Jig Of Life by markbinmore

Jig Of Life Mark Binmore

Published by Fontana

First published in Great Britain by Kindlight 2014

This edition published in Great Britain by Fontana 2020. www.markbinmore.com

The right of Anonymous to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and publisher of this book

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Jig Of Life is a collection of short tales, which could, given time, be expanded into longer stories. Tales of love, of life, of death and sacrifice, but most of all, love.

This book is for the living yet has been inspired by friends from the past.

The Theme Of Dreams.

Reflections on the way life was, the way life is, the way life might be. Peaceful meanderings through the mysteries of life, the journeys where we touch days, remember days, approach new days with the experience these mysteries have given us, with the revelations that still lay before us waiting to be discovered.

From where I am now I have time to remember, time to go beyond. Beautiful as a dream.

Pure as the dawn of creation.

Old as the beginning of time.

The leaves do not fall, they turn to gold.

The vale of the land of singers.

The valley of the singing gold.

Dreamflower.

How far is it from the beginning to the end?

A daydream is as rich a gift as any. Like Afer Ventus, the wind from Africa, or Eurus, the East wind, Boreas from the North or the gentle Zephyrs, the imagination is free and can choose and create its own journey. As with all dreams, we reach for the ideal and we find ourselves in Caribbean Blue.

The theme of dreams.

On the river of my imagination I feel I can go anywhere. Possibilities are endless. And so, on this ship of dreams, I sail away. The map of who I am guides me into the light of the heavenly stars, still visible in the morning sky. Something wonderful steers my course. My belief that there is a journey worth creating, worth following.

The sky deepens blue, wide and giving. I flow where the river takes me and as it opens out into the ocean. I see hues of indigo. What new worlds await me? What will I discover? This is a journey of the heart, mind and soul. I dive into my book of days, tireless navigator. The words within myself tell me to trust what is inscribed and I will find the way through. I pass the Isles of Ebudae. A whispering world, the domain of ancient queens. Wonders to behold. Sail on. Sail on.

Someday into the Land of the Summer Stars. The air thickens, beautiful storms wrap around me. Above me a deep sea of clouds, below the water endless and free. As I wish myself homeward one joyful thought begets another and I find my way back to the moment in my ship of dreams.

Thoughts from an Oriel window.

Watermark.

The line of separation.

The impression.

The rising.

The mark left.

Through the eyes of a child as they can lay asleep. Not knowing time could never be enough. The eyes of a child can cry. I cry. The same child within me cries. I grew to remember the promises of youth and walked the road of destiny, and walked the road that was to be mine. Looking through my childhood, I was so happy, unaware of life. Our time was so short. I sorrow for it. Long gone the day. The brighter days of my youth held promise. The way before me held sure destiny.

I remember

The shore.

The plain of.

The shelter.

Calm and understanding.

Away from the day.

Thoughts from an Oriel window.

The evening star.

Paris.

The isles of ebony.

Winter gardens.

The singing-ringing tree.

As the light hits a crystal each of its many sides reflect a different blue.

As we walk in the light of our lives so the human heart ignites and radiates emotion, wonderfully varied. To be human in to be passionately alive. To be human is to embrace each and every experience with an open heart. To be human is to express courageously. The colours of emotion shimmer within us, constantly changing, constantly moving, colours of goodbye kisses, of wishes all too great, of time stolen, of fears deep inside, the colours of the sacred pool, of our journey's end, the colours of those brave enough to follow, the colours of divinity, of hope, despair, of love. We are all of these and more. The colours of the crystal. The colours of the heart. With passion. We feel. We live.

We love.

The journey home.

My journey ends here.

The exile of lonely words.

The exile of heart and soul.

Anywhere is.

The land of the summer stars.

The winter garden.

That way.

The city of angels.

Anywhere is.

The island of light.

Paris.

The island of the four precious walls.

The willows on the water.

The land of three winters.

Wood of dreams.

The plain of the winds.

Anywhere is.

This way.

A whispering world.

Avalon.

The woodland forest.

The palace of solitude.

The garden of the singing-ringing tree.

The land of illusion.

Light shimmering on the sea.

Disappointment.

Love.

Life

On my way home

Anywhere is.

Anywhere can be the theme of your dreams.

Aftermath.

As she trudged upwards and into the top field, she startled a large flock of birds, which rose from the stubble; a quivering veil. They formed a huge arc in the sky and then a black exclamation mark, before wheeling off against the horizon and beyond. She put down her basket and watched them disappear. How odd to have seen a flock of birds. How long ago was it that she had witnessed Brent geese retreating in a long skein across the landscape, eastward to Russia? She could not remember and it did not matter. There was always something more important to do than reflect on the past. She continued with her task for that day, gathering nuts and berries from the hedgerows in her home-made pannier. She had become expert at finding the best but it was late July and the season was over and she was reaping a poor harvest. It was not the birds or wildlife that had taken their share of the juiciest blackberries or the musky sloes, for there were hardly any birds left that had not been put in the pot or vertebrates that had not been hunted down for their pelts or sinews. It was Jack Frost who had claimed the

fruits and left her frozen, spoiled pulp, which stained her hands and guaranteed her basket was almost empty. She adjusted the wide strap that was slung across her shoulders. It, too, was home-made and cut into her with its raw edges and metal points. She decided to look for mushrooms instead and smiled to herself. Years ago, she would have been scavenging the ancient infill sites at the foot of their valley, along with all the other able-bodied women, but now age had brought privileges such as her new occupation, foraging amongst the hedgerows. Today there were no mushrooms, either. She straightened her back and looked down at the stale scene of scrub, marsh and lakes paddling the valley. There were no mature trees, just a few acres of coppiced willow, small conifers in regimented rows and birches with curling, blistering bark. Further along, ice-crusted fishponds glinted in the weak morning sunlight and people, bundled up against the weather, darted out of wooden huts, which were strung along the dirt track like a dismal string of decaying beads. In the far distance, she could see the vanes of the sombre wind generators and hear the occasional grunt of an engine as it attempted to kick-start life into the water pump or methane plant. In the centre of it all was the heavily defended Watchtower and Council Hall where they assembled when the alarm bell rang but it had been many, many years since they had had to do that. She looked up at the sky, it was time to report in. From her pouch she extracted a sliver of mirror just large enough to hold up to the watery sun and signalled the Watchers. She put back the shard, folding it in a wad of fleece. She sat down on a stump of oak, felled years before to

build the stockade. She was hungry and cold. It would be time to head back, before the afternoon light would began to fade and the icy northern blasts came needling along their valley. She pulled her hat on more tightly and tucked in the cut down coat. Her feet were beginning to go numb. She sighed, thinking of the long summers of her childhood, her parents’ garden of tropical palms and days so warm that the air-conditioning unit had been on permanently. Then she thought of the Flood.

