The Sleep Club Bedtime Story Collection

Of Snowflakes and Owls by Nathalie Boisard-Beudin

Fri, 29 Apr 2011 19:43:30 +0100

“You are stepping on my shadow, girl.”
You have to be careful with witches. They are sensitive about that type of behaviour and do not look kindly upon potential trespassers. But I knew that and therefore had put a good foot of unfettered light between her shadow and my boots. 
Now I also knew – because I had been told – that it is not necessarily a good idea to argue with witches. If they said you had stepped on their shadow, why then you must have had. Perhaps only in your dreams but somewhere, somehow, you had. There was just no contradiction possible.  
But my mother always says that I never pay attention to what I am told and in that instance I must admit – reluctantly - that she was right.   The old scowling biddy in front of me was obviously blind; there was just NO WAY I could have stepped on her shadow. Not even in intention and goodness knows I was tempted so, being the contrary creature I am. 
So I opened my big mouth and said something like   “Don’t be daft! I am not”.   Or words to that effect.  Yeah. I know. It does sound bad, doesn’t it? I saw you cringe right now, I did. 
Well, if that's any comfort to you, I also realised the enormity of it as soon as I heard – nay: felt – the words leave my tongue. Which I bit most viciously but – alas – too late to eat back the offensive terminology and tone. I was in deep trouble.  But you know what? The darnedest thing happened: Here I was, sweating profusely, trying to control my bowels – keep them from dissolving and embarrassing me even further – but she did not even bothered with me. She just left, as if all this was of no importance whatsoever, with that off-hand gesture one might do if throwing salt over their left shoulder to protect themselves against the evil eye. See what I mean? For the briefest moment, I really felt like she had tossed me out of her mind and life completely. Neat, eh?  I had not even had the time to feel relieved.  There and then, I'd been transformed into a tree.   Now what type of curse is that, you ask? Well, I can tell you: It's a pretty wicked one.  First you can't move or speak any more, which does reduce terribly your chances to try and change back into your usual self. And there could be no explaining to your Mum what you got yourself into this time. Plus you are stuck in the same position forever. I don't know if you have tried to remain static for a while, with your arms open, but if you have, you'll know that this is extremely hard work. And as a tree, you can't even sweat to cool off. It's like being condemned to a life of cramps you can't shake off or of backaches you can't get massages for. It's like carrying the whole sky on your shoulders. Even the lightest low cruising cloud is heavy weight and I can not begin to tell you what it was like to have birds on my branches, I swear. These sparrows are made of lead behind those fluffy feathers and they weigh TONS. In particular when they perch at the tip of the branches. And the pears!  Ah yes, because I haven't told you yet. It turned out I was a pear tree. I had nice flowers and all at first but, come autumn, those little fluffy things had mutated into enormous heavy lumps of flesh. Then kids started to climb on my branches to get at them, breaking plenty on the way. And having limbs broken is not a nice feeling, in case you'd wondered. It did lighten the burden somehow but it was all traumatic nevertheless.  Winter started to settle in – a nasty business as I couldn't even shiver – and I still did not know if and how I could change back, let alone when.  
Would the witch relent? Maybe she'd forgotten me completely.  
I had seen my Mum passing by my spot calling in anguish and it had really hurt not to be able to tell her I was there. I had cried then, big tears of sap coming from goodness knows where, but I soon learned to avoid that after hearing a farmer saying that I must be diseased and that maybe they'd better chop me up for wood. That soon sobered me up. I'd kept incredibly quiet and cheerful after this.
 Then winter was dusting my branches with frost and snow – more weight to carry. Now I felt quite forlorn, despondent and needing company very badly. This is probably why, when the owl showed up and asked – nicely – if it could take shelter and rest on one of my branches, I felt generous and let it.  There was something else too: no other bird had ever spoken to me before. They'd whistle, chirp, chirrup, lilt, peep, trill, tweedle, tweet, twitter, warble or even purl but speak? Never. So I tried and thought some words, asking the creature how come it could speak where the other birds did not? And the wondrous thing is that it replied.  Told me that it was only the ghost of an owl – haven't I noticed that it did not weigh on my branch? I had not but admitted that it was true – and as such could communicate with all living creatures by thoughts, in particular with those who were under enchantment or curse, as I was.
 Cool! I didn't know that birds could have ghosts too. Oh, but they could if they had been the victim of murder most foul and this one had been unlucky enough to be crucified on a barn door to ward off evil eye. Humans thought living owls brought ill fortune and trees thought bird ghosts were bad luck. Now it was telling me! How come nobody had warned me about this?
 The owl just frowned and told me the other trees had shouted warnings in their own language but since I was technically a human, I could not hear them. And besides, this evil eye business was all rubbish and I should not let it bother me.
