Margarets War . . .

November 28th 1942

After ordering her usual small black coffee, Margaret sat alone at their usual table for the first time in her life. It had taken her two years to find the courage to come alone. It had been that long since her husband Ralph had mysteriously disappeared off the coast of Normandy in 1940.

Coffee rationing was imminent and Margaret was taking advantage of what was to be her last coffee for quite some time. Absorbing every memory and feeling, she hoped somehow, would bridge the void in her heart.

A single large tear rose from the corner of her eye. It was a tear of both joy and sorrow. Ralph had been a loving husband, she could never forget how wonderful he was. He was a caring, doting father. He is missed by all, but mostly by Margaret, his loving wife of  20 years.

The memories of a thousands happy conversations, soft tender touches and deep loving gazes into each others eyes, across their table, were still heavily prominent in her mind. As she gazed down at the dying swirls from the last stir of her spoon, she questioned everything the M.O.D had told her.

Nothing added up, she repeated in her mind, drowning out the bustle of other coffee shop residents. But there was nothing she could do. Colonel Tenet had warned her on the day of the hearing. The world was at war and her problems paled in significance, sorry but that the truth of the situation – he coldly added.

Margaret had fought the M.O.D for over a year to find out the truth of her husbands disappearance. Putting her new marriage, the bond with her children and her fading health at even greater risk. The situation had consumed her.

Margaret stood, shaking with bated breathe, infront of the M.O.D council as Tenet spoke. She had stayed strong throughout the whole affair and to hear Tenet’s words brought a darkness and loss over her. She fell forward onto her knees, no longer able to stand. She held her heavy head in her hands and cried uncontrollably. The situation had obviously taken its toll. She surrendered her faith, feeling lost, helpless and unsupported. None of the attendees moved to help, only watching blankly at the unfurling proceedings.

The echoes of silence were heavy in the brooding air. Margaret was left in a heap on the dusty wooden floor. Tenet respectively looked on and tried to empathise with the feelings, the pain and the anguish Margaret would be feeling. “What have I done?” he deliberated.

Tenet slowly rose from his seat. Quietly walked from the bench into the back room of the courtroom and closed the door behind him. “It’s done”. He cursively announced.

“Good . . . .  jolly good. So, she thinks I’m dead? Are you sure?” Agent Ralph Peters retorted. A single large tear rose from the corner of his eye. “So it’s over, she can move on, good . . . . jolly good”.

After the passing of some time, she summoned the strength to leave the courtroom. Slowly make her way down Whitehall towards Kings Cross Station. She boarded the 14:32pm to Pickering and headed home to pick up the pieces of her fractured life.

It seemed the longest train journey of her life. Margaret thought many times of getting off at any other station than her home one. But the thought of leaving her children, the children she had with Ralph, kept her going. She parted from the empty cold mists of Pickering station and made her way through the town to the corner of Willowgate and Burgate to their favourite coffee shop. Maybe it’s time to move on and put this behind me, she mused and paused before opening the coffee shop door breaking the wartime silence of the streets, allowing the stir of the shops occupants out into her new life.

After ordering her usual small black coffee . . . . . . .

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This piece was inspired by prompt “She thinks I’m dead” on the bekindrewrite site from their InMon xvi page. I have just started writing. I am using my blog to experiment and find my natural style. I would love to hear your thoughts. I hope you enjoy!

Wait for my signal . . . .

THERE HE IS – GET HIM, was all I heard as I walked through the main gates of my school. I looked over at my left shoulder to see Kevin Haigh and Dean Hughes running as fast as their 13 year old legs could carry them in my direction. I turned in an instance, knowing full-well they were after me, and dug the fronts of my new Reebok trainers into the pavement and started running towards home. Home was only three streets away, down New hill, but it may as well have been on the dark side of the moon. It felt like an eternity from hearing those words to seeing my front door.

As a thirteen year old, I had already experienced more than my fair share of confrontation and violence at school and at home, so a run home from the school bullies was all part of my daily grind. Anyway, it kept me fit and in preparation for Sports Day. Not that I did very well on Sports Day but I had to look at my bullying in a positive light or go through what I had gone through when I was Ten years old all over again. I wasn’t prepared to do that.

Dean Hughes was the cock of our year, for those of you that are not familiar with the term, it means the hardest, most violent kid there is in that particular year. He was a big lad for his age. I would secretly call him Dim Huge. Never to his face, that would have been suicide. He dwarfed everyone else in the school, even the year five kids. His size definitely contributed to his status. Kevin Haigh on the other hand was a short, squeaky, mixed-up kid who lived directly across from my house, in another house of course. He followed Dean around like a three-legged lap dog. He did everything Dean asked him to. The muppet.

It all started in Mrs Martins’ Pottery class. Dean was being a real pain, as usual, creating pottery willies. The rest of the class however were doing their very best to create little teacups, as per the teachers brief. In all honestly, mine looked more like a small bag of knuckles, but at least I was trying and being a good student – for once.

Dean wasn’t happy being annoying on his own, he needed an audience, and found a victim in me, to elevate his status that little bit more. He saw my teacup and decided to drive his gnarled-up fist straight through the middle of my creation while cackling like a hyena. I saw red. I stood up, grabbed my teacup and pushed it straight into the middle of his face. Every kid in the class turned to look. There were gasps and moans of disbelief. Then there was silence, deathly silence, it seemed to last for ages. All you could hear was the whirring of the kiln as it warmed, ready to receive our clay offerings. Willies and all.

