Riddled with foreign words, The Blotted Line is an international book of short stories. One thematic link that weaves the narratives together is its universal issue of loss. While the stories are individually unique, the characters in each tale lose something precious; not always in the sense of material possessions, but the loss of human values such as trust, freedom, and happiness.

The Wager – Set in Granada, Spain, The Wager is an allegory. It deals with the innate nature of evil and how it perpetuates the guile in the human society by coexisting eternally. Disguised in many forms and shapes, evil is portrayed in the form of a traditional belief, in which people seek revenge through blood money. Tradition and evil seem to be revisited across generations.

Charade – Set in Brisbane, Australia, Charade is a hilarious story about three pretentious coffee mates, who construct a facade of lies to deceive one another. They continuously prod each other and it leads to undesirable consequences, revealing intrinsic predicaments such as fear, jealousy and egocentricity.

Eye-Opener – Set in Sydney, Australia, Eye-opener is a psychological drama of deception between two friends who fall out because of a bizarre chain of event, leading to a turning point in their relationship.

The Black Coat – Set in Paris, France, The Black Coat is a story of an artist’s vision. His relationship with this vision inspires him and holds him in a tight emotional knot. It reflects a total dedication for art and his subject to the point that the artist losses himself totally.

The Anomalous Duo – Set in a village in Dhaka, Bangladesh, The Anomalous Duo is a romance that shows religious clashes in society obstructing the union of two lovers. The story explores defiance and strength as the lovers endeavor to undo traditional beliefs.

Melodies Passé – Set in Dhaka, Bangladesh, Melodies Passé is a reflection of an era that witnesses economic transition. It marks a departure from an enchanted tradition as it moves into a cold world of money and materialism.

Of Note – Set in Canada, Of Note is a poignant story of a refugee on the coast of Nova Scotia. Separated from his sole family, his biological daughter, he is reunited with her years later only to be separated again by an awful twist of fate.

About the Author:
Queensland writer, Mehreen Ahmed has been a published author since 1987.  Her works of fiction include an international psychological novella, Jacaranda Blues, as well as numerous short stories, newspaper articles, and travel narratives.  Mehreen has also published a number of academic works that have appeared in notable peer-reviewed journals within the area of Computer Assisted Language Learning.

About Story Institute:
Since its basic beginnings in 2002 with Timeless Tales, Story Institute has grown to inspire, enhance, and grow your stories personally and professionally while helping share your success in print, online, and in person.   Through short story and poetry topics, storylines, novel ideas, and contests, Story Institute encourages and assists the writer in most of us, and the imagination in all of us.

Through Integrity, Ingenuity, Inspiration, Influence, Impact, and Excellence, Story Institute strives to:

• Evoke emotion within our customers that make connections to our communities
• Engage our customers, their families, and clients in active tales that connect their emotions to past knowledge and experiences.
• Empower our partners to use their new knowledge while growing their families, organizations, and stories into a world of their own.

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The city’s spirit is aptly sensed, by none, other than Gil, in Midnight in Paris. La Ville-Lumiere or “the city of light,” as Paris sometimes is called, is full of cultural sophistication and sensuous get up; something it owes largely to fashion, the glamour glitz and a tradition of fine arts. A city decorated with gardens and a regal past, as well as a place where kings and queens have lived, ruled, and fought bloody revolutions. Just as the Tuileries and the Chateaus symbolize the splendor of the royal heritage, the huge endowment, the French revolution, marks a turning point in history, as documented in Dickens’, The Tale of two cities and Orczy’s The Scarlet Pimpernel.

Of course, we already know about the much needed French history; how the mighty rulers perished under the guillotine. However, it is quite a different feeling to visit those sites in the flesh. These streets have taken me back to the past; I see though a porthole of my mind’s eye, the passing chain of events; the artists, writers and the poets mingling, having coffee together and discussing topics, both enlightening and eternal; Edith Piaf, Flaubert and Maupassant; I almost see Flaubert writing Madam Bovery. Those very words, as he crafts them patiently, into the delicate artistry of writing,

            “He was happy now, without a care in the world. A meal alone with her, a stroll   along the highway in the evening, the way she touched her hand to her hair, the  sight of her straw hat hanging from a window hasp, and many other things in         which it had never occurred to him to look for pleasure — such now formed the steady current of his happiness.”

And then I come back with a jolt, to the ordinariness of the present. However, not for long because Maupassant is here too, writing passionately his poignant lines in Neckless.

“She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. And these were the only things she           loved; she felt to be desired; to be wildly attractive and sought after.”

I do not blame Gil for leaving his girlfriend and falling in love with Adriana; for I feel, the woman in Neckless was perhaps much like her, tender, as the night.

My bed and breakfast hotel, Mercure, is situated in the heart of the Grand Boulevard. It is flanked by intertwining narrow lanes, with many Jewish restaurants, cafés and bakeries; pictures of Netanyahu hang on the walls of some of these restaurants. As the Euro train stops at the Paris station, I look around the place and realize that it looks like any other European city; except, that buildings have no Roman pillars, arches or duomos, but is uniquely French with Mansard roofs and Baroque architecture. I take a taxi to the Paris gate. As I enter it, I am dazzled by the magnificent palaces, situated on both sides. These, I gather, are the original Tuileries palaces on the bank of the River Seine.

The river Siene also bears testament of its earliest settlers. Around 250 B.C, a Celtic Senones sub-tribe known as Parisii inhabited on its bank. In Celtic-Gaelic, however, the word was Parisio meaning, ‘the working people.’ The Roman conquest in 52 BC led to another settlement on the left bank of Saint Genevieve Hill. Under the Gallo-Roman culture, the city was known as Lutetia. It became quite prosperous during the Roman rule and the city expanded to a great extent. The Romans built palaces, forums, temples and amphitheatre. But they fell in the 5^th century. Since then, Paris witnessed the Germanic conquest. The Frankish King Clovis from Merovingian dynasty, held France in a strong grip for many years, until they were deposed by the Carolingian dynasty.

That was the bygone era; but today’s Paris is remarkably urbane and cultivated; it has evolved over-time into this great hub of music, painting and literary works that Midnight in Paris depicts; literature and art flourishing from strength to strength.

