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4 years ago
Saturday 18 July 2009
Thursday 4 June 2009
Nighthawker
♣ I little intro to the story – I had a 1000 word limit, I guess this is an excuse for if you don’t like it : ) and another story with a Stephen! I can feel my mate Stephen getting a big head – what can I say? I like the name and the character felt like a Stephen – he chose it not me!♣
Nighthawker:
Stephen was a nighthawker and he loved it. He liked to think of himself as The Knighthawker doing his duty to uncover lost peoples lost stories. This was only to flatter himself and boost his ego. He was motivated by his love for money; he was greedy to a point of hunger. He knew nothing about history apart from its monetary value. He trespassed on farmers lands in the dead of night with his business associate; his metal detector. All the lost treasures passed into dodgy hands.
Everybody gets lucky eventually, especially if they work hard enough. And Stephen had knowledge and the virtues of hard graft on his side. His pulse racing, adrenaline pumping Stephen got lucky. A pile of late Roman coins was his prize. These were not coins that could be forgotten, they were of a high value, they were loved and put aside with dreams of a richer future. Stephen damaged crops, damaged archaeology and split before being caught. Usually the quicker the deal was done the better. But these beauties were special. Stephen was reluctant to part with them so he horded them instead.
Winter must have been approaching early as the house was getting colder. Stephen was not looking forward to the heating bill. ‘Global warming, rubbish’ he grumbled slipping on a jumper. The rest of the evening passed in peace in front of the telly drinking the odd tea or coffee in a bid to keep warm. Stephen trudged off to bed early in anticipation for the doctor’s appointment at the crack of dawn the next day. A splitting migraine had been plaguing him for some days now, the damn quacks would probably just send him home with an aspirin. With a hot water bottle he was asleep within half an hour of his head hitting the pillow. Deep in slumber till exactly 2am when he jolted up in bed heart pounding. All was quiet and dark. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have had that much caffeine’ he barked to the shadowy room as he settled back in his bed.
The next morning Stephen came back from the doctor’s with aspirin. He flung the kettle on and watched it till it boiled. Then roused himself to find a mug and make the brew. Tea bag in hand something glimmered in the corner of his eye. He turned to the object, his mouth flew wide open ‘well I’ll be damned’. There was a Roman coin and it was as pristine as the day it was made. He longed to touch it, hold it, and sell it. Transfixed he inched closer to the coin on the kitchen counter as if any sudden movement would scare it away. He had got so close he could smell money, he felt it enter his veins and coarse round his body until it entered his heart and then he could taste it. His body tensed like a puma waiting to pounce on its prey. The house phone rang. The spell broken he went to answer it, forgetting about the coin in an instant like it had never happened. He hung up in a fury as call centre workers were the scum of the earth. It took him a moment to remember he was making himself a nice cuppa. He went back into the kitchen, found the abandoned tea bag, picked it up and dropped it again. The coin. It wasn’t there. Had it ever been? Stephen slumped astonished on a kitchen chair and starred at the spot the coin had appeared and vanished until the dark came and he was forced to move to put the light on.
It had been a good few hours before Stephen had fallen asleep that night. He was uneasy as the medicines had had no affect on his migraine but was obviously having some terrifying side effects. He decided to look into homeopathic remedies instead; little good that rubbish would do him. This night his sleep was uneasy and light. 2am came and sure enough Stephen was bolt upright in bed. The world was silent yet he had an uneasy feeling the sound of galloping hooves had awoken him. This sent a chill down his spine, because although he lived surrounded by hills and countryside he was happily situated in a large town and his front door was a stone’s throw from the town centre. He didn’t get to sleep until light was peeping through his curtains.
