –The Vision.
In a little village, on a rocky cliff top, a small thatched roof cottage stood, like many of the cottages throughout the land of the Balkan Slavs. Chickens scratching in the garden, fruit trees bordering the fence line and a cat lazily stretched on the doorstep. An old woman prepared herself for the evening. Carrying in a handful of firewood, she paid no attention to the cat seizing the opportunity to scurry into the warmth of the cottage. She stoked the fire until it was blazing and removed the cake that had been slowly baking for the past hour.
She lit her candles and settled herself into her comfortable chair cushioned with feathers. She looked out the window into the darkness approaching. The winter light had faded early as one expects on the night of the winter solstice. The old woman sat safely inside her cozy cottage, wooden stove warming the entire one room home and candles flickering all about.
As she worked on some fine lacework she wondered what the new year of 924 would bring. There had been so many battles, conquests and tragedies already in the past fifty or sixty years and she had only foreseen more hardship ahead.
“Ouch” a pin-prick, not concentrating on her work, day-dreaming like a school-girl and now her fine white thread had blood stains. “Oh you silly old thing, how are you going to sell this in the markets this coming summer!” she thought. And the thread was expensive, at least to her it was. Quickly she wrapped her index finger and unraveled what she had just spent one hour working on.
Leaning on her chair for support she rose to her feet and walked across the room, thread in hand and washed it clean. She placed a pot on the stove to boil. She constantly had water boiling on her stove top. She didn’t have many pleasures but a cup of rich rose-hip tea sweetened with honey was one of them.
Resolved not to waste her time or her thread on trying to work with a throbbing finger, she prepared herself some tea together with poppy-seed cake. “Still warm” she thought, as she enjoyed her supper.
It was already late evening and village life started early so she stoked the fire, checked the latch on the door and moved across the small room to her comfortable bed made of goose down and lambs-wool. Within moments she was sound asleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night she began to dream. Not unusual, but this old woman’s dreams often had bigger implications. At first she dreamt of a warm place, filled with amber and crimson light, not of this world, but safe and welcoming and it was a familiar place to her. Even in her sleep she smiled.
Then came the scent. She knew this scent; it had been her constant companion for these past sixty plus years. It was unlike any earthly scent but could be best described as a mix of wild berries, summertime flowers and the smell of the forest before dawn.
In her sleep her mouth moved but no sound came out, but she was talking to Him, or rather He was talking to her and she was replying.
“What is it you have to tell me my Lord?” she mouthed.
“Old one, it is almost time, you must prepare yourself this coming year for he will be crowned in 925” “You must prepare your mind and you must prepare him and he MUST believe”
“I understand, but why would a king listen to an old lady” she always questioned Him even though after all these years she should have known better.
The scent got stronger and His presence became clear. She could see His sash, His lightning rod and hammer. Now when He spoke to her mind it was thunderous. She always feared this part of the vision as she felt everything.
“You will let it be known throughout this village and all the villages across the land that you have foreseen the coming of the first king of the Slavs. People will not question it as you have foreseen so much, your reputation stands alone. I have been preparing you for this time all your life. Tell them nothing of the prophecy for now, simply tell them a new king is to be crowned in the year 925 and with this crowning will come a dynasty. Once he is crowned, then spread the word of a further vision of the prophecy, the king will soon enough wish to see you, he is a curious man by nature.”
“I don’t understand my Lord, why would I not tell of the prophecy? Would it not be best to let the king know what awaits his future as soon as possible?
She was questioning Him again and even as she asked the question she wished she had not. The scent was even more intense than before. The dampness of an autumn forest filled her throat and lungs and she knew she had asked too much. Her mouth tightened in her sleep, she was preparing herself for His anger.
“After all these years you still do not know what quiet thoughts should be old one” His voice was strong but not loud, she was surprised, it was almost the voice of a father. He continued, “No mortal wants to know his future is barren and finite”. “And no man, who is to take on the role of king wishes to hear, even before his crowning, that his thrown will be lost, his dynasty will vanish and his people will suffer more than one thousand years” “He must become king, his is the bloodline that must run through the veins of the ‘chosen five in the time to come’” “His strong questioning mind, his courage and his cynical nature are what our heroines must inherit if they have any chance against the Darkness” He was silent for just a moment then added “Old one, do as I have imparted to you and keep your own council about the prophecy until after his coronation”
“What can be done to save our people, our lands in the coming years?” she wanted to know. You did not need to see the future to know there can be only one reason for a prophecy that is death and suffering.
