Clara was thirteen. Her sweet oval face smiled at everyone and everything for no reason. She came up with crazy ideas like having a beach in her backyard, switching on the sun at night when required and so on. Clara wanted to help others but those who knew her well kept away as she excelled at converting a small problem into unimaginable catastrophe. She could easily confuse the moon into thinking that it was really a stale piece of cheese thrown out of the world...
   Clara observed the proceedings at home on Sunday morn. Their new motor had broken down. The plumber replaced it with an old one.
   She appraised the outdated substitute “Will this motor work well? It looks so old.”
   The plumber said “Don’t underestimate…”
   “Yah! Yah! I know. An old motor will surely work better than a new motor because it has more experience.”
   Treating it as a joke, the plumber asked her to switch off the motor after half an hour and left. Twenty minutes later, the motor stopped. Clara called the plumber. He came, fidgeted and adjusted. Nothing worked. He finally kicked it. The motor came alive.
   He winked at Clara “Kicks work miracles!”
   Clara was dazzled by the new phenomena. Alden’s broken fridge in the garage could wake up with a good kick. She picked the phone to tell him. It was dead. Wasting no time, she gave it a solid kick. The phone crashed on the wall breaking into pieces.
   “What was that?” her father yelled.
   Clara sighed “The phone didn’t work.”
   “So?”
   “I kicked it. It was a wrong thing to do. The motor worked because a plumber kicked it. Phones must be kicked only by telephone mechanics. Professional kicks matter much.”
   Her father frowned “I hope some professional kicks you.”
   Clara went to her room and soon shouted “Mama!”
   Her mother came in and met a mess. Pools of colored water decorated Clara’s room flavored with brushes and scattered paints. Open inverted art books formed semi pyramids on the bed. Posters of Vincent Van Gough, Rembrandt and Picasso struck crooked poses on the wall.
   Clara held up two similar paintings showing a smudgy yellow sun peeping between two brown triangular mountains “I’m sending them to a painting competition.”
   Her mother said “They look alike. Send one of them.”
   “Can’t you read what I’ve written?” Clara pointed to illegible scrawls on both pictures “This is Sunrise and this is Sunset. I made them look alike to tell a very important message. Great paintings must have great messages. My Sunrise will hang on the eastern wall and my Sunset will hang on the western wall of the exhibition hall…”
   “What’s your message?” her mother hoped for a clever flash after all these years.
   “The sun that rises in the east and the sun that sets in the west is the same sun.”
   “Great. My sun, will you please shine in the kitchen?”

   Clara brushed the chinaware roughly and banged them on the table. She picked a thin veined old bowl, admired its lovely red flowers and carelessly ran a towel over it.
   Her mother came in “Be careful! That’s an antique.”
   Clara shook a bright white plate “See. I made it look like new.”
   “That’s a new plate.” her mother went off to dust the curtains.
   A cat crept in through the window and mewed. Startled Clara dropped the precious bowl shattering it into pieces. She saw the scared alley cat jumping out of the window.
   Her mother rushed in “What happened?”
   Clara cried “I didn’t break it! The cat...”
   “I saw you torturing that bowl. Don’t blame the cat.”
   Clara stalked out angrily and climbed up on the compound wall.
   A soft voice said “Meow!”
   Clara saw the purring cat licking its paws imminently at the front door. She jumped down and ran after the alarmed cat which sprang into the house, raced to the kitchen, leaped over the table, knocked down a bowl and jumped out of the window. The shocked mother shook her head at the mangled second antique on the floor.
   Clara cried “You saw what the cat did? It broke the other bowl…”
   “You were chasing it…”
   The clock struck four. Her mother dropped the issue and rushed off to a party.

