Molly

Bright as a daisy and fast as a river, Molly Atherton was an imaginative child. She saw monsters in shadows and aliens in shower curtains, whether by the sunshine of the mid-afternoon, or the shooting stars of the deepest night.

Her world was inhabited not by the everyday of adults and other children, of going to school and learning her lessons, of walking the dog to the park and returning in time for chicken nugget dinner, but of heroes and heroines, dastardly villains and cunning plots, of battles and adventures, tragedy and excitement. Her inner world would make Jim Henson weep with jealousy.

Molly was such an original child she didn’t need things like computer games or TV to fill her day. She hardly needed toys. From the minute she woke, her inquisitive eyes were searching the room for things that could be turned into other things. A bath mat became a cape. A bar of soap became a poisonous cake. A twig became an arrow, and a tree branch the crossbow.

Molly’s imagination didn’t please everyone. Her insistence on checking every apple for signs of poison before choosing one for lunch caused her mother considerable irritation. That she would turn out all the lights in the house and run around with a sheet over her head often caught her father off guard, no matter how many times he proclaimed he was a rational man who did not believe in things like ghosts. That she would always take map, compass, magnifying glass and full backpack on journeys to her grandmother, who lived only a block away, consistently mystified her nanna and bemused the neighbours.

‘The girl has different eyes in her head, that’s the long and the short of the matter,’ her grandmother would say as she shook her head. ‘Different eyes see different things.’

At school, Molly’s imagination made concentrating in class difficult. She was often staring out the window, instead of using her abacus to finish her maths, or drawing pictures on her book instead of reading the information and answering the questions. Some days, Molly would get so involved in the story inside her head, that she would suddenly leap out of her chair, and make loud exclamations, which inevitably shocked her classmates, and distracted them from their science experiments with magnets, or the memorising of French conjunctive adverbs, or whatever it was they were trying to do at the time.

Monday the 1^st of July was a day like any other, no matter how many times Molly’s mother would later go over the events and try to identify some missing clue, that might explain the subsequent tragedy. Molly had chosen to wake up by commando-rolling out of her bed to avoid enemy fire, instead of, as her mother yelled after smashing two plates in shock, ‘PULLING OFF THE COVERS AND PUTTING YOUR TWO FEET ON THE GROUND LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING’. Molly snuck down stairs, pressed close to the wall, eyes peeled for snipers, and crawled to the kitchen, where she insisted she needed to eat her breakfast under the table, in case, as she hissed up to her mother, ‘they were watching.’ Molly’s mother had driven her daughter to school, insisted she couldn’t wear a wig and black sunglasses into class, despite her daughter’s protestations that ‘someone might see her.’ But this was all quite ordinary behaviour. If anything, it was not the worst Mrs. Atherton had ever seen, recalling, with a shudder, the day that Molly had been convinced her father had accidently added nuclear waste to her usual bubble bath, and had collapsed, writhing and screaming in front of the school building as, in her words, she ‘transformed into her mutant alter-ego with super-super strength and fantastic-amazing-supersonic speed ability.’ That had taken some serious conversation at the school nurse’s office, and many, many promises to book Molly in for a session with the school counsellor as soon as possible.

So, when Molly’s mother got a call on her mobile at work from Molly’s school, she wasn’t surprised. She presumed that her daughter had somehow managed to sneak the wig into class and was refusing to take it off, and Molly’s mother would need to reason with her over the phone.

‘Mrs. Atherton?’ It was the principal. She had only ever heard the principal’s voice on a few previous phone calls and it had always meant some kind of disaster. Molly had climbed the school building with homemade wings, telling her classmates she was going to ‘put on a show for them’, or had decided that the school was just inviting trouble by not having it’s own moat, and had proceeded to dig a large hole on one side of the building with one of the gardener’s shovels, eventually cracking a water pipe, requiring some very expensive plumbing work to be done. But, the principal was panicked, not stern.  

‘We’ve been looking for her all afternoon Mrs. Atherton! We’ve checked all her usual hiding spots, we’ve checked all her unusual hiding spots! We’ve gone all over the school, every child, teacher and staff member has tried to find her! The fact is, she’s gone! Just… disappeared! The children are telling very strange stories. I can’t imagine what it all means. We’ve called the police. Will you come down at once?’  

The school was in uproar. Teachers were panicking, the police were searching the grounds, and the children wouldn’t settle, no matter what the adults said or did. They had seen something, they had, they had, and it was no good the teachers or the principal or the police searching for Molly, because the fact of the matter was she had vanished into thin air.

The adults thought that the excitement was doing something funny to the children’s heads, but after the 23^rd student had grasped her hand, looked earnestly into her eyes, and assured her that it was the strangest thing, but Molly absolutely had vanished, Mrs. Atherton began to think differently. She allowed herself to be pulled along by the hand of an unimaginably small boy named Nigel. He brought her to a shady corner of the playground where a group of children had gathered furtively. They stood in a circle, around the outside of a ring of small stones, just large enough for one child to stand in at a time.

‘This is where it happened,’ a child whispered.

‘Just as the bell rang.’

‘Ding, ding, and then it happened.’ 

‘In there.’

‘Right in the middle.’

They pointed to the centre of the circle of stones.

‘That’s where she vanished,’ they breathed together.