 In fact, since I had so graciously – if unwittingly - offered a supplicant shelter, it would tell me how I could get back to my human form.  And it did.  Now you'll have to realise that getting out of a curse is an unusually tricky business not to mention risky. But what the owl then told me was a work of art in that domain: it was simply impossible. That bitch of a witch had cursed me good and long, no question. The “trick” was presumably straight forward: My shadow JUST needed to be overshadowed by that of a snowflake. It's the “just” that killed me. “Understatement” doesn't even begin to cover the problem! How could a single snowflake's shadow cover mine?  The owl did that weird movement they do with their head, a complete turn and back. Apparently it is their way of having fun and this little guy was laughing its head off at my expense.  “You're making this up, aren’t you?” “Nooooo. I’m telling the truth. You can't manage it on your own of course but I can help. You see, ghosts have shadows as well...” “No kidding! I've never seen any.” “Seen many ghosts, have you?” “Errr. No. Good point. Go ahead, then.” “Thank you. So. As I was saying: ghosts have shadows too. HOWEVER, since we are ethereal, our shadows are not dark but luminous. They are also a little more substantial than we are and are sometimes used as mirrors by witches or as magnifying glasses...” “And?” “Ma-gni-fy-ing glas-ses.”  The owl seemed to think I should be getting a point. But pear trees are not renowned for their brains and I was cold. I tried to shrug but couldn't.  “Sorry, you've lost me.”  The owl sighed and puffed up its feathers.  “For a snowflake to cast a shadow at all, it must snow AND the sun must be shining at the same time.” “Isn't that rare or ...?” “Extremely. Actually, many people, including hosts of eminent scientists, would tell that it is nearly impossible. And yet, it sometimes rain with the sun being out so, in theory, it could also snow in such conditions.” “What would a snow rainbow look like?” “Sorry?” “I was just wondering - what would a rainbow caused by snow look like?” “Cold. Rainbows do not get into this. Do pay attention. When the time comes and this meteorological phenomenon happens, you must call me. I will come and place myself between a flake and you, and you will find that the shadow of that flake, through the magnifying glass of my shadow will be larger than your own.” “You're sure? It sounds a little far fetched.” “Curses usually are. But you don't have to believe me. Just try - you'll see for yourself.” “And how am I supposed to call you, O My Saviour, on that fateful day?” “Thornthrope.” “Eh?” “Thornthrope. My parents got a little ... errr... over the top with naming.”  I could have sworn it had blushed. Thornthrope. Now that's a lot of name. Not an easy thing to call out but... As the owl had said: most curses are far fetched. So the ghost owl flew away and I started to wait for the impossible to happen.  Snow came all right, abundantly too, and the odd ray of sun as well, but they just did not seem to belong together.   And then one day... It did not snow. It had however snowed aplenty the day before and all the world was covered in a thick layer of the cold powdery stuff. The sun was out and bright. It would have been ideal to warm up my wood but as there was a gelid breeze blowing its icy breath on all things. I was in a foul mood.  Suddenly I saw it happening just before what should have been my nose. The wind was swirling the unpacked snowflakes, making them dance in the sun.   “Thooornthroooope!” The owl was there in an instant, swooping in from goodness knows where. It flew around a bit, looking for the perfect spot with respect to my shadow. It must have found it because I suddenly felt a wave of heat coming in from behind me and found myself foundering on all fours, trying to get up but unable to move because of my sore muscles. Luckily - and oddly - enough I still had my clothes on but those had been spring items and were proving rather inadequate for this weather. However, there was nothing for it at the moment and I just lay in the snow, gasping for air in my own human lungs – they had been unused all that time and felt rusty, trying to catch a glimpse of Thornthrope.
 I could not see my saviour anywhere, nor hear its voice. Maybe a human could not see the ghost of a bird? But it had said that a ghost could communicate with any living creature it wanted to. So why couldn't I hear its voice?   I struggled to my feet, hugging myself to keep warm, and scanning the scene. Alas, all I found was a smouldering heap of ashes and feathers in the snow. The magnifying glass effect had rebound and set the poor bird on fire, burning it completely. And I, who had never spared a thought for owls or raptors crucified on the doors of barns before that day, started to cry for that unfortunate life twice lost. Rocking over the pitiful remains, I howled and bawled against all the injustice in this world, all that greedy snappy voracious fate that cannot even spare a simple bird.  My tears must have drowned the last dying sparks because the pitiful bundle went completely dark. I took it in my hands, determined to give it a decent burial.  I took three hesitant steps and was trying to keep my balance when the weirdest and most awesome thing of all happened.  In my hands, all of the sudden, something in the ashes was moving. Peeling a sodden charred feather away, I saw the tiniest fluffy barn owl chick blinking at me with myopic eyes.   “Thornthrope!” I swear - I think I saw it blush.
***
More about Nathalie