   Blasting music rocked the house when Clara’s parents returned. Clara was jumping and swinging her limbs bizarrely.
      Her mother turned the volume down “What are you doing?”
   “I’m practicing for the dancing contest!” Clara twirled and fell “Eeeeek!”
   Her father inspected her leg “A sprain.”
   Clara wailed “I have to dance in the dancing contest tomorrow! I’m going to win. I’m the best dancer.”
   “Who gave you this idea?”
   “I was declared the best dancer.”
   “By whom?”
   “Bobby.”
   “Don’t get carried away by what your classmates say.”
   “Bobby is not my classmate. He studies in first grade. He saw me dancing and said I’ll come first in any dance contest.”
   “What does he know about dance?”
   “Bobby knows everything about dance because it was he who taught me to dance!”
   The dismayed father said “You will feel better if you take a brisk walk.”
   Clara kicked the air, felt negligible pain and decided not to strain herself since great dancers didn’t rehearse all the time. She set off to see a good friend...

   Desolate Simon sat alone in his small bakery cum residence that barely saw him through food and rent since he didn’t have money for a proper capital investment.    Clara came in eyeing the letter in his hand “Did the bank people give you that loan?”
   “No.” Simon smiled “It’s my father. The usual ‘Get into the family business and don’t expect money for anything else.’ What about my ambition? What do I know about leather business anyway?”
   “Yah! How can I help you?”
   “Can you sell biscuits door to door?”
   “Yes.” Clara set off happily with two baskets full of biscuits and returned sweating at noon without making a single sale. Simon hadn’t expected a miracle but the total rejection was a big disgrace.
   Clara scratched her head “I went to many people but nobody bought anything.”
   Simon brooded “What did you tell them? I mean your sales talk.”
   “I said, Simon is suffering because he has no money for capital stuff. His father won’t help him and is always asking him to get into their family business. What does he know about leather business anyway? What about his ambition? Please buy these biscuits and help poor Simon.” she hastily pulled out a coin from her pocket “A man told me to keep this for the establishment.”
   Simon took the coin and diverted her “Have you seen that baby?”
   “Gosh! I forgot...”

   When Mrs. Elizabeth Harris named her baby Clara, she didn’t know what she was asking for. Clara was not acquainted with the Harris family but had heard the great news and eagerly wanted to meet the newborn named after her. Held back by quirky fate for more than a week, Clara finally made it to the house. The little board Beware of dogs on the gate annoyed her. Her excited calls were not answered. Any nasty dog would have barked by now. She strode in expecting a tiny harmless dog. A big bulldog in a wrong mood booed her. Shrieking Clara ran in circles.
   Mrs. Elizabeth rushed out to chain the dog “Didn’t you see the board at the gate?”
   “That board was small. So I thought the dog would also be small...” sniffing Clara explained the purpose of her visit.
   “Strange angle.” Mrs. Elizabeth shooed an irksome fly and searched a shelf in the veranda “I can’t find the fly beater.”
   “I’ll find it in a minute!” Clara opened attack on a pile of newspapers. Book racks suffered next… She bulldozed the place and gave up “It’s not here. By the way, what’s a fly beater?”
   The dumbstruck lady was now scared that she had let a lunatic into the house.
   Clara touched a big fused bomb in the showcase “Nice rocket.”
   Elizabeth cried “That’s a heavy bomb!”
   “Booooomb?” Clara dropped the bomb on her to
e and jumped all over the place banging against everything in her way. After getting over from the shock, she surveyed the wreckage “Did the bomb burst?”
   The shaken woman came out from under the dining table where she had taken cover with her baby whose cries were now breaking Clara’s heart. A sparkling feeding bottle inspired a remedy. Seizing it, Clara dashed into the kitchen, picked a white milky bottle from the washbasin, loaded the feeding bottle with the strange smelling thick milk and ran to offer it to the bawling baby.
   Mrs. Elizabeth snatched it and smelt the strong white disinfectant “You tried to kill my child with Phenyl!”
   Clara was appalled “I didn’t know. You should have told me where the milk was.”
   “Psychopath! Killer…”
   Shattered by escalating accusations, Clara sat crouched in a corner bursting into tears.
   “I’ll call the police!” Elizabeth blasted Clara and softly consoled the wailing baby “It’s okay Clara. Don’t cry.” she lashed out at Clara “They’ll thrash you in jail…” she comforted the baby “No Clara, I won’t let anyone harm you…”
   Stooped Clara stopped crying and started thinking ‘She calls me a killer and wants to thrash me in jail and then she asks me not to cry because she won’t let anyone harm me…’ Clara grabbed the baby and ran out crying “Help! Mrs. Elisabeth has gone mad!”