'Calm and Order' had been the mantra she had intoned. Like all other child survivors, she had been brainwashed into acceptance. The adults who had fought against the changes either left the community, to take their chances on the outside, where wars raged and brigands roamed the desolate, swampy landscape, or they buckled down, sometimes reliving their past lives in a dream world of invented memories. Despite the rigorous trauma counselling of those early days, it had been difficult to forget; she thought she could still hear the noises of unknown battles. At night, the dark sky would be peppered with light and sound, pulsating in mysterious colours, magical, enthralling and dangerous. Then she heard cracks, like shells blasting and could feel the tremble of heavy artillery reverberating through the floor. Exhausted, she would wrap her homespun blankets around her and fall asleep, reassured that the war was far, far away; so far away that they had dismantled the lookout towers long ago and stopped the night watches. Few ever found their way into the valley and none ventured out of it. She looked at her pannier again. This was a very poor show for a morning’s work. Perhaps she ought to go up to the crest where

the old signalling station used to be. It would be a steep climb but it would be worth it if she could find the loganberries and cloudberries that she had gathered in her youth. Back in the village, at the communal kitchen, she could transform them into pies and preserves for the winter stores. There was bound to be spoonwort, which she could collect for the apothecary and perhaps a few birds’ eggs. It was just impossible to go back to the community with a half-empty basket. The icy stares and hunched shoulders would be unbearable. She trekked upwards for the best part of a mile, clinging to the wiry, leafless shrubs as the path gave out, testing the ground in front of her when the scree, loosened by her footfalls, bounced off the rocks below. The parapet of the lookout tower, now a ruin, leered out of the hillside. Here, long ago, she had gathered at dusk with the other youngsters, all refugees from the Flood, many of whom had made that terrible journey with her. Then they’d built fires and exchanged illicit memories, sang halfremembered pop songs and talked irreverently of the elders, made plans to build a new world and tried to fall in love. A brief moment before the hard work of growing up began, before one or other had to man the lookout for the night. The berries were not as plentiful as she remembered but she gathered them greedily, staining her lips and scratching her hands as she grazed on the fruits; their sweet- sour taste filling her mouth with pleasure. Guiltily, she thought of the others who were just as hungry as she was. She took out her mirror, flashing a signal to the Watchtower. Soon the

sun would be over the mountains and the mirror would be useless. He flashed back three times, a warning signal. She knew the rules, it was time to get back to the settlement. The bending down and gathering fruit, the scrambling for the best berries had disoriented her and she headed off across the peak in the wrong direction, to the other side of the mountain.

She was about to turn back when the sky cleared and her eye was caught by a white light in the far distance. At first she thought they were clouds foaming on the horizon, massing together in every direction as, startled, she looked from left to right and right to left. Or was it a signal, someone in distress, in need of assistance? The cold made her eyes water as she stared, trying to focus on the faraway point, trying to see clearly and make sense of whatever was illuminating her grey world with such stark intensity. The slow realization that she was staring at a massive ice sheet overwhelmed her, leaving her weak, breathless and trembling. She wanted to run but could not. Her world seemed to melt very, very slowly as she tried to mutter 'Calm and Order' but all that came out of her quivering lips was an empty silence as she struggled to mouth the words.

Away on the horizon, beyond the next range of broken-backed hills, the glacier was slowly and inexorably making its way forward, grinding and crunching up the ground beneath it, cracking and fracturing like small arms fire, rumbling and reverberating as it advanced, cruelly and remorselessly. From the right, a colony of arctic terns suddenly swooped across her field of vision. Vaguely, she noted

their long, white, forked tails and their bright red legs as they formed and re-formed in shoals; one moment backing, and then darting forward, defying gravity as they careered across the deep azure of a frozen sky. This time she did not think it odd when they formed into a huge black exclamation mark, nor did she care that, in her panic to get back to the valley, she had left behind her basket of berries.

Dark Awakenings.

One night I woke up, in the middle of the night. I could hear the harsh winds outside my frosted window, as I sit and stare, shivering.

I get up, using my tense muscles to lift my body off the bed. A cold, painful shock runs through my body as my bare feet meet the cold hardwood floor. I do not recognize my surroundings and I become frightened with my unknown world. I walk steadily towards the haunting door, staring viciously at the rusted knob. My quivering, sweaty hand comes closer and finally greets the door. With a creaky, rusted turn, the door opens. I squint into the blankness ahead, trying to get a sense of where I might be. I walk into the open area and the door shuts behind me.

As I walk into the dark, gloomy abyss in front of me, the door starts to fade away and move farther and farther off. Suddenly, I feel a cold draft and a haunting whisper.

A chill runs up my spine, all of the muscles in my body go tense, and I am not able to speak or move. I try to talk but my mouth does not open, I try to walk but my legs stay locked. I am trapped, forced to

'The secret lies in the pit of darkness.'

look at the dark world I am enclosed in. I stand there, weak and shivering in my short nightgown. I try to decode the message that I have heard and I try to figure it out in my tempered mind. All of a sudden, I start getting flashbacks from my painful past. I can see my mother; she is pale and grim, lying in her bed, dead. It then moves and I can see my father, holding a knife to his breast, then I, as a small girl yell, 'Daddy, Daddy, please don't do it.'

Both of us sobbing, my father cannot bear his life without my mother, and he does it. My mind and my heart are in pain from witnessing my painful experiences once again. I sob out in sorrow and I begin to fall down in this dark never ending world.

My body loose, no longer cold. I hit the bottom and a shock fills my body. I stand up and look into the darkness. All of a sudden, I see two black figures standing in the distance. I become frightened, as I try to get a better look at them. I walk slowly towards the haunting figures. A disturbing encounter I walked upon and witnessed. Standing there, in front of my frail body stands my mother and father staring into my eyes. My mother is pale and looks terribly thin. My father is bleeding from the wound in his chest. I collapse and break down, sobbing and afraid to look into their deathly faces. My mother comes towards me and places her hand upon my shoulder. Her penetrating touch warms my body with prosperity. My father comes forth. 'Everything will be okay, embrace your heart and flourish it with passion, move on and be free.'

My mother stands, they clasp their hands and they fade away.

My reality world slowly fades back. I am in my room once again and I am able to familiarize myself with my surroundings. My pulse heaves and my face is covered in pure tears. Now I realize that the daunting voice was telling me that the secret to reawakening my heart was deep down in that dark pit of my life where my mother and father sat and waited for a long time.