Nathalie Boisard-Beudin is a middle aged French woman living in Rome, Italy. She has more hobbies than spare time, alas - reading, cooking, writing, painting and photography - so hopes that her technical colleagues at the European Space Agency will soon come up with a solution to that problem by stretching the fabric of time. Either that or send her up to write about the travels and trials of the International Space Station, the way this was done for the exploratory missions of old. Clearly the woman is a dreamer.

Out of Time by Viccy Adams

Fri, 29 Apr 2011 19:43:10 +0100

Ellie plays by my feet, pretending that the screwdriver set is a family of dolls. I kick a bent nail away from her. She has tracks of sawdust all over her dress and I make a mental note to brush her down before she goes back upstairs.
Since John left to visit his mother I haven’t slept; the proposal deadline is at the end of this week.
Checking the remote wiring one last time, I notice that my hands are covered in oil. I stand up and wipe them on my apron, blinking away the lights dancing in front of my eyes.
‘I want to show you something,’ says Ellie, tugging at my skirt. I snap at her to leave me alone.
When Ellie cries, it is impossible to concentrate.
*
The glass of water on my workbench has sawdust floating on top, but I drink it anyway. My head clears a little and I take off the apron and put a sweater on. I almost step on the plate from Ellie’s sandwich and end up kicking it out of my way. It clatters under the workbench and I think I’ve probably chipped it.
My hands are shaking as I lean in to press the button, almost falling forward, into the mechanism. My arms are cold and I can’t remember if I’ve left a window open, or if I ought to turn the heating on.
The engine purrs like a barely-there cat. I keep my ears open for those tell-tale glitches in the rhythm, but this time there’s nothing, but the velvet noise of everything going perfectly.
I’d do a victory dance or whoop but the exhaustion hits hard and I have to sit down.
*
When I call John to tell him, the line is bad and keeps cutting out. I punch the wall lightly, barely leaving a mark in the plaster, and keep hitting redial.
He wants to talk to Ellie so I give her the handset and stretch out my shoulder muscles, swinging my arms in circles. My fingertips brush the lampshade and it swings, making erratic pools of shade swirl over the walls. Ellie prattles on for ages. When I finally take the phone back, the line is dead. I call John back and he claims he barely caught a word of what she said and asks to talk to her again.
‘The wiring is working,’ I tell him. ‘I’m all set to go.’
‘Tell Ellie I’ll be back in time for the concert on Friday. I don’t want her to think I won’t make it.’
‘I thought the new fuse wouldn’t hold, but it’s fine after all.’
‘Mum wants to send her love to Ellie. Can you put her back on?’ I hang up. When he calls back, I tell him he’ll have to get a taxi from the station.
‘Pick me up when Ellie finishes school. I don’t mind waiting an hour,’ he says. I don’t tell him Ellie won’t be going to school, that she hasn’t been to school since he left. I say the car has a flat tire.
*
Without setting an alarm I think I could have slept until lunchtime. Ellie hits the snooze button for me and we both go back to sleep for another ten minutes.
I only get up because she wets the bed.
It’s hard not to let my disgust show. I sit her in the bath and strip the bed. She follows me around as I make breakfast, neither of us saying a word.
Once I’ve had some coffee, I get the box of colouring pens out and tell her to keep busy while I sort out my paperwork. I update the wiring specs and re-check the small print in the proposal guidelines. The first test run has to be witnessed by at least five accredited society members before the application will be processed.
John has promised to pull some strings once he gets back. I’m finished early. I wonder if I should take Ellie in to school this afternoon to make sure he doesn’t have anything to use as an excuse for not calling up his society buddies. Last time I had a break through, he refused to call them as punishment because I missed her nativity play. The time before, it was because I forgot my mother’s birthday. He is better with dates than I am, but I know I’m better with the other numbers.
I can’t refill the kettle in the sink because it’s piled high with dirty plates. Ellie’s school uniform needs ironing. My hands have stopped shaking, but I still look like I haven’t slept. I decide that another day off school won’t hurt anyone.
‘Remember what we tell Daddy when he gets back?’ I smile at Ellie and smooth her hair back.
‘I felt sick.’
‘What else?’
‘We played monkey in the garden.’
‘What didn’t you do?’ She says she didn’t go into the workshop. I tell her she’s a good girl and that she can go through to the sitting room and watch a DVD. She puts all the crayons back in the box first and tidies her drawings into a pile. The top one is stick figures. All she ever draws are people.
*
Hammering a nail into the car tyre makes me feel like a teenager. I’ve put the tools downstairs and come back out to check on my handiwork when one of the neighbours spots a woman messing around with a vehicle and comes to check up on me.
‘Problem with the car, Jeanie?’
‘Slow puncture on the left, I think.’
‘Checked the pressure?’
‘John’s back this afternoon.’ He accepts that as an answer which, in itself, would normally piss me off. So long as nobody tells John they saw me vandalising the car our neighbours can be as sexist as they like. I use Ellie as an excuse to escape small talk and go back inside.
*
The dishes take ages. I give Ellie a packet of chocolate biscuits and tell her to keep out from under my feet.
John calls from the station to tell me he got an early train and he’ll be home in half an hour. I stick the bed-sheets in the washing machine.
The trails of sawdust in the hallway clog the hoover and I waste precious minutes fixing it. I call to Ellie, telling her to bring her duvet downstairs. She doesn’t answer. I wash the dust off my hands and go to check. Ellie has eaten the whole packet and thrown up on the sofa. There is half-digested chocolate everywhere.
I didn’t mean to shout, but this is meant to be the most important day of my life. Ellie shuts herself in the bathroom.
*
The machine starts up without a hitch, just as I knew it would. I’m not asking it to move mountains, just to buy a little time. Nobody will ever need to know I ran an unsupervised test; I’ll factor in enough time to clean the house, grab a shower myself, and then wipe the disk memory.
The excitement blinds me to everything. Afterwards, I try to work out if I knew on some subconscious level. I try to think if I heard John’s key turning in the front door and rushed. I try to think if I saw something out of the corner of my eye and ignored it.
I set the timer and I fasten my seatbelt. This time, my hands shake from excitement as I press the first button. The air pressure thickens slightly. There’s a flash of light and a scream.
I feel like I’m swimming through treacle. Automatically, I switch over the ignition key and the purring noise of the engine chokes off. My first assumption is that I’m the one who has screamed and I stare at my hands and try to work out if I’m in pain.
John runs down the workshop stairs at the same time as I reach to unfasten the seatbelt. Neither of us can remember which of us reaches Ellie first; our memories are too full of the sight of her leg stuck in the half-bastion at the front of the machine; a mess of white and red.
*
Our daughter looks so small in the hospital bed. Ellie shuts her eyes whenever I come into the room, so I can’t help but picture her as a corpse and am reduced to hiding round the corner and looking through the observation window for proof that she really is alive.
I am not surprised that John refuses to speak to me. Every time the doctor says a word I can recognise, like ‘septicaemia’, I wince.
It is decided that Ellie is better off staying in hospital for a few more nights. I wonder if they are going to call the police. I’ve never hurt a child before and I’m half-expecting social services to come and say we can’t take her home. I wonder if we have the money for lawyer fees. John turns his face away from me in the car when I bring it up.
*
I take the mattress from Ellie’s bed down into the workshop. John puts fresh sheets on our bed. I try to tell him about Ellie wetting the bed, but he turns his back as if he can’t hear me and goes to get pillowslips from the linen cupboard. Her duvet is pink with large, purple flowers. I don’t remember where we got it from.
