Come, tell us a story

We hope you have sent in your stories and poems in response to the writing exercises given last fortnight. Here are some interesting contributions from readers that you, too, will enjoy.

— The writer is a freelancer based in Hyderabad, India.

Tips on writing: Writing about animals

Many of us are fond of animals and attribute human qualities to our pets or animals we bring into stories. This is one way of writing about animals and has been used to delightful and thought provoking effect through the centuries in the form of folk tales, animal fables and many 'why' tales that explain how things came to be the way they are in nature.

Fables are wise tales that often use animals to illustrate the follies and weaknesses of human beings. Here animals have human-like qualities and learn lessons (and teach lessons) by the way they behave.

Writing about animals does not have to bring in human-like behaviour. There are also much loved tales about animals and their behaviour as animals in their natural habitat or with men. Recent stories like Marley and Me, and older ones by James Herriot, Gary Paulsen and Gerald Durrell and, of course, the evergreen Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling open a whole new world of adventure and understanding for readers.

"Reading usually precedes writing and the impulse to write is almost always fired by reading. Reading, the love of reading, is what makes you dream of becoming a writer. " - Susan Sontag.

We hope you have been following the adventures of Segax. Luis Kruger, the curator, is injured. Objects are disappearing from the museum. Segax's father is now helping the friends unravel the mystery... .

Segax and the Mystery of the Tomb of Tutankhamun
Chapter 7

"He'd be angry – worried – why embarrassed?"
"That's just it! Dad, guys, watch this." Segax went to the washbasin and held the knife under the tap. Nothing happened for a moment, then he began to rub the surface. Slowly the flowing water turned brownish even as the knife began to reveal a brighter colour where the paint was being washed off. The carving on the sheath became prominent and everyone's eyes popped. "It can't be!"

"It is! Pure gold!"

"So let's go and find out from Mr. Kruger why he painted the dagger — and I'm sure if we look around hard enough, we'll find some more such stuff!"

It was a tired but determined group that surrounded Mr. Kruger's bed that evening. His ankle had been set and he was sleepy but no longer in pain and no longer confused. "Roddy!" he said, putting his hand out to Segax's father. "I'm so relieved that you're back in the country. Now I can just hand it all over to you." He sighed.

"But we need the truth, Luis," said Mr. Roddnick. "Where is Irma? Who's threatening you? What do they want? Why have you hidden away priceless artifacts from the collection and pretended they were disappearing?"

Mr Kruger smiled sadly. "Such a short time and you've figured it out! I'm really no good at subterfuge, am I? I was desperate – it was Mick Mitchelson – at least, I think it is him. Who else would be able to spirit away artifacts recognisable the world around? That's why I tried to disguise some of the small pieces – I thought if I claimed that they weren't a part of the collection then he'd think twice about the larger ones which are difficult to ship out!"

"Where's Irma? Is she safe?"

"I sent Doris and Irma to Doris's mother's place. It's a flat in the heart of the city, but who knows how long before he discovers them. He's been sending me photos of Irma at school, on her way home, in places where I think she's safe....and Doris doesn't know – she doesn't even know about this injury."

Segax was alert. He looked at Zeke. "So how did you know Mr. Kruger was missing and hadn't gone home? Who told you?"

Zeke shrugged. "He didn't answer his home phone – or his cell, for that matter. And when I called Doris, I just enquired casually if Luis had spoken to her and she said he hadn't."

"How were the demands sent to you? What was demanded?" asked Mr. Roddnick, not to be distracted from his train of thought.

"All the jewellery from the collection – the lapis and gold pendants and necklaces, the scarab ring, the knife..."

"Easy to move..."

There didn't seem to be much more anyone could do and when the nurse came in and shooed them away, they left obediently. "I'll camp out at Doris's mother's place," said Zeke.

It had been a hectic day and the others fell into their beds and slept like the dead. The next day, Segax reported for work and found his father there, unobtrusively observing visitors as Segax ushered them around and explained artifacts to them. But the peace was soon broken. Mr. Roddnick's phone rang. It was Zeke.

"Irma's gone!" he said. "She didn't come back from school!"

Now continue the adventures of Segax and his friends in Chapter 8 of the serial and if possible, conclude the story. Slug your mail with 'Write Time' on top so we know it is a submission for this project.

You have two weeks to send in your writing. Your deadline: June 8, 2008

Too late

He stepped out of the diner, almost tripping over the unusually high step that led to the parking lot. He looked at his watch, his deep blue eyes taking time to focus. It was late. He gathered enough courage to take a few more steps towards his car, the ground gliding, vision blurred. After what seemed like hours to him, he finally got to his car. He leaned against the cold, black metal of his Ford Escort as he searched his pockets for the keys. He got into his car, ran his long, thin fingers through his black, greasy hair and switched on the engine.

Nathan was always a responsible man. Never took risks. Never went too far. This day had changed him completely. Losing his job and girlfriend in the same week was just too much for him. He pulled out his cell phone, flipped it open; still no messages, no missed calls. He had been doing this every hour for the past six days. Kelly hadn't called yet and Nathan was beginning to accept the fact that she no longer wanted him.

