Award-winning doubt.

I won an award for my writing. At first that sense of validation shot straight through my veins like adrenaline. But in a few minutes I came down from my high and had a sobering thought, "So what?"

Silver and bronze awards at the National Independence Festival for Creative Arts (NIFCA) suddenly weren't enough. Almost rabidly, I went back through my submissions wondering why they weren't good enough for gold, agonizing over sentences that - in my mind - went from perfection to long-winded garbage. Closing my laptop with a thud that resounded like a death knell in my ears, I felt like the validation had been anti-climatic at best. 

And then I remembered that I always feel like this when creating. Why? Art is such a solitary process that, as writers, we always second-guess what we do and allow ourselves to get bogged down by this crippling fear of not being good enough. Then, when we finally slay that feeling, leaving it bloodied and broken on the ground, we put our work out into the world and wait for the accolades to flow in. Sadly, they also come with criticism. 

I've said it again and again: the creative process is rife with far too many pitfalls and not enough mountains. 

Not that I've finished this blog I'm going to get back to writing. After all, there are gold awards waiting to be won next year. :)

How to reach me...

Twitter: @bajancallie

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Callie-Browning/496917127064679?ref=ts&fref=ts

E-mail: bajancallie@icloud.com

Amazon:http://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B00ERACGDS/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?qid=1397841197&sr=1-1&pi=SY200_QL40

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7255648.Callie_Browning

The Cotton Tree Diary

The wind whips by, singing in my ears as I race through the clumpy grass. A fidgety mongoose beats a hasty retreat as he scampers out of my way, my bare feet echoing his path as they trip lightly over the prickly dry grass that covers the land. The parched air should have dried out my eyes as I flittered across the field but the tears that flow counter the dryness that could have assuaged them. 

The big field spreads out like eternity: tall, dry wheat-coloured grass swaying in the wind, dotted only with the small thorny plants that somehow managed to stay green in the dry weather that has stricken Barbados.

My dress catches on their thorns as I run, ripping tiny holes in it and leaving traces of me behind. I want to stop and take them with me but I can’t; somehow I don’t feel that I want to leave anything else behind me. I already feel less than whole.

With their long, scratchy branches they tear at my skin and clothes as I go, leaving smears of blood and cloth. I keep running.

The trees sway lightly in the wind; the shadowy branches look like fingers as they trail their way down my body. The day was coming to a close, the shadows of the shak shak trees stretch long and lean across the plain as the sun hangs low in the sky.

The small black shak shak seeds shimmy inside the golden shells and make soothing sounds, much like small maracas. They taunt me; the quiet rustling sounds contrast jarringly with the turmoil that rages within me.

My heart beats quickly; my breath comes in harsh gasps as I force myself to keep running, knowing that I am nearly there. I can’t stop even though my mouth is dry and my chest burns; I push myself harder. The shallow copse of trees thins out, emptying out into a circular patch of land that rings the massive silk cotton tree in the middle of it like soldiers surrounding enemy troops.

This was my refuge.

It may not look like anything special with its knobby, elephantine bark but it holds a deep connection for me. The wide sweeping branches are sparsely covered with bright green leaves. At other times of the year the tree provides a wonderful canopy that shades and protects me from the harsh Barbadian sun.

But at present, the silk cotton tree is shedding its pods. On the ground, they go from green to a crisp brown shell, breaking open and showering everything with wispy ivory-coloured fibres, blanketing the ground with their downy clusters. The long banana shaped husks litter the ground under the tree, some of the pods already opened and exposing their fluffy innards through the cracks.

I can be at peace here. It has always been so.

When I was little, my mother used to work at the nearby plantation and I had always sought out the silk cotton tree to play while she worked. My sisters preferred to stay in the plantation yard, skipping rope and playing jacks while our mother dug sweet potatoes and cassava in the fields, the harsh sun singeing their fair skin as they worked and played. But I liked the solace and shade of the cotton tree.

If my mother had ever found out that I used to come here she would have had a heart attack. The silk cotton tree had long been rumoured to be the home of duppies. These spectral creatures haunt dreams and are said to carry out all sorts of malicious deeds. Mummy told stories of duppies that lead people to their death, ruined lives and destroyed friendships, but I never gave much credence to those old wives tales. The tree had always been the opposite for me.

