Little Clouds

By Ann Orthur

 

 

 

Little Clouds – Ann Orthur:

 

Containing, but not limited to:

 

Flic-Flac:

A couple transported to a strange land, unaware the world around them is on the cusp of unraveling. They spend their days oblivious to the storm that is building. Their lives, if they manage to keep them, will never be the same. Their future changes with just one sentence. Soon after, their fate is sealed.

 

Alien Invasion:

Following a mistake a man travelled to start a new life. He brought with him a family. They meant no harm but unwillingly carried a sicknes, old as humananity, that brings turbulence and grief to their new home and friends.

 

Interlude 1: Jog on

A man encounters people from another time and place. He tries to help them. At first communication is difficult until three become four and then they all move forward together.

 

Endorphin-seeking Orphan:

A war child, bombed, orphaned and lost is claimed by a strange new mother. She takes him, amidst the chaos, looking for a way out. She smuggles him back to her home pretending everything is normal and tries to restart two lives; but you cannot always leave your past behind.

 

Interlude 2: Unnecessary Filler

Filler that is unnecessary although not entirely pointless. It's about cooking.

 

Chicken Paradise:

A detached man, living where he shouldn't, fries chicken for his sins. He'd already found everything he ever wanted right in front of him; but the gulf of time placed it just out of reach - for now. His already fragile mental state slowly deteriorates to a point where he chooses violence and irretrievably alters at least one life and two relationships with his actions.

 

Interlude 3: The Kebobalypse (Optional)

An unlikely history of a street food classic – with no citations. N.B. This chapter is entirely optional and has no overall bearing on the story.

 

Flic-Flac (cont.):

A re-examination, from a different perspective, of events leading up to and immediately after the ending of one life and the beginning of another; then a familiair voice comes forward again moments before the world unravels.

 

 

Little Clouds - nothing more than part-told stories, saying some of what happened and what would happen and why. An incomplete history, sprawled out on the page. Nothing matters. Fiction is lies.

 

Above your (e)book, way out at sea, a wispy white tendril of cloud floats in the big blue yonder. A solitary wanderer lost in an eternity of azure.

A ripple of breeze cools your brow. You look around. Everything is irie. You sip from an iced glass. Time passes.

You see another cloud; this one bigger and slightly grey. The people who know, know. A storm is rising.

 

TL;DR It's about a couple on holiday and it going a bit wonky at the end, some immigrants, a man going for a jog, an orphan,

some chefs, a fried chicken operative, the history of the kebab, and then back to the 2 people on holiday.

 

Little Clouds by Ann Orthur

 

"Neither a good book done badly nor a poor book done well."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Orthur
• Release date: Sep 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223254232

Ann Orthur

Just after her fifteenth birthday Ann suffered a traumatic head injury, by accident, and missed the next eight months of her life. After waking from her coma she became convinced that she could, and should, teach the world to dance. She secured funding for her dance licence, once she'd recovered, and ran a succesful studio. She thought she married the man of her dreams until he was indefinitely detained by the authorities on suspicion of illegally impersonating a person. Money worries came. She, at first reluctantly, experimented with exotic dancing. Financial presssure soon evaporated. She ran a venue for many years until the compulsory closure of her multi award-winning exotic dance club due to a pandemic. She thought to persue a new direction. Besides, her hips were not what they used to be. She found work as a remote youth helper. Using her years of experience to help counsel and advise. Ann is childless and at her age and condition is likely to stay so. She began to write some stories, between calls, on an old reconditioned laptop from her neighbour: Peps Jovic. Mr. Jovic read the stories when Ann had had one of her "episodes" and he was looking after her and her dog. He suggested some vague alterations, maybe chopping a few bits out and then stitching most of what remained into this barely coherent story. They now realise writing is hard and probably best left to experts. Ann intends to return the laptop. Mr. Jovic is gonna wind his neck in. No apologies are offered for any amateur mistakes or errors herewithin. Thank you, please.

Book preview

Flic-Flac Pt. I

It was my girlfriend what decided it. I had nothing to do with it. We were in the Italian's restaurant but tonight there were flowers and candles on our regular table.

