Extracts
The Ann Stories Extracts By R. Howell
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Ann Stories:The Mine
By R. Howell - 2021. Extract = 1500 words (from 11,400)
As dark as the opening sections of The Mine are, splashes of light and vivid colours will be added as the picture builds, but it will be you at the very end of the tale, The Mine, who get to finish it - but you cannot do that without first understanding the beginning... The New Beginning - presented for you in two parts.
The story starts pre the beginning of all things... explained by way of a coal mine... ... ...
Into a dark forbidding coal mine this moment descends, sometime during the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries, but the journey is still relevant, maybe more so today, as those horrors and practises and philosophies of that time rebound still around this mortally wounded world, the one we are kicking harshly as it suffers maybe its final throes. Who knows... ... ...
Those few who do the least while ensuring they own the most, load a platform, the cage some call it, with slave workers, though they never call them that of course, while quietly smirking as they chain them in, watching and waiting with fake fatherly concern while the incumbents offer silent farewells to loved ones.
“That’s right lads, you pray to The Father to have a good shift" while whispering, "...for me...”, as the mine owner always does before turning and signalling to the foreman to kick the scrawny donkey harnessed to a wheel to start it off trudging slowly forward in its own never ending journey of struggled servitude. Then as the pulley mechanism is unlocked and the platform set in motion the owner watches his slaves descend on a wealth creating mission for him, from which some may never return... but does it matter, there's always more cheap labour to be had - haven't our governments and the lords of the manors nicely arranged that for us over the centuries, huh.
Down, down, down into the slumbering dragon’s throat the platform shakily descends. The voices of its human cargo fall silent as the rattling jangles offend, though their hearts are beating hard as the perilous and forebodingly thick, impenetrable darkness rises out of that vertical and forever-long shaft to suck strongly on the juices of their hopes, wreathing spirits in the fuliginous fumes of acidic unrest, which can go nowhere other than end in bitter internal rend, at best.
Comment: The tale moves on As the miners toil...
Then a blind and deaf child is forced to work the seam - ('Well why not, got to get some work out of it before it dies'. It was born a slave after all)...
End of comment - The Story Continues...
Now, as this journey into the diabolical darkly unfolds, imagine instead the lone miner not as a man, but as a young - a very, very, too young – deaf, blind spindly, undernourished child, with no concept of age, or of the world around them, beyond being grabbed, dragged and loaded onto the mine's rattling platform, followed by the sensation of a long descent, and then roughly manhandled and carried like a lion’s hapless, but still living, prey to be dumped harshly into that small tight rough hard space - the beginning of a new seam that could easily become a coffin.
Follow the child’s initial fright – one which never leaves - and the confusion of purpose and place and fears of blows that will surely rain down, because they always do, and the sensation of having a large awkward pickaxe handle placed into those young small uncertain palms. Cringe with the child as rough gestures guide those tiny hands while voices snap pointlessly into the child’s delicate unhearing ears, “You do it like this” – and then hard pats on back to encourage the feeble arms as they begin to pick... pick... pick... in nibbled strokes at that dark Medusa’s face, which the child’s eyes will never see, just as delicate ears will never hear the sounds of toil, or the horn suggesting a break. Neither has the child’s skin ever enjoyed the touch of a caring hand, or experienced the hug from a loving soul, or enjoyed the sensation of a tongue tingling with the taste of decent food.
Unloved, the child has survived alone by eating whatever comes within grasp and proves chewable and can be swallowed without gagging, as many children do. Smell is the only guide and friend the child has ever known, but all its closest friend, smell, can convey on this day are confused and dismal messages sent from an unfamiliar world. The child’s only real awareness is the jarring vibrations from its weak nib... nib... nibbling, and of its laboured breathing, along with the sharp rocks digging into thighs and back, and the itchy wriggly paths of sweat trickling down dirt encrusted skin, that quickly dry into a cold chill - where like a scenting snake it waits in ambush to strike the child ill.
Comment: In the darkness...
The child has slipped into that darkness beyond all darkness broken only by the blip of the child's inner music, from which everything will arise once the music is encouraged to play...
End of Comment
Light is so about to be revealed. Maybe...
So there it was, before the beginning of all things there was absolute nowt. And neither did it all start with a big bang. There was not even a little leak, nor a gerrack, a blister or a crack... Mac... And not even a spout, or a sprout, or an overheard shout, or a burp from a drunken lout. Come to that, neither was there the evident hum of a chin wag, the moans and groans of wronged lasses and lads, or the hiss of a pipe un-lagged. Neither was there the cheek of a schoolboy’s brag - I’m braver than you lad.
Nope!
There was nowt but the start of a nag.
Oh yeh, not to forget, a little hope too as the nag nudged aside the steady sense of the rhythmic blips to suggest ideas – yes ideas..., though not through words, not immediately. It was a thrust of sorts, a metaphorical sharp dig with an elbow. It created an urge similar to the one that drove an ordinary finch fighting for food in a crowded island to spectacularly evolve into a specialist feeding cross-bill. In the manner of the finch eyeing that particular un-foraged seed setting off its desire to change, the blip-blip-blip suddenly sensed the nag.
How could it not fail to sit up abruptly without worry that a new note might carelessly be smothered in the process...
The answer is, it would not, it could not, and it did not.
For wonder of wonders...
The nag was heard!
Yes it was heard!
And felt, too!
But best of all the now semi-aware-blip realised...
That not only has it been noticed, it is also being addressed...
Yes... Addressed!
"You can reach out you know..."
