tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77786694649163486612024-03-19T05:59:58.634+02:00She means well, but...I'm a transplanted Brit, living in Greece for the past quarter of a century.
Long of limb, broad of beam, open of mind and impatient of nature, I can sometimes wreak havoc without meaning to.
But I MEAN well....She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.comBlogger408125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-79183290205634647592020-07-15T11:56:00.002+03:002020-07-15T12:02:25.268+03:00Bugler's Beginning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">June 1948: </span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">As the gangway landed with
a jolt on the Tilbury quayside, Gabriel smoothed down his suit and took a deep
breath. Everything was grey. So different to Jamaica’s fierce sunshine and loud
colours.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The people were grey too.
Stevedores scuttling about like ants. Immigration officials lined up to check
papers. Curious locals gathered to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals. All in
shades of grey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">And there she was, shining
like a beacon cutting through a sea fog. Platinum hair and a slash of red
lipstick. Gramma would have called her a Jezebel. But she was no wanton hussy.
She was classy, powerful, in control.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Like many onboard the <i>Empire
Windrush</i>, Gabriel had no-one in Britain. He arrived alone, dreaming of a
better life and the chance to play his music beyond the jive joints of home. He
was 19, his suit was too big, and the furthest he’d travelled before was the
bumpy bus ride to Kingston. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">As he stepped out into the
street, a hand touched his shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Follow me,” she said,
leading him to a café where someone called Madge served them stewed tea from an
urn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“My name’s Val,” said the
blonde. “And you, my dear Gabriel, are special.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He started at the sound of
his name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You don’t know why yet,
but it’ll become clear over the years. When the time comes, I’ll call you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">++++++++++++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">June 2020:</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> She stood in the dingy jazz bar he’d haunted
for 50 years. Ageless, resplendent in a leather jumpsuit, her hair still long
and shockingly pale. The scarlet gash of her lipstick declared she was ready
for action. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Been a long time, Val.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She looked him up and down.
“A VERY long time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I said I’d tell you when
the time came, didn’t I? Well, the time is now.”</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-53505722293354250392020-06-17T09:28:00.000+03:002020-06-25T07:23:16.422+03:00Ori and his Lunchbox<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">George unplugged the sandwich toaster and looked
across the expanse of Victoria Station. The arches of its roof reached to the heavens
like the exposed ribs of some beached whale long since forgotten. Sparrows
chittered up high, as heavy clouds spat the first sulky blobs of rain onto the
glass. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was time to pack up the sandwich bar for the
day. Morning was peak time for Aphrodite’s Fillings, closely followed by the
hungry commuter rush for the home counties that tapered off around 8 in the
evening. Most of his regulars were now back in the leafy lanes and Lego-like
housing developments of Surrey and Sussex. It was late, with no more passing
trade to make it worth prolonging George’s day any more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Quiet now, just a few straggling suits heading home.
Empty food wrappers spilled out of the bins, some drifting across the concourse
like tumbleweed in a Western. This was the time for the station’s other
regulars. A population of underdogs hiding in plain sight, slumped all day in
the corners, bedraggled figures in cast-off anoraks and battered trousers held
up with string. Easily missed when you’re swept along in a sea of urban respectability.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">George was looking for someone. A specific someone.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Right on cue, there he was. The huddle in front of
the announcement board parted to reveal a tall, gangly figure in a cast-off
raincoat from Marks & Spencer’s 1987 ladies’ collection streaked with grime
that no self-respecting M&S matron would tolerate. Someone’s misplaced old school
tie served as a belt, but the right-hand buttoning and jaunty details at the
cuffs which ended halfway up his arms were a dead give-away. His long stringy hair
was plastered greasily to sunken cheeks. An old leather satchel was slung across
his body and he carried a placard proclaiming ‘THE END IS NIGH’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Eyes burning from beneath eyebrows as shaggy as a
wolfhound fixed on George, and he opened his mouth in a smile that revealed teeth
as blackened and crooked as ancient tombstones. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">George motioned him over. Crazy Ori was one of
those uninvited reminders of the ever-widening holes in society’s safety net
that pricked his conscience every time he saw him. Broken but harmless, he was
enough of a jolt to his normality to make him feel uncomfortable. Guilty. Not
much, but enough to make him hand over what was left over from the day’s
baguettes, wraps and pittas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was a year since George and his father had taken
over the sandwich bar concession in the station, and a full twelve months since
his father had set foot in it. Every day, George was there, serving up snacks
as divine as the goddess of love that his dad insisted they name it after, in
honour of the island he had left as a young man thirty years ago. Just 19 years
old, George was a hard-worker and good with the customers – chatting brightly
and flashing his doe-eyes at customers as he filled their sandwiches. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He couldn’t recall when he’d first noticed Ori’s
rambling, shambling presence. It was like he’d always been there, part of the
army of invisible unfortunates who reminded ‘ordinary’ folk of what might be if
they strayed too far from normality. But he could not forget the first time he'd
first heard his voice. Like the rasp of a key turning in a rusty lock, stiff
and creaky from lack of use. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The old-timer had reached over and lightly touched
the ornate Orthodox cross his mother insisted he wear, nestled in the dark
curls poking up over the neckline of his shirt. “You believe?” he’d asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah, of course, mate. Got to, don’t you?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“But have you repented?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">George thought back to the last time his mum had
dragged him to confession at St Sofia’s, shrugged and rolled his eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Well, not officially. But I do, you know, feel bad
about some stuff. It’s hard when you’re busy, innit?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ori had nodded sagely with the solemnity gave
George’s reply far more weight than it warranted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Not long now. I’ve seen the signs. It’s coming,”
he growled conspiratorially. “Any time now, the call will come.” He glanced
with meaning at the battered transistor radio in his hand with the flap hanging
off its empty battery compartment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">That must have been six months ago, and still no call
had summoned Ori to his higher cause. And at the end of every busy day, he
would appear and George would give him a few pieces of bread, a hunk of haloumi
starting to sweat under the lights, maybe a dollop of taramosalata or hummus,
the occasional cheese pie and anything else that wouldn’t survive a night in
the fridge and come out as fresh as a daisy for the morning punters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Evening, Ori,” said the young lad cheerily,
putting out his hand as the tramp approached the stand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Orifiel,” he replied, fumbling in his bag.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah, right. I get that too – my real name’s
Yiorgios, but everyone calls me George. I’ve got a nice bit of turkey for you
today.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ori pulled out a square lunchbox made from white
opaque plastic. There were three indentations in the lid, where once a plastic
knife, fork and spoon would have slotted. Once upon a time. Long since lost now.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He then turned to argue with a pigeon picking at the
crumbs on the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">As George opened the box, the stench of a thousand
leftover meals hit him. Though empty, its side were streaked with the remains
of old sandwiches, half-eaten pasties rescued from bins and salads well past
their best. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He was a kind-hearted boy from a good Cypriot
family, his cherubic cheeks a testament to his mother’s home cooking and her
insistence on sending him off to work every morning with a healthy portion of
the family’s meal from the night before. Today, it had been a doorstep-sized chunk
of moussaka, Mama Lucia insisting as she did every morning that he needed more
than “bits of toast” to keep him going through the day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He put Ori’s stinking lunchbox to one side, making
a mental note to return it perfectly clean later, and eyed the old feta
container that had held his moussaka, empty and dutifully rinsed out (even
though George knew his mother would scrub it with scalding hot water at home).
He made a decision. Putting Ori’s lunchbox to one side and vowing to take it
home and clean it properly (or leave it to the mercies of Mama Lucia), he piled
the day’s leftovers into the box that had held his lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ori had won his argument with the pigeon and was
now scanning the station roof for some kind of sign, his ear cocked like a
puppy waiting hear “Walkies!”. George put the box on the counter and was about to
explain that he’d wash and return the original, when Ori’s eyes swivelled at
the sound of a cab’s horn impatiently tooting in the taxi rank outside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The call!” He grabbed the box without giving it a
glance and stuffed it into his satchel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ll remember you in The Reckoning,” he told
George, then turned on his heel and strode across the station towards the
Underground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">George shrugged. He’d heard no special call, just the
ceaseless soundtrack of the city. He shook his head sadly as he watched the entrance
to the Underground swallow up Ori and wondered if he’d ever had a family or
someone to look care for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">++++++++++++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was quiet, or as quiet as it ever gets, as Ori
walked down the steps to the Tube. Too late for commuters, too early for revellers.
Station staff stood wearily on guard, dampened by nearly eight hours of duty
and dreaming of a hot meal and a hotter bath when they got home. One watched
Ori as he approached the barrier but paid no attention when his coat sleeve produced
the same beep a valid ticket would have and opened the way. Nor did he wonder
at the sight of the crazy old loon dragging the placard onto the escalator.
He’d been working the London Underground for nearly thirty years – it took much
more than that to make him raise an eyebrow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ori mounted the creaking, cranking elevator that
would take him juddering down into the bowels of the earth to the platform. A
platform that had seen a great deal since it opened in the cold autumn of 1896.
Billions of journeys, thousands sheltered from bombs dropping overhead, more
suicides than it cared to remember, and a million romances, break-ups, new
dreams, old despairs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He was alone. The stale breeze of the train that
left just moments before lingered in the air as he emerged onto the cracked
cream tiles. Looking both ways to check no-one was watching, Ori leaned his
placard against the wall and jumped down onto the track far more nimbly than a
man his age should be able to and stepped into the darkness of the tunnel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Feeling his way along the damp brick walls, his
eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom the deeper he went. The wall stopped at a
recess, easily mistaken for passing space for workers or storage for their
equipment, that went back a good four feet to a rusted metal door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ori tried the handle. It opened with a clunking
creak and he walked through into the sulphur yellow glow of the streetlights in
Limekiln Lane. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was good to be back. He swept his hair – now a
glowing, flowing mane of silver in the lamplight – over his shoulder and looked
around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Standing before him was Gabe, horn still in his hand,
his broad grin shining through the darkness. Behind him Val, as always resplendent
but slightly scary in her biker’s leathers, Haniel in sensible shoes and wings
flapping gently behind her, and Zachariel looking sulky and resentful. To one
side stood two out-of-place mortals, a scruffy man in a trilby and great coat,
and a respectable housewife knocking back espressos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Gabriel, Haniel and Zachariel each held something small, white and plastic. A knife, a fork and a spoon, designed to
slot into the grooves on Ori’s lunchbox and signal the beginning of the Last Great
Battle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ori smiled and reached into his bag. But what he
pulled out was greeted with groans of dismay. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Great! Just great, man,” blurted Gabe, fingering
the trumpet in one hand and banging his knife against the box with the other.</span>
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“How is this going to work if you can’t even be trusted to bring the
right box?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Val muttered “Men!” under her breath, angry sparks
flashing in her icy blue eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ori looked down at the box in his hands, took off
the lid and held it out. “Cheese pie?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-67733857963317755032020-05-20T11:23:00.000+03:002020-05-20T11:23:16.889+03:0022b Limekiln Lane<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUhS367Vd_V7FFUW1wB_jv5UomIq5hRL4R9ZwadUcE6rZ96QPPDPLtiyu0Adu-6S5yPf1s7MA2hyphenhyphen66cD98-zK-AvoTK6oawX9ifUdL2C2XcZbeBFJckLxtEBXCjha3EAkjwlm7kum527c/s1600/Madges+cafe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="239" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUhS367Vd_V7FFUW1wB_jv5UomIq5hRL4R9ZwadUcE6rZ96QPPDPLtiyu0Adu-6S5yPf1s7MA2hyphenhyphen66cD98-zK-AvoTK6oawX9ifUdL2C2XcZbeBFJckLxtEBXCjha3EAkjwlm7kum527c/s400/Madges+cafe.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Brenda watched the burgundy
and custard-yellow No.14 bus sail past the café window and up Limekiln Lane.
She should have been on it, after finishing her Agony Aunt slot at the local
radio station. Instead, here she was, sitting in a café with chipped formica
tables, a tea urn which had probably been shiny and new some time in the late-1950s,
and Madge behind the counter, who’d been in her prime round about the same
time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">A dowdy middle-aged woman
half-smiled as she put a pale green mug of tea before Brenda, then scuttled
back to the counter. The same harmless looking woman who’d been waiting outside
the station after the morning show to shyly invite her for a chat over a cuppa.</span><span lang="EN-US"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Brenda had a pretty accurate
antenna for evil. After so many years, she had evaded her fair share of those
seeking revenge for encouraging their partners to walk away from lives where
abuse was part of the daily routine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">But this sweet lady, Jayne
(with a y, as she had been at pains to point out), sounded no such alarm bells.
She had a pleasant face, a little tired and puffy, with a hesitant touch of
mascara and a shy slick of lipstick. Ordinary, well-meaning, eager to please.
Certainly not someone likely to cause trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">They almost had the place
to themselves. Just an old fella by the open door sharing his bacon sandwich
with a scruffy wolfhound and a hipster couple soaking up the ‘authentic vintage
vibe’ of the establishment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">This will all be gone soon,
mused Brenda. Might as well let them enjoy their mundane reality before it’s
turned upside-down, inside-out and twisted beyond their wildest imaginings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Jayne was back, with a cup
of the muddy swill Madge was confident few of her clientele could distinguish
from real coffee, and fewer still would dare complain about. She slid a plate
with a flat, flaky, sugar-crusted pastry in front of Brenda.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Eccles cake,” she chirped.
“You said you love them when you were talking to that lass with the eating
problem last week.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Goodness, what a memory
you have. Thank you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“It’s the least I can do,”
replied Jayne. <br />
<br />
She meant it. Few people seemed to notice she existed these days, let alone
bother to listen to what she had to say. But something about Brenda’s <i>‘I’m
here for you, lovey’</i> when she’d called in with her mid-life woes told her
she might be open to listening some more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“So, what did you want to
talk about?” Brenda asked, taking a bite from her pie. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She stifled a cough. It had
obviously been sitting under the dome on Madge’s counter for over a week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Past my sell-by date,”
mumbled Jayne. “That’s how I feel. My life is ordinary, expected. Stale.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Brenda’s eyebrows arched as
she struggled to swallow the dry pastry. Jayne took it as a question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“The kids are at Uni.
Harry’s got work and golf. I can’t help wondering ‘Is that it?’. I need an
adventure – but I’m not sure bored housewives are supposed to have adventures.”<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Brenda forced the cloying
flakes down and cleared her throat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“What kind of adventure,
lovey?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Oh, I don’t know.
Something to remind me of who I thought I was going to be when I was a young
girl. I was fearless back then, you know. Ready to take on the world, change it
too. But somehow that got lost along the way, meeting Harry, building our life,
looking after the kids.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She wiped a tear from the
corner of her eye.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I know, I know. I should count
my blessings. Take joy from what I have. A life others can only dream of. Happy
marriage, great kids, lovely home. Holidays in the Loire Valley every year… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“…but, somehow, it’s not
enough.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The far-off sound of a
klaxon cut through the hum of the suburban street and distant wash of waves on
the beach. The wolfhound at the door pricked up its ears, and his owner
hurriedly stuffed what was left of his sandwich into his mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Great timing, Gabe,”
muttered Madge, wiping down the countertop and switching off the tea urn. “Just
before the lunch-hour rush.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The 21<sup>st</sup> century
teddy girl and her beardy friend remained oblivious as they Instragrammed their
ironic egg and chips brunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Brenda’s sixth, seventh and
eighth senses were all tingling like she had fallen into a bed of nettles. It
was time to get out – now. She looked up at Jayne who was idly pushing the scum
in her coffee cup around with a spoon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Do you really mean that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“That you want an
adventure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Jayne chewed on her bottom
lip, looked down and thought for a moment before licking her spoon clean and
looking Brenda in the eye. She nodded emphatically.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Beyond the sensible hair
and comfortable shoes, Brenda saw what was lurking beneath the M&S hoody
and mum jeans. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Yes, she would do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Come on, then.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The two women rose. Madge waved
her dishcloth, and the old fella growled “See you later” as they went through
the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Taking Jayne by the arm,
Brenda patted her hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Like I said, I’m here for
you. But you’ll have to trust me. And be there for me too. Can you do that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Jayne nodded. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">They’d walked twenty yards
down the familiar street when Brenda pulled her to a stop next to a gap between
two red-brick houses. It was barely the width of a shipping trolley. Jayne knew
the street like the back of her hand, but had never spotted this narrow alley
before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Inside was dark and smelly.
Bulging bin bags of dubious shapes and sizes lined its sides, punctuated by
occasional ominous rustles. Jayne shuddered inwardly but focused on what was
ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">A dead end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The alley went nowhere. It
finished abruptly at a battered wooden shed. On its mossy green door was a
polished brass number plate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Welcome to 22b Limekiln
Lane,” said Brenda, opening the door and pushing her across the threshold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">An unexpected smell crept
up Jayne’s nose, quite unlike the old shed scent of abandoned tools, potato
sacks and rising damp she had been expecting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Coffee. Real freshly brewed
coffee. Deep, aromatic, sensual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">As her eyes adjusted to the
gloom, she realised this was no shed. Before her a street stretched out as far
as she could see, which wasn’t far as it was a moonless night (despite barely
being midday back in Bridlington) and no streetlights lit the scene. Next to
her a wide pipe, like a chimney flue, was pumping out the hot aroma of roasting
beans. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Brenda nudged her and
pushed a thimble-sized cup into her hands “Here. Drink this. I think you’re
going to need it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Jayne took the cup and
downed it in one. Thick espresso rich enough to make a strong Italian cry
slipped down her throat, snapping her back to reality… or whatever it was that
she now found herself in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Er, what’s going on, Brenda?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The agony aunt smiled
beatifically as a dark shape like a giant moth rose up behind her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“This is your adventure,”
she said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“And by the way, you can
call me Haniel.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-78826687767841683412020-04-22T12:24:00.000+03:002020-04-23T00:53:44.417+03:00Custard creams and comfort<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QHi5K9LNl-RGROMDlpizXw6a3D6vdatksUox50UUb3vRnYracOgNB6PonL3tJwgkZeWiZNBxqCQM_bxnVr9PF_KNGLp5Ezg0jmr7Viz24NbdGkQupdoaHydN8giZVXzgeiYPIgPMRF8/s1600/custard+creams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="425" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QHi5K9LNl-RGROMDlpizXw6a3D6vdatksUox50UUb3vRnYracOgNB6PonL3tJwgkZeWiZNBxqCQM_bxnVr9PF_KNGLp5Ezg0jmr7Viz24NbdGkQupdoaHydN8giZVXzgeiYPIgPMRF8/s320/custard+creams.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Agnes Bliss was content.
Less than a month after being bundled into that pokey room at The Laurels in
Billericay, she was back where she belonged. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She smacked her lips as she
drained the last dregs from her bone china teacup. Her cataract-dimmed eyes
flitted around the living room taking all her favourite, familiar knick-knacks.
It was sheer heaven not having to share the place with a bunch of doolally old
dears and creepy Kenneth, The Laurels’ only widower, who thought he was as
irresistible as Idris Elba coated in caramel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Zach, that nice young Care
Assistant from somewhere she could never remember nor pronounce, had been just as
happy as she was to leave. That wretched virus had done them both a favour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Dark curls and smiling eyes
appeared around the door jamb, followed by a face half-covered by a
pseudo-surgical mask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Supermarket van just
came,” Zach chirped in his staccato accent. “I’m just going to get the bags.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Zach didn’t really need the
mask – his type was pretty much immune to any plague man or nature had ever devised.
But it suited him that no-one raised an eyebrow at his covered mouth and nose
these days. Just the ticket for someone who didn’t want to be found.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Make sure they brought my custard
creams. The proper ones, not those half-baked imitations they sent last time,”
called Agnes as she heard him heave the bags to the kitchen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Zach pulled Mrs B’s shopping
list from his jeans pocket. As he did, an envelope flopped out onto the floor.
THE envelope. The one that had arrived when they still knew where to find him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Frowning, he picked it up
and put it to one side, putting it out of mind as he unpacked the groceries. He
liked his new, mundane routine. Life lived at a snail’s pace, offering care and
companionship to a sweet old bird approaching the end of her days suited him.
The last thing he needed was a reminder of what was to come – and the role he
was supposed to play. How he wished the end of ALL days wasn’t on his agenda.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Don’t you worry, Mrs B. I’m
checking it all. And then we’ll have another cuppa.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He appeared at the doorway,
holding a fresh cup of tea in one hand, waving a packet of biscuits triumphantly
with the other. “With proper custard creams.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Agnes smiled up at him as he
placed her tea on the table beside her, two biscuits from the pack nestling in
the saucer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You’re my angel.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Zach blushed, and hoped she
didn’t hear the dry flutter beneath his t-shirt. <br />
<br />
“Lovely looking boy. Beautiful manners too. I’m lucky some girl hasn’t snatched
you up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She took a slurp of her tea,
then turned up the volume on her favourite midday show. Zach settled on the sofa,
shut his eyes and let the blare of the TV wash over him as Mrs B’s steady
breathing morphed into gentle snores. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He was lucky, he knew that.