He sighed and pulled out of the parking lot of the place where he had spent hours every day for the past week. As he drove, he realised that some of his old habits still remained; he had both hands on the wheel. Nathan thought that his mind was now only filled with emptiness and sorrow, his depression fueled by the fact that his life was gradually falling to pieces.

He continued down the long, seemingly winding road until he saw red lights at an intersection in the distance. He lifted his foot of the pedal and was about to push down on the brakes, but the flashing light on his cell phone distracted him completely. He took his hand off the wheel and reached for the phone lying on the passenger's seat, his eyes, now gleaming with tears reading the text on the front screen. A message.

* * * * *

Jimmy always liked walking around with his friends at night. The main reason was that the walk usually ended at the doorstep of someone holding a house party. He crossed the road at the intersection and headed down the straight road towards the venue of the party. Twenty seconds later, Jimmy heard the feeble squeal of an old car engine. As he looked up and squinted, he saw the origin of the noise. The small black car was ripping through the glow of the street lights like a fish in a sea of asphalt. There was a deafening screech of tyres - a sound a person could never get used to.

The black car, now unrecognizable, had collided with another vehicle that had come from the road turning right. An eerie silence filled the cold night air. Both cars stood in the middle of the intersection. Windows shattered. The black Escort on its roof. Jimmy could not believe that he was looking at the same car he had seen just minutes ago. When the shock wave subsided, the air was filled with a dreadful cocktail of shouting and panic. He heard his friends shout to one another, "Call an ambulance, now!" Despite all the movement and panic around him, Jimmy was locked in his catatonic reaction to the whole situation. His eyes scanned the wreck, but his attention was drawn to a tiny, flashing light that came from a short distance away form the black car. He walked towards it, still in shock. He lifted the cell phone and flipped it open. It was sadly ironic, how a small, man-made object such as this phone, survived an accident that a man didn't. As he opened it, there was a message notification on screen. In the back of his mind he knew this was not the place or time to read messages but he pushed the button and the message opened, small black letters blossoming on the LCD screen. He read it in silence, taking every letter in carefully. These letters could be important to someone, but right now, for some unknown reason, it meant the world to Jimmy.

NATHAN. I WAS WRONG. PLEASE CALL ME. I LOVE YOU. I REALLY DO. - KELLY.

The ambulance arrived 7 minutes after the accident, but it was too late for 25-year-old Nathan. He would never call back.
Pawel Karas, Age 16, Grade 11,
Cambridge International School, Dubai


- Zainab's impressions of a year gone by...

Etching a Canvas

It's just another year, the one that just went by,
Amazing how its sounds so short and yet so long.
A canvas so colorful with all sorts of shades, not forgetting the grey,
That enhanced the grace.

Every brush, every stroke with so much care,
Plain and white, on its first step so eager,
It holds a special place in the painter's heart.
He put every colour with accurate measure,
All of this and a little of that,
Every brush was a step further.

He stood and he thought,
The painting would have been incomplete,
If it hadn't been for the black and the shades of grey,
And now as he stands, he feels so content,
But in all his pleasure, he knows for a measure,
That there will be no other, that's just the same.

Many have come, many more will go,
But every year we stand at this junction,
There's no going back.
We're just moving on, on the tick of the clock.
Just turn back for a moment and
Admire the canvas that will be etched in your heart,
For as long as you live.
Zainab Qasim
Ist year, BITS,Pilani, Dubai Campus

- Megna has a poetic offering for readers...

Didn't I?

Tired as I am,
I sit on my chair.
Wondering what life has offered,
And what I have offered in return.
My eyes blur,
My mind entangles itself in this web of memories.

Flashes of my past,
Flashes of my future.

I sigh.
I grumble.
I smile.
I laugh.
I cry.
A sudden rush of all these emotions I gather.

The present seems quite faint as
I live, no longer in between.
I live in my very own world,
Until my very last days on this land end,
End with joy,
End with content not with misery.

I stare around me
As things that seemed so far away seem near,
And things that mattered don't matter any more.

I lied.
I cheated.
I hurt.
I bleed.
I regret.

I breathe.
Should it be my last, for my breath gets shorter,
Day after day,
Hour after hour,
Minute after minute.

They say as one approaches the end
Time is obvious as it is runs out
Your whole life flashes before your eyes
It's true.
I've seen it.
It's been worthwhile.
For I have made a difference or so I think.
Cause
I did care.
I did love.
Didn't I?

Megna Kalvani,
2nd Semester, 1st year, Media and Communications, Manipal University in Dubai


- Jane gives readers a glimpse of her heart in this poem

My Angel

An angel stands in front of me
with eyes as deep as the sea,
his voice as smooth as silk
his skin as white as milk.

His snow-white wings are open wide
his smile is warm and bright,
and when he speaks, in flawless motion,
it is so soothing and so light.

My angel is with me wherever I go,
he shelters me from rain and from snow,
forever together we will be, I know
'cause heavenly Father once told me so.

Jane,
American College of Dubai