One of many, I hesitate at the top of the stairs, eyes wide as I take in the spectacle in front of me. I heard the call to dinner, ringing through the corridors, just as these others did, but I can’t think who this meal is for. Music swells, eddying past the stream of guests as we make our stately entrance. Gliding down the ornately carved, curved staircase, we cross richly patterned carpets, our feet sinking into thick, sumptuous pile.

No one thinks to stop and stare—unlike me. Looks of censure quickly have me moving again.

Under subdued lighting, ormolu and gilt-wood furniture glimmers; starched linens glow, their surface marked with subtle, satin pattern; crystal chandeliers and leaded glass sparkle, and a fortune in precious gems scintillate, against settings of gold and platinum.

This an event for society's elite, well used to such luxury. The women are dressed in fashionable gowns of vibrant silk and lace, underpinned by bone and steel, with dainty slippers and beaded bags. The men, though more restrained in palette, are smartly attired, in carefully pressed tuxedos, high-shine shoes, and have not a hair out of place. Money, breeding, and position are displayed with pride, at this, the perfect venue. All are here to be seen—by the right people.

For all I fit the criteria, I still feel out of place. If not for my inheritance, I doubt I would ever have found myself amidst such illustrious company. Following the pattern of other dinners, I take my seat amidst the opulence of the dining room, waiting with the aristocrats and nouveau riche for the start of the ten course feast.

Service commences, the unacknowledged hands of silent staff catering to our every wish. Later, there will be more music and dancing, but for now the menu takes centre stage; oysters and consommé, salmon mousse, fillet mignon, and roast duckling… the richest and finest of culinary pleasures.

All is well; all is exactly as it should be. This is how I remember it happening.

The resonant tone of the dinner gong sounds again, calling out another invitation, and intruding into this familiar loop of time. All around me, genteel conversations pause. Whispers and raised eyebrows make me wonder at this unexpected interruption. The sound transforms into an eerie toll; a heavy bell’s deeper, duller notes. And as the last of midnight’s chimes are marked, dread sweeps my confusion away—as everything changes, and history unfolds before my horrified gaze.

Once this was a magnificent vessel; designed by dreams, built through ambition, and furnished with ego and overweening assurance. It was a ship so monumental in size and reputation; it caught the world’s imagination, and those of the generations to come. But with its fame came infamy.

All too soon, decadence was overtaken by darkness, and fate dealt a cruel blow. In a single night, tragedy stole too many from their loved ones, and swept away the futures of rich and poor alike.
Though the dinner continues around me, the warmth of the lighting and décor, the beauty of the diners, and the refined flavours of the food have vanished. In their place are cold, shifting shadows in dark blues and green, fleshless, animated bones, clothed in rotted scraps of fabric, and food that is decayed, and soaked in brine. The music is now the groan of tortured, rusted metal, the rush of waves, somewhere far above, and the wail of fifteen hundred souls, taken before their time.

With the last trembling of a bell that should lie silent, I watch and mimic the actions of the dead. Am I one of them? We turn, and wait. All movement ceases—diners, crew and servants are once more suspended in time. Even the lamenting of those trapped below, unseen beneath these magnificent decks, pauses on a hush of expectation.

And suddenly I know; no one who witnessed the events of that night can ever really leave. Tonight, as on others, we have gathered once more, to witness the return of one of our own—back to the place where my own, and so many other lives were changed forever. Where our dreams became nightmares.

At the top of the staircase, a light begins to flicker. The figure of a man appears. Straight and tall, the weight of knowledge is clear in his gaze, belying the youthfulness of his stance. Beneath his evening clothes, his frame is too thin, and with each stride, down the wooden steps, it’s as if the burden of his memories bow his limbs ever lower. His hand trails along a banister now encased in a layer of vegetation, and his steps are slow, as he battles against the unseen force of a frigid current.

We raise our glasses, and I shudder at the clicking of bones stripped bare, and the sight of hollow eyes turning to fix their gaze on a man of many flaws. At least I know that he could never be the demon that others named him.

There was more than one failure that night, and more injustice than could ever be atoned for by a single human being.

Watching him now, as he realises where he is, I can see the tears of regret and remorse in his eyes. Perhaps, when history has finished with us, and all of us are reunited on the wreck marking so many graves, we will finally be able to leave. But for now, we must reside where we died, and another toast is required.

The solemn tones of Captain Smith ring out, swirling through an ocean’s depths. “To the man without whom this legendary ship would never have existed—we welcome Joseph Ismay--back to the Titanic.”

This story is one I wrote for my nephew. Thankfully, he gave it the 'thumbs up' because, as the original 'Joe Crow', I felt I needed his permission/approval before letting it out onto the internet!

It's also the first in a future/planned collection of short stories, called 'Unusual Heroes'.

 
JOE CROW
 
Joe Crow has always suited his nick-name. Even as a new born, he was noticeably different to the rest of his family; a corvid fledgling amongst white doves. His hair, thick and downy-soft, was like obsidian coloured velvet, and his skin rich in shadowed tones, turning espresso-black when exposed to the sun.

Watchful eyes, of other-worldly blue, missed nothing. If something caught his attention, that intelligent gaze would narrow and focus. Whether on a young wizard, unafraid of forbidden forests, or on an immortal time lord, bravely facing the inky depths of an infinite universe, Joe Crow would become that person. He had the books, the films, the costumes and merchandise. His imagination was a living thing, and his ability to slip into the minds of different characters both bemused and delighted those around him, even as he filled his bedroom with carefully hoarded memorabilia.