Poppa Luigi, the owner, came over. I asked about the candles and flowers. He tutted and told me it was our one year anniversary. I looked at my girlfriend.

Was it twelve months? I remembered when we first met; for the second time. Summer ended, things looking bleak, days short - just like now.

I was taking some more crispy beef in capital sauce (Poppa Luigi might've been, mostly, Italian, but his food wasn't) when my girlfriend come right out with her big idea. She said what we needed was a holiday; together. Abroad.

My chopsticks stopped. I looked up from the bowl and digested what she'd said. I blinked and stayed quiet. She carried on. Now we were, to quote her grandmother, a proper couple, courting strong we should have a holiday. Just the two of us. Together. Alone. We could spend some quality couple time.

I thought we spent enough quality couple time together, but what do I know? A holiday, to be honest, it weren't no thing. It was easy to say yes. What's the worse that could happen?

You can do whatever you want, babe. She looked at me. I corrected myself. I mean, WE can do whatever WE want, babe. She said what dates to keep free.

She relaxed; she'd reckoned it would’ve been harder to sign me up because of: deficiencies in my time allocation priorities.

No doubt we'd go to a place I'd never heard of. I didn't have no problem with abroad. I'd just never been. I didn't want the first time too weird or... foreign. You know what I mean?

I'd not done much holidaying anywhere before. I'd gone up in the mountains with the boys, tenting, a few years earlier. It was meant to be a bit of a laugh but it didn't turn out to be a fantastic success. Sten was now able to partly use his legs again, and as for Jick, the experts at St. Stephinda's did sometimes allow him supervised day release and, with the right counselling and medication, it was hoped one day he'd be allowed back into the community permanently.

A few days later my girlfriend had taken care of everything, the whole shebang. There's gonna be two whole weeks of her, sorry, it. Two whole weeks of it. The hotel, flights, half board, all sorted. She said the name of the place. It sounded foreign and holidayish. Probably in Spain or something; 'cause that's where normal people go; innit? She also arranged for a responsible professional to vouch for my passport application because I knew nobody that matched my government's criteria.

A day or two later she gave me a packing list, it was a bit sparse on clothing to my mind but here it is: towel, wash bag, windshirt, fleece, corkscrew, travel shirt, 2 t-shirt, no wife beaters, 2 shorts, 1 board shorts, 1 trouser, absolutely no budgie smugglers or similar, 1 long socks, 3 short socks, 4 panties, hat, sun glasses, 1 flop, pair decent footwear, tube of radiation blocker, laptop, 2 cables, plug socket adaptor, phone, speaker, book (if colouring - bring crayons), 1 flip, lighter, notepad and pencil.

She wasn't a control freak but she said I had to pack what I couldn't do without, not pack what I might need. I didn't really understand what she meant then but I followed the list, pretty much. When I got to her house the day before we left, she looked at my half-full bag, said good-good, and handed me her hair dryer to carry. It didn't fit in her bulging suitcase...

In case you're wondering a flop and a flip make a pair of flip-flops. That's her being hilarious. Also panties was the actual real word she used.

Her brother-in-law, who wasn't really her brother-in-law but was, gave us a lift to the airport. The flight left at unnatural o'clock in the morning. We’d decided to stay up the night before.

We arrived in plenty of time and got through all the checkpoints.

We boarded the plane, fought to our seats and stowed our bags.

Everything was going super smooth, or so I thought.

During the flight my girlfriend pulls out a book. She shows it to me and I don't like what I see. The cover picture is of an almost toothless man kissing a camel. Am I in some kind of horrific animal porn nightmare? I realise the book she's brandishing is a guidebook.

I was comfortable in my seat cruising at maybe thirty thousand feet up in the air but start having a bit of a nightmare. She says we're going to Africa.

North Africa. I hear it, but I can’t process it.

You what, babe? She repeats it. I wanna ask her if she's high. France. Spain. That’s what I expected.

I mean: really? Africa? My first time away? Are you broken in the head or something?

I look away for a second. 

