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Room for Dessert

by Alan Bo

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1.
A chess grandmaster named Maleek had not lost once since birth. In search of a tough challenge he played chess round the whole Earth. Sailed way from home in Panama, when he was just sixteen, won gold cups in Brazil, Peru and all countries between. Gold at the Sydney Opera House, and Hanoi, Vietnam, by a blue palace in India and Grand Mosque in Oman. Sent his pawns upon their castles then rode in his fierce knights and once his mighty queen advanced their king laid down in fright. And yet this world conqueror was actually so sweet, consoling all his opponents upon their swift defeat. His new friends would bring him home for a family dinner, ate at the kids table where he taught chess for beginners. He toured around with different folks who showed Maleek the sights, but just sitting and conversing to him was quite alright. When off to the next tournament, great memories were stashed in the hull, with all his gold cups, below his sailboat's mast. The boat got all the heavier, losing some of its zip, to keep on schedule he tried adding a second jib. Won gold in Socotra, Yemen, on the island’s wild shore, on Djibouti’s salt lake there was another gold cup in store. He won all along the Red Sea, then Lebanon and Greece. Cross the Mediterranean, his pile of gold increased. That is, until he reached Malta, in so pretty a place, is where the toughest opponents, were he ever to face. At Mdina's ancient stone gate lined with medieval swords it was like stepping right into a real, lifesize chess board. He marvelled at the checkered stone squares all along the ground. The old arched gate looked like a rook, topped with a royal crown. This place, living and breathing chess, hosted skillful players. In fact, in Maleek’s first match he only won by a hair. The next match was that much harder, which gave him a wide grin. All of his life he'd sought someone, who’d make it tough to win. He later faced in the finals another teen, named Dean, with these two jet-black arched eyebrows, eyebrows of someone mean. “So here's 'The Great Maleek,’" Dean smirked, “your winning streak is through. As I'm the world's true chess marvel who’ll finally beat you." “Best of luck to you,” said Maleek, extending out his hand. When Dean refused to shake it, jeers rose from the grandstand. The match moved at a rapid pace, our brave hero, Maleek tried shifting pieces here and there, but things were looking bleak. His knights both bowed to Dean's bishops, then fell his rooks and pawns, Dean barged right through the defences and Maleek's queen was gone. Journalists began a-typing while chess fans sat there stunned, when Dean kicked back his chair and yelled "I actually won!” Dean bellowed a big belly laugh but Maleek laughed all the more, said, “That was a fantastic match, the best of my world tour. Could you spare a single hour to, Share your wise thoughts on chess?" So charmed by his humble foe, Dean accepted the request. After the game’s hoopla died down, the two boys went for tea; their minds together whirled and twirled, talking chess strategy. When at last their eyes broke contact, the clock made Maleek sour, the next chess match, in Majorca, started in mere hours! Worse yet was that in recent days his boat was terr’bly slow. The boat barely moved no matter how hard the wind would blow. The gigantic stash of gold cups gave the boat too much weight. Unless Maleek lightened his load the next match he’d be late. Dean schemed the most ingenious plan: He’d buy his own sailboat. If he carried half the baggage, both boats would nicely float. The two boys sailed the long sea with their boats by rope attached. Cruising at such great speed they made the morn’s Majorca match. They both entered tournaments in Gibraltar and Tangier, Maleek's skills were the sharpest that they’d really been all year. When he met Dean in a finals they played as if entranced. Spectators witnessed not attacks, but something like a dance. He surely could have gone home but on the journey Dean stayed. He got to love making new friends wherever chess they played. Their friends all saw that these boys had chemistry together. Just as their sailboats were hitched their hearts were also tethered. They played on England's River Thames and France's Rue de Seine. Central Europe’s Danube, Rhine, Elbe and Oder before then. Sailing to North America in a near record time, dashed to a match in Newfoundland where they both played sublime. Once they won cups in fifty States and tropical Belize, Maleek thought it the time to quit sailing the seven seas. Back in Panama, Maleek was hailed a national treasure. He chose to retire from chess and live a life of leisure. But first he melted all of his valuable trophies, distributing the bars of gold to local charities. With the gold where it belonged and Maleek safe sound at home, it was logical for Dean now, to say goodbye and go. But just the thought of parting, felt so horribly wrong, both boys knew where the other was was where they both belonged. Together they finished high school and not long after then, they knew that their relationship meant far more than just friends. As their wedding approached they mailed out invites far and wide, and their long list of distant friends, all confirmed yes replies. Both coasts of Panama were filled with sailboats, yachts and ships, the grooms were delighted to have their many loved ones mix. Kiwis toasted with Ghanaians, monarchs drank with pirates, an Egyptian sea diver danced with a Dutch air pilot. The grooms gave a speech bout how they don’t travel anymore, so they felt so very touched that the world came to their door. These grooms, who'd sailed the seven seas, gave this rising sea pause, a sea of those they held so dear, flooding them with applause. They adopted triplet baby girls who grew like magic beans. It felt like no time had passed before the triplets neared sixteen. So filled with wonderment were these three loving teenage girls, they loved to hear their fathers talk bout journeying the world. The dads spoke not of World Wonders, not mountains, reefs or falls. They spoke of all their many friends, travel's best gift of all. The girls soon craved their own travels, so on the girls' birthday, they each received a sailboat so each could go their own way. The three daughters sailed far away on their own unique paths. Their dads relished their travel tales, when in time they came back.