I had stumbled across it one day when I had run away to avoid getting lashes for breaking the plantation owner’s china dish. I had run past the plantation fields and through a small gully until I came to the big empty field and there it stood. I felt like I had been transported; the silk cotton tree stood majestic in the middle of the field like something out of the poetry books I had read at school. The tree and everything around it were serene and comforting. The only problem with escaping is that at some point we have to rejoin the world and, truth be told, there was no sense in outrunning those lashes that day. I got them anyway, but I continued to come back to the silk cotton tree.

Initially I kept coming back because I liked playing with the cotton; I remember gathering up the spongy clusters and taking them home to make pillows for my dolls.

As the years went on whatever attracted me to the silk cotton tree cemented itself inside me.

I buried my dead pets there and hid my sister’s skipping rope between the knotty roots after she had cut off my doll’s hair with a sickle.

After my first boyfriend had upgraded to a big bosomed girl with looser morals than mine, I had returned to weep, the gentle rhythm of the wind-blown leaves comforting me as twilight drew close. I had rejoined the world, filled with a new resolve to never again date boys with wandering eyes and lust coursing through their veins.

Years later, I had sat beneath the thrashing branches as a savage wind and torrential rain beat down on me after my mother’s funeral, numb with the grief that filled the chasm in my chest. The rain had picked up the rotting stench of the pods that decayed on the ground, magnifying the fetid smell and filling the air around me with the stench of death that I had gone there to escape. I realized that day that I couldn’t run away from everything.

My memories faded and brought me back to reality. I pondered what to do; it was growing dark now.

Where should I go tonight, because home wasn’t safe anymore. Michael had told me last month that he had cheated on me. His cagey silence and shifty looks should have been enough warning but I had ignored the signs; waiting and hoping that his job or another facet of life could be blamed for his behaviour.

Ironically, we had come here the day he proposed to me. We made love under the tree for the first time after I told him that there was nothing more I wanted than to be his wife. I had thought he was perfect at the time. I thought now that I had stupidly tainted my sanctuary with his essence. I had learned the hard way that he had his secrets and it wasn’t wrong for me to have mine.

I remember that we had initially spent almost a year blissfully happy. Then everything changed. Just before he cheated, we had spent months in a constant state of friction. It was like being married to someone with a split personality. When he told me what he had done I left, hoping that the pain I felt in my chest wouldn’t split me in two.

I had gone back to the family house, the thirty-two days since then going by with unfathomable sluggishness. I was like a well-oiled machine, going to work and doing what I should have done as usual, but with a mechanical efficiency. Devoid of emotion I had trudged through life until an hour ago.

When he called saying that we had to talk panic had enveloped me, my breath catching in my lungs as I slammed down the phone. All of the emotion that I had struggled to avoid had returned with a vengeance.

I left home and rushed through the village and the cane fields that flanked the plantation house running and running until my chest had threatened to explode. I hadn’t run like that in years. Now, as the sun set and the sandflies bite at my skin, I resent the power he has over me. The moon rose, full and bright in the sky as the sound of crickets pervaded the stillness that I am here to revel in. The resentment grows inside me, feeding the other emotions that dwell within until they join together to become an angry beast.

The beast rises up in my chest, quelling the anxiety that I felt before, silencing it with defiance.

I stand up, resolute on facing Michael when I get home. I dust the twigs and soil from the skirts of my floral dress, my back sore from sitting on the packed dirt. I hear the sound of muted footsteps just behind. They startle me – I jump to my feet and turn swiftly bumping into his solid body. He holds me in his strong arms, pulling me close to him.

“I know dis is where you would be,” he says softly.

He still smells the same; like coconut oil and nut butter. Unnerved by his nearness I step backwards. The moonlight reflects in his eyes, illuminating the sadness and guilt.

“Leah…,” he whispers, “…please. I’m sorry.”

“No!” I scream. “You aint sorry. You know what you did doing all along. And now you want to beg back?”