The nag suggested in a manner blessedly free of scold or scorn. And glory be, the sense of a friendly smile-enriched-tone flowed joyfully into the newly awakening child-like-awareness, causing happy tingles to tinkle within its inner music, which a sense of mischievous piccolos picked up on, copied and then in joyous clamour erupted into beautiful shrieks and musical giggles.
The nag duly filling with its own soaring music ignored the blips growing euphony to continue brightly;
"...You don’t have to lay there forever in solitude you know. You’re being lazy, and besides you’ll get bed sores if you carry on like that! Stand up I say; use your great imagination to visualise pushing aside your self-imposed boundaries - while taking a step or two and reaching up and offering out your splendid heart’s song... If you do those things, I can promise this..., you'll be more than surprised by the outcome."
Accompanying that kindly nag was the sense of an underlying pat to the back of the blip's then metaphorical hand, which brought with it a rather irking, but fortunately, a quickly forgotten suggestion, "And while you're at it... when you arise, you can put some shelves up too..." (or some such)
You can...?
I can...?
...Already beyond startled, the now semi-aware-consciousness realised to its wonderment that it - that I - that me - YES ME..., can not only respond to this nag, the I of me wants to and gladly I will...
The blip-blip-blips quickened as the inner music took to wing, where in glorious inaugural flight it found its lark like behaviour and glory be, its voice too. And thus began the release of the first note of that everlasting music which one day will be hailed as the creation song - which is the unrestrained scores, sonatas, opuses, operas, ballets of light born out of the very heart of that genderless, unloved, and extraordinarily lonely, longing child's, semi-aware subconscious.
It is the very same music which continuously unfolds around and plays within everything, and from which all things grow. It is the music spinning gloriously inside every single molecule, while naughtily tickling evolution's feet to get it up and moving off the sofa.
Or such was the music's destiny.
Except...
The first note was stopped somewhere towards its completion... by, yes..., yet another kindly but pushy nag...
Ann Shories: If knowledge is power, it is also fear
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 420 words (from 843)
Part of a short stand-alone chapter...
In this human world of dulled senses, limited hearing and little enjoyment or appreciation for the true wonders of their planet and all upon it, who can say where the truth of all things ends and fantasy, or fancy, begins...?
~~~~
In a state somewhere between rainbow soul and human form, a muted spark glimmers in the darkness. A vague shimmering ‘something’ seen only from the corner of an eye as a fluttering opaque trick of light, a rogue sun-ray traversing a park, weaving through avenues of trees while stopping here and there like a hunting dog hard on heels and fast on trail.
Then, as if mildly satisfied by the smells in the air, or suddenly alarmed by what it senses, the glimmer skips over grass and out onto the street to travel up and across a wall. From there it might pause by an open window, or yearn to sneak into an alluring, 'I wonder what-lays-beyond' slowly closing door. Or it might simply stand still, in mourning perhaps besides a landfill site. Or teeter at the edge of a choked canal path. Or kneel to utter goodbye to a dying river. Or wander with a beaten spirit through a declining-shrinking-polluted-diseased-wildlife-dead-woodland seemingly forever on the watch or the wait, though for what, or for whom, who knows? The return of past residents maybe..., or better times that may never come?
As the glimmer travels it searches also for the meaning of two light-shadows, which like fractures in an aura stay close to the glimmers side. One is large, one small. They never speak, or interfere and only the glimmer can see them. And so it has been that way for four billion years, or more.
While there is no conscious counting of the years, the glimmer on a bad day might well quip, ‘look at how long I’ve waited to find their meaning while you humans can’t even bear to wait patiently for a couple of days for a delivery to arrive. Shame on you all!’
Even while these words tattoo the page the undefined celestial supernal passes through the old historical section of Espe, ignored publicly by the Norman hearted Mayoress, but coveted by her privately as prime development, and up into the town’s high street that once enjoyed Boadicea’s tread as she journeyed to recruit help to avenge her family’s defilement. She never returned that way, or so it is said, but then history so often lies, doesn’t it. But not Espe’s secret history, as stored in the caves beneath the town’s oldest establishment, Fred’s Café, that was ancient even before the Beaker Folk arrived on British shores.
Ann Shories: If Only Humans Might
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 455 words (from 800)
Part of a short stand-alone chapter...
The ‘she-something’ talked about in Espe and other places around the world stands vigil over the planet and children just like parents waving to their excited off-spring while they boisterously clamber aboard a coach to be whisked off to adventures new.
That 'She' oozes love, care, compassion and holds such huge hopes for the future, despite how bad the present is proving to be. Regardless of her choice of form, Angel or human, or in an in-between state as she has presently adopted, her invisible trail is generally ignored by Espe's town folk. No one there will ever be seen dropping to their knees to give thanks for the wonders of the multiverse. Some would not do so simply because in their opinion humans own this planet. Such if they were aware of her origins, most likely in their ignorance or fright or to assuage guilt, would prefer her gone or want her killed, not that she can be. She knows their attitude and despairs of it.
Generally in Espe, those who can feel the gleam's presence, and accepts its origins ignores her, as they do when she takes on human form. More kindly, they understand that reverence is the last thing Ann, the glimmer, seeks.
And it is true.
What the Angel would find most pleasing is to see folks give an unexpected smile to another, or extend a helping hand when needed, or plant a tree in a park, or on a hill; a woodland restored by a clamber of good hearts, and not for cash gain or publicity - personal or otherwise – but merely for the want and need of it. Or a specie or two or three or even more pulled back from extinction. Oceans cleansed, a bird’s broken wing tended, and all abused children snatched from the hands of their tormentors and finally..., life, all life..., animal, mineral, vegetable and whatever shades care to lay in-between, celebrated. Oh yes and let’s not forget - the freeing and raising up of enslaved spirits.
