It feels like I eschew my skin

Ripping it out from my sore lips

As I painfully part from your tender hips

Skinning myself with hardly a din

Each serendipitous second a pin

White-hot in its intent to sear

Relentless in its purpose to mean

The time for the Mourning is here

In diffugient shadows I dive,

Into endless and freezing dark night

Interregnum of all reason

Void of stars, warmth or season

No moon, Nobody, No sight

No twinkle in eyes I made mine

Indefinite absence of light

No harbour, no shelter, no guiding sign

Blowing out candles, blowing out life

Blowing out plans constructed in strife

Blowing the newborn chronic dream

In brutal blows, or so it would seem

As harsh as upon a baby cub seal

No poet could such pain as great as this heal

No poetic choir would ever suffice

To quench the desire on this burning ice

No song will ever sound again

Each note a wail, a moaning pain

Forever doomed to memorize

Repeating, singing out the sighs

Salt in my tears burning the wounds

That each note cracks as our song swoons

I know, I feel in silent cries

Such love as ours never dies

A hymn is sung to the raw flesh

The soul reveals in heinous mesh

I know I’m dead, I killed myself

I’m no more here than any elf

Who’s gone astray

Who’s lost his way

Who stands forgotten on a shelf

Fictitious character today

Wide open eyes in deadly stare

Still seeing yours, poised in mid-air

Your  body print, of moon aglow

This lunar landscape sheets still show

I do not breathe, my want conspue

In vain I scrape the feel of you

From my whole self, I walk away

And still you cling, beloved dew

And yet you are, yet you will be

Zenith of all that’s whole and free

Still caught in nets, still trapped in web

That which I wove, in which we slept

Your bonds will break, you’ll swim away

To glide along that endless sea

Splendorous abluvion of me

Upon the gentle waves you’ll sway

You’ll swim afar, don’t look behind

Refuse the gambol of your mind

No longer here, I’m not your king

Nor slave, nor nothing worth remembering

Soon you will land upon your shore

Where stars, and shells, and palms, and more

All bow before your dainty spring

As they have always done before

Upon the time my sweat is dry

Your skin will wake up with a sigh

Your soul will cleanse this Passion’s tears

And you will see throughout the years

Upon yourself all that I’ve seen

No better shore has ever been

No sweeter song, no verse as smart

As that you hold within your heart

Your mourning time will then be done

Your stronger heart will be our son

And if you ever think of me

The mourning time again will be.

 

"It's over."

 

“...probably four days ago. I’m not sure.”

“Me either. Look, I don’t want to be stuck here doing this forever. I’ve got no time for it.”

“Well she said that we are expelled indefinitely until we get these hundred community service hours done.”

I threw my head back and sighed agitatedly.

“I want to blame you.”

“As do I,” Liam replied sarcastically. Our probation officer came towards us walking briskly, heels clanking on the ground.

“You must work hard. Make those dirt spots diffugient and ran along to some other place.” She smirked. The floor was permanently dirty; rather the tiles were simply brown. How could she expect us to make it white, to make it like total abluvion? We both let out a breath and glanced at each other.

This is your fault. I bet we’re thinking simultaneously.

-Two weeks earlier-

Interregnums were plenty throughout the school. No teacher truly having control over any classrooms or security over the halls. Students wandered and drifted out of the school slowly, a handful at a time. One specific furious teacher stormed the halls looking for a boy and a girl.

“Those two!” He snapped clearly unhappy at another teacher in the teacher’s lounge. The woman he was speaking to had been getting something out of the refrigerator and nodding to every word in his rant.

 “Me either. Look, I don’t want to be stuck here doing this forever. I’ve got no time for it.”

“Well she said that we are expelled indefinitely until we get these three hundred community service hours done.”

I threw my head back and sighed agitatedly.

“I want to blame you.”

 

The feeling of being esoteric and the understanding of being in this place come over my body in waves so strong. The reminder of that awful, unrelenting moment speeds past my eyes in the most vivid way. I stay in the upright position for quite sometime, but a force, so unwavering and immutable, begins to weigh down on me. An urge to cry, to scream looks above me, and simultaneously grabs hold of my heart, yanks, and doesn’t let go.

         “It doesn’t have to be like this.” He said to me. I didn’t listen. However, I pivoted on my heels and left. Without so much as one look back.

         That day, that awful calamitous day still rests in my mind to date. Fresh, real, I think I can touch it. But when I reach out, nothing is there. Therefore I fall, and into oblivion I plummet until there is nothing left of me. A monster is what I have become. Not a misconstrued young woman, not a confused human with nowhere left to turn. No. I am what I am, and what I am is a monster. An abomination to this world. My mother told me so.

         “Call a spade a spade, honey, and you’ll be much more comfortable with the truth. Trust me.”

         But I’m not anymore reassured than I was before. Mother, you were wrong.

         I was told not to listen to her. I was told not to believe a word that came out of her mouth. But I did; she’s my mom, why wouldn’t I? Who can answer that? With clenched fist, I can still smell the metallic tang of pure blood. Spilled everywhere. And there is no rewinding what I did. The news wasn’t as shocking as I thought it would be.

         “We did all we could. The wounds bled out much too fast. The cuts were too deep. I’m sorry.”

But doctor, you’re not sorry. I imbibed that information even though I knew it long before hand. To hear it was something different. His mouth seemed to move in slow motion as he spoke to me. I couldn’t hear him, yet I nodded as though I understood. And for the most part, I did. I think I did.

Who can crawl inside my head, sort things out and then answer my questions? The supposedly pivotal curiosity bounced around in my head, and at the same time I wanted to ignore it. I wish ignorance instead of knowledge. It feels much better that way.

“You don’t want to do this, honey. I’m your mother. You don’t want to do this.”

But I did want to do it. And I did do what I wanted to do. So why don’t I feel any better? Why does it continue to scratch my eyelids to the point where I don’t even want to close my eyes? The feeling of disfiguring myself mentally and physically lets me know that I really shouldn’t have done such a deed. A crime like so is punishable by death. But what about the collateral damage she gave right before she died? Who can account for the harm she has bestowed upon my life from my very birth to this very moment?

“Call a spade a spade, honey. And you, my dear, is nothing, will never be anything, and by God you will be nothing for the rest of your life. Trust me.”

Maybe I should have listened when he told me that I would be sorry. Maybe I should have taken his words in stride when he said that the remorse would be horrific. Maybe I could have saved myself the trouble, the pain and not had to learn the hard.

It’s a little too late for should of, could of, would of’s now, don’t you think? 

I am not a young person anymore, so life has been full of unwanted lessons.  The one that I believe was most pivotal to me was learning that someone who claimed to love me could try to kill me.  This immutable fact was violently driven into my awareness when I was 18 years old.  

Everything began normally enough.  There was a guy who caught my eye in my creative writing class.  We had to read aloud in class the stories we had written, and I thought he would be interesting to get to know.  He seemed rather shy and I was  too.  I could easily empathize with the feelings of awkwardness he seemed to show especially when trying to read in front of the whole class.  I asked a friend who knew us both to introduce me to him.  After we had talked a few times, we started dating.  I was unaware that he had begun to imbibe drugs shortly before I met him.  When I did finally learn of this, I told him that I had strong feelings against drug abuse and that he would have to choose between the drugs or me.  He didn't answer me right away and I thought I would give him a little time to make his decision. 

Graduation was nearly upon us and we had gone to a park.  We were drinking wine.  I was foolish enough back then to think that drinking was preferable to drugs and if nothing else, it was at least legal.  I was sitting on the ground with my back against a tree trunk when my boyfriend started talking about the river Styx.  I had no idea what he was talking about.  I had never heard of it.  How could I possibly know that this was leading to a nearly calamitous end for me?