When John has finished washing the dishes, he leaves the house without leaving a note or telling me where he’s going. Once I’ve finished downstairs I call the hospital. They refuse to give me any details about Ellie’s operation. Even when I tell them I’m her mother they tell me I’m not allowed access to her files. I ask if John is there and they say they’re not at liberty to give out any personal information. When I say I’m coming down, they hang up.
John has taken the car. I come back inside and look for spare cash for a taxi. I find that John has also cleaned the sitting room. It still smells of vomit, but I can barely make out the stains on the carpet. I always thought that cream carpets were a bad idea, but the salesman said they looked classy.
I decide to wait for John to call and tell me what’s going on. Perhaps he has gone for groceries. I sit on the damp couch and look at the box of toys in the corner. There’s a family of dolls which John’s mother gave Ellie at her christening. I have an epiphany.
Now that the sink is empty, I take the washing up bowl downstairs and start sponging off the machine. I have to work slowly, picking out small splinters of bone with tweezers. One last spray of oil and the machine is as good as new. One of the cogs is a little bent, but it spins fine. Only a perfectionist would notice.
The sawdust has absorbed most of the blood so there isn’t much of a stain on the floor. I bend down under the workbench and retrieve the plate. There’s a small chip on the edge but nothing too bad, nothing that can’t be fixed. I take it upstairs and rinse it off. Now that I’m about to sort this whole mess out I’m feeling full of energy. I decide to factor in enough time to clean the house, as a treat for my family. It’ll be a secret penance; they’ll never need to know what I’m apologising for because it will have never happened.
The police arrive when I’m updating the paperwork. I make a note that the bent cog is purely an aesthetic issue, and sign at the bottom of the page. The blue lights coming through the window make me realise how dark it is and I’m surprised that I’ve missed suppertime.
I leave the application forms on John’s desk and look out the window. There are two police cars out front, and one of them is more of a van than a car.
They knock again, and shout through the door, but I don’t bother trying to work out what they’re saying.
*
Down in the workshop, I turn on the light on the workbench and bolt the trapdoor from the inside. The caramel purr of the engine is soothing. Lying down on Ellie’s mattress, I unclench my fists and smooth the duvet over me. It’s tempting to fall asleep like this.
I take my time, waiting and listening to the sound of the engine for a good thirty minutes or so; making sure I can’t hear anything snagging.
The bedding smells of Ellie; sour milk, but sweet. The footsteps upstairs sound very far away. I hope they didn’t do too much damage to the door getting in. John will be so embarrassed if the neighbours heard anything.
It’s time. I prop up on one elbow, and kick my legs out from the tangle of sheets. I scuff fresh sawdust over the stain on the floor and re-set the timer on the main control system.
Clicking the seatbelt into place, I remember the struggle to get it undone. I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt and practise. Seatbelt locked, seatbelt unlocked. It’s easy. I wipe my hands again and lock it in place.
As I press the final button, I’m suddenly very aware that I still haven’t showered. I can feel the streaks of oil on my legs and my eyes itch with dust.
The world turns black. My life flashes before my eyes until I shut them, screwing them up as tight as possible. I feel very heavy and then the engine cuts out.
The world is silent. My fingers fumble along my side and undo the seatbelt. My mouth tastes of pepper. I realise my eyes are shut, but I’m reluctant to open them. I remember Ellie’s white face in the hospital bed. Eventually I open my eyes and get out of the machine.
The workshop looks the same. I feel like a fool. Then I see the small figure creeping down the stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible. I sit down on the floor. I can’t believe I didn’t see her before; she doesn’t exactly move quietly. I want to call out straight away, but I can’t open my mouth. This is just too much. Both of Ellie’s legs are functioning perfectly.
Watching myself standing by the workbench is creepy. I watch Ellie sidle round the room. Then I remember why I’m here so I stand up and walk over to her. It’s hard to remember that she and I are from different times; I hadn’t allowed for emotional impact in my calculations. I must remember to add a footnote into the paperwork when I get back. I’m shaking and I feel weak.
Ellie stands by the front of the machine, drawing patterns in the sawdust with her foot. I see that she isn’t wearing shoes, and I’m scared she’ll step on a stray nail. She bends down to pick something up and I turn round to see myself stepping into the machine. I look awful.
Hearing the seatbelt click into place, I know I’m running out of time. I shout to Ellie to move. She doesn’t react. I go right up to her and grab her arm to pull her out the way but my fingers fade through her.
She can’t hear me. I can’t touch her. I can’t do anything but watch the excruciating details as Ellie crouches in the dust, absorbed in the pattern she is tracing.
The engine starts up and the heavy air around it starts to pull Ellie in. I reach through her pointlessly; trying to stop what I already know is going to happen. Despite everything, I can see how beautiful the machine is in action.
The snap of the bone is much louder from this position. I’m sobbing on the floor when John comes in. I barely even notice the engine stopping.
Once the ambulance has left, I step around the blood stains and get into the machine. My fingers connect with the buttons but I don’t feel anything on the inside, not even a sense of relief. I pull the seatbelt across my body and while I’m aware it is there, I don’t care that it is.
I press the button but nothing happens. I press it again. The engine stays silent. I undo the seatbelt and get out again.
I know the cog is from my machine because I can pick it up. I trace the slight bend on one edge. I squeeze my fist around it then hurtle it across the room. My fingers go straight through the tools on my workbench when I try to pick them up.
I kick my time machine hard enough to break a toe, but I can’t feel anything. I run my arm against the sharp edge of the front plating on the machine; it cuts and heals seamlessly. I don’t bleed. I bite down on the inside of my cheek and it doesn’t hurt. I think that I ought to write this down somewhere but I didn’t bring any paper with me.
Hours later, when the light is switched back on and I watch myself dragging Ellie’s duvet down into my workshop, I can‘t move. I talk to my former self in a monotone, listing what is going to happen. I watch the time machine disappear into what I’m starting to fear could become an endless loop. I don’t sleep; I’m already in a nightmare.
*
For the first couple of week, I stay with my machine. Then I realise that Ellie can’t come down through the trapdoor in her wheelchair. I have to go to her, for a change. The irony is not lost on me.
To begin with, I keep trying to fix the machine, but without my tools I am useless. Certain parts I can unscrew and screw back on. I can do up and undo the seatbelt. I can kick it. I can pound my fists on it. I can’t make it work.
Even after I’ve given up hope of fixing the machine, I still go back down into the workshop to sit in the chair and press the buttons. Once a year, to remind myself that I used to have a life, that I used to be able to feel. After a decade I stop bothering to do up the seatbelt before pressing the buttons.
I follow Ellie and John like a ghost. It is impossible to stop trying to touch them, to stop believing that they can, on some levels, sense that I am there. I carry the bent cog in my pocket and wave it in front of their faces.
I hoped that John would use the plans I left on his desk to find me. He burnt them. I never saw him question what happened to the machine in my workshop, and Ellie never asks him.
One day I look at John and realise he has turned into an old man. I look at the streaks of oil on my legs and the dirt I can’t get out from under my fingernails and it sinks in that I’m not turning into an old woman because I’m stuck outside of time, no longer moving in the dimension of potential and possibility.
He retires to Spain, with his new wife. Ellie gets breast cancer and I sit by her side every night, stroking the air above her hair and pretending to myself that she can sense me. The operation is not a success and I watch my daughter fade away. Neither she nor John ever mentioned my name. It’s as if I never existed.

