A - anthropomorphism.

It began with hearing voices, she said, in the back end of her mind. 

They had always been there, at the edges of her knowledge, a constant set of friends throughout the early years of her growing up.  Friends of the family commented on how self satisfied she was, not seeking friends at play group or nursery, or even school when she started Reception, and yet never lonely.

She would stay with one task for a while, not flitting from one thing to another as her peers did, but focussed on the job in hand, chattering and chuckling away to herself as she made the pony go over the jump before having it’s hair done, or manouvering a doll around the doll’s house and overseeing it’s interaction with others.  “She’s so settled,” people would say.  “So self assured.  And so careful with her toys.”

In fact, thought Alistair, Amelia was careful with everything.  Or rather, every thing.  He thought of her things in distinct words now. They were separate to his things. The morning of the accident he had watched her playing, looked at her, playing with cars on a mat on the floor, carefully following the lines of the road, avoiding the trees and houses that she had painstakingly set up.  Her chestnut brown hair shone in the sunlight that streamed through the patio doors, and he had suddenly been overwhelmed with how much he loved this little being.  She was his world, and had been since the death of her mother a year after her birth.  Those had been dark times, but they had come through them, and, five years on, Amelia was a child whose stock in trade was smiles, chattering, imagination and an inescapable assuredness.

It was that very confidence and assuredness that bothered Alistair so much.  She didn’t need other people.  She didn’t need other children, for a certainty, telling both Alistair and her teachers that the others “didn’t understand how to play with things properly,” in her usual soft voice.  She wasn’t answering back, and there was a distinct feeling that she was just trying to explain.  And there was the talking.  She talked, constantly, chittering away to answer voices only she could hear.  From earliest times that he or she could remember, she had said she could hear them, “Here Daddy,” she would say, “here in my head!” and put her hand on the back of her head, behind her ears.

He had taken advice on it all, and now she was in clubs every night, and attended a before school breakfast club.  The plan was that she would find new interests, be too tired to make up these ridiculous conversations that she was having, or claim that he couldn’t do something because it would make the toaster sad.

Who talks to their toaster?  Apart from that chap in Red Dwarf who threatened his because it was too cheerful?  But she did.  She asked it for toast every morning, with good manners, and she thanked it when her toast popped out.  She also never got burned toast mind you, and it was one of the bits of cooking he’d allowed her to start, because she never got her fingers caught or burned by anything.  In fact, she never hurt herself at all.  He’d always thought he was just lucky to have a careful child, but he wasn’t sure these days, the way she kept on.  Even the pavement seemed to flex slightly when she fell over once, and she didn’t have a mark on her.  She should have at least grazed her knee.
He twisted slightly, trying to get more comfortable and failing. He wasn’t sleeping, and although they gave him medication, it didn’t seem to help.  He wanted them to check his ears as well, because there was a constant surussus that wriggled through his ears, at the edge of his hearing, words that he almost heard, but couldn’t.  Words that rested in the back of his mind.  He hated this bed, this room, this perpetual dim light, the infernal beeping of machines, the quiet footsteps every hour, the rustling of paperwork and the tapping of keys on a keyboard.

He would be out of hospital soon, maybe a couple of weeks, maybe less, and then he’d finish getting better at home.  His home, his things, his bed, and his daughter.  She was coming in tomorrow for the first time, well, later today, he supposed it was, and he was looking forward to seeing her.  She was staying with his mother for the time being, a situation that suited everyone except him.  He had been riding to work, as usual, cycling in the cycle lane, when a lost tourist had seen the exit that he wanted, pulled across two lanes of traffic to get to it, and taken him out in the process.  Of course the chap was sorry, but sorry didn’t get work finished, or his daughter looked after or his shattered leg mended.  Sorry did get an insurance payout though, he supposed.

He closed his eyes again, trying to settle the whispering.  He'd have to ask the nurse for something for it.

Later, he was lying in the bed, staring at the ceiling, when his door opened, and he twisted his head to see Amelia bounding in, clearly pleased to see him.  His mother was with her, the usual expression of disapproval on her face.  It had always been this way, a constant suppression of joy and imagination, but it had got him where he was today, he supposed.  But look where he was!

“Hello Daddy,” chirped Amelia, climbing up onto the bed to try and hug her father. 
“Amelia.” snapped his mother as she reached for the only chair in the room.  “Off the bed.”
It was then he saw it.  The spark of anger, replaced by a flash of hurt, a pause, head almost cocking onto one side to hear something, and then a giggle. His mother sat in the chair, and leapt up, rubbing her leg as a spot of blood bloomed where a splinter had caught her. A fleeting smile flickered over his daughter’s face and was gone so swiftly, he almost thought he had imagined it.