“Leah…I didn’t thinking. It’s just dat from the time the baby dead, it was like I was in dat house by myself. You stop talking to me and I ain’t mek love to you in more than eight months. I got feelings too and I did lonely.”

I turn on my heel, stomping off into the thickets of knee-high grass, anger propelling me forward.

“See wha’ I mean? Leah, it happen already and I feel bad ‘bout it too. But you keeping eva’ thing inside. It hard but we still hey…I keep telling you let we try again and eva time I tell you so, you does start crying.”

The rock I throw whizzes past his ear barely missing him as he walks behind me. He stares at me, surprised, before he springs into action.

He takes two huge strides, catches me and tosses me down into the grass. He holds my hands tightly and pleads with me to listen to him. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the tears still slip past my eyelashes, streaming down my face and pooling into my ears.

My heaving chest is racked with sobs and, from above, more tears fall on the torn bodice of my dress.

It is the first time I have ever seen him cry. Something inside me stirs and my heart softens to see him so overcome with emotion. I can almost literally feel the fight leave him. He lays limp on top of me as the angst inside him breaks free and consumes him as nothing else ever can. He wails like a child as he presses his head against my chest.

For the first time I feel as though we were truly connected in our grief. For the first time in months I felt like Michael was my husband again.

Michael’s tears stream down his face onto my chest and shoulders like a gentle drizzle of rain, washing away most of the heat and pain that had oppressed me for months.

But, I shake my head vehemently. Somehow I still cling to the vestiges of doubt that remain in spite of Michael’s tears. “Why you keep sayin’ we could have annudah one? It ain’t gine be the same,” I say angrily. “You just keep acting like it ain’t mean nuttin’. I bound to think that you was glad it happen. That way you coulda do wha’ you want. ”

That did it. It was as though I had physically hit him, the way he looks at me. He raises his head like a cobra about to attack its prey. Raw anger reverberates off of him as his eyes bore into mine, the threat of an explosion imminent.  

“If you think that, then you really ain’t know me, “Michael says breathlessly. “Lemme tell you somethin’. I am a man and it is my job to be strong for the two uh we. I got my pain and just because I don’ show it the same way don’ mean I ain’t feeling nuttin’. It brek my heart to see you so all dem months; it nearly kill me. I thought that if I act normal that you woulda see that we coulda get past dis.”

Fear and shame mingle in my chest, pressing down on me with such force that I feel powerless. It stayed there, choking me and silencing me swiftly and easily.

I turn away humiliated as my emotions riot inside me, the tears coming unbidden again.

“Baby…” Michael whispers softly. “…I was wrong. No two ways ‘bout that. I din’ know how to deal with losing the l’il girl. Then I had to deal with losing you too. Leah…please don’ cry.”

My cries rent the air, sending the fruit bats in the nearby almond tree into a frenzy as they fluttered away in the cool night air.

“I wan’ we to try again…for real this time. We gonna fix me and you first and then we could work on a baby. Please.”

I look up at him, the gentle moonlight shining behind him, the aureole of light softening the strong planes of his face. Somehow, in that moment, I knew that we could make it work. Hearing Michael’s confession was the balm that I needed to help my soul begin its healing. I had been drowning in sadness and grief for months; this moment felt like I had finally clawed my way up and had gulped a breath of fresh air.

Finally, I am not alone. Hope seeps into my body and even though it is miniscule in comparison to the other feelings that had resided inside me for so long it burned brightly, dimming the strength of everything else.

A brisk wind races across the plain, bringing with it the promise of rain. Chilly and foreboding, it rattles the pods of the silk cotton tree, shaking some of them loose. The others that lay cracked on the ground give up their silky bounty, sending the downy fibres drifting across the moonlit field. They float around us, shrouding us with the soft, filmy cotton.

Michael stares back at me; he can sense the crack in my armour and it gives him the strength to continue. He leans forward, touching his lips to mine gently, his kiss telling me everything I need to know. He doesn’t have to say it but his kiss does; he makes me a promise to be a good husband and forgives me for shutting him out. In turn I resolve to open my heart to him again, knowing that my love should mean sharing the good and the bad with him.