The calendar months passed. Stephen was nighthawking no longer and was off sick from his other job as a local builder. This migraine attacks continued as did the 2am wakeup call of hounding hooves. The image of coins plagued him the most. Sometimes they appeared on the kitchen counter, never in the same spot twice, sometimes on his bedside table, sometimes he could see a coin in the bottom of his drinking glass. Once he had showered in gold coins which stung when struck him, yet escaping down the plughole was only water. Once he had bathed in coins, turning to water when he snapped back into reality when the neighbours row Crescendoed with a door slam. At his wits end Stephen was on the verge of selling his horde of coins so many times, yet he could never go through with it. He didn’t want to report them either but had no other choice. He relinquished them his only reward was the archaeological excavation that took place in that field. Near Stephen’s find was a human male skeleton with trauma to his skull consistent with a blow from a sword by a man on horseback. Stephen wasn’t interested in the rest of the dig; he had got what he wanted. He knew the attack had been about the money and he knew life would go now go back to normal. Mostly it did. Every so often he awoke at 2am or saw a coin so he could never truly forget.
Nighthawker:
Stephen was a nighthawker and he loved it. He liked to think of himself as The Knighthawker doing his duty to uncover lost peoples lost stories. This was only to flatter himself and boost his ego. He was motivated by his love for money; he was greedy to a point of hunger. He knew nothing about history apart from its monetary value. He trespassed on farmers lands in the dead of night with his business associate; his metal detector. All the lost treasures passed into dodgy hands.
Everybody gets lucky eventually, especially if they work hard enough. And Stephen had knowledge and the virtues of hard graft on his side. His pulse racing, adrenaline pumping Stephen got lucky. A pile of late Roman coins was his prize. These were not coins that could be forgotten, they were of a high value, they were loved and put aside with dreams of a richer future. Stephen damaged crops, damaged archaeology and split before being caught. Usually the quicker the deal was done the better. But these beauties were special. Stephen was reluctant to part with them so he horded them instead.
Winter must have been approaching early as the house was getting colder. Stephen was not looking forward to the heating bill. ‘Global warming, rubbish’ he grumbled slipping on a jumper. The rest of the evening passed in peace in front of the telly drinking the odd tea or coffee in a bid to keep warm. Stephen trudged off to bed early in anticipation for the doctor’s appointment at the crack of dawn the next day. A splitting migraine had been plaguing him for some days now, the damn quacks would probably just send him home with an aspirin. With a hot water bottle he was asleep within half an hour of his head hitting the pillow. Deep in slumber till exactly 2am when he jolted up in bed heart pounding. All was quiet and dark. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have had that much caffeine’ he barked to the shadowy room as he settled back in his bed.
The next morning Stephen came back from the doctor’s with aspirin. He flung the kettle on and watched it till it boiled. Then roused himself to find a mug and make the brew. Tea bag in hand something glimmered in the corner of his eye. He turned to the object, his mouth flew wide open ‘well I’ll be damned’. There was a Roman coin and it was as pristine as the day it was made. He longed to touch it, hold it, and sell it. Transfixed he inched closer to the coin on the kitchen counter as if any sudden movement would scare it away. He had got so close he could smell money, he felt it enter his veins and coarse round his body until it entered his heart and then he could taste it. His body tensed like a puma waiting to pounce on its prey. The house phone rang. The spell broken he went to answer it, forgetting about the coin in an instant like it had never happened. He hung up in a fury as call centre workers were the scum of the earth. It took him a moment to remember he was making himself a nice cuppa. He went back into the kitchen, found the abandoned tea bag, picked it up and dropped it again. The coin. It wasn’t there. Had it ever been? Stephen slumped astonished on a kitchen chair and starred at the spot the coin had appeared and vanished until the dark came and he was forced to move to put the light on.
It had been a good few hours before Stephen had fallen asleep that night. He was uneasy as the medicines had had no affect on his migraine but was obviously having some terrifying side effects. He decided to look into homeopathic remedies instead; little good that rubbish would do him. This night his sleep was uneasy and light. 2am came and sure enough Stephen was bolt upright in bed. The world was silent yet he had an uneasy feeling the sound of galloping hooves had awoken him. This sent a chill down his spine, because although he lived surrounded by hills and countryside he was happily situated in a large town and his front door was a stone’s throw from the town centre. He didn’t get to sleep until light was peeping through his curtains.