She asks me if I've listened to anything she's told me. I play it safe and decide not to answer. She stabs a finger at the word on the cover of the book above the picture of that gummy camel-lover. Written in big bold font is Tunisia. I read itShe has mentioned a Tunisia place a lot recently, I ain't been paying much attention, so I'm not sure if it's a resort, town, island or even a country. She was in charge of all the technical stuff; I’m just along for the ride.

She shows a map of Tunisia, and yes, it is in Africa. I'm no geographist but even I know what it looks like, and we're definitely going to the top of it. 

Two things bother me.

a.)The flight takes about three hours, the captain said so. I don't think there's a short cut to Africa but to be that foreign then surely it has to be further away than three hours. My mate’s flight to Spain took four hours last year.

b.)The scruffy, ruined-toothed beggar man on the guide book cover, and the other people I've briefly glimpsed inside the book, ain’t black.

I decide to focus on the plane.

Me and my girlfriend are having the dubious pleasure of flying with anycheaperandwe'dbepayingyou.net airlines. We made it through the cabin crew's shiny plastic happiness whilst indicating exits are there, there, and there, duty free, drinks trolley, lifejacket, torch, whistle, oxygen mask...

I'd read the back of the headrest in front of me and learnt both Bob G is well gay and J Luvz Y 4eva. I'd had a flick through the inflight publication: cooking tips, perfume ads, useless junk at tax-free prices, out and about guides to places I've heard of... and not, stuff about the firm that run this crate. The usual nonsense I imagine.

No mention of parachutes.

Well into our flight and the cabin crew've already whored the drinks trolley about twice. Only three hours and you can't stay sober and go without eating? It's made me happy we didn't blow an extra U25 on inflight meals. Tosh and slop in a foil container. Criminals doing life probably get better. I'm also glad that I'm towards the back of this plane, pretty unlikely we're gonna reverse into any mountains or things.

I'm not feeling too good about this flying jalopy (or scheduled shuttle service as the website optimistically calls it.) The condition of the plane and most of the passengers gives me the impression we're gonna be jet washed, branded, hoof dipped and vaccinated when - and if - we get to wherever the hell we're going. The truth is I'm being herded abroad; and I don't even really know to where.

All I want is some sunshine and not too many foreigners and those there to speak English; or not bother me. 

True enough, after about three hours the pilot gets the crate down and we hit the ground, in a good and controlled way. Yes, we're on African soil. Or, to be more precise, African tarmac. There’s absolute pandemonium in the aisles as almost everyone tries to deplane at once. It just goes to show that if we had problems during the flight all the emergency exit nonsense would have been forgotten as we trampled ourselves to death in blind screaming selfish panic.

We're the last two to exit the plane. We stayed seated to avoid the worst of the sc(r)um fighting to be first off. We're at the back of everyone, moving slowly. I'm a bit cagey about our final destination as I look around from the top of the stairs and what I now know is the usual scene greets us: fire engines, other planes, tourists, men with moustaches and machine guns etc. We make our way down the steps.

The men with moustaches and machine guns don't mess about as we're motioned off the tarmac to a bus and driven to passport control. All of fifteen metres away. The most pointless bus trip of my life. I could've walked in less time. We're hustled off the bus and crammed through doors into a massive hall. We see a line of desks and more men with more moustaches and machine guns at the far end. Between them and us all we can see is a giant pulsing and throbbing fleshy mass of semi-naked white tourists. I get the impression this might take some time...

Me and my girlfriend are separately welcomed into their country, in a not altogether unfriendly way, some time later. We are, officially, on holiday. We wander through the terminal and find our way to Baggage Reclaim just as her bag is emerging from behind the rubber curtains. I grab it and by the time I hand it to her and turn back my bag has come into view.

We walk across the airport, which she says is named after the country's first president. His picture is everywhere. The locals must really love him. I wait outside a strange glass room as my girlfriend changes some of our real money for what people around here use. She says it's about twelve and a quarter Deenhaz to one Unit. I feel like I'm gonna struggle with this currency thing. My girlfriend tells me not to sweat it, she'll explain later.