However, it wasn’t just his mania for collecting, his watchfulness, or his ability to mimic which marked him as different. It was his determination. Nothing stood in Joe Crow’s way for long. He could outwit and outmanoeuvre anyone who thought they knew what was best for him. He soared over obstacles with accomplished ease.

Not for him an ordinary life or humdrum career.

In his early teens, he favoured clothes in shades of charcoal and tar. Later still, he wrapped himself in leather, with only the shimmer of silver buckles to break its molasses sheen. His once carefully trimmed hair grew wild; an untamed plumage that tumbled over his brow any-which-way it pleased, and feathered his cheeks and jaw.

His personality, which some called obsessive, tunnelled inwards, away from the visual stimuli of television and cinema, and away from his family and friends. Instead, the sonic delights of music were his new domain.

Haunting the darkened corners of city clubs, he would listen to live bands for hours. He learned to play the guitar… and found the passion he’d been born for.

Night-time quickly became his life, bringing with it crowds of people. They flocked to hear him, responding to his raucous call and bass driven melodies. They danced and drank, and roared their approval at each new song.

But Joe Crow barely seemed to notice. His fame had spread, and others had joined him. He was part of a band. Their audiences and venues grew bigger, but his focus remained absolute—on his guitar. It was as if nothing could compare to the music pouring from his soul.

It was as if his dreams had consumed him whole.

So if you’re a fan, spare a moment to think of the man behind the name. Next time you see him, hope that his cleverness is still a blessing and not a curse.

And should you, after the performance, swear you can hear the sound of a bird’s cry, shrieking into the night, or spy a flurry of jet-black feathers, floating from the sky, please don’t be alarmed.

This is how legends begin…

WARNING: This DEFINITELY isn't a 'Betty Sue' story. In fact, I've been told it's rather depressing!  I see it more as an exploration of different meanings for expressions such as 'buried alive' or even 'the living dead'.


This story started with a writing group exercise (a timed writing sprint of approx. 8 minutes).
I was asked to write a near death experience, in first person. This is what I came up with:


The music died in an instant, drowned out by a scream of warning; so shrill, it was if the entire world paused to listen.

Turning my head, I saw the panic seize and contort the faces closest to me, and I knew—knew that in this moment, and all the moments to come, everything would change. My heart rate spiked, and then, bizarrely, elongated. I was aware of it happening, aware of time rippling as my consciousness shrank, to a single bubble only big enough for me and my memories.

Regrets and triumphs swamped me, and I saw the people I loved, people I’d lost, and those I felt I could not leave. Husband, Daughter, Parents, Brother, Sister, new friends and old; their faces swam through my mind in a flash that, for me, lasted for minutes. All of them screamed my name, as light and a roar of noise abruptly crashed over me, splintering the rush of emotion and visions into a billion fragments—that danced around me like fragile confetti.

Then came the smell of smoke, stinging the inside of my nose and mouth, slowly sucking away everything I knew, and all I ever was…
 
 
WRITING GROUP HOMEWORK: WHAT HAPPENS NEXT IN 500 WORDS
 
BURIED ALIVE
 
The first thing I remember, aside from confusion and terror, is waking up.

My eyes were crusted, weighed down and sealed-shut. Pain pulsed through my skull, and bile was an instant, distinctive flavour in the back of my throat.

When I retched, I tasted the smoke I was sure lined my lungs and stomach, but the air gulped in afterwards, felt cool, and cleaner than expected.

A bottle of water was thrust into my hand, and a voice I didn’t recognise encouraged me to drink. I was more than willing. I sucked it down, far too fast, and ignored the voice that now urged me to slow. I paid for my rash act; with a second bout of vomiting.

Caught between misery, and the beginnings of relief, I could hear whimpers and tears all around me, interspersed by the occasional screamed name, and hoarse repetitions of: ‘Oh God, this can’t be happening…’

It could, and it had. I still wasn’t sure what ‘it’ was, but violence had taken the world, shredded it, and left…what? I realised my eyes were still tight shut, and rubbed a hand over them. The crusted seal broke, and painful light flooded my vision.

That’s when I saw him—sitting beside me, clutching his own bottle of water. He was a young man, with blood on his face, and eyes deadened by shock. Did I look like that? “Are you okay?” he asked.

Such a stupid question; I nodded a stupid answer. My vocal cords felt sore—useless.

“It was a bomb. We’re lucky to be alive,” he said, and then paused, before asking, “Were you with anyone?”

Suddenly my mind cleared, latching onto his words. I forced my voice to respond. This was important. “My Daughter…Oh God—where’s Fran—she was right next to me. She was…”
I trailed off, as my eyes ignored the tears in his, and scanned the crowd around us. She was out there somewhere—she had to be…

 
We stay in touch; though some days I wonder if we should. His name’s Adam. He’s Fran’s age. He’d been sitting directly in front of her that night…but he survived and she didn’t. Adam’s Mum and Sister died alongside my daughter…yet here I am.

Ten years later, and we’re still broken people. I sometimes think we always will be—traumatised, and trapped in a building that was blown apart, by someone who believed they were right.

It’s strange, how seeing him helps me to carry on. Maybe Adam feels the same?

Not that we’ll ever forget. The questions, ‘why me?’, ‘why did I survive, and not them?’ are a constant in your mind—no matter how hard you deny it.

And we both know—there’s no easy way out. We have to keep going, for our sake as well as theirs; the ones who lie silent, robbed of future hopes and plans.