The calendar months passed. Stephen was nighthawking no longer and was off sick from his other job as a local builder. This migraine attacks continued as did the 2am wakeup call of hounding hooves. The image of coins plagued him the most. Sometimes they appeared on the kitchen counter, never in the same spot twice, sometimes on his bedside table, sometimes he could see a coin in the bottom of his drinking glass. Once he had showered in gold coins which stung when struck him, yet escaping down the plughole was only water. Once he had bathed in coins, turning to water when he snapped back into reality when the neighbours row Crescendoed with a door slam. At his wits end Stephen was on the verge of selling his horde of coins so many times, yet he could never go through with it. He didn’t want to report them either but had no other choice. He relinquished them his only reward was the archaeological excavation that took place in that field. Near Stephen’s find was a human male skeleton with trauma to his skull consistent with a blow from a sword by a man on horseback. Stephen wasn’t interested in the rest of the dig; he had got what he wanted. He knew the attack had been about the money and he knew life would go now go back to normal. Mostly it did. Every so often he awoke at 2am or saw a coin so he could never truly forget.
Monday 11 May 2009
The Black Widow Versus Stephen Arrows
♦ Here is a story I made up for my friends who claim to like my writing. I asked them things they wanted included. Stephen wanted a character who was good, fascinated by the moon or starry nights. He wanted tiger, Beijing and arrows to be mentioned. Laura wanted to be a baddie (sorry - but you brought it upon yourself!) who is a secret Take That fan, who loves gardening and like cooking and has a strong Scottish accent. She also picked comedy crime. So I know its silly but I hope to make my mates smile, even for a second ♦
Stephen Arrows glanced at the fat full moon and knew it was a good sign. He ignored the hard plastic chair and perched on the edge of the interview table and drew a cigarette to his mouth, he did this mainly because he had seen it in movies and it looked cool. Then he remembered that it could be seen as intimidating his suspect so he sat on the plastic chair which was hard and also cold. Then he remembered that it’s illegal to smoke inside a building and would have to caution or even fine himself. He tried to look dignified as he put the now moist tipped fag back in its packet. He made a mental note to quit tomorrow, quitting for him was easy, he had done it many times before. None of this mattered as the suspect, Laura, hadn’t taken any notice. She was all in black with a widow’s veil to hide her free flowing tears. Stephen Arrows knew those tears would shine like stars in her cold dark eyes, for he reasoned crocodile tears always sparkled the most, like brilliant diamonds on a black velvet cloth. He had watched her every move for months and thought she put on a marvellous show. He knew her inside out, the route of her morning walk, her smile when she tended her roses, the joy in her eyes when she was trying out a new recipe, the secret leanings towards the music of Take That, the fact she put on a different accent to sound posh because she thought it complimented her marital wealth, and the fact she had killed her two husbands.
Stephen Arrows hated being called Stephen Arrows, his nickname; it was borne out of one that should have stuck. He had great respect for the tiger, for he was ginger like it, and he loved its bulk and power which for many years he had unsuccessfully tried to emulate himself. Maybe it’s because he was a vegetarian. He was a keen runner and believed himself to be as fast as a tiger, like lightning. Needless to say, on his first day as an officer when he introduced himself he told the white lie that his friends have always called him tiger. He informed his fellow officers of the simple reason for this ‘tiger comes from the Greek “tigris” which is possibly derived from a Persian source meaning arrows which is a reference to a tigers speed.’ The officers were not impressed with this long winded and quite frankly desperate and somewhat boring story so the nickname Stephen Arrows stuck instead.