Her own spirit would love nothing more than to witness hip-hop art forms projected onto the exterior walls of the Houses of Parliament - with no planning needed to pass through long winded committees. Simply a fun act of spontaneity by the masses of people who in principle, own the public buildings and institutions, while perversely having no rights within them, or power over those who use or abuse their public office.
She might smile too at the idea of carnival wending through ‘that esteemed’ palace’s corridors in glorious pulsating rhythms and vibrant colours - a Hip-Hop-West-Indian-Chinese-Indio-Anglo-Saxon-Celtic dragon spilling out onto the streets and around craft stalls magically erected in and around Parliament Square. Then on through art and dance studios rapidly set up amongst the dusty, and some would say, purposeless old tombs dotted around Westminster Abbey.
Ann Stories: Maria And The Cancer Caps - Jody
By R.Howell - 2023. Extract = 550 words (from 40,000)
Out back in the cafe's kitchen, a little well-scrubbed and fairly happy young Jody instead of breakfasting at home on boring cereal was sat up at Fred's favourite chopping block enjoying a morning feed. Egg on toast, crispy bacon, mushrooms, lots of fresh toast thickly spread with lashings of butter and marmalade and of all things a large chunk of cheese, all washed down with a pint glass of cold milk. It was a rare treat and she was enjoying every delicious mouthful.
The only blot on the landscape was school, or more truthfully, a school without her best friend Maria in it with her. As she chomped away she reflected on her morning’s luck. Earlier, a white-blonde-haired woman, Ann, she thought her name was, had called to ask for her mum’s help with a neighbour in need.
Her mum’s, “Sorry, but you’ll have to fend for yourself today, Jody,” saw her quickly bundled into the car and dropped off at her dad’s cafe.
“Yeah right, that’s going to be hard” Jody had moaned as she climbed out of the car full of smiles.
Licking her fingers clean of marmalade she was about to start on the cheese when her happy little world spun out of control. Instead of scolding herself, that serves you right for ear-wigging your dad’s conversation she threw down the cheese and rushed to the kitchen door to listen.
English was not her strongest subject at school and she would freely admit to not understanding the word mortified, which the man who was talking to her dad had just used, but she instantly became the living embodiment of it when she realised she had heard them right. They were discussing Maria. Maria!
What they said caused her heart to suddenly start beating as fast as her jaw had dropped. Without shouting, bye Dad, I’m off, she snatched up her school bag and dashed out the Cafe’s backdoor, leaving it swinging wide open to the delight of a pack of ever-hungry cats.
In a whirl of strong hard pumping legs and oblivious to all but her temper, she thundered off down Market Square and up the High Street towards her school on a mission to seek out Beaky, the school’s master and bring him down.
The child has never been so angry. While Ann resplendent in her soul-form smiled as she watched Jody go thundering by.
Whispering “Go on Jody, put those wrongs to right,” Ann returned to ‘a neighbour in need’ happy for once that one of her plans was turning out right.
Only months before, the Headmaster had informed the children during an assembly, “Maria has moved away so she will not attend this school any more.”
The news had broken Jody’s heart and she missed her friend dearly. Day after day, for who knows how long, she has waited like an expectant lover for a letter to fall on the doormat. But none ever came and now she knew why!
It was that ‘bloody, orrible, Beaky keeping us apart’. He’s the one to blame for it.
With a heart fit to bursting each thundered step honed her anger until it was sharp enough to cut her school in two.
‘Beakys to blame’ her thunderous steps rang. Where the more she thought about it, the greater her sense of lividity grew until the young strong rhino-cum-trainee-pugilist was scaling the peaks of absolute rage and working the pavement hard.
“How dare he lie to me!”
“How dare he keep me away from me bestest friend!”
“How dare the school do it.., how dare they…, how dare they all…”
And just to make sure her rants were suitably aired, as she passed through the school gates she added a few more into the chant.
“How dare they…, how dare they.., HOW DARE THEY”
Until finally reaching fever pitch and to the consternation and censorious “Oh My” of a passing teacher she screamed.
"THE BLOODY BAR***DS!".
Ann Stories: Maria and The Cancer Caps 2
By R.Howell - 2023. Extract = 582 words (from 40,000)
The master strode importantly onto the stage from where he quickly and sternly delivered the assembly's address. Then at a wave of his hand, the children clambered up noisily to sing the school song before sitting down again. Only moments later to have to get up and pray and then down, and up again to sing. And on and on went the boring ceremony.
As always the children followed the pattern mindlessly except for that one little bundle of hot indignation who refused to take part in the normal way.
When her school chums stood, she sat. When they sat she stood - angrily, resolutely refusing to be part of this bloody stupid idea, as her temper called it. Eventually, her lone protest was noticed by the headmaster who was one of those who tried hard to appear kindly but never quite managed to pull it off. And now that Jody had his measure she was not going to be fooled, not by him, not for one bit, not ever again.
“Why are you not sitting on the floor, child,” he asked gruffly, “come up here and explain yourself.”
“I WON’T…” the little storm thundered stroppily and just as defiantly as her far distant relative, Boadicea once did when stood tauntingly before the Romans with hands on hips and head held fearlessly high.
An action this modern-day Boadicea copied well when she screamed.
“...COS YOU STINKY LIED TO US!”
All delivered while shaking her little white-knuckled, tightly clenched fist threateningly at him.
The essence of her loud, proud red-faced defiance flew around the hall like witches at the height of Halloween stirring up a mess of mayhem in all who heard. A quick Mexican wave of gasps resounded quietly in pitch, but loudly in horror, up and down the hall. Followed by a silence that was so thick it could have been sliced up and served for dinner.