He answered in riddles, as He often did “The future is NEVER set in stone, the fates only decide the options and man must decide his path” and with that the image started to fade as did the scent. She was relieved, no pain, this time, just a message.
The old woman woke up, mouth dry and looked across the room to her stove. The fire was almost out. She resolved to feed the fire, light a candle and write what had been entrusted to her for fear of forgetting anything later. When she finished writing, she looked across the room at her cat sleeping peacefully on the edge of her bed. She thought to herself as she again put out the light to try and finally get some sleep herself, how wonderful it would be to sleep so soundly.
Still feeling tired when she finally awoke, the old woman looked out into the darkness outside. Dressing in darkness, she prepared herself for the day ahead. Daylight came late this time of year and the winter snows had come early. Even through the half light she could see the hills were covered in an icing white cold, the cottage and its little garden included. What was left of the vegetable garden was now frozen crystal.
The old woman wrapped a thick scarf around her neck and face, put her hand knitted gloves on and clocked herself in her fathers old deer-skin coat then opened her front door and tried to entice her company out with her, but it was enough for her cat to stick half a nose out the front door before, in an almost indigent manner, the cat turned and walked back to the warmth of the stove.
“Well you’ll have to come out eventually, there will be little fire left soon,” she said to her ginger and black furred friend. But the cat wasn’t paying attention; she had a mind of her own as many cats did.
She walked to the chicken coop, winter wind kissing her nose and lips, even the chickens weren’t stiring yet. With a handful of wheat and a cane basket full of scraps as a bribe, she finally managed to seduce them from their perches and nests.
Scratching among the scraps, the chickens didn’t notice the thief collecting and cradling their eggs into her cotton apron, or perhaps they did and this was payment for food and shelter; that was what she liked to believe anyway.
Many years ago, when the coop was first built, a seat was placed inside. Covered in manure and aged like the coop itself, it had lasted almost as long as the old woman. She scratched away the debris and dirt and sat watching her feathered comrades enjoy their breakfast. The sun was finally finding gaps in the clouds to escape through and the light snow flurry was abandoned by the heavens for the time-being.
She couldn’t help but think about her vision, and about her chickens. Aside from Gina the cat, they were her only company now. Her niece often visited true enough and brought with her fresh milk whenever there was enough spare, but from day to day is was Gina, the chickens and Him who were her company.
She once asked Him if animals knew their fates also but He ignored her question telling her some things are best unanswered, that often made her think. She turned to the chickens, still scratching and squabbling amongst themselves and as though expecting them to answer she asked, “Does that mean I know the entire vision? Or does it mean He has let me know only so much as to serve His needs, like it is with yourselves and I?” It was a good question but the chickens either didn’t know the answer or didn’t care to enlighten her with it.
The rooster stopped scratching and headed toward her. His plumes were not as vibrant as in the spring and summer and even his proud, pompous steps less controlled and showy. Perhaps he did know something after all, perhaps he knew the bareness of winter and therefore why waste time and energy on vain displays, or perhaps he just thought she had more food hidden in her apron pocket. Either way, she imagined he was coming to her for a reason. “So Big Red” she started, “What have you to say for yourself?” His ‘cluck-clucks’ were controlled but his stare intense.
She chuckled at herself talking to a rooster, but she reasoned no-one could hear her and Big Red would only share her secrets with his small harem. One day soon enough he’d end up in the soup pot; that is the way life but for now he clucked around the small coop like a sultan. Big Red was obviously bored with the conversation and soon returned to the tasks of scratching and preening.
“Enough of this” she thought and headed back to the cottage. Walking up the small stone path her father had made almost thirty years ago, careful not to loose any of the precious eggs, she lamented at not having had her own family. “But I’m an aunt and great-aunt that should be enough” she mumbled to herself.
By the time she returned to the cottage, the stove fire was completely out and Gina was wondering about inside with her tail high in the air. “You really should go out, even for a bit” she said to her cat as she reached slowly down and gently scooped up the warm ball of fluff and placed her outside, but she left the front door slightly ajar so Gina could return.
While Gina explored the cold white icy carpet outside, the old woman put the eggs in their basket and reignited the stove fire. Soon there were eggs and smoked ham frying on the stove top. Gina couldn’t resist the smell and returned to join the old woman for breakfast.
