tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post7292943861809875582..comments2023-10-10T13:29:10.657+01:00Comments on Your Messages: November 14thLynne and Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15264808382074910359noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-72476929555270423182007-11-16T09:55:00.000+00:002007-11-16T09:55:00.000+00:00We’re almost there. Our personal holy grail, the h...We’re almost there. Our personal holy grail, the hallowed towers of ‘FINISH’ loom larger with every forward step. 26 miles down, 385 yards to go. We’re going to make it. We’re…<BR/><BR/>She’s not with me anymore. Eva, the centre of my universe has disappeared. I look over my shoulder, desperately trying to avoid the humiliation of stumbling. My aching legs are leaden, but we have to finish together. She is 100 yards behind, hobbling, her face a tortured caul of pain. I slow down to near standstill, siding up, looping my arm into hers. “What are you doing?” she groans. Gingerly, we breach the finish line as one. “You came back for me…” she splutters between lungfuls of air. “You came back…”<BR/><BR/>Reveries of the previous evenings dream shatter upon the blood curdling wail of the fire alarm. Back in the real world, we must evacuate immediately. The place empties in a fuel of blurred panic. It’s every soul for themselves.<BR/><BR/>From outside, we watch in fear and awe. No one takes charge of the situation. Who is holding the emergency register? Where is the evac bag?<BR/><BR/>Seething flames overcome our small office building, bludgeoning it to ruins in a convulsion of obliterating hatred. Raging forks of destruction rampage through the defenceless rooms. Windows explode outwards, forcing us to cower beneath a monumental downpour of heat and pulverized glass. Our horror intensifies with each passing second as an invisible fist smites our workplace with its rapidly blackening grip.<BR/><BR/>“Where’s Eva?” The horrified whisper behind precedes further panicked chattering amongst the masses. <BR/><BR/>“She’s still inside. Oh my God, she’s still inside!” <BR/><BR/>Unconditional worship takes control. I ignore the frenzied protests. They can’t stop me. I must return for her once more. We will cross the line together for a second time.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-45933839958949908652007-11-15T16:39:00.000+00:002007-11-15T16:39:00.000+00:00From Claudia:Faruk couldn’t make out anything in t...From Claudia:<BR/><BR/>Faruk couldn’t make out anything in the starless night that swept around him like a black cloak. He sensed the narrow path was on the very edge of a steep valley because the wind that whipped about him so that his nightshirt snapped at his bare legs whistled a high, forlorn note. He imagined they were heading up the pass that led to the border but the doubtfulness of this made everything - the blackness, the biting cold, his father’s hurrying form in front of him - seem even more unreal.<BR/><BR/>Whenever Faruk stumbled and fell on the loose stones Baba would turn and shout at him, his angry voice being snatched up by the wind and carried off into the night. Faruk would get to his feet and hurry to catch up again. He kept reaching out for Baba’s hand even though he knew Baba would disapprove. One of Baba’s latest complaints in his tirades at Faruk’s mother was that she was turning Faruk into a sissy with all her affection. Embarrassed, Faruk had started pushing her and his sisters away whenever they tried to tickle or cuddle him but tonight he didn’t feel that brave. He scrambled as fast as he could but somehow Baba was always just one step ahead of him and Faruk’s outstretched hand touched only the darkness.<BR/><BR/>Baba stopped suddenly. For the third time since he had dragged Faruk from his bed and the two of them had staggered into the dark up the winding mountain path, he reached deep into his overcoat pocket for the flat, silver flask that Faruk knew all his uncles deplored. He drank from it like a man just returned from a wilderness, then threw back his head and roared into the wind, before setting off again into the night.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-72666438020130122932007-11-15T00:40:00.000+00:002007-11-15T00:40:00.000+00:00When asked about it later, I couldn’t quite rememb...When asked about it later, I couldn’t quite remember when I had seen the picture. It was old; the white edges were brown with age, the sepia tones soft and comforting. All I remember are his eyes. Even in a picture with no colour, I could tell his eyes were a strong, piercing blue. <BR/><BR/>When I first saw him, I couldn’t believe it. I was shocked, speechless. The picture had to be at least fifty years old but he hadn’t aged a day. He was standing across the street from my house, a black coat billowing around him. <BR/><BR/>But it was the eyes I saw first. I paused in the