Dean froze for a moment before standing up, bringing him clay-covered hand up behind his ear then throwing it into the middle of face. He must of had a lot of clay on his hand because I didn’t feel it as much as I would have expected. I immediately fell to floor from my wooden stool, I looked up and stared up at Dean and the rest of the class who’d gathered to see what would happen next. Dean stood above me pointed the gnarly clay hand at my head and said – “You’re dead you freak, you’re dead”. He appeared to mean it, but I didn’t feel dead. I did feel a little bit freaky with the other kids staring at me, but I definitely didn’t feel dead. I felt alive and, at the time very lucky . . . . . . but I was soon to discover, not for long.

I overheard as Dean turned to Kevin. “We’ll get the little turd after School, wait at the main doors, when I see him, we’ll pounce. Just wait for my signal.” Kevin nodded in agreement. I was prepared for the worst.

I spent the whole of the day looking over my shoulder and staying away from anyone who knocked around with them. I was aware that word would spread fast that I was around and what was inevitable after school would come a lot sooner. I was even tempted to skip school, but getting into trouble with my Dad would be a lot worse than anything Dim Huge and lap-dog Haigh could dish out. They didn’t use leather belts and slippers.

Every stride felt like one step forward and six steps backwards. I didn’t feel like I was getting anywhere. They were gaining on me. They must have been quicker than I was, somehow. Dean sure could run fast for a fatty, I kept saying over and over again in my head. I dug my trainers further into the ground and leant forward to make myself more streamlined. I had seen it on TV when Daley Thomson ran the one hundred metres. He put his head down so he could go faster, but my rucksack ruined it. I couldn’t stop to take it off, it would have been curtains for me. I had to just go for it.

I must have ran through every kid walking home trying to duck and dive to lose them. But little did I know, I should have run in a straight line. The quickest distance between two points. I will never forget that, thank you Mr Woodward (my Maths teacher).

It was too late, I had managed to get to the bottom of the lane at the top of my street before Dean, or Kevin – I didn’t see who had done it, I was flying through the air, legged me up. My face hit the mud. As I stopped, the rucksack went all the way up over my head and off my back. Dean and Kevin started kicking me and punching me in the back of my head, all of a sudden my dad came out the house shouting, “What the hell’s going on here?”, he walked over to where I was laying and picked me up with one hand from the mud. He was very strong my Dad, fat but strong. Before anyone could explain, he sent Dean and Kevin packing. “Get back home you little bastards. And you, get up them stairs. I’ll teach ya to fight outside my house and show me up, you’re getting my belt. When will you ever learn?”

“But Dad . . . ” I manage to chelp before he stopped me. “Do you want me to give you it out here, in front of everyone?”, he screamed as he pulled me towards his face, our noses almost touching. He may as well have done. Everyone knew what was coming. Everyone in our street knew what would happen if I got into trouble or made him look bad.

Dean and Kevin knew what my Dad had done to me the previous night and came over the next morning to apologise for getting my into trouble.

Less than two hours later, Kevin drew a massive willy all over my Picasso-esque tree painting in Mrs Whitehouse’s art class, so I threw a pot of paint over his drawing. Sufficed to say, I made it home that night and there wasn’t an apology the following day or the day after that or the . . . . .

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This piece was inspired by prompt “Wait for my signal” on the bekindrewrite site from their InMon XIV page. I haven’t been writing for very long. I am using my blog to experiment and find my natural style. I would love to hear your thoughts. Enjoy!

Touched the son . . . .

Saturday’s were always the same. Wait for my Dad to let us out of our bedroom, usually after he’d been to the toilet. Go downstairs – quietly. Sit on the sofa in silence, making sure our feet weren’t up on the cushions. Wait for Mum to come downstairs to see if she had a black-eye, I couldn’t look at her if she did – Dad would stare and frown at me. Dad had the bushiest eyebrows in the world, they scared me. Dad scared me.

Dad would sit in his usual chair beside the door to the stairs reading his paper. He was the gatekeeper to all of our nice things in our bedrooms. You see, I couldn’t have toys downstairs, it would make too much of a mess, plus Dad doesn’t like the noise children make. And I couldn’t play upstairs because the noise from the ceiling would disturb him while he did the crossword in the paper. I understood, he needed to concentrate. Sometimes I don’t know why Mum and Dad had children. There are three of us, me – the eldest, my younger brother and my youngest sister.

My sister is from a different man. Mum said that’s why my Dad was so angry all of the time and took his anger out on her. But that doesn’t explain why he took his anger out on me. Why I made him so mad and why he threatened to put me in a children’s home if I did anything wrong. It doesn’t explain why he would smack my face so hard it felt like it was touching the sun and shouted like he was trying to crumble the house to the ground, if I looked at him in a certain way. It also, doesn’t explain why I was locked away in the cupboard above the stairs and couldn’t come down, all day, to play with my friend. I could hear my friend laughing outside, playing with his other friends. Maybe I was a bad child and I deserved it.

If I could talk to my Dad, if he would listen, I would ask him what was wrong. I would tell him I loved him and I didn’t mean to be naughty. I would tell him, he could love me and I would loved him back for always. I would explain that I didn’t mean to make him mad, I used to have dreams about that.