   The two friends were observing Clara all day. One was an elf: six inches tall, dressed in skin tight plain brown material that looked wet. His thin hands and legs were not proportionate to his big head and chest. Pointed ears stuck up like peaches. Little sharp nose twitched over wide toothless mouth. A light green aura surrounded him.
   The other one was a gnome: thin cadaverous lanky dark brown being with a lantern jaw and small black eyes sloping upwards at the sides. His odd long limbs were bent at the joints. He appeared like an old fashioned alien from an extinct planet.
   The elf chuckled “Unpredictable thing! Let’s watch her for another day.”
   The gnome said “She’s a disaster.”
   “Indispensable in battle…”

Stitch on the needle

Anna International Airport - India

   A peculiar air shrouded the six-footer at the window seat. He wore white shirt, gray pants and pointed black shoes. Dense brows shaded his indecipherable eagle eyes. Wiry black hair roofed wide forehead. Bearded chin heightened perfect broad jaw. Firm mouth looked like cannon’s muzzle. He was Lemu.
   “Twenty one? Twenty one?” a short man in busily buckled corduroy overalls came banging into everything on his way, parked next to Lemu, grabbed liberally from a tray of sweets offered by a airhostess and nibbled noisily... As the plane took off, he saw Lemu looking up at the sky and asked “What makes that bland blue so interesting to you?”
   Lemu turned. The thunderstruck fellow fought hard to blank his flunking head...
   The plane touched Los Angeles. The nosey fellow in the overalls trotted behind Lemu to try his luck again. Recollecting the electric jolt, he rushed ahead sticking a thumb into his loose mouth. A baby unplugged thumb from mouth and gaped at the childish adult.