Laura waited patiently for Stephen Arrows’ internal monologue to stop. She dabbed her eyes as she tried to calm herself. He now seemed prepared and the questing began. It took her back. Back to her first marriage. Back to her lovely Duncan. She fell for him completely the moment her eyes locked on his. His inexhaustible wealth had of course nothing to do with it. ‘He brought me pink roses on our first date, daises on our second and lilies on our third. Did you know Mr Arrows that cats should be kept away from lilies? Fluffy rubbed against them, got the pollen all in her fur, settled down on the windowsill basking in the sun, she licked herself clean. That pollen killed her. He brought me a new kitten with a bow around his neck. I loved that cat. On our fifth date I cooked, I forget what it was, but it had a peanut based sauce. It was then that we found out he was allergic to peanuts. We spent that night in the emergency room. Six months later we had a dream wedding in the Scottish countryside. We had a candlelit reception, which set fire to the best man’s speech. Love isn’t easy. There are bumps in the road. I loved him dearly. It was only when he was murdered, that I found he was doing the cook. For months after I couldn’t sleep when I thought of what he must have suffered with that turkey baster. Then that cold hearted bitch strangled him because he wouldn’t leave me, his loving wife. I am glad she is rotting in that cell for what she did to my poor Duncan’.
‘His betrayal I admit made it easier to move on. I was blessed when after a few short months I met my lovely Malcolm. Heaven had sent me an angel. Needless to say we didn’t have a cook. I made him breakfast in bed every morning. I always brought it with a yellow rose from the garden when they were in bloom. On our anniversary he took me to see Take That in concert. I sing their songs and think of him and our special love. But please don’t let that make it in the papers, that’s our little secret! I don’t know what triggered the gardener to kill my dear Malcolm, he had cut his wages but he had cut all the staff’s due to business troubles. I still shiver to think where that hose went and to be strangled with the rest of it is unthinkable.'
Stephen Arrows couldn’t really prove a thing. He knew it, it was a gut instinct. He thought she would crack under pressure, but that wasn’t the way things were done anymore, good cop bad cop. Besides Stephen Arrows was good cop through and through. He would make her crack. He knew the tale of Lady Macbeth and the blood stained hands, he knew the Tell Tale Heart it was the manner of the guy that convinced the police until the beating of the heart was all he heard which forced a confession. Time was all what was needed. Rome was not built in a day. This is an Italian proverb, not a Chinese one which is what Stephen Arrows has been trying to memorise for months now with his handy pocket book but could never remember them when the time called. He made a mental note to visit Beijing to learn from the Chinese themselves. He could get a master like a warrior master and maybe learn about star constellations as well. Inner monologue finished he questioned Laura again, this time putting forth the true events.
‘I put it to you that Duncan never slept with the cook. For I have it here in black and white that the cook was close to retiring age and had chronic arthritis, hardly a little sexpot nor a little minx. Although she was little. I put it to you that you liked Take That before Malcolm. That you exhausted Duncan’s wealth on shoes, holidays and Take That concerts, Take That stalking and Take That merchandise. You would receive much needed funds from his life insurance policy so you strangled him, framed the arthritic cook and had fun with the turkey baster. I bet you were so angry your Scottish accent came out. I bet you screamed at him “ach, stickit yer get, gie you sich a kickin’!” You cried, you played the widow. You were lucky and got away with it. Malcolm comes along, just when the money is drying up. You took a chance. Duncan had diddled, use air quotes, the cook you had an excuse to move on. You got in at the wrong time, his business was going down. During an intimate evening, involving a hosepipe, you took it upon yourself to strangle him with the rest of it and blame the gardener Rick who you know has six children to support and therefore committing the perfect crime.’ It turns out Rome was built in a day, or at least Beijing. Laura twitched. It was like watching The Hulk transform, she grew in size, but instead of turning green she grew redder and redder until she roared.
‘Whut ye talkin’ aboot? ach, stickit yer get, gie you sich a kickin’!’