I used to have dreams . . . Saturdays were happy days.

I used to have dreams . . . I was happy.

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This piece was inspired by prompt “I used to dream” on the bekindrewrite site from their InMon XIII page. I have just started writing. I am using my blog to experiment and find my natural style. I would love to hear your thoughts. Enjoy!

Time of death?

12pm, 4th April 2011: Memphis PD. Offices: 201 Poplar Avenue.

“You wouldn’t think to look at her, but Angela was a drifter. A hardened, highly conditioned drifter with streets-smarts. There wasn’t much you could get past her but she wasn’t well educated and she could hardly read.

Angela had been moving from town to town since she was a little girl, in fact she was 10 years old when she ran away from home. Apparently, it was after a disagreement with her . . er . . stepfather . . . or something or other . . . anyway . . . she packed a small ruck-sack and hadn’t been seen since, by her family.

Angela had lived in over 50 different towns across all states, from  Nevada to D.C. She seemed to be enjoying the lifestyle and the people she had met along the way. She was on her way back home when it happened.

It was the 4th April 1968 – I believe. It just happened to be Angela’s 16th birthday. She had travelled from Jackson, down highway 40 towards Memphis, accompanied by a man by the name of Martin King. Who was a travelling preacher of some kind. He had no previous, so we had no reason to detain him, for any length of time.

They travelled for a day or two ’till they arrived in Memphis. He mentioned that she had asked where a motel was, just somewhere she could stay for a night. He told her there was a lovely motel called the Lorraine Motel on Mulberry Street. He was going to stay there until Angela had mentioned the local flood warnings he decided to continue to the next town.

King dropped Angela off at the motel, he wished her well and went on his way. We caught up with him two days later in Madison. He was extremely cooperative when questioned. He did mention one thing which the other officers felt was a little odd. Apparently, she had a clock in her hands and didn’t put it down – at all. His description of the alarm clock was even odder – it constantly showed the wrong time, it beeped at 6.01pm on both days, had a large orange and green lettering on the top, which read – “Time to Die”.

King had asked her whether she knew what it read and she told him that she thought it said, “Time Today”, cos that’s what her stepfather had told her. He mentioned to her that it was an unorthodox alarm clock and she replied with, ‘it was the only thing her stepfather had given her. It showed the time and date of the last time she had seen him’. He also mentioned that Angela started to cry, so asked her if she wanted a paper towel. She quizzingly replied with, “paper towns?, that made him laugh out loud, which made her laugh. He said she was fine for a time afterwards. It’s all in the report, you can read it yourself – honestly, I don’t know why you are asking me again.

Mr King had asked about her reasons for leaving, all he could say was, something along the lines of – ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time and she had to get away from that bastard . . ‘. He was shocked at her outburst, she looked so sweet and innocent, not the type to cuss.

All I can tell you is; She entered room 306 at 5:45pm, it was in the left hand corner, on the top floor of the motel, at 6.01pm shots were heard coming from her room and she was found dead soon after. Witnesses have stated that there had been a visitor to her room 5 minutes after she had arrived but he was never identified, there wasn’t any evidence, but you know that.

I’m sorry – I have said enough, we must conclude. ”

“Mr Ray, is it?. I didn’t know that actually – thank you, interesting. More importantly, how is it that you know all of this? If Angela hadn’t been seen since she ran away from home, how could you have known where she had been and what she had done? It just doesn’t add up.” questioned Gez. Gerry Posner was a reporter from the Memphis Flyer. He was currently writing a novel on the mysterious death of Angela Davis.

“I never said I’d spoken to her.” replied Commissioner James Ray – the officer in charge of the investigation at the time.

Sharply, Ray stood from his chair, leant forward to where Posner was sitting and pointed towards to the door. “GET THE HELL OUT OF MY OFFICE!”

“But, you said she wasn’t . . . . educated, how did you know?. . . you said —”

“THANK YOU, whatever-your-name-is . . . “. Ray rudely interrupted. “That’s all the time I have.”

“It’s not all the time you gave Angela is it Commissioner Ray? You’re her . . . . . . . ”

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This piece was inspired by the remaining prompts on the bekindrewrite site from their InMon XII page. I have just started writing. I am using my blog to experiment and find my natural style, so this won’t be the best story you have ever read. This is the first time I have written in this way and have found it an interesting challenge. I would love to hear your thoughts. Enjoy!

An eternal, comforting embrace

There was a girl, one of five that summer, alone. There had been so many before her, too many in my wavering opinion. It wasn’t my fault, location added to my appeal. I was in the centre of beautiful woodland, picturesque surroundings and it was remote. If we needed privacy, we would certainly get it here. However, she was definitely the prettiest of them all – I declare. I will never forget her beauty or how her lustrous skin felt as we touched for the first time.

On this particular summer’s morning, she stopped for longer than usual. She stood, silently staring across the unbroken, tranquil surface of the manor’s deepest lake, where I lay.

The morning sun shone across her troubled brow. For a solitary moment, I felt a deeply, undisturbed hope, things would be different this time. Her long blonde hair, flowing, shimmering gold in the dawning sun and refracting only the happiest of moments from within. The summer dress she wore complimenting her eternal beauty. Her gazed expression was not of sorrow but emptiness, of tiring lonely emptiness.