The Final Flight of But-I-Am by Dara Ó Foghlú

Sun, 4 Jul 2010 19:32:54 +0100

When I was a boy I almost knew how to fly. Every morning in bed I’d practice with my legs lifted up in the air, trying to raise the rest of my body up too. With my eyes closed, I could swoosh around the town, arms out wide, grabbing handfuls of cloud and blue fistfuls of the sky above our house where I lived with Mammy, Daddy and my older brother.
One day, my brother said to me, ‘Out of bed, lazybones, today we have to clean the house. Mammy and Daddy aren’t well.’
‘But I am learning to fly.’
My brother laughed, ‘Little But-I-Am, you could spend the rest of your life in bed and you’ll never know how to fly. You’ll never be as light as a bird and you don’t have any feathers.’
My brother’s head was full to the brim with facts, but he’d only ever tell you things when it made you look stupid. My legs dropped onto the bed.
‘You see, birds’ bones are light and hollow, but your bones are dense. They’re too heavy for flying, but just strong enough for housework.’
With each word I could feel my bones get heavier inside my arms and legs. Then I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled through every room in the house with the broom and dustpan.

One sunny morning, Mammy and Daddy never got out of bed.
‘Are you learning to fly?’ I asked them, tugging at Daddy’s big toe. But they wouldn’t answer. My brother told me they had already flown away, even though I could see them lying in bed pretending not to be there. After that, he made my sandwiches for school, until the day when I came home and all the food cabinets were open and empty. My brother took his face out of his hands and asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Here.’ He handed me a piece of paper. It said,

You can be anything you want to be.

‘Now, what do you want to be when you grow up?’
‘A bird,’ I said.
His forehead covered over with squiggly lines and he began to write on another piece of paper.
‘Take this. I want you to read both pieces of paper every day.’
The second piece of paper said,

Don’t be stupid.

After that, my brother went away and never came back. He didn’t pretend to fly away like Mammy and Daddy; he just got into an airplane that flew him to America. Its wings couldn’t flap and it was much heavier than any bird I knew of, but it had four big engines that made it fly all the same. When he got off in America, they gave him a job. He sent me money in a letter that asked if I knew what I wanted to be yet.

I looked at the first piece of paper he gave me and thought about being a chess grandmaster, travelling the world with unbeatable tactics, winning tall trophies and golden medals wherever I went.
Then I looked at the second piece of paper and realised that it was a stupid idea because I didn’t know how to play chess.

I wanted to be a samurai warrior who does not know the meaning of the word defeat, protecting the shogun and the people in his province. My sword would be the sharpest and fastest in all of Japan and every villain would fear the name of But-I-Am, the samurai.
Then I looked at the second piece of paper and realised it was a stupid idea because I didn’t have a sword and I already knew what the word defeat meant. My brother told me it was when you realised life was a fight where you got beat up all the time.

I thought about working in the local shop, stocking massive pyramids of canned goods, sweeping the aisles so people could shop without getting their shoes dirty, and telling everyone to have a nice day as they left with their groceries.
I walked down to the shop where they told me I was very lucky and gave me a job.

I still read the two pieces of paper every day.
‘Back to work, you eejit.’ The manager was always saying.
So I’d put the papers back in my trouser pocket and stack more cans of peas on top of the stockpile I had built. Eventually, it was a fifteen-foot-high pyramid, but the manager wanted them no more than six feet tall. He handed me a broom, and said,
‘People don’t want to see that many peas. You just keep the floor clean from now on.’
The floor was never really dirty anyway, but I walked the broom around the clean floor again and again, until it was so clean that there was not a single piece of dust left in the shop. I pushed it to the main entrance where I told everybody coming and going to have a good day but they didn’t look like they were having a good day at all. They just bustled past with their trolleys, chattering into mobile phones or trying to scream louder than their children. After a while, I went back to reading the pieces of paper my brother gave me.

The manager’s face appeared behind the paper again, as big as a blister. I don’t think he cared if people had a good day or not, and I don’t think he had ever had a nice day in his entire life. He was redder than usual and I thought he might pop. He didn’t though. Instead, he snatched the papers out of my hands and tore them up. Then he told me I was fired.
‘You’re fired, dummy,’ he said.
I gathered up as many of the shreds of paper as I could but some bits stuck to trolley wheels and other bits stuck to people’s shoes, and they were all too busy to come back when I asked them to.
‘Sorrytoobusy,’ they all said.
When I got home, I stuck the pieces I had back together with sticky-tape, but now they read,

Don’t be anything.
And
You can be stupid.

I threw both of them away because I thought they were doing me more harm than good now. I wrote my brother a long letter telling him about losing my job and his words of advice. Then I went back to bed and waited for his reply.

I stayed in bed for a week before I got up to eat something. Then I went back to bed. In another week I got more food and left it beside my bed. I slept and only ate when I was really hungry.
I became so bored that I listened to my breath coming in and going out just for something to do.

In … Still no word from America … Out …
In … What did he write on those two pieces of paper? … Out …
In … What will become of me without my brother’s good advice? … Out …

A long time passed. I ran out of things to think about so I stopped thinking about them at all. And then I forgot about them completely. I forgot everything my brother had told me, everything the manager had shouted at me. I even forgot about being a chess grandmaster or a fearless samurai. All I had to entertain myself was the sound of my own breath, so I listened to it come in and go out of me. In. Out. In. Out. All. Day. Long.
On the day I forgot the very last thing I ever knew, my legs got lighter as I breathed in, and my chest rose up as I breathed out. Then I did it again. I breathed in and my legs lifted up off the bed and when I breathed out the rest of my body lifted up too.
The engine inside my chest was just like the big engines on the airplanes that fly to America, so I floated out of my bedroom, down the stairs and exited the house up through the chimney just for fun. Up inside the sky, everything looked small, even my house which seemed really big when you had to live there on your own. I saw the manager outside the shop shouting through his red dot of a face. The boy standing in front of him was wearing my old uniform and looking down at his shoes.
I flew off then, stopping on the tip of the Eiffel Tower, and in a single leap I landed on top of the Taj Mahal. And then I went up into the sky like a rocket, through the clouds, grabbing handfuls and mouthfuls until I reached Russia where I saw the best chess player in the world. Then I flew over Japan where I saw great swordsmen training to be samurai, all trying to forget what the word ‘defeat’ meant.
I flew through the blue wedge of sky to where it turned black and blinked back at me with a million eyes. Below, I could see the backs of birds and airplanes struggling against the wind like ants in shifting sand. Finally, I ended up in America where I met my brother stacking a six-foot tall pyramid of canned sweet corn.
‘Hello there,’ I said to him, floating above his head.
‘Hello back,’ he said. ‘What are you?’
‘I am your brother. Don’t you recognise me?’
‘You are not my brother. But-I-Am is three thousand miles away.’
‘I flew here.’
‘My brother cannot fly.’
‘But I can.’
‘Then you’re not my brother.’
‘But I am. What am I then, if I am not your little brother, But-I-Am?’
‘You are too small to be an airplane.’
‘I am not an airplane.’
‘You don’t have enough feathers to be a bird.’
‘I am not a bird.’
‘Then you are dead.’
‘No brother, I remembered how to fly, that’s all.’
‘No. You are dead.’
‘But I am alive. I am not dead.’
‘Oh but you are, little brother.’