   The van drove through Brentwood Glen and stopped before Woodrose apartments at Wilshire Boulevard. Children stopped playing and stared at the tall mesmeric man entering their block. Three men followed him carrying junkie antiques and took the lift. Lemu took the stairs and reached the seventh floor in a wink. Furnished flat unlocked. Curtains parted. Windows opened. Dust flew out. Lift stopped. Startled loaders gawked at Lemu, blinked down at dizzying stairway, dumped things in the drawing room and fled from the freak. A small pot bellied lean man peeped out of the opposite flat. His wrinkled bald head boasted toasted wisdom. Owlish eyes rotated complimenting agile brain’s brilliant moves. He pecked the heads of fleeing men and walked into the open flat “Hello sir. I’m Boward, a retired lecturer in archeology.”
   Lemu bowed and gazed up from the window. Boward observed Lemu’s things with a familiar air. Suddenly everything appeared double. He struck up a thumb before each eye and brought them together merging the two images.
   “I’ll see you later.” he blurted and left.
   The door closed after him. He turned. It opened revealing a neatly arranged room. Focused on the sky, Lemu had not moved from the window. An old telescope idled on the table beside him. Charred brass tub topped a small gold-rimmed teak box before the northern wall. A primordial tree stump which had turned to stone took up a corner. A faded painting on the eastern wall portrayed yellow triangles superimposed on hazy brown background. A straw mat was spread below it. Boward’s mind twisted. Blaming it on liquor, he rushed home and stretched out on bed. Key turned. Door opened. Daughter Marge charged in “You met him?”
   His mind hovered over Lemu “Yes...”
   “Then what’s this doing here?” Marge picked an envelope “You were drunk.”
   “Can’t you permit a little memory loss on an aging father’s brain?” he chuckled “A granddaughter could pep up…”
   “You want a killer?”
   “It’s a sin to accuse God’s gift.”
   “Is it a blessing to die like mother?”
   Boward was saddened to dead end “You wouldn’t be here if your mother had thought like that.”
   Evening darkened. Lemu’s eyes scrutinized a couple of stars in the moonless sky... On the dark windy mountain peak, attentive barefooted young men in saffron robes surrounded their old teacher who looked up at the sky thinking out ‘Those two stars…’
   Two young boys ran down the steps and stopped at seventh floor feeling a sudden fluctuation in their pace. Averting a fall, one hit the bell. Door swung open. Lemu stood looking out of the window, twenty feet away.
   “He tricked us.” the rational boy explained Lemu’s implausible feat to his nervous friend and went in to check the telescope “Not a fake stick. Then, why is he bumming that black sky with bare eyes?”
   Reversing from the sky, Lemu shook him up in a shocking fit “We named the stars before you invented lenses.”
   Telescope vanished. Scared chaps apologized and scooted fast.
   The car dealer felt his showroom shrink as the irksome old customer cursed every modern innovation in the latest cars.
   The bullied fellow bellowed “Go back to your days and catch a jolly jalopy!”
   Blasting him and his likes for destroying the world, flabbergasted senior stormed out.
   “That’s an excellent choice!” the dealer commended the foreigner studying a red car. He dipped into a drawer and looked up circling the car keys on his forefinger “Whaaaa?”
   The red car zoomed out and zipped in making a smooth stop.
   Seeing the keys gone from his finger, the jellied seller eyed the ignition slot “Did I give you those keys?”
   “I’ll take it.” Lemu paid the exact amount in cash which appeared from his bare hands.
   The frightened man mechanically conducted the sale, vowing to never think or speak about it.

   Two cars speeding beside the red car turned into horses trotting along rugged rocky path in the hilly region clothed in thick green foliage and reached a waterfall. Five young men dived into the river and swam into a wide mouthed cave where meditating men and women levitated up in the air. A teacher stared at a pot cracking it into bits and invited his little pupils to try. An old man passed his thoughts to white robed men and women standing waist deep in water. Behind him, an image of yellow triangles superimposed on hazy brown background glowed on a screen of pure light. Two cars whizzed past the red car. Three homing pigeons followed it and flew up experiencing a fleeting recollection of their previous births.
   Misty night hampered visibility. Playing soft ancient music, the red car on the highway took a small forking road climbing up a hillock and stopped on its massive flat head. Music stopped. Lemu’s eyes speared twin stars from the sparkling sky. A fish leaped up dissipating the enchanting reflection on the lake’s surface. Ripples settled. A wrinkled lean man rose from the water and walked on it to the bank where practicing children kept falling in after taking few steps on water. They bowed before the master as he moved on ignoring them. The children now walked easily on the water. A fish leaped again ending the vision. Lemu’s gaze left the lake. Dateless music charged air. The red car seeped a thick wall of mist and entered the parking garage at Woodrose apartments.