My heart is no longer a dark, blurred dwelling. It is free and open for love. I am now able to move on and can forget about my painful past. From this experience, I now know that my mother and father are peaceful in the other world and my heart is no longer trapped in the past.

Eternal Love Never Dies.

Eternal Love Never Dies. The tears fall down his face slowly and drop to the stone he kneels at. Memories of a time past turn his tears into sobs. The wound opens once again asking the same question 'Why?'

It all comes flooding back as if it were yesterday. Memories flood him like roaring wave. Crashing down on him and holding him under. He cannot breathe. The wanting and missing him, the pain of his grief over takes him. He looks towards heaven torn between living with the heartache for the death of a lost love and moving ahead with the living of a new love. Thinking of what could have been.

His shoulders slump forward with the heaviness that of his burdens. Torment and grief over take him. What he would not do or give to get it all back again. His tears, his pain, wanting and longing for

something had never to have again. The tears fall faster the sobs grow louder. Anger, blame and resentment surround him and rise up toward the heavens. He lays the flowers across his stone not wanting to leave him. He knows there is another waiting for him but he cannot tear himself away from the one who is gone to go to the one who is waiting the one who now fills his world with love.

He stands on the roadside waiting and watching the man he loves. He watches as he slowly looks up and sees him standing there, the other that has captured his heart. He feels his pain and confusion. He waits arms out stretched to him. Wanting and hoping his love will heal the opened wounds of his heart. To heal it completely so that it will never hurt again. To dry his tears so he will never cry again. To hold him until his sobs subside.

To bear his pain so that he will never have to again. To fill the gap in his heart and his life that has been made empty from grief. He watches as he looks down and then back up to him. Here he stands alive, blood pumping through his veins ready to give him all his love, his life, his heart, his soul and his life.

He watches as he looks back down at the flowers he has just laid. As he looks back up, he holds out her arms once again to the man he loves so deeply, the man who holds his dreams and future in his heart. He looks down at the stone, the name of a lost love that lies beneath it, the flowers. He is frozen in time, lost in the memories a love of long ago. He looks back up once more to the man on the other side of the road. Which path does he choose; the love of the living or the love of the

dead? He stands where the man he loves stood just moments ago. The tears fall softly down his face to the stone before him. His heart is breaking, but not from grief. He lifts his eyes to the heavens to ask the question repeatedly just as he did moments before only with a new meaning.

'Why?'

He wants to understand. His tears turn to sobs as his heartache opens to the pain he feels. He is angry, jealous and resentful. He knows this is wrong but the pain of love he feels clouds his thoughts. He prays for peace, he prays for help. But most of all he prays for understanding. He talks to the name on the stone he is staring at. Someone he does not know. He tells him of the love he has for a man who wants another. He tells him he cannot fight a ghost. He looks down at the flowers he has laid there knowing all too well his thoughts as he did so. He looks up with tears in his eyes only to see confusion all around him. He is standing on the roadside watching the man that has captured his heart. Wanting so much to wrap his arms around him and mend his breaking heart and to dry his tears. He knows his love for him is strong and deep. But he is pulled in two different directions. His love is also strong and deep. He is torn between two loves, one from long ago never to return and one that is here now to share a future. Two different but yet the same. Guilty, loyalty, love and pain. He can see his tears, he can feel his pain. He cannot move. He is torn between the living and the dead. Which path will he choose? In his heart, he knows he cannot have both. As he watches him, he sees his body shake with the sobs as he cries.

He knows.

His eyes look up. He looks back down to the flowers he laid there. He looks back up again. He knows.

It is as though he can see through his soul and his heart. He knows.

What path does he choose? The tears fall from his eyes. He knows.

Jig Of Life.

One day I happened upon a big book buried deep in the ground. I had been walking through the forest, searching for mandrake and the rare mushroom of everlasting love. Few books find their way to my part of the world so I picked it up and dusted the earth of its massive cover. From beneath the dirt appeared a faded photograph of a young woman. The young woman was I. Despite the alarming fact that my own image was on the cover, I clung to the hope that the book contained a tale of a knight in shining armour and a fair lady waiting to be rescued from a black warmhearted ogre. I tried to picture myself on a dark winter’s night, sitting in front of the fire, immersed in an ancient adventure. I opened the book, trembling with fear and excitement. The pages were blank. I was about to cry out in a mixture of disappointment and relief when my gaze touched the paper where one would expect to find the first paragraph. To my surprise the book had started writing itself as if by magic. What it wrote was what I was doing there and then. It seemed

to follow my every move. 'Well,' I thought, 'it’s an automatic diary. I guess that means it’s up to me to create the story as I go on living.'

Deep down the thought saddened me. Who would ever want to go through page after page about someone like me? My life was so simple it would never make for a good read. But then a new sentence appeared. 'I had to leave the forest.' And another one. 'I realized the book was not merely recounting what I did, it was telling me what I should do. It was time I left my house and started exploring the world.'

I did exactly what the book told me to and the forest opened up to me like never before. It put on a great show of colours, movement and sounds as if it wished to make sure it stayed rooted in my memory in all its dazzling beauty. Now, I was ready to leave. I got on the train and was on my way to the city. The countryside disappeared in a flash. I sat in the compartment reading about my journey, the narration always being one step ahead of what was happening to me. The train slid like a manic giant slug on its glistening tracks. The villages became towns, the towns became suburbs, and the suburbs became the city. Out the window I saw its skyscrapers grow from the horizon like giant fingers trying to poke holes in the firmament. As soon as the train pulled into the station and the busy crowd had pushed me out on the street, I consulted the book about what I was to do next. A sentence wrote itself out. 'I explored the city like the forest before.' So, that is what I did.

Strangely enough the city did not scare me. The buildings reminded me of the tall pine trees of the forest. The light in the windows

glimmered as the snow on their branches. The cars rushed along the streets like small animals busily preparing for the winter. And the neon lights? Well, they were my northern lights. The days passed and the pages filled up with words. I followed the book’s writing like a recipe for an alchemist’s elixir of life. It had told me it was on this condition the next sentence would appear, and that if I did not respect the rule my beautiful adventure would vanish like a dream. It was an easy rule to obey. The book was taking me places beyond my imagination. I did whatever it asked of me. But one thing had started to disturb me. The blank pages were becoming frightfully few. I could not but wonder how my story would end. I feared for the worst and started thinking about it day and night. Would I vanish? Or die?

I was seriously thinking about breaking up my relationship with the book when it came to my rescue. It spelled it out for me word by word. It had just been doing what all good books do; they create suspense in their last pages. I laughed out loud where I stood on the edge of a high rise in the city’s centre.