A strange look came over his face and some instinct warned me to stand up.  As I stood, he took the wine bottle and broke it against an iron barbecue grill.  He came at me quickly and slashed at me with the broken bottle.  He was trying to slash my throat, but only caught me along the jaw line.  I had managed to lean back just in time.  As blood trickled down onto my neck, I tried to prevent him from slashing at me again.  I went towards him and tried to pin his arms to his sides.  While we were face to face, he struggled to free himself.  Failing that, he then stabbed me in the back with the bottle several times.  During this struggle, neither of us had uttered a word.  I will never forget the look in his eyes though.  I was fortunate to survive the attack and the only disfigurement I suffered were the scars on my back.  The slice along my jaw was very shallow and healed quickly. 

Later I heard his explanation for his actions and they were chilling.  In his words, he was going to kill me to send me to heaven.  Then he planned on meeting me in heaven when he committed suicide.  I believe he thought killing me would prevent me from leaving him because of his drug abuse. 

A year later, I heard from some friends of his that he had committed suicide with an intentional drug overdose. 

 

We all have those time where we have those pivotal decisions to make, right? That one decision could either be calamitous or benefiting. Either way, it is immutable.

I remember when I was twelve. I was more curious than ever during that time, especially when the end of the year was coming up. My school usually did this huge "Good-bye Year" Celebration, where we booked three huge pools for the school and have a barbecue outside-with the manager's permission of course. That year, I was finishing my first year in middle school. Although it wasn't as exciting as it seemed, it was to me. The celebration is always fun, but the most dramatic-and I really mean DRAMATIC- part of the celebration was when the graduating class had to bid farewell to their fellow classmates and friends. I always knew saying good-bye would become a disfigurement in their hearts and hard to imbibe.

My friend stood next to me and kept talking about how our graduation would be like. Truth be told, I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to think about graduation and the formalities we would have to go through for our graduation ceremony. Sitting in our folding chairs on the dais, facing everyone with our blue graduation gowns and our beautiful hair hidden underneath the bright blue graduation cap. I didn't want to think of the good-bye speech everyone would have to make. How everyone would bring back good and bad memories of our lives together. I didn't see why we had to do this. The majority of every class would never get to finish their speech anyway.

After the party, my family and I headed home. I wasn't sure about my family, but I was going straight into the tub and soaking there for about an hour then go to bed. When I got into the tub, I started to think about what my friend said. I wasn't sure why it had gotten into my head, but it did. Then, I decided to think of something else. I tried and tried, but I couldn't get it out of my head. My friend enjoyed getting into my head. Although she was small, she had a way with words that just seemed to get into your head.

When I had finished up, my mother came into my room with the phone in her hand. Her other hand covered the speaker and she asked me about the camping trip we were planning later that month. It was a family tradition to go to Yosemite National Park after each year. It gave us time to calm down and relax after so many assignments. My mother asked me something that was unexpected. She asked if I wanted to take my friend with me. My mother, being her strict and private self, surprised me. I agreed and told her that my friend could definitely come.

I called her up to tell her to start packing. I could feel my heart pounding through my ears. I didn't understand why I was so excited, but I just was. It felt like an eternity until her mother answered the phone with a "hello". I asked for my friend and she was on the phone in a heartbeat, literally. I told her about the camping trip. She was silent and said that she would ask her mother.

After that, I kept calling and calling, but I never got an answer. I was furious. I called once more, leaving a message: "You never answered me. Now we can't go because we aren't sure if you're going or not. Do you think you don't need us, commonfolk, just because you're rich and we aren't? You're so st*pid! I hate you so much! I never want to see you again!"

Apparently, the day I had called, my friend's father died in a car accident and had to fly to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania for three weeks. My friend's mother said that because of me, my friend suffered from depression and died. I never understood then what I do know. I understand that I should never jump to conclusions, never do anything risky until all facts were on the table.  

 

          Just very recently, both of my parents died in a tragic fire, and my uncle, out of the kindness of his heart took me in when no one else would. Now, my uncle was a very rich man, and had traveled the world many times. His house was filled with priceless trinkets from the far corners of the world. I walked the hallways of his large manor, hearing the clack of my heels on the marble floors. I turned a corner coming to a door that looked very out of place with the Victorian style of the house. It was a bright red, and looked like something out of an Indian palace. I calmly walked toward the door, and placed my hand on the doorknob, turning it gently. I slowly pushed the door open, and peeked into the room.

          My eyes widened at the sight. The room behind the door was filled with figurines.  I looked around, and noticed that all of them seemed to be looking at me. As I studied the figurines further, I realized that they were not just looking at me, they were <i>glowering</i> at me. I shook my head, paying no attention to this discovery, and continued to look around the room, gazing at all many different figurines that looked almost alive.

        My eyes fell on a figurine unlike the others. I had an <i>inclination</i> to this particular doll almost immediately. I was drawn to it, as if it had some <i>faculties</i> that the others did not posses. Indeed this figurine was different, because it was not wearing <i>prudent</i> clothing like the others were. This one was unclothed, except for a hat. I reached to touch the hat, and the figurine moved it's arm, placing it's small hand upon my fingers to stop me. It's head turned to look at me, a look of sadness upon it's face. I slowly removed my fingers from the figurine's head. I asked, "What are you? Why do you look so sad?" It only smiled, and stood up, stretching it's arms out to me. I blinked, and held out my hand, flattening it for te figurine to walk onto. The figurine shakily walked onto my hand, and sat down.

      The figurine looked at me with it's eyes full of curiousity. I asked, "The other dolls do not move as you do?" The figurine shook it's head, and then pointed toward the door. I blinked, and said, "Oh, you wish to leave?" The figurine nodded. I walked to the door, and turned the knob, opening it. The two of us left the room. As we exited, the figurine seemed to get heavier in my hand. I turned to look at it, and it suddenly ascended into the air. Shocked by it's <i>ascension</i>, I yelped out in surprise, and backed against the wall. The figurine grew bigger, and now stood, being the size of a human being. It bowed to me, and said, "Thank you." Then as quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared. I was left confused, and huddled against the wall.

          His hands trembles discernibly as he walked toward the small replica of a perfect woman.  His breath caught in his chest, as he took in each detail of the exquisitely designed doll, from the limpid blue pools of her eyes to the delicate curve of her wrists to the cool porcelain of her skin, she was perfect in every way.  He could even ignore the way her joints were made, with the ’skin’ not quite covering them, because her creator explained that it was necessary for them to be that way to enable full human-like range of motion.

          The only other thing that bothered his was her head dress.  It was not possible for her to have hair just yet.  Her maker had explained that the ornate metal headdress was necessary to hold her quasi-brain.  At a later date, he would be able to add the microchip that would enable his precious doll to talk. For now, it would process and execute simple commands like ‘come’, ‘sit’, ‘kneel’, and for her face to show emotions and expressions.

          He had heard of the underground toy maker through the friend of a friend of a friend.  At first, he did not believe that such a creation was possible and even after a private meeting had been arranged for him to meet the toy maker, he still had doubts.  The price tag was exorbitant; almost twice his yearly salary plus change but it included life time repairs and complimentary upgrades.  Of course, she was completely customized, from the curve and color of her eye brows to the shape and size of her feet.   The best part of all was that his copy of the quintessential perfect female, Thessalonia, could never be taken away from him. 

          “Thessalonia,” he whispered as he held out his right hand, “Come.”

          Immediately, she stood and walked from the table top where she was displayed and walked on to his out stretched hand.

          “Kneel,” he commanded, and the small doll obediently folded herself down upon her legs and knelt in his hand.