Literally, one of The Chosen. But he’d happily give it all up for a quiet life in
this anonymous little house that smelled faintly of boiled cabbage. Life is
easy when it’s boring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">A buzz from his back pocket
broke the thoughts. He took out his phone and checked the message. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Val - again. Of course. Who
else?</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He pressed the button and
opened it:</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">WHERE ARE YOU??<br />
BE AT TOMORROW’S MEETING – OR ELSE. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">YOU HAVE THE AGENDA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Same old, same old. He hit delete, just like he had
13 times before. The threat of ‘OR ELSE’ didn’t worry him – knowing the end of
the world was coming put things into perspective.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The doorbell rang. Zach stood up and headed for the
hall. Through the frosted glass he spied a dark, spindly figure in a shabby
overcoat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He’d been found.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Hello Gabe,” he sighed at the nicotine-stained
grin that flashed at him beneath a pencil moustache and pork pie hat. “How did
you find me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The owner of the smile waggled his cell phone in
triumph. “GPS, baby. Ain’t technology grand?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In his other hand was a battered old trumpet. Gabe
raised it to his lips, a question dancing on his eyebrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Do I have to blow my horn? Come on. It’s time to
save the world, little brother.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">From her favourite armchair in the living room,
Agnes Bliss smiled and let out a long breath as the last custard cream she
would ever enjoy fell from her hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-45501725528278668872020-02-26T12:01:00.000+02:002020-02-26T12:02:24.651+02:00The Call<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYBqnqngvcXUFUB_HdF8fURDqyx4kA28GhO_DkV7sm417JKwFtARlkQ9vd9UQQrxXSyyx-u7FNVJQNTETBUJk1V5kbKoyjF_tGdZ_clZcBYHgYotmTcmZqPxvrtv7p2K5bABb7s7k1-ak/s1600/aloysius+lark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="420" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYBqnqngvcXUFUB_HdF8fURDqyx4kA28GhO_DkV7sm417JKwFtARlkQ9vd9UQQrxXSyyx-u7FNVJQNTETBUJk1V5kbKoyjF_tGdZ_clZcBYHgYotmTcmZqPxvrtv7p2K5bABb7s7k1-ak/s320/aloysius+lark.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Aloysius Lark was having a
bad day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He’d woken with a snort at
his desk as the morning light struggled to push through the grimy windows of
his office. After wiping the drool from his mouth and peeling a piece of paper
stamped FINAL DEMAND off his cheek, he’d taken a swig from the bottle at his
side, downed a couple of aspirin and set about trying to remember what day it
was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">That was three hours ago,
and the day hadn’t got any better as it ambled towards lunchtime. The phone had
been ringing every 20 minutes, but Lark had not once answered. He knew the
callers were vultures circling his shrinking resources to honour old debts, not
clients seeking his services.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Fuelled by guilt and good intentions, he’d tried to
organise the papers swarming on and around his desk. He gave up three minutes
later, when a dust-cloud puffed up from the first folder, flew up his nose and
sparked an orgasm of sneezing, choking and streaming eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lark settled back into his chair, lit a cigarette
and took a wheezing drag.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">A rap at the door roused him from his contemplation
of the tendrils of smoke twisting through his fingers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Before he had the chance to say “Enter!” or take
his feet off the desk, the door opened. In strode an imposing blonde in biker’s
leathers. She wore them well – very, very well, Lark noted with appreciation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Aloysius Lark?” she commanded in a voice tinged
with traces of Stockholm that made him stand to attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“At your service, dear lady,” he bowed slightly,
hoping his old school charm might soften her officious manner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I have a job for you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Let me check my availability.” He pulled out his
diary, making a show of scanning the pages whilst hiding the empty gaps
stretching into June and beyond.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The woman reached across the desk and slammed the
diary shut. “You’re free. And if you’re not, you will be. This is urgent.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The detective arched his eyebrows. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“What exactly do you need of me?” he asked. “Find a
lost cat? Track down a deadbeat boyfriend?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Look at me,” she sneered. “Do you <i><u>really</u></i>
think I need that kind of help? If it was up to me, I wouldn’t even be in this…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she looked around in disdain “…place. But we
both know there are certain services that only you can provide.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then it dawned on him. It had a been a long time,
but now he realised what it was the blonde had awakened within him. It wasn’t
lust. One does not lust after mythical beings, least of all female warriors
charged with choosing who will fall in battle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Aloysius Lark had a talent – unasked for and of
unknown origin. He could spot a supernatural creature anywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">And they were everywhere, hiding among mortals in
modern society. Forgotten, unrecognised and mostly powerless. Vampires,
warlocks, goblins, the occasional ogre, elves… not to mention naiads and dryads
searching for their spirit streams and trees years after they’d been cemented
over. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">People used to notice them, sometimes worshipped
them, but mostly they shook pitchforks, lit torches or chucked Holy water in
their general direction. These days, they didn’t bat an eyelid. Hardly
surprising when many ‘ordinary’ people were scarier than a whole legion of
demons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Most of the supernaturals just wanted a quiet life
– and Lark was happy to let them be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He looked at the woman with new eyes. It was
obvious now that his instincts were firing on all cylinders. The flowing blonde
hair, the steely gaze, the Nordic features, the motorbike helmet with wings
above each ear. Dammit, he could almost hear Wagner playing at the back of his
head. He wondered how it hadn’t spotted it before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Call me Val,” she told him. “We must act fast. We’re
talking about the end of the world.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The dame meant business. Lark stubbed out his
cigarette, pushed some empty burger boxes aside and started making notes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The battle lines were being drawn up for the last
fight for the fate of the world, she said. Forces were gathering in an evil
alliance to claim the soul of every man, woman or child that had ever lived. Forces
that were all the more powerful for being man-made, so the pantheon of mythical
beings had to come together to resist them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But there was the problem. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The Angels of the Apocalypse,” she sighed. “I’ve tracked
them all down – except one.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Like her, they’d been living among men, waiting for
the call. Orifiel, charged with declaring the coming of judgment day, was the
harmless loon who haunted the Pret stand at Victoria Station begging for scraps
and declaring the end was nigh. Gabriel was thinly disguised as a jazz musician
playing gigs in a dingy Islington club. Haniel, the bringer of compassion, was
better known as a Brenda, resident agony aunt on Radio Bridlington’s morning
show. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But Zachariel, the healer who would lead the dead
to judgment, had gone A.W.O.L. Last thing Val heard, Zach had been working in a
nursing home in Billericay. Turned out he preferred that life. Now a reluctant
angel, he simply hadn’t answered the call to report for the last great battle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lark suppressed a burp, rubbed his face and met her
steady blue gaze. “Perhaps we should discuss the matter of my fee.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She held up her hand, stopping him dead in his
tracks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“How about your immortal soul?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lark nodded meekly. This was no lady to argue with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Good. You’re hired,” she said. “Now, let’s get
down to business.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">++++++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">In the hallway, a sharp-suited man was bent, unseen,
listening at the door. He nodded to himself, straightened up and pulled out his
phone. With a flurry of thumbs, he tapped in a message and hit ‘Send’ with a
vulpine grin before creeping down the stairs to the High Street. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He melted into the crowd, leaving nothing behind
him but a faint fizz of brimstone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-23430358446487191792020-01-29T10:43:00.000+02:002020-01-29T10:44:32.856+02:00The Alphabet Alliance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC4CMXNOrNJC2TpWY9QCp2geVCgQcENzLher8K2plrBA3uCOgO9SlaGm28iG_tn-QYfV6GuHzNw_J6bFmRsDwu3e4l8ByGf0aCcKMpFdQSKUb-iqpzD96c5BgzyRy-pqa24Xdz24tBz_c/s1600/abcd+%2528cropped+2%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="656" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC4CMXNOrNJC2TpWY9QCp2geVCgQcENzLher8K2plrBA3uCOgO9SlaGm28iG_tn-QYfV6GuHzNw_J6bFmRsDwu3e4l8ByGf0aCcKMpFdQSKUb-iqpzD96c5BgzyRy-pqa24Xdz24tBz_c/s400/abcd+%2528cropped+2%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport."<br />
- King Lear, William Shakespeare</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A was the first
to arrive. He knew the importance of staying one step ahead of his enemies, and
two ahead of his friends. Ambition by name. Ambition by nature.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He strode to the
head of the long table and sat down. With a click of the remote control, images
filled the TV screen behind him, the sound muted. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A large, lumpen
man with hair like straw and a dark business suit was beating a podium, his
face contorting as he shouted slogans. A didn’t need the sound to know how the
crowd greeted his words – the triumphant fist pump said it all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He smiled. Everything
was going fine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A knock on the boardroom
door. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Come!” snapped
A. He half-rose from his seat and motioned the woman who entered to take a place
on his left. Mrs B sat and the TV flipped to burning crosses against the night
sky.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“The Pastor will
be with us soon,” a blush spread across her buttoned-up features. “We rode in
together.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Ah yes, the
good Reverend,” A nodded. “A great man. Couldn’t do without his firm moral
compass.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Angry
demonstrators waved “GOD HATES FAGGOTS” banners as a middle-aged man with a
clerical collar and suspiciously smooth face joined them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“All praise!” he
pronounced. “Our time has finally come.” He sat at A’s right hand without being
bidden.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Next came a
buxom blonde with a fake tan, false eyelashes and fur coat. In her wake, a
woman who was her polar opposite - small, timid, birdlike, dressed in brown, eyes
darting about in case of hidden dangers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Mrs B snorted with
contempt at the blonde, looked to the second woman and patted the seat beside
her. “I saved you a place, Miss F.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">F darted over and
sat on the edge of the seat, clutching her bag.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Unphased by the
snub, the blonde threw herself onto a chair, and tipped the contents of her bag
onto the tabletop. Make-up, cigarette packs, fast food wrappers, wet wipes and used
coffee cups spilled out. Nestling among them was a gold lighter emblazoned with
the slogan ‘Nothing succeeds like Excess’. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">C was the last
to arrive, all wild eyes and shambolic fashion sense speaking of deep hurt
buried but never resolved.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Typical Chaos,”
B tutted to F, loud enough to be heard.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Back off,
sister! Have you seen the traffic out there?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He pulled papers
out his pockets, peered at them, dropped a burger wrapper and tried to smooth a
crumpled page. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“We can’t all be
perfect, Mrs Bigotry. You’ve got Judgement and Xenophobia on your side, not to
mention Little Miss Fear here, and Dogma …” he nodded at the Pastor “…with his rules
laying everything out in black and white. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“I got nothin’
like that. I’d like to see how you’d handle natural disasters and madmen who
manoeuvre themselves into power.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A coughed and
shifted in his seat. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Let’s begin,”
he turned to his left. “Maybe you would like start?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Mrs B straightened
her spectacles and stood. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“We’ve been
focusing on the media,” she said, clicking the TV remote. A hard-eyed woman baying
into a microphone, a Twitter feed pock-marked with capital letters and
exclamation marks, headlines screaming.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Our well-known
allies in the ‘War on Woke’: shock jocks, publicity-hungry celebrities, trolls
and tabloids. But in the past few months, we’ve seen growing support from the so-called
‘serious’ media – something we would never have seen if not for the admirable
work of Popularism.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Excellent,”
said A. He cast a questioning glance at C, who was still searching for
something in his backpack. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Not yet,” came
the reply.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A rolled his
eyes – but a smile played on his lips. He turned to his right. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Very well.
Then, perhaps we can hear from the good Reverend?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Gladly,” said
D. He took the remote control and clicked to a PowerPoint presentation. Every page
was headed ‘The One True Way’. Graphs, maps and figures danced across the
screen, dominated by an angry red arrow in a jagged upwards trend.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Despite our
concerns over rising secularism, we’re seeing a welcome resurgence of fundamentalism
across the board.” Burning effigies slid onto the screen. “And not just in our
heartland, where you’d expect. We’re seeing great work by Mullahs, Rabbis and even
in some Buddhist strongholds.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He smiled at F,
cowering across the table. “Much of this can be attributed to our good friend
Fear, as well as the excellent work of our agents in the field Ignorance,
Oppression and Zealotry. Praise be.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">All eyes turned
to C. Head down, he was still sorting through his papers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A turned to
Excess. “Madam E, if you’d be so kind?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The big blonde
flounced to the head of the table and posed before the TV which now showed mountains
of plastic flaking fibrous strands into the wind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Our recycling
campaign has been a HUGE success. We’ve convinced people that all they have to
do is throw their trash in a different bin and they can carry on consuming with
a clear conscience.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">On the screen, hessian
bags sat in a shopping trolley with boxes, bags, vacuum-sealed vegetables and
shrink-wrapped bananas.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Meanwhile, our
sideline businesses selling reusable cups, bottles, bags and more are seeing
record sales – and 80% of households are repeat buyers. We’re on track to smashing
our target, and making a tidy profit in the process.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Excess sat down
and Miss F got to her feet. As she did, the image on the screen flipped again.
An endless line of people snaked across the screen – every one of them young,
male, dark-skinned and sinister. Bold red letters screamed ‘BREAKING POINT’
next to a frog-faced man in a grey business suit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“We’ve been
working with Mrs B and her team, and the results speak for themselves. Even among
those who claim to embrace diversity, fear of the ‘other’ is at record levels.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“And whenever
concessions are made, our response mechanisms are working like clockwork. Look
no further than the conspiracies about cancelling Christmas and removing the
word Easter from chocolate eggs. All excellent fuel for paranoia.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A shot her a
Cheshire Cat grin of approval, and she sat down. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Finally, it was
the turn of Chaos. He gave up rifling through his papers and walked to the head
of the table. The screen leapt into staccato action showing wildfires, looters,
floods, caged children, riots, a boy carrying a gun as big as himself…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“It’s growing
exponentially,” said C. “It’s clear we’re approaching the tipping point, from
which there’s no return…” he gave a hollow laugh “…exactly as we planned.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Excellent work,
Chaos – yet again,” said A. “But next time, please be ready when it’s your
turn.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">C flipped A the
finger behind his back. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“That’s
something I never got. Why is it so goddamn important to have everything in ABC
order?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A sighed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“It’s about
symbols. The alphabet is a human creation. So are we.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He settled back
into his chair, a smirk smeared across his face.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“The signs are
good. Project End Days is progressing well. You will all be rewarded – in this
life or the next.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">In a spreading
bruise of yellow, red and black, a familiar mushroom cloud filled the TV
screen. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br /></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-65946682229058114872019-12-04T10:01:00.000+02:002019-12-25T08:59:04.115+02:00Spiked<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeCVbdbIw1QBl6NY94Idr2Pr3Lao9MYb56sBP-SHqA2cRFgkjAxYy3CLyiEBIYTTHCc3T0w7AB_u3o8TMyvj41uAoH29SvS1WmB4MZUNheuMcFeWQNEZbxzHu9qAXLZi9QMQEY9QeMEyQ/s1600/spike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeCVbdbIw1QBl6NY94Idr2Pr3Lao9MYb56sBP-SHqA2cRFgkjAxYy3CLyiEBIYTTHCc3T0w7AB_u3o8TMyvj41uAoH29SvS1WmB4MZUNheuMcFeWQNEZbxzHu9qAXLZi9QMQEY9QeMEyQ/s320/spike.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ll never forget my first Thursday afternoon in the newsroom. A siren cut through the air, and a low growl rattled beneath us. Nervous, unsure what to do, I looked around me. No-one turned a hair.<a name='more'></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That rumble and hum grew louder and faster until it settled into a steady, strident rhythm. A new sound followed, a liquid slither as a river of paper was swallowed by a mighty monster in its lair, as the twin scents of hot metal and printing ink wafted their way up the stairs from the presses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was September 1970 and my first week as a cub reporter was nearly over. I was fresh from grammar school and not yet shaving daily. I was wide-eyed, green and utterly in love with the gritty glamour of the world of print journalism.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was excited to become part of the ‘Fourth Estate’, even if that was as the lowest of the low in shabby, cluttered newsroom in South London with more than double the national rate of divorce and alcoholism. It was a place of jangling telephones, raised voices, petty arguments, bluff, bluster, cynicism and cut-throat competition. A cluttered, smoke-filled den filled with scruffy excitable individuals who were deceptively organised (they had to be, to create order out of all that chaos).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That first print day is branded on my memory as surely as that week’s lead story was splashed across the front page. It’s still there, nearly 50 years later - unlike the headline which was wrapping fish from the chippy by the following Friday night.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back then, we had to bash out our copy on slips (one original, two carbon copies) with manual typewriters, and the paper was printed using hot metal typesetting. Discarded copy slips, expense claims forms, old notes slammed onto ‘spikes’, forgotten coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays littered our desks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sounds like hell, but I loved it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’d never been a sporty kid at school, being too fond of meat pies and sneaky smokes behind the bike shed. But in my first two months at the Gazette, I must have lost 20 pounds running down corridors and flights of stairs to thrust handfuls of copy at the subs working with typesetters to set up each page on the ‘stone’. They paid no attention to the sweating pile of human panting at their feet. I was a junior, after all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was no Internet or mobile phones back then. We had to hunt out the news - walking the streets, calling on people, checking with police and fire stations. The tools of our trade? Our wits, our contacts and our notebooks. Stories that broke just before deadline had to be phoned in, if you could find a working phone box.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A local paper was a strange beast, part of the community it served. And we were not easily forgiven when that community felt we failed it. People knew the reporters, the cars they drove and, often, where they lived. They had no qualms about confronting us if we got something wrong. That – and the fear of god (or the News Editor, basically the same thing) – make us check everything over and over.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In my time at the Gazette, I’ve covered grisly murders, outrageous miscarriages of justice, horrific accidents, council meetings dull enough to paralyse your brain, petty disputes and human tales that restored faith in humanity in the heart of this cynical old hack. I hope that I have, in some small way, helped bring about some changes to make the world just a little bit better or fairer. I hope I’ve answered that call that landed me in the newsroom back in September 1970.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today’s newsrooms are very different. They’re politically correct, clinical, air-conditioned havens peopled by clean-living individuals who have probably never seen an electric typewriter, let alone an antique like the one I started on. The only sounds to break that ordered atmosphere are the clicking of computer keyboards and the occasional chirrup of a mobile phone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">News is now instantaneous, so the focus of a local rag has had to change. It’s no longer a priority to get the local news to our readers – they get it all online, after all. Instead, it’s about attracting advertisers, offering the best promotions, and giving unpaid, untrained 'citizen journalists' a platform from which to grind their axes to fill column inches (often at the cost of impartiality and decent writing). And if there’s an empty space on page 6, we get some starry-eyed intern to bash out a ‘listicle’ telling readers 15 things they didn't know about the Town Hall, or 30 ways to keep their kiddies amused during the holidays.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm nostalgic for the old days' chaos and uncompromising News Editors who insisted on the best reporting and writing. We produced something we were satisfied with every week – and occasionally something we were proud of.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">News is less physically demanding now. You don’t have to leave the office to chase a story. You don’t even need to leave your screen. You’re encouraged not to.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The stone has given way to on-screen layout, the symbiotic relationship between sub and typesetter is dead, murdered by digital design. We all now have access to multiple sources of information, instantly, at the touch of a button.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But something’s been lost along the way. The hacks that populated newsrooms for much of the 20th century still have valuable lessons to teach us. That we should never simply swallow everything we are told. That we should not be overawed by authority. That we should always ask the key questions – what, when, how, where, and <em>(most of all)</em> why – and insist on straight answers. That it’s OK to break the mold and take a sideways look at things. That it's right to be outraged by injustice and believe things can be changed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The roots of that tradition go back to social observers and would-be reformers like Samuel Pepys, Charles Dickens, George Bernard Shaw, H.G. Wells and George Orwell. It’s a tradition I am proud to have served in my own little corner of the world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I miss my spike, that vicious sic-inch nail that used to grace every reporter’s desk. That's where old stories went when they died, along with our notes for reference in case of a dispute or the threat of legal action. Can't but them for love nor money now. Health & safety.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m another relic from an age gone by. I belong on the industry’s spike – kept for occasional reference, but mostly forgotten.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I can't say I'm sorry to say goodbye to my life as a local newspaper man. I was lucky to come into a business I loved, and for many years believed we were doing something that mattered. But the business has changed beyond recognition and now I’m happy to leave it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s just not my type any more.</span></div>
</div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-39172056793970843632019-10-09T10:38:00.000+03:002019-10-09T10:38:04.502+03:00The Dotted Line<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwH5Ou5WGnLozI6a2E0TEViqpSy3xKVvFmCxfa3dbYxs7NaX0T8py9ExBoRwvAn0PUPcNd091nX3-faHZHpU_lHCzWdcNd4esyXfgQI6hqua0vYUq951BvtEo8WK-TLix48Le6CWxKzGQ/s1600/the+dotted+line.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="859" data-original-width="1300" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwH5Ou5WGnLozI6a2E0TEViqpSy3xKVvFmCxfa3dbYxs7NaX0T8py9ExBoRwvAn0PUPcNd091nX3-faHZHpU_lHCzWdcNd4esyXfgQI6hqua0vYUq951BvtEo8WK-TLix48Le6CWxKzGQ/s320/the+dotted+line.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">The morning silence was
shattered as a woodpecker battered the trunk of an old beech tree in search of
a snack. But it was another banging that woke Klaus from his drunken slumber. Someone
was at the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">He groaned - and immediately
regretted it. It felt like a colony of mining dwarves was digging for gold in
his head. <br />
<br />
“Who izzit? What yer want?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">His mouth tasted like
five-day-old moose droppings, and the scent of spilled alcohol, old chips,
paper and ink filled his nostrils. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“Courier for you, sir.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">Klaus heaved himself to his
feet, shuffled across the room and flung the door open… to no-one. A cough made
him look down into the green eyes of Elvis, one of the workers who lived on the
farm. He wore a beige shirt with a courier logo on his left breast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“Moonlighting?” growled Klaus.
“I could fire you for that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“No, you can’t. We haven’t
signed this year’s contract yet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">A box the size of a filing
cabinet sat on the doorstep. Elvis nudged it with his toe: “That’s what this is
all about.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">An envelope bearing the logo
of the International Bureau of Folklore, Myth and Legends: Festive Events
Division sat on top of the box. An angry <b><span style="color: #c00000;">‘URGENT: Immediate response required’</span></b> was stamped
on it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“Shit. So soon?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“Well, it <i><u>is</u></i> October,” Elvis shrugged. “We’re already behind schedule.
They want the contract back, signed and sealed, straight away.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">Klaus motioned the elf to
bring the box inside, and swept some papers to one side on the tabletop. Puffs
of exertion punctuated the progress of the box as it staggered blindly across
the room. Klaus rolled his eyes, picked it up and put it on the table. Elvis
crumpled into a heap on the floor, pulled a large spotted handkerchief from his
pocket and mopped his brow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">The old man balanced his
reading glasses on the end of his nose and tore the box open. It was full of
requests from the most organised of kids - the annoying, anal-retentive ones who
always sent their requests before the first leaves fell and made a god-awful fuss
if they he got it wrong. He opened the first letter and squinted at the jumble
of https, coms, //s and ¬¬¬¬_s . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">He tossed it aside in disgust.
“I’m too old for this.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">He took the sealed envelope
and ripped it open with a nicotine-stained thumb.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">Fifteen sheets of clauses and
sub-clauses in the kind of legalese that made an IKEA instruction leaflet seem
straightforward plopped onto the table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">As he flipped through the pages,
a wave of acid rose in his throat. Same as last year, and countless years
before - <i>‘…for the duration of the three
months commencing 10 October 2019…’ ‘…the 2<sup>nd</sup> party (hereafter
referred to as “SC”) waives any and all rights to any previous identity…’ ‘…obliged to receive, read and sort
submissions received …’ ‘…sole responsibility
for the allocation of Naughty and Nice, and the consequences thereof…’ ‘…ensure the proper maintenance of sleigh and
livestock for fast-track distribution …’
‘…complete deliveries, regardless of location, within 24 hours of the
date(s) stated in the addendum…’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">Blah, blah, blah, yada, yada,
yada. He’d seen it all before and he’d signed on the dotted line every year for
as long as he could remember. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">So why did it feel different
this time?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">Klaus reached for a pile of
newspapers left unread over the past few weeks. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">The headlines didn’t do much
for his mood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">Fear, fake news, bullying and
discord fought ads and phoney sentiment to dominate the pages. Leaders acting
like spoilt toddlers. Children being forced to lead when they should be
playing. Floods, famine, drones delivering pizzas or raining death on those
below. Macho posturing pushing humanity to one side. Dead whales with bellies full
of plastic discarded in the name of convenience. People fleeing the
unthinkable, only to be met by suspicion and stereotypes. Police prowling
airports and shopping malls. Frantic shoppers pushing past the homeless as they
battle to grab must-have luxuries that would quickly be forgotten. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">Too much stuff. Not enough
spirit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“A-hem.” Elvis coughed
discreetly from the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“You still here, elf?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“I’ve got to wait for your
answer.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“Not now. Later,” grumbled
Klaus. “Bugger off.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">Elvis scuttered out, leaving the
old man scowling at the table. Maybe he’d just sit at home and drink his way
through the wine cellar this year. If he refused to sign or report for duty, w</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">ould anyone notice?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">He popped the cork on a bottle
of port and poured himself a large glass. Then another. And another…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">…it
was the smell of cinnamon cookies that roused him. Like the ones his mama used to
serve for Christmas morning breakfast. And there she was, sitting across the
table telling him to drink up his milk so they could go see what Santa had
left.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">The
freshly lit kitchen fire was crackling. Just a few crumbs sat on the plate he’d
left on the hearth the night before, and the sherry glass next to it was empty.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“Hurry
up, sweetheart.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">Klaus
blinked at a nostalgic tear as his mother took a last drag on her cigarette and
dropped it into her coffee cup. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“Yes,
Mama,” he squeaked in a voice he’d forgotten was ever his. He drank his milk,
jumped down from his chair and took her hand. She covered his eyes before
opening the parlour door... <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“Mister Klaus! Wake up!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">Elvis nearly poked the old man in the
eye with his nose as he came to, the taste of cookies and his happy
childhood Christmas still fresh on his tongue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“You’ve got to sign. Now!” He
elf handed him his sugar cane pen. “On the dotted line, like always.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EL;">“Just like always,” sighed
Klaus, as he scribbled his name. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Elvis breathed a sigh of
relief, gathered up the contract and dashed out the door, relieved he could
tell the other elves they wouldn’t be looking for work this year, after all.</span></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-34268748390724654702019-09-11T10:17:00.002+03:002019-09-11T10:40:42.303+03:00Blessed Be The Fruit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uhdrA_bfT7Lt12XMhgYp3CpKtuJRVYaQtJWTkMPVwW6t1_WgB-Wt4qyUpbGuOQCie0i9G3ZcyTiAOLqi6Ou531Xx6GRg5H0nrSOg_SAhL8gEhcIZVT-shHMMnMRn7O9UQKB0Hh1sYmk/s1600/Blessed+be+The+Fruit+-+fig-tree-2170921_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="905" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uhdrA_bfT7Lt12XMhgYp3CpKtuJRVYaQtJWTkMPVwW6t1_WgB-Wt4qyUpbGuOQCie0i9G3ZcyTiAOLqi6Ou531Xx6GRg5H0nrSOg_SAhL8gEhcIZVT-shHMMnMRn7O9UQKB0Hh1sYmk/s320/Blessed+be+The+Fruit+-+fig-tree-2170921_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Albert pulls
the hood over his head, enjoying its smooth embrace as he fastens it in place.