He sits up slowly, pulling me to him in a gentle but firm embrace. The moon shines brightly lighting our way as we slowly walk home, past the silk cotton tree and back through the grove of shak shak trees, the air still filled with the soft puffs of silk cotton that glide on the breeze. We held hands as we walked, the silk cotton floating along next us keeping our company until we got home.

Which half of your promotion is wasted?

As Joe Wanamaker once famously said, “Half of my advertising is wasted; the trouble is I don’t know which half.”

Cut to 2014, and this writer has realized that he said a mouthful. I promoted my book, The Shadow Guardian: Lost Dreams on Amazon from March 8th – 10th using their free days promotion tool and by the end of the first day I had seen a 600% increase over the first time I used the tool after enrolling with Kindle Direct Publishing. I could look you in the face and tell you that since I first promoted it eight months ago I had managed to get the promotion machine just right so I could see results. Or I could tell you that I had used the millions of dollars in proceeds from those months of sales to pay for better promotions.

But both of those would be the worse lies I told since I tried convincing my daughter that carrot sticks are really candy in Disney branded packages. Even at 3 years old she didn’t fall for my clumsily wrapped cellophane-and-sticker trick.

I look back at that event now and realize that the common irony in both of those situations was packaging. I had gotten some feedback, in both instances, that the packaging wasn’t good. So, in the case with my daughter I ate the carrots and negotiated with her until she ate strawberries. With my book, I got rid of the old cover and went for something that I felt reeked of freshness and a more tropical island vibe, but still felt like it held true to my story.

And like the glutton for punishment I am, I used the exact same channels I used to promote my book last time. Not because I knew they worked, but because I couldn’t afford anything better. So really I might have expected the same or worse results, all things being equal. Considering that since existing Facebook or Twitter followers already downloaded the book, only a handful of new people would bother to check it out. And not being particularly good at science, I wasn’t able to calculate what the outcome would be even with the whopping 8 months’ worth of self-publishing steel now in my veins.

Yet, I actually DID see an increase. My book rocketed up the Amazon best seller list, doing better than it had done in one day than it had done before over three days combined!

It’s all fine and good to use the channels you want to advertise your book. But the truth is that the cover is a critical piece of the advertising puzzle I had previously underestimated. With my last cover, I had gone a bit too far along the literal line and even though I wasn’t personally fond of it, I went with it anyway because I assumed that it “worked”. Turned out it didn’t. Everyone who read the book told me afterwards that the cover reminded them of the Chucky movies. Yikes.

I don’t know if I’ll ever write horrors because they scare me. Yes, my book has suspense and drama. But all good books should. But there’s much more to it than that. So why have a horrific cover on a book that’s full of fun, whimsy and intrigue? Because I’m an idiot, that’s why.

Now I know better and this is yet another lesson to file away in the massive archive I call “Indie Publishing Pitfalls”.

This blog post was also featured on http://bookshopblog.com/2014/03/12/which-half-of-your-promotion-is-wasted/

Short story - The Prostitute Next Door

The Prostitute Next Door

Miss Forde had spent many years living in a small white-washed chattel house in Nelson Street. Even in her advancing years, she was a firm believer in conducting oneself with decorum and a sense of modesty. Her fastidious nature wouldn't allow it to be any other way.

She was a slim old woman whose protruding clavicles provided the only shaping under her boxy house-coats. 

With elfin features and skin the colour of polished bamboo, she may very well have been beautiful in her youth, but no-one in Nelson Street would have been able to attest to this. Now, she sported a perpetual frown and a hairy mole on her chin that only served to make initial impressions that much more unpleasant.

The old lady always sat in an antique mahogany chair next to one of the wooden French windows in her living room. From there she could crochet frilly doilies and watch passers-by as they went about their business. Being a lonely old soul, it was her primary form of recreation even if she suffered great discomfort as she did it. The chair wasn't particularly comfortable with its straight back and hard seat, but it had been a gift from her sister many years earlier.  With her aging hips and joints, and mild back pain, she really should have sat in an upholstered chair, but Miss Forde didn't think them to be grand enough for her to sit in. They were for guests only.

Hypothetically, of course.