* * *

About Dara Ó Foghlú

Dara Ó Foghlú writes awful things about people who don't exist, and some who do. He does not believe in pets, and his palms cannot be read. When he was born, the Druids foretold that someday he will write the greatest Christmas movie ever.

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The Cloud Dwellers by Christine Carey

Sun, 4 Jul 2010 19:32:39 +0100

“Story time!”

“Yep,” her mother answered, pulling the quilt up so that Arianna could wiggle into place beneath it. “Did you brush your teeth?”
Arianna blew minty fresh breath out and her mother gave her a tired smile. “Good girl.” She stretched her back and moved over to the bookcase by the window and pulled the curtains as close to center as they would go, which was never quite close enough. If she’d asked Arianna, she would have known that her daughter loved seeing the moon when it came out, and the little band of stars that glowed between the two long stretches of fabric, but she never had, so she didn’t.
She gave them another tug and the gap narrowed to little more than an inch, which would have to do for tonight. “What type of story would you like?”
“Not a scary one. Otty had bad dreams last night,” Arianna said, clutching her stuffed otter to her chest.
“Would you like one with gumdrops and candy?” her mother asked with a smirk. “Maybe The Gingerbread Man or The Night Before Christmas?” She held the two books up and modeled their covers.
“No,” replied Arianna, wrinkling her nose. “The Gingerbread Man is boring. Everybody knows the fox is going to eat the gingerbread man, and we read The Night Before Christmas last week.”
Putting the two offending books back, she asked, “What about a fairy tale? You like the ones with magic.”
“I’ve heard those a thousand times.”
“You’ve heard all of these a thousand times, Ari. Maybe next payday we’ll go down to the used book store and pick out a few new ones.” With a sigh, she traced her fingers along the book spines on the second shelf. “What’s this one?” she asked, pulling out a small silver book with a single snowflake embossed on the cover. “Did daddy get this one for you? Or was it grandma?”
Arianna shrugged, wriggling deeper into the pillow. “What’s it about?”
“I’m not sure,” said her mother, her brow creasing as she turned the small book over in her hands. The back cover was just as empty as the front. She sat at the side of the bed and flipped through the pages, which were illustrated in beautiful detail. There was no copyright page, and the typed words of the story left imprints on the pages that could be felt, though the paper was thick enough that the words and pictures on the backs of the pages weren’t difficult to make out.
Her mother thumbed back to the front and found a title page. “It’s called The Cloud Dwellers. Do you want to try it out or do you want me to read it through first and make sure it’s not too scary?”
Arianna looked at her otter, having a silent conversation with the stuffed animal’s shiny black eyes. Then she bit her lip and pulled the otter out from under the covers and sat it on her chest, facing her mother and the odd little book. “We’re ready.”
Her mother raised an eyebrow. “All right. But have Otty tell me if he gets too scared.”
Arianna nodded solemnly.
The wind began to whip and holler outside as her mother flipped to the first page and Arianna shivered and readjusted her grip on the otter.
“Once upon a dream, in a land not unlike ours, there lived a race of winged-men called cloud dwellers. They were a curious people who possessed many rare abilities. The first was that they could become invisible.”
Her mother paused before turning the page so that Arianna could inspect the picture. It was of a giant gray cloud floating in the night sky. She turned the page, and on this one, there were no words, just an illustration of winged people in villages on the clouds. The homes and buildings were made from the same substance as the clouds, and changed with each one. The white clouds had stucco villages that looked like they belonged along the Mediterranean Sea and the sunset clouds held desert caves and golden tents. The gray clouds had buildings in various shades of stone, arranged like the castles of old. The black clouds had buildings of onyx and granite, shaped in spires and bubbles that reminded Arianna’s mother of the old television shows with flying cars and fantasies of the future.
“If they’re invisible, how come I can see them?” Arianna asked.
Her mother gave a small laugh and said, “Well, maybe that’s how the illustrator thought they would look when they wanted to be seen.” She flipped the page back. “See, now they’re invisible and all you see is that big cloud.” She flipped it forward again. “And now they aren’t hiding anymore.”
“Who are they hiding from?” Arianna asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe us,” her mother said, a sparkle in her eye as she reached under the otter and rubbed Arianna’s belly. “Or maybe they’re hiding from children and their big, protective, warrior otters.”
Arianna giggled and pulled the otter back under the covers with her. “Maybe planes?” she offered. “And that’s why no one’s seen them?”
“Maybe,” her mother smiled and turned the page.
“The cloud dwellers were tiny, and entire nations lived on each cloud. Whenever someone on earth fell asleep, a cloud dweller sat on a drop of water or a snowflake, drifted down through a window to that person’s shoulder, and whispered an idea into that sleeper’s head.”
Arianna’s eyes opened wide and she peeked around her mother to check her window. “What about when the windows are shut? Can they get in?”
“I don’t think most people sleep with their windows open while it’s snowing,” her mother said.
“So it’s magic?”
“In this story, yes, I think magic is a safe bet,” her mother answered, then continued,
“Most of the cloud dwellers were benevolent-“
“What does that mean?” Arianna asked.
“It means that they’re good.”
“Oh.”
“But some of them weren’t. Some of them whispered horrors into the waiting minds and nightmares began to plague the land under the clouds.”
Her mother turned the page. There were no words on this one, just a picture of a disheveled boy sitting on his bed, curled up in blankets, afraid to go to sleep.
She turned the page again.
“The people down on the earth were so distraught by these bad dreams that they tried to stay awake constantly.”
The picture was of a long line outside a coffee shop. On the door was a sign that read: OPEN UNTIL THE CRISIS IS OVER. Men, women, and even children came out of the shop clutching paper cups. Around the corner in an alley, a man in a hat and a trench coat held an open briefcase to a nervous crowd as he stood on a tall crate. A sign he’d attached to the brick wall beside him read: DREAMS BEGONE! GUARANTEED TO KEEP YOU AWAKE OR YOUR MONEY BACK!