2.
On a long and sandy cove was a town of cobblestone, that smelt of fruit and cinnamon; pies baked in every home. So quiet was this charming town without loud stores and cars, all could be heard were ocean waves and twinkling of stars. There was only noise on Mondays, when all hauled lobster traps for the weekly town hall supper, a night of food and dance. The town hall was showing its age, all stained and rotting wood. The lobster and company though, were positively good. Dessert was pies of every kind while fiddlers played songs. Around the deserted dance floor, the crowd just clapped along. The old townfolks weary bones were not roused by violin, so unlike many years ago when they all twirled and spinned. On a Monday decades before as the town’s couples dined, they made a major decision that all thought was divine. They decided to close their town to newcomers and guests, only with some peace and quiet would the charming town rest. They closed every store and kept their houses off the market, streets were thinned so car’s drivers would have nowhere to park it. In seclusion they lacked nothing, among them were farmers, fishers, butchers, cheese makers, hairstylists and barbers. And of course the townsfolk could bake, every woman and man, pies of rhubarb, apple, berry, peach, pumpkin and pecan. For you see the town had a phrase everyone liked to say: a daily slice of fresh pie keeps the lone doctor away. The quiet town was a triumph for more than three decades, now the whole lot of townsfolk had gotten well on in age. Across the half-empty town hall from the stage to the door, the youngest of the grey-haired bunch was aged seventy-four. Until the Monday supper when during the fiddle clap, from their old weathered town hall door came a loud rhythmic rap. In walked this sweet twenty year-old, who had a cheery smile, wore a dress patterned with cherries, a sweet pie-centric style. The townsfolk’s eyesight was weak and dim were the ancient lights, but this Claire girl’s energy made the room look clear and bright. Claire told the townsfolk her saga of cycling long the shore, in search of the most perfect spot for her first ice cream store. “Your cove is beautiful,” she said, with such unrivalled views, might you have any open lots that I can please peruse?” Right there and then the townsfolk had an emergency talk. Did they want an ice cream store to which outsiders might flock? Well, if she opened up a store, surely she could supply, a few scoops of ice cream to go along with their fine pies. Before they made their decision, Claire hoped they’d be impressed, by a bunch of ice cream flavours she brought them to taste test. Oh, taste and taste and taste they did, flavours were delicious, all these ice creams transcended their wildest dreams and wishes. There was chocolate and vanilla, all the classic flavours, then these magic concoctions that the town came to savour. One flavour tasted like childhood, one like lifelong friendship, one flavour tasted of first love, one like honeymoon trips. They scooped ice cream on their warm pies, melting beneath the crust, everyone ate as much dessert, they could till they were stuffed. Claire told them if she had a space she could make even more. The town agreed to let her build a proper ice cream store. Claire bought a lot along the shore then dug, hammered and sawed, constructing a grandiose store that had the townsfolk awed. The store was a wooden building taller than the lighthouse. “Twas now the town’s tallest structure,” the lightkeeper pointed out. Inside the fun store no detail was taken for granted, one went in for some ice cream and left the store enchanted. And when townspeople ventured to Claire’s store beside the sea, Claire piled scoops to the ceiling and their scoops were always free. Letting their Claire open the store proved oh so opportune, until the summer arrived when they’d think they spoke too soon. Word had somehow gotten out bout Claire’s magical ice cream, now just beyond the cobbled roads, a lineup of cars streamed. Once the young-folks had ice cream they tramped cross the sandy shore, skipped along the cobblestone streets in groups of twos and fours. We need to barricade the road, the townsfolk came to vote. The move proved