She had lost unconditional connection with other souls, left hollow by the passing of her loving parents. Unable to reconstruct the fragments of her fractured existence, she was lost in an eternal longing for untroubled times and a second of serenity. I knew, in empathy, as I had done so many times before her, I could guide her and help her through these troubled and tormented times.

Suddenly, the once calm breeze of the summer morning was broken by a tempest wind. The tree tops playfulness and the settled foliage of the forest floor shattered by gusts of deviant air. The chaos of her summer dress broke this once tranquil scene, exacerbating the confusion of her mind. The beautiful girls angelic expression echoed the troubles of her turbulent life.

As I rushed towards her, for a seemingly endless moment, quiescent she stood, defiant in her desires for resolution. Then, in a butterfly’s heartbeat, she stepped forward releasing and spreading her troubled hands like the wings of an angel. Taking a lasting breath, she left the security of the broken bridge and the shattered pieces of her broken life.

There was a moment. An irreplaceable moment, where all hope was lost, where the peace of what she longed for, disappeared, forever. A moment where the last breathe of a beautiful girl signalled the inevitable akin of two entities. A soul, lost in purposefulness and a body, desirous to guide her to the depths of everlasting peace.

As she crashed through my surface, our bodies met, and our existences collided, the silence of her breath was broken with the deafening sounds of my despair. I could do no more. I was helpless to comfort her in whatever she had known. All I can do is smother her and encapsulate her in my compassion, my empathy and my flowing love.

For, what seems an eternity, her heartbeat slows to the rhythm of my ebb. We hold each other, we gaze, we dance, we kiss and we comfort one another. I look deep into my beautiful angels eyes, they reflect and refract the piercing rays of sunshine from my surface for the last time.

The final rays of hope and light are diminishing as we fall deeper into each other and inevitably become one.

Before her soul departs, her life is lost in my tenebrous abyss and she fails to hear my timeless song I whisper to her departing soul, the words I often spoke, comforting her last breath. Words she longed to hear in her mortal form, ‘My fallen angel, your sufferance will be lost with me, forever, in my eternal comforting embrace’.

Evils of camping . . . . .

The 3pm drive into the village was an hair-raising one to say the least, from the tight and even tighter 90 degree turns of the roads to the seemingly aimless sheep who, through some unfathomable sense of divine navigation, had decided to adorn the middle of the bending meandering B roads like fallen, unkempt clouds.

With a few more turns, twists and titchy tiny hump backed bridges came the entrance to the campsite, or rather the gates to a darker, less favourable, outdoor living experience.

The surroundings looked excellent, the canal – with its boats, yachts and barges – looked idyllic. Was this the holy grail of campsites? Had we found the Shangri-La of camping? And on my birthday too, this was the beginning of a successful year of travelling heaven . . . or so I thought, would all my hopes, wishes and dreams be dashed? I was only 300m from knowing the horrible truth.

The smell . . . it was the eternal odour of decay, death and disease. The burning smells, the animal smells, the smouldering flesh from the barbeque smells, the stench was rank, it was all wrong, it was all right-now.

Greeted by a dog, at least it appeared to be a dog. On closer inspection, it only had 3 legs, its left ear was missing and one good eye.  It was and still is a dog of whose description escapes me – I am still shocked. It looked like its last meal would have been remains of Lucifer’s last supper. It hobbled around trying to follow our wallowing van into the second gates. The gates that signalled the last chance to get the hell out of there and to get out of they’re alive. Not that anyone would ever survive getting out of somewhere not alive or dead.

The last few gear changes, the last few rotations of the wheels and turns of the steering wheel, revealed the gate master, the keeper of the camp-yards deepest and darkest secrets. She, the one who covets the gold and silver the weary travellers wish to part with for a piece of camping nirvana.

“Herrrlllo” was the greeting from the withered lips below the crooked nose on her tarnished face.

She couldn’t have been taller than 4 feet tall, slightly built with long brown scruffy hair.  She didn’t have anything on here feet apart from dog mess and chicken droppings. Not the type of shoes you could find on the shelves of Barratts Shoes, wearing a brown cardigan that looked like it had been made from the pelt of the campsites previous dog – it smelled like it too. I couldn’t follow directly behind her; I had to follow just to the left with my head in the air to get a fresh breath to stop the stink building up on the inner walls of my nose.

“Thiiiissss waaaay”, she crowed

“Am I ok to leave my van here?” I nervously answered

“It’s aaalllll gooooood” was her response, then she turned and walked away.

With a building sense of dread, regret and tense nervousness I couldn’t shake – I left the security of the van and made my way to the doorway of the wooden shack from which all transactions were executed, for want of a better expression.

Time seemed to expand, things outside looked to me as if they were being distorted, was this nerves? Was it some strange bend in evil time I was experiencing? Oh I wanted to be in my van again. Oh I wanted to be at another campsite. But I was here, I was going to survive, it wasn’t in my ever-crumbling nature to give in, to relent.

“How much do I owe you?”, there was no turning back now, I had created the first bond with the demon, was she a demon? Or was she simply an innocent old lady trying to make a living and provide expectant travellers a warming place to stay in the wilderness? I don’t think so. She-shaman-demon-hose-beast would be more fitting.

