NOTE: “The Story Of The Month” changes every month OR bi-monthly and might also have been featured in my collection DOWN INDEPENDENCE BOULEVARD published by MiddleRoad Publishers in 2017 and available on Amazon, or might be an Extract from my two novels RACING WITH THE RAIN and JUNTA or my collection UNFATHOMABLE AND OTHER POEMS


By Ken Puddicombe

Photo by mododeolhar on

Edith stepped into the corridor as Freddie pulled the door shut and inserted his key in the lock. She heard the squeak in the door of the apartment opposite. She turned around and saw the door ajar. Just a slight opening—narrow enough to maintain a semblance of secrecy, wide enough that she could see two eyes peering, staring, looking at them.

She’d seen those eyes before. They were attached to a small head, about three feet from the floor; deep, wide, brown eyes glowing in a dark apartment. She’d nodded the first time she’d seen them, smiled the second, said hello the third. There had never been a response. There was none now, as she smiled, and said, “Hello, how are you today?”

The eyes withdrew into the apartment and the door closed— a swift fluid movement, as if the person had been caught doing something that was haram.

Haram: she’d come across the word by accident one day as she was doing research on the Middle East, her curiosity piqued by her neighbours. Haram: Forbidden, and there was so much forbidden in the Middle Eastern culture.

“Don’t know why you even bother, Edith,” Freddie said. “It’s a bloody waste of time. You’ll never get a response from any of them. I doubt if they even speak English.”

The whole apartment complex was filled with them. A virtual invasion over the last few weeks leading up to December, is what Freddie had said. She’d followed the story in the news: bombings in Baghdad, and sectarian violence following the withdrawal of the American forces. Canada had granted asylum to many refugees—Freddie got the impression they were all in his building. 

Some of them had been interpreters for the Canadian armed forces. It must mean they had a fair command of English. She’d told this to Freddie one day and he’d shrugged, in his usual skeptical way.

“Oh, I don’t know Freddie, there must be a way of getting through. She looks so young and sweet. Can’t imagine she’s more than ten, or eleven.” 

They were seen all over the building: in the laundry room fiddling around with washers and dryers; in the lobby as they read foreign newspapers. Sometimes she didn’t have to see them to know they were there—she heard the Arabic music through the doors, smelled the unmistakable aroma of the cuisine: the kebabs, the fried Falafel and the spiced Tabbouleh.

“If Canada had to take in refugees, why couldn’t they be from English speaking countries?” Freddie said. “And why couldn’t they at least know what it means to be a Christian?”

They were heading for the City Centre to stock up on groceries for Christmas.

She was bracing for the complaints she would have to endure. About how Freddie was sick and tired of encountering all of those statistical men who always waited for the last moment to do their Christmas shopping, when his was lying wrapped under the tree in the living room.

They came back from morning mass. Freddie sat in his rocking chair, reading the newspaper, when she heard the knock on the door.

“Who the hell could it be,” Freddie said. 

The time when people came over on Christmas Day was long past. Two kids, one in far-off Australia, the other doing volunteer work in Guyana, friends either deceased or long moved to cottage country or warmer climes. And just where the hell is Guyana, anyhow, that she had to go all the way there? Edith had looked it up in the Atlas and found it: a former British colony, dwarfed between huge Venezuela and gigantic Brazil. And who lived there? Probably just another bunch of heathens looking to come to Canada.

Freddie opened the door. From the kitchen where she was seasoning the turkey, Edith saw the girl with the brown eyes; two large, hairy hands of a man were resting on her shoulder. Edith had only got brief glimpses of the man in the building. She heard that he worked shift at the hospital and was holding down another job at the local car wash. The mother was rarely outside.

“Yes, what can I do for you?” Freddie said.

 “If I am permitted, I would like to introduce myself. My name is Isaah Al Qurain. I am sorry to be of a nuisance to you, sir, but I am wondering, that is.” The man tapped the girl on her shoulder. “My daughter Sarah was wondering, if you would like to join us in the courtyard for celebrations tonight.”

“And what kind of celebrations might that be, that you would be having them in the courtyard, and at night?” Freddie said.

“It’s the feast of I du I Milad.”

Edith hurried over to the door. “We would love to,” she said. “Wouldn’t we, Freddie?”

Freddie shrugged and returned to his rocking chair.

The man smiled. He had a thick, black moustache, and when his lips parted to speak, they revealed a chiseled set of glimmering white ivory that would have been the envy of Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Arabia. 

“So, it start seven. We have snacks and a fire. Looking for you out, then.”

The little girl smiled and trailed behind her father as Edith closed the door.

“Why did you agree,’ Freddie said. “It sounds like another pagan rite. And of all nights, Christmas, we’re going to have to be there?”

I du I Milad is the Day of the Birth of Christ, Freddie. They’re Christians, just like you and me.”


“The bonfire is part of their tradition. A child, presumably the little girl, will read the story of the nativity from the Arabic Bible. One of their bishops will bless the congregation; he will touch someone, that person will touch the next person, and so on. It’s called: The Touch Of Peace. I’m hoping you will be one of the people touched, Freddie.”




December –The Touch Of Peace


Jan – The Interview

Feb – The Underground [2nd Prize Polaris Magazine]

Mar –Welcome  To Punta Canada

APR – Return Of The Prodigal [from Down Independence Boulevard and Other Stories]

MAY- No Thank You

JUNE – The Shoplifter

JULY/ AUGUST: The Last Straw [from Down Independence Boulevard and Other Stories]

SEPTEMBER/ OCTOBER: Relics In The Attic [from Down Independence Boulevard and Other Stories]

NOVEMBER: The Day Queen Victoria Lost Her head [Published in The Caribbean Writer]

DECEMBER— The Touch Of Peace


JANUARY/ FEBRUARY –The Effect Of Light Rays On The Milky Way and Minor Constellations

MARCH: Memory

APRIL/MAY: The Other Side

JULY/AUG: Love Through The Ages

OCT: Don’t Cry For Me


MAR: Going Back

JULY: Unfathomable And Other Poems

SEP: Tropical Rain (poem)

OCT: The Conversation

NOV: Visions and Tropical Night

DEC: The Touch Of Peace


FEB: Objects In The Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

MAR: Riding The J Train

APR: Skin Deep

JUNE: You Can Never Go Home

JULY: I Hardly Knew You

AUG: Welcome To Punta Cana-da

SEP: Across the Great Divide: Book 1/ Chapter 1

DEC: The Touch Of Peace