It’s up to us to live the life they can’t.

Even on the days when we feel like we’ve been buried alive.

In the darker days of summer, the walk along the North Sea’s shoreline, with its wide-open, timeless views, feels bleak and faintly oppressive. From a backdrop of metal-shaded clouds, the cries of sea birds, harsh and loud, fill the air; carried on the breeze; dancing across the landscape.

Ahead, edging the horizon, like a giant, broken jaw bone, scoured clean of flesh, lays a centuries-old ruin. It dominates the scene, its walls uneven; jagged teeth, gnawing at the sky.

On days like this, visitors are reminded of the violence behind these rolling vistas. Listen carefully, and you may yet hear the ring of iron against iron, and the screams of the fallen. Their blood once stained the soil we now traverse, with our rucksacks and picnics strapped to our backs, and nothing but pleasure on our minds.

Even the sound of the tide, so comforting when sunlight shimmers on the waves, can change on a whim. It becomes the insidious, churning rattle of soldiers’ bones, joining with the chants of those lost at sea—a salt-dried protest, issuing from the mouths of forgotten souls.

As they approach the ruins, visitors are struck by the sheer size of them. Once a great castle, it was the pride of the crown; a seat of power, fortified against invasion. It would have been an impressive sight, holding the gaze of all who came near; filling them with awe, and trepidation. It is a place that has withstood the clashes of Yorkist and Lancastrian, though keenly fought over. But it was not the bombardment of war that brought the castle to its present state. That came through fickle loyalties, its numerous owners’ indifference to that which others had built, and the unrelenting erosion of time.

All reigns come to an end—it’s what’s left behind, that’s the most telling. There is nothing more chilling than an abandoned building, with empty rooms, crumbling walls, and absent ceilings, filled with sky.

Now, only bitter, angry ghosts roam its inner spaces.

Inland from the castle, walkers can find the more benign landscape of fields and woodland. Yet even here, there is a sense of unease. The pathways are often neglected and worn; hazardous in places. Tree roots, exposed and polished by countless feet, have taken on a hard, lifeless patina—like the bones of some long-extinct creature, pushed up from a shallow grave. Their uneven tangle acts as a snare for the unwary. And in the deepening gloom of the tree-line, the detritus of modern Neanderthals can also be seen: plastic bags and bottles, paper napkins and cardboard trays… even the occasional condom box. Such a strange place, to choose for an act of intimacy; more likely, it was lust’s less-fussy touch—a fleeting moment of ‘want it now’.

But whatever man does to this place, through brutal battles, acts of thoughtlessness, selfishness, and greed, the landscape itself will always survive. If history is to teach us anything, it’s that we are the ephemeral ones.

Welcome to Northumberland: Enjoy its splendours whilst you can.
      

With hands submerged in sudsy water, Paula watched as her daughter, Alice, sat at the kitchen table and traced a finger across the surface of her lunch plate. She’d been doing the same thing for the last ten minutes. All her attention was focused on the lines and swirls of the pattern in front of her.

Alice's older brothers, Peter and James, were crouched on the kitchen floor playing with their toy farm. Turning to check on them, Paula realised that they’d started to argue. Their voices grew steadily louder; the precursor to physical violence. If the dispute wasn’t resolved soon, weapons would be deployed—and she could do without having to confiscate whatever farmyard worker, animal, or machinery, they chose to use as missiles. She had enough to deal with already. Easter Sunday was almost here, and her extended family were expected for the day.

Why did I invite them again? It’s Janice who’s the whiz at entertaining, not me.

It wasn’t that Paula didn’t enjoy baking, or being with family, but it was her sister who thrived off the whole hostess experience. It was as if Janice had been born with a wooden spoon in one hand, a mixing bowl in the other, and the need to entertain hardwired into her DNA. If she knew that Paula took days to plan for a family gathering, she’d laugh her socks off.

The boys’ argument was growing in volume… Perhaps, if she could keep them occupied (and quiet), she could come up with a list of the food needed for Easter day?

“Give me back my tractor! It’s MY tractor!” Peter screamed at James.

“But you don’t need it,” James replied. His voice was reasonable enough to impress the Pope. But when Peter grabbed James’s trailer in retaliation, and chucked it across the kitchen floor, all reason went out the window. “That’s MY trailer! I’m going to tell Mum—Muuum!”

Paula sighed, and dried her hands. The washing-up would have to wait. She needed to come up with a distraction—fast. Her gaze fell on the hollow ceramic chicken sitting on the kitchen work surface, and inspiration struck. She’d boiled some eggs the day before, with the vague idea of using them in a salad or for egg sandwiches.

Clapping her hands, she grabbed the attention of her children. “Who wants to decorate some Easter eggs?”

Alice was bouncing in her seat in a split second, shouting, “Me, me, meeee!” but it took the boys a little longer to respond.

“Chocolate Easter eggs?” James wanted to know.

“Do we get to eat them afterwards?” Peter asked.

Paula shook her head. “No, not chocolate eggs: hard-boiled eggs. I’ve got some in the fridge. We can fetch your craft box and decorate them with whatever you want. Crayons, felt-tips, paint…”

“Bows and flowers?” Alice prompted.

Paula nodded, even as the boys pulled faces at their sister behind her back. “Yes, if you’d like. I thought you could decorate them, and then I’ll hide them around the garden for you and your cousins to find on Easter day. Afterwards, we could take them into the field and roll them down the hill. Whoever rolls their egg the furthest, without breaking it, will get a prize.”