          He suddenly felt his knees buckle as she placed her left hand to the left side of her face, looked him directly in the eyes and gently placed her tiny right hand on his hand, almost embracing his thumb.  He decided it might be prudent  to sit down before he fell down, afraid that if he fell he would break her before he got the last payment made. 

“Well?”  the toy maker demanded, glowering through half closed eyes at the man.

          “She’s almost perfect,”   He replied softly, resisting the inclination to snatch the doll into clinched hands and run out of the laboratory.  He felt as though he might be losing control of his faculties as he gazed into her eyes, and was unable to break his gaze away for fear that if he looked away, even for a second, she would fade away into mere mist or crumble into a million tiny pieces of dust.

          Several hours later, as he was led away clutching a tiny nude doll to his chest, he was unaware that his ascension  into madness was facilitated by loneliness, fed by obsession and maintained by the memory of a woman who might never have even existed.

My dad was a tree-like man although not so much in stature but in the way he was so deeply rooted into his beliefs and his family.  He loved and treated all of us like saplings—by trimming the lower branches so that we could grow straight and tall and being diligent about not allowing us to grow up uncertain, weak and twiggy.  He provided us with a perfect penumbra, by allowing just enough sunlight to shine through the dark times, and allowing us time to walk in the shade to renew ourselves and not to become too accustomed to only perfect, bright days.

He allowed us the options and freedoms to be much like the deciduous trees in our yard by allowing his children to have childish thoughts and ambitions, then to shed those ideas much like a tree loses its leaves every fall only to return in the spring as a bigger and better and more established being with greater understanding and maturity.

He seemed to instinctively understand the circle of the tree of life, and lived his life accordingly.  He instilled that same understanding in us by planting seeds that grew into young weak plants, and then grooming us into tall mighty oaks that were able to bend without breaking, capable of withstanding the winds and storms of life without splitting and the ability to stand strong and secure in our own convictions without losing ourselves in the process.

It may seem funny to describe a man as arboreal, but that is the perfect word to describe my dad’s life philosophy—both when it comes to raising kids and trees! 

In you I have twigged the true meaning of friendship and familial love. We have supported each other through many storms, and grown with each other through droughts. Our friendship, though often mocked and misconstrued as romantic love, is rather a bond of friendship so deeply rooted I cannot recall my life before it, nor can I imagine my life without it. You are my friend, my sister, my mother, my mentor – a silent presence, an encouraging voice, a warm smile. Your arboreal strength supports me, your nurturing spirit enveloping me like a penumbra of warmth. In the deciduousness of life, ever-changing, I will grow beside you, drawing always from the spring of our friendship.

Slowly you came towards my heart
The desert you've found there
Rooted it became with your love
And ready for a new meaning it got

Your arboreal presence was twigged
And no longer without it I could live
Your deciduous attention covering me
Made me feel what I never felt before

Now,  no longer shadows or penumbra cover me
Since the day your smile became my sunlight
And a happy life was proclaimed by your eyes

Making my lips daily whisper: I love you

I had returned to my favorite place to escape to once again. It was out in the woods, a long way off the trail. I knew how to get here so well now, though; I could find my make-shift pathway easily.
 

Today, my secret place seemed much calmer than the last time I had been here. Fall does that to places, I suppose.

I put my right hand on the cold, crumbling brick wall. It used to be a part of a cottage, but apparently, the other part had already collapsed. All that was left standing was this wall and the one next to it which created a corner.

I slowly moved my hand to the left and stopped when I reached the jade vines. I traced them up until I could reach no higher. Then I dropped my hand and stepped back to gaze at the design the growth made.

The vines crawled up from the place they were rooted in the ground. That place was to the far left but leaving four or five feet empty in the corner. They snaked up the wall in a straight-looking bunch before they twigged out to the rest of the wall. If you stood far enough away and looked at both walls, the vines made an arboreal model.

I turned around and wove my way through the trees. The sun poked through the web of leaves above my head and I was standing in the penumbra. The right side of my body was suddenly warmer and stayed like that only for a short time.

The reason I was cooler again was that the sun vanished behind the clouds. I sighed and continued on. The autumn leaves under my feet crunched as I walked.

I loved this forest. It was secretive and seemed safe to me. It changed with the seasons; reason being it was a deciduous forest. It was also a beautiful forest.

During the summer, the light seemed to be tinted green. The sun made the leaves appear to glow an emerald color. Fall was unbelievably colorful. The entire forest was splashed in reds and oranges and yellows and the crisp air felt wonderful on my face. Winter was good for nothing but taking pictures. The white snow contrasted with the dark trees beautifully. And spring brought a fresh, renewing feeling with itself.

This forest was a second home to me.

 

Humiliation was my constant guard keeping me silent for months to come, until that terrible face walked into the same room one day under an exquisite mask of oblivion. No! It can't be!  My body’s instant rejection told me that silence was a weapon for the other and not a shield for me. Rage once again possessed me, turning me into a minion of vengeance.  Justice will be mine.   I've held my head high and moved forward.  I beat you.  I will never cower again.

He stuttered his words slowly and with hesitation, almost languidly. I could almost see the gears in his brain working superfluously, he didn't have to think, he just had to say. He had to say what had been on his mind for awhile, what I had almost never thought of.  For so long I had found solace in his arms, holding onto me tightly as his warmth wrapped around me like a warm blanket on a cold winter evening. He held onto me like he was scared I was going to disappear, like I would fade away and he would be left holding nothing but air. His countenance tonight was stiff, almost as if he had kept something bottled up all day.

This night was different though, his arms stayed shackled to his sides, and he had a rancid scowl on his face, almost like he had just tasted something very sour. He had finished his sentence finally, and I sat down on my bed in despair, clutching my head in my hands. "Why?" I stuttered, looking up at him, pleading for an answer. He walked away, leaving me unrequited.

"Happy Valentines Day." He whispered ennuily, closing the wooden door behind him. I heard his footsteps down the steps, he walked fast almost like he wanted to get rid of this place, almost like he wanted to get rid of any thought of me. He wanted to get rid of his past, erase these memories and start over again. The door creaked open, and a small click singled he had left me. He had left me for good, tonight of all nights. It was so ironic, the night that couples we're suppose to be holding each other, and reassuring the other how much they loved them, was the same night that I my world had been torn apart into little tiny pieces.

"Happy Valentines Day," I mocked him, my voice high-pitched. Vertigo was setting in, as my head seemed light and my body heavy. I stumbled around before I collapsed against the blank wall and slid down it, collapsing on the floor. Of all days in the whole year, he had to do this today. I brought my knees up to my stomach and wrapped my arms around them, squeezing my knees together and cried. I sobbed and told myself that he wasn't worth my tears, but there was no point lying to myself. I had loved that boy and he had broken my heart, no matter how cliché that sounds, it's the truth. My heart was broken. I cried until the sun shone through the open window and cast light into my bland room. Then I sat there quietly and waited for my life to end.  

 

 One Word

You were my life, you had my soul, my heart shackled with your love
Everyday was special, a gift sent from above
The times we spent together, the laughter, and some tears.
The days we held each other close, to chase away our fears.
The endless nights of talking, future plans we made
memories kept building to powerful to fade.
The secrets that we shared, that no one will ever know.
The superfluous promises that you made to me that you would never go
Then one night I kissed you , and headed to my bed
Drifting off to sleep thoughts of you causing a beautiful  feeling of vertigo in my head.
Little did I know, that  was the last time, Id  ever see you, hold you, or even hear you speak.
You left me without warning, became a memory, why were you so weak?
You swore you'd never leave me, would never just disappear
but  instead you left me feeling languid and shattered, Made true my biggest fear
You knew I was terrified of losing you, without knowing where you,d go
Yet you chose to slip away unrequited, and leave me to never know.
No closure, no reason or solace, no time to make it right 
NO time for me to beg or plead no time for me to fight

You simply disappeared, leaving me empty and confused
Did you ever love me or was I just a mockery and only used?

