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Annelisa Christensen

Bringing history to life


Book Circle

Three bookworms sat around an enormous tome lying on the table and contemplated its depths. It had tested their intestinal fortitude and, frankly, had given them all a bit of a bellyache.

But, being book club night, they were expected to give their opinion on it.

Wriggling awkwardly, the first muttered, “Stale.”

The second primly declared, “Having delved into its pages, I can only say I found it completely tasteless.”

They awaited the thoughts of their companion, who wiped her mouth and burped.

“Pardon me. It was a bit stodgy.”

So unsatisfactory. Every book they’d consumed was riddled with holes.

Death on the Books

It was a quiet day at our local library. Readers were silently checking out books and the books were flirting right back.

A thief blundered up to the librarian’s counter and forced an ancient rare volume into an awkward position.

“Hand over your cash, or I’ll bust this book’s spine!” he growled.

From the darkness between the shelves, an ardent book-lover bound to the rescue, tackled the thief to the floor and accidentally stabbed him with his own knife.

Later, one detective whispered to another, “I simply don’t understand. There are so many witnesses, but no one is talking.”

The Power of Words

He says, “Don’t you have other things to do?”

With effort, I pull myself from the story and think, “Yeah, I really should get stuff done!” Then I turn the page. It’s not like I'm addicted. Just one more chapter.

He leaves for the early morning train. I have the whole day ahead of me for housework.

The key turns in the front door.

“Honey?” The door clicks shut. He’s home early. “Nothing’s done. Are you ill?”

I check my watch. Blow it! It’s evening!

He says, “Books or me?”

Sometimes I remember him when I'm buying a new book.

December Blues


Always such a stressful month, what with buying presents, sorting out who will go to whose home for Christmas and New Year, what to do about the pets, preparing food, etc.

All this on top of Christmas work parties, sorting out the Secret Santa and finishing off end-of-year stuff.

Just this last thing to do. Pull the switch on this murderer. So many bodies found buried in his garden. Shame. I hear he was lightning fast with his pen.

Oops! Power cuts announced all over the city.

That’s saved me having to put up the Christmas lights.

Burying His Pain

There was another murder last night. Everybody’s talking about it.

Despite all the arguments they always had, I know poor old Lindsay Wade next door will miss his friend. He must feel awful after having that silly fight with him the other day. Such a shame they won’t have a chance to mend the fences between them.

Yes, there’s my neighbour now, still digging hard in the garden. He’s obviously taking it bad.

“Whoo-hoo! Mr Wade!”

He doesn’t seem very happy with me saying hello. He’s coming over. Why is he holding the shovel in the air like that?


Even entering the museum of our life together, I am drawn by the memory of each gift, each apology that once mended a fight or misunderstanding and made us stronger.

I sit in the tall-backed armchair, so old and well-used the leather had scuffed and cracked in the place he had always sat in that room. The chair was the one thing he never gave to me or allowed me to use. From there I could see our broken life.

Kintsugi: the Japanese art of mending cracked pots with gold.

There is no gold left to mend this last break.