To celebrate having regained my trust the book wrote on the top of the last page. 'I took my story to Clark. Publisher of fine books, on the corner of Lament Lone and Hanger Street.'

I took my story to Clark. Publisher of Fine Books. Once in Clark’s humble office I handed him my book. He offered me a seat in a comfortable chair across his desk and I watched him read my story. I could see how the words moved him, how he responded to the events as if he was going through them himself. As his eyes glided down the

last page the final sentence and conclusion to my tale appeared. 'I knew my heart was his and that I would love him forever and ever.'

Only The Wind.

The rain is falling upon the black, empty streets of my neighbourhood, and I am sitting cross-legged beside an open window. This night is not unlike so many others. I hurt, inside and out, and I think that it may be the residue of grief. It seems as though another parade of troubled everything’s are marching through the long corridors of my mind. I hear the raindrops fall on the rooftops. It is rhythmic and purposeful, like morsecode sent down from the clouds. I wish that I could decipher it. I wish that it were a message meant just for me, a plan or some gentle permission that might inspire me to be someone other than who I have been. The wet sounds, the cold smell, and the goose bumps rising from the skin on my arms, reminds me of the many times my father and I went fishing in stormy weather. He was always a little surprised when it began to rain, as if Mother Nature had not followed the forecast he had decreed in his mind. Often, he would assure me that the clouds would go away once we got to the lake, and I believed him, no matter how dark the sky looked. He would tell me that the rain did not have to stop us, and that the fish always bite a little better if the fishermen were soaked and miserable. Sometimes, while he was trying to thread fishhooks, the rain would spatter against his yellow raincoat, sending tiny droplets of water into his eyes. But no matter how hard it poured, no matter how cold and numb the tips of his fingers were, he never failed to thread a hook for

me. And the sandwiches mother fixed and sent with us never failed to hit the spot, even though they had a little damp.

I hear thunder outside my window and it does not frighten me as much as it once did. No, not since the day, my father and I were out in a small canoe in the middle of our favourite lake, and a mighty thunderstorm blew in and caught us off guard. The lightening danced across the water like yellow cobwebs and the thunder echoed off the metal sides of the canoe, but my father was unafraid. He handed me a pole with a wriggly worm attached to the end, presenting it to me as a knight might bestow a sword upon his squire, and we fished on.

I thought that his cool demeanor and steady hand was more than a match for any bit of thunder, and no lightning bolt could flicker brighter than the spark in his eye. I got up from my sitting position and went outside and I walked down the wet streets. I stood under a security light at the end of the avenue and I imagined that it was my father shining down on me. As I stared into the light, my tears began to mix with the raindrops sliding down my face, and I whispered, 'I don't know if I can sit in my little canoe and thread fish hooks and be happy to be here without you, Dad.'

I imagined what he might say to me and it comforted me, and I decided to stay outside and walk the streets a while longer. I saw a stray cat sitting at the crossroads. It was unimpressed with the weather and sat there like a sleepless sentry of the night. I regarded it and it regarded me, and somewhere in our eyes, there was acceptance. I saw robins come down from their nests to catch the earthworms crawling out of the moist dirt. I envied them. Their devotion to life was distinct

and limitless. My father lived his life with a similar purpose and I admired him for it. I thought those types of traits would be handed down to me as easily as I had been handed a fishing pole. I often wondered what had gone wrong during the passing of that particular baton. Was I running too fast or too slow? Was there a fumble of some kind during the exchange? Recently, I have felt like I might stumble out of the canoe and sink to the muddy bottom, and anchor there forever by the heavy weight of fear and doubt.

When I return home and walk back upstairs to reclaim my perch beside the windowsill, the rain begins to slow until there is several seconds in between raindrops. I listen intently, as if I might hear the last one fall. Rain.

Down it trickled Robin’s eye and assuaged her fears of exploding inside. Through the window of her room, she saw the wild ebony sky and the buttery moon, she rummaged through the darkness for answers, and much had been unanswered since her birth. She wanted to know where the tiny seed hid the tree that would bear fruits and why didn’t the dead birds drop from the sky like the ripe fruits from the tree and why people died and who decided who was to die and when. She had seen dear ones depart and life had been an ordeal since. Like an octopus she had been inkling her past lest it would consume her like a predator. The rain poured heavily, a tear dripped and died on her cheek, little Robin was lulled to sleep.

Slow Sorrow.

Sometimes the river runs so slowly and I sit in the middle on the smooth grey rock watching the stones and pebbles fall aside at my feet each one a sorrow, each one rolling with the current. The brambles that tore at my skin just to get here also offer berries so sweet and warm with sun. The stones that roll are lit with beauty. If they stay in the water they shine. Why must I pick them out and hold them? What is this in me that needs to place stones on my heart hold them in my eyes feel them in my mouth cold and hard?

I gather and gather my harvest of slow sorrow open my hands please let them sink again and shine. I know these small truths each pebble a piece of my soul, each stone a resting place who I am who I will be beneath the water still shining.

Starfire.

I have gathered the convenient bramble and set ablaze the twigs dried and eager to release their store held until this moment just to warm the Nordic chill in my heart. It seems a dream. In my mind I am fjord side. Here I can hide from the boredom. The salmon and alder smoke rise under a firefly sky that belies the chasm from there to here, this bucolic haven where hackberry crackle from the stream-side furrow fire has burrowed into my recollection.

I conjure the horror and borrow from childhood fear of fanged faeries flitting darting and devouring. Tomorrow I can fashion the cudgel I will deploy against the mundane of my return. Where like a canary in the flight for the life of another.

But I stutter.

Mine I sacrifice.

Linnet's wings come to mind that fly me away back to where tree bugs and frog squawk still swallow sadness in the steaming humid calm of night and rip the slithering fear from my slight and selfish sorrow. A song of tomorrow.

The sheen of new breeze whisks away the matte flat of morose and the verbose accolades that have torn the flesh from my soul in their retraction.

But my reaction is to grapple, to cast the bitterness from Eve's apple, make my memories mellow, scrape the frost from my heart and find once again, star-time, where shadow angles point the way to half a world away and to where my gift finds home.

The Answer.

The psychiatrist said that the first attempt was merely a cry for help. This confused me, but I nodded when I was told this and looked at him. He was paler than the day before. The bland paper-gown did not do his beauty justice.

He was smiling now.