My girlfriend then walks into a phone shop. I follow. I've no idea why we've come in here. Without a single word of warning to anyone my girlfriend begins jibber-jabbering in Foreign with the girl behind the counter. They have a full-on conversation. A few minutes later we come out with a new sim card. Things have become strange.

I didn't know my girlfriend spoke Foreign. I know I certainly can't speak African or whatever language it is here. I once did a couple months of French, or something, way back before I was permanently excluded from school; but that's not gonna help me now, even if I could remember any of it.

We swap sim cards in my unlocked handset and let her people back home know everything's cool and this is our new number for the holiday. Like I said, I'm surprised about this phone thing so I ask her what it's all about. She explains that our network wants U1.8 a minute to call back home, the local network is going to charge us about 17c for the same thing. The pay as you go sim and some credit all come together as a starter bundle. It's a good bit of business. A real bargain.

Finally we make it outside the airport. I'm surprised by what I see. Everything in sight is saturated. There are torrents of water running everywhere, all the roads are flooded and crazy taxi drivers are spraying great sluices everywhere. Fortunately, for us, the kerbs are all about a foot high so the pavements are walkable, but it must be a nightmare for wheelchair users.

The sun's out now and, although it's warm, all the locals seem to be muffled-up wearing chunky coats and big jackets, hats and scarves, dressed like it's winter. I say something to my girlfriend about this and she shakes her head sadly and tells me: It is winter here, we're still in the Northern Hemisphere, you plank. I didn't know they had winter in Africa or, come to think of it, much rain either. I take the scene in.

Looking around outside there are a few black people milling about and there are quite a lot of white tourists being herded back and forth. The majority of the crowd though are mostly Arab and they've all got backpacks and suitcases, but then it is an airport. There are lots of moustaches going on here too and, let's face it, that's never gonna be a strong look.

We shuffle the few metres to the Taxi Rank. Drivers swarm like vultures on a bloated corpse. Every last one of them wants to take my bag and guide me to his deathtrap. Aye aye, I think, I'll keep hold of it for the time being. My girlfriend starts talking fluent Gibberish again. After some arguing we pick a driver, or maybe he picks us, and we jump into his cab. It's almost roadworthy, the best of the bad. I'm not so sure about him though. He asks what currency we want to use, speaking in OK English. I jokingly tell him our home currency. To my surprise he agrees. Sweet. We leave for the hotel. My girlfriend had wanted to walk, but I'd got her to see sense. After all, we don't wanna get lost on the first day.

Less than three minutes later we arrive at the hotel. Ten Unit please the cabman says. Bit expensive. Me and my girlfriend step out of the taxi. She gives me a smug and knowing look as I hand over much more money than I feel he's earned; but what else can I do? He drives away and we turn and look at the hotel.

First impressions are pretty good. We make our way up the semicircular exterior steps, past the doorman and through the giant plate glass door he opens for us. We say thanks, at least I do. I don't know what my girlfriend said, but he seemed pleased enough with it and then kinda bowed to her.

Once properly inside and second impressions are pretty, pretty good. There's a massive lobby with red leather sofas and chairs scattered everywhere. There are pools, fountains, giant chandeliers, plants and alabaster covering almost every surface. Two glass lifts move up and down. It appears to be a grand old palace.

My girlfriend leads me towards a receptionist who smiles, from below his moustache, and welcomes us to the Tukria Palace Hotel, in good English. My girlfriend is still giving it the old foreign talk and he, and the others before, all seem to know what she's on about. The weird thing is the sound doesn't sound completely foreign, if you know what I mean. I try not to think about it.

I want to find out where she's learnt Tunisian so well. My parents never saw the point in speaking other languages, why would those two bother? Like they used to say: If they can't understand me when I S-H-O-U-T E-N-G-L-I-S-H S-L-O-W-L-Y, then they shouldn’t be in the country.

Back at reception my girlfriend pulls out some printed tickets and our passports. She helps me complete a form the colonel-like receptionist slides over. It's written in three languages: English, Foreign and Squiggle. She does the same and slides them both back. After a quick scan of our travel documents there is another flash of teeth, or smile, from the colonel and he gives us our room key. 340. The Tukria Palace sounds like a big place. The colonel tells us that he hopes we enjoy our stay as he rings a bell and some skulking porter appears from out of nowhere. He too wants my bag, but I keep hold of it still, he looks dejected and confused but battles on and takes hold of my girlfriend's bag instead and leads us to our room.