Mrs. Atherton inspected the stones. They seemed to be perfectly ordinary. Perhaps a little smoother than your average stone, but otherwise unremarkable. To the collective gasps of the children, Mrs. Atherton leaned in and touched the grass in the centre of the circle. Nothing happened. The ground was perhaps a little softer, but Mrs. Atherton thought she might also be imagining it.

She turned to the children.

‘What did you see?’

There was a cacophony of voices.

‘She made the circle…’

‘Stepped inside…’

‘Did a dance…’

‘No, she was spinning…’

‘She turned around 2 times…’

‘3 times…’

‘There was a funny sound…’

‘Like when you slurp your milk…’

‘And she was gone!’ They finished.

Mrs. Atherton sighed. Molly had clearly told them some story before she went… well, before whatever happened, happened. They were running away with Molly’s imagination, once again. She smiled at the children kindly.

‘And, where do you think she could have gone when she… disappeared?’

The children paused. They had not considered this.

‘China?’ suggested one boy. There were sniggers.

‘Wonderland!’ Cried a very excited girl.

‘She fell into her daydreams,’ said a quiet voice on Mrs. Atherton’s right. She looked down. There was Nigel staring at the stones with all the seriousness of a 40 year old. The other children gaped at him.

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘She did! That’s where she went.’

‘Got sucked into her dreams! Like a vacuum cleaner – shuck! Off she went!’

‘She did it too much,’ Nigel nodded, sagely, ‘So the dreams got more true than the true things and they gobbled her up.’ The children nodded with Nigel, hanging on his every word, as if he were a tiny prophet. Mrs. Atherton shook her head trying to break the spell, reminding herself that this was nonsense.

But after months of no leads and no evidence and no clues, Mrs. Atherton began to see the children’s story as her only hope. ‘Different eyes see different things,’ she muttered to herself over the dishes, as she fixed her hair, as she drove off to work. ‘Different eyes see different things,’ she said over and over to her husband, as he tried to eat his dinner, as he was talking to the detectives on the phone, as he sat sadly in Molly’s room, looking at her cold, empty bed and the dust collecting on the shelves.

Six months to the day since her daughter disappeared, Mrs. Atherton returned to the school playground and the circle of stones. The children had been too scared to remove the stones, had been too scared to even go near them. She had come at midnight, which seemed appropriate somehow, and the playground was dark. Not entirely certain what she was doing, Mrs. Atherton stroked the stones one at a time. When she had stroked them all, it only seemed right to keep going, so she did that too. Under her breath, she started saying her daughter’s name over and over again, picking up a rhythm, speaking the name to each stone, like it was a precious secret, like it was the most important thing in the world. Around and around the circle she went, picking up speed and intensity, until she was shouting, screaming as loud as her throat would let her. The stones seemed to grow hot under her fingertips, seemed to glow a dull orange colour, there was a sudden sound, and Mrs. Atherton jumped back. There, in the centre of the circle, looking a little dazed and tired, a bit thin and pale, was her own daughter, her own Molly back again.

The other mothers look at Mrs. Atherton strangely now, she knows, and no-one stops to talk to her in the supermarket aisles. It’s true that Molly hasn’t been quite right since she came back. There’s no creative use of ordinary objects, no attempted flights off the roof of the school, no checking and double-checking of wardrobes for monsters before heading to bed. In some ways, Mrs. Atherton is grateful. It makes for a much more peaceful home life. It’s possible to get through dinner these days without plates being broken, or food ending up on the floor, or Molly under the table. Though, on some days, Mrs. Atherton finds herself missing the old Molly. Its just an idle thought, because Mrs. Atherton knows, of course, that this is her Molly, even if she does spend most of her day sitting on the couch and staring at the wall. Mrs. Atherton knows what the others think. Her husband gets very angry every time she sets a third plate for dinner. So, to be honest with you, sometimes there are broken plates.

But, what can you do? ‘Different eyes see different things, that’s the truth of the matter,’ Mrs. Atherton says every week to her therapist.

