Once Upon A Broken Dream: A Creativia Anthology

by Richard M. Ankers

  “Stop that,” John's mother said as she grabbed him and removed him from Mrs. Shield's lap. “You are embarrassing us.”

  But at the look of John laughing, despite the humiliation for everyone involved, she couldn't help but eventually smile. Probably in part due to the relief that he was OK after his unexpected flight, but also because the laughter in the hall was now almost at fever pitch. Even Mrs. Shields was laughing, although she didn't really know why.

  Monty saw that Emma was still both in a state of shock, and looking completely horrified. She couldn't believe how everyone was behaving. She'd had great expectations about the concert and now it was ruined. To say that she was deeply embarrassed was an understatement. Emma appeared frustrated. The more she tried to quieten everyone the more they laughed. She could see that even Mrs. Shields, who was normally such a staid type of person, was laughing so much that she had tears streaming down her face.

  “Come along now everyone,” Emma said. “We can't sit here all day. Let's start making our way out of the hall,” ushering them gently towards the door. Emma didn't expect anyone to leave donations, but the children duly rattled their donation buckets anyway. She tried to signal to them to stop. But her efforts fell on deaf ears.

  * * *

  “Now look here old girl,” Monty said looking at Blossom as they arrived back at her field. “That was a fiasco of epic proportions. You have no idea what an awful lot of trouble we will be in, and I will be the one who will have to explain it,” he said rubbing his hand against his chin. “Oh well. Nothing can be done about it right this minute so I guess it's time to put you back in the barn for the night.” He led Blossom into her barn and closed the gate. “Goodnight old girl. Sleep tight.”

  Monty awoke late the next morning and was pleased when he realised that although it was Saturday, there were no weddings to attend to. He smiled to himself, turned over, and pulled his quilt up over his shoulders to keep warm. Then the smile was wiped off of his face when he remembered what had happened at the concert the day before.

  “Oh gosh.” he said. “I've got a lot of making up to do today. But first I need a hearty cooked English breakfast to help me. If you are going to be enemy number one then you might as well be it on a nice full stomach.”

  Within ten minutes he had showered, shaved, dressed and was walking into the kitchen whistling to himself. He drew back the heavy old curtains and opened his fridge. His face dropped as inside it was only a pint of milk, a half-eaten banana, and some butter. I won't get far on that he thought.

  “Time to visit the Harbour Grill for my breakfast then,” he said as he put on his coat, and walked down the steps at the front of his house and headed down the hill towards the harbour.

  Despite choosing to have his breakfast at the Harbour Grill, more out of necessity than anything, Monty still wanted to lie low for the day. He chose a table by the window and sat facing the harbour so that he hopefully wouldn't have to speak to anyone else who was there.

  However, in a small seaside town like Buttercup Bay word soon got around. He knew that meant he would probably be the talk of the town right now, and that was something which he neither relished or wanted.

  “Newspaper Vicar?” Molly the waitress asked handing it to him with a grin. “I see your Blossom was the star of yesterday's show.”

  Monty smiled awkwardly. Not wanting to agree, or to get into that conversation. He took the newspaper and turned back to face the harbour.

  'No!' he exclaimed. 'This can't be happening,' Monty said looking at the front page of the local newspaper. In large letters it said, Donkey Steals the Show. “Mortified. I'm absolutely mortified.”

  Monty hoped that nobody heard him. He didn't want to engage in conversation with anyone about it, and certainly didn't want to answer their questions, or to explain what happened. Because in reality it all happened far too quickly for him to really know much about it. Plus, the fact that he wasn't actually by the stage at the time as he should have been only made it worse.

  Monty felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around slowly to see Emma staring at him.

  “Emma!” exclaimed Monty. “I…I'm so sorry for what happened yesterday. Mortified in fact.”

  Monty shrunk a little in his chair as he looked at her, wanting the ground to open up and swallow him so that he didn't have to face the consequences quite yet. He wasn't ready. He needed to digest what happened himself first.

  Emma sat down next to him and looked him straight in the eye with a fixed stare. Her eyes met his and he took a sharp intake of breath.

  “What happened yesterday?” she asked.

  “I…I…Well, I don't really know,” Monty said. “One minute everything was fine, and the next minute there was complete chaos.”

  “That's not how I see it Monty,” said Emma. “That's not how I see it at all.”

  Monty felt his chest tighten slightly and he wanted to bolt for the door. He didn't like confrontation of any kind, and if Emma wanted to be funny about what happened then maybe she shouldn't have insisted that he had so many cups of tea when they had arrived. Because if she hadn't, then perhaps he wouldn't have needed to go off to the toilet mid performance, and he might have been able to control Blossom instead of her running off of the stage.

  “I have just one thing to say to you Monty,” Emma said.

  Monty felt his stomach flip and he fidgeted in his chair. Emma sounded angry and as he hadn't expected to see her today he wasn't prepared to be berated in public.

  “Yesterday was amazing Monty,” she said smiling. “The best Christmas concert ever actually.”

