ENCORE is pleased to present the following stories from some members of the Creative Writing classes with instructors Ellen Green and Zsolt Alapi. Included is a variety of styles and subjects and we hope you enjoy reading them.

 Isabelle’s Best Laid Plans by Evadne Anderson

 The Evening Star – An African Fairytale by Maria Crooks

 The Welsh Dresser by Joan Felvinci

 Where Did You Go? - A Lament by Pat Kirk

 The Office by Martine Wizman

ISABELLE’S BEST LAID PLANS by Evadne Anderson

Her children, love them though she did, sometimes drove Isabelle to distraction.  She used to want five, but with the daily merry-go-round, sometimes not so merry anymore, three were definitely enough. 
Today was the tea party she’d organized for the Ladies Auxiliary. Her family had recently come to Port Charles, Santabelle’s capital. It hadn’t been easy to leave Mountain View Village on the north coast. This was the first Caribbean island she’d ever lived in when she’d arrived fifteen years ago as Peter’ s young bride from Guyana. Their three children were born in cozy, welcoming Mountain View. This promotion was an opportunity for the Barlow’s to do well in the city. 
Isabelle so wanted to make a splash with these sharp-eyed church ladies! Knowing she was a whizz at fundraising, she was confident that such an out-of-the-house activity would be perfect for her. She was also counting on today’s tea party to give her an in…to meet the wives of some of the prominent families in St. Charles, help Peter get established, and perhaps make a friend or two.

   With the guests sipping Darjeeling from her best porcelain, she eased herself comfortably into a chair, remembering the morning’s frenzy as she and Maggie, her new helper, washed and cleaned, dusted and swept, while the smell of baking wafted through every room of the house. She smiled as the chattering ladies commented on the delicately flavoured cocktail patties; the dramatic red, green and yellow rainbow cheese sandwiches, her specialty; the light crust of the jam tarts and the homemade coconut ice cream topped with fresh mangoes and a drizzle of dark chocolate.

Suddenly, she was jarred out of her reverie by the explosive, “Motherrr…”  as ten-year old Bruce barged into the drawing room, “Diana’s a fat, farty, wiggly book worm!”  Seconds behind was Diana, two years older, intent and merciless. She whacked him on the side of his head with The Call of the Wild, unmindful of thestunned audience, then fled.   Regretfully, it was Bruce who made the splash, with a banged-up ear and a gash in his cheek, blood running down one side of his face, blood dripping from his Superman tee-shirt onto their precious Aubusson rug. 

Isabelle sensed amusement bubbling up beneath the church ladies’ blank expressions. Maggie rushed in, hearing the hullabaloo, whisked Peter away, and the tea party continued.  But the damage had been done.

Later, when some of the ladies flashed polite thank-you-goodbyes, she glimpsed gloaty tidbits of gossip, firmly wedged between their teeth.  One tall woman, Geraldine Newman? Norris?? Norman???  held Isabelle’s glance for a long second, pressed her hand warmly and said, 

“Thanks for hosting us so beautifully, Isabelle, and welcome to Port Charles.” She seemed sincere…  But, OhLordy! Lordy! As the newcomer, with the impeccably clean house, she sensed that after today’s spectacle, she would surely be a laughingstock, thanks to those two unruly scamps of hers. Shutting the front down behind the last guest, Isabelle got on her knees to tend to the carpet, dabbing the blood stains with cold water while Maggie tidied up the drawing room.  The house was peaceful again. Sighing heavily, she settled into the two-seater couch near the window, waiting for Peter to come home so she could share today’s disaster with him. Suddenly, she felt something quivering inside her. She bent forward, one hand on her tummy, the other holding her forehead as tears rolled down her cheeks. 

Wheezing for breath, she laughed and laughed and laughed until her sides ached, and she felt herself sliding onto the floor with a thump, legs splayed in both directions,

 “Oy-yo-yoy-yo-yoy!” she howled.  “What little monkeys I gave birth to! But I wouldn’t exchange either of them for the most well-mannered children in all of Port Charles.”

Gales of laughter curled out the window, greeting Peter at the gate. Totally surprised, he hurried inside. A carefree gust swirled around Geraldine on her way home. She felt a playful tap on the left side of her face next to her dimple. Her eyes sparkled, and she chuckled to herself. One of the church ladies stopped cold in her tracks, midway between rushing to report the latest news to her neighbour and removing a stone from her shoe.  There was a joyful sound in the air, just above her head. Her mouth fell open. Then she wailed as her teeth crunched into her tongue. There’d be no gossip from her today. Isabelle’s laughter jigged and shimmied, blending with birdsong and sunbeams, making its way across the island to Mountain View Village to announce that all was well with the Barlow’s in Port Charles.