The Sunflower Man

Once upon a time, there was a place where nobody ever did anything wrong. Nobody was ever mean to anybody, nobody ever hurt anybody, cheated anybody, lied to anybody, stole from anybody, killed anybody. Of course, there was still pain in the world, because things still ended, people still died, they still got sick, got hurt, but because everyone knew that when bad things happened it wasn't intentional, it wasn't anybody's fault, it was just the way of the world, it somehow made things easier.
Life was easier. Life was simpler. Life was happier.
One old man had spent whole his life making people happy through his garden. The front of his house was filled with enormous sunflowers, that seemed as big and as round and as yellow as the bright sun that shone in the sky.
But, the old man wasn't content. He felt he hadn't done enough and he decided to do one last great thing before he died. He wanted people to truly understand and feel their happiness every single day. He didn't want them to take their lives for granted.
So, he decided to open a shop. A shop where people could experience deliberate, intentional pain. A shop where he would cause people emotional or physical pain. He thought that if everyone could just have a little taste of what life could have been like, in a world where people were cruel, heartless and malicious, then everyone would appreciate their own lives just that little bit more.
He started small, with a tiny needle, that he used to prick a customer's finger. In the beginning, this was enough. The customer got a thrill from the pain, the deliberate pain caused by the old man and they went back into their lives refreshed, grateful. But, after a while, the tiny needle wasn't enough. People wanted bigger needles, they wanted the old man to draw blood. Then the customers started demanding he step on their toes, or punch their faces, or kick their cats. Eventually, they began to want to cause the pain themselves, asking the old man the best way to break a person's thumb, how to trick someone into handing over their life savings, or how to cheat on their wives and husbands. Each time a customer returned, they demanded more pain, more pain to get back their feeling of happiness, their feeling of contentment, of gratefulness for their pain-free lives.
Reluctantly, the old man granted the requests. He remained convinced that things would right themselves eventually, that the existence of his shop was a moderating influence, by helping people commit these deeds, he was keeping control of the situation, monitoring it. But, one day, two brothers entered the shop. The elder was dark, with deeply intelligent flashing eyes. The younger was fair, with a sweet laughing mouth and slightly empty, innocent eyes.
The elder brother demanded the old man hand over a knife.
The old man was working andd didn't look up. He wasn't sure why, but for the first time, he felt genuinely uneasy. The older brother stepped closer and repeated his demand, more ferociously, as the younger brother stared at the books and boxes stored behind the old man's head. 
'What do you want it for?' asked the old man, shuffling his papers.
'Why should I tell you?' snarled the brother.
The old man looked up then and stared straight into the older brother's eyes. 'What do you want it for?' he repeated, quietly, firmly. The older brother hesitated slightly, then curled back his lip.
'What does it matter? I'm going to create unhappiness with it. That's your business. So give me the knife.'
The older brother stared down at the old man. The younger brother had started to hum. It wasn't so much a song as it was random, punctuated notes, every one of which the younger brother decorated with a bounce of his head or his knees. The old man sighed and slowly opened the drawers of one of his desks. He drew out a big, old butcher's knife and passed it across the table to the older brother. The older brother took the knife with both hands, felt its weight, held it up to the light and brought it down again. Something in his faced seemed to soften momentarily, and the old man thought his concern had been misplaced. But, then, swiftly, the older brother turned, pulled his younger brother close and sunk the knife into the younger man's guts. There they stood, staring at each other, the two brothers, joined by the butcher's knife, until the younger brother's eyes glazed over, his body went limp and he began to slide towards the ground. The elder brother lay the younger gently down, and with his bright, intelligent eyes firmly held on the lifeless, staring ones below him, he turned the knife on himself, and collapsed on top of his brother.
The old man, who had been glued to his chair in fear, jumped to his feet as the elder brother hit the ground. He stared at the two men lying on the floor, and then out of his shop window into the street. Outside he saw people fighting, screaming at each other, hitting, spitting, kicking. Rubbish flew through the air, fires were raging in the street, in the buildings, smoke and pollution made the sky grey and blocked the sun. Overwhelmed by what he had done, what he had unleashed, the old man ran outside. He tried to pull people off each other, tried to put out fires with his bare hands. But no-one helped, no-one listened. Distraught, he walked aimlessly through the streets until he found himself standing outside his own home. The sunflowers that had once made him and those around him so happy were gone. His yard was full of stones and rubbish. But, then, in the corner of the yard he spied something bright, fresh and green. A tiny shoot was pushing its way up through the barren ground, trying to break through the piles of rubbish bearing down on it.
Carefully, the old man knelt down and decided to do one last great thing, before he died.