He shuts his eyes to focus on what lies ahead, preparing for his part in the
solemn ritual. It’s nearly time, he tells himself, not long now. Unable to
contain his curiosity, he crosses the small chamber and pushes the door open a
crack. Just enough to see what is happening on the other side. What’s waiting
for him. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There they
are, hundreds of them. Streaming in silently, filling the pews beneath the soaring
sandstone arches. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Where once sweet </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">castrati
</i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">voices had been offered up to the heavens, the only sound is shuffling of
feet against the polished marble floor, a low murmur and the occasional cough. All eyes are turned to the High Altar. Desperation hangs in the air like a
miasma. Though they are many, the crowd stands like a single creature, wounded,
watching, hope oozing from its pores. Waiting.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Sulphur-tinged
daylight lends a sepia hue to the jewel-bright colours of the stained glass
windows that workers laboured over centuries ago, for the glory of God. But the
religion the cathedral was built to serve is now long dead, its saints and
martyrs no longer revered. Its nooks and nave now heave with living bodies
pressed against statues of forgotten knights, bishops and patrons.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">No
Eucharist is performed at the altar where priests once shared the body and
blood of Christ to congregations hungry for redemption. Instead, a large glass
dome stands before it, hermetically sealed against the acrid air. Inside stand two
trees, each as tall as three men, with broad, glossy leaves spread like splayed
green hands over their branches. They echo the idyllic image in the first of
the tryptic of windows that rise up behind the chancel. A vision of the
beginning of the world, unspoiled, unsullied, innocent, populated by one man
and one woman. Adam and Eve, unashamed and naked but for some strategically
placed foliage, in the Garden of Eden.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #38761d;">And the Lord God commanded the man,
“You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the
tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat from it you will
certainly die.”</span></span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #38761d;"> <br />
– Genesis 2: 16-17</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The trees
in the dome are fig trees – one male, one female. Their fruit a symbol of
fertility, like a ripe womb, considered by some the original source of
temptation in God’s first garden. That temptation is seen in the second window,
a snake twisted around the trunk as it whispers enticements into Eve’s ear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Hlk17980502"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #38761d;">“You will not
certainly die,” the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat
from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and
evil.”</span></span></i></b></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk17980502;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #38761d;"> <br />
– Genesis 3: 4-5</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk17980502;"></span>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">These are
the only living trees left anywhere on the planet. Beyond the dome, every leaf,
flower and blade of grass has withered or been burned and stripped away. The
sky is tinged with an ominous ochre, the land a uniform sea of grey-beige
cement. The oceans are reduced to a listlessly heaving mass of flotsam that
will never rot nor sink. No squawk of birds or buzz of insects joins the hum of
human occupation – they haven’t for more than a generation. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And yet, congregations
still gather at the cathedrals to worship and pray.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The crowd
looks to its left at the sound of a small door at the side of the nave opening.
They follow Albert’s slight, bent figure as he steps out and pads his cushion-soled
way to the altar. He’s the chief attendant, dressed not in the priestly robes or
vestments of past centuries but a hooded bio-suit and perspex face mask. Moving
with the reverence of the most pious supplicant, he takes a card from the bag slung
around his body, places it into the slot at the opening to the dome, unlocks
the outer door and enters. Closing it behind him, he turns and steps through
the second door into the trees’ realm. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Albert is a
horticulturist, the last of an almost-dead breed. At nearly 160, medical science
has ensured that his mind is still clear and multiple laser surgeries have kept
his vision sharp. His movements are painful despite his many implants, yet driven
by the urgency of his mission. Named after the patron saint of scientists, Albert
is a mere mortal, decades beyond his prime and wracked with doubt and
desperation. The load he carries is a heavy one. The hopes of the world lie on
his shoulders. Hopes for a green resurrection. Rebirth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It’s time
to begin the ritual. He plucks two small buds from the male tree, cuts them open
and taps out their pollen into a sterilized steel bowl before gathering the precious
dust into a syringe. Then he takes a needle and passes it all the way through
the single fruit hanging from the female tree. Into the hole it leaves, he injects
the pollen and, lifting his mask a little, gently blows into the hole like a
kiss on the wind - just to be sure.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In the third
window above him, the faces of the man and woman are twisted with fear and
anguish. No longer naked, they’re covered with rough tunics as they flee an
angry angel charged with their punishment. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #38761d;">And the Lord God said, “The man has
now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to
reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live
forever.” So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the
ground from which he had been taken.</span></span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #38761d;"> <br />
– Genesis 3: 22-23</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A deep
sense of peace passes through Albert’s bones. His mission is complete, his
purpose fulfilled. He is done. He turns and faces the crowd. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">With
shaking hands, he removes his mask completely. As he slips his hood down, the
halogen light glints off his delicate pink scalp dotted with age spots and wispy
white hair. </span></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The gloves go next, freeing him to unzip the bio-suit and step buck-naked
out of it. His meatless buttocks sag loosely as he turns to face the trees. He
raises his arms to them in tribute then brings his hands together in prayer. The
crowd responds with a mass murmur rippling through the pews:</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d;">“Blessed Be The Fruit.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Albert is spent.
His time is over. These are his last moments, and he is claiming them. He sits creakily
cross-legged at the foot of the mother tree and leans his head against her
trunk. His eyes flutter and close as he breathes a long sigh of contentment. Beneath
his lids dance visions of juicy red-fleshed figs plucked from the trees in the
sunlit gardens of his youth more than a century and a half ago. He has regained
his paradise. Only time will tell if he is alone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The ritual
is complete, but the congregation does not leave. Even after Albert’s chest
rises and falls gently for the last time, they refuse to go. This is where they
need to be. There is no fear on their faces, just weariness and resignation
pricked with faith. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Reluctant to return to the harsh, leafless world beyond the
cathedral walls, they sit and wait. For a miracle. For a resurrection. For the glory
of what they once had, but have lost forever.</span></div>
<br /></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-28655189437696088672019-08-14T09:05:00.000+03:002019-08-15T10:10:28.794+03:00The Artisan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEcmhVRW4Vzv-0QfiDz6DadPe9VkQZmxm_7sjVlSe3nPZD8JSBSQCs8hAVw4Hkn7AlDrLQmMsq4N1jAgUBKWZjacc8WgIdVuVE9oF7y2gikLZPVbvLO1yjFWv34943p2_UIYzVKKUNW0w/s1600/workbench.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="747" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEcmhVRW4Vzv-0QfiDz6DadPe9VkQZmxm_7sjVlSe3nPZD8JSBSQCs8hAVw4Hkn7AlDrLQmMsq4N1jAgUBKWZjacc8WgIdVuVE9oF7y2gikLZPVbvLO1yjFWv34943p2_UIYzVKKUNW0w/s400/workbench.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Today:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A strip of old blue
paint flakes off the door as I lift the latch. It falls to the ground, resting
on the overgrown grass like a petal shed from one of Nana’s beloved
cornflowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The door opens with a
creak and I peer into the gloom. Weak rays of sunlight filter through the
windows at the back of the workroom, smeared with years of dust and neglect.
The light dances clumsily on tarp-shrouded humps whose shape I remembered so
well. Musty air catches in my throat. It speaks of being sealed like a tomb, a
memorial to the most practical of men whose tools now lie obsolete. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />There’s a hint of wood
chips in the air. Very faint, like a distant memory, but enough to recall
countless pieces cut, shaped and smoothed to exactly the right shape and size.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In the corner, covered
by an ancient oil cloth, sits the abandoned power saw. Next to it, shoved
unceremoniously against the wall, is the workbench. His workbench.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">++++++++++++++++++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">August 1976:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />It had been a long, hot
English summer. Quite unlike anything I’d ever known in my 11 years. June, July
and now August had hardly seen a spot of rain. At first it was fun, running
around the garden like little savages in swimsuits, splashing about in paddling
pools, turning a fierce shade of pink whose heat kept us awake at night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Then the hosepipe ban
came into force. The sun kept beating down. Grandad’s carefully tended lawns
turned dry and yellow. The flowers in the herbaceous borders drooped like
surrendering soldiers. The dank, green-tinged rainwater in the butt behind the
shed was soon used up on the thirsty tomatoes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />With no hosepipe to frolic
around with, we quickly tired of playing outside at our grandparents’ house
whilst our parents were working. We’d read all our books, climbed all the trees,
explored the woods at the back of garden (now parched and buzzing with insect
life), and built as many play camps as we could with old bean sticks and
blankets from the shed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Biscuits had been
baked, raspberries and green beans picked, peas shucked from their pods,
tomatoes gathered from the tangy-sweet smelling greenhouse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />We had became blasé to the
heat whose novelty was now quickly waning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />We were bored. And
boredom is a dangerous thing in pre-teen sisters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />++++++++++++++++++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Today:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I wipe the grime from
the heavy cloth and yank it down onto the floor. Mindful of grandad’s
meticulous ways and half fearful he’s still watching me, I bend to fold it
neatly and place it to one side.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The workbench sits
there patiently, just it has for more than half a century, waiting to be useful.
The vice is slightly ajar, ready to tighten its grip whenever needed. There is still
a slick of ancient Vaseline on the thread of its screw to ward off the rust
that dots the handle and the screws holding it in place. Faded numbers mark the
inches along the length of the bench. A carpenter’s pencil, its broad flattened
tip sharpened with a Stanley knife, nestles in one of the grooves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />I bend closer and breathe
in. A faint but still powerful cocktail hits my nostrils - stale sawdust, the
sweet tangy tobacco he rolled into five cigarettes per day (three for breaks
and one after his midday and evening meals), the strangely plastic scent of the
neon pink gel he used to clean heavy duty dirt from his hands. If I close my
eyes, I can almost hear his calm countryman’s voice telling me the right way to
hold the chisel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />++++++++++++++++++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Hlk16421883"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">August 1976:<o:p></o:p></span></b></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk16421883;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The whirring <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">squeeea</i>
of the circular saw stopped abruptly as our girlish voices rose to crescendo.
The workroom door opened, and he stepped out, fixing us with a gaze that
silenced us in an instant. It wasn’t his style to scold or shout at us. He
didn’t need to. We knew he expected better of us.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk16421883;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I think you two need to do something useful,” he
said. “Why don’t you give me a hand in here?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk16421883;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />The card game we had been playing was deserted on the
parched prickly lawn. We rushed to the doorstep and put on our shoes (no bare
feet in the workroom) and joined him at the door. He smiled and led us over the
threshold into the cool within. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk16421883;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />++++++++++++++++++++++<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk16421883;"></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">September 1989:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The workbench was shoved
to the side of the room. The floor around it littered with scrunched up
newspapers and with spent dog ends. The circular saw and all sharp tools were banished,
locked away, for safety’s sake. The workroom was locked. Hadn’t been opened for
months.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Grandad was spending most
of his time sitting in his armchair by now, staring into space. The twinkle in
his eyes extinguished. His hands, unaccustomed to idleness, picking at the
upholstery. When he got up to potter around the garden, someone had to go with
him to be sure he didn’t wander off. We’d learned that lesson when he
disappeared - only to be returned by the local bobby. Everyone knew the man who’d
built so many village houses, and where he lived – even when he didn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Lived. Past tense. He
wasn’t living any more. Not the active, useful life which was the only way he
knew. He was a moving shell housing the faintest whisper of the man he once was.
Some days, he didn’t even remember his own name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />He didn’t know who Nana
was. He knew she looked after him, and that he loved her. Assumed she was his
mother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Some days, he went
outside to howl his rage and frustration at the heavens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />++++++++++++++++++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">August 1976:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A stack of neatly cut
lengths of timber lay on the floor. He handed a pencil to my sister and showed
her how to measure and mark the pieces to the length against the inches on the
workbench top. For me, a square block with sandpaper wrapped around it to
smooth any splinters from the wood held tight in the vice’s grip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Cutting the wood and
handling sharp tools was his job. But he called us both over to watch him work,
always making sure we kept a safe distance as he operated the saw and carefully
carved out holes with a chisel. He was calm, methodical, benevolent. Nothing in
his capable weathered hands or mischievous blue eyes to say girls had no place
in the workroom. An Equal Opportunities grandfather.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Hours passed in
contented industry. Measuring, sanding, sawing and carefully fitting together
the pieces of the puzzle. When we were finished, two stools sat amid a pile of
sweet-smelling shavings. We didn’t even whine when he handed us brooms and a dustpan
to clear up the mess. Our fights were forgotten, and there were two new pieces
of furniture for the play house built on top of what had been a bomb shelter in
the dark days of war.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />++++++++++++++++++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">December 1989:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The last time I saw him
was in the care home. Defeated and confused by his unfamiliar surroundings, he still
had moments of lucidity. Those moments were the worst – a reminder that he knew
what he had become but could do nothing to escape his internal prison cell. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He looked into my eyes
– the same blue as my Mum’s and my Nana’s – and said “I know those eyes so
well”. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I tried – and failed - to
cheer him with talk about the plants in the surrounding gardens. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“They’re dying now,
just like me,” he said. Then, after a heavy pause: “I want you to go and get my
shotgun.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />I looked at him, unsure
what to say. He sank back into the depths of himself and was lost again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />By Christmas Day, he
was dead.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">++++++++++++++++++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">August 1976:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">After a glass of lemon
squash and slice of cake in the sunshine as Grandad smoked his fourth roll-up
of the day, we returned to our work. He had laid newspapers under the stools. A
sharp chemical smell filled the air as he opened a tin of varnish with the
flick of his long-handled screwdriver. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />We sat cross-legged on
the ground in front of the stools, each holding a brush and listened obediently
as he told us how to apply the varnish to the naked wood without leaving
streaks or loose badger hairs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />We were very proud when
we completed the task. Even more so when he tipped the stools to show us the
underside of their seats. While we’d been finishing off the crumbs of Nana’s
sponge cake, he had added a hidden inscription to each in bold letters: our
names, the date and the honourary title ‘Apprentice Carpenter’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />++++++++++++++++++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">August 1990:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I woke up in a cold
sweat, shaking and in tears. Horrified and heartbroken at the betrayal my
sub-conscious had committed. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It had started as a
simple childhood memory of Nana and Grandad’s house. But like so often in
dreams, the details were off. The road in front of the house was different. The
layout of the house was skewed. The garden back-to-front.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The worst inaccuracy,
the greatest betrayal, was Grandad. He wasn’t the gentle, patient, thoroughly
decent man who’d played such an important role in our happy childhood. In my
nightmare, he was a monster, harsh, sadistic, with vicious sharp teeth. We
cowered in the corner of the shed, aghast and shaking with terror as we watched
this monster grab the baby from the pram left in the garden next door and take
off with an evil grin on its cruel, alien face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Nothing could have been
further from the truth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />How could I have
dreamed such a thing? What was wrong with me that my mind could defile his
memory in such a way?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />++++++++++++++++++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Today:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now it’s time to banish
that monster and exorcise the false ghosts. To reclaim my memories of a golden
childhood denied to so many. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />The house is being
sold. The buyers have plans to modernise, so the workroom, play house and sheds
will probably be bulldozed to make way for decking, bamboo curtains, water
features and a barbecue pit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />I pull the workbench
from its corner, brush the debris off and test if the handle on the vice still
turns. It does. Good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />I take the pieces of
wood I’ve brought with me, cut by hands more expert than mine, and set about
sanding them down with the long, unhurried movements he had taught me. When
they are as smooth as satin, I fit them together like a poor man’s Rubik’s cube
and secure them with plates and screws.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Three coats of varnish,
and it’s ready. A stool. Like the ones we made all those years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It just needs one final
touch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />I tip it over and write
under the seat: “<b>Artisan – then, now and always</b>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-16878959240070331822019-05-22T15:20:00.000+03:002019-05-22T16:51:29.007+03:00Hearts of Stone<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOY3eg9UHTIo_pmb5b0OENmbFj3pK0uGEzCHRxc9RqrJGlqmbzVPUysstdnCBeY5md9NZnEh5FUjvY-OXOwRgPkqjZ7uOmFd41-sMfDagMD8wdWD5HxcBnGiK5mkLhn6HEfdHzEZG7mxg/s1600/rome+piazza-del-popolo-fridays-future-panoramica.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="575" data-original-width="1024" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOY3eg9UHTIo_pmb5b0OENmbFj3pK0uGEzCHRxc9RqrJGlqmbzVPUysstdnCBeY5md9NZnEh5FUjvY-OXOwRgPkqjZ7uOmFd41-sMfDagMD8wdWD5HxcBnGiK5mkLhn6HEfdHzEZG7mxg/s400/rome+piazza-del-popolo-fridays-future-panoramica.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve been sitting here on my marble backside for
nearly 200 years. Watching, waiting, a witness to the history of man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazzo del
Popola</i> isn’t the best-known square in the city. It doesn’t draw crowds like
the Colosseum or the saints looking down from the Vatican rooftops do. We don’t
see people willingly throwing their money into our fountain like they do at
Trevi. But it’s our own little corner of the eternal city of Rome. The ‘People’s
Square’ has seen its fair share of humanity, and from where I sit solidly at
the feet of the god of the seas, I’ve had a ringside view of it all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The three of us – Neptune, me and the other Triton on
top the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fontana del Nettuna</i> – have
seen everything. The beginnings and ends of hundreds of affairs. Countless
bottles of wine drunk. Mountains of pasta eaten. Tourists snapping selfies as
testament that, yes, they were here. They pass through, perhaps stopping for a
cup of freshly brewed espresso, before heading for the next ‘must see’ attraction
to tick off their lists and get the shot to prove it. It’s not enough to tread
the flagstones, smell the coffee and nibble on the biscotti - if it’s not on
social media, it doesn’t count, or so it seems. Heads down, thumbs busy. Do
they even see what’s happening around them?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But today? Today is different. The Square is throbbing
with kids. Children and teenagers who really should be in school – it is
Friday, after all. But here they are. In their thousands. Chattering like a
flocks of starlings, laughing like hyped-up hyenas, shouting like over-excited
penguins. Selfies are shot, hand-made signs are waved, music blares out. Some
pedal madly on the bank of bicycles behind us, going nowhere but generating
enough young energy to power the sound system set up in front of our fountain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The air really does smell of teen spirit. And outrage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The babble lulls as a small, pigtailed girl in lilac
jeans and a striped top steps up to the microphone. She’s tiny, insignificant,
just a child. But there’s something about her – a certainty, a determination,
the arrogance of youth perhaps? – that silences the crowd. They look up at her
expectantly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6kXWZ2ZDyWVbQdhOBP0EsYvM8HDHrHLYgQ-FhKc7Gaj5S_Sua3zfO1Z5Q0Rwz8YRXtTsNE9-zIAKN-a67Y63sdqZ_ZMedfjMo0SqMsYmTiJXUAGi_ZUru5EJhGlpC9DmfgkYKgzgtqp8/s1600/rome-climate+change+protest+with+greta+thunberg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="600" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6kXWZ2ZDyWVbQdhOBP0EsYvM8HDHrHLYgQ-FhKc7Gaj5S_Sua3zfO1Z5Q0Rwz8YRXtTsNE9-zIAKN-a67Y63sdqZ_ZMedfjMo0SqMsYmTiJXUAGi_ZUru5EJhGlpC9DmfgkYKgzgtqp8/s320/rome-climate+change+protest+with+greta+thunberg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her voice is small too, even through the microphone
that bounces it off the buildings. She speaks in halting, timid, slightly
awkward English.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I speak on behalf of
future generations.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Cheers, hoots and applause explode into the spring
air. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I was born in a time
and place where everyone told us to dream big, I could become whatever I wanted
to, I could live wherever I wanted to. People like me had everything we needed
and more…”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She is not speaking to the crowd. She is speaking for
them, and for countless more not here. She is claiming the voice of those who are
told they are too young, too inexperienced, too immature to have a say. She
speaks to the powers that be, men in suits, decision-makers and those holding
the purse strings. She’s showing them no mercy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You lied to us, you
gave us false hope, you told us the future was something to look forward to.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">A scrape of stone next to me makes me look up. She’s caught
my master’s attention. For the first time since 1823, Neptune has shifted his
sculpted gaze. No longer looking regally out across the Square, he is now
staring at a little girl from Sweden who looks like she’d rather be hiding at
the back of a library than holding a crowd of thousands rapt with her words.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I flick a look across to my fellow Triton (I call him Luigi
- you can call me Al). He raises his eyebrows in surprise. We’ve seen just
about everything since we’ve been here, but nothing has ever moved Neptune. Until
now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But maybe that’s only right. After all, isn’t the very
thing they’re protesting about destroying his realm too? Soon, they’ll be more
plastic in the oceans than fish. Some waters are already too toxic for life. Where
does that leave a messenger of the sea like me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘May you live in interesting times’. Isn’t that how
the old curse goes? Well, I’ve seen my share of interesting times. Mussolini’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Camicie Nere</i> marching through in shirts
as black as their hearts. Violent retribution when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Il Duce</i> was toppled from power and ripped to pieces by an angry mob.
Red Brigade bank robberies and kidnappings. Berlusconi’s belligerent buffoonery.
The unbounded joy of winning the 2006 World Cup.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But perhaps these times are the most interesting of
all. Maybe they’re even the end of the times. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Children behaving like adults, surveying the mess
we’ve made, begging for action to stop it getting worse. Politicians acting
like spoiled brats, fingers in their ears and singing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘la la la la’</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“…Around the year
2030, 10 years, 257 days, 13 hours away from now we’ll be in a position where
we set off an irreversible chain reaction beyond human control, that will most
likely lead to the end of our civilisation as we know it…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>…unless in that time, permanent and
unprecedented changes in all aspects of society have taken place, including a
reduction of CO2 emissions by at least 50 per cent…”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Greta is pulling no punches. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The climate crisis
is both the easiest and the hardest issue we have ever faced, the easiest
because we know what we must do: we must stop the emission of greenhouse gas.
