"I think maybe this batch, Mudpie... what do you think?"

Maggie's favorite place in the world was in the greenhouse, at her grandfather's side as he carefully tended his orchids. From the time she was old enough to wrap her hand around a spade handle, and not eat the dirt, Maggie would climb up on the rickety stool next to him and watch in wonder as he inspected every flower, every bud, every leaf. It had always been his dream to develop a pure white orchid, and it had always eluded him.

Maggie gazed down the greenhouse benches at the endless rows of orchids in every color imaginable. She listened to the bubbling of the hidden irrigation system that always sounded like giggling pixies, and tried to catch them out of the corner of her eye. Failing that, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the clean, wet air. Her grandfather had built the greenhouse with his own hands, and it had become as much Maggie’s sanctuary as it was his. Here, she didn’t have to worry about sitting up straight, keeping her nails clean, or constantly be told to hush because grownups were talking. Grappie liked her questions. He said they helped him think. The familiar question bubbled to her lips, "but why's it gotta be white, Grappie? The other colors are so much prettier."

"Because white is the rarest and hardest to develop", came the familiar answer.

"But these ones are almost white."

"Almost is never good enough, Magdalena-Mudpie. Never forget that."

Maggie watched, listened, and learned. With every new set of seedlings, her heart would race, only to break in empathy as Grappie found bits of yellow or purple marbling the nearly white petals. “Maybe next batch, Grappie.”

The years went by, and Maggie's trips to her grandfather's greenhouse became fewer and further between. Maggie stepped in, smiling that she now had to duck through a doorway that had always seemed so far above her head. As she breathed in the damp, cool air once more, closing her eyes at the rush of memories that overwhelmed her, for some reason today the pixie laughter seemed louder, more jubilant. Maggie turned the corner and saw the twelve pots, each with a pure white orchid standing proud and defiant on their slender stalks. Grappie was at the end of the table, slumped over his notes. The crumpled note in his cold, stiff hand read "This batch, Mudpie... the pixies are proud of me."

I swear, when I visited Branigan’s Recycling Center that day, I was on the prowl for a cupboard for my hallway; something that would hold my shoes as well as the other sundry items cluttering the area next to my front door.

I had been mooching around for about five minutes when, with heart quickening, I spotted the mirror. It was one of those ornate mirrors that are usually hung over mantelpieces. A woman had been chatting to her companion about it and they had thought the price of $50 was a bit steep. They moved off to bargain with the assistant at the far end of the shop.

Heart pounding, I approached and looked with reverence at what I knew for certain to be a frame that had previously been owned by my family since 1910. There was an imperfection that was unmistakable, since it was my own childish mischief that had caused part of the ornate filigree to be chipped from the bottom left hand corner. That same filigree corner piece was still in my possession. It was housed in my memory box, along with a rolled up canvass.

Now, here, unrecognised, was our beautiful 19th century Edwardian gilt frame worth approximately $2,000. I could scarcely breathe. Here, in this shoddy second-hand store, was a glorious reminder of my deliriously happy past and a reminder, too, of our eventual impoverishment.

In the process of rapt examination, I suddenly caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. I looked altogether too excited, so I adjusted my facial reading into one of casual disinterest. If I was to succeed in gaining an advantage over the two interested ladies, I would have to play this with great cunning.

The two women were pointing down to where I stood, and the assistant was moving out to come and look at the mirror, so I casually lifted it off the wall, as if to examine it, and it half-slipped out of my grasp, the glass cracking as it thumped to the floor. In the process of seemingly trying to right it, I gave it a furtive kick, elongating the crack somewhat. The assistant came running.

“Why did you lift it off the wall?” he said. “The price was written on it.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, looking very contrite. “I just wondered what the back looked like.”

“You’ve damaged it,” he said. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to pay for this damage.”

“It’s only a small crack,” I maintained. “You can still see yourself in it quite clearly. It’s not as if it’s shattered.”

The two ladies looked at the long crack, and the potential buyer shook her head. They apologised to the assistant, saying they were no longer interested, and left the shop.

“You’ve lost me a sale,” he said. “You’ll have to buy it, or pay for a new mirror to replace that one.”

I shook my head, as if to say that the whole world was against me today, and told him that I’d buy it so that he wouldn’t be out of pocket.

“And I only came in for a cheap second-hand cupboard for my hallway.” I complained.