  Monty was stunned. “What…What do you mean Emma?”

  “Well, as you probably guessed, I wasn't expecting anyone to be either happy about the events of yesterday, or to leave any donations. But to my surprise, and despite the fact that the concert was only half way through when it unceremoniously finished, parents have been giving me positive comments last night and this morning.”

  “Really? I can't believe it.”

  “Yes, really Monty. But even better than that, the donations that everyone left after the concert yesterday were almost double what we had hoped for. Based on the previous few years, we hadn't expected anywhere near that amount.”

  “That's amazing Emma,” gushed Monty. “I thought that you would be furious.”

  “Well, initially I wasn't that impressed with how things turned out. But when I realised that everyone seemed to enjoy it I decided to take it all in my stride. To accept it so to speak.”

  “Good for you,” said Monty. “I'm sorry if we embarrassed you yesterday.”

  “You didn't. In fact you could say that Blossom stole the show…and I couldn't be happier!”

  The End.

  About the Author: Melanie Mole

  Melanie dreams of a place where we are all doing what makes our soul come alive. Where getting up each day is a pleasure rather than a chore, and where life is calmer for us all. These two books are only the start of a series exploring how writers can help themselves in an all too busy world.

  This year Melanie has started to branch out into writing fiction. Her story in this anthology is part of her Buttercup Bay series about a quaint coastal village in England.

  Red Belly

  By Natalie J Case

  When the night skies light with waves of color and cast the world in shadows of deep purple and blue, a hush settles over the land. Days and nights become one for as many as ten turns. No one travels, business stops. It is the time of the Fall, a name reminiscent of our long-ago history when the people believed that the sky itself was falling to the ground.

  The people here are superstitious, even now so far removed from that place of ignorance. They hold to their stories of the Fall, how it began as a sign of a god's wrath, and how hundreds caught outside as it began fell ill and died. Few brave the world outside when the lights shower down. It is said that ill fortune comes to those who exchange money during the time of the Fall
.

  Even more so to those who would cross the threshold between death and life. A child born during the fall is feared, so much so that mothers will give birth in secret and declare the child was born just before or just after.

  My mother, while a poor woman born of a poor woman, cared nothing for superstitions. She was strong, both physically and in her mind. She lived in a cottage on the grounds of the palace with her own mother, who was employed shepherding the children of those who lived and worked there.

  It was a rumor that Mother was the product of an illicit union, an affair between my grandmother and a noble boy. A rumor given credence by the color of Mother's skin. In a world where skin color divided class lines, with those of pale complexion at the bottom, and the vibrant hues at the top, the green and blue that painted mother's skin, even though pale in comparison, told the world that she was of unusual parentage.

  Mother was raised there, among the palace children, given space among them by virtue of her skin, and allowed to learn with them, play with them. She had designs on entering government when she was in her teens, an opportunity she would not have had were she as white as her mother.

  That changed abruptly for her when she was nearly of age to begin. There was an opening offered to her once she passed the age of majority, in the office of a Counselor from the lower provinces. However, before her day came, she discovered herself to be with child. That in and of itself would not have kept her from the position, but like her mother before her, Mother's chosen lover was from a class above her station. The man was married, his wife barren. When it was discovered that Mother would give him the child that she could not, the wife demanded that she be sent away from the palace.

  Thus it was, that I was born.

  On the fifth night of the Fall, on an island with little more than the hut she lived in and no one to aid her, she gave birth to me. It was a sign, she said.

  She named me Aruk-na, which in the old tongue means Red Belly. From my first memory, she told me that destiny had touched me and one day, I would ascend beyond my humble birth.

  I do not believe that this is what she expected for me, as I watch the end of the Fall from the window of my tower prison, many years and many miles from that beginning.

  Mine is not one of those stories that are told to children, with princesses and dragons and true love to win the day, no matter the odds, though there were all three of these things in the course of the journey from that small island to this prison.

  It begins there, on that island where I lived with my mother from the day I was born until the day that she died. I was seventeen when it happened. She had been to town only the week before, a journey that required a boat to shore, and a walk to the nearest transport, which then took her into the town of Jasmire, where whispers followed her until she left again.

  The illness came with her, and in the small hours of the day, before the sun had stirred to streak the black skies with gold, she rattled her last breath and died.

  I was alone with only the stories my mother told me to guide my next steps. I took her body to shore and buried her in a stand of trees not far from the road. There was no need to mark her grave, I had no intention of returning.

  My steps took me into town, a place I had visited from time to time, but never found any affection for. The only modernity it boasted was the transport line that took people into the capital and back again.

  I boarded that transport with the money Mother left behind and all my worldly possessions contained in the small bag I slung over my shoulder. I didn't know what to expect. I had never been beyond Jasmire.