itself pointless when young-folks arrived by boat. To make the perfect quiet town, the town had spent so long, now the poor townsfolk had to stay in with their curtains drawn. They tried to get on with their lives, pies kept them all busy, the smell of fruit and cinnamon rose from every chimney. The young-folks knocked on all their doors, drawn there by the sweet smell, asking if delicious pies the town was willing to sell. At first the townsfolk had to laugh, finding young-folks funny. What would a self-sufficient town do with silly money? These young folks offered to mow lawns or pull out garden weeds, for just one slice of pie they would do any chore or deed. In these young-folks clear love of pie, the townsfolk could relate, charmed by their young visitors they pulled out the serving plates. Besides pie the townsfolk served the wisdom they’d acquired, tips on life and baking that had their guests feeling inspired. All the townsfolk and young-folks had become fantastic friends, when time for the Monday supper, hundreds asked to attend. The young-folks were the ones who cooked, cooked lobster and rich sides, equipped with townsfolk baking tips, they also made the pies. The task they’d performed overnight was by far best of all, with new wood beams, nails and bright paint they’d redone the town hall. Stunned townsfolk asked who provided the wood and paint details, never found out it was Claire, who paid with her ice cream sales. That evening the town hall was packed, and as the fiddlers played, the young-folks served the food and pies they’d all that Monday made. The fiddlers did their best to keep the party going, but while all the young folks danced round the townsfolk were slowing. The young approached their old friends and lifted them to their feet, though there was much pie and ice cream, this moment was most sweet. As the fiddler's played faster, the dancers had a riot, sounds of music and laughter filled a town that once was quiet.
3.
There was a musical forest where among the thick trees, could be heard bugs and animals concocting melodies. Percussion of a woodpecker, the low bass of a bear, the humming of a hummingbird and purring of a hare. Their songs were dearest lullabies, to a baby elk’s ears, and sounded all the dearer, beyond his childhood years. In time the elk found his own voice, a large impassioned shout, adding a brassy, trumpet pitch to round the music out. One cool day, while eating mushrooms, he spotted a machine; chomping the nature in its path, destroying all things green. Though there were still aplenty trees, his home’s music had dimmed, and soon got even quieter as more trees yet were trimmed. Instead of the bats’ soprano and low croaking of frogs, at night the elk could only hear the grim sawing of logs. Although the elk’s friends moved away he couldn’t leave so soon. The forest still contained for him the echo of a tune. The last of the forest dwellers completely all alone, the only music now was his solemn trumpet solo. That lone winter his meals of twigs tasted espec’ly bland. As he watched all the snowflakes dance he dearly missed his band. Once warm, his forest was swarmed by massive, vibrant Beetles, maneuvered by these very loud animals, called people. Parked their Beetle’s at his doorstep, made noises called laughter, the elk learned people were no threat, fun was all they were after. The elk enjoyed a good time too, liked playing hide-and-seek, when people found him he roared loud, making them gasp and shriek, Despite the games he played all day, giving people a fright, he missed animal lullabies, alone again at night. One day he heard a fine noise come from by the forest’s edge, galloped there to investigate, peeked through a bushy hedge. A woman held a strange round tree that sung in smooth bellows. Between soothing songs she called her tree-thing a cello. The cello sounded like nothing that he had ever heard, more magical than hooting owls, than all the cooing birds. The elk just couldn’t help himself, above the hedge he jumped. The startled woman stopped playing and started to pack up. Oh, the elk needed her to know that he was not a threat, from hooves to antlers, he yearned for a musical duet. He let out a great trumpet note the best