The home of this huge collection of art work is the Louvre; one of the greatest museums of our times. The louvre is housed within the palace Louvre, in the cluster of the Tuileries. When Louis X1V decided to make Versailles his residence, his palace Louvre was transformed and extended, into a museum, only to display royal antiques and antique sculptures from 1682-1692. However, in the aftermath of the French revolution, by the decree of the royal assembly, the museum exhibited, not just the royal artifacts, but also many international objects; now its acquisitions are consisted of a series of relics from Egyptian and Eastern antiquities, Greek, Etruscan and Roman; Islamic art, sculpture, decorative arts, paintings, prints and drawings.

Among the many candle polished statues, the most notable ones are the classical figurines. These are Venus, the Roman goddess of love, Artemis the Greek goddess of war, Diomedes the war hero and Zeus himself. Along with mummies and the lion head Sphinx, Islamic terracotta cup from Iraq 9^th century BC and many multicolored vases with Arabic calligraphy, including the Persian Ibex Rhyton, as ancient as 600-300 BC.

The Mona Lisa is here of course; it is displayed within a small picture frame, which somewhat distracts me from the picture itself.  The picture can not be viewed for minute details, because tourists are never allowed to go up close. Whether or not this is the original work of Leanardo Da Vinci or a fake replica, there is no way to tell; but the portrait hangs in front of me, as though it is; the much revered Mona Lisa, no less; with that slight smile, still holds the world captive.

The other oil paintings in the gallery, hang splendidly; mounted on the wall, showcased next to each other, they are a harmonious splash of riotous color. Some of them are La Grande Odalisque an 1814 by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres; and then several on Nepolean’s coronation of himself as well as of Josephine 1804; a Louis David, 1788, The Loves of Paris and Helen, and The Last Supper in 1648 by Phillippe de Champaigne. Marie de Medici Queen of France by Frans II Pourbus is also in the Lourve.

Interestingly, as the guide tells us, the Marie Medici of Florence, became Queen of France through marriage to King Henry IV. But she had terrible reputation. She was known to have a bad temper, fighting constantly with her husband’s mistresses; that too in shocking language. Contrary to the enchantress of Florence in Rushdie’s acclaimed novel, she was, but an embarrassment to the court of France.

It would take something of an eternity, to fully grasp the great museums of the world, and Louvre is no exception. Gil is prepared to spend a life time with artists and writers, I feel just about the same way. Somehow, they come back to life, to haunt us and to taunt our modern lifestyle, for the sterility that there is.

The charms of the past pull Gil; no matter how compelling; it pulls me too, but I resist it just the same; I must get back to my own decade. However, I do not have a lover to sacrifice or watch helplessly, as she slides back to renaissance, and to the golden age, unable to make the transition into the colorless new world.

Back on the street; dusk falls over the far horizon; it starts to drizzle; the city, lights up.

The evening is infused with Edith Piaf’s non, jen e regretted rien; I am just as enthralled as Gil; I walk in the rain, the same narrow, brick pavements, under the French street lamps; the trumpet and the saxophone play a duet and the Parisians wake up to its tune. It is the evening of romance, dance and enjoyment. Through the partly open elongated French windows, men and women look out at the musicians, as they continue to play.

Soon it is dark and people jostle on the streets either to go to movies, theatres or restaurants for dinner. The road-side restaurants bustle with people; waiters try to cram them in every possible corner.

A cosmopolitan city, like London, these restaurants offer varied cuisine; not just European but Asian and Middle-Eastern; but unlike London, everybody speaks French here, opposed to the many ethnic languages, spoken on the streets of London. The British are perhaps more tolerant of multilingualism than the French. I have my dinner at a Jewish restaurant up the road from the hotel; Cous Cous and lamb followed by a cappuccino.

I always believed Paris to be spectacular; it is actually so; especially, by night when darkness covers the several pot holes of the narrow streets.  My imagination flies high; I wait for my taxi to return to the hotel.

When Gil awaits his taxi, it carries him into a different realm, in pursuit of art; I say, I ain’t Gil, but my soul is heavy just the same, like a soaked up sponge, caught up in the enchantment of the Parisian past, on this summer midnight.

While the approach is not new even for e-publishing, Amazon hopes this process will be “seamless and hassle-free.”  You only pay once, then the downloads are automatic with Amazon Whispernet.  As new portions of the story are published, Amazon automatically adds them to the end of your existing book. Readers don’t have to remember to check for new episodes and they don’t have to pay for them.

If you enjoy having a conversation while reading through a story, you can join the conversation on Amazon discussion boards.  Amazon hopes that this will allow “the authors to learn from readers in real-time and perhaps influence a story’s path.”  Customers can try out the program for free by downloading Charles Dickens’ “Oliver Twist” or “The Pickwick Papers,” published with their original covers and illustrations, delivered in the same segments they were published in during Dickens’ day.

If you are an author and wish to be considered for Kindle Serials, visit www.amazon.com/kindleserialssubmissions and submit ideas.

1) Look for ideas, write with a purpose – The topics on Story Institute can not stand alone for a great short story.  However, the components are there for each writer to add that in.  The author decides each step, each character each answer.  The questions about what happens next are for those that may not know how to write a story in general.  The deeper meaning will come from the writer.

2) Write about things that interest you –  If none of the topics or ideas spur a inspiration, visit your favorite sites for topics.  Look around you for small things.  Many things will have a deeper meaning if we give it one.  Take for example the Moving Day topic.  There may be too much prompting in that topic.  However, if you’ve ever moved, ask yourself how it make you feel?  Did you leave behind some good friends?  Do you remember them?  Does it matter as much now as it did when you moved?  Your purpose there is to supply the emotion.  Each writer will have their own emotion.  Many of the topics are basic and sometimes provide hints at a motive or emotion, however, this is not the way to become a good writer.  Good stories are a product of a good writer.