I battled the muscles in my face to do the same without allowing the pools of water behind my eyes to find their way to freedom. The psychiatrist left the room. He insisted that he was merely checking up on one of his patients for the second time today; although, I read between the lines and saw his eyes trying to escape mine as he tried to cheerfully force-feed his lies. He was worried he would lose another

hospital-ordered patient. This knowledge was common among the nurses in the hospital and they were not worried about those around them overhearing their revealing conversations. Three hours later, the two of us were finally alone.

'A cry for help,' I said. 'I'm sorry…'

'Stop,' he interrupted. 'It had nothing to do with you or anyone else. I want you to know that right now. Sometimes things just spin out of control and as hard as you try to recapture the wheel, you still end up flipping into the ditch. I really thought I wanted to end it, and you know, I honestly think I still do.'

I fought as hard as I could not to spout off any cliché messages of reassurance, but in this kind of situation, it is a fight that one already loses due to the emotional exhaustion of the moment.

'Is there anything I can do to help?'

'Like what?'

'I don't know. I just feel like I should be helping.'

'No,' he sighed.

'You just don't know what else to say, and I understand, but right now I just want to be alone.'

'But I don't…'

'Please?'

I hesitated for a moment before working up the courage to look into his eyes. I expected him to be ashamed, to avoid my eyes. However, he did not and the rising waters behind my eyes eventually made its way to daylight as I turned and walked out of the room.

The gap grew larger the past few years, and I saw myself struggling as hard as I could to fill that gap with love, support, and understanding, but it was getting harder to do when the person on the other end of the wants nothing to do with me anymore. When someone is more anxiously awaiting the gift of death rather than the gift of love, it is hard to take, so I took it badly. I thought love was the answer. I thought love was always the answer, naive, huh? He received his gift though.

The next day came for most of us. The nurses could not understand how he broke free of the straps to eventually chew his way through the stitches. 'He must have really ha…,' looking down as they saw me brokenly approach.

I walked around the now empty hospital room proclaiming repeatedly in my head, do not lose control do not lose control do not lose control. Even in the death of another, one cannot help but think of himself. It hurt and I vowed to never hurt again. The psychiatrist provided more gossip for the nurses of the hospital as he made his third visit in two days. This visit was a little less social as he focused his eyes on a Styrofoam cup.

'The second attempt,' he mumbled, 'was a success.'

The Beautiful Boy And The Beautiful Girl. The beautiful boy grabs the beautiful girl by the hand

Enemies and jealous lovers chase them in hate and fury

They run in unison with their hair flying freely in the open wind galloping through the golden sanded beaches like wild horses never looking back facing forward towards their future where they can live as one

They run through treacherous rain forests

swim all the oceans climb the highest and steepest mountains

They reach the very top of Mount Everest their bloody past and near tragic future is approaching them

The beautiful boy looks deeply into the beautiful girl's eyes

They watch all the other mountains, beaches and deserts down below And without a doubt he takes her firmly by the hand

They jump off the very top of the mountain flying as high as the stars, the planets, the moon and the sun reaching their final place, of everlasting love

Living an eternity with and for each other only

The Haunting.

It is hard to believe how quickly life can change and how quickly life can be lost. Lost.

Lost in a world of lies. Deceit. Trapped.

I walked away from the bustling kitchen away from the steamed windows, with its tempting smells and clattering pots. As I walked along the dark corridors, an eerie feeling came over me. My footsteps echoed along the corridor and I could hear the rain pattering on the window frame. I reached the door at the end and, balancing the breakfast tray in one hand, pushed the heavy wooden door. At first, I could not believe what lay in front of me. There on the bed lay the lady of the house. Her eyes closed and her skin cold to the touch. My attempts to wake her were in vain. Tears filled my eyes.

Behind me, I heard the floorboards creak and a small polite cough.

I turned to see the lady in waiting, Katherine, stand in the doorway. I noticed for the first time the bloodstains on the snow-white linen. I turned back to the doorway and saw the bloodied knife in Katherine's hand. Her eyes flashed with pure hatred and she spat one word at me. 'GO!'

I fled down the stairs and out of the house never stopping to collect my cloak. I ran out of the house and felt the wind whip my face, the rain mixing and mingling with my own tears. I never stopped running. I never looked back. Her face still haunts my dreams. Peaceful, no hint of the violence she endured. I vowed never to return to that dreadful house and I never will, but I am trapped there. I died that day. I died inside.

The Night Watcher.

Below an open first floor window, he could hear muffled snoring. From inside and barely a few feet away, one restless body tossed whilst another one turned. But would he have the courage to enter? It was yet another sultry evening and whilst the nearby metropolis simply burst into life, the suburbs all but slept. This neighbourhood was quite unlike some of the domestic war zones in the city and the residents here were as trusting as they were naive. All along the streets there were windows and skylights open. In the stifling, late summer heat and with no air-conditioning it was a necessity. He had been through many open windows and some were along this very same street. Nevertheless, he was always cautious. He looked up and down the street but need not have worried. The pavements were empty and the only illumination came from the streetlamps that flickered as they dissolved into the horizon. From somewhere beyond the horizon an alarm bell and a howling siren as one, startled him and made him hesitate. Maybe, he thought, it would be a better idea to enter from the rear of the house. And of course, he knew that it was. Therefore, without a sound, he slipped around the side of the building and in the blinking of an eye; he was over the gate and into a poorly lit backyard. As he surveyed the rear elevation of the house with the efficient eye of a more than able trespasser, he could see several unlocked windows through which to gain easy entry into the property and he decided that the kitchen would the most suitable. Like a breath of wind, he swept by the pale floral curtains and into the quiet residence.

Once inside, he could see that the door leading out of the kitchen was ajar but the adjacent dining room doors were closed, thus limiting his options but thereby determining his path. The gloomy kitchen inspired no curiosity in him and even less enthusiasm. And so it was, by way of the single open door that he probed further into the hushed, sleepy house.

He found himself in a shadowy hallway. To his left and to his right there were closed doors and straight ahead, there was a staircase. At each end of the hallway, small chandeliers hung like ornamental stalactites. His wary eyes were drawn to the faint amber glow that effortlessly bathed the landing carpet at the top of the stairs. Dimmed lights were on as the family slept, children he guessed. But he sensed the lights were beckoning him.

As he reached the top of the staircase, his heart was beating so loudly against his chest that he thought that everyone must hear it. But of course, they did not.

On all sides of the landing there were doors, three stood half-open and two were shut tight. A punchy tang of citrus told him that one of the open doors was a pristine family bathroom and he braced himself as he approached a stream of light that was migrating from yet another open door.

Entering the room he could see that the curtains were semi drawn and a reassuring night-light was on. In the bed a man-child slept, soothed by a warm, downy blanket and his thumb. As the intruder hovered by the bed, his amplified silhouette was cast across the wall above the headboard and he watched the undisturbed boy as he slept peacefully.