“So few people were sleeping now, that the cloud dwellers were forced to stay on the clouds, for if one descended and was unable to help a sleeper dream, the cloud dweller would be stranded down on the earth, for it is our dreams that lift them back home.”
Arianna squinted at the picture. In the clouds, there were clusters of cloud dwellers pointing and laughing from their perches. “I found the bad guys,” she said. “And those must be the good guys.” She pointed to the next page, where a group of worried cloud dwellers huddled on a night stand, waiting as a bleary eyed couple in pajamas stared at a television screen, struggling not to fall asleep.
Her mother turned the page, but this was another one with no words on it, so she tilted the book so that Arianna could see it better. “Oh no! They fell asleep!” Arianna said.
And so they had. The group of cloud dwellers that had been waiting on the night stand on the previous page had now split in two and were climbing up onto the couple’s shoulders. “It’s okay,” her mother said. “The people are smiling, see? So those are good dreams. See, over here, where this one cloud dweller has sparkles on his wings? That must be the dream working its magic so that he can fly back home.”
“Oh,” Arianna said, but she didn’t loosen her death grip on the otter.
“Is this one too scary?” her mother asked, starting to close the book.
“No!” Arianna said. “I have to find out how it ends now. You can’t stop there or Otty will have bad dreams.”
Her mother looked at Arianna’s set face and narrowed her eyes for a moment before reopening the book. There were only a few pages left and she thumbed through them quickly. She scanned the words and smiled.
“No fair reading ahead,” Arianna said.
“I was just making sure it doesn’t get too scary. I don’t think Otty could handle it if it did.”
“I’ll make sure he’s okay,” Arianna said and put on a brave face.
“All right then.” She found their place in the story again and took a breath.
“But Otty wants to know if it gets scarier,” Arianna whispered.
Her mother smiled. “Tell Otty he’ll have to wait and find out.” She petted the stuffed animal gently. “Hush now, Ari. It’s time to calm down because we’re almost done.”
Arianna’s eyes were wide, but she rolled onto her side and put her head on her mother’s lap.
“The distress caused by so many people not sleeping came to the attention of the cloud dwellers’ high council. The council heard the case brought by the few who had made it back to their homes on the clouds and decided that something needed to be done.”
There was an illustration of white haired men and women sitting on thrones of white, gray, pink, and black, on a cloud that was a mixture of all the colors a cloud can be. Stretching from this cloud were paths made of rainbows and groups of dwellers walked the miles toward this center cloud.
“They called a meeting of their entire race on a huge cloud that covered the land below it. The opinions were many, and the summit on the cloud lasted for days. It was agreed that neither good dreams nor bad ones should be dominant as they felt that sleepers needed to experience both.”
Arianna’s mother turned the page and smoothed her daughter’s hair. “If it were up to me, I’d just give you the good ones,” she said, then continued.
“It was decided that they could no longer allow themselves free reign over dreams, as there was no way to guarantee an equal amount of good and bad dreams.
Instead, a new approach was conceived. They transformed themselves into books and floated down to the earth. These books became known as bedtime stories, and as we all know, bedtime stories are the true dream makers.”
Her mother smiled and closed the book. “The end,” she said, moving Arianna from her lap and back onto the pillow.
“Good night, mommy,” Arianna said, reaching her cheek up for a kiss.
Her mother gave her one last hug, and put the book back on the shelf. Then she switched on the little nightlight underneath the window and turned off the nightstand lamp. “Good night, sweetheart,” she said, closing the bedroom door quietly behind her.
As soon as her mother’s footsteps had made it to the creaky step halfway down the stairs, Arianna lifted the covers, and, holding her otter to her side, she rolled onto her stomach and slipped over the edge of the bed, padding soundlessly to the floor. She moved around the loud board by her worn toy box, making sure not to step on it and give it the chance to tattle on her for being out of bed.
She tiptoed to her bookcase and slid the little silver book back out carefully and carried it to the gap in the curtains. Between the moon and the nightlight, there was just enough light for her to make out the pictures, though she couldn’t make sense of the words. One page at a time she fingered through, until she came to the one at the end of the high council, sitting on their thrones in robes that had been colorful, but now in the dark looked to be shades of black and white.
A very old cloud dweller stood in a flowing robe at the pinnacle of the cloud with his hands outstretched as he spoke to his entire race. Arianna squinted at his long gray beard and his tiny open mouth.
But his mouth wasn’t just open anymore. It was moving. So were the people in the crowd as they listened to him speak, some of them nodding in agreement, others shaking their heads furiously.
Arianna’s eyes widened and she lifted the picture to her ear. She faintly heard voices but couldn’t understand what they were saying.
Moving her mouth close to the page, she whispered, “What did you say?” and then snapped the book back to see if any of them had noticed her.
They all had.
The little man standing on the pinnacle of the cloud looked out at her and gave her a broad smile, then motioned for her to come closer.
Arianna put her ear to the page and listened. With a gasp and a smile, she closed the book and tiptoed to her bedroom door. All was still quiet. Just as softly, she tiptoed back to the window, and after setting her otter down on the top bookshelf, she flipped the latch on the window. She slid open the glass, shivering as the cold air blew in and rustled her nightgown.
Snowflakes flew in around her, swirling into a tiny cloud and she stifled a laugh as the flakes tickled her arms. The book leapt from her hands and landed on the dancing cloud of snow, flapping its pages like a bird flaps its wings.
The cloud whisked the book out through the window, and Arianna heard a tinkling laugh as it flew away.
“Sweet dreams to you too!” she whispered, as loudly as one can make a whisper, and then she inched the window back down and re-latched it. She grabbed her otter and climbed back up into her warm bed. “Thank you for my dreams,” she whispered to her bookshelf, but the books did not say a word. Clutching her otter to her side, Arianna fell asleep.