“A real Easter egg—a chocolate one?” James asked.

Again, Paula nodded.

It was all the incentive they needed. A shout of “Yay!” was followed by the sound of running feet, as Alice, Peter and James disappeared from the kitchen in search of craft supplies.
 
* * * *
 
“I don’t like it.” Alice said, scowling down at the egg in her hand and sticking out her lip.

Paula, who was trying hard not to mourn for her kitchen table (now swathed in sheets of newspaper, and covered from end-to-end with shredded, coloured tissue, glue, glitter and paint), stared at her daughter in surprise. She thought Alice’s egg looked wonderful.

All three of children were wearing bright plastic aprons, and had their sleeves pushed up above their elbows as they worked. James and Peter wore almost identical expressions of fierce concentration; brows scrunched-up and tongues stuck out—and though their eggs were definitely neater in appearance; that was only to be expected. At four, Alice was two years younger than Peter and almost half James’s age. But what she lacked in dexterity, she made up for in enthusiasm and imagination.

The egg Alice was currently decorating, like the two already completed, was covered in strips of blue and white tissue paper and liberally enhanced with glitter and splodges of paint in the same colours. There was a theme to what she was doing; a sense of vision.

Having trained in art as a teenager, Paula recognised the talent her daughter already displayed. It tugged at her heart. She didn’t want Alice to go through the same disappointment that she had.

The truth was sometimes hard to accept, but that didn’t change reality. For those wanting to earn a living from their art, there were few opportunities.

 “Well, I think it’s beautiful,” Paula said truthfully. “I love the colours you’ve used.”

“But it doesn’t look like the plate, and that’s what she’s after,” James pointed out, in a voice that suggested this should have been obvious.

“She is?” Paula stared at her sons in astonishment. Both were nodding their heads.

“Yeah,” Peter replied, before putting his just-finished masterpiece to one side and sliding off his chair. Crossing to the oak dresser at the end of the kitchen, he carefully removed one of the plates displayed there, and carried it back to Paula. “She likes the patterns on them,” he explained.

“Because they’re so pretty!” Alice said. She reached out towards the plate that Paula now held. One glitter-coated finger carefully traced the outlines of houses, people, birds, and foliage. “Willow…” she sighed, as she reached the sweeping curves of one particular tree.

Paula nodded. “Yes, it is. That’s what this pattern is called: The Willow Pattern.” She turned back to her sons. “How does Alice know that? Did one of you tell her?”

“No,” James replied. “Well, not really. She worked it out for herself. She said the tree looked like the one outside; the one with the yellow catkins. I told her it was called a willow tree—but I didn’t know that was what they called the pattern too.”

Paula looked down at the plate again. Alice was right—the tree did look like it was made up of catkins, and even though she knew that this part of the pattern was meant to represent leaves, she could see how her daughter had drawn her own conclusions. Fascinated, she refocused her attention on Alice. “Tell me what else you can see. Why do you like this pattern so much?”
Small fingers pointed to one picture after another. “Home,” Alice said of the largest building; “Me, James and Peter,” of the figures on the bridge. The simple structure the figures were heading towards turned out to be ‘Grandad’s shed’, and the man on the boat was ‘Grandad’ himself.

“But Grandad doesn’t go fishing,” Paula reminded her.

Alice giggled. “It isn’t a fishing boat, Mummy, it’s a house boat. Grandad built it in his shed.”

Paula grinned at that. She could see how that would work—Alice’s Grandad was a dab-hand at woodwork. “So, there’s Grandad, you, James and Peter on here… but no Mummy and Daddy?”

Alice tipped her head to one side as she stared at the plate. “You’re the birds,” she finally replied. Then she looked back at her blue and white eggs. “Still don’t like them,” she said. And just like that, her lower lip was back out, and her expression sad.
 
* * * *
 
It was ten o’clock at night by the time Paula got round to clearing the kitchen table. They’d finished decorating the eggs, just as David had arrived home from work. His children had welcomed him loudly, grateful for a new face, and with no time to sort out the mess they’d made, Paula had decided that tea in the dining room was probably best.

After the cooking and eating, bathing and bedtime stories had stolen the hours; and the last of everyone’s energy.

David had already gone to bed. He’d urged Paula to do the same, and leave the kitchen craft-table until the morning. But she couldn’t do it; waking up to that much chaos was never a good idea.

Having placed the finished eggs in a basket on the dresser, she fetched a bin bag. Anything that was still useful would be returned to the craft box, but she suspected that most would be beyond saving. Sweeping a pile of paper scraps and ribbon to the edge of the table, Paula realised that there was something hard, hidden inside the mound. Disposing of the shredded mass with more care than she’d intended, she soon discovered what the object was: they’d missed a boiled egg.

She stared at the unadorned shell, wondering what to do with it. Put it back in the fridge? It didn’t seem right to add it to the basket of decorated eggs. She glanced at the dresser, filled with blue and white pottery, and a vision of Alice’s disappointed face popped into her head. “Or I could just decorate this one myself?” she mused out loud. It had been a long time since she’d tried her hand at anything like that. Too long.

Oh, why not?

Settling herself on one of the kitchen chairs, Paula reached for the single blue and white plate that was still on the table, and a tin of pencil crayons and felt tipped pens.

It might even be fun…
 
* * * *
 
“Mummy, Mummy!” The sound of Alice, shouting in her ear, and the knowledge that her and David’s bed had been invaded by their children, drove the last remnants of sleep from Paula’s mind.