Over the years, she had ostracized herself more and more from her neighbours and was reasonably satisfied that she had done her best to keep them at bay. Her neighbour’s didn’t even know her first name and she liked to keep it that way. AsBajans always say, she didn't want them to "tek a six for a nine" and assume that she wanted to be friendly with them.

It seemed to her that as she watched her doilies yellow with age, Nelson Street slipped into a downward spiral. From her vantage point, smack in the middle of Nelson Street, she had watched in disdain as it had gone from a bustling trade centre to a veritable den of inequity over time.

Located in the capital of Barbados, the long, winding road was bordered on both sides by tightly packed houses that housed the unwashed masses, drug dealers, prostitutes and criminals. Dirty water overflowed in the gutters, the facades of houses went unpainted and brothels had sprung up on almost every corner.

Her only comfort was the knowledge that she didn't have to fall prey to all of the sinning going on around her. Even though the quality of life and the quality of people around her had changed, didn't mean she had to.

So it angered her greatly that she had to endure living next door to Charmaine. And in Bridgetown, where there was barely enough space to slide a pencil between two houses, "next to" was to be interpreted literally.

The steady flow of questionable looking men who went into Charmaine's house repulsed Miss Forde. She watched in disgust as the miscreants left after slaking their thirst, usually stumbling across the road to Stubby's rum shop to slam dominoes. The rest tended to exit cautiously, heads bowed, to hurry off to the large expensive cars they had covertly parked behind the nearby supermarket.

Miss Forde even recognized many of them. Some were politicians, others worked at the media houses and one in particular strongly resembled the head of a nearby church.

To make matters worse, Charmaine had the gall to speak to Miss Forde when their paths crossed. You may wonder why Miss Forde, despite her dislike for Charmaine, allowed these exchanges. The answer was simple: Lana.

Charmaine's seven year old daughter was a sweet childthat Miss Forde was completely enamoured with. Lana had beautiful brown eyes and a pretty brown complexion - obviously her father was white or close to it since Charmaine was as black as the day was long.

If she could have been honest with herself, Miss Forde would have been able to admit that she could see why Charmaine was so popular with the men. She had a beautifully proportioned, full-figured body and a cherubic face with a sweet dimple on her right cheek that Lana had inherited.

She encouraged Lana to visit whenever her mother was "working" and she always took the opportunity to teach the child about the Bible, morals and values. Miss Forde saw it as her civic duty to help raise the child. As a seventy-five year old virgin, she knew what it took to help Lana steer clear of the temptations that now ran amuck in Nelson Street.

But despite her best intentions, she sensed that all of her troubles would be in vain. Lana was extremely curious about what her mother did with the litany of men who visited and Miss Forde was often discomfited with Lana’s barrage of questions.

"Why the men make so much noise when dey come to the house?"
"My mummy say she like me to come over here so she can focus on her work and do a good job."
"Miss Forde, when I grow up I wan’ help people just like my mummy."

And, unfortunately for Miss Forde, you couldn’t get the calf without the cow.

"Mornin’, Miss Forde. Thanks fuh watchin’ Lana yesterday. I hope she din’ give you trouble." Charmaine would say when they met at the supermarket.

Aghast, Miss Forde would clutch her hat and hand bag before peeping over her shoulder to see if anyone had seen Charmaine addressing her. Provided the coast was clear, she would tersely reply, "Yes, I like having she around."

Then Miss Forde would usually scurry off, sometimes going as far as to leave the very groceries she came for, just toget away from Charmaine.

One particularly drizzly evening in the middle ofJanuary, Miss Forde was preparing some bakes. The old lady shivered slightly as she worked; the chilly wind that accompanied the rain had changed direction, whipping the rain through the window directly over the stove and dragging down the temperature in the room.

She quickened her feverish stirring. After all, it was almost 6:00 p.m.: Days of Our Lives was about to start.

In her haste, she neglected to close the window as she put chunky globs of batter in the oil. She savoured the heady smell of sweet spices as the edges of the bakes turned golden brown, her stomach growling in delightful anticipation.

A sudden gust of wind brought coin-sized rain drops with it that pelted the stove, landing right inside of Miss Forde's frying pan.

