May '04

Carmen Adair Battling Monsters
Wayne H. W Wolfson In the Sea
L.D. Petterson The Devil and Judy Peters
Rattan Mann The Unread Story
Randall Brown Soccer Dad

Photo by Larry O. Gay

Once upon a time there was a beautiful little girl with big round eyes and black curly hair. But the times she lived in were not so beautiful as she. All she ever wanted in life was for someone to tell her a story. But nobody ever did. Nobody had time. Mom and dad had no time because they were rich and famous. The maid-servant had no time because all she cared for was to put the girl to bed as early as possible so that she could then disappear with her lover. So every night the beautiful little girl lay alone in bed wishing that there was somebody with her to tell her a story. She wished she could read. Then she would be able to read tons of stories every night before going to bed.

One night as she lay alone in bed, waiting for someone, anyone, to come to her and tell her a story, a cockroach crawled into her bed. But she did not scream. She was waiting for the cockroach because she knew that the cockroach had come to tell her a story.

" Cockroach, cockroach, I knew you would come to tell me a story. Tell me the most beautiful story on earth. Please, please."

Of course, cockroaches don't tell stories. But she imagined the most beautiful story on earth, and thought that it was the cockroach who was telling it to her. That night she slept more deeply and peacefully than she had ever done before.

Next evening she waited for the cockroach but it did not come. Then the next evening and the next. But the cockroach never came. Slowly she gave up hope and began to forget that once upon a time a cockroach had told her a beautiful story. All she remembered were the nightmares in her sleep.

Then one night, as she lay awake in bed, a man stood before her. In his black spotted dress and a black mask over his face, he looked like a very big cockroach.

The little girl jumped up with joy and screamed, " Cockroach, cockroach, you have grown so big. Where have you been? I was waiting for you all the time. I missed you. You tell so beautiful stories. Tell me a story . Nobody has told me a story since you left. Please, please."

" Yes darling, I have come to fetch you so that I can tell you all the stories you want to hear. Come with me. I will take you to the most beautiful place on earth. And there I will tell you the most beautiful stories anybody has ever told a little innocent girl like you."

The delicate little girl jumped into his strong ugly arms and he carried her away.

Of course, he was no cockroach and no story-teller. He had come to kidnap her. And never before had he kidnapped a child so easily.

He took her to a forest and threw her into a room with a tiny window and locked the door.

The little girl began to feel that something was wrong and she began to cry. She pressed her face against the cross-bars in the window and began to scream,

" Take me home. Take me home. I don't like this place. It is not the most beautiful place on earth. And you are not telling me any stories. You are not the cockroach I had been waiting for."

The big masked coackroaches who guarded her heard her screams but did not bother to reply.

From that day the little girl stood on the window the whole day and cried. When she could not cry, she pressed her red eyes and swollen cheeks against the cross-bars to see if her mom was coming to fetch her. She had given up all hope of ever hearing a story. All she wanted now was to go home even if nobody ever told her a story again.

One day, one of the big masked cockroaches came to the window and threw a letter inside.

" Your mom has written you a story. Read it silly girl, and don't pester us with your screams."

The little girl ran and picked up the letter and opened it. Her sweet mom had indeed written a story for her. But she could not read.

" I can't read. I can't read. Please read the story my mom has written for me. She writes very beautiful stories. Please read it for me. Please, please."

Two masked cockroaches stood still before her window and paid no heed to her screams.

So again the little girl stood before the window and cried the whole day. But now she always held her mom's story in her hand. Even when she slept she pressed the story against her chest.

The unread story constantly pressed against her chest read as follows:

Dearest Rashmi, my heart breaks to see what you are going through. No girl should ever go through what you are going through - last of all you. But darling, hang on for a little longer. We will get you out very soon. We have tons of money and money can buy everything.

Darling Rashmi, I know we have not been good mom and dad to you. Somewhere on the road from rags to riches, we lost you on the way. We should have turned back to search for you. All we did was leave a house-maid behind to find you and make you feel at home even in our absence. Please forgive both of us.