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THE EVENING STAR – An African Fairytale  by Maria Crooks

In a small East African village near the slopes of the majestic Mount Kilimanjaro, lived a boy by the name of Mosi – the first-born son of a noble family. From childhood, Mosi loved nothing better than to lie on the ground outside his hut at night and gaze at the multitude of stars in the ink-black African sky. 

He loved looking at all of them, but one was the most brilliant. Once in a while, it seemed to him that it winked at him. He named it Uzuri. 

As he came of age, his parents began speaking of marriage and the names of suitable young women from neighbouring villages were mentioned. It was important that he should marry strategically in order to form the proper alliances and maintain peace in the region.  Families brought their daughters to be presented to him but he scarcely looked at them. 

“What is the matter with you. Don’t you like any of these girls?” His parents asked. “No,” he said, “I am not ready to marry.”  

“But you must marry.” His mother was becoming frustrated. 

In fact, Mosi had fallen in love with the star he called Uzuri and did not believe he would ever be able to devote himself to anyone else. One night as he lay looking up at the star he said: 

“If you were a woman I would marry you.”  

Even as he spoke, he realised the futility of such a wish and decided that the next day he would tell his parents he was ready to marry. He sighed and went inside his hut to sleep.

That night he dreamt that the star Uzuri entered the hut, soft clouds billowing around her while a glow emanated from her luminous face. She was splendid. 

“I am here.” Her voice soft like the breeze that rustled the leaves of the sycamore trees outside his hut. 

“Uzuri?” he said. 

“It is not the name I go by.” She said. 

“It means beauty.” 

“You think I am beautiful?  

“You are the most beautiful being I have ever seen.” 

“Then you may call me Uzuri.” 

“What is your real name?” he asked. 

“Sometimes I’m called Nyota ya jioni, and sometimes I am Nyota ya asubuhi “Two names. Why?” 

“When I appear at sunset I am the evening star. When I am seen at dawn, I am the morning star.”  

“Why have you come to earth?”  

“Tonight. I heard you say you would marry me if I were a woman. I have become a woman for you.”

“Do you love me?  

“Yes,” she whispered. “I have loved you for a long time. Often, I winked at you but I could not tell what was in your heart.” 

“I have loved you always. You outshine all the stars in the heavens. Would you really marry me? 

“I belong in the sky. If I marry you, I must leave you at dusk and sometimes at dawn. If you agree, I will marry you.” 

“I must be dreaming.” said the young man. He closed his eyes and opened them again believing she would disappear but she was still there. 

The star woman said, “It is not a dream. I am really here.”  

The next morning Mosi took Uzuri to meet his parents.  

“I have found the woman I wish to marry.” He said. 

His parents were astounded by her beauty but also because they didn’t know who she was. They hesitated to give their blessing but Mosi insisted he would marry no other, so they agreed.  

The wedding was lavish. Villagers celebrated for days and Mosi and Uzuri were radiant with their love for each other. Everyone said she was the loveliest bride anyone had ever seen. 

Throughout the years, as agreed, Uzuri leaves Mosi’s hut sometimes at sunset and sometimes at dawn. When she is away from him, he lies under the canopy of the sky, to gaze at his beautiful bride. 

To this day, when at sunset Venus appears in the sky, or when near sunrise she becomes the morning star, it is the beautiful Uzuri we see, glowing with love for her Mosi, who lies on his mat in Africa longing for daylight so she may return to his embrace. 

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THE WELSH DRESSER by Joan Felvinci

The dresser is actually French-Canadian or Quebecois not Welsh, though why it is called a Welsh dresser is a mystery.  A dresser is really a cabinet or vitrine but without the glass.  This particular piece of furniture is made of blond-coloured pine wood and probably about 150 years old.  It was most likely found in a farmhouse.  

The dresser has two shelves with a backing of blue-painted wood.  The shelves are really alcoves framed by wood shaped into arcs. On top is a chiselled ledge that juts out a little.  It was constructed with square nails, which indicates it’s age.  What is on the shelves is of interest:  Lalique porcelain cups, soup tureens and painted plates.  At night whispered conversations go on.   I don’t hear them, but the cat does.  The cat has told me that the painted porcelain plates argue with each other constantly as to who is superior to whom.  

“I am a true, blue Staffordshire,” says the plate with a lovely blue Chinese pattern of Willow trees and a small boat drifting down a river.  “I’m the real thing.”

“Well so am I,” says a brown- painted plate.  “I’m a Staffordshire too.”

“I’m better than you though,” says the blue-painted plate.  “Look at you, you have a chip on your edge.”

“Yes, but I’m unusual.  I’m painted in brown, and I have a lovelier design of roses and a quaint thatched cottage with trees, never mind the chip.”

“Oh, you are so ‘stupide’, says the soup tureen with a heavy French accent. “I am a true aristocrat.  I was made in Limoges, and I served Queen Marie Antoinette with delicious soup and look at the delicate rose leaves painted on my beautiful, curved sides of the best porcelain.”