The water hit the oil in the pan causing it to spatter, shooting out tiny jets of scorching hot oil onto Miss Forde's skin. Startled, she stepped back too suddenly, knocking over the open bottle of cooking oil on the counter.

Down went Miss Forde, her arms flailing amidst globs of batter, as she slipped in the fallen oil. Pain shot from various parts of her body as she hit the ground. Sprawled on the floor like a squished spider, Miss Forde groaned pitifully as she tried, without success, to hoist herself off the floor.

As she laid there, her back riddled with sticking spasms, she heard popping and crackling sounds coming from the frying pan as her bakes began to burn.

She tried without success to get up again but to no avail; her back hurt her too much. She shouted for help, but insteadagonizing minutes passed by. Panic gripped her and she thought woefully that living alone wasn't half as bad as dying alone. The smell of the burning bakes was the only thing to keep her company.

The cloud of haze that filled her kitchen lifted and carried the scent of burning batter, out the window, waftedthrough the holes in the rusted galvanized fence and over to Charmaine's house.

Lana sniffed the tainted air and ran to her mother, who was hanging clothes outside

"Mummy! Someting burning on Miss Forde's stove."

"Relax Lana. I smell it."

"Mummy, we gotta go ta help Miss Forde."

"Sweetie, people does burn tings all de time. Miss Fordewoul’ do more food."

Lana waved her hands wildly. "No, Mummy! Miss Forde always say ‘she gotta stretch de two coppers she does get for pension' and she can' afford to throw away food."

By now, the smoke and smell of burnt bakes had become far more pronounced and Charmaine realized that Miss Forde would surely have turned off the stove by now.

Charmaine dropped the clothes and dashed through her front door with Lana on her heels. She hurried down the moss-covered soft stone steps and across the patch of gravel in front of her house and over to Miss Forde's.

Yanking the door open, she rushed through the tiny chattel house, which was now filled with hazy smoke and found Miss Forde lying on the kitchen floor. Her clothes had soaked up the majority of cooking oil from the floor but the look of relief on her face was plain when she turned her head slightly to look at Charmaine.

Charmaine turned off the stove and moved the frying pan with its crisp black chunks of burnt flour over to the sink, before crouching next to Miss Forde, who lay groaning on the linoleum floor.

"Miss Forde, wha’ happen?"

"I fall down in de oil," she moaned.

"Where it hurting?" Charmaine asked as she gingerly touched Miss Forde's neck and back.

"My baaaack," the old lady grunted as Charmaine touched the offending area.

"Lana, get de kit," Charmaine said. The little girl nodded, turned on her heel and ran through the kitchen, her little bare feet making nary a sound on the linoleum floor as she went.

Charmaine knelt next to Miss Forde and asked her gently, "I'm gine try to move you, okay?"

Miss Forde grimaced as she tilted her head slightly to look at Charmaine. There was nothing but compassion in Charmaine's face and Miss Forde was surprised to feel ashamed at how cold she had always been to Charmaine. 

Abashed, she turned away.

Her breathing was laboured as Charmaine gently slipped her firm dark arm around Miss Forde’s slim brown waist and carried her slowly into the bedroom. Miss Forde winced with every step, the spasms in her back sticking her spine as she went.

But instead of laying her down on her back, Charmaine placed her face down on the sheets.

"Wait, why you put me to lie down like dis?"

"I'm gine see what I cuh do fuh you back pain. Leh me see you tongue."

Askance, Miss Forde obediently stuck out her tongue.

Charmaine stared at it intently, murmuring to herself as she did.

"Why you lookin’ at my tongue?"

"To mek sure I cuh treat you."

"Wha’?..." Miss Forde stammered.

"I hear Lana," Charmaine said cocking her ear in the direction of the door.

The slamming of the front door and the staccato rhythm of little feet confirmed Lana's arrival. Bearing a small leather bag, she came rushing into the room, her face flushed and hereyes shining.

"Can I watch, Mummy?"

"Alright, sweetie. Hold Miss Forde hand and help she be brave."

"Wait – wha’ you doin’ ta me?" Miss Forde asked, nonplussed.