“Hmm? What is it, baby?” she whispered. With eyes still closed, she reached out drowsily, to offer her daughter a morning cuddle. But Alice was having none of it.

“Careful, Mummy, I don’t want to drop it,” she scolded, in a voice that was a perfect mimic of her mother’s.

Confused, Paula opened her eyes. James and Peter were bouncing on the bed, but Alice stood beside it, with her hands cupped around something, and a huge smile on her face.

“Look!” she demanded, opening her hands.

A single egg, with elements of The Willow Pattern carefully drawn on its surface, came into Paula’s view, and she returned her daughter’s delighted smile. “Ah, you like it then? I hoped you would. I haven’t drawn anything for such a long time…”

Alice’s smile dropped into open-mouthed wonder, and even James and Peter stopped bouncing. “You mean you drew this, Mum?” James asked, reaching out a hand towards the egg.  But Alice pulled it back towards her, covering it protectively once more. “No! It’s mine. And I’m going to find somewhere safe for it…” she said, before running out the bedroom door with James and Peter close behind her.

Closing her eyes again, Paula felt the bed move behind her. David’s chin came to rest on her shoulder, and his arm curved around her waist as he snuggled against her back. “You really did that?” he asked sleepily.

“Yeah,” Paula replied. “I enjoyed doing it, too. I’m thinking of getting myself some proper art supplies and trying my hand at some bigger pictures for the house.”

“Well, it’s about time,” David murmured. “I never did understand why you stopped painting.”

Paula thought about that. “I’m not sure I understand either. Perhaps I just needed some time away from it?”

“Hmm... maybe,” David agreed. “Guess it’s true what they say about Easter though…” He dropped a kiss against her ear. “It really is a time for new beginnings. Who knows? You might even start getting the urge to throw huge parties.”

Paula chuckled at that, and burrowed further under the duvet. “Don’t bet on it…”
 
 
 

The story below was written in answer to a challenge that asked the author to produce a short story that had the same beginning and ending lines, but the meaning of them changed.

To read how this story evolved from a poem, check out 'The Evolution of Writing' (24/09/2015) on the Blog page.

Such pain,
Giving way to disbelief.

Was it only this morning, when happiness was all I knew? Golden sunlight coloured everything; as I was driven to hospital, and handled with care. Like a precious treasure.

As shock invades,
Tears are not nearly enough.

Now my mind is divorced from reality, working on a different time-scale; slower. I watch the doctors and nurses as they move around me, with serious expressions and softly spoken conversation. I can feel my lover’s hands, wrapped around mine. Part of me wants to shake-free from his grasp; though it’s my only anchor, in a world I no longer recognise.

What is it they are telling me?
No life exists?
Lies.
I’d know.

How can anyone be so stupid?  Is this a genuine mistake or a twisted joke?  You’d think, with so many letters after their names, they’d have more common sense. It’s just not possible… I’d be able to tell if something was wrong; there’d be physical pain, a sense of something tearing free. There’d definitely be blood.

Nature isn’t this cruel—taking life without warning.

A silent scream begins to rise,
Horror sweeping all aside,
I’m empty now.

I’m afraid of needles—but that’s what they insist on.  Pinpricks, blood tests and knives; I assume they’ll use knives.  The doctors and nurses keep smiling at me, and I wonder if they’ll smile as they work over my unconscious body; stripping me of more than lifeless, unneeded tissue. I don’t want to close my eyes, I want to see and know for sure… but I have no choice.

No comfort in the voices,
They bring only words.

When my eyes open again, I can see the tears in my lover’s gaze and feel his hands on mine once more. I watch as his lips move, knowing that sound accompanies the action… but I can’t make sense of it. Others come; awkward and bizarrely cheerful, talking about the future.  Why won’t they leave me alone?

And flowers?
What good are they?
No beauty left in anything,
No scent sweet enough.

I’ve always loved sunflowers; all flowers, if I’m truthful.  Now I’m home, there are vases and vases of them; kindly meant, but funereal in feel.

Dreams are blackened,
Depression all-consuming.

Funny, how the sun has disappeared. The world is full of shadows now; an everlasting twilight that never brightens with morning’s welcome, but slips into night’s embrace with a contented sigh.  I see a lot of night. I cannot sleep.

Time has no meaning,
A life hangs in limbo,
No healing here.

Not yet.

My lover’s eyes are filled with worry. It pushes aside the suffering that mirrored my own; that showed me I wasn’t alone, and comforted me. He says he loves me, and it’s time to move on, to live and try again… but the wounds are still so raw.  How can I?

Memory is cruel,
Life is precious,
Death requires grieving.

Even now, with two years passed, I haven’t forgotten. Though life goes on, I am forever changed. Fear is still a living thing, curling around my heart and mind.

Goodbye my first,
My unborn family,
Untainted,
I think of you.

Alarm-bells are ringing and people are rushing. Death hovers over me once more. There are so many things that can go wrong. One heart has already failed, leaving me far too soon. Is this life any stronger?  Has fate become kinder?

My lover’s grip is tight and steady, immovable fingers I cling to. I will be strong; through the burn and trauma of contracting muscles, and the voices of strangers all around me. Time moves so slowly… until I hear it; the scratchy cry I never thought would come.

Such pain,
Giving way to disbelief.

The story below was written for a challenge that asked for the author to work with a 'pivotal' memory from their school days. As ever, a splash of reality, meshed with pure imagination, is something I always enjoy writing. Funny how people in authority (like a teacher) can morph from someone scary, to someone who might just 'get' who you really are. 