The hardest because our current economics are totally dependent on burning
fossil fuels, and thereby destroying ecosystems in order to create an
everlasting economic growth… …we have to stop burning fossil fuels and restore
nature and many other things we may not have quite figured out yet… “<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">There’s a gravelly creak to my right as Neptune shifts
his left foot, preparing to move forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“… we must start
today, we have no more excuses…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>...nothing is being done to halt or even slow climate breakdown. Despite
all the beautiful words and promises…”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I flex my muscles and get ready to get to my feet for
the first time in centuries. This is no time for sitting around. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“In the last six
months millions of school children all around the world, not least in Italy,
have been school striking for the climate. But nothing has changed, in fact the
emissions are still rising…”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">As Greta’s words ring around the Square, and around
the world, no-one notices that the statues on the fountain behind her have
changed. No longer sitting back watching the world go by, but standing up and
lending our heft of history in the hope of saving the future.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“…We children are
doing this to wake adults up, we children are doing this to get you to act, we
children are doing this because we want our hopes and dreams back...”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Will the adults wake up? Or are the children’s urgent
pleas about climate change lost in the bickering about banks and immigrant
boats? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Their passion have woken hearts of stone in our little
corner of Rome. But what will it take to stir those who can make the
difference?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-86624360667500844942019-04-24T10:32:00.001+03:002019-04-24T10:32:59.372+03:00The Game<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4kGzV6eAXNr7ghKJRf5sw8RmOv8BNRZeAM2Mc6Jcbpum29p8KnxYqXtFh-3IPU7XHGIGTx8Oy-Up9COgNFXNO7zPmBTiDBJiNlQE5txO1enbczESuhvyZ1G7mFzgSKu4FRrupZ590Y7w/s1600/The+Game+-+blood+on+porcelain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="500" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4kGzV6eAXNr7ghKJRf5sw8RmOv8BNRZeAM2Mc6Jcbpum29p8KnxYqXtFh-3IPU7XHGIGTx8Oy-Up9COgNFXNO7zPmBTiDBJiNlQE5txO1enbczESuhvyZ1G7mFzgSKu4FRrupZ590Y7w/s320/The+Game+-+blood+on+porcelain.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
She watched, fascinated, as the bead of red bloomed out of the cut in the soft flesh on the inside of her forearm. Glistening petals broke the surface tension and trickled down to the bend of her elbow, making patterns like naked trees against a winter sky. It surprised her how little it hurt - just a small drag followed by a clean metallic sting as the old-fashioned blade bit into her skin.<br /><br />Holding her arm up to the cold electric light, she admired the liquid as it dripped and pooled onto the enamel of the washbasin, making bright circles of surprise on the white. A sly smile crept across her lips as she thought of what would go through her mum’s mind when she spotted the bloody splashes that she would ‘accidentally-on purpose’ miss.<br /><br />Gripping the barber’s razor in her hand felt good - grown-up, powerful, in control, even glamourous. She was the romantic lead in her own movie, and surely the tragic heroine would get the attention of some tortured prince out there. Wouldn’t she?<br /><br />The flow was starting to dry up, so she clutched the blade in her fingers and slashed lightly across the cut to revive it. She held the razor’s elegant V-shape like she’d seen in the movies, but a just little too tightly. Its sharp edge bit into the pad of her thumb, forcing her to drop it with a clatter into the sink, wincing in pain, trying to suck away the ache. She tracked the new trickle as it ran down, holding up her hand and twisting it to make the blood work its way around her wrist like a ruby amulet.<br /><br />An angry banging on the door roused her. Her sister. Always her sister.<br /><br /><i>“Get out of there - I haven’t even cleaned my teeth yet.”</i><em><br />“All right, I’m coming!”</em> She wrapped her bleeding forearm tissues, wiped down the porcelain and hid the blade in the back of the cupboard, for later. The door burst impatiently open the moment she turned the key, before she could pull the sleeve of her school shirt over the blood. Her sister rolled her eyes in exasperation and muttered <em>“Idiot”</em> as she grabbed her toothbrush.<br /><em><br />“It doesn’t make you any more interesting,”</em> she said, toothpaste frothing in her mouth making her look like a rabid doll. <em>“It’s not clever, and it’s not cool. It’s just stupid.”</em><br />
<br />The younger girl sneered and tossed her hair in what she imagined was exactly the same move as the tortured heroine in her favourite teen vampire series.<br /><br />Throughout the day, she obsessively examined the reddened welts, stroking them, picking at their edges, enjoying the frisson of pain when she prodded them. She relished the part she’d given herself to play. Her sleeves were left casually rolled up, but no-one noticed – until Annie grabbed her arm in the playground, stared intently at the skin and looked up with glittering eyes and a vulpine grin.<br /><br /><i>“We’re blood sisters now,”</i> she whispered. <em>“Your pain is my pain. We’re connected, and I’ll always know when you’re hurting. Next time, we do it together.”</em><i><br /></i>At the dinner table, she waved off her mother’s enquiries about the spots of blood in the bathroom, saying she’d cut her legs shaving them in a hurry before school. Her sister’s muttered <em>“Yeah, right”</em> went unnoticed or ignored.<br /><br /><i>“Mum, can Annie come round this evening? I’ve done all my homework."<br /></i>Her mother nodded as she loaded the dishwasher. It was a Friday, after all, and she had a week’s worth of housework to get through before Monday - having a friend over would keep her attention-hungry youngest out from under her feet.<br /><br />Two hours later, behind the locked bathroom door, the game continued. Annie held the blade and slashed her own palm, then swiped at her friend’s before fiercely clasping their hands together until their mingled blood oozed out and trickled down their wrists.<br /><br /><i>“Do you trust me?”</i> she demanded, looking intensely at her friend. A mute nod. <em>“Hold out your other arm.”</em><i><br /></i>Anna drew a long line from inner elbow to wrist, admiring the flowering scarlet that followed the blade’s progress. The girl winced, panic flashed in her eyes. It bit deeper than before, flashing hot fear through her as she saw the flow well up from the cut. Fat shining globules fell to the floor like hailstones in summer.<br /><br />This wasn’t a game anymore. She didn’t want to play anymore.<br />
Was it too late to stop?</div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-89038863203798649352019-03-27T14:13:00.000+02:002019-03-27T14:13:13.300+02:00Passenger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHEZmIS1bKE1hiJek8CijFktEqY8vZo-HX7cuBLg5cRn4RMAaVjugy0qpstiHC6ahR_5CuwM3sn4_0CU_udV7SlSZnWztZtmAcscg01Vm-7IhyphenhyphenckDSG2j5vVe-zmYP0-fO12XAZh-01SI/s1600/london-underground-carriage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="209" data-original-width="350" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHEZmIS1bKE1hiJek8CijFktEqY8vZo-HX7cuBLg5cRn4RMAaVjugy0qpstiHC6ahR_5CuwM3sn4_0CU_udV7SlSZnWztZtmAcscg01Vm-7IhyphenhyphenckDSG2j5vVe-zmYP0-fO12XAZh-01SI/s320/london-underground-carriage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin screwed the buds into her ears, scrolled through
the screen on her phone and clicked on her favourite podcast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t thank
the gods, and especially Steve Jobs, for technology. The burble it delivered helped
her zone out and get through the twice-daily ritual of strap hanging, personal
space invasion and pungent reminders of what other people had for dinner the
night before. The train was a necessary evil - a quicker, cheaper and less
stressful commute than driving across the city and searching for a space to
park that wouldn’t cost her an expensive fee or a fine. It was just a shame
that so many other people had to be in the carriage with her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She took a last gulp of fresh air and stepped onto the
escalator that carried her down into the bowels of the earth. All around her,
people scurried about like ants in a panic after a boot smashes their nest. Everyone
had the same frantic zombie vibe. Some days – usually when she’d slept less
than the average fruit fly – she could almost see a Hieronymus Bosch painting with
her fellow commuters as the tortured damned in the Underworld. Whether they
were suited and booted for business, made-up to the nines, fresh from the bed
they’d dragged themselves from, or gym-ready in sweats and leggings, they all
had the same air of weary urgency. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And, of course, eye contact was strictly taboo. Only
crazy people look you in the eye when you’re underground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">One of the crazies was waiting for Erin as she reached
the bottom of the escalator.</span><span lang="EN-US"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mad George was one of those uninvited reminders of the ever-widening
holes in society’s safety net that pricked her conscience every time she saw
him. She couldn’t remember when she’d first noticed his rambling, shambling
presence. She guessed he’d always been there, part of the army of invisibles
who reminded ‘ordinary’ folk like her of what might be if they strayed too far.
Broken but harmless, he was enough of a jolt to her normality to make her feel
uncomfortable. Guilty. Enough to prompt a mumbled “Morning, George” before handing
over a few coins from her pocket, but not enough to look him in his red-rimmed
eyes. She always focused her gaze somewhere just above the bridge of his broken
nose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin started the pantomime of searching her pockets
and grimacing an apology for having no spare change. But George held up his
hand to stop her. He reached out his index finger, its chewed nails blackened
with neglect, and poked her on the shoulder. The shock of the uninvited touch
from a street bum who’d waved goodbye to sanity years ago gave her a physical
jolt. Like being pushed aside in her own body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Tag,” said George in a voice like the rasp of a key
turning in a rusty lock, stiff from lack of use. “You’re It.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He smiled, nodded to himself, turned and walked away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin stopped for a heartbeat, watching him, before
being shoved along with an angry grunt by the lady behind her. They swept
through the turnstile, swiped their tickets, and were washed up onto the
platform.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Screwing her earbuds back in, Erin sighed and shook
her head at George’s latest eccentricity. She tapped her phone’s screen and
prepared to tune into the dulcet and oh-so-eloquent tones of Stephen Fry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Woah! What the…?” a voice that was most definitely
not Stephen Fry’s rang through her head. “How the…? Where I am? What’s
happening?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin ripped the buds from her ears and looked at her
phone. The screen was blank. No battery. Odd. She’d charged it overnight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The voice continued even though her earbuds were now
dangling from her hand: “And who the hell are you? Where’s George?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She looked up and down the crowded platform. No-one
else showed any sign of having heard the shout. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Oi! You! Yes, you. Answer me. What happened to
George?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin looked around, started to stutter an answer…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Not out loud, you ninny. You want people to think
you’re a nutter?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin clapped a hand over her mouth, twirling round and
looking up and down the platform for whoever was talking to her. <br />
<br />
“In your head. Answer in your head. I’m inside you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Omygod, thought Erin. It’s finally happened. I’ve
flipped. All downhill from here. Before you know it, I’ll be wheeling a
shopping trolley around filled with old shoes and shouting at passers-by about
cats in space ships.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Don’t be so daft. You’re as sane as I am,” said the
voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Hardly the most reassuring thing I’ve heard this year,
thought Erin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Oi, cheeky cow. Enough of that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With a whoosh of stale air, the train slid into the
station. Its doors opened, a wave of people got out and Erin joined the wave
that replaced them. She grabbed the pole, leant her forehead against its cool metal
and willed the voice to shut up and go away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I’m not going anywhere, darlin’. Can’t. Not yet.
You’ve gotta help me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Tentatively, and still worried about her grip on
reality, she tried answering the voice – inside her head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Help you? How? If I’m not going mad, then what is all
this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Calm down. It’s nothing to worry about.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin felt about as calm as a hedgehog in a tumble
dryer. “Really? So, suddenly hearing random voices inside my head is perfectly
normal, is it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Well, not normal, I’ll admit that. But I’ve sussed
out what’s happened. You’ve been tagged.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Tagged. You know. You’re ‘It’. Like when we were kids
in the school yard.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“We?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Yes, we. I went to school too, you know. Probably
round about the same time as you. George tagged you, so I’m inside you – for
now. Hitching a ride, I suppose. And I really, really need your help. I gotta
get home. Please. Help me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin wanted to run… or faint…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>or scream…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>anything to get away. But squashed between an old lady clutching a bag
of meagre groceries and a 30-something bloke who thought it was a good idea to
go straight from the gym to the office – without taking a shower – was hardly
the best place for it. If she was lucky, she’d be ignored, the subject of stony-faced
embarrassment. At worst, she’d been thrown off the train and collected by
station security.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She shook her head, tried to clear the madness. Then
she listened, carefully… Good. Nothing but the rocking of the train, beeps and
nasal announcements from the speakers, and the chatter of the group of
schoolkids in the corner. Seems she’d been imagining things after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She screwed her earbuds back in and checked her phone.
Oh yeah, dead. Great. Oh well, just enjoy the silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Well? You gonna help me? You’ve got to help me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The voice hadn’t gone anywhere. It had been biding its
time. Maybe giving her time to recover from the shock. It hadn’t been enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“You’re just my imagination. What I get for eating too
much cheese at night, or maybe that tuna I had was past its sell-by date. Or
not enough coffee this morning. Or something. Anything that makes sense.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“No. I’m real, alright.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“… …?”<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Yeah, I know. I’m still trying to deal with it
myself. It was only last night that…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“…that what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Well, not to make too fine a point of it, that I was
walking around just like you. You know, in my body. Had a laugh with my mates.
A few drinks, maybe a few too many. And on way home…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bham! One minute there I was…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and then… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next thing I know, I’m inside this mad old
geezer dossing in a doorway, looking through his eyes at blue flashing lights
and an ambulance crew scooping me up off the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Been walking around in George’s head ever since.
Well, til he tagged you… Didn’t know he could do that, but I’m glad he did.
Feels much better inside your head. His is a right mess, poor old bugger.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin let out a sigh and shook her head. “All right,
let’s say I’ll help you. How am I supposed to do that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Just get me home. To Jessie, my girl. Wife actually.
We got married a month ago. I can’t bear the thought of life – or the
afterlife, I s’pose – without her. Not quite yet. I know I can’t stay forever
but just a little bit more…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that’s all.
It all happened so quick. I’ve got to get to her. Be with her. Even if it’s
just for a little while…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The voice cracked a little. A sniff, and a heavy sigh.
Almost as if it was crying. But can you cry without a body?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The train rattled into the station and the doors slid
open. Erin stepped out and mounted the escalator.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Hang on. How’d you know to get out here? I never told
you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I always get out here. It’s my stop.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Well, well. Seems like George knew what he was doing,
after all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I seriously doubt that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Well, I dunno, the fates or something. This is
exactly where I need to be. You know that little park by the station?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin nodded. She walked past it every day on the way
to work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Jess takes the dog for a walk there every morning,
round about this time. Daft mongrel she got from the shelter. Called him Spike…
stupid name for a dog… but she’s nuts about him. No matter what, even with me
dead, she won’t miss taking Spike for his morning walk.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“But what am I supposed to do?” asked Erin, trudging
up the last steps to daylight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Tag her, of course.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Oh, so I just walk up to some poor woman who’s just
lost her husband and poke her? I don’t think she’ll thank me, you know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“You’ll work out the way. I can tell from in here that
you’ve got a way with people.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The gate to the park creaked as Erin pushed it open
and looked around. An ordinary inner city park. Kids dragging their feet on
their way to school, a man in a high vis vest raking leaves into a pile, swings
and a climbing frame sitting empty on a bouncy rubber floor, bins overflowing
with plastic bottles and fast food wrappers… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A bag lady in a rainbow bobble hat waddled past,
dragging a suitcase bulging with newspapers. The council worker had stopped his
raking for a sneaky smoke. A woman in a business suit and running shoes was
power-walking across the grass. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“There she is!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Where?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“There. On the bench, over there. That’s my Jess.
That’s my girl.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Half hidden by the trunk of an oak tree, a young woman
with dirty blonde hair scraped back into a messy ponytail was slumped on the
seat. Her shoulders were heaving with soundless sobs and a scruffy grey dog was
nuzzling her face, trying to lick the tears away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Go on. What are you waiting for? Go to her!” The
voice was frantic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“And do what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I dunno, ask if she’s alright. Give her a hug or
something.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin shook her head. She may be a people person, but
giving hugs to crying strangers was not her style. As she approached the bench,
she heard Jess mumbling under her breath: “Oh Spike, what’m I gonna do? He’s
gone. I’m all alone.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The voice was urgent now. “Do it!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin shyly approached the girl. “Um, are you alright,
love? Do you need help?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Jess took her hands from her face and raised
red-rimmed eyes to look at Erin. She wiped her tears and sniffed back a bubble
of snot, but there was no hiding her heart-ripped-to-shreds grief. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Bet I look a sight,” she mumbled. “Thanks, but you
can’t do anything. I’ve just got to carry on... …but<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>…but<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>…I
don’t know how.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin sat down next to her, saying nothing. What could
she say? She just sat. And waited.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Jon, my husband, was hit by a drunk driver last
night. Died on the spot, even before the ambulance got there. The driver did a
runner and of course his mates didn’t get the number…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him not to go out with Darren…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bloody idiot. He’s left me all alone, and I
don’t know what I’m going to do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She flung her arms the dog and sobbed into its
grey-specked fur.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Now! Do it now,” hissed Jon. “You saw what George
did. Just a touch. Put you hand on her shoulder or something. You’re a
sympathetic stranger, it’s only natural.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Tentatively, Erin reached out and patted the green
wool of Jessie’s coat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Do you want go for a cup of tea or something?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Jess looked up. “Tea? I’ve had enough tea to sink a
battleship since the police knocked on my door last night. But thanks, anyway.
You’re a good person. But I’ve just got to get used to him not being around
anymore, haven’t I?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin sat, awkwardly, unsure what to do next. Had she tagged
Jess? Was Jon gone?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Oh, for fu…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
don’t bloody believe it. I didn’t work.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He was still there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“You must have done it wrong. Tag her again, harder
this time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Jess got to her feet and gave a small sad smile. Erin
took a step towards her, wondering how to touch her again without seeming
creepy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Thanks for asking, but I’ll be alright,” sniffed
Jessie. “I’ve got to be, haven’t I?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin reached out and touched her elbow, probably more
forcefully than necessary. Jessie didn’t notice a thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Shit,” cursed Jon. “Still nothing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Erin told him. “Try again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Jess picked up Spike’s lead, and beckoned the dog. But
it backed away and jumped up at Erin, who ruffled the rough hairs on its head
and held his muzzle with its slobbering tongue at arm’s length.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Whoosh…</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Everything went quiet, no birds tweeting in the trees.
Not even the roar of distant traffic. Then the moment was gone. Spike’s ears
pricked up, he dropped to the ground and bounded to Jessie…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Jon didn’t know what had hit him. It was like he’d
been shoved aside and sucked through a vacuum. He wasn’t in Erin anymore. He
was somewhere else. It was warm, familiar… and slightly smelly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He tried talking to his new host, but there were no
words. Just feeling. Pure and simple. He looked up at Jessie’s tear-stained
face and panted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Erin watched, open-mouthed, not quite believing her
eyes. Spike let out a series of yaps and happy whimpers, as Jess bent to his
clip the lead onto his collar. She froze and looked deep into the mutt’s button
bright eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I’m not alone,” she half-cried, half-laughed. “I’ve
got you, haven’t I, boy? I’ll always have you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Silence reigned inside Erin’s head. “Jon has left the
building,” she thought to herself with an inner smile. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He was back where he belonged. He was home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-23414045815686714342019-02-27T13:52:00.000+02:002019-02-28T16:00:18.892+02:00Athens Interlude<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Blue skies. White steps. The peevish ‘preet!<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">’</i> of a traffic cop’s whistle. Horns
honking like angry geese. Fumes creep into my nostrils and curl around the fresh-baked
smell of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">koulouria</i> from across the
square. The babble of people swarm in and out of the Metro station. I lean back
against the cardboard I’m lying on, close my eyes and let the thin winter sun tickle
my face. Its warmth feels so familiar. If I try hard, I can almost imagine I’m
back home. Back to the ‘old me’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I open my eyes and watch the feet going past, each on
their way somewhere else. Rushing to work, late for a date, going to a lesson,
meeting friends for coffee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Two small sneakers with the laces half undone stop in
front of me. Their new-shoe shine has been scuffed off, and they dance
awkwardly on the spot like they’re trying to find the courage to do something. A
little kid, maybe five years old, bends down and nervously hands me a crumpled
paper bag, then looks to his mum for approval. I look inside, then up into his face,
and nod my thanks for the half-eaten cheese pie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sometimes, people give me food or some spare coins. Even
a smile before going on their way. Other times, it’s just angry words I only
half understand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But most don’t even look at me. I’m no more important
to them than the empty coffee cups, unwanted flyers and dead leaves swept into
the gutter. Just another part of the landscape that they filter out in this
dirty, noisy city that’s as old as history. They feel safer that way, I
suppose, more ‘comfortable’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m not the boy I used to be. That boy, and the life
he had, seem like a dream now. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Hlk522349"><o:p></o:p></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk522349;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">++++++<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk522349;"></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">That boy had a family, a home, a good life, hopes and
dreams despite the troubles beyond our walls. He had an Xbox, home cooked meals,
friends, homework, a mobile phone, football boots, piano lessons...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk543503;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Maama</span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> was so proud when I was offered
a place at the Damascus High Institute for Music and Theatre. Made all those
hours practicing scales and plonking my way through the Arabic and Western
classics worthwhile. Her own ambitions, stopped in their tracks when she
married, were born again through me. The first time I played <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Hlk532480"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘F</i></a></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk532480;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">ü</span></i></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk532480;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">r Elise’</span></i></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk532480;"></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> without a single mistake, she’d burst into tears. Imagine how happy she
was when her boy had got into the country’s top music school. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It closed down just a few months after I enrolled. The
chords and harmonies that echoed in its practice rooms silenced by the crescendo
of gunfire and explosions that got louder, closer, more deadly every day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The music still lives inside me. Even this ‘new me’
that hasn’t showered in months, gets as much compassion as a stray dog and has
to beg or rummage through the garbage for food. Music is the one thing that
reminds me that I’m still human. Just about. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I cram the rest of the cheese pie into my mouth and
wipe my fingers on my jeans. I reach into my pocket, pull out a grubby piece of
paper. It’s marked where it’s been folded and refolded a thousand times. Notes
and time signatures dance along the lines on the page. I lay it on the ground
and carefully smooth it out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">My fingers mimic familiar movements on the keys and, just
for a moment, I’m back in our living room. Practicing while Maama stirs a pot
of thick, sweet coffee, her head nodding with the tempo and a quiet smile dancing
on her lips. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I can almost smell the cardamom cookies she bakes to
serve with the coffee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">My older brother Sameer left one night and never came
home. He’d gone to Europe, Maama said. He’d send for us. But her eyes were red,
and the shadows under them got darker with every day we heard no news. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">One day, Baba came home smudged with dust and blood. A
bomb had exploded in Rawda Square, he said. Things would only get worse, he
said. I had to leave. Now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Maama’s face crumpled. “No! Not my baby. He’s only 17.
He’s just a boy.” A sudden staccato of gunfire a few streets away silenced her.