I must admit the room looks easily acceptable when we first see it. The porter gives us a quick tour: bed, wardrobe, telephone, balcony etc... just in case you're unfamiliar with such things. He's probably tipmongering to supplement his wage. She gives him some coins and he finally bows his way out of the room, smiling broadly.

There's an en suite bathroom and the crazy thing is it's got two sinks. The one opposite the toilet is far too low for me or her to use, maybe it's for disableds, or children. We sling our bags down and head out onto the balcony for a smoke. When we come back I notice an envelope on the bedside cabinet, it's addressed to our(mispelled)selves. Apparently we now go by the names of Bran and Tim. The letter is nothing important, just a thank you for booking and a hello&welcome from a tour company we've never heard of.

We decide to go and check the rest of the hotel out. We keep the important stuff on us; passports, cash, phone, room key etc. Having felt the size and weight of the brass key fob attached to the room key, I'm sure you could do some damage with that bad boy. It's like a chubby ninja star.

We go downstairs and hit the Lounge bar. She orders two bottled beers, once again in fluent Gibberish, from the bar man. He produces them with a flourish of his hands, the label is unrecognised. I pause for a second but I’m thirsty. Let's give it a go then. After all, we are on holiday. Together. And I've been told to enjoy it. No matter what.

The beer tastes OK but not wanting to look like alcoholics we drink only one before we scout the shops, restaurants, bars and other stuff that are in the hotel. Lots of it is underground and lots of it is closed. We've turned up out of season. She explains that it was a lot cheaper and will be a lot quieter with less people about. Both these things suit me. I'm not a tremendous fan of wasting money, nor am I a tremendous fan of people, generally. I find them better singularly than in groups.

There are a few stalls, shisha bar, spa, tourist shops, and whatever else. One of them makes us laugh. The sign outside says it sells: Solid silver rings, bracclets, neccles's and other fine gewellery. As we leave the area a stall holder appears from nowhere, approaches me, and says something unintelligible. My girlfriend talks to him for a minute. Again, not in English. It turns out the foreigner thinks I'm foreign. Spanish, to be precise. Cheeky.

We head back upstairs after buying some wi-fi access from the colonel behind the desk. We get to the room and go online to check the football result because we absolutely had to know. It was our local derby against the Vintan Redbuds earlier and it turns out our boys had put in a cracking performance and thrashed the hapless scum.

We were both feeling a bit tired with the staying up all night and the travelling, so we decide to have a rest. When we wake a few hours later there is another letter, from another company we've never heard of, pushed under the door. It welcomes us and says there'll be a rep in the lobby tomorrow night. At least this lot have the decency to spell our names correctly.

It's about six in the evening now. We sort some clothes and head to the only restaurant that's open, to try the food.

I'm plundering the salad cart when some local bloke called Charlie, with one of those tea towels on his head, starts trying to get me to go see some camels and the desert. I shake my head and a waiter hustles him away, I nod my thanks. After eating we head back to the Lounge bar for another drink. It becomes a few. We're sat on our own, in a big plush empty lounge. The cheery waiter checks our drinks every now and again and adjusts accordingly, we thank him every time. He seems a good guy. There's a projector screen at the end of the room and foreign music videos are playing with the sound down low.

As we roll out some time later, having settled the bill and tipped the waiter, we take an unofficial tour of the hotel. We wind down through underground service corridors and store rooms, kitchens and offices, until we exit on the other side. Everything looked pretty good.

We get to our room, via reception and the smiling and nodding colonel whose still manning the desk. As she shuts the door my girlfriend points out, according to the sign on the back that, ... the nightclub's open until daybeak. We didn’t know there was a nightclub. We order breakfast on the room service card and hang it outside the door. We have a final smoke on the balcony before brushing our teeth and having our first night's sleep in Africa.

Out on the balcony the stars