act of grabbing my morning newspaper and just stared at him. He started across the street when he saw me and I felt a mixture of fear and curiosity. <BR/><BR/>When he stood before me, I felt overwhelmed. When he spoke, I felt myself melting despite my wish to remain aloof. <BR/><BR/>“Anna…” his voice was like whiskey. “I need you to come with me.” <BR/><BR/>“I don’t know who you are.” I said. My voice sounded soft, small compared to his. <BR/><BR/>“We don’t have time to talk this through properly.” He held out his hand. “Rest assured your life is in danger and you must come with me now.” He looked behind him. The shadows in the alley across the street seemed to be growing, stretching across the pavement. I could hear noises, like a child crying. <BR/><BR/>I know it sounds impossible but it looked like the shadows were stretching…toward me. <BR/><BR/>“What’s going on here?” My voice came out louder now. Fright can do that, fear can induce courage. <BR/><BR/>“There isn’t time to explain,” he said. “You have to come with me now.” He held out his hand again. “Make your choice.” <BR/><BR/><BR/>Jamieson Wolf<BR/>jamiesonwolf@gmail.comJamieson Wolfhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04848738237491162861noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-32987979653476604092007-11-14T23:38:00.000+00:002007-11-14T23:38:00.000+00:00In the winter it was always as cold as the Arctic ...In the winter it was always as cold as the Arctic on the train. Today it was positively icy - you could see your breathe in the air, creating patterns. I’d seen the other two in my carriage before several times - a man and a woman, regular commuters. He always avoided eye contact, but she was always looking, almost as if soliciting an acknowledgement from him, which never came.<BR/><BR/>Today’s journey was much like any other. We’d almost reached the station where she would usually alight. This morning she looked skittish, as if anticipating something unusual happening, almost wishing it would. She looked at him more frequently today, eventually catching his eye with her intense stare.<BR/><BR/>It all happened at once - she reached for the door handle suddenly, sweeping open the door before the train had reached the platform. In a flash, he was up - grabbing for the back of her overcoat. She reacted as if galvanised by an electric cattle prod! As he struggled to wrench her backwards, she pulled like they were polar opposites - launching herself forward as if he had sought to extinguish her life, rather than preserve it.<BR/><BR/>The last I saw was a fluttering red, woollen scarf that snaked behind her tumbling body, like the trail of a falling star, and the look of anguish and defeat on his face as he crumpled on the carriage floor.<BR/><BR/>The reporters said it was an accident, but no one who was there would have doubted her intention. It was as if she was pre-determined to behave in the way she did, having finally solicited his response. I sometimes wonder if he dreams of her every night in the way I do - that final glimpse of her face, almost serene …and then nothing.VINTAGE LULUhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13782727301146566839noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-27138650686307764562007-11-14T23:32:00.000+00:002007-11-14T23:32:00.000+00:00This comment has been removed by the author.VINTAGE LULUhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13782727301146566839noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-9637684318594312007-11-14T23:06:00.000+00:002007-11-14T23:06:00.000+00:00It was so cold in the carriage and I wanted more t...It was so cold in the carriage and I wanted more than anything to be beside the blaze of a good wood fire. Instead, at Mother’s insistence, I was made to attend a dance for the sole purpose of finding a suitable husband. My only consolation was that you might be there. That would have dispelled the feeling of utter despondency with which I set out. <BR/><BR/>Not of course that you make much of a dancer. In fact I’ve rarely had such a poor partner. Of course, if you concentrated on the steps and the music rather than on wooing me, you’d have some hope of improving, although I fear you’ll never be a natural. I’ve noticed your toes turn in slightly as your walk – it’s sweet and charming, and rather like a young boy.<BR/><BR/>I was one of the last to arrive at Kimberley Hall, and the ballroom was buzzing by the time I entered. It took me a while to establish for certain that your were not present. Mary Paterson eventually informed me that you were out of town just now, visiting relations in the country. If only I could have gone with you and got away from all this nonsense.<BR/><BR/>The evening passed in a tedious fashion. Mr Bottomly made me dance with him three times. That in itself wouldn’t have been so bad, for at least he has some conversation, had it not been for the fact that he’s a worse dancer than even you, and he kept treading on my toes at every turn.