On the floor was Gina’s plate, same as the old woman’s but smaller, ham and eggs for both. As they ate the old woman continued the conversation she had started with the chickens but now with Gina. “So what do you think will happen then?”
Gina looked up at her human friend but returned to her own plate as soon as she had finished chewing a particularly tough piece of ham. “Well so much has happened, you know, I’ve told you about this before” Gina didn’t look up again, apparently the conversation wasn’t interesting.
The old woman placed a fresh pot of water on the stove. Returning to her wooden table and what remained of her breakfast she continued, “I worry about our people, many don’t even call Him Perun now, more and more people are turning to Christianity, but how do we keep our beliefs if the people don’t keep the faith?”
She thought of her parents, when they were alive, they taught her well. She knew the entire history of her people. Her memories drifted to her lessons at this same kitchen table as a child. Her father teaching her Latin and Greek and her mother teaching her history.
Her mother was a tough relentless teacher and she had no love of the Roman Empire. Both her parents believed it would be the end of their Slav traditions, she recalled one lesson in particular, “The Roman Empire ended in our lands by the year 600, but their religion remained, the Roman Catholic Church.” The bitterness in her mother’s voice still rang in her ears. Her parents hated the thought of Christianity completely killing their own faith.
The old woman knew of the Illyrians and the Celts, who came to these parts long before the Slavs migrated. The Illyrians and the Celts lost much of their lands through decades of wars and eventually assimilated with the Slavs.
The Roman Catholic religion was very powerful and Balkan Slavs seemed to easily adapt to Christianity. This concerned those of the old ways. Fear and threats never worked on the Slavs, nor did war; and it wouldn’t have worked in converting them to a new religion. But money and prosperity did and being Roman Catholic was financially beneficial. And Christianity fitted in so nicely with their own ancient beliefs.
Perun, Slav God of Thunder and Lightning became St. Elijah; Triglav -three heads, represented the Holy Trinity, Svantevit, with his four heads and white horse, fitted perfectly with the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
Even so, people of Slav blood don’t forget, they have a history of assimilation, hybridization and of mixing beliefs as well as philosophies and metaphors. Many now practiced both beliefs as the one and same religion.
The clouds gave away now and the sun was fully out and there was a kind of warmth in the below zero weather but the old woman couldn’t shake off the fear that the wars, the pain and the suffering of her people over the past three hundred years were far from over and His words did not make her feel any more at ease.
For now, she could only wait and prepare as He had told her to. The old Christian year was coming to a close and winter solstice had ended for another cycle.
Morana, Goddess of nature and death was now living around them, her cold bitter hands whispering ice into the air. Jarilo, God of fertility and vegetation would return to the earth soon enough, bringing spring into the realm of the living. Christians would celebrate Easter and she and her kind would celebrate the spring Equinox and she would prepare for the new king by spreading the word of her vision.
The pot of water was boiling. Gina had licked her plate clean and found her way on to the window sill. The old woman prepared her rose hip tea while she watched the world pass from one time to the next.
The wars had all but ended and life was becoming more stable, the perfect environment for a new king. Finally there seemed to be a kind of peace and everyone started to believe that this peace would last. Villagers, farmers, soldiers and merchants alike steadied into routine. But the old woman knew better. She had been given visions of wars to come, of one thousand five hundred years of pain for her people and this new king was only the start of the battle ahead.
She sipped on her tea, a moment of peace in a lifetime of turbulence and visions.
In a little village, on a rocky cliff top, a small thatched roof cottage stood, like many of the cottages throughout the land of the Balkan Slavs. Chickens scratching in the garden, fruit trees bordering the fence line and a cat lazily stretched on the doorstep. An old woman prepared herself for the evening. Carrying in a handful of firewood, she paid no attention to the cat seizing the opportunity to scurry into the warmth of the cottage. She stoked the fire until it was blazing and removed the cake that had been slowly baking for the past hour.
She lit her candles and settled herself into her comfortable chair cushioned with feathers. She looked out the window into the darkness approaching. The winter light had faded early as one expects on the night of the winter solstice. The old woman sat safely inside her cozy cottage, wooden stove warming the entire one room home and candles flickering all about.
As she worked on some fine lacework she wondered what the new year of 924 would bring. There had been so many battles, conquests and tragedies already in the past fifty or sixty years and she had only foreseen more hardship ahead.