There was a cat, glaring, smelly striped feline of evil. I went to stroke it, it let out a screech, a noise so disturbing it could be used to signal the start to the end of all time. Maybe it was, maybe this was the last time I would be camping, living outdoors, experiencing any camper recreational bliss. I would soon find out.

She-demon appeared from nowhere, “Fifteeeeen poouuunds!” she barked. I nearly jumped out of my, already crawling, undulating skin. While I was outlining my spiritual demise, she had summonsed the toll for my stay from the devils dowry.

I handed her a crisp twenty-pound note, which I have acquired from the ATM in the previous village. Her eyes gazed upon it like it was some kind of extraterrestrial monetary offering.

“Fiiiiive pooouuunds chaaaaange!” she had done her maths, she was from this planet, thank god– or was it a rouse? So many questions. I hardly had room in my brain for the sense I would need to survive this leg of my journey.

I removed the five pounds change from her unwashed, wizened old hand quicker than a hare going round a dog track, she didn’t even see my hand move. I just wanted to get away from her before she turned me into a large, wet slimy toad. I didn’t even want to hang around long enough to check if the note was from this century or a darker time where paying the ferryman was as regular as the plague.

With a final screech and scrawk from the cat and a final exhale of my own clean breath I left the cabin.

“Theeere iiis yoooour pllllot” was the final banshee moan from the old woman as she pointed to a spidery-branched bush with an crushed orange traffic cone behind it. Why I heard “weeellllcommme to Saaallloms lllllot”, I do not know. Maybe it was the sounds that resembled the devils garden all around me, maybe it was the stares from all of the farm yard and domestic animals everywhere I turned, whichever it was it was nurturing the dark thoughts whirring around my head and they weren’t subsiding.

“Are you happy with your site?”, before I’d reversed the van into the bumpy, potholed pitch, a voice from half-a-toyota-rav-four hollered.

With a puzzled look on my face, “er . . . . its fine thanks, is this all yours” I replied, looking around and pointing at the grounds, animals, strange woman in the cabin and with nervous anticipation of any sort of recognisable response.

“Yup, unfortunately!” looking as if he’s been landed with sorting out the national debt in an hour, “It’s all mine” Then he drove off towards the cluster of caravans and campers that adorned the entrance when I arrived.

Without hesitation I climbed back in my van, turned the key and put it into gear. There was no measurable time between me getting the van going to actually being on the pitch with the electric hook-up plugged in and the doors of the van locked and me safe inside. I felt like a 12 year old after watching Jaws for the first time, I felt stupid. All this was in my head but yet the fear was still there, but still felt I should be hiding behind a sofa somewhere, not here facing this horror.

“Bugger!” I needed a pee.  Why now? What a time to need a pee. Should I play it safe and use a pot-noodle container instead? It was a king-sized pot-noodle container, it would definitely hold but I would still have to discard it. “Damn! – I need to go for a wee!”

I played the whole journey, to the shower block, over in my mind.

Get out of the front door, drivers door. Lock it with the key that has “FB”on it. Be sure to have it ready. Have the shower block key in the other hand. Quickly open the van door, lock it behind me. Walk briskly to the shower block, making sure not to walk in an animal remains or droppings, get into the shower room, got to the loo, wash hands. Head down another brisk walk on the opposite direction to the van, get in, lock the door . . . . . safe and bloody well sound.

What actually happened was; I fell out of the van, dropped the keys, walked into a pile of dog poo and tripped over the steps to the shower block. I couldn’t find the right shower room, no loo roll when I finally did, no soap, barely any water. Slightly stressed, I walked back to the van after a very satisfying pee – washed the dog poo from my shoes, got back in the van, crawled into my sleeping bag . . . .safe and bloody well sound . . . . until night time.

It’s 8pm before I actually settle and stop peering out of the window to see if someone’s tampering with the van, the bikes or my sanity. The strange looking cluster of well-embedded caravans that welcomed me when I arrived are still active with the joys, merriment and ruckus of a teen party gone wrong, when will it end? The dogs are barking. Are they the beasts that call the demons to their nightly endeavours?

It is now 11pm, the ducks are still squawking, the dogs are the still barking, the demons are still screaming and I am sitting in horrid anticipation of a night of debauchery and din and, honestly, I am shitting myself.

Will I survive till morning? If this is my last line of text and I haven’t written anything else . . . . . then no, I was right and this was the hell site of all campsites, get my body out of here.

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I wrote this while sitting in my campervan on my birthday this year. It was an interesting time, to say the least.It is only a draft – a germ of an idea. Let me know what you think of my writing. I will use your comments to improve. Thank you in advance.

The tears of a clown . . . .

Bingo was the happiest clown in the circus. He was naturally jolly and always had a smile on his face.

The doors of Bingo’s caravan were thrown open. Flashes of bright white light were being directed into his eyes. Multiple voices were ringing in his ears. ‘BINGO THE CLOWN, GET UP, GET OUTTA BED. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR MURDER’.

‘Wha, what! what’s going on? what!’. Bingo couldn’t believe what was happening. Only seconds before he had been dreaming of dancing in the woods with all of his circus friends as the morning sun shone it’s beautiful rays of fresh daylight through the tree tops onto their playful activities.