note he could make, the note, to her, was very sweet, an audible milkshake. Her trepidation subsiding, she picked up her strung bow. The woman and her new bandmate soon found harmonic flow. She played all her orig’nal scores, plus some Brahms and Mozart, together they found a key that unlocked the music’s heart. This thirty-year-old woman had all her years been wishin’, to find such synchronicity with another musician. When nighttime came the sleepy elk crept back among the trees. She said they should play tomorrow, the elk, nodding, agreed. All spring wondrous music they made throughout the daylight hours, received standing ovations from nearby blooming flowers. Each night, after the woman left, the elk had song-filled dreams, melodies flowed throughout his head in a cool gentle stream. In the summer they took cover beneath the thick tree shade. The elk was proud to show off his home of the past decade. He showed his friend the biggest tree and best patch of mushrooms. Some beauty still remained in what machines had not consumed. The woman said, “I would show you around the big city, but, compared to your lovely home it’s not all that pretty.” So she brought the city to him, some fine delicacies, little sandwiches and warm drinks she called afternoon tea. As much as the elk loved the meal, he could surely eat a lot more so the woman ordered ten large mushroom pizzas. Each day she generously gave the elk new food to try, everything from pasta salad to coconut cream pie. Maybe it was experience gained, maybe it was the treats, their delicious duets were now resonating more sweet. When the leaves turned orange and gold she said “goodbye, my friend! Don’t worry, I’ll surely be back upon the winter’s end.” The elk understood the words of the friend he long adored, though couldn’t comprehend how he’d last long without their scores. With discipline, he practiced his wide range of trumpet scales, but going back to eating twigs, he felt a little frail. The elk craved a veggie burger, with hot, crispy french fries, and assorted donuts with all the flavours that surprised. He stuck his wet nose in the air and took a giant sniff, all the food that he was craving he caught within his whiff! He followed the alluring scent for a many long miles, and roared with triumph when he found a mountainous food pile. If he believed in Elk Heaven there’s no doubt this was it, this very magical place called the County Garbage Pit! He ate his way up the mountain, ate all the night and day, this was a grand twenty-four hour all-you-can-eat buffet. Living there he made quick friends with raccoons, rats, cats and goats; they were not the worst of singers, the lot could hold a note. Despite three months of luxury, all the food and fellows, he thought often of the woman and her soulful cello. The woman had a nice winter, spent time in Mexico. She drove off to the forest once she saw the melting snow. Running twice around the treeline, the elk she couldn’t find, in no mood to play hide and seek, she forged a plan in mind. She played a song to draw him near, and, getting scared, played on. As chill crept in her bones she knew her kind elk friend was gone. Playing one last song, in mourning, as she so sadly wept, her bow swung so fast that the strings, like her heart, were wrecked. [music break] Her sad song, carried by the wind, could be heard crystal clear, at the County Garbage Pit where it tickled her elk friends' ears. The sleeping elk felt a strong chill as he opened his eyes, his furry ears twisted towards the song up in the sky. That heartbreaking cello music, the woman, could it be? He dashed off from the garbage pit, most curious to see. Yes, it was his talented friend! As she played on he hid behind a hedge so sneakily, having fun like a kid. As her song ended he pounced high, a wee hide-and-seek joke. Once the woman finished screaming, long tears of joy she choked. The two of them were overjoyed to be in the same place. She wrapped her arms around her friend for a warming embrace. To complete the reunion there was nothing left to do, but for the two of them to play a long reunion tune. Live in the forest or the pit, the elk had not planned yet, all that mattered was the moment, this beautiful duet.
4.