His mother stalked out to go and find a nurse or a porter or someone in the hospital who would remove the offending chair before someone got blood poisoning or WORSE from it.  Amelia climbed onto the bed as soon as she had gone, snuggling up to her father.
He shifted the weight of his body uncomfortably.  “What’s the matter daddy?  Do you need the nurse?” asked the little girl next to him.
“No sweetheart, I’m just a bit sore,” he replied.
Again, her eyes almost unfocused, and he could swear that the bed itself changed underneath him, supporting his injured leg in the right places, and softening around his bruised back.  “Is that better daddy?” she asked him.
“Yes Amelia, but, how?  I mean, the bed?” he was lost for words, literally, as he looked at his little dark eyed daughter.
“It wants you to be comfortable.  It’s trying it’s best.” she said defensively.  She sat up, and laid a hand each side of his head, just behind his ears.  “Listen.” She said.  “Listen behind your ears.”

And there it was.
A voice of sorts.
A suggestion of words.
A feeling of appreciation for his daughter, and of questioning for him.
“Concentrate daddy!” demanded his suddenly desperate daughter. “Try!”

He did then, knowing it was for her, and chose to concentrate on a feeling of thanks, pushing it out through the space behind his ears, directing it towards the bed, and feeling daft, but doing it for her.
Suddenly it was as though a dial had been tuned and he was in focus.  Softly the words “Is that better?” were in his head. 
“Yes, thankyou.” He thought, and was rewarded with both an easing of the pressure under his neck and a smile that lit up his daughter’s face.

She let go of his head, and there was a sudden influx of feelings and voices, clearly from every object around him.  The machines were very focused on their work, the sink just waiting, the chair his mother had just vacated sitting there with a naughty giggle in it’s voice. 

He looked at the chestnut haired fae child sitting on his bed and laughed.
“Welcome to my world Daddy!” giggled his daughter.

A challenge is set.

It is dark and cool in the Library, and you are tired.  Not because you are really, physically tired, but because this place is so restful, it slows down all of you.  Even the electrons in your cells are spinning a little less fast, urging you to settle down, find a place to be, and think and read.

You reach the end of a long shelf of books, titled "Days to be forgotten" and you notice the dust on most of them, but a few have fingermarks, as though they are looked at, albeit reluctantly, and put back on the shelf once more.  There are strange marks, like water droplets, next to the books most moved, but you swiftly forget those too as you move along to the end of the line.

The blinds are over the windows at the end of the rows, and the colour of the sun that creeps around the edges tells you that the afternoon is wearing on.  You can't remember what you were doing earlier in the day, but you could do with a sit down now.  You turn the corner, and it is as if the library knows.

There is a little nook, a gentle fire, and a green leather armchair.  The leather is cracked and soft, reflecting the warmth of the fire, and as you settled into it, it gives underneath you, welcoming you into it's embrace. 

On your left, on the side furthest away from the fire, there is a wooden table with a silver tray on it.  The teapot is warm, steam escaping from it showing that it is ready.  There is a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a cup and saucer, which you think is the Royal Albert old country roses pattern.  You're not sure why, but you know it.

You pour yourself a cup of tea, and notice the biscuits that you didn't realise were there before.  You must have missed them, but there they are.  The plate is on a book, and you juggle the book onto your lap, and replace the tray. 

The book is red leather covered, but when you open it you realise that it's a notebook.  The handwriting is spidery, a fountain pen writing blue-black ink that has meandered across the page, leaving the thoughts of the author behind.

It is a book of stories.

One short story, every week.  Alphabetically ordered.

Challenge accepted...

Beginning at the beginning

Walk through the doors of this blog.  Push them open and marvel at how lightly they move, how well they must be balanced to move so gently when they are so large.

Step into the silence of the library.  It is a warm, living silence, born of the concentration of a researcher, and the peace of a reader, mixed with the fascination of the easily distracted.  It embraces you as you enter, welcoming you and seeping into your very bones, reading and knowing you, cataloguing and understanding you, and loving you anyway.

You look at the books, on the shelves.  They come and go, almost without notice, one moment there, the next moment just a gap, a mark in the dust where they were lifted away by hands you did not see.  Just as suddenly, they appear again, used for that moment, and then returned.  It is then you realise that you are in the 'ideas' section of the library, and so you start to wander around, looking along rows of books in their own sections, marvelling at the sheer variety of notebooks and pens that have been used to record anything and everything in, from bits of prose to chunks of poem, to entire stories.

This is the library of Madyline.  

Welcome