Bingo quickly got into his usual clothes – massive green clown shoes, extra large blue trousers, extra stretchy yellow bracers, giant red polka-dot rotating bow-tie, his pink bowler hat with the yellow carnation in its white brim ribbon and he stepped outside to face the familiar crowd that had congregated around the crime scene. All of his friends were there and not a single one of them had a friendly look on their face. They all looked really really sad.

It wasn’t Bingo’s fault that Hanno the elephant had escaped and stampeded his way through the village, killing three children, one chicken, three goats and six horses. He had fed him, as he’d always done, after the show. He had checked his chains and they were as tight as he had made them every day for 45 years. He couldn’t work out what had gone wrong. He went through every step in his mind as the guards marched him off towards the prison van. ‘Wash, chain, feed, stroke and check again. Wash, chain, feed, stroke . . . . I have done everything. I have, I know I have.’ His thoughts weighing heavy on his sorrowful mind.

As he raised his left leg, with the long floppy green shoes at the end, to stand on the first step into the doorway of the van he paused, turned back to look over at Hanno’s cage. ‘I’m so sorry, I really am. I just don’t . . . . . ‘.

One of the guards squeezed Bingo’s arm and pushed him through the van doorway. He caught his shoe on the top step and the second guard slammed the door behind him then turned the key in the lock, trapping his shoe under the door. Bingo’s cheerfully painted face could be seen through the bars. ‘I’m so sorry’, he mouthed as he waved to the crowd that were standing outside of Bumblies big top. Marvin the bearded woman, Kelvin the tallest man in the world, Harvey the dwarf, Bobbins the sad clown, Precious and Jemima the trapeze artists, Ursus the dancing bear, Marcy the fattest lady in the world, the twenty-two ducks, the twelve shire horses, Chaplin the Lion tamer, Leo and Leona the two Lions, Lennon the fire eater – all waved back at him. ‘Goodbye Bingo’, were the silent mouthed replies.

Suddenly the van screeched to a halt and Bingo was thrown towards the front of the van, his face slamming against the bars behind the drivers seat. The shoe which had been trapped under the door was ripped from his foot. As the overwhelming shock of the evenings events started to take it’s toll, he began to sob. This was the worst day of his life, how could it possibly get any worse.

‘Come on Bingo, you’re coming with me’. Said the clumsy guard, who had trapped his foot in the van door. The guard placed two heavy chains around Bingo’s wrists. ‘Now that’s how you chain a dumb animal up, Bingo the clown’. The guard sneered, then dragged Bingo out from the van on to his feet, one of which was missing a very large green clown shoe. ‘Not that you are going to need it where you are going, but can you pick up your shoe and fetch it with you?’. The other guard took hold of the heavy chains and lead Bingo, hopping, through the imposing doors of the jail to the courtyard. Six other guards were milling around, across from where he was to stand. Each had a prison issue rifle at their feet .

Simultaneously the guards picked up their rifles and turned to face Bingo. Suddenly, every single one of them started laughing. Laughing so much that most of them dropped their weapons to the floor.

‘Come on you shameful rabble, sort yourselves out – quit clowning around!’, was the cry from the prison warden, which only made the situation worse. The firing squad couldn’t face him. Every time their guns were raised, Bingo cried. His tears washing away the makeup below his cheerfully painted eyes. The guards fell around laughing – they couldn’t help it – they had to hold their stomachs and wipe tears from their faces because they were laughing so much. This was the first time Bingo hadn’t enjoyed people laughing at him. He was getting sadder and sadder.

It took 3 over hours for the firing squad to regain composure and calm down. By which time, it was discovered that Hanno had simply broken his chains and gone into the woods to play in the moonlight, where he was found. A local lad had reported that; it was one of the tigers from the village which had killed the unfortunate children and animals. She had, apparently, broken free from her cage and gone on a rampage after the owner had left her without any food.

The clumsy guard freed Bingo from his burdening chains. ‘This has been the saddest day of my life.’ He snapped. Bingo wasn’t very happy. He wasn’t the happiest clown at the circus, he wasn’t naturally jolly and for the first time, he didn’t have a smile on his face. It was a very sad day indeed.

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This piece was inspired by a prompt on the bekindrewrite site from their InMon XII page. I have just started writing. I am using my blog to experiment and find my natural style, so this won’t be the best story you have ever read. This is the first time I have written in this way and have found it an interesting challenge. I would love to hear your thoughts. Enjoy!

Another trip to the coffee shop . . . .

I have done it. I have sat near a teen mom with her baby on her lap. My arse has hardly touched the seat and I’m already regretting my table choice. I can smell baby puke. The cries of goo-ga-goo-ga are spoiling the ambience and disturbing my inner peace. I want to scream back in it’s face. Shut up you are in public you little oik! Adjust your volume and change your attitude or I’ll steal your dummy.

After ordering her usual small black coffee, Margaret sat alone at her usual table in the coffee shop for the first time in her life. It had taken her two years to find the courage to come alone. It had been that long since her husband Ralph had passed away. The memories of thousands of happy conversations, of soft tender touches and of deep loving gazes into each others eyes across the table were still heavily prominent in her mind. A single large tear rose from the corner of her right eye, it was a tear of both joy and sorrow. Ralph had been a loving husband, a wonderful father and a caring grandfather. He is missed by all, but mostly by Margaret, his loving wife of 60 years.

How can life become so broken? I have dropped the glass bowl which contained the fragile fragments of my fractured existence.