"Shhh... it ain’t gine hurt," Charmaine said as she removed several small packets, a bottle of alcohol and a bag of cotton balls from her bag.

Miss Forde lay face down on the bed as Charmaine quickly undressed her, wiped off the oil and covered her from the hips down with a clean towel. Miss Forde assumed thatCharmaine would give her a good rub down with some Bengie's Balsam - that always did the trick for all of her aches and pains.

But Miss Forde had her reservations about how much good it would do for the agony she was in; she didn't think she had ever felt so much pain. It felt very much like the pains her sisters had described when they spoke about childbirth. She tried to relax, but as the seconds ticked on, Miss Forde realized that no massage was forthcoming.

But she couldn’t relax entirely; Lana's excitement was disconcerting to say the least. The child was literally bouncing on her heels, thrilled to be able to watch her mother work and she started peppering her mother with questions.

"Mummy, I coul’ do it?"

"No, Lana," came the patient reply.

"Mummy, you gine stick in de needles now?"

"Needles?!" Aghast, Miss Forde felt the time had finally come to break her silence. She didn't know what Charmaine was playing at. What kind of sick ritual was she planning to carryout?

She heard Charmaine sigh. "Lana, go and get me a glass of water please."
"Awww...but Mummy."
"Now Lana."​

The little girl shuffled from the room with a disgruntled sigh and Charmaine quickly picked up and unwrapped one of the little packets, and placed the thin plastic cylinder over Miss Forde's back.

"Listen ta me good," Miss Forde hissed angrily, "you very wrong if you tink that you coul’ do as you like wid me..."

Charmaine responded firmly.

"Miss Forde, calm down. I just givin’ you some acupuncture to help wid de back pain. I got a license to do it and de risksreal low. None uh my clients ever had any problems. You gine be good in a l’il bit."

Miss Forde hastened to get up but with every movement, the pain in her back intensified. No! No! I don't wan’ none of dat. I - arrgh - just want - ahhhh - some Bengies!"

"Alright...alright" Charmaine raised her hands in defeat. "I gine do wha’ you want."

Miss Forde settled down.

Charmaine set to work massaging the old lady's back, softly whispering words of encouragement to quell her agitation.Charmaine’s gentle ministrations soothed her and Miss Forde’s eyes started to close as her body relaxed.

Seizing her chance, Charmaine continued her massage using one hand and picked up an acupuncture needle with the other. But Miss Forde never noticed.

All she felt were Charmaine's soft hands rubbing her back and soon the stabbing pain was replaced with a gentle tingling sensation that caused a moan of relief to escape herlips. A short while later, that sweet tingling gave way to a heavy numbness that Miss Forde had never experienced before. Her body felt leaden, but not in an unpleasant way; she likened the blissful lack of sensation to floating on a sun-drenched cloud. Miss Forde luxuriated in this feeling and became so removed from everything else that she didn't notice that Charmaine had stopped massaging her and was now only gently tapping specific points on her neck and back. All she knew, as she drifted off to sleep, was that she never wanted that feeling to end.

"Miss Forde... Miss Forde... I takin’ Lana home now. How you feelin’?"

"Uhh?" the old lady responded groggily.

Miss Forde opened her eyes groggily and was taken aback to be met with Charmaine's dark face smiling sweetly at her.

Charmaine reached out and helped her into a sitting position.

Miss Forde sat up hesitantly, afraid that remnants of pain would assault her when she sat up - but she was pain free.

"Wowee!" exclaimed Miss Forde. "I feel like uh young girl! Not uh stiff joint or uh pain in my back. You really save me, Charmaine. I can' thank you enough."

Charmaine beamed broadly and winked. "I told you the acupuncture would work."

"What is this acupuncture thing you keep talking about?Um is a tonic or a cream?" asked Miss Forde bewildered. "I know I did smell someting funny."

Charmaine laughed.

"Acupuncture is uh type uh Eastern treatment. I use real thin needles like dese on certain points uh your neck and back totek ‘way de pain," Charmaine explained as she showed Miss Forde one of the used needles. It was no thicker than a bit of sewing thread and Miss Forde found it hard to understand how that little needle would take away the crippling back pain she had felt earlier.