“Ouch” a pin-prick, not concentrating on her work, day-dreaming like a school-girl and now her fine white thread had blood stains. “Oh you silly old thing, how are you going to sell this in the markets this coming summer!” she thought. And the thread was expensive, at least to her it was. Quickly she wrapped her index finger and unraveled what she had just spent one hour working on.
Leaning on her chair for support she rose to her feet and walked across the room, thread in hand and washed it clean. She placed a pot on the stove to boil. She constantly had water boiling on her stove top. She didn’t have many pleasures but a cup of rich rose-hip tea sweetened with honey was one of them.
Resolved not to waste her time or her thread on trying to work with a throbbing finger, she prepared herself some tea together with poppy-seed cake. “Still warm” she thought, as she enjoyed her supper.
It was already late evening and village life started early so she stoked the fire, checked the latch on the door and moved across the small room to her comfortable bed made of goose down and lambs-wool. Within moments she was sound asleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night she began to dream. Not unusual, but this old woman’s dreams often had bigger implications. At first she dreamt of a warm place, filled with amber and crimson light, not of this world, but safe and welcoming and it was a familiar place to her. Even in her sleep she smiled.
Then came the scent. She knew this scent; it had been her constant companion for these past sixty plus years. It was unlike any earthly scent but could be best described as a mix of wild berries, summertime flowers and the smell of the forest before dawn.
In her sleep her mouth moved but no sound came out, but she was talking to Him, or rather He was talking to her and she was replying.
“What is it you have to tell me my Lord?” she mouthed.
“Old one, it is almost time, you must prepare yourself this coming year for he will be crowned in 925” “You must prepare your mind and you must prepare him and he MUST believe”
“I understand, but why would a king listen to an old lady” she always questioned Him even though after all these years she should have known better.
The scent got stronger and His presence became clear. She could see His sash, His lightning rod and hammer. Now when He spoke to her mind it was thunderous. She always feared this part of the vision as she felt everything.
“You will let it be known throughout this village and all the villages across the land that you have foreseen the coming of the first king of the Slavs. People will not question it as you have foreseen so much, your reputation stands alone. I have been preparing you for this time all your life. Tell them nothing of the prophecy for now, simply tell them a new king is to be crowned in the year 925 and with this crowning will come a dynasty. Once he is crowned, then spread the word of a further vision of the prophecy, the king will soon enough wish to see you, he is a curious man by nature.”
“I don’t understand my Lord, why would I not tell of the prophecy? Would it not be best to let the king know what awaits his future as soon as possible?
She was questioning Him again and even as she asked the question she wished she had not. The scent was even more intense than before. The dampness of an autumn forest filled her throat and lungs and she knew she had asked too much. Her mouth tightened in her sleep, she was preparing herself for His anger.
“After all these years you still do not know what quiet thoughts should be old one” His voice was strong but not loud, she was surprised, it was almost the voice of a father. He continued, “No mortal wants to know his future is barren and finite”. “And no man, who is to take on the role of king wishes to hear, even before his crowning, that his thrown will be lost, his dynasty will vanish and his people will suffer more than one thousand years” “He must become king, his is the bloodline that must run through the veins of the ‘chosen five in the time to come’” “His strong questioning mind, his courage and his cynical nature are what our heroines must inherit if they have any chance against the Darkness” He was silent for just a moment then added “Old one, do as I have imparted to you and keep your own council about the prophecy until after his coronation”
“What can be done to save our people, our lands in the coming years?” she wanted to know. You did not need to see the future to know there can be only one reason for a prophecy that is death and suffering.
He answered in riddles, as He often did “The future is NEVER set in stone, the fates only decide the options and man must decide his path” and with that the image started to fade as did the scent. She was relieved, no pain, this time, just a message.
The old woman woke up, mouth dry and looked across the room to her stove. The fire was almost out. She resolved to feed the fire, light a candle and write what had been entrusted to her for fear of forgetting anything later. When she finished writing, she looked across the room at her cat sleeping peacefully on the edge of her bed. She thought to herself as she again put out the light to try and finally get some sleep herself, how wonderful it would be to sleep so soundly.
Still feeling tired when she finally awoke, the old woman looked out into the darkness outside. Dressing in darkness, she prepared herself for the day ahead. Daylight came late this time of year and the winter snows had come early. Even through the half light she could see the hills were covered in an icing white cold, the cottage and its little garden included. What was left of the vegetable garden was now frozen crystal.