   Donning clinging white blouse, short red skirt, cute cap and sleek black shoes, stunning Monica hurried on the lonely beach road lugging two heavy bags to burn off extra fat from advancing thirties.
   A little boy squealed from a passing car “It rained in our house! Did it rain in yours?”
   “Yah!” Monica turned around straying to the middle of the road.
   A fast black car scraped her hip. She fell on her back. A scarlet cut gleamed above her knee. The car screeched to a halt. An angelic young man in brown leather jacket, black pants and boots stepped out and ambled to her. A knife flipped open in his right hand. She reared back on frozen fours. A bandage popped up in his left hand. Dressing the cut in winks, he scooped her up. Her heaving bosom chinned up his face. Super voltage surpassed her wildest dreams.
   His disarming smile defeated her romantic expertise “Relax. I’m a doctor.”
   “So am I! Dr. Monica adores you.” she kissed him hard on the mouth, landed on her feet, threw her bags into his car and took the wheel.
   He sat next to her “Are you married?”
   “No.” she started the car.
   “Engaged?”
   “No.” she engaged the gear.
   “Love someone?”
   “No.” she stepped on the gas “What do you specialize in?”
   He stroked her thigh “I treat women in need of stroking.”
   “Aren’t you a doctor of medicine?”
   “Photographic memory saw me through medical college but I forgot what I crammed in the end. I’m a dummy doctor.”
   Ignoring blaring horn, the bulky woman crossed the road, belting her mobile. The car brushed her inciting an obscene outburst.
   Monica braked and looked out “Are you seriously hurt?”
   “Whore!” fried woman cried “Wanna see me die?”
   “Hold on.” Monica reversed and knocked her down.
   The sprawled woman crawled cackling a blasphemous cacophony.
   Monica whistled “I’m a perfectionist. I never leave anything unfinished.”

    Four grand gothic buildings sat amidst six acres of oak and banyan trees framed by tall sturdy compound wall. Smithens hospital looked gloomy ever since its proprietor died without making a will. Its popular doctors left after a serious dispute with the foolish son who put up a front using mediocre doctors. Notorious wrong diagnoses kept patients away. Bungling doctors were replaced and tarnished Smithens was used to account for severe losses, saving stupendous earnings of its owner’s Casinos from taxes.
   “I’m the dean.” Monica toured the lonely place briefing Frank. Monica paraded Frank around the hospital. Doctors played poker. Ward boys fought over a bet. Chuckling nurses cracked jokes.
   She stopped before a huge door “Will you work at Smithens? No patients. Only me.”
   Frank ruminated over it “I’d like to test my patience.”
   “You are appointed. You start work tomorrow. Welcome to my office!” Monica turned a brass doorknob and opened the door triggering dancing lights. Stylish room throbbed with mobbing music. Hissing A.C exhaled cool air. Small bar sparkled next to blue waterbed. Startled fishes in the colorful fish tank blinked.
   “Let me introduce myself.” Monica began to take off her clothes…

   Professor Howard’s blunt call brought Bernard to the American Film Institute where he had scored a BFA in screenwriting and directing, thwarting his stunning looks from acting. He felt low. His girl recently staged a disgusting scene to dump him because creative people were impractical and partly insane.
   A golden Limousine driven by a golden suited driver came out of the parking lot behind Louis B Mayer Library and stopped before him. A little hairy apish man in a jazzy golden suit and shoes wobbled down the steps with Professor Howard. His long plump hands swept the ground. Stumpy bow legs stomped haphazardly. Gold chains hung all over him. An attendant in a golden uniform lit a gold colored cigar and stuck it into the man’s enormous mouth that sucked hard and blew out quite a cloud. The hyperactive attendant removed the live cigar, stubbed it in a gold ashtray strapped to his waist and lit up a fresh one for the next puff. Heady combinations of contrasting perfumes dizzied Bernard as the stranger boarded the golden car.
   Bernard asked Howard “Who’s that?”
   “Your producer, Mr. Gold. He owns gold mines and believes in starting everything from the beginning. His wife told him that life originated in the sea and movies began as a silent black and white short film. So he is opening his new film production company with a silent black and white short film on sea life. You are expected to shoot around the coasts of Puerto Rica because Gold was born there. His twin nephews will work with you. Mickey, an eccentric treasure hunter with no sense of direction is your assistant director. Your cameraman Jackie’s hobby is cinematography. No more hands on your team because Gold’s wife says ‘too many cooks spoil the soup.’ She chose you because you have the same name as her son who was never born. Meet Gold at Hotel Grand. He may give you a big break...”