Stephen Arrows glanced at the fat full moon and knew it was a good sign. He ignored the hard plastic chair and perched on the edge of the interview table and drew a cigarette to his mouth, he did this mainly because he had seen it in movies and it looked cool. Then he remembered that it could be seen as intimidating his suspect so he sat on the plastic chair which was hard and also cold. Then he remembered that it’s illegal to smoke inside a building and would have to caution or even fine himself. He tried to look dignified as he put the now moist tipped fag back in its packet. He made a mental note to quit tomorrow, quitting for him was easy, he had done it many times before. None of this mattered as the suspect, Laura, hadn’t taken any notice. She was all in black with a widow’s veil to hide her free flowing tears. Stephen Arrows knew those tears would shine like stars in her cold dark eyes, for he reasoned crocodile tears always sparkled the most, like brilliant diamonds on a black velvet cloth. He had watched her every move for months and thought she put on a marvellous show. He knew her inside out, the route of her morning walk, her smile when she tended her roses, the joy in her eyes when she was trying out a new recipe, the secret leanings towards the music of Take That, the fact she put on a different accent to sound posh because she thought it complimented her marital wealth, and the fact she had killed her two husbands.
Stephen Arrows hated being called Stephen Arrows, his nickname; it was borne out of one that should have stuck. He had great respect for the tiger, for he was ginger like it, and he loved its bulk and power which for many years he had unsuccessfully tried to emulate himself. Maybe it’s because he was a vegetarian. He was a keen runner and believed himself to be as fast as a tiger, like lightning. Needless to say, on his first day as an officer when he introduced himself he told the white lie that his friends have always called him tiger. He informed his fellow officers of the simple reason for this ‘tiger comes from the Greek “tigris” which is possibly derived from a Persian source meaning arrows which is a reference to a tigers speed.’ The officers were not impressed with this long winded and quite frankly desperate and somewhat boring story so the nickname Stephen Arrows stuck instead.
Laura waited patiently for Stephen Arrows’ internal monologue to stop. She dabbed her eyes as she tried to calm herself. He now seemed prepared and the questing began. It took her back. Back to her first marriage. Back to her lovely Duncan. She fell for him completely the moment her eyes locked on his. His inexhaustible wealth had of course nothing to do with it. ‘He brought me pink roses on our first date, daises on our second and lilies on our third. Did you know Mr Arrows that cats should be kept away from lilies? Fluffy rubbed against them, got the pollen all in her fur, settled down on the windowsill basking in the sun, she licked herself clean. That pollen killed her. He brought me a new kitten with a bow around his neck. I loved that cat. On our fifth date I cooked, I forget what it was, but it had a peanut based sauce. It was then that we found out he was allergic to peanuts. We spent that night in the emergency room. Six months later we had a dream wedding in the Scottish countryside. We had a candlelit reception, which set fire to the best man’s speech. Love isn’t easy. There are bumps in the road. I loved him dearly. It was only when he was murdered, that I found he was doing the cook. For months after I couldn’t sleep when I thought of what he must have suffered with that turkey baster. Then that cold hearted bitch strangled him because he wouldn’t leave me, his loving wife. I am glad she is rotting in that cell for what she did to my poor Duncan’.
‘His betrayal I admit made it easier to move on. I was blessed when after a few short months I met my lovely Malcolm. Heaven had sent me an angel. Needless to say we didn’t have a cook. I made him breakfast in bed every morning. I always brought it with a yellow rose from the garden when they were in bloom. On our anniversary he took me to see Take That in concert. I sing their songs and think of him and our special love. But please don’t let that make it in the papers, that’s our little secret! I don’t know what triggered the gardener to kill my dear Malcolm, he had cut his wages but he had cut all the staff’s due to business troubles. I still shiver to think where that hose went and to be strangled with the rest of it is unthinkable.'
Stephen Arrows couldn’t really prove a thing. He knew it, it was a gut instinct. He thought she would crack under pressure, but that wasn’t the way things were done anymore, good cop bad cop. Besides Stephen Arrows was good cop through and through. He would make her crack. He knew the tale of Lady Macbeth and the blood stained hands, he knew the Tell Tale Heart it was the manner of the guy that convinced the police until the beating of the heart was all he heard which forced a confession. Time was all what was needed. Rome was not built in a day. This is an Italian proverb, not a Chinese one which is what Stephen Arrows has been trying to memorise for months now with his handy pocket book but could never remember them when the time called. He made a mental note to visit Beijing to learn from the Chinese themselves. He could get a master like a warrior master and maybe learn about star constellations as well. Inner monologue finished he questioned Laura again, this time putting forth the true events.
