October Short Story: If you enjoy reading, you will love this

Dear Readers,

I hope you have your cuppa tea/coffee and are ready to sit back, relax, and enjoy a sweet short story. I am back in Jeddah Writing Club and the October meeting was a resounding success. We met at the lovely Voila Cafe, acclaimed for its different kinds of hot chocolate. The member's shared amazing pieces, the topic was 'Bookshop' aka every writer's/reader's heaven! My inspiration was the the bookshop owned by Meg Ryan in the movie 'You've got mail' (one of my all time favourite movies). Yes its cheesy, I like cheese! Cheese is good. In moderation..of course.

I confess I wrote my piece on the day and the end in the car so as far as writing goes it is nothing spectacular, but I got positive feedback, I think its a good fun read especially if you know the references ;-).

One book at a time

It was a second-hand bookshop, the kind where they let you sit undisturbed in the corner or on the overstuffed couch or the big chair by the window. The kids would be gathered around the owner reading out stories for the little ones sprawled on the rug or bean bags. The smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies wafted through the shop and milk was the fashionable beverage of choice. I used to buy the C.S Lewis Narnia series and sit there reading them. I’d be back again to sell my old book and buy a new one. It was almost like a library. Except libraries were such cold dreary places for adults. No atmosphere.

It was here that my imagination thrived in the fantasy world of Harry Potter,  and Terry Pratchett.  It was here that I went through my tom-boy phase where I read heart stopping thrillers oblivious to those around me. John Grisham, Robert Ludlum, Jack Higgins I read them allwhile sporting my short hair and Doc Marten Boots.

It was again here where I discovered  my feminine side with Jane Austen and what it was to be completely involved in a romance to have words make you tingle and smile .

When I'd finish a book I would often find a little sticky note suggesting what I could read next. Sometimes the notes asked questions: whether I'd like the book why or why not, and to rank it out of 10? Whether I'd experienced something similar to what happened  on pgxx? Whether I’d ever felt that way about anyone? Whether there was a Henry or Edmund in my life? I was supposed to leave the answer in the bookshop in such and such a book (for e.g. The book of answers by Carol Bolt pg 90)

The note at the end of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen  was signed off from Edmund to Fanny, so sweet, I thought.

I found the notes  fantastic... And they added to the excitement of finishing the book. Sometimes there were tiny trinkets or charms tucked into the note in the cover, all in the theme of the book.

As I grew older I bought a book from the Mills and Boons series and instead of the last page on the first page there was a note.

I am VERY disappointed.

I was so ashamed.

I remember I dropped the book and as I was still in the bookshop and I immediately exchanged it for another one...  I didn't know the nameless faceless writer. I thought sometimes it was the lady who owned the shop or her daughter who usually served me that they wrote notes for all their regular customers.

The summer before uni started, I read Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist and I remember clearly the note asked me to hold true to my values and not let others change me, and hoping that the new experiences and studies would not put me off reading for pleasure by next summer.

I had kept the book and taken it to uni with me. As I packed my things at the end of the semester my roommate was helping me and she dropped the book and out fell the note. She read it and with raised eyebrows and a wicked smile.  

“Sooooo who is this secret admirer you've been hiding from the whole year. Who's sends you oh-so- cute messages.”

 I looked up perplexed "What admirer?!"

Then I saw the note on her hand and I shook my head, “No, no they do that for all their customers.” 

And she launched into a million questions,  and I have to admit the more I told her the more I realised it was a bit odd. Maybe for once my roommate’s imaginary romantic scenarios involving me did exist. She was always imagining things like the coffee guy gave us free cupcakes  the whole year coz he had crush on me.

(I told her it was a special offer, she told me the offer ended in September and we were now in June- whatever-she was crazy).

I went back home that summer as usual looking forward to reading and visiting the book shop but a bit more intrigued  the next book on list had been Mansfield Park-again.