My father looked at us, empty-eyed, a once proud man broken by his inability to
protect his family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Two days later, I said goodbye to the only home I’d
ever known. Bundled into a truck in the middle of the night, clutching a bundle
of pastries Maama had spent a tearful afternoon baking, trying to soak every
ounce of her mother’s love into the dough. Baba hung his head as he handed the
driver a bulging envelope. He wouldn’t – or couldn’t – look at me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The journey was a blur. We travelled by night, often
with no lights, through places I’d never heard of. After days (or was it weeks?)
on the road, we reached the coast. I spilled my guts in the open boat crossing the sea. Then, we
were vomited onto the beach of an island where people looked like me but spoke
a different language. Some brought us day-old bread, olives, bean stew and dry
clothes. Others spat at us as we walked into town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">An overwhelmed policeman with a nicotine-yellowed
moustache demanded our papers. I had none, except the music in my pocket. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk522445;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Athens is my home, for now. No camp or shelter for me. Officially, I
don’t exist. I sleep in the wreck of an abandoned school. Fifty of us to a room
with rows of filthy mattresses covering every inch of the concrete floor. No running
water or electricity. We make what we can with the rice, lentils, oil and
bottles of water kind-faced volunteers bring us, cooking our meals over a
flickering camping stove.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk522445;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s better than sleeping on the streets. Or selling ourselves to
perverts in the park.</span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Back at the squat, I have to escape. Too many people.
Too much noise. Too many smells. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I climb the stairs, picking my way past the junkies
lying dead-eyed on the landing. I’ve never come this far before, fearing they’d
infect me with their poison. Huh, needn’t have worried. They don’t know I’m
there. All they know is the temporary escape running like sludge through their
veins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">On the second floor, a breeze ruffles my hair and
bangs a classroom door. All the windows are broken. Graffiti I can’t read
covers the walls. I shiver and pull my jacket closer around me against the
chill. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">My footsteps crunch over the broken glass that lines
the corridor. I open a door and look inside. Almost empty. Just a battered
piano stool. No piano. A space waiting to be filled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I pull the stool to the windowsill, sit down and take
out my sheet of music. My fingers find their place and start to move. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Für Elise’</i> fills my mind, and I swear I
can smell cardamom cookies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The old me still lives, bound by hope and the music in
my head to my home. A place where I am safe and loved. A place which probably
no longer exists. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-18287104635343984302019-02-14T09:00:00.000+02:002019-02-14T10:31:00.561+02:00Black Rose<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrv-jTdrRUhWZ9E-WFPviHub_a0o6fq40Kkue-Tc0XLJwMxQXi_Gnvst6oBmPxFYvz44sIPEe8qro2mtVNPfpg_9dnvMaNwLCA-3xocGaoQiPgEXpX49L72lNd-owbUu0n7a4cKXJCr-Q/s1600/black+rose+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="678" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrv-jTdrRUhWZ9E-WFPviHub_a0o6fq40Kkue-Tc0XLJwMxQXi_Gnvst6oBmPxFYvz44sIPEe8qro2mtVNPfpg_9dnvMaNwLCA-3xocGaoQiPgEXpX49L72lNd-owbUu0n7a4cKXJCr-Q/s320/black+rose+pic.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Holding her
breath, she swept the fine brush across her half-shut lids. First one, then the
other. A steady hand and patience were key if she wanted to avoid that all-too-familiar
‘panda after a rough night on the town’ look. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She closed her
eyes and counted to twenty under her breath, waiting for the eyeliner to dry
and praying it would form a perfectly even kitten flick on both sides, making
her look irresistible rather than someone with a slight squint. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Susie opened
her eyes and examined the result. Not bad, not bad at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">With the tip of
her tongue protruding ever so slightly from the corner of her mouth just below
the tender spot where her lips met and laughter lines should have been, she
made the final adjustment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“There,” she
said to herself, not daring to smile with satisfaction for fear of spoiling her
handiwork. The wide-eyed stare of South London’s answer to the 1950s Hollywood
starlets that Lee admired so blinked back at her from the speckled bathroom
mirror. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“So far, so
good.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her expertly
applied make-up hid most of the bruise blossoming on her temple. What it
couldn’t conceal would be artfully covered by a ‘random’ tendril of her usually
drab brown hair, which tonight shone like a polished chestnut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Now for the
finishing touch. A red pencil carefully outlined her lips, giving her a perfect
Cupid’s bow, then she filled it in with ‘Drop Dead Red’ to produce a full pout.
She’d have to take care how she ate and drank tonight - she didn’t want
anything to spoil her lipstick, as least not before Lee did with his ardent
kisses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The dress he’d
picked out for her clung to her body in a delicious, unfamiliar way. So
different to the modest, unassuming clothes he usually liked to see her in. She
didn’t have to dress like a slut to be beautiful, he always said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He was right,
of course. He always was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But tonight
he’d surprised her with the little black dress, and she’d surprised herself at
how good it made her feel. It was Audrey Hepburn classy-sexy, rather than
in-your-face Jane Russell tussle in the hay. The neckline gave a fleeting
glimpse of her burgeoning bosoms, without resorting to the sluttish heaving
that enraged him so. The fabric embraced her figure gently without betraying
the small bump in her belly. A double strand of pearls finished the look, and helpfully
covered the scratch on the side of her throat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She looked
sweet, vulnerable, in need of protection. Just the way Lee wanted her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The door handle
rattled angrily, impatiently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“What the hell
are you doing in there?” came a voice tinged with annoyance from the other
side. “Why’ve you locked the door? I’ve told you about that, haven’t I?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Just a minute,
sweetheart,” she replied. “I want to surprise you.”<br />
<br />
“Well, get a move on. We haven’t got all night.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Susie slipped
on her brand new peep-toe stilettoes, smoothed her skirt, and patted her hair.
Turning, she smiled to herself at the thought of Lee’s reaction, turned the key
and opened the door with a flourish. “Ta da!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She was met
with a stony glare. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“We’re not
going to a Vicars and Tarts party, you know.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Susie’s face
fell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“When I bought
you that dress, I thought you had the class to carry it off without looking
like some kind of street walker. You think I want to be seen out in public with…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with… that?” he gestured angrily at her torso.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“But, but…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought you’d like it,” Susie stuttered,
fighting the tears that threatened to ruin her carefully constructed face. <br />
<br />
“Like it? Thought I’d like being seen in public with a whore, putting it all
out there, advertising herself as anyone’s for the couple of drinks?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lee, small but
wiry and strong, grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“If that’s what
you think I’d like, let’s see how you like being treated like a whore,” he snarled.
Spinning her round and pushing her forward over the sofa, he roughly yanked her
skirt up past her stocking tops and fumbled with her panties.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Lee, please
don’t!” she cried, her eyeliner now seeping down the creases in her frightened
face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Shut up,
bitch.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m sorry. I
didn’t want to make you angry. I just… just…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>aaaah!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He wasn’t listening. He was lost in a frenzy of lust
and fury, grunting like an animal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Is that what you like, you dirty whore? I treat you
like a queen, give you everything you need, but it’s wasted on you. You’re
nothing but a common tart. Is that how you want me to see you? Fine, let’s see
how you like it. Maybe we can put you on the street corner when I’m done with
you, as you like it so much?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">His fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh at the
front of her thighs. Susie tried to raise her head to protest, but was shoved
back down roughly, leaving her to softly weep and wait for it to be over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It didn’t take long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Re-buckling his belt and wiping the sweat from his top
lip, Lee pulled her up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Now, for God’s sake, go and clean yourself up. Wipe
that muck off your face, change your shoes and put your coat on. It’s
Valentine’s night and we’ve got dinner reservations.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">****<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">From his bedroom window, Jake watched as Lee frog-marched
Susie through the cold night to their car. She seemed smaller, somehow, perhaps
because of the big coat swamping her figure, and her steps were hesitant, like
a nervous bird.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He knew why, of course. He’d heard it all. Hard not
to, through the walls of the old Victorian terrace that held their flat, his,
and three more neighbours he never saw. The raised voice, pleading tears,
grunts, the angry banging of the sofa against the wall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It didn’t take a writer’s imagination to work out what
had happened. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">What he couldn’t fathom was why. Why she stayed. Why
she didn’t just walk away. Seek refuge somewhere. Perhaps with him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He sighed. He knew Lee’s game. The daily wearing away
of her self-esteem. Convincing her that she was worth nothing in her own right.
That he was the only one that could possibly see anything in her. That
everything bad that happened to her, she brought upon herself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He knew it only too well. He’d seen it up close and
personal. How it had worn away at his mother’s sense of self, until there was
nothing but a shell left, limp of emotion like a rag doll, ready to jump or
flinch at the smallest criticism. To cow-tow to his father’s quixotic whims and
to hang on his every word for a hint of approval, like an over-eager puppy dog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Until one day, she was no more. Nothing left of her
but a sad red stain spreading over the white bathroom tiles. Then, the sympathy
of neighbours for the poor bereaved husband. The same neighbours who’d turned a
blind eye to the bruises, a deaf ear to the night-time accusations,
incriminations, smashes and thuds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The platitudes came in floods at the funeral: “You did
everything you could”, “She wasn’t a well woman”, “She didn’t have the
strength”. Only he, sitting in the corner in a stiff collared shirt bought for
the occasion, knew that his mum had once had the strength, but it had been
drained from her by the years. Years with Him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He was just a kid back then. Powerless. Now, he was
older, stronger, smarter. He would not let the same fate claim Susie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">****<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Susie didn’t say much at dinner. She didn’t need to. Lee
ordered for her, as always. She didn’t dare tell him she didn’t fancy steak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She chewed diligently at the meat, trying to ignore
the twinge of her bruised jaw, just as she had tried to avoid Lee’s critical glare
as she picked at her prawn cocktail starter. The lemon juice in the dressing
had made her lip smart, and she really didn’t like prawns all that much. She
looked up to see Lee staring pointedly at her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Eat up, princess. I’m spending good money on that
sirloin. For you. You need the iron. Got to look after yourself, and my boy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“It might be a girl,” she murmured under her breath,
careful not to be heard above the tinkling piano in the corner of the
restaurant packed with couples dressed up to the nines, desperate to convince
themselves that they were all madly in love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The thought flitted across her mind that Lee’s
treatment earlier that evening probably did more harm to the child inside her
than a slight iron deficiency that would be easily corrected with a
prescription from the family doctor. She dismissed the it before she could
acknowledge it, fearful that he could read her conscious thoughts and take
revenge for her imaginary betrayal. Again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her eyes strayed down to the single red rose laying on
the linen tablecloth next to her dessert fork. It had come with a card,
obviously dictated to the florist, in a curling baroque script that bore no
resemblance to Lee’s practical, heavy hand:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 144.0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Forever mine.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 144.0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lee.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Susie shuddered inwardly as she read it again. Others
would probably find it romantic in its simplicity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">To her, it felt like a life sentence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">****<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jake opened his bedside table drawer and pulled out a
schoolboy’s exercise book, a pen, and a door key. He scribbled a note on the
lined page, ripped it out and folded it carefully. On the windowsill sat a vase
of deep red roses, the colour of blood that’s delivered its load of oxygen, standing
in water tinged with ink to make the petals even darker. He rose to his feet,
took one, and tapped the droplets from its stem. Wrapping it in a napkin, he
left his apartment and headed down the hall to Lee and Susie’s =front door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He slipped the key easily into the lock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Averting his eyes from the mess by the coffee table,
embarrassed by the evidence of Susie’s humiliation, he headed for the bedroom. She
always went to bed long before Lee, to catch some peace before he switched off
the TV and woke her with his nightly demands, whether she was in the mood or
not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jake gently laid the rose on her pillow. Beneath it,
the page from his exercise book with the simple message: “You’re not alone”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">****<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You’re a lucky girl,” crowed Lee. “A new outfit,
flowers, dinner at a fancy restaurant. Who else would do all that for you?
No-one can say Lee Lawrence doesn’t deliver on the romance front.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Satisfied that he was indeed God’s gift to womankind, Lee
threw his jacket onto the back of the coach, loosened his tie and slumped down
onto the cushions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The TV screen blossomed with a click of the remote and
he settled down for a well-deserved couple of hours soaking up sports scores,
action movies and maybe a little porn if he could find anything tasty. He’d
earned it, after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He refused to let Susie’s moronic clattering in the
kitchen break his mellow mood. All was right in his world. He had a good job, a
nice flat, and a son on the way. Everything was going according to plan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Well, almost everything. Susie was where things fell
short. Every now and then, she needed a little reminder of her rightful place.
If he was honest it was those little reminders that kept him interested, kept
the spice in their relationship. The surge of testosterone that fueled their
fun and games before dinner made him feel powerful, invincible. Just thinking
idly about it now awoke a stirring in his groin, even after a big meal and a
bottle of wine. Maybe he’d be back for a replay a bit later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She loved it, he was sure of that. All women
fantasised about being ‘taken roughly’, didn’t they? Just look at the sales
figures of “Fifty Shades of Grey”. All women have a little whore in them, a bit
that loves to be dominated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Yes, he’d definitely be giving her another seeing-to
in an hour or two. It was Valentine’s Day, a special occasion, after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He smiled benevolently as Susie placed a steaming cup
of coffee topped with cream on the table next to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Irish?” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She nodded mutely and showed him the hip flask in her other
hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Good girl,” he cheered, slapping her behind as she
turned to go. Limping slightly, she crossed the room and put the pewter flask
back in its place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Silly cow, thought Lee affectionly. So clumsy. Must
have tripped over something in the kitchen. She was always doing stuff like
that. Walking into doors, falling downstairs, burning herself on the stove.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Off to bed with you now, darling,” he chirruped. “You
need your beauty sleep. Just do me a favour. Keep those stockings on.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">****<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Already nauseous, Susie almost choked on the thought
of further violation and fear for the child growing in her belly. She was sure Lee’s
nightly assaults would eventually make her miscarry – and then she’d in for more
punishment for not taking care of ‘his’ baby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">There was no escape. Just the promise of a few snatched
hours of sleep before his fumbling woke her and the nightmare continued. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Murmuring a meek “goodnight” she went straight to bed
without bothering to wash off what was left of her make-up. All she wanted was to
sleep, escape, if only for a little while. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She flopped onto the bed with its freshly laid crimson
sheets without turning on the light. Kicked her shoes into the corner, shrugged
her date dress onto the floor, lifted the quilt and slid between the sheets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">As she lay her head on the pillow, something tickled
her cheek. Something that smelled green, fresh, like the park after a summer
shower. Puzzled, she switched on the bedside light. A rose, not perfect but
exquisite in its imperfection, lay on her pillow. Deep red, almost black, it
would not have been visible against the dark pillowcase if it hadn’t been for
the scrap of paper beneath it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">A wave of realisation crashed over her, bringing with
it shock, fear, disbelief, guilt, and… yes…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>a small thrill of excitement. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She knew who had left it there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jake, their wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly nerd of a next-door
neighbour. The one who could be trusted to water the plants and accept
deliveries when they were away, but who had never once looked either of them
directly in the eye. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jake, who kept himself to himself, made no
unreasonable demands and could always be relied on for a cup of sugar or
handful of teabags when she ran out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jake, the ultimate Beta Male whose name Lee could
never remember. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jake, who’d gone on about the language of flowers when
she called round with a hastily-scribbled Christmas card a couple of months
back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">With trembling fingers, she took the piece of folded
paper and opened it. Inside, a simple message, an expected one even, but one
which gave her hope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lee mustn’t see the rose. A flower from another man –
even if it was “just Jake” – would be enough to send her to the Accident &
Emergency Department at St Swithun’s. That was the last thing she needed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She scrunched the note into a ball and stuffed it
under the mattress. Then, taking the bloom by its long stem, and carefully
avoiding its sharp thorns, she placed it like a sleeping child under her pillow.
Right next to the elegant filleting knife Jake had ordered from the Chef’s Shop
after taking those online cookery classes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Its blade gleamed as Susie lightly ran her index
finger along its sharp edge. The soft flesh opened cleanly and beads of blood
welled up. She smiled, put the pillow back and lay down, sucking at the pad of
her finger and waited. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She didn’t have to wait long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">****<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">7.30am: Jake was already up, teacup in hand, peering
at his computer screen. A soft knock roused him and he went to the door and
peered through the spy-hole. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Susie stood there, without a scrap of make-up to hide
the fresh bruise on her cheek or the older one at her temple. With her hair
gathered in a messy ponytail, clad in sweats and with an unfamiliar twinkle in
her eye, she looked like a tomboy who’d been in a schoolyard brawl - and won. There
was an energy about her, an air of triumph, radiating off her like he’d never
seen before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She grinned shyly as he opened the door, then thrust a
red rose still in its florist’s wrapper at him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Thought you’d like another one for your collection,”
she announced. “Put it in ink with your other ones. You never know who’s going
to need a bit of revenge next.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jake took the flower and nearly dropped it in surprise
at its unexpected weight. Inside its plastic wrapper nestled a sleek, sharp knife
– one that matched the empty hole in the butcher’s block on his kitchen
counter. Its blade was dull and sticky, stained almost black, like the roses on
his windowsill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He looked a question at Susie. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Thank you,” she whispered, then patted her stomach
and nodded. “Rose says thank you, too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">****<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was a week before anyone noticed something was amiss.
The Lawrences were a quiet couple, not given much to socialising. None of the
neighbours paid much attention to their disappearance, not even the solitary
writer who lived next door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Eventually, the smell oozing from their apartment
raised the alarm. Next door no longer had the spare key – or so he said. They
had to break the door down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Everything seemed normal. A tidy kitchen, a forgotten
coffee cup on the table next to the coach, towels neatly folded in the bathroom.
Even the sheets were laid on the bed… until closer inspection revealed they
were pulled over the butchered body of Lee Lawrence. Their deep red hue was the
colour of his death. The colour of black roses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">****<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Four hundred miles away, a young woman sat in a
Glasgow tattoo parlour grimacing through the sting of the artist’s pen as it
bit into the distended flesh above her belly button. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Are you sure you’re up to this?” asked the pierced
and painted girl with a Rockabilly hairdo, looking up from her work. “Maybe we
should wait until… you know… after?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“It’s OK,” replied the woman in the chair as she
craned her neck to seen the outline etched on her stomach. “I can take the pain
– I’ve had plenty of practice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Anyway, what’s a rose without a few thorns?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-19368096723796572532019-01-31T09:49:00.003+02:002019-01-31T09:54:16.060+02:00Mogwot <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikkZ2BebQAWRzXYeC-ROr9I2Nfvn-F9J7_zewgI3aQL7GQk2NCuUECvHi4y_ACH9oPgE2JUFRCFsGQIXzXU1yaycKg-yRPQwU91UwRlaVrZILDRU-w7OTAhZ-zqgpMUEAh7KYAAZSLSW4/s1600/mogwot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="724" data-original-width="554" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikkZ2BebQAWRzXYeC-ROr9I2Nfvn-F9J7_zewgI3aQL7GQk2NCuUECvHi4y_ACH9oPgE2JUFRCFsGQIXzXU1yaycKg-yRPQwU91UwRlaVrZILDRU-w7OTAhZ-zqgpMUEAh7KYAAZSLSW4/s200/mogwot.jpg" width="152" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It starts with a low
hum, a chord played in B minor, like the first flush of shy blue light on the
horizon as dawn breaks. Sustain. I add the same chord, but two octaves up. Then
rays of light as the single notes – B, D and G – prick through the darkness.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /><br />I smile to myself and
take a swig of my coffee. I’m liking this. It feels good. Moody. Right. And
it’s all mine.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Early morning, or
perhaps I should say very late night, is my favourite time to work when I’m in
a fit state for it. It’s that silent time before the garden’s dawn chorus starts
tugging at the edges of night’s blanket. One of the few times I can fill the
void with something that comes from me, and me alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Scra-scra-ttcch-tcch-scra….<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Spoke too soon. A
rasping from the corner of the room signals that he’s here, uninvited as usual.
Bloody attention whore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“Bugger off, Mogwot. I
don’t need you right now.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />The scratching stops,
for a moment, and is replaced by a tapping that makes a little more sense. A
small grunt and some hurried shuffles, and he climbs up onto the desk. Small,
barely the height of my coffee mug, dark, and far from handsome. His squat body
looks like a badly drawn cartoon and his eyes glint greenly as me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />I reach over to the
bulging bowl of jelly babies and pick out a black one, his favourite, and hand
it to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“Just let me get on
with it. Keep quiet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />In a few wet chews the
treat is gone. Mogwot stands, hands on hips and looks at me like a defiant
three-year. Raps the side of my laptop in an erratic rhythm. Settles into a
pattern which, despite myself, I realise will work perfectly with my dawn break
sounds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“OK, OK. I know.
Percussion. I got it. Now sit down and shut up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />I can’t remember a time
when Mogwot wasn’t in my life. He was there when I was a lonely only child,
making my mother’s life difficult when I threw a tantrum if she failed to lay a
place for him at the dinner table or we missed the bus because we’d left him at
home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />She’d humoured me at
first. It was a phase, she figured. It would pass. But I saw the first flickers
of concern in her eyes after my baby brother was born. I was no longer alone,
yet Mogwot was still around. She didn’t realise that with Sam such needy baby, I
needed my ‘imaginary’ friend more than ever. He wasn’t going anywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />But I hated to worry
Mum, so I stopped talking about him. We only spoke at night when sleep had
settled on everyone in the house but me, and I could hear his soft breathing
from the top of my wardrobe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Mogwot only revealed
his true nature when I started playing music, declaring himself my ‘muse’. In
the process, he became a giant pain in the arse. A tyrant. A dictator. But a
part of me, as surely as my fingers, my nose and my toes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />The tablets helped. Quietened
the chaos clamouring for attention in my head. Slept ten hours straight for the
first time ever - deep, dreamless sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />But that’s not all they
did. They numbed me, fed my lethargy, turned me into a useless slug incapable
of anything more than plodding workmanlike through a few chord changes. I felt
like I was sitting outside myself, bewildered, incapable, confused. The umbilical
cord linking me to my creativity was severed, like chemical castration.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Mogwot was gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />I missed the little
bastard. And the music dried up, like a lonely slice of cheese forgotten at the
back of the refrigerator. Still usable, at a stretch, but tasteless,
unappealing and curling up at the edges. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />So, I stopped taking
the meds. On the quiet, of course. No-one could know. I couldn’t handle the
endless well-meaning nagging that would start if they found out. Instead of dutifully
chucking them my throat, they went down the toilet pan. And quietly, secretly,
I welcomed back Mogwot and all the tumultuous, chaotic creativity that came
with him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />No-one suspected. I
become an expert at presenting a calm, functional exterior to the world as I
embraced the maelstrom within. Like a manic orchestra tuning up every morning,
with Mogwot on the podium waving the maestro’s baton about like a newly
discovered Pokemon on speed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />++++++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />We’re really getting
into it now, Mogwot banging a chewed pencil against the desk, stamping his
feet, grunting and snorting with excitement. My fingers race to keep up. It’s
coming to a crescendo – a fabulous, cacophonic swirling of noise. Better than
sex – or at least, any sex I’ve ever had. Building, building, getting there, oh,
yes, really, yes, yes…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />‘Barp!’</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">
the intercom buzzer rudely breaks into our mutual musical masturbation. Talk
about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chorus interruptus</i>. Mogwot
flashes me a look of fury like a spurned lover, throws down the pencil and
stomps away to sulk behind a pile of papers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“Whaaa…?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Unsure of where I am,
who I am, or why we stopped. Then I remember. Some hack from one of the Sunday
supplements, come to interview me as a rising young star of the music world.
Mogwot bares his teeth, snarls softly and pulls a page of scribbled notes over
his head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />I get up, close the
workroom door, lock it behind me and pocket the key. Just to be sure. It’s one
thing to be considered a quirky prodigy, quite another to be revealed as a raving
loon who takes orders from a pint-sized demon with a penchant for jelly babies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />I open the apartment door.
