Flowers behind her ear

As I grew, I was repeatedly told of all the different fates I could have. There was always a rangoli, some lovely vases, life in the tree. But the one that truly stuck with me was the holiday. It was a short life but it sounded so absolutely fantastic. When I go, I would like to go that way. The idea, to be tucked behind a human ear but not just any ear, an ear on holiday. "Find a human ear on holiday! That's the best way to go!" They're at their happiest and you get the best seat to some of the most gorgeous places in the world.
     
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"Flowers behind the ear is holiday uniform" her older sister had said those words to her since she was little. Holidays need not necessarily be when you go to a new place or take a vacation, holidays happen when you want them to. So, many an afternoon was spent finding flowers. But as both sisters soon realised, flowers don't bloom all year round, for which the older sister always had her trusty plastic roses. Wearing their favourite clothes and armed with some of their mother's never-used make-up and the trusty plastic roses tucked behind their ears, both girls fulfilled their mission of creating a cute but chaotic house. Whenever they actually went on a holiday and found flowers, that was an incredible treat. The happiness would wash over their faces. Everything in life felt like it was coming together. No matter how well they imagined themselves, nothing could ever beat the real deal. Nothing could take away from the actual experience of having a real flower tucked behind your ear and getting to see new places, a true vacation.

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Waiting for her older sister to catch up, the younger one waited under a tree, a frangipani tree, a flower fell on her head.

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I noticed her standing under my tree. Something in that moment felt like everything in life was coming together. The winds were changing. It was time to go.

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With the flower tucked happily behind her ear, she answered her older sister "just keep walking, I promise the view is great!"

The Case of Crenshaw's Block #6

#1 #2 #3 #4 #5 

He always liked his mornings to be slow. A long routine to help him completely surface and get his mind functioning at full capacity. 

Music was put on, coffee was slowly brewed, teeth brushed, toast buttered and eggs scrambled as usual. His playlist slowly building up to songs with drums and french horns. You could tell he felt happy today, his french horn songs were only reserved for happy days. 

Now I know what we all want, he's got the idea, so why is it taking so much time to get to the good bit, where he starts writing and we finally have our story? To this I say, how can you be so sure you know which is the good bit? And good things come to those who wait, a truth Crenshaw is also familiar with. A man who likes slow mornings isn't going to speed things up for you and me.

He needed to keep his brain occupied so that in all these tasks, somewhere in the back of that brain was a box which would begin to rattle and shake and open with a loud BANG! and out would come a grandmother, two girls and a boy. The rattle had only just begun, so he continued with his routine. A bath, washing dishes and some more coffee. He fished out his laptop from his cupboard and went on to reply some emails. 

He mainly wanted to write to his sister, that always helped. This had nothing to do with any advice exchanged, just the process of writing to her helped calm his mind. He opened his inbox and there waiting for him was a mail from her. One sentence and an attachment : Hear with good headphones, you will love this!

Once he clicked download, he didnt know that the BANG! was just about to happen. His sister never knew how many character-detonators (as he liked to call her mp3 attachments) she had sent him over the years, he of course kept count. 

Play was pressed and then it began, this strange and wonderful song of a cello, a mandolin, a violin and a double bass. And he could now see it all so very clearly. Grandmother sitting at the table with a cup of tea next to him, boy moving from room to room humming, one girl checking her phone and the other in the kitchen grumbling about how she could smell something burning but couldn't track the source.

They were here! 

Maybe this is the good bit?! 

The Case of Crenshaw's Block #5

#1 #2 #3 #4




Mr. Crenshaw realized his mind had run dry. He wasn't blocked he was definitely dry. He understood the world of the woman in twenties even though it was never his reality, he could understand her world and thus could write about it.

As he massaged his cramped back he realized he was dancing around an epiphany. Like when you wake up in the morning and you know the feeling of your dream so well but what the dream was is a little hard to remember and then little by little, the dream comes back to you.
Though he understood her world, the want to be in it was decreasing. Sometimes the fantasy is so real to him, his first nature. And little by little as he remembered what his dream was he realised what was first nature to him now. His reality was becoming stronger, it was its time.

As a writer all he really wanted was to have that voice inside him translated as truthfully as possible and that voice keeps changing. The woman in twenties no longer had a place in his heart nor did her world, it all shrank away from him. In its place he could feel his own story filling his heart.
This was the story he now felt compelled to tell people. But not just yet. The characters were filling his heart but they need to reach the point where they burst out and plonk themselves next to him.

Now would come the scene where you see our writer furiously typing away, in the throws of his thoughts, creativity pouring out and music swelling behind. If we all lived with our personal production and background score team, our lives would be pretty much that scene, but we don't have those teams and neither did Crenshaw (he did often daydream this though).

Crenshaw did what all of us would do in that moment, the moment when we had decided this was the night of the all-nighter, then fallen asleep at our desk and given up on the whole stupid mission and gone to bed.  He at least had enough sense to write down this new idea for a story on a post it note and then collapsed in his bed. One doesn't begin the post-epiphany day without a good nights sleep, neither did Crenshaw.

Stuck on the keys of his Remington was a blue post it note, which said "Detective Nani and her sleuthy sidekicks"

Traditional Children's Fiction

There is this book, it's the loveliest book. It permanently lives here and has traditional fairy tales from all over the world.

It has African stories, Greek legends, Norwegian tales, Anderson stories and of course Grimms' Fairy tales and so many more! My dad had gifted this to my sister and me back in 1996 and it has suffered quite a lot over the years.

Whenever I come here I have to read these stories in bed before sleepy time, even though I'm too old for them . My favourite is 'The Twelve Dancing Princesses' by the Grimm brothers. This book has better stories in it with more fantastical plots and creatures but for some reason I love this one dearly. 

It is about 12 princesses whose father is really confused as to why their dancing slippers are worn through every night. He has to get new ones everyday. He sends out word all throughout the kingdom, anyone willing was asked to try find out where the girls went at night. They were given three days for the task, having accomplished it they would win the hand of anyone of the girls that he wished but if he failed his head would be cut off (naturally).  


So of course many come and then their heads are cut off because the princesses give them a sleeping wine. But one man with the help of an invisibility cloak figures out their secret. Their secret includes a trapdoor bed, a walk through a forest filled with trees of silver, gold and diamond and dancing the night away at a banquet with 12 princes till their shoes are all worn out. 


I guess the reason I love it so much is that there is no evil in this one at all. It's just merry dancing! And their is nothing better than that in this world.