Not a cough, or a fidget, nor a sneeze, or an accidental trump was squeezed. All eyes were on Jody as she marked each of her rants with a hard stamp of tiny foot. So hard that part way through she hurt her hip. But she never let on. Not Jody. No way would she. She was on a mission and she intended to see it through - just as Ann knew she would…
With the child’s temper nicely building to full flight, nothing was going to stop her giving it fair air. Which she went on to do with aplomb. Not only did she vent her spleen, she, as they say, ripped the blasted thing out, stuffed it with a brick and hurled the bloody package right into old man Beaky’s livid face.
“You lied to us!” She screamed with another stamp of foot. “You lied you did,” where her temper insisted she stamp hard once more.
“Get her up here now!” the headmaster demanded sternly of his teachers while glowering vengefully down at the child.
“Now I said!”
His tantrum merely set Jody quivering with more anger which she vented by shaking her fists. But singularly. Not together, lest she lost balance and fell over. And that would not do, for she fully intended to stamp again.
She shook the left fist to which she added another sound stamp. Then came the right fist accompanied, yes, by a stamped foot. But to set that one off so it was different she screamed.
“COME AND GET ME IF YOU DARE… BLOODY LIAR BEAKY.”
Ann Stories: It’s How Things Are
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 900 words (from 1900)
Part of a short stand-alone chapter...
An interlude.
Billions of years on from that first wonderful and inexplicable nag, or as the Father often pondered - was it Ann's gentle nag of nags which encouraged the creation song to flourish. And on too from when Ann the first of the firstborns in a stream of giggles and full of the joys of a child clutching a fistful of birthday money had begged to be allowed to adopt the newly forming jewel - or her child as she then lovingly began to call it, was, despite it all, still in love with the planet. Even though it has morphed from a beautiful thriving child into a frighteningly horrendous abused and contaminated mess. Allegorically, one not dissimilar to a junkie in the last throes of their addiction. Where she worries. Just how far away are the junkie human's from releasing that final bad fix into the planet's veins.
The very thought was uppermost as she mindtalked with The Father. “Things are bad here.” She lamented in the rare way of Angel's. Which is about as pleasant to hear as a sinks loud burping gurgles during the deepest of meditations, and as sad as a whale's cry as she attempts to nudge her dead calf back to life.
“Humans have replaced my wonderful jewel with the worst paste copy ever, and I don’t know how to put the planet or the humans to right." She added woefully. "I’m trying, but there is much to do and humans for all their cleverness refuse to learn! Only recently Father it was finally accepted that fossil fuels seriously damage the planet and many governments agreed to limit their use, as well as introducing other ideas to help ease the planet's burdens. And guess how businesses responded Father? They sued governments for restricting their ability to trade and the sycophantic governments caved in. And then the suppliers of fossil fuels obviously scared that one day their purses will not be so full, upped the prices 6 fold, putting so many people into poverty..."
"It's horrible Father." She whispered quietly via their mindtalk, where their words flowed from spirit to spirit, soul to soul, heart to heart while she soothed a child laying in her arms, who in her short life has been as badly abused as Ann's faded jewel.
"Business’s ruin so much here, yet the majority blindly accept that the wants and needs of those faceless concepts to make piles of money and quickly, should be put ahead of the planet’s plight. That thinking is suicidal, but humans don’t seem to care Father. As long as they are able to buy new gadgets, they’re happy. Possessions are like drugs. The more they can get the more they want. They do not consider need only wants and they simply don’t care about the consequences of how they get them. The worst of it Father is, they have lost the connection with their home, and they don't care to find it again.”
"But is that really so odd", The Father wondered. "Don't what those humans call weeds do that sort of thing? Strive to dominate an area; smothering other forms of plant life, or even poisoning the soil to inhibit the growth of rivals to ensure their own survival?"
"Maybe so Father" she replied reflectively, for as usual he was right. "But a plant can only 'see' those inches of soil surrounding them, while humans have a greater capacity to think and reason about what they see and do. And what about the masses? How do they fit in with that way of thinking Father?"
"Oh, that's easy to explain", The Father laughed. "I'm surprised you even asked me!"
His manner to a human if he were overheard, might well have appeared to be unkind, but really his response was no different to a viewer of a T.V. programme depicting starvation elsewhere in the world. The subject was far too distant to attract much emotion and therefore connect with.
"Think of those Ants and Fungi you talked to me about Ann, maybe that is your answer. The few that do the damage as you say, and the masses that follow them, are symbiotic life forms. Different species almost, but each dependent upon the other. Yoke-fellows if you like."
"So what you're saying Father is that humans need to break that association? The masses need to learn to ignore the alluring overtures, the honey, to use your analogy, put out by the few who dominate them and instead go about their lives in their own way?"
"Yes Ann, that is exactly what I'm saying. I guess they need to learn to use their freewill better and channel it into evolving autarkic independency."
"But is that possible for 8 billion people to live that way Father?"
"I suspect not as things have been made to be on that planet by those who profit from the turmoil whipped up by their forebears. But that said, I did suggest the masses need to evolve, didn't I."
"Yes, you did Father." Ann agreed. "And thank you" she added quietly, uncertain how she might encourage humans to put such wisdom into practise. Considering the way they think and act and the values they hold to so tightly, those sort of changes would be as devastating to many humans as that giant asteroid was to the dinosaurs, she reasoned. And not for the first time either. But change does need to happen, and soon.
But if human's don't change what sort of future will you have to endure, her heart whispered, full of pity for the abused child she was comforting so tightly in her strong arms. Over the centuries they have held so many abused children, while she rocks in her loyal ancient highly lustred low slung chair. Too low for her long legs, but she will never part with it - their links stretch too far back for that.