 

Tell me a story -she whispered while her dad cradled her in his arms-…Well, there was a time when I was too sad and angry against life; angels took mommy and half of my heart and I had no idea of how to take care of you. So one night desperate I took you to your grandparent’s house and wandered by the woods cursing and tired of feeling over my shoulders that heavy weight of life. I stopped by a stream to clean up my face and looked around and then I noticed the beautiful shine of the pebbles and how they opened the way through the woods for the steam to go by and finally understood something important about life… Those pebbles are like the bad moments in our lives, you can see just the rocks on your way and complain about how heavy they are or you can se beyond that and use them for something nice. Now when I’m sad or angry I go there with a bucket and pick as much pebbles as I need to feel that the weight over me is now in there, my bucket of distaste and bring them home and spread them over our trail so I can see that silver shine every night when I come from work and feel that over those troubles I’ll walk while I grow and that beyond awaits the only thing important in life, my most precious treasure in my home; you my little girl, you my angel eyes...

It was December, and for weeks, Adam had been in a furious mood with his younger brother Zak.

 Zak, aged six at that time, had fallen in love with Adam’s favourite teddy bear, Rebecca, and kept taking her whenever Adam was not looking. Adam was getting more and more wound up about it with each passing day, and had taken to running up to Zak’s room when Zak was watching television, in order to check that Rebecca had not found her way, yet again, onto Zak’s bed.

The boys shouted and argued and fought over that teddy bear.

 Some of it was deliberate, of course; Zak knew that Adam was getting upset and so sometimes took the teddy just to make him even more annoyed.
 

Zak thought it was strange that, although Adam did not seem to want to carry the Teddy around with him, he still didn’t want Zak to have her.

Zak could not understand that at all.

In his world, a favourite toy is something that you rarely let out of your sight. He thought that Adam obviously didn’t really care all that much about Rebecca, because he usually just left her on his teddy shelf. To be fair, he was at least partly correct; Adam did not dote on Rebecca, or indeed any of his toys, in the same way that Zak did, but that did NOT mean that he wanted Zak to take his property.

That Christmas Eve, they had argued over the teddy again after Zak had walked into Adam’s room and stolen her to play with. Once more, they shouted and stomped and then went off in different directions; Adam clutching his retrieved teddy to put her back where she belonged.

I should say here, that Adam is not a naturally bad-tempered boy, and his anger, though easily triggered, generally flares intensely but  then very quickly dies down and is forgotten. A sustained sulk is far out of his character, and although he would die rather than admit it, he loves his younger brother deeply.

That evening, after Zak had gone to bed, Adam came into the living-room and asked me to come with him to his father’s study.

“I want to show you what I am going to give Zak for Christmas, before I wrap it.” He told me, and we went into the study.

There on the table, lay Rebecca,

“I’m giving him this,” said Adam, and I watched him wrap his teddy bear, write the words ‘To Zak with lots of love, from Adam’ on the tag,  and then he placed the package under the tree in the living room.

“Are you sure about this, Adam?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m sure. If Zak wants Rebecca that much, then he can have her as a Christmas present.” He told me. “I have other teddies, he can have this one.”

The next day after lunch, as is the custom in our family, the boys handed out the presents one at a time, and we all watched as each present was unwrapped and appreciated. Partway through the ceremony, when it was Adam’s turn to choose a present for someone, he picked up the package that he had wrapped the previous evening, and placed it in his brother’s hands.

“This is for you, Zak, from me. Happy Christmas.” He said.

Zak’s face when he saw what was inside the present was wonderful. His eyes widened in delight, and his entire face seemed to glow with happiness, “Rebeccaaaaaa,” he breathed, sounding both astonished and deliriously happy. He hugged her tightly and smiled at Adam.

“Thank you Adam, this is my favourite present so far.” He said with total sincerity, and Adam grinned back happily.

Of course they were arguing again by bedtime; they are brothers after all, but I think that was probably one of the most generous and expensive gifts that I have ever seen given at anytime.

 

The snow was thick and white and lovely

And the moon was hanging high in the sky and it was dark

I'm laying in my bed desparately waiting for Christmas morning to appear

And it is night, so I surely know it is near

That Christmas I was not wishing for gifts

That Christmas I was not hoping I got a diamond necklace, or Nike boots,

No! That Christmas I wanted nothing except to gather with the ones I love most

And when the clock hit twelve and the first peal of laughter sounded I knew well

I knew full well that it would be a happy holiday like no other

During the year I have had stuggles and the only day I could count on relief was that Christmas.

"Are you awake?" I vaguely remember a tiny voices questioned, pushing open my door. I poked my head from under my mountain of quilts and pursed my lips upon realization that it was my youngest sibling.

"What are you doing up?" I asked, propping myself on my elbows. She climbed on my bed and got in my face.

"What are you doing up?" She reiterated my question. I narrowed my eyes and let her get under the covers along side me.

"Answer the question." I respond dryly. She shrugs and whispers that she had a bad dream. I do to her the thing she loves so much: rub her stomach. I have no idea why but it soothes from her tummy to the very top of her head.

"About what? Do you remember?" I pondered moving my hand in circles. She shakes her head and I don't press it further.

Sooner than later she falls alseep snoring too loud for a four year old. Chuckling softly I slipped out of bed and stand face pressed into the cold window. I smile at how numb my face became. The night is just so mellow I wish I could share.

"Hey? Get up. You can't sleep in here you know." I called but knew that my attempt to get her out was futile. She is such a heavy sleeper.

Giving up I got back in the bed, tuned out her incessant, loud snore and drifted to sleep. A happy sleep, one that I haven't had in since... never.

In the morning I woke up to a scent so sweet I thought I might float to where ever it could be. My sister is gone I noticed curse silently for falling asleep. I promised I would stay up to at least twelve, at the very least.

Now, my family isn't like most families; we have to do our chores, get cleaned up and eat before we can have anything. I'm rushing to get things done for the fact that everyone is waiting for me to get finished. What time was it anyway?

"OMG, come on! We can't wait 'til dinner. I want to know what I got dang!" My older sister snaps when I got out of the shower and walked into our room. I scoffed and didn't reply, it would only ruin my giddy mood. Some of my other family cam into the room during the hour rushing me to hurry but I moved at the pace I moved and wasn't going any faster than that.

"Finally." The youngest boy, my younger brother says when I emerge out of my room.

"I'm not hungry so go ahead." I informed them. Most jumped for joy but the matures merely grumbled under their breath. I don't mind. My youngest sister jumps into my arms and is glad that she can open her things she's been waiting for, for so long.

"Okay, this is yours." My mom starts the present opening from the youngest. When she gets to me I have a pair of shoes, a few new outfits and a small packet of lipgloss. Cool.

I'm not angry that two of my three outfits didn't fit and the third was itchy. I wasn't angry when the shoes didn't match anything in my closet. I wasn't even angry when the lip gloss wore off in the course of thirty minutes.

No! That Christmas was just a time where I was happy to be with the ones I reluctantly loved. No matter the arguments, and faults or snoring I was glad that that was a Christmas was the best I'd had in years. One full of peace. Truly, it was.

 

   Looking tohave a good time, find cool people and just talk IMVU was the perfect site. There was more, however. On IMVU they let me create a personal avatar that fits my style and lets me show people who I am without showing them who I am! I am thankful for IMVU because there was never a website with groups that let me talk and explore my writing talents. NEVER! And if there ever was, it doesn't make a difference because IMVU made up the displacement of all of that.