  The ride was quiet. No one knew that I was a daughter of the palace or the nature of who I was. My skin spoke softly that I was from a class well above most of the people in Jasmire. The pale green that covered my body was enhanced with bright emerald along my hairline and patches of sapphire on my neck and hands. I imagine had they known that my stomach was covered in crimson, they would find reason to talk. These were the colors of my parentage and the green and blue afforded me a privacy among the less brightly colored citizens around me. The red, however, was a different story. It too spoke of my parentage. It marked Mother's telling of my origins as true.

  The quiet suited me fine. I was never one for polite conversation for the sake of conversation. When we stopped in the city, I stood and made for the doors, and the others stood back, letting me pass first.

  The sights and smells were different than I had known. Near the station there was the smell of closeness, people and waste, burning trash and food cooking. I wrinkled my nose in distaste and moved away quickly. The streets were narrow with buildings too tall and too close, making the world seem dark and dangerous.

  I knew nothing about the city aside from stories my mother told, but I had come wanting to see the palace, to see the place my mother had come from. I knew that the palace lay at the center of the city, a sprawling complex of buildings that housed the seats of government and home to those descended from the old lines of nobility and royalty.

  They were revered by the populace, even centuries after the monarchy gave way to the complex system of Counsels and Senate that ruled today.

  I made my way deeper into the city, and the close, crowded streets gave way to broad avenues and single family homes, laying low behind the walls of apartment buildings and tenements that housed the less fortunate and under pigmented. Neighborhoods punctuated with parks that grew deep carpets of scarlet grass adorned with burst of yellow and orange flowers and canals of crystal clear water spread inward, each becoming more opulent than the next.

  At long last I came to the river Mar that ran through the city and down to the coast. In the distant past, it had been diverted to circle around the palace, creating an island upon which the world could focus its gaze. There were seven bridges that crossed the twenty feet of water, making the palace appear to be the center of a wheel.

  Each bridge served a purpose. Two of them were open to the public, allowing those who needed to visit government offices for work or other purposes to come and go. Two were restricted for only those who lived in the palace. The western gate was open only to those who supplied the palace with material goods and the last two were maintained strictly for military use.

  It was late in the day as I reached the side of the river, content for the moment to merely sit beside the water and look at the palace. It was as my mother described, shining and opulent, it's walls washed in gold. It was dazzling as the suns moved toward the distant mountains.

  I would need to find shelter for the night. Reluctantly, I turned from the pull of the palace and inquired of someone out walking with their brightly colored children as to a place I could rent a room. I was directed to an inn where I secured a room for the next several nights. It left me with only a little money.

  As night descended, I realized I would need a job, but with no experience and no family name, it would be difficult. I had another option, of course.

  I could present myself at the palace, bare my crimson stomach and demand I be accepted as a member of the royal family. Done publicly, they would have no choice. Heat rose in my cheeks as I considered the spectacle. There would be scandal, that a royal child had been born outside the palace would see to it. The woman who sent my mother away would be vilified, my place as a royal daughter undeniable.

  I suppose there are many who would do so. I found myself wondering what life that would give me. What did the royal family do, after all? Sure, some of them ran charities and the like, but the others?

  No, I was not made for a passive life. I would find my own way…and once I was settled I would seek out an audience with the Prince Regent. I slipped into bed that night with a calm determination.

  As luck would have it, I would find the next chapter of my life on the streets of the capital on the day that I was left without a roof to cover me. I had spent the last of my money on food, a crusty loaf of bread and a warm cup of soup, and had once again packed up all of my me
ager belongings, walking down to the river to gaze upon the palace as I did every day as the suns inched closer to the horizon.

  I sat on a bench and ate the last of my bread and contemplated what I would do next. I was deep in thought when I felt the eyes of someone on my face. I looked up thinking for a moment that I had lost my ability to process thought. The deepest purple eyes I had ever seen looked into me and deep indigo lips smiled ever so slightly, making the world stand still.

  It took me a moment to realize she was speaking to me. I blinked rapidly and tore my gaze from her face, taking in the rest of her now. Her neck and the part of her chest I could see was brightly emerald and her hair was nearly the color of the night. I cleared my throat. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't hear you.”

  She smiled in earnest then, and my heart nearly choked me. “I said, tonight is the first night of the Fall. You should get inside.”

  I looked up at the sky, searching for the first hints that the spectacular show of lights would be starting. “I am unafraid of the lights.” I said softly, looking down at the backs of my hands which seemed such a pale blue beside her indigo that I wanted to hide them. “Besides, I have no inside to go to.”

  Color rose in her face. “That will not do.” She held out a hand that was a softer blue with red freckles. So, she was a royal daughter as well. “Come with me. I will shelter you until the Fall has ended.”

  “I could not ask such a thing.” I demurred.

  “You did not ask,” she responded, taking my hand from my lap and tugging me to my feet. She pulled my hand through her crooked arm and began walking. I had little choice but to walk with her. As we approached the bridge, she turned her face and with her lips nearly on my ear, she said, “My name is Kenwith.”

  I couldn't give her my real name. I swallowed the name and offered my mother's instead. “I am called Chenna.”