A young boy called Hanson, I know that’s his name because his mum keeps shouting at him to behave, has just arrived with his mum and sister. It could also be mum and grandma – you can never tell tell these days, parents are getting younger and younger. A man in a black baseball cap and a black megadeath tshirt, he doesn’t look the type to be a fan of the band, is sat with a young woman on the comfy sofas. He is pouring the liquid from the tea pot for her, while she sits in her grey granny cardigan and multicoloured old granny specks like the ones Dame Edna Everage would have worn. It seems strange attire for a young woman. Another young woman is sat in the furthest corner surrounded by food and she has a large bag on the chair at her side with the slogan “Team Jacob” emblazoned on the front in large gold and red letters, obviously she is advertising her allegiance to Jacob over Edward of twilight fame. She is stuffing her face with crisps and cake. She doesn’t look any older than 20 but has the appearance of a 20 stone woman, I can’t help but wonder why.

Most of the coffee shop occupants are reading. Some are reading newspapers supplied by the establishment. Some are reading books they may have purchased from the book store which is attached to the coffee shop. One woman, sat to my left, has tears in her eyes. I can see bold letters printed on the front of the document she is reading – “Last will and testament of ….. “, I can’t quite make out the name. Everything in me wants to go over to make sure she’s ok, but I can’t …….

Thomas was sat quietly in the cafe trying to read his book but the babies screams from over his left shoulder pierced every ounce of his concentration. He couldn’t work out how or why a couple, who had a combined age of 100, could ring a baby into a quiet peaceful, reflective place like a bookstore cafe to eat his dinner.

“You have certainly disturbed the peace”, the woman chelped.

“ooh, open wide, arrrrrr …..” added her incompetent partner. Who was trying his hardest, without much success, to get the freshly-made baby food into the little screamers mouth.

After another anger filled sip of coffee, Thomas placed his mug down on the receipts on the tray as the saucer had filled with coffee and every sip from the porcelain cup produced several drips that found their way onto the pristine pages of one of his favourite books, only exacerbating the situation.

People watching is one of Thomas’s favourite pastimes but people hearing is not. He detests sounds which disturb his inner tranquility. Bolders breaking the surface of a summers lake.

Under the awning

“The condensation was building on the inside of the roof. The sun had risen earlier than I’d expected and I was worried about the dampness ruining the previous nights work. I had arranged all of my tools, in alphabetical order, on the two wooden folding tablets. They were fake oak tables, which my mother had given to me to make my life more comfortable. They certainly did make my life more comfortable. I no longer had to lay the tools on the floor. I had somewhere to arrange them and keep them safe and clean.

The wind was picking up. It blew the left and right doors in and out. It made me imagine the motions of a young, hot, couple having sex. It was rhythmic but clumsy and passionless. There was no soul.

I was getting cold and the metal on my tools were even colder. I could hardly pick them up to finish the project I had started. I needed to finish it that night. I was on an early shift the morning after and needed to be back before the staff noticed I’d disappeared.

I started cutting and carving, hoping the sound wouldn’t wake the neighbouring occupants and bring attention to my twilight activities. It was difficult keeping it a secret. I couldn’t let anyone know what I was doing. It would most certainly spoil everything. Not just for me, but for my family. I wanted it to be a surprise.

They would never believe, in a million years, it was something I could do on my own or that I was even capable. This whole situation would puzzle them – always. They would never understand, or belief for that matter, that I could do it. Have I said that? Not with my timetable anyway. The hospital kept me pretty busy. I would volunteer late shifts and unsociable hours so that I could buy everything I needed so I was able to fit my other work into my life.

My upbringing could have been better, not that it matters. But we didn’t have much in the way of luxuries. I needed to make sure I didn’t go without. I wanted a better life. That’s why I became a doctor, you know, and my fascination with life. To be responsible for another persons life is the most amazing power. I mean, I knew it was a high paid career and I also knew it would be a career that would help me with my other jobs – my amazing projects. I also knew that it would satisfy all of my desires. I knew quite a lot, didn’t I?

Luckily, within a few hours of the sun rising the dew had subsided and before the neighbours had started stirring. Just in time for me to put the final touches to first of my thirteen projects. I call them projects; but really, they are works of art as far as I am concerned. I have to sculpt, mould, construct and deconstruct – so it is art to me. I have to create complex organic shapes and morph them to adhere to complex shapes and deforming constructions – It’s art – it really is art. It’s difficult. I don’t expect you to understand, you are not like me – that’s clear . . . no one is.

I listened intently, as I always have, as the morning came alive. In silence, I sat on the folded camp chair for hours while the neighbours rose from their nightly slumber. The doors of their dwellings thumped open. It was a strange sensation. It was like the banging of a military drum, exciting all around to the dawning of the impending conflict.  I’d been alone all night. I had only the distant sound of nocturnal vehicles to keep me company. The sensation of those nightly souls hovering around my vicinity added to my creative process, its part of the work, it adds to my process.