The Story of the How My Grandmother Found My Grandfather

When my grandmother lost her husband in the war, she was already a strong and capable woman & did not feel she needed to marry again. But, her friends worried about her and were constantly pestering her about getting remarried.
'Think, Sveta, think how lonely you will get!' They cried in unison.
'How can I get lonely when you are all constantly at my side?' Replied my grandmother with a grin, 'Seems the best way to get company is to remain unmarried!'
'But we will not always be here!' cried one.
'We have families of our own, husbands to cook for, children to care for!' added another.
'We cannot always be with you,' clarified one with a 'harrumph'.
But my grandmother merely smiled to herself, shrugged her shoulders and began to hum a merry tuse as she carried the tea things away.
Many months later, her friends were still seated at her table, drinking her tea and moaning about how lonely she would evenutally become.
'Let us find you a husband,' begged one.
'We know just what you like! added another.
'Fine!' cried my grandmother, impatiently, 'If it will make you leave my house and return our conversations to something other than men, then, yes! You may find me a husband! Please, do so at once!' And she shooed them out the door.
My grandmother wasn't worried. As she cleared the many plates and tea things, she hummed the merry tunr again, thinking that she would refuse every man her friends found, and they would soon tire of the game. She would have her home back AND her freedom.
Sure enough, when her friends cam back with eligible bachelors, who they were at pains to tell my grandmother, were perfectly suited to her, my grandmother found faults with them all.
'The one is a lawyer!' cried one friend, 'He is skilled in the art of debate, and will keep your keen mind interested for many years!'
'Too hard-working!' said my grandmother, with a wave of her hand, 'I should never see him out of the office!'
'This one is an artist!' cried another friend, 'He will decorate your home with beautiful paintings and you will forever be surrounded by the most delicate, intriguing and astounding objects!'
'Too idealistic!' pooh-poohed my grandmother, 'How could I shake him out of his dreams to get him to cut the firewood or feed the pigs?'
'This one is an athlete!' cried yet another friend, 'He will be able to help with all the tasks around the house that are too difficult for you and your children will be fit & healthy!'
'Too handsome!' criticised my grandmother, 'T would need to wear make-up to bed and always have my hair in curlers to feel I could be seen by my own husband! No, no!' she said, as her friends began to protest, 'You must keep looking - off you go!' And she threw them out again.
This continued for many months and the suitable bachelors began to descrease in number, until one afternoon tea-time, the women had no men to suggest at all.
'What is this?' laughed my grandmother, 'Have you given up? Am I that difficult to find a husband for? I must change my name to 'Shrew'!' She joked happily.
Then the oldest of the group of friends (who also considered herself the wisest) fixed my grandmother with a steady look.
'Well, Sveta, there is one other. But...well, no. I had best not continue.'
This intrigued my grandmother, 'Why should you not continue?' she demanded.
'Well, we know very little about him,' replied the woman, 'He does not even seem to have a name. The people who know him refer to him as 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best.' But you are not for him.'
This annoyed my grandmother, 'Why is he not for me?' Am I not a fine woman? Accomplished, intelligent, capable? Still attractive? Why would this man not consent to be my husband?'
'Sveta, dear, he loves his country best. He does not seek, or want, a wife.'
'Well, I do not seek or want a husband!' snapped my grandmotehr, 'And yet, I have sat here, day after day, listening to your descriptions of these men, seeing their photographs, humouring you! Why should this man not at least agree to meet me? I love my country also!'
'He lives far away, Sveta,' replied her friend, 'Beyond the mountains, over the great river and the plains in a town that few know the location of. He will be almost impossible to find.'
'Impossible!' Scoffed my grandmother, 'I will show you! I will find this man, I will meet him, I will determine why HE is not for ME and then we will be able to put this whole nonsense about a second husband behind us. Agreed?'
And she and her friend shook hands amongst the excited twittering of the other women.
My grandmother packed her bags that very night and set out the next morning. Outside her house, she met a farmer, with his donkey.
'Farmer!' she cried, as he hurried past, 'Do you know the way to the village where lives the man who is called 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best'?' The farmer stopped and put his hand to his chin.
'Hmm....' he said, 'I know this village. But it is far away, over the mountain pass. But, your weak legs will not take you so far, you must allow me to accompany you. You may sit on my donkey's back.' And he moved to put his hands arond her waist and move her on to the donkey's back.
But my grandmother was a proud woman, and would not take the donkey.
'My legs are stronger than they look,' she said with a sniff and moving away from the farmer, 'They will carry me over the mountain pass.'
The farmer was right, the mountain pass was most treacherous, full of terrifying animals, crumbling paths and thick woods. But my grandmother would not give up. Many weeks later, she stumbled out at the bottom of the mountains, covered in scratches in dirt, to find herself on the shores of a deep, wide lake. The water was black & the the opposite shore was hard to see. But the water, a fisherman was drawikng in his nets and my grandmother called to him.
'Fisherman! Do you know the way to the village where lives the man who is called, 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best'?'
The fisherman stopped pulling in his nets and put his hands on his hips. 'Hmm...' he said, 'It is on the other side of this lake, but the water is icy cold & it is too far to walk around. Let me take you in my boat.'
But my grandmother shook her head stubbornly. 'I had climbed the mountain pass alone and I will get across the lake on, my own, or not at all.' So, she tied some planks of wood togehter with rope, piled her belongings on top and began to paddle to the further shore.
It took her a night and a day, until her arms had nearly dropped off, but my grandmother merely gritted her teeth and thought, 'Well at least I shall be clean when I arrive,' as she watched the mountain dirt, swirl off her arms and legs and into the lake.
On the other side of the lake, my grandmother fell onto the rocky shore and lay with her eyes closed for many hours. Finally, a travelling merchant saw her stretched out and came to make sure she was alright.
'Merchant,' my grandmother gasped, 'Do you know the way to the village where lives the man who is called, 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best'?' The salesman touched his brow delicately with his handkerchief and replied, 'Hmm. It is far from here over the desert. It is much too treacherous for a lone woman to travel on her own. Here, my dear, let me help you up, and you may travel with me in my covered caravan so your pretty skin will not be damaged by the harsh sun.'
But, my grandmother batted his hand away with an impatient 'harrumph'.
'I have scaled the mountains on my own, rowed myself across the river on my own raft. I do not need the assistance of anyone, least of all you, sir.'
And she picked herself up, tied a shawl over her head to protect her face & eyes, filled her bottle with icy cold water headed out into the desert.
This was the hardest part of the journey, and my grandmother almost gave up many times. She encountered snakes and poisonous lizards, her water ran out and she began to fear she would never find her way out.
Weeks passed and my grandmother learnt to find water in the cactus, edible grasses that did not hurt the stomach, and how best to keep warm in the cold desert night.
She came to love the varying yellows of the sand, the pinks, roses and reds of the dying sun and the clean white pin-pricks of the starry nights.
When she finally found her way out and walked across the wide, grassy plain to the village where, 'He-Who-Loved-His-Country-Best' lived, she was almost disappointed. In the village, she stopped an old lafy bent over, carrying firewood.
'Sister, can I help you?' asked my grandmother and took the woman's sticks from her. She then asked the location of the home of 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best.'
'He lives on the edge of the village,' the Old Lady said, 'Just past my house.'
'I will walk with you, then,' said my grandmother. When they got to the house of 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best,' the Old Woman told my grandmother to wait and she would speak to the man first on my grandmother's behalf.
'What is it that you have come for?' asked the Old Woman.
'I have come to decide whether or not I would like to marry him,' replied my grandmother. The Old Woman's face darkened and she shook her head. 'Oh, I do hope you have not come far,' she tutted. 'I am certain he will not see you,' she said and shuffled into the house.
After only a few minutes, in which my grandmother attempted to order her hair and readjust her clothes, to make them a little presentable, the Old Woman returned, shaking her head.
'He will not see you. He asks you to please go away.'
This irritated my grandmother. 'Sister, I do not wish to be rude,' she said, through gritted teeth, 'But this man does not know what I have been through to arrive here. He will see me. At the very least, he will see me and if he then does not wish to know anything more about me, I will leave at once.' And with that she stormed past the Old woman and into the home of 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best.'
When my grandfather first laid eyes on my grandmother, he saw a brown-faced, crazy haired woman, standing with a fire in her eyes and a scowl on her lips. 'Excuse me,' my grandfather attempted to say, but my grandmother cut in.
'No, I will not. I have travelled through the mountains on foot, paddled over the lake, and survived the desert alone, I have learnt which berries are the sweetest and the calls of the wild cats. I can follow the birds to their water holes and recognise the coming of a storm. I have travelled for months to be here. And you do not get to dismiss me without even taking one look at me. Now,' said my grandmother, with a flick of her head, and shoving her hands on her hips, 'What have you got to say for yourself?'
My grandfather could not speak. He stared and stared at her, at her wild appearance, definat glance and angry eyes.
'You're a crazy woman,' he said at last.
My grandmother threw her head back defiantly. 'That may be so. But I have seen more of this country than you, oh, 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best.' I have achieved things you have only dreamed about. If you do not wish to marry me, that is no skin off my nose, bust let me assure you, that you have suffered a great loss.' And with that, she turned on her heel and returned over the desert, the lake & the mountains.
This might have been the end of the whole affair, had my grandmother's words not shook my grandfather to the core. He could not get the crazy woman or her fiery words out of his head. A few months later he set out himself over the desert, the lake & the mountains, asking for, 'She-Who-Travels-Alone.'
When he finally arrived on her doorstep, my grandmother was again surrounded by twittering women, drinking tea and moaning about my grandmother's single state. When my grandfather walked into the room, there was a general hush. The woman started at him and at each other and my grandmother. My grandmother pursed her lips and whispered to the woman next to her. This was the same older woman who had first spoke of 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best,' to my grandmother .
The woman turned to my grandfather and looked him up an down. 'She-Who-Travels-Alone, does not wish to speak with you,' she said simply.
My grandfather smiled slightly and turned to look at my grandmother.
'I suppose I should have expected such a reception,' he said pleasantly, 'But please understand that I have come to make you my wife. I have drunk water from the cactus, caught fish from the deepest lake and learnt which are the sweetest berries. You cannot turn me away, because I am the same as you. We have shared experiences no others have had, you are me and I am you. Neither of us can hide from the other and none can keep us apart. You can fight it if you wish, but know that the outcome will be the same.'
He stood looking at her quietly, whilst the women whispered together, waiting for my grandmother's response.
Slowly, she stood up, walked to my grandfather & slapped his cheek. 'That is for keeping me waiting,' she said. 'And this,' she continued,' is for coming back.' And she kissed him full on the mouth, to the sound of excited and scandaised twittering.