His mind was meandering.

A gentle breeze gate crashed the scene and the lifeless curtains seemed to breathe, stirring him from his tardy daydream. Somewhat relieved that the intrusive drought had been the only unwelcome visitor to the room, (other than himself of course) the prowler turned to leave and as he did so, he softly brushed the youngster’s brow. Calmness and serenity lay all around. Returning to the landing swiftly and quietly, he headed towards a diluted, yellow glow that was emanating from a nearby door.

The familiar sound of muffled snoring although it was not so muffled now could be heard coming from within. He rested outside the door for a moment and gathered his thoughts. From inside the room, an insignificant shuffling sound, followed by a mumble and a whimper and a toss and a turn, all discouraged him from entering. He lingered patiently outside until the sounds and the movements had ceased. Then silently, he entered the room, another bedroom. Only this time there were two people inside. Two adults were sound asleep. It appeared that the yellow light exuding from the room had in fact been coming from an impertinent, nosey streetlight. Its moody ambiance was unobstructed by the flowing, silky-smooth voile that clothed the window. An extravagant television screen dominated one corner of the room and he pored over it intimately for a while. He savoured the fragrance of the extinguished rose scented candles that sat forlornly on the bedside stands. Yet another chandelier hung in the heart of the room and the crystal beads that fell from it, sparkled in the shade and they fascinated him. He edged closer to the king sized bed as the

occupants slept on, blissfully ignorant of his presence. They both perspired freely and yet still looked oh so peaceful. The bed covers had been enthusiastically hurled aside at some time during the humid evening, he watched intrigued, as their respective chests rose and fell in breathless harmony, and their eyelids flickered with each husky breath. And he watched. In the bed, a muscular young man let out an indignant groan as he rolled over onto his broad back, while his shapely and attractive young wife, who seemed decidedly tranquil by comparison, lay motionless. He moved closer and closer until his face was almost touching the young man’s face. Their heads lolled to one side and then back again in unison. The young man’s nose twitched. Then suddenly and by mistake, they touched and the young man, irritated by something unseen, instinctively opened his weary eyes. A terrifying cry tore from the young man’s throat and it reverberated throughout the house. The dazed young wife sat bolt upright screaming and from down the hall, the infant screamed and cried in tandem. Neighbouring houses and even those from yonder were lit up like urban expressways. The young man’s powerful arms flailed at the formless shadow that seemed to be enveloping him. The young wife fumbled for the swaying light cord, but in her frenzied hysteria, she could not locate it. And the infant screamed and cried. Everybody screamed and cried. The confused young wife took an unintended thwack across her ear and the feverish young husband collected a poke in the eye for all his pains. The squealing tot dashed into the panicked room to become involved in the ensuing maelstrom. Pandemonium held sway.

A well-timed haymaker grazed the errant prowler as he tried to bob and weave, struggling to elude the would-be crushing blows that were being rained upon and roundabout him. A flurry of hands, feet, elbows, and knees. Mayhem ruled. Finally, the frantic young wife managed to grasp the elusive light cord and she tugged it for all she was worth. Suddenly the room was flooded with brilliant light and each and every eyeball ached as they were compelled into an explosion of brightness. Now confusion reigned. Eyes sought him out but where was he? Then, without warning, he suddenly reappeared, but with one frightful swipe, it was over. As suddenly as it had begun, it ended. A family in chaos might at last breathe a sigh of relief. Forming a huddle, the family wept en masse as a bruised and bewildered moth fluttered briskly out of the open window to safety.

The White Lady.

On summer mornings when the air is still and before the sun has broken the horizon to warm the last of the mist from the lake the white lady walks.

I wait, as I always wait, patient, hopeful, as fish gulp insects from the water's surface and the wild fowl stir in their nests amongst the reed on the lake's far shore. I watch, as I always watch, from here on the grasscovered hill, still wet with dew, a shadow in the mystic half-light of pre-dawn. Today the air is still as if in slumber awaiting the dawn, the

mist sits heavy on its watery haven and I feel my skin chill and tingle with that other worldliness I feel only when she walks. She is my love, my salvation, my escape from a reality I despise. From a home of parents so banal as to be loathsome, from a job as devoid of worth as to be detestable.

She is ideal as an object of obsession for she is both completely desirable and equally unobtainable. She is as dangerous as any drug, corruptive and destructive, and yet I sit here knowing her dangers but not fearing her. As all addicts, I believe I can control my addiction, tame the dragon. I had been no more than seven when I first saw the lady in white. Even at that young age, I had been struck by her grace and poise, by her wondrous femininity. Is seven too young an age to be corrupted?

Maybe.

Maybe at first it was just the adrenaline rush of terror mixed with the exhilaration of a secret that was mine and mine alone, that had drawn me back morning after morning. Then as I grew, it could have been the feeling of power, the same feeling, as one would get holding a gun or a grenade. The thrill of being so close to danger and yet perfectly safe. Finally, as I passed puberty and became a man it was lust. Lust for this one woman before all other women. The one woman I could see but never have. It is not known why she walks. No man has seen her more than I for no man know her better than I do. It is only on mornings such as this that she walks. Still mornings when the air hangs sleeping, awaiting dawn.

She walks in a summer dress of flowing white cotton, wicker basket over her arm, bonnet upon her head. I do not know her name; it is lost in the mists of time. I sometimes play with names in my head, Elizabeth, Emily, Sarah but none seems to fit. I also know of her dangers, which strangely maybe, inevitably maybe, has made me even more fascinated by her, drawn like a moth I flutter at the edge of conflagration. Is it true that only when in peril we can truly feel alive? I do not know. All I know is that here I come, here I sit and here I watch for her, only for her.

For many years, I have watched her as she walks on summer mornings. Many years of hoping that, the mist sits on the lake. Many years of longing to see her knowing not whether she knows or cares about me. How could I tell? I chose to believe that she does both know and care for me as I care for her. A delusion maybe, but are not all who love deluded to some degree. It is time.