Wide eyes smiling from under a short blonde crop greet me, all eagerness and
enthusiasm for a job she hasn’t got cynical about – yet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“You must be Alex,” I
say, waving her through to the living room, undisturbed since Elena the
cleaning lady from Hell gave it her magic touch over at the weekend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“Maybe we could talk
where you work?” Alex says, looking around the immaculate room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A slither and a soft
flump sound through the locked door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“No can do. Tempo, my
cat, is in there. He doesn’t take kindly to strangers. Or friends. Or anyone.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />She shrugs then holds up
her phone, her exquisite eyebrows forming a silent question. “Mind if I
record?” I nod my agreement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“So, how does it feel
to be one of the 30 musicians under 30 to watch?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(God, I hate this. So bloody embarrassing. If I hadn’t
been mates with George, who’s sleeping with the producer’s assistant on the
surprise indie box office smash of the year, no-one would have ever have heard
of my work… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s gotta be done.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“It’s humbling, of
course, to be included in a list of so many great musicians.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Like hell it is, at least half are
talentless, overhyped idiots churning out tripe to feed the mainstream appetite
for mediocrity. But you can’t say that, can you?)</i> “But what really matters
to me is knowing that my work resonates with people, moves them, expresses
something inside that we all have in common.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />(We all have our monsters. Don’t we?) <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />And we’re off. The same
old copy-paste interview I’ve seen with countless up-and-coming wunderkind in
pretentious middle-class magazines. Written for people who want to seem
arty-farty, without having to put in the sleepless nights, caffeine-fueled
frenzies, crippling self-doubt and the temptation to just give up and settle
for playing covers at weddings and second-rate festivals in muddy fields.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />But I behave myself. The
interview goes well. It should go down nicely with the quinoa salads and
stripped pine of suburbia. She’s sweet, easy to impress. No harm in giving my
ego a little massage, is there?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Scree-scraa-scre-scratch</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>right on cue,
just as I’m about to bask in the glow of my own self-satisfaction. Mogwot isn’t
having any of it. Perish the thought he’d let me take all the credit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Floomph, booph, bang!</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> The smack of wood against wood as the piano lid is
thrown open. Random notes, jarring discords, track his way across the keys. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Alex looks alarmed.
“Maybe you should go and check on your cat?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“Nah, he’s just acting
up. He’ll settle down when he gets bored.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />And he does. The rest
of the interview is a breeze. For once, I’m feeling good about myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(Maybe I should ask her for a drink?)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“Just one last
question. In one sentence, where do you get your inspiration?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(Oh sweetheart, if I told you, you’ve never believe
me.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“Good question” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Yeah, if you like the all-time most clichéd
things to ask any artist.</i>) “I suppose it’s something that’s always been
part of me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />A thump and hum of reverberating
strings echo from within as my favourite acoustic guitar hits the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“I honestly couldn’t
tell you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(Pathetic. Say something else.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“But if I did, I’d have
to kill you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-76635129344074363272018-10-31T10:15:00.000+02:002018-10-31T10:15:43.727+02:00The Last Round<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjktZwmD8QRB5_v8qzD3V3JveU0raM15Y5h2mnt3lM5LHBs6KSs8j0T9E1GWk7I0ciZCSGtZDULrUcTqgutdK1Inx2Wq9solohNgNx-tm66eywMPdlt1-KbZFdVNbQgMjUI-0ckHLA_cCg/s1600/golf+bag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="780" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjktZwmD8QRB5_v8qzD3V3JveU0raM15Y5h2mnt3lM5LHBs6KSs8j0T9E1GWk7I0ciZCSGtZDULrUcTqgutdK1Inx2Wq9solohNgNx-tm66eywMPdlt1-KbZFdVNbQgMjUI-0ckHLA_cCg/s400/golf+bag.jpg" width="195" /></a></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">A laugh of surprised triumph escapes my lips as the
ball soars into the sky then falls to exactly the right spot on the
manicured greens. I stand there for a moment, the wood still resting on my left
shoulder, admiring my unexpected handiwork. It’s been years since I’ve been on
a golf course and I certainly hadn’t expected to send the ball straight down
the middle from the very first tee-off. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">“Looks like I’ve still got it."</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I look around the calm greens of Eight Elms golf
course, embarrassed that someone might catch me talking to myself as I
play my solitary round. I shrug my shoulders and smile, grateful that at 5
o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, most regulars were still chained to their
desks or running those never-ending errands on their To Do lists. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I’m alone – almost. A woman stands at the edge of a small
thicket, hacking away at the undergrowth. She’s dressed like Central Casting’s
idea of a lady golfer from another age, in tweed plus-fours, leather brogues
and a pink and yellow sweater. Makes me feel an imposter in my Mum jeans and
sweatshirt, like an uninvited guest at a society party. I wave hello, but she’s
too intent on getting her ball out of the rough to notice me. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I slide the heavy club back into the battered leather
bag and shoulder it, ready to walk up the greens and take my next shot. It’s
much weightier than Bill’s new bag filled with fancy carbon fibre clubs, but I enjoy
the heft of history that almost a century gives mine. What stories of past
glories would it tell if it could speak? </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">A breeze tickles the nape of my neck and the low
autumn sun warms my cheeks. Somewhere, a dog barks and a pair of rooks take off
from the branches of a dead oak.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">All around, t</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">rees
are changing colour for their last flamboyant shout-out before they drop their
leaves for winter. A whiff of bonfire floats in the air, but there’s not
a cloud in the sky. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I feel good. Alive. More than I have in an age.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">“Beats online shopping any day.”<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I’ve spent too many empty hours trawling the bargain
sites since Mark left for college, trying to fill the void he left. But
that’s what’s landed me here, playing the best game of golf of my life
on a glorious late October day, with no-one to cheer me on. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I’d been thrilled with my latest find. The 1920s golf
bag was offered free to anyone willing to pick up. I clicked without hesitation
and collected it that same day from a sullen old man in a neglected house on the edge of town. At best, I’d clean it up and sell to some
hipster vintage-hound for a tidy profit. At worst, it would become a
conversation piece to fill the corner of the living room where Mark’s guitar
once stood. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">But, as it turned out, it got me back on the links.
Reawakened my love for the game that brought me and Bill together, before marriage,
motherhood and the menopause got in the way. I gave up years ago, when Mark
was just an overgrown jelly bean in my belly wriggling to be born. Bill carried
on, of course, never missing his weekend round while I took care of chores or chauffeur duties for music lessons, football practice and play dates. Who knew that I would still know how to handle the woods, irons and putters after all this time? Next time Bill heads for the greens, I’ll grab the old leather bag and join him for
a game.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">A few satisfying slices take me within feet of the
first hole, and I nudge the ball in with a neat, satisfying plop. After
the next five holes, I feel better about myself than I have for a long, long
time.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">A movement in the bushes catches my eye
as I sink the ball at the sixth. It’s Madam Plus Fours again. She’s got company now. Her bag is propped up against the trunk of a tree, and
there’s the shape of a man in the shadows. Alright for some. Others have to
caddy their own clubs round the course.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I pick up my bag. There’s a dark stain at the bottom I hadn’t seen before. I hope it's just the turf's evening damp leaving its print on the leather and make a mental note to give it another rub down with
saddle soap when I get home. I look up to watch the woman and her caddy as they head to the next green - but they’re nowhere to be seen.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I spot them again at the eleventh hole. The man is silhouetted against the pinkening sky. I can’t make out his
features. He’s much closer to the woman now, holding one of her clubs.
They're arguing, but I only hear notes of anger
pricked with pleading through the evening air. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Probably some petty
argument about which club to pick for her next shot. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Some people really need to lighten up. It’s just a
game, after all.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">It’ll
be dark soon. Better finish my round. The stain on the bag looks
bigger now. Probably a trick of the light - dusk has a habit of throwing up
visions of things that aren’t there in the sharp glare of morning. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">S</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">hadows like skinny giants loll against the
landscape as I reach the sixteenth hole. I’ve played the best round of my life
and I’ll definitely be back tomorrow. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">But in the morning. The evenings are drawing in way
too fast now. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Right now, I just want to reach the eighteenth hole and get back to my car. There’s something about the rustle of the leaves in
the dark that sends chills down my spine.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">The garish diamonds of Madam Plus Fours' sweater glow ahead of me through the growing gloom. She and her caddy are leaving the seventeenth hole
and she’s gesticulating wildly, shouting at her dark companion. What a bitch,
blaming the poor caddy for her bad game. He still has her bag on his shoulder
and a club in his hand, waiting for her to finish her tirade, get it all out of
her system. Poor guy, I bet he can’t wait to see her finish her round, get paid (no tip, for sure) and wind down with a drink at the bar.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I tee up for the last hole, look up to see where I’m
aiming for, and drop my wood in shock.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">The caddy is holding the club over his head, threatening the woman. In a panic, I stumble and knock over my bag. The dark stain spread all the way along one side.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Gotta do something, Stop him, Help her. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">The lights of the club house
twinkle invitingly, but the eighteenth hole is closer. I scramble to my feet, yelling. Maybe the commotion will scare him off.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I’m running as fast as my middle-aged legs can take
me. Panting hard and looking down for fear of tripping on something. Blood pumps in my ears. My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. Red starbursts play at the edges of my vision. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">The dark and my panic are playing tricks with me. The
denim on my pumping knees looks like tweed, and they seem to have bunched up mid-calf. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Keep going. Stop him. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I reach the green and stop, facing the dark figure
wielding the club. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">“Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing?”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">He looks at me, smiles and he steps towards me. I turn to tell the woman to run. She’s gone. Already on her way to get help, I pray.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">It’s just me and the caddy. I’m exhausted.
Frozen with fear. Menace flows off him like sweat. With every
step he takes, a little piece of my sanity deserts me. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Just two paces away from me now, I see his
face. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">It’s Bill. My Bill. The man I’ve shared the past twenty years with. The
man I lost somewhere along the way. The man I wanted to get back out onto the greens
again. But it’s not my Bill leering down
at me. It’s a warped version of his slightly flabby, once-handsome face.
Twisted with malice, intent on harm. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">He raises the club. It’s one of the heavy vintage woods from my bag, which is now lying on its side next to the last hole. Clubs, tees
and other paraphernalia have spilled out in a growing pool of dark liquid. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I raise my arm to cover my face. In
a surreal split second, puzzlement banishes panic as I see that, instead of the
deep red of my sweatshirt, my sleeve is clad in pink and yellow diamonds. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">My world explodes, and everything goes black.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-47199734806381917412018-10-21T14:57:00.000+03:002018-10-21T14:57:21.384+03:00Read all about it!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7VeyYKUXRxg8PBtSKv36d37WBEbdVkxofoi2taXSs2gC9FCTmLo_NnBROU6vHZ2Po5FLLwnDFj4MATlBDQBhP1YUgqmOesgF2XR4JdNcQZQXPo6d6N_OCnBwZlXLsuo3IkBFNHx7Uss/s1600/headlines+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1024" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7VeyYKUXRxg8PBtSKv36d37WBEbdVkxofoi2taXSs2gC9FCTmLo_NnBROU6vHZ2Po5FLLwnDFj4MATlBDQBhP1YUgqmOesgF2XR4JdNcQZQXPo6d6N_OCnBwZlXLsuo3IkBFNHx7Uss/s400/headlines+collage.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Read all about it, the
headline news.</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
The latest gossip, we aim to amuse.<br />
Who’s dating who, who’s got fat,<br />
On the screen right where you’re sat.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Just what you want, no
need to think.<br />
Coming at you now. Please don’t blink.<br />
Headline news to keep you at bay <br />
Ask no questions, or stay away. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Tabloid dreams in
electric ink.<br />
Cartoon clichés that don’t make the link<br />
Between them and us. <br />
Not really human, why make a fuss?</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Words as weapons to
stir up hate.<br />
Pull at your emotions to agitate<br />
tension and serve their agenda. <br />
Reject it, wrap it up, return to sender. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Divide and conquer, or
unite and thrive?<br />
Choose what makes you feel alive.<br />
Despise your neighbour, swallow the lie,<br />
Got to save your slice of the pie.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So, go on, paper your
fort with pages<br />
that proclaim the “other” your enemy of ages.<br />
Ignore what you can’t accept is true,<br />
that to some, the “other” is you. </span></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-37133007073579671802018-10-06T17:47:00.001+03:002020-02-08T11:47:52.941+02:00Unlucky in love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80URbwhr3Sy2spUvdOjJ_QzLP6jUitW1UgWR3t0RfTBZRl-MDMiYvc6Qf1L_O95IJ23TnRQR6BAjB43am_DMUzRy1W8D04LNeDK-4A-4kq0yIbrAuBCL1fOQrPnQ-YkHJhjj-Ie0T6is/s1600/cupid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="312" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80URbwhr3Sy2spUvdOjJ_QzLP6jUitW1UgWR3t0RfTBZRl-MDMiYvc6Qf1L_O95IJ23TnRQR6BAjB43am_DMUzRy1W8D04LNeDK-4A-4kq0yIbrAuBCL1fOQrPnQ-YkHJhjj-Ie0T6is/s400/cupid.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">“Life is like a box of chocolates.”
Is that <u>really</u> what your mama told you, Forrest, me old mate?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Well, I’ll tell you something. I’d
trade this whole Deluxe Selection box – even if it was filled to the brim with my
favourite Hazelnut Caramel Crunch Clusters – for a little bit of the old rumpty-pumpty. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Speaking of hazelnut
clusters, don’t mind if I do…<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Hmmm. Lubbly, jubbly.</span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"></span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">It’s not easy being me, you know.
One look and everyone assumes I’ve got the whole romance deal sorted. The rosy,
chubby cheeks. The bouncy blonde curls. My wide-eyed innocent gaze to the
heavens. The half-arsed bow and arrow. Even those stupid lumps of feather
flapping about on my shoulders (as if a pair of pigeon wings could lift my un-birdlike
frame).</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">I know how you all see me. How you
imagine I spend my days. You’ve got this image of me flitting from cloud
to cloud, shooting darts of romance here and there, infecting the unsuspecting
with love (with a capital L) and chucking hearts, flowers and rainbows around
like nobody’s business. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">You know, the whole vomit-inducing
shebang.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Guilty as charged. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">But did any of you ever stop to
wonder if good ole Cupid ever found love, had someone warm and welcoming to go
home to at the end of a long day? No, of course you didn’t. Not a single one of
you ever gave a thought to the state of my poor, bleeding, unrequited
heart.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Yuck, Strawberry Dream. Not
my favourite. Too mushy by far. </span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Any of you fancy it?</span></i></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. The bitter
sweet irony of the God of Love never having got his end away. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Yes, you heard me right. Never. Not
once. Not even close. Since ancient times - and I mean <u>real</u> ancient
times. Romans and Greeks, togas and intrigues, and the like. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">So, next time you’re crying into
your beer ‘cos Little Miss Sharon McTottie won’t look your way, instead of
chucking a few choice swear words in my direction, stop to consider what it’s
like to be an eternal virgin whose day job is all about connecting people to do
the horizontal samba.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Thing is, no-one really goes for
the cherubic look, do they? These big baby-blue eyes and pouting lips may make
broody wannabe mums swoon and croon over pushchairs, but when it comes to the
business of getting the kid implanted, forget it. No way, Jose. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">They want butch, macho or, at the
very least, darkly sardonic. Not an easy ask when you look like this.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">So, there you go. Chaste and
untouched for millenia. Not by choice, in case you missed my hint. </span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"><b><i>Now, what’s this one.
Espresso Delite (American spelling if you please). Could be good. Let’s see.
Just a little bite to try….<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>….oh no, no,
no.</i></b></span></div>
<div align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"><b><i>Too bitter for me by far, thanks to thirty years living over a Billericay café where the tea's fit for builders but the coffee's not much more than dirty water.</i></b></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Funny thing is, lately, I have been
feeling a little bit dark and sardonic now and then. It might just be my imagination,
but I could swear that there’s a touch of Roger the gargoyle rubbing off on me.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Roger? Oh, you don’t know him? </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Seriously, you didn’t think I was
the only random mythical creature walking the streets with you humans, did you?
There’s loads of us, everywhere you look. Vampires, warlocks, goblins, the occasional
ogre, elves, not to mention naiads and dryads searching for their spirit
streams and home trees that were cemented over years ago. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">People used to notice us, steer
clear, shake pitchforks, light torches and chuck the occasional cup of Holy
water in our direction. These days, they don’t bat an eyelid. I’m not surprised
really – these days most ‘ordinary’ people are scarier than a legion of demons.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Me and Rog have been hanging out a
lot lately. Bit of an odd couple. Him all dark, charred and leathery. Me, well…
you know. This. But we get on well enough, and he does make me look cool.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">I’ve been teaching him the words to
Celine Dion’s entire back catalogue. And he’s helping with my Alice Cooper and
Ozzy impersonations. All good clean fun. Unfortunately.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">But I’ve noticed something. I’ve
started feeling a bit… how can I say it?...<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>different. My toenails are getting longer and tougher, my feet are
getting bonier, like claws. My cheeks are sinking, right down to the bone
structure I never knew I had. And I swear I saw a dark red glint in one eye when
I looked in the mirror the other day.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Roger says I’m imagining it. I’m just
seeing what I admire in him in myself. Sort of wishful thinking. Arrogant git. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">I mean, would I really want to look
like a hobgoblin on speed after a week of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll? </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">…</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Too bloody right I would. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Like we said, no-one wants to shag
the fat roadie with a face like the Gerber baby. </span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"><b><i>Pineapple crème. I’ll save
that for Roger. He has the weirdest tastes for a gargoyle.</i></b><span style="color: #b00000; font-family: "times new roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"><b><i>There must be a Walnut
Whirl somewhere in here for me. </i></b></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">So, like I was saying. After all
these centuries I can feel something stirring, changing, solidifying. And
no…<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>…it’s not “that”. Not yet, at least.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I don’t think I’m the only one to
notice. I got a look today from the girl with the nose ring in the café. Not
the usual can-I-pour-my-heart-out-about-my-pig-of-a-boyfriend-before-leaping-back-into-his-bed
look, but something that might – just might – hold a hint of an invitation to
join her in the sheets myself.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">At first, I thought it was for
Roger. But no, it was definitely me Tanith stared at for just a little bit
longer than necessary when taking the same order I give her every day. I ran a
cocky hand through my hair, smoothing it down against my scalp instead of letting
the ringlets spring like a halo, as I murmured “One tea and an Eccles cake,
please darling”. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">When she came back, she gave me <u>two</u>
Eccles cakes and an encouraging wink. </span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Is that a Rum and Raisin
Swirl I see hiding there in the corner? </span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Not any more. There you go.
Very nice.</span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">The only downside is the smell. It
simply won’t go away. Again, I thought it was Rog, but his usual air of
brimstone seemed to linger much longer than it should after he’d left for his
weekly meeting with the Dark Overlord yesterday. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">I shower, scrub myself in all those
important little places (especially now that I’m getting those signals from
Tanith), but when I raise my arms to check my pits, I’m still getting a whiff
of sulphur oozing out of me like lava. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">If I’m honest, I secretly relish
it. It’s much cooler than the cloud of baby powder that used to follow me
everywhere.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">So, yes. I’m changing. A kind of
ridiculously overdue puberty is transforming me. At long bloody last. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">I can hardly wait. I go to sleep,
excited to see what new transformation awaits me when I wake. I walk down the
street with a new purposeful stride, Queen’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Find me somebody to love’</i> pulsing through my head at full volume.
My wings have folded flat against my shoulder blades and I think the feathers
have all dropped out. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">I can’t remember the last time I
saw my bow, let alone shot one of the arrows. The world doesn’t seem to notice.
Carries on. Maybe it just doesn’t need me anymore?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">I reckon Roger took the arrows. I
saw him messing with them over his coffee. Could be he’s already handed them
over and sent them to the depths of Hades? Or not. Who knows? Who cares?</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Just a few chocs in the box
now. </span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">I should have saved the
bottom layer for Tanith, now that I know I might be in with a chance. But I can
always buy a fresh box in the morning, can’t I?</span></i></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">I wonder what that one is?
Don’t think I’ve seen it before. Small, round and very dark.<br />Probably some
fancy super-pure Peruvian cocoa… </span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;"> </span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Let’s see…<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>…Nope. Not cocoa at all. </span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f3864; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Small, hard, vaguely smokey.