The Story of the Not-So-Special Little Girl

Once upon a time, there was a girl whose legs were too short and whose hands were too clumsy. She was not smart, so she couldn't handle her numbers, but then the animals frightened her, so she couldn't be used in the fields. Her voice was not fine, and her face was not beautiful. She was non-descript and useless in most every way.

' I do not know what to do with her,' sighed her mother to the other village mothers. 'She will never be married with a face like that. She has no charm, no grace. It doesn't matter how many ribbons I buy her, or how much lace, it only seems to make her worse.' The village women shook their heads sadly, as the girl shuffled past them, staring at her feet.

'She is not smart enough to make her own way,' complained her father to the other farmers, 'And she is of no use to me. I suppose I shall have to keep her until my death, but who knows what will happen then?' The other men grunted in agreement, as the girl tripped over spade lying on the ground in front of them.

'Her bread is lumpy, her cakes sour, her stews salty,' cried her grandmother to the other old ladies over tea. 'She cannot even make a proper cross-stitch! What is the point of such a grandchild?' She cried, as the other ladies shrugged in bewilderment and the girl took a burnt pie out of the oven.

The girl knew the disappointment she brought to her family, but try as she might, she couldn't change her habits. It didn't matter how many times she brushed her hair, it still looked dull, and it didn't matter how many flans she baked, they always sunk in the middle. It didn't matter how many pails she carried, or how many miles she walked, her limbs still stayed weak, and it didn't matter how many times she looked at her numbers, they still looked like foreign objects to her.

The girl would lie awake at night for hours, coming up with new plans to improve herself when she could no longer think of any more plans to put into action, she would cry herself to sleep. Then, one winter, a terrible sickness swept through the girl's village. The sickness struck down young & old, healthy & sick, covering their skin with a yellow sheen and spreading purple bruises over their cheeks, their arms and their legs. It struck down most everyone, except the girl herself.