It is the very chair carved from the heartwood of her favourite tree. The one felled so callously by the Norman's when they descended in a drunken power storm on the area. Very much like the Russian's recently did to Ukraine where they devastated the settlement she helped to found over a hundred thousand years before, which in an instance the invaders renamed Espe.
Ann Stories: Rocking Chair Blues
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 1480 words (from 14200)
If the weight of misery were a winter coat Susanna's would be porcupine quill lined. The material woven from torture implements stolen from the Bastille along with other such things used daily by humanity to torment, maim or kill. She was literally dripping with pain and distress as she stood shivering on the bank of the River Styx. Or some such similar location, where she sought the boatman who might take her to the other side.
Well-being’s antimatter pooled around her poor cold feet in ever-widening puddles before joining the fast-flowing, yet stagnant, mercury-like waters of the starless and moonless midnight-coloured river, where she imagined her twin bro was waiting on the other side.
She could not see him but she was certain he was there. They were joined, they were one, they were the same. He would not voluntarily desert her, just as she would not him. She simply needed to call the boatman, that is all, and then we’ll be together again.
She read somewhere it is what you do when you reach this river, but without a name for the boatman how can she call it except with her heart? The story she read with Sally had not revealed exactly how to summon the boatman, so she waited impatiently on the bank hoping to be spotted by CCTV cameras, or whatever they use here. Let the boatman come soon her distress wished. Please let it be soon.
I’m coming bro her heart called, wait for me, I’m coming, wait for me.
Suddenly she had a memory of yelling those very same words to him. They were much younger then and he was swifter and longer of leg at the time, although not anymore he isn’t, her spirit groaned. He had mouthed ‘RUN SIS’ as he legged it out of a shop clutching a bar of stolen chocolate, where he left her frightened and tearfully trailing far behind. But she had called ‘Wait for me bro’ and he came back to take her hand where together in whoops of delicious adrenalin-filled laughter they fled their imaginary pursuer.
He will come for me. He will hunt down the boatman. He will, he will come for me. Come for me bro, find me again bro, take my hand again, find me, bro. He will come for me, he will, he will. But the far bank thickly wreathed as it was in mysterious uncertainty offered no sign of him or the boatman.
I hoped you enjoyed the Ann Stories extracts To read them all use the Stories Option at the top of the page - And please do look at the Short Stories, Uma's Tales and the Verses
Uma's Tales:Born In A Toilet
By R. Howell - 2022. Extract = 370 words (from 2000)
An Uma's Tale to download:
Uma's Dream.
Or download the full 15 tales: Uma's Tales.
Some tales start with children setting off on adventures. Or lovers finding each other as they stroll along a golden beach, watching the sunset on a perfect day. Or a hero's musings while listening to the trickles of a glistening stream as it falls from an enchanted mountain. Not this one. And neither is this story set in a palace and nor does it take part amongst rolling hills and meadows, and it is as empty of those joyous squeals of passengers enjoying a funfair ride as a flies pooh most likely is - unless its aim is good and its just paid back someone who was taking a swipe at it.
This story starts in a Dalit village with little promise of a happy ending, or even the prospects of a carefree day. But there again, the village is Uma’s home so it is possible that anything might happen.
During Uma's dark soulless journey through the Petri dish of dangerous bigotry, that Caste town where she slaves like her Mama for no return, her happy memories cast a loving warm light around her guarded steps as she heads towards her place of servitude, a latrine. Like all days she is grateful for those joyful memories her beloved Mama made sure to add into her life right from the moment of her birth.
“Your birth was not an easy one,” Mama has revealed more than once in both tease and sadness.
“When the pains started telling me you were ready to come I was in that latrine where I work…” she says sorrowfully but also with love for Uma. “...I begged the Caste to let me leave for home to deliver you, but all they said was, ‘If you must give birth, do so quickly here, then get on with your work.’ So alone and squatting in the corner I gave birth to you in that dreadful place.”
Uma's Tales: Uma's Dream
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 330 words (from 3592)
A Uma's Tale to download:
Uma's Dream.
Or download the full 15 tales: Uma's Tales.
Left to themselves Uma's dreams, her heart-held secrets, continued to unfold largely unmolested.
As did her remarkable ability to understand all the creatures inhabiting her village and to whom she introduced herself or visited with regularly - whether they liked it or not. Her natural sense of community and caring grew as well. She was, as many villagers agreed, simply a beautiful little flower growing in this horrid dust bowl who has been sent to lighten our day.
Some might also say, “and to confuse us with her infernal questions”, but always with a smile, just as there were usually answers for Uma. But not about the men’s toilet field habits. But her persistent questions about that aimed at a certain guilty party did earn some chicken eggs. The bribe had started out as one egg - “You can have a fresh egg from my chickens if you go away and stop asking me about… you know.” The man in question said. But Uma sensed the secret was worth more than an egg so she plumped for six and happily settled for five.
The resourceful girl also managed to hatch three of the eggs - don’t ask… Please! Mama replies in shrieks of laughter whenever a neighbour wonders how the child ever managed such a thing...
The tale moves on to where Uma reveals one of her dreams to her village class.
"In my dream I was wandering through those hills we see growing in the far distance when I stumbled across a special jewel." Uma stated, her gentle voice was so full of wonder and enchanting that the children happily fell under her spell.
“My heart instantly knew it was the largest and most purist gem of its kind.”