I spent summers at Grandma’s house when I was a young girl. Each year she’d comment on my height as I gave her a twirl. She lived on a narrow harbour, where fishing boats once roamed, on both sides of the water were these wee waterfront homes. Grandma’s wooden house had endless rooms, cupboards, crawl spaces. I’d find the most surprising things in surprising places. A one-million piece puzzle was glued to an attic wall; Grandma said it took six whole years and she cherished them all. I discovered a bronze medal in a bathroom drawer; she said she was an Olympian after the Second War. There was a hand in a glass jar, atop a blue canoe; to whom the hand belonged, Grandma had not a clue. With every quirky thing I found, my sleuthing skills grew keen, yet baffled by what I observed, the year I turned thirteen. Only then had I noticed that, each day at three o’clock, Grandma looked across the harbour while standing on her dock. Directly across stood a man who looked to be her age, like branches in a gentle wind, they did a long slow wave. Yes, each and every single day, the action would repeat, Grandma and a mysterious man performed their waving feat. My understanding of Grandma had all at once been changed, and yet she just kept on as if nothing at all were strange. In the mornings we picked berries and went digging for clams, then cooked and baked such wondrous treats while canning fresh made jams. One day as Grandma and I baked her famous apple pie, I built up just enough strength to unhinge my mouth and pry. As she pinched in more cinnamon, and I dashed in nutmeg, I asked about the waving man, soon asking turned to begs. My efforts were not for nothing, she talked between pie bites, and just like that yummy dessert, her tale was sweet and spiced. They liked each other in grade school but went their separate ways, though she loved Grandpa, she has thought about him for all her days. The waving had gone on for years, from their respective sides, but they’d not so much as spoken cross the narrow divide. Grandma was somber, so I thought maybe she’d feel better, if she wrote her feelings for him in a heartfelt letter. I reminded her to write him throughout the entire week, from the time she woke each morning till when she went to sleep. To hush me up she wrote to him, wondering if… whether… maybe… perhaps… he thought it was time to get together. A reply came the next day and I danced round as I read. He'd invited her for dinner a quick two days from then. Straight away she doubted going, and put up a strong fight, a whirlwind of excuses flew from the left and the right: The harbour ferry was pricey, the bridge too long a walk, even if she reached him she’d be too nervous to talk. “I will of course come too,” I said, “If you’re willing to go, we'll take that blue canoe of yours, I’d be happy to row.” [musical break?] As she climbed in the canoe she was damp with nervous sweat. Her legs and feet trembled beneath a lovely tea length dress. Meager minutes was all it took to paddle us across, a small harbour measured in years together that they lost. The man, named Tyrell, met us down along his bit of shore. He too was sweaty and shaky, nerves peeling at his core. Walking up to his quaint old house, there was not one word said. All I heard were the cricket chirps and a resounding dread. The vegetable pot pie he made Grandma said was quite nice. Tyrell said thanks and then they both looked back at their slice. Otherwise the only noise was scratching knives, spoons and forks. Emotions bottled for decades needed to be uncorked. So I turned to all his records, of which he had a ton, and searched for the album cover that looked to be most fun. I danced wildly to the music, cross the creaking floorboards. Tyrell laughed as to Grandma's hand he moved slowly towards. He mumbled something sounding like, will you please dance with me? Grandma, with a sweet giddy nod, so happily agreed. They quickly found their rhythm with the waltz and jitterbug, then with slower songs where they two stepped in a tight hug. I finished off the pot pie while the newfound couple danced. It was the first moment of what would be lifelong romance. Tyrell insisted we visit as often as we could. Turned out he too had surprises in his wee house of wood. By his bed was, from his school days, a Valentine’s Day card that my grandma gave to him and he never did discard. Within his basement chests there was a letter creased and bent, a years-old love declaration, that he had never sent. And a ring with a sapphire, matching the harbour’s blue; for whose hand it belonged Tyrell gave not a clue. We had the greatest adventures, just us three musketeers, rowing round together defined my bestest teenage year. Sometimes they sat along the dock, with so much to be said, catching up on years apart and their new bright life ahead. From what I was able to hear, they both had some regrets, but felt lucky that their last years would be the best years yet. When Grandma moved in with Tyrell, she gave her house to me, and for years I would wave at them each afternoon at three. Sometimes I’d catch them on their dock dancing during sunset, the red, orange and purple sky outlined their silhouettes. When they were too sickly to wave I daily canoed by, and helped them to the table for my vegetable pot pie. I think about when me and my son waved during a wet snow, shortly after three that day was when Grandma chose to go. There was no one left to wave at, I still waved anyway, and so too would my grandchildren, a tradition to this day.

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released July 7, 2020

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Alan Bo Vancouver, British Columbia

I'm a children's writer, editor, and music artist currently living in Vancouver. For my children's music albums, I collaborate with musicians to bring whismsical stories to life.

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