Every morning she would wake to find herself still a healthy pink colour, her limbs still moving and her head clear. She would leave the house, not wanting to be a burden to her family and walk through the village, which was now so quiet it seemed to be abandoned, uncertain of what to do with herself. She caught glimpses of bed-ridden people through the curtains, and moved away quickly, before anyone saw her.

One morning, tired of walking the streets, tired of avoiding her home, she went into the kitchen and started to cook a big pot of stew. She filled it with every good thing she could find in the cupboard, and stood stirring it for hours over a slow flame. Ever so hesitant, she picked up the pot and took it next door to her sick neighbours. She poured out bowls and fed it to them slowly. When she ran out of stew, she returned home and made more, and when she ran out ingredients, she headed out to the market in the next town and dragged back huge bags of vegetables, beans and meat. The sick commented that the stew didn't seem nearly as salty as the grandmother had complained, in fact, it seemed quite tasty and healthy, and they eagerly ate it up, always happy for seconds if it was on offer.

She started visiting the village children, and made up stories of Kings & Queens, of heroic adventures & far-off countries. She racked her brains to think of more and more exciting tales, to come up with more and more imaginative descriptions. She would create individual stories for each child, and sit with them until they fell peacefully asleep. The children were surprised to realise that they had never really heard her speak before, and even more surprised to find that her voice was full of love & comfort, a warmth that reminded them of their mothers & a wit that reminded them of their fathers. They agreed that hers were the best stories they had ever heard & they wouldn't let her go through the village without stopping and telling them another story.

She sat with the young men of the town, and wiped their brows, held their hands, offered them words of love & comfort, such that they felt they were the most unique, most loved and most important young man in the girl's world. they were surprised to find that in her plain clothes, without ribbons or lace, without her hair done in pin-curls, the girl's face was the most pleasant and longed-for face they had ever encountered. Hers was the face they hoped to see when there was a knock at the door, and the one they dreamed of when they slipped into unconsciousness at the end of the day.

For weeks, the girl nursed her village along with her family. She made their food, washed thier sheets, gave them their medicine, made them feel loved & cared for, made them feel stronger than they had ever felt, even before their sickness. She gave them everything she had to give - her time, her effort, her comfort and her love. She barely slept, she ate only what was left over after the others had eaten, she hardly washed, she barely stopped moving for a full month.

Then, just as the winter was starting to mellow, and the spring sun was peeking through the clouds, the villagers started getting out of their beds, began to start making their own bread & soups and noticed that their bruises were subsiding. It was then that the girl collapsed in the middle of the town squre, spilling her life-giving stew all over the cobblestones, the potatoes and carrots rolling out of the pot and into the gutter.

She was taken by the villagers back to her family's home, where they laid her in her little bed, at the top of the stairs, in the attic. They brought her food, and books, and sat by her side, holding her hand, whilst her own family sat in the kitchen, grumbling about the traffice of the village on their stairs, arguing with their neighbours about whether their daughter deserved such attention and if there was any value in trying to save such a worthless little girl.

Try as the villagers might, the girl, grew weaker & weaker & paler & paler. The sickness was not the same as theirs, and the medicines they gave her didn't seem to make a difference. She never turned yellow, and the purple flowers never bloomed across her face.

The villagers kept coming, however, because despite her illnes, the girl's room was still the nicest place in the village to visit. The girl's hands were still the most comforting the villagers' knew, her eyes the most full of love & joy they could hope to look on, and her voice still the calmest, most soothing and full of the mmost sensible advice in any of the surrounding areas. They came to her with all their problems, all their insecurities and unhappiness and left feeling better.

Still the girl grew paler & weaker, & the villagers worried day in and day out about how to make her better. The children made her daisy chains to hang around her room. The young men brought her books and spoke to her of the latest remedies on offer in the town, which they would insist on fetching for her. The young women sewed blankets, knitted socks, cooked stews and constantly cleaned the girl's room, airing out everything they could get their hands on, and finding new & improved ways of getting light & air into the girl's room.

Meanwhile, her family sat in their kitchen, getting grumpier and grumpier, refusing to go upstairs and visit their 'worthess' daughter. Finally, the oldest woman in the village, who also happened to be the wisest, was brought to see the girl and to offer her solution.

The old woman shuffled quietly into the room, and sat next to the girl as the villagers closed the door. She took the girl's pale face in her wrinkles hands and looked deep into the young girl's eyes for several minutes. Then, without saying anything, she smiled sadly and kissed the girl on her forehead. Then she shuffled out of the room to speak to the other villagers.

'She is giving too much of herself, and not getting enough in return,' the old woman told them. 'We must leave her to heal on her own. No more coming for short visits that last for hours. No more asking for advice. No more stories. We must let her be. She must sleep and heal. And, her family must come upstairs and sit with her. In a few weeks, she will be better.' The villagers nodded, though it broke their hearts. Howe would they survive for a month without the girl in their lives? How would they get by without her kind words & sweet nature? Still, they took their things and went home.

The girl lay in her room, and her family stayed in the kitchen. The family were sulking, always making up excuses as to why they couldn't go upstairs to see their daughter. 'The stairs are too steep,' complained the grandmother, 'I might fall.'

'I have too much work to do,' sighed the mother,' I can't possibly take time out to see her. She understands.'