“Oh my”, she sighed. "How that jewel sparkled so gloriously with a magic light that lived in its heart. Then suddenly in my dream, I find myself inside a big palace kneeling before the Indian President and I’m holding the jewel out in my hands. When I raised it towards him the light falling through the windows struck the gem. Causing a rich tapestry of colours to burst from the jewel and dance through the air to play upon the walls and glisten upon the faces and in the hearts of those who had gathered in witness.
Uma's Tales:The Seeds Are Sown
By R. Howell - 2022. Extract = 840 words (from 1553)
When moving forward in Uma’s world, sometimes it’s best to glance back to see who might be following behind and to understand why.
---
The town fifteen-year-old Uma, a young Dalit, walks through with bowed head was hewed from the dust and crust and lust of an ancient conflict. Where, much like Uma's birth, there was nothing peaceful about its arrival but unlike Uma it was not welcomed.
From amid a living turmoil of colours tainted by faeces, beliefs, needs and despicable wants, a monster society emerged with a tyrannical roar that was both oppressively silent and noisily tumultuous.
While the rest of the affluent and free world awakens to breakfast, or tucks into an evening of wine, feasting and song, or cricket junkies moan about that day’s play, Uma’s people in their part of the world partake of daily doses of murder, rape, torture, social genocide and death by disease and starvation.
This evil which dogs Uma's steps, this shameful dark secret of Indian culture, this sociological heroin, ferments away like the juice of an over-ripe mango left forgotten on the windowsill of humanity's back parlour. As this Mango-India shrivels and browns the rotting fruit releases toxic oppression, derogation, humiliation, incurable sickness, malnutrition, violence, torture, rape, sodomy, blindness, deafness and sometimes - in deed, quite a lot - for some, a welcomed death.
Masking the loud but muted cries of injustice which have come to inhabit this and all other towns across the land known as India, as well as the groans of the hungry, of the forsaken and those criminally and illy used, such as the Dalits, is the ever-broiling thrum of mad cap uncaring traffic. Complicating that concerto’s flow are the discordant bursts of sharply squealing or screeching brakes and irate blasts of horns, the tinny rattles of over-ladened bikes and the hypnotic mellifluent competing chants of hawkers. To foreign visitors, it all amounts to a sensory overload but to the locals, it is simply another day.
Uma's Tales:Uma Discovers Fear
By R. Howell - 2022. Extract = 500 words (from 4167)
Before Uma reached the giddy age of five and would go on from there to grow and eventually tell the children her dream, at four she started to explore the village as she had so wanted to do at three, but couldn't quite find the courage to venture so far from their shack without Mama at her side, but when at four she did follow her heart's calling, Uma's life blossomed into one fantastic happy blur of experiences.
There were so many wondrous new things to keep track of that she simply had to discover their names and how to keep a count of them. How disappointing would it be to brag, “I’ve just spotted 5 birds, Mama”, or worms, or rats only for Mama to say with a smile, “But we saw 10 dear.” So, determined to get such important matters right she started to learn her numbers as well as tell the time so she can avoid being late for tea with Mr Rat. Only to find out that Mr Rat was indeed, a Mrs Dormouse. So, in the way of a bright highly imaginative four-year-old, she earnestly declared, “I have to know all the creature’s names Mama and how to spell them right for when I send out my invites to tea. It will be rude to get their names wrong, won’t it Mama.”
So, in the way of rain falling on dry soil, she soaked up every single bit of new knowledge and discovery quicker than a jackdaw can hop, or a snake hiss, “Get off my tail girl!”
So for Uma at four, the village turned into a magical playground, as well as becoming her teacher and from early morning through to night the air echoed with her joyous laughter. Where her zest for life spread through the village like a contagion, causing smiles to bloom on the saddest of faces as old thrills long forgotten were recalled and revisited, as if seen through her young bright eager eyes that had yet to be tainted by Caste shadows.
No one in the least minded her excited shrieks or those full-throated happy cries that flew from the little firefly as she dashed hither-dither like an excited, but benign, whirlwind around her personal amusement park, chasing this or exploring that.
When she was not running, her nubby but eager fingers would lift every rock. Or her excited eyes scour nooks and probe deep into mysterious shadowy crannies. Often, her lips parted in wondrous OOo’s and gasps as she investigated things living in the scraggly grasses and yes, she came face to face with snakes, which she bravely scolded for daring to scare her. She even ventured down to the dreaded marsh on her own where strange mystical creatures are said to lurk. But to her disappointment, she never found any, but that only made her more determined to be acquainted with everything else that inhabited her domain, including the beautiful wildflowers which sadly visited so briefly.
Uma's Tales: Uma's Awakening
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 324 words (from 6236)
In this tale Uma finds out what life is like for a Dalit beyond her protective village - but first a nice bit.
One day shortly after her sixth birthday Mama held the door of their shack aside knowing full well that the glad news she harboured was going to send her little light blazing forth around the village in bursts of extreme joy.
Smiling and hardly able to contain herself Mama announced, “I have some good news for you, and guess what my little light,” she goaded teasingly. “You won’t have to do any chores to hear it!”
At such a wondrous offer Uma was suddenly all ears and an excited explosion of “What is it, what is it,” and bubbly-faced and uncontrollable fidgeting limbs. Mama chuckled as a pair of bright eager twin headlights stared into hers while her child’s animated lips squealed, “Tell me Mama, Tell me Mama what it is…”
“In a couple of days you are going to sch…”
That is all she needed to say. As Mama predicted, Uma erupted into a wild explosion of leaps and foot-stamping happy shrieks which powered her rapid flight out of the door.
“… ool” her Mama finished with a laugh as her little joy careered loudly along the dirt track to disappear amongst the other shacks where her happy yells and cheers were heard and felt across the village, where many hearts swelled with gladness at the news. Unbeknown to Uma those who smiled the most had clubbed together to add to a donation Mama had received from the photographers to help send her there. How could a child that bright be denied her schooling?