He helped me pick out a suitable cupboard – knocking $5 off the price, and furthermore arranged delivery of both the cupboard and the mirror for that evening at no extra cost. I think he was quite pleased with himself because I paid the full price for the mirror, thus giving him a tidy profit of $30 over the price he paid to the house clearance company.

You think I went to all that trouble so that I could sell and make a quick profit? Oh, no. I did it for my parents.

Poor daddy, taking his eye off the ball while grieving after the death of my mother, had been cheated in business. He was declared bankrupt. Sadly, the mansion and contents had been forfeited to the Official Receivers and subsequently sold on to pay off creditors. I later found the now redundant filigree corner piece and placed it in my memory box, along with a rolled up canvass; a reminder of a life which no longer existed for my now impoverished family. Poor daddy died, a broken man, just two months later.

Someone, with no knowledge of antiques, had been taken with this rather fine frame and put in a mirror, but it was meant for a much grander existence. It now houses an oil painting of my beloved parents. Once again they are happy and smiling. Our old mansion stands proudly in the background and the gardens are resplendent with summer flowers. The canvass is worthless, but it remains one of my most prized possessions. It is now housed in a newly restored frame worthy of holding such a treasure.

I remember when I first started entering photographic contests on Worth. I’d scan the current contests, grab my camera and snap away. It didn’t take me long to realise however, that my entries weren’t exactly winning material. In fact, they were far from adequate. Sure, I’d get some encouraging remarks like “good idea” and “you have real potential” but it didn’t hide the fact that my entries just didn’t make the grade.

Wistfully I would look at the mantelpieces of some of the greats like SigloV and Jesusito and I would shake my head in awe and wonder. They were my idols. A trophy filled mantel seemed an unreachable goal.

Still, there wasn’t much to lose. Well nothing really! If I didn’t have the credits to pay for my entries then I could put them up for sponsorship and if my entries didn’t get sponsored then it really didn’t matter – there wasn’t much danger of me being in the running for a medal anyway. And so I continued to shoot photos and enter contests. Shoot and enter. Shoot and enter.

And somewhere in the midst of my deluge of “full of potential” entries, someone happened to comment that many of them had soft focus – a gentle way of saying my photos were a tad blurry! That remark led me to join the Worth photography mentoring programme.

Through the course of those next few months, techniques were taught, ideas were conveyed and lessons were learnt. My scores were improving. “Shoot and enter” had become “plan, shoot and enter”.

I was very encouraged with my progress. My mentors were great and taught me a whole heap of new things. I began to feel really good about my entries, convinced that each one was “THE” entry. But “THE” entry was proving to be more elusive than I had imagined. I’d enter a contest and get really excited, but over the course of the one week voting period I would see my entry fail to take hold of the slippery ladder of success.

It was an entry like any other. I had pondered. I had planned. I had composed, shot, re-shot and cropped. And I had entered and waited – for an uneasy 168 hours. It was highly placed throughout that week this photo of mine. Out of 64 entries mine was in the top ten. Sometimes it would climb a place or two and at other times it would topple back down but always it stayed in the top ten.

That last hour of voting became my whole reason for living at that moment in time. I sat at my desk, my right hand tensely clutching the mouse and to pass the time I would check my placing, visit the forums, check my placing, browse the galleries, check my placing.

Twenty seconds to go – I was third! I refreshed the screen. Seventeen seconds to go – still third! Deliberately and methodically I started counting the seconds as if the very act of counting slowly would give me less seconds to endure. One, two, three, four, five. I refreshed the screen once more. Nine seconds to go. Still third! I closed my eyes, counted again and after a big breath and dramatic pause I refreshed the screen for the last time. If anyone is expert in screen refreshing – it’s me!

A great big grin covered my face as I proudly sat there looking at my monitor and with a hint of tears in my eyes whispered “third”. And then, a delayed reaction gave way to an almighty yell of “YES!” as I punched my fist in the air and continued to sit there grinning.

Of course, hubby had to be told - and the children and the cat and the neighbours and my mentors...

We celebrated that evening. The smile never leaving my face. One shiny bronze medal. I was so proud. I finally had a medal on my mantelpiece.

Dedicated to my mentors.