   Restless receptionist ventilated into a scintillating smile “Mr. Gold is expecting you.”
   The exquisite private dining suite suffered a lavish golden touch. A stout clean-shaven moody fellow in loose blue trousers and red shirt stared at a jar, framing it as a missing link to an ancient civilization. A lean unshaven chap seemed to be gazing at a magical world invisible to ordinary mortals.
   “I’ll send the waiter.” the possessed girl raced off after her bombastic introductions were cut short by Gold’s grunt.
   Bernard wondered if Gold was tipping her with gold.
   “Jackie Gold.” Gold pointed a claw at the lean chap and waved a paw at the stout one “Mickey Gold.”
   A sleepy waiter came to them.
   Jackie snorted “Orange juice.”
   “Yeah.” Mickey picked his nose.
   Gold told the waiter “Bring ice creams.”
   The muddled waiter soon returned with milkshakes. Gold and co gulped them complementing the unexpected turn of fate with boisterous slurps.
   “Make the movie good as gold. Bernard’s advance.” Gold gave a golden envelope to Bernard and waddled out.
   Bernard sneered at Jackie “Orange juice became ice creams, then came the milkshakes and you swigged it with no reaction.”
   Jackie frowned “Why can’t you enjoy a surprise?”

   “I can’t serve that buffoon.” Bernard dropped Gold’s envelope on the table.
   Professor Howard opened it “Not even for one million dollars?”

   The wall to wall bookshelves, classic French furniture and Roman chandeliers in the aristocratic room imparted a royal touch to the smart young chap in the leather armchair. A successful publisher and author of eighteen novels, Danny Hopkins mentally reran the entries, shuffling twenty diaries like a pack of cards on the mahogany table. He picked Racing past time, his last novel which failed and thought about the first murder…
   Midnight was pitch-dark as his heart. He carelessly swung the car on the lonely highway, replaying triumphant scenes: fake symptoms induced in his old hypersensitive uncle... escorting him to hospital... bribed doctor’s fabricated fatal diagnosis that triggered his quick mental disintegration… making him sign a will without his knowledge… taking him on sentimental visits to relatives and friends… his ultimate poisoning and the final journey in the car’s trunk to be laid on his beloved dead wife’s grave to pass off as suicide... Sudden blinding lights forced him on the brakes. Police officers pulled him out and searched his car... Police officer Malcolm finished reading the last page and shut the novel - Racing past time “Strange. Our scene takes off exactly from your storybook’s end.”
   “That’s not my book.” young Hammond squirmed under the tight focus of police officer Bailey.
   Thick forests hugged the highway on both sides. Bats whizzed about quietly. Hooting owl looted silence.
   “Whose book is this?” Malcolm tapped Hammond’s car with the novel provoking insects into a screechy protest.
   “I don’t know.” Hammond tamed tempestuous temper “Someone must’ve dropped it in.”
   “Then let’s drop it.” Malcolm threw the book on the front seat “Where were you racing like that?”
   “We’ve gone over all that.”
   “Refresh me. I have a memory problem.”
   “I’m going to see my uncle at Swan City. He’s very sick.”
   “How did you know?”
   “I got a call.”
   “From?”
   “Don’t know. The line broke…”
   “Were you rushing without cross checking the information?”
   “I couldn’t wait. My uncle is my godfather, savior, teacher...”
   “And a multimillionaire.”
   “His money does not rule my affection…”
   “Open the trunk.”
   Hammond searched the keychain “The key’s missing…”
   Malcolm flashed torch on the rear seat. A brass key answered with a glitter.
   Hammond picked the stray key “How did it get there?”
   “Must’ve fought with the keychain and boycotted it. Stay put while I have a look.” Malcolm checked the trunk and picked the novel “Take a good look at your car’s butt and see if you can remember using this book as your guide. I told you about my memory problem. I think you forgot to tell me about yours. We were both following anonymous calls. You didn’t inquire about your caller and mine hung up at a phone booth before I could ask.”
   Damned Hammond ambled to the car’s back side. His dead uncle lay curled up in the trunk. White foam oozed from gaping mouth. A nameless bouquet of daffodils did its best to decorate the soiled chest.