‘I put it to you that Duncan never slept with the cook. For I have it here in black and white that the cook was close to retiring age and had chronic arthritis, hardly a little sexpot nor a little minx. Although she was little. I put it to you that you liked Take That before Malcolm. That you exhausted Duncan’s wealth on shoes, holidays and Take That concerts, Take That stalking and Take That merchandise. You would receive much needed funds from his life insurance policy so you strangled him, framed the arthritic cook and had fun with the turkey baster. I bet you were so angry your Scottish accent came out. I bet you screamed at him “ach, stickit yer get, gie you sich a kickin’!” You cried, you played the widow. You were lucky and got away with it. Malcolm comes along, just when the money is drying up. You took a chance. Duncan had diddled, use air quotes, the cook you had an excuse to move on. You got in at the wrong time, his business was going down. During an intimate evening, involving a hosepipe, you took it upon yourself to strangle him with the rest of it and blame the gardener Rick who you know has six children to support and therefore committing the perfect crime.’ It turns out Rome was built in a day, or at least Beijing. Laura twitched. It was like watching The Hulk transform, she grew in size, but instead of turning green she grew redder and redder until she roared.
‘Whut ye talkin’ aboot? ach, stickit yer get, gie you sich a kickin’!’
Sunday 19 April 2009
the dance
We sat there apart, in spirit as well as in physical distance. You looked round for me once, you had always sort me out more. I still swelled with pride looking at you. I longed to join you. For the brief moment when I knew the song and sang with you, I was aware of our voices joining and dancing up and up. While our relationship was going up and up but this time in majestic flames. I was also aware this was the last time our voices would dance together. I was right.
Monday 23 March 2009
Alice's adventures in life and what she found there
‘I’m late, I’m late. I’m late for a very important date.’ An adult Alice shrieked! Of course she meant with her destiny. Back in the days of her childhood she grew bored and restless and wandered off the straight and narrow track where she fell into a metaphorical rabbit hole. She fell until she could fall no more. Or so she thought at the time. At the bottom of the hole there was no door. No window of opportunity. After years of being trapped and lost in the darkness. Alice longed to feel the light on her skin, a fresh breeze that was ripe full of promise. She wanted the rays of the sun to leave glitter in her eyes and be blinded by possibility once again.
So the trapped adult Alice plotted and plotted and came up with a plan. She made a life changing decision to enter university; this would be the light at the end of her metaphorical tunnel and simultaneously be the rope ladder that would be flung down for her to climb up. With no A-levels and very poor GCSE’s this would be no easy task, but there was nothing else for it. So down in the metaphorical tunnel Alice completed an Access course. Suddenly Alice’s ballet pump shoes turned into towering glittery red stilettos. She clicked them three times. And nothing. Alice took off those heels and used them as picks to climb out of the rabbit hole. It took one year and a lot of hard graft. At the end of the climb Alice was dirty, sweaty and proud. She smelt the air and it has the scents of ripe fruit ready for picking. The light breeze tickled her pink skin, she tingled. The sun was out in full glory, it did not feel harsh but caressing, like a giant hug. And behold there was glitter in her eyes as bright as diamonds. But she did not want to stay still for long. After years of sitting still, she wanted to run, the run felt so lovely she broke out into a sprint. After all ‘I’m late, I’m late. I’m late for a very important date.’
Grown-up Alice left her home county of Cheshire to grow in a different sense. Alice wanted to finally walk tall after years of feeling tiny and insignificant so she packed her bags and set off for the bright lights of London. Those were the only lights strong enough to match those in her eyes, stars versus diamonds. In Alice’s first years the diamonds shone brilliantly, her eyes on the prize. In the second year the diamonds began to cloud. In her third year those precious stones were no more, stolen in the dead of night by a wicked witch who did not want Alice to shine. The wicked witch was the mirror image of Alice, but of course Alice did not know this. She no longer tried. ‘I’m tired’ she cried. Instead of growing she shrank. Tiny and alone she cried a river until the river became an ocean and Alice was so carried away by it she almost drowned. Luckily, or so she thought, she met her next door neighbour Hatter.