3) Not every story is great , sometimes they are just stories – Take for example Danielle Steel novels.  Each one has a formula the author uses to sell books.  Ms. Steel even shared how she creates each book the same way.  That is how you find so many in the book store.  She can write a book within a couple of months.  However, it took Mark Twain over 7 years to write Huckleberry Finn.  There is more purpose and more meaning in Twain’s work, but it takes time to understand it and most people will not try.  Look at all of the movies out now around Snow White…each tell a different version of the classic tale, but they are not as memorable except for the special effects.

4) Write. – If you are looking to find stories to fulfill a school assignment, you can get the checkbox by filling in some of the gaps from the simply ideas on the site.  The best way for you to find the inner voice is to write.  Take a simple trip to the mall or school and add the adventure you enjoy, zombies, vampires, and all.  The purpose can be a life lesson, family related, or saving a book that was the last of an ancient text that provided a cure for cancer.  You will learn to do this by writing.

For Microsoft’s part, they will contribute $300 million dollars for a 17.6% equity stake in this new venture. Andy Lees, President at Microsoft believes, the two companies’ “complementary assets will accelerate e-reading innovation across a broad range of Windows devices, enabling people to not just read stories, but to be part of them. We’re at the cusp of a revolution in reading.”

Barnes & Noble will maintain 82.4% of the new partnership with a continued connection to their retail stores.  William Lynch, CEO of Barnes & Noble shared, “The formation of Newco and our relationship with Microsoft are important parts of our strategy to capitalize on the rapid growth of the NOOK business, and to solidify our position as a leader in the exploding market for digital content in the consumer and education segments.”

Some good things could come out of this for consumers.  The first impact is a greater digital reading experience.  With the majority computer users still on a Windows device, the upcoming integration of a Nook reader with Windows 8, would assist in a quicker expansion the Nook sales.  Amazon already has a Kindle reader available for Windows, but competition is good for those of us who wish to have more stores at which to shop.  Though Windows RT ( Windows 8 ) tablets will also be coming out later this year, most of those devices may be heavier than the Nook eReaders and not as comfortable as reading on a paperback-sized device.

The second impact could arise from the physical presence of Nook devices in a particular store.  While Amazon has distribution and sales partnerships for their devices, Barnes & Noble has actual store where people can go to relax, read, and find new material.  They also have other people who can recommend titles they have enjoyed in the digital format.  As we move further and further into the digital world, it is always nice to get advice from a person rather than a rating system.

One last item that is part of this new relationship is that Barnes & Noble and Microsoft have essentially settled their patent litigation.  According to the press release, “Barnes & Noble and Newco will have a royalty-bearing license under Microsoft’s patents for its NOOK eReader and Tablet products.”

Hopefully, this will grow the innovation for digital content and digital devices.

Once, there lived three friends, Una, Ulle and Ursula. While they were all outgoing, Una was a bit shy, Usha was not and Ursula, the happy medium, perfectly poised between the two. Ulle’s vivacity sometimes angered Una to the hilt. One day, they went out to have coffee and as they were looking for a place to sit down, Una said haltingly as always that she wanted to sit at the far end of the room. This enraged Ulle.

“You’re really awkward, you know!” She said. “And why can’t we sit in the middle?”

“Because, I’m embarrassed.”

“Who do you think would look at you?”

“May be no-one!”

“Still you’re, the way you are! You will not change.”

“I can’t change; you should know that by now.”

“Now, now let’s not waste time arguing over seats,” Ursula chimed in. “Why can’t we all sit in that corner next to the wall, best of both worlds?”

They both nodded in agreement as they walked through the crowded restaurant towards the semi-dark corner of the room. Una sat down with her back towards people so she didn’t have to look at them and vice versa, and Ulle sat grudgingly opposite her with Ursula in the middle. Once settled in their seats, they ordered coffee and orange almond which they loved so much. The friends soon forgot their differences and started to chat. They were in their mid-life but when they got together, became ageless. Nothing could change the way they giggled and the way they nattered.

“Well! I’m going to buy flowers on my way home to-day.” Ursula said suddenly becoming aware of her surrounding. Quietly she lowered her gaze towards the coffee cup.

“For whom! I hope you haven’t got a secret admirer?”

“May be I do Ulle, who knows?” she said stirring the coffee as she poured more milk and added half a spoon of sugar to it.

“No! Not at our age, I don’t think,” said Una.

“It’s a deep secret,” she said rolling her eyes in mischief. “However, I may tell you one-day.”

“May?” asked Una apprehensively. “Why may, is there a reason?”

“No! Oh God no! I need to get going; I am a bit rushed today.”

They finished coffee rather hurriedly and picked up their hand bags. This was not how they parted. They would usually sail out of the café in pure euphoria laughing, rejoicing and promising to meet again. But today it was somewhat different. Ursula said goodbye and quickly dashed off in the opposite direction to both Una and Ulle’s surprise.

“I wonder what she’s up to,” Ulle muttered.

“Dunno, she didn’t really want to share it with us, hey.”

“No!”

They left it at that.

Ursula walked hastily towards her car and turned the key in the ignition. She headed off North and stopped by a corner shop to pick up some flowers. Her car disappeared slowly over the horizon as it sped down the hump of the road.

The next morning, the phone rang and Una let it ring for awhile until it stopped. She had a pot of beef casserole on the stove. She quickly finished stirring it and then turned it off. The phone rang again and this time she picked it up.

“Hello?”

Yeah, how’s it going?” Ulle said clearing her throat.

“Not bad, how’re you?”

“Good!”

“Any news from our mysterious friend?”

“Not yet, I wonder what she’s up to.”

“Why not ask her?”

“O, look I don’t think I could, why don’t you?”

“Yeah, well in that case I shall, I shall ask her to meet up tomorrow.”

“That’s a good idea; see you tomorrow then.”

“Sure, bye for now.”

“Bye.”

Ulle could not wait to see Ursula the next day. Both Una and Ulle went to the café a little early bubbling with excitement. The mystery would be solved soon. They would most certainly find out who that secret admirer is. This was most unnatural for somebody as unromantic as Ursula to buy flowers for anyone … someone so rational almost to the point of being dispassionate. Why? Didn’t she take a vow that she would remain single because she did not like children? Oh, here she comes! Both Ulle and Una sat up eagerly looking at her from their table as Ursula sauntered in.