<BR/><BR/>Oh, do hurry back and put an end to my boredom. I really cannot bear it any longer. I long to go riding in a carriage with you, for people to see us together and to know we are in love.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-64919746065567564332007-11-14T22:16:00.000+00:002007-11-14T22:16:00.000+00:00‘Cut and end’ ~~~~o~~~~‘Let me pause here. As ...‘Cut and end’<BR/><BR/> ~~~~o~~~~<BR/><BR/>‘Let me pause here. As you can see from this short-film documentary directed by a producer friend, this particular scene from the “A Day in the Life of” series was highly jinxed from the start. He told me that shooting took 3 days instead of 1, that the cast couldn’t get their act together even after 13 attempts, that each time the girl attempted her fall over the edge of the platform, the cameraman’s hands would stiffen and they’d loosen their grip on the camera itself, so filming had to stop and the crew had to disengage themselves for a short while whilst my friend, D Posner, an experienced producer went to inspect the scene to see what was causing the hold up. As nothing came to light immediately and nothing was medically wrong with the cameraman, they eventually decided to shoot this particular scene from a distance with powerful zoom-in lenses. Still, the very same thing happened again and still they couldn’t understand why even after the 23rd attempt that particular scene couldn’t be shot. Everything came to a standstill each time the scene was re-enacted and it was as if time stood still at each attempt, to the point where they decided finally to shoot the scene at a different train station from the one where the original accident happened exactly 333 days ago on the 3rd March 2003. <BR/><BR/>I’m not entirely convinced, normally by the paranormal, class, but there is something peculiar about this incident as there have been claims by a lot of commuters that at the point where the girl had fallen onto the tracks, a few deaths have taken place: 2 accidental and 3 suicides. According to reports, “All five had put out their hands before falling or jumping” ’.<BR/><BR/>Colleen<BR/>coll@literaryspot.comLife and the Literal Versehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18209214691610900618noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-45577785338744426252007-11-14T22:08:00.000+00:002007-11-14T22:08:00.000+00:00This comment has been removed by the author.Life and the Literal Versehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18209214691610900618noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-73292761869359627132007-11-14T22:04:00.000+00:002007-11-14T22:04:00.000+00:00You know that dream when you’re reaching out for s...You know that dream when you’re reaching out for something, and you’re desperate to get hold of it, but every time you think you’re going to be able to grab it it slips out of reach again? The second worst dream – and second commonest, I’d say – after being at an important event with no clothes on below the waist. Or perhaps equal second with having to take an exam you’ve completely forgotten about and haven’t prepared for.<BR/><BR/>Anyway, I had that dream last night, except in reverse. I was the thing someone was trying to grab on to, and the person reaching out to me was this woman I’ve seen a few times on the train. Not regularly or anything, but often enough to recognise her when she popped up in my dream. <BR/><BR/>It was a bit disturbing, to be honest, because I’ve hardly even noticed her, not consciously anyway, and she’s the last person I’d have expected to dream about. But there she was, eyes all wide and beseeching, reaching out her arm as if only I could save her. You’d hope that in that situation you’d find some chivalrous instinct and hold out your hand to rescue the damsel in distress, but I just did my best to ignore her. I was asleep, of course, but even so I felt pretty sheepish when I woke up.<BR/><BR/>The even weirder thing was that when I stepped onto the platform this morning there she was, and she turned away the moment she saw me, as if she’d actually been there in the dream. And it turned out she was ill, or something, because when we arrived she opened the carriage door and then fainted. At my feet, as it happened. I’m not into dreams, but that must tell you something. <BR/><BR/>plemingcrow@aol.comRachelhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03908242292463957491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-71164514119329859332007-11-14T21:34:00.000+00:002007-11-14T21:34:00.000+00:00My Step-Grandmother had lifelong ‘visitations.’ Mo...My Step-Grandmother had lifelong ‘visitations.’ Most frequently her ‘Black-Caped Man’ or ‘Him’ as he was simply known. He’d first appeared to her at five years old, as she fed sheets into her mother’s mangle – a dapper silhouette, with short, dark cloak, top-hat and silver-handled cane. ‘My grandfather,’ her mother had exclaimed when asked who he might be.<BR/><BR/>My Step-Grandmother was down-to-earth about it, as was her son, my ‘Uncle’ John who had visitations too. No, she wasn’t ever frightened and he didn’t turn her cold. But then, she’d never seen him properly. He was really just a shadow, a benign impression in the corner of her eye. He would visit her at intervals three times foretelling the demise of some poor relative: ‘Like Scrooge in Christmas Carol,’ her daughter, who’d been denied this family trait, would scoff.<BR/><BR/>There’d been other visitations too; the time her ‘Cousin Mary’ lingered at the bottom of her bed one Advent Sunday night to divulge where she’d locate her misplaced Christmas savings, the stash she’d turned the whole house upside down to find. Behind the kitchen- boiler pipe she’d been reliably informed.<BR/><BR/>I lived in terror as a little girl whenever she would come to stay. Please don’t let him come to our house. Please just make him stay away, screwing my eyes tight shut and stuffing fingers in my ears under the bedclothes throughout every restless night.<BR/><BR/>She died some years ago, alone. I like to think that he was with her then, that she might have caught the twinkle in his clear blue eyes, the kindly smile playing on his lips beneath his waxed moustache. I want to catch it too, but I have closed my mind up far too well, sleeping dreamlessly and undisturbed safe in the confines of my narrow room.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-80045116658583928292007-11-14T21:27:00.000+00:002007-11-14T21:27:00.000+00:00He was a tall, well-built and a good Samaritan lik...He was a tall, well-built and a good Samaritan like with a helping hand,<BR/> a sort of suave nature embedded in his texture. I still see no reason, why this <BR/>man was being sent to the gallows, the hang man alert, gave him a black cloak and his face veiled with a hood before the calamity. I simply cannot <BR/>digest this man looking so innocent, helpless, being cool, and no excitement<BR/>so far. Standing far away from the scene of execution my blood congealed <BR/>and me absolutely shattered for there is some in explicable thread of radiant <BR/>energy, a positive vibration, common current running between us. I heave a <BR/>Sigh of desperate anguish, trying to reach out my hand but in vain. I ruminated,<BR/>That despite the efficient jury , the innocent ones are caught in the tricky web, punished, where is the technical lacuna? The hang man finished his job mechanically, years together he has been doing this ruthless job, his heart <BR/>hardened, same trauma of injustice must have been going on for years <BR/>together, somewhere some truth is suppressed, some vital evidence in <BR/>support of him is being hidden . <BR/><BR/>I screamed and got up, “thank God! It is only a dream”. I look through <BR/>my window, my frilled curtains are removed,ouside it was snowy, a gaze<BR/>beyond the hills, beyond the winding paths of mountains, very cold air <BR/>buffet my ghost ridden face.<BR/>After cook and dish wash was done I rushed to my work spot, again cold <BR/>day by train, wherever I looked around ,it was the same innocent, guilt free,<BR/>haunting me, I have heard my grandmother telling me, heavens ,perhaps <BR/>Duplicate creations i was shivering, along with the jolt of the train, if the<BR/>Dream man follows. <BR/>Radhamani<BR/>poet_radhamani@yahoo.com<BR/>pearlradhe.blogspot.comAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-6557338961689405302007-11-14T20:37:00.000+00:002007-11-14T20:37:00.000+00:00That energy you feel, that would be the attraction...That energy you feel, that would be the attraction of opposites. Ice, fire. Dark, light. Kind, cruel. Natural, really: yin seeks yang, masculine looks for feminine, hard craves soft. It's all about balance, seeking in others what we lack in ourselves, looking for our other half.<BR/><BR/>So a shy woman and an extrovert man, on that quest, fall in love. And do they live happily ever after? Not likely – there are some good times, for sure, but in between they have row after row about how he doesn't value spending time at home with her, and why is she so aloof when they're with his friends, and when is he going to realise that she doesn't want to host a New Year’s party in their house, and anyway what made her think she was interesting enough for him?<BR/><BR/>As they knock against each other over a few months, a little of the shy woman’s cautiousness rubs off on the extrovert man, and a soupçon of his confidence is transmitted to her. Just enough confidence so that one night, after a glass of wine and in the middle of yet another row, she tells him to get the hell out of her face. Their relationship wobbles like a granny on a tightrope. Will his self-assurance enable him to see the fear beneath her feisty words, and to reach out a hand? If he does, will she mistake stubbornness for confidence and refuse to take it? Can they regain their balance?