This collaboration between villagers was a rare thing. Not because they hated each other, far from it. These people strove to survive together daily, but it is hard to share when you have nothing and are starving yourself.
But Uma wasn’t called the little light for anything - her natural gift was to make people smile and bring them together.
I hoped you enjoyed the Uma's Tales extracts. To read the full stories use the Stories Option at the top of the page - And Please do look at The Ann Stories, the Short Stories and the Verses
Rambling Rhymes: I'll Not Help You Gut It
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 166 words (from 166)
The following is the full version
It's in the Light Hearted section
I'm feeling hungry hun,
Please pass me my gun,
I'll go shoot us a duck,
For you to pluck,
And turn into whatever you wanna do.
And you know I'll gladly,
Wash the duck's gunk,
Off your hands,
After you've stripped it,
I'll even pick those feathers,
Out of your hair,
Where they settle,
Like little brown flicks,
And off your face,
Where they tend to stick,
So becomingly sometimes,
I must admit.
But know I will leave you,
Before you chop off its head,
And separate out its livers,
Or sort through its yucky gizzards.
And don't you dare ask,
"Stick your hand up its rear,
And pull out the birds innards,
For me dear",
Sorry, but I won't do that,
Are you clear?
I'll leave all that nonsense to you,
When I get back,
Cos, I think its the least you can do,
After all it's me whose going to shoot it,
Isn't it my love..., for you.
Rambling Rhymes: Crush
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 177 words (from 177)
The following is the full version
It's in the Light Hearted section
Frankly Sir...
You are a pompous arse,
Or even a modern day cur!
One that should be beaten,
But not for your thrill of pleasure...,
Or your rush of lust,
Or your spank me, spank me crush,
Oh no sir...
Rather, you ought to be beaten,
For insisting poetry should be written,
In the manner of Keat's amorous mush,
Or the way Byron did, to make damsels blush,
Or Wordsworth on airy walks -
Ignoring the pains of acidic class lust.
I say, Sir,
Poetry is life, in high song and bust,
Poetry is life in the raw,
And if they, those boys carousing my craw,
Can be praised for the language
Of their time...,
Then so can you mine...
And so I politely conclude, sir,
Poetry in the modern is a must,
So be off with you, you fuddy-duddy crust,
And off with your pompous opinions,
And misinformed, unwelcome slurs,
Be off with you Sir...
And leave me..., leave us,
To happily scribe plain jittery rhyme,
Just as we like..., and just as we were.
Rambling Rhymes: Four Things Cripple Us
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 67 words (from 146)
The following is an extract - from the Eco Section
Infections within the wind,
Swirling from four directions,
Blow not from north, south, east and west,
As some might care to ponder...,
During a long frivolous rest...,
But they arise from the fonts of Politics,
Of Investors,
Speculators,
And Businesses, all.
They are the ills,
Yes the ills, caught in the wind,
The blight crippling this world,
And pretty much all, dwelling within.
Except, except, except, except...
And so on...
Rambling Rhymes: Touch My Heart, Feel The Beat
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 330 words (from 268)
The following is an extract - It is in the Eco section
(The Peoples Chant)
Touch my heart, feel the beat,
For I am here, I am complete,
I am people, and will be heard,
And we're not part of any herd.
I am places, all seen and not,
I'm in every hall, every shop,
And every field and wood and home,
Everywhere, and on every phone.
Touch my heart, feel the beat,
For I am here, I am complete,
I am people, and will be heard,
And we're not part of any herd.
On Everest, Snowdon, Mountains all,
In parks, on streets and in school,
And in those places you've yet to see,
I am everywhere..., you won't believe.
Touch my heart, feel the beat,
For I am here, I am complete,
I am people, and will be heard,
And we're not part of any herd.
We are there, as we are here,
Be afraid and feel the fear,
We're human's, we're not lambs,
We're coming, we're coming -
We won't be dammed.
And so on...
Rambling Rhymes: Remarkable Seeds
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 87 words (from 124)
The following is an extract - it is in the Eco section
Words to explain a seed?
A life in waiting,
Such a small,
Inconsequential humble
Looking thing,
Brown or black or shades in-between,
Yet without it,
Where would any of us be?
How does it tell when the sun is bright,
The soil is slightly damp,
And conditions are right,
To put out root,
And stretch up, to seek the light.
How did the parent know,
To produce a protective shale,
So it does not fail,
When lain for many a year,
In ever questing speer.
And so on...
Rambling Rhymes: Cancer
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 86 words (from 156)
The following is an extract - not the full rambling rhyme
It can be found in the Eco Section
Proclaimed in the news today,
And so boldly displayed,
Scientists jubilantly relayed,
It's a fact that air pollutants,
Causes lung cancer...,
It awakens cells that are mutant.
And admit, air traffic is a huge spur,
And so now without delay,
Research can move forward, as of today,
And soon that cancer will be no more,
They cheerfully concur.
But it ought to be weighed,
Just who should pay...
For the research, the treatment,
And for the many victims off-days,
Be they alive or sadly carried away.
And so on...
Rambling Rhymes: Those Revealing Eyes
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 164 words (from 164)
The following is a full version
It can be found in the Exploring Feelings Section
It is in two voice - normal font for HIM, bold for Her
(Him)
What do I see in those waiting eyes,
Looking back at me, so trusting and wide,
Can they know what I've tried to hide,
Or will it come, as a surprise.
(Her)
What lays within those nervous eyes,
Staring at me so firm so dry,
Where love once shone, so bright,
So happily carefree..., so light.