“No fights over the seats today?” she commented.

“Goodness me! I didn’t even realize that I was sitting in the middle of this madding crowd!” Una screamed.

“Weird?”

Ulle looked at Una and then at Ursula, aghast.

Ursula kept looking at them both as she took her seat a little bewildered. They ordered the usual but there was an unexpected silence. No one made any utterance at all. Una signaled Ulle who cringed back as words suddenly iced-up. It was unbelievable that Ulle of all people could be so coy. This was extraordinary indeed! Friends have swapped personalities, revealing an entirely new side to their characters. So, when they asked nothing, Ursula thought it was up to her to break the ice.

“I guess, you’re wondering, what secrets I’m keeping from you guys?” She said openly amused as she sipped the fuming coffee.

“Yes!” They both said together.

“Well, I would like to show you something.”

She opened her bag and her hands delved into it as she took her mobile phone out. Then she pressed the buttons on the phone until she came to ‘view photos.’ Flicking the photos one after another in the mobile, she chose one and then clicked it to open. Walla! It was a photo of a beautiful child.

“This is who I take the flowers for,” she said.

“But who is she?” Una asked.

“My little girl!”

“Your little girl? Since when? You don’t even like children!”

“I never said that.”

“Yes you did!” Ulle said with eyes wide open.

“I said, I couldn’t raise one,” a furtive, Mona Lisa smile appeared in the corner of her lips as she replied nonchalantly. She’s an orphan, I pay for her upkeep.”

“Really! How long have you had her?” Una asked.

“Long enough.”

“You didn’t tell us all this time. Why tell us now?” Ulle harangued.

“Because, I got caught out! I didn’t think I would.”

“Do you love her?” Una asked softly.

“I think so.

“Does she like flowers? Perhaps she would like chocolates better,” Ulle suggested.
“May be, but I do! I like buying flowers! For others and for me,” she paused. “Besides it’s spring; look around you, look at the mad colours as flowers blossom in infinite profusion! We ought to celebrate, oughtn’t we?”

“Incredible!” said Ulle.

“Indeed,” said Una.

“Bizarre?” said Ursula.

No one knew for sure when, how or why the change of heart ever occurred! It was suspected that it might have to do with instinct.

Rebecca first appeared on Story Institute as the winner of our short story contest.  Last year, we published her first novel, The Manuscript.  This year, Rebecca adds another thriller to the craft of writing, Class of… published through CreateSpace.

Check out, Class of…, a great second novel from the up-and-coming author, Rebecca Laskowitz.

In fact, we have also been rethinking our forums as a result of the low participation…As of September 1st, we will be discontinuing them.  We will be working diligently to move content from all of the writers who shared their stories or poem to a page within the rest of the site.  If there is content we do not move, send an email to customerservice@storyinstitute.com…we’ll have a backup of the forums for just such emergent issues.

For those who have contributed, we hope you will still do so in the comment sections throughout the site.  We will be posting polls to better engage you, our Guest.  Tell us what you would like to see.  Tell us how we can continue to help you imagine, enhance, and grow your stories.  We appreciate your support during this transition and appreciate your continued connection to Story Institute.

Choose your words well.  Choose your flow carefully.  Do you start inside or outside the abode?  Is it a house, apartment, or town home?  Do the neighbors enter into the picture?  Or, does the house stand alone.  Speaking of pictures, look at some old photos to spark a memory.  Gather the details as best you can.  Pull out the details with as much vividness as possible within a small amount of space.  Reflect on the happiness you remember.  Reflect on the safety it provided.  Reflect on the connections you may still have there and post it here, or share elsewhere, but write and enjoy…

Will the story be based on your own experiences?  Will the story focus on one family member or all of them? What is the family make up?  How many daughters?  How many sons? Will you add a small bit of fantasy or magic to the experience?  Or, will you deliver experiences that are possible, but extraordinary?  Where does the journey start?  Where will it end?

Choose your path.  Choose your memories.  Connect each part of the story to the next.  On this journey, details are important, but remember this is a short story and may require targeted words rather than lengthy sentences.  Decide on your point of view as this will direct your story on where to start and where to end.  Decide on your location as this will provide connections for your readers as you bring them along…Choose your path and choose your storyline, but write and enjoy.

As writers, how are you handling the change in the book industry? Share you comments here.

Read the article here to find out more: Borders liquidation story

One of the updates is already in place.  You can now like us on Facebook, Tweet a specific storyline, or share an topic on Reddit.  Check out the like button on the right of most pages, or click on the link under a specific article.

If you have suggestions or requests, please feel free to send us an email at customerservice@storyinstitute.com.

Thank you for your patience and cooperation.  We look forward to providing you with new storylines…

For background, I have recently had occasion to research the topic of color blindness, and I came across a curious and very rare condition, unknown until quite recently, called TETRACHROMACY.  This is a color vision defect, but it is a sort of ‘anti-color blindness’; the sufferer sees far more gradation of colors than a normal person.  It affect only approximately 1% of females, and most are not aware of it.

This led me to speculate about the fate of a tetrachromatic painter in the past, who could produce works of sublime beauty and amazing depth- perhaps the greatest works of art the world has ever seen- that absolutely no male and very few females could even see, much less appreciate.  I can think of several directions this might go in the hands of a capable and imaginative writer (neither of which I can lay claim to).  If someone can use this idea in any way, I would love to read the results!

The only story I can think of off hand that has a premise that even remotely resembles this is H. G. Wells ‘The Valley of the Blind’.

Thanks

From now until August 19th, we are honored to accept entries for this year’s themed poetry and short story contests.

Prizes and surprises will be announced along the way.