A lump of rock charred at the edges, fizzing slightly at its centre. Surprisingly
tasty.</span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Yep. I’m changing. And fast. My
time has finally come. Tanith is giving me that special smile and nodding
towards the side door. I’ve waited long enough.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Question is, can you lot handle my
metamorphosis? Are you ready for a world without love? </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">Suck it and see.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-2381922033584406442018-09-14T13:51:00.000+03:002018-10-29T12:43:08.048+02:00“London Isn’t Burning” but Fuzz Skyler set Athens ablaze<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A packed rock bar in downtown Athens. It’s late, close to midnight. The crowd has been warmed up by sterling performances from local favourites, and they’re curious to see what the headline act will bring to the show. Five London-based musicians take to the stage. They are <a href="http://www.facebook.com/fuzzskyler" target="_blank">Fuzz Skyler</a></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">, and this is their first ever gig outside the UK.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The clarion call from their opening song – <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Oh,
what we do for a minute or two of fame”</i></b> - rings out, and the crowd
roars approval. Even jaded bar staff who’ve heard it all raise their eyebrows
in delighted surprise. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOzGp5_fmbp6F6h8Piq5Yzyhy9WL5A42LjvZ38x-N0PWK7I7D_kP7yLT4wOPu0-s-usD7VAslFdIuOTdMDEwRI5GZ1VaNL1rQPXgzf0q3nAhTYSNq511v7ETQoVTtBkTfAr_k0IV3ZPUQ/s1600/FS+at+crow+club+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOzGp5_fmbp6F6h8Piq5Yzyhy9WL5A42LjvZ38x-N0PWK7I7D_kP7yLT4wOPu0-s-usD7VAslFdIuOTdMDEwRI5GZ1VaNL1rQPXgzf0q3nAhTYSNq511v7ETQoVTtBkTfAr_k0IV3ZPUQ/s400/FS+at+crow+club+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It’s the start of an energetic set of piano-driven
rock supported by dynamic dueling guitars, passionate yet precise percussion,
and a bass line delivered by the epitome of cool. The charismatic lead singer
and keys player is all big hair, big eyes, big stage presence and a big voice
reminiscent of Freddie, but more – there’s something else that’s all his own.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The crowd isn’t fazed by the fact they haven’t heard
their songs before – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Recall</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">London Isn’t Burning</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Greed and Fortune</i>, the more reflective <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Solitude</i> and other Fuzz Skyler originals
are all welcomed with red-hot Greek passion, whilst a handful of covers
including the band’s take on the traditional Greek <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Misirlou</i>, Muse’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hysteria</i>
and even Adele’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rolling In The Deep</i>
are welcomed like old friends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/aw3YczKVB4s/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/aw3YczKVB4s?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It’s after 1am by the time the band finishes their set,
but the crowd wants more, chanting “Fuzz, Fuzz, Fuzz, Fuzz” until the sound
engineer nods permission for a full-throated reprise of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Recall</i> which most of the audience seem to have learned by heart
already. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">On stage, the band are hot, sweaty, stripped to the
waist, and grinning like maniacs. Their Athens debut has been everything they’d
hoped for – and then some.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Fuzz Skyler was formed just over a year ago. Its
members are all former or current students of the </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/ICMPLondon/"><span lang="EN-US">Institute of Contemporary Music Performance (ICMP)</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> in North London. The band is a real melting
pot with five different mother tongues - Persian, English, Greek, Portuguese
and Lithuanian - but it’s the common language of music that provides the
chemistry that produces their unique sound.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Piano and a strong narrative element form the backbone
of most of their songs, with guitars playing a dynamic supporting role with
energetic riffs to drive home the melody and the message. It’s a “big” sound
supported by first class musicians who are passionate about what they do. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">If forced into a genre, Fuzz Skyler would probably sit
in the same box as some of their key influences such as Muse, Queen, Keane,
Coldplay, Elton John and David Bowie. It’s a theatrical genre of rock of
enduring popularity, grand, anthemic and packed with personality.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg931Im7XfhA1PQA2uAxI7lqrIzR7Tp6VzDNlTbbULgn8Ky7yxrryyyJPK6zNYrXxfhdQIyP12cJsF6Eg0YbiF0S1pF_No8Rz0oihIKJ_HWRz1ABglCO_hmEZsn_IAYWpkbs9axGJ8LUo0/s1600/FS+at+CC+curtain+call.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg931Im7XfhA1PQA2uAxI7lqrIzR7Tp6VzDNlTbbULgn8Ky7yxrryyyJPK6zNYrXxfhdQIyP12cJsF6Eg0YbiF0S1pF_No8Rz0oihIKJ_HWRz1ABglCO_hmEZsn_IAYWpkbs9axGJ8LUo0/s320/FS+at+CC+curtain+call.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Fuzz Skyler have a lot to say. They have the vision,
the energy, the musicality and the sheer talent to say it well. And if their
international debut in Athens is anything to go by, it’s a message that
audiences beyond their home fanbase want to hear.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<u><br /></u></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>Gig Details</u></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/214785939175653/" target="_blank">HOT FUZZ</a></span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">Where: </span></b><a href="http://www.facebook.com/CrowClubAthens/"><span lang="EN-US">The Crow Club</span></a><span lang="EN-US">, 27 Sinopis, Athens<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">When: </b>1 September 2018<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On stage:</b> Fuzz Skyler<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">With:</b> </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/washofsounds"><span lang="EN-US">Wash of Sounds</span></a><span lang="EN-US">, </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/ktourlis/"><span lang="EN-US">Konstantinos Tourlis and Friends</span></a><span lang="EN-US">, </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/heavenblack.band/"><span lang="EN-US">Heavenblack</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> and </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/Dimitris-Gasparatos-the-Double-Vision-915674335192671/"><span lang="EN-US">Dimitris Gasparatos & The Double
Vision</span></a><span lang="EN-US">. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Follow Fuzz Skyler at: <br />
</span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/fuzzskyler"><span lang="EN-US">www.facebook.com/fuzzskyler</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCmD2oJ7BeHew9pampRI8kfg"><span lang="EN-US">www.youtube.com/channel/UCmD2oJ7BeHew9pampRI8kfg</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> <br />
</span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/fuzzskyler/"><span lang="EN-US">www.instagram.com/fuzzskyler/</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> <br />
</span><a href="http://www.twitter.com/fuzzskyler"><span lang="EN-US">www.twitter.com/fuzzskyler</span></a><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
</span><a href="http://www.soundcloud.com/fuzzskyler"><span lang="EN-US">www.soundcloud.com/fuzzskyler</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br /></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-39679111437421634972017-10-23T12:01:00.000+03:002017-10-23T12:11:14.885+03:00Darkroom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2u4oktw22EIpMHlI1mvLrPf-mPUcKp6pX46ksLHzTlxxWbraeWT-04b0qGoyhPJEh-xGJy9wuyFs2Oc2G9n8MLxaHEvdhGk3Q-QIlOHFsyGaQGg9pMrDkSEi5Uh7XBgZCCo736Z9u-xg/s1600/dark+room+image+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="852" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2u4oktw22EIpMHlI1mvLrPf-mPUcKp6pX46ksLHzTlxxWbraeWT-04b0qGoyhPJEh-xGJy9wuyFs2Oc2G9n8MLxaHEvdhGk3Q-QIlOHFsyGaQGg9pMrDkSEi5Uh7XBgZCCo736Z9u-xg/s320/dark+room+image+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">That’s where it started. In the
darkroom. I’d spent the afternoon taking pictures of a sixteen-year-old with
the wholesome teeth and unchallenged confidence of a future beauty queen. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Sarah. That was her name. You
know the type. Clear-skinned, bright-eyed, conventional little blonde. Aced her
exams, dating the captain of the cricket team, raised on a diet of praise as
she swanned her way to adulthood. Almost certainly head prefect material.
Pretty, polite, practically perfect for the niche carved out for her. And dull
as ditchwater.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">What could I do? Pampered little
madams like her paid my rent. Picture perfect portraits of good girls that
never betrayed the small cruelties they inflicted on the outcasts at school. Studio
portraits for the yearbook, doting grandparents, distant aunts and uncles,
whatever – that was my bread and butter. After the strikes and shortages of the
“Winter of Discontent” the papers had been screaming about, I couldn’t afford
to turn good business away, could I? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I’d posed her prettily in front
of the backdrop and started shooting. Brushing a hair off her cheek, adjusting
her collar, sweet talking her to get the most flattering shots. Snap. Snap,
Snap. Now one for grandma, sweetheart. Snap. Snap. Think about David Cassidy.
Snap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Yawn.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Mother sat in the corner, smiling
stiffly and watching me like a hawk. No need, of course. Even if I was that
kind of sleaze ball, her little princess just wasn’t my type. I decided to
butter her up. Massage her ego. Put her mind at rest<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Come on, Mum. Let’s get a nice one
of you both together. I can see where she gets her looks from, though you look
more like sisters to me.” Snap, snap. Dear god, save me from this tedium.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">After the goodbyes and thank
yous, I locked the front door and went to the darkroom. Small, cramped, reeking
of chemicals, its womb-like familiarity welcomed me like family. The warm glow
of the safety light pushed fingers into the corners, shining off the smooth
plastic bottles lined up next to the developing trays. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">A sudden movement in the corner.
I peered into the dark. Nothing but shadow, lurking where the orange glow couldn’t
reach. But it seemed to be breathing, in and out in a steady rhythm. My own
breath. I held it. The movement stopped. Of course. I shook myself out of foolish
imaginings. After all these years, should be used to the weird shapes that form
in the dark as I pour and dip, swish and pull prints from their warm baths. Shadows
dancing past the lines of smiling faces pegged up in the gloom, hung out like
the weekly wash.<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">But, as I pinned the final print
of Sarah and her mother, grinning like idiots in a washing powder advert, the
darkness nudged my arm and reached out a dark finger to stroke the image. I felt
nothing, heard nothing. But I knew. It wasn’t just the fumes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I never did get paid for that
studio session. Sarah and her mum never got home, thanks to a driver who’d had
a few too many. The local rag used one of my shots with the screaming headline
“Star pupil and mother killed in drink-drive horror”. No credit though. So much
for the exposure the photo editor said I’d get. I mourned for them, in my way.
How could I not? But if I’m honest, I mourned my lost fee more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I used to do school photos. Spent
the day in pale green painted classrooms, trying to organise kids who’d arrived
scrubbed and combed to pose in awkward groups of siblings. Class shots too. Not
anymore. Not since the shadow stroked my handiwork again. Two weeks before a
freak avalanche wiped out most of Class 2B on a school ski trip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Even then, I didn’t admit the
connection. Couldn’t. Those horrible random accidents were just that – random.
Nothing to do with the shadow in my darkroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">But then there was the winner of
the Bonny Baby contest who simply stopped breathing one night, in the safety of
her cot, for no apparent reason. Every mother’s nightmare. Waking up after an
uninterrupted night’s sleep, thankful for the rest, only to discover death staring
from their child’s mattress.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">And the local rugby star, stabbed
in the guts when he got caught up in a pub brawl he had nothing to do with.
Three weeks they had him on life support, hooked up to a beeping machine. His
big toothy smile replaced by a lifeless drool. His beefy body getting weaker
and more useless before someone poor sod had to make the awful decision to pull
the plug. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The Victorians used to photograph
their dead babies. Did you know that? The ones who could afford it, I mean.
Waxy faced toddlers already stiff with rigor mortis posed for immortality,
sometimes propped up by bereaved mothers with faces covered by tablecloths. I
swear in all those pictures I can see the hand of a shadow man, caught in the
folds of the cloth or creeping over the shoulder of the dead child. Like it’s
afraid of losing what it already has. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Strange lot, the Victorians.
Melodramatic and obsessed with gadgets. We’re far more sensible these day,
aren’t we?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. Well,
that’s why I stopped doing school photos. Weddings and christenings too. Semi-retired,
I suppose. I make just enough to cover my rent and feed myself as the official
photographer for the local council. You know the sort of thing. Mayor in his
official chain opening some new factory. Shaking hands with visiting
businessmen and the like. No sign of the shadow man there. I suppose local
dignitaries aren’t his cup of tea. Not mine either, but it’s better than the
alternative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">My boy came to see me the other
day. Haven’t seen him for years. Not since his mother left all those years ago.
Fair enough, she kept in touch, let me know how he’s doing, sent me a snapshot
every time he blew out a new lot of birthday cake candles. But they’d moved a
way off, up north, and there was never time, money or courage for a visit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">But there he was, large as life,
and twice as handsome in the doorway. Decked out in uniform. Royal Military
Police, he said. Took me a while to stop seeing the eight-year-old boy in the
man in front of me. Stumbled over my guilt and embarrassment for not being the
father he’d deserved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">He wanted his photo taken, he
said. Surely there were army snappers who could do that? Yes, but he wanted me
to do it. He’d never asked anything from me all these years. What’s the point
of having a photographer father if you can’t get your picture taken?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I tried to put him off, I really
did. But he wouldn’t hear of it. Got to admit, he did look splendid against the
sky blue backdrop, with his metal buckle and buttons gleaming in the glare of
the lights. Got some grand shots of him. Twice the man I’ve ever been.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">He told me he was off for a tour
of duty in two days, so could I please send the photos straight to his mum by
post? She wanted something for her mantelpiece while he was away. In Belfast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">That night, in the darkroom, he was
there again, after all this time. I could feel him. A cold clamminess, waiting
in the corner, slowly inching its way across the room. Waiting, hungry, greedy.
I watched out of the corner of my eye as I developed the prints. Into the
developing solution, then the fixer, then hung out to dry on the line. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The shadow shifted and darted to
the workbench. I blocked its way. It would not have my boy. <span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">....It’s cancer, they say. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Too far
gone to do anything except “keep me comfortable”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I’ve seen the pictures. Lifesize
negatives of my skull and what’s in it. A big black shadow leaking across
frame, eating me up, blotting out reason some of the time, soon to blot out my
life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The doctors have their theories.
Their favourite is all those years of exposure to the fumes in my tiny
darkroom. But I know. It wasn’t the chemicals. I’d denied him the sweet bloom
of youth, so now he’s taking me. Slowly, painfully, stripping me of my dignity.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">But I won. That’s how I see it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Wherever there is light, there’s
shadow. I saw another one this morning, slipping along the wall in the corridor
outside the Children’s Ward. Called out to the nurse, a sweet overworked girl
with a soft Derry accent. “Ah, it’s just a trick of light” she said and rushed
off in a flurry of efficiency and exhaustion.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">It’s here. Come for me. Can you
see it? Creeping around the walls. Getting closer. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">My time is done. I see it now.
Closer than ever. Standing right behind you. Can’t you feel its cold fingers on
your shoulder? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Smiling for the camera.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><em>This story was one of six featured in the Cast Iron Theatre's </em>'Dukeanory: Ugly Tales for Beautfiul Souls' <em>on Thursday 19 October 2017, as part of the Brighton Horrorfest.</em></span></div>
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She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-39290140179342280902017-03-30T22:16:00.000+03:002018-10-29T12:42:51.135+02:00Inside the mind of a Modern Mental Rebel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG4DHIxNr8dQuSG9IaAC48uRfK8WvH6SQLsoxYoSU4XriCGkTurgYf8xzte9cisP9bmhDEXR-GyaJv6QXj3JD8S3mgmlwSDGTHi3OwfD8HUVBQoKveq1aLE8Z7lOLNf0huGhXfSc8mLF4/s1600/aDSC_0435.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG4DHIxNr8dQuSG9IaAC48uRfK8WvH6SQLsoxYoSU4XriCGkTurgYf8xzte9cisP9bmhDEXR-GyaJv6QXj3JD8S3mgmlwSDGTHi3OwfD8HUVBQoKveq1aLE8Z7lOLNf0huGhXfSc8mLF4/s400/aDSC_0435.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nikos Kapralos, a.k.a. Deejay Nic, buzzes with
nervous energy, his eyes constantly dancing around restlessly. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Part of the breed
of Greeks caught up in the country’s financial crisis, he is no quitter.</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He’s the man behind the decks for Deejay Nic The Band,
a genre-breaking group which features a signature Rockstep style combining
sampling with live rock and dubstep performance. He’s also one of the leading
lights of the Modern Mental Rebels™ (MMR), a non-profit organisation which
promotes the independent Greek rock scene.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">MMR taps into a rich seam of modern musical talent
that does not fit comfortably into the country’s mainstream music scene. It
cemented its reputation with its successful staging of the Greek finals of the
Global Battle of the Bands (GBOB) in 2015, and again 2016. The MMR concerts
started in 2014, and continue today. For each show, 4-5 bands share equal
billing, giving audiences a multiple artist experience at an affordable price. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We asked Deejay Nic for his thoughts about MMR,
Greece’s independent music scene, and how bands can take control of their own
future.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Explain the concept of the Modern Mental Rebellion
concerts.</span></span></i></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There are no headliners. The bands have equal billing
and help make the gigs happen. It’s collaborative, not competitive. We draw on
the expertise of MMR volunteers to apply management methods to the organisation
and promotion of concerts, and through that joint effort we provide bands with a
great platform to showcase their music and, hopefully, the audience a night to
remember.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Can artists outside the Greek mainstream to make their
mark? <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Greece is a small market, where most people favour
mainstream Greek pop or folk music, Even if you make it “big” here as an
alternative band, you won’t be BIG in the Greek market. Nonetheless, to attract labels or managers from overseas
you have to make a buzz in your local market. That’s what our MMR stablemates,
Coretheband from Crete, have done through their own efforts and with the
support of MMR. They’re now preparing to take their first steps beyond Greek
borders. Remember their name. You heard it here first.<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">How are things going for Deejay Nic the Band? What
have been the highlights so far? What are your future plans?<br />
</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">We’ve only be going for a little under two years but
we already done a lot. Our first CD, featuring two original tracks, came out
recently,</span>and we’re very proud of it. In terms of live performance, our 2016 appearance
at the Zeytinli Rock Festivali in Turkey is hard to beat – our first time
outside Greece and we played to 130,000 people.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is just the beginning. I always
have my eyes open for opportunities for the band. The sky’s the limit!</span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
What advice would you give young people considering a music career?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Being a great musician is not enough to secure
success. Promoting yourself is vital. Aim to excel at both. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">For more about the Modern Mental Rebels™, go to </span><a href="http://www.modernmentalrebels.com/"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">www.modernmentalrebels.com</span></a><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"> or </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/mmrfest">www.facebook.com/mmrfest</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">++++++++++++</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgokQL-NosCP07xhh7JqpOhYeZiPT-n6D8jWvrQJnC984D0JZM3KLLlp9Dk4yF6x0K9ql2067ZR-dwgpwxgj577hyqo9oBYRzWX2eekuBJA_EIs1cJ7GdZR3b1uSJCMRwm3QXrhtZACcbk/s1600/MMR+GIGS+poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgokQL-NosCP07xhh7JqpOhYeZiPT-n6D8jWvrQJnC984D0JZM3KLLlp9Dk4yF6x0K9ql2067ZR-dwgpwxgj577hyqo9oBYRzWX2eekuBJA_EIs1cJ7GdZR3b1uSJCMRwm3QXrhtZACcbk/s400/MMR+GIGS+poster.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">The first in a series of United MMR concerts will be tomorrow, Friday 31 March 2017, at the <b>Crow Club</b> at Sinopis 27, Ambelokipi, Athens. </span></i><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">The music starts at 10.30pm and goes on til the early hours of the morning. </span></i></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">For just </span></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; font-size: 14px;">€</span><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">5 you'll enjoy the exprience of four bands live and loud. On 31 March, the line-up is:</span></i></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Caught Art Delusion</span></b></span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Entropy Devine</b><br /><b>Heavenblack</b></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sin By Four</span></b></span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On 28 April, <b>Deejay Nick The Band</b> take the stage, together with <b>Perfect Denial</b>, <b>Smolderhaze</b> and <b>Wash of Sounds</b>.</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The 26 May gig will feature <b>Amantes Amentes</b>, <b>COUNTOWN</b>, <b>Ganzi Gun</b> and <b>Termatikos Stathmos</b>.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><b><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">BE PART OF IT NOW!</span></b></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">(Photos by to LensMan-Nick, Nikos Paraskevas)</span></span></i></div>
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She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-38173991291753072432016-12-22T12:23:00.003+02:002016-12-22T12:24:24.987+02:00A dark tale for a bright season<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the spirit of the season, I’m sharing a story that
was included in the ‘Festive Frights’ anthology published by the CW Publishing
House last Christmas. If it whets your appetite for more dark Christmas tales,
you can order the book <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Festive-Frights-Holiday-Horror-Stories-ebook/dp/B018YWBFLI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1482397302&sr=8-1&keywords=festive+frights" target="_blank">here</a></span></span></i></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Seasons’ Greetings</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">by AJ Millen <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The harsh caw of a rook made Inspector Thomas Crumb
look up at the row of beech trees on the horizon, their branches outlined stark
against the early morning sky. He should have been home by now, sipping tea and
nibbling on toast and marmalade after a quiet night shift at Burbon-on-Lee’s
tiny police station.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was cold outside, but colder yet inside Hathaway Cottage
as he stepped across the threshold. The living room was crammed with
overstuffed, once grand furniture and a collection of knick-knacks that only a
lifetime in the same place could accumulate. A forlorn plastic Christmas tree
sat in the corner, its lights blinking feebly. Three stockings hung from hooks
on either side of the old cast iron fireplace. One hook lay empty, spoiling the
careful symmetry. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A line of cards stood on the mantelpiece, pride of
place given to the largest one, an ornate affair which looked like it had been made
to order. It depicted a room like the one it sat in, but an picture book
version without the dust and discarded crockery. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Crumb approached the armchair facing the now cold
fireplace, and looked down. In it sat a man in his 80s, wearing a checked
flannel shirt, knitted tie and thick jumper vest. His thinning hair was slicked
back against his scalp, stray white hairs jutted out wildly from his eyebrows,
his skin stretched across closed eyelids and gaunt cheekbones. His ankles were
tied to the legs of the chair, wrists firmly bound in his lap, and something
was stuffed tight into his mouth. He was dead. Very, very dead. And it didn’t
look like he’d gone peacefully.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Poor old bugger must have choked on whatever the evil
bastards shoved down his throat to keep him quiet,” said Jo from Forensics,
taking a large pair of tweezers and carefully pulling the make-shift gag out.
“See those broken veins, and the bluish tinge to his skin? Tell-tale signs.
Asphyxiation… what the hell?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Her eyebrows shot up as she tugged the gag out to
reveal a length of colourful fabric with the name ‘Jake’ written in glitter
above a cheery appliqued snowman. A Christmas stocking – probably intended for
one of the grandchildren expecting for a festive visit. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Funny thing is,” she continued “although obviously
some sadistic git did this, there’s no sign of a break-in. All the doors and
windows were locked from the inside. Nothing missing either – not even the box
of fifties our boys found at the back of his kitchen cupboard. If it hadn’t
been for Elsie Symms letting herself in with the spare key, it would have been
days before anyone realised they hadn’t seen old George.”</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1nKGo1vYr92kfJ5OI0uraly0t1QTqE4dcXdiXrur4cYxQzk-p7V0TKzD7u-Pi_9g563BNwQ9yZNgHY36HD6_Fyc3Q_1InQW5gWKKd-6VcKt-piXfJ209FzLwHqVI0w3zn0hHNYXbFS0/s1600/free-poisenttia-garland-clip-art-xJSYfJ-clipart.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1nKGo1vYr92kfJ5OI0uraly0t1QTqE4dcXdiXrur4cYxQzk-p7V0TKzD7u-Pi_9g563BNwQ9yZNgHY36HD6_Fyc3Q_1InQW5gWKKd-6VcKt-piXfJ209FzLwHqVI0w3zn0hHNYXbFS0/s200/free-poisenttia-garland-clip-art-xJSYfJ-clipart.png" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; text-align: left;">Marjory Falstaff was hard at work, oblivious to the
drama unfolding at the other end of the village. Humming along to the Christmas
carols playing in the background, she smiled as she gave added the finishing
touches. On the shelf behind her, an old grocer’s scales gave the slightest
creak as one side clicked down a fraction, bringing it a degree closer to
equilibrium with the weights neatly stacked in the opposite tray.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Admiring the finished greetings card, she added the
final detail. Her trademark – the shadow gate seal, three truncated crescent
moons intertwined to resemble a spiky flower. She’d been using it ever since
that day a year ago when she’d made the deal that gave her one last Christmas
with David.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Already well-known in the village for her crafting
skills, she’d been unable to do anything but cry after that cold November day
when the doctors delivered the news. David wouldn’t last a month, they’d said.
The cancer was too far gone. He wouldn’t see Christmas, they’d said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That’s when she swore she’d do anything for more time
together. Promised the unthinkable to things she hardly knew (or dared
consider) hiding in the shadows, for the chance to celebrate his favourite holiday
one last time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">David confounded the doctors and rallied as the
darkest day of the year approached. His bloodshot eyes regained something of
their old spark as he watched Marjory place the angel atop the extravagant conifer
she’d dragged in from the garden and decorated with the glee of a six-year-old.