<BR/><BR/>We’ll never know, but we do know this: it’s hard for opposites to stay together and survive. Fire melts ice; light banishes dark; sleep gives way to waking. Opposites can only co-exist if there is plenty of distance between them. It isn’t meeting and merging that keeps them safe, it’s separation.Zinnia Cyclamenhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04841314997513292477noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-49692016850686815722007-11-14T20:26:00.000+00:002007-11-14T20:26:00.000+00:00I’m under the train – thank God it’s stopped! Tha...I’m under the train – thank God it’s stopped! That was one Hell of a fall. My face is grazed and covered in blood. He didn’t give me the chance of the ‘Mind the Gap’ warning.<BR/>Why did he push me? Why does he want me so much? I thought I was one of God’s children, not Satan’s. And now the Grim Reaper has finally got me. But no-one else seems to notice. They’re all rushing past obliviously.<BR/>In my mind, I’m trying to make light of the situation – thinking of the huge Grim Reaper standing behind the pilot in the spoof ‘Airplane’ movie. I always cry at weddings and laugh at funerals – my opposite emotion comes out.<BR/>I’m in a pretty tight situation here though. Suddenly, he lifts me up and carries me to Highgate cemetery. The hole is already dug but I’m still alive. How is it that it’s only him who can see me and me that can see him?<BR/>My box is ready. He lays me in it and I put up a hell of a fight but all in vain.<BR/>I am six feet under and tonight I will start scratching at the underside of my coffin lid until my nails bleed. I know that’s one part of me that will keep growing though and my hair. I’m going to end up as one tangled mess unless anyone hears my scrapes.<BR/>Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.<BR/>Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!<BR/>Hoorah! A dog has heard me.<BR/>Surely his master must be alerted.<BR/>‘Rex, Rex, come here, boy. What is it?’ I hear a man ask.<BR/>‘Christ! This one’s been recently dug. It wasn’t here yesterday. Stay there, boy. I won’t be long. I’ll have to fetch help.’<BR/>‘Thank God!’ All’s well that ends well – never truer words.Debrahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05576957341248049266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-62753860944379516502007-11-14T20:16:00.000+00:002007-11-14T20:16:00.000+00:00I paddle through my dreams, a thin sea of silver, ...I paddle through my dreams, a thin sea of silver, trying to catch the moments I forgot.<BR/><BR/><B>All The Things You Forget</B><BR/><BR/>All the things you forget <BR/>could pack a picnic: <BR/>foil wrapped parcels and <BR/>plastic ice blocks hidden <BR/>in a wicker shell. We spread <BR/>a rug over the blue petals and <BR/>nibble at memories cut into triangles.<BR/><BR/><I>Two lovers walk beside the river. <BR/>He plucks from the bank <BR/>a flower and <BR/>f<BR/> a<BR/> l<BR/> l<BR/> s.<BR/>“Forget me not,” he calls as <BR/>the bubbles draw him under.<BR/>She catches the petals.</I><BR/><BR/>All the things you forget<BR/>could draw me a map back home,<BR/>folded and unfolded: used.<BR/>All the things you forget<BR/>could fill the frames of a film, turn the <BR/>pages of a book, a crumpled tapestry of <BR/>stories: images for other people to remember.<BR/><BR/><I>A young child on his mother’s lap <BR/>wishes the future could see them.<BR/>There are no cameras yet so<BR/>he touches her eyes,<BR/>waves his hand across the ground. <BR/>She watches as the flowers appear: <BR/>a blue carpet of forget-me-nots.</I><BR/><BR/>All the things you forget<BR/>could teach a class, stand in front<BR/>of a white board and deliver <BR/>sensible advice to people <BR/>who one day will be there, do that<BR/>and get the T-shirt you told them<BR/>wouldn’t do them any good.<BR/><BR/><I>On the street, a white handkerchief,<BR/>a knot tied around something that <BR/>someone thought was<BR/>important enough to remember.<BR/>It lies now like a broken wing.<BR/>Someone has forgotten <BR/>to do something.</I><BR/><BR/>All the things you forget could<BR/>feed a computer, a little shot of <BR/>something to unclog the C drive. <BR/>All the things you forget could<BR/>could fill a scrap book: a goldmine <BR/>for children of children<BR/>to frame, to polish, to parade…<BR/><BR/>All these things you say, I remember.