This year, we will sponsor a themed writing contest. The topic will be: Winter Holidays

2011 Submissions Due by: August 19th, 2011

The holidays bring together so much. We want to hear about your holiday poems, stories, and adventures. With the new guidelines release, please remember to register for our forum. Posting to the forum will be the only way to contribute and be considered for a Story Institute Contest. Follow the links below to register and start your writing contributions:

Story Institute Forum Registration
Poetry Contest Entries
Short Story Contest Entries

Check out the Poetry Guidelines and Story Story Guidelines for more, specific details…

Meaka woke up with a cold sweat. By the clock sitting next to her on the bedside table, it was three in the morning. She lay there in the dark, cold and sleepless thinking of getting out of bed. But somehow she could not. Her limbs would not give an inch and yet her brain kept saying otherwise. It felt as though it was racing — and racing it was like crazy.

In the semi-darkness she looked across the room — an empty chair. Her gaze fixed on it almost asking it for a solution but this overwhelming inertia was hard to knock off. Restlessness seized her when she finally got out of bed. It was four`0’ clock. Just a few hours from now, she was meeting a friend for coffee. Quietly slipping into her sandals she grabbed her dressing gown, opened the door softly and went into the living room closing the door behind her. She turned one of the blinds poles to look through the narrow blade slits. The dark sky over the horizon had only just started to glow. Meaka waited for the sun. It steadily came up spreading some of that hue across the sky. She was going to have breakfast with Riana soon. A strange sort of pleasure possessed her at the thought. Last week’s coffee meeting was such an eye-opener; none of Riana’s stories moved her so much, as did this one.

Riana was 35. An accident left her disabled, when she was 5 years old. She had a rough childhood ever since. No one played with her at school. Friendless, she grew up feeling rejected, frustrated, and empty until she met Rick — her knight in shining armour who took all her worries away and filled her with new sensation. Now, married with two lovely boys, she lives with Rick in the next suburb —Campsie.

Meaka and Riana had been friends for over two years. For Riana,Meaka is her best friend, her shoulder to cry on. And for Meaka, well! The relationship is just getting warmed up. Waiting for Riana at the Coffee Club, Meaka flicked through the menu thinking what was holding her up. She was generally not this late. Her mobile rang out as she tried to call her. Meaka waited for ten more minutes — and then there she was, getting out of her car.

She wore a tweed short skirt and a red top with a deep neckline. Her cascading black hair shone in the golden sun as she crossed the road. At a slow pace she came on to the other side, holding her little boy’s hand securely, limping as usual.

“Hi Meaka,” Riana said cheerfully.

“Hi, I have been waiting forever now,” she said pulling the chair next to her.

“And how are you, mate?” Meaka asked the little boy.

“Good.”

“What took you so long?”

“Oh it’s a long story.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“My mother-in-law again.” Riana said nearly breaking down in tears.

“What happened? Last week you said that she had issues with your disability. What did she have to say now? Has she not said enough already?”

“Well! She keeps on saying the same thing over and over again like a broken record. She knew fully well what I was like when I married Rick, but she did not have any objections then,” Riana said trying to hold back the stinging tears.

“Suddenly, after all these years, eight years, she decided that she did not like me anymore. Her fears are that my disability will be passed onto her grand-children.”

“But how? This was caused by an accident, not genetic or contagious.”

“Try and make her understand that!” Riana said passionately and then in the same tone continued. “I cannot take these insults any more — just can’t. I tried to tell Rick, he thinks I am lying. He thinks his mother is perfect and is not capable of doing anything as low as this.”

“Have you confronted her before Rick?”

“Yes, she denies having said anything.”

“That’s horrible!”

“She makes it a point to hurt me at every opportunity she gets, especially, when Rick is away. She pouts her lips like this,” she mimicked. “I don’t like you, I wish I did, but I don’t, I don’t like the way you walk.”

By now hot tears rolled down Riana’s cheeks while her, bewildered little boy sat there looking at her. “Riana darling, let’s just order coffee, shall we? We don’t want to put him through all this now. Do we?”

Rising from her chair, she ordered a short sugarless Macchiato for herself and two small Timtams for Riana and the little boy. As they sipped their drinks silently, the little boy who sat opposite to her suddenly grabbed Raina’s forearm, startling them both a little.

“Mum’s still a mum, no matter what!”

“Yes darling. You couldn’t be more right!” Meaka said not sure how much he knows. “

Last night Betty tried to hit me,” Riana said.

“Really! Did you call the police?”

“No,” was the terse answer.

“The other day, a guy came up to me asking me out but I said no, I told him I was married.” Riana said unexpectedly taking a sip from the Timtams.

“Do you love Rick?”

“I think so. But if I leave him I am going to go away from here.”

“Where would you go?”

“Dunno, may be Ireland.” “

What would you do for a living?”

“I have money; I got compensation money for my accident. Sometimes, I think Rick married me because of that.”

“How do you know?”

“Every time we go out for dinner, he asks me to pay for my share,” she said somewhat bleakly.

“But he’s got money. Has he not?”

“Yeh, he does. He works and he has enough.” Meaka did not push it. Whatever was going on, Riana did not deserve this abusive bahaviour. She was fine in every other way. She took good care of her children, cleaned, cooked, drove around town. A little disoriented at times — a fallout from the accident, but it did not affect her daily chores. She led a life as independently as anyone else. Meaka did not understand why people would go out of their way to be cruel to her. Anyway, coffee was good, they got up to leave, said goodbye and promised to meet again next week, same time, same place.

The little boy gave Meaka a hug and as they went their separate ways Meaka saw how other people looked at Riana as if she had the plague or something. Meaka went to buy some groceries on her way home. But she could not help thinking about Riana. Life did not treat her well. She was a victim of circumstances quite beyond her control. If her mother-in-law wanted a separation on account of this, that would not be fair at all. She was happy for them to get married eight years ago. Why is she doing this now?

Riana’s words kept resonating in her mind as she drove through the suburbs of Sydney. Her wheels crushed the soft petals of the Poinciana and the Jacaranda that lay on the way. They were a collaboration of colours as they descended softly on the street. How ironical that we trample the very things sometimes that give us joy.

Still feeling a little heady from the Macchiato, Meaka sat thinking what to do next when the phone rang. She picked it up and it was Riana again. “Hello, darl! How are you? Did you get home safely? Meaka asked.

“Yes, I did. Look, what are you doing tomorrow night?” she asked pausing.

“Nothing much, why?”

