Small Stories

Kara the clever little girl

2011-12-11T18:48:00.001+02:00

Kara was born in a smalllittle town situated by the seaside, to a mother filled with love and a fathernot any different. She was a beautiful baby with blonde hair, blue eyes, andlike most other babies, she had no teeth at birth.

She was an almost exact imprintof her father, and the love of her young parents' lives.

When Kara drew her firstbreath, she wasn't very impressed with the hospital air, and her brainimmediately set to work on a complex filtering system that could be implementedin all hospitals throughout the world. Of course, the system had to beinexpensive and simple to implement. She always worked with those two criteriaas a backdrop.

She soon had the whole systemcarefully worked out, when she realised that she had a problem: Speech was somethingshe dared not attempt; she dared not utter intelligible words, since this wouldcertainly startle her parents and draw unnecessary attention to her family. Shetucked the system neatly away in her mind, ready to address the issue when theappropriate time came. She knew it would have to be at least another sixteenyears, if she were to address the issue herself. However, she’d already deviseda plan to make sure that someone important received an unmarked envelope withdetailed descriptions and drawings of her fantastic idea, before she turnedfive.

Kara and her mom soon wenthome to a proud and happy father, and she grew quickly, although to her it feltlike many years.

A few months passed and Karawas getting more and more frustrated. The more her tiny body developed, themore she noticed things that were simply not efficiently designed. Since shestill dared not speak, she hoped that pointing to them and making baby soundswould at least get her parents to pay attention to these issues. However, whenevershe did, it elicited no more than an "Aw, how cute! You clever littlegirl!" from them. Oh, how it frustrated her that her parents were sosilly!

She saw energy being wastedon electric street lamps not designed to a specification she had developed inher mind. She was disgusted to note that despite a big water shortage due toheavy droughts in their area, no one had taken the time to investigate theviability of using seawater as an alternative source of drinking water. If onlyshe could speak, she could have shared her idea for a desalination plant, whichwould take no longer than a period of two years to complete. Like all her otherideas, her desalination plant would be quick to implement, and dirt-cheap.

She got frustrated with herfather's driving style. Although he never sped, she noticed that he was used toaccelerating quite fast, which she knew wasted fuel.

Speaking of fuel, she couldnot believe the stupidity of the internal combustion engine. The idea thatHenry Ford was hailed as one of the most important figures of the twentiethcentury, thanks to his efforts in the automotive industry, made her giggleuncontrollably. Why Ford went for a petrol design in the first place boggledher mind. She'd need to arrange a meeting with the company once she was oldenough.

And so each day of Kara'searly existence was filled with tortuous discoveries. She cried often at night,which kept her parents up. At one stage they thought it was her first tooththat was causing her pain. If only they knew.

Then finally, the day came;the day she decided to say her first word. She knew she was at an acceptableage to utter a word or two, but not too many. It was a frustrating occasion forher, since she would have liked to have a lengthy discourse on the validity ofDarwin’s theories with someone like Stephen Hawking. However, she knew shecould not take any chances, and therefore had to be careful to form the word asif to sound like a baby. She took her time. The first sound she made soundedsomething like “Mama.” She was careful to say it loud enough for her mom, whowas working in the kitchen, to hear it. Her mom was overjoyed! She picked Karaup and flung her up above her head, which elicited a smile from the littlegirl. Her mom put her down on the floor again, and this time Kara saidsomething else. It came out as “mandel.”

“What was that, Kara? Can yousay it again? You clever little girl! Say ‘Mama’.”

Kara smiled, and proceeded tosay “Mandelbrot” as clearly as she possibly could. This startled her mother, andKara simply smiled. It was her homage to super mathematician, Benoit Mandelbrot,one of the greatest mathematical thinkers of the modern age.

Her mother was puzzled atthis strange word, and Kara quickly spurted forth “Mama” a few times, knowingthat this would make her mother happy. That evening her mother could not stoptalking about her little baby daughter’s first words. Kara’s dad got home, andthe two delighted parents sat and listened as Kara purred forth “mama” after“mama” and eventually even “papa”. “You clever little girl!” they cooed, andmommy was on the phone to her mother and sister, to share the spectacular news.Kara simply sighed and gave slight little smiles.

