Paris. The city of love, of romance and she was almost there, just a few stop and a fanfare of screeching breaks would announce the arrival of Miss Tanya Fay, New York’s most elusive model. Betsy crowed into the window beside her, their bodies juddering in time with the train as the French country side slipped past, snow still deep on the ground, hiding any indication of the past thirty years from the passengers.
“Mademoiselle, perhaps you and your comapinon would like the come back inside the carrige?”
She turned to find the conducter stood behind them. Polite smile firmly in place as the rest of the carrige shot them dark looks from behind books and newspapers.
“I’m afraid the cold is coming in,” he explained. “Some of the other passengers have complained.”
“Oh let them!” laughed Betsy, pulling Tanya towards the window again. “Who are they to complain about us?”
At ninety-five, Margery Yolk was pretty sure that she had made every wish that could be required in life.
She let someone else see to the door, the steady stream of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren parading into her little bungalow in Ipswich, hugs and good wishes in hand. She kept to her armchair and wondered if perhaps she should have at least attempted to find her false teeth for this occasion…
When the cake came she smiled, beckoning the youngest in close to blow out the candles for her.
“You can have my wish,” she whispered.
It took us a while to get use to the bears. I mean really, one can hardly expect for such a creature to approach you in the street and start commenting on how dreary the weather is for this time of year.
Except that was exactly what happened and it almost cost me my bus as I stood there spluttering for a response. Sunshine in November, dreary my foot!
I was lost for words if you’ll believe it. Well I don’t suppose it matters if you do or you don’t, talking bears or loss of words. However I assure you that this is the god’s honest truth, or at least my honest truth since I don’t even know if you believe in a god or not.
I suppose you’ll have some sort of preference. I rather like Minerva, never mind if I believe in the Roman deity. But she does have a certain feminist pull, and I never can resist a strong woman in myth or history. They always demand attention and perhaps a little envy, no matter if they hold the same view or not, it’s the speaking out that catches me.
But back to this bear since I’m not here to discuss religion or philosophy. However I do know a grizzly who holds a PhD in both, though he is somewhat of a crank. Conversations tends to lean towards the more impressive side of social interactions, but even then, he can be impossible to talk to at times. I have never heard so many riddles as can be fitted in over tea and biscuits with Herodotus. I’m telling you, when it comes to some of these bears you’d almost think tha—
Oh of course, the bear at the bus stop, I haven’t finished that story yet!
Well you have to understand, I’d never met a talking bear, or any sort of bear really. Yet there was one at the bus stop; perfectly melancholy over the weather.
So I told him, as polite as you like.
"Well I’m not sure what you expected. This is England, two more degrees and we could claim summer had arrived early!"
She’d been taught that interrupting was rude, but if she hadn’t that genie would have still been yammering on about choosing carefully.
She had chosen carefully. She’d spent the last thirty-five years considering this very choice and she wasn’t wasting another second.
“Give me the keyboard to my life,” she said. “I’ve got some editing to do.”
We walked among roses and he spoke of Paris,
of Florence and Venice,
of worlds we would travel.
We walked among roses
until thorns turned to claws
and flowers were beautiful no more.
Continue reading “Among Roses”