My skin prickles and shivers and ice strokes my spine. I feel sure she will walk. She emerges as the merest breath of wind through the bulrushes to the right of where I sit. She pauses just for a moment, her radiant beauty shaming the dawn she both pre-empts and upstages. She is as always a picture of elegance, immortal and incorruptible in white. Her cotton summer dress is long, reaching to the ground hiding her feet and lower legs; it hugs her thighs as she begins her walk. Tight at her waist which is drawn small, the flow of white cotton continues, stretching over her ample round bosom and up into a tall lace collar which girdles her long slender neck. She wears a straw

bonnet, which hides her face in shadow. Her posture is erect and proud. Over her delicate arm, she carries a wicker basket covered by a cloth, as if she carries a picnic to share with a secret admirer. Taking the air, she makes her way with processional steps along the path that leads around the lake. With a long, regular, controlled gait, she walks but there is just the hint of joyous bounce in her stride. I am sure she knows I am here for she glances my way from time to time, I always shield my eyes and look away for I could never look her in the eye, she continues her walk disregarding my disrespect. For these few moments when my lady walks, the world of the mundane with all it fallibility fades away and there is only her and I, 'The white queen walks and the night grows pale,' I whisper, no less than whisper, so quietly that only my heart can hear. I stop before completing the quote. She passes no more than twenty yards from me, I want to run to her, embrace her in my arms, to close this gulf of space and time between us, to break us both free from the bonds, which tie us to this place, but I cannot. Cursed as I am this is as close as I dare approach.

She has approached me once, just the once, but fear drove me to rise and walked quickly away without looking back, she is both dream and nightmare and as with all nightmares she has no power if I ignore her. But can a man spend his life turning his back on his dream? Was that my one chance to be near her, maybe to find true happiness? I continue to watch her as she glides with grace unbounded past the rose beds. The large red blooms are lifeless and dull in the presence of her glory. Her hand with long gentle fingers strokes the fence that surrounds the

lake with the merest caress, her basket of woven wicker swings carelessly in the fold of her left arm. As she passes I am spellbound by her, she is perfection. She rounds the head of the lake and the swans scurry from their nests and sits hissing jealously several yards into the water. They know that their plumes are as dust to her white dress. They await her passing before returning sullenly to their broods. Now she glides, a gleaming star, a picture of loveliness along the far shore, her white gentle frame, gloriously radiant against a backdrop of grey normality. Waterfowl abandon their feeding and scurry for the sanctuary of deep water. She ignores their impudence and continues her walk until she reaches the boathouse; there she dallies as if waiting for someone. There is a bench, she sits and waits her basket on her lap, she waits and I watch. Eventually, as always, with no warning or prompting she rises and begins her return journey slowly, majestically along the lake shore path. She walks in beauty, mystical, spiritual, wonderful, a symbol of a more civilized, more graceful time, she again scatters the wildfowl in a cacophony of disapproval and the swans retreat in their turn. She rounds the head of the lake and is once again in profile, in perfect rapturous profile. She, my morning star, my Venus, mesmerizes me, so under her spell am I that I do not see him, the man walking his dog. He is behind her closing quickly, a product of these hurried times. I cannot intervene it is too late as he approaches, Icarus like, too close to radiance. His dog barks, whimpers, fights to be free of its lead, maybe the man will yet be saved but no, he pulls the dog and shouts.

She stops, turns and walks towards him. I watch dumbstruck as the drama I have seen performed perhaps half a dozen times before is reenacted; he looks, smiles maybe, before he notices, before he sees. She approaches never changing her slow graceful stride, he looks puzzled, confused then he looks down, terror fills his face, he releases the dog, which abandons him. The man falls, half runs, half crawls, he howls a primeval scream of terror, a yell of mad, insane fear. I ignore him. My thoughts are only for her. The lady fades. She will not finish her walk today. I damn myself for not seeing the man earlier. I could have saved him, not for his sake although his whimpering twisted form has attracted a crowd. I should have stopped him for my own. My curse is completed, my lady has been disturbed in her wandering, and I will not see her again this year. Let snow devour the rose buds and ice freeze the lake. My summer is ended.

I still go to park every morning but already frost has found its home in my heart. May turns to June and June to July. I still see the dawn through the bulrushes but now I go only to walk, to watch the swans with their cygnets, to feed the ducks, never shall my lady walk. Mockingly the summer drags on, August into September, an Indian summer, the long hot days continue, the grass grows brown, the lake recedes. The cygnets and ducklings grow fat and fledge. It is late September and I stand throwing bread to the ducks and the carp. I gaze into the near distance through the pre-dawn haze which sits sullenly on the lake, the ducks and fish scatter sending ripples through the water, and there is silence, as if all creation has dissolved

into nothingness. Then I feel it, feel my skin goose-bump, feel the other worldly atmosphere I only sense when my lady walks. I look down and I see my broken reflection produced a thousand fold in the ripples in the lake and next to me is a white shape. It is she. She is here. She is stood right next to me. I have played this moment in my head a thousand times, prayed for it a thousand more. Should I turn my back and walk away? I should but I will not, not this time. She is here just a foot away, if I turn and leave then there is nothing, no hope that we could ever be together, no hope that we can break the curse. Maybe this is my chance, my only chance. Am I different to her from all the others? Have all these years of devotion, of longing, made me worthy to look upon her face? She is here, never has the lady been seen twice in one summer. She has come for me. It is I that has drawn her here, broken the eternal chain, set her free. I turn towards her, my eyes find her hand on the fence and follow it to the rough on her chuff up along her arm to the delicate roundness of her shoulder and to her long sensuous neck and then I look, I look into her bonnet. I look and stagger, that look of surprise, of shock, of disgust spreads across my face. Even knowing her, I am in no way prepared for what I see, no way prepared for the truth. I see the back of her bonnet, the back of her bonnet over a bleeding stump. Her hand moves slowly to the basket, I watch transfixed, as trapped as an animal in a net awaiting the fatal blow. Pleadingly I look down as she carefully lifts the blanket that covers the basket's contents. I fall backwards over myself, scrambling in the gravel of the path, cut and bleeding I tear at the

ground until I make my feet and I run screaming. Run screaming from that thing in the basket. That head. Her head.

Laughing, laughing, and laughing.

Wild Countryside.

The sweet smell of grass mingles with the scent of the rain. A dark canopy of night, embroidered with constellations, hangs over the heather. The sounds of night birds and crickets harmonize in the breeze. The cry of an occasional owl disturbs the symphony of darkness, but the music is only broken for a moment.

Dew lies like diamonds on the lush foliage of the moors. Mists maidens drape their veils against the earth. A bird nestles against her eggs, sheltering them from the misty maiden’s icy fingers. Long ago, two lovers played here. Amidst the moors, they exchanged their hearts. Mine for his and his for mine. Forever, they pledged themselves to one another, and none but the fates heard. Though young pledges are rarely kept, through separation the lovers travelled. Pain and death haunted their hearts, bending their minds. They walked paths apart, whether forced or chosen. Their lives were divided.

'You say I killed you? Haunt me then. For the murdered do haunt their murderers. Only do not leave me in this dark abyss.'