In-knock-you-wuss, innockuos, innocuous…as I worked through the spelling, from phonetic to correct, I realised how well it described me—harmless, bland and unremarkable.

Lost to the world, I jumped when the comprehension exercise hit the smooth wood beside me. A covert glance at the delivery girl’s smirk, and I knew.
8/20 – eight out of twenty! I cringed.

Her allotted task complete, my cosmetically rendered, cranially challenged, yet inexplicably popular classmate returned to the front of the room. I watched as she slid into an equally vacant chair and, not for the first time, wondered how she, and the rest of the coven, managed it.

Usually, English was my favourite subject. Sitting at the back of the classroom offered me peace, if not quiet—and a chance to dream. The girls who sat on the front row did nothing but flirt with the young-ish, mirror-shaded, Mr Raper.

His was a name that caused giggles and whispers. “You know what they say about names…”

I knew, but I doubted the whisperers did. In the seventh century, any ‘Mr Raper’ would be working with ropes rather than sitting in a classroom. Not that it mattered; historical fact could still be twisted, to fit the slanderous gossip. Teenagers could be so stupid. They annoyed me far more than they should... considering I was one of them.

It wasn't because I was in a rush to be reach adulthood. It was because something inside me had always felt ancient. I wondered if that made me stupid too.

Stella’s gaze moved to the innocuous, cloudy sky. No stars tonight… 8/20.

The words stopped, and panic swelled within me. There was more than one way to rape a person’s soul. Degradation took many forms.

My teacher was good at meting that out; in big, red, numbers. No one got above thirteen.

I racked my brains for the next sentence—I loved creative writing.  It offered me a rare escape, my imagination let loose.

I’d handed my first story in on the same day as the comprehension. We’d been asked to fill at least two sides of A4 paper. I’d filled eight. I hadn’t meant to write so much, but the words kept spilling out.

When would he give the marks for that? My heart thumped uncomfortably and I felt the pinch of pain as my teeth clamped down on my inner lip. My head was starting to ache.

I watched Mr Raper from under my fringe. Raking a tanned hand through his dark, unruly hair, he pushed back his chair and rested his feet on his desk. Those ridiculous sunglasses were beginning to irritate me. I couldn’t tell where he was looking. Could he even see whilst wearing them indoors?

Shifting in my seat, my elbow nudged the comprehension paper.  It slid to one side, revealing beneath it—my story. Another red mark, and a scrawled message: 17/20 – This is good. Spelling needs work.

I blinked, stunned.
Mr Raper saw his students just fine.
A breeze displaced the gloom, and moonlight triumphed, granting Stella’s silent wish—to glimpse the infinite, glorious, star-filled universe, and witness its potential. Or-sum, Awwsome, Awesome…

Splat.

Sue looked down as a mound of green slime landed on the paving slab next to her, spraying water droplets onto bare feet and ankles. The little git.

 Raising her eyes, she stared hard at the gangly teenager, poised with stick in hand, and far too much amusement in his dark, paternally inherited gaze. “Oops, sorry, Mum, that landed closer than expected.”

Yeah, right… Sue decided this was one of those times when being ‘adult’ was her only option; for now. “Just watch where you’re slinging it,” she muttered, glancing to where her multi-paned retreat reflected the afternoon light. “If you get any on the summerhouse, I will be mad...and you’ll be the one scrubbing grog off the windows.”

Steve looked surprised, glancing back at the structure in question. “I’m nowhere near it—and what the heck’s ‘grog’?”

What indeed. Sue chewed on her bottom lip, wondering what prompted her to use the word. “Oh, er, it’s another name for pond weed.”

Turning back, Steve cocked his head to one side and asked, “Since when?”

Sue’s mind blanked as she sought for an answer. Grog. Something about that word had shame welling up inside her. The whisper of a faded memory suddenly increased in volume. Oh, hell… she’d forgotten all about that.

Cheeks heating, she looked down at the stick in her hand, and tried not to let her flustered state show. Maybe if she ignored her son’s question, he’d let it go. She leaned forward, dipping the end of the wood into the fish pond, swishing it gently through the water, until she managed to hook a clump of weed. Twirling the stick around, she watched the strands of vegetation tangle about it, before dragging the stick out of the water again, and shaking the waterlogged greenery onto the paving slabs that surrounded the pond.

“Mum?” Steve’s question hung in the air, and Sue squirmed.

She stared into the pond. Was it her imagination, or were those goldfish suddenly giving her the evil eye?

“Mum?” Steve persisted.

No, not the evil eye, Sue thought, but definitely judgemental. Sighing, she gave up on the bright-orange, holier-than-thou fish, and looked up at her son.

“That’s what my friend and I used to call it, when we were little,” she explained. “Imogen’s parents had a pond, and we did much the same job as this—keeping it as weed-free as possible.”

Steve eyed her thoughtfully. “Hmm… So why are you looking at the goldfish like they’re about to become victims of a stick-rage incident?  I thought childhood memories were a good thing; especially at your age.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Sue grumbled, stabbing the end of her stick back into the water, and smiling in satisfaction as goldfish scattered.

There was a moment’s silence, and then Steve began to laugh. “Hang on, wasn’t it Imogen who got you to do all those stupid stunts when you were younger?”

Sue cringed. She really should learn to keep her mouth shut after a glass of wine.

“Yeah,” Steve continued, warming to his subject. “Wasn’t there a curmudgeonly old-man you used to torment?  Cow-parsley planted in the middle of his vegetable patch, shutting the gate when he went to get the cows for milking, that kind of thing?”  His laughter grew in volume. “What I wouldn’t give to have seen that!”