And please forgive me for a second time.

I had no time to tell you even a single story at times when stories meant more to you than food and water. But now I will make up for it. Once you are back I will tell you tons of stories everday. But where do I begin? You are with evil people. I don't even know how they are treating you. All I can think of these days is you. So I will tell you the story of your own life - things you do not know about yourself. I hope those scoundrels read it to you. We are giving them tons of money. And this is the least we can expect in return.

Rashmi, today's pain in my heart reminds me of the pain with which I gave birth to you. You are a cesarean. It was your twin brother that caused all the complications. That silly bum. I am still so angry at him because he left us so soon. The doctor told us that at least one of us will have to die. But we all three survived. We were so happy those days because we were still one family.

As long as your twin brother was alive you never asked anybody to tell you a story. He was your story. He was your life. You didn't need much else.

Then one day that silly bum jumped from the roof, thinking that he was Batman and so could fly like a bird. He died instantly. It was all my fault. I should have told him the difference between TV and real life. I shouldn't have let him watch so much TV in the first place. I should have stayed with him more often. But I had no time for him because in our modern times time is money. Please forgive me for the third time.

When we told you your brother has gone for ever and won't be coming back, you did not cry. But you never went in your common bedroom again. You said you hated it. For months you had only one question, "Why did he have to go like this?". But we had no answer. To divert your attention we always changed the topic. But it didn't help.

To make you forget your brother we changed town. That did help. Instead of asking us about your brother, you started asking us to tell you a story. We were glad that stories had taken the place of your brother. The story-bug had bitten you just as the money-bug had bitten us a long time ago. We were no longer a family. We were just two bugs living in a mansion and fighting all the time - the story-bug versus the money-bug. You wanted stories and we wanted money. We won because we were parents and so had absolute power over you. But at what price?

We hired a maid for you to tell you stories. But like us she betrayed you too. She was bitten by the love-bug. Please forgive all of us for the fourth time.

Darling Rashmi, you are a child. You are not a mother. You are not a grand-mother. You are just a little girl who can't even read. Not much has happened in your life. So not much can be said about it. But once you are back, much will start happening in your life. I promise you that. Then you can tell things about yourself to your children and grand-children that I can't tell you because they havn't happened yet. And when you tell your life-story to them, tell them from me that it is not good when innocent people get hurt. It is not good at all. But don't tell them anything more about me. Never ever tell them that I sold myself for thirteen pieces of gold.

Sit tight darling Rashmi. We are on our way. We have your statue in gold. And we will exchange you for this statue in gold. And then everything would be all right. We will become a happy family once again. We will laugh all day and tell stories all night. And life would be so wonderful.

Your tortured mom.

Once again the little girl was screaming,

" My mom has written the most beautiful story on earth. Can you read it for me, please? Please. I want to know what she has written."

This time one of the masked cockroaches spoke at last.

" Silly girl, stop screaming day and night. Soon you are going home. Then you can ask your silly mom to read her silly story to you. Soon we will get our ton of money. Then you can go to hell or home or whatever silly old place you want for all we care."

But something went wrong while the ton of money was changing hands. Shots were heard. The masked cockroaches started running in different directions. Smoke filled the girl's room. Her eyes were burning. She was crying with pain and fear. But she still cluched her mom's story in her hand.

Then something pierced her heart. The pain in the chest was unbearable. She fell down. But she won't let the unread story go.

Slowly the pain, the cries, the writhing died down. She lay still in a pool of blood. But even in her death she won't let the unread story go. The story was soaked in blood. The ink had dissolved and everything the mother had written was wiped out. But it was still in her hand and pressed against her bleeding chest.

So the beautiful little girl left the earth for some distant land without having heard or read a single story - even the story of her own life. Some say she went to a beautiful planet far, far away where tons of stories hung from tree-tops, and flowers and birds and butterflies told stories to any girl who asked them to.