A Short Story - Miss Ping

 

Has anyone actually talked to him? It’s bloody crazy! Anyone called the unions? We must jolly well get a lawyer! Did you see her? Miss Who? Did someone say Chinese black magic? Where are the directors and shareholders? We should bloody well refuse to go! It’s absolutely barking!

* * *

The staff slowly gathered in the conference room, the hush among them most unusual, no one in a state to decide where to sit. Close to the front? Would that prove eagerness and teamwork? Would it be too obvious to stay near the back, ducking direct questions? Some clearly decided to sit along the back wall in protest, maintaining some sensible distance from the madness of the previous 24 hours. Men straightened their ties. Women pushed the hair off their faces. Nervous frowns met.

Mr Gilbert bounced in with the blind Miss Ping on his arm. ‘For goodness sake,’ he said, pausing to take in the faces. ‘There’s no need to worry. I sense panic and hurt, but I want you to know you’re all very talented. We just need to know that your kind of talent is right for us.’

Susan, the staff representative, stood up. ‘We just think it’s very peculiar. It’s … unprecedented.’

Miss Ping, who looked about 70, straightened her hunch and smiled.

‘It’s unprecedented here,’ said Gilbert. ‘But it’s all the rage in places like China … and if we want to expand into those markets, we need to learn from them!’

Susan stared at the floor and said, ‘The unions need more time to …’

Gilbert pointed angrily at her chair, the whites of his eyes becoming more evident. ‘Miss Ping is a very busy woman … not to mention expensive.’

* * *

All 27 workers found themselves stretched out on the floor, no more than three minutes after the meeting began, their arms on their chests, their legs spread apart. Miss Ping, whose grey hair was tied back with what looked like seaweed, edged her way between them, like a cat making its way through unknown grass. She hovered above each person, placing a cold hand on their heads, their hands, their feet. Susan and one or two of the others tried to speak but were cut off mid-sentence with a loud clap from Gilbert - he lay among them, looking around and grinning, obviously pleased that things might just work. Miss Ping hummed a mesmerising lullaby or hymn.

* * *

‘As you all know,’ said Gilbert, flushed and panting with the excitement of what they’d all just witnessed, ‘Miss Ping is going to pick some of you out. I know it sounds crazy, but she really does have the exceptional ability to receive visions, to know who has the right energy to align this planet … our company … with the right people.’

Miss Ping crept forward and closed her eyes. ‘Mr Gilbert. Sorry. Everyone here good. But not you. I see better company without you.’



© Copyright, 2007. Shameless Words.

A Short Story - Sam Maliko's Extra Good Times

 
 
Sam Maliko's Extra Good Times
 
 
He wondered what he would say to the nursing staff if they asked about the cumbersome package he’d left the day before. They’d almost certainly be talking about it; it would probably be on their list of the strangest things ever brought in for someone in oncology. Had the old man explained it? Would he even remember what they were? The phone crackled through to the ward.

‘Whole lot better today, Mr. Maliko. Bit of a bumpy old night but sleeping like a baby now.’

He accepted the nurse’s familiar tone with the family now. They all had to. Her low, pastoral voice was now more important than any other in their lives. In just a few weeks she’d become a crucial branch in their wilting family tree, gently bringing them closer to the truth that autumn that year would be impossible to escape.

‘Has he opened the package I left for him yesterday?’

‘Oh, let me see.’ She shuffled down the corridor with the cordless phone, pulling the odd curtain back along the way, saying ‘how ya doin’ my lovely?’ to some of those desperate for her comfort. She never apologised for taking her time. ‘People ought to go forth in life with the conviction of someone who has all the time in the world,’ she’d once told the family.

As he waited, blowing out perfect circles of blue smoke, he wondered if he should ask for the latest results.

She came back on the line and chuckled. ‘Not even opened it yet, honey. Still all wrapped up in that dull grey paper you brought it in. You want me to rip it open?’

‘No, no … leave it like it is. He’ll open it when he wakes.’

* * *

They stayed up until just before midnight creating the labels, trying to see if they could match the style of those on real soda bottles. The father and son could be noisy and rash when mother was out of town, spreading their mess out into several rooms. They could even sit on the floor of the parlour in paper hats, singing Indian songs at the top of their voices, their shirts not tucked in, free of their shoes and socks.

Young Sam had his favourite colour poised. ‘What are we going to call it?’

‘Whatever you want. These are your very own bottles.’

‘OK then … Sam Maliko’s Soda!’ he roared, standing up straight to inspect the dozen brown bottles that surrounded him.

His father laughed, quickly grabbing hold of his pipe as it fell from between his teeth. ‘But these aren’t for soda, my boy. These are special, for filling up with extra good times. We need to make sure you’ve got some spare for later in life when you might need them.’

‘But what about the soda?’

‘Don’t you worry, there’ll be plenty of soda.’ He flicked a match and then sucked in as he relit his pipe. He then spat out several times, trying to dislodge a small piece of tobacco stuck on his lip. ‘But good times? Now that’s something very easy to run out of. Once we’ve got these filled up we can store them in the garage, so they’re always there if you need them.’

Young Sam stood there in deep thought, eyeing the labels, as his father put down his pipe and measured out some shiny silver paper.

‘It needs to be catchy, son. Something you’ll remember.’

After a minute or two of silence Sam burst out, ‘I’ve got it! Sam Maliko’s Extra Good Times!’

‘Perfect,’ said his father, winking as he nodded. ‘You just never know when you might need them.’



© Copyright, 2007. Shameless Words.