   On IMVU I was able to become friends with other writers that shared the same desires, interests and ideas as me. I would have never learned that there can be so many ways to express myself through writing. On this website I discovered a place where I can also compete. Writing contest. And all it really takes is a little time, hope, talent, and that's it! Boy, do I love IMVU for that!

   Why am I thankful for IMVU? I asked myself this and I couldn't think of too many reasons... Then it clicked that I liked computer graphics. I never knew any good downloads that could help me but when I signed up on IMVU and joined groups dealing with making avatar pictures I learned that I would have never known I liked making pictures so much! I never knew that it was something I was talented in either.

   Before I signed up for IMVU I was stuck on Paint, but that never really helped me explore talents of animation, GIF, and png. A few months after joining I discovered a thing called GIMP, photobucket and Adobe. Without IMVU I wouldn't have found these sites. And if I ever did it wouldn't have been the same, I know. IMVU provided me with tutorials that gave me a boost in this computer graphics talent. That's why I'm so thankful for IMVU. It's helped me bring and discover alot meaning for myself.

"Tell it again; your ghost story!" The man opposite demanded. I stared at his threatening ignoble face and, silently cursing my own pusillanimity, began to speak.

"I had been driving for hours, keeping to the back roads, and was becoming hungry," The other men in the room gathered around, all eager to hear the saga again.

"I saw a pub, brightly lit, and stopped to eat. I went inside; the fire was lit, there were people talking and drinking and eating. I ordered a steak, paid, and eventually began to eat." I paused remembering the scene,

"A man sat beside you," one prompted,

"His eyes bright with the fevered enthusiasm of a fanatic," said another, repeating my earlier words; his own vocabulary was unlikely to include any polysyllabic words!

I nodded. "He leaned close to me and said 'I think that the paranormal is endlessly fascinating!' he spat out the 's'es, and the moisture landed alarmingly close to my plate.

'I, sir, have no interest in the subject,' I told him, and pulled slightly away to continue my meal.

'Take the Grey Lady of Lythburgh Manor.' he persisted edging closer again.

'An ethereal apparition who leaps from the upper window to land on the fence below; impaling herself.  Legend says that she was murdered by her husband; and that he did it by throwing her from that very window.' 'Fascinating,' I murmured in a bored tone, eating as quickly as I could, he was not deterred.

'I often think that there must be thousands of such ghosts,' he continued, eyes shining, 'so many people die by violence every day; their souls must wander free, pointing bloody, accusing, fingers at their murderers, if only we could see them!'

I shuddered, 'You, Sir, are a ghoul,' I told him and, abandoning the last of my steak, I rose to leave.

He laughed, his head tipping back as he roared out his guffaws. Then he stood up and addressed the other patrons in the bar. 'Did you hear that, friends? He called me a ghoul!'

He stood in my way as I tried to leave, and I became aware that others had also got to their feet and now barred the exit. 'I think of myself more as a spectre,' he grinned, 'INspecter Carter, and you, Jonathon Ellis, are under arrest, for the murder of your wife Anne.'

I scarcely heard his words as a woman stepped from a shadowed corner that I had not noticed before, her raised hand pointing towards me, her eyes staring into mine, her shirt stained with the blood that ran from the gaping wound in her neck. 'Anne?' I gasped in shock. The men surrounded me, cutting off my view of the vision. Something struck my head and I knew no more until I woke, securely bound, on the back seat of my car.

The door opened, and uniformed officers pulled me from the vehicle. They had seen my car parked on the site of a derelict pub and come to investigat.

I learned later that the pub burned down twelve years earlier as a result of an arson attack. The dead included a local police officer named Terence Carter."

I finished my recital and waited for the reaction.

The men around me applauded appreciatively, as well as men can who are handcuffed. The van in which we travelled stopped as we arrived at our destination.

"It's a good story, mate," said one winking, "It may even work as an insanity defence."

I regarded him coldly, "I am no impostor, I will not pretend to be insane when I am not; every word was the truth." I said haughtily, my head high, as we entered the court building.

 

Unsolved Case File: NC89429

Extract ...

The young man, Peter X, a student of Newcastle University, had been found with his severed head resting on the keyboard of his laptop and his body slumped on the floor. Thick, dark blood had pooled between the keys and the flow from his neck had grown to a stain some eight feet in diameter around his body, seeping between the library's ancient wooden floorboards. The word 'imposter' had been written using the young man's blood on the screen of the laptop.

What follows was reconstructed from the MSN chat logs found on the laptop's disk, along with testimony and data from Amy Y who the deceased had been chatting to at the time of his death. There was no record of cam images on either computer.

   -:-
 

There had been a lull in the chat. Peter sent, “Don't look behind you!”

“Stop!” Amy sent back. “That scared me!” There followed an animated, crying emoticon.

“Sorry,” sent Peter. “I was only kidding.”

Amy's font grew larger and turned blood red on Peter's screen. “Perhaps it would be unwise for you to turn around, young man,” came the message.

Another message quickly followed in Amy's usual small black font.“Thanks for creeping me out, you pusillanimous arse!”

Peter sent, “Is that supposed to alarm me in some way?”

“What?” sent Amy.

The font on Peter's screen turned large and blood red once more. “Do you believe in ghosts and ghouls, young man?”

The message was immediately followed in Amy's small black text with, “You know that library is supposed to be haunted? And you're that last one there ...? Muhahahaaa.”

“No, I don't believe in the paranormal,” sent Peter.

“Ah, yes,” sent Amy, “the eternal sceptic.”

Peter did not reply.

“The story goes,” sent Amy after a short pause, “the Library is haunted by the decapitated ghost of an ignoble and fanatical Victorian Doctor who's study of headless chickens led him to believe humans could live without their heads too!”

Amy continued, “The guy actually existed, a genuine fruit-loop who chopped off his own head in a bizarre experiment! In his notes he claimed only genuine descendants of man – people not tainted with the DNA of Neanderthals - would survive the procedure.”

“You're the uni-brow Queen,” sent Peter. “So I must be pure Homo sapien :)”

“Pure homo more like,” sent Amy. “Hey! I think we've managed to cover racism, sexism and homophobia in less than five seconds! A new record!”

“BRB.” This was Peter's his final message.

“What are you doing?” sent Amy. “The picture's very dim. But I can tell you, your arse looks huge in those jeans. He he.”

“Does that gesture mean hold on one second?”

“What is that?” This was Amy's final message.

     -:-
 

Follows is a partial transcript of Amy's testimony:

“... and there was this thing, this ethereal, transparent spectre thing, it came from nowhere and ... engulfed him ..”

Sounds of crying.

“Thanks. I'm okay ... It sort of spun him round and he seemed to fly back towards me and his face .. God, his face ... like, filled the video and he looked as if he was screaming .. and the fear ... ”

Sounds of sobbing.

“And then it went blank ... what's that? Sorry, I can't ever sit with my back to the room now... can I go?”

   - : -
 

The Investigating Officer's report follows ...

 

“Billy, do you actually believe that there is something in the Jacobson Mansion?”

            Back then I was what you would call a skeptic.  I always doubted anything that I could not explain; things like crop circles and ghosts were dismissed as unreal.  So when Billy Newman, my next-door neighbor and a paranormal fanatic, suggested that the Jacobson Mansion was haunted, I thought he was crazy.

            “C’mon Janet, don’t be like that.  I just know that there’s something freaky in there, I can feel it.”

            “Are you sure that it’s not just your hormones?”

            “Ha ha, very funny.  Look, I know I sound nuts right now, but I’m serious.  I just know something ethereal in that house, something creepy”

            “What makes you so sure?  And besides, if you’re right, how are you going to prove it?”

            We have known each other since preschool; so when I saw a smile creeping onto his face, I knew he had known I would say that, and what he would say in return.