Now Hatter lived in a magical world all of her own. Her life was a perpetual tea party. She was rather good company with always a good tale to tell. She never wanted to be alone and often had lots of different characters round a long table to enjoy a feast. There were feasts of fish, and every other dish in between. The characters came from all corners of the world and they all brought their native dishes. The Mexican spiced lemon apple was Alice’s favourite. However everyone loved Hatter’s apple pie, which had deliciously buttery pastry that melted in the mouth. They talked way into the night. In summer there was a glorious picnic in the garden where Alice and Hatter played. Hatter knew Alice was tired, just like she. And said ‘after your long adventure, you must be thirsty, drink, there are plenty of refreshments’. Alice drank the magical potion that glided silkily down her throat and it numbed the pain Alice felt deep in her heart. Alice forgot and no longer cried ‘I’m late, I’m late. I’m late for a very important date.’
Alice’s world began to spin. She felt she was asleep as all was dark. But no. Alice was wide awake. She rubbed her eyes in disbelief. Down the rabbit hole, the metaphorical tunnel she could just make out her university third year mark on the paper she had screwed tight into her hand. Alice saw a window in the corner of her mind, it wasn’t a real window as she saw it showed the past but having no were else to go she climbed through. She had never been more late.
Once through, everything was distorted. She saw herself as a lost adolescent. Yet it could have been her now; only her geography had changed and she had gained more expensive bills. The adolescent Alice was with her friends, a group of lost boys. No matter how hard they tried growing up felt impossible. A hole too deep to climb. Their bodies grew older with the passing of time. Yet their lives never evolved. Their prospects seem to shrink before their eyes as their despair grew. Frozen in time. Nonchalant and devil-may-care attitudes of children who are already dead inside. Even Tinkerbell was dead. She had passed away in her sleep after a short and painful fight with pancreatic cancer. Grown-up Alice saw adolescent Alice morph into all the things she had said she would become, but never had: she was a police officer, a writer, a teacher, a business woman to name a few. Disheartened Alice watched Wendy fully grow, her life evolved beyond recognition. Gaining the things Alice still to this day does not have and longs for. A driving licence, a car, a child, a house, another child. Disgusted at herself for letting Wendy grow away from her, Alice smashed the glass.
Alice was back in the present. At the bottom of the rabbit hole, further down than she had ever been before. What looked like Wendy was sitting beside her, she had a pearly crown upon her head, she was above Alice, a Queen. A Queen of hearts all wrapped-up in love. She left to play a grown-up game Alice did not understand. However Alice was not alone. A prince was beside her. Sadly he could not rescue her, as he was down the hole himself. She might have to rescue him, or they might have to rescue each other. They both cried ‘I’m late, I’m late. I’m late for a very important date.’ But were both determined and ready for the climb.
So the trapped adult Alice plotted and plotted and came up with a plan. She made a life changing decision to enter university; this would be the light at the end of her metaphorical tunnel and simultaneously be the rope ladder that would be flung down for her to climb up. With no A-levels and very poor GCSE’s this would be no easy task, but there was nothing else for it. So down in the metaphorical tunnel Alice completed an Access course. Suddenly Alice’s ballet pump shoes turned into towering glittery red stilettos. She clicked them three times. And nothing. Alice took off those heels and used them as picks to climb out of the rabbit hole. It took one year and a lot of hard graft. At the end of the climb Alice was dirty, sweaty and proud. She smelt the air and it has the scents of ripe fruit ready for picking. The light breeze tickled her pink skin, she tingled. The sun was out in full glory, it did not feel harsh but caressing, like a giant hug. And behold there was glitter in her eyes as bright as diamonds. But she did not want to stay still for long. After years of sitting still, she wanted to run, the run felt so lovely she broke out into a sprint. After all ‘I’m late, I’m late. I’m late for a very important date.’