The old woman wrapped a thick scarf around her neck and face, put her hand knitted gloves on and clocked herself in her fathers old deer-skin coat then opened her front door and tried to entice her company out with her, but it was enough for her cat to stick half a nose out the front door before, in an almost indigent manner, the cat turned and walked back to the warmth of the stove.
“Well you’ll have to come out eventually, there will be little fire left soon,” she said to her ginger and black furred friend. But the cat wasn’t paying attention; she had a mind of her own as many cats did.
She walked to the chicken coop, winter wind kissing her nose and lips, even the chickens weren’t stiring yet. With a handful of wheat and a cane basket full of scraps as a bribe, she finally managed to seduce them from their perches and nests.
Scratching among the scraps, the chickens didn’t notice the thief collecting and cradling their eggs into her cotton apron, or perhaps they did and this was payment for food and shelter; that was what she liked to believe anyway.
Many years ago, when the coop was first built, a seat was placed inside. Covered in manure and aged like the coop itself, it had lasted almost as long as the old woman. She scratched away the debris and dirt and sat watching her feathered comrades enjoy their breakfast. The sun was finally finding gaps in the clouds to escape through and the light snow flurry was abandoned by the heavens for the time-being.
She couldn’t help but think about her vision, and about her chickens. Aside from Gina the cat, they were her only company now. Her niece often visited true enough and brought with her fresh milk whenever there was enough spare, but from day to day is was Gina, the chickens and Him who were her company.
She once asked Him if animals knew their fates also but He ignored her question telling her some things are best unanswered, that often made her think. She turned to the chickens, still scratching and squabbling amongst themselves and as though expecting them to answer she asked, “Does that mean I know the entire vision? Or does it mean He has let me know only so much as to serve His needs, like it is with yourselves and I?” It was a good question but the chickens either didn’t know the answer or didn’t care to enlighten her with it.
The rooster stopped scratching and headed toward her. His plumes were not as vibrant as in the spring and summer and even his proud, pompous steps less controlled and showy. Perhaps he did know something after all, perhaps he knew the bareness of winter and therefore why waste time and energy on vain displays, or perhaps he just thought she had more food hidden in her apron pocket. Either way, she imagined he was coming to her for a reason. “So Big Red” she started, “What have you to say for yourself?” His ‘cluck-clucks’ were controlled but his stare intense.
She chuckled at herself talking to a rooster, but she reasoned no-one could hear her and Big Red would only share her secrets with his small harem. One day soon enough he’d end up in the soup pot; that is the way life but for now he clucked around the small coop like a sultan. Big Red was obviously bored with the conversation and soon returned to the tasks of scratching and preening.
“Enough of this” she thought and headed back to the cottage. Walking up the small stone path her father had made almost thirty years ago, careful not to loose any of the precious eggs, she lamented at not having had her own family. “But I’m an aunt and great-aunt that should be enough” she mumbled to herself.
By the time she returned to the cottage, the stove fire was completely out and Gina was wondering about inside with her tail high in the air. “You really should go out, even for a bit” she said to her cat as she reached slowly down and gently scooped up the warm ball of fluff and placed her outside, but she left the front door slightly ajar so Gina could return.
While Gina explored the cold white icy carpet outside, the old woman put the eggs in their basket and reignited the stove fire. Soon there were eggs and smoked ham frying on the stove top. Gina couldn’t resist the smell and returned to join the old woman for breakfast.
On the floor was Gina’s plate, same as the old woman’s but smaller, ham and eggs for both. As they ate the old woman continued the conversation she had started with the chickens but now with Gina. “So what do you think will happen then?”
Gina looked up at her human friend but returned to her own plate as soon as she had finished chewing a particularly tough piece of ham. “Well so much has happened, you know, I’ve told you about this before” Gina didn’t look up again, apparently the conversation wasn’t interesting.
The old woman placed a fresh pot of water on the stove. Returning to her wooden table and what remained of her breakfast she continued, “I worry about our people, many don’t even call Him Perun now, more and more people are turning to Christianity, but how do we keep our beliefs if the people don’t keep the faith?”
She thought of her parents, when they were alive, they taught her well. She knew the entire history of her people. Her memories drifted to her lessons at this same kitchen table as a child. Her father teaching her Latin and Greek and her mother teaching her history.
Her mother was a tough relentless teacher and she had no love of the Roman Empire. Both her parents believed it would be the end of their Slav traditions, she recalled one lesson in particular, “The Roman Empire ended in our lands by the year 600, but their religion remained, the Roman Catholic Church.” The bitterness in her mother’s voice still rang in her ears. Her parents hated the thought of Christianity completely killing their own faith.