<BR/><BR/>Jenny Adamthwaite<BR/>j_adamthwaite@hotmail.co.ukJ Adamthwaitehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16345895278356184427noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-79145039826641716652007-11-14T20:15:00.000+00:002007-11-14T20:15:00.000+00:00This comment has been removed by the author.J Adamthwaitehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16345895278356184427noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-66103262490466363732007-11-14T20:13:00.000+00:002007-11-14T20:13:00.000+00:00This comment has been removed by the author.J Adamthwaitehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16345895278356184427noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-58271993692561578662007-11-14T18:21:00.000+00:002007-11-14T18:21:00.000+00:00The sound of the train on the track was deafening ...The sound of the train on the track was deafening as it thundered down the line towards them. <BR/><BR/>‘But, we’re not allowed to leave, we’re not allowed to get on the train’. Betty looked like a little girl again in her distress. She screwed up a handkerchief in her fingers and played with that scarf she always wears to hide the marks on her neck.<BR/><BR/>But Alice had a new light in her eyes. The stream of air from the train tore her hair from its fastenings and as it tumbled on her shoulders she looked young again; her mouth half open with delight. <BR/><BR/>‘We’ve got to get on!’ Car coaxed them both. <BR/><BR/>Alice stepped forward. She held her hand out to Betty and smiled. Car was already in the carriage with the door open. Betty couldn’t resist both of them - and tripped up the step with a giggle.<BR/><BR/>‘But what will happen now?’ Betty asked. She was white and anxious again. Strange that she should be so nervous really – after all, the worst has already happened …<BR/><BR/>Car reached up and pulled a discarded book down from the luggage rack. As they saw what it was, they all turned grey with fear – last time they saw an ABC guide … well, there’s no need to go into that surely?<BR/><BR/>I’m glad the three of them are having a day out, a bit of excitement. They don’t know the train is going nowhere. Well, there’s nowhere for it to go is there?<BR/><BR/>Here, everyone is on the same train. Destined to go round the same track for ever. There’s no reason why these three should be any different.<BR/><BR/>Does that sound cruel? Well, maybe I am cruel. But I created them, I can do what I like with them.HelenMWaltershttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16182100572365505905noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-21892798418601971032007-11-14T18:17:00.000+00:002007-11-14T18:17:00.000+00:00I sometimes dream of you.I dream we are walking on...I sometimes dream of you.<BR/><BR/>I dream we are walking on the wind-battered Cornish cliffs, our collars raised against the cold as you fret about spots of rain falling on your suede jacket. The two of us against the world.<BR/><BR/>In another dream we dig our toes into the cool wet sand and wash them off in the surf, before lying in the sun, my head resting on your bare chest. The electric tingle of my flesh against yours wakes me with a smile.<BR/><BR/>You never were a romantic, but in my dreams I read again the love letter you sent on my birthday, quoting song lyrics to express your hidden feelings. The next morning I need to replay that old classic tune as, cradling in my palm the tiny earrings you gave me, I remember again.<BR/><BR/>I loved you so much.<BR/>But now you give me nightmares too.<BR/><BR/>I sleep restlessly, thinking of the last letter just months after that special birthday. The letter you signed off with ‘best wishes’. Not with love, nor with kisses. One which could have been written to anybody yet wasn’t quite the end for us.<BR/><BR/>I dream painfully of the long journey home, of forlornly hoping I had been mistaken. You met me at the station. The picture of your steely face will never leave me, nor will the memory of the endless tears which followed.<BR/><BR/>I wake in a sweat, remembering a wedding the next summer where you ignored me, to my agonised incomprehension. After all, you had already told me you were not ready to settle down when you left me. Later I discovered the truth. She hadn’t been invited, to protect me. You married her not long afterwards.<BR/><BR/>It really doesn’t matter now. <BR/>But still I dream of you.Cathyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14103529618681254875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-68134868404765732382007-11-14T18:14:00.000+00:002007-11-14T18:14:00.000+00:00This comment has been removed by the author.Cathyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14103529618681254875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-38170573937254105272007-11-14T18:00:00.000+00:002007-11-14T18:00:00.000+00:00This comment has been removed by the author.Cathyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14103529618681254875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-80037577989336885502007-11-14T17:19:00.000+00:002007-11-14T17:19:00.000+00:00“NO!” Loud and defiant. “NO it’s NOT going to ha...