“Would you like to have dinner with my parents tonight?”

“Sure, why not. Is Betty going to be there as well?”

“No.” Riana replied. She is leaving for Melbourne tonight.” She answered unenthusiastically.

“OK, I’ll come.”

“See you tomorrow then.”

“Absolutely.” Meaka said before she hung up.

Raina sounded cheerful enough. A bit too cheery she thought for her state of mind. But then she herself was in good spirits as well. She suddenly felt angry at Rick for being so passive, not to mention an extortionist.

The next day, Meaka put her casual jeans on and a white top for the party. She picked up a mud cake on the way for the kids. By the time she reached the place it was a little over seven. She turned the red Toyota into the driveway but the garage door was open. Meaka thought that it was because they were expecting her. And yes they were. As soon as she got out of the car Rick greeted her with a smile.

Rick was a tall, thin bloke with curly blonde hair. He combed it backwards today making the forehead look wider and the cheek bones more prominent as the sunken cheeks deepened. Although, his pale complexion gave him a sickly look, it was aptly compensated by his friendly demeanor. He wore a blue T-Shirt and a pair of khaki shorts.

“Hey, Rick how is it going?”

“Good.”

“Where is Riana?”

“Upstairs. She won’t be long.”

“How has your day been?” Riana asked breaking the awkward silence.

“Not too bad, how was yours?”

“Pretty good.”

Thinking how little she actually accomplished through the day. Rick and Meaka were sitting at the kitchen table perched on bar chairs discussing about lawns and landscaping when Riana walked in. Meaka thought, there was a look of cold disapproval on her face which lasted for less then a second. It was as though she resented Rick and Meaka seated next to each other having a conversation. For a moment, Meaka felt betrayed. The more she thought the more confused she got. So she decided to suspend her thoughts for the time being.

“Hi!” “Hi, how are you?” Meaka asked to match the pitch of her voice as she got off the chair to give her a hug.

“Good,” she added cheerfully.

“Rick was just telling me about his plans to do a makeover for the garden.”

“Oh ye, we have been thinking about that for a while now. I have been telling Rick to get rid of the Bougainvilleas. I don’t like them,” she said that in nonchalantly.

“Can you give me a cutting before you do that? I would love to have one in my back-yard.”

“Sure, once my mother-in-law comes up for Christmas. She knows how to do these things. I don’t.”

“What’s there to know, darling? All you do is cut an offshoot from the plant. That’s all,” Rick said affectionately.

“Yes, since she is so good, shouldn’t you let her do the job so Meaka would have a nice piece?” Riana said making a point.

“Yeh, but we don’t know when she can come? Do we?” He said a little subdued.

Meaka thought she was gradually being dragged into a situation which was soon going to become ugly and out of hand. She changed the subject quickly by asking about her parents who were supposedly joining them for dinner. What a coincidence! There they were at the door. After the initial round of introductions, Mike and Nelly, Riana’s dad and mum, sat down with everyone in the living room. They were a good looking, middle-aged couple in their sixties. She was a brunette with short hair, sharp features and Mike had rugged features, black hair just like Riana’s. Nelly wore a floral dress of red and white with white slippers while he had a casual, white coloured shirt on with a pair of ordinary jeans.

Nelly stooped slightly but she was just as graceful. Over a drink of coke, Riana was telling them how they (Rick, Riana and the kids) were booked on a flight for the U.S.A for a concert of her favourite band. And Meaka who was not familiar with the band made no comments. The chatting went on for a while when Rick excused himself to go into the kitchen to get dinner started.

They had roast beef, boiled vegetables and mashed potatoes with gravy. A fairly simple dinner cooked by Riana but delicious. The kids ate as much as they could and said sorry and thank you at Riana’s command through-out dinner every time they needed to. And Meaka observed Riana overdid it at times. But rules had to be strictly obeyed — at least in this house. Apart from this there were no other dramas but Meaka could not help but notice the dark scowl of an expression on Riana’s face every time Rick spoke to Meaka.

Consumed with possessiveness, Riana found it hard to hide those feelings. Meaka also caught sight of Nelly’s slightly deformed wrist. When asked, she said that it was from an accident too. She once fell off a motorbike.

Inevitably, it was Raina’s dad, Mike, who brought up the subject once Rick went upstairs. “What’s Betty up to these days? We haven’t seen her in five years, I’d say. How are things?” He asked plainly not suspecting anything.

“Not too well I am afraid, she left just last night,” and then added with a pause.

“She wants to take the kids away from me, thinks she’s the one who should raise them because they are Rick’s.”

“Rubbish! They are yours as well.” Nelly said in suppressed anger.

“I know. But she does not see it that way. One day, she said that children would be disabled like me if I continued to mother them long enough.”

Silly as it is, Meaka was thankful that kids went to bed. They didn’t need to hear this. She was frightful of Rick though who could be back in the room anytime now. There was no telling what might happen then, if he overheard this conversation.

Eventually, Rick did come downstairs and asked happily if any one wanted dessert. Everybody said no. Meaka thought it was time to leave. Politely, she said goodbye and went to the car. She was more saddened by the whole episode than angry. She thought of the eternal debate between free-will and pre-destination. Are we to believe that suffering is the consequence of actions pre-determined by cosmic rules which lay beyond our comprehension? We then become mere pawns. Or can we prevent those actions from happening?

She was going to have another sleepless night undoubtedly. But to her surprise she slept and she slept quite well; the promising next day, brought considerable joy when the phone rang. To her surprise it was Rick.

“Meaka?” Rick said in his smooth placid voice.

“Yes? Its Rick isn’t it?” She sounded surprised.

“How are you?” “Not too bad,” he replied evenly.

“What’s up?” Meaka asked clearly inquisitively.

“Riana told me to give you a call ASAP,” he said unflinchingly.

“What’s wrong, Rick? Is she all right?”

“I hope so.” Rick said trying to be as calm as possible.

“She has had a miscarriage this morning.”

“What! You mean Riana was pregnant?”

“You didn’t know? How come?” Rick was totally puzzled thought Meaka was pulling his leg.

“That would be the million dollar question, wouldn’t it?” Meaka replied feeling a bit let down.