'Its not place to visit her,' grunted the father, 'A sick room is a woman's place.'

Every night, the girl would go to sleep, hoping someone might come up to see her. Then, one evening, three weeks after the villagers had left the girl to heal, she was woken by the sounds of quiet crying. She opened her window to see a small child sitting outside her house and crying as hard as it was possible for such a small child to cry.

'Little Boy,' cried the girl, 'What on earth has upset you so?"

The little boy looked up, scared, shook his head, buried his chin into his chest and started to cry again. The girl coughed, and with all her effort, called out to him again. 'Little Boy! Please, it breaks my heart to see you so sad, tell me what has upset you, so that I might help you.'

The little boy looked up again, bottom lip quivering. 'The Old Woman said we weren't to bother you,' he sniffed, 'She says you are sick.'

'Stuff and nonsense,' said the girl, 'I am as well as you, in face, I am better, as I am not crying as if my heart had broken. Tell me what has happened.'

The little boy hesitated ever so slightly before launching into his sotry . He lived on the outskirts of the village, in a sad, poor little house with his mother & father and two littls sisters. Their little vegetable patch had only produced sick, tiny vegetables this year, and they had no money for milk & bread. He had been sent into town to steal something, anything, to eat, because his younger sisters were sick with fever and would die if they had nothing in their bellies. But the little boy did not know how to steal, and he did not want to, because he knew it was bad and it scared him. So he decided to ask people, very politely, if they could spare him a little food. He was ready to explain the story, if anyone asked, ,ready to take them back to the little house to show them his little sisters, lying in bed, tossing & turning from the pain of the fever. But there was no need. No one listened to him. He was pushed asied by everyone he approached. They sped up as they saw him come towards them, or crossed the street, or turned into each other, pretending they had simply missed him.

As he told the story, he started to cry again, his shoulders shaking with the intensity of his sobs, knowing that his sisters were dying at home.

The girl hesistated ever so slightly, before calling out, 'Don't worry little boy. I will help you. We have plenty of food. You will come inside and I will make your sisters something that is so hearty it will keep them healthy until their 21st birthdays.'

She struggled up from the window, and wrapped herself in warm clothers, then headed downstairs .There she found the little boy, dirty and tear stained, standing awkwardly in the kitchen.

'Well, first things first,' she said, when she saw him, 'Let's get you cleaned up.' She washed the dirt off his face with warm water, wrapped him in a blanket, then propper him up on the counter with a cup of warm milk mixed with a teaspoon of honey. She buttered two thick slices of fresh, fluffy white bread, and watched him devour them in quick succession. She cut him two more, and then started wrking on her soup. She peeled carrots, cut pumpkin, potatoes, washed beans and sliced meat. She added spices and flavouring, adding more and more of whatever good things she coud find until the large pot was close to overflowing with bubbling, thick and fragrant soup. All the while, she spoke to the boy, spinning him story after fantastic story, making him laugh and dream, until the harsh words of the villagers, the despair of his parents, and his own fear were long-distant memories.

As the sun started to rise, the girl lifted the pot carefully off the store and handed it to the little boy. But, it was so heavy that he could not carry it more than a few steps. The girl hesitated only slightly, before getting her coat & boots from the hall. Carrying the pot carefully, she followed the little boy back to his home, as he skipped & danced & sang with delight ahead of her. The soup was delivered, and the girls fed. The parents expressed their gratitude over & over, until the girl was quite overwhelmed. Waving away their promises of paying her back eventually, the girl insisted she must get home to bed. The little boy, despite the girl's protests, insisted on coming with her, in case she were to get lost. He jabbered alongside her, not noticing her foot falls getting slower & quieter as they went along. Just past the town square, he became aware that she was no longer beside him, and as he turned around, he heard voices of distress from behind.

The girl had collapsed, dead, in the middle of the twon square.

The Story of the Ice-Cream Man

Once upon a time, there was a very special little village, tucked far away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Of course, now, it is a non-descript suburb, in a sprawling metropolis, serviced by the same two supermarkets every city suburb has, with a nice, conventional park complete with its own cookie-cutter swing-set & slide. At the time of this story, however, it was still a delightful little village, full of hedges, white picket fences, people who knew each other by name as well as sight, and where it was still possible for children to play ball games in the street without fear of being hit by cars or abused by paedophiles.

In this village, there lived an ice-cream man. Now, this was no ordinary ice-cream man. This was not your everyday, middle-aged, grouchy ice-cream man in a faded, dirty, pink and white van who sold pig-fat, soft-serve ice-cream in stale, neon-orange cones. This was a man who believed in the inherent goodness and value of ice-cream. The ability of ice-cream to brighten one's day; to forge friendships and new love; to change lives for the better. This ice-cream man was young, handsome, idealistic; he had a charming smile for everyone he met, and an ice-cream flavour for every occasion. He had ice-cream that would fix any problem, celebrate any event, and suit every mood & personality. There was dark pistachio chocolate for the adults, bubblegum-sherbet surprise for the kids. There was strawberry & cream for sixteen-year old sweethearts, and chili chocolate for the passionate lovers. On a hot, frazzled day, he'd suggest you sit outside in the shade and try a chilled melon and lime sorbet (with real melon pieces). On a cold day, he'd bundle you up in to the shop, sit you by the heater, while he whipped you up a hot fudge sundae, with your choice of three ice-creams, nuts, cream and sauce (with a hot chocolate to wash it all down).