Grown-up Alice left her home county of Cheshire to grow in a different sense. Alice wanted to finally walk tall after years of feeling tiny and insignificant so she packed her bags and set off for the bright lights of London. Those were the only lights strong enough to match those in her eyes, stars versus diamonds. In Alice’s first years the diamonds shone brilliantly, her eyes on the prize. In the second year the diamonds began to cloud. In her third year those precious stones were no more, stolen in the dead of night by a wicked witch who did not want Alice to shine. The wicked witch was the mirror image of Alice, but of course Alice did not know this. She no longer tried. ‘I’m tired’ she cried. Instead of growing she shrank. Tiny and alone she cried a river until the river became an ocean and Alice was so carried away by it she almost drowned. Luckily, or so she thought, she met her next door neighbour Hatter.
Now Hatter lived in a magical world all of her own. Her life was a perpetual tea party. She was rather good company with always a good tale to tell. She never wanted to be alone and often had lots of different characters round a long table to enjoy a feast. There were feasts of fish, and every other dish in between. The characters came from all corners of the world and they all brought their native dishes. The Mexican spiced lemon apple was Alice’s favourite. However everyone loved Hatter’s apple pie, which had deliciously buttery pastry that melted in the mouth. They talked way into the night. In summer there was a glorious picnic in the garden where Alice and Hatter played. Hatter knew Alice was tired, just like she. And said ‘after your long adventure, you must be thirsty, drink, there are plenty of refreshments’. Alice drank the magical potion that glided silkily down her throat and it numbed the pain Alice felt deep in her heart. Alice forgot and no longer cried ‘I’m late, I’m late. I’m late for a very important date.’
Alice’s world began to spin. She felt she was asleep as all was dark. But no. Alice was wide awake. She rubbed her eyes in disbelief. Down the rabbit hole, the metaphorical tunnel she could just make out her university third year mark on the paper she had screwed tight into her hand. Alice saw a window in the corner of her mind, it wasn’t a real window as she saw it showed the past but having no were else to go she climbed through. She had never been more late.
Once through, everything was distorted. She saw herself as a lost adolescent. Yet it could have been her now; only her geography had changed and she had gained more expensive bills. The adolescent Alice was with her friends, a group of lost boys. No matter how hard they tried growing up felt impossible. A hole too deep to climb. Their bodies grew older with the passing of time. Yet their lives never evolved. Their prospects seem to shrink before their eyes as their despair grew. Frozen in time. Nonchalant and devil-may-care attitudes of children who are already dead inside. Even Tinkerbell was dead. She had passed away in her sleep after a short and painful fight with pancreatic cancer. Grown-up Alice saw adolescent Alice morph into all the things she had said she would become, but never had: she was a police officer, a writer, a teacher, a business woman to name a few. Disheartened Alice watched Wendy fully grow, her life evolved beyond recognition. Gaining the things Alice still to this day does not have and longs for. A driving licence, a car, a child, a house, another child. Disgusted at herself for letting Wendy grow away from her, Alice smashed the glass.
Alice was back in the present. At the bottom of the rabbit hole, further down than she had ever been before. What looked like Wendy was sitting beside her, she had a pearly crown upon her head, she was above Alice, a Queen. A Queen of hearts all wrapped-up in love. She left to play a grown-up game Alice did not understand. However Alice was not alone. A prince was beside her. Sadly he could not rescue her, as he was down the hole himself. She might have to rescue him, or they might have to rescue each other. They both cried ‘I’m late, I’m late. I’m late for a very important date.’ But were both determined and ready for the climb.
Sunday 15 March 2009
Saturday 14 March 2009
For you, my love
You’re tastier than chocolate
As beautiful as hope
Deeper than a ocean
As cold as ice
To touch is to burn
And drown at the same time
And mine
All mine
As beautiful as hope
Deeper than a ocean
As cold as ice
To touch is to burn
And drown at the same time
And mine
All mine
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