            “Easy:  I’m going into the Jacobson Mansion, and you’re coming with me.”

              We meet again latter that night near It.   We managed to climb over the fence that walled the rest if the world from the Jacobson Mansion.  I know Billy would expect to see some sort of specter, while I expected to see nothing. But I didn’t want him to think I was pusillanimous or ignoble, so I came anyway.  If I knew what would happen, I still would have.

                The door was unlocked, so we let ourselves in.  Everything looked burned, like a fire had been started when someone actually lived there.  I thought came into my mind when I saw this.  Maybe an imposter came here.  Ate with them, sat with them, read with them…

            Tried to share their bed, but her husband cast him out before he could.  Set anything he could with his match.  Refused to acknowledge the fact that she loved her husband and not him…

            A scream brought me back to reality.  I had no idea where it came from.  Until I looked around.

            Billy wasn’t there.

            The thought of him in danger was alarming.  I called his name, searched everywhere; it was as if he vanished.  Then I saw it, something that I could never forget, something that, no matter how hard I tried to see it, would be unbelievable.

It was a ghoul, dressed in tattered clothes, his face scorched by flames, looking at me in a way that sent chills throughout my entire body.  

             It has been three months since then.  They found Billy a week after we went into the Jacobson Mansion.  A jury thought I was crazy when they heard what happened.  A judge thought I should get some help.  So here I am, in the same old room, with the same old view, in a place where the criminally insane live.  I know what I saw, and it wasn’t a delusion, nor was I hallucinating. 

            Everyone believes I killed Billy, but they don’t know how his death looked so peculiar.  I know who really did it, but that’s what got me here.  I’ll tell you what makes everyone so freaked out about it.

 

I rolled my eyes, and followed my logophilic friend inside.

 

I need to write about him

To stop wishing bad things for this guy

I guess since my first contest

I became a LOGOPHILE

I remember him two years ago

This TOMFOOLERY on television

He said he loves challenges so

He was excited with the crisis of the nation

Violence rising, kidnapping

Economy going down & more

But still he keeps smiling

For him there is no KANKEDORT

He should listen carefully

People in ADMURMURATION

Preparing to fight back

Because this is a FORPLAINT nation

Even the NAYSAYERS who refused a change before

Now they ask for legal action against this GRINAGOG

Pacific actions & no more TWI-THOUGHTS

No more violence will be aloud among us

Reading, learning & teaching too

And no more hoping for REPERTITOUS news

I watch him yesterday smile & wave

Like a princess on a magical parade

While people are at the hospital

Injured with grenades

Only surrounded by the army he feels great

But for us you will always be an usurper

You pathetic POPINJAY

 

“Everyone should be respected as an individual, but no one idolized.” ~ Albert Einstein

          
Born to Hermann and Pauline Einstein on March 14, 1879 in Wurttemberg, Germany, the young Albert became fascinated with science at an early age after an encounter with a magnetic compass left him wondering about things “deeply hidden.”

            While growing up, Einstein’s family moved several times, and finally in 1896, he began training to become a physics and math teacher at the Swiss Federal Polytechnic School. During this time, Einstein became a Swiss citizen, and fell in love with Maria Maric, a fellow classmate whom he would later marry in 1903, and have two sons with, as well an out-of-wedlock daughter that was given up for adoption.

            Unable to find a teaching position after graduating, Einstein became a patent clerk, which provided him with a salary and time to think about unsolved physics problems. Einstein published five papers in 1905, one of which would earn him the Nobel prize, and another (describing his special theory of relativity) which would make him famous for the creation of the well-known equation e = mc².

            Einstein then held various university teaching positions in Zurich, Prague and Berlin while publishing several scientific papers, including one that accounted for gravity in conjunction with his special theory of relativity. This paper described the general theory of relativity, and it argued that space and time were mathematically the same thing, and that two objects did not directly attract each other, but affected space and time with gravitational consequences. Meanwhile, Einstein’s marriage began to disintegrate, and eventually in 1919, he and Maric officially divorced. Soon after, Einstein married his cousin, Elsa.

            Einstein continued to publish scientific papers as World War II approached. A Jew and a pacifist, he happened to be in California when Hitler took power in 1933, and did not bother to return to Germany.

In 1939, Einstein sent a letter to President Roosevelt that the Germans were developing a nuclear weapon. In response, the Americans created the Manhattan Project, which led to the development of the atomic bomb that would be dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Einstein became a U.S. citizen in 1940 after renouncing his German citizenship, and died on April 16, 1955 in Princeton, New Jersey, leaving behind a world more knowledgeable due to his contributions.

<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]-->

References:

http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/physics/laureates/1921/einstein-bio.html

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/aso/databank/entries/bpeins.html

http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/a/albert_einstein.html

http://www.humboldt1.com/%7Egralsto/einstein/timeline.html

<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]-->

<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]-->

George Washington was born February 22, 1732 in Westmoreland County, Virginia. His parents were Augustus and Mary Ball Washington and he had eight siblings. Three of those were sired by his father before Augustus's marriage to Mary Ball. George's older step brother, Lawrence, would become influential in his life and actually became his mentor and tutor.

No one is sure about George's early education but it is generally accepted that typically, in colonial Virginia, children would begin their formal education around the age of seven. They were usually taught the 3 R's: reading, writing and arithmetic and when they were older, they were taught Latin and Greek. Their later studies might also include geometry, bookkeeping, and surveying. Well-to-do planters would then send their sons to England to complete their educations.
 

It is not known if George was educated at home or at a local private school, but it known that he excelled at math and surveying. It is believed that his 'formal' education ended around the age of fifteen, or perhaps after his father died, that he did not attend higher education classes in England and that he never learned any language but English.
 

George Washington was ever aware of his lacking education, and made up for it by obtaining and studying books on his own, and from learning by example from those who had earned his respect. His personal library was massive, for the day, and he was often seen with a book in hand.
 

After his father died, George began to spend time with his older half brother, Lawrence, and became a planter, like his father before him, and a surveyor. Lawrence introduced George into society, and taught him the fine art of social grace.
 

George made only one trip outside of the United States, at age nineteen and this was to accompany Lawrence to Barbados, in hopes that a warmer climate might influence Lawrence's failing health. It didn't, however, and Lawrence died within the year.
 

There is a story which is retold in schools across the United States about George's character as a youngster, in fact almost any child can recount it for you. In this story, George Washington's father discovers that his prize cherry tree has been cut down, and questions his children about it. Young George reportedly stands up, and says, “Father, I cannot tell a lie. Twas I who cut down the cherry tree.” While this is a great story, it actually never happened. So little is actually known about George Washington's early life, that when Mason Locke Weems wrote a book about George's life in the 1800's, Weems included a few made up stories intended to show George's outstanding good character.
 

George Washington grew to be 6' 2” tall, in a time period when most men were little more than 5' 6”. His height alone must have been intimidating to those who opposed him and probably instilled respect in those who served under him.
 

George Washington was heavily involved in politics through out his life. He served as a member of the Virginia House of Burgesses, as the Justice of Fairfax County, Virginia, as a Delegate of the First and Second Continental Congresses and as President of the Constitutional Convention. His military career included serving in the Virginia Militia from 1752-1758 before becoming Commander in Chief of the Continental Army from 1775-1783.
 

On January 6, 1759 George took a wife. He married Martha Dandridge Curtis, a widow with two children from her first marriage. Martha was about eight months older than George, and they had no children together. Martha's daughter, (Martha) called Patsy, died at age seventeen. Her son, (John) called Jackie, also died young at age twenty-six. Two of Jackie's children were adopted by the Washington's and accompanied them to both of our nation's temporary capitals in New York and Philadelphia.
 