I smoothed my hands over the stiff peach bodice and concentrated on breathing up and down rather than in and out. The bones dug into my sides, and the itchy lining irritated my skin. The bodice was too small for me, but I daren’t say anything to Mme Framer. I sighed and lifted my arms slightly, trying to alleviate the pain under my arms where the armholes had rubbed the skin raw.
“They’re closing the doors!” A young ballerina with too much makeup poked her head into the dressing room, “We’re about to go on.” There was a flurry of activity all around me as the girls all rushed to the mirrors, checking their makeup and tweaking their hairpins. I put my arms down and looked critically at myself in the mirror, pinching out the tallow candles on either side of it and sending a small prayer to God that my performance tonight would go smoothly.
I had been preparing for years, dancing till my toes bled in this grotty little theatre. But tonight, that was all about to change, I was sure of it. The manager for the Palais Garnier Opera House was watching tonight, I had heard he was touring England, looking for promising ballerinas.
I followed the other girls out onto the stage, and threw one arm elegantly above my head, pointing my toes and staring straight ahead. My long, white, wide skirt nearly touched that of the girl’s beside me and I inched to the left, resuming my unassuming chorus girl stare as the velvet curtains drew back.
The orchestra struck up, and I was momentarily dazzled by the rush of bright light. I drew in a quick breath, then began to turn and skip and gracefully wave my arms in perfect sync with the other dancers. Whenever I got the chance, I looked out across the audience, trying to guess who the manager was. A man, front and centre, in an expensive black coat watched the performance intently, and occasionally noted something down in a notebook on his knee. That must be him. I decided, continuing my performance with all the grace and poise I could manage.
At the interval I had a sip of water, and before I knew it we were out on stage again, twirling and leaping. By the end of the evening my cheeks were pink under the makeup, and all the dancers were forcing smiles as they posed for the applause of the crowd, trying vainly to catch their breath in the restricting bodices after such a demanding piece.
The curtains closed slowly, and when we were concealed from view we all relaxed and began to pad wearily back to the dressing room, a few stayed were they were, putting their hands on their hips and taking in deep gulps of air.
In the dressing room, we all helped each other to unlace our bodices, and we gratefully put on more comfortable clothing. One girl, Amy, put on a emerald green empire dress and slippers (the new fashion in London), and declared she was going out to dinner with her handsome beau and she would not be back for a while. The girls all promised not to tell Mme Framer, and, twirling her black tasselled parasol and beaded reticule, she left.
I shook my head and slipped on my nicest blue dress, pinning and tying everything into place carefully. I sat on my bed, and waited. Ten minutes later, Mme Framer came in, wearing her customary scowl.
“Monsieur Renaurd would like to see you Sophie, come.” I followed her out of the room where the other girls whispered, and down the spiral iron staircase. The man in the black coat stood at the bottom, and he inclined his head to me when I was presented. I curtseyed low and smiled demurely.
“Miss Bell, I have been most impressed by your dancing, and I would like to offer you a place as a chorus girl at the Palais Garnier Opera House in Paris. Would you do me the honour of accepting?”
I suppressed the unexpected urge to jump up and down, but allowed myself a beaming smile.
“I would be delighted to come to Paris, Sir.”

The man in the balaclava with the gun in his hand was making me very nervous. Not because of the gun, funnily enough. Usually they are used just to threaten, and I reassured myself that as long as I kept my head down and stayed quiet, I would get out of this in one piece.

No, what was making me nervous was the fact that he had suddenly grabbed me by the arm and dragged me up off the floor. He was yelling at me, but I couldn’t hear him; everything was still muffled. Now he was aiming the gun at me and pointing at the teller … but what? What did he want me to do? I looked around helplessly. The teller’s eyes were jumping from the gun carrier to me, and back again. Sheer terror was all I could read from her.

The sun went behind that cloud again and, quite suddenly, there was a flash and I felt as though my forehead had been thumped.

They do say that your whole life flashes before your eyes just before you die, but with me it was just that last fateful morning. Suspended between life and death, I now watched the start of my day unfurl.

***

That morning a shadow had passed across the shower curtain. Shocked, I grabbed the curtain to take a look, and slipped. By sheer fluke, my having hold of the curtain saved me from breaking my neck. I reasoned later that it must have been the sun going behind a cloud. However, I now had what seemed like several pints of water in my ears. I tried to shake the cotton-wool effect away, but the water resisted all movement. I tried poking a finger in each ear and wiggling, blowing my nose, shaking my head, but all to no avail.

As I left the flat and walked out onto the street, I was shown my neighbour calling out to me in alarm, but I didn’t hear a thing, and it was just sheer luck that the flowerpot missed me and crashed to the ground behind me as I walked out of range of the balcony above. I was now shown my neighbour watching in askance as I walked calmly away.

