Four Weeks in Anguillia

. . . Once I was a mild mannered optician bustling about a busy private optical selling eyewear. . . It was November '09, the ninth to be exact when I flew through the air and landed down three stairs into Anguillia. It was not at all like Alice's tumble into Wonderland. There was no tea and no Mad Hatter. The whole world faded to black and white; I felt indescribable pain in my left arm, the elbow region especially, my shoulder and left hip. I was subjected to trials and errors beggaring description on the part of the emergency facility assigned to cases of workers compensation. (The incident occurring at my place of employ.) At last my arm was cast and then the following day the cast was removed and a sling took its place on the recommendation of a pompadoured doctor, specialist in his field. I was forced to remain in a state of suspended animation for six weeks where I could not even button my own blouse! I was driven deep into the seedy underbelly of Anguillia where vampires reside.

Admittedly at first I felt alone and lonely. It took some time to meet and learn the names of all f the characters inhabiting Anguillia; neighbors and friends, the flower shop, the popular bars and restuarants, the bakery and corner store, as well as the phone numbers for the police department and park police. Luckily I was not completely unfamiliar to Anguillia it's history, morays and customs having spent time there in '04 and '05. Now and again since then I had taken pause and refuge in Anguillia. Figuratively wringing my hands and drinking coffee iwth a sympathetic old friend; expounding tales of happiness and woe. Here I was writing one handed into a black and white marbled composition book. Researching and typing one-handed on my trusty lap-top computer.

I wrote thirty-three thousand, eight hundred and ninety-seven words in four weeks in conjuction with the National Novel Writing Month or 'Nanowrimo'. It ws not quite a novel, but I was not dissatisfied with my time in Anguillia either. With the rolling lap-top table butted up against the bed I travelled the fruit-named streets; from Blueberry Buckle Boulevard, to Apple Orchard Circle, across Quince and Pomegranate Streets, into the nooks and crannies of Fig Alley, down Cherry Place through Plum Way and Peach Cobbler Run, up Fruit Street passing around the Old Rugged Cross Graveyard onto the Town Square. I ambulated alone along the parkway overlooking Jangeo River staring contentedly into its murky depths looking for eel indigenous to the region. It was late autumn when I took the fall; the skies clouded over, rain soaked the ground, hail fell. The pines were drenched with moisture; thier needles suspended in ice. The holidays came and went and along with them came snow and ice; sneezing and snuffling ensued. As a matte of course a smart car got stuck in a snow drift.

It all ended abruptly. A shot rang out on Quince Street in the intersection adjacent Blueberry Buckle Boulevard. The novella ended. I spent the fifth week on holiday in New Orleans. I was to return to work upon the completion of the sixth week; my arm healed. I had to once again busy myself with selling spectacles once more. Few people like spectacles; fewer still want to pay for them. This is a dilemma when it is your job and you find you have been extracted from Anguillia.

End.

Learn more about Anguillia by reading the novella: A Taste for Blood; Not So Much coming to www.Lulu.com in April '10.