Kara was content in herordinary little home with her ordinary parents, and she was careful to grow up as normal as possible. She had a few minor slip-ups where she said too many complex words,properly arranged, or made drawings that came too close to actual complexmathematical diagrams she had formulated from mistakes made by the likes of IsaacNewton and Pierre de Fermat, but her parents never suspected anything. Theysimply said, “You clever little girl!” For many years, she dared not share theideas in her head, for not only was she smart, she’d also gained valuableinsight into human philosophy and the workings of the human mind. She knew thathumans were susceptible to all sorts of irrational feelings such as jealousy,and she didn’t want to evoke any such feelings unnecessarily. Little Kara knewthat she had all the time in the world to study and share what she knew andlearnt with others, and this thought made her happy. For the time being, shewas content just to be her parents’ clever little girl.

Compassion

2011-12-10T22:51:00.001+02:00

His white Mercedes all-road is tainted with spots of blood. He doesn’t want to stop. Why should he? The dog doesn't belong in the road! Besides, it's a useless dog; one of those thoroughbred rat-looking dogs that couldn't even scare a kitten. He throws his head back impatiently to get a view of the old lady standing on the sidewalk behind him where he pulled over after hitting the barking rat. Finally, he gets out of the car, but the old lady doesn’t even see him. Her mouth gapes in horror at the scene, her eyes wide open in disbelief as they scout the road for the missing leg. The rat's faint screeches drive nails into her heart as he fades away into nothingness. Their eyes meet, but it's not like this morning when she fed him. He doesn't know what to do. He's never faded into nothingness before. His screeching becomes softer and softer, and then only the kicking remains, small intermittent kicks from crushed, deformed legs.

He gets into his vehicle and spins away. He doesn't leave the old lady in smoke or dust. That would be rude. But he figures she's too old to see the GP registration number clearly. The one that just challenged him verbally is sitting on the sidewalk, holding his jaw. He'll never interfere in anyone else’s matters again. No one saw the incident. The old lady didn't even see the young one fall from the calculated swing. She was too busy trying to put her rat together. He stops at a petrol station at the next small town, to have the blood cleaned off his vehicle. It's hard by now, and he has to yell at the attendant to do a proper job.

The young man gets up, slowly moving his lower jaw with his right hand. He's dizzy. This old woman had better leave him alone now. She's caused him enough grief for one day; all this for a stupid dog that didn't want to listen to its owner. He kicks what looks like a piece of bloodied fur as he walks away, his head hanging down. He didn't see it coming. His dad didn't even hit him as hard and fast as this stranger, when he was growing up. Jenny had better have dinner ready, or she'd be back in as fast as she got out of hospital. He's had enough. Women are all the same. They need to be taught by hand how to show respect.

The old lady whimpers. She raises her pathetic little arms, once strong and able, in shock. Her cheeks are wet. Thick makeup smears all over her face, running along the crevices of that which was once smooth and admired. She falls on her knees. Her heart stops. She falls back, eyes wide open, mouth gasping, like her rat. Her false teeth dislodge, and the last bit of life chokes from her wiry frame as they are sucked into her throat.

Across the road, from her kitchen window, the beautiful young lady, divorced only for a month now, sees the two pathetic creatures. She decides it's best if the old lady’s landlord realizes that she's not come home from her evening walk yet, rather than interfere with that which has nothing to do with her. She closes her curtains and continues to prepare dinner for her new boyfriend. She knows he won’t be happy if it’s not a good meal.

The Workshop

2011-12-10T21:40:00.001+02:00

It takes them a month to remove the machines, and a week for Johnto rip every single piece of wiring from the building. Another week later theworkshop’s walls are clean enough to make it pass for a museum, and yet anotherweek later the floors are clean enough to eat off.

John is there every morning at six, broom in hand, sweeping. Whiledoing so, he hums what was his dad’s favourite tune, Somewhere Over the Rainbow,as performed by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole. Buckets of sweat drip from his brow ashe sweeps and hums, sweeps and hums, with a near psychotic methodologicalapproach to this menial task. The north-eastern section of the inside of thebuilding is swept first, then the northern, then the north-western and so on,until every bit of the already clean workshop floor is according to his liking.