“How many weeks was she?”

“Six.”

“Well, if your mum had stayed two more days, then she could have helped out with the kids,” Meaka said trying to be level headed.

“Could you not ask her to come again?”

“I don’t understand. What are you saying?” Rick said totally taken aback.

“I am talking about your Mum, Betty,” Meaka said nervously.

“Mum? My mum?” he confirmed.

“Yes! Your mum. Why is there a problem?”

“No, but she hasn’t been up here in ages!”

“What! What’re you talking about?”

“She is dying, Meaka — Mum’s dying from breast cancer!”

She was speechless. Her handset nearly fell off. She quickly grabbed nearby chair.

“Mum didn’t want any one to know. That’s why we kept it a secret. But I would have thought you knew!”

“No, I did not. I am so sorry for you?” Meaka said, confounded, when she finally found her voice.

“Did you want to leave the kids with me? You’re welcome to do so,” she offered anyway.

“Could I? That would be fantastic!”

“Yes.”

“See you in awhile then?”

“See you soon.” Meaka was numb. She stared at the empty wall and continued to stare —dazed and numb. What would really help now was a shot of macchiato, she mused.

Author’s note: Macchiato is Italian for “stained” or“marked”. In this story it has a double meaning : coffee as well as blemish or tarnish.

Thank you for your time and consideration…

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By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

letting us wonder like lost puppies, it hits the one that loves with not only his mind and body

but mainly soul letting us have glory, when we lose it

it feels as if a million knifs going through our hearts, hearing the voice everyday through the trees

seeing the face control all nature, still protecting from a distance

only to show the true feelings of caring, not letting us go without a fight of redemption

to give us comfort of peace and warmth, to let us breathe the world known to him

making the force unknown to the unloved.

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

Mehreen Ahmed

One black wintry night, Piccolo -Xavier bumped into someone while crossing the road. Once he was across, the person on the receiving end was not visible anymore. It seemed that in the Parisian dark alley, it had just melted into darkness. When he peered further, he saw a black coat disappearing around the corner. Piccolo-Xavier started to run; however, the more he ran, further the person moved away. Breathing heavily he stopped to rest when his gaze shifted towards a shiny object that seemed to appear on an uneven asphalt footpath. As he stooped to pick it up, the lead was gone.

It was a locket with a broken clasp. He opened it to see what was inside. In the insufficient street lamp, he saw that it was a picture of a girl. This object could be of sentimental value, Piccolo-Xavier thought. But the black coat was long gone and there was no way he could return it to the owner.

Back in his apartment looking at the girl’s picture, the thought of the elusive dark figure provoked all kinds of questions. Where did the bearer of this object live? How far away was he or she from him? Who was the girl in the picture? Piccolo –Xavier began to imagine the wildest of the dreams about the bearer of the locket who was perhaps the little girl’s mum, dad or even an older sibling. It gave him immense pleasure to think that it could be an attractive young woman with whom he could form a relationship. Flashes back to the encounter encouraged his fantasy which did not seem that his mystery person had a man’s gait rather a woman’s – elegant, slender and tall. The face he envisioned was framed in dark short hair with curls falling over her smooth white narrow forehead. Her tilted nose rested just above full, red lips and an oval shaped chin. Her tiny dimpled cheeks came alive every time she grinned. A ravishing set of white, even teeth flashed across the rounding corners of her lips. When she looked up at him with a shy gaze of indifference, her luminous large greenish blue eyes peeped through the long curly lashes of partly opened lids.

Dizzy from the thought Piccolo-Xavier could go on no longer. He went into slumber — shallow and peculiar, somewhere between real and surreal. The woman of this description existed perhaps, but is it only as a figment of his imagination? Could she somehow materialize for him, someday? He looked at his girl friend lying next to him and thought how she would react if she heard about all this! He drifted off to a land full of dreams and even more visions.

At breakfast next morning his girl friend Lorna had bought two croissants from the bakery and made fresh coffee. She poured him a cup biting into her croissant as he helped himself to milk.
“You were restless last night.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you not well?”

It was frustrating to think that he was participating in a conspiracy against himself — against them.

“Oh, no just a little headache — a bit nervous about my exhibit, I am afraid.”

“Do you know what you want to do? You do have a deadline, yeah?”

“I haven’t and that’s what’s been bugging me.”

He thought of the deadline and the woman in the black coat at the same time. It was hard to separate the two thoughts. And as Lorna observed his pensive mood, she did not press him any more. Whatever was going on in his mind was his to share with the muses alone, not with her. It had always been like that. Lorna was able to see the product only, never the parts of the process. She loved him nevertheless for the person that he was and for the artist that he aspired to become. Critics always said that the portrayal of his women was not lifelike; eyes too dull, bodies too wooden. Through it all he persevered.

Lorna cleared the table and went into the shower to get dressed for work. Deep character lines appeared on his narrow forehead while he delved into artistic thoughts.

On his way into the studio Piccolo-Xavier sat at the station looking at all the women in black coats: they came in all sizes and shapes. But no body walked like his dream woman.

On the train, he sat next to the window and let out a sigh of despair. He began to see himself dating this lady through fragmented snapshots; holding hands at the park, kissing her full lips beneath the weeping willow tree, making passionate love on the snow white sheets of heavenly bliss. He imagined her in every possible way he could, so much so that it now hurt – she was there and yet not close enough. Is he cheating on Lorna? Being this way? Thinking this way? Can he help himself? Now there’s a question!

The train stopped at central station. As he got out, he felt that this had become a big issue in his life, him being a slave to his imagination. He could not forget her, a mere stranger – a faceless phantom! He conversed with her — loudly at times, had dinner at restaurants, drove together into the sunset and then danced with her in the silence of the night. He looked into her deep eyes and kept looking as though there was no tomorrow. Someone honked when he jolted back to reality. He had left his studio far behind, now retraced his footsteps. He walked into the studio brooding that he could do so much better with Lorna.