Next to it was written, I know you've read this book before but you might want to read it again like an old friend. When I’d read it first I'd wanted to keep Mansfield park but I'd been short of cash and had reluctantly sold it back to the bookshop.So I was quite happy to get it again. I went and picked up the book and hurriedly looked for the note. It said:

I have been an Edmund to you in the only way I could be (given that we are unrelated) through books and little notes. I want to know now that you are all grown up and may I add you've turned into a lovely young woman would you consider giving me a chance to ask you to be mine.

I want your book to me mine to be read for the first time to be the one to pull apart the uncut pages. I want to read you every day for the rest of my life never will you be borrowed or end up in a second hand bookshop like this one.

I want to touch your brand new smooth white  pages and I will love them even more when they are yellow and dry.

I want to inhale your magazine like freshness and I will love it even more when it is has the scent of an old book.

I know until now you have lived and loved  through books.

But now I want you to live and love with me, through me.

It may not be as perfect as on paper, but it will be more powerful. 
It will be real.

Take your time. If there is someone else or...if you don't want to  I will understand.

Otherwise meet me in the classics aisle on 18^thOctober 5 pm.

I looked around I could spot no guy watching me. I ran all the way home feeling flustered. I felt shocked, annoyed, betrayed. But once I calmed down I realised,that he, whoever he was, had done me no harm, in fact he had only wished me well, helped me grow, molded me into the person that I was today.

Dear readers,

I met him , after all how could I not  and later I  married him.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

If you enjoyed the piece don't miss out on future posts enter your email address top right corner ^ and keep in touch on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

Stars-Jeddah Writing Club

I still remember that mid-summer night, we were camping in the desert. Everyone had fallen asleep and all that remained of the fire was the glowing embers fanned by the surprising chilly breeze that playfully pushed tendrils of my hair across my face. I snuggled under the crudely woven blanket as scratched my skin. The faint smell of burnt wood mingled with the dew scented air.

I lay gazing at the sky, hypnotised by the sheer brilliance of the stars, scattered like diamonds against the luxuriously dark velvet of the sky. I felt cheated that I had never seen the beauty of the heavens, blinded by the city lights and smog, only seeing the lone star (or was it a satellite) once in a blue moon.

I felt like the only person alive on earth, in the middle of the silent desert witnessing the natural spectacle of beauty which was there free for all to enjoy, but it seemed to be wasted on humanity too occupied with diamonds on the ground to bother looking up.

I caught a movement from the corner of my eye, but it was gone before I could see what it was.

And then another movement, just on the periphery of my vision.

I shifted my gaze, and then one, two , three shooting stars, burnt across the skies. I held my breath, at nature’s firework display, and then again it repeated again and again from different parts of the sky. I felt like a guest an exclusive event, as if this display was solely for my pleasure as rest of the world slept on. 

Then a particularly bright star burnt its way across the sky determined and true to its path. A thought struck me, in the chaotic disorder of stars there is an order that we cannot see, but just because we cannot see something it does n’t mean it is n’t there. 

Or that it is n’t wonderfully beautiful.  Just as suddenly as the shower of shooting stars and meteorites had started it came to an end.

A calm serenity in the belief that my fate is in the hand of One who controls all with such beauty overtook me. Sleep demanded an end to the visual feast and slipped its dark cover over my eyes however, the light still burned within my heart.

Jeddaah Writing Club -Project Masks

Dear Readers,

As I'm not in my lovely J-town these days, and have gotten into the crazy pace of London life my posts have been few and far between- I aplogise. I'ma bit confused if I should post about London on this blog or start a new one?!

While  I try and figure that out, go ahead and read my latest humble offering for Jeddah Writing Club's 4th meeting..

Leave your comments below- please!

Masks
Every morning she dons her work mask and sighs,
Clothes that hide her curves,
And a fake smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
Compensating for her beauty with an aggressive attitude
And that dead unseeing stare through the commute.


Night brings  a more enchanting disguise,
Of turned on charm and twinkling eyes,
Fake laughter and tighter clothes,
Lonely hearts and drowning souls.


In the twilight he saw through her deception,
As he talked the strings became undone.
Her masks slipped and fell to the floor,
She wouldn't be hiding any more.