He begged that of my spirit, and my spirit was forced to comply with his pleading. I remained behind on this earth with my lover, attempting to ease his tortured soul.

I failed.

And when he died, he went to the next world and left me behind, thinking that I had already gone ahead. Therefore, I remain, a whisper on the wind, awaiting the one who will save me and give me new life. But none but the Lord can do that, so I wait here until Judgment day, a punishment for my sins. I married the man I did not love, and the man I did love has gone ahead.

And, I am no more now than a figment of the imagination, telling my story to those with hearts willing to listen.

Breathing.

'What appears to be a nuclear bomb has ripped through a large part of England around the London area. The extent of the damage is not yet clear. It was possible to tell almost immediately that it was a very large nuclear explosion. A blinding flash brighter than any light on Earth; even brighter than the sun, is the telltale sign of a nuclear weapon, and by recording the duration of the flash we were able to determine the weapon’s size. After the flash, a huge fireball rose above the city. It soon became recognizable as the mushroom cloud, sucking up debris, dust and living things around the area of the explosion…'

Last night. It was such a bright light. I knew it meant danger, despair and death. I have seen it all before, and I do not want to come out this time. It is much safer in, away from the cruel world. I desperately want

to live again but not like this, not here. What was outside before is getting in, through her pores and her breath, into me through her blood. My instincts tell me to keep breathing. Breathing in the enduring cloud of lethal fallout through her. I remember the last time.

I had been directly exposed to the flash of the bomb, and the garden plunged into darkness. I thought the light had blinded me. It was so bright that the sun now looked like the glowing moon on a clear night. Beyond the city looked like purgatory. The previous morning, the sun had silhouetted the skyline. I loved that image, the buildings filtering the waking sun into individual beams, which appeared to reach out to me. I hardly recognized it as the same place. Whole buildings were missing; others were partially collapsed. I could see the faint glow of fire in the sky, and a huge plume of smoke was hanging above the entire city. I could not believe what I was seeing; I thought it must be some terrible nightmare. There were fires breaking out, and I could hear voices crying out for help from houses around me. My sister was calling to me, her legs were trapped and her body crushed under a pillar. The rest of my family were buried, and were not visible from where I was standing. A fire was moving closer and closer to me and a woman grabbed my arm trying to pull me away. My sister was still looking up at me desperately crying for me to get her out. There was no way she would survive even if I had reached her, only the pressure of the pillar on her wounds was keeping her alive. I had to leave her there to burn alive. I

ran with the woman who was still hanging onto my arm. At some point, we were separated, and I was walking alone again. It was horrifying. Dead bodies littered what was left of the streets, and people with severe burns were trying to grab me as I tried to escape. Children were crying for water, but I had nothing to give them. I wanted to help, but there was nothing that I could do. A woman was standing on the roof of a burning building with a small child in her arms shouting at me to get help. Many of the people I passed had no hair, and I could hardly tell whether I was looking at them from the front or the back. Skin was hanging from their limbs and peeling from their backs.

Wherever I walked, I was met with these mutilated people, many of them falling dead in front of me. It was like being in a horror film. Survivors. Survivors who would rather have died. Are there any left this time? The zombies, they walk the streets like the living dead, their minds twisted by the intensity of horror. My emotions are frozen, I do not know what to feel, I do not know what to think. No feeling, except bitter fear, shock and disbelief. I will never forget those images, never. I had never seen death so dreadful, and I never wanted to see it again. I never thought I would.

But here I am, I am back again. Back to the horror of human hatred and lives torn apart by the true nature of humanity. I remember the last few hours of my pitiful life, the feeling of walking into a trap of death and never returning. I could not walk more than a few steps without collapsing. I was vomiting violently every fifteen minutes and had red blood spots all over my arms and legs.

I drifted in and out of consciousness before giving up the fight to live. I thought they would have learnt by now. I thought I would be all right this time. I do not want to be brought into a dying world. I want to be safe. I do not deserve this, do I? I did not cause this insanity, I am innocent and all I have ahead of me is a life of danger, if I live at all. I do not want to die again, but that is all that is left in this world now. Death. I cannot see outside, but I can imagine, I remember. Yet still I desperately want to live even though I sense the danger, and know it is finally over.

Chemicals surround me, suffocating in the fallout. I am choking slowly, asphyxiation begins as I imagine the scene of utter despair in the world outside. What is left of the world melting in the stifling heat, the death, the destruction, the despair. I wonder, can they hide in the underground? Are they safe from the horrors around or are they blinded by the blaze in the night, lost in the violence of the bitter fight. Oh, how I long to be free, oh how I need to survive, if only I could keep breathing. Breathing. Breathing. Oh God I need to breathe. If only I could tell you, if only I could let you know. Forget the past, forget the fights, forget the hatred and hold them tight. Then say goodbye, it might be your last chance, do not lose it now or you will never last.

Do not be afraid, do not be scared to say goodbye, your life may end but your soul never dies. Just pray that they will keep you away, that you never have to return to this land of pain, this broken world where tears of blood and rivers of tears unfurl in the death of life itself until

there is no one left to cry and no one left to say goodbye. We have lost our chance.

I was one of the first, please let me be the last. I keep on breathing the fallout in until there is nothing left to breathe. What is outside gets in. I have to keep breathing, but there is nothing to breathe. Nothing. What are we going to do?

Are we all going to die?

Please, God, leave me something to breathe.

High, High On The Roof.

I’m standing by the cathedral looking down on you and wondering how far we have come and how all those dreams we had been dreaming for a long time have been blessed. It seems such a long time ago when we first came here, that sunny October morning with blue sky above and the touch of a soft breeze staying away the autumn winds that were around the corner. It was just and me, just like it always was, only this time it was different, we were as one. There were no fights, I had not much more left to give but you stayed strong throughout it all. You were the one. It’s a brand new day.

I’m walking in fields, the river bank is flowing and in the distance church bells ring out. There is a smell of lavender and jasmine in the air, it smells so fresh yet it’s so late in summer. The sun is basking down, the wind is still and my heart beats in time. The dawn has come; the sun is coming up on the horizon as the moon is melting. I feel I

want to climb up high and shout from the hilltops. What kind of language is this? I cannot hear a word your saying. Tell me what you are saying?

Here as I stand in the sun with birds chirping in the trees, tell me it’s okay. I can’t understand what you’re trying to say. You just stand there laughing, you don’t say any words but I can see in your eyes you think everything is okay. You know it was right, I just need some assurance I guess.

All of the birds are out there, come on let’s all join in. I want to shout and scream. I need to climb and shout. High on the roofs, up on the roof. I am going to get high, high on this roof. In the sun.

The End.