“NO!” Loud and defiant. “NO it’s NOT going to happen. Get out. GET OUT!” She sits up in bed, more angry then scared.<BR/> “Honey, are you ok?”<BR/> “I’m fine. I’m going for a run.” She looks at the clock 5:30 its still black as pitch but she gets out of bed and pulls on her grey sweats. She stops at the refrigerator and gulps some orange juice from the carton. She double knots her shoes and slips out of the front door.<BR/> She heads north walking at first to stretch and warm up her legs. Focusing, refocusing on pleasant things. It’s not too long before she hears his footsteps behind her. She begins to pick up the pace. “I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid.” She murmurs to herself over and over.<BR/> East on 17th, through the park. His footsteps are louder. “I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid.” She says louder through her ragged breath. Then just to prove her point she takes a turn into the cemetery. She runs down the central path. She can feel him gaining ground. “I am NOT afraid!” Louder this time. <BR/>The sky has lightened considerably but the grey will remain in the day. She heads out the back gate, two short blocks and a left and she’s home. She comes in to the smell of coffee.<BR/>“You ok?”<BR/>“Yea I’m good. I’m going to take a shower. My appointment’s at 8:30.”<BR/>“Call me.” <BR/>“I will.” She takes her shower and gets herself ready. Makes herself a cup of coffee. She feels him waiting for her. “I am not afraid. It is not going to happen.”<BR/>40 minutes later she is in the doctor’s office. “Hello Alicia, I’ve got great news. There is no sign of the cancer’s return. That should ease your fears.”trying to write ...https://www.blogger.com/profile/00392798039994083310noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-39092315757035947022007-11-14T17:06:00.000+00:002007-11-14T17:06:00.000+00:00We walked hand in hand forever, it seemed. If th...We walked hand in hand forever, it seemed. If the path grew narrow, one of us would instinctively take the lead, reaching behind to keep hold of the other.<BR/><BR/>It’s not that we were clingy. No indeed. We’d read the books. Codependent No More. The Language of Letting Go. We didn’t *need* each other, we simply embraced our mutual wants and desires, feeding off each other’s nurturing companionship<BR/><BR/>We could let go any time we wanted.<BR/><BR/>One summer’s day, the path split. The proverbial fork in the road. Two prongs, two directions, two choices lie in wait. The paths were clearly marked: one led to the sea, one to the mountains.<BR/><BR/>“I want us to climb,” he said. “to find what vistas await us.”<BR/><BR/>“Let’s go to the coast,” said I, “and soak in the nourishing sea.”<BR/><BR/>“The air will be so fresh, we’ll see everything clearly from the top. We’ll know which way to go.”<BR/><BR/>“As long as we’re together, we’ll head the right direction, and the water will be luxurious.”<BR/><BR/>For days we sat at this impasse, examining the first “why” of our journey.<BR/><BR/>And, sadly, we realized we wanted two different things. He longed to be in the air, closer to the stars and the moon. I craved the balance of earth and sea … the place where I could hear my soul.<BR/><BR/>It was time to untangle. We never realized how intricately bound we had become. <BR/><BR/>“We must trust and let go,” he whispered.<BR/><BR/>We kissed goodbye, our lips holding tight while our webbed fingers slowly, tenderly slipped apart.<BR/><BR/>Every now and again, I stare up at the rocky mountain above, sitting in my sandy sanctuary, basking in the warm salt air.<BR/><BR/>I search for the dot of his crimson jacket, and pray for an avalanche. <BR/><BR/><BR/>bob [at] bobzyeruncle [dot] combobhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14897020036945541472noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-31661487397194013152007-11-14T16:25:00.000+00:002007-11-14T16:25:00.000+00:00You know in a dream, when you fall, and wake up wi...You know in a dream, when you fall, and wake up with a twitch. Only I didn't wake up, I was falling for years. Images of your face swirled about me, whirled and span. I could see people looking over me, lights moving, or me moving, there was no longer any difference. I'm in love. It was a simple statement of fact. I reached out, and there you were. <BR/><BR/>Afterwards, we sat in the station coffee shop, one of those fancy efforts, chrome and paper cups, you looked across at me and I realised I didn't know you. I loved you and had missed our life together. You looked at me, concerned, oblivious to my inner life. My head reeled again and you, seeing me wilt reached across and touched the back of my hand.