* * *
About Christine Carey
Christine lives with her husband and two cats in Columbia, Maryland, USA. They're expecting their first child in September and look forward to reading her many bedtime stories.

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Beautifully Distressed by Eimear Ryan

Mon, 1 Mar 2010 22:24:23 +0000

Brian and I married so young that people unconsciously use American jargon when they talk about us. Really. We've been accused of being “high school sweethearts” a few times. Once even “prom king and queen.” The girl had a straight face on her and all.
Those phrases come from telly, of course, but I'm not sure why people use them so consistently with us. It could be Brian's all-American look: the obedient white teeth, the quarterback arms. Or maybe it's veiled condescension, implying our innocence, our Bible-belt weirdness.
The one boyfriend I had before Brian was all talk. Brian, with his pointed actions and tactful omissions, was refreshing. That was when we first got together.
This morning, he beamed at me over the Cheerios and told me we were going bed-shopping, like it was some massive favour. The one we have is only as old as our marriage, but Brian wants it replaced – for reasons so obvious he didn't have to say them out loud. He wanted me to smile back and to appreciate the blank-slate metaphor, to praise his willingness to start over. But I just said “okay” and poured my cereal.

* * *

This salesman is no out-of-work actor. Though he tries, bless him, he tries.
“This solid oak bedframe is beautifully distressed,” he insists.
He leads Brian and I round the draughty showroom, delivering his pitch in a maths-teacher monotone. He has to keep clearing his throat. We're the only customers.
Brian guffaws. “In other words, it's banjaxed.” He rolls his eyes at me. He's convinced that all salesmen are cowboys.
The salesman sees, as Brian intended him to, and his face falls. He's probably in his thirties, but looks about twelve, from the freckles to the haircut, which looks as though it's styled by Mammy using a comb and liberal amounts of spit.
Brian walks over to a faintly rosy-looking bed-skeleton. For such a big bed it has dainty, slender legs. It looks built for furniture polish.
“This, now. This is more our style.”
The salesman falters. He searches for his spiel like a man searching his pockets, worried-looking, eyes flitting over the ground. Finds it. “Ah! The cherrywood ...”
I'm not at all sure the shiny bed is our style. I don't want to have to worry about denting it, fingerprinting it.
“What do you think, Em?” Brian's brown eyes have far too much hope in them. He really sees this as a way to solve our problems. I don't know when he started being like this. I blame those team-building exercises they make him do at the office.
“It's lovely,” I say, “but is it a bit too -”
“What?”
“Girly?”
“I thought you'd like that. Being a girl.”
“Don't mind what I'd like! I'm not fussy. Pick one you'd like.” This is the wrong thing to say.
Brian sighs. He says to the salesman: “Right. What else have you got to show us?”
But I can't take the half-arsed sales talk anymore, so I cut the man off. “Just have a look around yourself, B. I trust your instincts.”
He smiles at me, and I'm glad that lie went over smoothly. I don't trust his instincts. I'm incredulous we're about to drop several hundred on something we don't need.
Brian trails off, and the salesman visibly deflates – with relief or disappointment, I can't tell.
“What's your name?” I ask.
He looks confused, then glances down at his chest. “Oh. Must've forgot the tag.”
“Is that the only way you can remember?”
He grins crookedly, and it transforms his face. Brian's smile doesn't do that – the symmetry can't be broken.
“Guess what my name is,” he says.
“Oh, come on.”
“Seriously. Have a go.”
“John,” I say.
His mouth goes into an O of awe. “Jesus, that's fucking amazing.”
I laugh aloud in a release of tension, and it echoes round the high-ceilinged warehouse. He ducks his head like he's trying to keep his smile under wraps.
“Em!” Brian barks, and when I cast my head around I see he's still standing by the dainty cherrywood. “I just have a good feeling about this one.” Typical Brian. He really believes things and places have their own vibe, their own inner life. I can't believe that, though I'd love to. I don't think half the people I meet even have an inner life. I even wonder about myself, sometimes.
I shrug. “It's as good as any other.” This too, is a lie. It's not as good as the one we already have. I love that bed – it's robust, it's springy, it has secret drawers and bonus foldy bits.
“Are you sure?”
I pat my handbag, and speak to the salesman rather than Brian. “I have the credit card. Let's go settle up.”
“The machine's in the office,” he says, nodding towards the back of the store. We walk in that direction, passing Brian.
“Right, I'm gonna go see what class of sofas they have in this place.”
“Don't go too wild,” is what I say when I really want to say: Why? It's not like I had any indiscretions on the sofa.
“You know,” says the salesman, “I get the feeling you're not too fond of that particular bed.”
“It wouldn't be my first choice.”
He turns to me, his features alive. I seem to have inadvertently reignited his love for salesmanship. “Well, it's an investment. You both need to be happy with it. I have one other I could show you, right over here. It's a hardwearing beech frame with a veneer of -”
“Thanks,” I say quickly, “but – well ...”
“What?” Eager, shining eyes.
“You're not very good at selling beds.” In fact, I agreed to the stupid bed just to shut the both of you up.
This doesn't crush him like I expect. “I suppose my bed talents lie elsewhere, then.”
“You dark horse,” I say, unable to keep from smiling.
He sits on the bed he was trying to pitch to me, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet to show its inviting springiness. His eyes don't leave mine. And maybe because I feel bad about being rude to him, or maybe to shake Brian and I out of our stiff rut, but mostly just for the hell of it – I climb on him, straddle him, kiss him. Like the movies. His arms fumble round me, and he kisses back, though he's making sounds against my mouth that sound more like protest than pleasure. I can smell the heavy plasticky scent of the wrapped mattress; the wrap sticks to my bare arms. The boy is limp underneath me, which makes me overcompensate: I twist my fingers through his hair, chew his bottom lip, grind my hips.
And of course Brian sees. When I finally sit up a little, pushing my hair back on my head, he's standing a few metres away, looking almost bored. It seems as though he's waiting for me to tell him it's all a practical joke. I want to tell him it is, sorta.
“Christ, Em,” he says. “You're crushing him.”
I climb off the sales guy and sit on the edge of the bed; the salesman goes scurrying into the back office. I want Brian to yell at me so much. Tell me he hates me – break us, so we can put us back together.
Maybe he won't say anything, as ever.
But he just slowly smiles, staring at me, as though he has the measure of me. And as I get to my feet and run, run all the way home, I know it's not him I'm running from – it's the knowledge he's grown and I haven't.

* * *

As I'm going to bed, Brian still isn't home. I don't understand my husband, but I can predict him. He'll come in drunk, not that I can blame him. He'll fall down beside me on the bed. We'll lie back to back, each an inverse of the other, like sulking siblings. In the morning I'll hand over the credit card and tell him to buy whatever bed he wants, and a couch if he wants it, too.
* * *

About Eimear Ryan 
To launch the Sleep Club bedtime story collection, we invited talented Irish writer Eimear Ryan to write our first story.

Eimear is currently living and working in New York, but originally comes from Tipperary, Ireland. To date she has been published in the Stinging Fly and The Sunday Tribune. She blogs at eimearryan.wordpress.com. In 2009, she received the Hennessy XO Literary Award for First Fiction.

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