(Him)
What do they see those questing eyes,
Will tears fall when I reveal my lies,
Will they close to wish me gone,
Before they ever open again.
(Her)
What can't they see anymore, those eyes,
Once softly closed in lover's sighs,
That now wish only to look away,
Unable, or unwilling, anymore to say.
(Him)
What have they just seen, those eyes,
Looking back so damp, so wide,
So expectantly, now,
So ready, to disavow.
(Her)
Don't lift again those hurtful eyes,
To witness mine in yearn to cry,
Just go, just leave in silent tread,
As I've clearly read, their last goodbyes.
Rambling Rhymes: We Never Got Caught
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 330 words (from 2841)
The following is an extract - not the full rambling rhyme
It can be found in the Exploring Feelings Section
Wiping the misted kitchen window,
I see you sitting on the lawn,
Once again,
On that old mauled blanket of yours.
With our young children either side,
Sun kissed and playing with dinosaurs,
And a dolly dressed up as a new bride,
And oh my, I sigh, how time flies.
Our children have children now,
Who have grown to have their own,
But you my love are the same
As you ever were, so beautiful,
Charming and wonderful.
Well maybe not so wonderful now,
You cow,
Since you fell in with him -
At number six,
And you're serving time,
For those things he confessed,
You both scammed and nicked...
And so on...
Rambling Rhymes: I'd love to see you dancing
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 93 words (from 200
The following is an extract - not the full rambling rhyme
It can be found in the Exploring Feelings Section
This is a 'please don't call me a song',
I'm just a melody which longs....
I'd love to see you dancing,
'Cross' the floor tonight with me,
I'd love to hear you laughing,
Oh... as silly as can be,
As silly as can be...
I'd love to take you in my arms,
And hear you sigh..., I love you,
And say, that you'll marry me,
Oh, if only that could be,
If only, that were true...
But you're in my imagination,
You're not real at all you see,
Yet here you are a dancing,
Responding to my lead,
Yes... to my... lead.
And so on...
Short Story: Man Time
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 86 words (from 194)
The following is an extract - not the full rambling rhyme
It can be found in the Exploring Feelings Section
I see no kind reflections...
In your polished erection,
Just a wanting man's time,
A selfish man's rhyme.
I feel no care and no loving...
In your smile or your hugging,
Just a needy man's time,
A selfish man's rhyme.
I can see only your ears...
Hearing what gives you cheer,
In your shallow man's time,
A selfish man's rhyme.
And those lips of yours which say...
Only things to make me go your way,
In your lying man's time,
A selfish man's time...
And so on...
Short Story: Church Bells A Ringing
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 128 words (from 337)
The following is an extract - not the full rambling rhyme
It can be found in the Exploring Feelings Section
And the church bells were ringing,
As they lowered her into the ground,
And tempers were arising,
Amongst, the mourning crowd.
Their hearts were a-breaking,
As their fists started shaking,
How could they do this,
To such a lovely, little girl.
And the church bells were ringing,
As they lowered her into the ground,
And murder rang through the air,
It was everywhere..., around...
Why was she taken,
And so badly used,
She was our little princess,
Our very special muse.
And the church bells were ringing,
As they lowered her into the ground,
Goodbye our lovely princess,
It was so good, to have you around.
And yes there was murder,
Ringing though the air,
The need to get even,
Was very clearly there.
And so on...
Rambling Rhymes: Songs From A Garden
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 173 words (from 334)
The following is an extract - not the full rambling rhyme
It can be found in the Lost Voices Section
Out in the garden,
Head deep in weeds,
A choir I suddenly hear...
Strike up and gloriously out,
A thousand beautiful rounds...
Singing beautifully and clear...
And so profound,
Are they,
Those striking sounds,
That this old heart just jumps and pounds.
Where nosily... but eagerly,
I mount a box to peer -
Up and over the tall surround,
Though not to leer,
But to see a vision...
Sat easily,
Assuredly,
In a careworn chair,
For whom to me it's rare...,
To see her sitting, out there.
With her head slightly raised,
And eyes full and far-away glazed,
Lost in beautiful harmonies,
Full of flowering melodies,
The wonderful music then swells,
To play delightfully upon her tongue,
Where for an eternal second it hung
Afore her breath so prettily,
Releases her spells...
To give thrill to the enchanted air...
While completely unaware,
Of my welling tears,
As I'm caught up in the flare,
Of that otherworldly choir,
That the her in repose so casual there,
Excites into carillon spires.
And so on...
Rambling Rhymes: The Last Journey
By R.Howell - 2022. Extract = 146 words (from 146)
The following is a full version - it is in the Lost Voices section
Silence...
A silence of choice,
Thousands of people stilled of voice,
As the hearse slowly,
Stately, glides through,
Those flowing Edinburgh streets,
Full of people waiting in well meaning greet,
Those ranks of mourning hearts so blue,
Swelling with affection..., for you...
Our once Queen...
Our county's spleen.
Where in your approach, to honour your sleep,
Rising deep, and from honest sincere
Willing, earthy, choke filled cheer,
Of "God Bless the Queen", suddenly breaks free,
As you take your last ever journey,
With a trace of gentle smile, and ghostly wave,
Past those lines of loyal royalists -
Waiting patiently and solemnly true,
With hearts threatening to cave
As they cry in various shades and hue,
Our love and God's blessing to you...
For the long faithful service you gave...,
And be happy and joyous once more, mam,
Back in the tender arms, of your heart's balm.
I hoped you enjoyed the Verses extracts. To read them all use the Rambles Option at the top of the page - And please do look at the Ann stories, Short Stories and Uma's Tales
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