The ice-cream man was an institution in the little village - everyone knew him, everyone bought his ice-cream, and no one had a bad word to say about him.

But, whilst the ice-cream man loved his ice-cream and loved the joy people got from it, he always felt that something was missing. When a new girl from a far away country town started working at the local dress-maker's store, he finally realised what it was.

The ice-cream man began to spend his every lunch break, sitting on the bench opposite the dressmaker's. Soon, he found himself there more and more often, found that every errand he had to run would take him past the dressmaker's. Eventually, his day became one long lunch break, and he stopped setting foot inside his ice-cream parlour at all.

'This will not do,' thought the ice-cream man, as more and more of the villagers came to complain to him that they could no longer get their daily ice-cream fix, with him, sitting, staring at the little, red-haired seamstress all day long.

'This will not do,' he thought to himself, as he watched the little seamstress pack up her things for the umpteenth time, lock up the dress shop and leave without him being able to catch her eye.

'I must say something to her.'

But try as he might, the ice-cream man couldn't bring himself to talk to the little seamstress. He fretted for days and days, practiced conversations in front of the mirror, watched her arrive at work and watched her leave, but could never find the right moment to approach her.
Finally, he hit upon a plan.

'I will create for her, her very own ice-cream flavour, one that she cannot resist and which expresses my feelings for her without words,' he thought. 'When she takes a bite, she will suddenly realise what it is I want to say, and she will rush into my open arms, and never leave them as long as we both shall live.'

That night, he spent 3 hours coming up with the perfect mix of strawberries, raspberries and mulberries, all chosen for their red colours and sweet taste, 'the colour of my heart and her hair, the sweetness of her person and my love,' he thought to himself.

The ice-cream man was very pleased with his creation, and brought the little seamstress a small pink tub of the ice-cream, decorated with little red swirls, to her work the next day. Not wishing to be rude, he left her with the little tub, to eat in peace, and told her he would return that afternoon to see how she had liked it.

That afternoon, the ice-cream man returned to the seamstress and asked her if she had enjoyed the ice-cream. 'Mmm,' she replied, non-committedly, keeping her distance, and most definitely not running into the ice-cream man's arms. 'It was very... pink,' she said in an off-hand way.
Convinced he had created the wrong ice-cream and therefore sent the wrong message, the ice-cream man hurried home, determined to try again.

This time, he worked for 6 hours, to find the perfect blend of white chocolate, milk chocolate and hazelnuts, to show the various shades of his love for the little seamstress. 'White chocolate for the purity of my love, milk chocolate for the warmth of my love, and hazelnuts for the nourishing and fulfilling nature of my love.'

The next morning, he took her a few generous scoops, in a carved, wooden tub. Again, not wanting to embarrass her, he left her in peace to taste the ice-cream, promising to return that afternoon.

When he came back, he was disappointed to see that the little seamstress was still busily working. He had expected, or hoped, to find her so distracted & overwhelmed by his ice-cream that she would be unable to focus on anything else. 'Mmm...' she replied, when he asked her if she had enjoyed the ice-cream. 'It seemed very...decadent.'

Convinced he had made yet another faux pas, the ice-cream man returned to his parlour, determined to succeed this time & make the little seamstress the most spectacular ice-cream she had ever tasted.

That night, he worked from dusk to dawn. He did not sleep, and did not stop working until he was convinced he had created the perfect ice-cream. 'If she does not love me after this,' thought the ice-cream man, 'then I am surely wasting my time.' He had made an ice-cream of blackberries & blueberries (to symbolise his pain at not having the little seamstress for his own), of raspberries & strawberries (to symbolise her heavenly nature), he had mixed in thickened cream to show the richness of his love, and covered it all in dark chocolate to show the seriousness of his intentions. He presented it all in a silver ice-cream tub, hand-crafted by his father, the original ice-cream man, and carried it to the little seamstress on a plate decorated by flowers.

Once he handed the plate to the little seamstress, the ice-cream man went outside, pacing the pavement and anxiously awaiting the little seamstress' verdict. When she did not burst out of the store within 10 minutes, the ice-cream man's heart began to sink. After 20 minutes, he had stopped pacing and stood, staring at the door, willing the little seamstress to appear. At 30 minutes, the ice-cream man went inside the dressmaker's store to meet his fate.

'Well?' he asked, when he saw her over the counter. 'Mmmm...' said the little seamstress, trying not to catch the eye of the ice-cream man. 'Mmm....' she said again, as she picked up spare bits of cloth and cleared them away. 'It seemed very.... colourful... ice-cream.'

The ice-cream man turned and walked out of the dressmaker's shop with his shoulders slumped. He immediately returned to his ice-cream parlour, locked the door and hung a 'For Sale' sign on the front window.

The ice-cream man is now an accountant in the heart of the sprawling metropolis. He no longer believes in the power of anything to change anybody (except perhaps for money) and tries not to remember in the morning time, the dreams of the little seamstress that he has at night.

The little seamstress is now married to the local gym instructor and spends her time exercising, counting calories and cooking sugar-free, fat-free, gluten-free meals for her husband and children. If the ice-cream man had only known that the little seamstress was ALWAYS on a diet, things might have worked out differently.