It was only twelve minutes later, as I left the newsagents, that a car which had been left out of gear, careered down the high street, sans driver. I was so totally absorbed in the headline emblazoned across the front page that I failed to see it, let alone hear it. Again, I watched myself walking just a few steps to the corner and turning out of the road, as the car mounted the pavement and crashed into the very newsagent doorway I had just cleared.

My morning at work had seemingly been without incident. It had certainly been quiet … mainly because of my temporary impediment. My work colleagues had given up trying to chat to someone encased in a cocoon-like cotton-wool world, so I managed to get through quite a lot of work.

I was planning on getting a coffee from the vending machine, and I was now shown myself swinging my handbag over my shoulder, accidentally catching the top bloom in a vase of flowers which had been placed on the filing cabinet. The water from the toppled vase cascaded off the cabinet and down the wall, seeping into the socket wherein my computer was plugged. Luckily, I had just returned with my coffee when Jason motioned me into his office. He mimed that I could take an early lunch, as he would need me back by 1:00pm. I was happy with this because I needed some cash, so a visit to the bank was next on the agenda

I filled in the withdrawal slip at the bank and joined the line for service. It was only the people in front of me turning in alarm and hitting the ground that alerted me to the shouting men in balaclavas. I decided to hit the ground and keep a low profile too. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to stay there … which brings us pretty much up to date.

***

It was a strange, drifting, lifting, floating, relaxing, warm and peaceful motion which took me away from the pandemonium breaking loose below. The robbers panicked and ran without taking a thing. The young man who had been waving the gun at me was probably the most surprised of all, since the gun had gone off by sheer fluke. Or had it? I’m beginning to think there was a little push on his hand by my thoroughly frustrated fifth-time-lucky Reaper! I’m sure I caught sight of his shadow performing a little victory dance!

My triumphant moment, was when, I talked to this girl, she was... she is, different. Normally a level of excitement, a so-called rush, would develop, when people try to score, getting a number, maybe even something more. But this time, everything was different. I was consumed with overwhelming impuissance. I felt powerless, my confidence shot down, and for what? I saw an angel on earth, an angel with no wings. I felt insignificant, next to one of God’s heavenly creatures. I gazed at her divine beauty, time stopped, the world was nothing to me, for one moment, I felt I was truly there. Breathless... 



This is not an exaggeration. I was left breathless at her beauty. I was struck dumb and senseless, I was overtaken, words can not do her justice, not even pictures, poems, stories, nothing. Speechless...



I began to ask myself, what would a mere mortal say, what could a mere mortal say to her? Surly she has seen the heavens, she has soared through the skies. What do I have to offer, words? You must understand, that I did not, for one instant, think of lust, beautiful as she was, I did not consider eating the forbidden fruit, for I knew she was out of my league, by far. Her league is in the skies. Thoughtless...

I wanted to hear her angelic voice. I wanted time to understand her beauty. To gaze into her deep brown eyes, and see what piece of life she has endured. Her dark satin hair, I could imagine its scent even from far away. If I could define the word red, I would say her lips; luscious and perfectly red. Her white baby skin, slightly reddened where it should be, and tightly wrapped around her body. And what a perfect body it was. A small, red, slightly blurred mark was on the lower part of her neck. I believe that is the brand of angels. Every glimpse of her filled me with unparalleled satisfaction. I wanted more. Priceless...

That day I did not go up to her, I was defeated by fear. But that was only the first battle. After that I lost the second and third. I spent the third night, contemplating, thinking, ravaging my mind to find the best plan to boost my moral, and to win the war. I woke up on the fourth day, I saw her by the pool. I decided to be decisive, I took action, I spoke, she smiled. Her benevolent smile filled me with an abundance of joy. My endeavor, was fruitful. Happiness...

He just needed to wait one more second… Would it happen? Yes! It went up! Past it, his arch nemesis’! His first book was now at the top of the New York Times bestseller list! The moment was forever etched in his mind, his name now renowned, his book now illustrious. The author cheered joyously. He had succeeded! Yes! Succeeded—in spite of the doubtful publishers who had rejected the manuscript, in spite of the cynical critics who first reviewed the book, and in spite of the troubles he had endured while writing the drafts. Even losing his job was worth it now. He started weeping in the ecstasy of the moment. He was number one!