From six until twelve in the afternoon he sweeps. Then hecarefully places the broom in a designated spot his mind created specificallyfor it, in a very specific position, at exactly 15 seconds past twelve. He’dfound that if the broom lay out by as much as one degree, he couldn’t restduring his break. He’d simply sit and stare at the broom, hoping that by somemiracle it would move itself into the correct position. He couldn’t move itwhile on break, of course, since this would be utter madness. but he’d sit andstare, not daring to take a bite of his sandwich. After taking a lunch break ofexactly 28 minutes and 15 seconds, John gets up from his chair and fetches themop and pale of water. These he finds in another mind-cabinet, prepared theprevious evening for the next day’s work, a task that takes exactly nineminutes and 25 seconds to complete. The mopping of the floor goes much quickerthan the actual sweeping, and John’s preparations for the next day are finishedby half past eight in the evening. From the workshop, he heads to his house amere fifty metres away. He takes a quick shower, and then heads for the watertower, which he climbs to the top to sit and stare at the workshop, his thoughtsset on the dust and dirt that might be collecting on the floor while he’ssitting there. This is how John passes his days. He has no income, and livesoff the money his father had left him when he died more than two years ago. Althoughit’s not a lot of money, it serves to cover John’s expenses, which are minimal.He’s happy, and if he weren’t, it wouldn’t bother him too much.

A huge explosion rips John from his troubled sleep. It’s twoin the morning. He needs his sleep, but the explosion has him in his shorts inno time. He runs outside where he’s greeted by a furious ball of fire where hisbeloved workshop had stood. A horror descends upon him, followed by shock and ascreaming sob. Tears flow down his face, and a flurry of thoughts fight to takecontrol of the mess in his mind. He falls to his knees, stretching out on thedirt, arms by his side, face on the ground. Snot, tears and dirt form a layerof brown ooze beneath his face. His body convulses and eventually manages tomake him throw up. But he doesn’t get up. It is enough for him to lie in themess and cry; it is sufficient for him to listen to the crackle of the fire, tofeel the heat of the flames on top of his head; to lay there worshiping themass of yellow destructive power. “It is laughing at me,” he mumbles, his hearttorn to pieces. “Death is laughing at me, as she laughed at my father. We aremarked when we are born, and she’s only happy when we disappear. She will notbe satisfied until I am gone too. It is the sacrifice I have to make. It iswhat I was born to do; it is what all men are born to do. My beloved workshopbecame my goddess, and death will not share the glory that belongs to her. Ishall make amends for my sin. I was wrong. I chose the wrong god.”

His father had made the same mistake, he thought. His father worshiped the work that came into the workshop, and the workshop would nothave it. The workshop was left to decay. John could see her weeping when hevisited his father after school, when he was still at school. His father couldnot see it, for he was blind to her needs. His father would only misuse her toget from her what he wanted, but he would not give her love. John knew thatthis was dangerous. John knew that the price would be high and tried to fix littlethings inside her every now and again. It made no difference though. John’sfather was the one that needed to make amends. But he never did. He died in ahorrible accident within her walls. He was pulled into a large lathe. Johnremembers the blood against the wall, and knew that she was satisfied. Johnvowed to look after the workshop as best as he could. He stood outside herwalls the day after his father’s funeral, and trembled with fear and awe.

Tonight, John knew what happened, and why. He tried to deny it, but itbecame clear instantly. He tried to lose the thought in his mind, but now heknows what the problem was. He also knows what needs to be done.

He takes off his shorts and stands naked, withbare feet on the cold dirt road, facing the fire. With slow steps and a steady heart,he makes his way over to the mass of heat. He spots a sharp piece of glass andpurposefully steps on it, grinding his foot into it. The pain is excruciating and shootsthrough his leg, but John’s face does not move a muscle. He leaves a footprintof blood behind. “A part of the sacrifice, for you, death; for you my bloodflows; for you I castigate myself.” The heat becomes unbearable; he feels hisbody hair scorching; the smell burns in his nostrils, and makes his bodyconvulse once more. He steadies himself, and gives another step, tears still streaming down his face. The fightbecomes almost impossible, as if walking into a hurricane. He leans forward andslowly stretches out his left arm, as if to feel the heat even closer; as if to touch the blaze. His fingersstart to boil, and finally catches fire. The fire consumes his hand, then hisarm, and in a few moments, the yellow cloud envelopes his silent framecompletely.

“What caused the explosion?”

“No one knows. The building was empty. The body was foundnear the entrance to the office, but it was completely empty, except for theremnants of a broom or two.”

“Strange thing, this.”

“It is. His father also died here. This farm is cursed.”

“No, it can’t be. It’s just an accident. These thingshappen. Accidents happen all the time.”