He’d enjoyed a mince pie washed down with mulled wine as they listened to the
Midnight Mass on the radio late on Christmas Eve. He’d even opened his gifts
with delight and managed to eat a full plate of turkey with all the trimmings
on Christmas Day. He was happy. So was his wife.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That happiness was short-lived. Marjory and David did
have their one last Christmas together, but that was all. Boxing Day dawned on
his cold corpse lying next to her in the bed they’d shared for more than forty
years. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Since then, she’d been adding her mark to every card
she sold at the village fete, church bazaars and, in the past two months,
online. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And now the time had come for her debt to be paid.</span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxoH5heSgy6zCU2Q9KgWqzHkv3ra3BnQTFV0h7n0KwKand8o-6vkXSB3L5tIfzOHrUFjOfljuge3kYhomURprTvFmgOEm8m-8YYOyBACLpWga1e0_-rtDRDG3zKvBNd1qhSGE9edIcz6M/s1600/seal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxoH5heSgy6zCU2Q9KgWqzHkv3ra3BnQTFV0h7n0KwKand8o-6vkXSB3L5tIfzOHrUFjOfljuge3kYhomURprTvFmgOEm8m-8YYOyBACLpWga1e0_-rtDRDG3zKvBNd1qhSGE9edIcz6M/s1600/seal.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; text-align: left;">By ten in the morning, Jo had finished her examination
and was watching carefully as George Jenkins’ body was loaded into the
ambulance for its trip to the mortuary. It wouldn’t take long to formally
determine the cause of his death. It was the why and the how that was a
mystery.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Crumb sighed as he thought of the paperwork waiting
for him back at the station. But first, he called by Bellamy & Sons –
Funeral Directors, to let them know they could expect a new customer once the
coroner released the body.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
A hush washed over him as he opened the door to undertaker’s parlour. A kind-eyed
woman rose at the sound of a visitor entering, carefully arranging her features
into an expression of solemn compassion. It was replaced with a tired smile when
she recognised the local CID man.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Morning, Doreen,” said Crumb. “Another chilly one,
eh?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Settling into the chair opposite Doreen Bellamy, he
continued: “I’ve just come from George Jenkins’ place. Another customer for
you, but I’m afraid he didn’t go naturally so you’ll have to contact the
coroner’s office to find out when you can get his body and make the
arrangements.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Seems it’s high season in our business,” Doreen sighed,
pushing a desk calendar showing the next two weeks across the page. Every
weekday was marked with names for cremation or burial. “The graveyard at St
Swithun’s will be more brown than green by New Year.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Winter was always a busy time, but this year had
brought a bumper crop of freak accidents in addition to the usual cases of
pneumonia or dodgy tickers that carried off the old and infirm. A single mother,
determined to give her kids a jolly holiday despite her limited budget,
electrocuted when trying to fix the ancient wiring on fairy lights found in the
attic. A reckless teenage boy, his neck snapped like a twig when he slipped trying
to fix a large illuminated Santa to the roof of his family’s home. The aging
spinster found frozen solid on the park bench, the remains of seed she used to
feed the birds still clinging to the fibres of her woolen glove. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1nKGo1vYr92kfJ5OI0uraly0t1QTqE4dcXdiXrur4cYxQzk-p7V0TKzD7u-Pi_9g563BNwQ9yZNgHY36HD6_Fyc3Q_1InQW5gWKKd-6VcKt-piXfJ209FzLwHqVI0w3zn0hHNYXbFS0/s1600/free-poisenttia-garland-clip-art-xJSYfJ-clipart.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1nKGo1vYr92kfJ5OI0uraly0t1QTqE4dcXdiXrur4cYxQzk-p7V0TKzD7u-Pi_9g563BNwQ9yZNgHY36HD6_Fyc3Q_1InQW5gWKKd-6VcKt-piXfJ209FzLwHqVI0w3zn0hHNYXbFS0/s200/free-poisenttia-garland-clip-art-xJSYfJ-clipart.png" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Time for a break, Marjory told herself. She stood up
from her work table, stretched and hobbled painfully to the kitchen. Filling
the kettle, she gazed out of the window. Weak winter sun was struggling to
break through the clouds, casting patches of warmth and light on her lawn to
melt the frost on the grass.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A robin landed on the handle of a spade leaning
against the shed. It turned in Marjory’s direction and seemed to look directly
at her with its bright eye. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Hello, sweetheart,” said murmured. The robin
redbreast always put her in mind of David, making her feel that he was still
keeping an eye on her from… well, beyond whatever it was that separated the
living from the dead. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She turned on the radio to listen to the midday news,
more out of habit than interest. Terror, conflict and death washed over her
like a breeze moving a net curtain, Her ears pricked up at the news of a woman
in Vermont trampled by a herd of wild reindeer – an animal never before known
in the state. And in Australia, a brand of gourmet Christmas pudding had been
withdrawn after a child died of internal bleeding after eating a bowlful laced
with broken glass.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The scales on the
windowsill moved another inch closer to balancing the books.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIW2BvakUiYA8uCUeyA8npqMPME2Xm6FFUTlX3tMjJyobQKB0nYoWUnx7p8SHlw8LqsCJ7aNtFGO4vZ2F1gdyEpZB3b3se0PNkrZlVp8umqmR9irc0Ou3zT1Z-KfiM5jD2ASb98hcshSo/s1600/icicle_PNG10082.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIW2BvakUiYA8uCUeyA8npqMPME2Xm6FFUTlX3tMjJyobQKB0nYoWUnx7p8SHlw8LqsCJ7aNtFGO4vZ2F1gdyEpZB3b3se0PNkrZlVp8umqmR9irc0Ou3zT1Z-KfiM5jD2ASb98hcshSo/s200/icicle_PNG10082.png" width="200" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="text-align: left;">Temperatures plummeted in Burbon-on-Lee the night before
the winter solstice. An icy wind cut through the streets without bringing a
single flake of the snow the children hoped for.</span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Too cold for snow” opined Harry, resident amateur
meteorologist and barman at the ‘Old Bell’ pub as regulars piled in for something
to chase away the chill. The fire in the 16<sup>th</sup> century inglenook and
the crush of pre-Christmas drinkers offered a warm refuge. Outside, long
icicles formed on the eaves overhanging the footpath to the car park, trembling
slightly with every gust of wind. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The cowbell above the door jangled as Inspector Crumb
walked in, seeking a warm meal and company after a long day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Evening, Tom,” said Harry, wiping spilled beer from
the bar. “What can I get for you?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I was thinking of one of Sal’s piping hot meat pies,”
said the policeman, settling into the high stool. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Coming right up,” said the barman, making a note of
the order. “And what about a pint while you wait? Or are you still on duty?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Finished for the day, Crumb decided on something from
the pub’s selection of traditional real ales. Home was less than a quarter of a
mile away, he could always walk.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I’m done for the day. Give me a pint of Green Man.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Taking a sip from the nutty brew, Crumb looked around
the bar. Regulars sat around their usual tables, sharing the gossip – no doubt
including the demise of old George. A pair of old codgers supped hot toddies
over a game of chess. At the far end of the bar, a gaggle of suited
twenty-somethings hooted in a fit of pre-Christmas boisterousness. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One pint led to another, as Crumb settled into a
comfortable stupour after his hot meal. He didn’t want to go home to the empty
house that had felt as personal as an airport hotel room since the day Jane left
three years ago. He settled back in his seat, contentedly working on The Times
crossword and looking up every now and then to greet familiar faces as they
came and went. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The gang of drunks at the far end of the bar were
getting louder and more obnoxious. If they carried on, he might need to get official
and order them to pipe down.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But no, they’d had enough of the charms of the country
pub and were now on their way out. No doubt to some city bar serving champagne
cocktails with cranberry spiked swizzle sticks. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">None were in a fit state to get behind the wheel - but
that wasn’t Crumb’s problem. Just days before Christmas, there would be plenty
of officers on the look-out for drunks stupid enough to attempt to drive.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Crumb raised a hand to signal to Harry for a hot toddy
before calling it a night. But before the barman could respond, a monstrous
gust of wind shook the pub, howling like a wild animal trapped beneath its eaves.
A rumble, a crash and a scream smashed through the cacophony outside. Harry
looked up, threw the bar door open and dashed out to see what had happened.
Driven by his unshakable sense of duty, Crumb followed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Through the dark peppered with the first wild swirls
of snow loomed an unexpected sight. Not a toppled chimney stack, as he had
expected, but the largest icicle that had dangled from the eaves had plummeted
to the ground. Unfortunately, the head of one of the departing Yuppies had got
in the way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Spread-eagled in a growing pool of blood mingling with
smashed ice splinters, the be-suited young man was clearly not breathing. The
left side of his face was obliterated and his expensively cut hair matted with
gore and bits of brain. A blonde knelt next to him, hysterical, heaving and
screeching. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Crumb watched, paralysed by shock and fatigue. Around
him, people were running, screaming, shouting. Harry was yelling into his
mobile phone. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Something made Crumb look up and started at a gargoyle-like
face grinning down at him from the rooftop. He blinked and looked again. This
time, he saw only darkness broken by the approaching flashing blue of the
ambulance lights bouncing off the red brick pub wall. Must be seeing things, he
thought. Shock, fatigue and too many pints of Green Man could have that effect.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Marjory was desperate. Time was running out, and the
scales had still not balanced. Payment was due and if it wasn’t made… well, who
knew?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One more, just one more to appease the powers that had
granted her those last few days with David, and the promise that they would –
one day – be reunited.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She grabbed a card from the pile she had finished that
afternoon, and hastily scribbled a greeting inside. She sealed the envelope and
wrote “Inspector Thomas Crumb” on the outside, and prepared to leave the house
to deliver it to the police station.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She let out a strangled scream as she opened the front
door to a man dressed in red. He lowered his fur-trimmed hood to reveal the
ruddy, familiar face of David. Her David, healthy and happy, before the cancer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But her blood turned to ice as his smile twisted into
a snaggle-toothed snarl and he raised a filthy-clawed hand holding a white
envelope bearing HER name. In the bottom right hand corner, she spied the
shadow gate seal, calling to her like a homing signal.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I’ve brought your card, Marjory,” rasped the figure
before her, no longer wearing the face she loved. “It’s your turn now. The
balance is paid. Time to go.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-92146775137869925802016-10-31T10:19:00.001+02:002020-10-31T11:17:39.335+02:00Around The Cauldron - Fallen Angel <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Sometimes, the things we fear the most are all too human...</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgPNBiBGBDwich4Rj9JnsMVtt_P_WPDreqEGS8lLbm7IcanEB1dZM9l10f7R1jkREMvxVGtWAvbV4UBWWyesTRZSQjVI2DhayriazZqdZzBrkROrqEecare97Bb7aoUMZHbYu9_tSUkY/s1600/Falling+angel.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgPNBiBGBDwich4Rj9JnsMVtt_P_WPDreqEGS8lLbm7IcanEB1dZM9l10f7R1jkREMvxVGtWAvbV4UBWWyesTRZSQjVI2DhayriazZqdZzBrkROrqEecare97Bb7aoUMZHbYu9_tSUkY/s320/Falling+angel.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: large;"><b>Fallen Angel</b></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;">by AJ Millen</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Grace Bellamy stared at the
bundle the midwife thrust into her arms. It was the moment she had so yearned
for, and now she felt nothing but dread. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The newborn infant would have been a
thing of beauty and pride for any mother - but all she saw was a monster. An
abomination she’d brought into the world as a result of the unholy pact she’d
made. Its blue-eyed blink glinted with the promise of a thousand evils it would
unleash upon the world, and when it opened its mouth to yawn, she saw a black
abyss lined with sharp, teeth-like rocks. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">“Well done, my dear. It’s a boy,”
said Mrs Duffy, gently wiping a stray strand of sweat-soaked hair from Grace’s
forehead. “Now, don’t you worry. This one is a fine young thing, as hale and
hearty a bairn as I’ve ever seen.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Grace stared at the kindly
midwife, eyes wide with terror.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">“Aye, my dear,” continued the soothing
Aberdeenshire lilt. “Mark my words. No only will this one live, he will do
great things.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Eugenia Duffy thought she was
reassuring the mother. She’d been at Grace’s side throughout the four births
that had produced nothing but limp, lifeless corpses - waxen dolls never
destined to live a day. Another two had lived a day, but no more. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">She believed she knew Grace
Bellamy’s greatest fear. <br />
She was wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">In truth, Grace was facing her worst
nightmare in the tightly swaddled bundle that Sarah, her trusted maid, gently
took and placed in the cradle next to her bed. Mrs Duffy set about cleaning up
and straightening the bed covers in preparation for the proud father to meet
his son.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Grace let out a scream more
piercing that any that had accompanied the agony of her labour. The midwife
looked up in shock. Sarah rushed to her mistress. But Grace didn’t see them. She
saw sinister horned demons, flashing blood-stained grins at her through a black
cloud rising out of the cradle. <br />
She knew what they were and why they were there. <br />
It was all her doing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">When she’d realised she was with
child again, her worst fear had been that she’d be planting yet another small,
sad coffin in the family plot at St Wilfred’s. She’d grasped at every straw. Endless
prayers and promises to the heavens. Countless doctors, both in Harley Street
and in London’s less reputable side-streets, whose patent cures and potions
she took religiously. She even visited clairvoyants who claimed to speak to the
world beyond this one.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">One convinced her she was cursed.
But, for a fee, that curse could be broken. They’d visited Highgate Cemetery
and stood before the gothic headstone of Maximillian Colbert, illustrious businessman
and – according to Madame Petrovna – a devoted follower of the Spiritist Allan
Kordec. It was All Saints’ Eve, when the medium claimed the veil dividing the
temporal and spiritual worlds could open to those wishing to connect with the
‘Other Side’. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Colbert had been a strong spirit,
she had said, and would be able to help Grace produce a son and heir that would not
only live, but would “do great things”. She had thrown herself at the headstone
and offered her very soul – and that of her unborn child. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">It was only when he heard his new
born cries that she realised the price to be paid. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Through the dark smoke filling
her bed chamber, a figure appeared. At least seven feet tall, black as pitch
and with eyes that glowed red through the gloom. “You have done well,” it
rasped. “My son is born and now it has begun. My kingdom will come.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">“No, no, no, no.” Grace wailed,
thrashing about her bed. “You can’t have him. He’s not yours. I won’t let you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Another face emerged from the
gloom. Ernest, her loving and long-suffering husband. But somehow, not Ernest. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">“Calm yourself, sweet Grace,” he
said, gently stroking her cheek. “You’re hysterical, my angel. Everything is as
it should be. You’ve done your part. Now sleep.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">He bent to kiss her forehead and tenderly
but firmly pressed a sponge dipped in something sweet-smelling against her
mouth. The fight left her and she fell into a sleep haunted by visions of
pagan monstrosities, apocalyptic battles and a black cloud eating the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The sun was streaming through a
chink in the curtains when she awoke the next morning. Sarah was slumped, snoring,
in the armchair next to the crib. A blackbird sang in the plum tree outside her
window. All that was left of the previous day’s horror was the tinny taste of
blood in her mouth. Touching her tongue to her lower lip, she winced in pain. She’d
bitten it raw in her hysteria.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">A hungry cry rose from the
cradle. Sarah grunted, shifted in her chair, and continued snoring. Grace
rose from her bed, and walked to the crib. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Calm now. she knew what she had
to do. Looking down at the newborn, she wondered at her terror the night
before. Now, she was serene, certain. She had a sacred duty to perform. She would
not fail.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Gazing into the blue eyes of the
child in the cradle, she whispered “He will not take us” and took from the
dressing table a long jeweled hairpin she used to hold her heavy locks in place. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">“This won’t take long,” she
soothed the crying infant - before plunging the hairpin through the lace gown
into its tiny cursed heart.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRr5ZTzUDnmWYRwDmnfT4z2Fr5nSimOAzHi4dZnAYgiMHtb1NeiyQIxPR5CVBGlIJgf6xmaQ1njlJYlXtedhbxlfdhVnrGzAOXHReZbQM-_uptKCgK2PtoHlT592qBxBNCFw_2Pl6SQU/s1600/Around+the+cauldron_row_of_bats.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="32" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRr5ZTzUDnmWYRwDmnfT4z2Fr5nSimOAzHi4dZnAYgiMHtb1NeiyQIxPR5CVBGlIJgf6xmaQ1njlJYlXtedhbxlfdhVnrGzAOXHReZbQM-_uptKCgK2PtoHlT592qBxBNCFw_2Pl6SQU/s200/Around+the+cauldron_row_of_bats.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">FOOTNOTE:
Post-natal psychosis is not a supernatural phenomenon. It is a very real
psychiatric emergency and the quicker it is treated, the better. </span></i></div>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">
If you suspect that you or someone you know may be suffering from it, seek
immediate medical assistance. The risk is higher for women who have (or who
have a first-degree relative with) a history of bipolar disorder, schizophrenia
or schizoaffective, and for those who have previously suffered from psychosis.
If you fall into the above categories and are planning a pregnancy, do NOT stop
taking your prescribed medication. Take folic acid on your obstetrician’s
advice and seek a referral to a Preconception Care Clinic. For more, see <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z542ld5_iIg" target="_blank">My Story of Mental Health and Wellbeing Through Pregnancy</a> </span></i><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></i></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">(Photo credit:
LensMan Nick, a.k.a. Nikos Paraskevas)</span></span></div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7778669464916348661.post-49908667816876553662016-10-30T11:36:00.002+02:002017-08-08T12:01:13.527+03:00Around The Cauldron: Guest post - Uncle by Virginia Carraway Stark<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Today’s
offering from Around The Cauldron is a raw, gory tale from the prolific pen of
guest storyteller Virginia Carraway Stark. Prepare to have your gooses bumped!<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-poU1ChbKRjCwk58Ws8Il1FlkKy5cdGKwMggpjie7nCa_XunMSB8ix8QkLmvDbOr4_4eBH6HEXzy318aIDSpZYMhEtgpjLTSnvwSyNIh6jFVHiOVpttCOpmiUljHlSKkBxHd4xZZnUw/s1600/Around+the+cauldron_row_of_bats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="32" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-poU1ChbKRjCwk58Ws8Il1FlkKy5cdGKwMggpjie7nCa_XunMSB8ix8QkLmvDbOr4_4eBH6HEXzy318aIDSpZYMhEtgpjLTSnvwSyNIh6jFVHiOVpttCOpmiUljHlSKkBxHd4xZZnUw/s200/Around+the+cauldron_row_of_bats.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijj8yx46D7klj5KSdwGvHsAL-GvSC2bWBM7GBYeVK2yPYRTtnk46l_-ySdV98ghyRduxStwxVDrdRZeNUcWcMPaIXFeqxDvwzDKW1eW_YNqe4v4HNANXRDxyTIQcTJNTj8hiGj3qVtdmo/s1600/bloody+hands.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijj8yx46D7klj5KSdwGvHsAL-GvSC2bWBM7GBYeVK2yPYRTtnk46l_-ySdV98ghyRduxStwxVDrdRZeNUcWcMPaIXFeqxDvwzDKW1eW_YNqe4v4HNANXRDxyTIQcTJNTj8hiGj3qVtdmo/s200/bloody+hands.jpeg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He
reached out towards her, his hands already soaked in the blood of her boyfriend
and the other party goers. His face leered at her through the mask that hung
loosely on his emaciated face. His teeth were yellow and his breath smelled
like rotten meat. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Moving slowly, as though it were a nightmare he reached out
and stroked her chestnut hair. She moaned, it would have been a sob but she
didn't dare, she didn't dare flinch from his touch, she didn't dare bat his
hand away. Even his brief touch on her hair left gobs of flesh and blood on her
hair. She stank like blood and death now. She stank like him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Her eyes drifted
to his amputated hand that had been replaced with a three pronged gardening
tool. He raised it up, he had been left handed before one of his last victims
had chopped off his hand and it was this strange weapon that he now lifted
against his cheek, prongs pointed out. He was getting ready to slice her.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She
relented and let out a deep, sobbing moan of terror. Her eyes were roving, her
hands looking for something, anything to use as a weapon. Behind his askance
mask she saw his lips snarl into what was, for Matthew, a smile of joy. He had
terrorized her mother and been locked up for it, it had been her mother who had
taken his hand, her mother whose body she had found clawed to pieces behind the
wheel of their Chevy. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She found a wire coat hanger with her right hand, her
left hand was held up in a pathetic warding off gesture. Using all the
considerable adrenaline at her disposal she pulled out the hanger and jabbed it
into the eye of the mask. It punctured deep, and to Mandy's visible surprise
she felt a 'pop' as it entered his eye and he howled and reeled away from where
he had her cornered. She was so surprised that it took her a moment to recover
but then she kneed him hard in the balls and pushed him over. The hanger was
still sticking out of his eye. Mandy pulled out the hanger, the idea that it
had had one lucky hit made it a talisman of luck in her mind, his eye came
trailing out of the socket and she screamed and popped it off the hanger. Time
to run, it was only a few steps from where he had her trapped to the door and
possible escape but each step was a lifetime.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Revenge
raged in her mind along with the fear. She wasn't going to run. He wasn't going
to get locked up again only to come back at her or even or own children one
day. That sucker wasn't going to leave the house. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He was going to die.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhWnVt-pd4RaVqJa4g33Y_g8cSJZ0cA-iwtaU9G-z-xZpZWGgQIjWFUDM05l5iq1HBbj4Jn-CovWhtEtmQ2H7bQezKX94aCSrV0jfFiMjNYaKoPAZ4AjQ2KHhyiJ339BW0BS_DTA4mwck/s1600/Around+the+cauldron_row_of_bats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="32" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhWnVt-pd4RaVqJa4g33Y_g8cSJZ0cA-iwtaU9G-z-xZpZWGgQIjWFUDM05l5iq1HBbj4Jn-CovWhtEtmQ2H7bQezKX94aCSrV0jfFiMjNYaKoPAZ4AjQ2KHhyiJ339BW0BS_DTA4mwck/s200/Around+the+cauldron_row_of_bats.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ifWx1hHilQbu6EwjXiJO2eObdbF1CPu3k0EV0DxrWISkWdVjk40QnEjBN5t65qJUizSTPjuRs101vl62FQSil_j_iWg9VoiXBA9EDp-QTKhOz8U8wK-X4L5nZCx2XHZUiSc-M-y5SUg/s1600/virginia+stethoscope+medic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ifWx1hHilQbu6EwjXiJO2eObdbF1CPu3k0EV0DxrWISkWdVjk40QnEjBN5t65qJUizSTPjuRs101vl62FQSil_j_iWg9VoiXBA9EDp-QTKhOz8U8wK-X4L5nZCx2XHZUiSc-M-y5SUg/s200/virginia+stethoscope+medic.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Canadian wordsmith Virginia Carraway Stark has a diverse portfolio and has
many publications. Over the years she has developed this into a wide range of
products from screenplays to novels to articles to blogging to travel
journalism. She has been published by many presses from grassroots to Simon and
Schuster for her contribution to 'Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Possible' as
seen on ABC. She has been an honorable
mention at Cannes Film Festival for her screenplay, “Blind Eye” and was
nominated for an Aurora Award. She also placed in the final top three
screenplay shorts in the 'Reel to Reel' Film Festival.</span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She
has written short stories in well over twenty anthologies as well as magazines,
novels, poetry, poetry anthologies, blogs, journals and many other venues. She
is Editor-in-Chief at StarkLight Press as well as for Outermost: Journal of the
Paranormal. She formerly worked writing medical papers into language for the
lay person and worked on scientific papers for numerous platforms.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://virginiastark.wordpress.com/about/">https://virginiastark.wordpress.com/about/</a><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/Virginiacarrawaystark/?fref=ts">https://www.facebook.com/Virginiacarrawaystark/?fref=ts</a><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://virginiastark.wordpress.com/contact-me/">https://virginiastark.wordpress.com/contact-me/</a></span></i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"> </span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-poU1ChbKRjCwk58Ws8Il1FlkKy5cdGKwMggpjie7nCa_XunMSB8ix8QkLmvDbOr4_4eBH6HEXzy318aIDSpZYMhEtgpjLTSnvwSyNIh6jFVHiOVpttCOpmiUljHlSKkBxHd4xZZnUw/s1600/Around+the+cauldron_row_of_bats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="32" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-poU1ChbKRjCwk58Ws8Il1FlkKy5cdGKwMggpjie7nCa_XunMSB8ix8QkLmvDbOr4_4eBH6HEXzy318aIDSpZYMhEtgpjLTSnvwSyNIh6jFVHiOVpttCOpmiUljHlSKkBxHd4xZZnUw/s200/Around+the+cauldron_row_of_bats.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">If Virginia's story has whetted your appetite for more dark tales for Hallowe'en, go to <a href="http://shemeanswellbut.blogspot.gr/search/label/Around%20The%20Cauldron" target="_blank">Around The Cauldron</a> </span></div>
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She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0