"Dem got medicine on dem?"

"No. Basically the needles does fin’de pain and tek it ‘way. I don' put any medicine on dem. I know it hard to understan’, but I was doin’ dis for over 10 years and I see it cure all kindaaches and pains.”

“So where yuh learn to do dat?” Miss Forde asked.

“When I went to Canada to do one ah dem work programs de gover’ment does organize. I train as ahacupuncturist; bout de same time is when I meet Lana fadduh. After I had she, I din’ wan’ raise my child in de cold so I come back home.”

Charmaine smiled at Miss Forde and placed the used needles inside her leather bag. I glad you feelin’ better. But it dark already I want to put Lana ta sleep before it get any later." She stood to leave, but Miss Forde stopped her.

A burning question was now pressing its weight against her conscience and she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep unless she asked.

"So...dis acupuncture ting that you does do... dat is wha’you do to all de men dat go ta you house? Stickin’ dem widneedles?" Miss Forde said cautiously.

Perplexed, Charmaine nodded. "Yes, why you ask?"

The old lady couldn't hide the shame that coloured her face as she avoided Charmaine's eyes. "Oh, nothing."

"Miss Forde," Charmaine said sternly, "tell me why you asked."

"I just...thought that you used ta...you know...entertainin’ demen that went to the house."

"Entertainin’...?" Comprehension dawned on Charmaine's face and she looked aghast at Miss Forde.

"You can' be serious!" the young woman sputtered angrily."Why you woul’ tink dat?"

"Well...’cause you does always sen’ Lana out hey."

Charmaine peeped around the door jamb to make sure the little girl was still watching TV before quietly closing the door.

"Yuh know... I t’ought you had Alzheimer's disease. The way you use to shut de windows when you see me coming or pull you hat down over you head to avoid talkin’ ta me..." Charmaine shook her head, bemusedly. "Das really why I useto send Lana ova hey you know."

Miss Forde gaped at Charmaine. "Wha’ you talkin’bout?"

Charmaine grinned. "Even a blind man ridin’ a horse inde middle of de night could see you like she company. I sendshe to keep uh eye pon you."

She shrugged. "I figure you childish mind would respond ta annudah childish mind."

"But ta answer you question, de main reason why so many men come fuh acupuncture is ‘cause my treatment get uh reputation as uh cure fuh impotence." Charmaine twisted her mouth, a bit uncomfortable by having to make this confession to Miss Forde.

The older woman stared at Charmaine in utter bewilderment. "Wait...so tha’ contagious? 'Cause I had the flu last week and I really can' deal with nothin’ else now. In my old age, I ain't got time for no more sickness."

Charmaine broke into uproarious laughter. Tears rolled down her cheek and her plush bosom heaved with every chuckle.

"N-n-no Miss Forde...Impotence means that de men aintable to perform in de bedroom." Charmaine explained between fits of giggles.

Ashen-faced, Miss Forde wrinkled her forehead. She had to admit that it wasn't what she had expected. True, it was less honourable a cause than she would have liked to support, but she realized that Charmaine was akin to a doctor if she was able to help so many people. Even if the...problems... may seem trite to an old maid like her.

She glanced up at Charmaine, the warm glow from the kerosene lamp, making her look all the more angelic. Charmaine wouldn't have thought she was losing her mind if she hadn't treated her like an outcast. And if she had taken the time to get to know Charmaine, she wouldn't have deprived herself of a wonderful friendship for so long. It was more than any old woman with such a bad temperament deserved.

Those emotions bubbled to the surface in Miss Forde's heart. Shame and guilt clashed like thunderclouds, consuming Miss Forde until there was no room inside her to store thefeelings. But they could only find one way to come out; tears swelled in the corner of Miss Forde's left eye.They slipped, not unnoticed, down her wrinkled golden brown cheek.

She had thought Charmaine was the scourge of the island and had wondered repeatedly what she had done to deservesuch a sweet child as Lana.

Miss Forde shook her head in wonderment at the situation. From that day she resolved to follow her own advice and never tek a six for a nine.