Sue ignored him, redoubling her pond-weeding efforts. But Steve was having fun. He hooked up another piece of weed. “So, what was it that Imogen the Instigator got you to do with ‘grog’, Mum?” When she didn’t answer, he turned, waving the dripping greenery towards the summerhouse. “Mum?”

As well as not learning to keep her mouth shut after alcohol, Sue had never mastered the art of controlling her blushes, either.

“You know, I wasn’t joking about you scrubbing it off,” she warned, embarrassment vying with irritation.

“Might be worth it,” Steve countered.

“Not when it sets like cement,” Sue blurted out.

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere!” Steve said; triumphant. “And how would you know that, Mum?”

Rats. You walked straight into that one... She scowled at her grinning offspring, and threw down her stick in defeat. “I might have slung some at the upstairs windows of people we didn’t like.”

“Some?” Steve asked, eyes and grin widening in tandem.

Sue shrugged. “Okay, so it was enough to stick there until morning. There was a knack to it.”

“And you and Imogen had the knack?” Steve asked.

Why was it I had kids again? Sue’s scowl deepened. “I had the knack…Imogen just told me which windows to go for and watched.”

“Imogen the Instigator strikes again,” Steve said. Head bowed, his body shook, until laughter doubled him over. He peeked up at her. “Aww, come on, Mum, it wasn’t that bad; and they say confession is good for the soul. Don’t you feel better for telling me?”

Sue decided that she might well have done… If she could get the memory of furious housewives, trying to scrub their windows clean, out of her head.

Ice fascinates me.  It’s a passion of mine that few would understand.  The multitude of textures, the patterns it creates, from nothing more than moisture and sub-zero temperatures—the more I study it, learn to appreciate the sheen of sunlight across and through it, the more my imagination shimmers with possibilities.

Today is perfect.  My winter coat, hanging by the back door, is pulled over a hotchpotch of warm clothing, and I smile, aware that my father’s perennial advice: ‘Always dress for the weather,’ is playing through my mind.

Camera in hand I step into the garden, quickly immersed in the world I find there.  I aim the lens at whatever catches my eye: stubby spikes of ice that decorate a garden fork, the top of a gate, and the roof of the Summer house; panes of feathery artwork on the aptly-named cold frame; white-edged bouquets of once vibrant flowers—hydrangea and verbena the most spectacular.  The fish pond lies beneath a thick, glassy surface. Islands of clear and opaque ice pattern its length, and frost-confetti, blown from who knows where, is scattered between the ice-bound plants.  I can still see the one remaining goldfish, right at the bottom of the pond, and wonder how it’s survived, where others failed.

Back inside, my fingers prickle as warmth returns, sluggish blood quickening, until whitened tips become hot-pink.  A shiver shakes me from scalp to hip; nerves readjusting to the welcome effects of central heating.

An hour-or-so later, with a mug of coffee evaporating beside me, I scroll through the photographs I’ve taken; cropping them where necessary, deleting those beyond help. Glancing out the window I note how the landscape is changing.  The frost recedes as the day progresses, more beautiful than ever in the face of its demise.  It glitters like diamonds where shadows have surrendered, and the wooden garden fence appears to smoke in places, as the sun’s rays kiss its surface with bright, winter light, and just enough heat to vapourise its icy coating.  But that single fish is still trapped.

My mind wanders, and I suppose that the fish and I are not so dissimilar… I live my life suspended within a stark, gloom-filled atmosphere, surrounded by a series of glass boundaries that I have no idea exist—until I run into one.

It’s been that way since my childhood, but I’m trying to learn from my mistakes.  

For years I saw crowds of potential friends, and a world of unrealised happiness and magical experiences, but now I see reality.  It’s a finite space, fenced by suspicion, and sometimes aggression, that keeps me safely corralled, exactly where society wants me.  I long-since lost count of the times when my smile, offered in friendship, was met with disregard, bordering on contempt.  And I’ve learned to quash any urge to ‘help’.  Years of trying, crushed beneath a mountain’s worth of indifference, has taught me the futility of that.  

Staring down at the ice-filled photos, I realise that the thaw unfolding beyond my window isn’t meant for me.  A solitary existence has slowly driven the warmth from my heart, until even the expression of my creativity, through photography and a little-read blog, cannot sustain the flickering candle-flame my soul has become.

Sipping at the now tepid coffee, I delve into past memories, of so-called friends. Again and again, my eagerness for company drove me to the sides of those at their lowest ebb.  My compassion, for individuals as lonely as I, gave me the strength to keep at them, to push them, until the smiles they’d lost returned—and they left.

The pain of abandonment is a wound few can explain.  I can’t decide which is worse: someone walking away, or the pain of a physical assault.

I spend a little more time collating my photos before uploading them to the blog.  I include hard-thought-on praise for the pleasures of the early-morning, and the satisfaction of capturing the world around me through a lens and several million pixels…

Lunch is a simple affair: Cheese and pickle sandwiches. The oaky richness of mature cheddar contrasts sharply with the acid tang of tomato chutney.  I try to appreciate each mouthful.  The wholemeal bread has a slightly nutty flavour, the butter becoming a layer of creamy texture as it melts upon my tongue.  And yet… even this small pleasure recedes, until the flavours dull.  

Afternoon marches on, golden sunshine fading into a wash of pinks, oranges and turquoise, with the darkness of night crowding inwards from the east.  The click of a switch floods my work area with artificial light, and I blink for a moment in its sudden glare.

