Orchard of Dreams

By Annette Siketa

An author suffering from ‘writer’s block’, finds inspiration when he hears about a tragic love affair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annette Siketa
• Release date: Nov 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005065720

Annette Siketa

For those of you who have not yet made my acquaintance, my name is Annette Siketa, and I am totally blind. Were you aware that most blind and visually impaired people are extraordinarily perceptive? To sighted people, this ability must seem like ESP, and I suppose to a certain extent, it is. (I'm referring to the literal meaning of Extra Sensory Perception, not the spooky interpretation.) To compensate for the lack of vision, the brain and the other four senses become sharper, so that we can discern a smell or the identity of an object. I promise you there's no trickery involved. It's simply a matter of adapting the body to ‘think’ in another way.Being blind is no barrier to creativity. Like most things in this world, life is what you make of it, and after losing my sight due to an eye operation that went terribly wrong, I became a writer, and have now produced a wide variety of books and short stories, primarily of the ghost/supernatural/things that go bump in the night genre.So, how does a blind person write a book? On the practical side, I use a text-to-speech program called ‘Jaws’, which enables me to use and navigate around a computer, including the Internet, with considerable ease. Information on Jaws can be found at www.freedomscientific.comOn the creative side...well, that’s a little more difficult to explain. Try this experiment. Put on your favourite movie and watch it blindfolded. As you already ‘know’ the movie – who does what where & when etc, your mind compensates for the lack of visualisation by filling in the ‘blanks’. Now try it with something you’ve never seen before, even the six o'clock news. Not so easy to fill in the blanks now is it?By this point you’re probably going bonkers with frustration – hee hee, welcome to my world! Do not remove the blindfold. Instead, allow your imagination to compensate for the lack of visualization, and this will give you an idea of how I create my stories. Oh, if only Steven Spielberg could read my mind.

Book preview

ORCHARD OF DREAMS

By Annette Siketa

Copyright © 2021 Annette Siketa.

No part of this book may be manipulated, transmitted, or altered by any method or manner whatsoever. All rights reserved. Please respect the authors’ rights. Only through honesty can the insidious practice of illegal copying be curbed.

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Orchard of Dreams.

Spring arrived in earnest, and in the city, daffodils bloomed in window boxes, children played in parks, and the cry of the rag & bone men rang through the streets again.

In the forests and woodlands, the birds and insects set about the business of regeneration. Wildflowers poked their heads’ through the ground, and in brooks and streams, water-plants unfolded their tightly scrolled leaves.

The human populous was equally moved, for on Sunday mornings, the trains were filled with pilgrims and picnic baskets, all leaving the grimy city to embrace the freshness of spring.

Though an author of some repute, I was suffering from ‘writer’s block’, and so one Sunday morning, I joined the exodus in the hope of finding inspiration. I had been told of a little village on the south coast, where cows and sheep and lush green meadows dominated the landscape.

My informant had spoken the truth, for when the train deposited me on the outskirts of the village, I entered an enchanting world. After stopping at the post-office to obtain some guidance, I followed a rutted track and eventually came to a quaint old cottage, behind which was an orchard of apple trees.

The day was warmer than I expected, and now being thirsty, I opened the gate and walked up the path. My knock on the front door brought no answer, and so I looked through a window.

The first thing I saw was an old piano, the top of which was covered in dust. The heavy furniture and the somewhat faded cushions and curtains were in a similar condition, and it could not have been clearer that the cottage had been empty for some time.

My docile imagination began to stir, and I seemed to smell newly baked bread and the smoke from a blazing fire. The picture was complete when I imagined myself throwing open the door and yelling, I'm home!

I smiled at my silliness. Ah, if only, I murmured, and then asked myself, 'why not?' What was there to keep me in London? In truth, the answer was 'quite a lot', for my publisher had been pestering me for weeks. Surely there was no harm in asking if the cottage was for rent.

I retraced my steps, and a ploughman referred me to an old farmhouse about a quarter of a