I chose the dead of night to create my sculptors because the solitude allowed me to concentrate on the finer aspects of the craft. The eye is in the detail. That’s what my mother used to say. It’s true. If I allowed myself to forget the details I wouldn’t be noticed. That would ruin everything. I didn’t want to my art to be displayed until I was ready. That was the part I enjoyed the most. I needed that control over everything. I want you to understand that! I mean; you get to know your art. It’s personal. You feel for it. I did anyway. Ask any other artist like me, they really get into what they are doing, and it becomes part of their soul. Regardless of the their motivation, it consumes them. It’s all they think about. It’s only natural. If you don’t love what you do to your very core, you’re not an artist; you’re not a craftsman, you’re soulless, empty and a downright shell. I mean, how could you not be that close to something and not feel for it?

The only thing that bothered me was everyone finding out and ruining my big surprise. It was strange, weird even. It motivated me to keep going. My mum would say, the more you focussed on the drive the more driven you were. I didn’t get it at first. It only clicked once I’d completed my first piece. She was wonderful. The piece was wonderful, not my mother.

I remember them all.  I remember them as if they were ex-girlfriends. But in all honesty the first changed me forever. After her I couldn’t stop the work. It became addictive, almost taking over my medical work. The more I carved and the more I owned my craft, the more it took over me. They spoke to me while I carved. They were alive.

There was, in fact is, no one like me – for sure. I know that, I just need everyone else to know. I need everyone to appreciate that, no matter how many other artists or craftsmen there seems to be, I am the best.

It wasn’t about the quantity; to me it was purely about quality. But I won’t lie to you, I didn’t think of the number in the beginning but the more I did it the more the number thirteen seemed to be the right number to finish on. I can’t tell you why it just resonated. I have said that before haven’t I? No? The number thirteen touched me. Imagine your mum saying to you, for the first time, I love you – not that mine ever has – it just makes you feel a certain way. It’s unexplainable. Did your mum ever tell you she loved you? How does that feel? Wet?

It was the thirteenth that was the most difficult. It was bigger. When I say “IT” I mean her, she of course. I tried to get something new from each piece. I played with getting closer and closer. I tried to love each one differently.  That way I could tell the story of each of them and try to convince any stranger to feel the same about them, about my art, as me.

Take my patience for instance, they all have a different story, have lived different lived and I love telling their stories. I love telling the stories of their lives and the stories of their deaths, it makes me feel whole and complete, it feels right. And to have a control of their lives, to have their lives in your hands makes you feel special, alive and settling in their last moments. It’s like playing god – almost. You can’t take that shit lightly – you have to make the most of it. I suppose that’s why it happened, that art I mean. Can I call it art? I just want you to understand that’s all. I want to paint a picture that everyone can understand. I helped them. They are where they should be.

When you save someone’s life, you allow those people to live longer. When you take someone’s life, you give him or her eternal existence. Ever lasting soul. You allow them to live for longer in other people’s memories, people who didn’t even know them.  It’s like Jesus, we didn’t know him but god left his image for all of us to remember. God I tell you. I mean, you’re not going to forget their names are you. You are going to sleep every night with their angelic faces burned into your mind. You didn’t even know them and you wouldn’t forget. I have done what I had to. My job is complete – Inspector; my job is done. I have given them eternal life.

They should be thankful. You should be thankful. I have changed everyone’s life forever. I have changed your life.”

“Thank you, Dr McAllister, for your insightful and open confession. Your victims families can now have closure. Can you please read what I have written, then sign here and here.”

Who loves you baby?

We have been together for 3 years now my love. I can safely say, they have been the best years of my life. The more time we have spend together the more I have grown to love you. And love you with all my heart. I don’t know what I would do without you. You have given me a love and affection which is irreplaceable.

We have an unexplainable tenderness and understanding. When we first met, I knew you were the one. I saw you across the room, your face sparkled. You had a glow I was drawn to. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I know this is cheeky, but I fell for your curves.

I held off meeting you for so long. I wasn’t sure if we would be compatible, get on or have the same interests. I just didn’t get to know you – I guess. But now I have, I am very happy I did and I know I made the right choice.

You are beautiful. You’re beauty is that of a Keats sonnet – “But being too happy in thine happiness” – you are poetry. You inspire me. You make me want to be a better man.

When we go out together I feel very lucky. People notice when we are sat together in our favourite coffee shop. I feel lucky that I discovered a love as we have. I could never have believed it would happen to me. I spend so many years in meaningless relationships. Relationships which weren’t going anywhere. It is plain to see, I wasn’t with the right one. You definitely complete me.

When we touch, I feel complete. I feel whole, like never before. You give me and my life so much joy. When I hold you in my hands, it feels so right. You are definitely the one my love. I hope you know that. I don’t want you to ever leave me.

I have rid my life of anything that reminds me of the others. I have discarded any memory of my past. I want you feel as you are my only one. I want to you feel at home. The others didn’t mean as much to me as you did. You are my soulmate. I don’t need anyone when I have you.

Because we have been together for so long, I think its time we moved on to the next level. I don’t want you to tire of our relationship or our affections for one another. I need to make a commitment to our future. I want you to feel more stable. I want you to feel as though we can cope with anything as long as we are together, as I do.

As I bend down on one knee and take you in my hand, I can only say this because I mean it and I know it will allow us to stay together for longer. I’m upgrading your memory from 4gb to 8gb. That should do the trick. £55 from ebay, get in – only the best for you baby.

Just a little piece on the love I have for my macbook. This story is based on true events. No Mac was harmed in the writing of this piece. ;o)

Please comment and tell me your stories of technology love. I would be really interested to know.