“You’re not that old,” said the other soup tureen.  “Now, I’m American and I’m older than you.  I served George Washington.  You’re only 19th Century.”  You could even be 20th Century.”

“Huh!’ said the Limoges and rattled her lid.

“Same here,” said the oval-shaped teapot with a plain, green leaf pattern. “I’m American too.  I belonged to Benjamin Franklyn.”

“What about me?” said the other teapot.  “I’m English and I have the best pattern of roses and other flowers as well as being delightfully curved.”

“But I’m more valuable than you because I’m older,” said the American.

“Huh, you’re just a piece of junk,” said the English teapot.  “I may be younger, but I’m fit to grace the Queen’s table.”

One morning, when I ventured into the dining room, I found all the porcelain smashed and the cat innocently cleaning herself.

“What happened here?” I asked.

“I got fed up with their bickering and arguing and jumped up to quieten them all, swished my tail, and over they all went.” 

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WHERE DID YOU GO?      by Pat Kirk

Alone. Now that he has gone, I am alone.  It is quiet and painful wandering around this house alone.  Many people knew my love - a professor, a poet, a journalist, a son, a father - my love.  Twelve years ago, we met at a conference. It must have been magic that lit that flame within us.  What happened to that magic now that he has gone?   I wake in the morning and can’t get up; he can’t bring the coffee and newspaper.  He can’t linger with me in that warmth – there is no warmth.  We could live forever with that warmth.  We thought we would live forever. Tears come again.

The illness that overtook him was unrelenting.  I tried to push it away but it was insistent.  It ravaged him, took his body and ruined it. Where did he go? 

I do some shopping and those plump mushrooms stare at me.  His mushroom risotto, his favourite, I could make it.  No. I rush from the store hiding my tears. I walk around downtown; there he is, just over there, walking, I see him, but no.  I need a chair. I need some water.  He is not there; I am alone.

I cannot listen to music.  It breaks my heart.  I must listen to it; it could soothe that sorrow, now that he is not here but it creates its own sorrow. His clothes that I should toss, I cannot.  I remember him wearing this or that and his scent overtakes me. His books, I should sort but I cannot.  Friends call to comfort me but I cannot help them

How long does grief last?  It tears at your insides, day after day.  It resounds in your head.  Grief, how long will you try to destroy me?  Sometimes I think you have finally gone, you have finally let me be, but you reappear, dragging me down again.  Will you stop, please, will you let me have peace?

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THE OFFICE     by Martine Wizman

I calculated recently that I sat in her office roughly 1560 times. Her office was in a big renovated house in a leafy suburb of Montreal. I would get off the city bus, turn the corner, and spy the three- storey rambling house surrounded by mature oak trees. As I neared the door, I passed the Peace Garden: every flower in the garden was pure white.

Running up the stairs quickly, to the front door, I would rap the pewter doorknocker several times loudly, then walk in. Her secretary motioned me down the hall to her office. I tripped up the long-carpeted hall way to her office. The walls were lined with bright paintings – lush landscapes, abstract flowers – one at the end of the hall with an open road one could just walk into.

With my heart bursting with anticipatory joy, I would peer in the door. There she sat, at her desk. like a small goddess.  She looked the part, a full head of Grecian grey hair, a long straight nose, dark blue eyes and a full, towering figure.

I entered, and joyfully plunked myself down in a plush dusty rose chair. As I waited for her to finish up at her desk, I could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock, I would glance at her bulging bookcase wondering what books she read- what treasure she would send me home with.

Outside the window, the sparrows were chattering happily among trees – green leafed or bare, depending on the season. 

Then, as if reading a script, the counselling session would begin.

Act 1: She would come and sit across from me. She always started the session with the simplest of prayers.

Act 2: I would unburden myself to her-- Excitedly telling her about new career moves, or unloading on her my sorrows. I would sketch out my dreams-- tentatively voicing them aloud, taking courage from her affirming gaze.

Act 3: In that office many directives were given. She could be shockingly direct. I remember a time I was struggling in a romantic relationship. She simply said: Cut him loose, he is a rotter.

I did. I was the better for it.

Sometimes would examine deeper things: mother or father wounds, boundary setting, unresolved griefs.

Act 4: We would end with a prayer, giving it all to God - this spiritual component being so important to me.

That sacred office space felt womb-like to me: all safe and life giving all vibrant and pulsating. She filled that space with her presence, her wisdom, her calmness, her joy. Her laugh was contagious and she also had a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Many years later, shortly after her death, I went back to her office one last time.

I was hoping, in my grief, to be close to her once more. Entering her office, I felt what seemed to be like a physical blow to my spirit. Though the office looked exactly the same her bright, joyous presence was gone. The office was shatteringly empty. 

Now I know what a miscarriage feels like. 

I cried hard in that moment:  A necessary honour for what we had together.