As time passed slowly, Piccolo-Xavier saw himself painting the snapshots. On the canvas, he furiously painted a collage of eyes, nose and mouth. Then the hands, the legs, until a slender shape began to take form; eventually, he painted a black coat over the figure. Although not intended, the portrait did look quite surrealistic. Every detail was done to perfection down to the unclasped locket dangling her tapering fingers, including the lifelike picture of the little girl peeking through. He called it, The Black Coat.

He sat in front of it looking intently. His disheveled dark hair showed signs of age, especially on the side burns. On the canvas his penetrating dark deep eyes tried to see more than what was visible. As he put the brush away on the round table beside the canvas, one radiant smile of satisfaction spread across his face. Then he cloaked the painting and deemed it ready for the exhibition.

On his way home, he went to the same place as his eyes searched here and there and everywhere hoping to find her somewhere. Suddenly the awareness that he did not even know what she looked like left him empty but still felt that he knew her somehow, smelled her perfume in the air. Overcome with desolation, he sat down on a bench by the lamp post supporting his head against the palm of his hand with elbow crux placed on his lap. It started to drizzle and then rain followed soon skewing down the street lamp under the dark starless sky. Soaking wet, he got up and walked back home hoping that one day, may be one day he would meet her in person.
The exhibition being only seven days away, his obsession grew by the day towards this unknown, unseen human creature. He was concerned that this was getting out of hand, but he could not help it. This pent-up emotion made him mad at times, felt he needed a let-up.

Thereof on the day of the exhibition, The Black Coat hung in one of the walls of the Taiss gallery. It received much attention, more than what Piccolo-Xavier thought it would; surrealism sat well with art lovers. Then in the most serendipitous manner there was a cry — a girl cried out in the midst of this urbane arty crowd.

Piccolo-Xavier turned around toward the direction of the cry. He stood frozen in the middle of the room. Time seemed to have come to a hasty stop. The compliments that people paid, the autographs that they desired or even the potential buyers who flocked around him went into listless oblivion. All that mattered was the resounding cry cutting through the space of that room. This was not a dream. The lady in the black coat and the child, no less than the manifestation of the picture in the locket, stood in the room. Once that dumb-founded moment passed he decided to introduce himself to her. He mustered enough courage to take himself to them.

The girl still had the expression of sheer surprise on her mouth while her companion stood staring at the picture in utter amazement. Piccolo-Xavier coughed a little as he approached. Once within the line of vision, he noticed that she did not have dark hair the way he had imagined but much longer and flowing. Those eyes were neither luminous nor shy, in fact much smaller, black and sharp as she looked at him, still very attractive, but not the image captured in his soul. Disappointed? No, he was not. He proceeded towards her with the same intensity that he had cherished all these days and as he came closer, she had almost left.

“Hello,” Piccolo-Xavier quickly extended a friendly hand.

“Hello.”

The lady turned around taking his hand into hers. For one unbelievable moment he had her skin against his.

“I am Piccolo-Xavier, you must be wondering where I got all this.”

“Actually I was, and this picture, it’s not me!”

She blurted out in a shrill, angst-ridden voice with that index finger still in the air pointing towards the portrait inadvertently.

“I know,” he replied.

His chest heaved with excitement but his speech was measured.

“Would you join me for a coffee? I fear I have a lot to explain.”

“Sure, where would you like to go?”

“There’s a cafe downstairs.”

“Okay.”

“Okay then, shall we?” Piccolo-Xavier led her.

They went to the Jewish café right across the road from the gallery. This cafe was quite popular with the people of his kind. And as they crossed the road together it was an incredible feeling that Piccolo-Xavier held the arm of the owner of the black coat. She had showed up at last! They sat down at the corner table inside the café.

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours?”

“It is Julia,” she said slightly embarrassed for not introducing herself earlier. “And this is my daughter Chevon.”

“Hi Chevon,” he smiled.

They ordered two short black and a milk shake for the girl. Piccolo-Xavier noticed her curious wide eyes, as he handed her the drink. Overcome by an odd feeling, he had the most unusual emotional transformation as he described the events of that night to her. He felt, somewhat, more connected to the faceless black-coat than this woman, this young, attractive woman sitting before him.

“What do you do?” Piccolo-Xavier asked her.

“Oh! I am a student of visual art at the academy of fine arts; did you try to look for me?”

“Yes,” he answered.

They sipped their coffee and there was an awkward silence as neither of them knew what to say, and then, suddenly Julia looked at him.

“We broke up,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“My partner and I of-course!”

“O, I see.”

“Well! Aren’t you going to ask, why?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not my place, I guess,” he said quietly.

“Would you like to have dinner with me at my place?”

“May be,” he said.

“How about next Sunday?” Julia asked.

There was an element of candidness in her behavior that was almost juvenile. Julia was taking him for granted! He felt rushed, pressured. The conversation was not going anywhere. And this left him disinclined.

“Look! Can we talk about this later?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want!”

She opened her bag and groped for a pen. When she found it, she wrote him her phone number and name on one of the serviettes on the table. She then handed her details to him smiling like a friendly teen-ager, while his thoughts roamed elsewhere to the dark lady of his dreams as he watched her scribble. He realized that the magic as far as Julia was concerned was lost. It was far too mundane and sullied for his artistic taste to carry on this affair.

“Call me,” she said.

Julia was quite taken by his charms; his non-committal responses as they said goodbye did not seem to dissuade her at all. Piccolo-Xavier was in love he knew, not with this woman of flesh and blood — but with the phantom. Committed to an unrequited love, a dual life he would lead perhaps sharing her with Lorna, the phantom whose shy luminous eyes would haunt him forever, and forever he would woo her. And when in the early hours of the morning they lay entwined in bed like a pair of Siamese twins, Lorna had Piccolo-Xavier all to herself; he was a celebrity at last as she had imagined him to be. In a way, she was famous too when her exultant pictures splashed across the newspapers with him on that momentous occasion; yet! The muses smiled at her predicament.

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

The moon just peeked from behind the trees.

At you and I darling on our carpet of leaves.

Your love is sweet like ripe fruit.

As our passion takes root.

The wind blew just right tonight.

The stars shone from heaven above.

Lovely as a dove.

October love.

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole

By: Lamar Cole