The old woman knew of the Illyrians and the Celts, who came to these parts long before the Slavs migrated. The Illyrians and the Celts lost much of their lands through decades of wars and eventually assimilated with the Slavs.
The Roman Catholic religion was very powerful and Balkan Slavs seemed to easily adapt to Christianity. This concerned those of the old ways. Fear and threats never worked on the Slavs, nor did war; and it wouldn’t have worked in converting them to a new religion. But money and prosperity did and being Roman Catholic was financially beneficial. And Christianity fitted in so nicely with their own ancient beliefs.
Perun, Slav God of Thunder and Lightning became St. Elijah; Triglav -three heads, represented the Holy Trinity, Svantevit, with his four heads and white horse, fitted perfectly with the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
Even so, people of Slav blood don’t forget, they have a history of assimilation, hybridization and of mixing beliefs as well as philosophies and metaphors. Many now practiced both beliefs as the one and same religion.
The clouds gave away now and the sun was fully out and there was a kind of warmth in the below zero weather but the old woman couldn’t shake off the fear that the wars, the pain and the suffering of her people over the past three hundred years were far from over and His words did not make her feel any more at ease.
For now, she could only wait and prepare as He had told her to. The old Christian year was coming to a close and winter solstice had ended for another cycle.
Morana, Goddess of nature and death was now living around them, her cold bitter hands whispering ice into the air. Jarilo, God of fertility and vegetation would return to the earth soon enough, bringing spring into the realm of the living. Christians would celebrate Easter and she and her kind would celebrate the spring Equinox and she would prepare for the new king by spreading the word of her vision.
The pot of water was boiling. Gina had licked her plate clean and found her way on to the window sill. The old woman prepared her rose hip tea while she watched the world pass from one time to the next.
The wars had all but ended and life was becoming more stable, the perfect environment for a new king. Finally there seemed to be a kind of peace and everyone started to believe that this peace would last. Villagers, farmers, soldiers and merchants alike steadied into routine. But the old woman knew better. She had been given visions of wars to come, of one thousand five hundred years of pain for her people and this new king was only the start of the battle ahead.
She sipped on her tea, a moment of peace in a lifetime of turbulence and visions.
The Art of being an Artist -
Well finally after painting/sketching & writing for oh, I don’t know, 30 plus years, it took a trip and four month stay in Europe for dad to show more than a passing interest in my writing.
Now, let me say, dad can write (damn him) and both mum and dad can paint, but while I often got the ‘that’s nice’ pat on the head, it wasn’t taken seriously….. until a few weeks ago.
Firstly the artwork, dad was quite stunned and in honesty I was stunned that he liked it. (he spent several hours talking to me about the various pieces, it was wonderful).
Then came the MS critique. Now when I say dad can write, I am not talking like daughter/father, the man has written short stories, poetry etc for year and has a lot of work published. And to add to that he has also produced or edited non-fiction work too. So guess who was apprehensive about showing her work?
I read dad and mum 2 chapters of my novel. I was waiting for the thunderous laughter but what I got is and I quote “you know only people who are a little be schizophrenic can write with that much imagination – oh and hun, that was a complement. (and it was! Lol)
Just to confirm that it wasn’t a slow sarcastic dad for dad, he called me a few days later.
“What are you doing”
“Writing”
“Oh good, hand an idea you might like to consider…….”
Now, let me say, dad can write (damn him) and both mum and dad can paint, but while I often got the ‘that’s nice’ pat on the head, it wasn’t taken seriously….. until a few weeks ago.
Firstly the artwork, dad was quite stunned and in honesty I was stunned that he liked it. (he spent several hours talking to me about the various pieces, it was wonderful).
Then came the MS critique. Now when I say dad can write, I am not talking like daughter/father, the man has written short stories, poetry etc for year and has a lot of work published. And to add to that he has also produced or edited non-fiction work too. So guess who was apprehensive about showing her work?
I read dad and mum 2 chapters of my novel. I was waiting for the thunderous laughter but what I got is and I quote “you know only people who are a little be schizophrenic can write with that much imagination – oh and hun, that was a complement. (and it was! Lol)
Just to confirm that it wasn’t a slow sarcastic dad for dad, he called me a few days later.
“What are you doing”
“Writing”
“Oh good, hand an idea you might like to consider…….”
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