<BR/><BR/>Later, after all this head over heels nonsense had finished, it would be that small touch that I remember. That was the essence of this day, the day I fell in love with you. I remember your smile, so deep I could fall in it, I remember your eyes, bluest blue, with such a depth that they could be the hold world. But the essence of love was that touch, a touch that stirred my heart to an intensity I didn't believe could exist.<BR/><BR/>I'm a firm believer in dreams, this was a time when my dream came true. He stood up suddenly, looking at his watch.<BR/><BR/>“I'm sorry, I'm late, I have to go.” <BR/><BR/>And that was it, the end of the first real love affair of my life, I can't describe the feelings of loss as I sat waiting for the noise to subside in my head, watching that once in a lifetime true love walk away. Mind you the Waiter looks nice.<BR/><BR/>Jim Barron<BR/>jimbarron@walkauvergne.co.ukJim Bhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12376833061936461651noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-22984184234766787312007-11-14T16:11:00.000+00:002007-11-14T16:11:00.000+00:00'Now please don't be nervous, young lady, I'm simp...'Now please don't be nervous, young lady, I'm simply placing my hands, palms downwards, gently on your abdomen area. It helps with the process.'<BR/><BR/>I am extremely nervous. Perhaps I shouldn't be. He's the best psychiatrist in Harley Street - apparently. Everything about his persona is the best, from his expensive suit to his hand-crafted Italian shoes. As I squirm and wriggle on his couch, I can't help wondering what HE dreams about. Are they one-offs? Nightmares? Recurring? Recurring nightmares? Like mine. Who analyses HIS thoughts?<BR/><BR/>He breaks into mine to say in a syrupy voice 'I've explained the process - twice - but I'm happy to go over it again.' He tosses me his professional smile. That's probably put £50 on the bill. I wince.<BR/><BR/>'Now, now, nothing to be afraid of. You want to be free to get on with your life, don't you?'<BR/><BR/>My face puckers. He continues with his well-oiled monologue. 'When I ask you a question, please answer truthfully, it helps with the ...'<BR/><BR/>... 'process' I interrupt without a trace of irony.<BR/><BR/>I'm then assaulted by a barrage of questions.<BR/><BR/>Did you ever have an unpleasant encounter with trains as a child?<BR/><BR/>Did you ever have an unpleasant encounter IN trains as a child?<BR/><BR/>What does fire and ice conjure up in your mind right now?<BR/><BR/>If eyes are the windows of our souls, what, do you believe, are our hands?<BR/><BR/>Do you suffer from vertigo?<BR/><BR/>I'm now drenched in sweat. He continues.<BR/><BR/>Who is your favourite member of your family?<BR/><BR/>And your least?<BR/><BR/>And your least? he repeats.<BR/><BR/>In a sotto voce he asks his final question. 'Your Uncle Ted, your least favourite, whose hobby I understand was mountain climbing and who worked all his life on the railways - did he have large hands?'<BR/><BR/>I black out.<BR/><BR/>Louiserorie@aol.comAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-33636544578409207992007-11-14T15:59:00.000+00:002007-11-14T15:59:00.000+00:00I wrapped my coat even tighter, I couldn’t stop sh...I wrapped my coat even tighter, I couldn’t stop shivering, and finally the door opened. You came out in your bikini. I blinked. I pinched myself. But the cold was too real for me to be dreaming. You tiptoed over the frost-painted grass, pirouetting as you stopped in front of me. I peered out between folds of hat and scarf.<BR/><BR/> ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.<BR/> ‘I finally did it, and I’m going to show the world’ you said. I must have looked confused.<BR/> ‘I’m down to eight stone’ you said. ‘See!’ <BR/>And you pirouetted again. I ducked beneath your spinning arms.<BR/> ‘You’ll freeze like that’ I told you but you didn’t listen.<BR/> ‘I want everyone to see’ you said, and floated off down the street.<BR/>I trudged behind you, weighed down by two jumpers, a fleece, hat, scarf and gloves. Two teenage lads stopped and stared as you danced past, I swear that was drool freezing on their faces. A small child was being dragged to school by a worn out mum.<BR/> ‘Why’s that lady not wearing any clothes?’ He asked loudly. She shushed him, but I could see admiration in the sidelong glance she threw you. <BR/><BR/>An old man was so distracted by you that he rode his bike into a lamppost. Three girls in school uniform pointed and giggled, then looked down at their own puppy-fat covered bodies and stood straighter. And at the pelican crossing, long after the green man stopped flashing, the traffic stood still, watching you.<BR/><BR/>Pulling my hat over my freezing ears I watched you, waited for your teeth to start chattering, and blueness to spread over your skin. But you were warmly pink as you danced your way down the street, basking in the stares from everyone.<BR/><BR/>I followed, heavy with winter.<BR/><BR/>nicky@sharra.plus.comNickyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15134783230684185195noreply@blogger.com