Jeddah Writing Club- A poem on Distance

Jeddah Writing Club met today for its third meeting, at the cute Layla's Gourmet cafe, very girly and perfect spot for the club to meet- except I for some reason got lost and had trouble finding it.

Its lovely hearing everyone's take on a topic. This time it was 'distance' and when I'd first heard of it-I was thrilled- oh what a wonderful topic. But when I sat down to write on it I was overwhelmed. Although I have a lot of experience of having family and friends move away, I didn't want to  actually write about something so personal to me- isn't it strange? They say you should what you know- but it is very difficult for me to open up like that- I write as an outlet of my daydreams and imagination- to exercise my mind, to let out stuff good or bad that lives in the corners of mind -to stay sane!

We have a few extremely talented poets, and they inspired me to try to write a poem for the first time since leaving school... hope you like it.

Long distance

This is not farewell but goodbye,

Promises made amid forlorn sighs.

Long hugs and held back tears,

Reassurances to allay unsaid fears,

Wet pillows and long cold nights,

Photograph held on tight,

What’s app and video Skype,

Do you feel what I cannot type?

New names and incidents,

Funny stories- repeated often.

One too many forgotten Skype dates,

You’re either busy or it’s too late.

Draining phone calls- fights or silence,

Minor things coloured by distance.

Weak connection- no sight just hollow sound,

Jealous doubts- are they unfound?

Unanswered questions fuelling frustration,

Pleading forgiveness  in clingy desperation.

Single text received after repeated calls

Sorry, can’t do this...farewell.

Jeddah Writing Club- Second Project- Words

The Jeddah Writing Club met again this Thursday,and due to urgent personal reason I was unable to make it at the last moment :-(. Everyone shared some amazing pieces which I got to read later, some of the girls write enchanting poetry, which I haven't written in a very long time- now I don't think I could write poetry without it sounding juvenile, or like a pop song or both! 

Anyhow, here is the piece I wrote- I usually despise writing in first person, in my opinion the words don't flow and I usually end up erasing what I've written. But this time I decided I need to write outside my comfort zone so here it is- honestly it is probably my most emotional piece to date. So you see any writing assignment, blog posts, I seem to find the time and words for them. Unlike the mammoth NaNoWriMo challenge of writing a 50,000 word novel in November-I am way behind.
So without further ado, please read the latest piece- the topic was quite wonderful: words
Please read and leave comments below: I'm doing this to improve so contructive criticism is welcome. :-) 

 
Unspoken Words

You joke away with such ease, while I struggle just to keep my breathing normal. My mind goes blank as foggy numbness engulfs my brain; I begin to forget who I am. It’s an arduous task to connect basic words to form a single coherent sentence-especially with you looking at me with those enquiring eyes. I can barely remember what you’ve just asked me. Just when I need to be at my wittiest, humorous, and bewitching version of myself all I can hear is the pounding of my heart as the blood leaves my brain.  How have I turned into a stuttering, reticent, socially-awkward teenager? I despair to share with you my essence, my light. But how could I hold up a match to a bonfire?

When you are gone, ideas flow effortlessly: witty comebacks, flirty remarks, and profound conversation that would last hours. The words are never heard by you, but they are real to me, knitted into the very fabric of my being. But you don’t know that, how could you?

My whole face lights up when you come into the room.  I hope that in my eyes, that meet yours with difficulty, you will hear silent pleading for you to sit next to me. With my shy smiles and ready acceptances of your suggestions, I wish to show my whole-hearted submission to your wants and whims...My incessant fidgeting and restlessness is my way of expressing the torture that it is for me to see you. But I know that you don’t see me, no, not really.

How could you? When she’s in the room the rest of our existence loses focus and blends into the background.  Her charm is hypnotic, it has always been. When you’ve been burnt by the brilliant sun, maybe then you will turn to the moon in all its pale imperfection. Only then will you feel the quiet beauty in the cool shade of the night. Or maybe you will be enchanted by another brilliant star, another idol to bow down to. But not me, no we both yearn to efface ourselves in worship-not be the object of adulation.