In February 1789, George Washington ran unopposed and was elected as the first President of the United States. He held the office for only two terms, declining a third due to his belief that two terms were the maximum any single man should serve. He was also offered, and initially refused, a salary of $25,000 per year. He did eventually take the money, however, thus putting an end to a possible inclination to only nominate and vote for future candidates for presidency who might be able to afford to hold the office.
 

After his presidency, he continued to be active in service to our young nation, and was appointed in 1798 to command the army when war seemed unavoidable with France.

Perhaps because he felt his own education lacking, he made provisions in his will promoting education, by leaving stocks and money to support educational institutions. He also freed his slaves with that same document,stating that upon the death of his wife, that they should be emancipated, and his estate provided for them for decades after his death.

There are a great many tales, both true and fictitious, that are abound about George Washington. Perhaps it is because his early life is so elusive and his latter life so public that, as a nation, Americans are willing to bestow and accept heroic feats and attributes to him. In reality, he was but a man. Apparently a tall and imposing man, with good morals, and driven by the social mores of his time. It's perhaps nothing short of ironic that a man who never produced progeny of his own, is credited the birth of a nation.

www.mountvernon.org

(Facts and Falsehoods about George Washington)

www.norwichbulletin.com/lifestyles/columinists

(Historically Speaking: George Washington, separating facts from fiction)

http://mehendale-parivar.blogspot.com/2008/04/little-known-george-washington.html

(Little Known George Washington Education Facts)

http://www.who2.com/marthawashington.html

Martha Washington

http://home.comcast.net/

(GeorgeWashington)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Washington

(George Washington)
 

 

I only ever met her once, briefly. Didn’t like her much to tell the truth though, thinking back, I don’t suppose I made a particularly good impression either.

I’d been waiting for 3 hours; I arrived early to be sure of getting in, and was actually at the front of the queue. 19yrs old, somewhat sweaty from standing so long in the hot morning sunshine, in that London street, clutching a carrier bag containing almost every book she’d ever written. Big grin as I finally found myself face to face with my favourite authoress, and babbling inanely. Oh yes! I must have looked a complete idiot! She certainly seemed to think so, judging from the blankness on her face. I can imagine her thinking “Get a life!” as she smiled politely and signed all the books I had brought.

“Have a nice day,” she said,

“I will, I’ll be reading this” I burbled as I waved the new novel I had just bought, and headed out of the shop.

Cringeworthy!

And yet….

When I think about the impact that one woman had on my life, it is truly astonishing.

Anne McCaffrey.

A friend’s father introduced me to science fiction in my early teens. I spent many a happy hour rummaging through the boxes in their attic, pulling out ancient novels, taking home stacks to read in the week. I loved it, and still do. Heinlein, Asimov, Harrison, Herbert, Aldiss, all to be found on my shelves today, all excellent writers.

The stories excited my imagination.

None, however, had the same impact as Dragonflight.

I read it cover to cover in a couple of hours without stopping, then read it again.

When I put it down, my eyes were wide and I felt like I was floating. I truly wished I could get inside the novel and be there in that world. It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never experienced it; it’s a wonderful, magical, and yet also sad, feeling. It’s a sense of the wondrous things that may be possible, one day, for our descendents, but not for us. Never for us.

I borrowed Dragonquest as soon as I possibly could, and sped through that.

Over the next few years I acquired all her dragon novels as they came out.

Dragons! I was besotted with dragons. I had had only a mild interest in my art classes at school, but now I began to draw dragons. I experimented with different media, but my favourite was pen and ink. My artwork was intricate and detailed. I began with dragons, and progressed to elves, characters from Tolkein, and immensely detailed trees. From there I branched out (if you’ll forgive the pun) into Celtic knotwork.

I loved anything to do with fantasy, and so discovered the wonderful world and art of Wendy Pini, which further inspired my drawings.

Over the years I have also turned my hand to model making; attempting to reconstruct buildings on archaeological sites in my region. Some of those models are on display in our public area at work. The model dragon, however, sits on my drinks cabinet and watches over the room.

It was like a snowball rolling down the mountainside, one thing leading to another. Several of my favourite authors today, are people with whom she collaborated in various works, or people she recommended in her introductions.

I sit here today, surrounded by 3 thousand books (or so), and wonder what this room would be like if I had never read that first novel by Anne McCaffrey, had never progressed from enjoying science fiction to loving science fiction.

A lot less cluttered, perhaps, but also a lot greyer.

Thanks to her, I know what it feels like to ride a dragon.

 

I loved her, of that there is no doubt. Indeed, she was the first woman I truly fell in love with, the first woman I met with whom I dreamed of spending my life. We met for the first time in the shadow of Putney Bridge, a place that will forever now be uniquely treasured to me, and my first sight of her stopped both breath and heartbeat for long moments.  She possessed sublime beauty: long, straight, auburn hair; delicate, classical features; a glowing smile that showed small, white teeth; piercing, onyx eyes, a look from which connected directly with one's soul; a laugh it was impossible not to match with one’s own; and a slim, graceful figure that gave one the impression that she never quite made contact with the tangible world, but rather floated just above it. While others battled their way through the crowded streets, she slipped through the throngs as effortlessly as a neutrino through lead.

Before I met her I wore a shell, hardened through many years of disappointment, acute shyness, and lack of confidence. It was a shell that both protected me and proscribed my movements. She broke through the shell and released me from the twilight of existing into the sunlight of living. Being with her gave me a sense of self-belief that was intoxicating, so long had it been since I had experienced it. Crowded places, which before had held for me irrational but real terrors, suddenly opened up into inviting spaces, places I not only could enter but actively desired to be. For the first time in my life I felt drawn to other people.

She it was who brought me to London for the first time since childhood; she who showed me the sheer joy of simply being at the centre of things, where before I had been perpetually peripheral. She had spirit, an acute awareness of all around her. She taught me to see beauty and meaning in everything around me. She gave me vision where before I had possessed mere sight. She imbued my superficial appreciation of art with deep understanding for the first time. She showed me how to look through, beyond, around, and within; how to see the big picture and the detail; how to see the latent beneath the manifest. She showed me how to see the world through an artist’s eyes. She fired my desire to be creative in every way.

For a few brief weeks and months, I thought myself the luckiest man alive. Surely none could be more fortunate than I? Spending whole days exploring the city with the most beautiful woman on Earth; strolling around galleries; having long, latté-fuelled conversations in coffee shops; browsing the market stalls along Portobello Road; or simply people-watching in the most cosmopolitan city in the world. She fired every neuron in my brain. I felt more alive in those moments than I had before or have since. I fell through her event horizon and could not have been happier at the prospect of eternal imprisonment within that imperceptible sphere.

She was, of course, always far beyond my reach, but the message took a long time to travel from head to heart. Yet even after reality broke through and dissolved the dream, the joy, the calm, the contentedness I felt merely by being in her presence diminished little, and remains with me. I love her still, and always will, but as tides roll the sharp angles from a rock to form a smooth pebble, so time has moulded that acute romantic love into the rounded love of friendship. She will always be my dearest friend, the one who gave to my life depth, meaning, richness and joy for which I could never find a way to truly thank her enough. 

Contestant #010                                      2nd Place

Contestant #032                                       3rd Place

 

The war had claimed lives of hundreds, it had left pockets empty and wives widowed.  Those men that were still around were either too young or too old to be of much help.  Those that were neither old nor young were cowards who had fled from battle.  They were reduced to nothing, and yet, I had become one of those cowards.  I could find no job or home, my family had all died earlier in the war from a mix of illnesses and raids.  Not that it mattered, had they been alive today, they would have turned their head in shame at the site of me sneaking back home.  So now I wandered, stealing whenever I needed clothing or food, sure it was a shameful act, but how else was a man supposed to live if he could not find any means to support himself?  That’s what I thought.