Spread out on the table in front of me are more photos than I realised I possessed.  A sudden whim, mid-afternoon, had taken me to the attic, where I unearthed boxes of old, pre-digital photos.  Their colours are muted by time, the subjects faded, but I find them every bit as beautiful and relevant as the photos I took this morning.  They are history, layered in musty odour and enough dust to make me sneeze. History on squares and oblongs of thick paper, some of them matt, some glossy, some so old they’re bordered by white, frayed around the edges, creased.  This is my family, though there’s no one I can truly call my own; no husband, children, friend from way-back, no boyfriend, not even a pet, unless you count the goldfish.

Looking into the smiling faces of five generations, I begin to separate the photos into piles.  Great great grandparents, standing in stiff  Victorian poses, sepia toned and solemn, with the ubiquitous potted plant standing guard beside them; great grandparents and other elderlies, their identities a mystery, but who look to be of the same era; grandparents and great aunts and uncles, whom I vaguely remember… Great Uncle Tom used to bring me sweets and a fifty pence piece; parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and me.

By the time I’m finished, the dining table and several side-tables are covered by a timeline that stretches from the 1800s to the early 21st Century.  Much as I love my digital camera, part of me mourns the loss of collections like this.  I hardly ever print off my photos these days, let alone buy albums to put them in.  And that’s what I’m going to do with these.  Looking at them has made me see how right my father was; I should ‘always dress for the weather’.  It doesn’t matter how barren and cold my life appears to be, if I can just find enough experiences to keep me going, to wrap myself up in.  I could be like that last goldfish; I could survive.  Fifty seven isn’t old, not really, and it definitely isn’t an age when I should be letting life’s disappointments grind me down.  I’ve taken early retirement, not started crafting my coffin.  So what if I don’t have close family or friends, and lack the confidence to jump into the middle of social situations?  There are plenty of other ways to interact with people; the internet is a wonderful tool for things like that.  Instead of my blog, I should be joining a photography website where I can share my work with other enthusiasts, and if I get brave enough, I might even join a local photography club.

What can it hurt, to give my dreams a try, and smile at a few more people?

* * * *

 

It’s true what they say: ‘the older you get, the faster time goes’, but despite the weather, the church is crowded.  Nodding his head in approval, the Reverend Faulkner views the rows of pews, each lined with solemn faces.  Few of them are young, although it’s nice to see that Agnes’s great grandchildren have been allowed to attend… no one makes the distinction of ‘step’ any more, not after all the years that Agnes and Bill were together.  Glancing out the vestry door, the reverend’s eyes rest on the photographs, mounted on boards around the walls of the Nave—Agnes certainly had talent.  This service would be a celebration of that, of her life.

Straightening his surplice and stole, he murmurs a prayer of gratitude.  He’d been worried that the icy conditions would deter some of Agnes’s more elderly friends.  After all, falls and broken bones were to be avoided, especially in old age.

But no one who truly knew Agnes would allow the weather to deter them.

Stepping up to the pulpit, her stepson begins the eulogy. “It’s fitting that Agnes’s funeral service is taking place on a day like today.  She loved the frost. In fact, it was her favourite weather condition when it came to her photography, and as I’m sure you’ll all agree, she produced some of her most stunning work during the winter.  She had an eye for detail that shines through in the pictures you see around you, and she always said that sunlight in December and January was far warmer than in July and August.  I’m presuming, of course, she was referring to tone rather than temperature…”

Smiles roll across the faces of those listening, with accompanying chuckles and nods.

“Agnes met my father later in life, an event that I and the rest of my family will always be grateful for.  From the day we lost Mum, Dad started to give up on life.  Little by little we could feel him pulling away from us, and nothing we did seemed to make a difference.  But just as he reached his lowest ebb, there was Agnes, offering him a smile and the use of her camera. ”

There were more smiles now, with the odd tear mixed in.

“They became fast friends, and I’ll never forget how Agnes seemed eternally surprised that Dad wanted to be with her.  But they were exactly what the other needed and, over time, their friendship became something more.  They fell in love, married, and Agnes became one of the family, along with her ridiculously long-lived goldfish. The rest, as they say, is history. Although, thanks to Dad and Agnes’s obsession with photography, it’s a history that none of us will forget, because between them they captured as many moments as possible, from season to season and year to year…”

At the end of the service, the family is driven to the cemetery.  Beneath their feet, the gravel path crunches, as does the grass around the grave, frozen into a tangle of stiff, white blades.  Silent monoliths surround them, hewn from granite and marble, and faced on one side by thick, spiky-edged ice.  It glitters in the weak sunlight, and ethereal mist hangs at ground-level, like the ghosts many believe in.

Agnes’s casket is lowered into the plot beside their father and mother—it’s where she belongs.  She often joked that, for many years, her world was as cold as ice… until she met a man who thawed her out.

When all is done, they turn back towards the cars, the wake ahead of them.  A small hand tugs at Agnes’s stepson’s.

“I’m cold, Grandpa,” a voice whispers, “I don’t think I dressed for the weather.”

The familiar words bring a smile, glazed by a rush of hot tears, cascading across frigid skin.  Crouching down, gloves briefly discarded, he rearranges his granddaughter’s scarf, and makes sure that every button on her coat is done up.

“You did, sweet pea, and Granny Agnes would have approved, but we’ve been outside a long time.  Don’t worry, we’ll soon be home… You’ll thaw out just fine with a slice of cake.”