Today was one of those days, one of the times when I had to become the man I hated to be.  I spotted the woman from a distance, she was an awesome bargainer, and surly she would not miss a few vegetables.  However, as I neared my stomach took over; the woman was cooking something on an open flame, the pot spinning in the air with a grace that told of many years cooking experience.  I watched eyes wide, mouth open as I salivated.  The drool running down my chin caused me to wake up, like a scared dog I inched forward, staring intently at the pan.  I no longer though about stealing the vegetables, I wanted what the woman had inside that steaming chunk of steel.  The two other women hardly noticed me as I watched.  Not a soul ever seemed to notice a beggar like me, even if I wore clothing twice my size and was covered in dirt; it seemed to provide more reason to ignore me.

I finally gathered my courage, and approached the woman from her left side, staring over her arm as I watched the vegetables dance in butter to make the exciting aroma.  I groaned in delight, but even that sound seemed not to gather the women’s attention, it was like I was not even there.  My stomach let out a fierce growl, and this brought a look of annoyance from the cooking woman, however, she made no move to shoo me away like most vendors would have.  Instead she rolled her eyes and returned to her cooking.  I continued to watch.

After awhile the other two women returned to their own stalls, but I had yet to leave as I watched the vegetables simmer inside the pan.  The woman had continued to ignore me, again, I felt as though I did not exist.  Perhaps she deserved to have a few tomatoes or peppers plucked from her stack, perhaps…no, this little scent that trickled from the pot would not release me.  So I stared, my tongue came out to lick at its dirty chops.  Finally night was setting, the woman glanced at the now cold meal, such a waste, was all I could think.  However, she suddenly moved, dropping the serving onto a piece of wood, and thrust it out towards me, never once removing that cold glare that seemed to stare into my soul.

“Take it and go.”  She muttered, my eyes remained wide, and cautiously I reached out and accepted the plate.  I felt like at any moment she would wretch it away, and that was just cruel enough to be possible.  However, she did not, instead she shoved it into my hands, and the moment flesh touched wood, I was gone.  Scurrying like a rodent around the corner into the alley where I shoved the vegetables into my mouth almost all at once.  I choked the cold food down, and sighed with delight.  How could such a blessing have been bestowed upon me, perhaps it had been a mistake?  If so, I liked that mistake greatly, it had put food in my belly, and given me a decent night’s sleep.

The next morning, the woman found me.  Her cold gaze on mine like the prior day.  “Get up.”  She spoke in cold tones; however, I stood as though a puppet moved by strings.  Following her in my cautious way.  She led me to a house, where I was obviously supposed to follow her into.  As I entered though, a gulp went through my throat, not being a big fan of enclosed spaces.  She led me to a bathroom, and pointed at a tub.  “Clean yourself up, from here on out you are to remain clean shaven and nicely dressed, you will help me at my stand, and as payment you can remain here with me and my son, free room and meals.”  I stared at her as she turned and went out; obviously having spoken all that she was going to for the moment, and disappeared down the steps.

Good fortune had hit me at last?  I showered, shaved, and redressed quickly, returning down the stares to be met by a young boy of about seven, and his mother who gave a nod of approval.  She fed me, and after sending the young boy on to school, had me help carry the vegetables outside.  There were murmurs from others, about how I would rob her blind, but I had no intention of that.  I knew a good thing when I saw it, and this was surly one.  Day in and day out, I helped the woman at her stall, watching as she cooked, throwing the vegetables into the pan and frying them like one might meat, and surprised as it came out smelling just as good.  I watched, and learned.  The years passed, the war ended, and somehow, I had become part of that town.  Somehow, a woman who had no means to take me in, had gave me a way to live.  I had hope.

The old woman's hands trembled as she looked through her photograph album. This particular album was the one she didn't look at much, but as her eyes dimmed and her days on earth grew shorter, she was drawn to her past more and more. It was rather odd, she thought, that she could remember each picture, remember the names of every person in them, recall the circumstance in which each was taken.

This particular album was from the old country, from when she was a girl and from when life was hard but good. Photographs were expensive, but her Ma was fascinated with the concept of having their lives recorded permanently. After the great war, the men who took the photographs wandered through the land, a couple of times a year, and for a few pennies would take a photograph of your family. Sometimes, if one had been having a hard time of it, he would even settle for a hot meal and a cot by the fire for the night. It was so exciting, to be able to stop in the middle of the day and wash up a bit, put on your best clothes and have your photograph taken. She remembered that every single time the man would take a photograph, there would be a flash of light and a small pop that scared her and would make her jump and giggle.

As she turned the pages of the album, the photographs changed, from tin types of unsmiling, straight-backed, stern faced adults and children to thick paper board replicas of the same and finally to fragile thin paper images that were browned with aged and a little ragged on the corners.

'Oh, yes', she thought, 'there's ma and pa, and little Frank, and baby Emily.' This was the only record of baby Emily aside from an entry in the family bible. She had died of pneumonia before she walked. 'And there's the twins and Aunt Pattie.' As she turned the pages, she was both saddened and elated at the memories each and every page contained.

She finally came to the photograph she was looking for, the one of Ma and herself at the market, selling the fall root vegetables and peppers. This picture had been taken by a reporter who had been chronicling how the country folk had fared after the war. It was a good picture, and he had sent a copy of it and a copy of the magazine it appeared in as a thank you for allowing it to be taken and published. He had even given her ma a few coins, so that he could wait about until he saw something that he thought his extra eye would like. She remembered that was what he had said, 'something my extra eye would like' and thought he had been very odd to say such a thing. Soon, they had forgotten he was even there, and when they remembered to look for him again, he had gone. It had been quite a surprise when the photograph and magazine arrived in the mail, some months later.

In this photograph, ma looked stern and none of her usual mirth and good humor could be seen. She was about to weigh some peppers and potatoes for Anna McQuire and her brother, Toby and there Master McNeely could even be seen sitting in the side doorway of his shop. He was confined to a wheel chair after a bout with polio and sat there each day, watching the people pass and occasionally looking through a penny novel.

She remembered this particular day well, for while she had known The McQuires all her life, this was the day that Toby McQuire stole her heart.

They caused quite a scandal, as he was a bit older than she, and he was generally considered by most of their village not to be marriage minded. Pa eventually consented to the marriage, however and she was quite sure, relieved to have one less mouth to feed.

She and Toby had moved into a shack on the back forty of his father's homestead and began a life together. They were blessed with 6 fine strapping sons who were all well-mannered hard-workers with strong backs, strong constitutions and strong morals. Not a bad apple in the bunch, and she was adored all of them, the way only a mother can. They also adored her, and gave their mother credit for raising them so well.

She also adored Toby. He was kind and generous and not taken to hard drink like so many men of the time. She thought that her life was surely over when he passed on, leaving her behind. She was not prepared to have to live without him, but she had. She had managed 30 years without him, and she missed him more every single day.

A sound in the corner startled her and she looked up, surprised to see her youngest son sitting at her bedside. “Patrick, how long have you been here?” she asked him, softly. “All night, ma,” he replied. “Are 'ee hungry?” “Nay,” she replied. “But a wee bit of cold milk would be nice.” As he left the room to get her milk, she noticed someone else in the room.

“Toby-sweet, when did you get here?” she asked. “Just now, lassie-love” he answered, softly. “I've come to take 'ee home.” She got up from the bed she had not left in weeks, took his arm and went with him. When Patrick returned with the milk, he was saddened to find that his ma with a smile on her face and tears on her cheeks but too still and too quiet.

On her bed, beside her, the album remained open, to the page that held her favorite picture and he knew that his ma and pa were together once again, in a land of bountiful vegetables and eternal love.